haologram

[haologram]

what if i blueball him again.

anyway i never said i was sane.

[haologram]

anyway i never said i was sane.

[haologram]

who else is feeling fertile

[haologram]

[250821] ‘HAPPY BURSTDAY’ Yizhiyu Fansign

Love8 🎱 don’t edit/crop logo.

[haologram]

[250821] ‘HAPPY BURSTDAY’ Yizhiyu Fansign

sonnet18_ 🎱 don’t edit/crop logo.

[haologram]

🤎

[haologram]

[250821] ‘HAPPY BURSTDAY’ Yizhiyu Fansign

Starlight_The8 🎱 don’t edit/crop logo.

[haologram]

[250821] ‘HAPPY BURSTDAY’ Yizhiyu Fansign

Love8 🎱 don’t edit/crop logo.

[haologram]

drunkenly yours —- l.c

❥ pairing: lee chan x fem!reader ❥ theme: strangers to something ❥ wc: 2k ❥ warnings: fluff, mentions of drinking and being drunk, feelings of being lost, loneliness, angst ❥ a/n: oh heyyyy, i guess my hiatus has officially ended, huh? this was inspired solely on that post card you've probably seen everywhere. thanks to @haologram for this banner and for always encouraging my insanity. likes, reblogs, and comments always appreciated! sorry if i'm a bit rusty.

January 1, 2025

Hey,

I used to live in your house.

I'm drunk in boston, and its the only address I know.

Happy Holidays.

C.L.

January 20, 2025

Hi,

I'm drunk in Manhattan

I held on to your address just in case.

Hope Boston isn't too bad.

Y/N

February 11, 2025

Y/N,

You have a name.

I'm drunk again, Boston is fine.

Nothing like Manhattan, though.

C.L.

P.S. Thanks for writing back.

March 1, 2025

C.L.,

It's not every day I get such interesting mail, of course I'd write back.

Your postcard is all I can think about when I drink now.

I'm not drunk enough now, but I wanted to write anyway.

Why did you write it anyway?

Y/N

March 8, 2025

Y/N,

Good question.

Honestly, I don't know. I miss Manhattan, I miss that apartment, your apartment.

Boston is lonely. All of my friends are back in New York.

I moved here for work but some days I think that was a mistake.

Is this too much for a postcard stranger?

C.L.

March 17, 2025

C.L.,

Never too much, we're not strangers I don't think.

Do you not like your job? Are they nice to you?

They better be nice to you.

I forgot to finish this before I got drunker.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, not stranger.

Y/N

March 17, 2025

Y/N!

I'm wasted.

Still managed to remember your address.

C.L.

March 31, 2025

Y/N,

I went out after work today.

Work is fine, I just feel like I threw away a whole life for a job I don't even like.

It sounded like a step in the right direction at the time.

Now I'm not so sure. What do you do?

C.L.

April 3, 2025

C.L.,

I can understand the feeling.

Sometimes it feels like life keeps moving and we can either move with it or be left behind.

Frustrating, isn't it?

I'm a teacher. I like it.

I'm tipsy, agonizing over lesson plans and a not stranger who's lonely in Boston.

Life is funny that way.

Y/N.

April 12, 2025

Y/N!!!

Funny you mention that, some of my friends came to visit this weekend.

I told them about you, they think I'm crazy.

That's okay.

I'm drunk and I'm thinking about you and I'm surrounded by my friends.

Maybe this life isn't so bad after all.

Drunkenly yours,

C.L.

+ S.C., W.J., M.K., S.L., M.X., H.C., S.B.

April 21, 2025

C.L.,

I'm so glad they were able to come to see you!

My friends and I are out celebrating the start of spring break!

Teacher things!

I'm glad to hear you in better spirits.

My friends think I'm crazy as I write this too.

Oh well, whatever makes us happy, right?

They left some lipstick on the back of this postcard (I did too).

Tipsily Yours,

Y/N

+ Jihyo, Nayeon, Jeongyeon, and Sana

P.S. Sometimes I think about you when I'm not drunk.

May 1, 2025

Y/N,

Your friends have names too!

You think about me? More than in the context of a drunk not stranger?

You should know, I think about you a lot.

Being drunk just gives me the courage to say what I'm thinking.

When I say I'm yours, I think I mean it.

Is that too forward?

Drunkenly Yours,

C.L.

May 29, 2025

C.L.,

Let's stay like this.

Let's not meet.

I like how we are now.

Y/N.

June 4, 2025

Y/N,

I've read your last message a million times.

I still can't figure out what you meant.

If you don't want to meet, I respect that.

I'm just not sure how we are now.

Still (Drunkenly) Yours,

C.L.

June 30, 2025

Y/N,

I'm drunk again.

Thinking of you.

I'm sorry if my last message upset you.

I hope you're okay.

C.L.

July 4, 2025

Y/N,

Are the fireworks over the Hudson still cool?

I always thought the reflection on the water made fireworks better.

The 4th of July in Boston is crazy, everyone is really excited.

Here I am crying into a beer.

Happy Birthday America.

C.L.

P.S. If you want me to stop writing, I will.

RETURN TO SENDER

July 15, 2025

Y/N,

Work continues to suck. I really hate this job.

I'm starting to hate this city. I'm starting to hate this bar.

I wish I could just hear from you, to know you're okay.

I'm not even drunk, you're all I think about anyway.

I wish you never said that shit about never meeting.

That way I wouldn't have put my foot in my mouth.

I don't know how this all fell apart…

Sober and Still Yours,

C.L.

August 31, 2025

The rain beat on the windows of Chan's apartment. He sighed as he opened the refrigerator for the millionth time tonight. Beers and barely enough lunch meat to fill a sandwich stared back at him. He knew he needed to go to the grocery store, but work and the harsh rejection of Return to Sender ate up any energy he had throughout the week. He closed the door again, opting to order take out for the fourth time this week.

In all honesty, he didn't know why this had gotten to him so much. It's not like he knew much of anything about the person he had been exchanging post cards with for the better part of a year. Three months since he received anything and it still hurt. He wasn't sure he could move on with no closure.

He scrolled through his food delivery apps aimlessly, still not sure what he even wanted to eat. The rain continued to pound on the pavement outside.

When the knock came he wasn't sure he even heard it. The rain was loud and the thunder clapped, shaking the apartment. He strained his ears, finally hearing the knocking at his door.

On the other side of the door, standing in the pouring rain, was a woman he had never seen before.

"Hi, I know you don't actually know me…" You started. "But this was the only address I could remember besides my own…and I can't…go back there." Turning to leave, you squeezed the sopping wet postcards in your fist. "If you want me to go—"

"Y/N?" Hearing his own voice say your name out loud hit him like a ton of bricks. "Y/N, come in, you're soaking wet." He watched the tension in your shoulders dissipate.

He led you into the small apartment, instructing you to stay where you were while he got you a change of clothes. When he reappeared he held a stack of clothes, a t-shirt, sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and a pair of boxers. You ignored the heat in your cheeks when you realized what the last item in the pile was. He pointed you in the direction of the bathroom.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, you looked like shit. Your mascara was streaking down your face, you weren't sure if it was from crying or the rain, probably both. Showing up here was an incredibly dumb choice.

He was sitting on the couch once you decided you looked presentable enough to come out of the bathroom. Your wet clothes got tossed directly into the dryer and he gently led you to the couch and sat next to you. You could feel his eyes on you as you stared at the ceiling. He took in the sight of you, your eyes red and puffy, your hair wet from the rain, you in a t-shirt with the name of his high school across your chest.

"What's going on, Y/N?" The tenderness of his voice made you burst into tears. "Oh my God." He panicked and wrapped you in his arms. You stayed there, sobbing into his shoulder for several minutes.

"I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have come." You sniffled, your voice small and muffled by his shoulder. "I don't even know your name."

"Chan." He replied simply.

"Chan." You repeated, rolling his name around on your tongue.

"What happened?" He asked, you weren't sure if he was asking why you were here or why you stopped writing him. He wasn't either.

"My boyfriend and I broke up."

"Oh."

You pulled away from him and pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes until the darkness bloomed into color. His eyes were on you still, you could feel them.

"I stopped writing because he finally asked me." You pulled your hands away from your face and fidgeted with your fingers. "He wasn't my boyfriend when you wrote me the first time. But we moved in together in June. It was…it was too fast." You angrily swiped a stray tear away from your cheek. Chan let you talk. "We had a fight, I wasn't ready or something. Maybe I didn't really like him as much as I thought I did, I don't know."

"So you came here?" Chan asked. "Pretty far from Manhattan."

"I took the train."

"Just to see me?"

"I think so." You smiled sadly. "Is that a bad thing?"

"No of course not, but now it's not the way we were then." He points out.

"I was trying to convince myself that I didn't want to meet you, that I didn't need to."

"Why did you write me back?"

"The first time?" He nodded. "I don't know, I was drunk. I thought about you, I thought a lot about you after that first postcard. I guess I finally decided I needed to know more about this guy who writes postcards to his old addresses when he's drunk."

"And every time after that?"

"You always wrote back, you know." You looked up at him, he was looking at you with the most adoration you had ever seen on a person before. It made you blush.

"Oh I am incredibly aware." He chuckled. "I wish I would have saved myself the embarrassment."

"You don't need to be embarrassed, I always looked forward to it."

"Oh really?" He smiled, God he was so beautiful when he smiled.

"Yeah, but you drink a lot." You teased. "And you fall in love with girls you barely know."

"I'm not in love with you." He retorted, his smile betrayed his words.

"'When I say I'm yours, I think I mean it.'" You quoted.

"When did I say I loved you?" He reached out to you, you let him.

"You don't have to say it."

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence for a few moments. You quickly realized, you didn't like your ex as much as you thought you did. Moving in with him was a distraction from the very real feelings you were developing for a man you had never actually met. You were too scared to take a leap with Chan so you put that energy elsewhere.

"Can I kiss you?" Chan asked, barely above a whisper in the silence only interrupted by the rain and your breathing. He lightly cupped your jaw and pressed his lips to yours. It was sweet, like he was trying to find the words to tell you how he felt but he couldn't. He swiped his tongue across your bottom lip, your lips tasted like salt.

He pulled you closer, into his lap. You deepened the kiss and let him taste and explore your mouth. You tangled your fingers through his hair, pulling the longer hair at the nape of his neck.

"I think you should move back to Manhattan." You breathed into his mouth. "I want to give this a fighting chance and you're miserable here."

"I'll see what I can do, on one condition." He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you ever closer.

