#wc: 218 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heartepub · 4 months ago

Text

the cities in which

summary. three lives are tied together across cities and oceans. in this life, and perhaps in others. ft. lee seokmin, chwe hansol, afab!fem!reader genre/tags. angst, fluff, romance, inspired by past lives (2023), "what if vernon never emigrated", copious wong kar wai mentions, one (1) glück poem mention, there's korean but you'd understand the convo even wo translation, unbeta'd and not proofread (mistakes my own) warnings. alcohol, two allusions to offscreen sex, no physical description of reader but she grew up in skorea and speaks korean wc. 10k 17k suggested listening. hey, that's no way to say goodbye, leonard cohen // quiet eyes, sharon van etten // paper houses, niall horan // when we were young, adele // stay, cat power // the view between villages, noah kahan

notes. a day late (crying) but happy birthday 218 bros! i followed a lot of the original (full credits to celine song and the writers for those parts), but deviated as well ! no photo borders for each small scene jump cos of the limit. korean dialogue is only italicized when all three of them are together. not fully happy so may return to it for edits, you have been warned.

ACT I: SEOKMIN

24 years ago

“Do a diamond next.”

You oblige him, yet the marker barely touches his skin before Seokmin snatches it out of your hand.

“Hey!” You whine.

“Don’t use red, that’s for rubies!”

He hands you a pale blue marker, already uncapped, before resuming his former position, shoulder to shoulder with you. His forearm is nestled between both of yours, which are already covered in his doodles. Seokmin’s breath ghosts over your cheek as he leans in, observing. Unbothered, you carefully draw a crystal shape, adding sparkles around it for good measure. He giggles as the felt tip drags on his skin.

“Don’t move, you’ll ruin it!” You swat his back. He yelps.

“But it tickles!” You just grip his arm tighter as he whines and giggles.

It’s as easy as breathing to lean into his weight as he curls against you, laughter shaking his shoulders. The rest of the classroom fades away, nothing else being quite as important as the way your sides almost fully touch each other, despite sitting on separate chairs.

You first befriended Lee Seokmin on the margins of one of your mother’s bookclubs. Fellow skirt-clingers turned partners in crime. He told you he would often nag his mom to finish her book more quickly just so that he could come over sooner; what a revelation it was, then, that you could see each other outside of those chatter-filled meetings. More so when you found out you’d be going to the same elementary school.

It was an easy friendship, one filled with scabbed knees and marker-filled arms. The occasional covert homework-copying. He keeps two extra pencils with him in the same way you have an extra stash of pad paper (which unfortunately the rest of the class has become privy to). Your parents would scold you for the telephone bills because of the days you’d spend ours talking, as though you hadn’t just spent the whole day in school together.

In the years you were not in the same class, Seokmin would wait outside every day without fail, just to walk home together, until the fork in the road where he’d bid you goodbye with the same blinding grin. Sometimes, you’d buy hotteok wrapped in newspaper from the stands and laugh when the print transfers onto the fried dough. He tried some tteokbokki from the stall a few streets down, but forced you to finish it once he realized it was too spicy for him.

These were days when sunlight streamed, golden, through the windows of both your lives.

Boxes litter the floor of your home, some full, but most still half-empty. Sunlight filters in through the windows, skimming over cardboard and wood tile alike and casting a burnished-golden glow. From your father’s office, there are soft strains of music and the faint lingering smell of tobacco smoke.

You look around. The posters have been taken down, separated into those you plan to bring and others you are either to throw or give away. Nothing else is on the once-messy desk save for the notebooks and pens needed for this week’s schoolwork. The walls are bare, the only reminder of the pictures you had being the faint tape marks and spots where the paint peeled off as you tried to remove them. Even your bed is absent of the plushies you used to have surrounding you, most of them already sealed and packed in one of the boxes outside. All that’s left is the bedsheet, so that you won’t be sleeping on a bare mattress.

Your room no longer seems your room.

“Darling.” You don’t look up from the book you’re reading.

“Hm?”

“Is there anyone in school you really like right now?”

You think about it. A smiling face emerges in your mind’s eye. The ghost of a weight presses against your side.

“…Seokmin,” you decide.

“Lee Seokmin? Why?”

“He makes me laugh. I think I’ll marry him someday.”

“Really? Does he want to marry you too?”

“I think he does. Or he will if I tell him to, anyway.” You shrug.

Your mom mulls over this as she sorts the papers on her desk. On it are your immigration documents, including passports, birth certificates, and the family registry. The edge of your picture can be glimpsed from where the passport lifts, not quite laying flat on the wood.

“Do you want to go on a date with him?”

You nod enthusiastically.

“Seokminnie.”

“Hm?” he peeks at you from behind the concrete block. You giggle, shoving his shoulder in a clear message of tag! before sprinting away. He lets out an indignant squawk before giving chase.

You evade him for a few breathless minutes before he eventually swipes his hand across your back. Shrieking, you shift your weight and lunge with your hand extended, which Seokmin swerves to avoid with a triumphant cry. Gleeful taunts echo across the space.

Your mothers have taken you both today to an unfamiliar place, one somewhat reminiscent of both a yard and fortress. There are large stone installations in the outdoor space, ones perfect for chasing each other around until you are out of breath from both running and laughing. Eventually, too tired to continue, you both lean against the twin stone faces, facing each other. Your eyes rove over Seokmin’s features, watching him do the same.

Though she did not say it outright, a little part of you senses that this date was part of a goodbye. She had warned you, as you all began to pack, that you might need to begin your goodbyes soon, lest dumping the surprise of your moving on your friends ends with you leaving on bad terms.

Your classmates, you did not mind; but Seokmin is your best friend. You know he would sulk and hold it against you to the ends of the earth if you could not even say goodbye. Yet goodbye feels too real for a day that has been as light as a dream.

As you leave, the sun is just beginning to set; the car was a wash of orange and pink light moving across the seat. Leaning your body on Seokmin, you rest your head on his shoulder, and feel a responding weight on the top of your head. Fingers tangle with your own, slotting together as they had done a thousand times before. Like this, you drift further into dreams.

You break the news over recess. The marker hovers over his skin. Sighing, you remove the cap nocked on the top of the marker and closing it over the tip. Seokmin glances at you, confused.

“My family…we’re leaving.”

“Like, a trip?”

“No. Forever.”

“Forever? But…why?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug helplessly. “Mom and Dad said so.”

“Do you want to?”

And because you cannot be anything but kind with him, you try to play it off. “No. But,” you inject the truth this time, “I don’t hate Mom and Dad for deciding to leave. It could be fun.” Seokmin stares at you, his gaze unreadable. For the first time in what feels like forever, the air between you is tense

“Huh, you’re leaving?” A classmate interjects.

The moment is broken; you look up, a little startled. It takes a moment to reply.

“Yeah. To America.” More people begin to crowd your space, and Seokmin untangles his arm from you. You glance at him. Seokmin’s face is a mask.

“Like, never coming back?” Another classmate asks. You turn your focus back to the growing crowd.

“Yeah.”

“But why?”

“Because Mom and Dad said so. Besides,” you puff your chest, “I want to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Can’t really do that here.”

Your classmates tilt their heads, completely clueless. Seokmin says nothing.

Today is your last day in Korea. Seokmin still hasn’t spoken to you.

As the clock strikes for dismissal, you wonder, for a split second, as you have these past few days, whether Seokmin would even want to walk home together. Each time you flounder, unsure, yet each time all he does is stand and look at you expectantly. Today is no different. Almost robotically, you sling your back and follow behind him. You leave together as always, and you wave at the classmates shouting their well-wishes with a smile.

There is a conspicuous distance between you as you trudge up the sloping roads. The silence stretches it even wider. Neither of you try to bridge it, not even as you reach the fork in the path where you part ways.

After a long moment, Seokmin whips around to face you. “Hey!” he says, voice loud.

You turn, finding the tears shining at the corners of his eyes. A part of you, the one always helpless to his tears, bursts into life, surging painfully against your chest. The leaving never felt real until now.

“Seokminnie—”

He gathers you in a hug, nothing like the gentle embraces you used to share, even as the contours of his body is familiar. He shoves you away, still roughly.

Something opens up here. You gaze at each other from opposite sides of a chasm too wide to cross for two people so young. Seokmin stares at you hard, struggling to speak.

Eventually, he just slumps. “Bye,” he settles on, before walking away.

There is nothing to do but watch him leave.

12 years ago

You flick through the papers, skimming the notes you made from the feedback session on your latest screenplay draft. The desk is white and sparse, nothing like the gorgeous mahogany you remember of your mother’s study from your childhood. Overall, the dorm is just a generally unremarkable space, though it does its job of being a place for eating and sleeping in between your writing classes.

The comment about your lackluster desk makes it to your mother, on the phone as you prepare the takeout you had just bought from the Chinese place at the ground floor. She laughs.

“Yes, well, you should have the shitty desks before you have the nice ones, so you appreciate them more.” You laugh, nodding along as you open the still-hot pack of chow mein, tilting the water on the lid to flow into a napkin. Your mother carries the conversation along as you begin to eat.

“Have you tried looking up some of your old classmates on Facebook?”

“No? What’s up?”

“Do you remember Jiwon? She’s a lawyer now.”

An image of a girl tilting her head at your mention of the Oscars flashes across your mind. You swallow your mouthful before responding.

“Really? I never would have thought. We covered up for each other once when she forgot her homework and I peed my pants.”

“A forgetter and a bedwetter, making their way in different parts of the world, eh?” Your mother remarks, and you snort.

“Mm.” You unlock your computer, stretching your hands over your food to open Facebook and type her name. True enough, the first post on her profile is her brand-new photo as a passer of the bar exam. Other photos include her skincare routine, makeup preferences, and some club-hopping shenanigans. Just another normal girl in her 20s in Korea.

You click on the search bar, pondering. “Ah, but Mom, who’s the boy again? The one I had a huge crush on.”

“Oh, we took you to Gwacheon, didn’t we? Hm…”

“Seokminnie,” you say, as your mother says, “Lee Seokmin.” You type his name into the search bar. A low sound of exclamation leaves your throat.

“Whoa, that’s crazy. He’s been looking for me.”

“What?”

“Yeah. He posted on Dad’s page.”

Hello, the post reads. I am your daughter’s childhood friend. I’d like to get in touch with her. You click the name on the post, opening the page to his profile.

“Oh, wow,” you whisper.

Though older, you recognize his face immediately. The same sharp jaw and soft eyes. A smile that lights up his face. There’s just something ever-so-slightly different about his nose, but you chalk it up to either puberty or the all-too-common plastic surgery in Korea.

“Mom, I’ll call you back, okay?”

“Mm, okay.” You hang up. Clicking on the Message button, you tap your laptop, figuring out what to say. Eventually, you settle with: Seokminnie, it’s me, your Gwacheon date. Do you remember me?

Up until this point, Seokmin thinks he’s lived quite an ordinary life. There is little that would sway him into thinking otherwise. Blearily, he blinks at his blaring alarm clock before slamming his hand on the snooze button. God-forbid there would ever be a night drinking with Soonyoung and Seungkwan that would not end with an awful hangover.

There is a vague memory, one of Soonyoung’s warbly comments after the third bottle of soju: Do you have a girlfriend? Who the hell…is messaging you at this time?

He opens his phone, scrolling through last night’s notifications. Seokminnie, it’s me, your Gwacheon date. Do you remember? The message reads. He clicks on the profile, and is transported to the past.

“Whoa.” He smiles, even as his head is pounding, zooming in on the face in the profile. While it was true that he did his best to find you, asking through your old classmates and even finding your mom’s writing page on Facebook, the sheer lack of any good leads had chipped away at any hope of it going anywhere. A response, after all the searching, still seems unbelievable.

Somehow, your face is the same as he remembers, even as it is twelve years older.

“Seokmin-ah! Wake up!” His mother’s voice pulls him from his trance. He glances again at his phone. The same smile, though he notices now more softness in some places in the jaw and some sharpness in others.

Somewhat reluctantly, he rolls off the covers. Even now, his mother enforces a rule of no phones on the table.

From the dining room, the smell of spicy broth hits his nostrils. His mouth waters. There is already rice on the table. His mother carries a bowl of soup where Seokmin is already seated. Beside her, his father is handing out the chopsticks. He and his sister receive their pair with a quiet thank you.

“Thank you for the meal,” he murmurs. The metal clangs softly against the bowl as he scoops a spoonful of spicy broth and beansprouts into his mouth. With every bite, he feels his hangover slowly subside.

“Did you drink a lot last night?” His mother asks.

“Kinda? Soonyoung-hyung just got broken up with, though, so he drank the most.” His father chuckles quietly, commiserating. His sister squints at Seokmin.

“But you look happy today? Why?” He looks up, the smile frozen on his face.

“Aren’t I always a little happy?”

“Hm,” his mother regards him critically. “You are, more so than usual.”

“Ah.” He should know better than pretend his parents cannot read him. “I am,” he admits. “I think something amazing is about to happen.” He leaves it at that, playfully deflecting his family’s grilling, even as his sister threatens to stalk him to figure out the mystery.

The Skype seems to take forever to load. Seokmin drums his fingers on the touchpad, each tap coming faster than the last. Finally, it does, with an add friend? notification already blinking at him. He beams, accepting the add and pressing the video call button without delay.

As though from a dream, a familiar yet different face stares at him from the laptop. Seokmin can’t help the smile that blooms on his face.

“Whoa,” he says softly.

“Whoa,” the dream echoes, voice a little staticky, somehow both everything and nothing like he has imagined.

Seokmin chuckles, breathless. “Is that really you?”

“It’s me. And you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

He’s at a loss, and it seems you’re the same. Only your chuckles fill the sound of the call. Eventually, Seokmin says, “I can’t believe we’re meeting again like this.”

“I didn’t even know you were looking for me! Or that you remembered! I just looked you up by chance, and saw the message you left on my dad’s page.”

“Oh, well, it wasn’t by chance for me.” Seokmin scratches his cheek. “It just became a challenge, and the harder it got the more I wanted to be able to find you. You don’t go by your Korean name anymore.”

“Ah, yeah.”

“Huh…so that’s why it was so hard to find you…” he trails off as he catches sight of your face. You seem to be squinting at him.

“Is your nose different?” You blurt, catching him off-guard. Hurriedly, you begin to explain, “it doesn’t look bad, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a little…more striking than I remembered.”

“Oh!” Heat flushes his cheeks, and Seokmin chuckles, surprised and flustered at the comment. “Yeah, I had an accident while in the military, and had to have a minor surgery on my nose. It’s okay, then?” He touches his nose self-consciously.

“Yeah, you look great,” you reply honestly.

With the heat not quite receding from his face, Seokmin changes the subject. “S-so, are you based in New York, now?”

“Yeah, I’m a writer here.”

“Oh, a little like your mother?”

“That’s right—” You seem to be saying something, but the Skype lags. Seokmin only catches the tail end of your words. “—hear me? Seokmin?”

“Hey, I can hear you now. Sorry, what were you saying?”

“Oh, I was just asking about what you’ve been up to.”

“Well, I finished military service a few years ago, nose and all.” You hum in acknowledgement. “I’m doing something a little related to your work, actually. Well, kind of?”

“What’s that?”

He begins to explain. “My parents wanted me to get an engineering degree, and I’m finishing that up, but I wanted to try some singing, so I auditioned for some small plays here and there.”

“Really? That’s exciting!” You seem to come to life then. “I don’t know much about engineering, but you’ve been trying out for musicals?”

“Yeah, nothing too intense since I’m doing it in between studying for the engineering exam, but it’s been fun.” He sings a quick tune from his latest audition, the smile bleeding into his voice as he sees your expression, full of wonder.

“That’s lovely, Seokminnie.”

The chatter lasts for hours. Seokmin glances at something above him and seems to realize something.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, “but I have to go to class soon.”

“No problem,” you respond, tamping down the disappointment. “I have to get started on my assignment and eat dinner, anyway.”

“Oh, you haven’t eaten yet? Isn’t it late?” He’d added your timezone in the world clock on his phone yesterday.

“Midnight,” you confirm.

“Huh?” Shocked, Seokmin splutters. “Go eat now! Jeez.”

“Okay, okay.”

Seokmin shifts, his stare at you softening into something familiar yet unreadable. At his continued staring, you raise an eyebrow.

“What?”

Seokmin scratches his cheek. “I don’t know if it’s weird to say.”

“It’s fine, what is it?”

He pauses, hesitating, before he continues. “Is it strange to say I missed you?”

Your expression softens. Pixelated as it is, Seokmin catches your eyes rove over his face, as though like him, you are cataloguing new features. Familiar, yet so different. “Of couse not, Seokminnie. I missed you too.”

A weight in him lifts, and Seokmin chuckles, soft and warm, relishing in the sound of soft laughter from his headphones. He should hang up now, but he hesitates. It seems you do too, until you huff a little laugh and offer a small wave. The movement is so achingly familiar that Seokmin’s chest clenches.

“Call later?”

He brightens. “Sure!”

“Hello?” The Skype opens to you rubbing your eyes.

“Don’t you only get up at like, 10AM?” Seokmin watches you, amused yet endeared.

“Mm,” you murmur sleepily. “But you said this is the only time that works for you.”

It becomes routine.

Good evening’s are replied with Good morning’s, calls connect over his commute while you eats dinner.

“Your Korean has gotten rusty,” Seokmin teases.

“Aish—I only get to speak Korean with you. Even my parents have gotten to using English more.”

“What’s that been like?”

“Hm?”

“Learning English, going to school…” he trails off. “It’s amazing that you’ve ended up pursuing writing in English too, of all things.” On the screen, your mouth parts in surprise.

“Oh, well…it’s been hard, of course, especially when you’re new. Different places, different food, different people. You have no choice but to go along with it, even if you don’t really belong.”

“Did you cry?”

“Sometimes,” you admit, briefly checking on something behind the screen before returning your focus to him. “Especially at first. But eventually I realized that no one really cared.” Despite your words, there is little sorrow on your face. Your expression is distant, reminiscing, as though time had sanded down the sadness into nostalgia.

“…I’m sorry,” he murmurs. He doesn’t really know what to say except for that.

You grin. “Ah, don’t be like that. It’s been a long time, and as you said, I’m even writing in English now.”

“That’s right. You even said you wanted to win the Nobel. How’s that going?”

“Nowadays, I’m interested in the Pulitzer.”

Seokmin cracks up, and you begin to laugh too. He smiles at the screen. “You’re the same.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah. Greedy.”

You level him with a glare that’s only partially offended. “You can’t go by life without wanting anything.”

“Yeah, but you want everything.”

