peartreegarden

[peartreegarden]

“Heaven and Back”

𝓹airing ꒱ ˒˓ Lee Felix x Female!reader ˒˓ one night stand?? . 𝓰enre/ smut, o.ral (f receiving) unprotected sex (don’t do that). when your drug is the feeling you get from him, and you just might be addicted.

[ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆. ] — here’s the first request of my 300 follower celebration post!, requested by @d1gital-data this is like the second time I’ve ever written smut so let me know what u think! <3

✨event master list✨

It starts with a shot of tequila.

You’d already had three. This one just tipped you from numb to reckless.

The club is a blur, flashing lights, pulsing bass, your friends dancing around you with glittered skin and laughter you can’t quite echo. You’re a week post-breakup, and it’s not the clean kind. No closure. Just a slow death of something you thought would last forever.

You’d promised your friends you weren’t looking to meet anyone tonight.

But then he walked in.

Blonde hair swept back, lips curled in that kind of smirk that looks like it’s gotten him everything he’s ever wanted. A leather jacket hangs off his frame like it was stitched onto his skin, low-hanging chains catching the light as he moves. And his eyes, dark, bottomless, knowing, catch yours and hold.

suddenly, the room feels smaller. The air feels thicker. Like it’s laced with something only he breathes.

You should have looked away.

But you didn’t.

He’s at your side a minute later, lazy confidence in every movement.

“That guy over there,” he says, nodding toward the bar, “thought you were staring at him.”

You raise a brow. “And you assume I wasn’t?”

Felix smiles slow and lethal. “Told him you weren’t his type. You looked like someone who needs a little fun.”

You laugh, and it sounds foreign in your mouth. “And you’re fun?”

He leans in, voice dropping. “You tell me.”

The rest of the night unravels like silk in shaking hands.

Shots turn into touches, fingertips at your lower back, knuckles brushing your thighs. You’re swaying in sync with him on the dance floor, the music long forgotten. Your friends have vanished, or maybe the world fell out of focus the moment you met is gaze.

And when he offers to call you a car, or his car, you don’t think.

You just go.

His apartment is high up, a penthouse, probably. The elevator ride is quiet, but his hand never leaves your waist, his lips trailing up your neck.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click.

The city is a blur behind tinted windows. Felix’s apartment is dim, minimal, every surface clean and dark and expensive. There’s a sharpness to it, like him, but it doesn’t feel cold. It feels intentional.

You barely have time to take it in.

He’s holding you in a heartbeat.

One hand finds your hip, the other slides up your spine, as he turns you slowly, backing you up against the door, his eyes locked on yours like he’s memorizing them.

“Still want this?” he asks, voice low.

Your throat is dry. Your body already aches.

You nod. “Yes.”

And then he kisses you.

Not the teasing kind he gave you at the club, this one is hungry. His lips crash into yours with purpose, tongue slipping past your parted lips as he groans into your mouth.

His hands are everywhere.

gripping your waist, sliding over your thighs, tangling in your hair like he needs to feel all of you at once.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, your hands exploring the planes of his chest beneath the soft black shirt, fingers clutching at him like he’s the only solid thing in your unraveling world.

Your back presses harder into the door as his hips pin you there, his mouth moving to your jaw, then your neck. Hot, open-mouthed kisses dragging down to your collarbone. You gasp when his teeth scrape your skin.

“I’ve barely touched you and you’re already shaking,” he whispers, breath warm against your throat.

“Shut up,” you murmur, but your voice trembles.

He chuckles darkly, his fingers brushing down your arms, to the hem of your dress.

“May I?” His words are dark satin against your skin.

You lift your arms wordlessly, letting him pull the fabric over your head. It hits the floor in a whisper. You stand there in your bra and heels, chest rising and falling as his eyes rake over you like he’s trying to memorize every detail.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re unreal.”

Then his lips are on you again.

He pulls you backward through the apartment, never breaking the kiss, only pausing to unbutton his shirt, you help him slide it off his shoulders before you nails are buried in his hair pulling his mouth back to yours. It messes up his blonde hair, leaving it tousled and wild.

You moan into him as his fingers trace along your ribs, then behind your back, unclasping your bra with practiced ease. He slides the straps down your arms slowly, deliberately, letting it fall to the ground like he’s unwrapping something fragile.

Your skin pebbles under his touch, the air cold against your flushed chest. But his mouth is warm, and it finds your breast in a heartbeat, tongue swirling, lips sucking gently. You gasp, arching into him as his hand grips your waist tighter.

“Felix—” his name falls from your lips like a prayer, like a plea.

He groans at the sound. “Say it again.”

“Felix.”

His hands travel downward, fingers tracing over your panties. He presses into the fabric lightly, just enough to make your hips jerk. His other hand cups the back of your neck, holding you still as he kisses you again, slower this time. Filthy. Deep. Like he’s tasting something forbidden and wants to savor it.

He pulls back with a lazy grin that makes your body shiver with anticipation, he steps back and holds his hand out for you to take.

Your hand in his, he walks backwards leading you to the bedroom, never taking his eyes off of you.

Once the door shuts behind you, the reality of the situation makes your heartbeat faulted as your brain takes in the man before you, and the bed a few steps behind him.

He sees the way you look at him. He smirks again, but softer this time. “Come here.”

You go willingly, and then his hands are on your hips, slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear. He drops to his knees, looking up at you like he’s about to pray, of offer something sacred.

Felix touches you like he’s starving. Like he’s waited his whole life for the taste of your skin. “Can I taste you?” His voice is low as he presses a kiss to your bare thigh.

Your words get caught in your throat so you just nod as he gives you another kiss before he stands again, lifting you easily into his arms, you wrap your legs around his waist and cling to him like he’s the only thing holding you together.

He walks you to the bed, mouth on you, on your skin, hands still gripping your thighs, your heels slide off your feet thudding to the ground.

He lays you down, crawling over your body like a shadow, but even in the shadows, he looks unreal. Blonde hair messy, golden skin kissed by sweat, those dark eyes fixed on you like he’s already got your whole body memorized.

You tug at his waistband, fingers slipping beneath his remaining clothes. He hisses softly, hips bucking “Take them off,” you whisper.

He grins into your kiss. “Desperate already?”

You pull back, eyes flashing. “Do you want me to beg?”

His grin drops. His gaze turns dark.He steps back just long enough to yank his pants down, boxers going with them.

His body is all golden skin and tense lines, muscles rippling with every movement. Your eyes flicker down, and then snap back up to meet his.

His lips find your mouth again, softer now. Slower. He kisses you like he has time to kill, tongue teasing yours, his body hovering just above as his hand caresses your thigh, dragging up, up, up until he’s palming the heat between your legs through the soaked fabric of your panties.

You moan softly into the kiss. He groans back.

“God,” he mutters, breaking the kiss to breathe against your jaw, “you’re so fucking wet already.”

His fingers hook around the waistband, and he pauses, like he’s waiting for a reason not to do what he’s about to do.

You lift your hips without a word, giving him permission.

He slides them down your legs, slow, deliberate, eyes locked on the bare skin he’s revealing inch by inch. And once they’re off, Felix moves down the bed, kissing along your stomach as he goes, hands spreading your thighs open with a reverence that makes your breath hitch.

He kneels between them like it’s a unholy ritual.

“I need to taste you,” he says, voice rough.

Your head drops back against the pillows as his mouth lowers, and when his tongue flicks out, warm and wet and so devastatingly precise, your body jolts like you’ve been shocked.

He doesn’t rush.

He takes his time.

Every lick, every swirl of his tongue is laced with purpose, like he’s learning you, mapping your body with his mouth. He grips your thighs tighter, thumbs pressing into your skin, pulling you closer as he sucks gently, then harder, right where you need him.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, hips grinding into his mouth before you even realize it.

“Felix—” you breathe, voice high, wrecked.

He hums in response, the vibration sending sparks through your core, and doesn’t stop. You look down, and the sight alone almost breaks you: him, moaning into you like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, like he’s starved for it.

He flicks his tongue faster, then sucks again, and suddenly your whole body tightens.

“Fuck—Felix, I—”

“Let go,” he murmurs, barely pulling back. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

And you do.

The pleasure hits like a wave, sharp, electric, endless. Your back arches, legs trembling, hands fisting in the sheets as your vision blurs. You cry out his name, again and again, as he works you through it, never stopping, never letting up until you’re gasping for air.

Only then does he kiss back up your body, slow, possessive, and settle between your legs, face glistening, pupils blown wide as he looks down at you.

“You taste like sin,” he whispers, brushing his lips against yours.

You pull him in, mouth crashing into his, tasting yourself on his tongue. Your hands fumble between your bodies, reaching for the hard planes of his chest, and he lets you. His own hands gripping your thighs, before sliding around them and lifting them up, letting you wrap your legs around his waist.

“You sure?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours, voice suddenly quieter, like even he can’t believe this is real.

“Yes,” you whisper back. “I need you.”

he kisses you like he’s trying to consume every broken piece of you. And maybe you want that. To be taken apart and rebuilt.

But Felix doesn’t rebuild.

He ruins.

His mouth is hot against your skin, teeth dragging over your throat, tongue tracing lines down your chest, his hands gripping your hips with a desperation that makes your legs weak.

Your body is burning. But you can’t stop reaching for the flame.

Do you think the moth knows the fire will burn?

Maybe.

But the flame is too beautiful for it to care.

He lays you down like worship. Kisses you like sin. His voice, low and raspy in your ear as he whispers things you’ll only remember in flashes later, praise and filth braided together in that deep, dangerous accent of his.

When his lips drag down your body and he devours you like a dying man tasting life, your mind goes white — blank — gone, hands tangled in his hair, nails down his back.

Felix doesn’t just touch. He wrecks.

He starts slow, agonizingly slow, his hips rolling into you like waves crashing to shore, each one deeper than the last.

Your hands grip his shoulders, fingernails leaving crescent-shaped reminders in his skin, and your mouth falls open on a soundless moan as he pushes fully inside again, deeper this time.

“Holy—Felix…” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, voice low and breathless.

You try. You really do. But your vision blurs and your eyes roll back the moment he angles his hips just right, dragging against that spot inside you that makes white-hot pleasure bloom in your core.

His groan rumbles against your throat, lips hot on your skin as he buries his face there, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin just below your jaw.

“Fuck, you feel… so good,” he rasps. “You’re taking me so well, angel. So fucking tight.”

You can’t speak, only moan, helplessly, every breath punched from your lungs as he picks up the pace.

He thrusts deeper now, slow but hard, every stroke brushing that tender spot that has your toes curling and tears welling in your eyes from the intensity.

When he hits just right, your whole body jerks, a choked cry escaping your lips.

Tears slip down your cheeks.

From the stretch.

The pressure.

The overwhelming pleasure.

The way your body’s never been filled so perfectly.

Felix notices, of course he does. He slows just slightly, still deep inside you, eyes searching your face.

“You okay?” he asks, lips brushing yours.

You nod, swallowing hard. “It’s just… too good.”

His expression darkens, softens. “I know, baby. I know.”

He pulls almost all the way out, then thrusts back in with a groan, making you sob out his name. His hips move faster now, his breathing ragged, his voice a gravelly growl in your ear as his control begins to unravel.

“You’re mine tonight,” he grits out, one hand sliding under your thigh, lifting it higher so he can go even deeper. “You understand?”

You nod frantically, body shaking beneath him. “Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

Your voice is high, cracked, wrecked, and he drinks it in like praise.

He rocks into you harder, now completely unrestrained, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. His name spills from your lips like a broken prayer every time he hits that spot inside you that sends you spiraling.

The tears don’t stop.

They only fall harder when he reaches between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing slow, tight circles that make your back arch off the bed.

“Come for me,” he whispers against your mouth. “I wanna feel you fall apart.”

You cry out, high, helpless, and your body breaks.

Pleasure slams through you like a tidal wave. Your entire body convulses, vision going black, mouth falling open in a silent scream. You clamp around him, so tight and soaked he swears out loud, fingers bruising your thigh as he drives into you a few more times.

Then his rhythm stutters.

And with a low, guttural moan, Felix crashes with you.

He spills deep inside, hips jerking, his body curling over yours as he pants into your shoulder, whispering something that sounds like “fuck, angel,” over and over.

The room goes quiet except for the sound of your breathing, fast, shaky, and entirely in sync.

You’re trembling. Still full of him. Legs limp and tingling.

He doesn’t pull away right away. Just stays there, buried inside, forehead pressed to yours, his hands holding your face like he’s not ready to let go.

And when it’s over, when your body finally stops trembling, he pulls you to his chest, breathless but content to wrap himself around you like you’re something sacred.

You fall asleep on his chest, skin still flushed, heart still racing. The scent of sex and sweat and leather lingers in the sheets. His arm stays around your waist the entire night.

And for one moment, just one you feel like maybe this is what it means to be wanted. Needed. Seen.

Heaven.

But then you wake up.

the crash is immediate.

You bolt upright with a gasp, heart pounding, throat dry. Sunlight filters through blinds you don’t recognize. The bed is too big. The room too quiet. His arm isn’t around you anymore.

You look down, naked still. Bruises blooming like ink across your hips and collarbone. Your dress is across the room. Your shoes are in the hallway.

And then—

“Morning, angel.”

You whip around.

He’s leaning against the doorway, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, nothing covering his torso. His chest is smooth and golden, abs carved like something in a museum. Your eyes catch on the trail of brown hair leading below the waistband and your breath hitches, because all you can see is last night.

Your thighs clench instinctively.

He notices and smirks.

“Told you I was fun.”

You scowl, scrambling to find your dress. “I shouldn’t have—” your voice breaks. “I don’t do things like this.”

He walks over slowly, gaze heavy on you. “Looked like you needed it.”

You snap, “You don’t know me.”

Felix chuckles softly. “I know what heartbreak looks like, angel. You kiss like someone wanting to forget.”

You wince. His words cut too close. He stands in front of you now, hands shoved in his pockets, bare chest right in your eyeline, and you hate how your body still aches for him.

“You leaving?” he asks.

You nod.

He shrugs. “Fair. But if you get lonely…” he leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple, “you know where to find me.”

You don’t answer, just slipped your now wrinkled dress on and picked up your discarded heels before making your way to the front door.

You felt his eyes watching you move, his gaze burning into your skin, the same way his touch did last night.

But when the door closes behind you, guilt blooming in your chest and thighs still sore from his grip, you know this isn’t the last time.

And as much as it terrifies you—

You hope it isn’t.

Tag list:

@vernorica123 @quaxing-lour @staytinyarmy @elisabeeee @stronglychanbiased @loz3389 @kittykatz1227 @jenzlovschan @mysticpolicedonut @roron33 @socandytales @f1ln4dr3cl16mv33 @dungeonduchess @thereadinglurker @harmonygal @thackery-blinks @ghostly-xxo @enhacolor @sailorkoss @skeletonontheroad @felixlsworld @the3catlovers @leeknowz-pudding @sibulamoos @d1gital-data @peartreegarden @lyftyyy @mehrmonga @yoli123-8 @finding-nikaa @euphysia @whoa-jo @dragon03138 @wanderingrusalka @cardtak @16lotonhermind @mypnwlife-blog @kwanniehae @awesome-oana1234 @lyuuu88 @ridhi1608 @coraleexox @xox-chy @ellie1725 @estella-novella @gnabcc @piscesrising01 @meelbarnes @eternalwooyoung @beal-o

[peartreegarden]

two mouths, one cigarette ★ lee haechan.

🏷️: rockstar haechan x fem!reader. fluff. oneshot. 800 words.

can be read as a part two to fate... and a cigarette.

after a long journey of courting you (three attempts), haechan finally gets his long-awaited kiss, or rather... cigarette smoke being blown into his mouth.

HAECHAN WOULDN'T STOP STARING. He has this habit of letting his gaze linger, which you've noticed since the first time you met. He looks at people — or he'd say just you — like he's in the Louvre, admiring a piece of art. Taking his time, letting his vision take in every inch, deciphering each part of you.

Do you like it? Yes. Do you still shy away every time? Also yes.

"Why are you staring?" you mumble, looking away from his gaze. You distract yourself by looking at the scenery before you.

For your first date, he took you to a cafe with a jazz band playing melodies from the 90s. He made the reservations, drove you there, opened every door and peeled your shrimp like a true gentleman. For your second date, he took you to Chinatown, where he showed you his favourite hidden gems and made you try his favourite street food.

And for your third date, he took you to a gig. You watched his friend Jaehyun's band perform with his hand wrapped around your waist, keeping you close. Now you're standing on the rooftop of Radost yet again, with his hand lazily draped around your shoulders as you smoke.

"You just look hot when you're smoking like that," he whispers. His lips graze the shell of your ears as he speaks, like he's breathing each syllable onto your skin. "Makes me feel things, you know? Can't help but stare."

"Pervert," you scoff, rolling your eyes in faux annoyance.

"You like it, though."

"Shut up."

You flick the cigarette with your fingers after each inhale, taking in the scenery from the rooftop. Radost is placed on the third floor of an art building, and you can see the skyscrapers of Seoul from its rooftop. You could hear the strums of the bass echoing out of the venue, and it feels oddly romantic, especially with Haechan's head leaning against yours. He really wouldn't quit with the staring, his gaze burning into your skin, much like your cigarette, as his finger outlines circles on your waist. 

“You know it's our third date, right?” he whispers. 

You raise an eyebrow, “Yeah?”

Haechan parts his lips and hesitates. And then his lips pucker into a small pout — a side of him you only discovered on the second date. You'd think that guys who wear eyeliner and sing rock songs would never, ever, pout, but Haechan proves otherwise. He does it all the time. When you disagree with him, when you don't let him steal a fry off your plate (jokingly) and when he's babbling about something.

It's cute. 

“You forgot, didn't you?” he huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Forgot what?”

“Ugh,” he scoffs, taking his hand off your waist. You already miss his warmth. “You said… you'd kiss me by the third date.”

To his offence, you burst out into a fit of laughter, throwing your head back. 

I'll blow the smoke into your mouth on the third date.

It was a comment made jokingly. He really took that as a promise?

“Are you done laughing at me?” he mutters, crossing his arms.

“Yes —” you answer, slowing down before laughing some more. Once your laughter dies down, you look at him with a grin. “You're seriously holding me to that?”

“Excuse me for taking you for a woman of your words,” he scoffs. He hates how you’re making fun of him, but loves the gleeful smile on your face. “Well… whatever. It's your loss, really.”

Haechan turns his body around to lean against the railing, resting his elbows on the metal and drumming his fingertips to the muffled music seeping from the gig. You take a deep drag from your Marlboro Gold, dropping the stick to the ground — and to his surprise, you press your lips against his. 

His whole world stops. He goes slack (he'll call himself a loser for this later…) before finally loosening in your embrace, one hand resting on your waist and the other gripping your hip. You lick his lower lip, waiting for them to part before blowing the smoke into his mouth. 

How can something so bitter taste so sweet? The mixture of the tobacco and your cherry lips is enough for Haechan to devote himself here, between your legs and against your lips. Eagerly, his hands move to grab your face, thumbs caressing your skin as he tilts his head to kiss you deeper. 

He swears heaven is right here. When you part for air, your arms wrap around his neck before you slump your body against him, hiding your face in his neck. He could feel every inhale of air you breathe in, hearts beating against each other. 

“So sweet,” he whispers, leaning his cheek against your head. He couldn't see you, though he could feel you smile. “Want more, pretty.”

“I only give more kisses to my boyfriend.”

Once again, Haechan freezes in his spot, brown eyes meeting yours as you lift your head. He pokes his tongue against his cheek. Touché. Brilliant way to make somebody ask you out, he’ll give you that. 

“Can I…”

Before Haechan could even finish his sentence, he’s cut off by a kiss.

He’ll take that as a yes. 

★ ★ ★

taglist: @ch3rryd0ll @jenohyun @untilthesunrises @raevyng @peachysoso @peartreegarden @iliveforsmut3000 @chenlezip @222low @hyunverse

[peartreegarden]

Soft hour

Summary - Where you take care of your husband

Tags: husband!Seungcheol x f.reader, fluff

Warnings: suggestive, MDNI

Word Count: 1k

“I’m home~” you sing-sang, closing the door behind you. His black office shoes are neatly lined up next to your slippers. “Huh, that’s new.” 

Overhead orange light is the only illumination to your dark flat. You set the keys and your office id on the table near the entrance as you step carefully into your living room. “Cheol?” 

Panic sits in your stomach from meeting silence instead of your happy puppy of a husband. You set your bag by the coffee table when you call out again, “Cheol?” 

A groan and rustling of clothes answers your call, you trace your hand in darkness over the sofa patting for your husband. Soft skin hits your skin, tiny roughness of his short hair by fringes, and his ear as you smoothen his face. He groans again, “baby?” His sleep heavy voice makes you sigh. 

Sitting on your knees, you comb your fingers into his soft silky strands. He hums appreciatively, nuzzling more into your touch. “Tired?” 

He hums. 

You slip your hand to his body, ignoring his whines, tracing down his chest, feeling his button up shirt. “Cheol, you didn’t even change.” 

He grabs your hand, kissing the inside of your wrist, his lips landing on your watch more than your skin before taking it back to his hair, a request for more pats. Your heart blooms inside your chest, love bursting out of your ribcage at your lover’s antics. 

You lean in kissing what you assumed to be his forehead to only land a kiss on his eyebrow. You kiss more to the up and little right in hopes to kiss his forehead. Not getting any reaction from him, you trace his face, his eyelashes fluttering under your touch. He woke up. 

“Let’s get you changed and feed you, hmm?” you rest your chin on the sofa, his hot breath hitting your face. 

“No,” he whines. 

You press a kiss, which turns out to be his nose. “I’ll help you.”

He shifts, breaking slowly. “Undressing?” 

You hum. 

“Shower?” 

“Okay.” 

He kisses your lips before sitting up. Your cheeks warm up, his softness still lingering on your lips. 

“Chocolate.” He mumbles. 

“Huh?” 

“Chocolate,” he grabs your chin, sucking on your lower lip, his tongue swiping it. “Chocolate.” He smacks his lips. 

You pinch his waist eliciting a groan from him. You stand up, lacing your hands, dragging him to your bathroom. You turn on the soft orange light, your eyes adjust to the sudden brightness with a little sting. Your husband snakes his hands around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder, pressing his cheek to yours. 

“Soft.” He traces his lips over your cheek, his chapped skin causing goosebumps and tickles. He tugs you back into him when you make an attempt to move away. 

“Cheol, we need to get your shower—” you moan at his bites on your neck “—ugh, Cheol.” You grab onto the counter, whining at his teeth grazing and sinking into your neck. 

You whimper, your waist aching from his harsh grip stopping you from moving. He pulls your button up shirt from the trousers, his hand slipping underneath it, feeling your bare skin. 

“Seungcheol!” You sprinkle water onto him, his ministrations stop from the sudden attack of water. “Let’s get your bath running.” You notice his pout through the mirror. He dejectedly goes to the bathtub sitting on the edge waiting for you. 

You calm your racing heart, shaking your head at his antics. He is gonna cause you a heart attack one day. He whines seeing you are still standing away from him. “Literal baby.” You chide, unbuckling your watch and removing your earrings knowing what’s gonna happen next. 

He rests his hands on the bathtub, watching you set the watch and earrings next to the sink. His tired eyes blink in slow motion. You walk up to him, kneeling down before him, his hand slips into your ponytail, an unimpressed grumble escapes his pouty lips, he drags the hair tie, ruffling your hair into the wilderness. He massages the back of your neck as you slowly unbutton his shirt. Your stomach coils into pleasure watching his milky white skin coming into view. 

You don’t even realize your lips are parted until he is pressing into them with his thumb. Your eyes flick to his hooded ones that are watching your lips sucking his thumb into your mouth. His lower lip caught between his teeth as your tongue pressed into his finger tentatively. You suck one last time before releasing it with a pop, Seungcheol eyes the string of saliva trailing behind his finger as he sucks his finger clean. 

His pale blue shirt hangs by his arms reminding you of your task at hand. “Stop distracting me,” you pull off his shirt. 

You throw the shirt on the floor, your eyes trailing along the hair leading to his pants. He nudges your chin up, pressing a long kiss. His stomach sucks in under your fingers, his hand stopping your wandering hands. 

You separate from him, dizzy from the sensations. You unbuckle his belt, he leans back letting you work on it with ease. Your shaky fingers fail to unbuckle, struggling with the buckle. He tucks your hair away from your eyes to ears. The leather belt finally hears your pleas coming undone. 

“Finally.” 

You pinch his thigh, he chuckles under his breath. With a tilt to his head he watches your fingers unbuttoning his jeans and pulls the zipper. Before you can pull his pants down, he stops you, “my turn.”

He sets you on his lap, brushing away the stray hair falling in your eyes. Under the white lights the love in his eyes shine, soft and tender, just like his touch trailing down your face, to your neck, twirling his finger around a curl of your hair falling on your neck, he presses a soft kiss on your collarbone. Your shirt collar shields his lips from reaching your skin. 

He unbuttons your shirt in haste, muttering a few swears under his breath. You chuckle to yourself, running your fingers through his thick hair, loving the feel of its smoothness and shine. 

“Life is worth living,” he suddenly says, leaning into your touch, “if it’s spent like this.” 

With you. You read the unsaid words. Your stomach curls in as butterflies swarm endlessly. You affirm his words in a sweet kiss. 

[peartreegarden]

I had a good yell after this delicious

“Things you can’t take back”

𝓹airing ꒱ ˒˓ Maknae Line x gn!reader ˒˓ established relationship. 𝓰enre/ angst, hurt-some comfort (not for all), they accuse you of being with them for the fame/money (a.k.a the classic they call you a gold-digger).

[ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆. ] — here’s the requested final part to the gold-digger Maknae Line of the series! Let me know what u think! <3

Part 1

Hyung Line

Han Jisung

The call came late.

It was Lee Know.

He didn’t waste time.

“He’s not okay. We tried giving him space but… it’s getting bad. He’s not eating, he’s not writing, he’s barely even speaking unless he’s drunk. You’re the only one he keeps asking for.”

You stood in your kitchen, phone clutched tightly to your ear, the ache in your chest flaring up all over again.

“Please,” Lee Know said softly. “Just come. If only for a minute.”

You didn’t owe him anything.

But still… you went.

The dorm was quiet when you arrived, too quiet for a place usually filled with laughter, chaos, music bleeding through thin walls.

Lee Know met you at the door. His expression was tired, grateful, and heavy with concern. He didn’t say anything, just gave your hand a squeeze and motioned you toward the back.

You knew which room was his.

Even before the door creaked open, you could smell the alcohol.

Your stomach turned.

And there he was, sitting at the foot of his bed like some broken doll that was left behind. Shoulders hunched, hair a mess, bags under his eyes. A nearly empty bottle sat on the nightstand, a few others tipped over in the corner.

You hadn’t seen him in weeks.

But somehow… he still looked like your Han.

That made it worse.

His eyes lifted slowly as the door opened. Bloodshot. Shaky.

He blinked, almost like he thought you were a hallucination.

Then. “It’s you!”

He stood up too fast, stumbled, then tried to reach for you with trembling hands. “You came. Oh god, you came—”

But you took a sharp step back.

The stench of alcohol hit you like a wall.

You covered your nose, eyes narrowing. “You’re drunk.”

“I just needed something to stop the spinning,” he slurred softly. “Everything’s been spinning since you left.”

Your jaw clenched but you didn’t say anything as you batted his hands away from you.

He faltered. “I didn’t—”

“No,” you snapped, voice rising. “Because while you’ve been in here drowning in liquor and self-pity, I’ve still had to work. Still had to smile. Still had to show up and function while I fall apart inside.”

His lips parted, but no words came.

“I haven’t slept. I can’t eat. My chest physically hurts every time I think about what you said to me. But I’ve shown up anyway. You? You’ve just been hiding.”

His face twisted, shame coloring his features.

“Don’t you dare think that just because you’re sorry now, I’m going to forget everything.”

He staggered back a step, blinking through the fog.

“I—I didn’t mean it,” he mumbled. “I was scared. I panicked. I know I messed up but I miss you. Please, I—” His voice cracked. “Please just let me hold you.”

You flinched.

“Don’t.”

His hands dropped to his sides like they’d been burned.

Then something in his expression changed, sharp and desperate and bitter.

“Oh,” he muttered, voice thick with sarcasm. “Right. Still too good for me now, huh?”

You stiffened. “What?”

He laughed. It was broken and humorless. “Guess even my breakdown isn’t tragic enough for you.”

“Jisung—”

“No, no, it’s okay,” he slurred. “At least I’ll get something out of this. Maybe I’ll write a song about how you used me and left me a mess—get some real authentic pain in the lyrics. One last hit, courtesy of you.”

It hit you like a punch to the chest.

And without thinking, your hand flew out.

Smack.

The crack echoed through the room.

His head snapped to the side. His cheek bloomed red where your palm met skin.

You were crying now. Silent tears rolling down your face, hot with fury and grief.

“You don’t get to do that,” you whispered, voice shaking. “You don’t get to weaponize my love for you. I was there when no one else was. I held your hand through everything. I stayed when you needed peace. I fought for us when it would’ve been easier to walk away.”

“I know,” he whispered, stunned. “I know—”

“No, you don’t,” you snapped. “You called me a liar. A leech. You threw every insecurity I had back in my face and now you think you can just use my pain as lyrics and that would be okay?”

He stared at you like he didn’t even recognize you anymore.

Maybe he didn’t.

You turned toward the door.

“ wait—please—”

But you shook your head. “Get help, Jisung. Not just for me. For you.”

And then you walked out.

You didn’t look back.

⸻

Later that night, he sat alone on the floor, a new bottle untouched beside him.

The sting of your slap still lingered.

His face was hot.

His heart was colder than it had ever been.

He’d told himself this heartbreak would be good for art. That some great lyric would fall from the sky and fix the mess he made.

But all he could do was stare at the blank notebook in front of him and cry.

And he didn’t know how to write a happy ending.

Lee Felix

The apartment felt like a ghost town.

No screaming. No more slammed doors.

Just silence.

Thick, choking silence.

You hadn’t spoken a word to each other since the fight.

That had been three days ago.

you had started sleeping on the couch last night, not out of pettiness, but self-preservation. You couldn’t climb into bed with someone who looked at you the way he did that night, like you were a stranger. A manipulator. An imposter who didn’t belong beside him anymore.

He hadn’t tried to stop you.

until one night when you were half-asleep on the edge of the bed, Felix had passed out early, facing the wall. You had tried to keep as far away from him as possible. Your back had ached from the strain, and you’d told yourself just relax.

But somewhere in his sleep, he rolled over.

Warm arms wrapped around your middle.

His head nuzzled into your neck.

And for one heart-wrenching moment… it felt like home again.

Your whole body went stiff.

And then you quietly peeled his arms off and slipped out of the bed like a shadow.

You never went back in after that.

He never reached out again.

⸻

So now, you lived together like strangers.

Passing in the hallway.

Avoiding eye contact at meals.

It hurt more than the yelling.

At least yelling meant there was still fire.

This was… ashes.

⸻

You came home late that night, arms sore from carrying groceries up three flights of stairs. Your body was drained. But your heart? Your heart had been tired for weeks.

The lights in the apartment were dim.

You didn’t hear anything, no music, no humming from the bedroom, no video game chatter.

And then you saw him.

Felix.

Sitting at the dining table, completely still, facing the wall.

At first, you thought he was asleep with his eyes open.

Then you saw the tears.

Silent.

Steady.

Streaking down his cheeks like rain down glass.

Your breath caught.

Something twisted in your stomach.

The part of you that still loved him, still ached for him, wanted to run to him, to wipe his cheeks and tell him it was okay.

But his words still lived in your mind like scars.

“Are you here because you love me? is this just a good gig for you?”

You hadn’t spoken since then.

You set the bag of groceries down gently on the counter, keeping your distance.

But as soon as you did, he stirred.

Slowly, he turned in his chair.

Then stood.

Then… dropped to his knees.

Your breath hitched.

“Felix—”

His lip trembled. “I’m sorry.”

His hands clutched the hem of your hoodie like a child lost in a storm.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know why I said that. I was scared and stupid and—God, I messed up so bad. I don’t even know how to fix it.”

You stood frozen, your heart hammering painfully.

“I’ve been dying in this silence,” he choked. “I wake up and you’re not there. I see the couch and it feels like a punch in the gut. I miss you so much it hurts and I hate myself for making you feel like you didn’t belong beside me.”

You blinked back tears. “Felix…”

He looked up at you, eyes swollen, voice hoarse. “Please. Just—just tell me what to do. I’ll do anything. Just don’t leave. Don’t leave me.”

The dam broke.

You collapsed to your knees with him.

He caught you like instinct, arms wrapping tight around your waist, your fingers curling into his hoodie as sobs wracked your chest.

The two of you cried like it was the only thing keeping your lungs moving.

Time didn’t exist in that moment.

