se7vnn

[se7vnn]

ghost ride | part one.

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 25k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: the first chapter is here!

as always, the patience and grace from everyone has been super appreciated! i have never had so much fun writing a fic. through the sad and the bad, the mad and the rad, i absorbed every moment! and i hope those that give this fic a chance enjoy it just as much <3

vernon in this fic is the same vernon from my wonwoo series, HER! but you do not need to read HER to understand ghost ride!

what to note:

there are seven parts in the series

releases are weekly, ~12am EST, sunday!

inspo playlist!

if at any point you want on or off the taglist, comment/inbox/msg me!

additionally, the chapters/parts are lengthy. the first six parts are between 24-27k while the finale/ending is 30k+!

✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07

PS: please note that i block contentless blogs who like my posts!

THIS WEEK: Let's Help The Sameer Project!

leave a comment or make a reblog stating something you enjoyed abt the chapter! at the end of the week, i will tally all legitimate comments/reblogs and make a donation to said organization.

IE: this chapter gets 15 comments, 25 reblogs - i donate 40$! pls note that i am a uni student living away from home so i will vary my donations accordingly to my financial situation at the time <3

18 MONTHS AGO.

“Hey, move your hands.”

You were staring down the narrow hallway, focused on the single, sad window at the very end. Nighttime was gradually descending outside.

A dark shade of prussian blue tinted the atmosphere and caused the dull, white walls to seem brighter than they actually were. Beyond the window, you could see into an apartment flat—specifically a cozy kitchenette that had rosy orange tiles—where two girls were cooking on the stove. They danced around each other, jumping, weaving, and twirling. You squinted at their lips and the lyrics they seemingly mouthed. Their smiles were so easygoing, like melting butter slipping around inside a hot, waxy pan.

“Hey—yoo hoo—can you move your hands?”

With teeth gnawing down on your inner cheek, you stared harder at their expressions, and particularly, their lips, using all your concentration to conceive what it was they were singing along to so frivolously.

Around the moment they started snapping their fingers, it hit you.

‘Cause you’re my lady, I’m your fool It makes me crazy when you act so cruel Come on, baby, let’s not fight We’ll go dancing, everything will be alright

“Hey, Miss Lala Land! Move your fuckin’ hands off the pass! These plates have to go here! Get the freakin’ cotton out of your ears.”

“Oh—oh! Shoot—I’m so sorry!”

In an instant, you had ripped your hands from the metal counter, letting the cook place down a tray of steaming plates. The way he was scowling at you—red in the face, sweaty forehead pinched together, nose crinkled—pulled out all that delirium from your brain as though someone were coiling up a string. He adjusted the blue kaleidoscope-patterned bandana covering his hair, the scowl now seeming ironed to his skin.

“You’re gonna get axed doing shit like that.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Get this order out,” he croaked, tossing his hand up like you were some pest. “Table twelve. Try not to get distracted by a soup spoon.”

“Uh, yes. Right away.”

Hoisting up the weighted, warm tray so it could partly balance on your shoulder, you side-hipped through the swinging doors and into the packed dining area that bustled with conversation. Your table was somewhere in the middle. It was occupied by three older men, still dressed in their work attire. All-black shirts smeared with dust, heavy corduroy pants, sunglasses in the spiked hair, and construction boots that were beginning to unlace.

They were from the scaffolding expansion project down the street.

You were familiar with them. Unfortunately.

“Awe, there she is!” One of them guffawed at you.

Lowering the tray to rest halfway on the table, you began passing out their plates as quick as you could, keening to keep conversation short.

“Here I am,” you chuckled, though the syllables audibly shook.

“You’re a bit late, there, aren’t you?” Another man taunted, scratching against his ear with the sunglasses. “Just you back there?”

“Uh, nope.” Your laugh was full of anxious breath. “It’s a busy night. The kitchen’s just a bit backed up is all. I’m very sorry for the wait.”

“Woah, woah—I didn’t order a fuckin’ steak.”

“Oh, uh. My bad. That was supposed to go to…” you paused, staring around the table. Your mind decided right then was the perfect moment to become literal mush—applesauce—in your skull. “I could have sworn that—uh—wait, I’m sorry. Maybe there was a mistake—”

As the man brought his large, beer-filled mug to press against his chapped lips, he started snickering. In seconds, all you heard was their uproarious laughter, and you were suddenly thrust into being the humiliating stump of an ineffective joke that pushed tears to nettle like beestings behind your eyes. The man wiped his mouth of foam and alcohol. “Got you, didn’t I?” He spat out, reeling. “Steak’s mine. That look on your face—are you on your last straw? They gonna throw you out?”

“I-I guess they won’t be anymore.” You stapled on a smile that couldn’t have looked more pathetic, all in an attempt to ride along with their proud little skit. Your lips felt sewn, warbling with emotion. “Lucky me.”

“Yeah, damn right. Lucky you!”

“Well, enjoy your food… need any refills?” The question was dragged from between your teeth in utmost reluctance.

“Nah, we’re settled.” Thank the lord. “Later, though. We might need you later. We go through these things like chips,” he said, raising up his golden mug with the condensation streaming down it.

At times this job was a viper, waiting to execute the perfect killing bite. For every polite, well-mannered table that actually treated you like a human rather than a minimum wage worker doormat, there was always another table that speared your guts. Sometimes it felt like a dice roll, other times, a very cruel, purposeful plot patched together by the universe’s own needle and thread. With fists clenched up and the tears lacquering your eyes, you were gunning for the doorway into the backroom.

“Hey, can I grab you quick?!”

Your toe pressed hard into the scuffed linoleum floor.

Dread slammed into you. Edging your head to the left, there was a small, circular table, occupied by just a single person—a young man. He already had a half-emptied plate. From your distant inspection, it looked like the ravioli. He wasn’t your table.

But you still swallowed your emotional bile and tended to him.

“Sorry. What’s the problem?”

“Oh, there’s no problem,” he clarified, smiling. His cordial, relaxed tone was a breath of fresh air that you wanted to whiff like fresh lavender. “My waiter—he was supposed to grab me a refill on the seltzer. It’s just been, like, twenty minutes or so since I asked. Was just wondering if you had the time.”

“The seltzer?” You repeated, eyes widening.

“It’s cranberry.”

He continued to stare at you, meanwhile you just stood there, dumbly, looking at his emptied glass. Your mind was fried. “Uh, I’m sorry. Okay. Yes! The cranberry seltzer! I can get you some more of that, for sorry—I mean—for sure.” You wanted someone to come put you out of your misery. Whack you straight in the head with a chair.

But the stranger seemed pleased to wait. He didn’t even bother to make an unfunny sneer, or exhale a shaming laugh. In fact, his gaze was sympathetic, and you found yourself dreaming into the deep, sensitive hues of forestry brown that inhabited his eyes, with long, plentiful lashes to shade them. His skin was very tanned and his dark hair shiny like gloss. It was an undercut, with the longer tresses combed backward. Spilt across his cheeks and nose was a constellation of freckles. He looked beautifully polka-dotted.

“Thank you,” he said.

You blinked at him. “What?”

He tilted his head, grinned softly, “for the seltzer.”

“Oh, yes! I’m gonna go grab it!”

When you returned to his table, he leaned back in his seat, allowing you to replace the empty glass with a brand new one that fizzled in the scent of carbonated cranberries. It wasn’t until he smiled for the umpteenth time that you realized he had magnificent dimples, and that one of them was pierced with a small silver ball. You shouldn’t scour your eyes all over him like a paint roller, but it was rare you waited on such kind, endearing faces.

“Appreciate it, thanks.”

“No problem.” You hovered for a second despite the urgent need to check your other tables—the tables you were actually supposed to be caring for—although your body was unwilling to move.

It seemed you were rooted to the floor, drawn into the safe, calm feeling of the stranger’s presence as though it were some invisible aura haloing around you. But you didn’t want to get in trouble. Again. So, you opted to leave and let the stranger enjoy his ravioli.

“Hey,” he called.

You stopped on a dime, returning to his side.

“Those guys, do they come here often?” He cocked his head backward at table twelve, which seated the obnoxious construction workers, still laughing, still gouging their mouthes with food.

Fiddling with the empty glass, you nodded. “Yes. At least once a week. There’s a huge group of them working to expand the townhouse units down the street. Most are pretty nice. They come with their wives, occasionally. Others… they suck.” Remembering you were still on the clock, you hastily fumbled to defend your choice wording. “But they’re customers at the end of the day!”

“It must be hard, dealing with that.”

“Uh, yeah. It gets rowdy sometimes. I’m still trying to adjust here.”

“You’re new?”

“Relatively,” you responded, staring down at the glass. “Just trying to make some extra money. Uni fees and all that. I’m sure you get it.”

He sipped from his seltzer, wiped the edge of his mouth, and then relaxed back into the chair with a comfy smile. “I’m not a student, actually.”

Squeezing the glass, your eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh—you mean you’re a graduate now.”

He shook his head. “No. I never went to school.” Your mouth lowered, and you were in the midst of scrambling to reorient yourself such that you didn’t appear so ignorant, but then he said, “do you walk home?”

You swallowed. “I bus.”

“Oh, so you’re far?”

“Not that far. But far enough to bus.”

“Alone?” His dense brow raised in concern while his lustrous eyes flecked with intrigue. He then jabbed an orange ravioli onto his fork.

“Um… well… sometimes. Most times. Not always.”

“Forty-one to Alta Heights?”

“Ha, yeah. It’s popular. Usually packed.”

“I've seen.” He shrugged, readying the ravioli before his mouth, but pausing briefly. “You’re sweet. Just gotta hold your ground a little more, you know?” He started chewing, and then forked another ravioli, running it around the brightly coloured sauce.

You didn’t speak.

Someone whisked by you quick, tapping your back and leaving behind a hissed whisper that crawled its way into your ear like a bug.

“He’s my table. Beat it.”

With a sigh, you did as you were told.

It wasn’t until you left the restaurant for the night that you realized it was raining. Not hard rain, but delicate drops. The kind that tickled while still persisting to wet the dark streets until they glimmered reflections of the neon store signs. You had only a casual, lightweight jacket—more a windbreaker than anything—and it didn’t even have a hood. After zipping it up, you adjusted the bag strewn over your shoulder. The strap was rough, thick fabric with a colourful pattern, but the leather itself was a simplistic cinnamon. It had only two pockets. One big and one small.

Since middle school, you had this bag.

You graduated university last year, and you still had it.

Something about that fact was comforting.

As you were waiting to cross the street for the bus stop, a voice called for you. When you turned, he was there.

Leaned against a lamp post, huffing on a cigarette. His jacket looked much warmer than yours. It was fleecy, unzipped, and checkered with various greens. When he brushed his dark hair back, you swore the strands glittered like they were pure satin. The light showering him made all his freckles visible. You had this sinking feeling. You would never see him again.

“Home?” He questioned.

You were silent for a moment, pondering, while your tongue pushed against your bottom teeth. “No. I’m going somewhere… but I can’t say where or what, really. But if you know, then it’s obvious, and—”

“Well, Tyler Durden better hurry before he misses the bus.”

His eyes gleamed at you.

Yours were positively gleaming back.

“I’m off. Night.” He flicked the stumpy cigarette onto the ground, then stepped on it once, blending the paper into the slick cement.

For some reason, you couldn’t even formulate a friendly goodbye or goodnight in response, rather your brain, charred like a burnt marshmallow, could only project utter blankness as the stranger walked away. Nonetheless, you stood there, observing his back, until a very strong gust of wind whipped through the crisp air, sweeping up his fleece jacket for no more than a second.

And that’s when you saw nothing apart from a catatonic glimpse—the handle to a Glock sticking out his pants. Your mouth opened. The wind settled and his jacket fluttered back down.

Even worse was yet to come.

You had missed the stupid bus.

12 MONTHS AGO.

“No way. That’s so gross—actually, that’s disgusting. Wait—and did she… she did! Of course she would. We need to like, schedule an intervention or something… yeah… just tell her there’s booze.”

There was a burnt piece of toast staring up at you, half-smeared in peanut butter that you had piously scraped the container to knife out. Ruby was supposed to fetch groceries the other day, but she coincidentally went drinking with her friends instead and now you were about to eat the saddest toast in history. While reaching into the fridge for some juice, you shot your roommate a sharp glance from across the room.

Sat criss-crossed on the couch, dressed in her smallest tank top and shorts, glistening hair thrown into a lopsided bun, while she ate her unfinished pint of ice cream and blabbered at her phone. It wasn’t meant to be a scornful, judgy look, although it was hard to control your intention at eight in the morning on a grumbling stomach and little to no sleep. You took the juice and toast into your bedroom, deciding to sit at the cluttered desk you had pressed up against the window. There wasn’t much to marvel except the grey complex parking lot and its surrounding wooden fence, although it was better than hearing about Ruby’s friend vomiting on herself.

For the past year, she had been your roommate.

She didn’t attend your university.

In fact, you had never seen Ruby a day in your life until you happened across her profile on one of those housing websites, where people posted listings for sublets, available rooms, and lease takeovers.

Ruby (she/her), 24, looking for a roommate! Hey all, I have a room available in a 2 bedroom, 1 bath apartment. See attached pictures!

A little about me… I’m a full-time waitress at Mr. York’s I love a good night out! Very easygoing roomie :)

Tell me some stuff about you as well if you’re interested!

After reading further into the ad, you knew there was no pondering the situation—the cost for rent and utilities was reasonable, and while the place wasn’t in tip-top modernized condition, it would suffice just fine. Ruby was pleasant and cooperative in her messages. The few times you had video-called, you were relieved to see she wasn’t a catfish of some sort—she was a glimmery haired, red-streaked brunette with olive skin inked by the occasional tattoo. Her striking hazel eyes could be summer ponds doused in sunlight. She even offered to help get you a waitressing job at Mr. York’s. It was true—she did seem easygoing—and within a month you were moved in.

There was a knock at your door.

“Yeah?” You shouted.

Ruby poked her head into the room, the phone lowered to her neck. “Hey, uh—wow, it smells like peanut butter in here—some friends and I are going out tomorrow night. This great Mexican food truck only has a week left at Cedar Point Park and we have to try it.” She lifted her trimmed eyebrows, reddish, thin, and neat. “You can bring a friend if you want to. What about Diana? Would she be interested?”

Ruby always suggested you could bring a friend.

And for some reason, that friend was always Diana, even despite the fact you two hadn’t spoken since you graduated university.

“Uh, think I’ll pass,” you answered, smiling. “Work. I hope you guys have fun, though. Hey—you’re not going to the conference?”

She proceeded to shrug, scratching at the gem piercing stabbed right above her cupid’s bow. “No. I mean, it’s not mandatory. They’ll just ask someone else. It’s corporate bore for a week.” The company she was employed under hosted several Humanitarian conferences throughout the year. Ruby passed on most of them. “I’ll bring you back food, okay?”

While you had your qualms about Ruby as a roommate—and there were a large number of them—she was still compassionate and constantly attempting to include you in her adventures. However, sometimes those adventures lasted until the faint purples of twilight, and contained potent enough liquor to thoroughly disinfect an amputated leg, and twisted manically throughout the city streets akin to a labyrinth. That just wasn’t your shtick.

Working two jobs to pay off your student loans, support your future, and find independence was your shtick, and it engulfed your life to a degree that Ruby probably noted as concerning.

After breakfast, you slipped into a bright red uniform shirt and grabbed your metal pin nameplate for work at Common Cents, an aged convenience store sat on a semi-populated street corner. You had gotten a job there shortly after the hostess gig at Mr. York’s, and you were able to make it fit, working strictly morning shifts in order to maintain waitressing during the evenings. The walk to Common Cents wasn’t long, fifteen minutes or so, and by the time you arrived at the corner store with your cinnamon shoulder-strung bag and the early glints of warm sunshine stinging your eyes, you noticed a long, coiled hose leading around to the back alley.

That’s where you found Soonyoung, blasting the brick wall with a sloppy stream of cold water, while soap suds bubbled under his feet.

Picking up a window-scraping brush from the ground, you approached him, tapping the bristles softly against his shoulder. He always wore headphones. You thought he was going deaf. But he fiercely disagreed.

“Hey—what are you doing?”

Soonyoung partially removed the headset from his ear. “What?”

You smiled, deciding to poke his leg with the damp brush again. “I said, what are you doing? Did you even open up the store? It’s almost nine.”

“Oh, uh—,” Soonyoung reached into a large pocket on his knee-length black shorts that seemed one size too big for him, pausing the music from his phone, “—well, I got most of it off. But the wall got graffitied.”

“Really?” Stabbing the long brush into the ground like a cane, you examined the brick, realizing there were streaks of the design left behind, though Soonyoung’s dutiful scrubbing and hosing had nearly removed it.

“Yeah. Mixed up some chemical shit into the water bucket over there. Rubbed the damn wall so hard, my arm felt like spaghetti.” He then started spraying the foamy residue at his feet until it fizzled away.

“So, the store’s not open?”

“It is,” Soonyoung nodded. “That’s where I got all this stuff from.”

“You can’t leave the store open with no one inside!”

He waved his hand through the air dismissively, adjusting the backwards black cap that he preferred wearing to hide his often smushed hair, which was a very distinct platinum blonde colour.  “Relax, alright?”

“Soonyoung.”

“It’s fine. You won’t get fired. I won’t get fired. This isn’t the first time I’ve scraped doodles off the wall and it probably won’t be the last, either.” He took the brush from you, letting it stand in the plaster bucket, while water from the hose continued running all across the pavement. “You gotta stop worrying all the damn time. Roll out your shoulders for once.”

Sighing, you heeded his advice, feeling something crack.

It was too early to be this stressed.

“What was the graffiti?”

“That octopus shit.”

“Again? Why do they like the wall so much?”

Rubbing at his sun-bleached eyebrow, Soonyoung shrugged. “Don’t know. Honestly, like—I don’t even hate graffiti—I have no problems with it, actually. Until I’ve gotta be the one to clean that shit up. Then I start having problems. Patsy flipped her shit when she saw the first squid.”

“Octopus.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, well, she was angry as hell. But I still had to clean it.”

This was the third time the back wall had been tagged since you became a clerk at the corner store. An octopus, then a stuffy conglomeration of large bright letters you could hardly discern, and now, another octopus.

Foolishly, you had made a comment to your boss, Patsy, that the big block letters and the octopus were done by the same artist. She almost spat at the fact you used the term artist to describe their “inconsiderate and shallow manner of expressing themselves” in Patsy’s language, and then you received a very thorough, lengthy biopsy of the graffiti that suggested they were painted by two totally different “hopeless delinquents” (again, in Patsy’s language).

Similar to Soonyoung, you didn’t particularly care about the graffiti.

If anything, you were curious.

“Okay, I’ll leave you to it.” You took a few steps around the puddles beginning to develop in the cracked pavement. “I—I’m gonna go inside. I’ll get the register set up. Do we need to refill the scratch tickets at all?”

But when you turned around, Soonyoung already had his thick headset back on, the hose returned to waterboarding the wall. “What?!” He shouted upon noticing you staring at him.

You merely shook your head. “Nothing.”

Working the corner store every morning to afternoon was quite boring compared to Mr. York’s. Good boring, though. No shuffling around on your aching feet for nearly eight hours, or balancing heavy trays of hot, expensive food from table to table while expectant diners observed your every move. You mostly sat at the corner store, flicking through pages to laminated magazines while a fan small enough to fit on the counter blew air into your face. On occasion there were questionable customers.

A few altercations over lottery tickets or cigarettes.

But, so far, it hadn’t been anything you couldn’t handle.

Soonyoung came inside, the hose coiled up and looped through his arm while he handled the plaster bucket and window-scraping brush hurriedly toppling past the counter to the storage closet where you heard him throw all the supplies onto the floor. You did like Soonyoung, even if you weren’t particularly great friends. Just coworkers. When you first met him, his blonde hair was finely buzzed and dyed with purple-patterned stars, fingernails brushed in navy blue polish steadily chipping, and ears clustered with numerous piercings that either dangled or glittered.

He appeared similar to some of the flashy models you flipped past in the magazines, advertising jewelry or very bizarre fashion items that never seemed wearable beyond the glossy page you would be fiddling with. He was hired by the previous manager of Common Cents—otherwise Patsy would have taken one look at his self-expression and likely fainted.

Now, he came to work more toned-down.

“Alright, here’s some boxes of Mountain Brewers soda. Fridges have to be restocked.” The boy maneuvered a stacked dolly in front of the counter as you leaned closer into the fan’s breeze. “I’ll man the register and get those Encore tickets sorted. I bet that biker dude is gonna come by soon.”

“I’m usually register,” you said, flattening out your lips.

Soonyoung lifted up his backward cap, fingers dragging through the limp platinum fronds underneath. “Yeah, well, you didn’t just scrub a freaky looking octopus off a brick wall for thirty minutes. Cut me some slack.”

“I helped the last time.”

“Well, this isn’t last time.”

He was kind of right. You felt stupid for making the comment.

With a huff, you started pushing the weighted dolly toward the fridges against the wall while Soonyoung claimed your position at the counter, immediately aiming the fan at himself. As you mindlessly organized the different flavoured sodas, you thought about Ruby’s invite to try the Mexican food truck at the park down by the river. They probably had nice crispy molotes with fresh sour cream—those were your favourite, and it had felt like ages since you last ate one. At the time, you were still friends with Diana. You two had made a habit to try all different types of street food from the international market close to your university, and you distinctly remembered the way your tastebuds marveled in excitement from all the unique flavours. Moving a cherry soda into the fridge, you sighed.

You just didn’t know Ruby’s friends that well. You would have to meet them after work at Mr. York’s, when you would be fully exhausted and dragging your poor feet like cinder blocks. 

Life honestly just sucked sometimes.

There was really no other way to put it.

“I’m sorry—excuse me, sorry—can I get through?”

It had been a rough night. Though the restaurant brought in the most money on Fridays, and you understood that was a good thing, the crowd that came with it was headache inducing—the kind that made you want to tear off your apron and throw it on the ground, then proceed to stomp on it until the fabric became one with the floor. You took an aspirin before your shift despite knowing how little it would actually help. But you were a wishful thinker from time to time. Unfortunately for you, the world didn’t oblige.

“My bus is going to come soon. Please. I need through.”

One table, a party of ten celebrating this posh businesswoman’s birthday, had you scrambling in between the dining room and kitchen like a cat running after a frolicky mouse. Except there was no tasty reward on your end. You swore, that woman and her sleek, ironed bob that whipped ever so dramatically whenever she turned her head had taken utmost pleasure in ordering you around. At one point you considered dropping the platter of peony champagne glasses onto her lap, just to ruin her corporate-looking pantsuit that she probably had some underpaid assistant dry clean for her.

To make matters worse, they stayed late.

Chatting and drinking up a storm.

Hearing their laughter as you skulked in the restaurant shadows, angrily polishing the tables, waiting for them to leave, was the sound of money fluttering down from the sky. When they did choose to depart, the businesswoman made sure to robotically twist her enhanced pillow lips into a fake smile that never quite reached her eyes as she waved at you.

Now, they were all cluttered up just outside the restaurant, wrapped in their luxury furs and suedes and cashmeres, puffing from cigarettes. Time didn’t move for worriless people like them.

But for the bus that was approaching the stop across the street, funneling ample exhaust into the October nighttime air—your only ticket to getting home unless you hailed a taxi or paid for a lift—time was most definitely moving. In fact, it felt sped up. A stream of water without debris. After another barge through the crowd who couldn’t care less about your mundane, underprivileged issues, cigarette smoke and floral perfumes swarming your senses like hostile bees, you at last erupted onto the street, beginning to run across while fishing out the bus pass from your bag.

Yes, it was slightly stupid to charge onto the road without looking.

That was made quite apparent.

“Hey, you crazy fucking girl! Watch what the fuck you’re doing!”

A man was leaned out the window to an SUV that was darker than night itself, though celestially shining, like it had never been touched.

He wasn’t even the driver.

Just a reasonably pissed-off passenger.

“Sorry!” You squeaked aloud, catching nothing more than the blurred details to his bewildered snarl and pale skin. “The bus! That’s all!”

A stroke of luck was in your hands tonight, like capturing a falling star from the constellated sky—the bus had stopped to let you on—and while it was undeniably uncomfortable to walk down the aisle, past the half-second glances from strangers who almost watched you become a literal human pancake, you collapsed into an open seat with relief. Once you shouldered off the weathered bag and untangled your earbuds, you listened to music from your phone, head rested against the bus window despite all the little bumps and thumps in the road. It didn’t matter at that point.

You forgot that Ruby wouldn’t be home. She was likely at some club by now, stuffed off flavourful street tacos and her favourite tostadas, dancing away with all her rambunctious friends, sweating, cramping, and tired, but probably happier than you’d ever be.

The apartment was dark and quiet when you entered. Dirty dishes full in the sink. Ruby’s makeup scattered all across the washroom countertop. The ceiling fan above the coffee table still whirring faintly. With what little energy could be mustered, you managed to get your teeth brushed and your pyjamas on. Then, you were faceplanting into bed, giving the sheets a few measly, weak tugs such that they hardly covered you. At least the weekend was here. You could relax. Ruby tended to come home at the ungodliest hours. Most times, you never even heard her, unless she bumped into something particularly hard through the shapeless black night.

But you were much too exhausted to care.

“Yeah, whatever! Go shove it, asshole! I’m calling the cops next time!”

“I bet you will! Raging bitch!”

“Get the fuck out of here!”

You thought you might need a crowbar to pry open your eyes, they were so crusted with deep, almost death-teetering sleep. Just outside your window, however, the shouting was loud enough to somehow rattle you awake, bit by bit, until you were sitting up in bed and swirling around your tongue to introduce some moisture to your dry mouth. Stumbling toward the curtains, you peeked through just a thin sliver, the intense brightness taking a moment to adjust to while you leaned across your desk.

There was one couple down the hall that had gotten into some very bitter spats in the past—if couple was even the right word—and it seemed that still Saturday mornings were no exception to their feuding. She was in her usual bathrobe and slippers, arms folded tight across the chest, as she glared at the clumsily dressed man hopping into his car, tossing out one more venomous-sounding profanity before burning rubber out the parking lot. Give it two weeks. He would be right back. And she’d let him.

It didn’t take long for your stomach to realize you were awake.

Hungry, you stepped into the kitchen, immediately opening the fridge to see if Ruby had stored any leftovers from the food truck inside, though you were quite disappointed to realize there was nothing. Hopelessly pushing aside old containers and produce, you huffed out a large sigh.

You supposed that meant burnt peanut butter toast. In an attempt to palate the idea, you poured a glass of juice and began walking into the living room, thinking you might watch television.

But that’s not what happened at all.

Because someone was sitting on your couch.

Someone who was not Ruby, nor a friend you could recognize.

It was a man, with his legs spread out like he paid rent, poking a fork into a white takeout box of Mexican food. In that moment, you could only stand there, stupefied, wondering if it was more appropriate to scream, run into Ruby’s room crying, or pinch yourself.

He glanced up at you, raising his fork speared with something colourful, before shoving the utensil in his mouth. “Mornin’.”

You said nothing in response.

Instead, you set your juice on the counter, went straight to Ruby’s room, entering without a single knock—very ignorant to the fact she had probably come home at four in the morning and was nowhere near prepared to wake up at that exact second—and immediately started shaking her. The girl’s body was heavy and limp like a corpse, except she was warm.

“Ruby, wake up,” you whisper-shouted with unprecedented urgency. “Wake up, wake up, wake up. Please wake up.” When she still refused to stir, you lightly slapped her face a few times. “Please, Ruby. I need you to wake up. There’s a random freaking guy on our couch and—”

“W-What? What are you doing? What time is it?”

You nearly gasped in relief when your roommate started mumbling and groaning. The sheets were partly wrapped around her like a vampire using their cape to shield themselves from burning sunlight, to which you started pulling them off, not caring that she was half-dressed or smelling like club sweat mixed with alcohol. Ruby scratched at her messy bedhead.

“I don’t know the time—it’s eight-something—but there’s a guy out there, Ruby! A literal man! He’s eating my Mexican food. He’s—”

“Girl, what?” She squinted at you, rubbing some lipstick off her teeth that she never managed to clean. “Are you talking about Vernon?”

“Who’s Vernon?”

“Probably the guy on our couch eating Mexican food.”

“And—you—are you—he’s a friend of yours?”

Grumbling, Ruby got to her feet, picking up a pair of shorts left in a lump on the carpet to wear. She slapped at her nightstand, finding the glasses she was looking for—and her hazel eyes immediately grew in size—admittedly allowing you to see all the annoyance they harboured.

Chewing nervously on your fingernail, you followed Ruby past the kitchen and back into the living room, where her friend—Vernon—was playing something on the TV while sipping from your juice.

She paused, huffed, and then gestured at him wildly. “This is Vernon!”

You folded your arms. “How was I supposed to know!”

“Because I texted you!”

“Well, I just—I haven’t even looked at my phone yet!”

“You haven’t?”

“No.”

Ruby rubbed something off her cheek. It was too early for her to be arguing with you, and she seemed to realize that as she picked at her tight shorts and sighed. “Okay, okay. That’s fine. Whatever. But now you know.”

Taking a few steps closer to her, keeping your voice hushed, you murmured, “why is he here? He’s—” you paused, glimpsing around her shoulder to see that so-called Vernon was still watching the television, blissfully not giving a damn about the evident conversation concerning him a mere few feet away, “—he’s eating my leftovers! And drinking my juice!”

“He’s a vulture. Like most men.” She shrugged.

“Why is he still here?”

“I ran into him last night. We got to talking. He’s gonna be in the city for a while. He’s got some stuff to deal with. I told him it was okay if he crashed here every now and then. It’s no big deal. You won’t even notice.”

“Uh, Ruby—” you gagged at her, “—I am noticing. I am very, very much so noticing! That’s a big choice to make—without me, I should add—and I just—I don’t think that—I don’t know him! He’s a stranger!”

“Well, take this as an opportunity to make a friend. Start chatting,” she responded while beginning to yawn, still half-asleep. “I’m going back to bed. I’ll get you some good grub another time, alright?”

And then your roommate dared to leave, groggily swinging her way back toward the shadowy bedroom that she soon isolated herself inside. You were left to stare at the unbothered stranger—the guy—some random man—who was sipping at your favourite flavour of pink Very Berry juice after eating the cold but still delicious molotes that were supposed to be your breakfast.

The situation was so unforeseen, you couldn’t even be sure if you were mad. You felt something earthing around in your gut like worms.

He turned to look at you, pushing out his bottom lip. “Damn. Sorry you got yelled at.” Your eyebrow twitched—you sensed it—a tiny muscle spasm. “Want the last sip?” He held out the nearly emptied glass.

Vernon didn’t appear like any of Ruby’s friends that you had briefly met though seldom engaged with over the months. No, he was much different, in such a stark, almost disorientating way, somewhat akin to vertigo as your gaze narrowed and you tried to make his face stop swaying.

“No, I don’t want the last sip,” you said, nettled.

He smirked at you. “Didn’t want you to have it anyway.”

It was eight-something in the morning and you were aflame.

He tipped the rest of the juice into his mouth, then slapped the empty glass onto the coffee table, proceeding to relax and extend his arm against the back of the couch. Swiftly, he glanced over your figure. “Nice pyjamas you got there.”

Looking down at the shirt you were wearing, your stomach wrinkled up like a dried-out fruit—it was an old t-shirt, to be fair—not really intended to be seen by anyone other than family and your roommate. After all, it was gifted to you by your grandma a few years ago, a sort of grace for staying an entire week with her at the retirement home, where strolls through the courtyard, dusty boardgames, and outdated television reruns were the only entertainment. The shirt’s colour was cloudy white besides an image in the centre of an animated purple pony trotting through a field. Find Your Wild! was the exclamation curving along a rainbow. Unbeknownst to your grandma, you had stopped liking ponies when you were twelve.

Quite frankly, it was not the shirt you wanted a man who looked and sounded like Vernon to see you wearing.

There was an edge about him. His forearms crawled in tattoos, darkly needled, clean, and interspersed with what you interpreted to be care, even if it was half-hearted. When you saw the metal piercing dug through his eyebrow and the shiny ring around his soft-looking bottom lip, you thought of your boss at Common Cents, Patsy, who had made an off-handed comment about a face-studded girl after she left the convenience store: such pretty features ruined by all that metal! Except, you didn’t think it ruined his features. He was fortunate to have such lustrous, coppery eyes and long, wisped lashes, thick enough to paint a canvas. It made you frustrated.

Why do guys always get what they don’t deserve!

His hair was sooty black, shiny, like flints ground into a fine powder, curtained at his forehead. Ruby had never mentioned him. Maybe they were exes. Maybe something worse.

“Thanks…” you finally came to mutter. You wanted him gone, but you weren’t sure how to say it. “How long are you staying?”

Vernon crossed his arms, shrugged. “Dunno. For a while.”

“Okay… well… do you have a timeframe?”

He proceeded to flash you a lazy smile that was slight teeth but hundred-percent cockiness. “Yeah—it’s a while.”

You were on the cusp of releasing fumes like a broken gas canister as you began hugging yourself tight. “I’m going to my room,” you grumbled, proceeding to slam the door shut and jump back into bed.

Vernon shouldn’t be here. That was all you could be certain of.

Ruby slept for two more hours before officially waking up. You heard the washroom door close, and that weird thumping sound the old water pipes made whenever the shower started, as you continued to roll around in bed, distraught with frustration. You were mad at Ruby for making such a decision without you. You were mad she had basically just allowed this random man a free pass into your apartment whenever he pleased, even if he was her friend. You were mad that a relaxing Saturday morning was ultimately spoiled by a smug and inconsiderate stranger.

She joined him in the living room after showering. Even with your head swathed underneath the covers, their laughter still found its way to you in irritable fashion, like a baby who wouldn’t stop shaking their rattler.

He did end up leaving around lunch time.

In fact, you watched him discreetly from your window. Vernon strolled into the parking lot and got into an older style of vanilla Camry that you remembered your mother owning back when you were in primary school.

That was your cue.

Marching into the living room, you saw Ruby cleaning up small, thin translucent papers from the coffee table. There was a heavy stench in the air, tart and burning and likely the reason for the pronounced redness watering your roommate’s eyes. She tucked the papers into a plastic bag.

“Ruby—did you both smoke? Did he just get into a car? And drive away? High?” You pestered the girl with questions. “What’s going on?”

“I smoked,” she clarified, tucking a crimson streak of hair behind her ear, smiling at you. “He didn’t smoke. But he gave me the nugget.”

Sighing, you collapsed next to her on the couch cushions. “I’m not okay with this,” you said, staring at the television.

You rarely made your grievances known to Ruby. She was always so mellow about everything that you thought you should be that way, too. But you weren’t. It was impossible.

“It’s not gonna be what you think it is,” Ruby attempted to reassure you, thumbing over a scab on her knee. “He’s not some weirdo who’s gonna be couch-potatoing here every day. Vernon’s a lot more competent than that. He’ll drop by from time to time. That’s probably it. No worries.”

Staring at her earnestly, your head shook. “Well, I am worrying. I don’t know him, Ruby! I mean, I just wish you had waited to confide in me first…” picking at a loose thread from the sofa, your mind was racing with a plethora of thoughts that felt too jumbled for articulation. “I don’t think you’ve ever brought him up before. Can I least know how you guys are friends? Can I know anything about him that will make me feel better?”

“We used to work together at Putting Edge—the mini-put golf course place.” Okay, that didn’t seem so bad. You were on board with that. He has, or had, a job. Ruby began itching her face. “Then he started dealing to me. Like, weed and stuff. Oh—and the molly. I don’t know where he was getting that shit from, but it was heavenly.” She let herself sink back into the cushions, eyes fluttering shut.

Meanwhile you were sitting up straighter than a board. “What?”

“He’s chill.”

“No—wait—he’s a drug dealer?!” You were off the couch, nearly clambering over the coffee table, to begin pacing the room that you swore had started melting like saltwater taffy left in the sweltering heat. “Ruby, I honestly don’t mean to be crass but—” you shook your hands at her deflated-looking body, “—what the fuck! What the fucking fuck! No! We can’t!”

She raised her expression at you, piqued by your uncharacteristic use of language. Cursing was always heavily shamed in your family. Even as an adult, the guilt that accompanied swearing felt like a hot cattle brand.

Ruby sat criss-crossed, tilting her head. “Relax, babe.”

“No, no. I can’t!” You were still pacing, fretting. “We cannot have a drug dealer under our roof, Ruby!” The worry was whisper-shouted, as though your walls were already wire-tapped from just his presence.

“He’s not dealing at our doorstep.”

“That doesn’t matter!”

“Okay, I don’t want to invalidate your feelings or anything,” she started with a drawl in her voice that already felt very invalidating, “but you don’t know him. And that’s not to make a point. He’s not an idiot. He’s been doing this a while and he knows how to keep the trouble to himself.”

“I just don’t know if I can get behind this.”

“Come sit with me,” Ruby gestured, patting the cushion beside her, and with cumbersome steps, it was now your turn to sink into the sofa. She grabbed onto your arm, squeezing it softly. “Look, if I’m not worried, you shouldn’t be either.” That wasn’t saying much. Ruby was never worried. If an axe-murderer shattered through the window right that second, she’d probably just blink at him and continue on with her conceding. “He won’t be here all the time. I’ll tell him to be mindful. He’s good that way.”

You wanted to believe her. Behind those reddened eyes and their traces of greenish-gold, there had to be some legitimate, concrete truth to her words. Agonizing was your speciality. It was quite exhausting.

“Why is he here?” Letting your head fall onto her shoulder, you started toying with the drawstring on your pyjama shorts, wondering how you were supposed to be okay with it all. “Did he ever tell you that?”

“A little bit. Something about money he’s owed.”

You grimaced. “Sounds awful already.”

Ruby laughed, nuzzling your head affectionately.  “He’ll be gone before you even know it. Trust me. Boys like that always are.”

18 MONTHS AGO.

“Ah—you’ve got to be kidding me!”

Watching the bus you needed to get home steamroll away down the glassy street as you stood, frozen, was quite disheartening—the one final gut punch in your very long night of weariness—and you had felt it like you were a boxer inside the ring. Unfortunately, you weren’t that close with any of the cooks or servers. At least not to a point you were comfortable enough asking them for a ride home. You assumed they had mostly singled you out as a bit ditzy, uncoordinated, and probably undeserving. Which was right.

So, what were your options, you tried to reason.

An expensive lift, a damn near hour walk (alone, at night, in the rain), or—your head suddenly snapped to find him—just a dim flicker of smudgy green under the street lights about to disappear at the corner. You started chasing after him, though it was more of a hurried and chaotic shuffle as you tried not to slip on the watery cement, your bag rustling against your side until you managed to catch up with him. He stopped, narrowing his brow at you in concern, while you breathed out heavily and smiled all crooked, wiping some hairs flat against the crest of your dewed forehead.

“Uh—hello, again—I know this is really weird, and I totally didn’t mean to chase after you down the street like a lunatic, but, um, I missed my bus,” you said while persisting to smile at him, exactly like a lunatic.

“That sucks,” he answered, shrugging.

Oh gosh! He hates me! You immediately thought.

“Yeah, I don’t think I stood a chance, really.” Honestly—what were you doing? How come you had decided this stranger was your best ticket home, when you didn’t even know if he had a car? Worse than that, he had a gun stuffed under his jacket that you had clearly seen with your own two eyes. He could be a murderer! A sadist!

“What are you gonna do?” He asked you, tilting his head slightly.

Your stomach dropped. “I’m not sure, actually.”

For a moment, he didn’t bother responding, only continued to stare at you, his soft brown eyes filled with patience that made you breathe slower and flesh out your fingers. Like a magnet, he was pulling something out. “Uh, you don’t happen to have a car, do you?”

He nodded. “I do.”

“Really?” You sounded more relieved than should be appropriate.

“It’s parked around the corner.”

“Well, I know that you don’t know me, and I don’t know you, and that I may be the stupidest girl alive for asking this, but is there any chance I could have a ride home? And you can say no! I don’t want to pressure you.”

“I don’t think you chased me down the street just to hear no.”

You gave him a tiny, avoidant smile. “I guess not…”

After another beat of silence—and the itchy sensation of heat molting up your neck as he stared into you with such gentle eyes— he ended up waving his hand, inviting you to follow him. Yes, he had a gun. Yes, you were being ineffably stupid. Your head cared, but your gut didn’t.

“This is your car?”

“Yeah, the white one.” He pulled out his fob to unlock the doors, then proceeded to open the passenger’s side for you. After getting treated like dirt all day at the restaurant, the small act of chivalry was essentially next to royalty. Once he was inside the car, brushing the dampness from his rust-coloured hair, he pulled out a phone. “What’s your address?”

“Uh, 2269 Roxbury.”

“Ah, I see, you live by the old DMV.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s the building with the Bickersons.”

You laughed. “Who?”

“If you’ve ever heard two people having a screaming match out in the parking lot, that’s probably them. They’ve got toxic down to an art. I like to call them the Bickersons. They’re never not arguing.”

As he pulled out into the late-night traffic, partly rolling down his window to let in a fresh breeze, as fresh as it could be in a city, you couldn’t help but make a surprised expression. “Yeah, that sounds right. How do you know them?”

Predictably, he shrugged a shoulder. “We go back.”

“I don’t know what that means. You used to live there?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Is your seatbelt on?”

“Of course.”

He threw you a smile that made your entire chest tighten. “Good. I like a girl who follows the rules of the road.”

You merely giggled at him, too shy to say anything else.

It was strange. As far back as you could remember, you had never been particularly lucky with boys. Part of it was dampened interest. Your friends always babbled about their crushes every lunch period—he held the door open for me! We talked outside the portables! He laughed at my story! He sat behind me during the assembly!—and you would always nibble on your sandwich, nodding, agreeing, but never quite understanding their infatuations. Until the definitive moment came where you did have a crush, and it was shoved right back into your face like a pie tin swirled in whipped cream.

It left you feeling robbed and unwanted.

As though there was something about yourself you weren’t seeing despite the fact everyone else apparently could. But now you were in the passenger’s seat of a very pretty boy’s car, getting a ride home, extrapolating the gesture to great lengths beyond what it probably, most likely was—a mere kindness—though his eyes were just so deep with a type of tenderness that had never cared to gaze upon you until now. Yet, he was nameless.

So were you.

“Okay, it’s right here,” you said, pointing to the tiny apartment building that appeared held together from brick and glue.

He seemed to know, anyway.

“I think you’ve been here before,” you laughed.

“Maybe.”

While undoing your seatbelt and patting around in the car to ensure you hadn’t dropped anything, your wandering gaze stilled on a very large duffle bag in the backseat with a notably large lock through it. You paused. “Um… I’m guessing it wouldn’t make me feel any better to know what’s inside there… it’s not a body… is it?”

“No,” he answered, briefly biting his lip. “It’s not.”

Again, he exited the car to open the door for you. Gripping tightly to your bag, you carefully lifted yourself out, attempting not to step in the big gleaming puddle holding all the moonlight.

“Thank you for the ride.”

He leaned against his car, smiling. “Sure.”

Gosh—you should leave—you should zip straight into that apartment and distract yourself with anything that seemed fit, even if it was fixing the loose screw on the fridge handle. You should immediately work to unstitch this boy from your memory because you knew he wasn’t going to stick around. He was like a ghost. Present just enough for you to accept that he existed, but once he was gone, you would start to believe it was all a figment of your imagination. The wind was cold and you were shuddering.

“Um… do you have a name?”

“Yeah. Do you?”

There you went again, giggling at him all schoolgirly. “Yeah.”

He shrugged. “Well, that settles that.”

“But, I-I mean, what is it?” You looked at him swathed in the glow of the mysterious blue moonlight, patterned like cobwebs, as he was already beginning to feel more and more distant, similar to the sensation of a shiver disappearing down your arm. “I guess we won’t ever talk again.”

“I don’t think so.”

"You should come by the restaurant. If you want."

"Maybe."

“Hm. Well, thanks again. Goodnight!” Giving him a parting smile, you began walking up the concrete path to the apartment, feeling his eyes trace your every movement such that you were overly worried about stumbling, or falling, or scuffing your shoe. You saw his beautifully freckled face and adorable dimples flash in your mind and completely missed the placement of the door handle. You groaned.

What was meant to be would be.

12 MONTHS AGO.

“I guess I just don’t know how to put my foot down… I guess I also don’t know how to tell if I’m overreacting or not… I mean, am I just spineless or something? Or am I shaped like a doormat?” You sunk further into the countertop, shoulders hunching as you huffed, “a spineless doormat?”

“Uh… dunno… you haven’t told me the whole spill,” Soonyoung muttered, his attention split between your moping and the dusty, opaque panel he was supposed to unscrew from the ceiling to change the dead fluorescent light. He gestured with his hand. “Pass me the screwdriver.”

After sticking up the tool for your co-worker to grab, you begrudgingly tore another hunk from the cheap fruit bar you were pretending was breakfast. It had the flavour of dehydrated mango and figs. Not a healthy fig either, that squished pinkly in your mouth.

“Well… I won’t drag it out,” you said, swallowing, and proceeded to maintain conversation with Soonyoung’s colourful sneakers. “Ruby has given this friend of her’s permission to crash at our place whenever he feels like it. It’s only been two weeks, and I think he’s ruining my life.”

“Mmhm.” A screw popped out, which Soonyoung stored in his shorts pocket. “Ruined your life, huh? What’s wrong with him?”

Further peeling back the wrapper of the fruit bar, you shook your head. “Gosh—what isn’t wrong with him?” You were about to take another bite, but felt something more important lurch to the tip of your tongue. “First of all, he’s a drug dealer, okay. Like, an actual drug dealer. He gives Ruby weed and ecstasy!” If the store weren’t completely empty, then you might have been more clandestine about the revelation, but seeing as it was just you talking to Soonyoung, you weren’t particularly monitoring your vocal distress.

“Sick,” Soonyoung answered, undoing another screw.

“No!” You barked, glaring at the flashy red and purple colourway on his perfect, non-scuffed sneakers. “It’s not. It’s a crime! And I’m letting myself be associated!” The fruit bar touched your lips, but you ripped it away again. “He steals stuff from our fridge and pantry! He enters our apartment at random hours of the day! Heck—the worst part—the absolute worst part, Soonyoung, is when he and Ruby… I don’t know… they get frisky or something… and I can hear it through the wall! It’s torture! I already don't get enough sleep!”

“Shit—fuck—okay, the panel is loose. Can I pass it down?”

“One sec—okay—ew! There are bugs all over it!”

Soonyoung wrinkled his bleached eyebrows. “Dead bugs.” He started working on taking out the burnt fluorescent tube. “What do y’mean frisky?” The boy laughed. “Are they play fighting?”

“No…” you grimaced, picking up the yellow bar and staring into it sadly while attempting to block the memory from the night before—Ruby’s weird little squeaky laughs that blended into moans, the odd thump here and there, the thick stench of burning weed somehow permeating your walls. “I don’t know what it is. I don’t ask. Ruby’s neck has about ten hickies on it.”

“Oh,” Soonyoung sang, “they’re fucking, huh?”

“I don’t know,” you pouted.

“Sounds like it to me. Trade.” He extended the hollow fluorescent tube, swapping it for the new shiny one that you pulled from its cardboard casing. “I will admit, that sounds rough. What’s this dude look like?”

Handling the dead bulb, you couldn’t help but think how satisfying it would be to crack it right over Vernon’s head as the cold glass nipped your fingers. A guy with his entitlement had probably never been ridiculed before.

You sighed, setting the light aside. “It doesn’t matter.”

Soonyoung suddenly grunted, “why won’t it go in?”

“Be careful. Please.”

He took a step back, and something crinkled. “Shit, sorry.”

You shrugged, staring at your crushed fruit bar that somehow felt akin to a very poignant metaphor mirroring your uncontrolled, dull life. Now that the light was fixed, Soonyoung had begun to reattach the panel, pulling out the tiny screws from his shorts.

“Seriously,” he mouthed very incoherently around the miniature screw driver he was biting, “I wanna know what this dude looks like.”

“Mm…” you hummed in apprehension, smudging a fist into your cheek as you unenthusiastically muttered, “dark hair, tattoos, face piercings… lashes that are way too long for his own good. He has a little twang to his voice. Smug smile. Ruby said he’s half-Korean, half-White.”

After attaching the panel back in place, Soonyoung was jumping off the counter, landing onto the tiled floor with a smooth thud. He adjusted his backward cap and pulled at the waist to his large carpenter shorts. “I rescind my sympathy. He’s hot.”

Your hand curled into a fist and you pounded the counter. “He’s not! He’s such an—such a—” crinkling up your warm, prickling face, you merely grumbled like a petulant child who was told no ice cream before dinner, “—he’s making living there impossible! For way too many reasons!”

Soonyoung grabbed the fruit bar he had stepped on, taking an unbothered bite. “Then you need to talk to Ruby some more.”

“I have.”

“Yeah, well, seems like some shit got lost in translation. Look, I think you should—” he made a sour expression while swallowing, “—I think you should—wow—this actually tastes like shit. Why were you even eating this?” He coughed into his elbow while reading the ingredients crossly.

“I don’t know…” you sighed, “because it only cost seventy-cents. Because I didn’t want breakfast this morning. Because that’s all I deserve.”

“Uh—well, look—you should talk to Ruby again. And be firm about it. Don’t walk back anything. I’d say you could spend a night at my place or something if it gets that bad, but, realistically, my flat’s no better than what you’ve got going on. I’m in a weird situationship with this dude I met at the club. He’s kinda boring and his stamina could use some work. But he makes the best hashbrowns I’ve ever had the morning after.”

Ruffling your fingers against your scalp, you turned even gloomier than you were ten minutes ago. “So, I’m screwed? Is that it?”

“Nah,” Soonyoung shook his head, smirking. “If anything, you should be taking advantage of this. The universe serves you Mr. Bad Boy from every Wattpad girl’s best dream and you’re hitting the snooze button.”

“That would never happen,” you practically gagged. 

“Just saying.” He shrugged, taking another bite from the chewy fruit bar that only preluded his annoyance. You couldn’t help but smile a little as he hissed, “seriously, what the fuck is wrong with whoever made this?”

Soonyoung could attempt to convince you all he wanted. No matter how he decorated your shitty situation, it would be like tinselling up a dead tree with half its branches ungracefully snapped off. His boy-crazy optimism wouldn’t change the truth, nor could your feelings be warped. You watched him throw the half-eaten dehydrated fruit bar into the trash can before clapping off his hands, like he was ridding himself of dirt.

Burnt peanut butter toast seemed delicious right then.

“Ruby! You home?!”

Removing the keys from the door, you waited for Ruby’s response, although the only sound you heard was a dripping kitchen faucet and that nearly imperceptible rattling from the old light above the stovetop. It was a Friday night. Typically, Ruby would make plans. After toeing off your beaten-up, dirty-laced runners, you lifted your bag onto the counter and removed the tupperware that had held your lunch. Her door was shut, with no shadows or even the dullest glow lambent from underneath.

Maybe she was asleep. The texts you sent earlier weren’t even read.

Carefully, you peeked into the room, just managing to decipher her vallied silhouette hidden by the bedsheets.

She rarely phoned nights in.

You thought she could be sick. Poor Ruby. The last time she was ill, the girl borderlined on comatose for an entire week, her garbage stuffed with a mountain of crumpled, snotty tissues while her nightstand became a pharmaceutical empire for differing cough, cold, and flu medications. Bar hopping across the cityscape and consistently being crushed against strangers at the club probably never helped her much. Getting sick was inevitable.

Before bed, you decided to take a hot shower.

Sleeping came much easier when you weren’t caked in the sweat, grease, and unshakeable guilt sprinkled on you by some very condescending staff (and customers). You flicked the hallway light on, your slippers tiredly rubbing against the hardwood as you approached the uncooperative closet door to dig out a fresh, fuzzy towel. Once you moaned a gigantic yawn, your hand had done nothing apart from feather the washroom door handle.

However, it was already being opened for you.

Foggy light spilled into your eyes and steam that smelt something like beaches and fresh-scooped coconut breathed across your face. In the moment, you almost screamed. Could a towel be used in self-defence?

“Tryin’ to peep on me, Pyjamas?”

Gosh—no. What was he doing here? Ruby usually texted you when Vernon was over—that was a rule she had promised to upkeep. But there he was, clean from your shower, rubbing at his damp, fluffed black hair with a towel he had probably swiped from your pantry. Of course, it seemed engrained into his genetics to make some egotistical comment that would undoubtedly fluster you—not because of him—but because of his audacity.

“Peep on you? What do you—what are you doing here?”

Vernon slid past you into the living room where he turned on the central light. You proceeded to watch him leave the towel messily folded over the couch (you immediately scowled) while he picked up a knapsack. “Showerin’,” he shrugged.

“No, that’s not—” your words folded up like origami, “—you—I mean—Ruby didn’t say you were here! She’s supposed to text me!”

The boy grabbed something small off the coffee table, shoving it inside the bag. Glancing up, he shrugged, again, in a way that irritated you so strongly. “Not really my issue.” He then grabbed something else that looked similar to a wallet, which he pressed down into his back pocket.

“Is she sick?” You asked, knowing it could be reasoned. If Vernon had stopped by to look after her, you were willing to be more forgiving.

Vernon reached for his black jacket. “Nah.” He sniffed.

“She’s supposed to text me,” you blurrily repeated, trapped in a tunnel of thoughts that only continued to twist more hectically.

“Yeah, you said that already,” the boy answered, poking his arms through the baggy sleeves before giving the material an adjusting flap. “I’m out, PJ’s—tell her she owes me two-hundred for the ecstasy.”

“What?”

The inconspicuous bag dangled off his right shoulder as he gripped you with his scorched brown eyes. “Two-hundred,” Vernon said slower, almost as though he were mocking you. “Your roommate. She owes me.”

“Is that what happened?”

“You can ask her when she wakes up.”

He was making his way to the door.

Your fist clenched into the towel. The question was burning your tongue like a stinging mouthful of sharp salt. There was absolutely no confidence behind your warbling, weak voice, but, somehow, you still found the steel to ask him: “why does it have to be Ruby?” You paused, swallowing the frog in your throat. “Why can’t you stay with someone else?”

Vernon looked back, raising his eyebrow. “Why can’t you?”

“I live here.”

He snickered, biting his inner cheek. “Yeah? Then maybe don’t live with someone who’s out poppin’ weird shit on her tongue every weekend.”

You wanted to throw something at him. You wanted to leap across the room and smother that twinkly smirk from his glinting lip. Instead, he left without another word or glance, taking his ambiguous knapsack and infuriating attitude with him. There was no hot water left for your shower. The coldness peppered into you like chipped ice.

It made you want to cry.

“No, I don’t think he understands. If I get the job, I’m handing in my two weeks the day of. And I don’t even know if it will be two weeks depending on when they’d want me to start. It’s not like I haven’t spoken about it before. He’s got an idea, at least.”

It was horribly miraculous that you had spent over a year at Mr. York’s and somehow you still sucked at befriending your coworkers.

Ruby used to work there before you did, and she warned you that their social culture was quite… snotty. Almost high schoolish. The waitresses were all split up into cliques that you had been meandering around the exterior of for months. While you were washing down the tabletops with a soapy rag, you couldn’t stop yourself from eavesdropping a conversation between Tara and Lara at the bar counter. You used to think they were sisters, as they had the same pin-straight dark hair, faint poshness of a London accent, and long, almost spindly ballerina legs that were quite useful for efficiently walking orders from the kitchen. But they weren’t sisters.

Just deceivingly similar.

Tara was organizing money in the till as Lara listened.

“It’s the perfect job.”

“It really is.”

“No—honestly—even the view is beautiful. If you get the assistant position, you have your own space that’s connected to her office. The window is right out over the coastline. I saw it. The water’s like a billowing silk sheet. I’m telling you Lara, it was gorgeous. There’s even a tiny bakery on her floor, too. You can smell the pastries. Just faintly, though. Like a buttery, crispy, flaky dream. A Paris café. I’ve never needed a job more.”

You were attempting to investigate the conversation so intensely from your peripheral vision that your eyeballs felt like rolling out. Lara leaned backward against the counter on her elbows. She tilted her head in a stretch such that her long, glossed hair flowed watery all over the marble. “If you leave, I’m leaving.”

Tara gasped, smacking her friend with a stack of twenty’s. “No! Lara you absolutely can’t! I’m telling you, something will pop up. Be patient.”

“We get treated like dirt here.”

“You make no attempt to have them like you. You’re too pouty. That businesswoman tips like a goldmine if you get on her good side.”

“Her raggedy purse dog crapped on my shoe!” Lara cried, straightening up and collecting her luscious hair into a ponytail. “It took every fibre of my being to not clobber her right then and there!”

Tara laughed, “that was quite funny. You nearly got fired.”

Once you had cleaned the last tabletop, you dropped the rag back into the warm bucket. Before you could disappear into the kitchen, Tara seemed to notice you wriggling away and called out, “don’t forget to stack the chairs!” Lara was supposed to do that. She never really did anything.

“I will! I’m going to dump the water first!”

You despised picking up her slack. But you liked Tara, even if you two weren’t close. And to make an enemy of Lara meant Tara would most likely hate you, too. The two girls were nearly joined at the hip.

Coming back into the dining room, you stopped at the counter where Tara was closing up the till. “What’s this job you’re talking about?”

She seemed a bit surprised that you had decided to speak to her, as her dark, thin eyebrows lifted higher than usual up her creaseless, almost doll skin forehead. The waitressing cliques usually kept separated. You weren’t even in a clique, yet you got bossed around by them like a little sister.

Tara cleared her throat. “Oh, it’s an assistant position. It’s not officially open yet. Won’t be until next year. Around summer. I have an on-site connection who told me the news, so I can start my practicing my interview skills early. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? That beautiful glass architecture building along the coastline? Catherine Love works there.”

Your nose wrinkled. “Catherine… Love? Who’s that?”

Lara was in the midst of absentmindedly braiding her hair when she flicked her bored eyes at you. “It’s not her real name. It’s an alias.”

“Oh…” you blinked.

“She organizes art exhibitions—the best you’ll ever see—not just in the city, but across a few different countries. I think I first learned about her when I still lived down in Farringdon… she set up this cherry blossom exhibition outside the London Roman Amphitheatre that is just burned into my brain like magic. She does art herself. But not like she used to. Anyway, her old assistant is apparently jetting off to live in Athens. So—” Tara’s eyes physically sparkled akin to a midnight sky, “—she obviously needs a new one!”

You smiled. “That sounds amazing. I’m not familiar with her.”

“If you have time, she’s setting up a smaller exhibit in January, I believe. A Winter Wonderland type thing. Although I can’t remember the location. She has an official website you could check.”

Admittedly, it had been a while since you last attended any type of art exhibition. Perhaps only once as a teenager—most likely forced by your mother who was desperate to get you involved with any sort of culture other than the misery building in your bedroom—and a few more times once you reached adulthood during university. Diana had quite a large interest in art.

You remembered a gigantic book she had thrown onto your lap upon paying a visit to her dorm for the first time. The cover was solid and textured, meanwhile the pages were thick and laminated, each displaying a revolutionary painting from a different time period. Diana’s finger had shot all over the pages as she beamed on about their individualistic beauty, her words getting helplessly tangled in excitement that made you excited as well.

Now that you were thinking hard about it, Diana had probably mentioned Catherine Love before. Time had merely faded the memory.

“Maybe I’ll go,” you told Tara, smiling. “Thanks.”

You had no idea where Diana was or what she was doing now.

But maybe she would go, too.

“Oh—hey! We’re eating! Care to join?” Ruby waved at you from the sofa with a plate seated in her lap. “I left out some stuff on the counter for making a wrap. Figure we should try to get rid of our produce.”

You had not willingly left your bedroom, that was certain.

It was your bladder responsible for pushing you out the door, as it felt like an overfilled water balloon on the brink of bursting. Ruby had been gracious enough to text you that Vernon would stop by during the evening, and thus, you decided that leaving your room would not be an option unless things got dire. Peeing yourself seemed pretty dire. And not totally worth it.

She must have been confused as to why you hurried past her for the washroom down the corridor. Collapsing onto the toilet, your face then buried into your hands. Relief first, agony second. Going back to your room meant encountering Ruby and Vernon again—if running past them wordlessly wasn’t already embarrassing enough—how come this stupid apartment didn’t have an underground candlelit tunnel for your leisure?

Cleaning your hands at the sink, you spent an almost concerningly long time massaging the liquid soap into your skin, even squeezing the suds between your palms to make that wet, popping sound you used to love during childhood bath times. Obviously, you were prolonging the inevitable. You were prolonging him.

He had come by the apartment a few more times since the shower incident last week, though you hadn’t particularly seen him because you were at work. Ruby would still text you. It was nice she was paying more attention to the established rule, but sometimes you’d rather not know at all.

Once you trudged back into the living room, Ruby worried her brows at you. “Are you feeling okay? Did you just throw up?”

“No,” you sighed, deciding to spare the unnecessary details.

Ruby asked another question, but you were too busy staring him down like a rattlesnake through your lashes—the way his toned, tattooed arms folded behind his head while he leaned against the arm of the couch, an ankle resting across his knee, his very knowing, intense smirk probing you as he likely scanned his brain for a stupid comment to make—no, you hadn’t heard a word from Ruby’s mouth.

She grabbed your hand and tugged it. “Are you daydreaming or something?”

You pulled your hand back and spluttered, “what—no. I’m not daydreaming. Sorry, I didn’t catch what you asked.”

She seemed skeptical. “Uh, I asked if you were going to eat.”

“Maybe later.”

Ruby shook her head. “C’mon, I haven’t seen you eat all day!”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Low appetite? You could be getting sick.”

“Ruby, I’m fine. Seriously. Just tired.”

“What if I make it for you?” She was almost imploring at that point, even removing the plate from her lap so she could stand. “Here—sit.” Ruby guided you onto the indented cushion she had been warming. “I’ll make it for you. I think we like all the same toppings, anyway. Just no mushrooms.”

“You don’t have to do this,” you called to your roommate, but she was already behind the kitchen counter, back to the cutting board.

That left you on the sofa with Vernon, who was unsurprisingly engulfing more than half the space by lying horizontally. In fact, you were quite surprised he hadn’t said anything yet, not even an utterance of the irritating nickname he coined for you—Pyjamas—which made you start to believe he didn’t even know your actual name. But he didn’t seem to care that you were there, instead reading something off his cracked phone. You looked down. Well, you weren’t wearing the unicorn shirt. It was a plain white t-shirt with an old spaghetti sauce stain that never came out, with flannel-patterned bottoms. Maybe it was too hard to make fun of.

Ruby came back into the living room, handing you a plate.

“Thanks…”

“No problem,” she said with a smile, then proceeded to shove aside Vernon’s legs so she could take the middle cushion. He simply moved them back onto her lap, to which you noticed her hand squeeze along his calf. Were they… dating? Ruby had said they never dated.

Their hook-ups were always meaningless and completely unattached. Your stomach squelched with an uncomfortable feeling you couldn’t place while tearing a bite from the spinach wrap. It tasted mismatched, thrown together. Which it was. But you still appreciated that your typically lazy roommate had even offered.

She tucked some loose hairs behind her ear. “Any progress?”

Vernon was still examining his phone, seemingly texting with a single hand while he kept his other arm trapped behind his head. “Define… progress…” he murmured, distracted. “This dude’s spellin’ sucks ass.”

Ruby laughed, “so does yours.”

“Hey—” he dropped the phone for a second, rubbing his eye, “—I never finished high school, alright? At least I’ve got a fuckin’ excuse.”

You slowly chewed another bite from the wrap. This conversation didn’t seem like it would involve you in any capacity, but you stayed seated, listening, while pulling out a leaf of dark spinach.

“So, no progress is what I’m hearing.”

“None.”

“Why don’t you move onto someone else?” Ruby leaned forward as she asked the question, reaching for a cherry red sucker you hadn’t seen on the coffee table. She ripped the wrapper off and stuck it in her mouth.

“Don’t have nothin’ on them either.” Vernon shrugged.

Oh—you realized—it must be something to do with the entire reason he was even here in the first place. Ruby had only explained it to you once, although you subconsciously missed half her spiel since the sole thing your mind could do was blare an alarm bell that Vernon might get you all arrested. He needed money from people. That was all you remembered.

Ruby sunk back into the cushions, twisting the end of the sucker so it flicked against her teeth. “Hm… what was her name again?”

Vernon sighed, “I told you—don’t remember.”

“But you call her something?”

“Yeah—Basu—it’s her last name.”

At that moment, you nearly choked on a poorly sliced piece of red onion. Ruby turned to you abruptly, rubbing your shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Basu?” Wiping your mouth, you squinted at Vernon from across the couch. “You’re trying to find a girl with the last name Basu?”

He nodded.

“Diana Basu?”

Ruby’s eyes widened. “Oh—your friend?”

Vernon pushed himself further up the couch. He glanced at his phone again, and then back at you, before rubbing across his furrowed brow.

Ruby grabbed onto Vernon’s leg and shook it. “Ring a bell?”

“I think that was her name,” he muttered, still not completely sold on the suggestion, although it had definitely ticked something. “I mean, I’ve never been great on names, but I feel like that’s familiar. This dude told me he worked with a Basu… just didn’t feel right. How do you know her?”

“We were close in university,” you answered tentatively.

“You sure her name was Diana Basu?”

“I’m sure,” you confirmed. “I’d never forget it.”

“Why don’t you let it marinate?” Ruby offered, wiping some stickiness off her lip. “Don’t need it all sorted right now.”

“Guess so,” Vernon agreed.

It was honestly hurtful to wrap your mind around, and it made your head start to throb. Diana owed Vernon drug money? Your Diana? While you two had stopped keeping up with each other after university, that couldn’t have felt any further from your memories of the docile, sweet girl.

Rising up from the sofa, Vernon pulled his jacket off the coffee table and started getting dressed. He was so strange—disappearing at random hours to go do god knows what—and for a moment you were almost curious about him. Still, you refused the feeling to simmer. As if you would ever entangle yourself with his illegal manners.

Pigs could fly first.

“M’kay,” Ruby mumbled, licking at the sucker. “See you later.”

Vernon grabbed onto her jaw with a tattooed hand, then leaning down to unabashedly steal a deep, thorough kiss from her mouth that had you freezing into the sofa like a layer of winter frost. He flashed Ruby a flirtatious smirk, looking her body up and down with those molten, honey-brown eyes that he was gifted with. “Cherry tastes good on you,” he said.

Ruby giggled as she melted back into the sofa. “You’re an ass,” the girl quipped, folding up her legs. “Go get a parking ticket or something.”

“That’s next on my schedule,” Vernon joked, shouldering open the apartment door. “How’d you know? You check my phone when I wasn’t lookin’?” He tsked his teeth and shook his head. “Bad girl, aren’t you?”

Ruby threw a pillow at him, her cheeks reddening. “Get out!”

You weren’t sure if it was even appropriate for you to comment on what just happened between them. But you suddenly lost what little appetite you had in the first place, now settling the plate onto the coffee table and giving it a sad push away from you. Did Ruby really like him? You swallowed thickly. Did Vernon like Ruby?

Again, your head throbbed.

Sulking off the couch with a frustrated grumble, you didn’t know why you were asking yourself those questions, anyway. You should have never come outside your room and just squirmed around in bed while singing a song to distract from the fact your bladder might explode.

Sitting at your desk, you were flipping through the pages to a special edition art magazine that Tara had given you after work. She wanted it back, as it was apparently a relic from her childhood days in Farringdon, so you made sure to secure it very gently inside your cinnamon bag, checking on its condition habitually during the bus ride home.

It was late at night. You knew you should get ready for bed. But you had just uncovered the esteemed 2005 Cherry Blossom Collaboration with the London Roman Amphitheatre that Tara had fawned over. She said the magazine photos were splendid, although nothing could compare to witnessing the exhibition in person. You supposed nostalgia was also a factor in her fondness. Nonetheless, you agreed—the exhibition was held during the peak of springtime, each photograph lush with handmade faux cherry blossoms.

You read that the petals were made using discarded bottles that an artist recovered from London’s parks throughout his lifetime. He melted the glass down, tinted it, and had everything stretched and warped into petals.

Tiny lights were tangled through the blossoms. In the photos, they added a homely touch of softness and warmth to the pink-stained glass that you beheld, hypnotized by the spectacle. Visitors to the exhibit could walk underneath the delicate archway the cherry blossoms formed, where other sculptures and art pieces unique to springtime were displayed. You flipped to the next page, seeing that the artwork was featured in more detail alongside thoughtful, reflective excerpts from the artists.

At night, the amphitheatre reminded me of an opened clam. The small light fixtures filled the pink glass with life, such that the petals became real, and velvet, just as one would imagine a fresh petal to feel like between their fingers. At a distance, there was a visible glow that faded up to reach the dark and ashy London sky. The exhibit was a shining pearl. My pearl. My idea finally abloom. –Catherine Love, April 2005.

Your head had dropped so close to examine the magazine that you were practically breathing the ink off the paper. No wonder Tara wanted the assistant position—it seemed she would be working under someone intelligent, and passionate, and born to be a creative. Beginning to yawn, you flipped to yet another page, impossibly tired but desperate to see more.

Until there was a hard knock at the apartment door. It frightened you more than you’d like to admit (you nearly flung the magazine off the desk and quite literally screamed). Ruby wasn’t home.

She told you she was attempting to cram in as much clubbing and bar hopping as she could before it got too cold out, even though that dilemma had never really stopped Ruby in the past.

After throwing on a zip-up sweater from the back of your desk chair, you took the magazine with you while speeding into the living room and unattractively squinting through the clouded peep hole to see who it was. He suddenly knocked again, more aggressive and impatient, the door rattling under your fingertips. You flinched.

Vernon.

Holding your breath, you looked for the second time.

A shiver ran down your body.

He was staring straight at you. “I know you’re fuckin’ googlin’ at me through the damn hole,” he muttered, brushing a hand along his loose fronds of hair. “There’s somethin’ I need, alright? Open up.” His tone was all bristly. He seemed agitated.

You didn’t want to respond.

Unfortunately, you still unlocked the door for a reason you could not compute, coming face to face with Vernon.

“Ruby’s not here,” you said while folding your arms.

He laughed stoutly, “yeah, I know that.”

“So, what are you—hey! What—where are you going?”

Vernon had easily and quickly slipped past you into the apartment like he was an eel. Gawking, you whipped around, proceeding to watch him shift through the kitchen and enter Ruby’s room. With your mouth still agape, you begrudgingly followed the boy, keeping the magazine tucked against your side as you further observed in shock while he started pulling open the drawers on her dresser, haphazardly picking up clothes to look underneath. You fumbled at first, the words disintegrating on your tongue.

“Y-You can’t do that!” It was a very pathetic attempt to defend your roommate. “Why are you going through Ruby’s things! This is crazy!”

The boy ignored you, instead squatting down to his knees in order to rifle between the bottom compartments. You might as well have been talking to an imaginary friend. He was clearly fixated on finding something.

“Vernon!”

Again, he laughed at you, but it wasn’t frivolous in nature, rather you heard that it was more irritation. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”

Baffled, your eyes bulged out at him. “Tell her what?!”

He stood up, sifting amongst random items on her dresser. “The two-hundred for the ecstasy. Where’s that, huh? I don’t fuckin’ have it.”

“The ecstasy? I did tell her! She told me she was getting it!”