“Nooo,” you drag it out, only half-denying, as Seokmin continues to laugh.

Seokmin looks up the Pulitzer in between classes.

Seokminnie, I’m sorry! I had a bender and couldn’t wake up early enough. Did you wait long?

No no, it’s okay! How are you?

It takes longer than normal for the screen to load. The internet connection today isn’t the best. He isn’t quite sure if it’s his or yours that’s slow.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

Would you ever come to New York?

I don’t know.

How did your audition go this time?

Ah, I didn’t get in.

Oh, I’m sorry.

The screen does not load for a very long time. The call fails.

Would you ever come to Seoul again?

I don’t know.

“Look, you can see the skyline from here.” Seokmin flips the camera on his phone, showing the view from the top of the Wonder Ferris Wheel in Gyeonggi-do.

“Oh, it’s pretty.” You are silent for a moment. “Wish I were there.”

“I hope you can see it some time. Let’s go together.”

“I mis—” the sound cuts off. Seokmin stares at your image, frozen midsentence. In front of him, the sun sets over Seoul’s skyline. The lights blur and swim, ever so slightly. As do you, still unmoving.

The view is beautiful, regardless. Heartbreakingly so.

Can we talk?

He senses something is off the moment he answers the call. Your expression is different. You fidget with the hem of your sweater offscreen. He checks the time on the world clock. 2AM.

“You aren’t asleep yet?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” you answer.

“You okay?”

“Mm. Of course.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Hypothetically…how long before you can come visit me in New York?”

Seokmin considers it, visualizing his calendar, the course program he’s in, along with his current responsibilities. “At least a year and a half. I’m studying for the PE exam, and I have to pass it to be an engineer, so…”

“No need to explain,” you cut him off, kind despite the firmness in your voice. “I also won’t be able to visit you soon. I’m apprenticing under a director here, and there’s a writing residency I’ll be joining soon, too. It’ll be at least a year until I can go to Seoul, assuming I even have the money.”

He closes his eyes at your next words, already anticipating them.

“I think…” you begin carefully. “We should stop talking to each other.”

“Why?”

“I just…I’m here now, not in Korea. I uprooted my life twice, first when my family moved to Toronto, and then now when I came to New York. I can’t keep living in the past; I can’t keep looking up flights to Seoul.

“And it’s not fair to you; you’re studying to be an engineer, and finding a life of your own…” you trail off. If anything, he tries to find solace in the heartbreak he hears mirrored in your voice. Solace, yet at the same time there is no small amount of guilt that he is drawing comfort in another’s pain.

“So you want to stop talking?”

“Just for a while.”

“I finally found you after twelve years…”

“You aren’t losing me, Seokminnie.” The gentleness in your voice feels like ruin. “It’s not for forever.

“Seokmin, please don’t hold a grudge,” you beg, speaking again as he does not reply. “We’ll be back talking before you know it.”

“No, I—you’re right,” he admits. It isn’t a platitude. He stares at his reviewers, stacked beside the laptop, the calendar with dates encircled in red pen. And yet he can’t help but want to cry. “It’s a good idea.”

You look away. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. We’re not dating or anything.”

“Yeah.” You stare at each other from across the Pacific—eleven thousand kilometers.

“Bye,” Seokmin whispers, already feeling the weight of the silence. He reaches a hand out, touching the screen. Inevitability does not lessen the heartbreak. Seokmin finds this out the second time, no longer too young to understand.

You attempt to offer him a smile. “Talk to you soon, Seokminnie.”

“Yeah.”

He hangs up before the tears begin to fall.

ACT II: VERNON

6 months later

In the writing residency, only one other person is also from New York. Roughly your age, he extends his hand toward you, all thick eyebrows and finely-sculpted features. There is an echo of something in his face, features you would only really see in someone with mixed heritage.

“Hi, I’m Hansol Chwe,” he says. “But I usually go by Vernon.”

You shake his hand, replying in English with your name and a quick nice to meet you before switching to Korean. “반쪽 한국인인가요?”

There’s no recognition in his eyes, and you quickly realize your mistake. “Sorry, I can only understand tidbits. But that was Korean, right?”

“Oh, um. Yeah, I just asked if you are half-Korean. I just thought, with Hansol…”

“I’m third-gen. My father’s parents immigrated.”

“I see.” The embarrassment doesn’t quite abate, but Vernon confirming your hedge does make gratification ease it a little.

“Are you Korean? You talk like a native.”

“I grew up in Seoul before my parents moved.” You keep the chatter as you enter the cabin. He offers to help you with your bags, which you accept with a grateful smile.

To both of your pleasant surprise, your rooms are not so far away. He set down your bag outside the door labelled with your name. For a moment, the conversation stills, and you just stare at each other. After a beat, the corner of his lips quirks upward.

“See you around, then?”

“Yeah,” you smile. “See you, Vernon.”

There’s something wonderfully easy about being with Vernon, and you often find yourself gravitating toward him and his feedback as you go about the residency. You aren’t the only one; the lingering glances in his direction are obvious to any keen eye, though how much is for his acuity in commenting on syntax and how much is for the way he runs his fingers through his hair remains to be seen.

You feel those stares at the back of your head now.

“Kimchi with cream cheese?”

Vernon’s mouth quirks upward at your incredulous voice. “Yeah.”

“The most I’ve seen people do to tone down the spice was when my mom would wash the sauce off with a little bit of water when I was a kid. But cream cheese?”

“It’s like pink sauce, you know? Like you mix tomato with cream for penne ala vodka.”

“Yeah, but tomato and kimchi are two different things.”

“Hey,” he says in mock offense, “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. Maybe there’s an Asian mart here somewhere and we can go on a grocery run.”

To be fair, it’s almost both your turn to take charge of cooking; the participants had all agreed to divvy up the tasks while you all were in the cabin, and you had both volunteered for Wednesday’s dinner. You frown, trying to imagine the taste before giving up.

(No, don’t buy that much, he advises you a few days later, walking through the imported goods aisle. The fridge will smell like kimchi for the rest of our stay. Just enough for the one meal.)

(Pairing kimchi and cream cheese together wasn’t bad, per se, but your idea of adding gochujang into the tomato-based pasta was a much bigger hit among the other writers. The kimchi itself was not as good as the one you could buy from the ahjumma across the street of your old home; but here, you allow grace. Some tastes that are more nostalgia than anything else.

You do, however, phone your family to ask for some kimchi to be sent to you after you’re back in the mainland.)

“Can’t sleep?” You nearly jump out of your skin from fright, swearing in a voice a little too loud for a 2AM sneak-out.

“What the fuck. Vernon is that you?”

“Yeah.” He looks a little sheepish from his spot on the couch, laptop casting a dull glow on his face.

“Nearly gave me a heart attack, oh my god.”

“Sorry. But you too? Can’t sleep?”

“Mm.” You grab a glass and the juice carton from the fridge, pouring yourself a drink. “Thought I fixed my sleep schedule, but turns out it’s not that easy.”

“I’m watching Days of Being Wild, if you wanna join me.”

“Ooh, I’ve watched all of Wong Kar Wai’s movies, but I wouldn’t mind watching them again.” Intrigued, you approach him, going around the kitchen counter to settle on the couch. The screen is frozen at the scene where Maggie Cheung’s character is walking with the policeman. Vernon presses play, and you nurse your glass of juice as you watch the tangled lives of Leslie Cheung, Maggie Cheung, and Andy Lau play out across both Hong Kong and the Philippines.

As the movie fades out with Tony Leung walking out the door, it’s just past three. You’re fighting back a yawn. Vernon closes the tab, turning to you curiously.

“Do you have a favorite? Wong Kar-Wai film, I mean.”

You try to think about it for a moment. “It’s been a while since I watched any of his work. But…right now, and this is gonna sound really basic,” you warn, “the first that comes to mind is In the Mood for Love.”

He huffs a little laugh. “That is basic, but I’m just as bad since I like Chungking Express the most.”

Your body chooses this moment to yawn again, inordinately long. Almost immediately, you cover your mouth, mortified. “Oh my god. That was not a commentary on Chungking Express.” At your expression, Vernon’s shoulders begin to shake, and he hunches over to muffle his chuckles. You swat his back. “Hey!”

He waves off your embarrassment, straightening. The corners of his mouth are still twitching upward. “No harm done. But,” he adds, “I do have Chungking Express and In the Mood for Love on my laptop. We can see whose favorite holds out better tomorrow night?”

His boyish smile is disarmingly charming, even more so in the low light. You grin back, feeling your heart flutter in a way that feels both familiar and new. “Deal.”

Of course, there are days when Vernon’s blunt honesty grates on your frayed nerve endings.

Yesterday you had to explain again to your mom why you had lost touch with Seokmin—he’s taking the PE exam that you need for an engineer’s license, and I’m here pursuing my own dream, besides there’s nothing stopping us from talking again after we’re both settled with our lives—which she never quite understands. She and your father had, after all, been the type of people who stayed together amid individual tumults; in her opinion, the Pacific Ocean shouldn’t stand in the way of childhood friends. You begged to differ; it wasn’t just the Pacific that was the problem.

Today had you irritable, noise-sensitive, and frankly, not at your best.

“To be honest,” he says, flicking through your latest output, “I think you’re just not that good at handling soulmates. I don’t feel much of you in the writing.”

“Bold of you to say you know how I feel in writing.” Your reply is just shy of a bark. Vernon startles, his gaze snapping to you where it was roving again over his scribbled notes. His face jolts you back to yourself. You shove the irritation back behind your teeth.

“Sorry. It’s not been a good day.”

“Er, it’s fine.” His fingers pinch the pages, restless. “Do you want to write about something that feels out of a fairy tale? Or something more like real life?”

“I don’t know, and that’s the problem.” The story you crafted was about two childhood friends who were soulmates, yet one moved away before they could discover it. Time and distance had rendered them different people, yet as their souls recognized each other—even the jagged pieces fit together.

In Vernon’s reading, it seemed that there was a relationship forced between two characters with little chemistry. Which hit entirely too close to home.

“This isn’t my own advice, so take it with a grain of salt,” he starts slowly. “But the voice we find in our writing isn’t always the one we wanted to have. Like, even if, say, I wanted to sound like Garcia Marquez talking about love, sometimes it’s just gonna feel weird actually doing it. And when I find a certain style fits me, I get disappointed when I compare it to the voice I initially wish I had.”

“In this analogy, am I trying to be Garcia Marquez?”

“I guess? I’m not saying whatever style you do have, it’ll be bad,” he hurries to qualify, “it’s just that you don’t have to force your voice or story to fit into something it’s not trying to be.”

You sit back, stunned a little at the sageness of his words. “Oh, wow, Vernon.”

He scratches his cheek, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. “It’s not my advice, stop acting like I gave it. I read it from somewhere.”

Some old emotion stirs in you—hunger, competitiveness, desire—that old friend that carried you across fields and deserts in the name of continuous improvement.

Despite no real incentive toward being the “best” in this residency, you are sharply reminded that this is a program where the bright gather. It would not do to half-ass anything. You remember what your mom had said, the first time you moved to Toronto: Some things must be set aside for new things to grow.

As you tap your pen on your little black notebook, a smile begins to bloom. “It’s great advice. Is it from a book?”

You stretch, the cushion of the couch shifting as you move your weight this way and that. On the table, the credits to Chungking Express play. Vernon pauses the roll of names before turning to you.

Apropos of nothing, he asks, “What was the biggest culture shock you had as a kid?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, silently asking if he’s going to explain why he raised that to you out of the blue. Vernon just looks at you, expectant. Deciding to humor him, you tilt your head, running through possible answers in your head. “Do you want a funny answer or a depressing one?”

He blinks. “Whichever you want to share, I guess?”

You lean aganst the headrest, focusing on some spot on the ceiling obscured by the darkness. “I don’t know how to decide what was biggest, but definitely the first one that comes to mind would be the lunchboxes.”

“Oh, like, packed lunch?”

“Yeah, or like, the food they’d have in the cafeteria. All the kids would call mine—”

“Stinky,” the both of you say in unison. You laugh, nostalgic. “Yeah. I was also pretty bad at English, back then, since the kind you learn in Korean school is different from the ones kids actually use. I remember only liking Math, just because numbers are the same whether you’re in Canada or Korea.”

Vernon’s eyes are soft as he regards you. “It must have been hard to make friends.” The words are simple, yet you feel the sincerity all the same. An understanding that comes with knowing what it means to be different, and living through it. You shift your head, turning to face him.

“I can’t imagine it’s been easy for you either,” you acknowledge.

“Mm. Kids could be particularly cruel.”

“Yeah, but I’m thankful all the same. I can’t imagine doing all the hellish cram school stuff just to get into SNU or something like that. And then work under a chaebol.” Perhaps it would have been be you in a different life, but in this one, the image feels like one from far away.

“You’re okay here? Not gonna fly somewhere else?” He references the ending of the movie.

“I’ve had enough of travelling, to be honest.”

“Yeah?” The stare he levels at you is weighted, the air charged with something you don’t want to name quite yet. You hold his gaze.

“Yeah.”

Eventually, the corner of his lips quirk in a smile. The air eases up, and you inhale, only then realizing you have been holding your breath the whole time.

“Okay, then.”

Despite the call with your mother having gone better this time, something weighs your bones down. It’s fortunate that the cabin is a short walk from the shore.

You leave your shoes on the dry part of the beach, folding the hem of your jeans up to just above your calves.

The saltwater laps at your bare ankles. It’s that magical hour between sunset and dusk, when blue washes the world in quiet melancholy. Your gaze is trained north, but it is not New York you’re thinking about. Home has been a concept—less a house with roots, more a nebulous idea that you could never quite hold, like water or dry sand.

The first time you left home—with all its hotteok stands and sunlight-dappled mahogany desks, it was at the behest of your parents. The second time, it was a choice of your own: a leaving on your terms. It was a whiplash of its own kind, one where you had to brave New York alone as a still-struggling college student. Home has always felt like something always just out of reach—is it something to find in the past, or is it waiting for you some place else?

Lost in thought, you murmur some lines of your favorite poem. Despite your finger bookmarking the page in the book in your hand, you know the words by heart.

“You ask the sea, what can you promise me…and it speaks the truth; it says erasure.”

On your lips is the taste of salt and loneliness.

Vernon looks up as you finally step into the living room, settling beside him.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you sigh. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No worries,” Vernon says. His finger trails quickly over his laptop’s trackpad, rebooting it from when it had fallen asleep. He doesn’t comment on your slightly windswept appearance, but he does eye the thin, well-worn book you have with you. “Glück?” He asks, gesturing.

“Yeah.” He seems to sense your melancholy, and leaves it at that.

As the movie plays, you dare to rest your head against his shoulder. He says nothing, but he wriggles a little, letting your weight rest more comfortably against him. Like this, you watch Tony Leung and Maggie Cheung yearn under the smeared lights of retro Hong Kong.

Vernon wonders if it was the tragedy that first drew him in. One so much like his, yet different in many ways.

It was the defiant tilt of your chin even as you remained open to the chatter around you; the intensity with which you approached your work; even the indecipherable array of micro-expressions that crossed your face when you first bit into the store-bought kimchi from the only Asian mart you had found in Montauk.

Most writers are tragic creatures; especially those who made it this far to make it a career. Vernon knows this. At the very least, there is something in their souls that could taint a page with words—either a hunger or too-muchness (or both) that needed some kind of release.

“I never got to ask,” he begins, “but I noticed in our conversations that you’d mention not just Korea, but Toronto too. You immigrated twice?”

“Pretty much,” you nod. First from Seoul to Toronto, then Toronto to New York. You explain this to Vernon, who shakes his head in amazement. Despite no longer having any reason to meet each other at the couch—the premise of watching Wong Kar-Wai behind you—you still, without fail, emerge from your room at some ungodly hour. And he’s always there, waiting. Vernon knows your routine, now: setting the electric kettle to boil before spooning some honey citron tea (from the jar that cost a ridiculous amount in the Asian mart, yet split the bill of nonetheless) into two mugs. Offering him the other while you settle beside him on the threadbare sofa.

“Is that what you meant when you had enough of travelling?”

“You remember that?”

He turns his head to look at you, confused. “Why wouldn’t I remember?”

You keep your gaze to the ceiling. “Didn’t expect you to, sorry. But yeah, that’s why. Does this have anything to do with Wong Kar-Wai?”

“Nah, just wanted to ask.”

“Okay.”

“Must have been lonely, huh?”

You turn to him, still leaning against the couch, tilting your head. The cushion dips under your temple. “Didn’t we have this conversation before?”

“Sure, but I didn’t know you immigrated twice. I was born here; technically I never immigrated at all. Everything I know of Korea is from my parents and grandparents.”

“Huh.” You mull that over. “Did you ever think that home was actually there, not here?”

“…Sometimes,” he eventually admits. “But it’s more imagination than reality. I’ll probably be too American there, just as I was too Korean here. Might even be worse since I don’t speak the language.”

You don’t offer an answer to that, but you do shift your body to lean on Vernon’s shoulder, a quiet gesture of comfort. Both of you settle yourselves in the silence until Vernon eventually speaks again.

“Immigrating twice, though…that’s a different kind of tough.”

“I guess. But I don’t regret it, on the whole. At least the second time, it was my choice.”

“Does that make it better?” He asks, genuinely curious.

“I used to think so. Now…hm, it’s both better and worse. Canada does have better healthcare, though.” Vernon chuckles at that. “This time, I decided to leave, not my parents. I’d rather…I guess write my own story than live someone else’s out. Or have it written by someone else.”

He inhales, muscles in his jaw feathering as his mind conjures up the vivid memories of his childhood. Not quite fitting in. Big emotions, too big for a child’s small hands. Choices he had to carve out for himself.

“I know what you mean,” he whispers.

Your reply is half a yawn. “Good.”

In this dream-like space between sleeping and waking, you nestle deeper into Vernon’s warmth. Your head lolls, dropping softly onto his shoulder. You smell like the bergamot-scented body wash stocked in the bathrooms.

He closes his eyes, letting this moment sink into his memory.

(Eventually, he carries you to bed, leaving a message both on your bedside and through email—the only contact he has of you right now. Vernon waves off your embarrassed thank you the next morning, his fluster betrayed only by the red that lingers on the tips of his ears. Neither of you speak of it, even as you sit together again for that morning’s plenary.)

The last night in the cabin is marked by an especially voracious round of drinking in the gazebo. Empty bottles of beer and wine are scattered on the marble table, a wooden chopping board still adorned with the last few slices of ham and crackers.

“There’s this word in Korean,” you begin, swirling the last dregs of beer left in your bottle. “Inyeon. My dad first introduced me to the term. It’s like…fate, or providence, but specifically on the relationships between people. There’s a little of Buddhism and reincarnation in it.