"What's that?"

"Let me be yours, drunk, sober, however you'll have me."

[haologram]

EMAILS I CAN'T SENT [2]

✉ pairing: director of hr! lee jihoon x planning and recruitment specialist! f! reader ✉ wc: 8.3K of 16.4K (read part 1 here!) ✉ genre: semi-epistolary (in the form of emails and microsoft teams chats), a character study of lee jihoon, angst, it gets sad before it gets happy, coworkers to ????, etc etc etc ✉ warnings: mentions of alcohol, vaguely suggestive ✉ a/n: this is part of the that's showbiz, baby! collaboration. sooooo part 2 is finally here! as always the biggest thanks go to @studioeisa and our little collaboration that could <3 // and of course all my love to @haologram for the beta and the comments on my google doc that never fail to make me smile <3

read part one before reading this!

Jihoon never stays late. 

It’s a fact as fundamental as the way the sun rises in the east, the way his coffee always has four pumps of vanilla, no less. He clocks out at five. It's a ritual: leave at five, drive home with the sun dipping just behind the skyline, an instrumental playlist humming through the speakers of a car that still smells like the vanilla air freshener Seungcheol gave him two years ago as a joke and he never removed. Routine. Predictable. Safe. Even you have begrudgingly accepted it. 

So he should’ve, in theory, been halfway home by now—tapping his steering wheel at a red light, thinking about dinner or emails or nothing at all.

Instead, he’s walking past the glass boardroom, half-mindedly checking the time on his watch when the light catches his attention.

Still on.

He slows.

Inside, you’re hunched over the table. The massive oak thing is barely visible beneath the sprawl of paper and chaos: highlighters with their caps missing, a half-eaten protein bar, a thermos that’s probably gone cold. Your laptop is open to a spreadsheet, and you’re glaring at it like it’s insulted your ancestors. Your elbow knocks a pen off the table. You don’t even notice.

He stands in the hallway. Watches, just for a second. Tells himself he’s just curious. Just verifying you’re not setting the place on fire. That’s all.

But then you sigh. Not a little one either—this one’s heavy, drawn from someplace near your spine. You drop your pen and rub both hands over your face. When you drag them back through your hair, it messes it up even further. You look exhausted. Over it. Still stubbornly trying.

You make a sound that’s not quite a groan, not quite a whimper.

Something stirs in Jihoon’s chest. Something inconvenient.

He glances down the hall toward the exit, then back at you.

Exhales, slow and steady through his nose. Steps in.

The door opens with a soft click. You don’t notice until he crosses the room and places his bag down at the far end of the table. The sound of the zipper dragging across the wood makes you flinch.

You look up.

Your eyes widen like you’ve seen a ghost.

“Jihoon?” you ask, almost breathless. Your voice is hoarse, tired from silence.

He doesn’t meet your gaze as he pulls a chair out and sits down.

“Quarter two doesn’t build itself,” he murmurs, reaching for the top sheet in the closest stack.

You blink, startled. “You don’t—what are you—”

“I’m not repeating myself,” he says, eyes scanning the sheet. “This graph doesn’t match the data from last week’s headcount.”

You don’t argue. Just sit back down, dazed. And then, after a beat, you smile.

It’s not your usual smile, the bright, dazzling one you aim at the rest of the team. This one’s small. Almost reverent. Like you’re afraid moving too quickly might make him vanish.

Jihoon keeps his eyes on the page. His ears are pink.

He doesn’t sit close—of course not. But close enough. Close enough that when you both reach for the same report, your fingers graze.

Once.

Then again. When he passes you a revised schedule.

A third time, when your pinky nudges his knuckle as you cross out a deadline together, hands pressed side-by-side against the table.

He doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t move away.

He finds your notes chaotic, color-coded with no logic he can follow. There are hearts around section titles. A doodle of what looks like a stress-eating cat in the margin of the turnover slide.

He wants to be annoyed.

But instead, he feels something else. Something gentler.

By the time the spreadsheet is tamed, the table looks clearer. There’s still a lot to do—but it no longer feels impossible. Just hard. Manageable.

You stretch your arms over your head and groan when your back cracks. “Jesus,” you mumble. “I’m dying.”

“Then who’s finishing the Q2 plan?” Jihoon deadpans.

You laugh, dropping your arms and looking at him like he’s said the funniest thing in the world.

He rolls his eyes—but it’s softer than usual.

He stands. Straightens the cuffs of his shirt. Adjusts his tie, more out of habit than need. Reaches for his bag.

You follow, and when your hand brushes his again, it doesn’t feel accidental.

This time, your fingers curl around his.

A squeeze.

“Thanks, Jihoon,” you say, low and sincere. “Really.”

He swallows once.

His throat feels tight.

He nods.

Because if he opens his mouth, the smile trying to claw its way out might be too obvious to hide.

And he doesn’t think he could take that.

Not yet.

Not if you smiled back.

To: planning@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.com Subject: Final Push! 

Hi team,

That planning meeting was our last one! Our Spring Gala next week will be a night to remember thanks to all of your hard work. To celebrate, how about a round at Lucky Strike tonight at 6? First round’s on me. 

Y/N L/N Planning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

He’s late.

Not by much. Seven minutes, maybe, but still. Jihoon doesn’t do late. It makes his skin itch. Makes him check his watch twice as he stands outside the bar, staring through the tall windows.

It’s warm inside. Loud. Alive.

He can see flashes of familiar faces through the crowd: Samuel’s bright hair bobbing with laughter, Jisoo sipping something dark, Jihyo leaning in to whisper something conspiratorial to Wonwoo, who only shakes his head and smirks.

And then there’s you, at the bar, already a drink in hand. The glass sweats against your skin. Your shoulders are loose. You’re laughing at something someone says, head tipped back slightly, like you’re made of nothing but light and joy and ease.

Jihoon adjusts the collar of his jacket.

Then pushes the door open.

The first thing that hits him is the music: something bass-heavy and a little obnoxious. The second is Samuel, who lets out a full-bodied whoop the moment he spots Jihoon hovering near the entrance.

“LEE JIHOON!” he hollers, loud enough to draw attention. “Look who decided to stop being a corporate vampire and grace us with his presence!”

Jihoon’s ears go pink.

The team cheers. Someone claps him on the back (too hard), someone else shoves a drink into his hand. Wonwoo gives him a knowing look over the rim of his glass.

Jihoon exhales.

And, slowly, carefully, lets himself exhale a little more.

It’s awkward at first. Always is. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. His small talk is rusty, and he only half-hears most of what Seungcheol’s complaining about as they hover near the pool table.

But then someone tells a joke—some absurd story about a printer catching fire during last year’s performance reviews—and Jihoon snorts. Actually snorts. And someone laughs, and someone else echoes it, and the next thing he knows, he’s being pulled into a conversation, a rhythm. Jisoo teases him about his four-pump vanilla coffee, and Jihoon fires back without thinking. They laugh.

He laughs.

And then, he sees you again.

You’re alone at the bar now, nursing your drink, the condensation trailing down your fingers. When you catch him looking, you lift your glass slightly in greeting. Your smile isn’t loud. It’s just for him.

He walks over.

“Another?” he asks, nodding at your glass.

You arch a brow. “Offering to buy me a drink, Managing Director Lee?”

“Don't make it weird.”

“I think you just did,” you grin.

He orders whatever you’re drinking. Doesn't ask what it is. Doesn’t really care. He passes it to you and leans against the bar like it’s something he does every Monday.

You’re still smiling. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

“I RSVP’d.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually show.”

He huffs out something that might be a laugh. “I can commit to things, you know.”

“Mm,” you tease. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“You’re literally seeing it.”

“I don’t know,” you say, leaning in just slightly, “you still look like you’re trying to figure out how to file an HR report about being in a bar with your coworkers.”

“I’m not that uptight.”

You hum thoughtfully. “I didn’t say uptight. I said terrified.”

Jihoon narrows his eyes, but you’re already giggling into your drink, shoulders shaking with mirth. It’s reckless, the way he wants to reach out and touch your arm. To feel that warmth up close.

The crowd surges behind you then—someone jostles past, laughing loudly—and you stumble. Not far, not hard, but enough that your hands splay against his chest for balance. He steadies you automatically, hands warm around your waist, breath catching in his throat.

You don’t pull away.

Neither does he.

You’re so close now. Close enough that he can see the way your eyes soften as they meet his, close enough to catch the citrusy sweetness of your drink on your breath.

“Hi,” he says, barely more than a whisper.

“Hello,” you reply, like it’s something sacred.

His fingers tighten ever so slightly at your waist. Just enough.

And then—of course—Samuel barrels between you, slamming a tray of shots down on the bar with a cheer loud enough to wake the dead.

“Round two, LET’S GO!”

You blink. Step back. Jihoon lets go slowly, reluctantly, like every movement takes effort.

But your gaze finds his again across the bar, and your smile—soft and knowing—lingers longer than it should.

Jihoon swallows his sigh with the bottom of a tequila shot. And wonders, not for the first time, what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

By the time the bar crowd begins to thin, the neon lights outside have dulled to a low hum and the laughter has softened to a low murmur. Jihoon catches sight of you by the door, head bowed over your phone, thumb hovering over the Uber app. 

It’s reflex, the way he moves toward you. The way the words tumble out before he has the time to question them. 

“I’ll drive you home.” 

You blink up at him, surprise painted across your face. “Oh! That’s sweet, Jihoon, but you really don’t have to—”

“Really,” he says again, firmer now. “It’s no trouble. You’re on the way.” 

That’s a lie. 

You are, in fact, not on the way. Not even remotely. You live a full twenty-five minutes in the opposite direction of Jihoon’s quiet, clean apartment with its well-stocked fridge and pristinely alphabetized bookshelf. And it is Monday. And his baby blue shirt is starting to wrinkle. And it is 8:53 p.m. And Jihoon should be asleep in seven minutes if he wants to keep to his ritual. 

But none of that matters. 

Not when the scent of citrus still clings to your lips, not when your laugh keeps echoing in his head, and not when he can still feel the ghost of your hands pressed against his chest. Jihoon thinks he might actually be dying. Or worse—falling. 

You walk side by side down the quiet sidewalk. Your shoes click softly against the pavement. The air is cool and smells faintly of rain. 

“Samuel respects you a lot,” you say after a beat, like it’s a casual observation. Like it’s not about to change the tilt of Jihoon’s entire universe. 

He startles. “Really?” 

