scarletwinterxx

[scarletwinterxx]

chasing fire - xu minghao imagine

helllooooooo and i am back to the racing universe. i love how this turned out, like really really🥺 idk how to say it but this hao is soooo hao in my mind🤭 hope you like it!

and yes the cheol and jeonghan cameo here is from my bend the break au🤭✨

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.

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

The night air is heavy with gasoline and adrenaline, the underground circuit alive with the hum of engines and the roar of the crowd. Neon lights cut through the smoke, and for a moment, everything feels suspended in that perfect chaos until your car cuts across the finish line first.

By barely an inch.

Your knuckles ache from gripping the wheel, chest heaving as the rush floods through you. The crowd erupts, and then you see him.

Xu Minghao, ice in human form. He removes his helmet with a measured calm that almost infuriates you more than his driving does. No anger, no panic, no crack in that cool exterior just sharp eyes that fix on you like he’s already dissecting every turn you took.

He stalks over, helmet in hand, the distance between you shrinking until the noise of the circuit fades.

“Not bad,” he says, lips curling into that insufferable smirk. The kind of smile that makes your blood burn hotter than the engine under your hood. “But it won’t happen again.”

You roll your eyes, masking the way your pulse is still racing. Typical Hao. All calculation. All control.

“Careful,” he murmurs, gaze unwavering, “I might start enjoying chasing you.”

And just like that, the win doesn’t feel like enough.

You tilt your chin up, refusing to flinch under his stare. If he wants to corner you, fine you’ll give him something to chew on.

“Oh?” you shoot back, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Funny. From where I was sitting, it looked like you were already chasing me. And losing.” 

The words slip out sweet and sharp, like a knife hidden in honey. 

Minghao doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even frown. He just studies you, unreadable, and that calm almost drives you crazier than anger would. Like your words can’t rattle him. Like nothing can.

Then he chuckles. A low sound that shouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it does.

“You talk a lot for someone who only won by a fraction of a second,” he says, voice maddeningly even, eyes glittering with something unreadable.

You click your tongue, feigning nonchalance, though your pulse is sprinting. “A win’s a win, Hao. Don’t tell me Mr. Ice-Cool can’t handle a little heat.”

Minghao is the one to break first, though not in the way you want him to. He just gives you that knowing half-smile, like he’s already won something you don’t understand, and steps back. 

Without another word, he turns and disappears into the shadows of the pit, the crowd parting instinctively around him. Ice, through and through.

You exhale, finally, realizing you’d been holding your breath.

“You so have a thing for him.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. Mina’s suddenly at your side, glossy hair perfect despite the smoke and grit of the track. Your best friend, your plus-one to almost every race, somehow looking like she just stepped out of a magazine spread.

You narrow your eyes. “Do you mind? Maybe announce yourself next time instead of materializing out of thin air.”

She grins, unbothered, slipping her arm through yours as if she owns it. “Please. I was watching the whole thing. The way you two were staring each other down? I half expected you to either throw punches or… well…” She waggles her eyebrows.

You groan. “Mina—”

“What?” she teases, eyes sparkling. “The tension was insane. You don’t look at someone like that unless you want to race them and ruin them. Preferably in the same night.”

You snort, rolling your eyes, though heat creeps up the back of your neck. “He’s insufferable. Always so calm, like he’s above everything. Drives me nuts.”

“Uh-huh,” Mina hums, clearly not buying your denial. “Funny how the guy who drives you nuts is the same one you can’t stop watching as he walks away.”

“I was not watching him.”

“Sure,” she says sweetly, smirk widening. “And I didn’t just see you beat Ice Prince Hao by a hair and immediately melt when he whispered in your ear.”

“Mina!”

She just laughs, dragging you toward your car. “Relax, Reckless Fire. If you don’t have a thing for him now, give it time. Rivalries like that?” She leans in, conspiratorial. “They’re basically foreplay.”

Mina leans against your car while you dig through your bag for your phone, still buzzing from the race. “You know, it kills me that you don’t even do this professionally.”

You snort. “Because I actually like having money in my account? Racing full-time doesn’t exactly pay the bills unless you’re at Minghao’s level.”

And that’s the thing. You’re not officially a racer. Not like him. You’re the one people call when they want a circuit set up, when sponsors need wrangling, when publicity has to be finessed. You know every backstreet of Seoul that’s ever held a midnight race, every rookie desperate for a shot, every veteran who refuses to hang up their keys.

You’re the one who makes the underground tick.

Every now and then, though, when the itch gets too strong and the crowd is hungry for a wildcard, you slide behind the wheel. 

Xu Minghao isn’t just good. He’s the best. Started competing in China the second the law let him, and by the time he came to Korea, his reputation arrived ahead of him. Ice in human form. Methodical. Brilliant. Every turn calculated five steps in advance.

The opposite of you in every possible way.

And then there’s Kim Mingyu, his best friend and human foil, loud where Minghao is silent, chaos where he’s discipline. Mingyu’s the type to make an entrance without trying, six feet of runway confidence in sneakers and grease-stained hoodies.

If Minghao is the scalpel, Mingyu is the sledgehammer. Together, they’re practically untouchable.

Minghao tosses his helmet onto the workbench, rolling his shoulders out. The adrenaline’s already fading, leaving behind the sharp edge of irritation.

He lost. Barely. But a loss is still a loss.

The sound of footsteps echoes in the pit, and before he even looks up, Minghao knows who it is. Nobody else walks around like they own the place without even trying.

Sure enough, Kim Mingyu leans casually against the wall, arms crossed, grin so wide it could probably light up the entire circuit. “Well, well, well. Didn’t think I’d see the Ice Prince of the track get burned.”

Minghao exhales slowly through his nose. “Mingyu.”

The name is both acknowledgment and warning, but Mingyu doesn’t care. He never does.

That’s the thing about Kim Mingyu. Seoul’s most in-demand model, face on billboards, name in every magazine. People trip over themselves to book him, to dress him, to worship him. He’s loud, magnetic, and exhausting.

And unfortunately, he’s Minghao’s best friend.

“You look like you’ve been chewed up and spit out,” Mingyu observes gleefully, circling around the workbench. “Not used to losing, huh? I mean, not that I can blame you. She’s—” he pauses, eyes glinting, “—a problem. The fun kind.”

Minghao doesn’t rise to it. He’s already learned that’s what Mingyu wants reaction, banter, cracks in the armor. Instead, he grabs a bottle of water, twists the cap, and takes a long drink.

Mingyu watches him closely, smirk widening when Minghao doesn’t answer. “Ohhh,” he drawls, “so it’s like that.”

Minghao caps the bottle, finally glancing over with a cool stare. “Go home, Mingyu.”

“Not a chance.” Mingyu grins, slinging an arm over his shoulder like he hasn’t already drained half of Minghao’s patience. “Not until you admit you liked it. Losing to her.”

Minghao doesn’t reply. But his silence is telling enough, and Mingyu knows it.

=

The warehouse-turned-arena is alive tonight. The new season always is. bigger crowds, louder engines, higher stakes. You’re in your element, weaving between crews with your clipboard pressed to your chest, phone tucked to your ear, and earpiece crackling as you relay instructions.

“No, tell Park’s crew they’ve got five minutes to line up or they’re out,” you snap, balancing your phone on your shoulder as you scrawl a quick note. “And I swear, if the sponsors don’t get their logos on the front barricades before the second heat, I’m pulling their fee.”

Your sneakers slap against the concrete as you cut across the floor, ducking under half-built scaffolding, adrenaline sharp and steady but not from the cars this time. The circuit doesn’t run itself, and right now, you’re the only one keeping it from spinning out.

You do notice, however, when someone moves close enough that their shadow falls across your clipboard.

You turn sharply, already half-prepared to bite off whoever it is…

and stop.

Helmet in hand, hair falling just so, eyes locked on you with the same steady sharpness he carries into every race. Xu Minghao.

You swallow, pulse stuttering, but force your expression back into something sharp. “God, do you ever not sneak up on people?”

“Just you.” His voice is cool, quiet, but it cuts through the noise of the crowd around you like glass.

Your hand tightens on the clipboard, the pen squeaking against its surface. “You can’t just—” you gesture vaguely at the space between you, “—materialize like that. Some of us are busy keeping this whole thing from collapsing.”

“I noticed.” He tilts his head, eyes flicking briefly to your earpiece, your phone, the notes scrawled in your hand. Calm. Observant. “You’re louder than the engines tonight.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Barking orders. Running everything.” His lips twitch, not quite a smile, but something close. “Didn’t know that’s part of your game too.”

Heat prickles the back of your neck, irritation bubbling under your skin because of course he shows up now, right when you’re in work mode, stretched thin but still refusing to bend. You straighten your spine, chin lifting.

“Someone has to keep the best racers in Seoul from tripping over their own egos,” you retort. “And believe me, it’s a full-time job.”

And then he steps past you, casual, unhurried, leaving you staring after him with your clipboard clutched to your chest and your heart racing like you’ve just flown through another finish line.

You scowl at his retreating figure, muttering under your breath, “Infuriating, smug, ice-block of a man—” A sharp exhale punctuates the end of it, and you shake your head, forcing yourself back into motion. Clipboard tight in your grip, you weave through the controlled chaos until you hit the hub—the center of it all.

The air shifts here.

Rows of cameras line the barricades, lenses flashing, the chatter of reporters fighting to be heard over the blaring speakers. Models in high heels, draped in the season’s sponsor brands, glide through like they’re on a runway, eyes catching on any driver worth their attention. Celebrities cluster in VIP booths above, drinks in hand, sunglasses on despite the neon floodlights.

And, most importantly, the sponsors. Men and women in sleek suits, eyes sharp and calculating, murmuring about performance and marketability as though drivers were commodities instead of people. Every set of eyes is locked on the asphalt, waiting for the real stars of the night.

Engines roar to life one after another, reverberating through your chest, and the crowd surges closer. The first of the racers emerge from the pit tunnels, descending to where their cars gleam under the floodlights.

Each appearance is its own spectacle. Helmets tucked under arms, swagger in every step, they play to the cameras and their fans, basking in the thunderous cheers.

And then—him.

Xu Minghao steps into the light, not with the theatrics of the others, but with that unnerving calm that makes people notice him all the more. He doesn’t wave, doesn’t grin, doesn’t acknowledge the screaming crowd/ He doesn’t have to. His silence speaks louder than anyone else’s noise.

The cameras eat it up. Sponsors lean forward. The crowd chants his name like it’s gospel.

You feel the buzz run through the hub, even as you press your earpiece closer, grounding yourself.

“All racers on deck. We’re starting in five. Repeat, five.”

The announcer’s voice booms across the circuit, drowning out your own commands, but you don’t mind. The races are about to begin, and in the pit of your stomach, a restless, reckless thrill begins to curl.

Of course he won. There had never been any doubt, not really. Xu Minghao doesn’t just race. He dissects the track, devours it, turns it into something that belongs solely to him. By the time he glides across the finish line, the roar of the crowd is deafening, the air electric.

The press conference wraps quickly, the three racers filtering out with the usual bravado. You glance at your notes, ready to move to the next item on your clipboard, when suddenly your view is blocked by a flash of color.

You blink. A bouquet, white lilies, wrapped in expensive paper, lands squarely on top of your clipboard, the stems pressing awkwardly against your notes.

“What the—” You jerk your head up, scowl already forming, and of course, it’s him. Xu Minghao.

Helmet gone, hair slightly mussed from the race, he stands there with that infuriating calm, as if the entire arena isn’t still buzzing with his victory. His hand lingers just a second too long on the flowers now weighing down your clipboard.

You glare. “What the hell are you doing?”

Around you, silence falls like a ripple spreading through water. Heads turn. Staff slow their steps. A few cameras pivot discreetly. Suddenly, every pair of eyes in the room seems fixed on you and him.

“Congratulations,” he says, gaze locked onto yours like he’s the one who set the rules of this game.

The private pit is quiet except for the faint metallic clink of tools and the steady hum of fluorescent lights. Minghao crouches by his car, fingers running over the hood like he’s smoothing out invisible imperfections. Precision, as always. He’s so focused you almost hate him for it.

You storm in, footsteps sharp against the concrete, bouquet crushed in your grip like it’s a weapon. Clipboard and headset ditched somewhere along the way—you hadn’t cared enough to remember where.

“Minghao!”

He doesn’t look up immediately, which only infuriates you further. Finally, with infuriating calm, he glances over his shoulder.

You slam the flowers down onto the nearest worktable, petals scattering from the impact. “What the fuck was that?”

“A late congratulations,” he says smoothly, returning his attention to his car. “For beating me. Last time.”

“Are you insane? The media was there. Do you even understand what you just did?”

This time he straightens, turning to face you fully, his hands slipping casually into the pockets of his racing jacket. Calm, composed, as though you weren’t two seconds away from combusting.

“Yes,” he says simply. “And?”

Your mouth opens, then closes, words tangling in your throat. You glare at him, jabbing a finger in his direction. “You don’t just—hand me flowers—in front of the press like that! Do you know what kind of story they’re going to spin? Do you have any idea—”

His smirk sharpens, slow and deliberate. “Of course I do.”

You freeze. He steps closer.

“That’s what makes it fun.”

Your heart kicks hard against your ribs, but you refuse to step back. You refuse to give him that satisfaction.

“You’re playing with fire,” you hiss

His gaze flicks down to the discarded bouquet, then back up, steady and unyielding. “Exactly.”

You cross your arms, defiant. “Don’t spin this like you’ve won something. You pulled a stunt in front of every camera in Seoul. That’s not strategy—that’s recklessness"

But he only shrugs, leaning back against the edge of his car, unbothered. “Not recklesness. A gamble. And I don’t place bets I don’t intend to win.”

Your jaw tightens. “This isn’t a game, Hao.”

“Isn’t it?” His voice dips, softer now, dangerously calm. He pushes off the car, steps close enough that you catch the faint smell of fuel and cologne clinging to his jacket. “You light fires. I put them out. That’s how it works. But you…” His eyes linger, sharp, unreadable. “You’re different. You make me want to chase.”

For a second—just a second—you forget how to breathe.

Then you force a laugh, sharp and defensive. “Good luck, Ice Prince. You’ll need more than flowers and a smirk to catch me.”

And with that, you turn on your heel, shoving past him, because if you stay another second, you might give him exactly what he wants.

Your footsteps echo through the empty corridor outside the pit, quick and clipped, the bouquet still stubbornly in your hand despite every intention to throw it in the nearest trash bin.

Behind you, Minghao stays where he is, leaning lazily against the hood of his car, hands sliding back into his pockets. The faintest chuckle slips past his lips, quiet enough that only the humming lights overhead bear witness.

He watches the sway of your figure disappearing down the hall, the fire in your stride that matches the fire in your voice. The corner of his mouth lifts, that calm composure never cracking, though his eyes glint like he’s just uncovered something worth keeping.

“Worked out better than I thought,” he murmurs to himself, voice low, amused.

=

Your phone is already buzzing when you roll over, groggy and disoriented, the morning light slanting across your room.

You squint at the screen. Seven unread messages. Three missed calls. All Mina.

By the time you answer, she doesn’t even let you say hello.

“Are you out of your mind?” her voice practically screeches through the speaker. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

You sit up fast, heart skipping. “What are you talking about—”

“What am I talking about?” she cuts in. “What am I talking about?! You and Xu Minghao are on the front page of literally every site, every feed, every news cycle right now!”

You blink, still half-asleep, until her words finally register. With dread curling in your stomach, you open your laptop on instinct, fingers fumbling across the keys.

And there it is.

Photo after photo splashed across headlines: Minghao placing the bouquet squarely on your clipboard, his smirk sharp as a blade, your scowl caught mid-glare. Some shots even catch the exact moment he leaned a little too close, lips curved in that calm, infuriating way of his.

 “Xu Minghao’s Mysterious Bouquet—Romance or Rivalry?”

You slam the laptop shut, dragging a hand down your face. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Did you finally crack?” Mina demands. “Was it the smirk? The helmet hair? Tell me everything because, babe, you don’t just accidentally accept flowers in front of thirty cameras.”

“I didn’t accept them!” you protest, heat rising to your cheeks. “He shoved them at me like—like some smug—ugh!”

Mina cackles on the other end, clearly having the time of her life. “This is insane. You’ve officially made it, do you understand? Half of Seoul thinks you two are secretly dating. The other half is betting on when you’ll kill each other first. Honestly? Both outcomes are hot.”

You flop back onto the bed, groaning into your pillow. “This is a nightmare.”

“No,” Mina sing-songs. “This is the beginning of the best story of your life.”

=

The midnight air is cool, the kind that carries smoke and laughter in equal measure. Tonight isn’t about the season, or sponsors, or the endless cameras. It’s one of those unofficial runs, the kind where the crowd is smaller, tighter, less about spectacle and more about the thrill.

You’re here without your clipboard, without your headset, just a drink in hand as you drift through the groups gathered around parked cars. Familiar faces greet you with nods and grins, music thrums low from someone’s speaker, and for once, you let yourself sink into the easy rhythm of it.

You’re not here to race. Not tonight. But then you hear it.

“Hey, we need one more for the heat!” someone calls out, scanning the crowd. “Come on, who’s up? Don’t make me beg.”

A ripple passes through the gathering, voices rising in speculation, names being tossed around. And then, like a collective shift in the air—

The sound of an engine, deep and smooth, rolling up the street.

It cuts through the noise, pulling every pair of eyes toward the glow of headlights slicing through the night. Like a scene ripped straight from a film, sleek silver paint gleaming under the streetlamps, the car eases to a stop at the edge of the crowd.

The driver’s side door opens.

And Xu Minghao steps out. Jacket fitted sharp, hair catching in the neon glow, he looks as untouchable as ever.

He doesn’t need theatrics. He doesn’t need to smile or wave. Just his presence shifts the atmosphere, sends whispers chasing through the night.

You feel your chest tighten, irritation and something else tangling inside you. Of course he’s here. Of course he’d walk in like the scene was made for him.

And when his eyes sweep the crowd, calm and calculating, they land on you. As if this whole night was always meant to orbit around that moment.

The crowd is buzzing, voices stacking over each other, names tossed around like cards in a deck. Someone finally calls out, loud enough to cut through the chatter:

“What about Xu Minghao?”

It’s all it takes. Heads swivel, eyes lock onto him. Minghao doesn’t answer right away. He just gives the smallest shrug, that infuriating picture of indifference, before turning back toward his car. Like it’s decided. Like it was never a question.

People cheer anyway, a wave of excitement breaking over the lot. You roll your eyes, sipping your drink, half-amused, half-annoyed. Typical. The Ice Prince shows up, and suddenly it’s as if no one else exists.

You think that’s the end of it. Until he stops.

Halfway into sliding behind the wheel, Minghao pauses, eyes sweeping the crowd again. And then he moves until he’s standing right in front of you. You stiffen, caught off guard. You hadn’t even realized he’d noticed you tonight. You weren’t racing, weren’t organizing, weren’t even trying to be seen.

But there he is.

Minghao leans just close enough, voice low and unbothered. “You’re riding with me.”

Your grip tightens on the drink in your hand. “Excuse me?”

He nods toward his car, silver and gleaming under the streetlights. “Shotgun. Now.”

The crowd around you catches on fast. Phones are already out, cameras flashing. You feel the heat of their attention crawl over your skin.

You blink at him, bristling. “Do I look like your co-pilot?”

Minghao’s smirk is subtle, but it’s there, sharp enough to cut. “No. You look like someone who hates losing. And I think you’d rather see the view from my seat than anyone else’s.”

The worst part? He’s not wrong.

And judging from the spark in his eyes, he knows it too.

You open your mouth, the perfect snarky retort right there on the tip of your tongue but you catch yourself. One look at the sharp glint in his eyes, the way he’s waiting for you to spar back, and you decide you won’t give him the satisfaction.

Instead, you snap your jaw shut, glare burning hotter than words, and stomp past him. The crowd parts like water, a chorus of whoops and laughter following you as you make a beeline for his car. 

You yank open the passenger door and slide in, the interior cool and clean, every inch of it screaming precision.

By the time Minghao slips into the driver’s seat, the entire lot is buzzing. He shuts the door, the sound final, sealing you into this tense little world that smells faintly of leather and gasoline.

You turn your head just enough to catch his profile as he adjusts the gear, hands steady on the wheel. Calm, collected, like he was born for this.

You can’t help yourself. “Make it worth my while,” you say, low and taunting, the words dripping with challenge.

His eyes flick toward you, sharp and glimmering in the glow of the dashboard lights. That damn smirk curves his mouth, slow and deliberate.

“Oh,” he murmurs, foot pressing gently on the accelerator, the engine purring awake beneath you both. “I intend to.”

Engines roar to life all around you, a chorus of thunder that rattles through your chest. The crowd surges closer to the street, arms raised, phones recording, voices chanting as the lineup forms.

Minghao edges his car into position with the kind of fluid ease that makes it look effortless. You sit stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed, trying to ignore the way adrenaline hums in your blood louder than the bass in the distance.

The other cars idle beside you, their engines snarling like caged beasts. Neon lights flicker off polished hoods, paint gleaming under the streetlamps. The makeshift flag girl steps forward, arm raised, crowd chanting louder.

And then.. the flag drops. The street explodes with sound.

Minghao slams the accelerator, the car jolting forward like a bullet. You’re shoved back into your seat, breath catching, as he threads through the first curve with surgical precision. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate. Just cuts through air like the track was mapped into his veins.

You grip the handle on the door, your heart slamming in your chest. The speed is dizzying, the city lights streaking past in a blur, but beside you Minghao is maddeningly calm, one hand loose on the wheel, the other shifting gears with liquid ease.

“Relax,” he says, voice low, almost drowned out by the engine’s roar.

You snap your head toward him. “Relax? You’re flying at two hundred right now!”

He glances at you, just for a second—sharp, steady, infuriating. “Exactly. That’s the fun.”

You want to throttle him. You want to lean across the console and wipe that smirk off his face with your mouth. 

Another car inches up behind you, headlights flashing as it tries to cut in. Minghao smirks faintly, flicks the wheel, and the car glides into a tighter line, shutting down the attempt without breaking stride.

“You’re insane,” you bite out, knuckles white on the handle.

“And you like it,” he murmurs back, eyes locked on the road.

The words land heavy, sparking heat in your chest. You look away, jaw tight, watching the lights smear across the windshield as the finish line looms closer. The crowd in the distance is just a blur of shadows and neon, the noise already swelling to a peak.

You’re not sure what’s going to snap first. The race, or the tension burning between you.

The last stretch is brutal.

The rival car is practically glued to your rear bumper, headlights blinding through the rearview, the roar of its engine taunting at your back. The street narrows into a sharp S-curve, and for a heartbeat you’re certain Minghao’s about to overplay it.

He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t blink.

The tires scream as he threads the first bend, the world outside a smear of concrete and neon. Your chest lurches, heart in your throat, every nerve firing as if you’re the one holding the wheel.

The second bend comes sharper, meaner. Too sharp. You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for the impact that never comes.

Because Minghao pulls it off. Perfectly. Effortlessly. Like the street bent itself for him.

The rival car falters, skids wide, forced to yield. And just like that, the finish line erupts ahead. He crosses first. Of course he does.

The car slows, the engine purring as if satisfied with itself. Your lungs finally unlock, a shaky breath tearing out of you. You twist in your seat, eyes wide, heart hammering.

“You’re insane,” you breathe, words spilling before you can stop them.

Minghao glances at you then, face calm but eyes sharp, unreadable. The kind of look that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s about to laugh or ruin you.

He leans in.

Close enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath against your cheek, close enough that your stomach plummets and your lips part before you can think better of it.

And just when you think he’s about to do it, he reaches across instead.

Click.

Your seatbelt snaps free, the strap sliding off your chest as he leans back, smirk carved sharp across his mouth.

“Relax,” he says, like he didn’t just drag you through hell and back. “Ride’s over.”

Your hand twitches, torn between smacking him across that smug face or dragging it closer.

=

You slam your clipboard down onto the desk in the temporary management booth, the crack of plastic startling the poor junior staffer across from you. The whole tent buzzes with energy but all you can hear is your own rant echoing louder than any of it.

“This is bad. This is real bad,” you snap, tugging your earpiece out and tossing it onto the table like it personally betrayed you. “Like, headline-breaking, career-ending, scandalous kind of bad.”

The other event manager—older, calmer, sipping his coffee like nothing phases him—arches a brow. “It’s just some photos.”

“Just some photos?” you shoot back, incredulous. You jab a finger at the screen of your phone where the latest article is still open: a collage of you slipping into Minghao’s car, your profile lit in neon, his face cool and devastatingly photogenic behind the wheel. “They’re making it look like I’m—like we’re—” You cut yourself off, groaning. “Ugh, this is like the time Choi Seungcheol opened his mouth at that presscon and ruined everyone’s weekend.”

That gets the manager’s attention. He leans forward. “You mean when he—?”

“Yes,” you hiss, pointing at him. “When he confirmed he was in a relationship and then—” you throw your hands up, voice rising, “—in the same breath dropped the bomb that he was married. Married! Do you remember the chaos? The sponsors? The PR teams? The riot?”

He whistles low. “Yeah. Took months to clean that up.”

“Exactly!” you say, pacing now, fingers tangling in your hair. “If the media keeps spinning this, we’ll have a repeat. But instead of Seungcheol, it’s me and Xu freaking Minghao. And unlike him, I don’t have the luxury of being the most famous name in racing. I’m supposed to be background. Invisible. Not—” You wave your phone again, where a new headline flashes.

The manager hides a smile behind his coffee. “Invisible, huh? Doesn’t look like it anymore.”

You glare at him, chest tight. “I’m going to kill him.”

But deep down, beneath the anger, you can’t stop replaying the memory of that smirk when he unclipped your seatbelt. Like maybe he’d planned this all along.

You’re fine. You have to be fine. And then like he’s made it a personal mission to ruin you he’s suddenly there.

No warning, no footsteps, just Xu Minghao at your side, shadow long under the glaring floodlights, calm as if he’s been standing there all along.

“Jesus—” you hiss under your breath, hand flying to your chest. “Do you practice scaring people, or is it a natural talent?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just lets that faint smirk tug at his lips as his eyes flick to your clipboard, then back to you. Cool, steady, unreadable. “You’re jumpy tonight.”

You scoff, straightening your headset, desperate to pull the mask back on. “I’m busy. Unlike you, some of us actually have a job to do.”

“Mm.” His hum is low, deliberate. He shifts closer, not enough for anyone to call it suspicious, but enough for you to feel the edge of his presence pressing against your carefully-built walls. “And here I thought you’d be used to the attention by now.”

“If you’re here to mess with me, save it for after the race. Don’t you have a car to win with?”

He tilts his head, studying you like he’s considering his next move on a track. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d crack.”

Your pulse spikes, traitorously loud in your ears. You force a sharp laugh, turning away so you can signal to a crew member. “Keep dreaming, Xu. You’re not nearly as distracting as you think.”

But when you dare glance back, his gaze is already on you. And that damn smirk tells you he knows exactly how close you are to snapping.

“If I lose,” Minghao says again, calm, almost conversational like he isn’t dropping a bomb on you minutes before the race, “I can take you out on a date.”

Your head snaps toward him so fast your headset nearly falls off. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look away. Just that infuriatingly composed expression, eyes unreadable, lips curved ever so slightly like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

You scowl, shifting the clipboard between you like a shield. “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? You win, then you get the prize?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he replies smoothly, a tiny shrug rolling off his shoulders. “There’s no challenge if I just win.”

Your pulse skips hard enough you nearly choke on air. He says it so casually, so matter-of-fact, like the outcome is already written. Like you’ll just accept this ridiculous deal.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, turning back to the pit wall, trying to ground yourself in the chaos of engines revving and crew shouts.

And yet, your mind won’t stop replaying his voice. That calm certainty. That twist of a smile.

It makes you want to scream. It makes you want to laugh. t makes you want to throw something at him.

You snap. Clipboard nearly slips from your grip as you slam it down on the nearest table and storm after him.

“Hao!” you bark, loud enough to turn a few heads. He doesn’t slow. “Xu Minghao, I swear to God—”

Nothing. The bastard keeps moving, calm as ever. You break into a jog, weaving between crew and media, finally catching up to him right before he ducks into his private pit. 

You grab his arm, tugging him to a stop. “Are you insane? You cannot—listen to me—you cannot lose just for a date. Do you have any idea what that would mean? Your manager will kill you. He’ll kill me. The sponsors will—”

Minghao finally looks at you, and it’s like hitting a wall of ice. That maddeningly calm gaze, cool and unreadable, staring down at you like your panic is just background noise.

