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kflixnet · 23 days ago

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[MDNI] New to KFLIXNET: Check out our member Cath's smut fic!

moments: connections

Summary: A series of drabbles featuring each of the seven members, about a moment of connection.

Pairing: OT7 x OC (different OCs)

Genre: Humour, fluff, angst, smut

Word count: 11.8 K

Rating: 18+

Warnings: language, making out, oral sex, sex, vague exhibitionism

A/N: The day has finally dawned when a new fic arrives. I've decided that with how far the series has come and how difficult it is to find the time to write these days, I want to write more of what I call "capsule fics" - like this one, where every member gets featured and all their drabbles are connected thematically as well. We'll see how it goes :)

This can be read standalone, and can be read for individual members.

Tagging: @bbl32 @quarter-life-crisis2 @dreaming-with-happiness @faearchives @margopinkerton @purpleseoul7 @confessionsofamarshlily @jiminjhang @xjoonchildx @tarahardcore @infinitehobi @handfullofcandids @whoisbts @jihopesjoint @cuntessaiii @nightappple @kflixnet (drop a message if you want to be added)

Listen to: "space song" by beach house

main masterlist

Seokjin June (Set a few months after One Down)

Seokjin’s thumb moves of its own accord, and the social media posts blur into each other. It seems pointless, scrolling through his friends’ and acquaintances’ lives, especially when his restricted hour to use his phone will come to an end soon.

Despite that realisation, he stays where he is, lying on his side and aimlessly scrolling. It was inconceivable, the first few weeks, that there were people continuing to lead their normal lives while he was here, but it’s less shocking now. His shared room is empty but for him; he should go outside, for it’s a cool evening in the middle of a hot summer. He should go outside, he should get some fresh air, he should mingle with the other soldiers.

But just the thought of it tires him out, so he continues scrolling, lamenting his mind turning to mush. He should get off Instagram, though - as he moves his thumb up to bring his apps tray down, he accidentally clicks on a notification that pops up the same second.

He groans silently as the screen goes dark before a cheery jingle starts playing, the familiar yet annoying sound of Words with Friends opening on his phone. He stares at the screen unblinkingly, waiting for the game to boot up so he can close it. The moment it does, though, the app informs him that a new game is ready to begin, with just the right number of players already there.

Better than Instagram, he decides wryly, and clicks on Start. Six players in total, and he goes fourth. He plays the word silent, frowning slightly as the app dings to signal ten points.

The next player, Player 5 - or Dr. Na, as per their username - uses his L to play library. It gets fifteen points, and Seokjin scoffs.

By the time his turn comes around again, the board is slightly more spread out, and he uses Player 1’s miles to play lonely. Eight points later, Dr. Na plays lament with his L and gets fifteen points again.

Seokjin frowns. It seems like a coincidence but nearly five rounds later, Dr. Na has used at least one of his letters and consistently scored higher than him. He waits for round eight and when his turn comes around, he uses Dr. Na’s Z to play zealot, and scores twenty-five points. With only a handful of options left, Dr. Na is forced to use his T to play truck, scoring twelve points.

In the middle of his dorm, Seokjin grins. Almost immediately, a tiny notification pops up on top of the speech bubble icon

Maybe it’s petty, maybe he’s a sore loser or maybe he’s just tired of talking to other soldiers he lives and trains with, but in a rare move, Kim Seokjin navigates to Dr. Na’s profile and clicks on the tiny speech bubble icon. From the empty profile picture template, he concludes Dr. Na is a woman.

Well played, is all she’s typed.

Seokjin chuckles softly. Learned from the best, he replies.

Good thing I’m not the competitive type.

Or I’d be in big trouble?

Or I’d be thinking about this mishap for the rest of the day. And I have a job where distractions are deadly.

Whew, that’s dramatic, he types, then pauses. But I’m not judging.

Yeah? What do you do?

He bites his lip. I’m a chef. And you’re… a doctor?

That’s your final guess?

Either that or you’re a huge James Bond fan.

How did you know???

Her reply comes out of nowhere, her surprise mirroring his own. He rolls over onto his stomach, feeling uncharacteristically smug at this seemingly correct guess.

Dr No is the best Bond movie, he informs her, and that is a hill I will die on.

Booo. It’s ancient.

That’s part of the charm.

One of my friends used to watch Dr No all the time too. He made me watch it so many times I swore I’d never watch it again.

And yet, it’s your username?

He can sense he’s caught her out; he can see her typing and stopping a couple of times. He looks at his watch and feels a fleeting disappointment; he’ll have to hand in his phone soon.

Guilty But the name works on a few different levels. But enough about my username

Mine is quite normal

Direct, you mean. You like gimbaps, I assume

In a manner of speaking

There’s a pause where Seokjin frowns, his heart skipping an uneven beat.

What did you say you do again?

Me? I’m a doctor. So you guessed right, I suppose Do you work at a restaurant I may have eaten at?

I don’t know I’m actually serving right now

There’s that pause again. Seokjin’s thumbs hover over the screen, but when he sees her typing again, he freezes, waiting.

And you like gimbaps?

My friend does.

A bell rings in the distance, startling Seokjin. He needs to return his phone; his heart sinks unexpectedly at the thought.

How are you doing? she asks. You know… serving?

I’m okay. It was hard at first but it’s getting better. What about you? I mean… you’re a doctor, right? How is that?

Tiring But I’m trying to eat healthy these days

That’s good I mean, as a chef, I approve

Thanks

Footsteps outside the door, and then a knock. “Dinner!” comes the voice. “Deposit your phones in the office on your way!”

I have to go, he types quickly, getting off his bed.

Oh, okay Take care

You too Sleep early maybe You know, since you’re tired and all

I’ll try But I was thinking I’ll watch Dr No again maybe

Yeah? Thought you hated it

Not that much apparently, comes her reply. It might be fun. You know, for old time’s sake.

Seokjin stops at his door. The game is forgotten; the multiple pings coming from the other players have been muted in favour of this impromptu conversation. Staring at his screen, he types in one last reply.

Have a gimbap for me

Without waiting for a response, he turns his phone off and steps out of the dorm.

—

Yoongi March; Set during Pretty Girls

Yoongi can’t feel anything; not his hands, not the cool air of the air conditioner, not the sofa in his studio. Or maybe he can feel everything - so much so that his nerve endings have lost all sensation, and it’s just Miso on his lap, her hands, her lips, her hips under his palms and the feel of her sighs against his skin.

Coming back to his studio had been a long time coming. After all the events of the day, after a painful couple of hours when she’d had to go back to Donghyuk’s studio and work, she’d returned. The energy was different this time around, though; despite spending all day together, it felt like the first time they were alone.

The small talk had been negligible, hardly even a formality. Yoongi hadn’t been able to resist pulling her in for a kiss and it seemed as though Miso had been waiting for a sign from him, for she’d begun unbuttoning her blouse instantly.

Yoongi had taken the initiative this time. Kneeling on the floor while she sat on the sofa, situated between her legs, he’d worshipped her. His brain was on autopilot by this point; the desire to see her pleasured, to see her with her guard down and show him how he made her feel was driving him as he gripped her thighs where they rested on his shoulders.

His intention had been to return the favour from earlier in the day when she’d sucked him off in the woods. But once she’d finished (moaning, sighing, wet in his mouth), she’d finally opened her eyes to face him, gaze shaky and cheeks flushed. She’d kissed him and steered him onto the sofa, one hand snaking down to his crotch and seemingly confirming something. With a hint of a smirk, she’d tugged his jeans down and straddled him.

Their breathing is in sync now, gasps of varying pitch and clothing scattered around his studio.

“I’m so close,” she whispers, her voice unlike anything he’s ever heard. Her fingernails dig into his shoulders as she increases the pace of her hips, and Yoongi nods in response, pulling her to him as close as he can, groaning as he feels her wetness coat his cock. He reaches up her pale, slender body with one hand, memorising the scent of her skin, the softness of her small breasts and the sensation of her lips brushing against his as she fucks him into the sofa.

Yoongi finishes seconds before her; their sighs of ecstasy mingle as he spills into the condom they’d belatedly remembered. Miso drops her head onto his shoulder and he presses a kiss to the side of her neck, breathing in deeply.

She pulls away after a few seconds. Her choppy hair is tousled and her lips are swollen, but she looks more exhilarated than he’s ever seen her. There are words on the tip of Yoongi’s tongue that threaten to spill out, but he senses it’s not the time.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Min Suga,” she says, her mouth tilting upwards slightly.

He grins and leans forward to capture her lips in a short kiss. “Just being a patient man, my love,” he murmurs, squeezing her waist before dropping his hands to his sides.

Miso’s eyes flicker briefly before she chuckles and clambers off him. They get dressed and clean up in comfortable silence; Yoongi watches her out of the corner of his eye, relieved when she doesn’t seem to regret their tryst at all.

“Are you releasing any more music soon?” she asks after a while, when they’re seated at his desk. She’s wrapped in the jacket he’d been wearing all day; she hadn’t asked and he was glad for that.

“I don’t think so,” he admits, clicking on a sound byte so a low, thumping sound fills the studio. “There’s just no time. Not with the tour and everyone else’s music.”

“You can always release it unofficially.”

“Yeah, that’ll go over great with the rest of the team. Maybe after I’ve enlisted,” he suggests wryly, “when they can’t do anything about it.”

She nods, leaning forward when her phone buzzes. “Ugh, it’s Donghyuk,” she mutters. It’s the third time he’s seen this reaction at the mention of her lead producer, and Yoongi takes it as confirmation that she and Donghyuk are friends.

“Yeoboseyo?” she says into the phone, sighing slightly. “Mhm. Yeah, no, I’ll do it tonight. Sure. Oh, I don’t -“ She stops abruptly as her eyes widen, before she sighs. “He’s singing,” she whispers to Yoongi, who can’t help but snort at the thought.

Miso puts the call on speaker and places her phone on the desk. The studio is now filled with the scratchy sound of a half-arranged instrumental and Donghyuk humming unintelligibly over it, complete with some rudimentary beatboxing.

Yoongi can’t help it; he covers his mouth with his hands to stifle his laughter. He leans forward and mutes the mic, turning to see Miso rolling her eyes but laughing as well.

“He’s a really good producer,” says Yoongi clearly, “but there’s a reason he, Namjoon and I were always at the bottom every month when we were trainees. It’s a good melody, though,” he admits, just as Donghyuk’s solo comes to an end.

“What do you think?” he asks over the phone.

Miso unmutes the mic, her hand snapping up to cover Yoongi’s mouth as he begins to laugh again. “It’s good,” she says. “Sounds a little too old school EXO to me, though. Not sure it’s the kind of sound they were looking for in the brief.”

“Ah, well. We can edit out some of the ad libs,” he agrees, the sound of a keyboard in the background. Yoongi nods emphatically and mouths no kidding, prompting Miso to slap his leg lightly.

“Anyway -“ She clears her throat. “Send me the file. I’ll try to work on it tonight.”

“You’re still in the studio? I thought you would’ve left by now.”

Miso catches Yoongi’s eye for a moment. “Uh, yeah, I’m still here. Just taking a break right now.”

“Right.” There’s a pause - a knowing, suspicious pause. “With Yoongi?”

Yoongi raises his eyebrows and he can visibly see Miso’s hackles rise. “Um… I mean, he’s here, too. In the studio. In the building. Why?”

“No reason,” he says nonchalantly. “Just that it’s clear you have a thing for him and I know he’s single, so -”

Donghyuk’s gleeful confession gets cut short abruptly when Miso grabs her phone and turns off the speaker, pressing the phone to her ear and instantly getting to her feet.

“Anything else you need?” she says loudly into her phone, facing away from Yoongi. “No? Yes, I will. Definitely. Goodbye, Donghyuk.” Swearing softly, she hangs up before gingerly making her way back to the desk.

Yoongi turns to his monitor as she nears him, quietly sinking back into her seat. He continues doing what he was doing when Donghyuk called, calmly moving files into the shared drive he was managing.

“Everything okay?” he asks, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“Totally,” she replies, her voice betraying nothing. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

It’s almost challenging, her tone. He turns to her blankly, raising his eyebrows. “Okay,” he says, turning back to the screen and clenching his jaw so his face doesn’t move against his will.

“Shut up, Yoongi,” she mutters, and Yoongi breaks. Turning to her again, he sees, for the first time, Kang Miso blushing. Grinning with his heart full, he twists his torso to face her and, hooking his hand underneath the seat of her chair, he tugs her to him.

“I’m totally single, by the way,” he confirms, leaning forward towards her.

“Yeah, no kidding,” she says, rolling her eyes - but they have a rare twinkle. Clutching the collar of his t-shirt mock-angrily, she accepts his kiss.

—

Jungkook Set the morning after The Sixth

It’s a beautiful morning. The sun is out, warm but not hot; the breeze is calm and comforting; the view of the Han is picturesque and as he pours himself a coffee, Jungkook feels like he could skip. It’s a beautiful morning.

He steps onto his balcony looking over the city, steam rising gently from the ceramic cup. He’s still in pajamas but hasn’t bothered to put on a t-shirt, armed with the confidence that he is simply too high up to be photographed by paparazzi.

Also, it’s tough to care about paparazzi on what is, genuinely, a beautiful morning.

He enjoys it for a few minutes, quietly sipping his coffee. He’d like to be here for a lot longer, but a shrill sound breaks through the calm and he cringes, dashing back into the kitchen to pick up his phone where he’d left it on the counter. Glancing at the screen, he rolls his eyes as he answers the call.

“Jimin hyung,” he says. “What’s up? How come you’re up so early?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” comes Jimin’s reply.

“I fell asleep early last night,” says Jungkook evenly, making his way back to the balcony. “I, uh… I was tired.” Without meaning to, he feels his face break out into a grin. “It’s nice to be up in the morning, though. The sky is all blue and clear. Oh, and you can hear birds chirping.”

“Birds?”

“Yes. You may want to try it sometime, hyung.”

Jimin evidently ignores this. “And why aren’t you responding to my texts?” he demands.

Texts? Jungkook brings the phone away and swipes over to WhatsApp, grimacing when he sees the several dozen messages from various people he’s yet to respond to.

“Sorry, hyung,” he mutters. “Didn’t end up checking my phone. What’s - wait, why are you up so early?”

There’s a moment where Jimin pauses. “I had a meeting. Listen, are you busy today?”

“Uh…” Jungkook glances back in the direction of his bedroom. “I don’t know. I might be. Why?”

“Do you want to go to dinner? I really want to try that new sushi bar that’s come up in Gangnam. Do you want to go?”

“Oh.” Jungkook frowns, mentally going through his entire calendar. “Not sure. Is it a work thing? Or just you and me?”

“Not just you and me,” corrects Jimin. “Sungwoon will be there, probably Hoseok hyung as well.”

There’s something that makes it sound like there’s more to that sentence. “Anyone else?”

“Well, Dilara is here, too,” says Jimin quickly. “She’s got a race this weekend so she’s here today…”

“Right.” Jungkook exhales silently, pressing his tongue into his chin. He needs to be rational about this, he thinks to himself, even as an old, feeble sinking feeling creeps into his stomach.

He hears a sound and turns, his heart skipping a beat when he spots Lia with the coffee mug he’d left outside for her, pouring the coffee he’d made. She’s wearing what looks like the oversized t-shirt he’d had on last night, a light grey one that reaches all the way down to the middle of her thighs. Her hair is tousled and splayed messily down her shoulders and it’s a few seconds before he realises Jimin has resumed speaking.

“Hey - hey, listen -” Jungkook lowers his voice and cups his hand over the receiver. “I have to go. I’ll call you later.” Without waiting for a response, he hangs up.

He turns back around to his original position, listening intently for the moment Lia pads onto the balcony, running a hand through her long hair.

“Morning,” she says, joining him by the railing, a foot’s distance between them.

“Morning,” he replies. “Sleep well?” He nods as she hums, and notices her gaze flicker to his arms and torso and bites his lip, satisfied.

“Hell of a view,” she says, but he can’t tell if she’s referring to the city. She tugs absently at the wide collar of the t-shirt and the tattoo at the nape of her neck is momentarily visible.

“You get used to it. Actually, no, you don’t,” he amends after a moment. “Dunno why I said that.”

“Thanks for the coffee.” Lia takes a sip and sighs softly. Jungkook gets the distinct feeling that she may be in the same space that he is - awake, comfortable, hopeful - and it makes him glad. “Wow. This is Seoul.”

He follows her gaze at the expanse of the city. “Well, part of it.”

“Well, obviously.” They exchange shy smiles.

“So,” she begins after a few moments, turning around and leaning back against the railing, “what does Jeon Jungkook do on his weekends?”

“Oh.” A little thrown by this question, he hums, gripping the railing and leaning backwards until the veins in his forearms pop. “Not a lot, actually. He usually works if he has to, or he catches up on, like… laundry and stuff. In fact, there are whole weekends where Jeon Jungkook doesn’t even leave his house.”

Lia raises her eyebrows, but he can tell she’s amused. The soft rays of the sun fall on her face as she looks past him and out at the city, and Jungkook wants to pinch himself. It actually worked. Weeks of respectful distance, letting her take the lead, taking on her challenge and winning that final date with her - it all actually worked.

“Any plans for the weekend?”

“Um -” He realises he’s staring and looks away, tossing his bangs out of his eyes. “Depends. Are you free?”

She smiles. “Maybe? There’s a chance I have to go visit a couple of friends. They just had a baby,” she adds by way of explanation. “So. Not sure.”

Jungkook nods. “Don’t babies sleep really early, though?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“And apparently parents of babies get tired, too.”

“Go figure.” She grins. “I’ll let you know how it goes,” she promises, placing her empty cup on the balcony table and stretching. “Do you mind if I take a shower?”

Jungkook shakes his head, watching her as she squeezes his hand and heads inside, her long hair straight and messy down her shoulders. I’ll let you know how it goes. Despite his attempts at staying cool, the words make his stomach leap. He gathers both their cups and goes back into the kitchen, when he remembers something.

Fishing out his phone, he scrolls to his chat with Jimin. He was right; there are nearly ten messages from his friend he’s yet to reply to, the last one being from just a few minutes ago.

Jimin [09:45] so will you come?? tell meeeeeeee JUNGKOOK

Jimin [09:50] it’s been a long time jungkook

Jungkook stares at the screen, trying to ignore the tiny trickle of guilt creeping into his heart. Just then, he hears the shower turn on in his en suite, and it disappears.

Jungkook [09:57] Maybe another time. Sorry.

—

Hoseok April; Set shortly after Pretty Girls

Hoseok leans back on the recliner and sighs hugely, stretching his shoulders before placing his hands behind his head. “You think if you move here, they’ll let you keep this apartment?” he asks, pressing his back into the plush fabric.

Chanyeol clicks his tongue, nudging him with a beer can and handing it to him, crossing Hoseok to sit on the beanbag. “I have to move here first. But the traffic here is just too much,” he adds critically.

“Please, you live in Busan. How is that better?”

“Busan isn’t as bad as Seoul,” pipes up Jimin, sounding a bit defensive as he takes a beer as well from Chanyeol. He’d tagged along after filming since Sooah had to work late, and he and Hoseok had come over to Chanyeol’s company accommodation while he stayed in Seoul on a two week assignment.

“I’d move here if Hayoung can, too,” says Chanyeol fairly, comfortably chugging down a quart of his beer.

“Do it,” instructs Hoseok. “Plus the train system makes going home a lot easier from Seoul than Busan.”

Chanyeol snorts. “When was the last time you took a train anywhere?”

Hoseok’s jaw drops exaggeratedly while Jimin laughs. “No train can compare to hyung’s Porsche,” he adds, reaching over from his place on the floor and patting Hoseok’s knee.

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Make fun now, but someone needs a quick ride with the multiple aux outlet and charging point and suddenly I’m everyone’s best friend,” mutters Hoseok.

“We’re just teasing, hyung.”

“Well, partly,” chortles Chanyeol. “But coming back - moving to Seoul isn’t on the cards any time soon. Like, I’d probably think about it if… hang on -“

Hoseok frowns as Chanyeol leans forward, peering at something.

“Is that a hickey?”

He tugs at Hoseok’s collar and Hoseok jerks back.

“No, it’s not,” he says hastily, fixing his collar as Chanyeol resumes his seat, giving him an approving nod. Except it is, he thinks; naturally, the concealer the make-up team had applied for the shoot has come off. He pulls his collar away slightly to see beige streaks on the dark cotton and silently groans.

“So much for not having time to date because of your busy schedule,” says Chanyeol, grinning.

“I’m not dating anyone,” says Hoseok forcefully, panicking slightly now and meeting Jimin’s eyes, who’s pursing his lips and looking into the bottom of his can. “I actually don’t have the time.”

“Ah, well.” Chanyeol shrugs. “Looks like you’re having fun, though. It’s not a bad thing,” he adds when Hoseok rolls his eyes. “As long as you’re both on the same page.”

Are we ever. It’s incredibly ironic, for as far as he’s concerned, Chaeyoung is his girlfriend in everything but name. Aside from the fact that neither of them have ever used that word, Hoseok can’t think of any other term he can ascribe to her.

But right now, even thinking about it in Chanyeol’s presence makes him sweat. For the first time in nearly two decades, Hoseok can’t predict how his best friend would react to something. It’s a strange sort of handicap, especially when it involves a clandestine relationship with his little sister.

“We’re… yeah, we’re - we’re in the same place, pretty much,” he explains pathetically. “It’s… it’s going good.”

“That’s good,” says Chanyeol, sounding as though he means it. “You can bring her to drinks or something tomorrow night, before I leave. If you want.”

“Oh, that’s - that’s not a good idea,” says Hoseok immediately, shaking his head.

“Why not?”

He gapes and turns to Jimin, in a desperate and silent plea for help. Jimin’s eyes widen and he purses his lips again so his amused expression disappears.

“Yeah, I don’t think they’re that serious,” says Jimin, sounding surprisingly convincing. “I mean, I haven’t met her either,” he adds, as though he hadn’t brought Chaeyoung a boxful of ready-to-eat couscous from his trip to Los Angeles last month.

“Oh.” Chanyeol nods slowly. “Okay. Is it like a - what is it called now? A situationship?”

“Something like that.” Except I’m in love with her. I’m in love with your little sister and she’s the best part of my day and even though it’s a huge betrayal I can’t help it and I just know if I look you in the eye too long you’ll figure it out. That I’m in love with your sister. And that she probably loves me, too, even though she hasn’t actually said it yet.

Hoseok swallows, reining in the word vomit. He places his beer on the floor; there is no scope to risk that kind of liability right now.

“Interesting. Oh, you know who else is in a situationship kind of thing?” Chanyeol says suddenly, making a face. “My sister.”

Jimin places a hand over his mouth, and Hoseok can see his cheeks lift from where he’s sitting. He aims a kick at the younger member’s foot, glaring at him to be cool.

“She - really?” Hoseok clears this throat. “She told you that?”

“Oh, no, no.” Chanyeol gives a hollow laugh. “When I met her for lunch yesterday, her bag accidentally fell open and I had the great fortune of spotting a box of birth control pills.” He grimaces. “I could’ve gone the rest of my life without seeing that. Although, I suppose I should be glad she’s taking precautions,” he mutters grudgingly, taking another deep swig of beer.

In literally any other situation, Hoseok would’ve guffawed at the stricken expression on Chanyeol’s face. But nothing about this is funny - not to him, at least, for Jimin seems to be enjoying it greatly.

“Do you have a sister, Jimin?” Chanyeol asks.

“Oh, no. A younger brother,” he replies, emerging from his beer with a carefully set straight face. “Would’ve been nice to have a sister, though.”

Both Hoseok and Chanyeol jokingly grimace in unison, before the latter sighs. “It’s not bad having a sister,” he allows, “and Chae is… she’s a good girl. Too good, in fact, which is why I’m not too comfortable about this situationship thing in her life.”

Jimin nods seriously - too dramatically, in Hoseok’s opinion. “Come on,” he ventures, hoping he sounds nonchalant. “She’s not a kid anymore. Let her live a little.”

“I’m not stopping her,” points out Chanyeol, shrugging. “But she refused to talk about it, which isn’t like her. And, really, what do we even know about this hooligan?”

Hoseok chokes. “Hooligan?”

“I don’t know! She did live near Hongdae for a while, remember?” Chanyeol exclaims, leaning forward. “With that weird girl she went to college with?”

“Oh.” Memories return to Hoseok, of Sunmi, Ice and a neighbourhood out of an indie gang film. “Yeah, that was a shithole,” he agrees, shuddering. “It took me a decent bit of effort to get her to move away from there and with Sooah.”

“She and Sooah get along well,” says Jimin encouragingly. “Sooah’s apartment is a lot more leafy now and they’ve started having mimosa nights on Fridays where no one else is apparently invited,” he adds cheerfully.

Hoseok suppresses a smile, knowing this was Chaeyoung’s attempt at reclaiming her friendship with Sooah. Jimin had been sporting enough on the surface but there were a reasonable number of Fridays when Hoseok had received a message out of the blue saying wanna hang with varying degrees of desperation.

“Oh, that’s right,” says Chanyeol. “Sooah is your girlfriend, right?”

“Yeah,” answers Jimin proudly. “We’ve been together since high school. Kind of,” he amends when Hoseok gives him a look.

“Do you think she’ll know who this guy is, that’s macking all over my sister?” he asks, sounding a bit disgruntled. “If they live together and all.”

Jimin grins, while Hoseok closes his eyes and wishes for the ground to swallow him up. “I can ask her,” he says diplomatically.

“Do you even have to?” Hoseok jumps in. “I mean… doesn’t she deserve her privacy?”

“I’m not trying to invade her privacy,” argues Chanyeol, sounding affronted. “But she’s young and trusting and the least I should do as her brother is make sure she’s not being played by some guy looking for a little fun.”

“I don’t think -“ Hoseok begins weakly, but Jimin beats him to it.

“Hoseok hyung is pretty close with her these days,” he interrupts, ignoring Hoseok’s bewilderment at this random turn of conversation. “I’m just saying - I think he looks out for her a fair bit.”

“Of course he does; I’m his best friend,” says Chanyeol easily, making Hoseok’s stomach roll uncomfortably. “Chae is like family to him. But Jimin’s got a point,” he adds, leaning forward and nudging Hoseok’s knee. “Do you think you can find out more about this guy?”

“There’s an idea!” Jimin crows, looking thrilled.

Hoseok shoots a glare at Jimin before turning to Chanyeol. “I mean, I - I can try. I dunno,” he mutters, shrugging. “She probably won’t tell me anything.”

Chanyeol sighs and sits back. “Fine. Just - just make sure she’s okay? That she’s not being taken advantage of or something?”

Hoseok bites his lip; he recognises this tone, this specific tone that’s reserved for when Chanyeol reverts to the young boy making up for a lack of a mother and a father who didn’t pay much attention to his daughter.

“I don’t think you need to worry, hyung,” says Jimin, sounding the most sober he has all evening. “From what I know, this guy sounds like a decent person. And seems to like her quite a bit.”

He throws a casual glance at Hoseok, which Hoseok returns with a grateful nod of his own before changing the topic.

About an hour later, Hoseok returns to his apartment. He’s barely taken off his shoes when his phone buzzes.

Chae [21:15] Work took forEVER :(( Be there in 10

An involuntary smile creeps up his face and he replies with a string of heart emojis. He leaves the door unlocked and heads in for a shower, the day’s tiredness already threatening to get the best of him.

When he’s clean and fresh again, the en suite drowning in a cloud of steam, Hoseok towel dries his hair and heads out of his bedroom to the inviting scent of ramen. Following it to the kitchen, he sees Chaeyoung, barefoot and still in her work clothes with the Louis Vuitton hoodie he’d left on the sofa earlier today.

“Your apartment is too cold,” she complains when she turns around and spots him making his way to the kitchen. “And this is the softest hoodie I’ve ever worn,” she adds with a sheepish smile as he enters.

“Keep it,” he offers, reaching her and placing his hands on her shoulders to peer over her. “You’re cooking?”

“Well, I’m mixing,” she admits, pointing to the instant ramen packet next to the stove. “But I added bok choy and some minced lamb you had in the fridge, plus an egg for the end so in a way, yeah, I’m cooking.” She flashes him a proud smile and Hoseok’s heart skips a beat.

“Come here,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around her shoulders as she continues stirring. He buries his nose in her hair and inhales the flowery scent, closing his eyes and exhaling, his shoulders relaxing for the first time all day.

They stay there in comfortable silence for a bit, the only sound being the soft bubbling of the soup and the occasional metallic clang of the spatula with the pot.

“How was your day?” Chaeyoung asks after a minute.

“Fine.” He watches the ramen for a few seconds, the lamb turning a nice brown. “Had rehearsal, then filming and then hung out with Jimin… and Chan.”

Chaeyoung hums, but her slender frame tenses slightly. “How was that?”

“Well…” Hoseok sighs and steps away, waiting until she glances back at him. “He saw your handiwork,” he says, pulling his collar away from his neck.

Chaeyoung gasps, one hand covering her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she exclaims, half-laughing. “What did you tell him?”

“Oh, I evaded. You know, with Jimin’s help,” he answers, rolling his eyes. “And on a completely unrelated note, he said you are in some kind of a thing with some guy, too.”

“Oh, really?” Chaeyoung raises her eyebrows, looking angelic and doe-eyed. “He did?”

“He did,” confirms Hoseok. “In fact, he’s asked me to find out more about this mystery guy and report back to him. It took every bit of my strength to be normal.”

“But -” She frowns. “You suck at being normal.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” she says immediately, turning to switch off the stove before facing him again. “You get all flustered and stammer-y when you’re taken off guard - anyone can see right through you.”

“This feels great.”

Chaeyoung laughs and tugs at his hands, ignoring his sarcastic “no, please, continue”s and reaches up to kiss him on the cheek. “But I’m very impressed that you were normal,” she says finally. “It couldn’t have been easy, especially with my brother.”

Hoseok shakes his head. “It wasn’t. He’s one person who actually can see right through me.”

She bites her lip and frowns slightly. “You know…” She begins, swinging his hands absently, “you can always… tell him. I mean, I know it won’t be easy and it’ll be messy but…” Chaeyoung shrugs and looks at their hands. “It may not be the worst thing.”

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing,” he agrees, “but it might be close. At least for now. This is new and he won’t be expecting it… I mean, how do I just call him and tell him that his little sister, who I was an ass to for years, is my -”

He breaks off abruptly, his heart thudding when she narrows her eyes slightly, almost amused. You get all flustered when you’re taken off guard. He can’t help but agree with her, and it seems as though she’s thinking the same thing.

“My… reasoning for waking up in the morning,” he finishes, glad to hear his voice is at least steady.

Chaeyoung nods, apparently impressed. “Yeah, I guess that would be a bit out of the blue,” she agrees, shrugging. “And I kind of like this. That it’s just ours for now,” she murmurs, tilting her head up.

Hoseok reaches forward and kisses the tip of her nose. “I get that. Plus, your brother has started really hitting the gym recently so he’s kind of, you know -” He curls his arms and hunches his back “- jacked, so I’d really like to time it correctly so I don’t face any damage.”

She laughs. “He’s not like that. He knows I’m an adult, you know.”

“Think of it as self-preservation.”

“He knows I dated in college, so you’re not my first -”

Hoseok raises his eyebrows, something flipping in his stomach as her cheeks fill up with the lightest tinge of pink.

“- guy that I… cook for and spend the night with.” She winces and looks away as Hoseok snickers, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her to him.

“Let’s wait it out,” he concludes, inhaling the scent of her hair again.

“Let’s wait it out.” Chaeyoung hugs him back. “You’ll have to suffer through more days like today, though,” she adds, chuckling.”

Hoseok clicks his tongue dismissively. “I don’t care,” he states, tightening his hold around her. “I’m happy.”

—

Jimin April; Set shortly after Pretty Girls

Jimin enters the apartment with a bang - literally, wincing as the door closes with a loud thud.

“Dude!” Sooah’s voice comes from somewhere behind the coffee table. “Careful!”

“Hoseok hyung ditched me,” complains Jimin, falling on the sofa dramatically. “And now I’m all alone.”

“None taken.”

Jimin frowns and leans across the sofa to see Sooah in tights and a sports bra, stretching on a yoga mat. Her hair is pulled back into an aesthetically messy ponytail, with a headband keeping her bangs out of her face. She looks like a dream and suddenly, Hoseok going back home doesn’t seem like a big deal.

“Didn’t go to yoga class today?” he asks, getting up and walking over to where she’s deep in a downward dog position.

“No, I got too late,” she mutters, sounding disappointed. “But I knew I’d feel guilty if I didn’t work out at all today, so -” She finishes her sentence by raising her leg into a graceful arabesque behind her.

“Turn your leg out a bit,” instructs Jimin. “It’ll help work your glutes as well.”

“I am turning it out.”

“No, you’re not. Wait -” He hops around behind her and wraps his fingers around her lower calf, slowly turning her leg out. “All the way from your hip, come on.” One hand trails down her leg and stops inside her thigh, gently squeezing it before helping her twist it.

Sooah chuckles. “Subtle, Chim.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m just helping you stretch,” he says innocently, stepping forward so he’s standing between her legs, his hips brushing against her crotch.

“Totally. That’s all you’re helping me - ow, Chim, that’s too high!”

Jimin jerks back just in time to avoid her leg as it comes down in a flash. She kneels on the mat and turns to face him with a scowl.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously what?” He whines, joining her on the mat and lying down, pulling her down with him. “I’ve missed you,” he mutters, squeezing her waist and nuzzling her neck.

Sooah sighs as he throws a leg over her hips. “I missed you, too, sweetie. You know, since… yesterday.”

“Too long,” he says, hearing his voice muffled.

“Fair enough.” She pats his hand. “What happened?”

“You smell nice,” he says instead.

She scoffs. “I’m sweating, you weirdo,” she retorts, pushing him away slightly so she’s facing him. “Seriously, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he begins, sighing hugely. “Hoseok hyung had to lie his way out of admitting to Chaeyoung's brother that they’re banging and while it did seem like he was pretty close to passing out, I guess it was kind of…” He squeezes his eyes shut to think of the word and opens them to see Sooah’s face inches away from his own, propped up on her elbow.

“Kind of…” She prompts, raising her eyebrows.

“Kind of cute,” he finishes, turning on his side to mirror her position. “They’re new to dating and they’re hiding it and everything…” Jimin trails off, suddenly aware that he’s pouting.

“Chim,” says Sooah, tugging at the strings of his hoodie, “are you asking me, in a very roundabout way, if our relationship is still exciting?”

“No! No, no, no, no, no -” Jimin breaks off, feeling the heat creep up his face and leans forward, nudging her on her back and rolling on top of her. “I know our relationship is still exciting. I’m dating Kim Sooah,” he informs her.

She flicks his temple, chuckling fondly. “Yeah, but we’re not hiding our relationship from anyone. Except, you know, the world.”

“I don’t want to hide it from anyone,” he declares. “I’ll tell everyone - I’ll put it up on Instagram right now. Don’t doubt me, Kim Sooah.”

“Never, Park Jimin.” She pats his shoulder. “Alright, get up. I have to go shower.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, just stay here,” he whines again, letting his arms buckle and collapsing on top of her. “Tell me you think our relationship is still exciting,” he demands, trying to keep a straight face over Sooah’s laughter.

“God, Chim - I’m under you!” she exclaims, half-giggling. “Get off!”

“Not until you say it. Say it, say it, say it - whoops, deadweight -”

“You’re crushing me -” Her hands go down to his torso and her fingers find their way under his t-shirt.

“First you have to - no!” He laughs involuntarily, half-shrieking as she tickles up until he rolls off her onto the yoga mat. “That’s cheating!”

“Deadweight is cheating,” she counters, getting to her feet and ruffling his hair before heading into the bathroom. When she returns twenty minutes later, she walks into the living room and halts. “Seriously?”

Jimin tilts his head back in the cobra pose. “Stretching just looked so good,” he admits sheepishly. He moves into a pigeon pose, one on each side while she heads into the kitchen and comes back with a bottle of cold water. Finishing up with a nice hamstring stretch, Jimin stands up and joins her on the sofa.

“Hi,” he says, placing an arm around her shoulders.

“Hi,” she replies, smiling up and leaning into him. “What’s up?”

“Not much. Just had a long day. Or I didn’t, actually,” he says a moment later. “But I’m still tired. Dunno why.”

Sooah frowns as he speaks, squeezing his thigh affectionately. “Have you eaten today?”

“Yeah, some. Had some sushi earlier today. And then a slice of pizza at Chanyeol hyung’s.” He pulls her in a bit closer and rests his chin on the top of her head. “I don’t know. Just one of those days, I guess.”

“Yeah.” She traces random patterns on his thigh for a few seconds, both of them just drinking in each other’s company in silence. “You know what might make you feel better?” she asks after a moment.

“What’s that?”

She pulls away slightly so she can look up at him. “I was thinking about it today, anyway… and it might take your mind off everything,” she adds, raising her eyebrows and shifting so she’s sitting on her knees.

Jimin frowns as she presses a light kiss to his lips. “I’d love to… but I’m honestly really tired.”

“Oh, I know.” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to do any of the work. You just need to sit back,” she says, standing up and gently pushing him back against the sofa, “and relax.”

Fifteen minutes later, Jimin sits back on the sofa, his head resting against the back of it with his eyes closed.

“God, you were right,” he murmurs. “This is actually so relaxing.”

“I know, right?”

He feels her reach over and straighten the edge of his face mask, soft and fragrant against his skin. The cucumber slices feel light and cool on his eyes and he brings the glass to his face, searching for the straw and sipping the fruity mimosa.

“Sooah,” he says, hearing her hum. He searches for her hand on the sofa and slips his fingers into us. “You know you’re the most exciting person I know, right?”

She chuckles softly, sounding just as cosy and comfortable as he feels. “Yeah, skincare nights really get that adrenaline going.”

“Totally,” he jokes back, bringing her hand to his mouth and kissing it. “Best kind of night.”

—

Taehyung April; Set a month after She’s In The Rain

The day is young, and the air is ripe with hope, potential and expectation. Up ahead, the track clears as mechanics, team principals and the press drift away, leaving the path ahead long and winding, with nothing but sixty odd laps between her and P1. Anything can happen.

Her brows furrow slightly. She knows the track and she’s raced hundred of laps around it; she knows what it’s capable of. It’s given her mostly good races, but at the core of its design, the potential is rife for chaos.

Bang.

The door is thrown open with force and kicked close as they stumble into the room. Their lips don’t leave each other’s, only passion and reckless abandon driving their movements. Taehyung pushes her back against the wall, swallowing her gasp, tightening his hands on her hips as she pulls at his sweater.

“Are we still fighting?” he asks against her lips. Their hands are everywhere - only part of his brain can even focus on the words he’s saying. “Because we should - probably - talk about it,” he says, punctuating every word with a kiss to her skin and helping her take off her long-sleeved t-shirt.

“Forget it,” she murmurs, kissing him back, her chest pressing against his. “I can’t even remember what we were fighting about,” she says, sighing when he nips at her lower lip and tugging at his sweater again. “Take this off.”

They stagger further into the room of their BnB, hands everywhere and articles of clothing being discarded at every step. The Scotland rain outside comes down in sheets, white and thick, the sound deafening. Their room is warm in comparison, dimly lit with just the fireplace going, the huge bed taking up most of the space on the wooden floor.

The speed is… fast. She’s like the wind; she feels one with the wind, until another car appears in her side mirror and she knows she has to buck up. Push, they tell her on the radio, and she tries. But other drivers know to push as well and she knows she has to try something different. Maybe with the tyres, or even a surprise pit stop. She needs to be in control.

Taehyung feels himself hard against her waist, her fingernails scraping against his scalp before they snake down his bare torso, her hands on every inch of skin. She nips at his lower lip and his grip on her hips tightens, before he wraps one hand around her thigh and lifts her off the ground. Her sound of surprise is so arousing; she tightens her arms around his neck as he brings them to the bed, lowering her onto it when she pulls away and stops him.

“One second,” she mutters, panting and swinging her legs off the side of the bed. Taehyung frowns in confusion as she pulls open the drawer on her bedside table and retrieves something before tossing it to him without warning. He catches it without difficulty, though, noting how glassy her eyes already are, her nipples erect and her lean, tan midriff the colour of honey.

He wants to devour her. He wants to worship her till the end of time and it’s only when she raises her eyebrows and tilts her chin at the object that he looks down to see his Polaroid, the one she’d gifted him years ago. Taehyung meets her eyes, silently confirming if she’s asking him what he thinks she’s asking. In answer, Dilara tosses her long curls off her shoulder and holds his gaze, eyes blazing.

He stares at her for a moment before raising the camera. Click. He doesn’t wait to check the picture that’s come out; letting it fall to the floor, he walks over to her to kiss her again, one hand still holding the camera. He lets himself be steered onto the edge of the bed where he sits and Dilara goes down on her knees. The moment her lips touch his cock, his breathing stutters and his eyes flutter shut. Snaking one hand down into her thick hair, he looks down to see her eyes on him as she sucks him off.

Click.

Cars are speeding around the track now. She can see them through the slit in her visor, across the misshapen circuit, most of them behind her. The competition is at its peak now and everyone is racing to win. Rainclouds appear in the sky and there’s a moment of panic, but she powers through. She makes split decision after decision, choosing to change her tyres, choosing to come into the pit at a risky moment, but committing to each at every point.

It’s exhilarating. Every rainy lap is closer to the finish line, closer to a win, closer to the art of racing in the rain. Even the spray clouding her vision from the only car in front of her is a challenge, brings her closer to the car and to the sport she’s given everything to.

The rain lashes outside, so loud that Dilara’s sounds almost get lost in the din. The bed and floor are littered with pictures, all in different stages of development, but Taehyung hasn’t stopped to look at a single one. Her back is beautiful, curving before him with long locks of hair flowing down them. He holds her hips as he moves, his grunts and her whimpers in sync, so messy, so transcendent.

Click.

The camera whines as another picture comes out, but he ignores it as she crawls forward and turns to lie on her back. She beckons to him, her neck and chest glowing with a thin sheen of sweat, her breathing rapid. Taehyung lowers himself to kiss her, their naked bodies flush against each other as he slides into her again, wet and warm, and she moans into his mouth.

“Faster,” she whispers against his mouth, lifting her hips off the bed into his so he bottoms out. He obliges; he’s raring to go, every thrust bringing him closer to edge. Dilara closes her eyes as he sits up slightly so he can pound into her faster, one hand clutching the pillow and the other moving down from her hair to her breast, squeezing it lightly as he continues to fuck her.

Click.

He drops the camera to his side, all his focus on her now for this last bit. Her legs wrap around his waist; he unhooks one to bring in over his shoulder, leaning forward so he can watch her come undone, moaning loud and long as she finishes on his cock, her back arching until she falls back on the bed. Taehyung begins moving again, her wetness and residual whimpers keeping him going until she opens her eyes and he meets them, dark and blazing, and he pulls out at the last moment, emptying himself on her lean, smooth, honey-coloured torso.

Dilara rests her head on the pillow, panting and closing her eyes. Taehyung catches his breath, his eyes running over the strips of white over her body before he reaches for the camera.

It’s a win. It’s indescribable, every single time. No matter how exhausted, no matter how stressed, it’s all paid off because it’s a win. There’s a trophy, there’s applause, there’s adulation, there’s validation that she belongs here after all, that this was where she is meant to be, this is what it’s all been for.

Her heart hurts, but it’s not a bad pain. She wants the win, every win, and she wants to be in the sport, for her love for it knows no bounds. She gets emotional, too, standing up on the podium and holding the trophy up high, knowing she would do anything for this feeling the rest of her life. She loves it, she craves it, and she can’t live without it.

Taehyung sits by the edge of the bed, clothed in a flimsy white button down and baggy joggers, the stack of pictures in his hand. The sky outside has darkened but the rain is as heavy as ever. The glow of the fire before him flickers calmly in contrast on the first picture he picks up, of Dilara on the bed, naked and kneeling, looking just above the lens of the camera. The dark spot on top of her breast is the beginning of a hickey; he gazes as it for a few seconds before calmly tossing it into the fire.

He flips through them silently, images of their tryst borne from a moment that was initially headed elsewhere. She’s right; he really can’t remember what they’d been fighting about. The pictures are in no particular order, some of them more haphazard than the others, but each capturing moments of passion that can’t be explained in anything other than stills taken by a camera.

She’d gifted it to him right before their first date, he remembers suddenly, as he watches one of the last pictures curl up and blacken in the fire. We’ve come a long way, my love. The shower inside the en suite stops just as the last, lone picture remains in his hand, taken after they’d cleaned up and he’d climbed off the bed. Dilara had sat up on her knees among the sheets, looking out at the expanse of the Scottish highlands and the torrents that drowned it.

He’d watched her for a few seconds, taking in her silhouette against the grey landscape outside. It was a sight worthy of committing to memory, and he’d raised the camera for the last time and snapped a picture of her.

He’s interrupted by the sound of soft footsteps and he turns to see her walk out of the en suite, her curls tied up in a bun and the rest of her wrapped in a towel, droplets of water still glistening on her shoulders. Taehyung hadn’t heard the sliding door open; he wonders how long she’s been standing there but then she gives him a small smile, and he returns it. Slipping the picture into his pocket, he steps out of the room to allow her to change in privacy.

There’s nothing like winning. The feeling stays, the pride remains and there’s hope. But there’s also a moment, a time of the evening after the race where the celebrations are done and the congratulations have dried up, that the race starts being replayed, and the risks and gambles come back into focus. And then there’s the feeling - no, the knowledge - that this isn’t the end. This is a race, just one race, but the rest of the calendar is yet to come. It’s grounding in reality like nothing else, and the win is diluted.

Taehyung watches the rain, now a bit slower but still coming down, dry and toasty in a tan sweater in the balcony of their room. There’s a song in here somewhere, Namjoon would say and he’d probably write it, too. Taehyung tries to do the same but every word he thinks of, every line or rudimentary melody is tinged with sadness so he quickly abandons the exercise.

He feels a soft nudge on his arm and turns to see Dilara join him, a small glass of whiskey in each hand. Her hair is loose again (and he guesses it’s to shield her face and neck from the cold), and she’s covered up with a Red Bull hoodie and grey joggers.

He takes the whiskey she offers, kissing her softly on the cheek as she comes to stand next to him. Dilara looks like she’s about to say something; Taehyung gives her his full attention, waiting. A few moments later, though, she gives a small shake of her head and leans into him, waiting for him to wrap an arm around her as they watch the rain together.

—

Namjoon January (Set a couple of months after A Stormy Night)

Namjoon takes a deep breath. None of this was going according to plan.

The restaurant was highly rated, the ambience cozy and warm, Kaya's two other classmates-turned-friends had reached on time, Taehyung and Dilara had successfully picked up the birthday cake, the birthday girl looked like a million bucks and the jazz singer playing in a different area of the restaurant was just adding enough to the night without being disruptive.

And yet, somehow, despite all his efforts to make tonight about her, within the first hour of the classy and intimate birthday dinner he'd planned, the restaurant had become overrun with guests, some of them clearly famous, and noise and singing and generally the opposite of cozy and intimate.

It may still have been okay, given they were in a corner of the restaurant not directly in view of the entrance. But Dilara had invariably been recognised which only served to increase the excitement in the place - Namjoon had deduced from the general atmosphere that the dozen guests that had arrived at once were some kind of sports team that were being celebrated, and Dilara's presence was only adding to it.

Maybe she senses his train of thought, for she catches his eye from where she's awkwardly posing for a picture with two of the sports team members. She shoots him an apologetic look and makes her way to him the moment the picture is taken, ducking her head slightly as she passes othr guests.

“I'm sorry,” is the first thing she says, sighing. “It's the England cricket team. They just won the Ashes and… it's a pretty big deal. Nobody thought they would.” She folds her arms across her chest and lightly bumps his shoulder. “Is Kaya okay?”

“Yeah, she's fine,” he mutters, turning slightly when he spots his girlfriend exiting the ladies’ room, fluffing her long hair over her shoulder. “And… don't be sorry,” he adds, sighing. “It's not your fault. I just had such a specific vision of how this was supposed to be, you know? Hey,” he says with forced cheerfulness when Kaya reaches them.

“You're annoyed,” she says immediately, and Dilara stifles a snicker when Namjoon frowns exaggeratedly and shakes his head.

“What? Of course not. Why would I be - okay, fine, a little bit.” He looks away when Kaya grabs his hand lovingly and squeezes it. “I just wasn't expecting…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely to the chaos in the restaurant. A little way away, Taehyung is in an animated conversation with one of Kaya's friends who'd rushed up to take a selfie with one of the cricketers. There is free-flowing beer and tipsy toasts being made in honour of the team, and one of the cricketers seems to be getting pressured to get up on the stage, with “Sing, Brody, sing!” chorusing over and over by a handful of people.

“It's not that bad,” says Kaya. “It's a little louder, but…” She turns back to the table where the remains of their dinner is yet to be picked up by a waiter. “The food was amazing. And I know you loved the whiskey sour you ordered.”

“Sure, but…”

“If it helps, I think the team looks kind of annoyed by the attention,” guesses Dilara, waving hesitantly when someone comes up to them and squeals at the sight of her.

“Come on, it could be worse,” says Kaya to him, her voice lower. “At least you guys weren't recognised.”

Namjoon nods, acknowledging this begrudgingly. Taehyung, who had already made friends with the waiter and the hostess even before the dinner had gone south, is now standing with the same friend of Kaya's and another cricketer, singing along to the soulful song that this Brody is now singing slightly off key on the stage. There are people across the restaurant who are filming him, looking beyond thrilled at the sight, and a gaggle of girls doing an exaggerated groupie bit at the handsome cricketer.

Namjoon feels his mood sour with every passing minute, even as Kaya leans against him and taps her foot absently with the music.

“You don’t have cricket in Korea, do you?” she asks after a few minutes, absently.

“Nope. Kind of glad about that right now. Or maybe not,” he adds suddenly. “At least then I’d know what the big deal is.”

Kaya gives him a look. “It’s not that bad. It’s a bit of extra people and a little more chatter and -“

She breaks off and both of them wince at the sudden uproar of a victory song being sung by the entire restaurant. A redheaded cricketer is being grabbed by two of his teammates by the shoulders and the three grown men, arm in arm, are doing some sort of dance as they hold jugs of beers with their free hands.

Namjoon exhales slowly through his nose. From across the room, he spots Taehyung apparently starting to realise what he already has, that this night is no longer salvageable. He catches Namjoon’s eye and, like his girlfriend a few minutes ago, he makes his way over apologetically.

“Sorry, hyung,” he says as soon as he reaches, handsomely tossing a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. “The captain’s wife -“ He points to a blonde lady laughing at talking to another woman “- said they’re celebrating and in her words, they’re just warming up.” He purses his lips sympathetically.

Kaya punches his shoulder as if to get him to shut up and then turns to Namjoon, ignoring Taehyung’s dramatic gasp. “It's not a big deal,” she repeats clearly, raising her voice to be heard over the noise. “It's not even that bad - maybe we should go and dance or -”

But she's interrupted once again by a loud screech of feedback from the mic. They look over to see a young member of the cricket team up on the low stage, tapping on the mic and looking thrilled with the attention. He can't be older than twenty-one; something about his cocky lopsided grin makes Namjoon's blood boil.

The cricketer starts off with a speech, slurring a bit but clearly saying all the right things while people switch between hooting and paying rapt attention. A little way away, Namjoon spots Dilara listening as well, clapping once in a while as well; it's the only thing that calms him down slightly. He hasn’t watched a day of cricket in his life, but he can recognise a big win when he sees one, no matter how begrudgingly he may admit it.

The speech ends with a few more cheers and some hooting and before they know it, another round of Brody, Brody commences and the same handsome blue-eyed cricketer is pushed up on stage by some of his teammates, where he bends slightly to talk into the mic.

Namjoon rolls his eyes as he begins rhapsodizing about their win, knowing somewhere that he’s coming off as disgruntled and extremely unattractive. As if on cue, he feels Kaya link her fingers with his.

“Come with me,” she mutters. Without waiting for a response, she begins maneuvering through the crowd and pulling him along, until they’re out of the restaurant and in the cold hits him like he’s been plunged into an ice bath. Exhaling and seeing his breath come out in mist, he looks up in confusion to see Kaya pull her coat tighter around her.

“Okay,” she says, folding her arms across her chest. “What’s wrong? Because this can’t all be about one ruined dinner. I know you have a thicker skin than this.”

Namjoon considers lying. But one look at Kaya, her dark eyes and teacher-like expression, and something tugs at his heart.

“I wanted to give you a nice birthday.”

“It was nice,” she says instantly. “The food was amazing, we got lucky with Dilara and Tae being here the same weekend as my conference, you’re here -“ She sighs and drops her arms to her sides. “We’re in London in January and happen to be out on the one night that it’s a little less freezing. So… what is it?”

Namjoon looks away, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The streets are deserted and the river rumbles in the distance, the only sounds coming faintly from inside the restaurant. He wants to tell her - but if they go down this road, there’s no coming back.

“I wanted this birthday,” he says slowly, swallowing, “to be a nice birthday.” He waits as her frown deepens and then fades away, the realisation dawning. He looks at the ground; even admitting it feels like defeat of a kind.

“Because you won’t be here on my next one,” she says quietly, nodding.

“Or the one after that. Not unless you come to Seoul and I take a vacation day on the same day, which is -” He shrugs, biting his lip. “And it’s not going to be like previous birthdays we’ve spent apart, where I can still do stuff from another country and - and have a date on video call or something. This is going to be - I’m going to miss -”

He breaks off, pressing his hands to his forehead in frustration, knowing he’s effectively ruined the night more than any number of cricket teams by bringing up this topic.

Kaya comes closer; he can hear the click of her heels as she slowly stops in front of him. “You know that I know you don’t have a choice, right?”

“I know, but -”

“So if you’re thinking that you’ll be a bad boyfriend or if you think I’m thinking that, just stop. Namjoon, I know you’re struggling with this and I don’t blame you. I have no idea what it’s like for you,” she admits, reaching up to bring his hands down. “And I’m not asking you to ignore your feelings or to pretend like everything’s great, but I need you to…” She bites her lip and he can tell she’s debating whether to say it.

“Need me to what?” Namjoon asks warily.

“I need you to try,” she says softly, squeezing his hands. “Just try to see the good, try to find a happy moment when you can, because…” She licks her lips and he does a double take when her eyes suddenly shine and they look wet. “Joon, I’m worried for you. I don’t know what it’s like but I can’t imagine it’ll get easier if you’re so hard on yourself all the time.”

It’s a lot to unpack. For a moment, Namjoon wants to break down, right here in her arms and ask her to take him home, far away from all his responsibilities. But that would only worry her more and in any case, it’s a crazy thought. So he closes his eyes and presses his forehead to hers.

“I’m happy now,” he mutters, smiling a little when she scoffs.

“Yeah, you really look it.” But she leans into him as well before reaching up and kissing him. “Now that I’m officially in my thirties, I can safely say I have a lot more life experience than you, little one. So you have to listen to me.”

That makes him laugh. He tugs her closer and wraps an arm around her waist, the other automatically taking her hand in his. “I’m dating an older woman now, officially.”

“You were dating an older woman the day you asked me to be your girlfriend,” she points out, her face easing up slightly. “Actually, it wasn’t too far from here, was it?”

“It was in front of the Langham, so, yeah.” He nods as a guitar begins playing inside the restaurant and their feet move automatically, steps small and uncoordinated. “I found a happy moment that day,” he murmurs into her hair, inhaling the coconut and vanilla scent.

“Yeah, you did,” she agrees. “Wasn’t that hard, was it?”

“Are you kidding? I was so nervous. I was just a kid and you were this sexy older woman that was completely out of my league.”

“Okay, we’re going to stop saying older woman now,” she decides, moving away slightly and looking up at him with narrowed eyes. At that moment, a familiar voice drifts from inside. She raises her eyebrows and smiles. “The kid’s got a great voice.”

“You should hear him in the shower,” says Namjoon, but nods in agreement as Taehyung’s baritone singing a jazzy blues song lights up their little corner of the street.

“Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone, okay?” he murmurs after a few moments, into her hair again. He feels her stiffen slightly but then she nods into his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, I won’t miss you at all,” she assures him. She stops moving, however, and slowly steps away. “Do you want to get out of here? Go get a hot chocolate or something? Because I’m fucking freezing.”

Namjoon can’t think of anything he’d like more than to be with her alone. “I’m in,” he agrees, linking his fingers with hers. “Just need to make one phone call.”

Inside the restaurant, Dilara nods into the phone. “Yeah, no problem,” she says, smiling as she catches Taehyung’s eyes where he’s on the small stage, crooning away to John Baptiste. “Don’t worry, Namjoon, I know you’ll pay me back. I know where you live,” she teases. “You guys have fun.”

As she hangs up, she leans against the wall and watches her boyfriend, tall and handsome, singing in the dim lighting. The celebration has now mellowed to a nice, festive evening and she requests a passing waiter for a glass of wine. One of the cricketers she’d taken a group photo with joins her, looking happy and winded.

“This might be the one spot in the whole place where you can get a moment of peace,” he remarks, running a hand through his black hair and turning around to lean against the wall like she is. “Hope you don’t mind?” he asks belatedly.

“Not at all. Congratulations, by the way. Brody, I presume,” she ventures, raising her eyebrows as he nods good-naturedly. “Right. Seems like you were a big deal in this tournament.”

“Just a bit. But everyone was,” he replies easily. “You didn’t watch?”

“Oh. Um, I followed it a bit here and there. I don’t get a lot of time to watch television,” she admits sheepishly.

“No worries. The parties are better than the matches,” he points out. “Must be the same for Formula One, I assume. Komyshan, right?”

Dilara nods, her face getting hot and the embarrassment at her lack of awareness of cricket increasing. “That’s what the commentators call me.”

“I get it. Brody is what the commentators call me,” he says, blue eyes twinkling.

Cheeks still warm, she sticks out her hand. “Dilara,” she says.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, taking her hand. “I’m James.”

—

Thanks for reading. Don't forget to leave a review :)

#g: 18+#g: smut #g: fluff #g: humor #g: angst #warnings: swearing #warnings: making out #warnings: oral sex #warnings: exhibitionism #type: smut #wc: 11k+#a: magicshopaholic #member: cath #artist: bts

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kflixnet · 25 days ago

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New to KFLIXNET: Check out our member Yomi's drabble!

♱ ─ 𝗶𝗺 𝘁𝘄𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗱 . 𓊔 哈 ⠀ ⠀SACRIFICE ( EAT ME UP )

𖧷 𝖳𝖠𝖪𝖤 𝖬𝖸 𝖧𝖠𝖭𝖣﹒숨 막힐 듯한 밤이 밀려와 ── the man who loved you endless was the happiest when he left the world in your arms ✶ / 𝗱𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁 ❨ 𝐃𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊 ❩

⠀𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑓𝑎𝑡𝑒 ── 내 안에 남긴 𝘀𝗰𝗮𝗿 운명에 번진 𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗸𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀 너의 것을 너에게로 𝗺𝘆 𝘀𝗮𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗳𝗶𝗰𝗲 애원해 𝗸𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝗲 난 발버둥 쳐 힘을 잃어가

'⠀•⠀【 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 】 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗰𝗮𝗿 𝗹𝗲𝗳𝘁 𝗼𝗻 𝗺𝗲 ! vamphee & fmr ♱﹒ 9OO wrds / 𝖿𝗍 . angst . with death, heeseung dies, he dies laughing emoji + liek&reblog! 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓

여키 ── EDITION . im never writing like this again Shakespeare can suck my DIH.

the light of day bled through the dark, the dawn peaking over the field. You could smell it before you could see him─heeseung, in all his glory, crawling to you.

a bitter sight to the eyes as he pants, his trousers were stained from the grass beneath his feet. he stood before you until his knees gave up. coming close with the ground, he kneels before you in the very same field he kissed you and held you.

his eyes never left you once, speaking a thousand words─each one of them ending with you.

his back is rigid yet his hands prop him up as they push the ground. he never spoke once, letting his heart spill the words before you come running to him.

for this time, it wasn't you who was running to his arms like always. it was now you running to him with open arms. the glow of the sun slapped his skin as blisters formed.

"heeseung!" you wailed, cupping his fragile face─one that was sculpted by the hands of God himself.

his eyes meet yours as he lets go of everything he had been holding. the warnings that his brothers told about you─'never to go near you'. you were his forbidden desire, a deep desire that turned into the one thing he could be comforted by─love.

his voice was raspy, "angel, i had to see you." he runs his hands, tucking a loose strand behind your ear like he always does.

"you're burning! heeseung, leave!" your cries were nothing if it meant not seeing your face one last time.

he was dying, he knew it from the very first moment he laid eyes on you. you were the cause of his death before his heart started rotting. beneath the smoke, a strong smell of fresh flesh invaded your nose, sick yet sweet.

"run back to the shadows, please." you begged your prince yet he stayed still in your arms.

the sun was racing to end him, to kill his stone cold heart. yet he stayed there, facing you--his lover being the last thing he sees before the darkness takes him alive.

he doesn't move. he'd never move. his gaze never leaves you─it devours you. his eyes run from the crease in your eyebrows to the glow near the curves of your cheek.

"the shadows are empty without you. life without you is death itself." a whisper no one could hear but you. in that deathly grass field was your lover, from your beginning to the end─dying in your arms, but it meant everything if he was leaving this world in your warmth.

you cup his face, one last look before his skin forms to nothing but ashes. you ignore the unflattering heat resting at your palm as his blisters widen. smoke escapes, heeseung flinches at the touch but wouldn't dare move.

tears stream down your face, he rests in your arms as you hold him. "dont do this, waste your life─sacrifice yourself for a moment."

you sobbed, his angel was sobbing. a cruel sight yet it was the most beautiful thing he'd hear. heeseung felt a lucky man for your sweet voice being the last thing he hears.

"its never a waste. not when I'm with you, angel." his eyes slowly drop to your luscious lips, a taste he had seem to be addicted to. "it's the only moment I have left worth having." he holds your face, a precious jewel.

porcelain and soft─unlike his blistered and ashy skin. you were perfect, the most perfect girl in his eyes. you were truly a sight for sore eyes; his eyes.

the air between you cracks down, weighing your back. the scent of smoke and the ache of restriction gnawed at you. heeseung's head dips, he's close. you tilt yours down to meet his gaze. yours and his breath tangles against the dusty air─your breath hot and warm while he exhaled a cold sigh.

he silently moans, out of pure agony. this was torture, but he didn't mind the pain as long as it was you who he would be with at the end of the day. though, a new one started, his one was ending.

you could almost taste the ash on his lips, feel the breath of his sigh against yours. you slowly tasted the brink of death, his lips melting onto yours. you were one soul with his now as he kisses you back. a long desperate plea for him to stay a second longer.

his lips were burning hot, yet you didn't mind any of it. the burn of his soul reaches his body as blisters cut open through his clothes. he was dissolving into the sun as his lips stay with yours.

for a moment, everything stayed still. a moment stuck in time, like you hoped it had been. as he surrendered his fate against your skin, you feel your heart ripping away from you and being taken with him.

the prince you once loved was leaving you and taking a part of you with him.

he stops kissing you back, he stops moving closer to you. the world stops. his body dissipates into your skin, not away to the sky. but remains of your lover cascades down your skin, ashes reminding you of the soul you once shared with him.

now you sit alone, alone in the field where heeseung had loved you. the rising sun left a stain─a reminder of the bitter taste that resided on your lips.

until the silent dawn meets your warm skin again, the sun and moon taking turns to watch your misery, you cling to the dust of your lover─a moment lost in time.

⠀ join the taglist 💌 @zuyairus @bubblytaetae @yenqa @voikiraz @miumura @haechansbbg @taejaysreads @shinunoga-iie-wa @teddywonss @naespas @isoobie @dimplewonie @jennaissantes @aishigrey @firstclassjaylee @rikislove @hynjinnnnnnnn @flwrstqr @manariee

⠀⠀𝖺 𝗒𝖾𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽. do not copy, repost or translate my works

#g: 13+#g: vampire au #g: angst #warnings: death #type: drabble #wc: 900+#a: yeokii #member: yomi #artist: enhypen #m: heeseung

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kflixnet · 25 days ago

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New to KFLIXNET: Check out our member Calli's fic!

