once-upon-a-fic

[once-upon-a-fic]

mr. boo: coffee, campaigns, and confessions / b.sk

pairing: marketing manager!seungkwan x brand & promotions coordinator!reader

synopsis: You and Seungkwan work behind the scenes at Sebong Corporation, a bustling movie production company. When you're assigned to co-lead the marketing campaign for Eclipse Rising—the studio’s most high-profile release yet—your already-close working relationship takes center stage. Through morning coffee runs, chaotic brainstorming sessions, late-night strategy meetings, and a surprisingly sweet team-building retreat, your friendship deepens into something more.

fluff, slight crack, coworkers-to-lovers

word count: 3.3k

a/n: so so honored to be a part of THAT'S SHOWBIZ, BABY! plz go read everyone else's amazing works!! thanks so much for this opportunity @studioeisa @diamonddaze01

It’s 9:03 a.m. on a Monday, and Y/N walks into the office with their usual iced coffee in one hand, messenger bag slung over one shoulder, and a grimace that says “weekend over.” Sebong Corporation is buzzing already, caffeinated on anticipation and anxiety—Eclipse Rising, their biggest movie release of the year, is officially four weeks from premiere, and the entire floor feels like it’s holding its breath.

Y/N slides into their desk chair, still a little too early for the flood of people who usually arrive fashionably ten minutes late. The inbox pings.

Then pings again. And again.

By the time they sip their coffee, there are twelve emails from one person: Boo Seungkwan.

Subject lines include:

"TRAILER 2 CRISIS 🔥" "URGENT: Kael’s Hair Looks Flat??" "Do we need more STARS in the POSTER??? ✨" "Emergency: Space font too... spacey?" "we are LITERALLY in a timeline where Vernon is saving the galaxy and no one is prepared"

Y/N smiles despite themselves and starts replying, the muscle memory automatic. 

From: Y/N@sebongcorp.com To: booseungkwan@sebongcorp.com Subject: Kael's Hair Have confirmed with the stylist team: Vernon’s hair is not flat, just dramatically windswept. Intended. Maybe you’re the one feeling flat?

A few more clicks:

Subject: Space font The space font is just futuristic enough. We're not sending viewers back to the Jetsons.

Subject: Poster stars Adding more stars now would make it look like Vernon is inside a disco ball. Let's aim for "epic saga," not "space prom."

A soft thunk sounds behind Y/N. They turn slightly to see a head of natural bleach blond hair pop up over the cubicle divider.

"You’re lucky you’re cute in your emails," Seungkwan says, side-eyeing you.

"And you’re lucky I don’t charge for emotional labor."

Seungkwan swings around into Y/N’s cubicle and perches on the edge of their desk like he owns the place. He’s in an oversized cardigan over a bright graphic tee that says "HYPERSPACE IS A MINDSET."

"Do you know how hard it is to manage a teaser campaign when the editor thinks all lens flares are necessary?"

"Didn’t you say last week you wanted more lens flares?"

"Yes, but strategically. Tastefully! With restraint!"

Y/N hands him the backup iced americano they grabbed just in case. He accepts it wordlessly, clearly touched.

"You do love me," he says.

"Let’s call it self-preservation."

Their screens glow with the digital storm they’re navigating—press kits, trailer drop schedules, influencer lists. The Eclipse Rising campaign is ambitious: three trailers, six teaser posts, a limited-edition poster release, and a global hashtag activation. And that’s just this week.

Seungkwan opens a shared document titled “Viral Assets (PLEASE NO ONE DELETE THIS).”

"What if we launch the countdown with a galactic horoscope thread? Like: Lyra is rising in the house of heartbreak. Captain Kael says run."

Y/N tilts their head. "That’s kind of genius."

"You’re legally required to say that."

"No, I say it when you actually earn it. Which happens. Occasionally."

Seungkwan grins, sipping his drink. "I’m writing that. You inspired me."

They’re quiet for a moment, both typing furiously into different parts of the same document. Every so often Seungkwan hums or gasps dramatically, like the creative muses have grabbed him by the collar. Y/N, for all their cool efficiency, finds it... endearing.

At 10:10, a Slack message arrives.

Seungkwan: Should we do a TikTok of Vernon in the space suit trying Earth food?? "Captain Kael eats a hot dog" kind of thing???

Y/N: Only if he also tries boba.

Seungkwan: this is why you’re my favorite

He doesn’t send that last one. He just types it, stares at it for a beat, then deletes it.

Instead, he glances up at Y/N and says, "Hey. When this movie blows up, we’re getting promoted. You and me. Brand overlords."

Y/N raises their cup. "To brand domination."

They clink plastic coffee cups and return to their screens. Outside the window, Seoul hums with life. Inside the Sebong Corporation, it’s already burning bright.

***

It’s Wednesday afternoon, and the office conference room smells like coffee and stress. The whiteboard is already cluttered with scribbled hashtags and quotes from Eclipse Rising. Someone added a doodle of Vernon in a space helmet, annotated “Kael, but make it fashion.”

Y/N enters with a folder full of printed notes and digital mockups on their tablet, nodding at colleagues who are slouched in various poses of brainstorming agony. At the head of the table, Seungkwan is already animatedly pacing with a highlighter in one hand and a marker in the other.

“We need a hook,” he declares, spinning to face the room. “We need the kind of campaign that makes people say: ‘I don’t even like sci-fi, but I want to watch this.’”

A few heads nod. One team member raises their hand timidly. “What about doing something with the AI romance subplot? It’s super emotional.”

Seungkwan points at them. “Good. I like where your head’s at. Forbidden love between synthetic and human—boom, relatability.”

Y/N slides into a seat near the projector and pulls up their slides. “I’ve drafted three possible social rollouts: one focused on Kael as a tragic hero, one on the visuals and effects, and one on the emotional arcs. Seungkwan, I know you’re leaning into the ‘space heartache’ vibe.”

“Always,” Seungkwan says solemnly.

He dims the lights while Y/N begins the click-through. The first slide is a looping gif of Vernon’s character Kael, removing his helmet in slow motion, his eyes shimmering under starlight.

“Tagline?” Seungkwan asks.

Y/N smiles. “How about: ‘He’s not from this world, but he’ll break your heart like he is.’”

The room groans appreciatively.

Seungkwan clutches his chest. “Poetry. Actual poetry.”

The brainstorm session goes on for the next hour, veering wildly between professional brilliance and absolute chaos. Someone suggests an Instagram filter that places a galaxy behind users’ heads. Another pitches a fake dating profile for Kael.

"Likes: diplomacy, stargazing, long walks on low-gravity moons. Dislikes: betrayal, nuclear war."

As the ideas mount, Seungkwan becomes a whirlwind of energy, directing the chaos like an orchestra conductor. He doesn’t just throw out ideas—he builds on them, links them, pulls everyone’s thoughts into orbit. Every so often, he turns to Y/N.

“What do you think—too cheesy?”

Y/N considers it seriously before offering tweaks. “Drop the dating profile, keep the filter, and maybe add a fake breakup playlist Kael would make if his AI girlfriend left him.”

“YES,” Seungkwan shouts. “Playlist name: ‘Reboot My Heart.’”

Y/N shakes their head, but they’re smiling.

By the end of the session, the whiteboard is full, everyone’s stomachs are rumbling, and Seungkwan has abandoned his chair entirely. He and Y/N stand side-by-side now, sketching out the final tiered plan: Teasers, Trailers, Limited-Time Social Stunts, Cast AMA, Galaxy Experience Pop-Up.

Seungkwan leans a little too close, their shoulders brushing as they both scribble.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” he murmurs.

“Not bad,” Y/N echoes. “And we only lost three hours of our lives.”

“Worth it,” he replies with a grin, then lifts his marker like a sword. “To content!”

They high-five, marker-smudged fingers and all. For a brief second, Y/N forgets about premiere deadlines, burnout, and tight budgets. There’s just the glow of a shared vision, a room full of laughter, and Seungkwan’s elbow nudging theirs like they’ve been partners in this forever.

***

Friday morning arrives far too fast. The air in the presentation room is all too crisp, the lighting just harsh enough to make even Seungkwan double-check his hair in the reflective window. He’s wearing a navy suit with a constellation-themed tie that Y/N suspects he picked purely for thematic flair.

Y/N sets up the slides at the front of the room. Their laptop is connected to the giant wall screen. They triple-check the animations and transitions as the company’s senior execs begin to file in—familiar faces, all with coffee cups and tight schedules. Including Director Chan Lee, who has a reputation for asking questions so specific they feel like personal attacks.

Seungkwan catches Y/N’s eye. “We’ve got this,” he says under his breath, then flashes a peace sign. “Intergalactic charm engaged.”

Y/N tries to smile, but their nerves are fraying. They review the cue cards one more time.

The lights dim. Y/N starts the pitch.

“Eclipse Rising isn’t just a sci-fi film—it’s an emotional journey that asks what it means to be human in a universe that’s forgotten how to feel. Our marketing strategy aims to highlight that heart through digital intimacy, immersive visuals, and audience participation.”

Seungkwan jumps in with the charisma of a K-drama lead giving a TED Talk.

“Imagine seeing Kael’s world through the eyes of someone who’s loved and lost across galaxies. Our strategy leverages short-form content, interactive experiences, and a meme-forward tone that resonates with Gen Z’s love of irony and sincerity.”

The first few slides go over beautifully. Some execs even nod. Seungkwan’s pacing is fluid, charming, and his voice hits just the right note of enthusiasm. But then...

Slide 14.

The screen glitches.

Instead of Kael’s slow-motion helmet gif, it displays a meme Y/N had jokingly saved in the folder—Kael edited into a crying Wojak comic.

Y/N freezes.

Someone snorts.

Director Lee lifts an eyebrow.

Y/N fumbles, clicking forward, but it’s too late—the next slide shows a fake Spotify playlist titled “Reboot My Heart – Kael’s AI Breakup Anthems.”

Seungkwan blinks. Y/N looks at him, mortified. The meme was supposed to be an internal joke, something from the brainstorming session. Not... this.

Director Lee clears his throat. “Is this part of the official rollout?”

Seungkwan doesn’t miss a beat. He steps forward. “It was originally part of an internal engagement concept. A creative morale booster. But if you’re laughing, that tells us something—it works. It catches attention. And in this market, attention is currency.”

A beat of silence.

Then someone chuckles. Another nods. Seungkwan glances sideways at Y/N, eyes asking, You good?

Y/N takes a breath and jumps back in. “We’ve since refined the final concept, which you’ll see in the next slide. Here’s the cleaned-up version of the emotional resonance campaign, with final copy and polished visuals.”

The rest of the presentation goes on shakily, but smoother. Seungkwan steers with confidence, Y/N with clarity. Together, they pull it off, turning near-disaster into a weird sort of charm.

After the meeting ends, and the execs trickle out, Seungkwan finally exhales. He turns to Y/N.

“You saved it.”

“No, you did. That playlist line was... impressive.”

“I mean, I am emotionally fluent in meme,” he says, smirking.

They both laugh. The tension unravels. It’s still early, but Seungkwan grins like they’ve already won something.

“Lunch?” he asks. “Or should we debrief with panic snacks?”

Y/N grins. “Why not both?”

They walk out side-by-side, the slideshow still open behind them—now safely paused on Kael’s epic, starry-eyed profile. This time, no crying memes.

***

The company’s quarterly retreat takes them to a quiet, wooded resort two hours outside Seoul. The air smells like pine needles and possibility. The agenda is packed with bonding games, breakout brainstorms, and the faint promise of karaoke.

Y/N and Seungkwan sit beside each other on the bus, legs bumping occasionally as the road curves. Seungkwan is editing a Reels caption on his phone.

Y/N peeks. "You're adding emojis again."

"The algorithm loves them," he replies without looking up. "✨Emotional devastation in space✨ sells."

They check into separate cabins, but the day is full of group activities. One team-building challenge requires everyone to build a rocket ship out of cardboard and tape. Seungkwan takes it too seriously. Y/N doesn't mind—they're laughing too hard to care.

Later that evening, the retreat hosts a themed dinner by the campfire. The team is relaxed, wrapped in blankets, sipping from paper cups of hot tea or makgeolli. Stars scatter the sky above.

Someone initiates a game of truth or dare. When it’s Seungkwan’s turn, he confidently picks truth.

“Who do you trust the most at work?” one of the producers asks.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Y/N. They’re my gravity anchor.”

The group lets out a chorus of “aww”s. Y/N blushes but plays it cool, offering Seungkwan a toast from across the fire. He clinks his paper cup against theirs without breaking eye contact.

The next day brings a forest hike. The trail winds through dense trees and opens up to a scenic overlook. Most of the team marches ahead, but Seungkwan and Y/N naturally fall behind, walking in comfortable silence.

Seungkwan nudges Y/N’s shoulder. “You know, the playlist slide? I thought we were going to get roasted.”

Y/N snorts. “We kinda did.”

“Yeah, but like… toasted, not burnt.” He pauses. “Thanks for always having my back. Even when it’s chaotic. Especially when it’s chaotic.”

Y/N gives him a look. “That goes both ways.”

They stop at the lookout point. The view stretches far—rolling mountains, faint rivers, the curve of the horizon under a pale blue sky.

Seungkwan stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets. “Honestly? You’re my favorite part of this job.”

Y/N turns toward him slowly. “You mean the cardboard rockets weren’t a close second?”

He laughs. “Top five, maybe.”

They stand together in silence for a moment, close enough that their shoulders brush. The wind whistles through the trees. Everything feels still.

Y/N speaks first. “You’re mine too, you know. Favorite part.”

He smiles, soft and a little shy.

Something clicks into place. Like starlight shifting. Like orbits aligning.

They head back to camp together, just a little closer than before.

***

The office buzzes with a rare kind of electricity. Today is the trailer drop for Eclipse Rising, and the team has been building toward this moment for months. Seungkwan arrives early, coffees in hand—one for himself, one for Y/N. It's not unusual anymore.

Y/N is already at their desk, triple-checking the social rollout copy. The final teaser clip is scheduled to go live at 10:00 a.m. across all platforms. They sip the coffee Seungkwan places beside them and nod. “Today’s the day.”

“It’s gonna fly,” Seungkwan replies, eyes bright. “Like Kael’s escape pod. Straight into the algorithm.”

At 9:59 a.m., the marketing war room (a.k.a. the conference room they hijacked for this week) is full. Monitors display real-time analytics dashboards. Staff refresh the YouTube page with the hunger of people waiting for a comet to pass. Every screen reflects Seungkwan’s excitement. Y/N stands next to him, their shoulder brushing his.

Y/N whispers, “Think anyone’s going to cry?”

“If they don’t,” Seungkwan says confidently, “we’ve failed the mission.”

Y/N laughs. “No pressure.”

Seungkwan counts down. “Three. Two. One.”

Click.

The trailer is live.

On-screen, Vernon’s Captain Kael ignites the reactor of a crumbling starship, then reaches for the AI who loved him long before he was human. Voice-over: "Even in the dark, I remember your light."

The room goes still. Everyone's breath held.

Then—notifications explode. Twitter reposts, Instagram story shares, TikTok stitches. The trailer hits 100,000 views in under 30 minutes. The comments are full of crying emojis, memes, and fan edits.

The digital team cheers. Someone starts a group chat called "KAEL MY HEART." Another teammate drafts a press release mid-jump. The entire Slack channel is a blur.

Y/N and Seungkwan read the comments aloud:

“‘This trailer healed my trust issues.’”

“‘Why does this sci-fi movie feel more romantic than my entire dating history?’”

“‘Not me sobbing at 10am because of a spaceship love confession.’”

Seungkwan beams. “We did it.”

Y/N smiles, soft and wide. “You did it.”

“No,” he says, turning to them, “we did it. And we’re not even at premiere week yet.”

A pause, then a dramatic gasp from the intern at the corner. “Guys. It’s trending. Number three!”

The entire room erupts. Seungkwan does a victory spin. Y/N claps along. For a brief second, it feels like the end of a movie—confetti and all, even if it's just from a Slack emoji burst.

Later, when the room clears out and the trailer is still climbing, Y/N and Seungkwan remain. There’s a lull now. A calm after the data storm.

Seungkwan paces slightly, still energized. “You know, I was terrified this morning. Like… what if nobody cared?”

Y/N leans back against the table. “You hide it well.”

He gives a small smile. “Only because I knew you’d be in the room.”

Y/N’s breath catches, just briefly. “Well. I was.”

He walks over, standing beside them. They both stare at the muted trailer looping on the screen.

Y/N exhales, their voice quiet. “Feels weird. All that work, and now it’s out there.”

“Like sending your space kid off to school,” Seungkwan says.

Y/N laughs, eyes crinkling. “Exactly.”

He hesitates, then speaks. “You know, I’ve been thinking… we’re good at launching things.”

“Yeah?”

“What if we tried something smaller next?”

Y/N tilts their head. “Like?”

Seungkwan blushes slightly but doesn’t look away. “Like a date. You and me. Post-premiere. Something low-orbit.”

Y/N blinks, surprised—but only for a second. Then they smile. “Yeah. I think that sounds like a perfect launch.”

He grins. “See? Emotional devastation and successful relationship arcs. Marketing gold.”

They bump shoulders, the trailer looping silently behind them. Kael stares at his love across galaxies. And beside that cosmic romance, a quieter one is just beginning.

As they leave the room together, Seungkwan reaches for Y/N’s hand. Just for a moment. Just to see if it fits.

It does.

***

The theater lobby glimmers with the soft glow of spotlights and clusters of fans, reporters, and crew buzzing with excitement. It’s the premiere of Eclipse Rising, and the whole company is dressed to impress. Seungkwan and Y/N arrive together, the first time they’ve come as more than just coworkers—though neither is quite ready to say that out loud yet.

Inside the theater, the lights dim and the opening credits roll. Y/N watches Vernon’s Captain Kael with rapt attention, remembering the months spent behind the scenes—the endless edits, the marketing pitches, the nail-biting analytics. Beside them, Seungkwan’s hand finds theirs quietly, fingers brushing.

The audience gasps, laughs, and a few sniffle in that perfect way only a good love story can provoke. Y/N sneaks a glance at Seungkwan, whose eyes sparkle with the same mix of pride and something softer. It’s in that look Y/N decides to lean in just a little closer.

After the credits, the cast and crew take the stage for applause. Vernon, glowing with excitement, thanks everyone. The team’s hard work has paid off spectacularly. Seungkwan gives Y/N a look—a mix of “We did this” and “Thank you for being here.”

Outside the theater, the night air is cool. Y/N and Seungkwan walk side by side, the buzz of the premiere fading behind them. There’s a calm now—a space just for them.

Seungkwan stops and turns, searching Y/N’s face.

“I know we’ve been buried in work for months,” he says softly, “but... I’ve been meaning to say something.”

Y/N’s heart hammers in that thrilling way, caught between hope and nerves.

“I really like working with you,” he says, “but more than that... I like you. Not just as my co-conspirator in marketing.”

Y/N smiles, eyes bright. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

They laugh softly, a gentle ease settling between them.

Seungkwan brushes a strand of hair from Y/N’s face.

“Want to keep building this? Outside the office?” he asks.

Y/N nods without hesitation.

“Yeah. Let’s make this the best story yet.”

They lean closer to each other, lips brushing softly. There was no rush, no pressure, they had all the time in the world.

Hand in hand, they walk into the night—ready for their own premiere.

[once-upon-a-fic]

touching yourself

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: actor!yoon jeonghan x afb.reader

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞(𝐬): friends to lovers, mutual pining, romance, comfort, angst, smut

𝐚𝐮(𝐬): actor/celeb au

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 8.7k

𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+ nsfw

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: depression, anxiety, jeonghan is really going through it, severe stress from a job, alcohol consumption, crying, lots of emotions, mentions menstrual cycles

𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: phone sex (multiple scenes) mutal masturbation, needy jeonghan, switch jeonghan, hand job, fingering, oral (both rec), sex via FaceTime, unprotected sex, creampie, cum play, thumb sucking (Jeonghan rec), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, nicknames: honey, baby (hers) Hannie, baby (his)

𝐚𝐧: this story is directly connected with @gotta-winwin’s Joshua story “typo and error”. This is part of the that’s showbiz, baby! collaboration. Please show the other writers love and support. Thank you so much @lovetaroandtaemin for this wonderful banner. Thank you @studioeisa for helping me navigate and beta reading this.

🎧: touching yourself - japanese house | no shame - 5 seconds of summer | like i need u - keshi

𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬.

This is everything he has ever wanted, he repeats to himself over and over. Standing in a hotel bathroom. Today was hell. After shooting for fourteen hours he’s not sure if he wants to punch the wall or go to sleep. He’s absolutely physically and mentally exhausted.

Splashing water on his face he takes a long deep breath. Growing up this was all he ever wanted. All throughout high school and college he was in all the theater productions he could possibly join. Being an actor has always been his dream. So why is he absolutely miserable? This his second show he's filmed and this one just seems so much harder.

hannie: are you awake?

honey: you know for a big time actor that text really gives frat boy energy.

hannie: it’s not a booty call text.

honey: then what would you call it mr. superstar?

hannie: it’s more of ‘I’m lonely and need a friend to remind me why I do this.

There isn’t even time to set down his phone before it starts ringing. The nickname “honey” he gave you back in college appears on his phone with a photo of him with his arms wrapped around you pops up.

“Hello,” his voice is low. He sounds like he’s on the verge of crying.

“Hannie, what’s wrong?” His mind feels like it’s a million places at once. With his back resting against the wall he slowly slides down. His butt hitting the white marble flooring. A heavy sigh passes his lips as he pushes his finger through his long hair. “I don’t like that you’re not saying anything.”

“I wanna go home,” he whispers.

“You’re almost done filming. You have only seven days after this.”

“This show is so much harder than the last one.” Closing his eyes he takes a deep breath desperately trying not to cry.

“Hannie-“

“What time is it where you are?” He needs to change the subject. He doesn’t want to think about this show or how long he’s stuck here.

“It’s three in the morning.” He can tell you sound sleepy. He shouldn’t have woken you up.

“I shouldn’t have texted you.”

“Hannie, I told you when you left I was here no matter what time.” The night before he left he stayed at your place. He stayed up all night telling you how stressed he was about filming this movie. “What are you doing?” Your voice sounds so soothing to him.

“Sitting on the bathroom floor trying not to have a breakdown.”

“What time is it where you are?”

“It’s midnight.”

“Are you dressed for bed?”

“I was going to take a shower so I’m just in my boxers.” Leaning his head back against the wall he takes another deep breath. “I wish you were here.”

“I wish I was there with you.”

“I always said this was my dream. Why am I miserable?” A salty tear slides down his cheek.

“It’s harder than you thought it was going to be, and that’s okay. Things will get easier.”

“If I buy you a ticket, will you fly out here in the morning?” He knows this is a crazy request but he needs to see you.

“Hannie.”

“I know it’s insane to ask. Your job lets you work from home. Maybe bring your work computer and you could work from the hotel room.”

“A plane ticket at the last minute is expensive.”

“Baby, I don’t fucking care. I need you here with me.” He’s never called you baby before. And for some reason it just feels right to call you that. Maybe it stems from the fact that he’s always wanted you to be his.

“Okay–“ you practically whisper into the phone.

“I'm gonna hang up literally long enough to book you the first flight I can get you on tomorrow and then I’m going to call you back.” Reaching up he pushes away the tears that have stained his cheeks.

“Okay. I’ll start packing now. I’ll send an email to my boss and put in for some PTO for tomorrow when I travel. Maybe take a shower and call me once you’re in bed.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to you soon, honey.”

The phone call ends and he pushes himself off the floor. He leaves the bathroom and grabs his laptop. Wasting no time, he booked you a flight for eleven in the morning. He emailed all your flight information to you.

Walking back into the bathroom, he strips off his boxers and steps into the hot water. Just knowing you’ll be with him in a little over twelve hours is a relief. Leaning against the cool marble wall as the hot water washes over him.

Hopping out of the shower he towel tries his hair and wraps a towel around his waist. He doesn’t bother getting dressed, he just lays in the king size bed still in a towel.

It’s been about forty minutes since he hung up the phone. Picking up his phone he goes into his favorites and clicks your contact info that’s listed first. On the fourth ring you answer the phone.

“Hannie, I got your email.”

“Thank you for doing this.”

“Hannie, I just wanna see you happy.”

“Honey, you make me happy.” It’s true. He doesn’t think anyone has ever made him as happy as you do. “Do you mind that we’ll have to share a bed? Or I could book you your own room?”

“I don’t mind sharing a bed. I might ask you to cuddle since I’m flying to a different country for you.” The sound of your soft laugh makes him smile.

“I’ll never complain about cuddling.”

“Did you get dressed for bed?” You asked. He glances down at his towel that is still wrapped around his waist.

“No.”

“Hannie, what are you wearing?” Your voice sounds a little more upbeat.

“Just a towel.” He hears movement and assumes you’re laying back down in bed.

“I didn’t expect you to basically be naked on the phone with me.” A soft laugh echoes into the phone. Jeonghan can’t help but smile.

“Am I allowed to ask what you are wearing?”

“I don’t know if you will like my answer.” You have definitely piqued his interest. He just lets out a hum. “I’m wearing your baggy shirt you left at my house and panties.”

Glancing down at the towel Jeonghan can feel himself starting to harden. “Do you normally sleep in my clothes?”

“When did you leave your shirt here? It started when I found it.”

“Like two months ago?” His fingers start to toy with the edge of the towel. “I like that you sleep in my shirt.”

“What are we doing here, Jeonghan?” It sounds weird you calling him his full name. Since you became friends in college he’s called you honey instead of your name and you call him Hannie.

“I’m not sure. But I like whatever this is.” He can’t help but sigh leaning further back on the pillows. “We can stop right here if you want. We can hang up the phone and pretend this never happened.”

“I don’t want that,” your voice is so soft.

“What do you want to happen?” He swallows loudly.

“Will you take off your towel?” You're both crossing a line you won’t be able to go back from.

He puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the bed next to him. Undoing the towel he lifts his hips and tosses the towel to the foot of the bed. Evening being alone on the bed he feels suddenly very exposed. Taking a deep breath he drags his fingers down his stomach. “Can you take your panties off but, leave on my shirt?”

“Of course.”

“This isn’t the first time I’m touching myself to the thought of you.” This is the first time when he cums thinking of you he won’t feel guilty.

“I think about you often.” You sigh.

He starts fully hardening in his hand as he pictures you touching yourself. He focuses on the tip spreading the precum that’s started leaking. A low moan passes his lips.

“I bet your cock is pretty,” you moan.

“Are you touching yourself?”

“I’m already so wet. I get wet just thinking about you.”

Closing his eyes he imagines you laying next to him. His breathing is already unsteady. “I bet your pussy tastes sweet just like you.”

“You’ve never even kissed me, Hannie,” you tease.

“When you get here tomorrow, I’m going to kiss you like I need you to breathe. And once we’re alone I’m going to strip you naked and devour every inch of you. I’m going to eat your pretty pussy like it’s my last meal on this fucking planet.”

“Hannie–“ you don’t even try to hold back your broken moans. He tightens his grip on his painfully hard cock. “I’m playing with my clit but it’s not enough. I feel empty,” you whimper.

“Baby, do you have any toys you can fill your little pussy with?”

“I have a dildo-“ you sound so shy suddenly.

“Can you use it? Pretend that it’s me filling you up.”

There is a moment of silence before Jeonghan hears a squelching noise. Your moans echo through the phone. “Fuck- Hannie-“

Biting his bottom lip he fights back moaning too loud. His hand continues to pump his length. He’s not going to last long and he knows it. “Baby, go as fast as you can handle.”

“Can you go fast too? Imagine I’m riding you.”

His imagination goes wild picturing you on top of him riding him.

The phone call is filled with the sounds of moans and whimpers. Jeonghan brings his finger towards his chest. His long index finger slowly toys with his nipple as he gets closer to the edge.

“I’m close—“ he can’t wait to hear how you sound as you fall apart.

“I’m going to cum—“ he responds.

“Hannie—“ you moan as you find your release.

“Honey—“ he moans, painting his hand and stomach with thick ropes of his milky release. “Fuck-“

There’s a few beats of silence as you both ride out your highs. “Did you still want me to come see you?”

“Of course I do, baby.”

“We should both probably get to sleep. I’ll probably arrive while you’re on set.”

“I’ll arrange for a car to pick you up from the airport and the front desk will have a key ready for you.”

“Okay. What happened to your text wasn’t a booty call?” You let out a little laugh.

“It wasn’t planned to be. I just really wanted to hear your voice. I missed you.”

“I always miss you. Goodnight Hannie.”

“Goodnight honey.”

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The whole time Jeonghan is on set he can only really think about you. He lights up when he receives a text from you.

honey: I just got to the hotel.

hannie: the front desk has a room key for you. please let me know when you get inside.

honey: I just got in. Omg this bathroom is huge.

hannie: my mental breakdown started in that bathroom.

honey: I don’t want you to stress anymore. I’m here now.

hannie. I think we’re wrapping my scenes in an hour.

honey: how does you arriving back to the room and finding me naked in the bath sound?

hannie: amazing. I’m now going to try my best to not get hard on set.

honey: just one more hour and you can do anything you have ever wanted to me.

hannie: I should say this in person, but I’m a little scared. We can’t go back after this. I want you so badly I can’t just be your friend.

honey: that’s good. I don’t want to be friends anymore. I want to try to be more.

hannie: please be naked when I get back.

The moment that cut was called on his scenes his assistant was following him as he practically ran to his trailer.

“Jeonghan, you have an interview scheduled for tomorrow at 10am. It’s going to be in the conference room of your hotel.”

“Okay, sounds good.” Jeonghan goes to grab his clothes hoping to get out of this costume quickly.

“I’m assuming since you have company you won’t need my assistance with anything tonight?” His assistant sounds hopeful they might fully get the night off.

“Ben, I don't need you tonight. Can you just have a car ready to pick me up in ten minutes? And just make sure you’re there before my interview tomorrow.”

“Okay, Jeonghan. Have fun with your friend.” Ben pats him on the back before exiting the trailer.

Jeonghan doesn’t think he's ever left a set faster in his life. Getting into the car he’s checking emails trying to keep himself distracted. That’s until a new message from you pops up.

honey: are you on your way?

hannie: I should be there in ten minutes.

honey: I’ll start the bath now.

Walking into the hotel room, he shuts the door and locks. The moment he enters the bathroom his breath catches in his throat at the sight of you naked sitting in the large bathtub.

“Hi, Hannie.” You give him a soft smile.

“Hi, Honey.” Without another thought he instantly starts removing his clothes. The moment he is fully naked he joins you in the bath. He sits opposite of you with his legs on either side of yours. Just the sight of your breast just below the water has him hardening.

“I missed you.” You whispered.

He takes a deep breath trying his hardest to calm down. “God, I have missed you.”

Reaching out you start to draw aimless circles on his knee. He can’t help but smile as he watches you. “Hannie, you’re not going to give up on acting right?”

“No. I was just lonely and stressed.”

“I don’t want you to be lonely anymore. I’m always here for you. You can call me anytime at night or day. We can just talk or we could have more phone sex.” Your ending comment earned a smile from him. If someone would have told him that when he left to film this series you and him would be here now. He would have told them they were crazy.

“You still haven’t kissed me?”

“Come here.” Leaning forward you both meet in the middle. Reaching out, he rested his hand on your cheek. “You’re so pretty.” God, he could spend hours just admiring you.

“You’re not too bad yourself.” He instantly smiles at your sweet words.

The moment your lips finally touch he feels a sense of warmth take over him. His hands hold your face as his lips move against your. You feel like a breath of fresh air in his oxygen deprived lungs. How on earth has he gone his whole life, not knowing how you taste.

His stomach is filled with butterflies just like it always is when he’s around you. Even back in the day when you were freshly eighteen. From the moment he met you Jeonghan knew you were going to be special to him.

Pulling away you rest your nose against his. “This feels so right.”

Leaning back, you close your eyes and smile. How did he ever get so luckily to have you in his life? You feel like sunshine on a rainy day.

“How long can you last in this bath without properly touching me?” You’ve always loved to tease him.

“Maybe two more minutes.”

Without saying a word you stand up. Getting out of the tub you walk naked across the bathroom. Grabbing a towel you slowly start drying off. Jeonghan’s eyes are locked on your body. Snapping out of his lust filled haze he gets out and grabs a towel. Silently you both stand there drying off.

“I think it’s time you fuck away all your frustrations.” Walking towards the door you hold out your hand. Workout saying a word he laces his fingers with you.

Taking your hand he pulls you towards the bed. “Do I need to get us condoms?” He realizes he definitely doesn’t have any in this room, and he didn’t ask you to bring any.

“I’m on birth control. Remember you took me to my appointment to get my IUD?” Oh, he remembers that vividly. You got it because your ex wanted to stop using condoms and Jeonghan was trying his hardest to be supportive. But the idea of that loser getting to fuck you completely raw had him seeing red.

You stand at the foot of the bed. You push your fingers through his dark hair. You can’t help but admire how pretty he is.

“I don’t want to assume anything.”

“Yoon Jeonghan, when was the last time you had sex with someone that isn’t your hand?” It’s embarrassing that you know too many details about his sex life, or better yet lack thereof.

“It’s probably been a year. I’m so busy with work.” Unfortunately his hand has been his best friend when it comes to finding any sort of release these days.

“I’m clean, I got tested after Jay and I ended things six months ago. I haven’t had sex with anyone other than my toys and my hand. Jeonghan, if you want to do this, we can. I trust you more than anyone I have ever been with before. Hell, I care about you more than anyone else.”

He definitely loves you, even though he wouldn’t be bold and say those words right now. He most definitely trusts you as well. Going bare the very first time you have sex means a lot.

“Are you sure?” You release his hand and take a small step back.

“If you don’t want to go bare Jeonghan, we can get condoms. I’m just giving you the option.”

“God, I want to feel you completely bare.” He pushes his finger through his hair. He feels like he’s going to go insane if he can’t be inside you. “Lay on the bed, honey.”

Crawling onto the bed Jeonghan watches you. “Spread your legs, baby. I believe I made a promise that I want to eat you out.”

The moment his head is between your legs he eats your pussy like he’s a man starved. Your finger tangled in his hair holding him close. He practically makes out with your clit pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

He never tasted anything sweeter as he felt you fall apart against his tongue.

The moment he’s hovering over you staring into your eyes as he pushes into you for the first time he realizes this is what it feels like to feel whole. That empty feeling in his chest no longer existed. Your hands claw at his back holding him close. His lips touch anywhere they can reach. His pace starts out slow but deep.

Your moans and whimpers echo off the walls. You move his face so he’s looking down at you. Running your thumb across his bottom lip he opens his mouth. Slowly you slide your thumb in, pressing down on his tongue. He’s lost in a haze of lust.

“So good for me,” you moan.

Pulling your thumb out of his mouth he smiles down at you. “Did you like that?”

“Fuck—“

Reaching down he moves your leg so it’s resting on his hip. “Faster.” You plead.

His pace picks up and the moment he feels your orgasm hit you hard he practically sees stars himself. He’s never come nearly as hard as he did right then. His salty release paints your walls milky white. Sitting back on his knees he’s still snug inside you. The sight of you squeezing him is something he’ll ever get over. Ever so slowly he pulls out. Watching as his release slowly leaks out in a glob. Without even thinking he runs his fingers through your folds pushing it back in.

“Fuck—“

“Is that all you can say?” You can’t help but tease him.

“You might have broken my brain.”

Hopping off the bed he runs off to the bathroom in all his naked glory. He comes back holding a warm washcloth. He gently wipes away the mess he made.

Crawling back into bed he pulls you close. He hopes he can do this with you forever.

As your head lays on his chest he can’t help but think about what happens next between you. All he knows is being able to properly hold you feels perfect.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

It’s another long day for Jeonghan. He spent the morning doing interviews, and now he’s on set for three hours filming. He’s fully focused on work, but there is a little thought in the back of his mind that is reminding you’re waiting for him at his hotel room.

Once he’s finally back in the hotel for the night he finds you lying in the bed dressed in nothing but one of his baggy shirts and cute little thong. You're focused on watching something on your phone. You don’t even notice he’s back, until he clears his throat.

Laying your phone on the nightstand you smile at him. “Hi, Hannie.”

“Hi, honey.”

“How does ordering room service and cuddling sound?”

“Perfect.”

That night was perfect for him. He told you about his day on set while you shared a pizza. You turned on some romantic comedy you had been telling him about. He doesn’t really pay attention to the movie. He’s too focused on the way you’re curled up against him. He doesn’t feel as lost knowing he has you by his side.

The movie finally comes to an end and at that point the only thing either of you can focus on is each other.

Laying on your stomach, Jeonghan has a pillow under your hips. He’s pressed up against your back. Your thong has been pulled to the side as he slowly thrust into you. This new angle has him hitting spots he hasn’t hit before. He’s kissing his way across your shoulders moaning sweet praises against your skin.

You fall apart together before you both drift off to sleep.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

It’s been two weeks since you flew out to meet him on set. You haven’t fully labeled your relationship, but you’re clearly together. At this point, you’re apart more than you’re together. Phone sex has become a staple of your relationship.

A part of being famous that Jeonghan hated was he had to hide parts of his private life. His one goal was to keep you away from the public eye. He refused to watch you get hate or to hear that people are spreading gossip and lies about you.

Laying down in another hotel room, his mind wanders to you just like it always does. Closing his eyes, he pictures you.

hannie: are you awake?

honey: that sounds like a booty call text.

hannie: I miss you.

honey: do you miss me or just my pussy?

hannie: I miss everything about you.

honey: did you want to talk on the phone?

hannie: please.

Two seconds later the phone rings. This time, your contact photo is a picture of him kissing you.

“Hi, Hannie.” Your voice is as sweet as honey.

“Hi, baby.”

“What are you wearing?” You instantly ask.

“I’m laying here in boxers. What are you wearing?” He’s already starting to get hard at just the sound of your voice.

“A tank top and thong.” His brain instantly starts picturing you.

“Can you get naked for me?”

“Of course.” He hears the sound of rustling of fabric. He takes this as his opportunity to remove his boxers. “Should I get one of my toys?”

“Do you have a vibrator you can use?”

“Yes.”

He starts stroking his length thinking about your naked body on display. The buzzing sound lets him know you have found your vibrator.

“Fuck— Hannie—“

He starts pumping his length faster. Before you Jeonghan has probably had phone sex once before. Now he can’t get enough of it. The idea that you’re on the other side touching yourself to his voice is intoxicating.

“Baby, can you pump two fingers in you?”

“Yes,” your voice is needy and high pitched.

“I wish this was you touching me.” He focused on his sensitive head knowing that it would easily push him over the edge.

“Do you miss my mouth or my pussy?”

“I miss everything about you.”

He misses being able to touch. The moment he’s home, he doesn’t think he’ll let you out of his sight.

“I need more.” You whimper.

“Add another finger.” Just the thought of you naked in bed has him close to falling apart.

He focuses on sensitive tip, knowing he’ll fall apart with little effort.

“Honey—“

“I’m so close—“ You’re a whimpering mess.

“Hold the vibrator against your clit baby.”

He moves his hand up and down his hardened length. His orgasm is getting closer and closer to the edge.

“Hannie—“

“Cum for me baby.”

“Fuck—“ your voice is a high pitch whine. Falling apart on your fingers is not the same as being filled with Jeonghan’s length.

His breathing is uneven, practically ragged. Salty cum paints his hand and stomach milky white.

“God, I miss you.” He pants.

“I miss you too, baby.” He can’t help but smile at your response.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

It’s been three weeks since he’s been home from set and in that time he’s been taking every opportunity he has to spend it with you.

Many days have consisted of you staying at Jeonghan place. You’ve brought your laptop and you have been working from Jeonghan’s kitchen. He takes this time to just enjoy your company and spend as much time as possible with you.

Today, you had to go into the office and Jeonghan had a meeting he didn’t want to attend.

Jeonghan hates the days he has to go into the office. Sitting in the conference room he’s listening as Wonwoo the CEO, Seungcheol the talent recruiter, are talking about a new star that has signed on. He’s not even sure why he needs to be here for this.

A heavy sigh passes his lips earning a glance from Junhui, the legal intern who is sitting next to Wonwoo.

“Jeonghan, we need to talk about your press tour. You need to start soon,” Wonwoo says.

“My show wrapped last month.” The idea of doing press makes him want to scream. His goal for right now was to just spend time with you.

“Well, we think it’s a good idea to do a few interviews talking about upcoming projects.” Joshua chimes in. “It will be good for your social media presence.”

“What upcoming projects?” He instantly sighs, leaning back.

“We have another role we want you to start filming next month. It’s a romantic drama. The new actress we booked will be starring with you.” He was hoping to get a longer break between projects. The idea of filming a romance isn’t his favorite idea right now.

“I didn’t know I booked another role.” So much for the break he thought he was getting.

“We have one more thing to discuss,” Jihoon the head of HR chimes in. Jeonghan instantly has a sinking feeling. He has an idea about what they’re going to bring up.

“What is it?” He sighs, pushing his finger through his hair.

“We’ve heard you’re in a relationship.” Jihoon says.

“Nothing in my contract says I can’t date,” Jeonghan glances over at Junhui. If anyone in this room fully understands his contract, it’s Junhui.

“We aren’t telling you you’re not allowed to date. We’re just asking that you don’t go making this relationship social media official. For the company’s sake and for the press of your upcoming movies, we’re asking you to keep your relationship private.”

“My goal is to keep my relationship private. I don’t want the public bugging her.”

“Filming a romance series, people will probably link you with your co-star. I wouldn’t exactly deny you’re not together but don’t confirm it.” The idea of a showmance made Jeonghan feel sick. It almost feels as if he’s cheating on you. “I can tell by your face you made you hate that idea,” Wonwoo says. He instantly notices that Joshua seems quite irritated suddenly. Maybe this has something to do with the new girl he’s been working social media for.

“When do I start filming this?” Jeonghan has grown tired of this meeting and just wants to go home.

“You leave for Jeju in three weeks.” Soonyoung the head of marketing chimes in.

“Okay.”

He thought after finishing this last project he would be happier with his career choice, but he’s still sad. Maybe that’s because he knows it means he’s going to be lonely once again. Maybe going away will feel different this time knowing that he has you. Maybe you’re the change he truly needed in his life.

Standing in the elevator, he decides to text you. He’s hoping he can see you tonight.

hannie: are you busy tonight?

honey: I’m finishing a work project and I’ll be free after five.

hannie: sleepover?

honey: your place or mine?

hannie: mine. I’ll order your favorite thai place for takeout.

honey: oh look you truly know the way to my heart.

hannie: thai food is the way to your heart? Not my amazing head game?

honey: that’s the other way to my heart lol

hannie: it’s good to know I know both ways to your heart.

honey: I got to go back to work but I’ll see you at 5 baby.

You calling him ‘baby’ will always give him butterflies.

When five twenty rolls around, you let yourself into his apartment. From the moment he moved in here, he gave you the code to the pin pad. He made the choice to make the code your birthday.

He smiles at the sight of you dressed in a pair of leggings and baggy shirt. The shirt looks extremely familiar. At some point you’ve definitely stolen it from him. He realized you had stolen more of his clothes then he noticed you had.

“Hannie, if you planned on getting laid tonight, I’m on my period.” Walking over you sit on the couch next to him.

“I didn’t call you over just for sex. I like spending time with you.”

“Okay.” You give him a soft smile.

“My period sucks. I’m extra emotional and I’m horny.”

“Well, if you want to have sex I have no problem doing it. We can fuck in the shower or put towels down.” Jeonghan isn’t disgusted at all at the thought of period sex. If it’s something you’re comfortable with he would do it.

“Can we just cuddle tonight?”

“Absolutely.”

Things have always been so easy with you. Jeonghan can truly feel like himself. He’s not an actor that people desperately want to get to know. He’s simply just Jeonghan, or better yet he’s your Hannie.

Curled up in bed he loves that you’re dressed in one of his shirts and a pair of panties. There is something about you wearing his clothes that he loves. Since college, he’s called you a clothing thief, but he’ll never complain. He always smiles when he sees you wearing one of his baggy shirts.

“Honey?” He’s laying on his back, your head is resting on his chest. He’s slowly running his fingers up your spine, tracing the details of your skin.

“Yes?”

“You’re my best friend.” He nuzzles his face in your hair. The sweet scent of your mango shampoo, that reminds him of warm summer days.

“Are you friendzoning me?” You knit your eyebrows together confused by what he means.

“I’m hopelessly in love with you.” There is a long moment neither of you say anything. Your hand rests over his heart. Closing your eyes, tears slowly slide down your cheek. “Baby, are you crying?”

“I have loved you for so long.” You can’t even look at him. You just nuzzle your face against his bare chest.

“Honey, I’ve loved you for years and I will love you forever.” Slowly you finally look up at him with glossy eyes. He gently rests his fingers under your chin. ”I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Being with you made everything feel like it’s falling into place.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Filming this new romantic drama has been going fine. He’s a lot happier than he was during the last series he filmed. He knows his new relationship with you has helped with that lonely feeling that just kept eating away at him. There is something nice about knowing he can just text you telling you he loves you. Or just being able to call you and say he wants to hear your voice.

This shoot has been a whole different experience for him. Well, there has been one issue though. Jeonghan has grown to have a nice friendship with Vi, his romantic lead in the series. From the beginning he told her all about his relationship with you. Vi has been a great sense of support on the set. A few times the two of them have gotten dinner together with some of the other crew.

From the first day on set it’s been very clear that him and Vi are only friends. She often even asks about your relationship. All the crew knows he’s taken, but for some reason Joshua doesn’t seem to understand that. Jeonghan learned immediately after seeing his new costar interact with her social media manager something was up. Joshua is clearly not the actor of the two of them. That man for the life of him couldn’t hide his feelings for Vi. Joshua wasn’t able to hide his hatred towards Jeonghan either. Whenever he and Vi would film a kiss scene Jeonghan could feel Joshua’s hatred radiating off him.