Vernon snickered derisively, biting at his lip ring as though he were stopping himself from making a distasteful remark. Sliding open Ruby’s closet door, he pulled a painted shoe box off the top shelf and tossed it onto her unkempt bed. He was about to open it, but you suddenly snapped the magazine overtop the lid, causing him to withdraw his hand.

“It’s not yours,” you glared, your heart thundering in claps.

“C’mon.” He raised a dark brow at you. “Be serious, Pyjamas.”

“I am being serious.”

“Where’s my two-hundred then? Hm?”

“She’ll give it to you. But you can’t look through her things!”

He smiled, his eyes turning crescent-shaped as he rubbed something invisible from the tip of his perfect nose, acting twitchy as he grunted, “listen, why don’t you go back to your room, alright? Go back to readin’ your fancy little art magazine or whatever the fuck that is. ‘Cause the truth is, I don’t have time for this. And I know you know how to mind your own damn business. N’right now, that would make my life so much fuckin’ easier. Trust.”

The fact he wasn’t taking you seriously was infuriating—that ridiculing glaze in his eye, the way he was pinching his forehead—you were going to scream. In the moment, however, Vernon had all the flare, and confidence, and just the right amount of displeased impatience with your objecting that inside, you became immediately burnt out.

Removing the magazine from the lid, you watched defeatedly while Vernon opened the shoe box, then digging through some photographs and small mementos before unveiling a thin, black pouch. He unzipped it. Cash was sliding into his hand a second later.

“There.” He flicked the bills into a neat stack. “See how much easier that went when you weren’t tryin’ to hop all over my dick?” Placing the lid back on, Vernon returned the old shoe box to Ruby’s closet.

Within the next minute, he was gone. You stopped to sit on the edge of Ruby’s bed, listening to the apartment door shut in the distance, feeling absolutely disheartened at your lack of bite. How could you let Vernon violate her things? How could you recoil so spinelessly after being shown the slightest arrogance?

Ruby probably wouldn’t even care.

But you did. You cared too much. And you didn’t know why.

“Hey! I think I saw Ruby out there.”

Tara brushed past you, her hand briefly touching your shoulder blade to get your attention. The kitchen was quite loud—constant communicating between the cooks, meticulous expediting at the pass, timers dinging, food sizzling, cutlery and plates clashing—enough to make your head rattle. It was certainly no place to be daydreaming (as you had unfortunately learned in the past), and Tara’s slight touch had you jolting.

“Wait—who’s out there?”

She turned around for no less than a second and shouted, “Ruby!”

“Really?!”

Before she disappeared into the washroom at the end of the corridor, she shouted again, “and a friend! At least, I think a friend.”

Ruby had lots of friends. Although, you didn’t spend much time mentally carding through the possibilities when you were slid a tray of fresh-prepped balsamic salads by an especially impatient cook. Striding back into the clustered dining area, you couldn’t help but attempt to pick out your roommate and her noticeable crimson streaks of hair from the crowd. There was too much going on for you to do a decent enough job.

“Okay, I’ve got your salads!” You chimed to the table—three thin middle-aged ladies in spandex dresses who all had very oddly shiny skin—and handed them their bowls.

With all your tables in check, you decided to walk the room out of curiosity. Mr. York’s was a classic and longstanding restaurant in the city that managed to fill its dining area every night of the week. While the popularity was excellent for business, your feet devotedly loathed it, and so did your people-pleasing attitude that would leave you mentally burnt to a crisp. As you strode past the two-person tables against the street-view windows, someone had plucked at the sleeve to your black dress shirt.

“Excuse me, miss? Can I bother you for a second? So, I asked the waitress to get me a water. And I asked her for lots and lots of ice. But look at this—like, a quarter of the ice is gone now! Miss, I think this might be a conspiracy theory. I would love to speak to your—”

You wrapped an arm around Ruby’s shoulders and proceeded to muffle her sly, smiling mouth with your hand. She pinched your side, which always made you giggle. “Oh, shut up. What are you doing here?”

Ruby pursed her lip. “I can’t stop by to see old coworkers?”

The seat across from Ruby was empty. Tara said she was dining with a friend, but you supposed it was someone who had stopped by to talk to her. Or perhaps Tara mixed Ruby up with another streaked red head.

“It’s unlike you to do stuff alone.”

“Oh—I’m not alone, actually. I was hanging out with Vernon. He said he was hungry and I kinda was, too. I felt like going out so I suggested this place. He told me he’s never been! Now, I’m making him!”

Immediately, your smile dropped. “Oh… uh… where is he?”

Ruby flicked her head to look out the windows. The streets were dark and the weather was drizzly as October drew to a close, prompting the numerous shuffling of people adorned in jackets and thick, patterned raincoats. But following Ruby’s pointed finger, you spotted Vernon underneath a dull-glowing street lamp, holding his cracked phone to an ear while he blabbed his mouth. You saw him heartily laugh—crow’s feet wrinkling the skin beside his eyes while flashing his white teeth through the misty weather—almost doubling over right there on the street without a care in the world, oblivious to those who turned their heads in curiosity.

“Who’s he talking to?”

Readjusting the fabric to one of her favourite sheer black tops, Ruby shrugged. “He mentioned a name but I can’t remember… Won-something.”

“Hm… well, uh, I should get back to work.”

Since he stormed Ruby’s bedroom and stole the ecstasy money the week before, you had royally given up being angry about the entire situation—about him. As you anticipated, Ruby didn’t care. She was quite forgetful unless you were on top of her like moss on a tree stump. It didn’t feel very good to table your frustration, your discomfort, your morals. But at the same time, it was exhausting to care so much in the stifling smoke of everyone else’s blatant disregard—the more you breathed it in, the more tired you became, until you found yourself hopelessly deflated.

Ruby said goodbye, and you returned to another table of yours since they had flagged you down to order dessert. You ran into Tara again while waiting at the pass for two chocolate raspberry souffles, where she was also awaiting an order.

Ever since you showed mutual interest in Caroline Love, Tara seemed to enjoy talking with you more—not that you two were suddenly best friends or anything—although it felt nice to be included.

“Have you given it any thought?” Tara asked, subtly feeding herself dark chocolate-covered blueberries she often kept in a pocket on her apron, specifically for snacking. “Going to her Winter Wonderland?”

“Uh.” You crossed a leg and shrugged. “I’m still undecided.”

“I really think you should go.”

“Are you going?”

Tara laughed, her faded London accent suddenly becoming particularly thick as she shouted, “of course! It’s going to be gorgeous.”

“I just—admission tickets are probably pricey.”

“Well, yes, obviously.”

“I guess I could go…” you sighed, staring down at the floor.

Tara’s order was presented onto the pass beside your two warm souffles. She quickly lifted her tray, flitting a smile toward you.

Back in the dining room, you served your customers dessert and took their menus for the night. It seemed they were on a date—you could tell—from the girl’s silk makeup, slim black dress, and those beautiful pearl earrings you were slightly jealous of, to the man’s fine-pressed clothes and smitten smile that hadn’t left his lips since you first tended to them. They thanked you sweetly, and in return you wished them a beautiful night. You hadn’t been on a real date, ever.

Honestly, it wasn’t something that adamantly bothered you until working at Mr. York’s. Never before had you waited on such a plethora of doting couples, always hand-in-hand, sharing testaments of love over intimate candlelight, and it was starting to wear on you to a very lonely degree.

Adjusting the menus in your hands, you looked across the restaurant, spotting Ruby and Vernon (who had finally come inside) at their table by the windows. It seemed that Lara was their waitress, though you couldn’t tell if she was taking down orders on her notepad or simply talking.

Truthfully, Lara wasn’t that great at waitressing. She was short-tempered most of the time, hardly tended to her tables, and was quite lethargic. The fact she hadn’t been fired nor reprimanded merely testified to how well everyone else around her covered up the slack. But something was different tonight. As you attempted to shift closer without making your apparent interest too obvious, you caught glimpses of Lara’s unorthodox behaviour—the chippy voice, her animated expressions, how often she tousled that effortlessly satin ponytail she had come to perfect—and there could only be one explanation: Vernon was right there, smiling her up.

For some reason, you wanted to start kicking and screaming.

He was all relaxed, one arm limply hanging around the back of the chair, his body language open and clearly implying mutual investment. The way he brushed behind his ear, encouraged her with a tilt from his head, a lick at his teeth—you wanted to throw the menus on the ground. Burn them.

But the urge was alive for less than a second.

Just enough for you to feel it, and then stand in peculiarity as you wondered why everything was so dizzy. Why wasn’t it enough that he had infected your homelife? Why must he trickle into everything else?

Ruby saw you. She waved.

Embarrassed that you were caught lurking, you turned around on a dime, though it was to no surprise that you collided against another server who grouchily shook their head and practically elbowed you aside. You squatted down to pick up a menu that had dropped to the floor. Without looking back, you charged straight to the kitchen.

It was a long, dreadful, exhausting night.

You weren’t a hateful person by any means.

But there was something so vitriolic about catching glimpses of Lara across the dining area, putting on a theatrical performance and exemplifying unusually magnificent customer service, that rendered you speechless. She checked the table more than she checked her phone, which you always thought was impossible, and every time she would glue herself to Vernon like he was smeared in honey. It unfortunately distracted you from being good at your job. After delivering an order to the incorrect table, forgetting to bring the bill to another, and nearly tossing over Tara as you barrelled through the kitchen doors in frustration, you wanted nothing more than to tear the infrastructure down to rubble.

“Hey!” Ruby gestured you over later in the night, when most people started leaving as the restaurant winded down to close. “Need a ride home?”

“Um, from who?”

Your roommate chuckled. “Vernon! Obviously.”

In an instant, you shot Ruby a look that could incinerate paint off walls, a look that was more like a scream, while she continued to smile at you, utterly missing your nonverbal plea. She felt like a school teacher trying to coax two misbehaving students who couldn’t tolerate each other into being friends, although, Vernon didn’t really exude the vibe that he couldn’t stand you. Instead, you probably seemed like some unditchable obstacle.

“I still have to help in the kitchen. I have to clean. I won’t be able to go home for a while.” There—a perfect excuse! “I’d feel bad for the wait.”

“That’s no big deal!” Ruby exclaimed. Your chest withered. “I’m gonna be heading out, actually. I’m meeting some friends for a movie! But I know Vernon is okay with waiting, right?” She looked to her friend.

Vernon kinked his neck, shrugging. “I’m in no rush.”

“See!” Ruby beamed, her hazel eyes glistening. “Then you don’t have to worry about missing the bus. And the commute will be much shorter. Besides, Vernon is also gonna drive home Lara.”

You nearly fell to your knees, ill. “Lara?”

“Uh, yeah. Aren’t you friends?”

“Lara always rides home with Tara.”

Ruby shrugged. “Vernon’s good at throwing a wrenches into things—” she smirked across the table, “—guess they’re gonna hang.”

“More like a word that rhymes,” he said, grinning.

“I-I—um—Ruby, I really don’t know—”

She grabbed your hand, cradling it. “Please? The wait honestly isn’t a big deal. You work so hard. Don’t feel guilty about accepting help!”

Guilty? You weren’t guilty! You were horrified about spending even ten minutes in a car with Mr. Felony and Princess Lazy, who had been eyeing each other the entire night and were following nothing but their blinding primal urges to have unabashed intercourse. As if you wanted to be shackled between them! You would rather get sprayed by oily gutter water in the street, waiting for the bus, than have to sit in the back of his stupid car!

“Oh, um… okay. I guess you’re right.”

Ruby pushed up from her seat, blanketing you in a hug. Smelling the richness of her jasmine fragrance and getting a near mouthful of hair, you opted to stand still as stone, letting her squeeze you until your bones rigidly pressed back. She then flung on a small purse with designer print, giving your cheek an affectionate brush while ruffling Vernon’s hair before she left.

You had never felt so defeated. You wanted to wilt.

“I’ll be outside,” Vernon mumbled.

Usually, you cleaned with determination—determination to not miss the bus and reach home by a reasonable hour—but tonight was quite the exception. You cleaned slow. You walked slow. You went about the nightly list of closing chores with the will of a teenage boy at his first job. On the other hand, Lara was whipping by. She polished her tables hard, mopped the floors vigorously—she even offered to throw out some of the leaky trash bags that Tara was supposed to handle—which had made you suspect her body was stolen and the Lara before you was her evil but productive doppelganger.

Even Tara seemed astonished.

By the time you finished your tasks, Lara and Vernon were still outside, waiting. They hadn’t forgotten about you, though you hoped for it. They were chatting underneath the street lamp. Lara had her hair down, occasionally casting a hand through the long, shimmering brown tresses while she fluttered her smoky cat eyes at the boy.

Your fingernails were digging into the shoulder strap of your bag, peeling at the fabric until it bunched. “Okay. I’m ready,” you announced, monotone as ever, grey like slate.

Lara got into the passenger seat while Vernon walked around to the driver’s side. He chuckled at you before opening the door. “Took you long enough, Pyjamas. Cleanin’ the ceiling tiles while you’re at it?”

You chose not to say anything. Vernon didn’t care, anyway.

He played some music. But you weren’t listening. He and Lara spoke back and forth, giggling and laughing. But you weren’t listening. He gave her something from his glove compartment that she ate. But you weren’t listening. At a stop light, you tried opening the window to feel some semblance of a breeze on your perspiring face—it was a window you had to manually roll down, with a lever that could be cranked—though it kept jamming even when you fiddled with the lock. For some reason, you kept pushing against the handle, so desperate to breathe in cold wind and not the old marijuana stench left to fade into the dated upholstery.

Vernon heard the thumping. “Hey—Pyjamas—ease up on the fuckin’ window, yeah? That shit doesn’t work. It’s gonna break again.”

“I need the window down.”

“Lara can open her window. The breeze’ll go back.”

Of course, Lara shook her head. “It’ll mess up my hair.” She then turned around to pout at you. “Hey, you’ll get dropped off soon, alright?”

You ignored her, instead sticking your nose so close to the glass that your warm, anxious breaths were fogging up the surface.

“Did you just call her Pyjamas?”

“Mmhm.”

“Okay…” Lara laughed. “Why?”

Vernon shrugged, smiling. “Doesn’t matter.”

“So, where do you live in the city? Although, I get the suspicion you’re not from here. Otherwise I would have known. I keep very persistent tabs on all the hot guys. It’s been getting… bleak… until now.”

“Has it?”

“Mmhm.”

“Lucky you.”

“So, no place?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you’ll get to see my studio. It’s quite nice.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

“Dunno. Who says we’ll make it inside?”

The very second Vernon stopped the car along the curb to your apartment building, you nearly flung yourself out the door. In fact, you swore the wheels were still moving when you threw off your seatbelt and touched your shoe to the wet grit outside. He cursed at you, but, again, you weren’t listening. You didn’t thank him. You didn’t say goodbye. It felt like escaping a trap purposed solely to engender your misery. Never would you sit in that vanilla Camry again.

When your last straw finally broke, it actually felt like your fifth or sixth last straw. In fact, the last straw should have been the first straw, if anything—when you walked into your living room at the start of October to see a strange, tattooed boy sitting on the sofa, forking split molotes into his mouth—that’s when you should have put your foot down. But you didn’t. You never did.

You let your feelings become diminished and redirected.

As much as Ruby attempted to amicably butter up her friend like he was a damn bread roll, the parts you saw of him vouched for the opposite, and there was no hiding the most blatant fact of all—that he was a drug dealer—which had been your plight since the very beginning. Honestly, you wouldn’t have really cared if it was just the low-hanging stuff. Smoking weed was probably more common than cigarettes nowadays. Even you had tried a joint back in high school, outside on your friend’s porch during the dead of winter with her questionably older boyfriend, while her parents were out for dinner. That would have been acceptable. Except, it wasn’t just that.

Ketamine, ecstasy, cocaine—weird relaxants and other variants of hallucinogens you had never heard before—Vernon wasn’t exactly water under the bridge. He was quite literally a criminal, and with how much he was frequenting your apartment—you were probably a criminal, too.

You had looked down at the text from Ruby while on the bus.

She had invited some friends to the apartment for a get-together. To accurately translate the message: some friends—at least twelve people; a get-together—there’s alcohol involved, and most likely drugs, and you’re probably going to come home to someone whose hooked up their shitty music to our living room speaker such that no one will be able to form a coherent thought because the sound is so insufferably loud. Oh—and there’s guaranteed someone making out in the corner with a spicy side of genital groping that no sober person particularly wants to see. The text stared up at you for the entire ride home, until your vision fell out of focus and the screen blurred.

Indeed, it was the last straw. You knew it, even before you entered the apartment. A deep scarlet colour glowed at you from under the door, rippling like a bloodied beach tide, while you stood there with the key, debating if it was worth it.

“Oh—shit. Sorry.”

The door suddenly popped open. You recognized him despite the fact it had been months since Ruby introduced you for the first and only time outside a sandwich shop—long, brown side-swept curls, a big septum piercing, thin like a rake—where he had walked outside with nothing but a single twelve-inch baguette in his hand. In the moment, he didn’t recognize you back, although you might attribute that to the fat blunt tucked behind his ear and his incredibly spacey expression you had seen on Ruby before.

He simply bumped around you, stumbling every few steps or so, on his way toward the mail room. Of course, someone always had to hot-box in the stupid mail room. It was no wonder your letters and flyers reeked.

Catching the door with a hand, you stood in the threshold.

Those red lights that Ruby had bordered around the living room ceiling for occasional parties had transformed the apartment into a seedy, saturated hell. People drinking in the kitchen, people rolling up on the couch—you didn’t even want to imagine what was happening in Ruby’s bedroom, or your own for that matter—it was a suffocating, congested nightmare with overplayed club music and wafting, smouldering smells. This was supposed to be your home. You were supposed to have a say in how your home was treated. You were supposed to feel safe, at ease, comfortable.

Somehow, it was none of those things.

You wondered if it ever had been.

Ruby was nowhere in sight, but, through the thick red haze, you were able to patch him down like sewing machine. Vernon was obviously no novice to sex and the art of attraction—one tempting flash from those dark golden eyes was pretty much all he needed to seal the deal—which likely explained why Lara was being pressed against the closet doors. They were down the corridor that led to the washroom. It was literal tunnel vision into their synchronized spit-swapping, tonguing, and teething, to the point where everything else but them soaked away into red tides. You almost couldn’t breathe, fixating on Vernon’s hand that slipped underneath Lara’s short skirt, prompting the girl to twitch and exhale a moan across his lips.

What was that feeling?

What was that horrible, reverberating, all-consuming feeling?

Jealousy?

No—your mind had practically screamed it as though it were a shot of pure electricity—no, no, no! You slammed the door shut, fixed the strap to your bag that was sliding off your shoulder, and marched outside the apartment. The weather was damn cold. When you sat at the curb, huffing, the warmth from your breath turned into disappearing, translucent cotton.

But you were so angry that the temperature hardly bothered you.

There was enough of a fire in your gut to keep your skin burning for hours. It felt like there was straight steam inside you, the kind that shoots in boatloads from hot geysers, and that one little pinprick would make you explode. Wearing nothing but very thin dress pants, an even thinner black button-up shirt, and scuffed tennis shoes, you sat on the curb and stared up at the night sky in such a desperate, pleading way—as though you were going to start begging for something—you didn’t know what. 

When your neck became too tired of craning, your face buried into your hands, nuzzling into them with a hope that maybe if you pushed hard enough, you would fall through an unbeknownst time loop, where you could wake back up in the lost familiarity of your childhood bedroom. Your dad always sizzled fresh eggs on a frying pan in the mornings while your mother ironed out wrinkles from your pastel-coloured school clothes. You could start over. You could choose to be a different person. You would know better.

However long you sat there, it didn’t seem like much.

It wasn’t until the palms were pulled from your tearful eyes that you realized how numb you were. Your toes hardly wriggled, and your fingertips were stiff. Suckling in a big, wet breath, you gasped at the frigid air suddenly hitting your throat, dry like chalk—oh, gosh—it had been way too long. You might just freeze to that very spot on the curb and have to be thawed off it with a hair dryer.

“Jeez—little cold to be watchin’ the stars, don’t’chya think?”

Unwillfully, turning your head, you saw Vernon. You figured he must have come outside to finish that stumpy blunt he just flicked some orange ash from. Probably warm in his grey hoodie, with his usual black jacket thrown overtop it. Maturely, or maybe not so maturely, you decided to ignore him, shifting your focus to regaining the twitches in your toes so you wouldn’t have to see the bruises on his neck. Your nose crinkled.

“Ou, silent treatment,” Vernon lilted. “That’s a first.”

Whatever, you thought, focusing even harder on your toes.

“You still pissed at me for takin’ Ruby’s money? That was just business shit, Pyjamas. Nothin’ that concerns you.” He took a deep puff from the blunt—the smoke wandered into the peripheral of your vision. “Anyway, she’s lookin’ for you. You got her all concerned n’shit. Maybe go say hi.”

Finally—you were starting to feel it now—you could see your toes wriggling underneath the shoes, and though your legs were tingling, they could move, and that was all you really cared about. Grasping onto your bag, you pulled yourself up. Shoot—you had stumbled a little. Nonetheless, you were quick to straighten out your button-up shirt and dust the grit off those cheap dress pants that you once pulled from a half-emptied clearance bin. They had ripped along the inner seam a few times. Ruby sewed them.

Except, you didn’t go back up the pathway to the apartment.

Inside? That hellhole? As if.

For some reason, you turned away from Vernon, clutching tight to your cinnamon bag while hobbling stiffly down the sidewalk.

You heard him laugh at you. It sounded so childish, unfettered.

Nothing like his personality.

“Where the fuck are you goin’, huh?”

No answer. He didn’t deserve to know.

“You seriously that fuckin’ mad at me?”

The wind dried out your lips, making them cracked.

His laugh hit the crisp midnight air again. “Y'know what? You’re weird as fuck, Pyjamas. Weirder than me. Jesus Christ.” He coughed a few times, the smokiness in his throat sounding raw, then stayed silent for a moment. “And you’ve got dirt on your ass.”

At last, you whipped around. “Don’t stare at my ass!”

Vernon smirked, wiping his nose. “Figured you should know.”

“I don’t care! You’re awful!”

“Awful?”

“Yes, awful!” Closing your fists, eyes pricking with tears, the anger was beginning to warm you back up. “You came into my life and ruined it!”

“No offense, Pyjamas—” he put the blunt to his lips, hollowed in, and swiftly exhaled, “—not sure there was much to ruin.”

“Who do you think you are?!”

Vernon shrugged. “Nobody.”

“Gosh—I can’t believe—I wish that were true! I honestly wish it were! Because then I wouldn’t have you infesting my home! I wouldn’t have to smell weed all the time! Or see your car in the parking lot! I wouldn’t have to stuff my head under a pillow whenever you and Ruby decide to—to—to—whatever it is that you do! I wouldn’t have to worry about our food disappearing, or whether or not I’m gonna open the door to you using up all our hot water, or if I have to stay in my room for the next four hours while you and Ruby turn the living room into a smoke shop!” Wiping some very unattractive mucus from your nose, you choked back a whimper and rubbed at your eyes. “I mean, my life already sucks enough without you throwing a wrench into everything! At this point I’m gonna end up in jail because of you! You’re a drug dealer! You practically robbed us!”

“Hey, hey, hey—” Vernon immediately flicked his blunt to the cement, stamping over it with his sneaker as he approached you, attempting to quiet down the tears and unhinged blubbering, “—scream it fuckin’ louder, yeah? Don’t think they heard your ass down at the police precinct.”

Your head wrung back and forth. “I want you to leave!”

He scoffed, “wouldn’t that be nice?”

“If you won’t, then I will!” Again, you stalked down the sidewalk, dramatically turning away from him like an actress in a drama flick.

“And go where?”

“I don’t know!”

“You’re an idiot.”

Damn it. For the second time, he had gotten you to stop. It was embarrassing enough to have him see you so metaphorically undressed—nose running, lips cracked, eyes swollen from frozen tears, emotions bumbling all over the place like a golf ball stuck on an antenna—and now he was toying you. It was pathetic. But it was too hard not to care.

“I’m an idiot?” Your hand slapped against your bag. “Thanks.”

Vernon nodded. “Well, you are.”

“This is what I’m talking about! You—”

“How about you just shut up for a second?” He stepped closer, shortening the space in between you, though it was cautious. “I didn’t know you were so damn capable of runnin’ your mouth. But it’s cold as fuck out here, my dick’s gonna fall off, and if I can’t get you back inside, then Ruby will probably lick me real good.” He sighed, huddling into his jacket. “Just take a moment, alright? That’s the problem with you quiet chicks—never say anything your entire damn life—then one day it’s a big cluster fuck of anger and suddenly you can’t tell what’s even supposed to deserve it.”

“I—”

“Ah, ah—” Vernon held a finger to his lips, effectively cutting you off from a remark that burned to get out, “—just be quiet. For a minute.”

What was he even talking about? What did that even mean? Was it suddenly a crime to be expressive, emotional? Did he have a secret kink for silencing a woman in mental peril? You stood there, hands clenched into weighted fists, nails scratching at your palms, while your head blazed with a torrent of sentiments, some years old, some new, that had never moved anywhere but between caverns in your mind. They all echoed at once. Howling.

Vernon smiled. “Wow. A minute. Feelin’ better?”

“No,” you muttered, hugging yourself.

“Eh. You’re not shoutin’ anymore. Must have done some good.”

Looking off to the side, you rubbed your nose. The skin felt ice cold—you were ice cold—getting nipped to stone by the needling wind.

“Come inside.” He extended his hand.

You stared at the gesture blankly, swallowed. “No.”

The boy shook his head, laughing, “what the fuck is wrong with you? Seriously? You’d rather freeze? Become a human popsicle?”

“I told you already.”

“Told me what?”

Sniffling, you stared at his shoes. “I want you to leave.”

“Right, Pyjamas. You want me to leave.”

“Yes. A drug dealer can’t stay with us.”

He put on stupid, fake frown that you wanted to physically detach from his face. “That’s all I am to you?” Maybe without his soft lips, and his sharp teeth, and that silver tongue, you could tolerate him.

“Whatever.”

“Come inside.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Ruby will turn me inside out like a glove.”

“Good.”

Vernon sighed, rolling his head in a circle to crack his neck. The moonlight splashed across each hickey that Lara had sucked into his skin, small little dark blotches, almost like the tattoos that quilted his arms. His face would glint when the light struck his metal piercings the right way, looking like little stars.

“M’kay—how ‘bout this,” Vernon huffed. “Let me make you a proposition. ‘Cause I can’t stand out here much longer.”

Huddling further into your own flesh, you shrugged.

“You gonna hear me out?”

“… I guess.”

His eyes twinkled. “You know why I’m here, right? I need some money. A couple people aren’t payin’ and I’m part of a system that doesn’t need fuckery like that.” Vernon paused, gazing at you. “If you can help me find your old friend Diana Basu, I’ll leave. I’ll look for another place to crash. I know it’s her that owes me.”

You said nothing, but kept your lips tight.

“I don’t need an answer from you now. Think on it.”

A shaky breath escaped your mouth, turning to a cloud.

Vernon swayed his head toward the apartment. “Let’s go.”

“I just—I’m not going in there with all those people.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ah, so that’s the issue.”

“It’s part of it.”

“M’kay. I can fix that. But you have to come with me first.”

“Uh, come with you where?”

“Parkin’ lot.”

Hesitantly, you started following Vernon to the back of the building, into the picket-fence enclosed lot where a few cars were parked. He approached his Camry, opening the door to climb inside and ignite the engine while you stood idly, teeth chattering, body parts numbing.

Then, he was opening the passenger side door. “Alright, PJ's. I got the heat blastin’ and everything. Now, get in before my dick falls off.”

You swore you would never sit in his car again. It particularly made the situation worse to know that he had likely drilled Lara in the backseat the night he drove you home from Mr. York’s. But admittedly, you were on the cusp of developing frostbite. Biting the bullet and clenching your teeth, you lowered slowly into the passenger seat, feeling the strong-gusting heat from the fans as you sat the cinnamon bag on your lap. The interior didn’t smell like weed as you expected. The car smelled dry-cleaned and slightly sweet.

Suddenly, he was tossing something on you. At first, you thought it was a blanket, but when you straightened it out, it was a heavy black jacket.

“There.” He smiled. “That’s my old bomber. Courtesy of the backseat.” Looking toward the building, he licked his lips. “Alright, give me ten minutes. Don’t talk to any strangers while I’m gone.” He proceeded to wink at you before shutting the door, to which you refused to smile at.

Even if you didn’t want to, there was a sense of curiosity prickling you, urging you to look around—the glove compartment, under the sun visors, the knapsack kept in the backseat—despite the fact you would most certainly find something concerning. You settled for adjusting the jacket against you and relaxing into the slippery leather, inhaling a deep breath. It was strange. In the front seat, Vernon’s car felt oddly familiar. You assumed you were thinking of your mother’s car that she used to drive you to primary school in, except it was silver. Maybe that was it, though you weren’t sure.

Getting bored, you nuzzled further into the jacket.

It smelled… good.

Really good. The kind of good that made your stomach flutter. The collar’s fleecy interior was pressing against your nose and it seemed to maintain the faint traces of Vernon’s cologne—an amber-like musk with some distant richness in the notes—it was making your head spin as you kept breathing it in. Your heart skipped a beat. Your mind started wandering.

“Okay, you’re one lucky fuckin’ girl, you know that?” From thin air, the boy was suddenly throwing open the car door and climbing inside, causing you to jolt and realize your limbs weren’t dead weight.

“You scared the crap out of me!”

“Oh, shit. My bad.”

“You really got all those people to leave?”

Vernon nodded. “Yes sir.”

“How?”

“Who cares? I did it.”

You stared at him, eyes narrowing.

Vernon grinned. “C’mon! Give daddy some sugar, here.” He dialed the heat slightly, and you pushed down his bomber jacket. “I did you a big fuckin’ favour and all I get is your disdain. What a fuckin’ world.”

“First of all, I’m not giving you any sugar—”

“Yeah, yeah—it’s a joke,” he said, rubbing his browbone. “Your sugar is probably salt. And not to rush you or anything, but I told Lara I’d give her a ride home. You’re standin’ in the way of my good deed.”

“How many good deeds can one man handle?” You bit sarcastically, hating that you were just another dumb girl in his front seat.

“I love pushin’ the limits, you know?”

Funnily enough, you still smiled at him, though it was fairly limp and didn’t quite spread across your lips all the way. You were exhausted.

Emotionally and physically.

As you were getting out from the warm car, Vernon leaned over the console and gestured at something. You looked down, and a flood of sheer embarrassment waded around you upon realizing you were taking his bomber jacket.

“My limits stop here. That shit was expensive, huh?”

“Oh—uh—sorry. I didn’t mean to,” you stammered.

“It’s whatever.” He shrugged, accepting the bomber and tossing it back into the darkness. “Promise you’ll think about my proposition, yeah?”

You sighed, watching a stranger walk to their car. "Okay.”

“Cool. Nighty night, PJ’s.”

11 MONTHS AGO.

“I don’t know, I feel like I’m in such a weird spot… I don’t want to help him, I don’t want to get involved… but on the other hand, if I do help him, he’ll be out of my life, you know? Gone with the wind. It’s been bouncing around in my brain all week. I just don’t know what’s right.”

“Here, move. I’m gonna spray this part.” Soonyoung grabbed at the sleeve to your red shirt, guiding you away from the brick wall.

The back of Common Cents got tagged again—another octopus—and Soonyoung figured it was best to scrub everything off before Patsy realized. A big, soaked sponge was being squelched in your rubber-gloved hand as you watched Soonyoung blast the wall with water from the hose, whorls of cerulean and mossy green streaming across the cement. It was colder out now, your nose starting to run and fingers feeling brittle underneath the blue rubber.

“So…” you mumbled, moving back to the wall where you continued to wash off the paint, “what do you think I should do?”

“Why am I the person you’re talking to about this?” Soonyoung asked as he joined you with his window-scraping brush. “Why not Ruby?”

“I don’t know, she’s not impartial.”

“And I am? Wouldn’t it be better to ask someone who knows him?”

“Ah—” you grumbled, shaking your head while half-heartedly pushing the sponge into the wall, “—I just can’t bring it up to her.”

“Why?”

Biting at your lip, you sighed, “because… I spent all this time talking so much crap about him, complaining about him—if I do it, I’m worried she’ll think something weird—and if I don’t do it, then…” an image of Diana flashed in your mind, scalding you with guilt that felt uncomfortably palpable. “Then… I’m just suffering. And it’s my own fault.”

“So do it.”

You looked at Soonyoung, who had changed his favourite black baseball cap for a beanie, as he rigorously brushed the wall. “Really?”

“Y-Yes,” he grunted, breathing out heavy. “Now, can you put in some fucking elbow grease over there? Wall’s never gonna get clean.”

“Oh, right, sorry.”

“Why would you be worried about Ruby thinking you like him?”

The sponge paused against the wall. “That’s not what I said!”

Soonyoung laughed, “that’s what you implied. Is it not?”

 “Well, yes…” you mumbled, squeezing your fingers into the large sponge and watching the soap ooze out, “but I don’t! I just hate the fact I'm gonna get teased about it!”

“If you don’t like him, then don’t worry.” He smiled at you from over his shoulder, though you opted to remain silent, focusing on scrubbing down the octopus’ big yellow eye which looked similar to a golden amulet.

“Ah! Fuck! That scared the fuck out of me! Stop laughing, Vernon!”

You rolled over in bed, taking a mushy pillow from the plethora arranged against the headboard and covering the side of your face with it, attempting to block the noise. Just barely, you could see out your window into the complex parking lot, where someone was tossing out a shiny bag of trash late at night. Ruby screamed for the second time, causing you to press the pillow even tighter against your ear—she had never been good at horror movies—and you hoped for your sake they were only going to watch one.

Vernon came over earlier in the evening, although you avoided him. Ever since your… episode… the week before, and his interesting preposition, you had given yourself much time to think—early mornings, sluggish afternoons, restless nights—you wrestled between shame and realism. Shame: you got all snotty-nosed and glossy-faced and essentially threw an adult tantrum. Realism: you had a choice to make that felt equivalent to performing a bench press and having the bar collapse dead onto your chest. You rolled over again, adjusting the mangled bedsheets.

What help could you legitimately offer him?

Like you knew anything about Diana nowadays. She was the one who detached herself from your life, slowly cutting herself out bit by bit like a paper snowflake, until one day, her contact became nothing but absent digits in your phone. If anything, he probably knew more than you at this point.

“Vernon! Don’t!”

You stared at the base of your door, examining the faint stretch of pale light that creeped underneath and the fidgety shadows that rippled through it. Something crashed in the living room, and then you could hear your roommate giggling while admonishing Vernon. There was probably a bowl of spilt Cheetos all over the stupid carpet. Your stomach grumbled—you could eat Cheetos, even carpet ones, dressed in bits of fuzz—as you had been hiding in your room ever since Vernon arrived. Sometimes Ruby would slip you things underneath the door if she felt you were hiding for too long, like salted seaweed packs, or granola bars. Tonight, there was nothing.

Around half an hour later, you heard the front door slam.

Vernon was leaving.

Gosh—you needed to just rip the bandage off—squirming around in bed while your stomach pinched itself with anxiety wasn’t going to get you anywhere. Nearly tripping over the bedsheets caught around your ankles, you hopped toward the window and leaned awkwardly over the desk to half-push it open. There he was, casually tossing his car keys from hand to hand.

Where was he going so late at night? Where did he ever go?

At the last second, you felt intense doubt, your fingers remaining on the window’s flecking edge, trembling between shutting or opening. He was at his car now, just about to pull open the door and disappear into the city.

“Hey! Wait!” You yelled, cringing at how your voice echoed around the parking lot, sounding much louder than you’d ever want it to be.

Vernon paused, quirking his head at you.

Hot with nerves, you waved him over, and slid the window fully up.

“Peepin’ on me again, Pyjamas?”

“What? No—I’ve been in bed for—I heard you were—”

“Hey—s’no big deal—I like when a girl hollers at me.” He stared you down with a toothy-gummy smile that made your brain turn to cotton. “Good to see you not sittin’ at the curb formin’ icicles under your nose.”

Shaking your head and shimmying out of the odd shiver against your neck, you chose to ignore his last comment, trying not to lose every word you practiced and the exact tonality you’d say it with. “Um, so… did you guys spill something on the carpet? I mean, I heard this crash, and then Ruby, like, yelped or something. It’s fine if you did. It wasn’t fruit punch… was it?”

“Nah.” Vernon shook his head. “Dumb girl kicked over the chips.”

“Oh… that’s it?”

He nodded, pressing his lips together and furrowing his dark, sharp brow at you in question, as though he knew that wasn’t what you actually intended to speak with him about. You glanced down at your desk, spread out with messily ripped open envelopes of credit, heating, hydro, and internet bills. Sighing, you sucked up what little courage lived inside you.

“Uh, I’ve given your proposition some thought…”

“Have you?”

“Yeah…”

“Well?” Vernon shrugged, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, which you realized right then was the black bomber. “The verdict is?”

“… I’ll help you.” There—you had choked it out—even if you almost needed pliers to physically jerk the words from your throat. Vernon smiled again, and there was a transient sparkle in his honeyed eyes that didn’t make him seem so distant as he once felt. But you couldn’t be naïve about him, not at all.

“Cool,” Vernon said simply, extending his hand. “Night.”

You thought he was going to shake yours, and you got very confused as his fingers oddly scraped against your warm palm for a brief second, and then you realized he’d just dapped you up. The boy turned to walk away, back to his car. Your mind twisted in on itself.

That was it?

“Uh, Vernon?”

“What?”

“Well… I don’t know… we’re just going to leave it at that? I mean, don’t you think we should at least exchange numbers or something? We’re gonna have to figure out how this should all work, right?”

“Eh, I’ve got too many numbers in my phone.”

You blinked at him; lips parted. “Uh… how do you suppose we—”

“What’s a place you like goin’ to?” He asked.

“A place I like going to?” You repeated. “Why? That doesn’t really—”

“Alright, just tell me, Pyjamas,” Vernon rushed you, his breath becoming a misted web in the frigid air. “I can’t afford to spend all night talkin’ to you through a damn window while I freeze to death.”

Stumbling over your words, you answered, “I guess—I would have to pick—um… well… I haven’t been there in a while, but I like going to that big fountain at Herongate… the one with the globe? I used to sit there between my shifts sometimes to eat my lunch, and—”

“Okay—this Saturday, 6-pm, I’ll meet you there—sound good?”

“This Saturday?”

Vernon started backing up, pulling out his keys. “This Saturday.”

“At six?”

“Yes, at six. Need me to write it down for you?”

“N-No… I’ll remember.”

A moment later and Vernon was in his car, getting the engine warmed up. Not wanting to weirdly stare at him through the window, you shut it completely, then immediately ran to your calendar with a red pen to scribble down the arrangement. This Saturday. 6-pm. Herongate. Vernon. It’s not that you were going to forget.

In fact, you didn’t really know why you wrote it, just that it felt kind of… good… to back up from your calendar and see something in red ink that wasn’t a due date or a work schedule.

This Saturday. 6-pm. Herongate. Vernon.

This Saturday. 6-pm. Herongate. Vernon.

This Saturday. 6-pm. Herongate. Vernon.

You repeated it endlessly in your head until you fell asleep.

Herongate was a smaller sized mall that was only a bright ground floor with one strip of stores going down the edges. It wasn’t very exciting—and maybe that was why you liked it—despite the fact you hadn’t been in months. But the mall was just big enough to have everything you could want: Claire’s and Hot Topic were right beside each other like mismatched twins, and then Cinnabon was only three stores down. Perfect.

You sat at the edge of the fountain, looking back on the big, chrome globe that slowly spun in a circle on its axis, observing a very shiny North and South America rotate past you. This was once your favourite place to sit in between jobs, usually with a packed lunch to eat as you attempted to name as many countries as possible. At one point, you had gotten pretty good—you could identify almost every little nook and cranny of Europe—until work became too much, too quickly, and it was suddenly easier to drag yourself home between shifts rather than doing something you like.  

Ruby was napping when you left the apartment.

Still, you were unsure of how to break the news about Vernon to your roommate without seeming a little… hypocritical. After all your vehement complaining, moaning, and protesting that Ruby had been subject to, confessing that you were going to spare a hand in helping him might not translate in the way you would intend, nuance and all.

But at that moment, Ruby became the least of your worries.

It was almost twenty-past-six. Vernon was nowhere in sight.

You scanned your phone for the umpteenth time, thinking how much easier this might be if Vernon actually gave you his number instead of being all evasive. I’ve got too many numbers—you should have punched him right in his lip when he said that—too many numbers and no sense of time.

Anxiously bobbing your foot, you wondered how long would be too long to wait. Were you already past a non-disclosed threshold tied to your self-respect and now you were just sitting there idly, looking dazed, stupid, and desperate? Crushing your hands together, you squinted at the globe.

Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria… Macedonia?

A dark blob then appeared to reflect in the chrome, distorted.

“You weren’t too hard to find.”

He was met with your glare that merely bounced off him. ��Why are you so late? It’s almost six-thirty! I swore you said six o’clock, did you not?”

“Doesn’t matter what I said—” the boy shrugged, coming to sit beside you at the fountain, “—look what I have, Pyjamas.” He placed something down on the ledge, which you realized was a neatly packed container of sushi. “This girl that I deal to—her mom makes the best homemade sushi I’ve ever ate in my fuckin’ life. Don’t even charge her no more. This is all I need.” He shimmied off his jacket, licking his lips.

“Oh, well… it looks good,” you were hesitant to comment as you still wanted to press the issue of his tardiness. Vernon was undoing the clasps to the container, fishing out chopsticks from the side. “But… you know… I just wish I knew you were going to be late. I thought you weren’t coming.”

He proceeded to tear open a soy sauce packet with his teeth, letting the contents spill into an empty compartment of the container. “Mm… of course I was comin’,” Vernon rambled as though he were only half-listening, instead focusing on laying down some fresh ginger with his chopsticks before dipping the sushi in the runny sauce. “Just some shit I had to do first.” You watched, bemused, while the boy poked the rice and wrapped crab into his mouth, beginning to nod his head in evident approval. After a big swallow that made you wonder if he even chewed it, Vernon grinned. “Good as fuck.”

You sighed, tucking a leg in close to yourself, figuring that maybe it was best to let him eat. A growing boy needs his nutrients, as they say.

“There’s another pair of chopsticks in here,” Vernon mumbled, wiping a small drip of sauce from his lip. “Got crab, salmon, and yam.”

“Uh… that’s yours. Thank you, though.”

“You sure?” He asked, already pinching up another piece. “Don’t think too hard about it, Pyjamas. It’s all gonna be gone in the next five minutes.” When you didn’t say anything, Vernon simply laughed, picking the container up in his hand like he was hiding it. “Suit yourself.”

“Okay—uh—wait! I’ll have a piece…”

The meal you ate before leaving was a frozen power bowl spun in the microwave for five minutes that lacked any distinct flavour but your own sadness. Homemade sushi with fresh ginger and soy sauce seemed like eating sunshine, even if it came from a random girl Vernon was selling drugs to.

You grabbed the extra pair of chopsticks and picked up a piece, dipping it carefully in the sauce before slowly fitting it into your mouth so you wouldn’t choke—you could imagine that to be pretty embarrassing—and promptly pass out in the water fountain, which would suck even more. Having the fresh tastes and complimentary flavours alive on your tongue was nearly enough to make you leap up and start singing as though you were the lead member in a flash mob.

It got you thinking. “Have you ever seen a flash mob?”

Vernon crinkled his nose. “What the hell is that?”

You laughed while picking up some salmon, “a flash mob?”

“Mm—oh! Is that when you get flashed?” Vernon inquired, his eyes turning bright. “Like, when girls fuckin’ rip open their tops and show you their titties? Is it that kinda thing?” He brushed off his cheek, smiling.

Watching a mother usher her two little children past the fountain with added vigor and a disturbed wrinkle in her forehead, you couldn’t help but bend over and laugh. “No. No, no, no—gosh no! It’s, like, a pre-coordinated thing. It happens in public spaces. One person gets up and starts a performance, then another joins, and another, until you’ve got a big group making a spectacle. But they’re all in on it. It doesn’t have to be singing or dancing. There was one where everybody started taking off their pants on a subway. Believe it or not, my sixth-grade teacher showed us that video.”

“Takin’ their pants off?” Vernon sounded intrigued behind the sushi he just shoved into his mouth. “On a subway? Shit’s already weird enough down there. But if I saw everyone takin’ their pants off, I’d probably join.”

“But you’re not part of the mob.”

“So?”

“Uh… sure.” You didn’t know how to challenge his point.

“I like my idea better.”

Deciding to let Vernon have the rest, you set the chopsticks down and wiped off your mouth, smiling. “What? Girls lifting up their shirts?”

“Yeah. Sounds fun, doesn’t it?”

With a roll of the eyes, you folded one leg over your knee and interlocked your fingers around it. “We have different versions of fun.”

Vernon smirked, closing the container. “You asked me, PJ’s.”

“All right, whatever,” you huffed, glancing around from person to person and store to store. “Anyway, now that we’ve both got some decent food in our systems, I think we should discuss what—”

“Holy shit—I knew I smelt something!” The boy was suddenly to his feet, squinting past the splashing fountain and into the distance, acting much too thrilled for your liking. “Cinnabon?! PJ’s, why didn’t you tell me they had a Cinnabon here!” He grabbed his jacket, tossing it back on.

“Well, uh, I didn’t think it was necessarily that important—”

He shook his head adamantly, then pulling out a wallet from his pocket. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve had a cinnamon bun. The only thing I’ll be able to think about is a warm, sticky, cinnamony, gooey heaven…” Vernon picked through the folds in his wallet. “Damn—I don’t even have a fiver on me! Uh…” he started patting down his pants pockets, only to pull out dryer lint. “Fuck, guess I’m gonna have to freestyle.”

You had no idea what he meant by that. Huffing, you decided to stay by the water fountain, chin sitting heavy in your palm, as Vernon wandered off down the mall for his esteemed cinnamon bun. A productive conversation between the two of you seemed impossible when the boy was so flighty. Next thing you knew, he’d probably get distracted by a dime in the fountain and tumble straight in. You aimlessly flicked around on your phone until he came back, napkin in hand, with his glazed prize propped on it.

Raising your eyebrows, you marveled at him. “How did you manage to pull that off? Did you beg someone in line?”

“No,” he said while sitting back down.

“Five-finger discount?”

“No.”

Now, you were just confused. “You took it from a little kid?”

“Jeez, what’s your fuckin’ problem?” Vernon scorned, licking at his thumb blotched with some confectionary icing. “I’m a drug dealer, not fuckin’ Ebeneezer Scrooge. Nah, just a lady workin’ there. You throw a couple compliments, get the giggle-train goin’, ask for a free sample—not rocket science or anything—just simple economics.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “Are you always like this?”

He took a bite from the cinnamon bun, grinning. “Like whafft?”

“Ugh, never mind.” You were eager to dismiss whatever unkind thoughts had infiltrated your mind. “I mean, you had your sushi, you’ve got a cinnamon bun. I think we should talk about how we’re gonna plan this out. My work schedule is pretty packed. I’m honestly limited to weekends.”

Vernon wiped his chin, nodding. “Well, there’s twenty-four hours in a day.” He ripped off another piece of the pastry with his teeth and you couldn’t deny that it smelt so perfectly sweet and deliciously sugared that your nose twitched. “Fuck—you know what? I should have got a drink.”

“Your days might be twenty-four hours. Mine are certainly not.”

“Weekends are kinda shit for me,” Vernon said.

“I don’t have much wriggle room. What are you doing on weekends that requires your attention the entire day?” You retorted, folding your arms.

Vernon shrugged. “In case I don’t wanna do anything.”

“What?”

“I don’t like doin’ anything on weekends in case I don’t wanna do anything,” he clarified like it enhanced your understanding even marginally.

“You don’t want to do anything on weekends…” you paused, lifting an eyebrow, “just in case you don’t want to do anything? Is that right?”

“Mm,” Vernon nodded, brushing glaze from his lip ring, “and if I want to do something, then I’ll already have the weekend available ‘cause I didn’t commit to any plans. I need the space y’know? I figured you’d get it.”

Opening your mouth, you stuttered, “I-I don’t get it, actually—"

“Fuck, I’m thirsty as hell now,” the boy complained after crushing up his napkin. “Any place in here that makes smoothies? Strawberry banana type shit? Mango sunshine?” He stood up again, swiveling his head around in observation, while you tucked your face into your hands and whined. Gosh—this boy was like a prairie dog! Always fidgeting, always distracted, always testing your patience.

“Vernon!” You snapped at him. “Can you focus!”

“I’m thirsty.”

“Please?” Grabbing onto the sleeve of his jacket, you tugged the material hard, urging him to sit back down before your head exploded. “If we don’t manage to get this sorted in the next five minutes, I’m gonna start screaming. You’re free to do whatever you want once I’m gone.”

He didn’t seem particularly fond about it, but Vernon did sit, though he leaned forward with elbows on his knees like he was waiting for the first opportunity to get distracted and bolt. Were men always like that? Or was it just Vernon? Maybe you were one of those people who just completely and utterly lacked any sentiment of patience for them. It seemed like it.

“So,” you cleared your throat, “I think weekends is our best bet. It’s our only bet, actually. I get the vibe you’re not a morning person, so maybe we do afternoons. But if we pick a time, you actually have to follow it.”

“Okay, okay, listen, Pyjamas.” Vernon straightened up, directing his hand at you. “All this shit is fine n’ dandy, but we really can’t coordinate a goddamn thing until we know where Basu is. That’s where we start. And since my leads are dried out, I look to you. She’s your girl. Call her.”

Immediately, you scoffed at him in disbelief, “call her?”

“Mm.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“No, no. Respectfully, that’s not how this is going to work.”

“Why not?”

You laughed, fingernails scraping against your scalp. “Be-because—it just—it won’t work like that. Diana and I… it’s complicated, okay? We haven’t talked since our graduation, over a year ago, and… I’ve tried…”

“Ou,” Vernon winced, biting his lip. “She ghosted you, huh?”

Rolling out your shoulders and attempting to put some conviction and strength in your posture, you shook your head. That was exactly the truth, but hearing him say it felt cruel. “She—essentially—well, yeah.”

He shrugged. “Eh, worse things have happened. Why don’t you just try callin’ her again? Maybe she’s over it now. She might want to talk.”

“It’s not that easy,” you sighed.

“You haven’t even tried.”

Clenching your fist, your heartbeat started fluttering. “What makes you think she wants me in her life at this point? She’s clearly a different person now, I mean, if she’s doing drugs, avoiding payments, all that. I’m not saying I judge her—I don’t—but it’s clear that the version I have of her in my head doesn’t exist any longer. We’re starting from scratch. I think you probably know more about her than I do.”

Vernon shoved his hands in his pockets, stretched out his legs. “Barely. And that shit was quick. She hardly talked or looked at me, really. Just took her shit and left. Always wore a big sweater with the hood half-draped over her face, so I never got to see much of her.”

Your stomach curdled. That sounded absolutely nothing like the Diana from your memories. But there had to be something more.

“How did you start dealing to her?” You asked.

Vernon leaned over, scratching his studded eyebrow. “Uh… if I’m honest I can’t really remember… I might’ve run into her at a party and we got to talkin’ or whatever. But I would always meet her in the same place to drop off her shit—it was a parkin’ lot behind this dingy Thai restaurant, late at night—she wouldn’t even get in the car. She always had cash on her. But the last two times, she slipped. I told her NBD, y’know? She never gave me the vibe she would stiff me. But then I never heard from the chick again.”

You thought back on your time with Diana in university. There had been a couple late nights where you two would find yourselves wandering the empty streets, kicking the rocks at your feet, watching newspapers and stray plastic bags drift by, talking about anything that leapt to mind. Most occasions would steer you into small takeout restaurants across town that you had never even heard of, ready to scourge their menus and take advantage of their cheap prices as needy, broke students. You could only remember one Thai restaurant. They had beautifully painted artwork of a red-whiskered dragon on their window that Diana had stopped to look at.

“Well...” you swallowed thickly. “I might know where the Thai restaurant is… but I’d have to do some research. Though, I’m not really sure how that will help us… I guess it wouldn’t hurt to check it out.”

Vernon smiled. “That’s great.”

“But I have to add—it’ll be really hard for us to do this effectively if we can’t text each other. If you’re worried that I’m going to be obsessively blowing up your phone every hour with a lead, I promise, I won’t be.”

“M’kay, guess you’re right,” he agreed despite seeming apprehensive. Vernon handed you his phone to type in your number.

The screen was sectioned into shards from a gigantic crack in the corner, and the keyboard twitched sensitively under your fingertips. “Isn’t this lovely?” You sighed. “Did you use this to deflect a bullet or something?”

The boy laughed, shaking some loose, dust-black hairs from his forehead. “Nah, dropped it out the car window last year.”

“Why is there no case on it?” You said with ample judgement.

Vernon snatched his phone back. “I don’t got one.”

“Well, I can see that.”

He merely grunted at you in response while you sat on the ledge, giggling to yourself. It was a bit funny to tease him—he deserved it, after all—for his tardiness and constant distractions. Vernon slotted the bare phone into his back pocket and straightened out his jacket. You wondered where he would go now. Probably off to flirt his way into a free smoothie. They'd let him behind the counter and he'd make it himself, for all you could surmise.

Picking up the empty sushi container, he nodded at you. “Alright. Nice talk, PJ’s. Glad we could make some headway.”

You nodded back, hands pinched between your knees. “Later…” you smiled coyly, tossing a thought around in your mind like a rubber ball. “Uh... if you keep going past Cinnabon, there’s a Mango-nificent”

“'Kay, cool,” Vernon said, waving you off. "Thanks, Miss."

—END OF PART ONE.

[se7vnn]

all in my head 🌼 vernon x reader.

the story of you, vernon, and the mortifying ordeal of having a crush.

🌼 pairing. college friends!chwe hansol x reader. 🌼 word count. 4.3k. 🌼 genres/includes. romance, friendship, humor. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: university. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. idiots in love, friends to lovers, seungkwan & chan haunt the narrative. title from justin bieber’s daisies. 🌼 footnotes. this was commissioned; i’m currently taking comms for donations made to philippine typhoon relief efforts!!! read more on where to donate & how to request.

Golden hour hits the campus like a soft-filtered slap. The sky’s doing that dreamy gradient thing, and you’re sitting on a bench outside the Humanities building, knees pulled up, backpack abandoned beside you. There’s a mostly-dead daisy in your hand. You’re picking at its petals with the kind of focus usually reserved for bomb defusal or online shopping during a sale.

“Loves me.”

Pluck.

“Loves me not.”

Pluck.

You sigh. Mostly for dramatic effect.

Technically, you’re waiting for Seungkwan to get out of his last class, but he’s already ten minutes late, and the daisy’s giving you more emotional whiplash than a K-drama finale.

“Who’s the victim?” a voice asks.

You jolt. Almost drop the flower. Definitely drop your cool.

Vernon is standing there in the shade, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, the hood halfway up. He’s got his usual unreadable expression on. A mix of sleepy amusement and vaguely judging curiosity.

“No victim,” you say. “Just boredom.”

He nods slowly, as if that tracks. Then, “Seungkwan told me to come get you. He bailed. Something about divine intervention in the form of a class cancellation and a sudden craving for bubble tea.”

Your nose scrunches. “He ditched me?”

“He said ‘forgot to tell you.’ Which, in his defense, sounds better than ‘strategically abandoned.’”

“Debatable.”

Vernon shrugs. He does that a lot. Shrugs, tilts his head, stands just close enough that you can smell his laundry detergent but never close enough to actually touch. It should be maddening. It kind of is.

You glance back at the flower. One sad petal left.

“You gonna finish the ritual or just let it haunt you?” he asks, amusement tinting his tone. 

You hesitate. Pluck the final petal.

“Loves me not.”

“Tragic,” he says, deadpan. “I was rooting for you.”

Your laugh is too loud. You regret it immediately.

He doesn’t comment.

You and Vernon exist in the same loosely woven group of friends. Mostly arts kids, mostly unhinged, all chronically online. He’s an English major with the energy of a substitute teacher who’d rather be in a band. You share classes. Group chats. The occasional late-night ramen run. 

Every so often, he says something that feels like it should mean more. Looks at you like you’re the main plot instead of comic relief.

But then he’ll yawn in the middle of your sentence or send you TikToks at 3 a.m. without a caption, and you’re back to square one. Uncertain, off-balance, and maybe a little bit whipped.

You pocket the decapitated daisy. “Guess I’m yours now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say with a slightly awkward cough. “You’re my ride. Let’s go.”

He doesn’t argue. He only falls into step beside you, hands still in his pockets. You don’t let yourself look too long. Not when he’s this close. Not when your heartbeat is pretending it’s auditioning for a percussion solo.

He glances sideways at you, then forward again. Says nothing. But you catch it—the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Small. Private.

Dangerous.

You look away before the treacherous crush blooming in your chest can take root. Not that it matters, when you have evil friends with nefarious plans. 

After a mostly-silent stroll, you and Vernon step into the cozy chaos that is Brew & Bubbles, a place that smells like brown sugar and impending disaster. The bell above the door jingles with the performative cheer of a sitcom sound effect. There’s indie music playing too softly to be cool and too loudly to ignore.

Seungkwan waves from a corner booth, double fisting two drinks like he’s been waiting for this exact entrance cue. Chan sits across from him, visibly vibrating with excitement as he sips something obscenely purple.

You narrow your eyes. “Why does this feel like a setup?”

“It is a setup,” Vernon says, too calmly, already moving toward the booth.

“What?”

“Look at them.” He gestures lazily with one of his unpocketed hands. “Those are the faces of men with agendas.”

He’s not wrong.

Seungkwan beams like a stage mom. “You made it!”

Chan gestures to the two empty seats. “We got you your usual. Thought it’d be nice to hang out. The four of us. Casually. Totally normal.”

You sit down slowly, like the booth might bite. Vernon slides in next to you without hesitation, shoulder brushing yours in that easy, accidental way that shouldn’t make your heart hammer the way it does. 

You glance at the drinks. Yours has a tiny heart drawn on the lid.

“Reaaal subtle, guys,” you grunt. 

“Cute, right?” Seungkwan chirps. “I told the barista to give it extra love. For luck.”

Chan’s eyebrows wag. “So,” he says, all casual menace, “any sparks flying yet?”

You choke on your drink. Vernon, somehow, doesn’t blink.

“Pretty sure that’s a fire hazard,” he says wryly.

Chan elbows Seungkwan under the table. Seungkwan stage-whispers, “We’re just saying. You two spend a lot of time together. Like, suspiciously a lot.”

You glare. “I also spend a lot of time with my dog. Should I be worried about that, too?”

“He doesn’t make you laugh like Vernon does,” Seungkwan counters.

Your jaw drops. “Are you seriously comparing my friendship to a rom-com arc right now?”

Chan nods, utterly sincere. “We think you’re a slow burn.”

Vernon sips his drink like this isn’t his circus, isn’t his monkeys, isn’t the literal screenplay of his life being workshopped in front of him.

You glance at him anyway. “Are you hearing this?”

“I stopped listening somewhere around ‘sparks flying,’” he says. 

Which is not helpful. But it’s him. And part of you—the traitorous, heart-eyed part—likes that he doesn’t play into their schemes. That he stays just out of reach. That the mystery keeps you on your toes even when you want to shove him off the proverbial ledge and yell just say something.

You settle for stabbing your straw through the lid. The rest of the hangout passes in a blur of teasing comments and overcompensated indifference. Vernon stays exactly as he is. Cool, unreadable, warm in proximity and nowhere else.

When he gets up to leave, he pats Seungkwan’s shoulder. “Thanks for the drink.”

Seungkwan grins. “Thanks for the chemistry.”

“Sure.” He turns to you. “You staying?”

“For now,” you say. “Someone’s gotta keep them from writing fanfiction about us.”

He smiles—tiny, knowing—and leaves without another word. The door closes behind him.

You wait five seconds. Then, you turn on Dumb and Dumber. “What the hell was that?” you seethe.

Chan holds up his hands. “A gentle nudge.”

“You shoved us off a cliff.”

“You landed fine,” Seungkwan insists. “There was eye contact. Shoulder touching. Mutual banter—”

“This isn’t a YouTube compilation!” you snap. “You can’t just will a relationship into existence because you’re bored and too emotionally invested!”

Chan pouts. “We’re rooting for you.”

“Root for yourselves!”

Seungkwan slurps his drink obnoxiously. “We’d root in silence if you’d just kiss him already.”

You groan. Loudly. Into your palms. Nonetheless, there’s a warmth at the edge of your frustration. A softness that wasn’t there earlier. Because even if you’re chaotic, even if Vernon stays unreadable…

He didn’t say no. He sat next to you. He smiled.

You sip your drink absentmindedly and one of the boba pearls shoots down your throat, distracting you from all thoughts of what-could-be. Vernon remains an enigma for at least another day.

The walls are fake brick and the lights are dim enough to be charming or ominous depending on the playlist. Currently: charming. There’s something retro playing. Maybe Fleetwood Mac, maybe just the alcohol. You can’t tell anymore.

You had hoped—naively, foolishly—that Chan and Seungkwan would get the hint. That after your very impassioned TED Talk about respecting emotional boundaries, they would back off. Give you space. Let you pine in peace.

Instead, they invited you out.

“Just drinks,” Chan had said. “Chill vibes,” Seungkwan had added.

You walked in five minutes ago, and Vernon was already at the bar.

Of course he was.

He’s sitting on a high stool, half-sunk into his varsity jacket, elbow on the bar, hand lazily nursing a glass of something amber. He looks bored in that way he always does. Halfway between here and another universe entirely.

Then he sees you, and he perks up.

It’s subtle. Barely a shift. His spine straightens. His hand lifts in a vague half-wave, like he’s not sure how much effort you deserve tonight. The smile that follows—small, not quite smirk, not quite soft—is unmistakably for you.

You hate how your heart reacts. It’s got no self-respect.

You make your way over, aware of every step, every breath. Chan and Seungkwan are mysteriously missing. Probably in the bathroom plotting your fake wedding or updating their shared doc titled Operation: Will They or Won’t They.

You slide onto the stool next to Vernon. He tilts his head in greeting.

“You made it,” he says.

“You say that like it wasn’t a trap.”

He chuckles. It’s low. Brief. Worth it.

“I figured,” he says. “Seungkwan sent me a GIF of Cupid with a bazooka. Thought it was a meme. Apparently it was an itinerary.”

Your snort earns you an amused glance that lingers.

You order something you won’t regret and take in the neon-stained room. The crowd’s thickening. A group near the back is already doing bad karaoke. It smells like lime and college debt.

“You look nice,” Vernon says suddenly, like he just remembered compliments exist.

You glance at him, trying to ignore the way your pulse has begun to thrum. “You say that like I don’t always.”

He leans in, elbow brushing yours. “That’s on me, then.”

You freeze. Just for a second. “Getting sentimental?” you manage. 

“Maybe,” he shoots back. “It’s the lighting.”

You sip your drink to cover the way your brain shorts out. He’s close now. Close enough that you can smell his cologne. Cedar, citrus, something sharp. He turns slightly to hear you better, head tilted, lips parted slightly as he soundlessly mouths to the song that’s playing. It’s the kind of attention that makes you forget your own point.

You say something halfway coherent. He laughs. A real one this time. For a beat, it feels like the rest of the bar drops out of focus.

Then someone bumps your chair. You shift instinctively. He reaches out—steadying hand at the small of your back. It’s only a second’s worth of a touch, but your whole body registers it like gospel.

He doesn’t acknowledge it. Doesn’t need to.

You talk a little more. About nothing and everything. A shared professor who clearly hates joy. A mutual friend’s new hair. The way campus feels different at night.

And then, he’s standing, lips pursed in a somewhat apologetic grin. “I’ve got an early class,” he says. “Should probably pretend I’m a responsible adult.”

You nod. Too fast. Too neutral.

He looks at you for a long moment. Like he wants to say something else. What comes out—

“Text me when you get home, yeah?”

You nod. Slower this time, to show that you fully intend to do what he’s asking of you. “Yeah.”

His smile tilts just to the right side of fond and disappears into the night. You stay there, nursing your fruity cocktail and the shambles of your emotional maturity.

Your friends reappear five minutes later, suspiciously smug. “You good?” Seungkwan asks as he steals a sip from your drink.

Chan, from behind him, sing-songs, “You look dazed. Something happen?”

You don’t answer.

You just stare at the door Vernon left through.

And feel your heart, traitorous as ever, whisper: Again. Please. Again.

They’re dragging you out for a detour less than seven minus later. The dive bar’s door swings shut behind you; the air is cooler now, biting at your cheeks and tugging at your sleeves. Seungkwan and Chan stumble out after you, loud and loose, mid-argument about something both extremely trivial and deeply urgent.

“Just say it’s better with pineapple!” Chan is insisting, arms flailing the same way one might orchestrate a concerto.

“It’s a war crime on dough,” Seungkwan declares, clutching his phone as if it’s a mic. “I will die on this hill. And be buried with dignity.”

You’re just about to jump in when you catch sight of Vernon.

He’s just down the sidewalk, hood up, face lit by the blue glow of his phone screen. One hand’s jammed in his pocket. The other holds a cigarette.

You stop walking.

He looks up. Notices you. Offers a small nod—neither invitation nor dismissal. Just presence.

“Uber problems?” you ask, approaching tentatively.

He exhales smoke and frustration in the same breath. “App’s crashing. Or maybe I’m cursed.”

Behind you, Seungkwan screeches something about culinary betrayal, and Chan almost trips over a bike rack.

You ignore the circus. Eyes on Vernon. On the cigarette.

He catches the shift in your expression. How your mouth goes tight, how your arms cross twitch at your sides. “What?” he asks, voice edged with softness and amusement.

You hesitate. Then shrug, aiming for nonchalance and landing somewhere near obvious discomfort. “Just—never liked the smell,” you say. “Of smoke. Cigarettes.”

He watches you for a beat. Something unreadable flickers in his eyes. Then, without a word, he flicks the cigarette to the ground and steps on it.

You’re pretty sure you’ll die if you think too hard about it.

“That your ride?” Chan slurs behind you, pointing as a car pulls up to the curb.

Vernon glances at his phone. “Yeah.”

He looks at you again. Doesn’t explain himself. Doesn’t make a joke. “Night,” he only says with a curt nod.

“Night,” you echo.

He gets in. The door shuts. The car drives off. You stand there longer than necessary.

You tell yourself: it didn’t mean anything, didn’t mean anything, didn’t mean anything. It’s not a gesture. You’re not about to read into a man putting out a cigarette just because you didn’t like it.

Seungkwan, unrepentant, appears at your side, dramatic sigh at the ready. “He quit smoking for you. That’s, like, two Taylor Swift songs at minimum.”

“Shut up,” you groan, even as your ribs echo with the sound of Vernon’s lighter never flicking back on.

It’s been days since the dive bar. 

Since Vernon’s hand on the small of your back. Since the cigarette stubbed out like a secret you weren’t meant to see.

You should be over it by now. You should be thinking about normal things. Laundry, overdue assignments, how your shampoo is running out. Not pacing your room like a B-movie detective unraveling a case called The Mystery of How to Text Your Friend Who You’re Definitely Not In Love With.

He’s your friend.

You’re friends.

You’ve split fries together. You’ve watched him cry-laugh at Seungkwan’s impressions. You’ve seen him lose rock-paper-scissors five times in a row with terrifying consistency. There is no reason to feel like you’re defusing a bomb every time you try to open your messages with him.

And yet, here you are. Phone in hand. Sweating like someone who’s been accused of a crime. The crime? Caring.

Your chest feels like a glass overfilled at the lip. One more drop, and the whole thing goes.

“No one’s gonna die if you text him,” you mutter to yourself, pacing tight circles near your bed. “Probably. Statistically. Probably.”

You scroll through your message history. It’s a minimalist masterpiece. A museum of almosts. The Louvre of lowercase apathy. Vernon, in his monosyllables and dry sarcasm. You’re not even mad. You’re just—

“Haunted by hope,” you whisper, tragically.

You type: hey, u alive?

Delete.

Then: survived any more haunted ubers lately?

Delete. Too obvious. Too thirsty. Too normal.

You toss your phone onto the be, and it bounces to the edge. You snatch it back two seconds later like you didn’t just swear off texting for the next calendar year. Fuck it. 

You: hey

Send.

Bold. Revolutionary. Absolutely useless.

The typing bubble appears anyway.

Your heart performs a circus trick. Then crashes through the safety net. Then disappears.

Reappears, when your phone pings. 

Vernon: yo

You stare. At the lowercase. At the casual brutality of it. It’s a brush-off in Helvetica.

You: good talk

You: inspiring, really

More dots.

Vernon: u started it

You squint at your screen like it owes you answers. It does not oblige.

You: and regretting it every second

Vernon: rude

A beat. You almost toss the phone again. Almost declare emotional bankruptcy. Almost pretend this never happened and go hyperfixate on folding laundry.

But then Vernon double texts. 

Vernon: was thinking abt what u said. abt the smoking

You freeze mid-step. Mid-thought. Mid-breath. A third text comes in. 

Vernon: wasn’t tryna be that guy. my bad.

You sit, hard, as if gravity has remembered you all at once. This can’t be real. It makes no sense whatsoever. Your fingers are shaking a bit as you type out a response. 

You: you weren’t being That Guy. i was just being weird about it lol

Vernon: still. thanks for tellin me

You: … thanks for listening.

Silence. But not the kind that makes you spiral. The kind that settles. Like weight you didn’t know you needed. You’d be happy for it to end there, but it keeps going. You’re surprised you haven’t keeled over just yet. 

Vernon: u get dinner yet?

You: are you offering or being nosy?

Vernon: both

You: i ate. but i’ll pretend i didn’t if you need a reason to hang out 😛

No typing bubble. Regret kicks you in the teeth. “Too soon,” you hiss to yourself, “too soon, too soon.”

You: ignore me lol

He does not ignore you. 

Vernon: tomorrow?

You stare at the text for more time than what is probably socially accepted. .

You: sure

Vernon: cool. i’ll find a non-haunted ride this time

You: try not to dissolve in the rain.

Vernon: no promises lololol

You let the phone drop into your lap. Stare at the ceiling like it might offer clarity.

You have no idea what any of this means.

It’s objectively not a date. Probably.

You’ve replayed the chat thread so many times, your phone autocorrects ‘Vernon’ to ‘??’ Which feels about right. He's always been something of a question mark—smirking in the margins, sliding in and out of conversations like he’s allergic to attention unless he’s in the mood for it. Which is rare. Which is why this dinner is driving you a little insane.

It’s just fast food. Greasy trays. Fluorescent lights. A place that smells like deep-fried childhood and broken soft serve machines. Someone’s toddler is screaming in the corner. The soda fountain is wheezing. 

Romance is clearly dead. If this is a date, it’s on life support.

So you dress down. Hoodie. Jeans. Sneakers you pretend you didn’t clean an hour ago. Maybe you spent ten minutes deciding which hoodie felt the most effortlessly chill—whatever. Not a date.

And yet, you still nearly trip over yourself walking in.

Vernon’s already there. Leaned back in a booth, hood halfway up, eyes on his phone. One leg outstretched. He looks up when you arrive, and—okay, maybe this is in your head—but you swear he sits up straighter again. 

“Hey,” you say, like you haven’t been sweating bullets over how to greet him. A hug? A nod? A secret handshake you invent on the spot and immediately regret?

“Hey,” he says, and gestures at the seat across from him with a fry. Casual. As if he doesn’t know this is the most one-on-one time you’ve ever spent together.