CHASING THE FRONT PT.3

pairing: mercedes driver!joshua x fem!reader

genre: fluff, angst, f1au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series. New team, new teammate, new standards to live up to. For Joshua, stepping into Mercedes is a test of everything he’s worked for. Competing against a world champion teammate, adapting to a new team dynamic, and finding his place in the spotlight, he’s under pressure like never before. But things start to get a little out of control when he keeps bumping into you, his teammate's sister...and manager.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, mentions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, slowburn (i cannot stress on this enough), quite f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 [21k] Part 2 [15k] Part 3 [21k]

glossary taglist

a/n: one more completed and another step closer to finishing the series eeee!! thank you again to all the comments and everyone that has stuck around for this :D hope y'all like this and please do leave a comment/rb/ask with your thoughts!

SUMMER BREAK

Joshua leaves the house just before eight. One bag slung over his shoulder and a suitcase at his feet. The sky outside is flat and grey, the kind that makes everything feel earlier—or even later than it actually is. His mother waves from the taxi.

This is his second flight in two days. The first one was straight from Hungary, surrounded by team personnel and crew, all still riding the high of a double podium. This one is quieter. No entourage, no itinerary that needs pre-clearing. Just his mother beside him in the backseat of the cab, chatting absently about her ‘sisters’ trip to Madeira, about how the hydrangeas were in full bloom and how the locals were kind and patient even when she couldn’t speak the language properly. It’s the kind of story he would’ve liked to hear in full if his mind wasn’t still somewhere else.

He watches as one familiar landmark bleeds into the next. He’d been looking forward to this part—the break and the stillness. A reset after a first half that had come in hot and fast and relentless. But now he just feels the inertia. His body is in perpetual motion even though the car has stopped.

His mother keeps the conversation going gently, asking about what time the sim schedule restarts next week and whether he’ll be back in Brackley before the others. He says yes to both, though he hasn’t really looked. He’s been meaning to.

It’s not that Joshua can’t relax—in fact, he’s hoping that this trip to Greece will do just that. It’s just harder than he expected to be still. There’s a tension in him that hasn’t quite ebbed out yet. It lingers in his shoulders, in the way his knee bounces under the terminal bench later, in how long he stares at his phone without unlocking it.

There’s nothing on it, anyway. No new messages. No follow-ups. You haven’t texted—not since before the race—and he hasn’t either. He doesn’t know what he would even say.

Not that it’s weird. You don’t talk that much outside of work, and it was just a long weekend.

Still, every now and then, the memory drifts in and out of his head, even though he tries hard not to think about it. The clink of a glass, your arm brushing his as you reached past him at the bar. A glance held too long or not at all.

He told himself that it was nothing when he woke up the next morning, so he does it again.

The boarding gate opens. He stands, adjusting the strap on his shoulder before following his mother toward the queue. No tracks, no engineers, no schedule to chase. A flight that doesn’t lead to anything. And maybe, a little more time to figure out how he’s supposed to feel when he sees you again.

You wake up later than usual, and it takes you a few minutes to remember that you don’t have somewhere to be right now.

Outside, it’s gloomy again—not cold, like you’d have preferred, but just heavy and humid, like the clouds are threatening to fall down on you. You shower, throw on something soft and oversized, and stare at the kettle, boiling water for tea that you never end up finishing while it's still hot. The apartment is silent. No emails, no alarms, no one asking where you are or when you’ll be back in the office. It’s not unpleasant, but because it’s something that occurs only once or twice in a year, the feeling is a bit unfamiliar every time.

The only sign of Doyoung is a text he sent twenty minutes ago, asking if you’re alive and that he’s going to be dropping by later this afternoon. He doesn’t live too far from you, and he gets bored fast when he doesn’t have a car to obsess over or data to look at.

You scroll through your phone on the sofa, not looking for anything in particular. A few messages from friends asking if you want to meet up tomorrow, now that you’re finally on your break. In the informal team group chat, there are a bunch of photos from the Hungary afterparty. Everyone is flushed and smiling in most of them. You stare at them longer than you mean to, before you remember that you’d decided to ignore everything that happened that night. You swipe out of the app.

The thought of seeing people sounds nice. Normal. You should say yes. Maybe go for drinks or just a lazy lunch in someone’s garden, music low and sleeves rolled up. You’ve been meaning to reply for days and keep forgetting, or maybe just avoiding.

When Doyoung arrives, not later that day like he said—knocking twice before letting himself in with the key he borrowed weeks ago and never returned—you’re still lazing on the couch with a book that you’ve lost interest in.

He doesn’t bother to greet you and instead just takes his shoes off by the door and drops his keys in the little ceramic tray you keep by the shoe cupboard, like it’s his own place.

“Hey,” he calls, wandering into the kitchen. “Did you eat?”

“Not yet,” you say. “Was going to make something later.”

He hums, opening the fridge and peering inside. “You have that oat milk I like.”

“You left it here.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for being decent enough not to throw it out.”

You glance over as he pours himself a glass and drinks it straight, still standing. A wave of annoyance pulses through you—not serious, but the one that comes from watching someone help themselves like they live here.

“You know, you could sit down like a normal person.”

“I am normal,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re just uptight for some reason.”

“You’re drinking oat milk like it’s wine.”

He waves you off, closing the fridge door before making his way to the living room and dropping onto the armchair across from you, limbs spread out like he’s trying to make himself as irritating as possible.“ Listen, I’m bored as fuck.”

“It’s been three days, Doyoung.” You sigh, turning back to your book. “Go bother someone else.”

“Come on, can we do something? What are we doing today?”

You glance up. “We?”

“Yeah. I’m bored and you’re free.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What if I had plans?”

He scoffs. “You don’t.”

You don’t. But still.

“I was thinking of going for a walk,” you say. “Maybe grabbing coffee.”

“Great. Let’s do that. And then lunch.”

You close your laptop with a quiet sigh, not really protesting. The truth is, you don’t mind. It’s easier, sometimes, when he makes the decisions for both of you. You get to work on autopilot, which is rare and something you’ve learned to enjoy.

Doyoung stretches in his seat, mumbling. “Honestly, we should go somewhere.”

You give him a look. “We are…?”

“No, I mean, out of the country, maybe. On vacation. But soon.” He leans, pulling out his phone. “Somewhere chill. Like... the Alps. Or the Lake District. Or—what’s that place you always talk about? The one with the ridiculous elevation and no phone signal.”

You blink. “You hate the cold.”

“I hate being bored more.”

A laugh slips out of you, sure that he’s just saying anything right now. Doyoung is not one for impromptu trips, and especially not to cooler places.

“You’re not serious,” you say.

“I could be,” he shrugs. “Everyone else is leaving. Even Joshua flew out yesterday.”

You don’t look up, but your fingers tense around the pages without meaning to. “Oh?”

“Yeah. His mum’s with him, I think. If I remember correctly, he’s going to Greece. Poor guy looked like he needed it.” Doyoung scrolls through something on his phone. “Anyway. Just think about it.”

You nod once, maybe twice, but you’re not really following anymore. You hadn’t really let yourself picture Joshua willingly. You’d assumed, vaguely, that he’d be around. At home, in Brackley or London. Somewhere still reachable.

You shake yourself out of it. Why does it even matter?

Doyoung stands and stretches again, already halfway to the door. “Come on. We’re having lunch. And I’m still serious about the trip. You’d probably like it more than I will.”

It’s too hot to be outside in the afternoons, so Joshua stays in, the windows open just enough to let the air move but not so wide that the cicadas become unbearable. His mother’s gone into town for the day—something about linen markets and local ceramics. He said he’d join and didn’t. She’s learnt not to push by now.

The villa is quiet and peaceful in a way—white walls, stone floors, ceiling fans running slowly. There’s a magazine open on his lap. He’s read the same paragraph twice and couldn’t tell you a single thing it said.

He doesn’t mind being alone. He never really has. But this solitude isn’t what he’s used to. There’s no buzz of an engine a few garages over. No casual knock on the hospitality room door. No hum of Minghao on the phone trying to schedule interviews. No Doyoung pulling him aside to watch something on his laptop, arms crossed like he already knows he’s right. No one comes around the corner with a coffee he didn’t ask for, but always drinks anyway.

He hadn’t realised how much he’d come to rely on that background noise.

Joshua leans back in his chair, feet propped on the edge of the low table, the stone cool against his heels.

He thinks of Doyoung first—because Doyoung is surprisingly impossible to forget even when he’s not around. Then Minghao, probably halfway through a documentary, and planning an itinerary for a trip he hasn’t booked yet.

And then, without meaning to, he thinks of you.

Maybe it’s the stillness that allows the images to push into his mind—things he didn’t even realise he was noticing. Like how you always check the time twice—once on your phone, then again on your watch, like you don’t trust either fully. How you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re trying not to speak too soon. How you write in a mix of capital and lowercase letters and only realise halfway through with a sigh.

Images from that night make their way in too.

Not in sequence, just scattered pieces, stitched together by how they felt rather than what exactly happened. The heat of the room, how the air had tasted vaguely like sugar and sweat and someone else’s perfume. The thud of music vibrating through the walls. The shape of you in the lights—your head tipped back mid-laugh, eyes glinting in a way he’d never seen before.

Joshua exhales, forcing you out of his mind before moving slightly in his chair. The magazine slides off his lap and onto the floor. He reaches down to pick it up and distantly thinks that his mum should be back by now—they should head out for lunch soon.

The sun has shifted higher. Somewhere down the road, a car door slams.

Joshua stays in his seat a little longer, the magazine closed in his hand, and doesn’t open it again.

You didn’t realise how much you’d missed this until you were already sitting down.

The place isn’t crowded, just tucked away enough that you’d never notice it unless someone told you about it. There’s shade from the small tree that grows through the middle of the entire building, light chatter from nearby tables, and the quiet clink of cutlery. Someone’s already halfway through a plate of pasta when you arrive, and the others make space like no time has passed at all.

“You’re late,” Isha says, nudging your arm as you slide into your seat.

“I’m not late. You’re just early.”

“What’s new?” She sighs, half-hugging you before turning back to the table.

The others catch you up on what you’ve missed, which isn’t much. Someone’s flat flooded last month. Someone else almost got fired. Isha went on a date yesterday, which was so bad she considered faking an emergency at her workplace to leave. It’s nothing new, and does much to bring you a feeling of familiarity and comfort.

You haven’t seen them properly in weeks, and you don’t mean for it to happen. You really don’t. But it never feels like that long, until it is. You sip your water, lean back in your seat, and let their voices wrap around you.

“So,” Isha says, halfway through her drink—some mocktail that looks way too floral, “are you going to finally tell us what you’re doing for the break?”

“Doyoung wants to go to Switzerland.” You sigh, “We leave tomorrow.”

“That actually sounds kind of nice,” Ava says, tilting her head. “Chalets, cheese, snow.”

“In August.”

“Okay, but like… aesthetically.”

You shake your head, but the smile slips out anyway. “He’s been obsessed with the idea of going somewhere high up lately. Keeps talking about air quality and elevation like we’re training for something. He’s planned the entire trip, to be honest, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s put hiking in the itinerary.”

Someone makes a joke about Doyoung in hiking gear, and you laugh. It’s easy.

Later, as the bill is paid and chairs scrape softly back from the table, you feel a lightness that you hadn’t realised you’d been missing. After quick hugs and promises to catch up again soon, you step out into the street alone, your bag slung over one shoulder.

The afternoon sun hangs lower than usual, merciful on a good day. You make the short walk to your car.

You’ll go home, finish packing up the last things, and tomorrow you’ll fly out.

It’ll be a good change, you convince yourself as you start the car up.

The beach is mostly empty by now. A few lights from nearby villas blink gently in the distance, and the tide comes in slowly, smoothing out the sand. The air is cooler than it’s been all day, enough to wear long sleeves. Joshua’s rolled his up anyway, the cuffs loose around his elbows as he walks, shoes in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket.

His mother walks beside him, spooning the last of her gelato from a cup she refused to skip even after a full dinner. She offers once, and Joshua hesitates, thinking about it for a second before declining. She reaches the spoon up and into his mouth, and he eats it anyway.

She grins like she’s won something, then goes back to finishing what’s left.

“I forgot how nice it is here at night,” his mother says eventually, mostly to herself. “No traffic, no screens, no one chasing after you for autographs.”

Joshua hums, the sound low in his throat. “Don’t jinx it.”

“I’m just saying,” she says, nudging him lightly with her elbow. “You’re a much better version of yourself when you’ve slept more than five hours and haven’t had caffeine pumped directly into your veins.”

“Not sure I like the implication that I’m insufferable otherwise.”

“Oh, it’s not an implication. It’s an observation.”

He rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “You’re so mean to me when I’m off duty.”

“I’m never mean,” she says, innocently. “Just honest.”

They walk a little further, the sand firm and cool beneath their feet. The stars are out properly now, not dulled by city lights or the paddock floodlights, and Joshua tips his head up to look at them for a moment.

“It’s been good to be here,” he says eventually.

His mother glances over with a sigh. “There’s always a but, no?”

He shrugs, kicking a little at the sand. “Nothing big. Just… trying to make sense of a few things.”

She lets the words hang between them and doesn't ask right away. She just listens, like she always does.

“You’ve been a little out of it lately,” she says finally. “Not just tonight. Since I picked you up at the airport.”

Joshua exhales like he’s trying to line up thoughts that keep running around in his head. “I don’t think it’s that serious,” he says. “Not really. Just something that’s… lingering.”

His mother tosses her empty gelato cup into a nearby bin as they pass. “That’s the thing about thoughts like that. They don’t knock, they just move in.”

Joshua huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well. I didn’t invite it.”

“Is it about how the season’s been going?” She asks slowly.

Joshua considers that for a moment, eyes on the dark horizon. The sea’s barely visible now, just a slow, steady sound against the shore.

“That’s part of it?” he says, sounding a little unsure. “But not all.”

“I keep thinking about something,” he adds. “That happened in Hungary.”

His mother doesn’t say anything.

“It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time,” he goes on. “I was…drunk. Just a moment. It passed. I didn’t overthink it then, and it didn’t feel strange right after. But now, I don’t know. It’s like it stuck to me.”

“And you don’t think it mattered?”

Joshua doesn’t know how to answer that. Maybe that is his question in the first place. Did it matter? It sits with him now, quietly, like it's been waiting for the chance. He’s not sure what unsettles him more—the fact that he still thinks about it, or the fact that he doesn’t know how he feels. That there’s no instinct guiding him toward certainty. He tries to tell himself that it was something in the heat-of-the-moment, chalked up to adrenaline and celebration, but stops himself. The more he tries to ignore it—you, his feelings, whatever— the more it seems to reside at the back of his mind.

Joshua comes to the realization, slowly but almost obviously, that he’s afraid, maybe. A little bit about what it means, but mostly about what the admission might do to everything else that he’s built this year.

Because what if he does like you?

Not in a passing, fleeting way, but in the way that asks something of him. In a way that won’t be easy to shelve into depths he won’t reach into again.

That makes things complicated in the one place he can’t afford complications.

It wouldn’t just affect you or him, but also Doyoung.

And that thought alone feels heavier than anything else.

Because Doyoung’s trusted him and taken him seriously. He's stood beside him in meetings and on podiums and in post-race silence. They've fought for the same points and adapted to each other’s presence—slowly, awkwardly, but honestly. The fact that you’re Doyoung’s sister, his manager, his closest person off-track—that is where the ground shifts.

Joshua knows what the lines are supposed to be. He’s tried to walk them carefully all year—or at least that’s what he thought. He knows how delicate the balance is and what it’s taken to earn it.

Joshua knows how quickly things shift when emotions get involved, how teams fracture, how focus slips—not even out of carelessness, but because people are people, and feelings don’t stay neatly tucked away.

He’s not sure there’s a version of this where things go back to how they were.

And yet here he is, with salt dried at the edges of his sleeves and the words still echoing in his head: you don’t think it mattered?

“I think,” his mother begins, snapping him out of his thoughts, “that if you’re thinking this hard about it, then maybe it did.”

He glances at her. She gives a small smile, her lips stretching knowingly as she pats him on the shoulder.

With an affectionate sigh, she looks in the direction of their villa. “Why don’t we head in now? I’m a bit tired today.”

Joshua nods, throwing an arm around her shoulder before steering them both in the right direction.

Best case scenario, you won’t remember anything and it’ll all go back to how it was before.

You slip slightly on a loose patch of gravel and mutter a curse under your breath, reaching out blindly for something to hold onto. Doyoung’s hand appears instinctively at your elbow.

“Careful,” he says, more amused than concerned. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You push a damp strand of hair off your forehead, frowning at the incline ahead. “It’s just so fucking steep.”

“That’s the point,” he grins.

You shoot him a flat look but say nothing, breath catching in your throat as you keep moving. The air is thinner up here—cooler too, but still not enough to keep sweat from sliding down the back of your neck. It’s quiet, except for the sound of your footsteps on gravel and the dull thud of your heart in your ears.

It’s been like this for most of the climb—sparse conversation and long stretches of silence that lets you be alone with your thoughts even if you don’t want to be.

You huff out a breath, trying to push your hair out your face without having to reach up with your hands—slightly irritated with yourself. You don’t want to think about anything to do with your brother’s stupid sport. Not here, not now, climbing this stupid hill with your brother—who can’t sit still in one place, curse his addiction to adrenaline, or whatever.

You glare at his back, dig your boots harder into the ground, and keep walking.

This situation that you’re in should be normal—honestly, it is normal. You’re not close, not really, and it was just one night. The kind that disappears into itself. A mistake. He’d been drinking. You had too.

You breathe in deeply, catching your breath as you reach a flatter stretch of the path. You don’t finish the thought.

Because the truth is, you don’t know if he remembers and maybe you don’t want to find out.

You shield your eyes from the sun with one hand, pausing to take in the view. The lake glints faintly below, a far-off silvery-blue ribbon that cuts between trees and rooftops. The wind stirs your shirt, cool against your spine.

“Hey,” Doyoung calls ahead, already rounding a bend. “Almost there.”

You nod absently and follow, boots crunching against dry earth.

It’ll be fine, you tell yourself. He probably doesn’t remember.

And even if he does—it’s not like he’s going to bring it up. So you won’t either.

You press your tongue to the back of your teeth and keep walking.

Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 HQ

The Brackley office always smells the same—citrus floor cleaner, clean-cut paper and roasted coffee.

Joshua steps through the doors just after eight. He’s early, but definitely not the first. The receptionist behind the desk offers a half-wave, cheerfully greeting him with a question about how his break was. In the elevator ride up, one of the engineers steps in with a smile.

“Good to be back, huh? It gets boring after a few days, doesn’t it?”

Joshua agrees with a polite nod and bids him goodbye before leaving.

It’s not loud yet, though. The office rests in some sort of liminal silence—before the teams fill out the building again, coming off flights, breaks, holidays.

He walks the familiar route down the corridor, past framed photos and race posters that haven’t changed since he joined. The door to the driver’s suite creaks slightly when he opens it—he’s meant to get it oiled but always forgets once he leaves.

The room looks the same too, other than the fact that it’s been cleaned out. The whiteboard is no longer cluttered with strategy, data, or points from a random game of cards between him and Minghao. His closet door is locked—he’ll have to get the keys to that soon—and the sofa’s cushion covers seem to have been replaced with newer ones.

His phone buzzes once with a message from Minghao:

Back on UK time, will be there in an hour. My flight was delayed, sorry man. I’ve sent you your schedule so hang in there.

He smiles faintly, then goes to his email to check the schedule. It’s not until the end of the week that things begin to pick up properly. Today is just: internal briefings for the next few races, maybe a few upgrades. A sim block in the afternoon and a few factory visits littered over the weekend.

He should be relaxed. This is the easy part. But his foot taps quietly against the carpet, and he can’t stop glancing toward the hallway outside.

You’ve been back less than three hours and already there’s a spreadsheet open on one half of your screen, a Teams chat on the other, and three people trying to flag you down for something that doesn’t need to be done today.

Classic first day back energy.

You’d meant to arrive on time, maybe even early, but your suitcase still isn’t fully unpacked and your hair wouldn’t sit right and then the coffee machine in the hallway decided it was going to make loud mechanical death sounds instead of actual coffee.

So you were late. Not enough for anyone to comment, but late enough for someone to notice and still move on.

The light comes in softly through the cafeteria windows, and there’s a vague in-between hum in the air: post-break stillness before the Zandvoort buildup.

You’ve barely looked up from your screen except to mumble responses to people in passing. It’s not on purpose, and you know you should’ve picked out a better place to sit than the cafeteria, but the office is still slightly empty, and you’d rather spend time in a place with more people right now.

You’re halfway through rereading a line in an email you’re pretty sure you’ve already responded to when someone slides into the seat opposite you.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he says, setting his paper cup down, filled to the brim with coffee that looks like it has way too much milk in it.

You glance at your watch, and realise you have about five minutes of buffer before you need to go up into one of the meetings with your brother. He looks slightly on edge about it too, fingers fiddling with his nails, foot tapping impatiently on the tiles.

With a sigh, you close your laptop and slip it into your bag before eyeing him. “Can you finish your cup quickly so that you don’t go around spilling it everywhere? We need to go.”

He nods, rolling his eyes before trying to gulp down the contents of his cup like it isn’t hot enough to scorch his tongue.

When he’s done, you both get up at the same time. He squashes the paper and dumps it into one of the trash cans that you pass.

“You think this’ll be smooth?” he asks under his breath. “Most of the media stuff should already be sorted, no? Just some final clearances.”

You shrug. “They changed a couple brand obligations post-break and for next year, I think. New sponsor visibility clauses or something. I think they want us both aligned before the next few races kick in.”

There's nothing particularly difficult about meetings like this, just lots of slides and media language that makes your brain feel like it’s buffering. Still, the team likes everyone being present when possible—especially you, when it comes to anything that might affect Doyoung’s time, tone, or attention.

You scan your badge at the door and step in just behind him.

The room isn’t full yet, but the people who matter are already inside. A few people from the PR team, the head of partnerships, sponsor representatives. Minghao sits near the far end of the table, scrolling through something on his tablet. He looks up and gives you a small wave, mouth pressed into a tired smile. You return it instinctively, stepping aside so Doyoung can take one of the open chairs.

And then you see Joshua.

He’s already seated, posture straight but not stiff, fingers locked loosely in front of him on the table. There’s a light tan on his face and arms, the kind that comes from walking around in real sun, not just between paddocks and pit lanes.

He looks up as the two of you enter.

You meet his gaze for half a second, just enough to register it before instinct takes over and you look away. You don’t catch the way his expression shifts, the way the corners of his mouth lift up like he’s about to offer a smile—a little awkward, a little unsure.

Doyoung claps a hand on Joshua’s shoulder in greeting, saying something under his breath that makes Joshua huff a quiet laugh as your brother settles into the seat next to him. You pretend to focus on finding a seat, nodding once at the head of PR and then making your way toward the end of the table, where Minghao is sitting.

Minghao nudges a chair out with his foot as you approach. “Hey. How was the break?” He asks when you plop down next to him.

You shrug, setting your laptop bag down by the leg of the chair. “Good. Quiet. What about you?”

Minghao hums, passing you a printed deck. “Lucky you. I went home to China. Had to babysit my cousin’s kid for one afternoon and somehow still needed three days to recover. I just got back, actually. Jetlagged, if you can’t tell.”

You let out a quiet laugh, flipping open the first few pages. Sponsor slots. Campaign overview. Nothing new.

Out of the corner of your eye, you sense movement—Joshua shifting in his seat, elbows resting lightly on the table. He doesn’t say anything, but when you glance up, his eyes catch yours again.

You hold them for a second longer than last time and try to smile politely.

Then you blink, like it didn’t happen, and turn slightly toward Minghao instead. “Did they confirm the Thursday slot for the fan event?”

Minghao raises an eyebrow, like he saw what just happened and is choosing not to comment. “Yeah,” he replies, tapping the paper in front of you. “Right there. Around five.”

You nod slowly, pen in hand now, circling the time even though you’ve already memorized it.

The meeting begins properly not long after. The head of PR welcomes everyone back, and the screen clicks to life at the front of the room.

You keep your attention forward. Joshua doesn’t look again.

When the meeting is over, people peel off in different directions, schedules splintering again into the usual chaos of prep and deadlines. Doyoung falls into step beside Minghao, which you find a little weird because you can’t imagine what the two possibly have in common.

You’re already slowing your pace, figuring you’ll let them go ahead and duck off wherever they’re going.

But Joshua’s still behind you.

You glance once over your shoulder, enough to see him bid goodbye to whoever he was talking to outside the meeting room before catching up.

You hear the squeak of his shoes against the cleaned tiles as he jogs up to you guys. The four of you reach the corridor junction, Minghao saying something low to Doyoung, and they veer left together, deep into some conversation about media training or sponsor deliverables or whatever it is your brother is pretending to understand.

Which leaves you—again—with Joshua.

He glances sideways, cautious, then tries again with a small, uncertain smile. “Hey,” he says, softer than usual. “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” you say, a little too quickly. “You? Heard you were in Greece.”

He nods, almost like he’s surprised you knew. “Yeah, I went with my mum. It was nice.”

You nod too, and the silence folds back in. Your fingers fidget with the strap of your bag. Neither of you seems able to meet the other’s eyes for too long, and when you do, the look is held for half a second too long before flickering away.

Joshua shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “So, uh. You went somewhere too, right? Switzerland?”

“Yeah. With Doyoung.” You gesture vaguely, eyes flitting to where Doyoung stands in the distance, still talking to Joshua’s manager. “He wanted altitude and a change of scenery. I think I just needed the quiet.”

He hums—acknowledging, or maybe understanding. “Good timing for it,” he says. “We all needed to get out of our heads a little.”

You don’t reply to that. Not right away, because you think—maybe, just maybe—you know what he means by our heads. And you think he knows you know.

You nod faintly, not trusting yourself to say much more. Also shifting from one foot to the other, you adjust the strap on your shoulder, and that’s when it settles in—quietly, the slow sinking realization. The awkwardness that surrounds him, the way he’s not as talkative or laid-back as he usually is.

Oh.

Of course he remembers.

You don’t need him to say it. You don’t even need to look at him now to know it’s there. The memory’s lodged in your own head like grit under your nails, and suddenly it feels stupid to think it wouldn’t be in his.

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny, exactly, but because this kind of thing only happens in films where two people wake up the next morning pretending it didn’t happen, only to make accidental eye contact in a hallway weeks later and remember everything all at once.

Except this isn’t a film, and you’re not holding a stack of papers you’ve just dropped in slow motion. You’re standing in the corridor of an F1 team's headquarters with your bag slipping off your shoulder, and a man—a driver, your brother’s teammate—beside you who very obviously remembers kissing you.

And whose expression now looks like someone trying to figure out whether you remember kissing him.

Which, tragically, you do.

Joshua clears his throat.

It’s barely audible, just a soft scrape, like he meant to say something and then thought better of it. You glance at him, almost involuntarily, and immediately regret it because he’s already looking at you with a kind of cautious half-smile. Not flirty, not smug—just nervous.

And that’s when it clicks for him.

You see it. The small pause where his shoulders fall out of that practiced posture of his and his mouth parts like he’s about to speak but can’t find the words fast enough. Like he’s suddenly, absolutely sure that you remember—and worse, that you know he knows now too.

Well, fuck, you think.

“I should get going,” you say finally, not quite meeting his eye. “I’ve got a call in ten.”

He nods, slowly, like he’s still buffering. “Yeah. I’ve got—” he gestures vaguely over his shoulder, “—something. Somewhere.”

He says it like it’s a joke, but it lands awkwardly, like a gear shift in the wrong place. You both wince, just barely.

Joshua rubs the back of his neck like he’s debating saying more. You hope he doesn’t.

“Well,” you say, stepping back. Anything to break the tension. “Good luck with… whatever that something is.”

He nods, the corner of his mouth twitching again. “You too. The call.”

It’s painfully polite. You feel like you should salute or shake hands or send a follow-up email with bullet points recapping the awkwardness of this interaction.

Then you leave, this time for real, and neither of you looks back. But you’re almost certain—painfully certain—that he stands there for a few seconds longer than he needs to, just like you keep thinking about turning around even when you know you won’t.

AZERBAIJAN, BAKU CITY CIRCUIT

Friday, Post FP1 September 19th

If Joshua and you plan to pretend like nothing happened, he’s got to stop acting like something did.

You’re standing outside the hospitality, arms loosely crossed, trying to focus on anything else—on your checklist for the afternoon, on the way the breeze keeps catching at the edge of the umbrella, even on the hum of voices from nearby engineers unpacking gear.

Joshua’s a few feet away, in conversation with one of the performance engineers, though he’s not really participating. He stands, his figure slightly strung up, in the white team shirt that’s been chosen for this weekend, sunglasses slid onto the top of his head. He’s nodding along, smiling faintly, but every so often, his gaze flickers away. Toward you.

Not obviously. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But enough.

And it’s infuriating. Because you’ve been good about this. You’ve been normal and professional. You’ve made it through two races already and managed to keep everything in check. Talk to him (casually) when you’ve had to, replied to messages, looped him into meetings if needed. Everything has been fine.

Except it hasn’t. Not really.

“You look like you want to throw something,” Doyoung points out around a mouth full of a half-eaten banana that he holds in his hand.

“Yeah, at you, maybe.” You shoot back, shoving his face away with a disgusted look.

“Your face is doing its thing… Who are you pissed with?”

“First of all, can you fucking chew and swallow before you open your mouth? Second, stop bothering me. I’m not in the mood for it, Doyoung.” The irritation in your voice catches both of you by surprise. You didn’t mean to sound that harsh, but Doyoung knows you and hence takes no offence.

“No, seriously.” He mutters, voice dropping lower. “Are you okay? I don’t think I did much to irritate you before this and it’s surely not Joshua or Minghao that you’re mad at… Something went wrong with the team?”

“No,” you say quickly. “No, sorry, everything’s fine.”

Doyoung squints at you. “That didn’t sound convincing.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face. “It’s just hot and I’m tired.”

It’s not a lie, technically. The sun has been relentless and the week’s been long already, even though it’s only a Friday. But Doyoung’s eyes narrow, which means he still doesn’t believe you but also knows better than to push it. He goes back to eating his banana, mercifully closing his mouth.

“Hey,” Joshua says, voice cutting across the lull in your conversation. You both turn as he approaches—you, reluctantly but your brother seems enthusiastic for some reason.

He’s got a bottle of water in one hand now, and his other hand lifts slightly in greeting, like he’s unsure whether to aim it at you, Doyoung, or both. He settles somewhere in between.

“Was looking for you,” he says to Doyoung, nodding at him. “You have a sec?”

“Yeah,” Doyoung replies with a shrug. “What’s up?”

You take that as your cue to leave, to shift a step back and check your phone or pretend to care about something else. Joshua stands straight, almost cautious and way too serious for three people who’ve supposedly gotten closer this year. It throws you off, and you try to hide your displeasure at the divide it has caused as you turn to your brother.

He used to slouch into moments like this. Hands tucked into his pockets, eyes soft with jokes, voice sounding like something easy and warm. Now he’s standing like he’s in a post-race debrief.

You try to ignore it. “I’ll give you two a moment,” you mumble.

“No, it’s fine,” Joshua says, too lightly, like he’s trying to dial the energy back. He offers a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re not interrupting.”

The silence that follows says otherwise.

Doyoung, bless him, doesn’t seem to notice the tension the same way you do and instead begins to ask him what he wanted to talk about. Joshua brings up set-ups, how his car wasn’t doing good at all during FP1, something about the rear feeling loose under throttle and the balance being completely off through Sector 2.

Doyoung nods along, slipping into work mode easily. “I thought I felt that too in Turn 15. It’s better on heavier fuel, but I couldn’t get the rear to stay down. Felt twitchy all the way through the castle section.”

“I think our set-ups are pretty different though,” Joshua sighs, scrunching his nose.

“We can go take a look later, if you want.” Your brother shrugs.

You stay quiet, gaze fixed somewhere just past them. It’s not like you don’t understand the conversation—you’ve picked up enough over the years to have a basic idea of what they mean—but your attention has splintered. Joshua is being careful. Not with what he’s saying about the car, but with you. The edges of his voice are smoothed down whenever you’re near, like he’s sanded away the parts of him that used to joke and tease and lean in close just to make a point.

He barely looks at you, but when he does, it’s never casual. It’s never just a glance.

You hate how you’ve begun to care about this, but you chalk it up to the feeling of beginning to lose a friend instead.

Joshua leaves after that, bidding a quick goodbye over his shoulder. Doyoung turns to you slowly, the banana finally finished, his expression mildly suspicious.

“…Okay, now I think something’s weird.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“That. Why was he so serious?”

“Was he?”

“He didn’t really talk to you. He didn’t say anything stupid and charming. I thought you two were getting along—” and maybe he understands the defensive look on your face, because he raises an eyebrow when you open your mouth to retort “—and before you deny it, I may act unbothered but obviously I’d notice if my sister and my teammate were becoming closer.”

You roll your eyes. “I think you’re reading into it too much. He just seems pretty out of it. FP1 was bad for him, clearly.”

Doyoung gives you a long, skeptical look. “Right,” he says slowly. “Bad FP1. So naturally, he forgets how to have a conversation with someone he’s been almost glued to since Silverstone.”

You don’t bother with a response, mostly because you don’t have one.

Instead, you adjust your bag again and wordlessly point ahead. Doyoung gets the hint and begins to walk back to the garage with you. The paddock heat sits thick around your shoulders, and your throat feels dry. There’s nothing in what Doyoung’s said that’s technically wrong—but you’re not exactly winning any awards for subtlety either.

Your brother walks alongside you, quiet for a few moments, before he sighs softly. “I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says, voice gentler. “I just… noticed.”

You nod, not knowing what to say to that. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought of coming clean to him. It’s hard to keep secrets with Doyoung, even more so when it has something to do with him. But you’re not sure just how much of an issue this will become professionally, so you zip your lips close and walk on.

When you finally reach the garage, you tell Doyoung that you’re heading back in for a meeting and that you won’t be seeing him again until FP2 is over.

“Just text or call me if it’s something urgent.” You sigh.

He nods, turning around to go in before stopping in his tracks. “Listen, I don’t know if you guys fought or something. But try to get along, please. I can’t go and tell him this, obviously, so I’m telling you—not blaming you for anything, by the way. I’ll see you after. Stop drinking too much coffee and drink more water instead.”

Doyoung’s walking back in before you can reply. You watch his retreating back with a mix of annoyance and warmth.

—

You don’t go right after FP2.

You wait long enough for the garage to settle, for the media duties to end, for the crew to peel off into meetings or debriefs or break rooms. Long enough that if someone asks, you can pretend it’s just a casual check-in.

You meant to leave it alone, to stay professional, keep your head down, and let the awkwardness smooth itself out eventually.

But halfway through FP2 Minghao had turned to you, looking up from his screen without a warning and said: “You two have been weird recently.”

And it was like him, obviously—to be that observant, not accusatory or even that curious. You’d brushed it off with a shrug, pretending it didn’t rattle you more than it should’ve. Your brother noticing was one thing, others was another. You didn’t think that it had been that obvious, but clearly you were thinking wrong. Because if Minghao could tell, then who else had noticed? How long until Doyoung put two and two together? Until someone in the garage slipped up and connected dots that were never supposed to form in the first place?

You make the walk toward Joshua’s driver room with your jaw set. The hallway is mostly empty now, the hum of activity receding as the day wears on. You’re not even sure what you’re going to say, only that you have to say something. Because this pretending-it’s-fine thing? It’s not working.

You pause outside his door for a second, breathing in deeply before looking both ways into the corridor, hoping that no one else sees you before knocking, your knuckles rapping twice on his door. You don’t need more drama.

It takes a few seconds, long enough for you to consider turning around and pretending you were never here at all, but then the door clicks open.

Joshua stands there in a loose t-shirt and joggers, hair still damp from a recent shower. His expression morphs—from something a little lazy and tired, to surprise.

“Hey,” he says with a low voice, like he wasn’t expecting anyone, least of all you.

“Can I come in?” you ask.

He steps aside without answering, motioning you in with a small tilt of his head. You slip past him, heart ticking faster than you want to admit, and stop just inside, arms crossing loosely.

Joshua closes the door behind you. “Everything okay?”

“No,” you say, turning to face him. “Not really.”

That catches him off guard, clearly not expecting you to be so honest. His brows pull together, and he steps a little closer, not quite enough to close the distance but enough for you to smell the fresh scent of his after-shave.

You sigh. “Minghao said something earlier. About us. Said we’ve been off.”

Joshua flinches—barely, but you catch it.

“And he’s right,” you continue. “We have been. And I’ve been ignoring it because I thought… maybe it would settle. But it’s not. You’re walking around like you’re scared to say the wrong thing to me, and I—I don’t know how to deal with that.”

“Right,” Joshua says, after a long pause. “Yeah. I’m��.”

“And people are noticing,” you add, quieter. “Not just him. Doyoung’s said things too.”

Joshua exhales through his nose, dragging a hand up over his face, into his hair. “I’ve been trying,” he says. “I swear I’ve been trying to be normal.”

“I know, me too. But it’s not working, is it?”

Joshua moves to sit down on the edge of the small couch, elbows braced on his knees. His towel falls from around his neck and lands on the floor, but he doesn’t bother picking it up.

“First of all, I’m sorry. Kissing you—” he grimaces, and you’re not sure how to feel about that “—was very out of line.”

You shake your head, not quite looking at him. “It’s okay. I mean… I was drunk too. It’s not like you forced anything.”

Joshua presses his lips together, but doesn’t lift his gaze. “Still. I should’ve known better.”

You sit down, a little away from him, arms still crossed across your chest. “I’ve just been trying not to make it worse. I didn’t want it to be weird.”

“But it is,” he says, like he can’t help it. “It got weird anyway.”

You sigh, because yeah. It did. “And now everyone’s picking up on it.”

“Minghao, Doyoung…” he trails off, then glances at you. “I didn’t think we were being that obvious.”

You let out a small, hollow laugh. “We weren’t. But I guess not talking at all is a bit of a giveaway when we clearly used to. You’re being so dry and awkward and polite, and it’s not really like you, is it? Of course people are going to notice.”

Joshua looks away, his jaw tight. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“By doing what?”

“By not making this worse,” he shoots back, almost sounding snappy but still his voice doesn’t rise. “By keeping it professional.”

You bristle at that. “Right, because professional is clearly what this has been.”

His eyes flicker to yours—guiltily, and for a second neither of you say anything.

“I’ve worked too hard to get here,” he says slowly, even a bit unsurely. “I’m not risking it. Not the seat, not the team’s trust. Not my working relationship with Doyoung.”

You nod. You understand, you really do, but the words hurt as they hit your chest anyway. “So that’s all this is. A cover up. Can we please do a better job at—”

“I didn’t say that.” Joshua interrupts.

“You meant it.” You snap back, looking away from him as you get up.

“What do you want me to say, then?” He exhales harshly, running a hand through his hair. “That I regret it? Or that I don’t?”

Joshua shakes his head, voice sharper now. “You’re his sister, his manager. You know what it would look like if something happened between us and it went wrong.”

Your throat tightens, and you stay silent.

“This is already hard enough. Doyoung is my biggest competition on track. We’re close in the standings, we’re pushing each other every weekend. You do realise how hard it would be if you’re in the middle of it as well.”

You flinch at the words, and he notices.

“I don’t mean that like it’s your fault,” he adds quickly. “It’s just… you’re not just someone I kissed at a party, okay? You’re his person. His family. You’re on his side of the garage, in his meetings, working with his engineers. And I know how this works. If something goes wrong, if this throws off the balance—we all feel it.”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer and just keeps going. “I’ve thought about this so much. About how it would work? About what it would mean to feel something for you and go wheel-to-wheel with your brother every other weekend?”

Your eyes flicker up at that, but he doesn’t notice.

“How are you supposed to be in my corner and his? He’s your family. And I’m the guy trying to beat him.”

It takes a second before you can speak again. “You think I haven’t thought about all of that? About what it means for me?”

Joshua finally looks over, and you will yourself to look him in the eyes as you continue.

“I know exactly what it would look like if anyone found out. It would look like I was choosing sides. Like I wasn’t capable of doing my job objectively. Like I wasn’t loyal to my brother—who, by the way, trusts me with everything.”

Your voice tightens, face hot with frustration and a feeling that’s growing too close to anger. “So no, Joshua, I didn’t take any of this lightly. I still don’t.”

He nods slowly, gaze unreadable now. “So we agree, then.”

You hesitate.

“We agree it can’t happen again,” he says, quieter. “That it was a mistake.”

You nod before adding: “And that we’ll be better and go back to what it was?”

Joshua doesn’t answer right away.

His eyes find yours, and for the first time all evening, there’s something bare in them. Something that doesn’t hide behind restraint or exhaustion. But the look vanishes as quickly as you saw it, and leaves you wondering if you imagined it in the first place.

He nods. “Yeah. We’ll go back.”

You press your lips together, nod once more for good measure—like if you just agree hard enough, maybe it’ll become true. That things can be rewound and tucked neatly behind you without leaving a mark.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Good.”

So you turn toward the door and walk out before either of you can say anything more. But your heart stays lodged somewhere behind you, somewhere in that room and maybe a little too close to the man you wish to forget the face of.

—

Sunday, Post Race September 21st

The door closes behind him, more harshly than he’d meant to shut it.

He doesn’t bother taking his shoes off just yet. His cap is the first thing to go, fingers tugging it off absently before he sets it on the desk beside the team lanyard, both items placed a little too neatly, like muscle memory carrying him through the motions. The rest of the room remains untouched. Still and quiet. The overhead light stays off. He reaches instead for the smaller wall sconce by the bed and flicks it on, the glow warm and soft in a way that doesn’t quite match the mood he’s in.

He exhales, slowly.

There’s a kind of emptiness after a race like that—if you could even call it one, considering he was out for almost half of it. The result is too final, nothing left to fix or fight, not when the damage has already been done. He peels off the white team shirt and folds it once, more out of habit than care, placing it on the back of the armchair near the window. The shirt is wrinkled and slightly damp at the collar, and when he brushes his fingers against the fabric, they come away cool.

He’s not even exhausted yet, body running on leftover adrenaline that he knows is going to leave him so tired when it finally leaves. This time, unlike most, will be worse because he hasn’t actually done anything to go to sleep with a peaceful mind. He should maybe shower again and eat, but neither sound appealing right now.

Joshua drags himself to the balcony, sliding the glass doors open and stepping into the warm Baku night. He absently thanks the team for booking a hotel away from the track. Every year, Williams would—for some reason—book a hotel that overlooked the track, and after a bad day, the reminder was always unnecessary.

He exhales, bracing his palms against the cold metal railing. His muscles ache faintly, but nothing sharp—nothing like the jolt through his neck when the car hit the wall. Nothing like the way he’d sat in the medical car afterward, helmet off, jaw tight, nodding at every word the doctor said while thinking about absolutely nothing except for the .

The DNF shouldn’t sting this badly. But he’d been doing okay today. Not great, not podium-bound, but good enough for a step below. Joshua tries not to think of the articles that are probably up by now.

Mercedes falters again on the streets. Hong out early in Baku after a costly mistake. Good enough, or has the pressure of a big team finally caught up to Joshua Hong? Team tensions rising?

He hates the last one the most tonight—especially after the podium that his teammate made it onto, while he sat at P20. It was good points for the team, but with no contribution from him. Doyoung’s managed to get ahead of Joshua, and while he was aiming to beat his teammate by the end of the year, he knows that it’s easier said than done.

It’s too quiet now and he can’t stop replaying it. Not just the crash—though that part loops relentlessly, the twitch of the wheel, the slide, the sickening hit. But what came before. What he was thinking about.

Because although he’d never admit it to anyone, the crash happened because he wasn’t paying attention. His hands were on the wheel, eyes on the mirrors, yes. But his mind was somewhere else entirely. Still stuck in that small, stifling driver’s room with you. Still hearing the way his voice had cracked when he told you it was a mistake.

He grips the rail tighter. This is exactly what he was worried about, and he’s ashamed of himself for it. Joshua has never let other things get to him when racing. It’s always the track, the car, his mirrors and the next turn in his head. Never people or feelings.

He should’ve handled it differently. All of it. The kiss, the aftermath, the conversation that somehow left him more confused than before. Because despite everything that was said—despite the professionalism, the agreement, the decision to move on—he can’t. Not really.

Joshua lifts a hand to his neck, shuddering slightly as goosebumps litter his arms despite the warm air. There’s too much noise in his head. Too many things unsaid, and too many things that shouldn’t be said at all.

He should go inside, put a shirt on. What if the person next door decides to come to the balcony as well?

Then, to his luck, the door next to his opens.

He freezes but doesn’t turn. Maybe it’s a stranger. Maybe it’s just someone stepping out for air, like him and if he stays where he is—still enough, they won’t notice him.

There’s the faint sound of curtains ruffling in the breeze followed by a soft sigh.

And then your voice, quiet and disbelieving, like you were hoping for anything but this.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Joshua’s head turns toward you before he can stop himself. Your hand is still on the edge of your door, fingers curled around the handle like you hadn’t meant to step fully out. You're not in uniform or a team shirt anymore. You're with your hair down, comfy clothes, bare faced and looking tired.

You freeze when you see him, like you hadn’t considered this was possible either. Your eyes meet across the narrow stretch of the balconies, and for a second, neither of you move. You should go back inside. You both should. That would be the adult thing to do. The professional thing to do.

Joshua starts first. “Didn’t know you were next door.”

You blink, finally stepping out all the way and letting the door click shut behind you. “Neither did I.”

You keep your arms folded across your chest, not entirely out of discomfort but more as a barrier. Still shirtless, hair a little messy, his eyes flick away from yours only when you speak again.

“Well, what luck,” you mutter, voice lacking the humour you hoped it would have.

“Yeah.”

The air is balmy and just slightly humid, buzzing with the hum of traffic and hotel A/C units. It’s not awkward, not yet, but there’s a line that’s begging to not be crossed tonight. You both know what kind of week it’s been.

“How’s your neck?” you ask.

Joshua glances over, brow raising. “It’s alright.”

“You hit the barrier pretty hard.”

“I’ve had worse.”

You nod, but something about the way his fingers twitch against the railing tells you he’s still strung up about it, tight and immovable.

Involuntarily, your eyes fall onto his neck. It’s not like you expect to see if he has any pain and it’s a mistake, clearly—because now you’re noticing the faint sheen still clinging to his skin, the soft curve of his shoulder, and the way his back muscles shift tensely. There’s a pale scar across the top of his right shoulder blade—thin but jagged, and old if the rough stitch-work is an indicator of anything.

“What’s that from?” you ask before you can stop yourself, chin tilting toward the mark.

Joshua follows your gaze and lifts one hand absently to it, fingers grazing the scar like he hadn’t thought about it in years. “Karting crash when I was twelve. I didn’t brake fast enough going into one of the turns.”

“Late-breaking since you were a kid, huh?” You mutter under your breath, meant for yourself, but he hears it anyway and a small smile breaks out.

“My mentor, from back then, would stand near the corners and watch where the other kids braked. When it was my turn, he’d go a bit further up and tell me to brake there instead.” He scoffs, eyes trained somewhere on the skyline. “It was really hard at first, but I got used to it…clearly hasn’t left me since.”

The silence stretches, and uncomfortably so. You both stay like that—leaning on separate railings, caught in a suspended still where neither of you know what to say next. Conversations don’t seem to come easy anymore.

Eventually, it’s you who moves first. You push off the railings with a deep inhale. “I’m going to head in then. Good night, Joshua.”

He nods and responds softly, “Me too. Night.”

You slip back into your room, the door sliding shut behind you. The lights are low and your suitcase is half-unzipped near the bed, your phone somewhere on the desk where you tossed it earlier.

Crossing over to the bed, you sit on the edge and let your head fall into your hands.

You should have asked how he really was. Not just his neck, like that was the only part of him that could’ve taken a hit.

Because when the crash happened—when the camera cut to his car snapping sideways into the barrier, debris rising in a smoke of dust, and all radio silence—you hadn’t moved. Heart lodged somewhere in your throat, your fingers had curled against your palm so tight that you’d left indents. Someone on the engineering island had said, “He’s moving,” and you still hadn’t breathed until he climbed out, slow and stiff, but seemingly safe.

And then you remembered you weren’t supposed to care like that. Not anymore. Not like before.

So when the media asked, when your brother asked, when the team exchanged glances and subtle reassurances, you said nothing. You told yourself you were just being professional. You told yourself it didn’t matter. Joshua had Minghao and the med team. He’d done this before and he would be fine.

Because there’s a boundary—one you hadn’t realised you were slowly crossing, one you’d thought meant that you could just be friends with your brother’s teammate. You wonder why this is the first time you’ve bothered to speak or get along with someone like that. Doyoung’s had other teammates before, and you’d always been civil. Not warm or inviting but enough to keep a professional relationship. You didn’t go out of your way to build rapport. There was no reason to. The other driver wasn’t your responsibility. You weren’t part of his bubble. And besides, you’d always figured they had their own people, their own routines, their own version of someone like you.

So whatever friendliness you offered came in passing—neutral good luck, half-smiles in the garage.

You’ve always been good at keeping the line. Drawing it quietly, without anyone noticing.

But Joshua. He feels like the first time someone’s tried to pull you past it.

Not on purpose or all at once but slowly and subtly—in hotel hallways and garages and late nights at the paddock. In the way he lingered after briefings, how he asked about Doyoung but looked at you when he said it.

And you’d thought—maybe, maybe this could still be simple. Maybe you could toe that edge and call it friendship, just friendship. But even that feels like a stretch now. Because it really doesn’t feel simple anymore.

SINGAPORE, MARINA BAY STREET CIRCUIT

Thursday, Media Day October 2nd

You spot them already seated when you walk in—Doyoung leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, a paper coffee cup balanced lazily in one hand. Joshua’s next to him, not quite opposite but angled inward, scrolling through something on a tablet with one elbow on the table.

You’d only meant to swing by, remind Doyoung about a schedule change, and tell him the briefing room time for the morning. But then he looks up and says, “Did you hear Seungcheol in the press conference?” like it’s the most important thing he’s said all day.

Joshua glances up too,

“No,” you say, “I missed it.”

Doyoung grins and nods to the chair across from him. “Sit. You’ll enjoy this one.”

You hesitate a second, glancing at your watch before sliding into the seat across from them.

Doyoung’s already talking. “So, he gets asked about the Ferrari rumors—you know, the Monza thing and just the entire season overall with talks of him leaving—and he gives the most carefully worded denial I’ve ever heard. Like... textbook media training. ‘Focused on the team,’ ‘we’ll talk when the time comes,’ all of that.”

You hum. “So it’s happening.”

“Obviously it’s happening.” He fiddles with a sugar packet between his hands. “He only talks like that when something’s already in motion.”

“It’s obviously not Red Bull that he’d move to.” Joshua adds, eyes trained on the table. “Haechan could literally win the championship this weekend and Seungcheol is not going to move to another team just to be number two… especially when they’re known for clearly prioritising one driver over the other. History speaks for itself.”

“And our contracts don’t end till two more years so that’s us off the list.” Doyoung muses. “McLaren… but they’ve invested in two young drivers. Doubt they’d give up on fresh talent this soon.”

“But they haven’t been doing great, to be honest.” Joshua points out, pushing around a drop of water on the table, still avoiding your gaze. But now it just looks like he’s concentrating, so you let it go. “Sure they’ve been getting closer, but their team needs a miracle for next year if they want to sign him.”

“He could look at the regulation changes in 2027 and join them though.” Your brother argues.

“Wouldn’t it just be better for him to stay for one more year in Ferrari then?”

“It would.” Joshua agrees, glancing up at you. “I think Audi and Cadillac will be solid choices too though, honestly.”

He checks his phone, then straightens in his seat.

“I’ve got to head up,” he says, slipping it back into his pocket. “IWC. They want me to look excited about a wristwatch.”

You huff softly—not quite a laugh, but close.

Joshua tilts his head slightly, “Don’t worry, I’ll try to smile. Once. Maybe twice, if really needed.”

It’s a joke. Classic, dry, a little deadpan—the kind of thing he used to say all the time. But it lands wrong and feels practiced, almost. Like he’s trying to sound like before because you asked him to.

You give him a small smile anyway. “They’re asking a lot.”

“I know,” he says, almost smiling too. “Tough job.”

“Well, I’ll see you guys later.”

You nod, and Doyoung waves lazily beside you. When he’s gone, Doyoung doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks down at his cup, turning it slightly between his fingers, like he's thinking about whether or not to say something at all.

“He likes you.”

You blink, almost choking on your own saliva. “What?”

He doesn’t repeat it and only shrugs, gaze locked on the cup in his hands. “You heard me.”

“Is that supposed to be a question?” you ask, cautious.

“No.” Doyoung’s voice is light, but when he looks up at you, his eyes are sharp. “It’s not.”

You exhale, unsure whether to laugh. “Well. That’s not something people usually say at like…3 PM on a random thursday”

He tilts his head slightly. “It’s almost four, actually”

You let out a quiet scoff. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you didn’t deny it.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Doyoung clocks it.

You cross your arms loosely. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He shrugs again. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m just letting you know I see it.”

You stare at the table. A droplet of water is still trailing down the side of Joshua’s forgotten glass.

“…You really think he likes me?” you ask, quieter now.

Doyoung doesn’t even blink. “I think he likes you,” he says. “I think he leaves slower when you’re around. I think he’s careful about what he says when you’re listening. And I think—” he pauses, like he’s debating how honest to be—”I think he tries not to, which kinda gives the whole thing away. Which also usually means you’re fucked.”

“And, what? You just figured that out, out of nowhere?” You snap back, slightly surprised and annoyed at the call out.

“I wasn’t sure before,” he says, then pauses. “But now I am.”

You look at him. “Why now?”

He hesitates just long enough for you to notice.

“When someone starts to get close to your sister,” he says, “you start noticing things.”

It knocks the breath out of you more than you expect. Not in a bad way, but just—suddenly, this is real. Not just in your head. Not just a maybe. You look at him.

He softens, just a little. “I’m not mad,” he sighs. “If that’s what you’re scared of.”

“I’m not scared,” you murmur.

“Good. I just wanted to know if I should be watching out for you or watching out for you.”

That makes you laugh, despite yourself. “And?”

“I’m still deciding,” he says, getting up and stretching. “But you’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

“I’ve been so subtle.”

Doyoung gives you a look over his shoulder as he begins to walk away. “You’re both embarrassing. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Doyoung.”

He pauses, turning around to face you again.

“I’m not… planning anything,” you declare, but by the way your voice comes out a little pathetically, it sounds unconvincing even to you.

He just stares at you—tired, affectionate, and knowing.

“Yeah?” Doyoung shakes his head. “Tell me how that goes.”

And with that, he walks off, leaving you alone with a table full of empty cups and a truth you can’t shove away anymore.

—

Saturday, Post FP3 October 4th

“Yes, I understand that. But we’ve already restructured the drivers’ schedule once to fit this in, and the engineering team made it clear they’re not shifting the debrief. We’re running out of room to be flexible.”

He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop when he passes the half-shut door upstairs. He’s just heading toward his driver room, idly checking the time on his phone, when your voice draws him to a pause. It’s low and clipped—not angry, but too calm in a way that says everything’s going wrong.

“We’re—Yes, I’m aware Petronas is the title sponsor. That’s why I’m trying to get this done now. You need to meet us halfway. The drivers aren’t free after 3 PM on Tuesday, and they won’t be reshuffled again for something that’s changed three times already. The team has flights to catch and meetings that cannot be held off once we get home. We’re functioning on a really tight schedule here—”

Then there’s a longer silence, and when you speak again it’s just a resigned “Okay. Let me know by eight. Thanks.” The call ends, and he hears the soft click of your phone being set down.

Joshua knocks once, light against the frame. You just glance up and tense for a second like you’re bracing for something else to fix—but it’s him, and your expression softens immediately.

“Hi,” you say, voice lower than usual.

He doesn’t enter fully, just leans a little against the doorframe, watching you. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he murmurs, “but is everything okay?”

You sigh, shaking your head before settling down onto one of the chairs in the room. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

“Are you alright?” Joshua asks, a little softer now.

You hesitate, then shrug. “Just stretched too thin. Everyone wants a different version of the schedule, and somehow it’s my fault none of them match.”

Pausing, you glance at him once before you add: “Sorry. I’m not usually like that.”

“When things matter, it’s not a bad thing.” Joshua assures.

“How was practice?” You sigh, massaging your temple.

“Not bad,” he answers, leaning against the doorframe. “Don’t know if you’ve seen the results but Doyoung seems to be doing well. I think I’m still a little out of it but quali will be good, I assume. Just need to get food inside me to perform right now.”

In the haze of your exhaustion, you look confused for a second, glancing at the time before you realise that it’s Singapore that you’re in. The gentle furrow of your brows makes Joshua’s lips break out into a small smile—one he tries to stamp down slowly.

You scoff, “The things you guys do to beat the jetlag. What time did you even get up?”

“Around one in the afternoon,” he shrugs, “It was a bit early, I think. Overheard Chenle saying he got up at three.”

“And you’re staying up till, what? Two in the morning?”

“Bang on.” He shoots a thumbs up. “Doyoung and I literally have the tennis court booked at twelve.”

“Jeez,” You let out, a little incredulously, “But anyway, you should go eat. You literally just said you needed food to function.”

He doesn’t move.

You look at him properly this time. “Joshua.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m okay.”

He doesn’t look convinced, not entirely. But he nods and pushes off the doorframe a little. Your brother’s words echo in your mind. He likes you. You swallow and force a small smile. “Really. I just need to reset.”

Joshua lifts his hands in surrender “Alright,” he says but hesitates before continuing. “If you need something—if you want to not talk about logistics and PR nightmares for five minutes—I’ll be around.”

You nod. The offer won’t be taken, and you think he knows as well, but still you mutter a small “Thanks.”

—

Monday, Post Race October 6th

It’s sometime past 2 AM when you push through the glass doors leading to the rooftop pool. The air is thick with leftover humidity, cut only slightly by the breeze, and the city glows beneath the haze like it’s still awake and waiting. You aren’t even sure what you’re doing up here—you don’t feel like swimming, nor are you in appropriate clothing for it. You just needed a moment to breathe, probably.

The season is as good as done now, with the new world champion crowned. There’s not a lot to look forward to anymore except what next season will bring. So yes, while you’re happy that your brother won today’s race, there’s a sort of empty feeling in you—whether from the season, or from other things is something that you don’t want to unpack right now.

You spot him before he sees you.

Joshua sits at the edge of the pool with his feet in the water, shirt sleeves pushed to his shoulders, hair wet and sticking in random directions, like he got out of the water, dressed and went back in without drying his hair.

For a second, you consider leaving. You should leave. The last time the two of you were alone after a race did not end well, and the thought makes your chest tighten as your steps falter.

But then he turns, almost like he senses you there, and his eyes find yours. Before you can stop yourself, you walk over, your footsteps quiet against the tile. There’s no music, no voices, no one else lingering around anymore.

“You can sit,” he says, nodding to the empty spot beside him.

You lower yourself down wordlessly, the concrete edge cool beneath your legs. Neither of you speak for a while. The water laps gently against the walls of the pool.

“Not celebrating with Doyoung?” Joshua asks finally.

You shake your head, arms going back to brace yourself as you dip your legs into the water. “He’s asleep, actually.”

“Deserved,” he huffs out with a smile, “he did great today.”

“He did. You did too.” You nod.

Joshua doesn’t respond immediately, but he glances at you, raising an eyebrow.

“I mean, you holding Haechan back like that was really cool to watch.” You shrug, looking away and into the lights on the floor of the pool.

He laughs at that, the sound bright and easy. You stay quiet and listen. It’s been a while since you’ve heard him like that—genuine, unguarded, and not trying too hard to be anything but exactly who he is at this moment.

“I think that if he hadn’t won the championship today, he would’ve actually found me after the race and put up an argument.”

You scoff softly, lips curving as you know that it was completely possible.

Your legs move idly in the water. You tilt your head back, eyes slipping shut for a second. The city hums in your ears, a feeling of heat and light and long weeks coming to a slow, inevitable end.

And then, without really meaning to, you speak, your voice honest in a way that feels overdue.

“I don’t know where we’re going with this.”

When you open your eyes, Joshua’s already looking at you. His lips slant in an awkward smile. “With what? The team?”

You exhale gingerly. “No. Not the team.” You answer, but you think that he already knows what you mean.

Joshua doesn’t answer right away. The smile fades, or maybe it never fully reached his eyes to begin with. He looks back at the pool, then down at his hands, fingers loosely threaded together in his lap. The silence stretches.

“I thought we weren’t going anywhere,” he says eventually, his voice quiet. “That was the whole point, wasn’t it?”

You nod slowly, because yes, that was the point. It was the unspoken rule from the start—keep things simple, clean, professional. Friendly, maybe. Careful always.

But now, here you are, sitting next to him in the dark, your legs skimming the water, and your guard down without realising when it fell. None of it feels simple anymore.

“I didn’t think it’d get this far,” Joshua admits. “I wasn’t thinking much when we kissed, obviously… and I hoped that you didn’t even remember, but after that I thought that keeping a distance would just work somehow. And it did, for a while. I made myself believe I didn’t want more than that. But you make it easy to want more.”

He says it without expectation, without even really looking at you. His voice is steady, like he’s been holding the words for a long time and finally couldn’t anymore.

You’re still watching the pool, your reflection blurred and broken on the water’s surface. But his words cut through the stillness, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

“I think…” You begin slowly, “the problem is that you make it too easy too.”

Joshua glances over, and for the first time tonight, you meet his gaze head-on. Neither of you looks away.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” you continue. “I’ve always been careful. I know how this works—how quickly people talk, how easily things get misread, how much harder everything becomes when you blur the line between personal and professional. And I’d love to say that I tried to keep you out of that space, but you were already there, somehow.”

He doesn’t interrupt and just listens with that infuriating patience that makes it harder not to say everything you shouldn’t.

“I kept telling myself I was being stupid,” you go on. “That if I just stayed polite, stayed neutral, it would pass. That I could handle it. But you kept showing up. You remembered things and God—I don’t know. You cared? Did you? Well it felt like it. And it just got easier and easier.”

Joshua doesn’t dare to move, but you see his lips part, like words lay waiting behind them.

“And then Hungary happened. And I thought, maybe it could still be fine. Maybe I was overreacting, and if I just pulled back, you’d fall away from it too. I just didn’t expect it to hurt.” You exhale shakily, the admission catching somewhere in your throat.

“I don’t think we meant to end up here,” you murmur. “But here we are.”

“I was scared of what it would mean,” Joshua says finally. “That if I admitted it—to you, or to myself—it would ruin something. That we’d start pulling things apart just by acknowledging them. I think I thought that if I stayed quiet, I could keep everything intact. That we could still be okay if I didn’t make it real.”

You don’t answer right away. There’s too much pressure that has no release. You drop your gaze to the water again, the light scattering in waves beneath your legs.

“But I think I’m past the point of pretending it’s not real,” he continues. “And the truth is… even if it’s risky—even if it complicates everything—I don’t want to go back to pretending you’re just part of the background.”

You let his words sit for a few moments before you speak again. “And what if—no, when the day comes for me to make a choice.” You press your palms against the edge of the pool, like bracing yourself against the weight of what you’re saying.

“Because you and I both know it’ll happen eventually. It won’t have to be dramatic, or maybe it will be. A moment where the team needs something from me, or Doyoung needs something from me, and you’ll be there too. And I won’t be able to give all of you what you want at the same time. And maybe you’ll say it’s fine, but I’ll see it on your face—that I didn’t choose you.”