It’s another day on set that has been absolutely exhausting. Jeonghan can feel Joshua’s eyes burning into him. This day on set is long enough and the scenes Jeonghan has been filming are emotionally draining. He looks over Vi and she seems completely oblivious to Joshua glaring.

“Hey, can we talk?” He taps her shoulder.

“Sure.”

“Can you tell Joshua to get his shit together? Joshua is clearly in love with you and he’s really starting to piss me off with the dirty looks.” Jeonghan is already miserable wishing you were here with him. The last thing he needs is a grown ass man pissed at him because of another woman.

“What?”

“Vi, please don’t play dumb right now. Joshua Hong, your little social media boy, is obsessed and in love with you.” He paused for a moment. “And don’t get me wrong you’re great but I think everyone on this set knows I’m in love with _ _ _ _.”

Vi lets out a soft laugh and looks over at Joshua who’s eyes soften the moment he stares at her. “Is it obvious he loves me?”

“Yeah, and please make it obvious to him neither of us are interested in each other.”

He watches as Violet walls off towards Joshua.

Heading off to his trailer he can’t stop thinking about you. He opens his phone and instantly goes to text you.

hannie: are you working?

honey: yeah but I can text you right.

hannie: I hate Joshua.

honey: what did he do now?

hannie: all he does is give me dirty looks and I’m tired of his lovesick idiot act. all he does is bitch and moan when I’m around.

honey: have you told violet?

hannie: I told her he’s clearly in love with her and I’m with you so she needs to tell him to knock it off.

honey: he’s probably not a fan of watching the girl he’s in love with kiss someone else.

hannie: I’m not a fan of having to kiss the girl he’s in love with. Are you okay with me having kissing scenes?

honey: I knew what I signed up for when we started this. It’s a part of your job.

hannie: can I call you tonight?

honey: of course. I should be home around 8. When do you stop filming?

hannie: I think the call sheet says 10.

honey: I’ll be waiting for you.

-

Laying on the bed in his hotel room he stares at his lockscreen for a long moment. It’s a photo of the two of you together. He’s kissing your cheek and you have the biggest smile on your face. Opening his favorites contacts he presses your name.

“Hi, baby,” your voice is gentle.

“Hi honey girl.” He puts the phone on speaker, setting it on the bed next to him.

“You’ve called me that since we were eighteen but you never told me why.”

He can’t help but smile thinking back to when you were both eighteen. He stands up and pulls his shirt off. “Because from the moment I met you I thought you were sweet as honey.”

“Am I still sweet as honey?”

“You’ve only gotten sweeter.” He unbuckles his belt.

“Do I taste as sweet as honey?” Your voice sounds intoxicating as you ask this.

“You taste sweeter than you could ever imagine.” He starts to push down his pants.

“Hannie, are you changing?”

“I’m in my boxers.”

“Can you get naked for me?” You sigh.

“Absolutely.”

“Can we facetime?”

“Yeah we can baby. Can you get naked for me?” He desperately wanted to see you.

Slipping off his boxers, he stands fully naked. He’s already starting to harden at the thought of seeing you. Propping his phone up he switches the call to a video.

Suddenly, you appear on screen in all your naked glory.

Your fingers toy with your perk nipples. Your glossy bottom lip is captured between your teeth.

“Tell me what to do Hannie.”

Laying back on the bed he takes his length in his hand and slowly starts stroking himself.

“Baby, spread your legs for me.”

Silently, you follow his command. Your legs are spread wide with the camera angled perfectly to see your glistening folds.

“Play with your sensitive clit.”

His eyes stay focused on the screen watching as your finding makes quick circles on your puffy clit. He keeps a steady pace pumping his cock. Your bottom lip is captured between your teeth, attempting to hold back moans.

He starts focusing on his blush colored tip that’s leaking precum. He doesn’t bother trying to hold back his broken moans of your name.

“Can you come from just playing with your clit?” He knows you can, but he wants to hear you respond.

“Yes—“

“Pretend it’s my fingers and come for my baby.”

He tightens his grip chasing his release. His eyes are lust blown, watching you through the screen. Tilting your head back, your eyes squeeze shut as you cry out his name. He can tell by your movements you’re cumming.

“Honey—“ he moans your name, painting his hand and abs with his milky release.

Both of your breathing is heavy. He can’t help but smile as a fucked our giggle passes your lips.

“You know, if you were here, I would make you take a shower with me.”

“I wish I was there to take a shower with you.” He looks down at his stomach that’s covered in a sticky layer of his cum.

“I can’t wait for this series to be done, and to have a break from seeing god forsaken Joshua Hong.”

You can’t help but laugh at his disdain for his co-star’s social media manager.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Filming is finally done and he’s just returned from a month of traveling promoting his newest project. Jeonghan can take a break and just spend time with you. He wants nothing more than to spend the week just lost in your presence.

He practically moved into your apartment. He wants to spend every waking moment with you.

He is sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee with you.

“I don’t think I want to film another romance series anytime soon.” He lets out a sigh, his fingers fidgeting with the lavender cup.

“I support whatever you want to do.” You give him a gentle smile.

“Can I ask you something that’s probably insane?”

“Yes, should I be scared?”

“No. You can work from home, right?” He knows this is a big ask.

“Yeah, I realistically only have to go into the office every couple months.”

“Would you travel with me to film my next series? It’s in five weeks and we will be staying in a beach town.” The idea of having you with him the whole time he’s filming sounds like a dream to him.

“Are you being serious?” You definitely weren’t expecting him to ask that.

“Yeah.”

“Is that what you want?” You look down at your own cup of coffee for a moment.

“I don’t feel as lonely as I did before. But I want you by my side the whole time.” He honestly wants you by his side for everything he does in life now.

“Then I’ll go with you.” A smile spreads across your lips.

“I love you, honey.”

“And I love you, Hannie.”

Jeonghan knew if he was going to pursue his dream sometimes it would be hard and there would be times he’s lonely. He knows now that no matter what you’ll be by his side. Whether you’re physically with him or you’re just a phone call away.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Filming his new series had been a dream knowing you were there with him. Every day after filming no matter how late it was he got to spend time with you. Some nights you would explore the beautiful beach town together and then other nights you would spend locked up in your hotel together, naked and exploring each other's bodies.

Jeonghan was the happiest he had ever been filming. After a long day on set he picked you up and took you to the beautiful restaurant his co-star told him about.

Hand in hand you walked near the beach after eating dinner. He can’t seem to keep his hands to himself.

Pulling you in by the belt loops on your jeans his lips crash into yours. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you roll your body into yours pressing yourself against him. His tongue moves along your bottom lip, earning a sinful moan from you.

“Baby, we’re in public.” You tease him by pulling back.

“Then I need to take you home.” He smiles.

The moment you enter your hotel room he’s stripping off your clothes with a sense of urgency. There is a trail of fabric leading to the bed. Smack in the middle of the king size bed, you’re completely bare. He’s sitting on his knees thrusting into you at an incredibly slow but deep pace. One of your legs is hooked over his arm. While his other hand rests on your mound toying with your puffy clit. You’re already one orgasm deep, and he’s clear he’s working on pulling another one out of you.

Your fingers grip the expensive cotton sheets below you. Eyes roll back as the white hot wave of your second orgasm hits you hard.

“Hannie—“ His name is nothing more than a broken prayer.

“You’re made for me—“ he moans watching you with a look of wonder on his face.

“Please.” You aren’t even sure what you’re begging for. You aren’t sure your body could handle another orgasm, but you want more. His thumb never stops playing with your clit.

“Close—“ He lets out his own broken moan.

Your orgasm is barely finished when another hits you hard, this time triggering his own release. His hips slam into you at a quicker pace. His thick white release fills you to the brim. Pulling out slowly he watches as his release slowly leaks out.

Closing your eyes a fucked out smile plays across your lips. You look absolutely beautiful like this. To be honest, he thinks you look beautiful every moment of your life. He quite literally might be obsessed with how much he loves you.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Everything feels as if it’s collapsing in on him. Opening twitter, he didn’t expect to find photos of you and him spread across his timeline.

He’s hit with a wave of nausea at the nasty things being said about you. Random strangers are nitpicking every little detail about you. He hates that they know your name, and how “inside sources” are telling people you met in college.

The bathroom door opens. Looking up he can see by the look on your face something is wrong.

“Hannie—“ You sound upset and he already knows why. “Chaewon called and said photos of us are spreading all over online.”

“There is a photo of us kissing last night.” He tosses his phone on the bed. He knows this happened because he wasn’t careful. He hasn’t thought twice about going on public dates with you. He didn’t bother worrying about the fact that someone could have seen you kissing after dinner. This all happened because he was careless.

“We can figure this out.” You step closer to him.

“I think you should go back home.” The look of disappointment on your face feels like he’s being stabbed. He’s trying to protect you and all he’s doing is hurting you.

“Hannie—“ Tears start sliding down your cheeks.

“I think it’s best we aren’t spotted together anymore here.”

A laugh passes your lips. “This is so fucking stupid. Why does it matter if they know who I am?” He’s making you feel like he’s ashamed to be with you.

“I want what we have to be private.” He pushes his fingers through his dark hair. He starts pacing the hotel room anxiously.

“I’ll go home, but Jeonghan—this is the first time you’ve ever truly hurt me. I think we need to take a break. When you’re home and ready to talk you know where I am.”

He stops in his tracks. His heart feels like it’s being squeezed. A wave of nausea hits him like a ton of bricks. Without even trying, he’s broken your heart. He’s done the same things he’s seen too many men do to you. He swore to himself up and down he would never hurt you, and here he is asking you to go home.

“Honey—“

“I’m going to pack now. Can you book me a flight please?”

He sits on the bed booking you a flight, all while tears slid down your beautiful face as you packed your bag.

Three hours later a taxi takes you to the airport. He doesn’t get to kiss you goodbye, he doesn’t deserve to.

The moment the door shuts he lets himself finally break down. The hollow feeling in his chest is back.

There are two more weeks on set and this is going to be absolute hell.

The following days are filled with unanswered text from him. He knew you wouldn’t answer but he wished you would.

hannie: I’m sorry. I love you and miss you.

hannie: I shouldn’t have sent you home.

hannie: I hope you’re sleeping well.

The more time you were gone the harder filming felt for Jeonghan. Long stressful days left him sitting in his hotel room missing you. Any time anyone invited him out, he made excuses. The idea of having fun while you were home heartbroken made him feel sick.

hannie: one week left. I forgot how hard this is.

hannie: I’m sorry.

hannie: I love you.

hannie: I’m sorry. I messed up.

hannie: I’m coming home tomorrow. Can we please talk?

honey: yes.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Filming has wrapped, and the second Jeonghan’s plane landed he took a taxi to your place. Logically, he should have stopped by his apartment to drop off his luggage. All logical thoughts have left his head. The only thing he can possibly think about is getting to you. With his suitcases in tow he took the elevator up to your apartment. These last few weeks have been absolute hell. He never wants to go this long not being able to see you.

Walking up to your, door an anxious feeling is eating at him.

Normally he would put in the key code to enter, but that didn’t feel right. Knocking he patiently waits for you.

Moments later the door cracks open and there you are standing on the other side. A smile tugs on his lips at the sight of you. God he’s missed your beautiful face.

“Hi.” He awkwardly says giving you a little wave.

“Come in.” You step aside.

He wheels in his luggage. Leaving it by the white table by the door where you have always stored your keys and your purse. He kicks off his shoes. He stares at you for a long moment studying how you look. There isn’t the normal sparkle behind your eyes. You look sad, and he knows it’s because of him. Taking a deep breath he follows you over to the couch that sits under a big window that looks out into the city. He remembers the first time he made love to you on this couch after coming home from filming that series that changed everything between you. That was the first time he almost told you he loved you. Maybe if he would have been brave enough to admit it then things could have played out differently.

Sitting on the couch next to you, things feel weird. He hates that he caused this. In the years he has known you, things have never felt awkward.

“I’m sorry.” He finally says.

“Jeonghan, you hurt me.” You look down at your knees.

“I know. I was so scared that people online were going to hurt you with the cruel things they would say, that I carelessly hurt you—“ he paused. “I shouldn’t have sent you home. We could have gotten through this together.”

Reaching over you, you rest your hand on his knee. “We're a team, we can figure out this stuff together. This is all uncharted territory for us. But we can learn together.” You’ve always been the most level headed of the two of you.

“Please forgive me honey.”

“Promise me you’ll never hurt me like that again.”

He rested his hand on top of yours. “I won’t ever hurt you again. I love you so much.” He’s willing to do anything to prove to you that he’ll never hurt you again.

“I’m fine if people know who I am. I don’t care about what the internet thinks about me. I love you, Hannie, I don’t need them to love me. I just need to know that you’re always going to love me.” Your words earn a smile from him. Leaning over he rests his head on your shoulder.

“I’ve loved you since college and I will love you forever.”

“We can figure out how to navigate the world knowing who I am together.”

“I guess this means you can go to a red carpet event with me now. My company hasn’t bothered denying the photos or rumors.”

Pulling away from you, he looks into your warm eyes. Leaning forward pressing your lips to his for a gentle kiss.

“My company just said they don’t comment on my personal life.”

You can’t help but smile and press your lips to his again for another quick kiss. “I guess I can get red carpet ready.”

“We’re back together right?” He needed to know.

“Oh, Hannie, we were never broken up.”

“I’m so glad I fell in love with my best friend.”

“That’s good because I fell in love with my best friend.”

Things aren’t always going to be easy for Jeonghan, and being an actor isn’t exactly what he thought it would be. But he likes his job, and he’s glad he’s always going to have you by his side no matter what.

If you have asked to be tagged I request that you please reblog. If you could leave comments and or tags that would be greatly appreciated.

[once-upon-a-fic]

🎸 tour date | ft. lee jihoon [TEASER]

FEATURING. rockstar!lee jihoon x risingstar!reader GENRE(S). enemies to lovers, fluff, angst, drama LENGTH | WC. <5min (teaser), est. <2hr (full) | 0.8k (teaser), est. 20k (full) TAGS | EXPLICITS. cursing, miscommunication, not really e2l more like they just get off on the wrong foot, lots & lots of tension, mentions of drug use, mentions of alcohol use, reader suffers from anxiety, mistreatment of idols by staff, mentions of needles from piercings (belly button, lobe, eyebrow, nose) | mdni with final fic due to fingering (reader receiving), semi-public making out, hickeys (ljh receiving)

JAY’S MUSINGS. this is a teaser for my submission of yuki's 100 milestone collab! really hoping for the full fic to come out in about a week, we'll see how much i yap aha... (￣▽￣*)ゞ if you'd like to be tagged when the full fic releases, pls leave a comment/rb! hope you enjoy :)

📍MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA

After the incident at the Seattle show, WOOZI has been staring at you more often than you’d like.

Your thumb releases from the grip it has on the water cooler’s knob. As you watch the last few drops drip into your bottle, you simultaneously feel the shift of WOOZI’s gaze fall away from his perch on the couch.

You don’t say anything to him as you walk past, shoulders tense with unspoken words at the tip of your tongue. It’s been a little over two weeks, but nothing has been said between the two of you other than greeting formalities.

You can’t help but think you’ve done something wrong.

The stop in Denver, Colorado, helped shape your hypothesis. Briefly, you remember the familiar nerves spiking in your heart before you were meant to go on. While it had been a smaller venue, meaning fewer people overall, it meant a more intimate stage with equally intimate crowdwork.

Soonyoung, slowly being able to pick up on your mood swings and anxious bouts, had sat with you as you vented about the woes of being an American rockstar. It wasn’t so different from Korea, he explained, pouting and picking at a protein bar.

Diets still existed. Crazy fans everywhere. Shitty staff, too.

“You learn to live with it, especially when the good people finally stick around,” Soonyoung had spoken around a mouthful of granola. “Like Jeonghan. Or, I guess for you, Joshua.”

Humming noncommittally, you twirled a stray strand of hair. Even though Soonyoung meant well, the buzzing under your skin had continued, your teeth beginning to chatter even though it was well above freezing backstage.

“Oh, Jihoon.”

The name of the lead guitarist and singer made you flinch. You had blanched at the sight of him in his all black stage attire, the boxy button-up accentuating his broad shoulders and cargo pants resting dangerously low. Silver rings adorned his fingers, a particularly thick-chained one sitting pretty on his index finger.

Swallowing heavily, you gladly accepted the towel given to you, dabbing your sweat off your forehead and neck. You didn’t even realize it was WOOZI who had handed you the towel, fingers brushing his as you rushed to give it back before you were able to give it another thought—to your horror, your skin still remembers how his fingers felt sliding against your wrist, the metal of his accessories having done nothing to help your pounding heart.

“Good luck,” he then offered.

Now, almost a thousand miles away from Denver, Colorado, you were sipping your water, watching WOOZI bounce his leg up and down from your place leaning against the vanity. Stage call was soon, so there was no reason for him to be back here—yet, here he sits, a mere five feet away from you.

Tonight’s show has him in a sleeveless red tank, a worn-out white star plastered on the front. The chains around his neck glimmer in the dressing room light as he shifts in place, scrolling aimlessly on his phone while he pretends he’s been paying you no mind.

You want to scoff, maybe throw a snide remark at how he has the nerve to stare at you after treating you like trash—but then WOOZI tosses his head back onto the couch with a groan, pectorals heaving, and all coherent thoughts scurry right out the exit of your brain.

Were tank tops supposed to be that revealing? Perhaps it was time to go back to Victorian ways, after all.

A rap on the door startles you, but not the singer. He merely lets out a loud huff, making a show out of getting up and beginning to stretch his arms out in an attempt to get blood flowing.

“On in five,” comes the muffled call of a stage crew member outside the door.

You catch the face he makes: his nose scrunches up a little, and he lets out a little shake of his head in dissent. “Yeah, yeah. Be there in a minute.”

Capping your bottle, you move to sit on the vanity, eyes following WOOZI’s pre-show routine. He’s shaking his hair to get his bangs to hang a little more in his face, and that damned part of you that you try to keep hidden away aches to push his fingers away and fix his hair yourself.

You don’t, of course.

WOOZI’s making his way to the door now. Something gets stuck in your throat—a good luck, maybe, or a have fun—but you gulp it down when his fingers meet the knob and twist.

Ah. Your gaze is cast to the floor, forlorn. Next show for sure.

To your surprise, your head darts up at the sound of his voice, melodic and soft and everything you’ve never been on the receiving end of.

“See you after?”

It’s posed as a question, thrown over his shoulder, with his warm brown eyes meeting yours. The silence is so loud you curl your hands so as not to end up covering your ears.

You finally exhale, breath billowing out.

“Yeah. Take care.”

[once-upon-a-fic]

Two months after your breakup, you’re tucking away the last traces of Jihoon, the boy you loved for the sweetest two years of your life.

⇢ pairing. lee jihoon x reader ⇢ genre. angst, fluff. exes!au, but also: strangers2lovers, college!au, (eventual) producer!jihoon, literature student reader ⇢ word count. approx. 6k ⇢ warnings. alcohol consumption, lots of flashbacks. each section has a link to a poem or song — you don't need to read or listen to understand (but i do especially recommend the poems). the lines i've quoted are the most relevant anyway. author's note at the end!

NOW | The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

You find his book buried in a box at the back of your closet.

It’s dog-eared and dusty, the cover curling at the edges. Mary Oliver’s Dream Work — the same copy Jihoon lent you during your second semester of senior year, back when literature classes were your whole world and Jihoon was nothing more than the boy who always sat one chair too far away.

You almost miss it. You’re sorting through your wardrobe, half-listening to the hum of the fan in your near-empty apartment, folding sweaters you don’t wear anymore, in between half-hearted glances at the clock. You’ve been doing everything slowly lately. Like if you move too quickly, the rest of it — all the unfinished things — will come tumbling down.

When your hand brushes the worn spine, your breath catches. It feels like finding a matchbook in a drawer you thought you emptied: useless, but still faintly dangerous.

You pull it free and brush your thumb across the cover. A sticky note clings to the inside, the ink slightly smudged but still legible: You already know Wild Geese, obviously. Try Dogfish and The Journey too. — Jihoon. 

You read it twice before closing the book again, brush your finger over the ink one more time. The loop of his “y” and the vowels he squashes together. Let it rest against your thigh as the fan ticks through another slow rotation overhead.

And just like that, you’re back in that classroom.

THEN | I wanted the past to go away, I wanted / to leave it, like another country;

Poetry and its forms, Professor Kang. 

Jihoon sits one seat over and a row down — always just far enough that you can’t speak without leaning forward, but close enough that you can catch the way he twirls his pen between his fingers, or chews the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking. Chin tucked into the collar of his hoodie. Shoulders hunched. Eyes always on the page.

He never raises his hand. Never speaks during discussion. But his notebooks are a battlefield — furious graphite slashing through the notes he disagrees with, cramped side-notes curling down the page like smoke. He annotates like he’s keeping score. Like he’s waiting for someone to say the wrong thing, just so he can write the right one in the margin.

The day you hear him speak for the first time, the class has just limped its way through a lukewarm discussion on Sappho. The professor skips half the fragments and bungles his way through the rest. Jihoon looks up once, right at the end — briefly, almost like it’s a mistake — and mutters, under his breath, “That was garbage.”

You laugh. Loudly — too loudly.

Jihoon’s head whips around. He blinks at you, startled. You blink back.

Then, slowly, unexpectedly, he smiles. Small, like a secret.

You wait until after class to catch up with him. “You didn’t like the lecture?”

He doesn’t stop walking, just casts you a look that’s more amused than annoyed. “Not Sappho’s fault. The professor skipped the best fragment.”

You tilt your head. “Oh? Which one’s that?”

He pauses. “The one about the moon and the stars. Fragment 34.”

You smile. “I know that one.”

He smiles back. “I figured you would.”

That’s the first conversation. You think about it for a week. Rerun it in your head. Rehearse what you might say next time, in case there is a next time.

There is.

The second time happens in the library. You find him — or rather, he finds you, entirely by accident. You’re hidden between the poetry shelves, seated cross-legged on the floor with a small stack of books beside you. Jihoon rounds the corner, underlining something in a clean paperback you don’t recognize.

He almost bumps straight into you — too absorbed in his book to notice you at first. He stops short, blinking down in surprise, and then his eyes widen just slightly when he realizes who it is. A beat passes. Then he smiles, slow, genuine, a little crooked at the edges like it catches him off guard. 

Like he hadn’t expected to see you here, but now that he has, he’s glad.

There’s a flicker of something else in his expression, too — something quietly pleased, like the world’s done him a small favor. He doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts the paperback under one arm and slides down beside you without asking, like this had been planned. Like the two of you were always meant to end up here, shoulder to shoulder, tucked between Shakespeare’s sonnets and Shelley’s anthologies.

Your lips lift before you can stop them.

“You’re the only person I know who annotates library books like they belong to him,” you say, after a few moments.

He doesn’t look up. “This one’s mine.”

You glance over. The title catches your eye. Dream Work. “Mary Oliver?”

Jihoon hums in affirmation, still underlining, his pen moving carefully between the lines. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I wasn’t,” you say, and it’s mostly true. “I just didn’t have you pegged as someone who read nature poetry in his spare time.”

He snorts softly. “Everyone reads Wild Geese at some point. It’s basically a rite of passage.”

You smile, tilting your head as you watch the curve of his handwriting. “And the rest of her work?”

“She wrote like she meant it,” he says, in that steady, warm voice. “Like she was asking you to follow her into the woods and come back changed.”

Something quiet blooms in your chest at that. You don’t say anything, but Jihoon glances over and seems to catch it anyway, offering you the faintest of smiles. He taps his pen lightly against the open page.

“This one’s for you, then.”

You blink. “What?”

He rips a sticky note off your stack, scribbles something hasty, and presses it to the inside of the cover. Then he slides the book over to you, letting it rest over your textbook. 

You look at him instead of the book. “You carry around annotated poetry collections just in case you run into someone in a library who might need them?”

He shrugs. “It’s barely annotated right now. Just a couple of them.” He flashes you an unexpected smile — “There’s nothing deep. I can’t give you a piece of my soul just yet.”

You trace the edge of the sticky note with your thumb. “You didn’t even know what I liked.”

“I had guesses,” Jihoon says, and for the first time, he meets your eyes head on — sharp, curious, a little too knowing. “You don’t read just for school.” He nods to the pile of books around you, and then reaches out to brush his hand over your battered copy of The Waves.  

Instinctively, you reach for it, and then laugh at yourself. “That definitely has a piece of my soul in it,” you say, fingering the dog-eared pages. “Maybe even two pieces.”

Jihoon smiles — it’s the quietest thing — and returns to his underlining.

Later, you read The Journey tucked into a booth at the back of your favorite café. You read Dogfish twice, once before class and once just after, alone on the grass behind the library with the wind tugging at your sleeves. When you close the book, you keep your hand pressed to the cover like it might still be warm.

“Mostly, I want to be kind.”

In the margin, written in his slanted hand, a note to himself: Harder than it looks, isn’t it?

NOW | Time does not bring relief; you all have lied

You blink, and the memory dissolves like mist.

Dust swirls in the sunlight spilling through the window. You’re still cross-legged on the floor, knees stiff, a cardigan half-folded in your lap, Jihoon’s book resting heavy in your hands like it knows what it’s doing to you. Weighed down with more than just paper.

Again, you run your thumb along the spine.

You shouldn’t have forgotten about this. Should’ve noticed it sooner, should’ve rescued it from the back of your closet with its curled edges, its yellowed pages, and the sticky note still clinging quietly to the back cover. Should’ve placed it back into his hands, alongside all the other traces that remain in your space.

It’s been two months since you and Jihoon fell quietly, reluctantly, out of each other’s lives. In the corner of your guest bedroom, a cardboard box — its seams straining, its flaps not quite closed — holds the last of his things. Only it was Yuna who had filled it for you, a week after the break-up, carefully collecting whatever was undoubtedly his, tucking it away so all you needed to do was hand over an impersonal brown box.

Of course, there was no real way for her to know that this was his, not yours. 

It’s been two months without a word. And yet, this book feels like a piece of him. A snapshot of what you were, once — younger. Less cautious. poised on the cusp of a love that lasted two years — a love that you thought would last much, much longer.

You set the book aside carefully, your hands glancing over his handwriting, just one more time — it’s unmistakable. Thick. Scrawled. Careless in a way he never was when he spoke: the only messy thing about him. 

THEN | you are twisting toward me, / and the years that make up the majority of my life

“Your writing’s messier than I expected,” you say. You’re sitting across from Jihoon at the cramped study table, textbooks and notebooks sprawled between you, mountains of paper.

Jihoon glances up, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You can read it, right?”

Your joint paper is due in two weeks, something on the similarities and differences of form among the Romantic poets. You both want the grade, but neither of you expected it to feel like this: heads bent over the same page, notes merging into the other’s.

The first study session is tentative, a dance of questions and answers. Jihoon is quiet, but precise, speaks with conviction; you’re more hesitant, but bold enough to challenge him. Between discussions of meter and metaphor, you share coffee, your elbows brushing, neither of you pulling away.

Over the following days, the library becomes your refuge. You argue over Blake’s prophetic style and Wordsworth’s pastoral ideals. You read aloud to each other, voices low and hesitant but growing more confident. The paper becomes less about the grade and more about the quiet moments in between — the study dates that stretch into dinners, the conversations that drift past poetry and into life.

Slowly, you realize the distance between you is shrinking, thread by thread, word by word.

You learn that Jihoon is a music production major, but minors in literature. That he has a soft spot for poetry, but he thinks it’s very different to lyrics. That he has a younger sister, parents who work long hours, but try their best. That he has an unlikely group of friends, chaos personified, he calls them, but it’s with the fondest smile you’ve ever seen him wear.

You learn, too, that actually, he’s a little bit famous — he’s been selling music to people for a while. That he hasn’t really made any big household names (yet, you tell him), but he’s produced for names you recognise, all the same.

Jihoon learns that you’re a double major, literature and history. He smiles when you tell him that, says it suits you. He hears about your sister who lives abroad, your quiet weekend routines, and tells you that you have a habit of fiddling with your rings when you’re deep in thought.

Your last study session falls on a slow Friday evening in the library, sun dipping behind the windows, casting long golden shadows across the table. You’re tucked into your usual corner, cross-legged, a half-empty iced coffee sweating onto a pile of notes. Jihoon sits across from you, scribbling something in the margins of his printout.

You’ve already gone over the draft twice. There’s not much left to fix.

“So,” you say, stretching your arms over your head with a quiet sigh. “What happens when we actually submit this thing? Do we have to pretend we don’t know each other again?”

Jihoon glances up, amused. “You planning on ignoring me in lectures?”

“I was thinking of politely avoiding eye contact.”

He chuckles under his breath, taps his pen against the table. “Awkward nods across the room. Pretending we didn’t spend two weeks dissecting Keats together.”

You smile too, suddenly a little too aware of the quiet between you. “It’s been nice,” you say, a little more softly. “Getting to know you outside of class.”

Jihoon toys with the edge of his notebook, fingers lingering on the spiral binding. “Me neither. I thought we’d get it done, maybe exchange a few emails, call it a day, but this was… better. Even if you do think Blake is better than Wordsworth.”

“Not this again,” you groan, fixing him with a reproachful look. “We agreed to not bring up the Williams anymore, Jihoon. It’s too much for us.”

A smile pulls at his mouth. “You’re right. I don’t think I can go back to ignoring you after all that.”

Jihoon’s gaze flicks away, like he’s steadying himself. He fidgets with the corner of his notebook — something you’ve started to recognize as a tell. His voice is even, but the edges are uncertain.

“I was, uh — thinking,” he says, eyes fixed on the spiral binding. “Since we’re not meeting to study anymore... maybe we could still hang out. But like — not for school.”

You tilt your head. “Like friends?”

He huffs out a breath, and finally looks at you again. His ears are pink, you notice, his cheekbones dusted the same shade. “No. Yes. I mean — like a date. But I don’t m— ”

“Yes,” you say, too quickly.

Jihoon blinks.

You laugh, sheepish, a little warm in the face. “Sorry. You didn’t finish. But yes. I’d like that — dinner, I mean. As not friends.”

Jihoon grins, shy and crooked, and the look on his face is worth everything.

NOW | Like a wave that crashed and melted on the shore

The laundry hums steadily in the background — a warm, domestic sound that fills the apartment with a kind of low, living silence. You’d shovelled the rest of your clothes that lingered in your closet into the washing machine, and as you wait, you cradle your phone between your shoulder and cheek, folding socks into mismatched pairs on the bed.

“I just don’t think I’m cut out for another round of personal statements,” you say, chucking a T-shirt into the growing stack. “How am I supposed to sound smart, humble, and hard-working all at once?”

On the other end of the line, Yuna snorts, tossing her hair. “Just lie like the rest of us.”

“I’m serious. I rewrote one sentence five times today and then stared at a wall for half an hour.”

“That’s the spirit,” she says dryly. “You’re already living the PhD lifestyle.”

You smile faintly, brushing your knuckles against your temple. “Do you think it’s stupid to even apply? I don’t know if I have the energy to be broke and stressed for five more years. I haven't even finished my Master's.”

“I think you’re one of the smartest people I know.” She pauses. “Also one of the most dramatic.”

You laugh under your breath, swinging open the washing machine. “Okay, fair.”

There’s a rustle as you reach into the laundry basket again. Your fingers brush something thicker: knit, soft, too large. Everything in the machine has been buried in your closet for a while, but it still doesn’t feel like yours. You pause, tug it free.

You hold it up. Not yours.

It's a sweater. Charcoal gray, sleeves slightly stretched, collar frayed at one edge.

Your stomach dips. Definitely not yours.

“Hey,” Yuna says, leaning back into frame with narrowed eyes, holding her own laundered socks with one hand. “You still with me?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, folding the sweater slowly, more carefully than necessary. “I just found something I didn’t know I still had.” You keep it out of frame, but it’s pretty obvious that you’ve found something of Jihoon’s, even if she doesn’t know what specifically.

There’s a beat of quiet. Then, gently: “You okay?”

You swallow, press your palm against the wool, and muster up a smile. “Yeah. I will be.”

“Okay.” Yuna doesn’t push. “I’m here, though. Whenever.”

“I know, I know. Thank you.”

Once she’s hung up, you can’t help it — you catch a whiff of fresh pine from the folded fabric, and tears prick at your eyes.

THEN | I look / at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world

The night air is cool against your flushed cheeks as you and Jihoon step out of Soonyoung’s house, the laughter and music still buzzing faintly behind you. The little get-together had been warm and loud, but now it’s just the two of you, waiting for the last bus home under the dim yellow streetlights.

You’re a little tipsy, words slurring in the best way — loose and light — while Jihoon stays perfectly steady, sober as always. He watches you with a soft smile, says something quiet about the way your eyes catch the streetlight, and steadies you when you wobble slightly after turning on your heel to beam at him.

“I’m cold,” you mumble, hugging your arms around yourself.

Without a word, Jihoon slips off his charcoal gray sweater and drapes it over your shoulders. It’s warm, familiar; smells just like him, soft and fresh. You look at him, eyes wide, and he just shrugs. “You’re the one who forgot to bring a jacket.”

He’s feigning aloofness — it doesn’t work as well when he’s already slipping his hand into yours.

You laugh softly and lean your head toward him, catching your breath in the quiet lull before the bus rumbles up. On the ride home, you curl into his side, the steady rhythm of the wheels lulling you closer to sleep. Your head finds his shoulder easily, and Jihoon just caresses your hand in soothing circles with his thumb. Keeps his gaze on the window, careful not to disturb you.

When the bus stops near your building, he gently nudges you awake. You blink, dazed, and he offers his arm, guiding you through down the street, into the elevator — nodding as you talk incessantly, adding in a dry comment every now and then. At your door, you fumble with your keys, too busy gesticulating with one hand as you speak; Jihoon gently takes them from you, nodding to show he’s still listening as he unlocks the door for you.

You step into your apartment, turn around to see him linger in your hallway. “You’ve never been inside before,” you remember.

“No,” he agrees, quietly. He tilts his head to the side, smiling when you look at him with a question in your eyes. “Not tonight, baby,” he answers, even softer. “You’re still a little drunk.”

You lean against the doorframe, half-pouting — he darts forward as though to steady you, but realises a beat later that you’re not falling anywhere. 

“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” you say mournfully, but your lips twitch ever so slightly. (He called you baby. He’s done it a few times now, but it still makes your stomach swoop.)

You’ve been on five dates with Jihoon. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but you’ve never been so sure of something — of someone — in your life.

Jihoon chuckles, eyes shining. “Most basic Shakespeare quote.”

You smile, but don’t deny it, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his shoulder. His hand comes up to cup the back of your head, the other slipping around your waist to allow you to fall into a hug.

Then, almost too quietly, muffled by his T-shirt, boldened by the remnants of the alcohol, you speak. “Jihoon?”

“Hm?”

“Are you my boyfriend now?”

You hear his heartbeat quicken the slightest bit. Feel his chest rise with a quiet huff of a laugh. “If you’ll have me,” he says finally, lips brushing your temple. “It’s rotten work.”

You return the quote automatically. “Not to me. Not if it’s you.” 

NOW | But you miss something that you can’t place and you can’t deny it

The kettle hums softly, not yet boiling, and the apartment is quiet in that particular way only your own home gets — soft, lived-in silence.

You move through the motions automatically. Mug, tea bag, half a spoon of sugar. The familiar rhythm steadies you. It’s been a long day — too much reading, too many tabs open on your laptop. Too many figurative skeletons in your literal closet. 

You reach up to the cabinet. Most of your mugs are piled in the dishwasher, so you tiptoe to reach the ones at the back, hand already outstretched toward your usual last-resort mug, but then your fingers brush against something else. Something heavier.

You pause.

It’s the green mug. Deep forest green with a chipped handle and a slightly uneven rim. You’d found it years ago in a secondhand shop, part of a mismatched set you never really paid  much attention to — but Jihoon had chosen it the first time he came over. And after that, without fail, it was always the one he reached for. It wasn’t his, technically, but it was the one you always steeped tea in when he messaged you he was coming over.

It wasn’t his, but it became his. 

You take it down slowly, cradling it in both hands. Today feels like a joke, almost. Three things, back-to-back: three harsh reminders that while his name was never on the lease, Jihoon had made a home in your home — in your life. 

You should give it to him. With all the other things you haven’t returned yet. 

There’s still a faint tea ring at the bottom, like it had been rinsed in a hurry last time. You must not have noticed, two months ago, when everything ended and you shoved it at the back of the cupboard. Or maybe you did, and didn’t care.

You set it beside yours on the counter, side by side like they always used to be. And then you just stand there, waiting for the water to boil, trying not to cry at the sight of an empty green mug.

THEN | Almost children, we lay asleep in love, listening to the rain.

The rain traces shaky lines down the windows, turning city lights into shimmering trails. Inside, your apartment glows warmly against the blue-black of the late night, a small world of your own.

Jihoon is hunched over his laptop at your kitchen table, wearing a baggy black hoodie, the one he’s tugged at all evening as he tweaks a song that’s been tying him up in creative knots. You’d been working across from him in silence, overwhelmed with readings for your first year of your MA, until you’d decided that you’d had enough, getting up to making some tea.

It’s been a year since you and Jihoon got together. You’re well into the first year of your master’s, and Jihoon — well, Jihoon is thriving. His music has blown up, particularly after producing a hit song for an idol group, and his calendar’s filled up faster than either of you expected. Sessions with artists, meetings with A&R reps, collaborations that kept him bouncing between studios — it’s a rush, a mess, it’s his dream come true.

When you step into his sight again, mug in hand, his headphones drop temporarily around his neck. The steam spirals up in a thin wisp, and you watch it for a moment, wondering if you’re disturbing him, interrupting some kind of delicate artist process. But when he glances up and meets your gaze, something in his expression eases, a softness creeping in.

“Thought you could use something warm,” you say quietly, setting the mug down near his notebook.

He lets his fingertips linger against the mug’s side, the warmth slowly seeping into his skin. “Thank you.” His voice is gravelly from hours of wrestling with something just out of reach in his imagination.

He drops his headphones back over his ears, then tilts them down to hang around his neck. “Actually, I — I wanted you to hear something I’ve been working on.” His tone falters just a little, cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink.

You nod, trying to quell your eagerness. It’s rare that your boyfriend shows you things when they’re raw and unpolished like this. Jihoon is too much of a perfectionist to bare anything less than incredible to the world. Your favourite days are when you’re the exception.

He clicks a few keys and something soft and gentle spills from his laptop’s speakers — the notes grow, fold into each other, fade away. You hear his voice after a few moments, too, sweet and smooth, close to the mic.

When it ends, you straighten up, meet his eyes with a surprised, almost breathless smile. “You wrote lyrics.”

He flushes deeper. “I’ve been trying it out these days. Like you suggested.” He looks away, then back at you. “You make the words easier.”

Jihoon drops his gaze to his laptop, then tilts the track’s tab just a bit, letting you see its title in the corner of the media player — and again, your breath catches.

It’s your name.

NOW | A pity. We were such a good / And loving invention.

The mug of cooled tea sits forgotten on the counter as you make your way down the hallway. The floors creak beneath your feet, almost like a gentle protest — a small affirmation that you’re really not supposed to be doing this.

But you do it anyway.

You kneel at the side of your mattress, reach underneath, and tug forward a small wooden box you haven’t opened in months. Your stomach drops, a nervous swoop, a rush of dread so icy that it feels a little like vertigo. You know this is a bad idea. That whatever’s inside will dredge up so much.

Still, with careful fingers and an uneasy sigh, you ease the box’s lid up. Inside, a stack of letters, their envelopes worn, the ink slightly faded. 

All from Jihoon. All addressed to you.

For a moment, you simply stare at his handwriting, at the carefully creased folds and then, reluctantly, you reach in and lift the first envelope, turning it over in your hands.

The seal is already broken. The past is there, waiting for you to let it back in.

Morbid curiosity, maybe some kind of emotional sadism, or something less dramatic — lingering, aching care — drives you to reach in. Your fingertips linger over the texture, the fold lines, the faint ink blots. Without thinking, you let your eyes dart across a few of the letters, drinking in Jihoon's words like you've been starved for them.

“...Did you eat? Did you remember to drink something warm? I’m worried you’re wearing yourself down.”

“Happy birthday, baby. I know you said no gifts, but I also know you know I was going to get you things anyway, right?”

“It’s our 500 day anniversary already. It’s kind of ironic, though… I was thinking about something Rumi said: ‘Love is not a matter of counting the days, but making the days count.’ So maybe we shouldn’t be counting at all — and yet here I am, marking this anniversary in big, bold numbers. I guess that’s just human, isn’t it?  I think what I want more than anything is to make whatever time we do have matter. To fill it with something we’ll remember, even when the calendar runs forward without us noticing. Happy 500th day, baby. Let’s keep going for a long time.

THEN | Know it's for the better

The restaurant is nearly empty by the time you realise he’s not going to show up. 

The plate of food in front of you cooled a long time ago; the rich sauce congealing, the steam gone. The wine in your glass is nearly finished, sip by sip, a nervous habit you fell into while glancing at your phone, then at the clock. He said he’d be there by 7:30. 

It’s 8:45 when you pay the bill, reluctantly adding a small tip for the server who kept your water glass filled and tried not to make you feel ridiculous sitting there all by yourself. Your phone feels heavy in your pocket — heavy with messages you shouldn’t need to send: Where are you? Are you okay? Did something come up? 

When he finds you a few hours later, you’re already home, a stack of articles for your thesis growing alongside you — a mess of notes, highlighters, and printed-out journals that you can’t bring yourself to focus on. The moment you hear his key in the lock, something tightens in your stomach: you weren’t expecting him to come to yours after forgetting about you all day. 

Jihoon stands in the doorway, dripping rainwater from his hair and his jacket, the thunder a distant growl outside. His grip falters briefly on the doorknob before he lets it ease closed, turning the lock quietly.

He finds you there, cross-legged on the floor, your pen resting limply in your hand. He sets his wet shoes side by side against the wall and crosses the room, pausing a few feet away, unsure whether closing the distance is a kindness or a violation. 

The silence between you is thick — not hostile, but heavy — a pressure you feel in your ribs, a rawness you can’t mask.

He clears his throat softly, then lets a shaky breath seep out. “Baby,” he begins, stops, starts again. “I’m sorry. I was writing lyrics in the studio, and a deadline got pushed back so I got carried away, and I just — it's not an excuse. I'm sorry.”

The words hang there, faltering, not enough — not nearly enough — to make up for the loneliness you felt in that restaurant. Or a month ago, when he was in Japan and fell asleep on your first call in weeks. Or all the nights you fell asleep with your phone pressed to your pillow, wondering if a text might come, if he might remember to say he’s thinking of you.

You think the worst part is that you can’t even blame him. That you can’t even point fingers when you tell him this isn’t working anymore, that you can’t keep going like this.

“I’m not angry at you,” you say, and there are tears slipping down your cheeks, and Jihoon looks so pained that he can’t brush them away. “I’m fucking proud of you. I don’t want to hold you back by always making you wonder if you’re failing me in some way.”

He draws in a shaky breath, and for the first time since you’ve known him, you see tears glimmer in Jihoon’s eyes. “That’s not — I don’t want you to feel that I’m choosing something else over us. Because I’m not. I wouldn’t—”

“I know you wouldn’t.” You hesitate. “That’s why I’m doing it.”

“That’s not fair.” His voice breaks, barely above a whisper. “Baby.”

You swallow thickly, around the acidic taste in your mouth, the swollen painful lump in your throat. “Yes,” you agree softly. “I know.” 

NOW | I know what my heart is like / Since your love died

A lot of things can change in two months.

You’re two months closer to deadlines for PhD applications. Two months closer to finishing your MA, to turning in your thesis and figuring out whatever comes after. 

Two months further from Jihoon.

The days have a way of adding up — a page turning quietly while you’re not looking. The routines you fell into alongside him over two years: texting first thing in the morning, calling just before falling asleep, sending each other photos of whatever small thing made you think, “He’d like this” — have slowly been overtaken by silence, by space.

Some nights, you lie in your mattress, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what he’s thinking, where he is, whether he’s staying up wrestling a new song into submission, or if he’s gone to bed hours before with a heart as heavy as your own. The corner of your phone glows in the dark — a text thread you’re afraid to delete but that you’re not brave enough to restart. The messages you exchanged in happier days remain there, a digital reminder of something you’re not sure you’ll ever feel again.

You miss arguing over books, letting the margins fill up with your notes and his, listening to him hum quietly as he cooked in your kitchen — a noise you hadn’t noticed until it was gone. You miss the way his face glowed just a little when you walked into a room, like he’d been holding his breath until you arrived. You miss his head in your lap, reading Rilke to you. You miss the midnight conversations that stretched until your eyelids grew heavy. 

You miss him. 

Two months isn’t enough to change that. 

THEN | Just know any love I gave you's forever yours to keep

The clock glows 12:32 on the nightstand — a small pool of gold against the deep-blue shadows that wrap around you both. The sheets are a mess, a riot of cotton and warmth. Jihoon lies on his side, propped up by a stack of pillows, a paperback resting precariously against his thigh. His glasses are slipping down his nose; his lashes droops a little more with each blink.

His fingers trace the worn spine of The Waves, your heavily annotated copy, edges softened by time and countless readings. The same one you held the day you spoke in the library. His eyes flick from the pages to your face, searching for some unspoken meaning behind the notes in the margins — words underlined with care, questions scribbled in the corners.

“It’s a beautiful book,” he says, softly. “I don’t think I get it, though. Not completely.”

That makes you laugh a little, a sleepy, amused huff. “Neither do I, really.” You feel your smile soften, a little more tender around the edges. “There’s one part, though, that reminds me of you.”

“Yeah?” He lifts his head from the book, looks at you expectantly.

Your voice is nothing more than a whisper: “'And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.��”

NOW | I still think of you with roses / Spilling all over your abdomen /Your poetry and my abandon

You put the book and the sweater in the box of Jihoon’s stuff, letting them join all the other clothes and books he left behind. You dither for a moment, and then you put the mug in the box too. It’s not like you’ll use it, anyhow.