Only grief.

Only the deep, guttural ache of love wounded and still fighting to breathe.

“I’m still hurt,” you whispered through the tears. “You broke me when you said that. I trusted you to know my heart, and instead you doubted me.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, broken and terrified. “I didn’t see you clearly. I saw my own fear and blamed you. And I’d give anything to go back and take it back.”

“I don’t know if I can just… forgive you.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I’m not asking for that. I’m just… asking for a chance to try. I’ll spend every day showing you that I still see you. The real you. Not the lie I made up in my head.”

You exhaled shakily, brushing tears from his cheek. “I’ll work on it. On forgiveness. But it’ll take time.”

“I’ll wait,” he said, voice soft and certain. “However long it takes. I’ll wait, and I’ll love you the whole way through.”

The two of you held each other there on the floor, surrounded by broken pieces, but finally, finally reaching for the glue.

Seungmin

He’d always been stubborn. Sharp-tongued, and frustratingly himself.

But even when he took jokes a little too far, or hit the wrong nerve he always knew when to apologize. So when he accused you of using him, like you were just some gold-digging parasite clinging to the perks of his fame, it didn’t even sound like him.

But it was him, the words were his, and they cut deeper than any knife could.

⸻

You hadn’t seen or spoken to him since that day.

But the other guys had.

Because when Felix texted you, it was short and simple:

“Please come. He wants to talk. I think he knows he screwed up. Just hear him out?”

You left the text on read for hours.

Only when Chan messaged; a rare, serious message that said “He needs to own what he did. You don’t owe him anything, but give him this one shot to say it to your face.” did you finally respond.

You agreed to meet him. At a small coffee shop, away from the noise, the crowds, the fans. Somewhere quiet.

Neutral.

But nothing about this felt peaceful.

⸻

When you walked in, Seungmin was already sitting at a corner table.

He looked worse than you expected.

Eyes hollow, hair a mess, clothes thrown on like he hadn’t looked in a mirror.

Still, you knew you looked worse.

Your skin had lost its glow. The exhaustion clung to you. The weight of betrayal sat in your posture.

He stood when he saw you. You didn’t smile.

You didn’t sit until he did.

He was quiet at first.

Then: “Thanks for coming.”

You nodded stiffly. “The others said you wanted to talk.”

“I did,” he said.

Silence.

You waited.

He ran a hand through his hair, fidgeting with his fingers, and finally muttered, “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

You tilted your head. “You mean accusing me of using you for money? Of pretending to love you for clout?”

He winced. “Yeah. That.”

“That?” you echoed, blinking. “You make it sound like you forgot.”

He leaned back, brows furrowing. “I didn’t forget. I’m just— Look, I know it hurt you. I get it. But I didn’t just pull it out of nowhere. I’ve seen the way people watch me. And when things started getting weird between us, I panicked.”

You stared at him, unmoving. “That’s not an apology, Seungmin.”

His jaw clenched.

“I came here because I thought maybe… maybe you realized how much damage you did. I thought maybe you’d take responsibility. But this? This isn’t accountability. This is just you trying to soften the blow for yourself.”

He went quiet again. His gaze drifted out the window, then back to the table.

“I thought you’d understand that it wasn’t about you,” he said under his breath.

You blinked, stunned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean…” He sighed, then threw his hands up slightly. “You’re right, okay? I fucked up. But I’ve been under pressure too. I’m human. I got paranoid.”

“You accused me of faking years of love, Seungmin. Not just paranoia. That’s character assassination. That’s not something you get to brush under the rug and say you were ‘stressed.’ I’ve been there through every comeback, every breakdown, every tour—”

“I know!” he snapped suddenly, voice sharp. “I know, alright?! You think I haven’t thought about that every single night since it happened? I get it. You were loyal. You were good. But I didn’t see it then.”

Your eyes burned. “And now you expect what, exactly? Forgiveness? Pity?”

“No,” he said quickly. “No, I just— I thought if we could talk, maybe we’d… I don’t know. Start over.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “You really think it’s that easy?”

His face fell.

And then the mask slipped.

He scoffed, bitterness rising in his voice. “You know what? I should’ve known. You show up with this look on your face like you’ve already decided how this ends.”

You slowly stood. “I did.”

Seungmin blinked.

You grabbed your bag and stood still as he reached into his wallet and pulled out a few bills, setting them down on the table, more than enough to cover the half untouched coffee in front of you.

“Here,” he said, voice like ice. “Don’t want you walking away thinking I owed you. Or worse, that you didn’t get your share out of me.”

The words sliced through you like razors.

Hot, stinging tears pricked your eyes.

But you refused to let them fall.

You met his eyes one last time, breath steady despite the tremble in your chest.

“You really don’t get it,” you said, voice shaking with hurt. “You burned a house down and got mad when I didn’t want to live in the ashes with you.”

Then you turned around, and didn’t look back.

Not when the door shut behind you.

And not when your heart cracked again.

This time, there was nothing left to say.

And for the first time, you realized.

Maybe that was the closure you needed.

Yang Jeongin

You hadn’t spoken to Jeongin since the day you left his apartment.

But that didn’t stop him, there were texts. At first, a trickle.

“Are you okay?”

“Can we talk?”

“I’m so sorry. Please.”

Then silence for days.

Then more.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“I know I messed up. I know I was wrong.”

“Please just let me know you’re safe.”

You left him on read.

Because how do you respond to someone who looked you in the eye, after everything, and still questioned your love? Someone who shattered something so sacred between you and thought a few texted apologies could patch it?

You didn’t know if you wanted to see him again.

You didn’t know if you could.

Until one night. cold, quiet, the weight of the last few weeks suffocating the air, you heard a knock at your door.

You stood there for a second. Still. Not moving.

Then your body moved on instinct. Feet to floor. Hand to knob.

You opened it.

Jeongin stood there.

Hair messy. Hoodie wrinkled. Eyes red-rimmed. Mouth slightly parted like he didn’t expect you to actually answer.

He swallowed hard and gave a small nod.

“Can we… talk?”

You stared at him for a beat. A long beat.

Then wordlessly slipped on a pair of sneakers and pulled the door shut behind you.

But when he stepped forward to come inside, you stopped him with a raised hand.

“Not here,” you said.

He nodded quickly.

No argument.

Just silence.

⸻

The walk to the small neighborhood park was awkward.

He shoved his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie like he didn’t know what to do with them. You kept your arms crossed, breath misting in the air between you.

It wasn’t far, just a few blocks, but every step felt heavy.

Like dragging a weight behind you.

You both sat at a splintering wooden bench near the swings.

You waited.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke.

“I never really thought that about you,” he started, voice tight. “I need you to know that.”

You said nothing.

“I just…” he continued, eyes locked on a cracked patch of sidewalk. “I’ve never done this before. Not like this. Not seriously. Not long-term. And everyone always treats me like the baby, the one who doesn’t know better. The one who still has so much to learn. And maybe they are right.”

You glanced at him.

Still, he wouldn’t meet your gaze.

“I thought maybe you were staying with me because I was comfortable,” he said softly. “Because I made things easier for you. I started second-guessing everything. Every gift. Every dinner. Every compliment.”

You inhaled sharply, the ache in your chest flaring again.

“I know it’s not fair. I know that,” he added quickly. “But I didn’t know how to say it without sounding crazy. So I said something even worse instead.”

You scoffed quietly. “Yeah. You did.”

He flinched.

“I thought maybe… I don’t know. If I convinced myself that you were just with me for what I gave you, it’d be easier to explain why someone like you stayed with someone like me for so long.”

The confession wasn’t satisfying.

It was… tragic.

But not enough.

Not even close.

“I don’t know how to be good at this,” he whispered. “I don’t know how to be… enough.”

You finally turned to look at him, really look at him.

He looked like a boy.

A broken one.

Not the confident idol everyone saw. Not the man who once held your heart like it was precious.

Just Jeongin.

Scared. Unsure. Immature.

When he finally stopped speaking, the silence was deafening.

He turned to you, hope flickering in his eyes, desperate and fragile, like he was waiting for a hug, or a whispered “It’s okay,” or anything to suggest this could be salvaged.

But there was nothing left to give.

You blinked slowly, steadying your voice.

“Jeongin,” you said, careful and quiet, “you have so much growing up to do.”

His face crumbled.

“Relationships, real ones, they aren’t about comfort or material things or feeding your ego. They’re about showing up. Trusting. Choosing someone even when it’s hard. And when you love someone… you don’t accuse them of something so ugly just to protect your pride.”

Tears welled up in his eyes. He bit his lip to hold them back.

You kept going. You had to.

“You want forgiveness. You want a clean slate. But I can’t give you that. Not because I hate you. But because I loved you. Deeply. And you shattered that.”

The words shattered you, too.

Hot tears finally broke past your lashes and streamed down your face.

He turned fully now, reaching like he might touch you, like his hands could fix what his words destroyed.

But you flinched back. Shaking your head.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

He dropped his hand. Defeated.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out.

“I know,” you said. “But sorry isn’t always enough.”

You both sat there crying.

Two broken people in the cold.

No yelling.

No dramatics.

Just the quiet ending of something that could’ve been beautiful… if only it had been handled with care.

After a long time, you stood.

He did, too.

You gave him one last look, heart aching, but resolute.

“I hope you figure it out someday,” you whispered. “But I can’t be the one who helps you.”

Then you turned.

And walked away.

Tag list

@vernorica123 @quaxing-lour @staytinyarmy @elisabeeee @stronglychanbiased @loz3389 @kittykatz1227 @jenzlovschan @mysticpolicedonut @roron33 @socandytales @f1ln4dr3cl16mv33 @dungeonduchess @ongodimintoomanyfandoms @thereadinglurker @harmonygal @thackery-binks @ghostly-xxo @enhacolor @sailorkoss @skeletonontheroad @felixlsworld @the3catlovers @leeknowz-pudding @sibulamoos @d1gital-data @peartreegarden @lyftyyy @mehrmonga @yoli123-8 @finding-nikaa @euphysia @whoa-jo @dragon03138

[peartreegarden]

fate... and a cigarette ★ lee haechan.

tags: rockstar haechan x fem!reader. fluff. oneshot. 2000 words.

when destiny brings you to haechan... or the two times you met haechan by coincidence, and the one time he took fate into his own hands.

IT ALL STARTED WITH A LIGHTER, if you could even call it one. You’ve continuously flicked the sparkwheel, thumb burning from the friction, yet it remained unsparked.

Radost was jam-packed with gig-goers on Friday nights, and you weren’t one to enjoy rock gig environments; you preferred jazz bars instead. But Riku had dragged you here. So you truly needed this cigarette — you climbed up all those stairs towards the rooftop for this damn cigarette and you couldn’t even light it up. Frustrated, you tapped the hot pink lighter against your palm, lips puckered in stifled curses.

“You’ve tapped that poor thing enough, I think.”

You looked up, eyes met with brown ones. You recognised his face as one of the vocalists who performed — his face was easy to remember. Moles traced his cheeks down to his neck, hair slicked back — you had only seen this kind of face in your dreams before. Your hand trembled as you plucked the Marlboro from your lips.

“Right.”

You were about to tuck the stick back into its box when this stranger stepped towards you, fishing a lighter out of the pocket of his leather jacket. It wasn’t one of those cheap convenience store lighters, it was a Zippo — its colour black like his hair with a butterfly engraved on its case.

“I’ll light it up for you.”

You eyed his hand as it inched towards your lips, the other shielding the cigarette from the wind. It sparked up easily, as if a mockery of your earlier effort. You held up your Marlboro box as an offer, a compensation, but Haechan shook his head — you recalled his name from his performance introduction — and pocketed the Zippo.

“I don’t do cigars, just vape.”

You couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. Smoke engulfed the two of you, the colour enhancing the brown of his eyes as you took puffs from your cigarettes. He looked like a character in a noir movie, someone that you'd tell your grandkids about in thirty years. You eyed him down, and it only propelled him to stare back harder.

“So do you just bring it around to light up people’s cigarettes, picking up girls in the process?”

“Picking up boys, actually.”

“Oh.”

A sick kind of satisfaction filled Haechan at the embarrassment on your face. He let out a laugh.

“This would be my first time trying to pick up a girl.”

Red hues blossomed across your cheeks. Amidst the darkness, you prayed he wouldn’t notice — and if he did, you were to blame it on the November cold. To your luck, Haechan said nothing, only grinning at you playfully.

“Is it working?”

Of course, it was working. With his stupid leather jacket and his stupid handsome face and his stupid lines — it was working. But Haechan didn't need to know that. You knew many men like Haechan, and they were no good. So, you simply shrugged, head perking up upon Riku’s call of your name.

“Gotta go, thanks for the lighter.”

★★★

Lee Jeno [11:05 p.m.]: Hi, I'm Jeno, your Uber. There's traffic on the way to Seb's, so I will be a little late. Sorry for the inconvenience :) You [11:07 p.m.]: it's ok jeno :) thx for telling me!

“Fuck this,” the words slipped out of your mouth louder than you intended. Exhausted, you slumped your back against a lamppost. When you shut your eyes, you could still hear the music in Seb's, the pour of soda into your empty glass, the audience clapping, the… Haechan…?

“Got a cigarette for me to light up?”

Your eyes peeled open to see the familiar figure standing before you. This time, his hair covered his forehead, and instead of a leather jacket, he wore a polyester coat, though his eyes were still underlined with Kohl. Grinning, he looked at you as though he had caught you doing something bad.

“I didn't know you were here.”

“That's cruel,” he gasped. Dramatically, Haechan clutched a hand to his heart. “I knew you were here since the moment you stepped into the bar.”

Once again, hues of pink crept up your cheeks. This time, however, Haechan said something —

“You’re all red. You cold, pretty?”

Your hands clasped against your cheeks, feeling their warmth. Caught red-fucking-handed.

“Yeah,” you lied, bringing your hands to rub against your arms, “It’s cold tonight.”

“Okay, take this.”

Before you could even process, nor even say anything in return, the raven was wrapping his coat around your shoulders, patting the polyester against your skin. The spontaneity of his actions led you to believe that this was natural to him — that he probably did it to every other girl at his gigs (or dudes, as he said). While it flattered you, it also made you want to stay miles away from him.

Regardless, you basked in the warmth of his coat, how it felt soft against your skin and how it smelled like him. You tugged it closer to your body, ignoring the grin that graced Haechan’s face.

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, pretty.”

The rest was pretty much a blur — how could you focus when he was so close to you? As he talked, his elbow kept grazing against yours — simple, brief touches that lingered in your stomach a little longer.

“Do you come here often?” he asked, tugging you towards him when a biker cycled too close.

“Mm,” you nodded, “Especially on Thursdays. The performer on Thursday is really cool, I love his voice.”

“Okay, so I’ll come every Thursday.”

Godddd. Did he own a bloody PhD on flirtation? In an attempt to conceal your smile, you pressed your lips together, nodding like his words had no effect on you. Haechan, on the other hand, allowed his lips to twitch into a smile. You were cute, and he wasn’t trying to hide it.

“So, can I have your number?”

Yesyoufuckingcan. But you didn’t say it. Your mind spiraled to the times Riku got screwed over by band guys — and the one time you got your heart broken so bad, you had thought it was the end of the world.

Hence, you bit your tongue.

“If we meet for the third time,” you muttered, taking off his coat and handing it to him. “I’m a firm believer of fate and shit. If we meet for the third time, then it’s destiny. So I’ll give it to you then.”

“Huh?”

Haechan stared at you, blinking his eyes in confusion as he half-mindedly took the coat from your hands. He parted his lips to speak, but no words would come out, his head going haywire with thoughts. Just then, your Uber pulled up.

“My Uber’s here,” you mumbled, flashing a small smile, “What about yours?”

“Walking home… just… wanted to accompany you ‘cause it’s midnight.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded, waving goodbye before getting into the car. It drove away, his figure soon turning into a silhouette, Lee Haechan morphing into a ghost of your memories.

★★★

Fate… destiny… blah blah blah. They were like the Mercury Retrograde or whatever — bullshit.

“So you told him that you believe in fate and shit just ‘cause you wanted to reject him?”

When Jisung put it like that… it did feel a little pathetic. Shamefully nodding, you shoved one hand into the pockets of your apron. There were barely any students on campus on a Friday, especially in the vicinity of a study cafe. It was nearing closing, you were wiping down the counters as Jisung mopped the floor. He was clumsy, and he often asked stupid questions, such as, “Do you use bleach to mop?” But he was a good listener and funny sometimes, which made your shifts together fun.

“Well…”

“Kind of silly, isn’t it?”

“That’s one way to put it,” you chuckled, tossing the rag into the sink. “I just… don’t really trust guys like him.”

“Hmm,” he mumbled, nodding his redhead, but not in a way to agree with you, rather to rebut. Jisung parted his lips in retort when the cafe door swung open.

“Are you guys closed?”

“Not y —” your words got stuck in your throat the moment you turned around.

There he was, standing in all his glory, Lee Haechan. Clad in his leather jacket, bangs covering his forehead, leaning against the counter. He looked just like the first time you met him, evoking the same kind of warmth in you.

“Still open?”

“Uh, yeah,” you cleared your throat, moving towards the register. He skimmed through the menu while you looked to Jisung for support, only to see him backing away into the kitchen. Damn Park Jisung and his fear of people his age — you were going to give him one hell of a lecture later.

“One latte, for takeaway,” Haechan finally said, fishing into his pocket for his card. You nodded, keying it into the register. “Oh, and, I’d like for it to be delivered when you’re done with your shift.”

“Sorry, what?” You looked up, exasperated. Nervously, you looked around the cafe before leaning closer to him, whispering, “What the hell? I finish in an hour.”

Haechan tapped his card against the reader, shrugging. As if he had no care for anything in the world, and it made you wonder — how did it feel to carry such confidence? It made you feel small, yet fluttered at the same time. You didn’t know how to handle it.

“I can wait,” he said, “I can be patient.”

★★★

The sound of the cafe shutter hitting the pavement rang in your ears, though it couldn’t compare to the rapid beating of your heart. Thumping, knocking on your chest as you carried the latte towards Haechan. He was leaning against a lamp-post, and he smelled like blueberries — not the fruity kind, rather, the e-cigarette kind. Nonetheless, he smelled as sweet as his honeyed words.

“Your latte,” you mumbled, passing it to the raven. He didn’t take it, gently pushing the cup towards you instead.

“It’s actually for you.”

“You made me make a latte just for you to give it to me?”

“Genius, right? So you’d make it how you like it.”

“You’re actually impossible,” you huffed, leaning against the railing beside him, taking a sip from the latte. “How did you know I work here?”

“I didn’t know. It’s fate,” he answered, shrugging.

“Stop bullshitting,” you sighed, pulling out a stick of cigarette from your handbag. This time, you didn’t need him to light it up. He watched you, gaze fixated on your lips before trailing up to your eyes. You caught him — he knew, though not at all embarrassed, lips tugging into a sly grin.

“Asked everyone in Radost if they knew a certain pretty girl,” he answered, running a hand through his hair. “They all called me crazy, pretty. Thank god Riku figured out that I was describing you.”

Riku. You had forgotten that you were somewhat connected to Haechan through Riku, with his boyfriend being in the same band. You also didn’t think he’d go to such lengths just for you.

You sighed, flicking the cigarette with your middle finger, throwing your head back to look at the dark blue skies.

“Do you like me that much?” you questioned, gaze settling on his. You always assumed the worst out of others, undoubtedly, but you were also good at reading people. Sincerity swirled in the brown hues of Haechan’s eyes, as he nodded.

“I do. I don’t know what it is. I just do.”

Has anyone ever said such sweet words to you before? No, you don’t think so. Especially not with such softness nor certainty, and it scared you. Weighing the decision in your head, Haechan stood silently, letting himself be engulfed by the cigarette smoke.

“Are cigarettes that nice?” he questioned, his voice hushed.

“You can try it for yourself,” you whispered back.

“Nah. I’ll try it if you’d blow the smoke into my mouth.” 

A chuckle left your lips. For a moment, you let the silence linger — and that’s when it dawned upon you. The comfortable silence, the effort he put in just to look for you, and the lack of pressure his words exuded. It wouldn’t be too bad if you gave him a chance. It really wouldn’t.

“I only do that on third dates,” you answered.

Haechan’s eyes widened. He looked at you — for the first time ever, he had lost all his cool, staring at you in disbelief.

“Oh,” the syllable slipped past his lips before he could stop them. A boyish grin graced his face.

“Okay. Bet, I’m holding you to that.”

★★★

taglist: @ch3rryd0ll @jenohyun @untilthesunrises @raevyng @peachysoso @peartreegarden @iliveforsmut3000 @chenlezip @222low @hyunverse

[peartreegarden]

haechan, who claims that you're the clingier person in your relationship. every time you ask for cuddles, his lips exaggeratively puckers, in mockery of you. but then he'll slip under the blankets and hold you so tight, you feel as though you're about to merge into one. sometimes he'll insist on being the small spoon, tucking himself in your embrace and placing your hands around him, whining when you move.

he also has a habit of asking for a kiss every five minutes. you're cooking together, him stirring the pot as you cut up the ingredients. you dice the onions, and he says "kiss?" you're marinating the kitchen, he goes "kiss?" you're plating the food — this time, he doesn't say anything, simply puckers his lips and bats his eyelashes, expecting you to place a kiss onto his lips.

don't even think about going out without kissing him. he'll be pouty. "i wish you could leave your lips here for me to kiss anytime." okay weird... but so cute.

inspired by this tweet i saw!

[peartreegarden]

haechan, who claims that you're the clingier person in your relationship. every time you ask for cuddles, his lips exaggeratively puckers, in mockery of you. but then he'll slip under the blankets and hold you so tight, you feel as though you're about to merge into one. sometimes he'll insist on being the small spoon, tucking himself in your embrace and placing your hands around him, whining when you move.

he also has a habit of asking for a kiss every five minutes. you're cooking together, him stirring the pot as you cut up the ingredients. you dice the onions, and he says "kiss?" you're marinating the kitchen, he goes "kiss?" you're plating the food — this time, he doesn't say anything, simply puckers his lips and bats his eyelashes, expecting you to place a kiss onto his lips.

don't even think about going out without kissing him. he'll be pouty. "i wish you could leave your lips here for me to kiss anytime." okay weird... but so cute.

inspired by this tweet i saw!

[peartreegarden]

excuses, excuses ★ park jisung.

tags: park jisung x gn!reader. 450 words. fluff, drabble. just jisung being cutieful!!!

jisung, who creates a multitude of excuses solely to spend more time with you. he’d stretch the time with his bare hands, just so your date doesn’t have to end. it starts with logical reasons:

“we should get a sweet treat before i send you home,” he says, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on your thigh.

you glance at the matcha in your cup holder, “i thought the drinks counted as sweet treats?”

“well, it’s different. i kind of want ice cream.”

fair enough. a five-minute drive after, you find yourself sitting opposite him at an ice cream parlour. he took a while to choose a flavour — it took a few testers for him to decide on one. jisung even insisted for you to try out the flavours, claims that you should try something new — you suspect that he simply wants to feed you. 

on your way to the car, he comes across a convenience store and tells you he’s craving for gimbap. again, you follow, letting him hold your hand and rub circles against your thumb as he finds for his desired flavour. the raven leans his head against your shoulder as he scans rack to rack. 

“don’t you want to get your favourite?”

you feel the shake of his head against your neck, “wanna try something new.”

“right…” 

it doesn’t end there. he takes the long way home, drives a slow pace with the windows down, and finally — to jisung’s dismay — he parks in your neighbourhood. but he doesn’t unlock the door just yet. instead, he unbuckles the seatbelt and turns towards you.

“it’s a full moon and the weather’s nice outside, shall we take a walk?”

“don’t you have recording early in the morning tomorrow, baby?”

jisung’s lips pucker into a pout — just slightly, but it’s still there. a chuckle slips past your lips before you lean over to peck his. cutely, he chases your lips as you pull away, pouting even more upon seeing you laugh.

“but i really want to go on a walk with you…”

“no you don’t,” you chuckle, “you just don’t want to end our date.”

instantly, a hue of pink grazes his pale skin. caught in his lie! jisung looks away, slumping in his seat. the hopeful glint in his eyes are replaced by one of defeat.

how could you say no to that face? and so, you tilt his face with your hand,

“we shouldn’t go on a walk, ‘cause it’s already midnight and you’ll be tired. how about you stay the night, hm? you can rest and you’ll still have me.”

alas, happiness etches its presence back onto jisung’s face. he’s smiling, wasting no time to press kisses onto your cheek.

...and, the cycle continues on every date. <3

taglist (fill in the form!): @ch3rryd0ll @jenohyun @untilthesunrises @raevyng @peachysoso @peartreegarden @iliveforsmut3000 @chenlezip

[peartreegarden]

home. mark x fem!reader. comfort.

the door clicked shut softly behind you as you waited for the hallway lights to flicker above you automatically. it only took you 5 seconds of standing in darkness and silence to realise the bulb needed a change.

great. just great. you looked down at your feet, barely making out the silhouette of your heels that were a size too small and the discolouration around your toes where your heels suffocated the skin, much like how life felt right now.

you bit your bottom lip to hold back a sob as a lump formed in your throat and squeezed at your chest, the pressure begging to be released. before you knew it, the dam of your lashline was broken and tears streamed down like falling ribbons.

you dropped your purse to the floor and stood rooted on the spot, heels still digging painfully into your feet as you buried your face in your palms as if anyone could see you through the darkness of midnight, letting the tears collect in your palms like a well as you tried to muffle your sobs, painfully aware that your lover was likely fast asleep in your shared bedroom.

"baby, you're home."

a voice croaked from the living room couch as your head snapped up at the voice. against the moonlight was the silhouette of the person you needed the most.

"mark."

the tremor in your voice propelled him off the coach and in an instant, he was by your side, squinting through the darkness and the sleep still in his eyes as he cupped your cheeks in his warm hands. you were just, so tired.

"what's wrong, baby?"

you sniffled, resting your heavy mind in his warm hands, "tired."

he nodded knowingly, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. he squatted down to help you out of your heels, his thumb gently massaging each foot as he removed them from their heel, instantly relieving the soreness. standing back up, he took your hand and pulled you into his embrace, holding you in his firm and protective grasp as he swayed back and forth in a graceful rhythm with you resting against his shoulder.

"why were you on the couch?"

you mumbled into the air.

"I was waiting for you, love. it was getting late and you didn't reply to my texts." mark placed a soft kiss on the top of your head.

"sorry, must've been busy out of my mind." you gave a half-hearted chuckle as your hand came up to wipe away a few stray tears.

"it's alright darling. you're home now. everything will be okay."

and even though you knew tomorrow would be another day of hell, another day of unreasonable bosses and standing in suffocating heels, in that moment, you believed him. because you were with mark. because home somehow made the cruelties of life seem a little more okay.

you fell into a dreamless sleep that night, with your head rested on mark's chest and his heartbeat lulling you to sleep.

a/n: written on impulse so no word count and not edited! inspired by some recent experiences that made me tired of life and wish I had a mark to tide me through but I'm feeling better now <3

[peartreegarden]

Naked | Lee Jeno

Summary: You catch your best friend Jeno shirtless and he gets shy. Your teasing turns into something more...

Genre: Suggestive, Fluff

Word count: <1k

You heard Jeno's flip flops as he wandered into your room.

“Y/n?” he called, his voice weirdly gruff. “Can I - um - borrow some pyjamas? I forgot to bring any.”

You looked up from where you were scrolling on your bed. “What? Why?”

A laugh tickled your throat. Jeno was shirtless, and hugging a long pillow to hide his chest.

“Why are you shy?” you said, prodding the pillow, and making him curse. “I've known you since you were 12.”

“Yeah, well, I look a little different now,” Jeno said, blushing a deep purple.

“Jesus,” you said, walking over to your dresser. “I don't know why you're like this, Jeno. Aren't you naked all the time in magazines and NCT Dream stuff?”

“That's different,” Jeno said.

You threw him some pyjamas, which he caught in one hand.

“I mean,” you said naughtily, “I could just Google ‘Jeno shirtless’ right now.”

Jeno's mouth dropped. “You wouldn't.”

You got out your phone, chuckling. You opened the search page, and started typing.

You weren't really going to do it - but suddenly, Jeno tackled you head on, trying to grab the phone.

The full weight of his body hit yours, pushing you back onto your bed, breathless. The pillow fell onto the floor, forgotten.

Jeno snatched the phone from your fingers. “Aha! Got… it.”

His voice trailed off as he realised that his bare chest was pressed against yours, your hands grabbing his waist. His skin was hot and surprisingly firm against you. You could feel him panting against you.

Neither of you moved.

Jeno's eyes flashed to your lips.

You were about to move your hand off Jeno, but he quietly said, “Don't.”

Your heart wobbled. “Don’t what?”

“Don't move,” he repeated.

You stroked up his waist, and down the strong curves of his bicep, fingers trembling. Jeno pushed himself up onto his elbows, and gently smoothed the hair out of your face.

You saw him grin slightly.

“What is it?” you said.

Jeno chuckled. “Nothing. I just realised that… I forgot to be shy.”

“You should be,” you said, your voice a little rough. “We used to have baths together. I've seen your you-know-what.”

Jeno laughed, his eyes scrunching up in the carefree way you loved. “Like I said before.” He winked. “I look a little different now.”

—

MAIN MASTERLIST

Let us know what you thought in the comments or on anon! 💋

[peartreegarden]

ways haechan tells you he loves you.

tags: 500 words. haechan x reader. fluff, drabble.

love, to lee donghyuck, is not limited to only three words.

it is love when he traces your spine at midnight, drawing invincible circles on your back, etching his affection onto your skin. you've had a hard time falling asleep lately, he knows — he could tell from the toss and turn of your body and the soft sounds of tiktok late at night. so he makes you chamomile tea and rubs your back — the room smells like eucalyptus oil and him. he presses kisses on your shoulder so tender, as though you were porcelain. he rubs your back until you fall asleep, and the first thing he asks in the morning is "did you sleep well?"

love, to lee donghyuck, is his habit of kissing you every morning. hyuck carresses your cheeks with his palms, snickering at the way you blink your eyes to adjust to the sunlight. "baby... missed you while we were asleep..." he kisses you on the forehead, your cheeks, your nose, then your lips. he doesn't miss a single step, maybe adds a few extra kisses on your lips — it is as though it is a superstitious routine. he has to do it or else his day will feel terrible. and in a slight chance that he forgot... well, expect multiple messages of apologies and sobbing emojis.

donghyuck tells you he loves you by physically latching onto you every chance he gets. he always says he hates the clingy type — when in truth, he's often the clingy one. you're watching tv? he's hugging your arm, legs rested on your lap, chin buried into your neck. you could feel his breath against your skin every time he makes a commentary, like "that's literally us," and "you think i'm more handsome than him, right?" you're making coffee? he's hugging your back, littering kisses across your collarbone. you're taking a walk? well... the two of you are! he'll go on that walk with you, lacing your fingers together and swaying your arms.

you never listen, and hyuck's aware. he tells you to bring a jacket and you never do. when you start shivering, rocking your legs under the table, hyuck glances at you and sighs. "i told you it'll be cold, didn't i?" he babbles, "you never listen!" nevertheless, he's quick to take his jacket off and lay it on you. "bring an umbrella, it'll rain!" but of course, you don't. still, he'll rush out of practice and pick you up with his car, sighing to see you drenched. he quickly shelters you with the umbrella, pointing it towards you, uncaring of the fact that his shoulder's wet. "thank god i have your location, i told you it'll rain, baby. i don't want you getting sick." you never listen, he knows. to be loved is to be known, isn't it?

it is also love when hyuck tells you his secrets. he's always been the oldest in the family, rarely ever shows that he's struggling. but sometimes, behind closed doors, when it's just the two of you, he crawls into your embrace, tucks his head into your neck and cries. "i'm tired," he whispers. his voice is barely there, like it's a sin confession and you're the priest. hyuck lets you comb your fingers through his hair and kiss away his tears. to some, it may be a small thing, but to hyuck, it means everything. after all, a secret's an intimate thing.

lee donghyuck loves you, endlessly.

taglist: @ch3rryd0ll @jenohyun @untilthesunrises @raevyng @peachysoso @peartreegarden @iliveforsmut3000 @chenlezip

[peartreegarden]

loser (i don't want to lose her) ★ mark lee.

tags. mark lee x reader. hurt comfort. 1k words.

requested! i don't really like this one but i hope u like it nonnie <3

You were really looking forward to this dinner. It wasn’t anything special — just a homemade dinner for two — but you cooked Mark’s favourites, set up a nice ambience, and even dressed up nicely. It had been far too long since you two last went on a date — he was in the middle of a new comeback, so even to meet had become a near impossible task. On a rare day that you did, you decided to do something nice.

But Mark wasn’t getting the memo. 

