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heethera · 2 months ago

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˖*°࿐ •*⁀➷ 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧!

➜ summary: you just moved into a new building, right across from three loud guys. two said sorry and the third couldn’t care less.

pairing: pshx f!reader,wc: 14k words , genre: enemies to lovers ish, neighbor!au, fluff, romcom w: rude jokes, cussing, kissing

The elevator doors swung open, and soon you stepped out into the third floor hallway. You looked like you were moving in, which in your defense…you were. The oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder, arms hugging a stack of takeout containers and a cactus you had that had pricked you far too many times, but that didn’t matter. You were finally on your own.

Unit 3B. That was you now.

Your keys jingled in your palm as you found the door, nudged it open with one knee, and stepped into the apartment you’d stared at for months on rental listings. It wasn’t huge, but it had a little kitchen with enough space for your mum’s rice cooker, and a balcony that caught the sun in the morning. You spun around in the centre of the room, grinning, almost knocking the cactus you had just placed on the counter in the process.

And by nightfall, the place felt like yours. Your fairy lights were strung up across your living room. Your fridge held exactly a bottle of soda, some tuna you had eaten an hour ago and a bag of unwashed grapes. You lit a vanilla candle, the one your best friend, Jungwon, made you promise to use so you'd remember him… even while being so far apart. But Jungwon hated travelling, so in his mind, you'd basically moved to another continent.

Jungwon dramatically declared, “You’re practically moving to another country.”

“Jungwon, I’m literally a two-hour train ride away.”

“That’s basically Europe.”

You rolled your eyes at the memory, smiling to yourself.

Still, you were glad you’d made the decision to move. Three years ahead of you… of being on your own, of learning to be independent, part-time jobs, and what you hoped…a future incoming relationship. It should be easy. It should be peaceful. It should be—

“DUDE!!!”

A scream ripped through your wall.

It came from the wall to your right, a thin wall nudged between you and your neighbours. You could hear celebrations. A voice shouted, “THAT WAS INSANE!” followed by a loud thump like someone had jumped off the sofa.

You tried ignoring it at first, burying yourself under the blanket like it could block out noise. But 20 minutes in, another screamed “HE’S OFFSIDE, YOU DUMB—” loud enough to rattle the walls, you snapped.

You threw on your hoodie, jammed your feet into slippers, and marched out the front door like you were storming a battlefield. The hallway was dim and quiet, except for the muffled party behind door 3C. You knocked, hard, but polite.

The door creaked open mid-laughter, revealing three guys mid-snack, mid-game.

“Hi,” you said, tight smile. “Sorry to bother you, but… would you mind keeping it down a little? I’ve got a test tomorrow and it’s kinda hard to focus with all the screaming.”

The one with fluffy hair, cute little eyes, nodded immediately. “Shit. Sorry, sorry. Totally our bad.”

Another one, long lashes and a goofy smile, actually winced. “Didn’t realise it was that loud. We’ll keep it down, promise.”

“Are you new here?” the first one asked.

You nodded. “I just moved in today, actually.”

“Oh shit. Mrs Kim moved out?”

“Damn, we’re not getting her kimchi anymore, that’s for sure.”

“We gotta eat those store-bought ones that taste like ass.”

The second boy looked at you again, more focused this time. “Oh right! I’m Jake! It’s great to meet you! I’m sorry it happened under… unfortunate circumstances. But we’ll be quieter!”

“I’m Jay, by the way,” the first one added with a small grin, pushing his hair back.

You nodded, smiling slightly. At least they were nice about it. Well, two out of three, anyway.

You glanced past both of them, eyes landing on the third boy slouched on the couch, still holding the controller, gaze fixed on the paused screen like you weren’t even there. His jaw clenched once. No name. No hello. Just a subtle, annoyed glance in your direction before he looked away again.

Cool. So he hates you. That’s cool with you.

The third guy didn’t say anything. Just glanced at you once, then turned back toward the TV.

“Uh, thanks,” you said, lips tight, already backing away.

You returned to your apartment and for a blessed thirty minutes, it was quiet.

Then someone scored a goal and the wall shook again.

You blinked slowly at your ceiling, arms folded under your head like the weight of your patience was finally starting to crush your ribs. Okay. So that’s how it was going to be. You frowned.

And that was literally… how war started.

The next morning, fuelled by petty vengeance and two hours of sleep, you grabbed your pastel pink sticky notes and wrote:

“Dear 3C, I’ve played FIFA before. It is not that damn fun for you to be out here screaming. Please tone it down. Regards, the zombie in 3B.”

You slapped it on their door. Nothing changed.

And the next day:

“Dear 3C, I can’t sleep. Kindly shut up <3 With love, the girl one more sleepless night away from writing to the landlord. 3B.”

You half expected them to ignore it. Instead, you found your note missing by mid-afternoon. Gone.

For a moment, you felt powerful. Maybe they’d actually listened.

Then 8:43 p.m. hit and someone in 3C scored a goal so loud you swore the bass from their TV made your candle flicker.

Alright. So it was personal now.

You stormed over to their door again, hands on your hips.. It wasn’t that late. You weren’t unreasonable. You believed in joy. In freedom. But right now? Rage was the only thing pumping through your system.

You shuffled down the hall with your bunny slippers slapping against the floor, hair in a claw clip that was giving up. You looked deranged. And for the first time, you were fine with that. You banged on their door.

The door cracked open a second later, revealing Jake blinking like a deer in headlights. His hair was messy. He looked mildly afraid.

“Were… we being loud again?”

You stared at him, deadpan. “Ya think?”

Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, okay. I’m so sorry. It’s Sunghoon. He keeps saying it’s not that loud and we were mid-tournament and—”

“Tell Sunghoon that his ego’s not the only thing echoing through these walls,” you snapped, arms crossed. “Some of us are trying to study.”

Behind Jake, you heard a familiar scoff followed by a smug voice yelling, “God, she’s so annoying. We were literally whispering.”

You leaned to the side, locking eyes with the third boy slouched on the couch, controller in hand, feet on the coffee table like the world owed him something. He didn’t even pause the game this time.

You didn’t know what it was about his stupidly symmetrical face but your blood boiled.

“Tell this Sunghoon guy…his whispering sounds like a screeching cat,” you said flatly, before spinning on your heel and marching back toward your door when you heard his aggravating voice.

“Tell her she’s overreacting over a couple of friends simply trying to have fun,” Sunghoon fired back from the couch, not even raising his voice.

You turned your head just enough to glare over your shoulder. “Well, tell him, his shirt doesn’t match his fucking pants.”

Jake looked helpless, standing between you both like a middle child caught in a divorce.

And then, with that same bored tone, Sunghoon called out again, “Well, tell her… those slippers are the best thing she’s worn all week.”

You stopped.

Jake sucked in a breath.

You slowly turned, eyes narrowing. “Tell him he wouldn’t know good fashion if it came with a user manual and punched him in his freaking face.”

Sunghoon finally glanced away from the TV, meeting your eyes for the first time that night. His lips curved into the most irritating half-smile you’d ever seen.

“Tell her–”

Jake stepped in between again, hands raised. “Okay! Okay. We’re gonna turn the volume down. Like, way down. Like you can’t even hear us tiptoe. Right, Sunghoon?”

Sunghoon leaned back against the couch and shrugged. “Whatever. I’m not the one annoying my neighbors at 9pm on a Friday night. Get some friends.”

You slammed your door shut.

War was back on.

The next morning, your plan was simple. A little petty, sure, but necessary.

You stood outside their door in your pyjamas, holding a fresh pack of neon yellow Post-its since your previous ones were used up by the ongoing Post-It war.The hallway was empty. Your bunny slippers made no sound as you padded up to 3C and stuck the first one of the week dead-centre on the door.

“Dear 3C, just a gentle reminder that FIFA will not feed you, clothe you, or give you money. Kindly shut up. PLEASE. Warmest regards, 3B.”

You smiled to yourself and floated back to your apartment.

That night? For the first time…? Silence. Beautiful, blissful silence. You actually managed to revise two chapters and fall asleep before midnight. You woke up in the morning feeling like a changed woman.

But then you opened your front door.

There, taped neatly to your door, was a blue sticky note with surprisingly neat handwriting.

“Dear 3B, you sound like you narrate your life out loud. – 3C.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Narrate your life out loud?” you muttered. “That’s literally called thinking.”

You marched back into your apartment, flung open your stationery drawer.

“Dear 3C, apologies if my internal monologue disrupted your daily FIFA championship. I only talk to myself because your volume settings make it impossible to hear my own thoughts. With all due respect (and ear damage), 3B."

That afternoon, Jay knocked on your door. You hesitated, then opened it a crack. He was holding a bag of convenience store pancakes in one hand.

“Peace offering,” he said. “Also, I think your notes are hilarious. Jake’s been collecting them. I think he’s making a scrapbook.”

You blinked. “Is this a joke or something?”

Jay shrugged, leaning casually against the doorframe. “No! Honestly, it’s kinda refreshing.”

Jake popped his head in from behind, grinning. “Also, your handwriting’s really neat.”

You opened the door a little wider, cautious then shrugged. “You want some… uh… spaghetti? I made it this morning.”

“Spaghetti?” Jay tilted his head.

You nodded. “Yeah. I usually experiment with food. I’m…uh…in culinary school.”

Jake’s eyes widened. “Wait, so you’re like… a chef?”

“Trying to be.,” you said with a shrug, suddenly a little self-conscious.

They exchanged a quick look before barging in like you'd personally handed them invites at the door.

“That’s so cool,” Jake said, practically bouncing as he flopped onto your beanbag. “I burnt instant noodles last week. Twice.”

Jay wandered deeper into your living room, his gaze landing on the dusty old guitar leaning against your bookshelf. “Dude, check it out! She plays the guitar.”

You rubbed the back of your neck, awkward. “It’s just for fun. I’m not that good.”

“I’m sure you’re great,” Jake said, already chewing through a mouthful of spaghetti he’d somehow found, and served himself in a bowl you didn’t remember offering.

You blinked at him. “Did you just—?”

“Plate was right there,” he said through a mouthful. “I took it as a sign.”

Jay nodded solemnly. “She feeds us and plays guitar. She’s better than Mrs. Kim already.”

You sighed and closed the door behind them. “I’m starting to think Mrs. Kim left because of the three of you.”

In between bites, Jake nodded without hesitation. “I think so too.”

“We can be loud,” Jay added, helping himself to another serving.

“Have you thought of… not being loud?”

“We do,” Jay said. “But then we get loud again.”

You rolled your eyes. “Guys, some of us have school and—”

“We have school too,” Jake chimed in, mouth full.

“Okay… some of us care about sleep.”

Jay perked up. “That’s why we got you this.”

He dug into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a tiny box, dropping it into your hands.

You squinted at it. “What’s this?”

“They’re sleep buds,” he said proudly. “They go in your ears and play white noise and, like… ocean sounds or something. Blocks everything out. Even us.”

You stared at the box, then at them.

“Instead of compromising, you got me gear?”

Jake grinned. “Yeah. We like you. We want you to be able to sleep… through us.”

Jay gave you a thumbs-up. “It’s called adaptation.”

You looked down at the sleep buds in your hands and then back up at the two of them absolutely inhaling your spaghetti like they hadn’t eaten in weeks.

You didn’t know whether to kick them out or thank them.

So you just sighed, defeated. “You guys are the weirdest neighbours I’ve ever had.”

Jake beamed. “Aww. You’re the weirdest too.”

And somehow… the next day… they were back.

You opened the door mid-knock, confused, only to find Jay grinning at you.

“What’s for lunch today, boss?” he asked, already halfway through the doorway.

You blinked. “How’d you know I made something?”

“We could smell it,” Jake said, stepping in right behind him, holding up a comically large spoon. “Smells so good. Brought my big spoon today. Came prepared.”

“Uh… I made chowder?”

Jake’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god, I love chowder.”

Jay had already plopped onto the floor cushion, flipping through your Spotify like he owned your iPad. “What kind? Clam? Corn? Pumpkin? Wait… do people put pumpkin in chowder?”

You stared at them, ladle in hand.

“Corn,” you muttered, shuffling back into the kitchen.

Then the day after that… they came again. At this point, it felt less like a surprise and more like a recurring appointment.

“No fucking way. Kimchi stew? This shit is so good!. Jay, you need to try the beef. It’s so soft. How— how’d you get it so soft? Is this like one of those expensive beef? Wakoo?”

“It’s Wagyu, Jake.” You corrected.

“Wagyu~” He sang.

Jay, already mid-bite, nodded with a full mouth. “Can I havefth thefth reshepee?”

You wiped your hands on a dish towel, leaning against the counter with one brow raised. “Do you guys ever eat in your own apartment?”

Jake didn’t miss a beat. “Not when you cook like this.”

Jay pointed his chopsticks at you like he was making a closing argument in court. “This is technically your fault. You fed us once. That’s basically a binding contract. We’re best friends now. Aren’t we, Jake?”

Jake nodded, mouth full. “Mhmff. Whatever he said.”

You sighed, setting your elbow on the table and dropping your chin into your hand. “If you’re gonna keep doing this, at least wash the dishes after.”

Jake saluted you with his spoon like you were the captain of a very tiny, soup-based army. “Yes, chef.”

You looked at the two of them, one already on his third helping, the other stealing more beef straight from the pot, and shook your head.

This wasn’t how your independent, put-together, college life was supposed to go. You were meant to be focused. The mysterious girl on the third floor who only ever came out for groceries and exams.

But maybe… with the two of them barging in uninvited, eating like they hadn’t seen food in years, and treating your living room like it was theirs…

Maybe you wouldn’t feel so lonely after all.

It was 9 p.m. Strangely quiet.

Usually, by now, there’d be at least one goal celebration shaking the walls or someone shouting about a missed penalty. But tonight? Nothing. You didn’t let it bother you. You took it as a win.

The balcony door slid open with a soft scrape. You stepped out into the cool night, cradling your little scissors and spray bottle like sacred tools. Your succulents were arranged in a neat line. A few leaves had started to curl. You knelt down, snipping the dead ends carefully.

You should’ve felt peaceful.

But tonight, something tugged at your chest.

You missed Jungwon. You missed your mom’s mismatched cutlery and the way your dad always forgot he’d already asked about your grades. Maybe even your pet fish, the one that never did much except float around looking confused.

Jay and Jake were friendly, sure. But they weren’t yours. They weren’t part of your before. They didn’t know the town you came from or the versions of you that existed before now.

And even though you thought you’d settled in... even though you were coping...you were lonely.

Without meaning to, you started speaking out loud — just like you always did.

“It’s fine. You’ll do better tomorrow. Tomorrow you won’t feel as lonely,” you said softly as you misted the leaves. “You’ll be stronger. You’re gonna get used to this. You can do it.”

But the lie caught in your throat.

Because you were crying already.

You wiped your cheek with the sleeve of your hoodie, frustrated, betrayed by your own body. You reached for your phone without thinking and hit the contact you swore you wouldn’t keep calling every time you got overwhelmed.

Jungwon answered on the first ring.

“What’s up?” he asked, casual as ever.

“Won…” you breathed out.

There was a pause. Then: “Are you crying?”

“No?”

“I can hear you sniffling, you shit.”

“It’s just—” your voice cracked. “It’s hard. I’m alone all the time. I’ve got no friends. I’ve got no one to talk to. I’m alone, Won.”

“I know,” he said gently. “I know…”

There was a pause. You could hear him shifting in bed, his voice soft and serious now. “But think about it this way, okay? You’re barely in your first month. You’re gonna get used to it. You’re gonna find people. You’re gonna build something here. It just takes time.”

You bit your lip. “You’ll visit if you can, right?”

“I’ll visit,” he promised. “Even if it takes two bloody hours.”

“But you hate traveling.”

“For you, I’d suffer.”

You sniffled. “You’re just saying that so I’ll hang up.”

“You’re right because I’m exhausted from basketball. But also… I love you.”

“Fine,” you mumbled. “I love you too.”

“Chin up. You’re talented and you deserve to be there. You can do this. We’re all counting on you.”

“I know.” You exhaled slowly. “Goodnight, Wonnie.”

“Night.”

You ended the call and sat in silence for a moment, letting the cool night air settle on your skin. The tears had stopped. Your hands still smelled like mint and basil and the faint sweetness of the spray bottle. You stared at your succulents, wondering if they ever got lonely too.

Unbeknownst to you, just a few feet away, out on the connected balcony, hidden by the divider, someone had heard everything.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He’d stepped out earlier, just needing air, needing quiet, needing to be somewhere still for once. And then he’d heard your voice. The words that were not meant for anyone else.

And for the first time, Sunghoon didn’t roll his eyes or make a sarcastic comment.

He just stood there in the dark, one hand gripping the railing, heart a little heavier than before.

He understood more than you thought.

And somewhere between your tears and Jungwon’s voice, he changed his mind about you.

The next few days, there was absolute silence. Maybe the food had finally worked some psychological warfare on Jay and Jake. Maybe it was their way of returning the favour. Either way, you weren’t about to question it.

You were grateful, to say the least.

Because for the past week, you’d been moping around your apartment. Living alone and striking out as an “independent bachelorette” sounded empowering in theory, but in practice? Maybe you weren’t one of those girlies after all…y’know the ones on Instagram who made solitude look like a season of self-discovery instead of a series of breakdowns.

It was Saturday. You’d spent the entire morning in bed watching a Netflix documentary about some guy swindling people on Tinder, surrounded by crumpled tissue and scented candle smoke that had long turned suffocating. You were still in yesterday’s hoodie, blanket tangled around your legs.

Three knocks echoed at the door.

You lifted your head from the pillow with a groan, barely alive. The sound came again.

Dragging yourself across the living room, you cracked the door open just a sliver, just wide enough to peek through but not enough to reveal the disaster that was your face, your hair, or your pride.

“Uh.” The voice was hesitant. Familiar.

You squinted.

Sunghoon.

You blinked. “What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice hoarse from crying and a full night of narrating your own spiral.

“There was a mix-up with the mail,” he said, holding up a small stack of envelopes.

“Oh.” You extended your arm awkwardly through the tiny gap in the door and grabbed the letters. “Thanks.”

There was a pause, “I can see your puffy eyes through the gap.”

You scoffed, immediately pulling the door closer. “You just have to be a smartass about everything, don’t you?”

He shrugged, completely unbothered, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Still standing there.

“…Are Jake and Jay home?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

His expression twitched, almost amused. “Why? Trying to steal my best friends again or—”

“No,” you deadpanned. “I was just wondering. It’s been… quiet this whole week.”

“They went home to visit their families.”

Oh. Right. Come to think of it, maybe that explained why everything felt extra heavy lately. It was the time of year people usually went home. People surrounded themselves with comfort and familiarity. And here you were, stuck in the city because the train ticket home was just slightly out of budget.

“You didn’t go?” you asked softly.

“Can’t,” he shrugged.

“Oh.”

There was a beat of silence. Then he tilted his head.

“Well,” Sunghoon said slowly, “if you ever need someone to emotionally rejuvenate you by pointing out your hair looks like a rat’s nest, you know where to find me.”

The words came with the usual venom but the message behind them landed differently.

You stared at him through the gap in the door. You couldn’t tell if he was trying to be funny, or… sincere, in his own weird, backhanded way. It was strange. You’d only had three full conversations with the guy. And every single one ended in a WWE tournament.

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Are you… being nice to me?”

He clicked his tongue. “Don’t ruin it.”

And with that, he turned and walked back.

You finally got up.

There was no movie-worthy breakthrough moment. Just the dull ache in your head from crying too much and the feeling that if you shed one more tear, your eyeballs might actually eject themselves from their sockets. So you moved. You stripped your bed, tossed the mountain of tissues into a trash bag, sprayed half a bottle of disinfectant in the air, and opened every window.

Your apartment looked like it had survived an apocalypse, which, to be fair, was accurate. But you scrubbed it back to life.

By the time you were in the kitchen, your eyes were still a little swollen, but you’d pressed them with cool spoons and a sad little compress until you could see straight again. Kind of.

You pulled out ingredients from your fridge one by one, lining them up like you were preparing for war. Slicing, boiling, julienning, stir-frying. The sound of the pan crackling beneath the glass noodles filled the silence of your apartment. It smelled exactly like it did when your mom used to make it.

You plated it in a wide, shallow bowl. It was delicious. Of course it was. You took pride in it. You always had. Jungwon used to tease you, calling your hands “blessed by Gordon Ramsay” like everything you touched turned into comfort food. You’d swat his arm, trying not to smile as he reached for second helpings before you’d even sat down.

You missed him. You missed your family. You missed not having to eat alone on a day like this.

Your eyes drifted to the door.

Would it be stupid? To bring food to Sunghoon? You’d never really done anything kind for him. Most of your interactions were lined with sarcasm and insults. And yet… that one line of his kept replaying in your head, “If you ever need someone to emotionally rejuvenate you by pointing out your hair looks like a rat’s nest, you know where to find me.”

So maybe…maybe he meant it. Or maybe you were just desperate for company and your noodles were starting to get cold.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you packed the noodles into a clean container, wrapped a rubber band around it, and found yourself standing in front of 3C. Your feet had walked you here without permission. Your hand hovered in the air, ready to knock, but now… you hesitated. You weren’t here to complain. You weren’t here to yell. And that made it harder.

And just before your knuckles could land on the door, it swung open.

Sunghoon stood in front of you, coat already on, scarf looped lazily around his neck. There was a little shine to his hair like he’d styled it, and he looked surprised, mildly confused to find you on his doorstep without any anger evident in your eyes.

“What?” he said, voice dry.

You blinked, staring at him. You’d never really looked at him properly before. Not when he was this put-together. The gel in his hair, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his scarf sat slightly off-center like he’d thrown it on in a rush. You knew he was attractive. You weren’t blind. But seeing him now?

Sunghoon was actually… pretty handsome.

“I—uh—” you stammered.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Spit it out.”

“I—uh—I made some… stir-fried glass noodles,” you said, stumbling over every syllable. “And I know how much it sucks being alone on a day like this, so I thought… maybe it’d bring you some kind of familiarity. From home, or something.”

You didn’t let yourself overthink it. You shoved the container into his hands, heart pounding.

“Bye,” you mumbled, before immediately turning around and marching back to your apartment like you’d just robbed a bank. The door clicked shut behind you.

You pressed your back to it, eyes wide.

Shit.

Was Sunghoon actually hot?

Sunghoon stood in the hallway, unmoving. The container in his hands was warm and he stared down at it for a couple of seconds longer than he probably should’ve.

Jake and Jay had been raving about your cooking for weeks. At first, he thought they were exaggerating. How good could someone’s food be that it made two of the loudest people he knew voluntarily whisper through a FIFA match?

But he’d seen it with his own eyes, Jake silently fist-pumping the air, mouthing “LET’S FUCKING GO” after a goal, and Jay barely reacting as he scored. They even created a rule: first one to speak puts a dollar in the Silence Jar. A literal jar. With money.

Sunghoon didn’t get it.

And he didn’t particularly care to. Not then.

But now, standing in the hallway in his coat and scarf, staring at the gift you shoved into his hands with flushed cheeks, something felt different.

He had been on his way out, actually. There was a bar nearby, nothing special, just a dim-lit spot with quiet music and decent food where no one bothered him. He usually went there whenever Jay and Jake went back home, like they did this time every year. It wasn’t that he didn’t have family—he did. It just wasn’t… warm. They were always busy. Always somewhere else, even when they were in the same room.

He peeled off his scarf, feet dragging a little as he headed back into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him. He set the container on the kitchen counter, grabbed a pair of chopsticks from the drawer, and opened the lid.

Steam wafted up instantly, sesame oil, soy sauce, garlic, something subtly sweet he couldn’t name. The noodles glistened. They looked homemade. No, they felt homemade.

He picked up a strand and gave it a tentative taste.

His eyes widened before he could even help it.

It was good. Like stupid good. Like how the hell is this girl not running her own restaurant kind of good. Better than anything he would’ve paid for at that bar tonight.

He stood there in silence, chopsticks hovering mid-air, thinking back.