You sit. He pushes the tray toward you. Two burgers. One with pickles removed. Your usual.

“Wait, how’d you—?”

“You always complain about pickles when we go out. Figured I’d save you the drama.”

You want to make a joke about him being observant in a suspiciously romantic way, but your brain’s too busy melting.

He’s wearing a crewneck under the hoodie. You recognize it from a photo on Seungkwan’s Instagram. Something dumb with everyone squished into a karaoke booth. You remember thinking, back then, that Vernon looked good in grey. You think it again now. It feels more dangerous this time.

The thing about Vernon is—he’s different when there’s a crowd. Not shy, just… relaxed to the point of invisibility. He surfaces with a dry comment or a weirdly insightful take, then vanishes again. A fog. A vibe. The kind that lingers in your hoodie when you get home and wonder why your heart hurts a little.

Right now, across this chipped laminate table, he’s more present than he’s ever been. Louder. Looser. Smiling with his whole mouth, not just the left corner. Making a dumb face when the ketchup packet explodes. Leaning in when you talk like there’s nothing else in this sticky, half-lit room worth noticing.

“D’you remember that time Seungkwan tried to stage an intervention because I missed two group dinners in a row?” he says, mid-chew.

“He made PowerPoint slides.”

“With transitions.”

“Sound effects.”

“And a Where Is Vernon Now? map graphic.”

You laugh. God, you actually laugh. Loud enough that the toddler stops screaming for a second.

Conversation happens in fits and starts. Never awkward, just stretchy. It’s a sweater being pulled over your head. Sometimes Vernon says something and you stare, trying to figure out if he’s joking. Sometimes he stares at you like he’s trying to figure out the same.

He asks you what you’ve been reading lately and listens. Not just head-nodding, waiting-for-his-turn-to-talk listening. Real listening. The kind that makes you feel like maybe you are a little bit interesting, actually. The kind that makes you want to say more, just to see how he’ll look at you when you do.

At some point, your fries disappear. The table’s a battlefield of crumpled napkins and half-laughs. Vernon leans back, stretches like a cat, eyes lazy but bright. You want to ask him a hundred things and none at all.

It’s not a date.

But if it were, it’d be a good one.

Actually, even if it’s not—it still is.

The walk back after is slow, reluctant. Each step is a study in nonchalance, which of course means you’re hyper-aware of everything: your aglet tapping the pavement, the rustle of his hoodie sleeve every time your arms almost touch.

You keep your hands in your pockets. Mostly so you don’t do anything stupid. Like grab his sleeve. Or his hand. Or his face. Your brain has become a carousel of forbidden actions, spinning with possibility and peril.

Vernon’s walking just a little closer than usual. Shoulders brushing sometimes, sometimes not. It’s maddening. It’s intoxicating. It’s so subtle it makes you want to scream. He’s not saying much, which would usually make you spiral, but for once, the silence feels like it’s holding something, not avoiding it.

Vernon’s a creature of mild vanishings. Soundless exits. Doorframes hovered in. But he’s here now. Walking next to you. Not looking away.

The street’s quiet beyond the shuffle of shoes and the low whirr of campus lamplight buzzing overhead. The moon’s doing its best impression of a spotlight. It’s cinematic, if you squint. You open your mouth—close it. You try again.

“So… this was fun,” you say lamely. 

“Yeah,” he says. Smiles sideways. “Even though it was objectively not a date.”

Your laugh comes out half a breath. “Right. Obviously.”

It hangs there. In the space between one lamp post and the next. The kind of moment that begs to be broken, or filled, or maybe just stared at until it transforms into something else.

Then, suddenly—he stops walking.

You halt too, almost stumbling. “What?”

He crouches, poking at a crack in the sidewalk.

“Are you—are you scavenging?”

“Reclaiming,” he says, and stands. In his hand: a daisy. A little bent, a little dirt-speckled, but unmistakably whole.

Your heart stutters.

He holds it out to you. “Saw you do this once. Thought we’d give it a try again tonight.”

There’s a second where you think he’s joking. Vernon’s like that. Always two layers beneath whatever he says. This, conversely, feels unfiltered.

As if the laws of physics have agreed to take the night off, you both find yourself standing under a streetlight, trading daisy plucks like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Loves me.”

“Loves me not.”

Your fingers brush as the petals fall. One by one. Casual. Careful. Calibrated. You’re very aware of how close your shoulders are now. Of the heat lingering at the edge of each breath.

“Loves me.”

“Loves me not.”

Your voice wavers. There’s one petal left.

He doesn’t reach for it.

You glance at him, and the look on his face is—

Soft. Expectant. 

“Loves—”

He kisses you before you can finish.

There’s no frenzy, no rush. This is certain and slow, like a sentence he’s been waiting to say for weeks and finally found the words for. Loves you. 

Your eyes flutter shut. The daisy slips from your hand, landing somewhere between your shoes. Crushed under the weight of prophecy fulfilled.

It’s all so simple, which is the wildest part. There’s no swelling music. No thunderclap. Just the press of his mouth, the hand that moves instinctively to your waist, the inhale you both forget to take.

Because now you’re thinking of the way he remembers your order. The way he lights up when he sees you. The way he puts out cigarettes without making you ask. The way he never made a big deal of any of it.

You’re thinking of every almost. Every not-a-date. Every sidelong glance across a room. The time he offered you his hoodie without asking. The way he noticed you hate pickles. The way his leg would nudge yours under the table, the way he’s let your friends poke and prod because there are worse than being teased with somebody you actually do kind of like. 

And how maybe—maybe—he’s felt this way since the very beginning.

You pull back just enough to whisper: “So… you sure this wasn’t a date?”

You feel the curve of his grin as he chases your mouth for another kiss. 

“Well,” he breathes against your lips, “it is now.” 

[se7vnn]

supersweet | kim mingyu

SYNOPSIS. in which your superhero boyfriend takes aftercare really seriously. PAIRING. superman!kim mingyu x journalist!fem!reader GENRE. post-coital tooth-aching fluff, humour, establish(ing) relationship WARNINGS. mentions of sex, cursing, nudity (not explicitly described), mention of public indecency (used as humour), kissing, use of superpowers for aftercare, terms of endearment, mingyu cleaning reader up, they're both so in love i'm jumping off a cliff WORD COUNT. 2.3k

notes: unfortunately, i am still not over the superman movie and superman!mingyu in general. takes place after a scene in off the record <3

You hardly remember the last time you ever felt this warm.

Not just in the flushed, post-coital kind of way𑁋though, you won’t deny that your body is still thrumming, skin tingling from all the spots that were just thoroughly and gently kissed and worshipped. You’re still completely bare, the sheets are sprawled only up to your waist. The residual heat from the moments before have begun to calm now, and you find yourself surrounded by the quietness that comes right after. 

You just did Superman. Wait, that sounds strange𑁋no, you just did things with Superman. Dammit, that sounds even stranger. 

And you have no idea what to do with that thought. 

Instead, you just giggle.

It starts off small, a breathy sound that escapes your lips before you can even stop it. Beside you, Mingyu turns his head on the pillow to look at you, his dark hair all messy and eyes caught between bliss and disbelief. Gosh, it’s almost offensive how he still looks good even all disheveled. He blinks a few times, then grins𑁋bashful, yet smug as hell. 

“What?” he mutters gravelly. “What’s so funny? Did I do something?” 

You bite your bottom lip to suppress another laugh, shaking your head lightly. “No, just… Can’t believe I slept with Superman.”

Mingyu groans at your words, burying his flushed face back into the pillow. “Okay, rude. I have a name, you know.” 

You let out another airy giggle, rolling over so that you’re properly facing him now. “I know your name, farm boy. Doesn’t make it any less insane.”

He muffles something into the pillow that you can barely distinguish. Then, he finally lifts his face back up to meet you eye-level as well, his bare, unfairly sculpted pressing up against yours in the crumpled sheets as he drapes an arm over you. When you try to entangle your legs with him, a quiet wince leaves you.

Mingyu immediately stiffens.

“Hey, wait𑁋did I hurt you?” he asks worriedly, pulling his hand away as if he’s suddenly burned you. “Did I go too fast? Shit, I should’ve𑁋”

“What? No, no, I’m okay,” You say, cutting him off from his panic.

But it’s still not enough to convince him as he props himself up with one elbow, hovering slightly above you as his eyes rigorously scan over you. He looks like he’s searching for bruises, any sign of discomfort or regret that might have slipped past him during the heat of the moment. His brows are furrowed together, strands of his hair flopping adorably over his eyes, jaw tense as if he’s blaming himself for something that didn’t even happen. 

“God, I’m so sorry. You were just so beautiful and making all these sounds and I kind of got caught up and𑁋”

“Mingyu,” You call out his name again, reaching up to caress his cheek tenderly. “I’m okay. I promise.”

Mingyu pauses briefly, but when he catches sight of the small smile on your face, he visibly relaxes. His broad shoulders hunch back down, and he lets out a sigh of relief. 

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs softly. “But… you’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

“Of course,” You reassure him, thumb brushing lightly over his jaw. “You just made me feel… a lot. But it was good. I felt… safe.”

His lips tug up from your words, a little sheepish and boyish. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, thank God. I was about to turn in my cape and resign.”

You nearly choke at that. “I𑁋you can’t just do𑁋”

But then he leans in and kisses you, shutting you up immediately. It’s sweet at first, barely there, just a shaky breath against your lips that already has your head spinning again. It isn’t rushed or heated like earlier. Then it becomes a little more firmer, a little more deeper, enough to have the two of you smiling and giggling into the kiss.

When he pulls back, he presses his forehead against yours, letting himself linger there for just a few moments. 

“Do you, uh… need anything?” he asks quietly. “I could get you some water or snacks. Or a heating pad. Or five pillows. Actually! Stay right here, I’ll be back.”

Before you can even retort, Mingyu’s already gone. Like, literally gone. 

One second he’s naked and in bed with you, and the next there’s a loud whoosh that causes the sheets and your hair to flutter from the force. You dazedly blink down at the now Mingyu-less spot right next to you, and you can’t help but shake your head and smile despite yourself. The air is still warm where he used to be. 

He’s actually ridiculous.

You don’t even have time to fully tug the sheets back up your chest before he’s back.

The gust of air ruffles your hair again, and suddenly Mingyu is standing at the foot of the bed, his arms full of shit and looking way too pleased with himself. There’s two water bottles, a bag of chips that he probably found in your pantry, a clean towel from your bathroom, and the blanket from your couch draped over his massive shoulders like a makeshift cape.

He’s also wearing boxers again, which are definitely not the same colour as the ones that are still somewhere on your bedroom floor, meaning he must have stopped by his own apartment too𑁋because of course he did. Maybe it was out of modesty, but honestly? Kind of hot. 

You stare at him. “Mingyu.”

“Yes, beautiful?”

Your heart skips at the pet name. “Did… did you just fly to your place just to get a fresh pair of boxers?”

Mingyu sets the pile of supplies at the end of the bed and beams like a cute and very proud golden retriever. “No one saw! Plus, these ones are more comfy. And I want to be comfy while cuddling you.”

“Oh, my God.” You cover your hands over your face, half-laughing, half-mortified. “Superman just committed public indecency.”

“I told you no one saw! I went at hypersonic speeds!” he defends, even giddily laughing himself and completely unbothered by the fact that he broke several laws of physics and indecency regulations. “I used my super hearing and super vision to make sure!”

“You flew with your ass out in public!” 

“For aftercare! This is the most important moment of my life!”

“Jesus Christ.”

As the laughter dies back down, you feel the bed dip from his weight as he settles right next to you again. The bag of chips rustles in his hands and he nearly drops the water bottle from trying to adjust into a comfortable position like the clumsy idiot he is. But when he’s finally seated, he helps prop the pillow behind your back for support.

“Is it okay if I clean you first?” he suggests, holding up the towel.

You look down at yourself, cheeks warming again to where the sheets don’t quite cover you, and then back up at him. A nervous, fond little grin stretches across his face, and you feel your brain short-circuit from it.

“Yeah,” You mutter quietly. “That’d be… really nice.”

Mingyu exhales loudly out of relief. You watch as his eyes turn a glowing red𑁋just for a second𑁋using just enough of his heat vision to warm up the water bottle, before pouring just the right amount on the towel and testing it out carefully on his own wrist. It’s so casual in the most absurdly superhero way possible. 

Then he scoots himself closer to you, eyes flickering up to your face just to make sure you’re okay with him touching you like this. When you give him another nod, that’s all he needs. 

He starts with your shoulders first, then your collarbones, then down your arms. You can barely look at him as he cleans you. Not because you’re ashamed or uncomfortable, but the way he’s so soft and gentle has you nearly spiraling again.

Your entire life has taught you to keep things at an arm’s length. You’re a journalist who pries in other peoples’ lies and built a career out of never trusting a single thing at face value. The only place in your schedule where vulnerability was allowed is during your late-night grinding fests with three deadlines piled on top of you. 

So how the hell did a fucking Kryptonian superhero𑁋of all things that live on this planet𑁋manage to punch a hole through every wall you’ve put up?

You instinctively flinch when you feel the towel a sensitive spot in between your thighs. Mingyu pauses right away. 

“Sorry! Are you okay?” he blurts out, eyes wide with concern. “Is the towel too cold? Should I reheat it?”

You shake your head swiftly in response. “No, just… A little sensitive.”

Mingyu’s features soften, and he lifts one of your hands up to his lips to press a reassuring kiss to your knuckle. “I’ll be more gentle. If it’s too much, you tell me, okay?”

God, you swear if he’s anymore supersweet with you, you may as well spontaneously combust, because you have no clue how to act about it. It’s as if cleaning you up after making love is a privilege, not a chore. 

He dabs carefully in between your thighs, his touch slow and gentle as he said, just enough to wipe away any remaining evidence of your earlier intimacy. You see the way his Adam’s apple bobs, how the tips of his ears are literally red, and hear the unsteadiness in his breath as he tries to focus on cleaning you, clearly struggling with the fact you’re still glowing and blissed out in front of him.

When he finishes, he tosses the towel aside, and places a kiss to the top of your knee, your thigh, and a final one to your shoulder. The affection sends a shiver running up and down your spine. 

“All done,” he says, tugging the blanket back over your body. “Still okay?”

You muster another nod. “Yeah. Are you?”

“I’m… better than okay.” He gives you that bright, dopey grin again, before reaching over to grab a water bottle and offer it to you. “Here. For you.”

A quiet thanks leaves you as you take a grateful sip. It’s almost natural how easily these next few minutes fall into place. Like the routine of something the two of you have always known, despite it only being after your first time with him and knowing this won’t be the last.

When you set the water bottle back on the bedside table, a pair of large arms immediately wrap around you, and you find yourself being pulled back into Mingyu’s still very naked chest. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck and lets out a soft sigh.

“Your heart is beating really fast,” he mumbles into your skin. “I love listening to it.”

You hum softly, carding your fingers through his hair. “Can you blame me? My boyfriend just committed aerial nudity for aftercare.”

Mingyu immediately straightens up from your words like a puppy smelling a treat, suddenly appearing more alert, more awake, as if you’ve unintentionally fired up every single one of his senses. He stares down at you with wide eyes in complete bewilderment, the tips of ears turning pink once more. 

“Say that again,” he says lowly. 

You blink. “What?”

“You know what.”

After a few moments, the realisation hits you𑁋because you did say that, didn’t you?𑁋and a sly smirk spreads across your face.

“Boyfriend?”

Mingyu stares at you for a good minute as if you’ve just dropped a nuclear warhead in the middle of the room. But then, a smile blooms across his face, and it’s so goddamn bright and pure and beautiful it may as well rival the entire fucking sun. His fists clench at his side like he’s trying to not get too overwhelmed, and then𑁋

“Holy shit, I’m your boyfriend,” he whispers, more to himself than to you, like he had just won the lottery. “You’re my girlfriend𑁋I have a girlfriend!”

Before a grin of your own can appear on your face, he’s kissing you again. It’s messy and uncoordinated and filled with so much happiness for it to be any less than perfect. A giggle escapes your lips when you feel his teeth accidentally knock against yours, then suddenly you’re rolling on your back again with Mingyu hovering above you, peering down as if you’ve given him the universe. 

“You’re so beautiful, angel,” he breathes out. “It’s unfair how beautiful you are that I… I just want to stare at you forever.” 

Your breath catches in your throat. It isn’t the first time he’s said that, and it certainly won’t be the last, but it still wrecks you every time. For a few moments, you allow yourself to just lie there and look at him. Not as the flying, goldlike being that the world worships. Not even as your awkward, giant dork of a coworker who spills coffee down his shirt and is continuously late to meetings. 

But just as… Kim Mingyu. With his messy hair, starstruck eyes, and an overly soft heart that he keeps trying to give to you again and again. 

And now, you’re giving your own heart back to him. 

You reach up to cradle his face in your hands. “Mingyu.”

“Yes, girlfriend?”

“Oh, my God𑁋”

“Hey! You just officiated me as your boyfriend so I get bragging rights,” he says with a dramatic pout. “I will not be shutting up about this for weeks.”

As you’re about to open your mouth again, he brightens up once more.

“Wait, wait, does this mean I get to leave a toothbrush here?”

“Mingyu!” You exclaim, bracing both of your hands on his shoulders. 

That finally snaps him out of his rambling daze𑁋that, and the way you’re staring up at him and he’s blinking down at you, all wide eyes and puppy guilt. You’re glaring right back up at him, though the lovesick smile to your face betrays you entirely. 

“If you don’t kiss me right now, I will be revoking your boyfriend privileges.” 

Mingyu freezes as if you’ve completely shocked him with a stun ray. 

“...Yes, ma’am.”

And then he kisses you.

Again.

And again.

And again.

taglist (open) ʚɞ @haowrld @icyminghao @slytherinshua @jeonride @eternalgyu

@lockburn-castle @vrnism @weird-bookworm @ryuwonieebae @wonwooz1

@planetkiimchi @caramyisabitchforsvtandbts @aaniag @wootify @carlesscat-thinklogic23

@phenomenalgirl9 @mirxzii @bookyeom @parkjennykim @melodicrabbit

@bewoyewo @honglynights @bananabubble @treehouse-mouse @starshuas

@totomoshi @armycarat2612 @etherealyoungk @gigification @ahuiahoe

@svtficsarchive @lllucere @reiofsuns2001 @ppyopulii @smiileflower

@fujiswn @booseoksoonfighting @tastyluvr

[se7vnn]

xinganhao 🌟 shared a moment with you: "wonwoo x reader"

boyfriend!wonwoo texts except you're his chronically online girlfriend, part two. part one here. in filo terms: nonchalant, 'pogi typings' wonwoo x oa!reader. suggestive + 'kms' jokes + headcanons under the cut. for one of my first friends on this site, @wonustars. <3

a day in the life of chronically offline!wonwoo and his girlfriend.

you’re on his lap, mid-rant about a fictional character’s downfall arc, waving your phone. wonwoo isn’t even pretending to understand. he just lets you use his chest as a podium while he hums in response, occasionally muttering, “that does sound tragic,” like a therapist indulging your latest mental illness. you pause, point a dramatic finger in his face. “you’d get it if you watched the edits i send you.” he presses a kiss to your knuckle. “i’d rather just watch you.”

once, you made a meme of him. full-on impact-font-level stupid. it was a blurry screenshot from a video call, wonwoo mid-blink, captioned, when she says she’s gonna sleep but you see her still liking tiktoks at 3am. it went semi-viral in your niche circle. he found out. he sent you a voice note with an unamused “mnnh.” but when you apologized, laughing, he just said, “keep it up, and i'm charging licensing fees.”

he likes words. you like emojis that are vaguely threatening. he sends you a poem; you send him 🔪💕💥🩸. wonwoo asks, “was that a response?” you say, “it's interpretive.” he saves the message anyway.

he doesn’t get why you need to narrate everything you do like a youtube vlog, but he lets you. you’ll be brushing your teeth, half-foam, going “today we’re gonna gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss our way to productivity,” and wonwoo will be leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you like you’re his favorite anomaly. doesn’t say much. just smiles a little when you nearly choke on your toothpaste from laughing at yourself.

wonwoo reads with glasses on. it does things to you. things that are unspeakable. once you saw him half-sprawled on the couch, legs long and messy, copy of ��the unbearable lightness of being’ in hand, and you just... climbed him like a tree. no warning. running purely on thirst and impulse. he blinked, said, “do you mind?” but his hands were already steadying your hips.

you told him you had a parasocial crush on him before you got together. it slipped out one night when you were tipsy and emotional, rambling something like, “i used to look at fancams of you and think: no way he’s real.” wonwoo had blinked slow, cheeks red, voice soft. “i thought the same thing. about you. just not with fancams. with... you being you.”

when you sleep over, wonwoo always turns off the wifi for your own good. “i’m saving you from another four-hour deep dive into love island lore,” he says, confiscating your phone. you glare. he grins. you wrestle for it like gremlins. you lose. he throws it across the room and pulls you under the sheets like a jail warden. you sulk into his chest until he rubs your back and calls you his “terminally online menace.”

you gave wonwoo a custom keyboard with purple switches and cat paw keycaps. he gave you a first edition of your favorite manga, annotated with his thoughts in the margins. you cried. he panicked. you said, “they were happy tears!” he said, “that’s worse. now i have expectations.”

wonwoo likes slow mornings. you wake up like a cracked egg, chaotic and leaking everywhere. wonwoo doesn’t mind. he just pulls you into his lap, tucks your head under his chin while you scroll your cursed meme feed aloud. he doesn’t laugh at most of them, but his chest occasionally shakes and he might sometimes even snort. for the most part, he presses kisses to the top of your head as if it’s the most normal way to say i love you.

you sexted him a poorly-drawn ms paint diagram of your thighs with “wonwoo parking only” scribbled across them. wonwoo left you on read. came home early. didn’t say a word. just dropped his bag, walked over, and knelt between your legs with reverence. then, deadpan: “i saw the sign. i’m obeying traffic laws."

sometimes, wonwoo doubts himself. thinks he’s not enough, too quiet, too strange. you shut it down every time. “you’re my favorite human-shaped wikipedia tab,” you say. “you’re my proof that love can be gentle.”

wonwoo has a folder of screenshots titled “stupidly cute.” it includes everything from your cursed selfies to your half-thought texts at 2am (“do you think bugs have dreams”). you find it once and try to tease him. he just shrugs. “you document the world. i document you.”

[se7vnn]

f!reader, fluff, pregnancy mention, first year satoru who lacks fundamental knowledge on sex ed (he thinks babies come from holding hands), he is a pure liddol bean > <, reader is sick and satoru thinks you’re pregnant. | tysm to @specialgradefckr for letting me expand on this ask they sent in | dividers made by me | wc: 0.6k+

you clutch your head just once, a wave of nausea hitting you. the moment you groan and rest your elbows against the desk, rubbing your temple — satoru’s already at your side like it’s a medical emergency.

“hey…” he says quietly, guilty almost, squatting by your desk (you hadn’t noticed he stayed behind), a hand stabilizing him when he grips the edge of the wood. he’s got a seriously worried look on his face.

you grumble, not even looking at him, “i’m fine.”

but satoru swallows thickly, he himself clearly not fine — like he’s holding in a big secret. his hands are shaky and he shimmy’s in closer.

“if… if you are — y’know… with child,” he whispers the last part, voice weirdly gentle as his eyes dart around the empty classroom before returning back to you. your head shoots up immediately, eyes snapping open at his words. “i just want you to know that i’ll take responsibility. i think… i think i’m ready to be a father — a good one. i-if it’s with you.”

you blink after a moment. “what?”

“i mean — i love you,” he says all in a rush, like that clears up anything, cheeks burning red. “so if you are pregnant, it’s okay. i’ll stay. we’ll figure it out together.”

you stare at him, utterly lost. but satoru — he looks so sincere… as well as a little pale and sweaty. like he’s been worrying about it for a while and it’s all coming out right now.

“satoru,” you question carefully, brows furrowed in confusion, your headache the last thing on your mind now. “what are you talking about?”

he clears his throat, looking around once more, fidgeting nervously with his white shirt collar. “we… we held hands, didn’t we?”

“yeah… we’ve only held hands.”

he stiffens at your detached tone, dead serious. “exactly.”

you blink, straightening up in your seat. “hold on — you think holding hands can get someone pregnant?”

“...not always,” he says defensively, his voice still low like he genuinely believes it. “but the gojo elders were very clear about the dangers of physical contact.”

“and i mean,” satoru continues, eyes softening, “we did hold hands for a long time. i knew the risks, but…” he trails off, licking his lips, cheeks turning pink again as he imagines a future with you — and all because you held his hand during a movie last week.

your mouth goes agape. “wait. so you thought i could get pregnant from holding hands... and you still held my hand?!”

satoru’s lips part, staring at you like a deer in headlights — like he wasn’t expecting you to call him out like that. his ears go red.

you bite your lip so hard to stifle your laughter. “satoru… that’s not how it works.” you explain, trying to hide your amusement as to not embarrass him. he is too cute for words.

but his eyes widen, cheeks aflame. you’ve honestly never seen him so flustered. “i–i know that! i was just… joking!” he lies to save face.

your lips purse and you squint at him.

satoru looks everywhere and anywhere but at you under your scrutiny. “was just being funny. y’know… haha...” but he doesn’t sound so sure of himself.

you’re full on grinning now and you poke his chest. “you’re an idiot — an adorable one.”

he flushes deeper. “your adorable idiot,” he mumbles under his breath.” but you don’t hear him — too busy giggling at his innocence. and satoru’s eyes soften. he had managed to make you laugh with his stupidity — that was a win.

and though satoru’s face is still a beautiful flush of red, somewhere in the middle of it all he quietly tangles his fingers with yours again, like he knows nothing will happen now — but he’s still willing to risk it.

p.s. — satoru is now lost and asks you how babies are actually made. you tell him to look online. a few hours later, he returns to you slightly traumatized and a little curious. this event may have started a chain reaction that made him the weird and insatiable man he is today.

[se7vnn]

❀ In which husband!Nanami is reminded of a letter his younger self wrote...about you

“Ken,” you yell out in a sing-songy voice. “Come over here, oh great husband of mine.”

Light footfalls pitter patter down the hallway. Soon, the owner of said feet appears in the doorway, half-dressed, glasses foggy and hair still damp. Of course, you prefer him in a towel or nothing at all but that hardly matters right now. 

At the present moment, there’s something wonderful, life-changing, and perfectly entertaining making you smile ear to ear; you appear as a clown-like villain, no doubt. That doesn’t deter him, however – likely very used to your uninhibited excitement by now. Still, he does approach with a cautious look about him. Experienced sorcerer that he is, Kento eyes the room, scanning it up and down, corner to corner, and once more, whether for a threat or for a trap you’ve set for him, none can tell. Though, it’s probably all the same to him. 

“Something wrong, darling?”

Your grin widens. “On the contrary, Kento Bento…something’s very very right.”

When you flash the letter you hold in your hand in front of him, his small smile drops. The yellowed thing is snatched from your grip at lightning speed, crumpled in a tight fist, veins popping dangerously. He purses his lips and furrows his brows, jaw clenching, and, ever so faintly, pink dusts the surface of his pretty cheeks. 

As expected.

Slowly, like he’s unsure of what to say and how to proceed, he asks, “W-where -ahem- where did you get this?”

Ooh, his voice is all deep and gravelly. He's either very mad or very horny. Hard to tell. No, wait. Yep, no boner. Okay. Tread carefully, you warn yourself.

“Oh, just a fairy godmother passing by, wanted to give me something to play with for the weekend, I suppose,” you reply, making a show of checking your nails and yawning. Kento curses a certain white-haired man’s name under his breath before he sits on the bed, knees weak, you can only guess. He doesn’t put up a fight when you creep into his lap, arms wrapped around his neck, like clockwork. Strong hands steady you by your hip, moving instinctively. “Wanna explain yourself, Kennypie?”

Honestly, you hadn’t expected him to recognise the letter as quickly as he did. It was instantaneous, as was the rapid swipe of his defensive hand, the wind generated tickling your skin in a blink of an eye. And how the scheming fairy godmother had it, you might never know. In fact, when you asked, he just booped your nose and skipped down the hallway even though you both knew he could teleport. 

That was how he appeared in front of your house door in the first place. 

Sighing, Kento kneads your thigh and hides his face in the crook of your neck, stubble gone. “I already told you about my feelings, honey. You know how I felt about you in our school days. None of it was a secret. Not anymore.”

If someone had told you, at that tender age, that the brooding, anti-social blond in the corner of the classroom would be your husband in the future, you would have believed them; Kento had always been a great man, and whilst a lot about him has changed over the years, consequence of a life destined for sacrifice and danger, that will never. 

“Yeah, but I didn’t realise seeing just a glimpse of me ‘threatened the foundations’ of your beliefs. Nor did I know a day without me was ‘torture wrapped in bliss.’ I mean, bliss? Really, Ken? The torture bit I liked but then you kinda bummed me out very soon after.”

He groans. “I can only guess that my younger self, needlessly angsty as he was, was referring to the taxing effort to, I don't know, pretend to be cool and calm and collected around you. It was hard to know where the lines were, what the right thing to say and do was. It was all so new to me. Surely, you understand that I was a nervous wreck around you.”

That much, you knew. How could you not?

Kento would often opt to give you one syllable answers when you said something to him or ignore you, plain and simple. The young man never smiled at your jokes, didn’t accept offers for free food or to walk together after school. For a long time, you thought he hated you.

It was Haibara, sweet, selfless Haibara, who kindly let you in on the secret: your future husband actually held you in high regards.

Nodding, you run a hand through his hair, scratching his scalp. He groans, this time for a different reason. “I get it, hon. You already know I liked you too and didn’t say anything either, so I can’t really fault you for choosing to write down all these big feelings in a letter instead of telling me.”

“Then, are we done? Can we pretend this never happened and you never read the contents of this damned letter?”

You kiss him on the forehead. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re going to go through it line by line. I want a detailed explanation for every single thought. Let’s call it a ‘catching up’ of some sorts.”

“Must we?” He asks, eyes flitting to the abandoned, crumpled letter on the floor. “It’s a shame it’ll be difficult to read now. Sorry, sweetheart. Alright, would you like your feet massaged or are we in the mood for a movie before bed?”

Mentally rolling your eyes, you think, nice try, Ken.

Laughing, you shove him back, bouncing on the mattress with him. Hair all mussed up and glasses askew, you fill his vision and say, “Actually, Nanami 'The World Disappears When I smell Her Addictive Scent' Kento, we won’t need the letter at all; I remember every thing."

He gulps.

"Like, line number thirty five: ‘If God truly existed, he would deign to send a butterfly fluttering by my head so that she, beautiful angel that she is, will have a reason to even look my way.’ And a personal favourite, line sixty four: ‘Would she hate me if she knew the things I think of at night, when the ache to touch, taste, and hear all that she can give becomes overwhe–”

“T-that’s enough. Please, my love. Spare me. Have mercy on your poor husband. I can’t stand to listen to a single word that pathetic idiot felt so inclined to write down like a coward.”

Unamused by his self-deprecating nonsense, you smack his chest and then peck the skin. “Hey! That ‘pathetic idiot’ is my husband. Even if his hair was all funny and silly, you be nice to him. He's a precious, sensitive soul.”

His lips purse.  “Yes, dear.”

"Say it."

Kento groans, again, and attempts to shake you off. His wife doesn’t budge and the poor man is left with nothing to do but attempt to regain control instead. So, he growls, "I said, that's enough."

"Kento."

Defeated.

Slain.

"…I'm a precious, sensitive soul."

Humiliated.

You giggle. "Good boy. Now, there was a smudge around paragraph twenty two. Did it say 'I dream of her far too often' or 'I cream for her far too often?' 'Cause personally, I hope it's the latter."

[se7vnn]

falling for chef!chenle

an; back with this series omg... i was watching that promotion show they did w johnmaat on yt... and chef chenle did smth to me ngl

masterlist

previously in falling for:

nerd!jeno , gamer!hyuck , barista!jaemin , roomie!jisung

[se7vnn]

SODA POP! - G.S.

Synopsis. Five times Gojo Satoru - the hottest k-pop idol right now - gets exposed for wanting you, his pretty, totally-not-girlfriend best friend. And the one time he gives them headlines to talk about.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, idol!Gojo, k-pop idol au, 5 + 1 things, best-friends-to-Iovers, PINING, dispatch, fandom shenanigans, lie detector tests, variety shows, ISAC, he’s SO down bad, matíng presses, oraI (fem. rec.), spítting, chokíng, p sIapping, Gojo’s tongue píercing, PÚSSYDRÚNK Gojo, manhandIing, semi-public, he’s BIG, tummy buIges, D slipping, running from it, bIindfolds, talking you through it, first times (Gojo’s), creampíes, cúmplay, getting together, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 11.8k

A/N. Guess who’s back from the beach-each and watched Kpop Demon Hunters-

“And here we have the goddess, the myth, the-” 

It would take quite the feat to leave Gojo Satoru - self-proclaimed king of idols (debatable), world-class chatterbox (not debatable) - of all people gaping soundlessly at his screen.

For a second. Two. Three- before he’s sputtering at the blur of incoming comments, “O-oi! Don’t you lil’ perverts think you can get away with flirting with my best friend.�� Arms crossed, he nods seriously at his fanbase, “Even I don’t get away with flirting with my be-”

“Satoru, they’re about to cut the cameras.”

“A joke. Obviously.” Smooth. Ever-so-smooth, Gojo’s flashing a winning smile at his stern-faced manager behind the tripod.

It was hard enough to convince Yaga into letting you join his livestream, but as a near-veteran in the entertainment industry, Gojo knew how to handle a little slip-up like this. He’s got this- “Because I am definitely not in love with my best friend, and am definitely not held hostage to say this.”

“...”

“A…a joke?”

In mild concern, the two of you can only watch as stoic, composed Yaga lets out what sounded like a strangled sob. Before whispering to another PR manager on-site, “Write a company statement.” 

“Oi-” Gojo pipes up, “Why would you need a company statement when I’m perfectly- user Fushidaddy type another pick-up line and I’m blocking you.”

The dark-haired man chokes through almost tears, “Just start writing already.”

You try to smooth things over from your seat right beside your best friend, this was not what you’d anticipated after Gojo had practically begged on his knees asking for you to join him in one of his Bubble lives. Then again, what else could you expect from anything to do with him? “Ah, it’s alright. I don’t mind-”

“I do.” 

Snowy brows furrowed, he’s leaning in closer to the camera to take in every traitorous word- 

satorusxkitten: okay but guys think ab it!! he’s rlly talented but no actor so it’s okay if he’s ass at pretending to not be a simp!! can u blame him??

“Blocked.”

P1BANG: took a shot every time he stares at her thinking he’s slick now I’m at the hospital (this live started 3 minutes ago)

“Blocked.”

Fushidaddy: Pretty girl, blink twice if you’re being held hostage x.

“Blocked and reported what the-” Gojo frowns glancing over at you from the corner of his eyes, (thinking he’s slick, thank you very much). Before catching the way you lean in dramatically to flutter your eyes- “Don’t you dare blink.”

As you’re bursting into ribbing laughter, so are the sheer amount of comments asking about you- and he can’t help but entertain the sneaking suspicion that his own viewers were here simply because of you.

At least, that’s why he would’ve kept watching.

Fushidaddy2: Put us out of this pining misery or end the live, kid.

“I thought I blocked you.”

“Okay then.” You clap your hands once to gain the room’s attention, slightly worried about the blood vessel about to burst near Yaga’s temple. “Satoru, I think you brought me here to do a Q n’ A, right?”

“Well yes…” Gojo’s grumbling underneath his breath - that was the initial plan, to finally introduce one of the most precious parts of him to the fandom. 

He just didn’t account for the possibility that everyone on the livestream would fall in love with you - when that was clearly supposed to be his job! “Alright- ask away, and no funny business. I’m looking at you, user Fushidaddy.”

sugu-rizzed: Are you single?

“How dare you-”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” You’re nudging the towering man right next to you, subtly moving his hand off of that treacherous block button. “Lighten up, Satoru—”

“Yes, ma’am. Correct, ma’am.”

What a sight it was. 

Honestly, you’re sure you hear at least several management staff gasp at just how easily you’d shut up their arguable star. Being the center of one of the fastest bands to sky-rocket into the k-pop world hadn’t made it any easier for an agent to pose authority over Gojo Satoru - Yaga was barely hanging on by a thread and he submitted at least a few resignation letters every week.

Once the on-set whispers break out, you’re squirming in your seat. Rattling off yet another question-

ge.akuge: what do you think about the allegations of him wearing wigs?

“Well-”

“Blocked.”

KunaLuvrr: does he wear wigs?

stanjutsu: will he wear wigs?

Fushidaddy3: Y’know I don’t wear wigs, baby, x. 

“I-”

“You- blocked.”

haibarabias: Did u know he was yapping about you non-stop on the last live?

You’re blinking in slight surprise, turning to Gojo - who’d now stuffed himself into his oversized designer hoodie until you could only make out the tips of his ears. His bright, burning red ears. “Really?” Turning to the feverishly nodding staff at his silence, “Really?”

One of the fresh-faced interns in charge of lighting tries to hold back a squeal, “Y-yeah! We tried to keep a tally of your name to edit on-screen but it went into…the triple…digits- eep!”

“E-hem.” Gojo cuts the newbie off with a slight glare, snitches. The whole lot. “I was just talking to them about what a boor you are and to be prepared-”

realistic.one: liar, you were giggling and kicking your feet the whole time-

“-which you would have known if you actually watched me.” Finishing off with relish, he’s mockingly glowering down at you. The perfect vision of a neglected best friend - if it wasn’t for the way that he was flushed all the way from his cheeks to the back of his neck, that is. 

And then your fingerpads reach out to pat the silky crown of his bangs, soothingly. “I do watch you, Toru. I must have missed that stream, sorry about that.”

He melts. And there’s tens of thousands to watch him.

“Y-yeah?” Gojo’s briefly snapping a scowl at the screen, already knowing that this particular clip of his voice breaking would be making rounds on the internet tomorrow. Crossing his arms with a huff, he acts like he isn’t nuzzling his head even closer for you to caress, “Tch, you make a shitty best friend, my star.”

Somewhere across the room, Yaga puts his head in his hands and sighs. 

sugu-rizzed: My star?? Guys is he…

CandyKento: that moment when you highkey ship them but realize bro has no game

sunflowerboy: Gojo-san fighting!!

Fushidaddy7: I could treat you better, girl x. 

torutoaster: wonder what her type is from our boys^^

It’s as if the room itself had hiked a few degrees in temperature, and you’re darting your eyes away from Gojo’s burning ones. From the staff that was snickering behind their hands, giving you knowing looks. 

Instead, choosing to distract yourself by answering that last question– “Hmm, my ideal type from Six Eyes, huh?”

“Hah- what a silly little question.” Your best friend cocks his head with a smirk, “Why- tell ‘em, my star. Who else has the visuals? The dance moves? The charisma? Of course, it’s-”

“Suguru.” You smile innocently, whilst the flashy idol next to you crumbles. “He’s such a sweetheart.”

returnofP1BANG: five more shots for that wet cat look he gave her

Fushidaddy9: Ouch (lol).

sugu-rizzed: F in the chat

CandyKento: f

sunflowerboy: F

Fushidaddy10: F

ge.akuge: F

“Tch- childish.” Gojo scoffs at the wave of that same letter flooding his comment section, he’s counting about twenty…before typing his own ‘F’ in there. 

Immediately reinvigorated, he’s stabbing a determined finger in the air. “But- but I have something that none of y’all and that stinky Suguru doesn’t have-” And it takes every ounce of will, every shred of shamelessness in his body to wrap two strong arms around you and crash you to his broad chest. Emulating all those hours he’s spent watching k-dramas with you, Gojo’s barking out. “-she’s mine!”

Fushidaddy14: Yeah. Your best friend. LMAO.

“Blocked-”

Masamichi Yaga handed in yet another resignation letter that very same night.

Which was likely why the livestream didn’t last too long after that little catastrophe- and it’s about a few hours later once you’d safely made it home with excuses of work the next day, and Gojo was lying wide awake on his phone, that it happens.

It is sent to him, by none other than Geto - the most unthinkable, unspeakable link to a fan-made YouTube video aptly titled ‘100 Gojo Satorus vs. trying not to make a fool of himself in front of his baddie best friend challenge (failed)”

Edited and clipping every single moment he’d completely n’ utterly destroyed his cool idol façade during the brief live. Every (fine, not-so-slick) glance your way, every blush, every voice crack.

Fuck.

In two seconds he’s sending Geto a paragraph of middle finger emojis, and in one he’s slowly downloading the video…for research purposes. 

.

.

.

As a celebrity hair stylist, Miwa Kasumi had never felt that she wasn’t paid enough - after all, nearly unlimited contact with her favorite idols and she gets to see her work come to life on stage? What could go wrong?

Well…she’s feeling her weary eyelid twitch just about the twelfth time she hears the same repeated meme audio blaring from Gojo Satoru’s phone. 

Headphone-less. On full volume. 

All on the set of one of the most important comeback shoots of this year, the much-anticipated music video for their single ‘Blue.’ Penned by none other than the giggling idiot that was her client. 

And it was only considering all her years of professionalism that she didn’t whack the phone out of his hands the way she’s been dying to for the past hour. “Gojo-san, you are quite the fan of that video, hm?”

Subtle cues- subtle cues!

But Gojo was never one for subtle cues, as she has the misfortune of learning. And he only blinks up from his padded seat in front of her, “Huh? Oh yes-” In fact, increasing the volume of the dramatically edited fan video - one of those crack compilations she had the guilty pleasure of watching before bed sometimes. 

But Gojo didn’t seem to be watching for the laughs, his twinkling sapphire eyes were only locked on one thing on-screen - you. 

Sighing at a short clip of you from the livestream a few days ago, grimacing at one of his bragging monologues. Giggling, he zooms in on you- “Isn’t she gorgeous–?”

“O-oh!” Now, introductions and love for artistry might be two of the main perks of working in such close proximity to idols - but who could forget the gossip. Immediately perking up, she’s setting down one of the curlers and working on fluffing up Gojo’s ethereal white hair for the camera. “Girlfriend, Gojo-san?”

“Not at all.” Dreamily, he’s taking a blatant screenshot of the zoomed-in visual of your face. A man in heaven. “Not. At. All.”

Huh? Maybe all celebrities were just eccentric. What was that one saying about never meeting your heroes? 

Well, it seems that the universe decided that Miwa hadn’t learned enough of her lesson just yet- which is why she’s startled by the swoosh–! of curtains being drawn back in the dressing room, and the heavy footsteps of none other than Gojo’s bandmates. 

Who could mistake them?

Geto Suguru, long inky hair tied back, slow strides almost predatory, is the first to reach the two - one of them shivering in rapt excitement, the other glued to his phone. “Oi- Satoru, they want you for your solo shot.”

Gojo grunts noncommittally, hands gripping his phone. “Hm-”

Irritation gripping the other’s tone, his best friend taps his feet. “Satoru.”

“Mm.”

“Satoru.” 

“…”

“You little-” 

It’s a damn miracle that the thin glass of Gojo’s phone screen doesn’t crack with how swiftly Geto’s snatching it from the other’s hands. Only to get a glimpse of the screen and have his mouth drop.

“Satoru…” 

“…Suguru.”

Pierced brows furrowing, Adam’s apple bobbing with a guffaw at the blatant screenshot of you displayed. Clearly taken from that one compilation video that he had sent the link to a few days ago. Their center gulps. “Satoru, what…the…f-”

“Gojo-san! Gojo-san–!”

The youngest - Haibara’s - sweet, sing-song voice dips through the tense dressing room as he stumbles in - all sunny smiles and the cutest bowl cut. Followed excruciatingly closely by a cameraman recording behind-the-scenes content, “Kento and I are done, so Director Shoko wants you on set now or she said she’ll do some violent things that can’t be said on camera~”

“Of course, of course– you should go, you strange little lecher- I mean, Satoru.” Geto waves the other over, “C’mere Yu, let your elder show you a little something.”

Gojo blanches, “No-”

“Oh? What is it–?”

Gripping onto Geto’s jacket, “No.”

Careful of the rolling camera, he’s mercilessly sidling up to the other and flashing the latest addition to Gojo’s photo album - that soft, slightly blurry screenshot of you. Simply smiling. “Oh.”

“‘Oh’ is right.” Geto’s smizing out such a cat-like grin at the camera- this was sure to have the internet talking. Maybe even screaming. And as the staff with the lens steps closer in curiosity, he’s swiftly covering the screen, “Let’s just say our Satoru is ah- quite the fan of our cute little fans’ creations.”

Haibara titters, “Enough that it’s filling up his phone storage-” Catching Gojo’s groan, ready to jump out of his seat- “Ah, my apologies, Gojo-san~”

Geto nods, “No no, he’s right.”

“He’s not.”

“I am?”

“And remember, kids—” The pierced man calls out, finger hovering over the glaring screen of the phone. 

Gojo gasps- “No-” Realizing. Shooting to his feet. “No no no-”

Registering the way his other best friend was giving particular attention to that bright, burning DELETE button. “-always help your friends in need.”

The scream that Gojo Satoru, most polished idol of the 21st century, lets off is devastated. 

Enough that the cameraman - watching each interaction like a hawk - jumps, enough that even ruthless Geto Suguru himself feels a semblance of slight regret. Almost turning his thumb over to click on the recycle bin before Gojo can cry himself hoarse- until he’s scrolling just an inch - an inch - along the full camera roll and finding…more…screenshots?

About 75,328 in his album, to be exact. Of you. 

He looks at Gojo Satoru - knees cradled in such a pitiful fetal position on the floor, whimpering at the loss of his prized screenshot. And he looks at the 75,328 screenshots. He looks back at Gojo. Then at the screenshots, all 75,328.

Then back at Gojo.

And Geto doesn’t even feel bad about the good kick he’s planting on the other’s back, “Get out.”

If the dressing room was a hellhole made to ruin Gojo’s life - Geto being the devil incarnate, of course - then being on set wasn’t any better. 

The long lens of Shoko’s famed camera stares him down like it knew exactly how he was acting minutes prior, and any false façade of coolness would easily break through. 

“Ugh…” Shoko’s crinkling her nose in slight distaste at the footage playing on her screen, motioning for the rest of the crew to start putting each prop back in place for a reshoot. 

Make-up airy, white bandages haphazardly falling from his eyes, surrounded by sparkling ivory decorations of stars; it was supposed to be something on theme with the song, something romantic, something that didn’t make her want to hack up her coffee in a bad way.

But she could feel her stomach churning already. Leveling a glare at Gojo that’s enough to make the much-taller man flinch- “You- if you can’t do the sparkly idol thing, just try looking at the camera and smiling. It’s all we need for the solo shot today.” Tapping her camera, “Look at the lens like you’d look at a lover.”

Voice octaves higher, “A-a lover?” 

His dignity was scarred! 

“You got this, Gojo-san! Twentieth try’s the charm–!” Haibara’s voice echoes. “Ah- or was this the thirtieth…somewhere along the line I lost count.”

“Thirty-seventh.” Nanami helpfully supplies.

His reputation as a reliable elder ruined!

“Satoru, good luck! Geto called me- I don’t know why but um, good luck!”

He didn’t call himself the king of idols for nothing!

In a split-second, Gojo perks at the slightly-metallic sound of your voice through the other end of the line. Breath hitched, flashing irises widened- it doesn’t take him even a nanosecond to snap his head towards where Geto was holding his phone up for the sound to project.

Your name flashing on the caller ID, Geto’s smile priggish at the reaction wrenched out of his best friend. 

And Gojo can’t help but let the mere sound of your voice make him smile—

“There we go- that’s the shot! That’s the shot.”

The music video is edited and uploaded only a few weeks later, that behind-the-scenes following hastily afterwards. 

It was a hit, of course, as every management and billboard had already predicted it would be. But what was unpredictable were the eagle-eyed comments-

SIX EYES - ‘BLUE’ MV

torutoaster: KYAAA THEY REALLY FED US LOOK AT HOW OUR TORU AND SUGU LOOOKKK

ryomichael: not even a satoru bias but…wow…his visuals…the way he looked at the camera made my heart just go…wow

zbstan: stream this song (and esp Gojo’s bridge) for clear skin guys!!

SIX EYES - ‘BLUE’ MV Behind [All]

getosuggs: Geto and Haibara giggling at Gojo’s phone screen…wonder what they were looking at…

torutoaster: wonder why the filming of toru’s solo shot was muted?? strange but as long as we get more content of my bias oh well^^

sugu-rizzed: @torutoaster I think because they were on a call? Oooo imagine if it was Gojo’s best friend from the livestream…

mahitoe: @sugu-rizzed smh delulu shippers

zbstan: @mahitoe STFU look at that caller ID ik they tried to blur it but like there was an anonymous hair stylist on set who said it was so GUYS IT COULD BE-

Fushidaddy17: I would’ve had no problem looking cool for her aha x.

.

.

.

“Takada-chan! Takada-ch-AAAAAAN–!”

Honestly, what a woman to be able to smile politely in the face of a big, beefy high schooler ripping his shirt off from the stands of the stadium. The Idol Star Athletics Championships were always quite rambunctious considering the star-studded players, especially this year. 

All lined up in their groups, donning flashy colored tracksuits. 

And as the boy starts crying, Geto winces–looking back at their own section of fans invited to attend the annual celebrity sports tournament. Some squealing at the feeling of Geto’s stare, some waving banners hysterically - but thank goodness that none were as bad as-

“MY STAAAAR–!”

Geto takes that back very quickly.

Deadpan, exhausted- the leader of Six Eyes is turning to stare down their infamous center, the exact one who’d been hogging every headline for the past few weeks for his exact antics with you. “Satoru…what are you doing?”

Ignoring him for your figure seated at the very front row–“MY STAR, YOU BETTER CHEER FOR ME.” You pretend not to hear him as he waves frantically, and Geto reaches over to tug Gojo back in line. “Oi- OIII, DON’T LOOK AT NANAMI LOOK AT ME!”

On second thought, he backs away into another group’s line. 

You weren’t the only one looking at him now- so were the announcers. Seasoned entertainers who’ve probably never seen a scene in all their years, “Aaaand over in this row we have Six Eyes. Their center - that Gojo boy - seems to be a little preoccupied, no?”

“With the girl? Oh, when is he not? Have you seen the clips from that livestream?”

“Ahh–you know my wife showed me and-” Seemingly catching the eye of whatever higher-up, or maybe the way that Yaga was swooning in his bench as if he was about to faint right then and there. “Ehem- anyways, welcome all to this year’s The Idol Star Athletics Championships–!”

It goes off without a hitch. 

Well, as much as it could with Gojo Satoru being in attendance. 

Which meant having to wrangle him back by the scruff of his neck every time he meandered off to the shrieking stands to ask you to pet his tired head - “for good luck.”

Which meant having him blow kisses to the stands suspiciously near you as he dribbled expertly during the basketball event, their team tied with yet another idol group.

With only a few seconds on the clock, every eye glued to his sprinting figure - breath stilling just as soon as he does near the netted hoop. Gojo had jumped, and pointed straight at your figure—“This one’s for my star.”

Before he swung. 

And…

…missed.

But that was all water under the bridge.

It didn’t matter that it was a failure recorded in 4K on hundreds of cameras, it didn’t matter that you’d been the one laughing the most while watching his precious shot completely miss the hoop and bounce sadly on the floor. 

It didn’t matter that his ears were still burning red from embarrassment by the last leg of the tournament - the track-and-field events. 

Geto had already won the gold medal in archery, Haibara with silver in football, and even woe-is-me Nanami had snagged a silver in fencing. 

And this time, this year’s new addition - one of those borrowed item races you’d play in middle school, those ones where he’d have to run to a box and pick out something silly to bring over the finish line - was about to be his turn. 

“Ready…”

Gojo’s steadying into position, making sure his back flexed just right so that you’d be able to see from the stands. And if the way that Nanami sighed was anything to go by then it was working, right? 

“Set…”

Azure eyes locked on the small wooden box that loomed a few yards in front of him.

“Go!”

It’s a blur- one moment his expensive designer sneakers touch the ground, and the next he’s one of the first idols to run over to the box. Fighting to stick his hand inside, Gojo’s sure he elbows someone’s dolled-up face to grab the first slip of paper he can. 

Tugging it out with a grin, the neat typing stares back at him mockingly—‘Someone you love.’

Fuck.

Why did it have to be this one?

The announcer’s booming baritone breaks through- “What’s this? Six Eyes’ Gojo seems to have stalled? What could that paper say?”

“Run!” Geto’s voice calls over the chaos of countless other artists bee-lining towards their own missions, their own ‘item.’ He’s waving at Gojo impatiently, “Run, you fool-” 

“Gojo-san, you got this–!”

In a confused hurry, he’s darting a look down at the staff manning the box - some older, dryly deadpan man who merely takes a peek at his slip of paper and gives a thumbs up. And Gojo could have sworn he smirks.

Well.

“Oh- oh, he’s running.” Both hosts gripping onto the edges of their tables, “The legs on that boy- Gojo Satoru is overtaking his peers easily- ah, we promise we’re not biased.”

Yaga and the rest of his overworked PR team would have to forgive Gojo for this later- but his legs are turning towards your direction in an instant, just as they always have. Running. Sprinting. 

“Gojo- Gojo! Is it true you two eloped?”

“An insider source is saying that your best friend was present on-set of Blue- any comment?”

“Are you two dating?”

It’s like he’s running through a tunnel where the only thing he can see is you at the end. Announcers’ voices cotton in his mind- “Oh, we think we know where this is going, ladies and gentlemen.” The only voice his popped ears can hear are yours-

“S-Satoru–!” You’re shrieking, nearly as loud as the throng of fans and cameras surrounding you. Clawing down his beefy upper bicep as your best friend leans his long torso over the barrier of the stands and throws you into an easy princess carry, “Are you crazy-”

“Nah, we’re gonna win, my star.” He has his arms steady, jaw clicking - and you can’t help but feel his strength thrum gently in his arms. Those lucky to be near enough for the entire ordeal would later claim to tabloids that they’d never seen Gojo Satoru this serious.

This…responsible when he’s carefully striding with you in his hold - an easy first place running past the finish line. 

Stars in his eyes, mouth turned up into a smile that twitched when he gazed down at your own. Wantingly. 

But he only hugged you in thanks, and took your half-joking swats with a smile. 

They couldn’t quite blatantly show the cameras what Gojo’s little paper had required him to bring, but you got to keep Gojo’s gold medal after the tournament - it was always meant for you, anyway.

And he gets an earful from Yaga, Geto, Haibara (though that was more grumbling about why those last two weren’t the ones carried like a pretty princess instead), and a few articles speculating your relationship, and a Twitter timeline having a complete meltdown over clips of his race. 

A video of those particular few seconds with you in his arms racked up a solid few million views in only a few hours since it was posted- but honestly, one million of those views might just be from him alone.

@torutoaster: THE WAYYYY HE CARRIED HER OMG- GOD I SEE WHAT YOU’VE DONE FOR OTHERS-

@CandyKento: did anyone watch the isacs? no but i am soooo curious what gojo’s item was-

@chorusito replying to @CandyKento: no but to bring his ehem ehem- “best friend” it has to be something scandalous right~

@CandyKento replying to @chorusito: right??

@mahitoe replying to @chorusito: lmfao idols can’t date. you guys cant handle anything it was obvs just a friend or something. delulu. 

@sugurusshampoobottle replying to @mahitoe: FIGHT ME.

@satorusxkitten: gojo and geto’s arms are so big!! fuck!! 

@sugu-rizzed: That staff-member manning the box saw what the paper said oh what I would pay to know…

@fiendingforsixeyes: AHHHH I BET IT WAS SOMETHING OR SMTH HE LOVED IK U GOJO U LOVERBOY

@Fushidaddy33: She would’ve looked better in my arms tbh…

Gojo reports that last account.

.

.

.

“So, who do you think is the cutest from Six Eyes?”

“Me.”

“And who do you think is the best dancer?”

“Me.”

“The most romantic?”

“Ah…” Regular interviews could be tedious - but an interview with a lie detector strapped to you somehow surpassed even the ninth chamber of hell. And Gojo thinks that anyone would shrink under the beady, unwavering gaze of the hostess interrogating- ah, interviewing him right now.

Not a hair out of place, not a lie she wouldn’t be able to catch.

Damn that management for signing him up for one of those lie detection interviews - part of him already felt that this was punishment for rejecting Yaga’s seventh resignation letter since the chaos of the Idol Star Athletics Championships.

And damn Geto for goading him into going first.

The rest of the group watch leisurely from their comfort of a sofa away from the spotlight - thankfully lie detector-less for now - tittering as their bandmate cowers. Gulping through a slightly-wobbly grin, “Me. I’m the most romantic.”

Nodding as the polygraph examiner gives the thumbs up for truth.

“Not quite humble, but quite honest aren’t you, Mister Gojo?”

Gojo’s cracking his neck in his uncomfortable seat, the sooner he can get this over with, the better. Still strapped with leather buckles, “I think you’ll find that I’m very honest about things I truly feel.”

Geto sputters through faux coughs- “Pfft– Liar.”

Nanami looks away- murmuring just loud enough for the microphone to pick up, “Ehem…fibber.”

And Haibara? Haibara merely snaps his fingers in realization- “Aaaah–! I see, they’re calling you a ‘liar’, Gojo-san, because you aren’t honest about your feelings towards-”

“Ah ah!” He tries to make a motion to shut up, but only ends up rocking the chair from side-to-side. And Gojo already knew he was done for the very second he’s catching the hostess’s eyes gleam at this juicy morsel of information.

“Well, I actually did have…” Trailing off, she’s shuffling through her pack of pre-written questions. Painted nails fingering one at the very back that she seemed to have stowed away for when the interviews took a particular turn, she clears her throat. Saying your name-

“Impressively high heart rate.” The examiner drones out, bushy brows raising at what his screen flashed. Just from hearing your name.

As his self-proclaimed friends cackle - those traitors - the hostess shows off her pearly smile, “Mister Gojo, is it true that she’s your best friend?”

Gojo shifts slightly, “Very true.” Truth.

“And she is very beautiful- correct?”

“Very true.” Truth.

“And smart?”

“Very true-” Truth.

“And you’re in love with her?”

“Very tr-” He gasps, “Wait no-”

To which the older lady cocks her head in genuine confusion, “Despite all the shipping- well, it’s all everyone’s been talking about online these days- you’ve never done anything? You don’t have feelings for her, young man?”

“N…no.” 

Geto raises his hand in a split-second, almost as if he was some model student in a classroom. “You’re mistaken, my lady, he doesn’t have feelings for her. He has a lot of feelings for her-”

“Suguru!”

The final nail on Gojo’s coffin might just have been the way the polygraph examiner tries - and fails - to keep a largely neutral face. Instead raising his fist in the air, into a blatant thumbs down, next word tinged in amusement. “Lie.”

Gojo fights against the belts tied to his wrist, monitoring his heartbeat, his deception. “It’s faulty, I tell you- faulty. Did you know that polygraphs are actually only 80% accurate and–”

“So you honestly wouldn’t mind if your best friend showed up with a fresh new boyfriend to introduce to you?”

“-I would rather die.”

It’s silence.

Gojo basking in the shock of what he’d just blurted out, everyone else squinting at the overtly clear thumbs up that the examiner was gesturing. A truth. Trying to see whether it would change shape whether they stared hard enough.

Clearing her throat, their seasoned hostess is the first to speak- “Ah- well, that was certainly, um.” Shuffling her cards, she stares at the rest of Six Eyes in bewilderment and they stare in bewilderment right back. 

Muttering, “I wish my husband was more like that- anyways.” She leans in close to Gojo, “So if I showed you…” Waving her hand at a few of the tech specialists in charge of the projector behind him, “-this picture with a particular known tattoo artist?”

It wasn’t even a question.

And a damn good thing it wasn’t, because as soon as the screen behind Gojo lights up with a paparazzi shot - one of you, from years and years ago when you were dating that damn tch- asshole Ryomen Sukuna. All bathed in the light of the city at night, pretty hands in his, smile blinding - oh-so-gorgeous that he feels his heart stop.

Literally.

There’s a slight, sharp beeeeep–! that emanates from the lie detector—

Geto stands, “Satoru, what-”

“Gojo-san, are you okay-”

“I know CPR.” Hell, even Nanami was looking on with some degree of concern, “But I wouldn’t do it on you, no offense.”

As the examiner fiddles with his contraption, the hostess is the one to wonder whether she should call over the medical personnel in the studio. Reaching over her lil’ interrogation table to tap Gojo’s pale hand lightly- “U-uh, Mister Gojo-”

Gojo gasps- “Huh? Oh yeah-” 

The steady rhythm of his pulse beeps once more on the monitor, albeit it slightly faster than before after he’s setting his eyes on you. After his poor, pathetic heart had skipped a beat just at the mere sight of you. 

“He’s ruining the picture.” Gojo’s nose bridge wrinkles, gaze straying back to your smile the way an anchor follows a ship to see. No matter how far and deep they may go. The examiner signs out ‘truth’ as the other man continues, “Can you crop the buffoon out and give me five printed copies of that photo, please?”

“Eh?”

“Eh?”

“Gojo-san, eh?”

Nanami rubs his aching temples, “This is why I’d never give him CPR.”

That particular episode easily became one of the most watched of the season. 

Six Eyes’ Gojo Satoru Takes a Lie Detector Test | Heart-stopping Revelations!

torutoaster: WHAT THE FUCK WHEN THEY SAID HEART-STOPPING THEY MEANT IT FRFR-

eathaibara: the pure aura to have your heartbeat stop then the first thing you do is simp over your girl.

100menvsmpreg: @eathaibara wait so are they actually dating?

fluffykento: @100menvsmpreg worse

jennyk10: @100menvsmpreg I meannn-

ButterSixKpop: Need me a real freak like this.

CandyKento: kento is so real ngl

getosuggs: @CandyKento the only thing we love more than satoru is bullying satoru

fiendingforsixeyes: LMAO GUYS HAVE YOU SEEN THAT PERSON GOIN’ ON RANTS UNDER SUKUNA’S INSTA-

Gojo didn’t read these comments, unfortunately, or see any of the edits they were making of him on tiktok. He was too busy spamming comments of his own on Sukuna’s official instagram. 

Very colorfully-worded ones. 

.

.

.

“What’s your name?”

“Gojo da strongest.”

“What are you drawing?”

“A star.”

For an eight-year-old, Gojo thinks you had the most pensive expression on your face after that particular answer. Brows scrunched cutely, and your tongue sticking slightly between missing teeth- and it was alright, Gojo wasn’t a stranger to the staring.

He knew how to handle all the cooing from aunties at the marketplace, he was used to all the praises for being the fastest kid in all of primary school. 

So surely the great, wise, nine-year-old Gojo Satoru could give a fellow classmate as much time as you needed to muster up the very best compliment-

“It’s kinda ugly.”

“Wha- huh?” How dare you- Gojo’s pouting, snowy brows scrunching until you’re giggling. “My star is not ugly.” Sticking a thumb proudly between his puffed-up chest, “And I should know because I’m going to be a star.”

You’re nodding, seriously. “Mm, that’s good.” 

And that makes him falter- just a bit, because true superstars never falter. “Y-you think so?” Okay, maybe they falter a bit. But in Gojo’s defense, no one had ever taken his little daydream so seriously, “You don’t think it’s stupid? That I can’t go up on stage?”

“No, why would it be?” Oh. You’re tapping his smudged crayon drawing, “But that’s still an ugly star.”

Stomping, “Is not.”

“Is too.”

“Is…” He looks at you - in all you sparkly humor - then back at his fifteen-pointed star. He looks at you, then back at his brown-colored star for “artistic purposes.” He looks at you, then back at his star with a spotty face on it because it reminded him of Patrick Star.  He looks at you and-

“Fine…”

“Let me teach you how to draw an actual star.” You’re stumbling over your words a little, and it offends the great Gojo Satoru that he should be taught by such a child like you, a year younger. 

But he does have to admit that you drew pretty nice stars. 

Crossing his arms with a pout, “Fine then- teach me how to draw stars-” And the grin breaking your tiny face was too bright, too pretty. Suddenly the classroom is too humid, and he’s scrambling for something - anything - to throw back in your face. “-star.”

“‘Star’, huh?” But you only smile, “I like that.”

Only to have it thrown back in his. 

In a way he’s remembering nearly two decades later, your hand in his, your mouth near his earpiece. Quieter than the producers screaming in his ears, but louder than his very own racing heartbeat.

“Take it easy, Satoru.” You’re humming, over the velvety-smooth voice of the MAMA award announcer. The one that was ecstatically saying the name of the very band that Gojo might just have forgotten he was a part of the moment your hands wound ‘round him. 

You lift up his dark blindfold, part of his outfit for the day. “Go up, you fool.”

It wasn’t every day that Six Eyes won a MAMA grand prize, and it also wasn’t every day that the best friend he’d begged to be let in as the group’s honorary plus one (also the very same best friend he’d been in love with since he knew what love was) was in his arms like this.

But you’d been in them when after he’d drawn the first star all those years back that you’d deemed ‘acceptable.’ You’d been in them when he decided to take up dancing lessons in middle school, waiting all those hours after dark to walk back home with him. You’d been in them when he entered high school and told you he’d be a trainee slaving the days away in some dingy company basement. You’d been in them even tighter when they debuted. 

And you’d been in them the very second their name had been announced as artist of the year.

In front of all those cameras. All those gasping audiences.

And Geto who thumps him heartily on the back, “Get a room later, lovebirds- if Yaga doesn’t kill you that is.”

“Come on, Gojo-san, we have to go up for our award–!”

Nanami flashes you what you swear was a slight smile, “I am happy for you.” Before frowning at a shining-eyed Gojo, “Not quite for you, though.”

“Aww Nanamin, you love me~”

“O-kaaay-” Once the 6’4 mess of limbs had finally set you free, Geto was pushing them all to climb up the stage. In time with the blasting background music of their very own Blue, “Let’s have the aneurysms when we’re on stage.”

But what Gojo had on-stage wasn’t anything to make Yaga wish to retire, or to have Nanami’s pounding migraine throb harder. It was a single, sliding tear - and if the lights glaring down on them were bright enough that no one could tell for sure, then all was well with him.

“To our fans, our family-” Gojo’s starting off into the mic in the middle, deep tone dry and hoarse, metal award cool in his hands. He’s looking at you. “-and my star, this one’s for you.”

It’s all. 

And later they’d write articles about the hug, the speech, and what it means that you’re his ‘star’ - but for now, that was for Gojo to know. And for him to step away from the booming mic, letting Geto take his place with much more eloquent words; knowing that in future interviews they’d joke about all the speeches that they had planned.

That Gojo had planned in particular, but nothing came out just right. 

Later, he would also wonder why he waited so long - when you were always there in the audience, clapping louder as if it was just for him. 

And your best friend mouths—all bedazzled in his dangling earrings, white suit starkly handsome. “Meet me after the show.”

That very same clip is made into a gif that gets replayed about twelve million times before the award show actually ends. 

.

.

.

“O-oh fuck-” Your tongue lolls out until it’s hitting midway down your chin, mouth watering with every curly swipe n’ prod of Gojo’s tastebuds. 

His nose hits the edge of your treacly cunt and he whines, watchin’ the cute way your pupils roll allll the way to the back. The front of your chest polishing with a few wads of saliva that he can’t lick up right now- no.

Not when his mouth was already so occupied.

All it took was a single step - a single step - inside Gojo’s personal dressing room after the MAMAs, before he’d crashed your lips against his in a way he’d just been dying to do.

Folding you easily over the armrest of the fluffy pink sofa, door locked, sparkly dress hiked up. Gojo hadn’t even bothered to take off your flimsy panties before he’d started making out with your sweet, sweet pussy from behind.

Lavishing his tongue between the crevices of your cunt like he was a man parched- “Fuck, my star.” With your underwear just pushed to the side and his throat vibrating with a guttural groan once he’s feeling your tight, cozy hole clench ‘round his tastebuds.“Fuck- s’all I want-”

“A-are you seriously- ngh–!” And you couldn’t believe anything your hazed mind was telling you right now - not of those familiar lyrics, and not of the smooth, frigid brush of something metallic studding just the end of Gojo’s tongue. “-quoting your song right now?”

“Mmm– can’t help it. Wrote it just for you y’know…” Voice just a bit hitched, just a bit raspy. 

There was something in it that made you oh-so-much wetter, and Gojo’s summer blue eyes flash as he’s taking in the sappy slick gluing your shivering thighs together. 

“Sh-shit.” Gurgling out the candied taste of you, you were dripping all down his tongue. He’s pulling you close with a hand stuck on your hip, letting your slick splash at the bottom of his throat- and it still wasn’t enough. 

“Shit, my star.” His usual lip gloss smeared all over your pussy, Gojo takes the time to lean in and lick it all clean off. Before pursing his lips to once more spit—“Shit-”

He didn’t know what to say.

Your pretty pussy had him speechless, and it’s a damn miracle that he’s not tearing that suit off of his body. Stained all down the front with a snail-trail of your sappy juices-

“Need- this-” Once his heavy fabric strikes the floor, Gojo’s inching even closer in his kneeling position. Thick fingers slide-slide-sliiiiding teasingly between your swollen folds, before tugging on your poor panties. “-off.”

Ripping.

And his little prize is now finding a home somewhere inside his pocket for later, but right now Gojo has to stop himself from fucking salivating as you’re exposed for him.

It takes one kiss before he pants- “Oh my god.” 

And another- “O-oh fuck- oh my god.”

Fully shoving his face between your legs and letting you shiver at the feeling of his bejewelled earrings. That sunken in. 

Flattened tongue slapping down between your driveling slit, Gojo takes his agonizing time lapping up every inch n’ cranny you have. “My star—” Humming almost drunkenly, his pointed muscle swerves between the insides of your pussylips. 

“F-fuuuck–!” Just where you were most sensitive, Gojo lets the stubbed piercing on his tongue slip inside your hole and streeeeetch you out. Slipping out to draw a wet, sickly sweet star– “Since when did you have a- nghh- a tongue piercing, Toru?”

The first answer you’re getting is a sharp swat on your pussy, “Mmm- ever since you dated that fucking bastard with a tongue piercing.” Sukuna. Gojo croons out, more honest than he would’ve usually been. “Never put it in but…I got it because I thought it was your hah- type.”

Another smack!

Another squeezing inch of his pierced tongue trying to fuck into your entrance, he’s impatient. He’s throbbing in his pants with every tiny clench of your gooey insides, “Got buffer, too- cooler.”

“Oh my…god- your tongue, it’s- hck! going in-” Crying out through whines.

“Wrote so many songs for you, my star–” He’s drawling out, and you can feel the scorching breeze of his hot breath. The way that Gojo’s parting his lips even wider to let his tongue glue against your cunt, grinding all the way inside- “Well- heh- not for her, but…”

You’re still hypnotized by the sensual massage of his ridged taste buds rubbin’ across the front of your dripping pussy. 

So much so that the lecherous sluuuurp–! drawn out into the claggy air almost shocks you. Your cunt’s letting off the most sexual noises once Gojo’s dragging up a hand to tease your wet clit. “-but I’ll write a song for her as well.”

His metal rings are just sparkling with coats of slick, and your best friend doesn’t waste even a second latching onto your sensitive nub. Dexterous fingers drawing cute circles over and over that have your hips lurching off of the sofa- 

“Please- ngh- pleeease-” Your head throws backwards, legs already starting to quake at the utter pressure of having his fingers on your clit. Tongue inside your pussy. 