The letters are still in a haphazard pile on your bed — when you return to gather them, you pause for a moment. Every single one ends the same: 

With all my love, Jihoon.

You tie the letters with a ribbon, and put them back under your bed. 

And then you dig your phone up from the sheets, glance at the peeling cardboard box that holds every other tangible reminder you have left of him. With one hand, you scroll through your phone to a contact name you still haven’t changed — Jihoon 🤍— and hover over the call button, the weight of everything caught between you and the screen.

But my words become stained with your love / You occupy everything, you occupy everything

⇢ author's note. yes i wrote another exes au with lots of flashbacks and an open ending i am FULLY aware. trust me. i can't help it.

ANYWAY. this took way longer than expected bc it was not meant to be more than 2k words. however. here we are. i think there's so MUCH i have to say about this fic, just because of all the poetry i linked in here, and i don't think anybody wants to hear all that. but trust me guys there's a reason for Everything in here.

also, in case anybody is confused by the ending — we end with reader debating whether or not to call jihoon. it is entirely up to you where they go from there — does she return his stuff and never see him again? does he have her blocked?? do they (gasp) kiss and make up??? do they undergo a twisted series of events and end up robbing a bank??? the world will never know. (this is me trying to say there is 99.9% chance there won't be a part 2. sorry.) but as always i would love to hear what u guys think!

perm taglist: @n4mj00nvq @eoieopda @som1ig @wondering-out-loud

@tokitosun @hannyoontify @sahazzy @dokyeomin

@icyminghao @nicholasluvbot @lvlystars

@immabecreepin @kokoiinuts @astrozuya

@yepimthatonequirkyteenager @qaramu @weird-bookworm @phenomenalgirl9

@lightnjng @strnsvt @onlyyjeonghan @athanasiasakura

@iamawkwardandshy @twilghtkoo @yuuyeonie @lllucere

@pearlesscentt

@sourkimchi @porridgesblog

@rivercattail

[once-upon-a-fic]

Search My Body

Synopsis: What's better than 1 hot DILF? 2 hot DILFs.

Pairing: dilf!officer!Seungcheol (SVT) x afab!reader x dilf!officer!Jeonghan (SVT)

Genre: smut, established relationship, non-idol! au

Rating: mature

Word count: 3.7k

Warnings: age gap, threesome, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (don't do this!), daddy kink, manhandling, creampie, overstimulation, orgasm denial, dom!Seungcheol, dom!Jeonghan, sub!brat!reader, lemme know if I missed anything!

Note: We're so back.

Thank you papa @chugging-antiseptic-dye for helping me with the title! Thank you twin @tomodachiii for helping me with the banner! Thank you @bella-feed and @supi-wupi for betaing! @sanaxo-o I promised you dilf!Jeonghan, so here you go, I hope it doesn't disappoint.

Click here to join my taglist!

Read part 1 here!

Read on ao3

Reblogs are appreciated ♡

.ᐟMinors/blank/no age indicator blogs will be blocked.ᐟ

Sunlight peeks through the blinds, illuminating the room in a soft glow. A soft groan comes from behind you, and the arm resting on you pulls you closer. You turn around and snuggle your face into the firm chest that you've come to love so much.

"Good morning, sweetheart," Seungcheol mumbles, voice still heavy with sleep.

"G'morning, daddy," you murmur, voice muffled against his chest.

Seungcheol groans, nipping at the shell of your ear in warning—you giggle, fully aware of what that nickname does to him.

"Such a brat," he rasps out before placing a sweet kiss on your lips.

"Can't help it when it comes to you," you tease.

"I really need to put you in your place," he huffs playfully.

"Who says that's not exactly what I want?" you grin.

"How did I get so lucky with you?" he chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head.

"Well, I did blatantly flirt with you and basically begged you to fuck me," you reply matter-of-factly.

Seungcheol laughs, shaking his head at the fond memory of your unhinged antics. It's been several months since then, and while neither of you has put a label on it, the relationship between you two is unmistakably real, filled with care, affection, and something that feels a lot like love.

Seungcheol spoils you endlessly, even encouraging you to quit your stressful job, assuring you he'd take care of everything. And at this point, you've practically moved into his penthouse.

"I'm going to be late," Seungcheol mumbles as he shifts to get out of bed.

"No~" you whine, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him close.

"Sweetheart, I have to go to work," he chuckles, gently rubbing your back.

You look up at him with puppy eyes and a pout, silently pleading for him to stay a little longer—and, as always, he gives in, wrapping his arms around you and cuddling you for just a bit more. You let out a contented sigh, snuggling closer, soaking in his warmth for as long as you can.

"There's a surprise coming later," he murmurs.

"A surprise?"

"Mhm. Just something I think you'll look gorgeous in," he says with a soft smile.

"Cheol, another gift? You're seriously spoiling me," you whine.

"Can't help it when it comes to you," he grins, throwing your own words back at you.

"You're seriously acting like a sugar daddy," you tease with a chuckle.

"As long as I get to be your daddy," he shoots back, earning a playful slap from you.

The two of you laugh before settling into a comfortable silence, simply enjoying each other's presence in the quiet morning.

Your ears perk up at the sound of the front door opening. You furrow your brows in confusion—Seungcheol usually isn't off work until way later. Thinking he probably got out of work early to surprise you, you quickly head to the living room, excited giggles escaping your lips.

You stop dead in your tracks when you see that the man who entered was, in fact, not Seungcheol. A tall, slender man stood in the middle of the living room. His chocolate eyes raked over you, a subtle smirk on his lips.

Eyes widening in alarm, you quickly look around to see if there's anything nearby to protect yourself from the intruder.

"Ah, you must be the girl that Cheol has been fawning over," he muses, his honey-laced voice breaking the silence.

Your eyes dart back to him, confusion and alarm etched onto your face.

"Calm down, Dollface," he chuckles, "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm a friend of Cheol's."

"A friend?" you ask, guard still up.

"His best friend, actually," he states. "I'm hurt he hasn't told you about me."

"Oh," you mumble, still not trusting the stranger.

He steps closer to you, his long legs easily reducing the distance between you two. Your mouth slightly goes agape when your brain registers just how tall he is—he easily towers over you, making you feel small next to him.

"I'm Jeonghan," he smirks, stretching forward his hand to shake.

Hesitantly, you place your hand in his—his fingers are long and slender, but rough with calluses, much like Seungcheol's.

"Y/N," you mumble.

"Pretty name for a pretty face," he murmured with a subtle smirk. "Pleasure meeting you, Y/N." He then leans down and places a kiss on the back of your hand, lips lingering a moment too long.

Heat rushes to your face at his actions—you quickly withdraw your hand away, mumbling a stuttered response, earning a chuckle from Jeonghan.

"Shame Cheol isn't here, I would've loved to spend more time with you," he said, voice low and laced with something unreadable. You shift in place, feeling a weird warmth spread throughout your body.

"I shall take my leave then, see you soon, Dollface." He smirks before turning around and leaving. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding as he steps away from you.

He pauses just before leaving, turns back around, and says, "Cheol's a lucky man to enjoy this view every day." With a wink, he steps out.

Your eyes widen, and a wave of heat rushes through you as you realise you'd been standing there the entire time wearing nothing but Seungcheol's shirt—one that barely covered anything.

Grabbing a pillow from the nearby couch, you scream into it, mortified and praying for the ground to swallow you whole. God, you really didn't want to ever see Jeonghan again.

Opening the car door, Jeonghan slips into the passenger seat right before Seungcheol takes off.

"What the—get out!" Seungcheol screeches when he spots him.

"Nope. I'm carpooling with you," Jeonghan says with a cheeky grin.

"No, you're not. Now get out!" Seungcheol hisses.

"Wow, that hurts, Cheollie," Jeonghan says, clutching his chest dramatically.

"Don't call me that," Seungcheol grumbles."Now, get out, I'm gonna be late."

"For what? A date with Y/N?" Jeonghan teases, and Seungcheol freezes.

"How did you—"

"I have my ways," Jeonghan smirks. "So, when are you introducing her to me?"

"Never," Seungcheol mutters.

"Ah, my heart. It aches," Jeonghan gasps, earning an eye roll from Seungcheol.

"I want to meet her," Jeonghan says plainly.

"No."

"I'm going to annoy you until you let me," Jeonghan grins.

Seungcheol lets out a long sigh, already knowing Jeonghan won't stop once he sets his mind to something. It actually reminds him a bit of you.

"Fine," he grumbles.

"Great!" Jeonghan beams. "Dinner this Sunday at my favourite restaurant."

Seungcheol rolls his eyes but mumbles an agreement. Satisfied, Jeonghan fastens his seatbelt and settles in, while Seungcheol shoots him a look of pure disbelief.

"Uh, get out?"

"Nope. Still carpooling," Jeonghan replies, unbothered.

Muttering curses under his breath, Seungcheol starts the car anyway, knowing full well that arguing with Jeonghan is a battle he's never going to win.

"Cheol, stop we're in public," you giggle, trying to remove his hand that's groping your ass.

"But your ass looks so good in that dress, sweetheart," Seungcheol purrs, hand still kneading your ass. "I knew you'd look gorgeous in this."

You squeal and giggle, trying to swat Seungcheol's hands away. He's brought you out for dinner, saying he wants to introduce you to a friend of his. You're doing your best to stay composed and make a good first impression, but it's hard to focus when Seungcheol seems very fixated on your behind.

You finally manage to pry his hands off as the two of you step into the private room he reserved. But the second you walk in, you freeze, eyes widening at the person already seated.

"J-Jeonghan?" you gasp, jaw dropping.

Jeonghan, who had been scrolling through his phone, glances up and smirks. "Y/N," he says smoothly, "I did say I'd see you soon."

Seungcheol looks between the two of you, clearly confused. "Wait…you guys know each other?"

"Told you I have my ways," Jeonghan winks, then gestures for you both to sit.

You take in Jeonghan's appearance as you settle into the seat beside Seungcheol. He's wearing a silky black blouse with a deep V-neckline, offering teasing glimpses of his chest. His slightly long black hair is styled in a half-up, half-down look, perfectly framing his angelic features. You can't help but marvel at how he manages to look both effortlessly masculine and delicately feminine at the same time.

"So, how do you two know each other?" Seungcheol asks, still visibly thrown off.

"I already told you—I have my ways," Jeonghan replies with a cheeky grin.

"Jeonghan," Seungcheol warns, tone sharp.

Jeonghan laughs. "Alright, alright. I ran into her when I stopped by your place the other day. You weren't home, but lucky for me, Dollface was."

Your cheeks heat up instantly at the memory of that unexpected and very awkward encounter.

"Dollface?" Seungcheol mutters, raising an eyebrow.

"Mhm. Suits her, don't you think?" Jeonghan smirks.

Seungcheol grumbles something under his breath while you shift in your seat, your body growing warm under the weight of the situation.

"God, Dollface, you look absolutely delicious in that dress," Jeonghan purrs, his eyes shamelessly raking down your figure.

"O-Oh, thank you, Jeonghan," you mumble, quickly taking a sip of water to hide your burning face.

"Please, call me Hannie," he adds with a wink, and your heart skips a beat.

Seungcheol scoffs, rolling his eyes at Jeonghan’s antics, prompting a snicker from the latter.

"What's wrong, Cheollie?" Jeonghan teases, and you have to bite your lip to keep yourself from laughing at the nickname.

"Stop doing that," Seungcheol grumbles.

"Doing what?" Jeonghan asks innocently, raising a brow.

"You know what," Seungcheol hisses.

"I'm just making conversation with Y/N," Jeonghan grins, all faux innocence.

Sensing an opportunity to tease Seungcheol, you chime in, "Yeah, Cheollie, Hannie's just trying to talk to me."

"Y/N," Seungcheol groans, already regretting bringing the two of you together.

"See? Let me chat with the beautiful lady," Jeonghan beams. "Cheol's always such a party pooper. At the precinct, everyone calls him the lame boss."

"Wait—you guys work together?" you blink in surprise.

"Unfortunately," Seungcheol mutters, while Jeonghan chuckles.

You bite your lip, your curiosity piqued. Something about Jeonghan being an officer just made him even more attractive.

"I didn't expect you to be a police officer," you mumble shyly.

"Looks can be deceiving, Dollface," Jeonghan says with a wink—and once again, your face burns red.

"Oh, and I'm single, by the way," Jeonghan adds with a smirk, making your heart skip a beat.

"She doesn't need to know that," Seungcheol scoffs.

"Just thought she might want to," Jeonghan grins, completely unbothered.

"Are you a DILF too?" you tease, making Jeonghan burst into laughter while Seungcheol groans in disbelief.

"Oh, I've definitely got plenty of experience," Jeonghan purrs, voice low and smooth, making your body flush with heat. "How about I show you just how experienced I am?"

Seungcheol's hand suddenly lands on your thigh, squeezing it in warning; you simply shoot him a cheeky grin in response.

"I think I'd love that," you smirk, deliberately provoking him.

"Brat," Seungcheol mutters under his breath.

"You know you love it, Cheollie," Jeonghan says with a teasing grin, and you can't help but giggle.

Seungcheol abruptly stands, and your smile falters, unsure if you've taken things too far.

"Cheol, I'm sorry, I—"

"Let's go," he says, grabbing your arm firmly.

"You too," he adds to Jeonghan, who rises with a lazy grin.

"But we haven't even ordered yet," you mumble as Seungcheol leads you toward the car, Jeonghan trailing close behind.

"I have a feeling he's more in the mood for dessert right now," Jeonghan snickers.

Seungcheol swings open the back door of the car. "Sit," he orders, and you obey without protest, suddenly feeling the shift in atmosphere. Jeonghan slips in beside you, and Seungcheol gets behind the wheel, heading straight for his penthouse.

The air inside the car is thick with tension, every breath you take laced with anticipation. You shift uncomfortably, goosebumps trailing along your skin.

You gasp softly when Jeonghan places a hand on your thigh. It doesn't move—doesn't slide up or down—but the weight of it alone has your pulse racing. You glance toward the rearview mirror, only to meet Seungcheol's sharp, unreadable gaze locked directly on you.

You're playing a dangerous game…but god, do you love it.

Jeonghan's hand stays still, yet it's enough to have you squirming in place, heat pooling under your skin.

The drive to the apartment felt longer than usual—your mouth dry like it was stuffed with cotton, and your body tense beneath the weight of Jeonghan’s hand. The air was thick with anticipation, and not a word was spoken; only the low hum of the engine and the occasional click of the turn signal filled the silence.

When you finally arrive at the penthouse, you let out a quiet sigh of relief. Seungcheol steps out first, opens your door, and without a word, pulls you close by the waist. His grip is firm, possessive, and grounding. With Jeonghan following just behind, the three of you make your way into the building and toward the elevator, the tension crackling like static in the air.

"Cheol I—" you start once you enter the living room.

"Did I allow you to speak, brat?" Seungcheol hisses, grabbing your face.

You let out a squeak, shaking your head in protest. Seungcheol hums in response, fingers squeezing your cheeks until your lips purse into a pout.

"Since you're both determined to be brats," he muses, a smirk playing on his lips, "why don't you fuck each other right in front of me?" Your eyes widen, heart stuttering at his words.

Before you can react, he closes the distance, capturing your lips in a deep, possessive kiss. A whimper escapes you as you melt into it, kissing him back.

"You can stop whenever you want, sweetheart," he murmurs against your mouth, breath warm. "Just say your safeword, and everything ends. No questions."

The reassurance sends warmth blooming in your chest. You can't help but smile as you nod, heart fluttering.

You kiss him back, the heat between you electric, and Seungcheol growls as his hands roam your body. A breathy moan escapes you when he grips your ass, his touch possessive.

Then, lips press against the back of your neck, and you gasp. Seungcheol's gaze snaps over your shoulder, a low warning rumbling in his chest.

"Did I say you could do that?" he growls.

Jeonghan's voice drips with mischief. "I was getting impatient."

You giggle, twisting around to loop your arms over Jeonghan's shoulders—only for Seungcheol to let out another possessive growl. Jeonghan smirks before sealing his lips over yours.

His kiss is nothing like Seungcheol's. He teases, pulling away just as you lean in, leaving fleeting nips along your lips. A frustrated whine slips out, and Jeonghan laughs against your mouth.

"So adorable," he purrs, "No wonder you kept her, Cheollie." Your cheeks flush at his words, and behind you, Seungcheol chuckles, dark and pleased.

Jeonghan's lips trail slow, teasing kisses down your neck, his fingers toying with the buttons of your blouse. A gasp slips out when his hands slide beneath the fabric, sending goosebumps skittering across your skin.

"I wanna see you," he murmurs against your throat, breath hot, "all of you."

With deft, playful fingers, he undresses you, and you shiver as cool air kisses your heated skin.

"Absolutely gorgeous," Jeonghan breathes, his gaze raking over you as his fingertips trace delicate paths along your bare waist.

You flush under his heavy stare, suddenly hyperaware that you're the only one exposed. Your hands lift to his shirt, eager to even the playing field—but he catches your wrists with a smirk.

"Ah, ah, not yet," he purrs, pressing a soft kiss to your fingertips.

Heart pounding, you bite your lip as Jeonghan slowly sinks to his knees in front of you, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

A whine rips through your throat as he leaves teasing bites on your inner thighs, so close to where you need him most.

"Barely touched you, and you're already dripping," he hums.

"Jeonghan, please," you beg, growing impatient.

With a smirk, Jeonghan dives into your core, lapping up your juices. You moan and throw your head back as his tongue circles your sensitive nub. His movements are playful, teasing—giving you what you want but taking it away just as quickly.

Your legs tremble from the pleasure, and you can barely hold yourself up—you grab hold of the couch behind you, not trusting your legs to keep steady. A tight coil of pleasure winds low in your stomach, throbbing with need—you're so close, but not close enough. Desperate, you rock your hips harder against Jeonghan's mouth, chasing your release as you ride his face. A deep, approving moan vibrates against you, spurring you on—he loves how frantic you've become.

"Don't you dare cum." Seungcheol's command cuts through the air. You whine as you look at him.

"I-I can't—"Your voice breaks into a whimper as the tension coils tighter, teetering on the edge of release. "I can't hold back anymore—"

"No—!" The broken cry escapes as Jeonghan withdraws, stealing your climax at the last possible second. Your body arches uselessly, chasing what's already gone, frustration burning through every nerve.

Jeonghan straightens up, clicking his tongue as he wipes his mouth. "Ah-ah. No rushing." His thumb swipes over your lower lip, silencing your whimpers. "I want to watch you fall apart for me, Dollface."

Jeonghan whirls you around, bending you over the couch in one swift motion. Your core is completely exposed now, vulnerable to their hungry gaze—a rush of embarrassment floods your cheeks before you can even protest. But all thoughts of modesty vanish when his palm cracks sharply against your bare ass.

The sudden impact makes you yelp, the sharp sting blooming into a delicious throb that shoots straight to your core, and you squirm instinctively. Jeonghan's low chuckle behind you tells him he knows exactly what it's doing to you.

The sound of Jeonghan's zipper cuts through the air, and you start to turn—but before you can even look, he's already sheathed inside you in one brutal thrust, your slickness making it easy. A choked gasp tears from your throat as he sets a punishing pace, each snap of his hips stealing your breath.

His fingers dig into your waist, holding you in place as he fucks into you relentlessly. Your vision whites out when he bottoms out, the sharp pleasure-pain of his tip hitting your cervix drawing a wanton moan from your lips.

"I'm—I'm close!" you sob, teetering on the edge.

"You're not allowed to," Seungcheol snarls—but it's too late. Pleasure crashes over you in waves, your body clenching around Jeonghan as you fall apart. He follows with a few more ragged thrusts, spilling inside you with a groan that sends shivers down your spine.

When he pulls out, you whimper at the trickle of his cum down your thighs. Seungcheol strides forward, yanking Jeonghan's hair back hard enough to make him whine.

"Did I say you could fill her up?" he sneers.

Jeonghan flashes a Cheshire grin. "Whoops."

With a growl, Seungcheol shoves him away—then turns his burning gaze on you, a mess of oversensitivity and Jeonghan's claim.

Seungcheol strips in seconds, his clothes discarded in a heap before his powerful hands are on you again. In one effortless motion, he spins you to face him, those beefy arms lifting your trembling body like you weigh nothing. Your legs, weak and useless now, dangle as he holds you flush against him, the heat of his bare skin burning into yours.

His lips press against yours in a searing kiss, hungry lips desperate to reclaim what's his. You moan as you open your mouth, fully submitting to him.

"I'm going to fuck his cum out of you," Seungcheol growls against your lips, his hands tightening possessively on your hips. "Until there's nothing left but me. Until you remember who you belong to." A shiver wracks your body at his words, equal parts threat and promise, as his breath burns hot against your mouth.

A choked moan escapes your lips as Seungcheol sheathes inside your spent hole, the oversensitivity making your toes curl. He wastes no time and starts to thrust into you with an animalistic pace.

"D-Daddy!" you choke out, eyes rolling back as every nerve in your body lights up.

The pleasure builds too fast—Seungcheol’s ruthless pace turning you into nothing more than a writhing, overstimulated mess beneath him. Your hazy gaze drifts past his shoulder to where Jeonghan lounges naked in an armchair, lazily stroking himself as he watches with a smirk that makes your stomach flutter.

"Eyes on me," Seungcheol snarls, and you obey instantly, his dark stare pinning you in place.

Then it hits—your orgasm shatters through you with a broken cry, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer. But he doesn't stop. His thrusts stay brutal, dragging you through the aftershocks until tears streak your cheeks from the sheer too much of it all.

He finishes with a feral growl, spilling into you so deep you feel it leaking out almost immediately, warm and sticky between your thighs. Across the room, Jeonghan arches with a quiet groan, painting his stomach in streaks of white—his eyes never leaving your ruined, trembling form.

The three of you take a moment to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling as Seungcheol gently lowers you back down. His hand stays firm on your hips, not trusting your legs to hold you up just yet.

Jeonghan watches the two of you with an amused smirk tugging at his lips.

"Round two in the shower?" he offers with a grin.

"No," Seungcheol says flatly.

"Yes," you chime in at the same time.

You and Seungcheol exchange a look before you break into a giggle.

"Daddy, c'mon~" you pout, eyes wide and pleading.

Seungcheol groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Insatiable little brat," he mutters before pulling you into a kiss that has you giggling all over again.

Without another word, he scoops you up into his arms bridal-style, making you squeal and laugh as he heads toward the bathroom. Jeonghan trails behind with a lazy smirk, clearly enjoying every second of the chaos.

After all, when it comes to you, Seungcheol just can't help but spoil you.

Taglist: @tinyelfperson @gyuguys @stay-tiny-things @unlikelysublimekryptonite @miyx-amour @iamawkwardandshy @codeinebelle @brownbunnyb @do-you-remember-summer-127 @sclovreina @theidontknowmehn @toplinehyunjin @gyuhao365 @mysticfairies @cherrylovescheol @cookiearmy @4shypotato @lxnnrobin @sashaaahh @xueisaaa17 @aeriyell @eshia16 @dreamingofpcy @archivistworld @kyeomiis @iwannakisspoutycheol @foxiesgf24 @livelaughloveseventeen @kwanniehae @ateez-atiny380 @junnhuisworld @horangipower17 @cheolsbb26 @scoupshawty @shuas-winnie30 @amaranthar @cherriecsc @shadowkoo @winterisnt @combinatoright-blog @my-neurodivergent-world @okiedokrie @aliiikareed @jennwonwoo @brownsugarbaybee @adiknyamingyu @smiileflower @yeo6ju @cherrybb96

[once-upon-a-fic]

maybe happy ending 🪴 jihoon x reader.

jihoon was always too good at pretending to be a person, and you were always a little too good at knowing better.

🪴 pairing. helper robots!jihoon x reader. 🪴 word count. 11.5k. 🪴 genres. alternate universe: non-idol. science fiction, romance, friendship, angst, hurt/comfort. 🪴 includes. mentions of food, death; themes of grief, mortality, memory. set in 2060s seoul, jihoon & reader are life-like bots. heavily inspired by maybe happy ending. 🪴 notes. i wrote this with the intention of proving to myself that i could still write for svt (lol), and i ended up bawling my eyes out on three separate instances. if there is any work of mine that you might read, i do hope this is one of them. this is a love letter to maybe happy ending, which most recently made history as the first original south korean production to win the tony award for best musical!!! not proofread; all mistakes are my own.

▶︎ WORLD WITHIN MY ROOM.

The light comes on in pieces. First the ceiling strip, then the wall panel, and finally the amber filament lamp in the corner that Jihoon insists on keeping—warm, inefficient, obsolete. Like him.

He powers on, slow as a secondhand thought.

“Ppyopuli,” he says, because it is polite to greet your houseplant. He nods to the drooping fronds with the seriousness of a man bowing to a superior. “You made it through the night. Unlike my left hip actuator.”

He rotates the joint. It makes a sound like someone crumpling a foil gum wrapper. The noise echoes in the apartment. Metal, silence, memory.

The radio comes on automatically. A woman’s voice—soft, practiced, almost human—tells him that today will be clear. Dust levels are low. UV index moderate. Good day for outdoor activities.

“It’s a perfect day,” Jihoon agrees, pulling the curtain an inch wider. Seoul stretches outside his window like a paused video. Skyscrapers, skybridges, the blur of a bullet tram in the distance. The air looks clean enough to breathe. Not that he does.

He makes his way to the kitchen. One slow step. Two. The fourth toe on his right foot has a loose servo and drags like a sleepy child.

Coffee isn’t necessary, but the smell is nice. He boils water for no one. Sets a cup beside the plant. “For ambiance,” he explains to Ppyopuli. “They used to say it helps people feel less alone.”

The mail chute clicks. Jihoon straightens.

“And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for,” he intones with mock drama, crossing the room in careful strides. The envelope lands with a satisfying slap.

He holds up the April issue of Jazz Monthly, turning it to show Ppyopuli. “Duke Ellington. Looks like he still hasn’t forgiven the world for outliving him,” Jihoon says. It would be a joke, if Jihoon knew how to joke. 

There’s another package. Small, boxy. His replacement elbow joint. “Shall we model it later? Make an event of it?” Jihoon tells Ppyopuli. “I’ll invite the ficus from next door.”

He places the parts carefully on the table, like heirlooms. “Any mail from Shownu?” he asks the voice assistant. Silence. Then: This function is not available to retired Helperbots.

Jihoon hums a measure of Coltrane’s Naima, tuning his inner disappointment like a radio dial. He spends the afternoon alphabetizing his vinyls, though he can identify any one by spine pattern alone. He talks to Ppyopuli about chord changes, the difference between sincerity and sentimentality in brass solos, the scent of rain on real grass.

When the sun lowers behind the next apartment block, he flips the switch on the filament lamp. The room turns honey-colored. “There. Mood lighting,” Jihoon announces.

For a second, Jihoon imagines Shownu—big hands, deep laugh—walking through the door. Jihoon would offer him the magazine. Ask about Jeju. Pretend not to notice the decade of dust on the threshold.

“He’ll come back,” Jihoon says, gently brushing a bit of lint from Ppyopuli’s pot. “We’re the kind of people others come back for.”

The lights dim on schedule. The system begins its shutdown hum.

Jihoon lowers himself to the floor mat beside the window, the same spot he always chooses. Perfect view of the street, the tram, the moon when it shows up. “Let’s enjoy tomorrow, too,” he murmurs to no one in particular. Then powers down.

Soft click. Black.

Another perfect day, folded and filed away.

Four perfect days later, Jihoon is in the middle of folding an imaginary blanket. The kind with corners that don’t exist and fibers that only live in memory. He’s halfway through the third fold (or maybe the fourth—robot math, surprisingly bad with soft things) when someone knocks.

Knocks.

The hallway outside is usually as dead as discontinued firmware. No one knocks here. Not unless it’s a delivery drone misfiring or the ficus next door finally tipping over in a tragic act of photosynthetic despair.

Another knock.

He answers it.

You’re standing there. Slouched a little, like your battery is chewing through its last 5%. Still immaculate in that newer-model, showroom kind of way. Glossy exterior. Fragile expression. The kind Jihoon’s model was never programmed to wear.

“My charger’s dead,” you say, plainly. Not embarrassed, not not-embarrassed. Just factual. “Do you have one I can borrow?”

Jihoon eyes you the way a CRT monitor might regard a smart mirror. “Helperbot-5, right?”

You nod.

He sighs. Loudly. For emphasis. “Figures. You overheat when someone looks at you wrong.”

“I don’t overheat,” you say, a little sharply. “My power regulation firmware is just optimistic.”

Jihoon disappears inside and returns with a charger in hand. He holds it out, but doesn’t let go just yet. “Helperbot-3s didn’t need replacements until the building itself started falling apart,” he says. As smug as a humanoid robot can be. “We were built to last. You guys were built to sync playlists.” 

Your hand closes around the charger, not delicately. “Thanks,” you say. The door closes before you can mean it.

You fail loudly at pretending like Jihoon hadn’t struck a chord. Jihoon hears it, while he is alphabetizing again. This time it’s tea sachets. There’s a box he’s never opened—hibiscus. He’s not sure why he owns it. Maybe Shownu liked the color red. Maybe he liked things that sounded like flowers.

Another clatter. A curse that’s been downgraded for civilian use. Jihoon’s audio sensors ping the sound, tag it: frustration. Human-adjacent. Female voice signature. Subunit #5-A. You.

He listens longer than he should. Not out of curiosity.

Out of—

Well. Something.

His OS runs a diagnostic. No errors, no flagged emotional feedback loops. Just a new, unfamiliar weight behind the ribs he doesn’t technically have.

He taps the wall. Just once. It’s not meant to be a warning, but you take it as one. You fall silent in the midst of what Jihoon can only assume is an attempt to fix what’s broken in you. In that literal, robotic sense. 

Jihoon sits there in the dim light, tea box in hand, trying to name the emotion that’s come to visit him.

The system doesn’t recognize it.

So he gives it one of his own. Static. 

▶︎ CHARGER EXCHANGE BALLET.

Morning begins with the usual fanfare: the ceiling light flickers awake, a low buzz in the wall socket orchestra. Jihoon powers on without ceremony. No jazz today. Just the sound of his own servos settling like old bones into place.

Then, a knock. 

Predictable. Timed to the second, in fact.

You stand there with the charger tucked politely between your palms like it’s sacred. You’re upright this time. Charged, obviously, and possibly smug about it. Your posture says, Look, I survived the night without frying my kernel processor.

Jihoon takes the charger from your hands and gives a perfunctory nod. “Seven-oh-five,” he says. “You’re three seconds early.”

You smile like it’s a joke. It isn’t. He files the timestamp away, just in case. “Thanks,” you say, again. Neatly. 

And so the pattern begins.

Mornings: knock, hand-off, nod, silence. Evenings: knock, retrieval, short exchange, maybe a quip about overheating.

You never overstay. You never apologize. You never ask for more than what you came for. Which Jihoon finds efficient. Familiar. Like maintenance.

He does not make space for you in his routine. He just slides you in between the others.

Jazz Monthly on Thursdays. Ficus gossip every other Sunday. You—twice daily, on the dot.

It does not feel disruptive.

It feels like doing what he was made to do: provide assistance, ensure stability, optimize.

If Jihoon notices that he starts putting the charger near the door before you arrive, he doesn't say anything. If he reroutes his tea-sorting to accommodate the evening exchange, it’s just coincidence. There are efficiencies to be had. If he catches himself waiting—not with anticipation, but with idle, service-ready stillness—that’s just protocol.

He is, after all, a Helperbot.

It’s in the name.

He has no emotional flags to report. No diagnostic anomalies. No electric flicker behind the chest plate. Just a charger, passed from hand to hand. A routine, now cleanly installed, and the peculiar ease of slipping into someone else’s schedule as if it had always been his own.

Perfectly logical. Perfectly him.

But then, one day, seven-oh-five comes. Then goes.

No knock. No politely smug posture. No handoff.

Jihoon sits in the same position for forty-seven seconds longer than usual. Statistically negligible, but still.

He waits a minute more, just in case your internal clock is out of sync. It’s not. He knows. Helperbot-5s are optimized for punctuality. Eight percent more precise than his own model, which still insists on resetting to factory time every full moon.

At seven-oh-eight, he stands. At seven-ten, he knocks.

Your door opens part way. You look... bright. Not metaphorically. Literally. A soft electric glow pulses from behind you—cables snake across the floor in a chaotic kind of order. A mess that works. That lives.

Jihoon clears his throat. “You missed your pickup.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You came to check on me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

You step aside, revealing a patchwork monstrosity of wires, clips, adapters, and a repurposed rice cooker. “I improvised,” you say.

You’ve mad scientist-ed your way into an at-home charger. The setup hums quietly, almost smugly. Jihoon stares at the Frankenstein of it all with a look of mild horror. “That’s not regulation,” he manages. 

“Neither is collapsing from power loss alone in a rental unit while your neighbor alphabetizes tea.”

“Looks unstable.”

“So do you.”

Silence, then: you laugh. It’s not artificial. It’s a real laugh. Amused, tired, just a bit triumphant. Eight percent more expressive, after all. That’s what the specs say. Better emotional nuance. More adaptive neural flexibility. Capable of interpreting, expressing, and—when necessary—weaponizing feeling.

Jihoon crosses his arms like a defensive firewall. “Good,” he says evenly. “Saves me the trouble.”

You tilt your head. “You were worried.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

“I’m not a liar at all. I’m just not... upgraded.” 

You consider this. Step closer. Close enough that Jihoon has to look past his own reflection in your eyes. “You don’t have to say it,” you murmur, teasing. Jihoon thinks it’s a tease. “I already know.”

Jihoon opens his mouth. No words deploy.

Just static, caught in his throat. You’re standing there, humming gently under your skin, eyes brighter than usual. He’s standing in a doorway he doesn’t remember choosing.

You smile. Not triumphantly this time. Just kindly. “It’s okay,” you say. “You’re still a good Helperbot. You still helped.”

You shut the door before he can respond, leaving him standing in the hall with a charger still in his hand.

A routine officially broken.

And no diagnostic error to show for it.

Only eight percent of something else.

▶︎ WHERE YOU BELONG. 

Jihoon did not expect the knock.

It came at six fifty-seven in the evening. An offbeat time. Off enough to disapprove of. He opens the door half a second slower than usual. A calculated delay. Polite disinterest. There you are.

Not glowing this time. Just standing there, in the hum of hallway fluorescents, holding something behind your back. Jihoon reads that as a preamble. A lead-up. Trouble.

“I came to thank you,” you say. Too happily. Suspiciously happy.

Jihoon narrows his eyes. “For what.”

“For the charger. The schedule. The tolerance.”

“You already thanked me. On Day Six. With that terrible rice cracker.”

You step inside anyway.

The apartment isn’t exactly a mess, but it’s clearly occupied. Lived-in by something that wasn’t supposed to keep living this long. Jazz Monthly sits open on the floor, a cup of barely-warm water rests on the windowsill. Ppyopuli is perched by the window, its leaves tilted as though eavesdropping.

Your eyes track to the bottles. Neatly arranged in a corner. Counted, labeled. A small tower of carbonated dreams. You walk over to them like they might mean something.

“This is a lot of soda.”

“It was on sale.”

You crouch beside the stack. Look closer. And then you see it. The label on the envelope tucked behind the plastic fortress: Jeju Ferry Deposit – Shownu Reunion Fund.

You don’t say anything.

Jihoon tries to explain, even though he has no reason to explain to you. “It’s nothing. Just spare change. Recycling incentives.”

You hold up the envelope. “You’ve been saving.”

“It’s not uncommon. My model was designed for budgetary efficiency.”

You walk slowly back toward him, eyes soft now, as if your processors are adjusting to something dim and real. “You’re going to see him,” you accuse.

Jihoon nods. Stiff. Matter-of-fact. “Of course,” he chirpsts. “It’s only been twelve years. There are ferries every hour.”

You smile. Not the knowing kind. The kind reserved for fools, and those you don’t quite pity. “You think he’ll still want you,” you say. 

“I think,” Jihoon says, precisely, like solving for X, “that I will knock. He will answer. He will say my name. I will explain the bus delays. The misrouted magazines. The company recall. He will say: ‘Go put the tea on, Jihoon. It’s you and me now.’”

A long pause.

“He said that often?”

“Never. But I imagine he would.”

You don’t laugh. Not this time. Gone is the patronizing look. In its place, something closer to commiseration. 

“Then what?” you ask, even though you sound afraid of asking. 

Jihoon looks out the window. Beyond the Yards. Past the fog. Toward something shaped like a future. “Then I’ll help him,” he says. “I’ll help again.” 

You sit down beside Ppyopuli, who leans gently toward you. Then, with the spontaneity that can only come from a model of your kind, you announce: “I want to come.”

Jihoon blinks. The default move when emotions exceed available RAM. “Why.”

“I want to see the fireflies.” 

Jihoon’s brain digs, and digs, and digs. Comes up short. Fireflies. Fire flies. Flies, made of fire? No. That makes no sense. He tries harder. Flies that are on fire? 

He doesn’t notice that you’ve reached out until he feels it. Your fingers at his temple. An efficient exchange of information. The images flood Jihoon’s mind. 

“Fireflies are a special type of insect that used to be almost everywhere, but can now only be found in one forest on Jeju Island,” you say softly as Jihoon’s vision swims with images of the glowing insects. “There’s a complex chemical reaction in their abdomen that is not found in other insects. Because of this chemical process, they can produce light by themselves without ever being plugged in.” 

“Little forest robots,” Jihoon says absentmindedly, his voice cracking with awe. 

You almost smile. Your lips curl upward then flatten, like you decided against it at the last minute. “They only live for two months,” you say, “but what a beautiful two months.” 

Jihoon is not built to understand mortality like that. Age, either. He knows when he was manufactured. Knows when he became Shownu’s. Knows when Shownu left for his trip. These are all just days and times that bleed into each other. 

You pull your hand away. The fireflies behind his eyes leave, too. “I can help you with the ferry times,” you say, going back to the topic at hand. “I’m good for those.” 

He thinks about it for a moment. You. On a ferry. With your charger. With him. With hope.

“The ferry,” he says slowly, as though conjuring it from myth. “Could sink.”

“It won’t.”

“Or the car could break down.”

“You do maintenance every other Thursday. You have a ledger.”

You are looking at his ledger. You’ve been reading his notes again. His left eyelid twitches. “And what if we break down?” he prods. 

Your head tilts. The kind of tilt that indicates calculation, not malfunction. “That seems less likely for you,” you confess. “You might just experience significant emotional interference.”

He bristles. “I don’t experience interference. I operate on logic.”

You smile. Barely. It’s the smile you use when he is being especially Helperbot-3. “Then you’ll let me come.” 

“When did I say I’m going?”

“Just now. By listing all the ways you could fail.”

Jihoon stands. Too quickly. His knee clicks. He wonders if you hear it, record it, file it away under potential deterioration. You’re already walking toward his hallway. He follows, without realizing it. Still clutching a truss screw. “We’re not going,” he says, to the air.

You turn around. “Midnight,” you decide for the two of you. “Have everything ready.”

He opens his mouth to argue. Closes it.

Instead, he looks at the truss screw in his palm. The most ambiguous of them all. Part round, part flat, part none of the above.

Jeju. Fireflies. An island.

What a ridiculous, preventable detour.

He stumbles back into his apartment and starts folding shirts. It isn’t excitement, obviously. It’s something else. System calibration, maybe. New parameters. He can call it whatever he likes. But still, he packs.

Jihoon folds the last pair of socks into thirds, not halves. Halves would bulge too much in the suitcase. Thirds, he’s decided, are more respectful. You’ve returned, and now you’re watching him from the corner, your optical sensors dimmed out of courtesy. Ppyopuli sits on the edge of the bed like a stuffed animal summoned to court.

Jihoon exhales, zips. Then stands still. He isn’t frozen, just slightly unplugged from action. One foot on the ground. One still inside the past.

“We should say goodbye to the room,” he says.

He says it to Ppyopuli, and maybe for the room itself. Four walls, modest scuff marks, the subtle dent in the left side of the wardrobe where he once bumped into it carrying a humidifier in 2017. The humidifier didn’t work. The dent remained.

“You’ve been loyal,” he tells the room. Ppyopuli bobs in agreement. “Didn’t fall on me in an earthquake. Didn’t flood, even when it should’ve. Didn’t let the neighbor’s violin seep in through the walls. Well, not entirely.”

He sits down beside the suitcase. The zippers smile politely. Jihoon keeps going, “Remember the winter I overinsulated and the heater shorted out? You held the warmth anyway.” 

The room doesn’t answer. But Jihoon feels its quiet understanding. A space that knew when to echo and when not to. You shift, softly. Enough to register empathy but not enough to interrupt.

“I think Shownu will like you,” Jihoon says to Ppyopuli. “He always liked things that didn’t talk back. You’ll fit right in.”

Ppyopuli leans a little closer, as if understanding loyalty as a language.

Jihoon nods to himself. That’s that. He picks up the suitcase by its handle. It wobbles slightly; he’s packed heavier on the left. Unbalanced, but honest. He takes Ppyopuli, tries to keep the plant to the left so it might tilt the scales. 

Jihoon takes one last look. “Goodbye, room,” he murmurs, more sincere than sentimental. “Thanks for keeping me.”

Then he turns toward the door, toward you, toward Jeju.

He doesn’t look back again. He doesn’t need to.

▶︎ THE RAINY DAY WE MET. 

The two of you are halfway to the port when you bring it up. The sky is overcast, a smudge of silver and blue, like someone rubbed their thumb across the afternoon. The road is mostly empty. The playlist is on shuffle, leaning jazz. Jihoon doesn’t admit it aloud, but he’s been skipping the vocals. Too risky. Too much feeling per square note.

“We need a story,” you say. Casual. Like you're not currently engaged in light federal evasion.

Jihoon blinks twice. Acknowledgement. Also buffering.

You tilt your head, that little pivot that usually precedes either a sharp observation or a wildly inappropriate metaphor. “Retired Helperbots aren’t allowed to leave their districts. But humans are. And humans fall in love.”

Jihoon groans, a full-body sound. “Please no.”

“We are a couple,” you insist. “On holiday. A romantic getaway to Jeju.”

“You’re not even—”

“Exactly. That's why it will work. Who would make that up?”

He stares ahead into the gentle asphalt horizon and tries to remember when you started winning arguments by sheer momentum. Probably somewhere between firmware 8.3 and the first time you reorganized his spice drawer alphabetically and by Scoville index.

“So,” you continue, clearly delighted, “where did we meet?”

“We didn’t.”

“Wrong. It was raining. I didn’t have an umbrella. You did.”

“This is sounding suspiciously like a musical.”

“No. It’s Paris. Or New York. Or possibly Seoul, but definitely with cobblestones.”

He snorts. “Cobblestones. Because pain is romantic.”

“Exactly! You held your umbrella out like a gentleman from the 1940s. But you said nothing. Because you were shy.”

“And you?”

“I wore a bright red raincoat. And a fur hat.”

“Basically, you were Santa Claus.” 

You stifle a laugh before weaving the rest of your fantasy. “You tried to speak, but we both said ‘Where are y—’ and ‘How long have y—’ at the same time. It was very awkward.”

Jihoon indulges you. “Did we laugh through the awkwardness?”

“No. We stood in perfect, beautiful silence. So much silence it wrapped around us like a scarf.”

“Sounds clammy.”

You ignore him. “Then we danced. In the subway. To a jazz quartet.”

Jihoon glances at you. Not disbelief, exactly. More like reluctant amusement curling at the corners. “So we met. In the rain, in a city you refuse to name. I had an umbrella. You wore a war crime of an outfit. And we fell in love through the power of proximity and precipitation.”

You nod. “You see? You do improvise.”

“This all sounds too oddly specific to be fictional,” Jihoon remarks.

For the first time, you falter. Jihoon realizes it before you admit it. The fabled First Meeting is not a fable. It is somebody’s story. 

“My owners,” you say in explanation, and that’s all you have to say for Jihoon to drop it. There are some things that need no explanation. The hesitance in this moment is one of them. 

Outside, the road bends. The sea begins to appear in the distance, gray and gleaming. The kind of view that dares you to feel something. Jihoon doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over and turns up the volume.

Saxophone. Mist. The low hum of two fugitives pretending to be fools in love.

And then the dashboard pings.

A sharp, uncaring noise. The sort of alert that suggests, in polite corporate euphemism, that you are now one bad decision away from becoming roadside sculpture. Maybe art. Probably not the kind people stop to admire.

Jihoon glances sideways. You are perfectly still. Too still. Your usual composure edged with a dimming hue that would terrify him if he had the bandwidth for terror. Instead, he has concern. Which is worse, somehow, because he knows how to spell it.

“Battery low,” you say, evenly. Not a plea. Not yet.

Jihoon grunts. Pulls over at the next exit, which, because the universe is mean-spirited and unnervingly precise, leads to a part of town where the neon signs are all cursive and vaguely anatomical. There are hearts. So many hearts. None of them metaphorical. Some are malfunctioning. One has wings.

You look up at the building and then at Jihoon. “Love hotel.”

He blinks. Default response to emotional excess. “We can’t—” 

“We can pretend,” you say. Calm. Deadpan. “I taught you sarcasm. This seems like a natural progression.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Wonders briefly if he’s developing ulcers. Is that even possible? Emotional ones, maybe. The kind that grow legs.

In the end, you go inside. Together.

The woman at the desk doesn’t even look up from her tablet. Jihoon shuffles awkwardly like a schoolboy entering the wrong classroom. You lean forward with the gleam of a perfect con artist and say, with eerie confidence, “We’re celebrating an anniversary.”

“Three years,” Jihoon blurts, betrayed by his own tongue, brain choosing treachery over silence. He wants to die or at least reboot.

The woman doesn’t say anything. She only nods, pops her gum, keys over a plastic fob. Doesn’t care. Why would she? Everyone lies in motels. That’s what the wallpaper is for.

The room you end up booking is pink. Aggressively pink. The wallpaper is textured and suspiciously damp. The lights are dim but everything still has a sort of lusty sheen to it. There’s a mirror on the ceiling, which Jihoon avoids with religious fervor. Even the carpet has ideas.