He wasn’t proud of how he’d treated you. Three encounters, three arguments. He remembered each one too clearly. The snark in his voice. The way your expression hardened. The notes on the door.

But it wasn’t really about you.

He hated being called out. Hated being the problem. Maybe it was ego, or maybe it was the way he’d always felt like he had to be put-together or to say the least…controlled. Your presence threw him off. You were loud in a way that was sincere. You didn’t filter your emotions. You wore your annoyance on your sleeve and your feelings on your face.

It irritated him. It also… made him feel something.

And then there was that night on the balcony.

He hadn’t meant to listen. But when he heard your voice cracking through the divider, talking to someone…maybe it was your boyfriend? Your best friend? Whoever it was about how lonely you were, it hit him harder than it should’ve.

Because he got it.

He felt it too.

Being alone in a crowd. Having people around but never really with you. That weight in your chest that didn’t come from sadness exactly…just the absence of warmth.

Sunghoon felt it more often than he cared to admit. He loved Jake and Jay, loved them to pieces. They were the kind of people who filled a room with noise and an energy he couldn’t really place and who made him laugh even when he didn’t want to.

He wanted something more. Something real.

Someone who just… saw him.

He sat at his kitchen counter, staring at the container of glass noodles still warm with steam curling from the lid. He wasn’t usually impulsive. He didn’t do gestures. But maybe tonight called for something a little uncharacteristic.

He stood and reached up, opening the top cupboard where Jake and Jay kept what they called their “emergency date plates.”. The kind of plates you used to impress someone. They only ever brought them out when trying to convince girls they were not, in fact, living in a borderline condemned apartment flat.

He grabbed two.

And then, before he could second guess it, he walked out into the hallway and knocked.

Your door creaked open a few seconds later.

You blinked at him, confused. “What?”

It almost felt like deja vu. Except now, he was you…awkward at the door.

And then it hit him.

He looked at you…like, really looked at you, and for the first time, he realised he’d never actually seen you before.

You were wearing a soft pink sleeveless dress, the fabric loose and falling just above your knees, cinched slightly at the waist. Your hair was tied into a side braid, fringe swept slightly to the side, with a few delicate strands left loose to frame your face. You looked like you belonged in a pastel painting.

Shit.

Were you actually—pretty?

Nope. Nope. Stop that. Sunghoon blinked hard, trying to erase the thought.

Damn it.

You probably had a boyfriend. Someone smart and warm and emotionally available who FaceTimed you every night and wrote you good morning texts. Someone who missed you from back home.

And besides…someone who could cook like you? You could probably bag Jake and Jay at the same time in under a minute if you wanted. Not that you would. But still.

He cleared his throat.

“I, uh…” He held up the plates slightly. “I thought maybe… you could join me?”

He wasn’t good at this. But his voice was steady.

“Only if you want to,” he added, quickly. “I just figured. Y’know. Glass noodles taste better on… plates that aren’t plastic.”

His eyes met yours.

He was trying.

And this time, it was your turn to blink in disbelief.

Sunghoon had returned with the container of glass noodles, now a little colder, a little stickier, but still giving off the faint aroma of sesame oil and soy sauce. You’d reheated it and plated it up, slightly embarrassed that the presentation wasn’t what it had been fresh off the stove, but he didn’t seem to care. Or maybe he did, but you couldn’t tell, because for the first five minutes, you didn’t look at each other.

The clink of chopsticks, the occasional scrape of ceramic, and your ceiling fan. It was awkward. You wondered why he even came. Why he asked in the first place, if he was just going to eat in silence.

“So,” you said.

“So,” he said.

You paused.

“You first.”

“No, you—”

“Okay, I’ll go first,” he said, cutting himself off. He cleared his throat and set his chopsticks down. “I—uh—I just wanted to say thanks. For the meal.”

You blinked. “Okay.” You nodded slowly. “You’re… shockingly formal when you’re not pissed.”

“I—” Sunghoon let out a breath and leaned back a little in the chair. “I was never pissed.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, nodding, eyes narrowed. “Sure.”

“I was annoyed, sure. Who likes being called out?”

“I wasn’t trying to call you out,” you said, tilting your head. “But put yourself in my shoes. I have to wake up at stupid o’clock to learn how to make a soufflé or whatever, and meanwhile, I’m treated to surround sound yelling and the occasional ceiling vibration.”

He gave a small shrug. “Well, we haven’t done it in a while.”

“And I’m grateful,” you replied, lips twitching. “Truly.”

“We got a silence jar and everything,” he muttered, almost like he didn’t want to admit it.

Your eyebrows shot up. “A silence jar?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Jay implemented it. He said if we keep it up, we’ll have enough for extra toppings on our next pizza night.”

You burst into laughter, the sound surprising even yourself. It came out light and real, and you covered your mouth halfway through. “That’s… honestly? A decent plan.”

“It can be,” he said with a grin starting to pull at the corner of his mouth. “Until everyone starts trying to play FIFA like it’s an ASMR video.”

“You guys actually whisper?” you asked, incredulous.

“Well, yeah. You told us to.”

“I didn’t think you would listen,” you said, pointing your chopsticks at him.

Sunghoon shrugged again, his eyes dropping to the plate in front of him. “Well… they changed my mind, so.”

He didn’t say what he was really thinking.

That it wasn’t Jake or Jay who changed his mind. It was that night. The way your voice had carried through the gap in the balcony, fragile and cracking. The way you’d said I’m alone, Won like it was something that had been sitting inside you for too long, waiting to spill. He’d realised then maybe he wasn’t just an annoying neighbour to you. Maybe he was part of the problem. Maybe he’d been making things harder for someone who was already trying to hold it all together.

“So…” he said quietly, eyes on his plate, “why are you alone during the holidays anyway?”

“Couldn’t afford a train ticket,” you said eventually. “I mean—I could have, technically. But that’d mean I wouldn’t have enough money left to buy ingredients for my assignments the next few weeks.”

Sunghoon winced. “Oof. That’s rough. Must suck.”

You gave a little shrug. “Yeah. It’s fine though.”

He knew it wasn’t.

There was a pause. He glanced sideways at you.

“If you ever… feel like you need someone to talk to,” he started, voice casual, “you could just knock. I have FIFA.”

You snorted. “Oh, like I’d willingly join that mess.”

“It’s actually really fun.”

“How fun can flinging a ball across a screen with your thumbs be?”

“It is!” he defended, turning fully toward you.

You raised a brow. “I tried once with my friend and it was so boring.”

“That’s ‘cause you weren’t playing it right,” he insisted, already standing up. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

“I’m not playing FIFA with you.”

“Come onnn,” he whined, grabbing your wrist and tugging you lightly toward his door.

“God, this is gonna be so stupid,” you muttered, dragging your feet even as you followed him out.

Inside his apartment, the lights were warm, the couch sunken in like it had been through a war. You sat reluctantly, tucking your knees up as he handed you the controller.

“Alright,” he said, sliding in beside you. “This is you—Team Two. All you have to do is use the left joystick to move, the right one to look around. This button to pass, this one to shoot.”

You blinked. “So many buttons.”

“It’s easy! Just follow what I say.”

“Okay… so now I just—?” You pressed a button and immediately kicked the ball out of bounds.

“No, no—move left. Left.”

“I am moving left!”

He glanced over. Your tongue was sticking out slightly in concentration, eyes squinted, brows furrowed. He chuckled before he could stop himself, quickly looking away.

Then you screamed, “I DID IT! DID I DO IT?!”

He turned back just in time to see you score.

Sunghoon yelled, jumping up. “Yeah! That was it!”

You stared at the screen, jaw dropping. “Holy shit. I’m amazing.”

He looked at you again, this time longer. Your eyes were glowing, still locked on the TV. Your fingers tapped at the buttons like you already got it down. You bit your lip when you were focused, tongue sticking out just slightly when you were thinking.

And you were cute. So fucking cute.

The match picked up pace. Suddenly it was 2–2, and both of you were leaning in like your lives depended on it. You were yelling at the controller. He was shouting advice. At one point, your knees knocked, but neither of you noticed. The room was loud, just your voices and the music from the game and the way your laughter filled every corner of his flat.

Then it happened.

You scored.

You screamed, controller tossed onto the couch, and before Sunghoon could register what was happening, your arms were around his neck, squeezing him tight as you jumped slightly in place.

“I WON! DID YOU SEE THAT?!”

He froze. Your cheek brushed his jaw, your warmth right up against him. His hands hovered midair like he didn’t know whether to hold you back or not.

And then you let go, plopped back onto the couch, and grabbed the controller again like nothing had happened.

Sunghoon didn’t move.

For the first time in what felt like forever, his heartbeat stuttered. Sped up like it had been woken from a long, indifferent sleep.

He sat there, silent, staring at you as you shouted at your pixelated team.

And all he could think was well that…he hadn’t planned on crushing on the new girl based on one single positive interaction.

God, he was so screwed.

The next few days passed in a blur of almost-conversations.

You and Sunghoon didn’t talk much. Not like that night. Just a few polite waves across the hallway, a quiet “hey” if you caught the elevator at the same time. Respectful nods. The occasional awkward glance if your eyes met for too long.

And then Jake and Jay came back.

And of course, Jake being Jake, invited himself into your apartment before you could even say no.

“I missed your cooking while I was gone,” he sighed dramatically, sinking into the dining chair like he’d returned from war.

“Well, today’s your lucky day,” you said, flipping through your assignment folder and squinting at the week’s task. “Because for today’s assignment, I’m supposed to…” you paused. “Make a really mean chicken pot pie.”

Jake’s eyes lit up. He clapped his hands, nearly tipping his chair over. “CHICKEN POT PIE?!”

Before you could even blink, he leapt up, yanked your door open, and sprinted into the hallway.

“JAY! IT’S CHICKEN POT PIE!” he yelled like it was a fire drill.

From across the hall, Jay’s voice rang out. “WHAT?! NO WAY!”

And then—another voice joined them.

A quieter one.

“Chicken pot pie?”

You didn’t even have time to react before you were suddenly hosting three grown men in your kitchen, all leaning over your counter.

“Guys,” you said, elbow-deep in flour. “I can’t focus if you’re all staring at me like that.”

“We’re just excited,” Jake grinned, chin in his hands.

“Well don’t be. I’ve never made this before. It might taste like ass.”

“Your hands are basically blessed by Gordon Ramsay,” Jay declared, grabbing a slice of carrot from the cutting board. “It’s impossible for it to taste like ass.”

You laughed, the sound soft and unexpected even to yourself. “Jungwon used to tell me that all the time.”

“Oh he did?” Jay echoed, voice teasing.

Sunghoon stood a few steps back from the others, arms crossed loosely, leaning against your fridge. He hadn’t said much since stepping into your place, but now he watched the three of you.

The way you smiled when Jay made a joke. The way Jake knew where you kept your mixing bowls. The way your eyes sparkled, just slightly, when you laughed about something from home. The way they got it. The way they knew you.

And the way he didn’t.

Sunghoon couldn’t explain it but it made his stomach twist. Tight and strange and uncomfortable.

And then he heard it again.

Jungwon.

Who the hell was Jungwon?

His name sounded too casual. Too affectionate. The kind of name you didn’t just drop without meaning.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything. He just looked down at your countertop, at the flour dusting your hands and the delicate way your fingers shaped the crust, and all he could think was—

Why the fuck did he care so much?

You moved around your kitchen with the kind of ease that made it impossible not to watch. Sunghoon’s eyes were locked on you, the way your hair swayed behind your back as you leaned forward to stir something in the pot, the way your sleeves were pushed up.

His heart pounded harder than it should’ve. He tried to brush it off. Maybe he was just hungry. Maybe it was just the smell of garlic and butter making him lightheaded. That had to be it, right?

Except no.

He hadn’t planned on feeling like this today. Not when he woke up. Not when he brushed his teeth and went on his phone and told himself he’d stay in his apartment. He hadn’t even planned on coming over. And that night the two of you shared noodles? He’d chalked it up to vulnerability. Nighttime feelings. Nothing serious.

But now it was noon. He was awake. Sober. And you were still somehow making his chest tighten just by existing within ten feet of him.

God. He hated having a crush.

He didn’t even realise how lost he looked until Jake spoke up from the side, breaking the spell.

“So, is Jungwon finally coming?”

This guy again.

Sunghoon’s head whipped toward Jake so fast it might’ve snapped his neck.

You perked up at the mention, a smile blooming across your face without even trying. “Yeah! He’s coming in two weeks! I actually told him about you guys. He’s kinda excited to meet you.”

That smile. It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t forced. You looked like someone who meant it. Someone who missed this guy. Someone who talked to him often.

Sunghoon clenched his jaw and looked away, grabbing a water bottle off your counter just to do something with his hands. He twisted the cap a little too hard.

He didn’t know who the hell Jungwon was.

But he already didn’t like him.

“He’s coming over?” Jay asked, his mouth still half-full of pie filling.

“Yeah,” you said casually, brushing a stray hair behind your ear as you peeked into the oven. “He’s staying at my place for the week he’s here.”

Staying at your place?

Sunghoon blinked.

He looked around your apartment, eyes scanning every corner like they were going to magically reveal a hidden guest room. But there wasn’t one. You lived in a studio. Everything was in one space. Your bed, your desk, your kitchen, your couch. Except… there wasn’t even a real couch. Just a throw-covered loveseat that barely seated two.

No air mattress in sight. No hidden folding cot. No suspicious lumpy bags that might hold a spare futon.

Just one bed.

His chest tightened.

Where the hell was Jungwon gonna sleep? With you?

He picked at the label on his water bottle, teeth grinding quietly as he stared down at the floor, like it held answers. It didn’t.

He wasn’t even involved with you. This shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t bother him.

But it did. In the most uncomfortable, teeth-clenching, mind-racing kind of way.

You stood in front of the three boys, arms crossed, heart racing slightly under your apron. The chicken pot pie sat on the table…golden brown crust, just the right amount of bubbling over on the sides, the smell of thyme and butter and garlic filling your apartment.

Jake, Jay, and Sunghoon each took a spoonful at the same time like they’d rehearsed it. You watched them, nervous, scanning their faces.

One by one, their expressions lit up. Jake’s eyes widened, Jay let out a satisfied groan. Well… except Sunghoon. Of course.

He stayed still. Always unreadable. But you caught it. The tiny pause, the way his brows lifted just a fraction. He liked it. He just didn’t show it like the others.

“So—” Jake started.

“Good,” Jay finished, already reaching for more.

Your eyes flicked to Sunghoon. Somehow, his opinion was the one you were waiting on. The one you needed.

“So?” you asked, staring at him.

He blinked. “What?”

“How is it?”

“It’s good,” he said, nodding once, tone flat as ever.

Your smile dropped. You frowned. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

“What? I just said it’s good.”

“No, you said ‘good’ and then frowned and put your spoon down. Usually it’s ‘It’s good,’ then a second bite. Right, boys?”

Jake nodded enthusiastically, chicken still in his mouth. “She’s right.”

“Totally right,” Jay added, already helping himself to more.

Sunghoon rolled his eyes, leaning back slightly. “You’re all being dramatic.”

You scoffed, insulted. “I guess you don’t want seconds then. Tch.”

You clicked your tongue and turned on your heel, storming off toward the kitchen, grumbling under your breath. Your apron fluttered behind you as you moved, and you didn’t look back.

Sunghoon watched your little pout, the way your shoulders stiffened, how you exaggerated every step. He didn’t know why, but he liked your reaction. No, he loved it. He found it ridiculously cute. Too cute, actually. That slight wrinkle in your forehead. The way your voice got higher when you were mad. The tiny stomp in your step.

The moment your back turned, his lips twitched upward.

When lunch ended and the three of them stood by your front door, Jake and Jay turned to hug you dramatically.

“Never move out,” Jake said into your shoulder.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re just saying that because you get free food.”

“And precisely why we don’t want you to move out,” Jay replied, squeezing you once more before the two of them shuffled out, bickering as they made their way into their apartment across the hall.

Sunghoon lingered. Just behind you.

You turned, raising a brow. “Aren’t you leaving?”

He nodded. “Yeah.” He stepped back slowly, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking to the floor before settling back on you. Then he paused. Like he wasn’t sure if he should say what he was about to say.

“The chicken pot pie was good. I think…” he exhaled, voice quieter, “I think it was one of the best things I’ve ever had.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“It reminded me of home,” he added, eyes still on you now, a little softer than usual. “Not in the way where it’s about the taste or anything… it’s just… you cook like home. If that makes any sense.”

You hadn’t expected that.

Your cheeks flushed immediately. You turned away before he could see it, pretending to fiddle with a dish on the counter, fingers uselessly adjusting an already-clean plate.

��Thank you,” you murmured, voice low, almost shy.

He lingered for a second longer like he wanted to say more. Then he gave a quiet nod and walked out the door.

It was raining.

It was only 4 p.m., but the sky had turned an eerie charcoal grey, clouds rolling thick above the city. Thunder cracked so loud you felt it in your chest, and the wind howled between the buildings, slamming against your windows.

You hated this.

You hated how much you still feared storms even at your age. How useless independence felt when you were stuffing tissues in your ears and jamming earmuffs over your head like you were five again. You turned on every single light in your apartment, lamps, fairy lights, even your microwave light and cocooned yourself under your thickest blanket, barely breathing, eyes wide.

Then the whole building shuddered.

The lights flickered.

And then everything went dark.

You screamed.

Your apartment disappeared into a blanket of pitch black, shadows curling up the walls like ink. Your heart pounded. You scrambled up from the couch, tearing off your earmuffs and patting the walls with shaky hands, trying to find a light switch like that would fix anything.

“Shit,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Shit shit shit.”

You fumbled for your phone. A message popped up from your landlord.

“The building is experiencing a temporary blackout due to the storm. Electricity should resume in an hour. Thank you for your patience.”

An hour? Alone? In this? In the dark? Absolutely fucking not.

You jumped at another violent crack of thunder and instantly rushed out into the hallway. Your blanket trailed behind you like a cape. You beelined for the only door you knew.

You knocked. The door swung open almost immediately.

“No time to explain but I’m shitting bricks here,” you said all at once.

It wasn’t Jake or Jay.

It was Sunghoon.

His brows raised. “The thunderstorm?”

You nodded frantically. “Are Jake or Jay here?”

“They’re asleep.” He glanced behind him, then back at you. “But I could… stay with you. If you want. Until it passes.”

You hesitated.

Then thunder cracked again, louder this time, right above your building.

You flinched. “Okay,” you breathed, defeated.

The two of you sat cross-legged on your couch, sharing a single candle as your only source of light. It flickered between you, casting long, warm shadows on the walls.

“Seems like you’re scared of the thunder,” he said gently.

“Well,” you sighed, voice tight. “I’ve been scared of it since I was younger. It just… gets to me.”

He nodded. “It’s okay.”

You noticed it then…the subtle tremble in his shoulders. He was shivering. From the cold, probably. Your heater wasn’t working without electricity, and the apartment was steadily turning into a fridge. You were wrapped up like a burrito, but he’d come in without anything but a hoodie.

Feeling guilty, you shifted toward him and lifted one side of your blanket.

“Uh…” he looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he was being pranked.

“Relax. I can see you shivering like a dog,” you muttered.

“Oh.” He blinked, then grabbed the other end of the blanket and scooted in beside you.

Now under the same blanket, his body heat pressed faintly against yours. You sat side by side, knees pulled to your chests.

And then, in a whisper, he said, “You know…”

You looked over at him, startled by the sudden softness in his voice.

“I know I’m not as close to you as Jay and Jake are,” he said, eyes trained on the candle, “but… you don’t always have to find them for help.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“I’m saying…” he sighed, eyes flicking up toward you, and then away again. “Never mind.”

“No, what? Just spit it out.”

He exhaled through his nose like it physically hurt to get the words out. “I’m just saying… you could ask me for help too.”

You stared at him, your eyes adjusting to the candlelight flickering between you.

“Oh,” you said softly.

There was a beat of silence. You weren’t really sure what to do with that. But you didn’t want to leave it hanging either.

“I’ll be sure to think of you the next time,” you mumbled, barely louder than the rain still pelting the windows outside.

You felt him nod beside you.

You turned your head slowly, resting your cheek against your knees, eyes drifting toward him. His face was tilted down, lashes long and dark as they blinked now and then, just slow enough for you to notice. His jaw had softened a little. He looked calm, in a way you weren’t used to seeing him.

“Would you rather have a million dollars,” you said suddenly, “or have no problems in the world?”

He blinked, confused for a second, then turned his head toward you. His chin was on his knees now too, and with the two of you curled up in the same blanket, inches apart, it felt almost like whispering under covers at a sleepover.

“What kind of question is that?”

“A good one,” you replied, lips twitching. “So answer it.”

He scoffed a little under his breath. “Uh… maybe no problems in the world?”

“Smart answer. Why?”

He paused, “I think people ruin themselves trying to solve problems that shouldn’t be theirs. If I had no problems, maybe I wouldn’t waste time worrying about all the stuff that doesn’t matter.”

You blinked at him. That was… not the answer you were expecting. It was a good one. Way too good, actually.

“Right,” you said softly, giving him a small nod.

He looked at you for a second longer before his eyes flicked down. “Your turn. Would you rather go back in time or go into the future?”

You puffed your cheeks out, thinking. “Hmm… that’s a toughie.”

Then your eyes widened, the way they always did when you had a lightbulb moment. “Go back in time!”

“Why’s that?”

“So maybe I’d really weigh the pros and cons of moving to a city where I know no one,” you said with a grin, but it faded slightly at the end.

Sunghoon stayed quiet.

“You must really feel alone,” he said.

You blinked, startled. “What?”

“I hear you talking about it sometimes. On your balcony. When you think no one’s listening. You talk about how moving here feels like a mistake.”

You looked away, embarrassed. “It’s not a mistake. I just… miss everything back home.”

“I get it,” he said after a second. “I was like you. Back when I was home, I wanted to leave so badly. Thought being somewhere else would fix everything. But now that I’m here… yeah, I have Jay and Jake, and they’re great, but sometimes I come back to the apartment and everything’s fine and normal and still—I just feel… empty. And I don’t even know why.”

You didn’t say anything for a long time.

You just watched him. His face had turned thoughtful, distant. His eyes unfocused, drifting somewhere past the flickering candle, past your walls, like he was staring right through the quiet that lived in his chest.

You mumbled, “Well, yeah. But… I also don’t regret it. Not one bit.”

“Really?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I mean—I’m here doing what I love. Not many people get to do that. And I made friends with three incredibly annoying people in this building.”

He turned toward you again, eyes narrowing playfully. “So we’re friends now?”

Your cheeks heated up instantly. You glanced away, pretending to roll your eyes. “Are we not?”

He let out a low chuckle, the kind that rumbled softly at the back of his throat. “I’m glad you think we are.”

“So,” you said, tilting your head, “does this mean you’ll finally be nice to me now? Or is that too much character development for one night?”

Sunghoon smirked, eyes flicking to you with a teasing glint. “You want nice? From me?”

“Yeah. Like a full sentence without sarcasm. I feel like that’s a reward I’ve earned by now.”

“You earned a participation medal at best.”

You laughed, nudging him with your knee. “Unbelievable.”

He was already looking at you again—closer this time.

“Hold on,” he said softly, “you have an eyelash on your cheek.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Before you could move, he leaned in.

His face hovered inches from yours as his thumb brushed gently against your cheek, his touch soft but sure. The pads of his fingers were warm. His eyes, now impossibly close, scanned your face with a kind of quiet focus you hadn’t felt from him before. You swallowed.

Neither of you moved.

Your gaze locked, and the space between you slowly disappeared…inch by inch, breath by breath. It wasn’t planned. It just… happened.

Then suddenly, his lips were on yours.

Then it deepened. His other hand pushed the blanket off his head, dropping behind your neck to pull you in, and your hands found their way to his thighs, then to the curve of his jaw. His lips parted just enough, and your pulse jumped as he moved against you.

His hands slid to your waist. He lifted you slightly and shifted you into his lap in one smooth motion. You were now straddling him, knees on either side of his thighs, and he didn’t stop kissing you, not even for a second.

