scarletwinterxx

[scarletwinterxx]

for tonight and forever - choi seungcheol imagine

honestly i started writing this after watching a clip of cheol being sporty and my mind went yep i need it. i want this. so here we are😅 was listening to handlebars on repeat while writing this, I dont know but it kinda got that feels for it.

Also, if anyone's wondering like how i name/pick the other characters for my fics. Usually I just search who's the same age as them or a familiar name to me. Okayyy so thats all, enjoy!

you can follow me on x i usually rant there, niniramyeonie 😊🌻

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You don’t plan to pick a fight with Choi Seungcheol every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. He just seems to bring out the absolute worst in you. Or the best. Depends on who’s watching.

“Did you write another hit piece about the soccer team?” Seungcheol demands, jogging up beside you as you make your way across campus, his duffle bag slung over one shoulder like he’s in some kinda Nike ad.

You don’t even look up from your iced americano. “I wouldn’t call it a hit piece. I’d call it... journalism. Ever heard of it?”

He scoffs. “Right, because calling us ‘a glorified pack of sweaty golden retrievers’ is definitely objective reporting.”

“That’s not what I wrote,” you correct him calmly. “I called you a sweaty golden retriever. Singular.”

He stops walking. “Oh my god. I was the retriever?”

You glance over your shoulder and grin. “Obviously.”

It’s always like this. Snarky comments, stolen pens during class, endless bickering about your article deadlines versus his training schedules. 

It’s become so routine that your friends don’t even bat an eye anymore when they see you two “arguing” in the cafeteria. Or library. Or literally anywhere with oxygen.

But last week, when some overconfident guy from the economics department tried to get handsy with you at the freshmen welcome party, it was Seungcheol who appeared out of nowhere, expression dark, stepping in with all the intensity of a final championship match.

“She said no,” he growled, standing in front of you like a damn shield.

You didn’t even have to say anything. just blinked at the guy slinking away while Seungcheol turned around and gently handed you your phone, which had dropped during the whole mess.

And then, as if nothing had happened: “You owe me chicken for that, by the way.”

Now, a week later, he’s still hovering. Annoyingly. Warmly. Protectively.

You pretend you don’t notice the way he always walks you home after late-night publication meetings. You pretend not to care that he saves the extra strawberry milk from team snacks for you. You pretend a lot.

You make your way across the quad, weaving through a sea of students and the occasional electric scooter, when someone bumps your shoulder and you look up to see Exy walking beside you, sipping on her banana milk like she’s been waiting for this moment all day.

"Okay," she says, dragging the word out suspiciously, "are you sure nothing's going on between you and Seungcheol?"

You nearly choke on your breath.

“What—no. Ew. Why would you—absolutely not.”

Exy raises an eyebrow. “Right. So him showing up to your department’s booth last week with snacks ‘for the team’ but only handing you your favorite is coincidence?”

“He was probably just—being annoying,” you mutter, tugging at the strap of your backpack as your ears warm. “He does that.”

“Uh huh. And I suppose he was just ‘annoying’ when he waited outside in the rain for you after your night class because he ‘happened to be nearby’?”

“He did happen to be nearby!” you protest, eyes wide. “The gym is like two buildings away—he probably just finished practice—why are you smiling like that?”

Exy leans in, smug. “Because I’ve never seen you this defensive unless someone messes up the Oxford comma.”

You stop walking to glare at her. “You’re delusional.”

“And you,” she says, poking your arm, “are clearly in denial.”

You start walking again, faster this time. “He’s a varsity jock with too much hair gel and a hero complex. We’re oil and vinegar. Cats and cucumbers.”

Exy laughs. “Says the girl who let him carry her publication banner to the main hall ‘because his arms are already huge anyway.’”

You spin around, horrified. “You were eavesdropping?!”

“Please,” she snorts, “you were practically shouting.”

You groan and cover your face with your hands. “There’s nothing going on.”

“Whatever you say,” she sings, skipping ahead as your classroom building comes into view.

You glance up at the sky, as if the universe might send a sign to back you up. All it sends is a familiar voice yelling from behind you.

“Yah, you forgot your charger again!”

You turn around. Seungcheol jogs up, holding out the charger you left in the library. Again.

You blink. “How did you—?”

“Someone posted in the group chat asking if anyone lefit. Figured it was yours. You always have it wrapped around your planner like a weirdo.”

Exy coughs something suspiciously like domestic behind you. You shoot her a murderous look.

Seungcheol, oblivious or pretending to be, grins and tousles your hair like you’re a child. “Don’t fry your laptop this time.”

You swat his hand away. “Stop doing that!”

He smirks. “You love it.”

You glance sideways at Exy. She doesn’t say a word but her eyes say everything.

You hate everyone. Except maybe… not really.

=

The next morning Seungcheol slides into his usual seat near the back of the lecture hall, pulling his hoodie over his head as if it’ll make him invisible. He spots Exy a row down, already seated, legs crossed, notebook open, pen twirling between her fingers like a threat.

He stiffens.

If he’s being truly honest, Exy kind of scares the crap out of him. She’s all sharp eyes and sharper comebacks, like she was born knowing where to hit where it’ll bruise. No nonsense, no hesitation. Still, he respects the hell out of her.

You’re friends with her, after all. And if he can’t be there every second someone looks at you the wrong way, it’s good to know Exy would probably throw a chair at their head without blinking.

The professor hasn’t shown up yet, and the room is loud with casual chatter, laptops opening, chairs scraping. He’s halfway through unlocking his iPad when Exy turns around in her seat, pins him with a look.

“Okay. So what’s the deal with you and her?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Are you guys a thing, or are you just really committed to the whole ‘enemies but not really’ bit?”

Seungcheol scoffs. “We're not—there’s nothing going on.”

Exy raises one brow.

“I’m serious,” he adds quickly. “We just… bicker. It’s a thing.”

“A thing,” she echoes. “Like a romantic comedy trope kind of thing?”

He rolls his eyes. “No.” Then, quieter, “Maybe. No. Definitely not.”

She narrows her eyes. “You literally showed up to her department meeting with hotteok last week.”

“I was in the area.”

“Uh huh. And the three extra packets of brown sugar filling were also just… coincidentally for her?”

“She likes them,” he mutters.

Exy smiles, but it’s more amused than friendly. “You’re really bad at this whole ‘denial’ thing, you know that?”

He frowns, but it lacks real bite. “Look, even if—hypothetically—there was something, it’s not like she’d be into me.”

“She calls you a golden retriever.”

“Exactly.”

“She also let you walk her home three nights last week. You think she lets just anyone do that?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

Exy leans back in her chair, satisfied. “I’m just saying. If you’re not gonna do anything about it, don’t come crying to me when someone else does.”

The professor walks in before Seungcheol can reply, but her words sit heavy in his chest.

Because the truth is, yeah, maybe he is a little gone for you. Maybe a lot. But he’s not exactly sure what to do with all of it. So instead, he flips open his notebook and pretends he doesn’t keep glancing at the empty seat you usually take in the front row.

His day ends with another practice. He kicks off his cleats by the bench, the grass still clinging to his socks and sweat drying cold on his back. Practice ran longer than usual, Coach yelling something about footwork and finals being no excuse to slack off. 

But even with his body aching and the floodlights dimming one by one behind him, it’s not the drills or the scores that keep repeating in his head.

It’s Exy’s voice.

“If you’re not gonna do anything about it, don’t come crying to me when someone else does.”

He scoffs under his breath, ruffling a towel through his hair like he can shake the thought loose. He’s fine. You’re fine. Everything’s fine.

He’s just heading toward the front gate when he spots you.

You’re walking just a few steps ahead, cradling your laptop bag against your side like always. Head tilted, hair catching the orange glow of the street lamps, laughing.

His heart stutters for a second, because—God. He knows that laugh. Knows the way your shoulders shake when it’s something really funny. Knows that dimple you hate but can’t ever hide.

But it’s not the laugh that gets him. It’s who’s next to you.

Minhyun. Tall, clean-cut, business-major-Minhyun. The guy who spoke at orientation with the kind of voice professors wish they had. Charming, polite, good grades, good future.

Good with you.

Seungcheol stops walking without even realizing it. Just stands there half-hidden behind the practice fence.

You’re smiling at Minhyun. Like, really smiling. he hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t prepared for the twist in his chest seeing you like that with someone else.

Minhyun says something and you lightly nudge his arm, head thrown back, carefree.

Seungcheol swallows hard. He doesn't move. Doesn’t call out. Doesn’t let himself get closer. He just watches as you and Minhyun walk down the street, steps in sync, laughter echoing behind you.

And when he finally turns away, it’s with a bitter taste on his tongue and Exy’s voice louder than ever in his head.

The next day. The moment Seungcheol walks into the lecture hall, he doesn’t bother with his usual routine of slouching into his chair and pretending to scroll through notes.

Instead, he spots Exy, takes the seat next to her, and turns to her with the kind of urgency usually reserved for last-minute exam cramming.

“What’s going on with her and Minhyun?”

Exy doesn’t even look up from her notes. “Hello to you too, Seungcheol.”

“Yeah, hi, morning, what’s up with her and Minhyun?”

Exy finally looks up, pen still in hand, unimpressed. “Why?”

“No reason,” he says way too fast. “I’m just…curious.”

“Curious,” she repeats, in a tone that suggests she’s heard better lies from toddlers.

“Yeah. I mean—he walked her home last night, I saw it. They were laughing and all. It looked like they were, you know... close.”

“You were watching them?”

“I happened to be nearby,” he mutters. “They were loud.”

Exy hums like she’s already solved the entire situation and is now just watching him fumble. “You don’t have to worry, you know.”

“I’m not worried,” he says, almost offended. “I’m just making sure she’s not—like, getting her hopes up with the wrong guy. Minhyun’s… smooth.”

“You mean polite?”

Seungcheol frowns. “No, I mean, like, too polite. No one’s that nice without a reason.”

Exy snorts. “Well, lucky for you, there’s nothing going on.”

“What?”

“She’s not into him. She said he reminds her of a quiz app. Looks nice, says the right things, but kind of boring once you tap through the first few questions.”

Seungcheol stares at her. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“Her words, not mine.”

Exy eyes him. “Still just curious?”

“Completely,” he lies.

She leans back in her chair, smirking. “Uh huh.”

And Seungcheol tells himself he’s not smiling. Not really. Exy watches him for a beat, then leans in with the casual menace of someone about to enjoy herself way too much.

“Although,” she says slowly, drawing the word out like it’s bait, “if there’s someone you should be worried about…”

Seungcheol stiffens. “What?”

She rests her chin on her hand, all innocent curiosity. “Seo Youngho.”

He stares. “Who?”

“Youngho. From the music department. Plays guitar, super chill, kind of a walking Tumblr post. Ringing any bells?”

Seungcheol blinks. “The guy with the weird beanie? That’s who I should be worried about?”

Exy grins. “She helped him with one of his interviews last week. Apparently, they’ve been messaging back and forth for edits.”

“Messaging?”

She shrugs. “You know how it starts. A casual thank you turns into a compliment. A compliment turns into, ‘Hey, wanna grab coffee and talk about your creative process?’ Next thing you know, he’s writing her a song with metaphors that don’t make sense but sound romantic.”

Seungcheol’s mouth opens, then closes.

“That’s not even—he wears socks with pineapples on them,” he mutters.

Exy raises an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

“I’m just saying,” he grumbles, arms crossed, “she doesn’t even like acoustic guys. She said so. Once.”

“Oh?” she asks sweetly. “So you remember what kind of guys she likes?”

“I remember everything she says,” he snaps before he can stop himself.

Exy’s face does not help.

“…Just as friends,” he tacks on, immediately regretting every choice that led him to this moment.

She pats his shoulder like he’s a very dumb, very loyal golden retriever. “Sure, Cheol. Totally just friendly concern.”

He slumps in his chair and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like pineapple socks my ass.

Exy is still grinning when the professor starts the lecture.

Seungcheol spots you near the fountain, earbuds in, head buried in your phone, your steps a little bouncy like you’re walking to the beat of something catchy. Totally oblivious. Totally… you.

He doesn’t think before calling out, “Hey!”

You look up, surprised, but smile when you see him.

“Hey,” you echo, tugging one earbud out. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the gym or something? Yelling at cones?”

“Rest day,” he says, catching up to walk beside you. “Coach said we looked like overcooked ramen last practice.”

You laugh. “That’s gross.”

“He’s not wrong.”

There’s a small beat of silence, not awkward, just familiar. Then he casually drops it in. Smooth. Natural.

“So… you and Youngho?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“You’ve been texting? I heard you helped him with something?”

You squint like he just asked you to solve a math problem. “Youngho? I haven’t talked to him since like, the first week of classes? Why?”

Seungcheol falters for half a step. “Oh. I just—heard you were helping him with an interview or something?”

You tilt your head. “That was last semester. Wait, do you need his number or something?”

“What? No!” he says, way too fast, then clears his throat. “I just… Exy said you were talking. Thought it was a thing.”

You stare at him for a second before realization dawns. You smirk.

“Ohhh,” you say slowly, voice lilting. “She got you, didn’t she?”

He narrows his eyes. “What?”

“She totally messed with you.”

“I wasn’t—she didn’t—”

“You thought I was flirting with Youngho?”

“I didn’t,” he lies, every word defensive. “I was just… curious.”

You laugh, and it’s worse than any insult, because it’s light and teasing and just so smug.

“You’re so easy to mess with,” you say, shaking your head.

He glares at the pavement like it personally betrayed him.

You nudge him with your elbow, still grinning. “For the record, I don’t go for guys who write songs with moon metaphors and own six different scarves.”

Seungcheol tries not to smile. Fails. “So what do you go for?”

You look at him sideways, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

And you keep walking, earbuds back in, leaving him there on the path with his heart doing things it absolutely should not be doing.

=

Another day, another café.

You’re both hunched over your laptops, the small table between you a chaotic blend of charger cables, two half-finished drinks, your highlighters, his untouched notebook, and the occasional shared snack. 

He’s scrolling through something on his iPad that might be soccer strategies or might be memes you stopped asking. You’re typing furiously, earbuds in but not actually playing anything, more for mental defense than music.

the bell above the café door jingles. You glance up and spot Minhyun just stepping in, scarf around his neck, a familiar tote bag slung over his shoulder. He hasn’t seen you yet.

“Oh, that’s Minhyun,” you say casually, pulling your earbuds out.

Seungcheol doesn’t look up, just hums like it doesn’t mean anything. Which is a lie, because you see the way he pauses in the middle of scrolling, hand hovering just a second too long.

You wave, catching Minhyun’s attention.

“Minhyun! We’re over here!”

Seungcheol finally looks up, but he keeps his face impressively neutral, like he doesn’t care even a little. Which you don’t buy for a second.

Minhyun smiles as he approaches. “Hey, small world. I didn’t know you came here.”

“I practically live here,” you say. “You want to join us?”

Seungcheol opens his mouth—probably to protest, you can feel it coming off him in waves—but Minhyun’s already pulling out the third chair.

“Sure, if it’s okay.” He glances at Seungcheol politely. “Hey, man.”

“Hey,” Seungcheol replies with a nod that sounds like it costs him everything.

Minhyun settles in beside you, pulling out a book and a sleek little tablet. “What are you working on?”

“Publication layouts,” you say, already pulling one tab over to show him. “We’re redesigning the culture section.”

He leans in to take a look, and Seungcheol can hear the way your tone softens when you talk to Minhyun. friendly, focused, but soft. Not that it means anything. Probably.

He takes a slow sip of his lukewarm coffee, eyes flicking from you to Minhyun and back again.

He’s not jealous. He’s not. He’s just suddenly very aware of how close Minhyun’s chair is to yours. How you’re leaning in. How you laugh once, quietly, and nudge his arm with your pen.

Totally normal. Totally fine.

He pretends to look back at his iPad but spends more time glaring at his reflection in the dark screen.

You glance at him then, like you just remembered he’s there.

“You okay?” you ask, brows slightly knit.

He smiles, a little too tightly. “Perfect.”

You stare for a beat longer something flickering behind your eyes like you’re catching o n but Minhyun says something else and your attention shifts again.

Seungcheol exhales through his nose and taps his screen to life.

Perfect, his ass.

Minhyun stays for about an hour maybe less, but to Seungcheol, it feels like a whole semester’s worth of third-wheeling compressed into sixty suffocating minutes.

He doesn’t say much. Just watches. Watches how your voice dips into that soft, almost melodic tone when you explain things to Minhyun. Watches how you tilt your head, eyes crinkling just a little more when you laugh at one of his lame puns. 

Mostly, he watches how different you sound when you're talking to Minhyun.

It’s not that you’re fake. No, it’s worse. You’re genuine. Sweet. Thoughtful. Almost… gentle.

Nothing like the way you talk to him.

With him, it’s sarcasm, banter, eye-rolls and elbow jabs. It’s you calling him “musclehead” with your chin in your hand and the tiniest grin on your lips. It’s insults that somehow feel like compliments and arguments that stretch out longer than necessary just because neither of you wants to stop.

With Minhyun, it’s all warm tones and quiet understanding.

Seungcheol’s practically chewing through his own tongue by the time Minhyun checks his phone, apologizes with that polite smile, and stands to leave.

“I’ve got a meeting,” Minhyun says, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah, sure,” you say, smiling.

Minhyun nods at Seungcheol, who manages a grunt and what might be a nod or might be a twitch.

Then it’s just you and him again.

You sip your drink like nothing’s changed, like the air isn’t thick with tension across the table. He’s silent. Half sulking. Half glaring at the innocent sugar packet in front of him like it personally offended him.

You glance up. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Right.” You go back to typing, but you can feel his mood hanging in the air like storm clouds. “You sure?”

He finally looks up, brow furrowed. “Just wondering.”

“About?”

He shrugs, but it’s tight. Forced. “It’s impressive.”

“What is?”

“The way your entire voice changes when Minhyun shows up,” he mutters, eyes pointedly on his iPad. “It’s like I’m watching a romcom where the lead suddenly discovers she has range.”

You blink. “Are you seriously—?”

“Not that it’s any of my business,” he adds quickly, still not looking at you. “You can sound however you want. I just didn’t know you had that tone in your arsenal.”

You stare at him, amused and mildly annoyed. “You mean a normal tone? You want me to start cooing at you too?”

He glares. “No. Gross.”

“Then what, exactly, is your problem?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Crosses his arms. “…Nothing,” he mutters again.

You lean back, arms crossed to mirror him. “Wow. Someone’s sulky.”

“I’m not sulky,” he grumbles, sulkily.

You watch him for a moment, a smile creeping at the corners of your lips. “You’re totally jealous.”

He scoffs, eyes wide. “I am not—”

You raise an eyebrow.

“—jealous,” he finishes weakly, shoulders sinking.

You hum, satisfied. “Sure, Cheol.”

And you go back to typing, smirk hidden behind your cup, while he sits there, stewing in the mess he doesn't want to admit he's already in.

=

It’s game day. The campus field is packed. students gathered on the bleachers, the buzz of excitement in the air, banners fluttering in the breeze.

You're by the sidelines, bundled up in your oversized varsity jacket, press tag clipped to the hem, camera hanging from your neck. You've already snapped a few wide shots for the publication but you're really here for one thing. Or well… one person.

You spot Seungcheol jogging over, all athletic swagger and sweat-damp hair, pulling off his warm-up jacket with the kind of ease that makes the girls in the stands sigh a little too loudly. 

He’s scanning the sideline like he always does—and his eyes land on you immediately.

“Don’t get in the way,” he says, coming to a stop in front of you, chest rising and falling just a little faster than normal. “And don’t drop that camera again. Last time was—”

“Cheollie,” you coo, cutting him off in that voice, syrupy and infuriating. “You look so strong today. Are you gonna score a goal just for me?”

He freezes.

Right there on the turf, hands on his hips, mouth parting like the words got caught somewhere between his lungs and his brain.

“…Why,” he mutters, “why are you like this.”

You don’t answer. Just smile sweetly and lift your camera to get a shot of his stunned expression.

That’s when Yuta jogs by, slowing just long enough to glance between the two of you, brows furrowing.

“You good, bro?” he asks Seungcheol, wary.

Seungcheol doesn’t look at him. “No.”

Yuta looks at you. You give him a cheerful wave.

Yuta looks back at Seungcheol. “Okay, cool. Not my problem.” And he jogs off without waiting for a response. You stifle a laugh.

Seungcheol glares at you like he’s trying to burn a hole through your smile. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

You lift your camera. “Say cheese, baby boy.”

He groans, dragging his hand down his face. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” you chirp, snapping the shutter.

And as he jogs back onto the field, you catch it. that tiny twitch of his lips that betrays the fact that maybe, just maybe, he really doesn’t.

They win, of course.

Final whistle blows, and the field erupts. The crowd’s on its feet, cheers echoing across the bleachers as Seungcheol gets swarmed by his teammates, arms thrown over shoulders, shouts of victory mixing with the sound of cleats thudding against the grass.

You’ve already got the shot—the moment he scored, that raw burst of power and focus in his eyes. Pure, stupid perfection. You’re checking the image in your viewfinder when you hear your name being called.

Loud. Familiar.

You look up just in time to see him jogging toward you, grin wide, sweat-slicked hair falling into his eyes, jersey clinging to him like a second skin.

“Don’t even start,” he says, breathless, still high on adrenaline.

You don’t miss a beat. “My strong baby boy scored a goal just for me, huh?”

He freezes again, hands on his hips, jaw clenching like he’s trying so hard not to rise to the bait but his eyes are already dancing with fire.

And then—he lifts a hand.

“One…”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Two—”

It takes you half a second too long.

Your eyes widen. “Wait—”

You barely turn when he lunges.

You shriek, half laughing, half panicking, and bolt, camera bouncing against your chest as you take off down the sideline like your life depends on it—which, in this case, it kind of does.

Behind you, you hear him shouting your name between bouts of laughter.

“I swear—when I catch you—!”

You don’t dare look back. “You’ll what? Hug me? Thank me for the moral support?”

“Moral support?! You called me baby boy in front of my entire team!”

“You loved it!”

“YOU’RE DEAD!”

And that’s how you end up sprinting across campus, laughing your lungs out, camera swaying, heart hammering—not just from the chase, but from the way his voice sounded when he said your name.

You barely close the door behind you when Exy’s voice rings out from the kitchen.

“So,” she says, in that sing-song tone that always means she knows something, “how does it feel to be publicly chased down the sideline by Choi Seungcheol in front of, oh I don’t know, half the campus?”

You groan, dropping your camera bag to the floor with a dramatic thud. “Exy. No.”

“Oh, yes.” She leans against the counter, mug in hand, eyebrows up. “Do you know how fast my phone blew up? My friend from engineering said it looked like a scene out of a teen drama. One minute he’s scoring the winning goal, next minute he’s full-on sprinting after you like he’s ready to propose or commit murder.”

“He wasn’t—” you start, but she’s already smirking.

“You called him baby boy.”

“That was his fault!” you point accusingly, peeling off your jacket. “He was being all sulky and—whatever—I was just messing with him.”

“Oh, and then he chased you. Full speed. Zero hesitation. Definitely just bro things, right?”

You make a strangled noise and cover your face with both hands. “Exy, please. I’m going to melt into the floor.”

She sips from her mug. “So when are you two making it official?”

You drop your hands and glare at her. “There’s nothing going on.”

She snorts. “Sure. And I only like himbos with abs and no brain cells—oh wait, that’s true.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

“I am,” she agrees cheerfully. “But I’m also right.”

You dodge past her into your room, slamming the door shut with a dramatic groan, but even through the wood, you hear her yell:

“CALL HIM BABY BOY FOR ME NEXT TIME!”

=

You’re curled up in one of the worn-out lounge chairs, legs tucked under you, laptop balanced on your knees as you edit photos from yesterday’s game. The student lounge is half-empty, low buzz of conversation around you, the occasional clink of coffee cups from the vending machine nearby.

You hear footsteps and don’t bother looking up until a shadow falls over your screen.

Seungcheol’s standing there, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “You’re not gonna call me that again, are you?” he says, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s bracing for impact.

You don’t even blink.

“No more baby talk for you,” you reply flatly, scrolling through the thumbnails. “I’ve decided to retire that version of myself.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup.” You shoot him a quick glance. “Clearly you couldn’t handle it. Almost tackled me on school property.”

He slides into the chair beside you, sprawling with way too much comfort, his leg knocking gently against yours. “You ran. Like a criminal.”

“Because you counted down like a threat!”

“I was threatening you.”

You shrug. “Wasn’t very effective.”

He scoffs. “You screamed and ran. That’s literally textbook effectiveness.”

You glance at him, then back at your screen, lips twitching. “Still. No more soft talk. You’ve been cut off.”

He leans in, just enough that you can feel the warmth of his shoulder. “That sounds like a challenge.”

You raise a brow, not looking at him. “It’s a warning.”

He hums, and you can feel the smirk without even seeing it.

“Good,” he mutters. “Didn’t like you calling me that anyway.”

You side-eye him, slowly. “Then why’d your ears turn red?”

His jaw tightens. “They didn’t.”

“Okay, baby boy.”

“Yah—!”

You’re already laughing again as he flails for your laptop in mock betrayal, and the girl across the lounge glances over at the two of you, then whispers something to her friend.

Yeah. The rumors are probably already flying and somehow, that doesn’t bother you one bit.

“You get sulky when I talk soft with other guys,” you say, biting your grin, “but then when I do it to you, you hate it.”

He stares at you, deadpan. “That’s ‘cause you do it with spite when it’s me.”

You gasp, dramatically clutching your chest. “Spite? Cheol, I poured honey into my voice for you.”

“It was poisoned honey.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

He scoffs, leaning back like the weight of your crimes is too much to bear. “You didn’t say it to be nice. You said it to get in my head.”

“…And it worked,” you mutter under your breath.

“I heard that.”

You shoot him an innocent smile, and he groans, dragging his hands down his face before tossing his head back against the chair. “I’m never living this down.”

You tilt your head. “If it makes you feel better, I won’t call you baby boy anymore.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Thank God.”

You grin wider. “I’ll think of something worse.”

He whips his head toward you, eyes wide. “Don’t you dare—”

But you're already back to editing, humming like the angel of mischief you are, while beside you, Choi Seungcheol quietly braces himself for whatever fresh torment you’re cooking up next.

=

The music’s too loud, the lights are too dim, and the smell of cheap beer mixed with overpriced cologne is already giving you a headache.

You glance around the packed rooftop bar, surrounded by a sea of familiar-enough faces classmates, clubmates, the occasional TA trying to look younger than they are. 

You sigh into your cup, swirling whatever vaguely citrusy drink you’ve been nursing for the past twenty minutes. All you know is that it’s 10PM, your feet already hurt from standing too long in boots that looked better than they feel, and you’re three whole messages deep into debating if it’s too early to fake an emergency and leave.

You’re tucked off to the side of the open terrace, leaning on the railing, the city lights flickering in the distance. Your phone’s out, thumb hovering over your texts when—

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. That voice, equal parts smug and teasing, is practically branded into your brain at this point.

“You sound surprised,” you say, glancing up with a dry look as Seungcheol steps into view. He’s ditched his usual hoodie for a black button-up, sleeves rolled, hair swept just slightly back like someone definitely dragged him into looking decent for this.

He shrugs. “I am. I figured you’d be hiding in your room with tea and a face mask.”

“How do you know I do face masks on Fridays?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Exy talks. I listen.”

“You spy.”

You roll your eyes and go back to your drink, but you don’t move away when he leans next to you against the railing. Neither of you says anything for a moment.

The party rages on behind you But here, in this sliver of quiet under the glow of the terrace lights, it almost feels like you’ve stepped out of it.

“Seriously though,” Seungcheol says, voice a bit softer now, “what are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d try being normal for once.”

He chuckles. “And how’s that working out for you?”

You shoot him a look. “Horribly. I want to leave.”

He grins, bumping your shoulder gently. “Give it twenty more minutes. If it still sucks, I’ll make up a fake emergency for both of us.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’d do that?”

“What are friends for, baby girl?”

Your jaw drops.

“No. Absolutely not. You do not get to turn this around on me—”

But he’s already walking away, that stupid smug grin plastered across his face as you fume behind him, drink in hand, fully forgetting how much you wanted to leave just a minute ago.

Seungcheol’s gone for two minutes. Three, tops.

He’d left you leaning against the terrace wall, muttering something about grabbing real drinks this time—“not whatever watered-down lemonade that was”—and you’d waved him off, rolling your eyes but letting him go.

He doesn’t expect anything to happen in those few minutes. It’s a mixer, not a crime scene.

You’re still where he left you. Only now, there’s some guy standing way too close. One hand braced against the wall next to your head like a goddamn cliché, the other mid-gesture like he’s trying to impress you with whatever he’s slurring through his tequila breath.

But what sets Seungcheol off isn’t just the guy—it’s you.

Your arms are crossed tight, jaw clenched, your glare sharp enough to cut. It’s the look you give right before a verbal takedown. Or a physical one. And Seungcheol knows that look. He knows the way your shoulders tense when you're holding back.

He's by your side in an instant, slipping between you and the guy like it’s muscle memory.

“Hey,” he says, voice calm, low but there’s a warning threaded through it like steel. “You got a problem?”

The guy blinks, thrown off. “Huh?”

“She’s not interested.” Seungcheol doesn’t look away, doesn’t raise his voice but something about the way he stands, the way his eyes have gone cold and unreadable, makes it feel louder than a shout.

“Woah, man, chill,” the guy says, backing up a half-step. “Didn’t realize she was taken.”

You don’t say anything, but your eyes flick sideways to Seungcheol, and for once, there’s no smart remark waiting on your tongue. The guy mutters something under his breath and stumbles off, finally disappearing into the crowd.

Seungcheol turns to you then, brows drawn in concern. “You okay?”

You nod, a little slower than usual. “I was about to knee him in the groin.”

“Yeah. I figured.”

“Thanks.”

He exhales, finally relaxing, and hands you your drink. “Next time just deck him. I’ll vouch for you.”

You snort. “Thought you said you didn’t want to get kicked out of school for assault.”

“I said me. You can get away with anything.”

“Even calling you baby boy in public?”

He groans. “Don’t push your luck.”

You spot her before she spots you which is exactly three seconds of peace before her eyes lock in and her grin goes full shark mode. Exy, armed with a drink in one hand and chaos in the other, pushes her way through the crowd like a woman on a mission. 

“Let’s dance,” she announces the second she’s close enough, already reaching for your wrist.

You jerk back instinctively, eyes wide. “No.”

“Oh, yes,” she counters, looping her fingers through yours. “You’ve been standing like a moody wallflower all night. Come on, I’ve got the perfect song.”

You shoot a panicked look at Seungcheol, who’s beside you sipping from his drink with all the calm in the world. Your eyes practically scream: Help me.

He doesn’t even blink. One second you’re getting tugged forward, and the next you’re yanked right back, a firm arm locking around your waist like a seatbelt.

You barely register the movement before your back hits Seungcheol’s chest, his drink still in one hand, his other arm cinched around you like he does this all the time.

“Sorry,” he says, voice casual, cheek resting near yours as he stares Exy down. “She’s busy.”