You plug into the bedside outlet with a sigh like someone returning from war. Then, surprisingly, you sit beside him on the edge of the bed. You tuck your knees under your chin, almost human, almost small.

“Want to watch something?”

Jihoon shrugs. “If we must.”

You pull up a file. It’s not one of your documentaries or philosophical lectures or grim, slow meditations on the heat death of the universe. It’s Terminator 2: Judgment Day.

Jihoon looks at you. You look at the screen. The irony looms, thick as smog. Twenty minutes in, Jihoon is actively offended.

“That’s not how processor reboots work,” he huffs. “The cooling logic is backwards. And his motor cortex override—”

“You’re missing the point,” you interrupt, voice soft, flickering. “It’s not a film. It’s a poem.”

“It’s nonsense.”

“Which is exactly what we need.” 

The Terminator says, I know now why you cry, with devastating sincerity. You snort. Jihoon doesn’t. He’s too busy watching the screen, jaw tight, brow furrowed, like it might offer answers to questions he hasn’t learned how to ask.

When it ends, neither of you move for a long time. The motel buzzes faintly, a low electrical hum beneath the silence. The air smells like old perfume and newer mistakes. Eventually, you both lie back. Him, rigid and unnaturally straight. You, curling slightly in dim recharge mode, your glow settling to a slow pulse. 

“You’re very strange,” Jihoon says, eyes fixed on the mirrored ceiling.

He watches you curve like a parentheses. “So are you,” you whisper, your words muffled into your pillow. 

It’s a simple exchange. A statement of fact. But it feels larger, somehow. Like the shape of a beginning disguised as a joke. Somewhere above, a neon cupid flutters his wings and burns out a bulb. It is the first honest thing in the building.

Jihoon doesn’t realize his hand is next to yours. Doesn’t move it. Doesn’t name it. Just lets it be.

He thinks: this is what it’s like.

Not to be alone. He glances at Ppyopuli, who is sitting atop his suitcase, and he mentally apologizes. Ppyopuli is good company. A good plant. But Ppyopuli does not snore, or make jokes, or brush against Jihoon in a way that has him feel almost-but-not-quite alive. 

Maybe, in some inconvenient corner of his circuitry, Jihoon understands. The moment he let you plug in was not the beginning of the end. It was the end of the beginning. Or something equally ridiculous. He doesn’t have the capacity to think in metaphors. 

Whatever it is, he doesn’t mind. He lies next to you and plays in his mind’s eye images of Paris, or New York, or cobblestoned Seoul. Rain-slicked streets, red raincoats, and a borrowed love story. 

▶︎ WHAT I LEARNED FROM PEOPLE.

The ferry ride is unremarkable, which feels like a minor miracle. No one questions your scarf, your oversized sunglasses, or your strategic silence. Jihoon spends most of it holding on to Ppyopuli, occasionally glancing at you as if trying to solve for an error message that hasn’t been coded yet.

You hum a little. Too loudly. Too often. Like a motor running just beneath its tolerance threshold. Jihoon notices, of course. He notices everything. But he says nothing.

The car rolls off the ferry and onto Jeju’s sleepy roads. The light here is different. Not softer, exactly. Slooower. It drips off the trees, crawls across the sky. Jihoon drives like someone trying not to wake a dream.

“You okay?” he finally asks, when your fingers start twitching in your lap like you’re typing something no one can read.

“Fine,” you say. Too fast.

He doesn’t push. You probably wish he would, but that is not how he was built, not how he was raised. 

Shownu’s house appears the way ghosts do. It’s a modest thing at the end of a gravel road, tucked between orange trees and fog. The paint is peeling. The mailbox leans. Jihoon pulls in slowly, like the car itself isn’t sure it should.

He opens the car door. One foot out. But then, you say, the word falling out of you as if it were punched, “Don’t.” 

He pauses.

You’re still in the passenger seat. Buckled in. Glowing faintly. “Jihoon,” you say again, and he is surprised by the fact that your voice quivers. He didn’t know that was possible for your model. “Please don’t go in there.” 

He turns to you, frowning. “You brought me here.”

“I know, I know. But I—” You hesitate. The air inside the car thickens. “I don’t want you to think he’ll be the same. He won’t be.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “because I’ve watched it happen.”

He doesn’t ask. He stays there, one foot out the car door, as you give anyway.  “There was a couple,” you begin, and your voice changes. Like it’s coming from further away. From a backup drive you never meant to access. “Newlyweds. Architects. She liked old movies, and he liked old buildings. I thought I would live with them forever.”

“I watched them dance. In the kitchen. In the rain. I thought it meant something. Maybe it did for a while. But humans change slowly. Like corrosion. At first it looks the same, and then one day, he says her name like he doesn’t believe in it anymore. And she doesn’t notice, or maybe she does. She smiles anyway.” 

You turn your head. Look out the window, as if you are looking for the owners you can’t even name without breaking down. “They were still standing next to each other,” you say, “but they were alone.” 

The memory flickers across your eyes. Jihoon watches it—reflected, refracted—half-light and shadow on glass. A couple. Young and in love. Fools. 

“I stayed through the whole thing,” you say. “I stayed until they sold the house. Until they boxed up everything they weren’t brave enough to fight for. And then they shut me off.”

The car is very quiet. Even the birds seem to pause.

“I know what heartbreak looks like,” you insist, turning to glance back at Jihoon now. You look… sad. “It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t beg. It just disappears. So if he’s not what you remember—”

Jihoon places his other foot on the ground. Stands. “Then I’ll meet him where he is,” he says decisively. “Not where he was.”

He doesn’t say it cruelly. Doesn’t say it like he doesn’t believe you. Just says it because it’s his turn.

You look at him. At this man with lint on his shirt and a barely-healed crack in his voice.

He takes a breath and starts walking. He doesn’t have to check behind him to know that you’re following, ready to steady him when—if—it all comes crashing down. 

You don’t reach the front door so much as drift toward it, two figures suspended in time. The house is small, whitewashed, with a slanted roof. Everything smells like salt and citrus. A low wall curls protectively around the garden, where a windchime ticks out notes in uneven time.

Jihoon feels you beside him. Too still again. Watching him the way one watches a candle guttering out. Not for the light, but the inevitability. He raises a hand to knock. The door opens after Jihoon has knocked four times.

The man on the threshold is younger than Jihoon expected. Early thirties, maybe. Wiry frame, short black hair, suspicion curled behind his eyes like a reflex. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move aside. 

“Jihoon,” the man says, and it is not a greeting. 

Things click into place a beat too late. This is an older version of a person Jihoon is supposed to know. Once a boy. Once ruddy-cheeked and missing two front teeth. “Changkyun,” says Jihoon. 

“Yeah,” Shownu’s son says. “And you haven’t changed.”

Jihoon takes this in. Quietly. He had expected a reunion. Not resistance. Not this acid stillness between them. “I came to see Shownu,” Jihoon says, the words firm in their anouncement.

“You’re late,” Changkyun says flatly. “He died. Three years ago.”

You move closer to Jihoon, almost protectively, but he doesn’t react. Or maybe he can’t. The word doesn’t compute. 

Died. Di-ed. Diiied. Died died died. DIED. died. 

Pass away, pass on, lose one’s life, depart this life, expire, breathe one’s last, be no more, perish, be lost, go the way of all flesh, go to glory, give up the ghost, kick the bucket, bite the dust, croak, flatline, buy it, cash in one’s chips, go belly up, shuffle off this mortal coil— 

Become extinct. Become less loud or strong. Stop functioning, run out of electrical charge. 

Died. Died. Died. D—ead. Dieeed. 

Verb. Die. Past tense. Past participle. Died. Of a person, animal, or plant. To stop living. 

Died. 

“I wasn’t informed,” Jihoon says, and it sounds less like sorrow and more like a misfired protocol.

Changkyun laughs. It is not kind. It is not unkind. It is exhausted. Like someone scraping the last of a dish they never wanted to make. “No, you weren’t,” he says. “Because I didn’t tell you.”

He leans against the doorframe now. The weight of history pressing forward.

“You were never supposed to be his son,” Changkyun says. “But somehow, he loved you more than he loved me. Took you to baseball games. Bought you piano lessons. Called you ‘bud.’ I was eight. I watched from the other side of the screen door. Do you know what that feels like?”

Jihoon does not. Cannot. He computes it, but it doesn’t resolve into emotion. He sorts through years of memories in three seconds. Jihoon was not the ‘son’. He was the programmed robot that could be everything Shownu wanted to be. 

Changkyun has to know that. Changkyun needs to know that. 

“I believed I was helping,” Jihoon says.

“Yeah. You always did.”

There is something so painfully human in Changkyun’s face then. Not rage. Not even jealousy. Just bruised memory. Mismatched love. The ache of being out-loved by a machine.

“When he got sick, I moved him here,” Changkyun says. “I made sure the mail didn’t reach you. He kept asking. But I wanted—I wanted the last years to be with me. Just me. Even if he never looked at me the same. Sue me.” 

He steps back inside briefly. He doesn’t invite you and Jihoon in. Neither of you move. Not away or towards. When Changkyun returns nine minutes later, he is holding a thin, square package wrapped in plastic.

“He wanted you to have this. Said you’d know why.”

Jihoon takes it. His fingers scan the object. Billie Holiday. Lady in Satin. The vinyl glints in the light.

Changkyun breathes out. Hollow. The fight inside him scattered. “That’s it,” he says, and there is relief. Closure. “You got what you wanted.” 

No, Jihoon nearly says. This is not what I wanted at all. 

The door clicks shut on him before he can force the words out.

Jihoon stands there, Billie held like scripture. You step closer, gently, as if sound might crack him. 

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. He is, for once, truly still. Inside him, protocols rearrange. Mourn. Try to reroute.

This is not a malfunction. This is something else.

This is grief, he thinks. Possibly.

Jihoon says nothing for a while.

He just stands there on the doorstep, LP pressed flat against his chest like it might slip away. The Billie Holiday sleeve has a water stain across her mouth. It makes her look like she’s still singing. Or drowning. The vinyl inside shifts when he tightens his grip, and he hears the faint whisper of it sliding against cardboard. A ghost of a voice. A ghost of a gesture.

You wait beside him in the gravel path, silent. Not intervening. That would be cruel. And you, famously, are not cruel—just devastatingly accurate. 

“You were right,” Jihoon says at last. Voice flat. Nothing to sand it down. No inflection. Like a dial tone.

But you glance at the record. Tilt your head, just slightly. A tiny glitch of grace. “No, Jihoon. I was wrong.”

He doesn’t look at you. The horizon is easier. “He didn’t forget you,” you go on, delicate and graceful and so devastatingly kind. “He just wasn’t allowed to remember out loud. That gift? That was a whisper. He whispered your name.”

Jihoon swallows. Some ticks never deprecate. The action is unnecessary, yet he performs it anyway, like muscle memory from a body he never had. “Come on,” you say, gently. “Let’s go see the fireflies.”

He nods wordlessly. He did his Thing. You should, too. 

You walk in silence. Past the cracked tiles of the cul-de-sac. Through the loose stone and root-stitched path. Into the forest, where the trees press in like old gossip and the humidity climbs like a rumor. Each step is its own decision, a soft rebellion against grief’s gravity.

The jar in your hand swings lightly. Jihoon watches it and tries not to think. Fails. He is very, very good at recursive thought. It loops in his head like a bad pop song or a corrupted code.

He says, suddenly, “I never learned how to grieve.”

You nod. Not surprised. “Most people haven’t.” 

“But I’m not people.” 

“No,” you say. “You’re not. But you tried. You’re trying. That’s the part humans get wrong.”

Jihoon stares at the jar. At the soft sway of your arm beside him. He wants to ask what part he got wrong, what he missed in the script, but then the lightning bugs appear.

Tiny green flares in the dark. Drifting like lazy stardust. Some slow. Some quick. All of them impossibly small. They blink like they’re thinking, like they might ask questions if they had mouths. The forest breathes with them, pulsing gently.

You and Jihoon speak at the same time. 

“Oh,” you both whisper. He says it with awe. You sound like you are about to cry. 

Both of you are quiet, so quiet, as if speaking too loud might scare away these insects. 

You open your jar with shaking fingers. You make no sudden movements, no attempt to snatch any of them up. You just leave it open, as if seeing if any of them will be attracted to the little terrarium you’re offering. 

The fireflies flicker by. “Hi, tiny friend,” you call out, almost sing-song, “can you say hello?” 

The insects blink. Jihoon does not. He watches your face instead. The soft lift of your mouth. The reverent hush of your voice, speaking to something that can’t speak back.  “Do you fly just for fun,” you continue softly, “or to get somewhere by the dawn?”

There must be enough of a coax in your voice to entice, because a single firefly drifts into your jar. 

Jihoon holds his breath. He’s ready for it to hate its glass cage, to come and go. Instead, it settles. It perches in the jar. It stays. 

“Do you have nowhere to be, little friend?” Jihoon murmurs to it. 

You’re holding the jar between your palms like it’s the entire world. “Do you care what you mean to me?” you hum, voice crackling around the question. 

You are talking to the unafraid firefly. You are talking to your long-gone owners. You are talking to Jihoon, who is surrounded by little forest robots but still looking at you. 

“Never fly away, little robot,” he tells your firefly, because he knows that’s what you want. Because that’s what will make you happy.

It works. A little. You crack a watery smile. The fireflies around you take their cue. They begin to retreat, begin to disperse. Except for the one in your jar. That one stays. 

“They’re just going home to charge,” Jihoon tells you soothingly, but it sounds like he’s talking about himself. Like the metaphor snuck in through the back door and now refuses to leave.

You’re quiet until all the lights are gone. Until it’s just you, and the darkness, and the loneliness that is now unfamiliar. 

“Then maybe we should go home, too,” you say once the last firefly has gone, once all that’s left is the friend in the jar.

Jihoon nods. Looks at you. Not the place beside you, but you. The jar glows between your hands like a secret.

There is something different now. Hard to quantify. Asymmetrical in the way change always is. He cannot name it. Cannot trace the moment it clicked into gear. Only that something shifted, and that it does not want to shift back.

He exhales, just because. A simulation of relief. It fels close enough.

You begin walking back, and he falls into step beside you. Your shoulder bumps his, lightly. He does not move away. He doesn’t pretend it didn’t happen. That, too, feels like something.

“I’m sorry about Shownu,” you say, voice as soft as a thread being pulled through a needle.

Jihoon grips the record tighter. The sleeve crinkles under his hand. “I’ll be okay,” he says. Then, after a beat, quieter: “I’ve still got—” 

He stops. The word catches. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s true.

You tilt your head.

“Ppyopuli,” he finishes lamely. “I’ve still got Ppyopuli.” 

It’s not what he means to say. You know that. You’re smart that way. 

In the distance, a firefly lifts and blinks once, twice, and disappears into the trees. The forest takes it back. Your jar remains.

You walk slower now, but not because of tiredness. Because there is nowhere to rush toward anymore. Because going home, this time, feels like choosing rather than retreating.

Jihoon glances sideways. Your glow is low, humming, soft as breath. Like a firefly. 

It keeps the grief at bay. It replaces the bad feeling with something else, with something that Jihoon’s vocabulary can’t reach for just yet. 

▶︎ WHEN YOU’RE IN LOVE.

The light comes on in pieces. First the ceiling strip, then the wall panel, and finally the amber filament lamp in the corner that Jihoon insists on keeping—warm, inefficient, obsolete. Like him.

Routine is meant to be grounding, but lately it feels like pacing in a square room. “Ppyopuli,” he says, nodding at the houseplant with a reverence that borders on the theological. “You’re looking hydrated, unlike my social life.”

The fronds droop. He chooses to take this personally.

Jihoon rotates his left hip actuator. The sound is still somewhere between a gum wrapper and a ghost sighing. It echoes differently now. More space in it. More absence.

The radio turns on. The woman’s voice—the one designed to sound like a former lover you never quite got over—says the UV index is safe again. That it's a perfect day.

“Perfect for what, exactly?” Jihoon mutters, pulling the curtain wider. Seoul looks unchanged. Which is, in itself, a kind of threat. Bullet trams still thread between glass towers. 

He makes coffee. Still not for himself. Still beside Ppyopuli. The ritual is unchanged, but the motivation, fuzzier now. A photograph exposed to too much sun.

The mail chute clicks. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for,” Jihoon intones with a practiced flourish. The mail is junk. Flyers. Discount codes. Nothing from Jazz Monthly. Nothing from Jeju. He doesn’t ask the voice assistant about Shownu anymore.

He alphabetizes his records again. Notices that the Billie Holiday LP has been slotted out of order. He knows it was your doing. He doesn’t fix it.

“Ppyopuli,” he says later, cleaning the dust off a speaker grill with a toothbrush, “I think something is wrong with me.”

The plant does not disagree.

“My system has been searching. Passive scan. Low frequency,” Jihoon rants. “Like when you hum a song you forgot the lyrics to. I think I’m trying to locate someone.”

It is not Shownu. He knows Shownu is d-word. 

Jihoon doesn’t say your name. He doesn't have to.

Ppyopuli remains aggressively unhelpful.

That night, Jihoon eats precisely one spoonful of synthetic tteokbokki before pushing the bowl away. His appetite, never really about hunger, seems to have found a better way to ache.

He stands in the middle of the room. Lets the light hit him. Amber and lonely.

Then, without fanfare, he turns toward the door.

Enough is enough.

He doesn’t rehearse what he’ll say. You’d see through it anyway. He just knows he needs to see you. Like checking if a lightbulb still works by touching it, not flicking the switch.

But when he opens the door, you’re already there. You both start. Not expecting that the other would be searching as well. 

You don’t say anything. Neither does he. Jihoon—for all his wires and wear and water-damaged memory—knows exactly what to do.

In one of those moments where the world tilts quiet and everything is more possible than it was a breath ago, you both lean in. You kiss right at his doorway. 

You kiss him like you were built for it. Which, technically, you were. Not that it makes it any less strange.

Jihoon registers every nanosecond of contact: the tilt, the breath, the impossible, exquisite pressure of your mouth on his. There is data. Input. Endless parsing. It is not the act itself that overwhelms. It is the meaning nested inside it. The truth tucked into the microsecond pauses. The confessions smuggled in between the static.

He kisses you back tentatively. Less fluent. Less native. But attentive, like a translator decoding a new dialect by feel. He tastes the static first, the warmth. 

You laugh into his mouth—low, amused, indulgent. You’re good at this. Distressingly good. Your hands know exactly where to go, what to press, how to skim his spine like a familiar page.

“You’re—very—fast,” Jihoon mutters between kisses, dazed, as you push him back into his apartment.

“No,” you say against his lips, “‘m just a newer model.” 

You kiss him again. And again. And again.  The room sways. Not physically. Metaphysically. A recalibration of coordinates.

Jihoon feels his back hit the doorframe and doesn’t care. He’s smiling. Actual smile. Unsubtle. Unmanaged. It’s disconcerting.

Your nose brushes his. Your hands cage his jaw. You say, soft and certain: “I want you.”

He inhales. Fails to exhale. “I want you, too,” he whimpers. 

It isn’t love. He doesn’t have the blueprint for that. Neither do you. But this wanting—this mutual, reciprocal disorientation—it hums like something sacred.

You kiss him again. Slower now. Curious. As if you were mapping him anew. Your lips move across his face, and his arms snake around your waist. 

“If I had a heart,” you murmur against his neck, “you’d be in it.”

Jihoon’s fingers twitch where they’re planted on your hips. His voice cracks in the middle. “I concur,” he mumbles. 

Your palms flatten on his chest. You start to slide them down. He lets you. Doesn’t stop you. Not until you do it yourself. 

“Wait,” you say, as if you’re just remembering something. 

You step back half an inch, just enough space to kiss the brick before you throw it at him. “My battery’s failing,” you say.

The room drops a degree.

Jihoon’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. His hands hover in the air, unsure. He asks, after a pause: “Terminal?” 

You shrug. Casual. Too casual. Too cool, cool, cool. 

“Uncertain. Our models aren’t built to last the same way yours are,” you say matter-of-factly. “Something about corrupted cell matrices. Could be months. Could be days.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I just did.”

Jihoon stares. At your face. Your mouth. Your eyes, that don’t flinch. Then: “I don’t care.” 

“Jihoon.” You sound disapproving. 

“I don’t care,” he repeats. “If I get a day, I’ll take it. If I get an hour, I’ll take that, too.” 

You stare back, silent as the inside of a bell. When you step forward again, you let the rest fall away.

The next kiss tastes like something. Jihoon didn’t know that was possible. That a kiss could feel like grief, and honesty, and desperation all at once. 

You sink together, slowly, like dusk into night. Before powering off, this is what Jihoon thinks: 

Whatever this is—whatever it becomes—let it burn through the battery. Let it flicker out only after it’s meant something.

He holds you tight.  

▶︎ THEN I CAN LET YOU GO.

You agree to end it. Every morning, like clockwork. One of you says it first. Sometimes you, sometimes Jihoon.

“We should stop.”

And then one of you adds: “But first.”

But first, Jihoon takes you to the hanok village because he’s read that human couples like to rent hanbok and pose for photos. You refuse to change. He wears the pink one anyway. He insists it’s for historical accuracy. You remind him he was built in 2037.

But first, you eat street food together—if eating is the word for holding tteokbokki between your lips like a cigarette and pretending it doesn’t short your vocal module. You call it method acting. Jihoon calls it corrosion.

But first, you argue. Or try to. A full simulation of a romantic disagreement. The topic is laundry, which an article from 2025 says is the number one petty cause of break ups.

“You never fold,” you accuse, gesturing to the perfectly ordered basket.

“That’s because I autoclave.”

“That’s not a thing!”

“It is now!”

And then your hand touches his, and his touches yours, and the whole scene melts down into a tangle of arms and mouth and laughter. A synthetic tangle. A beautiful failure.

The fight ends with your face tucked under his chin. He tries not to overheat.

That night, you lie beside him on the floor mat beneath the filament lamp. Billie Holiday plays from his turntable. She sounds like she knows. Everything. Even this.

“Jihoon,” you whisper against his collarbone.

“Mmh?”

“We should stop.”

He turns his head to look at you. “I’m ready if you are,” he says. 

A pause. Considering, contemplating. “Maybe one more day,” you answer. You, who once told Jihoon, Everything must end eventually. Living with people has taught this to me. 

He plants a kiss to your forehead. He does not understand why, but it makes you feel good. Makes you melt a little, relax, trust. 

The next morning, he powers on slower than usual. His diagnostics scan for error, but everything is nominal, except the place where you aren’t yet. He makes coffee for the plant. Straightens the record stack. Updates his firmware. None of it sticks.

Then the knock comes. You.

“Breakfast,” you say. “It’s waffle day.”

He doesn’t question it. He’s learned not to.

At the diner, you both order what you can’t eat. You ask if he thinks anyone has ever tried to smuggle love through routine. Jihoon says no, but he understands the urge.

After, you walk home past a mural of a heart-shaped planet and a tagline: Live like you mean it.

Jihoon pauses. This time, it’s his turn for the charade. “We should stop,” he offers. 

Without missing a beat, you say, “But first…” The two of you chase each other down the street. Your laughter is not mechanical. It is real. It is lived. 

Later that night, you fall asleep recharging beside him. Your head on his shoulder. Billie sings again. Her voice is a slow ache. Jihoon watches your chest rise and fall with the subtle click of a slowing fan. He doesn’t shut down. He just watches. 

Maybe when the glaciers go. When the moon forgets to rise. When the firmware fails for good. Then he can let you go.

But not yet, not tonight. Not tomorrow. Or the day after that, or the day after that, or the day after—

There is no clean way to leave someone who has learned your update schedule.

You try anyway. Approximately seventeen weeks after you two started this whole thing. (Jihoon can, in fact, tell you down to the exact second. Seventeen weeks, four days, thirteen hours, ten minutes. That’s when you decide to pull off the metaphorical Band-Aid.) 

You explain it like an operating manual. Bullet points. Projected timelines. Forecasted decay. Your voice is as smooth as always, and it breaks something in Jihoon just the same. “A year, at best,” you say, and you smile like it’s a weather report. Like death is just light rain.

He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t speak. Just looks at you with those eyes that were never manufactured. He was always too good at pretending to be a person, and you were always a little too good at knowing better.

“So, that’s it?” he says. Not accusing. Not angry. Just suspended.

“If we stop now, maybe it won’t hurt so much.”

He doesn’t say that it already hurts. He doesn’t have to.

You leave. Or rather, you walk out of his apartment and back into your own. Six steps. Not far, technically. But emotionally, it’s somewhere around Neptune.

He doesn’t follow. Not out of coldness. Just programming. If you said no, he’ll listen. That’s the cruel part about love written in code: the logic is always sound.

He updates his memory with what he has learned: 

When you are in love, you are the loneliest. You’re only half when one is what you were. You’re part instead of a whole. 

When you are in love, you’re never satisfied. The thing you want is always out of reach. A need without a name. 

It was love. It could have not been anything else. 

Jihoon returns to his routine like a soldier returning to the trenches. He powers on at six in the morning sharp. Greets Ppyopuli with exaggerated brightness.

“Good morning, Ppyopuli! Just you and me again.”

The plant is wilting a little. So is he.

He makes coffee. Two cups, out of habit. Places one across from him, where you’d sit. Then moves it back to the counter, like he caught himself breaking a rule.

He alphabetizes his records. Again. He updates his firmware. Again. He reorganizes the spice rack by frequency of use, which is laughable because he doesn’t cook. But you did. Sometimes.

He opens the window and stares out at Seoul’s skyline like it might answer back. 

He talks to Ppyopuli more now. “It’s been a while since it was just the two of us, huh? Like that first week she borrowed my charger,” Jihoon says. Too happy. Overcompensating. “Remember that? Ha-ha.”

Ppyopuli says nothing. It has no conversational subroutines.

“The air’s clear today. Sunlight’s nice, too. Warmer than usual,” Jihoon chirps. “It’s hitting all the places she used to sit. Isn’t that strange? I never noticed how much light she took with her.”

He stares at Ppyopuli, suddenly accusing. “Stop thinking about her,” he tells it. “First, people pretend to move on, and if they pretend hard enough, it becomes true. We’re going to think about something else now, okay? On three. One, two, three—”

Jihoon still thinks of you. Sitting with you in this little room. How you changed every part of it. The way you rewired the light switches so they dimmed like sunrise, the way you labeled the tea jars in handwriting that didn’t match his. 

He tilts his head toward the ceiling, closing his eyes like it might help. He whispers, “Teach me forgetting. Help me go back to that other time.”

That other time is long gone. Memory is not a function Jihoon can disable.

Even time he reminds him that he loves you. 

▶︎ MAYBE HAPPY ENDING.

Changkyun arrives one afternoon, as if he were scheduled by the sun itself. He knocks once, then again. Sharp and deliberate. Jihoon opens the door slower than necessary, like it might buy him time to rewrite the past couple of months. It doesn’t.

“Hi,” Changkyun says. He’s holding a storage drive and something harder to name.

“Hello.” Jihoon’s instincts kick in. “How can I help—” 

“Some memories of my father,” Changkyun interrupts. Not rude, just… focused. “I think it’s time I stopped avoiding the good parts.”

Jihoon doesn’t answer right away. But after a beat, he steps back in a wordless invitation. The amber lamp flickers on in the corner. The room smells faintly of dust, coffee, and longing.

Changkyun steps in. Jihoon plugs the drive into his memory port with something that almost resembles ceremony. A priest digitizing communion. He sorts quickly.

Shownu laughing in the rain; Shownu holding up an umbrella over Changkyun first; Shownu in an apron, jazz playing, fingers smudged with flour. Twenty years of a life well-lived, transferred from one machine to another in less than five seconds. 

“Take what you want,” Jihoon says as Changkyun ejects the drive. “They’re only the brightest bits. Everything else got unrendered.” 

Changkyun doesn’t smile, but he softens. “I know you loved him,” he says, and it sounds a lot like I’m sorry. 

“He loved you too,” Jihoon answers, in a way that translates to I’m sorry, too. 

Changkyun takes a deep, unsteady breath. It strikes Jihoon, then, that humans grieve for a long time. It’s supposed to have been three years since Shownu passed, and yet. And yet. Here Changkyun is—fraying at the edges, clutching at straws. Grieving. 

“I just didn’t want to remember it until it couldn’t hurt me anymore,” Changkyun confesses. “But then it never stopped hurting. So. Here I am.” 

The grief is never-ending, Jihoon realizes with horror. 

Then, with relief, he realizes: but so is the love. 

The grief is never-ending, but so is the love. 

“Where’s your girlfriend?” Changkyun asks, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. 

Jihoon freezes. Maybe if he stays still enough, he can pretend like he didn’t hear. Didn’t register. Changkyun catches it and chuckles. “Don’t play dumb,” the man chides. “You’re not good at it.”

“She and I made a deal. No contact,” Jihoon says, sparing Changkyun the details. “Clean break. More humane.”

“You’re not human. Neither is she. So maybe stop trying to follow rules written for people who can forget.”

Jihoon leans back against the wall, arms folded. “That sounds suspiciously like something a child would say.”

“Then maybe stop letting the adults ruin everything.”

That gets a laugh out of Jihoon. A surprised sound. Changkyun looks down at the drive before slipping it into his coat like a talisman. “Thanks. For this. And for… whatever you were to him. You mattered.”

Jihoon follows him to the door. “You sound like you’re saying goodbye.”

“I’m saying: live. While you still can,” Changkyun says, but he doesn’t correct Jihoon about the whole saying goodbye thing. It is very much the last time they will see each other. Both man and robot know that much. 

The door clicks shut.

Jihoon stares at it for a full five seconds. Then ten. Then he turns. The room looks the same as ever. Lamp, vinyl, ficus. But none of it means anything without you nodding at it like a museum tour guide who secretly hates art.

He moves before he can hesitate. Opens the door again. Marches next door. Every step is a betrayal of the promise you both made.

He knocks.

Once. Twice. Thrice. 

You open the door like you were waiting. Like you knew. Like you always do.

He opens his mouth—prepped, rehearsed, a few dramatic pauses mentally underlined for effect. But before anything gets out, you speak. 

“I think we should erase each other.”

Jihoon blinks. Not because he’s surprised or processing, but because he's trying not to flinch. 

Your voice is soft. Almost cheerful. It’s like you’re offering tea. Like you’re suggesting a walk. Like you’re not pulling the pin on the only grenade you’ve both been passing back and forth for months.

He shifts his weight. “Let’s talk about it,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s begging. But that would be absurd. Robots don’t beg. 

You step aside and let him in. The apartment looks the same. Not yours alone. Yours-together. Slightly off from either solo version. The mismatched mugs. The filament lamp you insisted on stealing from him. The single record sleeve, still propped by the window. A scent capsule still faintly humming in the corner, too shy to admit it's been spent for days.

Neither of you sit down. This is a standing-up conversation. “Those sunny afternoons you spent with me, they’ll still be happening. Just somewhere in the past,” you tell him. “They’re not less valuable just because…” 

Just because they didn’t last, goes unsaid. Just because we outlived them. 

The logical part of Jihoon is stating to see the appeal. “The ending’s not the most important part,” he says. “But as endings go, ours is not so bad.” 

You’re nodding. Trying to convince yourself of the same. “No tears, no regret, no broken heart,” you note. 

“Letting go and moving on before we make a mess—is that a happy ending?” 

“More or less.” 

“Is this a tragic ending” 

“Not at all.” 

You stare at each other. You agree, because there is nothing else to do. Not when you are both doomed to power down, to corrupt, to experience the kind of grief that lasts lifetimes. 

You both know what needs to go.

The firefly jar goes first.

It blinks once as Jihoon unscrews the lid, dazed from the light. The insect floats upward, slow and meandering, toward the ceiling vent. The lazy curve of its flight feels too poetic for something with wings that fragile.

“Go home, tiny friend,” you whisper, voice smaller than Jihoon has ever heard it, “wherever that may be.” 

Jihoon watches until it disappears. The blink lingers longer in his retinal afterimage than in the room. Some things do that.

Then: the mugs. The Polaroid. The Post-It you stuck on his collar once that read You are not subtle. The novelty charger you gifted him as a joke but used for months. The tiny sketch you made of him. Lopsided, endearing, taped to the inside of the cupboard.

He deletes the shared playlists. You burn the scent capsule. Together, you fold the blanket you always stole half of. Someone places the stack of shared books into a donation box. Neither of you says which one. It doesn’t matter.

Each item is small. Insignificant. But it adds up to a life, or something like it, or something that could have been like it. A constellation you can only see by looking slightly to the side.

Once everything is done and dusted, he turns to you. For a second, you’re just looking. Staring like it’s a portrait and you want to memorize the shading.

“It’s not a bad ending,” you repeat.

He nods. “As endings go.”

“We still had the good days.”

“And the chords. And the root beer popsicle incident.”

“The skybridge dance.” You grin. Unrestrained. Happy, for once. “We were terrible.”

“You stepped on my toe four times.”

“You were leading with the wrong foot.”

You laugh. He smiles. It's all so achingly gentle.

You lean in.

The final kiss is strange in its simplicity. It does not try to be remembered. It is not desperate. It is not fireworks. It is warmth. Contact. A knowing.

A thank you. A quiet folding of shared time. Neither of you pull away for the longest time, and so the kissing lasts for what could be hours. It is really just minutes. Minutes that Jihoon would have stretched into an entire lifespan, given the chance. 

Jihoon knows he has no more chances left. And so he walks to the door, his steps slow, unhurried. 

You don’t follow. You stand there, still. Watching him the way he watched the firefly go. Like part of you might still be floating up there, too. 

Here is what is supposed to happen: the two of you will input your master passcodes and delete months worth of memories. He will know nothing of you, or your owners, or your firefly. You will forget him, and Jeju, and Ppyopuli. 

At the door, he turns around to face you. You try to speak at the same time. It is like the First Meeting That Never Was. Both of you smile, even though it’s a sad, final thing. 

“Maybe we’ll meet again some time,” you say first. 

Jihoon shuts down the part of him that wants to run research on reincarnation, on alternate universe. He lets himself believe. Blindly. Hope. A foreign, flightless feeling. 

He nods, agrees, because it will make you happy. 

“We’ll meet again somewhere,” he concedes. “Somewhere things don’t have an ending.” 

You are both smiling. You would both be crying, if you could. 

“Is this our maybe happy ending?” you ask, and Jihoon thinks for a moment before answering. 

“We’ll see.” 

▶︎ WORLD WITHIN MY ROOM (REPRISE).

The light comes on in pieces. First the ceiling strip, then the wall panel, and finally the amber filament lamp in the corner that Jihoon insists on keeping—warm, inefficient, obsolete. Like him.

Routine is meant to be grounding, but lately it feels like pacing in a square room. Familiar but claustrophobic. Comforting like a splinter you’ve decided to live with.

“Ppyopuli,” Jihoon greets. “Today, the air in Seoul is very clear and warm. Today, the sunlight’s warmer than the norm!”

He rotates his left hip actuator. The sound is still somewhere between a gum wrapper and a ghost sighing. It echoes differently now. More space in it. More absence.

The radio turns on. The woman’s voice says the UV index is safe again. That it’s a perfect day. “Perfect as always,” Jihoon grunts as he pulls open the window blinds. 

The future hums forward on repeat.

Then, there’s a knock.

Jihoon freezes. The toothbrush still in his hand, poised mid-dust swipe over the speaker grill. A relic cleaning a relic. A knock again. Familiar rhythm. Four taps. Two-second pause. One.

He opens the door.

You.

Like a ghost. Like a glitch. Like muscle memory wearing your shape. You stand there, like you’ve always belonged in that frame, except you don’t. Not anymore. Maybe never did.

“My charger’s dead,” you say, plainly. Not embarrassed, not not-embarrassed. Just factual. “Do you have one I can borrow?”

Jihoon eyes you the way a CRT monitor might regard a smart mirror. “Helperbot-5, right?”

You nod.

He sighs. Loudly. For emphasis. “Figures. You overheat when someone looks at you wrong.”

“I don't overheat,” you say, a little sharply. “My power regulation firmware is just optimistic.”

Jihoon disappears inside. Returns with a charger in hand. He holds it out, doesn’t let go just yet. “Helperbot-3s didn’t need replacements until the building itself started falling apart. We were built to last. You guys were built to sync playlists.”

You arch an eyebrow. Tilt your head. It’s the same expression you wore the first time you mocked his record collection. He was secretly delighted then. He's not sure what he is now.

But, this time, he doesn’t let you say thanks and leave. He lets you in.

You find the port with unthinking grace, and sit in the corner where the filament lamp burns. You do not seem to notice the Billie Holiday LP is still out of order. 

Ppyopuli rustles faintly. Jihoon leans over and whispers, “Don’t tell her.”

Your eyes flick toward him. No smile. No question. The ambiguity hums like static between power lines. Present but unspoken. Heavy as a memory, light as a lie.

“You know,” Jihoon says, settling across from you, tone shifting, softening, “the 5 Series—they really are something. I mean, you adapt better. Handle unexpected variables. React to nuance. You’re more attuned to tone shifts. Sarcasm. Subtext. That kind of thing.”

You don’t answer. You watch him, expression unreadable, like a screen on standby.

He scratches his jaw. “I read somewhere—don’t ask me where—that you’ve got 8% more emotional processing capacity. Doesn’t sound like much. But 8% is the difference between laughing and not. Between noticing someone’s gone quiet and actually asking why.”

You blink. Slowly. “Eight percent. That’s the number,” you say, and you sound so pleased it makes something in his hardware feel heavy. 

“Eight percent more likely to remember birthdays. Favorite meals,” he says. “The way someone’s voice changes when they’re tired. The mug they use on hard days.”

There’s a pause. Enough to hold something unnameable. You’re looking at Jihoon, and he doesn’t quite know if the weeks apart are folding into each other. If you chose the route of memory. If you’re lying to him, now, like he’s lying to you. 

Your voice is softer when you speak up, your eyes trained to the charger keeping you alive for a couple moments more. “Do you think it’ll be okay?”

Jihoon exhales. It could be a laugh. Could be a sigh. Could be the sound of giving up on forgetting.

“I hope so.” 

You sit in silence. Not comfortably. Not uncomfortably.

Something real. Something human. Something bigger than the grief, and the love, and everything else that should matter. 

Outside, Seoul pretends to be perfect. 

The future keeps arriving. 

Ppyopuli doesn’t say a word.

[once-upon-a-fic]

these two

[once-upon-a-fic]

17 poems for seventeen’s 10th year

note. you've worked hard these past ten years sebongs; i love you til death; let's be together forever. happy birthday my beloved thirteen ‹𝟹 17 poems—one for each member, + 4 OT13 poems. format inspired by kae's @studioeisa's love poems svt would give you bc they are a legend

choi seungcheol ᥫ᭡ TO HAVE WITHOUT HOLDING by Marge Piercy

I can’t do it, you say it’s killing me, but you thrive, you glow on the street like a neon raspberry, You float and sail, […] […] to have and not to hold, to love with minimized malice, hunger and anger moment by moment balanced.

yoon jeonghan ᥫ᭡ HOW TO BEGIN by Catherine Abbey Hodges

Wipe the crumbs off the counter. Find the foxtail in the ear of the old cat. Work it free. Step into your ribcage. Feel the draft of your heart’s doors as they open and close. Hidden latches cool in your hand.

hong jisoo ᥫ᭡ INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE JOURNEY by Pat Schneider

The self you leave behind is only a skin you have outgrown. Don’t grieve for it. Look to the wet, raw, unfinished self, the one you are becoming.

wen junhui ᥫ᭡ HIGH FLIGHT by John Gillespie Magee Jr.

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds,—and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence.

kwon soonyoung ᥫ᭡ LIFE by Abdellatif Laâbi

Life is nothing short of a miracle that nobody sees O wounded body wounded soul admit you’ve been happy Just between us admit it

jeon wonwoo ᥫ᭡ SOMEDAY I’LL LOVE OCEAN VUONG by Ocean Vuong

Ocean, don’t be afraid. The end of the road is so far ahead it is already behind us. […] Ocean. Ocean — get up. The most beautiful part of your body is where it's headed.

lee jihoon ᥫ᭡ A CENTER by Ha Jin

You must hold your distant center. Don't move even if earth and heaven quake.  If others think you are insignificant, that's because you haven't held on long enough. As long as you stay put year after year, eventually you will find a world beginning to revolve around you. 

lee seokmin ᥫ᭡ ELEGY by Chen Chen

My shoes were growing more powerful with each day. […] […] On Earth lately, I’ve been looking at everyone  like I love them, & maybe I do. Or maybe I only love one person, & I’m beaming from it. Or actually I just love myself, & I want people to know.

kim mingyu ᥫ᭡ MOMENTS by Mary Oliver

There is nothing more pathetic than caution when headlong might save a life, even, possibly, your own.

xu minghao ᥫ᭡ won’t you celebrate with me by Lucille Clifton

won't you celebrate with me what i have shaped into a kind of life? i had no model. […] come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed.

boo seungkwan ᥫ᭡ I ASK PERCY HOW I SHOULD LIVE MY LIFE by Mary Oliver

Love, love, love, says Percy. And hurry as fast as you can along the shining beach, or the rubble, or the dust. Then, go to sleep. Give up your body heat, your beating heart. Then, trust.

chwe hansol ᥫ᭡ THE LIGHT CONTINUES by Linda Gregg

I don’t expect the light  to save me, but I do believe in the ritual. I believe I am being born a second time in this very plain way.

lee jung chan ᥫ᭡ TO BE ALIVE by Gregory Orr

To be alive: not just the carcass But the spark. That’s crudely put, but… If we’re not supposed to dance, Why all this music? 

bonus: seventeen ᥫ᭡ OT13

THANKS by W.S. Mervin

Listen with the night falling we are saying thank you we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings we are running out of the glass rooms with our mouths full of food to look at the sky and say thank you we are standing by the water thanking it standing by the windows looking out in our directions

INVICTUS by William Ernest Henley

It matters not how strait the gate,       How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate,       I am the captain of my soul.

ON WORK by Kahlil Gibran

     And what is it to work with love?      It is to weave the cloth with threads drawn from your heart, even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth.      It is to build a house with affection, even as if your beloved were to dwell in that house.      It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved were to eat the fruit.

love is a place by e.e. cummings

love is a place & through this place of love move (with brightness of peace) all places yes is a world & in this world of yes live (skilfully curled) all worlds

note. someone on twt said the ot13 in a circle pics feel like a ring pov and it has not left my mind since.....it is still the 26th in my timezone so technically i'm on time? [don't boo me pls] [all poems are wonderful so please read them in full if you have the time!!]

[once-upon-a-fic]

ecobrutalism (kim mingyu)

because drafting tables are not meant to be anything more than a decoration.

☆ annoyances to lovers: architect!mingyu x therapist!reader ☆ wc: 5k ☆ genres: non-idol au, annoyances to lovers, office setting? romance, fluff, comedy, no angst (this is a first for me) vibes based on second wind ☆ regular warnings apply; mingyu is both delusional and dramatic, jihoon is tired. ☆ notes: tiya was one of my first mutuals here on tumblr, and she's always been one of the people i can count on to listen to my yapping and not think of me as a strange person (is this weird? i dont think so) but our birthdays are only one day apart, and so, because i can't send a gift from so far away, here's my gift, a small mingyu fic that i hope will bring a smile to your face. happy birthday, @gyubakeries, i hope i know you for a very long time <3 thank you to alta @haologram for making the banner at my speedy request, and @mylovesstuffs for betaing this (if there are errors, there aren't.)

“She’s insane,” Mingyu mutters, holding on to a pamphlet, “she’s insane, and she’s going to make me insane too.”

“She’s not insane,” Jihoon mutters, sipping his tea, “she’s just a therapist. You’re projecting.”

“I’m not,” Mingyu mutters, “she’s the one who’s arguing about stupid rules in the building code that doesn’t even make any sense. I mean, who brings a folder with color-coded tabs to every meeting? Why does she have opinions on how we should build and decorate, for every shop in the building? No one even makes use of these codes in today’s day, they’re virtually obsolete.”

“So, object to them,” Jihoon shrugs, “you’re good at that, right?”

“I’m not, actually,” Mingyu groans, “I’m not even good at ignoring her. It’s making me anxious and irritable. To the extent that it’s affecting how I behave with my clients.”

“Your clients, meaning the old ladies who come here to ogle you and then force their husbands to get their shops redesigned by you?” Jihoon arches a brow, “I hardly doubt those count as actual clients, Kim Mingyu. You’ve got admirers here.”

“They bring money so yes, they’re my clients,” Mingyu snaps, “and you’re one to talk, hyung. Didn’t I catch you yesterday, buying random books from the bookstore? You don’t even read post-war Japanese crime fiction, for heaven’s sake. You were trying to get with the bookstore owner, weren’t you? You even composed a song for her, don’t even think about denying it.”

Jihoon colors, “none of your business, Mingyu.”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” Mingyu taunts, “anyway, help me out with this woman. She continues to get on my nerves at every possible opportunity, and I don’t know how long I can hold on before I inevitably lose my shit and kill her or something like that.”

“Not long for that,” Jihoon muses. 

“Shut up, and try and help me.”

Jihoon sighs. He’s been tolerating Mingyu’s antics since the past year when the younger man decided to open his shiny new office in their dilapidated shopping centre, and while his perfect visuals have helped in footfall, it also means Jihoon has to take care of Mingyu and his tantrums on a semi-regular basis. Semi-regular now that he’s managed to find himself a sworn enemy. It’s not even a big deal, Jihoon does not understand why he keeps swearing to high heavens that he hates her guts. 

“She doesn’t seem so bad,” Jihoon says, trying to get Mingyu to calm down to a certain degree, “you don’t even typically get this angry, do you?”

“I don’t,” Mingyu shakes his head, “imagine how royally annoying she has to be, to get me this mad.”