You laugh, and it’s bright and clear, and Jihoon wants to bottle the sound and keep it in his jacket pocket. “Yeah, Jihoon. That kid hangs on to every word out of your mouth like it’s gospel. Might even start calling you Jesus at this point." 

Jihoon hums. It starts in his chest, low and uncertain. Something warm twists under his ribs, unspools, catches behind his tongue. 

He can’t stop himself. 

“And you?” he asks. 

You glance over. “What about me?”

“Do you… respect me?”

It’s quiet for a second. Just your footsteps and his, the gentle sway of the city at night, and the sound of Jihoon’s heartbeat suddenly pounding too close to his ears. 

Then you stop walking. 

Jihoon’s already regretting everything. Already planning the rapid backpedal, the awkward mumble, the way he’ll bury himself in work and imaginary meetings tomorrow just to pretend this never happened. 

But then you turn to face him, and you look at him like’s made of soft glass. 

“Of course I respect you, Jihoon,” you say, gentle. “Why would you even ask that?”

He flounders, suddenly seventeen again, awkward and unsure, staring at his shoes. 

“Because of the…you know.. The— thattimeyousaideveryonefearsmeandnoonerespectsme,” he blurts in a single breath, words tangled and messy. 

Your face falls. Not with annoyance, but with something far worse—regret. Real, raw, painful regret. And your voice, when it comes, is so soft it nearly undoes him. 

“Oh, Jihoon.” You step into his space, not quite touching but close enough to feel the heat coming off you in waves. “I’m so sorry for that. I was stupid. So stupid. I was trying to make a joke and it was a really bad one—”

“It was a really bad joke,” he mutters, stubborn. 

“I know. I know,” you agree immediately. “God, I know. I’m so sorry. It was unfair. You work so hard. You take care of this whole company and I—” 

You stop. Look at him. 

The silence stretches. The moment breathes. 

And then your hand lifts, hesitant but sure, and rests against the inside of his wrist. Warm. Anchoring. Alive. 

He swears he can feel every beat of his pulse through that single touch. 

“Jihoon,” you breathe, cotton-soft. “I’m sorry. I respect you. We all do. I hope you know that.” 

His throat bobs. He tries to speak, but the words get caught. He stares at you. Starts at your eyes, your mouth, the crinkle near your nose when you wait for him to say something. So he does. 

“I like you,” he mutters to the ground. 

Your brow creases. “Sorry?” 

“I—” He clears his throat. Forces himself to look up. And this time, he says it like he means it. “I like you.”

Your smile starts slow. 

And then it blooms. 

Radiant. Blinding.

And you don’t say anything, not at first. You just close the remaining distance between you until Jihoon can smell the faint fruit of your drink again, can feel your breath on his lips as you whisper, “I like you too.” 

And this time, when your lips brush his, Jihoon forgets about his bedtime. Forgets about the wrinkles in his shirt and the spreadsheet that’s due tomorrow. Forgets about the rules and rituals. 

Because this—your mouth on his, your hand still cradling his wrist like it’s something precious—is everything he didn’t know he needed. 

And for once, Lee Jihoon doesn’t think at all. 

Jihoon drops you home like a man possessed. He drives with one hand on the wheel and the other still tingling, memorizing the shape of your fingers against his.

Outside your apartment, the air is heavy with spring. You fumble with your keys, laughter bubbling in your chest, but Jihoon has you pressed against the door before you can even get the key halfway into the lock.

He kisses like he doesn’t know how to stop. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth with his own. You taste like citrus and warmth and everything he’s tried not to want for months. You gasp into the kiss—breathless, delighted—and it drives him a little mad.

“Jihoon,” you whisper, breath hitching, as you break away for air. “We have a 9 a.m.”

“Mmm,” he hums, nosing against your cheek, already chasing your lips again. “Push the meeting. I’m the managing director.”

You laugh, bright and airy, and it lands somewhere deep in his chest.

“It’s with Wonwoo, you dumbass,” you manage through a grin, shoving lightly at his shoulder.

Jihoon grins, wide and boyish and not at all ashamed.

You finally get the door open, slipping inside, and before he can lean in again, you press your palm against his chest.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say, eyes dancing.

And then the door clicks shut between you.

Jihoon’s left staring at your brass door number, dazed.

From inside, muffled: “SEE YOU TOMORROW!”

He walks to his car like he’s drunk on something better than alcohol. Floats through red lights and quiet intersections, the world hushed and glowing.

At home, he doesn’t bother with his usual routine. Doesn’t iron his shirt for the next morning, doesn’t prep his protein shake or check his calendar for the fifth time.

Instead, he crawls into bed, fully clothed, sheets still cool against his back.

And with the lights still off and the city humming faintly outside his window, Jihoon presses a finger to his lips.

He grins into the dark.

He’s completely, hopelessly screwed.

[💬 Microsoft Teams – Direct Message to JEON WONWOO | 9:03 AM]

From: Jeon Wonwoo Jihoon.  Where are you.  We had a 9 AM????

From: Jeon Wonwoo Jihoon??? You never miss meetings. All okay? 

[💬 Microsoft Teams – Direct Message to Y/N L/N | 9:12 AM]

To: Lee Jihoon Hey! All okay? You’re usually 10 minutes early to meetings.  Didn’t see you in the office either. 

To: Lee Jihoon not to sound alarmist but are you okay???? pls check in!

[💬 Microsoft Teams – Direct Message to JEON WONWOO | 9:23 AM]

From: Jeon Wonwoo I swear to God if you died on me, I will resurrect you just to kill you again.  And then I’ll fire you. 

[💬 Microsoft Teams – Direct Message between JEON WONWOO AND Y/N L/N | 9:36 AM]

To: Jeon Wonwoo he’s not answering me either do you think he’s okay? should someone go to his place? does anyone know where he lives???

From: Jeon Wonwoo I do. But let’s wait. I’ll give him until 10. If you hear from him before then, ping me.

from: 010-****-**** hey it’s y/n got your number from the personnel records are you okay?

missed call: 010-****-**** missed call (2) : 010-****-**** missed call (3) : 010-****-****

from: 010-****-**** jihoon please pick up just say you’re okay even just a “y”

missed call (4) : 010-****-**** missed call (5) : 010-****-****

from: 010-****-**** okay i’m going insane over here i’m about to send a wellness check to your apartment, please text back please.

He wakes up at 10:23 a.m.

10:23.

The numbers on the screen feel like a punch. He stares at them for a full second, trying to make them make sense—trying to force the ten into a five , the two into a zero. But it doesn’t shift. Doesn’t change.

10:23.

He doesn’t remember turning off his alarm. Doesn’t remember setting it.

Because he didn’t.

Because he’d stayed out too late. Hadn’t done his skincare. Hadn’t reviewed his calendar. Hadn’t ironed a shirt and hung it up outside his closet like he always does. He hadn't even refilled his water bottle for the morning.

Instead, he’d gotten home from Lucky Strike drunk on something that had nothing to do with alcohol. Had stood in his apartment with his shoes still on, his mouth still tingling from the last time he kissed you, and had done the unthinkable.

He'd let himself be happy.

And now—now he was paying for it.

He stumbles into the shower and curses when the water hits him ice-cold. There’s no time to wait for it to warm. He’s in and out in under three minutes, towel half-wrapped around his waist as he claws through his closet like a man possessed. Nothing’s ironed. Nothing’s ready. He yanks on a pair of black slacks that have a crease in the wrong place and grabs a shirt—gray, wrinkled, but button-down enough.

By 10:41 he’s in the car, banana between his teeth, seatbelt snapping across his chest as he pulls out of his parking garage like a bat out of hell.

His hair is still damp when he buzzes into the building.

No latte.

No smile from the barista who usually has it waiting for him.

No quiet morning.

Just shame.

He’s Lee Jihoon. Youngest Managing Director in Carat Company history. A man of systems. Of discipline. Of excellence.

Other people break routine. Other people make mistakes. Not him. Not him.

Except, this morning—he did.

When he finally sits down at his desk, breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat, he pulls up his Teams window and writes the shortest message he can manage.

[💬 Microsoft Teams – Direct Message to JEON WONWOO | 11:09 AM]

To: Jeon Wonwoo Overslept. Sorry. Will reschedule Q2 meeting.

From: Jeon Wonwoo All good. Y/N was worried.

He doesn’t respond.

There are dozens of emails waiting in his inbox, and his phone buzzes every few seconds. He answers none of them.

He doesn’t look up when the door to the office opens. Doesn’t flinch when he hears your voice, bright and relieved.

“Oh thank God—where were you? I texted you, like, six times. I was going to ask Wonwoo to do a wellness check, I swear to God—”

He lifts his eyes slowly.

And then he breaks.

“I didn’t set my alarm,” he snaps.

Your smile falters. “Okay?”

He stands, abrupt and sharp, chair scraping behind him. “I didn’t set my alarm. I didn’t go to bed at nine. I didn’t iron my clothes. I didn’t prep for my meeting. You know why? Because I was out. At a happy hour. Because I said yes to something I never say yes to.”

You blink. “Jihoon, I didn’t mean—”

“No,” he cuts in, voice tight. “This matters. Because I don’t miss meetings. I don’t show up late. I don’t—” he gestures vaguely, a wide, frustrated sweep of his hand, “—break routine. But ever since you got here, it’s been one thing after another. The snack cabinet. The happy hour. The frog. You—”

He stops, breathing hard.

You’re staring at him like he’s sprouted wings. Or horns.

He knows he sounds ridiculous.

But he can’t stop.

“I was fine before you came here,” he finishes, quietly. “I had a system.”

Your voice is gentle, when you finally speak. Measured, but not unkind. “So you’re mad because… I broke your system?”

He doesn’t answer. His hands are fists at his sides.

And then, more softly still, you say, “Or are you mad because you liked it?”

Silence.

Jihoon’s jaw clenches. He turns back toward his desk.

You don’t press him.

Not at first.

But as your hand brushes the door handle, your voice comes again—quiet, but clear. “Things that only run on systems and don’t change aren’t people, Jihoon. They’re robots.”

You look at him for a moment longer, long enough for him to feel it like a weight, and then walk out, gently shutting the door behind you.

Jihoon sits. Opens his inbox. Stares at the blinking cursor of an apology draft he’s not sure how to finish.

His hands, once fists, slowly uncurl.

To: youruser@tcc.com From: jeon.wonwoo@tcc.com BCC: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: Office Assignment Opportunity

Hello Y/N,

Just wanted to flag that a private office just opened up down the hall. It’s got great light, a bit quieter than your current setup. You’re more than welcome to move in if you’d prefer a little more space (and solitude!). Totally up to you, of course, your call.