You blink, stunned, heat crawling up your neck as the crowd seems to muffle around you.

Exy raises both brows, lips twitching. “Busy?”

“She’s got a prior commitment,” Seungcheol says smoothly, sipping his drink. “With me.”

Exy smirks, shaking her head slowly. “Wow. Okay. Fine. I’ll find someone else to humiliate on the dance floor.”

“You do that,” Seungcheol says, not letting go.

She gives you one last teasing glance before disappearing into the crowd. And still he doesn’t let go.

“Nice save,” you say quietly.

“Anytime,” he murmurs, chin brushing the side of your head. “My reflexes are scary good.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore how loud your heart’s gotten. You stay there, tucked against him, the bass of the music rumbling through your bones but somehow, with Seungcheol’s arm still around you, the chaos of the party feels… muted.

Comfortable, even.

“Are you gonna let go?” you ask, only half teasing.

He shrugs behind you, arm unmoving. “You looked like you were in danger. Can’t be too careful.”

You tilt your head slightly, cheek brushing his collarbone. “Of Exy? She’s five-two and dances like she’s summoning demons.”

“That’s exactly why I stepped in.”

You laugh quietly, your fingers curling slightly around the hem of his sleeve. Neither of you moves to create space. Not even a little.

After a beat, he says, voice lower now, more honest, “You sure you’re okay here?”

You glance up at him, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“Just…” he pauses, eyes scanning your face. “You looked like you wanted to bolt earlier. Thought maybe the crowd was too much.”

You blink. It’s not the question itself. It’s the way he says it—like he noticed. Like he always does.

Your voice is soft when you answer. “Yeah. It was a lot. But... this helps.”

He watches you for a moment longer, then nods once, like that’s all he needed to hear.

“Okay. Then I won’t move,” he says simply.

And he doesn’t. You stay like that standing there in the middle of a rooftop party you never wanted to be at. with Seungcheol wrapped around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like there’s nowhere else you’re supposed to be.

And maybe, just maybe, he’s thinking the same thing.

=

It’s late afternoon,  you're in the library seated across from Minhyun, half your things spread out. Supposedly working. Mostly talking.

“Well, someone has high standards,” Minhyun says, leaning back in his chair with a smirk, arms crossed like he’s cracked some great mystery.

You raise a brow. “I’m sorry?”

He shrugs, clearly enjoying this. “Just saying. You always complain about guys being boring, or messy, or not knowing what a double space after a period is.”

“Okay, that last one is basic formatting decency,” you argue, sitting up straighter. “I shouldn’t have to date someone who thinks microsoft word automatically fixes their laziness.”

He snorts. “See what I mean? High standards.”

You wave a hand. “It’s called not settling. I have taste.”

“Oh, you definitely have taste,” he agrees, mock-thoughtful. “Just not anyone specific in mind?”

“Nope,” you say quickly. Too quickly. You’re back to flipping through your notebook like it suddenly got interesting.

He narrows his eyes, amused. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

You glance up, expression innocent. “What?”

“You’ve got that look,” he says, pointing at you like he’s found a clue on a crime show. “The guilty one. You’re hiding someone.”

“There is no one,” you insist, biting back a laugh. “I would know. I live in my own head, unfortunately.”

Minhyun leans forward, elbows on the table now. “So you’re telling me not a single guy has caught your attention lately? Not even, I don’t know, a certain varsity soccer player with the world’s most punchable smirk?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you definitely do.”

You’re halfway through forming your next liesomething about how you barely talk to Seungcheol anyway when Minhyun just grins and goes back to his notes like he hasn’t just lobbed a truth bomb across the table.

And despite your best effort, your brain is now helpfully supplying you with a memory: Seungcheol’s arm around your waist, the solid press of his chest behind you.

You clear your throat, suddenly hyper-aware of the heat in your cheeks.Minhyun doesn’t say anything more but the look on his face says everything.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

You freeze, mid-sip of your drink, caught red-handed by absolutely nothing.

“I’m not thinking about anything,” you say way too defensively, setting your cup down a little harder than necessary. “I’m thinking about this—this paragraph on media ethics. Because that’s what we’re here for. Academics.”

You kick him under the table. Lightly. Mostly.

He grins, rubbing at his shin. “Ow. Abuse. I’m telling Exy.”

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, burying your face in your notebook.

“And you’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. It’s cute.”

You groan. “Minhyun, I swear—”

“I’m just saying,” he cuts in, leaning forward again, his voice more teasing now, “I don’t think it’s nothing.”

You don’t answer right away. You’re too busy pretending to reread the same line over and over. But inside, your brain is spinning. Because maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s not nothing.

But saying it out loud? That feels like something big. Something you’re not ready to hand over just yet.

So instead, you glance up and deadpan, “I hope you spill your coffee on your notes.”

Minhyun laughs again, loud enough to get a side-eye from the librarian but he doesn’t push.

What you didn’t know is that a few rows down in the same library, someone else caught the whole scene.

Kim Mingyu, long-limbed and tragically loud even when he’s trying to be quiet, had been on a solo mission to actually study for once in his life. He’d just settled into a corner with his econ notes and a banana milk when his gaze drifted, purely by accident, toward one of the study tables across the floor.

And there you were. With Minhyun. Laughing. Smiling.

Leaning in just close enough that if someone didn’t know you, they’d absolutely mistake that for flirting. Honestly, even if they did know you, they might still mistake it. Because there’s something about the way you kicked him under the table, the way Minhyun grinned like he won something, the way you laughed afterward that.

Mingyu blinked. Watched for another beat. Then slowly pulled out his phone.

Mingyu: yo. ur girl’s flirting with someone at the library rn lol Seungcheol: who Mingyu: The girl? Seungcheol: The guy, you idiot Mingyu:Oh Mingyu: Minhyun. They look cute, close too. Seungcheol: k

Mingyu stared at the typing bubble for a moment. It blinked in. Blinked out and that was it.

Meanwhile, on the other side of campus, Seungcheol stared down at his phone, jaw ticking just slightly. He told himself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t his business. That you weren’t his.

But that didn’t stop the quiet, unwelcome twist in his chest. Didn’t stop him from wondering just how close “close” meant.

He gives it a few seconds maybe ten. Just enough time for the screen to go dark, for his reflection to stare back at him in the glossy black glass. His jaw’s tight, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Mingyu’s message sits there like it’s daring him to react.

He tries to ignore it but fails. before he knows it, he's swiping up, hitting your name in his contacts, thumb moving like muscle memory.

“What?” your voice comes through, casual and distracted, like you didn’t just launch yourself into the back of his mind and set up camp there. “I’m in the library.”

“I know,” he says, and it comes out sharper than he means. He clears his throat, tries again. “I just… what are you doing?”

There’s a beat. Then a quiet, “Homework?”

“With Minhyun?”

“...Do you have a problem with that?”

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “No. I mean—no. Just asking.”

“You sound weird,” you say, more amused than anything. “Wait—did something happen?”

He wants to say no, because this is ridiculous. He has no right to be calling. No claim. No excuse.

But instead, what comes out is, “Were you flirting with him?”

Dead silence. Then a laugh “What?”

“I’m just asking,” he snaps, defensive now. “Mingyu saw you two. Said you looked... close.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, half-laughing. “Did you really just call me because of something Mingyu said?”

“I didn’t call because of him,” he says quickly. “I called because—”

He cuts himself off. Because what? Because he didn’t like the idea of someone else making you laugh like that? Because the thought of Minhyun sitting across from you, pulling that easy smile out of you, made something coil tight in his stomach?

You’re still waiting on the other end.

“Because I wanted to hear your voice,” he finishes, quieter now. Honest.

You go silent. He hears the distant rustle of papers, a soft sigh.

Then, you say, “You’re ridiculous.”

He almost smiles. “Yeah.”

“And needy.”

“Only a little.”

“I’m hanging up now,” you say, but you don’t.

He leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on nothing. “Okay.”

Your phone buzzes again barely five seconds later. You glance at Minhyun, who raises an eyebrow, clearly seeing the caller ID flash across your screen. You mouth one sec and pick up, standing up from your seat

“You better not be talking to him with that baby voice shit you do.”

You laugh a full, startled laugh that earns you a glare from a nearby student and a very entertained look from Minhyun.

“Oh my god,” you say, still grinning. “Are you actually spiraling right now?”

“I'm not spiraling,” Seungcheol grumbles, voice low and half-muttered. “I’m just saying. You do that thing—your tone gets all soft and sugarcoated and—ugh. I don’t want to hear that being used on anyone but me.”

“First of all, you hated it when I used that voice on you.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because when you do it with me, it’s annoying. When you do it with other guys, it’s... threatening.”

You snort. “Threatening?”

“To my sanity, yeah.”

You shake your head, amused and maybe a little flattered in the most chaotic way. “So what, you want me to reserve the baby voice exclusively for you now?”

He’s quiet for a beat too long. Then—

“...Maybe.”

You nearly drop your phone from how fast your hand flies up to your face.

“You are unreal, Choi Seungcheol.”

“I just know what’s mine,” he says, all confidence now, like he didn’t just blurt that out by accident. Your smile softens, just a touch.

“I’m still in the library,” you murmur.

“So?” he replies. “Not like I can kiss you through the phone.”

You pause. That was... not a joke. Not fully. And your heart? Oh, it flips.

You swallow. “Then maybe stop calling unless you're ready to make that kind of statement.”

There’s a long, loaded silence.

Then, low and smug, he says, “Good. So you were thinking about kissing me.”

You hang up and across campus, Seungcheol laughs to himself like he’s just won the lottery.

Practice is the last thing on his mind. The sky is bleeding orange over the field, the kind of late afternoon glow that usually helps him lock in, focus up. 

But Seungcheol’s head is somewhere else half on your voice in his ear earlier, half on the way you hung up on him like you were flustered out of your mind, and maybe a little on how good that felt.

He’s tying his cleats on the sidelines when Mingyu drops onto the bench beside him, kicking his legs out like a golden retriever who just learned how to stretch.

“You know what’s funny?” Mingyu says, not even pretending to ease into it.

“No,” Seungcheol replies flatly, not looking up. “But I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

“I texted ‘your girl’s flirting at the library’ and you didn’t even ask who I was talking about,” Mingyu says, all grin. “Just went straight into panic mode.”

Seungcheol freezes for half a second before continuing to tighten the laces. “I wasn’t panicking.”

“Oh no, not at all,” Mingyu drawls. “You were calmly accusing her of using her baby voice on other men within seconds.”

“I was just—checking.”

“Sure,” Mingyu says. “Checking. Out of concern for her academic productivity.”

Seungcheol glares at him. “Do you need to be like this?”

Mingyu slaps a hand over his chest dramatically. “I’m just being a supportive friend.”

“Supportive friends don’t act like tabloid reporters.”

“Supportive friends call it like they see it, and what I see is a man deep in denial about being down horrifically bad.”

Seungcheol grabs a water bottle and takes a long sip just so he doesn’t say something that proves Mingyu exactly right.

Mingyu leans in, eyes twinkling. “You like her.”

“She’s annoying.”

“You like her.”

“She talks to me like I’m a five-year-old.”

“You’d let her step on you if she asked.”

Seungcheol gives him a deadpan look. “You good?”

Mingyu shrugs. “You’re not denying it.”

Seungcheol exhales, tipping his head back, letting the fading sun hit his face. Mingyu, satisfied with the tension in the air but not quite done poking the fire, stretches his arms overhead, lets out a content sigh, and adds, far too casually:

“But, like... they do kinda look cute together, don’t they? Minhyun and her.”

Seungcheol’s head snaps up so fast Mingyu almost flinches.

“What did you just say?”

Mingyu fights back a grin, trying to keep his tone innocent. “I mean, he’s got that polite, nice guy thing going on. She’s sharp, a little mean—classic opposites attract. Balance, y’know?”

Seungcheol’s jaw ticks.

“They don’t balance,” he says, too quickly. “Minhyun’s too bland for her.”

Mingyu raises a brow, delight practically radiating off him. “Bland?”

“Yeah. She’d eat him alive. He’d fold at the first sign of an argument.”

“And you wouldn’t?”

“I fight back,” Seungcheol snaps, and then immediately realizes how that sounds.

Mingyu full-on cackles.

“There it is! There’s the alpha wolf! Jesus, dude, chill before you end up headbutting someone.”

Seungcheol scowls and tosses the ball at Mingyu’s gut lightly, but with just enough force to make it a statement.

Mingyu catches it with a grunt, still laughing. “So defensive. You sure she’s not your girl?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer this time. Just turns toward the field, jaw set, hands on his hips, trying and failing not to think about how close you and Minhyun had been sitting.

=

The following day you barely make it five seconds into sitting across from him at the student lounge before you're hit with the weight of his mood.

Seungcheol’s already there when you arrive hood up, arms crossed, textbook open but clearly untouched. His eyes flick up when you slide into the seat across from him, but he doesn’t say anything. 

You squint at him. “Okay. What’s this vibe?”

“What vibe.”

“The one where you’re one exhale away from challenging someone to a duel.”

“Dramatic.”

You tilt your head, resting your chin on your palm. “Did Mingyu say something again? Did he beat you at something? Or is it because of—” you pause, catching the flicker of something in his eyes, “—Minhyun?”

Nothing but that nothing is so loud, it may as well be a full confession.

You grin. “Oh my god. You’re sulking again.”

“I’m not sulking,” he mutters, refusing to meet your eyes

“You have sulking energy. Your entire aura is sulk.”

He slams the book shut “Why him?”

“What?”

Seungcheol looks at you then, eyebrows slightly furrowed, like he’s genuinely annoyed but underneath, there's something else. A little unspoken frustration. Maybe even jealousy, thinly veiled.

“Minhyun,” he says. “Why do you laugh like that when you’re with him?”

You stare at him, lips parting, unsure if you’re hearing him right.

“Are you seriously asking me why I laugh at jokes?”

“I’m asking why you laugh differently.”

You lean back in your seat, slowly crossing your arms, lips tugging into a smug smile. “Choi Seungcheol... are you jealous?”

He narrows his eyes. “No.”

“You’re so jealous.”

“I’m just observant,” he grumbles.

You lean in, resting your elbows on the table. “You know, if you wanted me to laugh like that with you, maybe try not scowling at me the minute I sit down.”

He snorts, finally just barely  “Then stop using your baby voice on other guys.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, laughing. “You’re never letting that go, huh?”

He leans back, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not until you start using it where it counts.”

And just like that, the mood shifts. The sulk might still be there but so is the smirk. 

Then he says it. Just like that, out of nowhere. No warning. No buildup.

“And don’t think I forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

No break. No pause. Not even a breath.

“You thinking about kissing me.”

Your brain screeches to a halt. “What—”

“I heard you,” he says, leaning in, smug etched all over his stupidly handsome face. “You said it yourself. ‘Then maybe stop calling unless you’re ready to make that kind of statement.’ Which means you were thinking it. Which means—”

“That is not what I said,” you argue, pointing at him like that’ll physically push the words back into his mouth. “You twisted it. You butchered it.”

“Oh? So you weren’t thinking about it?”

“I was—hypothetically speaking. There’s a difference.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. “So you admit you thought about it.”

You gape at him. “That’s not—no! I was talking about you! You were the one flirting over the phone—”

“I was flirting?”

“‘I wanted to hear your voice,’” you mimic, dropping your voice into a painfully off-key version of his deeper tone. “That’s you! That’s textbook flirt!”

He shrugs, completely unfazed. “Did it work?”

You glare. “I hung up on you.”

He grins. “Exactly. You panicked.”

You stare at him for a full three seconds. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet,” he says, like he’s delivering some grand conclusion, “you’re still here.”

You want to throw your pen at him. But more than that, you want to wipe that smug look off his face.

Unfortunately, kissing him would do exactly that. Which is why you don’t. Not yet.

You just mutter, “Don’t flatter yourself, Choi,” and flip open your notebook, pretending to focus.

But from the way you can feel his eyes on you, you know this isn’t over. Not even close. He doesn't let up. In fact, he leans in.

Elbows on the table, eyes locked on yours with that sly smile that should be illegal on campus grounds. Close enough that you can smell the faint traces of his cologne, like pine and trouble.

“And yet,” he murmurs, smug and slow, “you’re blushing, babygirl.”

You freeze. Eyes wide. Brain empty. Heart somewhere doing backflips against your ribs.

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me—”

His smile deepens, utterly pleased with himself. “Hit a nerve, did I?”

“I am not blushing—”

“You are.” He points lazily, like he’s stating the weather. “Right there. Your cheeks. Like strawberries.”

You slap both palms against your face. “Stop looking at me—” He laughs, leaning back like he just won a championship match.

You glare at him through your fingers. “You think this is funny?”

“Hilarious.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re adorable.”

“I hate you.”

“Sure, babygirl.”

You grab your pen like a weapon. He raises his hands in surrender, still grinning like the devil in a varsity hoodie. But Seungcheol? He’s already forgotten the rest of the world exists. Because all he sees is you. Flustered, indignant, glowing red and still sitting right there across from him.

And he’s never felt more victorious in his life.

=

It’s been a few days, but nothing’s changed.

If anything, he’s gotten worse.

Now Seungcheol’s teasing comes armed less banter, more ambush. One second, he’s making fun of how you chew your pen when you’re focused, the next he’s casually dropping something like, “Careful, keep doing that and I’m gonna think you’re trying to distract me, sweetheart.”

Which, of course, earns him a full-on attack with your highlighter. Or your notebook. Or, once, your water bottle though to be fair, that was more of a warning toss.

He just dodges, laughs, and runs off like the menace he is, usually calling a smug “You’re obsessed with me!” over his shoulder while you try not to chase him down and tackle him in the middle of campus.

It’s a game now, and he plays to win.

Which brings you to now. another game day, your camera bag slung over your shoulder as you take your usual spot on the sidelines. The stadium is buzzing, the sky starting to dip into dusk, and you’re setting up your lens when something drops over your head.

You flinch, camera instinctively cradled to your chest, and yank the thing off only to find yep. A varsity jacket.

Not just any jacket. His jacket.

You turn around instantly, already knowing who it is.

Seungcheol stands a few feet away, casually stretching like he didn’t just try to blindfold you. He’s grinning, loose and cocky, in that way that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Sun’s setting,” he says innocently. “Didn’t want you to catch a chill.”

You hold up the jacket like it’s evidence at a crime scene. “This almost took me out, Choi.”

He shrugs. “Worth it. You look cute in it.”

Then you narrow your eyes, lips twitching. “You just wanted me to wear your jacket”

Seungcheol raises a brow. “Wouldn’t complain.”

“You are—so—insufferable.”

He starts backing away toward his team, still grinning. “Still wearing it though.”

You glance down at the jacket in your arms. And yeah, you do pull it on but only because it’s cold and definitely not because it smells like pine and trouble and home.

The game starts, the first half going like the usual but then it happens. It happens fast, too fast to process. One second, the ball’s moving upfield in a blur, and the next, a player slams into Seungcheol. Hard.

You hear the collective oof ripple through the crowd as his body hits the turf, legs folding awkwardly beneath him before he rolls over, clutching his side.

Your heart lurches to your throat.

The ref’s whistle blows sharp and loud, halting the game. A few players drop to a knee. Others stand, tense and quiet. You grip your camera like a lifeline, frozen on the sideline as medics rush the field.

You lift the lens with trembling fingers, trying to keep it steady as they kneel beside him, talking quickly, checking something near his ribs. 

They help him to his feet slowly, his arm slung around one of the staff, weight uneven. He’s limping, favoring his side, jaw clenched. But even from here, even under the stadium lights, you can see him trying to brush it off, like he’s fine.

He’s not fine.

They help him off the field, and the game resumes minutes later but without him. You keep scanning the benches. The sidelines. The crowd.

He’s gone.

And you can’t move. You want to, but your job—your literal responsibility—keeps you stuck at the sideline. Camera still in hand. Fingers still numb.

Every few minutes, you steal glances again, just to be sure you didn’t miss him coming back. But his spot on the bench stays empty and your chest feels a little like it’s folding in on itself.

Meanwhile Seungcheol is in the locker room, the small medic room too quiet. 

He’s pissed. Not the kind of pissed where he’s throwing things or yelling. no, this is the quiet kind. The boiling-under-the-surface, jaw-locked, muscles-tense kind. 

The kind where he has too much adrenaline and nowhere to put it.

The medic room is too white. Too still. And he hates how sterile everything feels, how he’s being told to rest when all he wants to do is get back out there and finish the damn game.

He leans back against the padded table, an ice pack strapped to his ribs, shirt halfway off. His phone’s on the bench across the room, untouched. He hasn’t looked at it once.

The door creaks open and Yuta steps in, still in his cleats, jersey grass-stained, hair damp from sweat.

Seungcheol sits up straighter. “What’s the score?”

“We won,” Yuta says, casually. “2-1.”

Cheol exhales, but there’s no relief in it. Just more frustration. “Should’ve been out there.”

“Yeah, well,” Yuta shrugs, peeling off his gloves. “Not much you could do with half your ribs probably cracked.”

“Not cracked.”

“Probably,” Yuta repeats.

Seungcheol glares at the floor.

There’s a pause before Yuta jerks a thumb toward the hallway. “By the way. Your girl’s outside.”

Cheol’s head snaps up. “What?”

“Yeah. Pacing like she’s about to wear out the floorboards,” Yuta smirks. “Muttering something about rules and how you’re stupid and reckless and honestly, she sounds more pissed than you.”

Seungcheol’s already sliding off the table.

“You’re not cleared to leave, bro,” Yuta calls after him.

“Then tell the medic I’m stretching my legs.”

Yuta raises both brows. “Stretching your legs or going to get yelled at?”

Cheol throws his shirt over his shoulder, heading for the door. “Probably both.”

The second he steps out, he sees you. Right there across the hallway, arms crossed, pacing a tight little loop like you’ve got fire under your feet. 

You don’t even notice him at first too busy muttering to yourself like you’re rehearsing a speech that ends in murder. Then you hear the door shut.

You whip around.

“Choi Seungcheol—”

Oh, yeah. He’s definitely about to get yelled at.

“You absolute idiot,” you start, marching up to him. “What part of take care of yourself did you not understand? You got wrecked, Cheol—rammed, like you were nothing but a traffic cone—”

“I’m fine,” he says, calm but slightly amused. “See? Walking. Breathing. All parts attached.”

“Don’t you dare try to joke your way out of this—”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You narrow your eyes. “Then why the hell did you try to get up like you were fine? You were obviously in pain—”

“I was fine.”

“You couldn’t even walk straight.”

“Okay,” he admits, “mostly fine.”

You throw your hands in the air. “Unbelievable.”

He just watches you, eyes softening, lips quirking at the corners. “You were worried.”

“Of course I was worried. You're—” You stop. Catch yourself. Almost let the words slip.

He steps closer.

“Say it.”

You glance away. “No.”

“Say it.”

“No, because you’ll get that smug look like you’re about to win something—”

“I already feel like I did.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s thudding too loud to ignore. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And yet,” he says, his voice dropping just a little, “you’re still here. Still yelling. Still wearing my jacket.”

You look back up, intending to retort—but he’s already looking at you like that.

Like that. Warm. Steady. Quietly proud. And maybe a little in love.

You glare at him “You’re impossibl and you’re stubborn.”

He replies back, smiling as if he isn’t nursing a few bruised ribs“You look good when you’re mad.”

“I’m gonna throw your cleats at you.”

“Sure, babygirl.”

You lunge. He laughs then winces.

You freeze instantly. “Wait—are you okay?”

“Still sore,” he admits. “But worth it.”

Your voice is quieter when you say it this time, like the wind got knocked out of your chest but you still needed to say it anyway.

“You scared me.”

Seungcheol’s smile falters just a little.

“I know.”

You shake your head, staring at him, hard. “No. I mean it, Cheol. I—I couldn’t even see where you went after they helped you off the field. You weren’t on the bench. No update. No text. Nothing. I just had to stand there, holding a damn camera, wondering if you—”

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice gentler now. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You never do,” you cut in. “But you keep getting in these stupid plays like you have to carry the whole team on your back or something. You don’t always have to be the one who takes the hit, Cheol. You're not invincible.”

He watches you for a long beat. Then takes one step closer. Then another.

“You done?”

You blink. “No.”

He’s close now. Arms open, head tilted down to look at you fully like he always does. “Good. Get it all out.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re literally smiling—”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning openly now. “Because you’re here. And yelling. Which means you care.”

You glare “Of course I care. You big dumb idiot—”

“Babygirl ”

“Don’t babygirl me right now—”

“I’m gonna.” He grins wider. “Because I like the way it makes you flustered.”

“Seungcheol—”

“I promise,” he says suddenly, cutting through your spiral. His tone drops. Softens. Steadies. “No more of that. I’ll be more careful. I won’t disappear on you. I’m okay. I’m really okay.”

You narrow your eyes, watching him like you’re still deciding if you can believe him. “I swear, if you ever scare me like that again, I will end you.”

He holds up a pinky. “Scout’s honor.”

“How many times do I have to remind you, you were never a scout.”

He smiles that boyish handsome smile, showing the dimples on his cheeks

“Still counts.”

You’re about to shoot bac another sarcastic comment, another dramatic eye roll but he doesn’t wait. He just opens his arms and tugs you in like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s done it a thousand times before.

Your face presses against his chest, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing. Slower now. Calmer. Warm.

“I need a hug,” he says softly, chin resting against your hair. “So shut up for like five seconds.”

You sigh, but you don’t move. Don’t push him away. Your arms loop around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his jersey. He’s warm. Solid. Here.

“I still hate you,” you mumble.

He chuckles. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m your idiot.”

You swat at his ribs.

He flinches and tightens his arms around you. “Hey! Injury!”

“You’re lucky I don’t aim lower”

He hums, a low sound in his chest. “Still not letting go.”

“Don’t,” you whisper.

He doesn’t.

=

He’s halfway through zoning out when it happens.

Sitting near the back of the lecture hall, earbuds in, one arm slung over the back of the empty chair beside him, pretending to review his notes but really just rereading the same sentence for the fifth time. 

His brain’s still somewhere else. Specifically that night a few nights ago when he got pulled out of the game. If he’s being honest, it was worth it. He might not have been there for the winning goal but it felt like he was the MVP that night.

Then the chair next to him creaks. He doesn’t need to look to know who it is.

Exy’s presence is impossible to miss. She’s got that smirk today, too, the one that makes him instinctively brace for something. She doesn’t say hi.

Just, “So.”

Seungcheol glances at her warily. “So…?”

She tilts her head, pretending to think. “What are we calling it now? Friends who hug like their lives depend on it? Friends who give each other heart attacks on the field?”

He sighs, already exhausted. “You really don’t have anything better to do?”

“Nope,” she says cheerfully. “Just here to make sure you’re emotionally stable before you inevitably do something stupid.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Yet.” Exy leans back, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded. “But you will, because you’re both stubborn idiots who think prolonged eye contact and light bullying is a form of communication.”

“You’re very dramatic for someone who wasn’t even there.”

“Didn’t need to, I have eyes everywhere” she says

“What do you want, Exy?”

She shrugs “Just making sure you know what you’re doing.”

“I do.”

“Do you?”

Exy leans in, not unkind, but unrelenting. “Look. You like her. Obviously. And she likes you back. Also obvious. But if you’re gonna keep doing this—whatever this is—just make sure you’re not playing tug-of-war with her heart. She’s a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to. She sees it anyway, in the way his shoulders tense, the way his hands curl into fists on his thighs. The quiet kind of protective that never quite fades, even when he’s sitting still.

Exy softens, just a little. “She really does care, you know.”

He nods. “I know.”

Exy watches him a moment longer, like she’s trying to decide if she should keep going or let him sit with his own thoughts.

Spoiler: she keeps going.

“You know what she likes, right?” she says, drumming her fingers against the desk. “The reason she messes with you so much? It’s because you never say what you mean unless it’s wrapped in sarcasm or some post-goal adrenaline.”

Seungcheol scoffs. “And you’re suddenly her spokesperson?”

“Please,” Exy says, rolling her eyes. “I’ve known her longer than you. She’s my roommate, my soul sister, sometimes the voice of reason. You get what I mean”

He shoots her a glare. She ignores it.

“She likes straightforward guys,” she continues, voice a little more serious now. “Not the ones who get jealous in the corner and stew in silence, not the ones who pretend like they don’t care. She wants someone who shows it. Not in a weird ‘mine mine mine’ way, but like… make it clear.”

Seungcheol leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his mouth. “I don’t want to come off—”

“Possessive?” Exy finishes. “Yeah, you already are but neither of you acknowledges it. But you know what she likes more? Feeling chosen. Loudly. Publicly. Like, no room for guessing.”

He’s quiet again. Processing. Thinking.

She nudges his leg under the table. “You don’t have to post her on Instagram with a cheesy ass caption. But you do have to stop pretending like you’re just ‘hanging out’ when the whole campus already knows you’d deck someone for even looking at her sideways.”

He lets out a breath, more exhale than sigh. “…You think she really likes me back?”

Exy looks at him like he’s said the dumbest thing she’s ever heard. Which, in fairness, he might’ve.

“Seungcheol. She ran to the locker room after you got benched. She paced like a worried girlfriend. She lets you hug her in front of people. She calls you baby boy.”

His ears go red instantly. “That was—she was teasing—”

“She blushed,” Exy says, shaking her head. “That’s like her version of a declaration.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then another. Then, “So what do I do?”

Exy shrugs, getting up as the professor finally walks in. “You stop being a coward. And you start making it obvious or atleast more obvious than you already are”

She pauses, smirking down at him. “Starting now would be ideal.”

Later after his last class, he waits for. Like he always does, you never asked why you’re just used to it now. 

You’re already mid-rant about your journalism group,voice going a mile a minute. Something about missed deadlines, broken printers, and the absolute disaster that is your publication’s group chat.

He’s barely said a word, just walking beside you with that small smile tugging at his lips, watching the way your face scrunches when you get fired up, the way you skip a step when you’re being dramatic on purpose. 

The sun catches your hair, and he wonders again how he got so gone. Maybe it slipped between the banters, the teasing, the walks after class. Just like this one. 

He can’t even recall what campus life was, or his life, was before you. You’ve become that one constant in his everyday routine. From countless morning coffee runs, to late lunch hall trips to late night convenient store runs. He doesn’t know just when he became your first call, but he doesn’t mind. You’re his first person he’d call too, if he’s having a great day or a bad day or he just needed a break from all the madness.

 You don’t even notice when he slows down, steps dragging just a bit more than usual.

Too busy talking, you reach back with one hand and grab his, tugging without even looking at him. Intertwining your fingers with his like you’ve done it before. 

“Anyway, I told him, if you turn in your draft the day after deadline again, I’m going to start publicly shaming you—”

But he doesn’t budge.

You stop mid-step, turning. “What—?”

He’s looking at your joined hands. Not in shock or hesitation. Just… lingering.

You follow his gaze and blink down, like just realizing you were holding his hand. Then back up at him, one brow raised. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you, your hands and then at your face like he’s trying to memorize something.

“What,” you say again, a little more cautious this time.

“You always do that?” he asks, voice low, just a little amused. “Grab my hand like it’s nothing?”