So lengthy that the slimy tip of it mazes between your walls, and Gojo’s purposefully stirrin’ around your insides with the icy edge of his piercing. Chin rubbing all red with friction as he’s leaning in even closer to dig the muscle of his tongue into your sweetest spots, “Yeah- yeah n’ I’ll have her sing-” Another hand this time, another finger - pushin’ deeply inside you. And the syrupy sound is enough to make him close in on the side of the couch and rut- “-lead…h-heh.”

And if you thought being fucked into the cushy surface by Gojo’s tongue was making your head spin, then you’re being driven positively mad by the wild lashes of his fingertips. 

Two ringed fingers fighting for space right along with his sticky tongue, Gojo glues the thick crowns of his digits to the top of your g-spot and watches as you shrill. “All the reading paid off, hmm–?”

“Y-you read about this?” You’re blinking through your tears, mouth dangling open once he’s pulling back. All the way to the rotund tips of his fingers- and slamming right down to press on your favorite nerves like a button. “Fuck- fuck fuck fuck- just for- for me?”

“You don’t know what I’d do for you, my star.” And it would sound sweet coming from your usual best friend. 

But Gojo right now looked feral - pale eyes half-lidded, hair unruly, light make-up replaced by slimy oodles of your slick. Worn like a badge of honor, he’s gnawing down on your outer pussy, voice turning into something breathy. Octaves higher. “Noooo fucking idea what I’d do.”

Gripping onto the dampening covers of the sofa, you’re bucking animalistically like you don’t know whether you want to pull away or grind back down for more, more, more. Yelping, “T-Toru-!”

“No- no no no- come back.” Gojo panics, beefy arms wrapped enough around your body to haaaul you backwards. 

And when that wasn’t far enough, Gojo’s lust-fogged mind tugs off the blindfold still looped ‘round his neck. Tightly restraining one over your thigh and manhandling you deeper onto his face-

“Sh-shiiit, Satoru–”

“Fuck- haven’t had anything so sweet- so addictive, my star.” He’s murmuring into your pussy, knuckles getting sloppier with all the spanks against the front of your cunt. Tongue lurching in n’ out until his jaw was sore and raw with all the movement- but he’s still rummaging his muscle along your insides. 

Gojo’s eating you out like a man lacking a proper meal for eons, and you swear you could feel the way his Adam’s apple bob with each heavy gulp of your saccharine slick. “N’ now I don’t think I can- haaaah- live without your sweet pussy on my face, sweetheart.”

The furniture creaks with every bump of his ravenous hips against the sofa, because Gojo didn’t even want to spare a single handle to jerk himself off.

Not when he could target the throbbing nub of your clit, rolling over it until the harsh pleasure makes you squeeeal. “Don’t have to- don’t- ngh-”

“D’you think so?” That overeager thumb latched to your clit does a quick circular motion that renders your mouth drier than the Sahara. Swooping. Pressing down. “Really really th-think I can?”

“Yes- fuck- yes-” Whining, back arching into such a perfect curve. “Just make me cum, Satoru-”

“Yes, ma’am.” Gojo huffs out a cloud of breath, long lashes fluttering. The rapid thump-thump-thumps of his two fingers burrowing into your g-spot hasten, “But only if you mmmm– say my name.”

“Satoru.”

“Louder?”

“Satoru.”

With your wailing tone knocking off each corner of the wall, it’s like he’s rattling off all the unspeakable dreams he’s had of you. “Thennn– spit in my mouth?”

Almost like he’s testing it out- and you’re snapping your head over your shoulder. Not knowing whether to give him a piece of whatever’s left of your mind, or whether you would spit in his mouth. 

But you didn’t need to wrack your pretty brain over it any time soon.

Because Gojo’s shaking his bleary head, “Hmm- guess you already have, though- heh.” Partially-closed eyes locked onto your agape cunt every time you’re suckin’ his tongue in- and it’s only then that you realize he’s talking to your pussy. 

Letting your pussy spit out wads of juices that slip n’ slide down his throat, that get fucked back in by his relentless mouth.

Your hands grip the couch, “S-stop teasing– please, m’so close.”

“And then finally—” The tender edges of his fingers scrape your sweet spots in that strangely swooping motion that makes your toes curl restlessly. Dragging it oooon with his lilted bass, “-spell this out, my star?”

Your thighs twitch, the semicircles he’s drawin’ on your g-spot taking the formation of an ‘S’. Then an ‘A’-

“Sa-sa-”

“You got it. You got it, sweetheart.”

With the probin’ deepness of his fingers, he’s flicking his fingertips until your vision flashes white. ‘T’, your favorite dragged-out ‘O’ that makes his pierced tongue swoop in tiny circles, too. “Sato-” 

You knew where this was going. Faster. Harder.

You knew, and yet, you’re still letting him finish off a soppy ‘R’ and ‘U’ - branded in big capital letters from the gooey, heated insides of your pussy until you’re finishing off, too. “Satoru- Satoru. M’cumming, oh fuck, m’cumming…ngh.”

With a slight, stiled sob, you’re being run over by your high - just in time for Gojo to twist the orbed piercing on his tongue over in a S-A-T-O-R-U as well. Sloppily salivating down the sides of your slit, your thighs trickle with every ounce of sap you’re spraying out. 

Whimpering, deep into the cavern of his mouth- “Sh-shit-” Gojo’s hissing in that airy tone of his, feeling hot wetness seeping into his pants the very second you’re cumming - he is, too. 

And yet, the only thing he can think about is dragging out your high. 

To strike the bruised n’ battered areas of your walls until your thighs are shaking with every peak of your orgasm, mouth slobbering everywhere and anywhere.

From the pearly spatters of slick sheening your legs, to the pulsing top of your clit. Fucking and fucking your quivering entrance until your body feels all raw and sizzling. Every thrust of his fat, velvety tongue makes your pupils whirl stupidly in the whites of your eyes. “Sh-shit- nghhh- shit.”

And it takes him such a long time to let go of you - especially when he’s this drunk on your pussy. 

Pulling back with a final push of his piercing on top of your clit, and the loudest squeeelch—!

“H-heheh.” Gojo whispers against your pussy and you mewl, falling onto your elbows over the cushions of the sofa. 

Wearily, you look over your shoulder to take a good, solid look at him - only to feel your heart stutter at the utter grin on his face. Dopey. Glittered with slick. It beads down your best friend’s sharp jawline as he speaks, “Replaced my lipgloss- heh.” He cocks his head to the side, sapphire eyes fluttering priggishly. “Did I ever tell you that was my first time? Been savin’ myself for you, my star…”

Your mouth drops open at his words.

Oh.

Oh.

You weren’t making it out of this alive. 

Within a few bats of your teary lashes, Gojo has you pushed onto your back on top of the springy cushions. His towering form hovering over you-

Pinkish tongue snagging at the end of one glistening lip, “You should know…I’ve never done this before either.” He shivers, top layers shrugged off into a pile, golden clasps of his pants unbuttoned—pop! pop! pop!

With your stringy panties pulled out of his trousers, n’ the rest pushed down until he’d sexily bare in front of you. You can’t tear your widened eyes away as Gojo wraps your underwear ‘round his thick, bulging cock and jerks.

And fuck- did it make your mouth water.

Oh, fuck.

Because Gojo was just so big - in every sense.

From the width of his towering shoulders, all chiseled with bouncy pecs. To the way he was so ripped with lean muscle that you couldn’t stop imagining how it’d feel to have them pressed down against you. 

A feverish blush drifts down the back of his neck, alllll the way down between his pale happy trail. And right up to the fat, pinkened globe of his cock - all heavy and long. So, so long that it had your thighs squeezing in both fear and anticipation. 

You breathe, “Y-you’re so…”

Gojo gnaws down on his bottom lip with a moan, “Mm- yeah, tell me, sweetheart.” Vein-covered fist flying up and down his shaft, the rub of your panties was just so delicious that he’s splurging out a thick wad of precum straight down your slit. “Tell me- tell me.”

“So big.” You’re wondering where he even hid something like that.

Making such a mess. 

And he’s made a mess before too - cumming in his pants just from eating you out. So your cunt was being soaked with a few wires of his ivory sap. 

Being pushed in the very second Gojo slouches over your body and slaps his thick mushroom tip between your pussylips. Rutting his sloppy hips without even realizing-

“You don’t think it’s weird, my star?” Head hunched, white bangs covering his eyesight. The tone in his voice is thick with something primal, “How I was- haaaah-” And so was his cadence, sandwiching between your soppy folds back n’ forth back n’ forth. “-fisting my cock to the thought of my ngh- pretty lil’ best friend for yeeeears?”

Dragging it out. 

Just aaaaaching with a particularly sensual slide of his vein-covered shaft down your cunt, “Just aaaaching.” The knobbled top of his length slips against your oversaturated pussy and plugs up your hole. Hitting it with a damp plop! “For one taste- for anything.”

Your hands claw up to the tufts of his soft hair, pulling and it makes his cock twitch. “Want it in. Please, Satoru?” 

“A-are you sure I- hah-” And fuck- his eyes gape as he looks down between your cute, shivering legs. Marvelling at the sheer size difference between the plump girth of his cockhead, and your tight hole. “If it’s too much, I can just put the tip- oh, fuck.”

But you were impatient, and you’re wrapping your legs ‘round his toned waist to tug him closer. Deeper. Inside. 

To feel the tender underside of his length scrape your walls, each n’ every zig-zagged vein snaking inside your cunt. Gojo was just so big that your vision flashes black and white with just a few inches stuffed-

“I take it back.” He gasps. He heaves - pants so labored that it was like he’d given up on catching his breath. Trying to hold his head up - failing. 

“Take- oh, you’re so big- take what back?”

And the only thing Gojo can do is grab both sides of your waist and use the lecherous leverage to pull and pull you further down his rock-hard shaft. Straining out, his thumb cranes over to push inside a gluey wad of cum. “I t-taaake it back. Just the tip- n-never-” Just one singular taste of your sopping wet pussy on his cock and his voice cracks. “-never gonna be just the tip, my star.”

He’s so untouched, biting down furiously on his lower lip. 

Biting down furiously on your sodden panties just as soon as he remembers they’re still in his hands, muffling every whimpering wail that threatens to leave his maw. 

“Ngh- ngh- what the f-fuck.” Gojo’s ripping from the back of his throat, head falling backwards to bare his attractive throat as he slips deeper in. Fighting against that snug resistance with a few good half-thrusts, not even able to pull out properly. To even move. “It can feel this good?” 

And through your half-closed eyes you’re making out the fact that he’s pinching himself with a free hand. “Or m’I just in heaven?”

You feel his big, bulbous tip swab near your g-spot and start to mewl- “Mmm– and what if you are?”

“Don’t even wanna know if s’real.” Strings of saliva stick to Gojo’s lips as he babbles, still lathered in a layer of your pussy juices from before. And his mouth only waters even more when he’s feeling your hot insides clench around him, “Don’t need to know anything else- ngh.”

Every syllable is punctuated by an almost vulgar rut. 

You’re screaming as he’s bullying his slimy, pre-glazed tip inside. Letting the rotund crown of his cock pry apart your cute walls, harder. Deeper. 

Gojo smears your pussylips further open with one of his thumbs, letting just the top part of his digit fit into your entrance. Just so that he can fit his cock in fully. 

“P-please fit.” Muttering underneath his breath, teeth clenching tight on your panties. Looking up at you ferally through his lashes, “Please- please, didn’t wait s-so fucking long for you not to take it, my star. For this pretty pussy to be left unsatisfied.”

Your nails dig into his back, “Fuck- please- oh my god.”

“It has to fit-” 

“Will it?”

“Yes- yes, you’re gonna take it alll, my girl.”Fucking you furiously, sloppily. No rhythm or rhyme - or even sanity in each of his jagged strikes aiming for the very bottom of your pussy, “Has to it has to it- fuck! It has to-”

And when it does - when it finally, finally does - Gojo Satoru is left gaping, your underwear now dropping from his mouth and cleanly onto the floor. Speechless. 

Shit, if he hadn’t cum just minutes prior then he’d be creaming himself all over again.

Blinking once, twice down wordlessly at the sultry vision of your bloated pussylips kissin’ his pelvis. Bottomed-out until his cock was swallowed all the way up until those tufts of white at his base-

And then it all happens at once.

In a singular split-second, Gojo has your legs thrown over his shoulder, your knees pushed all the way down to your tits. Striking your spongy cervix with a dull thud of his weepy cocktip, before he’s reeling out halfway and doing it all over again.

And again.

And again and again and again-

You’re just shrilling– “Toru- hck!” Feeling your weary throat clog up with so many sobs n’ whines every time his globular head was piercing your cunt, pushin’ all the way into your womb. “Toru Toru Toru-”

“M’on vocal rest after this, y’know?” He blurts, seemingly out-of-the-blue. 

That is, until Gojo stares down at you with such a heady grin, leaned down just close enough that his hot respiration wafts the shell of your ear. And his tongue lurches out to lick up the drooling spittle leaking from each side of your mouth, “So you hafta scream twice as loud f’me, my star.”

Slamming the lines of his chiseled hips against yours, Gojo’s shaft was oh-so-veiny enough that you’re feeling your mind melt at the constant massage of your g-spot. “Like that- nghhh please-”

“Like- like this?” And it’s so difficult to remember that this was still Gojo’s first time– especially when he roams a palm over your tummy to feel for a particular bulging outline and press.

Carnally caressing the cylindrical bump that he was pounding into you, branding the fatness of his length right against your girth. “Shit- you really took it all.” He’s in awe at the feeling of his rotund cockhead pokin’ your very womb, “You wanna be fucked like hngh- this, don’t you? Want it hard? Fast?”

He was speaking utter filth, but his cadence was even filthier. 

Shivering hand pushing down on your stomach, the other slithering between your sheeny legs to toy with your neglected clit. 

“Your legs are shivering, my star- m’in trouble.” He arches his sculpted back to pick up the ruthless pace, throbbing cock stirrin’ within you to bash constantly straight into your g-spot. “S-sooooo much trouble.”

“More- ngh! Satoru, more-” You’re crying out through wobbly lips, “Want it even harder.”

“Fuck-” Hissing underneath his breath, Gojo’s doughy fingertips speedily smack your slope. Making your legs grow all numb, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- then ngh- yeah, open those pretty legs and take this fat fucking cock-”

With a few more strokes he’s holding onto your throat, pinning you down so that Gojo can scratch the rough texture of his happy trail down your clit until you cry. “This fat- haaah- fuckin’- cock-”

You’re so dumbified by the size and sheer pleasure that you can only repeat after him, stupidly. “Fat- ngh- fuckin’...”

A velvety tongue drags over your salty beads of tears, “Atta girl—” Grindin’ the circumference of his thick cock against your g-spot, Gojo’s biting down on your earlobe just to hear the way you sing. “Louder.” The dangly metal of his earrings are frosty against your own clammy face, sensual. “Louder- let them hear, let them know.”

Uncertainly, your eyes drift over to where the door of the dressing room was innocently positioned. Notably closed. Notably locked.

But your moans were reaching a fever point at the rough bludgeons of Gojo’s cock, the way he was swervin’ his hips juuuust right to snag your sweetest spots. 

All those years of dancing helped him expertly target long glides down your g-spot. Leaving a trail of wet mucus from that particular bundle of nerves, n’ straight down-down-dooown to your cute cervix. “Let them all see-”

“S-see?” You’re gasping out in disbelief. 

With what almost sounds to you like a growl, “Mhm- yeah, fuck!” Gojo spanks his hips hard enough against yours that the impact leaves his v-line reddening, the papping sound echoing within the dressing room. “You think I wouldn’t fuck you in front of every nosy lil’ camera out there?”

You don’t even know what to say - what to do.

The only thing your pathetic body is capable of doing is gyratin’ back down to meet his tempo. Letting your limp legs tighten over his shoulders, “Y-you would?”

“Oh, my sweetheart—” Gojo’s crooning, snowy brows scrunching together. Giving your treacly cunt yet another hard jackhammer, “If this pussy wasn’t mine and mine alone, then that door wouldn’t even be- hah- locked right now.”

And he was drilling into you like he meant it - like he was furious with himself for holding out this long on the heaven of your sweet, sweet pussy.

Wailing, your eyes crossing at the sheer pleasure.

Now that he’d slurped up one sip, he was eager for the next- and before you know it, the blindfold that’d been dangling on your thigh was suddenly coiling ‘round your ankles. “You’re not getting out of this- oh.” Gojo’s beefy biceps flex as he’s tying your legs behind his neck, all for him to pull back on—“Gonna- gonna fill you up so we hafta be- ngh- prepared.”

Your salivatin’ chin hits the front of your chest and you whine, “Please- please make me cum, mm-”

“Yeah? Gonna make you cum- hah-” Gojo’s mouth hangs ajar, blush so rosy. He feels your goopy walls tighten on reflex and that makes his hardened cock twitch, “Then- then m’gonna fuck you through that.”

Strike after strike. 

His swollen lips lean down to suckle on one of your fingers - your left hand’s ring finger, to be precise. “Then m’gonna put a ngh- ring on it. Gonna- gonna I swear-”

Push after push.

“Toru—” Your tits jut up as you’re bowing your back off of the drenched sofa, “-not gonna- gonna- fuck!”

You don’t even have the privilege of letting that sentence finish before your orgasm takes you over, thrumming white-hot zaps of pleasure through your veins. Your teeth set on edge at how utterly good it feels to have Gojo’s fattened cock swabbing your tight hole through every peak, “Oh my god- oh my- fuuuuuck, there’s jus’ so much, Toru.”

Toes curled, mouth unfastened.

Pinching your clit until you’re squeeealing- “So- so much.” He’s echoing in a whisper, crushing you tight to him once Gojo’s finishing off, too. 

Abs plastered against your front until you memorize each ridge, his pecs smooth n’ plump against your tits. Your best friend just looked so pretty with his pearly whites grit in a snarl, brows knitted as he’s pumping you with cum until you overspilled. 

With thick, seedy knots of cum that blanketed your pussy - his pointed cockhead nudges every droplet inside until you can feel your walls stretch with the utter size. 

Thighs shaking with your release, his mess sploshing around inside of you. Your vision was still completely hazy- “Fuck- fuck, Satoru.”

And it’s like the sound of his name plummeting from your mouth sends shockwaves down his spine.

Because Gojo’s staring at you - mushroomy tip still leaky, still slidin’ through the sappy puddle he’s formulating at your cervix. For a good few seconds, maybe even minutes until he’s chuckling–“God, they could see right through me. Everyone could.”

More to himself.

Although those next words were entirely for you. 

“I love you.” Gojo’s pale lashes flutter, almost shyly, and you’re speechless at the fact that he was still fucking you. In slow, aching grinds that have him fucking his cum deeper n’ deeper inside you. “I’ve always loved you, my star.”

Your heart quivers, and you can’t help but reach a hand out to run through the sweaty valleys of his locks. Smile dazzling - something he could write songs, ballads, sonnets about some day. But for now it only makes his azure eyes wet, “And I love you, my Toru.”

Something weeps out of Gojo that sounds like a husky, drawn-out groan— and you can feel his thick tip twitch inside of you with a few more beaded dollops of seed.

Cumming for the nth time tonight until all his heavy balls could let out was misty white, just from hearing that you loved him back.

And for once it’s silence.

Calm, warm silence— that is, until Gojo’s pulling his ravaged, red cock just far enough that your cunt lets off the soppiest wet sluuuurp! 

You’re gasping, still feeling the rush of your high make your head whirl. Thighs clenching around his broad deltoids automatically, “Satoru- wh-what are you-”

“Oh, well…” Long, pale hands reach for the pile of fabric on the floor - your boyfriend’s pants. And Gojo has the sleaziest grin on his face as he’s digging his fingers into the depths of his pockets, promptly pulling out a lengthy line of condom foils. One he’d packed just in case, just for you.

You’re mentally counting about twenty before he’s letting his proud stack drop right down to your front. “You didn’t think we were done, right, my sweetheart?”

Oh, fuck.

Neither of you are making it out of this alive.

.

.

.

“There’s the wall of perfume, my books- especially songwriting books. And these clothes and, yeah, that’s really it for my room…” Gojo kicks away the pile of his Digimon socks on the ground with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. 

Something he was sure the cameraman intruding his dorm room would capture, and yet still edit to make something cute out of it anyway. 

Ah- such was the life of an ever-popular idol.

And here he was, up bright and early in the morning to let some variety show stomp all through the Six Eyes’ penthouse as a sort of ‘house tour.’ Well, sure he knew that this was bound to be a hit with the fans that probed into his life, but was it really necessary to not even give the man a heads-up?

Plastering on his most polished smile, he nods politely as the camera records a few more details. The hosts cooing over each little thing - all those fan letters he kept, a pretty crayon drawing of a blue star from years ago, and the-

“Eh?”

“Eh?”

“Eh?” Geto’s poking his head in, grin already plastered just in case there was to be some sort of chaos upheaved in Gojo’s room. And why wouldn’t there be?

Gojo’s following both hosts’ lines of vision, all the way down to his bed, “Eh?” Was it not made properly? Was it an offense to have sheets of his own boyband at this day and his age? Or was- “Oh.”

And then Gojo sees it - that. 

The familiar, gauzy fabric of your panties that he’d stolen all those nights ago. Hidden neatly underneath the puff of his pillows - well, almost hidden.

Because obviously it was exceptionally still in the bedroom right now- fuck, even Geto had gone quiet from his station near the door, realizing what it was. Attracting the attention of two very curious other members that were currently fighting to get a glimpse-

One of the hosts clears her throat, “Um- Mister Gojo, is that…” Eyes dazzling at the possibility of a scoop this big - all in their almost-family-friendly home-touring show. “Is it possible there’s a lady in your life the fans and world may want to know about? Is this that very same best friend everyone says you pine over?”

And the other host cackles, “Well, they certainly don’t seem to be your size, boy. And ones so skimpy- oho, kids these days.” 

Unabashedly pushing a mic into his face, “Anything to say for yourself?”

“Ah-” Gojo coughs out, jumping once the cameraman immediately swivels his lens towards him for his response. “Aha, well- you see-”

Gojo looks at Geto.

“…”

At Haibara.

“…”

At Nanami.

“…Fucking idiot.”

And finally at the camera itself- “Cut the cameras. Deadass.”

Yaga might have bribed the network to never air that particular episode, and Dispatch might have done their best to leak it, anyway.

Right along with a few grainy paparazzi shots of figures that looked undeniably like you two. Hand-in-hand, suspicious blemishes on both your necks, wandering down the sidewalks of Han River. 

And if Yaga was having a tough PR day with just that then it would’ve been too merciful of the universe. Because how could you discount the fact that Gojo Satoru, notorious dodger of paparazzi questions, had proudly held up your joined hands and exclaimed at a few buzzing reporters—“Fuck yeah- my girlfriend now, suckers!”

No resignation letter would ever be enough.

@sunflowerboy: let it be known that I always believed in Gojo-san!!

@eathaibara replying to @sunflowerboy: we bow before you great sunflowerboy (the only one to believe in toru’s loser rizz)

@torutoaster: i luv how #go(jo)outthefriendzone is trending worldwide- LOSER RIZZ ALWAYS WINS 

@fiendingforsixeyes: HE DID IT?? MY BOY ACTUALLY DID IT??

@mahitoe: tch whatever

@zbstan replying to @mahitoe: womp womp

@sunflowerboy replying to @mahitoe: LMFAOOOO SUCK IT YOU LOSER HATER FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK-

@eathaibara replying to @sunflowerboy: omg sunflowerboy??

@sunflowerboy replying to @eathaibara: sorry got a little excited^^

@sugu-rizzed: I just know pr is SCRAMBLING rn but not as much as my boy scrambled to get that cookie.

@satorusxkitten: bi panic is wanting both of them!!

@ge.akuge: idk what she sees in him it must be the wigs

@CandyKento: the ‘my star’, isacs, the awards speech, the PANTIES?? gojo satoru it was always meant to be idk what to tell ya. now get married

@Fushidaddy107: I still think she’d be better with me smh.

@officialgojosatoru replying to @Fushidaddy107: Blocked.

A/N. This was SOOO self-indulgent omg- ALSO DADDY TONY’S BAAAACK!!

Plagiarism not authorized.

[se7vnn]

“i grew one centimeter.”

you look up, deadpan. rin is standing there just past your bedroom door. he stands like a ghost, no greeting whatsoever, just straight to the point. as blunt as his brother’s bangs. 

“nice to see you too, rin. hello. yes, i missed you too. i haven’t seen or heard from you for fourteen days. i thought ego sent you off to war. i already got my stationery prepared, i was about to write you a letter confessing—”

“i grew. one centimeter.”

he says it again, like repetition will make it more meaningful. like the metric system is the most important thing in the world right now. he’s still by the door, arms by his side, shoulders stiff, and his bag hanging on his back. you don’t know whether he’s proud or just incredibly weird about measurements.

“as i was saying,” you continue, undeterred, “if you didn’t tell me beforehand that ego sent you guys training, i would’ve thought he killed you off for some petty reason. but then i thought, no, ego isn’t that bad. he’s actually a really good mentor. so you getting killed off was out.”

“i said i grew a centimeter.”

you finally lower your phone, staring at him like your brain has frozen halfway through processing. there’s a beat of silence. one. two. maybe three. hell, might as well take five.

“…okay,” you say slowly. “what do you want me to do about it?”

he meets your gaze without blinking. not a hint of irony. voice low and flat and utterly serious.

“praise me.”

you just stare.

nothing comes out of your mouth. you physically cannot form a response because what the hell did he just say to you. you refuse to believe this is happening. what the hell happened? where the hell did ego send him?

your eyes narrow in pure disbelief. like you’ve accidentally walked into the wrong conversation. like you’re still waiting for the punchline and realizing, with growing horror, that there isn’t one.

“praise you?”

“i worked hard,” he says, cutting you off like that explains everything.

“... for growing?”

“sleep schedule, posture work, morning trainings, meditating, yoga.” he says it with that same mechanical efficiency he uses when analyzing plays on the pitch. “ measurable progress.”

you just keep looking at him.

he looks back, completely unfazed.

he’s serious. itoshi rin is dead serious.

this man walked straight to your apartment as soon as training ended just to tell you that he grew a single centimeter and expects verbal validation for it. 

“you’re unbelievable,” you mutter.

but your body betrays you—because even though your face is blank and your tone is flat, you reach up a hand and let him bend down and touch his head to your palm.  you press your palm to the top of his head like you’re measuring it yourself.

okay, maybe he does feel the tiniest bit taller.

you drop your hand and sigh in defeat. as always you can never say no to him. curse you and your soft spot for one itoshi rin.

“congratulations on your one centimeter progress. growth arc of the century. it’s very impressive and inspiring.”

and like that, rin just plops onto you.

literally. like gravity ceased to exist for a moment and he decided your body was the most suitable mattress in the world. you grunt under his weight, your back hitting the couch cushions as he crashes on top of you like a human plank. his duffel bag falls to the floor with a thud, completely ignored.

“rin—”

he doesn’t say anything.

doesn’t have to.

his arms slide around your waist with zero subtlety, his face burying into your shoulder like it’s instinct. you’re still half-frozen from the whiplash of the past five minutes. your brain hasn’t even recovered from the praise me incident, and now he’s lying on you like he lives here (he does.)

you feel him breathe out. slow, deep, and heavy. the kind of breath someone takes when they’re finally safe. when they’re home.

and then—he bites you. not hard. just enough to feel his teeth graze your shoulder. no warning, no reason. like a cat acting out affection.

“did you just bite me?”

he hums. that’s a yes. completely unapologetic.

you tilt your head, staring at the ceiling like it might offer you clarity. it doesn’t. “you’re insane.”

“missed you.” rin says it so quietly. mumbled into you skin like he’s etching his word in your being and it makes your heart do its stupid backflips. 

he presses closer, like he can’t get enough. like fourteen days was fourteen lifetimes.

and just when you think he’s settled, he mumbles again:

“…still want that praise.”

you close your eyes. not in annoyance, but because itoshi rin is exhausting (affectionately) and unfortunately, yours.

[se7vnn]

After You - Satoru G.

about. after a devastating accident pulls you back to tokyo, the last person you expect to see again is gojo satoru — the man who shattered your heart a year ago. You swore you'd never forgive him. But he’s showing up in quiet mornings and rainy afternoons, offering everything you used to love. And no matter how hard you try… you still notice him.

pairings. Gojo x Fem!Reader

words. 12.69k

content. angst, exes to lovers (maybe), slow burn, heavy emotions, crying gojo, yelling reader, emotional breakdowns, single tulip at your door, “don’t touch me”, “oh, toru”, soft flashbacks, hospital scenes, self-sabotage, character growth, gojo on his knees, regret-filled apologies, comfort scenes, pacing in a hotel room, rainy confessions, “i miss you”, sleepless nights, soft touches, holding back tears, emotional tension, love that still lingers

notes. stay up for part two??? winkwink, yll deserve a treat after this.

They say when something awful happens, time slows down.

But for you, it didn’t.

It struck fast and cruel, like the sharp snap of a branch underfoot.

One moment you were rinsing toothpaste from your mouth, scrolling mindlessly through notifications, and the next, your phone was shaking in your hand, someone on the other end barely holding their voice together.

You don’t even remember what they said exactly — only that he was in surgery, and it didn’t sound good.

That was enough.

You were already grabbing whatever clothes you could find, already booking the next flight to Tokyo, already letting your vacation days burn for something that didn’t feel like a break at all.

It had been a while since you heard his voice. Longer since you’d seen his face. But the second you heard the words accident and critical, something inside you collapsed without permission.

You hadn’t cried yet.

Not really.

There wasn’t time for it — only motion, only urgency, only movement that felt like survival.

The grief hadn’t hit.

Not fully. But something close to it was blooming beneath your skin, a cold, buzzing panic that had followed you all the way from your apartment to the terminal to the cab ride now speeding toward the hospital.

You try not to think about who else might be at the hospital.

You haven’t asked.

You couldn’t bring yourself to.

The name lingers at the back of your throat like smoke — like a wound you’ve trained yourself not to touch. Even now, even after all this time, even after all the healing you’ve faked in Kyoto, you can’t say it.

Not even in your head.

Not without feeling your jaw clench, your pulse kick up, your entire body remembering the sting of something you were never supposed to feel.

You wish you could say you’ve moved on.

That the distance between then and now had softened the memory.

That you don’t still flinch when certain songs come on, or when someone with white hair brushes past you too fast on the street.

You wish you could say it doesn’t still live in you — that night, that voice, the sound of betrayal dressed in a whisper.

But it does, and it haunts you every damn time.

And that’s why you don’t let yourself say the name.

Not here.

Not yet.

Not when you’re this close to the hospital, this close to seeing him — the one who didn’t hurt you. The one who never left, even when you did.

Suguru.

His name doesn’t sting.

His name doesn’t tremble when you think it.

He was steady, kind. Always there in the background, holding pieces no one else noticed you’d dropped.

The thought of him lying still in a hospital bed makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t have words for. You’ve known him since your first year of high school — back when the world felt too big and the future felt too far. He was the calm between louder voices, the one who made space for you when everything else felt like too much.

You owe him everything. So when the hospital comes into view — tall, gray, humming under fluorescent lights — you square your shoulders and remind yourself why you’re here. Not for ghosts. Not for memories. Not for names you can’t bring yourself to say.

You’re here for the boy who never let you fall alone.

You’re here for Suguru.

And if something else is waiting for you inside those walls?

You’ll deal with it when it finds you.

The hospital lobby is too bright. That’s the first thing you notice. Too white, too sterile, too cold. The kind of place where time moves weird — where minutes drag and hours vanish and the people sitting around you are all waiting for answers they’re scared to hear.

Your bag hangs heavy off your shoulder as you step through the sliding glass doors. The air smells like bleach and something metallic beneath it. You don’t look around. You just head to the front desk, voice barely steady as you say Suguru’s name.

The nurse gives you a room number and tells you gently, “The surgery ended half an hour ago. He’s stable for now.”

You nod, but your chest doesn’t unclench.

They tell you you’ll have to wait until the doctor clears visitors. So you’re directed to the family waiting room — tucked in a quiet hallway at the end of the cardiology wing. You’re almost afraid to open the door.

But you do.

And the second you step in, you see her.

Shoko sits in the corner of the room, hunched forward with her elbows on her knees, a tissue clutched loosely in one hand. Her eyes are red, but her face is still. Blank. The kind of blank that only comes after hours of holding it in.

She looks up when she hears you enter.

And for a moment, she doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

You just cross the room and kneel in front of her, the lump in your throat rising the second your eyes meet.

She was the one who called you.

Shoko hadn’t always been part of your circle. She came halfway through high school — quiet at first, almost cold, until she wasn’t. You didn’t expect to grow close to her, but she stuck. A sharp tongue, a good heart. You shared notes, lighter moments, hungover mornings. Somehow, she became someone you trusted. And now she’s here, holding herself like she’ll fall apart if she breathes too hard.

You reach for her hand, and her fingers curl tightly around yours.

“I got the call at 2AM,” she says. Her voice is hoarse. “They said it was bad. That there was… blood. And broken ribs. And—” She stops. Her mouth opens, then closes again. “They didn’t tell me if he was going to make it.”

You squeeze her hand. “He will.”

She lets out a breath, shaky and half-laugh, half-sob. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say, even though your voice cracks. “Because he’s Suguru. He’s stubborn as hell. He doesn’t know how to leave.”

Shoko nods, but her lips are trembling now, and when her eyes meet yours again, whatever strength she was holding onto snaps.

The tears fall quietly. No sound at first — just her face crumpling as she leans forward and buries herself in your arms.

You hold her. Tight. The way you wish someone would hold you. Your hand finds the back of her head, and your other arm wraps around her shoulders as she finally breaks. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just broken.

You try to whisper something — It’s okay. You’re not alone. I’m here. But your own voice wavers, and before you can stop it, your cheeks are wet too.

You don’t even know who you’re crying for.

For Suguru, who didn’t deserve this.

For Shoko, who held everything together alone for hours.

For yourself, for everything you left behind and everything you’re being forced to feel all over again.

You cry quietly, tucked into each other like the world outside the waiting room doesn’t exist. You’re not ready to face anything beyond these walls — not the doctors, not the machines, not the possibility of seeing him.

But for now, you don’t have to.

You have Shoko. And she has you.

And maybe that’s enough, just for this moment.

The waiting room stays quiet after that. Just soft footsteps from nurses in the hallway, the buzz of an old TV on low volume, and the occasional sniffle from Shoko as she tries to get her breathing under control. You don’t say much. Neither of you need to. You just sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder, hands wrapped around bad vending machine coffee that tastes like burnt water and anxiety.

You checked your phone a few times, but there’s no point. No missed calls. No new updates. Just time dragging its feet, and your knee bouncing without rhythm. At some point, you both gave up and wandered down the hall to the little hospital kiosk — bought crackers you never opened, a bottle of tea, a rice ball you didn’t touch. The cashier didn’t ask questions. You looked too tired for small talk.

The hours stretched thin after that.

Shoko eventually closed her eyes for a bit, curled up awkwardly in one of the waiting chairs, her lab coat draped around her like a blanket. You didn’t sleep. You couldn’t. You just sat there, chewing your lip raw and staring at the hallway.

And then — finally — the door opens.

You shoot up before your brain catches up. Shoko’s eyes snap open too, and you both stand at once when the doctor walks in.

He looks tired, like he’s been on his feet for hours, but there’s a calm in his posture. A professionalism in his voice that makes you cling to every word.

“He made it through surgery,” he says. “There was a lot of internal bruising, several fractured ribs, and a ruptured spleen. The bleeding was significant, but we got to it in time. He’s stable now. Still unconscious, but responsive to touch. We’re keeping him under observation for the next twenty-four hours.”

You nod too quickly, almost like it’ll make the information easier to digest. Shoko’s breath hitches beside you.

“You can see him,” the doctor adds. “But keep it short, please. He needs rest.”

You thank him, voice barely audible, then follow the quiet sound of his footsteps down the hall. The fluorescent lights feel too bright again. The tiles echo under your shoes.

When he stops at the room, something in your chest twists.

The doctor opens the door, gives a polite nod, and leaves.

You step in.

The beeping is the first thing you hear — soft and steady. Machines monitoring a rhythm that, hours ago, almost stopped entirely. The lights are dimmed low, and the smell of antiseptic clings to everything.

Suguru looks... small.

Not physically. He’s still tall, still long-limbed, still very much the person you remember. But there’s something in the way he’s lying there — skin pale, an oxygen line resting under his nose, his arm bandaged and strapped with IV lines — that makes your heart lurch into your throat.

You take slow steps to the side of his bed. Shoko hovers beside you, her hand covering her mouth like she’s trying not to break again.

There’s a chair near the headboard, and you take it.

“Hey,” you whisper. Your voice feels too loud, even though it barely comes out.

His eyes are shut. There’s a bruise just beneath his cheekbone, faint yellow mixed with violet. You wonder if he even knows you’re here.

Shoko steps closer, brushing a hand over his hair, like maybe that’ll wake him. She doesn’t say anything either. Just stares down at him like she still can’t believe it’s real.

You swallow thickly and rest your hand near his — not touching, but close enough that he’d feel it if he shifted.

“You scared the shit out of us,” you murmur.

Still nothing.

But he’s breathing. That’s enough. For now, that’s enough.

You lean back in the chair and press your palm to your chest, trying to quiet the chaos inside you.

He’s here. He’s alive.

And as long as he is — you can keep going.

You’re not sure how long you sit there in silence, just watching the slow rise and fall of Suguru’s chest. His skin looks pale against the sheets. His lips are chapped. There’s a machine next to him that lets out a soft hiss every few seconds, and the sound digs under your skin like a pin.

Shoko stands near the window, arms crossed, eyes unfocused. She hasn’t cried again, but you can still see the weight in her face — like something’s pressing down hard on her shoulders and she’s too stubborn to fall under it.

You speak first, voice low. “Do they know what happened?”

She blinks, like the question had to filter through layers of static. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, the cops called me after I got here.”

You wait.

“They said it was a truck. Some delivery driver lost control—snow slicked road, poor brakes. It was too fast. Hit Suguru on the driver’s side.” She swallows. “They said he probably didn’t even see it coming.”

Your fingers tighten in your lap. The thought of Suguru alone in a car, unaware, unable to stop what was coming—something about it twists in your stomach and won’t let go.

“They said if the ambulance came two minutes later…” Shoko doesn’t finish.

You don’t ask her to.

The silence after is full. Not empty — just packed with things neither of you want to name. So you stare at the beeping monitor instead, and try to focus on the rhythm. It helps. A little.

Then Shoko’s phone rings.

She looks down, already irritated before she even sees the screen. But when she does, her lips press into a thin line. Her jaw flexes.

You don’t need to ask.

You already know.

It’s like your whole body freezes. Like your bones remember something your mind worked so hard to forget. You feel your pulse spike, chest tightening, the cold creeping in from somewhere deep inside.

“I should get this,” she mutters, eyes flicking toward you.

You don’t move. You can’t even nod. But she’s already turning away, already answering.

“Where are you, Satoru?” she snaps, low and sharp, the words like glass.

And just like that, it’s back.

His name.

Said out loud for the first time in a year. Like it never left the earth. Like it hasn’t been rotting quietly in the dark corners of your memory. It lands heavy, sharp — like someone carved it straight into your skin without asking.

You inhale too fast. Look away. Pretend to focus on Suguru’s hand.

Shoko paces a little, voice hushed now but tense. “No—don’t pull that. Don’t—Satoru, you should’ve been here hours ago. He could’ve died.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard.

Not now. This isn’t about him. This isn’t why you’re here. You came for Suguru — because he’s your friend. Because he’s family. Because he never broke you.

But you can hear Shoko’s voice still, even as she walks toward the hallway, trying not to disturb you.

“Yeah. She’s here. What the hell do you expect me to say to her?”

It’s too much.

Your chest tightens, and the room suddenly feels smaller — like the walls are pressing in, like the air’s been sucked out. You stare at Suguru harder, like maybe he’ll wake up and give you something to cling to. A joke. A complaint. A tired smirk.

But he’s asleep. And he is coming.

You push your chair back, quietly. The scrape of the legs on the tile is soft but enough to break Shoko’s focus for a second. She glances back, still holding the phone against her ear, and your eyes meet.

You don’t say anything.

You just need to leave before you fall apart.

You need air. You need to walk. You need to remember how to exist without his name ringing in your ears.

Because four years ended on a Tuesday.

Just like that.

And now he’s coming back into your life like the silence he left behind wasn’t loud enough.

You won’t break.

Not for him.

Not again.

You don’t wait for her to come back in fully.

You’ve already grabbed your bag from the floor, fingers fumbling for the zipper, pretending you’re not moving too fast, pretending your heart isn’t crashing against your ribs like a trapped thing.

Shoko steps into the room slowly, her phone still in her hand, like she’s trying to approach you without startling you.

“Y/N—” she starts, but doesn’t get the whole sentence out.

You’re already swinging your bag over your shoulder. “I need to check in. I haven’t… I haven’t rented anything yet. I need to figure that out.”

She frowns. “What?”

“I mean, I was thinking of staying somewhere for a few weeks. Like that Mimaru place in Ueno East. The one with the little kitchen. I think I saw a listing still open. I need to book it now—while I still can.”

You’re not making sense. You both know it. But your voice keeps pushing forward, carrying you through the panic, through the fog, like if you just keep talking, none of this will catch up to you.

Shoko steps in front of you before you can reach the door. “Y/N.”

You won’t look at her.

She exhales hard, trying again. “He’s coming. Satoru’s on his way.”

Your eyes snap up. The name, again. Spoken like it doesn’t hurt. But it does. It cracks something inside you, sharp and instant.

“I know,” you say flatly. “That’s why I need to go.”

“Y/N, wait—”

“I came here for Suguru,” you say, louder now, your voice starting to shake. “Not for him. I didn’t ask to see him. I didn’t want to see him. I can’t.”

Shoko’s expression tightens. Her eyes soften, but her jaw sets with a kind of stubborn kindness only she could pull off.

“This isn’t about you and him right now.”

Your laugh is bitter, short. “No? It feels pretty damn close.”

“I’m still mad about it,” she snaps. “Do you think I forgave him? I haven’t. I still want to punch him every time I remember what he did to you. But this isn’t about him. Or about you. This is about Suguru. He needs both of you here. Whether you like it or not.”

You shake your head. “I can’t be in the same room as him, Shoko.”

“Then don’t talk to him.” Her voice is quieter now, but firmer. “Don’t look at him. Just stay. For Suguru. That’s all I’m asking.”

You stare at her, trying to find something to fight with — a reason, an excuse, anything that doesn’t sound like I’m scared, because that’s what it really is. You’re scared. Of how he’ll look at you. Of how your voice might betray you. Of the way your heart is already acting like it remembers him — and it shouldn’t.

Shoko sees it. All of it. You don’t say a word, but your silence screams.

She takes a step closer.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you in a year,” she says quietly. “A whole year, Y/N.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“I missed you.”

Her voice is so soft, it lands right where your defenses are thinnest. You look at her — really look — and you see it in her face: everything she’s carried, everything she’s held together without you. You weren’t the only one who lost something when you left.

The room stays still for a long beat.

And you?

You just hold your bag a little tighter. Because you’re not sure what else you can hold onto right now.

You’ve been staring at your phone for the last twenty minutes, screen dim, thumb barely scrolling. You’re not reading anything. Not really. You just need something to look at that isn’t the door. Something to occupy the space inside your chest that’s been on high alert ever since Shoko stood up and said, “I’ll go get him.”

You didn’t ask her to.

But you didn’t stop her either.

Suguru hasn’t moved. His breathing stays slow, steady, the beeping of the monitors calm like he’s just napping after a long night. Every few minutes, your gaze drifts from your phone back to him. You wonder what he’d say if he were awake. You wonder if he’d be pissed or grateful. Maybe both. He was always better at reading people than you were.

You check the time again. The hallway outside is too quiet.

And then — footsteps.

Two pairs. Light, but unhurried. The sound of them makes something cold unfurl in your stomach.

You don’t lift your head. You don’t need to.

He’s here.

You knew he was. You felt it before Shoko even said she was going to meet him at the entrance — probably so the nurses wouldn’t assume he was some random six-foot-two man barging into the ICU like he owned the place. Because that’s what he looked like. Always did.

Even now, when Shoko opens the door and walks in first, your spine goes stiff.

And then he enters.

You don’t raise your eyes at first. You feel it instead — the way the air in the room shifts like it always used to. The weight of him. The gravity. It always demanded your attention.

And slowly, inevitably, you look up.

The same white hair. Tousled, like he ran his hand through it on the way here. No blindfold. No sunglasses. Just those eyes — the ones that used to soften when they looked at you, like you were something holy.

They’re just blue now. Plain and clear and impossible to forget.

You don’t mean to stare.

But in that second, you remember everything.

The way he used to walk you home, flicking your forehead and laughing at how dramatic you were. The way he used to kiss the top of your head like it was second nature. The night you fell asleep in his lap while he crammed for a test he never studied for. The four years of being so stupidly, completely his.

And then — the night you weren’t enough.

The night he told you everything and cried while you sat there, feeling like something hollow and discarded. The night you walked out of his apartment with a suitcase in your hand and everything else in pieces.

Your eyes drop back to Suguru, and you don’t look again.

He almost says something. You hear the breath catch in his throat, like he’s reaching for your name.

But Shoko is faster.

“Don’t talk to her,” she says under her breath, cutting her eyes toward him like a warning. “Give her space.”

A beat. And then he exhales — long and quiet, like it knocked something loose in his chest.

You keep your eyes on Suguru.

Because you came for him. Not for this. Not for him.

Satoru bites it back. Sighs, low and tired. Rubs the back of his neck.

Because she’s right.

You don’t owe him a damn thing. Not a word. Not a look.

He hurt you — ruined everything — in one night.

And now?

Now you’re sitting there like the four years he loved you never happened at all.

But you’re still the most beautiful thing in the room.

And he’s still the one who destroyed it.

You hadn’t meant to remember.

But sometimes, when the room gets too still — when the hum of the fridge starts to sound like silence, when the chair beneath you feels too familiar — it creeps back in. All of it.

The mornings first.

You used to wake up in a sun-drenched room that wasn’t yours, pressed beneath heavy sheets and even heavier limbs. Satoru always slept like he was trying to pin you to the mattress. A leg flung over yours. Arms around your waist. Sometimes his face buried in your shoulder, breath warm on your skin as he mumbled nonsense in his sleep.

He was terrible at waking up.

Always five alarms deep, groaning, dragging himself out of bed like gravity only worked on him. But for you? He made coffee. Every time. Milk and one sugar. Sometimes he forgot the sugar and tried to kiss it back into your mouth later, laughing when you told him he tasted like regret and half-burnt toast.

You used to study together — or at least, you tried to. Satoru got bored easily. You’d be neck-deep in notes while he stacked highlighters into towers or played with your hair, asking what you thought you’d name your future dog. Somehow, you always let him distract you.

Some nights you sat in the tiny ramen shop near the corner of your dorms, sharing pork broth and teasing him about getting extra noodles when he was already full. He never listened. Always said, “If I die, at least it’s with miso in my veins.”

He was loud in crowds, but soft with you. Always softer with you.

Fingers brushing yours under tables. A kiss to the side of your head as you walked. His hand resting on the back of your neck when you leaned forward — like he needed the contact, even in silence.

He took pictures of you when you weren’t looking.

And then laughed when you caught him.

You fought sometimes. Of course you did. Over nothing and everything — who forgot to text, who didn’t show up on time, what he said that came out too sharp. But he always came back. Always found you.

The rooftop of the engineering building. The lawn under the cherry blossom trees in spring. That 24-hour diner you hated but he loved, with neon lights that made your skin look like paper.

He made you laugh until your ribs hurt.

He danced with you in the hallway once, music playing from his phone speaker, swaying clumsily in socked feet on polished floor. Told you, “This is what people mean when they say forever.”

And you believed him.

God, you really did.

You memorized the shape of him — the curve of his grin, the dip of his collarbone, the little mole near his jaw he always forgot about.

He was your first home that wasn’t a place.

And for a while... it felt like enough.

It felt like always.

You didn’t just love him.

You chose him.

Again and again, even when it didn’t make sense. Even when everything else told you not to.

It wasn’t just coffee in the mornings and laughter under cherry blossoms. It wasn’t just the warm way he’d look at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

It was the night he drank too much after bombing a midterm he swore he didn’t care about. You were halfway through your own exam — thirty minutes in, pen moving furiously — when your phone started buzzing in your lap. Over and over. Shoko. Then Nanami. Then finally, a stranger.

The bar manager’s voice was sharp. Impatient. “Is this Y/N? You need to get down here now. He’s making a scene.”

You didn’t finish the test.

Didn’t explain. Didn’t even grab your jacket.

You just ran.

All the way to the cheap bar two blocks off campus where Satoru was slumped in a booth, laughing too loud, eyes glassy, one arm hanging off the edge like he was too big for the world. People were staring. A manager was yelling. Telling you they should call the cops. That he wasn’t your problem.

But he was.

He always was.

You apologized until your voice went hoarse. Helped him up even though he was twice your size. Held his hand like it could shield you both from the embarrassment burning up your cheeks. Got him home, into his room, into bed, and stayed by his side the whole night while he muttered half-coherent regrets into the pillow.

You missed the exam.

Your professor didn’t let you retake it.

Your parents didn’t understand either.

“You're throwing your future away for some boy?” “He can take care of himself, Y/N — why is it always you picking him up?” “He’s not your responsibility.”

But you loved him.

And that made it worth it.

At least back then, it did.

He had this way of holding your face when you cried. Like nothing else existed. Like your sadness deserved reverence. His thumbs would brush under your eyes, soft and steady, and he’d whisper things like, “If it hurts, I’ll make it stop. You just tell me how.”

He made you believe he could fix anything.

That nothing could go wrong as long as you had him.

He’d show up to your apartment with cheap takeout and a new playlist, saying, “You looked tired in your texts. This is recovery food and sonic healing.”

He’d kiss your knuckles in the middle of arguments, just to calm you down.

He’d carry your backpack after class even when you said it was fine. “It’s not about weight,” he said once, “it’s about letting you know I’m here.”

And God, you let him be there.

Even when it cost you sleep.

Even when it cost you grades.

Even when it started to cost you you.

Because being with Satoru made you feel like you were bulletproof — like nothing could touch you, not the world, not failure, not loneliness. He filled your days with so much light, you didn’t realize how dim you were becoming just to keep him shining.

You gave him everything.

Even the ugly parts. The selfish parts. The ones you’d never shown anyone else.

You gave him the parts of you that you now wish you’d saved.

Because at the time, you thought he’d keep them safe.

And for a while… He did.

It had been raining that week too.

Not softly. Not romantic or warm. Just endless, grey, and cold — the kind of weather that felt like it was leaking through the cracks in your life.

Things had been rocky for a while. A month, maybe more. Missed calls. Short replies. Less eye contact. More space between your bodies in bed.

You told yourself it was stress. Finals. His internship. The late nights, the shift in his tone when you asked where he’d been. You told yourself not to spiral.

Until the night he came home at one in the morning.

The dorm was dark. Just the little desk lamp you kept on while studying, your notes spread out in front of you, highlighter ink staining your fingertips. You were barely awake. Shoulders tense, eyes sore.

You didn’t even hear the door unlock.

You only noticed when the floor creaked — and then there he was, dripping rainwater on the hardwood, wiping his shoes half-heartedly on the mat.

He looked exhausted.

But not in the way you did.

You stared at him for a second.

Then said quietly, “You didn’t text.”

He ran a hand through his hair, didn’t look at you. “I figured you were busy.”

“I was. Still am.”

And when he finally turned his head, you saw it.

Just a flicker of it. Half-hidden beneath the line of his jaw, peeking out from the collar of his hoodie.

A kiss mark.

Faint. But real.

You froze.

He didn’t notice — or maybe he did. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t say anything.

But you did.

“…What’s on your neck?”

His mouth twitched.

“What?”

“Your neck,” you repeated, voice thin. “What is that?”

He didn’t answer.

And you knew.

You knew.

You pushed back your chair. Stood. Let the question fall again, louder, uglier, something in your throat already cracking:

“Who was it?”

He scoffed.

Like it was ridiculous.

Like you were.

“Seriously?” he said. “You’re going to start this now?”

“Start—? Are you fucking kidding me—?”

“It’s not a big deal,” he muttered, already walking past you toward the kitchen. “God, I was drunk.”

Your chest burned.

“Drunk?” You followed him. “You let someone put their mouth on you and you’re calling it not a big deal?”

“It wasn’t. I didn’t mean for it to happen, alright?”

Your voice splintered.

“So it did happen.”

That made him pause.

And when he turned around, something in his face was wrong. Not defensive. Not even sorry.

Just tired.

Like this conversation bored him.

“Look,” he said, “I was overwhelmed. You don’t— You don’t understand what it’s been like lately. Everything’s too fucking much, alright? I can’t breathe around you anymore.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“You’re always hovering,” he snapped. “Always checking in. Always making things heavy. You act like I’m your responsibility or something. I didn’t ask you to give up your classes for me. I didn’t ask you to pick me up from every shitty bar or cover for me with your parents—”

“I did that because I loved you,” you choked.

“Yeah? Well it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like guilt. Like pressure. Like I can’t mess up without you holding it over my head.”

You stared at him.

And you realized something, in that moment.

He didn’t just betray you.

He resented you.

Everything you did — the nights you skipped sleep, the classes you missed, the way you fought for him harder than you ever fought for yourself — he hated it. He hated being held up like that. He hated the version of you that refused to leave, even when he gave you reasons to.

And he hated how small it made him feel.

“Then why didn’t you just say it?” you whispered. “Why didn’t you just tell me you didn’t want me anymore?”

Satoru looked away.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t apologize.

You waited for him to say something that could undo it. Even now, even bleeding — you waited.

But all he said was:

“I didn’t think it would get this far.”

That was the moment something inside you died.

The part that still believed in him.

The part that thought maybe you were different. That the four years, the late-night confessions, the mornings wrapped in each other — that it all meant something solid. Something real.

Instead, you stood there in a room full of shattered promises, rain pounding against the windows like it was trying to drown out the silence between you.

You grabbed your coat.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t reach for your hand.

Didn’t chase you down the hallway or beg you to stay.

Because you weren’t his anymore.

Not after that.

Not ever again.

The hotel room is too quiet.

You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees drawn up, a cup of coffee resting warm between your palms. The city outside your window is buzzing — lights flashing, cars passing — but in here, it’s still.

Still enough for old ghosts to come knocking.

Your laptop sits forgotten in your lap, the screen dimmed out minutes ago, maybe longer. You don’t remember what you were typing. You barely remember what you were thinking. All you know is that your brain hasn’t stopped spinning since the hospital.

Since you saw him.

It wasn’t the face that undid you — though even now, you can see it in the reflection of the black screen. White hair. Blue eyes. The shadow of a man you used to love more than you loved your own future.

No — it was the memory.

It came back fast. Uninvited.

One minute you were standing in that sterile room next to Shoko, pretending you didn’t feel him looking at you. The next, you were back in that tiny dorm, the rain against the window, his voice in your ears again like a curse.

"I didn’t think it would get this far."

That.

That was the part that still makes your throat close.

Not the cheating.

Not even the kiss mark on his neck.

But the way he made your love feel like an accident.

Like some burden he didn’t ask for. Something you did wrong.

And you hate him for that.

You fucking hate him.

You hate how those words still live in your chest like splinters. How even now, a year later, after therapy and silence and pretending you’re healed, the memory still makes your coffee taste bitter.

You stare down into the mug.

It’s lukewarm now. You should get up. Reheat it. Do anything other than sit here and replay what broke you.

But your body won’t move.

Because there’s a part of you — the part you thought you buried — that still wonders what you did to deserve it.

That part is quieter now, sure. Duller. But it’s there.

It whispers things you don’t want to hear.

That maybe you were too much. That maybe loving someone that hard was suffocating. That maybe if you had just—

You stop yourself.

You swallow it down.

Because no. No — fuck that.

You didn’t break the promise. You didn’t kiss someone else. You didn’t turn four years into a footnote just because things got hard.

He did that.

He chose that.

And no amount of blue eyes or half-hearted apologies will ever change it.

You press the coffee to your lips, even though it’s cold.

Even though it tastes like memory.

And somewhere in your chest, the hate sits quietly — not burning, not loud. Just there.

Heavy, unmovable and earned.

The hotel room was too still.

Too quiet without Shoko's tired sighs or your footsteps moving from the kitchen to the bathroom. No clinking mugs, no charger cords stretched across the bed, no rustling of your oversized hoodie as you curled up with your laptop. Just... silence. And the heavy hum of the air conditioner that sounded too much like guilt.

Satoru leaned back against the headboard, still fully dressed. Jacket unzipped, shoes on, fingers twitching at his sides like they were looking for something to hold onto. But there was nothing left to hold.

You were gone.

And he felt it — finally, in full.

He stared at the bedside lamp, too dim. The walls, too blank. His chest, too fucking empty.

It had taken him a long time to realize what your absence meant. Months, maybe. At first, he called it space. Told himself he was giving you room to “cool off,” to “think.” As if you were the one who needed to apologize.

But then a week passed.

And another.

And then… it hit him.

Not in a dramatic way. No thunderstrike. No collapse.

Just little things.

Like how no one reminded him to eat before heading out to meetings.

How his keys were always missing now, and you weren’t there to laugh and say “Left side coat pocket, dumbass.”

How his apartment stayed cold all the time. How the bathroom floor was always wet. How the playlist in his car kept skipping over the songs you used to sing quietly along to — not because he removed them, but because he couldn’t bring himself to listen anymore.

And then it hit harder.

The way his laundry piled up. The way his calendar never got updated. The way he showed up late to everything, forgot birthdays, left unread emails for days.

You used to handle those things. Not because you had to.

But because you wanted to.

Because you loved him.

And Satoru hadn’t even realized.

He hadn’t seen how much of his life you filled — how much of his chaos you softened with a simple glance, a kiss to the shoulder, a quiet, “Hey, it’s okay, I’ve got this.”

He took it all for granted.

Your steadiness. Your small routines. The way you made his favorite tea when he was too exhausted to lift a finger. How you made to-do lists for him and stuck them to the mirror in neon pink sticky notes that always ended with “♥ please don’t forget.”

He remembered the time he was sick for three days and you stayed up, head foggy from your own fever, just to make sure he drank water. The time he failed a certification test and you said nothing — just let him lay in your lap and cry, fingers stroking his hair until he fell asleep.

You never asked for thanks.

You never asked for anything.

And he gave you everything but loyalty.

Now, sitting in this goddamn hotel room with the overpriced minibar and the empty second pillow, he finally saw it.

He would’ve given his blood, his name, his stupid pride — anything — just to hear you laugh again.

That soft, slightly breathless laugh when he said something dumb. The kind that made your nose scrunch and your eyes soften like he was the only boy in the world.

And now it was gone.

You were gone.

And he’d never hated himself more than in this moment — not when you cried, not even when he walked out of your apartment for the last time.

It was now, in the silence.

In the knowing.

That he let something extraordinary slip through his hands — and he did it thinking he’d still have time.

He thought he could fuck up and still be loved.

He thought you’d always come back.

And he was wrong.

So devastatingly, gut-wrenchingly wrong.

There’s a knock at the door.

Sharp. Twice.

Satoru doesn’t move at first. He doesn’t want to deal with anyone, let alone a hotel staff member asking if he wants fresh towels. But then the door handle turns, and only one person on earth would be both ballsy and polite enough to knock before breaking in.

Nanami.

“You look like shit,” he says bluntly, stepping inside.

Satoru doesn’t respond. Just stares ahead at nothing, still slouched against the headboard, still in yesterday’s clothes, still silent.

Nanami doesn’t expect a hello. He just sets down the takeout bag in his hand and walks over to the chair by the window, shrugging off his coat.

“You haven’t left this room in two days,” he says. “Shoko told me.”

Satoru exhales. A bitter, tired sound.

“I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Nanami says, crossing one leg over the other. “But this is pathetic. Even for you.”

Satoru finally shifts — just enough to glance over.

“You came here to insult me?”

“No,” Nanami says coolly. “I came here so you’d stop marinating in your own regret like a dying poet.”

Satoru snorts.

Then falls quiet again.

A beat passes. The air is thick.

Then, without looking over, Satoru mutters:

“…You think she’ll take me back?”

Nanami doesn’t answer right away.

He leans back in the chair. Eyes him for a long, quiet second.

“No,” he says, flatly.

Satoru flinches. Just a little. Like he was hoping for something softer, even from him.

But Nanami’s never been one to sugarcoat truth.

“Not now. Maybe not ever.”

Satoru rubs a hand down his face. His fingers twitch in his lap.

“She won’t even look at me,” he says, voice low. “At the hospital, she just sat there. Like I was invisible.”

Nanami nods.

“She should.”

Satoru glances at him, brows drawn.

And Nanami continues, tone calm but cutting.

“She loved you like you hung the stars. Gave you her time, her future, her energy — all without asking for anything back. And you... what? You broke her. Because what — you got scared? Bored? Tempted?”

“I fucked up,” Satoru says, almost choking on the words. “I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Don’t act like I don’t care—”

“I’m not saying you don’t,” Nanami cuts in. “I’m saying caring doesn’t undo what you did.”

Satoru looks away.

Silence again.

Until finally—

“I miss her so much, Nanami.”

And this time it’s not snark. Not deflection. It’s raw. Soft. A wound speaking directly.

“I can’t sleep,” he says, eyes glossing over. “I keep checking my phone like she’s going to message. I keep thinking I’ll bump into her at that stupid bento shop she likes. I—”

He breaks off. Exhales shakily.

“I remember everything. The way she’d wake me up by pulling the blanket off. The way she’d tie her hair in a lazy bun and still look prettier than anyone else. She used to hum when she studied. I used to hate that sound but now it’s the only thing I want to hear.”

Nanami stays quiet.

Lets him spill.

“I didn’t think she’d really leave,” Satoru says, quieter now. “I thought… no matter how bad it got, she’d still—”

“But she did,” Nanami interrupts. “She did leave. Because she had to.”

Satoru clenches his jaw. Stares at the floor.

And Nanami softens — just a little.

“She loved you,” he says. “Maybe still does. But don’t confuse love with forgiveness.”

Satoru doesn’t reply.

Nanami leans forward. Folds his hands together.

“If you want her back,” he says slowly, “then fix yourself. And not for her — for you. Because the man she loved wouldn’t have done what you did. And right now, she’s mourning him.”

Satoru’s throat tightens.

And in the quiet that follows, he finally understands—

You didn’t just walk away.

You grieved him.

The version of him that held you up when the world got too loud. The boy who remembered your drink order, who studied your face like scripture, who promised you forever and meant it — once.

And now, if he ever wants you back...

He has to become him again, or lose you forever.

It started small.

The morning after Nanami’s visit, Satoru was out of bed before nine for the first time in a month.

No excuses. No dragging. He just got up.

He shaved. Trimmed the chaos that had started taking root under his jaw. Cleaned out his inbox. Replied to four different emails that had been blinking red for a week. Caught up on overdue reports. Folded the wrinkled laundry that had been thrown over the back of his couch since god-knows-when.

Old Satoru wouldn’t have done any of that.

Old Satoru would’ve rolled over, groaned, and told the world to wait.

But the old Satoru didn’t have to see you in the hallway every morning with your clipboard and your unreadable face, your footsteps quick and careful, your eyes never lingering for long.

The old Satoru didn’t know what it felt like to be invisible to the only person he still cared about.

The first few days passed slow.

Suguru still didn’t wake up. Shoko said it was normal — healing was complicated. But Satoru started showing up every evening, sitting quietly by the window, watching you from across the room as you read or dozed or just… stared.

You never acknowledged him.

He didn’t expect you to.

But that didn’t stop him from hoping.

On the third day, he brought coffee.

Two cups.

He walked into the room like it was casual, like it didn’t mean anything, even though his heart was fucking racing. He held out the one you liked — same brand, same custom syrup pump you always asked for — and waited.

You didn’t even look at it.

Just reached into your bag, pulled out your own drink, and set it next to you without a word.

Satoru stood there for a second, awkwardly holding two coffees like a dumbass.

“…Yeah, okay,” he muttered, forcing a smile. “I mean, I’ll take both. That’s fine. I’m kind of sleepy anyway.”

You didn’t respond.

Didn’t even blink.

He sat down in the corner and drank both.

It was bitter. It stung. But he drank every drop.

Later that night, he got back to his apartment and opened up his calendar for the first time in ages. Started color-coding deadlines. Deleted all the mindless things that used to fill his days — the parties, the after-work bar crawls, the late-night games that ended in blurry mornings and hangovers.

He started doing things differently.

Up early.

Work first.

Texting Nanami back on time. Saying thank you to the admin assistants. Actually sitting in team meetings without slouching and zoning out.

He didn’t tell anyone why.

Didn’t say your name.

But they all noticed.

Even the higher-ups. The ones who used to roll their eyes when he sauntered in late with sunglasses and a grin.

“About time you cleaned up,” one of them muttered when he handed in a project two days early.

Satoru didn’t react.

He just nodded.

And went back to work.

Then came the rain.

The kind that turned the city into a blur of umbrellas and blurry headlights.

He was already waiting near the hospital entrance, standing under the awning, sipping a warm can of coffee from the vending machine when he saw you coming from the crosswalk — no umbrella, shoulders hunched, phone pressed to your ear.

Instinct moved him before logic could stop it.

He jogged forward, umbrella open, arm already outstretched as he stepped into your path.

“Here,” he said gently. “Let me—”

You looked at him.

And then walked faster.

No words.

No hesitation.

Just a sharp, desperate speed-walk that ended with you darting under the building overhang, water dripping from your sleeves.

He stood there in the rain like a statue, still holding the umbrella, watching your back disappear into the building.

And he swallowed it.

Didn’t chase. Didn’t speak.

He just walked back to the vending machine.

And bought another can of coffee.

Because even if you didn’t want his help, even if you didn’t want to be near him — he did want to be better.

Not just for you.

But because he hated the version of himself you had to leave.

Back at work, things changed more.

He started showing up to staff meetings early. Left detailed notes for people who missed presentations. Picked up projects he usually would’ve pawned off. He even reached out to Suguru’s old team — offered to help cover while they waited for him to recover.

He said it was out of obligation.

But everyone knew.

It was guilt. It was hope.

It was you.

A week passed like that.

With silent coffees. Awkward hallway glances. You ignoring him in every room. And Satoru not asking for more than that.

He didn’t deserve it yet.

But he was trying.

God, he was trying.

He was halfway through a meeting when his phone buzzed.

He didn’t even glance at the caller ID. Just grabbed it, eyes still on the spreadsheet his coworker was rambling about — until he heard her voice.

“Hey,” Shoko said. She sounded… different. Lighter. Like something huge had just cracked open.

“He’s awake.”

That was all she needed to say.

Satoru didn’t respond — didn’t even bother with a “thanks” — just stood up mid-meeting, shoved his laptop shut, and practically ran out of the office with his blazer flapping behind him and a half-apology to Nanami trailing off in his wake.

The drive felt like a blur. Like time didn’t matter. The whole world melted around the edges, and all he could think about was Suguru. Awake. Breathing. Alive.

By the time he pushed through the hospital doors, his pulse was racing.

And when he reached the room—

He stopped.

You were already there.

And for the first time in a year, he saw it.

Your smile.

Not polite. Not forced. Real.

It was soft, crooked, slightly teary — the kind of smile people only made when they thought they’d lost something for good and finally got it back.

You were leaning over Suguru’s bed, whispering something that made him grin, bandaged and groggy but alive, eyes warm even through the haze of meds. Your hand was resting near his — not touching, but close enough to feel like home.

And then—

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Suguru muttered with a hoarse laugh.

Satoru blinked.

And then that grin — the old one, the bright, obnoxious, Satoru fucking Gojo grin — stretched across his face.

“Well, well, well,” he said, stepping inside like he hadn’t just been holding back tears in the hallway. “Took you long enough, Sleeping Beauty.”

Suguru snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Where’s my kiss, then?”

“Oh, don’t tempt me.”

“You’re not my type.”

Satoru laughed. It came out louder than he meant, unfiltered and boyish and almost too much — but Suguru chuckled too, and suddenly, it felt like college again. Like rooftops and vending machine snacks and stupid inside jokes that never really left them.

They bantered for a while — something about Suguru's gross hospital food, how Shoko would definitely milk this for free drinks, how Nanami probably scolded the surgeon about punctuality. You giggled under your breath once or twice.

And then—

He looked at you.

And this time, you didn’t look away.

Your eyes found his.

And you smiled.

Small. Hesitant. But bright.

Like maybe… maybe this didn’t have to be permanent.

Like maybe, just maybe, there was still something left.

Something worth rebuilding.

Satoru’s breath caught in his throat — just for a second. Just long enough for his chest to swell, full of something warm and familiar and just a little bit fragile.

Because after all the silence, all the avoidance, all the cold hallway glances and slammed doors in the rain —

You were looking at him again.

And smiling.

And for the first time in over a year, Satoru felt alive.

Shoko and you had already gone.

Just one visitor at a time, per the doctor’s rules — the earlier exception was rare and temporary. So now, it was just Satoru and Suguru. Quiet between them. The hospital room had dimmed, the sun finally starting to fall behind the skyline, painting the walls soft orange and grey.

Satoru sat by the window, legs stretched out, fingers loosely linked in his lap.

Suguru cleared his throat, careful of the soreness still in his ribs.

“She smiled at you.”

Satoru blinked. Looked up. “Huh?”

Suguru smirked faintly. “Just now. You didn’t notice?”

He had.

Of course he had. He’d been thinking about it since the moment it happened.

“I noticed,” Satoru murmured.

Suguru looked at him for a moment longer. Then, without preamble, he asked, “You’ve talked to her at all?”

Satoru sighed. Shook his head.

“She won’t speak to me,” he said, voice low. “Barely looks at me. I’ve tried. Not with words, not yet. But... I’ve tried.”

Suguru raised a brow. “Tried how?”

That’s when Satoru leaned back in the chair, ran a hand through his hair, and really spoke — for the first time in what felt like years.

“I stopped waiting for her to forgive me,” he said. “Started working on being someone who deserves it. Even if I never get it.”

He paused. Swallowed thickly.

“I started showing up to work early. Got ahead of deadlines. I picked up your old assignments, handled team rotations, replied to every message Nanami ever complained I ignored. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since the day she ran in the rain to avoid standing under my umbrella.”

Suguru blinked.

“She what?”

“Yeah,” Satoru laughed once, bitter. “I waited at the hospital entrance like some fool with an umbrella, and she just looked at me… and ran. Didn’t say a word.”

Suguru tried not to smile, but it tugged at his lips anyway.

“I’ve been bringing her coffee sometimes,” Satoru added. “Doesn’t take it. She brings her own now. Same order, but not from our place.”

Another pause.

“I know I don’t deserve her,” he said. “And I know what I did was—” He stopped. Breathed. “It was more than a mistake. It was selfish. Cowardly. I broke something that took four years to build just because I didn’t know how to sit with my own fear. She gave me everything. Even when she was tired. Even when I didn’t thank her. And I...”

He trailed off again. This time, when he looked up, his voice cracked a little.

“I’d give anything to hear her call me Toru again.”

Suguru looked at him for a long time. The kind of look only someone who’s known you your whole life can give — layered with exhaustion, history, love, and disappointment.