“It’s inyeon when two strangers walk by and their clothes accidentally brush. Even then, for that to happen, there must have been something between them in their past lives. They say that if two people marry, there are eight thousand layers of inyeon over eight thousand lifetimes.

“Or, like…the cop with the pineapples and the undercover thief in Chungking Express, that’s Inyeon. Maggie Cheung and Tony Leung in In the Mood for Love, that’s also inyeon.” You make eye-contact with Vernon, who watches, amused, as you explain a Korean concept with Cantonese movies. A reference only he, out of everyone in this writers’ residence, would understand with special acuity.

Questions are thrown, and you answer, a little tipsy. Vernon coaxes you to let go of your now-empty bottle for a glass of water, which you readily take from his hand with a sort of smile you’d only make while drunk. Eventually, the conversation moves to different topics, until, either one-by-one or in groups, excuse themselves for bed.

It’s only the two of you now in the gazebo.

The water has made you a little more sober, and you allow yourself to indulge in the sight of Vernon under the outdoor string lights. The warmth paints his skin a soft gold.

He’s watching you, too.

“I’ve been thinking about it, but both movies…you could say they both discuss loneliness in different ways.”

“Yeah. And they all had some kind of inyeon, but that didn’t mean they were meant to be. But ’s nice to think of a past life where they were. Not that they exist outside of the screen, though—I don’t know where I’m going with this,” you admit, cutting off your own ramble. Pointedly, you swallow a gulp of water, ignoring his amused stare.

The conversation tapers off, nothing but the distant sound of waves lapping at the sand. You swirl the glass of water in your hand, tongue moving with your thoughts again.

“Maybe… maybe you and I were somebody to each other in a past life.”

The air holds your words, suspends them for a moment in the silence.

“Do you believe that?” Vernon asks eventually. He’s searching your face—cataloguing, perhaps, how drunk you are for those words to have tumbled out of your mouth.

“What?”

“That we knew each other in a past life?”

“What, because we’re here now—this night, in the same residency, in this gazebo?” You don’t know what’s so funny about what he said, but you can’t seem to stop giggling.

Vernon huffs that quiet laugh of his. “Isn’t this,” he gestures to the both of you, “inyeon, too?”

“My dad would think so.”

Vernon hums. “And you?”

“Me?” Under the table, your thighs brush. Your laugh stops, and you realize the weight of his gaze has never abated. You wonder if you’ll ever get used to the intensity of his attention. A part of you hopes you never do.

“What do you think?”

Alcohol loosens your lips enough to be brave. Or maybe just stupidly honest. “I’m not thinking about inyeon,” you confess. “I just want to kiss you.”

His eyelids flutter, those unfairly pretty lashes casting a subtle shadow across his skin. The upward quirk of his lips is a mix of smug and abashed. “Yeah?”

(Tomorrow morning, you will chalk it up to lowered inhibitions: the sunlight will stream through curtains not drawn, the first thing that will tell you it is not your room you wake up in. The second thing will be the weight of an arm thrown across your waist; the third, a soft breath against your neck. Tomorrow, you will pretend you didn’t know better.

Tonight, though, you lean in, as close as you dare. A toe dipped into the sea. You catch the remnants of a haze over his eyes, the reminder that he’s also drunk, just more adept at hiding it.)

“Yeah,” you whisper. He seems to absorb this, quiet even as the sound of the waves is drowned by the blood rushing in your ears.

After a beat, Vernon closes the gap even further, head tilting, lips maddeningly parted…and then stops. His pause prompts a soft, impatient noise out of your throat, one that, based on the smirk that pulls up the corner of his mouth even higher, has not gone unnoticed.

Despite the relatively cool night, the air is heavy with promise.

Your tongue flicks out to wet your lips. His focus darts down, following the movement, before flicking back up to you, the question evident in his eyes. His restraint, even with alcohol in his system, is simultaneously maddening, thrilling, and endearing. You give a miniscule nod.

It’s a clumsy kiss, a bit too much teeth—both of you are evidently drunker than you’re trying to come across. Yet it’s enough for him to pull away with a soft hum before leaning in again, meeting your mouth with much more finesse and a hand cradling the back of your neck. You tangle one hand in his hair, feeling the thickness of it around your fingers. You’re not sure who presses closer, only that your world has narrowed into the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and his cologne. Him, him, him.

Not many words are exchanged after that.

(The clothes come off in the morning, not in the middle of the night, but that’s neither here nor there.)

(The pretending lasted all but ten minutes.)

ACT III: YOU

Present day

The pedestrian streetlights blink green. From the other side of the street, the funny face you’re making at him dissolves as you begin to walk. Vernon’s still chuckling as he meets you halfway, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before walking together.

As you reach the sidewalk, you press his usual coffee order into his hands. “Double shot sea salt latte to get you by today’s book signing.”

He grins. “Thanks.” Vernon swirls the cup before taking a sip, relishing in the cool drink amid the current heat.

“I’ll be late tonight,” you begin, apologetic. He looks up at you as you talk. “Rehearsals might run until after dinner. Your mom asked me to help her a while ago, though—she stocked our ref with the newest batch of grandma’s kimchi.”

“Right, it’s almost the production.” Vernon squeezes your hand, reassuring. You smile, before looking at the amount of coffee left and batting his arm.

“I bought you that to drink during your signing!”

“But the ice will dissolve by the time I get halfway through the line,” he protests. “Might as well have it while it’s not salty coffee water.”

You just roll your eyes, stopping as you arrive at the back entrance of the bookstore he’s holding the signing in. “Fine. But make sure to eat, okay?”

“I should be telling you that.”

“Oh, don’t worry, the director said she’ll be treating pizza tonight.” You check your watch. “I got to go. See you later!”

Vernon leans forward, pecking your lips even as you rummage your purse for your phone. You bat his arm again before waving as you jog away.

You trace mindless patterns on his arm, staring at the ceiling. Around you, the duvet is a mess, mostly because of his leg, thrown over yours, which rests on top of the covers. He doesn’t understand how you want to burrow under a blanket after sex, but you insist that he just runs hotter than you.

“배고파요.” Vernon tests it on his tongue, feeling the words.

“Mm. Me too.”

“뭐 먹고 싶어요?”

You ponder it before shrugging, turning to bury your face into Vernon’s neck. “Dunno,” you murmur sleepily into his skin. He shifts his one arm so he can better cradle your head. Your arm shakes off the covers to fiddle with his hair, still freshly cut into its current length. The sun peeks through your blinds, intent to ruin your intention to stay in bed this weekend.

After a few moments, you speak again. “I got it. Know what I want?”

“What?”

“Chicken wings.”

“Ohhh.” Vernon groans, even as he doesn’t move. His breath fans against the top of your head. “Genius. Holy shit.”

“Yeah?” You smile against his neck.

“Yeah. Brunch?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s on your mind?” You look up from your plate of wings. Something crosses your face, a mix of not-guilt and trepidation that makes Vernon pause from deboning the chicken in his hands.

“Do you remember I told you about Seokmin?”

Ah. “Is that this week?”

“Yeah.”

“Why is he coming here, again?” He resumes his task, popping the meat in his mouth after cleanly pulling out the two bones.

“Vacation, I think.”

Vernon just hums.

The restaurant smells like smoke, grease, and alcohol. Before them, the grill sizzles with both thick-cut and thin-cut pork. Seungkwan stirs the thin slices with a pair of metal tongs, letting the fat render so it unsticks from the metal.

Soonyoung picks a piece of the thicker pork off the grill, blowing into it. “Why are you going to New York, again?”

“Vacation,” Seokmin replies as he wraps meat, rice, and ssamjang into a piece of lettuce. “Sightseeing, eating, having fun…” He opens his mouth wide, shoving the wrapped meat into his mouth.

Seungkwan eyes him. “You’re not going there to see that girl, right?”

Mouth muffled with food, Seokmin asks, “Huh? Who?” Soonyoung scoffs.

“What do you mean, who? Her, y’know. Your first love? Seems convenient you’re going to New York just when you’ve broken up with your girlfriend.”

Seokmin just snorts, swallowing his food before giving a wry chuckle. “Hyung, she’s married.”

“Really?” Soonyoung seems genuinely surprised. “How long now?”

“Like…seven years? I think?”

Seungkwan ooh’s as he pours Seokmin and Soonyoung a drink. “She married early.”

“Mm.” They clink glasses.

Seungkwan unlocks his phone, checking something before clicking his tongue. “Hyung.” His voice is a mix of amused and commiserating.

“Mm?” He holds up his phone.

“it’s gonna be raining the whole time you’re there.” Seokmin and Soonyoung stare at his phone, the weather app pulled up.

After a beat, Soonyoung begins to cackle, slapping Seokmin’s arm, who yelps as he barely saves his beer from spilling over the grill. “Ya!”

Soonyoung ignores him. “Aigo, you poor bastard!”

“No way. Really?” Seokmin squints at the screen, willing the forecast to change. Already, he feels a slump settling on his shoulders.

True enough, Seokmin makes a break for it after getting off the taxi. He had hurriedly retrieved his luggage from the trunk, then dashed to the hotel he had booked for the next two nights. New York is miserably wet, and he feels self-conscious as his shoes squeak and drip rainwater onto the carpeted floor as he checks himself in. His English is not very good, but he does have Papago to help him stumble through the conversation with the receptionist. He receives his key card and room number.

Seokmin moves as fast as he can to the elevator, mindful of both his appearance and the need to get the wet cloths off him as soon as possible.

Finally, finally, he lugs his damp body and luggage into his empty room. There is a window overlooking the city, yet it is only grey with rain. Droplets cover the glass. Seokmin sighs, and shucks off his windbreaker, slipping into the bathroom to hang it and his other damp clothes.

It seems his plans of sightseeing would not be a go.

Unexpectedly, at around midnight, the rain had stopped. The clear weather continued through the early morning, until this moment. Light flicks off the small puddles left on the pavement, and is reflected, serene, on the surface of the pool. Fresh off the bad weather, there are not much people around the garden.

Seokmin stands off to the side. Though the surroundings are quiet, his mind is awhirl with the significance of today. He finds himself fiddling with his fanny pack and rubbing the strap with his thumb and forefinger, regressing to his childhood habit.

Time passes painfully long; he is half-tempted to begin bouncing on the balls of his feet just to release more of the nervous energy plaguing his body. He doesn’t know how much that face would have changed, yet he trusts in himself enough to recognize both the face and the soul behind it.

“Seokmin!” He turns.

You appear from behind one of the trees, and Seokmin knows. You catch his gaze, and he sees the moment you also know. You begin to walk toward him, circling the edge of the pool.

Seokmin is frozen. It feels like coming face to face with a ghost.

There are subtle differences—your style is a more comfortable mix between business and casual. The way you carry yourself is more relaxed, assured in a way that only ever comes when the weight of adulthood has nestled itself in one’s bones. You stop before him, seeming to be equally shocked.

He feels you taking him in, too; suddenly, he’s hyper-conscious of the shirt he chose for today, the comfortable sweater and light-wash jeans a little too strange against the smarter, albeit dressed down look of your blouse. It’s not like you’re a couple trying to match, he chastises himself.

Seokmin stares at a person he has not seen in more than twenty years, and he watches you do the same.

The distance that stood between you at your first and second goodbye’s lingers, still not crossed. So much has changed, and he doesn’t know yet what remains the same. His body is hot, then cold. Every emotion overtakes him—shock, sadness, disbelief. Yet the one that settles most comfortably into the moment is simply relief. Seokmin exhales.

“Wow.” He chuckles softly.

“Wow,” you echo, your laugh breathless as it hangs in the air between you. You close the distance first, wrapping your arms around his neck in a fierce hug. Startled, Seokmin’s hands hang in the air before he relaxes. He should have expected this of you. His own arms encircle your waist, pulling you in. You smell faintly of soap and ink, nothing like the shampoo he remembered from when you were children.

Twenty years.

The utter physicality of your presence is overwhelming.

“It’s so good to see you,” he says, mouth a little behind your ear. Your chin grazes against his shirt as you nod before stepping away.

A beat passes, and you start to laugh.

After a moment, Seokmin joins in, not quite sure why you’re both laughing, but it’s definitely much better than crying. For now, he just lets the amazement at the situation wash over him. Eventually, the laughter settles, and fades.

“I really don’t know what to say,” you murmur, smiling at him.

“I don’t, either,” he confesses. “What should I say? It’s just been so long. Like, twelve years?”

“Yeah, around that much.” You look around, suddenly noticing the relatively quiet park. “Shall we go, then?”

“Yeah,” Seokmin smiles. “Tour me around your city.” You fall into step beside him. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, still not quite believing it. That gaze remains, even as you usher him into the New York subway, eventually forced into sharing a pole to hold onto as the car crowds with passengers. You catch his gaze, and smile, the same mix of giddy, disbelieving, and shy.

It really is so good to see you.

You walk along Dumbo pier—like the flying elephant? Seokmin had asked, to which you nodded with a, Yeah, same spelling, but it’s actually an acronym—having just gotten off the R Train to Brooklyn Bridge Park. Seokmin’s eyes wander around, absorbing the New York scenery. You walk down a narrow, well-maintained path, the edges lush with shrubs. A faint breeze blows, rustling the leaves around you. This close, Seokmin can also here the river’s gentle murmurs.

There’s a silent sort of buffer between you, as though both of you were equally conscious of not wanting to be perceived as a couple. Occasionally, a ship horn blows, distant yet cutting.

“Before I got married,” you begin, “Vernon and I visited Korea.”

Seokmin suppresses a wince; it’s the first time you mention your husband to him. “I know.”

“I emailed you, but you never replied.”

“I’m sorry.” He saw it; he just couldn’t bring himself to respond. It was a good year before he could bear to delete the long email he had kept in his drafts—only for you to message him, four years later, just not for the reason he was expecting. Or hoping.

“It’s okay,” you reply eventually. Seokmin feels your eyes on him, considering. Your steps, slightly ahead for the past few minutes, slow down so you walk together. He keeps his eyes forward, trying not to fidget.

“I wanted to meet your girlfriend too, actually. Is she doing well?”

“Oh, we’re not…we’re not together right now.”

“What happened? You broke up?” You sound genuinely concerned.

“No, not really.” You find a spot by with a good view of the pier, gesturing for him to join you. Seokmin obliges, continuing, “We just need time to think, I guess. We’ve started talking about getting married.”

“Do you not want to get married?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s holding you back? You love her, right?”

He stares at Manhattan, but his mind is hundreds of miles away. “I always thought if you get married, you have to be responsible. You have to have enough money, you know? She’s an only child; her parents will have high standards for her husband.”

“What does she think, though?”

“Oh, she’s more up for it than I am. But I just…thought things should be…more, you know?”

You tilt your head; he shifts, not expecting the sudden intensity in your gaze. There’s a light furrow in your brow. It strikes him, then, that he’s talking about this to someone already married. “Is it hard to get married if you don’t make tons of money?”

“At first we didn’t think so, but eventually we started thinking that way.” As the words leave his mouth, Seokmin feels the inextricable weight of age on his shoulders. You look away, equally quiet. The sun is already quite high up; in front of him the water glitters, beautifully clear.

At the end of the path, apparently, is the edge of the riverbank. You’re much closer to the water now; if the wind was a gentle breeze a while ago, now it’s stronger, blowing against his hair. Seokmin pushes back the strands that fall against his eyes.

“Do you want me to take a picture of you?” You ask suddenly.

“Oh, sure.” Seokmin stands by the railing.

It starts innocuous, at first. But a bit of the old theater flair takes over him, and he strikes a pose, flicking his wrist over his eye. You giggle, stepping out to a lunge so you could get more angles of him. At some point, he turns his back to the camera, jutting his hip out. You screech a little, doubling over even as you continue pressing the shutter button. After a few poses, you straighten and hand the phone to him, eyes bright with the remains of your laughter.

“You look good! Sorry if the camera shook while I was taking some of them, though.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “That’s fine, part of the memories.”

“Did you continue theater? After the last time we talked.”

“Not really, no. I stopped auditioning while studying for the PE, and just never tried again.”

“I see.”

The pier is lovely, the view even more so—the expanse of water juxtaposed by both the modern, urban feel of the buildings and the older, stately bridge. It’s just that there are couples everywhere—holding hands, whispering with their heads pressed together, one pair even full-on kissing in broad daylight. Seokmin subtly shifts his body away from the latter, trying to hide his discomfort.

He glances at you right as you crane your neck in the couple’s direction before quickly looking away. He gives you a look, which you return with a grimace. Even if neither of you are here on a date, the suffocating romance all around certainly makes it feel like one.

“Did you come here often with your husband?”

“Yeah, we lived nearby before moving to our current apartment. We dated here, though we’re not as bad as them.” Seokmin suppresses a laugh at your disgruntled expression. “Oh, and we fought here, too. A lot,” you add the last bit with a small smirk.

“Really? You fought?”

“Oh yeah, especially during the first year we married. We didn’t fuck around.”

Seokmin chuckles disbelievingly, floundering between concerned and amused. “Why’d you fight?”

“A lot of reasons,” you shrug, leaning against the railing. “It’s like…planting two trees in a pot. Our roots needed to find our place.”

Behind you, as the day grows darker, the carousel’s lights begin to turn on.

“Do your families get along?”

“Oh yeah, Vernon’s family loves that they have a whole bunch of people to speak Korean with. His grandma and my mom are quite close.”

“Oh, but does he speak Korean too?”

“Not as much; him and his sister don’t, and his mom is the American one—they know a few phrases, and he’s been practicing with me, but aside from that…” you trail off. Your gaze remains at the horizon. “He’s great at Hwa-Too, though.”

“Hwa-Too?!”

“Mm,” you turn, grinning at his surprise, pride shining in your eyes. “Beat my dad a few times, even.”

Seokmin whistles. “He’s not fucking around.”

“He’s not fucking around,” you agree, huffing a small laugh. Seokmin catches the way your eyes light up as you speak of your husband, gaze slightly distant, your lips curling up almost unconsciously. You turn to him. “Did you fight with your girlfriend too?”

“No.” You raise an eyebrow, disbelieving, until Seokmin relents. “Fine. Yes. Even though she’s not my girlfriend right now.”

“If you’re just as bad of a sulker—” you begin, “Never mind, I don’t want you upset at me.”

“Hey!” He whines. “I’m not that bad.” You just snort, nudging him lightly. He elbows you back, feigning a pout before the act cracks and he breaks into chuckles.