“You were walking like a grandpa. I didn’t want to miss the bus.”

He laughs softly. “Right.”

You tilt your head. “What’s going on with you?”

He shrugs, but doesn’t let go of your hand. In fact he holds it firmer “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” you tease.

But he’s not smiling now. Not fully. He takes a step closer, just enough to make your hand drop between you. 

His voice is quieter when he says, “You really don’t know what you do to me, do you?”

Your heart skips. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes meet yours, all steady, no teasing this time. “You hold my hand like it’s nothing. You call me baby boy in front of my teammates. You yell at me when I get hurt”

You open your mouth to say something anything but he cuts in, voice soft but serious.

“I’m making it clear now. I like you. Not just for the banter. Not just when it’s easy.”

He squeezes your hand, not hard. Just enough.

“I want to make it obvious.”

Your heart is thudding in your chest now, and for the first time in a while, you’re the one struggling for words. But your hand tightens back around his, and your mouth twitches like you’re fighting a smile.

“You’ve always been obvious, you growl at other guys if they so much so look my way” you joke

He scowls at you, “Here I was being genuine and sweet”

You smile small at first, a little shy, but then it breaks wider, soft and warm and so you.

But since you’re you and he’s him, you reply back

“I guess I just never said anything because you didn’t either. But we both knew, we both know what this really is. Good to know you finally got your big boy pants on and say it loud and proud”

He lets outs chuckle, looking down at you. He tucks in the few strands of hair blown by the late afternoon wind, his other hand still holding yours.

And like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you just pick up where you left off. “Anyway, as I was saying—this guy? He sends in drafts written like a text message. Like, full-on ‘LOL’ and emoji placeholders. I wish I was joking, Cheol.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, not because of the story but because of you. The way you bounce back so easily, how nothing ever feels awkward with you for long. One minute you’re standing still while he’s basically confessing on a quiet campus path, and the next you’re dragging him toward the bus stop with your fingers still looped with his.

He glances down at your hands. Intertwined. And you’re not letting go.

You’re still talking, still dramatically reciting the tragedies of group projects and typos that somehow made it to print, but your thumb brushes against his like it’s always been meant to be there. And he’s just… listening.

Not saying much. Not needing to.

Because this? This moment your voice in his ear, your hand in his, your familiar little eye-roll when you notice him smiling too long is everything.

And there's nowhere else he’d rather be. This right here has been the ultimate goal all along.

=

A FEW MONTHS LATER.

The first thing he hears when he opens his eyes?

Your voice. Of course.

Not soft, not dreamy, not the gentle cooing kind of morning wake-up call some people probably expect from their girlfriends. 

No. yours is sharp, brisk, and deeply exasperated.

“Choi Seungcheol, I swear, if you forget your cap, I’m not turning around this time. We’re not missing line-up just because you take three business days to get ready—”

He groans, arm flopping across his eyes as he cracks a smile. “Good morning to you too, jagi”

“You’re impossible in the mornings,” you mutter, rifling through a bag near the foot of the bed. “I don’t know why I agreed to be the responsible one in this relationship.”

He peeks at you through his lashes, hair still a mess from the night before, lips pressed in that familiar line that says you’re trying not to smile even as you’re scolding him. 

Still you. Unmistakably, unapologetically you.

And for some reason, he feels full just watching you.

Because today’s the day. Graduation. The end of all-nighters and library corners and half-serious bickering in cafes. The end of walking across campus as “friends” with a mile of tension between you and the start of something else.

“Are you even listening to me?” you ask, exasperated, already halfway to the mirror to fix your hair. “The trip, Seungcheol. We leave next week. And you have that early training thing right after we get back, so if we don’t get everything packed—”

He pushes himself up slowly, stretching, watching you spin through your checklist with military precision.

“—and your mom said she wanted photos after the ceremony, so don’t disappear with the team, okay? And please don’t forget to eat before we leave, I’m not dealing with you fainting in full gown and—”

You’re cut off with a kiss. Firm, quick, not giving you a chance to back away or dodge it like you do sometimes just to be difficult.

You blink at him. “What was that for?”

He grins, thumb brushing your chin. “You’re cute when you’re bossy.”

You swat at him, cheeks flushed. “Shut up.”

He tugs you back gently, arms looping around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder from behind. “You know, when we first met, I thought I’d lose my mind if I had to listen to you nag me every day.”

You snort. “Charming.”

“But now?” He kisses your temple, voice soft. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

You roll your eyes, but your hands come up to rest over his anyway.

“Better not,” you murmur, the edge in your tone barely there. “You’re stuck with me now.”

He smiles against your skin, eyes slipping shut for one more second.

You. Still you. Still loud. Still quick to argue. Still calling him out when he needs it but now he can shut you up with a kiss. Now, you’re his. Officially. Publicly.

Somehow he managed to distract you enough to pull you back in bed but you’re still talking.

Even now, knees planted on either side of his hips, straddling him in the middle of your shared chaos of a room. gown half-steamed and a to-do list longer than your patience. You’re going off about last-minute logistics.

“You didn’t charge your camera last night, did you? You said you would, and if it dies while my parents are taking photos, I swear to God, Seungcheol—”

He’s not even trying to keep up anymore. Not with your words, at least.

Just… watching you. The way your brows furrow when you’re pretending to be mad. The way you keep adjusting your hair like it’s not already perfect. The way you’re sitting on top of him like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

And your voice filling every inch of his morning like it always does.

He thinks, Yeah. This is it. This is what he wants every morning to be like. Even if you’re nagging him. Especially if you’re nagging him.

You lean forward a little, pressing your hand to his chest like you’re trying to make a point. “Seriously, if we’re late, Exy is going to murder us both. Don’t give me that look—”

“Babe,” he says, laughing softly.

“No, you always do this—you smile and nod and then forget everything I said—”

“Babe,” he says again, pulling you down gently, your face just inches from his now. “I love you.”

You blink. Mouth still parted mid-rant. Eyes just a little wider. And that second of silence? It might be his favorite part of the whole morning.

He grins. “Like, really, really whipped for you.”

Your expression twists somewhere between smug and flustered. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“Hopeless.”

“Absolutely.”

You huff and try to sit back, but he doesn’t let you, arms locking around your waist.

“I’m serious,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Call me whipped. Call me down bad. I don’t care.”

He presses a kiss just below your jaw, and your fingers twitch slightly where they rest against his shoulders.

“I’ll take all of it,” he adds. “If it means waking up to you. Every single day. Nagging and all.”

You try to look unimpressed, but your lips betray you with the softest curve of a smile.

“You’re such a sap.”

“You love it.”

And you do. Maybe a little more than you’d ever admit out loud.

So you lean down, brushing your nose against his, and mutter against his lips, “Only if you remember the damn cap this time.”

You kiss him, once. Twice. “And I love you, too”

He laughs again head thrown back like you’ve just handed him the world.

There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

The door swings open, the morning sun spilling across the hallway as you bolt out in full momentum. heels clicking against the tile, hair slightly tousled from your last-minute panic fix, your phone clenched in one hand and a rolled-up copy of the graduation itinerary in the other.

“—and I told you,Cheol, if we don’t get to the hall before they start locking seat assignments, I am not begging some underpaid volunteer to let us in. And no, don’t give me that look, you were the one who decided to iron your shirt twenty minutes before we had to leave—”

He follows behind you, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. His cap is still crooked, tassel flipping wildly in the breeze, and he doesn’t seem to care in the slightest. 

Not when you’re out here looking like that radiant and already halfway to combusting because of a scuffed shoe or a forgotten pin or God knows what else.

You keep going, barely glancing back. “—and I can’t believe you tried to bribe Exy with iced coffee so she wouldn’t tell me you forgot to RSVP to the post-grad dinner. You know she’s lactose intolerant—”

“Babe.”

“—and then there’s still the trip itinerary we haven’t finished, your mom’s gift still needs wrapping, and I told you at least four times to print out your boarding pass just in case—”

“Baby,” he says again, stepping closer now, his hand brushing your wrist.

You spin toward him, full of momentum and indignation, your mouth already open to launch into another paragraph of minor disasters and contingency plans.

But he just cups your face in both hands, warm and sure, and pulls you in.

Kisses you. Firm and fast. You freeze, lips caught mid-word. Your eyes flutter open in surprise, brows drawing together.

He pulls back a half second later, grinning. “Hi.”

You blink, processing.

And then, just like that, “Anyway, as I was saying—if we don’t get to the photo op on time, your sister will murder us both, and you still haven’t replied to the family group chat—”

He kisses you again.

You make a muffled noise into his mouth, both hands lifting in frustration that he can never let you finish a proper thought.

He pulls back again, looking far too pleased with himself. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

You glare. “I swear—”

Another kiss. This one longer.

This time, when he pulls back, you're breathless. But still stubborn.

“I hate you.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m smiling because I’m two seconds from kicking your ass in front of your entire graduating class.”

He grins, nose brushing yours. “Still worth it.”

You push lightly at his chest, trying to turn away. “We’re going to be late—”

He kisses you again before you can take a step. And again. And again.

It becomes a pattern. every time you open your mouth to talk, he just silences you with a kiss. They’re quick at first, just small interruptions. But the more you fight him, the longer they stretch. The slower they get. Until you’re not even trying to speak anymore—just giggling helplessly against his mouth as he pecks you one more time, then another, and then another.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumble into his shoulder, finally giving up, forehead resting there while he loops an arm around your waist.

“You love it.”

“Debatable.”

“You love me.”

You groan dramatically. “God, don’t remind me.”

He laughs, light and easy, kissing the top of your head as you both start walking again, fingers intertwined, the rush of the morning finally slowing down.

And somewhere between the bickering and the kisses, the nagging and the laughter, it settles in:

You’re still you. He’s still him.

But now… it’s official.

Caps and gowns, travel plans and futures ahead. Whatever comes next—training camps or late deadlines or burnt breakfasts—he’ll have you. And you’ll have him.

Even if he’s five minutes late. Even if you never stop nagging.

Even if the only way to shut you up is kissing you breathless at the door every single morning.

[scarletwinterxx]

see u🤭🫣🤭🫣🤭🫣🤭

[scarletwinterxx]

I remember I sent an ask a while ago and I'm not sure if i missed you answering it or it didn't go through bc I had connection problems atm or if you just didn't want to answer which is fine too lmao.

But just in case it just didn’t go through, I wanted to let you know that I liked your Choi Seungcheol fics so much, especially The Archer!

I'm not a carat and don't know much of svt but I heard of them through my cousin which got me into bts previously earlier this year too. So I've been listening to their music and been up to date with them (more or less) for a couple months.

So that's what brought me here jaja. Hope you get to write lots more if that's what you want!! And if that brings more Seungcheol fics (dad Seungcheol?? 👀😆🥰) I'm sure to eat em up.

Hope you're doing well!

Hellloooo ~ omg yes sometimes tumblr does this thing where it says i have a message and when I check its not there🥺😭

But helloooo welcome, so glad you enjoyed my stories. Also svt content is top tier so if you’re just getting into them I suggest watching going seventeen episodes😂 and yessss there will be more fics in the future 🫣😊 have a great day too✨️✨️

[scarletwinterxx]

Hiii

Just dropping by to let you know I have t moved on from “how long before we fall in love” and I don’t think I will anytime soon!

I come to your profile to read some random parts.

I can probably say that about more of the stories too

Thank you for writing for us ♥️

Thank you. Really. 🥺 it always makes my heart feel fuller whenever I read comments thanking me for my stories and saying they enjoyed it. I'm glad that my overworked brain and imagination can make something beautiful and be appreciated by others too🥺

It makes all those sleepless nights a bit more worth it🤍

[scarletwinterxx]

Author's Note

I have said before that i will never write about that man ever again, but after all the news and truths that were uncovered today it felt too much again. I didn't feel a single ounce of pity or remorse for him. He deserves more than 7 years in prison for what he and his accomplices did. It was heinous, it was disgusting. They dont deserve to live another normal day after destroying someone's life.

It's sad that the punishment he will get is 7 years in prison. 7 years. Only 7 years compared to the lifetime horror and trauma they caused to the victim.

My thoughts and prayers to the victim, no words will ever erase the pain and trauma she went through. All I hope is she finds the strength to heal and find peace.

[scarletwinterxx]

i reaaally love your fics, they're keeping me company late nights like a sweet hug and i must say i need seokmin fics from your talent I JUST KNOW THEY WILL BE AMAZING 🤌🏻😭🖤 do you have plans on writing for seokmin🥺

hiiii ~ first thank you so much🥺 and second yes, i do have a plot for a seokmin fic. i have lots of work to do but it will be out, just cant say when🥺😭 expect all the fluff there as usual☺️🤭

[scarletwinterxx]

Just read how long before we fall in love and omfggggg it was so GOOD!!!! The build up was wonderful and I was melting as I read it 🙏🙏

I'll be honest... when I wrote HLBWFIL I was word vomiting in the first scene, like i honestly didn't know how it would go i just know i needed a ceo cheol fic and I want both of them to be nonchalant but also obviously very into each other🫠😅 the scene in the car, the almost first kiss I really went back and forth with that and then I thought yea it'll be more romantic if they didn't kiss sksksksks one of my fave detail about the whole story is the bar receipt, I used to do that too like keep trinkets & random stuff to remember that moment.

Alsooooo there was supposed to be a scene with the other boys like cheol & oc went with the others and the others got drunk first while she was all chill😂 i couldn't add it here since theres a limit so in the end I had to cut it from the final draft.

In the end it turned out better than expected and OH MY GOSH I NEVER anticipated the love it received 🥺 but tysm🤍🩵🩷

[scarletwinterxx]

hii!! I came across your seungcheol fic, how long before we fall in love, recently and started to binge read your other seungcheol fics and let me tell you, they're so cute😭😭 I really love your writing, they make my inside warm and fluffy, and I'm sure I'll enjoy reading the rest of your work! 💗

Hellloooo welcome🩷 & thank u so much🩵 if you’re looking for more fluff, you came to the right place😊😅

[scarletwinterxx]

pull up - hong joshua imagine

i had soooo much fun writing this🥺 like it's sooo joshua coded i hope you get what I mean when you read it, also it's been a while since i wrote a joshua fic. lowkey gatekeeping the fluff bcs he's my bias but also i want everyone to feel what i feel while i was writing this so hope you enjoy🤍

ALSOOOOO while writing this, i had two songs i felt was perfect for this. Kinda helped me with the vision. It's I Really Like You bu Carly Rae Jepsen and goodnight n go by Ariana Grande.

you can follow me on x i usually rant there, niniramyeonie 😊🌻

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You notice him on a Tuesday.

Which is strange, because Tuesdays are usually your most half-hearted gym days. Mondays are for fake enthusiasm. Wednesdays are for convincing yourself you're halfway through the week and therefore invincible. But Tuesdays? Tuesdays are for regretting all your life choices while trudging on a treadmill and pretending not to hate everyone around you.

But then he appears.

Tall. Built like someone who owns multiple foam rollers and actually uses them. His hair is tousled in that “I totally woke up like this but in an expensive shampoo commercial way,” and his eyes—oh God, his eyes—are these wide, soft things, like they were stolen from a Disney deer. If Bambi decided to bulk up and develop a jawline.

You try not to stare. You fail.

He doesn’t look like a brooding gym type. No aggressive grunting. No primal chest thumps. No mirror selfies. Instead, he quietly sets up at the far corner near the free weights, earbuds in, hoodie on despite the heat. Private, maybe. Or shy. Or both.

You spend longer than you'd like to admit trying to figure out if he's intimidating or just doesn’t like people.

There's a difference, you think. Intimidating guys usually flex unnecessarily and wink at you when you’re just trying to do lunges without dying. This guy? He barely makes eye contact with anyone. When someone walks too close to his bench, he politely scoots over without making a fuss.

It's almost disappointing.

Because if he was a jerk, you could just write him off and move on with your life.

But no. Instead, he has the audacity to stretch quietly in the corner with perfect posture and soft eyelashes and forearms that look carved out of daydreams. Who even looks like that at your local gym? This isn’t Hollywood.

And you, meanwhile, are pretending to know how to deadlift properly while sneaking glances like you're trying to memorize the periodic table. You are not slick.

At one point, he catches you mid-glance, and for a brief, painful second, you both hold eye contact.

Your brain short-circuits.

You do the only logical thing and immediately look away like you've just remembered an urgent errand in the opposite direction. Possibly in another country.

You spend the rest of your workout way too aware of his presence. Like he’s gravity and your body is betraying you by orbiting around him.

You leave the gym sweaty, confused, and very annoyed with yourself. You don’t even know his name.

But you’re definitely going to find out.

=

A few days later and you’re at the gym again..

You're not proud of it, but you're here standing in front of a very complicated-looking machine that has too many pulleys and not enough labels. You've never used it before. You don’t even know its name. 

Chest press? Lat pulldown? Mid-life crisis simulator?

Honestly, you just got bored of the StairMaster. Your usual routine suddenly felt repetitive… or maybe it just felt less interesting now that he’s become part of your peripheral gym experience.

And hey, maybe it’s time to switch it up. Be spontaneous. Try new things. Be mysterious and well-rounded.

You immediately regret it.

Because you’ve been standing here for a full minute pretending to “study the mechanics” of this cursed contraption, while mostly just staring at the diagram like it’s written in ancient Sumerian. There are straps. Levers. Pins. Maybe even a hidden booby trap?

You tug at one handle, and it clonks loudly against the frame, echoing across the gym like the sound of your pride imploding.

And then—

“You, uh… planning to fight it or use it?”

The voice is soft, warm—teasing without being mean. Like maple syrup with a smirk.

You freeze. Your brain goes completely silent.

Because it’s him.

And God, he’s even better up close. There’s this effortless softness to him, like he’s not trying to be charming but it just… leaks out of him naturally. Like an accidental flirt. A boy-band heartthrob doing errands.

You laugh, but it comes out weird and high-pitched, like you’ve swallowed helium and regret all your life choices.

“I’m, uh. Studying it. For science.”

He grins, bright and immediate, like you’ve said the most charming thing ever. “Well, if you figure out how to make it time travel, let me know. I think it's supposed to be a row machine. Or a medieval torture device. Could go either way.”

“So,” he continues, still smiling, “want a hand? Or do you prefer to risk dislocating something for the thrill of it?”

You blink. “I mean… I do like to live dangerously.”

He chuckles, then steps closer. “Dangerous is not knowing which pin to pull and just yanking stuff randomly. Let me show you.”

You do your best to stay calm while he casually leans over, adjusting the weights, pulling one of the pins like it’s nothing. His arm brushes yours and it’s electric. Not in a dramatic, soul-bonding way—just enough to make you forget your own name for a second.

“There,” he says. “Now you just sit here, pull this toward your chest. Keep your back straight, don’t yank.”

You nod, fully intending to listen.

You will absolutely not remember a single word of that.

He steps back, giving you space, but that soft smile lingers like a secret between you. “You got this. I’m Joshua, by the way”

You quickly mumble your name back, then look at the equipment again

“Damn,” you say. “Guess I’ll have to actually work out now.”

He starts to walk away, then glances over his shoulder. “If you survive this thing, I’ll be impressed.”

You don’t say anything back. Mostly because your brain still hasn’t rebooted.

But your heart is definitely doing wind sprints.

After the brutal set you tried to finish, you grab your water bottle, stealing one last glance his way. He’s still watching.

You take a long sip of water, trying to ignore the way your pulse is very much not calming down. It’s not the workout. It’s not the row machine. It’s definitely not the totally casual conversation with the gym’s most charming human.

You glance back at him, and that teasing glint is still there, like he’s waiting for a comeback.

So you give him one.

“I’m gonna get you back,” you say, capping your bottle. “Just you wait until you try the StairMaster.”

He snorts. “Is that a threat?”

“Oh, absolutely. That thing humbles even the cockiest of men.”

He groans dramatically, head dropping back against the bench. “Ugh. Not the StairMaster. That thing is evil in mechanical form.”

You gasp, mock offended. “You take that back.”

“I won’t. It’s unnatural. No human should ever climb stairs endlessly to nowhere. It's a trap.”

You grin, arms crossed. “Spoken like someone who’s never reached the top.”

He squints at you suspiciously. “There’s no top. That’s the whole scam. It just keeps going until your legs give out and your soul leaves your body.”

“That’s where the character-building happens.”

“That’s where the near-death experience happens.”

You walk past him toward the water fountain, tossing a smirk over your shoulder. “Someday, Joshua. I’m gonna catch you on it. And when I do, I’ll be right there. Watching.”

He laughs, low and warm. “If that day comes, I expect emotional support. And probably an ambulance.”

“Nope,” you call back. “Only judgment.”

“Brutal.”

You glance at him again as you turn the corner. He’s still looking, shaking his head, that smile spreading slow like he’s already thinking about what he’s going to say next time.

And you? You’re definitely planning what machine to “accidentally” use wrong next.

=

A few days later, you’re back.

Same gym. Same playlist. Same questionable protein shake sloshing around in your stomach.

You’ve already stretched, done your usual warm-up, and for some reason—maybe it’s the memory of a certain pair of bambi-eyes watching you flirt with death on the row machine—you find yourself standing in front of the pull-up bar.

Just staring.

It stares back. Cold. Unforgiving. Judgy.

You’ve never really attempted it. You know you have the upper body strength of a sleepy cat. The last time you even tried, you managed one and a half reps and pulled a muscle in your neck that made it look like you were perpetually trying to dodge an awkward hug.

But today… today you’re thinking about it.

And thinking about it is basically halfway to doing it, right?

You clap your hands like you’re about to do something epic. Then you hop up, grab the handles, and immediately regret all your choices.

You get one. One clean pull-up, arms shaking, face doing things that definitely aren’t attractive.

The second one? You try. God, you try.

Halfway up, your arms begin to betray you. Your legs flail in a pathetic attempt to help. Your body says “absolutely not” and your pride goes down with you. You hang there, a weird little noodle of a human, wondering if there’s a graceful way to descend without collapsing completely.

“Alright,” a voice says behind you, amused. “Now that’s bravery.”

You don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

“Don’t,” you groan. “Don’t you dare say anything.”

Joshua’s laugh is warm and merciless. “I wasn’t gonna say anything! Just… observing. You know. For science.”

You drop down from the bar and turn to face him, breathless, cheeks burning, arms already sore.

“You’re stalking me,” you accuse, pointing a finger at him.

He raises both hands in mock surrender. “Hey. You were the one declaring StairMaster vengeance. I came to see if you were plotting.”

“Plotting,” you huff. “Right. Clearly I’m too busy being an upper-body icon.”

“Iconic,” he nods solemnly. “In the way baby goats are iconic for trying to jump and immediately falling over.”

You glare, but it’s only half-hearted. “Wow. First, sarcasm coach. Now personal trainer and comedian.”

“I contain multitudes,” he says, then glances up at the bar. “You almost had that second one though.”

You raise a brow. “You’re lying to make me feel better.”

“I’m lying to make me feel better,” he grins. “Because if you get better at this stuff, you’re gonna be way too powerful.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “Well, if I mysteriously vanish, check under the StairMaster. That’s where I hide all my victims.”

Joshua tilts his head, considering. “Dark. Unexpected. I like it.”

You’re just about to make some kind of witty escape when Joshua says it.

“Come on,” he nods toward the pull-up bar. “I’ll spot you.”

You blink. “You’ll what now?”

He’s already walking over, casual like it’s no big deal, like this isn’t a defining moment in your emotional history.

“Spot you,” he says again, glancing back at you with that stupidly gentle smile. “So you don’t fall to your dramatic death after one and a half pull-ups.”

You try to laugh. It comes out as more of a nervous wheeze.

“Very heroic of you,” you manage, eyeing the bar like it personally wronged you.

He shrugs, standing just under it now, hands flexing like he’s warming them up. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive.”

You stare at him. At the way his shirt clings to his shoulders. At the veins in his arms. At the way he’s looking at you like this is casual. Normal.

It is not normal. You try to be cool. You try to be composed. But your body? Your body has completely abandoned the plan.

Because now you’re walking toward him. Slowly. Automatically. Like some magnetic force is pulling you in.

You step under the bar. He’s standing right behind you now, close but not too close. His hands lift, hovering for a second like he’s giving you a chance to back out.

You don’t.

And then—

His hands land gently on your waist.

It’s a soft, grounding touch, not too firm, but very present. Your breath catches.

This is fine, you tell yourself.

This is so not fine. Your brain screams.

“You good?” he asks, voice quiet now. There’s something softer in his tone, like he knows exactly what he's doing to your internal system and is pretending he doesn’t.

You nod, eyes fixed on the bar above. “Yep. Good. Great.”

“You're gonna pull up, and I’ll just support your hips a little. Let you push through it without dropping.”

You manage a strangled “cool” and grab the handles, arms already shaking from the sheer adrenaline surging through you.

You pull.

It’s not perfect. Not clean. Your arms scream and your legs do a weird little kick at the end. But you make it. Higher than before. Controlled.

His hands steady you the whole way up—and then guide you gently back down.

“See?” he murmurs near your ear. “Told you. You got this.”

You’re pretty sure your heart is doing backflips. Loud, panicked backflips. You let go of the bar, drop to the floor, and immediately step away like physical distance might help your brain reset.

Spoiler: it does not.

Joshua’s grinning again, hands back at his sides, like he didn’t just ruin your ability to form coherent thought.

“Thanks,” you say, trying to sound chill and not like you’re about to collapse into a puddle.

“Anytime,” he says easily. “You let me know when it’s StairMaster Day. I’ll be there.”

You almost say something flirty. You almost say you already are.

But instead, you toss him a half-smile and mumble, “Better start working on your cardio.”

And then you walk away. Quickly. Before you combust right there in front of the pull-up bar.

The second your front door closes behind you, you're already pulling your phone out of your bag with shaking hands. You don’t even kick off your shoes. There are more important matters at hand.

Like the fact that Joshua Hong just touched your waist and told you you got this in a voice that should be illegal in public gyms.

You hit Nayeon’s contact. She picks up before the second ring.

“What.”

You skip hello entirely.

“GUESS WHAT.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “Oh my god. Did you finally throw a dumbbell at that guy who grunts like a mating walrus?”

“What? No—focus. I—Joshua. Joshua was at the gym.”

A dramatic gasp. “Bambi guy?!”

“Yes. And he spotted me. Like, hands-on-me, spotted me.”

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I was lying. He offered, I blacked out emotionally, and then I walked toward him like some possessed gym siren. And then—wait for it—his hands were on my waist.”

Nayeon lets out a long, satisfied scream that you have to pull your phone away from your ear for.

“I’m sorry,” she says breathlessly. “You touched souls and you’re casually calling me like it’s a weather update?! How was it?! What did it feel like?! Did your body leave your spirit plane?!”

You collapse onto your couch, still not fully recovered. “It felt like… like my brain stopped working but in a good way? Like the kind of malfunction where you’re aware something deeply unprofessional is happening to your heart rate?”

“I’m so proud of you. You’ve officially entered RomCom Phase Two: The Accidental Intimate Contact.”

You groan. “It wasn’t even that intimate! It was… I don’t know. Friendly. Gym-friendly.”

“Did he look you in the eyes like he knew you were about to internally combust?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“Did he say something in a voice that made you question your ability to speak?”

“...Yes.”

“Then congratulations,” Nayeon says smugly. “That boy is flirting. Lightly. Respectfully. But definitely.”

You flop backward, one hand over your eyes. “I said you better start working on your cardio and then walked away like I didn’t want to collapse in a corner and scream into my towel.”

Nayeon howls. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. I’m putting it in my will.”

You’re quiet for a second, smiling up at your ceiling like it just told you a secret.

“He really is nice,” you murmur.

“I bet he is,” Nayeon says. “But let me know when he touches your waist again. I’ll bring confetti.”

=

You’re half-awake, phone in one hand, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, and every ounce of your remaining energy focused on surviving the Monday morning café line. The air smells like roasted beans and too much cologne, and you’re two seconds from ordering the largest iced americano known to man.

The barista gives you the tiniest smile and asks, “What would you like?”

“Iced americano, please,” you say in a daze, already pulling out your card, head down, ready to tap and shuffle off like every other caffeine-dependent adult.

But then—

A hand slides in next to yours. Card first.

And a voice, soft but teasing: “I got it.”

You freeze. Look up.

Joshua.

In a hoodie and cap pulled low, like he’s trying not to be recognized—but there’s no mistaking him. Not when he’s standing right there, grinning like this is normal. Like this is not the second time he’s absolutely obliterated your nervous system in public.

Your brain short-circuits.

“Wait—what—are you—what are you doing here?”

He tilts his head. “Getting coffee. What are you doing here? Practicing your dramatic gasp?”

You blink. “How did you even—?”

“I saw you through the window,” he says, gesturing casually over his shoulder. “Recognized the tragic posture.Thought, hey, she probably needs caffeine and emotional support.”

“You didn’t have to pay for me.”

Joshua shrugs, already sliding his card back into his wallet. “Consider it a reward. For surviving the pull-up bar. And for not actually passing out while I spotted you.”

You squint at him. “So this is payback.”

“Exactly,” he says, eyes crinkling. “Also, I owed you for the StairMaster threats. This is safer.”

You step aside so the next customer can order, taking your receipt with numb fingers. “You are dangerously charming, you know that?”

“I’ve heard rumors,” he says, walking with you to the pickup counter.

You eye him sideways. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Not really,” he says, then glances at you. “Maybe I will now.”

And just like that—there it is again. That look.

The light, flirty, annoyingly smooth look that says he’s enjoying this way too much. That he’s already planning his next move.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling like an idiot. Your name gets called. You grab your drink. He grabs his.

And then he leans in just a little, low enough that you can feel the warmth of his voice when he says, “You still owe me one StairMaster session, by the way.”

You take a long sip of your coffee just to avoid answering.

But the blush creeping up your neck?

Yeah, he definitely sees it.

You both step out of the café, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft ding. The morning air’s brisk but not cold, sunlight just beginning to slip between buildings, painting the street in soft gold.

Joshua falls into step beside you, sipping his coffee like this is some everyday thing. Like the two of you didn’t just share a casual rom-com scene inside a café.

He glances at you. “Heading to work?”

You nod, clutching your cup a little tighter. “Yep. You?”

“Yeah,” he says, then gestures down the opposite sidewalk. “That way.”

You look in the direction he points. Opposite of yours.

Of course.

You both pause on the corner. People stream around you—students in uniforms, office workers, ahjummas with shopping bags—but there’s a strange little pocket of quiet that hovers around you two.

You shift your weight. “So… different directions.”

Joshua nods, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Tragic.”

You laugh lightly. “Life’s tough.”

“For now,” he says, watching you over the rim of his cup. “But hey, I still owe you cardio humiliation. I’ll find you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You sure you’re ready for that?”

“Emotionally? No. Physically? Also no. But for you?” He leans in just slightly, eyes sparkling. “I’ll suffer.”

You snort, trying not to let your entire face betray you. “What a romantic.”

He grins. “It’s in my nature.”

The crosswalk signal chirps. You both glance at it, then back at each other.

You step backward slowly, toward your side of the street. “Okay, go be mysterious and productive or whatever it is you do.”