“Breathe,” he says simply, voice low. “You’re talking too fast.”

You glare, nails digging into your palm, because how dare he stand there like you’re the one being ridiculous. “Don’t you dare patronize me, Xu Minghao. This isn’t a joke! Throwing a race for—for—” you stutter, almost choking on the word, “—for me?!”

Something flickers in his eyes then, something sharp that makes your chest clench. He smirks, calm and lethal, before finally pulling away to slip into his car.

Leaving you standing there, furious, rattled, and absolutely terrified that he might actually mean it.

“Fine!” The word bursts out of you louder than intended, sharp enough to make a couple of crew members freeze mid-step. 

You throw your hands up, exasperated. “Fine, Hao—God, I’ll go out with you. Jesus Christ. Just—don’t do something stupid, okay?”

You’re almost panting, heart hammering against your ribs, and you know more than a few of his team heard that. The way they suddenly find their clipboards fascinating, or pretend to be checking tires that don’t even need checking? Dead giveaway.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, mortified. “Unbelievable,” you mutter, half to yourself, half at him. “Absolutely—”

And then you make the mistake of looking up.

Minghao’s standing there, one foot already propped on the car, helmet tucked under his arm. And he’s smiling. Not the faint, mocking smirk you’re used to—no. This one is small, quiet, warm enough to rattle you more than his usual ice.

“Good,” he says, like you didn’t just publicly crack, like you didn’t just hand him a victory off the track. “That’s all I needed.”

You gape. “That’s all—”

He cuts you off by sliding into the driver’s seat, helmet snapping into place, visor down before you can scold him further. His engine roars to life, drowning out the rest of your words.

Behind you, you swear you hear one of the pit crew muffling a laugh.

You spin on your heel, jabbing a finger at the closest mechanic. “Not. A. Word.”

The poor guy nods furiously, lips pressed tight to hide his grin.

And as you stalk back toward the hub, face burning, you realize Xu Minghao has officially made it impossible for you to blend into the background ever again.

Later that night, you’re at the after party. The club is dim, music thunders low in your chest, laughter bouncing around the private lounge. Everyone’s buzzing from the win, from the adrenaline that still hasn’t worn off.

And you? You’re standing in the corner, scowling daggers at Xu Minghao. He’s across the room, effortlessly magnetic, a glass in hand as some sponsor’s daughter tries way too hard to flirt with him. He barely engages, but that little tilt of his head, that cool detachment, it drives you insane.

You take a long sip of your drink, muttering under your breath, “Smug bastard.”

“Talking about my best friend, are we?”

You nearly jump out of your skin. Kim Mingyu appears at your side like a six-foot-something shadow come to life, all blinding smile and runway posture even in ripped jeans. He holds his glass like it’s a prop, eyes already sparkling with mischief.

“Jesus, Mingyu—” you hiss, clutching your chest. “Do you practice sneaking up on people?”

He grins wider, shameless. “Nah, I just have good timing. Plus, you were staring holes into Hao from across the room. Hard to miss.”

“I wasn’t staring,” you shoot back instantly, too defensive. “I was glaring.”

“Uh-huh,” Mingyu hums, sipping his drink like he’s savoring the drama. “Is that what we’re calling it these days?”

You scowl harder, crossing your arms. “Don’t you have some model afterparty to be at?”

He leans closer, lowering his voice just enough to make you bristle. “Not as entertaining as watching you and Hao dance around each other. Honestly, it’s better than TV.”

You groan, throwing your head back. “Why are you like this?”

“Because someone’s gotta keep you both honest,” he replies smoothly, eyes flicking toward Minghao who, as if sensing it, glances over. And when his gaze snags on yours across the room, sharp and unshakable, you feel Mingyu’s satisfied chuckle rumble beside you.

“Oh yeah,” Mingyu says, clinking his glass gently against yours. “You’re so screwed.”

“What’s with your best friend anyway? Like—what’s his deal?”

Mingyu nearly chokes on his champagne. He tips his head back and lets out a laugh that turns a few heads near. He doesn’t even bother hiding his grin, dimples on full display as he looks at you like you’ve just asked the most ridiculous question in the world.

“My best friend?” he repeats, leaning closer so you can actually hear him over the music. “Xu Minghao? That guy? His ‘deal’?”

“Yes,” you bite out, rolling your eyes at his dramatics. “You make it sound like I asked about a ghost sighting or something. Just...he’s impossible. One minute he’s cold as ice, the next he’s—” you gesture vaguely with your glass, “—pulling stunts that get both our names trending on every platform for twenty-four hours straight. I don’t get him.”

Mingyu watches you with an expression that’s somewhere between amusement and pity. “Wow,” he says finally, shaking his head, “you really don’t see it, do you?”

You narrow your eyes. “See what?”

Mingyu’s grin turns sly, like he’s about to say something he’s been holding back for weeks. “Hao’s been driving on the edge of sanity ever since you showed up. You think that’s normal behavior for him?”

Your lips part, caught off guard. “What the hell are you talking about? He’s literally the calmest guy I’ve ever met.”

“Exactly,” Mingyu says, pointing his glass at you like it’s proof. “He’s calm. Calculated. Boring as hell sometimes. Ice in human form, right? That’s his brand. Until you walk into the picture. Then suddenly, he’s dropping bouquets on your clipboard in front of cameras, making deals about dates if he loses—” Mingyu lets out a scoff of disbelief, “—Hao never jokes about throwing a race. Ever.”

Your face warms, though you fight to keep your expression flat. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything,” Mingyu insists, looking delighted by your denial. He tilts his head, studying you with a little too much glee. “You really don’t know the effect you have on him, do you?”

You huff, trying to shake off the heat creeping up your neck. “The only effect I’ve had on him is stress. Which, honestly, he deserves.”

“Sure,” Mingyu drawls, clearly unconvinced. “Keep telling yourself that.” He takes a leisurely sip of his drink, eyes sparkling with amusement before adding, almost casually, “Just do me a favor?”

You glare at him. “What.”

“Don’t break him too badly,” Mingyu says, grin fading into something softer, more serious. “He doesn’t let people in easy. But when he does…” His gaze flicks across the lounge to where Minghao still stands, his eyes are no longer on the sponsor’s daughter. They’re on you.

Mingyu smirks again when you catch him watching. “Yeah. Just… don’t pretend you don’t feel it too.”

The ice in your glass rattles as you down the last of your drink, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reply.

But the worst part?

You know Mingyu’s right.

=

A few days later you’re out for another unofficial race. Just a few attendees, no media, no sponsors. 

The night air is alive with engines revving, tires screeching against asphalt, laughter and jeers cutting through the electric buzz of the crowd. 

Someone is calling for races for the night. You’re content staying in the shadows just another face on the sidelines. And then, warm fingers curl around your waist.

“She’ll race,” Minghao’s low voice rumbles right against your ear, smooth and certain, no room for protest.

Your whole body jolts, eyes going wide as you whip your head to glare at him. What the actual—

He only smirks, eyes glinting with mischief under the floodlights. “You beat me once. Tonight’ll just be a lazy stroll.”

You gape at him. “A lazy stroll? You ambushed me in front of half the underground racing scene!”

He tilts his head like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just sign you up for a death wish.

“I don’t even have a car,” you hiss, jabbing a finger into his chest, ready to dismantle this insane idea before it spreads.

But before you can get another word out, something cold and metallic presses into your palm. You look down. Keys. Not just any keys. His.

Your heart stutters. “You’ve lost your goddamn mind.”

“Don’t break it,” he says smoothly, his hand closing yours over the keys like a vow. His eyes don’t leave yours, not even for a second. “Precious cargo.”

For a fleeting beat, the roar of the crowd fades, your pulse the only thing you hear. And you don’t know if he’s talking about the machine that’s worth more than most people’s houses, or…

…you.

You swallow hard, but the heat of his hand lingers even after he steps back, smug and unbothered, like he hasn’t just detonated your entire night with two words and a set of keys.

And suddenly, every single pair of eyes in that pit is on you.

The leather seat hugs your frame, the hum of the engine vibrating faintly through the chassis like a living heartbeat. Your fingers wrap around the wheel, slick with nerves you refuse to show, while Minghao leans lazily against the doorframe, watching you like you’re already entertaining him.

“This is mad,” you mutter under your breath, shaking your head. “Crazy. I’m gonna wreck your car, and it’ll be your fault, not mine.”

That damned chuckle slips from his lips, soft but sharp, like he’s peeling back your defenses piece by piece. “Where’s the confidence?” he teases, tilting his head. “Where’s that snarky girl who swore she could put me in my place?”

You shoot him a look sharp enough to cut steel. “Don’t blame me if I break your precious car, Xu Minghao.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even argue. Instead, he bends forward in one fluid, deliberate move, reaching across you. The sudden closeness knocks the air from your lungs. He smells faintly of leather, fuel, and something clean, sharp, expensive like rain on cold stone.

Your breath stutters when his hand brushes your side, grabbing for the seatbelt. A soft click sounds as he locks it into place, the buckle snapping home. 

His face is inches from yours now, shadows and floodlight glint dancing across his cheekbones, his hair falling forward in a way that makes him look almost unreal.

“Better,” he murmurs, voice dropping low, intimate, like the words are meant only for you and the hum of the idling engine.

You can’t move. Not when his eyes flicker down to your lips for half a second too long, not when the corner of his mouth tilts up in that infuriating half-smirk.

And then he leans back, calm as ever, shutting the door with a soft thunk that reverberates through you like a gunshot.

You’re left clutching the wheel, heart pounding louder than the engines outside.

And all you can think is. If he’s the ice everyone calls him, then why the hell do you feel like you’re the one burning alive?

The roar of engines fades into background noise, drowned out by the cheer of the crowd. Minghao stands just at the edge of the pit, arms folded, posture casual but his eyes? They haven’t left you once. Not when you slid into his car like you owned it. Not when you took that first corner sharper than most dared. 

And definitely not now, when you’re climbing out of his car, victorious, with your chin tilted high and that look of smug satisfaction painted across your face when you crossed the line first.

The truth is undeniable. Minghao can’t keep his eyes off you. Not when you’re glowing from adrenaline. Not when you’re proving yourself—again—against every expectation.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even want to look away. Because watching you win in his car feels like the most dangerous, exhilarating race he’s ever lost.

The crowd is still buzzing, claps on your back, voices rising in congratulations, a blur of faces you half-know. But then he’s there. Xu Minghao cuts through the swarm like it parts for him, his calm presence swallowing up all the chaos.

And despite yourself, despite every wall you’ve put up and every professional line you’ve drawn, you beam at him. Just for a second. 

Just long enough that your carefully maintained indifference cracks wide open, and everyone nearby sees it.

He doesn’t give you the chance to retreat behind it again. Minghao steps close, his hand sliding into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers curl firm and certain between yours, and before you can so much as open your mouth, he’s tugging you gently but insistently through the throng.

You stumble once, caught off guard, still trying to process, “Hao—wait—where are we—”

He opens the passenger side door and angles his head at you, like it’s obvious. Like there’s no argument.

“Huh? What—where are we going?” you demand, half breathless, half indignant, clinging to the shred of control you have left.

Finally, he looks at you, his grip on your hand still steady. His voice low, calm, dangerous in how sure it sounds:

“Somewhere you can’t run your mouth about wrecking my car.”

And with that, he’s guiding you into the seat, the door shutting with a decisive thunk, his smirk lingering through the glass as he rounds the hood to take the wheel.

The little bell above the door jingled when you’d first stepped inside, and now the smell of garlic and chili oil clings to your hair, seeping into your skin. The place is small, cozy in the way only a family-owned restaurant can be.

Minghao, of course, looks like he belongs here, sleeves rolled up, pouring water into your glass like he’s done it a thousand times. He even thanks the halmeoni under his breath when she sets down a tray of kimchi, pickled radish, stir-fried greens, his long fingers arranging the banchan like the table needs to be perfect before the main dishes arrive.

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, one brow arched. “You drag me out of a perfectly good party for… this?”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t look at you. He’s too focused on shifting the tiny saucers so they line up neatly. “Mm. Thought you’d like it. Food’s better than whatever they had back there.”

“Better than five-star catering?” you challenge, tilting your head.

His eyes flick up at you, sharp, amused. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

You sputter, opening your mouth for a comeback but catching the smug curve of his mouth. “That’s not the point—”

“It is,” he interrupts calmly, sliding the plate of kimchi closer to you. “You didn’t say no.”

You stare at him, lips parting, your pulse doing something traitorous. “You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe.” He leans back finally, arms folding across his chest, mirroring your posture like it’s intentional, like it’s a game. His voice dips, steady and low. “But you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to be.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Xu Minghao. Maybe I just felt bad for you. Figured I’d keep the sad little racer from eating alone.”

“Mm.” He hums, unbothered, lips twitching again. “If this is pity, I don’t mind. Means you’re still looking at me.”

Your chopsticks freeze halfway to your mouth. He says it so smoothly, so effortlessly, like it’s not a confession but something simple, obvious, inevitable.

You shake your head, swallowing hard, aiming for sarcasm but your voice slips a little. “God, you’re impossible. You know that?”

He leans forward this time, elbows on the table, gaze catching yours and holding it like you’ve got nowhere else to look. “And yet…” His smile tilts, soft and wicked all at once. “…you’re still here.”

He pushes the bowl across the table, the edge scraping against the old wood. Steam curls up from the jjajangmyeon he ordered for you without asking, like he just knew you’d want it. His chopsticks are already in hand, but his eyes are on you, dark and steady.

He nudges the bowl closer again. “Eat. Before I feed you myself.”

You narrow your eyes, chopsticks pausing mid-air. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” He leans in slightly, voice low, daring.

You point at him with your chopsticks, indignant. “Don’t twist this into some victory for you. It’s just noodles.”

“It’s not just noodles if it’s from here,” he counters, taking a bite of his own dish. His tone is casual, but there’s something underneath it. Something that makes your stomach flip.

You cross your arms, leaning back. “So what, this is your grand plan? Win a race, drag me out to some hole-in-the-wall, and feed me until I fall for you?”

His eyes lock with yours, unreadable but sharp. “Is it working?”

You nearly choke on air. “You—”

He smirks, takes a sip of water like he didn’t just throw a grenade into the conversation. “Relax. It’s just dinner.” A beat, then softer, quieter: “For now.”

You stare at him, chopsticks frozen, and you hate that your heart is racing faster than when you’re behind a wheel.

He pauses, chopsticks still between his fingers, like you’d caught him off guard. His eyes don’t leave yours though, sharp and dark and intent. Then slowly, that infuriating little smirk curves his lips.

You then speak up again, your curiosity winning. 

“Would you have really thrown the race?”

“If that’s what it took,” he says, voice low but steady. “Yeah. I would’ve.”

You gape, eyebrows shooting up. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” He sets his chopsticks down, leaning forward just slightly, elbows resting on the table. “But you’re worth it.”

And you realize then, he’s not joking. Not even a little.

You lean back, chopsticks halfway to your mouth, staring at him like he’s grown two heads. “Why me, Hao? When did this even start? We’ve been arguing since the day we met.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes his time, scooping some rice, chewing, swallowing. Completely unbothered while you sit there practically vibrating in your seat.

Finally, he tilts his head, eyes narrowing just a fraction, like he’s remembering. “That first night,” he says simply.

You blink. “What first night?”

He sets his chopsticks down, leaning back now, one arm draping lazily over the back of his chair. “The first time you showed up at the track with Mina. You weren’t even supposed to be there, just… standing at the sidelines, giving everyone attitude like you owned the place.” His mouth curves into that rare smile again, softer this time. “I thought you were trouble.”

You scoff. “You were right.”

He laughs under his breath. “Yeah. But then you got behind the wheel. No fear, no hesitation. You didn’t even care who was watching—you just wanted to prove you could. And you did.” He shrugs, eyes dropping briefly to the table before returning to you. “Been stuck with you in my head ever since.”

You stare at him, stunned. “…You’re serious.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. Calm. Certain. “Dead serious.”

You scramble for words, for anything to ease the sudden weight pressing against your chest. So you default to sarcasm. “Wow. So all those insults, all that bickering… what, just your twisted way of flirting?”

“Maybe.” He smirks, but his voice is soft, almost careful. “Or maybe it was the only way I knew to keep you close without scaring you off.”

You set your chopsticks down and lean forward, narrowing your eyes at him. “Do you even hear yourself right now? Keeping me close? Hao, you literally drive me insane half the time. And not in the cute, romcom way. In the I want to strangle you with my clipboard way.”

“Exactly,” he says, voice low and even. “You don’t let me get away with anything. Everyone else, they look at me and only see… what I’m supposed to be. A perfect driver, a brand, something untouchable. But you—” his gaze pins you down, sharp and steady, “—you don’t care. You talk back. You call me out. You treat me like I’m… human.”

Your breath catches. You weren’t expecting that.

You try to laugh it off, waving a hand. “Human? Hao, you’re still the most annoying man alive.”

He tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “And yet you’re here.”

You open your mouth, then close it again, hating how he’s right. You are here, sitting across from him in some tiny restaurant, picking at side dishes like this is the most natural thing in the world when it absolutely isn’t.

Your first instinct is to deflect. To laugh, to throw some sarcastic remark about him being smooth. But the way he’s looking at you—steady, patient, not even asking for a response—roots you to the spot.

“…You’re impossible,” you mutter finally, breaking eye contact, staring down at the plate he pushed toward you earlier. The food is cooling, untouched. You grab your chopsticks again, stabbing at the rice like it insulted you. “And you’re lucky this food smells good, or I’d walk out right now.”

“You’re eating,” he says, soft but teasing.

“Shut up.”

He chuckles, low and warm, and for once you don’t argue back.

Because deep down, beneath the banter, you know the truth: you’re just as gone as he is.

=

The air tonight feels different. Charged. The kind of weight that settles on your shoulders before the biggest race of the season. You’ve been at countless circuits before, but this one makes even your bones hum with anticipation.

You’re standing near the barricades, clipboard in hand, headset slung around your neck, everything about you polished and professional. You have to be. 

With names like Yoon Jeonghan drifting in from Europe and the famous Choi Seungcheol—who everyone swore was retired until he decided to casually show up tonight—eyes are everywhere. Every movement you make could end up dissected in some forum thread by tomorrow.

Beside you, Mina looks like she stepped off a runway, oversized shades perched on her head despite it being well past sunset. She nudges you with her elbow, lowering her voice. “Babe, this crowd? Historic. Even Jeonghan’s here—Jeonghan. And look—” she subtly tilts her chin toward the VIP area, “—Seungcheol in the flesh. I thought that man was in Bali until further notice.”

You glance over just in time to see him laughing with a few organizers, all broad shoulders and that terrifying charisma that made him the face of racing in Korea for nearly a decade.

Your stomach knots. The last time his name blew up, it nearly took out half the industry. This is big. Too big.

Mina leans in again, whispering, “You better keep your boy in line tonight.”

The engines start warming up in the pit, a guttural chorus that makes the crowd erupt in cheers. The energy spikes, lights blazing, cameras flashing, the entire world watching.

The second you spot them striding across the pit like it’s their own personal stage, you know you’re not escaping this conversation.

Yoon Jeonghan looks exactly like he hasn’t aged a day since you last worked with him. Hair pulled back effortlessly, tailored jacket draped like he just rolled out of a magazine shoot. He’s sipping on something iced, smirking as though the whole event was organized for his amusement.

Choi Seungcheol, on the other hand, looks infuriatingly grounded. His build is bulkier than the last season you worked with him, wedding band glinting under the floodlights. Married life clearly suits him, if the soft laugh lines by his eyes are anything to go by. But don’t let the warmth fool anyone. He’s still got that heavyweight presence that makes rookies break into a sweat when he so much as glances their way.

You school your expression, adjusting the clipboard in your arms, already bracing. “Jeonghan. Seungcheol. Didn’t think either of you would show up.”

“Didn’t think?” Jeonghan teases immediately, brushing his hair back with that infuriating grace. “We hear the scene’s heating up, new talent shaking things up—of course we’d come watch.” 

He leans in a little, voice dropping with a sly smile. “And imagine my surprise when the name attached to all those headlines is yours. Well—” he tilts his head toward the pit where Minghao’s car gleams, “—yours and the ice prince’s.”

You almost choke. “Excuse me?”

Seungcheol chuckles, arms crossing. “Don’t act like you haven’t seen it. Everyone’s been talking. Xu Minghao and…” He raises a brow, his eyes sharp but amused. “You. Walking into wrap parties together, rumors about midnight races, all those pictures online.”

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “God, not you too. I came here to work, not—”

“To get grilled by your old colleagues?” Jeonghan interrupts smoothly, eyes twinkling. “Sorry, sweetheart, but we’ve earned the right. Besides…” He shoots a quick glance at Minghao’s car, where the man himself is adjusting his gloves, utterly unfazed by the world. “He’s not exactly known for letting people close. And now he’s letting you drive his car? What should we make of that?”

You feel heat crawl up your neck. “That was one time—”

“One time,” Seungcheol cuts in, smirking knowingly, “is already more than anyone else has managed in five years.”

You sputter, lost between defending yourself and throttling them both. “You’re unbelievable. Married and you still find time to stir the pot.”

Seungcheol gives a small shrug, his tone softer, almost warning. “Just be careful. People like him—people like us—we don’t exactly come with easy lives.”

You meet his gaze, steady, refusing to flinch. “I know.”

Jeonghan watches the exchange, then grins wider, satisfied. “Well. If he breaks your heart, let me know. I’ll break his legs.”

Your laugh bursts out before you can stop it, caught between exasperation and affection. “You two are impossible.”

“Mm,” Jeonghan hums, stepping back, “and yet you missed us.”

Seungcheol pats your shoulder once, grounding and heavy. “Good luck tonight”

You steady your clipboard against your chest, trying to keep your voice even. “Congrats, by the way.”

Seungcheol’s smile appears instantly—the kind of smile that softens all his sharp edges. It’s not the cocky grin of the racer who dominated headlines for a decade; it’s gentler, warmer, something that comes from deep in his chest. 

“Thanks,” he says simply, but it’s weighted, genuine. His thumb brushes absentmindedly over his wedding band, and you realize you’ve never seen him look happier than in this moment.

The legendary Choi Seungcheol, who once terrified sponsors and thrilled fans by being both unstoppable and untouchable, is now just… a man in love. And it suits him better than all the trophies in his glass case.

“Must feel like a movie,” you add, half-teasing, half-sincere. “The biggest name in racing ends up marrying someone completely outside the scene.”

“Mm,” he hums, amused, but his eyes are steady on yours. “Not everything’s about the track. You’ll figure that out.”

Your throat tightens. Not at his words, but at the way he says them, as though he knows exactly what’s been happening between you and Minghao without you ever saying a word.

Before you can respond, Jeonghan swoops in, linking his arm with Seungcheol’s like the troublemaker he is. “Stop giving her cryptic advice, old man. You’ll make her overthink.”

Seungcheol just chuckles, letting himself be pulled along. “Good luck tonight,” he calls back over his shoulder.

You exhale slowly, pressing your lips together before you turn, heels clicking against the concrete. Your professional mask slides back into place, but your pulse is still a little unsteady.

And then you see him.

Minghao’s already out of his car, helmet tucked under his arm, lean frame relaxed against the side like he owns the track and maybe he does. His eyes find you almost immediately, dark and unreadable from a distance, but you feel the weight of them settle on you like gravity.

You straighten, walk the rest of the way onto the track, ignoring the buzz of cameras already trained in your direction. 

Engines die down, smoke curling in the air, the thunder of the crowd still shaking the barriers and yet all you can hear is the pounding of your own heartbeat. Minghao’s car slows, sliding to its final halt across the finish, and the second the flag drops the tension in your shoulders snaps.

He did it. Again.

But instead of celebrating with his team, instead of acknowledging the shouts of fans or the cameras scrambling to catch his face, he moves with single-minded focus. Helmet yanked off, hair damp and clinging to his forehead, he scans the chaos like he’s searching for air after being underwater.

And then his gaze lands on you.

For a moment, it’s like the world tilts. The others are still celebrating, running across the track, shouting, cheering, but he doesn’t move until he sees you. 

And when he does, there’s a shift in his expression—barely there, subtle, but enough to make your breath catch.  You don’t even realize you’ve started moving toward him until you’re halfway there, clipboard tucked against you like a shield.

When you finally meet, he doesn’t say anything right away. He just looks at you, his eyes roaming over your face like he’s memorizing the relief in your features.

“You’re insane,” you mutter, low so only he hears.

He chuckles, breathless still from the adrenaline, stepping just close enough that the space between you feels charged. “Yeah,” he admits, voice smooth and edged with satisfaction, “but I won, didn’t I?”

And despite yourself, despite the cameras still flashing, despite the hundreds of people who would give anything to be standing this close to him right now—you smile. Just a little.

Because of course he found you first.

The world doesn’t stop. Flashes still pop, the roar of the crowd still echoes, engines still hiss as they cool but it might as well have. One second you’re scowling up at him, muttering under your breath, and the next his arm slides firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against him. 

You gasp, clipboard nearly slipping from your fingers, and before you can even register the heat radiating off him, his other hand is at your cheek and then he kisses you.

Right there. Trackside. With cameras everywhere, with his team probably losing their minds, with Mina somewhere in the stands choking on her soda, with sponsors and managers already drafting panicked statements in their heads.

But none of it matters. Not in the way his mouth moves against yours, not in the way his hold tightens just enough to remind you that you’re real, this is real, and not in the way your heart leaps into your throat so violently you think it might break you in two.

The noise around you fades into a blur, your ears filled only with the thrum of his pulse against your palm when your hand, unthinking, fists in his racing suit. For that breathless, stolen moment, there is no audience. No headlines. No consequences.

It’s just him. Just you. Just the two of you finally crashing into the inevitable.

When he pulls back, his lips curve into the kind of smile he never gives anyone else. Rrare, soft, devastating. 

He leans in close, his breath brushing your ear as he murmurs, low and steady, “Told you I’d make it worth your while.”

The crowd erupts.

For a second, you don’t even move. You just stare at him, lips parted, pulse hammering. The serious look you give could’ve frozen a lesser man but Minghao only tilts his head, still too close, still with that quiet confidence simmering in his eyes.

The camera flashes go absolutely feral, reporters calling both your names, the crowd shifting into a frenzy. Phones are up everywhere. There’s no hiding this. No undoing it.

You finally find your voice, low and sharp as you mutter, “You’re gonna deal with that.”

His lips twitch, slow, infuriatingly smug. And instead of stepping back like any sane person would, he leans down again, even closer, so that his mouth hovers just at the corner of yours. 

The world is screaming but his voice is low, only for you:

“Gladly.”

And then, just to send the entire stadium into orbit, he presses the briefest kiss to your cheek, right where the cameras can catch it, before pulling away with that rare smile curving his lips.

It’s not the ice prince anymore. It’s Xu Minghao, utterly undone, and not bothering to hide it.

=

5 MONTHS LATER

It was late, the kind of late where the city was quieting down but the roads still glittered with a trail of headlights. You two had just left a cozy dinner spot, your heels dangling from one hand as you chased after him across the parking lot.

“Minghao!” you half–whined, half–scolded, padding barefoot against the pavement to catch up with his long strides. “Come on, just once. Let me drive.”

He didn’t even slow down, just tossed you that sly look over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “No.”

“No?” you repeated, incredulous, catching up and tugging on his sleeve like a stubborn kid. “What do you mean no? You’re supposed to say, ‘Sure, baobei, anything you want.’ Isn’t that how this works?”

He stopped at his car, unlocking it with a click, and leaned against the door with maddening calm. “That’s how you think it works.”

You gaped at him, dropping your shoes to plant both hands on your hips. “Excuse me? You’ve let Mingyu drive before.”

“That was different.”

“How?!”

“He begged.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I am literally begging right now.”

He tilted his head, eyes sweeping over you with that teasing patience that only made you more flustered. “Doesn’t look like it.”

Your jaw dropped. “What do you want me to do, get on my knees in the parking lot?!”

He chuckled, the sound soft but rich, like he was enjoying every ounce of your exasperation. “Tempting. But no.”

You groaned dramatically, stomping one bare foot against the ground. “Hao, you’re impossible. I’m not just your permanent passenger princess, okay? I can drive.”

“I know you can.” He pushed off the car and came closer, leaning down until you had no choice but to tilt your head back. His hand found its way to your waist, light and warm. “But I like it better this way.”

“…what way?” you muttered, suddenly too aware of the space closing between you.

He smiled and tapped your chin with a finger. “You. Beside me. Always.”

Your face went hot. “You can’t just—ugh, that’s not fair. You can’t say something like that when I’m trying to win an argument.”