When your laughter trails off to a comfortable end, you smile at him, the edges of your eyes crinkling slightly. The sky has painted New York pink, orange, and gold; Seokmin quietly admires a single golden ray that runs from your cheek down to your neck. “You should get married well.”

“You’re worrying about me?”

“Sure. Getting married is hard for idealistic people. Like you.”

“I’m not that old yet,” he retorts. “Let me worry about it when I’m past forty.”

You just smile, and huff a little laugh before returning your focus to the horizon. Your expression does not waver, still with that mysterious and distant affection, as though you were privy to something he has yet to understand. Perhaps you are. In silence, Seokmin watches you enjoy the sunset.

Seokmin and you sit on the steps by Jane’s carousel, the day’s walking finally felt the moment you eased yourselves down. Seokmin has his legs sprawled, long limbs stretching down the steps as he gazes up at the sky, now a stunning shade of twilight blue. Behind you, the playful music of the carousel plays on loop. The day has passed, and at this moment, there is no need to fill the silence with words.

The quiet stretches the twilight. Eventually, you turn to look at him. Seokmin meets your gaze, steady.

“Seokmin.”

“Hm?”

“Why did you look for me?”

His gaze turns curious, yet you remain quiet, waiting for him to respond.

“Twelve years ago?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you really want to know?” You nod. He looks directly at you, gaze intense yet open.

“I just wanted to see you one more time.” Seokmin pauses, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “You just left so suddenly, and I was pissed off, y’know? I thought of you, from time to time, while I was alone. You disappeared, and suddenly I found you again.”

Each word fuels the complex mix of emotion swirling in your chest, and you tamp down the expression that’s fighting to emerge on your face. You pinch your lips together.

“Sorry.” It’s all you can bring yourself to say without everything else spilling out.

“What are you sorry about?”

You exhale, quick and short. “Right. There’s nothing to be sorry about.” For that first time, at least—that immigration. Seokmin continues.

“I thought about you. During the military, even as I passed the PE…even when I realized I stopped pursuing acting seriously, I wondered if you’d be disappointed.” He laughs, self-deprecating.

Even before he finishes, you’re already shaking your head. “I would never judge you for that.”

“We were babies back then,” you comment softly.

“I know,” he replies. “We were also babies when we met again twelve years ago.”

You tilt your head, considering him. Your eyes wander over his face, doing the same thing you’ve repeated throughout today: cataloguing the minute changes from the last time you saw him twelve years ago. Not much has changed with his face—he must have a solid skincare routine, possibly the fault of his girlfriend. His hair is more styled, though the breeze had tussled it somewhat. But he carries himself with a little more worldliness, even as his words are of the boy twelve years ago. Life had become a jacket he wore a little more familiarly around his shoulders.

“We aren’t babies anymore,” you murmur.

“Yeah.”

After dropping Seokmin off at his hotel, you return home.

From the living room, you hear the faint sound of Vernon’s latest game, and the clack of the buttons as he presses them rapidly. You shut the door quietly, toeing off your shoes and setting your bag on the hook by the entryway before you approach him. He’s already shifting, making space for you to squeeze yourself beside him on the loveseat, even as his eyes never leave the screen.

“Hi,” you mumble.

“Hi, love.” Onscreen, Vernon’s character is winning, little sound effects echoing around as he levels attack after attack at the level boss. You keep silent, choosing to talk once he’s done, but he speaks anyway. “How was it?”

“You were right.”

“I was?”

“He came to see me.”

Vernon glances at you quickly, catching the expression on your face: lips pursed, eyes a storm cloud of emotions.

He pauses the game.

“It’s just crazy to see him be a grown-up man with a job and everything. And parts of it are so…Korean.” You dab a dollop of moisturizer on your cheeks, forehead, nose, and chin before rubbing it in with your fingers. “I mean, neither of us stayed with our parents once we started working. But he still lives with them. He’s not stoic, or conservative, or anything like that, but there are moments I feel like I’m talking to one of your grandparents.”

Behind you, sharing the small mirror, Vernon is patting on the last dregs of the toner you made him try. He stares at you through both your reflections. “Is he attractive?”

You squint a little at him, trying to parse what he’s saying through his question. Curiosity, perhaps, and some jealousy. Answering honestly, you reply, “sure, he’s handsome, and he smiles a lot. I mean at least one person has been attracted to him—his girlfriend. Or, not quite-ex.”

“Are you attracted to him?”

This time, you scrunch your face. “What? No. I don’t know. I don’t think so.” You face away from his reflection, turning to your husband. “He’s just this boy who I left, and who was just a face on my laptop for the longest time, and now he’s here. It’s just overwhelming, physically, I think. But no, I don’t think I’m attracted to him. I just missed him a lot. I missed Seoul.”

“Did he miss you?”

“He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.” You pause, contemplative. “I think he misses the twelve-year old me, who would tease him while he cries until he starts laughing instead. We were both crybabies, you know.”

“I didn’t know you were a crier.”

“Yeah. But I always tried to never cry when it was him crying. Not that it always worked.”

Vernon hums, expression unreadable as he crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. The air is tense as he opens and closes his mouth, figuring out what to say. After a long beat. He settles with, “When is he leaving?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

You sit beside him on the bed, tentative. “Are you mad?”

“No.”

“It feels like it.”

Vernon sighs, running his hand through short, choppy strands—not quite as buzzed as last month. “I don’t have a right to be mad.”

Your brows furrow. “What? Of course you have the right to be mad.”

“That man flew thirteen hours to see you, I’m not about to say that you can’t see him or something. He’s your childhood sweetheart. And it’s not like you’d run away with him.” You laugh, loudly. Vernon seems to hesitate, swiveling to face you. He looks only half-joking. “Are you?”

Deadpan, you reply, “Sure, I’ll run away with my childhood sweetheart to go to Seoul and leave my entire life behind.” Vernon just raises an eyebrow. Exasperated, you continue, “You know me. I won’t skip rehearsals for a dude.”

You crawl into the bedsheets, lifting the corner of the duvet and wrapping it around you. You’re in your baggiest sleep shorts—the one you only wear when it’s your period. The edge of it peeks from under the comforter. Vernon looks at you for a long moment, gaze softening as you frown at him, still sitting down.

“I know.” The edges of his mouth pull up in a small smile. “I know you.”

Grumbling, you nose into Vernon’s neck. You know he’s awake. “If another truck honks at 2AM, I’m going to lose it.”

True enough, Vernon offers a sleepy chuckle, tilting his chin so you can nestle better against him. The room is dark, silent save for your breathing and the occasional noise from outside. The lights are off, but the lone streetlight visible from the window casts a dull glow over the duvet.

Suddenly, he chuckles dryly.

“What?” you whisper.

“Just thinking how good of a story this is.”

“Seokmin and I?”

“Childhood sweethearts who reconnect twenty years later and realize they were meant for each other.”

You huff. “We’re not meant for each other.”

Vernon ignores you, continuing. “I’d be the fake Korean standing in the way of destiny.”

At that, you cackle, though it’s muffled by your position against his neck. “Shut up. Fake Korean?”

“We’re just sound so boring in comparison, I dunno. Met in a writer’s residency, flirted, watched a bunch of Wong Kar-Wai, slept together because we were both single. Then moving in together in New York to save rent. Until we decided to get married, but moved plans up so you could get your green card.”

“So romantic, when you put it like that,” you reply dryly.

“No, exactly, I’m the guy you leave when your ex-lover-slash-soulmate takes you away.”

“He’s neither of those things.”

Vernon’s hand comes up, creeping along your arm and tracing patterns on the back of your shirt. “What if you met someone else, someone who knew, maybe not Wong Kar-Wai, but Orson Welles? What if there was some other writer also from New York who knew the same movies, read the same books, and could correct you on your manuscripts and listen to you complain about rehearsals?”

“Mm. That’s not how life works.”

“Yeah, but still. Wouldn’t you be here with him? If you didn’t leave Korea, would you be with your childhood sweetheart?”

“Again, that’s not how life works.” You relent, though, and indulge him. It’s a rare moment where Vernon seems to be seeking solace in you, not the other way around. “This is my life. This is our life. Now. And we’re together.”

A beat passes. Something comes to mind, a memory from that first writing residency.

“Do you remember the first time I got mad at you? It was a bad day and you were giving feedback on that one horrible manuscript.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember what you said to me?”

“…No?”

“I remember it word for word. ‘You don’t have to force your voice or story to fit into something it’s not trying to be,’ you said to me.” Even now, the advice makes you smile. He must feel it against his skin.

For a while, it’s silent—nothing but the low hum of the air con and his hand, playing with the fabric of your shirt. You feel his breath fan over the top of your head. “It’s just that you make my life so much bigger,” he murmurs, “and I don’t know if I do the same for you.”

“You do.” Shifting, you crane your neck, taking care not to bump against his chin. Your eyes meet his. “You’re forgetting the part where I love you.”

“I don’t forget it, I just have trouble believing it sometimes.”

You burrow into him insistently, throwing a leg over his hip. “I’ll do better then.” Vernon’s familiar huff of a laugh vibrates against your forehead.

“You already do enough.” He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

He and you lay there, in comfortable silence. You listen to his heartbeat, steady against your ear. Vernon returns to tracing mindless patterns across your back.

“Did you know you only speak in Korean when you talk in your sleep?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You never speak in English. You only dream in Korean.”

“I didn’t know that. You never told me.”

“Most times, I think it’s cute, but…I don’t know. Sometimes I get scared.”

“Why?”

Vernon’s chest caves slightly as he exhales. “You dream in a language that I can’t quite understand. I’m still trying, but I can’t help but think that I was supposed to understand this whole time.”

He leans back a little to stare at you, a small, bitter smile on his face. You reach a hand up, cupping his cheek. Vernon softens slightly, leaning into your touch as he continues.

“I think it’s part of why I’ve been trying harder to learn lately.”

“You want to understand me while I’m sleeping?”

“Yeah. Is it stupid?”

You smile a little. “No. Well maybe, since I’m pretty sure I’m just saying gibberish.” He hums.

“You know, what if there’s a life where you never left Korea, and I actually did immigrate the way my parents planned to when I was a toddler. Would we have met then? Still gotten married?”

“You mean inyeon? Who we are to each other in another life?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a thought, for sure. But I chose you in this life. That’s what matters most to me.”

It’s quiet after that, Vernon absorbing your words in the way he always does, with that almost uncanny acuity. After a beat, he pulls you even closer, until there’s barely space between your bodies.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

Seokmin is already lined up for the ferry by the time you meet him.

“Hey!” You’re slightly breathless, having run to meet him upon getting his message. He beams, eyes turning into half-crescents.

“Hey! Did you get home safe last night?”

“I did, thanks. Sorry I’m late.” It seems more people took yesterday’s sunny weather as a cue that the past week’s rain finally passed; the train was more crowded than usual.

“Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

Seokmin unslings one strap of his backpack, rummaging before brandishing out a bagel sandwich for you. “Here?”

You accept it, mouth parted in surprise. “For me?”

“Yeah.” You bite into it with a vengeance. Seokmin grins as you eat.

This early, people are just starting to file in; the queue progresses quickly. You both shuffle forward every few seconds. As the boarding point to the ferry grows closer, Seokmin turns to you.

“I forgot to ask you something yesterday.”

You swallow your current bite before answering. “What is it?”

“What prize do you want to win nowadays?”

“Hm?”

“Before you left, you wanted to win the Nobel. Twelve years ago, you said it was the Pulitzer. What about now?” Seokmin clarifies. You look at him, a little lost. Things like that haven’t been on your mind for a long time; you tell him this, a little abashed. He just shakes his head with a little smile.

“Try to think about it,” he encourages. “There must be something you want.”

“…A Tony?” You try, and he laughs.

“Still the same.”

“Greedy?”

“Greedy.”

Today is more suffocatingly romantic than yesterday. It’s bad enough that someone had offered to take a photo of both of you together, confused when you turned her down. You lean against the ferry railing, keeping a safe distance from Seokmin.

Under you, the water churns into white foam as the ferry route curves into the view of the Statue of Liberty. As the right angle approaches, you tap Seokmin’s shoulder.

“Here, I’ll take your picture.” He positions himself near the railing, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “A little to the left.”

When you return your phone to him, he raises it up with the front camera. “Selca?” Obliging, you sidle next to him before laughing at the screen.

“That’s too close!” You step back, pressing your back lightly against the railing. Seokmin snaps a few photos, each with a silly face that you match in turn. In one of them, you raise a hand, smiling, the ring on your hand briefly catching the sun. Behind you, Manhattan sprawls, gleaming in the morning light.

“Oh, pretty.” Seokmin taps your screen, flicking through your wedding photos. The ferry is now returning to Manhattan, and you’ve both taken to the empty seats near the middle row. Seokmin looks between the you beside him and the you in the photos. His brow furrows ever so slightly. “You look young.”

“We were young,” you reminisce. “The wedding happened earlier than planned because of my green card.”

You smile, staring at the screen. Right now, it’s on a picture of you and Vernon, his hair not yet buzzed, frozen mid-laugh. You’re clutching your bouquet with one hand, his shoulder with the other. When he laughs, really laughs, Vernon’s face is almost elastic in its expressiveness; you had to insist on a copy of this photo, after Vernon’s embarrassment at the way his eyebrows looked comically curved. You don’t remember why you were laughing anymore, only that this was your favorite photo purely because of how unscripted it was.

Seokmin hums, continuing to scroll through your wedding photos.

Vernon fidgets with his phone, distracted. He had gotten your message about an hour ago; you were on the way home, bringing your friend after he had checked out from his hotel. Tonight was supposed to be a dinner with the three of you before Seokmin leaves for Korea on an early morning flight.

He had spent part of his afternoon cleaning, both itching to release nervous energy and wanting to make a good impression. It took him twice as long as usual to pick a shirt to wear, unsure of what kind of impression he wanted to give to this man, as his childhood sweetheart’s now-husband. Eventually, he settled with a clean button down tucked into jeans.

After what seems like forever, he hears the faint jangling of keys, and then the door opening.

“Vern?”

He stands, smoothing down his shirt. There, by the doorway, bathed in warm light, is you, greeting him with a soft smile. He relaxes, shoulders settling more comfortably. Turning, you gesture to someone.

“들어와.” A figure ducks through the doorway, already toeing off his shoes. And it is here that Vernon meets him for the first time.

Seokmin is a tall man. You were right; he is handsome, in the way Asian men often are—youthful, more innocent than his other burly, White colleagues, who grow their beards and prefer to exude a more rugged appeal. As you stand there, together, both staring at him, you reassuring and Seokmin tentative, Vernon suddenly understands. This is a person from another life of the woman he loves. He and Vernon are connected, not just through heritage, but with their love for you. Simple as that.

Vernon smiles warmly. “안녕하세요. 만나서 반가워요.

Seokmin startles a little before smiling back, hesitant but bright. “Hello, it’s nice to meet you too,” he replies in stilted but clear English. They both laugh awkwardly. Seokmin glances at you. “그는 한국어를 잘한다.”

Vernon can understand that much. “아니, 아니요.” You just look at him at Seokmin’s pronouncement, smug. Vernon feels his ears turn red. “배고파? Hungry?”

“Um, yes.” As though on cue, his stomach rumbles. You and Vernon exchange a glance, amused. Vernon turns to him. “뭐 먹고 싶어요?”

“Uh…pizza!”

“Pizza? You like pizza?”

Seokmin nods. “Yes!”

Vernon steals a glance at you again, biting back a laugh. “Okay, then. Pizza it is.”

The three of you walk the streets of East Village. It is well into the evening, and the streets bustle with people checking out the hole-in-the-wall, indie restaurants that are scattered around. You and Vernon walk beside each other, while Seokmin keeps a polite but still friendly distance from your husband.

“So what did you guys do today?”

“The, uh…” Seokmin tilts his head, opening and closing his mouth to reply, brow furrowing. Instead, he just raises his hand, miming a torch.

“The Statue of Liberty,” you supply. Vernon’s brows lift in realization.

“You took the ferry?” You nod.

“It was, uh, nice,” Seokmin says. “Uh, beautiful view.”

“I’ve never been.” You and Seokmin, on either of his side, look at him, shocked for different reasons. Seokmin shifts his focus to you, still incredulous.

“야! Why haven’t you gone with your husband there yet?”

“I don’t—” you look at Vernon, surprised and more than a little guilty. “You’ve never been? We’ve never been?”

Vernon huffs a laugh at both of your exclamations. “Yeah, I’ve actually never been.”

You look at him, eyes wide, even as he levels a smirk at you, amused at your reaction.

The pizza was everything he dreamed New York pizza to be—thin, large in serving, and just the right mix of fat from the cheese and acidity from the tomatoes. Both you and your husband had remarked that this was one of the better places, at least as far as both your palates were concerned. Vernon taught him, you translating at some junctures, how to fold the slice before eating it, prefacing it by saying that neither of you would judge if he just opted to cut the slice with a knife before eating. Adamant, Seokmin insisted on “the New York way,” to both your amusement.

After dinner, the three of you relocated to a small, nearby speakeasy. Faux-incandescent bulbs cast a warm light over the space, and you took your seats at the counter. You sat in the middle, translating between the two of them.

“At twenty-four, I, um…” he tries to think of the word, but falls short. Seokmin mimes shooting a rifle, and both your eyes widen in recognition.

“군대?”

“Military service?” Both you and Vernon speak at the same time.

“Yes!” Seokmin looks at your husband, who understands the question in his eyes.

“I didn’t go, I chose US citizenship at eighteen.” Seokmin’s mouth parts in an o, nodding as the pieces click in his mind. Vernon addresses him. “How was it? Did you like it?” You translate for him your husband’s question. Seokmin bites back a sheepish smile.

“No.” You and Vernon laugh. “I got accident,” he adds.

“Really?” Your husband leans forward, intrigued. Seokmin points to his nose, and you gasp as the memory finally returns to you. He levels a quick grin at you, knowing why.

“My nose was, uh, broken. Needed surgery to fix.” Vernon nods. His face is wonderfully expressive as he absorbs this new information.

Looking at his nose, then the rest of his face, he replies, “it looks good. Healed well.”

“Thank you.” Seokmin scratches his nose, the unconscious habit returning for a moment. “But, uh, military and work…same.”

“Same how?”

“You have, uh…boss.” Both you and Vernon release a chuckle. He turns to you, switching to Korean. “There’s overtime pay here, right?”

You nod. “Of course. Why? Don’t you have?” He shakes his head. You stare at him, incredulous, before turning to Vernon, who makes a similar face when he hears your translation. “There’s no overtime pay in Korea.” To Seokmin, you ask, switching back to Korean, “Really?”

Seokmin nods. “In Korea, you do all you boss’ work, then your own, then you can go home. And you don’t get paid well.”