Let facilities know if you need help with the move.

Cheers, Jeon Wonwoo Chief Executive Officer The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

Jihoon reads it once. Then again.

Solitude.

The word clangs in his chest.

He stares at the timestamp. Sent last night. He hadn't noticed. He hadn't checked.

By the time he walks in the next morning—7:32 a.m., latte in hand, routine clinging to him like armor—your desk is gone.

The tapestry. The frog. The coffee mug with the sarcastic HR slogan. The sticky notes in five colors, and your keyboard, and your notebooks, and the framed printout of the "Go Team!" slide he still pretends to hate.

All gone.

Only the blankness remains, stark and cold against the beige paint. The corner of the office he hasn’t looked at empty in months.

His own reflection looks back at him in the polished screen of your left-behind monitor.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

He just stands there, latte cooling in his hand.

Routine restored. Silence reclaimed.

So why does it feel like loss?

To: lee.jihoon@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.com Subject: [REVIEW REQUESTED] Q2 Planning Deck — First Draft Attached

Hello Mr. Lee,

Attached is the first draft of the Q2 planning deck, inclusive of updated retention metrics and proposed staffing ratios. Let me know if there are any revisions you’d like to see ahead of the next leadership sync.

Best, Y/N L/NPlanning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To: youruser@tcc.comFrom: lee.jihoon@tcc.comSubject: RE: [REVIEW REQUESTED] Q2 Planning Deck — First Draft Attached

Y/N,

Slide 9: Update the attrition benchmarks to reflect latest April data. Slide 12: Replace “engagement uplift” phrasing with “measurable increase in satisfaction.” Appendix: Missing comparative analysis on contractor conversion rates. Please include.

Cheers, Lee Jihoon Managing Director, Human Resources The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To: lee.jihoon@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.comSubject: RE: [REVIEW REQUESTED] Q2 Planning Deck — First Draft Attached

Revisions completed as requested. Please find the updated deck attached. Slide notes adjusted accordingly.

Y/N L/NPlanning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To: youruser@tcc.comFrom: lee.jihoon@tcc.comSubject: RE: [REVIEW REQUESTED] Q2 Planning Deck — First Draft Attached

Reviewed. Deck is ready for leadership review. Please coordinate with Ops to finalize scheduling.

Cheers, Lee Jihoon Managing Director, Human Resources The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

📁 Drafts — lee.jihoon@tcc.com

[1]

To: youruser@tcc.comSubject: 

I don’t know how to apologize.

This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours? 

[2]

To: youruser@tcc.com Subject: 

I’m sorry.

This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours? 

[3]

To: youruser@tcc.com Subject: 

I thought I liked the quiet. I thought I liked the routine.

I think I hate it now.

This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours? 

[4] 

To: youruser@tcc.com Subject: 

I miss you.

This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours? 

[5] 

To: youruser@tcc.com Subject: 

I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss

This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours? 

[6] 

To: youruser@tcc.com Subject: 

Come back.

Please.

This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours?

[💬 Microsoft Teams – Direct Message to JEON WONWOO | 3:34 PM ]

From: Jeon Wonwoo You fucked up.

To: Jeon Wonwoo I know.

From: Jeon Wonwoo Then why haven’t you fixed it?

To: Jeon Wonwoo I don’t know how.

From: Jeon Wonwoo You hurt her.

To: Jeon Wonwoo I know.

From: Jeon Wonwoo She moved offices. She won’t even look at you.

To: Jeon Wonwoo I know.

From: Jeon Wonwoo Then do something.Before it’s too late.

From: Jeon Wonwoo [Attachment: Spring_Gala_Invite_FINAL.pdf] Funny, you helped design this. It’s tonight, you know.

To: Jeon Wonwoo I know.

From: Jeon Wonwoo Show up. Or don’t. Your choice.

It’s 5:07 PM and the sun has dipped low over the city. 

Jihoon doesn’t even remember getting in the car.

One minute, he’s staring blankly at the blinking cursor on his screen — the Q2 org restructure report open, untouched, since before lunch — and the next, he’s outside, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles have gone pale. The office garage is slowly emptying out around him. He watches taillights blink down the ramp, fade into the pink-streaked blur of early evening.

He should go home.

He should heat up one of the frozen meals stacked in careful rows in his freezer, open the bottle of Barolo he’s been saving for no reason in particular, watch half an episode of that slow-burn legal thriller everyone says is “so him,” then go to sleep by 9:00pm sharp. He should iron his shirts for the week. Clean out the dishwasher. Pack tomorrow’s lunch.

Instead, he just sits.

The city buzzes quietly around him. Muffled laughter from a group of interns spilling out of the stairwell. A car alarm in the distance. His own breath, tight and even, misting faintly against the driver’s side window.

He doesn’t notice he’s pulled out his phone until it’s already dialing.

“Jihoon-ah,” his mother answers on the third ring. Her voice is warm, as familiar as the scent of roasted barley tea on Sundays. “You’re calling early. Everything okay?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

There’s a rustle on the other end of the line — her slippers against tile, maybe, or the sliding of a newspaper across the dining table.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says finally.

A pause.

“Work?” she asks gently.

“Not exactly.” He rubs at the back of his neck. His collar’s stiff, too tight, like it’s choking him.

He hears her pull the phone closer. Imagines her sitting at the kitchen table, mug in hand, cat curled by her feet. Waiting.

“I had it all down,” he says. “The routine. The schedule. Wake, gym, shower, coffee, calendar, meeting, lunch, meeting, email, leave. Quiet. Predictable.”

“You’ve always liked predictable,” she says, not unkindly.

He exhales. A shaky breath.

“She wasn’t supposed to matter,” he murmurs.

“Ah.”

“She sits too close. She talks too much. Her handwriting is a disaster, and she uses Comic Sans in team decks just to piss me off. She brought a one-eyed frog mug and a tapestry into our office like she was claiming territory—like we were dorm roommates. She runs ten minutes late to every meeting, sings under her breath while drafting spreadsheets, and says things like ‘snack room vibes’ in quarterly planning.”

“And?” his mother prompts.

“And I think I’m in love with her,” Jihoon breathes. “God help me, I really think I am.”

The parking garage feels still all of a sudden. Like the city is holding its breath for him.

He lets the silence stretch. Stares at the dark shape of the rearview mirror. His own eyes, barely visible. Haunted.

“I just—” he starts. Stops. Inhales. Exhales. “I just don’t know how to let her in. Not without undoing all the things I’ve spent years building.”

“Then maybe it’s time to build new things.”

He frowns. “That’s not how it works.”

“Why not?”

Silence again. A dog barks outside his window. The sky burns orange against the high-rises.

“Routine is safe, Jihoon,” she says. “I know that better than anyone. But if all you do is keep yourself safe, you’ll miss the parts of life that are messy and terrifying and completely worth it.”

“I want her to respect me.”

“She does. I bet she did before you even knew her name.”

He presses his lips together. His chest tightens.

“And I want her to—” He breaks off. Stares at the traffic light. “I think I want her to love me.”

His mother’s voice is soft. “Then let her see you. The way you really are. Not just the title. Not just the clockwork.”

Another breath. Then—

“There’s a gala tonight.”

“Then go,” she says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“I don’t even know what tie to wear.”

“Wear the one that makes you feel brave,” she says, smiling, he can hear it.

He lets out something that almost passes for a laugh. “I don’t think I have one of those.”

“Then wear the one you wore when they made you managing director. You didn’t think you were brave then either, remember?”

That stops him cold.

He closes his eyes.

He does remember.

“Be good to her,” she breathes. “I love you.”

He hangs up gently. Stares out the windshield for a long time.

Then, slowly, Jihoon turns the keys in the ignition.

The car hums to life beneath his hands.

[💬 Microsoft Teams – Direct Message to JEON WONWOO | 7:23 PM ]

From: Jeon Wonwoo You’re late. You’re never late.

To: Jeon Wonwoo I know.

From: Jeon Wonwoo Interesting. 

The Spring Gala is… breathtaking.

Jihoon’s never used that word before. Not seriously. But as he steps into the ballroom, he feels something catch in his throat. A pause. An ache. A stillness so sudden he forgets to breathe.

It’s not just elegant. It’s magic.

The lights are low, warm like candlelight, flickering across the gold accents laced through every centerpiece. There’s a live string quartet tucked into the corner, the soft trill of a cello drifting beneath the gentle clinking of glasses. Tables are covered in deep forest-green linens, each one topped with floral arrangements of pale blush and burnt orange and creams, tiny brass frogs nestled among the petals. Jihoon selfishly hopes it’s a quiet nod, maybe, to the one-eyed ceramic that used to sit between your desks.

Soft up-lighting dances across the ceiling in sweeping arcs. At the entrance, a custom neon sign glows: “To Another Season Together – TCC Spring Gala 2025.” The letters are rimmed in flowers. The letters match the font you always use—the one Jihoon used to mock, now memorized.

He blinks once. Twice.

And then his eyes find you.

And everything stops.

You’re standing near the head table in conversation with a small group of executives, the soft fabric of your floor-length dress catching the light with every movement. It’s deep emerald, the color of growth, of beginnings, and it hugs you like a secret. Your hair is swept to one side, gold clips gleaming like constellations. Your earrings swing with every tilt of your head. You're laughing at something Jisoo says, and Jihoon feels like someone’s sucked all the air out of the room.

He can’t breathe.

You look beautiful. God, you look radiant. And yet, when you catch sight of him, all that warmth bleeds from your expression like ink in water.

You walk right past him.

Your heels click like punctuation across the floor. You're all satin grace and practiced poise as you move toward the next wave of guests, Samuel at your side with his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and a lanyard tucked into his pocket.

Jihoon turns, throat tight.

He doesn’t think. Just reaches.

His fingers curl gently around your wrist, only for you to yank away like he’s scalded you.

The shame hits fast. Low. Gnawing.

“Director Lee,” you say, voice perfectly modulated, all polished chill. You adjust your bracelet, not looking at him. “How nice of you to come.”

“I—uh.” His tie feels like a noose around his neck. He fingers the knot at his throat like it might unravel something in his chest. “It looks great. The gala. You… you look great.”

You don’t soften. You don’t smile.

“Didn’t think you’d get to see it,” you say evenly, “what with your penchant for never deviating from your schedule.”

Jihoon falters.

“I guess I deserved that one—”

“You did.”