Two hours since you last knocked on his office door, telling him to eat dinner. He hadn’t moved an inch, leaving you with no choice but to ask again. Once you pushed the door open, you were greeted by the sight of him sitting on his chair, pieces of crumpled paper scattered around the table as he gripped a pencil. Too absorbed in his lyric writing to acknowledge your presence. 

“Babe,” you said, tapping on his shoulder. He turned towards you, raising an eyebrow and offering a small smile. “You said you’d come eat two hours ago, the food’s getting cold.”

“Just a little more,” he said, smile stretching into a wider one. He tapped on your nose with his pointer, a small attempt to cheer you up. “The ideas will disappear if I don’t write them down now. I’ll be out in a bit, baby. Promise.”

You don’t remember much of what happened after. You only remember storming out of the house and to Jisung’s, leaving a note out of anger. 

★★★

“Just don’t get why he can’t just spare a fucking hour to eat.”

Between huffs and puffs, you rambled. You were slumped on the couch between Chenle and Jisung, who were laser-focused on the TV. The clicks of their consoles could be heard amidst your angry babbles. Haechan stood on a beanbag, arms crossed behind his head. 

“Hey, if you break up with Mark, I’ll date you instead,” Haechan joked, earning a smack on his head from Chenle. “I’m just joking, damn.”

“Not a good time."

You truly didn’t get it. You frequently had to bring your work home, spending hours on your laptop to chase a deadline but you’d never neglect Mark the way that he did. Plus, he wasn’t rushing against the clock — so was it really justifiable that he had left you hanging? It felt unfair. Huffing, you pulled your knees towards your chest and slumped your chin against your knees.

“Or am I being unreasonable?” you muttered, “Maybe it’d be better if he had someone in your industry, maybe we just don’t match.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Jisung answered. 

In the blur of your despair, you failed to realize that Jisung’s words were half-hearted, impassive — that he hadn’t really been listening after all. You merely nodded, before excusing yourself to go home. 

“You shouldn’t have said that, dickhead,” Chenle said, slapping Jisung across his nape.

Jisung looked back at him, blinking his eyes confusedly.

“What’d I say again?”

★★★

“Mark, we need to talk.”

After days of pondering, you had come to a conclusion — that perhaps, letting go of Mark would be the best act of love that you could do. Upon seeing him lounging on the living room couch, you had finally mustered enough courage to speak. 

Mark placed his phone down, looking up at you. His gaze followed your figure as you sat beside him. Behind the placid look he tried to maintain, he panicked internally. He straightened up. 

“Okay, what’s up?”

“I don’t think that this is working out.” 

“What?”

Mark stared at you, trying to decipher your words — or rather, trying to accept your words. You could see the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed the thick saliva pooling at the back of his throat, though you couldn’t see the anxiety pumping through his veins.

“What do you mean, YN? What do you mean by this?”

“This,” you muttered. “Us.”

“But we were fine a few days ago,” the raven retorted. He racked his brain for anything that could’ve upset you, all the memories rushing back to his head and it made him dizzy. 

“YN, please.” 

“I just,” the words slipped past your lips. There were an abundance of thoughts filling your brain — too much — and your tongue couldn’t quite catch up. “Just. Feel like you deserve better, Mark. Someone who gets you.”

“But you’re perfect,” he whimpered. Without him realizing, his lips were quivering. “You get me.”

“I don’t,” you shook your head. “I’m not… someone who does music, like you. There are things you talk about that I don’t get. You should find someone who matches you better. I’m sorry, Mark.”

You extended your hand on the sofa, grazing his knee. It takes a little more courage for you to give it a little squeeze. He gave you a pained look, shaking his head — and the look had done more than tug on your heartstrings — it wrung them. You never wanted to hurt him this much.

“But I don’t get all your stuff either,” he whispered. “When you talk about your work stuff, I don’t always get it. But I listen because I like listening to you… don’t you like listening to me too?”

The question rendered you silent. You bit the inside of your cheeks, thinking back to all the times when he’d tell you all about his music production, how he’d seat you on his lap and play with your hair as you listened to his songs. How your lips would be puckered out of focus and he’d kiss it. 

“I do.”

The words breathed relief onto Mark’s face. He grabs your hand, gently tracing along the veins on your palm.

“We don’t always have to understand each other,” he mumbled, “Sometimes, listening and acknowledging is enough.” 

Slowly, you nodded. Finally, the heavy beating of your heartbeat calmed down. 

“Can you please stay?” his voice was soft. He spoke as though you could break from the sheer sound of his voice.

“Yes,” you whispered back, “I’m sorry, I just got scared. I love you so much, I want the best for you.”

“It’s okay,” Mark answered. He pulled you into a hug, tucking you under his chin. “I love you, too.”

"Okay, but you really have to make more time for me."

"I'm sorry. Okay. I love you, I really do."

taglist: @ch3rryd0ll @jenohyun @untilthesunrises @raevyng @peachysoso @peartreegarden @iliveforsmut3000 @chenlezip

[peartreegarden]

loser (i don't want to lose her) ★ mark lee.

tags. mark lee x reader. hurt comfort. 1k words.

requested! i don't really like this one but i hope u like it nonnie <3

You were really looking forward to this dinner. It wasn’t anything special — just a homemade dinner for two — but you cooked Mark’s favourites, set up a nice ambience, and even dressed up nicely. It had been far too long since you two last went on a date — he was in the middle of a new comeback, so even to meet had become a near impossible task. On a rare day that you did, you decided to do something nice.

But Mark wasn’t getting the memo. 

Two hours since you last knocked on his office door, telling him to eat dinner. He hadn’t moved an inch, leaving you with no choice but to ask again. Once you pushed the door open, you were greeted by the sight of him sitting on his chair, pieces of crumpled paper scattered around the table as he gripped a pencil. Too absorbed in his lyric writing to acknowledge your presence. 

“Babe,” you said, tapping on his shoulder. He turned towards you, raising an eyebrow and offering a small smile. “You said you’d come eat two hours ago, the food’s getting cold.”

“Just a little more,” he said, smile stretching into a wider one. He tapped on your nose with his pointer, a small attempt to cheer you up. “The ideas will disappear if I don’t write them down now. I’ll be out in a bit, baby. Promise.”

You don’t remember much of what happened after. You only remember storming out of the house and to Jisung’s, leaving a note out of anger. 

★★★

“Just don’t get why he can’t just spare a fucking hour to eat.”

Between huffs and puffs, you rambled. You were slumped on the couch between Chenle and Jisung, who were laser-focused on the TV. The clicks of their consoles could be heard amidst your angry babbles. Haechan stood on a beanbag, arms crossed behind his head. 

“Hey, if you break up with Mark, I’ll date you instead,” Haechan joked, earning a smack on his head from Chenle. “I’m just joking, damn.”

“Not a good time."

You truly didn’t get it. You frequently had to bring your work home, spending hours on your laptop to chase a deadline but you’d never neglect Mark the way that he did. Plus, he wasn’t rushing against the clock — so was it really justifiable that he had left you hanging? It felt unfair. Huffing, you pulled your knees towards your chest and slumped your chin against your knees.

“Or am I being unreasonable?” you muttered, “Maybe it’d be better if he had someone in your industry, maybe we just don’t match.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Jisung answered. 

In the blur of your despair, you failed to realize that Jisung’s words were half-hearted, impassive — that he hadn’t really been listening after all. You merely nodded, before excusing yourself to go home. 

“You shouldn’t have said that, dickhead,” Chenle said, slapping Jisung across his nape.

Jisung looked back at him, blinking his eyes confusedly.

“What’d I say again?”

★★★

“Mark, we need to talk.”

After days of pondering, you had come to a conclusion — that perhaps, letting go of Mark would be the best act of love that you could do. Upon seeing him lounging on the living room couch, you had finally mustered enough courage to speak. 

Mark placed his phone down, looking up at you. His gaze followed your figure as you sat beside him. Behind the placid look he tried to maintain, he panicked internally. He straightened up. 

“Okay, what’s up?”

“I don’t think that this is working out.” 

“What?”

Mark stared at you, trying to decipher your words — or rather, trying to accept your words. You could see the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed the thick saliva pooling at the back of his throat, though you couldn’t see the anxiety pumping through his veins.

“What do you mean, YN? What do you mean by this?”

“This,” you muttered. “Us.”

“But we were fine a few days ago,” the raven retorted. He racked his brain for anything that could’ve upset you, all the memories rushing back to his head and it made him dizzy. 

“YN, please.” 

“I just,” the words slipped past your lips. There were an abundance of thoughts filling your brain — too much — and your tongue couldn’t quite catch up. “Just. Feel like you deserve better, Mark. Someone who gets you.”

“But you’re perfect,” he whimpered. Without him realizing, his lips were quivering. “You get me.”

“I don’t,” you shook your head. “I’m not… someone who does music, like you. There are things you talk about that I don’t get. You should find someone who matches you better. I’m sorry, Mark.”

You extended your hand on the sofa, grazing his knee. It takes a little more courage for you to give it a little squeeze. He gave you a pained look, shaking his head — and the look had done more than tug on your heartstrings — it wrung them. You never wanted to hurt him this much.

“But I don’t get all your stuff either,” he whispered. “When you talk about your work stuff, I don’t always get it. But I listen because I like listening to you… don’t you like listening to me too?”

The question rendered you silent. You bit the inside of your cheeks, thinking back to all the times when he’d tell you all about his music production, how he’d seat you on his lap and play with your hair as you listened to his songs. How your lips would be puckered out of focus and he’d kiss it. 

“I do.”

The words breathed relief onto Mark’s face. He grabs your hand, gently tracing along the veins on your palm.

“We don’t always have to understand each other,” he mumbled, “Sometimes, listening and acknowledging is enough.” 

Slowly, you nodded. Finally, the heavy beating of your heartbeat calmed down. 

“Can you please stay?” his voice was soft. He spoke as though you could break from the sheer sound of his voice.

“Yes,” you whispered back, “I’m sorry, I just got scared. I love you so much, I want the best for you.”

“It’s okay,” Mark answered. He pulled you into a hug, tucking you under his chin. “I love you, too.”

"Okay, but you really have to make more time for me."

"I'm sorry. Okay. I love you, I really do."

taglist: @ch3rryd0ll @jenohyun @untilthesunrises @raevyng @peachysoso @peartreegarden @iliveforsmut3000 @chenlezip

[peartreegarden]

the way you hunched forwards made his dick brush your clit so gently, the small amount of stimulation sent you over the edge..

“s-soobin!!”

you cried out, body curled up but head thrown back, your moans and groans coming out borderline animalistic.

the mnphf!’s and ah..’s that eventually turned in to loud oh..’s,, and drawn out cries of pleasure let you know he was approaching his own high. the way his thrusts became harder and deeper yet slower and spaced out made your toes curl and mouth drool.

the lewd wet sounds coming from where you two were connected were practically pornographic, and the squelching sound of your pussy that tightened around him so deliciously made his head spin

“fuck.. s’fucking close…”

with shallow thrusts and a beautiful loud groan, soobin threw his head back mouth ajar as he emptied his hot load into you.

you could feel his dick throb in you ever so slightly. his arms placed to the sides of your shoulders once you fell back, his head hung low looking down at where you two were still connected.

he finally pulled out, strings of cum thinly connecting the two of you. his eyes couldnt leave your red puffy pussy that leaked his seed in heaps,

once he left you , your legs rubbed together involuntarily still seeking some kind of stimulation on your clit. of course soobin took note of this, smirking cutely before moving his head down to kiss right around your clit.

“wanna cum?” he asked, as it it wasnt already obvious

you scoffed jokingly running your fingers through his damp hair, humming slightly as he began licking everywhere but where you needed him most

“soobiinn.. please..” you let out breathlessly eyes shut and eyebrows knitted together.

i mean, how could he say know when you asked like that?

he hummed as he sucked on your clit, the way his tongue flicked over it as he pulled it between his lips made your back arch.

his hands went up your stomach to your tits, massaging one while the other pinched and pulled at your nipple

his mouth continued to lap, flick, and suck all over you until your legs wrapped tightly around his head, hands pulling at his hair while your squeals and whimpers filled the room.

soobins head pops up from inbetween your legs covered in both of your fluids and you just cant help but giggle at him.

“c’mere baby.. let me clean you up.” you reached over to the nightstand picking up a cloth as you cleaned his chin and all around his mouth, as he looked at you with nothing but pure love.

you look back up into his eyes and smile, he grabs your wrist and puts your hand on his cheek as he laid down to pull you on top of him, holding eachother tightly.

“i love you so much, you know that?” he mumbled into your shoulder, hands rubbing up and down your back.

exhausted, you simply hummed in response with your lips pressed against his neck, as you both drifted to sleep together.

——

not proofread obv😭

i think it’s common knowledge that motivation to write smut comes more when your horny or is it just me?? but truthfully if i wrote every horny thought i had on this account people would get sick of me very fast

[peartreegarden]

pretty please do a tiktok trend fic with jaehyun with the trend of girlfriends telling their bfs they wanna go home or don’t wanna sleep over pretty pretty please !!!!!!!!!!!!!

wow 3 prettys... good job, here you go!

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ I don't want to spend the night ⋆⭒˚.⋆

(cw: f!reader, profanity)

At the beginning of your relationship, leaving the frat house was easy. Fratboy!Jaehyun was still too cocky yet too shy to admit that he wanted you there, that he wanted you to stay, that he wanted you around.

Now? Now, leaving was nearly impossible. If you planned to spend the night, he was like an excited puppy, never letting you out of his hold, always trailing behind you, never letting you out of his sight. If you were brushing your teeth, then he was too. If you were changing into you pajamas, he was helping you. If you were on your phone in bed, then he was laying on top of you and watching what you were watching.

If you weren't staying the night... well, let's be clear. If you were at the frat house and not spending the night, then Jaehyun was going to make sure you spent the night. He would trap you beneath him while he slept, he would hide your shoes, he would get down on his knees and beg with tears in his eyes until you agreed. The only way you could get out of spending the night was to simply not go to the frat house or be gone before 7pm.

Tonight was one of the nights you were staying over, but that didn't mean you couldn't have fun right?

You let out a long, fake, exasperated sigh. Jaehyun's eyes flickered up to meet yours from where he laid on your chest, "what's wrong, Sweetheart?"

You break eye contact, biting your bottom lip, "I think I'm gonna go home."

Immediately Jaehyun was sitting up, his eyes wide with confusion, "why? What's wrong? I thought you were spending the night."

You sigh, "I think I just want to be in my own bed for tonight."

"Okay, then let's go sleep in your bed," he offers quickly.

"No," you drawl out, "I want to be in my own bed alone."

"We can be alone together!"

"I want to be alone by myself..." you say while trying to hide a smile.

"You can't go though, you're in you pajamas and it's cold. Just tell me why you don't want to be here. With me," Jaehyun begs with a pout.

"It's just that there's too much testosterone in the house and it's killing my vibe tonight. I'm sorry, baby," you coo, trying to slip out of bed.

He groans loudly, flopping onto his side and turning away from you, "if you hate me you can just say that. Seriously, ease my pain and just be honest. It might just hurt less if you fucking kill me."

You break then, laughing as you crawl across the bed and wrap your arms around him, "you're such a baby. I was joking!"

He places one hand over yours, "that was mean. I thought you didn't want to be my girlfriend anymore."

You laugh rings out and he finds that his pouty exterior is hard to keep up when you're making his favorite sound. You press a long kiss to his cheek, "I want to be your girlfriend until I become your fiancee and then become your wife."

His heart skips a beat, "that was sweet, but you still owe me. You're big spoon tonight."

"Of course, my love."

[peartreegarden]

OFF THE GRID PT.3

pairing: f1driver!scoups x ex!femreader

genre: angst, romance, exes to lovers au, childhood bestfriends / neighbours au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series: Four-time world champion Choi Seungcheol has spent years at the top with Ferrari, but as the 2025 season drags on, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not quite where he used to be. The competition is catching up, his team isn't what it used to be, and for the first time, he’s starting to wonder if he’s past his prime. By the time the season winds down, he finds himself back in his hometown, which isn't quite the same either. But the hardest race was never on track, and sooner or later, he’ll have to figure out what comes next.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, descriptions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 - 14k Part 2 - 13k Part 3 - 19.5k

glossary taglist

a/n: the final installment!!! writing this fic out of all the ones I have in my series was probably the easiest and at the same time the trickiest to deal with. not just because it's an e2l but just also because of the f1 bits of it. while it's always challenging to write the race scenes, purely because most of the time i'm just spewing words and hoping they make sense while also trying to make sure that the stuff happening is stuff that actually happens, the most fun part was to put forth how one may feel shunted in their own team and what that does to a person. it’s lonely and quiet in the worst ways and sometimes you start to believe it’s your fault. that maybe you were always meant to be on the outside. writing that part felt very real and if you’ve ever felt like that, i hope this story sits with you a little. i love this one a lot and i hope you do too! please don't hesitate to reblog/comment/send an ask with your thoughts!

HOME

The cold air bites at your skin, but you barely feel it.

You sit on the porch steps, phone pressed tightly to your ear, listening to the monotonous ring of a call that you already know isn’t going to go through. It’s the fourth time you’ve tried the number your dad gave you. The fourth time it’s gone straight to voicemail.

You press the heel of your free palm to your eyes, rubbing at them. Great. Just great.

A pipe leak. In the middle of winter. Water pooling under the sink, seeping through the cabinets, creeping toward the floor faster than you know how to handle. And now, the only plumber you know isn’t even picking up. 

Really, your luck must be fucking terrible. How could this happen exactly when your parents weren’t at home?

Your head pulses with another wave of pain as you weigh your options. Do you try fixing it yourself? Do you just shut off the main water supply and deal with it later? Do you-

No.

You’re not calling Seungcheol.

You refuse. You won’t.

You grip your phone tighter, swallowing hard, trying to think. You can figure this out. You have to.

But then to your luck, or rather, the lack of it you hear the sound of tires rolling over, a door opening and slamming shut, paper bags rustling.

And before you even have to look up, you know.

Seungcheol.

You curse internally, willing him to keep walking, to go inside, to not notice the way you’re sitting here, hunched over, stress radiating from every inch of your body.

But of course, he does.

“Hey,” he calls out casually at first.

You don’t answer right away. You keep your gaze on the phone screen, like if you just focus hard enough, the plumber will just magically call you back.

But Seungcheol isn’t an idiot. And he knows you well enough to tell when something’s wrong.

The porch creaks under his weight as he steps closer. “What’s going on?”

You sigh, finally glancing up. He’s standing at the foot of the steps, a grocery bag in one hand, the other stuffed in his jacket pocket. His hair is still slightly damp from the snow, and the cold has left a faint pink tint across his skin.

You look away quickly. Not the time.

“Nothing,” you mutter, voice tight.

Seungcheol doesn’t buy it. He tilts his head slightly, glancing at the phone in your hands, to the way your grip is a little too tense.

You see the exact moment he puts the pieces together.

“…Something’s broken.”

It’s not a question.

You let out a sharp breath, rubbing your temple. “It’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”

Seungcheol exhales, setting the grocery bag down on the step. “What is it?”

You hesitate. If you tell him, he’s going to fix it.

But the alternative is letting the house flood while you sit outside, pretending you don’t need help.

You purse your lips, debating. Then, finally you answer. "Pipe’s leaking under the sink."

Seungcheol’s brows lift slightly. “Bad?”

“Water’s spreading. That bad enough?”

He glances toward the house. “Did you shut off the valve?”

Your throat dries up. You should have. You know that. You know enough to do that. But you were so fucking stressed, so caught up in trying to call the plumber, that you didn’t even think about it.

Seungcheol immediately clocks your hesitation.

His expression almost morphs into amusement. “Come on.”

You shake your head immediately. "No."

Seungcheol gives you a flat look. “You want to let it keep leaking?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Really?” He crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. "With what tools?"

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Okay. Fine. Maybe you don’t have a plan.

But that doesn’t mean you need him.

Seungcheol exhales sharply, hand reaching down to loop through yours and pull you up. "Just let me do it, alright? It’ll take ten minutes."

You hesitate for a second too long, brain switching off at the way he effortlessly manages to lift you up. No, you willingly stood up. You shake your head

A moment of hesitation is all that he needs.

With a small shake of his head, Seungcheol picks up his grocery bag and walks past you, shoulder just barely grazing yours as he makes his way inside.

You hover near the kitchen island, arms crossed, watching as Seungcheol shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over a chair before crouching down in front of the sink.

The water hasn’t fully spread to the floor yet, but it’s bad enough, a slow but steady trickle pooling at the base of the cabinet, seeping into the wood.

Seungcheol clicks his tongue. "You should've shut the valve off earlier."

You bristle. "I was trying to call someone."

He doesn’t argue, just sighs loudly before rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, forearms flexing slightly as he moves.

“Where’s your wrench?” he asks, already reaching under the sink.

You blink. Right. Tools.

Your mind scrambles for an answer, but it comes up empty. You have no idea. Your dad always handled these things before. 

“I-” You hesitate, shifting on your feet.

Before you can figure out what to say, Seungcheol just sighs. Then, without looking up, he mutters 

“Still in the laundry room?”

You freeze.

He doesn’t even wait for your answer. He just pushes himself up and walks off, heading straight down the hall, like he already knows exactly where to go.

And the worst part is that he’s right.

You swallow, fingers tightening around your arms as you listen to the sound of him opening the cabinet, rummaging through old tool boxes like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Like he still remembers where everything is.

When he comes back, wrench in hand, you don’t say anything.

And neither does he.

He just crouches back down, one arm reaching under the sink, the other bracing himself against the cabinet. His shirt rides up slightly at the hem as he shifts into position, and you immediately snap your gaze to the ceiling.

A few minutes later, when he's almost done,  Seungcheol's phone rings from where he threw it onto the kitchen island. Your eyes flicker to the screen before you look away just as quickly, not catching the name.

“Who is it?” Seungcheol's voice comes out muffled from below.

“Uh, wait,” You mumble before shifting over to see the caller's name. It makes you stop, hand frozen in air for a few seconds before you shake yourself out of it. “It's someone from Aston Martin. Do you want me to bring it over to you?” You observe him as you reply, eyes sharp.

You can see Seungcheol stop for a moment too, like a kid caught stealing candy before he resumes, shaking his head slightly. “Nah, just leave it.”

No.

No, it's been way too long to let this slide again.

You fold your arms tightly over your chest, jaw tight. “Seungcheol.”

His name comes out sounding sharp from your mouth, maybe a little more than you intended, but still, stern.

Slowly, he exhales. Then, bracing a hand against the cabinet, he pushes himself up. Straightens. Stretches his shoulders. But he doesn’t look at you.

Your fingers curl against your sleeves. “What is going on with you?”

He sighs before running a hand through his hair, still refusing to meet your gaze. “It’s nothing. I don't know why they're calling either.”

“Are you done with the leak?” You point at it, already moving past him to the cabinet above the stove where you keep your kettle.

He nods, albeit a little confused before he checks, washing his hands after the water doesn't leak again.

“Okay, good.” You mutter as you start it up, preparing to make tea. This conversation is something that's been avoided for way too long. “Because you're going to sit down, drink this tea and fucking explain what you've been doing in this past one year.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but you interject before he can, “Don’t you think we deserve to know what’s going on?”

Seungcheol exhales, shoulders rising before he lets them fall. He looks like he wants to argue. Like he wants to say no, like he wants to leave, like he doesn’t owe you this conversation.

But you’re not letting him.

Not this time.

So you turn toward him, crossing your arms, eyebrows raised in challenge. "Well?"

Seungcheol sighs, rubbing his temple. But after a moment, he drags a chair back and sits.

He leans back against it, arms crossed, gaze dropping to the counter. "What do you want me to say?"

You huff, setting the cups down harder than necessary. "How about the truth?"

Seungcheol scoffs under his breath, shaking his head. "It's not that simple."

"It never is," you agree.

The silence that follows is thick, heavy, frustrating. The only sound is the quiet hum of the kettle as steam starts to rise.

You glance at him, but he’s still looking at the counter, fingers tapping lightly against his arm. Like he’s debating. Like he’s deciding how much to say.

When Seungcheol finally begins to talk, his voice is the quietest you’ve heard it in a while.

“Where do I even start? I guess it began last season itself, after I won the world championship. After COTA, I didn’t have much to fight for, other than the constructors. The team started the orders in Mexico and back then it didn’t feel like I was losing out on anything. I’d already made enough points and they wanted to make sure Jaehyun ended up P2 in the driver’s standings to help with the constructors. So I agreed.”

You nod. You remember the second half of the season in 2024. It wasn’t unlike Seungcheol to go a little easier on his teammate once he’d won, so you hadn’t thought anything was off either.

“And then into winter break,” Seungcheol continues, “One of the reasons I didn’t come back home was, yes, because it would be really awkward with us, but the team had kept me really busy too. I’d done so many tests and runs for them that you’d expect the car to come out in a way that suited my driving style a little more.”

“It wasn’t entirely off,” Seungcheol shrugs as you pour a little honey into his cup, “Just, it was quite obvious that Jaehyun was more comfortable in there than I was. Felt like the work I’d done was useless, almost. Pre-season testing too. They were a lot more proactive when it came to Jaehyun’s feedback, but I just assumed it was because he was relatively newer to the team and that they’d have to learn his preferences a little more because they already knew most of mine.”

You settle down into the chair beside him, a soft hum leaving your lips as you listen.

“And you know, for the first few races it felt like things were back to normal in the team itself. I was still qualifying better, still the first one to bring the fight. Yeah, Red Bull were insanely quick and we were—from the start—second to them, but it felt alright inside. So I let it go, thinking I was just being paranoid.”

"And then?" you prompt gently.

Seungcheol exhales, the sound barely audible over the quiet clink of your teaspoon against the ceramic rim of your cup. His fingers drum the outside of the mug.

“And then the calls started,” he says, shaking his head. “Nothing major at first. Just small things. Strategy tweaks that didn’t make sense but weren’t outright sabotage. Early pit stops that put me in traffic. Tire compounds I hadn’t preferred. I wasn’t the only one noticing it either—my race engineer, the mechanics, even some of the guys in the factory. But no one wanted to say it outright.”

Your brows furrow. “But you knew.”

Seungcheol’s lips twitch, not in amusement, but in resignation. “I had a feeling. But when you’re fighting at the front, you can’t afford to doubt. You just drive.”

You nod, thinking back to those early races. From the outside, nothing had seemed blatantly wrong. Ferrari was still Ferrari with their fast cars, quick pit stops, a strong driver lineup. And Seungcheol was still the one leading the charge. If anything, it had looked like he was comfortably holding onto his position as the team’s priority.

But now that he says it, you remember. The radio messages that had sounded just a little too forced. The hesitation before the pit wall gave him the go ahead on certain strategies. And then later, when Jaehyun’s results started coming together, how the dynamic had shifted ever so slightly.

“Monaco,” you murmur, realization settling in.

Seungcheol shakes his head. “No. Miami. By Monaco, I already knew. But it was Miami where the doubts started.”

You know what he means. That race had been his to win. Fastest all weekend, pole secured by two tenths, an aggressive but clean first stint. And yet, somehow, Jaehyun had come out ahead after the pit cycle. The team had called it an unfortunate timing issue, but Seungcheol had looked more confused than upset in the post-race interviews. Like he wasn’t sure how it had slipped through his fingers.

He rubs a hand over his face, leaning back into the chair. “That’s when I started realizing it wasn’t just paranoia.”

Your fingers tighten around your mug. “But you still let it go.”

Seungcheol lets out a short, humorless laugh. “What else could I do?” His eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable. “I drove for them, remember? They made the calls.”

“I wasn’t okay. After Monza, when you called,” He tries to sound slightly nonchalant. But you know. 

“That’s why I called,” You sigh, “Were there more problems because of that crash? Between you two?”

Seungcheol almost laughs, “You know, throughout this entire season, I don’t think we’ve actually ever argued about all this stuff. The next race weekend was shit. Both of us were absolutely blasted by the team. But most of this isn't his fault. I mean, the crash probably was, but it happens. It's not like I’ve never crashed into a teammate before. ” He admits. You can see that it takes a lot out of him to say that.

You understand. It would be so much easier to blame someone else, someone newer instead of the people who’ve been around you for so long.

“He’d be fucking stupid if he kicked and yelled and made everyone stop to treat us both the same.”

Sighing, you contemplate reaching a hand out to comfort him. Seungcheol sits with his shoulders slumped and head down, fingers fiddling with the cup in a restless way. But you stop yourself. You're listening to him to understand and to clear up things, that's it.

“So you made the decision to leave Ferrari,” You say, humming for him to continue.

“After Monza, I kind of knew, but it was Singapore where I made my decision.”

You remember that race. The tension, the buildup. The entire grid waiting to see if Haechan would clinch the title.

“It wasn’t like some big revelation,” he continues. “I think I’d already been telling myself for weeks that it was over. But that night, it just… solidified.”

His fingers tap lightly against his arm, like he’s still turning the memory over in his head. “They pitted me early. Said it was to put pressure on Red Bull, to force Haechan into an earlier stop. But I knew what it was. It was about Jaehyun. Making sure he didn’t lose time, making sure he had the advantage when it counted. That was my job now.”

Your fingers tighten around your mug.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “And then Haechan crossed the line, took his title, and I was standing in that media pen, listening to everyone talk about the championship fight and the future, and I realized I wasn’t part of that anymore. Not with Ferrari.”

“So I told my manager that night. Told him I wasn’t going to re-sign.”

It’s said so simply, so quietly, but you remember twenty two year old Seungcheol when he got his first Formula 1 seat. You remember twenty three year old Seungcheol when he got the Ferrari offer, his biggest dream coming true. You remember seventeen year old Seungcheol, arguing with his school teachers that, yes, racing is what he wants to do. Not school. “I’m serious about this. You can just watch, I’ll get there.”

It must have been one of the hardest decisions he’s ever made. 

But there’s just one more thing you don’t understand.

“But if not with Ferrari,” You begin cautiously, softly, “You could’ve done it with any other team. They’d be scrambling to sign you. Why’d you leave the entire thing, Cheol?”

Seungcheol slowly shake his head. “It wasn’t just about Ferrari.”

His fingers begin to drum lightly on the counter again. “I thought about signing somewhere else. It would’ve been easy—hell, my manager already had teams lined up before I even told him I wasn’t re-signing. But after Singapore… I just didn’t know if I wanted to anymore.”

Your brows furrow slightly. “Why?”

For a second, you think he won’t answer. His fingers tighten around his mug, his shoulders tensing slightly. But then he sighs, the weight of it heavy.

“Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure if I still had it in me.”

His voice is quieter now, but there’s no hesitation. No bitterness. Just quiet exhaustion.

“I always knew what I was fighting for. Even in my worst seasons, even when everything felt like shit, I still wanted to be in the car. I still wanted to be in the fight. But after Singapore, I wasn’t sure if I did.” He pauses, shaking his head slightly. “Not because I don’t love it. Not because I don’t think I can still win. But because I didn’t know if I could give myself to it the way I always have.”

“You know, for years, I thought that as long as I kept pushing, as long as I proved myself over and over again, everything else would fall into place. That it would always be enough. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like it was.”

You don’t say anything.

Because what do you even say to someone who’s spent their entire life chasing something only to realize they don’t know if they still want to chase it anymore?

Seungcheol leans back slightly, glancing down at his mug. “I needed time,” he says simply. “To figure it out.”

You hesitate for a moment, watching him. He’s not looking at you, eyes still on the mug in his hands, fingers tracing the rim like he’s still lost somewhere in his own thoughts.

Then, quietly, you say, “That makes sense.”

Seungcheol glances up, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that.

You exhale, shifting slightly in your seat. “I mean… you’ve never really stopped, have you?” You tilt your head. “Since we were kids, it’s always been about the next thing. The next race, the next win, the next goal. You never let yourself slow down. Maybe—” you pause, choosing your words carefully. “Maybe it’s okay that you needed to.”

His fingers still against the mug. He doesn’t say anything, but something in his expression softens, just slightly.

“You’re allowed to figure it out, Cheol,” you say, quieter now. “Even if it takes time.”

For the first time since he started talking, he really looks at you. Like he’s trying to figure out if you actually mean it.

And when he doesn’t find doubt in your face, when all he sees is quiet understanding, something inside him loosens.

He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear that.

It’s stupid, maybe. He’s had months to sit with this, to justify his decision to himself, to convince himself that taking a step back wasn’t weakness. That it didn’t make him any less of a driver. Any less of himself.

But it’s different, hearing it from you.

Hearing someone else say it—you say it—makes it feel real.

He exhales again, deeper this time, like something heavy has finally slipped off his shoulders. The tension in his posture eases just a little.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice lighter than before. “Maybe it is.”

And for the first time in a while, he almost feels like he can breathe.

You shut your laptop with a quiet sigh, leaning back into your chair to give yourself a moment before you start packing up to go home. You stretch your fingers out, rolling your wrist absentmindedly, the stiffness a reminder of how long you’ve been working.