“That’s shitty. And hard.” Seokmin nods, face comically down.

He tries his best to translate, catching Vernon’s expression—who seems to be doing his utmost best at keeping up with the limited Korean he knows, but not understanding the important bits. “Boss work first, then your work. End late, but um…bad salary? Cheap?”

“I see,” Vernon says, and levels him a grateful look. Seokmin smiles sympathetically, catching his gaze. They hold it for a moment too long, and Seokmin is the first to look away, suddenly feeling awkward. Despite tonight’s relatively smooth camaraderie, they remain strangers.

Seokmin instead turns to you, switching back to Korean, finding comfort in the way the syllables rest on his tongue.

“It was good that you immigrated.”

You smile, responding in kind. “I think so too.”

“Korea’s too small for someone like you. It can’t satisfy your greed.” Both of you laugh softly. Seokmin swirls the drink in his hand, the ice clinking against the glass.

“Thank you for introducing me to your husband. He seems to love you very much. And he’s been so nice to me.”

Your smile widens, enough for light crinkles to appear at the edges of your eyes. “Of course. I love that you get along.”

Seokmin downs his drink. Gazing at the leftover ice, he murmurs, a little drunk, “I didn’t know getting along with him would hurt this much.”

You stare at him, mouth parted. He turns to look at you, mouth quirked in a bitter, sardonic smile. Around you, the speakeasy’s noise fades into a dull buzz. Your body swivels a little, facing him more.

After a long beat, you simply reply, “Really?”

“Really.”

It’s probably pathetic of him, to be so open to you, risking your husband understanding a conversation about him, but he’s drunk, and it’s his last night with a person whom he’s only ever seen in increments of twelve years. For all he knows, twelve years later he may not be as lucky.

The silence is intolerably suffocating.

“When we stopped talking,” Seokmin starts, “Did you miss me?”

“Of course.”

“But you met your husband, then.”

“You met your girlfriend too,” you reply, a little too sharply. The air is tense. From behind him, Seokmin spies Vernon glance at your direction, noting the change in your tone. After a few seconds, he returns to his phone. The sight of him makes him scrunch his face. Are you really both being jealous while your husband is a few feet away?

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking away. Shame swirls in his stomach.

“It’s okay,” you reply quickly. “I’m sorry too.”

“I just…Being here with you gives me weird thoughts.”

“Like what?”

“Like, ‘I found my first love twelve years ago, should I have just not let her go?’” He barrels on, clocking from your expression that you wouldn’t know what to say in reply anyway. “‘What if I went to New York when you asked? Or if you had gone to Seoul when I asked? What if you never left? Would we have gotten married? Have kids? Would we have dated? Broken up?’ Things like that.”

For once, Seokmin is thankful for the alcohol loosening his tongue; if anything, he can say that he at least poured his heart out to you, the one thing he hadn’t been able to do before. He breathes in, shaky, pushing back tears.

“But what I learned coming here, is that you had to leave because you’re you. And the reason I liked you is because you’re you. And who you are is a person who leaves.”

You close your eyes at that.

After a long pause, you open them, gazing straight at Seokmin as you speak. There’s a small upward curve at the edge of your mouth, even as your eyes glisten, suspiciously shiny, under the warm light.

“The girl you remember doesn’t exist here,” you say softly.

“I know.”

“But she did exist. She’s not here in front of you, but that doesn’t mean she was never real. I left her behind in Seoul with you, more than twenty years ago.” The gentleness of your voice feels like some necessary ruination.

“I know. And though I was just twelve years old, I loved that girl.” His smile trembles as he says it, and so does yours as you try to return his grin with one of your own.

You huff, a little watery. “You psycho.” His laugh, too, is wet. Seokmin sniffles as discreetly as he can. You hand him a tissue, which he accepts with a soft thank you.

You begin to speak again, one finger swirling around the water that had dripped down onto the wooden surface of the table. “I think there was something between us in our past lives. There’s no other reason for us to be here, in this city, twelve years after we reconnected, another twelve years after I left. It’s just that we don’t have the inyeon to be that for each other in this life.”

“I think so too,” Seokmin replies softly. “What do you think we were? A general and a concubine?”

You scrunch your nose at the image, even as you huff, amused. “A political marriage,” you propose. “And we haaated each other.”

“Or maybe just a bird and the branch it landed on.” Seokmin swirls his glass, drinking at the bits of water from the melting ice. “Even your husband, you know? Maybe in another life, he was in Korea.”

“Maybe you met in the military.”

“Maybe we all were in the same train. Or a bus and we occupied one row of seats.” He must be a masochist, bringing even your husband into this discussion of who you could be to each other. “In this life, you and Vernon have the eight thousand layers of inyeon. To him, you’re someone who stays.”

Seokmin breaks his own heart with his words, yet his smile is open, flayed as he feels. You smile too. On your other side, Vernon has perked up again from where he was scrolling through his phone, hearing his name. You finally turn to look at him.

“Just talking about you.” He smiles, a little unsure.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile at your husband, eyes alight—the same glimmer that accompanies your smile every time he’d come up in your conversation. And just like that, Seokmin knows he is right on who you are to each other.

“I’m sorry we speak alone.” Vernon looks up at Seokmin, having just signed off on the bill. “We will stop.”

You’re off to the bathroom, but it’s taking longer than usual. Seokmin and Vernon had been sitting in silence for a handful of minutes, neither of them willing to begin the conversation until now.

“No, it’s fine, you both have a lot to catch up on.” Vernon swivels in his seat to face him, and laughs a little, shaking his head. “I never thought I’d be part of something like this.”

“Hm?” Seokmin tilts his head. Vernon gestures.

“Sitting with you.”

Seokmin understands, offering him a smile. His eyes are still rimmed slightly in red, and he hopes your husband does not notice.

“Do you know, um…inyeon?”

Vernon nods. “A bit of it, yes.”

Seokmin mirrors his earlier gesture. “You and I…We…”

“Yeah,” Vernon huffs a small laugh, “you and I are inyeon too.” He swirls his glass, the ice already fully melted. There’s a smudge of condensation left behind when he moves his glass. “Thank you for coming here. It was the right thing to do.”

For the second time, Seokmin feels his vision blur. He looks away quickly, blinking back the tears. He can’t help but betray himself to your husband, the one person whom he probably should not be giving such a display to. And when you are absent, to boot. But when he finally manages to pull himself back together, Vernon has returned his focus to the table, drawing patterns with the smudge of condensed water. He does not say anything else, even as you return with an apologetic remark about the long lines in the womens’ bathroom.

He makes no mention of Seokmin’s tears.

It strikes him, again, that even to him, your husband is kind.

Seokmin picks up his luggage, which he had left in your shared apartment. While he’s checking his things, and lacing up his shoes, you reach out, squeezing Vernon’s hand softly. He looks at you.

“I’ll just walk him to his Uber.” The night had steadily grown colder, and in response, you threw on a cardigan.

“Okay.” Vernon squeezes back.

In front of him, Seokmin straightens, facing him before bowing a little. “Nice to meet you.”

“It was nice to meet you too.”

“Visit me in Korea.”

He offers Seokmin a half-smile. “Of course.”

“I’ll be back,” you murmur. He and you exchange a glance.

Vernon nods. “Okay.” Your lips quirk up, and you release his hand, stepping back to reach for the knob. The hinges creak as you both step outside.

(For a moment, he’s terrified. Stay, he almost says.)

The door closes behind you softly. Vernon stands there, alone, staring at the door, allowing himself this moment of silence.

Seokmin’s Uber has a pickup point some ways away from your apartment. It’s just past one block before Seokmin stops, as per his phone’s instructions. You follow suit behind him.

“Will it be here soon?” You ask.

“Yeah. Two minutes.”

Neither of you speak after that. Silence stretches each second one hundred and twenty-times over, and he can do nothing but look at you, and have you look at him in return. He looks at this face, the one he’s only ever seen whenever time has already done more than a decade’s worth of work. He’s spent yesterday and today cataloguing your features; yet as he does it again, today, for the last time, he can’t help but be afraid he’ll forget the particulars of your face.

The Uber arrives, braking to a stop in front of you. Seokmin gathers you into a hug—a gentle one, like the many ones you’ve known before, the one he wished he gave you in that very first goodbye. You squeeze him back, tightly, face pressed against his shirt. It takes a while before he lets go, but when he does, you laugh softly at the wetness already glistening in his eyes, offering him a tissue you had kept from the bar in your pocket. He accepts it with a teary grin.

You watch as Seokmin loads his luggage into the trunk. He’s about to open the passenger door, when he turns.

“Hey!”

Just like that, he’s twelve years old again. He’s twelve, and so are you.

You raise an eyebrow, waiting.

“What if this is already a past life, and we’re already something to each other in the next one?” He exhales. “Who do you think we are to each other then?”

Silence. You offer him a small smile. “I don’t know.”

He returns it, heart miraculously light. “I don’t either. But see you then.” Seokmin folds this memory quietly into his heart, willing to himself that one day, the thought of you will no longer ache as much. And that even as the ache will be gone, the love will remain.

Seokmin enters the car, closing the door firmly behind him.

The walk back to your apartment is agonizing.

After the tenth step, you’ve rolled your cardigan sleeves up, tracing patterns on your arms. A heart. A rocket. A crystal. Each step feels like one further from a life you never realized you were still holding on to. Despite your attempts, you begin to cry after the thirty-second step.

You reach the front gate of your apartment at the two hundredth and eighteenth step, finding Vernon sitting at the steps, lost in his own world yet already waiting for you. He looks up as you approach. He opens the gate with one hand, stepping down until he stands in front of you.

There are no words needed. You fall into his arms, dissolving into tears. Vernon embraces you, gentle in all the right ways, quiet as you sob and sob and sob.

Behind both of you, it is almost the beginning of dawn.

[…] I enter, without retreat or help from history, the days of no day, my earth of no earth, I re-enter the city in which I love you. And I never believed that the multitude of dreams and many words were vain.

— the city in which i love you, li-young lee

#vernon chwe x reader #hansol vernon chwe x reader #hansol x reader #lee seokmin x reader #seokmin x reader #dk x reader #dokyeom x reader #vernon imagines #vernon x reader #seventeen imagines #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #seventeen fanfiction #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #.dive site #easter egg for those that check tags—the banner has sm blurred as tho he’s going left cos he’s part of her past #vn is going right (forward) for the opposite reason

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gotta-winwin · 6 months ago

Text

(💬) ... vernon chwe x reader

⭐ starring: vernon

💬 preview: the seemingly 'extraterrestrial' man that occupies Cubicle #218 cannot seem to take a hint - no matter how many flashing signs you throw at him.

tw/cw: fluff, corporate vernon, vernon is an oblivious lil shit, allusions to sex, quotes from b.e.d by Jacquees, shameless flirting and banter

based on an ask (hi + thanks for requesting!) as well as b.e.d by Jacquees MDNI

🪽fic rating/wc: pg 13/ 3.5k

☁️ masterlist & a/n: i am forever stuck in this vernon loop - alas, here's a request that's been sitting in my inbox for awhile, brewing vernon thoughts the whole time. although this fic is entirely fluff, there are allusions to sex so please be mindful of your age and the fic rating.

Vernon would have quit his job a long time ago if it hadn’t been for you. A part of him still yearned for the stage, a trusty guitar in his hands and the sound of diehard fans screaming his name. Instead, he had found himself stuck, circling the corporate ladder, clocking in to work everyday just to sit in his one lonely cubicle, staring at numbers he had only pretended to understand when getting his degree.

He had his resignation letter signed and ready to go, and he would have handed it in if it hadn’t been for the notes that had begun to appear.

Colorful post-it notes that he’d find in the most random places - first his desk, then his lunchbox, in the pocket of his coat, stuck dead center on his computer screen. It baffled him, yet the notes kept coming, every single day of work without fail. At first he had scoffed, chalking it up to some silly office prank, but as time progressed, the notes became almost a given, as if the notes itself had rooted into his everyday routine. It filled him with anticipation and a reason to clock in everyday. As much as he hesitated to admit it, the silly notes made his day.

Of course, the notes were anonymous. Vernon had no idea that you were the reason he still showed up to work.

“This is basically workplace harassment.” Anne, your closest co-worker, commented, as she watched you pen your next note to Vernon. She was the only one who knew it was you behind the colorful post-its.

“If he didn’t like it he would’ve told HR months ago.” You argued, ripping the completed note off the pad of bright orange post-its. “Besides, you’ve seen him smile at the notes. Even got a laugh out of him a couple times.”

“But-” Anne snatched the note from you and read it aloud. “I hope our love will be like the number Pi: irrational and endless.” She shook her head, tsking. “Even for a compsci major, Y/N, Vernon would never find this funny. And if he does- he’s either mocking you, or his humor is just as broken as yours.”

“It’s funny!” You protested, snatching the note back. “Besides, I don’t even know where to leave this one. I’m running out of creative ideas.”

“What’s the point? You just need him to see it, right?”

You gave her a look. “There’s a higher probability of him laughing if he doesn’t expect the note. The less obvious the place, the better. He can’t be actively looking for it.”

Anne sighed, spinning her chair back to face her work desk. “Compsci nerds.”

Ignoring her, you continued. “I’m torn between leaving it taped to his water bottle, or taped to his bike.”

“Of course Cubicle Number 218 Vernon Chwe would bike to work.” Anne rolled her eyes. “How old is this man? Can’t he drive?”

“Hey!” You protested once again, defending him. “Maybe he just lives close, more cost-efficient you know.”

Anne sighed. “Tape it to his bike.” Her fingers tapped against her keyboard as she spoke. “He’s definitely not going to be expecting that one.”

Your smile widened, already imagining his little stunned expression. “Okay. Cover for me- I’ll be right back.”

“Whatever.” Anne mumbled, although you caught a glance of the amused smile on her face.

It was famously known throughout your office that the resident of Cubicle #218, Hansol Vernon Chwe, did not smile. He came into work and left while sporting the exact same facial expression the entire time. But you knew he smiled at your silly pick-up lines, no matter how stupid. And you knew that you might be the only person who knew just how pretty Vernon’s laugh was- even if it was from a distance.

If only you knew just how much Vernon wanted to know who was behind the silly notes that were his pick-me-up each day.

You: 1 Vernon: 0

“I wanna live in your socks so I can be with you every step of the way.”

Vernon snorted audibly as he read the note, this time written on a hot pink post-it. His neighbouring co-workers snuck glances at him, drawn by the sudden noise.

He ignored their stares, tucking the note into his jacket pocket for later. He was slowly amassing a collection of them, his desk back at home covered in multicolored post-its, each one from a different day. Sometimes the lines would be so terrible he’d shudder in cringe, but more often than not, he’d find them genuinely funny.

Grabbing a file he needed faxed, Vernon made his way to the copier down the hall. Someone was already occupying it- and he realized he recognized her, the pretty girl who lived in cubicle #17.

He could hear the loud music coming from her headphones, poorly hidden under her strands of hair.

“Charli?” He asked, recognizing the familiar beats and rhythm of the song.

He watched you turn around to face him, startled by his sudden appearance. “What?”

He pointed awkwardly to your headphones. “Is that Charli XCX? I didn’t think your name was Charli, don’t worry. It’s Y/N, right?” He rambled on, smiling sheepishly.

You blinked, a little dazed by the amount of words he was suddenly speaking to you. You had always thought, like everyone else in the office, that Vernon was somehow untouchable. Someone so mysterious and way out of reality that the two of you just didn’t exist on the same plane of the universe. But now here he was, talking to you like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Yeah.” You answered, after realizing you had just been blankly staring at him. “To both questions.” You quickly added, equally awkward. “It’s Charli XCX and my name is Y/N.”

“Great.” His gaze drifted past you towards the copier. “Are you nearly done?” Holding up the file in his hand, he gestured behind you. “I need to fax something.”

“Oh!” Hurriedly moving aside, you let out a tiny laugh. “I wasn’t really using it. Sometimes I just come in here and pretend I’m busy- to get away from how stuffy the office is. I don’t know why I just told you that.” You were mortified, glancing at him to make sure he wasn’t judging you.

Vernon’s lips were quirked into a smirk, as he tried hard to push down the laughter that was threatening to bubble up inside of him. Ultimately failing, his mouth widened into a smile as he laughed, the sound filling your ears better than any song could.

“I like you.” He stated, as if it was such a simple thing and didn’t have your heart racing. “You’re funny.”

His smile widened once he caught sight of your open mouth, stunned into silence at the new side of Mr. Cubicle #218 you were currently seeing.

“Close your mouth.” He mumbled, reaching a hand out to do it for you, his fingertips lightly pressing against your jaw. “You look like a fish.”

“I- what?” You spluttered, moving a step back.

Vernon shot you another melting smile, picking up his file and closing the copier. “Anyways, I’m all done. Are you going to hide out here some more?” He kept his eyes on you as he stacked the papers in his hands, organizing them against a nearby table.

You nodded dumbly, eyes following his movement as he walked out, stopping by the doorway to shoot you a tiny salute before turning away. He walked down the hall with a gait only he had, disappearing down the hallway, leaving you feeling extremely confused, your cheeks oddly warm.

You: 1 Vernon: 1

“Are you a worm? Cause I’d like to split you apart.”

Morbid, yes, but you were slowly running out of ideas. Placing the sticky note strategically in his work bag, you scurried off, ducking behind a bookshelf to watch his reaction.

“Are you a worm-” Vernon made a face as he read the note aloud. “Ew. Weird. Kinky?” He looked up at the ceiling, a concerning yet intrigued look on his face. A chuckle escaped him and you smiled in your success.

Your work days seemed to blow right by with the joy in knowing you had successfully made him laugh, mind still churning through your last encounter with Vernon by the copier a couple weeks ago. It had both startled you and ignited something within- a longing to know more about him.

“Looks like we’re the only ones left.”

You looked up, blinking your dry and strained eyes, spotting Vernon hovering right above your cubicle wall, a tired expression filling his face. You glanced around the office and realized he was right.

“Has it already been that long?” You wondered, rubbing your eyes as you shut off your computer, standing up to stretch your stiff back.

You could’ve sworn Vernon snorted at your words. “Do you enjoy working here? Time does fly when you’re having fun.”

You shook your head. “God, no. I’ve just got a lot on my mind, that’s all.” Yeah, you.

An unspeakable look crossed his face as he grabbed your coat, helping you put it on. “C’mon, we can walk together.”

“Oh. Thanks- alright.”

The walk was amicably silent as you fell in step beside him, clutching your winter coat tightly as you both entered against the harsh wind. You spotted his banged up yellow bike across the street and bit back a grin.