“And you,” he says, pointing with his cup, “go be chaotic and competitive. Just… don’t fall off anything.”

You flash him a final grin, walking backward a few more steps. “No promises.”

=

It’s been a week. Seven full days. Four gym sessions. Not that he’s counting. (He is absolutely counting.)

Joshua had figured maybe you were switching up your schedule. Or taking a break. Or plotting your next slow-burn attack on his cardiovascular endurance. But by day five, when you still hadn’t walked through the gym doors in your usual comfy hoodie and defiant energy, he started to feel… something.

Nothing dramatic. Just… He kind of missed seeing you.

Not in a we should talk about our feelings kind of way. More like a where did the chaos go? way. The gym felt weirdly quiet without your teasing, your grumbling, your almost-impossible pull-ups.

So when he drags himself to the café after his morning run the following week, hoodie damp with sweat and music still playing in one earbud, he’s not expecting much more than caffeine and maybe a bagel if the world is kind.

What he doesn’t expect is to hear the bell chime behind him and your voice.

“Ugh, finally. I swear this place is the only thing getting me out of bed lately.”

He turns before he can even stop himself. There you are—messy bun, oversized sweater, tired eyes, and all. You don’t see him at first, too busy mumbling something to yourself about how oat milk better not be sold out again.

He smiles. And waits.

Then you glance up, catch him standing near the pickup counter, and blink like your brain needs a second to register.

“Oh—hey!”

Joshua raises an eyebrow. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the girl who ghosted the gym.”

You smirk, stepping into line. “Excuse me. I did not ghost. I was temporarily out of commission.”

He leans an elbow on the counter, coffee in hand, grinning. “So mysterious.”

You sigh dramatically. “Cramps were killing me. Girl things. War zone. You wouldn’t survive.”

Joshua chokes a little on his sip.

You laugh at his expression. “What? You asked.”

“I didn’t ask for that mental image,” he says, shaking his head, amused.

“I gave it anyway,” you say brightly, stepping up to order. “That’s what I do. I give.”

He watches you place your order, then swipes his card before you can reach for your own.

“Again?” you protest.

“Call it a welcome back gift.”

You squint at him. “You’re trying to train me like a puppy. Every time I show up, you give me treats.”

“Is it working?”

You pause. Then grin. “Maybe.”

You both wait for your drinks at the end of the counter, shoulders brushing just slightly in the morning rush.

He tilts his head toward you. “You coming back to the gym this week?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Tomorrow, probably. I’ve got rage to burn and stairs to climb.”

His smile widens. “Music to my ears.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Missed me, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks at you over his coffee lid.

“Wouldn’t survive a war zone,” he says. “But yeah. I kinda did.”

You swear you played it cool.

You smiled. You sassed. You walked out of that café with your dignity intact and your coffee in hand like someone who has not been emotionally steamrolled by a boy in a hoodie.

But the second you slid into the booth across from Nayeon at lunch, all bets were off.

You didn’t even wait for her to finish her first bite.

“I’m losing it,” you whisper-shriek, leaning across the table like you’re confessing a federal crime.

Nayeon blinks. “Hi? Good to see you too?”

“No, listen. He was at the café again. Joshua. After his run. Sweaty. Hoodie. Smiling. Paid for my coffee again.”

She gasps, already putting down her chopsticks. “Did he say something flirty?”

You nod, wide-eyed. “He said he missed me.”

Dead silence. Then Nayeon slaps the table so hard the metal chopsticks clatter. “YOU’RE DATING.”

“We are not dating,” you hiss, glancing around to make sure no one’s listening. “We’re flirting. Lightly. Slowly. Like… like an air fryer setting.”

“Okay, so when’s the wedding?”

You groan, sliding down in your seat. “I panicked. I made a girl-things joke and then elbowed him. Elbowed. Him.”

“I mean, that is your version of affection.”

You cover your face with your hands. “And now? Now I have to go back to the gym. Where I used to look like a sleep-deprived raccoon. And now I have to… I don’t know, try.”

Nayeon grins like the devil. “Oh? Someone’s thinking about their gym fit now?”

You peek through your fingers. “I literally bought new leggings this morning. I googled cute-but-functional ponytail styles.”

She clutches her heart. “You’re in deep.”

You nod solemnly. “Drowning.”

“You know what this means, right?” she says, sipping her soda. “You’re officially entering RomCom Phase Three.”

You raise a brow. “Which is?”

She smirks. “The ‘oh no, I actually care how I look around him’ phase. It's fatal.”

You sigh dramatically and stab a piece of kimchi. “Send flowers to the old me. She didn’t contour for cardio.”

Nayeon lifts her glass in salute. “To gym crushes and unexpected motivation.”

You clink her glass with yours, already plotting tomorrow’s playlist and wondering if there’s a subtle way to make “accidentally” run into Joshua without… you know… trying.

=

You walk into the gym like it’s just another day. Just another normal, totally-not-overthought, not-at-all-strategically-timed workout.

You’ve got your hair up in a ponytail that took two tries, a matching set you absolutely didn’t panic-buy during a midnight scroll, and your face set in what you hope is a calm, effortless expression.

Internally? Screaming.

You head over to the mats to warm up, muttering to yourself like you always do. It’s kind of your thing. Mostly because talking through your workouts distracts you from the sheer indignity of physical effort.

"Okay. Back. Finally. Time to prove I can still do a crunch without crying. Just twenty reps. Or ten. Or like... four. Let’s not be ambitious."

You drop into a stretch, huffing as your hamstrings scream at you.

"See, this is what happens when you let your uterus bench you for a week—your body turns into string cheese."

Then a voice behind you, smooth and slightly smug. 

“String cheese, huh? That’s a new one.”

Your soul leaves your body. You whip around, nearly falling sideways out of your stretch.

Joshua is there. Hoodie slung over his shoulder. Hair a little damp. Sweaty in the way that looks criminally good on him. And smiling, like he’s been standing there for longer than you’d like to think about.

You blink at him. “How long have you been there.”

“Long enough to hear your motivational speech,” he says, stepping onto the mat next to you.

You groan, covering your face with your towel. “God. I was doing bits. I was mid-rant. You can’t sneak up on a person during that.”

He chuckles, sitting down to stretch beside you like this is routine. “You talk to yourself a lot when you work out?”

“Only when I’m trying not to die.”

“Well,” he says, reaching forward with ease that makes you regret your whole existence, “it’s entertaining. I’ve missed the commentary.”

You peek at him through your fingers. “Don’t make me regret coming back.”

“You regret it already,” he says, nudging you gently with his knee. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

You try to scoff, but it comes out as a smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“Tell that to your string cheese arms.”

Then Joshua stretches, stands up, and says it so casually you almost miss it.

“Come on. I’ll spot you.”

Just like that. Like he didn’t just turn your heart into a meteorite. Like it’s normal to say things like that with his hair all messy and his shirt clinging to his back like a sin.

You pause, blinking up at him from your sad little mat. “Spot me where?”

He nods his head toward the weights section. “Pull-ups.”

You immediately shake your head. “Nooooi. No, no, no. We’re not doing that. My arms are still in recovery. Mentally.”

He grins, totally unfazed. “One rep. I’ll help.”

“You say that like I won’t dramatically collapse and cause a gym-wide scene.”

“I say that,” he replies, holding a hand out to you, “because I want to see if string cheese can fight gravity.”

You squint at him. “You really like testing your luck, huh?”

He just wiggles his fingers. Still waiting. You groan, roll your eyes, and slap your hand into his like you’ve just signed a very bad contract with a very cute devil.

“Fine. But when I fall, I’m haunting you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

He leads the way, and you follow grumbling the whole time, of course. Loud enough that a few people glance over, but you’re too focused on not combusting to care.

And when you reach the bar, he steps behind you, hands automatically ready at your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hesitate. Just one second. Long enough to register how close he is. How warm his hands are. How your brain is already trying to malfunction.

Then you huff, grab the bar, and mutter, “This is bullying disguised as fitness.”

And he, as expected, laughs. “Welcome back.”

You take a breath.

Hands on the bar. Shoulders tense. Joshua standing behind you, hands already hovering at your waist, warm and steady and—God. Focus.

“You ready?” he asks, voice low near your ear.

“No,” you answer flatly.

“Perfect. That’s the spirit.”

You suppress a groan and pull. Immediately, your arms are like, absolutely not, but then his hands are there—gently guiding, lifting just enough for you to move, your body rising in a way that’s technically assisted but still feels monumental.

Halfway up, your brain forgets how to form thoughts. Mostly because his hands are still on your waist and you are 98% sure he’s smiling. You can't see it, but you can feel it. That smug little smirk of his radiating off his face like heat.

You grunt. “I hate this. I hate you. I hate physics.”

Joshua chuckles. “You’re doing great.”

You manage a shaky pull, then drop with a dramatic gasp, limbs jelly.

He steadies you as you land, laughing. “That was almost one and a half.”

“I demand a trophy. And an ice pack. And maybe a wheelchair.”

“I’ll start a GoFundMe.”

You turn to him, still breathless, hair sticking to your forehead, and jab a finger at his chest. “You’re having way too much fun with this.”

“I really am,” he admits without shame.

You both stand there for a second, grinning like idiots, way too close for two people pretending this is just a casual gym friendship.

Then he adds, softer this time, “I meant it though. You did good.”

You glance up at him. He’s not teasing now. Not entirely. Just watching you with those warm eyes, a little out of breath himself.

And okay. Fine. You definitely need to leave before your knees give out for reasons unrelated to exercise.

“I’m going to the treadmill,” you say, turning abruptly.

Joshua calls after you. “What happened to hating cardio?”

“I hate being perceived more!”

You climb onto the treadmill with the grace of someone who just survived emotional warfare. You press a few random buttons, pretending to focus, when really you’re just trying to calm your entire nervous system.

And of course. Of course he follows you.

You glance to your side, and there he is, casually stepping onto the treadmill next to yours like he’s not the reason your soul left your body fifteen minutes ago.

“Please. Let me breathe.”

“I would, but I’m trying to flirt with you.”

Your feet nearly miss the belt.

You turn slowly, narrowing your eyes. “Trying?”

He shrugs, smirking. “Well, not very hard. You’re kinda doing all the work just existing.”

You make a noise—half choke, half laugh—as your brain trips over itself.

“That’s the line you’re going with?” you say, mock-scandalized.

“I didn’t plan it,” he says, grinning. “But I stand by it.”

You shake your head, biting your lip, heart pounding in your ears more than your feet on the treadmill.

“You know you’re not supposed to flirt while I’m exercising. I’m vulnerable. My dignity’s compromised.”

Joshua taps the speed up on your treadmill by 0.2 just to be annoying. “Dangerous territory. Anything could happen.”

You gasp. “Are you trying to get me to trip?”

“Trying to impress you with my multitasking.”

“Impress me by not getting kicked out for harassment.”

He raises a brow. “So flirting with you is harassment now?”

You glance at him, cheeks flushed, heartbeat wild, but your mouth still knows exactly what to say.

“Only because it’s working.”

He stares at you for a second. A beat. Then he grins wider, a tiny laugh slipping out as he looks back at the front of his treadmill.

And that silence between you? Buzzing. Effortless. Dangerous.

A few minutes pass. You’re both running now, side by side, music low, heart rates up, bodies warming into that steady, breathy rhythm. Joshua’s quiet for a while, eyes forward, jaw sharp in profile, the kind of focused that should not look as attractive as it does.

And then—casually, almost like he’s commenting on the weather—he says, 

“So… no boyfriend, or…?”

You glance at him, startled but amused, nearly tripping over your own feet again. The treadmill beeps angrily as you stabilize.

You huff out a laugh. “Wow. Smooth.”

“I thought so,” he says, lips twitching.

You shake your head. “Nope. No boyfriend.”

He raises a brow, like he’s waiting for the follow-up.

“I think my very tragic, very bold attempts at flirting should be proof enough that I’ve been single for a while.”

Joshua laughs, genuinely, the sound slipping out between breaths. “That bad, huh?”

“I elbowed you, Hong. That was one of my first moves.”

“Hey, I kind of liked that. Very… assertive.”

You snort. “If elbowing is the bar, your standards worry me.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, tapping up his speed just slightly. “I’m not looking for a black belt. Just someone who talks to herself and calls her arms string cheese.”

You let out a loud, delighted laugh, nearly doubling over on the belt before catching yourself.

“God, you're lucky I’m too out of breath to roast you right now.”

He glances at you, smiling. “I’ll take what I can get.”

You slow your treadmill just a little, You glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

“You’re dangerous,” you say, almost offhand, but not really.

Joshua arches a brow. “Yeah?”

You nod, swallowing back a grin. “You make me laugh.”

He turns fully toward you now, still jogging, like he doesn’t even feel the effort. “And?”

“And then my mind goes completely blank the next second,” you admit, mock dramatic. “It's inconvenient. Hazardous, even.”

He chuckles, tilting his head. “So I’m a health risk now?”

“Absolutely. Emotional distraction. Should come with a warning label.”

“Funny. You’re the one running next to me looking like an ad for gym crushes.”

You nearly stumble again. “Okay, sir—”

“I’m just saying,” he continues, all smug and unbothered, “if anyone’s dangerous here, it’s you. With your string cheese arms and motivational mumbling.”

“Oh my God,” you groan, dragging a hand down your face, but you’re smiling too hard to commit to the bit.

He leans slightly closer, not enough to break form, just enough for you to feel the heat off his skin. “Blank mind, huh?”

You blink up at him.

“Right now?” he adds, voice a little lower, just teasing enough.

Your brain promptly does exactly what he said: goes blank. You open your mouth. Nothing.

He grins. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He grins, then slows down too, finally stepping off and grabbing his water bottle. For a second, it’s just the low hum of the gym around you, the distant clank of weights, your own heartbeat in your ears.

You swipe your phone from the cubby, pretending not to glance his way. Pretending like your entire body isn’t aware of his body standing just a little too close beside you.

He clears his throat. You look up.

He’s watching you, towel around his neck, a tiny flicker of nervousness in his eyes. It’s subtle, but it’s there—just enough to make your breath catch.

“So,” he starts, “are you doing anything Saturday?”

You blink.

He rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish but still somehow maddeningly composed. “I figured since we’ve got this... ongoing string cheese banter thing, maybe we upgrade to real food. No treadmills. No pull-ups. Just—you know. A proper hangout.”

You stare at him.

Then blink again.

“Wait, are you asking me out?”

He smiles, boyish and warm. “Trying to.”

You feel your face flush. Completely. No saving it now.

“Okay, wow. Um. Yeah. Yes. I mean, if you're willing to risk spending time with me outside of a fluorescent-lit torture room.”

Joshua’s eyes crinkle. “I think I’ll manage.”

“Cool,” you say, suddenly hyper-aware of how sweaty and ridiculous you look. “So. Saturday.”

“Saturday,” he echoes.

You start walking toward the locker rooms, heart in your throat, smile you can’t hide, and just as you’re about to turn the corner, he calls out—

“Oh, and hey?”

You glance back.

He’s leaning against the wall now, casually, towel slung over his shoulder, smirking like he already knows what he’s done to you tonight.

“I like the ponytail.”

You're pretty sure you black out for a second.

And yeah, you definitely almost walk into a water fountain.

=

Saturday evening.

You’ve changed outfits no less than eight times. Jeans? Too casual. Skirt? Too short. White top? Too risky. That one jumpsuit you swore made you look expensive? Suddenly feels like a Halloween costume.

Nayeon is lying belly-down on your bed, scrolling through her phone with the kind of serenity only someone not going on a date can possess.

“You’ve tried on enough outfits to walk a runway twice,” she says, not even looking up. “Just wear the pink one. The flowy dress. You looked cute.”

You groan from the floor. “I don’t want to look cute. I want to look like… I don’t know. Dateable. Like, someone who won’t say ‘string cheese’ in conversation.”

“Too late for that,” she mutters.

You glare. “Traitor.”

But fifteen minutes and a mini breakdown later, you're standing in front of the mirror in that exact pink summer dress, hair soft and just messy enough to look effortless, cheeks lightly flushed from the nerves. You turn to Nayeon.

“Be honest. Do I look like I’m trying too hard?”

“You look like someone’s about to fall in love with you.”

Your face scrunches. “Ew.”

She just grins. “Text me when you’re home or I’m calling the cops.”

Your phone buzzes.

Joshua: I’m downstairs :)

Cue heart skipping a beat. You grab your purse, whisper-scream into it for good measure, then fly down the stairs like your life depends on it.

The front door opens to a soft summer breeze. And Joshua—standing there by a black car, in a white linen shirt and jeans that somehow make your brain short-circuit—holding a small bouquet of pink tulips.

You freeze.

He blinks, eyes raking over you once, slowly. Then a smile spreads across his face, that gentle kind that feels like it’s meant just for you.

“These…” He holds out the bouquet. “These match your dress. I swear it wasn’t planned. I didn’t even know what you were wearing. But—” He tilts his head. “I’m not mad about it.”

You reach for the flowers, trying to play it cool even as your fingers brush his. “Wow. So now you’re dangerous and lucky.”

Joshua laughs. “Let’s call it fate. Shall we?”

And with that, he opens the car door for you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like this is just the beginning.

You slide into the passenger seat, bouquet clutched in your hands, cheeks already burning. 

Breathe, you tell yourself. Be normal. Be chill. Be a functioning adult woman who is not immediately reduced to mush by a man in linen and a watch.

Joshua climbs in, starts the car with one smooth twist of his wrist, and you catch a glimpse of the watch on his arm—sleek, minimal, silver. The kind of thing that shouldn't be so attractive but somehow is. It hugs his wrist perfectly, gleaming in the evening light, making his whole presence feel like a very curated attack on your willpower.

“You look really pretty,” he says, glancing over at you.

You smile, teeth and all, like an idiot. “Thank you. You, uh…” You gesture vaguely at him. “You’re doing a lot. With your existence.”

He grins. “That’s the plan.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat in your face says otherwise. He shifts into reverse, turning in his seat—and that’s when it happens.

That move.

Hand casually reaching behind your seat for support as he backs out of the spot, arm stretched out behind you, the other on the wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. And you—sitting there—trying not to make a sound because wow.

Your brain short circuits. Every rom-com you’ve ever watched flashes before your eyes. You hate how effective it is. You hate that you notice. You really hate that the veins in his forearm are doing some kind of ancient magic on your heart.

“You okay?” he asks, glancing at you with a knowing smile.

You clear your throat, gaze locked out the window. “Yeah. Just, uh. You know. Processing.”

“Processing?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Me backing out of a parking spot?”

“Yep. Very intense. Emotionally charged moment for me.”

He laughs, head tilting toward you. “You’re not very good at pretending you’re unimpressed.”

“And you’re not very good at pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

He raises a brow. “Touché.”

You’re still trying to recover from the parking maneuver thing when Joshua pulls onto the main road, one hand casually on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift like he's not out here causing emotional chaos.

You steal a glance at him, then look away just as quickly. Your cheeks are still flaming. Your pulse? Racing. Your entire internal system? Malfunctioning.

“You sure you’ll survive tonight?”

You scoff, crossing your arms with the tulips still in hand. “Wow. Cocky and observant.”

He chuckles. “It’s a genuine question. I’ve seen, like, six flustered expressions in the past ten minutes. That’s a record.”

“I’m just—” You gesture vaguely at the air between you. “Adjusting. You’re very… composed for a man who brought flowers and wore a thirst trap on his wrist.”

Joshua raises an eyebrow. “Thirst trap?”

You point at his watch. “That.”

He glances down, then smirks. “So that’s what’s doing it?”

You narrow your eyes. “That and the parking move. Don’t play dumb.”

He laughs, actually laughs, and it’s that soft, warm sound again—like he can’t help it, like it’s just you who gets this version of him.

“You’re fun,” he says simply.

“That’s it? No sarcasm? No comeback?”

“Nope.” He glances over at you, smile still playing at his lips. “Just letting you have the moment.”

You make a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a dying noise. “Okay, you need to stop with the sincerity. My brain is short-circuiting.”

Joshua glances over, takes his time, then says in a tone so casual it might as well be criminal,

“You really do look beautiful tonight.”

He tilts his head, that gentle smile still playing at the corner of his mouth. “Why? Can’t handle a compliment?”

“No, I can, just—” You gesture vaguely. “Not when you say it like that. With your whole… face.”

“You mean, my face that you were just staring at for two straight minutes?”

Your jaw drops. “I was not—”

“You were. I timed it.”

“I was—strategizing.”

“Oh? About what?”

“About how not to combust before we even get to dinner.”

He hums, turning the wheel with one hand as he takes the next turn. “I like that you spiral. It’s cute.”

You glare at the dashboard. “Okay, wow. New level unlocked: professional menace.”

“You’re going to be a mess by dessert, aren’t you?”

Your mouth drops open again, and he laughs, that warm, smug, boyish laugh like he already knows he’s won.

You whip your head toward him. “Are you trying to kill me?”

He shrugs, far too pleased with himself. “Just saying. If you’re already like this now…” He glances at you, slow and deliberate. “I should warn you—I get worse.”

Your lungs fail. Your brain turns to soup. You want to fling yourself out the window in the most ladylike way possible.

You step out of the car and immediately stop in your tracks.

You were expecting a restaurant—like, a normal place with chairs and walls and menus laminated within an inch of their lives.

What you’re not expecting is this.

String lights drape like golden vines overhead, hanging between soft, leafy canopies and curved archways made of blooming roses and ivy. Candle-lit tables are scattered like little secrets across a stone path, with delicate place settings and linen napkins that scream “yes, this fork has three siblings and a trust fund.”

The view? A clear shot of the river, glistening under the dying blush of sunset.

You blink. “Is this… real?”

Joshua rounds the car, comes to stand beside you, hands casually in his pockets like he hasn’t just walked you into a scene from a K-drama finale.

“You like it?” he asks, with a glint in his eye he knows will wreck you.

You glance at him, wide-eyed. “I thought we were doing food. Not walking into a proposal.”

He just smirks, leading you towards the entrance. The host greets him by name.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re being suspiciously smooth tonight.”

He pulls out your chair. “I’m always smooth.”

You sit down slowly, tilting your head at him. “You wore the watch and chose a place with fairy lights. Who told you my entire aesthetic?”

“I pay attention.”

“You’re dangerous.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that tonight.”

“I stand by it.”

The server comes by, and Joshua lets you order first, doesn’t even look at the menu, just says, “I’ll have whatever she’s having,” with a flash of a grin.

You eye him. “Careful, I panic-order.”

He smirks. “Exactly. It’s more fun that way.”

When the server leaves, you rest your chin on your hand. “So. This is your idea of a casual first date?”

Joshua shrugs, eyes dancing. “I told you. I get worse.”

You raise a brow. “You’re lucky I find that incredibly hot.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “You think I wore the watch for me?”

You choke on your laugh, nearly knocking over your water. He just grins again, leaning back with that maddening ease, the lights catching in his hair like he’s made to be part of this setting. 

And for a second, the world around you blurs. Just you, him, and the slow burn of something very, very real.

The night drips by like honey.

Joshua’s leaned back in his chair now, elbow resting against the armrest, fingers lazily twirling his wine glass. He says something—dry, sarcastic, just a bit ridiculous—and you burst out laughing.

“Okay, wait,” you say, breathless, wiping at your eyes. “That’s not even a real story. You’re making that up.”

He grins like it’s a secret between you two. “Maybe. But you laughed. That’s a win.”

“Barely!” you say, even though you're still giggling.

He watches you, and it’s not in a way that makes you feel self-conscious—it’s the opposite. It’s warm. Attentive. Like you’re the only thing in the room worth looking at. And that’s what really does it.

You sip your wine to distract yourself. “Do you practice your charm? Like, in the mirror? Or were you just born annoying and heart-melting?”

Joshua tilts his head. “A little of both. But I do study.”

“Oh yeah?”

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table now, voice dipping just enough to make you sit straighter.

“Like… I noticed you blush when I compliment you. But only if it’s quiet. Just between us.”

Your lips part slightly. “I—No, I don’t.”

“Sure.” He smiles like he’s absolutely sure. “And you smile bigger when you’re trying not to. Like right now.”

You press your lips together, willing yourself not to grin.

“And,” he continues, “you’re trying really hard to look unimpressed, but I caught you staring at me while I was talking about that ridiculous high school band story. Twice.”

You drop your head onto the table with a groan. “You’re unbearable.”

He laughs, soft and low. “But you like me anyway.”

You peek up at him, cheeks warm, heartbeat wrecked. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He tilts his head. “Let me walk you out later and I just might.”

You know you should say something smart, witty—anything—but you’re gone. Gone in the way that makes your chest ache with excitement and dread, both.

Because you know this kind of thing doesn’t come around often. Not the fancy lights, not the food, not even the compliments. But the way he looks at you. The way he listens. The way he talks to you like he’s always known how to.

You’d kick yourself if you let this go.

So, you sit up straighter, meet his gaze across the candlelight, and smile—soft and certain.

“Okay,” you say, lifting your glass. “Let’s see how charming you really are.”

After that night—the fairy lights, the river view, that maddening smirk—you knew you were done for.

But what you didn’t know was that Joshua Hong would treat this whole thing like a personal mission.

Not to impress you. No. To ruin you. Softly. Deliberately. One blush, one laugh, one lingering glance at a time.

The first date? A glowing success.

The second? A late-night bookshop crawl followed by hotteok from a street cart, where he brushed a crumb off your cheek and you nearly forgot how to speak.

The third? Rainy-day coffees and pressed knees in a tiny corner booth, and the way he said your name when you laughed—like it meant something.

Fourth? He taught you how to play pool. You lost. On purpose. (Okay, not really. But the way he leaned over to show you how to hold the cue stick? Yeah. You didn’t mind losing.)

By the time your fifth official date rolls around—some rooftop dinner he somehow made feel private and cozy in the middle of Seoul—you’re barely holding it together. The city lights glitter below. The food is untouched. Your wine’s going warm.

You’re talking about something—you don’t even remember what—when he tilts his head and says it:

“You’re driving me a little crazy, you know that?”

You stop breathing for a beat too long “I am?”

“Mm-hmm. And I’m being very patient.”

Your fingers tighten around your glass. “Are you saying I’m testing your willpower, Hong?”

He grins, slow and devastating. “I’m saying, if this keeps up, I might kiss you before dessert.”

The air shifts. You’re aware of everything—the hum of the rooftop heater, the buzz of the city below, the way your pulse is loud enough to hear in your ears.

You set your glass down. Very carefully. “Would that be a problem?”

He leans in slightly, elbows on the table. “For who?”

You lick your lips, heartbeat now fully sprinting. “For the cheesecake you ordered.”

Joshua laughs, but there’s tension under it. Electricity.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs again.

You smile, sweet and shaken. “Takes one to know one.”

After dinner, neither of you said anything about leaving. You just stood up, your hands brushed, and somehow—without planning, without speaking—they laced together like they'd been doing it forever.

No one commented. No one let go.

Now you’re walking through the quiet streets of the city, the kind that still shimmer with soft light, where the buildings are lower, the night quieter. A gentle breeze wraps around your bare arms, and his thumb brushes along your knuckles every few steps.

He swings your hands a little, like he’s not aware of the fact that every single nerve in your body is alert and buzzing. “So,” he says casually, “fifth date.”

You side-eye him, smiling. “Who's counting?”

He smirks. “I am. I keep a very detailed record. For science.”

You roll your eyes. “Let me guess—charts, graphs, infographics?”

He nods. “There's even a bar graph for the amount of times I’ve caught you staring at me.”

Your jaw drops in offense. “I do not—”

Joshua stops walking. You almost take another step before you notice, but he holds your hand just tight enough that you pause too, blinking up at him.

He’s looking at you. But not in the teasing, boyish way you’re used to. It’s softer now. Serious.

“You do,” he says gently. “But it’s okay. I stare too.”

You can’t find your voice for a second. It’s stuck somewhere behind your ribs.

The breeze moves your hair. He tucks a strand behind your ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I was gonna wait. Be smooth. You know, the gentleman thing.”

Your heart is pounding so hard you’re afraid it might echo in the stillness.

“But you look at me like that,” he murmurs, “and I kind of forget how to pretend.”

You open your mouth—but nothing comes out.

He steps closer. Just enough that you feel the warmth of him, smell the faint trace of his cologne and something clean and crisp like fresh laundry and summer air. He’s still holding your hand.

He tilts his head, slow, careful. “Can I?”

And you whisper—because it’s all you can manage—“Please.”

The kiss is soft. Barely there at first. His hand cups your cheek like he’s afraid you might vanish, and you lean in like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment since the beginning of time.

It’s gentle. Tender. But it’s not hesitant.

Because when his other hand settles on your waist, when he deepens the kiss just slightly, when you move closer without even thinking—it’s clear that every step, every look, every smile, led here.

And when you pull apart, just an inch, still close enough to breathe each other in, he doesn’t say anything right away.

He just rests his forehead against yours and whispers, “Yep. Definitely a sixth date.”

You laugh, quiet and breathless, standing on your tiptoes so your noses are still brushing, your hands curling lightly into the front of his shirt without even thinking.

His eyes crinkle as he watches you, his forehead still pressed gently to yours. You’re so close you can see the curl of his lashes, the shine in his pupils that makes your stomach flip like it’s never known peace.

Then he murmurs, voice low and teasing, “What’s the look for, pretty girl?”

Your smile wobbles just a little because he says it like he means it. Like you’re not just pretty, you’re his pretty girl. And you don’t even think he realizes how much that nickname already has you unraveling.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “You’re just…”

You trail off, shaking your head a little, and he pulls back just enough to look at you fully, still smiling, still curious. 

“Just what?”

You lift your brows like really? “You kissed me under fairy lights, brought me flowers, opened my car door, made me laugh so hard I choked on water, and looked at me like I hung the stars—and now you’re asking what the look is for?”

Joshua grins, the kind that starts at his lips but ends in his eyes—so warm, so soft it’s almost unbearable. “So I’m doing okay, then?”

“You’re so lucky you’re cute.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Mm,” you hum, pretending to think, still pressed close to him. “You also smell nice.”

He laughs, tilting his head back just a little, and it vibrates through his chest where your hands still rest.

He brings one hand up to tuck your hair behind your ear again and lets his fingers linger just behind your jaw. “You’re making it really hard not to kiss you again.”

You shrug, leaning in even closer. “Who said you had to stop?”

And you kiss him this time. His hands find your waist again, his thumbs brushing the fabric of your dress as he kisses you like he has nowhere else to be, like the city around you doesn’t exist, like this sidewalk is the only place in the world.

When you finally pull away—barely—you’re both smiling. Staring. A little stunned, maybe.

“I can’t believe this is real,” you say, laughing into his chest.

He wraps his arms around you then, pulling you in, your feet slightly off the ground for just a second as he murmurs into your hair, “It’s real. All of it. You. Me.”

You nestle closer, your smile pressed to his shoulder. “You’re the best kind of trouble, Hong.”

He chuckles. “You’ve got no idea.”

=

Another day, another gym session, and naturally—you’re swearing under your breath at the cable machine like it personally insulted your ancestors.