The kiss grew stronger. He tilted his head, hand moving to your chin to pull you even closer, his mouth parting yours with a low inhale as his tongue brushed against yours.

Your hands moved back down, gripping at the soft cotton of his hoodie, when—

Click.

The lights flickered on.

You both froze.

Your faces were still inches apart.

You slowly pulled back, still on his lap. He blinked, eyes searching yours like he wasn’t sure what just happened. Like part of him wanted to keep going, and the other part… couldn’t believe you just kissed him like that.

You stared at each other, the silence heavy now.

His hands were still resting lightly on your waist. Yours were still fisted in the fabric of his hoodie. Both of you breathless.

“I need to go back home,” Sunghoon said suddenly, voice low but rushed. His eyes darted everywhere except at you.

You blinked. “Right. Of course!” you said quickly, nodding way too fast. “Yeah. No—totally.”

He shifted awkwardly underneath you, face flushing as he cleared his throat and muttered, “Probably… need a pillow or something.”

It took you a second.

Then you saw the way he was subtly covering his lap with the edge of the blanket.

“Oh.” Your voice came out small. You quickly scrambled off his lap, cheeks burning so hot they could’ve powered your apartment during the blackout.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, already halfway to your door.

And then, Sunghoon stormed out of your apartment.

It had been a couple of days since you last properly spoke to Sunghoon. Not for lack of trying. You had…more than once. But each time, he’d give you a quick nod, maybe a polite smile if you were lucky, before promptly power-walking away.

Maybe he just wasn’t feeling what you were feeling. Maybe that kiss was a fluke, something in the heat of the moment. Maybe your little new crush was painfully one-sided.

But you pushed it aside. You had bigger things to focus on.

Jungwon was coming today.

You’d spent the entire morning rearranging your apartment, cleaning it from top to bottom, fluffing cushions and spraying perfume not just on yourself but into the air like it could somehow mask how nervous you were. You even did your hair the way he liked it, soft curls and a side part.

And then, there he was.

The door swung open and your best friend stood in the hallway, suitcase in hand and a grin already on his face.

“WON!” you squealed, running up to him and leaping into his arms.

“Hello, idiot,” he said, his voice fond as he hugged you back, lifting you off the ground with ease.

The shout must’ve startled the boys in 3C, because right on cue, the door across the hall creaked open and out came Jake and Jay, both peeking out.

They spotted you clinging to Jungwon like a koala.

You beamed. “Guys! It’s him!”

“The famous Jungwon,” Jay said, nodding in approval as he stepped out.

“And you must be Jake and Jay,” Jungwon said smoothly, setting you down.

Then came the third.

Sunghoon.

He didn’t move from the doorway. Just stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Jungwon turned to him, a friendly smile still on his lips, chuckling. “You must be Sunghoon, then.”

Sunghoon’s gaze narrowed slightly. “What’s so funny?”

Jungwon blinked, caught off guard. “Nothing,” he said, clearing his throat. “She just… told me you were like this.”

“Like what?” Sunghoon asked sharply, the scoff nearly audible in his tone.

Jungwon scratched the back of his neck. “Nothing. She just said you were cool,” he said with a shrug, throwing you a teasing look.

Sunghoon rolled his eyes.

You stood there, suddenly awkward, unsure what the hell had crawled up Sunghoon’s ass. The hostility was as thick as the tension in the air and you hadn’t done anything. Not really.

At least you didn’t think you had.

Just stood there, arms crossed, a stiff expression on his face while Jake and Jay welcomed Jungwon like he was already part of the group. Jungwon, ever the social butterfly, fit in easily, throwing a few jokes around, complimenting the apartment despite its questionable decor, and even teasing Jake about the ugly dinosaur pyjamas he was wearing in broad daylight.

But Sunghoon?

He was frowning the entire time.

You couldn’t figure it out. His jaw was tight, his responses were clipped, and every time Jungwon so much as glanced your way, you saw Sunghoon’s eye twitch.

You walked back to your apartment with Jungwon beside you, chatting excitedly about dinner plans and all the places he wanted to visit during his stay. But when you turned back, just for a second, you caught Sunghoon still watching. Still standing in the hallway.

His arms were still crossed.

And he didn’t look away.

Sunghoon stood there, arms folded across his chest like they were the only things keeping him together. He stared ahead blankly, jaw tight, doing everything in his power not to glare a hole through the wall. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling.

Sure, he knew he had a crush on you. He’d known since the chicken pot pie, probably. Or maybe since you wrapped that blanket around his shoulders. Or maybe long before that. But what he didn’t know was who the fuck Jungwon was, and why he was walking into your apartment.

“Dude,” Jake muttered, throwing him a sideways look. “You could’ve at least smiled.”

“I did,” Sunghoon growled, not bothering to hide his scowl.

Jay snorted. “That was barely a smile. You looked like you were in the middle of passing a kidney stone.”

“Why do I even have to be nice?” Sunghoon snapped. “I don’t know him.”

“Because your crush’s boyfriend just came into town,” Jake replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Sunghoon's head snapped to him so fast you’d think he got whiplash. “Boyfriend?”

Jay raised a brow. “Not denying the crush though.”

Sunghoon ignored him. “Let me ask you again. Boyfriend?”

Jake shrugged. “I mean… yeah, I guess?”

“What the fuck do you mean you guess?” Sunghoon hissed, dragging a hand down his face. “He can’t be her boyfriend.”

“But he is,” Jay said with a shrug and an infuriatingly smug smile.

“No, he’s not. He can’t be. Because she and I…” he paused, realising too late what was about to fall out of his mouth. “…kissed. Three nights ago.”

Jake’s mouth dropped open. Jay blinked.

“I’m sorry, what?” Jake finally blurted.

“Nothing,” Sunghoon muttered quickly, suddenly desperate to eat his words.

“You can’t say nothing when you just said everything!” Jake shouted, grabbing Sunghoon’s shoulders and shaking him.

“Tell us right now!” Jay begged dramatically, gripping his own hair.

Sunghoon rolled his eyes, flustered. “I—we—kissed. That’s it.”

Jay blinked. “You know we were kidding about the boyfriend thing, right?”

Jake grinned. “Jungwon’s just her best friend.”

“We just wanted to see if you’d admit you liked her,” Jay added, eyes sparkling with way too much joy. “Which you did.”

“No, I didn’t,” Sunghoon argued weakly. “I just said we kissed.”

“Okay, Mr Visceral Reaction every time we mention Jungwon,” Jake teased.

Jay smirked. “Say it. Say you like her.”

Sunghoon groaned, eyes shut tight as if the ceiling could swallow him whole. Then, finally—quietly, begrudgingly—

“Okay. So what if I like her?”

Jay and Jake immediately turned to each other with identical gasps, smacking each other’s arms excitedly.

“Oh my god, he admitted it,” Jay whispered dramatically.

Jake clutched his chest. “It’s happening.”

“You guys are disgusting,” Sunghoon groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And if you keep acting like this, I’m never telling you anything again.”

“Okay, okay.” Jake raised both hands, trying to suppress a grin. “We’ll behave.”

“BUT I’M SO EXCITED,” Jay squealed.

Jake smacked him on the shoulder. “Starting now.”

Jay nodded solemnly, rubbing his arm. “Sorry. That one slipped.”

Sunghoon sighed and leaned against the counter, arms crossed again. “I started liking her last month… when you guys went back home for the week. She cooked me stir-fried noodles, and we ate together. Played FIFA. I don’t know. I just… developed a crush on her.”

“That’s so cute,” Jay and Jake said in unison, stars in their eyes.

“Seriously, can the two of you act normal for like three minutes?”

Jake shrugged, still smiling. “I just didn’t expect you to have a girlfriend before me.”

Jay patted his shoulder. “You’ll get there, buddy.”

Jake tilted his head. “You think?”

“Yeah, you have nice eyes. Great personality.”

Jake beamed. “That’s so kind.”

“Can we please get back to my problem for like a minute?” Sunghoon cut in, glaring at both of them.

“Oh. Right.”

Jay cleared his throat and finally looked serious. “Look. We like her. She’s hilarious, and she makes good fucking food. And let’s be real, you’ve never liked anyone. We’ve been trying to get you to double date with us for years and you just stare at your phone all the time. But with her? You’re like... a guy with actual feelings.”

“But now I’m losing to Jung… whatever his name is.” Sunghoon sighed.

“Jungwon,” Jake said. “And no, you’re not.”

“How do you know she doesn’t like him?” Sunghoon muttered, staring down at the floor.

“Because,” Jay said, “if she did, she wouldn’t have kissed you.”

“Unless she’s indecisive or confused or something. I don’t know.” Sunghoon exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe I was just… a moment. And he’s her person.”

Jake shook his head. “I’m telling you—just talk to her.”

“Yeah,” Jay added. “Before you spiral even harder and start writing love songs about her. But if you do, I haved like a couple of guitars you could borrow.”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes. But somewhere, deep down… a part of him hoped they were right.

You were pacing back and forth on your cheap IKEA rug, while Jungwon was laid out dramatically on your bed, arms folded behind his head, thoroughly enjoying the show.

“I’m telling you, he’s avoiding me,” you snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at no one in particular. “We kissed—KISSED, Jungwon—and now he won’t even look at me! I wave, he nods. I say hi, he nods. I breathe in his direction, he—guess what—nods!”

Jungwon hummed, annoyingly calm. “Maybe he’s nervous. Or maybe he wants you to go to him.”

“I do go to him! And then he speed-walks away like I’m the plague!” You groaned, pressing your fingers to your temples. “I’m gonna lose it.”

“Maybe…” he tapped his chin thoughtfully, “you’re just a shit kisser.”

You whipped around and chucked a throw pillow directly at his smug face.

“Asshole.”

He caught it with a grin, clutching it to his chest dramatically. “I’m just saying. Maybe you scared him off.”

“You’re lucky I haven’t strangled you with this blanket,” you muttered, grabbing another pillow just in case.

Jungwon sat up, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. “You know, sometimes I forget we grew up together because you’re so unpredictable now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He snorted. “You used to be fearless. Remember that Heeseung guy you had a crush on in middle school?”

You blinked. “What about him?”

“You were six, and you walked up to him at recess, said ‘I like your lunchbox,’ then kissed his cheek and ran off.”

“Ah,” you said flatly, “the good old days. That girl’s dead now.”

“She’s not dead,” Jungwon argued, grabbing your wrists and tugging you to sit beside him on the bed. “She’s just… overthinking everything. Look, if Sunghoon doesn’t like you—whatever. But if he does? You’re missing out just because you’re too chicken to tell him.”

You glared. “I hate it when you make sense.”

“I know.” He grinned. “It’s my worst trait.”

“I just—” you exhaled, flopping back beside him. “What if it ruins everything? We literally just got closer. What if I say something and it all goes to shit?”

“Okay, counter-offer.” He sat up straighter. “You tell him, or I will. I will walk down the hallway, knock on his door, and go ‘Hi, my best friend has feelings for you, she also has performance anxiety but can cook a great bowl of chicken noodle soup.’”

“You wouldn’t,” you hissed, swatting at his arm.

“Then do it yourself!” he laughed, dodging your attacks. “Before I start printing flyers and pasting them in the apartment lobby.”

God. Why did he always have to be right?

“Fine.”

Your hand was already on the doorknob, breath caught in your throat, just about to leave when the door across from yours had swung open at the exact same time.

And there he was.

Sunghoon.

You both froze, hands still gripping the doorknobs, blinking.

You cleared your throat first. “Sunghoon.”

He blinked like he hadn’t already been staring. “What?”

You squinted. “Is that the only word you know how to say when I call your name?”

He paused. “Sorry.”

You opened your mouth to say something else but were rudely interrupted by muffled snorts from behind Sunghoon. Jay and Jake’s heads popped out from their doorway like nosy meerkats.

“Hoon,” Jay said in a loud, exaggerated voice, “we need more eggs.”

“Desperately,” Jake added, nodding like this was a national emergency. “Go to the store.”

Then Jungwon peeked out from behind you with an equally suspicious grin. “Oh, and while you’re there, can you grab some ice cream too?”

You and Sunghoon looked at each other.

“What is happening right now,” you said flatly.

Before either of you could respond, four hands shoved the both of you toward the elevator. You stumbled in, the doors sliding shut just as Jay yelled out, “Don’t come back without snacks!”

The elevator stopped at your floor.

Your shoulders brushed as you stood side by side, awkwardly watching the floor numbers light up.

Then, finally, you broke it. “About that day—”

Sunghoon shook his head quickly. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell Jungwon.”

You blinked. “What do you mean you won’t tell Jungwon?”

He looked away. “Well, aren’t you like… crushing on him? I wouldn’t want what we did to, you know… ruin your chances or something.”

Your entire face scrunched up. “Won and I? What? Ew. God, no. We’re friends. We grew up together. Thinking about him that way would be like incest or something.”

And just like that, Sunghoon felt like he’d been hit by a shooting star and given a second chance at life. His heart did a full backflip. You were single. You were available.

He couldn’t help it. He smiled.

“Why do you suddenly look so happy?” you asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I’m not.”

“You’re literally smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“We’ve hung out a couple of times and if I’m being honest, I’ve never seen you smile this—”

“Cut it out.” He tried to brush it off, biting back the grin. “I’m just glad.”

“Glad about?”

“Glad that I didn’t ruin your chances,” he said nonchalantly, looking up like he hadn’t just panicked thirty seconds ago.

“Mhm.” You narrowed your eyes at him, the golden-orange glow of the sunset casting warmth across his cheekbones. He was handsome. Frustratingly so. “Well… because I actually like this other guy.”

Sunghoon’s smile faltered.

“I haven’t known him that long,” you continued casually, “but he seems cool. I don’t really know much about him yet.”

“That’s… nice.” Sunghoon turned away quickly, jaw tight. He was definitely grimacing. Please don’t let her see that I’m grimacing, he begged internally.

“Yeah, he’s really tall. Really handsome, too.”

“That’s just…” he exhaled. “Great.”

“He doesn’t seem super friendly but he has a big heart. Even if he tries really hard not to show it.”

“Seems like a swell fuckin’ guy,” he muttered bitterly.

“It’s a pity though,” you sighed dramatically, still watching him. “I wish I could get to know him better.”

“Well… anyone’s lucky to get to know you.” He tried to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “I know I am.”

You tilted your head. “Not to mention… he lives really close to me.”

Sunghoon’s eyes darted to you. “He does?”

“Mhm.” You nodded, heartbeat accelerating.

“Like how close?”

You took a slow step toward him. “Like… just across the hall close.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “That close.”

Silence settled in the small elevator. You both just stood there, not looking at each other, tension hanging in the air like humidity.

Then, out of nowhere—

“I’m just saying,” Sunghoon said, dead serious, “but Jake sleeps with the lights on and Jay doesn’t wash his hair as often as you think he does.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“I sleep normal,” he added quickly. “I wash my hair. I do proper haircare—shampoo, conditioner, mask, mist. I could do your routine too. For you. If you want.”

You stared.

“I can’t cook, but I’ll try. I can figure skate. I can spin twice in the air. Jay and Jake? Not even one spin. Jay can play guitar, Jake can sing but I can spin, okay? Without getting dizzy too.”

“Sunghoon.”

“And those idiots never clean up after eating your food. Jay doesn’t use coasters. Jake never makes his bed.”

“SUNGHOON!”

He looked at you, breathless. “What?”

You stepped forward. Slowly. Then, you mumbled, “It’s you.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I like you.”

And for once, Park Sunghoon had absolutely nothing to say.

“Okay,” he said. “Cool. Okay. I—wow. Okay.”

You raised a brow. “That’s it?”

He nodded dumbly. “No. Yes. I don’t know. I just—holy shit. You like me.”

You smirked, the smile slowly stretching across your face. “Yes. I like you.”

The elevator dinged. Neither of you moved.

He looked at you again, still dazed. “Hold on, I kinda need a minute.”

You both stepped out into the empty lobby. The sun outside had just dipped below the skyline, casting a pinkish-orange glow through the glass doors. The streetlights flickered on. But you waited.

“It’s been a minute,” you said.

“I know,” he exhaled, hand raking through his hair. “But you like me back, so I kinda need, like… a long minute.”

“Back?” You grinned, the corners of your mouth lifting all the way to your eyes. “So you like me too?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I thought it was obvious from the, uh… word vomit.”

“Well yeah,” you shrugged. “But I didn’t want to assume. Didn’t wanna be narcissistic.”

“I think even if you were,” he muttered, “I’d still think you were pretty cute.”

You blinked. “Did you just—”

“Gross, I know,” he said quickly, face flushing. “I just said that out loud, didn’t I?”

You laughed. “Yeah. But you kinda can’t take it back now.”

“Fine,” he said, pretending to groan. “You’re cute. Ugh. I said it again.”

A MONTH LATER

Jay and Jake found it fundamentally unfair. They were the ones who got close to you first. They were the ones who complimented you, made you laugh, showed up when you needed help. They loved you first or at least, that’s what they told themselves. But here you were, doors locked for the first time in three months, cooking a full-course meal for Sunghoon to celebrate your one-month anniversary.

“You’re not allowed to come,” Sunghoon told them flatly before slamming the door shut.

“But—!” they shouted in unison, already mourning the steak they wouldn’t get to taste.

Word on the hallway was that you were cooking the perfect medium-rare T-bone steak, paired with your signature brown sauce and a vegetable medley so crunchy and flavourful. Meanwhile, Jay and Jake sat hunched on the couch, scrolling through a food delivery app.

“Isn’t it funny,” Jake said, arms folded, “how we were the ones who befriended her first, and now we’re stuck with Burger King?”

“Life’s unfair, bud.”

Back in your apartment, things were a little more romantic. You’d decorated with fairy lights and candles, the room dimly lit. You were still being frugal, splitting every cost you could. But you’d managed to steal two T-bone steaks from the diner you part-timed at.

Sunghoon showed up in a black and white tuxedo, looking like he’d taken the prom theme you had placed as a joke a little too seriously.

“You look absolutely gorgeous,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek.

“And you look absolutely handsome,” you grinned.

He walked over to the table and took in the spread. “Okay, what do we have?”

“I made the steaks, obviously, and then there’s the vegetable medley… and your favourite—mashed potatoes,” you giggled.

Sunghoon exhaled, shaking his head with a disbelieving smile. “How did I get so lucky?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know either.”

He laughed. “The guys are pissed, by the way. You made me all this, and they’re over there with cold fries.”

“What?” you said, surprised. “I made them something too! Don’t worry.”

“You did?” he raised a brow.

“I had a feeling they’d be hungry if you were over here.”

“Babe, you didn’t have to do that. They’re grown men.”

“Yeah, but technically my assignment this week was pasta and I have too many leftovers.”

“They’re spoiled by you.”

“And so are you.”

“True, but I’m your boyfriend. They’re just two annoying shitheads constantly trying to butt in.”

“I’ll be quick. I’ll just drop the dish off and come back.”

“No,” he said, standing. “I’ll do it. You stay here.”

He kissed your forehead, grabbing the lasagna you’d tucked into the fridge. “You’re too sweet, you know that?”

“He walked across the hall and opened the door to Unit 3C.

Inside, Jay was mid-rant. “I just don’t get it. Sunghoon isn’t even that hot.”

“I mean, he is,” Jake added, “but she deserves better, you know?”

Sunghoon cleared his throat. “I can hear you two idiots.”

They both froze, turning around sheepishly. “We were just joking. We love you, man.”

He held up the dish. “And to think I came here bearing gifts from my girlfriend.”

Jake’s eyes widened. “Wait—is that lasagna?”

“She felt bad we were eating good without you, so she made you dinner.”

“Oh my god,” Jay gasped. “Sunghoon, I don’t mean to be pushy, but please marry her.”

“I can’t,” Sunghoon muttered. “Not when you two are constantly inserting yourselves into my relationship.”

“Okay, okay, we’ll back off. Just—can we have the lasagna?”

“And can you tell her we love her?”

“I am not telling my girlfriend you love her,” Sunghoon snapped. “I’ve barely worked up the nerve to tell her that myself.”

“Wait,” Jake said suddenly, “you haven’t told her you love her yet?”

“It’s only been a month.”

“So… you don’t love her?”

“I do,” Sunghoon replied, almost too quickly. “I just don’t want to come on too strong if she’s not ready.”

Jay and Jake shared a glance before shrugging.

“What?” Sunghoon asked, frowning. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jake cleared his throat. “It’s just… she already said it.”

Sunghoon looked up. “What?”

“Yeah,” Jake replied casually. “You texted her about picking up those heat packs for her cramps, and she went all soft and whispered, ‘God, I love him so much.’ Her words. Not mine.”

Sunghoon stood frozen in the doorway, the dish in his hands suddenly weightless.

You loved him.

“So… you’re saying I should tell her?” he asked, voice quiet, almost unsure.

Jay and Jake both nodded enthusiastically. “Definitely. Especially if it makes her our sister-in-law,” Jay added, grinning.

Sunghoon rolled his eyes. “God, the two of you can be so annoying.”

“But you still love us,” Jay shrugged. “So what’s the point of complaining?”

He hated that Jay was right.

Back in your apartment, Sunghoon sat across from you, completely transfixed. You were dressed in a soft pink satin dress that shimmered every time you moved. It hugged your shoulders delicately, the neckline simple, elegant. Your hair was curled softly, pinned loosely on one side with a vintage clip, and your lips were glossed just enough to make him stare longer than he should’ve.

And God, you looked so beautiful.

He tried to pay attention. He really did. But his heart was too loud, his thoughts too full. How was he supposed to say it?

Sunghoon had never told anyone he loved them before. Not seriously. Maybe to his mom years ago, right before he left for the city. But this? This felt entirely new.

Because sitting in front of him was someone who made every quiet part of his life feel loud again. You filled in the spaces he didn’t even know were missing. You made his apartment feel less cold, his world a little less grey. And the way he loved you—God, it wasn’t something small. It wasn’t a flicker or a passing crush. It was all-consuming and terrifying and the best damn thing he’d ever felt.

He loved you like it was muscle memory. Like even if he forgot everything else, his hands would still reach for yours and only yours.

“Hoonie,” you interrupted gently, frowning. “You’re not listening.”

He blinked back into focus. “Sorry,” he murmured, smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was just thinking about something.”

“What?” you looked up at him, ur big eyes shining.

Sunghoon unknowingly smiled, his eyes dripping with honey, god he loved you. He wanted to say that. So badly.

“I…I just–uh–feel…that,” His voice trailed off. “You look really beautiful tonight. I mean, you always do. But especially tonight.” He hesitated, the words stuck behind his teeth.

You smiled. “Thank you. You look very handsome too.”

Later that night, the two of you were in Sunghoon’s apartment along with Jay and Jake for the usual game night.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, your prom-night dress bunched awkwardly around your knees, mascara slightly smudged from earlier laughter, hair pinned half-up. Sunghoon sat slouched in the beanbag beside you, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration. Jake was lying on his stomach, legs swinging in the air, and Jay had somehow made himself horizontal on the couch.

You and Jake were a team. Sunghoon and Jay were not handling that well.

“Revive me!” Sunghoon yelled.

Jay shouted back, “I’m busy trying not to die, dumbass!”

Button mashing intensified. Trash talk flew across the room.

“VICTORY!” Jake screamed, leaping up like a madman.

You followed suit, springing to your feet and clambering up onto the coffee table in your dress. “GET WRECKED, LOSERS!” you yelled, pointing dramatically at Sunghoon. “THAT’S RIGHT, LOSERS!”

Jake joined you on the table, doing a badly timed robot dance. The two of you jumped in sync, yelling in triumph, while Jay groaned into a throw pillow and Sunghoon watched with a hand covering his mouth, half to hide his smile, half to suppress a laugh.

“You’re all bark, no bite!” you called, face flushed, hair falling loose. “Your character died fourteen times, Hoonie.”

“I let you win!” he shot back, grinning as he sat up straighter. “I was being a gentleman.”