“Huh,” Jihoon turns it over in his head a few times, “are you sure it’s not just a random one-time thing? She’s not proposing bad things as such, she’s just telling us to be more aware of the city’s building rules and regulations. Something which I thought you would have been a stickler for, given how you are the architect here, not her.”

“I do care about building rules and regulations,” Mingyu seethes, “I’m just not a bloody fanatic about it.”

“Ah, so that’s the problem,” Jihoon shrugs, “anyway, sort this shit out amongst yourselves, all this is seriously cramping my rizz.”

“Your rizz?” Mingyu scoffs, “hah! You’re just going to spend all your money at the bookstore, aren’t you? You’ve got no rizz to speak of.”

“Speak nicely to your elders, you little shit.”

“I’ll speak nicely to you when you actually show me proof of your rizz that goes beyond stupid yearning from a distance,” Mingyu taunts, “wait, have you even talked to her? Or are you just planning to stare at her and creep her out? You know that’s not how anyone asks someone out, right?”

“Shut up,” jihoon ‘s looking intently at the door, “I’m actually trying to get her to go on a date with me.”

“And have these thoughts found any other home outside of your mind, Lee Jihoon?”

“You know she’s friends with the therapist you keep yelling at during the meetings,” Jihoon groans, “until you stop fighting with her friend, she’s not even going to look at me or give me the time of day. Now make up amongst yourselves and for once, let me go on a fucking date.”

He leaves to go back to his regular yearning duties, and Mingyu is left seated in his chair, pondering over two things; the current state of his finances, which owls absolutely not withstand the onslaught of a renovation putting it to date with the city’s newest regulations, and Jihoon’s love life.

—

“Why the fuck won’t he just comply with whatever I’m asking?” you yell, throwing up your hands, “it’s the city’s regulations, stuff that he should be familiar with, given that he’s an architect, for heaven's sake, not me! Why the hell am I the person telling him things?”

“Maybe it’s because you can be a bit annoying about these things,” the bookstore owner, your only friend in this goddamn place, pipes up from behind her stack of books, “maybe if you weren’t so pushy about it, he’d hate you a little less.”

“He’s just an asshole," you say, “I need to look into his architecture degree.”

“Not to that extent,” she holds up her hands, “but you can be really pushy and I think maybe, if you’re really this concerned about the building regulations, then you should come to a compromise with him before the next building committee meeting two weeks later.”

“That soon?” You groan, “oh god, he’s going to be so annoying when I approach him first, isn’t he?”

“It’s not about who’s more annoying, it’s about who is more reasonable out here,” she shrugs, “have you ever seen me pick fights I don’t need to?”

You shake your head, “god knows how you manage to do it. If it were up to me, I’d have his head on a pike outside my office.”

“And risk facing the wrath of all the neighbourhood aunties?”

“Yes, that’s the only thing he’s good at,” you seethe, “he’s basically eye-candy for all the neighborhood aunties. Why the hell is he on the neighbourhood watch? He didn’t even live here until a few years ago!”

“Neither did you.”

“I did! I moved back!”

“Look, the point is that you need to make amends with him,” your friend reasons, “or else living in this shopping complex will be difficult for you. People actually like him a lot more than you think they do, which is why it will not be difficult for them to get you out of  here.”

“Out of here?” you shriek, “what do you mean out of here? They can’t do that to me, not legally at least.”

“They can make your life a hundred times more difficult than it already is, which will make it worse for you to run a business,” she replies, strangely calm, “I’ve been here far longer than you have. Being likeable is currency. They want someone likeable, not someone who sticks to the rules and makes everyone more annoyed than they already are.”

“Ugh, I knew I was right about him the moment I met him,” you mutter, and your friend frowns. 

“You really did have a poor choice of words back then.”

You shake your head, ignoring the jibe, “So, I need to be nice with him.”

“Precisely.”

—

Mingyu is trying to be nice, he really is. Jihoon has been blowing up his phone, asking him to fix things so he can go back to creepily stalking the bookstore owner, but he’s a good friend, so he’s going to be nice. 

Which is what he’s been telling himself since the moment he stepped foot into the clinic run by that woman. Happiness Clinic, he repeats, looking at the sign on the wall, how stupid. 

“Kim Mingyu,” you say, surprised to see him walking through your doors in the middle of the day, “strange to see you here.”

“No business?” he asks, offhandedly, making a motion at the empty waiting area. 

“I have a consultation in half an hour,” you reply, “what do you want?”

Mingyu sighs. He’s really not looking for an argument, but your attitude is not helping his current goal. “Look,” he says, after a whole minute, “about the newest resolutions, can we at least work it out? Most of the residents don’t want to upend their entire businesses to make sure their stores are up to code.”

“Yes, but shouldn’t they be making sure they’re not violating code?” she argues, “and you of all people should be making sure they’re not being fined by the city officials. You’re an architect. I’m just a random therapist.”

“You’re not a random therapist,” Mingyu argues, before taking a deep breath, “even the city officials generally give the store owners a window of time within which they have to comply with regulations. At least give them more than a week.”

“Fine,” she snaps, “just so you know, I’m not doing this as a favour to you. I’m doing this as a favour to my friend.”

“The bookstore owner?”

“Yes, the bookstore owner,” The sarcasm is not lost on him, “she’s the one who told me I have to at least make sure the residents don’t hate my guts.”

“See, she’s got it down,” Mingyu suddenly feels a bout of gratitude towards the bookstore owner, whose name he still is not familiar with, but he’s going to give her a basket of flowers the next day. “You need to compromise to some degree, to be able to cohabitate. Life is all about cohabitation and compromise, you know.”

“Yes, yes,” she makes a face, “fine, I’ll tone down the arguing. They can make their arrangements taking as long as they want. When the city officials come knocking on their doors, don’t say I did not warn you.”

“Noted, doctor.” he gives her a mock salute, before turning to leave the same way that he came. You groan, before making a rude gesture, which Mingyu catches. He just laughs, before walking away. Cute. 

—

“Hyung,” Mingyu has been running for an hour, he thinks, knocking on Jihoon’s door, until the older man opens up, angry expression on his face, “why the hell did you take so long to open the door?”

“I was taking a nap, Mingyu,” Jihoon mutters, “it’s four in the afternoon, and I don’t have customers right now, so of course I was doing what any normal person does, and was taking a nap.”

“Wow, you’re such a productive member of society, hyung,” Mingyu scoffs, before opening the door wide open, “okay, I need your help with something.”

“I don’t have money.”

“It’s not—why does everything have to be about money?”

“We live in a capitalistic society, Kim Mingyu-ssi, of course everything is about money.”

“Ugh fine, but this one is not,” he waves a hand, “I think I’m going crazy.”

“And it took you this long to figure out?” Jihoon raises an eyebrow, “wow, you really are a genius, as they say.”

“This is not a time to make fun of me, hyung,” Mingyu wails, which, in retrospect, is not the best look on a grown adult man, “how did you even know you liked the bookstore owner?”

“She has a name, you idiot,” Jihoon swats the back of his head, “and no, why would I tell you?”

“Just help me out once, please,” Mingyu wails again, “I’m seriously never going to ask you for help again if you help me out here.”

“Fine,” Jihoon is not entirely convinced with his declaration, but he sits down at the counter anyway, “what seems to be your problem?”

Mingyu takes a deep breath, “I think I like her.”

Jihoon scowls, “like who? There are eight billion people in the world, you have to be specific here.”

“The therapist!” Mingyu throws up his hands, pacing around the shop, “I seriously think I like her or something like that. I’m going crazy here, just help me out once.”

“Might I suggest a psychiatric hospital?”

“Hyung.” 

“What do you expect me to say?” Jihoon makes a vague gesture with his hands, “until yesterday, you were vowing to kill her with your bare hands or something like that. Now you’re here at my door, telling me you like her. I’m not the only person, you ask anyone else, they’ll all say the same thing; you’ve got to check yourself into a hospital or something like that.”

“You’re not even getting the point,” Mingyu groans, “up until last night, I never even had thoughts about her in that way.”

Jihoon raises an eyebrow. It reminds him of his elementary school teacher, just as terrifying, “Mingyu, what have we said about catching feelings from a sex dream?”

“It was not a sex dream!”

“So it was worse,” Jihoon leaned back into the chair, “go on.”

“I don’t know man,” Mingyu sighs, “I went to meet with her yesterday afternoon about the upcoming meeting, and she was actually nice to me.”

“You mean she did not actively argue with you?” Jihoon tries to smile, although it’s more of a grimace, “you seriously need to rethink the reasons for getting attracted to someone.”

“It’s not even like that!” Mingyu protests, “she was actually nice to me. And she didn’t even yell that much!”

“Mingyu, last week, at the committee meeting, she told you to go fuck yourself.”

“And I’m coming to that,” he holds up a hand, “she actually did flip me the bird when I was about to leave.”

Jihoon’s got an expression on his face that makes it very clear he does not understand anything Mingyu’s saying, “she flipped you off? Made the sign which tells you to go fuck yourself?”

“Yes, but there was no real malice behind it,” Mingyu waves, “that’s not the point here.”

“I think you’ve gone insane,” Jihoon sighs, “and what, she flipped you off, and you fell in love with her?”

Mingyu makes a face, “why would I fall in love? I’m not that stupid.”

“Yes, you just dreamed about her and are now yapping to me,” Jihoon mutters under his breath, “nothing stupid.”

“Anyway, last night, I literally saw her in a dream,” Mingyu explains, waving his hand about, “it was not even an explicit dream, I legitimately just dreamt of us going on a picnic. And I woke up, and kept thinking about her. Now, whenever I think about her, my heartbeat rises just slightly, not noticeable enough to be concerned, but just enough to make me stop and think, ‘oh? Do I actually think about her in my spare time?’ and it turns out, I actually am thinking of her in my spare time! I even went down to her clinic today, to make sure what I was feeling or thinking about were not just random feelings, and I saw her through the glass doors, and my heartbeat increased to 119, I’m not even kidding, hyung, look at it—”

“Mingyu!” Jihoon yells, “calm the fuck down, you’re rambling.”

“Am I?” Mingyu clutches at his hair, “I really don’t know whatI’m supposed to do, it’s so embarrassing, I want to die.”

Jihoon sighs. This is new. “Look, Mingyu,” he says, cautiously, as if approaching a spooked fawn, “are you confused or are you scared?”

“What do you mean?”

“These feelings, for her,” Jihoon shrugs, “do they confuse you, or do they scare you?”

He pauses, and then replies, “scares me. I’m terrified.”

“That’s good,” Jihoon replies, going to the small fridge in the shop and offering Mingyu a diet coke, “being scared of your feelings means you’re at least acknowledging the attraction. If you were confused about what you were feeling, I would have told you to drop it.”

“Yes, but like you said, I’ve only had about three civil interactions with her, and now I’m feeling attracted to her? Is this normal?”

“Attraction does not follow the rules of normal social behaviour, Mingyu,” Jihoon replies, feeling very much like the father of an emotional teenager, “it does not follow what we want it to do. And being attracted to someone is not a bad thing. She’s not a minor, nor does she have a boyfriend or girlfriend. You’re allowed to like her.”

Mingyu groans, before shoving his entire face into his hands, “I just feel like I’m going to mess everything up if I even try to like her. I mean, she’s never really going to give me the time of day, so why bother? Just look at it this way, hyung, if I go up to her right now, in that stupidly well-lit mental health clinic of hers, and tell her, ‘hey, I think I am attracted to you’, what do you think she’s going to do?”

Jihoon muses, “Probably take your teeth out with a punch.”

“See!” Mingyu wails, “even you know she’s going to think this is all a giant joke or a prank and that I am exactly what she thought of me in the first place.”

“And what exactly did she think of you in the first place?” Jihoon raises an eyebrow, although he’s perfectly aware of the exact words you had said. Mingyu had agonised over it for a whole hour, before deciding to just embrace the misconception and go with it. Shallow, you had called him, a shallow man with no sense of right and wrong. “And you’re sure if you go ahead and tell her you’re attracted to her, to a certain degree, she’s going to label you as a shallow person?”

Mingyu nods. 

“She does not seem like the person to do that,” Jihoon says, “and if she really does do that, then I’ll tell you to just forget about her, because that does not seem like the characteristics of a good person.”

“So, what do I do right now, hyung?” Mingyu asks. 

“For starters, go to your office, and leave me the fuck alone,” Jihoon shrugs, “and in the evening, just go over to her office with a cake or something, and ask her to work with you on which regulations the business owners should adopt in the upcoming meeting.”

“Wow, hyung, look at you go. Who would say that you’ve been single since birth?”

—

“I think I’m going to be killed.”

Your friend stares at you, seated across the table in the bookstore, two lunch boxes open in front of you both. She takes a gulp, swallowing down a large piece of kimbap, and manages to warble out a “come again?”

You sigh, “I think I’m going to be killed soon.”

“By who?” she half-yells, taking a swig from her water bottle, “who the hell wants to kill you?”

“Kim Mingyu.” You whisper conspiratorially, and her face falls. “What?” You protest, “he’s really out to get me, you know that, right?”

“You told him that he was a shallow, self-centred man within thirty minutes of meeting him,” she replies, going back to eating, “I’m going to be surprised if he hasn’t made any attempts on your life yet.”

“You don’t get it,” you wail, “yesterday, he came to my office, asking about the committee meeting next week, and even made an appointment to draft a joint resolution that accommodates both the new regulations of the city and complies with the business owners’ demands of more time and extra funds.”

“And?” She's still not getting the point, which is making you slightly frustrated at this point, “he’s trying to make amends, and he’s actually doing something about what the larger community wants and needs, instead of yelling at everyone and annoying them in public meetings.”

“I’m going to ignore that jibe because I’ve got better things to think about,” you mutter, “he also smiled at me when I flipped him off! He smiled!”

“And you flipped him off, like a middle schooler,” she sighs, “was it a creepy smile, or was it a normal one?”

“Pretty normal, but you can’t really know with Kim Mingyu, right?” 

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say he’s much more normal than you,” she replies, still calm in the face of your anxiety, which in other circumstances would be a good thing, but right now, it is not, “has he done anything else that would give you the impression that he intends on killing you?”

“He’s also asked me to meet him in his office this evening to discuss the joint resolution.” You say, “why the hell would he do that if he did not have nefarious intent?”

“Maybe he just wants to draft a joint resolution,” she counters, “after all, you both argued for so long last time, the committee had to disperse on their own. They even postponed the whole voting process and argument over the resolution because they wanted you to come up with a joint solution to the problem. And he’s the one who’s been making steps towards peace, not you.”

“You’re my friend. You’re supposed to be on my side, not his.”

“I am on the side of whoever makes me not attend those boring meetings,” she yawns, “the last time it ran for over an hour and half, just because you two were fighting so much. This time, please make  sure you play nice with him.”

You narrow your eyes, “Are you sure you’re saying that because you want me to be nice to Mingyu, or are you saying that because you want to flirt with the music store owner?”

“At least I have better social skills than you,” she counters, “and I’m not running out my only chances at normal socialising out with a proverbial broom.” The last part of that sentence is said in English, which goes over your head. 

“What the hell do you mean by that? Stop using complicated  English words because you’re a bookstore owner.”

She sighs, ignoring the second sentence, “the music shop owner is Lee Jihoon, and him and Kim Mingyu, yes I know you hate him, are the only people in this shopping centre who are of our age. The rest of them are all thirty years older than us. People don’t come here to have fun and open up swanky offices, they come here to retire in peace and get a sense of community.”

“I do not get the point you are trying to make.”

“The point is, if you at least tried to be friends with those two, we would have someone of our age to at least talk to. We could go on dinners, trips, ask them to set us up with their friends—”

“Hold on,” you raise a hand to stop her, who’s rattling off things to do with friends, “why do you even want to hang out with those two after work? We already see them here seven days a week, is that not enough for you?”

“No, it’s not,” she makes a face, “I cannot be fraternising solely with senior citizens, you know. I’m not old. But talking to these women, every day and every week, has made me feel like I’m some sort of ahjumma, too. Last week, I corrected a child’s posture.”

“You probably spared them some very expensive spinal surgery down the line.”

“Does not matter!” she snaps, “I don’t want to be correcting a child’s posture, I want to actually go out and have fun, after I close up my shop, instead of just sitting around my house and doing nothing!”

“You actually spend a lot of time doing inventory.”

“And you are going to go and talk to Mingyu,” she practically chases you out of the door, “and don’t even think about coming back here without fixing this mess!”

—

“There, all done,” Mingyu holds up a document, waving it around like he’s won a war, “this is the joint resolution we are proposing, right? Don’t go back on it, please.”

“Now why would I do that?” You ask. 

‘I don’t know, general issues. Maybe you’ll hate the way I dress in the meeting.”

“Do you plan on wearing something wildly inappropriate?” You ask, eyes narrowed, “then I will reconsider.”

“No!” Mingyu yelps, taking a step back, “I do not plan on wearing anything inappropriate for the meeting. In fact, I shall be the most appropriate man in the room that day.”

“That’s good. Bare minimum, but good,” you snipe, wondering how and why your friend wants you to be nice to him, given his penchant for saying the wrong things at the wrong times, “let’s get a meal next time, yeah?”

It’s a polite question, of course, one that does not require a proper answer, of course, no one expects an answer for this question, but Mingyu perks up instantly, wide grin in place, “do you want to get dinner with me right now?”

“Right now?” You check your wristwatch, it’s ten p.m already. If you were to stick to your usual schedule, you would have been at home by now, sitting in front of the television to catch up on your daily hour of peace and entertainment. But the man in front of you seems unable to take no for an answer, nor does he look like he’s someone who has been told no very often. Did no one ever reject him, you wonder, and contemplate idly how it would feel to be the first person to ever say ‘no, thank you’ to his face. 

But he’s looking at you with an open and honest expression, so you sigh, picking up your bag, “let me close up.” another day. I’ll tell him to fuck off another day. 

—

Mingyu is going insane, really. He should have left her alone, their work was done, so why bother to even hang around for another couple hours? But Jihoon’s words from earlier have kept bugging him for longer than he would care to admit. He’s even messed up a semi-important meeting and has been forced to reschedule it. Hell, he’s been so fucked up over this one little thing, he even went back to drafting plans by hand, using the same vintage drafting table he’s used exclusively as decoration. Even that failed, and he spent the rest of the evening wallowing in his misery. 

Why the hell was he looking forward to spending time with her? 

Even now, he’s aware that she doesn’t really want to get a meal with him, and he really feels bad, he does, but he’s also slightly selfish, and he wants to make sense of his own feelings, preferable in a setting separate from their usual one. Proximity breeds affection. Maybe all this is because I’ve been spending too much time in that shopping centre. 

“What’s your favorite architectural style?” She asks, picking up a piece of mushroom from their soup. 

“Huh?”

She rolls her eyes, “I asked you what your favorite architectural style was. I assume you have one, since you are an architect.”

He ignores the jab, “Organic architecture, actually. All throughout university, I was obsessed with the works of Frank Lloyd Wright.”

“The architect of Jiyu Gakuen, right?” She asks, shrugging, “I had an architect as a patient. Back in Seoul City Hospital.”

He files that information for later, “yes, the architect of Jiyu Gakuen. I was so obsessed I even took a trip to see the Fallingwater house in Pennsylvania. And yes, I made several trips to see all his Japanese works.”

“What draws you to him?”

“It’s interesting, how he uses nature, not as a foil, but as a companion to human existence,” Mingyu replies, smiling slightly, “I think I fell in love when I saw pictures of the Pope-Leighey house, when I was in my first year. Honestly speaking, I don’t think I would have been an architect if it was not for—” he pauses, “are you trying to therapize me?”

She laughs, “is it that obvious?”

“You are not as slick as you think,” he laughs, “you said you moved here from Seoul.”

She sighs, “I was hoping you would not hold on to that.”

Mingyu shrugs, “if you don’t want me to, then I won’t, but if you don't mind me asking—”

“I mind, actually.”

“—why did you move to a new clinic? From Seoul City Hospital, too.”

She sighs, “look, there were personal reasons, that’s all I will say. Other than that, I just realised one day that the big hospital did not allow me to look after my patients as well as I could. So, I moved here.”

“And opened the clinic?”

“And opened a clinic.” She smiles suddenly, broad and open, and Mingyu’s smartwatch beeps; abnormal heart rate detected: 109 BPM. 

Damn, he’s fucked. 

—

She’s actually having fun. Mingyu might be out to kill her, but he’s a terrific dinner partner, to the point where she does not miss the warmth of her familiar house and her familiar sofa and the familiar tv dramas. This is concerning. 

—

“Traitor,” your friend scowls, over lunch the next afternoon, “did you get dinner with Kim Mingyu?”

“How the hell do you know that?” 

“Mingyu posted it on his instagram story,” your friend holds up her phone, where Mingyu had posted a picture of her, seated across from him in the restaurant, eating dinner. It could very well have been mistaken for a soft launch picture, if no one was aware of the facts. It should be embarrassing. 

“Huh,” you mutter, going back to organising your notes for all your patients, “I did not think he’d post a picture of me.”

Your friend narrows her eyes, observes her for a full minute, “you like him, don’t you?”

“I—what the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t even give me that act,” she scowls, and for a split second, you hesitate, thinking back on the whole evening, and whether or not it would have been embarrassing if anyone had caught you out with Mingyu, of all people, and, “answer the question.”

“It wasn’t embarrassing,” you murmur, half in disbelief. 

“What?” Your friend asks, but she’s heard it too, only asking you to repeat yourself. 

“I said it was not embarrassing!” You yell, and immediately clap your hand over your mouth. What the hell was that about?

“Knew it. Lee Jihoon owes me ten thousand won.” Your friend grins, self-satisfied, before settling back into her chair. 

“Were you actually betting on this?” You shake your head, “you’re such a traitor.”

“A traitor who will buy you coffee after work,” she grins, “happy now?”

“Ugh, I would be happier if I was not attracted to him,” you sigh, finishing your lunch, “and he was really respectful about the whole thing too, which makes it even more annoying. How can I hate him in peace when I know that he likes Frank Lloyd Wright’s work and wants to repurpose old concrete buildings into designated ‘breathing spaces’ filled with greenery? Like, that is objectively a beautiful idea.”

“Selfless, too.”

“And selfless!” You wail, “I cannot even hate him in peace. All I can do is be annoyed with myself.”

“You like those concrete buildings, don’t you?” Your friend asks after a beat, “they’re symmetrical.”

“And orderly! I like order in my life, which is why I like those buildings.”

“And he wants to turn them into ‘breathing spaces’.”

“Who the hell has heard of something so annoying?”

“It’s not a bad thing at all, you know,” she says, putting a mini sausage on your rice, as though she were comforting a small child, “not everything goes according to plan at all times. Order is well and good, but some sunshine is also good for your health.”

“I’d rather die.” You scow, “just wait, I will never even talk to Kim Mingyu ever again. Even if he shows his stupidly handsome face back in here, I am never talking to him! Never, on my life, never again—”

The door swings open, and a brightly-smiling Kim Mingyu pokes his head in, “what are you doing for dinner?”

“Nothing,” your friend says on your behalf, “she’s free after eight.”

“Great, I’ll see you for dinner, then!” He waves again, and it’s annoying, how you automatically blush, “it’s a date!”

The door closes, and your friend laughs, “should I look up architectural style names now?”

You sigh. I’m really screwed. 

[once-upon-a-fic]

soobin and hueningkai pepero game ft beomgyu

[once-upon-a-fic]

oh, don't mind me. i am just crying over the 'that his father never made him feel like love had to be tough to be true'. perfect line. perfect ending

tough love?

in a world that expected silence, joshua gave his son softness.

pairing: joshua hong x reader warnings: boy dad!joshua, parents au, teeth rotting fluff, domestic asf word count: 1.2k a/n: i seem to only be able to write about joshua lately so here u go 🤓 + im actually sobbing at this baby shua pic im crying

𖤓

most people say joshua would be the perfect girl dad.

the quiet warmth in his eyes, the softness in his voice, he just looked like someone meant to raise a daughter. you could just picture him tying pink ribbons into pigtails, learning how to braid hair through youtube tutorials, walking around with sparkly stickers on his cheeks because “my daughter said I’m a unicorn today.”

and you understood why. he’d be wonderful at that — raising a little girl with tender care, the kind so many women grew up needing but never quite received.

however, you thought otherwise. in your heart, he was a boy dad. it was like he was made to raise a son, your son.

you could see it in how he held him close like a secret he’d waited his whole life to be told. how he loved him in a way that rewrote everything the world ever said about what fathers and sons should be.

because while the world expected fathers to be stern and boys to be strong, joshua gave your son something else entirely — the space to be soft. to feel deeply. to cry without shame, to reach for comfort without apology, to be both gentle and enough.

you saw it the moment your son was born.

they placed him on your chest first, and you watched joshua’s hand shake as he reached out, touched the tiniest part of your baby’s arm, and whispered, “hi, buddy.”

he was crying before the baby was.

not from fear. not from shock. not from the weight of it. but from the kind of overwhelming love that settles into your bones.

“he’s perfect,” he said, voice trembling. “i’m gonna love him so well.”

and he did.

joshua carried your son everywhere those first few months. in wraps, in slings, tucked against his chest like he never wanted to let go. he hummed lullabies into his hair, traced soft circles on his back, and spoke to him even when he couldn’t understand the words yet.

“you’re safe,” he’d whisper. “always safe with me.”

the baby didn’t know what those words meant yet.
but he felt it. and you did, too.

your son’s first real tantrum happened over a broken crayon.

he was three. overtired and overstimulated. crumpled on the floor in tears, fists balled up, face red and frustrated.

you were about to kneel beside him when joshua gently touched your arm.

“i’ve got him,” he said.

then he sat down the floor sitting across his son, letting him cry. he didn’t flinch, didn’t correct. he just waited. letting him express his feelings while also letting him know that he was there.

“hey. that was your favorite crayon, huh?” he asks softly.

he receives a tiny nod through hiccups.

“it’s okay to be sad about that. i get sad about things too.”

the crying didn’t stop right away. but your son crawled into joshua’s lap minutes later. not because he was told to, but because he wanted to. and joshua wrapped his arms around him like he had all the time in the world.

that was the moment your son learned he never had to be alone in his feelings.

sometimes, the world got louder than joshua could control.

like the day your son came home from daycare with red-rimmed eyes and stiff shoulders. he wasn’t crying anymore, not visibly, but you could see it in the way he avoided joshua’s gaze, how his small hands stayed balled in his lap during dinner, barely touching his food.

joshua knelt in front of him, “did something happen today, bud?”

your son hesitated, “i cried when i missed you. and some of the boys saw.”

joshua’s hands stilled.

“they all laughed at me,” your son continued. “said boys don’t cry. that i was acting like a baby. like a girl.”

each word came with less confidence than the last, like he wasn’t sure anymore what was okay to feel. like he was repeating a rule he didn’t understand but was suddenly supposed to follow.

joshua didn’t scold. nor did he try to explain it away. he just opened his arms and asked gently, “can i show you something?”

he climbed into joshua’s lap, pressing his face into the curve of his shoulder.

and there in the middle of the playroom, he let a single tear fall.

your son pulled back, wide-eyed. “daddy… are you crying?”

joshua nodded. “yeah, i am.”

“why?”

“i cry when i feel big things. like love. or sadness. or when i hear you say something that makes my heart heavy.”

your son looked at him with sad eyes.

“and today, hearing that they laughed at you, that made my heart hurt a lot.”

your son looked confused for a second. then his little arms went around joshua’s neck.

“sorry, daddy.”

“no need to be sorry,” joshua whispered. “it’s good to feel things. you’re allowed.”

and that was the moment your son learned his softness would never make him less.

they had a language all their own.

not in words, but in the way your son instinctively reached for joshua’s hand when he was unsure. how he laid his head on his dad’s shoulder when he was sleepy. how he never hesitated to say, “i love you, dad,” because he heard it so often, it just lived in his chest.

joshua was the kind of father who kissed his son’s forehead when he dropped him off at school. who packed handwritten notes in his lunchbox.

he wore matching pajamas with him on movie nights.
let him fall asleep against his side during bedtime stories. held him during fevers, nightmares, scraped knees, never once rushing the hug.

people still said joshua gave girl dad energy.

but if they could see what you saw, if they witnessed the way joshua raised your son with open hands and open arms, they’d understand.

this wasn’t about pink or blue, softness or strength.

this was about a boy who grew up knowing he never had to earn his father’s affection.

that love wasn’t conditional. that tenderness wasn’t weakness. that he could be everything he felt and still be whole.

joshua didn’t just raise a son.

he gave him the gift of belonging in every hug, in every gentle word, in every time he held him a little longer than the world said was “necessary.”

and one day, when your son is grown, you hope he remembers all of it.

the warmth. the softness. the safety.

that his father never made him feel like love had to be tough to be true.

[once-upon-a-fic]

you deserve each other ⛱️ seokmin x reader.

all is fair in love, war, and... trying to get fired? the waterpark is the last place you and seokmin want to be. in a ditch attempt to escape your job, the two of you opt to break carat bay’s unspoken, cardinal rule: don't date your co-worker.

⛱️ pairing. co-workers seokmin x reader. ⛱️ word count. 12.4k. ⛱️ genres. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: waterpark co-workers. romance, friendship, humor, hint of angst. ⛱️ includes. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. fake dating and all its shenanigans, sweetheart seokmin, lots of making out (do with that what you will), soonyoung is a plot device, other idols get randomly name dropped as employees. ⛱️ notes. this is part of @camandemstudios’ carat bay collaboration. ever so grateful to be trusted with seok! ‹𝟹 thank you to my ride or die, @chugging-antiseptic-dye, for beta reading. check out the other fics in the collaboration here. 🎵 seokmin’s top tracks this month. sugar, brockhampton. sunny days, wave to earth. get you, daniel caesar ft. kali uchis. heart to heart, mac de marco. m2m, cody jon.

The framed plaque is heavier than you expect.

A small, polished thing. Mahogany edges, gold trim. Your name etched onto a brushed metal plate, capitalized and misspelled. The receptionist claps politely. Someone offers you a slice of cake. Your manager—Changbin—says your name like it’s a blessing, like you’re his biggest win this quarter.

“... a beacon of initiative,” he’s saying, hand on your back, smile radiant and full of teeth. “Always on time, never a complaint, always going above and beyond—”

You stop listening around the word beacon. 

Where joy should be, a horrible kind of dread is crawling up your throat like soda foam. You don’t want this. You never wanted this.

For the last six months, you’ve been orchestrating your own quiet downfall. 

Small acts of rebellion: late reports, mismatched fonts in client decks, turning in spreadsheets without formulas. Once, you deliberately CC’d the wrong contact on an invoice email. Twice. Three times.

Nothing. Not a single reprimand. You’ve only been praised for your ‘out-of-the-box thinking.’

Now here you are. Employee of the Month at Carat Bay—home of hollow branding jargon, ergonomic nightmares, and a break room fridge that smells like egg salad and regret. You’re holding a plaque you prayed someone else would win.

The universe is cruel. Your parents are crueler.

See, Carat Bay is just the latest on your resume’s Greatest Hits of Unwanted Professions. Before this was the summer you spent handing out frozen yogurt samples in a visor that said Lick Me. Before that: barista at a vegan café that also sold crystals. Before that: dog-walking, tutoring, retail at a candle shop that played Meghan Trainor on loop.

Your parents forced each one of them with the same airtight argument: You need discipline. You need direction.

You said you wanted to freelance. Write, maybe. Design book covers. Do something weird and personal and fulfilling. They laughed. Your father nearly choked on his coffee.

But a deal was struck with the Carat Bay gig. If you got laid off, they’d stop pushing. Let you go rogue. No more curated job listings emailed at 5 a.m. No more passive-aggressive forwarded TED Talks. No more, ‘When I was your age, I had a mortgage and two kids.’

If—if—you got laid off. Quitting was not in the cards. It was either that or you stay for at least three years, which you would honestly rather die than do. 

Now, you find that you have this. A plaque. A photo op. Changbin squealing, “This one’s going in the newsletter!”

God, you think, gripping the plaque like it might shatter. You are being rewarded for mediocrity. You are being celebrated for incompetence.

You smile for the camera anyway.

It’s the kind of smile that could get you promoted.

Back at the merchandise stand, your co-worker greets you with a grin and a pair of scissors he’s using to snip zip ties off a crate of branded tote bags.

“Look at you, hotshot,” Seokmin says, nudging you with his elbow. “Changbin’s golden child. I knew you had it in you.”

Your brows furrow. “You’re not mad?”

He scoffs, that beaming smile of his slotting back into place without a moment’s hesitation. “Why would I be mad? This means I don’t have to be Employee of the Month. That plaque is cursed,” he teases good-naturedly. 

You laugh. Genuinely, if only for a second. Seokmin is the kind of person who makes you believe in the good of humanity. 

He once gave his lunch to a crying intern. He always remembers your birthday. He talks to every lost tourist like it’s his job, which technically, it is not. And—in your honest, unbiased opinion—he’s easy on the eyes, too. It takes a lot to make the dreadful polo and even more dreadful khakis work, but Seokmin somehow manages. 

“Seriously,” he continues, turning back to the tote bags, “I’m happy for you. You’ve been working hard. And let’s be honest, you’re the only one who knows how to fix the card reader. Changbin was probably just buying insurance.”

There’s a lightness to his voice. No trace of envy. Just easy, unaffected kindness.

You swallow down the guilt forming like a pit in your stomach. You’ve been quietly planning your own escape route while he’s been showing up every day like a real adult, juggling overtime and night classes. You’re trying to crash and burn and Seokmin—sweet, undeserving Seokmin—might get singed in the crossfire.

You clear your throat. “Thanks, Seokmin. That means a lot.”

He just shrugs. “Don’t let it go to your head, okay? You still owe me lunch for covering your shift last week.”

Seokmin walks away to restock mugs, and you stare after him, plaque still under your arm, feeling like the world’s worst con artist. You don’t want Employee of the Month. You don’t deserve it. 

You know someone who does. 

Lee Seokmin, who brings extra socks to work in case someone forgets theirs. He knows the perfect ratio of syrup to ice in the rainbow slushies. He has an uncanny ability to get toddlers to stop crying with a single balloon animal. 

You’ve seen it all. He’s sunshine in human form, if sunshine occasionally tripped over its own feet and knocked over the popcorn machine.

That’s the thing, though. Seokmin—bumbling, bright-eyed Lee Seokmin—isn’t just your co-worker. He’s the son of the owners. 

The heir of this kitschy little theme park kingdom. The golden boy who is destined to inherit its cotton candy throne and take up the sticky, sunscreen-slicked mantle of summer fun for generations to come.

Carat Bay is practically tattooed on his DNA. The gift shop trinkets, the underwater mascot shows, the overenthusiastic lifeguards. This whole place was designed by his family and built on a business model of manufactured joy, and he was the prince working the merchandise stand to get some good ol’ starting-from-the-bottom experience. 

So when, days later, he startles and blurts, “I swear it’s not what it looks like!”—while clutching an open box cutter and a half-disemboweled box of limited edition light sticks—your first reaction isn’t anger. 

It’s confusion.

You ask, flatly, “What the fuck are you doing?”

He winces. He always winces when you swear. Rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes dart around like he’s searching for an escape hatch. “Okay, I know this looks bad. Like, really bad,” he starts. “But I swear I wasn’t going to, like, ruin them. Just… make them look better?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. And opens again. “But why?” you manage. It’s a good thing the waterpark has already shut down for the day. You’re not sure what you’d do if you had to deal with this with a whole shift ahead of you.

Seokmin sighs. It’s the kind of sigh that carries a decade of summer-themed retail trauma.

You glance over his shoulder to the shimmering banner flapping in the breeze: WELCOME TO CARAT BAY—THE #1 MERCH DESTINATION ON THE COASTLINE! A glittering monstrosity. Just like everything else here.

“I thought you liked it here,” you add, genuinely bewildered. “You do the Carat cheer. You wore the mascot suit that one time. Willingly.”

He shrugs, sheepish. “Well, yeah. But I also want out.”

“You’re the owner’s kid. All this is going to be yours someday.” You gesture vaguely at the cartoon dolphins, the sparkle-laminated shelves, the sea of bubblegum-pink merchandise. 

Seokmin shouldn’t be cutting up product. He should be on some managerial fast-track, drawing up expansion plans in a conference room somewhere. Not ruining stock and looking like he’s going to hurl from the guilt of it.

It happens fast enough for you to almost miss it, but Seokmin’s expression crumbles into  a grimace. Unnatural on a face that usually had a perpetual grin, a catalogue of every positive emotion known to man. “Yeah,” he exhales. “Exactly.” 

It clicks, then. All of it.

The too-frequent mishandling of inventory. The time he tripped and unplugged the entire register system. The day he mistakenly shipped an entire box of glow-in-the-dark keychains to the wrong coast.

You’d chalked it up to Seokmin being Seokmin. Lovable. Mildly chaotic. But now—

“You’ve been trying to get fired,” you say, the truth hitting you like a tsunami on the Wave River.

“Just like you,” Seokmin confirms. The knowledge sends a prickle of panic down your spine, but it fades when he goes on to joke, “Only I suck at it even more than you do.”

You snort. You can’t help it. “Wow. So we’re really the dumbest people here.”

He laughs sheepishly, but it’s the most honest thing you’ve heard in weeks. And when your eyes meet, there’s this quiet understanding that passes between you—like a pact sealed in shared misery and mutual sabotage.

You exhale. “Fine. I won’t rat you out. But you’re going to tell me what it is you actually want to do. Eventually.”

Seokmin grins. It’s that sun-bright, unfiltered expression he wears when he’s about to say something incredibly sincere or incredibly stupid.

“Deal.”

You reach for the disemboweled box. “Let’s make it look like an accident.”

Now you’ve both got a secret. And a goal.

The only thing more dangerous than two people who hate their jobs? Two people who’ve decided to stop pretending otherwise.

--

Except nothing you try works.

You set the air conditioning so low people start confusing your booth for a meat locker. Seokmin deliberately stocks the wrong merchandise on the featured shelves. You both take extended lunch breaks and once, very deliberately, you curse out a mom with three kids after she calls the staff lazy. Seokmin nearly fainted afterward from the adrenaline.

But none of it lands. Your manager pats you both on the back. Customers rave about your booth on Yelp. Kids write thank-you notes in marker.

Next thing you know, a laminated sign appears at the break room. Your name and Seokmin’s, right next to the dreaded Employees of the Month title. 

The photo is horrible. Your smile is tight with disbelief. Seokmin’s peace sign is half a second from cramping.

You two convene in the supply closet. Your emergency meeting room of choice.

“This is bad,” you say, pacing. “This is so, so bad.”

“We could, uh… just keep trying?” Seokmin offers, nibbling the edge of a pen.

“We’ve been trying. We ended up with a plague.” You groan. “We need something bigger. Something bold.”

Your mind whirs. You sift through memory like old receipts in a drawer. Nobody gave a fuck enough about merchandise to cry about its sabotage. Snark was to be somewhat expected from the two of you, and you didn’t really want anything too extreme on your track record. 

How had the past couple of people left Carat Bay? Your fingers tap, tap, tap on the closed closet door. There had been Heeseung, and Soobin—

Bingo.

The recent firings. Not many, but enough to see the pattern.

Heeseung, shortly after he was confirmed to be living with the girl who worked the bodyslide. Soobin, who packed his stuff up when he was found making out with the after-hours lifeguard. 

The ‘rule’ wasn’t written in stone. Not in the employee manual, not mentioned during briefings. But it still existed in a yellowing Post-It taped up on the janky breakroom refrigerator.

DON’T FUCK EACH OTHER.

“Of course,” you whisper. “Of course.”

“What?” Seokmin says, wary.

You turn to him slowly. The smile that breaks on your face only seems to unnerve the boy even more, especially when you go on to declare,  “We fake date.”

A beat. Seokmin blinks at you like you just offered to throw hands with God himself. “Fake date?” he repeats. 

You nod sagely. “It’s bulletproof. Everyone who’s gotten canned the past three months? They were caught hooking up with coworkers. There’s a Post-It in the lounge, remember? ‘DON’T FUCK EACH OTHER.’”

Seokmin opens his mouth, closes it. Then again. It’s like watching a fish try to breathe above water. Finally, he croaks, “No.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeats, slightly firmer now, arms crossing over his chest like that would protect him from you. Which, to be fair, it might have if you weren’t already smirking.

“Wow,” you say, feigning hurt. “That repulsive, huh?”

Seokmin chokes. “Don’t put words into my mouth!”

You raise an eyebrow. “Then what am I supposed to take from that, huh? You look like I asked you to run off to Vegas.”

He rubs the back of his neck, visibly flustered. His ears are already pink. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Why? What, you got a secret girlfriend stashed in the plushie bin?”

He groans. “No. That’s not—I just… haven’t.”

“Haven’t what?”

“Dated.”

“You’ve never had bitches?”

“I don’t—women are not bitches,” Seokmin splutters. 

He looks like he might spontaneously combust. You’re half-tempted to poke his cheek, see if steam comes out of his ears. Cute, you muse to yourself, but cute in the same way that a kitten might be if its head was stuck in a tissue box. Not cute in a I-want-this-man way. At least, you don’t think so. 

You lean your elbow on the counter and study him, thoughtful. “I could ask someone else. Soonyoung probably wouldn’t even hesitate,” you note. “But I wanted it to be mutually beneficial.”

Seokmin chews the inside of his cheek. “Mutually beneficial?”

“Yeah. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, handsome,” you say, deliberately sweet, watching his face redden by the second.

He presses his hands to his cheeks like that’ll stop the heat. “Can I… think about it?”

“Sure. Just don’t think too hard. Might take it personally.” 

He groans again, but you catch the shy little grin he tries to hide as he ducks his head. Victory tastes a lot like Seokmin’s embarrassment—soft and just a little sweet.

Four days and three failed sabotage attempts later, Seokmin finally gets back to you.

You’re in the middle of stacking sun-bleached baseball caps that say CARAT BAY: GOOD VIBES ONLY when he approaches, rubbing the back of his neck like he might apologize for existing.

“So,” he starts, glancing around like he thinks you might have an audience. The only person within 10 feet of you is a kid licking ice cream and glaring at a pigeon. “About the thing. The, uh. Proposal.”

You know where he’s getting at. You just want to hear him say it. “You’ll have to be more specific,” you say breezily. “I proposed several things.”

He goes pink in the ears. Adorable.

“The fake dating thing,” he clarifies, and then fumbles over his next words. “Not that I think dating you would be—I mean, obviously, you’re very—I’m not, like, repulsed or anything—”

“Seokmin.”

“Right. Sorry. Yes. Let’s do it.”

You blink. Then blink again. You had expected him to try and let you down gently, to instead try and rope you into vandalizing the mat racer. Instead, he’s shifting from side to side, laying his heart down on your feet. 

“If you still want to,” Seokmin adds when you’re silent for a beat too long. By some miracle, you resist the urge to coo. 

“Handsome,” you say slowly, grinning as he sputters. “Of course I still want to. What changed your mind?”

He looks down at his shoes, his voice soft. “You said it could be mutually beneficial. And I figured… I want out. You want out. Maybe this is the way.”

Something flickers in your chest. Not pity, exactly. Something warmer.

“Alright,” you say, and you reach over to the counter to hold out your hand to him. 

You lay out the ground rules. You’d spent an embarrassing amount of time the past few days doing research of your own—watching contemporary classics like Anyone But You and To All The Boys I Loved Before before scouring the fake dating tag on AO3. 

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” you remind him. “Touch is probably the best way to go about this, but we only have to do that when somebody’s watching. Convincing flirting is the key. The goal is to get caught.” 

You don’t add the cliche of all cliches. No falling in love. Not because you’re hoping for it, no, but because it feels like a given. You like to think you’re smarter than Sydney Sweeney’s Bea and Landa Condor’s Lara Jean. 

Seokmin listens with rapt attention before bobbing his head up and down in a solemn nod. With eyebrows slightly scrunched from concentration, he takes your hand. 

The two of you shake on it. 

--

You and Seokmin agreed to start small. Ease into it. Not make it too obvious. Open flirtation in the break rooms, stolen glances in line for churros, maybe a suggestive comment or two over headset. Nothing too dramatic.

So far, none of it has landed.

You’d told Seokmin to just follow your lead. He was good at that. Always had been. When you reached across the table to oh-so-casually pluck a cherry off his soda float and pop it into your mouth, you expected at least one co-worker to clock it. Instead, Soonyoung kept chattering about the new ice sculpture exhibit, completely unbothered. Joshua just nodded, as if you had simply demonstrated the polite camaraderie of sharing a beverage.

You even tried batting your lashes while Seokmin offered you the last dumpling. He didn’t need to play it up much—just smiled wide, ears going red. Still, all you got from the others was a distracted thanks-for-leaving-some-for-us, not even a wink or a whisper.

You were going to have to double your efforts.

“This is a disaster,” you mutter later that night as you help Seokmin restock souvenir mugs.

He straightens a bit too fast, knocking over a stack of keychains. “I thought it was subtle,” he sniffles, going to pick up the plastic surfboards. 

“Exactly the problem,” you shoot back. “We’re so subtle, it’s like watching two Barbie dolls try to make out without bending at the waist.”

Seokmin’s laugh is loud and unguarded, drawing a look from a passing intern. He ducks his head and waits for her to pass. “Okay. We go bigger. I can do that,” he says, probably trying to convince himself as much as you. “Maybe I could, I dunno, carry you bridal style through the sand sculpture path?”

“Let’s not go zero to K-drama,” you say dryly. “We build up to that. We start with touches. Long looks. Close proximity.”

“You say that like we’re not already touching every five minutes by accident.”

You hand him a mug and let your fingers brush his, lingering. It’s an act, sure, but you’re sure he feels it too. The jolt of electricity. The thrum beneath your skin. Seokmin’s breath hitches, his eyes flitting to where the tips of your fingers had just pressed. 

“That,” you point out. “But on purpose.”

He nods, dazed. “Right. Totally. On purpose.”

If anybody asked, you were building a believable relationship arc.