You shake your head, your voice quiet but unwavering. “And the thing is… it’s not just that I’m scared of hurting you, myself or Doyoung. I’m scared of doing it again and again. Because I already have, in small ways. In ways you probably didn’t even let yourself admit. I could try and promise that I’ll try my hardest to stay neutral or try to support both of you as much as possible, but on the occasion that it’s not possible, would you be okay?”

“I did think about that,” he answers, finally. “That day in Baku, when I said all of this would get complicated. That there would be moments where I’d come second—or not at all. And the truth is, I kind of hated the idea of it. Not because I didn’t understand your role, but because I knew it would hurt. I knew it would make me question things that maybe wouldn’t be fair to question.”

You glance at him, but he’s not looking at you anymore. He’s looking straight ahead, like this is something he can only say if he doesn’t see the way you’re taking it in.

“But I think I was just hoping for the cleanest outcome. I could be a good teammate, be your friend, and protect myself before I got too involved.” He pauses. “In the end, it just felt like I kept lying to myself.”

He turns to you now, and there’s something steadier in the way he holds your gaze.

“So yeah, I still know it won’t be easy. And maybe I’ll flinch sometimes. Maybe it’ll sting when I wish you’d say something or do something for me, and you can’t. But that doesn’t mean I won’t understand. I do. And I won’t ask you to pick me every time. That’s not what I’m here for.”

There’s a pause, quiet except for the occasional ripple of the water behind your legs.

“If you’ll let me, then I’ll be here because I still want to be. Not just when it’s convenient. Not just when I’m ahead, but even when it’s messy, even when I’m not first. But would you be alright with that? Having to deal with both of us.”

“I—” You begin, “Joshua what if this gets out? We’ll all have our work ethics and integrity questioned. And I don’t work directly for the team, so it probably wouldn’t be an HR issue, but what if this just doesn’t work?”

Joshua nods slowly, “Yeah,” he says, “I’ve thought about that too.”

Then he exhales, like the honesty takes something out of him. “And I don’t know. I don’t have a clean answer. Maybe people will talk. I can’t promise that they won’t. But I think what’s worse is pretending none of this is real just to avoid the risk.”

“I know what I’m asking. You’re already holding so many lines together, and I’m one more thread that could snap everything. I get it.” He swallows, voice softening. “But I keep thinking… maybe we’ll figure it out as we go. Maybe it’s not about having the answers right now—just about being willing to try.”

“Yes.” you say finally, voice a little louder than before, like you’re making a decision. “I think I would be okay with that. With having to deal with both of you.”

“Okay,” Joshua’s lips split into a grin, almost disbelieving—like he wasn’t letting himself hope.

He shifts a little, brushing his hand over his shirt before holding it out toward you, palm open.

You glance at him, brow raised. “What’s that for?”

“A handshake,” he says, almost shyly now. “I don’t know. Just felt like… something. Like maybe we’re agreeing to something real this time.”

You stare at his hand for a second longer before sliding yours into it. His grip is warm and steady, his fingers slightly wrinkly from the water.

You squeeze once. “You’re ridiculous.”

Joshua smiles, thumb brushing the back of your hand as he flips your palms. “Maybe. But you shook on it.”

He doesn’t let go immediately, and neither do you. You watch your hands for a moment, the way his thumb keeps moving, slow and absent like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. Your fingers are still loosely laced with his.

“We’re allowed to have good things.” You mutter, almost like a reminder to yourself.

“Yes,” Joshua agrees, and then continues—like he’s almost embarrassed by how much he means it. “Especially if it’s this.”

You, is what he really means. But he’ll save it. For another time, another day, when the water is not so still and when he’s sure you won’t flinch at the sound of it.

USA, LAS VEGAS STRIP CIRCUIT

Wednesday, Media Day November 20th

Doyoung doesn’t expect to see anyone in the hallway when he steps out of the elevator with a bottle of sparkling water and his keycard tucked into his palm. The floor is quiet—middle of the night quiet—and for a second, he thinks he might be imagining the silhouette standing in front of the door to your room.

But then Joshua straightens up and the overhead light hits his face.

“Oh,” Doyoung says, slowing to a stop. “It’s you.”

Joshua starts, suddenly looking like someone who’s been caught doing something he’s not sure he should’ve been doing. “Hey.”

Doyoung glances at the room number. Then at Joshua. Back at the room number, mentally cross checking if this is yours. “You lost or…?”

“No. Just…” Joshua rubs the back of his neck. “Wasn’t sleepy.”

“Right,” Doyoung says. “So you came to this exact hallway. Outside my sister’s room.”

Joshua tries to look casual. “I was going for a walk.”

“Of course you were,” Doyoung replies, nodding like he’s indulging a toddler. “Nice long walk that conveniently ends at her door.”

Joshua smiles, faintly. “Unintentionally.”

“Sure.”

They pause, making both of them aware of how ridiculous this looks.

“I wasn’t gonna wake her,” Joshua adds, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his sweatpants. “I just… didn’t feel like being in my room.”

Doyoung uncaps his bottle and takes a sip. “I mean, I wasn’t gonna ask for a full explanation. You look guilty enough.”

Joshua groans under his breath. “I’m not guilty.”

“You’re standing in a hallway at 1 AM whispering outside a girl’s room like a teen in a drama. You want me to pretend I didn’t see this?”

“Well, why are you here?” Joshua shoots back weakly.

Doyoung blinks. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He stares, his expression a mix of exasperation and offence. “That’s my excuse.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t end up outside someone’s door like a loitering ghost.”

“You—I’m not loitering,” Joshua mutters. “I’m—”

“Thinking,” Doyoung offers, smirking as he leans against the opposite wall. “Deep thoughts. Spiritual reflection. Maybe trying to telepathically connect with her through the door.”

Joshua squints at him. “You’re very annoying at night.”

“I’m a delight at all hours,” Doyoung replies. “So? Are you going in or…?”

“I was about to knock,” he lies.

“Yeah?” Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “Because man, honestly, you look like you’ve been standing here with your hands in your pockets for at least a five whole minute. Very bold knocking technique.”

“I was… psyching myself up.”

“To knock…?”

Joshua sighs. “It’s complicated.”

“Not really,” Doyoung says, and then, in a voice that’s more curious than teasing now: “You like her.”

Joshua hesitates before nodding once. “Yeah.”

Doyoung doesn’t say anything to that. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, uncrosses his arms, and glances toward the door again.

“Well,” he says finally, “she’s probably awake.”

Joshua tilts his head. “You think?”

The words are still halfway to forming on Doyoung’s tongue when the door handle turns with a soft click. Both of them freeze as the door swings open just enough to reveal you on the other side, backlit by the warm yellow of your bedside lamp.

Your hair’s a little messy, face slightly puffy with sleep, or the lack of it. You blink at the two of them slowly, clearly thrown by the sight.

“What—” your gaze flickers between them, confused. “—the fuck are you guys doing?”

Joshua looks helpless. You’re still rubbing at your eyes when Doyoung shrugs, as if this entire thing isn’t weird at all.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, lifting his bottle like a toast. “Was going to check if you were up. Turns out I was late.”

You squint. “Late for what?”

Doyoung jerks his head toward Joshua. “He beat me here.”

Joshua shoots him a look. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Relax,” Doyoung cuts in. “I’m not your chaperone.”

You open your mouth to ask something—maybe to clarify whether this is weird for him, or whether you should explain anything at all—but Doyoung’s already backing away.

“I’m gonna head back,” he says. “You two can… talk, or whatever. Just don’t be annoying tomorrow.”

Then he turns and walks back toward the elevators without waiting for an answer.

You and Joshua are left blinking after him in disbelief. You glance at Joshua. He looks equally confused.

“Did he just—”

“Yep,” Joshua says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess he did.”

You lean lightly against the doorframe, stunned for a second. “Wow. He really just trusted you. A man. Alone. With me. In a hotel room. In the middle of the night.”

“He is not reacting the way I expected him to, honestly.” He scoffs lightly as you push off the frame and step aside, wordlessly holding the door open.

Joshua steps in carefully, like he’s not entirely sure this is allowed yet. His gaze flicks around the room, but he doesn’t move far—just stands near the entryway while you close the door behind him with a quiet click.

You pad back toward the bed, tucking your hands into the sleeves of your oversized shirt. The bedside lamp is on, casting a low golden glow across the room. Neither of you says anything right away.

You sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed, the pillow still indented where you’d been lying earlier. Joshua lingers for a second longer, then walks over and sinks down to the floor with a quiet exhale, settling with his back against the mattress, stretching his legs out in front of him, hands resting loosely in his lap.

“You really couldn’t sleep?” you ask after a beat, your voice soft with sleep.

He shakes his head. “No. You?”

“I was falling asleep.” You admit, making him look up at you and mouth a sorry.

You shake your head dismissively before leaning forward, arms draped over your knees. “What were you even going to say if I didn’t open the door?”

Joshua tilts his head, thinking. “Maybe nothing. Maybe I would’ve just stood there like an idiot and gone back.”

You smile a little, glancing down at the crown of his head. “You were already standing there like an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he says, and his grin is audible even if you can’t see it. “Thought I’d commit to the role.”

For a while, there’s only the hum of the AC and the city—still alive and bustling—outside the window, muffled by distance. Eventually, Joshua leans his head back gently, brushing against your knee without quite meaning to. His voice is quieter when he speaks again.

“Vegas feels… weird.”

“Weird how?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s the closest thing I have to a home race, and everyone calls it that but it feels so foreign at the same time. Like I’m supposed to feel grounded here, but everything’s loud and shiny and… not really mine.”

You watch him as he speaks, the way his lashes cast faint shadows against his cheek in the low light. His fingers toy with the seam of his sweatpants, picking at a loose thread absently.

You shift, pushing one leg off the bed and then the other, before easing yourself down onto the floor beside him. Your shoulder bumps his gently as you settle in, your back against the bed frame now too.

“I get that,” you murmur, knees pulled to your chest. “Sometimes places just don’t hold the memories people expect them to.”

Joshua doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, he sighs. “Yeah.”

You’re both quiet again, until your head tips a little, coming to rest on his shoulder. Your voice is soft when you speak. “What were your last two races here like? With Williams.”

Joshua scoffs out a laugh. “Oh please, don’t make me remember.”

You smile against the fabric of his hoodie. “That bad?”

“Tragic,” he says, after a pause. “Just forgettable. Like I was here, but not really here. Finished P15 one year, retired the next. Spent more time in traffic getting out of the paddock than actually racing.”

“So nothing redeeming?”

Joshua tilts his head, just a little, enough for your hair to brush against his cheek. “This year has been the first time I’ve landed at a track and not felt like I wanted to skip to Monday.”

He says it simply, like now that it’s over, it doesn’t hold much value anymore. But you’ve seen him, albeit from afar and wonder just how much his time at Williams taught him.

You nod once. “Well. New team. New year.”

“New hotel hallway experiences,” he adds, and you laugh, warmth catching in your chest before you can stop it.

“God. That was so awkward.”

“Painfully.” Joshua agrees. “How do you think this weekend will be?”

“Honestly,” You begin, lifting your head up to look at him, “I’m not trying to put pressure on you two, but seeing how you guys do well in cold climate, I think it’ll be a nice one.”

Joshua huffs out a small laugh, turning his head to meet your eyes. “You sound like my performance engineer.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “I’m just saying. I have data to back me up.”

“Oh yeah?” He nudges your knee lightly with his. “And what does the analysis say?”

“That one of you is due a win,” you reply, certain. “And don’t tell Doyoung I told you this, but secretly you’re the home hero, so I’ll root for you this weekend.”

Joshua’s expression changes—surprised first, then quietly pleased, like he’ll be running these words through his mind all weekend. “Secretly, huh?”

You nod, a smile pulling at your lips. “Very secretly.”

“Got it.” He leans in just slightly. “I’ll try not to let you down, then.”

—

Friday, Post Qualifying November 22nd

“First of all, congratulations to our top three qualifiers—we have Kim Doyoung on pole for Mercedes, Joshua Hong in P2, and Seungcheol Choi rounding out the top three for Ferrari.” The moderator announces as the cameras start rolling.

The lights in the press conference room are a little too harsh, the couch too white and a little hard tonight, for some reason. But Joshua’s too tired to care. His cap is pulled low, the Mercedes logo gleaming as the moderator leans into the mic. God knows how many people he’s had to speak to today—which is the worst part about Las Vegas. Talking to celebrities, sponsors and what not. He’s been congratulated and greeted by a bunch of people whose names he can’t remember when the only thing he wants to do is go home and fall asleep.

“Seungcheol,” the moderator begins, “you’re starting P3 tomorrow—Ferrari looked strong early on, but maybe lost a bit toward the end of Q3. Talk us through the lap.”

Seungcheol smiles, nodding. “Yeah, the session was tricky, but good. Cold track, not a lot of grip, so it was about timing and temperature more than outright pace at times. Still, P3 puts us in the fight. I’ll take it.”

The next name called is Joshua’s.

“Joshua—P2 for you. Solid lap, great pace from the team, but your teammate took pole at what many consider your home race. What’s the feeling right now?”

Joshua lifts the mic, fingers brushing against the fabric of his race suit. “It was a strong session for us, yeah,” he says. “I think the car’s been working really well here all weekend. Cold temperatures seem to suit us.”

He pauses for just a second—brief, almost imperceptible—and then continues, his gaze flicking across to Doyoung.

“Of course, Doyoung had a great lap in Q3. You always want pole, especially when the calendar says ‘home race’ next to your name. But honestly…” He exhales softly. “I’m proud of this one. Front row for the team. We’re in a good position tomorrow. And uh,” Joshua turns to Doyoung, “it’ll be close into turn one. So no worries, right now.”

His teammate only grins at him, shaking his head before turning back to the moderator.

The press conference winds down a while later with the usual rush of camera shutters and low murmurs, a few closing remarks from the moderator before the drivers are finally released. Joshua stands, mic carefully set back on the couch, and follows Doyoung and Seungcheol out of the room.

He squints slightly under the hallway lights. His cap stays low on his forehead, shoulders rolling once to shake off the stiffness that’s settled in. Behind him, Doyoung is already making a joke about one of the questions, but Joshua barely registers it. His eyes find you first.

You’re standing just outside the media zone, back against the wall near a folding barrier, phone in hand. Minghao’s next to you, half-listening to something on his earpiece while scrolling absently. Neither of you is particularly animated, but Joshua sees the flicker of relief in your expression when you spot him.

“There they are,” Minghao says, glancing up. “The men of the hour.”

Doyoung only shakes his head, muttering something in a low voice to you before waving at Minghao and walking off toward one of the PR reps motioning for him.

You glance at him properly now, taking in the visible fatigue, the faint lines around his eyes.

“Long day?” you ask.

Joshua nods. “So long. I talked to one of the Kardashian sisters and I’m still not entirely sure which one she was.”

You laugh quietly, reaching out to adjust the brim of his cap before tugging it back into place. “You did good, though. Q2 lap was clean.”

His mouth twitches. “You saw that?”

“I always see.” You smile, then step back a little, hands slipping into the pockets of your jacket. “P2 isn’t bad.”

“Not when your brother’s P1,” he says, dryly.

“Please,” you roll your eyes. “He’s still going to complain about something. Might as well let him enjoy tonight.”

Joshua leans against the wall beside you, just enough to close the space. “You’ll still root for me tomorrow, though?”

You raise an eyebrow, voice low. “Oh, please. I’ll root for both of you, by the way. Didn’t I already say I would?”

“Yeah, but it sounds nicer hearing it here than through a closed hotel door.”

Your face reddens a little despite yourself. “You’re annoying.”

Minghao glances up then, jerking his chin toward the hallway. “Alright, Romeo, we’re heading out. You need to go to the media pen too, man.”

Joshua groans but straightens, pushing off the wall. “Got it.”

He turns back to you, ignoring as Minghao tells him to hurry up. “I’ll see you later?”

You nod, gesturing for him to leave before his manager comes and drags him out.

By the time everything slows down again, you’re back inside the Mercedes hospitality unit, walking the quieter halls with a bottle of water in hand and the ache of the day beginning to settle in your shoulders. You don’t expect to find Doyoung still in his driver room, but the door’s half-open when you pass by. He’s there—freshly showered with a new shirt on, seated on the edge of the small couch with his elbows resting on his knees. When you enter, he glances up, slightly startled before you sit down next to him.

“Are you free for a second?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Okay, listen. I’m not trying to be difficult,” Doyoung says, voice quieter now, “but I’d feel kind of shitty if I didn’t at least ask.”

You glance over at him. “Ask what?”

He exhales. “You and Joshua. Is it… something?”

The way he says it isn’t accusatory, just tentative. Like he’s still sorting out how much he wants to know, or maybe how much he already does.

You consider lying for a moment—brushing it off, making it easier. But you don’t. Instead, you meet his gaze and say, carefully, “Yeah. A bit more than something, probably.”

Doyoung nods, slowly. He doesn’t look angry, but he’s thinking hard. “How long?”

“Not long. But it’s not impulsive either,” you say. “We’ve been… figuring it out.”

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “And are you sure? That this isn’t just… adrenaline, or the fact that you’re around each other all the time?”

You hesitate. “I’ve asked myself that too. But it doesn’t feel like that. It feels—” You pause, trying to find the right word. “—steady.”

Doyoung is quiet again. “I just… I don’t want you to get hurt. And I don’t want this to mess up anything for him either, not now.”

“I know.”

“I’m not saying you can’t be happy,” he adds quickly. “I just—I know what this world is like. You and I have lived in it long enough. And I don’t want you to look back and wish you hadn’t let yourself care.”

You smile faintly. “I already care.”

Doyoung finally looks at you again, and the expression on his face softens just a bit. “Of course you do.”

There’s a beat of silence before he sighs again—less tense now—and bumps your arm lightly with his.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Just don’t tell me about the mushy stuff. And tell him if he ever uses this card against me, I’ll put him in the wall.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up easier than you expected. “Please don’t do that.”

Doyoung rubs his face, trying to look dramatic. “Whatever. He’s still insufferable when he’s smug, so if this makes him worse, it’s on you.”

You nudge his shoulder, making him hiss in mock-pain. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He shakes his head, but the tension in his posture has eased. “Just take care of each other. And, seriously, don’t make me regret being cool about this.”

“You won’t,” you say, with a quiet certainty that feels new. “I promise.”

—

Saturday, Post Race

November 23rd

The roar from the crowd is deafening.

Joshua’s not sure he’s ever heard anything like it before—this wall of noise, pulsing up from the streets of Vegas and ricocheting off every mirrored building like it was made to echo. The fireworks have already started, streaks of gold, silver and red bursting behind the podium

Doyoung claps him on the back. “You did it,” he shouts, grinning, eyes crinkling in the light. “Fucking Vegas, man! Won the home race after all, huh?”

Joshua only laughs—breathless and a little distracted by the way his eyes burn so bad. The trophy is solid in his hands, heavier than he expected. The champagne is already half-sprayed, sticky and cold across the front of his suit.

He shifts his grip on the trophy absently, letting the weight settle into his palm. Confetti clings to the fabric of his race suit, stuck to his sleeves and shoulders, glittering in the podium lights. Behind him, fireworks keep going—sharp pops of sound that would’ve made him flinch if he wasn’t already fired up.

Joshua looks out toward the crowd again, taking in the blur of flags and flashlights, the sea of arms raised in celebration. It’s not quiet, not even close, but something in him is, finally. There’s a calmness in his chest that wasn’t there at the start of this weekend, the start of this season. With only two more races to go, he feels some sort of satisfaction—he’s leagues above where he’s been in the last few years, and it feels like ending the year on the right note.

He holds the trophy up briefly when the camera swings toward him, letting the flash catch his profile. Then it’s all over just as quickly as it began—someone waves them down the stairs, staff wait with towels and headsets and a hundred things to do before the night ends.

Down in paddock, he’s handed off like a relay baton between mechanics and PR. A few high fives, someone shouting his name, one of the engineers tossing him his electrolytic drink bottle with a grin. He moves through it automatically.

Joshua turns the familiar corner near the team hospitality units, letting muscle memory guide him through the back halls of the hospitality. His driver room isn’t far now. Just a few more doors.

When he rounds the corner and looks up, you’re already there.

You’ve just stepped out from the room across the hall—Doyoung’s. The door clicks softly shut behind you as you turn and catch sight of him. Your lanyard swings around on your neck, sleeves pushed up, and hair a little tousled.

“Hey,” you greet with a grin, “they let you go already?”

“God, no.” Joshua exhales as he meets you halfway down the corridor. “I need to go and give a few more interviews, I think.”

“You smell like champagne,” you note, scrunching your nose playfully as you stop in front of him.

Joshua laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry. It’s… everywhere.”

You glance down at the front of his suit, still damp and sticky in patches. He looks up again, and you’re already close enough that it doesn’t feel like a decision when you lift your arms to wrap around him. His arms settle around you just as easily, his cheek resting against the side of your head.

“You were great today,” you say into his shoulder, voice quiet now, meant only for him. “You really were.”

Joshua breathes in—slowly, like he wants to memorize the way this feels, how steady it is. “No bad for a supposed home race, no?”

“Not bad at all.” you agree, running a palm down the length of his back. “You should probably go shower while you can, Josh.”

He pulls away, almost reluctantly, to look at you. “I mean, I thought I would after I got back from those interviews. Doubt I’ve got much time now.”

“Joshua,” You laugh, throwing your head back. It makes him smile too, albeit a little confused as he waits for you to continue. “It’s Vegas, and you just won. You really think they’re letting you go back to the hotel room after this?”

His eyes widen slightly, like the thought is only just dawning on him. “Wait—are we going out?”

“The team seems to be in high spirits. They just made plans in the group chat. I think most teams are going to be out, honestly.”

Joshua groans, dragging a hand down his face. “God. I don’t even know if I have energy for this.”

“Me neither.” You agree with a nod, “But you should go shower.”

“And you won’t be able to wait, I’m assuming?” He asks with a soft sigh, fingers still wrapped around your wrists.

You purse your lips, thinking for a few seconds before shaking your head. “But I’ll be coming too, and I’ll find you there. Don’t worry.”

Joshua watches you for a moment longer, eyes skimming over your face. Then he exhales with a smile, and finally lets go of your wrists.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll find you too.”

You nod. “Okay.”

And then you’re stepping back, already moving down the hall, the soft thud of your shoes fading into the post-race noises still running through the paddock. Joshua stands there for a second, watching you go, the corner of his mouth still lifted like he can’t quite help it.

Then he turns and disappears into his driver room, the door swinging shut behind him.

—

The music is relentless.

Heavy bass shakes the floor, and the lights overhead spin too quickly, cycling between violet and champagne-gold like they can’t decide if the room should feel electric or expensive.

You’re pressed into a curved booth with a half-spilled drink in your hand and one of the girls from the pit crew complaining about her situationship in your ear. There are too many voices around you—half-shouting over the music, half-laughing through champagne, high on adrenaline and the sweetness of a 1-2 finish. You’re sure you’ve seen mechanics and team members of other teams as well.

You spot him through the crowd before he sees you.

Joshua’s standing near the bar, flanked by his engineer and Minghao, nodding along to something someone’s saying. His shoulders are relaxed, one hand wrapped around a glass he doesn’t seem all that interested in, the other shoved into the pocket of his jeans. He looks good. Not just in the blurry, flattering way everyone does in club lighting—but good.

You think about texting him, but you don’t have to—he catches your eye almost instantly, like he’d had a feeling you were watching. And when he does, he grins before turning around to excuse himself, presumably.

He finds his way over without rushing, weaving through the crowd easily. One of the lighting rigs overhead flickers silver against his hair just as he approaches, and your breath hitches before you can stop it. Maybe it’s the lighting. Maybe it’s the Vegas haze. Or maybe it’s just him.

“Hi,” he says, tipping his head a little as he comes to a stop at your side.

You glance up at him, tilting your glass. “You took your time.”

“I was being polite,” he says with a grin. “Didn’t want to make it obvious I was trying to ditch Minghao.”

You snort. He’s already slipping into the booth before you can reply, sliding in next to you without hesitation. The seat is just barely big enough for three, but neither of you acknowledges that. His knee presses lightly against yours, and when he leans in to be heard, it’s close—cheek brushing the edge of your hair, the smell of him all citrus and aftershave and something sweeter underneath.

“Are you surviving this?” he murmurs.

“Barely,” you reply, lifting your glass and then setting it down again without drinking. “I’ve heard the words ‘tire deg’ and ‘pit lane penalty’ in at least three different conversations. They’re all talking about Ferrari, honestly. It’s getting boring.”

Joshua laughs, his breath warm against your ear, enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“Poor Seungcheol,” he says, almost to himself. “He’s not even here to defend himself.”

You hum. “I don’t think he’d bother.”

His smile lingers, but there’s something softer beneath it now. He doesn't move away, and you don’t either. The music swells, the lights strobe too bright for a beat, and someone down the booth knocks over a glass, sending a fizz of something sticky onto the table. Nobody flinches.

Joshua leans in again. “I was looking for you earlier.”

Your breath catches, just slightly. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Minghao dragged me into a VIP lounge for five minutes and I kept checking the floor, hoping you’d show up.”

You tilt your head, eyes tracing the edge of his jaw. “You could’ve just texted.”

“I thought about it,” he admits, then pauses. “But I kind of like finding you on my own.”

The crowd’s pressed in tighter now, heat and laughter folding in from every angle. The booth’s too loud, too full—people shouting across each other, a camera flash going off near the bar.

You glance at him properly. “Hey,” you say, not quite smiling, “you wanna move somewhere quieter?”

“Yeah,” Joshua says, soft and certain. “Let’s go.”

You slide out, easing past someone who barely notices you leaving. Joshua’s close behind, a hand ghosting at your lower back without ever fully touching. He catches up when you pause near the glass railing, city lights swimming below. For a second you both just stand there, watching the strip blaze beneath you. Vegas doesn’t go quiet—not even from this high up—but something about the moment still feels removed from the noise.

“Too much?” he asks gently, leaning in.

You glance sideways at him. “Little bit.”

Joshua smiles. “Wanna go back downstairs?”

You nod.

The club sits on the roof of the hotel Mercedes has taken over for the weekend, so it’s only a short walk to the private elevator at the far end. A couple of people are headed that way too, but they’re distracted, tipsy, and mid-conversation. Nobody pays attention to you and Joshua slipping in behind them.

The elevator doors close with a hush. Someone presses a button for the 22nd floor, and Joshua reaches past to tap for 20. His floor. When the elevator dings, you step out first. The hallway is quieter than you expected, carpeted and cool, with no signs of the music upstairs bleeding through the walls.

You step into the hallway first, heels muffled against the carpet, the air-conditioning crisp after the heat of the club. Joshua’s room is a few doors down. You don’t speak as you walk—just the occasional brush of his shoulder against yours, the low buzz of something shared but unspoken.

When he pushes the door open, you step in without hesitation. It’s dim inside—just the warm light from the hallway pooling in briefly before the door swings shut behind him with a quiet click.

He toes off his shoes by the wall, but you’re already drifting forward with a gasp. “Wait, your balcony overlooks the track?”

“Didn’t mention that?” he says, voice light as he walks over. “Guess I forgot.”

You cross the room toward the glass doors, pushing one open as a gust of cool air rushes in. The balcony is big—a small terrace with a couple of chairs, a low table, and a clear view of the street circuit below. The track is empty now, the floodlights are switched off, but the lights and signs from the buildings nearby illuminate it anyway. The lights of the Strip stretch out far beyond the last turn.

You step out, hands resting on the metal railing as you take it in. The silence is almost intimate compared to the chaos upstairs. Behind you, you hear Joshua move—his footsteps quiet against the carpet, then against the tile of the balcony. He stops next to you.

“It looks different when you’re driving,” he says after a moment, resting his forearms against the railing beside you. “All the lights just blur into one single line. It feels much smaller.”

You glance at him. “Smaller? That’s what you’re going with?”

He shrugs. “I’m serious. The straights feel like nothing until someone’s coming up behind you with DRS.”

You grin. “Romantic.”

Joshua huffs a laugh. “I’m just saying. It’s weird seeing it like this. Quiet. Like it’s just… a road.”

“A very expensive, over-designed, LED-ridden road.”

“Exactly.”

The wind picks up faintly, tugging your hair. You tuck it behind your ear and glance sideways at him again. He’s already looking at you.

“You look pretty,” Joshua says, and this time, there’s a bit of a smile playing on his lips—lazy, knowing, like he enjoys the way it makes you blink in surprise.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says easily, like it’s a fact, like there’s nothing else in the world he could possibly mean.

You lean your elbows on the railing again, gaze drifting out over the track. “Careful,” you say. “I might start thinking you’re into me.”

Joshua tilts his head, eyes still on you. “You say that like I haven’t made it obvious.”

You glance sideways. “You think you’ve been obvious?”

“I did follow you halfway across a club tonight,” he points out. “And left my own party.”

You shrug, teasing. “Maybe you were just bored.”

“Sure,” he says, inching closer. “That’s why I’m here. Because I couldn’t think of anything more exciting than standing on a balcony with you.”

You smile, a little crooked, and glance away. “You’re laying it on kind of thick, Joshua.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, well. I’m trying something new.”

“Flirting?”

“One could also call it being clear.”

That earns a look from you—brows raised, mouth parted slightly in surprise. But you don’t pull away. Joshua doesn’t break eye contact. His hand lifts casually to the railing behind you again, this time brushing yours on the way, the space between your bodies narrowing by the second. And when he tilts forward, halfway down to your face, gaze flicking to your lips—he hesitates.

“Is it working?” he asks quietly.

You consider the question, your gaze drifting from his eyes to the curve of his mouth, then back again. There’s a flicker of something warm in your chest, unspoken but insistent.

“Maybe,” you say, voice soft. “A little.”

“Well then,” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, “you think you’d let me kiss you?”

You nod, almost without thinking, chin tilting up a fraction. Joshua begins to lean in again, slower this time, one palm coming up to the back of your head when—

“Wait,” you murmur suddenly, hand rising instinctively to press flat against his chest.

He stills immediately. “What?” he asks, brows drawing together, not pulling away but not closing the gap either.

You hesitate, eyes flicking up to his. “How many drinks have you had tonight?”

He blinks once, then lets a short laugh, more surprised than amused. “One. Barely finished it. Why?”

You’re quiet for a second, just long enough that his expression shifts to something a little worried. But you meet his gaze steadily.

“Because I think… Hungary was kind of an accident,” you say slowly, choosing each word. “I think maybe I let it happen because we were drunk. And I don’t really do that.”

Joshua’s lips part slightly, like he’s about to speak, but you cut in, softer now, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“And I’d prefer if only my boyfriend would kiss me.”

There’s a pause as he registers your words, his face morphing with slight confusion before he finally realises.

Joshua tilts his head, the corners of his mouth curving up into a grin that’s far too pleased for someone trying to play it cool. “And who could that be?”

You raise a brow, shrugging one shoulder, your voice just the slightest bit sly. “Well… you, if you asked.”

Joshua’s grin falters for half a second—just enough for sincerity to sneak in beneath it. His other hand slips into yours, thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. Almost sheepish.

“Okay,” he says, tilting his head a little. “Then… Can I be your boyfriend?”

You stare at him for a second, something fluttering stupidly in your chest before laughing lightly, your free hand reaching up to tug at the collar of his shirt. “Yeah. Yeah, you can be.”

His grin returns, softer now, touched with something quiet and sure, and he closes the distance.

Joshua’s mouth meets yours like a promise—firm, warm, and unhurried. You lean in instinctively, catching his lower lip between yours, your hand tightening around the front of his shirt. He kisses you again, this time deeper, and you can’t help the quiet sound that slips from your throat. It makes him smile into the kiss, makes him shift closer, lips parting more fully against yours.

Your fingers slip back up to his collar, anchoring yourself there as his hand drifts to your waist. The world narrows to just the press of his mouth, the slide of his lips against yours, the way he tastes faintly like citrus and something sweeter underneath.

Eventually, you break apart, slow and reluctant, breath mingling in the quiet space between. He doesn’t go far—just lets his forehead rest against yours, thumb brushing a soft line along your jaw.

“Okay,” he murmurs, a little dazed. “That was… worth the wait.”

You huff a laugh, but it’s soft, real. “Yeah,” you say, eyes still half-lidded. “I think so too.”

Neither of you moves for a moment. Joshua’s eyes flick over your face like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he can finally afford to slow down.

“You know,” he says after a few seconds, “I’ve spent this whole season chasing something.”

You glance up. “And?”

Joshua smiles. Not the kind he puts on for cameras, but the gentler one you’ve started to recognize as just his.

“I think I might’ve found it.”

You don’t answer. You just reach for his hand and hold it. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like enough.

taglist : @blckorchidd @starshuas @fancypeacepersona @reiofsuns2001 @exomew @smiileflower @syluslittlecrows @teddybeartaetae @sojuxxi @cl41rsblog @stwrlightt @livelaughloveseventeen @duhduhdana @haesluvr @eisaspresso @https-seishu @illiadiaz @k4trinabluu @choco-scoups @imhereonlytoreadxoxo

#g: 13+#g: fluff #g: slowburn #g: angst #g: racer au #warnings: swearing #warnings: stress #warnings: mentions of car crashes #type: fic #wc: 21k+#a: hhaechansmoless #member: calli #artist: seventeen #m: joshua

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kflixnet · 25 days ago

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New to KFLIXNET: Check out our member Yomi's text chats!

𝗌𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝖾 . ⊹ ／ ⠀ 愛 𝑎 𝑝𝑜𝑒𝑡'𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀💭 I'LL LIKE YOU

🍞 𝐁𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐄 ❜ 𝗽𝘂𝗽 𝗽𝘂𝗽𓈒𓏸 여왕이여 ✿◌ֹ 𝐢𝐯. texts with heeseung as your fuckass situationship ⪩⪨ 𝗆𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗅𝗎𝖻-𝖽𝗎𝖻, 𝗂𝗍 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 🥛 따를게 ( from yeokii, a prod. )

⠀⠀⠀⠀𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑖𝑚 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠 ────── when I look at you the world is in a moment filter mode on 네 표정 시선 하나하나 close up 🍰

'⠀• 🍪 ──𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾. ( situationshiphee&fmr ) 𓈒 ◌ smau & fluff ╱ : 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 ‧ a lot of suggestive jokes / profanity ⋆ ˊ ✿𓍢 𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆 ˋ (⠀𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽 .⠀) liek&reblog! 𝟢𝟪𝖣𝖨𝖠𝖱𝖨𝖤𝖲

여키 ── EDITION . heeseung situationship final boss God bless

⠀⠀𝖺 𝗒𝖾𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽. do not copy, repost or translate my works

#g: 13+#g: situationship au #g: fluff #warnings: suggestive jokes #type: smau #a: yeokii #member: yomi #artist: enhypen #m: heeseung

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kflixnet · 26 days ago

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New to KFLIXNET: Check out our member Sru's oneshot!

SO ROMANTIC 、 pjs

𝐎𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄， 𝗃𝖺𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾

❪ 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐄 ❫ ｡ 𝗁𝗎𝗌𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽!𝗉𝗃𝗌 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 1O14 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 .✿ 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 贅沢 𖥔

REBLOG FOR ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ KISSES

“do you still love me?”

jay looks offended, deeply offended, and if they handed out oscars for the most disturbed-looking husband on a random thursday afternoon, he would’ve walked up to that stage with a speech memorized. no hesitation.

he lowers the hammer in his hand, lets it drop onto the half-assembled desk with a dull clunk, and wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, smearing a bit of sawdust across his temple.

“i literally married you,” he says, breathless, as he steps near you, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“yeah but people marry people,” you sigh, putting on a faux sad expression, “but do you really love me—”

“darling, i’m literally building you a wooden vanity closet,” he cuts you quick in your sentence, his eyes wide, “and it has been three hours now. i wouldn’t do that for anyone else.”

you press your lips together to keep from laughing. “you look good doing it though.”

his jaw ticks, he knows not to lose his patience, especially when you are all cute and testing it. he still thinks your question is ridiculous, of course he loves you. he loves you way more than the effort he’s putting in the vanity, and it’s not even one percent of what he’d do for you.

“my back hurts.” he sighs yet again

“because you love me?” “because i’m married to you,” he deadpans, rolls his eyes and strawls closer to you.

you pout. it’s exaggerated, a little playful. “so you don’t love me?”

jay huffs, then drops to his knees in front of you with a thud, on the bed. his hands settle on your thighs, sawdust and all, and his fingers press into your skin gently, grounding.

he looks up. his eyes are warm, but serious. intense, even.

“you drive me insane,” he murmurs. “you leave the shower light on. you forget where your charger is every day. you sing off-key when you think i’m not listening.”

you breathe stops, and before you can muster up a sentence, he says again.

“and i love you like i’m sick with it.”

you feel like your stops, with blood rushing up to your cheeks you really don’t know if you can handle this anymore. his thumb brushes over your knee.

“and if you say dumb shit like that again,” he says, voice low, “i might have to marry you again, just to prove a point.”

you open your mouth, ready to sass him back, but he leans in before you can.

his hand finds your waist, warm and rough from hours of sanding wood. his other hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he’s mapping it out. like he missed it all day. like he needed this more than food or rest or sanity.

and then he kisses you. not a soft peck. not a tired brush of lips. it’s full. warm. deliberate.

his mouth slides against yours like he’s finally off the clock, like this is his reward — the only thing that makes the bruised knees and splinters and forgotten lunch worth it.

your fingers twist into his shirt instinctively. his thumb brushes down the side of your neck as his lips move against yours with something a little hungry, a little breathless, but still so stupidly in love.

you pull away for air, lips tingling, chest rising in soft, quick breaths. your fingers are still fisted in his shirt, and he looks up at you like you just knocked the wind out of him — which, to be fair, you did.

jay’s lips are red, a little kiss-swollen, and he’s breathing just as hard.

you blink, lips tingling. “so, i guess, you really do love me?”

“i love you when you talk too much,” he continues against your lips, grinning, “and when you ask dumb questions, like if i still love you.”

you let out a tiny gasp, equal parts amused and overwhelmed, and he pulls you even closer, your forehead pressed to his. your hands rest on his shoulders, thumbs brushing the slope of his neck.

“hey,” you whine softly, but he leans forward again and steals another kiss before you can complain further — short, warm, like a punctuation mark.

“i spend three hours building a closet,” he continues, kisses the corner of your mouth, “you sit here looking like a whole heart attack—” another kiss, this time near your chin, “—and then you ask—” kiss “—me—” kiss “—if i—” kiss “love you?” another kiss.

you laugh into his shoulder, hands slipping up into his hair, heart stopping “i just wanted to hear it.”

his lips curl, lazy and crooked. “you’re so annoying,” he mutters

your breath catches as he rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing, full of love. “god,” he mutters, eyes still closed, “you drive me insane,” he chuckles again like a reminder.

“you like it,” you whisper, a chuckle falling on your lips.

he smiles, just a little. then, without letting go of you, he sinks to the floor.

kneels. infront of you.

his arms wrap around your waist, cheek pressing softly to your thigh. he exhales against the fabric of your shorts, like being close to you settles everything.

you run your fingers through his hair, slow. comforting. he hums under his breath, content and quiet, letting his body relax against your leg.

“this okay?” he sighs, his lips tickling your skin as he grins on it.

you nod, resting your hand on his cheek. “yeah,” you smile. “more than okay.”

his lashes flutter as he closes his eyes again.

and there you sit, a half-finished vanity in the corner, a husband with sawdust on his arms and love in every touch, and a kiss still tingling on your lips like a promise that never gets old.

your heartbeat is still racing a little. his breaths are slower now. calm. heavy.

“i love you,” he says eventually, voice muffled and slept against your thigh.

you smile. bend forward and kiss the top of his head, “i know. i love you more.”

스루 ܃ uploading this from my college library .. chem i hate you 😞 feedbacks are very much appreciated !

#g: 13+#g: established relationship #g: fluff #warnings: kissing #warnings: skinship #type: oneshot #wc: 1k+#a: bywons #member: sru #artist: enhypen #m: jay

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kflixnet · 26 days ago

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New to KFLIXNET: Check out our member Mars's drabble!

hiii mars! can you please make a short drabble of woonhak comforting reader after they have a stressful day at work??😣😛

"too stressed to complain..."

! ! after a stressful day at work, woonhak's always here to comfort you

-> pairing: bf!woonhak x gn!reader

-> genre: fluff, established relationship, next-door neighbors au, slight grumpy x sunshine but barely

-> warnings: woonhak steals, reader's on the verge of tears, no actual description of what happened at work so just fill in your own experience

-> word count: 0.4k

(apart of the 200+ follower event)

═════════════════════════════════

The moment you didn't text a little ‘On my way! home’ before leaving work made Woonhak gain a feeling that something was wrong. The poor boy waited on the steps of his house waiting for your car to pull into the driveway of the house in front of his own. His mom watched from the window as Woonhak had his chin in his hands, staring off into the distance.

As you finally arrive home, a confused look grows on Woonhak's face instead of a smile as you head straight into your home without a glance to your lover waiting eagerly across the street. He turns to Sungho, who's tending to his garden next door, and the older male mouths ‘they're mad at you’ as a joke, but it causes Woonhak's expression to turn into a look of fright.

The boy jumps off the steps and grabs a bunch of blooming tulips from Sungho's garden, ignoring the yells from behind him as he runs across the street. His feet as fast as lightning to be able to reach your front door before you've even made it far within the house.

Woonhak's knocks on the door matches the beat of his heart pounding against his chest. He's ready to brace himself for your “rage” to come at him but once you open the door with tear-filled eyes, his shoulders drop and his arm with the tulips drop to his side.

“Oh, my darling.. What happened today? Was it me?” He says as he welcomes himself in your home. The flowers left on the front porch as his hands come to softly cradle your face as if you'd crack under pressure.

You lightly push his hands away from your face to pull him into an embrace. Woonhak feels your breath against his neck as you bury your head into the crevice. Mumbled words along the lines of ‘don't say anything’ reach his ears. He nods, and you feel a hand reach up to softly rub against your back, comforting you from the things he doesn't know.

“I'll say nothing. Don't have to worry about that, dear..” Woonhak leans his head over yours, he pulls you even tighter against him as his other arm wraps around your shoulders. “You don't even have to tell me anything that happened and I'll be here.”

“Woonhak.”

“Yes?”

“You're talking too much for someone who says he'd say nothing.”

“Oops sorry..”

mars notes: i had to wait for a bad day at work to think of how i would want to be comforted

masterlist

☆★☆ perm taglist: @loonaluvz , @sanasour, @boomhoon

★☆★ network/s: @kflixnet

#g: 13+#g: established relationship #g: hurt/comfort #g: fluff #g: neighbors au #warnings: none #type: drabble #wc: 400+#a: mars101 #member: mars #artist: boynextdoor #m: woonhak

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kflixnet · 26 days ago

Text

New to KFLIXNET: Check out our member Aylin's oneshot!

.｡.:*☆ caesura - taesan.

⋆｡°✩ pairing bsf!bad boy!taesan x gn!reader wc 1.620k tw descriptions of blood and injuries genre fluff, angst, best friends to almost lovers (?), pining, taesan is down bad, taesan has an epiphany author's note a very very long overdue homage to red hair inspired bad boy!taesan... even though no mention of his red hair appears in the fic LOL anyway enjoy and happy reading <3

⋆˙⟡ synopsis in the dark of night, taesan will always seek refuge in his home: you.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ reblogs + feedback very much appreciated! ^^

[the white space, the caesura, the way my wanting breathes through just so – you taught me that.]

— how do you tell someone you’ve written a poem about them? [natalie lim]

head pounding, bones aching, taesan drags himself to your front door.

when he blinks, he doesn’t know how he got here. nor does he remember how exactly the night’s events went down. he doesn’t even remember who threw the first punch - all he remembers is the need to strike, to give the other guys a taste of their own medicine they were so stupidly proud of. a flurry of knuckles against muscle and torn skin and blood amidst deepening bruises and smarting hands. then he’s fleeing, running, stumbling, crawling his way back to safety.

time and time again, safety lies just on the opposite side of your door.

he lifts his hand to knock, but even the slightest press of the back of his hand against the painted wood has him wincing. so he just leaves his hand there, raised in the hopes that somehow, you’ll get his message, sense him floundering in an ocean deep, reaching for your arms.

always, always, you grab on.

the door swings back moments later, your hand braced against the doorknob like you were expecting the worst. and then your eyes meet his, and you exhale, your shoulders relaxing in relief. for a moment, there’s silence. your eyes roam across his features, taking in the extent of his injuries - and he just watches you. then you step back, beckoning him inside with a nod of your head. he walks inside, feet following the familiar path towards your bathroom. he leans against the wall as you open cabinets to pull out a first aid kit.

“sit,” you say quietly, gesturing to the rim of the bathtub, and he complies, settling against it with bloody hands. you’re quiet as you rummage through the supplies, but he can hear what you’ll say next perfectly in his mind. “where this time?”

“it hurts to breathe,” he mumbles, watching your hands still over a set of bandages. “maybe a cracked rib or two. they came at my-”

your hand raises in the air, and he pauses. “don’t,” you say. you glance over at him, and taesan notes the weariness in your voice, the creases of worry in your forehead. somehow, he can’t remember if you’d always worn that kind of expression whenever he came to you in the dead of night. “don’t tell me.” you turn back, sighing. “i don’t know why i ask when it’s all the same, in the end.”

somehow, those words hurt more than the punches he’d had to fight off just a short while ago.

he looks up at you when you bring the first aid kit over to where he’s sitting, placing the box down next to him while you grab a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and a cotton ball. “it’ll sting a bit,” you murmur, and suddenly he’s glad you go through the mundane with him every time, without fail. then he’s wincing as you press the damp cotton to the scrapes and cuts littered across his hands, and you’re whispering apologies for hurting him even more, and the air is warm and cozy, even in your bathroom of all places.

“it’s okay,” he grits out as you wipe his knuckles clean. the gentle hold of your fingers around his own has his heart pounding, and dimly, as you peel off the protective wrapping on a bandage and press it lightly to his skin, he wonders what it would be like to hold your hand for real. out on a walk, or seated across from you at a table outside that cafe you loved. maybe he’d take your hand like you so often did when cleaning his scraped knuckles, give you a twirl like you so often got excited at seeing in the dramas you watched.

maybe if things weren’t like this.

“taesan?”

when he looks up at you, you’re staring back at him. when did you stop tending to his hands? “s-sorry,” he mumbles, heat rushing to his cheeks. “got… got distracted.”

you say nothing, turning back to the first aid kit. “take off your jacket.”

he does as you ask.

you bring over more bandages, rubbing more disinfectant over the bruises swelling purple on his arms. you push up the thin fabric of his shirt, and taesan’s breath hitches at your sudden motion. you glance up, leveling him with an expression he has no choice but to look away from.

“taesan?”

“hm?”

“can i ask you something?”

“sure.”

you swallow, and taesan catalogues the way you inhale: slow, shaky, hesitant.

“stop all of this.”

he looks back at you, at your red eyes welling up with tears, and a pain fractures through his chest more painful than any hit he’s ever taken. “y/n-”

“i can’t do this anymore, taesan.” you’re shaking, all of a sudden; you’re shaking and taesan doesn’t know what to do because in all of the time he’s known you, you’ve been a pillar of strength, his safe space, his refuge that could weather any storm. but what can he do when the very foundations are trembling?

“i- every time,” you sob, your tears spilling over your cheeks, pulling away from taesan and wrapping your arms around yourself. “every time i hear a knock on my door at unholy hours, i fear the worst. news that you’ve been hurt beyond belief, beyond- beyond repair, even- and they’ve taken you to a hospital- or even worse- and i can’t- i can’t-” you gasp for air in between your choked phrases. “i can’t be there to help you.”

“y/n,” taesan whispers softly, because he has no idea what else to say. all he knows is how to call out to his home. even now, as the walls crumble, he calls out for you.

always, always, you respond.

gingerly, he stands up, and you let him maneuver your shaking body into his embrace, let him wrap his arms around your waist and pat your back gently. you curl into his chest, pressing lightly against him in a way that lets taesan know that even in the midst of your breakdown, you don’t want to put pressure on his injuries. it tears at him, seeing you remember even when you shouldn’t have to. it breaks him, seeing how you’re suffering for him.

“don’t cry,” he tries to soothe you. “it- it’s okay. i’m here right now, aren’t i?”

somehow, that only has you crying harder. “that- that’s what i think every time. you’re here now. but will you be here next time? what if this is the last?”

searing hot pain settles in taesan’s throat. he doesn’t have an answer to that. so he just pulls you in closer.

it takes a few moments before your tears start to subside, and you pull away from him, clearing your throat. taesan cups your face in his hands, brushing his thumbs over your wet cheeks and feeling the way your skin heats up slightly at his touch. you meet his gaze, your eyes wide and shining, and taesan’s heart stutters.

you’ve never looked prettier.

gently, he moves a few strands of your hair away from your pretty eyes. “y/n,” he says softly. “my y/n. i’m sorry.”

you inhale a bit, an intake of breath so slight taesan would never have known had he not always spent his nights at your place listening to to your steady breathing, every time he showed up to get his wounds patched and you refused to send him back out into the world without a chance at proper rest and nourishment. every time, he refused for the fun of it. every time, you huffed and your cheeks puffed up in that adorable way of yours and-

oh.

oh, god.

taesan watches as your gaze flits over his reddening ears, unable to move as the realization crashes over him in waves. each piece falls into place so cleanly in the map of his mind, in the maze of his heart.

he loves you. simple as that.

why has it taken him so long to realize?

you, who is his refuge in a storm. you, who takes care of his wounds, bloody or otherwise. you, who he would endure a thousand more beatings for if it meant getting to come back home to your arms.

“okay,” he says. “i’ll stop.”

you look up at him, eyes widening in surprise. “just- just like that?”

“what?”

“i- you- i don’t know. i expected you to fight back.”

at this, he grins. “i fought other people because i had to. i’m not fighting you.”

you flush, and taesan has to fight the urge to kiss your cheeks. “w-well,” you start, “then promise me.” you hold up your hand, pinky finger extended. he smiles and links your pinkies, pressing the pad of his thumb to yours. you let out a breath, giving him a soft smile, and taesan can feel himself falling all over again.

what would it take to be yours, forever and always?

perhaps, he thinks as you pack away all the first aid supplies and lead him out of your bathroom by the hand, it means letting himself go. he doesn’t have to fight so hard anymore, if it means you’ll be there to protect him. he grips your hand tighter, shaking his head when you turn back and look at him quizzically.

“what is it?” you ask softly, in that quiet way of yours that lets him know you’re always listening. and right now, he couldn’t ask for anything more.

“nothing,” he smiles, pinching your cheek. “hurry up and make some ramen. i’m starving for your cooking.”

he doesn’t have to go searching for his caesura whenever he’s in pain anymore. he can stay with his peace, forever.

[caesura, [n.]: (in greek and latin verse) a break between words or phrases within a metrical foot.]

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ want to check out the planetarium's other exhibits?

#g: 13+#g: bad boy au #g: best friends to lovers #g: angst #g: fluff #g: mutual pining #warnings: mentions of blood #warnings: injuries #type: oneshot #wc: 1k+#a: starriniqhts #member: aylin #artist: boynextdoor #m: taesan

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kflixnet · 26 days ago

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New to KFLIXNET: Check out our member Calli's fic!

CHASING THE FRONT PT.2

pairing: mercedes driver!joshua x fem!reader

genre: fluff, angst, f1au

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, mentions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, slowburn (i cannot stress on this enough), quite f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 [21k] Part 2 [15k] Part 3 [21k]

glossary taglist

UNITED KINGDOM, SILVERSTONE CIRCUIT

Monday, Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 HQ June 30th

You weren’t planning to stay. You really weren’t. You came to drop off a set of updated tire degradation charts from Austria and to ask a quick question about travel logistics. Doyoung was supposed to be here—you assumed he would be. But when you swipe your badge and push the door open, there’s only one person in the sim.

Joshua.

He doesn’t notice you at first, the headset on, hands locked around the wheel, body taut with focus as the simulated Silverstone track scrolls in rapid blurs on the triple screens. His voice is low through the speakers as he talks to the engineer running the session: “I think it’s a bit too aggressive in Maggots, no? I’m overshooting the entry.” A pause. “I’ll go at it again in a while and fix that.”

You step back, quietly considering whether to leave the folder on a nearby desk. You should. But then the simulation ends, and Joshua exhales—sharply, like he’s been holding his breath the whole lap—and glances over his shoulder.

His expression shifts the second he sees you. Not entirely surprised, yet also looking slightly pleased. He shoots you a smile as you walk up to the simulator, which is basically the front half of the car with three screens attached to it.

You raise the folder a little. “Didn’t think you’d be here this early on a Monday.”

“I’ve been here since seven,” he says, pulling off his gloves. “Wanted to run it once again before the updates came in.”

That tracks. The team had mentioned he was pushing for every extra session they could schedule this week. You just didn’t expect to find him alone in the sim, sleeves rolled up, focus razor-sharp before most of the building had even finished their coffee.

“I thought Doyoung was running this slot.”

“He was.” Joshua almost grins. “He overslept.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Kinda? He’s in someone’s office, I think… Probably sleeping. He was here before I came.”

Scoffing, you shake your head. “Bless the soul that had to open up the building for him.”

Joshua climbs out of the sim, albeit a bit awkwardly—limbs stretching and reaching for the ground blindly before he grabs the water bottle on the couch next to the sim. “You can sit down, you know? Were you looking for Doyoung?”

“He’d asked for tire data yesterday. Maybe he should’ve just asked for sleep instead…” You trail off as you plop onto the couch with a sigh.

Joshua smiles into the mouth of his water bottle. “So?” he asks after a few seconds of silence. “Are you staying?”

You tilt your head. “You want me to?”

He looks at you then, holding your gaze as he shrugs. “I don’t mind. You’re quiet and nice company.”

You huff a short laugh. “You’re easy to please.”

“Not really,” he says, and the way he says it—offhand, but without joking—makes you look away, training your eyes back onto the sim.

He twists the cap back onto his bottle, sets it aside, and sits down on the other end of the couch. You lean back, arms folded across your stomach. “You didn’t have to be in here this early, you know. Doyoung’s just a bit clinically insane.”

“I know. It’s alright, I want to do well this weekend.”

You glance at him. “Trying to impress the team, eh?”

Joshua’s mouth twitches as he shrugs. “Maybe. But I don’t think it’s about impressing them, exactly.”

“Then what’s it about?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Not evasive, just weighing his words like he always does in front of the media.

“Silverstone’s different.” He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed somewhere ahead. “It’s a statement. Everyone watches. Everyone remembers. And if it goes well—” He exhales a laugh, soft and almost bitter. “If it goes well, maybe it buys me a little more room.”

“Room for what?” You ask, slightly hesitant, but softly anyway.

“To leave my mark, I guess.” Joshua shrugs again—in a way that makes it seem like he’s just saying something. But you know of the feeling, so you understand.

You study his face for a second. The line of his jaw, the furrow just beginning between his brows. He’s unfairly good-looking in a way that sneaks up on you. The longer you look, the more you notice—clean lines, high cheekbones, that slightly serious mouth that rarely curves into a full smile but always looks like it could. He’s not the loud kind of attractive. He’s the kind you notice once, then keep noticing, against your better judgment.

And once you have, it’s hard not to look again.

You glance away, back at the sim screen before he can notice you staring. “You will. If you haven’t already.”

He’s quiet at that. Not in disagreement, but instead just letting the words settle. Letting them mean something.

Then, a few seconds later, he says, “You always sound so sure.”

“I have to be. You don’t know just how self-deprecating Doyoung was in his earlier years. I’m used to it… So trust me when I say you’ll be fine.” You nod before a small smile spreads onto your lips when you see his split into a grin.

You weren’t trying to make him feel better. Not exactly. But now that he’s smiling like that, you’re glad you stayed.

“He’d kill me for telling you that,” you add.

“I’ll keep it in the vault,” Joshua says, eyes still bright. “Scout’s honour.”

“You were a scout?”

“No. But I’m clearly a very trustworthy liar.”

You shake your head, glancing at the time before sighing. “I should probably find your very self-deprecating teammate before he decides to rage quit today’s meetings.”

“The only bad thing about Silverstone, honestly.” Joshua agrees. “Sucks that we need to come to the office even during a race week. Bet Ferrari and VCARB are having it nice and easy.” He rolls his eyes, getting up with a huff.

“Oh!” You exclaim as you follow his actions. “Did you RSVP for tomorrow’s team dinner, by the way?”

By the way he slowly turns to you, a confused look on his face, you know he hasn’t. In fact, you realise he may not even know about it.

“The invitation,” you say the words slowly like you’re explaining it to a child, “is in your email, Joshua. The thing the team always does before Silverstone?”

His lips part in a silent ah!

“I’ve heard of it before I joined. Haven’t checked my email yet, but thanks for reminding me.”

You wave him off before tapping on the file report you’ve left behind. “I’ll let this be here for when Doyoung reaches, but feel free to go through it if you want as well. I fear that if I take this out and give it to him outside, he’s going to lose it.”

He nods, throwing a thumbs-up at you before leaning down to reach for the file.

“By the way,” he adds as he flips through the pages, “how many people are going to be there?”

You open your mouth to answer, but pause to think again. “They always book the entire restaurant. So you can imagine.”

And then you eye him suspiciously. “Joshua, I would suggest attending it. You’ll have fun and make a good impression on the team that doesn’t travel around with us.”

“Well, aren’t you looking out a bit too much for someone who’s your brother’s rival?” Joshua jokes, tilting his head sideways before reassuring you. “I’ll come, don’t worry. I just might end up sticking to you or Doyoung the entire night.”

You raise your eyebrows, slightly surprised at the insinuation that he may feel comfortable with you. “Oh, so I’m your friend now?”

Joshua hums, pretending to think it over as he taps the file against his palm. “Well, I don’t actively dislike you.”

You scoff. “Wow. High praise.”

He flashes a grin, quick and a little crooked.

You look at him for a moment longer than you probably should, then nod toward the door. “Go get breakfast or something. Doyoung’s going to need that file in thirty minutes.”

He doesn’t say anything more and waves you off, as if to say ‘later’. He lifts the file a little, like a silent goodbye, and turns back to climb back into the simulator

You don’t linger after that, but as you walk away, you can’t help the way the corners of your mouth tug upward, slow and slightly restrained. But maybe a little inevitable.

—

Tuesday July 1st

The restaurant is loud.

Not obnoxiously, but in the way that only happens when a place is booked out entirely by a team that’s been running on adrenaline and excitement for half a week. Laughter spills across tables, overlapping conversations rise and fall, and somewhere near the bar, one of the engineering teams has already begun taking shots.

You’re tucked at the far end of the room with your usuals—Matt from logistics, Vivian from marketing, and some of the younger engineers who always end up at this table during team dinners.

Your table is louder than the others. Someone’s turned the wine bottle into a microphone for the game of Heads Up that’s ongoing at the end of the table. Someone else is loudly defending pineapple on pizza. Across from you, Leila leans in mid-gossip, voice dropped to a whisper. Plates have started arriving, and the bread’s already half gone. Wine glasses are at varying levels of fullness.

People stop by with drinks, sit down just for a second and forget to leave. There’s a plate of fries in the centre you’re all sharing, a WhatsApp group being updated live with blurry pictures, and someone’s passing around the photo album consisting of everything ever clicked at this dinner over the years.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, nudging Vivian to show her something, “you look nineteen in this photo, what the hell?”

She snatches it from your hands with a sharp laugh, inspecting it. “Wait… which year is this from? God, that shirt Matt is wearing is hideous.”

He lets out a loud, offended noise before reaching for the last fry—in reply to which she slaps his hand away with a click of her tongue.

Joshua’s table is less fun.

Not intentionally, but instead just by the nature of who’s sitting at it. A couple of senior engineers. Some technical directors. There’s polite conversation, a bit of laughter here and there, but it’s more “networking with a side of dinner”.

He listens more than he talks and answers when spoken to. Laughs at the right cues and swirls the wine in his glass out of habit, but doesn’t drink much anyway. Occasionally, he glances around the restaurant, eyes following people as they move between tables, trying to spot familiar faces.

Doyoung is three tables away, deep in conversation with someone from his crew.

You aren’t with him.

Joshua’s brows furrow slightly. He thought maybe you’d be at the same table, the way you always are when it’s something official. But looking at every table except his, he realises that this isn't that serious and official in the first place.

Then he sees you, head thrown back laughing, eyes crinkled, someone leaning into your side to whisper something in your ear.

That’s your table?

Of course it is. The fun table. He should’ve guessed.

Joshua does move—eventually. He slides out of his chair after another round of safe, polite conversation and a round of shared nods about "long weeks ahead." No one stops him.

The next table he lands at is younger. Two engineers who started this season, someone from data analysis, and a power unit guy who talks a little too fast. They make room, hand him another glass of wine, and launch into a story about something that happened during team testing in Barcelona last year.

They’re nice and easy to smile along to. Joshua even chimes in once, adds a dry comment that gets a few laughs. But about ten minutes in, he feels it again—that vague itch beneath his skin. He doesn’t want to stay still.

Doyoung’s table is closer to the middle of the room—maybe busier and livelier than the last. A mix of performance crew, strategy, and a couple of mechanics he recognises from the paddock. Doyoung looks up just as Joshua hovers by the side.

“Look who decided to socialise,” Doyoung says, mouth twitching.

Joshua lifts a hand in mock salute. “I’ve made it, after much struggle.”

“Come on.” Doyoung nudges the guy next to him and makes space without asking. “We’re talking about last year’s dinner where—” he pauses, craning his neck to look for someone before pointing at someone near the bar “—he got so drunk, he video-called us after getting home and shaved his entire head.”

Joshua slides into the empty chair, unable to hold in the laugh that bubbles at the information. “That bold, huh?”

He stays for a while. Doyoung doesn’t say much to him directly after the first welcome, but his presence is warm and comfortable in the way longtime teammates—he thinks, with slight surprise— sometimes are.

Still, the longer Joshua sits there, the more he finds his eyes drifting.

It’s not hard to find you again.

Your table is near the windows, half hidden behind a row of decorative ferns from where he’s standing. You’re leaning halfway across the table, seeming to be playfully arguing with the woman next to you. His eyes widen as they flick to the other end of the table, having to stop himself from laughing at the game of… dumb charades that goes on.

There’s a moment—or maybe he just imagines it—where you catch his eye across the restaurant.

Then someone beside you nudges your arm, and you turn away again, grinning.

Joshua excuses himself a few minutes later. Says something about needing air.

He detours to the bar, gets himself a drink, and watches the restaurant shift and swirl around him. Low music, silver cutlery glinting, and voices blending into a warm buzz.

And then—finally—he walks toward you.

You notice him just as he pulls the chair out. He doesn’t say anything at first, but Joshua moves like someone who knows he won’t be turned away. His shoulder dips as he slides in, the quiet scrape of the chair legs nearly drowned out by the overlapping conversations around you.

You blink, turning slightly. Vivian pauses her speech about roast dinner.

“Didn’t mean to crash the party.”

You glance at the seat he’s taken, then back at him. “There’s no such thing as crashing into somewhere tonight, don’t worry.”

“I figured.” He glances down the length of the table, watching someone dramatically reenact a pit stop mishap using cutlery and a breadstick. “You’re all louder than half the paddock combined.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you shoot back.

He chuckles, tilting his head. “It’s not.”

Conversation folds back around you almost instantly—someone across the table throws Joshua a question about favourite circuits, someone else swears the best meals in the paddock are in Canada, and Matt waves him off while insisting that it’s only because they were drunk after the race. Joshua joins in easily.

You watch him for a moment while he leans in to hear someone recount a half-failed karting prank. He laughs when the punchline hits, hand covering his mouth before it falls back to the table. His elbow bumps yours. He doesn’t move it.

“Ah, shit.”

It’s loud enough to make you both turn. The guy who’d been sitting in that chair—one of the marketing staff—has returned with a small mountain of tiramisu. He pauses when he sees Joshua, blinks once, then grins.

“Man, I was sitting here, but if I’d known you were keeping it warm, I’d have brought you dessert too.”