“Why,” you mutter, wrestling with the pin, “do you exist—”

“You okay there?” a voice cuts in.

You look up, blinking.

He’s tall. Friendly smile. The kind of guy who probably means well but is leaning just a little too close to be casual.

You smile politely. “Oh, yeah. Just… negotiating with this death trap.”

He chuckles, clearly taking it as an invitation. “First time trying that machine?”

You nod, tugging your towel over your shoulder. “Yeah. I usually avoid anything that might require actual upper body strength.”

He laughs again, inching closer. “Well, I could show you how to—”

“I have a boyfriend,” you blurt out.

He freezes.

So do you.

You don’t know why you said it. It just… slipped out. Pure panic. Your fight-or-flight response has a third setting now: fake boyfriend defense.

The guy straightens, brows raised slightly. “Oh. Cool, cool. Just being friendly.”

Before you can awkwardly backtrack, you hear him.

“Everything good here?”

Joshua. He appears behind you like magic, towel slung over one shoulder, hair damp and sticking adorably to his forehead, shirt clinging in all the distracting places.

You glance at him like please go with it, and he slides in next to you, one hand gently resting at the small of your back. You lean into him without hesitation.

The guy eyes Joshua, clocking the very real heat in the space between you two, and holds his hands up in surrender. “Got it. My bad. See you around.”

Once he’s gone, Joshua doesn’t say anything at first. Just lifts a brow and leans in, murmuring near your ear, “Boyfriend, huh?”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “I panicked.”

Joshua smirks, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Didn’t seem like panic. Seemed… natural.”

You scoff. “What are you, pleased about it?”

He shrugs. “A little flattered, not gonna lie.”

“You’re impossible.”

He grins. “And yet… you called me your boyfriend.”

You jab him lightly in the ribs with your elbow. “Shut up.”

He doesn't even give you a second to recover.

Just flashes that maddeningly smug grin, rests a hand on your back like it's the most natural thing in the world, and says, “Okay, let’s go, girlfriend. Time to do pull-ups.”

You blink.

“You—what—excuse me?”

Joshua shrugs like it’s nothing. “You said it, not me. I'm just respecting the title.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “That’s… not how this works.”

“Oh no?” He glances over his shoulder, leading you toward the pull-up bar. “So I don’t get boyfriend privileges now?”

You gape. “What privileges?”

“Well for starters, teasing rights. Unlimited. Spotting privileges—obviously. And I think there’s something in the fine print about post-gym smoothies. My treat, of course.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm, your heart racing like he just kissed you again.

He stops in front of the pull-up bar and turns to face you, offering his hands to help you up like he’s done this a hundred times. “Come on, girlfriend. You’ve got this.”

You squint at him. “You’re gonna milk this forever, aren’t you?”

He tilts his head, smile boyish, eyes soft. “Only if you let me.”

You stare at him a beat longer. Then sigh dramatically as you step forward, placing your hands on the bar. “Fine. But if I fall on my face, I’m blaming my fake boyfriend.”

Joshua’s hands find your waist—confident, gentle. “Correction. You said I am your boyfriend. I’m just honoring your truth.”

You groan. “I’m never living this down.”

“Not a chance,” he says, grinning. “But don’t worry, girlfriend. I’ve got you.”

Later you two are in his car, in the parking lot of the smoothie place that has now become part of the routine. You’re curled up in the passenger seat, legs tucked under you, sipping your mango smoothie through a bright yellow straw. 

Joshua’s smoothie is already half gone, sitting in his cup holder while he taps the steering wheel lightly with his fingers.

You’re both quiet. Not in a weird way. Just that post-gym, smoothie-in-hand, everything-is-good kind of quiet.

Until he breaks it.

“So…” he says, glancing over at you with that unmistakable spark in his eyes, “how long have we been dating?”

You nearly choke on your drink.

You turn to him, eyes wide. “What?”

Joshua shrugs like he’s asking about the weather. “I just think it’s important to know. Like… are we new-new? Or established couple? Do I get to call you babe yet? Do we have matching outfits in our future? Are we meeting the parents? You know, just the basics.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He leans his head against the headrest, grinning over at you. “I’m ridiculous? You’re the one out here declaring relationships under pressure.”

“It was a reflex!”

“So was kissing you under fairy lights,” he counters smoothly. “But I don’t regret it.”

Your cheeks burn immediately. “That was different.”

“Was it?” he teases, voice soft now. “Felt pretty real to me.”

You try to focus on your smoothie again, the straw suddenly too interesting. But then his hand reaches over, fingers curling around your wrist gently, guiding the cup away.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and your eyes lift to meet his.

It’s not as teasing now. Still warm. Still boyish. But there’s something else behind it, too. Something softer.

“I’m not making fun of you, you know,” he says. “You could’ve said anything back there. But you said boyfriend. And… I liked it.”

Your breath catches. He watches your face carefully, fingers still brushing lightly against your wrist.

You swallow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A small pause. “And if it ever stops being a reflex and starts being real—I'd be really, really okay with that.”

Your heart is thudding so hard you’re surprised the smoothie cup doesn’t crack in your hand.

So you do the only thing that makes sense. You lean over the console, your hand resting lightly on his shoulder, and kiss him.

No hesitation this time. No fairy lights or shy glances. Just you and him and the quiet of his car and the electricity that seems to spark to life the second your lips meet.

He kisses you back immediately—like he’s been waiting, like he’s memorized the rhythm of your laugh just to get here. His hand slides into your hair, other one anchoring at your waist as you shift slightly, leaning into him more. The center console is a pain, but neither of you seem to care.

It’s soft, at first. And then it’s not.

There’s something heady about it like all the teasing and tension and almost-kisses are finally catching up to you in a rush of heat and breath and fingertips that linger just a second longer than they should.

When you finally pull away, your noses still brushing, both of you a little dazed, he grins.

“Okay,” he breathes, “so I’m definitely calling you babe now.”

You laugh, dropping your forehead to his shoulder. “I knew you were going to say that.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, lips warm and slow. “Get used to it, girlfriend.”

=

It’s been a couple of months now.

You’re officially, undeniably, Joshua Hong’s girlfriend—which still feels slightly unreal whenever he smiles at you across a gym mirror like you hung the stars yourself.

Today, he’s in full personal trainer mode Which should be illegal, honestly.

The sleeveless shirt. The backwards cap. The little encouraging claps. The smirk he tries to hide when you’re clearly avoiding the workout he set up for you.

You eye the bench like it just threatened your family.

“Okay,” he says brightly, standing next to it, arms crossed and grinning, “three sets of twelve. You’ve got this.”

You hold your water bottle like a shield. “Can’t we just… not?”

“Baby.”

You pout instantly. “Josh.”

He walks over, lowers his voice into that dangerous territory of sweet and smug. “You said you wanted to work on your arms.”

“Yes, but I didn’t mean today.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You say that every time.”

You take a dramatic step back. “Because every time you try to kill me.”

“It’s literally three sets.”

“Three sets too many!”

“Come on,” he coaxes, reaching for your hand. “I’ll do them with you.”

“You’ll make it look effortless.”

“I’ll pretend to struggle.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s worse.”

He chuckles, catching you by the waist and pulling you toward him. “Baby, please,” he murmurs, leaning down to nuzzle your cheek, voice low and sinful. “You’ll look so good doing them.”

You groan, weak to the way he says it. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re stalling.” He grins, presses a kiss to your temple. “Let’s go. I’ll spot you. We’ll flirt between sets. It’ll be romantic.”

You look up at him, trying to stay strong, but the boyish grin, the arms, the literal audacity of him being this supportive and attractive—it’s too much.

You sigh in surrender. “Fine. But if I start crying, I want bubble tea after.”

He winks. “Deal. But only if you flex for me when we’re done.”

“Joshua!”

“Babe.”

You grab the dumbbells, grumbling under your breath. He’s already standing behind the bench like your biggest fan, hyping you up with a proud grin.

And honestly? He makes it hard to say no.

He’s driving with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on your thigh like it belongs there which, apparently, it does now. The windows are cracked just enough to let in the late evening breeze, your gym bag tucked in the backseat along with your pride.

You're slouched dramatically in the passenger seat, arms crossed, head turned toward the window. “I’m never going to the gym with you again.”

Joshua chuckles under his breath, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You say that every time.”

You whip your head toward him, scandalized. “Because every time you make me do something that feels like some part of my body will fall off afterwards”

He just grins, full of sunshine and mischief. “And yet, you keep showing up. Interesting.”

“I was sore for three days last week. Three. I couldn’t even reach for my lip balm without my arm threatening to fall off.”

Joshua laughs outright this time, his thumb rubbing lazy circles against your thigh. “You’re being so dramatic.”

“I’m being realistic. I almost saw my ancestors mid shoulder press.”

He’s still laughing when he pulls up to a red light, finally turning to face you fully, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Darling,” he says, voice low and teasing, “you flirted with me at the gym the moment we met.”

You gape at him. “I did not.”

He raises a brow. “You called me ‘Bambi eyes’ to your bestfriend”

Your jaw drops. “That doesn’t count!”

“Oh, it counts.”

“You were wearing that stupid tight shirt!”

He smirks, turning back to the road as the light goes green. “So you were looking.”

You slap his arm lightly. “You’re impossible.”

He chuckles again, sliding his hand back up to lace your fingers with his. “And yet, here you are. In my car. Post-workout. Holding my hand.”

He squeezes your hand, voice softer now. “And you love it.”

You sigh, leaning your head back with a little grin. “Ugh. Unfortunately.”

He glances over at you, and even with just streetlight shadows flickering through the windshield, his smile is pure trouble. “Good. Because I love you right back, sore arms and all.”

=

It’s way too early for anything.

The sun isn’t even fully up, just a soft hint of light peeking through the curtains. The room is still cloaked in that hazy warmth of sleep, all tangled sheets and the familiar scent of him lingering in the air. You’re curled deep into the blanket, refusing to move.

Joshua, however, is shirtless and awake—stretching by the window like it’s normal to be up at this ungodly hour. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, hair a fluffy, sleep-tousled mess, and he’s doing this thing where he rolls his shoulders like he doesn’t know what it does to you.

Menace.

Absolute menace.

You squint at him from your cozy cocoon. “If this is your way of seducing me into jogging, I’m still not going.”

He grins, walking over to your side of the bed with slow, obnoxiously confident steps. “It’s not seduction, babe. It’s encouragement.”

“Encouragement should not involve looking like that while I’m still horizontal and emotionally vulnerable.”

He leans down, brushing his nose against your cheek. “Come run with me. Just fifteen minutes.”

You groan, clutching the blanket tighter. “If my legs weren’t sore from yesterday, I’d consider it.”

Joshua chuckles, voice deep and warm against your skin. “Whose fault is that?”

Your eyes snap open. “Yours. You and your ‘just one more set, babe, you got this’ nonsense. I did not have that.”

“Pretty sure you liked it.”

“Pretty sure you’re single if you don’t let me sleep.”

He laughs again, reaching for your blanket—but you swat his hand away with a sleepy glare. “Don’t you dare.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll go suffer by myself. All alone. With no company. No moral support. No—”

“I’ll give you a back massage when you get home,” you mumble, cutting him off.

Silence. You peek one eye open to find him blinking down at you, stunned.

“Full massage,” you add. “Oil and everything. No complaints.”

Joshua narrows his eyes. “You’re bribing me.”

You smile sweetly. “I’m winning.”

He sighs again, much more theatrically this time, and drops back into bed beside you. “Fine. Morning run postponed. I expect thirty minutes, minimum.”

You grin, rolling over to bury your face in his neck. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Hong.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, voice low and satisfied. “I’m still getting that massage though.”

You hum sleepily. “Mmhm. Only if you promise to stop being hot before 7 a.m.”

Joshua laughs quietly, wrapping his arms around you like he has nowhere else to be. “No promises.”

And just like that, the room slips back into that quiet stillness, you tucked safely against his chest, both of you tangled in each other and the kind of love that makes even the early mornings feel like magic.

[scarletwinterxx]

birthday clues - lee haechan imagine

hellooooo ~ it's been a while, but it's fullsun's birthday and i really really wanted to post this today🥺 happiest birthday, hyuck. I love you always, in all ways🤍

For my other nct works you can check them out here, and for my other story series’ you can check them out here.

my x acc - niniramyeonie 🤍🌻

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(Pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You’ve been planning this for weeks.

There’s a laminated checklist taped to your wall, color-coded in three shades of chaos. There’s a Tupperware of star-shaped cookies cooling on your kitchen counter. And there’s a hand-drawn map of the city stuffed in your backpack, dotted with red Xs for the custom scavenger hunt you designed like your life depended on it.

Because it does.

Not literally, of course — just your dignity.

Hyuck’s birthday is today, and more importantly, so is the annual Birthday Bet. 

The tradition started as a joke years ago when you gave him a paper crown and he retaliated with a balloon-animal bouquet labeled “Most Annoying Human 1st Place”. Every year since, you’ve tried to outdo each other. This year? You're going to bury him in the sweetest, most ridiculous, most extra birthday ever.

You’re halfway through setting up clue #2 (taped under his favorite bubble tea shop bench, complete with a mini polaroid of the two of you dressed as bananas in 2021) when your phone buzzes.

🐻 hyuck: you’re being suspicious. 🐻 hyuck: do not try to emotionally assassinate me with baked goods again. 🐻 hyuck: unless they’re the chocolate ones. 🐻 hyuck: actually nvm. do your worst.

You roll your eyes, heart already doing the annoying thing it does every time he texts you something even slightly cute.

you: tell me where you are right now. no reason. not planning anything. 🐻 hyuck: totally not at the park where we had our disaster picnic in 2020 🐻 hyuck: totally not wearing the cursed sweatshirt you hate 🐻 hyuck: totally not hoping you’ll show up with cookies and feelings

You stare at the last text a second too long.

Cookies and feelings He’s teasing. Obviously. You take a breath, shove clue #3 into your backpack, and head to the park.

Operation: Win This Birthday Bet And Definitely Not Confess Your Feelings is officially underway.

The sun’s still climbing when you spot him, lounging on the crooked picnic bench like he owns the park, hood up, legs stretched out, face tilted toward the sky like he's waiting for a sign from the universe.

You’re not the universe, but you are holding a bakery box and a smug smile.

“Happy Birthday, Your Highness,” you say, setting the box down in front of him with a dramatic flourish.

Hyuck peeks at you from under the hood, grin spreading like mischief. “Is that cookies I smell?”

You say nothing. Just lift the box, crack it open, and let the scent do the work. His eyes go wide.

“You’re playing dirty.”

You shrug, innocent. “You started it.”

He bites into a cookie, chews slowly. “I’m not gonna cry, but just know — if I do, I’ll lie and say it’s the pollen.”

“Noted.”

You slip your hand into your hoodie pocket and pull out the first envelope, thick and obnoxiously glittery. He catches the motion and freezes mid-bite.

“No.”

“Oh yes.”

“I just got glitter off my floor from last year.”

“Then it’s good timing,” you say, handing him the envelope. “Clue number one, birthday boy.”

He narrows his eyes but takes it, cracking the seal dramatically like he’s unwrapping a treasure map.

Clue #1: Where you first declared me “unbearably tolerable” Go find the bench that’s uglier than your sweatshirt Something sweet waits for you there. Also: check under it, dumbass. His laugh bubbles up immediately. “You remember that bench?”

“I remember everything you say when you’re half-asleep on cold wood and full of fries.”

Hyuck stands, stretching lazily. “So you’re sending me across town for some cryptic love note and maybe a brownie?”

“Incorrect,” you say, stepping back and giving him your best evil mastermind expression. “You’re being sent on an emotional journey. There are snacks along the way.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Something flickers in his eyes, quick and unreadable, before the smirk returns.

“Fine,” he says. “But if this ends with karaoke and me crying, I’m giving you the trophy and making you take me out for dinner.”

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t already reserved a table.”

Hyuck points at you. “You’re dangerous.”

“And you’re stalling,” you say, already turning. “Move, Lee Donghyuck. The next clue expires in twenty minutes.”

He laughs again — loud, bright, and just a little breathless — then grabs the rest of the cookies and jogs after you.

“Wait,” he calls. “Did you say reserved a table? Are you— Is this a date in disguise?”

You don’t look back. You just grin and say, “Guess you’ll have to finish the hunt to find out.”

You two arrive at destination number two, just outside the tiny record shop that still sells mixtapes and smells like dust and heartbreak.

“Tell me,” he says, slightly breathless, “did you bribe the old man inside to play our cursed playlist when I walked in?”

You sip your drink casually. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You timed ‘Tiny Dancer’ to hit as soon as I opened the door.”

You shrug. “The universe provides.”

He narrows his eyes and pulls the second clue from his back pocket, still faintly glittery and now slightly crumpled.

Clue #2: Back when we didn’t like each other (or pretended not to), You stole a blue hoodie from me here. I let you keep it. Mostly because you looked stupid cute. Find the hoodie. Try not to cry. (Spoiler: it’s not the same one, but it smells like you think it should.)

Hyuck reads the clue aloud, voice softer near the end. His fingers pause on stupid cute. He glances at you.

“Bold confession,” he says, trying for a smirk.

“Technically, you started it by saying I looked better in it than you ever did.”

“I blacked that out.”

You reach into your backpack and pull out a tiny gift bag — navy blue, tissue paper fluffed to near perfection. He stares at it for a moment before taking it.

Inside is a hoodie. Blue, oversized, soft like a memory. You made sure the tag still had the tiniest corner of your cologne sprayed onto it — the one he once said smelled like “comfort and bad decisions.”

He pulls it out, eyes dragging over the fabric, expression unreadable.

“Put it on,” you say casually. “Or I take back the cookies.”

He laughs but he does it, tugging the hoodie over his head in one fluid motion. When it settles on him, it looks right. Familiar.

“It’s warm,” he mumbles, tugging at the sleeve. “You’re trying to ruin me.”

“I’m trying to win.”

He looks up, and for a second — just one heartbeat — it feels like the game is long gone. Like this is something else entirely.

But then he breaks the tension with a loud sniff.

“Yep. Smells like your obnoxiously clean laundry and deep emotional manipulation.”

You smile, triumphant. “That’s clue three’s vibe too, by the way.”

He groans. “There’s more emotional warfare?”

“Three more,” you say. “Next one’s already waiting.”

“God,” he mutters, but he’s grinning again. “You’re actually insane.”

“Only on June 6th.”

He tugs the sleeves down over his hands and follows you down the block, hoodie hanging off him like a secret.

You let him take the lead for clue three. It’s taped inside the cover of a romance novel at your favorite used bookstore — the one with the peeling wallpaper and the grumpy cat that always sits in the window like it owns the place. 

You told the owner in advance. He raised an eyebrow, muttered something about “young people and their dramatic quests,” and gave you a discount on a sticker that says Certified Soft Boi.

Hyuck finds the book within five minutes.

“Let me guess,” he says, sliding the clue out carefully. “You picked this one because they’re enemies to lovers and yell at each other every chapter?”

“Sound familiar?”

“I don’t yell.”

“You whine,” you say sweetly. “Like a drama lead in a K-drama with bad bangs.”

He opens the card. His lips twitch as he reads.

Clue #3: You once made fun of my favorite book. Then you read it. Then you cried. (I still haven’t let you live it down.) Go where we argued for twenty minutes about whether love confessions in books are realistic. Find the sticker. It says how I feel. (Try not to combust.)

You watch him scan the shelves until he stops at the romance section. There, on the spine of the exact book you shoved into his hands last year (he said it looked cheesy, and then stayed up until 3 a.m. reading it), is a neon pink sticker.

He peels it off.

It reads:

“I Like You. Unfortunately.”

He looks up slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You had this printed?”

“Custom ordered,” you say. “Just like your birthday cake.”

“There’s a cake?”

“Clue five, if you survive long enough.”

He tucks the sticker into his wallet. Doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t need to.

Clue four is at the basketball court.

It’s barely late afternoon now, but the sun’s hitting everything in that golden way that makes the world feel too soft. You’re perched on the bench while he dribbles a ball — not part of the plan, he just stole it from some kids who “needed better defense anyway.”

He’s grinning as he jogs over, cheeks flushed, hoodie sleeves pushed up.

“I better be getting another hoodie after this,” he says between breaths.

“You’ll get an emotional meltdown and a handwritten letter.”

He sighs dramatically. “Just what I always wanted.”

You hand him the next clue. This one’s folded in a tiny origami heart, because you’re extra and because you know he’s a sucker for dumb things folded into cuter things.

He unfolds it carefully, slower this time.

Clue #4: This is where you almost confessed. But you tripped on your own shoelace and called me a “walking heart attack.” I thought it was the best almost-love confession I’d ever heard. Check under the bench. There’s a mixtape. (Play track four. I dare you.)

He’s quiet for a moment, blinking down at the page. “I remember that,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“You were nervous. Kept kicking gravel. I thought you were gonna break up with me.”

You laugh “We aren’t even dating. ”

“Exactly,” he says, looking up at you. “Which made it weird that I was scared.”

You don’t know what to say to that so you say nothing.

He crouches down, pulls a little box from beneath the bench — a tiny tin with a USB drive inside. It’s labeled: Hyuck’s Birthday Mix (100% Emotional Damage Edition)

“Track four?” he asks, turning it over in his hands.

“Track four.”

He doesn’t play it yet.

Just slips it into his pocket, eyes still on you like he’s seeing something he hasn’t quite let himself look at before.

Then he grins. “This better not be an audio recording of you crying over my hoodie.”

“That’s track three,” you say.

He laughs again, loud and full and honest And it’s the kind of sound that makes you think: You’re not even trying to win anymore.

You just want him to know.

By the time you reach the last stop, the sun’s dripping gold across the city, painting everything in the kind of light that makes you feel like maybe the world’s in on your secret.

You’re at the rooftop.

The rooftop — the one above his apartment complex, where you both snuck up to drink lukewarm soda and complain about life during your second year of friendship. It’s seen all your highs, lows, and accidental hand-holding incidents that you both pretended to brush off while your hearts did backflips.

Now it’s dressed in fairy lights and chaos. A table covered in snack bags, a too-small cake with a single sparkler jabbed into it, and two chairs facing the skyline like the city’s putting on a show just for him.

You hear his steps behind you before you hear his voice.

“This is illegal levels of cute.”

You don’t turn. Just lift the final envelope from the table and hold it out behind you.

He takes it slowly, brushing his fingers against yours longer than necessary.

Clue #5: You win. (Not the bet — obviously, that’s still me.) You win because this birthday made me feel like my heart’s about to explode. You win because you remembered everything I said in passing, even the stupid stuff. You win because you always win when it comes to me. So here’s your final task: Sit down, eat your cake, and ask me what I want for my birthday.

There’s a pause. You can hear the sparkler sizzling.

Then his voice, low and slow and way too soft.

“You really went for the kill this year, huh?” like he knew exactly what you want for your birthday this year.

You finally look at him. He’s got that dumb smirk on, the one that says he’s trying to hold back a smile and failing miserably.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t think you’d make it to clue five. I had a backup plan in case you rage quit.”

“Please. I live for your dramatic clues.”

He steps closer, envelope still in hand. “So. That spoiler…”

You lift a shoulder casually. “What about it?”

“Should I sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you on your birthday before I grant the wish or after?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling — wide and unguarded. “I swear if you make a corny joke before kissing me—”

He kisses you mid-sentence.

It’s soft, certain, and somehow still teasing — like everything else he does. His hands settle on your waist like they’ve been waiting there for years. And when he pulls back, just a little, he’s grinning again.

“You still lose,” he whispers.

“Only if you count kissing you as losing.”

“I do,” he says smugly. “Because now you’re stuck with me.”

You pretend to groan. “Ugh. The worst prize.”

But you’re already pulling him back in, sparkler still crackling behind you, the city twinkling below like it's clapping for you both.

This time, there’s no envelope. No glitter. Just you, Hyuck, and the softest end to the longest game you’ve both been playing — and finally, finally winning.

He kisses you again deeper this time, slower. Like he’s memorizing the shape of the moment. Like he’s been waiting for permission and now that he has it, he’s not wasting a second.

His hands slide up your back. Yours find the edges of that blue hoodie you gave him, fingers curling into fabric that now feels like it belongs right where it is — wrapped around him, wrapped around this.

When you finally part, it’s just the sound of your breathing and the distant hum of the city below.

He keeps his forehead resting against yours, eyes still half-closed, like opening them would break the spell.

You smile at him soft, real, the kind of smile that only ever belonged to him anyway. And you say, in the quietest voice you’ve ever used around him:

“Happy birthday, Hyuck.”

He grins — that big, obnoxious, heart-wrecking grin. “Yeah,” he says, tugging you closer again. “Definitely the best one yet.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, still close, still so stupidly beautiful in that hoodie and that grin and that soft glow of fairy lights that somehow makes him look even more unreal.

“So,” you say, cocking your head, “you admit I win this year.”

Hyuck’s eyes narrow, playful, as his hands tighten at your waist. “Don’t push it.”

“I won,” you repeat, smug now. “Say it. Say the words.”

He chuckles, leans in just a bit like he’s going to whisper something devastating.

Instead—

“Just wait for your birthday,” he says, low and casual. “I’m gonna surprise marry you.”

You blink. “You—what?”

“I’ll do it sneakily. Like, you’ll wake up and boom—wedding arch, legal paperwork, vows written in glitter pen—”

“You’re insane.”

“—the whole group chat invited. Chenle officiating. Jaemin crying. Doyoung hyung objecting, probably.”

“Hyuck—”

But you don’t finish because he shuts you up with another kiss, quick and smug this time, like he knew you’d have something snarky and didn’t feel like letting you say it.

You pull back again, breathless and half-laughing. “This is not how I imagined this.”

“Oh?”

“You’re using kissing as a weapon.”

“I am,” he agrees. “Can’t help it. Waited too long to do this.”

He kisses you again. Slower now. Softer. No smirk, just sincerity pressed to your mouth like it’s an apology and a promise all at once.

And this time, you don’t stop him. You just melt into it — hoodie and rooftop and ridiculous scavenger hunt clues and all — because he’s always been the prize.

[scarletwinterxx]

I read almost all of your fics and I must say, you never disappoint 🥹❤️ Everything is perfect. The pacing, the trope, the choice of words ?! I love it so much! I hope you never lose your spark in writing. :)

waaaahhhh that's a long list🥺😭 thank you so much🤍 I'm too in love with the idea of love to stop writing about it so there will be more coming !! again tysm hope you have a great day🌻✨️

[scarletwinterxx]

in his orbit - jeon wonwoo imagine

girlie is back with another fic, can you tell i love writing slowburns? in case it wasn't obvious yet i love writing slowburn fics😅🤣 buckle up you're about to fall inlove (i mean i did so maybe you will too)🫠🤭

you can follow me on x i usually rant there, niniramyeonie 😊🌻

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You stand just behind the sleek glass walls of the boardroom, the hum of tense conversation vibrating through the air like static. The executives are already seated, each with their tablets, papers, and rehearsed reports all waiting for the same thing.

For him.

The door opens precisely at nine.

Jeon Wonwoo enters the room. His tailored black suit fits with surgical precision, every line sharp enough to draw blood. He doesn’t greet anyone, doesn’t have to. He simply walks to the head of the table, sets down his folder, and looks up.

Conversation dies mid-sentence.

You follow behind him, your steps two beats behind, practiced and measured. By the time he sits, you're already at your place beside the wall, tablet in hand. You don’t need to ask. He hasn’t even looked your way, but you know the exact schedule, the order of presentations, and judging by the faint twitch in his jaw, he’s already displeased.

Someone’s stalling.

“Begin,” he says, voice like cut glass.

The CFO starts talking, fumbling slightly under the weight of Wonwoo’s attention. He doesn’t yell. He never does. But his silence is worse than shouting. Midway through a shaky statistic, Wonwoo shifts in his chair.

Your cue.

You tap into the live data feed from the financial team. A graph updates in real time, and you cast it to the screen before anyone even notices the CFO is behind. Wonwoo doesn’t glance your way, but he no longer drums his fingers against the table.

Success.

It’s been three years since you started working for him. You remember the exact moment he stepped into this role . Barely older than some interns, yet the air seemed to lock in place around him. Most people are shaped by power. Not Jeon Wonwoo. He wears it like skin.

The meeting wraps with a sharp, clipped nod from him. No formal dismissal. Just the subtle scrape of his chair against the floor and that’s enough. Everyone starts packing up in a flurry, heads ducked, voices low.

Wonwoo stands.

So do you.

You’re already a step behind him, speaking low enough that only he hears. “You’ll need a summary of the revised Q3 forecasts from finance, I’ll have the file before lunch. The director of marketing rescheduled her one-on-one for Thursday at nine, I moved your investor call accordingly. Legal flagged two issues in the new vendor contracts. I’ll highlight them in your next review.”

He doesn’t answer. He never does when you run through his day unless you miss something.

You never miss.

You match his pace effortlessly as he strides down the hall, nodding once to the intern who nearly drops their tablet scrambling to open the elevator. Once inside, the doors close, sealing the two of you in silence. The mirrored walls catch the cold gleam in his eyes, unreadable as always.

You speak again, tone measured. “Lunch with Chairman Ryu at twelve. The chef from Verité confirmed your usual. Security’s updated on the venue change.”

His gaze shifts not quite to you, but close. “What about the Shanghai brief?”

“It’s on your desk. Summarized, annotated, with the risk assessment.”

He gives the barest of nods. But what most people don’t realize is that he doesn’t waste words when silence will do. That’s where you learned to read him.

The elevator dings open. He walks. You follow.

You’ve been in his orbit long enough to know every little thing about him. You knock once and when there’s no response, you step in anyway. He expects it.

Wonwoo’s at his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie slightly loosened. His glasses rest low on the bridge of his nose as he flips through a thick report, one hand turning pages while the other taps a pen against the wood.

You walk in without pause, tablet in hand, your steps soft against the expensive flooring. “You’ll want to look at the shareholder report before your dinner with Chairman Ryu,” you say, placing the file on the edge of his desk you already know how he likes things arranged. 

“There’s a discrepancy in the voting record. I flagged it.”

“You read the full report already?”

You nod once. “Twice. Once for detail, again for tone.”

That gets his attention. Slowly, he lifts his head. The weight of his stare lands heavy, but you’re used to it by now. That sharp gaze that makes board members stutter and interns nearly cry — you’ve seen it a thousand times.

“Do you want a printed version for the meeting?”

“No.” He leans back, the leather creaking faintly. “Just the highlights.”

Already done. You offer the printed brief without a word. He takes it, brushes your fingers as he does. A light touch. Accidental. Maybe.

He doesn’t apologize. Neither do you.

The silence stretches as he skims the top page, glasses catching the light. You watch the slight tightening in his jaw a sign only you would notice. He’s annoyed. Probably with the numbers. Or the people behind them.

You shift your weight. “I can delay the Chairman by twenty minutes if you want more prep time.”

He exhales through his nose, sets the brief down. “No. He can wait if I’m not done.”

Of course. You should’ve known. Jeon Wonwoo  doesn’t adjust for anyone. The world adjusts for him.

You nod once and turn to go, but his voice stops you.