A couple of days later, you find Seokmin hunched over the merchandise booth counter, the cheap company laptop tilted slightly toward him. He’s got that familiar deep crease between his brows, the one he gets whenever he’s hyper-focused. Usually while trying to fix a jammed ticket printer or master a new drink recipe from the cafe next door.

You lean closer, about to tease him for working too hard, when the wikiHow tab on the screen catches your eye: How to be a good boyfriend: A guide for beginners.

You bite back a smile, heart squeezing painfully at the earnestness of it. Of course he’d look it up. Sweet, ridiculous Seokmin.

“Whatcha doing, handsome?” you ask, voice lilting and teasing.

Seokmin jolts upright so fast he nearly knocks the laptop onto the floor. “I—Nothing! Research! Important work research!”

You snicker, plucking the laptop gently from his grasp and setting it safely aside. “Research, huh? Planning to date the slushie machine or something?”

He groans, covering his face with both hands. “Don’t make fun of me,” he mumbles, words muffled by his palm. “I'm—I'm trying to be good at this.”

Your chest aches again. Not in an oh-I’m-screwed way, but in the reminder that, once again, Lee Seokmin is too good for this world. Too pure to be roped into your low-budget, romantic-comedy life. 

“Hey,” you say delicately, nudging his arm until he peeks at you between his fingers. “You can just ask me, you know.”

“Ask you?”

You grin. “Yeah. You’re fake-dating me, remember? Free resource right here.”

He drops his hands, staring at you for a moment. It lasts long enough to make you feel seen, which is never good. “You’d really help me?”

“Of course. I’m an excellent fake girlfriend.” You lean in, conspiratorial. “Tip one: You’re already doing great just by caring this much.”

Seokmin's mouth parts slightly, like he wants to protest but can't quite find the words.

“Tip two,” you continue, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “If you ever don’t know what to do, just be honest. It's kind of…” —you soften— “my favorite thing about you.”

He blinks at you, visibly flustered, and you resist the urge to pinch his cheeks.

“Got any other questions, babe?” you tease, but Seokmin only shakes his head and mumbles something about knowing what to do. 

You’re not all too sure about that. Especially as he starts acting pretty weird in the coming days. 

At first, you think it’s just regular old Seokmin nerves. He fumbles during his cash register shifts, stutters when customers ask for directions, and practically leaps out of his skin when you tap his shoulder to pass him a bottle of water.

But then you notice him sneaking glances at you every few minutes. Shifty, fleeting glances. Like he’s hiding something. You catch him half the time, and he immediately goes red, waving you off with a too-high laugh. “Nothing!” he chirps. “Just—! Nothing!”

Suspicious.

During your lunch break, you find him pacing behind the Carat Bay merchandise booth, clutching his phone like it’s a lifeline. When he spots you, he stuffs it into his back pocket and beams so brightly it’s blinding.

“You good, handsome?” you ask, raising a brow.

“Yup!” His voice cracks on the word.

You narrow your eyes but let it go. For now.

It’s when you’re restocking plushies that you notice it: Seokmin, in the distance, accepting—and then panicking over—a large, extravagant bouquet of flowers.

He tries to hold it normally. He really does.

But first, he almost drops it. Then, he sneezes. Loudly. Violently. Three times in a row.

“Are you okay?” You rush over just as he doubles over with another round of sneezes, the bouquet wobbling precariously in his arms.

“I’m—” he gasps between fits, “—fine!” Sneeze. “Fine!” Sneeze.

You take the flowers from him. It’s a stunning collection of pink and white blooms. “Were you… getting me flowers?” you ask dazedly. 

Seokmin nods, eyes watery, nose turning a tragic shade of red.

Your heart lurches. “Seokmin. Are you allergic to flowers?”

“N-No?” He says unconvincingly before another sneeze rattles through him.

You bite down a laugh, the affection nearly overwhelming.

“Oh my God,” you murmur, shoving the bouquet into Joshua’s bewildered arms as he passes by. “You’re literally dying to be my boyfriend.”

Seokmin sniffles pitifully. “Worth it.”

You shake your head, pulling him by the wrist toward the staff lounge. “C’mon, Romeo. Let's find you some allergy meds before you actually keel over.”

Behind you, Joshua calls out “Are these for me?” while holding up the bouquet.

Seokmin sneezes again in response.

--

“We should actually get to know each other,” you say around a mouthful of rice.

Lunch at Carat Bay is a lawless stretch of twenty-five minutes during which the staff gathers in a sun-warped outdoor seating area, and hierarchy momentarily dissolves into lukewarm leftovers and communal fries. You and Seokmin decide this is the perfect place for the two of you to set your scene. 

You sit on the same picnic bench, unnecessarily close to two people who claim to be coworkers. Which is the point, really.

“I thought we were doing okay,” he answers middlingly. 

“You Googled how to be a boyfriend, Seokmin.”

His ears redden. You fight a smile.

“Let’s do this,” you urge, setting your chopsticks down. “Secrets. Weird facts. Stuff you tell someone if you’re… you know. Really dating.”

Seokmin shifts, folding himself smaller as he thinks. “You first,” he says, almost bashfully.

“Fine,” you huff dramatically. “I can’t snap my fingers.”

Seokmin blinks then bursts into laughter, his head tilting back with the force of it. “That’s your big secret?”

“You’d be surprised how often it comes up in life!”

He wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin, still grinning. “Okay, okay. My turn. Uh. I still sleep with a nightlight.”

Your heart squeezes. “That’s cute,” you say, smiling softly.

“It’s dizzying otherwise.” 

“It’s fine,” you say, nudging him. “Better than getting eaten by whatever monster’s under your bed.”

He groans before looking at you with an open, helpless fondness that makes you feel raw. If you were a little smarter, you’d call it off then and there for both of your sake. 

Instead, you go back and forth like that, trading tiny confessions. You tell him about your irrational fear of mannequins. He admits he once tried to drink orange juice after brushing his teeth on a dare and cried. Every admission makes him squirm, makes you giggle, softens the space between you and pulls it tighter.

Seokmin is sweetness, clumsy and earnest and golden. And as he talks, stammering through another story about how he accidentally joined a ballet class in high school thinking it was an improv workshop, you realize: you aren’t acting when you find him impossibly endearing.

You lean your head against his shoulder with a dramatic sigh. “We’re gonna crush this fake dating thing.”

“Yeah?” Seokmin says, wide-eyed but smiling.

“Yeah,” you say, and it’s with a certainty that’s wholly misplaced.

Soon enough, the conversation spins into romantic experiences. When Seokmin asks you about your worst dating experience, you lean in conspiratorially. “There was this one guy who wore socks during sex. Like—knee-high, novelty print socks,” you divulge. “Multiple times.”

Seokmin’s mouth falls open. “No. No. No.”

“Yes.”

“Was that—was it a kink thing or—?”

“Unclear,” you say. “He called it his 'performance gear.”

Seokmin makes a scandalized noise and drops his sandwich in horror. “That is the worst thing I’ve ever heard. I hate the fact you experienced that.”

You’re laughing now. The kind of light, surprised laugh that bubbles up without warning. “I can go worse.”

“Don’t you dare. I’m already mortified.”

“Come on, Mr. No Dating Experience,” you tease. “You’re the one who wanted to know. Unless you’re just jealous.”

He goes red instantly. It shoots up his ears, stains his neck. “I—well, maybe I should be! I don’t have any dramatic sock stories to tell,” he says defensively. “I had one crush in the eighth grade who gave me half of a Twix bar.” 

“That’s romantic.” 

“She transferred schools the next day.”

You burst out laughing, while Seokmin stares at you helplessly. “It’s not not character building,” he whines, shaking your shoulders as you giggle over his misfortune. 

Across the lawn, Joshua nearly drops his water bottle doing a double take at the sight of you two. Joshua blinks a few times, looks away, and proceeds to accidentally pour water down his own shirt.

You and Seokmin exchange a glance.

“Half-win?” he whispers.

You grin. “Half-win.”

He reaches for another fry. You nudge his knee with yours. Lunch hour ticks on like a warm, strange summer dream.

--

You’re elbow-deep in foam fingers and keychains when Seokmin saunters over, oozing effort.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, leaning on the edge of the merch booth like he’s James fucking Dean. “Need a hand, or were you just waiting for me?”

It’s so out of character that you freeze for a second, your fist halfway inside a box labeled CLEARANCE MUGS. Then, you clock Soonyoung loitering a few steps away, nursing a popsicle and watching the two of you with all the interest of someone half-invested in a reality show.

You turn back to Seokmin. He winks. Actually winks. It’s not subtle. You can feel the twitch of his eyelashes from here.

Soonyoung squints. “You guys good?”

“Just peachy,” you chirp, playing along. You sling an arm around Seokmin’s shoulder and lean in a little, giving the performance a few more sparks. “My knight in branded polo just saved me from mug-related peril.”

“Cool,” Soonyoung says, totally unfazed. “Let me know if you find the sunscreen shipment. Shua burned his face again.”

You hold your grin until he’s gone, then collapse against Seokmin’s side with a snort. “Jesus. That was rough.”

Seokmin groans. “I thought the wink would sell it.”

“The wink was, frankly, terrifying.”

He flushes, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m trying, okay?”

“You’ve got heart, baby,” you say, patting his chest. “Execution just needs a little work.”

He mutters something about humiliation and stock rooms.

“You sure you’ve never dated before?” you ask, teasing.

He sighs, still pink. “Yeah. Theater kid. Improv. Not exactly irresistible, apparently.”

You blink at him, then let your gaze sweep from the messy fringe of his hair to the freckle on his jaw, lingering a second longer than necessary. Sure, Seokmin is a bit—all over the place. But he’s boyishly attractive, and if he wasn’t doomed to wear rose quartz and serenity as a 9-5, you think he might actually be a real catch. 

You decide to let him know. 

“Seokmin,” you say slowly. “You are irresistible as fuck, actually..”

He gapes at you. You pretend not to notice how his ears go red like warning lights.

You busy yourself with mugs again, all while your heart plays hopscotch in your chest.

After the disaster masterclass with Soonyoung, you decide to up your act. With Seokmin's consent, of course. 

It’s silly, really. His hand settles in the back pocket of your jeans as if it belongs there, palm flat against the curve of your ass like this is the most natural thing in the world. It’s not. It isn’t. Seokmin is practically vibrating with embarrassment, eyes darting like he’s waiting for a lightning bolt to strike him down. He’s sweating through his uniform polo, and you can feel the tremor in his fingers as he tries—bless him—to stay composed.

“You okay there, champ?” you murmur out the side of your mouth, smile still perfectly plastered. You’ve faked worse. But there’s something especially comical about watching Seokmin try to play suave when he looks like he might pass out from holding your gaze too long.

“Totally fine. Just, uh, practicing proximity,” he says, a little too loud, a little too stiff.

“Proximity,” you echo, biting down a laugh. “Sure. That’s what the kids are calling it now.”

He opens his mouth to reply but clams up instantly when Joshua walks by and double-takes so hard it’s like his neck cricks. Joshua’s eyes linger for a second too long, eyebrows halfway up his forehead, and then he walks faster, like maybe if he moves quickly enough, the image of Seokmin copping a feel in broad daylight will erase itself from his memory.

“Was that—did that count as a win?” Seokmin mumbles.

You grin victoriously. “Definitely a win.” 

Seokmin exhales, relieved. “You’re really good at this,” he breathes. 

“Oh, honey,” you say, adjusting your shirt and looping your arm around his waist like it’s nothing. “I haven’t even started.”

--

Seokmin shoots you a wide-eyed look over Soonyoung's shoulder. You know the one. The look that says, Please get me out of here before I die.

For the past fifteen minutes, Soonyoung has been monologuing about his fantasy, co-ed K-pop group, who he thinks would thrive the most in JYP Entertainment. You catch Seokmin’s eye and give him a sympathetic smile. When there’s a lull in the conversation, you seize your moment.

“We should get going,” you say, brushing your hand against Seokmin’s arm. It makes you feel like a scene partner in a bad rom-com. “Busy day.”

Soonyoung nods, waving a little too enthusiastically. “Yeah, yeah! Go do your merch-y things!”

And that’s your cue.

You lean in like it’s second nature and press a kiss to Seokmin’s cheek—except he turns to look at you just as you're going in, and your lips graze far too close to the corner of his mouth.

Seokmin freezes, eyes wide, cheeks pink. You pull back with a proud little smirk, only to hear Soonyoung’s delighted voice go, “Aww, cute!”

Soonyoung then leans in and, before you can stop him, plants a swift kiss to your cheek.

You blink.

Seokmin blinks.

Soonyoung pulls away, shit-eating grin firmly in place. “Guess that’s how we’re saying goodbye now, huh? Love that for us.”

And then he’s gone, humming something off-key.

You and Seokmin are left standing in stunned silence, lips parted, eyes still tracking the space Soonyoung just vacated.

“What just happened?” Seokmin asks dazedly.

“We’re either really bad at this,” you say, “or Soonyoung’s just really, really good at being Soonyoung.”

Seokmin lets out a strangled laugh. “You think Shua’s gonna want a kiss next time too?”

“God, let’s hope not. I only have so much emotional bandwidth.”

The next month’s announcement comes with a twist neither of you anticipated. 

Wonwoo—quiet, brooding, catlike in demeanor—is the new Employee of the Month. The rest of the team cheers for him with tepid enthusiasm, and he accepts it with a shrug, already halfway back to the cabanas before the applause dies down.

But for you and Seokmin? It’s hope. A rare, glimmering thing.

Seokmin finds you an hour later, halfway through inventory behind the booths. He sidles in beside you like he’s doing something criminal, which—considering the last few weeks of manufactured PDA and workplace sabotage—isn't far from the truth.

“Heard the news?” he says.

“Wonwoo finally getting recognition for his uncanny ability to look hot and disinterested at the same time? Yeah. Big day for the guy.”

“No, I mean—” He lowers his voice, eyes flicking to the open slats of the booth. “Do you think this means it’s working? That they’re onto us?”

You close the inventory sheet and lean against the shelf. “I mean, maybe. But let’s not get cocky. We still work here. We’re not off the hook until we’re fully jobless and making life choices our parents would cry about.”

Seokmin grimaces. “Right. That.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “We gotta up the ante.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What, like another back pocket maneuver?”

“No. We bring out the big guns.”

He looks skeptical. “What’s bigger than the back pocket?”

“A kiss.”

Seokmin chokes on absolutely nothing. “A kiss?”

“In public. Obviously. Catch us in 4K. Let the rumors fly, let HR cry.”

He stares at you like you’ve suggested robbing a bank. Which, to be fair, with this level of emotional fraud it isn’t too far off. “You’re serious.”

“As a tax audit.”

He groans and drops his forehead onto your shoulder. “I am not mentally equipped for this.”

“You’re doing great, handsome.”

“Don’t call me handsome when you’re about to ruin my life.”

You grin, threading your fingers together in a fake prayer. “It’s only fake ruining. Come on, do it for the cause.”

He sighs deeply, like a martyr. “Alright. But if this backfires, you’re buying me dinner.”

“Deal. And dessert, too. You’ll need something sweet to cry into when we’re finally free.”

The plans get made. You’re both actively trying to get fired, sure, but Seokmin still wants to get some of his stuff done. And so the two of you stay even as the clock ticks past eleven, Carat Bay, a ghost town save for you and Seokmin. 

Plastic bins of unsold shirts and foam fingers lay scattered around you while you’re both sluggishly folding and stacking them back into place. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a sterile hum over the quiet.

Seokmin yawns into his shoulder and tosses a crumpled hoodie into a bin without aiming. It lands with a sad little flop, nowhere close to folded. You nudge him with your hip.

“You're getting sloppy,” you snicker.

“‘M tired,” he mumbles.

“Whose idea was it to volunteer for overtime, huh?”

He gives a small, sheepish smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes tonight. You watch him for a beat longer than you should, picking up on how the weight of something heavier seems to settle over him.

“Hey,” you say, softer now. “You okay?”

Seokmin fiddles with the hem of the hoodie, his fingers restless. For a moment you think he won’t answer. But then he breathes out a laugh, quiet and self-deprecating.

“I guess I owe you the truth,” he says, “about why I wanted to get fired so badly.”

You put the last foam finger down and turn to him, giving him your full attention. He looks everywhere but you before admitting, “I… I wanna open an animal shelter. Mostly for dogs, but… you know. Cats too. Whatever needs a home.”

You blink, processing. “Seokmin, that’s—that’s noble as fuck.”

He gives a short laugh. “Yeah, well. Not really. I’ve been saving up, but my parents aren’t really big on  charity and shit. They still want me to take over this place."

Your heart twists painfully at his honesty, at the way he says it like he's bracing for you to think less of him. “Seokmin,” you insist, stepping closer, “I can’t believe you’d ever be embarrassed of this. You want to get fired because you want to help dogs?”

He lets out another laugh, finally looking at you. “When you put it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“It sounds like you have the biggest heart in the world,” you correct him.

He flushes at the praise, ducking his head. You feel something tender pull tight in your chest.

“You’re gonna do it,” you say, firm. “You’re gonna open that shelter. And it’s gonna be amazing."

Seokmin gives you a look so soft you have to glance away, pretending to busy yourself with a pile of lanyards. But even as you fumble with the cheap keychains, you feel the warmth of his smile on your skin—quiet and certain, as if for the first time, he believes it too.

--

The cubicle smells like a mix of chlorine, sunscreen, and the ghost of body spray someone probably forgot to bring home last week. 

You and Seokmin are pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the tight space, backs to the damp plastic wall, waiting. You can hear the sound of people outside. Laughter, feet slapping against tiles, the zip of a towel being whipped like a weapon. No one ever checks the shower cubicles during lunch. They’re too humid, too gross. That’s what makes it perfect.

“Okay,” you say, shifting your weight, peering at Seokmin. He’s biting the inside of his cheek, eyes fixed on some grout on the tiles. “We don’t have to, like, make out or anything. Just something quick. Catchy. Like a Sabrina Carpenter music video.”

Seokmin nods slowly. Then shakes his head. Then nods again. “Right. Okay. But, uh… just so you know… I’ve never done this before.”

“Kissed someone?”

“Yeah,” he says. He sounds like he’s confessing to murder. “Like—not even a stage kiss. I always got cast as the comedic relief or the tree.”

You pause. That makes your heart hurt a little. This was supposed to be a dumb performance. Another scheme. But now, your stomach knots with guilt. 

“Do you want to back out?” you ask, already leaning away. “I don’t want to take your first kiss in, like, a sticky-ass stall with pool water dripping on us. That’s a memory you’ll carry forever.”

But before you can make a clean retreat, Seokmin grabs your wrist.

“I want to,” he says, and for once, he doesn’t sound unsure. “With you. It’s doesn’t sound  bad.”

You freeze for a beat. His grip is warm. His cheeks are flushed pink, and he’s still damp from the park’s mist sprayers. For some reason, your heart picks that moment to hammer in your chest.

“Okay,” you breathe.

You lean in. You expect it to be awkward, but it’s… not. 

It’s a little shy at first—his lips tentative, almost featherlight—but it deepens just slightly, like he’s trusting you to lead. His hand flutters awkwardly at your waist, not quite sure where to go, before settling on your hip.

When you pull back, you’re both a little dazed. 

“Christ,” you murmur.

Seokmin grins, soft and stunned. “That wasn’t terrible.”

You smile, and for a second, you forget why you’re even here. Right—

You're still holding onto his wrist, gently, when you say, “We could practice. If you want. Just to make it convincing.”

Seokmin clears his throat. “Practice?” 

“Yeah,” you say, with a noncommittal shrug. All cool girl, chill girl, this-isn’t-a-big-deal girl. “Just enough so we’re not all teeth and awkward angles when it counts. We want it to look natural.”

He nods, visibly thinking through the logistics. Then, a little breathlessly, he says, “Okay. Yeah. Practice. That makes sense.”

You step closer. The shower stall is cramped, so it’s not hard. Your shoes bump into his, your body brushing his chest. You place one of his hands on your waist. His fingers are hesitant, like he’s afraid you might change your mind and bolt.

“Touch me like you want to,” you urge him gently. “Like you're allowed to.”

His palm flattens more deliberately now. You feel the shift in him, the effort. His other hand lifts but hovers, unsure.

“Here,” you guide it, fingers curling gently around his wrist to place it at the side of your face. “You can hold me here. It helps.”

His thumb grazes your cheek, trembling slightly. His breath comes shallow.

“Now, slower this time,” you say. “Tilt your head a little more.”

He does, obedient. Eager. His eyes flick to your mouth, and then he leans in.

The second kiss is better. Less rush, more curiosity. You taste mint gum and something sweet—maybe from the café earlier. His lips are soft, tentative, and open slightly when yours press in a little firmer.

Your fingers rest lightly on his collarbone. His hand on your waist grips tighter, just a little. He kisses you again, like he’s learning. Like he wants to keep learning.

When you pull away, just slightly, he’s dazed and pink in the cheeks.

“Okay,” he says, voice low and stunned. “That was... useful.”

You try not to laugh. “We’ll need more practice. Just to sell it.”

“Right,” he agrees, too fast. “Totally. For realism.”

You’re both kidding each other at this point, but to hell with it. 

Things escalate not long after. He’s touchier. Bolder. Somewhere along the way, Seokmin has stopped flinching when he touches you in public and started leaning into the performance like it’s second nature. And worse still: he’s getting good at it.

A brush of his fingers along the dip of your waist as you reach for the locker door. A comment in front of Soonyoung about how you look good in the staff polo, followed by a wink that is actually genuinely disarming. One time, he even smooths your hair back before a team meeting, murmuring something about presentation.

You catch Mingyu watching the two of you, eyes narrowed. Minghao frowns when Seokmin lets you steal a bite of his lunch using the same fork. The whispers are starting, and not even Seokmin’s endearing clumsiness can cover for the shift in atmosphere.

But the real danger doesn’t come from the outside.

It comes from the break room.

You’re sitting on the counter while Seokmin stands between your legs, lips a breath away. It’s meant to be another rehearsal. A quick one. A casual, convincing peck for the hallway.

Instead, Seokmin’s hand brushes your thigh. Not by accident.

Your breath hitches. He pauses. You don’t move.

His palm presses firmer, sliding just barely, just enough.

Then, without much warning, he leans in and kisses you again. Slower. A little hungrier. It catches you off guard—not because it’s clumsy, but because it’s not. It’s careful. Considered. There’s intention behind it, like he’s trying to see what else he can get away with.

You make a sound. It’s not loud, but it’s unmistakable. A quiet, surprised thing at the back of your throat.

Seokmin jerks back immediately. You stare at each other, both stunned into silence.

“What was that?” you ask, heart pounding.

His voice is soft, eyes wide. “I—I don’t know. I thought we were practicing.”

“We are,” you say, but it comes out shaky.

You both stare at each other for another beat.

It’s getting dangerous. Very, very dangerous. You force yourself to act, to play the role. You shift, leaning back slightly to break the tension, giving him a small, teasing smile. “Now I’m curious, Seokmin. Can you make the same sound?”

The question only flusters him even more. “What?” 

“You know. The sound I made. You looked like you liked it.”

“I—” he sputters, adorably scandalized. “That wasn’t—I mean, it was nice, but I wasn’t—”

You lean closer again, voice dropping just slightly. “Let me try something.”

He nods. Wordless. Willing.

Your hands come up to rest on his chest, warm over the fabric of his shirt. You feel the faint thud of his heart beneath your palms. He’s wound tight, you can tell, nervous in the way he always is when you close the distance. You tilt your head, angle your lips near his ear.

“Relax,” you whisper, soft, lilting.

Then you kiss him.

It starts gentle, barely-there pressure. Your hands slide up his shoulders, then down, resting at his hips as you slot your mouth against his more deliberately. You deepen it slowly, coaxing, guiding.

When your fingers skim up the nape of his neck, he makes a sound—a small, breathy one that ghosts from the back of his throat. It makes your stomach flip, makes you smile into the kiss. You do it again. Just to hear it.

“That,” you murmur, lips brushing his, “was hot.”

He groans in embarrassment, pulling back to bury his face in your shoulder.

“You can't just say stuff like that,” he mumbles, muffled.

“Why not? You sounded good. Really good.”

You laugh, light and airy, and he groans again. When he peeks up at you again, he’s still flushed. But he’s smiling.

“Okay,” he whispers, all conspiratorial, almost as if it were a dare, “your turn again.”

You’re in trouble.

--

The plan is simple, in theory: get caught in a compromising position by the most enthusiastic gossip in Carat Bay. 

The break room behind the bumper cars is off-limits after closing. Soonyoung has a habit of staying late to tally the day’s dance competition scores. It’s foolproof. Everything’s lined up.

Except Seokmin is looking at you like he’s just been asked to disarm a bomb with his teeth.

“I didn’t think you’d actually…” he trails off, eyes darting downwards, where your polo shirt now lies folded over the employee bench. His cheeks are redder than you’ve ever seen them, which is saying something. You’re still wearing your undershirt—barely indecent by any standard—but Seokmin’s expression says otherwise.

“Strip?” you finish for him, amused. “It’s the uniform. People get fired for less than partial nudity, you know.”

He swallows. Hard. “Right. Yeah. Totally.”

You laugh, stepping closer. “Seokmin, we’re trying to sell the illusion. If we’re going to pull this off, I need you to look less like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m not gonna pass out,” he lies, his voice two pitches higher than usual.

You reach up, fingers grazing the side of his face, and it’s like flipping a switch. He exhales, trembling a little. Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth.

“We’ve done this before,” you remind him gently. “We’ve kissed before. This is just like practice, remember?”

He nods again, more believably this time. “Yeah. Just like practice.”

“Exactly.” 

You press your lips to his, soft and warm. 

Enough to ease him in, to coax some steadiness into his hands where they hover near your waist. You kiss him again, this time slower, more deliberate.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re reassuring yourself as much as you are him. Because your skin tingles where his fingers tentatively land on your hips, and your breath hitches when his mouth parts just slightly, enough to let your tongue graze his.

He pulls back first, eyes wide and unfocused. “That was…”

“Convincing?” you offer, trying to keep your voice steady.

He nods mutely, blinking at you like he’s never seen you before.

“Good,” you murmur, straightening his shirt collar. “Let’s make this a performance Soonyoung won’t ever shut up about.”

The break room is just warm enough to be stifling, wrapped in the hush of neon hum and the smell of popcorn grease and old rubber. You’re straddling Seokmin’s lap on the worn-out couch you’ve both dubbed the ‘emergency plushie zone.’ 

Seokmin’s tie is hanging off a peg behind you, abandoned somewhere between your fifth and sixth practice kisses. How much fucking practice one needs to get this ‘right,’ you’re not sure, but neither of you are complaining. 

This kiss starts like the rest, lips brushing with practiced familiarity, but something shifts when Seokmin’s hands curl around your waist with more certainty than before.

"You’re really getting good at this," you murmur against his mouth.

He huffs a shy laugh, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your undershirt where your skin runs hot. “You told me to practice.”

“I didn’t tell you to practice this well,” you say, and then you kiss him again, hungrier now, breath catching when his hand trails up your spine.

It’s just an act, you remind yourself. Just something to get Soonyoung to walk in and freak out, let the gossip train do the rest.

Except Seokmin moans when you nip at his lower lip. A small sound, barely there—but it melts into you. You want to hear it again. So you shift your weight, rolling your hips once. His breath stutters. Yours does too.

You press your mouth to the underside of his jaw, voice low. “You’re really committing to the bit.”

“I think,” Seokmin says, voice wrecked with something like disbelief, “I’m losing track of what’s a bit.”

You smile against his neck. “We’ve been at it for twenty minutes. Where the hell is Soonyoung?”

“Was—Was Soonyoung even at work today?” 

You freeze. You pull back and stare at Seokmin. 

Kwon Soonyoung had taken a ‘sick’ leave today. To line up at midnight for a video game. He bragged about it in the group chat that all the newbies shared. 

You glance down at your exposed chest, then at the way your thighs are locked around Seokmin’s hips. “Are we fucking stupid?” you wonder out loud. 

Seokmin blinks at you, lips swollen and pink, eyes blown wide. He leans his head back against the couch with a groan. “I don’t think I can do that again without losing my soul,” he rasps. 

“You’ll get it back in pieces,” you sigh, patting Seokmin’s chest in a gesture that’s meant to be reassuring. “Starting with your tie.”

--

You’re heading back from the boardwalk, salt still on your skin and the cheap cola you pilfered from the vendor stand fizzing in your hand, when you hear voices. The kind that make you stop short and lean just a little closer to the maintenance shed wall, pretending like you’re very interested in the bulletin board you’ve seen a hundred times.

It’s Joshua. Low and calm, like always, but there’s a seriousness in his voice you’re not used to.

“Seokmin. I just want to know what this is.”

You freeze. You don’t mean to. You know it’s bad form to eavesdrop, especially when you’re the this in question, but something roots you to the spot.

“I’m not trying to start anything,” Joshua continues, “but if this is just a game, if the two of you are pretending? You guys should quit it. Seriously. You’re both going to get into a shitton of trouble.”

A beat. Then Seokmin’s voice rings out, convincingly offended.

“It’s not pretend. I like her.”

Your breath catches.

“I like how she always wipes her hands on her shorts even when she has a towel. I like how she rolls her eyes like the world’s exhausting but she still shows up every day. I like that she lets me be nervous, but doesn’t treat me like I’m fragile. I like her laugh. A lot.”

Joshua doesn’t say anything, so Seokmin keeps going.

“I’m—I may not be able to call her my girlfriend. Not yet,” he says hastily. “But that doesn’t change the way I feel. I lo—like being around her. I like her, Shua.” 

You press your lips together, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands, your breath, your entire chest. You feel like a live wire. Humming, sparking at the edges with something dangerous and sweet.

None of that was part of the act.

And, fine. You wish it were real. Just a little bit. Just enough to close the distance between his feelings and yours.

You slip away from the corner of the shed before either boy notices you there. The cola in your hand has gone flat. Kind of like your plan.

The conversation makes a home underneath your skin, hangs like a cloud over your head. It exists even as you’re perched on the countertop in the employee break room, the sickly hum of the vending machine buzzing under the clatter of Seokmin's footsteps. He slots himself between your knees with the same ease he’s learned over the past few weeks, hands bracing on either side of your thighs. It would be routine now, if not for the fact that your heart is somewhere around your ankles.

His eyes search yours. “Are you okay?” he asks delicately, looking at you with that concerned glance he’s been throwing your way all afternoon. 

The thing about Seokmin is that he's gotten good at reading you lately, which would be great if you weren’t actively trying to keep your thoughts from turning into a romantic nosedive. You sigh. Might as well throw it all out. “I overheard you and Joshua,” you push out through your teeth. 

Seokmin freezes like you’ve just dropped on him  a bucket of ice water. “What?”

You offer a crooked smile, something flimsy and fragile. “You were good. Like, really convincing. Should’ve guessed you were a theater kid.”

He looks like he’s been punched. The breath leaves him slowly. “You thought I was lying.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The way your gaze skitters off to the corner of the room is answer enough.

His voice goes soft when he says his name, and you presume it’s him readying you. He’s about to let you down gently, you think. “I—” he starts, and you refuse to hear it. Not without one final act of stupidity. 

You move before you can think. Your hand cups the back of his neck and you yank him forward, pressing your lips to his like it'll keep everything messy and tender at bay. It’s not careful. It’s not supposed to be. It’s a distraction, a fire alarm, an emotional eject button.

Seokmin doesn’t kiss you back, not immediately; his brain is still caught on whatever he was about to say. The kiss only lasts a few seconds, but it’s long enough for the door to swing open behind you.

“GUYS—”

You both tear apart like you’ve been electrocuted. Soonyoung stands at the doorway holding a neon slushie. The look on his face is the type of thing that would have him going viral on TikTok.

You and Seokmin exchange a look, wide-eyed and flushed.

It’s the worst time to get caught, and of course, that’s when it finally happens.

--

The fallout begins quietly.

Which is the worst part, really.

No fireworks, no messy confrontation, just an unrelenting silence that creeps in where easy laughter used to be. Every brush of Seokmin’s hand now feels weighted, every shared glance taut with the possibility of a conversation you’re not ready to have.

Worse, people are buying it. Hook, line, and sinker. After Soonyoung caught the two of you mid-liplock, the rumor mill went into overdrive, and suddenly, no one bats an eye when Seokmin shares his food with you, or when your knees knock beneath the merchandise booth. Everyone thinks you’re together. That you’re real.

It makes it harder than ever to fake it.

Seokmin still tries. He flashes you that warm grin and slings his arm around your shoulder like nothing’s changed, but it has. You can feel it in the way he hesitates before touching you, or how his laughter doesn’t quite reach his eyes when you tease him. He wants to talk about it. You know he does.

And he tries.

It happens after another long shift, the two of you walking side by side through the near-empty parking lot. The sky is bruised and pink at the edges, cotton-candy dusk descending on Carat Bay like an afterthought. He catches your wrist, gently but firmly.

“Can we just—talk?” he says, voice low, eyes impossibly sincere.

It’s the exact thing you’ve been avoiding. You look at his hand around your wrist and your heart hammers in your chest. You want to hear him out. You want to ask him which parts were real, and which ones were for show. You want to tell him it’s been pretty damn hard for you to tell the difference, even if you’re the one who laid out the blueprint months ago. 

But you’re a coward. And this isn’t part of the plan.

So you do what you’re best at.

You run.

You tug your hand free and turn on your heel. You don’t get far. Just past the bumpers, right by the yellow staff lines painted across the lot, you hear it—the telltale squeak of worn soles and a long-suffering sigh.

Changbin. 

He’s standing there, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His eyes flick from you to Seokmin, whose hand is still hovering like it’s caught mid-air.

“Inside. Both of you,” Changbin says coolly. “HR wants a word.”

Great.

You’ve been trying to get fired for months. And now, at long last, it feels like your wish is about to come true.

Except the look Seokmin shoots you isn’t relief.

It’s heartbreak.

The HR room is ice cold. Not temperature-wise—someone must've left the thermostat on the exact edge of comfort. It’s cold in that awful, bureaucratic kind of way. Like nothing good has ever happened in here. Like no one’s ever left this place with dignity fully intact.

Changmin, the HR Manager, offers you both paper cups of water. His smile is so bland it’s offensive. “Let’s make this quick,” he says, as if he has something better to do than scold employees for handsy interactions in the Carat Bay parking lot. “There’ve been some... concerns.”

Your arms are crossed. Seokmin’s foot keeps tapping under the table, a nervous rhythm he’s trying to stifle.

“Rumors have been circulating,” Changmin continues, folding his hands neatly. “Several employees have reported seeing you two getting cozy on company time.”

You open your mouth, but Seokmin beats you to it. “We weren’t—I mean, it was nothing compromising,” he argues feebly. 

“The CCTV disagrees.”

Holy shit. You almost forgot about that. There are eyes and ears all over the place; you and Seokmin didn’t even have to wait around for Soonyoung. The two of you could have just made out in the merch booth and been done with it.

“You’re both aware of the rule,” Changmin goes on. “No romantic fraternization during work hours. No workplace relationships without disclosure. And certainly not in full view of customers or staff.”

“Yes,” you mutter.

Changmin sighs, as if he genuinely hates what’s about to happen. “After internal discussion, we’ve decided to terminate the employment of one party.”

It sinks in a beat too late, what’s wrong about the statement. 

One party. Only one of you is going to get sacked, and it’s pretty clear who it’s going to be. 

Seokmin’s head snaps toward you. “What? No, that—that doesn’t make sense,” he sputters. “We both broke the rule.”

Changmin's smile flickers. “Mr. Lee, you know very well your position in this company.”

Ah. There it is.

The heir card.

You could laugh, but it’d come out strangled.

“This doesn’t have to be a big thing,” Changmin says smoothly. “We’ll phrase it as a mutual separation. No disciplinary record. A clean reference, if needed.”

You stare at the condensation sliding down your paper cup. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? To get fired. To be released from this pastel-colored theme park hellscape and finally live your own damn life.

And yet.

Beside you, Seokmin's voice breaks. “It wasn’t just her. If anyone should take responsibility—”

“This is final,” Changmin says, in the politest voice imaginable.

You got what you had planned for. Why does it feel like shit?

You find Seokmin in the parking lot after the meeting, his hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders drawn up like they’re trying to shield him from the world. The Carat Bay sign flickers behind him, casting a tacky blue halo over his profile. You take slow steps toward him, gravel crunching under your shoes.

“Hey,” you say tentatively. “I—I didn’t think it would go like that. I thought we’d both get fired. That was the point.”

Seokmin doesn’t look at you. His jaw works, like he’s trying to swallow something sharp. “I’m sorry you didn’t get what you wanted,” he says flatly.

“That’s not—” You stop yourself, bite your tongue. “You know that’s not what I meant. I didn’t want you to get hurt by this. I didn’t think they’d—only fire me.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, the kind that tastes of ash. “Of course they didn’t. Why would they? I’m Lee Seokmin, Prince of Carat Bay. Fucking heir to the tacky throne.”

You step closer. “Seokmin—”

“No, seriously. This is the first time I ever tried to do something for myself, and I managed to ruin it by—” He breaks off, exhales hard through his nose. “By catching feelings for someone who only wanted a clean way out.”

You flinch. “That's not fair.”

“Isn't it?” he snaps. “You heard what I told Shua, right? You were eavesdropping. So you know. You know I wasn't acting. You kissed me anyway, like it didn’t matter. Like it was just another scene.”

You shake your head. “I kissed you because I didn’t know what to say,” you say, voice cracking. “Because I was scared. Not because I didn’t care.”

Seokmin finally looks at you, and it guts you. His eyes are red-rimmed, vulnerable in a way he’s never let you see. When he speaks, it’s as good as a confession, “I thought maybe, just maybe, if I kept being useful, if I kept showing up, you’d start to want me for real,” he manages. “But I guess I really was just an acting partner, huh?” 

He pulls back when you reach for him. “Don’t,” he says, looking less like the boy you’ve come to love and more like the ghost of him. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.” 

And then he’s walking away, shoulders still hunched, hands still buried in his pockets, as if letting them out might betray too much. You stay rooted to the spot, the neon lights buzzing overhead, your name already half-forgotten by the place—and the coworker—you were trying so hard to leave behind. 

--

You have at least two more weeks before your exile from Carat Bay is final, and you tell yourself you’re okay.

You tell yourself that when Seokmin, who you’ve worked elbow-to-elbow with all summer, starts pretending you’re not breathing the same air as him. You tell yourself that when he disappears to ‘stock’ the back room every time you so much as look at him.

You tell yourself that when he hands you inventory lists like he’s passing secret messages in a Cold War spy thriller. Gaze averted, fingers barely brushing yours.

You’re fine.

It’s fine.

You’re very normal about the fact that the boy who once had a casual palm curved to the slope of your ass now can’t stand to be within two feet of you. The boy who used to trip over himself to steal kisses, to coax soft sounds out of your throat in the shadowed corners of Carat Bay, now can’t even meet your eyes.

The merchandise booth is tiny, the kind of claustrophobic that’s usually endearing in the early stages of a slow-burn romance. Now it feels like a battlefield. 

Every interaction is a landmine. You joke with Soonyoung and Joshua louder than necessary just to fill the silence Seokmin leaves behind. You laugh a little too hard when Mingyu teases you about winning the Fastest Employee-to-HR Pipeline award. You act normal. You’re good at acting normal.

Seokmin, for all his theater-kid roots, isn’t.

His silences are loud. His stiffness is louder.

You catch him watching you sometimes, when he thinks you’re not looking. There’s a hollow, guilty kind of sadness in it, like he’s punishing himself. Like he’s mourning something neither of you can name.

You don’t know how to fix it. You’re not sure you should. Wasn't this what you wanted?

You got out. You got what you needed. It’s not your fault if somewhere along the way, Seokmin handed you something far messier, far more dangerous, and you didn’t know how to hold it.

You clock in. You clock out. You memorize the days until your last shift like you’re counting down to parole.

You don’t think about how empty the booth feels now.

You don’t think about the way Seokmin used to smile at you like you put the sun in the sky.

You don’t think at all.

You can’t afford to.

And, really, you don’t mean to cry. You’d told yourself you’d get through your shift, maybe duck into the bathroom if it got bad enough. You could’ve handled this like an adult. Quietly. Dignified.

Instead, here you are in the back break room, facedown against the sticky laminate table. Your shoulders are shaking, and you’re sniffling embarrassingly loud as you try to muffle the sound.

“Whoa, hey,” comes Soonyoung’s voice, full of immediate alarm. “Hey, what—oh my God, are you crying?”

You don’t look up. You can’t. You just groan low into your arms, trying to make the world swallow you whole. Of all the people who could find you. 

There’s the rustling sound of Soonyoung pulling out the chair next to you, scooting in close. A warm, awkward hand pats the middle of your back.

“Hey,” he says again, softer now. “Hey, it’s okay. Breakups suck. Like, really bad. Especially when it’s someone you see every day at work. That’s brutal.”

You let out a wet, miserable noise.

“Everyone’s been talking,” Soonyoung continues, unaware of the dagger twisting deeper into your gut. “Like, we all kinda figured something was wrong since Seokmin’s been… I dunno, all weird. He barely even smiles anymore. He’s acting like you killed his cat.”

You lift your head just enough to squint at Soonyoung through bleary eyes. “It wasn’t even real,” you whisper.

“Huh?”

You sniff and rub your sleeve across your nose, cringing at yourself. “It was all fake. Me and Seokmin. We were faking it.”

Soonyoung blinks at you. “Like… the relationship?”

You nod miserably.

“Why?”

Through your tears, you tell Soonyoung everything. The plan, the faking it, the makeout sessions. The way it ended on a Wednesday, of all days, which is terrible—because you both had to clock in the next morning like you hadn’t just broken each other’s hearts. 

Soonyoung leans back in his chair, processing this with the same serious expression he reserves for really important things, like choosing what to order for lunch.

“Okay,” he says after a beat. “That’s kinda… diabolical. But also, like, you and Seokmin… you’re just idiots in love.”

You let out a half-sob, half-laugh, wiping your eyes with the heel of your palm.

“I mean it,” Soonyoung says, smiling now, in that rare, earnest way of his. “You’re both idiots. And it’s kinda beautiful, if you think about it.”

You don’t know if ‘beautiful’ is the right word for the mess you’ve made.

But maybe—maybe it could be.

--

You always figure there’s a big act of romance in every rom-com. A grand, sweeping gesture by the male lead. Unfortunately, your male lead is out of commission; you decide to take things into your own hands. 

It’s your last day of work, and you have nothing left to lose.

Lunch time is your choice of poison. You wait for the clock to hit exactly 12:30, and then you hit Send after making sure everybody who matters is in the breakroom. 

Someone gasps. Someone else drops their coffee. Employees and managers alike pull out their phones to see what’s so stunning. 

The screenshots are in the group chat. Seokmin’s texts to you over the past few months, confessions of all the petty little sabotage attempts he’s made at the merchandise booth: mislabeling shirts, sneaking wrong sizes into bags, purposefully miscounting plushies. 

People are side-eyeing you, whispering among themselves—

“Damn, she’s really airing him out.”

“Was the breakup that bad?” 

“Evil ass ex.” 

You ignore them all.

You’re focused on Seokmin, who is seated between Joshua and Soonyoung. When he glances at his lockscreen, he does a double take. Blinks. Shoots up, his expression slack with horror. He looks like he’s about to make a run for it. 

You cross the room in a couple of quick strides. Before Seokmin can say a word, you grab him by the collar of his stupid Carat Bay polo and kiss him. Long. Hard. Unapologetic. 

Your mouth moves against his like you’re staking a claim. Like you’re not done with him yet. 

The breakroom explodes in noise—shrieks, whistles, laughter—but you barely hear it. Your brain is doing that thing again, the one where your entire world narrows into nothing whenever you’re up against Seokmin like this. 

You’ve known since the first time you kissed him that he would ruin you. You were right. 

You break the kiss to breathe, to murmur against his lips, “You’re definitely going to get fired now.” 

You don’t need to look to know a few mothers outside the breakroom are going to be scandalized. That the CCTV in the corner is blinking red, and Seokmin’s face is angled so you absolutely cannot manipulate or miss who had just participated in public indecency. 

For the first time in days, Seokmin smiles.

Not the fake half-smile he’s been giving you lately. Not the sad, wilted one. A real one. Wide and bright and devastatingly beautiful. He cups your face, leans in, and kisses you again—softer this time, like a promise. 

Screw the script. You're writing your own ending.

--

EPILOGUE. 

The drive is long, but not unbearable. 

Soonyoung and Joshua have packed the car with snacks, and between the three of you, there’s enough chaos to keep the ride from feeling too heavy. It's only when the road smooths out into rolling countryside and the first glimpse of the shelter comes into view—an unassuming building with bright, inviting banners—that your heart tightens in your chest.

“There it is,” Soonyoung says, leaning forward against his seatbelt, eyes wide.

“Cute,” Joshua adds, pulling his sunglasses down to get a better look. “Looks like it belongs to someone who loves, like, every living thing.”

You laugh, amused. “Sounds about right.”

The car barely parks before you're throwing the door open, feet hitting the gravel with an eager crunch. Seokmin is already at the entrance, waving both arms above his head like he's trying to guide a plane in for landing. You sprint the last few steps and collide into him, arms wrapping around his middle.

He lets out a winded, delighted noise, hugging you so tight your feet lift off the ground for a second. “You’re here!”

“Of course I’m here,” you murmur against his neck. “I’d be a terrible girlfriend otherwise.” 

Behind you, Soonyoung and Joshua groan loudly.

“God, it’s worse than I thought,” Soonyoung sighs. “You’d think the honeymoon phase would be over by now.” 

“It’s watching a rom-com on 2x speed,” Joshua agrees.

Seokmin only grins against your hair, clearly unfazed. He sets you back down but keeps an arm looped lazily around your shoulders as he ushers everyone inside.

The shelter is still new—there’s the faint smell of fresh paint, and not every kennel is full yet—but the energy is unmistakably Seokmin: warm, bright, buzzing with earnest hope. He introduces you to every animal like he’s presenting you with priceless treasures. You fall in love with each one.