Joshua starts to shift. “Sorry—I didn’t realise—”

“No, no, it’s fine.” The guy waves a fork dismissively. “You’re good. I was about to head over to the marketing table anyway. Just don’t let her convince you into doing something embarrassing. She’s good at it, and it almost always gets captured and put into the album.” He points the piece of cutlery at you.

Joshua glances at you, lips curving up. “Thanks for the warning, I’ll keep it in mind.”

The man pats him on the shoulder before moving on. Joshua turns back to you again. “Didn’t know you had a slight trouble-maker reputation around here.”

You smirk. “I don’t. I’m very respectable. People just like to slander me when I’m not in the room.”

“You were in the room,” Joshua points out, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Exactly,” you say, “and he still risked it. Which tells you how many times I’ve gotten people into—quote—‘album-worthy’ situations.”

Joshua chuckles under his breath. With how relaxed you seem, he can’t help but wonder if you’re a little drunk. “I’ll admit, the album does scare me a little.”

“Good. It should. You’ll be in it by the end of the night.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that a threat?”

“Just a fact. And besides, you’re new and everyone’s gotta be in it, at least once. They’ll probably call you and Doyoung for a pic later on.”

Vivian, who’d left for the bar sometime between you turning to Joshua and the arrival of the tiramisu man, slides back into the seat beside you now.

“God, I just had a shot with someone from your brother’s engineering team, and it is going straight to my head. Did I miss anything?”

You both shake your heads, making her eye you guys suspiciously before she speaks up again, this time directed at Joshua.

“Your first team dinner! How are you faring?”

“Good, good.” Joshua nods, smiling slightly before offering his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Joshua.”

She laughs out loud before shaking his hand. “I know. I’m Vivian.”

He only shrugs a bit sheepishly.

Vivian waves a hand as she points a painted finger at your glass. “Hey, is this water?” At your nod, she takes it out of your hand and sips once before turning to Joshua again. “Don’t worry. The polite driver routine is still charming—for now.”

He smirks, shoulders loosening as he leans a little closer to the table. “Glad I’m still passable.”

“Oh, you’re doing fine,” she says breezily, before glancing between the two of you. “You guys seem close.”

You blink. “What?”

Vivian grins, tipping her chin toward Joshua. “I mean, I leave for ten minutes and come back to find you two deep in conversation, sitting like old friends.” Her eyes glint. “Fraternising with the rival, I see. Scandalous.”

You snort, pushing her face away. “Please.”

But you don’t pull away from the idea, either. You just say it lightly, not flustered—like you’re used to this kind of teasing and don’t take it seriously.

Still, Joshua looks at you.

Not in any obvious way—just a slight turn of his head, his eyes latching onto your face, like he’s registering something. Not the joke itself, but your reaction to it. The way you didn’t laugh it off too quickly or push back too hard. You didn’t deny it. You didn’t say “we’re not friends.”

You just let it sit.

Like maybe you wouldn’t mind if it were true. Joshua finds himself thinking he doesn’t mind it either. The thought settles somewhere low between his ribs, quiet and a little unexpected.

“Anyway,” Vivian says, pulling her hair over one shoulder, oblivious to the moment, “don’t let me stop the bonding. I’m off to cause minor chaos near the dessert station.”

You give her a lazy wave. “Tell them I want another spoon if they bring out the cheesecake again.”

“Noted.”

She’s gone a second later, swallowed up by the warm blur of voices and movement.

Joshua drums his fingers on the table in a rhythmic movement that you unintentionally end up paying attention to. Maybe he’s looking away, at the others, or maybe he notices and doesn’t say anything for a few moments.

When he speaks again, your eyes shoot back up. “So you do admit that I’ve become your friend.”

You blink once, then let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “That’s what you got from all of that?”

“You didn’t deny it.”

You pretend to consider it, even leaning your cheek into your hand. “You want a medal or something?”

“I’ll settle for a thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being excellent company.” He says it in a mock-formal tone, but his eyes are warm, and a little curious around the edges.

You narrow your gaze slightly, the corners of your mouth twitching. “Joshua, you’re the one who came to this table.”

“True,” he admits. “But I stayed.”

He’s quick with words tonight—not just clever, but comfortable. Comfortable with you, you realise, and the thought lands in your chest the same way it landed in his earlier: quiet, a little surprising, and not unwelcome.

The conversation pauses there—not awkwardly, just long enough for both of you to feel it.

Then, mercifully, someone from the head of the table calls out for a group photo. “Wait! Can everyone please gather in one place? We can take the photo now.”

Someone offhandedly remarks that they should capture this before people start leaving, and it sparks the usual chorus of mild complaints and cooperative movement that follows any team gathering trying to preserve a memory.

You reach for your glass, half-listening as napkins and plates are pushed aside and chairs are nudged closer. Joshua is still seated beside you, elbow on the table, fingers resting gently against the curve of the wine glass he’s been handed, until someone gestures at him from the front.

“Hey Josh, can you scoot in just a little? You’re almost out of frame.”

He shifts without comment, sliding his chair a few inches closer in your direction, just enough that his shoulder is squished against yours, unremarkable in the chaos of people leaning in, standing half-out of their chairs, and pulling others into frame.

No one seems to notice. The camera is raised without ceremony—in the way that photos are often taken here, candid and in the moment.

You’re vaguely aware of Joshua’s knee against yours under the table—light, and not pressing but there—and for a second, your hand tenses slightly around your glass before you relax again, willing yourself not to react, not to think too hard about proximity and timing and how Joshua always seems to smell like sandalwood and roses.

A few flashes go off. There’s laughter. Someone cheers. Another demands to see the photo and immediately criticizes their face. The moment disperses as quickly as it formed, and people begin to pull apart again, some leaving for the bar, others sinking back into conversation like nothing happened.

But Joshua doesn’t move right away.

He leans back only slightly, his shoulder still slightly hunched, head turned in your direction without fully facing you.

“Have they ever done this kind of thing mid-season before?” he asks, not entirely out of nowhere, but enough to make it clear he’s thinking aloud. “The dinner, I mean. Or is it just a Silverstone thing?”

You pause for a second, then shake your head. “Just Silverstone. Sometimes Abu Dhabi, depending on how the mood is by the end of the year. But that one’s more formal and obviously has less people. The end-of-season dinner always feels like a send-off. This is more like…” You trail off for a second, looking around. “A checkpoint or a break, maybe.”

He nods. “That makes sense. Everyone’s more relaxed than I expected.”

“They’ll regret it tomorrow when the schedule hits. Also why this is always on a Monday or Tuesday. If you get drunk on Wednesday night…” You trail off with a shudder.

“Media day.” Joshua huffs out a laugh.

“So fucked.” You nod.

“I think I’m still trying to figure out who half the people are. I’ve seen them at the factory, but it’s different seeing them out like this.”

“It’s easier here,” you say. “No radios, no laptops, no meetings crammed into ten-minute windows. You can talk to someone without needing to be somewhere else in three minutes.”

He lets out a low hum of agreement. “It’s nice. I forget how big the team really is until things like this.”

You open your mouth to respond, but a voice cuts in before you can.

“Why are you two hanging out without me?”

Doyoung’s voice comes from behind you—louder than it needs to be, more dramatic than he is most of the time, and unmistakably laced with enough drinks to stop filtering his thoughts. A moment later, his arm drops lazily across both of your shoulders.

Joshua stiffens a little beside you, glancing at you with an expression somewhere between amused and confused.

“Didn’t know we were under supervision,” you say, not bothering to lean away from Doyoung’s hold. “You went missing, remember?”

He ignores that. “I turn around for one second, and suddenly my sister’s bonding with my teammate. I feel betrayed.”

“In her defence, your sister was sitting here first,” Joshua offers.

Doyoung hums like he’s considering it. “Right. Sure. Okay.”

You roll your eyes and reach up to pat his arm. “Relax. We’re not plotting against you.”

“Yet,” Joshua adds, without looking at either of you.

That earns him a sharp look from your brother before he lets out a soft laugh and claps him on the back, a bit harder than necessary. “If you are, I’ll find out. She’s not good at keeping secrets—from me, at least.”

“Noted,” Joshua replies coolly.

Doyoung straightens up then, arms falling away as he scans the table for something—someone—else to redirect his attention to. The sharp edge in him dulls almost as quickly as it surfaced. “I need a drink,” he mutters, mostly to himself, and with barely another glance at either of you, he steps away, already distracted by someone calling his name near the bar.

You both watch him go. Joshua exhales softly.

“Only halfway through and the season’s already taken a toll on him, huh?”

That’s the last thing you expect to hear from him after whatever…that was, so it elicits a loud laugh out of your throat. You press a hand over your mouth like that might soften it somehow, but it doesn’t help. Joshua’s eyes stay on you, and when your laughter finally fades, there’s something like a grin ghosting his lips, like the timing of your reaction amused him more than the joke itself.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.” You rub a palm over your face, trying to hide your smile. “He’s fine. He just takes things a little personally sometimes. And drinks like he’s not trying to race in four days.”

Joshua nods multiple times, like he’s trying to convince you that he’s convinced, before he looks away, observing as some people start to trickle out of the restaurants with goodbyes that last longer than they should for groups that are bound to see each other every day anyway.

You glance down at your phone, then back at the room.

“I should go find him,” you say after a few seconds, pushing your chair back with a soft scrape.

Joshua turns to you. “Of course.”

You get up, brushing imaginary crumbs off your dress as you step back. “Need to make sure he’s sober enough to get him into the car in one piece. How are you going home?”

“Minghao’s driving me. He doesn’t really drink. You?” He asks, looking up at you.

“Doyoung’s trainer. He doesn’t either.” You smile, standing a bit awkwardly before pointing towards the bar behind your back. “Well, then. I’ll get going. Good night, Josh.”

He brings two fingers up in a salute. “Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

—

Friday, Post FP2 July 4th

The downpour starts just as you leave the hospitality. Not heavy, but a constant drizzle that does more to bring you comfort than worry, unlike rain usually does during race weekends. It’s Silverstone, and if there’s anything special about it, it’s the rain that’s bound to arrive.

You’re halfway down the stairs when you hear quickening footsteps behind you. A glance over your shoulder tells you it’s Joshua—jacket zipped, hair already damp from a shower. His pace slows when he sees you, though he doesn’t stop.

“No umbrella?” you ask, mostly out of habit.

He shakes his head. “Didn’t think I’d need one between FP2 and the lot.”

You tilt yours in his direction, a silent offering. He steps in without hesitation, keeping just enough space between you that it doesn’t feel like more than it is. Still, you notice how much quieter it gets under the umbrella, how the rain dims into soft pattering above your heads.

“Do you want me to hold it?” Joshua says, awkwardly jostling his shoulder without trying to get too close to you.

“If you’re getting wet, then sure.” You mumble. “You are taller.”

He nods and takes it from your slightly damp fingers before holding it a bit higher.

The walkway curves slightly, puddles forming in the dips. A small group of Haas employees passes, going the other direction.

“How were your sessions?”

Joshua exhales. “The wind in Sector 1 was killing me.”

You nod. “You weren’t the only one. Doyoung said the same.”

Joshua gives a small, dry laugh. “Then I feel marginally less bad about it.”

You pass a row of team cars, most still locked and glistening with a thin sheen of rain. The umbrella shifts slightly in his hand, correcting the angle to shield you better.

“He said you two were trying slightly different setups,” you add.

“Yeah,” Joshua nods. “Mine was more trimmed out, so I was skimming across the track in Sector 1 like a paper plane. Not fun.”

You huff. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Didn’t crash, though,” he mutters, almost to himself, like that’s the only win worth taking.

“You finished the session with clean laps and decent data,” you say. “I’d call that a net gain.”

“Maybe.” He glances down at the pavement, boots splashing lightly through a shallow puddle.

“Honestly,” Joshua adds after a few seconds, voice heavy with something you can’t place. “Haven’t even admitted this to anyone yet, but I don’t feel like this weekend’s going to be great.”

You turn to look at him, lips parting in confusion. He doesn’t look like he’s joking. His brows are knitted together, teeth biting on his lower lip as he looks ahead, concentratedly thinking about something.

“Like, I know that essentially this is the most important weekend for the team and we’ve topped the practice charts today,” He continues, “but I think the others are hiding some serious pace and we’re going in with high expectations but I feel like I’m already ready to be disappointed.”

You slow slightly, boots hitting the concrete with less urgency.

He’s not looking at you. His voice isn’t self-pitying or dramatic, just honest and familiar in a way you wish it wasn’t. Like someone trying to say it out loud before it can weigh him down further. He looks like he’s already imagining the fallout of something that hasn’t happened yet.

And strangely, maybe a bit guiltily as well, your first thought isn’t even about him. If Joshua, composed and methodical and usually not this forthcoming, is feeling it this sharply… then Doyoung is probably feeling it too. Maybe worse. You’ll have to check in later, ask the right questions, and try not to crowd him.

But for now, you stay where you are.

“Okay,” you say eventually. “Then maybe it won’t be.”

He looks at you, startled.

You go on, “It might be a rough weekend. It happens. You’ve had good ones, and you’ll have more.”

“And besides,” you add, a little more lightly, “it’s not the end of the world if one home race goes bad. The team’s not going to hate you, nor are they going to weep over it forever. Don’t worry, and just give it your best.”

Joshua exhales quietly, glancing away for a moment. You’ve come to a stop in front of his car, a sleek, silvery-grey AMG GT63. It’s the kind of car that fits him more than you realised at first: understated but commanding, elegant with just enough edge. You’re not surprised this is what he drives.

“Right,” he says finally, nodding, but still not completely convinced. “Thanks.”

You give him a soft shrug before hesitantly patting his shoulder. “You’ll be alright. Go home, rest well.”

Joshua shoots you a smile, slightly forced—you can tell, but you don’t point it out. “Want me to walk you to your car?”

You wave him off, stepping back. “You’d just get wet by the time you got back. We’re already here, so just get in.”

He nods, his fingers already reaching for the handle. You stand there for a moment longer, watching him slip into the car but turn around as the door clicks shut, eyes landing on your car parked only a few spots away.

It’s quiet now. The drizzle has softened to a fine mist, the kind that clings to your sleeves and hair without you noticing until it’s already soaked in. You walk back slowly, distantly registering the sound of Joshua pulling out of his spot.

A part of you wants to reach for your phone, text Doyoung, check in—but you don’t.

He’s not coming back with you tonight anyway. Said he needed to stay behind, sort through some things with the engineers, and clear his head. You didn’t press. You never really do—not when he gets like this.

But you think about him now, slouched in some office chair with his foot tapping and eyes fixed on a screen. If Joshua’s already feeling the pressure, then Doyoung must be past the point of admitting it. He’ll bury it, you know. Turn it into motivation, like he always does. It’s what makes him good, but you of all people know that it’s also what makes him tired.

You unlock the car and slide into the driver’s seat, dropping your bag beside you. The door closes with a soft thud. For a second, you just sit there with your hands in your lap.

You’ll check on him tomorrow. You always do.

—

Sunday, Post race July 6th

“—they screwed me over. Don’t tell me they didn’t.”

Doyoung shoves the door open with his shoulder, storming into the room like he’s been holding it in since the chequered flag. You follow him in, silent but close behind, still holding your paddock pass in one hand, eyes on his back as he paces ahead of you like a lit fuse.

“I covered that undercut. I held track position. They told me we were locking down the 3-4 or the 4-5 that was bound to happen—fine, our pace was off, but they were supposed to lock it down. Not flip it mid-race and ask me to back off.”

He turns, throwing his hands out. “And don’t even start with the ‘strategy call’ bullshit. If they were going to pit him early, they should’ve told me to push. I had more.”

You say nothing. You’re used to this version of Doyoung—tight-jawed and sharp, teeth bared at the injustice of every wrong call. He’s not wrong, but there’s nowhere for the anger to land right now except with you, and maybe the walls.

“Why are we pretending we’re on the same page when they’re playing two different games?” he spits. “It’s not on him—I know it’s not him—but I’m so done pretending this isn’t happening.”

The door clicks open again.

You both look up.

Joshua’s standing in the doorway—changed into a black team hoodie and jeans, hair damp from the post-race shower, brows slightly lifted like he didn’t mean to overhear. He probably didn’t. This room is often quiet, tucked between the media pen and the briefing spaces. It’s not unreasonable that he’d come looking for stillness.

He freezes when he sees you both.

Doyoung’s face hardens—not out of hostility, but shock. Embarrassment, maybe, that someone other than family heard all that. For a moment, no one moves.

Then Doyoung exhales roughly and shakes his head.

“I’m not mad at you,” he mutters, like it’s physically difficult to get the words out, like they leave a bad taste behind. “I’m not.”

Joshua holds his gaze, then nods—just once, measured. “Alright. I know they fucked up the strategy. I was confused when they asked us to swap too.”

There’s no edge to his voice, unlike your brother’s. He answers simply, like he understands and like he’s felt it before—he probably has.

“They said it would maximise the team result,” Doyoung mutters. “They always say that.”

Joshua’s mouth twitches—not quite a smile, not quite bitterness. “And somehow it always means one of us gets screwed.”

You stay quiet. There’s nothing to add that won’t either make it worse or feel too late. You don’t defend the team. You don’t defend the result.

Doyoung finally nods. It’s not approval or forgiveness, not exactly. But it’s understanding. Shared ground, scorched though it may be.

A long silence stretches out before he speaks again.

“They better come up with something valid in the debrief,” he mutters. “Because I swear to God, if someone says ‘we’ll review the data’ again—”

“—I might walk out,” Joshua finishes, dryly.

That, at least, earns the faintest flicker of amusement from your brother. He eyes you once before sighing. “I’m going to go to my room and get my jacket before we go for the debrief. I’ll see you there, I guess.”

Joshua nods, and you can only quietly watch him leave, the door falling shut behind him with a soft, final click. The room feels quieter with just the two of you again, like something heavy has settled into the space Doyoung left behind.

Joshua doesn’t move for a second. His arms are still crossed, his jaw tight—not with anger anymore, just a quiet sort of exhaustion that clings to the skin after a race weekend like this one. It’s the kind of tiredness that isn’t fixed by sleep.

You know you don’t have to apologise for anything—not for what Doyoung’s said, which was valid even though he didn’t direct it towards Joshua and not for his behaviour. That’s his problem, and you know it. They’ll probably clear out the air a bit better in time. But you can’t help but feel a little guilty anyway.

You glance over at him. “You okay?”

He exhales loudly, nodding slowly. “Yeah.” Then after a second, “No, but I will be.”

He says it like he’s still trying to believe—like if he says it out loud enough times, it might become real. You hear the frustration tucked under the words, the lingering disappointment that hasn’t quite found its way out yet.

And maybe it’s not your place to fix that. But still, you stay.

“You don’t have to be fine right now,” you say, voice low. “It was a bad race. The strategy was a mess, and it played out in front of everyone. It’s okay to feel pissed off about it.”

Joshua doesn’t answer immediately. He just presses the heel of his palm into his eye, fingers dragging slowly down his face before letting his hand fall back to his side.

“Yeah, I know. I’m just dreading sitting through that meeting and going through all of it again.”

He exhales, tilting his head back like he’s bracing himself for it already before glancing over at you, eyes softer around the edges now. “Honestly? I should probably stop dumping all this on you. One driver’s mood swings are enough—both are just unfair.”

It’s said lightly, almost like a joke. The kind of thing people say with a grin so it doesn’t land too heavy. But you frown anyway, the corners of your lips dropping as you look back up at him.

“I don’t mind.” You point out. “We’re all a team anyway, Josh. Even if the two of you are essentially rivals, end of the day, it’s all down to the team. And besides,” You push his shoulder, a little playfully, trying to lighten the atmosphere, “you said we were friends now. I look out for my friends, just so you know.”

Joshua breathes out a small laugh. His posture eases, some of the tension bleeding out of his frame. “Right. Can’t argue with that.”

You both fall into silence again. Outside the room, there’s the faint echo of voices—probably a few crew members heading toward the meeting room already. The rest of the paddock has mostly gone quiet, the post-race chaos long since dulled into fatigue.

He checks his watch, then straightens up with a low sigh. “Guess I should head over.”

You nod, brushing a stray crease out of your shirt. “Yeah.”

Neither of you says much more as you shuffle out of the door, letting it shut softly behind you. You point in the direction of Doyoung’s room. “I’m going to be there, if Doyoung needs me. Do not team up and argue with your engineers too much, please.”

“Can’t promise, but we’ll try.” He nods, turning in the other direction to go to the meeting room.

You sigh once he’s out of sight, finally turning on your heel and heading toward your brother’s room.

HUNGARY, HUNGARORING

Tuesday July 28th

It’s been maybe forty minutes since takeoff. The hum of the engines has levelled out into something easy to ignore, and most of the lights are dimmed, soft yellow overheads flickering once in a while in every few rows. It’s quiet in the way only late flights can be—voices hushed, window shades drawn, trays cleared away. Every now and then, a flight attendant pads down the aisle softly, checking if anyone needs anything.

Joshua shifts in his seat, stretching his legs out slowly, arms crossed over his chest. The seat reclines farther than he needs it to, but he likes the comfort of leaning back anyway. He should sleep, probably—although he’ll have much more time to do so for the next two days. But instead, he finds his eyes drifting again.

The partition on your side is down, and you're asleep.

Or close to it, at least. Slumped into the headrest of your seat, hoodie bunched up near your jaw, arms loosely crossed, book half-open on your lap like you'd meant to finish the page but lost the battle somewhere along the way. There's a faint crease between your brows.

When you’d first sat down—after blinking down at your boarding pass, then at the seat numbers again, a little surprised—you’d looked between him and Doyoung with a wry expression. “Wow. Stuck between both of you. May the Lord give me strength.”

Doyoung had just shrugged and tossed his headphones on, clearly planning to ignore both of you for the duration of the flight.

Joshua had smiled, made some dry remark back—he can’t even remember what it was now—and you’d laughed before cramming your bag into the overhead bin and slumping into the seat beside him like the last few hours had wrung you dry.

He shifts again, subtly and just enough to lean into the headrest in a way that lets him look at you without really looking. He tells himself it's nothing. That he’s just passing time. Something to rest his eyes on while his thoughts circle the weekend ahead. FP1, FP2, qualifying.

And yet.

His gaze dips again, to the curve of your jaw, the way your fingers twitch every so often—like you’re dreaming lightly, like something in your mind still won’t switch off even though your body already has.

It’s not the first time he’s seen you asleep. There’ve been early call times, long post-race flights, and countless weekends blurred together. But this feels different. Or maybe he’s just noticing it differently now.

You shift slightly, and for a second, Joshua stills, gaze darting back to the aisle. Like he’s been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. But you don’t stir further. You just tuck your face deeper into the corner of the seat.

He exhales slowly. This is stupid.

Not the situation—just the sudden awareness. He doesn’t know where it came from. Maybe it’s the quiet, or the fact that you’re not buzzing with energy or banter or agenda, like you usually are when he sees you. Or maybe it’s just that there’s nowhere else for his mind to go tonight.

He tilts his head slightly and watches as the book slips a little farther down your lap. A small part of him wants to reach over, to close it for you, to stop the pages from bending. Instead, Joshua leans back again, arms still folded, eyes settling on the overhead panel. He tries to let the moment pass, tries to think about strategy, or tire compounds, or how weirdly flat Budapest always looks on the weather radar.

But the thought sits with him anyway:

When did you start feeling this familiar?

He doesn’t have the answer. And eventually, his eyes fall shut too—just for a moment, he tells himself. Just to rest.

A gentle nudge at his shoulder makes him stir. The soft buzz of the cabin filters in first—murmuring voices, the low whirr of air through the vents, a distant click as someone buckles their seatbelt. Then the second nudge comes, firmer this time.

“Hey. We’re about to land.”

He blinks his eyes open, squinting slightly against the overhead light that’s been turned on above his seat. You're standing beside him now, slightly leaned in, one hand still on the armrest, the other hovering like you’re not sure whether to shake him again.

He straightens slowly. “Shit. Thanks.”

Your voice is a bit groggy, more amused than anything else. “We’ve got maybe ten minutes before descent. Seatbelt.”

“Right.” He shifts upright, running a hand over his face. His voice is a little rough when he speaks again. “Did I sleep long?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know. You were out by the time I woke up.”

You’ve already sat back down. Doyoung is still fully reclined in the seat next to yours, beyond the aisle, clearly awake but pretending not to be.

“You’re not fooling anyone, you know,” Joshua mutters under his breath, fingers fumbling for the seat belt clip as the fasten sign dings overhead.

Doyoung peeks one eye open. “Didn’t realise I needed to perform for you now.”

Joshua huffs out a laugh, leaning back properly as the plane begins to descend. “You still up for that breakfast spot you mentioned?” he asks, keeping his voice low enough that it doesn’t carry beyond their row.

Doyoung nods, eyes closed again. “Yeah. It’s like a ten-minute drive from the hotel. I can take us there.”

Joshua hesitates, just a second, then glances sideways at you. “You want to come?”

You look at him, slipping your headphones off one ear, a little confused. “Where?”

“Doyoung said there’s a place he likes near the hotel. Late breakfast before everything kicks off.” He doesn’t try to sound too casual, but he doesn’t lean too hard into it either and just lets it hang in the air, like it’s the kind of thing he’d ask anyone. Even though he wouldn’t.

You tilt your head slightly, considering. “Sure. As long as he’s the one driving.”

Doyoung snorts from the side. “Absolutely not.”

Joshua grins, shaking his head. “Fine. I will, then.”

—

Saturday, Qualifying August 2nd

You make it into the garage just as the clock ticks past the two-minute mark.

It’s tighter than you meant to cut it—some last-minute call from Doyoung’s physio about a schedule clash for this evening had pulled you aside just as Q3 was starting, and you’d left with a reluctant nod, eyes trained on both the cars that had just left their garages.

But the second you step into the garage now, slipping past the engineers pressed up against the monitors, you know you’ve come back at the right time.

The timing board is changing again.

The Red Bull is on provisional pole, at least for now.

Haechan’s sector times flash green across all two and purple in the last sector. It’s a solid lap—the kind where you know it’s good enough for pole even before the time is confirmed. And well, Red Bull and he have been on top of the game this entire season. It’s not surprising, and you come in expecting him to stay on top anyway.

Your eyes scan the screen. Joshua is just starting his final flyer, and Doyoung… What the hell happened to him?

Your brother’s name sits in P8. Just then, a message from Race Control flashes on the top of the screen.

CAR 21 [KIM] TIME 1:15.667 DELETED - TRACK LIMITS AT TURN 14

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath.

There’s nothing from his radio yet, just the flat silence that comes when he’s either pissed or hyper-focused—or both. The time he’d just set had looked good enough for the second row, maybe third at worst. Now he’s got one last shot..

There’s maybe about one minute before the chequered flag falls. You try not to worry as the screen switches back to Joshua on his push lap. He’s coming through turn 9 now, and his first sector has been purple.

He’s quick, alright. Quick enough, you realise as his sector 2 time cuts real close to Haechan.

Speaking of the man, his lap time updates on the screen. He’s gone even faster this lap and extends his hold on pole position.

Joshua approaches the final corners, your brother’s car looming in the back, ready to set his final lap with half a minute to go before the chequered flag. With a relieved sigh, you realise he’ll have the chance for one more lap. He just has to make it count.

There’s a sort of stillness in the garage now—anticipation for Joshua’s lap that is about to finish and Doyoung’s that is about to begin. Your eyes flit to Joshua’s engineer, who stands on the other side of the engineering station, lips pursed in concentration.

The screen updates, Joshua’s final sector time coming in. The ‘third’ next to his name changes.

1. HON 1:15:227

The reaction is immediate, but not loud. Just a sharp inhale somewhere, a few soft claps, his engineer muttering “that’s provision pole” into his mic. You don’t say anything—don’t even smile yet—but you feel the pulse of it rise in your chest, like something simmering close to pride.

Still, you hope. This is a good enough result for the team. They’ve looked fast all weekend—maybe it’s the weather. The Mercedes fares well in cold temperatures, and the team had definitely walked into this weekend expecting to look strong. Or maybe it’s the new updates on the car. Either way, it looks good, and a small part of you hopes that your brother can snatch pole position away.

Doyoung is cruising through the last turn of sector 1 when the chequered flag falls. Haechan and Seungcheol have crossed it already, and you let out a small sigh of relief. There’s still a chance.

You glance toward the timing sheets again. His first sector flashes green. Not purple, but quick still. The kind of lap that could build momentum if the rest of it falls into place. The camera cuts briefly to his onboard. You watch him adjust the steering wheel mid-corner, slight corrections, things that add up over the lap.

He sets the fastest second sector of the entire session. Purple.

A whisper of hope stirs in your chest—tentative and careful. It’s close, you know. Right now, it’s probably enough to clear the Red Bulls. Enough for the second row, maybe even first. Joshua is still at the top of the screen, still in P1.

The rest of the garage is silent in the way it only gets when both cars are on the line and everyone’s too afraid to speak.

Then, Doyoung comes around the final corner—clean, smooth and with no mistakes made. The clock stops.

2. KIM 1:15.304

You don’t shout, but your hand flies to your mouth anyway. His engineer’s fist meets the table in a loud sound that echoes through the quiet garage before everyone fires up. Not a pole—but damn close. It’s good enough, you think as you watch his engineer’s face split with a smile. He reaches forward to shake hands with Joshua’s engineer.

It’s a job well done on all parts. A front row lockout.

Your gaze flits to the screens again, and just before the feed cuts to parc fermé, Joshua’s onboard flashes up. You can see him on the cooldown lap, waiting for the result—confused, anticipating, you can’t tell.

The radio crackles.

“Joshua, that’s P1. Pole position. Fantastic job, mate.”

There’s a pause.

“…You’re kidding.”

You grin, biting down on the inside of your cheek.

“Nope. One-two for the team, mate. You’re the man on pole.”

The tiniest laugh—disbelieving, breathless—slips through his comms. “Holy shit.”

Through your headphones, you hear Doyoung’s radio as well.

“Doyoung, well done. That is P2. Joshua is on pole.”

“Let’s fucking go.” His voice is bright and void of any disappointment. “Nice one. Great job, team. That was a good lap. Shame we didn’t get it, but congratulations to Josh, anyway.”

You laugh under your breath, your smile stretching wider. It’s not forced, not a diplomatic response—he means it. You know that tone. It’s your brother when he’s genuinely pleased, fired up, but grounded. Not the kind of person to hand out compliments lightly, but today? He’s good with it.

“Phew, guys,” Doyoung adds. “How long has it been since we locked out the front row?”

You don’t hear his engineer’s response to that as you slip your headphones off before leaning back against the wall, letting the moment settle.

On the screen, Joshua’s car is crawling toward parc fermé now, weaving slightly, the black halo catching the last slant of golden light breaking through the clouds. He’s not saying anything over the radio, but you can see his helmet tilt—just a bit, like he’s still absorbing it.

With slight surprise, you realise that it’s his first pole with the team, and the first one in a long time.

If there was any disappointment in you at your brother not being the car on pole, it’s gone now.

In a minute or two, the garage will get busy again. The monitors will cut to podium graphics, to driver interviews and camera crews and someone shouting for the old and new tyres to be wheeled in. In a few minutes, Doyoung will come in, Joshua following him, half-joking about how he could’ve taken pole if he’d had one more lap.

You exhale once and push yourself off the wall. You need to head inside now.

Maybe Sunday will bring more chaos, maybe it won’t.

But for now, this feels like the start of something for the team.

—

The FIA Press Conference room still faintly smells of sweat and adrenaline as Joshua walks in, plopping onto the couch. The front row is full, as always, with the usual faces: PR reps scribbling something in a notebook, a photographer clicking through previews, and two reporters arguing in whispers about tyre choices like the drivers themselves aren’t seated two feet away.

Joshua sits in the middle, Doyoung on his left and Haechan—who isn’t here yet—on his right. His teammate leans back with his arms crossed, eyes half-lidded like he’s conserving energy already, and Joshua lets his gaze wander for a second before he catches movement from the side of the room.

Haechan walks in a moment later, unzipped race suit hanging low around his hips, PR manager trailing behind him, still mid-sentence. Haechan just nods distractedly, waving her off with the ease of someone used to the routine. She mutters something under her breath and disappears out the same door.

He drops into the seat beside Joshua like he hasn’t been holding up the conference in the first place. “Well,” he mutters, tugging his mic toward himself. “Took my eyes off you two for one second, and now you’re locking out the front row.”

Joshua huffs out a laugh, and Doyoung barely shakes his head in amusement before straightening up as the moderator begins.

“Alright, we’ll get started. Congratulations to our top three qualifiers. We have Haechan in third, Doyoung starting second and Joshua on pole. Joshua, this is your first pole position with Mercedes and your first in almost three years—how does it feel?”

Joshua picks his mic up, pulling at the neck of his fireproof before speaking. “It feels good,” he says, but the edge of disbelief still hangs over his voice. “It’s been a long time coming. We’ve had strong weekends where we just couldn’t string the final lap together, so I’m glad we did today. Credit to the team.”

“And Doyoung,” the moderator continues, “a front-row start alongside your teammate. Was there more in the car today?”

Doyoung nods once. “Yeah. I mean, for me, it wasn’t perfect, but I’m happy with the recovery. It’s a great result for the team.”

The moderator turns to Haechan. “You’ve been on a run of poles this season. How are you feeling about P3?”

Haechan shrugs, smiling like it doesn’t matter, even if it probably does. “Ah, it was close. We had the pace for it, but the Mercs were strong. Still a good spot for the start.”

A few more questions follow—about strategy for tomorrow, tyre degradation, whether either Mercedes car will be allowed to lead into Turn 1—but nothing new gets said.

Then a reporter from Viaplay speaks up, voice sharp with interest. “Haechan—your title competitor, Jaehyun, starts P8 tomorrow due to a grid-drop penalty. You’re in P3. Do you go into the race thinking about the championship lead now?”

Haechan’s mouth quirks, like he’s already heard this question in his head a dozen times. “Sure,” he says, “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t aware of it. But thinking about it and letting it change how I drive are two different things. If I start ahead, I’m going to focus on finishing ahead.”

Another reporter chimes in then. “Joshua, Doyoung—you two are starting ahead of both Ferraris tomorrow. P4 and P8 for them. With the Constructors' fight so close, is that something on your mind at all going into Sunday?”

Joshua leans forward to pick up his mic. “I mean, we always think about the bigger picture. So yeah—it matters. Every point does. But what matters more is how we execute the race. Today’s one thing, tomorrow’s another.”

He pauses. Then, without sounding smug, he adds: “That said, a 1-2 helps. We’ll try our best to stay the same way throughout the race”

Doyoung nods in agreement. “Yeah, that’s true. There’s still… quite a few races left. We’re not going to get ahead of ourselves, but it’s a good position to be in. We just have to make it count.”

Outside the press room, the air is cooler. Quiet, too, with most of the media already filtering out through other exits. You’re leaning against the corridor wall, phone in one hand, eyes flicking over messages that have been piling up since the session ended.

The door clicks open a moment later, and you look up just as Doyoung steps out, tugging at the collar of his fireproofs. Joshua follows behind him, walking a little slower.

“Hey,” you say, slipping your phone into your back pocket. “Good job, both of you.”

Doyoung gives you a small grin, tired but satisfied, and steps in for a side hug. “Could’ve been better.”

You squeeze his arm lightly. “Still good enough.” You push him away quickly, though, side-eying him. “You stink.”

Joshua laughs, stopping just in front of you, a little unsure for half a second—but then you hold a hand out. Not quite a handshake, not quite a fist bump—something in between.

His palm meets yours, and for a second, neither of you really knows what to do with it—your fingers curl slightly, his shifts like he might pull away, but then you both settle into it. A clasp, brief but warm.

“Pole,” you say simply.

“Pole,” he echoes, with a small smile.

Behind you, Doyoung mutters something about showering before dinner, already walking ahead.

“Well, Minghao’s downstairs with your mum,” you inform him, tilting your head in the direction of the hospitality suite. “She’s on the phone. Apparently very proud.”

Joshua winces, half-laughing. “I figured.”

“She’s already asked if she should book a flight for tomorrow.”

“That… sounds about right,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

You glance over your shoulder—Doyoung’s nowhere in sight now, probably already halfway to the driver rooms. The hallway is quiet for the moment, the noise of the media and crew all distant.

Joshua shifts his weight slightly. “You coming to dinner?”

“Yeah. Just need to get my stuff first.”

He nods, then gives a small smile, easy, and more relaxed than he’s ever been this season. “See you there, then.”

You return it. “Congrats again. You earned it.”

He taps his knuckles lightly against yours—quieter this time, no need for the earlier awkwardness. “Thanks.”

—

Sunday, Race Day August 3rd

Lap 51 / 70

Joshua exhales slowly as he comes out of Turn 1, a clean exit, with his rear stable, and speed building up as he sweeps through the short straight toward Turn 2. His hands tighten briefly on the wheel—more reflex than tension—but he doesn’t miss the way the car slides a bit wider than it had the lap before.

“Tyres are losing grip,” he says into the radio.

“Copy,” comes the reply—calm and familiar. “You’re still holding pace. Doyoung is 1.8 behind, Haechan 3.7.”

Joshua doesn’t respond. He’s known that Red Bull’s been creeping up—half a tenth here, another in sector two. Haechan’s not attacking, not yet, but he’s lurking. Calculating and waiting for a gap to open.

Behind him, the mirrors flash briefly with silver as Doyoung reappears into view, closer now—maybe just over a second back, though still not close enough to threaten a move. The team has let them race today, which means Joshua knows the place he’s holding isn’t permanent. All it takes is one slip. One lock-up. One slow pit call.

He tightens his grip on the wheel and rides the curb into Turn 6, eyes narrowing as he lines up the apex.

In the garage, the tension is starting to shift.

You’ve been quiet for the last few laps, watching the screen with the kind of focus that makes it hard to breathe sometimes. Joshua’s still out in front, but only just. Haechan is coming in strong behind, and Doyoung—

You glance at the sector splits. He’s purple in sector one.

He’s pushing.

You lean forward slightly, fingers gripping the table in front of you as you catch the faint hiss of the radio in your ear—your brother’s voice, clipped but composed. “I’m going to go for it.”

Your stomach drops a little out of nervousness.

You know the team won’t stop him. They said they’d let them race, and they meant it—as long as it stays clean. But that doesn’t stop your pulse from quickening slightly as Doyoung tries to close the gap. He’s quick. You’ve known that for years. But today, so is Joshua.

The feed switches, showing Turn 12 from the helicopter cam. Three cars in the shot. Mercedes, Mercedes, Red Bull.

This could all go wrong and you know it—if the two of them get pre-occupied with taking the lead, Haechan could sweep in and pull it out from under them.

Joshua feels the pressure build again as he heads down into Turn 14. His engineer comes through just before he brakes.

“Haechan holding steady. Doyoung is closing in—gap is 1.4.”

He knows. He’s seen it.

Still, his voice stays calm. “Copy.”

The car flies through the final corner, and the g-force bites just enough to make him grit his teeth, neck straining before he enters the straight. He’s managing. Holding, but barely.

There are another twenty laps to go.

And for the first time in a long time, Joshua thinks: I want this. I’m going to take it.

Lap 54 / 70

“Gap is under a second now,” his engineer says. “DRS active next lap.”

Joshua exhales harshly. He knows. The image of Doyoung’s car—the other silver arrow—grows closer in his mirrors. He hasn’t resorted to aggression, not yet. But the intent is clear.

You’ve stopped pretending to sit still. You hover near your seat, arms crossed and jaw tense. Your brother’s onboard fills the monitor for a moment—one gloved hand quickly coming up to rip off a tear-off strip, the other steady on the wheel.

Haechan is still hovering, that Red Bull glued to P3. Close enough to bite, if either of the two ahead missteps.

You glance at the pit wall—it’s a little far from where you are, but you can still see the turned faces of the strategist and the sporting director as they speak to each other. Pit stops are coming soon, you assume. To try and get Haechan before he has the opportunity to undercut them.

Lap 55 / 70

“Box this lap, Joshua. Box box,” comes the call—sharp and decisive.

There’s no time to question it—he’s already exited the last corner. Joshua flicks his thumb across the switch, acknowledges with a crisp “Copy,” and begins to pull in toward the pit entry. It’s clean, no cars ahead to trip him up, no traffic to negotiate. Just the empty pit lane ahead and his own margins to manage. He slows right to the limit and crosses the line.

The garage springs to life on screen, and you don’t look away. It switches to the aerial camera, and you watch as your brother speeds through the straight, the mechanics getting ready to receive Joshua in the pit lane. For one tense second, you think, Don’t fuck this up. Not now.

But they don’t. The stop is clean. Tyres off, tyres on, no delay, no fumbled gun.

“2.3,” Minghao mutters next to you, heaving a sigh of relief.

Back on track, Joshua rejoins between the Ferraris, but Seungcheol behind him is not a threat. He’s a backmarker now, soon to pit. Joshua’s only real question hangs in the air: Did it work?

The screen switches back to Doyoung and Haechan, with Doyoung as the new race leader. He hasn’t pitted, but neither has the Red Bull. They’re leaving him out. Gambling, maybe. But not for long. He doesn’t look too strong on the mediums that he’s on.

You nod absently to yourself. Joshua seems fast enough that when Haechan does finally dive into the pits the lap, he’ll rejoin behind. Just as planned.

But Doyoung is still out, and if his tyres hold another lap or two, if he increases the gap, if luck is on his side, if the stop is good, he could—technically—come out ahead of both. It’s a lot of ‘ifs’, but you’re hoping for a miracle, maybe.

Lap 57 / 70

Joshua is silent on the radio now, all concentration, warming the new mediums into something he can fight with. Ahead, Doyoung is still pushing—but the lap times are starting to slip.

You hear it before you see it—your brother’s radio: “Box this lap.”

You can feel your pulse hitch. Your eyes snap to the screen.

He enters the pit lane just as Joshua rounds Turn 11 again. It’s going to be close.

Another clean stop. Another good release. Your hands have come together in a clasp without you realising.

The aerial view comes back again, and your eyes move from Doyoung pulling out of the pit box to his teammate approaching.

Joshua flashes past the last corner.

“Josh, it'll be close with Doyoung at the pit-lane exit.” His engineer informs him.

Your eyes dart between the two—the tiniest hesitation from Doyoung—and then it becomes clear. Joshua retakes the lead before Turn 1. Doyoung slots back in just behind.

The garage stays hushed.

Joshua’s engineer comes through again, tone sounding quietly satisfied. “Haechan is yet to pit, essentially we are back in the lead.”

Joshua doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“Understood.”

And he presses on.

Lap 64 / 70

“Box now, box now,” comes the call over Haechan’s radio.

But it’s too late. Everyone knows it, even before the tyres come off.

You watch the Red Bull dart into the pit lane, but there’s no urgency in the stop. Just motion. Just completion. A second too long with the rear-right, and by the time he’s released again, it’s already over.

He’s furious.

“This should’ve happened ten laps ago,” Haechan’s voice cuts in over the radio, sharp and unmistakably annoyed. “I kept telling you guys that it isn’t going to work, and now we’ve thrown it away.”

You press your lips together. On the screens ahead, the field reshuffles as Haechan rejoins in P5—just behind a cluster of cars still scrapping for the lower points. He’s fast, and there’s a chance he can still make it back onto the podium. Ferrari is on one of their strategy masterclasses again. God knows what they’re doing, but it’s a mess anyway. The camera pans to the front.

Black and silver.

Joshua and Doyoung—again.

“Gap to Doyoung?” Joshua asks, voice low.

“1.3,” his engineer answers. “Both of you are managing well. Let’s bring it home.”

Lap 66 / 70

In the garage, the tension has shifted again.

Not the anxiety from earlier, but something closer to held breath. You haven’t spoken in minutes, only occasionally leaning toward the monitor, watching the sector splits update. Your nails dig lightly into your arm as you cross them. Both drivers are still pushing—but the edge has softened. The real threat is gone now, and barring some freak incident, this will hold.

You glance across the garage at the engineering desk. No frantic calls. No one is making adjustments. Everything is calm.

Joshua cruises in the lead, and Doyoung doesn’t look like he’s going to try to attack again either. They clear another backmarker—an Alpine that yields cleanly before Turn 4, blue flags waving from every marshal post.

Lap 70 / 70

The final lap begins with barely a word over the radio.

Joshua breathes in—slow, deep, focused—as he crosses the line. The engine hums behind him, every vibration familiar now. He knows how the car will behave in every corner, and knows how close Doyoung is.

He knows that this is his race to lose.

In the garage, your arms are still crossed, but there’s a smile ghosting across your face now. Not relief yet, not quite. But hope, maybe. It’s done, you think, quietly. There’s not much that can go wrong now.

Up at Turn 12, Joshua brakes later than he probably needs to, just because he can. He’s not defending—your brother’s fallen more than a second behind. He’s not chasing either. This is his. Through Turn 13, tight and cautious, and then the final corner—Turn 14, wide and fast.

You register as the mechanics shoot up from their seats, some going over to the pit wall to watch when Joshua crosses the line as a race winner for Mercedes, for the first time.

When he passes the chequered flag, Doyoung following just behind, the garage erupts into celebration, louder than they’ve ever been this season.

“Joshua,” comes the call through the radio—louder than usual, breaking through static and the muffled swell of voices in the background, “that’s P1 mate, P1. Race winner. Mega job. You did it.”

The cheer rises behind his engineer’s voice—shouts, laughter, a voice breaking halfway through a yell of his name, someone pounding on the desk because you can hear the thud. There’s no restraint in it—none of the usual calm. It's chaos, the best kind, pouring through the radio like it can’t be contained.

“Fuck yeah,” Joshua breathes, voice cracking with disbelief and adrenaline. “Let’s fucking go.”

He pounds his fist once onto the wheel, not even trying to hold it in. That wasn’t just good. That wasn’t just clean or lucky or timed right.

That was his.

From the cockpit, he leans his head back against the seat as he takes the next corner, slow now—just the cooldown lap, just the crowd on their feet, just the world waiting.

On screen, they show his onboard. You can see his helmet tilt, see him drag one gloved hand over the top of his helmet like he’s grounding himself.

You imagine what he hears. The whooping, the radio still half-alive. The pit wall hitting the desk. The team shouting his name.

You imagine what it feels like to win like this. For Mercedes. For the first time.

Doyoung slows down next to him, and you hear the congratulatory message through your headphones before you finally slip them off and realise you should be going to watch the podium as well.

But still, you wait for a few more moments to see him brake gently, steer into parc fermé and park his car in front of the P1 board.

Joshua unhooks his belts, takes off the steering wheel, before clambering out and putting it back in, in one fluid motion. And then for a second, he stays still—still helmeted, gloved hands resting on the halo before he finally looks up and raises both fists.

It’s instinctive, sharp and almost disbelieving—the way he punches the air once, then again, harder this time. The crowd picks up on it instantly. You can hear them even through the garage feed, a full-bodied roar echoing down from the stands as he turns slightly, arms spread wide like he doesn’t quite know where to look, who to thank first. As you leave the garage, the last thing you see is him leaning down, deciding to maybe thank the car first as he pats the Mercedes logo on the halo twice before finally jumping off of it and onto the ground

By the time you reach the edge of the pit lane, most of the team has already filtered through. The noise is deafening up close—engines cooling, camera shutters clicking like rain, the speakers booming someone’s name overhead—and for a second, you can’t see anything over the crowd.

You linger, eyes scanning the tangle of uniforms and media vests. Most of the mechanics are from Mercedes, but what seems to have slipped your attention is that Haechan has somehow made it back to the podium, given that there are a few Red Bull staff as well.

Then someone notices you. One of the garage crew members nods and gently shoves a few people out of the way. “You can go ahead,” he says, loud enough to hear over the buzz. “Your brother’s just parked.”

You duck past the crowd, murmuring a quick thanks as you squeeze into the narrow space between the people and the barriers between parc fermé and the pit lane.

Doyoung finds you almost immediately when you make it to the barrier. His helmet is still on—pastel blue with streaks of silver running across it like comets—but you can imagine the grin that’s on his face as he approaches you.

“Hey,” he says with a hoarse voice and doesn’t wait for you to answer before pulling you into a tight hug.

You laugh as your arms go around him, his suit still hot and damp under your hands. “God, you’re disgusting. Well done, Doyoung. You did amazing.”

He squeezes you tighter for just a second. “P2 isn’t bad,” he says, voice a little muffled through the padding of his helmet. “I’ll take it.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, hands still on his arms. “It isn’t. But you were so close to him on the second stint, I actually thought—”

“I know,” he mumbles. “But he was good today. Better.”

There’s no bitterness in his voice when he says it. In fact, he almost sounds happy, maybe a little proud as well.

You squeeze his arms once more before letting go. “You were both brilliant. Go get weighed, they’re calling you.”

He disappears with one last glance over his shoulder, walking off toward the scale area, and you’re still watching after him when you catch a flicker of movement from the corner of your eye.

Joshua walks over toward the engineers with a bottle of water in one hand, the other running through his damp, sweaty hair that’s been flattened in uneven streaks where the helmet pressed against it. His cheeks are flushed, and there’s a red indent along the side of his face from the padding of the helmet.

He comes to a stop a few feet away from you, where his race engineer stands. There’s a second delay—just long enough for one of them to notice him, then the rest do too, and suddenly there’s a soft but enthusiastic ripple of congratulations that passes through the group like a wave. A few claps on the back, a quick one-armed hug from one of the mechanics, and someone ruffles his hair in a way that makes him roll his eyes and grin all at once.

“You did it, mate,” one of them says, and Joshua just laughs—bright and unguarded, the sound of someone who’s still riding the high.

Then he turns and sees you.

You’ve barely had time to school your expression into something neutral before he’s walking over. There’s a glint in his eyes you recognise—the adrenaline that all these drivers are desperate for.

“Would you look at that? She comes out, finally.” Joshua jokes, standing in front of you.

You lift your hand automatically. “Obviously,” you say, and he meets your palm with his in a high-five, quick and soft, but it still leaves your palm tingling after the contact.

“Pole and the win,” you say. “Not bad.”

Joshua’s smile tugs wider. “Yeah? Come on! You and your brother, always so stingy with the compliments.”

You scoff under your breath, but mirror his smile nonetheless. “There’s time for that. I think you’re up for the interview now.” You point your chin in the direction of the interviewer. “Can’t have the race winner himself not present, can we?”

The barricades are pulled back once the cooldown room clears.

The crowd is louder here, clustered around the pit-wall fences, pressed in from every angle. You’ve moved in front here too, thanks to one of the mechanics who nodded you through with a quiet, knowing smile. You find a spot, phone in one hand, ready to capture the first 1-2 of the season. It’s come late, later than anyone in the team had expected, but you’re glad that it’s happened anyway.

Haechan emerges first. There’s a smattering of cheers, mostly from beside you and the far side of the pit straight, where the Red Bull fans have staked out their ground. He strides up with the relaxed gait of someone who’s used to this part of the job, waving once before his eyes fall on the group that stands right next to you. You recognise the woman beside you—his PR manager, who seems like she’s about to bolt out any second from the looks of the phone call she’s on. He wipes his face with his sleeve and takes his place on the third step without ceremony.

Doyoung follows a few seconds later. He waves blindly at the sea of black and white, not really looking at anyone in particular but the entire group instead, before nodding at Haechan and stepping onto the second step. When he turns back toward the crowd, his eyes sweep across the barrier, scanning the front row.

He finds you, naturally. His face softens for a split second and you shoot a thumbs-up before his gaze flits back to the grandstands behind you.

Joshua’s the last to come out, race suit zipped all the way up, the Pirelli podium cap snug over his head. His face is still flushed from the heat.

There’s a cheer that rises as he steps onto the top step. He waves briefly. Then stills as his national anthem begins.

Your eyes should probably be on your brother. You know they should. Instead, you watch Joshua from below. His chin is slightly raised, his shoulders squared but not stiff.

And then—midway through the anthem—he glances over.

You don’t think it’s intentional at first. But then his gaze lingers. Just for a moment longer than necessary. Just long enough that you know it’s you he’s looking at.

And maybe he knows you’re watching him too. Because his smile returns, barely-there, small and real and a little stunned.

Then the anthem ends, the trophies are handed out, and finally, the champagne bottles are brought out.

—

The drink is handed to you over the bar with a wink that you barely register. Something fruity, you think—pinkish with crushed ice and a faint spray of lime on top. It doesn’t matter. You take it, fingers curling instinctively around the cold glass, and step away from the crowd just enough to breathe again.

The club is packed, heat rolling off every surface, even the walls pulsing faintly with the bassline. You’re not sure who chose this place—probably one of the younger mechanics—but it’s loud and dark and filled with the kind of neon lights that make everything feel slower than it is.

Your phone buzzes in your hand—a message from your brother, complaining about how he kind of wants to go to sleep but is instead stuck taking photos. You shoot back a reply, asking him to let go and have a fucking drink if he needs to.

You smile to yourself, thumb hovering over your screen, before someone appears beside you, bumping into your shoulder lightly with their own.

“Didn’t think I’d find you near the bar,” Joshua says, slightly breathless from making his way through the crowd. His shirt is undone at the collar, a dainty silver necklace hanging around his neck, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and a drink in one hand. He looks wrecked, in the same way everyone else does—slightly sweaty, flushed, a little too happy to stand still.

Everyone has—not much to your surprise—let themselves off the hook tonight. Maybe it’s the double podium, or the fact that this is the last weekend before the summer break, which means a good three weeks off. You don’t mind either way.

Joshua raises his glass like a silent toast. “Also didn’t expect you to hang around this long,” he says over the music, eyes gleaming.

You shrug, tipping your drink toward him before taking a sip. “Didn’t expect you to come over.”

“Well,” he starts, then pauses to run a hand through his hair—messy with strands falling slightly into his eyes. His shirt is unbuttoned enough to show a glimpse of his collarbone, the chain around his neck glinting faintly under the low lighting. “I’m full of surprises.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s half-hearted at best. “You’ve had, what, two drinks?”

“Three,” he corrects as he slides into the seat next to you. “Which is exactly when I get fun.”

It’s the alcohol, maybe. Or the way his eyes catch in the light, that slow smile curling at the edge of his lips. The dark shadows around his lashes. The heat still lingering on his skin. Whatever it is, it’s hard to look away from him.

He’s saying something else, a low comment about how someone on the dance floor is going batshit insane and he had to get away before he got pulled in too, and you try to focus on the story, really—but it’s hard when he looks like this. Relaxed with all his usual polish rubbed off a little. His voice is a touch raspier than usual, maybe from the yelling around at people in this loud club.

The admission comes easily under the influence. You hate how attractive he looks tonight.

“Are you even listening to me?” he asks suddenly, leaning in slightly to be heard. The scent of him—sandalwood cologne and champagne—drifts with him.

You blink. “What?”

Joshua grins. “You were staring.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You were,” he says, unabashed, and you realise that he really is a little drunk already.

You scoff, cheeks warming. “Delusional.”

“Little bit,” he admits, but doesn’t look away. His gaze dips—lingering somewhere near your neckline before dragging back up to your eyes. It’s subtle and almost lazy. But you feel it. It makes your skin prickle under your clothes, makes the tips of your fingers buzz where they’re still curled around your drink. And maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but you don’t say anything.

“I liked your necklace,” he adds, unprompted. “At the track. You wore it last weekend too.”

You blink. That was oddly specific. “You remember what I wore last weekend?”

Joshua gives you a helpless sort of look, like the part of him that’s still slightly sober can’t believe he’s saying it either. “I’ve got a good memory,” he says simply. “And, you know. Eyes.”

You raise a brow at him, a slow smirk tugging at your lips. “You sure it’s not the tequila talking?”

That seems to remind him of something, because he perks up in his seat, slamming the counter slightly. “Man, I’m literally full of champagne right now. Like, not even joking.”

“I can imagine.”

“Oh, no, you can’t. Literally, I got it shot down my eyes on the podium and then ended up drinking the rest of it. And then I ended up getting drenched again and drinking more of it during the team photo thing—” He pauses, looking back at you, “—where were you for that, actually?”

You swirl your drink in its glass. “Avoiding the champagne shower, obviously.”

Joshua gasps, mock offended. “Wow. Wow.”

You shrug before finishing the rest of your drink and setting the glass down on the counter. “What can I say except that it was a good decision? And honestly, Doyoung had promised the night before that he’d actually pour it all on me if y’all won.”

He laughs at that, throwing his head back. The music thrums around you, the press of people loud but oddly distant, like this small pocket of space between you two is a bit quieter.

You glance up at him. “You gonna sit there all night with that empty glass or are we getting another?”

He lifts a brow, playing along. “Are you offering?”

“Sure,” you say, already flagging down the bartender.

The bartender slides another round your way—you don’t really know what it is, but you don’t hesitate to reach for it, letting the condensation bite into your fingertips as you swirl it once, then bring it up to Joshua.

“To your first win with us,” you announce, but there’s a lilt to it now. Like the sight of alcohol has finally made its effect catch up. “And hopefully many more.”

“Many more, indeed,” He echoes, clinking his glass against yours before bringing it up to his lips.

You take a drink too, more of a gulp than a sip, the cold hitting your throat, the sweetness of it sharp and sugary. It tastes like nothing and everything all at once.

Joshua sets his glass down with a satisfied sigh, the chill lingering faintly in his grip. The music swells for a moment, bass pulsing through the floor, but he barely notices. Not when you're this close, when the neon club lights catch faintly on your cheekbones and the corners of your lips—that to his surprise—have been perpetually curved up.

You don’t say anything for a moment. Just lean back slightly on your elbows, watching the room, and Joshua lets the silence sit.

Then, softly, “So,” you say, turning to face him again. “What did it feel like?”

He blinks. “Hm?”

“Winning,” you say simply. “Today”

He hesitates. Not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because it catches him off guard, the way you ask it—gently, sincerely, like you actually care about the feeling, not just the result.

He runs a hand through his hair, “It felt… good,” he starts, then winces. “Okay, that sounds lame as hell. But I don’t know how else to put it. I’ve wanted this since—god, forever. But more than that, it felt earned, you know? Like everything came together for once. No luck. No shortcuts. Just me, and the car, and the calls we made at the right time.”

You nod, not interrupting.

“And maybe I shouldn’t care,” he continues, softer now, “but it mattered that it was here. With this team. With you guys. I think it mattered more than I expected it to.”

Your expression flickers, something unreadable in your eyes. You lean in a little, the edge of your knee brushing his.

“I kinda get it,” You say, nodding. “The expectations that come with front-running teams are just different. And besides, you’re allowed to care, obviously.”

Joshua huffs a quiet laugh and looks down, the tips of his ears faintly pink now—whether from the alcohol or your words, he’s not sure. “You keep saying things like that,” he mutters, “and I’ll start thinking you like me.”

You scoff, but your lips curl upward. “I think you’re a decent driver.”

“Wow. High praise.” He glances at you sidelong, his knee still resting against yours. “I think you’re a decent liar.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real fire behind it.

Joshua looks at you again, really looks this time. The shift in his gaze is subtle, less teasing now, more watchful. Your face is lit from the side by the bar lights, shadows softening the angles. You’ve got this look—half-amused, half-exhausted—and he realises, almost absently, that he could stay like this for a while. Just… talking to you. Watching you tilt your head and call him out when he gets too smug.

When the thought registers in his head, so does another one: He is so drunk right now.

He’s thought you were beautiful before. That’s not new.

But it’s something else now. Something lower in his chest. Something sharper and more specific. Like he’s seeing you in a different frame—less polished, more real, more here.

God, no. You’re his teammate’s sister. This is not happening.

But it is happening. That’s the problem.

Because now you’re turning to face him more fully, the soft curve of your shoulder brushing his again—and shit, he really can’t remember when he got so close.

“Anyway,” you say, voice lighter now, “it was nice to see you actually celebrate for once.”

Joshua tries to shake himself out of it and raises a brow. “Are you calling me boring?”

“I’m saying,” you sigh, “that you’re usually too composed. Like, you cross the finish line and it’s just ‘copy, understood, good job team.’ But today you showed emotion, man. It’s progress.”

He lets out a short laugh. “Did I? I honestly can’t remember. That last lap was such a blur.”

You nod, eyes gleaming. “You literally cussed. Haven’t heard you doing that a lot.”

“Guess I got carried away.”

You don’t say anything in response to that and look away again, into the crowd.

Joshua hums, quiet and thoughtful. And then, before he can talk himself out of it, he lets the words fall out. “You’re different when you’re like this, too.”

That makes you pause. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to find the exact words. “Less careful. Like you’re letting go a little.”

You glance back at him and say, without much hesitation, “Maybe I am. It’s a nice way to begin the summer break, and maybe it’s because I’ve had too many drinks as well, but I feel good.”

He smiles at that. “Good,” Joshua says, and means it. He means it so much more than he probably should.

You look at him, like you’re seeing him through the same haze he’s seeing you. The moment slows, held somewhere between the music and the thrum beneath your skin. You feel warm and dizzy, and a bit foolishly brave. Every thought is a little too loud.

It should be funny. Or awkward. Or interrupted. But it isn’t. It’s just that silence again, thick and hovering. And then your gaze drops—briefly, maybe even instinctively—to his mouth. Just once.

Joshua feels the thrumming in his chest the same way he feels his own restraint thinning, like a thread pulled too tight. His thoughts spiral—about your brother, about the team, about how this is stupid and complicated and so fucking reckless—but your leg presses firmer into his and you tilt your head ever so slightly toward him and that’s what does it.

He exhales, a whisper that you probably don’t even hear. “Fuck it. We won’t even remember this in the morning.”

And then he leans in.

You’re kissing him back before you even process it.

It’s clumsy at first. Rushed. Your teeth knock into his as you both lean in at the same time, caught in the middle of a laugh that doesn’t quite make it out. His hand finds your waist, yours curl into the collar of his shirt. You taste the leftover vodka on his lips, the sharpness of lime from one of the drinks.

Joshua pulls back just enough for a breath, his lips brushing yours again—so lightly it could have been an accident, if not for the way he lingers.

And then—

“Bro,” someone says behind him, loud and incredulous, “where have you been? They’ve been looking for you for, like, ten minutes. The team wants photos together.”

Joshua jolts back, blinking fast, his hand slipping off your waist like he’s just remembered where he is. But the mechanic doesn’t notice. He’s already half-turned, calling someone else over his shoulder before melting back into the crowd.

The two of you sit there.

You’re both breathing too fast.

Joshua’s eyes meet yours again—wide, a little red at the corners from the alcohol and the heat and the whiplash of the moment. You’re not sure what expression you’re wearing. You’re not sure what the hell to do with your hands.

“I…” he starts, then runs a palm over the back of his neck. “I should probably go.”

You nod, numb. “Yeah.”

He stands up from his seat, tearing his eyes away from you as he tries to figure out where the guy went.

You should probably look away, but all you can do is stare at his face—the flush still high on his cheeks, his lips a little parted like he hasn’t quite caught his breath yet. His hair’s a mess, sticking slightly to his temple, and there’s something about the way he frowns as he scans the crowd—dazed, like he hasn’t fully come back to earth.

Then he turns back to you, standing a little awkwardly like he has something to say but doesn’t know how to say it.

“…Bye,” he says finally, soft and a little breathless. It’s barely audible above the music.

You nod once, slowly. “Good night.”

And then he goes, slipping into the crowd like he was never there to begin with, the club swallowing him whole in a blur of lights and bodies and noise.