There’s a silence, sharp as cut glass. He wets his lips.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

And for a second, just a second, he thinks you might say yes. Your eyes skim over him, cool and appraising. You step into his space, fingers reaching up to fix the knot of his tie with surgical precision.

You smooth it down.

And say, “No.”

Then you pivot on your heel, chin high. Walk away like it doesn’t cost you anything. You tug Samuel with you by the wrist, and he stumbles, glancing back once with a wide-eyed, apologetic look that makes Jihoon feel like he’s been left standing in the wreckage of his own making.

He doesn’t follow.

Not yet.

The music swells around him.

And Jihoon—Managing Director, chronic early riser, routine-bound, tightly-wound, not-feeling-anything Jihoon—finally feels what it’s like to want something enough to chase it.

He retreats to the bar.

Not far. Just enough to lick his wounds in peace, to press the sweating rim of a half-empty whiskey tumbler to his lips and pretend he doesn’t feel like the smallest man in the world.

Behind him, the gala spins onward. Laughter crests like waves, warm and vibrant. There’s a group on the dance floor now—Jihyo, Samuel, some new interns he doesn’t know by name yet. The lights are soft, golden, perfect. You did this. You made this.

He doesn’t belong in it.

He shifts his weight onto the barstool, straightens the already-perfect crease in his slacks, and stares blankly at the melting ice in his glass.

“Brooding at a party you helped plan is so on brand for you, Jihoon.”

Jihoon doesn’t have to look to know it’s Wonwoo.

Wonwoo leans against the bar beside him, posture loose, glass of red wine in one hand. There’s a slight smirk on his lips, but his voice is quiet. Careful.

Jihoon doesn’t answer.

Wonwoo knocks his shoulder gently against Jihoon’s. “She did a hell of a job, huh?”

Jihoon nods.

“And she looks—”

“I know.”

Wonwoo’s mouth quirks. “I was going to say radiant.”

“I know.”

They lapse into silence for a beat. Music drifts faintly from the speakers overhead: something jazzy and slow now, the kind of thing Jihoon normally hates. He can’t find it in himself to hate anything tonight.

Wonwoo shifts beside him. Swirls his wine.

“You know,” he says finally, and his voice is low, like he doesn’t want to interrupt the fragile world around them, “if you want her, Jihoon…”

Jihoon doesn’t move.

“You should go get her.”

There’s no teasing in Wonwoo’s voice. No smugness. Just a weight behind the words. A simple, heavy truth.

Jihoon blinks slowly at his drink.

When he stands, it’s with a sharp breath and the feeling of something electric coursing under his skin. He doesn’t know where the courage comes from—maybe from the base of his spine, maybe from his chest where your voice still lingers—but his feet are moving before his brain catches up.

He finds you on the balcony, not by accident, but after twenty minutes of circling the ballroom like a man in a maze.

You’re leaning against the railing, spine curved, a half-empty glass of something fizzy cupped between both hands. The light from inside hits your silhouette just barely, outlining the slope of your shoulders, the glint of a bracelet, the softest shift of breath.

He almost doesn’t approach.

He almost retreats, back into the crowd, to pretend he never saw you, to keep carrying the shame like a stone in his pocket. But then you tip your head back, sighing quietly into the night air, and he sees your shoulders lift—just slightly—as though exhaling something that hurt.

That’s what makes him move.

Your voice floats to him before he says anything. "I needed a break. From the crowd."

Jihoon clears his throat. His dress shoes click against the stone.

You don’t look at him.

Of course you don’t.

You take a sip from your drink, and the silence stretches.

“I came out here to find you,” he says at last. His voice is quiet, but not timid.

You nod once, gaze still fixed on the skyline.

“Didn’t think you were one to deviate from routine,” you murmur, and the words aren’t barbed, not quite, but they make him flinch all the same.

Jihoon swallows. “I needed to.”

Silence again. He hates it. Loves it. It’s still better than your coldness from earlier. He turns his head slightly. You’re bathed in the soft golden spill of light from the ballroom; your dress glimmers with it. Your eyes don’t meet his.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

His voice is low. Unsteady.

You blink once, slow. “For what?”

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. The words are there—have been there, pressed against the back of his teeth for weeks—but when he tries to pull them out, they come slow. Crooked.

“For everything,” he manages.

You huff. It’s not cruel, but it isn’t kind either. “That’s not enough, Jihoon.”

And you start to turn—like the whole conversation has passed through you, like you’ve already braced yourself for disappointment.

He panics.

His hand catches your arm.

Not hard. Just enough.

Just enough to say: Wait. Please.

You go still.

Your skin is warm beneath his fingers. Your pulse, steady.

You don’t pull away.

His grip isn’t tight. He’d let go in an instant if you asked. But you don’t ask.

“I like routine,” he blurts. The words tumble. Not eloquent. Not planned. Not rehearsed the way they should’ve been. “I like things neat. I like symmetry. I like when things make sense. My life—it’s boxes. Lines. Fonts. My closet’s color-coded. My days are timed down to the minute.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him.

He’s rambling now. He knows it. He can’t stop.

“And you,” he breathes, “you don’t fit.”

Your eyes narrow, but you still don’t move.

“You burst in late with coffee stains and wild ideas. You use three different fonts in one presentation. You leave your shoes under your desk. You’re loud. You’re chaotic. You—”

He stops.

Swallows hard.

“You made me forget what quiet felt like,” he says.

Finally, your expression shifts. Just a little. Barely perceptible. 

“You’re light,” he says, softer now. “And warmth. And you talk too much, and you laugh too loudly, and you planned a whole gala that turned out so beautiful it doesn’t even look like the same building anymore.”

He risks a step closer. His hand drops from your arm. But you still haven’t moved.

“And I’ve missed you.”

The words are raw. Unshielded.

He’s never been good at vulnerability. At messy things.

But you? You’ve always been a little bit messy. Maybe that’s why he likes you so much.

Your lips part. And for the first time since he hurt you, there’s something soft in your eyes. Something tender and tired and maybe a little fragile. Like sunrise peeking through cloud cover. 

“Say it again,” you whisper.

Jihoon’s voice breaks. “I missed you.”

You breathe in.

And he holds his breath.

The quiet hum of the city falls away.

Jihoon is still watching you like he’s not sure you’re real, like the soft forgiveness in your eyes might vanish if he so much as blinks. The lights from the ballroom catch in your hair, turning it gold at the edges, and when you take one small step closer, it knocks the breath from his lungs.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

He says it like it’s sacred. Like maybe if he says it enough, it’ll be enough.

“I’m sorry,” Jihoon says, voice low and reverent. “For being cold. For shutting you out. For—” his throat bobs, “—for missing you and not knowing what to do with that.”

Your fingers trace the line of his wrist. “You could’ve started with a text.”

He huffs, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “You would’ve given me shit for my ‘corporatisms’.”

“I would’ve,” you agree. And then softer: “But I still would’ve answered.”

That does it.

He doesn’t ask permission. He knows he doesn’t need to. You’re already leaning in. And when he kisses you this time, it’s not tentative or slow. It’s not hesitant like the first time outside Lucky Strike, full of wonder and citrus and possibility.

It’s familiar now. Lived-in. Certain.

His mouth meets yours like a memory, like coming home after a storm. You know this rhythm. You know the sigh he gives when your hand slips into his hair, know the sound he makes when your teeth catch gently at his bottom lip. He angles his head, deepens it, hands sliding to your waist, pulling you in like you’re gravity.

You kiss him back with heat, with ache, with a quiet relief that tastes a little like victory. He’s not the same man who flinched when you suggested team happy hour, not the man who left his 9 a.m. slot sacred and untouchable. He’s here, now—messy and open and all yours.

When you break apart, breathless, you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then another to his cheek. Then one to his jaw, just because you can.

He smiles—really smiles—and his thumb strokes a line across your cheekbone.

You giggle, and the sound makes something in him melt. He can’t help it. He leans in again, plants a kiss to your cheek, then another at your temple. Then your jaw.

You kiss him back with a string of little pecks across his face: cheeks, nose, forehead, lips again. Between each kiss, you tease, “Bet this isn’t on your calendar, Managing Director.” Kiss. “Should I pencil it in for next time?” Kiss. “Repeatable KPI?” Kiss.

“God,” he groans, half-laughing now, arms winding around your waist. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

He pulls back, just enough to look at you fully. His tie’s gone crooked. His hair’s a mess. His heart’s beating so fast it might dislodge a rib.

Then, slowly, nervously, he holds a hand out into the night air, palm open between you.

“Wanna get out of here?”

You tilt your head. Your smile is pure trouble. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, Managing Director?”

He chuckles, leans in, breath warm as it ghosts along your jaw. “Every rule,” he murmurs, voice low and full of promise, “has exceptions.”

And when you take his hand, he holds on like he’ll never let go.

It’s 11:30 when Jihoon finally blinks awake.

The light has already claimed the room—morning sun slipping through the linen curtains he swore were “too thin” when his mom picked them out a few years ago, golden beams painting lazy stripes across the sheets, his bare chest, the tangle of limbs that is you, warm and heavy against him.

By now, he should be up. Should be padding across the apartment on silent feet, folding back the covers with military precision and slotting each pillow into its rightful corner. Should already be in the shower, after his Saturday push day—three sets of incline bench, two supersets with dumbbell flys and cable rows, core finisher, twenty minutes. No more, no less.

He should be out of the shower by 12:10. Should be halfway through his grocery list at the farmer’s market by 12:30 PM, the one he keeps on his Notes app with color-coded categories for protein, greens, fruit, pantry. He should be doing laundry.

But instead, he sighs, nose buried in your hair, and shifts just enough to tighten his grip on your waist. Pulls you closer, until your legs hook instinctively around his and your hand sprawls across his heart. His heart that is—he notices absently—beating just a little slower than usual.

You make a sleepy little noise, eyelids fluttering as your voice breaks the quiet. “Mmm. Don’t you have a shirt to be ironing right now?”

He huffs, rolls his eyes, pinches your side.

You shriek and try to squirm away, but he’s quicker, mouth finding yours before you can get far, swallowing your protest like it’s air.

“Quiet, you,” he mutters against your lips. “Let’s just go back to sleep for a little.”

You hum in reluctant agreement, settling against his chest like you’ve always belonged there. Your breaths even out again, your fingers tracing lazy patterns along the seam of his ribcage.

It’s quiet.

But not the empty, sterile kind of quiet Jihoon’s used to. Not the kind that echoes in a perfectly made bed or a silent inbox. This quiet is warm. Breathing. Laced with the faint sound of your heartbeat against his. It fills the room like a song he forgot he loved.