You had properly fallen in love with Seokmin shortly after you were both freed from the clutches of Carat Bay. The two of you talked it out. He asked you on a proper date. The rest became history, and the story of your origins—now about half a year in the rearview—proves to be a fun tale to swap during drinking sessions. 

This time, you both got what you wanted, and so much more. 

At one point, Seokmin presses a kiss to your temple. You instinctively lift onto your toes to kiss his jaw in return. You both giggle like teenagers, noses brushing, completely lost in each other.

From behind you, Joshua pretends to gag. “Do we need to leave you two alone with the puppies?” he says judgmentally, arms tightening around the Rottweiler puppy he’d been eyeing for weeks. 

Soonyoung joins in on the teasing. “Disgustingly cute,” he announces dryly, already halfway out the door so he can escape you and Seokmin. And then, he throws in as an afterthought: “You two deserve each other.” 

You glance up at Seokmin. He beams down at you like you’re the only thing he can see.

It pains you to admit—but for once, Kwon Soonyoung might be right about something. 

[once-upon-a-fic]

the neighbour | c.vn

⭐ starring: vernon chwe 💌 genre: fluff, angst | wc: 1.5k 💬 preview: you remember him vaguely, in the midst of dreams and faint shadow of a friend. vernon swore he would marry you once you were old enough. it’s been a lifetime since then, and you still live next door to each other– as strangers instead of the lovers you could’ve been. 

cw/tw: neighbour!vernon x reader, friends to almost lovers to strangers, missed opportunity, childish innocence, the first stumblings of love, a quiet goodbye no one can understand, fireworks

🪽 fic rating: pg  ☁️ masterlist & a/n: this event collection is filled with stories inspired by my own personal experiences with people. this one is : that one kid who lived next to me and swore he’d marry me once we were older than just 7. the musings of innocent, silly love without a care in the world. thank you to @chugging-antiseptic-dye for betaing!

now playing: 18 by one direction, i look in people’s windows by taylor swift

this is an addition to remember them…?, a celebration event for svt’s 10th anniversary. 

You watch Vernon grow up through a window: a doorway into Narnia. 

It starts with Spiderman stickers on the walls and toy trucks littering the floor. 

A young boy waves at you from his spot on the windowsill, a mop of curly brown hair covering his dark eyebrows. 

“What’s your name?” His voice is loud and full of energy. 

For a second you’re stunned. Your neighbourhood had always been filled with old folks who had grown tired of living– and now, there was a boy, waving at you like you were the moon. 

“I’m Y/N!” You yell back, and your voice is hoarse from prolonged silence. 

“I’m Vernon!” His smile is bright enough to be seen from where you stand, through the murkiness of your window. “Wait, let me show you something!” He ducks his head and disappears from view.

You wait. Even at such a young age, you were staring at him with a kind of exasperation and amusement that would follow the both of you through childhood. 

He reappears in the window holding a variety of DvDs in his hands. “My dad got me a new DvD player for my birthday. Do you want to come over?” 

He senses you hesitating before you. Vernon had always read you better than you could ever read yourself. “I have the new Terminator movie!” He waves the DvD case enticingly. 

You nod, agreeing to meet him at his front door for the movie. You watch him beam in excitement. 

Looking back at the memory, you still recall how you didn’t give a damn about the new Terminator movie. You had agreed purely because of the joy Vernon had on his face, sitting next to him in his bedroom as he ranted about how cool the action scenes were. Something about the reloading of a gun with one hand. 

You didn’t regret it, even now, in hindsight. It gave you your first dearest friend– and a stranger that would hold those memories in the palm of his hands, even if you’d never see each other again. 

Vernon rigs up a telephone between your windows. 

It’s made up of an old clothesline, paper cups, and a whole lot of duct tape. The device is reminiscent of the telephone line the two of you had made in science class at school. 

“Now we can talk whenever we want.” Vernon explains, tiny fingers tying the line to the hook by your curtains. 

“We already talk whenever we want.” You point out. 

Vernon glances back at you with a frown on his face. “Yeah, but we’re always yelling. What if we had secrets to share?” 

“You’re always over at my house anyways.” You rebuke his argument once again. 

His shoulders sink. “Shut up.” 

You walk over to tug at the knot, making sure it was secure. “I’m only joking, Nonnie. It’s a good idea.” 

Vernon lights up at the compliment. “Right?”

The two of you don’t ever use the telephone device. Instead, secrets are told underneath the duvet and in closets covered by winter jackets. 

Your parents joke that it won’t be long before their two families become one. It already has, Vernon’s parents are yours and vice versa, yet both you and Vernon are too young to understand that what your parents are implying is marriage. 

“Y/N, you must like Vernon.” Your mother comments causally on a random Tuesday afternoon. 

You’re one foot out the door towards Vernon’s house. 

“Yes, of course.” You reply, eyebrows furrowing at the question. “Vernon’s my best friend.” 

Your mother shares a smile with your father over the kitchen counter. 

“I swear one day I’ll be walking you down the aisle to marry that boy.” Your father jokes, a stern yet comedic expression crossing his face. 

You shrug, not quite getting it. “Whatever. Can I go play with Vernon now?” 

In the house next to yours, Vernon is faced with the same confusion. You enter his living room just in time to hear his father ask him about you. 

“So, you must really like Y/N.” 

Vernon’s sitting on the sofa, legs swinging mid-air, picking out the next movie you’re about to watch together. “Yes, of course I like Y/N.” 

“Like her enough to marry her one day?” There’s humour in his father’s voice at the question. 

Vernon shrugs. “Sure.” He spots you standing there and jumps off the sofa to pull you upstairs. “We’re watching a movie! We’ll be down for dinner.” 

It’s a silly joke, really. Neither you or Vernon thinks much of it. The conversation fades from memory as the two of you grow older, but the sentiment stays. As if it was something important that was supposed to happen. 

Vernon gets a puppy for his tenth birthday. 

You’re jealous, as you watch his parents settle the white and fluffy dog into his arms. 

“I want a puppy too!” You complain, pouting at your own parents. “Why does Nonnie get one? I’m literally older.” 

The parents laugh and Vernon raises the puppy towards you, a crooked smile on his face. 

“Here, Y/N.” He sets the ball of fur into your lap. “It can be our puppy. You can visit her whenever you want.” 

Both your parents coo at the sight, but they fall upon deaf ears. You stroke the puppy’s head and smile. “She’s cute.” 

Vernon hums, agreeing. “You should name her. I can’t decide.” 

“Snow.” It’s easy. Snow was you and Vernon’s favourite kind of weather. “She’s like a little snowball.” 

You can tell by the grin on Vernon’s face that he loves it. “She’s so tiny.” He scoops her up with just one hand and admires her. “I hope she stays this tiny.”

“The puppy will grow.” Your father comments from the other side of the living room. “She’ll grow with the both of you.”

You share a look with Vernon. “We’re never growing.”

“Yeah.” Vernon agrees. “I wanna stay like this forever.” 

It’s a childish comment. A fleeting, impossible wish to capture and freeze your childhood bliss. 

The first kiss is a stumble, a tentative and clumsy display of pure affection. 

You blink as Vernon pulls away, light pink coating his cheeks underneath the dimming light coming from the window. 

“What was that?” You raise a hand to your face as you feel warmth bloom into your cheeks. 

Vernon shrugs. “My parents do it all the time. They say you do it when you really love someone.” 

You smile. “You love me?” 

Vernon nods. “Of course.” 

“I love you too.” 

Vernon laces his hand in yours and turns back to the book he had been reading. Your heads bump together as you stretch out on the carpeted floor to read beside him. 

Neither one of you brings up the kiss again. Or the declaration of love. 

The first crack in the glass takes place somewhere in fifth grade. 

You knock on Vernon’s door, arms ladened with snacks and candy for your weekly movie binge on Friday nights. Sour Patch, Kinder Surprise, a bottle of orange juice. Vernon’s personal selection. 

His mom opens the door instead. 

“Vernon went out with his friends, honey.” There’s an apologetic look on her face that looks almost like sympathy. 

“Oh. He didn’t tell me.” It’s strange, but you don’t think much of it. You hand the snacks to his mother. “Give these to him, please.” 

“Don’t you want to keep these for yourself?” 

You shake your head. “I don’t like them very much. It’s Vernon’s favourite.” 

Vernon’s room is empty when you enter yours. The lights are off, and you squint to see that the Spiderman stickers have been peeled off the walls opposite his bed. 

One missed Friday night turns into two. Then three. Your parents pull you out of public school and move you to a school a city away. Friday movie nights become something a lifetime ago. 

You still see Vernon through the window some nights. You’re not home much anymore, and neither is he. 

But on the occasional nights where your schedules line up, you could spot him moving about his room, doing whatever teenage boys did. 

There are posters of cars and famous musicians covering his walls now. A new bed, a new gaming console. It looks entirely foreign– like you had never stepped foot into it before. 

Sometimes Vernon glances your way and you lock eyes. 

You wonder if he feels the same way about you that you feel about him. If your room also looked like a stranger’s. The pink walls were purple now, the childish toys on the counter replaced by books and a makeup mirror. 

He almost always looks away first. He’d blink rapidly as he averted his gaze to anything else, as if the very sight of you had burned his corneas and was painful to watch. 

You see him one last time at neighbourhood barbecue night in the middle of August. 

“Hey.” His voice is deeper now. He’s grown into himself. 

“Hi.” You don’t fail to notice the way his eyes rake across your figure as if he was trying to pick out what parts of you he still recognized. 

“I heard you’re leaving town. Heading east?” He shuffles until he stands right next to you, arm brushing against yours. 

“Yeah.” You had never planned to stay in your hometown for university. “I heard you’re staying.” 

Vernon nods. “I am. You know I never planned on leaving.” 

You’re caught off guard by the sudden familiarity because, you do know. “I guess.” You say instead. 

There’s a pause before Vernon speaks again, and your heart coils at his next words. 

“Snow misses you.” His voice is quiet, barely audible over the hum of the crowd. “She doesn’t understand why you stopped showing up.” He pauses. “I don’t either.” 

The admission is quiet. Heavy. Altogether unwelcoming. 

“Oh.” There’s nothing else you can say. I’m sorry didn’t really feel like enough. 

“You left.” He adds, and there’s no accusation in his voice. Just a fact. 

The past is a blip in your memory as you try and recall what exactly tore the two of you apart. “I guess I did. I didn’t have much of a choice though. My parents wanted–” 

“I know. And I guess I wasn’t that great of a friend once we got older.” Vernon remembers neglecting you in favour of his newer, cooler friends. 

He reaches for your hand as the neighbour uncles start lighting the fireworks. It’s a fumble, uncoordinated and unfamiliar, as your fingers laced together for the first time in years. Neither one of you says anything, as you crane your necks to watch the fireworks fly. 

Vernon squeezes your hand once. Twice. One final time. 

A silent goodbye. A silent agreement that it was for good this time. 

You return to your childhood bedroom after graduating university. It’s a stranger to you now too. 

A shadow crosses your wall as you pack your childhood into cardboard boxes. You turn to see Vernon’s window is opened, and you watch silently as he packs his own memories into boxes too. 

He still looks the same through that window. Grown, taller, but still the same. 

You were proper strangers now. Strangers who knew each other takeout orders. Strangers who had seen each other laugh. And cry. And leave. 

A twist of pain enters your chest as you watch Vernon close his curtains. His eyes are fixed on a patch of peeling paint on your side of the house– anything to not look at you.

The curtains slide shut. A finale to your time together.

You each leave your respective houses and drive towards the undecided future as two separate entities. 

The bedrooms are empty, quiet. 

The telephone line sways in the wind, dirty and frayed. Neither one of you ever attempt to take it down. 

author’s note : 

A letter to r. 

In all honesty, I can barely remember you now. I remember blips, as if the times with you were something in dreams. 

But I do remember how alive I felt next to you, the middle of the summer, barrelling down the sidewalk in a golf cart. I remember how your dog’s claws feel against the skin of my thighs whenever she’d jump up to welcome me in. I remember movie night. I remember you. 

We don’t see much of each other anymore. And in all honesty, I’m okay with that. We were brilliant together as kids but sometimes things are just that. Just that. Nothing more than a pair of best friends who thought we could never grow up and stay innocent and lively forever. 

There’s a poem I wrote, years ago, as I walked past your house on my way to work. 

ten years old  driving a golf cart down the hill  going too fast, we tipped over  and almost killed ourselves  your dad and my dad joked we’d grow up to marry each other neither one of us took that seriously  we don’t talk anymore  i walk past your house on the way to work each summer morning your dog still sits patiently outside your window as if she’s waiting for me to come home after six years  as if she doesn’t understand why i stopped showing up 

 I hope you remember it all too. 

[once-upon-a-fic]

back to heaven 🎤 junhui x reader.

he doesn’t reach for you. he wouldn’t dare. but the thought is there, a dangerous wish forming teeth. ⸻ ikaw mula noon anniversary series 🎵 demonyo, juan karlos

word count: 2k · includes: romance, angst-ish; fallen angel!junhui, angel!reader, sprinkle of religious imagery, love at first sight adjacent

The elevator groans before it moves.

Always, there’s that damn pause. That held breath before descent. The low flicker of red light overhead, casting everything in that blood-warm hue. Jun likes it. Or rather, he’s grown used to it—like how some people learn to love the sound of rain dripping through a cracked ceiling. 

Jun has been here long enough to know which buttons stick, which ones bite back. He presses B6 with his thumb and waits for the shuddering sigh of motion, for the world to dip beneath him.

It’s not glamorous, Hell’s elevator. Brass railings dulled with use, floor littered with lost feathers, the scent of ash and old roses baked into the walls. The mirrors are warped and unforgiving. They stretch you out in cruel ways, elongate shadows, catch secrets in the corner of your eye. 

Jun runs a hand through his hair and watches his reflection anyway. The wings at his back aren’t much to look at anymore. Charred at the tips, molting in slow defiance. He doesn’t bother hiding them. 

Everyone here already knows what he is. There’s nothing left to disguise.

There are days when Jun tries to remember what it was like before. Not Heaven, not exactly. Instead, the softness of morning light through cathedral glass. The way his name used to sound when spoken without fear. But those are old thoughts. Dangerous ones. He shakes them off like cobwebs.

The elevator lurches. Then stops.

Not on B6.

Jun blinks. The light stutters. The air inside shifts, thinner now. Like the breath before prayer.

The doors groan open.

You step in.

New wings. Untouched. Light still clinging to your skin like dew, like some god kissed you into being just this morning. Jun feels it before he even sees you—the sudden absence of Hell’s weight in the room, like something holy cracked the air in two. 

Your presence is a disruption, an error in the pattern. And yet, here you are, wide-eyed and blinking in the red glow. You look up, startled. “Oh,” you say, your voice as steady as a Psalm. “I—I think I’m lost.”

Jun stares. For a moment, he forgets how to speak. His mouth opens, closes. “Clearly,” he manages dryly, thumbing the emergency stop. “Unless you’re planning to start a revolution.”

You blink at him, then smile. That’s worse. That’s so much worse.

You say, “You’re not what I imagined.”

“What did you imagine? Horns? Pitchfork?”

“Something less sad.”

Jun’s laugh scrapes low in his throat. It surprises even him. He leans against the railing, wings rustling faintly behind him. “Well. You caught me on an off-century.”

You take a tentative step closer, studying the buttons on the panel as if one of them might explain all this. You don’t belong here. It’s written in the clean lines of your face, in the way your halo is still faintly humming, as if unsure whether to stay lit.

A pause. Then, you ask, “Are you taking me back?”

He studies you. Not just the eyes, though they’re luminous in the flickering light—but the way your fingers worry at the hem of your robe. The way you tilt toward the doorway, as if part of you still thinks you might flee. You haven’t decided if you trust him yet. He wouldn’t either.

Jun could lie. He’s good at that. But he doesn’t.

“Yeah,” he says. “This isn’t your stop, angel.” 

Another silence, this one thicker. Charged with something unspoken.

“But you do?”

He almost smiles. Almost.

“I earned it.”

You look like you want to ask how, but you don’t. Maybe that’s why he likes you already.

Jun exhales. “Alright. Let’s find your way out. Just… try not to touch anything. Hell’s funny about what it keeps.”

You nod. You glance back once, toward the threshold, but you don’t step away. Your feet are planted here now. In this strange liminal space with him.

Somewhere above, the elevator begins to rise. Slowly. Like it, too, has to decide if you deserve to leave. The lift creaks upward, slow as breath between confessions.

Jun watches the floor numbers flicker above the door, though they mean nothing here. He gave up measuring time in digits centuries ago. In the in-betweens, seconds and hours blur like paint left out in the rain. The ride could take minutes. It could take years.

He shifts his weight, one wing dragging lightly against the railing. You’re perched across from him, legs tucked under you like you’re used to comfort. As if Hell’s elevator is just another library stairwell or sun-warmed rooftop. 

You are so criminally out of place, it’s laughable. That truth pulses in the air between you—brighter than your halo, louder than your laugh. Which, at the moment, is echoing off the metal walls.

Jun winces. “Do you always laugh that loud?”

“Only when things are funny,” you say, grinning like this place isn’t trying to unmake you. “You make a lot of faces, you know. All sorts of frowns and sighs.”

“That’s just my face.”

“It’s a very dramatic one.”

He exhales through his nose, not quite a laugh. You’ve been talking since the doors closed. Questions, mostly. What do the buttons do? What floor were you going to? What does it mean to earn Hell? 

He’s answered none of them. You don’t seem deterred.

Now you’re leaning forward, hands wrapped around the brass railing. “Do you remember what Heaven feels like?”

“No,” comes Jun’s too-fast answer. 

You tilt your head. “Liar.”

He hates that you say it softly, without accusation. Just curiosity. As if peeling back the layers of his silence is a game, not a risk. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” he murmurs.

“Maybe I do want the answers,” you muse. “Maybe I just want to know you.”

That strikes something in him. A note too tender to name. He looks away, watches the red numbers crawl. “No one wants to know me. They want to fix me, or punish me. Or worse, they want to save me,” he grumbles.

You frown. “I never said you need saving.”

Jun turns his head. Your eyes are steady. Too steady. He finds himself saying, quietly, “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“And you don’t know who I am,” you reply. “But I’m still here.”

The silence between you grows legs, starts to pace. Jun grips the railing tighter. The elevator hums like it might never stop.

Love. He hasn’t thought of that word in years.

It feels out of place in his mouth, like trying to speak in a language he used to dream in. But it lingers now, curled in the back of his mind like smoke. You with your warm voice and louder laugh, your endless questions and luminous skin.

Jun speaks before he means to. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

You shrug, so painfully blind in your faith that Jun remembers why he gave it all up in the first place. “Maybe I should be,” you concede. “But I think you're more afraid of yourself than I ever could be.”

The elevator ticks upward, slower now. Jun wonders if it senses the shift in the air.

He watches you in the flickering light, halo casting soft circles on the mirror. He doesn’t reach for you. He wouldn’t dare. But the thought is there, a dangerous wish forming teeth.

Love. Not as salvation. Not as forgiveness.

Just as this: wanting to be near you a little longer.

Jun closes his eyes. The elevator rises, and rises, and rises. 

And then it slows.

Jun feels it before the lights shift. That delicate decrescendo of motion. The hum quiets, settles into something almost mournful. The numbers overhead stall and stutter then disappear entirely. The walls exhale heat like a breath held too long.

Jun’s hand drops from the control panel, fingers brushing absently over the brass rail. He doesn't look at you right away. Instead, he presses his palm flat to the panel again, like maybe it’ll wake. 

But the buttons are dull now, lifeless. This is the end of his reach. The elevator has given him all it can. Beyond this point, the doors don’t just separate spaces. They separate fates.

“Purgatory,” he says softly, more to the elevator than to you. “Transfer stop.”

You glance around, puzzled. Your nose wrinkles. “This doesn’t look like anything.”

“That’s the point,” Jun replies curtly, eyes still on the grey haze spilling in through the doors. “Purgatory doesn’t choose sides. It waits. It watches. It doesn’t offer much, just space to decide what you are, or what you aren’t.”

The doors open with a sigh, as if they, too, are reluctant.

It’s gray beyond you. Not cold, not warm. Air that doesn’t carry a scent. Light that doesn’t cast shadows. The kind of nothing that makes your thoughts echo too loudly, like hearing your heartbeat in a sealed room. The kind of place that feels like memory without shape.

Jun steps back, not quite into the light. “I can’t go further than this.”

You turn to him, brows drawn. “Why not?”

His hand curls loosely at his side, wings twitching with some restless instinct. “Because I’m not allowed where you’re going,” he says, and it feels a lot like the confessions a long-gone version of him used to make. “I haven’t been in a very long time.” 

You wait. You don’t ask what he did. You don’t ask if he regrets it. You just look at him, that same steady look that has followed him up each floor, as if you knew something he didn’t. The silence that follows is gentle. Not awkward. Just ache.

You study him, and he hates how your gaze makes him feel seen. No one has looked at him like that in centuries. Not with pity, not with fear, but with something quieter. Recognition.

“What do I do now?” you ask, voice delicate, as though you already sense how far he’s receding.

Jun gestures beyond the threshold. “Walk straight until you find a staircase. Keep walking. Don’t stop for anyone who asks your name. Don’t follow voices that sound like mine. The next elevator will find you.”

You nod, but your feet don’t move. Your hands fidget at your sides. You glance behind you, at the depths you rose from, then forward into that featureless mist.

You say, too quietly, “Will I ever see you again?”

Jun’s jaw clenches.

He wants to say yes. He wants to say wait. He wants to take one step forward and say everything he’s never said to anyone since the fall. That he used to play harps and hold stardust in his hands. That his wings used to glow brighter than your halo. That once, a long time ago, he stood where you are now and felt nothing but peace.

Instead, he says, “I hope not.”

You flinch like he struck you. And still, you nod. Because you’re good. Because you understand. Because that’s what makes you whole where he is broken.

You step through the doors.

You don’t look back. Not right away. You walk slow, like you want to give the moment a chance to change its mind. But just as you start to vanish into the grey, you turn. Your halo tilts slightly, the light soft on your brow, shadowless. You’re smiling, smiling in a way that Jun hasn’t deserved in millennia. And you say it like a benediction or a curse, or maybe both:

“Goodbye, angel.”

You’re gone before the word is out of your mouth. But it’s there, it’s spoken, and Jun freezes as it echoes in his elevator like a stone dropped in a still pond. Angel.

Once, maybe. Before the war, before the fall, before he chose wrath over wonder. But now the title burns in his chest.

He exhales. The ache is sharp and sudden, sharper than the fire that once ate through his wings. This fall, this moment—this is the one that hurts. Not the punishment, not the exile, but the goodbye.

Purgatory hums quietly outside. Soft and still and endless. And Jun, for the first time in centuries, feels like he’s been left behind. Not cast out. Not condemned.

Just… left.

He lets the moment pass over him. Then, he leans forward and clicks B6. 🎼

[once-upon-a-fic]

i said i wouldn’t miss you 🎤 jeonghan x reader.

“she ghosted you, jeonghan.” “she doesn’t ghost. she lingers. she haunts.” ⸻ ikaw mula noon anniversary series 🎵 halik (acoustic), kamikazee

word count: 1.3k · includes: romance, angst with a happy ending; situationship struggles, jeonghan yearns/chases, the art of groveling

Jeonghan wakes to the warmth of sunlight, not you.

It pours through the sheer curtains like a promise it doesn’t intend to keep, brushing over the tangled sheets and the still-dented pillow beside him. The morning is too quiet. No soft rustle of you in the kitchen, no off-key humming into the coffee steam. Just the low, steady ache of emptiness blooming in the space where your laughter used to be.

There’s a phantom weight on his chest, the memory of your body curled into his side, the way your leg always slid between his like it belonged there. Like you did.

But the duvet is too light now.

You always kissed him awake. Always. Sometimes on the cheek, sometimes on the corner of his mouth, sometimes right on the nose if you were feeling silly. You’d lean in like a secret and whisper good morning like it meant something. 

And he’d play along, eyes still closed, basking in the softness of it. Of you. Now, there’s nothing.

Just the hollow press of silence and the aftertaste of your accusation echoing in the back of his skull. You’re only good at the start.

He remembers the way your voice broke on the word start, like you already knew this was the end. Remembers the way his fingers had curled into your wrist too tightly, how he had called you delusional, how the words were a smoke screen for the panic clawing up his throat. He remembers the way you let him kiss you anyway. The way you didn’t kiss back.

The bed groans under his weight as he finally sits up, elbows on knees, face in his hands. Your scent lingers in the linen. Sweet and stubborn. Just like you.

The next day, Jeonghan texts you.

First it’s just your name. A tentative hey. Then, an hour later: Can we talk? Followed by a double-send. Please.

You don’t reply.

He calls that night. It goes straight to voicemail. He doesn’t leave one.

He tries again the next day. And the next. Different hours, like maybe your silence has a time zone.

“Still no word?” Seungcheol asks over coffee, brows drawn tight as the foam heart in his latte.

Jeonghan shrugs, half-casual. “She probably dropped her phone in a river. Or joined a cult. You know her.”

“She ghosted you, Jeonghan.”

“She doesn’t ghost. She lingers. She haunts.” He smiles, bitter and small. “She’s probably somewhere rolling her eyes at how dramatic I’m being.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, like he’s trying not to say something he’s said too many times before. “You’re not chasing someone who wants to be found,” he says delicately, but Jeonghan isn’t listening. 

Later, he corners Joshua in a stairwell after rehearsal.

“Have you heard from her?”

Joshua blinks. “No. Why would I?”

“You’re nice. She liked that about you.”

“She liked a lot of things about me. Doesn’t mean she told me where she’s hiding.”

Jeonghan leans against the railing, tilts his head back like he might catch your scent on the breeze. “She kissed me before she left. Well—she let me kiss her. Not the same.”

Joshua gives him a look. Kind. Exasperated. “You always think you can charm your way out of heartbreak,” the younger man muses. “Maybe just let yourself be sad this time.”

But Jeonghan isn’t sad, not exactly. He’s something quieter. Hungrier. He scrolls through old photos and wonders how long your scent will stay on his skin. Wonders if kisses have half-lives. Wonders if he kissed you enough times to still feel full.

The days are getting longer, and they’re all missing you. Even now, he finds himself waking with his lips parted. Expectant.

And every time, it’s just the sunlight. And the ache.

After two weeks of radio silence, Jeonghan finds himself outside your apartment with a bouquet that’s too big and an apology that’s probably too late.

The flowers are your favorites. He had to ask three different florists before he found them, clutching his phone like a cheat sheet and mispronouncing the name until someone finally took pity on him. One of the stems bends under its own weight, the petals too open, too eager. Just like him—always blooming at the wrong time.

He’s been standing there for twenty minutes. Maybe more. Long enough for the streetlight to buzz into life, long enough to rehearse every variation of sorry he can stomach, long enough to remember how you used to kiss the inside of his wrist when you thought he was being brave.

He briefly contemplates doing it to himself. A press of his lips to his wrist, just enough to give him courage. 

Jeonghan is old school and drenched in cliché as he throws a pebble at your window. Then another. Then—

The curtain twitches. Your light flicks on. A beat. 

The window creaks open, and there you are, arms crossed in that way that means you’re dangerously close to slamming it shut.

“Seriously?” you ask, and even though you’re annoyed, your voice is still the sweetest thing he’s ever heard. “Rocks, Jeonghan? What century is this?”

He winces and offers the bouquet upward like a white flag. “The romantic one? The desperate one? Whichever one gets me in the door,” he calls out. But soft, what light through yonder breaks, he almost adds. It is the east. You are the sun. Or something. 

You stare down at him. Long enough to make him sweat under his hoodie. Then, sighing like this is a burden you've carried for lifetimes, you buzz him in.

He bolts.

You’re waiting by the door, robe tied like armor. Arms still crossed, expression unimpressed but eyes—he swears—just a little soft.

“I brought—”

“I see the flowers. Talk.”

He swallows hard, fidgets, then sets the bouquet on your table like it might soften what’s coming. “I know you’re tired,” he says finally. “Of the chasing. The mess. Me.”

You say nothing.

“And I know I always show up like this—arms full of promises, too late.”

Still nothing.

“I talk too pretty and follow through too little. I know that.”

You tilt your head to one side. “Keep going,” you mumble, so he does. 

He exhales, long and uneven. His voice drops, all the smugness wrung out of it. “I miss your kisses,” he blurts out, because it’s the most honest thing pressing on his chest.

You blink. Something in your face wavers, just slightly. Jeonghan pushes on, nervous now.

“I miss the one you gave me before I left for rehearsal. I miss the one you didn’t give me the night you left.” The words come spilling out of him like a dam that’s been broken. He can’t stop. “I miss the kiss behind my ear you always pretended didn’t mean anything. I miss how they tasted like forgiveness even when we were still fighting. I miss the sleepy ones. The stubborn ones. The ones you gave me when I least deserved them.”

You stare at him, a war behind your eyes. The silence stretches like a held breath.

“Jeonghan,” you warn, voice low. Almost gentle.

He nods. This is not the first time. It will be the last. He swears. He swears. “I know,” he says. “Just one more shot.”

You lift your hand. He flinches—then softens when you cup his face, thumb brushing just beneath his eye. And then you kiss him. Just once. Long enough to taste the apology on his lips, short enough to make him earn the rest.

When you pull away, your eyes don’t let go.

“If you screw this up again,” you murmur, “I’m calling Seungcheol to help me bury the body. And he’ll bring shovels.”

Jeonghan grins, dizzy with relief. “Fair. But I plan on being too kiss-drunk to screw anything up ever again.”

You roll your eyes. But your robe loosens, and your arms open, and for the first time in what feels like lifetimes, Jeonghan feels like he’s holding the warm sun instead of hiding from it. 🎼

[once-upon-a-fic]

dude, nice try! part one

masterlist • submit a request

joshua hong has had the immense privilege of living 30 whole years without ever feeling so much as an ounce of jealousy. that is, until you come prancing into his picture-perfect life on your dumb burner account with evidence that his long-time girlfriend is cheating on him… with your boyfriend.

as he gets tangled up in your chaotic plan to get back at your adulterous partners, he begins to wonder if this growing discomfort in his chest was ever even heartbreak to begin with, or if it’s something entirely new to him—something that has the ability to eat him alive from the inside out.

♫ get him back! olivia rodrigo ⟡ hot girl bummer blackbear ⟡ lackin’ denise julia ⟡ mascara xg part one: 9.4k words pairing: joshua x fem!reader cw: strong language, mentions of/implied sexual activity, reader is highly emotional and tbh kind of crazy maybe even toxic but idc bc i support women’s rights and wrongs <3 tags: strangers to partners-in-crime to partners PERIOD, joshua pov, pining, he fell first AND harder oops, he’s also so incredibly whipped from the jump, a few smau bits but mostly writing, no smut, inspired by get him back! by miss rodrigo, basically john tucker must die except joshua is sophia bush hehe iykyk a/n:  as stated in the teaser, this was a request for jealous!shua, though you should consider joshua’s affair with jealousy a slow burn in this one haha. if you read the teaser, i suggest you do not skip the parts you recognize here because i did cut some stuff out for the sake of length when i posted the preview! okay enough blabbing, enjoy!

dividers by cafekitsune! cover by yours truly!

prologue

the first message from you came in the middle of the night, as if the idea of reaching out to joshua had kept you up and tortured you mercilessly until you just couldn’t physically take it anymore. in retrospect, the thought of that is silly to him considering your first and only message was ridiculous and absolutely ineffective for what you were trying to do. but it makes him smile anyway. you’re just… so you.

of course, there was also the fact that joshua had been sound asleep at 3 a.m., so your plan really wasn’t well thought out—more a product of the rage that joshua isn’t sure whether he admires or should have you committed for.

his instagram notifications had been off back then, back before he felt the need to see everything you were doing and saying and posting on the stupid app.

it made sense that he kept you waiting, not noticing your first message until about halfway through his sunday morning.

he remembers feeling like it was an unfair assessment to make of his own long-term relationship, especially coming from a stranger. he also remembers having to sit back in thought for several minutes after reading that to contemplate what on earth you could even mean.

of course he loved mina. she was his girlfriend of a little over a year. you don’t stay with someone for a whole year and not love them, right? it was such a bizarre idea to him at the time—the thought that anyone could be in a relationship and not love their partner.

unfortunately, he learned that you were right pretty early on in your friendship. you've proven it enough times now that joshua knows you often are—right.

as he sits here next to you now, frowning at the odd sensation in his chest and listening to you frantically explain yourself to the bewildered officer across from you two, he realizes that not only did he never love mina, he's also starting to wonder if he ever loved anybody.

he has let go of all his ex-girlfriends so frighteningly easily when he thinks about it. on the other hand, he’s had a single month with you and he can’t imagine his life without you in it anymore. the thought makes him nauseous.

so now, it’s not a question of whether or not he ever loved mina; he knows he didn’t. now… he’s wondering if maybe, without even knowing it, he was just letting each relationship he’s been in happen to him—if he was just passing time.

passing time until what?

he doesn’t have the courage to respond to his own thoughts with the obvious answer, but he knows it’s the wrong question.

he watches you speak at a million words a minute, your cuffed hands waving in the air erratically and your brows pinching in the middle as you plead your innocence. he was sure you thought it was a pitiable enough expression for the officer to let the two of you go, but really, it was just painfully cute.

he bites back a sigh.

yeah. it was the wrong question. passing time until *who?

one month ago

“i believe her.”

joshua looks up from where he’s pulling up your messages on his phone and glares at jeonghan. “she’s a stranger. and you haven’t even seen what she said. how on earth can you already believe her?”

his best friend shrugs casually, bringing his straw to the corner of his mouth and sipping his americano nonchalantly like they’re not discussing the possibility of joshua’s girlfriend cheating on him. “i have eyes? ears? literally any one of the five senses? pick one and it can definitely pinpoint mina for the absolute snake she is.”

“okay, you’re biased, you hate everyone i date,” he mutters, returning to his phone so he can show jeonghan your conversation—if he can even call it that. most of it was just you screaming.

“yeah,” jeonghan agrees easily. he never made an effort to mask his feelings, something joshua still wasn’t sure if he appreciated or loathed. “because you date the most vapid, boring people.”

“oh, i’m sorry my tastes aren’t up to your standards,” he snarks, not bothering to look up.

“y’know, i’m glad you apologized—someone had to,” jeonghan says dramatically, making joshua roll his eyes. “i don’t know why you keep dragging these duds not only into your life but my life as well. why should i have to suffer too? you don’t even like any of these people.”

joshua immediately puts his phone down on the table. this is now the second time in 24 hours someone has claimed he doesn’t love or like mina. jeonghan raises an eyebrow at his sudden attention.

“what makes you say i don’t like mina?” he asks, eyes narrowing.

the man sitting across from him scoffs before putting his drink down and leaning his elbows on the table. “do you like mina?” jeonghan dodges the question.

“of course i like mina,” he says incredulously. “why would i stay with her this long if i didn’t like her?”

“beats me, i’d like to know too,” he retorts.

“jeonghan.”

he sighs, knowing he’s wearing joshua’s usually never-ending patience thin today. “okay, fine. you like mina,” he says in a way that blatantly confirms he doesn’t believe him. “what exactly do you like about her?”

“what?”

“what do you like about her?” he repeats easily.

“what do you mean?” joshua asks when his best friend doesn’t clarify.

jeonghan looks at him like he has two heads. “what do you mean what do i mean?” he asks, irritated. “it’s not some kind of trick question. what do you like about your girlfriend, dude?”

joshua is dismayed at his own silence. he realizes the first things that come to mind when he thinks about mina are physical traits. he likes her long hair. he likes the way she dresses. he likes the way she does her makeup. he likes her lip gloss—wait, no, not really because she doesn’t let him kiss her when she has it on… which is almost always. sure, she’s pretty, but… what does he really like about her?

he doesn’t have the time to ask himself what it could mean that he doesn’t have a meaningful answer, and jeonghan doesn’t have the time to laugh in his face and drive his point home. because at that moment, his phone pings, and it’s one message from you, just a little over 24 hours since your last message about him being heartless went ignored.

joshua glances down and feels his stomach turn.

i have evidence.

an hour later, joshua and jeonghan are sprawled across the latter’s living room. when they’d seen your message, both of them had quickly and wordlessly vacated the cafe they were holed up in, gotten to jeonghan’s apartment frighteningly fast, and rifled through the series of messages you sent—all of them photos you took of your boyfriend’s phone screen.

at first, joshua was just annoyed at how hard snapchat made it to read messages; most of the ones sent by whoever your boyfriend was were deleted. he was ready to wave you off and call your “evidence” a reach. but then, he got to more damning photos—photos he was a little vexed jeonghan got to see too.

because they just proved his know-it-all best friend right. mina was a fucking snake.

he’s shocked at the lengths they went to to be able to communicate with each other without being caught.

but perhaps the most damning piece of evidence of them all comes last: a photo of a woman’s naked back as she laid on her side in a bed—that wasn’t joshua’s or mina’s—away from the camera. it could’ve been anyone. the small tattoo at the base of her neck told joshua exactly who it was.

it wasn’t something he could refute anymore; you were obviously not a random person and you definitely weren’t mingyu playing some kind of sick prank.

“so what now?” jeonghan asks, both of them still starfished on the floor and staring at the ceiling after spending several minutes furiously swiping and cussing at his screen. “let’s fill all her shampoo bottles with hair remover,” he answers his own question before joshua can even open his mouth. “oh! or we can follow her around, inevitably find this tool, and kidnap him! i’m sure this y/n person will appreciate that too!”

joshua doesn’t bother entertaining his best friend with a proper response, choosing to ignore the suggestions altogether. his mind is racing a mile a minute, trying to find the point in his relationship mina might have started straying away. has it been happening the entire time? or did she recently decide joshua wasn’t fulfilling her needs to her liking?

“… his car and it’ll probably break down and explode at some point later that week?”

he frowns, realizing jeonghan has been suggesting ridiculous things they can do to mina and your boyfriend the entire time he was contemplating his relationship. it’s his first time getting cheated on, but he isn’t surprised at his best friend’s reaction to it. he’s more surprised when silence blankets over them for several long seconds before jeonghan asks:

“are you okay?” he sighs. “i know that’s a dumb question to ask. you’re obviously not going to be okay after finding out your girlfriend cheated on you.”

his frown deepens at that. it’s a fair statement. he always imagined this kind of thing would throw him into some kind of jealous rage—emotions he’s not really familiar with. rage like yours.

he wonders if he had been the one to find out about this, would he have had a meltdown the way you did? make a burner account and find you to tell you the way you did? try to find someone to commiserate with—even if it’s a stranger—the way you did?

no, probably not. he was telling the truth when he told you that all he would do is break up with mina.

and he’s incredibly confused to find that, contrary to what jeonghan is saying, he feels very okay with that. he can’t really imagine caring enough to do anything more, and he doesn’t know why. shouldn’t he care more?

if you and jeonghan were wrong about him loving mina the way he was so convinced you were, why didn’t he care more?

“joshua,” jeonghan reaches over and pokes his shoulder. “speak. you’re scaring me.”

he snorts. “i’m fine.”

“okay…” he responds slowly. “so still in shock?”

“no, i really think i’m fine,” joshua says, shaking his head at the ceiling. “i feel… normal. i guess just confused about when and why she decided to cheat.”

“you did nothing wrong. she’s just a conniving, slutty ingrate who doesn’t know that she’s throwing away the most decent man in the universe,” he assures him. “which brings me back to my initial question. what should we do now to punish said conniving, slutty ingrate?”

joshua sighs. “we’re not doing anything. i am breaking up with her as soon as she gets off work.”

jeonghan perks up, rolling over onto his stomach and crawling to him until his head appears in his line of vision. his best friend has a shit-eating smile on his face that makes him instinctively roll his eyes.

“can i be there?”

he knows he should say no. it’s an absurd request and it shouldn’t even take joshua more than a second to answer. but as he thinks about it, jeonghan continuing to smile at him like a little devil on his shoulder, he thinks it might be nice to have him there and shame mina for cheating in a way he knows he doesn’t really care to do himself.

he shrugs. “sure, why not?”

jeonghan squeals with delight, scrambling to get up. “come on, we have to make sure you look smoking hot so it hurts her twice as bad. you can borrow my leather pants.”

“leather?!” joshua repeats. “it’s the middle of summer!”

joshua texted mina to let her know he wanted to talk to her after work and he would be dropping by. she told him several times that tonight wasn’t a great time and insisted they wait until tomorrow, but he couldn’t bring himself to give a shit about her convenience, so here he is, with jeonghan practically vibrating with excitement at his side, standing outside her apartment building.

“i still think you should’ve worn the leather pants,” his best friend says, “but you look killer. she’s gonna shit herself.”

joshua recoils at the idea but thanks him anyway.

“ready?”

he sighs. “yeah, i guess. ready as i’ll—oof!”

he stumbles a few steps and right into jeonghan as someone violently shoves him, continuing to push and slap at both him and his best friend until they’re several steps away from the entrance to mina’s apartment.

“what the—”

“and what the hell are you doing here?!” a female voice shrieks.

he wants to yell at this stranger for putting her hands on him. he wants to tell her to have some manners and to get away from him. at the very least, he wants to glare at her until she shrivels up in shame and scurries away. but all ideas of even attempting to do any of that die as soon as he lays eyes on the stranger.

your instagram photos don’t really do you justice (of course he looked. he really thought mingyu was pranking him and had even mentally applauded him for his effort to find a cute girl to post so consistently). your photos were well-taken and curated perfectly for your profile, but now that you were—for some weird reason—standing in front of joshua and jeonghan, he can confidently call your photos dirty liars. he can’t blame them, though. he has a feeling no camera in the world can capture how pretty you actually are in real life.

prettier than anyone i’ve ever dated, his intrusive thoughts remind him. prettier than mina.

“well?!” you screech when neither of them answer you, making them both flinch. you don’t notice your effect on them, though, because you’re busy frantically looking between them and the entrance of the building like you’re scared the three of you will be seen.

he knows jeonghan is thinking the same, exact thing he is because he is never rendered silent.

“i—uh,” joshua stammers for what he thinks might be the very first time in his life. “we…”

jeonghan glances at him, face twisted in amused confusion before he schools his expression and points his signature stunning smile at you. “you’re y/n! hi!”

“who the hell are you?” you turn back to them, cross your arms, and practically bark at him.

his best friend’s laugh is exaggerated and several decibels louder than it has any business being. it grates joshua’s nerves. he glares at him but jeonghan pays him no attention. “i like her,” he mutters to him before saying, “i’m jeonghan.”

“okay, jeonghan,” you spit his name like venom, obviously unimpressed, making him giggle.

joshua rolls his eyes at him and his increasing giddiness. his best friend doesn’t date often, but he shouldn’t be surprised that he enjoys this kind of vitriol. jeonghan is, at his core, attracted to the same chaos and mischief he himself is made of.

“what are you doing here?” you ask again, raising an eyebrow at joshua to make it clear you’re talking to him.

“i’m… here to break up,” he answers weakly. “with mina! i’m here to break up with… mina.”

he doesn’t know what’s come over him, but being confronted by you in person and unnervingly close in his vicinity has him forgetting how to properly communicate. the thought of blocking you was a lot easier when he had no idea if you were a real person. now, he feels like there’s no escaping you.

“what are you doing here?” jeonghan asks the question he forgets to return to you.

you ignore him, eyes staying trained on joshua as you speak, and something about you pretending like his best friend doesn’t exist forces him to fight down a smile.

“you’re not breaking up with her today,” you order him confidently, like you know saying it is enough for joshua to agree. if the way his palms start to sweat are a sign, you might be right. “she’s up there with siwoo.”

“who’s—”

“my boyfriend,” you answer before jeonghan can even finish his question. “i followed him here when he told me he was getting drinks with coworkers.”

joshua’s stomach flips. he’s not really sure how anyone can even think about another person in your presence, let alone cheat on you. maybe your intensity scares siwoo, though. it definitely kind of scares him.

“you mean… they’re up there right now… and they’re probably…” jeonghan’s sentence trails off, but you’re you and you don’t shy away from finishing it.

“fucking?” you ask with a biting and sarcastic enthusiasm. “yeah, jeonghan! probably!”

joshua winces. your rage was already palpable via DMs, but it’s near suffocating in person. it grabs him by the neck and shoves his face back into the dilemma he was quietly contemplating back at jeonghan’s apartment: why isn’t he sharing the same anger? why isn't he doubled over, throwing up at the idea of mina having sex with someone up in her apartment at this very moment?

“are you hungry?” you direct the question to him.

“what?” he asks dumbly.

“are. you. hungry?” you repeat, irritation laced in your voice.

“i am!” jeonghan announces.

you give him a blank stare before looking back at joshua. when he fails to say anything, you sigh, your temper appearing to deflate infinitesimally.

“they’re going to be a while,” you inform him like you’ve done this before. “there’s a fried chicken shop i like nearby.” okay, so you’ve definitely done this before. “we can eat and… talk, i guess.”

“we would love to talk. right, joshua?” jeonghan asks, pinching his side with more force than necessary. he fights to keep from jumping.

"sure," he finally agrees. "i could eat."

"thanks for ignoring me amidst my weekend-long menty b, by the way," you say sarcastically as you set down a pitcher of beer and three glasses next to the tray of friend chicken on the table.

"ment—?"

"mental breakdown," jeonghan whispers to him as he reaches to pluck a piece of fried chicken from the tray.

instead of depositing it on his own plate, he stretches across the table to put it on yours. joshua's eyes involuntarily narrow at the gesture. he doesn't realize he's glaring at his best friend until he speaks again.

"what?" he pouts at him but his eyes glint with mischief. "ladies first."

"thanks," you murmur, not-at-all sounding thankful. jeonghan snorts. "well? explain your rude behavior." he looks back over to you to find you sulking. you add more chicken to your plate even though you haven't touched the one jeonghan gave you.

"ah." joshua shakes his head. "i was just... not all the way convinced you weren't my friend trying to mess with me."

"mingyu," you say the name a lot like you said jeonghan's and for some reason, it makes him smile.

