idkshithead - Tumblr blog

idkshithead · 3 days ago

Text

The Wrong Kind of Right

synapse: before everything fell apart, he met her—a young teacher with a bruised heart and a reason to look twice. he wasn’t what she expected. she was everything he never thought he’d deserve.

pairing: seong gi-hun x reader

contains: age gap, teacher!reader (before the games)

a/n: cutie gi-hun before the games hurt him. had to write for him since there’s still nothing for him

. . .

The classroom was mostly quiet now, bathed in the soft amber of a late afternoon sun. Chalk dust floated lazily in the light, catching in the stillness like snowflakes that forgot how to fall. Y/N was bent beside Ga-yeong’s desk, zipping up the little girl’s pink backpack while chatting with her in a gentle, encouraging tone. Ga-yeong smiled, shy and reserved, but it was the kind of smile that only bloomed when she felt safe.

“Your dad’s just a little late, but that’s okay,” Y/N murmured, brushing a hand over the child’s hair. “You did so well on your reading quiz today. I’m proud of you.”

The classroom door creaked open.

“Ah, shit—”

A breathless voice, followed by hurried footsteps and the rustling of a too-thin jacket.

Y/N straightened and turned.

Seong Gi-hun stood there, wide-eyed, flushed from running, one shoelace untied and a plastic convenience store bag crinkling in his hand. His face was apologetic and nervous and—somehow—still charming, in a chaotic, slightly disheveled way.

“Sorry—I’m sorry,” he said quickly, running a hand through his hair. “Traffic was… Well, actually, I missed the bus, and then I—never mind, I’m here.”

Y/N blinked once, then smiled. Not a customer service smile. A real one. The kind people give when they’re not sure what to make of you yet, but they’re curious.

“You must be Ga-yeong’s father.”

“That obvious, huh?” he huffed, trying to catch his breath as he walked over. “I’m Gi-hun. Seong Gi-hun.”

“I’m Y/N,” she replied, offering her hand. “Y/N L/N. I’m her homeroom teacher.”

He shook her hand, trying not to notice how soft hers was—or how young she looked up close. Twenty-something, maybe. Probably straight out of university. And she was his daughter’s teacher? Jesus.

“She’s doing really well,” Y/N added, glancing at Ga-yeong with a fond look that didn’t feel rehearsed. “She’s quiet, but when she opens up… you’ve raised a very thoughtful girl.”

That hit him in the chest harder than he expected.

“I, uh… Thank you. I try. Her mom does most of the… you know. Good parenting.” He laughed, awkward and self-deprecating, and rubbed the back of his neck.

Y/N tilted her head slightly. “Well, showing up matters too.”

He looked at her then—really looked. And for a second, something unspoken passed between them. She saw it all: the tiredness behind his eyes, the worn soles on his shoes, the flicker of guilt he tried to smother with jokes. But also the love. So much love, it clung to him like second skin.

Ga-yeong stood up, slinging on her backpack. “Appa, I told her you like cake.”

Gi-hun blinked. “Wha—? You told her that?”

“She said birthdays were important.”

Y/N grinned. “She told me yours was coming up.”

“Oh, well… I mean, it’s not a big deal. I’m just turning…” He trailed off, eyes flicking back to Y/N. “Older.”

Her eyes sparkled. “That’s a great age.”

And just like that, Seong Gi-hun—father, failure, gambler, soft-hearted mess—felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Gi-hun gave an awkward chuckle, stuffing the crinkled plastic bag deeper into his jacket pocket like it might hide the fact he brought his daughter instant triangle kimbap and a melted Choco Pie for dinner.

“Well,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “I should probably… get this one home. Before she starts charging me overtime.”

Ga-yeong giggled, grabbing her father’s hand without hesitation.

Y/N smiled at the two of them, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks for coming, Mr. Seong. Let me know if you ever want to schedule a conference. Or… you know. Just talk.”

He paused, caught off guard by how sincerely she said it. No pressure in her tone, just quiet kindness.

“Right,” he nodded, fumbling slightly. “Yeah. I’ll, uh… I’ll do that.”

They turned to leave, Ga-yeong humming something under her breath, swinging their arms.

But as they stepped into the hall, Gi-hun glanced back.

Y/N was still standing in the doorway of the classroom, arms folded, leaning slightly against the frame. She was watching him—not expectantly, not flirtatiously, just… curiously. Like she hadn’t quite figured him out yet, but wanted to.

He gave a small wave. She returned it with a smile.