“I hated what you did,” he said plainly. “Still do.”

Satoru nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

“But,” Suguru added, “I’ve also never seen you like this.”

Satoru blinked.

“I mean it,” he continued. “You’ve always had your charm, your talent, your big talk. But this... this quiet version of you, the one who's finally earning things instead of expecting them handed over with a smile — she would’ve loved to see this.”

“I’m too late,” Satoru said, rubbing his thumb against the corner of his lip. “She’s moved on. Or worse — she’s numb to me.”

“I don’t think she’s numb.”

Satoru looked at him.

“I think she’s scared,” Suguru said. “You broke her, Satoru. And people don’t just bounce back from that. But I also think... if she didn’t still feel something, she wouldn’t have come back to see me.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Another beat.

“You want her back?” Suguru asked.

“With everything I have.”

“Then don’t rush it. Don’t corner her. And don’t try to be the man you were before. Be the man she should’ve had all along.”

Satoru exhaled shakily. “What if I don’t know how?”

“You do,” Suguru said, with a tired, certain smile. “You’ve already started.”

And for the first time in months, Satoru didn’t feel like he was drowning in regret.

He felt like maybe — just maybe — he was finally learning how to swim.

You just needed five minutes.

Five minutes away from the machines and the disinfectant, the humming lights, the weight of watching Suguru sleep like if you looked away, he’d disappear again.

So you stepped outside. Coffee in hand. Hoodie pulled up. The sky above Tokyo already dimming into something slate grey, the kind of quiet that warns you rain’s on its way.

You were halfway down the path to the little hospital garden when it happened.

A stranger — tall, in a rush, barely looking — bumped into you shoulder-first. Your hand jolted. Coffee sloshed over your sweater, hot and bitter and ruining the one piece of comfort you had on your body.

“Oh— shit, I’m sorry,” the guy muttered, already walking backward, not even waiting for you to respond.

You stood there, stunned. Chest heaving just slightly. Coffee dripping down your sleeves. Fingers clenched. And not because of the spill — not really.

It was everything else. It was the year that gutted you. The ache that didn’t leave. The fact that you still woke up thinking about someone who ripped you in half like it was an accident.

And then, of course—

“You okay?”

You froze.

Your heart didn’t. It stuttered like it remembered something you didn’t ask it to.

He jogged the last few steps toward you, eyes flicking to your shirt, the wet stain already starting to cool against your skin.

“I’ve got clothes in my car,” he said, breath a little rushed. “I can grab you something, a hoodie or—”

“No. Forget it.”

He blinked.

You didn’t mean to sound so sharp, but it just came out. Too fast, too raw.

“I was just—trying to help—”

“Well, don’t.”

Silence.

You hated this. Hated how his face fell just slightly, like he thought this was going to be the moment. Like he thought a fucking coffee stain was his chance.

You looked at the ground. Then at your hand. Then at him.

“Stay away from me. Okay?”

He didn’t move.

You clenched your jaw.

“I mean it.”

The wind picked up then — brushing past both of you, pulling your sleeves tighter against your arms. A low grumble of thunder rolled in the distance.

He looked like he wanted to say something.

But he didn’t.

Just stood there, watching you like you were the last thing in the world he had left.

You turned around.

And walked back toward the hospital doors.

And behind you, the rain started to fall.

You’d been back and forth from the hospital so often the nurses started to smile at you with tired recognition. Suguru was awake now — groggy, healing, but talking. That alone gave you something to hold onto.

But not enough to block him out.

Because lately, Satoru didn’t hide anymore.

He used to linger. Hang back. Leave a coffee on the bench like it was some apology in disguise.

Now?

Now he waited.

Held doors open for you. Walked behind you in the hallway — not too close, not enough to make you speak, but just there.

The day after the coffee spill, he showed up to the hospital with a bag of clothes.

Not from his car. Not his oversized hoodies or a stupid t-shirt you used to wear to sleep.

New. Folded. In your size. With a little tag still clipped to the collar.

“I didn’t know what color you liked anymore,” he said, holding the bag out. “So I got black. That was always safe, right?”

You didn’t take it.

Not then.

But when you left for the day, it wasn’t in the trash. It was sitting beside the hospital chair, and somehow — somehow — it made its way back with you.

Two days later, it was raining again.

You forgot your umbrella that time. Too distracted. Rushed out.

He didn’t speak when he met you at the exit, already holding his over your head.

Didn’t smile either.

Just walked beside you.

Both of you quiet under the small circle of plastic shelter, boots splashing through puddles. You didn’t say thank you. He didn’t ask for it.

That night, you sat at your hotel desk and stared at the wet umbrella in the corner like it was some kind of ghost.

By the third day, he started showing up with food.

He remembered your old orders — which you hated him for. Because it meant he remembered everything else too. Where you used to sit in cafés. How you hated olives. That weird way you always had to drink something cold with something hot.

He knew all of it.

And he used it.

Not to manipulate you. Not to beg.

Just to be there.

You tried to ignore it. You did.

You’d leave the food untouched sometimes, let the hospital staff take it, or give it to Shoko. You acted like it didn’t bother you.

But it did.

Because it meant he still knew how to take care of you.

And part of you hated how much you noticed.

The dark circles under his eyes. The way he didn’t laugh like he used to. The way he looked at Suguru — with real warmth, like he was scared to blink and lose him — and the way his gaze would flick to you after, like he was already bracing for heartbreak.

He didn’t flirt. Didn’t joke.

He just… showed up.

Every time.

And it was getting harder and harder to pretend you didn’t feel it too.

Not forgiveness.

But the ache.

The memory of what he used to be — what you used to be — before it all shattered.

And the quiet, unspoken truth that he was trying now, when it might already be too late.

You weren’t expecting anyone to be there.

Not outside your door. Not after a long, emotionally draining day at the hospital, not after hours of trying to convince yourself that you were fine. That ignoring him was working. That time was doing what it always promised to do — make things easier.

But there he was.

Leaning against the wall outside your hotel room, like he had nowhere else to go.

A single tulip in his hand.

Your favorite. The kind you used to tell him reminded you of quiet mornings and fresh starts. Of spring.

He looked up the second your footsteps approached — like he’d been listening for them. Waiting.

You froze.

He straightened up. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak.

Just held out the flower.

You blinked at him. Your fingers tightened around your hotel key.

“Who told you I lived here?” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

You stepped closer to your door, ignoring the way your heart slammed in your chest. You tried to brush past him, to get your key in the lock, but—

“It’s just a flower,” he said quietly. “It’s not a promise. Not a trap. Just something you used to like.”

You stilled.

Just for a second.

And then, slowly, without looking at him, you took the flower.

Walked inside.

And tossed it to the floor.

Didn’t even look to see where it landed — just stepped over it, like it didn’t mean anything. Like he didn’t.

You didn’t expect him to follow.

But he did.

The second you turned around, he shut the door behind him, slow and careful like he knew you were ready to kick him out the second you had the breath to do it.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

“The fuck are you doing here?” you snapped, voice sharp, brittle.

He didn’t flinch. “I just— I needed to see you.”

“You have been seeing me, Satoru,” you said, stepping back like his presence alone was suffocating. “Hospitals. Hallways. Coffee stands. I told you not to talk to me.”

“I haven’t said a word.”

“But you’ve been everywhere.”

Your voice cracked. Just barely. But enough to make you hate the way your throat tightened.

You looked away.

He stepped forward once. Hesitant. Like he was moving through water.

“You deserved more than a quiet apology. More than coffee cups and umbrellas. You deserved—”

“I didn’t ask for anything from you,” you snapped, eyes burning. “I didn’t want flowers. I didn’t want closure. I wanted distance.”

He looked like he was holding himself together with thread.

“You think showing up with my favorite flower is going to fix anything?” you laughed — bitter, breathless. “You think being visible makes up for what you did?”

His mouth parted like he wanted to argue.

But he didn’t.

Because you weren’t done.

“I came here to forget. I came here to make sure I never softened again— and all you’ve done since Suguru opened his eyes is push yourself back into places you don’t belong.”

“I never stopped belonging to you,” he said.

The room went still.

You stared at him. Heart thudding. Eyes hot. Rage swallowing you whole.

But somewhere, under all of it — you noticed the way he looked at you like this was the last time.

Like every second he stood in that room hurt, nd you hated it.

Because no matter how hard you tried — You still noticed, and that was the worst part.

You didn’t mean to scream.

But it ripped out of you like it had been clawing at your chest for months, desperate for air.

“Get out of my fucking life, Satoru!”

His eyes widened — but he didn’t move.

“I don’t fucking need you,” you yelled, your voice breaking, fists shaking at your sides. “I never will again.”

He didn’t believe it. You knew he didn’t. Not with the way your throat closed mid-sentence, not when your eyes were already stinging.

And that only made it worse.

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” you spat, pacing the small room, barely able to breathe. “Why can’t you just—just stay away? Why can’t you let me go?”

Your hands shot up to your forehead, wrists pressed to your skin like you could hold the emotions in if you squeezed hard enough. But it didn’t help.

Nothing did.

Because you were crumbling.

“I don’t want to feel like this again,” you gasped, pacing tighter circles now, stumbling through your own grief. “I don’t want to be soft again, Satoru—don’t you get it?”

You turned to him, eyes wide, heart pounding, tears now streaming down your cheeks.

“I didn’t want to notice anymore. I didn’t want to see you and remember how good it used to be. I didn’t want to feel that pull again. Because I know myself—”

You sobbed. A sharp, guttural sound that broke through your teeth.

“I know I’ll always have something for you. Even after everything.”

He stepped forward — slowly, carefully, like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him.

But when his hand reached out toward you—

“Don’t fucking touch me!” you shrieked, jerking back like he’d burned you.

He froze.

“You don’t get to do this,” you cried. “Not after what you said. Not after what you did to me.”

Your voice cracked again, trembling, wet, filled with everything you swore you’d never let him hear.

“You can’t just fucking bring me coffee and expect I’ll forgive you,” you hissed. “You don’t get to barge into my life again with your sad fucking eyes and think I’ll forget what it felt like to be nothing to you.”

The yelling stopped, but your sobbing didn’t. Your arms wrapped around yourself as you stumbled back against the wall, as if holding your own body together was the only thing keeping you standing.

“You know how hard I love,” you whispered, voice shaking like glass. “You know it’s hard for me to say no to you.”

Your head fell forward. Shoulders trembling. “Why are you doing this to me?”

He didn’t answer.

“Why are you still coming back into my life,” you choked, “when you already tore it apart?”

You looked up at him, vision blurred, throat aching.

“You weren’t the one who gave everything only to realize our relationship was a fucking accident.”

He flinched at that.

“You weren’t the one who carried that.”

You shook your head, tears slipping down your chin. “You knew how to get me. You always knew. One sorry. One fucking flower. One ‘please,’ and suddenly I’m right back where I started.”

You laughed through the tears — bitter, hopeless.

“The resentment. The hatred. It just—goes quiet. Like my whole world starts spinning again, just because you showed up.”

Your hands dropped to your sides. Exhausted. Done.

“You’re a fucking jerk, Satoru.”

And he just stood there.

Soaking in the wreckage.

Because for the first time—

You weren’t holding back.

You didn’t expect him to move.

Not at first.

He stood there, staring at you like you’d just ripped open his chest and finally saw what was left inside. His jaw clenched. His lips parted, then shut again — like he didn’t know where to start. Like he knew anything he said might make it worse.

But then—

His voice.

Soft. So soft it barely made it past the space between you.

“I didn’t know how empty I was until you left.”

Your stomach twisted.

He took a step forward. One foot, then the other — careful. Heavy.

“I thought I could handle it. That if I gave you time, maybe I’d stop missing you. That maybe it would hurt less.”

He shook his head.

“But it never did.”

You stayed still.

He looked down. Fingers twitching at his sides, knuckles pale.

“I tried to be better. I tried to become the kind of man you’d be proud of. Not because I thought it would fix things—” His voice broke, barely audible. “—but because I needed to believe I could still be someone good… someone worth the way you loved me.”

Your chest tightened.

He looked up again, blue eyes shining under the weight of his own shame.

“I used to think I was the strongest man alive,” he whispered. “And then I lost you. And I’ve never felt weaker.”

The first tear rolled down.

He didn’t wipe it.

Didn’t flinch.

His lips just pulled into that soft, pouty line you’d seen so many times — when he was tired, or sad, or trying not to cry. His mouth trembled.

“I miss you.”

He said it like a prayer.

“I fucking miss you.”

And then — slowly, quietly — he sank to his knees.

Like his body couldn’t carry the weight of it anymore.

He knelt in front of you, looking up with eyes red and full of longing. His hands limp in his lap. His head tilted up, lips trembling, tears streaming down now — silent, steady, shameless.

Your heart cracked in half.

He was beautiful like this. Broken, yearning, soft in a way only you ever got to see. No bravado. No charm. Just the real Satoru — the boy who used to cling to your pinky finger in public like it made him braver. The man who used to fall asleep with his head on your lap, mumbling how he didn’t know how to love right, but he was trying for you.

You didn’t realize you were reaching for him until your thumb wiped the tear from his cheek.

He flinched, just slightly — like he couldn’t believe you touched him.

And still, he kept talking. Barely holding his breath between words.

“I think about you every morning I wake up. Every time I order coffee. Every time I hear someone laugh the way you used to in the car when I played stupid songs.”

He shook his head, more tears slipping out.

“I don’t want anyone else. I never did. Even when I fucked up—god, even then—there wasn’t a second I didn’t regret it.”

You stayed standing.

But your hand… lingered.

Fingertips brushing against the skin beneath his eye, now damp and warm.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for you.

Just knelt there.

Crying for you.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, Y/N. I know I don’t deserve it. But just… don’t hate me anymore.”

And you could see it in him — every single piece of him cracked wide open, still loving you, still begging you to love him back.

You didn’t speak right away.

You just stared down at him — knees on your hotel floor, eyes wet, face flushed, holding back nothing for once.

It would’ve been easier if he stayed the Satoru you hated. The one you left behind. The one who shattered you.

But he wasn’t.

He was this Satoru. The one crying at your feet like his entire world was on pause, waiting for your voice to bring it back to life.

And suddenly, the fear that had kept you cold for so long — the armor you wore so well — began to crack.

You opened your mouth.

It didn’t come out strong.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

His head lifted — just enough to meet your eyes. His bottom lip quivered. The quietest breath left his mouth.

“I know.”

You let your hand drop from his cheek. Watched it hang at your side, useless.

“I’m scared of losing myself again,” you murmured. “Of giving everything and watching it fall apart like it never mattered.”

He shook his head quickly, kneeling taller, hands still trembling in his lap.

“I swear to you,” he said, voice hoarse, “I’m not that man anymore. I don’t want anything else. I don’t care about perfect or easy or clean. I just—”

He looked up at you like you were oxygen. Like he was afraid to blink.

“I’m half a heart without you.”

You exhaled — sharp, shaky, gut-deep.

“And I’ve been walking around like I’m fine, like I’m whole,” he went on, voice trembling, “but I’m not. I’m fucking not, Y/N. I haven’t been since the night I left your doorstep.”

You bit down on your lip, eyes stinging.

“I think about it every day,” he whispered. “How cold you looked. How strong you were for letting me go. And I’d give everything just to go back and make you feel safe again.”

Silence.

You let it linger between you.

And then, with the gentlest breath — a thread of sound caught between sorrow and love — you said it.

“Oh, Toru…”

The moment it left your lips, his hands found your waist.

His arms wrapped around you like muscle memory, like prayer.

And he pressed his face to your stomach, forehead resting against the fabric of your shirt as he sobbed — not loudly, not violently, just finally.

Your hands trembled as they threaded into his hair.

You held him.

You held him like you used to — with everything you were. With love and hurt and history all tangled in your fingers. Your thumb stroked the nape of his neck. Your other hand stayed pressed gently to his crown.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

Because something heavy — something unspoken and unbearable — lifted from both your shoulders.

It didn’t make it simple.

It didn’t make it right.

But it made it real.

And in that moment — knees to floor, arms wrapped tight, breath stuttering between you — love didn’t feel like weakness anymore.

dividers by, @cafekitsune

[se7vnn]

company benefits 🗂️ junhui x reader.

you can’t really call wen junhui your ex-boyfriend. it was more of a friends with benefits situation—except you only got ghosted, while he got an internship at your recommendation. people always say to not bite the hand that feeds you; it looks like jun didn’t get the memo.

🗂️ pairing.  marketing intern!wen junhui x copywriter!reader.  🗂️ word count.  12k.  🗂️ genre/warnings. smut, romance, humor, pinch of angst. alternate universe: non-idol. mentions of alcohol, food; profanity. semi-public & unprotected sex. ex-situationship, forced proximity, tension... so much tension!!!, contract terms i’m not 100% sure about. soonyoung from eunha’s Be My Tigress? 🗂️ footnotes. this is part of the that’s showbiz, baby! collaboration. eternally grateful to all the writers in the server who motivated me to finish this. above all, indebted to @diamonddaze01, who pitched this collaboration to me over six months ago. what a pleasure to finally write a long fic for jun!!! goin to take a veryyy long nap now. 🎵 recommended listening ⸻ company benefits.

You never dated Wen Junhui.

You made out with him in the backseat of an Uber once. Shared a bowl of tteokbokki at 1:00 a.m. and left a toothbrush at his place. He sent you voice notes saying things like, “I wish you were here,” in that half-awake tone he got when he couldn’t sleep, which was often.

You spent entire weekends tangled on his couch, watching movies you barely remembered because you were too busy tracing the veins on his arm with your pinky. You cried once, in front of him. He didn’t flinch.

You never dated Jun, so when he shows up as one of the interns at your company, it's not like you can call him your ex. You can, however, nearly snap a Pilot G-2 pen in half.

The intern orientation is a thirty-minute slide deck with enough corporate jargon to resurrect a Roman senator. You're sitting near the back, doodling tiny skulls in the margins of your notes, when your manager says, “Let’s all welcome this year’s marketing interns!”

And there he is.

Wen Junhui. Hair longer than you remember. A navy button-down that you’re 90% sure used to be yours. He spots you in the crowd like it’s nothing. Like no time has passed. And then—the male audacity of it all—he smiles.

Your pen creaks, spine bending until the plastic gives a quiet, pitiful snap.

You recommended him. That’s the worst part. 

Back when he was unemployed and soft-spoken and yours in a way you never could quite name. You filled out a glowing referral form like an idiot. Said things like creative thinker and natural collaborator when what you meant was: makes me laugh when I don’t want to, makes me feel like I matter.

Now he’s here. Mid-career intern. Probably labeled as non-traditional in the onboarding notes. Definitely labeled as dead to me in your mental CRM.

You corner him in the coffee room after orientation. He’s stirring oat milk into some artisanal nonsense, back to you, as if this isn’t the beginning of your villain arc. “You’ve got some nerve, Junhui,” you declare, properly pissed. 

He doesn’t even flinch. Just turns, holding his mug like he’s in a toothpaste commercial. “... I was just getting coffee,” he answers, one perfect eyebrow already arched. 

You fold your arms. “What are you doing here?”

“Interning.”

“You’re in your thirties.”

“I’m only twenty-nine, actually.”

“You had a whole job before this.”

“And now I have a new one.”

You resist the urge to glower. “As an intern.”

“Mid-career transition,” he says smoothly. “It’s a thing. There’s a podcast about it.”

You’re aware. You introduced the podcast to him. “Why here?” you bite out. 

He sips his coffee, meeting your gaze without hesitation. “It’s the best, isn’t it?” he drawls. “And I always want the best.”

There it is. That infuriating sincerity, tucked behind some metaphor you can’t afford to unpack. That must mean I wasn’t the ‘best,’ then, you nearly snap, considering, you know, you up and left. 

You hate that your chest aches. You hate that he still looks at you like you mean something. Like he didn’t disappear. Like he didn’t cut the cord with clean hands and a lazy smile.

You made your bed. Now, you have to lay in it. 

–-

This Agreement was entered upon by Wen Junhui [“FORMER SITUATIONSHIP INTERN”] and You [“ABSOLUTE FOOL COMPANY”] and shall remain in effect until either party learns how to stop looking for closure in a coffee room.

–-

You decide to be a professional about it.

Which is to say: you ignore him. Flawlessly. The way an inbox ignores unread emails from old flings or the way a cat ignores physics. With dignity, aloofness, and a very calculated schedule of exits and arrivals.

You walk into Monday morning’s marketing sync with an iced Americano, a bullet-pointed agenda, and an expression that says try me. Jun, mercifully, sits at the far end of the table, between a girl who uses color-coded spreadsheets and a guy whose entire personality is PowerPoint animations. You pretend not to notice when he nods at you. You definitely pretend not to notice that he’s taken to twirling his pen the same way you do.

Soonyoung, the Marketing Director, is wearing a shirt printed with neon tigers. Again.

“Okay, okay,” he claps his hands once, then dramatically slaps a stack of post-it notes down. “Let’s make this week roar!”

The interns balk, but none of the full-timers bat an eye. You’re all used to it. The man once themed an entire quarter around ‘predator energy.’

You run through project updates with the calm precision of someone who did not threaten emotional homicide in the coffee room last Friday. You lead the discussion on the spring campaign revisions, answer questions, deflect unnecessary input, and even sneak in a joke that makes Soonyoung laugh hard enough to drop his whiteboard marker.

The meeting ends. You gather your things. You’re halfway out the door when he catches up to you. “Hey,” Jun says, gently, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal. “You killed that. You always do.”

You glance at him, expression neutral. "Thanks."

He looks like he wants to say more. Like he wants to be invited to say more. But you walk away, shoes clicking a little faster than necessary.

You still remember the other times he said it. After your first promotion. After you helped him rehearse for a job interview he never got. After a random Wednesday when you had ranted over a headline you couldn’t get right and he said, I wish you could see yourself the way I do.

You don’t want to remember any of it, so you go get coffee with Jihoon.

The head of HR is not known for emotional delicacy. Or any kind of delicacy, really. He wears monochrome like it’s a moral stance and drinks black coffee like it’s a dare. But he’s your friend, and he gets to the point.

“I’m not asking for details,” Jihoon says, stirring his drink with the slow menace of someone thinking about a compliance form. “But I saw the way you looked at the new intern.”

You feign innocence while you still can. “Which one?”

“Don’t insult both of us.”

Short-lived. You sigh. “It’s fine. He’s fine. We’re professionals.”

“Good. Because if I get even a whiff of nepotism, I’m lighting your recommendation form on fire.”

“You’re throwing around the word nepotism pretty lightly.”

“Am I?”

You lean back. “Everything’s professional,” you insist. “I wouldn’t jeopardize my own career over someone who thinks career pivots counts as a personality.”

Jihoon gives you a look. You sip again. Neither of you smiles.

Business as usual.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. Some of it fractures two days later, in the breakroom with the flickering fluorescent light. You’re there for a sad granola bar and a moment of peace. Instead, you walk into chatter. The kind with edges.

Three interns—clipboard girl, PowerPoint boy, and someone new who looks like she does CrossFit for sport—are huddled near the snack station, laughing in that tight, conspiratorial way that means something mean is about to follow.

“I swear, he’s like, ancient,” Clipboard says.

“Wasn’t he in finance before this?” PowerPoint Boy adds. “Kind of sad, right? Like, starting over in your thirties?”

“He’s not in his thirties,” CrossFit interjects. “I checked. He’s twenty-nine. But still. Mid-career intern? Kinda screams washed-up.”

There are no names being thrown out—the slightest practice of discretion. It’s not difficult, though, to nail the topic of their breakroom gossip. The oldest intern in the pool. The one who hasn’t quite meshed with the Gen Z-ers who take OOTD mirror selfies and film TikToks in the bathroom. 

You clear your throat. Loudly. The interns freeze, a tableau of bad choices and instant regret. “Funny,” you say dryly. “I thought interns were supposed to observe before speaking.”

Clipboard opens her mouth. Closes it. Tries again. “We didn’t mean—”

“You did,” you interrupt. “But that’s okay. Not everyone gets to be interesting on their own, so I understand the appeal of tearing someone else down.”

PowerPoint looks at the floor. CrossFit suddenly finds the nutritional facts on her trail mix fascinating.

Your words come out with their trademark sharpness, with the type of teeth that has silenced board rooms. “Jun has more experience than most of you. He chose to be here. He got in the same way you did. Maybe keep that in mind next time you’re measuring someone’s worth by your own insecurities.”

Silence. Blessed, blooming silence. You grab your granola bar and turn around.

And then you nearly walk right into Jun.

He’s standing by the doorframe, coffee in hand, eyes wide. You have no idea how long he’s been there. Long enough, judging by the way he looks at you. Not shocked. Not smug. Soft. And a little sad.

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

You nod once. He nods back.

You walk away, heart tapping a rhythm that feels like a memory.

–-

IV. In addition, the Intern will be eligible to participate in bonuses and other employee benefits established by the Company for its employees. The Employer currently offers the following benefits to its employees: momentary witness to your better nature, free of charge.

–-

The assignment happens on a Wednesday. Which already feels unfair. Mid-week emotional warfare is always much more draining than, say, a Monday terror or a last-minute Friday deadline. 

You’re sitting in the glass meeting room with a half-dead laptop and a whole-dead espresso shot when Soonyoung bursts in with his usual flair, dragging Jihoon behind him like a reluctant paperweight.

“Alright, team!” Soonyoung announces, sleeves rolled and tie nowhere to be seen. “It’s time to mentor the future!”

Jihoon sets down his folder with the quiet judgment of a man who had no say in this decision. “Intern shadowing,” he says, flat. “Mandatory. Two weeks. No complaints.”

“Like a tiger teaches its cubs,” Soonyoung adds, teeth bared in a wide grin.

Pairings are doled out quickly. Clipboard girl is assigned to someone in data. PowerPoint boy goes to Accounts. CrossFit intern gets Soonyoung himself (“I will break her spirit or befriend her forever,” he declares).

And then—

“Junhui,” Jihoon reads. And then your name. 

You don’t flinch. You nod once, hand still moving across your notes. Professional. If the pen’s plastic creaks underneath your grip, that’s between you and whoever invented Faber-Castell ballpoints. 

Jun, across the table, shifts. “Is that... final?”

Jihoon frowns. Never a good sign, even if it is his default. “Would you like to dispute the legality of this HR-approved decision?”

“No,” Jun mutters. But he doesn’t look at you.

The meeting ends. People scatter. You’re organizing your things when Jun corners you in the hallway, by the glass copy room that reflects everything you don’t want to see.

“I was trying to give you an out,” Jun says curtly, almost explaining.

You glance up at him. “What?”

“Back there. In the meeting. I was trying to not make things worse.”

“By publicly questioning a department head’s assignment?”

“By not forcing you to work with me when things are clearly… complicated.”

You back out a laugh. “It’s just work, Junhui. Not everything is personal.”

He stares at you, like he’s trying to figure out if you mean it. You mean it. Mostly.

There’s a flicker of something—memory, maybe. The last time you fought, back in the vague non-label limbo of your not-a-relationship. Something about a canceled plan. Or the way he left your texts on read. It spiraled, and somehow you ended up half-yelling and then making out in his kitchen, back against the fridge.

Those arguments never lasted long.

This one already has.

You tuck a pen behind your ear, shoulders squared. “We’ll get the intern materials from Soonyoung this afternoon. I’ll book a conference room.”

“Okay,” Jun says. He still looks like he wants to say something else. Maybe everything else.

You walk past him before he can. The hallway feels colder than usual.

Just like that, the stage is set. You. Him. Two weeks. One shared desk. Zero unresolved tension whatsoever.

The project brief lands the next morning like a meteor.

Marketing strategy for upcoming romantic comedy starring Jeonghan, the email reads. The subject line includes a heart emoji. You click it with a growing sense of dread.

The film’s title? Just Friends.

“Fuck me in the ass,” you mumble underneath your breath, the same way a corporate slave does once or twice a week. 

You open the attached pitch deck. The logline reads: Two friends navigate the blurred lines of a no-strings-attached relationship until one of them catches feelings.

You close your laptop. You reopen it thirty seconds later. Professionalism, you remind yourself, is a decision.

By 2 p.m., you and Jun are in a borrowed conference room with Soonyoung, who has inexplicably brought snacks and a whiteboard shaped like a heart. “Okay! Let’s ideate,” Soonyoung says brightly, cracking open a soda. “No bad ideas. No wrong answers. Just vibes.”

“How about a trailer that ends with both characters alone,” you start, “because some things aren’t meant to be mutual.”

Jun’s lips quirk to one side. “A little bleak for a rom-com.”

“Not if it’s honest.”

“Or bitter.”

“Not everything has to be about you.”

Soonyoung pauses mid-sip.

Jun clears his throat of the faux pas. “We could do a digital campaign,” he offers. “Confession booth at the premiere. People record what they never told their almosts.”

You write it on the board. Then, without looking at Jun, you add: “QR codes on limited-edition tissues.”

“You still have those?” Jun asks, his tone a little snide. “Thought you threw them out.”

“I did.”

A beat. The marker you’re holding is probably going to run dry by the end of this hour. Jun’s fingers are tightly clenched over the table edge. Soonyoung is unashamedly looking back and forth between the two of you, as if this is a particularly interesting tennis match between Carlos Alcaranz and Jannik Sinner.

“Maybe a microsite,” Jun says quickly. “Where users can soft-launch their regrets anonymously. Could include heat maps for popular phrases.”

You nod. “We could include copy like Sometimes the fine print on friendship is heartbreak.”

Jun’s next words are spoken under his breath. “Right. Friendship.” 

Soonyoung raises his hand like he’s in school. “Sorry,” he squeaks. “Is this a pitch or—an actual breakup in real time?”

“Both,” you say simultaneously with Jun.

Jun clicks his pen. “At least I’m trying.”

“Is that what this is? Trying? Looked more like derailing.”

“Better than deflecting.”

“Better than ghosting.”

Soonyoung reaches for another snack. You turn back to the board. “Let’s bring in Jeonghan for a cheeky teaser. Maybe he narrates bad firsts. First kiss, first fight, first time you find their ex’s number still in their contacts.” 

Jun exhales, sharp. “How about the first time they refused to introduce you to their friends?” 

“Not as bad as the first time they said someone else’s name during sex.” 

Soonyoung coughs, intentional and interrupting. “Wow. Okay,” he exhales. “Let’s take a break, cubs. Hydrate. Process.”

No one moves.

You cap your marker slowly. “I’ll send a write-up.”

Jun’s stiff fingers flex on the table. “Looking forward to your notes.”

–-

V. The Employer also offers the benefit of one (1) shared creative meltdown in the presence of your manager, and unlimited awkward silence thereafter.

–-

Jihoon calls you into his office with the same tone someone might use to summon a guilty terrier who’s chewed through a power cord. You arrive with your laptop and your most composed expression. You know better than to ask what this is about.

He shuts the door. Points to the chair opposite his desk. You sit. Jihoon steeples his fingers. “Soonyoung says the marketing brainstorm was intense.”

“I’d call it thorough,” you say wryly. 

“He used the words ‘emotional combat.’ Also ‘trauma-fueled campaign ideation.’”

You exhale through your nose. “We delivered on the brief.”

“Is there something I should know?”

The question hangs. You think about deflecting. About redirecting. But Jihoon’s office is too small for half-truths, and cluttered with evidence of a man who lives off structure and caffeine. You suspect he can smell lies the same way bloodhounds smell fear.

You lean back into the chair and pick out the bullet points. “Jun and I were… sort of a thing. Before. It wasn’t official. But it also wasn’t not.”

Jihoon doesn’t even blink. “Yeah,” he huffs. “I figured.”

Your brow furrows. “Then why ask?”

“I wanted to see if you’d admit it like an adult,” he replies. “You passed. Barely.”

“I’m not going to make this a disciplinary thing,” Jihoon continues, flipping through some papers just to emphasize how above it all he is. “But you have to keep it together. Finish the project. Grin and bear it.”

“I am grinning,” you mutter. “Aggressively.”

“Good. Because this is what happens when you mix personal history with professional decisions.”

You squint at him. “You mean helping a qualified former friend apply for a job and letting HR do its job?”

“See,” Jihoon says, pointing with his pen, “this is why nepotism is bad.”

You groan. “It wasn’t nepotism. We weren’t even dating. He was unemployed. I had a moment of generosity.”

“And now you have a moment of regret,” Jihoon says. “Funny how that works.”

You cross your arms. “I liked it better when you barely spoke to people.”

“Me too,” he replies. Then, almost kindly: “Finish the campaign. Keep it clean.”

You nod. He returns to his laptop without another word. You take that as your dismissal.

As you leave Jihoon’s office, you hear him grumble, just loud enough: “God, I hate romantic comedies.”

You invite Jun for coffee the way some people file restraining orders. Terse. Cold. Legally sound. “After work,” you say, passing his desk without slowing. “Fifteen minutes. Corner place with the green awning.”

Jun, understandably, looks mistrustful. “Is this a trap?”

“Only if you make it one.”

Thirteen minutes later, he shows up. Hair slightly mussed. Shirt rolled at the sleeves like he’s trying to look less guilty. It doesn’t work. You’re seated already, nursing a decaf and a dull headache.

He slides into the chair opposite you. Eyes scanning your face like you’re a riddle he once solved and forgot the answer to. “If it’s not a trap, is it a truce?” he asks outright.

“Not everything has to be war, Jun.”

“You spent half our brainstorm launching missiles.”

“Well,” you say, sipping. “Some of them were paper airplanes.”

He grimaces. “I’m not doing this sober.”

You hate it when he’s right. 

The bar you two agree on is dim and semi-functional. Exposed brick. Mismatched stools. The music sounds like it was curated by a heartbroken DJ. Jun orders a peach soju; you get the blueberry one.

“So,” he says around the rim of his soju bottle. “Where should we start?” 

“How about,” you exhale, “with your obnoxious sipping habits?” 

“My what?” 

“The way you slurp. It still gives me the ick.” 

Jun’s responding laugh is humorless. The drinks go down quickly. The second round is unnecessary and immediate. 

“Remember that fight we had about ice cream?” you ask, after he chewed you out for being emotionally unavailable and unnecessarily anal-retentive about halving bills.

Jun laughs into his glass. “You said anyone who chose mint chocolate chip was self-sabotaging.”

“And you defended it like a personal religion.”

“You called it mouthwash in disguise.”

You shrug. “Still true.”

More drinks. More memory lane. There’s a half that has teeth, that tears through the gripes and frustrations. But there’s also a half that’s almost tender, that provides a montage of why it could have worked once upon a time. 

“You kept a spare toothbrush at my place,” he says.

“You gave me a drawer.”

“You never used it.”

“You never asked why.”

Silence. Real, this time. The music changes to something softer. A song you both know. You hate that you both know it.

“I was always trying to be careful,” he says delicately. “Trying not to overstep.”

You stare at your glass. “Yeah. Well.” 

In not overstepping, Jun ended up taking no steps at all. Another silence tugs. Longer. It doesn’t bite. Just lingers.

“We were never good at timing,” he says eventually. 

“We were never good at talking.”

You expect him to push back on that. He doesn’t. For a moment, you contemplate asking the million won question. Why did you ghost me? 

Before you can, though, he’s saying something too sincere for you to ruin. “Thanks for the rec. For the job.”

“Thanks for finally thanking me,” you answer, taking a long enough sip of your soju to ignore the way your heart flutters. 

He winces, smiles. “Small steps.”

You nod.

“So, we’re okay?” he asks.

You think about it. The ghosts, the drawer, the campaign brief that cut too close. “Whatever ‘okay’ means,” you say, because you never lied to Jun; you weren’t about to start now. 

He raises his glass in a wordless cheer. You clink.

The second brainstorming session is mercifully normal.

You arrive ten minutes early, not because you’re eager but because you’ve started pre-gaming meetings with silence. Jun arrives exactly on time, not a second more, not a second less. He looks at you like he’s bracing for shrapnel. You nod like you’re not holding any.

Soonyoung plops into the seat across from you both, wearing a tiger-print shirt that says FIERCE IDEAS ONLY. You want to make fun of it. You don’t. Growth.

The meeting flows. That’s the only way to describe it. No barbs, no barbed metaphors. Jun pitches clean, clever ideas. You counter with strategy. There’s laughter. There’s alignment. There’s a genuine moment where you look at him and say, “That’s a good one.”

He smiles, appreciative and maybe even a little fond. You have to look away from it. The compliment tastes like a penny on your tongue.

“Hehe,” Soonyoung cackles, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Just your reign of chaos,” you deflect.

“Horang-haaay,” he sighs. “Anyway. Love this direction. Run with it. Make it beautiful. Make it bite.”

You do.

The presentation goes well. Soonyoung beams like a proud zookeeper. Jihoon nods once, which is his version of a standing ovation. The execs approve the romantic comedy campaign with minimal edits. There are even murmurs of early awards submissions. You pretend not to care. You care deeply.

Jun catches you after the meeting, shoulder brushing yours in the hallway. “Hey,” he says. “We made that work. Really work.”

The pride blossoms in your chest, persistent and unwelcoming. “We did.”

“So,” he starts, casual but not, “Want to grab a drink? Just us. Not like before. Or maybe not not like before. Whatever works.”

You hesitate. 

If it were anyone else, you probably wouldn’t balk. This offer isn’t a romantic advance. It’s a grabbing-a-drink-with-your-workmate-after-a-job-well-done. Unfortunately, your mind is a slideshow of late texts, half-finished thoughts, and the sound of silence where a goodbye should’ve been.

“I can’t,” you answer. Not unkind. Just honest. You give no explanation, and Jun doesn’t press even though he flinches. Wavers. As if he’s remembering his place. 

He nods slowly. “Okay,” he says with faux cheer. “Another time.”

You don’t say yes. You don’t say no. He walks away like it doesn’t sting, and you stay rooted like it does.

To ease the hurt, you take yourself to dinner like a pity party with better lighting. Your comfort place is a hole-in-the-wall Italian spot tucked between a laundromat and a locksmith, which is, frankly, how you know it’s good. The tables wobble slightly, the waitress knows your name, and the carbonara tastes like a hug from someone who never judged you for your bad taste in men.

You order your usual. Set your phone face-down, then pick it up again. Jun’s contact is open. 

You don’t remember when you opened it. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, caught between being impulsive and being pathetic.

You almost start typing. Something like, Hey, my schedule cleared up. Drinks on me? or Were you flirting with me or am I delusional? or I’m at the place where we had our first date. At the very same table we sat at, in fact. 

Then the door chimes.

You look up.

Jun walks in. Not alone.

He’s with another intern—the one from finance, maybe? She laughs at something he says as they walk toward the back. He’s relaxed. Rolling his sleeves like he wants to look like effort. He gestures to the menu like this place wasn’t once yours.

You watch, stone-still, as he orders. You catch fragments. “You’ll love the tiramisu.” “This place is a hidden gem.” “No, seriously, the carbonara—life-changing.”

You’re vaguely aware that you’re gripping your fork too tight. You don’t name the feeling. Not jealousy. Definitely not jealousy. Just territorial spite and righteous betrayal with a dash of indigestion.

Your pasta arrives. You pick at it. Every bite feels like chewing a memory that now has someone else’s fingerprints on it. In your head, it’s a litany of fuck you Wen Junhui, fuck you Wen Junhui, fuck you Wen Junhui. 

The carbonara is wrong. Too salty. Not al dente enough. And Jun is sitting a couple of seats away, smiling at his date. Blissfully unaware that he’s ruined your comfort food for life. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Fuck you, Wen Junhui. 

You flag the check. You tip generously, because if you’re having a terrible night, then the waitress might as well have a good one. 

Jun notices you only as you brush past his table. His expression morphs mid-laugh—first surprise, then something else. His companion’s gaze flits to you, recognizing you as a senior at the company.

“Hi!” she says politely. 

You give her a tight nod. “Hello.”

Jun rises. “Wait, hey—”

But you’re already pushing past the door. The air outside is cooler than expected. He catches up halfway down the block.

“Hey,” he calls, a little breathless. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“Clearly.”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Didn’t ask.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“Oh, what, colonize my safe spaces?” You stop. Turn to him. “I didn’t realize you gave restaurant tours now. How generous.”

He runs a hand through his hair. Frustrated. “I wasn’t thinking about it like that.”

“You weren’t thinking. That tracks.”

The words hang. Sharp. Petty. 

“Don’t be rude to your not-date,” you grit out. “Haven’t you got some life-changing pasta to share?” 

You don’t wait for his reply.

You walk off, fast. The kind of walk that dares someone to follow.

He doesn’t.

That, too, tracks. 

–-

VI. The Intern is entitled to unlimited paid time off (PTO) for as long as they do not do it at bygone date spots. In light of this, the Employer may claim a lifetime of pettiness. 

–-

Soonyoung makes the announcement as if it’s a reality show reveal.

“There might be one or two interns we absorb after the cycle,” he tells the room of department heads, bouncing on the balls of his feet like this is an exciting twist instead of a budget conversation. “Jun’s doing well. Also, that other one—what's her name? Finance intern? The one who has a nice laugh.”

You freeze mid-note taking. He means the girl from the restaurant. The one who knows about the tiramisu. Your stomach coils, and your poor pen jabs into your paper a little too hard. 

You make it through the rest of the meeting on autopilot, the kind of dazed professionalism that only corporate trauma can birth. Jihoon gives you a look on the way out. You ignore it.

As expected, you’re assigned to write Jun’s intern evaluation.

It’s a task you’d normally treat like any other. Bullet points. Benchmarks. But the cursor on the blank Google Doc blinks at you like a dare. Because it’s not just about campaign contributions or interpersonal skills. It’s about putting on record what he it, or what he isn’t.

You close the tab. You’ll come back to it. Maybe. After a lobotomy.

Two days later, Jun finds you by the vending machine. “You’re evaluating me?” he says by way of greeting.

You take your time selecting a soda. The machine whirs dramatically. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll go away. 

He proves otherwise. “Soonyoung told me,” Jun presses. “He said you’re writing my assessment.”

You procure your strawberry Fanta with deliberate coolness, fingers already toying with the metal lid. “Do you greet all potential references this way?” you say dryly. 

“I just—I figured you wouldn’t be neutral.”

That stops you. You turn, slow. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, after everything. The way we—” He gestures vaguely. “That night. The restaurant. You were pissed.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. God, what did you do in your past life to end up in a situation like this? The last of your patience snaps like a rubber band, and the words spill out of you with a kind of cutthroat that could melt tungsten. 

“I gave you a glowing recommendation, Jun,” you snipe. “I said you were sharp and collaborative and vital to the pitch. Which, in case you forgot, you were. I did my job. Maybe try doing yours.”

He gapes. You don’t stop. “You’ve been the unprofessional one here. You keep making things personal. You bring other people to restaurants that aren’t yours to share. You act like I owe you something when I don’t even owe you eye contact.”

Jun opens his mouth. Closes it again. You toss your still-full can in a nearby bin. You don’t have the appetite for anything sweet right now.

“You haven’t changed, Wen Junhui,” you bite out—the last word, huzzah!—before walking off.

It’s not the cleanest exit, but it’s something final. And right now, that’s all you have.

Jun pretends like nothing happened.

You’re not surprised. Denial is practically his native language. He nods at you in meetings, leaves polite spaces between you in the break room. He’s mastered the art of the neutral expression, the kind that suggests nothing has ever gone wrong. That everything is fine.

Then a package arrives at your desk.

No note. Just a brown paper bag tied up with string, like something out of a middle school crush fantasy. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is a bouquet.

Of ballpens.

Dozens of them, in your preferred brand and ink weight. All black, all clicky. Not one of them chewed, cracked, or snapped in half—yet.

You stare at them like they’re a coded message. Maybe they are.

Jun used to tease you about it. How you went through pens like breath mints. How he’d hear the telltale crack of a barrel and look over to find you sheepish, a half-dismembered pen in hand. Once, he said he was going to buy you a box just to see how long it would take you to kill them all. You laughed and told him that was the most romantic thing he’d ever said.

You use one of the pens in the next meeting. On purpose. Jun notices. You can see it in the flick of his eyes, the way he registers it with a twitch of his mouth that isn’t quite a smile.

After, as people are clearing out, he lingers.

“That one working okay?” he asks.

You click it. Unclick. Click again. “Still alive,” you say. “No casualties yet.”

He nods. You don’t say thank you. He doesn’t say sorry.

All the same, it hangs there, between you. The closest either of you has come to being a decent person.

–-

VII. The Intern will respect all intellectual property of the Company, and in return, the Company will provide necessary tools for productivity—and occasional forgiveness.

–-

The interns are tasked with planning the company party to cap off the end of their rotation. It’s meant to be a fun assignment. Low-stakes. High morale. Naturally, it turns into an emotional landmine.

Jun, for reasons you pretend not to think too deeply about, takes the lead.

He delegates well. Manages expectations. Schedules with military precision. In the end, what catches your attention is the uncanny accuracy of his planning decisions.

The venue is one of your favorites. The playlist includes that one obscure indie-pop band you once had on repeat. The snacks avoid all your known aversions—no olives, no red velvet, no sad carrot sticks masquerading as party food.

You raise an eyebrow when he unveils the plan in the department-wide meeting. He doesn’t look at you directly, but when you glance his way, he winks. Later, when everyone’s clapping for the effort, you wait for him to slide into the seat next to yours. You lean over and mumble, taunt just for him, “Stalker.” 

He raises one shoulder in a shrug. “I shadowed you for two weeks. I’m observant.”

The party is in a week, which is probably why you run into him at the grocery store later that night, arms full of sparkling water and overpriced string lights.

You’re already in line, clutching a frozen meal and a bottle of wine that screams dinner-for-one. He falls in behind you, a little breathless, a little smug.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says.

“Is that rosemary sea salt popcorn?” you ask, peering into his basket. “Wow. Intern budgets have really changed since my day.”

He grins. “Only the best for Carat Company.”

You point at a tub of hummus. “That brand’s terrible. Too tangy.”

“Noted,” he says, and swaps it out for another without fanfare.

You don’t know what makes you say it—maybe the buzz of fluorescent lights, maybe the way he’s stacking paper plates like it’s an art form—but you tilt your head and ask, “Bringing a date?”

Jun doesn’t miss a beat. “Nope.”

“Finance intern not free?”

“She’s got better taste than me,” he says. Then, a little more tentatively: “Position’s still open, if you’re interested.”

You click your tongue. Before you can think better of it, a responding flirtation breaks free. “I could be convinced.”

Jun giggles, quick and honest. He tries to cover it with a cough, but he’s still smiling as he sets down his basket.

The next couple of days unfold with unnerving ease. You tell yourself it’s just the party approaching, just everyone being unusually cooperative for once. But there’s a rhythm to the way you and Jun move around each other now—a familiarity that feels inherited. Like muscle memory. Like relapsing. 

You catch him finishing your sentences, anticipating your notes in meetings, handing you the pen you’re about to ask for before the words even leave your mouth. It’s annoying. It’s also disarming.

You’re in the office late one evening, finalizing a last-minute asset for the event. A print layout no one else had the brain cells to catch. Most of the floor’s lights have gone dark, save for your corner, glowing sterile and soft. But Jun’s still there too, cross-legged on the carpet like he lives here, surrounded by poster tubes and tangled cable wires, wielding a stapler with the intensity of a man on the edge.

“You know we have tape, right?” you say, leaning against the copy room door frame, sipping cold coffee that tastes like regret. 

He glances up, squints. “Yeah. Tape’s a coward’s tool.”

You snort. It sounds like something he would’ve said back when you were sharing fries and arguments on your living room floor, when evenings blurred into 2a.m. discussions about plot holes in movies and whether hotdog sandwiches were burgers.

“Besides,” he adds, popping a staple in with too much flair, “this is more permanent. It says, I commit.”

You raise an eyebrow. “To the banner?”

“To the bit,” he says, deadpan.

You roll your eyes and go back to your screen, but your grin lingers longer than you want it to.

He offers you a ride home. Says it casually, like it’s a weather update. You accept. Too casually. Like you haven’t already memorized the way his dashboard lights flicker, or how he drives five over the limit.

In his car, it’s too quiet. The AUX cable is broken. His windows fog slightly from the humidity. The air smells like mint gum, vinyl from a new car freshener, and something else—something old. You give him the directions without thinking, because they haven’t changed. Neither has the weight that settles in your chest when he takes each turn with instinctive precision.

Outside your apartment, the silence hovers. “Thanks for the ride,” you say, hand on the door handle, already half-gone. Trying very, very hard not to think about the dozens of other times this ride has happened, and how each of them ended the same way. 

He doesn’t answer for a moment. He just watches you, head tilted slightly like he’s solving a puzzle or waiting for permission. You face him, nose scrunching with mild confusion. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says. 

And then he kisses you.

It’s not sudden, but it still surprises you. Your body forgets to protest, forgets the smart thing to do, forgets the narrative you’ve been building for weeks about being over this. His mouth is warm, and patient, and frustratingly familiar. The kind of kiss that bypasses logic. The kind that knows too much.

You kiss him back. Automatically. Completely. As if no time has passed. As if the ghosting, the tension, the HR talks and overused pens never happened. Just mouths and memory and momentum.

It isn’t until you break apart—his thumb still barely touching your jaw, breath heavy in the space between—that you hear yourself say, “What are you doing?”

He exhales a laugh, like he’s embarrassed. “Convincing you.” A beat. “Is it working?”

The panic rises in your throat like bile. You’re not sure what you’re about to throw up—regret, probably. But for what? Which part? 

You don’t know the answer to that question. And so you peel away from a confused Jun, and you open the car door. The night air rushes in, cool and intrusive. You get out without a word.

He doesn’t follow. Doesn’t call after you. You don’t know what you’d want him to say, anyway. For once, you’re grateful that Wen Junhui has never chased after you when it counts. 

The morning after, you walk into the office like nothing happened. Which is to say: you walk in five minutes late with a coffee too hot for your tongue and sunglasses still on because your soul isn’t ready for fluorescent light.

You make yourself a promise. You will not acknowledge the kiss. You will not dwell. You will do what Jun did months ago. You will ghost in broad daylight.

It feels very mature.

Except, unlike Jun, you have to see him at the printer. And at the shared snack drawer. And at the joint team huddle where Soonyoung teaches everybody how to this weird, new hand gesture he picked up on. 

Jun keeps looking at you. That too-familiar softness, that edge of disappointment creeping around the corners of his mouth like he expected better from you. You don’t return the look. You don’t even return the stapler he loaned you yesterday. If professionalism is a hill to die on, then consider your gravestone already drafted.

Two days pass. You think you’ve successfully rewritten history until Jun corners you by the vending machine. Again. Before you can half-joke we have got to stop meeting like this, Jun is already snipping at the strings of your defenses. 

“Is this revenge?” he asks, low voice, eyes scanning your face.

Your hand hovers over the button for salted almonds. “What?”

“This,” he gestures vaguely at the space between you, which has become somehow both intimate and unbearable. “You pretending like it didn’t happen. Like the kiss didn’t happen.”

You choose the almonds. Not because you want them, but because silence is at least with vending machine clatter.

“You kissed me back,” he says. Almost an accusation. 

You shrug. It’s not as nonchalant as you probably want it to be. “People kiss. It’s a thing.”

Jun recoils, and something like white-hot guilt flashes through you. You douse it as Jun huffs out his next words with poorly-concealed offense, “Wow. Is this what being the bigger person looks like now?”

You pocket the almonds. “Well, you always said I was good at taking notes.”

His jaw flexes. Hurt flashes in his eyes before he smooths it over with a tired smile. “Right. Got it.”

You don’t stop him when he walks away. For the both of you, it’s a lesson learned. Turns out, the taste of your own medicine is bitter. 

And, sometimes, it comes with a side of overpriced almonds.

–-

VIII. The Employee acknowledges that emotional clarity is not listed among official job responsibilities, and therefore will not be provided under Company policy.

–-

The company party is held at a rented rooftop bar with fairy lights, questionable shrimp cocktails, and cheap beer masquerading as an open bar. Someone’s playlist is stuck on a loop of early 2010s hits, and there’s a half-deflated inflatable swan in the punch bowl. It’s all very on-brand. 

There are icebreaker games, a makeshift red carpet, and a cardboard cutout of Soonyoung in a tiger costume posing with the slogan: ROAR FOR Q4! It is, in every way, excessive.

You don a black silk blouse tucked into tailored high-waist trousers, sharp and clean and the only ironed thing in your apartment. Your lipstick is a soft red. Strategic, not romantic. You wear your hair up, simple earrings, and shoes that are just shy of painful. You look like someone who planned not to linger.

Jun shows up in a white button-down with sleeves rolled past his elbows, collar slightly askew like he got halfway ready and forgot to care. There’s a wine-colored blazer slung over one shoulder and, unfairly, it works. He has the ease of someone who didn’t expect to be watched yet somehow is.

You avoid each other all night with the precision of two people still nursing unspoken sentences. You talk to other departments. He lingers around the interns. Jihoon drinks exactly one cocktail, makes direct eye contact with you for three seconds too long, and vanishes like The Judgmental Ghost of Situationship’s Past.

The party buzzes on. There’s a chocolate fountain that no one trusts and a dance floor that Soonyoung won’t leave. There’s a photo booth filled with props from last year’s pirate-themed anniversary campaign. You find yourself laughing at something someone from Legal says, and immediately hate that it reminds you of how Jun used to make you laugh just like that—like you were surprised by it.

It’s going fine. Almost.

Until the awards begin. Soonyoung, of course, is the MC, beaming with chaotic delight. “And now,” he grins, pausing for effect, “for the honorary award for Best Enemies-to-Lovers Plot Unfolding in Real Time…”

You blink. Jun blinks. You both know how this film is going to end, and sure enough, Soonyoung is screeching your name and Jun’s. 

There are cheers. Some gasps. Mostly laughter. You rise with the grace of someone preparing for emotional war. Jun’s already on his feet, giving you that look like this is either his worst nightmare or his best bit. Possibly both.

Onstage, you are handed a trophy of a basketball player bought from the dollar store around the corner. You and Jun pose awkwardly for a photo as a chant of Speech! Speech! Speech! resounds in the crowd. 

You contemplate handing in your two week’s notice tomorrow.

Under string lights and scrutiny, you take the mic first. “I’d like to thank HR for not firing either of us,” you say for the lack of better thing to say. 

Polite chuckles. Someone from the Events team yells, “Not yet!”

Jun takes the mic next. “And I’d like to thank, uh, Soonyoung. For teaching me what a ‘horanghae’ is. Seriously, it’s done immeasurable damage to my vocabulary.”

Louder laughter. A few whoops. You both smile too hard, too bright, too fake. 

Later, you spot him near the edge of the bar, half-shadowed by a potted ficus. He’s slipping away. Classic Jun, retreating mid-scene. 

You excuse yourself before you think too hard about it. You follow him down a stairwell half-lit by emergency bulbs, the music above thumping faintly through concrete. He hears your steps before you speak.

“You always leave like this?” you ask.

He turns, hands in his pockets. His expression—initially closed-off, ready to bolt—creaks open ever so slightly. “I didn’t think you’d notice,” he answers. 

“Can’t help it.”

He looks at you like it hurts. Like you’re saying too much without saying enough. “Is this the part where you ask me why I’m leaving?”

You fold your arms over your chest, over the maddening beat of your heart. “No,” you breathe. “I want to know why you left.”

You don’t care about tonight. Jun could leave this party and never look back at The Carat Company, and you wouldn’t blame him. You care about the way his texts stopped coming in, the way it was radio silence for weeks. How he didn’t even come to take back his things, so you made the executive decision to donate them to a thrift shop like it might somehow make you feel better about yourself. 

Jun exhales, long and tired. He shifts from one foot to another. For a moment, you think he’s going to make a run for it. 

He doesn’t. 

“I didn’t think I could be enough,” he says, finally. “Not for you. Not for the version of you that has her life together, who writes like a scalpel and moves like she’s never tripped over anything in her life. I didn’t want to hold you back. I didn’t want to be another unfinished thing in your life.”

When Jun had gotten laid off his previous job, he’d fallen into a rut that you tried so hard to get him out of. You sent him motivational LinkedIn posts. You pointed out Harvard courses and helped him scour JobStreet. All the while, you were working your ass off at The Carat Company. Coming home burnt out but still willing to help him back on his feet. 

You hadn’t realized how that might’ve looked like for him. You hadn’t seen the cracks, stretching like spiderwebs over his fragile male ego. Obscuring the reason why you did it all in the first place. 

Love. Crazy, stupid love. You clear your throat, refusing to let the rage tip out of you. Some of it bleeds into your incredulous question, anyway.  “So you decided for me?”

His shoulders flinch. “I was scared.”

“You don’t get to do that,” you say, your attempt at being cool fracturing. “You don’t get to leave me, then show back up like a better man, when the truth is—you didn’t even let me choose.”

He looks at you, stunned. “I—”

“No,” you say, stepping forward. “Who I want to suffer for is my call.” 

This time, you kiss him. 

It’s not clean. It’s not soft. It’s messy and fierce and fueled by months of bitterness and longing, of misspoken lines and things unsaid. His hands find your waist like they’ve never left it. Your mouth moves like a dare. There’s a wall at his back, and your chest at his front, and none of this feels professional at all.

It feels like something finally falling into place. Or breaking open.

Jun’s car is parked two levels down, the far corner of a concrete lot that smells like rain, gasoline, and the ghost of things unsaid. It’s far from the rooftop’s sticky laughter and company-wide inebriation. A hush broken only by the soft echo of your heels and the low, restless rhythm of your breathing. His, too.

You’re kissing again by the time you get nearer to the car.  This time, it’s slower. Hungrier. The kind of kiss that drags a sound out of him—half-sigh, half-swear. 

Jun groans into your mouth, hands moving instinctively. One finds your jaw, the other your waist, fingers curling with intent. Your back hits the side of his car with a quiet thud. You smile against his mouth, sharp and satisfied.

“You gonna run again?” you mumble, voice low, all edge.

He shakes his head, dazed. “Not unless you tell me to.”

“Good,” you say, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, grazing hot skin. “Then shut up and get in the car.”

He listens. He always did know how to listen when it mattered.

The door slams shut, muffling the world. The air smells like him—clean linen, faint spice, something faintly sweet beneath it. The dash glows dim. Your blouse is unbuttoned by the time you straddle him, knees digging into the leather seat. He fumbles to push his seat back farther, and you don’t wait. You settle on his thighs, hungry hands pushing his shirt up, over his head.

His eyes are already wild. Chest bare. Breath uneven. Like he can’t quite believe this is happening. You kiss him again, rougher this time, teeth grazing his bottom lip. He gasps.

“You want this?” he asks, voice cracked, part awe, part fear.

You lean in, lips brushing his ear. “I need this.”

Clothes are tossed somewhere in the front seat—jacket, trousers, shirt, all lost to heat and haste. Your fingers fumble with his belt; he helps, hands shaking. You lift your hips, letting him drag your trousers down, your underwear already damp and sticking to your thighs. His knuckles brush the inside of your legs as he pulls them off, slow and reverent, then not-so-slow.

His fingers ghost along your inner thigh, then between your legs, slipping through slick heat. He exhales like it guts him.

“Still so wet for me,” he breathes, voice shredded. “How are you still so wet?”

You take his hand, guide his fingers to your lips, and suck your own slick clean. Your eyes on his the entire time. The sharp, guttural sound he makes is a reward in its own right.

The kiss that follow doesn’t end so much as it fractures. Broken by breath, by the heat of your thighs still spread over his lap, by the way your hips keep shifting like you haven’t quite had your fill.

Jun exhales sharply when you pull back. His mouth is swollen, his chest rising and falling like he ran a mile, and his hands—God, his hands—don’t stop touching you. One strokes your thigh, the other drifts higher, sliding back between your legs.

He groans, thumb dragging through your slick, and you shudder. “You always get like this,” he whispers, like it’s a secret meant only for you. “I touch you and you… fuck, you melt for me.”

You grind into his palm, voice already too hoarse to feign nonchalance. “Don’t pretend you’re in control right now.”

His eyes flick up, wide and wrecked. “I’m not,” he laughs. “Not even close.”

His fingers slip in. Two at once, with a stretch that makes your eyes flutter. You gasp, back arching, one arm braced against the seat in front of him as he starts to work you open. Slow. Deep. A rhythm that feels almost reverent, like he’s savoring this. Like he’s making up for every missed chance.

“So warm,” he grunts, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “So perfect.”

You reach down to find his cock still half-hard and twitching. Your fingers wrap around him, familiar with the way he likes to be touched, with how he reacts when you drag your thumb just under the head. He shudders. Moans. His hand falters inside you.

“Don’t—don’t do that,” he stammers.

You smile, sharp and smug. “Why not?” 

You jerk him slow, just enough to keep him on the edge. His eyes flutter. His mouth opens, breath catching on every exhale as your hand works him while his fingers fuck into you.

This is how it used to be, back when it was messy and undefined, back when you still pretended this didn’t mean something. His hands in your pants after a long day at work. Your mouth on him in a shared shower.  But this is different. Sharper. Hungrier. The way he looks at you now—it isn’t casual. It’s not temporary.

His lips graze your jaw. His voice cracks. “You feel so good,” he says, his words slurred with pleasure, “s-so good. I can’t think.” 

You lean closer, nipping at his throat. “Don’t think. Just give me your fingers.”

He does. He gives you everything. Curling deeper, pressing harder, stretching you out until you clench around him and gasp, nails digging into the side of his neck. “Shit,” you whisper. “There, please. Right there.”

He moans, like he’s the one being burned alive. His hips jerk up into your palm. “So polite,” he says affectionately, placing a quick kiss to your shoulder before going on, “You’re gonna come for me, baby? Huh? Just on my fingers?”

You grind down, breath punching out of you. The pleasure coils hot and fast in your stomach, that dizzy, electric pull that tells you you’re about to break. When you register that the old pet name had slipped out of him—baby—you shatter.

It hits you all at once. Tight, breathless, a wave crashing through your spine and curling your toes. Your moan rips through the silence, raw and wild, as you pulse around him.

Jun curses under his breath. Even as you climax, your hand hasn’t stopped moving. He trembles, thighs tight beneath you. “Fuck, stop, stop—please, I’ll come,” he pants. “I’ll come and I’m not inside you yet. Please.”

You still your hand, fingers flexing around the base of his cock. His hips twitch anyway, desperate. His head falls back against the seat, jaw slack, chest heaving.

You watch him. The boy you almost had. The man who’s trying not to lose you now.

“You good?” you ask, voice low. Fond. Worried. 

He nods, swallowing hard. “Barely,” he croaks. “Need you.”

You lean in, mouth grazing his. “You’ve got me,” you promise, and it’s the truest thing you’ve said all night. 

The second your hand lifts from his cock, Jun fumbles between your thighs with shaking fingers, lining himself up. His touch is clumsy, reverent, desperate. His breath hitches when the head of his cock drags against your slick, catching at your entrance.

“Fuck, yes,” he gasps, the sound raw, like he’s already too close.

You sink onto him in one motion.

It’s not graceful, not slow. It’s greedy.

Your body takes him deep, full, stretched wide around him in a single sharp thrust that leaves you both dazed. His head snaps back, mouth open in a moan that cuts off halfway, swallowed by the thud of your hips meeting. “Jesus Christ,” he chokes out. “You’re—fuck. Fuck. You’re perfect.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, anchoring yourself. The leather creaks beneath your knees. You don’t wait, don’t answer. You ride him fast, rough, punishing—like you need him to feel just how badly you've wanted this.

His hands scramble to keep up, one sliding to your waist, the other gripping your thigh, then your ass, then back again. He can’t seem to pick where he wants to touch you, so he settles for everywhere.

“You’re taking me so good,” he groans, eyes flicking down to where you’re joined, completely lost in it. “So fucking deep. Missed this. Missed you.”

You grind down harder, pace unrelenting. “You missed me, or just my pussy?” you bite out, even as a moan escapes.

He laughs, broken and breathless. “Both. Don’t make me choose.”

You lean in and kiss him, open-mouthed and hungry, your teeth dragging against his bottom lip before you suck it into your mouth. His hands tighten, fingertips bruising. Your hips roll, bounce, grind. Every motion is intentional. Relentless. He’s twitching inside you already.

He lets out a strangled sound when you clench around him. “Trying to—hng—ruin me?” he whimpers, forehead pressed to yours.

“You’re doing that all on your own,” you exhale before chasing his lips. 

The car rocks. Windows fog. Sweat beads at your spine, your thighs, the crease of his neck where you bury your face to muffle a cry.

He’s fucking up into you now, meeting every downward slam of your hips with a thrust that has you seeing stars. His rhythm is messier than you remember, but it’s probably the moment. The setting. The reunion. 

“Gonna come,” he warns, voice wrecked. “Shit—baby, please.”

You pull back, lips brushing his ear. “Then do it,” you whisper. “Come—ah—inside me. Make a mess, baby.”

His whole body jerks. His fingers dig in. He groans deep in his chest like it hurts to hold on. You don’t let up.

Your pace gets rougher. Sloppier. He’s moaning, practically whimpering. The kind of sounds you’ve only ever pulled from him when he’s too far gone to pretend. “You sound wrecked,” you pant, dragging your nails down his chest. “You close, baby?”

He nods, dazed, unable to speak.

You fuck down harder. Grind meaner. Your clit drags against the base of him and your whole body tenses. It hits you without warning—full-body and sudden. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, ripping your breath away as your muscles seize around him.

He cries out, high and choked. His hips stutter. “Wait—wait, fuck, baby, stop—please,” he pleads, voice cracking. “Need this to last. Need to have you for longer.”

You freeze, panting against his mouth.

He’s trembling.

“Alright?” you ask.

He nods, frantic. “Yeah. Yeah. I just—don’t want this to end.”

You stroke his cheek, your body still sensitive in aftershocks.

He looks up at you, eyes glassy, lips kiss-bruised. “I used to dream about this,” he says, voice barely there. “After we... you know. Dreamt of having you again. But it never felt like this.”

“Like what?”

He swallows. “Like I could lose you if I didn’t hold on tight enough.”

The sincerity bowls you over, so you kiss him again. This time, you slow down. Not because you want to, but because you know you’re both too close to let it end like that.

Your next words are a tremble against his lips. “Don’t leave. Not this time."

“I won’t,” he answers without missing a beat.  

You don’t move for a moment. Just sit there, full of him, your body still trembling with aftershocks, hips twitching every few seconds like your muscles don’t know it’s over. Jun’s forehead rests against your sternum, his breath hot and uneven against your skin, his grip around your waist just this side of desperate.

You let it stretch. The quiet. The weight. The ache.

The car is still and humid, your skin sticking slightly where it meets his. All you can hear is the slow, syncopated rhythm of your breath tangled with his. Every now and then, your body clenches around him involuntarily, dragging tiny, startled sounds from both your throats.

After a couple of minutes, you start to move again. Just a slow, idle grind of your hips. Gentle. Lazy. The kind of roll that shouldn’t mean anything, but still makes you both react. A twitch from him. A flutter from you. You do it again. Then again. Just enough pressure. Just enough friction to keep you grounded in it.

He whimpers quietly, head tilting up to look at you through damp lashes. “This is torture.” 

You smile. Kiss his temple, almost laughingly. “I always did like making your life hard.” 

Jun huffs something like a laugh, more breath than voice. His hand curls around the back of your neck, thumb stroking over your pulse. The other traces down to your thigh, fingers dragging along the crease with slow reverence. You keep rocking gently, almost absentminded. Not fucking. Not chasing. Just—resting. Keeping him there. Letting him feel all of you, even in stillness.

It’s unfairly intimate, how your body fits against his like it remembers how. The arch of your spine molded to the shape of his chest, your forehead resting against the curve of his jaw, your hands cradling his face when you lift it.

His heartbeat pounds beneath your palm, too fast. Too vulnerable. “Can I…” he starts, voice cautious, almost shy.

You lift a brow. “Can you what?”

“Take some of the control. Just for a bit.”

It kills you. That he has to ask. That he still doesn’t think you’d give him the world. “Of course,” you say, the word murmured against the corner of his mouth. “Take me.” 

He doesn’t answer. His grip on your ass tightens, fingers digging into the supple fleshed. “Baby,” he says, wrecked and serious, “I’ve been dreaming of fucking you properly since the day I left.” 

Your teeth grazes his lips. “Do it, then,” you hum. 

And he does.

He plants his feet. Braces himself. Then lifts you slightly and thrusts up hard, cock dragging deep, unforgiving. The breath punches out of you like a hit. Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, your head falling forward.

He does it again. And again. Brutal. Precise. Each upward slam meets the drag of your body grinding down, slick and hot and soaked with all the aftermath he’s still pulsing inside.

“That’s it,” he growls, his breath ragged. “Let me fuck you. Let me make you feel it.”

You let him.

You go pliant in his hands, let him chase the tempo, his rhythm messy but deep. Every thrust is a reminder of what you both lost and what he’s begging for now.

He fucks up into you like he’s trying to chase every unsaid apology down your spine. The car rocks with the motion. His arms strain with effort, sweat slipping between your bodies, your skin slapping wetly together with every filthy thrust.

“You’re unreal,” he moans. “So good. So fucking good. I forgot how you feel. I forgot how you sound when I—”

“You didn’t forget,” you cut in, panting. “You just—hng—thought you could survive without it.”

He whines at that. Literally whines. You tighten around him and his hips stutter.

The pressure rises again. Slower this time. No sharp edge. Just steady, building tension in your core. Your muscles twitch with each thrust, your chest pressed to his, damp and heaving.

Jun kisses you hard, tongue hot and desperate. “I wanna feel you come again,” he begs against your mouth. “Please. Please, baby. One more. Give it to me."

You nod, but it’s not conscious. Your body answers before your mouth can.

It crashes into you, serrated and mean. Your third orgasm claws through your nerves, your thighs clamping down around his waist as you cry out into his neck. It’s overwhelming. Scalding. Your body trembles, every inch of you unraveling in his hands.

That’s all he needs. He groans, deep and undone, shoving into you one last time and staying there. His whole body goes tight, shakes. You cup his face. Make him look at you.

The thought occurs to you for the nth time: Jun is so pretty when he comes. 

Even if he does it with a raw, wounded sound. He pulses deep inside you, buried as far as he can get, and you swear you can feel him shaking with it. Like it guts him. Like it saves him.

He clings to you afterward. Breathing hard. Drenched and unraveled.

You don’t say anything. You just stay. Let him hold you. Let him come back to you, slowly but surely.

Because this time, he isn’t running. And for once, neither are you.

The next morning, though, you wake to the absence of weight.

That’s the first thing you notice.

The second is the shape of your own anxiety, curling low in your chest, familiar as a bad habit. The other side of the bed is empty. The sheets are rumpled and cooling. There’s a single long strand of hair caught in the pillowcase. Not yours.

For a moment, you just stare at it. Then you look around. Bedroom door open. A thin shaft of light bleeds in from the hallway.

You don’t call out. You don’t move. You just go very, very still.

This is, after all, a familiar pattern. Boy meets girl. Boy runs away. Girl pretends she doesn’t notice until it’s convenient to feel something about it. The air smells like sex and detergent. The ceiling has a crack in it that you keep forgetting to report to the landlord. Your throat is dry.

Then Jun reappears.

Towel low on his hips, toothbrush in hand. He stops short in the doorway, mid-step, and you watch the exact moment he realizes what his absence must’ve looked like. The moment the air shifts. The look on your face must be something, because his shoulders drop in a slow exhale and his voice goes soft.

“Hey. I didn’t leave,” he says, swallowing his toothpaste—what a fucking psycho—before setting his tooth brush on to the nearest flat surface. “Just went to brush my teeth."