#g: 13+#g: fluff #g: slowburn #g: angst #g: racer au #warnings: swearing #warnings: mentions of car crashes #type: fic #wc: 15k+#a: hhaechansmoless #member: calli #artist: seventeen #m: joshua

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𝗂𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝗂𝗍 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 ♱ g𝑜l𝑑e𝑛 𝑏o𝑦 ⠀ ⠀ ⠀DIRTY WORK

æ﹒ set 'em on fire, 스스로 밝혀 ₊ ( 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 ) ── your enemy was always one step in front of you, no matter what 𝒇. i don't really wanna play nicely, nicely ❨ 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊 ❩

⠀ 𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 ── sharp teeth, bite first. real bad business, that's dirty work. bold eyes, cold stare. real bad business, that's dirty work

'⠀•⠀【 𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐏 𝐈𝐓 】 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸, 𝗱𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 ! spyhee & fmr ♱﹒ 8OO wrds / 𝖿𝗍 . thriller . with suggestive, profanity, guns, violence, menace hee 哈 ( 𝘩𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑜𝑛 ) + 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓

여키 ── EDITION . writing this made me realise I need him so bad and lowk wanna write a part two cuz this trope is peak •᷄ࡇ•᷅ liek&reblog!

you always worked alone. it was easier getting the job done. and one thing everyone knew about you was to never cross you. your juniors or your superiors knew better than to intervene.

and the person who knew this better than anyone else was now in front of you, getting cornered.

you slam him against the wall, your arch nemesis and the guy who never let you be since he got to find out who you were. "still following me, agent h?"

your voice was raspy and just above a whisper. you pressed the cold muzzle of the gun against his stomach, hoping the pressure itself would knock him dead.

lee heeseung—with that little smug smirk of his, hair disheveled and dressed up in a black suit seemed unfazed. of course he's not.

"you finally caught up to me," he let out a small chuckle looking the side. you could spot the touch of dried blood near his lip. "though, I didn't think you were the touchy type."

you pushed him against the wall again, your hand reaching to the trigger. almost—almost pulling it.

though you couldn't risk it. heeseung was a top level spy much like you were. yet your missions always kept clashing with each other. you debuted as the killer spy from your agency. your name made every man flinch and surrender. every gang leader knew who you were, mafias paid millions to retrieve information from you and insiders from the government were at your feet in a millisecond.

and then came the golden boy. your biggest rival. always being one step ahead of you and for once, you never knew how he did it. there was something so sinister about the way he moved, and always knowing where you were. if you were after the blueprints, he'd already swapped them. if you searching for your target, he'd already be at the scene, gun to head, waiting for you.

he was untouchable, arrogant and annoyingly good at what he does.

it was a perfect match.

heeseung tilted his head, "i didn't know you liked me this much." he smirked once again, looking down at you.

"don't flatter yourself." your arm went against his neck, pressing his head against the wall.

"relax, sweetheart. not here to ruin the mission, i already got the files."

so he did it again.

but you couldn't believe him. the bastard was lying. your arm slowly went down his coat and down the belt with his gun on it. you could almost hear his breath hitch when your fingers trailed against his waist. you checked his pockets and the ones attached to his coat. there was no usb, no files, nothing. the cocky jerk was lying.

"pathetic." you scoffed at his face, "your lies won't get you anywhere."

you let your walls down at his attempt at lying. and that's where you messed up. "wrong." he said, his hands moved fast as he brought your arms behind you, turning you around and pressing you to the nearest railing on the rooftop you both were on.

"it gets me here." you could already feel him grinning even though you couldn't see his face.

"fuck, let me go, asshole." you struggled, trying to get out of his hard grip.

"not so easily, sweetheart." he called you that stupid nickname again. the one that made you scowl and the one that made your stomach turn.

he brings his free hand up against your waist. Almost like he was searching for something. and he was. "got the key here somewhere, right?" he murmurs.

his touch was cold and with intent. though you could never know what he was up to. was he teasing you? his hand was slow against your waist and if it was another person, he'd already gotten his key.

heeseung was riling you up again. he was trying to get under you skin like he had before. and it was working.

he finally found the key and snatched it from your belt. a smile on his face like he was proud of himself. he finally let go of you as you turned around fast.

your eyes darted against him yet he was still calm, still collected.

"fuck you," you spat.

"maybe some other time." he started walking away with a smirk, leaving you there confused and in a daze.

lee heeseung—the man who always got his way. and he'd get it no matter what. no matter how messy he was or how it passed an average person's morals. it suits him, this dirty work suited him.

⠀⠀𝖺 𝗒𝖾𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽. do not copy, repost or translate my works

#g: 13+#g: thriller #warnings: suggestive #warnings: swearing #warnings: weapons #warnings: violence #type: drabble #wc: 800+#a: yeokii #member: yomi #artist: enhypen #m: heeseung

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kflixnet · 1 month ago

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New to KFLIXNET: Check out our member Izzy's oneshot!

[14:36] | ATEEZ JEONG YUNHO

yun: good girl

pairing » ateez jeong yunho x fem!reader

trope/au » establish relationship au, non-idol au

genre » suggestive, fluff, ceo yunho loves to spoil you, and you're kind of mischevious

word count; estimated reading time » 1210; ~5 mins

warnings (lmk if i missed anything!) » suggestive!!!, pet names (good girl, darling, baby), suggestive talking, illusions to s*x, reader wears a lingerie

navi/masterlist!! 🤍 ateez masterlist

hello hello everyone!!~

...

bye everyone!!-

(i couldn't get a better name for yunho's contact name sorry 😭)

One of the reasons why Yunho loves going to work is that he knows that he'll be able to provide for you. Heck, you're an independent woman, and he knows that you'll be fine on your own. But the fact that he has the ability to spoil you is something that he loves to do.

But today, he's dreading the office and the meeting that he's in. Being the CEO, it's just one of his responsibilities, but he hoped it wasn't a responsibility that he needed to fulfil today, when you're on your day off. Both you and Yunho barely had any days off together, and Yunho made it his goal to make sure any meetings that he needed to go to would align with your days at work. Yet, he couldn't align every single one, like this one.

So, he's left fidgeting with the pen in his hand while the other hand taps on his thighs impatiently. He can't help but shake his legs up and down, stalking the minute clock to see the seconds passing by. In his head, he has a mental countdown of when this meeting will end so that he can snuggle up with you in your shared bed; maybe sneak a finger or two past the waistband of your panties.

The thought has him inhaling sharply, and he props an elbow to the table and shields his red face with his palm. It's then that his watch brightens up with the contact name that he saves you as. Yunho shouldn't be on his devices, but at this point, he couldn't care less. He taps on the screen, a smile overtaking his face at your greetings.

love of my life: bby what time are you home love of my life: i bought so many clothes today and i wanna know what you think of themmm

Yunho chuckles lightly, knowing just how much you love showing him your shopping spree. He couldn't help but to message you back immediately, now clearly breaking obvious rules by going on his personal device during work hours. But before that, he made sure to check his card balance.

yun: ill be back asap darling yun: i see you used my card yun: good girl

The final text has your cheeks heating up, and you're sure that Yunho knows of the effect that he has on you. Your response to him came a beat later, something he couldn't help pointing out.

yun: you're always a good girl aren't you yun: how about you help me pass time by sending pictures of your new clothes now

The suggestion is new. You know how much Yunho loves it whenever he can gush about your outfits in real life. It would give him an adrenaline rush seeing you in all the new beautiful dresses that hug your figure in all the right places. That's why today, when you went shopping, you decided to get something…different. Something that you haven't gotten with his card. Something that you wanted to keep until he's right in front of you, sitting on the edge of the bed, while you kiss every inch of his face as you sit on his lap.

But you decide to help him pass the time a bit to his excitement. You bought new jackets, tops and skirts. They're all enthusiastically received by your husband with endless compliments on your mirror selfies with them, and a few fire and drooling emojis reactions to them. Yunho definitely saved them all on his phone, and between you changing into the next outfit and waiting for the picture to send, he bites his bottom lip harder at how he's not at home.

love of my life: that's all i have baby

An eyebrow raises at that. Usually, you would have bought more than just five outfits, and he can't help but straighten his back against his seat.

yun: only that :’( yun: could you go and buy more

You couldn't help but squeal at his messages. Your eyes divert to the untouched shopping bag, knowing well that you did buy more than the ones you've shown him. But you didn't want to ruin the surprise. You've already decorated the bedroom with roses, balloons, and printed pictures of you leading from the front door to the bedroom, and telling him now that you have more is going to ruin the excitement. Mustering your will, you texted him a smirk emoji.

yun: not such a good girl are you yun: get ready when i get home yun: i know you're hiding something

A corner of your lip raises into a smirk. “Maybe I can give him a little spoiler.”

You fished out one of the most intimate lingerie from its bag, fitting the material around your chest and bottom perfectly. The fabric hugs your body snugly, tight enough to seemingly support your features upwards. Your stomach does a little flip when you admire your reflection, doing a few twirls before posing for another selfie against the full body mirror. A thumb sneaks itself to hook on the side of your panties’ waistband, pulling the string down past your hipbone.

It's perfect timing for Yunho, who finally finishes his meeting and packs up immediately. He switches his phone for the time being, braving a confident smile and pushing the things he would do with you later when he's home. He wants to have your body against his, connected and together until you're out of air. He'll let you rest for a while before spoiling your skin with his whispers and kisses again, and as much as you haven't been the good girl that he would want you to be, he would make sure you're taken care of well; possibly to the point where you would take a day off tomorrow.

He quickly walks to the lift after locking his office, and it's then his phone buzzes with another notification from you. As soon as he opens the new picture, the grip around his phone tightens. The gulp down his throat is heavy, and he couldn't peel his eyes off the screen that almost walked into a pole. The picture on his phone mesmerises him, and he yanks the tie around his neck loose immediately. With shaking fingers and his back against the wall, he dials your number.

“Hi, baby!” Your voice sounds innocent despite your ministrations from earlier. “I miss you.”

The man chuckles, giving a light scoff. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?” You played dumb.

“That you're a good girl,” he huskily compliments you. “I want you on the bed when I get home.”

“Hm,” you elongate the sound of the syllable. “But I don't want to. I want to greet you at the front door.”

“With that outfit you're wearing? Not a chance,” he reprimands. “I don't want the neighbours catching a glimpse of you. You're all mine tonight.”

You cross a leg over your other, thinking of a comeback to excite him when he gets home. From the corner of your eye, you sit on the bed with your skin to the air, almost wearing nothing. So, why not go one step further?

“Who said I was going to be wearing an outfit when I greet you?”

navi/masterlist!! 🤍 ateez masterlist

join the taglist here » @k-films @kflixnet @starlit-network @kstrucknet @blossomnet @pirateeznet @illusionnet @haneul-and-clouds @svzllts @yerimacoustic

#g: 13+#g: established relationship #g: non idol au #g: fluff #g: ceo au #warnings: suggestive #warnings: use of pet names #warnings: mentions of sex #type: oneshot #wc: 1k+#a: from-izzy #member: izzy #artist: ateez #m: yunho

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kflixnet · 1 month ago

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New to KFLIXNET: Check out our member Mia's fic!

the color of you

cover art made by @/salgoolulu on Instagram

“you picture your emotions through words, while I try to voice out my own feelings with photos”

PAIRING: college student!jaemin x college student!reader (female!reader) x college student!mark

GENRE: fluff, angst, strangers to friends to lovers au, lovers to exes au, college au, 90s au, love triangle au, best friend!jisung, best friend!yeri, suggestive (if you squint)

WARNINGS: mentions of food, reader is shorter than both jaemin and mark, pet names, explicit language, lots of miscommunication, pretentious dialogues (sorry), ambiguous ending

WC: 32,6k

‣[PLAYLIST]: margaret by lana del rey (ft. bleachers), frozen by sabrina claudio, bonfire by wave to earth, yosemite by lana del rey, blue by troye sivan (ft. alex hope), naked by sabrina claudio, let the light in by lana del rey (ft. father john misty)

SUMMARY: winter to spring to fall — seasons change all the time, and life takes turns you never saw coming. as you’re trying to figure out your true love in your career path, you’re also trapped between the hearts of two boys who try to teach you how to find your real colors, by teaching you how to love.

A/N: took me too long to post this but it's finally here! my longest baby so far, please show it the love it needs <3

read on wattpad/ao3

Thursday, October 9th, 1997

Τhere is a fine line between love and passion. It is easy to confuse one for the other, and sometimes the boundaries become so blurry that love merges into passion and passion merges into love. Passion is a state of being — it resembles a phase of complete ecstasy that you wish would last forever. It fills you with a sudden burst of happiness that is so strong, it needs to become temporary, otherwise its effect weakens.

Love is more of a state of living — it draws you in, it roams around you like the strong scent of cologne, it captivates you in an invisible way, almost as if it does not exist and no matter what your state of mind or being is, it will always find you in the form of solace. This is exactly what gives it longevity in its effect.

You tried to keep a mental note of these thoughts for the time being until you could write them down, before you completely forgot about them and they ceased to exist.

You were standing outside your favorite café in Seoul, patting your hair and brushing your fingers through thick strands to untangle them. Fall was your favorite season when you could hear the crunchy sound of leaves under your shoes or the patter of raindrops on your umbrella, but one thing you were certainly sure of was that you were not particularly very fond of the wind.

With a firm push on the door, you stepped inside the place you liked to call your second home and, almost in a cartoon-like way, you rushed towards the front counter, drawn in by the magical, mythical, delicious scent of caramel.

The boy behind the counter was busy placing pastries in a paper box and didn’t immediately notice your presence, even though you thought that he could sense how much you were craving that cup of hot caramel latte you were dreaming about all morning.

“Jisung,” you raised your voice as you spoke, and the boy jolted up in the air at the sound of somebody calling his name. You liked to mess with him in this way because of his sensitivity towards abrupt loud noises. You didn’t want to, but it always spread your lips into a smiley smirk when he would jump around and drop whatever he was holding. Exactly what happened right now.

“Oh my God, Y/n,” he said breathlessly, pressing one hand on his chest to calm his heartbeat. You let out a soft giggle at his reaction and he narrowed his eyes at you. “I just like to tease you, Ji,” you said as he bent down to pick up the box and the now dirty pastries. He threw away the pastries in a trash can under the counter and placed the box aside in the counter behind him. He rolled his shoulders backwards as he came towards the cash register and swayed his head left and right to move his bangs out of his face. “Alright, alright,” he whispered to himself and he cleared his throat, straightening his back even further. He flashed a wide smile towards you and spoke in a voice that seemed loud to him, but to your ears it still sounded like his usual velvety soft tone. “Welcome to ‘'Caramel Craze’, what can I get you?”

“Just my regular, Ji,” you said and he kept a note of your order on a small scratch pad, even though he knew your order by heart. “I’ll go sit down at our table, you can come join me when your shift ends. Also, just so you know, Yerim is coming too so be more alert. You know I go easy on you with the jumpscares but she doesn’t,” you said and he laughed at the mention of your friend Yerim, who liked to tease him just a little bit more.

“Okay, you go sit and I’ll be back with your order,” Jisung said and you stretched your arm to ruffle his hair playfully.

You always sat at the table furthest back in the shop right next to the wall-length window. Whatever the season, you enjoyed the access to viewing the outside world through the perspective of the glass that separated you from the people on the other side of it. Today, the atmosphere was covered by dark clouds of gloom that seemed harmless, with no intention of rain. You hadn’t realized how angry the wind was until you looked at the way the branches of the trees moved back and forth to the wind’s direction and the people struggling to walk through the windy force. Behind the glass window, it was peaceful and quiet.

You sat down at your and your friends’ designated table and took out your sketchbook and pencils. Looking around the small coffee shop, you noticed a girl standing, waiting in line to order her drink and possibly a little sweet treat to go along with it. She was wearing a long plaid skirt, falling down to her ankles, paired with a short jean jacket that ended right at the start of her waist. What if she added a leather corset? The length of the skirt kinda throws me off. Maybe a shorter skirt, chunkier shoes, different texture on the jacket-

You picked up your pencil and quickly drew lines that resembled a female human figure. Eyes darting from the girl to your sketchbook, back at the girl and your sketchbook again, you started gaining inspiration for new clothing designs. That’s why you decided to study fashion design; the possibilities of mixing and matching colors, patterns and textures were endless, and your creative mind couldn’t help but be fascinated by the art of fashion.

You were drawing quick rough sketches of clothes, making small changes here and there, trying to find a new, innovative, interesting design to present in class. For the last couple weeks, you were completely stuck and couldn’t create anything. The scholarship abroad wouldn’t be yours if you presented some boring, mediocre stuff.

Lately, you found yourself deprived of inspiration. You couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason why this was the case, but anytime you picked up your pencil to draw new patterns of clothes, your hand automatically moved away from your sketchbook and gravitated towards the pocket-sized notebook you kept on the side of your desk, and all you could do with your pencil was to write words.

the flowers inside my mind wither and fall; dark fog covers the sky that hangs above my consciousness i hate to see you wilt — perhaps a new seed will grow on the ground and replace the void with color regeneration mirrors the art of becoming again

Setting your sketchbook and pencil on the side, you moved to take out the small notebook from the front pocket of your bag, flipping the pages to find a blank one and quickly writing down the words that came to your mind at that moment. This is what you always did when you felt stuck. You could never voice the thoughts occupying your mind, so you wrote them down instead. It was always easier to put them in place this way.

A loud bang resonated in the small café and you jolted up in surprise, dropping your pencil on the table. This is probably how Jisung feels, I get it now. You lifted your head to see your friend Yerim setting her bag and extra books on the table as she sat down on the chair across from yours.

“You scared me, Yerimie,” you said in a shaky voice and her lips lifted up to a smirk. “And I thought Jisung was the fun one to tease,” she said.

You scoffed at her comment and dismissed it. Yerim’s eyes dropped to the sketchbook and pencils scattered everywhere around the table, peeking at your trembling designs and the black smudges all over the pages that covered the designs you didn’t like.

“Still on designer’s block?” Yerim asked and you shook your head lightly. “I actually made some progress today,” you smiled, “I might have some ideas about what to make. These are pretty much the very first draft of it. If you can call it a draft,” you said pointing at your sketchbook.

Yerim hummed in understanding, but her eyes betrayed her true thoughts. Doubt? Hope? Simply processing what you said? You couldn't tell.

“Hey, listen, I have an extra class right now so I won’t stay, wanna meet me later in the library? I know you prefer studying here but I just came to pick up my coffee,” Yerim said. As if they communicated telepathically, Jisung approached your table holding two plastic cups with your beloved coffee shop’s logo on them. The intensely sweet scent of caramel betrayed what the liquid inside the cups was and you felt dizzy even at the thought of finally tasting the drink you were so desperately craving.

“Here you are, girls,” it felt almost as if Jisung mouthed the words by how softly he spoke. With shaky hands, he placed the cups on the table and smiled at himself for successfully bringing them all the way there without dropping them and spilling the hot coffee all over the shop’s floor.

“Are you coming too, Ji? To the library,” Yerim turned to him and Jisung nodded eagerly. “Of course! I’ll be there after my shift ends. Sorry Y/n, I can’t stay at the café all day, it's getting boring and it reminds me of work,” Jisung apologized to you and frowned.

“Don’t worry, guys, I’ll join you. Besides, apparently I also need to find this book for my project. You can go and I’ll meet you there later,” you said and you were going to keep your promise.

Yerim grabbed her things and leaned over the table to give you a hug. She winked at you and waved at both you and Jisung on her way out the coffee shop. Jisung smiled and shook his head at Yerim’s sassy attitude and you couldn’t help but smile too at how adorable he was.

“You’d better get back to work Ji, or else someone out there is gonna rob all the money you keep in the cash register,” you reminded him and his posture stiffened, smile dropping and eyes widening when he remembered that his shift, in fact, hadn’t ended yet.

“Oh, you’re right. But wait,” he said, putting his hand inside the pocket of his apron, only to take out a soft caramel cookie wrapped in sealed plastic packaging. He slid it into your hand under the table and offered you a shy smile. “It’s on the house. You need some energy,” he said softly as he walked away towards the back of the café.

You looked at the cookie and quickly put it inside your bag. You were sitting alone once again, blocking your surroundings as you stared outside the window to take a look at the outside world. The wind had calmed down significantly.

The flapping of pages one after the other echoed in the deafening silence of the spacious room. A few careful steps on the thick wool of the carpeted floors and the rhythmic clicking of fingers on keyboards filled in each quiet seconds that passed. The library was great for studying, but deadly boring.

Yerim was squinting her eyes at the screen of one of the library’s old desktops, scrolling and scheming through an article that she found important. Jisung, sitting next to her, fell asleep in the midst of keeping notes, head falling with a thud on the hardcover encyclopedia he was supposed to be reading. A soft snore escaped him, which earned a frown from Yerim. “Poor boy, he works and studies so hard,” she whispered.

You hummed under your breath in agreement as you sat up. “I’m gonna go look for the book I want. Care to join?” you asked Yerim but she shook her head instead. “I have to finish my work in 20 minutes, another girl needs to use the computer and all the others are occupied,” she answered and you encouraged her to keep on working.

You left your two friends to carry on with studying – or at least one of them – and slowly walked towards the massive corridors filled with shelves full of books. It was so intimidating. Tall bookshelves packed with books, aligned in continuous rows, leading you to the dead-ends of each corridor, almost in a maze-like effect. For a place that is supposed to be calm and quiet, it was safe to say that it rather filled you with anxiety.

You held your post-it note in your hand, looking at the name and serial number of the book you wanted to find. Despite the careful organizing of each shelf, you never seemed to find what you were looking for.

Eyes trailing along the shelves, you spent what felt like hours reading every single title on the spines of the books in hopes of finding what you wanted. Tracing your fingers along the shelves, moving your eyes up and down following the alignment of the books, you were trying your hardest to spot the title you needed before you got dizzy from the overwhelming sensation.

And bingo. The book was right there. Except, it was placed on the very top shelf.

You left an integral groan, trying to remain calm. You can do this, Y/n. Taking a deep breath and then exhaling, you gathered all your strength to stretch out your legs and arms in an attempt to reach the top shelf. Wiggling and pushing yourself on your tiptoes, you tried to hold on to the shelf with your one hand and grab the book with the other.

This plan could really work, yet instead of grabbing the book, you pushed it further into the shelf. There was a stepladder around here the last time, where the fuck is it now?

Sighing in frustration, your feet touched the ground again. Asking for help isn’t an option; you would rather lock yourself up in a room to hide the embarrassment of showing such a weakness. And it wasn't even a weakness, just your pure stupidity.

Looking around the corridors in hopes of finding that stepladder you needed, a shadow came upon you, reaching out a hand over your head.

“You were looking for this?” a low voice asked, barely upon a whisper. You turned around to see a boy your age standing in front of you, very close to you, stretching out his hand to you. And he was holding the book you wanted.

You blinked a few times, moving your gaze from him to the book and back to him. With swift movements, you took the book from his hands. “Yeah, thanks,” you whispered, looking down at your feet.

The boy didn’t move. He was standing still in front of you and you had no idea why. You could feel his burning gaze on you, traveling up and down your body to take in your full figure, his soft breathing as the only sound that could be distinguished in such an awkward silence.

“So,” he trailed off, with a prominent vocal fry in the way he spoke. He cleared his throat and you lifted your head to meet his eyes. “Introduction to Fashion Design, huh?” he asked.

His eyes were colored brown, so dark that they almost looked like an abyss you could get lost in. His nose was sharp, placed right in the center of his face, balancing every single one of his other features. His completely non-bumpy nose bridge led down to his lips, not thin but not full, stretched in an unreadable, Mona Lisa-like smirk that you couldn’t interpret. His jawline was forming a perfect triangular symmetry, connecting all his characteristics together in harmonious ways. You looked back into his eyes to finally notice the thick, expressive eyebrows framing every single detail on his face, slightly lifted due to the question he asked you seconds ago. His hair was short and bleached to a whitish platinum blonde color, neatly styled in a way that his bangs were parted to the sides of his forehead, split in an almost mathematical manner. You tried to find a flaw, something that didn’t fit with the rest of his facial features, but your attempts were in vain. He was perfect.

He was in fact gorgeous. Where the hell was he hidden all this time? Maybe you should have been coming to the library more often when Yerim and Jisung asked you to.

You realized you were now staring at him, because he chuckled, smirk lifting upwards to show his ironic and teasing intention hidden behind it, eyes glimmering and brows going even higher. You also failed to notice that he was now leaning towards you, as he rested his arm on the shelf behind you, the one right above your head. “Staring much, kitten?” the teasing tone now obvious in his voice.

You gulped and dragged your eyes along his body, fully taking a look of his entire figure. He was taller than you, and he seemed quite buff under the hoodie and sweatpants he was wearing. The broadness of his shoulders and sturdiness of his stance betrayed his athletic physique. You tried to keep eye contact with him, smiling in an attempt to return the teasing attitude he had. “Are you flirting, Mr. buff guy?” you provoked him, laughing at the intentional choice of the teasing nickname. And you had no idea how you could master to give off such an attitude when you had such a good-looking guy standing inches away from you.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes playfully at your witty comment, looking right into your eyes, The fooling smirk he had plastered across his lips earlier was now replaced by a smile, a genuine one that hinted some interest. “You’re fun, I like you,” he said.

“Do you mean fun or funny?” you kept toying with him as he seemed to like it. “So you’re amusing, too” he said, but his voice implied that this comment wasn’t addressed to you, rather it was an observation he voiced out loud.

“Well, you seem amused so I won’t deny it,” you said and he laughed out of embarrassment. His laugh probably came out louder than what he intended, because someone from the corridor behind you shushed him, reminding him of what this place was. So he wasn’t that hard to read, after all. “Why do you need this huge ass book, anyway?” he changed the subject, tossing the conversation to you.

“Well, as you can see I study fashion design,” you said, “and I am currently suffering from a severe designer’s block so maybe this book will help me”.

“I’ve written some articles on fashion,” he said nonchalantly. “I can send you some of them, if you want. You might get some inspiration,” he added.

“You? Articles? About fashion?” you asked him in disbelief and he responded with one of his annoying chuckles he gave you earlier. “I study journalism, kitten. Writing magazine articles is part of the job, so I was assigned some fashion bits at some point,” he said.

“Now I’m amused,” you confessed honestly, raising your eyebrows. This was the last thing you expected from a guy that looked like that, whatever that would mean. He suddenly wasn't just a handsome, flirty boy but he actually became quite interesting.

“Yeah, maybe you’ve read some of them already. Well, I hope you haven’t because this way I have an excuse to contact you. I’m Na Jaemin,” he introduced himself, stretching out his hand initiating a handshake.

You accepted his handshake and introduced yourself too. “I’m Y/n,” you said, smirking at him due to his smooth flirtatious tactics that you hated to admit that they had you swept under his feet so easily.

“You can send the articles to my email address, do you happen to have a pen on you?” you asked him and he rolled his eyes once again. After all this time you were talking so close to one another, he took a step further back to search through the pockets of his sweatpants. He took out a scratch pad from his right pocket and a pen from his left. He moved the objects in the air triumphantly, raising his eyebrows at you. “I study journalism, remember?” he pouted and you chuckled.

He handed you the pen and notebook and you scribbled your email address on a random blank page you found as you flipped it open. You gave it back to him and he took it, looking at what you wrote down with drawn eyebrows, as if he tried to memorize it. “I was actually expecting you to write your phone number too, but it’s cool,” he said with a fake sadness in his flirty tone.

You giggled. “You can’t send me articles through my phone number, you know?”

He lifted his head and smirked at you, but in a way he hadn’t done so already. You could sense some excitement. “We’ll be in touch, kitten,” he said before turning on his heels, leaving you standing on the empty library corridor, burning like a rising flame.

hot lava builds up inside me, upon a single glance of yours scorching hot, scalding, sizzling, roasting, boiling, one more look from your fiery eyes, and my volcano will erupt — without any warning.

Friday, October 10th, 1997

“So you’re telling me that you carried out this full conversation while whispering?” Yerim asked confused, sipping from her caramel flavored hot chocolate.

“Basically, yeah. I mean, we were at the library. That’s how people are supposed to talk there,” you answered and she glared at you. “People aren’t supposed to talk at all in the library, Y/n,” Yerim deadpanned and you scoffed.

“That’s not the issue now, Yerim, focus,” you told her, averting her attention to what you had to say. “The thing is, I’ve never seen him before. And now he suddenly comes, looking as if he were sculpted by the gods, and he flirts with me!” you exclaimed.

Yerim opened her mouth to speak but she was cut off by Jisung, who rushed to your table with a coffee cup in his hand, slipping into one of the empty chairs. “Who haven’t you seen before?” he asked.

Last night, after your encounter with this guy, Jaemin, you couldn’t concentrate anymore. Your mind was occupied with the image of him, the way he looked into your eyes so attentively, the amusing tone of his words and the bulky physique that you could already remember in detail because of how much you stared at him.

So you took your things and left the library because you felt shy. The confidence that had completely engulfed you while you were talking with him vanished abruptly and you immediately came back to your regular, shy self. You couldn’t admit to anyone, not even yourself, how flustered he left you after your brief first meeting with him, so you couldn’t face your friends after this, because your shyness would turn into embarrassment.

Jaemin sent you the fashion articles he had written, indeed, but that was it. You simply sent him back a ‘thank you’ email and that was the end of the conversation. Since neither of the two tried to continue it, you decided to just leave him be for the moment. You wouldn’t be able to say, or rather email him, anything proper after how bashful he left you. You actually took the time to read his articles instead, but they weren’t as helpful as you hoped they would be. At least you were thankful he kept his word and put in some effort.

You didn’t know Jaemin. But during the few minutes that you met him, the only thing you could read about him was that he was unreadable. Or, at least, difficult to read. The sharpness in his soft features, the softness of his tough body, and the deep brown eyes that were imprinted inside your mind hid things you couldn’t decipher.

His external appearance definitely lured you in, but the mysterious nature of his mind was what kept you intrigued.

So the next morning, you asked Yerim and Jisung to hang out at ‘Caramel Craze’. Jisung had a morning shift, so during his lunch break, he would have time to catch up with everything you had to say about Jaemin.

Jisung’s eyes traveled between you and Yerim, waiting for one of you to answer his question. You turned to him and hit him back with another question instead of answering his. “Ji, do you happen to know any Na Jaemin?”

His eyes lit up in realization. “Yeah, I do. He comes here quite often,” he said. In a matter of milliseconds, he narrowed his eyes at your confused ones. “Why, what about him?” he asked.

You blinked a few times. “You know him? And he comes here? Here, as in ‘Caramel Craze’? How have I never seen him?” you fired him with all your thoughts that you voiced out into questions and he stayed still, looking at you as if you were a madwoman.

“Yeah,” he trailed off, “I mean, how could you see him when you always look out the window? And then you constantly write on your notebook?” Jisung said and Yerim laughed.

“Don’t do her like that, Ji,” Yerim said. “She met him last night in the library. And apparently she developed a crush on him overnight,” she said and you slapped her shoulder. She let out a yelp and rubbed her shoulder right where you hit her, obviously in a dramatic manner.

“I don’t have a crush on him,” you said. But you do have a crush on him. Maybe it wasn’t a crush, but it was a great interest. You couldn't stop thinking about him, and the most frustrating thing was that you didn’t know what was so charming about him that he had you acting like this. You were too ashamed to admit to any growing feelings towards him, because you didn’t even know him. And even if you did have feelings, you would never voice them out; the words were stuck in your throat and could only be released through your silly little poems.

You repeated everything you told Yerim earlier so that Jisung knew about what happened at the library. Jisung listened closely, sipping from his coffee cup, nodding and humming at each of your sentences. When you finished, he placed his coffee cup on the table and leaned back into his chair, shrugging. “Why don’t you ask him to hang out?” he suggested.

Your eyes widened and your cheeks blazed with heat. “Are you serious?” you asked him.

“I might have to agree with him, Y/n,” Yerim pouted while fiddling with her fingers.

“I didn’t tell you to ask him out,” Jisung started, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned towards the table, “I told you to ask him to hang out. There’s a difference. You want to get to know him better, so you need to spend time with him” he said.

You realized that Jisung was right. He didn’t tell you anything you didn’t already know, but hearing it out put some sense into you and prompted you to act beyond your thoughts. You were too shy to approach him, though. It still amazed you how well you handled his flirting and you were afraid that your actual reserved personality would put him off.

You didn’t even know why you were so curious about his idea of you. Were you that interested in him? You didn’t particularly mean to impress him, you just wanted to meet his expectations, whatever they might be. Your way of thinking was unknown to you, which made you believe you were starting to sound kind of desperate. And you absolutely hated that a boy had you acting so unsure of yourself.

Monday, October 13th, 1997

“So, what did you think about my articles? Were they any help?” Jaemin asked you curiously as he slowly propped himself up, resting on his elbows that were touching the moist grass.

You had just finished your morning classes and were heading to your dorm when you bumped into none other than Na Jaemin himself. You preferred the fact that you met him this way, on a random day on campus. It saved you from all your embarrassment and second thoughts you had about sending him an email. Who even sends an email for such a silly reason? It was times like this that you wished he had given you his phone number. So it was better this way. He seemed quite thrilled to see you, so you couldn’t bring yourself to refuse his offer of an impromptu picnic on the campus’ hill.

The weather wasn’t very ideal for a picnic, though. Spring needed to wait for her turn to come, so for now fall was in charge of setting the mood. The soft gray clouds were playing hide and seek with the sun and, if the sun cheated, the clouds would drop a couple of tears here and there out of annoyance. The freshly-cut grass beneath you was clearly affected by the clouds’ behavior, so you laid your jacket down and sat on it in order to prevent the dampness from wetting your pants.

You sat down on your jacket, knees drawn to your chest. You were looking ahead of you, eyes scanning around the open campus thinking of where all these people were going. Faces kept on coming and going, mouths talking and laughing and screaming, brains occupied with thoughts and stress and concerns. You could spend an entire fortune if it meant that you could have access to every little thing all these people were thinking about. But you were mostly interested in the thoughts and concerns that occupied the brain of the boy who was laying right beside you.

“Thank you for sending the articles, really. I honestly didn’t expect you to do it, but thanks. The thing is, though, they didn’t help me that much. But still, I appreciate it,” you answered with more honesty than what you intended. You didn’t have the heart to tell Jaemin that his articles were almost useless for what you wanted, so you tried to say it to him as carefully as possible. It wasn’t even his fault, there were good articles and this surprised you pleasantly, it was too bad they didn’t work for the topic of your assignment.

Jaemin frowned at your response. “Damn, were they that bad?” he voiced out his thoughts with a tone that hinted at some sadness, and you immediately turned to look at him. You lifted your hand to use it as a shield, as a sunray peeked through the clouds and fell right on your eyes.

“What? No, what are you talking about? Your articles were great, just not what I needed,” you reassured him but he shook his head, lost in worry. The sunray moved and rested on Jaemin’s face, which earned a frowning look from him, squinting his eyes at the violence of the light.

“I don’t know,” he started, not looking directly at you, “sometimes I feel like I suck at what I do. I am probably a shit journalist.”

You fully turned your body to look at him directly and you couldn’t explain why you felt the sudden urge to slap some sense into him. The last thing you expected from a guy like him was to be insecure of himself and his capabilities.

“What are you even talking about?” you said, and he turned to look up at you, waiting for what you had to say next. “Those articles were great; your writing was precise, the content was informative and it was crystal clear that you worked your ass off to do this type of research. Look, I’ve only known you for like, what, five days? And we haven’t even talked during half of them, but you seem like a really good journalist. Never underestimate yourself again,” you encouraged him but the frown never left his beautiful face.

Jaemin scoffed and looked down on his lap, swaying his feet so the tips of his shoes touched each other. “I don’t know, it’s just,” he started again, pausing a little to think. He lifted his head and looked at you with his deep brown eyes, that hid a slight sign of dissatisfaction. “Everything is so much easier with photos,” he said.

You visibly blinked a couple of times at the ambiguity of his words and he took it as a sign to elaborate. “You know, sometimes I just wish I could abandon everything, grab my camera and just…just take pictures of things,” he said.

You stared at him. His words went right into you. You resonated with what he said, you related to his concern and just stayed still, eyes focused on the grass, reflecting on his worries.

Sometimes you felt like this too. Sometimes, you just wanted to leave everything and everyone behind, lock yourself in the comfort of your room and get lost in words. You wanted to block everything, focus on your notebook and just start pouring out your entire inner self onto the paper.

“I think,” you whispered, “I think I understand how you feel,” you said and Jaemin nodded his head. It wasn’t a nod of agreement, nor a nod of understanding, but rather a nod of feeling heard.

You were taken aback by the way Jaemin opened up to you so easily. Behind the façade of the flirty, witty, handsome boy hid a boy full of concern, worry and insecurity. His mindset intrigued you even more, and you were captivated with the way he expressed himself to you with such firmness. It felt as if you just turned over the hardcover of a huge book, eagerly but hesitantly brushing your finger against the front page.

my journey to the vastness of your intellect began — let me travel all over it, walk along your roads, skip around the corners of your parks, run through the sand of your beaches, jump on the train to your heart. i just took the first snapshot of your mind; i would love to stay in this place.

Something light and wet fell on top of your head, landing right on the middle part of your hair. You winced at the sudden sensation, lifting your head upwards instinctively. Jaemin did the same, and a droplet of rain fell on his cheek. The clouds lost another round of hide and seek to the sun, and their anger started becoming obvious as more and more droplets fell on your faces and down to the already damp grass.

You exchanged a quick look with Jaemin and quickly got up from the grass, picking up your jackets. The back of your jacket was damp and a lot of tiny green specs were stuck all over it. You made a vain attempt to shake them off, but the droplets fell quicker with a sharper manner and soon enough the water seeped through your clothes.

You shivered a little but remained still, not moving the slightest. Jaemin was standing still too, looking at you attentively with one of those expressions you could never read. Was he smirking? Smiling? Grinning? His face started becoming a bit blurry due to a couple of rain droplets that fell in your eyes.

You rubbed the droplets off your eyes and looked at Jaemin with a clearer eyesight. Now he was indeed smiling. You didn’t know why he was smiling, and you didn’t realize how contagious his smile was because now you were smiling at him too. And as more droplets fell on your bodies, your smiles turned into laughter.

You and Jaemin were laughing, for no particular reason. Your clothes clung to your body due to the rain, and your hair was almost soaking wet. Despite the shivers running down your body from the abrupt change of the weather, your heart was filled with comfortable warmth and you didn’t bother to move until Jaemin spoke in between his laughter. “Quick, we’re gonna get wet!”

He held his jacket above his head to create a makeshift umbrella and you followed by doing the same, even though both of you were practically soaked. Without any warning, he grabbed your hand with his firm one and started running. You followed him, turning your fast walking into a quick run in order to match his pace. You let him lead you, smiles never leaving your faces, running towards an undefined destination.

Later during the day, when the sun was slowly moving further down the horizon, you found yourself laying in the comfort of your bedsheets, feeling surprisingly calm despite the almost aggressive pattering of raindrops on your window. You could say that this sound was rather the reason for keeping your mind at ease, because if it weren’t for this distraction, you would be going insane.

After you ran away from the campus park with Jaemin due to the sudden heavy rainfall, the two of you found yourselves drawn to the closest and coziest place that would keep you covered from the rain; and that is ‘Caramel Craze’. With Jaemin leading you by a couple steps, he barged into the coffee shop, practically passing through the glass door and entering the caramel-scented atmosphere that blocked away the threatening water force that soaked you entirely. Thankfully, the shop was relatively empty, and thankfully, Jisung was working there at that moment.

At the abrupt sound of you and Jaemin violently entering the coffee shop, Jisung knocked over a plastic coffee cup on the counter, right before he was about to hand it to the customer who just ordered it. Luckily, he had sealed the top part of the cup very well, so there was no sign of the liquid container spilled. Jisung apologized to the customer numerous times, panting and bowing nervously. The customer spared him a lopsided smile and left the shop, leaving Jisung behind, who was still apologizing under his breath.

He didn’t blame you or Jaemin for scaring him; he always blamed himself for being so sensitive to sounds, even though both you and Yerim had told him multiple times that it wasn’t his fault either.

Jisung then noticed that you and Jaemin were wet everywhere from the very top of your head down to your toes, water droplets falling from your hair down to the tiled floor and mud smeared from your shoes on the same tiled floor with every hesitant step you took. He quickly walked over the counter and came closer to you, offering you some hand towels he kept in his apron to help you dry yourselves as much as possible.

He then gave you his umbrella and asked both of you to go home. You, then, told him to keep his umbrella because he would need it, but he denied, saying something along the lines of ‘you guys will get a cold’ and ‘Yerim will pick me up’.

So you left ‘Caramel Craze’ with Jaemin, shortly after you patted your clothes somewhat dry and caught your breath from your previous marathon in the rain. Jaemin insisted on walking you home first to make sure that you wouldn’t get struck by lightning on your way, and then he would go to his dorm too. He kept his word and only left when he saw you enter the front door of your dorm building, keeping Jisung’s umbrella with him, as the rain didn’t seem to get any calmer at all.

And now, after you took a warm shower, you stayed in your room, hugging your pillows while lying in bed, trying to keep your thoughts away from the one thing that keeps on occupying your mind.

And that is Jaemin.

Only a week before today, you had no idea that this guy even existed. You had never seen him around, or even heard of him, and now, after one brief encounter you had with him at the library, he has become the only thing you’ve been thinking about. And the fact that you keep on having more and more encounters with him doesn’t help at all.

You didn't know Jaemin very well. In fact, you barely knew him. The only times you talked with him were when you first met, then a couple of emails you exchanged, and finally today with your eventful hangout.

You didn’t know him for a long time, definitely, and all these brief encounters with him weren’t enough for you to know him better. But even from this little time that you had spent with him, you knew for sure that he was a person worth getting to know better.

Jaemin was flirty, funny, smooth with his words, wrapping you around his finger in an instant and hooking you with just a smile that lights up his entire face. He is willing to help, he is curious and careful. But Jaemin is also just a regular college student, just like you, and he shares the same anxieties as you do. You were surprised by his openness and honesty earlier today, and, even though you were a little shy around him before, now you feel like you grew significantly closer to him.

All these traits you found in him made you realize how much you respected Jaemin as a friend. Although you couldn’t call him a friend yet, you knew well enough that you wanted to keep him as one. And the more he kept on occupying your mind and you kept on thinking not only of his personality but also his insanely good looks, you started to wonder if you wanted to develop a relationship with him that went beyond what you called friendship.

It was too soon to admit that you were slowly developing a crush on him. You were even more embarrassed to admit it when you thought about how fast you were falling for him and how the most trivial of things made you swoon over him. Instead, you kept on denying any feelings that were building up inside your heart because you knew that, if you let them free, you wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else.

You tried to distract yourself by focusing on the repeating pattering sound of the rain when your eyes fell on the books and notes scattered everywhere on top of your desk. Your focus shifted to your studies, using them as an excuse to keep your mind from constantly thinking about the platinum blond-haired boy with the wide smile and the broad shoulders.

It was already mid fall. You were supposed to deliver your assignment by the end of the winter semester if you wanted to earn that scholarship abroad. With every leaf that crunched under your shoe, every droplet of rain that fell, every branch of the trees that moved along the wind, you were getting closer and closer to what you wanted the most; to pursue your studies in a foreign country, meet a different culture and broaden your horizons, just like every young fashion designer should do.

Yet, you were afraid. You were afraid of all the new things that awaited you, all the troubles that you may encounter, all the people that might judge you.

The rain kept on hitting the double-glass window of your dorm room and you sank deeper and deeper into your mattress. You hugged your pillows as tight as you could, bringing them closer to your body and letting your head fall back, closing your eyes softly, inviting sleep to bring you comfort. You wished you had one of those delicious caramel lattes that you always drank at ‘Caramel Craze’. And most importantly, you wished you had a pair of broad shoulders wrapped around your body and a platinum blond head resting on the crook of your neck.

Tuesday, October 14th, 1997

The next morning, the sun and the clouds seemed to have made up from their last night’s aggressive fight, as the sun spread his sunrays all over the place, hitting your window and dancing all over your room. Their intensity of light sat violently on top of your eyes, forcing them open in an instant.

The sun wasn’t the only reason for your waking up, though. You felt an intense heaviness in your lungs, your throat was dry and your nose was so stuffy that the breathing air could hardly pass through your nostrils.

Fucking rain. You had a cold.

With weak movements, you managed to get out of bed and tried to find something that would ease your cold. You grabbed a spare hoodie you had on your desk chair and put it on, as a sudden shiver ran through your body. Your dorm wasn’t that cold, but your body sure was.

Searching through your bathroom’s cabinets, you managed to find a thermometer that was barely working. I hope it still does the job. Indeed, it didn’t take too long before it beeped and the temperature written on the tiny screen was enough evidence to know that you also had a fever. Great.

Your body felt heavy and weak, you found it hard and exhausting to breathe and the atmosphere around the closed space was inexplicably cold. Jisung warned you not to catch a cold, but it turns out that it was an inevitable outcome concerning last night’s weather.

With long, dragging steps, you managed to take a painkiller and make yourself some hot green tea. With frail fingers, you turned on your desktop to check today’s news. While you were waiting for the computer to load, you noticed the tiny screen of your Nokia flashing, indicating that you had voicemails. You opened your phone to listen to them as you logged into your email account.

You have six voicemails from: Jisung

You smiled at the notification and pressed play. Jisung’s deep anxious voice resonated in the small dorm room and you couldn't help but giggle at how worried he sounded about your well-being. You made a mental note to call him later and assure him that you were fine, even though you were burning in fever.

When you turned your attention back to your computer, you found one unread email from Jaemin. You weren’t sure if you expected it or not, but it made you curious when you saw the time the email was delivered. 20 minutes ago.

He could just leave a voicemail or send a short SMS like normal people. Why does he have to be so dramatic? Oh, yeah. He still doesn’t have my number.

You quickly opened the email and read through it very carefully. Apparently, he was feeling the same way as you did. His throat was sore, his body was aching and when he tried to talk, the soreness of his throat led him to a coughing mess.

Unfortunately, you weren’t quick enough to avoid getting soaked in the rain, and the fact that you took it even further by running into this mess of a weather wasn’t the brightest idea. But you can’t say that you regretted it, not even the slightest; the memory of you and the boy that piqued your interest to the fullest, running, laughing and holding hands in the rain may be recent, but it is definitely engraved in your mind. And it certainly awoke feelings that you hadn’t felt for another human being before.

After drinking half of your cup of tea, your body felt a bit stronger than it was earlier, signifying that the painkiller started to work. You quickly sent Jaemin an email asking him for his phone number. It would be so much easier this way. You were bold about it and the shame hadn’t kicked in yet. You couldn't keep on communicating with him solely through emails. You needed something quicker and more direct than that.

Jaemin was quick to respond with his phone number, accompanied with a smiley emoticon. You smirked at that and slowly and carefully pressed the number he sent you on the tiny device. Gathering all your courage, you cleared your throat and waited for him to pick up at each beeping sound that passed.

You almost didn’t want him to pick up, though. The fast beating of your heart and the sharp breaths you took revealed your nervousness. No matter how comfortable you felt in his presence, any initiation of contact between the two of you from your part still made you nervous. You didn’t know how to approach him without feeling like you’re embarrassing yourself and this made your relationship with him awkward in theory.

“Hello?” his voice, deep and hoarse, echoed in your ear and your fingers trembled at the sound, finding it difficult to properly hold the phone in place. “Hey, Jaemin,” you cleared your throat but your voice still sounded quite husky, “how are you?” you asked.

You heard Jaemin sigh from the other side of the phone before he quickly cleared his throat. “Not very well,kitten,” he coughed, “I think you can probably tell”.

You let out a breathy laugh, completely ignoring the familiar nickname he liked to use. Your voice was giving up already and this was the loudest it would come out. “Likewise, I feel awful” you said and it was his turn to laugh now.

“Listen,” he groaned and immediately coughed a few times to open up his voice, “our little hangout session didn’t end well, so,” he trailed off, “do you wanna come over later? At my dorm?” he asked.

Your eyes widened in surprise and you felt your fever rising again at his straightforwardness.

“B-but,” you stuttered, “we both have a cold. Do you think it’s a good idea?” you asked, trying to avoid seeing him in this situation.

“Exactly! We’re both cold, so what’s the matter? I j-just wanted to s-see you,” he stuttered his words due to his dry coughing.

He was right. You both already had a cold, so there was no risk of spreading any viruses between you. And it would be a huge lie if you said you didn’t want to see him. As much as he made you nervous, there was no denying the fact that he offered you great comfort. His presence felt warm and homely like an embrace and the quietness of his thoughts left room for conversations to unfold. You were grateful he was the one who asked you to hang out, because, as much as you liked him and his company, his intimidating aura and your slowly-developing crush on him were enough excuses for you to avoid initiating any contact.

You finally sighed and smirked at Jaemin’s tone, which was far from persuasive but whiny enough for you to fold. “Make sure to drink something warm. I’ll be coming over later,” you said and you smiled brightly at the childish exclamation of happiness from the other side of the phone.

“Your room is cleaner than I thought,” you said as you sat down on the edge of Jaemin’s bed in the middle of his dorm room. Jaemin scoffed and put a hand over his heart, as a way of expressing hurt and betrayal. “Now I feel offended,” he said, but his voice cracked due to his cold which sent both of you in a laughing outburst.

His room was indeed very neat and put-together. Upon entering, you could clearly tell that it belonged to a boy strictly from the boyish scent that engulfed the atmosphere inside those four walls. With minimal furniture and decoration, the room felt almost plain, as if he didn’t actually live there. The only sign of personality inside the room were the pictures hanging on the walls, as well as the journalism books scattered on top of the desk. On the right side of the bed, the short wooden bedside table had collected some specs of dust around the reading lamp. On the left side, closer to the wall, Jaemin had positioned his camera on a tripod.

“Would you like some tea? I had boiled some water earlier and I think there’s still some of it left. It must be enough for two cups,” Jaemin suggested and you nodded, accepting his kind offer.

You didn’t have to speak a word in order for Jaemin to understand you. For some reason, a short and simple up and down movement of your head was the only sign he needed to grasp the positive answer you expressed at his offer. He was quick to turn his heel and go to the single kitchen counter of the dorm to grab two tea cups, placing one chamomile tea bag on each of the cups and slowly pouring the boiled water from a kettle in the cups.

You could see his actions unfolding with the corner of your eye. His dorm room was just a little smaller than yours; there was one big room that functioned both as a living room and a kitchen, a bathroom big enough to fit just one person and a bedroom which included a bed, a tall and narrow double wardrobe, a nightstand and a desk. You found yourself staring at Jaemin, watching him carefully as he filled the cups with the flavored warm liquid, his movements slow and weakened due to his ill state. He would halt his movements sometimes to cough on the inside of his elbow and then go back to what he was doing. His broad back and shoulders hunched as he slightly bent his body downwards to reach the short countertop, and you imagined how his toned back muscles would flex under his hoodie with his every movement.

You couldn’t see the entirety of his face, just a glimpse of his side profile every time he moved around the so-called kitchen area of the room. His defined features darkened due to the shadow that casted upon his face, created by the yellow light that illuminated the tiny space. You weren’t sure why but you felt incredibly attracted to him at that moment. Even with the dark circles under his eyes, indicating his lack of sleep due to his cold, his puffy red nose and swollen lips, he still looked beautiful.

You’ve never called him beautiful. Your attraction towards him was clear, but the fact that you still find him presentable in such a state ringed a bell inside your head and you didn’t really like the sound of it.

Jaemin placed the kettle back on the counter and picked up the now full tea cups, clearing his throat in order to suppress a cough. You quickly teared your gaze away from him, fixing it on the pictures hanging on his walls. Your eyes landed upon a picture of the open sea.

“What are you looking at?” Jaemin asked as he handed you one of the teacups, his voice rough. He coughed a few times, giving you time to think of an answer. He placed his own teacup on his bedside table and then climbed on his bed, sitting cross-legged with his back pressed against the headboard.

I was looking at you thinking about how beautiful you look and how amazed I am by your aura and how I am afraid I am falling in love with you but I don’t want to admit it because it’s stupid, I’ve only known you for a week. You obviously couldn't say that.

You mimicked his position and crossed your legs on the bed too, still holding your cup. “These pictures are beautiful,” you said in a breathy voice, probably due to your cold and not due to your sudden nervousness.

Jaemin suppressed a smile, biting down on his lower lip and quickly shooting a look at the picture-covered wall and then looking back at you. “Thank you,” he said with a rasp, yet it sounded genuine.

You brought the cup to your lips, taking a few sips of the hot chamomile tea, swallowing it carefully as you let it glide down your throat, opening up your vocal chords. “How did you even take a picture of the open sea? Can you fly or something?” you asked him, voice coming out a lot clearer and now Jaemin let out a throaty laugh.

“No, silly. I was at the beach. I took it using this,” he said gesturing towards the tripod on the side of the bed, “It’s called a tripod. With the right angle and zooming in, you get this kind of result,” he finished and you stared at the picture once again.

The sea had a slight movement to it, little waves rising and falling as the bright blue color of the sky reflected a darkness on the water. You couldn’t understand how a photo, a still image of something could contain so many kinetic elements, and the more you focused on it, the more you could see your own eyes appearing through the sea waters because of the reflection caused by the light of Jaemin’s bedroom.

“What’s in that pretty little head of yours, kitten?” Jaemin asked in a whisper, protecting his voice. Without taking your eyes off the photo, you spoke up as loud as you could. “The sea looks so…” you trailed off, “sad,” you found the word you were looking for. This simple small word made Jaemin tilt his head to the side, squinting his eyes in thought. “Why do you say that?” he asked you.

You pouted your lips. “I don’t know”.

His silence prompted you to think further and voice out your thoughts, to make sense of the feeling this image created inside you. At that moment, you wished you had your notebook in hand so that you could write down everything that was inside your head instead of voicing it out. It would be so much easier. But doing that would make the silence awkward rather than comforting, so you gathered all your strength and tried to put into words the emotions you were feeling.

“There’s something about the sea, its blue color and the unexplored depth that evokes such melancholy,” you started, “I just feel empty looking at it. Like there’s a hole inside me as deep as the open sea and it’s so hollow that it oozes with gloom and somberness,” you finished and Jaemin let out a stifled laugh, hinting at an ironic tone.

You turned to face him for the first time after you entered his dorm and your expression must have looked as if you were misunderstood, so Jaemin stopped his laugh abruptly and his features molded to a serious face. “I mean, you poets are so desperate to read so much into things. Not everything has to be depressing or sad. I look at this image as something that gives me calmness, serenity. The blue color fills me with peace and imagination. Why is blue considered a color that represents sadness when it brings such tranquility? I didn’t mean to offend you,” Jaemin said and you cracked a smile at his final comment.

“I’m not offended, I just never thought of it that way,” you whispered and you sipped some of your tea to ease your throat which had become hoarse again. “And I’m not a poet,” you deadpanned.

Jaemin couldn’t help but smile widely, his full teeth on display. You could swear that you had never seen such a perfect set of teeth before, or just a beautiful smile per se, and you mentally slapped yourself for finding someone’s teeth attractive.

“But you are, I’ve seen that notebook you have. That day at the library. You didn’t notice me but after you went back to study I followed you and saw you writing on it. I couldn’t make out what you were writing, but the format of it looked like a poem,” Jaemin said and your mouth dropped open. You never wanted him to find out about this. These little ‘poems’ were everything you were feeling, it was just between you and yourself. Only Yerim and Jisung knew about it and they had never landed a hand on it. Only you were allowed to see what was inside of it.

“I will not comment on the fact that you followed me, stalker,” you emphasized the last word and Jaemin managed to smile even wider, “but in a sense, yeah, I am a poet. But it’s not what you think it is,” you said, drifting your gaze to somewhere, anywhere, away from his eyes.

“Then what is it?” he asked, waiting for you to elaborate.

You didn’t know Jaemin for a long time. That was for sure. But what you definitely knew very well was the urge to open up to him, to finally be able to say everything you felt, everything you thought about without any inhibitions or any fear of judgment. You’ve never clicked like this with anyone before. Jaemin was indeed calmness personified; you knew that he would listen to you whenever you just wanted to vent. He had his way of bringing out your true self, he radiated such security and you just couldn’t help but let your inner self loose, stripping your inner consciousness naked and allowing him to access your bare mind.

“The reason I use this notebook is because it helps me express myself,” you began and Jaemin’s eyes softened. “I-I struggle with this sometimes, you know, saying what I want or what I feel,” you said and gulped in an attempt to ease your sore throat, the teacup in your hands long forgotten. “So I use this to write down all of my thoughts. This way I can let it all out without feeling any pressure from others to talk about things,” you finished off and Jaemin stood still, searching for your eyes which now landed on his compassionate gaze.

“This is so beautiful,” he said with a squeaky raspy voice and the both of you struggled not to laugh at the sound. “I totally understand you, I’m not the best at expressing myself either,” he said and looked around his room, gesturing at the walls. “That’s why I take these,” he mumbled, moving his eyes around to look at the hanging photos, “photography helps me put some boundaries inside my head and kinda gives my feelings substance, like they become tangible, you know?” he said and you nodded in understanding.

“I guess we’re not that different after all,” you smiled and Jaemin giggled at your observation. “You know, when we first met at the library you seemed so cocky, so confident, as if you owned the place. You made me feel shy, but it turns out you’re as much of a hopeless romantic as I am. It’s a shame, it ruins your buff aesthetic,” you said and Jaemin burst into laughter.

He coughed a couple times because laughing caused damage to his already sick vocal cords and regained his composure. “Maybe we’re both too emotionally intelligent and seek ways to express ourselves artistically. The difference is that you picture your emotions through words, while I try to voice out my own feelings with photos,” he said.

You liked what he said because it was true. Your poems were your way of conversing with yourself and the means to communicate what you wanted. Jaemin probably felt the same way about his photos and it seemed to you that maybe you could gain access to his mind through them, speaking to each other through a code of communication that only you and him shared.

“Now who’s the actual poet?” you joked and Jaemin threw his bunny plushie at you. The two of you were laughing, and this simple action just felt so intimate with Jaemin. If every time you spent time with him was like this, then you surely wanted to spend a big part of your life with him.

You brought the teacup to your lips but Jaemin’s sudden movement made your hands wiggle, causing a few droplets of tea to fly up and down your shirt. “Hey, now I have tea stains!” you squealed and you immediately regretted having this reaction as you physically felt your throat ache.

“Oh shut up,” Jaemin said playfully, moving towards the camera resting on the tripod. He took the camera in his hands and sat back down on the bed, right at the place he was sitting earlier. With a few clicks on some buttons, he brought the camera close to his face. He lifted one knee and rested the elbow of the hand holding the camera for support. Jaemin squinted his eye and with a quick push of a button, a soft click was heard in the quiet room.

You stood there still, looking at Jaemin with a confused look as he set his camera aside and grabbed his teacup instead, tilting his head backwards to gulp down all the liquid content left inside the cup. He gulped loudly as he finished and placed the cup on his nightstand with a thud.

“Um, what did you do, exactly?” you asked him and he shrugged. “I took a picture of you. Too bad you can’t see it now. I have to print it first,” he said and you froze.

“Are you an idiot? Why would you do that? I probably look awful! I mean, you didn’t even warn me,” you whined and Jaemin rolled his eyes.

“You’re so dramatic, Y/n. It was just a picture. You know, to remember our little sick hang out session. You’re gonna look back at it in a few months and laugh at our pathetic condition. Also, don’t yell, kitten, you’ll damage your voice,” Jaemin said and you frowned, you hated that he was right.

“And if you want my honest opinion,” he continued, “you didn’t look awful. Y-You actually looked very beautiful,” he whispered the last part of his sentence and focused on the bunny plushie you threw at you earlier, suddenly finding it interesting.

You suppressed a smile and muttered a small ‘thanks’ under your breath. You didn’t know if he heard it or not. If he did, he acted as if he didn’t hear it. Jaemin thinks I’m beautiful.

“Can I ask you something, Y/n?” Jaemin said after a few awkward seconds and you looked into his eyes expectantly, waiting for his question. “Do you know what a ‘blue person’ is?” he asked and you made a confused face which earned a giggle from him.

“Well,” he started, “it’s a person who comes into your life when you need them the most. A person who inspires stability and loyalty, who makes you change your perspective in life for the better, someone who has a soothing effect on you,” he said and took a moment to process this.

You’ve never thought about it before, but in that moment, sitting on Jaemin’s bed talking about things that are serious yet make no sense at all, drinking warm tea and laughing at your sick condition which was caused by your silliness and carelessness, you brought a particular face in your mind, coming to the sudden realization that you knew exactly who your blue person was.

Saturday, November 15th, 1997

“Do you smell that?” Jaemin asked as he sniffed, his nose scrunching at the apparent unpleasant scent he could sense. “No?” you responded confused, sniffing in an attempt to smell whatever he was smelling.

“How can you not? This place is 20 square meters big. I swear something is burning,” he said and kept on scrunching his nose, as he took his yellow highlighter and went back to underlining things he found important on the newspaper spread across his lap.

Your eyes widened in surprise when you finally remembered the cinnamon rolls you put earlier in the microwave. “Oh no,” you muttered and stood up from your chair abruptly, going towards the built-in kitchen counters of your dorm. Without even turning off the microwave, you opened the microwave door and pulled out the plate with the two cinnamon rolls, hissing at the touch of your fingers on the hot glass plate. You placed the plate on the empty space of the kitchen counter, looking at the brown-colored cinnamon rolls with almost teary eyes.

“Is everything okay?” Jaemin asked as he walked towards you, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” you turned your head to look at him, “I hope you don’t mind eating a slightly burnt cinnamon roll,” you said and shook his hand off your shoulder, opening the small fridge under the counter to grab a bowl. “I mean, once I put the glaze on top you won’t even be able to taste the burn,” you laughed awkwardly.

Jaemin grabbed your hand and turned your body around fully so that you were entirely facing him. He squeezed your hand slightly and with his free hand and moved a strand of hair that fell on your face behind your ear. “It’s okay, we don’t have to eat them, don’t stress about it. I’ll go grab some fresh ones down at ‘Caramel Craze’. My treat,” he said soothingly, rubbing his thumb unconsciously over the palm of your hand that he was holding.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you let go of his hold and turned back around, grabbing a spoon and dipping it into the bowl with the glaze, scooping some of the glaze with the spoon and spilling it over the cinnamon rolls. “Ugh, I’m so dumb! I can’t even make microwavable pastries!” you cried out and dropped the bowl on the counter as your shaky hands couldn’t hold it anymore. You run both your hands through your hair, inhaling and exhaling deeply. Jaemin moved closer to you and started rubbing your back in circles, as you hunched over the kitchen counter.

“You’re not dumb, don’t make me listen to bullshit. It was just a little mishap, no big deal. In fact,” Jaemin trailed off and let go of your back to grab a cinnamon roll from the plate. You pouted at the sudden lack of his touch, but he didn’t notice. Jaemin took a big bite of the cinnamon roll, chewed a few times and looked at you. “With the glaze on top, you can’t even taste the burn,” he said with a smile and winked at you as he went back inside your bedroom, sitting down at your bed to continue reading the newspaper.

You had known Jaemin for about a month now. And you spent almost every single day with him. Yerim and Jisung whined at you, saying that you don’t make enough time for them anymore and that they’re not your favorite friends now that you’ve met Jaemin. This was not true, but it definitely rubbed them the wrong way when they wouldn’t see you every day, like they used to, because Jaemin would make plans for you and him on the spot.

During this period, you and Jaemin grew significantly closer. You could confidently walk around and say that the two of you were friends, despite the underlying flirty attitude on both sides, and the looks people gave you upon hearing this statement were priceless.

Nobody could understand how a girl like you, shy, introverted, soft-spoken, could hang out with a guy like Jaemin, popular, friendly, outgoing. The two of you might seem the complete opposite of one another, but in reality, you had so many more things in common than people could imagine. They just didn’t wanna see past a person’s external appearance and initial vibe. That’s why your friendship with Jaemin seemed weird and unexpected to them, but to you, it was just right.

You would be fooling yourself though if you said that you only wanted him as your friend. It was undeniable that every time your hands brushed against each other, every time he hugged you, every time he would play with your hair or pinch your cheeks, you wished you could call him more than a friend. Skinship with Jaemin felt so natural, nothing he or you did was forced and there were always genuine intentions behind each touch. You had already laid out your inner self to him, both of you had opened up to each other about different thoughts and worries you had. Expressing your feelings vocally gradually became easier, the words slipping out of your tongue every time Jaemin would ask you what was wrong, and you just melted at the sincere concern in his voice and the curious eyes he looked at you with. So being more comfortable with each others’ bodies was bound to happen at some point.