He smirked, already opening the passenger side door and motioning for you to get in. “Then don’t argue. Get in.”

You shot him one last glare, though it didn’t land the way you wanted it to because your lips were fighting a smile. With an exaggerated huff, you climbed into the passenger seat, tossing your shoes onto the floor.

As he rounded the hood to slide into the driver’s seat, you muttered, “You know, one of these days, I will get my hands on the wheel.”

“Maybe,” he said smoothly, starting the engine. The low purr filled the silence between you. “But not tonight.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in the seat. “Fine. But at least let me pick the playlist.”

That earned you another smile, small and knowing. “Deal.”

And as the city lights blurred into streaks through the window, you couldn’t help thinking—even if you never got to drive his car, maybe being his passenger forever wasn’t such a bad deal.

=

The garage smelled faintly of oil, rubber, and gasoline. The familiar scent of Minghao’s second home. His team and crew were buzzing, moving back and forth while the cars screamed on the track outside. 

You had no business being there today, technically, but you had waved off your own schedule and told his manager with a shrug, “I’ll just wait for him.”

The man had blinked at you, then laughed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Xu Minghao, huh… If anyone else told me this, I wouldn’t believe it. The Hao I know doesn’t even let people touch his water bottle, and here you are waiting like a little puppy.”

You had smacked his arm for that, grumbling, “I’m not a puppy,” but it only made him laugh harder.

By the time Minghao finally emerged from training, wiping sweat from his face, his cap pulled low, he spotted you instantly. Standing there, leaning against the wall with your arms crossed but your lips in a very obvious pout.

He approached slowly, eyes narrowing just the tiniest bit. “Are you sulking right now?”

You lifted your chin, refusing to answer.

His mouth twitched—dangerous, like he was seconds from laughing at you. Then he tipped his head, voice dropping just enough for you to hear, “You used to hate acting cute.” He leaned in, close enough that only you caught it, “Now you’re weaponising it.”

You glared at him, cheeks burning despite yourself. “Well…” you huffed, grabbing the hem of his shirt just enough to tug, “now that I know it works.”

That did it. His composure cracked, the quiet chuckle leaving his chest vibrating against your hand. He pulled you closer with one arm, pressing a kiss to your forehead despite the curious eyes of a few nearby mechanics pretending not to stare.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured, smiling into your hair.

“And you like it,” you shot back, though your pout had melted completely, replaced by a grin you couldn’t hide.

“Too much,” he admitted easily, the words slipping out like they’d been sitting on his tongue all day.

“So…” you drawled, still standing much too close, eyes narrowed but your voice pitched deliberately sweeter than usual, “you’ll let me drive?”

Minghao froze mid-sip of water, bottle halfway to his lips. His gaze slid to you, sharp at first, then softening in suspicion. “…No.”

You gasped dramatically, blinking up at him with the widest eyes you could muster. “Please?”

“You’re pushing it.”

“One lap,” he said finally, tone clipped like it was non-negotiable

“Three.” You shot back instantly, hands on your hips

He stared. “One.”

You leaned in, stubborn. “Three.”

He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head, that sharp smirk forming. The one that always meant trouble for you. “Two.”

Your lips parted like you might argue again, but then you lit up, clapping your hands once before throwing your arms around him. “Deal!”

Before he could react, you pressed a quick, excited kiss to his jaw and took off running toward his car, squealing like a kid who just won the lottery.

Behind you, his manager’s jaw dropped. One of the pit crew actually whispered, “Did that just… happen?” Another guy muttered, “The Ice Prince folded—she’s the only one who’s ever…”

Minghao just stood there for a second, dragging a hand down his face, but when he looked up again he was smiling.

“She’s going to wreck my reputation before she wrecks my car,” he muttered, but there was no bite in it.

And when he finally followed after you, his team saw it clear as day: Xu Minghao wasn’t just letting someone drive his most precious machine. He was already gone for you, and everyone knew it.

[scarletwinterxx]

crying screaming blushing at the two fics I just finished (i need to edit and all that but kaksksksksksk)

so excited to share these ones soon🥺🫣

[scarletwinterxx]

i love the way you write cheol!! caratblr is so lucky to have a writer like you 🌷

😭😭😭😭 a little late on the reply but omg 🥺🥺 thank u this means so much to me 🥺😭🩵🩷

[scarletwinterxx]

my favorite writerrr💖💘💗💓💕 im in love with your cheol fics they are the best things ever happened🥺 i really want to read smth for seokmin from you though, so i was curious if you ever planned something like this bcuz seokmin is my literal LOVE and i think you would do the justice 🫠🤩 thanks for sharing your amazing fics🤟🏻

First thank u omg i am honored to be someone's favorite🥺🤍

oh I have one🫣 it's gonna be cute, it's gonna make u cry but this is me so yea it's gonna end in fluff😹😉 stay tuned!!

[scarletwinterxx]

Omg Nini!! Soo good, so good!

I need, want this Seungcheol. So steady and calm!

I remember you’d once said you see all of them as colours, but Seungcheol as a rainbow, I think I see it in the way you write him.

Thank you for writing this Seungcheol! I cried, I smiled, went through all the emotions while reading. It was a beautiful journey.

Hope you have been feeling better these days

🥺🥺🥺

stopppppp you're gonna make me cry🥺 just thinking about it, you seeing him the way I see him oh my heart is going to burst😭🥺 in my head, the way I see him (especially when he smiles🥺 loke that small slow smile) it's like time slows down and then everything just comes to life. Like not in a way that overwhelms me, more like in a way that feels like I'm finally home. Suddenly, everything is the perfect shade of color.

sksksks I hope that makes sense. and yes I'm doing better these days, tysm🤍 and im so happy you loved the new cheol fic🤍🤍

[scarletwinterxx]

before it sinks in - choi seungcheol imagine

and it's here🥺😭 i always love a good bff-to-lovers au, and let me say this one THIS ONE IS THE THE ONE (it will make sense once you read it) it took so much time to edit so i hope you like it!

and to choi seungcheol, thank you for being the best part of the journal i'm still writing. happy birthday, i love you🤍

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

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

It starts like it always does.

A knock at your door, a familiar rhythm. Three quick knocks, then a pause, then two more. You don’t even bother checking the peephole anymore.

You yell, “It’s open!”

The door creaks, and in he comes—Choi Seungcheol, in his usual post-work disheveled glory. Tie half-untied, sleeves rolled up, one bag of takeout in each hand like some tired office-working Santa Claus.

“Guess who loves you the most?” he announces, holding up the food like an offering.

You grin from your spot on the couch. “Please, that’s definitely just hunger talking.”

“Okay, but I got extra dumplings. I knew you’d pretend you didn’t want any and then steal mine.”

“I never do that,” you say, already reaching for the bag.

He plops down next to you, his thigh pressing against yours casually. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s always been this way. And it kind of has.

“I’m starting to think you don’t actually have any other friends,” you tease, glancing at him sideways as you take the food.

“Joshua’s busy,” he replies without missing a beat, already opening his chopsticks. “And he doesn’t laugh at my jokes like you do. Or... pretend to.”

“I genuinely laugh,”

He looks over at you, amused. “You call me a loser every time I bring you dinner.”

“Because you are one. A loser. With no life. Who brings me food every other night instead of going out.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He pops a dumpling into his mouth. “Also, this ‘no life’ loser knows all your takeout orders by heart.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Okay, stalker.”

“Don’t forget you cried when they took your favorite noodles off the menu last year.”

“That was a valid emotional reaction.”

The banter is easy. Comfortable. That kind of ease only built over years of being in and out of each other’s homes, lives, and moods. You've seen him at his worst: sick with the flu, heartbroken after his first real girlfriend, crying after graduation even though he’d totally denied being sentimental. And he’s seen you through everything. from braces to bad breakups to that unfortunate pixie cut in 2015.

You two are disasters. Just... disasters that happen to orbit around each other.

He leans back on the couch now, sighing. “We’re almost thirty.”

You blink at him, chopsticks halfway to your mouth. “Well, thank you for that existential crisis at dinner.”

He laughs, low and rumbling. “No, seriously. One more month and I hit the big 3-0.”

You shrug. “You’re ancient. I’m still young and thriving.”

“You’re five days older than me.”

He gives you a look, then smirks. “Remember the pact?”

Oh god. The pact.

You cough, immediately reaching for your drink. “Vaguely.”

He tilts his head at you knowingly. “You mean very clearly, because I have a screenshot of the drunk text you sent me after your birthday.”

Your stomach flips but you fake a glare. “Delete it.”

“Never. It's my favorite piece of blackmail.”

You roll your eyes and mutter under your breath, “Should’ve made the pact with Joshua.”

“Joshua would've made you sign a prenup and scheduled your wedding in an Excel sheet. Anyways. You better find someone in the next month or else.”

“Or else you’re stuck with me” you finish his sentence for him

There’s a beat of silence, then he says, quiet but playful, “I could do worse.”

You glance at him. He’s smiling but there’s something in his eyes you can’t quite place. Like... maybe he doesn’t think it’s a joke.

But you don’t go there.

So instead, you nudge his knee and say, “Yeah? You sure about that, loser?”

He grins. “Best loser you’ve got.”

“Aren’t you on, like, girlfriend number… what now?” you ask, feigning deep thought. “Twelve? Fifteen?”

He coughs dramatically, nearly choking on his food. “Excuse me? I’ve barely hit five.”

“Yeah, and four of those were in college. One lasted a week. One was a situationship you swore wasn’t a situationship.”

“It wasn’t,” he insists, pointing his chopsticks at you like he’s genuinely offended. “We just didn’t label it.”

“That’s literally what a situationship is, Cheol.”

He groans and sets down his bowl. “Why are we talking about this?”

“Because it’s funny,” you grin. “You, self-proclaimed heartthrob of the neighborhood, out here bringing me dumplings instead of going on dates.”

“Oh please,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You act like you’ve been busy rejecting suitors left and right. When’s the last time you even went on a date?”

You pause.

“…That’s none of your business.”

“Exactly,” he says smugly, leaning back. “You haven’t.”

You flick a piece of tofu at him. He dodges with the reflexes of a guy who’s probably had food thrown at him by you since age six.

“For your information,” you say primly, “I’ve been choosing not to date. Selectively single.”

He raises a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Better than being dumped because you forgot your anniversary.”

“That was once and it was five years ago,” he groans, hands in his hair. “You’ll never let me live that down, huh?”

“Never.”

You go quiet for a moment, chewing thoughtfully. He watches you for a beat, then asks, a little softer, “You ever think we made that pact too young?”

You shrug. “I mean… we were drunk.”

“True. You made me pinky promise with a glow stick.”

“It was symbolic!” you defend, laughing.

He smiles, but he’s watching you again. That same look from earlier. Lingering.

And before your brain can spiral somewhere dangerous, you grab a spring roll and jab it at him like a weapon. “Okay, Mister No-Love-Life, next question. If you had to marry one of your exes—”

“Nope,” he cuts in immediately, mouth full. “I’d rather die alone.”

You cackle, almost choking on your drink.And that’s how it always is. Teasing. Banter. Just enough flirting to make your stomach twist but never enough to cross that invisible line.

That pact is still there, hanging unspoken between you like a safety net you both pretend not to look at. A joke. A backup plan.Right?

…Right?

You raise an eyebrow, chopsticks paused mid-air as you give him a look.

“Oh, so you wouldn’t marry any of your exes,” you say, drawing out the words. “But you would marry your best friend who drunkenly made you pinky promise to do it under the influence of cheap vodka and birthday cupcakes?”

Seungcheol doesn’t flinch. He just takes a slow sip of his drink, completely unbothered. “Yep.”

“Wow.” You blink at him, pretending to be scandalized. “You’re saying I’m a better option than your entire romantic history?”

He shrugs with mock innocence. “You said it, not me.”

You set your food down, pressing a hand to your chest dramatically. “That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He smirks. “Low bar.”

You point at him. “Okay rude, but fair.”

He leans in slightly, resting his elbow on the back of the couch, face close enough that you can smell the soy sauce on his breath. “Let’s be honest. You’d say yes in a heartbeat.”

You scof  “Please. I’d hesitate at least five seconds.”

He grins. “That’s still a yes.”

You roll your eyes, trying very hard to ignore the flutter in your chest. “You’re really confident about this whole ‘marry my best friend’ plan, huh?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You already know all my bad habits. You’ve seen me cry during Disney movies. And you still voluntarily talk to me. That’s basically marriage.”

You laugh, but it comes out a little breathless. And for a second, the air shifts again. Warmer. Realer.

You look away first. “Well, lucky for you, I’m still very single.”

“So am I,” he says, too quickly.

You glance at him.

He shrugs. “Just in case you forgot.”

You say nothing for a moment, then snort and grab another dumpling. “Desperate.”

“Punctual,” he corrects. “I’m just early to the party.”

You grin, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yet here you are,” he says, nudging you with his shoulder, “eating dumplings on the couch with me. Like we’re an old married couple already.”

You pretend to gag. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But your heart’s doing somersaults, and you don’t say anything else. Neither does he. You just keep eating, bickering like always, while the clock ticks a little closer to thirty.

=

It’s a warm Saturday evening, and somehow yet again you’ve ended up as Seungcheol’s plus-one to another one of his company dinners. You’re in heels you kind of regret, a dress you only half-liked, and a social setting you definitely didn’t choose for yourself.

You swirl your drink as you stand near the edge of the patio, watching Seungcheol charm a group of engineers like it’s his side gig. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, that confident manager air about him, and he laughs in that way that makes people lean in.

“God, are you two sure it’s still platonic?”

You flinch at the sudden voice beside you. Turning, you find Joshua sipping casually from a glass of wine, looking far too amused.

You squint at him. “What?”

“You and Seungcheol,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve seen married couples with less natural chemistry.”

“We’re childhood best friends.”

Joshua raises an eyebrow, unbothered. “Exactly. That’s how half the dramas start.”

You give him a deadpan look. “This is real life. Not a weekend drama.”

“Real life where he brings you to every event, stares at you like you’re the human version of a warm blanket, and calls you at midnight because his oven makes weird noises.”

“That happened once.”

Joshua smirks. “Uh huh.”

You turn back toward the patio, eyes finding Seungcheol again who’s already looking in your direction. You catch him mid-smile. He gives you a nod, a small tilt of his head like you good? And you answer with the smallest nod of your own like always.

Joshua sees it. Of course he does.

“I’m just saying,” he says, raising his eyebrows as he sips again. “If you two get married, I’m not shocked. I just better be invited.”

“You are so dramatic.”

“I’m observant. There’s a difference.”

Before you can protest more, Seungcheol makes his way toward you, hand brushing lightly at your waist without even thinking about it.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, “they’re about to do the speeches. You good to come in?”

You nod. As you walk off with him, Joshua raises his glass behind you, smug.

“Totally platonic,” he says to no one, sipping his wine like he called it first.

As you and Seungcheol walk away from Joshua, his hand still casually resting at the small of your back, he leans in and murmurs, “What did he say this time?”

You don’t miss a beat. “He’s asking if he can make a speech at our wedding.”

Seungcheol falters for half a step. Just one. But you catch it. And it makes you grin.

“Wow. You’re so generous. Letting him speak at our wedding.”

“I know,” you sigh, dramatic. “I figured since he called this three years ago, it’s the least I could do.”

“Fine, but no guitar performance. He’ll pull that angel boy act and have the whole room crying.”

You snort. “You’ll be crying.”

“At our fake wedding?”

You shoot him a look. “It’s not fake if we made a pact. Legally binding pinky swear. Remember?”

“Oh, I remember,” he says, too smooth, too smug. “August’s coming fast.”

“Nervous?”

He shrugs, casual. “Not really. If I’m marrying someone, might as well be the person who already bullies me like a spouse.”

“Flattery,” you say, “will get you nowhere.”

“But food delivery might?”

“…Fair.”

He laughs, nudging you gently with his shoulder as you both step back inside. Whatever this thing is between you—comfort, tension, something else entirely—it settles back into place like it always does.

The drive home is wrapped in that easy kind of silence that only comes after years of knowing someone down to the bone. No pressure to fill the air. No small talk. Just headlights on the road and soft music playing low from the stereo, some old playlist he probably forgot was still on shuffle.

You’re curled slightly toward the window, watching buildings blur past. Seungcheol’s hand is steady on the wheel, tapping lightly to the beat of the song. You’ve been to dinners like this a hundred times now, been in his car even more, but something about tonight feels quieter. Heavier. Not in a bad way, just... heavier.

So you say it. Quiet. Careful.

“Hey, just—if we actually do it,” you start, still looking out the window. “Like actually get married… do you think we’d be… good at it?”

He doesn’t answer right away. And for a second, you wonder if maybe you shouldn’t have said anything at all. You almost take it back, make a joke, change the subject, say you were just messing around.

But then he glances at you, one hand still on the wheel. Voice low, thoughtful.

“You mean it?”

You meet his eyes for a brief second, then look back out the window. “I guess I’ve just been thinking about it more lately. Thirty’s kind of creeping up.”

He chuckles softly. “It’s not creeping. It’s sprinting.”

You smile, but you wait. And after a moment, he exhales like he’s been holding something in for years.

“I think we’d be good at it,” he says finally. “Like... weirdly good.”

You glance at him again, heart suddenly louder in your chest.

He continues, keeping his eyes on the road. “We already do half the stuff anyway. Eat together. Talk about work. Know each other’s habits. You let me whine about my deadlines. I pick up your coffee order without asking. You yell at me when I don’t stretch after the gym.”

You snort. “Because you complain about your back like a grandpa the next day.”

He shrugs. “Exactly. See? That’s marriage material.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling now. Quietly.

Then, he adds, a little softer this time, “I think if we ever did it... it wouldn’t feel fake.”

That part makes you pause. You feel something lodge in your throat, not uncomfortable but... careful. Fragile.

You glance over at him again, and he’s still focused on the road but there’s a tiny smile on his lips, one he doesn’t even try to hide.

You breathe out slowly. “Yeah. I think so too.”

The silence comes back but now it’s warm, golden. Full of all the things you don’t say out loud.

And you just let it sit there between you, glowing.

The car hums quietly beneath you, tires soft against the road, headlights cutting through the dark. Outside, the world moves past in sleepy pieces streetlights, shop signs, a couple holding hands at a crosswalk.

You look out the window again, thinking. Letting his words from earlier settle in your chest like stones on still water.

Then softly you ask, “You don’t think it’s risky?”

He glances at you, just for a moment.

You keep going, voice quieter now. “Like... if we’re really considering it, if either of us seriously thought about going through with it someday... Would it even be worth risking all of this?”

You gesture vaguely toward the space between you, toward the years you’ve known him, the friendship that’s always just been.

“Cheol... we’re good like this. We’re us,” you say, still not looking at him. “And if we tried and it didn’t work, if it ruined everything... I don’t think I’d know how to lose you.”

The words hang in the air. Soft. Exposed. But you know him. You could tear your heart open mid-sentence and he’d never flinch, never throw back a pretty lie just to make you feel better.

He’s never been like that. Never sugarcoated things with you. And that’s why you ask because he’s your best friend. Because with him, you never have to pretend.

There’s a long pause. He makes a turn, one hand loose on the wheel. Then he says, gently, “No. I don’t think it’s not risky.”

You nod slowly, almost expecting that.

“But,” he adds, and this time, his voice is steadier—anchored, warm—“I think it’s a different kind of risk.”

You glance at him, quiet.

He continues, eyes still on the road. “We’ve already done a thousand things most people wouldn’t survive. Growing up together. Watching each other date other people. Crying over dumb things. Fighting about real things. Still choosing to show up again and again.”

“And if we ever crossed that line,” he says, softer now, “I wouldn’t do it unless I was sure it was worth it. Unless I was sure I could love you the way you deserve.”

You don’t know what to say.

He glances over again, eyes meeting yours briefly in the dark. “And if we stayed like this forever? You’d still be my person. Nothing would change that.”

You nod once, then look away, eyes stinging—but not from sadness.

Just the truth of it.

“Okay,” you whisper, barely audible.

=

It’s another lazy evening in Seungcheol’s apartment. hoodies, mismatched socks, takeout containers littering the coffee table like it’s a routine. And it is a routine.

He always over-orders.

“Why do you do this?” you ask, poking at the third untouched side dish. “Do you think I secretly have four stomachs?”

He shrugs, already two bites into his third dumpling. “You say that, but you still finish everything eventually.”

He tosses a napkin at you, and you retaliate with a spoon. Somehow, this is flirting. Somehow, it always has been. But then the laughter dies down and there’s a beat of silence, the kind that nudges at something unsaid.

You stare down at your food, playing with the rice. “Hey… can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, of course.”

You hesitate. Then: “Do you remember Arin?”

His chewing slows. “Yeah.” His tone shifts—cautious, but not cold. “Of course I do. Why?”

You take a breath, not looking at him. “You were really serious about her.”

He doesn’t say anything, so you keep going.

“I never told you this, but… she said something to me. Back then. When you two were dating.”

His brows draw together slightly. “What do you mean?”

“She said I was too attached to you. Too dependent.” You shrug, like it doesn’t still sting. “Said it wasn’t normal for us to be this close. That it made her uncomfortable.”

There’s a pause. You keep your eyes on your plate.

“That’s why I started pulling away,” you admit quietly. “I didn’t want to get in your way. Or… prove her right.”

Seungcheol’s quiet for a long moment.

“That’s why you avoided me?” His voice is softer now, like he’s trying to piece it all together

You glance at him, then look away again. “Yeah.”

He exhales, disbelieving. “We fought about that, didn’t we? I thought you were mad at me for something. I didn’t understand what I did.”

“I know,” you say quietly. “But you wouldn’t have understood back then. You’re not a girl.”

He shifts beside you, something heavy moving behind his eyes. “Try me.”

You finally look up at him. “She made me feel like I was not supposed to exist in your life while she was there. Like I was the reason your relationship wasn’t working. And I started thinking maybe she was right. Maybe I was being selfish. So I just… stepped back. Gave you space.”

His expression falters, jaw tightening slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you were happy,” you say simply. “Or I thought you were. I didn’t want to be the reason you weren’t.”

He’s quiet again, hands resting on his knees.

Then, more to himself than anything, he mutters, “God… I thought I lost you for real that time.”

Your chest tightens. “You didn’t.”

“I felt like I did.”

You both go quiet again, sitting with the weight of what wasn’t said back then. It lingers in the room like steam off the takeout, clinging to the walls.

Then, softer this time, he says, “You weren’t selfish. Not once. If anything, I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known something was wrong.”

You smile faintly. “You were in love.”

“Doesn’t mean I stopped knowing you.”

Jus to break the tension, you look down at the food “Still think you ordered too much,” you mumble.

“Still think you’re full of it. You’re finishing the japchae.”

You’re mid-bite when you feel it, his eyes on you. You glance up, and Seungcheol’s just... watching. Quiet, serious. That steady way he looks when something’s turning over in his head.

Then he says it, low and sure.

“If she really loved me… she would’ve understood.”

You blink, caught off guard.

He doesn’t say it with resentment. There’s no heat, no bitterness. Just the simple truth of it. And something about that stings a little more than anger ever could.

You try to shrug it off. “It’s not the same thing. I mean, I get it. I’d probably be annoyed too if my boyfriend had a permanent plus one.”

He doesn’t let that slide.

“No,” he says firmly. “That’s not fair.”

You look at him again, and now there’s something sharper in his expression. Not angry—hurt. Frustrated.

“You’ve always been fine with my exes. Even the random flings. The girls I didn’t even bring around that much. You never made it a thing. You never made me choose.You were always so nice to them, you wanted to know them, be their friend”

“And now you’re telling me someone made you feel like you didn’t belong, like you were a problem and you just took it?”

You go quiet.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks, softer now. “Even after we fought. You just let me believe you were done with me.”

Your throat tightens. You pick at the edge of a napkin.

“Because she was someone you wanted,” you say finally. “And I’m just… me.”

He blinks, like he wasn’t expecting that.

You manage a breathy laugh. “Best friend since diapers, backup plan by thirty. I didn’t want to mess that up by being dramatic.”

He sits back, runs a hand through his hair. “God,” he mutters. “You really thought I’d pick someone over you?”

You don’t answer.

His voice is quiet again, but stronger. “She made you feel like you were less. That’s not love.”

You finally meet his eyes. There’s no teasing there. No light jab to make it easier to swallow.

Just Seungcheol. Solid. Steady. Honest.

“She made me feel like I had to choose. You never did that to me. Not once,” he says.

He exhales, softer now. “I wish I’d known.”

You shrug again, but this time it’s a little heavier. “I didn’t want to be the reason something good ended for you.”

His gaze flicks over your face like he’s memorizing it. And then he says,

“If she couldn’t see how important you were to me, then she wasn’t good for me in the first place.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but not uncomfortable. You just sit there, side by side, the space between you full of things that finally got said. You try to keep your face neutral, to blink it away, to bite the inside of your cheek like it’ll ground you. Like it’ll keep the sting in your eyes from spilling over.

But your voice gets caught somewhere in your throat.

Because it’s rare. You and Seungcheol sure, you talk all the time. About work, about terrible reality shows, about how the local convenience store changed ramen brands and ruined his life. You can tell him anything.

But moments like this? Honest. Raw. Without a joke to shield it?

They don’t come often.

And now, here you are, shoulders curled in, eyes blurry, trying to act like you’re fine when you’re very much not.

He notices, of course he does. He always does.

“Hey…” he says gently.

You try to play it off, sniffling as you look away, muttering, “I’m fine.”

“You’re doing the thing,” he says quietly. “Where you pout and pretend you’re not about to cry.”

“I’m not,” you say quickly, voice cracking right at the end, betraying you completely.

And instead of teasing you like he normally would, he shifts closer, turning fully to face you now “You’re not back-up,” he says, firm but soft. “Or my back-up plan. Or my safety net.”

You keep your eyes trained on the food containers in front of you, lashes wet.

“You’re my person,” he says, and your heart just—aches. “Remember?”

You nod slowly, still not trusting yourself to speak.

He nudges your knee with his. “Hey. Look at me.”

You do, reluctantly. Your eyes are glassy and your lips are pushed out in a small pout, like you’re five seconds away from sobbing or swearing or both.

He softens at the sight of you. Reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist. “I mean it.”

“Then why do I feel like I don’t matter as much sometimes?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just lets that sit there. And then his hand slips down, fingers curling around yours.

“You matter more than anyone,” he says, quiet but sure. “You always have.”

It hits you like a wave. That it’s true. That he means it. And suddenly it’s too much. the tension in your chest, the quiet ache of all those years where you questioned your place beside him, the guilt from pulling away, the fear of what-ifs.

You cry. Not loud or messy. Just soft, silent tears that slip down your cheeks before you can catch them.

He doesn’t let go. He doesn’t rush you either. Just lets you sit there in the quiet, fingers still laced with his, your shoulder slowly leaning into his.

“I got you,” he says simply.

And you believe him. Maybe more now than ever. You sniff once, trying to pull yourself together, wiping quickly under your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie like that’ll erase the whole emotional breakdown you just had.

Seungcheol watches you, still holding your hand loosely. Then he smiles—that smile. The soft one, the one where his eyes crinkle a little and his dimple shows up just barely. Warm. Gentle. Familiar.

And then, without warning, he reaches out and pinches your cheek.

“Yah,” you protest, batting his hand away, “what was that for?”

“For being cute,” he says casually, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

You scowl through the remnants of your pout, cheeks still warm and damp. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, but I’m your person, remember?” he says, cheeky now.

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels lighter. Your heart feels full.

“Here. Mandu. To replenish your tears.”

You blink. “Are you feeding me dumplings as emotional support?”

“Yes,” he says, entirely serious. “Doctor’s orders.”

You laugh, watery and small, but real. You reach out and take one, letting the warmth of it settle into your palm.

“I really hate you sometimes,” you mumble.

“No, you don’t.”

You don’t.

You couldn’t.

=

It had actually been… kind of perfect.

The community outreach event turned out to be more fun than you'd expected. You weren’t exactly thrilled when Seungcheol texted “Be ready at 8, no excuses 🙄🐶” the night before, but now?

You were glad he dragged you.

The animal shelter was filled with wagging tails, tiny paws, and enough puppy breath to cure anyone’s burnout. You spent the day giving belly rubs, walking hyper dogs around the yard, and feeding stray kittens who meowed at you like they’d known you for years.

Seungcheol, of course, made friends with the loudest, goofiest-looking dog named Daegu. He tried to convince you both to take a selfie. Daegu licked your face. Seungcheol almost dropped his phone from laughing.

You’d smiled all day. Laughed too much. Teased him endlessly when he almost cried because one of the old dogs leaned on his leg.

And now… it was quiet.