“You bike to work and back?” You asked, although you already knew the answer. You often passed him on your own way to work, spotting him through the windshield of your car. Nearly ran him over once, in your earlier days of working, but you don’t speak of that.

“I do.” Vernon patted the trusty bike with a loving hand. “Never failed me once.”

A laugh escaped you, your breath hitting the winter wind and turning into a light fog.

His eyebrows raised. “Are you laughing at me?” His lips quivered up as he watched you descend into laughter once again.

“No!” You exclaimed through a fit of giggles, clutching your stomach. “Oh god, it’s just- Vernon Chwe- on a bike-”

A clear and infectious cackle of a laugh joined yours as Vernon too, doubled over in laughter. You paused, staring wide-eyed as giggles escaped him, thoroughly entertained by the amusement you had found in his transportation method.

Passerbys would have deemed the pair of you as mad, with the way you clutched onto Vernon’s arm to hold yourself up as you laughed harder, his own hand gripping yours in the bitter wind. It was numbingly cold but both of your insides were warm, cheeks flushed due to the ridiculous image of Vernon on a bike.

Y/N: 1 Vernon: 1 The universe(?): 1

“Yo.”

Your music paused suddenly, jolting you out of your zone. Spinning around in your chair, you frowned up at Vernon, who had somehow swiped your phone from your desk without you noticing.

“What’s up?” You sighed, taking off your headphones to glare at him. “You didn’t need to pause my music, y’know.”

“I’ve been sent on a coffee run, wanna come?” He spread his arms open in invitation. “We can take as long as we like.”

Ditching work for a while did sound like a nice pastime, especially with the lack of work you had currently. “I wouldn’t mind a breath of fresh air, actually. I’m down.”

“Put on your coat.” Vernon handed it to you, watching as you shrugged it on.

“I know you want to be in my b.e.d, grinding slowly.”

The last note had taken him terribly off guard and he needed a distraction to remedy that.

To be fair, you didn’t really know what had gotten into you- the sudden bravado and confidence put into the note had caught you terribly off guard as well.

“Do you know Joshua? He works in upper management but we’re pretty good friends.” Vernon suddenly asked, walking backwards along the sidewalk so he could look at you.

You nodded. “I’ve seen him around. He’s very social.” Unlike you, you declined to add.

“Yes. He’s hosting a social gathering later tonight, and asked if I could invite you.”

“He asked you to invite me?” You shot him a wary look, not quite believing him. You and Joshua barely passed as acquaintances.

Vernon’s hand reached behind his neck as he rubbed his nape, a sheepish and embarrassed expression on his face. You noticed his ears would turn pink whenever he was even mildly shy. “Okay, maybe I just wanted to invite you, alright?” He turned away, walking properly now to hide his face from your keen eyes.

A slow smile crossed your face. “Oh, no.” You mimed dread. “You’re in love with me, aren’t you.”

“What?” Vernon turned so fast you reckoned he must’ve gotten whiplash.

“I’m joking.” Punching his arm lightly, you gave him a lighthearted smile, ignoring the way your heart pounded at the brunt question. “I’d love to go to the little party. You didn’t have to use Joshua to invite me.”

“Well,” Vernon’s ears turned pink once again. “I’d say I’d pick you up and give you a ride home after, but- I don’t think we’d both fit on my bike.”

Both your lips twitched at the reminder of that night, where the two of you had laughed like it was the first time either one of you had found anything remotely funny.

“I’ll drive.” You offered, once the wave of silent laughter dissipated. “You can hitch your bike to the back of my car.”

“Me,” Vernon’s mouth dropped comically as he pressed his hands to his chest. “A passenger princess? How lucky.”

His smile widened as you laughed, and he shamelessly basked in the sound of it.

Y/N: 2? Vernon: 2? The universe: 1

The smell of musk was the first thing that hit you as the two of you entered Joshua’s townhouse. It was a small, quaint place, decorated to the brim with trinkets and flower pots, overflowing with both people and food. Vernon led the way as you shuffled in, greeting familiar faces and smiling at strangers.

“I thought you said ‘small gathering.’” You yelled, tiptoed next to Vernon so you could reach his ear.

You could tell from his eyes that he had no idea what you were saying. “What?” He yelled back, although his voice was carried away by the crowd as well.

“I said-” You felt like you might burst a lung trying to communicate. “I thought you said, ‘small gathering!’”

He stared at you blankly, blinking slowly, evidently still not in the loop.

Giving up, you were about to turn away when you suddenly felt his whole body shake, quivering against you as he laughed.

“What the fuck?” You yelled, this time right in his face.

“I heard you the first time, silly.” He yelled back, a shit-eating grin spreading wider as he watched your eyebrows furrow.

“Party Vernon sucks.” You concluded, moving away, only to be pulled back by his hand on your arm.

“Didn’t you complain that I was too ‘mysterious’?” He yelled, laughing harder when you visibly paled. “Yeah, I heard that. But it’s okay. I am very…how did you put it. Sullen, at work.”

Hiding your face, you slapped his chest, causing him to groan in pain.

“Ow.”

“Ow.” You mocked back. There really was no answer as to where the sudden childishness came from, but the way Vernon was staring at you- it made reason seem almost meaningless.

He threw his head back and laughed, soundless against the party’s atmosphere but somehow just as electrifying.

“Have fun, Y/N.” He said, grabbing your hands. “Let’s dance.”

Y/N: 2 Vernon: 3 The universe: 1

You had always sworn by the fact that driving late at night with the windows down, cold air blowing through your hair was the way to go.

“Admit it!” Vernon yelled through the wind, glancing at you from the passenger seat. “You had fun tonight.”

“I did.” You admitted. The party had been overwhelming at first, but the later the night got, the more fun you discovered yourself to have. “I haven’t had a night like that in a while.”

You braked at a red light and flipped through your playlist, switching on the one song you knew would get a reaction out of Vernon.

“I know you wanna love But I just wanna fuck And girl, you know the deal I gotta keep it real I know you wanna see I know you wanna be In my B.E.D., grinding slowly”

The light turned green and you continued to drive, the roads empty and deserted, street lamps illuminating the world in a soft amber. Occasionally, you’d glance over at Vernon, who was bopping his head to the beat, murmuring the lyrics under his breath.

Oblivious man.

Reaching over, you turned the volume up, as if the louder the music was, it’d somehow reverberate its message into his skull. Get a hint! You wanted to scream at him. I’m kind of in love with you and want to jump your bones! Hello??

Vernon continued to groove to the music without a care in the world.

“This is a good song!” He yelled in your ear, his voice mixed with the whistling of the air, whooshing past you.

“I know!” You screamed back. Oh my god. Is he really this dense?

The song kept playing as you drove, winds calming down as you neared his place. In between the gap of the song switching to the next, Vernon spoke, his calm voice contrastingly the loudness before.

“I think I’m going to quit the job.”

You nearly crashed the car at his words, jerking the steering wheel back as you computed his words. “What?”

“I mean,” he turned in his seat to face you, his hair catching the last pieces of moonlight and shimmering against his skin. “I’ve always hated my job. And I already wrote a resignation letter and everything.”

“Oh.”

He must’ve noticed your silence, because he quickly continued. “Who knows? I might try being a rockstar or something.”

“A rockstar?” You let out an astonished laugh. Vernon Chwe seemed to be surprising you at every turn, even when you felt like you'd already figured him out.

He hummed. “Yeah. It just keeps..calling me, y’know?”

“Well then you should go for it.” You parked into the driveway of his apartment complex and turned to face him. “Really.”

“You think so?” His eyes were sparkling like precious jewels.

“Yeah. I do.”

Even though you knew that meant your next note would be your last.

Y/N: -10 Vernon: 3 The universe: -10

The office seemed even colder without the presence of Vernon around you. Even though he had always kept to himself, you could feel the lack of “Vernon” in the atmosphere. How he’d entrance you with the funny way he’d walk down the hall, his countless snack breaks and your shared copier trips. But most of all- it was the lack of notes.

“First day without Mr. Cubicle Number 218, how do you feel?” Anne asked you from her own desk. “Although, I guess he’s not 218 anymore, huh?”

“Yeah.” You stared dejectedly at your computer screen. “This job sucks.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re quitting too.” Anne let out a loud sigh. “I still think you should’ve told him you liked him.”

“I did!” You protested, rather loudly, drawing odd looks from nearby coworkers.

“You played a sex song in the car.” Anne pointed out, lowering her voice. “That is not confessing.”

“Well he should’ve put two and two together. The lyrics on the note was from that song.”

Anne laughed. “We’re talking about the male species. They wouldn’t know subtlety if it ran them over with a truck.”

“Whatever.” You muttered, returning to sulk in front of your giant mountain of paperwork. “He definitely didn’t like me like that anyways.” Sifling through the papers, you sighed. “I’m going to fax these, I’ll be right back.”

Anne only hummed, too engrossed by whatever she was reading on her phone.

Opening up the copier, you frowned at the paper already sitting there, a hot pink post-it note with messy handwriting scrawled on it.

“With all the variables in life, baby can you be my constant?”

You didn’t remember writing this.

“Call me ;)”

A loud laugh escaped you as you covered your mouth, looking around to make sure you hadn’t been caught loitering in the copy room once again. Grabbing your phone from your pocket you fumbled the numbers on the bottom of the note in, raising it to your ear as you listened to it ring.

“Hello?” You whispered, cupping your hand around your mouth to avoid detection.

Silence.

“Vernon?”

The sound of shuffling from the other line reached your ears. “You didn’t think I was just going to leave without saying goodbye, right?”

“Vernon?”

“Actually, pretend I didn’t say that.”

Your heart puttered to a stop.

“When can I see you again?”

Y/N: 0 Vernon: ♾️ The universe: 0

#vernon being a lil shit is my love language #svthub #seventeen imagines #svt #svt imagines #seventeen #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #svt fluff #seventeen fic #seventeen vernon #vernon x you #vernon x reader #svt vernon #vernon #seventeen fluff #svt fanfic #svt scenarios

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ferrarifinnick · 4 months ago

Text

IT’S OVER! | MEN OF SQUID GAME HEADCANONS

you tell them you want out of the relationship, and they react to your revelation.

includes: daeho (player 388), myung-gi (player 333), sang-woo (player 218), jun-ho (police officer).

warnings: mildly toxic behaviour from myung-gi.

wc: 0.8k

a/n: i had a little writer's block, but the inspiration is starting to flow again so get used to seeing me back in your feed hehe. enjoy <3

DAEHO / PLAYER 388

he would stare at you for a long moment, his face falling as his heart sinks to his feet. “w-what?” he asks, his voice so uncharacteristically sombre it nearly doesn’t sound like it’s him speaking. his shoulders deflate, and he’ll stare intensely at you as he begins to realise this isn’t a cruel joke you’re playing on him.

he’ll gaze at you helplessly, his lips quivering as they curl into a frown. the urge to bury his face in your neck and hold you tight is one he has to fight, because for the first time since he met you, he knows he can no longer seek comfort in you.

“i love you,” he’ll say, even if people outside the room might call him pathetic for clinging on. “i’ll do better,” he promises. “i’ll get another job, pay off my debt, i just…” he’ll look down and slowly reach out for your hand, gently taking it and rubbing his thumb over your skin. he’ll look up into your eyes, desperate and longing for you to change your mind. “i can’t lose you.”

MYUNG-GI / PLAYER 333

he doesn’t let you finish your speech and will cut you off once he gets the gist of what you’re saying. his face will twist and he’ll wave a hand to stop you from talking. “so that’s just it?” he’ll ask flatly. “you’re going to throw away this, us, just like that?”

he’ll search your eyes for any sign of hesitation, and once he realises you’re serious, he’ll just scoff and look away. he’ll push himself off the couch and onto his feet, and make a point to loudly pack some belongings into a bag. “i can’t believe you,” he’ll mutter, along with “you’re so dramatic” as he sighs and shakes his head the whole time he mopes around.

when he opens the front door and sees you not even looking at him, he realises you aren’t playing games with him. that you’re serious. his heart spikes with fear as he slowly comes to terms with the fact that this really is the end. but he won’t let you think you’re in control. he’ll sigh and, as if it’s inevitable, he’ll say “call me when you come to your senses,” before slamming the door shut behind him.

SANG-WOO / PLAYER 218

he’ll patiently sit through your speech, hands loosely clasped together because he knows he can’t reach out for yours anymore. for once, he isn’t taking mental notes of things to circle back to like he does in work. he just listens, lets you pour your heart out, because even if he disagrees with ending the relationship, he will always respect your opinion.

after you’re done, he’ll need a minute to process it all before he can respond. he’s always thinking two steps ahead, working out what words will get the best response, but not now. not when his heart is aching and his lover is hurting.

he’ll let out a shaky sigh, look into your eyes and sincerely say, “i’m sorry i haven’t been making you happy.” there’s no trick, no mind games, just crushing regret that he didn’t catch onto this issue before it had ruined the one good thing he had: you.

he won’t let you see how deeply in despair he is, because his vulnerability isn’t meant to guilt you into staying. if you change your mind, it won’t be because you were manipulated into it, and if you do, he’ll be ready and he’ll be better for you.

or so he says when he opens the front door. he gazes at you once more, before quietly slipping out, closing the door softly behind him.

JUNHO / POLICE OFFICER

while you explain how his job is too demanding, his phone will continuously interrupt with vibrations of new notifications. he’ll dismiss it and urge you to continue explaining, but when his phone starts to ring with an incoming call from his boss, he’ll freeze as he’s halfway through instinctively answering it.

this is exactly what you mean.

he’ll slowly lower the phone, realising just how neglectful he’s been to your relationship. he turns off his phone and tosses it behind him dismissively, then turns to give you his full attention. he takes your hands in his, squeezing them gently as he leans in closer.

“i’m sorry, i see what you’re saying and i agree, i am too focussed on work,” he says, soft and sincere. “i realise it now, and i’ll make changes to make you happier, just give me a chance to show you.”

if you say no and try to leave, he won’t stop you. he respects himself too much to beg you to stay, but he’ll still follow you to the door and help you put on your shoes. he cares about you too much not to. but as you go to leave, he’ll draw your attention by taking and squeezing your hand again, letting you go after he softly says, “i’ll be here if you change your mind.” he’ll kiss your hand and watch as you walk away.

nobody would ever break up with daeho so you know this is fiction lol. like, comment, reblog. love <3

#squid game x reader #squid game headcanons #daeho x reader #myunggi x reader #sangwoo x reader #junho x reader #kang daeho x reader #player 388 x reader #lee myung gi x reader #player 333 x reader #cho sangwoo x reader #player 218 x reader #hwang junho x reader #squid games #squid game #squid games headcanons #squid game headcanon #squid game drabbles #squid game fanfiction

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warpaway · 1 month ago

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the other's name is berkut. he seems to be a (sarcastically) lovely man, already growling as though he's set to walk a war path as soon as the door yields.

he is closer to linhardt than should be correct, though. in response, they raise one eyebrow. “if you're coming onto me, you'll have to do a bit better than that. maybe ask me to dance first. i'm too tired to dance, but it's about the intention.”

though as he moves to test berkut's hypothesis, he finds himself needing to wrap his arm around berkut's waist, finding little room in which to move. it is now impossible to move to berkut's side to inspect the door close up, but they can cast a spell.

the spell comes in a gentle glow, and subsides with little fanfare.

“ah, every day i wonder if i'd have been better served to learn restore…” they murmur. “you're right, berkut.”

their sea-blue eyes glance upwards to meet berkut's gaze, and then it slides right off. they're not in the mood for playing good at ‘people’. “some magic.”

he yawns, and covers his mouth with his hand. “oh, right. i'm linhardt. von hevring. something-something don't tell me not to sleep in a closet, i can do what i want.”

his eyes flutter closed. “so sleepy..”

The Gods Must Hate Him Specifically

#i'd like to take it easy ;; ic #rigelprinceofdespair #toaball2025 #the gods must hate us comrade ;; berkut 1 #wc: 218

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bballesbolol · 23 days ago

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The Game We Play

A slow burn UConn AU with plenty of jealousy, competing, yearning, and self discovery.

This is a series!! If you haven’t read it yet, you can find the previous chapter here.

WC: 8.5k

Chapter 4 | Turning Heads

Paige’s POV:

It had been a week since Paige last talked to Azzi.

Well, kinda.

Paige had made it her mission to at least keep up a streak with Azzi, so their interactions had been limited to half faced selfies sent thoughtlessly back and forth. It really wasn’t much, just cordial. A formality.

But now Paige was in the back of a rental car leaving her hotel, and heading for Spooky Nook. She had flown into Pennsylvania the night prior for the Under Armour Summit, and her body could feel the effects of the firm hotel mattress she’d slept on. But Paige was ready to play despite her sub-par sleep and slightly achy back.

She hadn’t forgotten Azzi’s threat, how she needed to “back up her talk”, and no matter how lightly she had meant it, Paige had taken it to heart. She was playing to get on college's radar, of course, but for some reason, she felt more motivation to beat Azzi than she felt about getting noticed.

She glanced at the GPS on her dads phone.

2 minutes to arrival

Her phone buzzed, drawing her eyes to the screen.

azzi.fudd35 sent you a snap ■

she clicked to notification, which opened to a picture of the outside of the complex they were playing at. Paige responded with a picture of the dashboard, before slipping her phone into the front pocket of her basketball bag.

They hadn’t talked, like, really talked since Azzi had agreed to be her roomate. Their parents had exchanged numbers and filled out roomate forms, but she hadn’t really spoken to Azzi since.

Now she was seeing her in person, maybe even playing against her if the tournament bracket fell that way. And honestly? She was excited. Excited to actually speak face to face? yes. But more so to play her, maybe show off a little, and especially to win. Almost everything in her felt like it was her responsibility to prove Azzi wrong.

The parking lot was full when they pulled in to spooky nook, and Paige had insisted that her dad drop her off and find parking so she wouldn’t be late for registration. She wanted to make sure that she saw everyone who was invited.

She opened the double doors into the lobby and was greeted by a sea of crazy moms and dads escorting their children to a mile-long folding table covered in a rainbow of jerseys, with workers behind it handing out game schedules and informational packets. She scanned the crowd, seeing if there was any method to the madness happening in front of her. She looked closer and discovered that the table was organized by last name, prompting her to drift towards the large B near the front of the table.

“Name?” A worker had leaned over the table, her eyes meeting Paige’s in a way that screamed let's get this over with.

”Paige”

the worker looked down at her clipboard and let out a subtle huff.

“Last name, please?”

“Oh—sorry it's Bueckers”

The woman looked down at the table sorting through the pilled jersey before grabbing out an orange one with the number 218 on the back.