You raise an eyebrow. Try to mask the little betrayal that had already crept in. “You know, most people announce their morning survival before disappearing,” you say. “It’s customary.” 

Jun winces. “You’re right. I should’ve said something. I just didn’t want to wake you.”

You sit up, sheets falling to your waist. Your body aches in a way that feels earned. Your hair is a mess after the two, maybe three rounds that you and Jun had when he fell into your bed last night. You don’t care enough to hide the overthinking.

“You could’ve left a note,” you say. Half-serious, half-joking. “Or a sock on the door. A smoke signal.”

He laughs, crosses to the side of the bed. Drops the towel a little lower on purpose, the menace. “Noted. Next time I disappear into the bathroom, I’ll launch a full PR campaign.”

You narrow your eyes. “See that you do.”

His hand lifts to your face, thumb dragging just under your cheekbone. “I’m here,” he says, plain and simple as a promise. And he means it.

Maybe it’s stupid that you believe him. Maybe it’s messier than it should be, that you’re even in this place, in this bed, with this boy again.

But his hand is warm. His mouth is soft when he kisses your forehead. And when he climbs back in bed to hold you to him, you don’t say no. 

It’s a Saturday, so the two of you let the sun climb high enough to slice through your blinds. You’d move, but Jun is draped over you like a weighted blanket with abandonment issues. It’s clingy in a way that would be annoying if it weren’t also stupidly comforting. 

His leg is thrown across yours. His arm is a dead weight on your stomach. He smells like your shampoo and the faint citrus of your soap, and the whole thing is either domestic bliss or a very elaborate trap.

His fingers are tucked into the curve of your hip, not moving, just there. A quiet claim. As if anchoring himself will stop time or stop you from thinking of endings.

You’re not even annoyed, which is suspicious. You should be cataloging all the reasons this is a bad idea. Cross-department entanglements, your no-office-romance policy (written internally, unspoken externally), the sheer HR nightmare of it all. Instead, you’re memorizing the rhythm of his breathing.

“So,” he says after a long moment, voice still scratchy with sleep, mouth near your collarbone, "they offered me a job."

You blink at the ceiling. The fan clicks. One of the blades wobbles slightly. “‘They’ being The Carat Company.”

He nods into your shoulder. You feel the curve of his smile before you see it. It’s smug and sleepy and dangerous—a combination that should come with a warning label.

You hum. Neutral. “That’s… a choice.”

Jun shifts. Enough to glance up at you, catching your expression with lazy amusement. It’s probably somewhere between polite support and visible internal shrieking. “Wow,” he murmurs. “You are doing an excellent job of pretending that doesn’t horrify you."

You sigh, staring at the water-stained patch on your ceiling. “I just think our HR department is one passive-aggressive email away from imploding, and I’m not sure I want to share a copier with someone who’s seen me naked.”

He chuckles. Kisses your shoulder. “That’s fair. But relax. I’m not taking it.”

You pause. Blink. Turn your head just enough to catch his face. “You’re not?”

He shakes his head, pulling back slightly, grinning like a man who knows he’s about to get a dramatic reaction. You squint at him. "So?"

“Sebong offered me something better.”

Record scratch. Full stop. You sit up slightly, sheet dragging across your chest. “Sebong Corporation? Our most flamboyant and passive-aggressive rival?”

“The very same.”

You purse your lips. “The one that sent us cupcakes during Q3 just to say ‘Sorry about your metrics’?”

Jun grins. “A plus for petty. But yeah, they want me.”

“You’re going corporate spy now? Love that for you,” you jab. “Can you wear a wire to our next team sync?"

He shrugs, undeterred by your sarcasm as a coping mechanism. “They offered better pay, better benefits. Free espresso on every floor.”

You make a sound of mock envy. “Now you’re just bragging.”

“I am,” he adds, with that soft arrogance only he can pull off without getting slapped. “I think I’m gonna take it.”

“Why?”

He looks at you with the kind of gaze that burns just a little. Like he’s searching for a permission he already knows you’ll give. Then he says it. The same thing he said when he waltzed back into your life, self-assured and saccharine. 

“It’s the best, isn’t it?” Jun says. “And I always want the best.”

You roll your eyes so hard your ancestors probably feel it. But something in your chest stutters. This time, the words land different. Softer. Honest in a way that makes your ribs ache.

He’s making a concession. He’s doing something to make this, make the two of you, possible. 

He’s calling you something he wants, and calling you the best, in the same breath.  

Jun leans in, presses his forehead to yours, nose brushing yours like an apology. When he kisses you, it tastes like toothpaste and devotion. And also maybe like something terrifyingly close to commitment.

You lie there for a while. Wrapped in warmth and silence and the complicated calculus of wanting things that feel big and breakable. Like him. Like this. Like futures you haven’t even said out loud yet.

At some point, Jun shifts behind you, arms tightening around your middle. His chin rests in the crook of your neck, breath brushing your skin.

“You okay with it?” he asks.

You shrug. “I mean, it’s marginally better than you working across the hall from me and flirting over the printer queue.”

“We’d both get nothing done.”

“Exactly. Chaos.”

Jun kisses the back of your shoulder again. It’s like he can’t stop kissing you, like he can’t believe he can do it all again. Somewhere in the quiet that follows, your brain writes the paperwork.

--

This Employment Contract (“Agreement”) is made between Wen Junhui (“Boyfriend”), and you.

WHEREAS the Boyfriend agrees to remain shirtless in your apartment at least three mornings per week, and to bring the good coffee whenever you run out;

WHEREAS emotional transparency shall be upheld with the same rigor as quarterly reporting, including but not limited to: post-sex vulnerability, Sunday-night anxiety debriefs, and one (1) designated safe word for moments of self-sabotage;

WHEREAS both parties are permitted one (1) bad take per fiscal quarter, to be gently corrected and never mentioned again;

THEREFORE, both parties agree to exclusive rights to back scratches, late-night ramen runs, shared Spotify queues, and slow dancing in the kitchen when neither of you feels like cooking;

FURTHERMORE, cuddling shall not be used as a diversion tactic during emotionally intense conversations, unless unanimously approved by both parties in advance.

Effective immediately. Benefits include forehead kisses, a stupid amount of texting, sleeping on opposite sides but always ending up tangled, emergency ice cream runs, and never having to go to office parties alone.

[se7vnn]

EMAILS I CAN'T SEND [1]

✉ pairing: director of hr! lee jihoon x planning and recruitment specialist! f! reader ✉ wc: 8.1K of 16.4K (part two will be out on TUESDAY!) ✉ genre: semi-epistolary (in the form of emails and microsoft teams chats), a character study of lee jihoon, angst, it gets sad before it gets happy, coworkers to ????, etc etc etc ✉ warnings: mentions of alcohol, vaguely suggestive in part 2 ✉ a/n: this is part of the that's showbiz, baby! collaboration. i am so so so eternally grateful for all the amazing writers that took a chance on kae and i as we figured out our first ever collab. to the friends i have made, i adore you all so much. i could wax poetic about you all until kingdom come and it would still not be enough. to @haologram, who watched me devolve into a incoherent mess as i wrote this: thank you thank you thank you for giving me the love i needed to keep writing. and most of all, thank you to @studioeisa, who listened to the rantings and ravings of a mad woman six months ago. i love you!

To: youruser@tcc.com From: jeon,wonwoo@tcc.com CC: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: Welcome To The Carat Company

Hello Y/N,

Welcome to The Carat Company. We’re lucky to have poached you from Sebong Corp—they have no idea what they’re missing out on. You seem to have a wealth of knowledge that will set you up for success here. 

You will be working very closely with Lee Jihoon, Managing Director of Human Resources (copied), so feel free to direct any questions you may have to him; however, I’ll be available to discuss any other issues you may have as you onboard. 

I look forward to seeing the personnel numbers and talent at TCC grow under your capable guidance. 

Cheers,

Jeon Wonwoo Chief Executive Officer The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To:  jeon.wonwoo@tcc.com From:youruser@tcc.com CC: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: RE: Welcome To The Carat Company

Hello Mr. Jeon,

Thank you for the warm welcome! I’ll be setting up 1:1s with both you and Mr. Lee to walk through my staffing and hiring plans for this upcoming fiscal year. 

Y/N L/N Planning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To: youruser@tcc.com ; jeon.wonwoo@tcc.com From: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: RE: Welcome To The Carat Company

Jihoon is fine. See you Monday—I have some time for a quick 9AM. Please block the time off at your earliest convenience. 

-LJH

Sent from my iPhone

Jihoon has never been fond of messes.

His office, much like his apartment and the rest of his life, is minimal. Austere. A clean desk is a clean mind, he likes to think. Neatly arranged cables. One mug: white, no logo. His monitors at identical angles. Not a single paperclip out of place.

Order isn’t just habit. It’s armor. Ritual.

Monday mornings are always the same. They have to be.

5:00 AM. Wake up. No snoozing. The second alarm is a concession to humanity, not a need. He’s already up when it chimes. 5:05. Protein bar. Banana. BCAA in a bottle his father gave him two birthdays ago. 5:15. Elevator to the basement gym. The lights always flicker once when he walks in. Nobody else is ever there. Just the rhythmic clank of metal and the breathing that steadies as he shifts from warm-up into motion. Monday is push day—bench press, overhead, incline dumbbell. Same sequence, same reps. Progress measured, logged. 6:30. Shower. 6:45. Dress.

Monday is always the powder-blue button-up. The one his mother bought him when he was promoted to Managing Director of HR at 26—the youngest in Carat Company history. He’d wanted to return it. She’d insisted it was a “soft color,” something to “balance out his personality.” Jihoon wanted to argue, but he’s worn it every Monday since.

7:00. Pull out of his apartment garage in his 2018 silver Honda Civic. The same car he’s had since college. Seungcheol has been trying to convince him to buy something flashier for years. “You’re practically an executive, dude. You deserve something that doesn’t rattle when you hit 80.” Jihoon doesn’t drive above 65. And the Civic has never once failed him.

7:23. Arrive at The Carat Company headquarters. He always parks in B2, Row 3, where the sun doesn’t hit the windshield too hard by mid-afternoon.

7:26. Enter through the back lobby. The building hums at this hour, quiet but awake. Security nods. No badge check. Everyone knows him by now.

7:28. He stops by the lobby café. They don’t ask his order anymore. It’s always a vanilla latte, four pumps of vanilla, exactly 130°F. No more, no less. He’s tested it. 132 is too hot.

7:32. He’s in his office. Alone. Lights off. Laptop humming awake. Forty minutes to himself before the company starts crashing through the doors.

That’s the ritual.

It never fails him.

Until today.

Because today, there is… noise.

There is clattering. And humming. And something that sounds dangerously like a staple gun.

Jihoon steps inside and nearly drops his coffee.

The desk across from his, empty since Mark transferred out in April, is no longer empty. In fact, it's absolutely full. Drowning. Exploding.

There are papers. So many papers. Stacked, scattered, half-stapled in frantic clusters like a college student’s last-minute thesis sprint. There’s a bright pink water bottle sweating condensation onto a leather-bound planner. A ceramic frog (why is it always a frog?) with a missing eye. A chunky knit blanket draped over the back of the desk chair like someone’s been camping here for days. And worst of all—

Worst of all, you're standing on the desk.

Not beside it. Not reaching over it. On it. In sneakers. Pinning what can only be described as an aggressively unprofessional tapestry to the wall with a half-empty box of pushpins at your feet and an expression of utter, unbothered joy on your face.

Jihoon wants to throw up.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just… stares. Takes a sip of his latte. Regrets it immediately. Too sweet.

You notice him eventually, still kneeling mid-stretch with a final pin between your teeth. “Oh!” you say, hopping down like it’s perfectly normal to greet your manager-slash-office-mate from a tabletop. “Good morning, Mr. Lee!”

“It’s Jihoon,” he replies, voice tight, already regretting the email he sent with that particular instruction.

You smile, oblivious. “Right, sorry. I’m almost done decorating. I just need, like, five more pins. You wouldn’t happen to have–?”

“No.”

A pause. Your smile twitches, not quite fading, but pausing, like maybe you’ve just registered the tone, the disapproval hovering like smog in the pristine office air.

You nod slowly. “Okay. Totally fair. I’ll borrow from Facilities. Or, like… steal. Mark left a stapler in the second drawer.”

Jihoon inhales through his nose.

This was supposed to be a quiet morning. His ritual—his peace—has been hijacked by a whirlwind in platform sneakers and a frog-shaped pencil sharpener.

He walks past you wordlessly, sets his coffee down on the left side of his desk (1.5 inches from the corner, exactly), and sits.

You, of course, keep going.

“I was just finishing up! I know it’s a little early but I get really antsy if I don’t personalize my space on day one, you know? Plus I heard Mark left it kind of bland, so I figured I’d fill the vibe gap. Oh, and I brought coffee! Not for you—you already have one. But for me. Mine’s in the thermos with the stickers. The one that says ‘Gaslight Gatekeep Girlboss HR.’ Cute, right?”

Jihoon closes his eyes, prays for this to be some sleep deprivation-fueled nightmare. 

(He knows it isn’t, because he’s never deprived of sleep. It’s a part of his ritual—lights out at 9:00 PM on Sunday nights. No exceptions.)

You pull your chair up to your desk. It makes an awful screeching sound against the hardwood floor. 

“Excited for our 9 AM?” you chirp, logging into your laptop. “I made an agenda. Printed it out. Color-coded it, actually. I wasn’t sure what your preferred style was, but I guessed neutral tones? There’s a copy on your desk.”

Jihoon looks down. A salmon-colored folder rests atop his inbox tray. It looks garish against his other, far more sensible, manila folders.

He stares at it.

Then at you.

You’re sipping from your water bottle with the confidence of someone who doesn’t know the rules—and, worse, might not care to learn them.

He exhales. Opens his laptop.

9:00 can’t come soon enough.

The boardroom is too bright.

Jihoon hates this room. The lights are motion-activated, and they always flicker on two seconds too late, as though even the building itself doesn’t want to be here at 9 AM on a Monday. He sits down at the far end of the long conference table, opens his laptop, and aligns his pen with the pad in front of him—not to take notes, but because the symmetry soothes him.

You're already there, of course. Seated three chairs down with a thermos of something that smells aggressively like cinnamon and a laptop covered in glittery stickers. One says: “Certified HR Baddie.” Another: “Ask me about my onboarding karaoke night.”

Jihoon does not ask.

Instead, he watches you pull up your slides on the big screen with a flourish, like a magician preparing a reveal.

You click once.

The first slide appears: a bright pink title screen with comic sans font that reads, in bold, centered letters:

✨ Operation Vibe Overhaul ✨ Building Joyful Infrastructure, One Talent at a Time

Jihoon feels the first flicker of dread.

“Okay!” you begin brightly, gesturing like you’re hosting a game show. “So this is my preliminary Q1/Q2 planning proposal, centered on retention, culture, and morale-building initiatives. I based this on some of the programs I piloted back at Sebong—”

You’re still talking, but Jihoon has stopped listening. Not because he doesn’t care. He very much does. But because slide two is now filled with stock images of people clinking glasses at what appears to be a rooftop mixer. One of them is mid-laugh, mouth open too wide. Another’s holding a ukulele.

You’re talking about “optional happy hour cohorts” and “inter-departmental bonding pods.”

He resists the urge to claw at his tie.

Slide four: A color-coded table titled “Vibe Goals By Department.” There are emoji in the row labels. The one for HR says 🐸.

He discretely opens Teams and clicks on his private thread with Wonwoo.

[💬 Microsoft Teams – Direct Message to JEON WONWOO | 9:48 AM]

To: Jeon Wonwoo You did this on purpose, you prick.

From: Jeon Wonwoo We don’t use that kind of language in the office, Jihoon. I have no idea what you’re talking about btw. Just got off a call. How’s Y/N settling in? :)

To: Jeon Wonwoo A) F*** you (censored for your professional needs). B) A planning slide deck for the next fiscal year does not need this much color. We have slide templates (that I MADE, mind you). C) I repeat, you did this on purpose, didn’t you?

From: Jeon Wonwoo Play nice. She’s good for you. Don’t get your tighty-whities in a twist.

To: Jeon Wonwoo Now who’s using language inappropriate for the office?

From: Jeon Wonwoo My company, my rules.

To: Jeon Wonwoo Oh, you basta⌶ 

A throat clears.

Jihoon freezes. When he looks up, the presentation has ended. A final slide blinks at him in bold orange and pink:

✨ THANK YOU FOR LISTENING ✨

You’re watching him. Kindly. Expectantly.

He slams the laptop shut like he’s been caught watching something scandalous.

“I—I was taking notes,” he lies.

You nod, like you believe him.

He straightens. Adjusts his sleeves. Finds some scrap of dignity on the floor, brushes it off, and stands.

“Good plan,” he says finally, voice flat.

He holds out a hand. You take it. High-five it, actually.

“Go team?” you grin.

“No,” he replies.

“Oh.”

Jihoon is out the door before you can say anything else, footsteps brisk, tie slightly skewed.

To: youruser@tcc.com From: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: RE: HR Snacks Survey Draft

Y/N– You cannot send out a company-wide poll asking “Which snack makes you feel most emotionally supported?”

-LJH

To: lee.jihoon@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.com Subject: RE: HR Snacks Survey Draft

Hi Jihoon,

Trying to stock up the snack cabinets! Nothing like a hearty snack to boost employee morale!

Y/N L/N Planning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To: youruser@tcc.com From: jeon,wonwoo@tcc.com CC: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: RE: Q1/Q2 Planning Slides

Hi Y/N,

Just finished reviewing your retention plan deck. Absolutely love what you’ve put together. Really strong alignment with our broader TCC cultural initiatives, and your proactive approach to employee engagement is exactly what we need this year.

As you’re still new and building connections across the org, I’ve volun-told Jihoon (CC’d) to help you organize and launch the first few events, as he knows the org landscape better than anyone. And he’s got a great eye for logistics, even if he pretends not to.

Looking forward to seeing the plans in action! Let me know if you need support (or help convincing Jihoon to wear a team bonding t-shirt).

Cheers, Jeon Wonwoo Chief Executive Officer The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To: jeon.wonwoo@tcc.com From: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: RE: Q1/Q2 Planning Slides

🖕

-LJH

Sent from my iPhone

To: youruser@tcc.com From: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: Meeting Room Protocol

Please stop booking the largest boardroom for your 3-person planning meetings.

-LJH

To: lee.jihoon@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.com Subject: RE: Meeting Room Protocol

I just like the acoustics.

Also, you never know when you’ll need space for spontaneous interpretive movement.

Y/N L/N Planning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To: jeon.wonwoo@tcc.com From: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: Please. 

Is it not too late to put her in Finance? 

-LJH

Sent from my iPhone

To: hr-team@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.com Subject: 🎉 HR Happy Hour: Be There or Be Performance Reviewed 🎉

Hi everyone!

We’re officially halfway through Q1, and what better way to celebrate than with drinks, snacks, and some mediocre bowling?

WHEN: Friday @ 6PM WHERE: Lucky Strike Lounge (across the street from the building!) WHY: Because we deserve it and bonding is sexy

No pressure to bowl. Just show up, say hi, eat some onion rings, and let’s decompress together.

Teams invite has been sent out! RSVP by EOD! There may or may not be color-coded team wristbands.

Y/N L/N Planning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

Jihoon leaves the office every day at exactly 5:00 p.m.

Not 4:59. Not 5:02.

At 4:57, he begins to shut his laptop. At 4:58, he returns any lingering pens to the ceramic cup on the right-hand side of his desk. 4:59, he stands. 5:00, he walks out. No more, no less. The moment the minute hand clicks into place, he shuts his laptop with the finality of a courtroom verdict, slides his planner into his bag, and is out the door before anyone can even think about uttering the words “quick question.” 

 It’s carved into the bedrock of TCC culture—like the Tuesday team lunch or the eternal mystery of who keeps restocking the fifth-floor snack fridge with individually wrapped pickles (it’s Jisoo, but nobody has proof). The junior staff time their meetings around it. Wonwoo calls it Jihoon’s “corporate sunset.” No one bothers him after it.

No one, of course, except you.

You, who arrive at the most chaotic intervals imaginable.

Some mornings, your coffee mug is already half-drunk and sweating a crescent-shaped watermark into a scatter of documents before Jihoon even walks in the door. Other days, you're stumbling in at 10:37 a.m. with a tote bag sliding off your shoulder and your sunglasses still on, dropping your thermos onto your desk with the force of a meteor.

Jihoon does not deal well with unpredictability.

He glares at you when you're late. You smile back. Sometimes you salute. Once, you handed him a donut and said, "To earn my forgiveness." He took it. Ate it. Still glared.

But it's not the timing of your arrivals that gets under his skin the most—it’s your exits.

Or, rather, your lack thereof.

Because you don’t leave at five. Sometimes you leave at six. Sometimes seven. Once, he overheard in the breakroom that you left at 8:15 the night prior and had a minor existential crisis in the parking garage.

And because you don’t leave at five, you tend to… linger.

Which means that at 5:00 p.m.—the precise moment Jihoon’s routine is winding down, when the laptop is sliding shut and his brain is exhaling—your voice inevitably cuts through the still air like a dart aimed straight at his temple.

“Hey, you’re not coming to the happy hour?”

Jihoon freezes. You’re leaning against the doorframe to your office, holding a stack of flyers and a bag of plastic leis. Why you’ve chosen a tropical theme for a February bowling night is beyond him. He doesn’t ask. He never does.

“No,” he replies, not even turning around. “My work day ends at 5.”

You blink. “Right, but it’s not work?”

“It’s after hours.” He pulls out his phone, calmly opens the event invite, and selects RSVP: No.

You squint. “Thanks for RSVP-ing, I guess. We’ll miss you!”

He finally looks at you, expression flat. “Good night, Y/N.”

You raise your hand in mock salute. “See you bright and early, Jihoon.”

He doesn’t say anything as he walks past you. But he hears it—that slight shuffle as you cross the office back to your desk, humming something upbeat under your breath. You’ll probably stay another hour organizing name tags or printing out conversation starter cards for people who will absolutely ignore them.

Jihoon presses the elevator button twice, even though once is enough.

He hates how loud the silence feels when the doors close behind him.

To: lee.jihoon@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.com Subject: Signature Policy

Afternoon Jihoon, 

Why do you never sign your emails? Just curious (and bored. And trying to draft an office policy on email signatures)

Y/N L/N Planning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To: youruser@tcc.com From: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: RE: Signature Policy 

I do. See below. 

I don’t think an office-wide signature is necessary. 

-LJH

To: lee.jihoon@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.com Subject: RE: Signature Policy 

Okay, but where’s the MANAGING DIRECTOR, HUMAN RESOURCES

Y/N L/N Planning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To: youruser@tcc.com From: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: RE: Signature Policy 

I don’t need to beg for people’s respect by displaying my title in bold. They respect me regardless of my position. 

-LJH

To: lee.jihoon@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.com Subject: RE: Signature Policy

Wow, how noble. What does that say about me? 

Besides, there’s a difference between fear and respect. You’re HR Batman. You appear silently in hallways and everyone shuts up.

Respectfully, 

Y/N L/N Planning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To: youruser@tcc.com From: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: RE: Signature Policy 

This thread is dangerously close to being flagged as hostile work environment documentation. 

Lee Jihoon Managing Director, Human Resources The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To: lee.jihoon@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.com Subject: RE: Signature Policy

Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. 

Nice signature. 

Y/N L/N Planning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

Jihoon stares at the email longer than he should.

He rereads the line again, and again:

“There’s a difference between fear and respect.”

It’s stupid, he tells himself. A throwaway comment. A joke. You make those all the time: half-sarcastic, half-sweet, always smiling when you say them, like your words aren’t meant to leave a mark.

But this one does.

Because Jihoon knows what fear looks like. He sees it every time he steps into a room and someone closes their laptop a little too quickly. Every time an intern flinches when he passes behind their desk. Every time someone thanks him a little too formally for a perfectly normal piece of feedback.

It’s not news. It’s just not something people usually say to his face.

Fear, he’s learned, is efficient. It keeps people from overstepping. From asking too many questions. From getting too close. And Jihoon has spent most of his career relying on that distance like a scaffold—like armor.

He is not warm. He is not easy. He does not charm. He doesn’t try to.

But still, somewhere in the corner of his chest, something twists.

Because he’d always assumed that his precision, his preparedness, the way he catches mistakes before they happen, that those things inspired confidence. Stability. Trust.

Respect.

Not fear.

He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms, glaring at the far wall of his office as if it’s responsible for any of this. There’s a framed certificate there, something corporate and meaningless. He hasn’t looked at it in years.

Maybe he shouldn’t care what you think. You—with your stupid ceramic frog and your cursed tapestry and your way of being everywhere at once, dragging noise and neon in your wake. You’re not the first to misunderstand him.

But the worst part is this: he knows you weren’t trying to hurt him. That line came from somewhere honest. Somewhere careless.

You didn’t say it to wound.

Which is what makes it land all the harder.

His jaw tightens.

Eventually, he drags the cursor over your email and clicks “archive.”

But the words stay.

The meeting is supposed to be about performance review frameworks, going through slides that Jihoon already reviewed last night and flagged in a spreadsheet with more color-coding than is probably necessary.

Wonwoo’s got the slide deck open, half a croissant in his hand, and one socked foot tucked under him like he’s forgotten he’s the CEO of a billion-won company. Jihoon sits stiff-backed across the table, tablet balanced on his knee, stylus poised. He hasn’t taken a single note.

Not because he doesn’t care, but because he hasn’t heard a word.

The words are back.

People fear you. That’s not respect.

They loop through his head like a bad lyric, like a virus he didn’t know he’d downloaded.

Jihoon shifts in his chair. His spine’s too straight. His tie feels too tight, though he hasn’t loosened it yet.

Wonwoo must notice—he’s perceptive like that, always has been—because he squints at Jihoon over the lip of his coffee mug and asks, “Penny for your thoughts?”

Jihoon turns his head, slow and deliberate, and looks him dead in the eye.

This is the man who trusted him five years ago with the top HR seat—26, green but razor-sharp, no tolerance for fluff or sentiment. Jihoon never asked why he got the offer over people twice his age. He just said yes.

Now, he says: “Am I feared or respected?”

Wonwoo chokes on his coffee.

The laugh comes a second later—abrupt, bright, so loud it echoes off the glass walls. He leans back in his chair and throws his head toward the ceiling like he needs the whole room to hear it.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Jihoon?”

Jihoon crosses his arms.

It’s immediate. Reflexive. And as soon as he does it, he hates himself a little. He feels like a petulant five-year-old whose mom just said he couldn’t have another grape juice.

Wonwoo grins, delighted. “She got under your skin, didn’t she?”

Jihoon doesn’t respond. Mostly because he can’t. He drops his gaze resolutely to the conference table, then to the condensation ring his coffee cup is leaving, then anywhere but Wonwoo’s face.

“Oh my god,” Wonwoo wheezes. “She absolutely did. Fuuuuck, good on her. Honestly, it’s about time someone unwound you, you uptight little wind-up toy—”

“I am not wound up,” Jihoon mutters.

“Oh, please. Jihoon. When’s the last time you laughed? Like, actually laughed? Or smiled? Not one of those mouth-twitches you give when Seungcheol says something vaguely charming in all-hands. I mean a real one.”

Jihoon stays silent, chooses to continue his staring match with Wonwoo’s socks.

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow and continues. “You are clinically incapable of relaxing. You once rescheduled a wisdom teeth removal because it conflicted with quarterly audits.”

“They were impacted,” Jihoon says, as if that’s a defense.

“Jihoon,” Wonwoo sighs.

Jihoon doesn’t answer.Instead, he glares pointedly at the framed photo on the shelf behind Wonwoo’s desk—Wonwoo, grinning at a park picnic, surrounded by people who obviously adore him. His family. Friends. Staff.

Wonwoo’s well-liked. Has always been well-liked.

He knows people’s names. Remembers if they have loved ones. Sometimes even remembers the loved ones’ names. He walks into a room and the air loosens.

Jihoon walks into a room and someone minimizes a spreadsheet.

He grits his teeth. Wonwoo notices.

“Jihoon.”

He blinks. Wonwoo’s staring at him now, half-amused, half-exasperated.

“Why does it matter so much?”

Jihoon opens his mouth. Then closes it again.

He doesn’t have an answer. Not one he can say out loud, anyway.

Not that he feels the tiniest sting every time someone calls him cold. Not that he sometimes wonders what it would be like if someone laughed at something he said on purpose.

He presses his lips into a thin line.

Wonwoo leans back and shakes his head, smiling like he knows exactly what Jihoon isn’t saying.

📁 Drafts — lee.jihoon@tcc.com

[1]

To: youruser@tcc.com Subject: Regarding Your Earlier Comment

Y/N–

Earlier this week, in reference to a discussion about office perception, you mentioned that people fear me but do not respect me.

I wanted to clarify: was that a joke? Or do you genuinely believe that’s how I’m perceived at The Carat Company?

I don’t need praise. I just want accuracy.

–LJH

P.S. This is not a formal complaint.

P.P.S. Please don’t forward this to Wonwoo. This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours? 

[2]

To: youruser@tcc.com Subject: Professional Inquiry

Hi.

You’ve only been here a few months, but already people ask you things like you’ve been here forever. They trust you. They listen to you.

They respect you.

I don’t know how to phrase this without sounding like I’m trying to schedule an HR seminar on likability, which I’m not, to be clear.

I guess I want to know: how do you do it?

How do you get people to want to work with you instead of just… work around you?

Please ignore this email.

–LJH

P.S.  Please, please don’t forward this to Wonwoo.

This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours? 

The email lands in his inbox at 1:58 p.m. on a Tuesday. Two minutes before Jihoon’s last tea break of the day.

He sees the subject line first—HELP WANTED: Spring Gala Planning—and his first instinct is to archive it.

But something makes him click.

To: hr-team@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.com CC: jeon.wonwoo@tcc.com Subject: HELP WANTED: Spring Gala Planning

Hi all, 

The Employee Retention team needs some help with some minor logistics for our upcoming Spring Gala. If you have some free time and would like to volunteer, you’ll have my everlasting gratitude (and free catered lunch for all planning meetings. Who doesn’t love catered lunch?)

Teams invite has been sent out to the whole team. If you can’t make it, please RSVP no.

Y/N L/N Planning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

Almost immediately, a Teams message pings in the corner of his screen.

[💬 Microsoft Teams – Direct Message to JEON WONWOO | 2:02 PM]

From: Jeon Wonwoo If you want to be respected, you know what you should do.

To: Jeon Wonwoo Is this a suggestion or an order?

From: Jeon Wonwoo Would you listen to either?

He doesn’t respond.

He just stares at the calendar invite. Opens it. Closes it. Opens it again.

He gets up. Makes tea. Returns. Refreshes the invite.

It sits there. Mocking him.

He has exactly three hours of work to do and spends most of it half-distracted, clicking over to the meeting window and then away again, like he’s circling a shark tank.

When he finally presses RSVP—one quick click, not even a keystroke—your head snaps up like you’ve been electrocuted.

“You—you want to help plan the gala?”

The incredulity in your voice rings out across the shared office like a fire alarm. Jihoon winces. He doesn't turn around. Not right away.

He stays frozen mid-motion, phone still in one hand, the other hovering near his keyboard like he’s considering taking it all back. Pretending it was a misclick. A calendar sync error. An accident.

He doesn’t look at you until he has no choice.

His eyes flicker to the screen, then to you.

And his ears, traitorous, are already flushing pink.

“I RSVP’d to your meeting,” he says, flatly. Like it’s a legal obligation, like someone strong-armed him into it in a back hallway under fluorescent lights.

You blink.

“Sorry, I just—I didn’t expect—”

“You asked for volunteers,” Jihoon says, already shifting his weight back toward his desk.

Your mouth opens, then closes. A grin threatens. He can see it, feel it, like heat pressing against his skin. Jihoon sighs and turns fully back to his desk, chair scraping as he sits.

“Don’t make this a thing,” he mutters.

You don’t say anything.

But when he glances sideways, the edge of your smile is still there—tugging at the corner of your cheek, small and real.

He turns back to his monitor and opens a spreadsheet at random.

His face is composed.

But his pulse is loud in his ears.

And the RSVP stays.

To: lee.jihoon@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.com Subject: Gala Theme Ideas 🎉🌸✨

Hi Jihoon,

I’ve been brainstorming themes for the Spring Gala and I’m stuck between:

A) Garden Under the Stars B) Masquerade but make it ✨corporate✨ C) Retro prom night (someone has already offered to bring a disco ball)

Thoughts? Votes? Objections that I will pretend to consider but ignore entirely?

Y/N L/N Planning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To: youruser@tcc.com From: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: RE: Gala Theme Ideas

No.

-LJH

Sent from my iPhone

To: lee.jihoon@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.com Subject: RE: Gala Theme Ideas 🎉🌸✨

No to which one?

All of them?

Even the disco ball?

You wound me.

Y/N L/N Planning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To: youruser@tcc.com From: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: RE: Gala Theme Ideas

All of them. 

Especially the disco ball. 

-LJH

To: lee.jihoon@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.com Subject: RE: Gala Theme Ideas 🎉🌸✨

What would you suggest, then? “Gray Room with Fluorescent Lighting: A Corporate Affair”?

(…wait I kind of love that.)

Y/N L/N Planning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To: youruser@tcc.com From: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: RE: Gala Theme Ideas

At least fluorescent lighting is within budget.

-LJH

To: lee.jihoon@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.com Subject: RE: Gala Theme Ideas 🎉🌸✨

You’re funnier than people give you credit for.

Y/N L/N Planning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To: youruser@tcc.com From: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: RE: Gala Theme Ideas

Don’t spread rumors.

-LJH

To: lee.jihoon@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.com Subject: Gala Venue Visits – Next Week?

Hi!

A few of us are going to visit the potential venues next week, mostly to make sure they’re not secretly condemned buildings.

Want to tag along? We’re looking at three locations on Thursday. There will be coffee. I will bribe you.

(I have a latte with 3 pumps of vanilla with your name on it)

Y/N L/N Planning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To: youruser@tcc.com From: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: RE: Gala Venue Visits – Next Week?

I’ll join for the first two. I have a 4PM call.

(It’s 4 pumps, by the way.)

-LJH

To: lee.jihoon@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.com Subject: RE: Gala Venue Visits – Next Week?

Re: Coffee, noted. 

You’re the best. 

(Don’t worry, I won’t say that out loud)

Y/N L/N Planning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

To: youruser@tcc.com From: lee.jihoon@tcc.com Subject: RE: Gala Venue Visits – Next Week?

Too late. You already emailed it.

-LJH

He notices it first on a Thursday. 

He’s late to the gala planning meeting. Only by three minutes, but still. Late. 

Jihoon hates being late; it disrupts his internal clock, throws off the way he likes to move through a room: silently, efficiently, unseen until he speaks. He adjusts the cuff of his shirt as he reaches the door, steels himself for the usual reaction—the way people hush like he’s a reprimand made of skin and bones, how chairs stiffen, how someone inevitably fumbles with a laptop or closes a browser window with a guilty click.

He pushes the door to Conference Room C open.

And nothing happens.

The conversation continues as if he hasn’t entered. Samuel is talking about caterers. You’re flipping through a binder of vendor estimates, a pen tapping absently against your lip. The screen at the head of the room still glows with a pastel color-coded calendar, and someone (he thinks it’s Eunji from PR) is pouring a second cup of coffee.

Then you glance up. See him. And smile.

“Hey, Jihoon,” you say like it’s just another greeting. Like he’s just another person walking into a room.

Samuel turns, lifts his chin. “You made it,” he says, with the kind of easy camaraderie Jihoon always assumed was reserved for people who laughed together in elevators.

When Jihoon slips into the open seat next to you, Samuel claps him once on the back, casual and friendly, like it’s nothing.

Like it’s normal.

Jihoon sits very still for the next ten minutes. Something quiet and unfamiliar hums under his ribs.

He opens his laptop and stares at the agenda. The numbers swim a little. Everyone’s still talking.

And no one is afraid of him.

It feels… strange.

It feels nice.

Thirty minutes later, the conversation is flowing and Jihoon still feels very, very strange.

“Fireworks are too expensive,” someone says, half-joking. “But what if we did, like, cold sparklers? Just to make the photo ops more fun.”

Jihoon’s been half-listening—half-disassociating, if he’s being honest—because the florist rep was fifteen minutes late and the air-conditioning is loud and someone’s catering mocktail samples in the corner like this is a tasting menu for a royal wedding.

Jihoon doesn’t even look up from his screen. “Sure,” he says dryly. “And maybe we’ll dig a moat while we’re at it. Hire a few swans. Build a drawbridge. Very on-brand.”

He doesn’t mean to be funny.

But you laugh. Loud. Bright.

The kind of laugh that fills a room and then folds into something gentler, just for him.

Jihoon’s head lifts, startled. Your hand is pressed to your chest, your eyes wide like you didn’t expect it either.

“Did you just make a joke?” you ask.

He blinks.

“No.”

You grin. “You did. Oh my god.”

Jihoon looks back at his screen, but something is buzzing under his skin now, like electricity arcing too close to water.

It’s nothing.

It’s a laugh.

But he remembers the sound for the rest of the day.

On Friday, Jihoon stumbles into the breakroom for his mid-morning tea after what has to be the longest hiring call he’s ever been on.

He has thirty-two minutes between meetings, and someone left a post-it on his desk saying the break room kettle is working again. He enters expecting silence.

Instead, Jihyo is there. He’s never really talked to her, he realizes with a start. A hi there, a “hope you’re doing well,” there, but never a full conversation. He regrets that a bit now. 

She’s standing with her back to him, shoulders slightly hunched, stirring something golden into a mug. Her phone buzzes next to her elbow. She glances at it and smiles, small and distracted. 

Jihoon remembers with a start that she has a boyfriend serving in the army (He makes a mental note to thank Wonwoo and his iron-clad memory of all of his employees).

Jihoon nods once in her direction. She doesn’t notice. He clears his throat. “Your boyfriend doing okay?”

Her spoon clinks against the rim.

She turns slowly, brows raised. He expects suspicion, defensiveness, maybe a polite smile with an escape plan behind it.

But then her face breaks open. Softens.

“Yeah,” she says. “He is. Thanks for asking.”

She reaches into her tote bag without thinking and pulls out a glass jar. No label. Just honey, thick and gold and unbranded. She holds it out to him.

Jihoon hesitates.

She tilts it toward him. “Try it with green tea,” she says. “Secret’s in the citrus trees.”

He takes it.

The jar is warm from her bag, the weight of it unfamiliar in his hand.

“Thanks,” he says.

She shrugs, already turning back to her phone. “You’re welcome, Jihoon.”

When he returns to your office with a steaming mug of green tea, he places the honey on the corner of his desk like it might bite.

You glance up from your laptop. “Oh,” you say. “You got the good stuff.”

“The what?”

“The honey,” you say, smiling. “The break room hierarchy’s best-kept secret.”

He stares at the jar again. “You knew about this?”

You shrug. “Not my secret to tell.”

He lets out a breath. It’s meant to be a huff of disbelief, but it comes out as something else. Softer. Almost amused.

A laugh, maybe.

When he looks up, you’re staring at him like you’ve heard something rare. Something worth holding on to.

Your eyes are wide. Not in fear.

Just surprise.

He turns back to his keyboard. The smile stays longer than it should.

That night, he drives home in silence. No music. No radio.

When he gets in, he doesn’t even take his shoes off before calling his mom.

“Jihoon-ah,” she answers, warm and surprised. “You’re calling early. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, automatically.

She hums like she doesn’t believe him. There’s the soft sound of her adjusting something on the stove. Then—

“You sound lighter today.”

Jihoon blinks at the ceiling. “Lighter?”

“Not so tired. I can hear it in your voice.”

He doesn't respond.

“And your face looks different in the last few pictures you sent me,” she adds. “You look…” Her voice softens. “Happy. Did something happen at work?”

Jihoon feels the back of his neck go warm. Then the heat crawls up—slow, creeping—to the tips of his ears. He presses a palm over one, like he can stop the sensation by hiding it.

“No,” he says quickly. “Just a good week.”

“Hm,” she says. A knowing noise. “If it’s someone, you can tell me.”

“There’s no one.”

“But maybe,” she says gently, “there could be?”

He doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t press.

But the silence stretches like taffy between them, and Jihoon finds himself staring out the window of his apartment. The light is pale and soft. There’s a gala planning document still open on his laptop. And a Teams chat with you, left unread for the last hour, still blinking at the bottom of the screen. 

And when he hangs up, he opens that chat window again.

You’ve sent a link. A mood board for centerpieces.

He stares at it for a long time.

Then, slowly, he smiles.

[💬 Microsoft Teams – Direct Message to Y/N L/N | 2:34 PM]

From: Lee Jihoon Are you just as bored as I am? 

To: Lee Jihoon gasp! a teams message! is this what the inner circle feels like

From: Lee Jihoon Yes, yes, you are now one of my elite employees. 

To: Lee Jihoon Lee Jihoon, chronic grump, did you just use a MEME? 

From: Lee Jihoon  I am not a grump. I am just selective with who I grace with my laughter and my favor. 

To: Lee Jihoon so you’re saying I’ve been… favored 👀

From: Lee Jihoon  Don’t let it go to your head.

To: Lee Jihoon Too late. Printing it on a mug as we speak.

From: Lee Jihoon  If that mug ends up in our shared kitchen, I’m filing an HR complaint.

To: Lee Jihoon Who would you file it to? Yourself?

From: Lee Jihoon Exactly. And I’d rule against you. With extreme prejudice.

To: Lee Jihoon so much for elite employee status 😔

From: Lee Jihoon You’ve never been more elite.

Jihoon doesn’t hear the question at first.

He’s still staring at your last message and trying to figure out what possessed him to send it. His cursor hovers over the message bubble, as if he can unsend it just by glaring hard enough. Across the room, you’re biting back a grin, your chin propped in one hand as you squint at the shared screen. Your knee bounces under the table, just visible beneath the edge of the conference table. You’re pleased with yourself. You know exactly what you’ve done.

He knows you do. And still. Still. It doesn’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching upward.

He’s so focused on not smiling that he doesn’t hear the question.

“…Jihoon?” someone tries again.

Wonwoo clears his throat pointedly from two seats down. It’s theatrical, the kind of fake cough that sounds suspiciously like Don’t make me say your name again.

Jihoon blinks and sits up straighter.

“Sorry,” he says, briskly. “Could you repeat the question?”

Across the room, you don’t look at him.

But your shoulders shake with barely-contained laughter.

Jihoon sighs through his nose. Wonders how many more meetings he’s going to survive like this.

(Not many, he suspects.)

The meeting wraps with the rustling of papers and the awkward scrape of chairs against laminate floors. Jihoon shuts his laptop with a satisfying snap and stands, already mapping out the most efficient route back to his office—quiet hallways, minimal small talk, absolutely no—

“Elite employee, huh?”

Your voice is too close. It curls around the back of his neck, bright with amusement and something else he can’t name.

He glances to his left. You’re beside him now, walking in step, a shit-eating grin plastered across your face like you invented the concept.

You nudge him lightly with your shoulder. “Think I’ll get a raise in my next performance review?”

Jihoon exhales, too sharp to be a laugh, too soft to be a scoff. “Shut up,” he mutters, but there’s no weight behind it.

You keep walking beside him, unbothered.

You don’t say anything else. And neither does he.

You fall into that strange not-quite-silence you’ve started to share in recent weeks: companionable, teasing, comfortable in a way that makes the back of his throat feel tight. There’s the clack of your shoes beside his, the whisper of air conditioning overhead, the faint buzz of an email notification from someone else’s phone.

And then it happens.

Your pinky brushes his.

Just barely. A graze. A glancing touch that might’ve been accidental—should’ve been accidental. But it lingers for a breath too long.

The sensation is immediate. Sharp. Bright. Like static.

Jihoon’s spine goes ramrod straight. His hand doesn’t pull away. Instead, betraying every single instinct that’s ever kept him in control, his fingers twitch.

Just once. A small flex.

His skin still burns.

You don’t look at him. You don’t say a word. But when the two of you walk back into your shared office, the air between you feels different. Charged. Like something has shifted. Like something is about to break open.

Jihoon sits down. Doesn’t speak.

And across the room, you smile to yourself.

It takes him three full minutes to remember his log-in. 

To: hr-team@tcc.com From: youruser@tcc.com Subject: Breakroom Snack Cabinet

Hi team,

Please join me in thanking Jihoon for restocking the snack cabinets this morning! The chocolate-covered almonds are already gone (guilty 😅), and the sparkling waters were a hit.

Sometimes the little things make a big difference, and I just wanted to shout out the quiet effort behind keeping this office running smoothly. Thanks, Jihoon!

Best,

Y/N L/N Planning and Recruitment Specialist The Carat Company Office: 010-****-**** | Direct: 010-****-****

[💬 Microsoft Teams – Direct Message to Y/N L/N | 9:18 AM]

From: Lee Jihoon That email was unnecessary.

To: Lee Jihoon you deserve to be recognized for all the work you do for this team, jihoon.

[💬 Microsoft Teams – Direct Message to JEON WONWOO | 9:22 AM]

From: Jeon Wonwoo You like her, don’t you?

To: Jeon Wonwoo Kindly fuck off. 

From: Jeon Wonwoo Language, Jihoon. ….So you do like her. 

It happens on a Wednesday.

There’s nothing special about the day; no meaningful glances, no slow-motion sequence where you toss your hair back in golden light or say something profound that punches him square in the gut.

No. It’s Wednesday. The sky is gray. He’s wearing the same charcoal sweater he always wears when it’s under 35°F. You’re not even in the office.

That’s the problem.

He realizes it when he sits down at his desk with his usual morning tea, stares at the wall across from him, and feels… off.

The tapestry is there. Crooked, colorful, stitched with tiny stars and a cat wearing a top hat. It’s awful. Loud. 

And yet.

His eyes drift down. To the mug. That damn ceramic frog.

It’s hideous.

It’s perfect.

Jihoon exhales slowly, leans back in his chair, and lets the silence fill the space between him and the humming vent above. It’s too quiet today. No clack of your boots down the hall. No breathless rush as you slide into your seat with a thermos and an apology. No “Morning, Jihoon,” sung like a threat and a gift all at once.

And worst of all, God help him, he misses your laugh.

The one that sneaks up on him. Loud and delighted and entirely unfiltered, like you forgot who you were laughing in front of.

Jihoon stares at his screen.

He’s opened Outlook without meaning to.

Your calendar status reads: “WFH – doctor’s appt in the afternoon.”

He tells himself that’s why he notices.

It isn’t.

He scrolls back up. Opens a new email. Types your name. Stares at the blinking cursor in the message body.

And then he deletes the draft. Again.

He sits back in his chair and rubs a hand over his mouth. Doesn’t even realize he’s smiling.

Oh, shit, he thinks.

He likes you.

He likes you, and he likes your stupid colorful Powerpoint Presentations, and he likes your tapestry with the stitched cat and the crooked stars, and maybe he even likes that you always ask him to help plan things he claims to hate.

Worst of all, maybe he likes the way you make the office feel like something softer. Something warmer. Something that doesn’t need a policy document or a title in bold to have meaning.

Jihoon lets his hand drop to his lap.

And it curls, almost unconsciously—like it remembers the brush of your pinky against his, still seared into his skin.

📁 Drafts — lee.jihoon@tcc.com

[1]

To: youruser@tcc.comSubject: Gala Decor

What do you think about the navy-and-gold color palette for the Spring Gala? I found a local vendor that does some decent floral arrangements—simple, not too flashy.

Might balance out the... sequins you insisted on.

-Jihoon

This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours? 

[2]

To: youruser@tcc.comSubject: Quick Q

What color dress are you wearing to the gala? (Not because I want to match my tie. Obviously.) Just for logistics. For planning. Cohesion. Visual unity. I’ll stop typing now.

This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours? 

[3]

To: youruser@tcc.comSubject: Ride

Would you like a ride to the gala? It’s at the Marriott downtown and I’ll be heading that way anyway. I mean. Unless you have other plans.

This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours? 

[4] 

To: youruser@tcc.comSubject: Drink

Do you want to grab a drink after work sometime? Not a meeting. Not team bonding. Just… a drink. One.

This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours? 

[5] 

To: youruser@tcc.com Subject:

drinks? at lucky strike? no pressure

This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours? 

[6]

To: youruser@tcc.com Subject: today

I missed you at work today. It was too quiet. Your creepy one-eyed frog was still here, though. And the tapestry.

This email has not been sent yet. Send during the recipient's work hours?

[se7vnn]

BELT LOOPS

PAIRING: bf!vernon x reader

CONTENT: drabble, fluff, established relationship, vernon is very loving here! (possibly a teensie bit ooc), reader has a little anxiety in crowded places, slightly suggestive (kissing, allusions to sex [barely])

WORD COUNT: 1.2k

SUMMARY: three ways in which vernon uses the belt loops of your jeans not for its intended purpose.

note: i love kiwi vernon guys...................................

WHEN YOU'RE DEFIANT, it's usually out of pettiness. Though you aren't directly opposed to it, there's lingering annoyance in your demenor. Vernon knows that when your chin turns away from him, it's a disapproval of your loss in rock-paper-scissors. Well, losers weepers.

"So, I guess it's pasta tonight," he says, following behind you. You can hear the cheekiness in his voice, that of a winner's tone.

You slow down your strides on the sidewalk, making room for him to walk beside you. "Guess so."

He's trying. He's really trying to resist the smile that creeps up on his face, but right now, you need coddling because you just lost a pizza night again.

At the crosswalk, Vernon notices the distance between you guys. He notices the stubbornness in your stance, the way your arms are crossed, and your pursed lips. For a second he actually thinks you're upset, but he knows you well enough that you'd speak up if you had concerns.

"Why do you propose a game of rock-paper-scissors when you never win?" He asks. "You know, we could just get pizza--"

"That'd be cheating!" You exclaim. "And since you won fair and square, we should make… pasta."

Vernon only smirks, nodding to your words. "Right. It would be unfair since I won--even if I was offering to have your choice tonight."

"Exactly." You murmur, watching the crosswalk's signal.

He rolls his eyes, adjusting his leather jacket. Your eyes remain set on the light, avoiding his gaze.

When the signal changes, you’re just about to step forward before Vernon gently tugs at your waist, fingers hooking into your belt loop, making you catch your breath. He casually pulls you closer, then unhooks his fingers and throws his arm over your shoulders.

“You’re a sore loser,” he mutters closely, just loud enough for you to hear.

Your pace falters and becomes one with his, and despite his playful insult, you let one arm wrap behind his back. You exhale through your nose--half laugh and sigh. “Is that offer for my choice still available?”

Vernon clicks his tongue in disbelief, shaking his head. “Oh, I’m not too sure about that. You already turned it down and made a very good point on how that would be cheating.”

You glance up to be met with his dorky grin. “Yeah, you’re right. Pasta it is then…”

He tugs you closer, quickly pressing a kiss on the side of your head. “We’ll save pizza for next time, definitely. No games, alright?”

"Fine, no games." You giggle.

WHEN IT'S CROWDED, it's a mutual agreement that losing each other is the last thing you need happening. Whether it's a concert, downtown, or heck, even a rave, you both agree that you must stick together.

In the sea of bodies, Vernon navigates you to the nearest wall at some house party Mingyu invited you both to. The bass is not favourable. The songs pounding through the speakers are so loud that you don't even hear what reassuring comment Vernon makes everytime he looks back at you.

You lip read, "I dislocated my shoulder," and you know that's not what he's really saying--it's the music's fault, you think to yourself. All you can do is nod awkwardly as he leads you in further.

It feels endless, the shoulder bumping and the occasional running into. Until it actually hits you, well, a body that is. You're inadvertently shoved back by a stranger who profusely apologizes once you caught your balance.

"No, no, it's okay, really!" You assure them. Except, it really wasn't okay. You've lost Vernon.

You don't remember feeling this nervous in a place like this. The bodies around you move like waves, not giving you a chance to look over them. And sure, you have been to parties like this before, but maybe you forgot what those are like without Vernon.

"Let's find the nearest wall," was what he said before you entered the house. It plays over and over in your head until you feel something pull at your waist.

When you look to your side, Vernon's fingers hook into your belt loop, pulling you flush to his side. He slips his fingers out and places a hand on your lower back, ushering you to a more secluded area.

He lowers his head right by your ear, quietly whispering, "Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah, I'm okay," you whisper back. "Thanks though. I was actually a bit freaked out when I couldn't see you anymore. It's crazy in there, I don't know where Mingyu would even enjoy himself."

"Beats me," he chuckles. "There's for sure way too many people in this house. No way that's allowed, right?"

You hum, the weight on you feeling a lot less now.

Vernon takes your hand into his, raising it up to his lips to lightly peck. "Let's just hold hands for the night so we don't lose each other again, okay?"

Gosh, if your heart could not feel even warmer than it already was, Vernon was there to prove you wrong.

WHEN HE NEEDS YOU, he'll never outwardly say it. It's not that he can't verbally express himself, it's just that this is a different feeling. Instead, he'll show you, or there will be signs that your boyfriend is craving your touch.

Whatever mundane chore you're doing right now, he's watching. Not watching how you handle the mugs--he's watching you.

As he shyly approaches the counter, he places his phone on the marble with a light thud to make his presence known, just so he doesn't startle you.

"Hey, Nonie," you chirp, placing the mug back down. Your attention averts to him, who is stalking closer until he stands on the opposite side of you.

"Hey," he quietly says, resting his lower back against the counter, "need help?"

You sigh, turning your back to continue sorting the cups. "No, I'm just about done now. Sleep well?"

"Mhm... yeah," Vernon mumbles, voice low. He shifts his body lazily against the counter, his hands acting as anchors on its edges. "Was kind of cold, though, y’know, since you woke up early ‘n left me." he adds, hoping you'd pick up on what he really means.

And here you are grinning to yourself because you know exactly what he wants--no, needs.

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that..." You say, giving him faux sympathy.

Vernon doesn't immediately respond, only letting out a scoff jokingly. He notices that you're not out of arm's reach, so with his hand raised, he sneaks his fingers into your belt loop, tugging you back lightly.

You're glad you aren't holding any glass cups because you barely manage to ground it on the counter before your back meets with his chest.

His head dips to your neck, lips brushing your skin, and he finally mutters, "You can make it up to me."

When he removes his fingers from your belt loop, you feel his hands grip each side of your waist, gently spinning you around so that you're facing him.

"That bad, huh?" You laugh, throwing your arms over his shoulders. "Since you're so cute, I might as well..."

Vernon flashes you his wide smile, hugging you closer. His head leans towards yours, capturing your lips with his. As his kiss deepens, it's a bit lazy but with intent, the kind that expresses himself without needing to say it out loud. Boy, is he glad to have you.

another note: thank u for reading my first fic posted on here

[se7vnn]

yoongi's interlude: fugue pt. ii (3tan) (m) | myg

title: yoongi’s interlude: fugue pt. ii (m) pairing: 3tan!yoongi x reader(f)  series: masterlist | three tangerines | fireworks | house party | basketball |  stay |  sidewalk talk | friends | dalo | like that | anytime | sundress season | yoongi’s interlude | forfeit | flutter | video call | busted | broken pt. 1 | broken pt. 2 | fugue pt. i rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , smut ;  brother’s best friend au, implied age gap au summary: he would do anything for you, even if that means leaving your light... to venture into his dark. note: fugue—in music, a compositional procedure characterized by the systematic imitation of a principal theme in simultaneously sounding melodic lines ; a state or period of loss of awareness of one's identity, often coupled with flight from one's usual environment. note 2: if you haven’t read them or haven’t read them in awhile, i highly recommend rereading busted, broken pt 1, and broken pt 2 before diving into this one. note 3: yes. this is where i will hold hands. warnings: language, flashbacks, time skips, angst, heavy isolation, brain fog, fugue state experiences, ruined instrument, depression allusions, alcohol mentions and consumption, fight scenes, spice from yoongi’s pov????, trauma, bro is a real one, drugs mention/use, the demons are being fought y’all, among other things😔, blood, yoongi please get up😭😭, darkness, jimin being his ride or die self, surprise reader cameo?, anxiety, ptsd reflexes, the ex is getting screen time🚶‍♀️‍➡️, friendship is truly power, yoongi just needs a gd hug😭, dark thoughts, tension, the ending.. oh god the ending<33 ; nsfw warnings: under the cut! drop date: july 1st, 2025, 9:57pm est word count: 21.1k wtfffff

smut warnings: YOONGI SMUT POV!!!, ch*king, head/hair tugging, reader has a pain kink and yoongi knows it, penetr*tive s*x, chains but come on now, protective s*x, cowgirl, or*l (m/f rec), edg*ng a ha ha, thro*tf*cking, kissing :’))), kissing D:, hitting from the b b back, yoongi king of consent sheesh, multiple org*sms, spitting lmfao, sl*t/wh*re mentions, yoongi jfc lol, the aftercare y’all already know!!

“How do you even call this work? You don’t do shit!”

—

—

When you’re in the eye of a tempest, you don’t see the danger surrounding all sides. You feel the calm. The temporary peace—when really your mind is constantly on the run. 

But from the outside looking in, no one can reach you through the darkness. If they get too close, they risk getting hurt. Swept in the chaos and shut out from where you stand in false hope. 

They’ll scream for you to leave. Beg for you to run. But only you can make that choice once you have the chance to hear them. And why would you? If you don’t see any issue with what’s in front of your eyes? 

They will try, and try, and try. Their voices will run repetitive until distant. Pleas will fall on deafer and deafer ears. Try as they might to step into the rush of fury, they’ll only get pushed away because you can’t deal with the cacophony of disappointment. 

Pretty soon, nobody wants to brave that cyclone. Nobody will come save you from the wrath because all it does is make them burn. 

You’re happy, right? Why can’t they be happy you’re happy where you are? Safe. Comfortable, like you’ve never been before? They don’t see it like you do. They don’t understand what you have. 

Slowly but surely. One by one—even the best one. No one except your storm will be there beside you.

And when it abandons you to drown in the ocean it created?

Only then will you realize all your lifelines are long, long gone.

—

—

The sky is dark again.

From the dips of his sofa, Yoongi awakes to pitch black, watching the ceiling flash sinister grins with lightning white teeth.

Ah. Back to the beginning. 

Not that he’s surprised, of course. Everything always goes back to the way it was. Back to the way it’s supposed to be. Because it’s all he deserves. 

Right? 

When thunder crashes into the night, Yoongi flinches in knots, memories jagged at the edges piercing his head violent. 

You know not to—

—shitty day to—

Seriously?

—knew this would—

Prove it.

—only gonna end up alone. 

—

—

Thunder booms once more.

But Yoongi wakes in a memory.

“Why don’t you just stay?”

He looks to his side, seeing a face that has been with him for more days than anyone else’s lately. 

No one has ever asked him to stay. At least, not during the morning after when there’s not much left to talk about. With everyone else, it’s been a quick one in the nearest bathroom or him bouncing before the sun comes up. 

It’s his fault for sleeping this long. He should’ve at least gotten woken up by—

Thunder cracks outside, catching Yoongi’s attention before he finds himself still hesitating. “You sure?” 

“At least until the storm stops. Then you have to go.” 

A bit of morning attitude does feel nice. And at least he remembers her name. He should, though, since this is the fourth time he’s been over. 

“Uhm.” The only complication is that… Yoongi has a thing. A pretty important thing, since his friends are finally all in town again and planned to spend the day together. He’s surprised his phone isn’t blowing up right now, which is what he expected to be woken up by.

He shifts. Oh. It’s dead. 

Yoongi hears a snort behind him before an arm snakes around his bare torso. “It died a long time ago, you know.”

Interesting. “You didn’t charge it for me?”

Another smug laugh crawls along his spine. “I could’ve.” When the hand on his stomach slithers lower, Yoongi’s body responds on instinct, his eyes closing and his heart bumping just a bit louder. 

And he doesn’t yet know it. 

“But I wanted you all to myself.”

Yoongi turns. “Is that so?”

But this stormy day from years past is significant. 

Lashes bat at him with shimmering lust as he’s lured away from his still-uncharged phone. Away from his plans. Away from his awaiting, concerned as hell friends. “Find out for yourself.”

And Yoongi’s gone before the next groan of thunder ends its roar. “Fuckin’ plan on it.”

It’s not a cleanse. Not a relief.

But an omen. 

—

—

Time passes as he’s thrown back to the present.

But Yoongi doesn’t know how long it’s been. Hours? Days? …Weeks? 

It’s dark again. 

But his phone is alive. Barely there across the room, a light blue screen is all he can make out. Someone could be texting. Or calling. Or whatever else he’s gonna ignore. 

How did it get all the way over there?

Whatever. Not like he cares. He’s not gonna need it for awhile anyway. 

The last thing Yoongi remembers is clutching your words in his hands, but apparently Namjoon and Hoseok found him eerily sick. Practically kicked him out of the studio to force him to get better, not knowing how painfully ironic that would become.

The endless rot coaxed a slow descent into his warring mind, corroding from the inside. Seeping defeat along his veins. 

Pelts pelts pelts against the windows hit him like punches, weakening his resolve to even stay awake. It’s all too much. His brain is too battered and bruised to fight right now. 

So he plummets from the sofa back into the past. 

—

—

“That one looks like you.”

From a ways behind, Yoongi watches his younger self, seeing vibrant hair shaking in a laugh before sweeping his pensive gaze along the hazy, deep orange skyline. 

He remembers this hilltop, benches and trees overlooking the city life below. How can he forget when he passes it every time he goes to practice with the guys? Well, every time he went. He doesn’t think he’s gone anywhere in a minute. 

At least he’s observing this memory from a distance this time. Yoongi assumes this is his mind’s way of coping. Because reliving the memories from his own point of view was too much to bear. 

The air carried a certain hue of pink that day. And his hands can still recall the stickiness of the popsicle he held as stickier lips get caught in another kiss. 

Right. This is where it happened. Where Yoongi fell in love for the first time. 

At least, that’s what it felt like to him. He felt wanted for more than his body, understood on a level that no one else had before. Be it his yearning for companionship or for simply being needed, Yoongi felt something beat in his chest that day, spurning him to embrace new emotions never before experienced. 

But something feels off as he relives it on the sidelines. She says those words so differently than how he remembered before. 

“I love you.” 

Yoongi turns away before he can watch himself react. Because he doesn’t need to witness the light in those eyes, a light that would soon be squashed and smothered to the point of nothingness. 

Because in the end, it wasn’t love he received. Love doesn’t come with terms and conditions that don’t go both ways. Love doesn’t make someone second guess everything they’ve ever said and done. 

Love doesn’t make someone want to end it all. 

But what did he know back then? All he saw was someone making him feel good. Great, most of the time. What he didn’t think about, though, was why they were on the hilltop in the first place. 

Right now, that Yoongi doesn’t know about this girl skipping out on work to hang out with him. He doesn’t remember shirking responsibilities to meet her in her bed, caught in his feelings enough afterwards to blow his friends off yet again. 

How many times did he do that at this point? Were they already annoyed with him? Or was this when they started asking if they’d even get him back?

Sighing deep, Yoongi stuffs both hands in his hoodie as he watches another kiss unfold, grimacing at the way she tries her best to swallow him whole. Months down the line, she accomplishes that. He’ll feel trapped with no way out in no time. 

He needs to get out of this nightmare. The sunlight is fading and so is his control. 

Then he watches himself get up, begging to not get in that car. To not leave. To just run. 

Fuck, he wants to haul himself away with everything in his bones. The fact that he can’t stop any of this from happening is what hurts the most, feeling like he can save himself yet knowing it’s impossible. All he can do is watch. 

As she yanks on his younger arm to haul him back down to the bench, Yoongi flinches where he stands, triggered by all the times he tried to leave his own fucking place just to be guilt-tripped into staying. Every time. So many times so many times so many fucking times. 

Get out of here. Either version, get the fuck out of this timeline and into any other. He’s damn near ready to beg and sacrifice anything with a squeeze of his eyes. 

And when he opens them, Yoongi meets a different orange hue on his speckled ceiling, blinking before turning his head into a pillowcase that smells like… You. 

Thank fuck. 

Wait, how’d he get here? Wasn’t he just on the couch? Whatever. Doesn’t matter. 

Relieved, he burrows a cheek into your lingering presence, inhaling short to preserve the one thing that makes his apartment feel like a home. It’s such a comfort that he feels remorse in his chest, right before something leaks slow from his eye.

Even in your absence, you save him once again. There’s nothing Yoongi won’t give you when he gathers himself again, because you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to something good. 

Guess going back to sleep is not an option. Maybe he’ll finally try to work on some tracks again. 

—

—

A boom of thunder jolts him conscious, and Yoongi winces at the crick in his shoulder before grabbing it in a rub. What the hell? When did he fall asleep? 

Checking his dimmed screen, he squints when the brightness blooms and curses at the many, many, many errant notes displayed on his workspace. Because of fucking course he fell asleep on his keyboard. 

The instrument track is deleted without another thought. 

But after a brief stare, Yoongi undoes the action and goes to the very beginning of the timeline, just to see if he had an idea to start with before descending into a dreamless symphony. 

Nope. Delete.

Failure wisps down his chest before he rubs both eyes. This has got to be the most disjointed he’s ever felt. Yoongi doesn’t even know when he last ate something, much less spoken to somebody or taken a fucking shower. 

Disgusting. He needs to do that last one. It’s the only productive thing he does before falling face first into his bedsheets, wondering when he last washed them before succumbing to sleep again. 

—

—

“Wow, about time you finally brought her!” 

“Ah, yah, he’s back out from hiding!” 

Yoongi can visibly see his hand squeezed with apprehension, and he remembers nails digging into his skin hard enough to crunch his smile. 

Throughout the house, multiple people greet them both as they pass, and even Yoongi shifts as if he isn’t just a ghost of a bystander. 

This party. This night. This very house witnessed the moment when everything started going to absolute shit. 

For once, she agreed to come with him to a party. It wasn’t at Jimin’s, since she never wanted to be there—red flag stupidly ignored—but at another acquaintance’s across town. 

Yoongi was simply relieved, happy to be able to see everyone he cared about in one place. But it soon became harder and harder to hold conversations without being pulled somewhere else, being told to go elsewhere, feeling bad about not making it a good time for her. 

As his younger self follows her to a room upstairs, Yoongi prods his cheek. Because unlike sneaking around with your shy smile, this was to hash out a petty argument about nothing. Nothing. 

But he cared about her so much that he took the harsh statements behind closed doors. He listened as she expressed that she felt ignored the whole night. He hated himself for making her feel that way because that wasn’t his intent at all. 

Poised against the wall just outside the door, Yoongi hangs his head, hearing the same painful words from the other side and sending his past self all the love he didn’t have before. 

And he watches as the same door bursts open, his ex rushing for the stairs and his bright hair bolting after her.

Soon, he’ll chase her down the stairs, calmly try to reason with her but failing miserably. People will stare. People will talk. 

But they’d already be in a car and silently driving away. 

—

—

Another day. Another thunderstorm.

Somehow, Yoongi always ends up in his living room when this happens. Like his bedroom feels too sinister when it rains—unless you’re in there filling it with your sunshine. 

He hopes you still know how beautiful you are. How wonderful, how mesmerizing he finds you, no matter where in space and time he resides. Are you finding ways to be happy? Are you out there conquering whatever you want simply because you can? 

Can he send himself to your dreams instead? 

No. Even in dreams, he doesn’t deserve to see you right now. 

And there’s his same problem again. The shadow standing over him. Whether this is due to his past mistakes, or the darkness in his mind, Yoongi fully believes he isn’t yet worthy of your light. 

Besides. As he feels the guitar standing in its same place, he hears it speaking. Reminding him of all the things he’s done wrong. 

When lightning strikes, Yoongi counts the seconds. And four counts later, he flinches at the boom before blanking again. 

—

—

“Who’s that?”

“No one.” 

“You know not to tell me that. Who is it?” 

Ah. He knows why this memory is still taking up space in his mind. Yoongi takes a spot along the wall of her living room, remembering how clean it was and knowing that’s one of the reasons he liked her in the first place. 

Settled on the spotless couch, his younger self with undyed hair turns his head. “The studio guy I was talking to before. Wants to bring me in so I can see what’s up.” 

She gets up with a pout, “Awhh, does it have to be today?” 

He remembers being excited as hell for this. But no one would be able to tell based on his response, “Uhh, I think so. Is that okay?”

“Umm.. I mean, I guess.” 

Truthfully, there were many reasons Yoongi liked this girl. But there were also warning signs, and he must have ignored them in favor of bliss and companionship. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Walking up to his knees, she starts to mount his lap. And this is when Yoongi softly thumps his head back on the other side of the room. 

“I just wanted to hang out today.” 

“Well.. I practically live here now.” When he watches his younger hands skirt along her legs, no feeling rushes into his veins. It’s all evaporated. There’s nothing where everything used to be. “We can when I get back?”

“You don’t live here officially,” she tuts, slinging arms around his neck and bringing him into her chest. And again, his current self is repulsed. “Are you sure you need to go? What are you even gonna do?” 

She fucking knows what she’s doing. Red flags are everywhere for eyes unblinded by infatuation. 

“It’s not that I need to, but I really fucking want to. It sounds really sick and I think I can work there with them.”

“With who?” 

“The.. Studio guys?” 

This is more painful on the other side. 

Because that boy doesn’t know what’s coming. He doesn’t know the pain that will splay out from his inability to see what’s happening to him. Those arms will tighten and tighten around his neck in due time, suffocating like mad. 

But for now, she agrees to let him go, dismissive of the main reason and having ulterior motives. “Fine, but you’re bringing me back food.” 

“I got us,” he readily agrees. And Yoongi can just feel the rush in his chest. Incredible, considering he recalled zero emotion from her earlier touch. “Just let me know what you want.” 

This is when it hits again. This feeling in his gut is not because of the food they ate when he returned. But from preparing for what’s coming next. 

And he dreads the next time he can’t stay awake anymore. 

—

—

Yoongi eyes the molded tangerines in his bowl.

And his heart walks away before he does. 

—

—

Hail comes down in sheets as Yoongi watches himself haul ass to the apartment corridor. Right behind him, growls and angry yells erupt, “I told you it would be a shitty day to do this.”

“It’s my only day off,” he reiterates, steadying a box with the door as he jingles in the key. “Been busy as fuck lately.”

“At that studio again?” 

Waiting as they bustled inside an empty unit, Yoongi’s jaw locks right up. Right then and there he should’ve walked away from that dangerous precipice, new place be damned. So slippery with condescension. So littered with malice and passive aggression. 

But they both took that step from beyond the bounds of friends with benefits, and with those benefits also came the ones of his doubt. Because Yoongi dealt with the jabs. He could handle those, though he shuns his own naivety of liking instead of loathing them. How did he ever let himself be subtly shot down so many times?

It continued to happen all throughout the day. Even when they both waited out the hailstorm and came out to their cars dented to hell, all he’d really hear were complaints about his hobby—his hobby?—taking up so much time. 

It’s when they’re almost done that she drops a heavy hit, with Yoongi watching them from the hall. “Just think about it, okay? You’re spending all this time and money on it and aren’t really doing anything.”

Maddeningly, it’s hard to really tell someone a hobby is actually your entire life. Especially when you haven’t got anything to show for it other than a couple self-produced tracks and one producer credit on a local, aspiring singer’s album. Man, that guy was an asshole. He needed to learn how to move sessions along even with artists bickering the whole way or else—

“Are you even listening?”

“Sorry,” Yoongi mumbles, adjusting the moving box in his arms that’s holding a deconstructed bar cart. “Work shit again.”