The sky outside the car window was a soft shade of pink and gold, sun starting to dip. The hum of the road filled the silence as Seungcheol drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. The kind of silence that should’ve been peaceful.

But then, from his side, he hears it.

A sniffle. Small. Shaky.

He turns slightly, confused. “Wait—are you… are you crying?”

You immediately look away, hand flying to your face. “No.”

He leans forward, grinning. “You are. Oh my god—are you seriously crying right now?”

“I—Shut up,” you mutter, voice wobbly. “It’s just… it’s so sad, okay?”

He laughs, but it’s gentle, not mocking. “You played with dogs all day. What part of this is sad?”

You try to explain, but your voice cracks again. “Daegu doesn’t have a home, Cheol. He just wants love. He was so happy and he still has no one…”

“Oh my god,” he says again, this time through a breathy chuckle, pulling the car into a stoplight. “You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?” you pout, wiping your face with your sleeve.

“The thing where your heart explodes and you act like it’s my fault.”

“It is your fault! You dragged me there! You let me bond with Daegu and now I’m emotionally unstable!”

He’s still smiling as he unclicks his seatbelt.

“What are you doing?” you ask warily.

He opens his arm and says simply, “Come here.”

You blink at him. “We’re in a car.”

“Come here,” he says again, already leaning a little toward you. You scoot over, sniffling. He wraps one arm around you, tugs you gently in until your head rests against his shoulder.

“There,” he says. “My very emotionally compromised best friend. Crying over Daegu the dog.”

“He has abandonment issues,” you sniff dramatically into his hoodie.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, chuckling. “You and Daegu are the same.”

You punch his chest weakly but you don’t move. And you both pretend it’s just another joke. Just another hug. Nothing new.

But maybe it is. Maybe it's something.

“When we get married… can we adopt a dog?”

There’s a tiny pause.

Then you feel his chest shake with a quiet chuckle. “We’ll adopt two.”

He doesn’t say anything about how you said when—not if. Doesn’t call attention to the way your voice had gone soft, hopeful. Like it was a plan, not a hypothetical. Doesn’t tease you for crying over a dog named Daegu like it’s the most heartbreaking thing that’s ever happened.

He just keeps driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on your knee now, thumb moving in slow, absent circles.

He doesn’t say it, but the way he looks at you—like he’s already imagining the two of you in a small apartment with mismatched socks on the floor and two loud dogs causing chaos—says enough.

You breathe out slowly, eyes closing for a moment. The sadness is still there, but quieter now. Softer. Wrapped in something that feels suspiciously like home.

“Two dogs,” you murmur.

“Big ones,” he says immediately. “None of that pocket-sized barky fluff.”

You roll your eyes against his shoulder. “One big, one tiny. We compromise.”

He laughs, low and easy. “Fine. But the tiny one wears sweaters.”

“Obviously.”

It’s late when Seungcheol finally slumps into the bar booth across from Joshua, tie already yanked loose, sleeves rolled up like he’s fought a war with deadlines and lost.

Joshua raises his glass with a grin. “To surviving another week of pretending we know what we’re doing.”

Seungcheol clinks it lazily. “Barely.”

They sip. Talk about work. Someone in Joshua’s department tried to microwave salmon again. Seungcheol had to deal with a supplier who thinks "urgent" means "next month."

Eventually, because Joshua always circles back, he raises a brow over his drink.

“So, you and her.”

Seungcheol doesn’t even flinch. “She’s my best friend.”

Joshua lets out the most dramatic sigh known to man. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

Joshua leans in, quieter now. “Look. I’m not saying it has to be some big movie moment. I’m just saying... if the line between friendship and love is already blurred, maybe stop pretending you don’t know where your heart actually is.”

Seungcheol lifts his head slowly, looking at him. “Is this the part where you ask to be the best man?”

Joshua grins. “Already working on my speech.”

Joshua is relentless. He leans back like he’s letting it go. lets Seungcheol take a breath, picks up a fry, chews like the conversation’s moved on. And for a moment, Seungcheol thinks he’s safe.

But then Joshua looks at him again with a too-innocent smile. “Alright. Fine. Let’s say I believe you.”

Seungcheol narrows his eyes. “You don’t.”

“Let’s just pretend I do,” Joshua continues smoothly, ignoring him. “She’s your best friend. You grew up together. You pinky swore under the influence of tequila and glow sticks, whatever. Let’s say I accept all of that.”

Seungcheol sighs, suspicious. “Okay…”

“Then why aren’t you dating anyone?”

That lands like a slap made of reason and accusation. Seungcheol blinks.

“You haven’t dated anyone since her last ex. Since things went to hell for her and she stopped smiling for a whole month. Since she barely came out of her apartment, and you were suddenly too busy to go out with anyone else.”

Seungcheol stiffens slightly.

Joshua tilts his head. “So? Why aren’t you dating?”

“I was just—busy,” Seungcheol says, way too fast.

Joshua stares at him.

“Work’s been—”

“Bullshit,” Joshua cuts in, laughing without humor. “You’ve had girls lined up since day one, man. You’re good-looking, stable, semi-functional—”

“Thanks?”

“But somehow,” Joshua goes on, “every time something starts to get serious, you ghost. You find an excuse. Or—” he pauses, like the punchline’s too good—“you cancel because she had a bad day, or she needed help assembling a bookshelf, or she got food poisoning and you spent the night at her place making her congee.”

“It’s her favorite” Seungcheol mutters

Joshua slams his glass down. “Exactly. So you’re telling me it’s all just coincidence?”

Seungcheol rubs the back of his neck, finally admitting, quietly, “I didn’t want to leave her alone.”

Joshua softens just a bit. “I know.”

Seungcheol exhales. “She looked like she was holding herself together with duct tape.”

“And you were the duct tape,” Joshua says, not unkindly. “So let me ask again. If she’s just your best friend… why haven’t you let anyone else get close since?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer. He just stares into his drink, like maybe the bottom of the glass will explain everything he doesn’t know how to say.

And Joshua doesn’t press just leans back, more gentle now. “You don’t have to say it, you know. But maybe it’s time you stop acting like you don’t feel it.”

And Seungcheol… still doesn’t say a word.

But he’s thinking about it. Harder than he wants to admit.

=

It’s a different day, but the weight of that conversation with Joshua hasn’t quite left him.

He tells himself he’s fine. You’re still you. He’s still him. Nothing’s changed.

Except maybe... everything has.

Seungcheol lies on his couch, one arm slung over his eyes, half-watching the ceiling fan spin in lazy circles like it holds answers he doesn’t have. His phone is on his chest, silent. No messages from you. not that you need to message. You were just here last night, eating the leftover pasta he overcooked and yelling at him for folding your hoodie sleeves wrong when you did laundry at his place.

Just like always.

But now every interaction feels... different.

But ever since the pact came up again, it's like someone flipped to a page in his life he didn’t know he’d been avoiding. And now it’s wide open, bold and highlighted, underlined in red.

Thirty.

He never used to care about that number. But now it’s staring him down like a blinking countdown clock. Not because of pressure but because it’s not just some hypothetical pact anymore.

Because when you looked at him that night, crying over Daegu the shelter dog, and mumbled “when we get married” instead of “if”… 

You meant it.

And the terrifying part?

He didn’t hate the way it sounded. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t correct you.

“We’ll adopt two,” he had said.

Like it was always meant to happen.

He presses his palm to his face and groans.

The front door buzzes. He startles, sitting up too fast. When he checks the intercom, it’s you.

Of course.

You’re in joggers and a loose shirt when he opens the door, holding a plastic bag.

“I brought strawberries,” you say casually, brushing past him like you live here.

“And ice cream. I didn’t know what mood you were in so I got both.”

He stares at you for a beat too long.

You pause, frowning. “What?”

He blinks. “Nothing.”

You eye him suspiciously. “Did you nap too hard again?”

He watches you pad barefoot into his kitchen, already putting things in the fridge like it’s second nature. Like you belong here. And that page in his mind turns again so loud it’s deafening.

You're still you. He's still him. But now he’s starting to wonder if maybe the reason neither of you have crossed that line… is because deep down, he was waiting for the page to flip on its own.

And now that it has?

He’s not sure he can keep pretending he’s not reading every word like it’s been written just for the two of you.

You continue on chatting, unaware of the turmoil going on in his mind “—and then this guy from the client’s team, literally asked me if I could ‘pretty up’ the presentation slides to make them feel less ‘intense.’ Like what does that even mean, Cheol?”

Seungcheol stands by the door, frozen as he watches you breeze in like the storm that you are ranting, expressive, completely unaware that the very air in the room changes when you're in it.

You open the produce bag, eyes lighting up. “Oh my god, these strawberries are so red. I knew they were gonna slap.”

He’s still standing there when you rinse them in the sink and start cutting off the tops with a familiarity that makes his heart squeeze painfully.

You go on about your day, laughing now. “And then Eunha messaged me right in the middle of the meeting to say she thinks our client’s VP is hot. Like ma’am, we are literally fighting for a budget extension, focus.”

You pluck a strawberry from the bowl, turn to him casually, and hold it out with one hand. “Ah.”

He doesn’t move at first but you’re already looking at the strawberry, not even at him, like this is just any other Thursday night. Like feeding him fruit mid-conversation is as normal as breathing.

So he leans forward, still dazed, and takes the bite. Your fingers brush the corner of his mouth without thinking.

And this.

This is when it hits him.

All at once.

The conversations. The warnings. Every girl he’s dated in the past, from the short flings to the ones he thought might last, every one of them echoing the same thing when they walked away.

You only give half of yourself.

You don’t let people in all the way.

You say you care, but you’re never really there. Not fully.

He thought they just didn’t get it. That he wasn’t the problem. That they were asking for something he couldn’t give yet. But now, watching you chew your strawberry and move on like nothing just cracked open in the middle of his chest, he understands what they meant.

It’s not that he doesn’t have the capacity to give himself to someone completely.

It’s that he already did.

It was you.

It’s always been you.

You're over there now, peering into his snack cabinet, still talking. “Also, you’re out of those seaweed crisps again. I swear I bought, like, three bags last time.”

You’re not even looking at him.

You have no idea. You don’t know that in the middle of your casual rant, in this ordinary kitchen filled with mismatched mugs and your scent clinging to his hoodie on the chair—

He’s falling apart quietly.

Because this feels like home, and it’s not his.

It’s yours.

It always has been.

You turn around with a bag of chips, half-pouting. “We need to grocery run this weekend, by the way. Or else I’m gonna starve and it’ll be your fault.”

You don't even say if you're coming over. You say we. Like it’s assumed.

And maybe that’s the thing. You’ve never had to ask for space in his life, because you already live in it.

And for the first time in years, Seungcheol is completely speechless.

He doesn't say a word as you plop onto his couch and toss him the bag of chips.

Doesn’t respond when you yell from the cushions, “Put something on, and if it’s another action movie I’m walking out.”

He just moves. Slowly. Quietly. Heart pounding in his chest as he sits beside you, watching the way you tuck your legs under you, the way you grumble about his remote always being sticky, the way you fit here without even trying.

And as the opening credits roll on some cheesy romcom you insisted on, all he can think is—

How the hell did I not see this before?

And worse—

What do I do now that I have?

=

The night air is soft, cool against your skin, the kind of evening that makes the city feel quieter than usual. You and Seungcheol are walking side by side, bellies full from the ramen place you both pretend to be tired of but always end up at anyway.

He’s holding your umbrella, even though it’s barely misting now, and you’re nursing a cup of milk tea, chewing on the straw like you’re deep in thought.

He’s doing it again.  Walking beside you, hand in his pocket, eyes drifting toward you like he forgot what he was about to say.

And staying quiet.

You’ve noticed it. For weeks now.

He still argues with you about dumb things. Still rolls his eyes when you steal the last piece of meat. Still dramatically sighs when you ask for "just a sip" of his drink and finish half.

But then he gets quiet.

Not the relaxed, comfortable kind of quiet that’s always existed between you two, but the thinking too hard kind. The staring at you like you rearranged the stars and he’s only now catching up kind.

And tonight? It's more noticeable than ever.

So you stop walking.

He takes two more steps before realizing you’re not beside him anymore. He turns back. “What?”

You squint at him, arms folded around your milk tea. “What’s up with you?”

He blinks. “What?”

“You’ve been weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

You level him with a look. “No. Like… actually weird. You’ve been all in your head lately. Staring off into space. Being all quiet for no reason.”

He tries to play it off. “Maybe I’m just finally at peace around you.”

You give him a flat look. “That would require inner peace, and I know for a fact you don’t have that.”

He chuckles under his breath but doesn’t deny it.

You step closer, lowering your voice, more serious now. “Seriously, Cheol. If something’s wrong, just tell me.”

He looks at you.

And there it is again. that look. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Like he’s in the middle of some grand realization and doesn’t know where to start saying it out loud.

You nudge his arm gently. “Did you break something in my apartment?”

“No.”

“Are you seeing someone?”

“No.”

“Did you kill someone?”

“I plead the fifth.”

You smile a little, but it fades as you meet his eyes again. “Then what is it?”

He hesitates. Breathes in like he’s about to say something then lets it out slowly instead.

“I just…” He rakes a hand through his hair, gaze dropping to the sidewalk before lifting to you again. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately.”

“Well, there’s your problem.”

He snorts.

You wait.

And finally, he shrugs one shoulder. “About us.”

Your chest tightens. “Us?”

He nods. “Yeah. You and me. This. Everything.”

You blink, caught off guard by how serious he suddenly looks.

“I don’t know,” he says, quieter now. “It’s like… something shifted. And I’ve been trying to figure out if I’m imagining it, or if it’s always been there and I just wasn’t paying attention.”

You’re stunned into silence. He lets out a breath, eyes still on you.

“I’m not trying to be weird,” he says. “I just… I think I’m realizing things a little late.”

And somehow, even with all the vague words and hesitation, you understand exactly what he means.

The pact.

The silence.

The way he looks at you now, like he’s already halfway in love but too scared to say it outright.

You look down at your cup, the condensation cold against your fingers, and when you speak, your voice is soft

“So… are you still figuring it out?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“I think I already did.”

And suddenly, everything is different.

And nothing is.

=

That night, Seungcheol waited.

When he finally said it—“I think I already did,”—he expected more.

A follow-up. A question. Something.

But you didn’t ask.

You just looked at him and gave him this small, unreadable smile. The kind that didn’t reach your eyes. Then you turned, walked a few steps ahead, and never looked back.

And after that?

There was silence.

Not the easy, comforting silence that had always existed between you.

This one was sharp. Foreign. Laced with something heavy.

At first, he thought maybe you just needed time.

You texted less said you were busy. He understood. You were always swamped with work, and he didn’t want to be overbearing. He gave you space.

But then the excuses started.

You couldn’t make dinner. You were out of town. You were tired. You were “catching up on deadlines.”

Until the excuses stopped altogether—and you just stopped replying.

Stopped showing up.

Stopped being you with him.

The worst part? Your birthday passed, he sent you a message, even tried to call but nothing. Just silence. He even drove by your office but your co-workers just said you left early. Then his birthday passed. 

For years, since you were kids, you would always be the first one to greet him like it’s your yearly goal. Sometimes he’d wake up and you’d be there singing happy birthday so loud and so off key at 7am in the morning. 

But this year? Nothing. 

Now it’s been weeks.

He’s tried to play it cool. To wait you out. Because if he pushes, you’ll shut down. He knows that. You’ve always needed to come to things in your own time.

But tonight, it all breaks.

Because tonight, he runs into you by accident.

A friend of a friend invited him for dinner. One of those events you used to drag him to. He’s not even sure why he said yes. Maybe part of him hoped.

And there you are.

Looking like nothing’s wrong. Sitting two seats away from him, smiling like you haven’t been avoiding him like the plague. You greet him, polite. Like a stranger. Like months, years of friendship aren’t stretched out thin between you both.

And maybe that’s what finally snaps something in him.

So when you’re both out on the sidewalk after dinner, ready to go your separate ways, he speaks up.

“You’re really not gonna say anything?”

You stop mid-step. Slowly turn around. “About what?”

He stares at you. “Don’t do that.”

You lift a brow. “Do what?”

“Act like you don’t know.”

You sigh, looking away. “Cheol, I’m tired.”

“I know you’re tired,” he says, voice tight. “You’ve been tired since the night I told you the truth.”

You pause, just for a second. Then you keep walking. “It’s late.”

He follows. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You’ve been ghosting me,” he snaps, louder now. “Don’t lie.”

You turn then, sharply. “What do you want me to say?”

He stops.

And for a second, neither of you speak. You just stare at each other under the streetlights, years of friendship hanging dangerously by a thread.

“I told you how I felt,” he says quietly. “And you walked away.”

You look down, throat tight. “Because I didn’t know what to say.”

“You could’ve said something. Anything.”

“I didn’t want to say the wrong thing.”

“Since when are you scared of saying the wrong thing to me?”

“Since I realized this might ruin everything!” you shout, finally

And now your voice is shaking. “You don’t get it, Cheol. You don’t get to drop that on me—after all these years, after that stupid pact—and act like it doesn’t change everything!”

“I never said it because of the pact,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “I said it because it’s the truth.”

“But it feels like it’s because of the pact!” you bite back. “It feels like you’re settling for something safe. Familiar. Me. And I can’t be that.”

“You’re not safe,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re everything. You’re the only person who’s ever really seen me. You think this is me settling?”

You laugh bitterly. “Then why now, Cheol? Why not all the other years? Why not before we hit a stupid deadline?”

“Because I was stupid,” he says, raw now. “Because I was blind. Because I was scared, and I thought we had more time.”

You’re breathing hard now. So is he. Neither of you move.

Then you shake your head slowly, voice small. “I’m not willing to lose you over a maybe.”

His mouth parts slightly, like that one hurts. Because it does.

You blink fast, like you’re trying not to cry. “We’ve always been us. Don’t you get it? If this goes wrong, I don’t just lose a boyfriend—I lose you. And I’m not ready for that.”

Silence stretches out.

“I thought I meant more to you than just the fear of losing me,” he says quietly.

“You do,” you whisper. “That’s exactly why I can’t risk it.”

He nods, jaw clenched, stepping back like he’s swallowing every word he still wants to say.

“I guess I don’t get a vote.”

You don’t answer.

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “Okay. Message received.”

And then he turns.

You don’t call after him.

You don’t run.

You just stand there, tears stinging behind your eyes, watching the person who knows you best walk away, for the first time not knowing if he’ll come back.

That night, the moment you closed your apartment door behind you, the weight of everything came crashing down.

You didn’t even make it to your room. You slid down to the floor right there in the entryway, your knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself like that could hold the pieces together.

And then you cried. Not the quiet, pretty kind.

It was the kind of crying that shook through your bones, tore through your chest like it had claws, and made your throat burn from trying not to scream.

You’ve been through heartbreak before. Bad dates. Good relationships that fizzled. Almosts and not-quites but nothing ever felt like this.

This wasn’t just a breakup. it was the unraveling of something you thought was unshakable. A bond that had been your constant. Your foundation. The one thing in your life that never had conditions, that never threatened to leave.

Until now.

And the worst part?

The only person you wanted to call to make it all better

Was him.

Your phone was right there. Just a few inches away.

It would take two seconds to open his contact. You still had a text thread filled with memes and old photos and inside jokes. You still had voice messages of him reminding you to eat, of him singing horribly in the car, of him just being there.

And you reached for it. You really did but your hand stopped halfway because what would you even say?

Your vision blurred again as you curled tighter into yourself. You’d always been able to call him for anything.

Late-night breakdowns. Victories. Bad dates. Stupid fights with your mom. Times when the world felt too heavy. Times when it felt too light.

But this? This silence?

This was the first time he wasn’t the one to hold your pieces together.

Because you were the one who broke them.

And now you’re left with the weight of a love you never got to hold properly, and the echo of a goodbye you never really wanted to say.

=

You don’t even hear the door open.

Not the first time your older sister knocks, not when she uses the spare key, not even when her footsteps echo through your quiet apartment.

You only notice someone’s there when the blanket cocooned around you is suddenly ripped away, and you let out a tired, raspy, “What the hell—?”

“Get up,” Hyeri says flatly, standing over you with her arms crossed and her judgment radiating like a mom in a sitcom.

You squint up at her from the couch where you’ve been buried for... days, maybe. Time has stopped meaning anything. “You can’t just invade people’s personal space like this.”

“I can when they’re clearly rotting in the dark like a Victorian ghost.”

You groan and reach for the blanket again, but she holds it up like she’s taunting a dog. “Nope. Get your ass up.”

“What are you even doing here?”

Hyeri sighs. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“You live three hours away.”

“Okay, fine.” She sits down at the edge of the couch, eyes scanning the room ”Cheol called me.”

That makes your stomach flip, and you hate how your heart clenches the second you hear his name. You say nothing. Just pull your sleeves down over your hands like a child, lips pressed together.

“He didn’t say much,” she adds. “Just said I should check on you. That was weird enough.”

She looks at you carefully now. “He always shows up when you’re not okay. He’s never asked me to do it before.”

You feel the tears threaten again, and you press your face into the couch cushion, voice barely audible. “Can you not.”

Hyeri sighs again, softer this time. She reaches over and tugs gently at your hair, the way she used to when you were kids and hiding under blankets after nightmares.

“You look like crap,” she says, even gentler now.

“Thanks.”

“You smell like instant noodles and poor life choices.”

“That’s fair.”

She’s quiet for a second before speaking again, more serious. “What happened?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The second you try to form words, your throat closes up.

She watches you for a moment, then gently pushes some hair away from your face. “He didn’t tell me anything. Just that you weren’t okay. And the way he said it… I don’t know. It scared me.”

You close your eyes, and your voice cracks when you finally whisper, “I think I broke it.”

“Broke what?”

You swallow. “Me and him.”

Hyeri goes still. And then, gently, “Was there even a you and him?”

You let out a soft, choked laugh. “That’s the thing. I don’t know. Maybe there was. Or maybe it was just… everything but the name.”

She doesn't push. She never does when you start unraveling like this.

You keep going, the words spilling now. “He told me how he felt. I said nothing. I ran. And now I miss him so much I can’t even breathe properly but if I try to fix it and lose him anyway, I don’t think I’ll survive that.”

Hyeri looks at you, something tightening in her face. She’s still the same older sister who used to patch up your scraped knees and lie to your parents when you got caught sneaking out but now, she sees you as more than just her baby sister. 

She sees a girl completely wrecked by the kind of heartbreak that doesn’t even need a relationship title to destroy you.

“I’m not gonna give you a dramatic speech,” she says after a while. “But I know you. And I know you don’t fall easy. So if you let this go, it better be because it wasn’t real not because you were scared it was.”

You blink hard. A tear slides down your cheek anyway.

Hyeri sighs, then tugs the blanket back over you. “I’m gonna make you something that has a vitamin in it. And then we’re gonna shower. And maybe open a damn window.”

You nod weakly. “Okay.”

As you lie there, the ache still heavy in your chest, you realize something else. He knew you wouldn’t call but he made sure someone came anyway.

Hyeri watches you.

Really watches you.

And for the first time in a long time, she sees you as something other than the stubborn, sharp-tongued little sister who always had a comeback. Who used to stage dramatic breakups in your room only to be fine the next day. Who bounced back, every single time.

But not now.

Now you're quiet. Small. Curled up in on yourself like a house with the lights off.

And crying again. Not out of impulse. Not for show. But in that quiet, soul-deep kind of way that says something inside you has cracked wide open and you don’t know how to close it again.

And she hates it.

Because even though she’s your older sister, even though she used to be the one you'd run to with scraped knees and middle school drama, she knows that this is beyond her.

This isn’t a boy you had a fling with.

This is Seungcheol.

Your constant.

Your person.

You and him have always been a unit. Never one without the other. Always in the same stories. Always in the same breath. From scraped knees to college finals, to grocery runs and hospital emergencies. He was the other half of every sentence you spoke. The shadow behind your laughter. The one who always knew what kind of day you had just by the way you closed a door.

And now here you are, broken without him.

So she doesn't try to give more advice. Doesn’t try to fix what she can’t reach.

Instead, she quietly says, “Come here.”

You hesitate, then scoot toward her, and the moment she opens her arms you fold yourself into them like you’re five again.

And you cry. God, do you cry. 

You bury your face in her shoulder and it all comes out again. Your body trembles with it, fists curling in her shirt as the words keep coming out in jagged whispers between sobs.

“I messed everything up.”

“I miss him.”

“I don’t know how to go back.”

She holds you tighter, rocking you slightly, her own throat tightening now too.

Then, softly, she says, “You know you’re only scared because it’s worth something. Maybe everything. If it didn’t matter, you wouldn’t be like this. You’d bounce back like always. But you’re not. You’re wrecked. And if I know anything about Seungcheol…” she pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes gentle, “he’s just as wrecked as you are.”

You try to speak, but your voice comes out small and cracked. “He probably hates me now.”

Hyeri actually laughs. A warm, disbelieving kind of laugh. “God, no. You really don’t remember?”

You blink at her.

She smiles, shaking her head a little. “You were, what? Eight? Nine? That one summer, you spilled paint all over the living room carpet. Bright green. Looked like Nickelodeon slime.”

You blink, a vague memory surfacing.

She grins, nostalgic. “Eomma stormed in asking who did it, and you were crying, freaking out. I was upstairs, I checked and saw you two. Seungcheol just looked her dead in the eyes and said, ‘It was me.’”

“Eomma didn’t even question it. She told his mom and he got grounded for two weeks. No bike. No sleepovers.”

Your jaw drops slightly. “Wait, that was him?”

“Yup.” She brushes your hair gently back. “He didn’t even blink. Just took the fall because you were panicking and crying and he couldn’t stand seeing you upset.”

You stare at her, stunned.

“Tell me, little sister,” Hyeri says gently, tucking a blanket around you now, “does that sound like someone who could ever hate you?”

And suddenly, you’re crying again.

Because even after all this, after all your fear and silence and the walls you threw up between you, ome part of you still knew:

He’d never hate you. He might be hurting. He might be angry.

But he'd never stop being him.

Not with you.

And maybe, just maybe… that means it isn’t too late.

=

You told yourself you were just going to take a walk.

No plans, no destination just air. Movement. Something to pull you out of the black hole you’d been sinking in.

But your feet carried you here. To his street. To the building you’ve walked into a hundred times, always without hesitation.

Now, you’re frozen. Standing across the street, staring up at the familiar windows like they might blink and tell you what to do. Like maybe the universe will write your answer in neon against the clouds.

You don’t move.

The sky darkens, but you barely notice. Not even when the first raindrops fall.

You just stand there, heart a wreck in your chest, because this was never supposed to be hard. Not with him. You never thought there’d be a day when even the idea of seeing him would make your throat close.

And then the rain comes in full soft at first, then harder, steadier. Soaking through your hoodie, clinging to your skin.

Still, you don’t move.

Not until you see the door across the street swing open, and him—Seungcheol—stepping out into the lobby.

He’s got earbuds in, a parcel under one arm, checking something on his phone as he walks toward the concierge desk.

He doesn’t see you at first.

But then he glances up and his eyes skip past you

Then double back. He freezes. Like his brain short-circuited trying to make sense of what he’s seeing.

And then he moves.

He runs.

The doors swing open again, and he’s out, dodging the puddles, eyes wide and wild and locked on you. He doesn’t stop to think. Doesn’t say your name. He just grabs your wrist and pulls.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” he says as you stumble after him. His voice is sharp but you hear the tremble under it.

You don’t respond. Can’t. Your throat is already tight, the air around you thick.

He yanks the lobby door open, dragging you inside with him, rainwater dripping from both of you. The security guard at the front desk raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. He’s seen this duo before just never like this.

Seungcheol doesn’t stop until you’re in the elevator. Doesn’t let go of your hand.

He’s soaked. So are you.

Only when you’re inside his apartment, when he shuts the door and turns to face you, does he speak again.

“Are you out of your mind?” he breathes, pacing a little, running both hands through his wet hair.

“It’s pouring. You don’t answer for weeks and now you’re… what? standing in the rain like a scene from a drama? Are you trying to make me go insane?”

You’re still dripping. Still shivering. Still unable to say anything. And then your lip trembles. And your shoulders shake.

And suddenly, the tears you thought you were done crying break loose again silent at first, then full.

He turns just as you collapse to your knees, crying harder than you meant to, unable to stop even when your hands come up to your face.

You feel his arms around you before you can fully register it.

He’s on the floor too, pulling you close, arms strong and warm despite being soaked through.

“Hey. Hey.” His voice is quieter now. Rushed but gentle. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I got you. It’s okay. It’s okay, I got you.”