He turned again, guiding Ga-yeong toward the school doors.

Then, ten steps later, he looked back again.

She was still there.

God, why was he looking back again?

Because no one had looked at him like that in years—not with pity, not with suspicion—but like he might actually still be something good.

He smiled to himself, barely noticeable, and turned back for the last time.

But her image stayed with him all the way home.

. . .

Y/N glanced at the clock on the wall—7:48 p.m. The night had been a blur of faces and voices: polite mothers in pressed coats, fathers checking their watches between compliments and critiques, and a few tired grandparents doing their best. All of them gone now, except for one last name on her list.

Seong Gi-hun.

The classroom door creaked open, and there he was—wearing the same worn jacket, hair a little neater this time, and in his hands… two paper cups.

“Hope I’m not too late,” he said, stepping in, a bit out of breath again. “They let me in even though I didn’t bring an appointment card. I told them I was the charming one.”

Y/N blinked, then smiled, clearly amused. “They must’ve been desperate.”

He grinned, holding one of the cups out to her. “Americano. I figured you’ve been trapped in here for hours talking to parents who think their kid invented math.”

She took the cup, pleasantly surprised. “Thank you. You’d be shocked how rare this is.”

“Coffee?” he asked, pulling out the chair across from her.

“Someone thinking I might need it.”

They shared a brief smile as he sat down, both hands wrapped around his own drink like it might keep him grounded.

“So…” she began, reaching for Ga-yeong’s folder. “How’s she been doing at home?”

He scratched his chin. “She’s quiet. Smarter than me. Which isn’t saying much. But she’s been… smiling more. Said you gave her extra time on her art project. She really liked that.”

“I wasn’t about to rush her if she was drawing a whole fox family with watercolors,” Y/N said softly. “She told me it was based on a story you made up.”

Gi-hun looked down, a little sheepish. “Yeah. I used to tell her bedtime stories when I couldn’t afford books. Made them up on the spot. She remembers those?”

“She remembers everything, Mr. Seong. Especially the good parts.”

That made him quiet.

A silence settled, not awkward, but thoughtful—something softer.

Most parents had filed out quickly after checking boxes and nodding politely. But Gi-hun stayed, leaning on his elbows like he actually wanted to be here. Like he was trying.

“You know…” he said after a beat, “I didn’t let her mom come tonight. Told her I’d do it.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Really? Why?”

He shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. “Because… I wanted to see how she was doing. I wanted to hear it from you.” But deep down, he also wanted to see her.

His words caught her off guard.

“You’re the only person in her life that sees her for most of the day,” he added, his voice quieter now. “I thought maybe… you’d know if she was okay. Really okay.”

She studied him for a moment—his tired face, his honest eyes. There was no ego in the question. Just a man clumsily trying to be part of his daughter’s life.

“She is,” Y/N said gently. “She’s thoughtful. Kind. She worries about you, too.”

He nodded, looking down at his coffee like it held answers.

Outside, the janitor’s mop squeaked faintly across the hallway tile.

“You’re the last one here,” Y/N said eventually, glancing at the door. “Everyone else left half an hour ago.”

Gi-hun glanced around as if noticing the emptiness for the first time. “Guess I was hoping I’d be memorable.”

“You are,” she said without missing a beat.

That made him look up—and for a moment, they just watched each other. A teacher and a father. Two tired people meeting at the edges of their lives.

He stood slowly, stuffing the now-empty cup into his coat pocket. “Thank you. For the coffee trade. For… everything.”

Y/N smiled again, smaller this time. “Anytime.”

And as he walked toward the door, hand on the handle, he hesitated—just for a second.

Then he turned to look back.

So did she.

Neither said anything.

But both of them left that room thinking about the other for the rest of the night.

. . .

It wasn’t a fancy place. Just some hole-in-the-wall near the subway with sticky floors, neon beer signs, and ballads playing too loud from a decade no one wanted to remember. The kind of place Gi-hun ended up when he didn’t want to go home but had nowhere else to be.

He sat at the bar, nursing a half-empty glass of soju he’d sipped for the last forty-five minutes. No refills. He couldn’t afford one. His wallet had exactly ₩3,000 left and two expired lottery tickets.

The door creaked open behind him, but he didn’t look.

Not until he heard the unmistakable sound of heels clicking—heels that didn’t belong in a place like this.

Then:

“I’ll have a tequila shot and a gin tonic. Actually—make it a double. Please.”

That voice.