At least you’re leaving earlier than usual today. It’s rare, but you’d wrapped up the project that had been eating up most of your time this past month—sent the final files off, double-checked every detail, and even managed to get your inbox down to something manageable. It’s a relief, a quiet kind that sits at the back of your mind, knowing that for once, you won’t have to think about work the second you step out of the office.

You take your time packing up, sliding your laptop into your bag a little more carefully than usual, making sure everything’s in place before zipping it up. The usual rush to leave isn’t there tonight; instead, you pull on your coat at a slower pace, looping your scarf around your neck as your phone vibrates on your desk.

A quick glance at the screen shows a text from Seungkwan in the group chat.

Seungkwan: jihoon and cheol are you guys free my manager just asked to sit through another client call and it’s going to take at least 45 more mins can ya’ll go pick her up i promised to but i can’t rn [16:48]

Jihoon: yeah sure [16:50]

Seungcheol: i can [16:50]

Seungcheol: oh nvm u can go then [16:51]

Jihoon: no actually i can’t  my meeting got extended too Seungcheol? [16:58]

Seungcheol: omw [17:00]

You shake your head slightly as you scroll through the chat. You could’ve taken the bus ride home, but Seungkwan had sent his car for servicing and had driven the two of you to work in your car today. He’d have fussed about it if you took the bus and, honestly, you didn’t mind the ride back. At least it’d be warmer.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and make your way out of the office. Most of people in your team are still at their desks, wrapped up in whatever they need to finish before they can call it a night, but you get a few nods and murmured goodbyes as you pass. The elevator ride down is uneventful, and by the time you step outside, the sky is a dark shade of blue with streaks of fading orange and pink clinging onto the horizon.

You don’t have to wait long before a sleek black car rolls up to the curb, headlights cutting through the dimming evening. You spot Seunghceol through the windshield before he even pulls to a full stop, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the gear shift, fingers drumming idly. His hair falls slightly over his forehead, and he’s got that same relaxed-but-not-really posture you know so well.

The door unlocks with a quiet click, and you pull it open, slipping inside.

"Hey," you greet, settling into the passenger seat.

Seungcheol glances at you briefly before looking back at the road. "Hey. Seatbelt."

You roll your eyes but comply, the buckle clicking into place as he merges back into traffic. It’s only when you hit a red light that Seungcheol speaks again, eyes flitting over to you.

"You finished your project, right?"

You blink, turning to look at him. "How’d you know?"

He shrugs, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. "You only leave early when you finish something big."

You press your lips together, caught off guard. He’s not wrong.

"Yeah," you say after a moment. "Finally. Feels kind of weird not having it hanging over my head anymore."

Seungcheol hums, driving forward as the light turns green. "Bet that’s nice."

"It is," you admit, nodding as you slump back into your seat. "Kind of don’t know what to do with myself now, though."

He glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. "Is that why you let me pick you up instead of just taking the bus? Needed something to fill the time?"

You scoff, nudging his arm lightly. "Shut up."

His chuckle is soft, barely audible over the low hum of the car, but you hear it anyway.

“Can we stop at a convenience store, by the way?” Seungcheol clears his throat after a few minutes of silence.

You hum in response. “Sure, you’re driving anyways.”

He nods, taking the next right turn without another word. The neon glow of the store comes into view a few minutes later, its sign flickering slightly against the darkening sky. He pulls into an empty parking spot, shifting the car into park before turning to you.

“You want anything?”

You shake your head, already reaching for your phone. “I’m good.”

Seungcheol doesn’t press, just unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out. You watch as he stretches—arms over his head, a quick shake of his shoulders—before heading inside.

A few minutes later, Seungcheol returns, a plastic bag in hand. He slides into the driver’s seat, the faint rustling of wrappers filling the car as he rummages through it. Without a word, he pulls out a bag of chips and hands it over, like it’s second nature.

You blink, looking down at the bag in your lap, then back at him.

You narrow your eyes at him as you open the bag, pulling out a chip and popping it into your mouth. “What if I didn’t want this today?”

Seungcheol hums, setting his drink down before shifting the car into reverse. “Then you’d tell me to go back inside.”

You make a face, annoyed that he knows you too well, but let it slide. Instead, as he pulls out of the parking lot, you reach into the bag again—this time, holding a chip out toward him.

Seungcheol glances at it briefly before flicking his eyes back to the road. “What?”

“You want one?”

He hesitates—just for a second. And that’s when it hits you.

Your hand hovers in the air, and for a moment, you almost pull back. But then, Seungcheol leans in just slightly, just enough.

And without a word, he takes the chip from your hand.

Neither of you say anything after that.

—

The evening is loud, the kind of easy chaos that comes with Jihoon, Seungkwan, and Seungcheol crammed into your living room, half-watching something on TV while bickering over absolutely nothing.

Seungkwan had claimed his usual spot on the couch, legs kicked up onto the coffee table despite your protests. Jihoon sat on the floor, leaning against the armrest, scrolling through his phone but still chiming in whenever Seungkwan said something particularly stupid. 

It’s normal. Stupid jokes, Seungkwan laughing too loud, Jihoon threatening to leave but never actually moving. And for a while, you let yourself fall into it, let the noise drown out the things you don’t want to think about.

But then, Jihoon stands, stretching his arms overhead. “I should go,” he says, stuffing his phone into his pocket. “Early morning tomorrow.”

Seungkwan groans dramatically but stands up too, stretching in sync with him. “Yeah, yeah. I should head out too.”

After Jihoon and Seungkwan leave, you linger by the door for a moment, listening to their voices fade as they walk down the street. When you turn back, Seungcheol is still there, getting off the couch to walk into your kitchen.

You hesitate, then exhale, shaking your head as you make your way back to the couch. The house feels different now—quieter, heavier.

You sink into your usual spot, pulling your legs up beneath you, reaching absently for the TV remote even though you’re not really paying attention. But after a few moments of silence, you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Is it just me, or do I keep running into you everywhere?” You scoff, finally turning to face him. 

Seungcheol stands behind your kitchen counter, filling a glass of water before he stops at your words. He searches your face for any signs of playfulness, but finds none. Your eyebrows are knitted, a slight scowl on your lips and your words come out sharp and almost irritated.

“What?” He asks, a little confused, “I mean, I am living next to your house. Would be weird if you didn’t see me around.”

"You know that's not what I mean." You cross your arms, getting off the sofa.

“Well, for starters. Everyone was here today, so you kind of invited me over.” Seungcheol shrugs. “I was going to leave anyway, sheesh.”

"Yeah, this time," you say. "But what about the rest? It’s like things are just happening again, like nothing’s changed. You keep showing up, and it’s not just at work or around the neighborhood, it’s—" You pause, shaking your head before scoffing. "God, I don’t know. It’s confusing."

Seungcheol only watches you, setting his cup down with an unreadable expression. 

So you continue.

“It’s been over a year, Seungcheol. And then you come back and suddenly we’re going back to whatever this was. As if that entire period of our lives didn’t even exist. We didn’t talk to each other, Cheol. Didn’t talk, didn’t check in, didn’t even pretend that we existed and now—” You huff out, shoulders dropping, “Don’t you think this is strange? That we can just pretend like nothing happened and fall back into line like this?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer right away. He looks at you, fingers tapping idly against the counter. Then, finally, he says, "Maybe it’s not that strange."

You groan, running a hand through your hair. It seems to tick him off a little because he speaks up again.

“You were the one that said that we were best friends, and that you wouldn’t stop treating me like that because we broke up,” Seungcheol says, voice firm. “You told me that none of it would change, that we’d figure it out. And now you’re acting like it’s weird that I’m here, like I’m some stranger you keep running into instead of the person who—” He stops himself, shaking his head before he can say too much. His fingers tighten against the counter. “I’m not pretending nothing happened. But I’m not the one who changed their mind.”

“Fuck, I know!” You exclaim, a little louder than before, “God, I know and I’m sorry, okay? I thought it would be fine. I thought I could handle it but it’s not, Cheol. It’s not.” Swallowing, you hesitate. “It’s just hard, okay? Seeing you, talking to you and being around you like this just reminds me of everything and I don’t know how to act like it doesn’t hurt.”

You look up at him to gauge his reaction, but the way his jaw tightens just makes you feel worse.

“You think it wasn’t hard for me? That it still isn’t?” His voice is low, but his eyes are bright, anger slipping into them. “The difference is, I didn’t choose this. I didn’t wake up one day and decide we shouldn’t be together anymore.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “That was you.”

You throw your head back, eyes scrunching in frustration before you snap back, “Do you really think I didn’t think it over? That I didn’t even try or want this to work? I wanted it to. But it always felt like I was waiting for you, Seungcheol. Waiting for the next race to end, waiting for your next flight home, waiting for a moment that never lasted long enough before you had to leave again." You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "And I know it wasn’t your fault—I never blamed you for any of it. But you have to see how unfair it was, too. I was the one adjusting, always making room in my life whenever you had the chance to come back, and when you left again, I was the one picking up the pieces."

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. "You think I didn’t try? That I didn’t want more time with you?" His voice rises slightly, rough around the edges. "I missed things too, you know. I missed birthdays, I missed stupid little inside jokes, I missed you. But I tried. I called every chance I got, I stayed up even when I was dead tired just to hear your voice, I—" He cuts himself off, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "I know it wasn’t enough. But it wasn’t like I didn’t care."

"I know you cared, Seungcheol," you say, voice quieter now but strained nonetheless. "But caring wasn’t the problem. It was never just about missing each other—it was about how impossible it felt to keep up. You were gone all the time. I couldn’t call you whenever I needed to, I couldn’t just show up when things got hard. And you—you were so busy, and I didn’t want to be just another thing on your list to worry about."

Seungcheol exhales sharply, shaking his head. "That’s not fair," he mutters. "You were never just some obligation to me."

"But that’s what it felt like!" The words leave you before you can stop them, your voice cracking and your chest heaving. "Not because of you, not because of anything you did, but because of the way things were. I felt like I was trying to hold on to something that was slipping away no matter how much we wanted it to stay."

Seungcheol’s eyes darken, frustration clear in the way his fingers ball into fists at his sides. “So what, then? We just give up because it was hard?” His voice is louder now, the calm he’s tried to hold onto starting to slip away. “You think I didn’t feel like I was losing you too? You think I didn’t sit there in hotel rooms on the other side of the world, wishing I could be home with you instead?”

“Well, you weren’t home, Seungcheol!” you shoot back, eyes stinging. “And I couldn’t keep waiting for something that wasn’t going to change! I had to live my life too, I had to stop putting everything on hold for a relationship that—” You stop yourself, swallowing hard, willing your voice not to break. “That wasn’t going to work no matter how much we wanted it to.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “That’s bullshit,” he mutters. “You didn’t even let me try. You made the choice for both of us.”

 “Are you serious right now? You did try, Seungcheol. We both did! But you were never going to have a life where you could just stay, and I never wanted you to give that up for me. I just—I wanted to feel like I wasn’t the only one adjusting, like I wasn’t always the one left waiting.”

His whole body goes rigid, and when he speaks next, Seungcheol’s voice is clear but scalding.

“Well, I quit,” he says, the words sharp and deliberate. His eyes bore into yours, daring you to look away. “So are you happy now?”

It hits you like a slap to the face—sharp, stinging, and almost disorienting. You blink at him, air knocked out of your lungs, stunned, mouth opening slightly but finding nothing to say.

Because this isn’t what you wanted. Not like this. Not for you. Not because of you.

But Seungcheol is still looking at you, chest rising and falling, waiting for you to say… say what? What do you even say to that?

“That is not what I said, and you know it.” Your voice is quiet but fierce when you finally reply, unyielding.

Seungcheol scoffs, running a hand over his face, but he doesn’t respond.

You shake your head, throat tightening. “I don’t want to talk to you like this.”

He laughs dryly, shaking his head as he looks away. "Right. Of course, you don’t."

You clench your jaw. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?" His gaze snaps back to yours, frustration smeared across his features. "You get to throw all of this at me, tell me how impossible it was, how you couldn’t keep up. And then the second I react, you decide you don’t want to talk anymore?"

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. "Because you’re twisting my words, Seungcheol! I never wanted you to quit. I never wanted you to throw everything away for me.” You breathe in, feeling the tears fill your eyes as Seungcheol’s figure starts swimming in your vision. You look away, quickly wiping them and willing your voice to come out calm before you continue.

“I only ever wanted to be equal, Cheol. Just equal.”

His brows furrow, the sharp edges of his anger dulling into something heavier and blunt. His lips part like he wants to argue, to fight back, but nothing comes out. Instead, his shoulders drop just slightly, like the weight of everything between you is finally settling in.

"I would’ve done more," he says finally, so quietly that you almost don’t hear it. "If you had told me, I would’ve done more."

You sigh, feeling all the fight and adrenaline draining out of you, leaving only exhaustion and regret. “I know. But I didn’t want to have to ask.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “For not talking to you about it properly before. For not giving us a real chance to figure it out together.”

Seungcheol stands still for a few beats, looking unsure. Then, he grabs the glass he’d left full on the counter before turning around to dump it in the sink. The sound of water slinking down the drain fills the heavy atmosphere between you, and for a moment, it feels like neither of you knows what to say next.

His back is to you, shoulders rising and falling with a slow breath, and when he finally speaks, his voice is dull and subdued.

“I should go,” he murmurs, like he’s saying it more to himself than to you. Seungcheol sighs, rubbing a hand over his face before shaking his head, almost like he’s trying to shake off everything this conversation has brought up.

You don’t know what else to say, so you swallow hard and nod, even though he can’t see you. When he pushes himself out of the kitchen, you step aside. He walks slowly, almost like he doesn’t know how to act around you anymore. It’s not surprising. You’ve never felt this exhausted and on-edge around him either.

A muted, confused voice in your head, tells you to stop him before he goes. This isn’t done. Even if it is, you don’t feel like it is anyway. With the way Seungcheol hesitates, you can tell he doesn’t either. 

But you ignore it, for now. 

Seungcheol walks out of your door, closing it softly behind him. You think it’d be a little easier if he’d slammed it instead.

—

Seungcheol remembers being sixteen, sprawled next to Jihoon on the floor of your room. He can hear your dad watching the news on the TV, the loud and clear voice of the anchor cutting through the house.

“Seven-time Formula 1 world champion Lewis Hamilton has announced his retirement from the sport, shocking fans and experts alike. The Mercedes driver, widely regarded as one of the greatest of all time, confirmed in a press conference earlier today that this season would be his last."

Seungcheol barely pays attention. He’s freaked out over it already and so he idly flips through one of your textbooks, while Jihoon hums to himself, distracted with his guitar. Meanwhile, you sit straight next to him on the floor, biting on your lower lip in concentration as you try to tackle the integration worksheet your class was handed today. You twirl a yellow mechanical pencil between your fingers as you scan the page in front of you, brows furrowed. The dim yellow glow of your lamp casts soft shadows on your face, and Seungcheol finds himself staring without meaning to.

It’s nothing new—you studying, the three of you lazing around in your room, wasting away a slow evening together. But something about this moment feels different.

Your hair slips over your shoulder as you reach for another page, and for some reason, he can’t stop staring.

It’s not like he hasn’t looked at you before. You’ve been best friends since you were kids, growing up side by side, running through the same streets, bickering over stupid things only to make up a few hours later. You’ve always been there, always been you.

But right now, in this quiet moment, you look—

Pretty.

The thought creeps in so naturally that it startles him. His grip tightens on the textbook.

It’s not like he’s never thought about it before. He’s not blind. But this is different. Because it’s not just pretty, it’s you. And it feels important. Like something’s cracked open, like something’s about to change.

He quickly tears his gaze away, back to the textbook in his lap, but he doesn’t see a single word. His heartbeat is suddenly too loud in his ears, his skin warm under the collar of his hoodie.

Jihoon groans again, shoving his guitar aside. “I give up. This song is cursed.”

Seungcheol almost laughs, almost lets himself be pulled back into the moment. But then he glances at you one more time, catching the way you tuck your knee to your chest, biting your lip as you concentrate.

And just like that, he knows.

Knows that something is different now. Knows that, no matter how hard he tries, he won’t be able to unknow it.

Seungcheol remembers finally, finally telling you that he likes you. He does it on a call, early morning on a Friday in Australia. Not ideal, not how he pictured it, but the words are there, pressing against his throat, demanding to be let out.

You look so soft on the screen, eyes half-lidded from sleep, cheek pressed into your pillow. It’s late where you are, but you still picked up when he called, even though you had work in the morning. The thought makes something warm settle in his chest, until he realizes he’s been staring at you too long, silent for too long, and you’re blinking at him now, confused.

"Cheol?" your voice comes through the speaker, quiet and a little groggy.

He sighs, shaking his head softly. He should wait. He should do this in person. But waiting has never been his strong suit, and the thought of another day, another week, another month of keeping this to himself—

"I like you."

The words fall out before he can stop them, before he can overthink them.

You blink slowly, drowsiness slipping away. “You what?”

He huffs out a little nervously.

"Say it again." You stare back at him with wide eyes, your head raised to get a better view.

He doesn’t hesitate. “I like you.”

Your breath catches. He sees it, sees the way you bite your lip like you’re trying not to smile, like you knew but needed to hear it anyway.

“You’re insane,” you say, but your voice is barely above a whisper, “Come back home, Cheol.”

Seungcheol grins, relief rushing through him. He laughs, a little breathless. “I will.”

“No,” you shake your head, firmer this time. “Come home soon.”

When Seungcheol comes back to you on Monday, you’re already waiting. 

You stand near the arrivals exit, arms crossed, watching the steady stream of passengers trickle out. You spot him before he sees you—hood up, suitcase rolling behind him, duffel slung over one shoulder.

And then his gaze lifts, finds yours, and stops.

Surprise flickers across his face followed by something softer, closer to relief. He lets out a quiet laugh as he stops in front of you.

“You look exhausted,” you say, voice calm, but your fingers twitch where they rest against your arm.

His lips tilt, but you can see it now—the bags under his eyes, the exhaustion clinging to his shoulders. Still, his eyes don’t leave yours, like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

“Didn’t think you’d be here,” he murmurs.

You shrug, glancing away for a second. “Didn’t think you’d tell me you like me over the phone.”

He laughs, softer this time. The duffel slips from his shoulder, forgotten, as he takes half a step closer. Close enough that the warmth of him seeps into the space between you, close enough that you feel the weight of his gaze settle over you.

“Missed me that much?” he teases, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

You scoff. “You wish.” But your voice lacks bite, and he sees the way you shift from one foot to the other, like you’re holding yourself back.

So he doesn’t.

Seungcheol reaches for you, one hand cupping the side of your face, the other sliding around your waist, pulling you into him. And before you can react, before you can even breathe, he kisses you.

It’s not cautious. Not nervous. Not testing the waters. It’s sure, like he’s known this is where he’s meant to be all along.

Your fingers tighten against the fabric of his hoodie, exhaling against his lips like you’ve been waiting for this too. Like all the late-night calls, the moments of hesitation, the unspoken truths were leading to this.

When he pulls back, just slightly, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

Your heart stumbles, and for once, you don’t pretend to fight the smile that tugs at your lips. “Took you long enough,” you whisper.

He laughs, soft and warm, before kissing you again.

Seungcheol remembers the countless races that you’ve flown in for, without him even asking. The paddock is still buzzing when he finally steps into his motorhome, his race suit unzipped to his waist, the fireproofs underneath clinging to his skin. The adrenaline from qualifying still lingers in his veins, a familiar and electrifying hum of energy that usually takes hours to fade.

He breathes in deeply, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. P3. Not bad. Not what he wanted, but not bad. Tomorrow would be the real fight.

But when he finally looks around, Seungcheol’s eyes land on you before anything else.

You’re sat on the small couch in the corner of his motorhome, one leg tucked under the other, scrolling through something on your phone. His jacket is draped over your shoulders, the red standing out starkly against your skin. Your hair is tied up loosely, like you’d done it without much thought, and there’s a half-empty water bottle on the table in front of you.

Seungcheol stops in his tracks, momentarily stunned. He calls out your name, making you perk up as you notice him.

“You flew in?” he asks, still slightly breathless.

Your lips curl up, “Yes, as you can see.”

He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s right in front of you. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It’s called a surprise, Cheol.” You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head playfully. “You’re supposed to like it.”

He lets out a scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. “Of course I do.”

You grin, setting your phone down. “P3’s not bad.”

Seungcheol hums, rubbing a hand over his nape as he exhales. “Not bad. Could’ve been better.”

“It’s always ‘could’ve been better’ with you,” you tease, nudging his knee lightly with your foot. “You’re still starting from the second row. That’s a win in my books.”

He glances at you again, still not entirely believing that you’re actually here.

“How long have you been here?”

“Landed this afternoon and came straight to the track.”

Seungcheol’s brows furrow slightly. “And you’ve just been… waiting here?”

You shrug. “I wanted to see you.”

Something about the way you say it, so simple and matter-of-fact, makes his throat dry up.

He doesn’t say anything. Just steps forward, reaching for your wrist, fingers wrapping around it gently before tugging you up onto your feet. You let him pull you in without resistance, your hands naturally finding their place against his sides.

And then he hugs you.

It’s steady and comforting—the kind of embrace that feels less like holding on and more like coming home. His arms wrap around you with quiet certainty, like this is where you’ve always belonged. He feels the way your body relaxes against his, the tension melting away, and it makes him hug you a little tighter. You breathe out softly, the sound barely audible.

“I missed you,” he murmurs.

Your arms tighten around him. “I know. Me too.”

Seungcheol thinks he remembers when it all started to go wrong too.

He remembers staring at the screen, waiting.

The call rings once, twice, three times before it cuts to voicemail. Again.

He sighs before locking his phone. It’s past 2 AM where you are, but he’d hoped—just maybe—you’d still be awake. It’s been getting really hard to deal with the timezones, especially with all the new tracks on the calendar and more added races. He hasn’t been home in over two months.

His eyes droop with exhaustion as he types out a quick message. Call me when you wake up. Miss you.

You don’t get to reply until the next day.

By then, he’s already on track, already somewhere else.

Seungcheol remembers that the first thing he does after winning is look for you.

His team is cheering, his engineers clapping him on the back, cameras flashing in his face. But none of it matters until he sees you.

But he doesn’t.

His phone buzzes in his race suit pocket. He pulls it out, fingers clumsy from the adrenaline. A message from you.

I don’t know when you’ll see this but can’t make it today Cheol. I’m so sorry. I love you.Congrats on the win!!!

He exhales slowly, staring at the words.

You’d told him just last week that things were piling up at work. That you were barely getting enough sleep, that you’d skipped lunch twice because there was too much to do.

He’d told you to take care of yourself, his voice soft but firm. And you had laughed it off. But now, reading your message, the unease settles back in.

He wants to call. Wants to hear your voice, wants to check if you’ve eaten, if you’re resting like you should be. But there are cameras on him and a team waiting to celebrate.

So instead, he just types out a reply.

Love you too. Get some rest, yeah?

Then, he puts his phone away, and forces himself to smile.

Seungcheol remembers the last time he came back home before it all ended. March of 2024. You’re in his arms, holding on tighter than usual, your fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie.

“You’ll be back soon, right?” Your voice is quiet against his chest.

“Of course,” he says, pressing his lips to your hair. “Two weeks.”

You nod, sighing against his shoulder. “Okay.”

He should’ve kissed you longer. Should’ve told you he’d make it work, somehow. Should’ve said ‘I love you’ one more time.

Because two weeks turns into a month. A month turns into two and in the way that things go—

Seungcheol remembers the day you broke up with him too. He doubts he’ll ever forget it.

He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His race suit is gone, replaced by a plain t-shirt and joggers, but he still looks tired. Not from the race but from everything else.

You stand near the window, arms crossed, staring at the city lights outside. You don’t know how long the two of you have been sitting in silence, but it feels like forever. Like neither of you wants to be the first to say it.

But eventually, you do.

“Cheol, I don’t think this is working.”

Seungcheol inhales sharply, looking down at his hands. He nods once, slow, like he’s known this was coming but still hoped it wouldn’t. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”

That should make it easier, but it doesn’t. It only makes your chest feel heavier.

“I love you,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “I love you so much.”

Your throat tightens. “I love you too.”

But the lack of love had never been the problem. Maybe the distance would’ve been easier if it were.

Seungcheol exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “Is there…” He swallows, voice hoarse. “Is there anything I can do?”

You should say no. Should shake your head and leave before you change your mind. But your breath hitches, your body betraying you before your mind can catch up.

Because even now, even after everything you don’t want to leave. Maybe you never have.

And maybe Seungcheol sees it, or maybe he’s just desperate, but then he says, so quietly, his voice cracking.

“Stay.”

It’s one word. Small. Fragile. But it’s a plea that sends your heart leaping for one last time before it falls flat again.

You should walk away. You know that. But your feet won’t move. And when Seungcheol shifts slightly, when he finally reaches for you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, you don’t pull away.

“Just tonight,” you whisper, almost like you’re convincing yourself.

Seungcheol nods slowly. “Just tonight.”

So you stay.

You let him pull you toward the bed, let him press his forehead against yours, let yourself sink into the warmth of his arms, into the quiet safety of him.

Seungcheol tries to memorise you in the last few hours that he gets. He doesn’t know if you’re pretending to be asleep or if you actually are, but he needs to remember the way you feel in his arms, the way your body curls against his like it’s instinct, like it’s habit. He presses his palm against the small of your back, feeling the steady rise and fall of your breathing, trying to sync his with yours. His fingers brush lightly over your shoulder, tracing absent patterns into your skin, committing the warmth of you to memory.

Your hair spills across the pillow, a few strands tickling his chin, and he doesn’t dare to move them away. He doesn’t want to disturb anything, doesn’t want to break the illusion that this is just another night. That when morning comes, you’ll still be here.

Seungcheol knows that in a few hours, he’ll wake up, and you won’t be here. That he’ll turn over in bed, reach for you out of habit, and find nothing but empty space.

Now, Seungcheol sits at the desk in his room. The house is quiet—too quiet. The kind that settles over you like a weighted blanket that you don’t want on you. He thinks about knocking on your door. Thinks about standing outside your house like an idiot, waiting for you to let him in. Thinks about calling you, but what would he even say?

I love you. I never stopped. I don’t know how to fix this, but I want to.

Instead, he breathes in, slow and deep, massaging his temple like he can will away the headache that is forming. He knows sleep won’t come easy tonight.

The next day, when Jihoon calls you, asking if you’ll come with him to your old school, you have half the mind to refuse. You’re still exhausted, maybe not ready to face people yet. But Jihoon doesn’t usually ask for favours and maybe a little contradictingly, you don’t want to be alone with your thoughts right now. 

So you say yes.

The sun’s begun to shine a little brighter these days, so when you walk out, locking your door behind you, the cold doesn’t bite too hard. 

Jihoon’s car is already parked by the curb, Seungkwan in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when you approach, breaking into a grin.

“Well, look who decided to be social.”

You roll your eyes, pulling open the door and slipping into the back seat. “Jihoon made it sound urgent.”

Jihoon, hands on the wheel, scoffs. “You make it sound like I’m forcing you to come. You could’ve said no.”

You hum, settling into your seat. “Could’ve.”

But Jihoon doesn’t start the car. Instead, he just drums his fingers against the wheel, glancing at Seungkwan, who is still scrolling through his phone like they’re waiting for something. Or someone.

You frown. “Hello? Can we go?”

Seungkwan barely looks up. “Do you want to leave Cheol here then?”

Your stomach dips before you can stop it. “What?” You shift forwards in your seat, grabbing onto Jihoon’s headrest. “You didn’t say he was coming.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Jihoon asks, a little perplexed.

“Did he not say anything to you?”

The boys go quiet for a good three seconds before Seungkwan turns in his seat to face you.

“Don’t lie. Did you two fight? Come on, you’re not kids anymore!” He nags, an exasperated look on his face, “What did you fight over, hmm? Him rattling around all the washed utensils? Did he spoil that stupid book you’ve been reading? Or was it—” Before Seungkwan can continue, the door on your left opens, making all three of you look that way. 

Seungcheol slides into the seat next to you, pulling the door shut behind him with a quiet click. He huffs, brushing his hair back before glancing around—first at Jihoon, then at Seungkwan, and finally at you.

And then he pauses.

Just for a second, his eyes widen slightly, like he wasn’t expecting to see you here. Like it hadn’t occurred to him that, of course, you would be here. His lips part as if to say something, but then he presses them together, looking away slowly.

“Morning,” he says, voice a little careful.

“Morning,” Seungkwan and Jihoon reply in unison.

You hesitate for a split second, but you don’t want Seungkwan and Jihoon to start poking their noses in right now, so you mumble out a small greeting too.

Jihoon exhales, twisting the key in the ignition. “Alright. Now we can go.”

The drive isn’t long, but the silence stretching between you and Seungcheol affects the two sitting up front and you know it too. Seungkwan—usually never quiet during car rides—sits a little slumped, eyes trained on the scenery outside the window. Jihoon doesn’t talk much anyways, but this early in the morning, he usually has a complaint about not picking up coffee that doesn’t come out either.

You don’t know if Seungcheol looks at you through the ten minute drive. You’re too on-edge, too awkward to even turn in his way. 

When Jihoon finally pulls up to the school, parking in the visitor’s lot, Seungkwan stretches his arms over his head. “Alright, children. Let’s go relive our glory days.”

“Glory days?” Jihoon snorts, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You mean the years you spent crying over exams and losing bets?”

Seungkwan whines in response as he gets out of the car. Jihoon sighs, shaking his head before continuing.

“I’m going to be in 11C. Think it’ll take maybe an hour? Ya’ll go do whatever, I guess.”

Jihoon leaves without much more to say, disappearing down the hall with a lazy wave of his hand. You watch him go, resisting the urge to call him back when you realize that leaves only three of you.

You turn to Seungkwan with a silent plea, hoping he’d pick up on it. He does. But he just doesn’t care.

“I think I’ll go look for Ms. Kang,” he announces, stretching his arms out. “Haven’t seen her in ages. She always liked me the best.”

“She liked you because you were a teacher’s pet,” you point out.

Seungkwan gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “I was charming.”

You shoot him a look, unimpressed, but he only grins before waving over his shoulder. You don’t have time to reply before he’s gone, leaving you standing in the middle of the hall, painfully aware of the fact that there’s only one person left beside you.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The school is quieter than you remember, the halls emptier now that classes are in session. Sunlight filters in through the old glass windows, casting a warm glow on the polished floors, on the familiar blue doors, on Seungcheol as he sighs softly beside you.

You steal a glance at him. He looks at home here, in a way that makes your heart ache a little.

“I didn’t think I’d ever come back here,” he murmurs, almost like he’s speaking to himself.

You nod, fingers unconsciously picking at your nails. “Me neither.”

He hums, before taking a slow step forward. “Guess we might as well look around.”

And then he’s walking ahead, and you find yourself following without a word.

The school’s gym is exactly how you remember it—high ceilings with fluorescent lights that cast a slightly harsh glow, the faint scent of sweat and polished wood lingering in the air. The basketball court is lined with scuff marks from years of games, sneakers squeaking against the surface. The walls are still adorned with the same faded banners, boasting school mottos in bold, challenging letters. The chatter and yells of students already in there make you feel sixteen again.

You watch as Seungcheol quietly makes his way to the top of the bleachers, away from all the noise. For a moment, you stand still. You don’t know what this means. But you can’t just stand here near the entrance like some weirdo, so you walk up the stairs too, before sitting down at a respectable distance from him. When you do, Seungcheol glances over at you.

Your breath catches at the way you can still see the seventeen-year-old Seungcheol in him. The way he leans back slightly, palms on his knees, eyes trained on the court in thoughtfulness. You remember when Seungcheol told you he’d found a seat in Formula 2. 

Tearing your gaze away from him, you look around. The two of you were probably sitting only a few seats to the left when he broke the news. The memory comes back to you so clearly, like it’s been waiting for the right moment to resurface. You can almost hear the way his voice had wavered just slightly when he said it out loud for the first time, the way your heart had lurched in your chest. 

You remember the way his hands fidgeted with the hem of his sports uniform. It had been the last step before the dream he’d spent his entire life chasing. And when the realization had fully settled in, you had grinned, throwing yourself at him in excitement.

Now, thirteen years later, you turn back to the Seungcheol in front of you. All the mistakes, all the dreams, all the unfinished businesses lay in the space between you two.

You shift behind, your fingers pressing against the cool concrete of the bleachers.

Seungcheol had always wanted this. This life, this dream, the career he chased relentlessly since you were kids. He was the boy who never stopped moving forward, never once looked back—not because he didn’t care, but because the only way to reach the top was to keep climbing.

And yet, here he is, sitting beside you in a school gym, watching a bunch of kids play basketball like he has nowhere else to be.

The thought unsettles you.

You want to ask. Want to say, And what now, Seungcheol? Where do you go from here?