You cling to him like the lifeline he’s always been, sobbing into his chest, fists clenching the fabric of his shirt.

“I didn’t know what to do,” you finally manage, choking on the words. “I didn’t know what to do, Cheol—”

“You could’ve told me,” he whispers into your hair. “You didn’t have to go through it alone.”

“I was scared,” you say, the words ragged and broken. “I was so scared you didn’t mean it. That it was just the pact. That I’d lose you.”

“You almost did,” he says, not angrily—just honest. Just raw. “But not because of the pact. Because you shut me out.”

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight. “You don’t get it. The pact didn’t make me love you. I already did. I’ve been in love with you long before we made some dumb promise.”

Your eyes open slowly, wet lashes heavy. He cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he’s memorizing you.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he murmurs. “I didn’t want to lose you either. But losing you slowly like this? It’s worse.”

You stare at him. Breathless. Wrecked.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He nods, swallowing hard. “I know. Me too”

His thumb brushes beneath your eyes again, slower this time. He notices everything, because he always does. The tears, yes. But also the dark circles that weren’t there before. The way your face is a little slimmer, like you haven’t been eating properly. The curve of your cheeks, those soft, round cheeks he’s always teased you for but secretly adored, faded now, like even your joy forgot how to sit there.

His chest tightens.

He wants to be mad. He should be mad. But he’s not.

His hand settles against the side of your face like it belongs there. His voice comes out low, barely holding together. “You haven’t been eating, have you?”

You glance down, embarrassed, and don’t answer. That’s enough.

He sighs, fingers brushing damp strands of hair behind your ear as he says gently, “You always get sick when you skip meals. You know that, right?”

You nod. Still avoiding his eyes.

He exhales shakily. Like he’s been holding in all the worry, all the nights he wanted to show up at your door but didn’t know if you’d even open it.

And then he says it. Barely a whisper. “Why did you shut me out?”

You flinch a little. He sees it, regrets asking it almost instantly. But then you finally look up and it crack something in him. Because all the anger, all the confusion, all the pain—it melts under the weight of how wrecked you look.

He sees it. Right there on your face. The fear. The guilt. The ache.

And that’s all it takes.

He closes the space between you two, hands cradling your face as he murmurs, “Hey. Hey, no. You don’t have to explain. I get it.”

“But—”

“I get it.” His forehead presses to yours again, grounding. Warm. “I see you, okay? I see how scared you are. And I’m sorry I put you in a place where you felt like you couldn’t tell me.”

You shake your head, voice trembling. “No. It wasn’t you. It was me. I just… I didn’t know how to believe it. That you meant it. That this—us—could be real. I thought the second I believed it, I’d lose you.”

“You didn’t,” he says quietly.

“I almost did.” And his thumbs catch every tear before they fall.

He looks at you for a long moment. His voice cracks a little when he says, “You’re still my person.”

He hugs you close arms tight around your back, chin tucked into your shoulder, heart pressed against yours like he’s afraid the space between you might open up again if he lets go.

“It’s okay,” he whispers over and over, voice so soft you almost miss it. “I’ve got you. It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

And then, finally, you whisper, voice hoarse and soft:

“I’m sorry.”

He pulls back just enough to see your face, brushing a thumb gently over your cheek again.

“I know,” he says, and for once, there’s no pain in his voice. Just warmth. Just truth. “I am too.”

“For walking away,” he adds, eyes searching yours. “For giving up too easily. I should’ve stayed. Should’ve talked to you. Not waited for it to fix itself.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he shakes his head gently.

“No, listen. I knew something was wrong. I knew you were scared. I just… I didn’t know how to help you if you didn’t want to be helped. So I backed off. I thought giving you space was the right move but—”

His voice catches.

“—it felt like losing you. Every day. Little by little.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, eyes filling with tears.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. soft, lingering, full of all the things you both haven’t had the words to say until now.

“Me too,” he murmurs. “But we’re here now, right?”

You nod slowly, resting your forehead against his again.

Quiet. But whole.

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, the kind that settles somewhere in your chest. You pull back just a little, your cheek still damp, your arms still loosely wrapped around him.

“Wait,” you say, your voice a little hoarse but lighter now, “did you really get grounded when you told my mom it was you who spilled the paint?”

He grins, wide and sheepish. “Two weeks. No TV. No snacks. My mom was pissed.”

Your eyes widen. “Why would you do that?”

He shrugs, brushing a strand of hair from your face like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You looked like you were gonna cry. I panicked.”

You laugh, even if it’s wet and shaky. “You panicked and decided to get grounded?”

“Was worth it,” he says, without skipping a beat

And that, that does it.

The smile you’ve been holding back finally breaks free, even through the lingering ache in your chest. You press your face lightly into his shoulder, half laughing, half trying not to fall apart again.

Then, quietly, you murmur against his shirt, “I’m sorry I said it so late…”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you again, brows furrowing gently. You meet his eyes.

“But you’re my person too, you know?”

He freezes, like those words hit somewhere deeper than anything else tonight.

You keep going, your voice barely a whisper.

“That day… when we walked away from each other… it was the worst day. I didn’t know how to breathe without you. But even then, even while I was hurting and confused and angry, the only person I wanted to call to make it better…”

You blink, fighting tears again, even as a soft smile plays on your lips.

“…was you.”

Something flickers in his eyes then something soft and deep and unshakably sure.

Like maybe all this time, he was waiting to hear that.

He exhales slowly, forehead resting against yours once more. “You’re never too late,” he whispers.

“And Cheol?” you mumble

“Mhm?”

“Happy birthday”

He smiles, like really smile. He leans closer, giving you another gentle kiss on your temple, your forehead, all while holding you like you’re the most fragile thing. 

“Happy birthday to you” he says back to you

After the storm of everything, he gently led you to the kitchen. Just warmed up some leftover soup, put rice in a bowl, and sat you down.

You ate slowly, quietly. He didn’t comment on how little, just gave you a soft, satisfied nod when you took the last spoonful.

Then he handed you one of his old shirts and a pair of sweats. You changed in his bathroom, and when you stepped out, he was already fixing up the couch with pillows and a blanket.

You stood there in the hallway, watching him.

And before you could even think to say it, he looked up and patted the space beside him. “Come here.”

You didn’t hesitate. Just you and him again.

You curled into him, tucked under his arm, your cheek pressed against his chest. He smelled like his usual laundry soap and faint traces of rain. He ran his fingers through your hair until your breathing slowed, until your tears dried completely.

And for the first time in weeks, sleep came easy.

You didn’t dream. You didn’t stir.

Just peace.

Just him.

And when morning crept in through the windows, soft and golden, Seungcheol stirred first.

Still groggy, he blinked against the light until he realized something.

You were there.

Not across the couch. Not curled up far away like someone unsure of their place. But right there, tucked into his side, face buried against his shirt, one hand resting on his chest like it never left.

And God, if he didn’t feel like something finally made sense again.

He didn’t move. he just looked at you. The sight undid him all over again.

You were here. Still his. Still you.

So he smiled, just a little and fell back asleep.

You stirred slowly, like surfacing from somewhere deep and warm. Your lashes fluttered against your cheeks as you stretched slightly, and that’s when you felt it

Warmth.

A steady heartbeat beneath your palm.

You blinked fully awake then, gaze shifting to the slow rise and fall of the chest beneath your cheek, the familiar smell of his shirt, the arm curled securely around you.

Seungcheol.

It came back all at once.

The rain. The fight. The breaking. The soft patching up.

It was the first time in weeks you’d woken up not feeling hollow. The first time you didn’t want to bury yourself back under blankets and disappear from the world.

Because he was here. Still holding you like you hadn’t almost lost each other.

You exhaled softly, forehead brushing against his collarbone.

And that’s when you felt it. his breathing shift, the subtle tightening of his hold, the way his hand moved slowly along your back. Then, his voice. Groggy. Deep and warm and laced with sleep.

“You’re awake.”

You nodded against his chest, your voice small. “Yeah.”

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked.

You nodded again. “Better than I have in a while.”

His hand stilled on your back. “Good.”

You looked up at him, finally meeting his eyes. “You?”

He smiled, soft and crooked, and something in you settled when he said, “Only because you were here.”

Your throat tightened, but not with sadness this time. Just something full. Whole.

“You still mad at me?” you asked quietly.

He shook his head slowly. “No. I think I’m just… glad you came back.”

You gave him a small smile, fingers gripping his shirt again like you were afraid he might slip away.

“I don’t want to run anymore,” you whispered.

His smile widened, gentler this time. “Good.”

And then because it felt natural, like breathing, like it had always been meant to happen—he leaned in and kissed your forehead.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he murmured.

You smiled into his chest, eyes closing again.

“Good.”

Just as you’d started to melt back into him, his warmth like a blanket you never wanted to leave—

BZZZ-BZZZ-BZZZ.

His phone explodes to life on the nightstand.

The buzz is so aggressive it practically vibrates the whole table, followed by a shrill ringtone Seungcheol absolutely forgot he set: a dramatic trumpet intro that blares through the peaceful morning like a marching band declaring war.

You both flinch.

Seungcheol groans, reaching blindly behind him while trying not to knock you off his chest. “What the hell—who calls this early on a Saturday?”

You peek sleepily toward the phone just as he squints at the screen and goes:

“…Hyeri?”

Your eyes snap open.

“Answer it!” you whisper-scream, suddenly very, very awake.

He fumbles with the phone and hits answer on speaker, just in time for your sister’s voice to scream through the phone like a banshee.

“WHERE THE HELL IS MY SISTER?!”

You both jump.

“Hyeri—” Seungcheol tries, but she’s already off.

“I WENT TO HER APARTMENT AND SHE WAS GONE. GONE, CHOI SEUNGCHEOL. NO SHOES, NO WALLET, NO PHONE. WAS SHE KIDNAPPED? DID SHE SNAP AND GO OFF-GRID? DID SHE JOIN A CULT?!”

You slap a hand over your face. “Oh my god.”

“She’s fine,” Seungcheol says, trying to keep his voice calm. “She’s here.”

“Here?! WHERE’S HERE?! DON’T GIVE ME VAGUE MYSTERIOUS BOY WORDS RIGHT NOW.”

“In my apartment,” he clarifies quickly. “She’s—she’s okay, Hyeri. She’s literally lying on top of me.”

You slap his chest. “Don’t tell her that!”

“Right. Sorry.”

There's a beat of silence. Then Hyeri speaks again, voice flat.

“Is she alive or did you just find a raccoon wearing her hoodie?”

You sigh and grab the phone from him “Unnie, I’m alive. Please stop yelling, my soul is already hanging on by a thread.”

“You ghosted me then when i came to check on you, you were gone! I thought I’d have to start calling hospitals!”

“I was—” you hesitate, glancing at Seungcheol, who just shrugs like you might as well tell her, you’re caught now. “—emotionally compromised.”

“And somehow that landed you in his bed?”

“…Technically, his couch.” you mumble then add

“Hyeri, I’m fine. We talked. We’re okay now. I’m okay now,” you say finally, voice softer.

There’s a pause on the other end. Then, more gently:

“You sure?”

You glance at Seungcheol, at the warmth in his eyes, at the way he’s still holding your hand like he’s afraid to let go.

“Yeah,” you say, a smile tugging at your lips. “I’m really sure.”

“…Okay. Fine. But I swear, if you ever pull a main character disappearance arc on me again, I will have you microchipped.”

“Duly noted.”

You hang up with a groan, tossing the phone onto the pillow between you.

Seungcheol’s grinning. “Microchipped, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “I was feral. She had every right.”

And just like that, the chaos passes,leaving just the two of you again.

Still tangled. Still warm.

Still yours.

=

Hyeri’s chopsticks freeze mid-air, eyebrows lifting as she leans in across the table like she’s about to hear state secrets.

“So,” she says, in that too-casual, too-predictable tone that makes you instantly suspicious, “I only know bits and pieces… but tell me the full lore.”

You blink, pausing mid-sip of your drink. “Lore?”

She grins. “Yeah, the Choi Seungcheol Origin Story. How did you—you—turn the scary, always-serious, grumpy-faced Seungcheol into a golden retriever who acts like he’s afraid to let go of your pinky?”

You nearly spit out your drink.

“He does not—” you start, flustered, but she cuts you off.

“He literally walked you to the bathroom earlier. Like. Escorted you. What is that?!”

You laugh, cheeks burning. “He was making sure I didn’t slip on the wet floor, thank you very much.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, smirking, “now spill. Come on. Give me the good stuff.”

You set your drink down, eyes flicking toward the buffet where Seungcheol is piling your shared plate with way too much garlic shrimp, as usual.

You lean in slightly, voice lower. “I don’t know how it started… like this thing. We were bestfriends, we still are. I just… we just realized we like each other too much to stay friends” you mumble

Hyeri nods along, already invested.

You continue, “He… uh. He was also my first kiss.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. Not really suprised to hear this “Really?”

You smile sheepishly. “In his defense, I was his too. We were like… I don’t know. Thirteen? It was raining. We were bored. Teenagers. Curious.”

She stares at you, eyes wide. “A kiss? That’s some Wattpad-level backstory.”

You shrug, sipping your drink again like you’re not sitting on a ticking time bomb of additional context. But Hyeri narrows her eyes.

“Wait,” she says slowly. “Wait wait wait—” Her eyes widen. “You’re not telling me something.”

You freeze. “I—what?”

She leans in dramatically, whisper-hissing like someone uncovering a conspiracy.

“Oh my god, you minx, you two did not—”

“WHAT!” you yelp, nearly knocking over your glass. “We were curious! And stupid! Teenagers do things!”

Hyeri gasps so loud the couple at the next table flinches.

“You did the things?”

You bury your face in your hands. “We were sixteen, we were… responsible”

She’s wheezing. “You- He- You two- OH MY GOD WHEN?! HOW??!”

“Unnie!” you hiss, eyes darting around. “Lower your voice! He’s gonna hear you—”

As if summoned by name, Seungcheol starts walking back toward the table, balancing three small plates with too much confidence and not enough concern for physics.

Hyeri grins like the devil herself. “Wow. Knowing what I know now, I cannot look at him the same. That man once cried during Frozen.”

You hiss, “If you say a single word—”

She puts a hand on your shoulder. “Relax but just know… I’m gonna make a toast at your wedding. And it’s gonna include this.”

Seungcheol slides back into his seat, setting the plates down. “What’d I miss?”

Hyeri smiles way too sweetly. “Oh, nothing. Just reliving childhood memories.”

You avoid his eyes completely as he hands you your garlic shrimp.

He gives you a suspicious look. “Why is your face red?”

Hyeri answers for you.

“She’s just emotional.”

You kick her under the table.

And from across the table, she just mouths: you minx.

“Wait—” she points her spoon at you like it’s a loaded weapon. “Don’t tell me.”

You freeze mid-bite. “Tell you what.”

“Don’t tell me it was at our childhood home.”

You blink. Say nothing. Her jaw drops.

“OH MY GOD.” She slams her spoon down so hard the table rattles.

“YOU TWO?? IN MY HOUSE?? UNDER MY ROOF?! I WAS THERE?!”

Seungcheol, who was innocently reaching for kimchi, pauses mid-air and looks at you like, did she just figure out—?

You wince. “Unnie, please lower your voice.”

“NO,” she yells, scandalized. “I WAS IN THAT HOUSE. I COULD’VE BEEN IN THE NEXT ROOM. I WAS LIVING MY LIFE THINKING YOU WERE JUST BICKERING OVER WHO GETS THE LAST DUMPLING BUT YOU WERE—YOU WERE—EXPLORING?!”

Seungcheol lets out a choked cough.

You cover your face. “It was just one time! We were just dumb and it was raining and there was that blanket fort we built in the—”

“THE BLANKET FORT?!”

You stop talking.

Hyeri slaps the table, utterly betrayed. “I HELPED YOU BUILD THAT FORT! I STAPLED THE STUPID FAIRY LIGHTS!”

Seungcheol tries to help, sort of. “Technically, we didn’t plan it. It was just a weird teenage moment—”

“Oh my god, you were weird teenagers in my house.” She grabs her glass dramatically. “How did you even go back to normal after that?! I’d be a ghost. I’d vanish. I’d change my name and flee the country.”

You groan into your hands. “Because we’re us. We were best friends. We just… didn’t let it get weird.”

Hyeri gapes at both of you. “You mean you had your weird little hormonal storm moment, kissed in a blanket fort in my living room, and then you… you two what? Acted on your intrusive horny thoughts then went back to watching cartoons and fighting over instant noodles like nothing happened?”

Seungcheol shrugs. “She beat me in Mario Kart like twenty minutes later.”

You smack his arm. “You let me win.”

Hyeri puts both hands on her head. “This is insane. This is actually insane. You two are the weirdest non-couple who’s clearly a couple I’ve ever seen.”

You and Seungcheol glance at each other. And that’s when Hyeri narrows her eyes and points between you.

“You’re together now, aren’t you?”

Both of you freeze. Then, perfectly in sync, you go, “Define ‘together.’”

She SCREECHES.

“You absolute menaces.”

Later you’re in one of his old shirts again, you flop onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. You’re scrolling on your phone when you hear him walking down the hall. 

He leans on the doorframe.

“So,” he says, trying very hard to sound casual, “you finally told someone.”

You don’t even look up.

“In my defense,” you say, deadpan, “she figured it out.”

He walks into the room, tossing the towel onto the chair, and quirks a brow. “Figured it out… after you admitted I was your first kiss, your permanent plus-one, and that we may or may not have defiled her blanket fort?”

You groan, faceplanting into the pillow. “She ambushed me! It wasn’t supposed to be a confessional!”

He laughs, dropping onto the bed beside you, his weight making the mattress dip. “You literally said ‘we were curious and stupid’ with a full dramatic monologue. I was across the restaurant. I heard.”

You peek at him from under the pillow. “And you didn’t come save me?”

“I was busy getting you garlic shrimp, which you still haven’t thanked me for.”

You roll onto your side, narrowing your eyes. “That shrimp was for both of us.”

He shrugs. “Details.”

You reach over and flick his forehead.

“Ow,” he mumbles, grinning, rubbing the spot.

There’s a pause then, just the quiet hum of the room around you, the air warmer now that it’s just the two of you again. No chaos. No teasing sisters. No secrets.

Just this. You. Him. Finally existing in the open, no longer just almost-something.

He leans back against the headboard, exhaling. “Feels kinda… real now, huh?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It does.”

He looks at you then, not just with the familiarity of years but with something gentler something brand new, but also always there. Then you reach over, intertwining your fingers with his.

“Still my person?” you ask.

He squeezes your hand.

“Always.”

He’s looking at you like he always does. soft, steady, like he’s memorizing every single version of you without even trying. Then he smirks a little, eyes flicking down to where your hands are joined before looking back at you.

“But now…” he says, leaning in just slightly, voice lower, warmer, “we can do this.”

And before you can ask, before you can even breathe

He kisses you.

Not like your stupid teenage first kiss in a blanket fort. Not like an accident, or a maybe, or a one-time thing.

But like a promise.

Like home.

His lips are warm and certain, and the second they touch yours, your heart stumbles over itself because this is different. Not scary, not confusing, not hypothetical anymore.

It’s real. It’s him.

You sigh into it, hand tightening around his, your other one curling into the front of his shirt like it’s second nature. He pulls you closer, deepens it just a little, like he’s been holding this back for too long.

When you finally part, barely inches between your faces, both of you are breathless and maybe slightly dizzy.

Your voice comes out small, teasing, “Well. That’s new.”

He chuckles, forehead resting against yours. “Took us long enough.”

You grin, still close. “Yeah. But we’re not stupid teenagers anymore.”

He smiles. “Nope. Now we’re just stupid adults in love.”

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

But you kiss him again anyway.

And the kisses? God, the kisses.

You don’t know why you’re surprised. You really shouldn’t be.

The man does everything with full conviction. he argues like he’s in court, hugs like you’re the last person on Earth, and kisses like the world might end in the next five minutes and he wants to make sure you remember him forever.

Bestfriend Seungcheol? He used to kiss your forehead. Your temple. Your knuckles. Quick, warm little things that said “I got you” without needing a whole conversation.

Boyfriend Seungcheol? Boyfriend Seungcheol kisses like he’s starved and you’re oxygen. Like he’s waited years for the green light, and now that he has it, he’s not pacing himself. He’s devouring every second.

He kisses you good morning, mid-laugh, between bites of food, when you're annoyed at him, when you're in the middle of brushing your teeth and yell "not now!" but he's already pecking your cheek anyway.

But it’s the ones after dark that live in your bones.

The kind that start slow, with just his fingertips trailing up your spine, his voice low as he says your name like a question he already knows the answer to.

He knows how your breath hitches when he kisses just below your ear, how you curl your fingers in his shirt when you want him closer but can’t say it out loud. 

He knows how to touch you like it’s not just about your body but about every version of you he’s ever loved—childhood best friend, teenage almost-mistake, grown woman who made his life feel whole again.

=

You’re awake first. That never happens. Never.

Normally, Seungcheol is the one who wakes up before you but this time, for once, the universe grants you the rare peace of watching him completely knocked out.

Well almost peaceful.

Except for the fact that he’s currently clinging to you like a human-sized sloth, one leg hooked over both of yours, arm heavy across your waist, and his face buried into the side of your neck like you’re a very cuddly pillow that smells like coffee and bad decisions.

“…Cheol,” you groan, voice hoarse, trying to wiggle. “Get off.”

He only groans in return, nuzzling deeper into your neck.

“Cheol,” you say again, poking his bare back.

He mumbles something completely incoherent, but it sounds suspiciously like “no I live here now.”

“You’re crushing me.”

“You’re comfy,” he whines

“You’re heavy.”

He shifts just enough to mumble, voice still muffled against your skin, “You know you can be sweeter to me in the morning.”

You roll your eyes. “After last night? Absolutely not.”

That wakes him up a little more. He peeks one eye open, lips twitching. “Excuse me woman?”

You scoff, “Excuse? You wanna try that again?”

“May I remind you,” he says, lifting his head just enough to smirk at you, “how you sounded just a few hours ago?”

Your eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He’s already smug beyond saving. “You were all—oh my god, Cheol—right there, yes—”

You slap a hand over his mouth. “Stop talking.”

He laughs against your palm, completely unbothered. “I’m just saying,” he says, words muffled, “you’re acting real tough for someone who nearly cried when I—”

You shove a pillow into his face.

He rolls back with a wheeze, still laughing, dragging you with him until you land right on his chest. “You know,” he says, arms caging you in again, “I love this version of you. Morning grumpy, still sore, pretending you’re not obsessed with me.”

You mutter into his collarbone, “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re mine,” he says smugly, kissing the top of your head. “So. Suffer.”

You groan dramatically into his chest, voice muffled. “This is what happens when you date your best friend.”

“Yup. Lifetime supply of premium cuddles and unwanted flashbacks to your own noises.”

You shove him again. He doesn't budge. Of course he doesn’t. The man is a human boulder when he wants to be.

“You used to be cool,” you grumble, trying to wriggle free again.

“I was never cool,” he says proudly. “You were just in denial.”

You pause, sighing. “Tragic. I dated my best friend, now I can never get rid of him.”

“Exactly.” He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then your jaw “Now you’re stuck. Blanket privilege. Lifetime teasing rights. Access to the vault of embarrassing teenage stories.”

You sigh again, settling into him, hopelessly resigned. “This is what happens,” you repeat quietly.

“What?”

You glance up. “When you fall in love with your best friend.”

He doesn’t tease you then. Doesn’t say anything snarky.

Just tightens his hold on you, presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, and mumbles against your lips, “Best thing I ever did.”

[scarletwinterxx]

what my day looks like😅 went to the miniteen pop-up earlier during my break at work, and now I'm finally FINALLY EDITING THE CHEOL FIC 🫠🫠 I'm like 20% through editing it sooooo I'll probably post it this weekend (hopefully🤞)

[scarletwinterxx]

I swear I'm getting there 😭😅🫠 you'll find out why I wanted to post it for cheol's bday but I was still sick , sorry!! But I swear its coming😅😅 see u soon🤍✨️

[scarletwinterxx]

Happy Birthday!!! I know it sucks to be sick on your own birthday i hope you're resting well (I also wish you get yourself something yummy to eat and both sides of your pillows are cold) your fics really make my day!! Can't wait for Cheol's birthday fic update~<3

thank youuuuuuu🥺 really all the warm greetings made my day🥺🤍 I'll rest well and get back soon with more fluff☺️

[scarletwinterxx]

happy birthday!!!! although i really enjoy ur stories and always look forward for more, im so glad u have taken some time to rest. u deserve to take care of urself <3

wishing u all the best today and everyday ^_^

awwwwwww thank u so much🤍🥺 I'll be back for cheol day 🫶

[scarletwinterxx]

Happyy Birthday Nini!!

And hope you feel better soon.

Have the best day!!!

thank you🥺 I hope so too, I want to go back to writing i think it's my body telling me to take a short break😅 have a great day too!🩷

[scarletwinterxx]

Author's Note

Hellloooo, I took an unplanned short break for a few reason one I was just so busy with work i didnt have time and the energy to write when I get home. I had plans for the fics I was going to post🥺 then I got sick so that's a cherry on top 🫠😅 I still have the cheol bday fic coming soon, my original plan was to post it before my bday (it's today😅) but im still sick and haven't even started on final editing that. Soooooo hopefully I'll get it up and posted by cheol's bday.

thank u all so much for the continued love and support you’ve shown my stories and this blog, this truly is my baby🥺 see u all soon, until the next fluff😉🫶

[scarletwinterxx]

black and white and golden - jeon wonwoo imagine

happy birthday to my lucky charm, the man who taught me to forgive the world, my jeon wonwoo. i hope you find all the happiness in this universe🤍

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

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

The third time they pair you with Jeon Wonwoo, you consider quitting. Or at least pretending to be sick. You even open your notes app and half-type an excuse.

But when you see your editor’s email — You two make magic. Don’t fight it — you swear under your breath and toss your phone aside.

Jeon Wonwoo. Photographer. Zero small talk. One hundred percent pretentious. The man breathes in ISO and exhales shadows. Meanwhile, you're the girl who writes copy with color theory in mind, who believes every word should pop like a burst of sunlight.

He’s monochrome. You’re confetti. And somehow, it works.

You’ve done four campaigns together now. And every time, it starts the same: with passive-aggressive jabs in the pre-prod meeting and ends with a late-night moment in post where the both of you look at the final output — breathless, reluctant, electric.

Still, you groan out loud when he walks into the conference room. Tall, lean, dressed in black from head to toe, camera slung across his chest like a warning sign. He doesn’t say a word.

You look away, focus on the mood board you brought. Pastels. Messy hair. Laughing models. 

He glances at it and deadpans, “Too much movement.”

You roll your eyes. “Too much gloom gives people seasonal depression.”

He doesn’t flinch. Of course he doesn’t. But his dark eyes stay on you a second too long.

Then he says, coolly, “You like working with me.”

You bark a laugh. “I don’t.”

“Then why do you keep staring when you think I’m not looking?”

Your spine stiffens.

He takes a slow step closer, his voice dropping low, just for you. “I know I drive you crazy. I just haven’t figured out if it’s the good kind yet.”

Your heart kicks.

He’s too close. Not touching you, not really but the air shifts. The kind of shift you feel when the lights dim in a gallery and you realize you’re alone. Watched. Trapped in someone’s frame.

“I stare,” you say, voice sharper than you mean it, “because I’m trying to figure out how someone can be so annoying and artistically talented.”

He smirks. That maddening, barely-there twitch of his lips.

But before he can reply, your editor walks in. Meeting starts. Notes get passed around.

Still, all through the briefing, you can feel it — his eyes on you. Not just looking. Studying. Composing. Framing.

And when you turn a page in your notebook, you find a post-it that wasn’t there before.

Let’s make something beautiful again. This time, don’t fight me so much. —JWW

You blink. Glance up.

He’s already looking somewhere else, like he didn’t just slip you a note that sounds more like a threat than a request.

But when the campaign starts and he’s adjusting a model’s pose with fingers too firm, or when he tugs the lighting rig just a little closer to your side of the set, you start to wonder:

Is it the good kind of crazy?

Or is it the kind where he’s been collecting snapshots of you this whole time just waiting for you to notice?

=

Shoot day starts too early, as always. You arrive with a barely-touched coffee and your tote stuffed with scribbled notes, mockups, and emergency lipstick. 

The set’s already buzzing. Assistants adjusting lights, the stylist fussing over hangers, and makeup artists corralling models. And then there’s him.

Jeon Wonwoo, behind the camera, sleeves pushed up, silent and sharp-eyed like he’s already in some creative trance.

You don’t greet each other. You never do.