“Sure,” you scoffed, sticking your tongue out at him. “Real chivalrous of you, sir died-14-fucking-times.”

He chuckled under his breath, eyes lingering on you for a second longer than usual. Then, without a word, he stood and walked out of the room.

You blinked. That was...odd.

You gave Jake a gentle shove off the table and followed Sunghoon into the hallway. He was pacing outside, one hand in his hair, the other fiddling with the watch on his wrist.

“Hoon?” you asked, stepping out and gently closing the door behind you.

He jumped slightly, turning toward you. “You scared me.”

“You okay? You just left so sudden…”

“I—uh—yeah. I was just trying to figure out how to say something.”

You tilted your head, arms crossing over your chest. “Say what?”

“Nothing,” he mumbled with a shrug.

Your expression softened. “Are you mad at me?” You sighed. Maybe your little victory dance had been a bit much. “Hoonie?”

“No, baby, I could never be mad at you,” he said quickly, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just…”

You stepped closer, teasing lightly, “Do you want me to redo my victory dance? I could. You just have to beatbox, and I’ll take it from there.”

That made him laugh.

“Come on,” you grinned, starting to move your body in the most ridiculous way. “I’m pretty sure I should’ve been a dancer instead of a chef.”

He laughed again, this time louder and then, before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.

“Oh my god, I love you.”

You blinked. Your smile faded. Your brain, for one impossible second, completely short-circuited.

“Did you just say you love me?” you asked, heart hammering.

His eyes widened in sheer panic. “No?”

“I heard it.”

“You misheard.”

“Oh my god,” you gasped, practically vibrating. “You love me. You love me!”

“Fine!” he burst out, throwing his hands up like he was under arrest. “I do! I love you, okay?”

You smiled, “You do?”

“Of course! I love the way you talk too fast when you’re excited. I love how you make my idiot friends feel like they matter. I love that you make me feel whole. That when I’m with you, I don’t feel hollow anymore. You… you make me feel like I’m not empty.”

You grinned so wide it hurt. “That’s because you’re not.”

“I used to be,” he said helplessly, gesturing vaguely like he was mourning his past self. “I was mysterious. Brooding. Sexy, even. And now? Now I smile at cat videos you send me on TikTok. Look what you’ve done to me. This is all your fault.”

You scoffed, “My fault?”

“Yes! Who else could it be?” he said, breathless, like the truth had been waiting at the edge of his tongue for too long. “You walk into my life with that stupidly perfect smile, that laugh that makes everything feel lighter, those eyes that somehow hold the whole damn sky and now I’ve got feelings. Big ones.”

He took a shaky breath, pausing for a minute.

“I used to think I was fine on my own. But now? I get out of bed just because I know I might see you. I hear your knock and my whole day lights up. For the first time, I feel like I know what living really means. It’s you. Loving you. That’s it.”

You leaned in and kissed him right in the middle of his rant.

He blinked, dazed.

“You sure talk a lot for someone who usually says nothing,” you murmured, forehead resting against his.

“I do it when I’m nervous,” Sunghoon whispered, and then kissed you again.

“I find it cute,” you mumbled between kisses.

Sunghoon grinned into the next kiss, backing you up step by step toward your apartment door, his hands finding your waist. “God,” kiss “I love you,” another kiss “so much.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “You’re very handsy for someone who claimed to be brooding and mysteriou.”

“I told you,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw as he reached behind you, fumbling for the door handle, “you ruined me.”

Your back hit the door with a thud. He fumbled with the knob like he was drunk on you, eventually pushing it open and guiding you inside.

He kicked the door shut with the back of his foot.

You were still laughing into his kiss. He walked you backward until your knees hit the bed and you dropped onto it with a squeak.

He climbed over you, hands on either side of your waist, face flushed, heart in his throat.

“I fucking love you,” he said again, like it wasn’t real until he repeated it.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, eyes sparkling. “I love you too.”

6K notes · View notes

kitasuno · 2 years ago

Text

dating the love and deepspace boys | domestic moments

featuring: rafayel, xavier, and zayne x gn!reader

(´• ω •`) ♡ modern au! can you guys tell raf is my favorite..?

rafayel

a year younger than you. lies to everyone (including you) that he’s actually two years your senior. you only found out he was younger than you when you met his parents, who have his birth certificate framed.

hates cats. despises them. they fill him with rage (fear). says he’s allergic (he’s lying).

“oh shit raf, this sucks! i guess you can’t move in with me.. i have cats”

“...you have cats?”

“yeah. 3.”

“i’m not allergic. i can move in tonight.”

chronically online. minoring in marine biology and majoring in annoying you. texts you over 200 times a day and if you don’t respond, he’s faking a horrible chronic illness. again. it’s amnesia on wednesdays, appendicitis on thursdays, chronic migraines on fridays… etc..

he has 2 followers on his private twitter. you and thomas.

over 700k followers on instagram for some reason? he sells paintings on depop (he says it's depop but you’re convinced he sells them for heinous prices on the black market)

cooks on occasion? has an apron that says kiss me im irish (he's not irish?) made you a tuna cupcake once??

pescatarian. not in the vegan/vegetarian way where he refuses to eat red meat but because he’s absolutely feral over fish. (is this cannibalism? he says its not)

lives in a 2 bedroom apartment with you but doesn’t use his bedroom. says your bed is comfier. turned his bedroom into a painting studio (IT’S for the black market you say!!) and sleeps with you.

“raf,” you sigh. “don’t you have.. homework or something?”

he sits between your legs, back against your chest as he scrolls through his phone.

“yeah,” he says. you flick the back of his head because you know he’s smirking. “it’s called assignment: you. due in two minutes.”

with his free hand, he reaches back mindlessly to grab yours. you sigh, fingers intertwining with his, a reflex as he leans his head back. his eyes meet yours and you can’t help but laugh.

“well?” you ask, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he squeezes your hand. “what are the assignment details?”

he chews on the bottom of his lip as he thinks, humming while his eyes wander across your face. he swings your interlocked hands in circles. it’s raining outside, the heater is on, and rafayel is warm like hot chocolate.

“what?” he says, his cheeks a tinge pink. “you’re looking at me like that again.” a pause. he turns, his head now buried in your chest.

“just studying my homework.” you say, hands instinctively wrapping around his back. the laundry machine is running in the background, rain is falling against the window, and you faintly hear your rice cooker dinging in the kitchen. home, you think, is with rafayel.

“i can hear your heartbeat.” he says, voice muffled. “it’s super fast. you like me or something?”

“i really like you.” you say, without skipping a beat. rafayel groans into your chest, sighing in discontent.

“no fair. i’m supposed to be the flirter.”

you press a kiss onto the top of his head and you feel his body melt into yours. the two of you fall into a warm silence, his breath steady as he traces paintings into your neck.

“raf?” you mumble, eyes drooping. he hums in response. “did you pass your assignment?”

he smiles. “with flying colors.”

xavier

chronic napper. (yapper?)

has 100 late assignments. failing all of his classes yet got into the top university in your country because he got a perfect score on his entrance exams. you thought he was a nepo baby (turns out he’s just.. smart?)

his procrastination rubs off on you… he is the WORST distraction and he knows it. so smug about it and uses it to his own advantage. will perch on top of you when you’re studying and kiss down your neck until you go to sleep with him.

lives in the apartment on top of yours but is at your house most days, if not all. you ask him to move in.

“am i not already.. living with you?”

“don’t you still have your apartment, though?”

“yeah..?”

is that good for the economy?? is it financially smart? not at all, but he’s too lazy to move out and put his apartment up for lease.

xavier sleeps with his legs entangled with yours and his arms wrapped tightly around your chest. the air conditioning hums in the background as you scroll mindlessly on your phone, dimming the brightness as you hear xavier stir.

“sorry xav, did i wake you up?” you ask. he doesn’t respond, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he glares at your phone.

“xavier?” you question, swallowing a laugh at his ruffled hair and disheveled clothes.

“phone down.” he says, voice raspy with sleep and an octave lower than usual. you raise an eyebrow at him.

“can i get a pretty please in this economy?”

xavier’s eyes narrow as he snatches your phone away, snoozing the device and placing it on the nightstand next to you. his lips ghost your neck, pressing kisses against your skin as he mumbles incoherently in the dark of your bedroom.

“xavier-” you breathe, giggling at the sensation. “that tickles!”

he nips at your neck.

“bedtime. now.”

zayne

3 years older than you

he literally has his whole life together at 27 which scares you so much

“my credit card is your credit card” typa boyfriend

cooks. cleans. has a 9-5. you’re interning at the hospital that he works at (he’s head doctor!!)

you’re just a sweet little intern and zayne is the big bad monster!! everyone at work thinks he hates you because he’s extra strict on you. doesn’t give you any special treatment, ‘ignores’ you most days (but also slips meals into your locker and hands you heat packs on cold days in the hospital)

no one knows he’s dating you until one day someone sees you leaving in zaynes car.

“oh, you carpool with doctor zayne?”

“huh? no, we live together.”

“you WHAT???”

he’s a virgo……. erm……

the two of you get ready together in the morning. his guard is down when he’s sleepy and he’ll cling to you as he brushes his teeth and does his hair.

you wake up to the cold night breeze, blinking the sleep out of your eyes and shivering as you scan your surroundings. you yelp as you meet the attentive gaze of your boyfriend.

“huh? whuh? huh?” you splutter, squirming as zayne holds you tighter. he’s carrying you bridal style in his arms, his jacket around your shoulders as the two of you walk to his car. you see the bright lights of akso hospital fading away behind the two of you.

“it’s two am,” he says calmly, placing you down gently as he opens your car door for you. “you waited for my shift to end. again.”

you smile bashfully, rubbing the back of your head. “well, i didn’t wanna just leave you!”

zayne clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, eyebrows furrowed but gaze warm. he guides you into your seat, clicking your seatbelt in place.

“you can nap on the way home,” he says, closing the door and sliding into his side of the car.

the heater’s on already- courtesy of his super expensive electric car. he fastens his own seatbelt and hands you a hot tea and bread from the hospital vending machine.

“drink up. doctor’s orders.”

you grin before he leans over to press a kiss on your lips.

“thank you for waiting for me.”

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #rafayel #xavier #zayne #love and deepspace headcanons #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel x reader #zayne x reader #xavier x reader #love and deepspace fluff

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moonstruckme · 1 year ago

Note

can i request a reader who can’t admit she’s upset with one the marauders (or all)? like refuses to cry…only if you’re comfortable of course. thank you :)

Thank you for requesting gorgeous!

modern au

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

The smell of smoke coming from the kitchen is the first sign that Sirius has tipped over from resentment into remorse.

“Jesus,” you open the front door on your way into the kitchen, eyes watering, “what are you doing?”

“I was trying to make rice,” he says, fanning desperately over your pressure cooker, “but I think I’ve fucked it.”

“Do you think so?” Any other day you’d both grin at the harmless snark, but now Sirius’ expression pinches and you think your own must look the same, your tone more biting than you meant for it to be. “It’s fine, it’ll be fine once it airs out. Help me with the windows?”

Sirius acts like it’s a competition, opening three windows before you’ve finished two and looking at you like he’s expecting a pat on the head for it. You try to give him a smile, and his expression clouds over.

“Sorry,” he says, voice not quite cool but oddly remote, “the idea was to surprise you with dinner, and I’ve broken your rice thingy instead.”

“It’s not broken,” you reassure him. “I’m sure it’ll be fine once I clean it out. Why were you trying to make dinner?”

Sirius grimaces. It’s a full body motion, his eyebrows hooking in the middle while the muscles in his forearms shift uncomfortably and his shoulders migrate upward. “Sort of a shitty attempt at an olive branch, I guess.”

Some of the smoke has cleared, and you brave the kitchen. “I don’t need an olive branch,” you say. “If you say we’re good, we’re good.”

“Don’t do that.” He follows you into the kitchen. “I can tell you’re upset, just because—” Sirius hisses when you take the bowl out of the pressure cooker, transferring it swiftly to the sink “—fuck, baby, don’t burn yourself. Let me take care of that later.”

“I’d rather handle it now,” you say, turning on the faucet. “I’m just letting it soak anyway.”

“I’m trying to handle this.” Sturdy hands wrap around your shoulders, turning you to face your boyfriend. He looks at you steadily. “Don’t pretend you’re not angry with me, because I know that you are.”

A spark of annoyance tingles up your spine as you shrug, reaching behind you to turn off the faucet. “I’m not.”

“Can you stop trying to make me feel like an idiot? I know you. You’ve been all stiff since last night.”

“You were angry last night. Not me.”

“Yeah, well it seems to have caught on.”

You turn away from him and back towards the sink, swishing your hand in the cold water of the bowl to dislodge the charred rice sticking to the bottom. You don’t know where Sirius gets off, acting like you’re holding a grudge when he’s the one who shouted at you last night. Your phone had died while you were out with friends. That was all that had happened. You didn’t think anything of it, because Sirius, the only person who would really worry about not being able to reach you, knew you were out and that you’d be home late.

But when you had gotten home, he’d been furious. Gone on and on about how he’d been trying to get a response from you all night, and how dangerous it was to get drunk when you couldn’t call anyone (nevermind that you’d been with your friends), and how freaked out he’d been. He wouldn’t listen to you. He’d only wanted to yell and rage, and make you sit in your heels on the couch while he did it. He’d even seemed like he might be tearing up a couple of times. And you hated to think of him being scared for you, but since when was it your responsibility to answer every time he called? He knew you were with your friends. You hadn’t asked him to check in on you.

He’d gone to bed still fuming and you’d stayed on the couch rather than try to sleep in a hostile bed. Now, inexplicably, his tune seems to have changed.

“So,” Sirius sighs, “this is you not mad, huh?”

“Yup.” You scrub at the bowl with your fingernails.

“I just want a chance to apologize.”

“You can if it’ll make you feel better, but I don’t need it.”

“Why can’t you just admit it?”

“Because I’m not the one who gets pissy about stupid things.” You dislodge a chunk of rice and your hand slips across the bowl, splashing water onto your shirt. “That’s you.”

There’s a second of dense, oppressive silence. When Sirius breaches it, you can hear the smirk in his voice. “There’s my girl. Tell me about the stupid things I got pissy about, would you?”

“It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s not. It wasn’t nothing to me, and clearly it wasn’t to you either. Go on, doll.”

“I don’t want to argue with you.”

“Sure you do.”

“Why do you want to fight so bad?”

“Because,” Sirius says, and you can hear him moving behind you, can all but see him leaning against the counter, the picture of insouciance, “I think you need to get it out of your system.”

You scrub harder at the bowl. Blackened bits of rice float to the top of the water. “Like you do?”

A pause. His voice softens. “It’s not always a good thing. I shouldn’t have shouted at you, last night.” Something in your chest tightens painfully at this new gentle tone. “I’m sorry. I let my temper get the better of me. I was just worried about you.”

“I don’t think that’s my fault,” you say, managing to sound mostly normal. You dump out the contents of the bowl, filling it again with warmer water. “My phone was dead, and I was with my friends. I didn’t need you to worry about me.”

“I just do, when I know you’ve all been drinking, and I can’t talk to you to know you’re okay…” Sirius takes in a breath, breaking your heart with how it sounds like he’s trying to steady himself. “But you’re right, okay? It wasn’t fair.”

“I didn’t know I was coming home to be shouted at.” This time, your voice betrays you, a pitchiness that makes you go quiet fast. You hear Sirius move.

“Sweetheart?” he asks softly. There’s a touch at your elbow. “I’m sorry, baby, please look at me.”

You don’t want to, but you don’t want your embarrassment interpreted as ire. You take a quiet breath before pivoting from the sink. Sirius’ eyes are waiting, sad and fretful as they probe at yours.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, impossibly quieter, and runs his fingers from your elbow up the back of your arm. “It wasn’t your fault, I wasn’t being fair. I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”

You press your lips together, hard. His eyebrows hook up in the middle.

“You can cry, sweet thing. It’s okay.” You shake your head mutely, blinking, and Sirius makes a terribly lovely cooing sound, snaking an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his chest. You hug him back as the first hot tear rolls down your cheek. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” Your shoulders jump with a stilted, poorly repressed sob, his grip on you tightening. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby. My temper tantrum really did a number on you, huh?”

You laugh wetly. “Guess so,” you squeak. “Sorry.”

“If you apologize for this, I may shout at you again,” he warns fondly. “You haven’t done anything wrong, lovely girl. Just let it out, if you need to.”

You know that’s not easy for Sirius to say. Know he’s likely close to tears himself, from how agitated seeing other people cry makes him. You appreciate the offer.

You fall into a silence less heavy than any that’s suffocated your home since last night, broken up only by the steady, quiet thumping of Sirius patting your back and the intermittent smooching sounds as he kisses your shoulder or your cheek or the side of your neck. You stand still in your smoky kitchen, wetting your boyfriend’s shoulder with tears and snot, and he lets you.

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to-the-beginning--the-end-waits · 2 days ago

Text

Till The Lease Do Us Part

Summary: After a drunken Vegas party you find yourself married with Jeong Yunho, who is completely hopeless with basic appliances, you deal with your now husbands intimidating Korean mafia family visiting to meet his new “wife.”

Fandom: ATEEZ

Pairing: Jeong Yunho x Reader

Genre: Mafia AU, Romance, Comedy

Warnings: Warnings: mafia/crime family themes, mentions of weapons, alcohol consumption (Vegas wedding backstory), brief mentions of violence (making people “disappear”), one kinda misogynistic comment(it comes from a grandmother) (comments about “birthing hips”), mild innuendo

====================================

The marriage certificate stared back at you mockingly from the coffee table, official Vegas seal and all. Next to it sat your phone, which had been buzzing nonstop with congratulatory messages from Yunho’s family back in Seoul ever since someone had posted that blurry photo of you two stumbling out of the Little White Chapel.

“This is a disaster,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands.

Yunho emerged from the kitchen of your shared apartment -another consequence of this mess- holding two cups of coffee. Even in sweatpants and a wrinkled t-shirt, he managed to look intimidating. It was deeply unfair.

“It’s not that bad,” he said, settling beside you on the couch. “My grandmother thinks you’re ‘a lovely girl with good birthing hips.’”

“She said WHAT?”

“I may have sent her that photo of us at the hotel buffet. You were really going to town on those pancakes.”

You stared at him in horror. Three weeks ago, you’d been a normal person living a normal life. Then your friend’s bachelorette party happened, Vegas happened, and somehow you’d woken up married to Jeong Yunho. Who, as it turned out, wasn’t just tall, handsome, and surprisingly good at karaoke. He was also the heir to one of Seoul’s most powerful crime families.

“Your family thinks we’re in love,” you said slowly. “Your very scary, very armed family.”

“They’re not that scary. Jongho cried watching Coco last week.”

“Yunho.”

“Okay, fine. They’re terrifying. But they love you! My mother already bought us matching rice cookers for when we move back to Seoul.”

The plan had seemed simple enough when you’d both sobered up. Yunho needed his crime family to think he was settling down and becoming “responsible.” (what you didn't knew at that time was that he just didn't wanted to divorce you) You needed to pay off your exchange student loans (studying abroad wasn't cheap at all), and his offer to clear your debt in exchange for playing house for a few months had been too good to refuse. Easy money, you’d thought.

You hadn’t counted on your fake husband being completely useless at basic human tasks.

A crash from the kitchen interrupted your spiraling thoughts.

“What did you break now?” you called out.

“Nothing!” came Yunho’s suspiciously high pitched reply.

You trudged to the kitchen to find him standing in front of the open dishwasher, which was now foaming like a rabid dog. Soap bubbles covered the floor, and Yunho held the dish soap bottle like it had personally offended him.

“I thought it needed more soap,” he said defensively.

“It’s a DISHWASHER, not a bubble bath!” You grabbed the bottle from him. “And this is dish soap, not dishwasher detergent! They’re different things!”

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“It literally says ‘hand washing’ on the bottle!”

Yunho’s jaw tightened- the same look he got when his men reported problems with their operations. For a moment, you remembered exactly who you were yelling at. Then he deflated.

“My housekeeper always did this stuff,” he mumbled.

Right. Crime prince. You softened slightly as you turned off the dishwasher and started cleaning up the mess.

“Okay, new rule. You don’t touch any appliances without supervision.”

“I’m not a child.”

“You literally put aluminum foil in the microwave yesterday.”

“That was an accident!”

“You tried to wash clothes with fabric softener. Only fabric softener.”

Yunho crossed his arms. “The clothes were soft.”

“They were slimy, Yunho. Slimy.”

Your phone rang before he could argue further. The caller ID made your stomach drop.

“It’s your mother,” you hissed.

Yunho’s eyes widened. “Put it on speaker.”

You answered with your brightest fake voice. “Hello, Mrs. Jeong!”

“Y/N, sweetheart! How are you settling in? Yunho-ya told me you moved in together.”

You glanced at Yunho, who was gesturing frantically at himself and mouthing something that looked like “tell her I’m a good husband.”

“Oh, yes! We’re… adjusting well. Yunho is very… helpful around the house.”

Yunho beamed proudly.

“He’s learning to use the dishwasher,” you continued, watching his face fall. “And the laundry machine. And the microwave. Basic life skills, really.”

“Ah, good! A man should know how to take care of his wife. Speaking of which, we’re planning to visit next month to meet you properly!”

The color drained from both your faces.

“Visit?” you squeaked. “Here? To America?”

“Of course! We want to see how our son is treating his bride. Make sure he’s being a good husband.”

Yunho was making slashing motions across his throat, but his mother couldn’t see him.

“We’ll bring the whole family. Your brother-in-laws are very excited to meet you, Y/N. Seonghwa especially- he’s been wanting to have a ‘talk’ with Yunho about marriage responsibilities. It's a pity that you have school there, Seonghwa has already arranged a house here for you guys to move in after you graduate from university and move back here to Korea.”

You’d met Seonghwa in exactly one photo, where he’d been holding what looked suspiciously like a gun while smiling pleasantly at the camera.

“That sounds… wonderful,” you managed.

“Perfect! Oh, and Y/N? Make sure Yunho eats properly. He gets too skinny when he’s working. Force feed him if you have to.”

“I’ll… keep that in mind.”

After she hung up, you both sat in stunned silence, surrounded by soap bubbles.

“Your entire family is coming here,” you said faintly.

“Seonghwa once made a man disappear for disrespecting his wife,” Yunho said helpfully.

“Cool. Cool cool cool. And I’m supposed to convince them that I’ve domesticated you.”

“You kind of have. I know how to make coffee now.”

“You know how to press a button on a coffee machine. There’s a difference.”

Yunho stood up abruptly. “Okay, new plan. You teach me how to be a proper husband, and I’ll teach you how to handle my family.”

“What does that involve?”

“Smiling, nodding, and never letting them know you’re afraid.”

“I’m terrified.”

“Perfect. You’re halfway there.”

Over the next few days, your apartment became a domestic boot camp. You taught Yunho the difference between dish soap and dishwasher detergent (revolutionary), how to separate colors from whites (life changing), and that you can’t cook rice in the coffee maker (disappointing, apparently).

In return, he taught you important family facts: his grandmother collected porcelain cats and expected gifts, his father hated lateness more than he hated the police, and Wooyoung would definitely try to get you drunk to see if you’d spill family secrets.

“What family secrets?” you’d asked.

“That I can’t work the dishwasher,” Yunho had replied seriously.

====================================

The morning of his family’s arrival, you found Yunho standing in the kitchen at 6 AM, fully dressed and staring at the coffee machine like it held the secrets of the universe.

“Yunho? You okay?”

He turned to you with the most serious expression you’d ever seen on his face. “Y/N. How do I make coffee for eight people?”

“The same way you make coffee for two people, but… more.”

“More coffee? More water? More everything?”

You rubbed your temples. “Yes, Yunho. More everything. Proportionally.”

“What does proportionally mean?”

Two hours later, your apartment smelled like a coffee bomb had exploded. Yunho had somehow managed to brew what could generously be called “coffee soup” and had panic cleaned the already clean apartment three times.

“They’re going to know,” he paced frantically. “They’re going to take one look at me and know I can’t take care of you properly.”