But you don’t.

Instead, you clear your throat, leaning back into the seat like it’ll smooth over the tension from last night’s argument.

Seungcheol drums his fingers against his knee, his gaze steady on the court below. “Feels smaller now,” he murmurs, almost absentmindedly.

You hum, glancing around the gym. “Well, you were always made for bigger things.”

You don’t mean for it to sound like a reminder of everything that’s already happened, but maybe it is. Maybe it always will be. Seungcheol doesn’t respond right away, just breathes out slowly, his fingers curling into his palm.

When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “I got an offer from Aston Martin,” He says, finally looking up at you. “For 2027. I don’t think I’ll take it.”

You can’t do anything but nod, slowly. It’s not relief, not exactly. Because you know him. You know how much he loves this, how racing is such a big part of him. And if there’s one thing about Seungcheol, it’s that he doesn’t just walk away from the things he loves that easily.

When you don’t say anything, he turns away before muttering, “Do you ever think about how it would’ve been if I never left? If I never started racing in the first place?”

You pause, taken aback. “No.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, a small, bitter smile on his lips when he glances at you, “No? Really?”

“No,” You assert again, “Because you were always going to leave. You were made for something bigger than all this—this mediocrity and this small-town life. This was never going to be enough for you and I’ve always known that, Cheol. Everyone does.”

Seungcheol looks like he wants to retort, but you continue speaking.

“And I never wanted it to be enough for you. Racing, that adrenaline, that feeling of winning—that is your sun, Seungcheol. You will forever revolve around it.  I can’t take that away from you and I have never wanted to.” You emphasize, looking into his eyes and hoping, pleading that he understands what you mean, “But I can’t leave with you either. I can’t live my life on flights and airports just to be with you, Seungcheol. My work, my life is equally as important to me. I have always, always loved you, but I can’t live like that.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, his voice coming out with an edge of desperation when he speaks. “I never wanted you to do any of that. I never wanted you to give up anything for me.”

“How else was it supposed to work, Cheol?” You let out softly, “It wasn’t like you were in a position where you could just get up and come on a whim either.”

He doesn’t reply, but you see the way his figure slumps slightly. You hate all the exhaustion that you’ve been feeling around each other lately. What are you even doing this for? You force yourself to think about what you want from this, from him.

Even though you don’t dare to admit it, you know. It’s always been the same answer. You want him. And it’s stupid. It’s so, so stupid. You’re the one who decided that it wasn’t going to work.

But what if it had? 

The thought lingers in your head. But there’s no point in thinking about that now. Even if Seungcheol still loves you, even if you decide to try again, what reassurance do the two of you have that it won’t end in the same way? 

You don’t even think about Seungcheol rejecting Aston’s offer. You know that it’s only him trying to convince himself. He will agree to it and you want him to. But what will it mean for the two of you?

—

Seungcheol doesn’t realize how much time has passed until he unlocks his phone to listen to a different playlist. His sleeves are rolled up, hands slightly dusty, and the room smells like old cardboard boxes.

He’d only planned to put away the clothes piled up on the chair in the corner of his room, but one thing leads to another and now he sits cross-legged on the floor of his room, with his closet half-emptied out. The floor is littered with old clothes, forgotten magazines and other things that he once thought he might need again.

Seungcheol grunts as he gets up, his numb legs making him stumble a little as he walks over to the last drawer in his closet. Just clean out this one and we’ll be done, he thinks, sliding it open and reaching in.

There’s a bunch of ticket stubs from concerts, two used passports, filled to the brim with stamps, worn because of years of constant travelling, and a bunch of receipts and paper clippings that Seungcheol should probably throw away. There’s one of his first career wins, some from his championships and some from his debut. He smiles with slight fondness before letting them drop onto the trash pile on the floor. Noticing one more, he tries to pull it out from the depths of the drawer only to realize that there’s something on top of it.

Seungcheol shoves his hand in further, but when his fingers touch the box, he freezes.

He knows what it is before he even pulls it out. He knows because he never threw it away. Never even considered it. Just stuffed it into the back of the drawer and left it there, like hiding it could make it mean any less.

His hand tightens around the edges of the box as he slowly walks back to the edge of his bed. The velvet is slightly worn now, its shine being dimmed by time and neglect, but it still feels just as heavy as it did the first time he held it. He knows he probably shouldn’t, but Seungcheol flips it open anyways.

The ring is exactly how he left it. Silver, simple, but deliberate. Something he picked out after months of indecision, after staring at a dozen options and thinking, No, not that one. Not yet. Until he found this—the one he could picture on your hand, the one that felt right.

Seungcheol runs his thumb over the navy blue, velvet lining.

It’s been over a year since he’d meant to give it to you. He had meant to ask. He’d meant for so many things to happen that never did.

Seungcheol had a plan. A future. A moment he thought would belong to you two for the rest of your lives. Now, he just sits, staring at something that never got the chance to be what it was supposed to be. 

He closes the box shut quickly, setting it onto his bed and shaking his head like it’ll push away the image of your hand with the ring on.

Seungcheol swallows hard. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at it, caught between regret and mourning before his gaze finally shifts to the notebook on his desk.

For the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements as he gets up from his bed with the box in hand and walks over to the desk. He keeps it, right next to his laptop, before grabbing the first pen he sees.

Hey. So.

I should’ve said this a long time ago. But I didn’t, and I’m sorry for that.

And I don’t know if it makes any difference now, if any of this still matters and if you’ll even finish reading this letter. Maybe you’ll see my handwriting on this, sigh and put it away. Wouldn’t be surprised if you threw it away, either.But if you’re still here and reading this, then I need you to know something.

I found the ring today. While cleaning my closet, I found it buried under old ticket stubs and some rubbish paper, stuffed into the back of my closet, untouched for over a year. I don’t know why I kept it. I don’t know why I never got rid of it. 

I had this entire plan to ask you once the season was over, during the winter break in 2024. I thought about it for months. Where I’d do it, what I’d say, whether you’d laugh at me for being so nervous. I had imagined a hundred different versions of it in my head—sometimes in a place that meant something to us, sometimes when you least expected it, sometimes in the middle of some ordinary moment, because you always made the ordinary feel like more. But well, by the time we reached December, we weren’t the same anymore.

I’m sorry if hearing this makes you uncomfortable, but when I found it today, it still felt like it belonged to you.

It’s strange, the things you think you’ve moved past, the things you tell yourself you’ve let go of. You move forward, you keep busy, you fill your days with schedules and noise and people who don’t look at you the way you used to. You convince yourself that you’re okay. That it’s just life. That this is how things were meant to be.

And then you find something like this—something small, something tangible, something that holds the weight of everything you never said—and it knocks the air out of you.

I used to think that no matter how many flights I had to take, no matter how many nights we spent apart, no matter how much we had to bend to fit into each other’s lives, we would make it. That as long as we loved each other, we could find a way.

But you knew better, didn’t you?

You always saw things more clearly than I did. You knew that love alone wasn’t going to be enough to hold us together, not when I kept asking you to meet me in the middle without realizing my middle was always shifting. Not when I couldn’t give you the things you needed and I swear—it was not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know how to.

I should have told you that I never let you go without a fight because I wanted to. I walked away because I thought it was the only way we’d both get what we deserved. You always told me I never knew how to slow down. I used to laugh it off, but maybe you were right. Maybe I only realized it too late.

You deserved someone who could put you first. Someone who wouldn’t spend half the year in different countries, someone who didn’t come home exhausted and drained, someone who wasn’t constantly pushing you to adjust to his life without knowing how to meet you halfway.

And I don’t even know what I deserved. But I know what I wanted. I know what I still want.

You.

It’s always been you.

And I know that isn’t fair. It isn’t fair for me to say this now, after all this time, after we tried and tried and still fell apart anyway. But the truth is, I never stopped trying. Even when I convinced myself I had. Even when I told myself I was doing the right thing by staying away. So forgive me for being selfish.

I think about you more than I should. I think about you when I land in a city I know you’d love, when I hear a song that reminds me of you, when I open my phone and my first instinct is still to tell you something before I remember I can’t.

So here’s what I need you to know—what I should have told you then, what I should have promised you when I still had the chance.I won’t ask you to adjust to me anymore. I won’t ask you to bend, to compromise, to give up parts of your life just to fit into mine. I won’t expect you to be the one making all the sacrifices, the one who has to keep up with the way my life moves. If we try again—if you let me have this chance—I promise I will learn how to meet you where you are.

And if you’ve reached here, but still don’t think this is worth it, I won’t try to change your mind. I won’t ask you for something you don’t want to give. But if there’s still a part of you that trusts me, that thinks this could work, then tell me. I won’t ask for anything more than that. Because I don’t want to let this slip away without knowing if there’s still something left to hold on to.

I can’t promise that things will be perfect, that we won’t have to figure things out as we go. But I can promise that I’ll try. That I won’t let the things that pulled us apart be the same things that keep us from trying again. I don’t know where this leaves us. But if there’s something still left here, I want to figure it out with you.

Lastly, I did not write this letter because I was too scared or not sincere enough to say this to your face. I wrote it because I needed to get it right, because if I tried to say all of this out loud, I don’t know if it would come out the way I wanted it to. Maybe I’d fumble my words, maybe I’d get caught up in everything I’m feeling and forget half of what I need to say. But this is everything, exactly as I mean it.

I’m sorry, I love you.

Seungcheol.

You read the letter once, twice, thrice, sitting down on the floor of your room. 

The first time, it doesn’t fully sink in. The second time, your eyes catch on certain words—the ring, I never stopped trying, I love you. By the third, you realize your fingers are gripping the pages too tightly, creasing the paper in places you shouldn’t.

You inhale, slow and shaky.

You should have expected this—you don’t know why, but you should have. Seungcheol was never the kind of person to leave things half-finished. He always had something to say, always had one more thing left in him, and now, even after everything, even after all this time, he’s still here. Still reaching for you in the only way he knows how.

The truth is—you believe him.

You believe that every word on this page is real, that he isn’t saying this just to pull you back into something fleeting. You believe that when he says he’ll meet you where you are, he means it. That when he asks if there’s still something left to hold on to, he’s not asking out of desperation—he’s asking because he’s ready to try.

And you trust him. 

The thought doesn’t surprise you much. You always have. Even when things fell apart, even when you told yourself it was better this way, even when you tried to move forward without looking back.

But now?

Now, he’s standing at the other end of the bridge, waiting. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re the only one crossing it.

Your hands tremble slightly as you fold the letter along its creases. You stare at it for a little longer as if the words might change. As if you haven’t already memorized them.

But nothing changes. And deep down, you know—you don’t need to read it again. You already have your answer.

You inhale sharply, then push yourself up from the floor, legs stiff from sitting too long. Your head feels heavy, maybe from the lack of sleep, or from the toll this has been taking on you. But as you grab your keys from the kitchen counter downstairs, you realize you feel lighter than you have in a very, very long time. You’re sick of being uncertain, of hesitating.

So you open the door, step outside, and let yourself believe.

—

Seungcheol hears the knock, quiet but firm.

It’s late—too late for visitors. Still, he moves.

When he opens the door, he doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s you and for a moment, he’s surprised that you’re already here.

You stand there, breathing a little hard, arms wrapped around yourself like you only just realized how cold it is. No jacket, no hoodie, nothing but the clothes you must’ve been wearing at home. Like you didn’t even think before coming here.

And in your hand, his letter.

Neither of you speak.

Your fingers press into the paper, grip just tight enough to crumple it. The porch light flickers slightly, your eyes flitting to it quickly, before they settle back on him.

Seungcheol holds his breath and steps aside wordlessy to let you in.

You step inside without a word, the warmth of his house settling over you the moment the door clicks shut behind you. It should be a relief after the bite of the cold, but it isn’t—it barely registers.

Because Seungcheol is right there.

Close enough that you can hear his breathing, see the way his fingers flex slightly at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He doesn’t say anything—not yet. He just watches you, gaze flickering from your face to the letter still clutched in your hand.

For a moment, neither of you move.

The silence isn’t unfamiliar. You’ve had silences like this before, the kind that stretched between phone calls, between airports, between too many things left unsaid. But this one is different. This one is hopeful—you can sense it.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the letter before you finally hold it out to him.

“I read it,” you say, your voice quieter than you expected.

Seungcheol swallows, his throat bobbing as he glances at the paper, then back at you.

He doesn’t ask what you think or demand an answer. He just waits. It’s something new, this patience of his, and it makes your heart twist in your chest. Your fingers finally let the letter slip from your grasp, setting it down beside you without looking away from him.

"You meant all of it?" Your voice is quieter than you expect, calmer than you feel.

Seungcheol swallows, his throat bobbing slightly. “Yeah,” he says, “I meant all of it.”

You nod, shifting slightly on your feet. The warmth of his house is pressing into your skin now, but it’s not the heat from the room that’s making your heart spike—it’s him. It always has been. It’s the way he’s looking at you, careful but so open, like he’s letting you see everything without saying a single word.

And the truth is, you already know.

You’ve always known.

The realization settles over you, sinks its teeth into your skin, and for once, you let it.

You step forward, closing the space between the two of you, hesitating only for a split second before reaching for him, locking your hands behind his back. It’s instinct more than anything else, something your body remembers even if your heart has spent so long pretending to forget.

Seungcheol stiffens—you can feel it. But before you can pull away, his arms come up to encircle your waist, warm and familiar. 

You don’t know how long you stay like that, but it’s long enough for the tension to slip from your body, for his hand to smooth over the curve of your back, for the ache in your chest to settle into something more subdued. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, his breath fanning against the side of your face as he holds you like he’s afraid to let go.

And then, slowly, carefully, you pull back just enough to look at him.

His arms stay where they are, his hands settling lightly at your waist like he’s afraid to let go.

His gaze flickers down, just briefly, before finding yours again.

You lean in first, but Seungcheol’s quick to meet you down, half-way.

He reacts immediately, like he’d been waiting for this—for you. His hands tighten on your waist, his breath stuttering for just a moment before he kisses you back, like he’s trying to make up for every second he lost.

His fingers slide up to cup your face, tilting your head just right, pulling you closer. You let him, let yourself get lost in it, in him, in the way he still kisses you like he knows you, like he’s never forgotten what you like, what makes you sigh against his lips, what makes you grip onto him just a little tighter.

And then, slowly, the urgency fades.

His thumb brushes against your cheek, your fingers relax where they’ve been fisted in his shirt, and for a moment, all you can hear is the quiet sound of your breathing mixing in the space between you.

When you finally pull back, it isn’t all at once. Your lips part, but your foreheads stay pressed together, noses barely grazing. Seungcheol exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself.

Your fingers loosen where they’d been clutching his shirt, but instead of pulling away completely, his hand finds yours. You let his fingers slip and tighten between yours, a small, relieved sigh leaving your lips.

Eventually, Seungcheol leans back slightly, but he doesn’t let go.

He exhales, then nods toward the couch. “C’mere.”

You glance at it before looking at him again. He probably sees a sliver of hesitation, but it’s not because you don’t want to. Rather because it feels surreal, too easy after everything. But then his fingers squeeze yours, just barely, and it’s enough.

So you go.

You settle beside him, not pressed together, not too far apart—just close enough. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and absentminded, like it’s second nature. It is, you suppose. It’s surprisingly easy to slip back into old habits after trying so long to ignore and forget them.

“You’re freezing,” Seungcheol murmurs after a beat, squeezing your hand lightly.

You hum, shifting a little to get comfortable. “I kind of didn’t think too much after I read the letter and just, well, came.”

Your gaze flickers to the coffee table, where a motorsport magazine sits at the top of a messy stack. The cover is creased, the pages slightly bent from being flipped through too often.

“You’ve been keeping up?” you ask.

Seungcheol follows your gaze before sighing, almost guiltily. “I tried not to.” He pauses before slowly wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Didn’t really work.”

You know how it feels. You never stopped watching his races either, even when you tried so hard to convince yourself that it was possible.

“Have you decided yet?”

He doesn’t pretend not to know what you mean. He breathes in deeply, tilting his head back against the couch.

“I told myself I wouldn’t take it.” Seungcheol says it with a sense of fake surety. He may believe it now. 

But sometimes you know him better than he knows himself. You know that Seungcheol has always had that fire in him. The burn to win, to be bigger, better. That ambition that you once respected, still do, but the same one that’s torn the two of you apart. The worst thing is that it is not something that can be dampened out. You can see it in his eyes, even now. His body is on a break, but you know that Aston offer has been running in his mind. Once you get addicted to that adrenaline, to that feeling of being the fastest person in the world, you can’t ever let it go. And Seungcheol isn’t anywhere close to being done. You know it.

And it hurts. Just a little, because you know he is about to leave again. Even before he’s made his decision, you know. But you have always loved Seungcheol and racing has been a part of his life almost as long as you have. You cannot take that away from him. You won’t. He belongs there, on track, in a car, fighting for his dreams and proving his worth.

You can only hope that he belongs here too, beside you on his couch, fingers running through your hair as he hums an old song under his breath.

But it’s about time you take that leap of faith again, and something tells you that you won’t fall down and scrape your knees this time.

The first time Seungkwan notices that something’s off, it’s on the late night coffee run that he drags the two of you to. 

Initially, he’d only meant to call you since you’re the only one who’d even come. So it surprises him to see Seungcheol behind you when you open your front door. Seungkwan doesn’t think much of it. Maybe he’s just here to give you something, or help you with something. Maybe there was a bug in your room and you yelled for him to come over and kill it. You do that sometimes. 

What other logical explanation would you have for him to be in your house past 10?

So thus, Mister Muscle ends up coming with you two, too.

In the convenience store, the cashier barely raises his head to look up at you guys, the glass door swinging shut behind you. Seungkwan heads straight for the coffee dispenser, mind running through all the tasks that he needs to complete before this week ends. File that report, write an email regarding missing documents from the 5th floor. Ask for an increase in vacation days. He needs to fix that printer tomorrow morning.

He notices you and Seungcheol move in sync without a word, making your way to the refrigerated drinks. He doesn’t follow immediately, and only watches for a few seconds as you pick out different drinks.

The store’s window seats are empty, so you slide into one, Seungkwan and Seungcheol taking the spots beside you. The glass reflects the neon signs outside, a soft glow spilling onto the counter in front of you.

Seungkwan tears open a protein bar, already mid-rant about something, while you set your drink down with a quiet thud, a mildly disgusted expression on your face.

Without a word, you reach for Seungcheol’s bottle instead.

You take it from his hand, twist the cap, and drink.

Seungcheol doesn’t react. Like it’s nothing, he just picks up your iced tea and takes a sip, barely glancing your way.

Seungkwan stops mid-chew.

Since when did you two start getting along so well? 

As the two of you look at him, expecting him to continue his rant, he convinces himself that it’s for the better anyway. At least some things are coming back to normal.

The second time, Seungkwan’s too sleepy to care at first.

He breathes out as he steps outside, barely awake, iced coffee in his hands but not doing much yet. His morning routine is automatic—walk out, wave to you, go to work. No thinking required.

But today, when he looks up toward your driveway, Seungcheol is there.

Seungkwan blinks, rubbing his eyes like maybe he’s still dreaming. But no, you’re definitely there, your metal water bottle in hand, listening to Seungcheol say something with that too-casual, too-familiar ease.

Seungkwan slows his steps.

You shift your bag higher up your shoulder. Seungcheol tilts his head slightly. 

Maybe Seungkwan’s still sleepy and bleary eyed, because for a second he swears he sees Seungcheol lean down to you. He also thinks you don’t move away either.

What was that?

And then it’s gone.

By the time Seungkwan gets close enough, you’re stepping back, tucking your keys into your pocket, like nothing just happened.

Seungcheol shakes his head, stretches his arms overhead like he’s just waking up, and steps away from the car when you finally notice him.

Seungkwan thinks you wave a little over-enthusiastically at 8 in the morning. Maybe you just slept well.

The third time, it’s at Jihoon’s house, just a casual hangout. The man had been isolating himself in his studio all week, and Seungkwan had thought that it was about time he came out of his hibernation.

Seungkwan sits cross-legged on the floor, next to the coffee table, searching for movies to play tonight. But when he looks up at you, his eyes narrow in on the way you and Seungcheol sit, way too close to each other when there’s so much space around you two.

It’s not even the way your legs bump every few minutes, or the quiet conversations you have that seem just a little too easy for two people who supposedly haven’t been together in a year.

Seungkwan finally begins to understand when he catches Seungcheol reaching for your hand. It’s so casual and normal that he doesn’t even think anything of it at first. It’s only when you glance up at him, after he fixes the bracelet on your hand that’s about to fall off, that he realizes.

It’s not a surprised glance, not a startled reaction, just a look that lingers. Like this isn’t the first time, like it won’t be the last.

And then, you smile.

It’s small, just barely there, but undeniably fond. Soft around the edges in a way that doesn’t belong to people still figuring things out.

And Seungcheol smiles back.

Seungkwan’s jaw drops slightly before he forces himself to tear his gaze away, feeling like he’s intruded on something very personal to them. He turns to look at Jihoon beside him, who only shakes his head, a small grin on his face.

“You knew?” Seungkwan asks, incredulously.

Jihoon doesn’t even look at him. “It really wasn’t that hard to figure out. Maybe you’re just a little dense.”

Seungkwan glares at him before turning his attention to you.

“Are you two back together again?”

“Yeah.” The answer comes out instantly, almost nonchalantly too. No hesitation, no second-guessing, just the simple truth, spoken like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Seungkwan blinks.

Jihoon huffs out a quiet laugh beside him, shaking his head like he saw this coming from a mile away.

He’s spent weeks piecing things together—watching, observing, feeling like he’s uncovering the fact that you two are starting to act lovey-dovey again—only to find out that you two have actually been back together this whole damn time?

He sighs sharply, rolling his eyes at the couple before turning to Jihoon again.

“So this is why you didn’t tell me.” Seungkwan swats his shoulder, “Pay up.”

Jihoon only sighs loudly, reaching into his pocket to pull out a neatly folded bill before wordlessly handing it over.

Seungkwan snatches it and shoves it into his own pocket.

“Thank you,” he says, voice smug.

You blink. “Wait—what?”

Seungkwan hums, crossing his arms pettily before leaning back into the sofa. “We bet on how long it would take you two to get back together.”

Your mouth falls open. “You bet on us?”

“Of course we did,” Jihoon mutters.

Seungcheol tilts his head, amused. “How long did you say?”

“Three months,” Jihoon answers.

Seungkwan scoffs, smug. “I said two.”

You fold your arms. “Wow. Love the faith you guys had in us.”

Jihoon shrugs. “You’re both kind of predictable.”

—

The house is quiet, the kitchen warm with the scent of food as you move around it together. It’s late, but neither of you are in a hurry.

Seungcheol stands behind you, arms locked at your waist. His breath on your neck makes you squirm a little, a small laugh leaving your lips. You twist in his grip, just enough to face him, and suddenly, you’re close.

Too close—the kind where your noses brush, soft and fleeting, as he tilts his head slightly.

Your breath catches for half a second, but Seungcheol just smiles, his arms pulling you in a little more. “What?” he murmurs, voice low, teasing.

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, nudging your nose against his in retaliation. “Can you just let me grab the plates in peace?”

He laughs—a warm, hearty sound—his forehead pressing lightly against yours. “I don’t really think you mind.”

Your fingers find their way around his neck before you even think about it, elbows resting lightly against his shoulders. Seungcheol hums and for a second, you think he’s about to kiss you when—

The front door unlocks.

Your stomach drops. Seungcheol’s arms fall away instantly, the warmth of his touch lingering even as you take a hurried step back.

“Oh.”

Your mom stands in the doorway, suitcase in hand, her brows lifting slightly as she takes in the sight of you both.

“Oh,” you echo, your voice a little too high, a little too fast.

Your dad steps in behind her, glancing up just in time to see the two of you standing too close, looking entirely too guilty. He blinks, his gaze shifting between you and Seungcheol, expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, he nods. “Huh.”

Seungcheol clears his throat, visibly struggling for words, one hand awkwardly scratching the back of his neck while the other hangs uselessly at his side.

You, on the other hand, want the earth to swallow you whole.

“Welcome back!” you blurt out, voice strained. “You’re early!”

Your mom eyes you suspiciously before turning to Seungcheol. “Yes, well, we caught an early flight. Didn’t realize you’d be here too, sweetheart.”

Seungcheol, to his credit, doesn’t completely crumble under pressure. He musters up a sheepish smile. “Just—uh—helping out.”

Your mom’s expression softens almost immediately, her eyes flickering between the two of you before she exhales, a small, knowing smile forming on her lips.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, setting her suitcase down. “It’s good to see you both like this again.”

Your breath catches slightly, throat tightening at the gentle relief in her voice. Beside you, Seungcheol shifts, his shoulders relaxing,

Your father doesn’t say much. He only claps Seungcheol on the shoulder as he moves past you two with the suitcases. But as he walks ahead, his voice drifts back to you, muttering under his breath.

“Who was it that said two months? Was it Jihoon or Seungkwan? Gotta pay them now, damn it…”

Seungcheol freezes. You blink.

What?

Your mom sighs, following after him like this is a normal conversation. “You can just be happy for them, you know.”

“I am happy,” your dad grumbles. “I just thought I had more time before I had to hand over the money. Those silly boys roped me into their bet.”

Seungcheol presses his lips together, struggling to hold back a laugh.

“Why has everyone been betting on us?” You exclaim, throwing your hands up as you turn to your father.

“Because it’s only ever been a matter of time when it comes to you two,” He sighs, shaking his head at the two of you as he disappears into his room.

You gape at his exiting figure, before dragging a palm over your face. “This is fucking insane.”

Seungcheol almost snorts, stepping away when you try to swat him.

Seungcheol is stretched out on the couch, one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone at an angle. You’re sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, skimming through something on your laptop, barely paying attention to anything beyond the soft hum of the heater and the occasional click of your keyboard.

It isn’t until the familiar sound of engines fills the quiet that you glance up.

His phone screen reflects off his face, but from this angle, you can’t see what he’s watching.

“Has testing begun?” You question, standing up to walk over to him.

Seungcheol grunts a little as he pushes himself up to make space for you, holding his phone out so that you can see too. He nods as you sit beside him, leaning into you as his eyes stay fixed on the screen.

You watch him, a little carefully. Seungcheol’s brows are furrowed in concentration and his eyes flick across, analyzing, checking. His fingers tighten around his phone slightly, his jaw set in focus. Every so often, his thumb taps idly against the side of the device, a habit he’s never really shaken. His eyes flicker across the screen, sharp and intent, following the cars as if he’s trying to place himself back in the cockpit.

You hum softly, resting your chin against your knee. “You’re still keeping up with everything?”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, finally leaning back against the couch. “Not really,” he says, but the way he doesn’t look at you makes it feel like a lie.

You don’t push, just let the moment pass as another driver’s onboard appears on screen.

“That car looks good,” he mutters, nodding toward one of them on screen. “Stable through the high-speed corners, barely any correction on exit.”

You blink, glancing at the timing bar. “Williams?”

He scoffs. “Yeah. But you can’t trust anything yet.”

“Sandbagging?” you guess.

“Mhm.” Seungcheol nods. “The bigger teams always run heavy in testing, low power mode. You won’t know their real pace until the first race.”

You glance back at the screen, watching as another car rolls into frame—this time, a deep green, with a small rake of aero sensors still attached to the side.

You hesitate for only a second before saying, “What do you think about them?”

Seungcheol doesn’t react immediately. He watches for a few more seconds, his expression unreadable, before he breathes in deeply.

“You never know,” he murmurs. “It’s just testing.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

Neither do you.

Instead, you think of the meeting you had yesterday, the offer sitting in your inbox—marked as important.

—

You don’t expect to see Seungcheol outside at 8 A.M. when you close your front door behind you and make your way to the driveway to go to work.

But there he is—standing by his driveway, shaking out his damp hair, dressed in a hoodie unzipped over a sweat-soaked shirt. There’s a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his gym shoes still on, like he just got back.

Your fingers pause over your keys. It’s early. Not too early for you, but early enough that he shouldn’t be up unless he had somewhere to be.

Seungcheol spots you almost immediately. His face shifts into something easy, something warm, as he steps closer.

“Morning,” he says, his voice still a little rough from the cold air.

You glance at him. “You’ve been out?”

He hums, nodding as he adjusts the strap of his bag. “Yeah. Gym.”

Your brows furrow slightly. “At this hour?”

Seungcheol grins, leaning in to press a quick, fleeting kiss to your lips before you can say anything else. But when he pulls back, you’re still looking at him, eyes narrowed.

“How long have you been up?”

He sighs like he already knows what’s coming, before tilting his head slightly. “Four?”

Your stare sharpens. “Seungcheol.”

He laughs, stepping back slightly, like he knows he’s caught. “What? I couldn’t sleep.”

You cross your arms, watching as he shifts his weight from one foot to another, fingers tapping absently against his duffel bag. He doesn’t look tired, but he doesn’t look at ease either. His body is still holding onto that restlessness that he hasn’t figured out how to shake.

“You’re working out a lot,” you say finally, voice careful.

Seungcheol shrugs. “It’s just habit.”

You watch the way his gaze shifts slightly, the way his shoulders tense.

And maybe you shouldn’t say it—at least, not yet. But the words slip out anyway.

“You aren’t used to not prepping hard around this time, are you?”

For the first time, his expression falters just slightly.

It’s quick—so quick that if you weren’t watching him this closely, you might have missed it. But it’s there. That brief flicker of something in his eyes, something unsure, something lost.

He exhales, looking away for half a second. “Yeah.”

You nod, watching him straighten up.

“But not this year,” you murmur.

Seungcheol tries brushing it off like it’s nothing. “Nope.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, carefully, you tilt your head. “And you’re okay with that?”

He doesn’t reply right away. It gives you the answer you needed. 

Deciding to put him out of his misery, you pipe up again, “Do you have any plans today?”

He laughs a little at that, “Yep. Busy schedule. I need to rot in bed, get out of my room, roam around the kitchen and go back in again until my girlfriend decides to come back home.”

You smile softly, before stepping closer, reaching up to fix a stray strand of hair sticking to his forehead. He stills for half a second before leaning into the touch, eyes flickering down to yours.

“I’ll see you when I get back, Cheol. I have something to talk to you about.” You admit as you step back.

He nods slowly, before motioning for you to get into your car. “Sure, I’ll see you then. Have fun at work!”

You shake your head as you shut the car door, putting on a sour expression. It makes him laugh, so you guess that’s half the mission accomplished for today.

—

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed when Seungcheol walks in, hair still damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans against the doorframe, watching you with a smile.

“You never knock,” you mutter without looking up.

“You never lock your door,” he counters, stepping inside like he belongs there.

You huff out a small breath, shaking your head as he settles onto the bed beside you. He stretches his legs out, arms propped behind him, fingers tapping lightly against your blankets. He’s comfortable, always is when he’s here, but there’s something knowing in his gaze, like he’s been waiting for you to speak first.

Seungcheol tilts his head. “You look like you’re overthinking.”

You press your lips together before sighing. “Maybe.”

He hums. “Want to tell me what’s up, or should I start guessing?”

You hesitate, picking absently at a loose thread on your sleeve. No point in dragging it out.

“I got a job offer,” you say.

His brows lift slightly. “Yeah?”

You nod. “It’s in the UK.”

Seungcheol doesn’t react right away. His fingers still against the bed, but there’s no visible surprise—just a slow, careful inhale as he absorbs it.

“That’s big,” he says after a moment. His voice is steady, even. “A good one?”

You nod again. “Better position, bigger projects.”

He watches you for a second longer. “And?”

You sigh, leaning back against the headboard. “And… I don’t know.”

Seungcheol adjusts his position so he’s facing you fully now. “You don’t know what?”

“If I should take it,” you admit.

He tilts his head. “Do you want to?”

You hesitate, the words catching somewhere in your throat. Because it’s not that simple, is it?

Seungcheol must notice because he doesn’t say anything right away—just waits, gaze unwavering.

“It’s not just moving—it’s starting over. A new city, a new routine. Everything changes.” You pause. “Including us.”

Something flickers in his expression, but it’s gone too fast for you to catch.

Instead, he exhales, nodding. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

You blink at him. “You’re not going to tell me I’m overthinking?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “No. I mean, you are overthinking, but it’s a big decision. You should take your time.”

You purse your lips. “And what if I don’t know what the right choice is?”

Seungcheol tilts his head, considering. “Then you think about what scares you more—taking it, or not taking it.”

His words sink in slowly.

You chew on your lip. “What if both scare me?”

He smiles, just slightly. “Then you take the one that moves you forward.”

For a moment, you just look at him.

“You always make things sound so easy.”

Seungcheol sighs, lips quirking. “That’s because it is.”

You shake your head, but there’s a warmth in your chest, the feeling of being sure and unsure at the same time.

After a few moments of silence, carefully, you say, “It’s funny, though.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What is?”