Instead, you walk past him and say, “Try not to suck the color out of this one.”

He doesn’t look up. “Try not to write another tagline that sounds like a horoscope.”

You snort, but you’re smiling as you walk away.

The first few hours are smooth. Too smooth. You jot notes, direct a few expressions, argue mildly over angles but it’s all routine. Familiar. Comfortable in a way that shouldn’t be. Especially not with him.

At one point, you hold a reflector steady because one of the interns bailed. He pauses mid-shot, glancing at your hand.

“You know,” he says casually, “you don’t have to do everything yourself.”

You glance up. “Neither do you. But here you are micromanaging every shadow.”

He lifts the camera. “Because not everyone sees things the way I do.”

There’s a beat.

Then he adds, voice lower, “But you get close.”

The shutter clicks. You look away first.

Later, you’re off to the side with one of the male models, a golden-retriever type who keeps finding excuses to hover near your clipboard. You laugh at something he says not because it’s particularly funny, but because it’s nice. Easy. Safe.

Wonwoo doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even loo but the next time he calls for lighting adjustment, his tone is clipped. Short. Sharp.

“Backlight’s wrong. We’re redoing this set. Everyone reset.”

The model groans good-naturedly. “Again? You’re ruthless, man.”

Wonwoo doesn’t answer. Just lifts the camera, jaw tense. You watch him a moment too long.

After the next break, you’re reviewing a few test shots on his monitor. You lean in, about to make a comment, when his voice stops you.

“Do you like him?”

You blink. “Who?”

“The model.”

You glance up. He’s not looking at you. He’s reviewing photos like this is the most casual conversation in the world.

“I don’t know,” you say slowly. “He’s nice.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

There’s a silence between you, stretched tight.

Then he turns to you. “He’s not your type.”

“Oh? And what is my type?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just looks at you like he already knows the answer.

“I think,” he says quietly, “you like being challenged. You like sharp edges. You like the kind of person who notices when you skip breakfast and leaves granola bars in your bag.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

He leans in, barely an inch, voice barely audible over the hum of set noise.

“I think you like me.”

You stare at him.

“And I think,” he murmurs, “he should stop talking to you.”

Just then, someone calls your name, breaking the moment. You step back, breath uneven, pretending not to see the way his gaze follows you the rest of the day like a loaded lens.

The shoot wraps late and people start packing up with tired smiles and half-finished drinks. You’re standing near the monitors, still mid-laugh with the editors, going over selects and teasing one of the assistants about their playlist.

Wonwoo walks past, camera bag slung over his shoulder, cool and unreadable as always. He doesn’t say a word but he doesn’t leave either.

You notice it how he slows near your things, pauses, then just… picks them up. Your tote, your extra charger, even your water bottle. Like it’s second nature. Like he’s done it a hundred times before.

You blink. “Hey—what are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps walking.

You hurry after him. “Jeon! What is your deal?”

The studio door swings shut behind you, warm dusk brushing your skin. He’s a few steps ahead, heading to the lot. Doesn’t even look back.

Then a voice calls out behind you. “Hey! Wait—wait, hold on!”

It’s the model from earlier, jogging over, shirt half-untucked, charming smile in place.

Wonwoo slows. You don’t.

The model catches up beside you, hands stuffed in his back pockets. “You heading out now? I was gonna ask, do you maybe wanna grab something to eat? I know this little place near here. Super chill, no pressure or anything.”

You open your mouth, polite and caught off guard.

Then he adds, grin widening, “Can I get your number?”

You feel Wonwoo stop completely. There’s a flicker in the air like a wire being pulled too tight.

Before you can say anything, you hear the click of a car door unlocking. Then Wonwoo moves, fast and wordless. He walks over, swings open the passenger door of his car with a thud, and looks at you like it’s not a question.

Like it never was. 

You stare at him. Then glance back at the model, who’s suddenly a lot less confident.

“Uh—sorry, are you two…?”

“She’s leaving,” Wonwoo says, voice low but final.

Then to you: “Get in.”

You freeze, torn between bristling and… something else. Something that pools in your chest at the way he doesn’t even look at the guy anymore.

Just you.

With a beat of hesitation—and maybe, curiosity—you slide into the seat.

Wonwoo shuts the door behind you. Not hard. But firm. Like punctuation. By the time he’s in the driver’s seat, engine purring, you’re still watching him.

“You didn’t let me answer,” you mutter.

“I didn’t need to.”

Then, quieter, he adds, “I don’t like sharing.”

You don’t say anything but you don’t ask to get out either.

The engine hums beneath you, low and steady, but the tension in the car is anything but. You glance over, crossing your arms.

“So,” you say, voice cool, “let me ask again.”

He doesn’t look at you.

You lean a little closer. “What’s your deal, Jeon?”

A pause. The city noise fades behind closed windows.

“I carry your stuff, I sit through your edits, I let you drag my lighting setups to hell and back—”

“You don’t let me—”

He cuts you a glance. Sharp “—and then I see you giggling with some guy who doesn’t know a softbox from a sunbeam, and suddenly I’m supposed to just stand there?”

You blink. “He was being nice.”

Wonwoo pulls the car to a red light. Turns to you fully.

“There’s a difference between being nice and thinking he can touch something that’s not his.”

The words drop between you like a match in dry grass.

You stare. “I’m not… yours.”

He doesn’t blink. “No. Not yet.”

You fumble, voice uneven. “You—you can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s insane?”

He scoffs, low under his breath. “You think I’m the crazy one? I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Damn him.

“I’m not an idiot,” he murmurs. “You like the push and pull. You like when I argue with you. You like that I see you.”

He turns again, a quiet street now, almost too quiet.

“I know what this is. You just don’t want to admit it first.”

You can feel your heartbeat in your throat. You look out the window, then back at him, and for a second, everything is suspended. Caught in headlights and breath.

“I don’t like you,” you lie.

His lips twitch. “Sure.”

You glare. “I don’t.”

“Then why are you still in my car?”

You scowl, shifting in your seat to face him more directly. “Oh, so what? You want me to jump out? Tuck and roll while you’re at a red light?”

Wonwoo shrugs, one hand still lazily on the wheel. “If you think your dramatic exit would prove a point, I won’t stop you.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You say that a lot.”

“That’s because you are.” You throw your hands up. “You act like you’re doing me a favor by being overbearing.”

“I carried your bag.”

“You kidnapped me.”

“I opened a door. You got in. That’s not kidnapping, that’s cooperation.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “God, how does anyone work with you?”

“Only one person keeps getting assigned to me,” he says flatly

You shoot him a glare. He smiles then. Barely. That infuriating ghost of a smirk that always makes your stomach tighten in the most inconvenient ways.

“Face it,” he murmurs, “you’d hate working with anyone else.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “You’re arrogant.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“You’re controlling.”

“You’re nosy.”

You exhale sharply. “You’re obsessed.”

He looks at you. No denial. Just a tilt of the head, like he’s considering it.

Then he says, calm and quiet, “Maybe.”

You falter.

“Is that what you want to hear?” he continues. “That I notice everything? That I know how many sugar packets you steal from catering. That you hum when you’re writing. That you bite your lip when you’re holding back a smartass comment—usually aimed at me.”

Your throat feels dry.

He slows the car in front of your building. Throws it in park. Doesn’t look at you when he says, “I notice everything.”

Then, voice softer, almost teasing: “If you notice everything, then you should know I don’t give my number out that easily.”

Wonwoo finally turns, gaze locked on yours. “I wasn’t going to let you give it to him at all.”

You blink. “Why?”

“Because he wouldn’t have known what to do with you.”

Silence again. The air between you is thick and crackling.

=

The next day is nonstop chaos.

Back-to-back meetings. Mood boards, budget revisions, brand notes that make you want to walk into traffic. You barely have time to breathe, let alone think about him.

You last overheard that Wonwoo was off on location today. Shooting some high-profile ad with another team across town. So you tell yourself you’re safe. No camera flashes. No quiet glances. No unsolicited car rides and infuriatingly perceptive commentary.

By the time your last meeting ends, your brain is mush and the office is half-deserted.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the sky outside has already dipped into that inky, late-evening blue. You tug your cardigan tighter around you, hug your folder to your chest, and start your slow walk toward the elevators.

You pass by the creative department on instinct, taking the long way out.

Most of the desks are empty now. Monitors dark, chairs askew, headphones abandoned. But at the far end of the open floor, where the studio heads have their corners, one light is still on.

Wonwoo’s space.

Spacious, minimalist, and annoyingly clean. Except for the piles of printed test shots currently spread across his desk.

He’s there, seated, hunched over his monitor. Serious. Focused. Hair slightly tousled like he’s been running his fingers through it. And he’s wearing glasses.

You pause mid-step.

You don’t mean to watch him. You’re just… taking in the scene. That’s all.

But then he tilts his head, squints at the screen, and mutters something under his breath before reaching for a pen to jot something down on a nearby notepad.

You take another step before your voice betrays you.

“Didn’t peg you as the type to pull late nights.”

His head lifts immediately, eyes flicking up to meet yours. Sharper, even behind the glasses.

You try not to fidget under the weight of his stare.

Wonwoo leans back slightly in his chair. “Didn’t peg you as the type to snoop.”

“I wasn’t snooping,” you say, walking a little closer despite yourself. “Just passing by.”

“Convenient.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile. “You always this charming after hours?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you quietly for a beat too long.

“Only when the company’s tolerable.”

You ignore the way your stomach flips.

He gestures vaguely to the photos spread out in front of him. “Client wants new mood adjustments. They can’t decide if they want moody or romantic.”

“Can’t they be both?”

He glances up at you again. “Exactly what I said.”

You lean in a little, scanning the images. portraits in soft light, blurred movement, aching stares between models. And for a second, it’s just the two of you, surrounded by stillness and the faint buzz of the desk lamp.

“You should go home,” he says quietly, breaking the silence

“I should,” you echo, but you don’t move

He doesn’t push. Just watches you, the corner of his mouth barely curved. Like he knows.

Then, with the same maddening calm “Still think I’m obsessed?”

You give him a look.

“I mean, you’re literally here in the dark with romantic portraits and mood lighting,” you say, deadpan. “You’re like a noir character who listens to sad jazz and pines dramatically.”

“I don’t listen to jazz.”

“So you do pine?”

That actually makes him smile, just slightly.

You blink. “Was that—did you just smile?”

He exhales, long-suffering. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“No,” you say sweetly. “But you keep listening.”

He leans back again, gaze slow and deliberate. “I told you. I notice everything.”

You should go. You should absolutely turn around and leave.

But instead, you ask, “Got room for one more opinion?”

Wonwoo raises a brow, then pushes one of the photo sets toward you, wordlessly. He raises a brow, eyes tracking your every move like he’s trying to figure you out. Again.

And you should’ve just stood next to him. You should’ve.

But instead—

You move.

You don’t know what possesses you. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you like he expects something, like he already knows you’re going to do it.

Maybe it’s how warm the room suddenly feels, or how your pulse is thudding in your ears louder than it should.

Either way, the next second, you’re putting your folder down on the edge of his desk carefully, and sliding onto his lap.

His body goes still beneath you.

You barely give yourself time to process it. Just lean forward, grab the mouse from his hand like you’ve done it a thousand times before, and start dragging one of the photos across the screen.

“Your layout’s messy,” you murmur, keeping your eyes on the monitor. “You’re blending contrast-heavy shots with soft light sets. That’s why the mood doesn’t stick.”

He doesn’t say a word.

His hands stay resting on the armrests of his chair, fingers twitching like he’s holding himself back. His chest rises against your back in slow, measured breaths.

“You’re insane,” he finally says, voice low

“And yet,” you say, still scrolling, “you’re letting me do this.”

“You think I won’t move you?”

“Then do it.”

Silence.

Then you feel it. His hand ghosting up to your waist, not gripping, just hovering, like he’s waiting for something. Waiting for you to bolt. Waiting for you to tell him to stop.

You don’t.

Instead, you nudge the brightness on one image down a few notches. “That one’s better. Warmer. More intentional.”

“Intentional,” he echoes, voice rougher now. “You know you’re playing with fire, right?”

You turn your head just slightly, enough to see him from the corner of your eye.

“Am I?”

His jaw flexes. You’re close enough now to see the faint crease in his brow, the sharp line of his cheekbone beneath the glasses. His eyes are darker than usual, trained fully on you.

“You climbed into my lap,” he says simply.

“I’m multitasking,” you reply.

He huffs a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “You’re driving me insane.”

“You started it.”

And yet… neither of you move. Not away.

Not at all.

You linger there for another beat, feeling the weight of his stare, the way his hand still hasn’t touched you but it could. So easily. You can feel the tension crackling like a live wire.

Then you shift. You slide off his lap, smooth your skirt like nothing happened, and pick up your folder from the desk.

Back to business.

“Don’t stay too late,” you say casually, voice light but not quite steady. “We have a morning huddle tomorrow.”

Wonwoo doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer right away.

You glance at him still seated, gaze pinned to you like you’ve just stolen something and he’s letting you run with it. For now.

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t blink. Just watches.

You turn toward the door.

And as you’re walking away, you hear his voice—quiet, but certain.

“You’re going to drive me crazy next.”

=

The next morning, the office is cold and bright in that awful, too-early kind of way. You’re running on four hours of sleep and one too many thoughts you didn’t ask for. You kept replaying last night in your head—what you did, what he didn’t stop, what he said.

You walk into the creative floor with your coffee gripped like a lifeline and a deliberately neutral expression.

Sooyoung eyes you the second you step into the meeting room.

“Why do you look like you haven’t slept and are also hiding a crime?”

You sit down and take a long, long sip. “Because I haven’t slept and I might be hiding something criminal.”

Before she can grill you, the conference room door opens.

Wonwoo walks in.

Dressed in black again. Hair slightly damp like he just got out of the shower. Camera strap slung over his shoulder. Glasses gone.

Your stomach flips. Sooyoung sees it. Her eyebrows fly up.

You nearly choke on your coffee.

The team lead starts the huddle, launching into project updates and timelines. You try to focus. Really. But it’s hard when Wonwoo sits directly across from you and doesn’t look at you once not really except…

Except he doesn’t need to. You feel him. Every time you speak. Every time you nod. Every time you flip a page in your notes.

The meeting continues. You swear you don’t breathe for ten minutes straight.

You should’ve known.

You should’ve known the moment you saw your name on the concept pitch team. You were already half-dreading the next round of campaign prep—but when you saw his name listed right below yours, your soul flatlined.

Creative Concept Leads: • (Your Name) • Jeon Wonwoo

You wanted to throw your tablet across the room.

Sooyoung just gave you a smug look and whispered, “The universe ships it.”

Now here you are—jammed in his car, en route to the client’s location for an ocular visit. The marketing head insisted someone from visuals and copy come together to “absorb the space creatively.” You tried to volunteer Sooyoung. You even tried to fake a cough.

The ocular goes smoother than expected.

You spend the better part of an hour with the client walking through the space, nodding thoughtfully, jotting down notes. There’s a lot of talk about “clean aesthetics” and “youthful energy” and “natural light flow.”

You walk up beside him. “Get anything usable?”

He nods. “Lighting’s better than expected. Colors need adjusting.”

You pause, watching him scroll through thumbnails. “You know, for someone who claims I talk too much, you really don’t complain when I’m around.”

He clicks through a few more images. “That’s because you’re distracting in the right ways.”

You blink, caught off guard for half a second. “That’s… either a compliment or a line.”

He finally looks up at you, one brow raised. “Why can’t it be both?”

You roll your eyes, turning toward the car, trying not to smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m sunburned.”

“I saw you put sunscreen on in the car.”

You whirl back around. “You were watching me?”

“I always watch you.”

That shuts you up for a second.

He closes the camera screen and pushes off the car, walking around to the driver’s side like it’s no big deal. “What are you doing Friday night?”

You blink. “Uh… nothing?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Great.”

He opens the door, slides in, and looks at you through the open window.

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

You stare at him.

He raises an eyebrow. “You gonna argue?”

You grip your folder a little tighter. “Only if you show up with mood lighting and your ‘mysterious artist’ playlist again.”

He smirks, starts the car. “So… seven.”

=

You expected dinner. Maybe somewhere moody and minimalist, some dimly lit place with overpriced appetizers and equally pretentious wine.

But instead here you are. Sitting side by side at a long wooden table, an apron tied around your waist, a half-painted ceramic mug in front of you, and a tiny tray of pastel paints between you.

Wonwoo doesn’t look away from his own mug. He’s holding it delicately like it’s some ancient relic, brows furrowed in concentration as he paints what looks like…a sunset?

“You said you wanted to do this.”

“No, I said I saw it while scrolling and thought it looked cute,” you point out. “That’s not the same thing as a formal request.”

He finally looks up at you, and the grin he’s trying not to wear is way too pleased.

“So you did say it.”

You narrow your eyes. “You were listening?”

“I always listen.”

You stare at him.

He dips his brush in a light yellow, still focused. “You said it two weeks ago. You were scrolling through your feed in the break room, showed Sooyoung the pictures, said—‘This looks fun, but no one would ever go with me to this.’”

Your mouth opens, then shuts.

Wonwoo glances at you now, and it’s not smug. It’s soft. Intent. Warm in a way that throws you a little off balance.

“I thought you might like it,” he says simply. “Something different. Something just for you.”

You don’t answer right away. Just look down at your mug and quietly add another dot of pink near the handle, heart doing something traitorous in your chest.

When you sneak a peek at him again, he's already watching you. Eyes bright. Chin rested in his hand, the corner of his mouth lifted in the smallest, most genuine smile.

“You’re enjoying this,” you accuse.

He shrugs, still staring. “You’re cute when you concentrate.”

Your brush slips. “I will paint you.”

He leans in slightly. “Promise?”

You try to scowl, but your face is already warm, and he knows it. He can see it. Wonwoo’s eyes crinkle faintly as he turns back to his mug, utterly content.

And that’s when it hits you.

This man—this brooding, black-wearing, shadow-chasing photographer—has remembered a throwaway comment you made two weeks ago. And now he’s painting a damn ceramic mug with you on a Friday night like it’s the only thing he’s wanted to do all week.

God help you. You’re in so much trouble.

You swirl your brush into the sky-blue paint, trying to distract yourself from how warm your face feels. It doesn’t work. 

“You know,” you mutter, not even bothering to look at him this time, “for someone who calls me annoying all the time…”

He looks up, eyes waiting.

You finish, “You seem to like me way too much.”

He doesn't answer right away. Just sets his brush down slowly, wipes his fingers on a paper towel, and leans his elbow onto the table. Tilts his head like he’s studying you.

“I don’t call you annoying all the time,” he says, voice maddeningly calm.

“Oh my god,” you huff. “That’s your response?”

“I’m being accurate.”

You give him a flat look.

He lets out a soft laugh barely a sound, just enough to tug at the corners of his mouth.

“I do like you too much,” he says, almost offhandedly.

That makes you blink.

Your heart skips like it missed the memo on how to beat properly. “What?”

Wonwoo picks up his mug again, like he didn’t just casually drop a bomb between you. “I said I like you too much.”

You just… stare.

He glances at you from the corner of his eye. “You gonna pretend you didn’t hear that too?”

You grab your own mug, suddenly very invested in outlining a tiny heart on the rim. “I just wasn’t expecting you to admit it.”

“I’m not subtle.”

“You’re the least subtle person I’ve ever met.”

“Then why are you acting surprised?”

You pause, brush mid-air.  “…Because you’re you.”

He looks over again, and this time, his expression is quieter. Steadier.

“Yeah,” he says. “And I’m sitting here painting mugs with you. What does that tell you?”

Wonwoo leans in just a little more, elbow still propped, voice low and even.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

You look up at him slowly. His face is unreadable but not cold. Focused. Like he’s waiting on a shutter click only you can trigger.

You swallow. Then shake your head. “Don’t.”

He doesn’t smile but his eyes say everything.

He doesn’t say anything after that. Jst gives you that long, unreadable look one last time before turning back to his mug like it never happened. Like he didn’t just casually tilt your entire emotional axis with a straight face.

You watch him quietly, lips parting, something light curling in your chest.

And then a slow smile creeps across your face.

You lean in closer, resting your elbow on the table, voice soft but laced with amusement. “Knew it.”

He glances sideways. “Knew what?”

“That you liked me,” you say, teasing now. “You’re, like… secretly a softie. Under all the black clothes and broody attitude. You're just a big, secretly sentimental guy who paints mugs and remembers stuff I say in passing.”

Wonwoo doesn’t even look up.

“That’s because you’re annoying.”

You gasp. “Wow.”

“Loud,” he continues calmly, as if listing facts. “Dramatic. Difficult. Always in my space. Won’t shut up.”

You swat his arm with your brush. “Rude.”

Paint dots his sleeve. He pauses, finally looks down at it, then up at you with the most deadpan expression.

“That was intentional.”

“I plead the fifth.”

He sighs, exaggerated and slow. “This is what I get for liking you.”

=

You weren’t expecting to hear from him over the weekend.

After Friday night. After that smile, that look, the mug painting, the soft teasing that still loops in your head on repeat you figured there’d be some space. A reset. Time to overthink everything.

But then, Saturday morning, your phone buzzed.

Wonwoo [8:02 AM]: Good morning.

You stared at the screen. Blinking. Then you squealed. Actually squealed. Like a teenager with a crush and no self-control.

You flopped back onto your bed, pillow over your face, heart doing somersaults. What is happening to me.

Before you could type a cool, detached response, another message came through.

Wonwoo [8:03 AM]: Breakfast?

Now here you are.

Twenty-five minutes later, seated side by side in a quiet café tucked into a sleepy street corner. It’s all soft sunlight through gauzy curtains, the clink of cutlery, and the hum of lazy weekend chatter.

He’s next to you, legs casually spread, forearm resting on the table, black hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Glasses on. 

You poke at your hash browns. “So this is your idea of a date?”

Wonwoo doesn’t look up from his fork. “You like breakfast food.”

“How do you even know that?”

“You always order pancakes at client brunches and complain when they don’t give you syrup on the side.”

Your fork pauses mid-air.

He glances over, like it’s not a big deal.

“I pay attention,” he says simply.

You don’t know what to do with that. You sip your coffee to buy time. “You know, if you keep doing things like this, I’m gonna start thinking you’re sweet.”

He raises a brow, chews a bite of toast. “That’s your first mistake.”

You grin. “So you’re saying you’re not secretly a sweetheart?”

He gives you a look. “I dragged you out of bed for carbs. Not a confession.”

“But you said good morning.”

He rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says.

You nudge his arm with your elbow. “And you like it.”

He doesn’t argue. Just takes a sip of his coffee, slow and quiet.

Then, voice lower, “You free tomorrow?”

You glance at him. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Might feel like seeing you again.”

You narrow your eyes at him, setting your coffee cup down with a little more force than necessary. “See—this is what gets me.”

Wonwoo quirks a brow, entirely unfazed. “What?”

“You can flirt like this,” you say, gesturing at him dramatically. “Be all… soft-voiced and casual and thoughtful and infuriatingly attractive—”

“Infuriating?” he echoes, amused.

“Let me finish,” you snap. “You can do all this. Make me flustered before 10 a.m.but instead, most of the time, you choose to argue with me like we’re in the middle of a creative deathmatch.”

He leans back in his seat, that familiar smirk creeping up. “That’s rich coming from the girl who picks a fight every time I suggest a muted color palette.”

“Because your idea of ‘muted’ is one shade above grayscale,” you shoot back.

“And your idea of contrast is blinding the audience.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

You scowl harder, jabbing your fork in his direction. “There. That. This is exactly what I mean. You’re flirting and fighting. It’s emotional whiplash.”

Wonwoo shrugs, cool as ever. “You’re the one who said I was secretly a softie. Can’t blame me for trying to keep up appearances.”

You huff, crossing your arms as you lean back. “You could try being normal.”

“I am being normal.”

“You are the opposite of normal. You have resting death glare, an emotional support camera, and a romantic streak that only shows up after 9 p.m.”

He snorts. “Says the woman who argues like it’s foreplay and sat on my lap in the office like that was a normal Tuesday.”

Your cheeks flare immediately. “That was—! Okay, first of all, that was an act of curiosity—”

“That’s what we’re calling it now?”

“I hate you.”

“You like me too much to hate me.”

You roll your eyes, but your mouth twitches.

“See?” he says, smug. “That smile. You always pretend like you’re annoyed, but you love it.”

“I do not—”

“You do.” He leans in slightly, voice dipping. “You like when I push your buttons. When I argue with you. You light up every time.”

Your lips part, caught halfway between protest and denial—but he’s not wrong. Not completely. You reach for your toast instead of replying.

Wonwoo watches you for a moment longer, then adds, “I argue with you because you’re the only one who can keep up.”

You glance up. He’s not teasing anymore. There’s something behind his voice. Quieter. Real.

“That… was kind of sweet,” you admit cautiously.

He sighs dramatically, stabbing at a piece of his pancake. “Guess I’m slipping.”

You smirk, nudging him under the table with your knee. “Don’t worry. You’ll say something annoying again in about three minutes.”

His smile returns, slow and knowing. “Then I better enjoy the peace while it lasts.”

=

The next few days pass with no big declarations, no dramatic shifts just… the quiet continuation of whatever this thing between you and Wonwoo has become.

You still bicker during team discussions. You still roll your eyes when he insists on shadow-heavy frames. He still pokes holes in your captions until you threaten to delete his entire photo folder.

But you also catch him holding the elevator for you without saying a word. He always walks you to the lobby. Opens the passenger door. Drives you home like it’s automatic now. You tease him about it, call him your grumpy chauffeur. He says nothing just gives you that small side glance, the one that means he’s secretly pleased.

It’s those little things. Consistent. Steady.

Then Thursday rolls around.

The office has emptied out hours ago, the hum of fluorescent lights the only company left. You’re still at your desk, eyes glued to your screen, headphones in, halfway through rewriting a tagline that just won’t cooperate.

You don’t notice the time. Not until a quiet shadow moves behind you.

You pull your earbuds out and spin your chair around. He’s just standing there. In a black hoodie again, hands in his pockets, gaze half-lidded.

You blink at him, surprised. “Wonwoo?”

“It’s past ten.”

You check the time at the corner of your screen and curse. “Shit. Really?”

“You skipped dinner.”

You frown. “How do you know that?”

“You’re still here,” he says simply. “And your coffee cup’s empty.”

You stare at him. “Are you keeping tabs on my caffeine intake now?”

He shrugs. “Someone has to.”

You snort softly. “Okay, dad.”

He doesn’t move. Just studies you from where he’s standing, eyes tracing your tired face, your slumped shoulders. He tilts his head slightly, and in that quiet office, it feels like he’s close enough to hear your heartbeat.

“You should’ve gone home,” you murmur

“I was about to.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I saw your light still on.”

You don’t say anything to that. Can’t because he didn’t have to come up. He didn’t have to check on you. But he always does. In his quiet, maddening, consistent way.

You finally stand up, gathering your things. “Alright. Let me just shut this down.”

Wonwoo steps back slightly, waiting.

Then, while your computer hums its shutdown tune, he asks, voice quieter, “You always stay this late when I’m not around?”

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Why, getting jealous of my overtime?”

He meets your gaze head-on. “I’m serious.”

You shoulder your bag, facing him fully now. “No. I just got stuck in the zone.”

Wonwoo doesn’t respond. Just reaches forward, gently plucks your phone off your desk and hands it to you, thumb brushing yours in the process.

You take it. He turns toward the elevator, expecting you to follow.And you do. As the elevator doors close with a soft ding, the hum of motion filling the silence, Wonwoo speaks again 

“Next time you stay this late,” he says, “text or call me.”

You glance at him through the faint reflection on the elevator doors

“It’s dangerous to go home this late.”

Your brow arches, a smile tugging at your lips. “Wow,” you murmur. “You quoting video games now? ‘It’s dangerous to go alone’ what are you, my pixelated knight in shining armor?”

He doesn’t answer. You turn your head to glance at him, and his eyes are still on you. Calm, unreadable.

You can’t help it, you keep going. “What’s next? You gonna give me a sword and three hearts?”

“Would you shut up for five seconds,” he mutters under his breath, more fond than irritated.

“Oh my god, you are a secret softie. I knew it.”

He exhales like you’re the world’s biggest problem set wrapped in an overactive imagination. The elevator slows to a stop. You’re still teasing, still poking at him. Words halfway out of your mouth as the doors slide open.

And somewhere between your rambling and your dramatic gasp over his concern, his hand finds yours.

Fingers threading together. Warm, natural. You don’t even register it at first.

Still caught in your usual antics. “Should I be worried now? Are you gonna make me wear pepper spray on a lanyard and check in every hour?”