“Yunho, breathe. You run a multimillion dollar criminal organization. You can handle your family.”

“That’s different! Crime makes sense. Families are chaos.”

The doorbell rang. You both froze.

“Show time,” you whispered, grabbing his hand. “Remember-”

“Smile, nod, don’t let them know I’m afraid,” he recited.

“And?”

“The dishwasher incident never happened.”

“Good boy.”

You opened the door to find a group of the most intimidating people you’d ever seen, all holding luggage and wearing identical pleasant smiles that somehow made them more terrifying.

“Y/N!” Yunho’s mother swept you into a hug that smelled like expensive perfume and underlying menace. “You’re even prettier in person!”

The next few hours were a blur of introductions, gift giving (you now owned seven porcelain cats, courtesy of grandmother Jeong), and the most polite interrogation of your life.

“So, Y/N,” Seonghwa smiled pleasantly while somehow making it sound like a threat, “how do you find married life?”

“It’s… educational,” you said carefully. “Yunho is teaching me a lot.”

“And what is our Yunho learning from you?”

You glanced at your fake husband, who was sweating despite the air conditioning.

“Domestic skills,” you said. “He’s becoming quite handy around the house.”

Grandmother Jeong perked up. “Oh, wonderful! Yunho-ya, make us some coffee. Show your wife how well you’ve learned.”

Yunho’s face went through several colors before settling on pale green. “I… coffee… yes.”

He disappeared into the kitchen. You heard what sounded like things falling over.

“He’s… still learning,” you said weakly.

Wooyoung grinned. “Learning is good. Shows character.”

A crash echoed from the kitchen, followed by Yunho’s voice: “Y/N! What’s the ratio again?”

The family exchanged looks.

“I should… help him,” you said, practically fleeing to the kitchen.

You found Yunho standing in a puddle of coffee grounds, holding the coffee maker like it had personally wronged him.

“I forgot everything,” he whispered frantically. “My brain is empty. There’s nothing there.”

“Okay, okay. Deep breaths.” You quickly started cleaning up the mess. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to go back out there and distract them while I make coffee. Tell them about… I don’t know, crime stuff. They like that.”

“I can’t talk about crime stuff! That’s work!”

“Then talk about me! Make something up!”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know! That I’m… that I make you happy or something.”

Yunho stared at you for a moment, something unreadable crossing his face. “That’s not making something up,” he said quietly.

Before you could process that, Jongho appeared in the doorway.

“Everything okay in here?”

You both jumped apart like guilty teenagers.

“Fine!” you chirped. “Just… coffee technical difficulties.”

Jongho looked at the chaos, then at Yunho’s panicked face, then at you standing protectively in front of the coffee maker. A slow grin spread across his face.

“Yunho-hyung,” he said innocently, “remember when you told us you were ‘completely domesticated’ now?”

Yunho’s eye twitched. “Jongho…”

“And how you said your wife had ‘whipped you into shape’?”

“Jongho, I swear-”

“Because this looks like Y/N is about to whip you into shape right now.”

You snorted, unable to help yourself. Yunho turned his betrayed look on you.

“Don’t laugh! You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am on your side! But you did try to make coffee with orange juice yesterday.”

“That was experimental!”

Jongho was now openly cackling. “Oh, this is perfect. Wait until I tell everyone that the big scary boss can’t work a coffee machine.”

“You breathe a word of this and I’ll assign you to fish market duty for a month,” Yunho threatened.

“Deal. This is worth it.”

By the time you returned to the living room with actual coffee, the family had somehow figured out the entire situation without anyone saying a word. It was like they had some kind of collective mind reading ability.

“So,” Grandmother Jeong said pleasantly, “how long have you two been pretending to be married?”

You choked on your coffee. Yunho went perfectly still in that dangerous way that meant someone was about to have a very bad day.

“Grandmother-”

“Oh, please. You think I raised idiots?” She waved dismissively. “Yunho-ya, you’ve never done a load of laundry in your life. And Y/N, dear, you keep looking at him like you’re not sure if you want to strangle him or adopt him.”

“It’s mostly strangle,” you muttered.

“See? Honesty. I like her.” Seonghwa leaned forward. “The question is, what are you planning to do about it?”

“About what?” Yunho asked warily.

You and Yunho stared at each other, then back at the family.

“We’re not-” you started.

“It’s just business-” Yunho said simultaneously.

The entire family burst into laughter.

“Oh, children,” Yunho’s mother sighed fondly. “You’re both hopeless.”

Wooyoung grinned. “I haven’t seen Yunho this flustered since he was sixteen and had a crush on his math tutor.”

“That’s different!” Yunho protested. “This is a contractual arrangement!”

“Right,” Mingi nodded seriously. “A contract that involves you learning to do laundry and her teaching you basic life skills while you both live together and bicker like an old married couple.”

“We do not bicker like-”

“You spent ten minutes arguing about the proper way to load a dishwasher this morning,” you pointed out.

“Because you were doing it wrong!”

“There’s not a right way and a wrong way, Yunho!”

“See?” Grandmother Jeong looked pleased. “Perfect couple.”

The rest of the visit passed in a blur of family stories, photo albums (you learned that Yunho had gone through a regrettable bowl cut phase at age twelve), and cooking lessons from his mother that mainly involved her despairing over her son’s complete inability to function like a normal human being.

“How has he survived this long?” she wondered aloud as Yunho somehow managed to burn water.

“I honestly don’t know,” you replied, taking the pot away from him before he could cause more damage.

====================================

On their last night, you found yourself on the balcony with Grandmother Jeong while the rest of the family argued over karaoke song choices inside.

“You know,” she said quietly, “when Yunho called to tell us he was married, I thought he was lying.”

“He was lying.”

“No, dear. He was lying about why.” She patted your hand gently. “That boy has never cared about anyone the way he cares about you. And you… you look at him like he hung the moon, even when he’s being an idiot.”

“He’s always being an idiot.”

“Exactly. And you still look at him like that.” She smiled. “Real love isn’t about finding someone perfect. It’s about finding someone whose particular brand of disaster you can’t live without.”

Before you could respond, a crash echoed from inside, followed by Yunho’s voice: “I can fix it!”

“No!” came your immediate response, and you were moving before you’d consciously decided to, rushing inside to prevent whatever catastrophe he was about to cause.

Grandmother Jeong followed, chuckling. “See what I mean?”

The family left the next morning with promises to return soon and threats of bodily harm if Yunho didn’t “treat you right.” You and Yunho stood in your coffee smelly, slightly destroyed apartment, waving goodbye until the car disappeared.

“Well,” Yunho said finally. “That went better than expected.”

“Your brother gave me his phone number and told me to call if you ‘act up.’”

“Which one?”

“All of them.”

Yunho groaned. “Great. Now I’m going to get murdered by my own family if I mess this up.”

You looked around the apartment, at the coffee stains on the ceiling (still didn’t know how he’d managed that), the slightly crooked picture frames (from when he’d tried to “help” redecorate), the pile of instruction manuals on the counter (for appliances he’d broken and replaced).

“Yunho?”

“Yeah?”

“Since the gig is up... What do we do?”

He was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know. I mean, we’d have to get divorced, I guess. Officially.”

“Right. Divorced.”

“Unless…”

“Unless what?”

He turned to face you, and for once, he looked completely serious. Not crime boss serious, not family meeting serious, but genuinely, vulnerably serious.

“Unless you wanted to try the real thing. With someone who can’t work a dishwasher and once tried to iron a shirt while wearing it.”

“You did what?”

“Not the point!” He ran a hand through his hair nervously. “Look, I know this is crazy, and I know I’m a walking disaster when it comes to normal human things, but… I think I’m falling in love with you. Actually falling in love, not fake marriage falling in love.”

You stared at him. “You tried to iron a shirt while wearing it?”

“Y/N.”

“Sorry. I’m processing.” You took a deep breath. “Okay, hypothetically, if I were to consider this insane proposal…”

“Hypothetically.”

“You’d have to learn to do your own laundry.”

“Deal.”

“And figure out the dishwasher.”

“I’ll take a class.”

“And stop trying to cook anything more complicated than toast without supervision.”

“Hey!”

“Yunho. You set off the fire alarm making cereal.”

“The milk was supposed to be warmed!”

“You put the bowl in the oven!”

“It worked!”

You looked at him; this ridiculous, dangerous, completely hopeless man who’d somehow become the best part of your day, and made your decision.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, let’s try the real thing. But I’m keeping Seonghwa’s number, just in case.”

Yunho’s face broke into the brightest smile you’d ever seen. He swept you up in a hug that lifted you off your feet, spinning you around the disaster zone that had somehow become home.

“I love you,” he said, setting you down but not letting go.

“I love you too,” you replied. “Even though you’re completely hopeless.”

“I prefer ‘charmingly incompetent.’”

“Yunho?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t ever change. But maybe... let me handle the appliances.”

“Deal.”

And if the dishwasher started foaming again the next morning, well… at least this time you were there to turn it off.

THE END

====================================

A/N: It feels a bit short but this fic just might be one of my favs from this series. Writing always-a-winner-good-at-everything Jeong Yunho as a person not being able to do basic chores right kinda gives me some sense of power ngl I wanna write him more pathetic ehe 🤭

#ateez fic #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #kpop fic #ateez scenarios #kpop x reader #ateez imagines #kpop imagines #ateez fluff #jeong yunho x reader #yunho x reader #mafia!ateez #ateez fanfiction #kpop scenarios #kpop fanfic

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tacoguacamole · 2 months ago

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ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 9

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn, Splice of Life]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8. Part 9. Chapter Word Count: 9.5k+]

[Chapter Summary: There was a kind of farewell threaded through everything—spoken without drama, carried in glances and gestures, in the way hands didn’t linger but didn’t let go. You didn’t expect the weight of it, or the way comfort found you in the smallest places: in old shoes, in the soft edge of his voice, in silence that didn’t ask for more.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The house breathes around you. Not in silence, but in that particular hush of well-tended spaces—alive with rhythm, yet never loud.

You hear the soft shuffle of slippers on polished floors, the gentle thud of distant doors closing with care. Somewhere upstairs, someone is vacuuming, the sound muffled like it’s been politely turned down just for you.

You don’t have to look to know someone is dusting the stair rail again, same as they do every morning. The chandelier lets out a soft mechanical sigh as the air shifts. You listen to it all like it means something—because it does.

This kind of quiet isn’t empty. It’s full of other people’s motions, of intention, of care. Of life, still moving, even when yours feels like it’s pausing to catch its breath.

Your mother is already in the kitchen by the time you step in, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her movements practiced and unhurried. She stands over the stove, stirring something slow and fragrant in a wide pot, steam curling up to kiss her face. The rice cooker hums beside her, its lid covered with a neatly folded cloth she must’ve placed there out of habit.

She doesn’t startle when you enter – just shifts slightly to make room for your silence, then adjusts the flame, wipes a splash from the counter with the back of her hand.

It’s a kind of quiet choreography, the kind you grew up watching. Everything she does is muscle memory by now, but there’s care in it too. A softness.

“Made too much,” she says, without turning around, already expecting you’d be joining her with the day that awaits.

“You always do,” you settle into your usual seat at the counter, the wood smooth and cool beneath your palms.

She doesn’t answer right away—just lifts the lid from the pot and stirs with a gentle hand. “Do you want me to pack some for him?”

You blink, amused. “Change of heart, Eomma?”

“Those flowers looked like it could grow in our garden,” she tries to hide the smile slipping out but her eyes already betray her. “Guess he could get a point for that. Just for now.”

There’s an ache in your chest – the good kind – to hear the slightest warmth in her voice. “He spoils me.”

“He owes you,” though she’s back to her motherly protection, you’re thankful to see the slight change.

The silence that settles between you isn’t sharp. It lingers the way shared understanding does—unspoken, but unmistakably there. You watch steam rise in ribbons from the bowl as she sets it aside and rinses the ladle under a thin stream of water.

“You’ve been quieter lately,” she says after a while. “Is it work?”

You shake your head. “No. Not really.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’ve just been thinking,” you say, your voice softer than before, “about where I want to be. Later.”

She dries her hands slowly on the towel hanging by the sink, then turns to face you. The light catches on her skin—sharp at the collarbone, soft at her jaw. Even in the stillness, she holds herself with the kind of strength that doesn’t ask for attention.

“You were always gentler than me,” she says. “I built my life on noise. You… you always found your peace in the quiet.”

You rest your chin in your hand, eyes drifting toward the window. “Busan was always the quiet, wasn’t it?”

Your mother is silent for a moment. Then, “Your father proposed to me in Busan. We were still striving then. He didn’t even have a ring.” There’s a faint smile on her lips. “We were staying in this rental room by the port. You could hear the foghorn at night. I was going to tell you that story one day.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She hesitates. Then says, “Because it always felt like yours. That city. The way you lit up when we went. The way you listened to the sea like it was speaking just to you. Even back then, I think I knew—if you were ever going to heal, or start over, or fall in love… it would be there.”

You look at her more closely now, something stirring low in your chest.

She takes a slow breath and adds, quieter – “Maybe I built everything in Seoul… but I started everything there, too.” She steps closer and places a hand on your wrist. Not firm, not demanding—just there. A quiet tether. “If that’s where you want to be… I’ll make sure it’s yours. Make sure it feels like home again.”

“That sounds dangerously close to you giving me your blessing to quit everything and disappear.”

“Disappearing is dramatic,” she deadpans. “I’m imagining something more peaceful. Like an early retirement. Or a very long vacation.”

You huff out a laugh, the tension unspools just a little. “You always did know how to rebrand my crises.”

“I’m excellent at it,” she returns to the stove. “Should’ve gone into PR.” She slides the rice container into a cloth bag and folds the towel over the top with practiced care.

You drift toward the window, fingers brushing the curtain aside as morning light filters in—gentle and calming.

Outside, the sky still wears the last of dawn’s haze, soft and silver at the edges. The chill lingers on the breeze, not sharp, just enough to wake your skin.

Jeongguk’s already there—like he always is now—leaning against the driver’s side of his car with one hand tucked in his coat pocket, the other holding a bouquet of purple tulips.

Smaller than yesterday’s. Still lovely. Still him.

You smile faintly. “He’s here.”

Your mother simply closes the bag, sets it gently in front of you. “Tell him to eat properly,” she murmurs. “He looks thinner these days.”

You glance at her. “He’s the same.”

“He isn’t.” Placing a gentle kiss on your cheek, she walks away, off to get ready for the day that awaits ahead. Doesn’t say anything else. Knows she’ll see you later.

Reaching for your scarf, you take the bag in hand, slip on your shoes by the door, breathing in the morning air that greets you outside like an old friend – brisk, clean, edged with something familiar. The scent of tulips fades in quickly – sweet, earthy, familiar, carried in on the wind.

Jeongguk holds them out as you approach, a little tentative, like he’s still learning how much is too much—and what’s just enough.

“These look suspiciously normal-sized,” lifting a brow, you take the bouquet. “No wild field this morning?”

Tucking his hand back into his coat pocket, a quiet smile slips on his lips. “Thought I’d save you the trouble today.”

Ignoring the flutter in your chest, you follow him toward the car, walk in sync, routine, old habits. He opens the passenger door for you, waits until you’re settled, then rounds to the driver’s side and climbs in. His fingers tap once against the steering wheel before he starts the engine.

“That your mom’s cooking?”

You lift the cloth bag slightly. “She says you’re getting thinner.”

“Thinner?” He scoffs. “I’ve added the eight ab back recently. That’s premium real estate.”

You blink. “You’re counting now?”

He nods. “I monitor growth. We’re talking micro-sculpting at this point.”

“Didn’t you call me last week, interrupted my meeting, because you got stuck halfway through a sit-up?”

“That was a tactical pause,” he says flatly. “Part of the method.”

You reach over, and poke his stomach. “Too bad. Kinda miss the flabs. That version was more huggable.”

He softens instantly. “I’m suddenly feeling donuts and samgyeopsal. You know that 24-hour one by Uni? Maybe your mom was right, I am getting skinny.”

You laugh, head falling back against the seat. The kind of laugh that surprises you with how easy it is. “As long as you have those for later. I’m not really in the mood for a big breakfast.”

“Breakfast might be your favorite meal, but I know you never eat much in the morning. Don’t worry – just the usual café for now.” He smiles, eyes fixed on the road—the way they always are when he’s trying to keep things light, careful not to let the moment sink too deep.

Morning unfolds around you in quiet layers – storefronts stirring to life, café windows fogging over with warmth, a delivery truck double-parked beneath the weight of crates and chatter. The city doesn’t rush. It stretches, exhales.

And beside you, Jeongguk drives like he’s not part of it. Like this—his hand steady on the wheel, the other folded into yours over the console—is the only version of morning that exists. His thumb brushes over your knuckles now, lingering longer on your wedding ring, absentminded but constant. Like a promise he doesn’t say out loud.

The café is tucked between an old bookstore and a laundromat, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it. Its wooden sign is weathered, the paint at the corners flaking like it gave up trying to be noticed.

It’s ritual by now, somewhere between the second morning and the seventh, the place just stuck, but you always look forward to this. It’s more than you ever got in the past three years.

Inside, the air carries the warmth of toasted bread and cinnamon, soft enough to feel like memory. A low jazz melody winds through the space, mellow and unbothered. Plates clink gently. The espresso machine hisses, not with urgency, but with rhythm. Conversations murmur around you, blurred at the edges. No one looks too long. No one moves too fast.

It’s the kind of morning that doesn’t take anything from you. That lets you arrive without shape. That lets you stay.

Jeongguk returns with a tray balanced in one hand, the collar of his coat still turned up from the wind outside. Barley tea for you, his usual black, two soft-boiled eggs, cinnamon sugar toast, and your mother’s rice rolls—still warm through the paper wrapping, like they’ve carried a piece of home with them.

He sets everything down with a practiced kind of ease, sliding into the seat across from you like this is how it’s always been.

“You’re getting predictable,” you murmur, wrapping your fingers around the warm tea. “Same order. Same seat. Same scowl.”

“It’s your favorites,” he says, “And, maybe I just wanted to get something right for once,” tears a piece of toast in half. “Anyway, just happy you didn’t bail this morning. Was ready to eat your share out of spite.”

You snort. “So noble of you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m complicated like that,” he mutters, tries keeping a straight face, but you notice the crinkle in the corner of his eyes. Tries to shrug it off by handing you the bigger piece. “Bread based revenge and all.”

You both eat without rush, letting the moment stretch. Time feels like it’s favoring you today – soft around the edges, unbothered by urgency. He peels the eggs with deliberate care, and as always, sets one gently into your bowl without a word.

It’s nothing. But it’s also everything.

You glance at him. He meets your eyes just long enough to offer a small, almost shy smile — the kind that seems like he’s grateful for this rhythm between you, like it never left.

A breeze filters through the cracked window beside you, carrying in the faintest scent of roasted beans from next door.

You wrap your fingers around the tea cup, letting the warmth sink into your palms. “No calls? No emergencies?”

He shakes his head, easy. “Took a leave.”

It catches you off guard—not in a dramatic way, but just enough to stir your thoughts.

Jeongguk’s never been one to slow down, at least not in the past few years. Sure, there were days he slacked off or get burned out, but the ones where he chased perfection always carried more weight.

He’d worked late into the night, refining pitches and brand decks no one had asked for yet. That was just how he was—quietly driven, unable to rest until everything met or surpassed expectations.

You want to ask what changed. Why now. What he plans to do with the time he’s carved out of a life that never really slowed down.

But the questions stay lodged in your throat — too close to overstepping, and you’ve worked too hard to keep this peace. This fragment of normalcy.

Instead, you offer a softer one, “You sure your team can survive without you till then?”

“They’ll thank me for the silence,” he says with a quiet chuckle. “Taehyung’s probably halfway to Daegu. I know he misses his family.”

You smile behind your cup. “Look at you, being all selfless and mysterious.”

The morning drifts gently between you — sunlight pooling across the window, the low murmur of jazz curling through the air, the scrape of a ceramic plate as he divides the last of the toast.

Outside, a car hums past, tires hissing softly on damp pavement. You lean back a little, letting the quiet settle into your bones.

“Haven’t seen that in a while.” Jeongguk breaks the silence, eyes flicking toward your blouse.

You glance down. “What?”

“You wore that once in Jeju. The hotel with no heating. The umbrella incident.”

You blink, caught off guard. “That’s a very specific memory.”

“Hard to forget when you babbled for forty-eight hours straight and threatened to file a class-action suit.”

“It was forty-eight minutes,” you huff, folding your arms. “And it was a bad hotel. Was going to close my first big client and they gave me a shitty conference room. Had to use the umbrella nearby for the pipes that bursted that day.”

“Pretty blouse though. Think it brought you luck. Got to close that deal after all.”

You look at him. His gaze is soft but steady — not lingering, not loaded. Just... noticing. Like it matters to him that he remembers, and that you’re wearing it now.

Your eyes drop again. Smoothing out the fabric at your wrist, unsure what to do with the way his attention settles — warm, familiar, and too much all at once. “I’m skipping dinner tonight.”

“Again?” His tone lifts, borderline betrayed. “Was breakfast supposed to be compensation?”

You should’ve seen the dramatics coming. Still, you roll your eyes. “Go find something to do. Bother someone else.”

“I wanna bother you,” Jeongguk blurts out, pouty and reckless, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. The kind of thing he used to say when he’d drape himself over your arm and call it his “emotional support limb.”

You turn to your tea, lifting the cup just high enough to hide the smile threatening at your lips. “Well, you can’t. It’s Jin’s anniversary dinner. I’ll be out late.”

He groans like you’ve personally betrayed him. “And I can’t tag along?”

“Nope. Go away.”

“Will you be wearing a pretty dress?”

The question catches you off guard, soft and sudden. You try to brush it off, toss the crumpled receipt at his chest. “Nothing new. But I guess it’s… decent enough.”

“That’s your way of saying pretty,” he mutters, still pouting. “This sucks.”

“You’ll live.”

He slouches deeper into the seat, dramatically defeated. “Debatable.”

But he’s smiling again. And so are you — not wide, not showy. Just enough to carry the rest of the day.

Breakfast had to end at some point. You didn’t want to, never wanted to. Jeongguk doesn’t seem like he didn’t either. You’re not sure. Just noticed the way he kept ordering almost like he was trying to stretch out the morning.

You follow him to the car. He moves with his usual ease—opens the door for you, then, this time, leans over to fasten your seatbelt, his hand brushing lightly against the side of your waist.

Your heart skips a beat, but you quickly look down at your phone, pretending to check a message, allowing him to settle in after.

The drive settles into a comfortable quiet, the kind of silence that’s familiar and easy between you. No need for words or music — just the soft hum of the road beneath you. His hand reaches over, finding yours across the console, fingers intertwining naturally.

You don’t speak, but the small pressure of his thumb moving over your knuckles says everything.

When Jeongguk pulls up outside Seora, you fix the strap of your bag and glance toward the glass entrance.

The morning air feels sharper here. Realer. Breakfast already feels like it happened hours ago — soft, slow, somewhere else entirely. This part of the day had to come eventually, but that doesn’t make it easier.

Beside you, Jeongguk watches. He doesn’t press, doesn’t ask, just sees — like he always has.

And even though you try to keep your hands tucked beneath the cuffs of your sleeves, the slight tremble gives you away.

Silently, he reaches across the console. Takes your hands in his — warm, certain — and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, to your ring. It’s so gentle you almost miss it. But your eyes lift on instinct.

He doesn’t know what you’re walking into. Doesn’t ask. Just says, “You’ll do good. Whatever it is, you’ll kill it. You always do.”

And for a moment, it’s enough. Just that quiet certainty in his voice — like the past hasn’t touched it.

The boardroom looks smaller than you remember.

Not physically — the walls haven’t moved, the polished glass table still stretches from end to end, and the minimalist light fixture overhead still hums with its usual low thrum.

But there’s something about the air today. Something quieter. Weightier. Like the room itself knows what this is.