“How things happen at the right time,” you murmur, eyes flickering to his. “Me getting this now. And you with the—” You cut yourself off, shrugging slightly.

“The what?” Seungcheol asks, casually. Too casually.

You sigh, slumping down onto the bed, beside him. “Come on, Cheol. Aston Martin. They're based there too. How long are you going to make them wait?”

He runs a hand through his hair, “This isn’t the same thing.”

“Is it not?” You hum, waiting, still patient.

“No. This is different. You got an actual offer.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what did Aston give you? A suggestion?”

Seungcheol huffs, shaking his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

Seungcheol shuts his eyes close, breathing in deep. You know he doesn’t want to have this conversation now, but it hurts you to see him like this.

So you mutter, a little softer now, “How long are you going to pretend like you aren’t thinking about it?”

His gaze flicks to you at that, caught.

Seungcheol looks away. “It’s not about thinking about it. It’s about—” He stops, running a hand over his face. “It’s about if I even should.”

You’re not too surprised, but hearing it from him takes you aback for a second. Still, you don’t waver. “And what’s stopping you?”

“I don’t know,” He mumbles, quietly.

“Then try and figure it out, Cheol.” You say, still looking at him.

Seungcheol keeps quiet for a long minute before he sighs, a little reluctant. “What if I come back and I’m not good enough anymore?”

You shift closer, reaching out ,your hand settling over his. “Seungcheol.”

He doesn’t look up immediately, but he doesn’t pull away either.

“You know what I think?” you murmur.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles absentmindedly. “What?”

You squeeze his hand. “I think if you didn’t believe you could still do it, you wouldn’t be struggling with this so much.”

Seungcheol’s breathing comes out slower this time.

“You’ve been restless, working out like you’re still in pre-season,” you continue. “You follow testing, you analyze race strategy even when you pretend you’re just watching for fun.” You pause. “You’ve been waiting for someone to tell you to go back. But the only person who can make that choice is you.”

His jaw tightens slightly, like he knows you’re right but doesn’t want to admit it.

“I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” you add. “But I know you, Seungcheol. And you don’t walk away from things unless you know you’re done. And you know that you aren’t done with this. Are you?”

Finally, he looks at you.

Seungcheol’s throat bobs as he swallows. His fingers curl into the blankets, and when he finally exhales, it’s slow. Careful.

“No,” he says quietly.

You nod, like you knew this answer was coming. Because you did.

His fingers tighten around yours.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “I think I’ve always known.”

You smile, just slightly. “So what’s stopping you?”

Seungcheol exhales, but this time, he doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, his thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow, thoughtful. His gaze flickers downward. And when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter—more hesitant than before.

“…What about us?”

Your breath catches slightly, because you hadn’t expected him to ask that first.

He lifts his gaze back to yours, eyes searching. “If I do this,” he murmurs, “I’m going to be gone all the time again. I’ll be at the factory, traveling for races, testing. If I go back… I don’t want things to fall apart again.”

The words settle heavily between you.

Because he’s right.

If he does this, it’ll be different from before—but in some ways, it’ll be the same. He’ll be just as busy, maybe even more. And after everything you’ve been through, he’s scared that history will repeat itself.

You inhale slowly, squeezing his hand. “You’re thinking too far ahead,”

Seungcheol huffs out a quiet laugh. “Someone has to.”

You tilt your head. “Why do you always assume the worst?”

“I’m trying to be realistic.”

You pause, then gently, “Then be realistic about this, too. I don’t think we’re the same people we were back then, Cheol.”

His expression softens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“We already lost each other once,” you continue. “We know what it feels like. And I don’t think either of us wants to go through that again.”

Seungcheol swallows. “No,” he says quietly. “We don’t.”

You nod, voice softer now. “Then we won’t.”

Seungcheol exhales slowly, then sits up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck. For a moment, he just presses his palms against his knees, staring at the floor like he’s letting it all settle in. Then, with a slow breath, he nods.

You watch as he reaches for his phone, turning it over in his hands. His fingers hover over the screen for a second before he glances at you, something steadier in his gaze now.

“I should probably stop putting this off.”

You nod, lips curling slightly. “Yeah.”

He exhales, tapping at the screen, and just before he brings the phone to his ear, he glances at you one last time.

And this time, there’s no hesitation.

BAHRAIN, PRE-SEASON TESTING, DAY-1

February 25th, 2027

“CHOI SEUNGCHEOL RETURNS TO FORMULA 1 WITH ASTON MARTIN—SET TO WORK WITH ADRIAN NEWEY.”

After months of speculation, four-time world champion Seungcheol Choi is officially returning to Formula 1 with Aston Martin, marking one of the most highly anticipated comebacks in the sport’s recent history.

The Korean driver, who departed with Ferrari and stepped away from F1 following the 2025 season, will be rejoining the grid just as Aston Martin embarks on a new era of technical leadership under Adrian Newey. With Newey’s expertise in car development and Choi’s proven track record, expectations are already high for the team’s future.

“I’m excited for this next chapter,” Choi said in a statement. “Aston Martin has shown incredible ambition, and with Adrian on board, I have no doubt that we can build something special.”

His return raises questions about the competitive landscape of F1 moving forward, with Aston Martin aiming to challenge the front-runners in 2027. With pre-season testing in Bahrain starting today, all eyes will be on Choi as he steps back into the cockpit for the first time in over a year.

The Bahraini air is dry as usual, the morning sun bright across the paddock as the first day of testing begins. The garages are alive with movement—engineers making final checks, mechanics making last minute changes, cameras capturing every detail.

And at the center of it all, Seungcheol stands in Aston Martin’s green.

The suit fits like it always has. The gloves slide on without hesitation. When he pulls the balaclava over his head, it feels like no time has passed at all.

But it has.

He knows it. Everyone here knows it.

He breathes slowly as he steps toward the AMR27, sleek under the artificial lights of the garage. 

Seokmin crouches beside him, grinning like he’s been waiting for this day just as much as Seungcheol has.

“Well,” Seokmin says, knocking on his helmet lightly. “You look good in green.”

Seungcheol snorts, shaking his head. “Better than red?”

Seokmin hums, pretending to think about it. “The red was iconic. Give it some time.”

Seungcheol laughs, the sound being muffled by his helmet.

A familiar voice crackles through his earpiece.

“Alright, Cheol, let’s get you out there.”

Seungcheol glances at his steering wheel, a small smile pulling at his lips. He knew this was happening, but still—it feels surreal to hear his old Ferrari race engineer, still here, still speaking to him over the radio. Adjusting to a new team has been challenging, but this makes it a little bit easier.

And then, his gaze shifts past the mechanics, past the flashing screens, toward the edge of the garage to where you’re standing—arms crossed, standing just outside the blur of engineers, watching him like you always have.

This is right.

This is where he’s supposed to be.

You tilt your head slightly, smiling just enough for him to catch it. It’s small, barely there, but he knows what it means.

Seungcheol lifts a gloved hand, throwing you a thumbs up. It makes you smile a little wider.

Seungcheol rolls the car out of the garage and into the end of the pit lane, engine idling as he waits for the session to go green.

To his left, the Red Bull pulls up.

Seungcheol glances over just as Haechan does the same. Two time world champion now. Let’s see if we can keep up.

Without hesitation, Haechan lifts a hand and gives him a small wave.

Simple and casual. A ‘Welcome back.’

The light flicks green.

Seungcheol exhales, nods once and pulls out onto the track.

tagging: @sojuxxi @the-vena-cava @cl41rsblog @coupsma @stupendouschildnerd @selenethings @yawnozone @syluslittlecrows @angelarin @ceruissleeping @smiileflower @minjiech @stwrlightt @archivistworld @livelaughloveseventeen @exomew @starshuas @fancypeacepersona @znzlii @gyuguys @luxmoonlight @reiofsuns2001 @blckorchidd @teddybeartaetae @ddeulgiabs-blog @kookiedesi

[peartreegarden]

OFF THE GRID PT.3

pairing: f1driver!scoups x ex!femreader

genre: angst, romance, exes to lovers au, childhood bestfriends / neighbours au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series: Four-time world champion Choi Seungcheol has spent years at the top with Ferrari, but as the 2025 season drags on, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not quite where he used to be. The competition is catching up, his team isn't what it used to be, and for the first time, he’s starting to wonder if he’s past his prime. By the time the season winds down, he finds himself back in his hometown, which isn't quite the same either. But the hardest race was never on track, and sooner or later, he’ll have to figure out what comes next.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, descriptions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 - 14k Part 2 - 13k Part 3 - 19.5k

glossary taglist

a/n: the final installment!!! writing this fic out of all the ones I have in my series was probably the easiest and at the same time the trickiest to deal with. not just because it's an e2l but just also because of the f1 bits of it. while it's always challenging to write the race scenes, purely because most of the time i'm just spewing words and hoping they make sense while also trying to make sure that the stuff happening is stuff that actually happens, the most fun part was to put forth how one may feel shunted in their own team and what that does to a person. it’s lonely and quiet in the worst ways and sometimes you start to believe it’s your fault. that maybe you were always meant to be on the outside. writing that part felt very real and if you’ve ever felt like that, i hope this story sits with you a little. i love this one a lot and i hope you do too! please don't hesitate to reblog/comment/send an ask with your thoughts!

HOME

The cold air bites at your skin, but you barely feel it.

You sit on the porch steps, phone pressed tightly to your ear, listening to the monotonous ring of a call that you already know isn’t going to go through. It’s the fourth time you’ve tried the number your dad gave you. The fourth time it’s gone straight to voicemail.

You press the heel of your free palm to your eyes, rubbing at them. Great. Just great.

A pipe leak. In the middle of winter. Water pooling under the sink, seeping through the cabinets, creeping toward the floor faster than you know how to handle. And now, the only plumber you know isn’t even picking up. 

Really, your luck must be fucking terrible. How could this happen exactly when your parents weren’t at home?

Your head pulses with another wave of pain as you weigh your options. Do you try fixing it yourself? Do you just shut off the main water supply and deal with it later? Do you-

No.

You’re not calling Seungcheol.

You refuse. You won’t.

You grip your phone tighter, swallowing hard, trying to think. You can figure this out. You have to.

But then to your luck, or rather, the lack of it you hear the sound of tires rolling over, a door opening and slamming shut, paper bags rustling.

And before you even have to look up, you know.

Seungcheol.

You curse internally, willing him to keep walking, to go inside, to not notice the way you’re sitting here, hunched over, stress radiating from every inch of your body.

But of course, he does.

“Hey,” he calls out casually at first.

You don’t answer right away. You keep your gaze on the phone screen, like if you just focus hard enough, the plumber will just magically call you back.

But Seungcheol isn’t an idiot. And he knows you well enough to tell when something’s wrong.

The porch creaks under his weight as he steps closer. “What’s going on?”

You sigh, finally glancing up. He’s standing at the foot of the steps, a grocery bag in one hand, the other stuffed in his jacket pocket. His hair is still slightly damp from the snow, and the cold has left a faint pink tint across his skin.

You look away quickly. Not the time.

“Nothing,” you mutter, voice tight.

Seungcheol doesn’t buy it. He tilts his head slightly, glancing at the phone in your hands, to the way your grip is a little too tense.

You see the exact moment he puts the pieces together.

“…Something’s broken.”

It’s not a question.

You let out a sharp breath, rubbing your temple. “It’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”

Seungcheol exhales, setting the grocery bag down on the step. “What is it?”

You hesitate. If you tell him, he’s going to fix it.

But the alternative is letting the house flood while you sit outside, pretending you don’t need help.

You purse your lips, debating. Then, finally you answer. "Pipe’s leaking under the sink."

Seungcheol’s brows lift slightly. “Bad?”

“Water’s spreading. That bad enough?”

He glances toward the house. “Did you shut off the valve?”

Your throat dries up. You should have. You know that. You know enough to do that. But you were so fucking stressed, so caught up in trying to call the plumber, that you didn’t even think about it.

Seungcheol immediately clocks your hesitation.

His expression almost morphs into amusement. “Come on.”

You shake your head immediately. "No."

Seungcheol gives you a flat look. “You want to let it keep leaking?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Really?” He crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. "With what tools?"

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Okay. Fine. Maybe you don’t have a plan.

But that doesn’t mean you need him.

Seungcheol exhales sharply, hand reaching down to loop through yours and pull you up. "Just let me do it, alright? It’ll take ten minutes."

You hesitate for a second too long, brain switching off at the way he effortlessly manages to lift you up. No, you willingly stood up. You shake your head

A moment of hesitation is all that he needs.

With a small shake of his head, Seungcheol picks up his grocery bag and walks past you, shoulder just barely grazing yours as he makes his way inside.

You hover near the kitchen island, arms crossed, watching as Seungcheol shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over a chair before crouching down in front of the sink.

The water hasn’t fully spread to the floor yet, but it’s bad enough, a slow but steady trickle pooling at the base of the cabinet, seeping into the wood.

Seungcheol clicks his tongue. "You should've shut the valve off earlier."

You bristle. "I was trying to call someone."

He doesn’t argue, just sighs loudly before rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, forearms flexing slightly as he moves.

“Where’s your wrench?” he asks, already reaching under the sink.

You blink. Right. Tools.

Your mind scrambles for an answer, but it comes up empty. You have no idea. Your dad always handled these things before. 

“I-” You hesitate, shifting on your feet.

Before you can figure out what to say, Seungcheol just sighs. Then, without looking up, he mutters 

“Still in the laundry room?”

You freeze.

He doesn’t even wait for your answer. He just pushes himself up and walks off, heading straight down the hall, like he already knows exactly where to go.

And the worst part is that he’s right.

You swallow, fingers tightening around your arms as you listen to the sound of him opening the cabinet, rummaging through old tool boxes like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Like he still remembers where everything is.

When he comes back, wrench in hand, you don’t say anything.

And neither does he.

He just crouches back down, one arm reaching under the sink, the other bracing himself against the cabinet. His shirt rides up slightly at the hem as he shifts into position, and you immediately snap your gaze to the ceiling.

A few minutes later, when he's almost done,  Seungcheol's phone rings from where he threw it onto the kitchen island. Your eyes flicker to the screen before you look away just as quickly, not catching the name.

“Who is it?” Seungcheol's voice comes out muffled from below.

“Uh, wait,” You mumble before shifting over to see the caller's name. It makes you stop, hand frozen in air for a few seconds before you shake yourself out of it. “It's someone from Aston Martin. Do you want me to bring it over to you?” You observe him as you reply, eyes sharp.

You can see Seungcheol stop for a moment too, like a kid caught stealing candy before he resumes, shaking his head slightly. “Nah, just leave it.”

No.

No, it's been way too long to let this slide again.

You fold your arms tightly over your chest, jaw tight. “Seungcheol.”

His name comes out sounding sharp from your mouth, maybe a little more than you intended, but still, stern.

Slowly, he exhales. Then, bracing a hand against the cabinet, he pushes himself up. Straightens. Stretches his shoulders. But he doesn’t look at you.

Your fingers curl against your sleeves. “What is going on with you?”

He sighs before running a hand through his hair, still refusing to meet your gaze. “It’s nothing. I don't know why they're calling either.”

“Are you done with the leak?” You point at it, already moving past him to the cabinet above the stove where you keep your kettle.

He nods, albeit a little confused before he checks, washing his hands after the water doesn't leak again.

“Okay, good.” You mutter as you start it up, preparing to make tea. This conversation is something that's been avoided for way too long. “Because you're going to sit down, drink this tea and fucking explain what you've been doing in this past one year.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but you interject before he can, “Don’t you think we deserve to know what’s going on?”

Seungcheol exhales, shoulders rising before he lets them fall. He looks like he wants to argue. Like he wants to say no, like he wants to leave, like he doesn’t owe you this conversation.

But you’re not letting him.

Not this time.

So you turn toward him, crossing your arms, eyebrows raised in challenge. "Well?"

Seungcheol sighs, rubbing his temple. But after a moment, he drags a chair back and sits.

He leans back against it, arms crossed, gaze dropping to the counter. "What do you want me to say?"

You huff, setting the cups down harder than necessary. "How about the truth?"

Seungcheol scoffs under his breath, shaking his head. "It's not that simple."

"It never is," you agree.

The silence that follows is thick, heavy, frustrating. The only sound is the quiet hum of the kettle as steam starts to rise.

You glance at him, but he’s still looking at the counter, fingers tapping lightly against his arm. Like he’s debating. Like he’s deciding how much to say.

When Seungcheol finally begins to talk, his voice is the quietest you’ve heard it in a while.

“Where do I even start? I guess it began last season itself, after I won the world championship. After COTA, I didn’t have much to fight for, other than the constructors. The team started the orders in Mexico and back then it didn’t feel like I was losing out on anything. I’d already made enough points and they wanted to make sure Jaehyun ended up P2 in the driver’s standings to help with the constructors. So I agreed.”

You nod. You remember the second half of the season in 2024. It wasn’t unlike Seungcheol to go a little easier on his teammate once he’d won, so you hadn’t thought anything was off either.

“And then into winter break,” Seungcheol continues, “One of the reasons I didn’t come back home was, yes, because it would be really awkward with us, but the team had kept me really busy too. I’d done so many tests and runs for them that you’d expect the car to come out in a way that suited my driving style a little more.”

“It wasn’t entirely off,” Seungcheol shrugs as you pour a little honey into his cup, “Just, it was quite obvious that Jaehyun was more comfortable in there than I was. Felt like the work I’d done was useless, almost. Pre-season testing too. They were a lot more proactive when it came to Jaehyun’s feedback, but I just assumed it was because he was relatively newer to the team and that they’d have to learn his preferences a little more because they already knew most of mine.”

You settle down into the chair beside him, a soft hum leaving your lips as you listen.

“And you know, for the first few races it felt like things were back to normal in the team itself. I was still qualifying better, still the first one to bring the fight. Yeah, Red Bull were insanely quick and we were—from the start—second to them, but it felt alright inside. So I let it go, thinking I was just being paranoid.”

"And then?" you prompt gently.

Seungcheol exhales, the sound barely audible over the quiet clink of your teaspoon against the ceramic rim of your cup. His fingers drum the outside of the mug.

“And then the calls started,” he says, shaking his head. “Nothing major at first. Just small things. Strategy tweaks that didn’t make sense but weren’t outright sabotage. Early pit stops that put me in traffic. Tire compounds I hadn’t preferred. I wasn’t the only one noticing it either—my race engineer, the mechanics, even some of the guys in the factory. But no one wanted to say it outright.”

Your brows furrow. “But you knew.”

Seungcheol’s lips twitch, not in amusement, but in resignation. “I had a feeling. But when you’re fighting at the front, you can’t afford to doubt. You just drive.”

You nod, thinking back to those early races. From the outside, nothing had seemed blatantly wrong. Ferrari was still Ferrari with their fast cars, quick pit stops, a strong driver lineup. And Seungcheol was still the one leading the charge. If anything, it had looked like he was comfortably holding onto his position as the team’s priority.

But now that he says it, you remember. The radio messages that had sounded just a little too forced. The hesitation before the pit wall gave him the go ahead on certain strategies. And then later, when Jaehyun’s results started coming together, how the dynamic had shifted ever so slightly.

“Monaco,” you murmur, realization settling in.

Seungcheol shakes his head. “No. Miami. By Monaco, I already knew. But it was Miami where the doubts started.”

You know what he means. That race had been his to win. Fastest all weekend, pole secured by two tenths, an aggressive but clean first stint. And yet, somehow, Jaehyun had come out ahead after the pit cycle. The team had called it an unfortunate timing issue, but Seungcheol had looked more confused than upset in the post-race interviews. Like he wasn’t sure how it had slipped through his fingers.

He rubs a hand over his face, leaning back into the chair. “That’s when I started realizing it wasn’t just paranoia.”

Your fingers tighten around your mug. “But you still let it go.”

Seungcheol lets out a short, humorless laugh. “What else could I do?” His eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable. “I drove for them, remember? They made the calls.”

“I wasn’t okay. After Monza, when you called,” He tries to sound slightly nonchalant. But you know. 

“That’s why I called,” You sigh, “Were there more problems because of that crash? Between you two?”

Seungcheol almost laughs, “You know, throughout this entire season, I don’t think we’ve actually ever argued about all this stuff. The next race weekend was shit. Both of us were absolutely blasted by the team. But most of this isn't his fault. I mean, the crash probably was, but it happens. It's not like I’ve never crashed into a teammate before. ” He admits. You can see that it takes a lot out of him to say that.

You understand. It would be so much easier to blame someone else, someone newer instead of the people who’ve been around you for so long.

“He’d be fucking stupid if he kicked and yelled and made everyone stop to treat us both the same.”

Sighing, you contemplate reaching a hand out to comfort him. Seungcheol sits with his shoulders slumped and head down, fingers fiddling with the cup in a restless way. But you stop yourself. You're listening to him to understand and to clear up things, that's it.

“So you made the decision to leave Ferrari,” You say, humming for him to continue.

“After Monza, I kind of knew, but it was Singapore where I made my decision.”

You remember that race. The tension, the buildup. The entire grid waiting to see if Haechan would clinch the title.

“It wasn’t like some big revelation,” he continues. “I think I’d already been telling myself for weeks that it was over. But that night, it just… solidified.”

His fingers tap lightly against his arm, like he’s still turning the memory over in his head. “They pitted me early. Said it was to put pressure on Red Bull, to force Haechan into an earlier stop. But I knew what it was. It was about Jaehyun. Making sure he didn’t lose time, making sure he had the advantage when it counted. That was my job now.”

Your fingers tighten around your mug.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “And then Haechan crossed the line, took his title, and I was standing in that media pen, listening to everyone talk about the championship fight and the future, and I realized I wasn’t part of that anymore. Not with Ferrari.”

“So I told my manager that night. Told him I wasn’t going to re-sign.”

It’s said so simply, so quietly, but you remember twenty two year old Seungcheol when he got his first Formula 1 seat. You remember twenty three year old Seungcheol when he got the Ferrari offer, his biggest dream coming true. You remember seventeen year old Seungcheol, arguing with his school teachers that, yes, racing is what he wants to do. Not school. “I’m serious about this. You can just watch, I’ll get there.”

It must have been one of the hardest decisions he’s ever made. 

But there’s just one more thing you don’t understand.

“But if not with Ferrari,” You begin cautiously, softly, “You could’ve done it with any other team. They’d be scrambling to sign you. Why’d you leave the entire thing, Cheol?”

Seungcheol slowly shake his head. “It wasn’t just about Ferrari.”

His fingers begin to drum lightly on the counter again. “I thought about signing somewhere else. It would’ve been easy—hell, my manager already had teams lined up before I even told him I wasn’t re-signing. But after Singapore… I just didn’t know if I wanted to anymore.”

Your brows furrow slightly. “Why?”

For a second, you think he won’t answer. His fingers tighten around his mug, his shoulders tensing slightly. But then he sighs, the weight of it heavy.

“Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure if I still had it in me.”

His voice is quieter now, but there’s no hesitation. No bitterness. Just quiet exhaustion.

“I always knew what I was fighting for. Even in my worst seasons, even when everything felt like shit, I still wanted to be in the car. I still wanted to be in the fight. But after Singapore, I wasn’t sure if I did.” He pauses, shaking his head slightly. “Not because I don’t love it. Not because I don’t think I can still win. But because I didn’t know if I could give myself to it the way I always have.”

“You know, for years, I thought that as long as I kept pushing, as long as I proved myself over and over again, everything else would fall into place. That it would always be enough. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like it was.”

You don’t say anything.

Because what do you even say to someone who’s spent their entire life chasing something only to realize they don’t know if they still want to chase it anymore?

Seungcheol leans back slightly, glancing down at his mug. “I needed time,” he says simply. “To figure it out.”

You hesitate for a moment, watching him. He’s not looking at you, eyes still on the mug in his hands, fingers tracing the rim like he’s still lost somewhere in his own thoughts.

Then, quietly, you say, “That makes sense.”

Seungcheol glances up, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that.

You exhale, shifting slightly in your seat. “I mean… you’ve never really stopped, have you?” You tilt your head. “Since we were kids, it’s always been about the next thing. The next race, the next win, the next goal. You never let yourself slow down. Maybe—” you pause, choosing your words carefully. “Maybe it’s okay that you needed to.”

His fingers still against the mug. He doesn’t say anything, but something in his expression softens, just slightly.

“You’re allowed to figure it out, Cheol,” you say, quieter now. “Even if it takes time.”

For the first time since he started talking, he really looks at you. Like he’s trying to figure out if you actually mean it.

And when he doesn’t find doubt in your face, when all he sees is quiet understanding, something inside him loosens.

He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear that.

It’s stupid, maybe. He’s had months to sit with this, to justify his decision to himself, to convince himself that taking a step back wasn’t weakness. That it didn’t make him any less of a driver. Any less of himself.

But it’s different, hearing it from you.

Hearing someone else say it—you say it—makes it feel real.

He exhales again, deeper this time, like something heavy has finally slipped off his shoulders. The tension in his posture eases just a little.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice lighter than before. “Maybe it is.”

And for the first time in a while, he almost feels like he can breathe.

You shut your laptop with a quiet sigh, leaning back into your chair to give yourself a moment before you start packing up to go home. You stretch your fingers out, rolling your wrist absentmindedly, the stiffness a reminder of how long you’ve been working.

At least you’re leaving earlier than usual today. It’s rare, but you’d wrapped up the project that had been eating up most of your time this past month—sent the final files off, double-checked every detail, and even managed to get your inbox down to something manageable. It’s a relief, a quiet kind that sits at the back of your mind, knowing that for once, you won’t have to think about work the second you step out of the office.

You take your time packing up, sliding your laptop into your bag a little more carefully than usual, making sure everything’s in place before zipping it up. The usual rush to leave isn’t there tonight; instead, you pull on your coat at a slower pace, looping your scarf around your neck as your phone vibrates on your desk.

A quick glance at the screen shows a text from Seungkwan in the group chat.

Seungkwan: jihoon and cheol are you guys free my manager just asked to sit through another client call and it’s going to take at least 45 more mins can ya’ll go pick her up i promised to but i can’t rn [16:48]

Jihoon: yeah sure [16:50]

Seungcheol: i can [16:50]

Seungcheol: oh nvm u can go then [16:51]

Jihoon: no actually i can’t  my meeting got extended too Seungcheol? [16:58]

Seungcheol: omw [17:00]

You shake your head slightly as you scroll through the chat. You could’ve taken the bus ride home, but Seungkwan had sent his car for servicing and had driven the two of you to work in your car today. He’d have fussed about it if you took the bus and, honestly, you didn’t mind the ride back. At least it’d be warmer.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and make your way out of the office. Most of people in your team are still at their desks, wrapped up in whatever they need to finish before they can call it a night, but you get a few nods and murmured goodbyes as you pass. The elevator ride down is uneventful, and by the time you step outside, the sky is a dark shade of blue with streaks of fading orange and pink clinging onto the horizon.

You don’t have to wait long before a sleek black car rolls up to the curb, headlights cutting through the dimming evening. You spot Seunghceol through the windshield before he even pulls to a full stop, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the gear shift, fingers drumming idly. His hair falls slightly over his forehead, and he’s got that same relaxed-but-not-really posture you know so well.

The door unlocks with a quiet click, and you pull it open, slipping inside.

"Hey," you greet, settling into the passenger seat.

Seungcheol glances at you briefly before looking back at the road. "Hey. Seatbelt."

You roll your eyes but comply, the buckle clicking into place as he merges back into traffic. It’s only when you hit a red light that Seungcheol speaks again, eyes flitting over to you.

"You finished your project, right?"

You blink, turning to look at him. "How’d you know?"

He shrugs, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. "You only leave early when you finish something big."

You press your lips together, caught off guard. He’s not wrong.

"Yeah," you say after a moment. "Finally. Feels kind of weird not having it hanging over my head anymore."

Seungcheol hums, driving forward as the light turns green. "Bet that’s nice."

"It is," you admit, nodding as you slump back into your seat. "Kind of don’t know what to do with myself now, though."

He glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. "Is that why you let me pick you up instead of just taking the bus? Needed something to fill the time?"

You scoff, nudging his arm lightly. "Shut up."

His chuckle is soft, barely audible over the low hum of the car, but you hear it anyway.

“Can we stop at a convenience store, by the way?” Seungcheol clears his throat after a few minutes of silence.

You hum in response. “Sure, you’re driving anyways.”

He nods, taking the next right turn without another word. The neon glow of the store comes into view a few minutes later, its sign flickering slightly against the darkening sky. He pulls into an empty parking spot, shifting the car into park before turning to you.

“You want anything?”

You shake your head, already reaching for your phone. “I’m good.”

Seungcheol doesn’t press, just unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out. You watch as he stretches—arms over his head, a quick shake of his shoulders—before heading inside.

A few minutes later, Seungcheol returns, a plastic bag in hand. He slides into the driver’s seat, the faint rustling of wrappers filling the car as he rummages through it. Without a word, he pulls out a bag of chips and hands it over, like it’s second nature.

You blink, looking down at the bag in your lap, then back at him.

You narrow your eyes at him as you open the bag, pulling out a chip and popping it into your mouth. “What if I didn’t want this today?”

Seungcheol hums, setting his drink down before shifting the car into reverse. “Then you’d tell me to go back inside.”

You make a face, annoyed that he knows you too well, but let it slide. Instead, as he pulls out of the parking lot, you reach into the bag again—this time, holding a chip out toward him.

Seungcheol glances at it briefly before flicking his eyes back to the road. “What?”

“You want one?”

He hesitates—just for a second. And that’s when it hits you.

Your hand hovers in the air, and for a moment, you almost pull back. But then, Seungcheol leans in just slightly, just enough.

And without a word, he takes the chip from your hand.

Neither of you say anything after that.

—

The evening is loud, the kind of easy chaos that comes with Jihoon, Seungkwan, and Seungcheol crammed into your living room, half-watching something on TV while bickering over absolutely nothing.

Seungkwan had claimed his usual spot on the couch, legs kicked up onto the coffee table despite your protests. Jihoon sat on the floor, leaning against the armrest, scrolling through his phone but still chiming in whenever Seungkwan said something particularly stupid. 

It’s normal. Stupid jokes, Seungkwan laughing too loud, Jihoon threatening to leave but never actually moving. And for a while, you let yourself fall into it, let the noise drown out the things you don’t want to think about.

But then, Jihoon stands, stretching his arms overhead. “I should go,” he says, stuffing his phone into his pocket. “Early morning tomorrow.”

Seungkwan groans dramatically but stands up too, stretching in sync with him. “Yeah, yeah. I should head out too.”

After Jihoon and Seungkwan leave, you linger by the door for a moment, listening to their voices fade as they walk down the street. When you turn back, Seungcheol is still there, getting off the couch to walk into your kitchen.

You hesitate, then exhale, shaking your head as you make your way back to the couch. The house feels different now—quieter, heavier.

You sink into your usual spot, pulling your legs up beneath you, reaching absently for the TV remote even though you’re not really paying attention. But after a few moments of silence, you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Is it just me, or do I keep running into you everywhere?” You scoff, finally turning to face him. 

Seungcheol stands behind your kitchen counter, filling a glass of water before he stops at your words. He searches your face for any signs of playfulness, but finds none. Your eyebrows are knitted, a slight scowl on your lips and your words come out sharp and almost irritated.

“What?” He asks, a little confused, “I mean, I am living next to your house. Would be weird if you didn’t see me around.”

"You know that's not what I mean." You cross your arms, getting off the sofa.

“Well, for starters. Everyone was here today, so you kind of invited me over.” Seungcheol shrugs. “I was going to leave anyway, sheesh.”

"Yeah, this time," you say. "But what about the rest? It’s like things are just happening again, like nothing’s changed. You keep showing up, and it’s not just at work or around the neighborhood, it’s—" You pause, shaking your head before scoffing. "God, I don’t know. It’s confusing."

Seungcheol only watches you, setting his cup down with an unreadable expression. 

So you continue.

“It’s been over a year, Seungcheol. And then you come back and suddenly we’re going back to whatever this was. As if that entire period of our lives didn’t even exist. We didn’t talk to each other, Cheol. Didn’t talk, didn’t check in, didn’t even pretend that we existed and now—” You huff out, shoulders dropping, “Don’t you think this is strange? That we can just pretend like nothing happened and fall back into line like this?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer right away. He looks at you, fingers tapping idly against the counter. Then, finally, he says, "Maybe it’s not that strange."

You groan, running a hand through your hair. It seems to tick him off a little because he speaks up again.

“You were the one that said that we were best friends, and that you wouldn’t stop treating me like that because we broke up,” Seungcheol says, voice firm. “You told me that none of it would change, that we’d figure it out. And now you’re acting like it’s weird that I’m here, like I’m some stranger you keep running into instead of the person who—” He stops himself, shaking his head before he can say too much. His fingers tighten against the counter. “I’m not pretending nothing happened. But I’m not the one who changed their mind.”