Wonwoo doesn’t answer. Just walks with you, still holding your hand like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You glance down—finally, finally noticing.

You blink. “Wait—are you holding my hand?”

“Brilliant observation.”

“When did this happen?!”

He sighs. “Three insults ago.”

You blink again, looking down at your tangled fingers like they’re foreign. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“Didn’t want to interrupt you. You were busy dragging my entire personality.”

Your cheeks flush before you can stop it, and suddenly you’re way too aware of the heat in your palm, of how his thumb brushes yours once before he lets go to open the building’s front door.

You walk out together into the cool night air, heart rattling somewhere near your throat.

And when you glance at him again, all he says is

“You talk too much.”

But his hand brushes yours again, like it’s waiting. So you take it back.

“Yeah, well,” you say smugly, fingers still laced with his as he walks you toward his car. “You like me, so.”

He exhales one of those long-suffering breaths, like he’s dealing with a particularly persistent migraine that he’s secretly fond of. Then he opens the car door for you, motions you in with a dramatic flourish, and mutters, “Should’ve just kept you guessing.”

You scoff, sliding into the seat. “As if you’re capable of being subtle.”

He closes the door, rounds the car. You’re still going by the time he’s in the driver’s seat.

“You’re the opposite of lowkey, Jeon Wonwoo. You scared that male model the other week just for saying I looked good in pink.”

He adjusts the mirror, nonchalant. “He was too close.”

“And what about that time the new photographer tried to ask what I was doing Friday night? You cut in mid-sentence and told him I already had plans—with you. You didn’t even blink.”

“He was wasting his breath.”

You point at him accusingly. “Exactly. That’s what I mean! You act like you’re all calm and detached but you’re the most obvious person in the room. If anyone even looks at me for too long, you show up like some passive-aggressive shadow with a lens and a grudge—”

“Hmm.”

“—and you say I’m dramatic, but meanwhile you’re plotting someone’s downfall because they complimented my sentence structure—”

“Right.”

“—and honestly I don’t even know how you’re still pretending to be chill about any of this when you literally—”

“Are you done?” he cuts in suddenly, turning to you

You blink, mid-rant. “No, I—”

Then he’s leaning in. No warning. No dramatic pause. Just moving. Smooth, easy, like it’s always been this simple for him.

His hand finds your jaw, steadying you, and then his lips are on yours. Warm and unhurried, but firm, certain. Like he’s finally tired of hearing you talk but can’t bear the thought of shutting you up any other way.

It knocks the air from your lungs.

You don’t even realize your hands have curled into his hoodie until he pulls back, just slightly, enough to speak against your lips.

“I like it better when your mouth’s busy doing that.”

Your heart’s still hammering when you murmur, “You’re unbelievable.”

His thumb brushes your cheek. “You’re impossible.”

The drive was quiet but electric. When you got to your building, he walks you to your floor.

Now here you are. 

Your back hits the door to your apartment with a soft thud, and thank god the hallway’s empty because right now, Jeon Wonwoo has you pressed against it and your mouth is very, very busy.

You breathe out, lips brushing his. “I should go.”

“Mhm,” he murmurs, mouth already finding yours again, slow and deep like he has no intention of stopping.

You make a quiet sound, tilt your head to kiss him harder. Your hands slide up his chest, into his hair. His palms are flat on either side of your waist, thumbs brushing your skin through your shirt like it’s second nature.

You break away again, breathless, eyes hazy. “Wonwoo—really—I have to go—”

He only pulls you closer, mouth dragging along your jaw, his voice low against your skin. “Then open the door.”

You shiver. “I didn’t say you were coming in.”

“Then stop kissing me like you want me to.”

That shuts you up.

He pulls back just enough to look at you flushed, lips swollen, pupils blown wide. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip like he’s memorizing it.

You hate how easy it is to melt into him again. Hate how your body doesn’t listen to your brain at all.

“I’m serious,” you whisper, though your fingers are tugging him closer again. “I should really—go—”

“You keep saying that,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “But you keep chasing me.”

You groan into his lips, smiling helplessly. “You’re so annoying.”

“You’re obsessed with me,” he says, smug now.

You don’t deny it.

Instead, you kiss him again, slow and lingering, until your hand’s fumbling behind you for the doorknob—

And you know, deep down, you’re definitely not going anywhere.

The next morning, you wake up tangled in your sheets, your hoodie sliding off one shoulder—his hoodie that he left with you.

Sunlight spills through the curtains, soft and warm across your legs. Your apartment is still. Quiet. Suspiciously so. You blink up at the ceiling for a solid five seconds before it hits you.

Oh my god.

Your eyes fly open.

You sit up so fast your head spins. “Oh my god, that happened.”

You cover your face with your hands, your voice muffled behind your palms. “No, no, no, that happened. I made out with Jeon Wonwoo in the hallway. I let him kiss me like that outside my apartment where there are cameras—”

You groan, falling back onto the mattress. “He left his hoodie here. I wore his hoodie here. We’re a cliché.”

You peek at the hoodie you’re still wearing and groan again.

“Why is this so soft—he did this on purpose—”

Then your phone rings.

You jolt, scrambling across the bed to grab it, heart already pounding.

Wonwoo[Incoming Call]

You stare at the screen like it’s personally offended you.

“Oh my god,” you whisper again. “Is this what regret feels like? Is this karma?”

You hesitate then answer, trying to sound normal. “Hello?”

His voice comes through, low and way too calm. “You awake?”

You clear your throat, sitting up straighter. “Yeah. Just now.”

“Good,” he says. “Come to the door.”

Your heart jumps. “What?”

“I’m outside.”

Your mouth falls open. “Wonwoo—”

“I brought breakfast.” A pause. “And your favorite kind of coffee. Because I do listen, remember?”

You’re stunned silent.

Then he adds, dryly, “Also, I want my hoodie back.”

You hang your head, whispering to yourself, “I’m in so much trouble.”

But you’re already getting up. You open the door in his hoodie and sleep shorts, hair a mess, bare-faced, and still halfway in denial.

And there he is.

Jeon Wonwoo. In all his early morning glory black ball cap, grey hoodie, two cups of coffee in one hand, a paper bag of what smells suspiciously like breakfast carbs in the other.

You blink at him. “...Hi.”

Wonwoo blinks back. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird,” you say too quickly, stepping aside to let him in. “You’re acting weird. You just showed up. Unannounced. With breakfast. And feelings.”

He walks in, drops the food on your kitchen counter like he’s done it a hundred times. “I told you I was outside.”

“That doesn’t make it less weird!”

“You wore my hoodie to bed.”

“Yeah, well, it was cold—”

“You sniffed it first.”

You freeze mid-step. “I did not.”

“You’re obsessed.”

You point a finger at him. “You kissed me first.”

“And you chased me like it was a sport.”

You fumble for a comeback, but your brain short-circuits, short-wired by sleep and his voice and the way he’s looking at you.

So you just sputter, waving your arms in a full-body flail of denial. “I’m not—! I don’t—! This is your fault!”

Wonwoo tilts his head. “What is?”

“You! Being... like this!”

He raises an eyebrow, steps closer. “Like what?”

You backpedal. ���Like—tall. And smug. And weirdly nice in the most aggressive way possible. You remembered my pancake order and you brought coffee—”

“Because you like it with two sugars and a splash of oat milk—”

“STOP BEING PERFECT,” you shout, face burning.

Wonwoo just watches you. Calm. Unmoving. Infuriating. Then, while you’re mid-rant, hands flying, voice loud—

He grabs your wrist.

Pulls you forward.

And kisses you.

Right there in your kitchen, your sleep hair everywhere, no lip balm, no sense of logic. Just his lips on yours. Quieting every thought. Shutting you up the only way he knows how now.

When he finally pulls back, he’s still annoyingly close. “Better?”

You blink at him, stunned.

Then you mutter, dazed: “I literally forgot my name for a second.”

He smirks, presses another kiss to your forehead, and says, “Good. Now sit down before you combust. Your pancakes are getting cold.”

He chuckles softly from across the table, watching you stab at your pancakes with way more intensity than necessary.

“You mad at the syrup or just taking it out on the carbs?” he asks, resting his chin in his hand, thoroughly amused.

You shoot him a half-hearted glare as you chew. “You’re lucky these are good.”

“I’m amazing at breakfast choices.”

“You’re annoying.”

He grins. That’s the thing about you, always calling him annoying, always pushing, always rolling your eyes and pretending to be fed up. But he knows. He knows now.

You critique his muted color tones, call him dramatic when he won’t let you walk to your car alone, mock the way he glares at everyone within a ten-foot radius of you but you’ve never once stopped him.

Not once.

Not when he cuts in between you and another guy trying to ask where you’re from. Not when he shuts down some overeager creative lead asking if you’re “single off-duty.” You don’t even flinch.

In fact, he’s noticed the opposite.

You lean into it.

Literally.

You inch closer to his side at events. Your elbow brushes his more often than it needs to. You never stop him when he mutters “she’s busy” on your behalf. And when someone has the guts to ask for your number, he catches the flicker of relief in your eyes.

Wonwoo’s not a mind reader. But he pays attention.

It’s one of the many things about you he’s learning to love.

“Hey,” he says now, voice lower, soft.

You look up, mid-bite, eyebrows raised. “Hmm?”

He leans forward, eyes tracing your face. “You gonna let me keep doing this?”

You swallow. “Doing what?”

“This,” he says, gesturing between you two. “Waking you up. Bringing breakfast. Stealing kisses before you’ve brushed your hair.”

You flush, stabbing another piece of pancake with less force this time. “Depends. You gonna keep cutting off every guy who even breathes in my direction?”

Wonwoo leans back in his chair, smirking. “Obviously.”

You smirk back, cheeks pink. “Then yeah. I’ll allow it.”

He pretends to exhale in relief. “Wow. Finally. Permission.”

“Don’t push it,” you mutter.

But you're smiling. And he’s watching you like you're his favorite bad habit. Because you are.

You twirl your fork through the syrup, casually, like you’re not about to ask the question that’s been crawling through your brain all morning. Like your heart isn’t already speeding up just from the way he’s watching you.

You poke at your pancake again. “So…”

Wonwoo raises a brow.

You glance at him. “When did it start?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

You look up fully now, resting your elbow on the table, eyes narrowing playfully. “You. This. Me.” You motion vaguely between the two of you. “Whatever this is. When did it start for you?”

Wonwoo pauses, blinking once, then sits back a little, coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “You mean when did I start liking you?”

You shrug, feigning casual. “I mean. If you wanna be all straightforward about it.”

He hums, sets his cup down, like he’s actually thinking. And that just makes you more nervous.

You’re expecting some recent, dramatic moment but when he answers, it’s quiet. Blunt. Like it’s not a big deal.

“The second campaign.”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs. “You argued with me for a full twenty minutes over the tone of the ad copy. You refused to change it just because the client said so.”

“I—” You blink again. “I wasn’t even nice to you back then.”

“You weren’t,” he agrees. “But you were right. And you didn’t care that I was annoyed. You stood your ground. And you looked good doing it.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

“And then,” he continues, “you tried to storm out but knocked over your coffee and tripped over a light stand.”

You cover your face with your hands. “Oh my god.”

“I caught you,” he adds, sipping his coffee again.

“Stop talking.”

“I liked you after that.”

You peek through your fingers. “You’re insane.”

“You were wearing green that day,” he adds. “You never wear green.”

You lower your hands slowly, staring at him like he’s just admitted to memorizing your closet. “You remember what I was wearing?”

He shrugs again. “I always remember.”

Wonwoo leans forward, voice lower now. “Your turn.”

You blink. “My turn for what?”

“When did it start for you?” He’s already smirking. Like he knows. Like he’s just waiting for you to squirm.

“Go on,” he says, voice low and maddeningly smug. “Say it. When exactly?”

You glare at him. “I hate you.”

He just leans back in his seat, arms folded across his chest, sipping his coffee like he’s got all the time in the world. “That’s not a date.”

You scowl harder. He waits. Silent. Patient. Amused. You look at your plate. Your fork. The wall. The napkin dispenser. Anywhere but his face.

Eventually, with a dramatic sigh, you mutter under your breath, “The first introduction.”

Wonwoo raises a brow. “What was that?”

You roll your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “The first introduction, alright?! When you joined the company.”

He freezes and you catch the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth before he tries to hide it behind his mug.

“Seriously?” he says, voice a little smug but mostly surprised. “That early?”

You wave your fork at him like it’s a weapon. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Oh no, too late.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “You walked into the meeting room in that dumb black button-up, all tall and unreadable and broody-looking, and I knew. I knew you were going to be a problem.”

“Problem,” he echoes, smiling now. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

“You didn’t even smile,” you go on, ignoring him. “Just nodded at everyone and sat down like you were already too good for us. And then later you criticized the storyboard without even reading my captions.”

“It was a bad storyboard.”

“I worked all night on it.”

“It still sucked.”

You throw your napkin at him. He catches it, grinning.

“I literally said to Sooyoung,” you mutter, “‘That guy’s going to be the death of me.’”

“And here I am,” he says, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Still killing you softly.”

And you want to be mad. You try to glare. But his eyes are warm and his mouth is smiling and he looks entirely too pleased with himself.

You grumble, “I should’ve transferred departments.”

He shrugs. “You didn’t.”

You sigh. “I almost did.”

“You liked me the second I walked into the room,” he says with zero shame.

You groan, dropping your head to the table. “I should’ve transferred to another building.”

He reaches over, threads his fingers into yours on top of the table like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You don’t pull away.

“You didn’t,” he murmurs again. “That’s what matters.”

And you hate how that makes your chest feel stupidly full.

=

It’s already midday by the time you arrive on set. The shoot’s in full swing, assistants buzzing around, lights flashing, stylists adjusting hems and hair. The usual chaos, but organized in that beautiful, creative kind of way.

Wonwoo’s in the center of it all, camera in hand, black tee and cargo pants, sleeves rolled, hair slightly. He hasn’t seen you yet.

You’re off to the side, talking quietly with the campaign coordinator and art director, catching up on what’s been done so far. 

Wonwoo, mid-cue, camera lifted, one eye squinted behind the lens. His voice calm and low as he gives the model directions.

You watch the flash go off.

Then he lowers the camera and she laughs. Loud. High-pitched. She says something and reaches out, her fingers grazing his arm.

You see him glance down. See him step slightly out of range. But she doesn’t seem to care. Keeps talking. Her lips curve a little too much. She tosses her hair and says something else. You can't hear everything, but you catch the tone. The shift.

 “Are you always this serious?” Her voice rings just clear enough through the lights and buzz.

Wonwoo doesn’t respond right away. He adjusts a setting on his camera.

“I mean, it’s kind of hot,” she says.

That’s when you walk up. You stop at the monitor behind him, pretending to review the last few shots. You feel the shift before he says a word. His body turns slightly. His shoulders ease.

And then, mid-shot, he murmurs, “Didn’t know you were here.”

You don’t look at him, flipping through the clipboard with studied nonchalance. “I’ve been here a while. Watching you be mysterious and hard to look away from.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then a quiet exhale. Almost a laugh. Almost. You finally glance up and meet his eyes. And he’s already looking at you. Already wearing that expression, the one that only ever appears when it’s you.

The model, still nearby, clears her throat, clearly expecting more attention.

Wonwoo turns back to her briefly, voice distant now. “Hold that pose for a moment.”

You stand a few feet from the setup, arms crossed loosely as you watch him work. Wonwoo is in his element

“Like this?” she asks, tilting her head just slightly toward him, her hand brushing her collarbone as if to draw his eye. “Or should I be looking at you?”

Wonwoo doesn’t react. Just peers through the lens. “At the light. Not me.”

She laughs. “But you’re kind of hard to ignore.”

You roll your eyes so hard they might leave your body. Oh my god.

She giggles after every other shutter click. Touches her hair. Tilts toward him like she’s trying to melt into his camera.

And then finally the shoot wraps.

Wonwoo lowers the camera and wordlessly hands it off to one of the assistants. No nod. No thank-you. Just turns. And walks straight to you.

He doesn’t say much. Doesn’t need to. He stops right in front of you, eyes locked on yours, voice low but crystal clear

“Ready to go, babe?”

Silence. The model? Jaw dropped. You? Stunned. Speechless. You can literally hear your brain buffering. The stylist next to you physically gasps. A tech guy across the room drops something. Somewhere, someone forgets how to breathe.

You’re frozen. But he’s already taking the folder from your hands, slinging his own camera bag over one shoulder then grabbing your bag like it’s just a matter of routine.

And then he’s strolling toward the exit. Cool, calm, deadly.

He stops by the doorway. Turns. Holds his hand out, fingers open like he’s done this a hundred times.  You stare. One beat. Two.

Then you move.

You walk toward him, wordless. Your fingers slide into his like they were meant to be there all along. The room behind you stays completely, utterly silent.

And he just smiles, the smallest bit, like this was the plan all along.

The moment the car door shuts behind you, your brain is still catching up. He doesn’t say a word as he starts the car, calm as ever, hands steady on the wheel.

And finally, as he turns out onto the street, smooth and quiet like nothing earth-shattering just happened

You whip your head toward him. “Okay. Hold up. Pause. What. Was. THAT?”

Wonwoo hums like he doesn’t already know exactly what you’re talking about. “What?”

You throw your hands in the air. “What? Are you serious right now?”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other resting lazily between you. “You mean at the shoot?”

You scoff. “Yes, at the shoot, Jeon Wonwoo. You dropped ‘babe’ like it was your job title.”

“Right.” He nods like he’s just remembered. “Because you are.”

You stare. “That’s not the point!”

“I think it is.”

“You shattered the room.”

“Not my fault they’re slow,” he shrugs.

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “The model looked like she saw her career flash before her eyes.”

“She kept flirting with me,” he says simply. “You looked annoyed.”

You glare at him. “I was annoyed. But I wasn’t expecting a public broadcast. You never say stuff like that in front of anyone.”

He glances at you now, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. “You didn’t like it?”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t think so.”

You cross your arms. “Still. That was... aggressive.”

“She kept touching me.”

“Okay but—”

“She said I was hard to ignore,” he adds, like that alone should justify the entire situation.

“Because you are!” you snap, then immediately shut your mouth like you didn’t mean to say that out loud.

You groan again, slumping in your seat. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You glance at him again, arms still folded. “You’re getting cocky.”

He parks, puts the car in park, then looks at you fully, finally.

“Let them know,” he says simply.

You blink. “Let who know?”

“The ones who flirt,” he says, voice low, eyes on yours. “That I’m not going anywhere.”

Your heart does a very stupid flip. You try to act unaffected. Fail spectacularly.

“…Okay,” you mumble.

You push his shoulder, trying not to smile. You fail at that too.

You scowl at him as you unbuckle your seatbelt, twisting to face him fully. “Subtlety is really not for you, Jeon Wonwoo.”

He shrugs, annoyingly unbothered, wrist draped over the wheel, head turned toward you like he’s got all the time in the world. “Not when it comes to you, no.”

Then, with a glance out the windshield, he adds, “I don’t like people thinking I’m available.”

That makes your stomach twist. You blink, leaning back slightly. “Aren’t you?”

The question slips out before you can really think it through. And now it hangs in the air between you.

You’re not… not together. You’ve been tangled in each other’s orbit for weeks now. Shoots, coffee, hand-holding, car rides, sleepovers, kisses in hallways and pancakes in your kitchen but still, technically…

No one’s said the words. Not officially. Not aloud.

Wonwoo’s quiet for a second. Then he exhales once, and his voice is steady when he says, “You really think I’d be doing all this if I was?”

You shrug, avoiding his eyes. “I mean… I don’t know. Maybe you’re just a very romantic situationship.”

“Don’t joke.”

“I’m not—” You look at him. “Okay, maybe I am joking, but—look, I’m just saying… You’ve never actually said it.”

He watches you.

And you hate how serious he looks now. Like you touched something buried a little deeper in him.

“Do you want me to?” he asks, quiet.

You hesitate. “I don’t know. Do you want to?”

He turns his body toward you slightly, the car engine humming low in the silence. “I’m not the type who says things just to say them.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I know.”

“I do things when I mean it. That’s why I take my time.”

You speak, a little softer now. “So what is this, then?”

“Mine.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “...You can’t just say that.”

“You asked.”

You swallow. “So that’s it? That’s your label?”

“It’s not a label. It’s a fact.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile. “You’re unbelievable.”

He leans a little closer, hand brushing yours on the console between you. “You haven’t stopped me once. Not when I held your hand. Not when I kissed you in your hallway. Not when I called you babe in front of other people.”

“You don’t want to be available either,” he murmurs.

“…I never said I did,” you say under your breath.

“Then stop looking surprised when I act like you’re mine.”

You glance down at your hands and then back at him. “So you’re not available.”

He squeezes your fingers. “Not even close.”

You don’t even get two full steps from the car before you hear the door close behind him and his footsteps following right after.

You roll your eyes, barely glancing over your shoulder. “Don’t you have, like, a mysterious exit to make or something?”

“Nope,” he says, and when you turn, he’s already there. One tugs gently at the hem of his hoodie still draped on you, the other brushing your hair behind your ear, so casual, so him.

“Don’t act like you’re not excited to call me boyfriend.”

You scoff, heat crawling up your neck despite the very valiant eye roll you throw at him. “You’re literally unbearable.”

“And yet,” he says, fingers sliding down your arm until he catches your hand, “you let me call you babe in front of, what, fifteen people?”

“That was ambush flirtation,” you say, trying to keep your face straight. “You weaponized affection.”

“You didn’t say stop,” he murmurs, leaning in, voice low. “You blushed. You froze. You followed me out like I was your ride home and your last meal.”

You jab a finger at his chest. “First of all, you were my ride home. Second, I was in shock.”

He grins. “Exactly. You like it when I keep you on your toes.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you mutter.

His fingers lace through yours. “I know I’m lucky.”

That catches you off guard, softens your smile just a little. And then he’s kissing you again light, unhurried, the kind of kiss that says yeah, this is mine.

When he pulls back, he murmurs, “Say it.”

You raise a brow. “Say what?”

He brushes his thumb across your knuckles. “Say I’m your boyfriend.”

“Why? Need the validation?”

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe I just like hearing you say it.”

You look up at him for a long second, chest warm, lips twitching.

You tug him closer by the front of his ahirt, grinning now. “You’re my boyfriend, Jeon Wonwoo. Happy?”

He pretends to think about it, then leans in again. “Ecstatic.”

And this time, you’re the one who kisses him.

=

The gallery is already full when you step inside the buzz of soft conversation, and the click of polished shoes against polished floors. His name is printed in bold black lettering on the entrance wall:  Jeon Wonwoo — Light / Shadow 

You smile, tugging your coat tighter around you, your suitcase still wheeling behind. You’d just landed an hour ago. He thinks you’re still three cities away, deep in a client shoot.

But there was no way you were missing this.

You move quietly through the crowd, scanning the framed photos.. There’s his signature minimalism, sure.  One in particular makes you stop cold.

It’s a photo of hands, your hands. Mid-motion. A soft focus, a blurred laugh caught in the background. You remember the day he took it. You didn’t even know he was shooting.

Then a familiar voice, low and polite from across the room.

“Thanks for coming,” he says to someone. “No—really, I wasn’t sure anyone would show up.”

You turn. He’s across the floor, in a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair styled like he hasn’t touched it since this morning. He looks calm. Grounded. But there's a nervous edge in his stance you know too well.

He hasn’t seen you yet.

You watch as someone gestures to one of the larger portraits and he answers with that quiet way of his but you can see the way he tugs slightly at his cuff when no one’s looking.

Your heart aches.

You wait until there’s a lull, until the guest he’s speaking to turns away—then you step forward, voice soft, just enough for him to hear:

“You really thought I’d miss this?”

Wonwoo turns eyes wide. He stares for a solid three seconds like you’re a ghost then his shoulders drop, and something in his face just melts.

“You said—”

“Flight got moved up,” you say with a grin, stepping into his space. “So I made a detour.”

He looks you up and down like he’s still trying to believe it. “You flew straight here?”

You shrug. “Had to see your name on a wall in person.”

He blinks. “You’re insane.”

You smirk. “You’re welcome.”

And before he can say another word, you’re pulling him in, arms sliding around his neck, ignoring the murmurs and background clinking of glasses. He exhales sharply, head ducking against your shoulder like he’s been holding his breath all night.

“Hi,” he murmurs into your ear.

“Hi,” you whisper back. “Proud of you, boyfriend.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I put that photo in the exhibit for a reason,” he says, tilting his head toward the picture of your hands.

You glance at it again. “Why?”

He leans in. “Because that’s what my work looks like when I’m in love.”

You freeze. He smiles, soft and barely there but oh, it wrecks you.

And then he presses a kiss to your cheek, grounding, quiet, before whispering “Don’t ever stay out of town that long again.”

You’re already talking before you even finish your second step into the room again.

“Okay but that one over there—tell me that’s the one you almost deleted. You’re insane for even thinking about it—oh my god, Yeji! Hi!” you beam, waving to one of the junior curators you’d met before, leaning into Wonwoo slightly as she waves back excitedly.

Your fingers are laced with his like it’s second nature, your other hand gesturing animatedly as you keep talking, already switching topics mid-thought.

Wonwoo just watches you.

Still holding your hand. Still pulling your small carry-on behind him like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just travel hours to be here. Like his chest didn’t finally unclench the second you walked through the gallery doors.

You keep talking, not even noticing how quiet he is. You’re too busy waving, pointing at framed photos, complimenting random staff, joking about wine choices.

And he just lets you. Like always. Like your voice fills in the spaces that get too loud in his own head. Like the background noise of his thoughts dims the longer you’re near.

Like your voice, no matter how fast or chaotic, is the only kind of noise that feels like silence to him. The good kind. The kind that settles him.

He squeezes your hand once, a silent I missed this.

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “You’re doing the thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The… staring-like-I’m-your-favorite-plot-twist thing.”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “You are.”

You blink, caught off guard for half a second before you groan and bump his shoulder with yours. “You’re lucky I missed you.”

Wonwoo just follows along, carrying your bag, carrying your chatter, letting the sound of you fill in all the quiet spaces that haven’t felt quite right since you left.

And somehow—this chaos? This fast-talking, opinion-sharing, story-hopping version of you?

It’s the most peace he’s had in weeks.

He glances over at you from the driver’s seat, and you don’t even notice. You’re too busy gesturing with your hands, buzzing from pride and energy and airport coffee.

“You don’t even get it, Wonwoo, I almost cried. And you know I don’t cry at things with clean lighting and clean lines. I cry at commercials and drama specials and dogs. But that last shot with the man on the bench?? I was like, sobbing internally. I swear the woman next to me was crying too, or maybe I just imagined that to feel less insane—”

He’s smiling now. Small, quiet, not for you to notice. But he’s listening because you haven’t stopped since the gallery. And he doesn’t want you to.

By the time you’re inside his apartment, you’ve kicked off your shoes and peeled off your coat, still talking. Now you’re sitting on his bed, cross-legged in his clothes, hands moving as fast as your mouth.

He leans against the doorframe for a second, watching you. Silently. Like you’re the main feature now.

“And the print layout? Gorgeous. I mean, obviously, because you, but still—like, museum-quality. Like, people will look at that ten years from now and pretend they saw it when it first opened. You know that, right? You know this is one of those shows people brag about seeing? I heard two people talking in the corner, one of them was like ‘this guy’s gonna blow up’ and I was just there smiling like, he already did.”

Wonwoo walks in slowly, dropping his keys on the desk, tossing your overnight bag onto the chair, and you still don’t notice that he hasn’t said a word in minutes.

You’re too busy beaming, caught mid-rant as you shift to face him better on the bed.

“I’m just saying,” you breathe out, finally pausing, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with sincerity, “it was beautiful. You were—are—brilliant. And I’m so, so proud of you.”

Then you realize—he’s just been watching you.

You blink. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He walks over. Sits at the edge of the bed facing you. Still quiet. Still watching.

“What?”

He shrugs lightly. “You didn’t run out of words.”

“Obviously,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I never do.”

“No,” he says, voice low now. Honest. “Not for this. Not for me.”

“That bothers you?”

He shakes his head. “No. That’s not what I mean.”

You blink again. “Then what’s the look for?”

He reaches out, gently tugging your ankle until you slide closer across the blanket. He leans in, resting his forehead against yours.

“That’s what it feels like,” he murmurs, “when someone sees you.”

You’re quiet now. For once. Not because you don’t have anything to say. But because you don’t need to say it.

You smile, confused but soft, a breath of laughter slipping out. “What do you mean?”

He doesn’t pull back right away. Just stays close, breath mingling with yours. “You talk like you’re trying to hold everything I’ve ever done in your hands.”