His eyes slip shut again.

“...But when we wake up,” he mumbles, lips brushing your forehead, “you’re coming to work out with me.”

“Jihoon—” You groan, muffled by his chest.

“What?” he grins, smug. “Can’t burn the entire rulebook on day one.”

You slap his chest lightly, and he laughs. Real, full-bodied. The sound of a man who’s finally learned that some things, like routines, can bend.

Especially for you.

📁 Drafts — lee.jihoon@tcc.com

[1]

To: youruser@tcc.com Subject: 

Thank you for moving back to our office. I missed you. 

This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours? 

[2]

To: youruser@tcc.com Subject: 

that skirt was not HR-appropriate but god, i hope you wear it again tomorrow.

This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours? 

[3]

To: youruser@tcc.com Subject: It is 8PM please. 

come home. i made you the pasta you like and the garlic bread

please come home.

This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours? 

[4] 

To: youruser@tcc.com Subject: 

I love you.

This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours? 

[haologram]

the jun to my hao…separated by miles of distance but connected by the ‘puter 💻@miniseokminnies

[haologram]

its so odd to know the things you know and yet, still continue to act the way you do.

[haologram]

opening ellipsus bc i've been on scene 3 out of 14 for the last week

[haologram]

about you ⌁ k.sy [m]

— synopsis: things between you and soonyoung never really end. sometimes you're up all night on the phone, sometimes you make it past the message plans you've been putting off and end up in his bed. It's really up to you, soonyoung has never been anything but about you. – genre: idiots exes to ??? ; angst, fluff. — pairing: ex-boyfriend!kwon soonyoung x fem!reader – word count: 6.1k — rating: 18+. minors do not interact. – warnings: a little rushed but general pining, swearing, they're stupid. mentions of dick jokes because i'm just a silly gal. — what to listen to: no one noticed - the marías ; undressed - sombr ; soft spot - keshi. – author's note: green dividers by @/saradika-graphics. this is for @aeristudios. i'm not very good at sentimental expressions face-to-face, and i did write this in one sitting but i hope this is enough to show that i appreciate you dearly. i know i'm a little late in the day but happy birthday aeris! ♡

YOU AND SOONYOUNG WERE NEVER REALLY OVER.

It was one of the more annoying parts of your tumultuous relationship, knowing that your breakup had been so amicable that he would still come over unannounced. Sometimes you were making dinner and yelling at him to get out, other times you were sprawled on your couch and he cleaned your entire apartment — but most of the time, you just co-existed. He'd lay on the floor in front of your coffee table and flip through whatever Netflix had to offer, and you'd wind up right next to him within ten minutes of him choosing a movie, popcorn bowl in hand.

Your friends found this…odd. To say the least.

From Jeonghan being the master of ghosting to Mingyu filling his time with hobbies to force himself to move on from every relationship he's ever had — the fact that you and Soonyoung dated for six years and then seemingly broke up despite not…actually? Breaking up?

Or ever falling out of love.

It was like sorcery to them. It was strange to see two people they thought would once marry, move their things out of their shared apartment and move in to new ones in opposite directions. And yet: still met every Tuesday for a lunch date, still grocery shopped together, still called and asked if the other wanted something before leaving a favorite spot.

One could say it's healthy, it's friendship, it's being amicable so things aren't awkward. It's only been six months since, anyway.

Others have more to say than normal, despite not having better coping mechanisms.

"It's unhealthy," Seungcheol scoffed, rooting around in your pantry for the protein powder he stashed. Your apartment was closer to his gym, and he let himself in while you were getting ready for work — or slam into you like he did today, sweaty and gross, right as you were exiting in your nicely pressed blouse. Thus, making you late — because you'd rather die than go to work smelling like Choi Seungcheol and zero bitches.

"I don't care what you, of all people, have to say about my dynamic with Soonyoung. You kept half your exes on the hook so long that one of them started believing they were invited to the group hangouts. And then you turned into a gym rat after you dated half the city and couldn't find a nice girl within a 10-mile radius. If I were you, I'd drink my protein shake and shut the hell up." You scoff from your living room, your fingers annoyingly not cooperating with you as you tried to button a new blouse. He snorts from the kitchen, stepping out as you let out a frustrated breath.

"It's not just me that says it, you know that." His voice is too saccharine for your taste, making you scowl as he reaches to button your shirt for you. You allow it, letting him smooth your collar with a knowing look. "I say it because I'm your friend, Y/N." "What, everyone else says it because they're assholes? I know it's not a regular thing, Cheol, but it's not like Soonyoung and I were the most normal couple anyway." You run a hand over your face, checking your watch with your tongue in your cheek. "I'm late. You'll lock up, right?"

You're grabbing your purse without an answer from him, only for your phone to buzz with an incoming call in your pocket. You fish it out as Seungcheol beelines back for the kitchen, the creak of a cabinet followed by an aha! as you answer the call without looking.

"Hello?" You wave at Seungcheol, who gives you a cute smile before you slip out the front door.

"You and me, lunch at Amato's. Whaddya say?" It's Soonyoung, the sound of his stupid stereo blaring in the background. You're not sure if it's his car or if he's at the studio, but either way, it's way too early to hear Thong Song by Sisqo.

"You call me at…8:32 on a Tuesday morning while blasting a sex song to ask if I want to get lunch at Amato's? You've gotta give the bit up at some point, Hosh." You roll your eyes as if he can see you, barreling down the stairs of your complex as he laughs on the other end. You practically sprint to your car, the sky rumbling above you.

"You don't have to call me that, you know. You can just keep calling me Soonie." "We're broken up, you fool. What's the point of pet names without the pet?" "You never told me you were into that—"

"I'm not! God, you're so annoying." You fumble with your door handle, popping it open just as a fat drop of rain lands on your head. You clench your teeth, throwing your bag into your passenger seat as another laugh comes through the staticky call.

"So…Amato's? Yes or no, babe." "Call me babe again, and I'll make sure your 'meatballs' are on the menu—" "Hey, hey! I need those!"

"You're disgusting. Pick me up at noon, if you're late even by a minute I'll have lunch with Jihoon." You hang up before he can reply, taking a deep breath before shoving your keys into the ignition. Cranking the ignition, the engine doesn't start.

"Wonderful. Wonder-fucking-ful." You rub your face, letting out a suffocated scream into your palms before leaning against your horn. "This is fine."

You grab your bag, pulling it over your shoulder with a sniff, turning your nose up as you slam back out of it. Your hand on your hip, you kick your tire rim when Seungcheol's voice rings out behind you.

"Need a ride?" "On a real cowboy, damn it. Can you spare or will you be late?"

You hold a file folder over your head, the sprinkles of rain splattering against it as he grins, rounding the car to open the door for you. You give him a grateful smile, slipping in quickly and shutting his door as he makes his way around. He slides into the driver's side, half-finished protein shake in hand (a cup you'll know you won't get back) when he stills. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, pressing his knuckle into the car's start button before looking over at you.

"It's Tuesday." "…It is. Lots of meetings. Already running late." "You're having lunch with Soonyoung, huh?"

"Will you fuck off?" You sink into the passenger seat, crossing your arms on your chest with a petulant kick of your feet. Seungcheol's stereo turns on, blasting Cupid's Chokehold by Gym Class Heroes through the local radio station.

"Fitting, isn't it?" "Fuck off, Seungcheol."

His laughter fills your ears as he pulls out of the lot.

"You're late." Jihoon calls as you scurry past him, making you scowl.

"Andyou're annoying. Let me be, will you? It's pouring out there." You spit, shucking off your soaked sweater. Grimacing, you shove into a drawer in your desk, settling at your desk as the cold air hits your back.

"Here."

You look up to see Jihoon holding a folded blanket over the divider between your desks. You raise a brow, and he rolls his eyes before tossing it onto your keyboard.

"Just take it. Soonyoung'll have my head if I let his girlfriend freeze." "I'm not his girlfriend anymore, Jihoon."

"That's not what he thinks." Jihoon grouses, making you roll your eyes as you grab the blanket off your keyboard. You wrap it around your shoulders after shaking it out, tonguing your cheek as you sign into your computer. "Speaking of Soonyoung, where are you guys going for lunch today? Just so I don't bump into you."

You snort, looking up from your monitor to see Jihoon staring down at a thick file in his hands, his brows furrowed as he tapped a pen on his lips.

"What makes you think I'm going to lunch with Soonyoung today?"

He looks up, a confused glaze over his eyes as he gestures to the air with his pen.

"It's Tuesday? You guys always go on a lunch date on Tuesdays." He speaks slowly, giving you an insulted look before glancing back down at his file. You blink, before he stands abruptly. "I've got a bone to pick with Mingyu. Let me know when I get back, because I was thinking Amato's today and I don't want to see you guys sharing a bowl of spaghetti a la Lady and the Tramp."

Your reply is caught in your throat as Jihoon whizzes by, his cologne filling your nose as you stare at your keyboard. It was a light purple, a gift from Soonyoung weeks before the two of you started dating all those years ago. Your eyes travel up, the picture on your monitor big and bright in your vision — you, Soonyoung and his dog, Latte, in the middle of a park. You had a beef stick in your hand, and Latte managed to bite it right as Soonyoung took the photo.

It was hers after that.

You feel an odd sensation in your stomach as you clear your throat, opening the employee portal and logging on.

Username: useryn@pledisfinance.com Password: KwonSoonyoung061596!$

Your hands still over the Enter button. You blink once, twice, three times before pressing it — the portal opening and your chest feeling tight as you fumble around for your water bottle. Another gift from Soonyoung, right before the breakup — one you can't stop yourself from using, lest his little minions (re: Seokmin and Seungkwan) report back to him and say they saw you drinking out of a cup instead of the insulated forty-ounce water bottle in baby blue.

You sit momentarily, popping the straw out of the bottle as you glance around the rest of your desk. A framed photo of Latte, another of Latte and Soonyoung, and one of you and him the first time you went to the county fair — sitting in a Ferris Wheel, fear evident in his eyes as you both posed for the camera. You remember him throwing up right after — and you mourned the loss of sixteen dollars worth of frozen mango margaritas. It was a good memory nevertheless, one of the last dates before the two of you sat down and talked about your relationship with no bounds.

Soonyoung had brought it up first — talks of lack of quality time because of your jobs, one he quit shortly after dating you because it was a breach of contract to date within the company. He used his savings to open a dance studio downtown, only two and a half blocks from your office building. That was why you had Tuesday lunch dates, and that was why you'd gotten used to barreling downstairs on Thursday afternoons to see him leaning on his motorcycle with an extra helmet and riding pants for you.