His head turned before he could stop it.

She was standing at the bar in her work clothes—buttoned blouse still neatly tucked into a pencil skirt, cardigan folded over her arm. Her hair was a little undone, lipstick faded, but she was unmistakably her.

Y/N.

And she hadn’t seen him yet.

The bartender moved to fix her drink, and as she pulled her card out of her purse, she finally glanced sideways—and froze.

Her eyes widened, the recognition dawning in stages.

“Mr. Seong?”

Gi-hun smiled sheepishly. “Teacher Y/N.”

She blinked, then gave a dry little laugh. “Okay, I really wasn’t expecting to run into a parent tonight.”

He raised his hands defensively. “Hey, I’m just here for the free peanuts.”

She slid into the stool beside him, placing her double gin and tequila shot between them. “You always hang out in depressing little bars with no music and no coasters?”

“Only on payday.”

“Is it payday?”

“No.”

She snorted—then knocked back the tequila shot in one practiced tilt. He tried not to stare, but something about seeing her here—this version of her—felt like watching the moon show its dark side. Still her, just… lonelier. A little messier. More human.

“You okay?” he asked, cautious.

She exhaled slowly. “I got dumped yesterday.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah.” She stirred her drink with the straw. “He said I wasn’t ‘emotionally available enough.’ Which is a really poetic way of saying he didn’t like when I set boundaries.”

Gi-hun winced. “Sounds like a jerk.”

“He was,” she said, taking a long sip. “But he was hot. I’ll give him that.”

That made Gi-hun chuckle—deep and surprised, like he wasn’t supposed to laugh, but couldn’t help it. “You don’t seem too broken up about it.”

Y/N shrugged. “I was. Yesterday. Today I decided to put on my nicest work blouse and after work, pretend I was emotionally available enough for a damn gin and tonic.”

He looked at the drink. “…Did you just buy that for yourself?”

She looked at him sideways. “You want one?”

Gi-hun hesitated, then gave a modest smile. “If you’re offering. But I’m warning you, I’m a lightweight and a terrible drunk.”

Y/N waved the bartender over and ordered a second one.

Gi-hun didn’t say thank you out loud, but inside, something softened. He hadn’t been treated to a drink in years. And he sure as hell didn’t expect it to come from the one person who made him feel like he wasn’t a complete failure lately.

They clinked glasses gently.

“To getting dumped,” she said, raising hers.

“To free drinks,” he replied.

They drank.

And in a bar that stank of old beer and quiet regrets, they talked until the gin turned warm and the distance between teacher and father melted into something neither of them could quite name yet.

The bar had thinned out. The jukebox now played something softer—a sad trot song crooning about lost time and rainy afternoons. Gi-hun had a light flush in his cheeks, his second gin tonic in hand, and Y/N was leaning against the bar with her chin propped on her palm, her lips faintly curved in amusement.

“So,” he said, watching the ice swirl in his glass. “Why teaching? You’re young, smart—you could’ve done anything.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just sipped her drink, eyes fixed ahead.

Then, softly, “Because I needed one when I was her age.”

Gi-hun turned his head toward her.

Y/N exhaled through her nose. “My dad left when I was eight. My mom worked three jobs. No one really looked out for me. Except one teacher. Fifth grade. Mrs. Han. She gave me snacks when I forgot lunch. Let me stay in the classroom when the other kids were awful. She never made it feel like charity. Just…human.”

She reached up with one hand and undid the clip holding her messy bun together. Her hair fell in soft waves down her shoulders, and she shook it out with a sigh, massaging the back of her neck.

Gi-hun blinked.

Something about it—that moment—knocked the breath out of him. Not in a lustful, leering kind of way. But in the quiet realization that she was beautiful. Not polished-beautiful. Not like a magazine. But raw. Soft. Real.

“I guess I wanted to be someone’s Mrs. Han,” she finished, glancing sideways at him with a tired, half-sober smile. “Maybe Ga-yeong’s.”

“You are,” Gi-hun said, a little too quickly. His voice scratched, honest.

Y/N met his eyes, and for a moment, neither looked away.

She tilted her head. “You’re not what I expected, you know.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” he said, smiling.

“No, I mean it.” She looked down at her glass. “Most dads either check out or try to overcompensate. You… you show up. Even when you don’t know what the hell you’re doing.”

He chuckled. “That obvious, huh?”

“Only to someone who’s faking it too.”

They clinked glasses again—this time gentler. Quieter. Something passed between them, unspoken but thick in the air.