He brushes his thumb along the side of your knee absentmindedly, gaze dropping for a second, like the words are too raw to say while fully looking at you.

“You remember every frame, every detail. You talk about it like it matters. Like I matter.”

Your breath catches a little. “Wonwoo…”

“I’m used to people liking the work,” he says, almost absently. “Liking the photos. Liking the light, the angles. Not a lot of people care about what I was thinking when I shot something. Or what I felt.”

You lean forward slightly, bumping your forehead against his again, voice low. “I care.”

He looks at you now. “I know. That’s what I mean.”

You let out another soft laugh, your hand sliding up to cup his cheek. “Well, yeah. That’s what happens when you date a girl who’s annoyingly observant and thinks everything you make is magic.”

He kisses you. Just once slow, unhurried, like a thank you.

Then, pulling back barely an inch, he mutters against your lips, “You really are the loudest kind of peace.”

You smile. “Good. Because I’m not shutting up anytime soon.”

Later you’re pulling your hair up into a messy bun, having just washed your face. You hear the soft creak of the floorboards just before he knocks gently on the open bedroom door. When you look up, he’s standing there, still in the same dark sweater from earlier, now holding an envelope in one hand.

He crosses the room and holds it out to you.

You frown, taking it. “What’s this?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Open it.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, curious now, sliding your thumb under the seal. Inside is a print carefully wrapped, thick matte paper, the corners taped gently with that photographer precision.

You pull it out. It’s that photo.

The quiet field from the road in that small town a year go. The one with the lone tree and golden haze just before sunset. You’d both stopped there briefly accidental detour while scouting for another location. It wasn’t even part of the job. He took the photo anyway.

You’d stared at the view through the passenger window and said, half under your breath, “God, that’s beautiful.”

And he had—without a word—gotten out of the car and taken the shot.

It was the first time you both agreed on a frame without bickering, no debate, no teasing.

You run your fingers over the print now, gently. “I didn’t see this at the exhibit.”

Wonwoo sits down beside you, quiet. “That’s ‘cause it’s not part of the exhibit,” he says. “It’s yours.”

You look at him.

He’s not even watching you, eyes on the photo in your lap. “Was never meant for the gallery. I knew that the second I shot it.”

You swallow. “Wonwoo…”

He finally looks at you then, soft and serious.

“You said that one stopped time for you.”

Your heart squeezes. You glance down at the photo again, holding it like it might slip through your fingers.

“…It kind of did.”

He doesn’t answer, just leans in and presses a kiss to your temple.

You look up at him, fingers still curled around his, that photo now resting gently on your lap. The moment’s soft but your chest is full to the brim and holding it in feels impossible.

You meet his eyes, steady and sure, and say it without blinking.

“You know I’m so deeply, crazily in love with you, right?”

It hangs there for a beat. Raw. Unapologetic. And he freezes. Like your words landed somewhere inside him that he’s been keeping guarded.

His gaze doesn’t leave yours. Not for a second. Then, quietly, he says, “Say it again.”

You laugh softly. “Greedy.”

“Yeah.” His voice is rougher now, quieter. “Just this once.”

You shift closer, knees touching, your hand now resting flat over his heart like it’ll help him feel every word more clearly.

“I love you,” you whisper. “So much it’s actually kind of a problem. Like—I can’t shut up about you. I annoy Sooyoung daily. My notes app has your name in it. My camera roll is 80% you. I think about you when nothing’s even happening. It’s dumb.”

Wonwoo stares at you like you just short-circuited something in him. His jaw ticks, his eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. No teasing now. Just this quiet awe that settles between you.

He cups your cheek, thumb brushing along your skin like he’s grounding himself.

“You’re not dumb,” he murmurs. “You’re… everything.”

You smile, eyes crinkling. “That was dangerously close to cheesy.”

“Don’t care,” he says, leaning in. “I’m deeply, crazily in love with you, too. So get used to it.”

And then he kisses you slow, deep, final in the way that says this is what all the photos, all the silence, all the waiting was leading up to.

And you kiss him back like you’re not afraid to show it anymore.

You laugh one of those breathy, overwhelmed little laughs and then groan into your hands, flopping backwards onto the bed dramatically.

“Noooo,” you whine, voice muffled. “You don’t understand.”

Wonwoo tilts his head, clearly amused, hovering over you now with one hand braced beside your shoulder. “Then explain it to me.”

You peek up at him through your fingers. “It was cute before. Like—the banter? The arguing? The smug ‘you’re obsessed with me’ stuff?”

He nods slowly. “Still accurate.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it easily.

“I’m serious!” you laugh, sitting up again, cross-legged, your hands flying now. “It was fun! You were annoying, and hot, and I got to act like I wasn’t affected, you know? I had control.”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you think you had?”

You ignore that entirely, already on a roll. “But then we started dating for real and it’s like—ugh. My brain broke. Like I get shy.”

He blinks. “You.”

“Me!” you say, gesturing to yourself. “Shy! Over you. And I’ve seen you grumpy, and sweaty, and hangry, and I still—” You cut yourself off with a strangled sound. “It’s a problem, Wonwoo. I’m in too deep. I don’t even know what to do with myself anymore. Like who am I?”

Wonwoo laughs. He can’t help it. Not in a teasing way just totally endeared, like he’s watching his favorite movie unfold frame by frame.

You squint at him. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“Because I remember the version of you who glared at me every time I disagreed with a shot,” he murmurs. “Who used to call me emotionally constipated. And now you’re here… in my bed, wearing my shirt, blushing over your own feelings like I don’t already know every version of you.”

You make a strangled noise. “See! That’s another thing! You say stuff like that and my brain short circuits. I’m supposed to be good with words, but nooo, I just go all—” You wave your hands helplessly, making an unintelligible noise.

He’s laughing now, full chest laugh, eyes crinkling, and it only makes it worse because you love that laugh, and he knows it.

“I hate you,” you groan, flopping back down again.

He shifts, laying beside you, propping his head on one hand while the other traces idle shapes against your arm.

“No, you don’t,” he says easily.

He leans in close again, his grin gentler now. “I know you’re shy. I know you ramble. I know you pretend to be annoyed when you’re just flustered. And I know you love me. Because I love you back, exactly like this.”

You sigh, tucking into his side with a dramatic groan. “Ugh. Fine. Be perfect. Whatever.”

He laughs again, pulling you closer. “Keep talking. It’s my favorite sound.”

You shift slightly, just enough to look up at him, chin resting on his chest.

“Hey,” you mumble.

He hums. “Mm?”

You trace a lazy line on the fabric of his shirt. “Remember when you said I drove you crazy?”

Wonwoo tilts his head, glancing down at you. “Yeah.”

You squint at him. “You still think that?”

A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes are already soft. “Of course.”

You roll your eyes dramatically. “Rude.”

“But now it’s worse,” he says, barely biting back a laugh.

“Worse?!” you squawk, smacking his chest lightly. “Wow. So glad I flew in early to support you. Really feeling appreciated right now.”

He catches your wrist easily and kisses the inside of it before lacing your fingers together again. “Let me finish.”

You glare. “This better be a recovery arc, Jeon.”

Wonwoo shifts onto his side, face close, nose brushing yours, his voice low and serious in a way that melts your bones every time. 

“It’s worse now because I don’t just think about kissing you. Or arguing with you until you cave. Or watching you ramble while you wave your hands like you're trying to fly off the bed.”

You blink. “...okay, those are all very specific.”

He smiles. “I think about you being in my life all the time. Like… routines. Mornings. Groceries. Long drives. You showing up when I don’t expect it, ruining my peace in the best possible way.”

He tugs you a little closer. “So yeah. You still drive me crazy. But now it’s the kind of crazy where I don’t want anything else.”

You stare. Then, deadpan, “Wow.”

Wonwoo lifts a brow. “What?”

You grin. “You are getting romantic.”

He sighs. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You lean up and kiss him quick, all smile. “No. You’re lucky you’re mine.”

His hand curls against your back. “That too.”

And somehow, even when the silence returns, your heart’s louder than ever.

=

Six months later.

You’re both standing at the edge of a rooftop late evening. Wonwoo’s camera hangs lazily from his neck, forgotten for now. You’re nursing two plastic cups of terrible rooftop wine. Your coat is buttoned halfway, your hand is in his.

You both worked late, again. Another campaign, another rush deadline. But it’s different now.

The tension’s still there, sure. You still argue over color tones and layout space and whether the tagline needs to be six words or five. But now he kisses you in the middle of those arguments, presses your notes against your chest with a grin and says, “Wrong. But passionate.”

He drives you home every night. Sometimes you stay up eating ramen barefoot in his kitchen. Sometimes you fall asleep mid-sentence on his couch, and he tucks you in, then stays awake just to finish editing with you curled up beside him.

“Hey,” he says now, bumping your shoulder as you lean into the rail.

“Hmm?”

He doesn’t look at you. “Remember the first campaign we worked on together?”

You groan, loudly. “Do not bring that up—”

“You kept fighting with me over that blue backdrop,” he says, already smirking.

“I was right, and you know it.”

He chuckles, sips from his cup. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“That we used to only know each other through disagreements.” He turns to face you fully. “And now I know what your voice sounds like when you’re half-asleep. I know you hog the blanket and always re-watch the same three movies when you’re stressed. I know you ramble when you’re happy, and fake-annoyed when you’re overwhelmed.”

You blink, a little caught off guard. “...Where’s this coming from?”

Wonwoo shrugs. “Just thinking.”

You stare at him, heart catching. “You’ve gotten sappy.”

“Blame you.”

You smile, stepping closer until your nose brushes his sweater. “Blame me all you want. You’re the one who fell.”

He doesn’t answer that. Just lets his hand slide around your waist, pulling you in gently.

And then, after a beat— “Got something for you.”

You look up. “Right now?”

He nods, pulling a folded envelope from his coat pocket. Your brows furrow. “Is this another print? You know I’m running out of wall space—”

“Open it,” he says, quiet.

You do.

Inside is a photo, your photo. The two of you, standing outside the gallery from months ago. You hadn’t realized someone captured it: the way you were holding hands, forehead to his chest, mid-laugh. You, looking up at him like he hung the moon. Him, looking back like he’d never wanted anything more.

It’s simple. And perfect.

“Wanted to give you something that wasn’t for work,” he says. “No concept. No shadows. Just… us.”

You blink once. Twice. Then you tackle him, nearly sloshing your wine onto his shoes, arms around his neck, photo clutched in your hand.

“I love you, you idiot,” you whisper.

He just holds you tighter.

And the city keeps blinking beneath you both, but up here—it's still. Time paused exactly where you’re meant to be.

[scarletwinterxx]

took me long enough to know that you’re also existing, i’ve never felt butterflies and tearing eyes and uncomfortable but good feelings without being in an actual relationship thanks to you 😭😭😭💗💗💗💗

hellloooo welcome🥺 there's plenty of love here on this blog, glad youve enjoyed reading here🩷

[scarletwinterxx]

see u on 7.17 💛

[scarletwinterxx]

Hi!! omg I have request after the damage performance! I desperately need a Hoshi x backup dancer one shot or whatever is possible!

i've been thinking about how or what to write for him. I think the star aligned just right😅 hope you like this one! it's more of the backstage happenings instead of what we saw during the concert, kind of what lead to that dance🫢

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)

The studio is buzzing. Mmirrors fogging slightly from the heat, dancers running through their counts, and music blaring in stops and starts as Woozi calls out minor adjustments. Hoshi's solo stage is up next. You’ve already choreographed most of it, but there's this one move that's been a point of playful debate all morning.

That one particular move.

You know the one.

The music dips. Hoshi steps forward, all smolder and sharp lines, then reaches out to the imaginary female partner. His hand curls under an invisible chin  slow, deliberate, gaze locking in close.

It’s… intense.

And no one’s volunteered to be the demo partner yet.

“You know,” one of the dancers chimes in, stretching casually, “we still haven’t figured out who’s going to do the chin lift moment.”

“I nominate literally anyone else,” you mutter under your breath, pretending to scribble notes on your clipboard.

But you’re not fast enough.

There’s a beat of silence like a synchronized attack, three dancers suddenly spin toward you with identical grins.

“You,” they all say in unison, pointing.

You blink. “Me?”

Hoshi’s on the other side of the room gulping from a water bottle, but you can feel his smirk forming before you even look up. Sure enough, when you do, he’s biting the inside of his cheek like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

Woozi doesn’t help. “Makes sense,” he says dryly. “You’re the choreographer. Best if you show us exactly how it should look.”

You’re about to protest  you really are but Hoshi’s already walking toward you, towel slung around his neck, gaze lazy, teasing. “C’mon,” he says, voice low but playful. “Let’s show them how it’s done, sunbaenim.”

You glare at him for the title. He knows you hate it when he calls you that in front of people.

Still, professionalism, right? You hand your clipboard to Woozi like you're not screaming inside and step onto the center floor.

Hoshi takes his position, feet already angled to frame you. “Just choreography,” he whispers under his breath, leaning close enough that you catch a faint hint of his cologne. “No funny business.”

“You’re literally about to grab my face.”

“I’ll be gentle,” he teases with a wink, just quiet enough that no one else hears.

The music cues.

You count the beats — one, two, three — and then he steps forward. His hand tilts your chin up, slow and fluid, and just like in rehearsal notes, you step in close. The air gets heavier. Everyone’s watching, but it almost doesn’t matter. Hoshi’s gaze doesn’t leave yours. His thumb brushes just under your lip — too smooth, too practiced.

And then someone coughs from the side. Loudly.

You both jump slightly apart.

“I mean,” one dancer says, eyebrows raised. “If you two were dating, you could just say so.”

“We’re not,” you and Hoshi say at the same time. Way too fast, way too in sync.

The room explodes with laughter.

Woozi just shakes his head, muttering, “Uh-huh. Sure.”

And Hoshi?

He just smirks at you and says, “Wanna run that again? For… clarity.”

You consider smacking him with your clipboard. Instead, you roll your eyes and step back into place.

Just choreography. Totally professional. Absolutely nothing going on.

The music shifts to the main chorus. Everyone resets, falling into line as the beat builds again. You slip back into your role, weaving through dancers with sharp eyes and a quick clap here and there to mark transitions. Hoshi’s locked in, of course. All muscle memory and focus though you catch the occasional glance he throws your way, smug little thing.

After the fifth run-through, Woozi finally calls a five-minute break, practically collapsing against the mirrors. Dancers scatter for water and towels, catching their breath.

You plop down near the speaker, scribbling a note into your tablet. A shadow falls beside you before you feel someone sit down, shoulder brushing yours.

“Don’t,” you murmur without looking up, just loud enough for him to hear.

“What?” he says, all wide-eyed innocence you absolutely do not believe.

“You know what.”

“I just came to sit,” he hums. “Can’t sit beside my favorite choreographer?”

You lift your head just enough to squint at him. “Kwon Soonyoung.”

He presses a hand to his chest. “Wah, government name already? I didn’t even do anything yet.”

“You exist in my peripheral vision too flirtily.”

He snorts. “Too flirtily? That’s not even a real word.”

“It is now,” you mutter, going back to your tablet.

You feel him leaning in a bit, just enough for his voice to drop lower, teasing. “Is it the move? You’re flustered from earlier, huh?”

You don’t answer. He nudges your leg with his knee.

“You totally are.”

“Kwon. Soonyoung.”

He grins, biting his lip, clearly enjoying himself. “Do you always say my full name when you’re pretending you’re not into me?”

You give him the slowest side-eye humanly possible. “I say your full name when I’m trying not to throw you into a mirror.”

He leans back on his hands, head tilted. “That’s still touching.”

You groan into your hands. “Please go be insufferable somewhere else.”

“Can’t. You’re my favorite person to be insufferable around.”

From across the room, Woozi calls, “Break’s over in one.”

You stand and dust your hands off, already walking away. “Great. Go burn off some of that charm with actual choreography.”

As you turn, you hear him call after you, low and smug, “Yes, ma’am.”

And you don’t see it, but behind you, he’s grinning like he just won a game no one else knows he’s playing.

The rehearsal wraps just past golden hour, the light outside dimming while the studio lights hum overhead. Everyone’s sprawled out across the floor. Dancers with tired limbs, Woozi nursing a bottle of water like his life depends on it, and you barely hanging onto consciousness with your notes stacked on your lap.

It’s the final team meeting before the venue rehearsals. Hyelim ssaem stands near the whiteboard with her clipboard in hand, tapping her pen rhythmically. Everyone perks up slightly. Even Hoshi, who’s been lying flat on the floor like a starfish for the past five minutes, lifts his head.

“Okay,” Hyelim ssaem begins, voice steady and commanding, “great job today. Really. I know this one’s been a tight schedule, but I’m proud of how far we’ve come.”

There’s a collective murmur of thank yous and small bows.

She flips a page. “Let’s just run through the last few solo stage notes before we call it.”

Your head’s already tilted down, scribbling something on your tablet, only half-listening.

“Woozi’s stage is locked in,” she continues. “Live band, lighting cues in, final cut to be sent tomorrow.”

Woozi raises a lazy hand in confirmation.

Then Hyelim ssaem glances at Hoshi. “And for Hoshi’s solo—specifically the break during the bridge—”

You freeze.

Everyone else? Turns. In perfect synchronicity.

To you.

It’s like a wave. Heads swivel, dancers grin, someone even does a dramatic little drumroll on their water bottle. You don’t even look up. “No.”

Hyelim ssaem barely pauses. “Right. So that’s decided then.”

Your head shoots up. “Ssaem—!”

“I think it’s perfect,” she says cheerfully, like you didn’t just open your mouth to protest. “You choreographed it. You know the pace. And your chemistry with Hoshi-ssi is very… natural.”

You choke on absolutely nothing. “What—?!”

“Settled,” she smiles. “Let’s get it blocked properly on stage tomorrow. Great work today, everyone!”

A round of applause breaks out as people begin packing up.

You’re still frozen in place when a shadow falls over you. Hoshi’s standing there, towel around his neck, smug grin in full effect.

“Natural chemistry, huh?”

You glare. “Kwon Soonyoung.”

He crouches beside you, eyes sparkling with a little too much joy. “You know, I didn’t even say anything this time.”

You snap your tablet shut. “Because you didn’t have to. Your smug aura did all the work.”

He stands and offers a hand to pull you up. “Look at it this way. You’re already the highlight of my solo.”

=

It’s much later, after rehearsal you’re just ready to call it a day.

You’re standing in the kitchen, hair still damp from your shower, oversized shirt hanging loose over your shorts, stirring tteokbokki over a low flame. The apartment is quiet, save for the faint bubbling of the sauce and the soft lo-fi playing from your phone.

It’s late, too late for you to be eating, too late for anyone to be visiting  but you’re starving and too wired from rehearsal to sleep. Then you hear it. The soft mechanical beep-beep-beep-beep-beep click of the door code being punched in.

You pause mid-stir, glancing toward the hallway. The lock disengages with a soft clunk, and then the door creaks open.

You don’t even have to ask.

His voice echoes through the apartment a second later, casual and familiar and far too chipper for someone who should be just as exhausted as you.

“Yah, you started eating without me?”

You huff out a laugh and call back, “Don’t you have your own kitchen?”

His footsteps come down the hallway, slow and heavy with that dancer drag, like even gravity knows how dramatic he is.

“Yours tastes better,” Hoshi says as he walks in, already tugging off his jacket. “Plus, my kitchen doesn’t come with you.”

You don’t turn around. “You’re late.”

He appears beside you, peering into the pan like he owns the place  which, to be fair, with how often he’s here, he might as well. His hand finds the small of your back like it’s habit.

You swat him away with your spatula. “Hands off. This is boiling. I will not hesitate.”

He holds both hands up in surrender, grinning. “Wow, scary. You’re still mad about earlier?”

You raise a brow. “You mean the part where literally everyone turned to me like I was the lead actress in your romantic drama? Or the part where Hyelim ssaem volunteered me before I could say anything?”

He shrugs, leaning against the counter with that maddening little smirk. “I think you liked it.”

“Kwon Soonyoung.”

“What? The chemistry’s real. Even ssaem said so.”

You flick a rice cake at him. It bounces off his chest.

He gasps, hand over his heart. “Violence?”

“Starve, then.”

But you’re already plating a second bowl. He grins, watching you with that quiet, soft look that he always seems to wear when you're not paying full attention. 

“I knew you loved me.”

You slide the bowl across the counter and give him a flat look. “I tolerate you. At best.”

He takes a bite, eyes closing dramatically. “Your tolerance tastes amazing.”

You shake your head, finally sitting across from him. “You're annoying.”

He just grins wider. “You keep letting me in.”

“Only because you memorized my door code.”

“Knew it’d come in handy,” he says with a wink.

And in the soft hum of the night, with late snacks and low lights and tired hearts, it’s easy to forget the line between work and whatever this is.

He goes quiet for a moment, chopsticks paused mid-air as he just… looks at you. The way he does sometimes. No teasing, no smirking, just that unreadable seriousness behind his eyes.

You glance up from your bowl, catching it. That look.

“What?” you mumble, mouth half-full of rice cake. “Do I have gochujang on my face?”

“No,” he says, setting his bowl down. “You know you’re perfect for that part, right? Not just because you’re my girlfriend.”

You blink.

He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, voice lower. “It’s because you’re good. You choreographed the whole thing. No one else moves the way you do.”

You snort, leaning back with a roll of your eyes. “Look at you, trying to make up for throwing me under the bus.”

He smirks again, but there’s a softness in it now. “I didn’t throw you. I guided you gently under it. With love.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “So thoughtful.”

“I thought so.”

You squint at him. “You’re lucky I like your face.”

He shrugs, smug. “A lot of people do.”

You chuck a napkin at him. “You’re not supposed to agree with that.”

He catches it mid-air like a reflex, winks. “Sorry. Forgot I’m supposed to be humble when I’m with my talented, gorgeous, terrifying when she’s mad girlfriend.”

You try not to smile but fail. “Kwon Soonyoung…”

“I mean it,” he says softer, picking up a slice of fishcake and holding it out to you. “You’re the best person for that solo. On or off stage.”

You lean forward and take the bite, chewing slowly. “You’re still not off the hook.”

He laughs, reaching across the table to steal a bite from your bowl.

And despite the long day, the exhaustion, the chaos of hiding something that’s become the best part of your life, in this moment, it feels simple. Familiar. His chopsticks clink against yours, and his foot nudges yours under the table.

Later, the kitchen’s been cleaned up in lazy half-effort, bowls soaking in the sink, and the two of you are finally sprawled out on the couch. Limbs tangled, your legs tossed over his lap, his hand absently tracing shapes against your calf.

The TV plays something neither of you are really watching, just soft background noise to the quiet comfort that’s settled in. Your head’s resting against a cushion, one of his hoodies thrown over your shoulders like a blanket.

You glance at him, his profile lit by the warm lamplight, hair still damp from his shower at the studio, eyes heavy with exhaustion but peaceful.

“I’m proud of you,” you say softly, out of nowhere.

His fingers pause for half a second.

“You’ve come a long way, Soonyoung-ah.”

He looks at you then, not teasing or smirking this time, just quietly surprised.

You smile, slow and sincere. “I’ve watched you push yourself past your limits, day in and day out. You work harder than anyone I know. You lead your team, you take care of everyone, and still somehow you manage to be you — all heart, all drive.”

His throat bobs, and for a second, he doesn’t say anything

Then, “You’re gonna make me cry,” he mutters, voice rough

You snort. “You’re the one always getting dramatic during break time. I'm just returning the favor.”

He leans his head back against the couch, hand settling on your knee. “You know… I don’t think I’d have made it through the last year the same way if it weren’t for you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is this where you try to make me cry now?”

He grins, a little softer than usual. “No, I’m serious. You’ve kept me grounded. When things got too loud — too much — you were just… there. Quiet, stubborn, sarcastic, mean to me—”

You smack his arm lightly.

“—and exactly what I needed,” he finishes with a little laugh. “You always believed in me, even when I didn’t.”

You’re quiet for a beat, your chest warm.

Then you mumble, “Okay, now I’m maybe gonna cry a little.”

He turns, tugging you toward him gently until you’re tucked into his side, your head resting on his shoulder.

“Don’t cry,” he murmurs into your hair. “You’ll ruin my hoodie.”

You laugh into his chest. “It’s my hoodie now.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Then it’s our hoodie.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. He can feel it.

He’s quiet for a while, hand gently rubbing up and down your arm, breaths slow and even. Then, almost too casually, he says it:

“You gonna miss me when I’m gone?”

You don’t even hesitate. You smack his chest with the back of your hand. Not hard, just enough to make him laugh.

“I swear, Kwon Soonyoung, I will personally ship you off if you bring up your enlistment one more time.”

He laughs, the sound warm and muffled against your hair.

“You said that last time,” he grins.

“And I meant it then, too.”

But even as you say it, your hand curls tighter around his hoodie, fingers fisting in the fabric as you tug yourself closer, until your body’s pressed fully into his side like you’re trying to anchor him there.

He notices. Of course he does.

His smile softens. “Okay, okay. No more mentioning it.”

You just nod into his chest. Quiet. A beat passes.

Then he adds, “But like… just so I know, how much are you gonna miss me? On a scale of one to crying at my bus?”

You groan. “I change my mind. You’re going tomorrow.”

He laughs again, wrapping both arms around you, pulling you in until he’s half-laughing, half-suffocating you in his chest.

“Yah—Soonyoung—!”

“Shh, I’m savoring this,” he mumbles, pressing his cheek to the top of your head. “My scary, secretly clingy girlfriend.”

“I’m not clingy,” you mumble, even though your arms are still wrapped tight around him.

He grins. “You’re literally strangling me right now.”

“Because you’re annoying.”

He hums, voice low, content. “And you love me anyway.”

You don’t answer right away.

But when your fingers reach up to gently play with the edge of his sleeve, your voice comes out quiet.

“Yeah. I really do.”

And this time, he doesn’t tease. He just holds you tighter.

The quiet settles again, your bodies molded into the shape of comfort, your breathing syncing with his. The warmth, the closeness. It’s one of those rare pockets of stillness you both never get enough of.

Then his phone buzzes on the coffee table.

He groans, reaching out without untangling from you. “If that’s the group chat, I swear—”

He answers on speaker, dragging the phone toward him. “Yah, what is it now?”

Woozi’s voice crackles through, calm as ever. “Relax, I just wanted to double-check the lighting cue for your solo break. They adjusted the beat drop timing again.”

Hoshi sighs. “Yeah, I got it. I’ll tell the team.”

You’re already zoning out, head tucked under his chin again until Woozi adds, almost absently, “Also, don’t forget to tell your girlfriend to bring the backup files. I know you’ll forget.”

The silence after that is immediate.

Your head slowly lifts.

Hoshi’s eyes widen.

He stares at the phone.

Then at you.

Then back at the phone.

“Yah” he says slowly, “how did you know?”

There’s a short pause, like Woozi expected this reaction.

Then, flatly: “Soonyoung, you’re not subtle.”

“I am subtle,” Hoshi argues, looking truly offended. “We’ve been sneaky for almost a year!”

He turns to you, “How did he know??”

You snort, finally sitting up properly. “You’re asking me how he knew? He’s your member. Your best friend.”

He looks at you, betrayed. “You told him.”

“I didn’t! Why would I tell him? You talk to him more than I do!”

“He’s like Sherlock! Did he see something?! Did we slip up?!”

“You winked at me on stage last week,” you say dryly

“That was a neutral wink.”

“There’s no such thing as a neutral wink.”

Woozi’s voice comes through again, still painfully calm. “I literally watched you stare at her like a love-sick idiot during lunch. And you called her jagiya when you thought no one was listening.”

Hoshi buries his face in his hands. “I whispered that—”

“It was mic’d, genius.”

You burst out laughing, grabbing a pillow to hide your face as Hoshi groans like the world is ending.

Woozi finishes with, “Anyway. Just bring the files. See you tomorrow.”

The call ends.

Silence.

Then you poke his arm. “So, love-sick idiot, huh?”

He glares at you over his fingers. “I’m never showing affection again.”

You grin. “Good luck with that.”

And despite his embarrassment, his lips twitch because even mortified and exposed, he’s still the guy in love with you. Mic’d winks and all.

[scarletwinterxx]

Heyy 😊

I was wondering if you’d be up for writing a Scoups fic sometime! Honestly, I’m not picky about the plot I’m just really craving some good Seungcheol fluff and/or angst right now. Totally no pressure if you’re not feeling it, but I’d love to see what you come up with if you’re down. Thanks so much either way!! 💗

I am very much down to write more coups fic , I am working on one so far im compiling the requests for him then ill see what I can do. Just a little bit more wait🥺 thank youuuuuu