There’s a version of you here — younger, stiffer, barely holding it together in heels that didn’t quite fit and a blazer you borrowed from your mother’s closet. Her voice had echoed in your ears that morning, “Straight spine. Firm grip. You’re not asking to be here — you belong here.”

You’d nodded, heart pounding, your palms already slick.

You remember that first day clearly. The door had felt heavier when you pushed it open. The eyes that lifted to meet you weren’t cruel — just… expectant. Measuring. Curious to see if the daughter of the legend would crumble or crown herself.

Seora was already powerful then. The kind of brand that didn’t just follow trends — it forecasted them. Your mother had built it with unapologetic vision, sharpened by years of instinct. And now, she was stepping back — not entirely, but enough — and all of it was landing on your shoulders.

The transition wasn’t gentle.

You’d barely sat in the CEO seat when the board began circling. Whispers of delay. Dips in projected growth. A shift in market behavior.

And you — too young, too soft, too untested — were an easy place to point the uncertainty.

“I want to go back to fabric-first,” you said, voice even despite the tremor in your fingers. “Not silhouettes. Not celebrity faces. I want to build a collection that moves like memory. Not trend.”

They looked at you like you’d spoken in poetry instead of numbers. Someone coughed. Another asked, “And the investors? What will you tell them when this doesn’t land?”

You answered, “I’ll tell them I bet on the long game. And then I’ll show them why I was right.”

Your mother hadn’t said a word that meeting. She hadn’t stepped in to save you — hadn’t looked your way once, in fact.

But afterward, when you passed her in the hallway, she’d paused, adjusted the cuff of your borrowed blazer, and said quietly, “Next time, wear your own clothes.”

It had been her way of saying you’ve earned it now.

The first collection came out seven months later. Sparse. Intentional. Textures and seams hand-picked by you. Critics had called it a risk. Then a revival. Then a reminder that art, when done honestly, outlasts algorithms.

You didn’t cry when the glowing reviews came in – praise flooding your inbox, critics calling your work a quiet masterpiece. Not until you were alone in your office, shoes kicked off, heels blistered, watching the light fade through the tall windows as silence folded around you like a long exhale.

That was the moment you finally belonged.

And now, standing in this room again — years later, steadier, softer in different ways — you feel the full circle of it press gently behind your chest.

Maybe it’s the light — filtered in through the sheer blinds, diffused and quiet — or maybe it’s just the way empty chairs always feel a little more final than full ones. The room smells faintly of fresh paper, polished wood, and someone’s morning espresso coming from the hallways.

There’s a rhythm to this place that lives in your body; the creak of the leather chair you always pulled back too quickly, the slight buzz in the overhead light above the third seat to the left, the exact spot your heels used to click when you were late and trying not to show it.

You run a hand over the table's edge as you pass. It's smoother than it used to be — or maybe you're just noticing it now.

For a moment, you pause at your usual seat.

You don’t sit. Not yet.

The door clicks open behind you, and Mark steps in, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, shoulders a little too relaxed for a morning like this.

“You trying to win the punctuality award now?” he says lightly, setting his cup down beside you. “Little late for that legacy grab.”

You smile without turning. “There are worse reputations to leave with.”

“Mm.” Mark glances around the quiet room. “Always thought you’d go out in chaos. Yelling into your phone, throwing last-minute notes at interns, maybe flipping a chair for dramatic effect.”

You raise a brow without turning. “I’m not that chaotic, Tuan.”

He leans against the table, elbow brushing the edge of your sleeve. “That’s ‘cause I’m always around to keep you steady.”

You huff a soft breath. “Should I say thank you?”

He pretends to consider it. “Nah. Just promise you’ll actually enjoy that vacation, yeah? At least one of us gets an early retirement.”

You glance at him then, smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You know, I can always talk to your parents about it. They love me.”

Mark grins — but it’s quieter than usual. “That they do.”

A pause stretches between you. He nudges the seat beside yours gently with his knee but doesn’t sit yet. His voice stays light, but his eyes don’t quite follow.

There’s something there. Not pressing. Just present.

And he doesn’t say anything more.

The others file in not long after — a few from legal, two from international, your lead brand strategist, and finally, your mother.

She doesn’t say much at first. Just offers you a quiet nod as she takes her seat. She doesn’t sit at the head — not yet. Waits until you do.

You let the room settle before speaking — not because you need the silence, but because you want to remember it. The way it holds people you’ve trusted. Grown with. Fought beside.

Your fingers rest lightly on the table. You don’t grip. Don’t fidget.

Just breathe in. And begin.

“I won’t pretend I’m not emotional. Most of you have seen me cry over less — like that one logistics error that turned into a two-hundred-piece embroidery delay and a minor existential crisis.”

Laughter bubbles — soft, genuine. Even your mother smiles behind her cup of tea.

“But this… this isn’t panic. It’s not pressure. It’s something else. This is full-circle.”

Your eyes flick to your mother, seated quietly across from you. Not the woman who raised you — not just — but the woman who handed you a world and asked, without saying the words, what will you do with it?

“Seora didn’t start with me. It started with her. Her dream. Her name. Her fight. And years ago, she gave it to me — not as a gift, but as a responsibility. One I wasn’t sure I was ready for at the time.”

A few heads nod. Mark’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“But I tried. And I kept trying. And together — with all of you — we grew it into something that didn’t just hold her story, but carried mine, too. Yours. Everyone who touched this place. We didn’t just expand the brand. We expanded its voice. Its heart.”

You pause for a sip of water. Not because your throat’s dry — but because your chest is tight in that very specific way that happens when something is about to end.

“I’ve loved every version of this chapter. Even the ugly ones. The long nights. The near-disasters. The off-white debates. But I know when a season has done its work.”

You look around the room. The people who made your dream theirs. The ones who trusted you even when you weren’t always certain how to lead.

“So I’m stepping back. Not out of defeat. Not because I’ve lost love for this place. But because I believe in the shape of what’s next. And I believe in the people sitting at this table to carry it forward.”

A glance toward your mother softens your expression, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Especially her.”

The words hang — not like an ending, but like a thread waiting to be carried forward. “She won’t ask for help. Not in the way I did. But she’ll need it, just the same. So keep building with her. Push forward with her. She knows this company in her bones — but you’ve all become part of its heartbeat.”

You pause, voice softer now. “Keep fighting for the version of Seora that makes space. That dares. That tells stories.”

Another silence — but this one feels full, not heavy. Like breath held, not grief swallowed.

And just as it threatens to linger too long, “Also… if any of you email me past midnight, I will block you. With affection, obviously.”

Laughter rolls in, catching on the edges of something bigger.

The applause fades slowly, giving way to the soft scrape of chairs and the low murmur of voices. One by one, they rise — not in a rush, but with the kind of pause that means something.

Minjae is the first to approach. “You proved every single one of us wrong,” he says, not unkindly. His handshake is firm, his smile quieter than usual. “Take care of yourself kiddo.”

Next is Hana, always pragmatic. “I still think your spring silhouettes in ‘16 were too ambitious,” she teases, then adds, “but they sold out in a week. You were right.”

Iseul, pulls you into a quick, careful hug. “Call if you get bored,” she says against your shoulder. “Or if you miss arguing.”

Others follow — brief nods, murmured thank-yous, the kind of glances that carry entire seasons of shared pressure and persistence. You take each one in without needing to hold on.

Someone from logistics leaves a neatly wrapped sketch on the table beside you — a rendering of one of your earliest Seora designs. Inked carefully. Labeled with the original file name only you would remember.

You press your hand over it for a moment. Not to take it. Just to feel the paper beneath your palm.

Your mother is last to stand. She offers a small, steady smile — the kind that carries both pride and relief. Her eyes meet yours for a heartbeat. “You did well. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Mark lingers near the door, shoulder propped lazily against the frame like he’s been waiting for this part all along.

Only silence remains with just the two of you in the room now. He moves toward you – not with fanfare, just his usual quiet weight.

“You gonna cry now?” he says, voice low.

You smile faintly. “Not here.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “I wouldn’t know what to do.” He helps you gather a few loose folders, but you don’t rush. The moment doesn’t want to be rushed. “You want me to help pack your things?”

“Not yet,” you say. “I want to do it slowly.”

He nods. Doesn’t question it.

There’s a box half-packed beside the window, the edges already taped but not sealed. Some things you’ve scattered around the boardroom, just enough to ease the coldness that once filled the space. The rest can wait. You want the quiet of the room by yourself — just once more.

“You’ll still answer my calls, right?” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Or are you ghosting the whole company now?”

“I’ll screen you creatively.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t know how to guilt-trip your mother.”

You smile again — softer this time.

He stands at the edge of the room like he’s about to leave. “I’ll be back, you know.”

You glance up. “To visit?”

He shrugs — but this time, it feels heavier. Surer.

“To get you.”

You blink. “Get me?”

He doesn’t look away. “Seora’s not Seora without you.”

You try to answer, but nothing comes.

So instead, you move toward the box and brush your hand across the top. He tapes it gently, just once, but doesn’t seal it. Just presses his palm over the center like he’s holding something still.

“You’ll let me know when you need someone to show up,” he says — voice barely above a whisper. “Doesn’t matter where, right?”

You nod. Don’t say anything more.

Because it’s already understood.

The house greets you in silence.

Not the kind that feels hollow or abandoned—but the kind that folds around you gently, like a long-held breath. It wraps around your shoulders as you step inside, steady and full, as if the walls themselves know how much space you need right now.

You climb the stairs slower than usual—not from tiredness, but something quieter. Like your body knows this moment holds weight. Like something is waiting to unfold.

The late afternoon light bathes your bedroom, golden and soft against the floorboards.

A framed photo sits on your dresser—taken after your first international runway show, years ago. You’re barefoot on a cobblestone street, gown gathered in one hand, laughing as your mother stands beside you with her arm linked through yours.

The glass catches the sunlight now, washing both your faces in gold, like the past hasn’t quite let go.

You set your bag down with care. Sit on the edge of the bed without really thinking. Your heels click once against the floor—sharp, then soft. You let the sound fade.

The door eases open behind you, quiet and deliberate.

You don’t look up. Know it’s your mother the moment she steps into the room—trailing the familiar scent of vanilla, her presence soft and steady, like it always has been.

Draped over her arm is an ivory shawl, its hand-stitched edges delicate with age. You recognize it instantly.

“You wore this to your first board dinner,” she says softly, almost like she’s remembering it aloud to herself.

A quiet laugh slips out of you, weary around the edges. “You made me take it off halfway through because I spilled wine on it.”

A small smile touches her lips. “Yes. But for the first half, you looked beautiful.”

She crosses the room and lays it beside you, smoothing the fabric with practiced hands. “It’s warmer than it looks,” she adds. “And lighter than you remember.”

You look up at her then. The corner of her mouth lifts—not quite a smile, more like something held back.

“Just in case the evening gets long,” She stays for a moment longer than expected, hesitating—then, almost like it’s an afterthought, she pulls something small from her pocket. A square box. Carefully wrapped. No ribbon. No tag.

“This was delivered earlier.” her voice is quiet, measured. “It was left for you.”

You take it from her slowly, the weight of it strange in your hands. She doesn’t explain further. Just reaches up, brushes a strand of hair behind your ear like she used to when you were little, and leaves you with your silence.

And then you’re alone.

But not really. Not with the box still in your lap. Not with the weight of it already pressing gently into your thighs like it knows what it’s carrying.

You run your fingers along the edge—once, then twice. The wrapping is simple. No name. No flourish. But it’s careful, the way it’s been folded. Deliberate in a quiet way, like someone thought about this. Like someone meant it.

You peel the paper back slowly, each motion softer than it needs to be. As if rushing might ruin whatever’s inside.

And then you see it.

A bracelet.

Silver. Clean-lined. Minimalist, but not plain. The kind of thing you might have picked for yourself in another lifetime. But it’s the charm that holds you still—small, barely larger than a fingernail, shaped like a tulip just starting to bloom.

Your breath stops.

Because it’s not just any charm. And this isn’t just any bracelet.

Tucked beneath it, pressed against the velvet like a secret, is a worn piece of black cardstock. There’s a faded gold foil stamp in the corner. A tulip icon.

You’ve seen it before—peeking out from the folds of Jeongguk’s wallet, half-slipped inside his camera case, once forgotten in the crease of his coat pocket when you helped him pack for a trip.

You never asked about it. But it had always been there. Like background noise. Like something he couldn’t quite throw away.

You stare at it now. At the bracelet. At the charm.

Because you know this shape.

You’ve seen its twin for years, just beneath the edge of his sleeve. On his wrist, always. When he reached for your hand. When he leaned forward to pour your tea. When he held your ankle on his lap to rub the soreness out after a long day in heels.

“This one’s just always felt right on me,” he’d said once, half-laughing, when you asked why he never took it off.

You’d only been teasing—asking if it had magical powers or if it was secretly tracking him. He hadn’t offered anything else, just that simple shrug and that quiet look he always gave you when he meant more than he was saying.

You never thought much of it. Just figured it was something he liked. A piece of his personal style. A little Jeongguk-ism that made sense in a quiet, steady way.

But now—now there’s a second one.

You don’t know exactly when he bought it, or how long he’s had it tucked away. But the cardstock suggests it’s been a few years.

You’re not sure if he meant to give it to you when things were still whole, or if he held onto it through the mess because some part of him still remembered what it was supposed to mean.

There’s no note. No name. And yet… this is him.

Undeniably him.

You reach out and touch the charm with your thumb. It’s cool. Smooth. Familiar in a way that hurts.

Because how many times did you see it on him? How many times did you trace that edge with your eyes without realizing you were memorizing it?

A sound escapes you—half laugh, half breath. Fragile. Almost embarrassed by its own tenderness. “Jeon Jeongguk, you cheeky little shit.”

You lift the bracelet, wrap it slowly around your wrist. The clasp closes with a soft click. Effortless. Like it belonged there all along.

You sit still for a long moment, eyes on your hand. The charm settles right above your pulse. And somehow, just feeling it there—solid, quiet, real—it brings back the ghost of something you thought you’d lost completely. Something simple. Something good. Something yours.

You close your eyes.

And for the first time in a while, you let yourself remember. Not the fights. Not the silence. Not the years of distance.

But Jeongguk.

The way he used to look at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Like you were the softest part of his life.

The way he kissed you when you were half asleep, muttering that you’d never know how much he loved you. The way tulips meant something—something only the two of you ever understood.

He’s not here now. But the bracelet is. And maybe that’s his way of saying he didn’t forget.

That not everything slipped away. Not everything was abandoned.

Some things—just a few—still choose you back.

Soirée sat tucked away on a quiet street in Gangnam, its dark wooden door framed by climbing ivy and tiny flickers of candlelight. Garden light spills through tall windows, falling across crystal and candles.

Everything smells like lemon water and wax. Inside, the soft murmur of well-dressed guests mingled with the clink of glasses and the distant trill of a violin.

Guests move easily, familiar with one another but never close enough to pry. You catch glimpses of faces you recognize — people who’ve been part of Jin’s life in pieces; friends from charity events, family acquaintances, names you only heard in passing. Their smiles are polite, edged with just enough warmth to feel genuine without crossing the distance.

You make your way inside, pausing only when you catch a familiar laugh echo from the far end of the room.

It’s Jin’s.

You spot him easily — tall and polished in a navy suit, one arm draped casually around his wife’s shoulders. He’s talking to an elderly couple you vaguely remember from his wedding photos, his smile soft and something older than it used to be.

When his wife leans in to adjust the boutonnière on his lapel, he doesn’t flinch or laugh it off. He just lets her.

And for a second, something settles low in your chest. Not quite envy — more like a memory brushing past your chest.

You think of the bracelet still tucked under your sleeve. Jeongguk’s bracelet. Yours now too.

You step away before you can feel too much all at once.

Dinner is polite. Elegant. You nod at old friends and pretend to remember names. The room glows with soft laughter and candlelight, the kind of warmth that clings to skin and memory.

Halfway through dessert, someone taps a fork against a glass.

Jin rises slowly from his seat near the head of the table. His jacket is slightly askew, his tie loosened at the throat — like he’s already halfway into the part of the evening where he can be himself again.

He doesn’t raise his voice. Just looks at his wife — that same look you remember from when you were young, witnessing the couple in their early phases, when Jin thought love meant grand gestures and handwritten poems.

Now he just smiles.

“This time last year, she told me to stop being dramatic,” he says, nodding toward his wife. “So this year I promised I’d keep it short.”

A soft ripple of laughter moves through the room.

Jin’s fingers tighten slightly on his glass. “I used to think loving someone meant saying everything all the time — every thought, every moment, every word that could possibly matter. But she taught me that love doesn’t always need volume.”

He pauses. Lets the quiet stretch just enough.

“Sometimes, it’s just… staying. Even when it’s not easy. Especially when it’s not easy.”

His wife blinks quickly, the tears she’s holding back catching the light from above.

Jin raises his glass. “To the quiet things. And to the people who make them feel loud anyway.”

Glasses clink. A few people laugh again — one of those soft, emotional kinds, too full to be casual. Jin sits down and wipes at his nose like he’s blaming the wine.

Speeches come one after the other – from Jin’s wife, their closest friends, more toasts take up the evening.

You linger near the window a little longer than needed, sipping some sparkling wine and a delicate slice of raspberry cake you don’t remember picking – long enough to pretend you’re just admiring the garden. Long enough to ignore the quiet way Jin steps beside you.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” he says.

You don’t glance over. Just hum. “Couldn’t miss you getting sentimental. You did promise that.”

“I was going to say more,” he admits, lips tugging into a crooked smile. “But I figured you’d heckle me.”

You turn, brows raised. “You think I’d heckle you during your anniversary dinner with the missus?”

“I know you would.”

You sigh — exaggerated, dramatic. “I’m not bitter, you know.”

“No?”

“I was never bitter. Just… stuck.”

“And now?” he asks, quieter.

You don’t answer. Not really because you don’t want to — more because you’re still figuring it out yourself. So you shrug. Let it hang in the air.

“Are we here to talk about my emotional development,” you say, “or are we finally getting down to business?”

Jin lets out that ridiculous windshield-wiper laugh — one you’ve grown used to over the years, but it still manages to embarrass you every time it draws unwanted attention.

“On the one night I’m supposed to be celebrating love and domestic bliss,” he says between chuckles, “you really want to drag me into logistics?”

“Come on. I know you’re itching to know.”

“Well, your mother already sent a draft.” He raises a brow. “I skimmed.”

You scoff. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re impatient.”

“You gonna help me or not?”

His expression softens. “Always, Sunshine. You know that.”

A quiet pause settles between you — not awkward, just full.

Outside, the lights in the garden flicker back on. Warm gold against shadow. Somewhere across the room, cutlery clinks against porcelain. The violinist resumes something soft and barely there.

You let out a breath, low. “I…” The words struggle to get out of your throat but still needed to. “I want to do it right. I’m not trying to rewrite anything. He’s always going to be part of her — I know that. I’m not taking that away.”

“No one said you were.”

“I’m just— I’m the one who kept it going. Made sure she still had love. Warmth. That her space stayed hers even when everything else felt like it wasn’t.”

He nods slowly. “You’ve always done that for her.”

“I don’t… I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t.”

You look at him then. He’s not being diplomatic. He means it.

“She should be somewhere that belongs to her. Not borrowed.”

“She will be,” he says gently. “She’ll be home. In the way that matters.”

You swallow hard. Blink up at the ceiling once.

“It’s not going to be easy,” he adds after a moment. “But it’s not impossible. You’ve already done so much. I should be able to handle the rest.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, Sunshine.” His voice is steady. “We’ll make this work. I’ll be with you until then.”

The air outside bites gentle at your skin once you’re left alone.

You slip out through a side door, away from laughter and linen, away from polite smiles that mean well but ask too much. The garden is mostly empty — just the soft hush of the fountain, the clink of distant glass, the violin’s song muffled by walls.

You wrap your shawl tighter around your shoulders, fingers brushing the silver at your wrist. It’s not cold enough to hurt. Just enough to feel.

You pull your phone out without thinking. His name is already there. As if some part of you knew, before you even stepped into the night. You press it.

He picks up on the first ring. “Hey.”

Your throat tightens at the sound. “Are you busy?”

There’s silence. Not hesitation — just a moment held between breath and heartbeat. “No.”

You look out at the garden pond, where the lights ripple like a memory you haven’t named yet. “I’m tired.”

He’s quiet for half a second. You hear some rustle in the background, things dropping. Don’t question him. Let him speak. “Still at Jin Hyung’s anniversary dinner?”

You nod before you answer. “Soirée.” Even though he can’t see it. “Can you come get me?”

This time, he doesn’t wait. “Already on my way.”

You don’t reply. Just close your eyes and let the night settle. The bracelet is cool against your skin. Your heels ache. Your heart less so.

Somewhere, inside, someone laughs too loud.

But out here, you wait — for headlights, for footsteps, for something that feels like home again.

You don’t wait at the curb. Too many eyes inside. Too many questions.

So you slip through the side garden, past the candlelight and music, until you reach the far lot near the service gate — where the concrete turns to gravel and the air finally feels like yours.

Jeongguk’s car pulls up before you even call again. Headlights low. Windows tinted. Familiar in the way his voice has been lately; quieter, but still sure.

He gets out the moment he sees you.

Neither of you say anything at first.

But when he opens the passenger door, you catch the way he lingers by the seat — like he’s bracing himself, like he’s been waiting for this moment without knowing what it’s supposed to be.

“I brought these,” he finally says, reaching back into the car. “You told me to find something to do. Was cleaning the house. Found them.”

He pulls out a pair of worn canvas shoes — your old chucks, still intact, still marked with the tulip doodles he once scrawled across the fabric. The colors have faded, but they’re still there. Soft and stubborn.

Your breath hitches. “Thought I lost these in the move. These were my lifesavers back then.”

He nods. “Didn’t think you’d want to spend the rest of the night in those heels. These always got you through, didn’t they?”

Jeongguk opens the passenger door fully, gestures for you to sit. You blink — surprised — but sink into the seat anyway. He helps you tuck the shawl closer around your shoulders, his hand brushing over your arm for just a second too long. You don’t pull away.

Then – without a sound – he kneels. Right there, in the gravel, without hesitation.

“Gguk—”

“Let me.” He’s gentle when he unbuckles the first strap. Careful with the second. His hands never rush, even when your breath catches as his thumb brushes your ankle.

You watch him — quiet, stunned — as he slides the old shoe onto your foot like it never left you. And then the next.

When he stands again, he doesn’t ask how you’re feeling. Already knows with the way your feet swings happily. “Ready?”

You nod. Not because you are — but because he makes it easier to be.

Silence becomes both your comfort along the way. The city falls behind you, buildings turning into memories, until the road grows quieter.

Until the tram tracks start to appear — crooked and rusted, swallowed by weeds and time. The fairground behind them is closed now, just a skeleton of what it used to be.

The old tram creaks as it settles around you. Still and quiet. A place that shouldn't feel safe, but somehow does — maybe because it's been touched by memory too many times to stay cold.

Jeongguk follows your lead, head ducked slightly, careful not to bump against the rusting arch. Puts his hand over your head when you nearly bump yours into one of the hanging light fixtures. He says nothing as you both slide into the side bench. The air is cooler in here, still, like time held its breath.

Outside, the fairground slumbers — all overgrown grass and empty stalls, the ghosts of laughter clinging to rusted poles. It should feel eerie. Forgotten. A little too quiet.

But it doesn’t. Not with him beside you.

“You remember the fireworks?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Jeongguk leans back against the glass, gaze lifting toward the dark stretch of sky. “Ah,” he says, “the sparklers you made me sneak into your bag.”

“They weren’t illegal.”

“They were still banned from park grounds.” His mouth twitches. “You made me light five in a row and nearly set your sleeve on fire.”

You laugh — soft, real — and press your hands between your knees, like the sound surprised even you. “Still worth it.”

He turns to you with the kind of glance that lingers. That doesn’t need a smile to be gentle.

You look down at your shoes. The canvas worn soft over time, tulips still faintly blooming where his pen once touched.