“Fuck, I know!” You exclaim, a little louder than before, “God, I know and I’m sorry, okay? I thought it would be fine. I thought I could handle it but it’s not, Cheol. It’s not.” Swallowing, you hesitate. “It’s just hard, okay? Seeing you, talking to you and being around you like this just reminds me of everything and I don’t know how to act like it doesn’t hurt.”

You look up at him to gauge his reaction, but the way his jaw tightens just makes you feel worse.

“You think it wasn’t hard for me? That it still isn’t?” His voice is low, but his eyes are bright, anger slipping into them. “The difference is, I didn’t choose this. I didn’t wake up one day and decide we shouldn’t be together anymore.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “That was you.”

You throw your head back, eyes scrunching in frustration before you snap back, “Do you really think I didn’t think it over? That I didn’t even try or want this to work? I wanted it to. But it always felt like I was waiting for you, Seungcheol. Waiting for the next race to end, waiting for your next flight home, waiting for a moment that never lasted long enough before you had to leave again." You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "And I know it wasn’t your fault—I never blamed you for any of it. But you have to see how unfair it was, too. I was the one adjusting, always making room in my life whenever you had the chance to come back, and when you left again, I was the one picking up the pieces."

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. "You think I didn’t try? That I didn’t want more time with you?" His voice rises slightly, rough around the edges. "I missed things too, you know. I missed birthdays, I missed stupid little inside jokes, I missed you. But I tried. I called every chance I got, I stayed up even when I was dead tired just to hear your voice, I—" He cuts himself off, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "I know it wasn’t enough. But it wasn’t like I didn’t care."

"I know you cared, Seungcheol," you say, voice quieter now but strained nonetheless. "But caring wasn’t the problem. It was never just about missing each other—it was about how impossible it felt to keep up. You were gone all the time. I couldn’t call you whenever I needed to, I couldn’t just show up when things got hard. And you—you were so busy, and I didn’t want to be just another thing on your list to worry about."

Seungcheol exhales sharply, shaking his head. "That’s not fair," he mutters. "You were never just some obligation to me."

"But that’s what it felt like!" The words leave you before you can stop them, your voice cracking and your chest heaving. "Not because of you, not because of anything you did, but because of the way things were. I felt like I was trying to hold on to something that was slipping away no matter how much we wanted it to stay."

Seungcheol’s eyes darken, frustration clear in the way his fingers ball into fists at his sides. “So what, then? We just give up because it was hard?” His voice is louder now, the calm he’s tried to hold onto starting to slip away. “You think I didn’t feel like I was losing you too? You think I didn’t sit there in hotel rooms on the other side of the world, wishing I could be home with you instead?”

“Well, you weren’t home, Seungcheol!” you shoot back, eyes stinging. “And I couldn’t keep waiting for something that wasn’t going to change! I had to live my life too, I had to stop putting everything on hold for a relationship that—” You stop yourself, swallowing hard, willing your voice not to break. “That wasn’t going to work no matter how much we wanted it to.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “That’s bullshit,” he mutters. “You didn’t even let me try. You made the choice for both of us.”

 “Are you serious right now? You did try, Seungcheol. We both did! But you were never going to have a life where you could just stay, and I never wanted you to give that up for me. I just—I wanted to feel like I wasn’t the only one adjusting, like I wasn’t always the one left waiting.”

His whole body goes rigid, and when he speaks next, Seungcheol’s voice is clear but scalding.

“Well, I quit,” he says, the words sharp and deliberate. His eyes bore into yours, daring you to look away. “So are you happy now?”

It hits you like a slap to the face—sharp, stinging, and almost disorienting. You blink at him, air knocked out of your lungs, stunned, mouth opening slightly but finding nothing to say.

Because this isn’t what you wanted. Not like this. Not for you. Not because of you.

But Seungcheol is still looking at you, chest rising and falling, waiting for you to say… say what? What do you even say to that?

“That is not what I said, and you know it.” Your voice is quiet but fierce when you finally reply, unyielding.

Seungcheol scoffs, running a hand over his face, but he doesn’t respond.

You shake your head, throat tightening. “I don’t want to talk to you like this.”

He laughs dryly, shaking his head as he looks away. "Right. Of course, you don’t."

You clench your jaw. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?" His gaze snaps back to yours, frustration smeared across his features. "You get to throw all of this at me, tell me how impossible it was, how you couldn’t keep up. And then the second I react, you decide you don’t want to talk anymore?"

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. "Because you’re twisting my words, Seungcheol! I never wanted you to quit. I never wanted you to throw everything away for me.” You breathe in, feeling the tears fill your eyes as Seungcheol’s figure starts swimming in your vision. You look away, quickly wiping them and willing your voice to come out calm before you continue.

“I only ever wanted to be equal, Cheol. Just equal.”

His brows furrow, the sharp edges of his anger dulling into something heavier and blunt. His lips part like he wants to argue, to fight back, but nothing comes out. Instead, his shoulders drop just slightly, like the weight of everything between you is finally settling in.

"I would’ve done more," he says finally, so quietly that you almost don’t hear it. "If you had told me, I would’ve done more."

You sigh, feeling all the fight and adrenaline draining out of you, leaving only exhaustion and regret. “I know. But I didn’t want to have to ask.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “For not talking to you about it properly before. For not giving us a real chance to figure it out together.”

Seungcheol stands still for a few beats, looking unsure. Then, he grabs the glass he’d left full on the counter before turning around to dump it in the sink. The sound of water slinking down the drain fills the heavy atmosphere between you, and for a moment, it feels like neither of you knows what to say next.

His back is to you, shoulders rising and falling with a slow breath, and when he finally speaks, his voice is dull and subdued.

“I should go,” he murmurs, like he’s saying it more to himself than to you. Seungcheol sighs, rubbing a hand over his face before shaking his head, almost like he’s trying to shake off everything this conversation has brought up.

You don’t know what else to say, so you swallow hard and nod, even though he can’t see you. When he pushes himself out of the kitchen, you step aside. He walks slowly, almost like he doesn’t know how to act around you anymore. It’s not surprising. You’ve never felt this exhausted and on-edge around him either.

A muted, confused voice in your head, tells you to stop him before he goes. This isn’t done. Even if it is, you don’t feel like it is anyway. With the way Seungcheol hesitates, you can tell he doesn’t either. 

But you ignore it, for now. 

Seungcheol walks out of your door, closing it softly behind him. You think it’d be a little easier if he’d slammed it instead.

—

Seungcheol remembers being sixteen, sprawled next to Jihoon on the floor of your room. He can hear your dad watching the news on the TV, the loud and clear voice of the anchor cutting through the house.

“Seven-time Formula 1 world champion Lewis Hamilton has announced his retirement from the sport, shocking fans and experts alike. The Mercedes driver, widely regarded as one of the greatest of all time, confirmed in a press conference earlier today that this season would be his last."

Seungcheol barely pays attention. He’s freaked out over it already and so he idly flips through one of your textbooks, while Jihoon hums to himself, distracted with his guitar. Meanwhile, you sit straight next to him on the floor, biting on your lower lip in concentration as you try to tackle the integration worksheet your class was handed today. You twirl a yellow mechanical pencil between your fingers as you scan the page in front of you, brows furrowed. The dim yellow glow of your lamp casts soft shadows on your face, and Seungcheol finds himself staring without meaning to.

It’s nothing new—you studying, the three of you lazing around in your room, wasting away a slow evening together. But something about this moment feels different.

Your hair slips over your shoulder as you reach for another page, and for some reason, he can’t stop staring.

It’s not like he hasn’t looked at you before. You’ve been best friends since you were kids, growing up side by side, running through the same streets, bickering over stupid things only to make up a few hours later. You’ve always been there, always been you.

But right now, in this quiet moment, you look—

Pretty.

The thought creeps in so naturally that it startles him. His grip tightens on the textbook.

It’s not like he’s never thought about it before. He’s not blind. But this is different. Because it’s not just pretty, it’s you. And it feels important. Like something’s cracked open, like something’s about to change.

He quickly tears his gaze away, back to the textbook in his lap, but he doesn’t see a single word. His heartbeat is suddenly too loud in his ears, his skin warm under the collar of his hoodie.

Jihoon groans again, shoving his guitar aside. “I give up. This song is cursed.”

Seungcheol almost laughs, almost lets himself be pulled back into the moment. But then he glances at you one more time, catching the way you tuck your knee to your chest, biting your lip as you concentrate.

And just like that, he knows.

Knows that something is different now. Knows that, no matter how hard he tries, he won’t be able to unknow it.

Seungcheol remembers finally, finally telling you that he likes you. He does it on a call, early morning on a Friday in Australia. Not ideal, not how he pictured it, but the words are there, pressing against his throat, demanding to be let out.

You look so soft on the screen, eyes half-lidded from sleep, cheek pressed into your pillow. It’s late where you are, but you still picked up when he called, even though you had work in the morning. The thought makes something warm settle in his chest, until he realizes he’s been staring at you too long, silent for too long, and you’re blinking at him now, confused.

"Cheol?" your voice comes through the speaker, quiet and a little groggy.

He sighs, shaking his head softly. He should wait. He should do this in person. But waiting has never been his strong suit, and the thought of another day, another week, another month of keeping this to himself—

"I like you."

The words fall out before he can stop them, before he can overthink them.

You blink slowly, drowsiness slipping away. “You what?”

He huffs out a little nervously.

"Say it again." You stare back at him with wide eyes, your head raised to get a better view.

He doesn’t hesitate. “I like you.”

Your breath catches. He sees it, sees the way you bite your lip like you’re trying not to smile, like you knew but needed to hear it anyway.

“You’re insane,” you say, but your voice is barely above a whisper, “Come back home, Cheol.”

Seungcheol grins, relief rushing through him. He laughs, a little breathless. “I will.”

“No,” you shake your head, firmer this time. “Come home soon.”

When Seungcheol comes back to you on Monday, you’re already waiting. 

You stand near the arrivals exit, arms crossed, watching the steady stream of passengers trickle out. You spot him before he sees you—hood up, suitcase rolling behind him, duffel slung over one shoulder.

And then his gaze lifts, finds yours, and stops.

Surprise flickers across his face followed by something softer, closer to relief. He lets out a quiet laugh as he stops in front of you.

“You look exhausted,” you say, voice calm, but your fingers twitch where they rest against your arm.

His lips tilt, but you can see it now—the bags under his eyes, the exhaustion clinging to his shoulders. Still, his eyes don’t leave yours, like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

“Didn’t think you’d be here,” he murmurs.

You shrug, glancing away for a second. “Didn’t think you’d tell me you like me over the phone.”

He laughs, softer this time. The duffel slips from his shoulder, forgotten, as he takes half a step closer. Close enough that the warmth of him seeps into the space between you, close enough that you feel the weight of his gaze settle over you.

“Missed me that much?” he teases, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

You scoff. “You wish.” But your voice lacks bite, and he sees the way you shift from one foot to the other, like you’re holding yourself back.

So he doesn’t.

Seungcheol reaches for you, one hand cupping the side of your face, the other sliding around your waist, pulling you into him. And before you can react, before you can even breathe, he kisses you.

It’s not cautious. Not nervous. Not testing the waters. It’s sure, like he’s known this is where he’s meant to be all along.

Your fingers tighten against the fabric of his hoodie, exhaling against his lips like you’ve been waiting for this too. Like all the late-night calls, the moments of hesitation, the unspoken truths were leading to this.

When he pulls back, just slightly, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

Your heart stumbles, and for once, you don’t pretend to fight the smile that tugs at your lips. “Took you long enough,” you whisper.

He laughs, soft and warm, before kissing you again.

Seungcheol remembers the countless races that you’ve flown in for, without him even asking. The paddock is still buzzing when he finally steps into his motorhome, his race suit unzipped to his waist, the fireproofs underneath clinging to his skin. The adrenaline from qualifying still lingers in his veins, a familiar and electrifying hum of energy that usually takes hours to fade.

He breathes in deeply, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. P3. Not bad. Not what he wanted, but not bad. Tomorrow would be the real fight.

But when he finally looks around, Seungcheol’s eyes land on you before anything else.

You’re sat on the small couch in the corner of his motorhome, one leg tucked under the other, scrolling through something on your phone. His jacket is draped over your shoulders, the red standing out starkly against your skin. Your hair is tied up loosely, like you’d done it without much thought, and there’s a half-empty water bottle on the table in front of you.

Seungcheol stops in his tracks, momentarily stunned. He calls out your name, making you perk up as you notice him.

“You flew in?” he asks, still slightly breathless.

Your lips curl up, “Yes, as you can see.”

He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s right in front of you. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It’s called a surprise, Cheol.” You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head playfully. “You’re supposed to like it.”

He lets out a scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. “Of course I do.”

You grin, setting your phone down. “P3’s not bad.”

Seungcheol hums, rubbing a hand over his nape as he exhales. “Not bad. Could’ve been better.”

“It’s always ‘could’ve been better’ with you,” you tease, nudging his knee lightly with your foot. “You’re still starting from the second row. That’s a win in my books.”

He glances at you again, still not entirely believing that you’re actually here.

“How long have you been here?”

“Landed this afternoon and came straight to the track.”

Seungcheol’s brows furrow slightly. “And you’ve just been… waiting here?”

You shrug. “I wanted to see you.”

Something about the way you say it, so simple and matter-of-fact, makes his throat dry up.

He doesn’t say anything. Just steps forward, reaching for your wrist, fingers wrapping around it gently before tugging you up onto your feet. You let him pull you in without resistance, your hands naturally finding their place against his sides.

And then he hugs you.

It’s steady and comforting—the kind of embrace that feels less like holding on and more like coming home. His arms wrap around you with quiet certainty, like this is where you’ve always belonged. He feels the way your body relaxes against his, the tension melting away, and it makes him hug you a little tighter. You breathe out softly, the sound barely audible.

“I missed you,” he murmurs.

Your arms tighten around him. “I know. Me too.”

Seungcheol thinks he remembers when it all started to go wrong too.

He remembers staring at the screen, waiting.

The call rings once, twice, three times before it cuts to voicemail. Again.

He sighs before locking his phone. It’s past 2 AM where you are, but he’d hoped—just maybe—you’d still be awake. It’s been getting really hard to deal with the timezones, especially with all the new tracks on the calendar and more added races. He hasn’t been home in over two months.

His eyes droop with exhaustion as he types out a quick message. Call me when you wake up. Miss you.

You don’t get to reply until the next day.

By then, he’s already on track, already somewhere else.

Seungcheol remembers that the first thing he does after winning is look for you.

His team is cheering, his engineers clapping him on the back, cameras flashing in his face. But none of it matters until he sees you.

But he doesn’t.

His phone buzzes in his race suit pocket. He pulls it out, fingers clumsy from the adrenaline. A message from you.

I don’t know when you’ll see this but can’t make it today Cheol. I’m so sorry. I love you.Congrats on the win!!!

He exhales slowly, staring at the words.

You’d told him just last week that things were piling up at work. That you were barely getting enough sleep, that you’d skipped lunch twice because there was too much to do.

He’d told you to take care of yourself, his voice soft but firm. And you had laughed it off. But now, reading your message, the unease settles back in.

He wants to call. Wants to hear your voice, wants to check if you’ve eaten, if you’re resting like you should be. But there are cameras on him and a team waiting to celebrate.

So instead, he just types out a reply.

Love you too. Get some rest, yeah?

Then, he puts his phone away, and forces himself to smile.

Seungcheol remembers the last time he came back home before it all ended. March of 2024. You’re in his arms, holding on tighter than usual, your fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie.

“You’ll be back soon, right?” Your voice is quiet against his chest.

“Of course,” he says, pressing his lips to your hair. “Two weeks.”

You nod, sighing against his shoulder. “Okay.”

He should’ve kissed you longer. Should’ve told you he’d make it work, somehow. Should’ve said ‘I love you’ one more time.

Because two weeks turns into a month. A month turns into two and in the way that things go—

Seungcheol remembers the day you broke up with him too. He doubts he’ll ever forget it.

He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His race suit is gone, replaced by a plain t-shirt and joggers, but he still looks tired. Not from the race but from everything else.

You stand near the window, arms crossed, staring at the city lights outside. You don’t know how long the two of you have been sitting in silence, but it feels like forever. Like neither of you wants to be the first to say it.

But eventually, you do.

“Cheol, I don’t think this is working.”

Seungcheol inhales sharply, looking down at his hands. He nods once, slow, like he’s known this was coming but still hoped it wouldn’t. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”

That should make it easier, but it doesn’t. It only makes your chest feel heavier.

“I love you,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “I love you so much.”

Your throat tightens. “I love you too.”

But the lack of love had never been the problem. Maybe the distance would’ve been easier if it were.

Seungcheol exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “Is there…” He swallows, voice hoarse. “Is there anything I can do?”

You should say no. Should shake your head and leave before you change your mind. But your breath hitches, your body betraying you before your mind can catch up.

Because even now, even after everything you don’t want to leave. Maybe you never have.

And maybe Seungcheol sees it, or maybe he’s just desperate, but then he says, so quietly, his voice cracking.

“Stay.”

It’s one word. Small. Fragile. But it’s a plea that sends your heart leaping for one last time before it falls flat again.

You should walk away. You know that. But your feet won’t move. And when Seungcheol shifts slightly, when he finally reaches for you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, you don’t pull away.

“Just tonight,” you whisper, almost like you’re convincing yourself.

Seungcheol nods slowly. “Just tonight.”

So you stay.

You let him pull you toward the bed, let him press his forehead against yours, let yourself sink into the warmth of his arms, into the quiet safety of him.

Seungcheol tries to memorise you in the last few hours that he gets. He doesn’t know if you’re pretending to be asleep or if you actually are, but he needs to remember the way you feel in his arms, the way your body curls against his like it’s instinct, like it’s habit. He presses his palm against the small of your back, feeling the steady rise and fall of your breathing, trying to sync his with yours. His fingers brush lightly over your shoulder, tracing absent patterns into your skin, committing the warmth of you to memory.

Your hair spills across the pillow, a few strands tickling his chin, and he doesn’t dare to move them away. He doesn’t want to disturb anything, doesn’t want to break the illusion that this is just another night. That when morning comes, you’ll still be here.

Seungcheol knows that in a few hours, he’ll wake up, and you won’t be here. That he’ll turn over in bed, reach for you out of habit, and find nothing but empty space.

Now, Seungcheol sits at the desk in his room. The house is quiet—too quiet. The kind that settles over you like a weighted blanket that you don’t want on you. He thinks about knocking on your door. Thinks about standing outside your house like an idiot, waiting for you to let him in. Thinks about calling you, but what would he even say?

I love you. I never stopped. I don’t know how to fix this, but I want to.

Instead, he breathes in, slow and deep, massaging his temple like he can will away the headache that is forming. He knows sleep won’t come easy tonight.

The next day, when Jihoon calls you, asking if you’ll come with him to your old school, you have half the mind to refuse. You’re still exhausted, maybe not ready to face people yet. But Jihoon doesn’t usually ask for favours and maybe a little contradictingly, you don’t want to be alone with your thoughts right now. 

So you say yes.

The sun’s begun to shine a little brighter these days, so when you walk out, locking your door behind you, the cold doesn’t bite too hard. 

Jihoon’s car is already parked by the curb, Seungkwan in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when you approach, breaking into a grin.

“Well, look who decided to be social.”

You roll your eyes, pulling open the door and slipping into the back seat. “Jihoon made it sound urgent.”

Jihoon, hands on the wheel, scoffs. “You make it sound like I’m forcing you to come. You could’ve said no.”

You hum, settling into your seat. “Could’ve.”

But Jihoon doesn’t start the car. Instead, he just drums his fingers against the wheel, glancing at Seungkwan, who is still scrolling through his phone like they’re waiting for something. Or someone.

You frown. “Hello? Can we go?”

Seungkwan barely looks up. “Do you want to leave Cheol here then?”

Your stomach dips before you can stop it. “What?” You shift forwards in your seat, grabbing onto Jihoon’s headrest. “You didn’t say he was coming.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Jihoon asks, a little perplexed.

“Did he not say anything to you?”

The boys go quiet for a good three seconds before Seungkwan turns in his seat to face you.

“Don’t lie. Did you two fight? Come on, you’re not kids anymore!” He nags, an exasperated look on his face, “What did you fight over, hmm? Him rattling around all the washed utensils? Did he spoil that stupid book you’ve been reading? Or was it—” Before Seungkwan can continue, the door on your left opens, making all three of you look that way. 

Seungcheol slides into the seat next to you, pulling the door shut behind him with a quiet click. He huffs, brushing his hair back before glancing around—first at Jihoon, then at Seungkwan, and finally at you.

And then he pauses.

Just for a second, his eyes widen slightly, like he wasn’t expecting to see you here. Like it hadn’t occurred to him that, of course, you would be here. His lips part as if to say something, but then he presses them together, looking away slowly.

“Morning,” he says, voice a little careful.

“Morning,” Seungkwan and Jihoon reply in unison.

You hesitate for a split second, but you don’t want Seungkwan and Jihoon to start poking their noses in right now, so you mumble out a small greeting too.

Jihoon exhales, twisting the key in the ignition. “Alright. Now we can go.”

The drive isn’t long, but the silence stretching between you and Seungcheol affects the two sitting up front and you know it too. Seungkwan—usually never quiet during car rides—sits a little slumped, eyes trained on the scenery outside the window. Jihoon doesn’t talk much anyways, but this early in the morning, he usually has a complaint about not picking up coffee that doesn’t come out either.

You don’t know if Seungcheol looks at you through the ten minute drive. You’re too on-edge, too awkward to even turn in his way. 

When Jihoon finally pulls up to the school, parking in the visitor’s lot, Seungkwan stretches his arms over his head. “Alright, children. Let’s go relive our glory days.”

“Glory days?” Jihoon snorts, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You mean the years you spent crying over exams and losing bets?”

Seungkwan whines in response as he gets out of the car. Jihoon sighs, shaking his head before continuing.

“I’m going to be in 11C. Think it’ll take maybe an hour? Ya’ll go do whatever, I guess.”

Jihoon leaves without much more to say, disappearing down the hall with a lazy wave of his hand. You watch him go, resisting the urge to call him back when you realize that leaves only three of you.

You turn to Seungkwan with a silent plea, hoping he’d pick up on it. He does. But he just doesn’t care.

“I think I’ll go look for Ms. Kang,” he announces, stretching his arms out. “Haven’t seen her in ages. She always liked me the best.”

“She liked you because you were a teacher’s pet,” you point out.

Seungkwan gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “I was charming.”

You shoot him a look, unimpressed, but he only grins before waving over his shoulder. You don’t have time to reply before he’s gone, leaving you standing in the middle of the hall, painfully aware of the fact that there’s only one person left beside you.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The school is quieter than you remember, the halls emptier now that classes are in session. Sunlight filters in through the old glass windows, casting a warm glow on the polished floors, on the familiar blue doors, on Seungcheol as he sighs softly beside you.

You steal a glance at him. He looks at home here, in a way that makes your heart ache a little.

“I didn’t think I’d ever come back here,” he murmurs, almost like he’s speaking to himself.

You nod, fingers unconsciously picking at your nails. “Me neither.”

He hums, before taking a slow step forward. “Guess we might as well look around.”

And then he’s walking ahead, and you find yourself following without a word.

The school’s gym is exactly how you remember it—high ceilings with fluorescent lights that cast a slightly harsh glow, the faint scent of sweat and polished wood lingering in the air. The basketball court is lined with scuff marks from years of games, sneakers squeaking against the surface. The walls are still adorned with the same faded banners, boasting school mottos in bold, challenging letters. The chatter and yells of students already in there make you feel sixteen again.

You watch as Seungcheol quietly makes his way to the top of the bleachers, away from all the noise. For a moment, you stand still. You don’t know what this means. But you can’t just stand here near the entrance like some weirdo, so you walk up the stairs too, before sitting down at a respectable distance from him. When you do, Seungcheol glances over at you.

Your breath catches at the way you can still see the seventeen-year-old Seungcheol in him. The way he leans back slightly, palms on his knees, eyes trained on the court in thoughtfulness. You remember when Seungcheol told you he’d found a seat in Formula 2. 

Tearing your gaze away from him, you look around. The two of you were probably sitting only a few seats to the left when he broke the news. The memory comes back to you so clearly, like it’s been waiting for the right moment to resurface. You can almost hear the way his voice had wavered just slightly when he said it out loud for the first time, the way your heart had lurched in your chest. 

You remember the way his hands fidgeted with the hem of his sports uniform. It had been the last step before the dream he’d spent his entire life chasing. And when the realization had fully settled in, you had grinned, throwing yourself at him in excitement.

Now, thirteen years later, you turn back to the Seungcheol in front of you. All the mistakes, all the dreams, all the unfinished businesses lay in the space between you two.

You shift behind, your fingers pressing against the cool concrete of the bleachers.

Seungcheol had always wanted this. This life, this dream, the career he chased relentlessly since you were kids. He was the boy who never stopped moving forward, never once looked back—not because he didn’t care, but because the only way to reach the top was to keep climbing.

And yet, here he is, sitting beside you in a school gym, watching a bunch of kids play basketball like he has nowhere else to be.

The thought unsettles you.

You want to ask. Want to say, And what now, Seungcheol? Where do you go from here?

But you don’t.

Instead, you clear your throat, leaning back into the seat like it’ll smooth over the tension from last night’s argument.

Seungcheol drums his fingers against his knee, his gaze steady on the court below. “Feels smaller now,” he murmurs, almost absentmindedly.

You hum, glancing around the gym. “Well, you were always made for bigger things.”

You don’t mean for it to sound like a reminder of everything that’s already happened, but maybe it is. Maybe it always will be. Seungcheol doesn’t respond right away, just breathes out slowly, his fingers curling into his palm.

When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “I got an offer from Aston Martin,” He says, finally looking up at you. “For 2027. I don’t think I’ll take it.”

You can’t do anything but nod, slowly. It’s not relief, not exactly. Because you know him. You know how much he loves this, how racing is such a big part of him. And if there’s one thing about Seungcheol, it’s that he doesn’t just walk away from the things he loves that easily.

When you don’t say anything, he turns away before muttering, “Do you ever think about how it would’ve been if I never left? If I never started racing in the first place?”

You pause, taken aback. “No.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, a small, bitter smile on his lips when he glances at you, “No? Really?”

“No,” You assert again, “Because you were always going to leave. You were made for something bigger than all this—this mediocrity and this small-town life. This was never going to be enough for you and I’ve always known that, Cheol. Everyone does.”

Seungcheol looks like he wants to retort, but you continue speaking.

“And I never wanted it to be enough for you. Racing, that adrenaline, that feeling of winning—that is your sun, Seungcheol. You will forever revolve around it.  I can’t take that away from you and I have never wanted to.” You emphasize, looking into his eyes and hoping, pleading that he understands what you mean, “But I can’t leave with you either. I can’t live my life on flights and airports just to be with you, Seungcheol. My work, my life is equally as important to me. I have always, always loved you, but I can’t live like that.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, his voice coming out with an edge of desperation when he speaks. “I never wanted you to do any of that. I never wanted you to give up anything for me.”

“How else was it supposed to work, Cheol?” You let out softly, “It wasn’t like you were in a position where you could just get up and come on a whim either.”

He doesn’t reply, but you see the way his figure slumps slightly. You hate all the exhaustion that you’ve been feeling around each other lately. What are you even doing this for? You force yourself to think about what you want from this, from him.

Even though you don’t dare to admit it, you know. It’s always been the same answer. You want him. And it’s stupid. It’s so, so stupid. You’re the one who decided that it wasn’t going to work.

But what if it had? 

The thought lingers in your head. But there’s no point in thinking about that now. Even if Seungcheol still loves you, even if you decide to try again, what reassurance do the two of you have that it won’t end in the same way? 

You don’t even think about Seungcheol rejecting Aston’s offer. You know that it’s only him trying to convince himself. He will agree to it and you want him to. But what will it mean for the two of you?

—

Seungcheol doesn’t realize how much time has passed until he unlocks his phone to listen to a different playlist. His sleeves are rolled up, hands slightly dusty, and the room smells like old cardboard boxes.

He’d only planned to put away the clothes piled up on the chair in the corner of his room, but one thing leads to another and now he sits cross-legged on the floor of his room, with his closet half-emptied out. The floor is littered with old clothes, forgotten magazines and other things that he once thought he might need again.

Seungcheol grunts as he gets up, his numb legs making him stumble a little as he walks over to the last drawer in his closet. Just clean out this one and we’ll be done, he thinks, sliding it open and reaching in.

There’s a bunch of ticket stubs from concerts, two used passports, filled to the brim with stamps, worn because of years of constant travelling, and a bunch of receipts and paper clippings that Seungcheol should probably throw away. There’s one of his first career wins, some from his championships and some from his debut. He smiles with slight fondness before letting them drop onto the trash pile on the floor. Noticing one more, he tries to pull it out from the depths of the drawer only to realize that there’s something on top of it.

Seungcheol shoves his hand in further, but when his fingers touch the box, he freezes.

He knows what it is before he even pulls it out. He knows because he never threw it away. Never even considered it. Just stuffed it into the back of the drawer and left it there, like hiding it could make it mean any less.

His hand tightens around the edges of the box as he slowly walks back to the edge of his bed. The velvet is slightly worn now, its shine being dimmed by time and neglect, but it still feels just as heavy as it did the first time he held it. He knows he probably shouldn’t, but Seungcheol flips it open anyways.

The ring is exactly how he left it. Silver, simple, but deliberate. Something he picked out after months of indecision, after staring at a dozen options and thinking, No, not that one. Not yet. Until he found this—the one he could picture on your hand, the one that felt right.

Seungcheol runs his thumb over the navy blue, velvet lining.

It’s been over a year since he’d meant to give it to you. He had meant to ask. He’d meant for so many things to happen that never did.

Seungcheol had a plan. A future. A moment he thought would belong to you two for the rest of your lives. Now, he just sits, staring at something that never got the chance to be what it was supposed to be. 

He closes the box shut quickly, setting it onto his bed and shaking his head like it’ll push away the image of your hand with the ring on.

Seungcheol swallows hard. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at it, caught between regret and mourning before his gaze finally shifts to the notebook on his desk.

For the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements as he gets up from his bed with the box in hand and walks over to the desk. He keeps it, right next to his laptop, before grabbing the first pen he sees.

Hey. So.

I should’ve said this a long time ago. But I didn’t, and I’m sorry for that.

And I don’t know if it makes any difference now, if any of this still matters and if you’ll even finish reading this letter. Maybe you’ll see my handwriting on this, sigh and put it away. Wouldn’t be surprised if you threw it away, either.But if you’re still here and reading this, then I need you to know something.

I found the ring today. While cleaning my closet, I found it buried under old ticket stubs and some rubbish paper, stuffed into the back of my closet, untouched for over a year. I don’t know why I kept it. I don’t know why I never got rid of it. 

I had this entire plan to ask you once the season was over, during the winter break in 2024. I thought about it for months. Where I’d do it, what I’d say, whether you’d laugh at me for being so nervous. I had imagined a hundred different versions of it in my head—sometimes in a place that meant something to us, sometimes when you least expected it, sometimes in the middle of some ordinary moment, because you always made the ordinary feel like more. But well, by the time we reached December, we weren’t the same anymore.

I’m sorry if hearing this makes you uncomfortable, but when I found it today, it still felt like it belonged to you.

It’s strange, the things you think you’ve moved past, the things you tell yourself you’ve let go of. You move forward, you keep busy, you fill your days with schedules and noise and people who don’t look at you the way you used to. You convince yourself that you’re okay. That it’s just life. That this is how things were meant to be.

And then you find something like this—something small, something tangible, something that holds the weight of everything you never said—and it knocks the air out of you.

I used to think that no matter how many flights I had to take, no matter how many nights we spent apart, no matter how much we had to bend to fit into each other’s lives, we would make it. That as long as we loved each other, we could find a way.

But you knew better, didn’t you?

You always saw things more clearly than I did. You knew that love alone wasn’t going to be enough to hold us together, not when I kept asking you to meet me in the middle without realizing my middle was always shifting. Not when I couldn’t give you the things you needed and I swear—it was not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know how to.

I should have told you that I never let you go without a fight because I wanted to. I walked away because I thought it was the only way we’d both get what we deserved. You always told me I never knew how to slow down. I used to laugh it off, but maybe you were right. Maybe I only realized it too late.

You deserved someone who could put you first. Someone who wouldn’t spend half the year in different countries, someone who didn’t come home exhausted and drained, someone who wasn’t constantly pushing you to adjust to his life without knowing how to meet you halfway.

And I don’t even know what I deserved. But I know what I wanted. I know what I still want.

You.

It’s always been you.

And I know that isn’t fair. It isn’t fair for me to say this now, after all this time, after we tried and tried and still fell apart anyway. But the truth is, I never stopped trying. Even when I convinced myself I had. Even when I told myself I was doing the right thing by staying away. So forgive me for being selfish.