It’s sometime after two when your phone buzzes with a simple message from him.

JWW: Come in.

When you step into his office, he’s seated behind his desk, sleeves rolled up again, reading glasses pushed onto his face.

“You need something?” you ask, tablet in hand, thumb already hovering over the agenda notes.

“Sit.”

The small table near the window. Two covered trays. Bottled water. A fresh set of chopsticks laid out neatly beside each plate.

Your brows lift before you can catch the reaction. “You—”

“You didn’t eat.” He doesn’t say it with concern, not exactly. Just fact. Like he’s stating a poor business decision you made, and he’s correcting it. “Neither did I.”

Wonwoo finally removes his glasses, setting them down with a soft click. “Eat. We have fifteen minutes before the next briefing.”

You hesitate only a second longer, then get up and walk toward the table. You sit, open the tray. your usual. Exactly how you like it.

He joins you, pulling out the chair beside yours without a word. You both eat without rushing. The only sounds are the quiet clink of chopsticks.

Halfway through, he speaks without looking up. “You need to stop skipping meals.”

You give a soft huff. “You’re one to talk. If I start eating regularly, I expect it’ll be written into my contract.”

Wonwoo’s reply is smooth, almost quiet. “I’ll have legal draft the clause.”

You look at him. He’s already resumed eating, expression calm. As if this is just another business item on his to-do list. But it’s not.

You feel it in the small things. The way he ordered for you. The exact meal. The timing. 

You eat in silence but the air between you is no longer just charged. It’s laced with something else now.

Something like care.

You steal a glance at him between bites sleeves still rolled, tie loosened, It’s the most unpolished version of him anyone ever sees. Just you.

And maybe that’s why you risk it.

“You know,” you say, tone casual as you pluck a piece of radish from the tray, “you keep telling me to take care of myself, but I’ve seen your calendar. You’ve had four hours of sleep in the past two days. That’s not impressive. That’s a health hazard.”

“You’re lecturing me now?”

“Not lecturing, lightly nagging. There’s a difference.”

His brow lifts. The corner of his mouth quirks so faintly, you almost miss it.

You press on. “You always tell people to be efficient, but you’re running yourself into the ground. I’ve seen cyborgs take more breaks.”

“I function fine.”

You snort. “You’re functioning on caffeine and willpower. That’s not a personality, it’s a warning sign.”

He leans back, arms crossing, watching you now with more amusement than reprimand. “You’re getting bold.”

“I’ve earned it,” you say, popping the last bite into your mouth. “Three years of anticipating your every micro-expression buys me at least five minutes of sass.”

“Four minutes,” he says, deadpan.

You grin. “You’re soft.”

His eyes narrow. “Careful.”

“See?” you say, standing to clear the trays, “That right there? That’s the face you make when you're trying not to smile.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You’re not not smiling.”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head once. But the curve of his lips betrays him just a little. As you gather the empty containers, you glance at him over your shoulder. 

“You should nap after your 3 p.m. I’ll move the export briefing.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

You give him a bright, unapologetic look. “Nagging clause. Already in the contract, remember?”

He says nothing, just watches you again with that same unreadable gaze. But this time, the weight of it doesn’t feel like pressure.

It feels like gravity.

=

It’s late. Most of the lights on the executive floor are off.

Except his.

You’d just finished clearing the last round of emails, already mentally sorting through tomorrow’s prep, when your phone buzzed.

JWW: Come in.

You enter his office without hesitation. You’re about to ask what he needs when he speaks first.

He doesn’t look at you. Just nods toward the small sofa across the room.

“On the couch.”

You follow his line of sight. There’s a paper bag sitting there. Neatly folded at the top. No logo, no tag. Just unassuming and out of place in the otherwise sterile precision of his office.

You walk over, eyebrows pulling together. “What is—”

Your voice fades when you open it. Inside, nestled in soft protective paper, is the bag. The one you’d joked about for months half-teasing, half-dreaming. The limited edition one that sold out in hours. The one with a price tag so high, you always added, “That’s my endgame motivation. When I can afford this, I’ve made it.”

You reach in slowly, fingertips brushing over the material like you’re afraid it’ll vanish.

Then you turn, eyes wide. “This is—how did you—”

Wonwoo finally looks at you. His expression is unreadable, as always, but his gaze is steady. “You kept saying it was your motivation, Consider it... early congratulations.”

Your heart stumbles. “Wonwoo, this bag is—it's not just expensive, it’s impossible to find. There’s a waitlist.”

He doesn’t reply. Just leans back in his chair like he’s already decided the conversation is over.

“You were listening,” you say, quieter now. Not accusatory. Just stunned.

“I always listen.”

You blink, still holding the bag in your hands, overwhelmed with the weight of it—not just the price, but what it means.

“Thank you,” you say, voice steadying.

He nods once. Then adds, almost like an afterthought, “Don’t cry. I won’t know what to do with that.”

You let out a breath half laugh, half something else. “I’m not crying. Just... processing. This is insane,” you murmur, your hands hovering just above the bag. 

“Like actually insane.” You reach in again, fingertips brushing the handle like it's fragile. Like it might vanish if you touch it too long.

His voice cuts through the quiet. “You forgot.”

You blink, looking up sharply. “Forgot what?”

Your mind starts racing. did you miss a meeting? An investor call? Something urgent? Your tablet is already lighting up in your hand, but then—

“It’s your work anniversary.”

You freeze.

“…What?”

“THree years,” Wonwoo says plainly. “Today.”

You stare at him. For a second, you don’t know what to say.

You’d lost track. too busy chasing deadlines, organizing his schedule, holding everything together. It slipped past you like so many other personal milestones.

But not him.

“This is way too much,” you say, laughing under your breath as you shake your head. “I mean—this bag? We can’t accept gifts this expensive. It’s in the handbook, page thirty-two”

Wonwoo lifts a brow. “I’m the CEO.”

“Right. But even you—”

“What are they going to do?” he asks, tone flat, but laced with something you can’t quite place. “Fire me for bending a rule or two?”

And that hits differently.because you know who he is.

Jeon Wonwoo doesn’t bend.

He doesn’t indulge.He doesn’t move unless it’s efficient, calculated, strategic. His life is systems and structure. Precision down to the second.

And yet this. He bent a rule.

For you.

You don’t let yourself sit in that thought for long. You can’t. Not when it threatens to stir something too deep, too real.

So you set the bag down gently, like it’s sacred. Like you’re afraid of what holding it too long might reveal.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

“But you did.”

You glance up. He’s looking at you again. You look away first. You always do when it’s like this. When the air feels too heavy, too loud for two people standing in complete silence.

Wonwoo stands. He shrugs on his coat, slow and deliberate, then moves to your side to retrieve something from the table. You can feel him without looking. The warmth of him. The tension.

Neither of you says anything.

“I’ll have the car brought around,” he says quietly. “It’s late.”

You nod, still not trusting your voice. “Okay.”

He walks past you, heading for the door. Then stops. Doesn’t look back. Just says, low and even, “Three years is a long time. You’ve earned it.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

The city lights blur past the car window, streaks of gold and blue washing across the glass like motion smeared in silence.

Wonwoo sits in the back seat, coat open, tie loosened slightly. He doesn’t say much. Never does with his driver. But his mind isn’t still.

He leans his head back against the seat, eyes closing for a moment. The hum of the engine fills the space between his thoughts.

Three years.

He remembered. Of course he did. Dates are easy. Predictable. Clean. But that’s not why he got the bag.

He heard you mention it once. Then again. And again, like a joke you didn’t realize you kept repeating when the days got long and the pressure sharpened around the edges.

“That bag is the dream. That’s my finish line.” “If I survive Q3, I’m buying it. Manifesting.” “Maybe in my next life when it doesn’t cost a kidney.”

Each time, you said it like it didn’t matter. Like it was a throwaway thought, just something to lighten the mood.

But he remembered not because it was important in the grand scheme of things. But because you said it. And he listens when you speak.

He always listens.

Wonwoo opens his eyes, watching the reflection of the streetlamps skim over his reflection in the glass.

You looked at the bag like it wasn’t real. Like you didn’t quite believe you were allowed to have something that wasn’t earned through exhaustion or sacrifice.

He hated that look.

You’ve given everything. More than anyone in that building. And still, you doubt if you deserve even the smallest indulgence.

You’d told him it was too much. That it broke rules. That gifts like that weren’t acceptable.

He said, “I’m the boss.”

It was a joke. But not really because it wasn’t just about the rules. It was about what he could control. And for someone like him, that’s everything.

The car slows as it turns onto the private street leading to his penthouse tower. His building looms ahead, lights on near the top floor.

But he doesn’t move.

He stays there for a second longer. Letting himself sit with the quiet thought he won’t say aloud. That he doesn’t care about the bag. Doesn’t care about the price, or the brand, or what it might look like to anyone else.

He got it because it made you smile. Even if only for a moment.

And because it let him give you something — for once — without it being part of the job.

The elevator ride up is silent. Smooth. Efficient.

But his thoughts stay with you. Like they always do, lately.

You, with your sharp eyes and steady voice. You, who can answer his questions before he even speaks.  You, who always knows when he hasn’t eaten, when he needs to be pulled back from the edge, when silence says more than words.

He steps into the penthouse. It’s spotless. Quiet. Exactly the way he likes it.

He thinks of your expression tonight. The way your voice faltered. How quickly you looked away. He didn’t say anything then.

He won’t tomorrow, either.

But the rules? He’s already bent them.

And that’s not nothing.

=

The next few days settle into rhythm. Or at least, the shape of one.

You’re back to the usual: synchronized movements, shared silences, decisions made with nothing more than a glance. The bag now lives on a shelf in your apartment, untouched but not forgotten.

It’s business as usual.

Except not really because something has shifted.

It lives in the pause between your words, in the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching. An elephant in the room dressed in tailored suits and polished restraint.

This morning is no different.

You’re in his office early, already running through his schedule with a practiced efficiency.

“First meeting at nine with Strategy, followed by the call with Tokyo. After that, the product review with Marketing, then the lunch briefing with legal.” You scroll through your tablet, tapping quickly. “Afternoon is clean aside from the quarterly report with Accounting. Oh, and someone from the Chairman’s office—”

You pause when you notice it.

He’s standing in front of his mirror, silent as usual, but there’s a small crease between his brows. His left cuff is fastened, but the right dangles open, the cufflink still on the tray nearby. His fingers brush the fabric, slow and stiff, trying again.

Jeon Wonwoo, youngest CEO in the country. Mind like a scalpel. Composed down to the breath.

And yet here he is — struggling with a cufflink.

It’s not unusual, exactly. You know him well enough to know his hands go a little rigid when he’s deep in thought, when the numbers won’t sit right, or when he’s slept less than three hours, which has been more often than not lately.

But it’s distracting. The way his fingers fumble. The way he doesn’t ask for help, won’t ask for help so you don’t ask either.

You set your tablet on the table quietly and alk across the room without a word.

You pick up the cufflink from the tray, then gently reach for his wrist.

Your fingers curl around it. You’ve done this before, in passing, in chaos, during ten-second scrambles between meetings.

His arm stays still as you fold the fabric, press the metal through the slit, fasten it in place. It’s mechanical. Thoughtless. You’ve done it so many times.

But then you glance up nd that’s when it hits you.

Just how close you are.

You’re standing barely a breath away, your hands still on his wrist, your face tilted toward his collar. His cologne is subtle, expensive, and now impossibly near. The warmth radiating from him sinks under your skin before you can steel yourself against it.

He’s watching you.

You drop your gaze quickly, fingers brushing against his skin as you pull back.

“All done,” you say, and you hate how your voice feels thinner than usual.

You turn back toward your tablet, moving before he can respond, needing the space like you need oxygen.

Business as usual but not really.

And both of you know it.

=

You stare at the door of the penthouse for a beat longer than necessary.

Jeon Wonwoo does not miss mornings. He does not run late. And he definitely doesn’t go silent.

You had called his driver when his office remained empty well past his usual arrival.

“He hasn’t come down,” the driver had said, voice tinged with something close to concern. “He always texts. He didn’t today.”

That’s all it took. One missing signal in a man who never forgets a beat.

So now you’re here, using the emergency access card he gave you over a year ago. For security protocols, he’d said. Just in case.

You’d never had to use it until now.

The lock beeps. The door opens. You step inside.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

You walk in, shoes barely making a sound against the sleek floors. T You pass the kitchen, untouched. No coffee. No breakfast. And then, finally, you find him.

His room is dim, curtains drawn halfway, Wonwoo lies on the bed, half-covered by the sheets, body curled slightly in a way that makes your stomach twist. 

His face is pale except for the red burning high across his cheekbones. Sweat at his temples. Hair stuck slightly to his forehead.

He’s burning up.

“Sir?” you say, quietly, cautiously.

No response.

You step closer, heart picking up now, each second tightening your chest a little more. You place a hand lightly on his forehead. It’s scalding.

“Wonwoo,” you say again, firmer this time.

His eyes open barely but when they land on you, something in his expression shifts. Like he’s seeing something impossible. His voice is hoarse, dry.

“You’re here.”

“You didn’t show. No text. I called your driver.” You pause, kneeling beside the bed now. “You’re sick.”

“Didn’t mean to sleep through…”

You shake your head, already reaching for the blanket, pulling it higher over him. “You didn’t just sleep through — your body shut down. God, you should’ve called someone.”

His eyes close again, brows twitching as if the thought of arguing with you costs more energy than he has. “Didn’t want to—” he exhales — “make it your problem.”

Your fingers still for half a second, then move again, tugging the covers with more care this time. 

“Too late for that. I’m making it mine.”

You move around the room, switching on the bedside lamp, searching for a thermometer, medicine, anything. When you find none, you grab your phone and start making calls, his doctor, your contacts, the concierge for extra supplies. 

You’re in work mode, the same precise, efficient tone you use in meetings and under pressure, but your hands shake slightly as you dial. You return to his side, pressing the back of your hand to his cheek again.

Wonwoo opens his eyes a sliver. “…You mad?”

You scoff quietly. “Furious.”

His lips twitch into the ghost of a smile, dry and weak but still him. “Figured.”

“You’re the CEO of a multi-billion won company and you can’t even tell someone when you’re sick? What kind of example—”

“I was tired,” he mutters. “Didn’t think it was that bad.”

“You have a fever of 39.4. That’s bad, Wonwoo.”

You don’t realize you’ve dropped the title until it’s already said. His name. Not sir, not CEO Jeon . Just… Wonwoo.

“I’m staying,” you say before he can argue. “Don’t bother telling me to go back to the office. You’re not dying alone in here just because you’re pathologically stubborn. Next time, just text. Like a normal person.”

You went out for a moment to grab something. balancing a small bag in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. You’re mentally rehearsing how to convince a man like Jeon Wonwoo to eat more than three spoonfuls of congee.

Then you see him.

Sitting up in bed, back against the headboard, glasses on and right there on the nightstand, his phone, which he’s just reaching for.

Not on your watch.

You move fast, stepping across the room and snatching the phone before he can grab it. He blinks, caught in the act.

“Hey—” his voice is still rough but clearer than earlier, more him now.

You raise an eyebrow. “Nope.”

“You do remember I’m still your boss, right?”

You roll your eyes and toss the phone gently onto the dresser, far out of his reach. “And you remember you’re running a fever and nearly passed out alone this morning, right?”

“I’m fine now.”

“You sat up. That’s not a full recovery.”

He exhales slowly, jaw flexing as he rests his head back against the headboard. “I need to check on a few things.”

“You’ll live if you don’t answer emails for six hours,” you say, placing the food down on the nearby table. “In fact, so will the company. Miraculously.”

Wonwoo watches you, eyes narrowed behind his glasses, expression unreadable. It’s not that usual sharp gaze — it’s quieter now, like he’s studying you rather than challenging you.

You ignore it. You move to pour water into a glass and set it down on the nightstand next to him. “Drink first.”

He doesn’t move.

“Seriously, don’t make me spoon-feed you,” you add dryly.

That gets the smallest quirk at the edge of his mouth. “You’d do that?”

“Try me.”

His eyes meet yours, something soft flickering there. “You’re being very bold today.”

“You left me no choice. I wasn’t about to let Jeon Wonwoo become a tragic headline: Youngest CEO in Korea dies alone in penthouse because he refuses to text assistant back.”

His laugh is barely a breath, but you catch it. Low, quiet. Real.

“Eat. Slowly.”

He takes the spoon, finally, and you watch as he takes a bite. You don't miss the small win when he doesn't grimace. Instead, he nods. “It’s…decent.”

“High praise.”

“You didn’t make it, did you?”

“Rude.”

After a few moments, he says, “You came all the way here.”

You glance at him, surprised. “Of course I did.”

"Did you at least call my driver?" he asks, voice low but calm.

You freeze for half a second, then busy yourself with the water bottle, unscrewing the cap like it needs your full attention. You don’t answer. He already knows.

His expression shifts subtly. Jaw tensing just enough. "You didn’t."

"Before you start," you say quickly, holding up a hand without meeting his eyes, "you cannot nag me right now. You’re sick. You're literally under a blanket and still half-burning up."

"You took the bus." He says it like it’s a crime.

"It’s not like I walked across the Han River. It was two stops, and it was faster than calling someone. What did you expect me to do, wait?"

“I expected you to be smarter about your safety.”

You glance at him then, lips twitching in dry amusement. “That’s rich coming from the man who was about to go to a board meeting while actively dying.”

“I wasn’t dying,” he mutters.

“You were sweating through your mattress.”

He glares, but it lacks real heat. “You know I’ve been trying to get you to learn to drive.”

“And I’ve been politely declining,” you counter.

“You’re going to keep declining even if it means riding a crowded bus to the top of a private skyscraper in the middle of Gangnam?”

“If it means making sure my boss doesn’t collapse alone in his overly minimalist bedroom, yes.”

“You’re impossible.”

You smirk. “I’ve been told.”

He shifts slightly in the bed, resting the bowl of soup on the tray. “I just don’t get why you won’t—”

“Wonwoo,” you interrupt, tone firm but not unkind.

“You work late hours. Some nights you leave past midnight. You don’t tell anyone when you head home—”

“And what, you’re gonna start putting a tracker on me next?” you joke, trying to cut the tension, trying not to think about how this doesn’t sound like a boss worrying about his assistant anymore.

He doesn’t even blink. “If that’s what it takes.”

You stare at him, unsure if you’re more shocked that he said it, or that he said it so seriously. You stand abruptly, clearing your throat. 

“Okay, you’re clearly fever-delirious. That, or you’re confusing me with a younger sister you don’t have.”

“Stop deflecting—”

“Stop sounding like someone who has a say in how I get home.”

The air tightens between you, tension stretched taut and sharp, until a buzz from the panel near the door. The intercom.

You breathe out in relief, practically speed-walking to answer it. “Doctor’s here.”

You open the door before he can say anything else, and the on-call physician walks in, polite and efficient with his small case in hand. Wonwoo sighs and settles deeper into the pillows as the doctor greets him and begins unpacking instruments. 

You feel his gaze on you as the doctor checks his vitals, asks him routine questions but you don’t look back. You can’t.

Not when your heart’s still catching up to what it all means.

The doctor left just before sunset, giving you a few instructions and a prescription list you already knew you'd handle yourself. 

The apartment lights are dimmed to a soft gold. Outside, the city is easing into the deep hues of early evening, the skyline humming behind the wide windows.

Wonwoo rests against the headboard again, he looks much better than how you found him this morning. You sit in the armchair across from the bed, fingers tapping your knee rhythmically, tablet balanced in your lap.

You're pretending to go over tomorrow’s briefings.

He’s pretending not to stare.

“Are you hungry again?” you ask finally, not looking up.

“No.”

“Thirsty?”

“No.”

“…About to say something else about bus safety?”

He speaks again after a moment, voice softer this time. “You always do this.”

You tilt your head. “Do what?”

“Act like you’re fine. Like you didn’t just spend the last six hours worried sick and micromanaging every detail of my care.”

“I’m your assistant,” you say, slower now. “That’s what I’m supposed to do.”

You shift in the chair and glance toward the side table. “I should prep the meds. You’ll need to take something before bed.”

You stand, already turning toward the counter when he says quietly, “You really weren’t going to tell me you took the bus, were you?”

You pause mid-step. “Nope.”

“I’m going to hire you a driver.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m going to try.”

You turn halfway, eyebrow raised. “Good luck with that.”

You’re lining up the pill packet with almost militant focus when his voice cuts through the quiet again.

"Okay, fine."

You glance over. He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just says, calmly, like it's the most reasonable thing in the world:

"Either you let me hire a driver for you… or I’m driving you home myself."

The sound of the pill bottle cap clicking shut is the only thing between you and the complete whiplash you feel.

"I'm sorry, what?" you ask, turning fully now, arms crossed.

One eye opens lazily. “You heard me.”

"You’re literally sick in bed."

"I'm not that sick."

"You had a fever of 39.5 like—" you check your watch, "—four hours ago."

"I'm recovering. Fast. As usual."

“You just had soup and nearly fell asleep between spoonfuls. And now you want to play chauffeur?”

“I wouldn’t have to if you'd let me hire a driver like a normal high-ranking executive assistant.”

"I'm not normal, though," you fire back, smug. "That’s why you keep me around."

"And because of that, I have no choice but to personally ensure you don't commute like you're still in college.”

You squint. “You’re threatening me. With a ride.”

“I’m offering you one,” he says, voice all false sweetness now. “As your extremely thoughtful boss.”

“No, this is extortion.”

He shrugs — or tries to. It’s barely more than a weak lift of his shoulder. “You either accept a company-assigned driver... or you accept Jeon Wonwoo, flu and all, behind the wheel.”

“You can't just hold your own sickness over me like that. It’s emotional blackmail.”

“It’s logical consequence.”

“You’re delirious.”

“You’re stubborn.”

You throw your hands up. “You can't drive me home! What if someone sees?”

“Let them.”

You stare at him. He stares back, perfectly calm, perfectly composed, like he didn't just casually declare social war on your carefully constructed boundaries.

“I can’t even begin to imagine what the tabloids would say if you got papped driving your assistant home in your Aston Martin.”

“That you finally caved and accepted a ride like a rational adult?”

“You’re impossible,” you grumble, turning back toward the kitchen.

“You say that, but you still haven’t said no.”

About an hour later you’re holding your phone, thumb hovering just above the call button, eyeing the door like it’s somehow going to open by itself and grant you escape. You’ve done the math. Checked the timing. Calculated the route. You could sneak out. Technically.

But you also know this man.

You know how he notices every detail, how he reads every flicker of hesitation like it’s printed in bold.  And unfortunately for you… that road goes both ways.

“Don’t even try it.” His voice cuts through the quiet, low and unbothered.

You groan “Fine. I’m calling the driver.”

He arches a brow without even looking up from the bottle of water you gave him. “Only took you an hour”

You point a warning finger at him. “Only for tonight.”

He hums. “So you’re negotiating with me now?”

“Yes,” you snap back. “Because you’re being like an overprotective boy—”

You freeze.

He freezes.

You clamp your mouth shut so fast you feel your teeth click.

The room goes dead silent. Not even the city noise outside dares to interrupt this moment of sheer, horrifying clarity.

Wonwoo slowly sets the water bottle down, eyes narrowing just slightly as he looks at you — not in irritation, not in mockery, but in something far worse.

Amusement. No. Worse.

Interest.

“Overprotective… what?” he asks, far too calmly.

You shoot to your feet like the chair burned you. “Boss. BOSS. That’s what I was going to say. Obviously.”

“Were you?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“So sure.”

He leans back into the pillows again, arms crossed like he’s settling in to enjoy the chaos. “Sounded like something else.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You clear your throat, aggressively casual. “You're obviously still running a fever.”

He gives you a long, unreadable look. And then, in the most infuriatingly smug tone:

“Just saying. Boyfriends do tend to worry about their girlfriends taking late-night buses alone.”

You look at him like he just grew a second head.

“Excuse me?”

“But I’m not saying anything,” he adds, shrugging one shoulder.

“Good. Don’t.”

“You already said it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

He gestures toward you. “It was right there. Almost out.”

“Almost doesn’t count.”

“It does to me.”

You groan again, dragging your hands down your face as you spin around toward the counter, muttering something unintelligible into your palms.

You end up calling the driver but somehow you still feel like he won this round.

The next morning he texted you at 6:47 a.m.

JWW: I’ll be back today. Resume as normal.

Now it’s 9:03 a.m., and you’re standing across his desk, scrolling through your tablet as you list off the day’s schedule like always except today, there’s a weird hitch in the rhythm because he’s not responding.

No confirming nods, no subtle gestures, no hmm or okay. Not even his usual corrections when you list the sequence slightly out of order.

You glance up — and freeze.

He’s not signing anything. Not reading. Not checking his watch, or his emails, or multitasking the way he usually does with quiet precision.

He’s just… staring at you.

“...The quarterly partner dinner has been moved to next Wednesday,” you continue, a little slower now, narrowing your eyes. “They requested the Hangang Room instead of the main hall, and the guest list is—”

“Why didn’t you argue with me this morning?”

You blink.

“Because I knew you’d win,” you deadpan, eyes narrowing further. “Also, I like having a job.”

“That’s not usually what stops you.”

You close your tablet with a sharp little snap. “Okay. What’s going on.”

“Nothing,” he says, still watching.

“You’re not doing anything.”

“I’m listening.”

“No, you’re staring. There’s a difference. One feels like work, the other feels like…” You trail off, suspicious. “Did the fever damage your frontal lobe? Blink twice if you need me to call the doctor back.”

His mouth twitches — that almost-smile you’re starting to clock more often than you used to.

“I was just thinking,” he says.

“Dangerous.”

He huffs a laugh. “About how strange it is.”

You raise a brow. “What is?”

“This. You.” He tilts his head slightly. “You’re doing exactly what you’ve always done — running through my day, anticipating every need, already knowing what I’ll ask before I ask it — and yet...”

“And yet?”

“It feels different.”

“Maybe because you’re still half-recovering and emotionally compromised by your own mortality,” you say lightly, trying to diffuse it.

But he doesn’t let it go. He just rests his chin in one hand, elbow on the desk, and says plainly:

“Maybe it’s because I can’t stop wondering what you were about to call me last night.”

You freeze. Then slowly, very slowly, you tuck your tablet under your arm, straighten your posture, and say

“I was going to say ‘boiling.’ Like boiling overprotective CEO.’ You know. Because you had a fever.”

Wonwoo stares at you and ou stare right back.

It’s silent for two seconds too long before he exhales a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh and mutters, “You’re a terrible liar.”

You turn sharply on your heel, muttering, “Resuming normal schedule,” and make for the door.

The car ride back to the city is quiet. You’d both just finished a site visit, checking on progress for a high-profile expansion project. he’s halfway through reviewing the day’s minutes when you mention needing caffeine before heading back into Seoul traffic.

He doesn’t even argue. Just mutters a dry, “Fine, but only if you don’t insist on that sugar-water vanilla thing you call coffee.”

“It’s not sugar-water. It’s comforting.”

“It's a dessert.”

“You wear suits to construction sites. What’s your point?”

The café is small and tucked at the edge of a quiet road, with warm wood interiors and soft lighting. A little too charming, honestly. The kind of place couples probably stop by on dates after hiking.

“I’ll take a hot americano,” he says, pulling out his card.

Then the barista turns to you, smiling. “And for your girlfriend?”

Before you can answer, Wonwoo beats you to it.

“She’ll have an iced vanilla latte. And one of those croissants to go.”

The words hit the air like a glass shattering on tile. You gape at him, every muscle in your body seizing. He doesn’t even blink. Just calmly taps his card, like he didn’t just commit social assassination.

You don’t even think, your hand moves on instinct, pinching his side with a sharp “are you crazy” kind of vengeance.

He grunts and looks at you out of the corner of his eye. “Ow.”

You hiss under your breath, leaning in. “What the hell was that?”

“What?”

“Girlfriend?”

“Mm.” He moves aside so you can grab your coffee. “Didn’t feel like correcting him.”

“That’s not how correcting works!”

He takes a sip of his americano, completely unbothered. “He assumed. I went with it. You were going to order an iced vanilla latte anyway,” he adds, like that justifies everything.

“That’s not the point—”

“Croissant too?”

You stare.

He smirks, that tiny half-quirk of his lips that always means trouble. “You always eye them. Never buy them.”

You blink. “...You watch me eye pastries?”

“You make it very obvious.”

You grip your cup like it might keep you grounded in this reality. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yet,” he says casually, holding the door open for you, “you still show up every morning.”

You walk past him without looking. “Because I’m contractually obligated.”

He follows. “Is that all?”

“Don’t push your luck, CEO Jeon.”

Later taht evening. You get home and drop your bag like it weighs ten kilos. Which, to be fair, it might — emotionally, at least.

Your heels come off with two exhausted kicks by the door, and you shuffle in like a ghost that's been overworked and emotionally blindsided in the span of a single car ride and a café order.

Your thoughts are spiraling again. Replaying the moment on a loop like your brain’s refusing to let it go.

My girlfriend will have an iced vanilla latte.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face.

He didn’t even flinch. Said it like he orders for you all the time. Which he doesn’t. Because he’s your boss. Your boss. The youngest CEO in South Korea. The man who built empires with one look and shuts entire boardrooms up without raising his voice.

You should not — cannot — be thinking about how sharp his jaw looked when he turned slightly in the café light. Or how the corners of his eyes crinkled just the tiniest bit when you pinched him. 

You’ve lasted this long. Years of working beside him, through sleepless nights and global deals, through power plays and gala events and 3 a.m. emergencies. You’ve survived his deadpan sarcasm, his overachiever control freak tendencies, even the subtle ways he remembers your coffee order and favorite pastry.

You cannot fall for—

“Unnie.”

You scream.

Your little sister Minjeong blinks up at you from the couch, a blanket around her shoulders and a bag of chips halfway to her mouth. “Whoa! Are you okay?!”

You clutch your chest, gasping like you just ran a marathon in your own hallway. “Minjeong! What the hell—what are you doing here?!”

She shrugs like she lives here, which, okay, technically she does. “I finished class early. You didn’t text back, so I figured you were still working late. But you’re early.”

You slump onto the armrest of the couch, still trying to get your heart rate back to normal. “Early is a strong word. I’ve just… had a day.”

She squints at you. “Wait. Are you blushing?”

You stare at her. “I am not.”

“You so are. Your ears are red. That only happens when you’re embarrassed or thinking about something you shouldn’t be thinking about—oh my God, is it work guy?!”

“Stop calling him that.”

“You never give me a name! So I just assumed ‘mysterious hot boss you won’t talk about’ means he’s secretly your forbidden office love.”

You groan, burying your face into the blanket she left on the side of the couch. “I hate you.”

“You do not. Spill. Right now.”

You mumble through the blanket. “He called me his girlfriend in public.”

Minjeong gasps so loudly it sounds fake. “WHAT?!”

“In front of a barista. Like it was nothing”

Minjeong slaps the couch cushion beside her. “Did he wink? Was there hand-holding? Did he look at you like you’re the only woman who’s ever understood his trauma?!”

You lift your head. “What drama have you been watching—?”

“This is real life drama! What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything! I pinched him! Pinched. In public.”