“Seriously? Can you not for like two seconds? I just wanna get everything done with and shower. I feel gross.”

“You aren’t supposed to shower during a—”

“Don’t care! I do not care. Let lightning strike me the fuck down while I scrub my asshole.”

Yoongi snorts as he struggles to open his door once again, noting in the far, far back of his mind that the person with a free hand could’ve held it open but didn’t. That should’ve told him enough. But of course, he gave her everything, including way too many chances to redeem herself. 

As they stumble inside, Yoongi follows, remembering how, despite moving someone in, he felt so… Alone. 

His music equipment gets shoved over for more desk space; his shoe collection stuffed in cramped spaces to make room for smaller kicks; his kitchen groaning with boxes and bins with no organization that was slowly but painfully driving him up and through the nearest wall.

Watching this dreary day play out from a distance, Yoongi observes his younger self with abject misery, sweeping his gaze across a cluttered living room and noting the obvious slump in his shoulders. Shoulders that bore the weight of his brash decision of a relationship. 

What were his friends doing that day? Were they watching a basketball game together? He remembers it was the end of the season, so a lot of them were gathering for watch parties and cook-outs. Get togethers he had turned down for weeks in order to spend time with her. 

If only he had asked himself one question. One question should’ve been enough to tell him everything he needed to know.

If he ever had the chance to tell his younger self not to get hung up on one mistake in his life, he would pick this one. Because this one fuck-up set him back years, and became the first splotch of grey in his shrinking, shrinking universe. One question he could’ve asked himself. One answer he could’ve gotten to immediately. 

Why didn’t anyone help him move her in.

—

—

There’s nothing in the fridge Yoongi can eat. And there’s a severe lack of food in his pantry, even though he remembers it being stocked but not taking any of it out. So for the first time in awhile, he forces himself to go outside for sustenance. 

Yoongi shuts his door before locking it, also noting that very empty bowls lie next to his shoes. 

“Oh! There you are.” 

Who the fuck? Who’s even out at this hour? Sluggish, Yoongi turns, noticing the elder lady next door watering the plants along her welcome mat. What was her name again? He thinks it starts with a vowel. But when he tries to answer with a hello, his voice cracks and dies on his tongue. 

Holy shit, when’s the last time he’s even spoken? 

“You okay, sugar? I haven’t seen or heard you in a long time.” 

Wait. Even the neighbors are getting nosy now? How long has he been away from the world? Attempting speech again, Yoongi swallows before rasping out, “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Don’t lie to me, boy. Where’s that nice girl that’s been coming over?” 

Oh. He thinks that’s a pulse in his chest before he answers, “At her place.” Where you need to stay. Far, far away from him.

“Oh… Well, I hope she comes back over soon.” She sets her watering pail on the windowsill. “You two have the best time when she’s here. Hah! Those laughs I hear when I don’t have my dramas playing.. You two give an old lady hope.” 

…What? Yoongi can’t even form a coherent thought. 

Did… Did you really make his laughs so hard his walls couldn’t contain them? The concept seems so obvious yet so foreign, because he can’t even recall the last time he used muscles in his face to smile. Let alone expel joy. 

Suddenly, he sees rain on a cloudless night. Where is he? He doesn’t even fucking know anymore. 

“I’ll be waiting,” the lady continues, breaking through his haze again. “You look like you’re about to tell me something. But I know you aren’t done with her yet.” 

Closing his mouth, Yoongi blinks before nodding his tired head. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Good! And tell her Miss Dion says hello, okay?” 

Yoongi hasn’t spoken to you in awhile now. But he doesn’t have the heart to tell her that. “Yes, ma’am.” 

—

—

This memory doesn’t reveal much other than onyx static. But it morphs and twists until it sprouts edges, and it sends him into shakes. Fuck. This is the night he always dreads. The night that transcends time, showing itself like a specter no matter the time of day. The night he said those three words that have him fucking tethered to his living room corner. 

The night of his twenty-first. 

It happened all those years ago, with only the two of them because she wanted it to be special and waved off his desire to have his friends there. For a milestone that should have been celebrated with whoever he fucking wanted. 

And he remembers being completely fine with the isolation. Because despite all the studio shade, all the music dismissal… She got him a brand new guitar. A real one. Not just some rented instrument he had to keep returning, but a true, beautiful black guitar. 

She got it for him because music was his hobby. His hobby. 

Not his life, not his dream career. But a hobby. The gift was laced with malicious intent and he didn’t see it until months later. When everything was becoming crystal clear and frightening. 

Yoongi wedges himself in the corner so strongly he can actually feel the scrap of his walls, watching with short breaths as his younger, ignorant self takes it from its case with admiration. Breathe. This isn’t real anymore. Fucking breathe. 

He will always hate this memory. He wants it to burn, to break, to shatter into pieces just so he can’t witness it any longer. But it’s always there. Taunting him when he’s close to healing, whipping around his arms when he’s close to feeling okay again. You’ve done every fucking thing you could, but even you aren’t strong enough to fight this one for him. 

Only he can conquer this. And he’s only succeeding in failing. 

Yoongi’s head drops when he hears himself say those three little words again, eyes pinching tight at the reaction he gets back. 

“You got there,” she says through manufactured tears. “I knew this would do it.” 

Get him the fuck where? Hell? The abyss? In the middle of the fucking ocean? 

Hair slides in front of his eyes as he has to hear her cry again, feeling his heart sag knowing he’s tugging her in for a hug. “And I’m there forever,” he mouths along with his past self. 

Her grin is still piercing. Sharp. Striking. “Forever.” 

Get out. Get out, get out, get out. 

Forcing himself out of the nightmare, Yoongi shoots from his bed, unsurprised his head is pulsing hard. 

Fuck this. He’s got to get out of here. Your house. Your bed. Your arms. God, the yearning for any of those claws at his chest and bangs against his ribcage. But the studio is his safest place that doesn’t have you in it. So he hastily grabs his keys, heading to the door to slip on his shoes. 

Aiming an offensive finger at the guitar in the corner. The same one that will be waiting for him when he returns. 

—

—

“You’re seeing someone else.” 

“What? Why would I be?” 

“You were seeing someone when you saw me.” 

Yoongi’s stomach lurches at this particular memory. Because hearing that accusation from her lips crushed his heart and slid it across their apartment floor. “First of all, that’s not what happened.” 

“Looked exactly like how it happened. And you won’t even admit it.” 

If she was willing to be down with that, then she was no better. But why would she ever put herself in the wrong? Her aversion to ownership was something else. 

Yoongi watches from the kitchen this time as she taps her utensils on the table. At least she’s not digging lines in it this time. His words across the wooden surface sound completely unlike her ire, “I said I wasn’t good for her. And I left before we got serious.” 

“Well why aren’t you serious about us now?” 

That was a goddamn stretch and they both knew it. It took everything to not slam on the gas, crashing into the window next to his shoulder. “What makes you say that?”

“You don’t make time for me anymore.” 

Because no matter how upset he got, Yoongi could never find it in him to shout. That was her thing. He vowed to never make it his. Explaining soft, he moves food around his plate. “It’s the only time that studio space is free. And I picked that place because it’s the closest one, like you asked.” 

“You’re so cheap.” Both versions of himself feel the same deep pang. “But whatever. Why aren’t you answering my calls lately?” 

When he watches himself sigh, Yoongi flexes both hands at his sides. “Phones are out when we’re in there.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“Are you gonna believe anything that I say?” 

“I’ll believe it when you actually make time.” Every memory seems to be harder to watch than the last. 

“Okay,” his younger self relents, knowing this is how all the arguments end. “I’ll try. But I’m making progress so as soon as I’m done with this mix—” 

She laughs while slamming the utensils down, the dining table screaming in pain. “Of course!” 

“Of course what?” 

“Another excuse, Yoongi,” she grits out, leaning back to fold angry arms. “You don’t even bring that guitar with you, either.” 

“Cus it’s staying here.” 

The way she could slip between the monster and the victim makes him squirm. Her eyes grow wide, brows creasing with a practiced pleading that makes him grimace. “Why? You don’t like it?” 

“I don’t wanna break your gift.” 

“Oh.” 

He holds his hand out, and Yoongi slides his jaw knowing what he does here. Taking her by the hands, the younger him offers a moment of peace, “You really think I’m not in this for real?” 

“It’s more like.. I feel like I’m competing with your job and your.. thing. And losing.” 

His thing. Yoongi loves his thing. He is genuinely enjoying creating and analyzing and experiencing music that he can’t wait to go back. It’s all he can think about when he sleeps, when he wakes. But now he feels bad because he may need to do it less to spend time with her. “I’ll prove it.” 

“Prove what?” 

“That you aren’t.” 

“Okay,” she sighs, gripping his hands. “You better.”

Voices that aren’t his or hers leak into his slumber. And the memory starts to fade into dust on his tongue.

“Let him sleep.” 

“He’s gonna wake up as soon as we start anyway.” 

“Why’d he sleep in here and not the back room?” 

Yoongi slowly opens his eyes, blinking away sleep as blurred shapes come into focus. Mm. He made it to the studio. And he’s definitely on the couch, based on the awkward slant of his back. Lolling his head sideways, he watches all three of his coworkers bustle around the console, flipping on different switches and wincing at the loud hum of the CPU. When Hoseok glances back to see his eyes in squints, he tuts to the others, 

“Ah, see? He’s already awake.” 

“Mmph,” Yoongi grunts out as they all turn, struggling to a sitting position and kneading his eyes. “Don’t wait, I’ll get up now.” 

“When’d you get here?” Jungkook suddenly asks, his bright hair flopping as he pulls off his jacket. “You finally feel better?” 

“Awhile ago,” he sleepily responds, a yawn swallowing his last syllable. “And yeah.” Joints popping at his upward rise, he grimaces while Namjoon cuts through the youngest one’s laughs, 

“I dunno about that, old man. Is it like that every morning?” 

Your favorite nickname for him echoes lovingly through his mind. Like a rush of water to soothe the burn of his terrors. “Pretty much.” 

Hobi can’t help but chuckle with a finger point, the company to his misery. “I’m getting like that, too. It’s only a matter of time for you, Joonie.” 

The tallest in the room sighs before everyone locks into work mode, “Looking forward to it.” 

— 

—

Ah. Back here this time? Looks like his younger self needed him to drop into this one, if only to give him support from another celestial plane. 

“How can you call this work? You don’t do shit!” 

“We’re working on a project—”

“We? Are you even on it?” 

The roll of his chair bumps into the bed frame behind him. “I’m… Making some of the decisions, but—”

“So you aren’t even in charge? What are you gonna get for this?” Not a lot. But his silence answers before he can give a true amount. “Exactly. So ridiculous, you need to get a real job that gives you real money to pay for all this shit.” 

Yoongi was doing just fine when it was just him. But taking care of someone that has a bit more refined taste, too? It’s draining him to the point of alarm. “We can cut our spending, too, you know.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“We don’t have to get food all the time. We can just cook here.” 

“But… Ugh, doing all that work just to eat and then clean?” 

Well. Yes. That’s the order of operations. From his leaned position in his bedroom doorway, Yoongi shakes his head. Even cooking was an issue? He did it all the time when he was alone. It’s not hard. What the hell did he get himself into? How did he not see any of this from the jump? 

“My uncle might be hiring. I can ask him to get you an interview or something, but you cannot fuck it up.” 

“Where at?” 

“Does it matter? It’s a job.” She sighs while sliding hair down her shoulder. Oh, how he’s been tricked by that move too many damn times. “It’s downtown.” 

Fuck. That’s way too far from the studio he’s working at. There’s no way he’d be able to work both… And she knows it. Goddamn. “You really want me to quit?” 

She gives him a look, and he can’t tell if she’s stricken or annoyed at the question. “I mean, not… Really. It’s just…” A sigh. “I’d rather you get a real job now and make music when you’re more stable.” 

Even now, Yoongi gets that. But at the same time, nothing else truly called to him. Music is his real job, the very thought of doing anything else makes him anxious. He doesn’t want to commit to anything that he’ll dread going to every fucking day of his life. But if that’s what she wants, he’ll at least try because he cares about her. Enough to lose a part of himself along the way? Guess so. 

Guess so. 

“Yoongi?” 

His head jolts from the memory as he’s positioned in the middle of a studio. The very current studio that’s only a few doors down from the job he ended up getting years ago. Several pairs of eyes are staring as he takes in his surroundings. Shit, when did he wander off? How did that even happen this time? Why is he looking at a very familiar band he’s listened to for years? 

“You okay, man?” One of them asks, a guy with such a relaxed look that just seeing him makes Yoongi’s shoulders loosen. “It’s just us, no need to be scared or anything.” 

“I dunno, Sammy, you look kinda rough around the edges in person.” 

“Do not?” 

Beside him, Hoseok claps Yoongi on the back, his grip both comforting and telling him to get it the fuck together. “He’s fine! We’ve just been busy, and this guy’s been working hard to get everything ready for you guys.” 

“Give him a sec,” Namjoon agrees, shaking all the band’s hands while Yoongi continues to buffer. “But yeah, we’ll give you a quick look inside and see if it works for you?” 

“Works for us,” Sammy agrees with a smile. “Lead the way.” 

All four members walk through the recording room door after Joon, thanking Jungkook for keeping it open before he heads inside, too. Leaving Yoongi with a very concerned Hobi, who turns to him with furrowed brows. “Hey, you good?”

“Yeah,” he finally forces out, throat scratched. Fuck. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

“If something’s up, tell us.” Hoseok watches the silent movements and conversations happening through the studio glass. “Your gut’s the one I trust the most.” 

Oh. Wait. That’s not nearly what Yoongi’s got on his mind. Even though he’s snuffed out flaky musicians and artists before today, that isn’t the current issue. That’s not what’s sticking to his mind like a parasite and feeding him random haunts from his past. “Nah, it’s not that. I’m just shocked they’re here.” 

“Right! When Jungkook said it’d be a surprise, he wasn’t kidding. I might damn near faint.” 

“Don’t do that just yet,” Yoongi warns. “We can’t have two of us out of it.” 

They both puff out laughs at his previous blanking. And they fall silent with folded arms when Woosung—Sammy—picks a guitar off the wall for hopeful inspection, nodding and smiling at a doe-eyed Jungkook. 

The kid knows how to develop connections, that’s for sure. He needs to start doing that, too. 

“But seriously…” Yoongi looks at Hoseok, met with a stare that he only gives when wanting nothing but the truth. “Anything bothering you? You looked… I don’t even know.” 

“I’ll be fine, Hob,” he breathes out in a sigh. “Just got some things on my mind.” 

The look keeps going, and going, and going. But there’s no more scrutiny when Hobi finally turns forward with an unconvincing, “Okay.” 

—

—

Embers crackle while sparks float to a darkened sky. Yoongi can still smell the metal of the train tracks, still feel the dirt under his shoes as he tips a bottle for another sip. 

A bunch of them were gathered that night. And he wasn’t gonna miss this no matter what, already expecting the onslaught of terror waiting and pacing the cage he calls his apartment. 

Since he got that job downtown, he’s been trying his best to do the work and head across town to the studio to finish things there. But that effort wasn’t taken pleasantly. Apparently, she wasn’t asking him to make music a hobby; she was telling him to give it up—for now, of course. Always for now. And he ended up leaving it far, far behind. 

After he gave that up, everything else followed. Every time he made plans to hang out, he got yanked back into the apartment, whether by a desperate arm or a scathing, manipulative scowl. His whole life was being stripped away. Nothing was his anymore. 

But this night? He finally got away. And Yoongi watches as his younger self faces the heavens with a wide smile. 

Your brother’s there, along with some friends he hadn’t seen in ages. Even a younger Jungkook tags along, watching as they push each other in abandoned shopping carts and fling random stones in open spaces. All of them in questionable fits, his hair as vibrant as a polarizing ice cream flavor, everything defines this pocket of time and no other. 

Watching them like this? Yoongi almost buckles from the pang of nostalgia seizing his chest, wrapping its roots around his heart in a bittersweet embrace. It reminds him of a balcony. It reminds him of you. 

This is the night he chose to not go home. Because his home is here with his friends.

Fuck everything. Fuck life. Fuck love. It was all he could say and express as all of them stuck middle fingers to the world, as if doing so would banish all the troubles in their lives. Every single conversation he had that night was cynical in a freeing way. Because nothing mattered. They were all infinite. Infinite and infinite. 

With each bottle chucked into a blazing fire, his eyes droop lower to the ground. Without much effort, his head lolls, mirroring a few others around him until they’re a heap of buzzed freedom and youth. And honestly, he doesn’t remember much beyond this. He doesn’t even remember who drove him back to your place. 

They were infinite—

A vacuum sucks Yoongi out of his dream so fast he flinches, muscles seizing and locking at hard angles. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck is happening? Focus on something, anything. Is this his room? Okay, he’s in his bed. 

Raking sweaty fingers through his hair, Yoongi closes his eyes, centering himself as he slowly raises to a sitting position. His room. His desk. His television. Even his sheets look fine other than his crumpled side of the bed. What the fuck was that. 

He’s never experienced something like that. Sure, he’s been yanked from a dream while in free fall, or when he’s almost slammed into something. But he wasn’t even doing anything that time except lulling to sleep? So what the fuck was that about? 

Shit. The whole fucking point was to get this shit under control. To fight the memories and the dreams and shove them out of his mind to make room for his own. For yours. Yours and his, his and yours. So why hasn’t he even been trying? 

Panic starts to rush up his throat, clogging it and jamming and amalgamating into something so thick he can’t even breathe. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, get the fuck up. 

He hasn’t had to do this in so long he’s almost embarrassed to reach for what he’s beelining for in his kitchen, perched on top of the fridge behind an unopened case of water bottles. Water bottles. Yoongi clings onto a familiar memory with you yet again. You, you, you. 

The bag crinkles as he rips it open, some wrapped pieces pinging onto linoleum. As he hastily opens one of the candies, he pops the sour coated lifeline on his tongue, slowly closing his eyes and sagging against his refrigerator. 

Shaking, shaking, sour apple, stop fucking shaking. Breathe. In out in out in out in out. Eat another one. Breathe. Silence. Clear head. Sour cherry. Nothingness. 

Breathe. 

Sliding down chilled aluminum, Yoongi feels his ass hit the cold ground, his arms immediately coming up to rest on tired knees. After a minute goes by, he lets more pass. Then another. And another. And another. 

It’s not fun knowing the panic’s back. 

As much as Yoongi wants nothing but your concern crossing kitchen tile, he’s thanking the universe that you haven’t ever seen him like this. Your brother has, but you don’t need to. Ever. But if his demons have all the power again, he might be too far gone.  

—

—

He should feed the cat.

Never mind.

The food from two days ago is still there. Which means she left him a long, long time ago.

—

—

What day is it. Is that the sunset or a new day. 

Doesn’t matter, does it? Even music doesn’t call to him now. 

And that single, damning fact slathers his whole brain in shadow. 

—

— 

A knock sounds at the door. Which Yoongi completely ignores until it erupts into straight banging. 

“Fuck, hold on,” he rasps in a cracked whisper, falling off his couch before his arms crumple, every muscle in his body creaking with lack of use. Pain jolts through his limbs as he lies there for a beat, jump-starting his mind into sudden, bleary awareness. 

What day is it? How did all these bottles get on the floor? How fucking long has it been this time?

More knocks break through the fog of Yoongi’s brain before a voice pierces the door, “I swear to god if you don’t let me in—!”

A sigh escapes in the dark. Jimin. 

Shit, Yoongi doesn’t wanna be seen. Not now. Not when he can’t even recall the past however many hours. But knowing this particular guest, the door will be kicked down if he doesn’t answer soon. 

Hissing, he slowly gets up, stumbling to the door a few steps away before resting shaking fingers on the doorknob. Breathe. Just fucking breathe. 

“Alright, you motherfucker, I’m breaking this fucking door—”

Yoongi cracks it open a tad, a sliver of his unkempt hair and stubbled chin the only things he’s willing to show. His eyes squint as bright light spills into his apartment, but all he can see are the telltale shoes of his best friend. 

“...Yoongi?” 

When he finally looks up, his heart clenches and erupts all the way up to his ducts. The first emotion he’s felt in the sludge of time he’s been chained to his dipping, sagging sofa. 

Because Jimin is staring right at his face. Eyes so rubbed they’re rimmed red. “I thought… I didn’t… No one knows where you are,” he starts, shaking the words out of puffed lips. “And when your phone kept going to voicemail, I—I couldn’t think of anything except coming here so when you weren’t answering the door, I thought—” 

As soon as Jimin breaks, Yoongi slowly closes his eyes and rests his forehead on the door’s edge. Nothing can get him like this other than the tears of a select few. If you had been the one crying at his doorstep, he probably would have given everything up.

But his mouth is so dry he can’t form words, arms so numb he can’t move them to swing the door. There’s dust where his tongue sits, shadows at the edges of his fingers. Anything he tries to say is swallowed, adding to the lump in his scratchy throat. Instead of a tempest of rage, this is the other way to lose control. The subtler, scarier, sinister way to let go. 

Yoongi says nothing. Because he can’t think of anything to say at all.

“Are you listening to me?”

Unmoving, Yoongi breathes, long hair falling onto his paling cheek. He doesn’t even know what month it is. And that scares him so bad he doesn’t hear the next sentence. So Jimin says it again,

“Let me in.”

“Gimme a sec,” he croaks. 

“Now.”

A sigh. Yoongi knows he lost the second he heard Jimin’s voice through wood. So he slowly wills his body to move, stepping—swaying—to the side to let his friend into a dark, blacked out space.

“Holy fuck,” Jimin curses, stepping through a sea of glass bottles before wrenching open the curtains. Light bursts around his silhouette and, for a split second, Yoongi thinks he sees an angel in his living room. 

“Yes. Okay.” With hands on stern hips, Jimin nods to himself before inspecting the litter around his feet. “Yeah, I’m staying here now.”

—

—

“You don’t have to do this,” Yoongi drones while his best friend scuttles around his apartment like a roomba. Clinks of trashed bottles and shifts of trash bags rattle next to the front door, and he sighs before looking out the window. “I’m up now.”

“You don’t get a say in it,” Jimin blithely responds, hauling another groaning trash bag from the kitchen. “And stay there, I’m almost done.” 

“Where the fuck would I go.”

“Anywhere but here?”

Yeah. Right. Where else would he even go right now? Your room is the only place he wants to take residence in—the room in which he said goodbye without knowing when the next hello would be. 

When’s the last time he’s even texted you? Shit, he really has left you behind completely and he feels like a fucking idiot. 

Determination thumps to the door, with a little more force than necessary, though understood. Jimin rarely gets this mad, so when he does, molten emotion rolls off of him in reddened waves, “Couldn’t even fucking call? Text? Do you ever think about what that does to all of us?” 

Yoongi buries a hand in his hair. “Listen, I—”

“Shut the hell up. You don’t get to have excuses this time. Last time this happened you scared me to death and I am not letting it happen again.” 

“You see me. I’m alive. So you can go home.”

Jimin whirls at the door before slamming it behind him, eyes wide in shock as he stomps to the kitchen. “If you think you can get me to go home, you’re an idiot. What else hasn’t been cleaned in a week?”

…A week? Fuck. Maybe it is better if Jimin stays. 

His friend wrings his hands in water before drying them, moving to sit in the chair you usually occupy. Used to occupy. Yoongi’s head sags. 

Jaw ticked, Jimin sits and rests elbows on his knees, brows up in a way that leaves no room for arguments, “Tell me what the fuck is going on.”

With a sigh, Yoongi closes his eyes, shifting his own jaw in the hopes he can find enough courage to do this. Because even though Jimin knows most about what happened before, he’s been the one pushing him to move forward, not backward. Which means Yoongi is in for a verbal beatdown. 

But before he can say anything, Jimin urges again, “Start talking.”

Fuck. “Go home.”

“No. Try again.”

It’s back. The anxiety. Making him vacate his seat and slink against his bedroom door. “I’m not doing this right now.”

Jimin rockets out of his chair right after, getting all into his space. “Tough fucking shit. Tell me. Now.”

He can’t. The words won’t come out. “It’s nothing.”

A bubble of caustic laughter flings out of Jimin’s throat before he outright shoves Yoongi against his door. Slight pain erupts from his back, branching out and alerting his body with adrenaline. But he’s so numb he doesn’t even say anything. Nothing. Just… pain. 

“Is that it? Not even gonna say anything?”

Silence. Yoongi can only serve silence. A lighter push at his chest doesn’t do anything either, neither do the grips at his shoulders before he’s shoved against wood. Is this all he has left? Pain? He can’t feel anything else. Why? What’s happening? Why is he so… drained? 

“Yoongi…” The words wobble. So soft now. So pleading. “…What’s wrong?”

Like a burst of shock, that jumpstarts something deep.

A thousand things. Three thousand things. All of them having to do with him and his inability to deem himself worthy of the one thing he wants most. His shameful weight of the past barring him from everything good, and bright, and healing. 

You would ask him the same question. Yoongi knows it in his heart. But here you are, giving him the space he asked for and trusting him with your feelings because that’s just… You. And he has done absolutely nothing to show for it.

A whole week passed and he didn’t know it? He still doesn’t even know what day it is. How long has he kept you in the dark? How long will he keep failing you because this isn’t fair to you at all. You deserve better. 

…Is this when he lets you go?

Dark, painful throbs in his chest let him know he’s barely alive. But if he’s been radio silent with no explanation, who fucking knows what you’re thinking now. About him. About yourself. Fuck, the panic is rushing in again and his breaths are short, short, short—

A hand warms his shoulder, prompting him to look up and notice that blurred, wavering red eyes are staring back at him. 

And the only thing Yoongi feels after that is a hot trail of regret down his cheek. 

“Fucking hell, man—” The pull yanks at Yoongi’s heart as strong arms wrap tight around his shoulders, and he buries searing eyes into his friend’s familiar cologne, drowning it in heaves of sobs that burn his lungs and spread fire into his throat—burning, burning, burning. His heart is on fucking fire. 

But Jimin is there, hugging tight and trying his best to smother the flames, choking on his own sobs and apologizing for anything. Everything. Nonsense, but it’s Jimin all the same. 

“I can’t fucking win,” Yoongi chokes out, finally setting all the fears free. “She’s always here. I can’t… Fuck.”

Jimin grips tighter. “You can,” he says with a rasp. “I promise you can.” 

“How do you know.” He can’t even recognize his own voice. “You don’t know what it was like.” 

Jimin flinches before holding on even tighter. “Because you won’t do it alone this time.”

Yoongi feels a vice clamp his chest.

“I’m… Shit, I’m really sorry for not trying harder before. We all are. We were young, and stupid, and should’ve paid a lot more attention instead of…” His friend sighs to the ground. “Instead of letting her slowly kill you.” 

It’s a gut punch. Reliving all those memories is confirmation enough. 

Jimin chokes out his last vow, and it tugs at Yoongi’s very being. “So. Yeah. I’m not leaving until you know you have someone. Even if it’s just me.” 

Now Yoongi feels like an asshole. All that time, he’s been so lost that he didn’t even think of his friends. The self-deprecation devolved into self-isolation, squeezing him inside a smaller and smaller box until he couldn’t breathe. He owes Jimin more than his life. 

Hands slowly raise, hope and promise lifting them to his friend's shoulders. There’s a million words he can say to this man, but the only thing that comes out is a mere, “Thanks.”

“You’re thanking me now, but. Even if you get annoyed, I’m not leaving.”

A knock comes at the door, and Jimin finally leans away before smiling. “We’re gonna fight this, yeah? You got us. So get used to it.” 

Yoongi nods. But then gives his friend a scowl. “Who the fuck did you invite to my place.”

Is it your brother? Is it you? Fucking hell, Yoongi would give anything for you to be on the other side. 

But Jimin smirks at his reaction. “It’s not her, but I like the look on your face.” 

A glare is shot while his friend walks to open the door. 

While Yoongi’s heart deflates, he still gives a shake of his head when he sees the newcomer. “If you’re both staying, I’m booking a hotel.”

Taehyung stands affronted while Jimin laughs behind his broad shoulders. “Excuse you? I’ve just been sent here to bring food.” 

Are those bags of groceries? Fuck, he already can’t thank them both enough for what they’re doing. His stomach hollows at the thought of food, which is a good sign because that means he’s ready to eat again. 

“Ah ah, tell him what else.” 

Yoongi tilts his head as he goes to help. “What else is there to do here.” 

Jimin already stormed through like an unstoppable force to clean everything and take out the trash. Ironically, the clouds outside seemed to clear when his apartment did. 

Thumps of vegetables and fruit litter his counters before the newest guest smiles soft, “I’m here to update you on what the love of your life has been up to.” 

Yoongi blinks at paper bags before slowly turning to meet his gaze. Long, speechless, and so fucking relieved. 

“But only if you cooperate.”

—

—

You got the job. And he fucking missed the opportunity to congratulate you. 

Neither Jimin nor Tae judge him for needing a moment to himself. 

—

—

This memory is one he hasn’t visited yet. But Yoongi recognizes it immediately, and he steps aside as his younger self bolts from your brother’s room. It was the morning after they all defied the world. And frankly, he doesn’t remember how they got here but knows for a fact he didn’t drive. Following himself into your familiar foyer, he winces at his own freak out, his tousled hair sticking in all directions. 

But both versions of him freeze when he sees you, standing with a spatula in the kitchen he’ll eventually end up kissing you in years later.

This happened right before you left for university, heading to a really good one according to your brother. He didn’t doubt that at all, either. Both of you look so much younger, living completely different lives. 

You barely get out a nervous smile and hello before he quickly comes up to hold your shoulder, noting how softly nice you smell before reassuring, “Hey, he’s fine. But check on him in like an hour.” 

He whizzes away as soon as you ask, “You okay?” 

But he doesn’t have time to explain. You’ll understand. You’re a pretty, smart girl—Wait. Pretty smart girl. Right. 

Yoongi doesn’t know why he looks back, but he remembers seeing you standing in your doorway, watching him open his car door with nothing but concern.

Standing on your porch, his current self remembers that tug in his chest. It was small, but it was there. Regardless, he chalked it up to the anxiety telling him to get home now. So he gives you one more look before shoving into his car and driving off, not knowing he was going backwards that whole time. 

Like a dream, the scene change is abrupt, dumping him in the middle of the fight that happened minutes later. Shards of glass litter the kitchen floor as the bar cart once full of alcohol lies shattered and bleeding potent fumes. 

“You lying mother fucker!” 

“I was helping—” 

“Didn’t even tell me? Didn’t even think to say something?” 

“I was focused on keeping him alive?” Keeping him alive and home safe. Something that your brother had done for him multiple times. He’s with him until the end. End of story. “Are you gonna ask me if I’m okay? Do you even care?” 

Yoongi should’ve recalled that you did. But not right now. He doesn’t think about anything until later. But watching from this side, you were the only one that asked. 

“You’re here, right? That tells me enough.” 

Yoongi stands there. So broken, so distraught. “What if I wasn’t?” 

“Don’t even ask stupid things.” 

“I’m serious. I’d look everywhere for you.” 

She can’t answer. And Yoongi knows exactly why. He loved someone that never loved him back. This is the karma he gets for all the hearts he broke. The people he played with. It’s all rearing its head and kicking him straight in the teeth. 

This was the final straw. He was done feeling like shit in his own home. With one look at the glass pieces at his feet, he loads finality into his tone. “If you can’t answer me, we’re done.” 

“No, babe, please—” 

“Don’t.” 

“…What?” 

“You do this every time.” His younger self’s finally gonna do it. He’s gonna stand up for himself, and Yoongi hates what he’s gonna hear next. “Cut the bullshit.” 

“I’m not, I just—” 

“If you’re gonna answer, answer.” 

“Don’t rush me. You putting this back on me now?” 

“Cool.” He opens the door, signaling for her to leave and never come back. “You’ve already moved or broke a bunch of your shit, so. This should be easy.”  

This is the moment. The singularity that forever sucks him back into the dark.

“Useless piece of shit.” And here it all comes undone. “What a joke. After I bought you all this shit and you don’t even use it.” 

He has. She’s just never paid attention.

“Fucking loser. I gave you the world and you gave nothing. Nothing.”

He gave up everything. 

“It’s sad, really. How you’re only gonna end up alone.” 

That will be true. This is when he decided that, right? To be done with this shit. Done with love. 

“How did I even let you keep me this long?” 

Yoongi stops, his fingers shaking. Him? Keeping her? It’s so twisted that his vision still jangles. He’ll never forget that feeling, being blamed for the exact same thing she had been doing to him the whole time. 

“Forget it. You’re just gonna fuck up until you have no one left. And I can’t wait to see you end up all by yourself.” 

Yoongi doesn’t respond to her wrath, walking to the corner of the room and grabbing the guitar he was gifted. But he’s halted by a pointed finger. 

“Keep that. Cus you’re gonna remember this. You’re gonna realize I’m right and there won’t be a thing you can do to fix it.”

“Are you done actually? Or is this another stunt?” 

“A stunt? The only one that does that is you.”

It’s his turn to unload. And he makes it a point to say everything he needs to. “I don’t do anything. I don’t go anywhere. See anyone. Or whatever the hell you’re accusing me of. I stay here, or go to the studio. That’s it.”

“Some studio you got there. Haven’t even heard one single thing you’ve done this entire time.”

“You’ve never asked.”

“Huh?”

Ah. Yoongi remembers this. Right then, he was finally, finally done. “You never asked about anything I’ve worked on once.”

“Well, you never cared to share.” Acid bubbles from her throat, hair tossed back in an unforgiving laugh. “A fuck-up and now a screw-up? Why did I ever think I deserved you in the first place?” 

Yoongi stares for what seems like the final time. And he couldn’t be happier. “Hope you find someone that you do.” 

And the door shuts right as he’s flung from deep sleep, thrown over any perception of reality and taking in the voice at his face. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay—” 

“Give him space—”

Yoongi shudders, breathing ice cold fire and chilled by the air ghosting over his sweaty back. Front. Legs. Fuck, he’s drenched. 

“Yoongi?”

Gulping air, he flicks his eyes between Jimin holding him steady with shaky hands, and Taehyung on the other side of the bed, watching him with eyes locked and one knee making a hard divot in the comforter. 

Shit. This isn’t like the other night he fell asleep in his kitchen. This is a whole other level of frightening.

“Please say something,” Jimin squeaks out, lightly rubbing him on the shoulder and providing much needed warmth. “Anything. Please.”

“Let him breathe, babe,” Tae softly orders, to which Jimin snaps his head at but calms. 

Tae’s right. Breathe. Breathe deeper. It was just a dream, just a memory, just the past. Fuck. Yoongi thought having people over would help. But that was a terrifying reminder that he was wrong yet again. 

Head dumped in his wet hands, he notices his hair’s new length before raking it back. Looking straight at his desk, he takes it all in, quietly reminding himself that it’s filled with equipment. 

That’s it. Nothing else. Just his equipment, his notepads, his writing utensils. No traces of broken keyboards, cracked monitor screens, snapped wires. Nothing except your light touches which he will take any day over what occupied it before. In his whirlwind of thoughts, he wonders if anything else of yours on that desk would look nice—Ah. He’s truly losing his mind. 

“I’m good,” he croaks, startling everyone in the room including himself. “What the hell happened.”

Taehyung answers first, “We heard a lot of noise, so..”

“We checked in and saw you,” Jimin finishes, his eyes holding back multitudes. 

“Saw me what.” 

“Thrashing.” Taehyung holds his gaze unflinching. Because one of them has to be level headed, and Jimin is clutching Yoongi like he’ll sink into the bed. Maybe he would have. 

“It looked painful,” Jimin rasps out, voice sagging with melancholy. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he looks Yoongi in the eyes before whispering, “Does this happen a lot?”

“Not in a minute.” And for once, he’s honest about this. “It’s only the second time recently.” 

He thanks every star above that you’ve avoided seeing both. This is exactly why he shunned himself, isn’t it? Until this is dealt with, he doesn’t think he can be with you on a clear conscience. 

Taehyung’s fully sitting on the sheets now, hair looking like he was yanked from a deep sleep, too. “Have you told anyone about it?”

“No.” 

“You should.”

“Maybe.”

“Tae’s right,” Jimin whispers, his expression filled with grey. It’s a look Yoongi decides he doesn’t ever wanna see on that face. “I think you need that, too.”

Something very close to discomfort creeps along Yoongi’s bones, making him shift in his seat. His very moist seat. God, if he doesn’t shower now he’s causing a riot. “Lemme wash first,” he offers, barred from swinging out his legs until Jimin gets up. When he gets to his bathroom, he flips on the switch inside before deciding, “Then I will.”

Tae stays still as Jimin walks up to his side of the bed. The closer side to the bathroom. “You sure you’ll tell us?”

“Yeah.” Yoongi looks down before heading in to shower, saying one more thing as he shuts the door, “But you won’t see me the same after I do.” 

—

—

He tells them everything. All the memories plaguing him for years. The things they don’t know and some of the things they do. While they listen, Jimin’s eyes blink the least, not wanting to miss a single second. 

Taehyung’s hands grip the couch cushions harder with each passing moment. But neither of them judge. Neither of them offer pity. If anything, they’re ready to pick up swords they don’t have to attack someone that doesn’t exist to him anymore. 

Lies. If she didn’t exist to him, none of this would be happening. 

So therein lies Yoongi’s problem. He needs to get rid of anything that still ties him to her, the biggest one being the guitar watching all of them right now. 

“Why didn’t you tell us. Tell me,” Jimin asks through fresh tears. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“I thought about that for a long time.” Yoongi hangs his head between his knees before lifting. “Turns out, I was just.. Ashamed. I dunno.” 

“Does anyone know all of this?” 

Well. “Just one.” He doesn’t have to elaborate for them to know who it is. 

“I didn’t wanna bother anyone with it,” he finally admits. “Didn’t feel like you guys needed to hear how fucked up I am.” 

“Yoongi.” He raises his gaze to meet Jimin’s. “That’s exactly what we want to hear. Because we’re friends.” 

“You’d say the same to us,” Taehyung adds. “And to her. Who, if I’m being completely honest, would lose her shit if she knew.” 

Yoongi doesn’t doubt that. “I know.” 

“No, you don’t. I’m not saying because of the reasons. I’m saying because she would offer to do exactly what we’re doing now.”

Burns sear around his eyes. Because deep down, he fucking knows that. He does. And yet, he still can’t accept how selfless you are when it comes to him. How good, and reckless, and understanding. And a revelation pierces right through his bruised heart. 

He’s lived in his dark for so long that he’s afraid of your light.

Fuck, his admittance scratches every inch of his mouth on the way out. His heart takes collateral damage, seeping out of his eyes, “I think I have to let her go.” 

In an instant, both pairs of eyes gloss over to match his. 

“I’m doing all this for her,” he rasps out. “Everything, for her. But I can’t fucking do it and she deserves someone that isn’t so fucked—” 

“Yoongi—”

“My ex was right. Back then. Now. She was right.” His voice lulls to a dull thrum. “I’ll just end up alone.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” His head snaps to Jimin’s at the same time as Tae’s. “Are you alone right now? Hmm?” 

No. But he doesn’t say a damn thing. 

“I’ll answer for you since you’re being an idiot. No, you’re not.” That’s not the point, but— “And even if we weren’t here? You’re never alone unless you decide that, not some fucked up ex. And the Yoongi I know? Is too smart to do something so stupid.” 

Ouch. But fair. “That’s not what I mean and you know it—”

“So what? You wanna talk about relationships? Let’s talk about the one you’re in—because yes, you’re in one—and how you’re fucking it up because of some bullshit.” 

“Jimin—”

“No, I’m tired of this shit! Why can’t you see what’s in front of you? Why can’t you see all the good shit you do? Why can’t you just be happy—”

“I’m trying all of that for her—”

“You need to do it for yourself!”  

Jimin stands rigid as his words pulse around the room, eyes swimming and unblinking as Taehyung dons a similar look. 

“This isn’t about her. This isn’t about anyone else.” He shudders out a breath. “Right now? You need to get your shit together to pull yourself out.” 

Shit. 

Yoongi completely lost the point along the way. Didn’t he think like that when all this started? When did it all become so muddled? Did part of him always know this, deeper down? And that’s the part of him that he had left behind first? When he tries to speak, he can’t. No words, no thoughts, no sounds escape the desert of his mouth. 

“And you can do it. I’ve seen you do it before,” Jimin whispers. “But now, you have two people—three people—to fight for this time.” 

Ah. But one of those people still doesn’t know the truth. Doesn’t know why Yoongi’s done this to himself in the first place. A sour laugh leaves his lips before he stares at nothing. “He’s trusted me with everything. And I’ve told him nothing.” Lifting his head, he shudders out, “Say I do all this. Once I tell him the truth… I’m losing him. I know it.” 

“You don’t know that.” Jimin sounds very unconvinced. 

“Hah.. Right.” Yoongi sighs. “We all know he’s gonna kill me.” 

“Well.” Taehyung is the one that finally interjects, and Yoongi shifts his gaze before the man correctly and accurately assumes, “You’d die for her anyway. What’s the difference if he knows.” 

Oh. Well, that’s…

There’s a ping of silence before Jimin blurts a puff of amusement. 

Then Yoongi breaks into a smile as Taehyung’s sudden laugh joins the fray, all of them grinning and laughing because it’s all so fucking simple. Really, really fucking simple. And for the first time in weeks, Yoongi feels like things are gonna be okay. 

Coming down from the broken ice, Jimin reiterates the whole point, “You’re not gonna lose her. But you will if sulking is all you’re gonna do.” 

A nod. “I know.” 

“So what are you gonna do?” 

Yoongi looks at them both, then sweeps his gaze around the living room before landing on his coffee table. Warmth fills the divots in his cheeks as he allows himself to grin, not caring if he gets peculiar looks at his first order of business. His highest priority. 

“Gonna move some books.” 

—

—

The loudest roar of thunder signals the end of a storm. And in following that same pattern, the rest of Yoongi’s week goes by dreamless. Calm. Merciful. 

And he cannot thank Jimin enough. 

He helps him when he cooks, drags him out for walks in the afternoon, and even Taehyung drops by to show him a bunch of movies that he is appalled he’s never seen before. 

Yoongi even goes back to the studio on the regular, earning looks of relief and mild annoyance, which he fully expected. But with minimal questions, he throws himself back into work, urging himself to eventually tell them what happened. 

When Taehyung stays over, too, all three of them simply… Talk. About anything and everything, deeper and deeper conversations the more he gets to know them. Yoongi doesn’t talk as much as they do, but he does divulge a lot more about his past than he ever has. Both of the guys present never judge him for any of it, which makes him feel seen. Feel not so alone. 

Because he’s learning that these experiences are universal. The true danger lies in not knowing how to handle them. How to be accepting of those parts of his life when he’s all he’s got.

Now that he’s got his priority straight, he knows he can get there. He can find that door to himself again, no matter how long it takes. Yes, for you. Yes, for his best friend.

But, first and foremost, for himself. 

—

—

To his complete shock, the cat comes back. And in the quiet, radiant night, Yoongi’s eyes gloss over when his heart tells him her name. 

She’s gonna be yours. For getting the gig. The idea itself breathes life into his soul, and he can’t fucking wait to get everything ready for the day he gets to surprise you.

Finally, Yoongi has something to look forward to. Just wait for him. He hopes you can hold out just a tiny, tiny bit longer. 

Filled with joy and excitement, he sends Tae to the store for some food, supplies, and a new set of bowls, barely noticing Jimin watching his detailed orders with a newfound sense of relief. 

—

—

One day, Jimin comes back from work and asks if Yoongi is ready to see people. When he asks why, he talks about his brilliant idea of bringing the parties to him. When Yoongi continues to ask why yet again, it’s to fill his apartment with even more life. Maybe even a certain person will come, too. 

Nah. You probably won’t. 

But if you do? Yoongi won’t be able to contain himself. And just knowing that he’s okay with feeling that way is a step in the right direction. 

—

— 

Three months.

Based on the date on the studio monitor, it’s been three months since he left. Way too long, and the remorse in his stomach is acidic. 

Three months. How many seconds is that? You would know. You’re brilliant and know everything except the dark secrets he can’t tell you yet. 

And it’s the deepset shame lining his bones that won’t allow him to go see you, as much as he fucking wants to. Letting it all out for his friends did lift an astronomical amount from his shoulders, but now he’s embarrassed as hell for taking this long to do something so simple that he’s still unsure. Unsure of when he can show himself to you again and is terrified at how you’ll perceive him. 

But just because he doesn’t know about seeing you. Doesn’t mean he can’t at least talk to you.

And he’ll make that call last the entire night. Jimin and Tae have given him space for a little while now, both of them back in their respective places, so he has the apartment to himself and your voice. If you give him another chance. 

It’s that one solid loophole that has him rushing out of the studio and eager to finally ring you up. The uneasiness is getting beaten out by excitement, pouring over from the news they all received about the album release party. 

Things are finally, finally, finally looking up. He’s feeling better. Not enough to face you, but enough to not feel worse than complete shit. But all of that freshly blossomed energy sweeps into a torrent of worry as soon as he’s greeted with silence on the line. 

“Hello?” 

He can’t blame you for hesitating. Fuck, you’re probably over him and are just answering out of pity. You aren’t saying anything. Shit, he fucked all the way up. 

But your silence isn’t because of anger. Or annoyance. Because you make the smallest, most desperate noise he’s ever heard in his life. 

And the intention to burn the rest of the world shatters every shackle he’s placed on himself, fierce sparks igniting his body to go wherever the fuck you are and deal with anything awaiting his wrath, “Where are you.” 

He’s coming to you no matter what. 

—

—

Is that you? Are all those bags chips? 

Holy fuck, that’s the funniest shit he’s seen in months. 

He’s so fucking in love. 

—

—

He wants this drive to last for hours, if only to maintain this expansion in his chest that lets his lungs breathe. 

Being in the car with you? Your pretty voice singing along to all his favorite songs? This will always be one of his favorite things, long after he’s too old to operate even the slowest vehicle in existence. 

Remembering the mountain of bags in the backseat, he selfishly tuts, “You still have to gimme chips.” And he also selfishly glances over your chest when you reach behind to get a random flavor. Goddamn. You’re still perfect. 

“You really made me get these just for you, huh? Are you eating?”

“Yes, my love. And I never said that.”

…Did he just say what he thinks he said? Well. No taking it back now. Especially when it felt like the most natural thing to call you. An oath. A reminder. To himself, more than anyone else. 

It takes you awhile to respond as you open the bag. And Yoongi assumes your comment is to brush off the same sudden shock he still feels, “Such a smartass.”

“You’re the smartass.”

“Don’t act like you aren’t smart, too,” you laugh before pulling down your dress. Wait, are you cold? “I know you are.” 

He doesn’t know how to take that compliment, reaching into the bag and watching you shiver, wondering why you’re just dealing with the chill. “Why?” 

Yoongi is so thrown off by your reason that he laughs after you say it, “I just… You read.” 

His cheeks strain as he lowers the fans, the music now commanding most of the air space. The way you’re turned away is so cute, and you immediately stop fidgeting with your tiny dress. “I’m smart cus I read? How do you even know?”

“You have books under your coffee table. And you don’t have decor just to have it, so…”

Did he ever tell you that? He doesn’t remember saying it, so did you just accurately read him again? Who’s the avid reader now? But speaking of those books… You don’t know what he did with them, or why, and that curves his mouth up a tad. “I moved those, by the way.”

“Em”—you cough—“Embarrassed?”

“Proactive.”

“Huh? For what?”

Perfect. You lead him right where he wanted you to. Proudly telling you why, he says it all through a smirk, “The next time you decide to fuck up my place.” 

“Oh, bullshit!”

You’re tickling him while he’s driving? That’s unfair as fuck! “You soaked—aish—my whole apartment!”

“That was you!”

“No?”

“Yes? I was nice and only got your head wet!”

Mm. That sounds like a damn good idea. The visual in his mind is nowhere close to appropriate, and Yoongi’s enjoying your squirm in his passenger seat. Elated you’re back in it in the first place. But you’re almost out of reach again. And he’s dreading the next rolling stop. 

At least he gets to hear your huffs again. Those are his absolute favorites. “Ugh. Whatever… I’m right.” 

You haven’t changed a bit. Still the same person he left behind, and his heart pangs from the need to do it once again. 

But your quick resistance halts his brain. Screeches it to a stop. Fuck, you’re begging him not to do it and he doesn’t want to do it but it’s the right thing. He’s trying to do the right thing but god, does he want to just veer off the goddamn street. He can’t. He can’t he can’t you can’t— “Babe… We can’t.” 

“I don’t care.”

“I was only gonna bring you back.”

“Baby, please.”

“He’s home—”

“Do you still miss me?” 

…What? Yoongi stills, mind resetting and going blank. 

Still miss you? He’s never fucking stopped. 

Suddenly, Yoongi abandons any sense of restraint. All control he previously held onto falls away and crumbles to dust. You have his full attention. And you rip his soul to shreds with every word you say,

“Because I get it if you don’t. I do. But I really… I really fucking miss you. And not just because of, whatever. But I consider you a friend and fun as hell to be around, and I haven’t…” The shake of your exhale rattles his eyes. “I haven’t been this happy in weeks. And we aren’t even doing anything.” 

God, he feels the same. You could both sit in silence and he’d be filled with joy just looking at you. 

“I know you said I wouldn’t see you. But after getting to know you? The real you? …That sucks.” 

Shit. 

“I’m not gonna make you change anything, just. Telling you what’s on my mind. Like you said. I’m gonna do that a lot more now.”

Yoongi doesn’t say a word as a tear cuts one of your cheeks, and you’re brave enough to look his way again. “But it’s been three months, Yoongi,” you whisper. “Is that still not enough for you?”

Every brick. Every wall. Every fortress he’s built around his mind crumbles into stardust, shards pinging around his ribs and cutting into his beating, beating, beating heart. 

A day was enough for him to miss you. And these three months have felt like three years. 

There’s no denying it. He fucking needs you. 

Of course. That’s the only reason he sped down here to pick you up and pinned you against his car as if you’d flee. You’re his oxygen, his inhale, his breath of life and hope for new beginnings and goddamn if he lets you go now you’ll never know it—

“Stop.” 

Just tonight. He’ll allow himself one night. Does he deserve it? Probably not, but you sure as fuck do for laying your dying heart in his withered hands. 

And Yoongi decides with a lock of his jaw. Following where his own broken heart points and peeling out into the street.

—

—

Once he gets his hands on you, Yoongi can’t fucking stop. From the car to the walls of his apartment, his fingers can’t decide where to stay, raking down your sides and tugging you close before finally shoving you against his bedroom door. 

God, your touch. Your lips. Your little sounds of pleasure. Why the fuck did he deprive himself of the one person that makes him whole? Yoongi’s so lost in you that he barely remembers his pain, and he loves the way you laugh in the face of it. So fucking hot. 

Closer. He needs to be closer and it’s driving him mad how he’s limited to pressing against your front. Hitching your leg up, he shoves himself forward, the rush of blood tightening his groin and emptying reason from his head. 

This is already too much. You’ve already taken things too far. But goddamn, he’s not stopping even if the entire complex broke down his door. “Shouldn’t be fucking doing this—” 

You moan and he’s a goner again, the next twitch in his pants straining against your soft pelvis. When a plea leaves that pretty mouth, Yoongi’s ready to give you the world. All you have to do is say it and it’s yours and yours alone. “Please what.” 

The tug of his hair makes him groan, but it’s your words that drag his soul across coals, “Choke me. Use me. I don’t care, do it all.”

“Huh?”

What did you fucking say? 

Nah. Yoongi needs to hear that again because he cannot forgive himself if he’s hallucinating all of this, too. Yanking you forward, he strains his ears just to be bombarded by your demands, 

“Don’t be nice. Spit in my mouth. Make me beg like a fucking slut, I need it.”

You’re gonna be the fucking death of him. “The fuck.”

Any hesitance Yoongi had before flings out the door. The whole time he’s trying to do the right thing, here you are spewing everything good and wrong and he’s enraptured. You’re clearly not holding back, so why wouldn’t he match that chaos like his life depended on mania? You give and give and give, and Yoongi makes it his mission to reciprocate. 

Soon, he’s everywhere, swallowing you devouring you inhaling you like his last meal of his last life. Busting into his bedroom, the hot rush of adrenaline magnifies his darkest thoughts. But you don’t even give him the chance to say them out loud because what the fuck he’s in his chair now? “Babe—”

What the fuck? What’s gotten into you and what can he do to suspend this moment in time? You’re sin incarnate at his feet, dropping to your knees and attacking him, undressing him with a force that downright startles him through. 

It borderline scares him because he’s never seen you like this. Shit, he can’t shake an icky feeling off now and he can’t fully immerse himself in the moment if he’s correct. “Are you su—”

“Let me do this,” you plead upward. And Yoongi lets those sparkling eyes lure him down. 

Fuck, fuck, focus. The way you hold his cock is heavensent and the feeling will never get old and he can’t help but groan at the feel of your fingers. But the feeling is still there. The question is still occupying his mind. 

So Yoongi utilizes every single ounce of control to stop you, saying your name for the first time in weeks. When you shoot him a look of rejection, his heart breaks in two, because your mind is like his when it defaults to the worst possible scenario. 

All he wants to do is kiss you. So he does just that, keeping it tender to calm your potential buzz. Voice soft, he asks through the dark blue of night, “You drank tonight, yeah?” 

“Yeah…?” 

Ah. He was right. Fuck, if you aren’t lucid enough, this has to stop right now. No matter how fucking bad he wants to tear you apart. 

But you reach out to palm his cheek, as if you knew exactly what he was getting at without asking. “I’m not drunk, baby. I just missed you.” 

Please be telling the truth. He won’t live with himself if you aren’t telling him what’s really going on. 

“I’m not,” you reassure through a smile that he’s missed so fucking much. Once again, Yoongi kisses you, because he can’t bear not feeling those puckered lips on his for another second. How strange it is, being able to breathe best when his mouth is smothered by yours. 

“So are you gonna fuck my throat or nah?”

Holy fuck, you can’t do that. You can’t just say shit like that and get away with it. It’s infuriating in the best way and Yoongi will worship this new, unbridled attitude of yours. What an honor to say he knew you had it in you all along. Yoongi never doubted your skyrocketing appeal for a second. “What are you doing to me.”

“This.” You don’t even give him the mercy of a warning. All Yoongi feels next is those angelic, sinful lips around his tip, eyes fluttering shut as his head kicks back in a moan. 

Euphoria. You’re his beginning and end, the middle and the rest. Nothing else in the world can bring him to his knees like this, and he can’t imagine being anywhere except at your feet. He’s in trouble. You’re not going home for a long while. 

Every swirl you make zings light along his limbs, and he opens soul-sucked eyes to you tugging your dress down fuck. 

He tastes himself when you kiss him, the wet of your efforts slathering around his mouth but he doesn’t fucking care. Reaching out, Yoongi smacks at your perfect tits, laughing to himself knowing how lucky he is. “Get the fuck back down there.”

And the smirk you send his way makes him fall in love ten times over. 

Yoongi doesn’t even know where he is. And this time, he counts that as a win. Because your licks and sucks are sending him into space, straight past the stars and into the next galaxy over. When the fuck did you get this good? It’s spurning the competitive side of him that vows to not lose to you even though he perpetually will. “Holy fuck.” 

His back muscles strain between arching and collapsing, the squeak of his chair the choir to your sinful symphony of sounds. Unbelievably hot. He may as well pass away from how good you’re milking him down.

Then he feels the back of your throat and then some. And something ignites in his core that causes his hands to find your head. 

Fuck, your eyes. They’re molten. “So fucking filthy...” 

Your laugh around his cock sends him into another frenzy. “Don’t do that.” 

But you disobey like the good girl you are, unsheathing your mouth just to swallow his balls oh goddamn. “Fuck!”

It’s over. It’s over for him. All you have to do is tell him what you want and he’s shoving the world aside to make it happen. Your insecurities? He’s banishing. Your wants and needs? He’s providing. There’s no one else but you and his chest is heaving with shallow shallow shallow breaths. 

When you let him push you closer, Yoongi groans, tapping that pretty cheek with his length and savoring the way you suck him back in like an addiction. 

He’s addicted to you, too. And after tonight, he doesn’t think he can ever get enough. The withdrawals will hit like no other, and he’ll shake and tweak until the next time he can steal you away. “So perfect… So fucking perfect… There will never be anyone else.” 

Can you even hear him? You’re so goddamn loud. 

“Fucking hell, baby,” Yoongi praises, thrusting into the heat of your mouth and shivering at the sensation you’re willing to give every time. “Missed that fuckin’ mouth.”

You’re already a beautiful sight around his cock. But when you come up for air, erotic effort dripping from your mouth and sloping down in strings to your bare chest? That’s when you’re mesmerizing. And Yoongi doesn’t dare to look away from your face. 

What the fuck, you’re going in again? Fuck that. You’re gonna make him bust before he gets the chance to ruin you. 

Gathering sweaty hands under your arms, Yoongi yanks you upward, tossing you onto his bed and growling with pride. After he’s through with you? You’ll never doubt where he stands anymore. And quite honestly, he’s damn near scared you’re gonna realize you’re much better than him, in every aspect of your promising life. 

Because you’re radiance personified, laughing up at him as if he never left you in the dark. How he played with your light, Yoongi won’t ever forgive himself. But you already have. And his heart lurches forward to worship you. 

“Take this off,” he commands into your chest. Because he needs it all. Everything, everything, everything. “No more hiding.” 

He helps you with shaking hands as you strip the dress for him, breath ragged with excitement and relief to have you here again. When you question your shoes, Yoongi immediately interrupts, because this is a fantasy he’s had from the fucking jump. “What about my—”

“Don’t.” He grips your pliant thigh. “I’m fucking you with them on.” 

“Oh, fuck.” 

That’s right. You’re getting all of him—the good, the bad, and all the forbidden thoughts he’s kept locked away. All of it’s now unleashed, unlocked by your ability to finally tell him what you want. 

When Yoongi smacks the side of your ass with a possession he’ll think about hours from now, the sound you make launches him to the edge. And when he wrenches your legs apart, his eyes blow obsidian at the sight between them. 

Yeah. He’s wrecking your shit tonight. And you’ll feel so good he might cry. 

“Please fuck me, baby,” you whisper soft, a far cry from your uninhibited demands from earlier. 

But the feeling inside Yoongi’s chest renders him even softer. Because yes, he’s going to. But there’s so much he didn’t get to do, so many things he’s been wanting to give but tore apart every chance. 

You deserve more. A whole lifetime more than what you’re asking for. And Yoongi can only summarize how he feels with a single sentence, “I’m gonna do a lot more than that, doll.” 

You don’t truly understand. But that’s okay. All you need to do is sit back and let him cherish you, starting with the smooth skin of your ankle that he brings in for a soft kiss. 

There’s no way to deny anything anymore. Here you are ready to be used, and Yoongi’s taking precious seconds to plant kisses on your leg? Of fucking course he’s too far gone. He’s been too far gone for months. If there’s one way to show you how he feels without words, he’s gonna take it. Because those three syllables are too profound to be said in a mere tryst under moonlight. 

So he pries your legs apart with passion taking the reins, growling out safer thoughts that praise you, “So fucking perfect.” 

“No, you,” you counter with a pout, and he cups your cunt to shut that shit down. “Hey!”

“None of that,” Yoongi orders with finality. “Not after all that shit you said at the door.” 

“I dunno what happened there,” you admit, now shy and looking more like yourself. It strikes his heart so hard a confession flows right out of his mouth, 

“Almost made me come.” 

“Be for real.” 

“Damn serious.” Goddamn, that grin. Yoongi has found a new obsession. 

“Then I should keep going?”

“Uh huh.” Perfect. Spill everything from those shining lips, break him down like you did two times tonight already. “Tell me.” 

Yoongi thinks you aren’t gonna do it again. You usually spark like a flare, simmering down after your initial fire then defaulting back to that adorable shyness again. So when you surprise him? All bets are off. Nothing is off limits. 

“Fuck me like you missed me.” 

And that’s when Yoongi fucking snaps. 

He launches for your throat first, feasting on your succulent skin and forcing you up his bed. When his dick brushes against your soft center, his name expels from your mouth at the same time he groans like mad. “Careful,” he finally sends you a warning about your last demand. Because he needs you to know what’s about to happen in this room. “You won’t leave if I did that.”

“I don’t want to,” you hastily respond, gripping his hair just how he likes it. “Wanna stay.”

Stay. He wants nothing but you to do that, too. It’s why he’s wrapping himself around you, latching onto every inch of your skin and grasping at anything he can get his fingers on. 

Of course, reason weasels through his brain again, seeping from his mouth without his permission. “You shouldn’t even be here, babe.”

“Just tonight.” Fuck, you sound deflated already. “But if you really don’t want this then please kick me out before—”

“Fuck that.” Yoongi tweaks your chest before rolling hard against you, relishing in the feel of your cunt and defying all sense of morals. “Fuck all of that.” 

Kick you out? You’ll learn to never say that again. “Don’t move.”

Yoongi drops to his knees, nudging your legs aside and promising dark and dangerous thoughts against your thigh. Fuck, you smell like heaven. He’s painfully hard and it will take everything in his soul to not come on his bedroom floor. 

What are you flinching for? What did he fucking say? “I said. Don’t move.” 

“But—Yoongi!” 

Patient, he shifts your slick thong sideways, breath heady as his tongue flattens completely against your cunt. And the taste, holy fuck. This is his favorite place and he’ll keep eating until you’re a shuddering, shivering mess on his sheets. The most exquisite mess he’s ever had the pleasure to make. 

A dark chuckle rumbles as you instinctively clamp your legs together. And he will always be willing to punish for that because your little whines in response are his guilty pleasures. “Uh uh.”

You taste so fucking good. All essence pooling from your folds coats his mouth in layer after slick layer, his tongue basking in the warmth of your core and lapping over, and over, and over. Greed is too light a word to describe his thirst, and he sucks at the spot he knows you love until you tremble. 

Gripping his cock with slicked fingers, Yoongi pumps himself slow, moaning as he keeps licking, sucking, penetrating your cunt with his tongue and deciding that’s not enough for him. He wants you losing your goddamn mind because you made him lose his. He wants you thrashing on his sheets and locking those beautiful muscles for hours. 

Your sounds tighten his groin impossibly hard, mingling with the squelches of his feast and the slide of his fingers along his length. Nothing beats this. Nothing will ever compete because you both sound so fucking obscene.  

The neighborhood gets to hear you again, and that thought carves a prideful grin into Yoongi’s features. You’re back, and they’re gonna know it. For as long as he can make you scream. 

When he inserts a finger to join his tongue, the sound you make almost makes him come  oh fuck. Say his name like that again and he will. Days from now, he may even bust off that singular memory alone. 

When you grab at his hair, he knows that’s when you’re close. And it spurns him into his next twisted fantasy that has his stomach fluttering. 

“Yoongi—I’m—” Nope. You’re not getting there yet. And your response curls his mouth into something ominous. “No no no! Please, fuck—”

Unbothered, Yoongi swats your sopping cunt, completely ignoring your cries for release, “What’d you say?” 

“Plea—Baby!” 

“Huh?” 

Such a terrible listener. What a shame he wouldn’t have it any other way. Because every fucking time you speak, he gets to shush you with a wet tap. And every time you decide to be a smart ass, he rewards you with no hope of reaching the edge you so fiercely crave.  

And this goes on for minutes. 

Yoongi has time. In fact, he has all the time in the world when it comes to breaking you down. You’re gonna spiral for him, you’re gonna unwind under his tongue. Because this is what you wanted and he’s nothing but incredibly thorough. 

Your thighs are quivering by the time he’s ready to reward you release, and he kisses them lovingly as you prattle off complete and utter nonsense above his sweaty head. Standing, he roves his gaze over his sheets, satisfied to hell how he’s made you a mess among them. 

And Yoongi is far, far from done with you. Sliding his dick along your folds, he hums, “This is what you wanted, huh. You gonna be a good little slut?” 

That obedience you give sets butterflies free in his chest. Because Yoongi knows you hold all the power here, him nothing but a vessel to carry out your every whim. “Then fucking beg.” 

When his cock pats your pretty pussy, your reaction has him fraying at the seams. So fucking beautiful when you twist like that. He can’t believe you gave him all these chances to see you at your most vulnerable because this is when you can’t hide a single thing from him. Your mouth betrays you in the best ways, your soul speaks to him when your brain can’t find the courage to. 

And Yoongi preens when you shower him with nothing but praise and a sailor’s barrage. His lips find yours after way too long, and when you tug at his shirt his heart pulls taut with it. 

“Please,” you finally beg. “I need you.”

“Need you, too.” He does, he does, he does. 

Quickly getting up to grab a condom, Yoongi smirks at the way you keep spouting nothing and everything, as if a dam inside burst with no hope of being stopped. Fully stripping himself, he slips the protection on before finding solace between your twitching legs, kissing you once again because fuck he cannot get enough of you tonight. Ever. No matter what lifetime he meets you in.

When you whisper his name, he takes it in his mouth, and the innate need to have you completely makes a mess of his hands. 

This is what will destroy him every time. This connection with you is what he will remember long after everything else fades away. There will never be another soul that embraces his so fully, and that truth is a belief so deep rooted it’s unshakeable. No matter what branches he cuts off, no matter what decisions he has to make. He will always, always come back to you. 

Because you’re it for him. And he can’t thank his past self enough for walking onto that balcony.

You like it best when he starts slow, especially since it’s been awhile since the last time. When Yoongi knows for a fact you haven’t seen anyone else, either, his heart grows a size, making his breath shudder while he slides further and further inside. 

He’ll wait. As always. But you don’t take long to feel comfortable, your hands lifting up to softly pull at his chains. Yoongi’s shoulders relax as you slide up to hold them for support, and he almost can’t look into those eyes he’s so afraid of.  

Bliss. This is exactly what he’s been fighting for. This is exactly why he’s going to make a much better effort—now, tomorrow, and forever. 

“I’m ready, baby,” you whisper. 

And Yoongi lets himself loose completely. 

Fuck, you feel better than he remembers, wrapping around him just right and pulsing against every ridge. If he could stay inside you every second, he would. There’s only one thing he can think of that would feel better than this, and just imagining that has him vibrating. The warmth enveloping him buckles both arms at your sides, and he crumbles to an elbow to smush his body against yours. 

“Look at me,” he commands, and he gives you a light pat on the cheek before squeezing your jaw. “Open up.”

When you do, spit flings from his mouth into yours, and his eyes blaze and twist at the primal dragon laying claim to you in his chest. Because you’re his, and he’s yours. This is all he ever needed to know. 

“Fuck!”

Fuck, that was too fucking hot. If he doesn’t control himself now he’s spilling inside of you in seconds. “What do you say?”

“Me?” you pant, hissing when he grips your chin once again. “Thank—” 

He’s thrusting inside you too hard you can’t think. But Yoongi doesn’t relent. Because he knows you can fucking take it. He knows how strong and relentless you can be, reckless just for him and pulling those same commitments from his core. 

And you prove him right yet again. “Thank you.”

“Now swallow.” As soon as he shoves inside, your obedience is his unraveling. Watching your eyes roll and your mouth part in release drags him down the shoreline with you, and he can’t fucking save himself because your tugs are too goddamn dominant. Fuck, you’re unbelievable. He will never, ever get enough of you. 

“Such a whore for me,” Yoongi praises, smiling lopsided when you remember exactly what he’s referring to. That first night you hustled the shit outta him and left him with a mind so jumbled he didn’t know what to do. God, that was ages ago. He’s not even sure he’s the same person anymore.

But you are. Just a lot more confident. At your core, you’re still the same wonderful woman, and the light in your eyes has not faded even one shade. “Love when you do that,” you admit, and he laughs when you shake your head. “Don’t know why.” 

“Me neither.” He spears you again with a cheeky lip bite. “But it’s so fucking hot.” 

Your grin can’t be contained, and this is where you wanna be. Right here. Nowhere else in the fucking universe. 

“I’m ready.” When Yoongi regards you with curiosity, he gets blindsided yet again by your forthcomingness. “Fuck the shit out of me.” 

Oh. Tonight is his last, it seems. “Goddamn, this isn’t good for me.” 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” Sitting back on his knees, he gathers your pretty ankles in a bunch. “Hold these pretty legs up for me. There you go.” It’s his turn to not give you a warning. Because you’re slick enough to handle what’s coming and he’s determined to make you do the same. 

Driving hard and fast, Yoongi unleashes his energy, slamming into your pussy again and again and relishing in the way you mewl and moan and whine. Keep doing that. He wants to hear you. It’s fuel for him to keep going and give you exactly what you want and need. If you felt insecure around him before tonight, he vows to erase all of that worry until it’s wiped from existence. You’re his world. You’re his everything. 

“Feel so good—”

More. More, more, more, he needs fucking more. When he leaves your cunt, you mewl before he grunts, “Fucking—Get up.” Raising you up by the arms, Yoongi leads you to the edge of his bed before swiping a firm arm to clear his desk. Knowing what he’s about to do, his cock twitches like mad. 

Fuck, you already look divine facedown on the surface, your legs teetering on those heels and making him grit out a groan. 

He cannot come. Not before living out one of his deepest fantasies. Fucking you on his desk? His workspace where he works on his other love? Yoongi’s already shaking before he even grips your quivering hips, shoving your thong away and letting it rest useless on one side of your perfect ass. Fuck. 

“Yoongi—”

He finds home again in an instant, pushing your bowing spine down when you habitually flinch, “Uh uh. Stay like that.” 

“I wanna—” Your words are cut off with his spank. “Fuck!”

“There you go.” The rock of the desk is so strong that every bang against the wall booms loud, equipment sliding back and forth and teetering just like you had on your high heels. Just the mere sight of you like this makes him spiral. And Yoongi can’t help but whoosh out a raspy laugh. “Goddamn.” 

He grabs your hands, shoving you even flatter against his desk so he can pin your arms against your slick back. Possessive? Yes. Unsatiable? Even more so. 

Your moans fling out as he doesn’t let up, and Yoongi moans at the way you squeeze and milk his cock—relentless, uncompromising, just how he fucking wants it. 

More. He still wants more? Fuck. “Come here.” He gathers your wrists in one palm before reaching around your chest, hauling you up and pinning you against his body by the throat. It’s so sweaty under his touch, glistening and tempting to be sucked until he mars you with lust. 

“Never fucking kicking you out.” His next stroke is intentionally harsh, and those moans will take residence in his mind for years. “Don’t even think about saying that again.” 

Your weight falls on his arms when he shoves into you again, feet scrambling for solid ground and wobbling your legs into jello. 

But Yoongi doesn’t give a shit. “You hear me?” When you let out a breathy confirmation, he still isn’t satisfied. A hand pats your cheek before he asks again, “Say it louder.” 

“Yes!”

“Good.” That’s all you get before he jumps into a frenzy, pistoning as fast and as hard as he can possibly manage. When he brings you back down to his desk, Yoongi takes advantage of the position, thrusting and thrusting and thrusting into your heavenly velvet. 

This is exactly what he needed. What you needed. Of course you both yearned for the same blue flame, ripping each other apart and rebuilding each other again. 

You’re close. Yoongi can feel you. So he menacingly decides to prolong your release yet again—

You shove him so fast he can’t react, thumping onto his bed and cackling like mad when you leap onto his frame. Fuck, your eyes are so blown and vicious they set him on fire, and he’s gripping your sloping hips and shoving you against his length before he can fully taunt, “Let’s go then, pretty bitch.”

“You already fucking know.”