I think about you more than I should. I think about you when I land in a city I know you’d love, when I hear a song that reminds me of you, when I open my phone and my first instinct is still to tell you something before I remember I can’t.

So here’s what I need you to know—what I should have told you then, what I should have promised you when I still had the chance.I won’t ask you to adjust to me anymore. I won’t ask you to bend, to compromise, to give up parts of your life just to fit into mine. I won’t expect you to be the one making all the sacrifices, the one who has to keep up with the way my life moves. If we try again—if you let me have this chance—I promise I will learn how to meet you where you are.

And if you’ve reached here, but still don’t think this is worth it, I won’t try to change your mind. I won’t ask you for something you don’t want to give. But if there’s still a part of you that trusts me, that thinks this could work, then tell me. I won’t ask for anything more than that. Because I don’t want to let this slip away without knowing if there’s still something left to hold on to.

I can’t promise that things will be perfect, that we won’t have to figure things out as we go. But I can promise that I’ll try. That I won’t let the things that pulled us apart be the same things that keep us from trying again. I don’t know where this leaves us. But if there’s something still left here, I want to figure it out with you.

Lastly, I did not write this letter because I was too scared or not sincere enough to say this to your face. I wrote it because I needed to get it right, because if I tried to say all of this out loud, I don’t know if it would come out the way I wanted it to. Maybe I’d fumble my words, maybe I’d get caught up in everything I’m feeling and forget half of what I need to say. But this is everything, exactly as I mean it.

I’m sorry, I love you.

Seungcheol.

You read the letter once, twice, thrice, sitting down on the floor of your room. 

The first time, it doesn’t fully sink in. The second time, your eyes catch on certain words—the ring, I never stopped trying, I love you. By the third, you realize your fingers are gripping the pages too tightly, creasing the paper in places you shouldn’t.

You inhale, slow and shaky.

You should have expected this—you don’t know why, but you should have. Seungcheol was never the kind of person to leave things half-finished. He always had something to say, always had one more thing left in him, and now, even after everything, even after all this time, he’s still here. Still reaching for you in the only way he knows how.

The truth is—you believe him.

You believe that every word on this page is real, that he isn’t saying this just to pull you back into something fleeting. You believe that when he says he’ll meet you where you are, he means it. That when he asks if there’s still something left to hold on to, he’s not asking out of desperation—he’s asking because he’s ready to try.

And you trust him. 

The thought doesn’t surprise you much. You always have. Even when things fell apart, even when you told yourself it was better this way, even when you tried to move forward without looking back.

But now?

Now, he’s standing at the other end of the bridge, waiting. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re the only one crossing it.

Your hands tremble slightly as you fold the letter along its creases. You stare at it for a little longer as if the words might change. As if you haven’t already memorized them.

But nothing changes. And deep down, you know—you don’t need to read it again. You already have your answer.

You inhale sharply, then push yourself up from the floor, legs stiff from sitting too long. Your head feels heavy, maybe from the lack of sleep, or from the toll this has been taking on you. But as you grab your keys from the kitchen counter downstairs, you realize you feel lighter than you have in a very, very long time. You’re sick of being uncertain, of hesitating.

So you open the door, step outside, and let yourself believe.

—

Seungcheol hears the knock, quiet but firm.

It’s late—too late for visitors. Still, he moves.

When he opens the door, he doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s you and for a moment, he’s surprised that you’re already here.

You stand there, breathing a little hard, arms wrapped around yourself like you only just realized how cold it is. No jacket, no hoodie, nothing but the clothes you must’ve been wearing at home. Like you didn’t even think before coming here.

And in your hand, his letter.

Neither of you speak.

Your fingers press into the paper, grip just tight enough to crumple it. The porch light flickers slightly, your eyes flitting to it quickly, before they settle back on him.

Seungcheol holds his breath and steps aside wordlessy to let you in.

You step inside without a word, the warmth of his house settling over you the moment the door clicks shut behind you. It should be a relief after the bite of the cold, but it isn’t—it barely registers.

Because Seungcheol is right there.

Close enough that you can hear his breathing, see the way his fingers flex slightly at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He doesn’t say anything—not yet. He just watches you, gaze flickering from your face to the letter still clutched in your hand.

For a moment, neither of you move.

The silence isn’t unfamiliar. You’ve had silences like this before, the kind that stretched between phone calls, between airports, between too many things left unsaid. But this one is different. This one is hopeful—you can sense it.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the letter before you finally hold it out to him.

“I read it,” you say, your voice quieter than you expected.

Seungcheol swallows, his throat bobbing as he glances at the paper, then back at you.

He doesn’t ask what you think or demand an answer. He just waits. It’s something new, this patience of his, and it makes your heart twist in your chest. Your fingers finally let the letter slip from your grasp, setting it down beside you without looking away from him.

"You meant all of it?" Your voice is quieter than you expect, calmer than you feel.

Seungcheol swallows, his throat bobbing slightly. “Yeah,” he says, “I meant all of it.”

You nod, shifting slightly on your feet. The warmth of his house is pressing into your skin now, but it’s not the heat from the room that’s making your heart spike—it’s him. It always has been. It’s the way he’s looking at you, careful but so open, like he’s letting you see everything without saying a single word.

And the truth is, you already know.

You’ve always known.

The realization settles over you, sinks its teeth into your skin, and for once, you let it.

You step forward, closing the space between the two of you, hesitating only for a split second before reaching for him, locking your hands behind his back. It’s instinct more than anything else, something your body remembers even if your heart has spent so long pretending to forget.

Seungcheol stiffens—you can feel it. But before you can pull away, his arms come up to encircle your waist, warm and familiar. 

You don’t know how long you stay like that, but it’s long enough for the tension to slip from your body, for his hand to smooth over the curve of your back, for the ache in your chest to settle into something more subdued. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, his breath fanning against the side of your face as he holds you like he’s afraid to let go.

And then, slowly, carefully, you pull back just enough to look at him.

His arms stay where they are, his hands settling lightly at your waist like he’s afraid to let go.

His gaze flickers down, just briefly, before finding yours again.

You lean in first, but Seungcheol’s quick to meet you down, half-way.

He reacts immediately, like he’d been waiting for this—for you. His hands tighten on your waist, his breath stuttering for just a moment before he kisses you back, like he’s trying to make up for every second he lost.

His fingers slide up to cup your face, tilting your head just right, pulling you closer. You let him, let yourself get lost in it, in him, in the way he still kisses you like he knows you, like he’s never forgotten what you like, what makes you sigh against his lips, what makes you grip onto him just a little tighter.

And then, slowly, the urgency fades.

His thumb brushes against your cheek, your fingers relax where they’ve been fisted in his shirt, and for a moment, all you can hear is the quiet sound of your breathing mixing in the space between you.

When you finally pull back, it isn’t all at once. Your lips part, but your foreheads stay pressed together, noses barely grazing. Seungcheol exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself.

Your fingers loosen where they’d been clutching his shirt, but instead of pulling away completely, his hand finds yours. You let his fingers slip and tighten between yours, a small, relieved sigh leaving your lips.

Eventually, Seungcheol leans back slightly, but he doesn’t let go.

He exhales, then nods toward the couch. “C’mere.”

You glance at it before looking at him again. He probably sees a sliver of hesitation, but it’s not because you don’t want to. Rather because it feels surreal, too easy after everything. But then his fingers squeeze yours, just barely, and it’s enough.

So you go.

You settle beside him, not pressed together, not too far apart—just close enough. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and absentminded, like it’s second nature. It is, you suppose. It’s surprisingly easy to slip back into old habits after trying so long to ignore and forget them.

“You’re freezing,” Seungcheol murmurs after a beat, squeezing your hand lightly.

You hum, shifting a little to get comfortable. “I kind of didn’t think too much after I read the letter and just, well, came.”

Your gaze flickers to the coffee table, where a motorsport magazine sits at the top of a messy stack. The cover is creased, the pages slightly bent from being flipped through too often.

“You’ve been keeping up?” you ask.

Seungcheol follows your gaze before sighing, almost guiltily. “I tried not to.” He pauses before slowly wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Didn’t really work.”

You know how it feels. You never stopped watching his races either, even when you tried so hard to convince yourself that it was possible.

“Have you decided yet?”

He doesn’t pretend not to know what you mean. He breathes in deeply, tilting his head back against the couch.

“I told myself I wouldn’t take it.” Seungcheol says it with a sense of fake surety. He may believe it now. 

But sometimes you know him better than he knows himself. You know that Seungcheol has always had that fire in him. The burn to win, to be bigger, better. That ambition that you once respected, still do, but the same one that’s torn the two of you apart. The worst thing is that it is not something that can be dampened out. You can see it in his eyes, even now. His body is on a break, but you know that Aston offer has been running in his mind. Once you get addicted to that adrenaline, to that feeling of being the fastest person in the world, you can’t ever let it go. And Seungcheol isn’t anywhere close to being done. You know it.

And it hurts. Just a little, because you know he is about to leave again. Even before he’s made his decision, you know. But you have always loved Seungcheol and racing has been a part of his life almost as long as you have. You cannot take that away from him. You won’t. He belongs there, on track, in a car, fighting for his dreams and proving his worth.

You can only hope that he belongs here too, beside you on his couch, fingers running through your hair as he hums an old song under his breath.

But it’s about time you take that leap of faith again, and something tells you that you won’t fall down and scrape your knees this time.

The first time Seungkwan notices that something’s off, it’s on the late night coffee run that he drags the two of you to. 

Initially, he’d only meant to call you since you’re the only one who’d even come. So it surprises him to see Seungcheol behind you when you open your front door. Seungkwan doesn’t think much of it. Maybe he’s just here to give you something, or help you with something. Maybe there was a bug in your room and you yelled for him to come over and kill it. You do that sometimes. 

What other logical explanation would you have for him to be in your house past 10?

So thus, Mister Muscle ends up coming with you two, too.

In the convenience store, the cashier barely raises his head to look up at you guys, the glass door swinging shut behind you. Seungkwan heads straight for the coffee dispenser, mind running through all the tasks that he needs to complete before this week ends. File that report, write an email regarding missing documents from the 5th floor. Ask for an increase in vacation days. He needs to fix that printer tomorrow morning.

He notices you and Seungcheol move in sync without a word, making your way to the refrigerated drinks. He doesn’t follow immediately, and only watches for a few seconds as you pick out different drinks.

The store’s window seats are empty, so you slide into one, Seungkwan and Seungcheol taking the spots beside you. The glass reflects the neon signs outside, a soft glow spilling onto the counter in front of you.

Seungkwan tears open a protein bar, already mid-rant about something, while you set your drink down with a quiet thud, a mildly disgusted expression on your face.

Without a word, you reach for Seungcheol’s bottle instead.

You take it from his hand, twist the cap, and drink.

Seungcheol doesn’t react. Like it’s nothing, he just picks up your iced tea and takes a sip, barely glancing your way.

Seungkwan stops mid-chew.

Since when did you two start getting along so well? 

As the two of you look at him, expecting him to continue his rant, he convinces himself that it’s for the better anyway. At least some things are coming back to normal.

The second time, Seungkwan’s too sleepy to care at first.

He breathes out as he steps outside, barely awake, iced coffee in his hands but not doing much yet. His morning routine is automatic—walk out, wave to you, go to work. No thinking required.

But today, when he looks up toward your driveway, Seungcheol is there.

Seungkwan blinks, rubbing his eyes like maybe he’s still dreaming. But no, you’re definitely there, your metal water bottle in hand, listening to Seungcheol say something with that too-casual, too-familiar ease.

Seungkwan slows his steps.

You shift your bag higher up your shoulder. Seungcheol tilts his head slightly. 

Maybe Seungkwan’s still sleepy and bleary eyed, because for a second he swears he sees Seungcheol lean down to you. He also thinks you don’t move away either.

What was that?

And then it’s gone.

By the time Seungkwan gets close enough, you’re stepping back, tucking your keys into your pocket, like nothing just happened.

Seungcheol shakes his head, stretches his arms overhead like he’s just waking up, and steps away from the car when you finally notice him.

Seungkwan thinks you wave a little over-enthusiastically at 8 in the morning. Maybe you just slept well.

The third time, it’s at Jihoon’s house, just a casual hangout. The man had been isolating himself in his studio all week, and Seungkwan had thought that it was about time he came out of his hibernation.

Seungkwan sits cross-legged on the floor, next to the coffee table, searching for movies to play tonight. But when he looks up at you, his eyes narrow in on the way you and Seungcheol sit, way too close to each other when there’s so much space around you two.

It’s not even the way your legs bump every few minutes, or the quiet conversations you have that seem just a little too easy for two people who supposedly haven’t been together in a year.

Seungkwan finally begins to understand when he catches Seungcheol reaching for your hand. It’s so casual and normal that he doesn’t even think anything of it at first. It’s only when you glance up at him, after he fixes the bracelet on your hand that’s about to fall off, that he realizes.

It’s not a surprised glance, not a startled reaction, just a look that lingers. Like this isn’t the first time, like it won’t be the last.

And then, you smile.

It’s small, just barely there, but undeniably fond. Soft around the edges in a way that doesn’t belong to people still figuring things out.

And Seungcheol smiles back.

Seungkwan’s jaw drops slightly before he forces himself to tear his gaze away, feeling like he’s intruded on something very personal to them. He turns to look at Jihoon beside him, who only shakes his head, a small grin on his face.

“You knew?” Seungkwan asks, incredulously.

Jihoon doesn’t even look at him. “It really wasn’t that hard to figure out. Maybe you’re just a little dense.”

Seungkwan glares at him before turning his attention to you.

“Are you two back together again?”

“Yeah.” The answer comes out instantly, almost nonchalantly too. No hesitation, no second-guessing, just the simple truth, spoken like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Seungkwan blinks.

Jihoon huffs out a quiet laugh beside him, shaking his head like he saw this coming from a mile away.

He’s spent weeks piecing things together—watching, observing, feeling like he’s uncovering the fact that you two are starting to act lovey-dovey again—only to find out that you two have actually been back together this whole damn time?

He sighs sharply, rolling his eyes at the couple before turning to Jihoon again.

“So this is why you didn’t tell me.” Seungkwan swats his shoulder, “Pay up.”

Jihoon only sighs loudly, reaching into his pocket to pull out a neatly folded bill before wordlessly handing it over.

Seungkwan snatches it and shoves it into his own pocket.

“Thank you,” he says, voice smug.

You blink. “Wait—what?”

Seungkwan hums, crossing his arms pettily before leaning back into the sofa. “We bet on how long it would take you two to get back together.”

Your mouth falls open. “You bet on us?”

“Of course we did,” Jihoon mutters.

Seungcheol tilts his head, amused. “How long did you say?”

“Three months,” Jihoon answers.

Seungkwan scoffs, smug. “I said two.”

You fold your arms. “Wow. Love the faith you guys had in us.”

Jihoon shrugs. “You’re both kind of predictable.”

—

The house is quiet, the kitchen warm with the scent of food as you move around it together. It’s late, but neither of you are in a hurry.

Seungcheol stands behind you, arms locked at your waist. His breath on your neck makes you squirm a little, a small laugh leaving your lips. You twist in his grip, just enough to face him, and suddenly, you’re close.

Too close—the kind where your noses brush, soft and fleeting, as he tilts his head slightly.

Your breath catches for half a second, but Seungcheol just smiles, his arms pulling you in a little more. “What?” he murmurs, voice low, teasing.

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, nudging your nose against his in retaliation. “Can you just let me grab the plates in peace?”

He laughs—a warm, hearty sound—his forehead pressing lightly against yours. “I don’t really think you mind.”

Your fingers find their way around his neck before you even think about it, elbows resting lightly against his shoulders. Seungcheol hums and for a second, you think he’s about to kiss you when—

The front door unlocks.

Your stomach drops. Seungcheol’s arms fall away instantly, the warmth of his touch lingering even as you take a hurried step back.

“Oh.”

Your mom stands in the doorway, suitcase in hand, her brows lifting slightly as she takes in the sight of you both.

“Oh,” you echo, your voice a little too high, a little too fast.

Your dad steps in behind her, glancing up just in time to see the two of you standing too close, looking entirely too guilty. He blinks, his gaze shifting between you and Seungcheol, expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, he nods. “Huh.”

Seungcheol clears his throat, visibly struggling for words, one hand awkwardly scratching the back of his neck while the other hangs uselessly at his side.

You, on the other hand, want the earth to swallow you whole.

“Welcome back!” you blurt out, voice strained. “You’re early!”

Your mom eyes you suspiciously before turning to Seungcheol. “Yes, well, we caught an early flight. Didn’t realize you’d be here too, sweetheart.”

Seungcheol, to his credit, doesn’t completely crumble under pressure. He musters up a sheepish smile. “Just—uh—helping out.”

Your mom’s expression softens almost immediately, her eyes flickering between the two of you before she exhales, a small, knowing smile forming on her lips.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, setting her suitcase down. “It’s good to see you both like this again.”

Your breath catches slightly, throat tightening at the gentle relief in her voice. Beside you, Seungcheol shifts, his shoulders relaxing,

Your father doesn’t say much. He only claps Seungcheol on the shoulder as he moves past you two with the suitcases. But as he walks ahead, his voice drifts back to you, muttering under his breath.

“Who was it that said two months? Was it Jihoon or Seungkwan? Gotta pay them now, damn it…”

Seungcheol freezes. You blink.

What?

Your mom sighs, following after him like this is a normal conversation. “You can just be happy for them, you know.”

“I am happy,” your dad grumbles. “I just thought I had more time before I had to hand over the money. Those silly boys roped me into their bet.”

Seungcheol presses his lips together, struggling to hold back a laugh.

“Why has everyone been betting on us?” You exclaim, throwing your hands up as you turn to your father.

“Because it’s only ever been a matter of time when it comes to you two,” He sighs, shaking his head at the two of you as he disappears into his room.

You gape at his exiting figure, before dragging a palm over your face. “This is fucking insane.”

Seungcheol almost snorts, stepping away when you try to swat him.

Seungcheol is stretched out on the couch, one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone at an angle. You’re sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, skimming through something on your laptop, barely paying attention to anything beyond the soft hum of the heater and the occasional click of your keyboard.

It isn’t until the familiar sound of engines fills the quiet that you glance up.

His phone screen reflects off his face, but from this angle, you can’t see what he’s watching.

“Has testing begun?” You question, standing up to walk over to him.

Seungcheol grunts a little as he pushes himself up to make space for you, holding his phone out so that you can see too. He nods as you sit beside him, leaning into you as his eyes stay fixed on the screen.

You watch him, a little carefully. Seungcheol’s brows are furrowed in concentration and his eyes flick across, analyzing, checking. His fingers tighten around his phone slightly, his jaw set in focus. Every so often, his thumb taps idly against the side of the device, a habit he’s never really shaken. His eyes flicker across the screen, sharp and intent, following the cars as if he’s trying to place himself back in the cockpit.

You hum softly, resting your chin against your knee. “You’re still keeping up with everything?”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, finally leaning back against the couch. “Not really,” he says, but the way he doesn’t look at you makes it feel like a lie.

You don’t push, just let the moment pass as another driver’s onboard appears on screen.

“That car looks good,” he mutters, nodding toward one of them on screen. “Stable through the high-speed corners, barely any correction on exit.”

You blink, glancing at the timing bar. “Williams?”

He scoffs. “Yeah. But you can’t trust anything yet.”

“Sandbagging?” you guess.

“Mhm.” Seungcheol nods. “The bigger teams always run heavy in testing, low power mode. You won’t know their real pace until the first race.”

You glance back at the screen, watching as another car rolls into frame—this time, a deep green, with a small rake of aero sensors still attached to the side.

You hesitate for only a second before saying, “What do you think about them?”

Seungcheol doesn’t react immediately. He watches for a few more seconds, his expression unreadable, before he breathes in deeply.

“You never know,” he murmurs. “It’s just testing.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

Neither do you.

Instead, you think of the meeting you had yesterday, the offer sitting in your inbox—marked as important.

—

You don’t expect to see Seungcheol outside at 8 A.M. when you close your front door behind you and make your way to the driveway to go to work.

But there he is—standing by his driveway, shaking out his damp hair, dressed in a hoodie unzipped over a sweat-soaked shirt. There’s a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his gym shoes still on, like he just got back.

Your fingers pause over your keys. It’s early. Not too early for you, but early enough that he shouldn’t be up unless he had somewhere to be.

Seungcheol spots you almost immediately. His face shifts into something easy, something warm, as he steps closer.

“Morning,” he says, his voice still a little rough from the cold air.

You glance at him. “You’ve been out?”

He hums, nodding as he adjusts the strap of his bag. “Yeah. Gym.”

Your brows furrow slightly. “At this hour?”

Seungcheol grins, leaning in to press a quick, fleeting kiss to your lips before you can say anything else. But when he pulls back, you’re still looking at him, eyes narrowed.

“How long have you been up?”

He sighs like he already knows what’s coming, before tilting his head slightly. “Four?”

Your stare sharpens. “Seungcheol.”

He laughs, stepping back slightly, like he knows he’s caught. “What? I couldn’t sleep.”

You cross your arms, watching as he shifts his weight from one foot to another, fingers tapping absently against his duffel bag. He doesn’t look tired, but he doesn’t look at ease either. His body is still holding onto that restlessness that he hasn’t figured out how to shake.

“You’re working out a lot,” you say finally, voice careful.

Seungcheol shrugs. “It’s just habit.”

You watch the way his gaze shifts slightly, the way his shoulders tense.

And maybe you shouldn’t say it—at least, not yet. But the words slip out anyway.

“You aren’t used to not prepping hard around this time, are you?”

For the first time, his expression falters just slightly.

It’s quick—so quick that if you weren’t watching him this closely, you might have missed it. But it’s there. That brief flicker of something in his eyes, something unsure, something lost.

He exhales, looking away for half a second. “Yeah.”

You nod, watching him straighten up.

“But not this year,” you murmur.

Seungcheol tries brushing it off like it’s nothing. “Nope.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, carefully, you tilt your head. “And you’re okay with that?”

He doesn’t reply right away. It gives you the answer you needed. 

Deciding to put him out of his misery, you pipe up again, “Do you have any plans today?”

He laughs a little at that, “Yep. Busy schedule. I need to rot in bed, get out of my room, roam around the kitchen and go back in again until my girlfriend decides to come back home.”

You smile softly, before stepping closer, reaching up to fix a stray strand of hair sticking to his forehead. He stills for half a second before leaning into the touch, eyes flickering down to yours.

“I’ll see you when I get back, Cheol. I have something to talk to you about.” You admit as you step back.

He nods slowly, before motioning for you to get into your car. “Sure, I’ll see you then. Have fun at work!”

You shake your head as you shut the car door, putting on a sour expression. It makes him laugh, so you guess that’s half the mission accomplished for today.

—

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed when Seungcheol walks in, hair still damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans against the doorframe, watching you with a smile.

“You never knock,” you mutter without looking up.

“You never lock your door,” he counters, stepping inside like he belongs there.

You huff out a small breath, shaking your head as he settles onto the bed beside you. He stretches his legs out, arms propped behind him, fingers tapping lightly against your blankets. He’s comfortable, always is when he’s here, but there’s something knowing in his gaze, like he’s been waiting for you to speak first.

Seungcheol tilts his head. “You look like you’re overthinking.”

You press your lips together before sighing. “Maybe.”

He hums. “Want to tell me what’s up, or should I start guessing?”

You hesitate, picking absently at a loose thread on your sleeve. No point in dragging it out.

“I got a job offer,” you say.

His brows lift slightly. “Yeah?”

You nod. “It’s in the UK.”

Seungcheol doesn’t react right away. His fingers still against the bed, but there’s no visible surprise—just a slow, careful inhale as he absorbs it.

“That’s big,” he says after a moment. His voice is steady, even. “A good one?”

You nod again. “Better position, bigger projects.”

He watches you for a second longer. “And?”

You sigh, leaning back against the headboard. “And… I don’t know.”

Seungcheol adjusts his position so he’s facing you fully now. “You don’t know what?”

“If I should take it,” you admit.

He tilts his head. “Do you want to?”

You hesitate, the words catching somewhere in your throat. Because it’s not that simple, is it?

Seungcheol must notice because he doesn’t say anything right away—just waits, gaze unwavering.

“It’s not just moving—it’s starting over. A new city, a new routine. Everything changes.” You pause. “Including us.”

Something flickers in his expression, but it’s gone too fast for you to catch.

Instead, he exhales, nodding. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

You blink at him. “You’re not going to tell me I’m overthinking?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “No. I mean, you are overthinking, but it’s a big decision. You should take your time.”

You purse your lips. “And what if I don’t know what the right choice is?”

Seungcheol tilts his head, considering. “Then you think about what scares you more—taking it, or not taking it.”

His words sink in slowly.

You chew on your lip. “What if both scare me?”

He smiles, just slightly. “Then you take the one that moves you forward.”

For a moment, you just look at him.

“You always make things sound so easy.”

Seungcheol sighs, lips quirking. “That’s because it is.”

You shake your head, but there’s a warmth in your chest, the feeling of being sure and unsure at the same time.

After a few moments of silence, carefully, you say, “It’s funny, though.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What is?”

“How things happen at the right time,” you murmur, eyes flickering to his. “Me getting this now. And you with the—” You cut yourself off, shrugging slightly.

“The what?” Seungcheol asks, casually. Too casually.

You sigh, slumping down onto the bed, beside him. “Come on, Cheol. Aston Martin. They're based there too. How long are you going to make them wait?”

He runs a hand through his hair, “This isn’t the same thing.”

“Is it not?” You hum, waiting, still patient.

“No. This is different. You got an actual offer.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what did Aston give you? A suggestion?”

Seungcheol huffs, shaking his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

Seungcheol shuts his eyes close, breathing in deep. You know he doesn’t want to have this conversation now, but it hurts you to see him like this.

So you mutter, a little softer now, “How long are you going to pretend like you aren’t thinking about it?”

His gaze flicks to you at that, caught.

Seungcheol looks away. “It’s not about thinking about it. It’s about—” He stops, running a hand over his face. “It’s about if I even should.”

You’re not too surprised, but hearing it from him takes you aback for a second. Still, you don’t waver. “And what’s stopping you?”

“I don’t know,” He mumbles, quietly.

“Then try and figure it out, Cheol.” You say, still looking at him.

Seungcheol keeps quiet for a long minute before he sighs, a little reluctant. “What if I come back and I’m not good enough anymore?”

You shift closer, reaching out ,your hand settling over his. “Seungcheol.”

He doesn’t look up immediately, but he doesn’t pull away either.

“You know what I think?” you murmur.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles absentmindedly. “What?”

You squeeze his hand. “I think if you didn’t believe you could still do it, you wouldn’t be struggling with this so much.”

Seungcheol’s breathing comes out slower this time.

“You’ve been restless, working out like you’re still in pre-season,” you continue. “You follow testing, you analyze race strategy even when you pretend you’re just watching for fun.” You pause. “You’ve been waiting for someone to tell you to go back. But the only person who can make that choice is you.”

His jaw tightens slightly, like he knows you’re right but doesn’t want to admit it.

“I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” you add. “But I know you, Seungcheol. And you don’t walk away from things unless you know you’re done. And you know that you aren’t done with this. Are you?”

Finally, he looks at you.

Seungcheol’s throat bobs as he swallows. His fingers curl into the blankets, and when he finally exhales, it’s slow. Careful.

“No,” he says quietly.

You nod, like you knew this answer was coming. Because you did.

His fingers tighten around yours.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “I think I’ve always known.”

You smile, just slightly. “So what’s stopping you?”

Seungcheol exhales, but this time, he doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, his thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow, thoughtful. His gaze flickers downward. And when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter—more hesitant than before.

“…What about us?”

Your breath catches slightly, because you hadn’t expected him to ask that first.

He lifts his gaze back to yours, eyes searching. “If I do this,” he murmurs, “I’m going to be gone all the time again. I’ll be at the factory, traveling for races, testing. If I go back… I don’t want things to fall apart again.”

The words settle heavily between you.

Because he’s right.

If he does this, it’ll be different from before—but in some ways, it’ll be the same. He’ll be just as busy, maybe even more. And after everything you’ve been through, he’s scared that history will repeat itself.

You inhale slowly, squeezing his hand. “You’re thinking too far ahead,”

Seungcheol huffs out a quiet laugh. “Someone has to.”

You tilt your head. “Why do you always assume the worst?”

“I’m trying to be realistic.”

You pause, then gently, “Then be realistic about this, too. I don’t think we’re the same people we were back then, Cheol.”

His expression softens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“We already lost each other once,” you continue. “We know what it feels like. And I don’t think either of us wants to go through that again.”

Seungcheol swallows. “No,” he says quietly. “We don’t.”

You nod, voice softer now. “Then we won’t.”

Seungcheol exhales slowly, then sits up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck. For a moment, he just presses his palms against his knees, staring at the floor like he’s letting it all settle in. Then, with a slow breath, he nods.

You watch as he reaches for his phone, turning it over in his hands. His fingers hover over the screen for a second before he glances at you, something steadier in his gaze now.

“I should probably stop putting this off.”

You nod, lips curling slightly. “Yeah.”

He exhales, tapping at the screen, and just before he brings the phone to his ear, he glances at you one last time.

And this time, there’s no hesitation.

BAHRAIN, PRE-SEASON TESTING, DAY-1

February 25th, 2027

“CHOI SEUNGCHEOL RETURNS TO FORMULA 1 WITH ASTON MARTIN—SET TO WORK WITH ADRIAN NEWEY.”

After months of speculation, four-time world champion Seungcheol Choi is officially returning to Formula 1 with Aston Martin, marking one of the most highly anticipated comebacks in the sport’s recent history.

The Korean driver, who departed with Ferrari and stepped away from F1 following the 2025 season, will be rejoining the grid just as Aston Martin embarks on a new era of technical leadership under Adrian Newey. With Newey’s expertise in car development and Choi’s proven track record, expectations are already high for the team’s future.

“I’m excited for this next chapter,” Choi said in a statement. “Aston Martin has shown incredible ambition, and with Adrian on board, I have no doubt that we can build something special.”

His return raises questions about the competitive landscape of F1 moving forward, with Aston Martin aiming to challenge the front-runners in 2027. With pre-season testing in Bahrain starting today, all eyes will be on Choi as he steps back into the cockpit for the first time in over a year.

The Bahraini air is dry as usual, the morning sun bright across the paddock as the first day of testing begins. The garages are alive with movement—engineers making final checks, mechanics making last minute changes, cameras capturing every detail.

And at the center of it all, Seungcheol stands in Aston Martin’s green.

The suit fits like it always has. The gloves slide on without hesitation. When he pulls the balaclava over his head, it feels like no time has passed at all.

But it has.

He knows it. Everyone here knows it.

He breathes slowly as he steps toward the AMR27, sleek under the artificial lights of the garage. 

Seokmin crouches beside him, grinning like he’s been waiting for this day just as much as Seungcheol has.

“Well,” Seokmin says, knocking on his helmet lightly. “You look good in green.”

Seungcheol snorts, shaking his head. “Better than red?”

Seokmin hums, pretending to think about it. “The red was iconic. Give it some time.”

Seungcheol laughs, the sound being muffled by his helmet.

A familiar voice crackles through his earpiece.

“Alright, Cheol, let’s get you out there.”

Seungcheol glances at his steering wheel, a small smile pulling at his lips. He knew this was happening, but still—it feels surreal to hear his old Ferrari race engineer, still here, still speaking to him over the radio. Adjusting to a new team has been challenging, but this makes it a little bit easier.

And then, his gaze shifts past the mechanics, past the flashing screens, toward the edge of the garage to where you’re standing—arms crossed, standing just outside the blur of engineers, watching him like you always have.

This is right.

This is where he’s supposed to be.

You tilt your head slightly, smiling just enough for him to catch it. It’s small, barely there, but he knows what it means.

Seungcheol lifts a gloved hand, throwing you a thumbs up. It makes you smile a little wider.

Seungcheol rolls the car out of the garage and into the end of the pit lane, engine idling as he waits for the session to go green.

To his left, the Red Bull pulls up.

Seungcheol glances over just as Haechan does the same. Two time world champion now. Let’s see if we can keep up.

Without hesitation, Haechan lifts a hand and gives him a small wave.

Simple and casual. A ‘Welcome back.’

The light flicks green.

Seungcheol exhales, nods once and pulls out onto the track.

tagging: @sojuxxi @the-vena-cava @cl41rsblog @coupsma @stupendouschildnerd @selenethings @yawnozone @syluslittlecrows @angelarin @ceruissleeping @smiileflower @minjiech @stwrlightt @archivistworld @livelaughloveseventeen @exomew @starshuas @fancypeacepersona @znzlii @gyuguys @luxmoonlight @reiofsuns2001 @blckorchidd @teddybeartaetae @ddeulgiabs-blog @kookiedesi