He made you feel listened to. You didn’t remember when the last time you wrote poems in your notebook was. You didn’t have to. But, to be honest, you also didn’t have the time to write anything. School became hectic and the pressure of deadlines was enough to make you stressed about the assignment that was supposed to earn you the scholarship abroad.

You stood still, taking deep breaths to help yourself calm down. Picking up the plate with the remaining cinnamon roll, you straightened your back and headed towards your desk. You sat down at the chair, turning to face your messy sketchbook filled with semi-colored designs. Your project was progressing a lot and you were kinda proud of it, but not entirely. You kept having doubts about it and the pressure to succeed messed with your entire mentality.

You made a move to pick up your pencil to add a couple of details on a jacket you just designed but you decided otherwise. You hesitated for a second but mastered all your courage instead. Turning your chair around, you looked at Jaemin. He was wearing a concentrated expression on his face, eyebrows drawn together as he was seemingly reading something he found important.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered and immediately cleared your throat. You didn’t expect your voice to come out so small.

At the faint sound of your voice, Jaemin averted his gaze from the newspaper to your eyes. “About what?” he asked, his furrowed eyebrows carrying confusion now.

“About whatever that was earlier. I don’t know what’s got to me, I feel stupid for behaving like this. I’m sorry,” you said and lowered your head to look at your lap. You felt weak under Jaemin’s concerned eyes, and holding eye contact with him at that moment felt like an extreme sport.

Jaemin put down the newspaper and turned his full attention to you. “Aw kitten,” he murmured and your head jolted up at the sound of the nickname he had given you. “It’s okay. You don’t need to apologize about anything,” he reassured you and you felt your lips lift upwards into a grimace that you hoped resembled a smile. “I know you’re stressed about the assignment, I would be too if I were in your shoes. Forget about it already, will you?” he said and you nodded.

Jaemin went to grab his highlighter when your voice halted his movements. “How can you always stay so positive?” you asked him out of pure interest. You were a bit jealous of him, of his way of viewing the world. Even in the worst of moments, when there is no sign of light, he would still find a tiny glimpse of hope to hold on to. You wished you could do that too.

Jaemin offered you a tight lipped smile. “Kitten,” he started, “if people didn’t stay positive about life, we wouldn’t be able to move forward in anything”.

His honesty caught you off guard. He didn’t notice your tangled face as he immediately refocused on his school work. You decided not to push him any further, moving what he said to the very back of your mind. When he felt ready, he would open up to me.

You turned your chair and started working on your assignment too. For a few minutes, both of you remained silent. The room was filled with sounds of pages turning and pencils scratching on paper. Your mind was entirely focused on your project, completely forgetting about the boy who was in the room with you.

Jaemin was keeping notes on the side of a newspaper article when he spoke up, addressing you. “Remind me again, where is that scholarship supposed to be?”

“Canada,” you answered his question without losing your concentration on what you were doing.

Jaemin lost focus and his mind went blank, forming different thoughts inside it. “Damn, that’s,” he mumbled, “that’s a bit far away,” he said with an awkward laugh.

“Yeah,” you smiled nervously, not being able to hide your disbelief. You couldn’t believe an opportunity like that was offered to you, so you had to give your all into that silly project.

“At least you have something planned. You know, something to look forward to, for your career,” he said casually. “Unlike me. I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing, let alone what I wanna do in the future,” he continued.

“Well,” you started, picking up a red-colored pencil to paint the inside of a coat, “I haven’t got the scholarship yet. If I do, then we’ll talk about it”. You switched the red pencil for a blue black. “And you still have lots of time to think about your career, no need to stress about it now”.

“Whatever. The point is, you will get the scholarship, I know you will. I’ve seen your designs and if these don’t deserve a scholarship abroad, then I don’t know what does,” Jaemin said and you giggled at his encouraging words.

“Thank you Jaem,” you said and you couldn't see him, but his eyes lit up with love at the sound of the nickname you gave him on the spot. The beating of his heart quickened abruptly and the pen he was holding slipped from his fingers as his hands became sweaty. He swore his hands weren’t sweaty a few seconds ago.

Before he resumed with his homework, he spared a last glance at you and gulped. He knew that he shouldn’t be feeling whatever it was that he was feeling at that moment.

Friday, December 19th, 1997

Shades of blue, red and yellow reflected on the thick glass of the wall-length window, trapping the little specks of light inside it in such a way it made them look like colorful halos. The fun and playful nature of Christmas lights gave the dull and moody winter atmosphere a hopeful tone, the kind that was in complete contrast with the darkness of this cold season. Feathery flakes of snow in the color of purity were falling rhythmically on the already snow-covered ground, making a little dance in the air due to the chilly breeze in the sky. It was already late afternoon; people were roaming in the streets of Seoul, walking quickly with their heads hanging low in an attempt to prevent the crispiness of the cold from hitting their face. Whether they had finished their night classes or their corporate jobs, all of them were walking towards one specific purpose, the warmth and comfort of their own homes.

You were an exception to this rule, though. Well, not just you. ‘Caramel Craze’ would still be open for about an hour. Students were still sitting at the shop’s tables with their books scattered across the wooden surfaces and their warm coffees accompanying them in plastic cups. Looking at them, you could sympathize with them. Their dark circles under their eyes were prominent and the strong and sweet scent of caramel-flavored coffee made them more sleepy than they already were.

Sitting at your favorite table, you wrapped your fingers around your plastic cup to help transfer some of the liquid’s temperature to your freezing fingers. Winter offers itself for plenty of layering and experimentation in fashion, but the cold weather it comes with is unbearable.

“Hey, girl,” Yerim’s voice shook you out of your thoughts and you greeted her back as she unwrapped the scarf from her neck and folded it at the back of her chair. She sat down, dusting the front of her coat to shake off some snowflakes that had landed on its woolen material and eventually took it off too.

You and Yerim started chit-chatting about your day. She started filling you in with all the details about some guys yelling at each other on campus, but the context of the reason behind their argument was unknown.

Your conversation was interrupted by the screeching of the chair on the tiled floor to your right. You winced at the sound and turned to look at the culprit. Jisung pressed his lips together apologetically and greeted you and Yerim softly. He sat down carefully and lifted the chair as he dragged it closer to the table, shutting his eyes closed as if this would help him avoid any more screeching.

“So, what did you want to tell us Y/n? Come on, I can’t wait anymore,” Jisung complained and you ruffled his hair playfully. “Just wait a bit more, please? Jaemin is not here yet,” you said and he nodded in understanding.

“Oh yeah, we’re still waiting for you boyfriend,” Yerim commented and Jisung snorted, covering his mouth with his fist to prevent his laughing.

“How many times do I have to tell you? He is not my boyfriend,” you reminded them but your defensive tone didn’t seem very convincing to them. Jisung raised his eyebrows and Yerim rolled her eyes, but you couldn’t really do anything about it.

The truth is, you didn’t know what your relationship with Jaemin could be labeled as. He was a very good friend, indeed. But at the same time, he didn’t act like just a friend. During the past month, you and Jaemin practically became attached to the hip; wherever he went you went and wherever you went he went too. He grew closer with Yerim and Jisung too, and the four of you started hanging out together quite often. Jaemin liked your friends a lot and they liked him back too, even though Yerim was a little skeptical about him at first, saying that a popular guy like him couldn’t possibly be that nice. Jisung always disagreed, saying that he found him easy-going and fun to talk to, but he always muttered this under his breath to prevent Yerim from getting angry.

The four of you made a really good team. But there was no denying that Jaemin treated you differently from the other two. At first, you thought that it was maybe because he was more comfortable with you and that it would take him some time to warm up to the others. Time passed, and you were finally able to see the Jaemin you knew with Yerim and Jisung too. But he never found excuses to touch them, or hold deep eye contact with them, or buy them coffees or ask them to hangout without you. He only did all those things with you.

Yerim found this suspicious, but you kept telling her that she was delusional and none of all of this was true. She was just trying to make you feel better about your huge crush on him by feeding into your own delusions, but her tactics made things even worse because every time Jaemin did something remotely romantic, you would overthink about it for days.

It’s not like you couldn’t open up to him about your feelings. The two of you had already gone past that stage. You could talk to Jaemin freely about anything that bothered you and you knew that he would listen, just like you would do. Expressing yourself wasn’t so hard anymore. Jaemin made everything easier. But these were not just any feelings. These were your feelings about him. No matter how bad you wanted to let it all out, the words were stuck in your throat and, even worse, you found it difficult to even write them on paper. So all you could do was ignore them.

A cool gust of wind entered the cozy café when the front door opened, revealing the boy you have been dying to see all day long. Jaemin took a couple of glances around the room to spot where you were sitting, although he knew you would probably be sitting at your favorite table, unless some other people went there first.

His eyes landed on yours, staring at him and waiting eagerly for him to come towards you. With dragging steps, he made his way towards your table and sat down on the chair to your left, his deep brown eyes never leaving yours. “I’m not too late, am I?” he asked, addressing Yerim and Jisung too this time.

“It’s fine, man. I just came too,” Jisung replied to him casually and you didn’t miss the way Yerim smiled at the volume of Jisung’s voice, which was noticeably louder than his usual speaking tone.

“Don’t you have a shift, Jisung?” Jaemin asked as he made himself comfortable on the chair, refusing to take off his puffer jacket. By looking at his shifting posture, you could tell he was feeling a bit uncomfortable in it.

“No, I was working in the morning. Chenle is covering the afternoon shift,” Jisung said and Jaemin nodded, muttering a soft ‘cool’ under his breath.

“Okay, so,” you began speaking to grab their attention. It was becoming harder and harder to keep the secret from them any longer. You just wanted to get it done and over with.

“Let me guess,” Yerim interrupted you, lifting her finger, “you have already booked tickets for our Christmas holiday vacation,” she said and you stared blankly at her.

“Oh I knew it!” Jisung exclaimed, eyes widening. “It’s Jeju, isn’t it?” he asked with great anticipation. Jaemin remained suspiciously calm.

“Jeju in winter? Are you serious?” Yerim cut off Jisung’s enthusiasm in a second, his eyes dropping and lips forming into a soft frown.

“No, actually I’m going back home for the Christmas holidays this year. I’m spending time with my family,” you said but Yerim shrugged upon hearing this statement.

“So? I bet you booked it for after the Christmas holidays then,” he said and turned to Jisung. “But it can’t be Jeju, right?” Yerim asked but the question was mostly directed at Jisung who just sighed in annoyance.

“Actually, guys,” you started, leaning more towards the table to feel physically closer to them. Jaemin mimicked your stance, but the other two remained still in their positions. “I’m not gonna come back to Seoul after the holidays,” you said and they froze.

“What?” Yerim whispered, looking at you with confusion spread across her face.

“Well,” you said, suppressing the smile that was creeping up your lips, “I won’t be back because I got the scholarship. I’m going to Canada!” you said and this time you couldn’t help the wide smile that appeared on your lips.

All three of them looked at you with wide eyes, swarming you with a bunch of exclamations that sounded like a mix of ‘congratulations!’ and ‘I knew you could do it!’ and ‘you deserve this so much’. Yerim even got up from her seat and came to sit next to you in the booth, hugging you so tightly you found it difficult to breathe.

Your eyes were searching your friends’ bright ones filled with excitement for you. They were proud of you. It was obvious. You have been constantly talking about the scholarship and now that you actually got it, it seemed unreal.

Yerim let go of you but still remained seated beside you. “I’m so happy for you, I can’t even think about how much I’m gonna miss you! How did I forget about it completely? What a shitty friend, I was too busy studying for my exams. I gotta tell my friend Mark about it, he’s gonna be so excited!” she said, clapping her hands together.

“Who’s Mark?” Jaemin asked, his voice as cold as the temperature outside. “He’s the coolest! I’ve only met him once but he’s so nice, man,” Jisung said with more excitement than he intended to show.

Yerim turned to Jaemin, reaching for his puffer jacket to remove a platinum blonde hair that fell from his head. “He is a friend of mine. He moved to Canada when we were in elementary school. I had told him about Y/n’s interest in this scholarship and he promised to help her with anything she needed if she got it. And now she did! I’m so excited for you, you can’t imagine!” Yerim addressed her last sentence to you and the smile plastered across your face could not die down at all.

“Don’t bother him too much, Yerim. He’ll probably think I’m completely clueless. Trust me, I can handle myself in a foreign country,” you reassured her but she waved her hands at you, going into a full rambling mode. Jisung would butt in the conversation from time to time to add his own comments, but mostly to agree with Yerim on whatever it was she was saying. Jaemin remained silent, eyes fixed on the wooden table in front of him.

You were fully immersed in the conversation you were having with Yerim and Jisung, which mostly revolved around tips about what to do abroad and warnings about creepy strangers. A loud screeching of a chair echoed in the room, following the rustling of clothes and the decisive thumping of footsteps. You turned your head to see that Jaemin had got up from his chair and was heading towards the café’s front door, opening it and letting it shut close behind him.

You exchanged a weird look with your friends before you got up and followed suit after him. You went outside the crisp atmosphere, your skin meeting the frosty environment. You felt your eyes water at the sudden cold sensation, so you pulled your coat closer to your body. Damn, I left my scarf inside.

Among the huge crowd of people, you managed to spot a certain platinum-haired boy walking towards somewhere you didn’t know. You called out his name, skipping and pushing through the people walking towards the opposite direction, not having the time to apologize to them for your rude behavior.

“Jaemin!” you finally called once you were closer to him and he heard you, turning around to search for the source of the voice calling his name.

Once he spotted you, he sighed and slowly turned his heel to continue walking away. You were quick enough to tug at his jacket before he could make more steps ahead. “Jaemin, listen to me,” you said, your chest heaving up and down.

“What happened? Why did you leave like that?” you asked him, raising your tone of voice thinking that he wouldn’t be able to hear you in the midst of the busy street.

“What was I supposed to do? Sit there and listen to your friends planning out your life abroad? About that random guy you’re supposed to meet there? No, I don’t wanna listen to any of these,” he said with a hint of anger, making a move to turn around again.

You were still holding onto him. You pulled him again and he turned around, sighing deeply. “B-But I thought you were proud of me, I thought you were supporting me on this,” you said. Your vision became blurry, thick clear liquid forming at your lower lash line. It wasn’t the cold that caused this.

“Of course I support you and of course I’m happy for you, you have no idea how proud of you I am. But-”

“But what? What, Jaemin?” you interrupted him.

He shook his head, gulping thickly before he opened his mouth to speak. “I don’t want you to go. I’m not ready for this, okay? For the past two months, I have been living my best life with you around me. I-I can’t just sit here and watch you leave. You’re leaving, Y/n. You’re leaving me,” he said, his voice breaking at his last sentence.

You stared at him in disbelief. He can’t be serious right now.

“I’m gonna miss you too, Jaemin. I really am. But what you’re saying is irrational. It’s only gonna be one semester! I’ll be back before you even notice it. And we’ll always be in touch!” you said, your throat itchy from the shouting, and the tears you were holding in.

“You will forget about me,” he said, lowering his gaze.

“I will not-”

“Yes you will. Y-You know what, Y/n? I was really rooting for you. And I still am. And maybe I’m saying this because I don’t feel ready to let you go, but you don’t really want to pursue this career. Deep inside, you know this too,” Jaemin said and walked away, leaving you in the middle of the pavement, tears streaming down your face uncontrollably, frozen in place like a centuries old iceberg.

thick as ice, my heart burning from the cold inside it, throbbing and shaking like a weeping child; your knife, freshly sharpened at the edges points and cuts through me crack! — shatters fly up and I am bleeding as you melt away, far away

Sunday, January 11th, 1998

As soon as you stepped your foot out of the plane, your body immediately reacted to the winter breeze of the atmosphere. Although you knew that the temperatures in Canada weren’t that different from the ones in Korea, the air in Vancouver felt much fresher and cleaner than the urbanity it carries in Seoul. But as you were standing outside the airport for nearly half an hour with two heavy suitcases in both hands, the cold air became a lot crispier and your clothes weren’t warm enough to keep you from practically freezing.

Yerim promised you that she would send her friend Mark to come pick you up from the airport as soon as you landed. You insisted that he didn’t have to, you were capable enough of finding a taxi and your English was almost at the level of fluency, so arriving safely at your new dorm wouldn’t be a hard task. But you also knew better than to argue with Yerim, so you just let her do her thing. The problem was, you didn’t know what Mark looked like and the fact that you were waiting for so long wasn’t a good sign.

You looked at the watch on your wrist and sighed. He must be in some kind of trouble, it’s been 40 minutes now. You had no means to contact this guy and even if you did, you weren’t sure if your Korean phone number could work in a foreign country. You promised yourself you wouldn’t panic if things don’t go the way you wanted, but at that moment, the fact that you were far away from home started to fully kick in. You were standing outside an airport of a foreign country, in the midst of thousands of strangers passing by you, with no familiar faces in your peripheral vision. The idea of studying abroad was fun in theory, but in practice it actually was scarier than you imagined.

But you had to manage somehow. Winter offered itself for coziness, hot drinks and movie nights; the situation you were currently in reminded you of the exact opposite side of the cold season. You let out a deep sigh, visible like cigarette smoke in the crisp air. You noticed a line of taxis on the other side of the airport entrance and decided that it was the best thing you could do to avoid your fingers and toes from going completely numb. Gathering your luggage, you turned your heel towards the lined-up taxis and made a mental note to explain everything to Yerim later.

“Um, excuse me?” you heard a voice behind you and halted as you recognized that this person was speaking Korean. You turned around and noticed a guy your age with flustered cheeks, wide eyes and heavy breathing staring at you. You understood that he was speaking to you and the gears in your head turned upon realizing who he might be.

“You must be Y/n, am I right?” he asked and you moved closer to him, flashing him a smile. “And you must be the guy who was supposed to pick me up. Mark, I guess?” you asked him back and he offered you a boyish grin. That was cute.

He walked towards you and lifted one of your suitcases. He went to grab the other one too but you stopped him, taking it yourself. “Look, I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting. I know I have no excuse but trust me, when I tell you the traffic in Vancouver is a mess, I really mean it,” he apologized as he began walking towards the airport’s parking lot. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/n,” he said in English, his tone revealing the sincerity of the words he uttered.

“Don’t apologize, I’m the one who should be sorry,” you followed him, trying to match his pace but you realized that he was walking quite fast and with the suitcase weighing you down, you had difficulty catching up with him. “I told Yerim I could manage on my own, but she was so persistent. I didn't want to be a burden,” you apologized. “It’s nice to meet you, too,” you said in English too, just like he did earlier. Mark turned to catch a glimpse of you, smiling at the sound of you switching to the country’s language. His smile didn’t last long; it was replaced by his widening his eyes when he saw how far behind him you actually were.

He stopped to wait for you and when you finally caught up, he stretched his free hand to take your other suitcase from your hand, muttering ‘Give me that, I got this’ under his breath.

Mark sighed as he resumed walking. “I guess you can’t really argue with Yerim, huh?” he asked in English but this didn’t take you by surprise. You decided to start using your English more from now on, since you’ll be needing it more often now.

As soon as you reached the parking lot, Mark stopped at a gray Audi 100 and put your suitcases on the ground as he searched inside his jacket pockets to find the keys. “You own a car?” you asked him in English and he took a double take at you before smiling. “It’s actually my brother’s,” he said as he opened the car trunk, putting your suitcases inside. “I asked him to borrow it, he said no, but I took it anyway,” he said, closing the trunk and you laughed at his nonchalance.

Mark walked towards the driver’s door to unlock the car and quickly stepped inside, unlocking the door at the passenger’s seat from inside so you could get in. He carried such an easy-going and comfortable aura around him, cracking jokes and making you feel welcome even though you only knew him for a few minutes. He was talkative, extroverted and seemed nice. Right away, you knew that reading into him wouldn’t be that difficult, his facial expressions betrayed every single emotion he carried in his heart and you only got that from one simple conversation. He was the exact opposite of Jaemin. But you didn’t know why you felt the sudden urge to specifically compare these two boys with each other.

After your last encounter with Jaemin before Christmas holidays, you didn’t see him or speak to him again. You did not go back to Seoul, but neither you or him made an attempt to contact each other and you weren’t sure why. You didn’t like the way your last encounter with him ended. At that moment, you thought that he was being utterly selfish for speaking to you like that. But looking back at it now, you can see how it must have looked like from his point of view. A person you grew so close with leaving you for a semi-long period of time. It must be as hard for Jaemin as it is for you, even though he is the one who stayed behind. Yerim and Jisung also noticed that Jaemin was distancing himself from them, but they did their best to cheer him up as much as they could.

You missed him. And you missed your friends too. But you missed Jaemin differently because he was more than just a friend. And things became even more complicated because he was less than a lover. This confusing situation between the two of you was becoming a mess, and since neither of you would open up to each other, you thought that maybe taking some distance from one another would be for the best. It was times like this when Jaemin became unreadable, and no matter how close you two were, his deepest thoughts still remained unexplored and far away from the surface.

The sound of a car honk shook you out of your reverie and you were reminded of your surroundings and the person waiting for you inside the car. You skipped towards the right sight of the car and opened the door to the passenger’s seat, stepping inside.

“Everything okay out there?” Mark asked you as he revved up the engine. “Yes,” you responded, wearing your seatbelt, “it’s just that it just hit me that I’m in a foreign country, away from my family and stuff, you know?” you said and Mark nodded, turning on the air conditioning of the car as he reversed the car to drive off the parking lot. The car engine made a loud noise as Mark pressed on the gas, and you guessed that it might be due to the weight it carried and the high temperature of the air condition. The car wasn’t in its best condition anyway.

“That’s how I first felt when I came here,” Mark shrugged, looking at his rear view mirror, “it’s hard at first, but you get used to it. When you’ll have to go back, you won’t even want to leave,” he told you and you smirked, thinking that this scenario is highly likely to happen.

“Yerim forgot to mention what your field of studies is,” Mark initiated the conversation and you realized that comfortable silence wasn’t something he enjoyed.

“I study fashion design,” you said and his mouth dropped open, eyes never leaving the road ahead of him. “No shit!” he exclaimed and you giggled at the sight of his surprised expression, his cartoon-like eyes so wide you thought they would fall off his face any second now. “Damn, I should have worn something better then,” Mark said as he briefly eyed his outfit and you burst into a fit of laughter. “Don’t worry, I don’t dress my kind either,” you said and he giggled playfully, the sound making you take a better look at him.

You could only see his side profile now but you managed to take a quick good look at his face earlier. His eyes had a bambi shape and were a deep shade of brown, carrying a youthful spark in them almost resembling a starry night. His features were sharp, cheekbones popping out and jawline clean-cut as a knife. His small nose had a faintly red undertone to it due to him previously being in the cold for a long time. His thin lips were slightly parted as he stirred the wheel on a crossroad, revealing a set of small teeth that looked a bit crooked from the side, even though you noticed earlier that they are not. His hair was a natural dark brown-black shade, his wavy bangs falling into his eyes in a bowl-cut shape, even though you could see the clean-shaved undercut from the side. As he turned his head to speak to you, you also noticed the uneven shape of his eyes, which added some uniqueness and personality in his looks. Even though he didn’t look like the type of guy you usually found attractive, this particular combination of features in his visuals made him look interestingly adorable.

“That’s true, those fashion majors are kinda loud with their outfit choices. I wouldn’t guess you majored in fashion because, no offense to those crazy-dressed people, you dress normally,” Mark said and you narrowed your eyes at him, sparing him a soft chuckle.

“You didn’t mention what you are studying,” you said, eager to know more about him as his sense of humor and witty responses piqued your interest to the fullest.

“I study literature,” he said and he didn’t miss your surprised expression because he turned his head again, grinning at you with confused eyes. “Wh-What’s wrong with that?” his question sounded genuine, but also hinted at a nervous undertone.

“This is so cool!” you exclaimed and you saw him visibly relax. Just when you thought he was just a fun guy to hang around with, he became one of the coolest people you know with this simple statement.

Mark giggled nervously, eyes back on the road. “Not gonna lie, you had me there for a second. I thought you would find me weird or something,” he said and you rolled your eyes at his response.

“Are you kidding me? I love literature! It’s so cool that you major in it. I actually write small poems from time to time,” you confessed and it was Mark’s turn to widen his eyes and open his mouth in surprise. Again.

Indeed you loved literature and you did write poems, that was true. Those little things you called poems were just all your emotions poured into words in a piece of paper. When Jaemin called you a poet, you immediately denied this title but you knew better than everyone that he was kinda right. Yet your poems were just for you and not many people knew about them. You couldn’t pinpoint what exactly it was that made you open up to Mark so much already, but you just felt safe with him. Similarly to how Jaemin made you feel. You revealed to Mark a part of yourself with so much ease, yet it took you longer to talk to Jaemin about your silly notebook.

Why do I keep comparing Mark to Jaemin?

“Damn, you write poems? Dude, you gotta show me someday. I’m more of a novelist but that’s just too pretentious to admit,” Mark was laughing away both his nervousness and excitement, code-switching between English and Korean. The glimmer in his eyes couldn’t go unnoticed either and you just found his speaking habits cuter and cuter.

I can’t show you my poems, but I like your enthusiasm, you wanted to tell him but you couldn’t. You just nodded instead.

Mark slowed down his driving speed, swerving into a parking lot outside a tall building with plenty of small windows, which you assumed were the dorms. “Well, you know what? I’m actually mad at Yerim now, she didn’t mention that you were so cool,” Mark said and you felt your cheeks burning at his comment.

“I’m mad at her too because how could she forget such an important detail?” you said and Mark parked the car just before he burst into a shrieking laughter, the loud volume of which made you wince. What a weirdly charming guy.

Mark turned off the engine of the car. Pulling up the hoodie of his jacket, he opened the door to step outside, immediately moving to the back of the car to open the trunk and take out your suitcases. You got out of the car too, closing the door carefully behind you. The door made a soft clicking noise and you stared at it confused. “It needs a little more pressure to close properly, here,” Mark said when he noticed your baffled face and stepped closer to you, stretching out his arm to grab the door handle. You took a step back,distancing yourself from him. The sudden proximity of his body to yours made your cheeks blush. Despite the freezing atmosphere, Mark radiated a comfortable warmth that couldn’t explain. Pulling the handle, Mark slammed the car door shut with a loud thud. You shut your eyes momentarily at the sound and Mark turned to you with a sly grin across his face. “That’s how it’s done. You could say she likes it a little rough,” he joked and your face was boiling hot at how explicit he was with his jokes. Maybe it’s a cultural thing.

Closing the trunk shut, Mark handed you your suitcases and gestured at the tall building behind you. “So here’s where you’ll be staying. My dorms are down the street, just a five-minute walk from here. If you ever need anything, you will find me at the 7th building, room 200. So,” he trailed off, “we’ll be in touch?” he offered you a tight lipped smile and you nodded.

“We’ll be in touch” you confirmed. Lifting your suitcases, you turned on your heel towards the entrance to your new experiences of your student life. “Will you be okay with these? I can help!” Mark shouted and you turned your head while still walking. “I’m fine! Go get some rest Mark, you deserve it. Thanks a lot for today!” you said and you turned your head back quickly, missing the wide smile that spread across Mark’s face and the sparkle that lit up inside his eyes.

Upon entering the 15 square meter room that was supposed to be your home for the next five months, you dropped your suitcases on the floor, putting off unpacking for later. Shuffling through your backpack, you pulled out a pen and the small notebook, a couple of its pages creased. You searched for a blank page, sitting cross-legged on the carpet of the tiled floor, lifting up your knee as a supporting surface to place your notebook. Taking off the cap of the pen with a pulling of your teeth, you scribbled on the page to warm up the ink of the pen, before you started pouring out your thoughts.

have you ever noticed how all snowflakes are different? shape, size, design, even color, intricate is their form, sculpted in detail and care, you will find not one that looks like another — their beauty lies in their uniqueness. “what’s the strangest snowflake you’ve ever seen?” “one that delicately landed suddenly on my cheek; its texture unusual, its form not as elaborate as the others, yet once i picked it up with the softest brushing of my finger, i realized that it was the most beautiful snowflake of all”

Sunday, January 11th, 1998

The first snow of winter had already fallen in Seoul weeks ago. The white season was already in the midst of it, crossing its deepest parts with the temperatures dropping to the lowest degrees of the latest days. Jaemin found this coldness excessively present, as his heart has been frozen ever since Christmas.

Jaemin hadn’t talked to you since your last encounter before Christmas holidays, which ended in an emotional argument. Ever since that day, he kept feeling guilty of the way he spoke to you; he wished he could turn back time to relive that moment with you, filter his words better and tell you all the things he couldn’t bring himself to say that day. All because he was scared.

The sentences he spoke that day kept on pondering all over his brain, over and over again. No matter what he did to distract his thoughts, everything came back to that painful day. ‘You will forget about me’. ‘You don’t really want to pursue this career’. Even though he truly felt everything he said, he deeply regretted every time he recalled in his memory your tear-stained face and the thought that he had hurt you.

Jaemin was scared of losing you. Despite being popular and hanging out with large groups of people, he had difficulty getting substantially closer to other people, opening up to them and allowing them to see his true self, allowing them to discover his inner world and feeling like he didn’t have to hide things or pretend to be someone that he’s not. All it took from you was a look of sincerity from your bright eyes, a genuine smile promising him that everything is going to be alright and a touch of your tender hand to know how much you loved him.

Jaemin was sure of it. You didn’t have to say anything; he could sense it all. He viewed people as pictures; people are just moving images, they don’t have to make a single sound to express what they want. A careful look at their body language was all it took to reveal a plethora of things that words could never describe.

You didn’t have to say anything for him to know how you felt about him. Or maybe he was trying to excuse himself and justify his delusions, because his feelings for you were probably even stronger. He was sure that somewhere in that little notebook you carried, scribbled with messy letters on a random page you flipped open, was where your feelings for him were laying. He once tried to take a peek at it, in hopes of finding what he wanted. Fortunately, he soon realized that what he was about to do was a violation of your privacy.

He regretted how he handled the announcement of your departure. He wished he could express his happiness more, he wished he had told you all his worries in a more intimate way, he wished he didn’t storm off like that, he wished his anxiety didn’t realize as anger but as love, he wished he could tell you how much you meant to him. Whatever he did, the result would be the same; you would still leave. He just wished you didn’t leave thinking he was mad at you for doing so.

It wasn’t too late to make things up. Looking at the clock on his nightstand, Jaemin realized that you would have probably already landed in Canada. He was counting down the hours, keeping notes of the different time zones. He refused to go to sleep without knowing you had arrived safe and sound. He hated the fact that you were so far away from him. Just when he had you so close to him, he lost you in a slip of time. His growing fear of people leaving him behind kept on becoming reality with every single encounter he had in his life. No matter what you promised him, and no matter that he knew you would always keep that promise, a part of him creeping up like a little devil on his shoulder knew that eventually you would get tired of him and leave.

Pulling the drawer of his nightstand, Jaemin took out a picture and studied it, a precious smile appearing on his solemn face. The picture he took of you that day the both of you were sick. There was so much movement and color in this photo; your nose looked exactly like Rudolf’s, your eyes were puffy from your lack of sleep due to your difficulty to breathe properly, your mouth opened in a weird way because he snapped the picture while you were talking. A normal person would find you completely appalling, yet Jaemin treasured this photo in his heart because through the lens of his own eyes, you were the most beautiful person he had ever seen.

This is exactly how he felt. If anyone would ask him how he felt about you, he would show them this exact picture. All his emotions were captured perfectly in this random snapshot of your life with him. A single moment in time hiding an entire relationship only available to the two of you. No one else would understand. No one but you and him.

Jaemin hated himself for keeping distance from you. The physical distance was hard enough to deal with on its own, but the mental distance was what killed him the most. He wished you knew how much he loved you, how much he appreciated you and how much he hoped that one day he could say all of this without fear of rejection. Your actions were enough for him to understand that the same feelings he had for you were reciprocated, yet the constant fear of misunderstanding held him back from acting on his emotions.

He needed to take small steps at a time. With you being in Canada and Jaemin being in Korea, he wanted to, at least, get you to start talking to him again. Jaemin realized that he was in the wrong, it was his responsibility to make things right. He thought his reactions were justified then, but now he had no excuse for excluding you from his life before you even did anything to leave from it.

I don’t have my way with words, but I will try, he thought, keeping mental notes of what he would say to you first thing tomorrow morning in his attempt to compose a readable email. Jaemin drifted away to a lovely, peaceful sleep, one he hadn’t had in weeks, dreaming of you and only you.

Saturday, February 21st, 1998

Mark’s lips were softly pressing on yours, moving rhythmically in a slow yet passionate motion, his hand gently cupping your cheek. You played with his hair, tangling your fingers between short strands falling at the back of his head and scratching the nape of his neck in between. You had been kissing nonstop for over 20 minutes now, and the temperature of his room started feeling warmer than before.

Pulling away from Mark’s lips with a last loud smooch, you let your head fall slightly back, breathing heavily through your mouth. Mark opened his eyes in surprise, his bottom lip, swollen and pink, falling into a nervous frown. “Everything okay, love?” he asked in a raspy tone, his hand falling from your face and dropping to his side.

You smiled. “I got kinda tired there, Mark. I felt like I was suffocating,” you said, fanning yourself with your hands to create some air.

Mark’s expression turned into a smug one. “I really took your breath there, huh? Sorry, love,” he smirked and leaned closer to you, pressing a soft peck on your temple before wrapping his arm around the small of your back. The familiarity of his touch spread warmth all over your body, the scent of his freshly washed clothes calming the storm inside your mind as you let yourself melt into his embrace. The old bed inside his dorm squeaked at the sudden movement of your body.

You and Mark had been dating for a week. He asked you to be his girlfriend on Valentine’s Day, cliché. But you found this action extremely adorable and that was purely because it was Mark Lee the one who did it.

The two of you had gone out initially as friends, to comfort each other for being single on the day of love. For the past month you were in Vancouver, Mark was the only person you came this close with. While you were hanging around large groups of exchange students from all over the world, none of them stuck with you the way Mark did. He was there for you all the time, helping you adjust to the new place at first, introducing you to his friends and keeping you company during lunch and dinner so that you wouldn’t have to sit and eat alone. He was always there.

You hadn’t realized your growing feelings for him until the moment he blurted out the question. “Y/n, will you be my girlfriend?” That’s all he said. He didn’t have to say anything more. It was something in the way his bambi eyes glimmered under the streetlamp that illuminated the sharp features of his adorable face, his crispy delicate voice asking you with so much tenderness hiding in his tone, the snow falling and landing in tiny snowflakes on his damp wavy bangs. Mark looked at you as if he treasured you in his eyes and heart; he waited patiently for your response, taking in your appearance as if he was taking a picture with his eyes. For the very first time in a month, it was the only day you didn’t think about Jaemin at all.

You said yes in an instant. Mark scooped you up in his arms, laughing awkwardly at the disbelief of what had just happened. He spun you around in the snow, holding you tight in his arms and wishing you would never let go. He was beaming with happiness and his radiant energy transferred to you, smiling so wide your cheeks went numb. The moment your lips touched, you were sure that this day was the warmest day of winter.

That night, Mark took you back to your dorm, not being able to let you go until you closed the door to your apartment. That very same night, you filled your notebook with poems. You stayed up all night, pouring yourself on the paper, the pen in your hands running fast across the lines of the pages, filling the blank space with nothing but emotions. All the things you kept bottled up inside your heart finally resonated in your mind. The realization hit you like a snowstorm, there was a tornado of emotions building up inside you all along, and it took one simply phrased question from Mark to let it all out.

The last time you were standing on a snowy street was back in December in Seoul, when Jaemin left you alone with the coldest heart and stalactite tears. This painful memory, although very recent, was luckily replaced by one of the happiest experiences you’ve ever had, when Mark confessed his feelings for you on the snowy streets of Vancouver.

You didn’t like to compare Mark to Jaemin. But at the same time, the comparison was unavoidable. Everything Mark was, Jaemin wasn’t. The two of them were comically the opposite of the other and you couldn’t help but notice the different versions of yourself that each one of them brought out. While Jaemin was steadily trying to open you up to the best version of yourself, Mark was highlighting the already existing good version.

You hated how much alike you and Jaemin were, you only realized this once you warmed up to Mark. When you first met Jaemin, you were instantly attracted to him because of how different from you he seemed. The confident aura around him, the smugness he carried himself with, his flirty nature were all characteristics you would never have. Once you got close to him, though, you realized that he was so much more than what he presented himself to be. And the fact that both of you had issues communicating with other people made you so similar in character that everything else didn’t matter.

You shared the same mindset with Jaemin, but your views of the world were different. He offered you his own perspective of things, and you offered him yours. You would spend hours bickering about your different opinions which most of the time resulted in Jaemin convincing you to view things from the brighter side. Yet your beliefs originated from the same place; an overly romanticized view of the world.

You and Jaemin were polar opposite when it came to everything else but the emotional aspect of your personalities. Both of your inability to communicate in a healthy way was probably the reason why you couldn’t understand each other, even after you became so comfortable around each other’s presence. Perhaps your expressing of your emotions wasn’t as transparent as you thought it was.

Maybe this was the reason why you found such comfort in Mark now. You hadn’t heard of Jaemin in months. The only updates you had of him were through Yerim and Jisung, who claimed that Jaemin was hanging out less with them now and that he became suspiciously introverted. They also told you that Jaemin asked about you a lot, but they couldn’t figure out why he didn’t ask you directly about your wellbeing.

That’s why Mark was a big emotional support for you. You weren’t as open with him as you were with Jaemin, but part of it was probably because Mark was so expressive and open to talk about everything he thought or felt. He made communication so much easier this way, so you were content with keeping things to yourself, like you always have, and the only one who had access to your emotional state was you and the silly poem-filled notebook.

Mark was slowly dragging his fingers down your hair, as you rested your head on his shoulder. “What’s on your mind, love?” Mark said, his eyes searching your thoughtful ones.

“Nothing,” you replied nonchalantly, eyes vacant staring at nothing in particular.

Mark leaned his head to meet your face, seeing your empty expression. “Alright, there’s clearly something bothering you, so tell me, talk to me,” Mark said, gently lifting your head to meet him at eye level.

“You know I’m not good with that stuff, Mark,” you said and he huffed. “I know, but please. There’s nothing to be afraid of, I’ll listen,” Mark encouraged you and you found him cute for trying to help you speak your mind, even though his attempts were completely useless.

You remained silent for a few seconds. Sighing, opening and closing your mouth, Mark noticed your discomfort and the struggle to speak. Cupping your face with the palms of his flimsy hands, he turned your face towards him. “I know this is hard for you, so let’s play a game. I like to call this game, ‘what color is your emotion’,” he said and you giggled loudly.

Mark scrunched his nose as a tight-lipped smile appeared on his face. He let go of your face and grabbed your hands, resting them on top of his lap as he drew circles around the back of your hands with his thumb. “So, tell me,” he started, “what color is your emotion?” he asked, the smile still evident in his small face.

You thought hard about it. Searching all over Mark’s room, you tried to find the color that best described your state of emotions at that moment. Mark’s room was full of personality, unlike Jaemin’s. He had painted the walls himself a shade of light beige, adorned with posters of his favorite superheroes along with quotes he cut out from his literature books. The chair of his desk was piled up with worn clothes he didn’t have the time to wash and his shoes were all lined in the small empty space between his desk and the moldy wall. The bookshelves hanging above the desk were filled with books and comics, which he had organized so neatly it reminded you of a library. Beside the creaky bed covered in a plaid blanket, he kept his beloved acoustic guitar. The building was old, but Mark had managed to bring out some freshness through his personal touches.

“My emotion right now is blue,” you said after a while and Mark gulped, his previously smiley face turning stone cold.

“B-But I thought you were having fun,” he trailed off, moving his hands away from yours. “Did I do anything wrong?” he asked, worried.

You smiled and shook your head, taking his hands in your again. “No, silly. I don’t mean blue as sad. Although I think there’s some melancholy in how I’m feeling. I miss home sometimes. But I meant blue as in calm. Did you know that blue can also symbolize calmness and serenity?” you said and Mark looked at you completely baffled.

“Yeah, I knew that, but that’s not the first thing that came to mind,” Mark said. “I’m glad you feel calm with me, and I’m sorry you miss home”.

“You know,” you said after a couple of seconds, “I never saw blue as a happy color. It always carried so much sadness for me. A friend of mine told me it can mean calmness too. He says it’s supposed to bring you peace and tranquility,” you said and Mark smirked.

“He? You didn’t mention any friends other than Yerim and Jising,” he said and you smiled. “Well, yeah, it just wasn’t brought up. His name is Jaemin. Although we haven’t talked in months so things are a bit weird between us,” you said and Mark got up from the bed, moving to sit at his desk chair, throwing a pair of pants on the floor to make room for him to sit.

“So…Nothing happened between you and him? Like, romantically,” Mark asked, crossing his arms in defense. You laughed awkwardly, putting a strand of hair behind your ear. This question was more complicated to answer than what he thought.

“No” you said sternly, a tone you used more to convince yourself rather than Mark. “He’s just a friend. Nothing else,” you said. Liar.

Mark’s shoulders visibly relaxed, but something in his eyes betrayed his true thoughts. It was the first time you had ever mentioned Jaemin to Mark, but you didn’t think he would feel threatened by another guy. His eyes were filled with flames.

“It’s my turn now,” you said with a sigh, grabbing the spider pillow on Mark’s bed and throwing it playfully at him. Mark’s reflections were fast, catching it in the air with one hand. “What color is your emotion?” you asked, voice hinting a glimpse of fear.

He placed the pillow on his lap and looked at you with the same perplexed eyes he had earlier, gritting his teeth, before speaking with the raspiest tone.

“Dark green”.

Tuesday, March 17th, 1998

“What’s with all this gloominess, lover boy?” Yerim asked Jaemin, flicking her finger at his forehead to grab his attention. Jisung, although busy and occupied with doodling random things on the page margins of the book he was trying to read, winced at the sharp tapping sound.

“Nothing really to smile about,” Jaemin said, shrugging, his eyes focused on nothing in particular, void of any sign of emotion.

Yerim started laughing hysterically, hitting Jaemin’s shoulder during her laughing outburst. Jisung hesitantly looked up from his book, smiling awkwardly in an attempt to catch up with what was going on between his other two friends, muttering a soft ‘what happened’ with a breathy voice.

Jaemin didn’t flinch at all with Yerim’s reaction. He started twiddling his thumbs, lowering his sorrowful gaze at his lap, trying to avoid the confrontation that was about to come.

Ever since Jaemin found out about your relationship with Mark, he’s had a hard time enjoying himself in life. As dramatic as it sounded, when he found out that Mark wasn’t just a friend but he was your boyfriend, he realized that whatever it was he was feeling for you ran deeper than he thought. He tried to capture this feeling with pictures. Carrying his camera with him everywhere he went, he took pictures of whatever he felt like was mirroring his current emotional state, even if it was the most random object or place or person or food or clothes. Looking back at his collection of photos, all his recent ones captured, in one way or another, the exact same feeling; heartbreak.

Jaemin was punishing himself for feeling heartbroken. He tried to convince himself he didn’t have the right to feel this way. He never had you in the first place. He blamed himself for not making good use of all the time he had with you to express himself more clearly. He hated himself for being so selfless back then, and he hated himself for being so selfish now.

Jaemin never sent you that email he wrote. He was afraid of you feeling repulsed by him. He didn’t have any excuse for his behavior, and by sending you a crappy email of him trying to apologize he thought it made him seem desperate and insincere. He kept putting it off, saying that one day he’ll find the courage to do it. He missed you more than he wished to admit, and it was killing him that he couldn’t have you near him either physically or mentally. Once Yerim broke the news of you having a boyfriend in Canada, it was a complete dealbreaker.

He didn’t have to voice out his feelings for you. His reactions to things betrayed everything. Yerim very easily caught on to how Jaemin was feeling for you, although she was a bit ignorant about it at first. After Yerim confronted Jaemin about it, he started hanging out with her and Jisung again, and even grew much closer with them too. They liked Jaemin. They realized he was actually very good company, like you had said, and started to see the side of him you always talked to them about. Even Jisung became comfortable around Jaemin to the point they had no problem teasing each other about nonsense.

Yet your absence was sensed deeply. Yerim, although very close with Jisung and slowly becoming close with Jaemin, missed the feeling of having her girl best friend around. Jisung missed his friend who acted like his good older sister who counterbalanced the evil big sister nature that Yerim radiated. Jaemin, most of all, missed the person who highlighted the best of him and the person he fell madly in love with.

The group of friends was having a picnic at the campus’ hill. Yerim said that the first sunny day of spring needed to be celebrated. March graced himself with the usual weather instability, with the cold nights and rainy mornings which mostly resembled autumn rather than spring. Every single day of March it had been raining non stop, the rain drops falling from dark clouds covering the vastness of blue placidity that usually describes the sky, transforming the atmosphere into an abyssal calamity that could only be stopped by the sun’s miraculous appearance. Jaemin thought about how much the weather inspired you and smiled bitterly to himself thinking about the connotations you would make when you related the weather with your feelings. It’s a habit he adopted too when he considered the pictures he took.

Jaemin cleared his throat, interrupting Yerim’s laughing outburst. “Don’t laugh, Yerim. You know how much I miss her. She’s probably hanging out with this Mark guy now, and he’s probably telling her jokes which she pretends to find funny. And if we take into account that it’s night time in Canada now, I don’t even wanna think about what they could be doing,” he said, his monotonous voice making Yerim laugh even harder. Jisung brought his fist to mouth, covering a stifled laugh that threatened to come out.

“People can do the thing you think about even during the day, virgin. Even Jisung knows this,” Yerim told Jaemin in between her laughs and Jaemin glared at her. “I’m not a virgin, you know,” he said but Yerim dismissed him. Yerim earned a surprised glare from Jisung too, who was called out without even saying a single word.

Yerim sighed, reaching over to Jaemin to rub his back gently. He visibly relaxed at the touch of comfort, taking a deep breath and raising his head to look up at the gloomy sky mirroring his feelings, batting his long eyelashes to prevent his own downpour falling from his cloudy eyes. “I miss her too, you know,” Yerim said and Jaemin nodded.

“I was the one who convinced to go follow her dreams and now I’m complaining about her being on the other side of the world,” Jaemin said in a low voice after a few beats, and the two friends nodded. “Why am I sad now? I should be happy for her, this is all so selfish. I keep thinking about everything I told her before she left and I just wish I could take it all back, I was being mean because I was scared of losing her,” he continued his confession and Yerim leaned her head on his shoulder, pouting.

“You know what, Jaem,” Yerim started, raising her head to look at her friend, “fuck the past. You keep thinking about the past like it’s something you can erase and rewrite. But you can’t, so let it go. You said things you didn’t mean and it was all a projection of your fears. So instead of whining about it, think about ways to make it up to her,” she said and Jisung hummed, widening his eyes in surprise at the girl’s unexpected wise piece of advice.

“What if she stays with that other guy? What if he treats her better and she loves him more?” Jaemin’s jealousy made him insecure, his eyes burning with anger and the threatening falling of tears.

“Dude, if she loves you, she’ll come around. I’m sure she will,” Jisung said with confidence that even took himself aback and everyone else nodded in agreement.

Tuesday, April 21st, 1998

“Let us go then, you and I, / When the evening is spread out against the sky / Like a patient etherized upon a table;” the middle-aged woman started reciting and you let yourself get lost in the words.

Despite the weather being deep into spring, the only thing resembling the blossoming season was the sun peaking through the freshly cleaned window, hitting Mark’s concentrated face in a way it turned his eyes into pools of honey. His hair, grown out of the boyish undercut he had when you first met him, was longer now, brushing the nape of neck.

You were sitting next to each other cross-legged with your big plaid scarf spread above your legs. The temperatures were significantly higher than they were in winter, yet the Canadian mountain climate was sensed even inside the back room of the cozy café. It wasn’t as good as ‘Caramel Craze’, but it was the one that came closest to the feeling your comfort place back in Seoul gave you.

You and Mark decided to join a book club three weeks ago. At the end of each week, the book club would meet at different spots around Vancouver and every member would read a poem or a passage from a book, give recommendations and start discussions around different literary pieces. Even though this wasn’t related to your field of studies, being surrounded by people who valued literature and its craft as much as you did filled you with happiness and content you couldn’t find in anything else, not even in fashion design.

“That was ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’, hope you enjoyed it,” the middle-aged woman finished reciting her poem of choice and everybody clapped as she sat down on the floor.

“Did you know this poem?” Mark whispered towards you, pushing his glasses further into his face because they had slid down his nose. You shook your head and he couldn’t help but crack a smile at your wowed expression. The poem was beautiful.

As soon as the applause came to an end, you raised your hand to ask permission to speak. The coordinator of the book club was a girl only a few years older than you. As you waited for her to notice you, you carefully scanned her outfit which was particularly creative today, keeping mental notes of it so that you could draw something similar later.

“I find the message behind this poem devastatingly beautiful,” you started after you were given permission. A few people hummed positively, urging you to continue. Mark’s warm gaze was fully attended to you, crossing his arms in anticipation of what you were about to say.

“All of the speaker’s anxieties and preoccupations of his inner life, his romantic hesitations and regrets, everything was voiced out so beautifully to the point it becomes devastating. Hence my description,” you said, averting your gaze to your lap. “I loved the line ‘Do I dare / Disturb the universe? / In a minute there is time / For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse’, I think it perfectly captures fate and our inability to change it because everything can have a different outcome depending on what time brings and what time cannot take back. I don’t know, I think it’s perfectly worded,” you said and noticed a few approving looks at the other book club members’ faces.

Turning towards Mark, you noticed a ridiculously wide smile plastered across his small face, to the point you didn’t think a person could smile this wide. “Wow,” he breathed out, “you’re becoming even better than me. Are you sure you don’t wanna pursue this thing professionally?” he joked and you giggled, yet something in your heart sank for a moment.

“I just expressed what the poem made me feel,” you said. And it was true. You and Mark were spending so much time together to the point you were inseparable. You were surprised how neither of you had grown sick of one another at this point. Most of the time, you would spend hours cramped up inside either of your dorm rooms, reading and writing poems and songs for hours in between hot makeout sessions and other things. You grew so close to him to the point neither of you hid anything from each other. Ever since you talked to him about your confessional poetry notebook and your struggle with expressing yourself, Mark has made the impossible things possible to help you be at peace with your emotional world and be open with what you feel.

Part of the reason why he suggested that the two of you joined a book club was to see your progress become tangible. You had become profoundly open with him, and his encouraging words kept you wanting to keep on trying more and more. Mark thought that being in a safe space, where you felt the most comfortable in, you would manage to overcome this suppressing state. Once again, like in many other things, he was right.

A man with his little son started reading a passage from a children’s book and his soothing tone made your eyelids flutter as you stifled a yawn. Mark gently wrapped his arm around your waist, bringing you a bit closer to him. You nuzzled your nose against the fuzzy fabric of his sweater, which smelled like a mix of detergent, Mark’s cologne and a slight scent of his skin. He noticed that you started getting sleepy, something that was always betrayed by your clinginess, and he moved his arm to stroke your hair and your back as you rested your head on his chest. An old lady noticed your affectionate state and flashed a warm smile at Mark. He returned the kind gesture before leaning to plant a soft kiss on your forehead.

Mark’s attention was back at the man reading the book, trying his best to make sense of what the story was about based on the context. As you were laying on his chest, the faint sound of his steady heartbeat acted as a lullaby, becoming the background music for the thoughts that occupied your tired brain. As much as the warmth of Mark’s body calmed you down and eased your consciousness, it brought your senses into reality at the same time. No matter how much you wanted to freeze frame this moment and forever stay in his arms, you knew that sooner or later this moment would come to an end and eventually cease to exist. You would have to go back home.

Defining home has become difficult for you now. Your whole life, your home was Seoul. Home was your family back in Korea, your best friends for life Yerim and Jisung, Jaemin. You remember how hard it was for you to let them go, but you knew that your leaving was only temporary and you would soon go back to them, go back home.

Yet home took a different face now. Home was engulfed in Mark’s face, who stood by you throughout the journey of finding yourself in the premises of an unknown land. You grew to love Canada, you became used to the habits of Vancouver’s local residents, you met people from all over the world who shared their experiences with you, your horizons broadened in ways you didn’t even imagine they could when you were limited to the restricted views of the place you grew up in. You had grown so used to everything new around you that even the thought of having to go back to Korea at the beginning of summer saddened you.

Your thoughts momentarily fleeted to the face of a boy you held dearly in your heart. You hadn’t spoken to Jaemin in months. Neither of you made any attempt to initiate any type of conversation, so the air between you two remained foggy like a Halloween night. The opaque veil of grey clouds that rested upon you spread all the way across the ocean, reaching the heart of a boy who bore heartbreak without you even knowing.

You hated that Jaemin still had a place in your mind and heart when you knew you loved Mark a lot. You didn’t dare to admit it, you were scared that at times you wished it was Jaemin who kissed you instead of Mark, you wished it was Jaemin the one who you would come home to after your classes and talk about your day, you wished everything that Mark did it was Jaemin in his place. A part of you felt guilty for even thinking this, let alone wanting this, and you despised yourself for betraying Mark’s love and trust like this. Jaemin probably didn’t want to do anything with you after you left things hanging this way, so why even bother with him?

But you had come to terms with the fact that everything you did in Canada would be temporary. The initial fireworks of excitement died down after a couple of months, and reality kept reminding you that all good things come to an end. It would realistically be difficult to maintain a long-distance relationship with a boy on the other side of the globe. You loved Mark but you slowly had to learn how to unlove him. This way leaving would hurt you a bit less.

Mark’s soft caressing of your hair shot waves of safety over your body, the man’s voice reading the book was simply a bedtime story to your ears. Before you slowly drifted away to a peaceful sleep, behind your eyes flashed the image of a certain platinum-haired boy, wishing that it was him holding you to sleep at that moment.

oh how much i love you seoul! even though i left you oh how much i miss you! walking on every filthy pavement in hongdae, crossing every busy itaewon street, wandering around every beautiful night in gangnam — but you left me too. oh! how many days and nights will i spend without you so that we can meet again? your presence is always mirrored in every place that i see

Friday, May 8th, 1998

The chopsticks he was holding cluttered against each other as he reached down his bowl to grab a bite-sized portion of rice, bringing it hastily to his mouth. He chewed the food obnoxiously, not caring about looking polite or well-behaved, his ears ringing for a reason unknown to him. The girl sitting across from him on the restaurant table hadn’t touched her food yet. She was too busy running her mouth nonstop ever since they arrived at the cozy traditional place.

“So, what do you think about all that, Bun Bun?” the girl asked, batting her eyelashes in anticipation. Jaemin stared at her but his eyes weren’t looking at her. His ears weren’t listening to her. His mind wasn’t present at the moment. He continued chewing his rice, swallowing with a loud gulp. He reached for the glass of water on his left, chugging the cool liquid down his dry throat. With a thud, Jaemin placed the glass on the table, licking his teeth in an attempt to clean them from any remaining food that could be stuck in between. With a click of his tongue, he addressed the girl in front of him for the first time since the food arrived at their table.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Minjeong. You see, I was busy eating. Something you didn’t do because you talk all the damn time,” Jaemin said and the girl rolled her eyes.

“Oh for God’s sake, Bun Bun, I told you about this last week too. Remember my friend Soyeon who was dating that guy from Chemistry whose name I cannot remember now but he wears glasses and his hair is like dyed blonde with a side part and he…” Minjeong started and Jaemin’s ears started ringing again.

For about a month now, Jaemin has been going on dates with a girl from his journalism classes, Minjeong. The girl has been eyeing him for quite some time now, but Jaemin never paid her any attention, neither during classes nor after that. When she found the courage to go up to him and ask him out, both she and Jaemin himself were surprised he actually said yes.

Even more surprised were none other than Yerim and Jisung, whose eyeballs practically fell out of their faces when Jaemin came into ‘Caramel Craze’ holding Minjeong’s hand. Jisung was very curious about how everything happened, but he never cared to ask Jaemin about it, not because he feared his reaction but because it made Jisung himself uncomfortable. He didn’t want to pressure Jaemin to talk about it because he knew that whatever Jaemin’s reason behind this was, he would talk about it once he felt ready. Yerim’s nosy nature, however, urged her to learn as much as she possibly could. One warm spring evening, right before ‘Caramel Craze’ got rid of all its customers at the dusk of day, Yerim yanked Jaemin down a table and began interrogating him.

“What’s up with you?” she snarled, eyes darting him up and down. Jaemin sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair, preparing himself for Yerim’s upcoming rant.

“Look, I’ll break up with her, okay? Not that we’re actually dating but…” Jaemin trailed off and Yerim’s eyes softened, holding herself back from screaming at him like an overprotective mother once she saw his hands tremble on the table.

“It’s just that I will never have a chance with Y/n. She’s coming back next month but at what cost? I never apologized to her because I’m a coward, and now I can’t bring myself to face her. She has moved on anyway, so I must do the same,” he said and Yerim reached across the table to grab Jaemin’s hands, rubbing soft circles to ease his trembling.

“I’m sorry, Jaem,” she started, “it’s that, I-” Yerim struggled to form her thoughts. She inhaled with her eyes closed and opened them slowly once she exhaled, looking at her friend with a sadness filled with sympathy. “I don’t know if that’s good for you. Of course you can’t wait for Y/n all your life but-” Yerim pressed her lips shut.

“But what?” Jaemin whispered, removing his hands from Yerim’s grip.

“I want both of you to be happy. If you choose to move on, then I won’t stop you. I support both of you and you’d better apologize when Y/n comes back, I can’t stand seeing two of my best friends act like total strangers,” Yerim said and Jaemin flashed her one of his widest and brightest smiles which hid a malicious smirk behind it.

“You think I’m your friend?” he asked her, earning an eye-roll from Yerim as she stood up to leave.

“Jisung has to close up the place, we’d better go. And if you want to move on, at least pick a girl who’s not that annoying,” she said and Jaemin laughed at this remark.

He didn’t really think through Yerim’s advice, dismissing it at the time saying that Minjeong wasn’t that bad. But he started to realize that Yerim was, as always, right after all, and he couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly that drew him towards Minjeong. He kept regretting asking her out time and time again for dinner when he couldn’t bear listening to her talk. After giving it some thought, Jaemin came to the conclusion that Minjeong was just the only available option for him at the moment.

Jaemin didn’t like the fact that he was leading the girl on. Minjeong was clearly into him and his behavior towards her was inexplicably awful. On the outside, he seemed like the perfect guy any girl could potentially call her boyfriend; he took her out on the regular, he waited for her to finish her classes, held her hand in public and caressed her hair on the weirdly windy days of May to prevent it from getting tangled. On paper, and on image, he was perfect. In fact, however, behind all the nosy eyes running their mouths, Jaemin was trapped in a relationship he forced himself to be in. He was so bored of Minjeong to the point he dreaded spending time alone with her. He had to pretend to be the popular campus crush that everyone else around him always knew him as, and all this acting had him exhausted by the end of the day.

It was very pretentious of him to say this but he became a different person once he met you. It was a blessing and a curse for him. Sometimes he wishes he had never picked up that book for you in the library and sometimes he keeps thinking of the possible turns his life would have taken if he had paid you no mind at all that very same day.

The thought of you tortured him. It pained him that he couldn’t have you anymore, yet he didn’t have the right to think like this because he was the one who messed things up. Now all he could do to make himself feel at least slightly better was to find someone else.

Minjeong was the first person that came to him. Jaemin saw the chance and he took it, wasting no time to ponder over whether he liked her enough or not or if they would be a good match together. None of these things mattered to him; he would learn how to like it, he would eventually grow feelings for her and they would find ways to fit their personalities and interests like pieces of a puzzle and at some point his attraction for Minjeong would grow and grow until his feelings for you became so suppressed and then completely vanished.

This was his plan. But everything Minjeong did, Jaemin would always find a way to compare her to you.

Minjeong kept on rambling about whatever drama she was interested in. She made short pauses to eat a little, although her bites were so small it would take her hours to finish her meal. Jaemin nodded or hummed from time to time in an attempt to show her a little interest, to make her feel that he was present.

Jaemin’s attention shifted for a moment to the world outside, his mind void of any preoccupations, eyes resting on the cherry blossom trees and the people walking around them aimlessly, admiring the beauty of nature. The season of love was at its peak; the flowers were blooming in every corner of Seoul and for a fleeting moment Jaemin wondered how the scenery in front of him would look like through your eyes, through your own lens, through the ink of your pen.

“Bun Bun, can you take some pictures of me?” Minjeong shook Jaemin out of his daydreaming state and he blinked.

With a deep sigh, Jaemin pinched the bridge of his nose, offering Minjeong a sad smile. “Ugh, um- sorry love I don’t bring my camera. I forgot,” he apologized and winced at the use of the pet name he used.

“You never bring it when I ask you to! I swear it’s like you forget it on purpose,” Minjeong whined and Jaemin pressed his lips in a tight smile. “I know, sorry. Promise I’ll bring it next time, okay?” he said, hinting at a hopeful undertone in his voice. He looked at Minjeong tentatively, searching for an answer in her eyes. She held eye contact with Jaemin for a few seconds, her expression stoic and still like a museum painting. Jaemin pouted softly at her and Minjeong rolled her eyes at him for the second time tonight.

“Whatever,” she muttered under her breath and reached for her purse to pull out her lip gloss. Jaemin leaned back to his chair, sighing in frustration at his actions. His gaze rested briefly at his backpack spread next to his lap, the round camera lens staring back at him.

She wouldn’t look as pretty, anyway.

Sunday, May 31st, 1998

“I think we should break up,” you said sharply, exhaling deeply in an attempt to calm the rapid beating of your heart.

Mark’s eyes widened in surprise, and you swore you saw them turn glassy under the artificial lighting of your dorm room. “What?” his voice trembled, searching for your wavering gaze which you averted anywhere you could but his eyes.

“I said we should break up,” you repeated, clearing your throat. You never had to have a talk as hard as this one and you definitely weren’t very happy with the news you had to break into the boy you devoted your whole heart to for the past four months.

“I-I don’t get it,” Mark started, his voice uneasy. “I mean, technology has advanced, like, we can keep in touch even when you’re away, right? I don’t get it,” Mark ran his hands through his hair, pacing around the tiny room which felt to him extremely smaller than he thought it actually was.

“I know,” you started, taking a step closer to him, reaching for his hand. Your fingers felt his touch only for part of a second as they brushed, Mark was too quick to yank his arm back creating distance between the two of you.

His reaction was perfectly reasonable and you expected him to respond the exact way he did; knowing Mark all these months and spending the majority of your time with him, it was safe to say that you knew him like the back of your hand. You were sure he would try to find a solution to the problem, brainstorming even the dumbest ideas just to make things work, just to keep you by his side.

Both of you knew that one day you’d have to go back to Korea and Mark wouldn’t be able to follow along. What he didn’t count for was how soon that day would come.

“Listen, Mark, I know you’re frustrated-”

“You’re still in love with that other guy, aren’t you?” Mark scoffed, giggling out of nervousness.

“Where does that even come from?” you asked, eyebrows drawn.

“I’m not dumb, Y/n, I mean, come on. I’ve seen how your face literally lights up when you talk about him. It doesn’t really take a genius to know,” Mark spared you a glance before he turned around to look outside the window.

It was ironic; in a few hours, May would finish his yearly duties and give his place to June, who would initiate the beginning of summer. The sun wouldn’t set until the early evening, the breeze would be welcoming enough for strolls around the fully bloomed parks and everyone would be carefree, looking forward to a few months of rest and relaxation before the start of the new semester of the academic year. If you didn’t have to leave in two days, you would rather spend your time walking hand in hand with Mark, talking about nonsense. Instead, you called him up to the old dorm room to break things off with him.

You didn’t blame him for reacting this way, you expected it. But you never thought that he would bring up Jaemin. There was no reason for him to do so, but he did anyway and suddenly everything made sense.

Mark was jealous of Jaemin. And it made him feel insecure knowing that you had feelings for both of them.