“I forgot how this place sounded at night,” you murmur. “Everything else fades. Everything’s peaceful.”

“Just like us before,” he says, quieter now. He shifts slightly, thigh brushing yours as he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, fingers loosely laced. “Thank you for letting me come.”

“Thank you,” you meet his eyes in the low glow of the tram’s single flickering bulb. The stillness wraps around you both like breath. “For not hesitating when I called. You sounded like you were in the middle of something.”

“Cleaning the house can wait,” Jeongguk lets out a breath, as if he was holding it the entire time. “You? You come first.” The silence returns, but it’s full of something now. Not heavy. Not light. Just… there.

You pull your shawl a little tighter around your shoulders, like it could somehow fold you small. Like it might be enough to hide your face too — but fabric only stretches so far.

And Jeongguk… doesn’t look away. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t fill the quiet.

Quietly, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over you in one fluid motion. Not dramatic. Not even something he thinks about. Just instinct. Like routine.

Like him.

The fabric settles over your arms. Warm from his body, heavier than it looks. His fingers skim your shoulders — brief, unintentional — and it’s not the chill that raises goosebumps.

You shift beneath it, not sure what to do with your hands.

So you do what you always do when the air gets too thick — drift to another subject. “Besides cleaning the house, what else did you do today?”

“Cleaned the studio in the basement,” Jeongguk leans back again, this time more relaxed, his head tipping lazily to the side as he watches you under hooded eyes “Found your Chucks.”

You glance down — at the tulips still faintly etched into the canvas, stubborn as ever. “What else?” you ask, eyes flicking back toward him.

He smiles, a little sheepish. “Experimented with some new recipes. One might’ve involved pickled radish and maple syrup.”

You groan. “Jeon Jeongguk.”

“I’m serious! The sweet-salty combo? Kind of genius.”

“You know I love your cooking,” you mutter, trying not to smile. “But the hot sauce in the fruit salad was enough. Can’t you just be normal and feed me?”

“Just say when. What. I’ll cook you anything you want.” His laugh fades into something quieter, something softer.

You don’t say anything for a while, just let the silence settle again. It wraps around the two of you like the dusk outside — pale and tender, not quite dark yet.

Eventually, you shift. Lean just slightly until your shoulder finds his, the familiar press of him warm beneath his jacket. He doesn’t flinch. Just lets you settle. One breath, then another.

“Long day?” he asks, looking ahead the tracks in the open.

You nod once against him. “Felt like it never really ended.”

He hums — low, understanding. “One of those?”

“Mmh.” Your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his sleeve. “One of those where everything feels… bigger than it should be.”

He doesn’t push. Just lets the silence stretch again, this time with your breath syncing up to his.

“I think I’m just… tired,” you add, quieter now. “The kind that sits in your bones.”

Jeongguk shifts slightly, just enough to tilt his head against yours. Not pressing, not prying — just there, like he always used to be.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “You can just sit here. I’ll be here.”

For a second, you don’t know how to take it.

But then — his hand shifts, just barely. Fingers brushing down, then resting gently near yours. Not touching. Not asking. Just there, close enough for you to find if you want to.

Like he used to.

His shoulder stays steady beneath you, not stiff, not uncertain. He leans into the moment without saying a word more, gaze fixed somewhere outside the tram — like he’s giving you space even while anchoring you.

And just like that, something in your chest eases.

You believe him. Maybe not with your whole heart. Maybe not in the way you once did. But in this quiet, flickering moment — with rusted tracks beneath you and time standing still — you believe him enough.

Your hand shifts beneath the fabric draped over your shoulders, brushing faintly against the inside of his jacket — where his warmth still lingers. You don’t reach for him. Just stay close enough to feel the outline of where he was, where he is. It steadies you more than it should.

“…Thank you,” you whisper, after a moment. “Thank you for being with me.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. Instead, his hand lifts slowly, carefully, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles linger just a second longer than they need to. Like muscle memory.

You should look away, say something dumb, laugh it off — but you don’t. The air feels different now. Charged and quiet.

And for a moment, all the noise inside you stills.

You draw in a breath. “Would you be mad if I asked you something?”

He shakes his head. Voice soft. “No. Please…”

The night outside hums low. A moth flutters near the broken tram light. The smell of old metal and wood, the hush of memory — it all folds in around you.

You glance at your knees instead, at the way your shoes nudge against his. Then up, to his face in profile. He’s looking at you now, really looking — eyes gentle, unreadable.

You know the question will change everything.

But you ask anyway. “Can I kiss you?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. The silence that falls breaks your heart.

You should’ve seen it coming. Already regretting the stupid words that came out. Already regretting the sparkling wine that lingers in your stomach. How can a stupid sparkling wine make you say stupid things? You’ll never know.

But then Jeongguk breaks the quiet. “You don’t have to ask.”

And with that, you close the space between you.

The kiss starts soft – the kind you lean into with caution, not certainty. A quiet press, uncertain but real. But it deepens quickly, like breath you didn’t realize you were holding, like memory flooding back in motion.

His lips part against yours, and you feel it — the slow burn he’s been holding back since the moment you settled into his car or maybe even before that.

Your hand rises instinctively — fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw before sliding up, threading gently into his hair.

He’s warm. Too warm. And under your palm, you feel it — the slight tremble when you grip just a little harder.

He exhales into the kiss. Like it’s killing him to stay gentle. Like it’s killing him not to.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips. “You’re still you.”

You don’t answer. Just kiss him again — deeper this time. A silent confession.

Jeongguk pulls you closer, hand settling at your waist — not desperate. Just grounding. Just wanting to memorize the way you still fit.

When your thumb strokes the earring dangling on his lobe, you hear it — soft, involuntary.

“Baby.” It slips out. Like it never left his vocabulary. Like maybe it never could.

Your grip tightens in his hair, a breath caught between want and heartbreak.

“Wait,” his forehead drops to yours, breath uneven and warm. “God, you’re making this hard for me to stop.”

You don’t pull away. Just hold him there, eyes still closed, like maybe if you don’t move, the moment won’t end. You hate how small your voice comes out when you ask, “Do you want to stop?”

Jeongguk’s hands tremble where they rest on your waist, like he’s afraid even this fragile hold might break you both. He pauses — not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because saying it out loud might unravel him.

“Baby, no…damn it, no,” his voice comes low, threaded with restraint. His fingers brush your face, wipes the corner of your eyes where you don’t realize the little tears had started to build. “But we still have so much to talk about. I have so much to say to you.”

Your chest tightens at the name — not because it’s unfamiliar, but because it used to be yours. Maybe it still is. You don’t know anymore.

“Let’s just stay here for a bit, breathe.” he says gently, like a promise. “Then let me take you home after. We’ll figure this out, okay?”

You nod — not because you’re ready, but because you trust him to mean it.

Just for now.

He presses one last kiss to your forehead — slow, steady, reverent.

And then you both just sit there.

Fingers still tangled. Hearts still racing. The silence between you no longer sharp, but soft. Settling.

Outside, the rusted tram tracks stretch into the dark, curving toward somewhere that used to feel like the future.

But for now, you let yourself stay here — between what was, and whatever comes next.

#jungkook fanfiction #jungkook ff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x yn #bts fanfiction #fanfic #bts jeon jungkook #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #jungkook smut

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yourfavtangerine · 25 days ago

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Back Home ୨୧ · · ♡

Husband!Taehyung finally coming back from the military

Genre : idol AU, established relationship, smut, fluff

Summary : after 18 months of military duty, you husband Taehyung finally comes back home. What was supposed to be a reunion dinner escalate and end up in something more.

Wc : ~3.3k

Warnings : super cheesy fluff, smut, reunion sex, oral f receiving, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), handjob, aftercare, Tae and reader missing each other so much, mdni!!

You wake before your alarm.

A pale thread of morning light slips through the curtain, golden and soft. You turn your head to see the clock, 5AM. Your heart beats fast, even though your limbs are still numb with sleep. It’s not just another normal day. It’s the day. The day he comes back.

You turn in bed, stretching under the thin summer sheets. The empty space beside you is cold, as always. But soon it'll be warm again from him. Eighteen months. It felt like an eternity. The quiet nights, the phonecalls only once a week, the lonely days. Eighteen months of counting days. Now, it’s over.

Your hand finds your phone. Five hours left before he's discharged and five more until he's back in your arms. You sit up and press your feet to the floor. The house is spotless. You’ve been preparing all week. Cleaned once, twice. Rearranged the living room three times.

You get out of bed and prepare dinner, his favorites, of course. Bulgogi. Japchae. Tteokbokki, friend chicken. Kimchi you prepared with trembling fingers two weeks ago, tasting and adjusting and worrying it wouldn't be ready in time. And the rice sesame soup, because this is the day. A rebirth, for both of you after all those months of pain and loneliness.

You head to the bathroom, the cold tile sending a jolt up your spine. You let the water run until it’s steaming. Then you step in. The hot stream washes over you, loosening the nerves that have been clinging to your spine like ivy, you don't know if you can hold your excitement all day until the evening. You wash your hair carefully, conditioning twice, letting the floral scent soak in, his favourite scent on you.

You shave, moisturize. You pick the lotion he always liked, the one that makes your skin smell like orchids and warm sugar. Back in the bedroom, you open your drawer. You’ve already picked your outfit, laid it out like a ceremony. A soft cream dress that hugs your waist. Modest enough to greet him at the door. Light enough for what may come later. You smooth the fabric over your hips and stare at your reflection. You don’t look that different. But there’s something in your eyes. A kind of hunger you’d tucked away for months. Now, it's waking, and you know he feels the same. A lot of the texts you shared were filled with it, need.

By afternoon, your hands are trembling again. The food simmers on the stove. The rice cooker clicks off. You wipe the counters one more time, though they don’t need it, but you want it to be perfect, for him.

Every sound outside makes you pause. Is that his footsteps? Is that him clearing his throat? You even think you're turning paranoid. You miss him too much. It feels like every second is one too many, making your heart beat faster and your ears ring.

And then, finally, the key turns. You freeze, your heart a drum in your chest. The door creaks open, and he’s there. Way bigger and fit. You even think he got taller, but that might be a trick of your mind. His face a little sharper, his eyes more tired. But it's him. The man you married. The man you’ve missed. Taehyung.

You barely remember moving. You’re in his arms in a second, and his duffel bag thuds to the floor. His uniform smells like wind and soap and something else uniquely him. Your fingers clutch the back of his shirt like he's about to disappear as he buries his face in your neck.

"You’re really here," you whisper, tears flowing down your cheeks in happiness.

He pulls back to look at you. "I’m here, finally back home" And then he kisses you. It's not urgent, not yet. It’s deep and slow and full of every unsaid word, full of every missed moments and longing.

When you break apart, you see that his eyes are teary too.

"I made dinner," you say. He smiles, and it’s the same one that used to melt you from across any room, the one that makes your heart skip a beat every time.

"It smells amazing. I’m starving."

You guide him to the table, hand in hand. Dinner is quiet at first. Quiet, but thick with glances and touches. He asks about the plants. The neighbors. Your job. You ask about training, his friends, what he missed most, as if you never were appart in the first place.

But it’s all soft talk, like a code. The real conversation is happening between your knees, brushing under the table. In the way he watches your mouth when you sip water. In the way your foot slides along his ankle, higher with every bite. In the way you cling to each of his words, to his smooth voice you missed so much.

After the last spoonful of soup, you clear the dishes slowly, watching him over your shoulder. He leans against the frame of the kitchen, arms folded, lips parted slightly.

"You’re even more beautiful than I remembered" he says.

You flush. "It's just the separation's effect"

He steps forward. Your breath catches. He walks slowly, deliberately. You back into the edge of the counter as he stops in front of you. His hands settle at your waist, where they belong. You can feel the heat of his palms through the fabric. His fingers slide over the curve of your hip, reverent, worshipping.

"It’s been a long time" you say softly.

He nods. "Too long." Then his lips are on yours again. This time, it’s different. There's urgency now, restrained but growing. It's messy, sloppy, but most of all, hungry.

His hands grip your hips tighter. Your fingers curl into the front of his uniform shirt. You kiss like you’re making up for every night apart. He lifts you slightly, just enough to perch you on the edge of the counter. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, drawing him closer.

His hands slide up your thighs under your dress, tracing every inch. You break the kiss only to whisper, "Bedroom."

He nods, breath ragged. You first night back together shouldn't be on the kitchen counter.

His arm wraps under your thighs, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he carries you down the hall.

As he enters the bedroom, he closes the door behind you. The air changes. It's heavy, expectant.

He steps closer, wordless. His fingers brush your shoulder, and the strap of your dress slips down. The fabric follows, puddling around your feet, recealing the lingerie you bought months ago. Cream-colored lace, soft and delicate, chosen just for this moment, for the reunion.

He inhales, as if your body is something sacred, like the first time he saw you naked, like he discovers you a second time.

"You wore this for me?"

You nod. Your voice is barely a whisper. "Only for you, always for you."

He leans in and kisses your collarbone first. Then lower. His lips are warm, reverent. His hands explore slowly, almost shyly at first, rediscovering you with every touch. It's like he's trying to memorize every inch all over again.

You tilt your head back, inviting him to your neck, your breath catching when his tongue finds your weak spot.

You reach for him too, slipping your fingers into the waistband of his pants. He shudders as your hands graze his Adonis belt. He pulls back, just enough to look you in the eyes.

"You sure?" he whispers.

You respond with your lips, catching his mouth in a deeper kiss. Your body answers for you, arching into him. He pulls you close, lowering you to the bed with care, like you’re something fragile and precious. But your body is already dripping with need, aching to feel him again after all this time.

You lie back, your hair splayed across the pillow. He kneels between your legs, staring down at you with the kind of hunger you haven’t seen in months, not because it wasn’t there, but because video calls and texts, couldn’t carry this kind of weight, because it could never replace the raw feeling of need in his eyes.

His hands part your thighs, sliding up slowly until his thumbs brush against the edge of your lace panties. He leans down, pressing kisses to the inside of one thigh, then the other, worshipping your body like a goddess'.

You tremble, your breath growing shallow when his mouth reach your wet folds. Soft. Wet. Unrelenting. Overwhelming pleasure floods in your veins.

Your hands fly to his hair, your hips bucking toward him on instinct. His tongue moves in slow, teasing strokes, then faster, circling, dipping, retreating, making you go wild with pleasure.

You can’t help the sounds escaping your mouth. Soft, stuttering gasps that grow louder each time he finds just the right spot. He groans when you grip his hair tighter, keeping him burried nose-deep in your cunt. You don’t need words, your body says it all.

When your orgasm comes, it breaks like a wave. Crashing through you and making you scream his name. Your thighs tremble around his head. Your back arches off the bed, your breath caught somewhere between a cry and a prayer. He doesn’t stop until your hips fall back to the mattress, legs quivering, chest rising and falling in a pant.

Then he kisses his way back up, stopping at your belly, your sternum and finally your throat. You pull him to you, needing to taste him, his mouth, mixed with your own taste. The kiss is deep, your tongue finding his, and you taste yourself on his lips. The sensation sends another shiver down your spine.

Your hands go lower, finding the edge of his waistband again. This time, you slide it down slowly, letting your fingertips trace the length of him. He inhales sharply as he kicks off the last of his clothing, and when you wrap your fingers around him, he lets out a sound that’s half-growl, half-moan. You keep stroking him until he's leaking precum all over your hand.

You guide him to you. He pauses at your entrance, forehead resting against yours. His hand cups your cheek. "I dreamed about this everyday when i was at the base" he says.

You lift your hips, taking him in with a single, slow movement. You both gasp. It's like coming home. The stretch burns just slightly at first. Months apart having left your body tight and unfamiliar with the fullness. But soon it gives way to something deeper. A heat that spreads with every inch, every pulse of his cock against your walls.

He starts slow. Long, deliberate strokes that drive you insane. His eyes stay on yours. Every thrust is measured, intimate, full of everything words couldn’t express. He kisses you between each movement. Your lips. Your cheek. Your shoulder. As if he’s making up for every night he had to sleep in barracks instead of here, beside you, where he belongs.

Your legs wrap around his hips, drawing him deeper. Your hands explore his back, feeling the muscles shift beneath his skin. Every now and then, he moans softly, whispering your name like it’s a secret only he’s allowed to say. You feel the tension building again, your body clenching tighter around him with every movement.

He changes angles, shifting his hips until he hits that spot he never forgot the place of. You cry out, fingers clutching his shoulder as you moan his name. He picks up the pace, deeper, faster. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, and still he moves, chasing that perfect rhythm that he knows drives you wild.

Your eyes flutter shut at the immense pleasure.

He notices. "No" he whispers, breathless. "Look at me. I want to see your eyes. We've been appart for too long for you to close your eyes on me"

You force them open, locking them onto his. It’s almost too much; the love there, the hunger, the heat. He reaches between your bodies, finds the sensitive bundle of nerves and strokes it with his fingers as he moves inside you.

You can’t last. The pressure breaks again, an intense, shaking climax that robs you of any sound, your breath catching in your throat. Your mouth opens, but no noise comes out. Just heat, just light, just the explosion of everything you’ve been waiting for those past eighteen months.

You feel your body pulse around him, clench, milk him, and that’s what tips him over the edge. With a groan, he buries himself deep and stills, his mouth pressed to your throat as he comes with a shudder. You feel every pulse of him inside you, the warmth, the surrender, his hot seed warming you from the inside.

Then, silence. Just your breaths. Your pants. The distant city sounds of Seoul beyond the glass. He collapses beside you, careful not to crush you, pulling you into his chest, his hand still trembling on your hip. Your head rests against his shoulder. Your body is humming, slick with sweat, warm and limp and utterly sated.

"You okay?" he asks softly. You nod against him.

"More than okay. I'm always fine in your arms."

He chuckles, low and sweet.You stay like that for a while. No need to speak. Just skin to skin, breath to breath. Eventually, he pulls the sheet over your bodies, kissing your temple, your cheek, the tip of your nose.

"I missed you so much" he murmurs. You whisper it back. And when he pulls you on top of him again, his hands firm on your hips, you know it’s not over. Not yet. Your hunger is still there. The need to remind your bodies, again and again, what it means to be together after they forgot and were appart for so long. To return. To belong.

You rise above him, slowly, guiding him back inside your hot hole. This time, you're the one who sets the pace. You ride him with long, rolling movements, savoring every inch of his cock. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping, encouraging, guiding, but never controling.

You lean down and kiss him deeply as you move, your chest brushing his, your breaths mingling in a dance. He watches you with awe, like you're something celestial. You lose yourself again. Together.And again.And again.

When you're both exhausted, he murmurs, "Come on" brushing a kiss over your hair. "Let’s clean up."

You groan softly, the idea of leaving the bed very unattractive in the moment, but he’s already sliding out from under you, moving with that same gentle strength you’ve always loved.

You sit up slowly, watching him pad naked across the room toward the bathroom, admiring his now wider back. He disappears inside, and a moment later, you hear the sound of running water.

He doesn’t turn on the lights, just leaves the door cracked enough for the hallway lights to spill in. You rise from the bed recluantly and follow. The bathroom fills with steam by the time you step inside. The air is thick and sweet with the scent of bath salts, lavender and lilac.

He’s kneeling beside the tub, testing the water with his fingers. When he sees you, he holds out a hand. He helps you in first, guiding you with care. The water is perfect: hot, but not too much, just enough to soothe the sore places in your hips and thighs. You sink in with a sigh, resting your back against the edge of the tub.

He joins you moments later, settling in behind you, his arms coming around your waist as your back fits perfectly to his chest. The water laps around you gently. You close your eyes and exhale. This evening is really perfect.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another to the side of your neck. His hands roam under the surface of the water, sliding over your stomach, your hips. Not with want, but with reverence, with care, with comfort.

Neither of you speaks much. The silence is full of water sounds, breaths and touches. You rest your head against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your thighs beneath the surface. You could stay like this forever, in his arms.

Eventually, when the water begins to cool, you rise together. He wraps a fluffy towel around you first, tucking it in at your chest like you’re fragile. Then he dries himself quickly and leads you back to the bedroom.

You crawl back into bed with hair damp and skin flushed. He joins you a second later, pulling you into his arms beneath a clean blanket this time.

The night is still. Everything feels slow, as if time stopped for your reunion. He runs his fingers through your wet hair, combing through the strands carefully. "I missed this so much" he says.

You nuzzle closer. "This?"

He nods. "All of it. Not just the sex, you know." He pauses, then smiles. "The aftercare. Holding you. The quiet cuddles after. I missed being with you so much. Not just doing stuff, but doing it with you and you only."

You bury your face in his neck, inhaling him. "I missed being touched like this. Not just the sex. The closeness. Your hands. You."

He pulls you tighter. "It was the worst part of being away. Not touching you. Not hearing your voice. Not seeing you. Not hearing you breathe next to me at night. Every night, I used to reach for you in my sleep and wake up with nothing, only barracks and another day in the military."

Your heart aches. You press a kiss to his collarbone. "I did the same. Every night."

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he whispers, vulnerable "Promise me we’ll never go that long apart again."

You look up. "I promise." His fingers slide down to your lower back, resting there as your body molds perfectly to his. You hook one leg over his, tangling your limbs completely.

"You’re warm" you whisper.

He laughs. "You’re basically a furnace."

You laugh too, quietly, then settle again. His hand begins to stroke up and down your spine, slow and hypnotic. The minutes stretch.Your eyes begin to close. You fight the sleep, not ready to let go of the moment you waited for for eighteen months.

"Hey" you whisper. "Can I ask something?"

"Anything, my love."

You trace a fingertip over his chest. "Did you ever...get scared? That we’d feel different when you came back?"

He’s quiet for a second, then nods. "Yeah. I tried not to. But I worried. What if you changed? What if I did? What if it didn't work between us anymore?"

You nod slowly. "I was scared too."

"And?" he asks, almost scared to hear the answer.

You look up at him again, the softness in his eyes making your chest swell. You smile. "It feels better than before."

He breathes in deeply, then leans down to kiss you. This one is slow. No hunger. Just warmth. Like a promise. Then he pulls back, he cups your cheek. "I want to spend the rest of my life making you feel this loved."

You close your eyes, resting your forehead against his. "Then we’re already perfect."

Sleep begins to seep into you as you fight to keep your eyes open. He notices, and his hands slow. "Go to sleep, jagi. I’ll be right here when you wake up."

As you drift into sleep, wrapped in his warmth, the scent of lavender and lilac still clinging to your skin, you think.

This is what home feels like. Finally together, husband and wife. Love stronger than ever.

#bts #bts fanfic #smut #bts x reader #taehyung #taehyung x reader #bts taehyung #bts imagines #taehyung smut #taehyung fanfic #taehyung imagine #military #bts military service #Taehyung mi

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pizzazz-party · 9 months ago

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at some point i did try coming up with a human disguise for rice cooker au related purposes. i took heavy inspiration for his face from toshiro mifune.

#usagi yojimbo #rottmnt #miyamoto usagi #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #pizzazz art #pizzazz art: UY #rice cooker au #HAD TO REPOST THIS BC FOR SOME REASON THE ORIGINAL GOT SLAPPED WITH A MATURE RATING #he's supposed to be seventeen here but he looks so young. an infant child.#there's more somewhere but here's what i had on my phone

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greeniegaes · 7 months ago

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Adding on to my Rice Cooker AU

Shang Qinghua is tired of having to make tea. It happens multiple times daily. When he was in the modern world whenever he’d want hot water he’d just… use his rice cooker.

He asks to borrow the magical one from Shen Yuan. Who looks at him in horror over the statement.

“You…. You boiled water for tea… in a rice cooker?” Shen Yuan repeats, clutching his machine tighter.

“Yea! It was really nice and I didn’t have to watch over it. Just put the water and the tea bag-“

“YOU PUT THE TEA IN THE WATER WHILE TRYING TO BOIL IT??” Shen Yuan yelled, backing away

“YEA??? IT WAS EFFICIENT!” Shang Qinghua squawked, jumping out of his seat.

“THE FUCK IT WASNT!” Shen Yuan screeched

And they get into a whole argument about making tea

And no, Shang Qinghua doesn’t get the rice cooker, still.