Minjeong’s mouth falls open. “Scandalous.”

You groan again, collapsing fully onto the couch this time. “He’s my boss, Minjeong. This is a nightmare.”

She leans over you, her eyes wide. “Or it’s the best plot twist ever.”

You throw a pillow at her. your face is still warm and the word girlfriend won’t leave your head. 

Wonwoo can pinpoint the exact moment it shifted.

It wasn’t some dramatic, earth-shattering realization. No lightning bolt. No slow-motion scene from a movie.

It was simpler than that. Quiet, like most important things in his life.

You were leaning over his desk, rattling off his schedule without looking at your tablet — because you’d already memorized it. You were adjusting his tie, the fifth time that month because he couldn’t be bothered to fix it right

You had this look on your face and you didn’t even flinch when he gave one of his sharper remarks. You just quipped something under your breath and moved on.

And that was it.

That was the moment. He still remembers thinking, God, I’m in trouble.

He’d always been good at structure. It was how he survived becoming CEO at twenty-eight. How he controlled rooms full of people twice his age and didn’t blink. His life was systemized, every minute accounted for, every decision calculated.

But you… you snuck in between the seconds. You made space where there wasn’t supposed to be any. And worst of all — you never asked for it.

You never asked for special treatment. Never tried to charm your way into anything. You just showed up — on time, prepared, infuriatingly perceptive — and somehow made the chaos manageable. Made him manageable.

He tried not to think too hard about it. Especially in the beginning. You were his assistant. That line was immovable. He’d built too much to risk it.

But then you started noticing the little things too. That he skips lunch when he’s stressed, that his coffee order changes depending on how his meetings went. That he gets tension headaches after long phone calls in Japanese. That he breathes a little easier when you’re around.

You never said anything about it. But you adjusted for him, anyway. Quietly. Naturally.

When the word “girlfriend” slipped out, he expected panic. Maybe a scandalized look or a stammer. He didn’t expect a sharp pinch to the side.

And God, if that didn’t make him want to smile.

Now, sitting in his living room after watching you nearly combust from your own embarrassment, he can’t help but let the smirk tug at his lips. The one he only ever lets slip when no one’s around.

He knows it’s risky. Knows the lines are still there, waiting.

But he also knows something else now — something he’s known for a while but only recently let himself admit:

You aren’t just part of his life.

You are his life.

The quiet in the storm. The thread in the chaos. The one person who never demanded anything, and somehow ended up meaning everything.

=

The door opens with a heavy click, and you glance up from the stack of files on your lap. Wonwoo walks in, loosening his tie with one hand, the other clutching his tablet. His jaw is tight, movements sharper than usual.

He doesn’t speak at first, just tosses the tablet onto the desk and shrugs off his jacket. Eventually, he turns, leaning back against the edge of the desk with his arms crossed. His eyes find yours, unreadable but heavy. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

You tilt your head, voice soft. “Bad meeting?”

He scoffs, low and humorless. “Understatement.”

“Do you want me to reschedule anything for tomorrow? Push a few things so you get a breather in the morning?”

He shakes his head, looking down at the floor for a beat. “No. I’ll handle it.”

You eye him for a second, then lean forward, sorting through another file. “You say that like you’re not running on caffeine and spite.”

“Spite’s effective,” he murmurs.

You glance up again. “Not sustainable.”

He walks around the desk slowly, finally moving toward you. You expect him to stop at his chair, but he doesn’t. Instead, he comes to where you’re sitting and wordlessly drops down on the couch beside you, close enough that his thigh brushes yours.

You don’t say anything at first but then, voice quiet you say “Was it something I can fix?”

He exhales through his nose, then turns his head to look at you. “You fix more than you know.”

Your chest tightens, but you force a small smile, bumping his knee with yours. “Yeah, well. That’s what you pay me for, right?”

He hums, eyes still on you. “I don’t pay you enough.”

You glance away before you can look too long, heart tripping slightly. You’re too aware of how close he is. Of the tension from earlier meetings still lingering in his shoulders, the tired look in his eyes, the quiet way he always softens when it’s just the two of you in moments like this.

“You hungry?”

His lips quirk faintly. “Only if you are.”

You smile at that, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “We’re both going to end up eating crackers from the vending machine again, aren’t we?”

“Classy dinner for two.”

You laugh under your breath, and he watches you. A little too long. A little too hard.

Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice quieter now. “You should’ve gone home earlier.”

You tilt your head, meeting his gaze. “You know I don’t leave until you do.”

He looks at you for a moment more, something in his eyes you can’t place.

And then softly, under his breath: “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

You blink. “What?”

But he’s already standing again, brushing off his pants, like he didn’t just say something that made your stomach twist.

“I’ll call the driver,” he says. “We’re done for today.”

And just like that, the moment is gone.

Minjeong flops down next to you on the couch, dropping her backpack with the kind of dramatic sigh only college students and people who’ve had three back-to-back group projects can muster. “God, if I hear the word ‘presentation’ one more time, I’m throwing myself into the Han River.”

You grunt from under your blanket, fully cocooned. “Mood.”

She turns to look at you. “Why do you look like a defeated burrito?”

“I am a defeated burrito.”

Minjeong raises a brow. “Rough day?”

You pause. Then with a long, tragic sigh, you mumble, “Hypothetically…”

“Oh boy.”

“…what does one do,” you continue, voice muffled from under your blanket, “when they’re… possibly… kind of… maybe… starting to like someone they’re not supposed to like.”

Minjeong’s eyes light up like a crow who spotted something shiny. “Ooohhh. We’re finally talking about it.”

You sit up just enough to glare at her. “Talking about what? I said hypothetical.”

“Yeah, sure. Hypothetical,” she echoes, with full air quotes. “Let me guess. Is this hypothetical person tall? Powerful? Smart? Obsessed with order? Wears tailored suits that scream ‘please emotionally damage me’?”

You scowl. “You know too much.”

“I live with you. You literally talk in your sleep.”

You throw a pillow at her. She catches it with a smirk. “So what happened? Did he brush your hand? Did he breathe too close?”

You sigh again, flopping back dramatically. “He ordered coffee for me. Then today he drove me home, well his driver did but you get what i mean right?”

Minjeong stares. “Wow. Scandalous. I hope you recovered from that very erotic experience. so what’s the problem?”

You groan, throwing your hands over your face. “The problem is: 1. He’s my boss. 2. I’m his assistant. 3. He’s objectively terrifying. 4. I’m very good at pretending I don’t find him absurdly attractive. 5. I don’t want to die.”

Minjeong leans in like she’s hosting a gossip podcast. “But you do like him.”

“No! Maybe. I don’t know. Shut up.”

She’s grinning so wide now you want to kick her. “This is so fun for me.”

“Good. Glad one of us is thriving.”

“You know,” she says, suddenly thoughtful, “for someone who’s always in control and totally unflappable at work, you really are spiraling like a romcom heroine right now.”

“I am not—”

“Next thing I know you’ll be running through the rain in heels crying about how you can’t be with him.”

“First of all, I would never ruin good heels like that. Second, I hate you.”

She grins, leans over, and flicks your forehead. “You love me. And you totally love him.”

You flop back into your blanket. “God, I need a lobotomy.”

“Nope,” she chirps, standing up. “You need a plan. Operation: Seduce Scary CEO.”

You peek from under the blanket. “I will call mom.”

“And tell her what? That I’m encouraging you to get your rich, hot boss to fall in love with you? She’ll ask why it hasn’t happened already.”

You sigh like it’s your last breath on Earth and scrub your hands over your face. “I’m serious, Min. I can’t do this.”

She pokes her head back into the living room like a nosy meerkat. “Do what, exactly?”

You groan, flopping back down on the couch. “Function like a normal human being when he does these things! Like, he’ll look at me — just look! — and for a solid three seconds my brain just. Stops working. Completely.”

Minjeong is smirking again, the menace. “So... like how you look at carbs after a diet?”

“Worse!” you wail. “Because bread doesn’t make me think about HR policies!”

Min walks over, sits back down beside your burrito form, and raises a brow. “That’s a very specific guilt.”

You wave your hand like you’re shooing away the ghost of professionalism. “It’s one hell of a long letter to HR, Min. One hell of a letter. ‘Dear HR, I accidentally had a daydream about my boss shirtless again. It was a Tuesday. There was nothing I could do.’”

She snorts. “Again?!”

“Don’t judge me, I’m fragile.”

Min is full-on laughing now. “You’re spiraling.”

“I am!” you cry dramatically. “He said I was his girlfriend to a stranger! In public! With his CEO face on like it was just another bullet point in the agenda!”

“And you’re sure it wasn’t just to mess with you?”

You glare. “Oh, he was absolutely messing with me. But then he does that thing where he holds eye contact a second too long, or says something kind of sweet but in his emotionally constipated CEO tone, and I just— I lose my ability to form words.”

Min makes a fake sympathetic noise. “Poor thing. Falling for your terrifying boss who buys you luxury bags and remembers your coffee order.”

You grumble into the blanket. “He’s too powerful. It’s like being in a boss battle with feelings. And I can’t even use any of my attacks because he already has all the cheat codes!”

Min pats your head. “You need therapy.”

“I need to quit.”

“You won’t.”

You sigh. “I know. I’d just end up crying on the street while LinkedIn roasts me with passive-aggressive rejection emails.”

Min grins and stands. “I’ll go start popcorn. Let me know if you plan to make out with him in a boardroom so I can clear my evening.”

=

Wonwoo noticed it immediately.

It was subtle at first barely-there shifts only someone who’d spent nearly every waking moment with you the last three years would even register. But for someone like him, whose job required reading rooms, reading people, reading you, it was impossible not to see it.

You still handed him his coffee just the way he liked it. Your reports were still precise, your scheduling still impeccable, and your presence still reliable as ever.

But that was the thing. That’s all you were now.

Reliable. Efficient. Distant.

You no longer stood too close. No light teasing, no under-your-breath comments when you passed each other in tight hallways. No quiet, shared glances from across a boardroom when someone said something ridiculous. 

But oddly enough… it wasn’t like you were distracted. Not the usual kind.

You were sharper. Every task executed with ruthless precision. Every deadline met before he even brought it up. It was as if you’d turned all your energy inward, redirecting it completely to your job. Like a shield. Like a wall.

And Wonwoo hated it.

He hated the unfamiliar cold that came with your new distance. He hated that you didn’t argue anymore, didn’t nag him over meals or mutter things under your breath that made him stifle a smirk in the middle of a meeting. The version of you that made his world feel a little less mechanical.

He sat behind his desk one evening, watching you through the glass as you stood outside, briefing a junior team member like your voice didn’t used to soften when you spoke just to him.

And for the first time in a while, Wonwoo didn’t know what he was doing.

Because he could face boards, competitors, the press, entire industries with calm precision—but facing this version of you?

He didn’t know where to begin.

The rain was merciless, pounding the windows with a steady rhythm that usually lulled you to sleep. But tonight, it sounded like a warning. Something in the air had felt off since evening fell, like the silence was heavier than it should be.

You had tried to brush it off.

Minjeong had noticed your restlessness, teasing you lightly before retreating to her room. But even she had paused before closing her door, glancing back with a furrowed brow like she sensed something too. 

You were just about to crawl into bed, hair still damp from your shower, oversized sweatshirt hanging off your shoulder. The kind of night where you should’ve been half-asleep already, but instead you stared at your phone like it might suddenly buzz.

And then it did.

The name flashing across the screen made your chest tighten instantly

Kang, security detail.

You answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Miss—” the man’s voice cracked slightly, something in it strained. “There’s been an incident. Mr. Jeon’s convoy—on the return from the site. There was an accident. He’s—he’s conscious, but we’re still assessing. Paramedics are on site. We’re bringing him back to the penthouse for further monitoring. Doctor will be on standby.”

You didn’t hear the rest.

Your body moved on instinct—keys, shoes, phone—your sweatshirt was soaked in seconds as you dashed through the rain, adrenaline silencing the voice in your head screaming for answers. You didn’t call anyone. Didn’t text. Didn’t stop.

You just ran.

By the time you got to the penthouse, it was chaos. His head legal counsel was there, murmuring in tight tones to someone from security. 

A private doctor stood near the hallway, suitcase open and ready. The elevator dinged softly behind you, someone rushing past with documents in hand. Every face was tense. Quiet.

You stood there, dripping wet, your lungs burning not from the run but from what came next.

“Where is he?” you asked the moment one of the security team spotted you.

“They’re just bringing him in—”

And then the door opened. Two guards came in first, followed by the doctor, and then—

Wonwoo.

He was walking, which gave you the tiniest ounce of reliefmbut barely. His face was pale under the dim light, soaked in rain, one arm pressed tightly to his side, the other bracing against a guard’s shoulder. 

His eyes scanned the room and landed on you.

Everything stopped.

You wanted to go to him, throw your arms around him just to make sure he was real, breathing, alive but you froze. He didn’t say anything. Just kept looking at you like you were the only thing grounding him. 

And somehow that look alone nearly shattered the wall you had built this past week.

You followed as the doctor led him to the couch, gloves already on, checking his vitals. Someone handed him dry clothes. He didn’t speak through any of it. He just winced when the doctor touched a bruised rib, hissed softly when antiseptic hit a gash on his arm.

Still, his eyes found you again, as if making sure you were still there.

You stood behind the couch, hands clenched into fists. You needed to stay calm. Needed to be his assistant, not this panicked, helpless version of yourself shaking in place.

“How bad is it?” you asked quietly when the doctor finally stepped back.

“He’ll need to rest some bruising. A few minor cuts. Thankfully nothing internal.” The doctor looked to you, then back to Wonwoo. “But he shouldn’t be left alone tonight.”

“I’ll stay,” you said, before anyone else could offer.

Wonwoo didn’t argue. His team slowly began filtering out, murmuring about statements, follow-ups, documents to file. You barely registered them.

When everyone else finally cleared out, and it was just you and him in the dim quiet of the penthouse, you finally moved. Walked to him slowly. Sat down on the table in front of him.

“You’re an idiot,” you said quietly. Your voice cracked.

He blinked. “...You’re soaked.”

“You almost died, and that’s your concern?”

“You’re shaking.”

“I ran here through the rain!”

A pause then he reached forward, slowly, fingers brushing yours. You flinched—not from fear, but from everything inside you that had been bubbling and cracking and breaking since the call. 

He didn’t pull away.

“I told them to call you first,” he said.

You swallowed. “You did?”

“I knew you’d come.”

Of course you would. Even if it killed you.

You exhaled, shoulders finally sagging as you leaned your forehead gently against his shoulder. 

“Just—don’t ever do that again,” you whispered.

“I didn’t plan on it.”

The tears came before you even realized it. You tried to blink them away, wiped at your cheeks quickly with the sleeve of your hoodie like that would make it less obvious, but it was already too late. 

Wonwoo was staring at you with something unreadable in his eyes, something that wasn’t just concern or guilt or pain. Something softer.

“Are you… crying because you almost lost your boss?” he asked, tone dry but quiet, like he wasn’t sure if joking was allowed yet.

You sniffled. “Shut up.”

And he chuckled. That low, rare laugh of his that always caught you off guard. The kind that never lasted more than a second but managed to settle under your skin.

You didn’t pull away when he reached for you. You didn’t step back or pretend to be fine or make another sarcastic comment. Instead, you let yourself be tugged forward, into the warmth of his chest, your knees slipping between his as you pressed your forehead to his shoulder again. 

His arms came around you, one a little tighter than the other with the bruised rib, but it didn’t matter.

You melted into him.

“You’re shaking,” he grumbled, voice muffled against your hair. “Why would you run through the rain like that? Do you even know how dangerous—”

“Wonwoo.”

“It would have been better to take the bus than this—”

“You were in a car accident,” you muttered against his shirt, voice hoarse. “You could’ve—”

“But I didn’t,” he said. And his tone dropped, lost the teasing edge. “I didn’t.”

You didn’t answer, just gripped his shirt tighter in your fists.

He sighed softly, adjusting to pull you in closer despite the dull ache in his side. “You’re going to catch a cold.”

“Still your assistant,” you mumbled. “Technically part of my job description to panic when my boss almost dies.”

“That’s not in any contract I’ve signed.”

You scoffed against him. “You bend rules, remember?”

That made him pause. Then he murmured, “Only for you.”

It hung in the air between you, heavier than the silence before it but you didn’t back away. Not this time. You stayed exactly where you were, your cheek pressed to his chest, his arms wrapped around you like he wasn’t planning to let go any time soon. 

=

“Are you seriously doing this right now?” you deadpan, arms crossed as you stand by his office door, glaring at the man who was very much in a car accident less than twenty-four hours ago and now sat at his desk like nothing happened.

Wonwoo didn’t even flinch. He adjusted the sleeves of his dark shirt—he’d forgone the tie today, probably the only concession he made to his condition—and started tapping through emails like you weren’t shooting daggers at him from across the room.

“I already told you,” he said calmly, “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, you’re stubborn.” You stomped over to his desk, grabbed the edge of it like you might flip it just to make your point. 

“Your shoulder’s bruised. You’ve got stitches on your hand. You limped into the building this morning, and you have a team of people who can handle things for you while you rest.”

“Yet here you are,” he replied, not looking up. “Still here. Still managing my schedule.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Because I knew you’d pull this.”

“Sit down,” you said, exasperated, reaching over to grab his laptop. “You’re getting too comfortable pretending you’re indestructible. I should start locking your office when you're not fit for duty.”

Wonwoo leaned back in his chair slightly, wincing just a little. “That would be an abuse of power.”

You raised a brow. “And giving yourself a concussion from working too much isn’t?”

He blinked slowly. “It was a collision, not my laptop falling on my head.”

“Same difference.”

That made him laugh—quiet but real—and you hated how your heart did a stupid little stutter at the sound.

“Fine,” he said, finally closing the laptop. “An hour. Then I’ll rest.”

“You said that two hours ago.”

He huffed a soft laugh again behind you, then called your name, quietly.

“You didn’t have to stay last night,” he said.

“I know.”

“And you didn’t have to come running when they called.”

“I know.”

“And you still did.”

You shifted slightly under his gaze, biting your lip. “Don’t make it weird, Jeon.”

His eyes softened just enough. “I won’t. Not today.”

“Don’t say it,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper.

Wonwoo doesn’t reply, just tilts his head slightly, waiting. You glance down, hands gripping the edge of the file you’re holding like it might anchor you to the ground. 

“I—I don’t know what this is,” you say, finally meeting his eyes. “What we are. And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just… blurred lines. But I’m not going to do something that can put your position at risk.”

There’s a flicker in his expression. A faint crease between his brows. Like something in your words bruised a part of him.

He still doesn’t speak. Doesn’t try to convince you, doesn’t argue or joke or push.

But what you don’t know—what he doesn’t say out loud—is that the moment you stepped into his life, everything shifted. He’s not just willing to bend the rules anymore. No, in his mind, he’s already rebuilding the whole system. Brick by brick. Quietly, meticulously. 

If the rules don’t allow room for you, then the rules need to change. Simple as that.

To him, it’s never been about risk.

It’s about you.

You, who showed up through every storm. You, who know how he takes his coffee better than the barista at his usual café. You, who still argue with him about cufflinks and vitamins and going home at a reasonable hour.

You, who looked like you were going to fall apart when you saw him after the accident—and then pulled yourself together for his sake anyway.

So no—he doesn’t speak. Not yet. But as he watches you retreat across the room, back to your usual spot like nothing just passed between you, he knows.

This silence won’t last forever.

=

The summons came just after you got back to your desk. A message from him

JWW: Come in. Now.

You groan quietly and bang your forehead lightly against your desk twice before pushing yourself up. Of course he found out. Of course someone from HR opened their mouth. 

You tried to handle it discreetly, but nothing ever stays secret for long in this building. Especially when it comes to you and Jeon Wonwoo. When you enter, he’s behind his desk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, glasses on, the expression on his face unreadable.

That’s somehow worse.

“Sit,” he says simply.

You do, because what else can you do? You sit, and the air feels a little too heavy for your liking.

“So,” he starts, folding his hands together on the desk. “Are you going to tell me what this is about or are you planning to run away without saying anything?”

You blink. “Define ‘run away’ because technically I didn’t quit—yet.”

His jaw ticks. “You went to HR.”

“I was just exploring options,” you say quickly, too quickly. “I wasn’t resigning or handing in a letter or—you know, flinging myself dramatically off the metaphorical cliff. I was just—curious.”

“Curious about replacing yourself?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again and sigh.

“Okay. Fine. Look. I am at the point where I’m tired, okay? Tired of pretending I don’t like you more than I should. More than I will ever admit again after this, by the way. Because I can’t—we can’t—this whole thing, it’s just—”

You stop for a second, gesturing vaguely at him like he’s part of the problem (he is), then at yourself (you are), then just give up and drop your hands on your lap.

“I don’t know how we got here,” you mutter. “One minute you’re just Jeon Wonwoo: Scary CEO, walking PowerPoint presentation, likes black coffee and dark suits and the sound of his own silence. And the next minute, you’re showing up in my brain in the middle of the night like—like some tragic K-drama male lead with a concussion and tailored pants.”

You inhale sharply. “And do you know how annoying it is that you're actually nice underneath all the CEO brooding? I was fully prepared to keep ignoring my feelings for the rest of my life. I had a plan! I was emotionally repressed and everything!”

He just watches you, still too quiet, still too calm. That, more than anything, starts to unravel you.

“I thought if I started the process of finding a replacement, I could… create some distance. I mean, if I’m not your assistant anymore, then maybe—maybe I’ll stop being the person who knows what color your mood is just from how you set your coffee cup down. Or the person who notices every time you look for me in a meeting. Or—God—forgets to breathe every time you wear those damn glasses—”

Wonwoo finally stands.

You freeze.

Oh no. You crossed a line. Several lines. You practically did the tango over them.

But he doesn’t speak. He just walks around the desk and stops in front of you.

“I wore the glasses today on purpose,” he says, voice lower than before.

You blink up at him, stunned. “What?”

“I knew you’d be avoiding me. I figured it’d be the fastest way to get your attention again.”

“You—” You gape. “You manipulative, calculating—glasses-wearing menace!”

A corner of his mouth twitches.

“I told you once I don’t bend the rules for anyone,” he says. “But I would for you. I already have.”

Your breath hitches. He kneels slightly to be at your level. 

“If we’re really doing this…” you start, voice quieter now, softer after all the chaos you just unloaded.

Wonwoo’s still crouched in front of you, looking like he’s got all the time in the world. His eyes haven’t left yours once. You try not to fidget. Fail. Fidget anyway.

“…And the past few minutes, days, moments weren’t just my imagination,” you continue, “then I think I want to… I mean, I would like to… resign.”

His eyes narrow a little, and you raise a hand fast.

“Not like that! I don’t mean…” You inhale and press your palms against your knees, steadying yourself. “I mean, if we’re actually doing this, the… you and me thing, or whatever this is, I don’t think I can keep working for you.”

You rush on before he can interrupt, knowing that look on his face is the quiet before the storm. “I’m serious! If it turns out we’re just a momentary cliché, if something blows up, if we break up—”

“We haven’t even started,” he says dryly.

“Exactly!” you say, flailing slightly. “And still I’m spiraling. Imagine what I’d be like if we actually dated. I’d be hiding under every Monday morning or sobbing in the elevator and calling HR with a fake voice—‘Yes, hello, it’s not me, but I think Jeon Wonwoo is dating his assistant.’”

His lips twitch. “You’d sabotage yourself?”

“In a heartbeat,” you admit shamelessly. “And then I’d call myself to schedule the investigation.”

That earns a short laugh from him, low and warm.

“I’m not saying this like I want to end anything before it starts,” you say. “But I want to keep the work stuff clean. I don’t want you to have to explain to the board or media why your assistant gets heart eyes during your presentations.”

He’s quiet again.

Still.

Too still.

“Say something. Please. Or blink. You’re staring like you already have my resignation letter drafted.”

Wonwoo finally stands. Walks around his desk. You watch, thinking he’s about to sit. He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls out a drawer, retrieves a black folder, opens it slowly… and pulls out a paper.

Your paper. Your résumé. The one you handed in three years ago, now carefully stored in his private drawer.

Your eyes go wide. “You kept that?”

“I keep records,” he says calmly.

You sputter. “Is that romantic or terrifying?”

“Both.”

“If you want to resign,” he says, voice steady but a little rough around the edges, “I won’t stop you. But not because you’re afraid of being a cliché.”

“Then why?”

“Because I want to ask you out,” he says plainly. “Not as my assistant. Not as part of work. Just you.”

“You said you don’t know what we are,” he says, “but I do. I’ve known for a while.”

Your heart is hammering in your chest.

“So,” he says, walking over and placing the folder on the coffee table in front of you. “Take your time. Think about it. Resign or don’t. But I’m not letting go just because this is complicated.”

You stare at the folder, then up at him. He looks impossibly calm, like he’s already built a ten-year plan around whatever your decision ends up being.

“…So,” you say weakly. “If I do resign, does this mean I can start sending flirty emails to your work account?”

His mouth twitches again. “You already do.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yesterday’s ‘Don’t forget to eat or I’ll come drag you out of that meeting myself’ email? Very romantic.”

You gasp. “That was threatening! That was a threat!”

“Exactly,” he says smoothly. “Romantic.”

God help you.

You’re falling in love with a terrifying CEO and apparently… he’s already ten steps ahead.

The days that followed felt both painfully normal and wildly new. You still arrived before him, arranged his schedule, reminded him of appointments, sent out emails like clockwork, and somehow anticipated every unspoken instruction without skipping a beat. You were still you, still the best assistant he’s ever had—and both of you knew it.

But now, tucked between all the efficient workflow and clinical professionalism, you were also… interviewing your potential replacements.

“I’m not saying she wasn’t qualified,” you muttered once, shuffling candidate files across your tablet as you stood beside him during a short elevator ride, “but she called you ‘Mr. Jeonwoo’ twice, and I refuse to subject the office to that level of chaos.”

Wonwoo didn’t even look up from his phone. “So you’re screening for people who can pronounce my name?”

“I’m screening for people who won’t accidentally get fired on their first day.”

That earned a glance. A small smile.

He didn’t say it out loud, but you could see it in the way his jaw tightened every time you walked into his office with an updated shortlist. 

You also learned very quickly that flirting from Jeon Wonwoo was dangerous because it didn’t come in loud declarations or showy gestures. It came quietly, smoothly, when you least expected it.

You didn’t even glance up from the stack of resumes in your hand when you spoke, but your voice was quieter this time. Less joking. “You hate it, don’t you. Interviewing my replacements.”

There was a beat of silence, just the sound of a soft sigh and the scratch of his pen stopping against paper.

Then, low and almost reluctant, he mumbled, “I do.”

That made you look up.

“I hate it. Every time I sit across from them and they talk about time management and efficiency and how good they are at color-coding calendars, I just—” He paused, jaw tightening. “—I want to ask them if they’d know to cancel a meeting just from the way I shift in my seat. Or if they’d remember I like my coffee black when the forecast says rain.”

You stared.

He finally looked at you then, straight in the eye.

“But,” he continued, quieter now, “if that’s what it will take for us to work… if you think I’m worth the risk… then I’m okay with it.”

You felt your heart thump once—loud and sharp—before catching in your throat. There it was.

That steady, no-nonsense Wonwoo voice. The one he used when finalizing major business deals. The one that didn’t entertain doubt.

But this time it was about you.

Your hands folded the resume in your lap without realizing, and you whispered, “That’s not fair.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What’s not?”

“You saying stuff like that—” You gestured vaguely at him, at the air, at the space between you. “—like you didn’t just casually drop an emotional landmine across my perfectly organized work brain.”

Wonwoo almost smiled. “So now I’m a distraction?”

“The biggest one.”

A beat. Then a low chuckle.

“Then it’s only fair,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

“You’ve been distracting me for years.”

You groaned, tossing the resume at the table like it offended you. “You were supposed to be emotionally constipated, not—whatever this is.”

He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, the edge of his mouth tugging up just a little. “Surprise.”

You blinked at him, unsure if you wanted to slap his shoulder or kiss him.

Probably both.

“I still don’t know if this is smart,” you muttered. “We’re walking a very thin line, you know.”

“I know.”

“It’s going to be messy.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“And if we crash and burn, I’m not just risking my job, I’m risking my pride. And I have a lot of pride.”

He leaned in a little closer. “I know.”

“You’re really not going to try and talk me out of this?”

“Why would I? I’ve waited long enough.”

That shut you up. Completely.

Finally, you mumbled, “You should come with a warning label.”

“I do,” he said. “You just ignore it.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile. “You’re annoying.”

“Still worth the risk?”

You glared.

He smirked.

He stood up slowly, smooth and deliberate, walking around the table until he was in front of you. You tilted your head back slightly to follow his movement, heart ticking up a notch when he crouched down at your side, eyes leveled with yours.

“I don’t want you to give up anything for me,” he said, voice low and steady. “Don’t choose between me and your career if that’s what’s happening here.”

You opened your mouth. Then shut it. Then tried again.

“But…” You hesitated, the word hanging on your tongue like it weighed more than it should.

“But that’s the thing,” you said, voice quieter now. “I’d choose…”

His gaze didn’t move. Didn’t push or pressure. Just waited. Calm. Patient.

“I’d choose you,” you finally said, barely louder than a whisper. 

Wonwoo didn’t move at first. Just blinked—slow, like he had to take in every word. Then his mouth lifted at the corner, the smallest, softest smile.

You added quickly, “But I’m still finishing this project, okay? Don’t get all weird and noble. I’ve worked too hard to leave everything half-done.”

His brow arched in amusement. “So you’re choosing me but with conditions.”

You scowled. “Obviously.”

A soft laugh escaped him then, low and genuine. His hand reached out, carefully, fingers brushing yours before curling around them. “Okay,” he said. “Conditions accepted.”

And there, in the middle of your chaotic work desk, his knees probably going numb from crouching and you blinking back whatever overwhelming feeling was trying to crash over your chest—you smiled.

Really smiled because you knew this wasn’t just about choosing him.

He was choosing you, too.

=

You were half-kneeling by the side cabinet in his office, going through the rack of emergency suits and coats he kept in there. As usual, muttering to yourself as you folded one of the sleeves more neatly.

“Who just shoves an Armani jacket like this? The hanger is right there—why do I even bother—”

You were so caught up in your organizing and light scolding that you didn’t hear him approach. Didn’t notice the soft thud of his polished shoes on the carpet.

Until you felt arms slowly wrap around you from behind.

You froze.

Completely, utterly froze.

“Jeon Wonwoo,” you said slowly, voice already filled with warning, “what do you think you’re doing?”

He didn’t let go. In fact, he just rested his chin lightly on your shoulder and sighed. “It’s after hours,” he mumbled, voice lower, deeper, rougher from fatigue. “And I’m tired.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Blinked.

“Okay, first of all,” you started, heart beating way too fast for your liking, “you can’t just sneak up on people and hug them like that—this is still your office. Technically still a place of work.”

He didn’t budge. Just nuzzled a little closer and sighed again.

“Wonwoo,” you said, more breathless this time. “Let go.”

“No.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Neither am I.”