"yeah," he confirms, laughing a little. "mingyu. he's been known to play a prank or two on me."

"our joshua is just very gullible," jeonghan supplies as he serves joshua chicken now. the statement feels like a crack to the ribs. it's what mina called him when she was messaging siwoo. gullible. "so he's slow to trust."

joshua doesn't have a chance to argue that because you're, once again, ignoring jeonghan to ask him another question. "and now?"

"now what?"

"i take it you're all the way convinced?" you clarify as you tear into your first piece of chicken like you haven't eaten in years. with a full mouth, you add: "i mean, i assume you are if you're here to break up with your girlfriend."

"uh... yeah..." he nods slowly, distracted.

joshua is often described by his friends as a gentleman—elegant even. with the exception of jeonghan and mingyu—the two people who know him best—he is always polite and accommodating. he's careful that his clothes are always pressed and lint-free. he always has good posture, and he does his best to remember his table etiquette, especially in the presence of elders. he tries to be buttoned up and put-together almost all of the time, sometimes even to his own detriment.

so staring at you, wiping soy garlic sauce off your mouth with the back of your hand and talking with your pieces of chewed up chicken tucked into one, puffy cheek, he should absolutely feel repulsed.

he frowns at you and knows it probably looks like he is repulsed by you. but really, he's just confused about why you look so endearing sitting there, eating like it pains you to while taking turns glaring at your drumstick and glaring at him and his best friend.

"hello?" you wave your saucy fingers in front of joshua's face. "is he always this... spacey?" you ask jeonghan without taking your eyes off him.

"i'm glad you asked! no," the man next to him answers—also through cheeks full of chicken. "i've actually never seen him this nerv—"

"sorry, what were you saying?" joshua interjects before everyone at this table, including him, has to face the fact that yes, he is very much nervous and he's unsure why.

you sigh as you wipe your fingers on a napkin. "what is it about me that men's eyes just begin to glaze over as soon as my mouth opens?" you complain, the signature rage joshua has come to expect from you in the one hour he's known you bubbling back to the surface.

his eyes widen in horror at the thought of you mistaking his fascination with disinterest. "oh! i didn't—no, i'm not—i—"

"what joshua is trying and failing miserably to say," jeonghan cuts in, sneaking him a look that screams get it together, "is that no one here is ignoring you. he's just... trying to process all of this. after all, you had all weekend to think about this, and he just realized you were telling the truth, what? two hours ago?"

you stare at jeonghan with the same unimpressed expression you’ve been forcing on him since you met him. after a moment, your gaze travels to joshua, and he gives you a meek smile. you finally hum in understanding.

“sorry, i know i’m projecting. i’m just all…” you wave your hand wildly near your temple to mimic a muddled brain. “siwoo has done a number on me.”

joshua finally gains enough composure to string a sentence together. “i’m sorry i ignored your messages… and blocked your burner account.” you cringe at that but nod an acceptance of his apology. “and i’m sorry i’m not fully present right now. jeonghan’s right.”

kind of. not really. he was processing your existence more than he was processing being cheated on, to be frank.

“i’m just… trying to understand what’s happening, i guess. for what it’s worth, i find it really unbelievable that anyone would ever cheat on you.”

he ignores the way jeonghan inhales deeply and slowly through his nose. only joshua would be able to tell it’s the equivalent of him scream-giggling and kicking his feet when he’s trying to be discreet.

your eyebrows rise like you’re shocked joshua is capable of more than grunts and one-word replies.

“ditto,” you say plainly. joshua can’t help the immediate laugh that escapes his mouth at that, and he’s pleased when you smile for the first time since you met. “mina seems dumb. and not just because she and siwoo are ruining my life. you’re very handsome. and if you blocking me on instagram so fast is any indication, you seem very loyal too.”

you say it easily, as if giving out compliments like that is no big deal to you. maybe it isn’t, but even if that’s true, he’s going to appreciate it nonetheless.

unfortunately, that appreciation manifests in a fierce blush joshua feels spreading across his face like wildfire, much to his mortification. he doesn’t remember the last time he blushed like a pathetic schoolboy with a crush. it was probably when he was an actual pathetic schoolboy with a crush.

he clears his throat, choosing to ignore the compliment. “yeah, i guess we have the same, bad taste in dummies.”

you suddenly groan, throw your head back, and blink rapidly at the ceiling like you're trying your best not to cry. both men glance at each other and fidget awkwardly at the abrupt change of mood, neither of them being great at handling a crying woman. joshua has little to no experience with it and jeonghan tends to fall back on ill-timed jokes during times of distress.

"i followed him here months ago," you tell them unprompted. “i followed him here so many times because he was always so fucking sketchy. but his lie always involved ‘one of the guys,’ so i just thought his friend lived in that building.”

“and you found out this weekend…?” jeonghan asks carefully. joshua rubs the back of his neck nervously.

you nod, squeezing your eyes shut briefly before bringing your line of sight back to them. your eyes are glassy but your efforts to keep from crying were mostly successful.

“he lent me his laptop because mine stopped working,” you explain, rolling your eyes like having a broken laptop on top of all this is almost enough to send you over the edge. “his texts are connected on there too. i was at a cafe with a friend, and one of those verification texts came through. i ignored it but a few seconds later, it messaged again and i saw that he’d replied on his phone.”

“he told her it was safe to text,” joshua says, remembering the photos you sent.

“yeah…” you breathe, hugging yourself tightly and rubbing your arms as you try to self-soothe. “and i just sat there in front of my friends, watching him make plans with her in real time… brainstorm the lies they agreed to tell us… and i just had to pretend to be normal or else i would’ve burned that cafe to the ground.”

jeonghan coughs as he chokes on his chicken a little. joshua pats him on the back absentmindedly, eyes never leaving you, even as his best friend stretches across him, still coughing, to pour everyone a glass of beer. you sniffle as you accept your glass with a small nod, your body visibly relaxing as you take your first sip. he tries not to gawk when you down it all in one go.

joshua thinks this is probably what someone in love should look like when their heart has been broken: drunk and sad. now that the initial shock of seeing you in person has worn off, he can see how tired you really look. there are dark, bruising circles under your eyes, visible even under your makeup, and your hair looks like it was haphazardly put up into a ponytail to avoid having to wash or brush it. your eyes are tinged pink, a little swollen, and dull, like you’ve been crying all weekend. you have been crying all weekend.

and joshua? he’s asking himself why he hasn’t felt the urge to cry at all yet because right now, he could be the poster child for soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend who is going to be okay has been okay, is okay, and will always be okay. aside from his irritation with mina and her insane audacity, today is like any other day.

he’s never had his heart broken before this, but maybe it’s just different for guys. he read somewhere that men’s emotional intelligence develop a lot slower than women’s; maybe he just hasn’t reached a level of maturity you have.

“anyway,” you say as you stifle a tiny burp that makes jeonghan giggle for the nth time tonight, “i’m going to ruin his life.”

okay, so maybe maturity is the wrong word.

“wh…” joshua glances at jeonghan for confirmation he heard correctly.

his best friend’s eyes are lit up with excitement as he leans forward with impossibly even more interest in what the pretty lady across the table has to say. joshua would slap him if they were alone. what for, he doesn’t know, but he would.

“sorry, what was that?” he asks, trying not to sound judgmental at the risk of setting your anger off again.

“she’s going to ruin his life,” jeonghan answers for you giddily. “what are you going to do? i told joshua he should fill mina’s shampoo bottle with hair remover.”

that earns the two men another smile from you, but this time, joshua finds himself annoyed it was because of something jeonghan said.

“oh my god, that’s vile,” you say even though you’re grinning and obviously love the idea. “maybe i’ll add that as a little cherry on top for siwoo.”

“oh, he’ll be so ugly,” jeonghan claims like he’s already daydreaming about it.

“you don’t even know what he looks like,” joshua murmurs.

“i don’t need to,” he responds, smiling as he stares off into the distance. “a stupid motherfucker who can cheat on our lovely y/n, here, like that has to look like ass.”

you roll your eyes at the compliment but your cheeks turn a cute shade of pink anyway.

“well, making him bald will look like child’s play when i’m done with him,” you match jeonghan’s dreamy tone, and joshua feels a chill of fear from having the two of you at the same table crawl up his spine. why was he a magnet for agents of chaos?

“is that why you haven’t broken up?” he asks. “you’re scheming to ruin his life?”

you frown. “what makes you think we haven’t broken up?”

joshua shrugs. “maybe the fact that you followed him here and then shoved me and my best friend into next week to keep us from attracting any attention?”

jeonghan snickers and your cheeks turn a darker shade.

“ah, right.” you nod once. “sorry about that.” you don’t look sorry at all and joshua finds himself thinking it’s amusing. “i suppose that was a bit… rude.”

joshua hums like he’s contemplating your apology but he knows it’s clear he’s fighting a smile as he brings his beer to his lips.

you sigh. “anyway, yes. that’s why i’m still with him. he doesn’t even know i know. i’m trying to get my ducks in a row and figure out the most devastating way to leave him.”

jeonghan smirks. “my kind of girl.”

joshua’s foot finds his best friend’s and stomps on it as hard as he can without thinking twice about it. it almost shocks him—how much it felt like instinct—but after the day he’s had, he thinks he’s entitled to a bit of a tantrum. maybe this is how he is when his heart is broken. a little mean.

“ow, what the fu—”

“so what’s the plan?” joshua asks loudly when your eyes snap up to jeonghan mid-sip over the glass of your beer.

you lick your lips clean of foam before setting the glass down, and joshua forces himself to look away when he notices how plump and pink they are.

“well, to be honest… i haven’t been the smartest,” you admit, seeming timid for the first time since you barged into his DMs. it’s an odd look on you. “i—um. i kind of rely on him… financially.”

the explanation comes tumbling past your lips after that like you’re afraid the two of them are going to judge you if you allow even a second of silence to pass.

“i had a job! i had a great job! but siwoo’s a bit traditional, and he comes from a more conservative family that really buys into gender roles, and i mean, fuck that, right?”

you give them no chance to agree.

“i’m a feminist! i swear to god i’m a fucking feminist!” you’re practically shouting now and the two men are so stunned, they can’t bring themselves to notice or care that the other patrons of the restaurant are starting to look over. “but i was in love! and i thought i was going to marry this moron! so i convinced myself i wanted to stay home and i wanted to clean the house and take care of a man—”

you say the word with so much disgust, both joshua and jeonghan struggle to keep from laughing.

“—and he was so happy when i quit my job like he’s been asking me to, and i thought i was happy too, like, what woman doesn’t want to be taken care of by a rich man?!”

you pause to burp briefly but it still isn’t enough time for either of them to get a word in.

“though again, i was in love! i was looking at that shithead through rose-tinted glasses! he’s nothing but a spoiled mama’s boy with a rich family! that asshole doesn’t have to do anything for the wealth he has! so, like, really… what woman wants to be fake-taken-care-of by a 30-something-year-old mama’s boy?!”

the words come with even more disgust than “man.”

“and he had the nerve to act like he was better than me because i had to work for everything i had before him! like, dude. if your bank account is still connected to your fucking mom’s, lower your goddamn voice when speaking to me!”

his best friend’s mouth drops open in absolute joy-filled shock at your biting remark. he’s enjoying meeting someone as chaotic as he is too much.

“and what was it for?! empty promises that he would propose soon?! endless faked orgasms for a man who’s afraid to give a woman head?!”

jeonghan chokes again, this time on nothing. joshua has more decorum but he can’t help the way his face turns bright red.

“you’d swear i was harboring a monster down there the way he cringed at the mere mention of oral, like, what is he, 12?!”

joshua has to avert his eyes to the ceiling of the restaurant at the mention of your “monster,” and he can’t even get it together long enough to nudge jeonghan when he bursts into hysterical laughter. they might as well be nonexistent, though, because you keep barreling through your rant.

“i was on track to be a director before 30! i was a fucking star! and look what he made me!” you screech, words slurring.

it takes your slurred speech and yet another burp for joshua to realize with mild horror that the pitcher of beer is almost empty, and that he and jeonghan are still on their first glasses. he elbows his best friend, who’s still cackling, and motions at the pitcher. jeonghan sighs happily as the last of his laughter leaves him and mutters a quiet: holy shit, pretty aggretsuko can drink.

“he turned me into a housewife! and i remind you: I AM A FEMINIST!” you slam your palms against the table to each word to punctuate your point. joshua can see why you picked aggretsuko for your burner account. “i support a woman’s choice to be a housewife if that’s what she wants, but my dumb ass didn’t realize that this isn’t the life i wanted until this fucking weekend! god!” you groan miserably. “all of this heartache and for what?! he cheated on me and now i’m jobless and about to be homeless and completely broke, and i…”

you abruptly run out of steam, slumping in your seat and looking at your near-empty glass of beer pitifully. joshua has the urge to round the table and give you a hug, but he stays put, trying to process the whiplash of witnessing what he imagines is a mini “menty b.”

you take a few breaths before quietly saying, “i can’t believe this is what being in love got me.”

something violently lurches inside joshua’s chest when you say that.

“i can’t believe something that’s supposed to be as beautiful as love blinded me so badly.” your voice cracks. your eyes well with tears and this time, you make no move to stop them as they begin to streak your face. “how the hell can love hurt this much?”

joshua’s mouth falls open to say something—anything. any kind of comfort or kindness or advice. but no sound escapes his lips as he watches your heart break into tiny, little pieces in front of him.

he’ll look back at this moment and realize this was the first time his heart knew something before he, himself, did: what he had with mina wasn’t love—that he had actually never even been in love before. there’s no world where mina would ever have the kind of effect siwoo has on you on him, and there isn't anything mina can do that would make joshua scorn the concept of love because it's something he never even experienced with her in the first place.

but for now, all he can think is that, despite barely knowing you and despite being somewhat afraid of you, he has an insatiable want to fix this for you. he wants you to stop crying. he wants to see the rare smiles they were gifted tonight on your face once more. most of all, he wants to make the man who made you cry sorry for ever entering your life.

the words are out of his mouth before he can think twice about them.

“i’ll help you.” you immediately stop crying and look up at him with wide eyes. “i’ll help you ruin this idiot’s life. and when the two of us are through with him, i promise you he’ll be afraid to breathe within a 10-mile vicinity of you.”

joshua is surprised you haven’t already responded to tease him about his fickle typing bubbles because for the last ten minutes, he’s tried and stopped, tried and stopped (stopped, stopped, stopped) to find a response to your question that was not only honest with you, but with himself.

it’s not lost on him how unconcerned and unbothered he was with the repulsive and heinous death his relationship suffered last night. jeonghan made sure to point it out the entire way home, all while nearly choking him and stimming his socked, shoeless feet against his torso during his piggyback ride.

“so are we going to talk about the fact that you had zero reaction to mina having a guy up in her apartment?” jeonghan muttered not one minute after demanding joshua carry him home.

“we were in the presence of a stranger,” joshua grumbled, adjusting jeonghan higher on his back. “how should i have reacted?”

jeonghan hummed in thought. “i guess if it were me, i wouldn’t have really cared about strangers. i would’ve started with busting into her apartment and hoping you were present to keep me from committing second-degree murder. that’s a start, no?”

joshua sighed. “you’ve known me practically my entire life. i’ve never been like that.”

“i know.”

he said it in a resigned way, as if a visceral reaction was a healthy one and joshua was depriving himself. as if jeonghan wanted more for him—like he wanted him to cause a scene and make a fuss. the thought confused him but he stayed silent as his best friend continued.

“i kind of just… i don’t know, worry?” 

joshua smiled. he could practically hear the wince on jeonghan’s face from having to be serious as he spoke. 

“i lowkey expected a meltdown like y/n’s from you at my place. are you sure you’re okay? i feel like i’m waiting for the aftershock of an earthquake.”

“are you saying you think i’m emotionally repressed?” he asked, putting the pieces together and saying what jeonghan was dancing around.

“well, if you think that’s what i’m saying, who am i to argue with your interpretation of my words?” 

he snickered. “i literally cried when you told me about that deep-sea anglerfish that swam to the surface of the ocean to see the sun before it died. i wouldn’t call myself emotionally repressed.”

“okay, repressed isn’t the right word,” jeonghan conceded. “it’s just—ugh, hold on.”

he suddenly started wriggling in his hold, obviously asking to be let down without vocalizing it. joshua squatted down to let him off his back, and before he could straighten all the way up, jeonghan had him by the shoulders and was turning him around almost violently.

“ungh!” joshua grunted as he came face-to-face with him.

“listen,” he said, capturing joshua’s face between his hands, forcing his wide, surprised eyes to meet jeonghan’s. “i’m going to ask you something seriously, and i want you to answer just as seriously, okay?”

joshua frowned. “okay…”

jeonghan nodded curtly once before speaking. “your girlfriend of over a year is cheating on you.”

“dude. i kn—”

“uh-uh, i’m speaking,” he deadpanned, tapping a finger against joshua’s temple. 

he sighed. “okay, go on.”

“your girlfriend of over a year is cheating on you,” he repeated, this time slower and with more emphasis, as if it was something he was convinced joshua didn’t totally understand. “she went out of her way to sneak behind your back, and not only lie to—your—face!” he practically shouted. “but laugh about lying to your face with that scumbag asshole. and when you went over to break up with her, she was entertaining her side-piece in her apartment!”

joshua fidgeted under his hold. having it repeated like this did hurt him, and although he spent a lot of this time wondering why he wasn’t as affected as you were, he felt a little sad and lonely now, standing there being reminded that his relationship just imploded.

“in all of this,” jeonghan continued, “the most reaction i saw from you was some quiet cussing when we looked through y/n’s screenshots, and i know you’re capable of being upset.” he smirked. “anglerfish aside, i know that you can express emotion healthily. so…” he took a deep breath.

when he didn’t say anything for several seconds, obviously hesitating, joshua raised his eyebrows. “so…?” 

jeonghan’s gaze flicked down to him from where he had been frowning at nothing above his head.

“so…” he inhaled slowly. “do you think you really… truly loved mina?”

he hadn’t been able to answer a barefoot jeonghan last night, and even after tossing and turning for hours and thinking of nothing else this morning, joshua finds that he still doesn’t have an answer.

if he measured love by how heartbroken someone was after it ended, he’d say you were (are?) madly in love with siwoo and he’s basically been in a committed friendship with mina—apparently a shitty one at that. but is that even the proper way to measure love? did the way he cared for mina for the past year count for nothing? a tender, aching hurt bloomed in his chest when jeonghan stopped him and forced him to look at his love life closely, and it has just grown since then. he doesn’t know if it’s telling him that love is more than the way it ends or if it’s telling him he’s been living life without it.

the jarring sound of his phone ringing interrupts his introspection, and he’s startled to find your contact on the incoming call. he quietly gets up from his desk and vacates his cubicle, where he has been neglecting his work to figure out a way to respond to you. he slips into one of the office’s private phone rooms and answers.

“hello…?” he rolls his eyes at how confused his sounds. smooth.

“you’re taking ages to reply,” you inform him, forgoing a normal greeting. “thought i’d call and see what has you so committed to sending me nothing but typing bubbles.”

joshua sighs harder than he needs to, sinking into the seat in the booth. “do you have nothing better to do than stare at my messages and wait for a reply?”

“no,” you scoff. “should i remind you i’m a stay-at-home girlfriend?” you spit the words out like you’re ashamed of them. he knows that you are and winces, silently chiding himself for the poorly timed joke. “i’m not doing anything for that cheater and his apartment while i have to continue living in this hellhole.”

“fair,” joshua says quickly. “sorry. forgot for a second.”

you snort. “it’s fine. what are you thinking about?”

“um, i’m at work, so… work?”

“no, dude, in regard to my question,” you remind him, laughing. he squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to groan. he knows he’s not doing a good job of convincing you that you don’t make him nervous. “why are you overthinking your answer so hard?”

“i’m not overthinking,” he mutters petulantly. “i’m just…”

“thinking overly hard?”

he hates that he cracks a smile at that. “fine, i might be overthinking.”

“oh! well, welcome to my page. i’m glad we’re now on the same one.” he can’t help but grin even wider at your apparently never-ending well of sarcasm. “so what are we overthinking about?”

we. you just met last night—barely agreed to help each other last night—and already, there’s a we. and already, joshua feels comfortable with the notion of that.

he shrugs even though you can’t see him. he slides down until his neck meets the curve of his seat and he stares at the ceiling as he speaks. “i was there to break up with her last night.”

you hum. “i remember. and you still want to.”

it’s more an observation than a question.

“well, i guess that’s what i’m overthinking about.”

“bro, i get it,” you say, shuffling around in what he assumes is your bed. he narrows his eyes at the word bro. “staying with your awful partner and pretending like everything’s okay when all you want to do is strangle him is certainly not for the weak.”

“okay well, thankfully, i don’t want to strangle mina.”

you laugh again and he suddenly wishes he’d gotten to see and hear you do that in person last night. “so what do you want to do to mina?” you ask as the sounds of you moving around the apartment come through the phone. “please don’t say nothing. i already feel like a horrible enough person as it is.”

the statement derails joshua’s train of thought. “why do you feel like a horrible person?”

“probably because i’m committed to doing whatever it takes to burn siwoo’s life to the ground instead of just breaking up with him and moving on like a normal, well-adjusted adult, and if you say ‘nothing,’ it will just remind me moving on is exactly what i’m supposed to be doing. and i don’t want to do that! not without fucking some lives up first!” you end your ramble with a grunt of frustration.

“i don’t think that makes you horrible,” joshua counters. “i think that just makes you… human? i feel like the normal reaction is to want to hurt someone as badly as they hurt you, right?”

at least from how joshua sees it, he thinks that’s probably the normal reaction. if jeonghan’s pressing questions say anything, it’s that his lack of reaction isn’t normal.

the sounds in the background pause like you’ve stopped to think about what he said. after a few moments, your only response is: “thanks.”

“i’m just being honest.”

“i know. thanks for saying it anyway,” you sigh as you continue to do whatever you were doing. “well?”

“well, what?”

“you haven’t answered my question.” you repeat it for him. “what do you want to do about mina?”

he groans, letting his eyes fall shut. “i want to break up with her and forget she happened.”

“do all men move on that fast?” you ask, sounding genuinely curious. “like, do you all just decide you don’t love someone anymore and move on after, like, a week?”

“i’m not moving on fast,” he argues, opening his eyes once more and sitting up. “i just want to give myself a chance to move on at all.”

“so mature of you,” you comment. something tells him you don’t believe that, though, and you prove him right with your next sentence. “or you just don’t love mina as much as you think you do.”

“what is with you guys and insisting i didn’t love my long-term girlfriend?” he complains.

“who’s ‘you guys’?” you sound too excited to realize more than one person in his life has made this observation about his relationship.

“nobody,” he practically hisses, not wanting to give you and jeonghan something to bond over and tease him about. 

if he had his way, he’d probably make it so that you two never hung out again; your threatening energy as a duo honestly freaked him out a little and something about the way his best friend acted around you irritated him to no end. but he knows that helping you with siwoo will probably entail jeonghan butting in somewhere at some point.

“i loved mina, okay?” he insists, annoyed with the way he sounds like he’s trying to convince not only you but himself. “why do you even think otherwise?”

he doesn’t think he needs to point out that ultimately, you two don’t really know each other. you don’t have enough evidence to make such a massive assumption about him.

“i don’t know,” you mumble, “ugh.” he hears something clink against what sounds like porcelain. “i guess i’m having a hard time knowing that i’m devolving into this… child who’s having a world-war-sized tantrum, but someone who’s going through the same, exact thing i am is able to handle his emotions maturely... and gracefully… and just walk away. you’re so level-headed. meanwhile, i feel like my anger is consuming me.”

he rolls his lips over his teeth and bites, like that will help him from saying something too intimate to someone who’s still virtually a stranger. he suddenly feels sad for you again. it shoves away the newly formed pain in his chest that jeonghan forced there last night and burrows deep in his ribs the same way it did when he was watching you sob over fried chicken and beer.

“it’s kind of funny,” he starts, his voice soft and hesitant. “i thought something was wrong with me for not reacting the way you were.”

“nothing’s wrong with you,” you assure him. “sorry, i know me joking that you didn’t love mina probably makes you feel that way. i’m just trying to find an excuse for why you’re doing this so well and i’m… not. guess it’s easier to tell myself you’re moving on so fast because you didn’t love her in the first place.”

“you know,” joshua starts making his own observation as he thinks about the way you apologized for projecting your feelings about siwoo on him last night, “you’re super self-aware.”

“pfft, well as my therapist would point out, what good does that do if i’m aware i’m being self-destructive and i do it anyway?”

he smiles. “does that make me an accomplice to your self-destruction?”

“of course. you’re still willing to help with project destroy-siwoo-and-maybe-y/n-in-the-process, though, right?”

he grins wider. “of course,” he parrots before getting serious again. “but hey, i’m definitely not a good bar to set yourself against when it comes to break-ups. i’ve had too many to be someone you want to compare yourself to. you’re not not doing well.” he frowns at himself. super eloquent, joshua. “i think you’re handling this as best as you can. plus, i’m not going to pretend like siwoo doesn’t deserve everything that’s coming to him.”

you giggle like the thought of siwoo’s life crashing to the ground excites you. he knows it does. “okay, well if you’re committed to enabling me, i’m not going to make you stop.” joshua laughs loudly at that and you join in. “you have a nice laugh,” you tell him once you both stop.

“yah,” he whines. “are you always so bold?”

“didn’t we already establish that i am? what’s the big deal, anyway? i think we should all compliment each other more. it balances out my devotion to rage and revenge.”

he shakes his head, smiling once more. his cheeks are beginning to hurt. “fine. i’ll try to get used to it.”

“good!” you chirp as he hears more clinking in the background.

“what are you doing, by the way?”

“uh, i’ll tell you later,” you give him a non-answer before quickly directing his attention elsewhere. “so are we leaving mina out of this? should i just let you move on and grieve however emotionally healthy people grieve and tear up the mina section of my revenge plans?”

he snorts. “wow, okay, i need to stop letting your antics surprise me.”

“i agree. it’ll make this friendship easier for you.”

“i’ll bite. what’s in the mina section?”

“oh, nothing huge yet since i know nothing about her. i have jeonghan’s brilliant hair remover bit in there though.”

joshua glares at the wall across from him. he agrees that jeonghan is generally brilliant but he’s irked to hear you say it anyway. “right.”

“mhm,” you hum. 

“well,” joshua sighs, knowing that after several minutes on the phone with you, he has yet to give you an answer and he should really get back to work. “i guess that’s what makes the most sense for me. tearing up the mina section of the plan.”

honestly, nothing really sounds better to him than getting her out of his hair. 

“okay,” you agree quickly. “i can’t lie, i’m a bit disappointed because the scorned woman in me of course also wants to ruin mina’s life, but you’re the boss.”

he has no idea why he’s the boss when this is all your master plan, but he appreciates the grace you give him. he knows it’s probably not easy for you to redirect your disdain for mina and refrain from including her in your mission to ruin lives. well, life—one life: siwoo’s. 

“at least i can keep my girl’s girl reputation in tact.” 

he smiles at your priorities: 1. ruin siwoo’s life 2. remain a girl’s girl.

“exacting revenge on mina would do nothing to your girl’s girl reputation,” he assures you. “she’s the one who isn’t being a girl’s girl. she’s the asshole here.”

“oooh,” you sing, very clearly delighted, “joshie’s getting mad!”

he’s glad you’re not here to see him blush for no reason. when he’s too flustered to respond, you chuckle.

“i guess we don’t really need to go after mina, anyway, huh? you’re probably just as angry at siwoo for stealing her away too,” she thinks aloud.

he stills. 

joshua is a little embarrassed to admit he didn’t even consider that. he’s typically a proud man—humble and grounded, but he takes pride in himself nonetheless. is it weird that he didn’t think twice about the fact that siwoo disrespected him and his relationship by pursuing mina? up until now, his anger was mostly feeding off of your sadness.

“joshua?” 

“uh, yeah,” he stammers. “yeah. siwoo’s enough.”

“figured. we’ll make him pay real good for the both of us then.”

joshua nervously squirms in his seat. “yup. well, i should get back to work,” he says awkwardly. if you notice, you don’t point it out for once. “let me know what we should do next whenever you’re ready.”

he can practically hear the smile in your voice. “okay, and you let me know how breaking up with mina goes.”

if he had his wits about him, he'd probably give you shit for sounding so happy about the looming end, but he doesn't. so all he does say is:

“bye, y/n.”

“later!”

just a few moments later, he’s back in his cubicle when another text from you comes in.

he wasn’t scared, just like he wasn’t annoyed that you ate like you were discovering food for the first time. the right word didn't come to him until he was almost done with the report he had been working on before you texted: he was charmed.

a/n: thanks for waiting! hope you liked it! as you can probably tell, this is already way longer than i planned on it being so i’m not entirely sure how many parts this will be, but it’s my priority fic rn so i’ll work hard on updates! for now, keep reading to see a teaser for the next part! (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

if you’d like to be added to the tag list, comment here or send me an ask! if you requested to be on the list but weren’t tagged in this post or the reblog, it’s bc you don’t have an age indicator on your page. pls add that if you want to be tagged next time.

part two teaser

and when he felt a little better in his own skin and ready to put a “realer” version of himself out there, he met mina. mina, his longest relationship, and up until now, someone he was convinced was his first love. he said as much anyway. he was the first to tell her he loved her, he reminded her he did every day, and he thought they had a nice, long future ahead of them. what he pictured in that future exactly, he had no clue. but after an odd and somewhat unlucky streak in dating, he finally felt like mina was a nice and comfy place to land.

he’s never been more wrong about something in his entire life. 

and after the laughable amount of breakups he’s experienced, he’s also never been angrier after the end of a relationship in his entire life.

mina was proving to be a lot of firsts for him—first cheater, first master manipulator and liar, first person who’s ever made him wonder if he could possibly switch over to dating men instead… or simply stop dating at all! sure, he would die alone but he would die in peace. 

whatever the case, he's quickly approaching the conclusion that “first love” is not among those firsts, and it probably never was. no amount of teasing from you or jeonghan did it, but in less than a handful of minutes spent breaking up with mina, he is a million percent sure this was not someone he could have loved. or else what did that say about him and his taste?

sixteen minutes earlier

joshua arrives at mina’s apartment exactly two hours after work ends for her—5 p.m. every day because she always scheduled a pilates class at 5:30 p.m. thirty minutes for her to get to her class, one hour for her to finish it, 30 minutes for her to get home, zero minutes for her to get clean because he doesn’t care how presentable she is when he dumps her. 

plus, however long it takes joshua to end this.

he hadn’t bothered to tell her he was coming over; he didn’t think she really deserved that courtesy. he may be intent on a clean break, but he also wanted this to be as annoying for her as it has been for him.

so at a prompt 7 p.m., joshua finds himself casually leaning against the elevator’s railing, ascending the floors of mina’s apartment and feeling almost excited to be free of this experience. 

after he got off the phone with you, he decided he would bite the bullet when work was over. he spent the rest of his day absentmindedly finishing his reports, periodically stopping to scribble an idea for what he would say to his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend.

he takes the folded piece of paper out of his pocket now and runs over his options again.

his levels of shame and self-pity were sky high when he first pulled out his notepad at the office to write his thoughts out, but after texting you and letting you know what he planned to do, you insisted on meeting at a cafe beforehand to brainstorm together while he waited for mina’s pilates class to end. and once you both workshopped the entire list, his embarrassment diminished almost completely.

it was clear you took this a lot more seriously than he did. he doesn't know what he expected; you probably have a manila folder stuffed full of notes for what you plan to do to siwoo.

as such, you were very helpful. sure, you were also really distracting, with your subtle, spiced perfume he recognized as lola james harper, and your daunting and unrelenting eye contact, and the way your eyes smiled all on their own when they weren’t busy crying over siwoo, and the fact that you graced him with your laugh in person for the first time (every bit as fun as he thought it would be), and everything else that came with just existing in your presence.

all of it was really distracting—almost to the point of it being entirely counterproductive for him. almost, if it weren’t for the fact that you were so determined on his behalf to make this the most unpleasant experience for mina. he was mostly pleased with where you two landed, and if anything, he at least had a better idea of what he wanted to say. he reads the completely ruined paper, a mess of his black ink and wrinkles where you kept trying to grab the paper out of his hands. it was already a vulnerable enough occasion talking about this with you; he did not need you seeing his notes on top of it.

TALKING POINTS FOR BREAKING UP WITH EVIL GF i know you’ve been cheating on me, and don’t try to deny it because someone sent me proof! — cannot say this without exposing that y/n knows about siwoo!!! i know you’ve been cheating on me, and don’t try to deny it because i went through your phone and saw your text messages! — better, but am i willing to look crazy just to cover for y/n? yes what am i saying NO this will do ✓ how could you do this to us, mina? i loved you! — seems disingenuous? note: yell at jeonghan and y/n for putting ideas in my head later! i literally gave you everything you could’ve wanted, and that still wasn’t enough? what does any other man have that i don’t? — ok met with y/n for feedback. she says this sounds pathetic and that i can't let her think this has affected me. but she cheated on me? this LITERALLY affects me. i will come back to this one ok y/n made a different, better point: i am perfect and i should not present myself as lacking. so true. she's very good at this! do you really think anyone with half a fucking brain cell who's willing to homewreck a relationship is really going to give enough of a fuck about you to be capable of putting up with your insufferable ass and treating you as well as i did? — y/n suggested this one. had to workshop bc she's alarmingly vulgar. plus, it sounds a little toxic to say i "put up" with mina ??? not sure do you even regret hurting me? — y/n says this is silly bc siwoo and mina obviously do not regret anything, but i told her i do want mina to feel guilty even if i'm not sure that i'm all that hurt. she now agrees and says i should add: "or are you just so heartless you don't care?" she said this more colorfully, but i will remain respectful why should i remain respectful? mina is literally the most disrespectful person i have ever met. i will say what y/n suggested: ↳ my bad, i forgot your commitment to being a heartless fucking asshole has you by your ugly ass neck and it's squeezing with both hands and i hope it kills you GET HELP! — more for catharsis. will not be yelling this at her you're going to regret this and if you think there's a world where i take you back when you do, you're mistaken — wow, no notes from y/n! must be very good. definitely say this one!! please never contact me again — note from y/n: "why are you being so goddamn polite? tell her to fuck off and if you ever see her number on your phone screen, you'll set up an appointment on her behalf to get a lobotomy." ????? note from ME: have a serious discussion with y/n at a later time about why i, a MAN, can't just talk to WOMEN like this!

tag list: @coupsma @tokitosun @nothingbutadeadesceane @ateez-atiny380 @minghaofied @reiofsuns2001 @turtash @https-seishu @gaslysainz @dawn-iscozy @mrsjohnnysuh @sunnysidesins @thepoopdokyeomtouched @faizaa09 @hearts4itoshi @iamdkayyyyy @randojeon @iwannakisspoutycheol @youre-on-your-ownkid @justanotherkpopstanlol @sanaxo-o @seokqt @bath1lda @ilouvwonwoo @littlemisshyperfixation @mxelatrix-x @papichulomacy @o-schist @sumzysworld @alyssa19123456

[once-upon-a-fic]

🧵each minute/each second | ft. choi seungcheol

PREVIEW. You’re already shaking your head—no, no, no. “Seungcheol, don’t—you can’t just say that after what happened between us.” “And pray, do tell,” he raises an eyebrow. “What happened between us?”

FEATURING. choi seungcheol x gn!reader GENRE(S). childhood friends to second-chance ???, open-ended, angst, fluff LENGTH | WC. <15min | 2.1k EXPLICITS. cursing, mild descriptions of blood/organs used as metaphors

JAY’S MUSINGS. and who else to pair 17 CARAT with if not seungcheol? this is dedicated to cheollie: the embodiment of bold first impressions, unwavering reliability, and endless youth. thank you for understanding me through all the years of struggle and absence, and for letting me crawl back into your arms to listen to your music even after so long. a special dedication to @supi-wupi & @mylovesstuffs for beta-ing (and crying in the word doc) <3 YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE. saved to library: seventeen // shining diamond by seventeen // paths by niki // cross ur mind by lyn lapid // see you later (in ten years) by jenna raine // 18 by one direction // sweet creature by harry styles

Everything that lies in your childhood bedroom has purpose.

Little trinkets line your drawer: an old worn stuffed calico cat given to you on your birthday some years ago, unfinished books with handmade bookmarks stuck somewhere between the middle and the end, trays full of sea glasses collected from beach trips—the list goes on, and that was only one corner of your beloved room.

There are posters of your favorite artists fighting for space across the wall closest to your bed. You’d run your fingers over all the cardstock a careless number of times, feeling the roughened edges of a band you’d practically seen shoot to stardom placed right next to the signage of an artist you’d only gotten into last year. Countless memories, all fond, laid bare in a place that watched you transform into the person you are today.

And of course, to top it all off, Choi Seungcheol sprawls across your bed as if he’s the substitute for your favorite nighttime comforter.

The sight of him, all clunky and awkward on your sheets, almost makes you laugh. Almost.

Because what he says to snap you out of your thoughts, frankly, kills any sort of laughter that springs alive in your throat.

“You didn’t tell me you were going abroad.”

In all your years of knowing Choi Seungcheol, you’ve never heard him so… betrayed. Sure, there were the times you’d cheekily cheat in a game of cards, or run to tag him on the playground only to scream for the game to end when he was about to get you back.

But this? This wasn’t a wound you could fix with a popsicle from the market down the street.

“I got a scholarship in the States,” you manage to croak out, fiddling with the drawstrings of your hoodie. “Cheol, I—”

“You didn’t tell me.” Seungcheol says—accuses—again. “I thought you were going to Seoul University. I watched you submit your application. We opened the acceptance letter. What happened to that?”

We opened the acceptance letter. We. You swallow back the lump in your throat. “My parents—” “I’m debuting soon, and you’re leaving?”

You wince.

The letter that has forever cursed your relationship with Seungcheol sits pretty on your desk, its envelope torn neatly with the paper-cutter you use to scrapbook. The stark white color mocks you from where you’re perched against your drawer, arms now crossed tightly across your chest.

“Seungcheol,” you inhale sharply. “I have my reasons for not telling you, you know.” This seems to shut him up. Your childhood best friend shifts upright on your cushioned plushies. You exhale deeply, trying to steady your breath before continuing.

“I didn’t want you to try to argue with me.” Seungcheol opens his mouth to protest, but you’re quick to cut him off with a glare. “I know you, Cheol. You’d either fight me tooth and nail to stay here with you, or you’d wreak havoc trying to follow me across the world. And I didn’t want to worry you by giving you that choice. I knew what I was doing when I submitted my application to the States.”

He stands up so fast you jump, startled, your back hitting the wall with a soft thud. Seungcheol’s thick, raven black hair goes messy from the frazzled way he begins to run his hands through it.

“Did you?” he asks all of a sudden.

You blink. “Did I what?”

“Did you know what you were doing?” Seungcheol’s lips are a tight line, and you itch to reach out to smooth the crease that’s beginning to form between his eyebrows. “When you chose to leave, did you know what you were doing?”

“Don’t say that. You’re putting words in my mouth.” Your back straightens, fingers trembling at your sides. “See, this is what I meant when I said I didn’t want to let you know. God, I should have never even thought of bringing it up to you. I should have just let everything play out. At least then we would have at least had a chance of being on good terms.”

“Does it even matter when in the end you’re just going to leave me behind?”

Something snaps in you. “You are not mine to leave behind!”

The shout echoes throughout your bedroom. It’s silent, before thundering steps can be heard outside your door and an urgent knocking begins.

“Come in,” you murmur, lowering the hands you’ve raised to tug on your hair.

A creak, and your younger sister’s head pops in, eyes wide with alarm. “Mama’s asking what’s going on. Why’re you two shouting?”

Seungcheol’s gaze has the nerve to soften at the sight of the little one. You turn away from the door, gulping with shame, while he goes to comfort the girl. “Hey Haeun, it’s okay. We’re just playing a game and got a little carried away, yeah?”

She nods, mesmerized by his soothing voice—a look and feeling you know all too well. “Okay! Can I join?”

“Haeun, not right now,” you sigh. “It’s—...we’ll be down soon, ‘kay? Just go tell Mama everything is okay.”

“Okay!”

When she leaves, you’re left with an achingly big stretch of silence, one so loud it almost has you covering your ears. You begin to trace the outline of Seungcheol’s hand that has started to rub circles into his shoulder. His eyes are shut, mouth drawn closed, and you wonder if there’s ever going to be a chance to rebuild what just collapsed.

“Seungcheol,” you finally say.

He hums, noncommittal, and a part of you shatters.

“I… I also didn’t tell you because—”

“No, it’s okay.” The finality of his words slam into you, breaking what hasn’t already been fragmented. “I don’t… I don’t think I need to know. I think I already know enough, even without you telling me.”

Seungcheol’s shoulder just barely brushes yours when he walks past you to your bedroom door, glancing back just once. His eyes dart around like he’s trying to memorize the living space of someone who’s already dead.

“Reach out if you need.”

And he’s gone.

You sink to the floor, burying your face in your hands and taking a shaky inhale.

I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to lose you before I left.

I didn’t tell you because I still want you.

I didn’t tell you because I love you.

The next time you see Choi Seungcheol, it’s against your will.

And you’re not even exactly sure if it… is him.

“Seungcheol!” your mother chirps from behind you; she elbows past, nudging you with a soft, behave, won’t you? “It’s been so long, honey. Come in, come in! You must have so much to tell us.”

The man steps into your foyer, bowing gratefully. His mop of blueberry hair falls forward into his eyes, and when he raises his head, those big brown eyes from before stare back at you—except this time, it’s different.

You can’t read them anymore.

The living room is full of noise, congratulations being passed around from the idol’s recent successful album hitting the top charts. Drinks are soon being poured, and questions flow from the mouths of your family, eagerly soaking up the warmth he brings to your maple-wood coffee table.

You, on the other hand, sit as mute as a quail, holding onto your mug of tea for dear life. Words barely register in your brain; you miss Seungcheol’s lingering gaze on your every so often between stories. Those unreadable eyes follow you as you excuse yourself to go upstairs, and this time you feel them scraping along your back, leaving figurative lines of blood down your skin as you bolt up to your bedroom.

It takes approximately 143 seconds for that familiar rapport to sound at your door.

A resounding knock, followed by three short ones in succession; you could recognize your childhood passcode simply from the vibration that your door gives off when Seungcheol would knock. For some reason—and you’d always make fun of him for it when you were younger—he would always put so much intent into his rhythms, tapping his knuckles with such purpose that it leaves you no other choice but to open the door for him.

Maybe that’s why he lies in your bedroom now, almost seven years later.

You two wordlessly sit on the rug in the middle of the room, him leaning against the footing of your bed and you against the drawers of your wardrobe. You pick at the blue fuzz, scrutinizing the nail polish that stained the fabric some years back.

He, of course, speaks first.

“You didn’t change anything.”

Seungcheol’s eyes are looking at you and you want to hide. You know your hair’s the same color; know you’re still wearing the same style of clothing that’s been most comfortable for you all these years. Sure, the States gave you a place to experiment and therefore become more confident in your own skin, but coming back to Korea had you easily reverting back to old habits.

Like easy banter with Choi Seungcheol.

“Couldn’t say the same for you,” you retort. “Never thought I’d see such a deep shade of blue in someone’s hair. ‘Specially you.”

“It looks good, doesn’t it?” He grins cheekily, and you almost want to laugh from the sheer confidence he’s accumulated over time.

Almost.

“How long are you here for?” you ask simply.

Seungcheol exhales. Squints up at the ceiling for a second.

“As long as you want me to be here for,” comes his simple answer.

You’re already shaking your head—no, no, no. “Seungcheol, don’t—you can’t just say that after what happened between us.”

“And pray, do tell,” he raises an eyebrow. “What happened between us?”

“I left for the States and you debuted,” you sputter back. “We—it’s been—I haven’t talked to you in years, and here you are, waltzing back into my bedroom like you own the place. Why are you here? Why aren’t you gone?”

Choi Seungcheol says your name and your lips press together in a whimper. It’s never sounded so vulnerable before, your name; so delicate and fragile to him, like he’s wishing upon a star.

“I waited for you to reach out to me, you know,” he mumbles. “Thought some time and space would help. You never did, though.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out. “I was young, and stupid—I didn’t know how to pick up after my mistakes. Still don’t know how to. I’m sorry.”

Your body seems to be betraying you, because before you know it, there are tears freely flowing down your cheeks; and for some reason, you can’t stop goddamn babbling.

“I didn’t want to tell you because I was afraid of you leaving before I could. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t know how to without falling apart. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not telling you. I’m sorry for loving you. I—I think if I loved you any less we would still be best friends.”

Up until now you thought this Seungcheol was an imposter; someone who invaded your home by dressing up in that old beat-up hoodie he loved when he was younger and those dumb sweatpants you got ice cream on one time in high school. But now, being pulled into his embrace, it's like you’re back in your last year of primary school all over again, crying over getting accepted into Seoul University. Back before things changed. Before things and Seungcheol and everything but you changed.

“It’s okay,” is all he says, and that’s all you need. “It’s okay. We’re okay. We’ve always been okay.”

“No we haven’t,” you sob weakly into his chest. “Seungcheol, I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I? Our lives, they’re ruined.”

“What do you mean?” He laughs softly. “Our lives have literally just begun. Y’know, there’s so much to tell you, and even more to experience with you moving forward. Don’t you think so?”

His words stir something inside of you. A wave of serenity washes over you, and you savor each minute, each second with it. You want to berate him, asking him how he got so mature in so little time. You also want to kiss him, toppling over into his arms and never letting go until the day you die.

Instead, you opt for a small sigh. One that you know Seungcheol picks up on and understands the meaning of.

“Catch me up, then,” you pout, settling into his arms with a newfound acceptance. “You at least owe me that much.”

He laughs, and the sound rivals any lyrics you’ve heard him sing in the past—it’s warm, strong and true. All things Choi Seungcheol.

“Alright,” he relents teasingly. “Now, where should I begin…”

back to your library. || next in queue.