That was how you managed to spend time together. A busy manager at a financial office where everyone but your friends were incompetent and a new small business owner fighting for his spot in the Top 10 Dance Studios on Tripadvisor didn't have much time to spare, even for those they loved most. He brought up a break, a moment to come home late without feeling the ache in his chest at seeing you were already asleep. He brought up a pause, a step back for you to realize if you really wanted to keep feeling your stomach sink knowing he was going to be late picking you up from work on Thursday evenings.

It was you who pulled the plug entirely.

Neither of you cried. You didn't say anything for a full ten minutes, actually — you both sat in your then-shared dining room, glasses of liquor full in front of you before one of you laughed. You don't remember who, but suddenly the room was full of giggles and Soonyoung stood up to plant a soft kiss on your hairline.

"We should go apartment hunting. It'll be bad for us to stay here if we're broken up."

He cleaned the table, and you both ordered takeout to eat in front of the television, sitting thigh to thigh. You went to bed together, your head nuzzled into the crook of his neck and soft I love yous were whispered before you fell asleep. The next week was full of impromptu apartment tours together, correcting agents when they asked if you were together and picking each other's furniture out during breaks in between packing boxes.

You think that was why the split was so clean.

It seemed like there wouldn't be an end to you and Soonyoung anyway — your relationship only being a quick knot in the road that was a lifelong friendship. Your pinkies were linked as you dragged each other through hardware stores, picking new paint colors and you'd complain about sore backs to one another after helping build IKEA furniture. He'd make you stay on his bed and take the couch if you were over too late, he'd make warm breakfast and send you on your way with a full tumbler of tea.

He'd hug you so tight, you wondered if he wanted to let go. If he was reluctantly letting go, and if that was what kept you both so tethered to one another.

It wasn't that you didn't love Soonyoung. You did.

You do.

Talks of marriage were few and far between, but they were lengthy. Conversations about rings, dream venues, how he wanted to wear a nice pink tie instead of the regular black. How he wanted camellias and you wanted hydrangeas, and how you compromised by saying both at the exact same time. You expressed your distaste for stuffy ballrooms, and he eagerly wrapped his arms around you with the admittance of wanting a semi-outdoor celebration.

You looked at rings together. Sapphires, emeralds, infinity bands and even mentions of his mother's 10-carat ring — nothing really caught your eye until he came home from his week-long birthday trip back to his parents' place, one you missed to take care of something a bunch of rookies screwed up at work. He tried to play it cool, he tried to be nonchalant — before popping his suitcase open two days after arriving to reveal a velvet box buried beneath his underwear.

A simple gold band, and a pretty round-cut diamond sitting in the prongs with two sets of three smaller rubies nestled against the sides. With an impish smile, he set it down on the dresser for the two of you to stare at, your hand tight around his as you swallowed nervously.

"Is that—" "I didn't think. I just saw it and I bought it." "…Is this you proposing?"

That conversation was had three years into your relationship, two days after his birthday dinner at Jeonghan's restaurant in downtown. You were both dressed to the nines, all fitted black dress and his nice tie — only to leave the restaurant after and pull through a Wendy's drive-thru with grumbling bellies.

It never came up again. The ring sat on his side of the dresser, among his colognes, and mocking you every morning until you woke up and you weren't sharing an apartment with him anymore. It was then that you finally cried — loud enough that your director didn't question you when you reluctantly called off work, hard enough that you could hardly breathe and long enough that Soonyoung seemingly felt a disturbance in the force and swung by after work.

He too, broke down then. He held you close, promising it wasn't forever. Promising that things would work themselves out, that he'd find a way, that things would change. Linking his pinky finger to yours in a juvenile vow that it was you and him to the ends of the earth — even if it wasn't him in your bed every night, even if you found somebody new.

Even if it hurt him to think that way.

That night ended with him laying on the floor next to your bed, holding your hand over the edge as you slept. He didn't leave until morning, leaving breakfast and a note that said see you next week tucked into a packed lunch bag. You didn't cry about it again, instead getting dressed for work and hiking the bag over your shoulder with your purse.

You decided you'd distance yourself a bit after that, and you assumed it was what Soonyoung would want, too — until you stepped outside on Thursday evening that same week, seeing your ex-boyfriend slow to a stop in front of your office building. He pulled his helmet off, black hair falling into his eyes as he turned to see you standing a few feet away.

It wasn't like you weren't expecting it. You'd taken a rideshare to work that morning out of habit, charging the fifteen dollars to Soonyoung's credit card on the app.

Whether you like it or not, Soonyoung's got you in a grip you're not so sure you want to be freed from. It's like his fingers hold the oxygen you need, wrapped tight around your throat but fully willing to let go. Fully able to let go, but refusing to because you've got him the exact same way.

Soonyoung doesn't know a life that isn't all about you. He'd gone to college with you after meeting you his senior year of high school, he'd landed two internships with you back to back, he'd gotten you both hired at Pledis Finance and he left so you'd get your promotion and he'd still get to be your boyfriend. He opened his business, he made good money and he tried to make more time for the two of you now that he was his own boss. He tried everything, even pulling strings at your job to get you off early every few Fridays — and it worked. Soonyoung's life is having his cake and eating it, too, and it's all about you.

"Ugh."

You click out of the portal on your screen, moving to settings and removing the photo of you and Soonyoung with a default screensaver.

"Yowch, chaos in utopia? Did Boyfriend leave the stove on again?"

You hear Wonwoo behind you, before the heat of his chest is right next to the back of your chair. You scowl, swatting your hand over your shoulder and brushing the collar of his shirt as he snickers.

"He's not my boyfriend, Jeon. Shut up." "Well, he's certainly something. And speaking of him, he's moping in the group chat about how you hung up on him earlier. You might wanna get him to shut up before Minghao kicks him out again."

You shove Wonwoo's shoulder behind you, only earning more mischievous giggles as he practically skipped away, and you glanced at the photos on your desk. A moment passes before you grab all of them and shove them into a drawer with a clatter, before the buzz of your phone catches your attention.

NEW! [3] Messages In: After Hours 🍸 Soonyoung 💘: she hung up on me! Cheol: dude we do not care Jihoon: retweet ^

You tongue your cheek, quickly clicking around before shooting the message off and tossing your phone in the very same drawer. A hoot is heard across the office, but you only open your portal again and take a deep breath, forcing yourself to focus.

Message To: After Hours 🍸 ↳ Replying to: Kwon Soonyoung YOU: minghao can you boot him plz

NEW! [2] Messages In: After Hours 🍸 Hao: with pleasure Kwon Soonyoung: hey!!! Hao has removed Kwon Soonyoung from the group.

NEW! [2] Messages from: Kwon Soonyoung [11:58 AM] ditching the bike. coming to get you on foot since amato's is a block away. [12:01 PM] where are you? i'm outside.

"You're not very funny, you know."

Soonyoung is pouting as you tuck your hands into your jacket pockets, your heels clicking against the pavement as he falls into lockstep besides you. You bite back a smile, shrugging your shoulders as he drapes his arm over them and pulls you into his side. You don't touch him, giving him a sideways glance as your hand clenches in your pocket — usually tucked into the back pocket of his jeans.

"I'm hilarious, thank you. Where's the bike?" "Reducing my carbon footprint. Add me back to the group or you pay for your own alfredo."

"I can afford a fifteen dollar plate of alfredo pasta, Soonyoung." You snort, only for him to stomp his foot as you reach the crosswalk.

"You shouldn't have to, though. Why can't you just let me love you?" He grumbles, and you feel your heart sink just a bit as the light changes, allowing you to cross quickly.

"I have let you love me, and I continue to let you in this weird little situation we have going on. If you wanna pay for my lunch, be my guest." You shrug again, seeing the blinking red sign of Amato's come into view. "How's work? Still struggling with that 3 PM client?"

"I don't get lunch with you to talk shop." He scoffs, his hand on your shoulder swiping your collarbone. "How's your back? If it still hurts I can get you in with Chan at the massage spa. Great guy, always uses this really nice almond oil."

"Pft, no thanks. My back is fine, Mingyu got me a pillow for my desk chair." You pat your back unceremoniously, and Soonyoung's lip juts out in a pout.

"You let Mingyu buy you things?" "Don't get jealous, it's not a good look on you."

"'M not jealous." He mutters, "just wondering what a twerp like him has to offer you."

"That twerp is our friend, Soonyoung. Watch your mouth." You remind him, your tone bored as he huffs. He mutters under his breath, and you seemingly don't care enough to catch it as you both stop at the corner. A couple is standing beside you, headed in the same direction — and the girl's ring finger catches your eye.

Yellow gold, marquis-cut ruby.

"…and she said she doesn't want to book the slot anymore because it takes up too much of her time. Lady, all the slots are 90-minutes anyway, and I don't do private sessions with less than 4 people. I don't know what…are you paying attention? Babe."

Soonyoung's hand squeezes your shoulder, and you tear your eyes away from the girl's hand to meet his worried ones. You realize you're on the other side of the street, in front of the restaurant doors.

"You okay? You kinda…spaced out there." "What did I say about calling me babe?"

You let out a breath, feigning annoyance as he pulls the door open. The smell of hearty marinara fills your heart as you step inside, your hand in your pocket coming out to pull him forward by his shirt. He stumbles next to you, and you smile at the hostess that knows you both by name now.

"Hey, guys! Booth in the back, right?" She grins, and you nod quickly before she lets you slip past her. Your hand on Soonyoung's shirt is grabbed by his own, and you yank it out of his grasp before he can interlace your fingers.

"Sit on that side." You point at the opposite side of the booth as you slide into the other, and you ignore the wounded puppy look on his face as he slips into it reluctantly.

"Are you mad at me or something?" He asks softly, and you don't get a chance to reply when your favorite waitress, Saerom, skids in front of your booth with two glasses of water and a basket of bread. She sets them down, pulling a ramekin of garlic butter from her apron pocket and sliding it next to the bread with a quick smile that fades faster than a New York minute.

"Ooh, trouble in paradise? You guys never sit across." She questions, whipping out her notepad as you clear your throat. "Anything I can do?"

"Uh, nope. Just the usual, please." You say quickly, and she gives you a concerned look as Soonyoung shifts uncomfortably. He shucks his jacket off, giving Saerom a quick nod as she awkwardly skirts away. You fiddle with the straws at the end of the table, tossing one across the table for him before tearing the paper off your own and shoving it into your glass.