#greeniegaes #svsss #shen yuan #Shang Qinghua #cumplane #platonic cumplane #that rice cooker au #shout out to the JiuYuan discord being in horror of me mircowaving tea (I have no KETTLE!) and then in my moment of sass I got this #no- I’m not testing if my rice cooker can make tea #that would be sick.

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mononijikayu · 1 month ago

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love is a losing game — ryomen sukuna.

GENRE: alternate universe - squid game au

WARNING/S: afab! reader, romance, angst, break up, post-break up, hurt/comfort, on and off relationship, profanity, violence, gun violence, death, implied suicidal ideation, emotional manipulation, emotional distress, trauma, resentment, confessions, toxic relationship, gambling addiction (implied), longing, pining, bittersweet, reunion, depiction of violence, depiction of gun violence, depiction od emotional manipulation, distress, depiction of trauma, depiction of death, wife! reader, husband! sukuna;

WORD COUNT: 4k words

NOTE: in honor of me losing my mind this week due to squid games and alien stage, i did something of a mix of it. i genuinely needed to get this idea off my head. its a lot. for the resources to the japanese games and other stuff i mentioned, i'll put them below so you can read about them!!! anyway, enjoy!!! <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip!

THIS WAS YOUR BREAKING POINT, IF THERE WAS ONE. You had just finished your second shift, perhaps worse than the first one. You could barely have the strength to tie your apron right, let alone smile at your boss as he muttered something about cutting hours next week.

The city air was damp, but this place was even damper. You could feel your knees ache from standing for too long, and you could still feel the bruises on your pride from that morning’s encounter.

Another debt collector coming once again. You hated when they did that, ruining your peaceful day, your existence. Different faces. Same tone. Same threats. All because of him. Ryomen Sukuna. Your husband. Or… ex-husband now, you supposed.

You’d loved him. God, you still did. You probably still do. That stupid kind of love that lingered in the marrow even after the body rots. But it wasn’t enough for you. Not when he kept making reckless decisions, chasing fast money and leaving you to clean up the blood trail behind.

So, you left everything and him. You found yourself finding the courage to take what you could and moved out. You built that house with everything you had but took nothing but your clothes and a dented rice cooker.

You told yourself it was for the best. You needed that peace. You need to love yourself, take care of yourself. That’s what your mother would have wanted for you. After all, that was more important than loving someone.

But the debts didn’t stop with him. They came for you too. You changed your address, you even reverted back to your birth name. But they still managed to find you, those stupid brutes. The lot of them are crude, and horribly terrifying to even look at.

Yet you didn’t have the heart to tell Sukuna. You didn’t call him. Not once. Too proud. Too tired. Too angry. But mostly because you knew what he’d say just from thinking about it. With that certain reassuring look, one you knew you would fall for, he would say to you: “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

He’d say it with that smirk, with the same careless ease he used to take your last savings to pay for a poker hand he swore was a sure win. You sighed heavily, pulling your coat tighter around you as the wind bit through your sleeves. The bus stop was still a block away. Your feet dragged.

That’s when he appeared.

A man in a finely cut suit.

Smile too polite to be genuine.

“Sumimasen, ojō-san.”

The voice came to you all too lightly, as if dropped into the air like a coin in water. You turned, startled at his presence. He was already too close. Smiling like an old friend. Like someone who’d been waiting just for you.

“Do you have a moment to play a game?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

He held up two square pieces of thick, colored cardboard. You looked at them carefully. You could see that it was old and well used. It was too worn at the edges. But that bright colors blending together with those figures was recognizable. Menko.

It was a game you hadn’t seen since elementary school. Even then, it had evolved into a different thing. This sort of menko was the old kind. You slap the tile on the ground. Then you try to flip your opponent’s piece. Whoever flips it wins.

It was the familiar old schoolyard rules, the ones which your grandmother used to teach you when you were still a little girl. You couldn’t win against her, though. She was too much of a pro at it.

“Traditional games.” he said, still smiling like he wasn’t wearing a suit worth more than your last three paychecks combined. “Very simple. If you win, you earn cash.”

You eyed the tiles, then him. “And if I lose?”

“You get slapped. I know it’s not the old rules, but I don’t wanna take it from you.” he said cheerfully, like it was the weather forecast. “Just a little change. Nothing serious.”

You almost laughed at his words. You were tired. You had just finished scrubbing tables at a ramen stall that paid you half what it owed. And now this man was talking about childhood games and slaps? You didn’t have time for this.

But then he crouched, unhurried, and set a thick envelope on top of his briefcase. Peeled it open for you and almost instantaneously, it showed the cash inside. Your mouth opened agape. It was ¥10,000 per win.

The gears shift in your head. It would be enough to buy groceries. Even maybe enough to get the collectors to back off for a few days. Just maybe, it would even be enough to shut your mind off and breathe. Your pride hesitated. Your exhaustion didn’t.

“…Fine.” you muttered, stepping forward. “But….Just one game.”

And that’s how it began.

Not with a fight. Not with a scream.

Just a slapped Menko card on the pavement and a stranger’s smile.

The first slap across your face stung more than you expected. The sound cracked across the empty alley. Your cheek flared with heat, but the man only laughed, handing you the next card like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Another round?”

You hesitated. Your hand hovered in the air. But the pain was familiar. For a moment, it reminded you of everything you were running from. The voicemail from the loan office. The unpaid gas bill. Ryomen Sukuna’s debt collectors are camping outside your apartment like vultures on a power line.

You nodded. “Again.”

Three more slaps. Your cheek was flushed and burning. But then you got it. Your tile hit him with a perfect strike, flipping it finally. He clapped at your success. You hated it. It was too calculated. Too eager to be the salesman.

“Excellent.” He handed you the envelope. Neat. Crisp. ¥10,000. “See? You’re not unlucky after all.”

You kept playing soon after that. That adrenaline got you going. That’s what winning does to you, even in the smallest ways. Humankind can be addicted to the feeling. It was gratifying to just have one moment of good, even with the bare minimum. And you hated that. Win. Slap. Win. Slap.

You didn’t even notice when the bus you were supposed to catch hissed past in the distance. Didn’t notice the sun beginning to set. By then, you had five wins. Fifty thousand yen. Your wallet was heavier. Your cheek, sore. But you could almost taste relief.

The man adjusting his tie, still all politeness. “You’ve got grit, I see.” he said. “That’s rare. I’d like to offer you something more… lasting.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of more?”

“More reward.”

He opened his briefcase again and took out a cream-colored card. It had vibrant gold lettering. No name. No address. Just a phone number. And a symbol you didn’t recognize. You looked up at him. He was still smiling that same way, one which made you uneasy.

“If you want to clear your debts—truly clear them—and maybe walk away with more than you ever imagined… call this number.” he said. “But be warned. The games beyond this point… aren’t quite so harmless.”

You stared down at the card. You thought of the phone calls. The pounding on your door. The sleepless nights spent wondering if you’d made a mistake leaving Sukuna. And you thought: what’s left to lose?

You took the card.

He smiled at you.

And then he left.

That night, in your cramped 1K apartment, where the lights flickered when the kettle boiled and the neighbor’s dog barked like a curse against your walls, it was hard to not think about it. You stared at that card like it was cursed.

You told yourself you wouldn’t call. That game in the subway was enough. Everything about this would be beyond insane. But at 2:34 a.m., when the latest message lit up your phone.

「最後の警告です。返済期限は明日です。」

Final warning. Your deadline is tomorrow.

You dialed the number, both curious and too sudden. The voice on the other end was cold. “You’ve been accepted. We’ll send a car.”

You nearly hung up. Nearly. But instead, you whispered back. “Okay.”

In a shadowed parking lot at dawn, a black van waited. You stepped inside.

You didn’t know what was going to happen. You didn’t even know that you would see him there again. You didn’t know what awaited you. All you could do was think about the fact that this was the only way to escape your reality.

Yet you didn’t know that the worst was yet to come. But you didn’t know that. Not yet. Not until the games began. Not until you saw blood spilled on concrete and heard his voice again in the middle of it all, rough and familiar. Still yours in some stubborn, ruined way.

You were the last to enter. The van doors shut behind you with a final-sounding click, and silence followed, thick and uncomfortable. The only sound was the gentle hum of the engine and the shallow breathing of the others.

There were six of you, all wearing the same dull colored tracksuits with numbers on the chest. Yours was 046. No names. No questions. No warmth. You didn’t look at them. You couldn’t do that even if you wanted to.

So, you just stayed silent. You just leaned back against the seat and stared at the floor, hands clenched in your lap. You told yourself this was just a game. That you could survive it. That you had no other choice.

But your heart wouldn’t stop pounding. The van drove for what felt like hours, until your eyelids grew heavy and your body gave in. A sharp prick on your neck came just before everything turned black.

WHEN YOU WOKE UP, THE WORLD LOOKED TOO BRIGHT AND COLORFUL. All you could see were the vibrantly decorated walls. The bright paintings of childhood games from the ceiling. The dull yet shiny tiled floors. It was almost nauseating how childishly pastel everything was. It was like some cruel dream of a kindergarten.

You sat up on a hard bunk in a massive dormitory lined with triple-decker beds. There were dozens of others now. You could see men and women, all ages, all races. Some looked confused. Some are too calm.

And then your gaze locked on him. He was leaning against the metal post of a bunk bed, arms crossed. Same gray uniform. Same unmistakable face. You would know that face from anywhere. Number 49, Ryomen Sukuna.

Your mouth went dry. It felt like the air thickened between you instantly as you continued to stare at him the way you did. You tried to look away but you can tell he saw you before you could look away. His scarlet eyes narrowed. Soon enough, he made his way to you.

“Well, well….” he drawled, voice low and edged. “Look who finally decided to come and see me.”

You flinched. “I didn’t. This isn’t about you.”

He laughed once. Bitter. “Are you sure about that? Because last I checked, you didn’t care if I lived or died.”

You stood slowly. “Don’t twist it. I cared. I just couldn’t keep bleeding from your mistakes.”

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t reply to your words. He knew you were right. You hated how much your chest hurt, seeing him here. That scar on his lip was still there. His scarlet eyes were still that infuriating shade of crimson.

And somehow despite everything, you still remembered what it felt like to sleep beside him so peacefully. The weight of his arm around your waist. The heat of his breath on your neck. But that was before the collectors. Before the screaming. Before he chose chaos over you.

A loudspeaker crackled overhead. “All participants, please proceed to the arena for Game One.”

A door opened on the far wall, from the right side. As you all walked there in a line, you saw the armed guards standing there, waiting. You didn’t move for a moment, until Sukuna stepped past you. His voice is low, just for you.

“I don’t know what game this is. But I know one thing—” he paused, glancing at you. Then at the armed guards. “I’m not letting you suffer here……die here.”

You scoffed, eyes narrowing. “Why would you care?”

He didn’t answer. And maybe it was just a trick of your heart, but when the guards herded everyone forward and you stepped into the blinding light of the first game. You could’ve sworn he stayed just a little closer to your side.

Like old muscle memory.

Like it was an instinct.

Like love that refused to die quietly.

The light was too bright. Artificial and blinding, like stage lights at a show you didn’t want to be in. As your eyes adjusted, you found yourself standing on sand, actual real sand. You found yourself almost confused.

This feels like those summer days by the beach, enclosed in this room. It was what it felt like, but beneath it was a painted sky so blue it was almost offensive in its cheer. But you were certain now. You weren’t in the city anymore.

Rows of players shuffled in beside you, uniformed and stiff with fear. Concrete walls loomed around the field like the inside of a stadium, and in the distance stood a massive Daruma doll. It was hard to look at, with its oversized, grotesque figure, its painted face staring blankly ahead.

You recognized the game the moment you looked at it. It was Daruma-san ga Koronda. You’d played it as a kid with the other neighborhood kids. You had chanted those words with your friends in schoolyards and summer parks, trying not to laugh as you froze mid-step.

But no one was laughing now. Everyone around you was taking this as seriously as they possibly could. That was certain. The Daruma’s head turned slowly, mechanical joints whirring. Then the voice rang out across the field.

「だるまさんが…ころんだ！」

Everyone ran. The Daruma’s head snapped around. A sharp bang cut the air like a hammer cracking glass. The man beside you dropped. Hard. Blood was already soaking through his shirt.

You flinched at that. You could hear a few people, someone beside you screaming so loudly, it could puncher your ears. The guards raised their rifles. The gates behind you slammed shut like the jaws of a trap. Sukuna grabbed your wrist, yanking you down before your legs gave out.

“Keep your head, babe.” he muttered. “Don’t move unless I do.”

You stared at him, dazed. “They’re shooting us—”

“Yeah, genius.” His grip tightened. “Welcome to hell.”

Another chant echoed across the field.

「だるまさんが…ころんだ！」

You bolted forward. The Daruma turned. You froze. Someone behind you tripped. Bang. The game was merciless. Precise. The moment the Daruma faced you, if you even twitched. It was the sound of the bang that came after.

It felt endless. The repeated rhythm of the chant, the thudding of your heart, the bodies falling one by one. You followed Sukuna’s movements like a shadow. When he crouched, you crouched.

When he stopped, you stopped. When he darted forward, you did too. Until you could smell blood on the wind and taste bile in your mouth. But somehow, you kept going. You just had to. Or else, you would be one of them.

You noticed the way Sukuna’s body moved. It was not reckless like before, but sharp, measured. How his head turned just slightly toward you before every sprint. How he never let go of your hand, even once.

And then, the final line. Just five feet away.

「だるまさんが…ころ—」

You ran. Both of you.

「—んだ！」

The Daruma turned. Sukuna yanked you backward, both of you crashing into the sand. Your elbow hit the ground hard. The air fled your lungs. But you hadn’t crossed the line too soon.

You were still alive.

Follwing that was silence.

Then a single chime.

Game over. The Daruma’s eyes went dark. The gunshots stopped. There was only silence. And then only the sound of weary breaths remained. You didn’t hear the last few bodies fall. Just the pounding of your heartbeat and the rough rasp of Sukuna’s breathing beside you.

His hand was still on your back. Still steady and still holding you strong. The surviving players, maybe numbering less than half, were herded into a line by the masked guards. The sand soaked with blood behind you.

And for the first time since stepping into the game, you realized: This wasn’t just about survival. This was war. And the only person you could trust here was the man who once broke your heart far too many times.

"Can I trust you?" You whispered to him.

He looked at you. "After that? With your life."

YOU HAD SEEN FAR TOO MUCH, AND YOU HAD ENDURED FAR TOO MUCH. Yet the only thing you could be thankful for was that you were alive, somehow. And that against every odd and all that grievous feelings you have, you were still with your husband, Sukuna.

It was strange, knowing how this all began. That you were still breathing. That you were still next to him. And even now, despite everything, you couldn’t help but stay near. When you ate, when you slept, you always had to be near him. Or else, you knew you would grow mad.

Throughout the games, you’d leaned on him for everything. Just as you used to do when you were happily married. You leaned on him for safety, for strategy. For something that still, quietly, resembled love. As horrible as this situation is, this was the most married you had ever been.

This was the penultimate game, at least that’s what you think. Now there were only thirty of you left. And they needed to lower the number now. That’s what they’ve been doing with all the other games. Just to narrow the winner.

They led you into a new room. No pastel walls. No fake skies. Just gray cement and harsh white lights that buzzed like flies. At the center: a square tatami mat. Two cushions. A small lacquered box sat between them.

Inside, you saw the glint of round, flat glass disks in green, red, and clear. Your eyes widened. It was Ohajiki. You turned around to Sukuna and then once again to the pieces of marble on the ground. Two guards stood at the back. No other players. Just you.

Your breath caught. “What is this?”

One of the guards stepped forward, flanked by guards. His voice was cold and smooth. “Congratulations. You’ve reached one of the final games.”

He gestured to the mat and the box. “This is Ohajiki. This event will be done in pairs. Each player begins with ten pieces. Take turns flicking. Whoever collects all twenty wins.”

You stared at the disks. “And if neither of us…?”

“If no winner is declared within thirty minutes, then we must follow protocol.” the guard said flatly. “Both players will be eliminated.”

Your chest tightened. “Wait, there has to be another way—”

“No, stop.” Sukuna said softly. “They won’t change their minds.

You turned to him, eyes full of panic.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t bargaining.

He just looked… resigned to fate.

“They knew what they were doing with this.” he murmured. “It was always going to come down to this. Us. You know that.”

Your voice cracked. “I’m not doing this. I won’t—”

“You have to.” He stepped closer, slow, careful. “One of us has to make it out. That’s how this works.”

You shook your head, tears already blurring your vision. “You know I can’t. Not like this. Not you.”

He gave a tired smile. It reached his eyes, just barely. “Yeah. You can.”

He picked up one of the colored pieces and slipped it into your hand. “Here. Start with this. Let’s say I misjudged my shot.”

Your heart twisted. You had survived hell. Bullets. Betrayals. People turned into corpses. Friends lost. Names forgotten. But now they wanted this? When your relationship was starting to be your everything, they wanna take it away too?

“You idiot, you fucking idiot.” you whispered, voice shaking. “Why do you always do this?”

Sukuna chuckled under his breath, the sound broken, full of something sharp. “Because I’m still in love with you. And if one of us gets out…” He looked at you. “I want it to be you.”

“No, no. Fuck no. I’m not going out of this place without you. You know that!” you said, stepping back. “We’ll cheat it. We always do. We’ll figure it out—”

But the guards raised their rifles at you. Sukuna sighed and took you away from them for a distance. The timer started. Thirty minutes, finally going and coming, ticking away on the massive screen. Sukuna knelt down on one cushion. Then he gestured to the other.

“Come on.” he said softly, smiling at you. “Just a stupid game. Like when we were kids. On the tatami. Trying not to flick too hard.”

You sat down. Your hands trembled as you flicked the first piece. You were never good at Ohajiki. Sukuna was always the better one. He was even praised for it. You continued to play, feeling your heart thumping the entire time.

The flat marbles continued to clack gently against another and knocked it aside. You collected another one. Sukuna took his turn. A bad aim. He let you take it. You knew that. And that was frustrating you, angering you. But he didn’t stop.

You won another. And another. Each round, his pile shrank. Yours grew. At fifteen, your hands dropped to your lap. Your chest heaved. He continued to do as he wanted, as he wished, with eager failing.

“You’re letting me win.”

Sukuna didn’t deny it. “You always had better aim, between the two of us.” he said, a soft smile in his voice.

“You’re a fucking liar.”

“Being a liar is good.” He whispered to you. “But that’s enough for me. You’ll survive. That’s enough for me.”

You stood, shaking. “No. I’m not finishing this.”

“Then we both die.”

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. “I’d rather die with you—”

He came to you. Touched your face with his calloused thumb against your cheek. “Don’t say that.”

You looked at him desperately. “Sukuna, please…..”

“Live for me, okay?” he whispered. “You think I want to go? I don’t. But I can’t let you die here. Let me do this. Let your good ol’ husband finally do something right for his wife, okay?”

He just continued to hold you as you started to cry in his arms. You took in his warmth, you took into the embrace that you knew you would never get again. You felt his lips press against your head, his fingers tracing the edges of your tresses.

The timer ticked louder.

Twenty-eight minutes.

Twenty-nine.

“Let’s finish this game.” He said as he let you go. He smiled at you. “Let me see you do well.”

You looked at him, tears endlessly falling. And with shaking hands, you flicked your final piece. He watched the piece arc in a clean, trembling line with your final flick. The flat marble tapped his final piece and sent it skittering across the mat.

The soft clack was deafening. Your vision blurred with tears as you reached out and gathered the final disk. Twenty. Silence. No cheer. No applause. Just the low mechanical ding of the timer stopping.

Game over.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even look at him. Not yet. But he moved first. Ryomen Sukuna stood up slowly, knees cracking, shoulders slumping like he’d just dropped a weight you couldn’t see.

He stepped over the mat, his steps quieter than ever. Your husband crouched in front of you one last time. His long, beautiful callused fingers cupped your cheek, wiping away a tear that had no end. He smiled at you.

“That’s my girl.” he murmured.

You finally looked up at him, shaking, broken, mouth open like you wanted to scream but couldn't. He didn’t do anything else, he just laughed. He moved towards you, pressing a kiss on your cheek once again. You shake your head at him, feeling the tears fall even more than before.

“Now go win the whole damn thing.”

The guards moved. Your body tensed, but he didn’t resist. He just turned, hands raised, walking toward them like it meant nothing. But at the last second, right before the door, he looked over his shoulder.

There it was. The face you fell in love with. Not the devil-may-care gambler. Not the stubborn man who couldn’t stay out of debt. Just your beloved Sukuna. The one you had loved with your whole heart. Your husband, your ruin, your misery…..and your home.

“I’ll be waiting.” he said softly. “Somewhere.”

And then he was gone. You just stared as they dragged him through steel doors that slammed shut like the end of a book you never wanted to close. You sat there, the Ohajiki pieces warm in your hand. As if they carried the last of his heat.

You didn’t remember standing. Or walking out.

Or how the guards said your number out loud.

But somehow, you moved from your position.

Somehow, you lived. And then became a widow.

epilogue

Spring came late that year. The cherry blossoms bloomed like they always did. Always soft, fleeting, unaware of all the blood that had been spilled beneath skies just like this one. You stood beneath a tree in Ueno Park, hands tucked deep in your coat pockets, watching petals fall without grace.

The world kept turning. The money was still untouched, sitting silently in the account like a ghost you couldn’t exorcise. You paid off Sukuna’s debts from what little you’d earned before the games, just enough to get the collectors off your back. The rest… stayed. Cold. Untouched.

You worked again. Small things. Quiet places.

You mostly kept to yourself these days.

You never told anyone where you'd been.

Not like they needed to know anything about you.

Sometimes, you dreamed of him tenderly into the night. Not of his death. Not of the guards dragging him away. But silly things about him. The things that made you fall in love with him in the first place.

His terrible singing in the shower. The way he used to hold chopsticks like a child. His laugh. That brutishly loud laugh that sounded identical to the cracking of an old bell. The way his fuschia hair glistened against the sunrise. The way his scarlet eyes looked at you.

You cried yourself for hours after those dreams. Those were the parts of him the games couldn’t erase or take away from you. Just as much, these were the parts you wished you still had. The parts of him that you would always mourn, until the day you die.

You visited a shrine one morning, early, when the city hadn’t quite woken yet. You lit incense. You carefully laid twenty Ohajiki pieces in a neat line on the stone. You said nothing. There was nothing left to say.

But as you turned to leave, a breeze lifted around you. That soft, warm, carrying the scent of blooming sakura. And for just a moment, you like to think that you could almost hear his voice saying those words again.

“I’ll be waiting.”

You smiled through the ache in your chest. “I won’t keep you waiting too long.” you whispered back. “I promise.”

since squid game is going global in-universe, i thought about how it would be in japan. at first i tried other sort of games, but like kendama, which you can read about in one of the sourced links. but it didnt fit.

so i tried to find something similar to the original games, while maintaining its japanese roots. of course, i do have to tweak some of it to fit in the context, while also being able to bring out the story and some respect.

i thought about making it longer, but it wouldn't work. as it would just be repetitive and i would have to do a bit more searching and fitting for what game suits it all. so i ended up shortening it. still i hope it is enjoyable to you all!!!

here are the sources:

menko

how is menko played?

daruma-san ga koronda

how is daruma-san ga koronda played?

ohajiki

how is ohajiki played?

reader and sukuna's numbers are 46 and 49. together 46 and 49 read something like "yoroshiku" (よろしく) in wordplay which means best regards/please treat me well/nice to meet you and thanks in advance. but in this context, i used please treat me well and best regards.

4 = よ (yo)

The number 4 is pronounced shi or yon, but in wordplay, it's often shortened to yo.

6 = ろ (ro)

The number 6 is pronounced roku, and the ro sound is taken from the beginning.

4 = し (shi)

Again, 4 = shi here.

9 = く (ku)

The number 9 is pronounced kyuu or ku, and ku is used here.

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