“You’re on team orange, you’ll be playing in the gold pool” She handed over a tournament schedule and a map of the complex before continuing, “all courts are open for warm-ups, at 8:00 you’ll head to court 3 to meet with your team for team warm ups, and then you’ll just follow the schedule.”

Paige stared blankly at the woman, trying to absorb the mass of information. The woman smiled and handed over a pamphlet.

”everything I said is in here if you can’t remember, I’d suggest you get down to the courts quick if you want to get a ball to yourself to warm up”

Paige let out an internal sigh of relief and smiled before thanking the woman and heading towards the courts, weaving through the sea of athletes picking up their jerseys, until one voice stopped her.

“Fudd”

Paige's head turned, catching a glimpse of a girl in a baggy sweatshirt, headphones resting around her neck, and black mesh Nike shorts, with her hair up in a tight bun.

Azzi.

Paige lingered, waiting for the worker to finish giving azzi the run-down on tournament play and court numbers. Not starring—just, waiting.

Azzi turned from the table, seemingly not noticing Paige floating nearby. Not until Paige crept up on her and playfully squeezed her shoulder.

“Hey!” Paige exclaimed, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Azzi jumped slightly, before smiling and rolling her eyes, turning her head to face forward and continue walking towards the courts.

“Restraining order, remember?”

Paige shrugged “I guess the paperwork didn’t go through” she mused, acting playfully confused.

“Ohh yeah—I forgot to file, but I’ll definitely have to now. There’s like what, 100 kids here? And your stalker-ass still managed to find me?” Azzi replied with a grin, shoving Paige with her shoulder.

”Hey B is really close to F on that table, it's not my fault, blame whoever wrote the alphabet like a million years ago” Paige shot back

Azzi turned away “a million? Y’know—“ Azzi looked to her like she was considering explaining the history of the English language, but clearly thought better of it. She let out an exasperated sigh and continued, “whatever—what team are you on?”

”orange”

“pool?”

”gold, you?”

”I'm on blue, playing in gold pool.”

Paige turned to her and smirked, “Ohhh, so I get to beat you in a 5 on 5 first?”

”Who said that?”

”uh—me. I’m going iso and cooking your ass every play”

Azzi glared at her and rolled her eyes. They reached the double doors leading to the courts and Paige grabbed the handle of the door closest to her to let herself in, turning and holding it for Azzi as she followed her in.

“Like I said, you gotta back it up” Paige watched as Azzi walked over to a rack of basketballs and picked one up, bouncing it once before passing it to her, hard.

She caught it—with minimal difficulty—a smirk spreading on her face. She could feel that Azzi already wanted to rip her head off, and she could tell that if they played each other, it was gonna be good. She watched as azzi grabbed another ball for herself and moved to pull her headphones up over her ears, beginning to walk away.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Paige called out.

Azzi stopped, holding one hand of her headphones off of her ear and without looking called back, “away from you—no way I’m warming up with the girl who’s gonna ‘beat my ass’” She emphasized the last part with air quotes, before dropping the other side of her headphones onto her ear and continuing to walk towards a hoop on the opposite side of the court.

Paige almost opened her mouth to retort, but thought better of it—I mean obviously she wouldn’t hear her anyways. Instead, she carried her ball over to a nearby wall and sat down to put on her shoes—a pair of Kobe 5 X-ray’s—and half heartedly stretch her legs.

She slipped on her jersey over the loose black undershirt she came in and shot up, grabbing her ball and scanning the gym. Her eyes found Azzi, who was across the form shooting. Paige looked away as Azzi turned to move back from the hoop. She drifted towards an empty hoop and started her warm up with form shots 2 or 3 feet out from the basket, slowly moving back the more she made.

Apparently, the thought of warming up her shot in any meaningful way was too optimistic. After a few minutes Paige had abandoned the idea of warming up and had moved back to the three point line. It was an easy way to warm up her handle and her shot—at least that’s what she told herself.

tween—cross—hessi—drive—pull-up elbow jumper.

swish

yeah, I’ve got this girl beat.

A buzzer echoed through the gym, signaling that it was time for team warmups. Paige moved to grab her bag, racking her brain for what court she was supposed to go to. 2? 3? she couldn’t remember in the slightest. She settled on heading towards court 2, following whatever orange jerseys she could find.

***

She didn’t recognize many of the players on her team, but they all seemed good. Their team warm up was short, a half lap, a quick stretch, layup lines, and three man weave, all in the span of about 10 minutes. Her shots had been inconsistent warming up, a good sign for her—usually if her shots were falling in warm up she went dry in the game.

Now she stood in a circle with her teammates surrounding a whiteboard outlining an offense they’d be running. It was simple, a four-out one-in with a few screens to open up the 2 and the 5 players, but overall lacking in hard structure—she had space to play with it.

The coach gave a basic rundown of the structure of the games. They’re running 8 minute quarter games, subs will be quick. 2 games played at a time in each pool, 8 teams, if you win you move on and play another winner, if you lose you play the losers, at most you play 3 full games. Blah blah blah. Paige was just ready to play.

The team counted off, and Paige sauntered to center court for the jump ball, scanning the bleachers on her way over. Most of the girls were sitting in the stands on their phones, except for one. Azzi was looking out at the court, headphones still on and phone in her hand, she looked swiftly back down to her phone—but Paige could have sworn she was looking at her.

But she had no time to look again. She set up on the edge of the logo behind the teams center, bending over slightly and grabbing the hem of her shorts. The whistle sounded. The center jumped and tapped the ball back. Paige jumped to grab it, pulling the ball to her waist before approaching the edge of the three point line.

A big to her left set an on ball screen, which she used, brushing off her defender and scanning the court. The opposing center left her player to guard Paige as she came around the screen, allowing her to feed her wide open center the ball for an easy two points.

The rest of the game felt just as easy. Good defense led to steals. Steals led to easy buckets. Paige could score at will, but she didn’t want to be selfish. Not yet. She was sure to get her teammates involved once she’d had her fair share of offense.

By halftime she had scored 16 points and tallied 5 assists, and her team was up 32-24. Not up by enough to feel comfortable yet, but they certainly weren’t scrambling.

She sat on the bench, elbows on her knees, watching their coach write up the starting lineup for the second quarter—which she wasn’t in. understandably so, she had only come off the court for a few minutes in the first half. Still, she wished she could get in and play.

She zoned out while the coach explained a new out of bounds play, taking a drink from a gatorade bottle and instead focusing on the crowd across the court.

She met a pair of brown eyes across the floor—just for a second.

Paige watched as she glanced back down to her phone, a smirk spreading on her face.

she knew she’d been watching, she’d felt her eyes on her the whole game. and she hoped she got Paige's message: she came to play.

She put her hand in to count off her team and watched the starting five take the court, leaning back in her chair. She watched intently as her team played without her, itching to come off the bench.

that itch wasn’t scratched until the top of the fourth quarter. The game had gotten closer, the opposing team had gone on a run and cut their lead down to 5. her coach looked at her and cocked her head to the scorers table. She moved over, knelt, and at the sound of the buzzer she walked back into the game.

7 minutes left. Just enough for her to ice it—and maybe show out for the fans.

She received the ball and squared up to the hoop, surveying the floor for her next move. She spotted it. A screen coming to her left, drop coverage, a back door cut clearing just enough space for her to get off a shot. She ran her defender into the screen, stepped back, and let the ball fly. Swish. Three points.

She didn’t react—well, not too much—just grinned and got back on defense.

Their defense was strong, good enough for them to get a stop, and Paige once again found herself at the top of the key with the ball in her hands. Scanning the floor, just for a moment.

She drove at her defender, shifting her weight right before crossing over to her left, insisting her way to the rim. She attempted to finish around the help defense with a euro step. She felt a shoulder drill into her ribs mid-air, and was knocked to the ground right after she released the ball.

She stayed down for a second—just long enough to watch the ball bounce around the rim before falling through the net.

“AND ONE!!” A teammate grabbed her arm and dragged her from the floor.

She bumped chests with whoever was near. Cheered. Walked to the line.

Looked to the stands.

Nobody looked back. The game was winding down, Azzi’s team must have gone to huddle somewhere quiet. But, something in her wished Azzi had seen.

She bounced the ball once, before spinning it into her palm and moving to shoot, letting the ball flick gently from her fingers. It fell through the hoop with a soft swish.

Paige let herself pull back from the game. The game was over, it didn't matter that there was still 2 minutes left. Their lead had extended back to 11. She had scored 22. Now she could facilitate—let the team close it out.

The game ended 58-44. They shook hands. laughed. Paige revived a pat on the back and a couple of “damn she’s good’s” from the opposing team coaches.

Their coach cut the team loose, telling them to be back ten minutes before their next game. Most of the team dispersed between the many courts, some headed for the consignment stand or back to the lobby, but Paige didn’t. She surveyed the court for the least conspicuous spot to watch the next game from—settled on sitting on the floor up against a pillar next to the bleachers—and sat, grabbing her phone.

azzi.fudd35 sent you a snap ■

oh great. She opened the snap and was greeted with an image of her sitting on the bench, leaned back, with her arms resting behind her head, eyes fixed on the game in front of her, captioned oh you’re keeping that bench WARM.

she rolled her eyes. looked up. Both teams were in layup lines, Azzi was running back to halfcourt and glanced at Paige, first at her deadpan expression, and then to the phone in her hand. An amused grin spread on her lips before she turned abruptly and ran back down the court.

Paige didn't say anything, just shut off her phone and watched.

Azzi’s POV:

The ride to Spooky Nook was quick, but not uneventful.

“now listen, this is a chance to show off who you are, not just how you play. you gon’ lead on the court today, not follow. now I know you young and all, but you have something this lil’ girls don’t have—discipline. I bet you they don’t know hard work like you do—“

Her dad had been going on like this for what…like, 5 minutes? she wasn’t sure, had checked out a minute in. She loved her dad, and his advice was helpful—well, sometimes—but not now, not when he believed she was the best player in the country.

Because she wasn’t, she statistically couldn’t be. She was only 14. was she good? yes. was she better than the 16 year old DI bound girls she’d be playing? all signs point to no.

Still, she listened. nodded. half hoping he would tell her it’s ok if she didn’t perform, that she was allowed to make mistakes playing at this callibur.

She phased back into reality when her dad changed the subject.

“so, that roommate of yours gonna be there? that bueckers girl?”

“yeah—“

“oh that’s just perfect. get to know her play style before school, y’know? you guys are gonna be fighting for that spot at the point, and I know that lil’ ass white girl don’t got nothing on my Azzi.”

and just like that he was back to the same monotonous drone.

observe, outwork, compete, win.

she’d heard it a million times.

It was what rang in her ears during warmups, in between quarters, at halftime, post game, hell, it even made it into her dreams.

But he had made a point. This was the start of her and Paige’s fight for the spot on the team. For point guard. Playmaker. Leader. Star.

And she was gonna win.

***

the lobby was crowded, but paige had still managed to track her down.

they exchanged words—brief and challenging—and then gone there separate ways. Or rather, Azzi had tried to get as far away from Paige as possible. Because she knew her game, and it was all talk. the less of her she heard the better.

her shot was on, her body felt loose, her skin buzzed with anticipation—and she had to play second.

she met with her team at the buzzer, they talked strategy, what they’d be running, who goes where.

Azzi studied, tried to absorb every scrap of information.

and then they were ushered to the nearby bleachers, told to stay ready. Most of the team sat on their phones, some chatted quietly, but Azzi watched, or more accurately—read.

She attempted to maintain an air of nonchalance, a look of boredom, like she couldn’t care less how Paige played. She would glance at her phone whenever she felt she had been watching too long. But she watched. Read how Paige’s team played drop coverage on ball screens. How they rotated. Who cut where. when they attacked and when they slowed down.

Most importantly she watched Paige.

And for some reason, it felt like Paige was watching her too. Acknowledging her presence. A glance after a made three. The slight turn of her head before inbounding the ball. A challenge. She was telling her that she came to play too.

Half time came quickly. Paige’s team was leading, not enough to end it, but enough to exhale and slow down.

She watched as the team took the court—and how Paige didn’t.

How she sat on the bench. how she managed to look bored, hands resting behind her head, leaned back gaze lazily following the play.

Azzi laughed to herself as an idea crept into her. She grabbed her phone, opened snapchat and took a picture. captioned it with something she would expect out of Paige: immature, teasing, unserious.

Oh you’re keeping that bench WARM.

She smiled to herself as she sent it, eyes returning to the game.

The ending was expected. a run from the opposing team, answered by a run from Paige that carried them comfortably into round two.

Now it was Azzi’s turn.

warmups were quick, layup lines, elbow jumpers, a three man weave. The anticipatory buzz was back by the time the team huddled.

By the time they broke from the huddle the buzz felt more like electricity.

They won the tip. One of Azzi’s teammates passed her the ball. She slowed at the tip of the key, carefully scanning the court. reading. calculating. She made eye contact with a big man in the corner. dribbled towards the wing. She tilted her head slightly, signaling for her big to back door cut. When she did, Azzi slipped her the ball and relocated to the corner, watching as she drove towards the basket.

Azzi watched as she was met with a double team at the rim. She called for the ball in the corner, squaring to the hoop in anticipation for the shot. The ball met her hands for a split second before Azzi moved to shoot, flicking her wrist with the careful finesse of a sharpshooter.

swish.

First on the board. Easy shot. still, no stopping. Not this early.

Azzi turned to get back on defense when something—no, someone—caught her eye. Paige, sitting on the floor leaned back against a pillar, eyes set on the play. Not her, but the action at the other end of the court.

She wasn’t sure if she had seen her shot—not that it mattered—but, she knew she was watching, and she wanted to give her a show. Make her nervous.

She shifted as the ball swung from player to player around the three point line. There was a pause, a sloppy interior pass that was tipped by her teammate, and she was gone. She looked back as she sprinted towards her hoop, tracking down a near full-court pass and finishing at the rim.

She turned to the sideline again and found Paige, who was not looking at her, and was instead staring down at her phone. Because of course she was. She didn’t seem like the type of person to scout—not like Azzi—analysis was not in the Bueckers playbook.

But it was in Azzi’s. She watched the opposing team’s plays as she defended, predicting.

She jumped passing lanes, picked pockets, called screens, anything she could do to get the ball back into her teams hands.

She took a back seat on offense, letting the other guard bring the ball up when she could. She wanted to get to her jumpshot as much as possible, and catch and shoot was her best option.

And it was working. She ran her defender through an off ball screen, receiving the ball at the arc and shooting it masterfully over an outstretched hand. Cash.

She received the ball of a handoff, took a quick sidestep, and let her shot fly. Bang.

The ball was swung to her in the corner, and she shot it with the quickness of a professional. Swish.

She was hot. She had reached a point where shooting felt like breathing—simple, subconscious—the points came easy.

Her team had thrown together a sizable lead. Enough to cruise through the second quarter without tensing up after a turnover or missed shot. Enough for Azzi to sit out for the third quarter. At the start of the fourth her coach leaned over to her. Told her she was saving her for the next game. Patted her shoulder and turned back to the game.

Azzi took a deep breath. Held it. Let it out slowly and closed her eyes. She was glad for a break—even more glad at the compliment from her coach—but her body wasn’t ready to be still yet. She still had more in her. She wanted to play.

Her knees bounced as she anxiously watched the game, not out of fear that they wouldn’t win, but out of anticipation to get back in—which she still hoped for despite the fact that her coach had made it clear she wouldn’t be doing.

The game wound down. Azzi stood to high five her teammates and shake hands with the other team. Their coach told them to take a quick break, grab some water and walk off the game.

She tried to keep the disappointment off her face as she approached the sideline.

“Trying to take my spot Fudd?” She looked around, eyes settle in on the ground in front of her. Paige was still sitting leaned up against a pillar.

“Me? Nope, just keeping it warm for you.” She replied, thinking for a moment and then adding, “you should be seeing plenty of bench time during school ball” Her delivery was deadpan. Serious, like she meant it. But Paige just laughed.

“Me? Funny. I balled out, guessing you saw. Good game by the way, you kinda got nerfed by that coach.”

Azzi looked down at Paige, trying to analyze what she was getting at. She couldn’t tell if she was trying to compliment her or be backhanded—considering it was Paige it was probably both.

“I showed out first half, they wanted to take me out to save my legs. Lucky for you, you’ll play me at my best.” Her voice sounded oddly scathing, but she didn’t care to fix her tone.

“Oh, it like that.”

”mhm” she crossed her arms and looked down at Paige.

Paige stood up slowly, grabbed her bag and turned to look (slightly down) at Azzi.

”Well, you still have to make it past round two. Let’s hope you can get in this time.” Her words were sickly sweet, a challenge masked with a smile. A stupid, cocky, all too familiar Paige Bueckers smile.

Paige turned away before Azzi could reply, walking towards a couple of her teammates. Azzi was seething.

She made her way to the water fountain and placed her bottle under the sensor, pausing to breath. She had only known Paige for a few days, but it was already pretty clear to her how she operated. She poked. Prodded. Tried her best to get under peoples skin. And Azzi was determined not to let her. When she looked up water was spilling over the sides of her bottle. She quickly grabbed it, screwing the top back on and trying her best to dry off the sides with her jersey. Nope, she was not letting Paige get to her. Not today.

***

Her second game was more eventful, for her at least. She couldn’t say the same for the other team. She was back on, drilling shots from anywhere she could. Problem was, Paige was too.

They were playing at the same time, on courts parallel to each other. She could hear their bench light up when Paige made a shot. The snap of the net. She tried her best to keep her eyes on her own game, but it was proving to be a challenge.

She caught her eyes drifting to the other court whenever it got particularly loud—just to peek, see who was worth the celebration.

And of course it was Paige.

Of course she managed to meet Azzi's gaze whenever she dared to look over.

Of course that stupid smirk spread across her face whenever Azzi scrambled to look away.

She hated it. How she knew it went to her head. So she stopped looking, convinced herself that whatever Paige was doing was not worth her attention.

She focused on her game. On her shots. The sound of the net as she found the bottom of it once again. A part of her hoped she made Paige stare too.

She had found a rhythm, every shot felt like second nature, every drive like a walk in the park. Her team was up, not a blow out, but still comfortable.

By the sound of it, Paige’s team was up too. Perfect.

Halftime came quickly.

Her team was gathered around a whiteboard, watching their coach draw up new rotations in their offense. Azzi leaned back in her chair, listening half heartedly, but her eyes weren’t on the play. They were instead fixed on a bench across the court. Half zoned out, half searching for a certain blonde.