“This is not professional,” you tried.

“Good thing it’s after hours,” he replied easily.

“I could file a complaint.”

“You could,” he said, finally leaning back just a little—but his hands stayed firmly on your waist. “But you won’t.”

You turned around slowly to face him, hands still awkwardly stuck between you and his chest. He looked tired, yes, but there was something else in his eyes. Something soft. Something dangerous.

You swallowed. “Why are you doing this now?”

“Because you’re leaving soon,” he said simply. “And I… don’t want to miss any more moments I could’ve had.”

“So this is your plan? Surprise-hug me into staying?”

He smirked, just a little. “You always did respond to blunt gestures.”

You laughed despite yourself, pressing a palm to your face. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re still here,” he said.

You scowl at him, cheeks burning as your palms press lightly against his chest, trying—and failing—to keep some kind of distance.

"Once I’m not your secretary," you mutter, almost too fast, your eyes darting everywhere except at his, "I can be… I don’t know. Whatever you want me to."

Wonwoo blinks, caught off guard—but only for a second. Because then, he smiles. That rare, boyish smile. The one that softens every sharp angle of his intimidating face. The one you’ve only seen a handful of times and never this close.

Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he pulls you into an even tighter hug. His arms wrap around you securely, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head gently.

You immediately panic.

"Yah—Jeon Wonwoo!" you squeak, muffled slightly against his chest. "I just said not yet! What are you doing?!"

"You said 'once you’re not my secretary'," he says, completely unbothered, his voice warm and annoyingly smug. "Not that I couldn’t get a head start."

"That’s not what I meant and you know it!"

He chuckles low in his throat. "You're rambling again."

"Because you’re hugging me! Like this!"

"I’m practicing."

"For what, exactly?!"

He leans his chin on top of your head, his voice a low hum. “For the moment I can finally call you mine without crossing any lines.”

You go quiet. Your entire face burns hot, your mind frantically searching for a snarky comeback—but nothing comes. Because deep down, maybe you don’t want to deflect this time.

After a long moment, you sigh, defeated, forehead gently bumping against his chest.

"You’re really good at this, you know that?"

"Only when it comes to you," he murmurs, and now you really want to scream.

But you don’t. Not tonight.

Instead, you let him hold you for just a little longer.

=

The office is quieter today.

Not because the work has stopped—Jeon Corporations doesn’t sleep—but because it’s your last day, and everyone knows it. People greet you with bittersweet smiles. The ones who have worked closest to you offer their heartfelt goodbyes, some even trying to convince you to reconsider.

But your decision was already made.

You spend the morning tying up the final pieces of the major project you've been overseeing. Your replacement shadows you through the day, still stiff and nervous under Wonwoo's piercing gaze. You catch yourself shooting the poor kid a sympathetic smile more than once.

By lunch, you’ve cleared out your desk. The clock ticks toward the end of the day, and for once, you don’t rush to meet him outside his office when his final meeting wraps. You don’t straighten his tie, or hand him his coffee, or recite the rundown of his next appointments.

You just wait quietly at your desk, finishing the last bit of documentation before sending the final email.

You hear him call for you from his office so you go in.

Wonwoo stands there, in his suit and tie, every bit the composed CEO the world knows him as. But his eyes are different. There’s something quieter in them. Something only you have ever seen.

“So… this is it.”

You nod. “This is it.”

He walks to his desk, pulls open the drawer, and places a sleek black envelope on the table between you. You blink down at it, puzzled.

“It’s a… contract? A letter? A declaration” he says casually. “Nothing official. Just something I’ve drafted. It outlines your new role.”

Your heart stops. “My what?”

He smiles faintly. “Girlfriend. Possibly more later. Benefits included. No office politics. No need to call me ‘sir’ anymore, unless you want to.”

You laugh, a sound that comes out half-hysterical, half-teary. “You made a contract?”

“Would you expect anything less from me?”

You roll your eyes, trying to pretend you’re not fighting the urge to cry again. “This is ridiculous.”

“I wanted to do this the right way,” he says. “I didn’t want to take a single risk with you while we were still bound by titles. But now... there’s nothing in the way.”

You look up at him—your now former boss, the man who made you fall so impossibly hard without even trying.

“I’m off the clock,” you whisper.

His lips curve. “Then I can do this.”

And he kisses you.

No more tension, no more pretending. Just him. Just you.

Finally.

When the two of you break apart, you’re both smiling. This right here should feel scary, stepping into this unknown with the man who knows you best. 

You look at the letter again, smiling bigger “You reall drafted a whole contract like this is some business deal?” you tease him

“What? Were you expecting a heartfelt love letter stating every reason why I’m choosing you? I can make a whole book of that if you want”

You laugh at that, Wonwoo watches you like you’re a sight he’ll never get tired watching. 

“So let’s say I’m interested in this vacancy… as your girlfriend…” you trail off. 

Immediately his arms tightens around you, lifting you slightly off the ground making you laugh again before he settles you back on the ground without letting you go

“You’re overqualified, I’d promote you straight to wife” he says with the kind of seriousness hed use in the boardroom. 

You roll your eyes but ending up grinning and blushing anyways.  You stand on your tiptoe, your lips capturing his again.

And as the day ends, a new one will begin. 

You might not be there beside him during the work hours, but now you’ll be there with him for a lifetime.

=

2 YEARS LATER

His office looked exactly the same.

Same towering bookshelves, same minimalist elegance, same silent efficiency humming in the walls—but if someone paid enough attention, they’d notice the change. They’d see it in the framed photo on his desk, the faintest hint of a smile that used to never be there, and the soft black velvet box in the drawer closest to him, now empty.

Jeon Wonwoo had just ended another brutal, back-to-back meeting with the overseas partners. He leaned back in his chair, rolling his sleeves up slightly, the sharp lines of his suit jacket discarded on the coat rack. The meeting had run long—again—and now he was due for a dinner event in exactly thirty minutes.

He glanced down at his cufflinks and sighed.

Of course.

He grabbed one, trying to angle it just right, but it slipped from his fingers. The sound it made hitting the desk was soft, but his jaw clenched. It wasn’t about the cufflinks. It was the fact that you used to do this for him—quietly, without asking, without needing a cue.

Before he could try again, his new secretary knocked once and stepped in. “Sir, your—”

He didn’t even look up. “Let her in.”

The secretary blinked. “Ah, yes. Of course.” She stepped back.

And then you walked in.

Not in workwear. Not with your tablet or schedule. But in an elegant blouse tucked into black trousers, a soft leather handbag slung over your shoulder, and a ring—his ring—glinting proudly on your finger.

“Wow,” you said, raising a brow as you shut the door behind you. “Still fighting with the cufflinks?”

Wonwoo didn’t smile, but there was that look—eyes softening just a fraction, the corners of his mouth threatening a curve.

“I had it under control,” he said.

You snorted, crossing the room with the same confidence you had when you worked under him—but this time, it wasn’t duty guiding your steps. It was something else entirely.

“Sure, Mr. CEO,” you teased, reaching for his wrist. “Let me help before you bend another rule and go to a black-tie dinner with rolled sleeves.”

He extended his arm wordlessly, watching the way your fingers expertly slid the cufflink into place.

“How was the meeting?” you asked.

He exhaled through his nose. “I’d rather have been anywhere else.”

“Even stuck in traffic with me singing off-key?”

He gave you a side-glance. “That’s not nearly as bad as you think.”

You smirked, moving to his other cuff. “You’re just saying that because you proposed after one of those car rides.”

“And because you said yes,” he said quietly. Remembering that night just a few weeks ago.

Your hands faltered for a moment, not because you were unsure—never that—but because it still floored you, how easily you could fall for him all over again in small moments like this.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I did.”

The second cufflink clicked into place. You smoothed the sleeves of his dress shirt and adjusted his collar. When you looked up, he was already watching you again.

“I can’t believe it’s been two years,” you murmured, voice almost lost in the room’s quiet. “Sometimes I still feel like I’m going to hear my name called out over the intercom, or get a panicked email because you refused to reschedule three back-to-back meetings.”

“Sometimes I miss having you around the office,” he admitted. “But then I remember I get you all to myself now.”

You laughed, eyes rolling. “Is that your way of saying you miss me managing your life?”

“Maybe,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “But I prefer you managing our home.”

That made your heart skip.

“I’m still adjusting to that,” you said. “Every time I walk past your closet, I think, ‘Wow. The Jeon Wonwoo actually shares closet space.’”

He gave you a dry look. “Barely. You’ve taken over the left half.”

You grinned. “I make you better, admit it.”

He didn’t hesitate. “You always have.”

There was a knock on the door again—his driver this time.

Wonwoo didn’t look away from you. “Give me five minutes.”

The driver left. You turned to grab your bag but paused as he caught your wrist, gently pulling you back to him.

“I have ten minutes before I need to smile for cameras and pretend I care about golf again,” he said, voice lower. “That gives me enough time to tell you something.”

“What’s that?” you asked.

“That no meeting, no title, no company… will ever mean more to me than you.”

You blinked once. Twice.

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours.

“I loved you when you were my assistant,” he whispered. “I love you now. And I’ll still love you when you're yelling at me because I left the fridge door open again.”

“You mean when,” you mumbled, lips curving.

“When,” he agreed.

He kissed your temple. “Now come on, fiancée. You’re making me late.”

“You love it when I make you late,” you quipped.

He smirked. “Only for you.”

And just like that, you walked out of his office—not as the woman behind the CEO, but as the woman beside him.

Jeon Wonwoo was nothing if not sure.

And he was sure of you.

There would be whispers. There always were. To some, this story was a fairytale—the secretary who fell for the CEO. To others, it was scandal—a power imbalance, manipulation, an easy narrative painted by people who didn’t know the first thing about the truth. Some would say he gave you everything.

But they’d be wrong.

Because you were there when nothing was certain. You were the one behind the early days the quiet, ugly, unglamorous chaos no one ever saw. The nights you stayed until 3 a.m. running numbers, making calls, stitching together crises before they unraveled.

They didn’t know that without you, Jeon Wonwoo didn’t function—not the way they knew him. 

They didn’t know how many nights you reminded him to eat, to sleep, to rest his eyes. That you were the one who taught him how to slow down. How to feel.

And now, years later, you were no longer the assistant with your name tucked under his email threads. You were the woman standing beside him in a room full of sharks, still the calm at the center of his storm.

[scarletwinterxx]

OH MY DAYYYYYSSSSS.... YOU WRITE SO BEAUTIFULLY. YOUR WRITINGS ARE A PIECE OF ART. You could write a book and I'd buy it without thinking twice. You're a wonderful writer.

tbh I almost cried when I read this.

When I was younger, being an author was my ultimate dream. I even applied to college and took courses on my first year but life happened and I kinda lost that spark (plot twist i ended up getting a degree in psychology😅)

I'm just happy I found an outlet to continue that dream🥺🥹 like for real i used to write by hand, pages upon pages of stories. I still have that notebook with me😅 i still have those unfinished drafts from 2014 in my gdrive.

Readin every comment, reblog, and even the likes and knowing others are enjoying my work is truly so so so heartwarming.

So thank you for this. Hope you have a great day. 🤍🌻

[scarletwinterxx]

GIRL i just read “how long before we fall in love” and I’m BEGGING of you to write a part 2 or a sequel to it bcz it was FIRE, it’s the best fanfic I’ve read like ever! I’ll follow you now you just made it to my top 3 authors🙂‍↕️

I always say... never say never🫣😅 and thank you so much, it's an honor to be included on your list🩷🩵

[scarletwinterxx]

So..... this happened while writing🤣😅 when I say im literally smiling, kicking my feet, rolling on my bed while writing pls know I truly meant it

see u on the next fic😚😉

[scarletwinterxx]

oh my god your writing is simply fabulous 🥹 i’m literally in love with everything you’ve written!! you’ve got me kicking my feet and giggling. if it’s not too much to ask, could you maybe a story for Jun?

thank you so much😭🥺🤍 pretty much the giggling, air kicking and punching is my end goal here😅 alsoooo here's the jun fic, i've been thinking about writing one for him for a while now so i guess perfect timing, hope you like it!

you can follow me on x, niniramyeonie 😊🌻

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

You’re elbow-deep in bubble wrap when disaster strikes.

Well, not disaster exactly, more like cat. You're just trying to take out the trash behind your cozy little pottery shop and suddenly, a blur of fluff strolls past your ankles like she owns the place.

She's orange. She's majestic. She immediately knocks over a display of ceramic coasters with the word “Noods” written in cursive.

You check her tag and it says her name, Mimi. No address though so naturally, you let her stay. It’s not like you could toss her back outside, not with those judgmental green eyes staring into your soul. 

So, for the next 24 hours, she becomes your assistant. She sits on the register, steps in wet glaze, and contributes a healthy amount of cat hair to a tray of hand-painted saucers. Customers adore her. One lady tries to buy her. You consider it, briefly.

Then, around noon the next day, the bell over your door jingles.

You glance up, ready to say hello, and there he is.

Tall. Nervous. Kind of shaped like a stop sign with anxiety. 

He’s got a hoodie that’s too big, sleeves half-eaten by his hands, and hair that’s probably been finger-combed exactly 17 times in a panic before entering. His eyes scan the shop, go wide when he sees the cat lounging on your checkout counter like she pays rent.

He blinks. You blink.  Mimi meows, long and accusatory.

“Uh,” he says, voice like someone trying not to startle a deer or maybe a librarian. “Hi. Sorry. Um… this is weird but—uh, that cat. That’s Mimi. She’s mine.”

You glance at the cat. She rolls over, shows her stomach, you look back at the guy.

“She doesn’t seem to be in a rush to leave,” you say. “Do you have proof of ownership, or…?”

He panics.

“Oh—I mean—I have pictures! On my phone! Of her. Like. Doing things. Cat things. I swear I’m not just trying to steal a cat. I mean, who does that? Ha. Ha. Ha…”

You watch him almost drop his phone while trying to pull up his camera roll. He opens his calculator instead. Twice.

Eventually, he shows you a picture of Mimi in a sweater that says “I hate you.”

You nod solemnly. “She looks equally judgmental there.”

“Yeah, that’s her. She hates everyone. Except, apparently, you.”

Mimi stretches, walks to the edge of the counter, and bonks his hip with her head. His eyes go soft, like freshly kneaded clay.

“I’m Jun, by the way,” he says, scratching behind Mimi’s ears. “Or, like, people usually call me Jun. Or Junhui. Or—actually, you don’t need to know that. It’s just Jun. I’m Jun. That’s it.”

You give him your name, trying very hard not to smile too hard.

Mimi hops into his arms with the elegance of a bowling ball. He holds her like someone holding a baby for the first time—delicately, but with the terrified grip of a man who knows this cat will betray him any second.

You open the door for him.

“Thanks for not... cat-napping her,” he says, already backing out awkwardly.

You shrug. “Anytime. If she ever runs away again, I guess I’ll be here. Selling mugs. Watching my assistant knock them off the shelves.”

He pauses. Turns back. He beams, trips over the welcome mat, and leaves.

The bell above the door jingles again the next morning, and you're halfway through arranging a pyramid of espresso mugs shaped like little ghosts. You look up and there he is—Jun, human embodiment of “oops,” clutching a paper bag and a coffee cup like they might explode if he moves too fast.

“Hi,” he says, with the breathless energy of someone who’s rehearsed saying it five times outside.

“Morning,” 

He shuffles forward and sets the bag and coffee on the counter like offerings to a very chill god. “I, um… I brought you something. Just like a thank you. For not letting my cat become an influencer behind my back.”

You peer inside. Coffee. And a pastry. It looks fancy. Glazed. Flaky. The kind of thing you’d eat dramatically in front of a window while it rains.

“Oh, that’s really nice, but uhm, is this almond?”

He perks up, too proud. “Yeah! It’s, uh, almond croissant. I thought it looked cute. Like your shop. I mean—not that your shop looks edible. Just like—uh—cozy. And warm. Like pastry. But not in a weird way—”

“I’m allergic to nuts.”

The pause is instant and violent. His face does things. Several things. Horror. Confusion. More horror.

“Oh my God.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, no, no, I—this is the opposite of okay. I tried to kill you. With kindness. And nuts. I weaponized pastry.”

You snort.

“I didn’t even ask! Who does that? Who brings unsolicited allergens to a person who saved their cat?! Am I cursed?”

You gently slide the croissant back toward him. “I’ll trade you for one that won’t send me into anaphylaxis.”

He groans and drops his head onto the counter, just narrowly missing the coffee.

He lifts his head and tries to recompose himself. “Okay. I’ll come back with a new pastry. One without... murder flakes.”

“Appreciated.”

“And I’m really sorry.”

You smile. “I know. Don’t worry. Next time just ask if I have any deadly food weaknesses before feeding me.”

He nods like you’ve just given him the secrets to eternal life. “Got it. No nuts. Ever. Ever ever. Got it.”

He laughs, nervous but a little less nervous than yesterday, and picks up the croissant of shame on his way out.

=

The bell above the door jingles, and Jun steps in with the same nervous determination as someone about to deliver a formal apology. 

He’s holding a paper bag in one hand, a coffee cup in the other, and a whole monologue rehearsed in his head just in case you still remember the almond incident.

But you’re not there. Instead, behind the counter is a girl with glittery butterfly clips in her hair and a “Ning” name tag written in pink gel pen. She’s aggressively bedazzling a business card holder. Beside her, a guy in a hoodie “Chenle,” according to his badge and the overwhelming aura of chaos he radiates, is lounging on a stool throwing a rubber band at the ceiling.

Jun stops in the doorway, thrown completely off script. “Uh… hi?”

They both look up at the same time.

“No—uh—I’m not. I was just… is she here?”

“She stepped out,” Ning replies, putting down her glitter pen. “Inventory run. Ghost mugs are haunting the shelves again.”

Jun hesitates, glancing at the bag in his hand. “Oh. Okay. I guess I’ll just… come back later.”

Chenle eyes the bag like a raccoon who smells snacks. “Is that a peace pastry?”

“A what?”

“Y’know. An offering. After the whole nut-pocalypse situation yesterday.” Ning adds, smiling with  wicked glint in her eyes. The two young ones looked like evil twins to Jun’s eyes, and to be frank he’s kind of scared.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“She told us she nearly died.”

Ning elbows Chenle. “No, she didn’t. She said you panicked so hard, you almost died.”

Jun groans and holds the pastry bag a little closer to his chest, like it might shield him. “It’s nut-free this time. I swear. I interrogated the bakery lady. Apple danish. Very neutral. Completely non-lethal.”

“Respect,” Chenle nods. “Still romantic, though.”

Jun turns pink in real-time. “It’s not romantic!”

“Oh my god,” Ning gasps, pointing a manicured finger. “It is romantic! Wait—are you the cat guy?”

Jun deflates. “...Yes.”

“Dude,” Chenle says, sitting up like this is suddenly the most interesting part of his week. “You left with your cat and came back for the girl. Classic.”

Jun opens his mouth, closes it, then just mutters, “I’ll come back later,” and turns for the door.

“Hey!” Ning calls after him. “We’ll tell her you stopped by! She’ll think it’s cute!”

Chenle grins. “And slightly desperate!”

Jun doesn’t answer. The door jingles again as he leaves—head down, ears red, apple danish still untouched.

From behind the counter, Ning leans toward Chenle and whispers, “Should we eat the pastry?”

“Absolutely not,” Chenle says. “Romance is sacred. Also what if it’s poisoned by mistake again.”

They both nod solemnly.

A few hours later you step back into the shop with a box of ghost mugs balanced in your arms, only to immediately feel a disturbance in the air.

Not a dramatic one. Just… cousin-level chaos.

Ning is perched behind the counter like a smug little gremlin, glitter pen in hand, while Chenle is suspiciously pretending to reorganize the shelf of “World’s Okayest Human” mugs. He’s doing it upside down for some reason. Neither of them makes eye contact.

You narrow your eyes.

“What did you two do?”

“Nothing,” they say in eerie unison.

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s not comforting.”

Ning giggles. Chenle coughs into his hand like he’s trying to swallow a secret. You set the box down and walk behind the counter, scanning for signs of damage, a spilled drink, maybe something on fire. So far, so good.

Then you spot the bag.

Plain, slightly crumpled. Set on the side with a sticky note stuck to it. You peel it off.

“Nut-free. Swear on Mimi.”  — Jun

You blink. Then sigh.

“He came back?”

“He came back,” Ning says sweetly.

“With pastry,” Chenle adds. “Atonement danish.”

You look at the bag again. “Was he okay?”

“Depends on your definition of ‘okay,’” Ning says. “He stammered a lot. Looked like he might throw the coffee at us and flee.”

Chenle nods solemnly. “Definitely blushed so hard I think he powered the register for a minute.”

You try to hide your smile, but it slips out anyway.

“He said he’d come back again,” Ning adds, twirling her glitter pen. “If he survives the embarrassment.”

Chenle leans over the counter. “Sooooo… you gonna eat it? The danish of forgiveness?”

You glance at the bag, then at your cousins, then roll your eyes affectionately.

“If I die, I’m haunting both of you.”

Ning grins. “We’ll sell ghost mugs with your face on them.”

You take the danish, unwrap it, and take a bite. Apple. Sweet. Nut-free.

And maybe, just maybe, a little charming.

=

A couple days pass. Jun doesn’t come back.

Not that you’re keeping track. Not that you glance at the door every time it jingles. Not that you left a space behind the counter suspiciously clear, just in case someone needed a spot to awkwardly set down a coffee and explain himself again.

Nope. Definitely not that.

You’ve been very busy. Rearranging the spoon rest section. Suffering through Chenle’s DJ phase. Trying to keep Ning from glitter-gluing googly eyes onto every “Live Laugh Loaf” plate in the store.

Still, by the fourth day, you tell yourself you’ve completely forgotten about it. About him.

Until you bump into him.

Literally.

You’re in the checkout line at a warehouse-style supply store just outside of town, the kind with industrial-sized jars of glaze and suspiciously large boxes of tea lights. You're balancing three ceramic paint sets, a roll of bubble wrap, and a bag of gummy bears when you whirl around—only to crash directly into a tall, flustered wall of hoodie and limbs.

Jun.

He nearly drops the pack of tofu in his arms. You nearly fling your gummy bears.

There’s a beat of chaos, mutual blinking, and then

“…Hi,” he says, like a question.

“…Hey,” you answer, trying to casually shove a paintbrush back into your basket without looking like you’ve just elbowed the aisle.

He looks exactly the same. Fluffy hair slightly windswept. Hoodie sleeves halfway down his hands. Wide, deer-in-headlights eyes like he’s still internally buffering from the collision.

“I wasn’t stalking you,” he blurts.

“I didn’t think you were,” you say, now 85% sure he thinks you’re stalking him.

He holds up the tofu. “I’m here for groceries.”

You hold up the bubble wrap. “I’m here for capitalism.”

There’s a pause.

Then you both laugh.

It’s weirdly easy, considering the last time you saw him he was fleeing the scene of a heartfelt baked goods drop-off like a raccoon caught with a cinnamon roll.

“I, um… I was gonna come back,” Jun says, scratching behind his ear. “I just didn’t want to, you know, keep showing up and being… weird.”

“Weird how?” you ask, tilting your head.

“Weird like… pastry guy. Nut boy. Nervous ceramic admirer. The usual.”

You squint. “You think showing up with snacks and being respectful is weird?”

He blushes. “Okay, but when you say it like that it sounds kind of noble.”

“Well, I am the one who didn’t die from your first offering, so maybe I’m biased.”

Jun smiles, soft and shy, but not quite as panicked as before. “I really did mean to come back.”

You nod. “Good. Because Chenle’s been making bets about whether you moved to another country.”

“Are you, uh, doing anything after this?”

You blink. “Aside from valiantly transporting glaze and gummies? Not really.”

He shifts his tofu awkwardly. “Would it be weird if I bought you a non-deadly snack? Maybe here. Neutral territory. Fluorescent lighting. Witnesses.”

You grin. “Neutral snacks in neutral territory. I think I can handle that.”

He exhales like he’s just survived a boss fight. “Okay. Cool.”

The café smells like toasted bread, burnt espresso, and just enough cinnamon to make you wonder if they pump it through the vents on purpose. It's cozy in that mismatched-chair, crooked-painting, no-one-knows-where-the-line-starts kind of way.

You and Jun manage to find a two-seater by the window, where a plant dangles overhead like it's eavesdropping.

He sets down the tray with two drinks and a plate of Very Safe Pastries. “Okay,” he says, pointing dramatically. “Double-checked. No nuts. No trace. No nearby trees that might be nut-related. We are in the allergy-free zone.”

You eye the pastry. “This one’s not secretly peanut butter in disguise, right?”

Jun puts a hand on his chest. “I swear on Mimi. And she’s very judgey.”

You take a bite. It’s soft, warm, slightly fruity. You don’t die.

Jun watches like he’s waiting for you to sprout hives anyway. When you don’t, he relaxes. A little.

“See? Progress,” he says, sipping his drink.

“You’ve officially leveled up to ‘not allergic to you,’” you reply, raising your cup.

He grins into it. “Best title I’ve ever had.”

For a few minutes, the conversation is easy—stuff about the shop, Mimi’s dramatic refusal to wear the new collar he bought her, and his ongoing war with the neighbor’s parrot that keeps mimicking his voice saying “I lost my cat.”

You’re halfway through a story about Chenle hot-gluing googly eyes onto a butter dish when Jun leans back a little, smile still there but quieter.

“I really did want to come back,” he says again, more softly this time. “I just didn’t want to be annoying.”

You blink. “You brought a cat-shaped mug to life, accidentally threatened my immune system, and panic-bought pastries. That’s not annoying. That’s... honestly, the most interesting thing to happen at work all month.”

Jun lets out a soft laugh. “That sounds like a really low bar.”

“You haven’t met our Tuesday customers,” you deadpan. “One of them tried to pay for a plate with a coupon for salsa.”

He stares. “Was the coupon expired?”

“Obviously.”

He laughs again, fuller this time, and you feel it buzz in your ribs like a little echo. The window light hits his cheek, softening the pink that’s still there every time you compliment him even by accident.

Eventually, he glances down at his drink, then up at you again.

“Can I… come by the shop sometime soon? You know. To buy something. Maybe. Or pretend to.”

You smile.

“I’d like that. But bring Mimi next time. I want proof she’s still judging you.”

“Oh, she absolutely is,” he says, nodding gravely. “She’s probably at the window right now, wondering why I’m not home to open it just so she can ignore it.”

“Can’t wait.”

=

It starts on a Wednesday.

A completely ordinary Wednesday, which makes it suspicious right off the bat. The shop’s calm. Too calm. No screaming toddlers. No weird glass-breaking incidents. Not even a misplaced spoon rest in the “vaguely haunted items” section.

You’re arranging a display of seasonal mugs—tiny pumpkins wearing scarves—when the door jingles.

You don’t look up right away. It’s probably someone asking if the mushroom-shaped teapots are dishwasher-safe (they’re not) or trying to flirt via coaster puns (tragically common). But then you hear a very familiar, slightly-too-fast voice say:

“Hi! Hi. Okay. Cool. I’m doing this.”

You pause, look up and there’s Jun.

Holding… a bouquet?

And

A mug. A large, lumpy mug. Hand-painted. Bright red. Covered in the worst, most aggressively enthusiastic lettering you’ve ever seen.

“DATE ME?” in all caps, underlined in glitter.

You stare at it. You stare at him.

He’s already sweating.

“Okay, listen,” he says quickly, like he’s trying to outrun his own embarrassment. “This is not my finest crafting moment. I panicked. I went to one of those paint-your-own-pottery places, and I blacked out somewhere between the glitter glue and the handle. But it felt poetic. You know. Mug-based courtship.”

You blink. “Is this… are you asking me out with a mug?”

“Not just a mug,” he says, placing it carefully on the counter like it might detonate. “There was going to be a backup plan. I had a card. I lost it or maybe Mimi stole it.”

You snort. “Okay. Wait. Rewind. You made me a mug that says ‘Date me?’ in glitter.”

“Yes.”

“Because…”

Jun clears his throat, cheeks now approximately the color of ripe tomatoes.

“Because I like you. And I think you’re funny and smart and you didn’t sue me after I nearly fed you death pastry. And you talk to mugs like they’re people and you’ve never once made fun of my cat voice, which honestly makes you a saint. And—”

You hold up a hand, trying very hard not to start laughing in his face in a good way. “You have a cat voice?”

Jun looks like he regrets every life choice that led to this moment.

“I can’t explain it but Mimi responds to it.”

You lose it. You full-on cackle, leaning on the counter as tears prick the corners of your eyes. Jun looks mortified and delighted at the same time.

“Okay,” you say between laughs. “Okay. First of all, this is the ugliest mug I’ve ever seen. It looks like it’s yelling.”

“I know,” he groans. “It’s shouting affection at you.”

You pick it up, cradling it like a newborn. “Second of all… yes.”

Jun freezes. “Wait—yes?”

“Yes, I’ll go out with you.But… one condition”

“Deal.”

You smile. “I want to hear the cat voice.”

He groans again, covering his face. “This is emotional blackmail.”

“Mug glitter law,” you reply. “You brought this upon yourself.”

Just then, the door jingles again.

Chenle walks in, holding the glitter-covered fan.

“Hey! So I heard someone finally grew a backbone—oh my god, is that the mug? You actually used the glitter letters? Bro. We talked about this.”

Jun looks like he might die on the spot. “Chenle.”

“Wait,” Chenle squints, pointing. “Did she say yes?”

You and Jun glance at each other.

“She did,” Jun says, unable to stop smiling.

Chenle stares at you. Then at Jun. Then raises both arms like he just scored a goal. “Ha! I won the bet!”

You frown. “There was a bet?!”

Ning suddenly appears from the backroom, glitter on her face. “I said it would take two more mug drop-offs. This is rigged!”

You rub your temples as Jun winces beside you.

“Okay,” you say. “New rule. First date? No cousins. No mugs. No glitter.”

Jun nods solemnly. “Agreed.”

Chenle pouts. “So boring. Can I at least be in charge of your couple name?”

“No,” you both say in unison.

But honestly? You're still holding the glitter mug. And it's hideous.

And it's perfect.

[scarletwinterxx]

Missed when you used to write more NCT..❤️‍🩹

I miss it too...

I've thought long and hard about how to answer this. For those who are new to my blog, I started posting fics w nct 5 years ago and I loved it, I have always loved writing and finally I found a platform to share my works. My writing style changed over the years, I think it's pretty obvious if you compare my very first fic to my latest one. And with that, my nct fics will always have a special place in my heart.

I know i haven't written as much for nct as I used to. I do try. I have a bunch I started, but I can't seem to finish and I dont want to put out works just for the sake of posting. I do miss it. Everyday I try and think of new stories and plots, I'll write a few paragraphs, get it started but somewhere in the middle I would get stuck and wouldn't how to continue with it :( apologies for that, it's totally a me problem. Whenever I can't finish a story, I would pause writing to give my mind some time.

I know I keep saying I'll post more because I will. I dont want to close that door. nct, my neos, will always be my home.

I will still write for nct. I just can't give an exact time when. Hope you understand🥺🤍