Neither of them said it aloud.

But the space between parent and teacher had completely disappeared.

And now…there was only him and her.

. . .

The night air was cool, not cold, but just enough to make her tuck her cardigan a little tighter around herself as they stepped out of the bar. The streets were quieter now, the neon lights buzzing above shuttered restaurants and late buses rolling by like ghosts.

Gi-hun walked a step behind her at first, hands in his pockets, until she stumbled slightly on a crack in the pavement.

“Whoa—careful.” He reached out on instinct, a steadying hand brushing her arm.

“I’m fine,” Y/N laughed softly, cheeks flushed. “Just buzzed. Gin gives me wobbly legs.”

“Yeah? Tequila gives me bad decisions.”

She glanced at him with a smirk, clearly biting back something teasing. “You saying this was a bad decision?”

He hesitated.

Then: “No. Not even close.”

Her smile faltered for half a second—just long enough to let something deeper slip through. Something unsure. Something hopeful.

They kept walking.

Their shoulders brushed once. Neither pulled away.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward now—it had changed. Warm. Tense. A quiet question hanging in the air with every step.

She stole a sideways glance at him. “You always this gentlemanly, or is this a special occasion?”

Gi-hun shrugged with a faint grin. “Only when I like the person.”

Y/N’s gaze lingered on him longer this time. “You don’t know me that well.”

“I know enough.”

A pause.

“And what’s that?” she asked, voice softer now.

He glanced over at her, the streetlight catching the loose strands of her hair, the pink still in her cheeks, the little smile she tried to hide.

“That you care about people more than you let on. That you’re good with kids, but probably hard on yourself. That… you have a thing for gin and heartbreak, apparently.”

She laughed again, genuine this time, the sound lighter than it had been all night.

They stopped at a quiet crosswalk, the blinking red man holding them in place. Y/N turned to him slightly, toeing the edge of the curb, her hands in her pockets.

“You’re kind of dangerous, you know that?”

Gi-hun raised an eyebrow. “Me? I’m the guy who’s broke, unemployed, and barely knows what he’s doing with his life.”

“Exactly.” Her eyes twinkled. “You say stuff like that and still make it sound charming.”

The light changed.

They crossed slowly, the night wrapping around them like a secret.

When they reached her building, she stopped at the gate. “Well… this is me.”

He nodded, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. “Right.”

A beat of silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable. Just… suspended.

She looked at him for a long second.

“You’re not what I expected either, Gi-hun.”

He smiled faintly. “Good unexpected or bad?”

“…Still deciding.”

And then she leaned up, just slightly, and kissed his cheek—quick, soft, but deliberate.

“Goodnight,” she whispered, turning toward the gate.

He watched her go.

And he didn’t move for a long time.

She was gone.

Just like that, behind the gate, behind the hum of her building’s lights, behind the sound of her footsteps climbing stairs he wouldn’t follow.

Gi-hun stood there for a long time, fingers brushing the place on his cheek where she kissed him. He wasn’t smiling—not yet. His lips were parted, breath slow, like he wasn’t quite sure if it had really happened.

And then, finally, he turned.

The walk home was quiet, but his head was anything but.

He should’ve felt lighter. Happier. And in a way, he did—there was something electric under his skin, something that hadn’t sparked in years. But alongside that? A pit. Not in his stomach—in his chest.

Because she deserved someone better.

Someone who could afford dinner that wasn’t triangle kimbap. Someone with clean shoes and working credit cards and a damn plan. Not a man like him—held together with shame and debt and broken promises.

But she kissed you, a voice in his head whispered. She saw you. And she stayed.

He kicked a pebble down the sidewalk, hands deep in his coat pockets, the wind brushing past like a reminder he was still outside. Still in the same city where everything kept going wrong, but tonight—just tonight—something felt right.

She smelled like gin and white jasmine. He hadn’t realized that until she leaned close. And her laugh… it had shaken something loose in him. Something long buried beneath years of screwing up and surviving it.

Gi-hun passed a convenience store window and caught his reflection. Messy hair, bags under his eyes, a man older than he felt.

He didn’t look like someone a woman like Y/N would want.

But she’d kissed him.

He pulled his hand from his pocket, looked at his palm like it might hold the answer.

Nothing.

No money. No luck. No future.

And still…his heart beat a little faster.

Because maybe—for the first time in a long, long while—he wanted to be worth something to someone.

Not because they needed him.

But because they chose him.

113 notes · View notes