Which was true. You don’t know how Mark figured it out but he actually knew you better than you knew yourself. He could read through you just as easily as you could read through him. You just weren’t aware of how strong your feelings for Jaemin remained still, that Mark became insecure of your feelings for him. No wonder he thought of Jaemin as the reason you wanted to break up with him.

You couldn’t even lie to Mark about this either. After you mentioned Jaemin once, you found it easier to bring his name up in conversation along with Yerim and Jisung. He was one of your friends after all. Although you doubted he still liked you as a friend, let alone romantically.

You grew to love Mark a lot all these months. It was very hard for you to separate from him too, you didn’t want to break things off but realistically a long-distance relationship wouldn’t work and you were afraid that with Jaemin in your presence back in Seoul, things would be even harder for you to handle. You didn’t want to deceive Mark when clearly your heart was split in two.

You lowered your gaze to your feet, raising them up to your tip toes and back down. You huffed, turning to face Mark’s slouchy figure. Your eyes rested on his shoulders, contemplating whether you should go rub them in comfort or whether this act of affection would stir more hate in him for you.

“I love you too much Mark, it’s best if I let you go,” you said and heat spread all over your reddened face. Mark whipped his head back at the sudden sound of your upright confession. “It’s not the time to admit something like this Y/n, you’re breaking me,” he whispered in a breath.

You noticed a stain on his cheek, like a shadow of a running river with crystal clear waters. You didn’t realise that he was crying. You took a hesitant step towards him, lifting your arm to touch him, feel him any way you could, but you were quick to keep it to yourself.

You softly cleared your throat. Mark wasn’t speaking. “We both knew this wouldn’t last forever, and I hate that it has to be this way because you taught me things about myself. You taught me how to express myself, communicate my feelings, live life without any concerns, follow my dreams and do what makes me happy. I don’t have the words to thank you enough for all of that,” you said and Mark nodded softly, a lingering question falling from his lips.

“So what changed?” was all he said with a desperate sigh.

You didn’t have any good answer to his question. Anything you could come up with at that moment sounded like a lazy excuse. You used distance as the most reasonable one, when in fact the thought of seeing Jaemin again and having all your past feelings for him resurface was what pushed to end things with Mark, even though you were unsure of Jaemin’s feelings for you.

You were willing to take the risk. You were thankful for Mark, you were beyond thankful for everything he taught you about yourself. You learned how to handle your feelings without fear of expressing them and you learned that being loved can be as easy as loving someone, all because of Mark. It was completely and utterly wrong of you to use all of this experience you had with Mark to learn how to love Jaemin easier. You despised yourself for that, having to fully devote your heart to one person when you were confused about who you wanted to devote your heart to.

“I’m so confused, Mark. Honestly. I don’t want you to think I used you because this is not true at all. I'm trying very hard to be optimistic but unfortunately I’m thinking reasonably this time. It’s best if we part ways,” you trailed off the last words.

Mark shook his head, nipping at his bottom lip. Running a hand through his hair, he started pacing in circles around himself. “No, Y/n, I think you’re thinking with your heart right now, because reason would urge you to stay with me. Your heart tells you it belongs to someone else, and this doesn’t happen to be me,” he said, stopping to finally look you in your eyes.

You stood still, frozen in place, keeping your eyes locked with his. In an alternative scenario, Mark would describe you as a newly blossomed flower that didn’t know which way to lean to look at the sun yet. In this scenario, you looked like a stone plaque standing in his way of moving forward.

You opened your mouth to speak but Mark was ahead of you. “I love you, Y/n. And I always will. You taught me things about myself too. For the past five months I’ve known you, I found myself smiling more, looking forward to the new beginnings every morning because I knew I would share all my happiness and sadness with you. We understand each other, Y/n. And because we do, I understand that you are conflicted right now. I respect your decision so that’s why I won’t fight you, I know you won’t change your mind,” he said and you both giggled.

Mark nodded his head a couple of times as if he was having an inner monologue. “I’ll miss you, you know? Promise we won’t be those exes who never speak to each other again. I would hate that. I’d be delighted to hear your news, to know that you are doing well, to know that you are still following your dreams, ” he said and your eyes stung, blurring your vision.

“I promise, Mark. You’re too precious for me to lose you entirely,” you said and he hesitantly took a few steps closer to you. In your current heartbroken state, you believed you would actually manage to keep this promise. But time would eventually heal this wound and you couldn’t bring yourself to say this to Mark.

the prettiest snowflake melted into the river; winter into spring

“C-Can I, um, can I at least kiss you, once? One last time,” Mark pleaded you with his eyes and you threw yourself at him, beating him to it by pressing your lips onto his.

Mark responded to your touch in an instant, cupping your face with both of his hands, kissing you back with so much passion it made the kiss look desperate. For a fleeting moment, the entire time you spent with him flashed before your eyes and you felt luckier than ever that you had met a person like him.

You parted your lips for his, breathing heavily into each other’s mouths. You looked at him in his glimmering eyes, before giving him one last peck. “Take care, Mark. I love you,” you whispered, softly caressing his cheek.

Mark nodded and took a step back, grabbing his things to leave. As he approached the door, he stopped in his tracks. “Will he love you like I do?” he asked, locking his eyes with your teary ones.

You thought for a second. “I hope he does. At least I know I love him like I love you,” you said and felt your heart mend, as if the broken pieces found their way back to each other.

Mark smiled softly, reaching the doorknob. “If this is what you truly want, if this is what your heart really aches for and desires, then I won’t dare disturb the universe”.

Wednesday, June 3rd, 1998

The atmosphere around you hung heavy as you walked past the busy crowd of Seoul, making regular breathing feel like exhausting exercise. The humidity of summertime in Korea left a feeling of a thick lump resting on top of your lungs, paired with your baby hairs sticking everywhere around your sweaty face and neck. This type of weather was the thing you were looking forward to the least on your flight back home, but you kept on trying to convince yourself that summer in the city wasn’t as bad as you remembered. The effort, however, wasn’t very successful, as you immediately started reminiscing about the Vancouver frostiness.

The change of environment was sudden; one day you were at the other side of the globe, watching the flowers bloom in a city that thrives in between snowflakes and icy pavements, and the next day you were back to your core roots, sweat accumulating around every hollow place in your body, in a city that thrives in crunchy orange leaves and soft breezes. You came to understand that in life, you always want what you cannot have.

Through the thick atmosphere hanging above you, you tried to trace with your nostrils the scent that lead you to your inner calmness. It had been six whole months that felt like agonizing eternity since you tasted the specific caramel lattes on your tongue, the enjoyable sweetness of the complementary glucose mixed with the comfortable bitterness of the main ingredient of the drink that couldn’t be compared to any other similar recipes in any coffee shop in the world other than ‘Caramel Craze’. Tracing this beloved scent was particularly harder while walking through a sweaty crowd in one of the busiest streets in Seoul.

Since you stepped foot onto Korean ground, it was like everything you experienced in Canada was wiped off your brain storage. On your entire flight back, you read through the notes you kept about everything that happened so that you could fill in both Yerim and Jisung about all the things you saw there without leaving any details out. Reading back your notes helped you refresh your memory, but your brain at that moment only had room for the memories of two boys, split in half.

You had broken off things with Mark only a couple days before your departure. The decision you made was definite, no matter how much it hurt you and the boy whom you devoted your whole mind and soul to for the past five months. You came back home with the sole purpose of reuniting with the person you loved the most, although you had no idea how to approach the situation.

Fate works in mysterious ways. Walking with your head tilted towards the ground, you swayed your ponytail to the side to fan the back of your neck with your palm. Keeping your eyes glued to your feet, careful with your steps, you bumped into a shoulder, sturdy and equally as sweaty as yours. Lifting your head to apologize, you’re met with the eyes that took up the other half of your brain.

You froze in your place as Jaemin stood in front of you, mouth slightly agape due to his surprise upon seeing you, or because of his fast breathing caused by his rapid steps. You couldn’t tell which one it was. Your heart beat anxiously, sweat turning colder at the sight of the boy you were dreading to meet yet looking forward to meeting.

Jaemin looked good, but different. His hair had faded into its natural dark brown color, his skin looked slightly tanner than it did in the winter and his shoulders and chest indicated that he particularly worked on building his muscles even more. The black tank top he was wearing was hugging his torso tightly, arms glistening in sweat under the burning sun. Even though he didn’t look exactly the way you remembered him, the way his eyes shined and the smile he tried to suppress once he took in your figure showed you that he still was the same boy you were in love with.

Jaemin lifted his arms in an open gesture, as if he wanted to pull you into his embrace, but he halted his actions by scoffing, finally breaking into a wide but hesitant smile. “You’re back,” he breathed out.

The sound of his voice immediately helped calm down your rapid heartbeat. You missed him. You missed him more than you could imagine, and it took seeing him in person to realise it. Your eyes creased as the corners of your lips lifted up, greeting him back. “I’m back,” you giggled.

Both of you stayed there. Standing still in the midst of the walking crowd, a scene that gave you déjà vu, reminiscent of the moment you parted ways in winter only to recreate it again when the two of you came back for each other. Jaemin lowered his gaze and you started twiddling your thumbs, thinking of what to do or what to say.

“Liste-” Jaemin started.

“So-” you said at the same time. Both of you stopped your sentences abruptly, giggling at the incident.

Jaemin, with a wave of his arm, gestured towards you. “You can go first,” he said.

“Why didn’t you contact me while I was abroad?” you didn’t waste any second, firing him with the question you always wanted to ask him ever since you stepped foot in your homeland.

Jaemin opened and closed his mouth, sucking in his bottom lip while thinking of what answer to form. An old man passing by yelled something about you blocking the way for those in a hurry, but you didn’t pay him any mind. All you wanted was to hear an answer, any answer that would justify Jaemin’s actions.

“I could say that I was busy with school or that the time zones were weird but that would be the lamest excuse ever and I don’t wanna lie to you. I wasted too much time being a coward that it took me losing you to another guy to realise how much I love you,” Jaemin said in a breath, and you took a small step back, blinking at his blunt and forward confession.

“What are you talking about?” you asked softly, genuinely confused, waiting for an elaborate explanation.

“I’m in love with you, Y/n. I didn’t want you to find out this way but this is exactly the reason I never reached out to you,” he said, wiping the sweat off his forehead.

“T-This d-doesn’t make any sense! At all! You’re confusing me, Jaemin, I…” you trailed off, your turn now to wipe off the sweat caused by your confusion, the humid heatiness of the weather long forgotten.

Jaemin gulped, moving a step forward to close in the gap between your bodies. “The day I invited you over to my dorm room, after we caught a cold because of the heavy rainfall, that’s when I knew. I had fallen in love with you. But I was cherishing your friendship so much I didn’t want to push you away and ruin things if I said anything about it, I was so unsure of your feelings,” he said, taking a deep, shaky breath.

Licking his lips, he continued. “You were so happy when you got the scholarship, it was all you had been thinking about before getting it. And I was rooting for you so much, I always told you how much you deserved it, that you would get it no matter what. But even though I was completely sure you would get it, I hadn’t thought very thoroughly about what I would do once you left,” he said.

Jaemin paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Looking into your softening eyes, he continued his confession. “That’s why I was such a jerk when you announced it to us, that day in the snow. I-I didn’t know what to do, you were slipping away from me and I was completely losing it. It’s such a selfish thing to say and I only realised how awfully I spoke to you until after you were gone,” he ran his fingers through his hair, composing himself.

“And then,” he let out a big sigh, “I learnt that you had a boyfriend. I tried to be happy for you but, to be honest, I was so fucking jealous. I regretted all the time I wasted not talking to you about my feelings but I knew that it was too late to change anything because you didn’t feel the same, and if you did, you had clearly moved on. I even tried dating other people hoping I would forget about you but it didn’t work. In fact, I just broke up with the girl I was seeing. She was boring as fuck, it took me too long to do it because I wanted to keep trying, I was pushing myself to convince my heart and mind to move on, but the truth is, no else can compare to you Y/n. You’re the one I want. I only had the courage to break things off with that girl today because, in the back of my mind, there was a glimmer of hope that when I see you again and explain everything, you might want to try giving me a chance to make up for things and let me treat you like I’m your actual boyfriend,” Jaemin said, breathing heavily after letting out all the thoughts he kept suppressed all this time.

You waited a moment to fully grasp everything. Jaemin loved you. He had always been in love with you. It took him blatantly confessing to you to realise how much in love with him you were too. You thought that whatever it was you were feeling with Mark was love. You loved Mark too, but the feeling of that love was different than what you're feeling right now about Jaemin. So this, this is what love was supposed to feel like. You just knew.

Sighing with a soft smile, you completely closed the gap between you and Jaemin by grabbing the hem at the collar of his tank top, pushing your lips against his. Jaemin reacted in a millisecond, melting into your touch, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you even closer, as close as it was physically possible. Your arms moved to rest on his shoulders, sliding down to his chest. Your lips moved rhythmically, finally tasting the love he had for you. The high temperature in the atmosphere could not be compared to the heat of the moment the two of you shared.

Pulling away to take a few breaths, you looked at Jaemin’s swollen lips and loving gaze. “You finally talked to me about your feelings,” you said and placed a soft peck on his lips before you lifted your toes up and wrapped your arms around him, resting your head on top of his shoulder. “And you finally showed me yours,” Jaemin said.

You stayed there, closing your eyes to take in his familiar scent, fully grasping the moment. You were finally able to fully open up your mind and soul to the person you felt the closest to. Your heartbeat had calmed down, your breathing was steady and your mind was at ease. You turn to speak into Jaemin’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine due to the proximity of your bodies. Public display of affection was the last thing on your mind at that moment.

“You know, I broke up with Mark thinking I would come back to you. I was hoping you would accept my feelings even though we had drifted apart these months. We’re such huge idiots, huh?” you said and you felt Jaemin’s chest vibrating as he laughed.

“Remember when you asked me if I knew what a ‘blue person’ was?” you asked him and Jaemin furrowed his eyebrows, although you couldn’t see, but you knew. You came back down on your feet to look at him, keeping your arms around his neck. You gave him a bright smile filled with love, a contagious one, as he pressed his own lips into a tight smile. “I didn’t know what it meant, but when you told me, I knew exactly that you were my blue person, Jaemin,” you said and now it was his turn to respond by locking your lips with his.

You were both smiling while pressing small soft kisses onto each other’s mouths. You pulled just a little bit back, enough to meet his loving eyes. “I love you, Jaemin,” you confessed, three words that took all of your strength to come out. Jaemin’s eyes lit up, pressing his nose onto yours. “I know that now,” he said.

Jaemin released himself from you and you whined at the sudden lack of his touch. He noticed and immediately grabbed your sweaty palm, intertwining his fingers with yours. “Come on,” he led the way towards ‘Caramel Craze’, “you have to fill us in with all the details about your studies abroad. Yerim and Jisung will be thrilled,” he said and you leaned into his side, walking together as if not a single day had passed.

you splashed color onto the confused abyss of mine you shed light onto the maze of my soul and you let me see the progress of you doing it — the summer to my winter, the picture of my thoughts, the answer to my question

Saturday, September 12th, 1998

September was your favorite month of the year. September usually signaled fresh beginnings and change, blended the warmth of summer and the chill of fall, and was the month during which drinking caramel lattes became the most acceptable.

You were holding a paper cup of hot caramel latte on your hand as you walked with slow steps looking at the different photos displayed around the small exhibition hall, with Yerim and Jisung tailing right behind you, each holding a cup of their own drink of choice.

Today was Jaemin’s first ever photo exhibition. Jisung made sure to have the day off from work so that he and Yerim could attend the opening. Still, the three of you stopped by your beloved coffee shop before heading to the exhibition to equip yourselves with your favorite warm drink.

Summer was slowly fading into fall, yet it still left some remnants of the hot and bright moments you shared with Jaemin. You had been officially dating for three months now, and neither of you intended to back out from this relationship anytime soon. Or ever. It became easier to understand each other now; the initial hesitation of speaking your mind or expressing your emotions which engulfed you in the beginning of your friendship had completely vanished the moment Jaemin broke it with his confession back in June. Both of you still struggled with communication, but as soon as you felt Jaemin’s reassuring hand on your timid one, it was as if your heart was released from the shuckles surrounding it and your tongue spoke the words you always wanted to say.

You showed Jaemin your poems. You opened up your most vulnerable self to him and he let you in, embraced you and held you firmly in his arms, all of you. You made sure to equally act as a safe space for him too, letting him in too and keeping him there, too scared to let go and too much in love to hurt him. You were each other’s person.

Yerim and Jisung’s reaction to your relationship was nonexistent; it’s like they were waiting for the moment you and Jaemin finally admitted to your feelings and let your egos aside just for a moment so that your hearts get what they deserve. You swear you saw Yerim wipe a tear when you announced it to them, but she convinced you that the summer wind brought a grit to her eye.

Over the course of summertime, Jaemin expressed his want to quit journalism and pursue photography as his career. He was so confident in taking this decision. He claimed that something inside him clicked, he just knew what was right for him in every aspect of his life. Journalism was what he thought was his passion, what he would love to do for a living, the career path that was guaranteed to make him happy. But when he held the camera in his hands, looked at the world through the camera lens, through his own eyes, he felt as if he could transform the world into anything he wanted. And this is what made him truly happy.

His rebellious spirit went into your own head and you started contemplating whether fashion design was the career for you. After showing Jaemin your poems, he wouldn’t stop saying how talented you are and how much potential these little drabbles of your thoughts have. You weren’t ready to leave school and everything you had worked so hard for behind, so you convinced yourself to push through college and graduate, even if life has other plans laid out for you later on.

So when Jaemin told you he would host his own photography exhibition, you couldn’t help but feel the happiness he radiated at the sound of this announcement. It was a huge step for him, and he could only do it with your help. “I want you to write the captions to my photos. You are the only one who can capture the essence of an image into such few words,” he told you with glistening eyes and the bright smile you fell in love with. You would never decline this offer.

You were standing in the middle of the exhibition hall, where Jaemin had placed the main photo of his collection. An image very familiar to you; you spent hours arguing about whether it was a good idea to include such an intimate picture in a collection for the whole world to see, but Jaemin insisted. “It’s the world seen through my lens. It needs to be included,” he said holding both of your hands dearly, his voice trembling in nervousness.

So here was hanging on the big white wall a collage of two images; a cutout of your sitting figure, teacup in hand accompanied with a puffy face, red nose, mouth open mid-sentence glued on the background of the dark open sea. The caption you chose for this picture was placed underneath it, carved in small italic letters on a glass engraving:

shades of blue; the color of you

You hated this picture. But it was so special to Jaemin. He kept saying how beautiful you looked in it, over and over again. It was raw, unfiltered, it captured reality; it represented the very moment he realised he was in love with you.

You stood in front of the image, taking it in. This was the result of your and Jaemin’s combined love for art and everything it expressed. It was an indicator of the love you two shared. Yerim and Jisung stood on either of your sides, looking at the image with as much appreciation.

“You look a little funny,” Jisung muttered and Yerim didn’t let this comment slip, giving him a light slap at the back of his head.

You giggled at the interaction between your two friends. They still hadn’t seen their own picture, a still image of them bickering about nonsense, with Yerim threatening to throw a huge encyclopedia on Jisung’s head, and Jisung raising up his arms as a shield. They have no idea that Jaemin was quick enough to capture this endearing moment.

“Have you guys seen Jaemin, by any chance?” you asked and Yerim pointed towards the space behind the main exhibit. “He’s over there, with these fancy looking guys,” she said and you nodded, heading towards him.

You approached Jaemin as he shook hands with the two middle-aged men, bidding them goodbye. You slipped your arm around his neck and pulled his free hand, bringing his body closer to yours to peck his lips. His arms easily rested at the small of your back, tracing circles with his thumb.

“Everything is so beautiful, Jaem. I’m so proud of you,” you said softly, feeling his cheeks heat up at the sound of your compliment. “It was all possible because of you, my love. Thank you,” he said, locking his lips with yours once again.

Pulling apart, you grabbed his hand and motioned him to walk around the exhibition hall. “Who were those men, by the way?” you asked out of curiosity and Jaemin’s eyes beamed. “Those were the director of the exhibition and another photographer. He’s professional. They came to congratulate me and I can tell they liked my collection a lot. I don’t want to brag or get ahead of myself but I’m sensing a job offer of some sort,” he said and you stopped in your tracks to squeeze him into a tight hug.

“That’s so amazing! You deserve this so much, baby,” your voice was muffled as your mouth was blocked by his shoulder, but Jaemin still managed to hear you, chuckling at your excitement. “Thank you, kitten, but nothing is for sure yet. So far, everything is running smoothly, though,” he said.

After about two hours, the exhibition officially came to an end. It would be open to the general audience again tomorrow, and then again for two more weekends ahead. The first day was crowned a success; Jaemin received a lot of positive feedback on his work and people seemed to genuinely enjoy their time there.

As the hall closed, your friend group gathered at the entrance, escorting the last remaining people out, thanking them for their attendance. Once the four of you were the only ones who remained, Jisung spoke up. “I have an idea. I know it’s late but that’s the fun part. I have the keys to the coffee shop. ‘Caramel Craze’. I know we should be out celebrating with alcohol but none of us likes that stuff. So what do you say? We sneak in and celebrate there. No one will notice,” he said and this offer sounded particularly delicious at the moment.

Entering the coffee shop, the cozy familiar place seemed a lot different in the dark. Jisung didn’t lift up the blinds nor turned the lights on. Instead, he grabbed a torch light from behind the register counter and headed towards your favorite table, setting the torch in the middle to light up the space around the four of you. Going to the back, in the little café’s kitchen, Jisung quickly heated up some frozen cinnamon rolls which were meant to be displayed and sold in the morning. When he came back, the four of you sat in a comfortable silence eating the warm pastries.

As Yerim was about to speak, she was interrupted by the coffee shop’s phone ringing. Jisung stood up mid bite, yelling with his mouth full. “What the hell? Who’s calling this late, we’re closed!” he said, running to the phone. As he picked it up, he whispered to himself, ‘please don’t let it be the boss’.

He brings the phone to his ear with a soft ‘hello’ and he remains still and expressionless for a few seconds before he tilts his head towards the table you were sitting at. “Y/n, they say it’s for you,” he yelled and you blinked in confusion, Jaemin and Yerim giving you the same expression.

You stand up, grabbing the phone from Jisung’s hand with hesitation. You nodded to him and he turned his heel towards your friends.

Sighing, you place the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

“Sorry if I’m disturbing your universe,” the familiar raspy voice reverberated through your ear, your back straightening at the sound of the boy you once loved.

Turning you back to your friends, you greeted the boy back. “Hey, Mark,” you said in a whisper, although your friends were too busy chatting to pay attention to you.

“I saw an article online about your friend’s – um, your boyfriend’s photo exhibition. It was today, right? I-I mean, the time zones are a bit weird, a-and I wanted to congratulate you both on the project. I didn’t expect anyone to pick up though, I j-just made a guess to call the coffee shop since you always said you spend all your time there, a-and I didn’t want to disturb you on your own phone and an email seemed too impersonal-”

“Mark, you’re rambling,” you chuckled and he sighed with a soft giggle. “Sorry. I’m a little nervous. If you can tell,” he said.

“Yeah, Mark, I can tell. Relax, it’s just me,” you said and the silence from the other line dragged on for longer than what you would’ve liked.

Finally, Mark broke the silence by sighing again. “Listen, Y/n, I just wanted to say congratulations. I’m so glad you decided to follow your dreams, with slow steps at a time,” he said, the smile evident in his tone of voice.

Your lips stretched upwards too, though you tried to suppress the smile. “Thank you, Mark. It’s such an honor hearing that from you”.

Another pause. You began to speak, you needed an excuse to hang up the phone now, you were missing from your friend group for quite some time now.

“Liste-,” you and Mark said at the same time, but you stopped, giving him permission to speak.

“Listen,” he cleared his throat, “I just want to know that you’re happy. That’s all that matters to me. Are you happy?” Mark asked and your eyes dropped to your feet.

Were you happy? How could you answer this question so easily? You tried to think, swaying in your place, running your mind through places to find an answer. Turning your head to the sound of Yerim’s loud laugh, you saw your friends throwing small chunks of food at each other, Jisung running around the table in an attempt to avoid Jaemin’s attacks, his lovable bright smile on full display.

You smiled to yourself. “Yes, I am happy,” you said and you could feel Mark nodding from the other side of the line. “Good, good. That’s great, that’s all I needed to hear. Congratulations again, Y/n, you deserve it,” he said.

“Thank you, Mark. You too. Stay happy and take care,” you whispered and slowly hung up the phone, without waiting for him to say anything else, if he wanted to that is.

You stood there, unable to move. Jaemin’s lovely voice brought your conscience back to reality. “Who was that, my love?” he asked, Yerim and Jisung stopping their food fight to look at you, waiting for your answer.

You pressed your lips and shook your head, shoulders lifting upwards. You looked Jaemin in his eyes, which looked glossy under the light of the torch. You flashed him one of your brightest smiles, as you walked towards his open arms.

TAGS: @peachjaem00 @hyuckieslove @bbyyhyuck @vdollys @positionslab

@matchahyuck @renjun-fairy @back2jisung @xxxx-23nct @doieslefttoe

@uwuheeseungie @markleefuckme @letmein2urheart @jungaji @minhwalovebot

@museulgii @lelengerine @neocity-net

join my taglist !!

#g: 13+#g: college au #g: fluff #g: angst #g: love triangle #g: lovers to exes #g: 90s au #warnings: mentions of food #warnings: swearing #warnings: miscommunication #type: fic #wc: 32k+#a: ohmytyong #member: mia #artist: nct dream #m: jaemin #m: mark

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kflixnet · 1 month ago

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New to KFLIXNET: Check out our member Calli's fic!

CHASING THE FRONT PT.1

pairing: mercedes driver!joshua x fem!reader

genre: fluff, angst, f1au

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, mentions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, slowburn (i cannot stress on this enough), quite f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 [21k] Part 2 [15k] Part 3 [21k]coming on the 30th

glossary taglist

a/n: there we go... longest one yet LOL. writing this was an experience and in tiya's words i have become a classified yapper indeed. i have many people to thank for this and it will go long, but bear with me guys: hershey ( @junplusone ) without her this fic would not have been here so soon and i would not have had the motivation, honestly. rae ( @nerdycheol ) and hershey have sat through me screaming about literally everything about this fic and MORE. ty for being my no.1 hypegirl <3. And to jay ( @ppyopulii) and the others on the server, THANK YOU for the sprints!!! (we actually went for four straight hours one day. it was insane.) this was actually the easiest fic (half lie.) to write in the series :) my two biases and my fav team. hope you guys enjoy this one!!

UNITED KINGDOM, BRACKLEY

Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 HQ January 2nd

It rains the whole drive up. Not dramatic—just a constant, steady kind of downpour that blurs the windows and makes everything look a little less saturated than it already is. In the passenger seat, Joshua’s manager, Minghao, mutters that it feels like a bad omen. But Joshua’s lived in the UK long enough to get used to it. The sight of M40 with clouds hanging low, grey and heavy is not something new—he’s made the trip from London a hundred times in his last three years with Williams.

By the time they reach, the rain finally lets up. Joshua isn’t attacked by slow, thick droplets of water, but instead by the fresh, grassy smell from the lawn and the cold chill that hangs around Brackley. He steps out of the car and breathes in the frozen air, hands on his hips as he looks at the building in front of him. His new home from now on.

The factory sits low against the skyline, all muted glass and steel, as if it’s trying not to draw attention to itself. In a way, it still feels a bit unreal to finally make it to one of the top teams and Mercedes at that.

He’s walked into enough team facilities over the years to know that first impressions mean everything, so he straightens his posture and zips his jacket up. Joshua decides—as he makes his way up to the entrance—that he is going to walk in like this isn’t the biggest moment of his career. He doesn’t need to show the entire team his nervousness yet.

The welcome is formal and professional, maybe even a little impersonal. There are a few handshakes, a series of rehearsed greetings. He smiles where appropriate, nods when he’s spoken to and doesn’t try to overdo it. The team principal meets him briefly—warm enough to feel sincere, but not enough to linger. Joshua supposes there’ll be enough time for meetings with him later on.

The building itself almost embodies the cars that Mercedes makes—sleek, bold, classy. It’s impossible to walk these halls and not feel something. The legacy hangs around the building in the form of black-and-white photos that line the walls—Mechanics mid-pit stop, engineers in the zone, podium spray captured in perfect freeze-frame. Trophies behind glass casing, older models of the W-series.

Someone whose name he hasn’t been able to catch yet shows him around the office. He brings Joshua to the simulator room. The wind tunnel. The gym. A conference room that’s already filled with engineers, strategists, and analysts. People who have been here longer than he has. People who will measure him in telemetry and tire degradation, and podium finishes.

Joshua hesitates for half a second at the threshold.

But once he steps in, heads turn. A few greetings ripple through the room, short but welcoming. Joshua’s eyes flit across the room as he realises that these are probably the people he needs to get accustomed to, soon enough.

Doyoung—his new teammate—is seated at one of the chairs around the table, half turned in his seat with a tablet in one hand. His gaze flicks up as Joshua enters, and then, almost immediately, a smile appears. It’s subtle but genuine, as if Doyoung’s been expecting this moment for a while now.

He stands, makes his way over easily.

“Welcome to Brackley,” he says, hand extended. “Took you long enough.”

Joshua grins, shaking it. “You think three years is long?”

“Expected you to get here a bit sooner.” Doyoung tilts his head. “It’s good to have you here. Been saying nice things about you ever since you signed the contract, so trust me when I say everyone already likes you.”

Joshua raises an eyebrow. “I see you’ve gotten humorous over the winter.”

That earns a soft laugh.

They stand there for another second, a quiet understanding settling in the space between them. Not friends, not yet—but maybe something like that. They’ll be sharing everything this year. The car, the data, the responsibility. It helps that the tension isn’t immediate. Joshua tries to read his teammate’s face. The world champion, the closest and the hardest competition he shall find in the form of a teammate. His face is full of mirth, and for now, that is enough.

Doyoung makes his way back to his seat and waves Joshua off over his shoulder. “Well, this is my meeting. You’ll have yours soon enough. Go away!”

Joshua shoots a thumbs-up, shaking his head slightly, and he turns around, his guide already about to leave the room with him in tow, when it opens again.

Brisk and composed in a dark coat with wet patches on it, you walk in—hair pulled back, eyes sharp. One hand wrapped around a laptop, the other holding a paper takeaway coffee you don't seem to have touched.

Joshua glances sideways—but Doyoung straightens.

“You’re late,” he sighs.

“It started raining again,” you reply with a shrug. You don't elaborate as your eyes sweep across the room once, before landing on Joshua. You nod at him once, slipping on a small smile before turning to Doyoung. “We need to go over the PR schedule. There’s a media request from Japan that I think we should take.”

Doyoung nods. “Give me ten?”

You nod. “I’ll be by the sim.”

Joshua knows who you are—he’s seen you around the paddock before. You’re Doyoung’s manager and his sister. He’s wondered before if that never caused trouble between you, but now he thinks he’ll know in a while, anyway.

He turns back around when his guide clears their throat.

“Let’s keep going,” he says.

Joshua’s guide manages to fill the silence with light conversation, mentioning wind tunnel upgrades, last season’s tire degradation issues, and something about the catering getting better this year. When they pass a room or a corridor with many people, they come to a stop. His guide introduces Joshua to everyone, and in turn, they all welcome him—bright smiles and good-naturedly.

They go full circle around the building before finally coming to a stop near the simulator room. His guide tilts his head towards the door and smiles. “There’s a small set-up change to be done in there, so you and Doyoung can start tomorrow. I’ve been told to take you up to Toto’s room in a while to sign something and maybe click a few photos.”

The door swings open behind them, cutting the conversation short.

“You skipped your comms briefing again,” you're saying as you step through, coffee in one hand, your phone in the other. “I’m not covering for you twice in one week.”

Doyoung follows with a sheepish smile. “You said I didn’t need to be there if it was just sponsor talking points.”

“I said that once, last season. You’ve taken it as gospel ever since.”

You stop when you catch sight of Joshua standing by the door. There’s the faintest flicker of recognition on your face, followed by a polite, practised smile.

“Oh,” you say. “Hello.”

“Hey,” Joshua says, straightening a little as he offers his hand. “Joshua Hong.”

“I know.” You nod, shaking it before stepping aside so Doyoung can greet him properly. “Nice to meet you officially.”

Doyoung claps a hand on Joshua’s shoulder. “Josh, this is my manager-slash-sister.”

Joshua raises an eyebrow. “Right. Knew that.”

“All the best. Be careful,” you say, dryly. “He’s been unmanageable since karting.”

“And she’s been bossy since birth,” Doyoung shoots back, already moving past.

You sigh, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Welcome to Mercedes,” you say to Joshua before you go. “Let me know if he starts being unbearable.”

Joshua smiles. “You’ll be the first call.”

You disappear around the corner with Doyoung, voices dipping as you fall back into conversation. Joshua turns as his guide gestures to the stairs.

“Toto’s office,” he says. “This way.”

UNITED KINGDOM, LONDON

The O2 Arena February 18th

The car inches forward in a slow crawl.

They’ve been idling behind a red, first-generation Honda NSX for nearly five minutes now, flashes going off in staggered bursts ahead of them. Even from this distance, Joshua can make out Haechan stepping out with the kind of natural ease that comes from having an entire generation of fans already waiting for him. Jeno is on the other side, waving at someone in the crowd. Camera shutters explode.

Behind the wheel, Minghao taps the steering wheel absently. “Not too late to back out.”

Joshua snorts. “Drive.”

The line creeps forward again. Joshua adjusts the collar of his jacket and thinks that it’s funny it’s going so slow, even though all the cars in the line are sports cars. His hands are warm from the heater. Outside, it's all rain-slick asphalt and white flashbulbs. He rolls his shoulder back once and lets his head tip back against the seat.

“I still can’t believe they’re doing a red carpet for a livery reveal,” Minghao mutters.

Joshua laughs. “It’s F1 and its 75th year. Everything’s going to be dramatic.”

The Red Bull boys move on, and it’s their turn. The Mercedes AMG rolls forward under the canopy of lights. Someone from the event staff opens the passenger door, and Joshua steps out into the cold.

The moment he does, there’s a spike in sound—a flurry of camera shutters, his name being called from the barriers. He lifts a hand in a practised wave, adjusts the sleeve of his coat, and turns slightly as the other team car rolls up behind them.

The Mercedes logo gleams faintly on the hood. The passenger’s side door opens, and Doyoung climbs out.

He’s composed, as always, with the charming tilt of his lips that he throws at the cameras before walking up to where Joshua is. Someone from the PR team is already waving them into position.

“Joshua,” Doyoung greets. He holds out his hand for a brief shake and then nods toward the photographers. “Shall we?”

“Oh, please, yes.” Joshua mutters under his breath, “Hasn’t even started, and I already want to leave.”

His teammate laughs, a grin on his face as they fall into step beside each other, shoulder to shoulder in their matching black outfits and silver jewellery. The flashes go off immediately, and Joshua resists the urge to blink.

Within a minute, an event handler ushers them inside, where the official journalists and photographers are set up. He meets Minghao there again, who introduces him to his PR manager, and then he’s pushed forward and towards the first journalist of the day.

“Hello, Joshua. Good to see you in the Mercedes colours! We’ve been asking all the drivers the same question: What do you think the other drivers would do if they weren’t in Formula 1?”

Joshua laughs, a little taken aback. “Well, that’s a bit of a hard one, no? I was thinking you would be asking about the new team and such—even had my answers prepared!”

It makes the journalist shoot an apologetic smile, in a way that says: My higher-ups gave me this shitty script and I’m truly sorry but I’d appreciate it if you answered!

“I feel like Seungcheol would be… a firefighter, maybe. Something heroic, something loud. Jeonghan would probably be working a corporate job. I can see that happening. Haechan would like to stream for a living or something. He’s got that energy.”

“And Doyoung?”

Joshua pauses. “CEO. Team principal, maybe. He’s already halfway there.”

They both laugh. His PR manager guides him to the next interview. Some ask heavier, newer questions, some with their usual ones for entertainment. Joshua answers all, and by the time he’s finally ushered into the main arena, he’s already exhausted.

There are three tables for Mercedes. One for the TP, the drivers and their dates. One for the sponsors, and one for the PR and social media team. Joshua is ushered towards the one that is in the middle of the seating area, where Doyoung approaches from the opposite entrance.

Their table sits adjacent to Williams’, close enough that Joshua immediately spots Jeonghan and Wonwoo leaning over something on a phone. Jeonghan looks up first, his eyes crinkling in a smile.

“Hey,” He says, turning slightly in his chair as Joshua approaches. “You clean up well, Mr. Mercedes.”

Joshua scoffs playfully as he twists his chair around to face Jeonghan before sitting down. “You say that like I wasn’t always the best-dressed between the two of us.”

Jeonghan leans back, looking entirely unimpressed. “Is this coming from the person who wore the team kit everywhere except his home races?”

Joshua shrugs, that familiar, easy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, before he turns as Doyoung arrives and takes the seat next to him, nodding politely at the other drivers in greeting.

Doyoung leans in towards him, his voice weak over the loud music that’s begun to play. “We’re up sixth. They’re going to call the teams up one by one to change and then make us stand with the cars all together at the end.”

“You’d think they’ve made enough of a show over this,” Joshua speaks a little louder, “but now you’re telling me all twenty of us are going up on stage?”

“In order of last year’s constructors as well,” He adds with a small shake of his head before leaning away, noticing you in the crowd. “You’ve made a good choice. Third is better than standing ninth on the grid anyway.”

“Oh, for sure. Letting Jeonghan deal with that.” Joshua huffs out before pointing his chin towards your approaching figure. “Your date for tonight?”

“Well,” Doyoung sighs a bit dramatically, “The dating pool’s been a little shallow on my side. Besides, you’ve come with your manager as well.”

“She doesn’t seem like bad company.” Joshua offers with a small smile, eyes flicking toward you as you move through the crowd. Your dress is simple but appropriate for an event like this, and he’s noticed the quiet confidence with which you carry yourself. It’s enough to make you stand out.

He feels arms on his shoulder, squeezing before he turns to his left to see Minghao sitting down.

“She isn’t.” Doyoung agrees, shooting Minghao a wink in greeting. “Also, she thinks she’s here as my manager and not as a date, anyway.”

Spotting Doyoung and the team seated near the stage, you move toward them, only to realise that the last seat is the one sandwiched between the two drivers. You hesitate, scanning the table for another spot, but no luck.

Sliding into the seat, you can feel the faint scrape of chairs and the warmth radiating from both sides.

Joshua offers a small smile. “The best seat in the house,” he murmurs, nodding toward the stage right in front of you.

You huff out a laugh, “Or the only seat left.”

Doyoung leans back slightly, smirking. “VIP treatment. You’ll get all the action up close. Maybe you can even investigate the cars when they’re unveiled.”

“And do your job for you? No thanks.” You shake your head. “Your suits have been sent up to the changing rooms, by the way.”

—

Backstage is dimmer, but equally loud nonetheless. The anticipation of the crowd bleeds through as changing rooms buzz with movement—team staff guiding drivers to their suits, camera crews setting up final shots, drivers moving in and out. It’s a little awkward, Joshua thinks as he stands outside the door to their room, waiting for Doyoung to finish changing. The rooms are small, and you couldn’t possibly get twenty men to strip naked in the same vicinity as their teammates. The Red Bull changing room is on his left, Aston Martin on his right.

Joshua scrolls through his phone, gauging the reactions to the cars on twitter. Aston made one hell of an entrance, with their movie trailer-like video before Jaemin and Chan arrived in emerald green suits, helmets on their head, hiding their faces.

He has to admit, their car always looks good—courtesy of the Aston Martin green, of course. But at the end of the day, speed is what matters, and he doubts they’ll have a lot of that this year. Not until Adrian Newey makes the team shift, anyway.

A click of the door opening on the inside makes him look up. Doyoung leaves the room, adjusting the neck of his race suit. He pats Joshua on the shoulder as he walks by, making his way over to the group that’s formed down the corridor—Haechan, the Alpines and the McLarens. Joshua exhales as he looks away from the bright, construction worker orange of Mark’s suit and walks in, closing the door behind him.

Inside, the sounds are slightly muted, and Joshua is glad for it. The last two hours have been hectic—coming in to change, going out on stage with their car, the messed up pit-stop that their team showcased, to coming back only to change back into the clothes that they came in and sit at their tables again and watch the hosts make jokes that not half the people find funny.

There’s still the distant thrum of the music that plays while they get ready backstage, but it’s quiet enough for Joshua to hear the metallic rasp of the zipper of his suit. The suit fits.

Of course it does—it should, after custom measurements, days of fittings, and a small army of stylists behind the scenes. But it feels like it fits now, in this moment, when he catches a glimpse of himself in the tall mirror leaning against the wall.

Black, silver, and that unmistakable turquoise lining running along the seams. The Mercedes logo over his chest, IWC and Petronas stitched in clean symmetry across his chest.

He exhales slowly.

Tonight is the first time the world has seen him in Mercedes’ colours. In about a week and a half, they’ll see him in the car.

He presses the collar down and stretches his arms a little. It’s still slightly stiff, but it’s all like new gear. A little more time in it, and he’ll be fine.

Joshua runs a hand through his hair, forgetting that it’s been gelled before retracting it and staring at his palm with slight disgust. There’s a box of tissues on the small couch that he uses to wipe it off before folding his clothes back up and leaving the room.

The corridor is louder now. Someone laughs a little too brightly. The McLaren drivers are getting team pictures taken with both drivers in their suits. Joshua shuts the door behind him and glances to his left. Doyoung’s already engaged in a conversation with Seungcheol and Jaehyun, a bottle of water in hand.

Someone lets out a low whistle, probably Haechan.

“Look at that,” Seungcheol says with a grin, stepping slightly aside so Joshua can join their loose circle. “The Mercedes colours suit you.”

Joshua shrugs, still adjusting the cuffs at his wrist. “Thanks, although it is hard to make black look bad.”

“Just peeked at the stage and the cars are already out.” Vernon chimes in before turning to Seungcheol. “What is that shade of red, man? What happened to ‘Ferrari Red’?”

The man scoffs, shaking his head. “Don’t ask. They shifted it a few scales down on the colour picker, slapped on the HP logo and called it a day.”

“All that doesn’t really matter if you’re fast enough.” Haechan sighs. “Aiming for the 5th, aren’t you, champ?”

Seungcheol only smiles politely.

Joshua’s eyes shift to the side as he finishes adjusting his cuffs, fingers smoothing over the faint turquoise piping along the sleeve. His gaze drifts toward the stage curtain where the outlines of the cars gleam under the spotlights. He catches the faintest glimpse of the silver W16, sitting just left of the centre, the fourth car on the ramp.

The stage coordinator returns, urgency slipping into her voice. “We will start heading out onto the stage. Can I please have Ferrari and Red Bull ready to go?”

Seungcheol lets out a soft sigh, rolling his shoulders back like he’s preparing to race, not walk a few meters into spotlights. Jaehyun beside him gives a tight nod and adjusts the collar of his suit.

“Try not to blind anyone,” someone mutters to the Mclarens as they line up behind Joshua, the others falling into line behind them. Quiet laughter ripples through the group as Mark turns around with an offended look on his face.

“See y’all out there,” Seungcheol mutters over his shoulder, catching Joshua’s eye. The former looks at him with a sense of respect, or maybe even caution. To him, it’s new. He wasn’t much of a threat back at Williams, but things will change now.

Joshua realises—as he walks out into the spotlight, waving at the crowd before his eyes narrow in on their car—that once the season starts, he may have more rivals than ever before.

BAHRAIN, BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT

Pre-season testing, Day 1

You switch on your phone’s torch as you step into the garage, eyes squinting because of the darkness. A scoff bubbles in your throat—a blackout during the middle of testing? Slightly annoyed, you squeeze your way past the mechanics gathered around the car, shining flashlights onto it as they attempt to analyse the flow-vis sprayed over the rear wing.

It's unfortunate that Doyoung’s testing period has been the one affected, but you hope that the floodlights and the power will come back soon enough. You head to the back, thinking that Doyoung's gotten out of his car, but he's nowhere to be found.

Someone tells you that he might be on the other side of the garage, talking to one of the engineers, so you sigh, cursing at the darkness again before twisting around to Joshua's side of the garage.

Joshua. You've spoken to him a few times, and he seems nice enough. Good things have been spreading about him in the paddock ever since his debut, and you won't lie—you were glad when you heard that he was the one they signed as the other driver for this season. Teammate troubles are not something Mercedes can seem to afford, given the way they've been performing recently. Most of the time, it's hard to remember their days of glory, the seasons where they were the team to beat, the season where Doyoung won it all.

You also won't lie about the way you've been looking for newer prospects in terms of teams. Doyoung has stayed, and he has been loyal. But it doesn't seem to be getting him anywhere.

Unless, of course, this season is different.

From what you've heard, the car looks quick. Looks like they can compete for race wins and not just podiums like last year. You're not ready to trust them just yet, though. Not till you hear it from Doyoung, and not till the first race itself.

On the other side, you hold your phone a bit low, trying not to shine it into anybody's face as you look for your brother. The floor is littered with wires and air tubes, and whatnot.

“Hey.” Someone taps on your shoulder. You turn around quickly, only to come face-to-face with Mercedes’ very own Mr. Hong.

“Oh, hello,” you greet. Joshua's eyes are filled with amusement, and you only realise why when you finally pull your flashlight away from your ghoulish-looking face.

Slightly embarrassed, you smile awkwardly. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing, just…” he points at your feet, making your head snap down. “You're stepping on my paddock pass…”

You step back with a small ah before bending down to pick it up. Joshua does the same, and your head only narrowly misses bumping his.

Joshua picks it up with a smile before pretending to dust it. He slips the card into his pocket, letting the lanyard hang out of it. You vaguely register the action as something you did back in school. He's already in a pair of black jeans, team kit on—after all, his session is over for today.

You remember why you were here in the first place. Turning around, you crane your neck, trying to look for a sky-blue helmet or a certain raven-haired man. You see neither and resort to asking:

“Hey, I was told Doyoung was in here.”

Joshua shrugs before turning to his manager, who stands next to him. You make a mental note to introduce yourself and maybe talk to him later.

Minghao sighs at him. “When I tell you to bring your paddock pass, you don't. Instead, you bring it everywhere other than the required places.” He turns to you. “Doyoung just headed towards the pit wall.”

Maybe the annoyance on your face is visible—not that you're trying hard to hide it, really—but the two share glances, half-amused and half wondering if this will blow up into those small sibling quarrels that you have from time to time.

Before they can speak up, the floodlights switch back on outside and shortly enough, so do the lights in the garage. The sigh of relief that everyone lets out would have been funny if not for the fact that it's been a little too long for Doyoung’s liking and you know from the way he walks back into his side of the garage—jaw tight and nose scrunched—that he is going to be unsatisfied with the time and the laps he gets in this session.

It seems as if Red Bull were already waiting for the lights to come back on because within seconds, the sound of an engine being started—the loud, attention-demanding roar of the RB21 is heard from their garage.

You know Doyoung is probably slipping his gloves back on and already getting into the car, so there is no point in you going back to him now. So you stand there in Joshua's garage, watching as screens on the pit wall light up with metrics and data. Behind you, the mechanics lift Joshua’s car again before slipping the wheels off.

“They’ve come up with a new method for tire cooling,” Joshua informs from beside you.

You nod slowly, “That’s what the rims are for?”

“Yep,” he says, popping the ‘p’.

“Is it working?” You ask, turning around with raised eyebrows. “How was your session?”

“It’s…” Joshua trails off, looking at the car once before his eyes land back on you. “It seems to be working. It could be more effective, I suppose. They’ll work on it. Besides, Doyoung will probably have feedback once he’s done with his session as well.”

You note that he doesn’t answer your second question—out of absentmindedness or avoidance, you’re not sure. But you don’t know him very well nor you aren’t in any position to push, so you don’t.

“Well, how are you liking it here?”

Joshua raises an eyebrow at you before his lips curve slightly. “It’s nice,” he admits, “After all, I am in a faster car, aren’t I?”

“Sure,” you shrug, “I meant the team, but that’s valid too, I suppose.”

He laughs lightly, and beside him, Minghao smiles slightly, like they’re sharing some sort of a private joke. The sound echoes in your ear. You wonder if they’re mocking the team, you, maybe. But Joshua seems too nice to do something like that, so you sum it up to just you being wary and brush it off.

“The team is great.” Joshua huffs out before turning to his manager. “Go on, tell her!”

“Last week one of the engineering teams sat down and talked shit about some British football team at lunch with me.” Minghao scoffs, pointing at himself. “I think they thought I was someone new to their team… It was a very funny thing to tell them that I am not, in fact, a part of their team. Once it was cleared, they didn’t care either way and continued.”

You shake your head with a small smile, “Well, that’s Merc for you. Everyone’s incredibly friendly once they warm up to you.”

“They are,” Joshua agrees.

Minghao nods beside him. “And a little persistence. It helps that they like results.” He tilts his head at Joshua pointedly. “Which he’s been giving.”

Joshua waves him off. “In the sims only. We’ll see after testing and Australia.”

“Alright.” Minghao deadpans, and you laugh, because the rhythm of their conversation is easy. They’re clearly used to each other, in the way that people become when long hours and long flights force them to be.

The other side of the garage has come alive with noise now, mechanics yelling instructions, the cooling ducts being pulled in and out, Doyoung settling into the car in between it all. Within moments, the roar of the engine fills the garage—louder than the sounds that have risen outside, and a little unexpected on your side. You flinch slightly, your hands flying up to your ears even though the sound is something you’ve become used to.

Joshua notices from beside you and slips off the headphones that had been resting against his neck and hands them over to you. You stare at the black device for a second, his initials HJS engraved in silver on each side. Quickly, you shake your head, palms slowly falling to your sides.

“I’m good. Just surprised.” You nod, gently pushing them back to him. “You’ll need it more anyway, no?”

Joshua nods, adjusting the wire to fall behind his shoulder before slipping one cover onto his ear. He leans towards you, trying to carry his voice over the engine noise. “I did mean to tell Doyoung something. The curb’s been extended on turn 13, and we didn’t get to go on a track walk.”

You see as Minghao’s lips part in a scoff. “Took you by surprise, did it?” He asks, covering his ears as well.

“Definitely.” Joshua shakes his head. “Almost lost the car there. Were you not seeing?”

“I had better things to do.” He says, slapping Joshua’s shoulder before turning to you. “Aren’t you coming back to the hospitality? There’s that sponsorship contract that they’ve asked us to go through.”

You nod immediately, muttering a small goodbye to Joshua before following Minghao out. From the corner of your eye, you see your brother’s car leave the garage with a sharp turn into the pit lane. You try to pretend that you’re not worried for this season, but like every testing session ever, you cross your fingers. This season, finally… Hopefully.

When you turn to close the door to the garage back door, you spare one last glance at the man who is your brother’s new competition. He jogs over lightly to the pit wall, the wind rippling the fabric of the team shirt on his back. There’s a sort of quiet confidence to his posture that wasn’t there on his first day in the team. Like he knows he’s started to belong.

You think of the day the news was announced, how Doyoung told you that he always felt like the guy was supposed to end up here. He’d said it with some sort of caution, a sense of inevitability in his voice—not resentment or frustration.

The door closes with a satisfying click. You turn back around to face Minghao’s retreating back and think that the niceness that these two come with is what’s going to help them fit in soon.

It’s also what Doyoung needs to be wary of.

—

Pre-season testing, Day 2

You find Doyoung slumped in a chair in the hotel’s in-house restaurant well past ten, a black hoodie pulled over his head and his legs stretched out under the table like he’s half-asleep. There's a plate in front of him that he’s barely touched—grilled fish, some rice—and when he glances up to see you approaching, he looks a lot like he does after races. Exhausted, eyelids drooping, and lips set in that oh-so-familiar frustrated curl that lets you know that it hasn’t been a great day.

“Hey,” you say, sliding into the seat across from him.

“Didn’t think you’d still be up.” He stabs his fork into the fish. “Or hungry.”

“I’m neither,” you admit. “But I figured you’d be both.”

Doyoung huffs out a breath and drops his fork. “I was. Think I’m just… full of data sheets now.” You glance around. The place is not quite empty yet. There are people at the bar, none you recognise. Their laughter is low, muted by the hum of ambient jazz and the soft clinking of glasses. No one looks your way. Through the thick windows, you can just make out the stars in the sky. It’s a prettier sight than you usually get, thanks to the clear desert air.

You let the silence stretch a little before saying, “I heard about the rear instability in the second run.”

Doyoung nods slowly, not looking up from his food. “It didn’t get worse. Didn’t get better either. The team’s on it.”

But you know that tone, and in this sport, the middle ground is never good enough.

He picks up his glass and takes a sip before muttering, “He’s doing well.”

“Joshua?”

Another nod. “Consistent. Clean. Still figuring out things, but…” He trails off. “He’s not wasting time.”

You hum. “Maybe that’s good. You have a competent teammate now. Don’t have to be the only one trying to score.”

Doyoung gives you a dry look, and you wonder if you sound too diplomatic. When he’s like this, you can never figure out the right things to say.

Still, he doesn’t press. He never does when he’s tired.

You pick at what’s left on his plate and he doesn’t stop you.

When he finally speaks again, it’s quieter. “This year feels different.”

You look up at him. “Different good or different bad?”

“I don’t know yet,” he says. “Ask me after Australia.”

You smile faintly. “Everyone keeps saying this. I wish it would come a bit earlier.”

“Yeah,” he replies, tipping his head back against the chair. “Can say the same. Testing is always so annoying. Sure, we’re trying to improve and test ourselves, but it’s so confusing when it comes to the other teams. We’ve set the fastest times on both days, but there’s no way that’s actually true.”

“Why so pessimistic already?” You sigh, scraping the fork against his plate. “The team’s worked hard.”

“They have,” Doyoung admits, sitting up a little straighter when a waiter comes to refill his glass. He offers it to you, to which you shake your head. “But man, no matter how hard we try, if there’s someone faster than us, then there’s not much we can do. The Ferrari guys seemed really confident. I don’t know… Joshua and I spoke to as many drivers as we could during these two days and we came to the conclusion that Ferrari and Red Bull have a shit ton more pace than they’re letting on.”

“So do you guys.” You offer.

He nods slowly. “We’ll see.”

“Mum called me a few hours ago. Said you weren’t picking up.” You eye him as he sighs.

“I was in a meeting, I think. If not, then in the car. I’ll call her tomorrow… It’s too late now anyway.”

“Doyoung…” You trail off.

“No, I know.” He shakes his head, “It’s okay. I know she just gets worried. I don’t mind it. I’ll talk to her, I swear.”

Just then, the bell above the restaurant door gives a soft jingle. You glance over instinctively.

Joshua steps in quietly, hands shoved in the pockets of his black windbreaker, hair slightly ruffled like he’s just pulled his cap off. His gaze sweeps the room, unreadable at first, until he spots the two of you and offers a small nod. He doesn’t look surprised to see you—just a little hesitant, maybe, like someone unsure whether to approach an acquaintance outside of work hours.

Doyoung notices too. He raises an arm lazily. “Hey, man.”

Joshua pauses for a second, then walks over. “Didn’t mean to intrude,” he says, voice still soft with leftover fatigue. “Just needed a drink, God.” He exhales.

“You’re not intruding,” Doyoung says, already signalling to the waiter.

You scoot over slightly, even though the table isn’t crowded, and Joshua pulls up a chair. It screeches faintly against the tile floor. He lets another long breath as he sits, stretching out like he’s trying to keep his body from locking up.

“You look worse than he does,” you say, nodding at your brother.

Joshua laughs, his voice hoarse. “I think my spine forgot how to stand upright after today. Did the debrief run overtime for you, too?”

“An hour late,” Doyoung confirms.

“Classic.”

The waiter arrives, and Joshua orders a beer, something local and light. Then, he leans back in his chair, eyes flicking toward the plate in front of Doyoung. “You barely touched that.”

“He was full,” you say. “Of data sheets.”

Joshua chuckles. “Sounds about right.”

Doyoung opens his mouth. You know that it’s to say something work-related again so instead, you interrupt.

“Please. Aren’t you two sick of all the Formula 1 talk? You’ve been surrounded by it these two days, and it’s going to take up your entire being in about two weeks.” You sigh. “You’re not allowed to talk about the car anymore tonight.”

That earns you a look from him. “I’m not?”

“No. It’s after hours,” you say. “This is dinner. Be normal.”

Joshua smiles faintly. “What does normal count as these days?”

You shrug. “Anything that doesn’t start with ‘sector times’ or end with ‘tire degradation.’”

Doyoung leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Then what do we talk about?”

There’s a pause, like none of you have had the chance to think about anything else all day. Then Joshua pipes up, “I’ve been trying to figure out if I like the hotel pillows.”

“Oh.” Doyoung groans, throwing his head back against the chair. “Don’t get me started on this.”

You let out a small laugh. “They’re not bad, if I say so myself. But you guys might have different opinions…with your necks and all.”

“I once had this same conversation with Seungcheol and his girlfriend—well, ex, now.” Your brother coughs. “Did you know he carries his own pillow everywhere? Because he just doesn’t like the pillows anywhere else.”

Joshua's eyebrows fly up in amusement. “That’s dedication. Do you think that’s why he has four titles?”

Doyoung leans in, conspiratorially. “Tried it for one of the triple-headers last year and won two out of three races. It might just be the secret to his success. Good sleeping habits.”

You shake your head, lips stretching into a grin. “Well, then, you two better start finding the pillow for yourselves.”

You end up talking about sleep habits—Doyoung’s inability to sleep past nine in the morning, your dependence on blackout curtains, Joshua’s weird habit of falling asleep to ambient aeroplane noise, even when he’s not travelling. You talk about which hotels are the worst, which room service menus you secretly love, and even though the three of you try to stray from the topic—which track has the most tolerable driver briefings.

It makes you realise, somewhere between laughing at Doyoung’s deadpan impression of the FIA Chairman and Joshua quietly offering you a bite of his dessert, that it’s not hard to like this guy. He doesn’t force himself into the room. He just fits in it.

You can only hope for the peace of the team and yourself that the two continue to have the same easy-going nature with each other for the entire season.

CHINA, SHANGHAI INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT

Thursday, Media Day March 20th

The paddock is a mess of sounds and movement—media teams shooting content with their drivers, news channels interviewing people and paparazzi and journalists swarming the place. You brush past the VCARB social media team, barely avoiding bumping into the cameraman as he tries to film their drivers. You don’t get to see what it is because you’re late.

Today, it’s no fault of yours. Really. It’s not your fault that the Adidas team always seems to hold everyone up with their ideas for new team kits and photoshoots, and whatnot. Minghao grumbles beside you, complaining about how the livery for Miami is the worst piece of clothing he’s set his eyes on and how he can’t believe they would design something that looks like it belongs in a tampon commercial. You don’t say it out loud, but you agree with him. That meeting was a waste of your time—it wasn’t like you could say no to a team decision anyway, so what was the point?

“Is Doyoung in the driver’s press conference as well?” Minghao asks, mildly cursing at someone who zooms past on an electric scooter. “They should ban those around the paddock. Can’t even hear them coming.”

“Yeah,” You answer, shaking your head. “Why did they choose to put both our drivers together today? I don’t understand.”

“It’s fine, I guess. At least we won’t have to worry about either of them being sent for the next few weeks.”

You nod despite him not seeing it. When you come to a stop in front of the FIA building where all the official press conferences take place, you take out your phone and signal Minghao to stay.

“Doyoung’s PR manager just texted me. Don’t waste your breath going up all those stairs because they’ll apparently be done in five minutes or so.”

He sighs in relief and leans against the railing. “Good. My quads are already screaming.”

You shoot him a look. “From sitting through a brand meeting?”

“It was stressing me out, okay?” he says, perfectly straight-faced. “You wouldn’t understand.”

You almost smile, but the new notification that you see on your lockscreen makes you pause. “Hold on.” You scoff, unlocking your phone. “No way.”

“What?” Minghao asks, pausing mid-air, one earbud in hand and the other in his ear already.

“The 45-minute break they had before the interview with Sky Sports? Gone.” You gape at the message. “The media team’s filled that slot in to film something to show teamwork-slash-bonding and forming new relationships.”

Minghao groans, putting his earbuds back into their case. “That’s what they said?”

“Word for word.” You sigh, already bracing yourself for all the complaining Doyoung’s about to do when you break the news to him.

The two of you fall into a sort of awkward silence after that. You assume he’s thinking of the ways to convince Joshua to do this as well. Distantly, you think that your brother will be pissed if he has to go without lunch for more than one and a half hours from now.

It’s only when you hear commotion from above and the pattering of footsteps down the stairs that you look back up at each other. Minghao exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath. Probably a curse.

Maybe it’s your fault for standing right in front of the entrance because both drivers see your face first and somehow instantly know that something’s wrong. Doyoung comes down, skipping two steps at a time, phone and a water bottle in hand as he flicks something off of his shirt. Joshua trails behind him, cap turned backwards with a tight smile, pressed in place like he’s holding something back.

“Don’t say anything,” Doyoung says immediately, pointing at you the way he does when he knows something’s been messed with.

You say it anyway. “We’ve got a new addition to the schedule.”

His eyes narrow. “What?”

You hand him your phone.

He reads the message once. Then again, before giving the phone back like it personally insulted him.

“This is such bullshit.”

“I know.”

“I’m not doing this team bonding crap,” he scoffs, using air quotes. “What does that even mean? They want us to bake a cake together? Build IKEA furniture? Do the stupid shit that the McLaren guys keep doing?”

Joshua exhales loudly beside him, having read it over his shoulder. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I really need to eat that godforsaken meal, however depressing it may be. I’d rather do that than this.”

“No offence to you.” He adds, pointing at your brother, who shrugs in a way that says None taken.

“If we do this now,” Minghao finally speaks up, his voice low and diplomatic. “You’ll get to have lunch around 2 p.m. We can ask them to finish it up quickly so that you have at least a fifteen minute break before the Sky Sports interview that Doyoung has.”

“What do I have?” Joshua rolls his eyes as the four of you begin walking.

“An interview as well, but with F1TV.”

Doyoung groans as you hand back his sunglasses, “Great. Good for you.”

The media team is already waiting in the hospitality area when you arrive, cameras slung over shoulders and a ring light half-assembled on the ground. Someone hands Joshua and Doyoung branded caps—new and clean and slips on mics onto their shirts.

One of the account admins walks up to them with a clipboard and begins to explain something that you voluntarily zone out of. Doyoung shoots you a look that is equal parts are you seeing this and please get me out of here. You only shrug before stepping back into the space where a set-up crew stands. You don’t need to be here, but still, you contemplate staying to watch as they get awkward around cameras.

Joshua doesn’t complain, but he rubs the back of his neck like it physically pains him to stand still. He mutters a quiet thanks when someone adjusts the mic pack on his belt, then takes a half-step back and sighs like this is the last thing he wanted to be doing with his day.

“You’d think they’d finally stop assigning an entire day to the media, especially with how much they all hate this.” Minghao pipes up from beside you.

You hum, watching Doyoung flatten the edge of his cap with a bored expression as the camera guy tests framing. He’s been through this enough times to know resistance is pointless.

“The money’s got to come from somewhere other than the sport itself, though.” You sigh, turning to Minghao.

He shakes his head before pointing in the direction of the door. “If I hear the word sponsors one more time, I’m going to crash out. Mind if I leave? Can’t watch them.”

You agree and follow him out the door. “Can we make a stop on the second floor, though? Haven’t had my coffee of the day.”

—

Saturday, Qualifying March 22nd

“Joshua, the first car has crossed the chequered flag. Push now.” His engineer informs him, voice calm and composed.

Joshua doesn't reply and instead steps a little harder on the throttle before shifting gears and braking into turn 10. The Shanghai International Circuit winds ahead of him, grandstands and his surroundings passing by in split seconds. A slight wind passes through sector three, and the rear of his car has been feeling twitchy since the beginning of Q2, but he pushes on anyway.