“Azzi.” She felt a tap on her knee as her coach tried to reel her back in. “You listening? We’re running this for you”

She looked back down to the whiteboard, attempting to take in the play in front of her. Double screen, point guard would drive and kick to her coming off of the screen on the wing. Simple. Effective.

Azzi nodded, signaling to her coach she was ready.

The buzzer sounded and she was back out on the court.

The game ran smoothly. Their lead never faltered enough for her chest to tighten.

The fourth was winding down, and the team wanted to end in a bucket. momentum for the final. Azzi looked to her coach, who was signaling to run the new play.

She called it, running up the floor with the ball before passing it off to the other guard. She watched as the pieces fell into place. How the bigs lined up for the screen. the drive. the kick.

she cut to the wing, brushing shoulders with the screener,, leaving her defender off balance at the free throw line. The ball found its way to her hands. She loaded her shot, looked to the rim and let it fly.

it hit the back iron, rolled around the rim, and lipped out.

A chorus of ohh’s and so close’s sounded from her bench.

The buzzer echoed throughout the gym. But applause seemed to echo even louder.

Azzi turned around to find the source of the noise.

And—of course—it was coming from Paige's court. Her team was huddled around her at the top of the key. The bench was on their feet cheering.

Azzi looked to the score. 63-60.

She could already imagine what had happened. Close game. down to the wire. They needed a clutch bucket and Paige was there—because of course she was.

The huddle dissipated, revealing Paige standing in the middle. She stared back at Azzi. Smirked—not the playful kind, the kind that made Azzi want to knock her teeth out—and turned away.

Azzi turned too. tried to hide her annoyance. Failed, apparently.

Her teammate patted her on the shoulder. “hey, you’re good, just saving that shot for the final.”

another chimed in, “yeah, we still won, and you still had like what, 20?”

Azzi nodded, a strained smile spreading across her face.

She followed the team back to their bench. Half listened as their coach broke down the game, putting most of her attention on the floor in front of her. She was pissed. She should’ve made that shot—she certainly could’ve. It’s not like it was for the game, but it knocked down the momentum she had worked to build up all day.

Her coach let them go, told them to grab a snack before the bronze medal match. She grabbed her bag and left the gym, hoping for a moment of silence in the lobby.

Paige’s POV:

After game two she felt beat. She wasn't on empty yet, but she was definitely nearing a quarter tank. She needed fuel.

Luckily, the green and purple teams were playing for bronze, and she had 45 minutes to kill.

She decided it was time to visit concessions, the dull ache of her empty stomach had become too much to ignore and she needed something quick to keep her going.

She was looking though the snack stands options when something—well, someone—else caught her eye. Azzi, sitting by herself at a table on her phone, headphones on.

“what do you want?” she looked back and was greeted by the worker of the concession stand, who was staring back, drumming ber fingers on the counter impatiently.

She scrambled to pick something, failed miserably and settled on a granola bar, a beef stick, and a packet of skittles. She grabbed her very nutritious spoils and headed over to Azzi’s table.

She slid into the seat across from Azzi, who looked up, and then down to the snacks she had brought over. She could feel the judgement before Azzi even opened her mouth.

“wow, aren’t you just the picture of heath” her delivery was deadpan. sarcastic. maybe a little pissed off? Paige just chose to laugh it off.

“It’s carbs and protein, right?”

Azzi gestured to the packet of skittles paige had dropped on the table.

“yeah, and sugar.” Azzi’s tone remained unchanged.

“uhh yeah, doesn’t your blood sugar get low when you run or something? i’m just giving my body what it wants” She paused for a second, noticing the lack of snacks in front of Azzi. “you already have something? bring your own kale salad and grass fed beef or whatever?”

“no, I uh—wasn’t hungry after the last game. just needed some quiet out here.” She looked paige up and down before adding, “guess I won’t be getting that though”

Paige slid the granola bar to Azzi across the table.

“well, you’re gonna have to deal with me next year, figured I’d help you get desensitized sooner”

Azzi didn’t respond at first, just looked down at the bar Paige slid to her.

“I told you I wasn’t hungry, you have that”

“Trust me, you’re gonna be hungry. I want to play you at your best—I don’t want to win because you’re passed out on the sideline.“ She watched as Azzi picked up the bar, seemingly considering throwing it back in Paige's face, but must have thought better of it, because she unwrapped it and took a bite.

“thanks” she mumbled around a mouthful of bar, looking back down her phone. Paige opened up the packet of skittles and popped one in her mouth. They sat in silence for a moment while they ate. not quite uncomfortable, but definitely tense. Azzi didn’t seem happy, and she wasn’t sure why.

“you looked good” the words slipped from paige’s lips as she considered what to say to break the silence. “In the game, I mean. Your shot looked good”

Azzi looked up from her phone.

“you were watching?”

“scouting,“ she corrected before continuing, “had a feeling I’d be playing you in the final.” she popped another handful of skittles in her mouth.

“watching, scouting—whatever, still seems stalker-ey to me.” Azzi replied. Her tone was unchanged, but the outline of a smile was threatening at the corners of her lips.

“Hey—you can’t talk to me about stalking. I saw you at my first game. Know damn well you weren’t there for someone else”

“Wow, you really think I'm that obsessed with you? I could’ve been watching the other team y’know”

“name one person on the other team” Paige looked at Azzi expectantly

She was silent. Paige was not. She let out an amused snort before crossing her arms and replying:

“mhm, exactly”

“it not like I got to see much from you anyway—didn’t you spend half that game on the bench?” Azzi looked back up to to her, a slight smirk on her face.

“WOAHHH—we do NOT have to bring that up” Paige responded with a laugh. Azzi laughed too. The mood felt lighter, like whatever thundercloud that was looming over Azzi’s head had calmed down to something light and fluffy.

“Paige! we’re stretching” Paige looked away from azzi to find a teammate passing by, waving her down in a way that made it seem urgent. “like… now”

she turned back to Azzi.

“you heard her” She slid her headphones back up over her ears and tilted her head towards the door her teammate had just slipped through.

Paige turned to follow.

***

There was a buzz in the gym. Final game of the day. The teams from their pool had filed into the bleachers. Warmups were winding down. And she was locked in.

Every pass was crisp. Every dribble tight. Every shot felt like cash before it even left her fingertips.

her body was loose. Her mind was clear.

She was ready to play. To win.

A buzzer rang through the gym. Both teams huddled. cheered. The bench took their seats and the starters made their way to center court.

She made her way to Azzi, trying her best to keep a straight face. Azzi did so effortlessly. She didn’t look at her, just at the ball as the ref blew his whistle and tossed it up between the two centers.

The ball was tipped back towards the two of them. Paige reached to snag it from the air, securing it above her head and scanning the court. Azzi immediately dropped back into position, hips low and arms outstretched. The court was quiet. Players in the stand holding their breath, waiting to see who would strike first.

She dribbled towards Azzi, watching. She shifted back. Her eyes flickered to the play in the back, to the pieces in their offense falling into place. Back to Azzi.

Her team could wait

She drove straight at Azzi—just long enough to get her off balace—before crossing over and stepping back, watching as Azzi as she stumbled back for just a moment. Long enough for Paige to lift the ball and shoot.

the net snapped as the ball fell through the rim. she had drawn first blood—but Azzi didn’t falter.

Paige watched as she caught the ball off an inbound, and surveyed as she dribbled the ball up the court.

she didn’t act—not yet—just responded. Shadowed her movements. Blocked her path.

Azzi passed the ball to the guard on her right and moved to cut through the paint. Paige followed, eyes locked on her. She had nearly made it back in front of her when she hit a brick wall. A solid screen, one that caught Paige entirely off guard.

She watched as Azzi finished her cut to the three point line and received the ball back, releasing it in a shot that could only be described as textbook.

It found the bottom of the net with ease.

It went on like that for a while. Paige pushed. Azzi pushed back. and the crowd was loving it. Every bucket was met with cheers, phones were out following the action. The game was electric.

The buzzer sounded, marking the end of the first quarter.

23-22.

She had a feeling that the game wouldn’t be a decisive win. Nope, it would come down to the wire

Azzi’s POV:

She hadn’t wanted to speak to Paige. Just wanted to enjoy the silence of the lobby. Get away from the noise of the courts. But Paige showed up anyway, in all of her annoying glory, and Azzi let her.

She could’ve told her to go away, but some part of her knew she needed the boost. No matter how annoying Paige could be, she seemed to know how to get Azzi out of her head. Or at least help navigate her to the part of her brain that was dedicated to being pissed at someone other than herself.

She hadn’t wanted to eat anything—not after a game she ended like that. But Paige seemed to know exactly what Azzi needed, even if they had only known each other for a few days. That was clear to her when Paige wordlessly slid her that granola bar, like she had read that Azzi was too stubborn to let herself get one.

And thank god for that bar. She wasn't sure if she would’ve made it through the first half without it. The game didn’t feel like a 5 on 5. It felt like a 1 on 1. The kind that took place in a gym after hours. The kind she would leave with her jersey sticking to her ribs from the sweat. The kind where they’d try anything to get the ball through the hoop.

Except this matchup wasn’t in private. It was the main event. A spectacle that had gathered lingering teams together, who now sat anxiously awaiting the start of the second half.

She felt it too. The nerves. The expectation to keep fighting. She knew she couldn’t let herself slip. Not now.

The buzzer sounded, cutting through the ambient chatter of the athletes in the bleachers.

She stood, sucked in a deep breath, and took the court.

She received the ball on the inbound. dropped it back to her teammate as she jogged up the court.

She looked up. Paige met her eyes. She actually wasn’t sure if they had left her once this game. at least, not when the ball was in her hands.

Speaking of:

the ball found its way back into her hands as she cut towards the hoop. She led with her shoulder, head down, bumping Paige off of her to create space as she willed herself to the rim. She scooped the ball towards the hoop, trying her hardest to sell the contact and draw a foul.

She didn’t see it, but she heard it. The sound of Paige’s hand hitting the basketball, swatting it out of the air. It struck the court just behind the baseline. Her ball.

Paige met her gaze, nodding slowly. Her message was clear: I’m here. Azzi pushed by Paige to inbound the ball, bumping her shoulder on the way. Her own way of saying so am I.

She gripped the ball, knuckles white as she scanned the court for the open player. She sent a lofted pass to a player cutting away from the hoop. Azzi relocated, running off of the shoulder of their center, who had set a screen in anticipation for her cut to the corner. When she finally turned from her spot in the corner she saw Paige scrambling to recover from the screen—but she was too late. The ball found Azzi's hands and left just as quickly, arcing over Paige’s outstretched hand.

She turned before she could watch the ball fall through the net. She didn’t need to see it to know it was good. She just got back on defense. She just needed a stop, something to make Paige slow down, maybe even look to her teammates. Something to make her doubt herself (although she wasn’t sure that was possible).

Paige brought the ball up the court yet again. Azzi watched as her eyes moved from player to player, weighing the option of passing to any of them. Then she watched as her eyes locked on the rim. Azzi knew she wasn’t passing. Chances were that Paige would drive and pop for a mid range jumper.

Azzi settled in, trying to get as low as possible. She shadowed as Paige drove, hesitated, and just as she started to cross over Azzi poked at the ball. It rattled lose, bouncing towards Azzi’s net. She scrambled to gather the loose ball, sprinting towards her own hoop and extending to finish at the rim.

A whistle sliced through the noise of the crowd. Timeout orange.

Azzi made her way over to her bench. She didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until she finally had a chance to slow down. She sat, trying to catch her breath. Whatever her coach was saying was going way over her head.

A tap on her knee tugged her attention away from the rise and fall of her chest and back to her coach.

“Im pretty sure they’re pulling Paige out to start the next quarter, you’ll get your break when she comes out, okay?”

“M’kay” she choked out, not quite finding enough air to respond.

The quarter was winding down, and Paige’s team was threatening to break down whatever momentum Azzi had given her team with that steal. She was determined not to let her.

One more stop. That’s all she needed. One push and she was done—well not done, but she could finally breathe. Rest. Maybe even drink some water.

One more stop.

The refs blew the whistle, urging both teams to take to the court. Azzi took one last deep breath and pushed herself up off the bench, willing herself to be calm as she took the floor. The clock was winding down, shot clock turned off. Paige passed the ball in. Azzi’s eyes locked on to her as she ran down the court. She knew she was getting the ball back—or at least she was supposed to—and that wasn’t gonna happen. Not on her watch.

She was on her like white on rice. Mirroring every move, absorbing every bump, she wasn’t letting Paige take an inch of space from her. She felt Paige push away from her, the slight extension of her arm, buying just enough time for the ball to find her hands.

Azzi kept one arm extended, and one hand in Paige’s face. She shifted, blocking Paige's path to the basket. She could live with her passing it to a teammate, but she wouldn’t be caught dead in a Buecker’s buzzer beating highlight. Not tonight.

10 seconds on the clock.

Paige put the ball on the floor. Tried her best to maneuver around Azzi. But she could tell Paige was tired too.

She flipped the ball to her shooting guard and the buzzer neared zero. She didn’t even have a chance to get the shot off, the buzzer interrupting any hope that Paige’s team had to end on a make. Azzi high-fived her teammates as she made her way to the bench, plopping down and reaching for a water bottle.

She drank like she'd just hiked 30-miles through the Sahara, but she didn’t care.

It was 50-48. Close? Yes. But not because of Paige.

Now she could breathe. Calm herself down before the fourth quarter. Before it really mattered. She wiped a drip of water from the corner of her mouth with the neckline of her jersey before glancing over to the other bench.

Paige sat slumped over, elbows resting on her knee’s, a water bottle hanging loosely in one of her hands. She could see the rapid rise and fall of her back as she too struggled to catch her breath.

The buzzer rang out once again to mark the start of the fourth quarter. Azzi stayed put. So did Paige.

The game stayed close, bucket for bucket, steal for steal. It was truly anybody’s game.

Azzi’s breath grew steadier. Her limbs felt heavy, but she knew they had more left in them. Just enough to ice the game.

“You got a few minutes left in you? We need some offense” Azzi looked over to her coach and nodded, moving to the scorers table and taking a knee. She watched as Paige's coach’s eyes followed her to the table, before she tapped Paige on the shoulder and gestured for her to check in too.

Azzi kept her eyes forward, trying her hardest to avoid eye contact with Paige. She didn’t need to give her an excuse to talk. not now, when she was so close to being able to shove this win in her stupid face.

“SUBS” a short buzzer interrupted Azzi’s thoughts as a ref waved in her and Paige.

3:15 left in the game. They were even at 58.

She inbounded the ball, received it back and moved up the floor, organizing their offense. She settles at the top of the key, keeping her dribble low and her eyes up. She was running clock. Keeping the ball in their possession as long as she could. Shot clock had wound down to 10 seconds. She started to drive to the rim, hesitated, drew a double and dropped the ball to an open teammate in the corner.

The net snapped as the ball shot through the hoop.

61-58.

The ball was inbounded as soon as it hit the floor. Paige received it, pushing pace and fighting her way to the rim. Azzi slid with her, but she couldn’t catch up. She reached out, trying her best to disrupt Paige’s shot however she could. A whistle blew as Paige scooped the ball towards the net. She tumbled to the floor, and the ball miraculously found a way to fall through the rim despite Azzi’s attempts to stop it.

Count it and the foul to tie the game. Wonderful. She’d never hear the end of this one.

She watched as Paige popped up and made her way to the free throw line. Watched as the ball bounced once before Paige spun it back into her palm and released it. It sunk through the rim effortlessly.

2:17 left in the game.

even at 61.

Azzi scrambled to inbound the ball, passing it to the other guard who was streaking up the court. They needed to slow down. Waste clock. Every second they didn’t use was an extra one for Paige to take advantage of—a second they could NOT afford.

Azzi jogged down and received the ball back off of a hand off. She stood, eyes up, ball at her hip. Reading. How her center would be in perfect position if she tracked left. The angle of the pass. If it needed to be high or low.

She saw the game before it happened, predicting exactly what she needed to do to get the pieces to fall into place.

She tracked left. The defense moved. Her center carved out her space at the block. She sent the ball high. She snatched it out of the air, finishing effortlessly at the rim—just as she calculated.

The clock was down to 0:57.

63-61.

Azzi waited for Paige at half court, eyes fixed on the ball as it bounced between the floor and her hands. That’s all she needed. One steal and she could put the game out of reach.

She waited. Mirrored Paige's movements, shuffling step for step, hunting for a chance to poke the ball loose.

She saw it. Just a second, where Paige picked her head up to scan the court. Azzi lunged forwards, arm outstretched and—

Miscalculated.

Paige crossed over, leaving Azzi behind her as she pulled up for a long two.

tie game.

Clock down to 0:34

This was it.

She turned and ran back down the court, not bothering with the inbound. She just needed to get to her spot.

“Don't want to take it yourself?“ A voice crept up on Azzi, one that had become all too familiar in the past 5 hours. Paige.

she jogged past, turned, and backpedaled, eyes fixed on her own. “you scared or something?”

She wanted to snap back. of her? not for a second. But she kept her mouth shut.

She simply watched as the other guard brought the ball up the court, shot clock running down. She cut, hands up, asking for the ball.

It found her hands and she turned to scan the court one final time.

Clock down to 0:10.

A nearby forward was creeping up to set a screen. She started to creep towards the screen, eyes up like she was looking to pass. She picked up the pace as she maneuvered Paige into the screen, which she met—and slipped under—giving her just enough space to shoot.

It should’ve been a green light—something to exploit—but it wasn’t. She knew Paige wasn’t stupid. She wanted her to shoot. For some reason she was confident that Azzi would miss, and that was enough.

a half second hesitation. A release a moment too late.

Azzi could feel the shot was off before it ever left her hands. She didn’t even want to watch.

She lost them the game. She knew she had. All because of a stupid defensive lapse—one that should’ve sealed it. A shot that she’s hit a million times thrown off by the best possible outcome on a screen.

The crowd cheered. For what? she wasn’t sure. She didn’t care.

Her teammates huddled at the rim, bouncing up and down around their center.

She looked at the score.

65-63.

She was dragged into the celebration by their other guard, who was running to the rim.

someone must’ve grabbed the rebound and tucked it in at the buzzer. Azzi didn’t care.

Because she knew that even though her team had won the game, Paige had still beat her.

Heyyy i’m sorry for this being so late but hopefully the length made up for it. I’m still in high school and my school isn’t out yet so it’s tough to find time to write rn. I’m gonna try and start chapter 5 tn but anyways let me know what y’all thought of this chapter and what you want to see next!!

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#pazzi fics #paige bueckers #pazzi #basketball #the game we play #azzi fudd #paige x azzi #lesbian #uconn wbb #au #slow burn #high school

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