"Y/N? Did I do something?"

You shake your head, "Nope. Just eat your bread, Soonyoung."

He seems unsatisfied by the answer, but doesn't push it. You both sit in silence, the tap of Soonyoung's shoe the only sound in your vicinity as the restaurant remains solemn on the early Tuesday afternoon.

You clear your throat twice without anything to say, and for once, he doesn't say anything either. Sitting across from one another is weird, and the side of your thigh where his usually brushes is cold as you rub your hand over your slacks to warm it up. He seems slightly defeated but like he doesn't want to push it, he doesn't want to make a conversation uncomfortable — something that Soonyoung never shied away from. To be uncomfortable is to subject yourself to growth, to new beginnings, to understandings.

But he does nothing of the sort as he chews his bread for too long and finishes his first glass of water in three sips.

Saerom comes and goes — more bread, your appetizers of soup and arancini, your entrees of lasagna and classic alfredo with tagliatelle pasta noodles. The crease between her brows grows deeper as she slides a dessert menu on the table in the middle of you pushing your pasta around.

Your chest feels tight as he rests his chin on his palm, chewing aimlessly around the same bite of lasagna. Your eyes meet for a moment, before you set your fork down. Glancing over your shoulder, you see Saerom talking with the bartender, Joshua. You stare at the pasta on your plate, the letters on the dessert menu blurring as your eyes slowly fill with tears.

"What are we doing?" You whisper, and he stills.

"What do you mean?" "What are we doing, Soonyoung?"

You blink rapidly, willing the tears back as you shrug. "Tuesday lunch, Thursday night drives…I still get off early every other Friday because of you. I still spend the night at your place once a week like we did before we moved in together. There's pictures of you and Latte on my desk at work, you're my screensaver on every device I own that isn't my television. I still make kimchi fried rice at two in the morning and expect you to walk out of the bedroom and join me on the couch."

Looking back up at him, you tilt your head to the side.

"So what are we doing, Soonyoung? Why are we doing this? What do we gain?"

He sits for a minute. The longest minute of your life, you think, as you cross and uncross your legs beneath the table. He stares at you for the minute, too — his eyes darting all over your face. Reading you, taking you in as his tongue peeks out to lick his lips.

"I don't know how to live a life that doesn't revolve around you." He whispers, but it's shaky. His fingers tremble as he traces the logo of the restaurant on the table mat, his eyes glossy as he shrugs. "It's selfish. I'm selfish, even, but it's the truth. I've never known a moment that isn't full of you and I don't know how I've made it this long without breaking down and begging you to take me back. I've never hated a mattress more than the one I have now. It smells like you without you slipping being under my covers when I get home late, and I can't bring myself to look at half the clothes in my closet without thinking of you. You're everywhere and nowhere and I can't sleep well most nights, no matter how tired I am, because it's cold without you. I'm freezing without you."

He taps the table mat, sniffling as a singular tear rolls down his cheek. He wipes at it haphazardly, clearing his throat as he looks away.

"I don't know what we're doing. I don't know but I don't care as long as I keep seeing you, even if it hurts me to know that I can't kiss you. I can't kiss you, or call you baby, or call you mine but I don't care." The words come out in one breath, your lip trembling as you hold back a sob. "You're all I know. My entire existence is dedicated to you. How could I just let that go?"

"Because this is unhealthy." "You sound like Seungcheol. Stop hanging out with that guy, he'll poison the well."

He scoffs, wiping his eyes roughly as you suck in the deepest breath possible. Your throat aches as your hand finds your wallet, deep in the pocket of your slacks. He looks at you with such a tenderness in his gaze, your stomach flipping as you try to clear your throat.

"I don't know what we're doing, but I know how I feel. How I've always felt and how I know you feel, too." His voice still shakes, but he's confident. He squeezes his eyes shut, nibbling on his lip before sighing and forcing himself to look at you.

"So what the hell are we doing? Why aren't we together? Why am I meeting you three times a week when I could come home to you every night? Why can't I think of you when I'm in the fucking shower without feeling guilty? Why are we doing this?"

"You think of me in the shower?" You blurt, and he tongues his cheek.

"You're missing the point." "What point? That you're a pervert?" "So what? I'm not allowed to fantasize about my girlfriend of six fucking years? God forbid a man has hobbies."

"I'm not your girlfriend, is the problem." You shoot back, and he rolls his eyes, sliding out of his booth and rounding the table to sit next to you. He pushes you further into it with his hip, his jeans brushing your slack as he rearranges the plates. "Soonyoung."

"No. We have time for each other and I miss being woken up by the sound of pots and pans banging as Riverdale plays way too loud on the television. I miss talking about getting married and remembering the gleam in your eyes when you thought I was proposing, and I regret not doing it. I regret thinking I wasn't ready because I've always been ready and I've always been yours, even if you're not mine."

He shifts in his seat, his knee bumping yours as he turns.

"I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you for over ten years. Since college, I've known who seared her name into my heart and if it's not you, then it's no one. We can end it, fully, and I'll do everything I can to move on if that's what you want." His hand grabs yours from on top of your thigh, squeezing softly as you glance at him through teary eyes.

"Just don't tell me you don't love me anymore." "I could never." "Then what are we doing? Why are we still sitting here when I could get Jeonghan to let you off early and we can move all your shit into my place? Or even get a new place together? What are we doing?"

"Wasting time." Saerom's voice calls out from across the restaurant as she thumbs through a wad of cash, and Joshua elbows her with a pointed look. "Ouch, you bastard! It's not like I lied!"

"You're meddling." He grits, and you let out a pitiful laugh as Soonyoung interlaces your fingers. "Guys, it's on us if you wanna go…make out, or something."

"Who's meddling now?" Saerom grumbles, and he shoves her shoulder lightly as Soonyoung smiles softly. "Come on. I'll even take you on a date. We can go on a ride around the Han River like we did on our first date, I'll buy you a soda from the same vending machine and shake it so it explodes like it did then."

"Is that when you realized I was the one? After I told you that Nissan dick joke?"

He rolls his eyes, pulling you out of the booth as you chuckled.

"I knew you were the one before that stupid joke." "Prove it. You, me, the Han River on your bike and a shaken orange soda. I'll find another dick joke on the way there." "Done deal."

"YOU OWE ME SIXTY BUCKS."

Seungcheol slaps the back of Mingyu's head as they sip beers on the carpet of your apartment. The younger scowls, shoving Seungcheol away as he snickers.

"I didn't even make that bet with you, it was Jeonghan." He mutters, but digs his wallet out of his pocket anyway. You quickly reach over and pluck the cash out of Mingyu's fingers, sticking your tongue out at a sulking Seungcheol. "Hey!"

"Is for horses. You're not allowed to bet on two people in love, it's in poor taste." You scoff, shoving them into the pocket of your shorts. "Plus, consider it payment for helping me pack up my apartment."

"Shouldn't you be paying us?" Mingyu blinks, and you shake your head.

"I put up with you guys bitching and moaning after offering to help me move so I could get out of here faster. It's like, reparations for subjecting me to your manly grumbling. Not to mention, you bet on the love of my life coming back to me as if we weren't in utter limbo."

"Why are you guys just sitting there? Help me move the boxes!" Soonyoung scolds them from the doorway of your bedroom, Jihoon squeezing out with a box labeled shoes.

"Why do you have so many fucking shoes? Are you a caterpillar?" He grouses, pushing past the two men scrambling to get up from the carpet and beelining for the door. You roll your eyes, watching as Seungcheol and Mingyu clamber into your bedroom as Soonyoung slips out of the way. You attempt to duck out of his path, but he grabs the belt loop of your shorts and pulls you back into his chest.

"Why are you running?" "Not running, whatever do you mean?" "So, avoiding?"

"Gasp, I'd never avoid my fiancé." You feign shock as he presses a kiss to your cheek, sinking his teeth into it lightly before swat him away. "Stop it! We have guests!"

"Oh, spare the excuses. You guys fucked in my car once." Seungcheol retorts, and Soonyoung kicks the back of his thigh. He scowls, giving a horse-like kick back before scurrying out of the apartment.

Soonyoung's arms slide around your waist, making you roll your eyes as he sways you back and forth. You settle your hands atop his, before feeling one of his hands slide over your left. He fiddles with the ring on your finger, tugging at it gently.

"Are we ready for this?" You whisper, looking down at the glimmer of the gemstone in the low light. He flips your hand over, the letter S engraved on the band staring back up at you both. "Soonyoung."

"Born ready, I think. After all…I've always been all about you."

Messages In: After Hours 🍸 Gyu: i don't think we should add him back. he's gonna talk about how much he loves yn and it's gonna make me barf. Jihoon: still dealing with that breakup, huh? you'll be alright, bud. Jihoon added Soonyoung 💘 to the group. Soonyoung 💘: I'M BACK BITCHES! WHO WANTS TO BE A GROOMSMAN! Jeonghan: YOU'RE GETTING MARRIED? SEUNGCHEOL YOU OWE ME EIGHTY BUCKS! You removed Jeonghan from the group. You removed Cheol from the group. You: anyone else? Seokmin: plz tell me i can be the flower girl Seungkwan: nice try, it's gonna be me. Soonyoung 💘: honey i'm outside to pick you up Hao has removed Soonyoung 💘 from the group. Hao: please be gross elsewhere. You: hey hao? Hao: i'm not adding him back. what do you want? You: do you like poutine? Hao:… You added Soonyoung 💘 to the group. Soonyoung 💘: poutine this DICK in your mouth Hao has removed Soonyoung 💘 from the group. Hao has removed you from the group.

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[haologram]

SVT as Florida Man News Headlines

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Live footage of me reading Muddled Hearts 🤭

DIBIDIBIDI I LOVE U THANK U FOR COMING BACK HEHEHEHEHHE

[haologram]

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR WRITING HAO WE'VE BEEN IN A YEAR LONG DRAUGHT I WISH PEOPLE WRITE FOR HIM MORE ONES WITH HAPPY ENDING TO BE SPECIFIC 😭 WHY DO I HAVE TO DIE EVERYTIME OR BREAK UP WITH HIM 💔💔💔 XU MINGHAO PLS MY HEART IS FRAGILE 🥀🥀🥀

THE BLOG IS CALLED HAOLOGRAM FOR A REASON BAYBEEEE ‼️🫶🏼 I GOTCHU 🫵🏼

maybe. idk yet. i will be honest i have no idea how long this fic is going to be or if it’s gonna be happy but i will try for u bestie 🙏🏻