He's safe, up in 8th position, but he's already begun the flying lap and now he needs to make it count.

He cuts the track limits a bit too close for his liking on the exit of the last turn and hopes that he hasn't exceeded them completely. It would be an absolute waste of tyres and fuel if this lap time got deleted. He's been told that he went fastest in the first sector and set a green in the second. The third doesn't feel too bad, and by the time he sees the chequered flag, he's sure that he's made up a few positions.

“Good lap, Josh. That's P4 and the end of Q2, please come back into the pits.”

Joshua lets the tension bleed out of his neck and shoulders as he slows down, ready to make another lap to get back to the garage. He surprises himself with how quickly he's starting to get used to this—Q2 and Q3 appearances. It's the second race of the season and his second Q3 appearance as well. To the team, it’s not something huge. But coming from the team that Williams was in 2024, with unpredictable DNFs and even Q1 exits, it’s a very pleasant change for him.

He flicks his helmet’s visor up by a little as he pulls into the pit lane, glancing at the marshal who points at where his garage is before he rolls to a stop in front of it. The mechanics move quickly, lifting the car and wheeling it back into the garage until the next session begins, which is in a few minutes.

Joshua doesn’t get out of the car and only pushes his visor all the way up before slipping his gloves off. Someone clips the data screen into the space in front of him, and he tries to speedrun it, checking everyone else’s time. His name sits neatly in P4, just a few tenths off the Ferrari and Redbull in first and second and a sliver behind his teammate in third. Not a perfect lap, but enough for now.

He scans the tire choices and who’s burned what sets already. The gap to P10 isn’t huge. The top of the midfield is stacked tight enough that one slip could throw him out of the top five.

Still, he doesn’t feel rushed. Not the way he used to.

A mechanic leans in to adjust the fan angle pointed into the cockpit. It rattles a little, but he barely notices—eyes still locked on the screen, reading data points he already knows he won’t remember in ten minutes.

From the corner of his eye, he sees his engineer approaching and turns his head towards the man who leans down into the small space between the body of the car and the halo.

“We’re putting you on softs before you go out.” He yells over the fans and the running engine noises from other garages. “Expecting to be a few tenths quicker, but also there might be traffic in the last few minutes because we think both Ferrari and Red Bull will send their drivers out then. We’ll go in with around nine to eight minutes left to avoid that, set a banker and get around two flying laps in.”

Joshua nods—it’s a bit of a struggle with his helmet sitting heavy on his head, but his engineer gets the gesture and pats him on the head affectionately before walking back to the monitors.

His neck feels damp with sweat, and the new cooling fireproofs don’t do much to prevent the engine heat from settling into them, but he doesn’t pay too much mind to it.

Joshua turns his radio back on and clears his throat to gain his engineer’s attention. “When’s Doyoung going out?”

“He’s doing the same run plan as you. Out on softs, aiming for clean air. You two are close on timing, so don’t fight each other on track.”

Joshua hums, not agreeing or disagreeing. “Tow, or no tow?”

“We’re not planning for one,” his engineer replies, “But if it lines up, take it.”

He doesn’t respond to that and shifts a little in his seat, flexing his fingers to keep the blood flowing. His engineer informs him when Q3 begins, and he waits until it’s his time to go.

Nine minutes to go. Then eight and a half.

“Alright, Josh,” his engineer says. “Let’s go. You’re good to leave when ready.”

The tyres are on, mechanics alert with their hands over the covers. The front jack drops, and the mechanic standing outside gives the all-clear by nodding and dropping his hand. The tire covers are yanked off, and Joshua pulls out of the garage and back onto the pit lane.

He sees Doyoung’s car pull out in his mirrors as well before turning back to the lights at the end of the lane, waiting for the green light to go.

Joshua keeps his out-lap tight and quiet, weaving just enough heat into the tyres. The softs are responding well, biting into the track with each corner. By the time he rounds the last curve and hears the call—

“Track clear. You’re good to push.”

—he’s already shifting his focus.

He goes full throttle past the line.

The first three turns pass as quickly as they come, and as short as Sector 1 of the track is, the next sector is long and twisty, every corner feeding into the next like a series of deliberate questions. How late can you brake? How soon can you pick up the speed again? How far are you willing to risk it for just a tenth?

Joshua’s favourite thing about Shanghai is the straights. It also helps that their car is much faster in those sectors than around the low-speed corners that this circuit consists of. Down the straight, he gains more time—DRS open, tyres biting into the asphalt with good grip.

When the braking zone for the hairpin arrives, he catches a glimpse of a car in the distance ahead—slow and probably on an outlap. Not Doyoung. He knows his teammate came out behind him. This one’s a Red Bull, so just to be sure, he switches on his radio.

“Is the Red Bull ahead on a flying lap? Just so that I don’t accidentally end up giving a tow.”

“Uh, negative. That’s Jeno on an outlap.”

Good. Joshua keeps his foot steady on the brake and takes the hairpin clean and tight, exiting without lifting too early. He hears the engine whining in that familiar, high-pitched scream that never fails to spike his focus.

“That’s P2 for now, Josh. 4 minutes left. We can afford another outlap and push lap.”

In the garage, you lean forward with your elbows on one of the tables, headset tucked snugly over your ears, eyes locked on the screens in front of you. Joshua’s just crossed the line—P2 for now—but your attention is already shifting.

“Doyoung’s on his flyer,” someone calls from behind you.

You know. You’ve been watching him since he left the garage. His first sector wasn’t brilliant—just about matched to his last attempt—but the middle part of the lap has always been where he claws time back. Especially here, on a track like Shanghai, where precision through long corners matters more than sheer aggression. And Doyoung is nothing if not precise. Sometimes painfully so.

He’s pushing—less than usual, maybe, but you can tell from the slight understeer correction in turn 11 that he’s not lifting. The rear snaps very slightly on exit, just enough for the car to look alive. He catches it effortlessly. The delta ticks purple in the corner of the screen.

“Purple in sector two,” his engineer confirms over, but you already know. You’ve seen him drive enough to feel when it’s coming together.

Joshua’s time was good. More than good, actually. But you can tell Doyoung’s is going to be right there as well.

You check the timing screen just as he takes the final corner. It’s fast. You can’t tell how fast, not yet, but your fingers curl around the edge of the table like maybe holding on to something will help.

The screen refreshes.

“P1,” someone says. “Just ahead of Joshua.”

You blink, barely realising you’d been holding your breath. There’s less than a tenth between them. And you know—without needing anyone to say it—that neither of them will be satisfied with that.

But that’s the least of your worries right now. What’s more pressing is that there are two Red Bulls and two Ferraris, all on flying laps. With currently only 3 minutes left, they’re all setting the timesheet on fire, purples and greens everywhere.

Joshua’s already on his final flying lap, pushing hard from the moment he crosses the line. The grip is better now, tyres warmer, track evolution finally tipping in their favour. He’s clean through Sector 1, smoother through Sector 2. Fast, but not unbeatable. Doyoung starts his lap thirty seconds later. He’s got the advantage—better timing, clearer track.

Seungcheol sets a purple third sector. Just like that, the Mercs both drop a position down

Joshua is still finishing his lap. He takes the final corners cleaner than before, shaves off a few milliseconds from his earlier time, and slots into P2. Beside you, Minghao sits with his fingers crossed.

Haechan in the Red Bull—fast all weekend and the last—flies through all three sectors with purple times. And when he crosses the line, there’s no doubt. He snatches provisional pole with almost two tenths on the rest.

Joshua’s pushed down. P3.

You barely register it before the screen switches. Both Doyoung and Seungcheol are coming through the last corners, and their sector times are near-identical—greens in the first, purples in the second.

They cross the line within seconds of each other, and their names fly up the list—not good enough to push the man on pole, but good enough for P2 and P3. Doyoung’s off the Ferrari by a very marginally small gap.

Minghao sighs as Joshua drops down to fourth. Sliding his headphones off, he shoots a small smile towards you before he turns around to leave.

You should probably go too. Get his electrolytic drink to the press conference room before he gets there. Maybe congratulate him as well before you head back to the motorhome. There are a few media appearances that are waiting for your approval, and thinking about it, you could’ve gone without watching today’s qualifying.

What’s done is done, you think as you watch the screen switch to parc fermé just as Joshua climbs out of the car, helmet still on and gloves undone. He clips his steering wheel back in before walking over to Doyoung, who stands a little ahead, talking to one of the team members. He spots Joshua and gives him a small nod—barely there—but Joshua still lifts a hand. They meet halfway, a brief pat on the back, muttering and smiling at something.

Then Doyoung is called away. You watch him adjust his cap and walk toward the interview area where the cameras are already rolling.

Joshua lingers for only a second longer, tugging off his gloves completely, before heading in the opposite direction towards the weighing machine.

You leave after your brother’s interview.

—

Joshua hears the ding! of the elevator door opening before he looks up.

You stride in with your jaw tight and your phone clenched in one hand like it’s personally responsible for ruining your evening. He straightens instinctively, eyes following your movement, unsure of whether to greet you.

“Hey,” he says anyway, although quietly.

You glance over, only just seeming to register him. “Hi.”

The door closes with a soft, mechanical thud. There’s a tired sort of silence around you two, like the kind that settles after a long day neither of you wants to talk about.

Joshua watches you for a second before he asks, a little hesitantly, “Everything okay?”

You exhale, like the question was inevitable. “My parents just arrived. One of their suitcases didn’t.”

He winces. “Ah. That’s rough.”

“Yeah,” you say flatly. “I’ve been downstairs talking to the hotel staff for the last forty minutes. Either it’s still in the Seoul airport, or someone else is walking around Shanghai with my dad’s prescription meds and a suitcase full of mostly linen.”

Joshua lets out a short laugh before biting his tongue. He looks over to you to see that you don’t seem to mind.

“Well, how was your day?” You sigh, staring up at him.

He shakes his head, looking up to check the floor they’re at before he speaks. “You saw. Not bad, not bad…considering what I’m used to.”

You hear the but in his sentence despite what he says. “There’s more potential?”

“Yes, exactly,” Joshua admits. “Doyoung almost made it to the front row, so the pace was there. Couldn’t work so well with it, I suppose.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Give it time. He’s used to this. Besides, you’re both starting on the second row anyway. That’s good for the team.”

Your gaze flicks to the towel draped around his shoulders, damp at the edges, clinging slightly to the collar of his shirt. “Where are you coming from?” you ask, tilting your chin toward it. “The gym? I thought y’all don’t work out thoroughly right before a race.”

Joshua glances down, like he’d forgotten it was still there. “Physio,” he replies. “There’s been a slight issue with my seat—they’re trying to fix it as soon as possible, but it’s been hurting my back.”

Your face softens. “Ah. That sucks.”

“It’s not horrible, just… uncomfortable over time. And Shanghai isn’t exactly a forgiving circuit,” Joshua says, shrugging his shoulders like he’s already anticipating tomorrow. “Anyway, it’s manageable.”

“Still.” You suck your teeth. “You shouldn’t be racing with any kind of discomfort. It adds up.”

Joshua glances sideways at you, as if he wasn’t expecting you to sound so concerned. “I know,” he says, quieter this time. “I’ll flag it again in the morning if it’s still an issue.”

The elevator dings softly on the nineteenth floor.

“Well, that’s me.” You sigh, turning to him.

“Hope your dad’s suitcase turns up.”

“Me too,” you mutter as you leave before pausing. “And I hope your seat doesn’t feel like shit tomorrow.”

That pulls a small, genuine smile from him. “Thanks. Although it would probably benefit you if it did.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “Not true. Good night, Joshua.”

“Night,” he says, watching you walk away before the elevator doors glide shut.

—

Sunday, Race Day March 22nd

The flatbed truck idles near the end of the pit lane, metal railings glinting faintly under the late morning sun. The noise builds slowly—fans in the grandstands waving flags, camera crews calling out names as the drivers climb on board one by one.

Joshua pulls himself up onto the truck, one hand gripping the railing, and doesn’t bother hiding the yawn he exhales into his shoulder. Doyoung’s already standing near the back, sunglasses on, arms crossed like he’s shielding himself from the attention more than the wind. Joshua joins him without a word.

Most of the other drivers scatter across the truck, catching up, laughing, and trading jokes loud enough for the cameras. A few of them wave down into the crowd. Someone—Soonyoung, maybe—starts recording on his phone for social media. Joshua ignores it. He stays beside Doyoung, their shoulders occasionally bumping as the truck starts to move.

“Ready?” Doyoung asks, after a minute or so.

Joshua huffs out a breath, glancing out at the crowd. “As much as I can be.”

Doyoung nods, satisfied. “Cool.”

He’s about to say something else when a familiar voice cuts in.

“Are you two allergic to the rest of us or what?”

Joshua doesn’t even need to turn around. “Hi, Jeonghan.”

“Hey,” Jeonghan replies, already nudging himself between them, an arm loosely slung around Joshua’s shoulder like he belongs there. “Discussing team strategy? Come on, let me know too.”

“He’s not your teammate anymore. Leave him alone.” Seungcheol inserts himself into the conversation, their small circle growing as Wonwoo joins in as well.

“I’m hoping old habits die hard,” Jeonghan argues, shooting the Ferrari driver a dirty look before turning to Joshua. “Come on, the Williams revival is taking a little time. We would truly appreciate finishing ahead of the Mercs for once.”

Joshua snorts. “I’ll think about it.”

Doyoung tilts his head, amused. “That’s generous of you.”

“Generosity is part of my brand,” He quips, shaking Jeonghan’s arm off his shoulder with a small shrug.

Jeonghan grins like he’s won something anyway. He peers out into the crowd, then glances up at the sun. “You’d think they’d let us sit down for once.”

“They’re trying to remind us of the things we signed up for,” Seungcheol replies. “Mild sunburn being one of them.”

Joshua rubs a palm over his face. “And awkward interviews while standing on a moving truck.”

“Speaking of which—” Doyoung hums, “Jaehyun’s almost done with his. So you’re up next.”

“Oh yeah, that…” Joshua pushes himself off the railing before turning to Seungcheol. “What’s with the difference in quali between you guys lately? I thought he was usually better with one-lap pace.”

Seungcheol shrugs. “Ask yourself. He's fifth because the two of you decided to separate us.”

He just shrugs, laughter tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says before lightly jogging to the front of the truck where the interviewer is waiting.

The mic is passed to him, the crowd’s noise bubbling in the background. The interviewer greets him with a smile. “Joshua! Starting P4 today—another strong Saturday. You’ve been settling into this new team quite well, haven’t you?”

He nods. “Yeah, I think so. It’s still early in the season, but I feel like I’m getting more comfortable every weekend. The car’s in a good place and we’re finding our rhythm.”

“What was the feeling in the car yesterday during that final minute? You looked right on the edge of something.”

Joshua smiles a little. “It was a good lap. I was hoping it would be enough for the front row, but it’s really tight this weekend. Still, P4’s a solid place to start from. If we nail the launch, we’re right in the mix.”

The interviewer grins. “And you’ve got your teammate right up there with you—how’s the dynamic been between the two of you this weekend?”

Joshua’s eyes flick briefly to where Doyoung is standing, arms folded loosely as he waits for his turn. “Good. We’ve been pushing each other, I think. It helps, to have that kind of experience and skill in the garage. The whole team’s working well with us.”

“Alright. Well, best of luck this afternoon! We will be looking forward to some action!”

He smiles politely, thanking her before handing his mic to Doyoung, who’s just made his way up to them. Their hands brush as he passes over the mic. His teammate is quick to turn it off before leaning in, trying not to look too conspicuous in front of the cameras.

“Just so you know,” Doyoung says under his breath, “Soonyoung’s been poking around. Complaining about tire choices, pressures…fuel loads. Subtle, but…”

Joshua’s smile doesn’t drop, but something flickers in his eyes. “You think he’s trying to bait us?”

“I think he’s trying to get into your head,” Doyoung replies. “Maybe mine too.”

Joshua pauses for a moment before he lets out a short laugh, “Great. Thanks… I’ll make sure to pass on the wrong info.”

That brings out a soft smile before Doyoung switches the mic back on and turns to the camera with a smile.

—

The garage is fairly empty now, and with ten minutes to go before lights out, all the mechanics and crew are out on track. The noise of the crowd outside fills the otherwise silent space, telemetry flickering across displays that not everyone has begun to watch yet. Outside, you see cameramen filming as the F1TV commentators interview one of the team principals in the pit lane.

You lean against the side counter, half-listening as Doyoung’s trainer runs through the updated electrolyte ratios in his drink.

“Less glucose, more salts,” he confirms, like he’s reading your mind. “He mentioned the aftertaste yesterday?”

“Said it was sickly sweet, but I assume that was just an accident. Hopefully, you’ve put in the right drink packet today?”

His trainer scoffs and shakes his head with a small smile. “I have, don’t worry.”

You grin, eyes flicking briefly toward the screen where the cars idle on the grid. You’re about to say something when the sound of hurried footsteps pulls your attention.

Joshua sweeps past the garage entrance, race suit half-zipped, with an exasperated Minghao trailing behind him with his helmet and gloves.

“You’re cutting it close,” you call out without thinking.

Joshua glances back, slowing down just a bit. “I’m not late,” he says, smiling like he knows he technically is. “Yet.”

“Try not to miss the anthem.”

“It’s all good. I’m multitasking,” he replies over his shoulder. “Pre-race cardio.”

You shake your head as Minghao shoots an apologetic look as they disappear around the corner in a blur of black and silver. Exhaling slowly, you slip your phone back into your pocket before making your way to the engineering desk where the headphones are kept.

Joshua heaves lightly when he finally comes to a stand in his assigned position for the national anthem. The kid in front of him turns to greet him and shoots a small, nervous wave before turning back around just as quickly. He smiles softly at the boy’s antics before turning to the gap in the barriers from where Aston Martin’s Lee Chan runs up, barely on time.

When the anthem ends, there’s a scattered murmur of claps. The drivers peel off one by one to their grid boxes. Joshua doesn’t rush, but his steps are brisk. He smiles and nods at a marshal on the way to the car. His trainer is waiting with his balaclava and gloves. Joshua tugs them on wordlessly, slipping into his helmet and letting Minghao handle the final adjustments to his suit and HANS device.

Everything slows down and tightens around him as he climbs into the car, waiting for one of the engineers to put the seatbelt down so he can fasten it. The cockpit swallows him whole, as it always does. The noise of the world dulls. Engine warm-up sequences crackle over the radio. His engineer mutters instructions, formalities. Stuff he knows but has to hear anyway.

“Radio check,” the man says into the radio.

“All clear,” Joshua replies.

“Copy. There is no chance of the rain that we were expecting earlier. Formation lap will begin in a minute.”

The engines fire up, and the tire covers are pulled off, mechanics backing off and making their way back to the garages.

Joshua closes his eyes momentarily, trying to drown out the roaring of his car, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. He tries to imagine himself coming into turn 1. Teammate might be the one you’re fighting for positions with, but keep it clean. Be quick.

“Thirty seconds,” says his engineer.

He opens his eyes and lets the image go.

Out ahead, the track shimmers faintly under the overhead glare. The grandstands are a blur of flags and colours—it’s a home race for some of the drivers, but the amount of Ferrari flags has taken him by surprise all weekend.

He can’t see it, but somewhere at the back of the grid, a marshal waves the green flag. Joshua knows when he sees the car on pole pulling away, just as his engineer relays the message.

The formation lap gets over in a blur, as it always does. At times, he’s wished that it would be a bit slower, to give him more time to process before he’s thrown into the race itself. But the adrenaline keeps him on his toes, and if there’s anything—he thrives off it.

By the time they re-form at the starting grid, he’s fully locked in.

The red lights blink on.

Joshua’s eyes flit between his teammate a few meters ahead of him and the blooming red Ferrari in his side-view mirror. It’s going to be hard. It’s only his second race keeping up with the front-runners, people he’s never had the chance to race before. But he’s confident. In a weird sort of way, because he doesn’t know where it comes from, but is confident nonetheless.

When the lights go out, Joshua’s start is nearly perfect, but so are the starts of the men beside him.

He squeezes the inside, committing to the racing line as they barrel down into Turn 1—one car, then another, side-by-side. Jaehyun darts late to the outside, trying to make it through. Joshua holds his position, but the gap is narrow. Too narrow.

Turn 2 comes fast.

Jaehyun edges over��just enough to force Joshua inward in a sharp twitch of movement and judgment. He reacts, but there’s nowhere else to go.

Joshua’s tire brushes against Doyoung’s front wing.

It’s a soft thump, probably not enough to damage anything. But Doyoung backs off immediately, his front wing’s end plate hanging awkwardly as he tries to stabilise through the exit. Jaehyun backs off as well and by the time they exit turn three, Joshua finds himself in third place.

He switches on the radio button instantly. “Hey. We had contact.”

His engineer replies with a calm voice. “Yes, we know. Checking for damage on your car. Doyoung’s end plate has been hit but it will not affect him much.”

“That was on me, I’m sorry.” Joshua apologises as he swerves through turn 5. “Jaehyun forced me in.”

“We’ve seen. Race control will handle it. We are not expecting a penalty for you, though, so just focus.”

Your head snaps up in time to see the replay of the contact. Your stomach dips—in slight panic as well as dread—as you slip your headphones back on to hear Doyoung’s clipped voice through the radio.

“Do I have any damage?”

There’s a beat of silence as his race engineer scans the feeds. “Right end plate. It’s hanging a little, but shouldn’t affect balance too much. You’re fine. If required, we can think of changing the front wing when you pit later. We’re still on the same strategy as discussed beforehand.”

Another pause. You can hear the way Doyoung exhales through his nose. Frustrated, maybe, but still measured. “Okay, well Joshua’s ahead of me now.”

You glance at the timing screens before you even register the tension in his voice. It’s not anger—not really. Just tightly contained irritation.

“Understood,” his engineer replies. “We’re keeping an eye on his pace. You’re holding steady in fourth. Keep managing the tyres.”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. You know how pissy Doyoung gets when his starts aren’t clean, and you also know how complicated it will be because this was Joshua of all people. Not that he’ll say anything, and besides, this doesn’t even seem to be either of their faults. But he’s lost position and that will hurt. Your gaze shoots to his engineer as you wonder if they’re allowed to race each other yet.

They’re close, within a second and a half of each other. But no order comes. No mention of switching back. Just quiet updates on gaps and tire wear, strategy windows that keep extending by a lap, and the familiar voice of Doyoung’s engineer keeping him on the rails. You can tell he’s not pushing. Not really. Maybe because there’s nothing to gain—or maybe because there’s nothing to say.

By the final stint, the gaps have settled. The field’s stretched itself thin. Jaehyun’s fallen off behind Doyoung, and Joshua stays comfortably ahead of him, holding pace just well enough to keep him at bay. You sit, slightly confused at why your brother isn’t fighting back when he could, but he takes no risks. In the end, it’s just the two of them running clean in third and fourth.

When Joshua crosses the line, the radio crackles with his engineer’s voice. “That’s P3, Joshua. That’s a podium. First one with the team. Well done.”

There’s a second of silence before his voice comes through, slightly breathless. “Nice. Thanks, everyone. Really… thank you.”

Back in the garage, the crew bursts into cheers. A few of them high-five. It’s not a win, but it’s good points for the team, so it’s something, at least. Joshua climbs out of the car with a dazed smile, arms raised briefly before he jumps off the front wing and into the crowd of mechanics that have gathered in parc fermé. He looks almost surprised by the relief on everyone’s faces, and you try to find some happiness in the occasion, but all you can see on your screen is your brother’s onboard as he climbs out of the car, shoulders slightly slumped at the missed opportunity.

You look back at the main screen once, watching as Joshua takes off his helmet after getting weighed, setting it down on the P3 stand and running a hand through his hair as Seungcheol walks up to congratulate him.

You let your gaze fall, fingers tightening briefly around your headphones as you take them off. You should probably meet Doyoung after he’s back from the FIA room. Fourth is still good, but he won’t be feeling that way. You stand, stretching your back as the paddock comes alive again, in a slightly less jittery way, but chaotic nonetheless.

Debriefs will come. Analysis, strategy, repair reports, all the usual post-race rituals. Your brother will be annoyed when the questions about the teammate contact come, and you need to pacify him a bit before it happens. Doyoung will want clarity, maybe comfort, maybe just someone to nod along while he vents. You’ll be there, like always.

There’s still work to be done.

—

You don’t expect Joshua to stay behind at the hospitality today. He sits at one of the tables in the lobby, hunched over an iPad displaying a bunch of data you’re too tired to analyse or understand. Doyoung’s debrief had run late, as usual. But you’ve just given him his car keys to go back to the hotel, eat dinner and fall asleep—hopefully.

You pause at the coffee dispenser, mildly surprised to see him there. The rest of the team has mostly cleared out—either gone back to the hotel or trickled off to their respective group post-race dinners. The paddock has settled into a quiet, tired sort of silence—one that is rewarding and satisfying at the end of a good day but almost cage-like and mocking on a bad one. You’d expected him to be long gone, maybe out with Minghao or celebrating somewhere with his people. But here he is, cross-legged in a team hoodie, nursing a bottle of water instead of the drink you’d imagined.

You watch him for a second. He’s not just skimming the data—he’s poring over it, zoned in, eyes flitting across sectors like he’s still on the track. There’s a faint crease in his brow, the kind you’ve started associating with post-race overanalysis.

You almost turn away. Almost let him have this moment alone. But then he exhales sharply, like something just clicked—or didn’t—and rubs his thumb across his lower lip in an agitated way that makes your stomach twist.

So you cross over.

“You’re still here,” you say softly.

Joshua glances up, a little startled. Then he gives a tired smile. “Yeah. Just… thought I’d look through the stint comparisons.”

You glance at the screen, trying to make sense of it. It’s some telemetry overlay. His laps versus Doyoung’s.

“You should go,” you say quietly. “Celebrate. This was your first podium with us. I know they don’t celebrate the conventional way here—they think only a win is worth heavily celebrating. But this was a really good job on your part.”

He doesn’t answer right away and leans back into his chair slightly, blinking like he’s only now realising how heavy his eyes feel. “Not feeling like it. It’s fine, I think I just want to sleep.”

You nod, arms crossing loosely. “You did well today.”

“Thank you.” He smiles, small but genuine. “I saw Doyoung leave. How come you’re still here?”

“Had some stuff to wrap up.” You sigh into your cup. “There was a media debrief as well. Not sure if you had it, but I was the last one out, and there’s no way I’m making it back without caffeine.”

Joshua hums. “Sounds fun.”

“Oh, for sure,” you reply dryly.

For a moment, there’s a comfortable lull. His gaze drops back to the screen, but he doesn’t focus on it the way he had before—not really. His fingers hover over the tablet.

He looks up again. “Did your day go okay, though?”

You blink, a little surprised he asked. “Yeah. I mean, same as most race days. Stressful, loud, kind of a blur. You get used to it.”

Joshua nods slowly, like he understands even if he doesn’t live it the same way. “Hope it wasn’t bad though.”

“It wasn’t. Just long.” You glance at him, eyes softening at the way his voice has dropped slightly, audibly full of fatigue.

He shifts in his seat, stretching his arms across the table. “You want to sit for a second? You look like you haven’t stopped moving all day.”

You hesitate, then pull out the chair across from him. “Only if you’re not going to ask me to analyse stint deltas.”

“No promises,” he murmurs, and you roll your eyes. “You sure your brother won’t get mad at you for fraternising with the rival, though?”

Exhaling loud enough for him to hear, you plop down, stretching your neck before you finally look him in the eyes. “I know he may seem intense, but he doesn’t blame you for anything.”

Joshua leans back, thumb running along the curve of his water bottle. “Yeah?” he says, but it sounds more like a question than a confirmation.

“He knows Jaehyun squeezed you,” you add. “It’s all over the replays. And it’s not like you tried to overtake him. You were reacting. He’s only upset about not being able to catch up. It only means you’ve done well.” It takes a little bit of the pride you hold in your brother for you to admit it, but it’s true anyway.

He doesn’t say anything right away. His gaze drops to the tablet again, screen dimming before it switches off entirely. When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “Doesn’t mean it feels good.”

You nod slowly. “No. It never does.”

For a second, it’s quiet again. You’re left in a slightly awkward situation, stuck in between feeling for your brother who just lost out on a podium in a season where the competition seems to be way too tight and for the man in a new team who feels too guilty to celebrate something close to a victory.

He exhales, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry. I guess I’m not great company right now.”

You shake your head. “You’re not so bad. Just a little broody.”

“Broody?” he repeats, mock-offended. “You’re lucky I’m too exhausted to argue.”

You take a sip of your coffee, smiling over the rim. “I suppose I am.”

Joshua shifts in his seat again, one leg drawing up slightly. “Still… thanks. For saying that. About Doyoung.”

You shrug, trying to sound just a little flippant. Your mind tells you it’s a bit too soon to get friendly with him, but you can’t help it. “You’re part of the team now. That doesn’t change because of one turn.”

A few seconds later, you add. “I bet the media was shit, huh?”

Joshua groans, tipping his head back until it hits the chair. “Don’t even get me started. People already seem to think I’m out for blood, challenging the oh-so-loyal, been-here-forever hero.” He eyes you nervously once he realises who he’s talking to, but you don’t seem to take offence at anything he’s said.

“It’ll all blow over in a week,” you say, shrugging. “There’s going to be much more interesting stuff for the paddock to talk about, I suppose.”

Joshua exhales, sitting back, fingers toying absently with the corner of the tablet. You’re not sure if he’s done with it or if he’s just stalling.

You check the time on your watch. It’s late. Later than it feels.

“I should get going,” you say, standing up.

He only nods once and slowly. “Right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

SAUDI ARABIA, JEDDAH CORNICHE CIRCUIT

Wednesday April 16th

The streets are busier than you’d expect for a weekday night. A light breeze carries the scent of cardamom and grilled meat, and the stalls are lit in warm, hazy gold—some selling glass perfume bottles that catch the light like gemstones, others crammed with embroidered scarves, clay dishes, and cheap toys. You trail half a step behind Doyoung, sipping slowly on the drink he forced into your hand earlier.

“Can you please be quicker?” he mutters, without looking.

“Sorry, I didn’t realise I needed to match your shopping pace. At least buy something if you’re going to step into every shop out there. I’m tired.” You complain.

Doyoung slows slightly but doesn’t respond, distracted by a rack of linen shirts. He lifts one and shoots a questioning glance at you. “Do I look like I’ve given up on life?”

You squint at it. “You look like you’re on vacation in Thailand and possibly in your forties.”

He puts it back with a shudder.

You drift toward a jewellery stall while he keeps browsing. The vendor raises her brows as you touch a pair of earrings, and you shake your head quickly before turning around. As you watch your brother drift through the clothing racks, you realise it’s been too long since you’ve gone shopping with him. You’ve forgotten how exasperating he can be—way too enthusiastic when it’s his turn, but already complaining about being tired when you start picking things for yourself. It’s been the same since you were kids, but maybe sometimes you just need a reminder.

“Since when do you window-shop?” Doyoung’s voice floats over.

“I don’t. I impulse-buy. But I’m trying to change.”

He snorts. “Growth.”

He rejoins you a few minutes later, a plastic bag dangling from one wrist. You don’t ask what he bought, but he looks more relaxed than he did when you left the hotel earlier.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, glancing down the line of stalls. “I could eat.”

“You always could eat.”

“Yeah, but now I want to.”

“I don’t know,” you murmur, looking around the street, “everything looks good, but that just means oily, greasy and probably not something that will make your trainer very happy.”

“Oh, come on.” Doyoung sighs, pushing you ahead by the shoulders. “Stop acting like my manager and be my sister for once. Besides, it’s only Wednesday.”

You let him steer you toward the stall anyway, mumbling something about sodium levels and gut inflammation that he pointedly ignores. The smell is too good to resist, thick with spice and smoke, and the sound of oil crackling over flame drowns out any further protest you might’ve made.

“See?” he says, handing you a skewer, “Greasy, yes. But emotionally healing.”

You take a bite despite yourself. It’s delicious. You say nothing, but the way your expression softens is enough for a smug look to slither onto his face.

Before you can retort with something too self-defensive, someone—a teenage girl, nervous, with a small smile on her face—comes up to your brother and clears her throat.

“Um, excuse me. Sorry, but—are you Doyoung?” Her voice cracks slightly at the end.

Doyoung straightens, swallowing his bite. “Yeah, hey,” he says.

“Can I get a picture? My brother’s a huge fan. He’ll lose his mind.”

“Of course.”

You take a step back, pretending to check your phone while they pose under the soft glow of a nearby stall light. The kid thanks him profusely, then disappears into the crowd, clutching her phone like it might burn a hole through his hand.

Doyoung steps up to you before leaning against the edge of the table you’re at, chewing contentedly. “You know, when we were kids, I thought you’d be the one to run off and become famous.”

You raise a brow. “Why?”

“Because you were bossy and a little dramatic back then. I assumed you’d end up in some kind of power role. TV anchor or a pop star. Maybe even a dictator.”

“I manage your calendar and get yelled at by our mother three times a week because I’m working her precious son too hard,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes.

He grins. “You’ve come far.”

Doyoung’s phone buzzes with a message. He glances at it, then laughs under his breath. “Joshua’s looking for local fruit snacks. He’s convinced he saw some dried mango packets in a shop window and won’t let it go.”

You blink. “Now?”

“He’s not here, if that’s what you're asking,” he answers, a little absently as he types away on his phone. “He’s asked me to get it for him.”

“How did he know we were out?” You question, finishing the last of your skewer before wrapping it in a tissue and tossing it into a nearby bin.

“I told him before we left.” Doyoung shrugs.

“Didn’t know y’all spoke like that.”

Doyoung glances up from his phone. “He just asked if there was anything good to eat nearby, and I said we were heading out. I guess he remembered the shop from earlier.”

You hum. “And now you’re helping him chase dried fruit fantasies?”

“Why not? He’s been trying to branch out. And it’s easy, talking to him.” He pauses, like that admission surprises even him a little. “Easier than I expected, anyway.”

You look over, slightly caught off guard by his honesty. “And that’s good?”

“Sure.” He says, sounding like the thought only just settled with him. “It makes the team feel less… divided, I guess. It’s nice to actually have someone who acts like a teammate.”

You nod but stay silent, mind wandering to the last teammate Doyoung had. He wasn’t great, and the team barely liked him. Mercedes is a family of sorts—be it during your time in the team or after—and he just didn’t add to that. He’d been sharp-edged in all the wrong places, elbows out and isolating himself. Competitive to the point of pettiness.

You wonder if Doyoung sees the difference too, or if he’s just relieved the energy in the garage doesn’t leave him on edge anymore.

—

Thursday, Media Day April 17th

The Jeddah Corniche Circuit lies under the floodlights—bright against the night sky, casting long shadows across the asphalt. At certain parts of the track, you can see the ocean—a deep black, endless entity that stretches out forever ahead of you. You try not to stare for too long as it unnerves you, and turn back to the team members who’ve come along for the track walk.

You walk with your hands tucked into your jacket pockets, listening to the crunch of your sneakers on gravel when the curbs edge into run-off areas. Doyoung’s a few steps ahead with his engineer, occasionally pointing something out—turning angles, braking points, a new surface patch he doesn’t trust. Even with the number of years you’ve been here, you still don’t understand all the details of it, so you zone out slightly, eyes trained on the track beneath your feet.

You guys are not the only ones out here. A few other teams dot different sectors of the circuit: a couple of engineers taking notes, drivers with their performance coaches, someone filming content. It feels familiar in the way all track walks do—half routine, half ritual—but under the lights, it feels slightly more cinematic. You truly do love night races, but Jeddah tops your list due to the views it provides, not only in the morning, overlooking the Red Sea, but also under these floodlights.

You’re tracing the curb lines on the edge of the track with your feet when someone falls into step beside you. It takes you a second to look over. It’s Joshua. Hood up, eyes flicking over the circuit like he’s still studying it.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “You come on track walks often?”

“Not really,” You reply, “Only the night races and other times when they go in the evenings. You couldn’t pay me to walk four kilometres in the sun.”

He huffs a small laugh, nodding like he understands exactly what you mean. “Fair.” He nudges a loose pebble with the toe of his sneaker. “Night ones feel different anyway.”

“Do you like street circuits?” You question after a few beats of silence.

Joshua considers the question for a second, eyes scanning the section Doyoung is walking over repeatedly. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “There’s something a little more alive about them.”

You nod slowly. “They’re tighter and riskier.”

“That too,” he agrees. “But kind of worth it. It feels sharper. A good result is much more gratifying.” He glances over at you. “You know what I mean?”

“Sure, I do.” You let out a short laugh. “Honestly, street circuits just keep me on edge. It’s never a good time to be in the garage watching you guys. It’s always just ‘Oh, no! What if he touches the wall?’ every single lap.”

“Mistakes do cost more here,” He agrees, coming to a stop at turn 13. “This one’s bad. I’m always a little wary about messing up here, because you come in with a lot of speed and exiting gets a little tricky. You’re in the wall if you brake and turn even slightly later than you’re supposed to.”

“I’ve seen your previous races.” You remind him, shaking your head, “and you definitely do brake later than most.”

“Like I said,” Joshua smirks a little, “I may be wary, but it’s fun to dance very close to the edge—the wall, in this case.”

“I think that’s the part I don’t get. The appeal of the edge.”

Joshua glances sideways, his expression thoughtful now. “It’s hard to explain. It’s not just about risk. It’s about control. Getting as close as you can to the limit—right up to it—and still having the trust in yourself not to cross it.” He pauses for a second. “It’s kind of like proving to yourself that you can walk the wire and not fall.”

You mull that over for a second, slowing your steps. “And what happens when you do fall?”

Joshua’s lips press together in a small smile. “Then you learn how to get up faster the next time.”

You glance at him again, but he’s not looking at you now. His eyes are on the track, tracing the curve of a corner like he’s still walking through the racing line in his head. The two of you settle into silence that is filled by your brother’s voice ahead and the occasional whoosh of other drivers cycling by with a team member.

Up ahead, Doyoung stops at turn 17, waiting for the two of you to catch up. He swings an arm over Joshua’s shoulder before pulling him away from you.

“I hope you didn’t get too technical with her. She used to think curbs were track decor.”

“Shut up.” You let out in disbelief, reaching forward to smack his arm. “I was nine. And you were the one who told me that!”

“She believed me for, like, the entire season,” Doyoung says, looking smug.

Joshua glances back at you with a grin, voice teasing. “So what else has he lied to you about? Does she still think the DRS button is for turbo boost?”

“I swear to God—” You roll your eyes. “You know what? No wonder you two are getting along. You're both full of shit.”

Joshua lets out an offended noise, turning back to your brother with an incredulous look. “Are you hearing this? Full of shit? I thought I was being charming.”

“You thought wrong,” you mutter.

Doyoung just grins. “She says that now, but she’s the one who told me you were ‘surprisingly likeable’ after testing.”

Your head snaps toward him. “I never said that.”

“Oh, you did,” he insists. “I think the exact phrase was ‘less stuck-up than anticipated.’”

Joshua raises both hands like he’s just won something. “I’ll take it. That’s basically a compliment.”

You give him a look. “You know, for someone new to the team, you’re awfully confident about how we operate.”

He shrugs, still smiling. “I learn fast. Comes with the job.”

Doyoung snorts. “Don’t give him too much credit. He thought I was the type to share setup data on the first weekend.”

“Okay, first of all,” Joshua says, indignant. “I was being hopeful.”

“Oh,” you sigh, “you just have to wait until he decides he likes you more. Doyoung does share set-up data sometimes.” You point at your brother. “Stop lying.”

Doyoung raises both hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Occasionally. When I’m feeling generous.”

“You shared it with Mingyu like three races in,” you remind him.

“Yeah, well, he brought me iced coffee without asking.”

Joshua blinks. “Wait, so all it takes is a cold drink and a little charm?”

You glance at him. “You’re halfway there.”

“Noted.”

Doyoung groans. “God, I don’t like you two together.”

—

Sunday, Race Day April 20th

The safety car couldn’t have come at a worse time, Joshua thinks as he slams his foot onto the brakes at turn 27. Or maybe the team couldn’t have made a worse decision by choosing not to box them under the safety car.

Because now, Seungcheol’s Ferrari has begun to loom in his mirrors, on fresher tyres and faster as well. Up ahead, his teammate is a little over a second clear, safe—but barely, if Joshua lets the Ferrari get past. It’s only a matter of laps before it happens, and Joshua tries not to get affected by the thought as he switches his radio on.

“What to do about Choi?”

There’s a short pause, filled with static noises, before his engineer's voice breaks through.

“He’s got fresher softs. Our data says you have about four more laps before he can attempt the overtake. Try to lengthen the gap.”

Joshua exhales with frustration before replying. “And then what? Which lap am I on?”

“41. Ten more to go.”

“Man, my tyres are already bad. They’re going to be gone by the time I try to keep him away.” He complains, gritting his teeth as he drives through the straight.

“Alternate suggestion from the pit wall—we can let him through, then use DRS to re-overtake. Catch a second wind with slipstream.”

Joshua nearly laughs. “On what? Twenty-lap-old hards?” he says, dryly. “That’s not happening.”

There are a few seconds of silence from the garage end. He doesn’t know what to expect, but he can’t afford to get distracted now. Jeddah’s walls have been cruel to drivers this race, and making contact or getting too close with only 10 laps remaining isn’t safe at all.

His radio beeps almost an entire lap later. Joshua glances at his mirrors once before his engineer's voice cuts through.

“Joshua, Doyoung is suggesting a DRS train—if you can push a little to get within a second of him, provided that you keep it clean and do not take advantage of it.”

Joshua doesn’t answer immediately. A DRS train is smart. It could be a little risky, but it would make it very frustrating for Seungcheo, and the chance of the Ferrari overtaking both their cars is low. Low enough, Joshua hopes.

“Okay. Good with that.” He replies.

By lap 43, he tucks in closer behind Doyoung. Joshua doesn’t know how he’s doing up ahead—can’t ask, can’t guess—but he’s holding steady. Fast enough to keep Seungcheol off his tail. Slow enough for Joshua to inch into DRS range.

By lap 44, the beep sounds—DRS enabled.

It takes immediate effect. Down the main straight, he gets the tow from Doyoung’s car and gains just enough buffer that the Ferrari won’t get to attempt anything at the exit.

His engineer updates him again. “Gap to Seungcheol now 0.8. He has DRS enabled.”

Joshua doesn’t reply. There’s nothing to say. This is the part of the race that feels like drowning with your eyes open—watching everything, calculating constantly, but unable to blink.

Lap 46. Then 47. Then 48.

Seungcheol doesn’t back off, but he doesn’t gain either. Their trap speeds are nearly identical every time they come down the straight. And without his DRS being effective, Seungcheol is stuck. Annoyed, probably.

Joshua can almost feel the pressure radiating off the red car behind him. The strategy is a bit dirty and a little unfair, Joshua thinks. If he’d been the third car in this, he would be pissed too. But it must be done. Doyoung is on the provisional podium and he’s in fourth. It’s great points for the team. Especially great, since holding Ferrari back will help them come closer in the constructors.

“Doing good,” his engineer informs. “Choi is complaining about it on the radio, but there’s no way for him to escape the train now. Keep going, three more laps.”

When they cross the finish line, it almost feels anticlimactic. Doyoung slows down enough for Joshua to pull up beside him and throws a thumbs up. Joshua reciprocates. His engineer lets him know that it was great teamwork that they displayed tonight, and Joshua agrees. It feels good.

He doesn’t let himself sit with the feeling for too long. By the time he’s pulling into parc fermé and climbing out of the car, the adrenaline is already thinning, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. He watches Doyoung hop out a few seconds later and get surrounded by cameras.

When he comes to get weighed, they shake hands and part again. There will be more talks about this, but there’s time for that.

Later that night, they return to the hotel together, shoulders hunched and bodies and minds exhausted. Doyoung is in his team jacket, cap pulled low, expression unreadable—but there’s a relaxed slant to his posture now that wasn’t there in the past few weeks.

The lobby is quiet at this hour—soft yellow lights reflecting off the marble floors, staff murmuring behind the desk. Doyoung is halfway through explaining his first stint, Joshua reaching forward to the elevator buttons, when the doors slide open and Seungcheol steps out.

He stops short when he sees them. His hair is damp like he’s just showered. He’s changed into normal clothes and holds a bottle of water, his expression tightening when he sees them. His eyes flick between the two of them. There’s no smile, no small talk.

“Well,” he says, voice sounding like it’s on the edge of irritation still. “Didn’t think Mercedes would resort to formations just to hold me off.”

Joshua glances at Doyoung, whose face also tightens for a moment before he slips his bored expression back on.

“We did what we had to,” Doyoung says, not unkindly. “You were quicker. We just had to be smarter.”

Seungcheol lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah. It was smart. Just… frustrating as hell.”

Joshua nods. “We figured you’d be on us with those tyres.”

“Would’ve been nice if my teammate had helped out a little,” Seungcheol mutters, almost to himself. Then, as if catching himself, he waves a hand. “Whatever. Just one of those races.”

There’s a pause. None of them seems particularly eager to keep standing in the hallway like this, but no one moves either.

“You guys drove well,” Seungcheol adds after a second. “Both of you. I’ll get you next time.”

Doyoung smiles faintly. “Not if we get you first.”

The elevator dings open beside them, and Seungcheol nods once before stepping aside to let them in. Joshua watches his retreating back as the doors slide shut.

“Thought he’d be more aggressive, I can’t lie. Did not expect the teammate trauma dump,” he says quietly.

Doyoung hums, “Well, thank god we don’t have that issue.”

Joshua doesn’t know if he’s just imagining it, if he’s got it all wrong or if it’s also on his mind. But the unsaid yet at the end of the sentence is still heard.

ITALY, AUTODROMO INTERNAZIONALE ENZO E DINO FERRARI

Thursday, Media Day May 15th

Minghao calls you right after breakfast, his voice sounding thin and scratchy.

“I’m so sorry, I won’t be able to come today. I’m down with a fever, and I’m not even kidding when I say I couldn’t get out of bed this morning.”

Slightly worried, you assure him that it’s alright and tell him to rest. He pauses for a few seconds before croaking out again.

“I told the team, but I think they’ll most probably hand Joshua over to you as well.”

You stop in your tracks then, just outside the Mercedes hospitality. “What?”

“I know, I know it’s going to be so busy for you and I am truly so sorry. I’ll send over his schedule” He sighs. “I tried telling them to not hand it over to you, cause I know Doyoung has a shit ton to do today but I don’t think they’ll listen.”

You hang up just as you step through the glass doors. The paddock’s already starting to fill—press, crew, sponsors, all of them moving with that media day urgency that feels a little more frantic than usual. You’re used to it. What you’re not used to is the weight of two drivers and whatever the hell Joshua Hong’s day looks like.

Joshua’s schedule hits your inbox seconds later. You skim it through it quickly, stomach tightening when you realise how little time there is between each thing. Back-to-back and some even overlap with Doyoung’s.

Great. You think, mentally scorning the higher-ups for not having a backup plan.

“Hey,” a voice says behind you.

You turn. It’s Joshua, already changed in his team shirt, cap low, and with a bottle of water in hand. You straighten slightly, unsure how to even begin.

“Hi,” you say. “Uh—so Minghao’s sick, I don’t know if you know. They’ve put me on double duty today.”

His brows lift just a little. “So I’m yours now?”

The way he says it—casual, almost amused—makes you blink once.

“Temporarily,” you reply. “Until he stops dying.”

Joshua nods, then pushes his cap up a bit. “Guess I’ll try not to be too difficult.”

You don’t reply to that. You’re already flipping through his schedule and cross-checking it with Doyoung’s in your head. You have twenty minutes before Doyoung’s interview with American media, but Joshua’s supposed to be at a sponsor photoshoot in ten. It’s in a completely different building.

“I’ll walk you there,” you say, more to yourself than to him.

He follows easily, steps matching yours as he scrolls through his phone. At one point, you drag him by the sleeve towards yourself so that he doesn’t bump into a few Alpine mechanics hoarding around a box of something.

“Sorry,” he lets out with a small gasp, “God, my friends are planning to come in for Silverstone and I’m trying to figure out their passes.”

“All good.” You grumble slightly, checking your watch again.

The photoshoot runs long. Doyoung’s media prep runs early. You’re glued to your phone by mid-morning, answering one call while texting logistics to two different comms interns. It’s chaotic, but it’s familiar. You’d handle it fine if it weren’t for the fact that now, somehow, you’re fielding questions like “what do we usually do for Joshua’s media pen appearance, later on?” when you have no idea what his “usual” even looks like.

At one point, you find him sitting outside the hospitality, sipping a coffee like the world isn’t on fire.

“You’re supposed to be on your way to the Sky Sports filming right now. What are you doing?” You ask, huffing out a breath and trying to continue, when someone calls your phone. Letting out a small sound of frustration, you glance at him once more, pointing in the direction of where the interviewers are standing, before picking it up.

He blinks at you, almost innocently. “They told me it got pushed ahead by ten minutes.”

You don’t have the energy to check if that’s true. The call you’re on is already starting to drone in your ear, and someone’s messaging you about a missing team jacket. You close your eyes for a second.

“Fine,” you mutter. “Just go now. Please.”

Joshua lifts both hands in mock surrender, rising from the chair. “Okay, fine, fine.”

You shoot him a look, even as you bring the phone back to your ear and mutter something resembling an apology to the comms assistant still waiting on the line. By the time you look up again, he’s halfway across the paddock.

You don’t see him again until much later, when the worst of the day has passed and you finally get a minute to breathe inside the hospitality. You’re leaning back in a chair, half-reading a spreadsheet, when Joshua walks in holding two iced coffees.

He sets one down in front of you without a word.

You look up with a questioning glance.

“Half milk. Less sugar. Like how you ordered yours this morning,” he says, casually. “Figured I owed you.”

You blink, surprised but grateful nonetheless. “I—thanks.”

He shrugs, sliding into the seat across from you. “Didn’t get lost or miss anything this afternoon, so I’d say your track record’s looking good.”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t jinx it.”

“Are you done for the day? Or does your brother dearest still have schedules?”

“He’s in a meeting right now,” You sigh out of satisfaction from your first sip. “So I’m not done for an hour or more. I have a meeting to get to in…” you trail off.

Joshua raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to continue.

“Now. Actually. You’re done for the day, so you’re free to go home.” You mutter, getting out of your chair and setting your cup down before beginning to gather your things. Joshua shifts, trying to help you, but you wave a hand at him.

“Thank you for not being a pain, actually.” You say to him once you’ve got everything you need in your hands. “I thought I’d have to chase you around all day or something. I know Minghao’s there with you most of the time, so I’m sorry I couldn’t but…”

“You thought I was difficult?” Joshua lets out, almost incredulously.

“I think you’re used to Minghao borderline baby-sitting you.” You roll your eyes.

He laughs now, tipping his head back a little. “To be fair, he likes bossing me around. Who am I to refuse?”

There’s something oddly warm about the moment, despite the fatigue clinging to your limbs. You glance at him again, at the way he’s still nursing his coffee like he has nowhere else to be.

He pauses, gaze flickering to you. His smile softens, not teasing or sharp, instead almost sincere. “Thanks for stepping in,” he says. “I know you didn’t have to.”

You shrug, throwing him a grin over your shoulder. “It’s just what we do as a team, I guess.”

—

Saturday, Post FP3 May 17th

“Joshua. Good to see you.” The journalist greets him as he steps up to the mic, the media pen’s noises buzzing around him. Next to him, Soonyoung speaks quite loudly to the French media, and frankly, Joshua thinks he may not be able to focus on his question if the Alpine driver doesn’t shut up.

He steps forward, giving a brief nod. “Good to see you too.”

“Final practice done,” the reporter starts. “And we’ve noticed—Doyoung’s finished above you in all three sessions so far. Is that more down to differences in setup, or is the car just not behaving the way you want right now?”

Joshua doesn’t look surprised. He’s heard the stat at least twice since stepping out of the car. Still, he keeps his expression neutral

“We split setups yesterday,” he says. “His side of the garage landed on something that worked quicker. Mine took a bit more time. We’ve closed the gap a little since FP2. I think we’re headed in the right direction.”

“And you’re confident in the changes?”

“As confident as I can be without seeing quali pace.” He offers a small shrug. “That’s what the next few hours are for.”

The journalist tilts their head, tone edging toward casual curiosity. “Mercedes brought a few small updates this weekend. Doyoung’s been open about how he’s been more in tune with the car. Do you think it’s just a case of him adapting quicker, or if you’ve just been unable to do so as well?”

“We drive differently. Some things click immediately. Some things take a bit of work. That’s normal.”

“Of course,” the reporter nods, backing off. “Well, thank you for your time, Joshua. All the best for qualifying!”

Joshua offers a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks.”

He steps back from the mic and adjusts the collar of his race suit absently, already scanning for the next media marker in line. Beside him, Soonyoung’s still gesturing wildly to someone off-camera, and it’s a minor miracle the Alpine PR hasn’t dragged him off yet.

The pen’s packed and noisy, familiar but still unnerving. It all blurs after a while—voices, questions, camera shutters, heat trapped in the narrow space between backdrops. But Joshua’s aware of the narrative now, the way it’s beginning to take shape around him.

It’s not wrong. Maybe that’s what gets to him.

Joshua exhales slowly through his nose, then moves on. He’s still got a second chance to prove himself today, and that is where his pace matters.

As he moves past the reporter talking to Seungcheol, he can’t help but overhear the question about his teammate currently being above the reigning world champion in the driver’s standings.

Oof, that’s gotta hit a nerve, Joshua thinks before it dawns on him that he’s in the same situation. It’s not like he expected himself to reach the front runners instantly—frankly, it wasn’t realistic, especially when most of them were more experienced in faster cars. The one goal he’d tried to set was to hopefully get an early start on his teammate, or at least come close to it.

And he is, Joshua supposes. Doyoung and he are right behind each other in the standings, but the gap has been growing recently, and although he tries not to be too uptight about it, he has to admit that it’s been bothering him.

It’s not like Doyoung’s making it difficult on purpose. If anything, he’s been great. Not icy like Seungcheol had been during their karting days. Not overly friendly to your face like Jeonghan was either, warm on the outside but always a part of him hidden away that he’d never show. The part that would give him the upper hand. Doyoung is none of that, yet he has a stark personality of his own. Slightly pessimistic in the name of keeping things real, and maybe just a little closed off at times. But he’s self-confident, and it shows in the way he’s willing to help Joshua out as well.

Still, there’s something about the way the car seems to come alive under him, the way the data favours him more often than not, that makes Joshua feel like he’s always half a second behind.

He doesn’t like the way that sits in his chest. Doesn’t like what it’s starting to turn into.

He tries to let it go as he rounds the corner back toward the paddock. Minghao would say something like You’ve done seven races, not seven seasons. He can already hear the exact tone of it in his head.

Once Joshua realises the pit he’s let his mind fall into, he immediately stops.

He is not going to spiral after FP3. No way in hell.

What Joshua needs is his lunch, a bunch of electrolytes and an empty room to gather his thoughts and strategy in, before qualifying.

SPAIN, CIRCUIT DE BARCELONA-CATALUNYA

Thursday, Media Day May 29th

“If one more person brings up Monaco again, I’m going to ruin the PR team's day and pretend like I’ve suffered selective amnesia over the triple-header.” Doyoung groans as he slumps into the seat beside Joshua.

“Oh,” Joshua rolls his eyes, “Do I fucking agree? I’ve explained that engine failure to like…six people today. That’s more than what I answered on the day of.”

“They were too busy worrying about Seungcheol falling off and his five-year streak ending, I guess.” Minghao shrugs as he scrolls through his iPad, legs stretched out onto the patio.

Joshua huffs. “My interviewer literally asked if I still believed in the power unit.”

“Did you answer?”

“I told him I’m not a priest,” Joshua mutters, looking slightly aghast.

You press a hand to your mouth to hide the laugh that nearly escapes. Doyoung catches it and smirks, but it fades quickly. He’s still irritated, his foot bouncing beneath the table.

“It’s just so dumb,” he says. “It wasn’t even our fault. The car gave out in quali, and we got stuck in traffic for seventy-two laps. That’s the story. I don’t know what else they want from us.”

“They want us to say we’re worried,” Joshua says, sharper now. “That we’re behind, that Ferrari’s too fast to catch up to and that Red Bull is leagues ahead. All of which are clearly seen.”

“It’s alright, guys.” You sigh, trying to get them to calm down. “That was Monaco, and it’s over, at least for you two. Let the people keep talking. You guys should just focus on Barcelona now. It’s the last race, and it’s been an exhausting triple-header. I’m sure we all just want to forget this and go back home—”

“—to the damn factory and deal with all the disappointment there,” Doyoung interrupts.

“—and relax.” You shoot him a glare. “If either of you breaks into the top five this weekend, I’ll personally have Monaco wiped off the triple-header summary video.”

“Make that top three.” Joshua laughs, waving as you nudge Minghao to get up for a meeting. “And you’ve got a deal.”

You shoot a thumbs up at him before turning to Doyoung. “Can you wait until I’m out? I’ll come back with you.”

Doyoung gives you a short nod, mouth full as he starts unwrapping another bar he swiped off the catering tray. He leans back in his seat, gaze flicking lazily to the empty courtyard outside hospitality. “I’ll wait.”

You disappear inside with Minghao, who sighs dramatically on the way in like the very idea of another sponsorship might physically kill him. He mutters something about needing more coffee, something about wanting to fake his own death, and then the door swings shut behind you both.

Joshua glances away once the door shuts. It’s quiet now—just the low hum of distant chatter, and the occasional whir of a golf cart driving past hospitality.

Doyoung doesn’t say anything at first. He just picks at the corner of the granola bar wrapper, his eyes flicking toward the empty courtyard like he’s watching something no one else can see. Joshua leans back in his seat, drumming his fingers against the tabletop. He doesn’t expect conversation, not really. Doyoung’s never been the chatty type.

“Did you watch it back?” He begins randomly, but Joshua doesn’t have to ask to know what he’s talking about.

“I couldn’t. I just—” Joshua stops. “There was no point. We were stuck the whole time. I don’t think there’s a lot we could learn from that.”

They sit in silence again. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s not easy either.

Joshua shifts slightly in his seat, tapping his heel against the floor. “I keep wondering if I should’ve done more, though.”

“To what? Make the engine not fail?” Doyoung says, the dry bite in his voice is muted by how tired he sounds. “You’ve been here for six months? Give it time.”

Joshua meets his eyes. “Is that what you did?”

Doyoung blinks, probably taken by surprise.

Then, quietly, he says, “No. I tried to win everything in my first year and nearly fell out with my first engineer in Hungary because of my ‘reckless driving’.”

Joshua lets out an exhale. “Oh, yeah. I remember. I used to watch your races, back when I was still in F2.”

“Damn,” Doyoung huffs out, “makes me feel old…which is weird because aren’t you older than me?”

“Maybe you just debuted really young.” Joshua shrugs.

Doyoung narrows his eyes like he’s trying to do the math. “I was twenty.”

Joshua raises an eyebrow. “See? That’s pretty young.”

“You’re making it sound like I was a prodigy or something.”

“You kind of were.” Joshua says it simply, without irony, and it lands heavier than Doyoung expects. There's a flicker of discomfort across his face, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that. But Joshua doesn’t press.

He leans back instead, taking a long sip of whatever’s left in his coffee. “I remember Hungary, though. Thought you were going to throw hands with your engineer over the radio.”

Doyoung lets out a low laugh, tilting his head back against the wall. “I almost did. Guy didn’t speak to me until the next race. Not even a ‘good morning.’”

“Did you win the next one?”

“No. I crashed about fifteen laps before the end, causing a safety car and ruining Seungcheol’s race.” He grins. “That was the time I learned how not to lose my shit over the radio. The PR team nagged at me for so long, and so did—” Doyoung pauses as you come back out. “Ah, speak of the devil.”

Joshua smiles at that, quietly. “It’s a learning curve, alright.”

He hums. “Yep. Yours looks better than mine, though. I’ve never heard a bad thing about you in that aspect.”

“What are you glazing him for?” You ask, eyes narrowing in on your brother as you approach them, Minghao trailing behind you. “Are you ready to leave or not?”

Doyoung doesn’t even flinch. “Just acknowledging talent when I see it.”

Joshua snorts into his cup. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“And it won’t happen again,” Doyoung replies smoothly, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

You roll your eyes. “Okay, weirdos. Minghao, how are you leaving?”

“I don’t trust either of them behind the wheel right now,” Minghao mutters, still squinting at his iPad as he follows you. “And besides, Joshua’s going to make me drive anyway.”

You bid goodbye to the two of them, Doyoung falling into step silently beside you. He yawns once, into his sleeve and murmurs something about needing sleep. By the time you reach the parking lot, the sky has turned into the cotton candy pink that you love. Your brother unlocks the car with a sharp beep and slides in without a word.

You take one last glance over your shoulder—only out of habit—and then climb in after him.

—

Sunday, Post Race June 1st

You’re sitting on the little couch in Doyoung’s driver's room, scrolling through messages and trying not to fall asleep. He’s in the shower—the water’s still running—and you’ve got maybe five minutes before you hand him over to his PR manager and head back home for the day.

So when the door opens behind you, you don’t even look up.

“Forgot your pass or something?” you mutter. “Please tell me you’re not trying to leave without finishing press—”

But it’s not your brother.

It’s Joshua.

He freezes in the doorway like he’s half-forgotten how to move. His hair’s wet, matted flat at the sides, his suit half-zipped, fireproofs clinging to him with champagne and sweat.

“…This isn’t my room,” he says after a beat.

You blink at him. “No. It’s not.”

But you don’t tell him to leave. You just… stare, for a second, at the way he’s breathing like his heart still hasn’t slowed down.

He blinks slowly, eyes rimmed red, and lifts a hand toward his face.

“My eyes are so dry,” he mutters. “I can’t find Minghao, and I think my drops are in the wrong bag. I—do you maybe have any?”

There’s something strangely vulnerable about it. The guy looks exhausted and probably doesn’t have enough time before he has to head to the media pen as well.

You stand up quickly, moving towards the bag in Doyoung’s locker. “Yeah. I think so. Sit down, if you’d like. Can’t reach your eyes otherwise.”

He doesn’t argue and sinks into the edge of the couch with a soft, grateful sigh, like his limbs don’t quite want to hold him up anymore. The material of his race suit rustles faintly as he settles. You find the bottle easily, fingers brushing over a familiar shape in the front pocket of your kit.

When you turn back around, he’s already tipped his head back, eyes shut, and jaw tight.

You cross the room slowly.

Joshua flinches slightly when you touch his chin to steady him.

“Sorry,” he says under his breath, opening his eyes.

“It’s okay,” You assure. “Just don’t blink too much once the drop goes in, okay?”

He nods, and you take it as a signal to lean in and let the first drop fall in. He flinches slightly again, and you assume that his eyes are already hurting from the champagne. The smell is stronger close to him, but you can also smell slight notes of perfume beneath the overpowering alcohol. He’s probably sprayed some on in the cooldown room.

You do the second eye, then pull away gently, handing him a tissue to wipe the corner of his lashes before it can trail down his cheek.

“Thanks,” he says, shutting his eyes once more before he gets up.

“Don’t mention it.”

You take a step back, making room for him to leave. The shower cuts off behind you, a reminder that Doyoung won’t be long.

Joshua notices too. He exhales, straightens up slowly. “Right. Wrong room.”

“Right,” you echo.

He’s almost out the door when his face pops back in again. “Hey, you said you’d cut Monaco out if one of us was in the top three.”

“You weren’t supposed to remember that.”

“I remember everything when it benefits me.”

You let out a quiet breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “It’s probably not going to happen, but I’ll try and ask them to make that segment the shortest, okay?” He grins, “Good enough. See you later.”

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#g: 13+#g: fluff #g: slowburn #g: angst #g: racer au #warnings: swearing #warnings: mentions of car crashes #type: fic #wc: 21k+#a: hhaechansmoless #member: calli #artist: seventeen #m: joshua

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