“Show me what I’ve been missing.”

“Don’t fall in love.” 

Right. He’s already groaning when you take your throne, regal and royal and showing him exactly why he already has. But when you swing your pelvis and take him even deeper, Yoongi reminds himself that he can always fuck you like he doesn’t. And that’s both of your favorite ways to sin. “Fuck.”

His head kicks back, eyes squeezing shut in lust. He’s so tight that he might hurt you, so his hands grapple his sheets instead and tense his muscles indefinitely. 

You feel good. Way too fucking good. If you’ve been practicing with those secrets you have in your bedside drawer he can damn well fucking tell. Soon, his hisses devolve into groans, and he snaps his head back up to slap your breasts—one after the other before gripping your hips with force. “Fuck, I missed this pussy,” he confesses with husk, and you whine in response as you lower yourself to kiss him deep. 

“It missed you, too.” You’re extending yourself up his body now, upping his heartbeat until it races to catch up with his feelings. But everything unholy fills him to the brim when you arch your tits to his face. It seems you figured some things out while he was gone. 

A dark chuckle leaves as he suckles on one of your nipples, lolling around and drawing whines right out of your lips. It’s adorable to feel you frozen around his waist, too distracted by his tongue that you can’t multitask both ends. 

It’s okay. He can do that for you. Grabbing the back of your neck, Yoongi thrusts himself up into your heat, marvelling at the way your mouth flops open to say his name. “Uh huh.”  

Before you can talk again, his other hand joins in to choke you from the other side, and his eyes engulf in black when yours roll impossibly far back. 

Fuck. He’s not gonna last much longer. But you’re gonna reach bliss a thousand times before he worries about himself. “You gonna come?”

A frantic nod.

“Then come.” 

As soon as you hear the words, you do exactly that, windpipe released just as you pulse around him so hard he hisses out a curse. Shit, shit, his release is right behind yours. The way you tug at his cock proves too much, and he stutters out words of encouragement when spilling out his own release inside latex. But you’re inundating around him even after he comes, and Yoongi selfishly commands you with a rasp, “Again.” 

To his shock, you obey immediately, crying out and arching so far back Yoongi feels himself close again, too. Has he come more than once in awhile? He doesn’t remember the last time that happened, if at all. But he knows it can happen with you. There’s no doubt he can get there with you, because he loves you so fucking much. 

Fuck. Fuck, did he just say that last confession out loud? No. No, he didn’t. There’s no fucking way. 

Sitting up, he waits as you sling arms around him, leaning back and smirking at the way the new angle makes you moan. Confident you can do it a fourth time, he repeats, “Again.” 

Your head shakes before your arms lock around his neck, and one tilt of his hips pushes you over the edge. And god. Damn. This reaction you have to your own body sends Yoongi to a higher plane. He stares in awe as your eyes roll again, drinking in the sight of you and questioning what the hell he’d done to deserve a front row seat.

You’ve both come so far. But Yoongi is more proud of you for finding your sensuality in perfect stride and pace. This is wholly you, losing yourself and baring your soul to him in full. Despite what you’re doing, you radiate such an angelic aura, and Yoongi has pricks at the corners of his eyes. 

He has his guardian angel back. And he would burn the universe without a second thought if it kept you safe and warm. “So fucking perfect.”

“For you,” you wisp out. “Only you.” 

How you decided to stay with him, Yoongi will never be able to fathom. But you came back effortlessly. You welcomed him back like the promise of a nostalgic summer.  

Lowering you to his sheets, he positions you to where you’re most comfortable. When he asks if you’re okay, you can only nod, and he plants another kiss on your temple before sliding off his protection. It doesn’t take him long to trash, and he makes his way back to the bed to take full advantage of your body heat. 

There’s complete silence now. But for the first time in months, Yoongi’s more than fine with that. Because it’s nothing but comforting, with your occasional nudge against his chest and soft breaths warming his chains. 

Soothing your back with circles, something walks into his brain, and he can’t hold it in any longer as his mouth spreads wide into a grin, “I need to re-up this damn cat’s food.” 

That squeal is so fucking worth the surprise. 

“I knew it!” Yoongi pretends to be annoyed when you figure him all the way out. “Tried to hide it from me all these months? Somebody’s getting soft.”

“First off.”

“Uh huh.”

Someday, one day soon, he’s gonna take you shopping for her. You’re going to run through his entire wallet, but Yoongi doesn’t care because he’s gonna be at his happiest picking toys and things out for you. 

He can even buy you storage for some of your clothes, too. 

Maybe that can be your next surprise. 

“I’m her favorite.” 

Your scoff is immediate, and Yoongi watches as you attempt to tower over him. “Only because you gatekeeped her.”

Gatekeeped? Is that even a word? A soft disagreement precedes a more prominent, “Won’t even matter.” Because she’s definitely going to warm up to you more. He’s gonna take pride in the small amount of time he’s the favorite before being recognized as the lowly food and water boy. 

Something softens in your stare. And he’s wondering what’s floating around in that attractive mind of yours. “You took care of her.”

He did. Because she came back when he was himself again. And if that wasn’t a sign for good things to come, Yoongi will make it one anyway. “She was gonna be your surprise,” he finally murmurs. “For getting the gig.”

Your eyes still before you offer a smile that stops his heart. When you lean down to give him a kiss, the same organ beats in double time when you plant love on his forehead right after. 

Oh. That was… 

“Come here,” Yoongi whispers, wrapping you against his side as you lie back down. Calling it what it is, he’s simply too shy to look into your eyes right now. “How are you gonna get home?” He’s fine taking you. But there’s a lot of risk there if your brother is awake or driving up at the same time. And—

Shit. You still have those shoes on. They can’t be comfortable while lying down, especially after you took him like a champion.

“I’ll call a ride in the morning. He’ll be out cold until noon at the earliest.” 

“K.” 

“Did I keep you from anything?”

A puff flies out his nostrils. Of course you’d still ask that after commandeering the rest of his night. “Kinda late for that, huh.” 

“True. Sorry.”  

“But no, we were finishing up when I called.” 

“Okay… Did I scare you?” When Yoongi can’t confess out loud, he lets his eyes speak for him. Which makes your voice heavy with apology, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” 

“S’ok.” 

“I just… It hurt tonight.” Fuck. “Really hurt.” 

He knows exactly what you mean. It’s been hurting like this ever since he left. Which means he  has to make up all that time. Grappling onto this chance you gave like a lifeline, he’s gonna right all his wrongs and fully commit. No matter how many shadows are in this damn apartment, because he now knows you’ll help chase them away.  

After a light squeeze, Yoongi gently shifts his weight, resting his head exactly where your hand clutches your chest. When you move your fingers, he kisses that same spot, hoping you understand what he means. “How about now.” 

Fingers meek, you clutch his head with a broken response, “Maybe try that one more time.”

He’ll do it as many times as you ask. 

Yoongi can feel the shudder in your chest. And he knows what that usually means. So he decides to run from your expression one more time, trying something else to hopefully comfort you. Sliding to the edge of his bed, he gently lifts one of your ankles onto a leg, back fully facing you as he undoes the meticulous leather straps. “I always do, babe.” 

When you’re silent, he slips one heel off before clarifying. “Miss you.”

“I just… Wasn’t sure.” 

He hates the waver in your voice. Hates how he’s the sole cause of it and fighting hard to not hurtle down another hole. “That’s my fault.” 

Throat small, you’re swift to reassure him. “No, no. I need to just suck it up. I’m sorry.” 

After freeing your other foot, he rubs it without prompt, finding comfort in massaging your exhausted soles. If he allows himself to dream, it would be to end each and every night just like this. Driving you to release before soothing your tired bones as you talk about whatever’s on your mind, working toward his dream while you drift off and get lost in yours. 

Can he have that? Will the universe let him have a future despite his past? “Just a little bit longer, doll,” he says, turning to look at the floor. “I’m sorry.” 

“You gave me tonight.” When he swallows, you reassure him with all the support you can give, “A little longer is nothing.” 

Of course. How could you be any less than perfect? A moment passes before he shifts, and this is when he finally spots the ocean of littered pens and papers on his floor. 

Is his smile that obvious? It doesn’t take you long to call his ass out. “You liked whatever happened over there, huh.”

Immediately, Yoongi’s shoulders bob with a laugh before he admits, “Fucking you on my desk? I’ve wanted to do that for months.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Going through all the other scenarios he’s thought of—one that occurs a little far from here—he grins. “There’s a lot of shit I’ve wanted us to do for months.” 

“Oh? Like what?”

He looks over his shoulder, and you scoff in frustration at his answer, “What’s the fun in telling you?”

“Ass!”

—

—

Yoongi does his damned best to keep that smile on your face. After a shower that proves steamier than usual, he offers to make you dinner when your stomach roar makes him double over in laughter. And while he whips up a meal from the last batch of groceries Taehyung brought, Yoongi peeks around the bar to watch you discreetly open his front door. 

Wearing a shirt he used to wipe his own tears weeks ago. He’s been an utter, complete fool. 

“Is she there?” He calls out, to which you turn with a prominent pout on your lips. 

“No.” When you huff and puff to the kitchen, his eyes crease tight. “Whatever, I have plenty of time to become her new fave.” 

Over dinner, your laughs mix with his own as you tell him all your work stories. And Yoongi quickly realizes that this could’ve been the whole night and he’d be just as happy. Just as fulfilled. What does that tell him? Nothing he doesn’t already know. 

It’s when you both settle into bed that things simmer. And as Yoongi lies on your hearth of a chest, you tell him everything that happened with Jungkook. How you met, when your brother went from protectiveness to approval, up until the night he broke your heart. 

Yoongi doesn’t say a word. But he does encourage you to keep talking about your new job. Because it seems like the perfect fit for you, which is the complete opposite from where you were before. 

“Oh, wait,” you suddenly stop during a story about office decorating, “What did you call about?”

“Huh? Tonight?” 

“Yeah.” 

Now that it’s his turn to speak, Yoongi feels shy. You’ve been experiencing so much while he was away, and it’s relieving to know you didn’t lose most of your spark. “We finally have a confirmed date. For that album,” he murmurs. “I was gonna invite you to the release party.”

You tense. “Me?”

A laugh flows out, warming his cheek. “Yes, you. All of y’all.” 

It takes a second for you to ask what he suspects you would, “That won’t be weird?” 

“Nah. You can bring anyone you want, so. I was assuming you’d bring your friends.” 

“Ah, I see.”

Nope. There’s that insecurity again. And he’s already there to push it away, planting kisses along your skin, your neck, and landing home on your lips. “It won’t be the only one,” he promises. “We got time.”

“Duh,” you giggle. “And I’ll be at all of them. Whether you like it or not.” 

Oh. Yeah. He loves you more than words could ever convey. 

But he doesn’t feel like he can tell you just yet. That’s the last hurdle he has to clear, and he finds himself eating shit every time he attempts. But it’s okay. There’s still time. Because you chose him again, you gave him another chance, you’re here. 

Finding his spot on your chest again, Yoongi immediately feels at peace. All the nights he dreaded, and all the nights he doesn’t remember—every single one can’t touch him now. Because in you, he finds a safe haven, the rolling hills of your limbs and the valley of your breasts shining and warm under your smiles. 

He’ll find a way to do this. He’ll find a way to set things straight with your brother and his past. Soon. Maybe. Hopefully. 

Yoongi starts to lull as you glide gentle fingers through his hair, something else that lends him the solace he’d been seeking for months. God, all he needed was you. And you’re the only thing he left… behind…

You’re humming. 

Ever the curious musician, Yoongi perks his ears to figure out what you’re singing. Is it something he can recognize? Is it a song he doesn’t know? No. You aren’t humming anything in particular. Which makes this performance unique and only for him, and your soft lilt tugs on every single string of his heart. 

Forget everything he had said before. This is how he wants to end every night, floating amongst your stars while your voice dips his mind in a stream of gentle song. 

God. You’re composing and don’t even know it. The way you stop before trying something different, the small grunt you make before going again to make a phrase better. It’s not unlike his own creative process, and that connection yanks tears straight from his soul. 

What did he ever do. What did he ever do to be with you.

“Shit, was I too loud?”

Yoongi just shakes his head, holding you closer and hoping you don’t notice the droplets through his tee. “Not at all.” 

So you keep going, humming more familiar tunes and phrases, moving on to a drumline on his head that makes him huff in pure delight. 

But Yoongi commits that moving line you liked to memory, remembering every note and already weaving it into the fabric of his own making. A breakthrough sparks new life into his eyes, and Yoongi squeezes them tight while his lungs silently burn and burn. 

It’s what he had been fucking missing.  

You were the key this whole time. 

And he waits until you fall asleep to let out grateful, heavy sobs into your chest. 

—

—

The day after you left is one of the most stressful ones of his life. From the whirlwind of a morning to the moment of bravery in the studio to handling your brother, Yoongi needs a whole week of no brain activity. 

But that call with you long after night fell just changed his whole perspective on the time he’d been gone. 

You sounded so broken, so fragile, so defeated. It didn’t matter to have that one night of reunion. He fucked up the next day by falling asleep and leaving you worried yet again. 

You asked if he was done with you. And from the way you asked it, you already believed it to be true. 

And Yoongi never, ever wants you to question where he stands again. Not when there’s three words he wants to say to you every fucking day. 

When the phone cuts, Yoongi’s hand falls, his stare shifting straight to the living room. Right towards the corner that stares back. “You’re nothing to me anymore,” he vows, walking to the guitar that almost shies away. “I’m done.” 

Keep saying it. Keep believing it. Keep focusing on the present and grasping that instead. And one day, these words will be truer than true. 

Reaching for the case, Yoongi stops midway, his hand unable to go any farther. 

All he has to do is throw it out. That’s it. Just take it, walk to the nearest dumpster, and discard. Years of toxins will fester somewhere else, and he’ll finally be rid of the dark. 

In the end, he still can’t do it. But that won’t stop him from showing you he’s better now. Showing himself he’s better now. 

Because he is, he is, he is. 

“For us.” 

-

-

tbc in fugue, pt. iii

-

so... thoughts before part 3? | join the server! | fugue pt. iii

a/n: this was the part that i couldn't write until i knew yoongi was fine. it was always the plan to have him isolated, but to see real life yoongi go through all that last summer.. i couldn't find it in my heart to write his self-isolation and self-deprecation without my soul hurting. it just didn't feel right. but as soon as i saw him okay? 3tan yoongi came back again. and my fingers flew. a/n 2: thank you again, everyone. i hope you all love all the parts of fugue in equal amounts! any support, love, or encouragement means the whole world to me. again, i'm sorry for taking so long to update the main storyline, but i am back. for real. love you guys so much. ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist  ⇥ three tangerines masterlist

[se7vnn]

yoongi's interlude: fugue pt. i (3tan) | myg

title: yoongi’s interlude: fugue pt. i pairing: 3tan!yoongi x reader(f)  series: masterlist | three tangerines | fireworks | house party | basketball |  stay |  sidewalk talk | friends | dalo | like that | anytime | sundress season | yoongi’s interlude | forfeit | flutter | video call | busted | broken pt. 1 | broken pt. 2 rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , smut ;  brother’s best friend au, implied age gap au summary: he would do anything for you, even if that means leaving your light... to venture into his dark. note: fugue—in music, a compositional procedure characterized by the systematic imitation of a principal theme in simultaneously sounding melodic lines ; a state or period of loss of awareness of one's identity, often coupled with flight from one's usual environment. note 2: if you haven’t read them or haven’t read them in awhile, i highly recommend rereading busted, broken pt 1, and broken pt 2 before diving into this one. note 3: yes. i will hold everyone’s hand this time.  warnings: language, flashbacks, time skips, angst, heavy isolation, brain fog, fugue state experiences, ruined instrument, depression allusions, alcohol mentions and consumption, fight scenes, spice from yoongi’s pov????, trauma, bro is a real one, drugs mention/use, the demons are being fought y’all, among other things😔, blood, yoongi please get up😭😭, darkness, jimin being his ride or die self, surprise reader cameo?, anxiety, ptsd reflexes, the ex is getting screen time🚶‍♀️‍➡️, friendship is truly power, yoongi just needs a gd hug😭, dark thoughts, tension, the ending.. oh god the ending<33 drop date: july 1st, 2025, 7:17pm est word count: 10.9k

—

—

It doesn’t work it doesn’t work it sounds like shit. 

Clacks erupt as Yoongi shoves his keyboard, its thump overshadowed by the rough rolls of his desk chair. 

Pacing along one side of his bed, he goes over what he just heard, fingers splaying across his face before becoming weights at his sides.

This isn’t a good sign. He’s gone at this project for months with absolutely nothing to show for it, any progress on it plummeting after his self-imposed exile days ago. 

To be fair? This is his fault. With the overload of the studio, his own project hasn’t been getting the attention it needs. Amongst other personal work he doesn’t want to confront. 

Which is why it sounds like shit. 

Yoongi hums a run of notes before muttering what he wrote, stopping at the same spot and trying to amend the lyrics with another turn of phrase. 

“Fuck, not that, either.” 

He walks out of his room, absentmindedly rapping with his hands and tsking when he hits a snag. 

Without fail, Yoongi ventures into his kitchen, walking past the fridge and into his laundry space to grab a bottle from a top shelf. 

Logically, he really should just invest in another bar cart. It’s kinda shitty having all these bottles where his washer and dryer sit. But why the fuck would he do that after what happened last time? 

“Are you even—”

No. It’s too early to fight.

Grabbing a dark green bottle and a glass, Yoongi heads back to his room, trying his damned best to figure something out and shoving the memory back in its box. 

A clunk and clink thump down when he does, him pouring a good amount before replaying what’s on his screen.

Mm. It’s definitely incomplete. 

What the fuck is it? What’s he missing?

Be serious. Yoongi knows exactly what’s missing and he’s known this whole time. It’s sitting in his living room laughing. Taunting. Maniacal. 

Fuck, focus on something else. He can do this without that goddamned guitar. Write.

So he does.

Yoongi writes, and writes, and sets it all free. 

Something about life. More about liquor. Mentioning the only things keeping him company after he secluded himself like an idiot. Flying, flying, flying. Falling, falling, falling.

What the hell are these bars? These lyrics are strange. 

Write write write accomplish something, goddamn. 

Morning slinks by as he loses himself, thrown into a kaleidoscope of life and words and spirals in the dark. 

Rain. Rain rain rain no tears only rain. Ripping a page. Thunder in silence thunder in darkness lightning striking the lines. Flashes of blue and a blank digital workspace. Another page torn away. Tracks that make no sense. Fog. Shadow. Another page crumbles in his hands.

No matter what, it’s not enough. She was right. He’s a failure and it’s too early to fight. Another page discarded. She was right all along. 

He’ll never be enough. 

—

“You’re more than enough.” 

—

Yoongi peels open heavy lids hours later, mini plastic piano keys and his sleeve the only silhouettes in the light of his awaiting screen. 

More than enough…

You told him that. 

Yoongi breathes into his arm, feeling what little life in him he has for tonight. The sliver of existence jump started by your words. By you.

You, with hands that he could hold for balance and dear life.

You, with all the stars of his galaxy in those eyes.

You, with fingers on his jacket unknowingly saving him from falling into himself—again, and again, and again.

What he would give to have you knock on his door one more time. 

But not yet. Not until there’s only one shadow existing in his place. And judging by the jitter in his bones, he’s gonna be dealing with a lot of them. 

Slowly readjusting his glasses, Yoongi observes his screen, remembering what happened at your house to force this distance. That damn confrontation. His damn fault. 

The night was going well until the incident. The way you went where he couldn’t follow, only to be stopped by one of your friends before he could attempt. 

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” 

What was her name again? 

Right. 

Dom. 

Her cousin had the heart that he broke with his brutal honesty. Yoongi suspects he won’t be on her good side for quite some time, despite knowing he will never, ever purposefully do anything remotely the same with you. 

It’s true. As much as he fucks up when it comes to you, he’ll be the first one to be there when you need him. Which is exactly what he’s trying to do now. 

“She went in there with Kook.” 

Dom pauses with a fury in her eyes, now aimed at someone or something else. “Shit, okay. Well. They can handle themselves.” 

Is that true? Are you gonna be okay? That’s all he wants. 

But judging by the look you gave him, this isn’t a conversation you’ll walk out of without wounds. 

When Yoongi gives Dom a look, she folds,

“Maybe. Fuck, he better not try shit.” 

“Like what?” What the fuck does she mean by that? 

“That boy had it bad. Probably still does. And they already saw each other the other day.” 

“I know.” 

That earns him a look. “She told him she was seeing someone. That true?” 

A nod. “Depending on what happens here, I’ll say something, too.” 

“You’re lying.” 

Huh? That’s not a lie in the slightest. Yoongi really will air it all out if he has to, because he’s feeling fiercely committed. 

Granted, dating was something he gave up before, so it’s not far fetched not to trust him. But seeing you? Being with you? That’s the most natural conclusion in his currently scrunched eyes. “Why would I lie about that?” 

“I dunno? To try shut me up or whatever.” 

It can’t be helped. This is what happens when his reputation precedes. 

But Yoongi won’t let it control him. Not when he finally has something he cares about more than anything. “I’m not trying shit,” he calmly assures, “Unless he does.” 

“Oh,” Dom breathes, eyes unblinking and darting across his face like hell. “You’re serious.” 

Whether it’s because he can’t stand around too long, or because he cannot describe how accurate that statement is, Yoongi can only hold his tongue, looking away with a curt nod. 

Nah. He can’t say what he really wants to right now. At least, not to her.

But what he says is enough. “I am.” 

Dom waits a bit. Most likely juggling the conflicting emotions in her head about you and her cousin’s past. But she finally breaks, “Gimme your number.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. I have a plan.”

Yoongi stops before realizing he doesn’t have time for hesitation. Obliging, he types his number out for Dom to copy while blurting out a regretful, “Sorry.”

“Huh?”

“About your cousin.”

“Oh.” Her face has mastered the combination of shock and confusion. “Well, thanks, but she’s fine now.”

“Good. She deserves it.” 

“Yeah, no shit.”

Yoongi huffs before slipping back, “So what’s the plan.”

She texts him her name before sighing, looking at your door. “You and I both know she’s not gonna come out right after that’s over, whatever it is. So I’ll go in there after she has some space. Just text me when you’re good to go in.” 

Hold up. Dom’s really sticking her neck out? For him? Yoongi feels like this isn’t deserved, but he can’t let a sudden development distract him. “K.” 

“I mean it. If you fuck up this time, I swear to—”

“I won’t.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I—”

As soon as Yoongi hears the first raise of your voice, he abandons everything entirely, his body moving on autopilot before Dom can grab at his arm. 

And he’s right at your door, just about to reach the doorknob before another hand grips his wrist.

“Wait.”

Shit, he knows exactly who that is. And it’s not Dom.

Looking up, Yoongi faces his best friend with confusion, not caring how this looks and wondering why they’re supposed to wait in the first place. When he questions with a raise of his brow, he gets a whisper in return,

“I wanna hear this.”

Fine.

Both of them stand there, eyes trained on the ground and deciphering what they can. Getting more and more furious by the second.

“I wanted to call!”

“You wanted nothing to do with me!”

“No! That’s not true—”

“Liar!”

“I’m not lying!”

“You are!”

Alright, Yoongi’s had enough. 

And a shared glare with his friend ends their wait, your brother twisting the locked knob before shouting, “What the hell’s going on in there!”

Some people down the hall look over, but Dom’s already directing them to move along. She seems pretty alright. 

“We’re fine! It’s okay.”

“Open the door.”

“No.”

“You better be serious—”

“Promise!”

Yoongi wants to believe you. He does.

“We’re okay.” 

Your brother looks right at him when he hesitantly backs down, “…Okay.”

And neither one of them vacate the doorway. 

No matter what, he’s gonna stay. Even if your brother bails—which he won’t—Yoongi will be here. Because he’s set on that statement being nothing less than fact.

Even though he’s slowly starting to realize he may need to lay low after tonight. 

Despite being on the same page, Yoongi has a feeling his emotions are being silently questioned. Those looks aimed his way feel loaded as fuck. 

He wants to hurl. 

No, no, it’s time to think things through. After tonight? He’s gotta lay low and keep distance. Don’t make any moves or risk you being anywhere near his place—

“Dude, I said I’m—”

Oh, fuck you just opened the door and Yoongi’s heart roars to escape his chest.

Nope. Still stuck to the same page as your brother, he’s going in. Because he’s gotta know what the hell is going on in here. 

He waits while you all hash it out, observing from a ways away until what the shit why are you getting shoved off— “The fuck—”

“What’s wrong with you?” 

Your outburst in his arms catches everyone’s attention. But he’s not letting your boiling energy go until you fight because your heartbeat is racing through your back. Holy shit. 

You have to breathe or else your heart’s gonna give out. And Yoongi wants to tell you that, tell you anything to let you know you know he’s in your corner. But he can’t do anything except fucking stand there until you shake him off. 

Let it go. Let things play out. But what the fuck have you and Jungkook been talking about?

What did he do to you? 

A dangerous mix of anger and suspicion twists his brain tight, tugging on itself and pulsing pressure along his forehead. Because controlling himself right now? Requires one thousand percent of his power. 

Because whatever happened between you two left scars that reopened tonight, and Yoongi can’t do anything but watch you bleed. 

What went down? Could he and your brother somehow have prevented it? Although, he wasn’t aware of your relationship with the kid, so he can’t fault himself for not being somewhere he didn’t know about. But how? How did he miss this part of your household life? 

Was he really that cut off from everything back then? 

Yoongi regrets that damning fact more than ever before.

Your change in tone catches his attention. “It’s alright, okay? We’re just talking.”

Right. A simmering fire, your brother asks what he’s thinking, “…So it’s like that?”

Jungkook’s reply throws kindle on flames, and you have to snuff your brother out before he does anything stupid,

 “Of course it is.”

“The fuck it isn’t—” 

“It is! Fucking hell, dude...” 

A pang worms its way into Yoongi’s side. When he swivels his head around the room, he can deduce exactly why he feels all sorts of messed up: Jungkook looks like he wants to defend you from your brother. Which should be a good trait. 

But Yoongi can’t fucking think straight because the heat of his best friend’s aura has set him ablaze, too.

And you look like you don’t wanna be here at all, fuck. 

It’s not just the heightened tension, either. There’s another matter that’s pressing his heart hard against his ribcage, and he’s doing everything he can to save it. To no avail, of course. 

Because there’s no way to tell your brother about everything now. Not after this disaster of a confrontation.

When you speak, his thoughts quiet to mirror the room, “Look. We’re just talking. But I need to speak to him alone.” 

Mm. He doesn’t like that. 

Of course he understands. And Yoongi knows your brother will listen and they’ll leave in just a second. But he’s busting in if he hears shouts again and there will be no question about where he stands with you. 

“Please.” 

It’s that one plea that makes him relent. Because of course he will give you anything. But in dropping his thoughts, Yoongi finally looks up and over your shoulder. 

Only to see Jungkook glaring right at him.

Shit. Shit. That’s not a look he needs to receive from the kid unless he fucked up in the studio. Anywhere else, especially in regards to you? Laying low is definitely the move after tonight.

Yoongi will be wading too far in deep shit if he doesn’t. 

“Trust me,” you softly beg, to which he internally sighs. 

Yoongi trusts you with his life. On top of that, he has no doubt you’ll stand your ground after holding your own against all three of them. If you wanna do it alone, he’ll respect that and your brother most likely will, too. 

But the other guy in the room with hair dyed seventy shades lighter is on thin fucking ice. 

Jeon better fucking behave.

Decision made, Yoongi follows your silent sibling out of the room, briefly looking at the walls covered with memories and hoping the night ends as one of the good ones.

—

— 

Thunder rolls in the distance, lulling Yoongi back to the present company of his monitor. The same one he’s been using for awhile now, along with the same keyboard controller that he really needs to upgrade. 

Of course, he can still pull magic off with the tech in front of him. But it would be a little easier to weave complexity with more piano keys at his disposal. 

Not that it matters when his brain is fried. There’s no way he’s getting anything else done tonight. 

Successfully giving up, Yoongi trudges to his bathroom to relieve himself, bumping a shoulder on his doorway with a hissing curse. 

Of course the pain would come on the tailend of that memory. He was too hopeful then and he’s perfectly hopeless now. 

Seconds later, a sniff mingles with running water as he washes his hands, staring down the mirror while thinking about a fonder time. 

That day remains his safe haven. Yoongi will never forget the look in your eyes after you both drenched each other, water and shining smiles coating every spot of your skin. What he would give to live that moment again, one where he felt his heart grow ten sizes despite its dark confines. 

With another blink, you’re gone, taking all the color with your departure and leaving emptiness behind. The only sounds Yoongi can hear are the hum of his aircon and the gentle rush of water. 

Shit, the faucet is still on? Who’s running up his water bill now? 

Hair shifts forward as he reprimands himself, shaking a tired head filled to the brim with decisions he needs to file through. Can't take too long in the shower now. Who knows how fucking long he left the sink on. 

Fuck, he misses you. Please come back and tease him for being a hypocrite.

It’s only been a couple weeks since he left and, for the most part, it’s been manageable. The calls with you have been a lifeline, Yoongi needing them just as much as you have expressed. And when you shyly but bravely showed him some sundresses you got the other day, he had to grip his sheets in an iron fist to keep from rushing out the door. 

But after you get off the line, after darkness falls on his eyes? That is when he fights. Again, and again, every night since he made you blindly trust him with every beautiful fucking bone in your body. 

And every night, he fails you when he loses. 

Every. Single. Night. 

Sometimes, Yoongi wakes in a shuddering mess, scrambling to sit up and checking the entirety of his room to make sure she’s not there. 

Other times, he doesn’t even bother sleeping. And those nights are the longest, the ones that leave him with chasms under his eyes. 

Washing those same carved valleys now, Yoongi rubs his face under shower spray, raking hands through his growing hair before dousing it. 

You stood in this very space more than you ever should have. And he guarantees that, when you were here the first time, you were trying to get something off your arm that wasn’t gonna wash out. 

God, he fucked it all up from the very beginning. There’s no running from that, just like how there’s no running from the words he’d been punctured with before. 

“Useless piece of—”

Shut the fuck up. 

He will deal with her later. Same time, just like every other night. 

Every night until he doesn’t fail you anymore.

—

—

Showering lasts a lot longer than Yoongi intended, much to his own chagrin. 

Granted, a longer wash or two isn’t gonna fuck up his bill too much. But it’s the concept of all that waste that his parents instilled in him. Don’t take more than you need. Maybe he should’ve heeded that concept when dealing with his mountain of greed. 

That’s what it is, right? Keeping things tight with your brother; going around his back to keep seeing you; keeping truths away from the one that looked at you with dying stars in his eyes. 

Yoongi’s surprised he hasn’t collapsed from the weight of his implications yet.  

But he does just that after feeding the cat outside, falling onto his bed suddenly hesitant to call you. 

God, does he want to. Your voice, your gentle words, your contagious laughter—all of it’s right behind the press of a button, and yet… 

Tonight’s grim has decided to visit him a little early, it seems. 

But this distance was to conquer it all, right? So why can’t he get the fuck up and do it? He needs to if he wants a future with you. If he comes back into your life with this sludge on his shoulders, this monster on his legs? He’s only gonna stumble, when he should be walking alongside you. You deserve the parts of him he’s proud of, and right now, not much of those exist anymore. 

Not ever since she…

Fuck. He won’t get to talk to you, after all.

And he can’t fucking stand that. 

—

— 

Another week passes, laughing at Yoongi’s continuous inability to find a musical breakthrough.

Why can’t he get his shit together? He knows he can do this. There’s no question he’ll hit his stride and come up with something great. 

But that moment is nowhere in sight and it’s been stomping on his airway, not letting him breathe and questioning his skillset second by second. 

A few hums of his phone distract his chugging, sputtering train of thought, and he reaches for it in hopes to see your nickname. 

But disappointment seems to be the chosen track today, because these names aren’t yours. 

Dumbass [17:05]: We hooping today??

Dumbass [17:05]: At the gym and no one’s here 

Fuck, he forgot they were gonna be doing that during some weeknights. Sometime in the last couple days, Jimin brought up the idea to practice at a rec center further out, something about avoiding being watched by any neighboring competition. 

The dedication to intramurals this year is admittedly touching. Despite what people think about Yoongi, he does admire shit like this, especially if it truly surprises him. That’s why he gravitated to you in record time, right? You don’t care who sees that you care, and that’s more attractive than anything. 

Getting him to admit his admiration is another story, though. He’ll say it, but his friends have to work for those words. 

While you get to hear them as often as he thinks them.

Waiting to hear from the others, Yoongi blinks when more messages slide through.

Rohan G. [17:07]: omw sry

Chim [17:07]: Getting something first then heading over! 

A knock pounds on Yoongi’s door as he types that he can’t make it tonight, and he perks at the sound, adjusting glasses that shifted in his haste.  

No fucking way. 

How did Jimin even guess he’d be home? 

Dumbass [17:08]: Five bucks says Chim’s talking about Yoong

Chim [17:08]: 😂😂😂

Rohan G. [17:08]: Liked ‘Five bucks says Chim’s talking about Yoong’

Mumbling, Yoongi makes his way over, opening the door with an accusatory deadpan. “You wasted gas coming here.”

“No I didn’t.”

“I’m busy.” 

“No excuses!” Jimin lets himself in, scanning the living room and noticing a lone soju bottle on the coffee table. “Wait, who are you drinking with without me?” 

Shit. Yoongi forgot that was even there. Did he really forget to put it away? Did he end up finishing the whole thing? 

…Why can’t he remember any of that? “No one.” 

“Oh. I was about to say.” Chuckling to no one, Jimin goes to throw the glass in the kitchen recycling bin, and Yoongi notes with slight terror that it sounded very, very empty. “Been there. Now get ready, hurry up!”

Yoongi groans, not wanting to do this. At all. 

But it’s not basketball he’s referring to. In fact, playing pick-up will be a perfect distraction from his harrowing thoughts. 

However, there’s something else he’ll have to confront when he’s there in that gym. Something he’ll have to deal with during every practice. 

Your brother. 

Seeking the private space of his closet, Yoongi sighs to himself as he grabs a tank, recalling the last real conversation he had with his best friend. One from that same night he keeps going back to. 

The very reason he had to say goodbye. 

It’s still so vivid he can smell your brother’s cologne. After the confrontation in your room, leaving you to fight for yourself proves too hard for him. But it proves even harder for the guy practically torching your door with his glare. 

Anticipating a historic fallout, Yoongi lays a firm arm over your sibling’s front, challenging those burning eyes before forcing him away, away, away from your bedroom door. 

He tries to rush back, but Yoongi’s there again, shoving towards the open hallway with all his might and warning his best friend with no words at all. 

It works. For now. 

Shrugging, the man visibly inhales as they head into the noisy house, passing through and going straight to where Yoongi assumes correctly. 

Seconds later, they’re in a bedroom he has been in more times than yours, him settling into a stiff desk chair while your brother sits hunched over on sagging sheets. 

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“No you won’t,” Yoongi quips, staring up at framed vinyls and jerseys. Voice neutral, he explains with logic, “If you’re charged with his murder, she’ll be charged with yours.”

“Yeah, but.. Did you see her back there? She looked so..”

Yoongi’s heart pangs. Because yes. Yes, he fucking did. Not only did he see you, but he felt you—the anger, the sadness, the confusion. Honestly, he has the same threatening thoughts as his best friend, but there’s no way they’re being let loose.  

So he can only hum in acknowledgement. “I know.” 

After a long beat, your brother forces the frustration from his lungs, “I need a fucking drink.”

“Then get up.” 

“And a hit.”

Yoongi’s eyes follow the gesture your brother aims toward his desk, and he grabs the lone pack before tossing it over. 

Minutes go by as they meander through the house, ignoring the curious looks and shouts to play cards. After procuring a bottle and glasses from the kitchen, they head out not to the full backyard, but into the open air of the front porch. 

“Give us some space for a sec, guys,” your brother calmly asks, not shocking Yoongi but startling the small gathering in the area. Everyone quickly apologizes for no reason before filing inside. 

Leaving the two of them alone against the world. As it has been. As it should be.

Fuck. 

Yoongi watches his friend approach the wooden railing overlooking the garden, arms resting on mahogany that he just got refinished two weeks ago. As he licks dry lips, he listens to the man he’s known forever, hating how he feels like a fraud. 

“I knew they had a thing, but.. I dunno what to think now.” The fidget of his leg mirrors how Yoongi feels. “He’s the only one I trusted with her.”

Damn. So what the hell happened between then and now for Kook to lose it all? Is the same fate awaiting him when his own truth comes into the spotlight?

Silent and aching, Yoongi walks up to join his friend, offering whisky and his two cents, “Maybe something happened.”

A sigh precedes a pouring of liquor. Your brother really is going through it if he’s serving himself a double, and it’s not easy to watch. “Why didn’t they tell me?”

Well. Many reasons, Yoongi imagines. Definitely not coming from a long period of terrifying experience, of course. 

As he pours his own glass, he asks with a hint of anxiety, “Would you've listened if they had?” 

They both know the answer, so he doesn’t understand the hesitation before the man finally concedes, “…I dunno. Probably would’ve just kicked his ass.”

Both of them let out knowing huffs of amusement, no doubt picturing the same scenario. “Uh huh.” 

Your brother is the first to default back to wallowing. “Nah, but… He hurt her, dude. Did you see how she looked?” 

“You asked that already,” Yoongi points out before taking a fig and tobacco-infused sip. “But no, I was mostly watching him.”

He earns a shoulder covered look before a grateful, haunting, “Thanks.” 

That’s Yoongi’s role to play, after all. Watching out for anything and anyone that would do you harm while your brother is away. It’s how things have been for a minute, even Jimin and now Taehyung taking up that position alongside him. 

It sets a lingering ache in his stomach to know his place is so close, yet so damn far. The fact that he’d perpetually be just out of reach should be enough to drive him mad. But your brother is his number one. His life saver. His everything. 

A sinister voice tugs on Yoongi’s ear, reminding him how easy it’s been to betray the guy despite all that supposed loyalty in his veins. What a joke. What a traitor.

He swipes the wisp away with a scratch. “Do you trust her?” 

“It’s not that. It’s… It’s always been everyone else I have an issue with.” 

Agreed. “Mm.” 

“I mean, I trust you,” his friend continues, straightening to pop a cig from its box. As he grabs it with wet lips, words get muddled but still ring clear, “Not in that way with her, I’d fucking kill you, but. I know you got my back, too.” 

Yoongi’s stomach convulses down the porch steps. 

And at the flick of a lighter, his last shred of hope goes up in flames. “Uh huh.” 

“I just… I know I overreact. I’m not above thinking I don’t. But I just gotta be sure she has someone good to her.” Restless smoke billows out as a contemplative arm falls. “I know I haven’t been around lately.” 

Ah. Yoongi’s stomach is about to have a companion, his heart dangling from the cliffs of his ribs.

Someone once told him that life begins and ends with choices. Decisions make branches from your tree, consequences and outcomes spiraling from each major base. The ones made with good intentions sprout leaves; the ones made with ill will wither away. Those are the ones that weigh you down with no effort—the ones you have to cut before they stunt your growth.

As his fingers graze over a proverbial machete, Yoongi wonders if the choices he made with you in mind count for the better. They have to, right? If he’d make them again, that counts for something, yeah? 

Talking into his glass, Yoongi responds to the one that told him all this in the first place, back when he pulled out the diseased roots poisoned by a smile. “Then do that.” 

“Do what?” 

Even if these decisions were made with good intentions, they’re still twisted. And there’s no way to straighten them when a soul feels way too similar. “Stick around for a sec.” 

Be there with you when he walks away from the most beautiful branch he’s ever grown. 

As much as he’s fighting himself to not do it this way, it’s inevitable. This is a horrible line to walk between the both of you, and he’s quickly seeing less and less options. 

Because if he tells your brother about the two of you now? It’s over. But if he keeps this up with you and strains the bond with your family? The guilt will eat him alive. 

You both mean the world to him. Which leaves Yoongi with an impossible scenario unless he gets his shit figured out. 

And he has. So much shit.

“Stick around?” 

“Yeah. Like a few months or so.” If he needs more time than that, he’ll legitimately go insane. 

“What’s with the sudden advice? You miss me that bad?” 

Yoongi doesn’t know what to say. At least, not without choking on his own self-affliction. “So she knows she’s got someone after all this.” 

After what he’s about to do. 

“Also, no. I don’t,” he lies. 

Your brother gives a playful shove before looking into his glencairn. “I guess I could move some trips around. They don’t really need me for the time being anyway.” 

“Does she know, by the way?” 

“Know what.” 

A shrug. “Anything. Why you even have this job in the first place.” 

“No,” your brother admits before taking another hit. “She doesn’t need to worry about that shit.” 

“She could appreciate it. Knowing.”

A look is sent his way. “You’re acting like you know her.” 

Fuck. Think. He cannot fuck this up before it even starts. “Is this really about me?” 

Yoongi is taking a huge gamble here. But it works. Most likely because both of them are way too tired to think about uncomfortable things anymore. 

“No. And I’ll think about staying.” 

Beat irregular, Yoongi’s heart prepares for the free fall.

“You’re a good guy, Yoong.” 

And it slips from the ledge before he’s ready. “You, too.” 

“Me? Don’t I know it,” your brother jokes with a laugh, straightening and smushing his cig in an ashtray. “I’m gonna make my rounds again.”

“Probably gonna head out soon,” Yoongi says, the organ in his chest slowly losing its pulse. “Just gotta say some byes first.” 

“Really? You never say bye.” 

Tonight, Yoongi will. He has to see you one last time before going back to his personal hell. “Sometimes. You just never see me.” 

The door opens with a slight creak. Because this part of the front porch hasn’t been redone yet. “Ah, whatever.” 

As a wave of aroma wafts through the foyer, Yoongi blurts another idea before he can stopper his worrying mind, “Leave her some food, too. She’s gonna need it.” 

The last thing he sees before a voice cuts in from above is your brother’s backward look.

“You ready?” 

Thrown out of the memory, Yoongi flicks his gaze to the one filling up his bedroom door. 

Bedroom door. His bedroom. They’re gonna go practice. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

“Okay…” Jimin gives him a look that calls him out like no other. It’s quite impressive how he’s always been able to do that.

But the nosy man doesn’t pry this time. “Then let’s go.” 

—

—

Playing goes well. While it’s clear none of the guys are at their best, they’re gonna get there. Even if it’s building stamina, which Yoongi desperately needs. But if they keep practicing like this? It could actually make them a threat the rest of intramurals. 

But your brother has been subdued all night. To the point where Jimin shoots Yoongi some choice looks to go over and ask what the fuck is up. 

Fine. He’ll deal with it. When he travels down the sideline to start the conversation, turns out the quiet mood is because of work,

“I’m trying to get out of it.”

“Out of what? A trip?”

“Yeah.”

“Just don’t go,” Yoongi poorly advises, wiping forehead sweat with his tank. A quick push forces laughter out his lips.

“You know I can’t do that.” Sporting a frown, the busy man sighs loud. “Especially when I’m in line for a promotion.”

“Wait, what?” Hold up, that’s a new development Yoongi didn’t see coming. Though he should have, since this guy is a nerd and one hell of a charmer. “Since when?”

“Trying not to say anything to jinx it.” Hide it all he wants, his smile contradicts his humility. Yoongi can’t help but give him a raised brow. When Jimin jogs up, he listens in with curiosity. “But yeah, they’re in talks to move me up.” 

The dusty blond yells in shock, hand over his mouth as some dribbling around them stops. The guys on the other end of the court still keep shooting around, though, squeaks of sneakers pinging off stark gym walls. 

“Trying not to say anything, huh,” Yoongi drawls, smirk collecting some loose sweat. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Fuck off,” your brother counters with a grin. A real one this time. “I did wanna tell you guys, just in person. But nothing’s guaranteed yet so if I don’t get it, no clowning.”

“Nah, you’re gonna get it,” Jimin assures, patting him on the back and recoiling at the moisture. “Ah. Are you aware you feel like a wet rag?”

While Yoongi’s shoulders shake, your brother’s dip as he grows sheepish, “I know. Nerves got me playing a little too hard.” 

Humility. Shyness. These emotions are hard to come by when it comes to him. When did he get this soft? Is he actually hanging out with you like Yoongi intended?

If so, that’s good. You both need it. The distance is working. 

So why does that gut him even deeper? 

“Alright, let’s put those nerves to use then,” Jimin offers, tone leaving no room to argue. Calling out to the whole court, he shouts, “One more game then we’re done!” 

The whole team acknowledges him in tandem. 

—

— 

Holy fuck, it’s over.

Hearts pumping and breath ragged, everyone dumps themselves on the court floors when your brother finally, mercifully makes the winning shot. 

Of course the last game took them fucking forever. No one could make a basket from being so worn down, and Yoongi’s muscles started protesting so hard they were gonna force him horizontal without his say. 

Someone’s phone vibrates from the bleachers, and no one even moves to check if it’s theirs. Only huffs, exhales, and gulps fill the large space, body heat and sweat weighing the air down.  

“Ah, shit, that’s me,” your brother rasps, twisting his watch while lying flat on his back. Tapping the glass face with his nose, he answers with enviable energy, “Hello!”

“Hey. You still out?”

Yoongi’s heart shatters on impact.

His gaze flicks to Jimin’s before he tilts toward fluorescent ceiling lights, splayed hands keeping him upright and eyes closing in longing. 

“Yeah, we’re still out. What’s up?”

“Just wondering. Dinner’s in the fridge, saved some stew for you.” 

“Thank god. There meat in there?”

As you prattle off a stinging response, Yoongi slowly smirks despite his ribcage tearing itself into scraps. What he would give to come home to you making dinner, joining you to help and watching your cute ass bustle around his kitchen—your kitchen.

One day. One day, one day, one day. 

“—be back soon. Thanks for the food!” 

“Mmhmm. See you later.”

As much as your voice soothes, Yoongi can’t help but think you sound… What is that he hears? There’s something in there that’s making his chest clench impossibly hard, digging into his head and making him regret everything all over again. 

No. It’s not what you sound like, it’s what you don’t. 

Yourself.  

Which is not what Yoongi intended. And his control over the dark part of his mind slips a precarious amount. 

His walls slam so far down that memories flood in, whisking him back to the moment he both wants to think about and banish from his heart all the same. 

The one he replays in his mind over, and over, and over again. 

After his talk with your brother, he did end up saying goodbye to some friends around the house. Did he do it because he wanted to? Sure. But mostly he did it to procrastinate saying goodbye to you. 

However, when he gets a text from your friend, his heart stutters and braces for a total meltdown. 

Dominique S. [21:30]: Going in there now.

Yoongi [21:31]: 👍

Yoongi [21:35]: Clear

Why is he nervous? Why is he shaking?

Dom opens the door with haste. “One minute,” she warns, and Yoongi already knows she’s the type to count every second. “Then you’re on your own.”

Sixty seconds.

He can do that.

Any amount of time with you is enough.

“K.”

Yoongi enters to see your face so torn his heart lurches, propelling him the rest of the way until he’s close enough to pull you in. 

Yes. Let it out. Let it all out while he’s here.

“Fuck.”

Yoongi does everything he can to relieve you of anything that doesn’t serve you. Squeezing his embrace to keep it imprinted around your soul long after he parts. Your voice is music along his bones, steadying him upright when he wants to crumble at your feet. 

Even if this is all he gets, this is enough. It’s enough, not enough, enough.

But he has to know if you’re gonna be okay, and reality sets in like quicksand. 

Fuck, this is really the last time he’s gonna see you. Fuck fuck fuck he needs more time. “What happened?” 

You aren’t talking.

That answers enough. 

“Don’t sweat it,” he amends, kissing your forehead and stepping back at arm’s length. “You gonna be okay?”

Shit. You look like you’ve been shattered and are attempting to find your pieces. And Yoongi despises that look because he’s been there before. 

Before. Sure. It’s more truthful to say he’s still searching for most of his. 

“Yes. No. I just, umm. I need a minute.”

“You don’t have to go back out there, you know.”

“But you do,” you counter. “And I just wanna see you.” 

For a moment, Yoongi abandons his priorities and his whole upper body calms. Because you have that power over him. And he’s fine with being at your mercy whenever you demand it. 

His voice comes out so soft, “You can’t keep saying shit like that.” 

“But it’s true.” 

Smart ass. What he says next is a knife twist into his side, because he wants it so fucking badly he’ll do anything,

“Makes me wanna take you home.” 

But not now. There’s something he has to take care of first before he takes care of you. Something slithering around his living room and waiting for him to leave you behind. 

You’re doing everything he wants, from closing the distance to circling arms around his waist. Fuck, if he could choose one thing to linger, it would be the feel of those hands pressed against his shirt. And his reverence on your temple to keep your mind safe.

“I want you to do that,” you admit into his tee, “All the time.” 

“Take you home?” 

“Mmhmm.” 

Even your arm feels timid under his touch? Shit. 

If only he’d done things properly. Yoongi would have spent this whole night by your side and taken you home at the first drop of a fucking tear. “You know I’d do it if I could, doll.” 

If he were someone else. If he had come clean before. 

If he wasn’t such a damn coward. 

Why did it all come crashing down over the course of a day? How could this disruption derail the quickest path to happiness in a second? 

Path number two is long, and arduous, and dangerous. But Yoongi’s gonna brave it all for you. A clean slate is what you deserve, not this room marred with grime and his shortcomings, his own demons tearing at the walls. 

A warning knock slams his brain into overdrive, and he must look like a mess right now because you’re staring and staring hard fuck! “Listen.”

“Hmm?”

“I know we said we’d say something.”

The understanding in your eyes is misguided. And it cracks his heart in two before he interrupts your hopeful strategy.

“There’s no way. At least, not tonight. Jungkook—”

“It may need to be a bit longer than that.”

He’s never felt so hollowed out in his life. 

“So you probably won’t see me for awhile.”

There’s already a ring of fire around his eyes. 

“Yoongi, please—”

“Can you do that?”

This is all he can say? This is all he’s gonna give you? Judging by the blockage in his throat and the ache along his heart, Yoongi realizes he can’t explain himself. It’s too shameful. It’s better if he doesn’t. 

But watching hurt and confusion prick your eyes is setting his lungs ablaze. Fuck, you deserve someone better but also fuck that because he’s gonna fight for this shit. This is the only path he can see. The one he must travel himself. 

And he’s already burning your features on his eyelids, if only to see your outline in every blink.

Say something. Please. “Babe?”

Tell him not to go. 

Tell him to go out there and fucking confess because he’ll do it. 

Something painful replaces the beats of his heart, changing the tempo and forcing them staccato. The skip, skip, thump of his chest almost buckles him forward, but Yoongi forces himself to stand tall. Resolute. Decisive. 

But tell him anything you want and he’ll do it. 

Fuck, he can’t deny anything anymore. The thoughts that have plagued his mind for months are now the ones he invites in without hesitation. Because he’s done pretending they’re lies. 

He’s yours. It’s always been this way, long before you even knew it. If only you could read his mind because it has hell of a lot more to say than he does, because right now? If you break down then he’s right there with you. 

Fuck, this is a mistake. His gut is screaming and protesting and there’s nothing he can do to placate. What the fuck is he doing? Why can’t he feel his own heart anymore? “Doll, let me know because—”

“Anything,” you choke out, searing his eyes a whole deeper shade. “I’ll do it.”

Goddamn it. Yoongi already wants to abandon his idea because you look so lost and he’ll scrap it all if you tell him not to go please tell him not to go be selfish be selfish yell at him and be selfish— 

“Anything for you.”

Fuck.

The pang in his chest tells him all he needs to know. How this is a big fucking mistake but he can’t think of any other way out. He’s doing this for the both of you. You and him. For you, for him—

“For us,” he corrects, diving in to give you the deepest kiss filled with his greatest fears.

This is for the long run. Yoongi’s decidedly, one-hundred percent in it for the long run.

As long as he keeps fighting his demons. Each and every single night. 

And with that, he pulls away, turning to retreat into the real world that proves absurdly cruel. 

Leaving you is already making him weary. Knowing he’s going into that apartment alone for days. He won’t get to see you at all. There will be nothing but work and the occasional drink with Jimin, which even then he may start to turn down.

This distance is necessary. But also fucking stupid. 

Maybe you’ll forget about him.

Maybe you’ll realize life is probably better without him in it.

But above everything, he really fucking hopes that you’ll come find him again. 

Your fingers on his arm are what Yoongi feels first. But his body reacts in a second as soon as you tug him back into a kiss. 

And his eyes catch fire as they squeeze, ribcage clenching and gasping for air when you do that desperate tug on his clothes. Shit shit shit if you do that again he’ll never fucking leave your side.  

Everything else disappears except you. Your breaths, your lips, your unending consideration for his space. He asked and he got it, which makes this one act of resistance tear him right through, and he pours every ounce of himself into making you understand how much he wants this. 

“Yoongi, I—”

Don’t say it. Not when he’s about to break everything apart. 

Fuck, you were really gonna say it. Yoongi knows it in his fucking bones and his heart is gasping. Fuck.

Of fucking course this is how he finds out. Right before he leaves? Right before he ventures into himself to confront everything he doesn’t wanna see? 

This alone will be his guiding light. The knowledge that you feel the same way he does and the reason for everything he’s gonna fight through. “I know.”

His name rattles around your mouth.

“It’ll be okay.” You have to believe him.

Because he’s gonna find it hard to believe himself. “Okay?”

Your face contorts in a way that has his eyes scorching. Without knowing anything about why he’s gonna leave or how long it’s gonna be, you’re looking at him with vehement trust and searing willpower. So goddamn strong, just as he needs to be.

He loves you so fucking much. 

“Fuck.” 

He smashes his lips so hard against yours that you react, your saltwater sloshing against his cheeks just in time to hide his falling tears.

He needs this. You need him to do this. Everything he’s about to do, it’s all for you. You, you, you. 

Because he knows you’d go with him anywhere, but when it comes to his inner fears, that’s not somewhere you can follow. That’s a place he has to walk into on his own, knowing he’ll be swallowed in darkness until he finds his own dimmed light. 

Yoongi pulls away right as Dom opens the door, but he doesn’t even flinch at the sight of her. Because he wants you to see that. He wants to show you where he stands for real. 

“I got us,” he vows, planting one more kiss on a forehead he reveres so much. 

“Hurry up, for god’s sake!” 

Yoongi finally steps away, slowly increasing the distance and already feeling his heart pleading to feel yours again. 

You’re so beautiful.

He doesn’t want to go. 

But with one final look, Yoongi leaves, and it’s a miracle he stepped out of your room in one piece because he feels like he left his better half inside.  

Didn’t he say you were his good luck charm? Who the fuck leaves their guardian angel behind? He can’t think about how you looked. Those tears will be flooding into his dreams. 

Fuck, he needs air. 

Brain scrambled, Yoongi heads straight down the lesser tracked hallway before escaping to the guest room. When his wrist is grabbed, he flinches so hard it strikes like lightning. “Just give me a sec.”

Dom’s voice can command anyone with ease. “Look at me.”

So he does. Annoyed he can’t have time to get his shit together but obeying nonetheless. What’s the fucking point anymore. He’s already lost it all. 

“Oh,” she quietly observes. “You look like shit. What happened in there?”

What a succinct summary. Yoongi wipes a bit of his face with the back of his thumb, looking away on pure instinct.

“I’m about to swing so you better start explai—”

“Whatever I’m about to do, I’m doing it for her,” Yoongi admits out loud. So easily. So naturally that Dom blinks and can’t do much else. Sighing, he closes his eyes. “But I can’t just… I dunno how to say it yet.” 

“What?”

Everything is too hard to lay out right now. Doesn’t matter what the fuck it is, it’s fighting to stay in his arid throat. “I… Got shit to deal with first. Shit I know she’d want me to fix.” 

“You sure about that? Cus it looks like you just cut everything off.”

Dominique is being too fucking accurate right now. His hatchet is bleeding. That branch was his life force. “For now,” he solemnly sighs. “But I have to try.”

“If this doesn’t work, you’re dead to me.” 

“I’ll be dead to me, too.”

At this, Dom reels back so far it’s comical. “What are you saying? Hello?”

“Just… Keep her busy. For me.”

“Umm, no, go back. What the fuck are you planning to do?”

Oh. Yoongi gets what Dom’s thinking, but that’s not what he’s talking about. 

He’s at least gotten past that part. 

“Nothing like what you’re thinking.” Yoongi scratches an ear. “I just need to get my mind right. I don’t wanna bring any baggage into this, but. If you haven’t guessed, I have a fucking lot.” 

“Fucking men,” she scoffs, smushing her lips in aggravation. But after a drawn-out silence, she softens and offers sincerity. “Actually? I can respect it. You’re doing something right, at least.”

“Damn well hope so.”

It takes awhile for Dom to respond. But after multiple thoughts sail across her eyes, she sighs, sliding braids across a shoulder. “I’ll do my best to help. But.. We both know something’s gotta give at some point.”

“I know.”

“K.” She walks off with a warning stare. “Hope you know what you’re doing.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond until she’s out of earshot. Because the only one he needs to convince is himself.

“Same.”

That single word is the last to echo through his mind as Yoongi opens his eyes, feeling hardwood floors under his fingers as he tilts his head sideways.

Hold up. How long did he wander? The rest of the team clatters along the bleachers, picking up their bags or changing into dry clothes. 

Jimin spots him looking first. “You gonna join us or stay behind?”

Yoongi puffs out a breath before his eyes find the ground. “Don’t tempt me.”

He means it as a joke. But deep down, he’d rather be anywhere other than home right now. Which is quite the setback since that’s where he’s supposed to get shit done, the place that’s supposed to feel safe. 

This sucks ass.

“Get up, man,” your brother offers with an outstretched hand. “It’s late.” 

The whole time he waits before clasping it in an upward tug, Jimin doesn’t sway his stare. 

And the whole car ride back to his place, Yoongi tries his best to ignore all the long looks aimed his way. 

—

— 

Why do his keys run from him when he truly needs them to cooperate? 

Keys jangling in his hand, Yoongi finally locks his door, fast-walking down the outside hall and making a beeline to his car. 

He doesn’t know how he woke up with no alarm, but he’s grateful he shot up when he did. The studio has a packed schedule today, and he’s the session producer while the others are working on mixes. 

The crisp morning air caresses his skin before he opens a car door, and Yoongi takes a second to observe the sky. 

Overcast. Not as bad as it could be, though he hasn’t seen the Sun in days. 

Truthfully, he hasn’t felt it either after abandoning its warmth in a room far away. 

His engine starts before he makes his way out of the complex, and the soft music from his phone reminds him of you. Reminds him of the empty seat next to him that has seen better days and even better nights. 

After he severed his heart, Yoongi remembers saying goodbye to a few others. But not by choice. The last people he said those words to were the same people he was going to be seeing again bright and early the next day. 

Once again, he’s back to that same night. 

“Hey.”

Yoongi turns, seeing Jungkook gesture out to the front door. When his hairs stand on end, he curses to himself, fighting to show any emotion as he follows the boy outside. 

Whatever happens, he’s not losing to this kid.

But when the door creaks open, Yoongi notices the company with a few blinks. What are Joon and Hobi doing out here? Weren’t they just in the backyard? 

“What’s up,” he asks, and they stop their conversation to shrug. He watches silent as Namjoon points to the youngest one out there,

“He pulled us out. Ask him.”

Huh?

Two thoughts race through the halls of his mind. On one hand, this has to be a studio talk given the present company, so it has nothing to do with you. And second, this could either be bad news or good news, and he really, really needs the latter.

“Good news and bad news,” Jungkook starts. Of fucking course. “We already have another project.”

“Sounds like only good news to me.”

Yoongi nods with Hobi at Namjoon’s quick reply. Because being trapped in his apartment was gonna drive him to the brink. But having something to accomplish and an excuse to go outside? It’s a goddamned godsend. 

“Yeah, well—just listen real quick, okay?” Shifting his weight, Jungkook takes out a slim device to take a sweet-smelling hit. Something he tends to do when he’s getting a little anxious—and Yoongi damn well knows the root of that anxiety from tonight. “This one’s another multi-track recording deal. And we, uhh. We start first thing tomorrow.” 

Hoseok gawks. “Wait. What do you mean tomorrow?” 

Yoongi can’t even hide the matching question on his face. Because yeah he needs the distraction but what the fuck? When the hell was Jungkook gonna tell them? “You didn’t think to tell us sooner?” 

“It all just went through tonight,” Jungkook hastily defends, unlocking his phone to prove himself. The blue light outlines his features, and Yoongi notices with a stinging pang that the boy’s eyes are stained with sorrow. “Lemme just, umm.. Lemme find the email.” 

Seems like all three of you aren’t sleeping well tonight.

But he’s gotta keep focus. Even if the deal just went through, next day start is one hell of a turnaround. There’s gotta be more Jungkook isn’t saying, and Yoongi hopes to everything divine that the kid knows what he’s doing. 

Poor management will break them without so much as a sweat if they aren’t careful with their calendar. 

“Here,” the youngest finally blurts, forwarding all the guys the email and pocketing his phone. “This is the first one.”

“First one?” Namjoon asks, prompting all heads to pop up. “There’s more?”

Shit. One multi-track recording deal is already gonna occupy a lot of studio time. What the hell did Jungkook get them all into? 

“We also have another gig, same type. In about two weeks from now.” 

Two weeks isn’t a lot but it’s doable. And that means Yoongi will have at least fourteen days of temporary daytime relief. 

“But we’re gonna wanna wrap up the first one before then. The other one is high profile. We’ll give these guys all our attention.” 

And that is what sets off a little alarm bell in Yoongi’s head. Shouldn’t they provide everyone that works with them all their focus? Why would they cherry pick if they set the deal? 

Vision blurring into a road instead of your porch, he grips the wheel while checking his back mirror. Wondering how he’s gonna get everything done today. 

Did Jungkook get the workspace ready? Are all the plug-in’s he usually likes already set aside? Is everything connected to the pre-amp’s? 

Yoongi hopes so. He’s lax when it comes to most, but not within the soundproof walls of a studio. 

But he’s gotta be careful. If he ends up butting heads with a certain headstrong kid in there, there’s no telling what comes flying out of that box. 

Clouds float above when he finally drives up to his normal parking space, and Yoongi sits with himself for a second. Thinking. Composing. 

Grateful for anything that’s keeping him from losing his goddamn mind. 

— 

— 

One day, you texted him a song because you miss him. 

And for the next three, he let it loop until he understood every part.

— 

— 

The practices. The more sporadic calls. The studio sessions. 

Everything has proven a much needed distraction from his shadows. But he still has the strongest urge to alleviate the tears he knows he’s causing to just see you for one fucking day and fuck. 

He can’t catch a fucking break. 

You’re trying your hardest to deal with his bullshit distance. Yoongi knows it; he can feel it. Frankly, all he wants to do is come back to you, but he can’t until he moves forward. This is the only way.

However. As soon as he feels like he can step right, another hole hollows the ground.

And this one looks a little too colossal to cross. 

“How long do they wanna book now?” Hoseok thankfully asks for everyone else in the room, referring to the second gig opportunity revealed at your place. 

“Just one more week than planned,” Jungkook confirms, looking at his phone and scratching his head. “But they’re paying good.” 

Namjoon is the next one to speak up, “You still haven’t told us who’s coming.” 

Cheeky as ever, the youngest bursts into a grin. And his response ices the room, “That’s cus it’s still a surprise!” 

What. This isn’t how things are supposed to work. 

Yoongi prods his cheek while Joon groans. “Now’s not the time for surprises. We just got our last mess cleaned up.” 

It’s one of the reasons they’ve been held up in the studio for longer than Yoongi wanted. He absolutely loves being here, smelling the leather and instruments and getting to drown out his thoughts with music. 

But when things that could’ve been avoided go wrong? That’s what pisses him off. 

And not just him. Hobi and Joon have been less than passive about their discontent when all of them weren’t given the full rundown of what samples were cleared and which weren’t. So when Jungkook finally gave them the list that he “thought they knew,” the tension between them all reached a new peak. 

Mistakes like that can cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. They’re lucky it hadn’t gotten to that point of no return yet, but.. water under the fucking bridge just plummeted down another cliff. 

It’s a little while later—after Kook still refused to say who was coming to their fucking studio—that Yoongi heads to the hallway to take out his phone. 

Because as soon as he gets updates? He’s letting you know. 

No surprises for you. Not again. 

Yoongi [17:02]: Just got booked for another week

Yoongi [17:03]: Can’t talk now but

Yoongi [17:03]: Letting you know

Head hitting the wall behind him, Yoongi closes his eyes for what seems like a century. What is time right now anyway? These past few weeks have either been sludge or a rushing current, and both are dragging him under.

He knows he keeps letting you down like this. And you’re probably wondering what the fuck is going on, because why wouldn’t you? 

If you decide to cut things off, he can’t be mad. This was his decision, so he’ll face those consequences no matter how severe they slice through. 

You’re gonna think he’s doing something else. 

Please don’t. He just needs more time. 

Shit, his phone just vibrated twice. Tension mounts his shoulders from pure habit, knowing that he’s gonna be met with either disappointment or wrath. 

Here goes.

Hustler [17:07]: how’s ur back feel from carrying everyone so hard🥴 

Hustler [17:07]: jk its ok<3 you’re getting recognized and it’s about time 

Oh.

…Fuck, you’re really…

Yoongi can physically feel his cheeks lift as he starts to smile. And that smile turns into a quick grin before his relief puffs out of his mouth in a laugh. 

Did you really banish his worry just like that? 

Pushing off the wall, Yoongi huffs once more to the empty hallway before taking two paces to his side, looking at his phone again to make sure what he just read was real. 

It is. 

Fuck, he doesn’t even know what to say. 

Yoongi [17:09]: Lmaoo I’m saying. They better run me my check and cover my hospital bills.

He laughs again. And he doesn’t even know why. It’s not like you said the funniest thing in the world. What’s happening to his chest? 

This is so unlike all the other shit he dealt with before that the joy suddenly meets a monster in his ribs.  

Shit. 

Little pricks of fire light his eyes, searing the corners and spreading to the rest of his face. His little sounds stop, and his back thuds against the hallway wall again. 

Phone at his side, Yoongi glances up at the ceiling. And it’s certainly not to stop anything from falling. Yeah. Sure. 

You’re really something else. 

And his decision to keep you at a safe distance is starting to piss him off.

Maybe it will take less time than he thought. Maybe the shadows won’t linger much longer. Maybe. Maybe maybe maybe not maybe— 

Yoongi [17:11]: Fuck I miss you

He sends it before realizing what he even sent. 

Which catches him off guard, staring at his phone until your typing indicator pops up. Waiting like a man starved until your message slides through. 

Hustler [17:12]: i miss you too.. but focus now and tell me all about it later

One drop. 

One single drop pings onto his screen before Yoongi snaps his head back up, feeling the monster launch itself forward for a kill. 

And he stumbles down the hall, past a few doors, rounding a corner and bursting through a back door into the alleyway before gripping fingers around his phone. 

Fuck, it hurts. 

It all fucking hurts. 

Hunched on his knees, Yoongi breathes rough as fear rushes in from all sides, inundating his head with thoughts of disappointment and trauma. And he can’t even focus focus focus on the now because the past is doing its best to haunt him. Tell him he doesn’t deserve this. Berate him for being happy about anything anything anything he can’t have anything he doesn’t deserve it. 

Yoongi fights to do one thing first. He has to get this out before he’s too far gone because you more than deserve one pathetic act of effort. 

Yoongi [17:15]: Thanks doll

And that’s the last thing Yoongi remembers before his brain goes dark. 

-

-

tbc in fugue, pt. ii

-

so... thoughts before part 2? | join the server! | fugue pt. 2

a/n: so... this is just the first part. and to be honest, i couldn't bring myself to write any of fugue until i saw that yoongi was okay. as soon as i saw his smile, that was enough for me to be brave again. there's a reason i couldn't write this until now, and you're about to find out why in fugue, pt. 2. a/n 2: thank you to every single one of you that's been here. any support, love, or encouragement means the whole world to me, and that's what has been keeping me going the past year, no matter how i'm feeling - high or low. i'm sorry for taking so long to update the main storyline again, but i hope this interlude will show you that i'm truly back to working on 3tan again. love y'all. so much. ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist  ⇥ three tangerines masterlist

[se7vnn]

:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:

It had been almost ten years, nearly a decade since you left behind your life, your friends, your family to blindly follow your love. But, no matter how sweet his words were, you knew, his heart was not yours, not anymore. No matter how long you stood by him, his heart was devoted to his cause, and his cause only. 

And you couldn’t be his weapon anymore.

“I’m doing this for you. I love you,” Suguru called out.

You whip around, blinking back the tears that threaten to escape as you stared at his carefully curated mask, “No, you do not love me, not anymore.”

His eyes narrow, looking at you with a dark intensity, “You are my world. But the world outside us is rotten. And if I had to choose between letting it fester or burning it down for a future worth living, I chose you. Every time.”

His words, perfectly chosen to make you hesitate, make you falter, make you run back to him, hit you hard. But you had learned to separate the parts of him. Separate the curse user, the murderer, the manipulator from the boy you loved, the boy that only came back late at night, when the moon hung in the black sky and the sheets were cold from his absence. Then, your Suguru would crawl back in and curl up next to you, his troubled mind seeking your comfort and warmth.

But this wasn’t your Suguru. 

This man was so wrapped up in lies that he didn’t even know the truth from the lies he told himself. Too blind to see the truth right in front of him.

You shake your head, squeezing your glossy eyes shut, “Oh how I love you, but you do not belong to me.”

His jaw clenches, his mask cracking just enough to see the flicker of fury, possessiveness, and something dark. 

“I do belong to you,” he insists, his voice low, “I always have, you just don’t want me to.”

There’s a beat of silence before his voice sweetens as he steps closer to you, a finger brushing your cheek. 

“Who else understands you like I do? Who else knows your secrets? Your hopes? Who else knows what you say late at night?” His finger trails along your cheekbone, just there but not daring to hold on, “You think walking away means freedom? You’ll be lost without me.”

You take a step back, your voice watery, “You never loved me, you knew I loved you and you used that. You always had my heart, but yours is no longer mine.”

He freezes, his hand returning to his side. And for a moment, it looks like you broke through all his armor, all his layers of lies and manipulation.

But then he laughs, the sound harsh and cold, “Used you? You think I didn’t bleed for you too?”

He takes another step forward when your back hits the wall, his voice cracking, the first real thing you’ve gotten. “I burned worlds to keep you safe, with me. Gave up every scrap of me so we could be together. And you call that nothing?”

Suguru’s hand hits the wall beside your head, not daring to touch you, even now, some broken part of him won’t let him cross that line. “You want to walk away? Fine. But don’t lie to yourself that I never loved you.”

You scoff, “Maybe years ago, but not anymore. And I already lied to myself for years, lied to Gojo, to Nanami, to Shoko. I lied to everyone, defended your actions until I drowned out my own doubts about your morals. I am done.”

And the mask slides into place. 

He takes a step back, “Done? You think they’ll take you back now? Gojo will always see you as mine, and deep down… you’ll always know I was right.” 

You stiffen, eyes glaring through him, “You will look into the faces of passersbys hoping for something, in an instant, that brings me back to you. You will find moonlit nights strangely empty, for when you call my name through them there will be no answer. Always your heart will be aching for me and your mind will give you the doubtful consolation that you did a brave thing.”

He pauses, his breath catching before his lips curl into a sneer, his voice quiet, almost hesitant, “Poetic. But empty sentiment won’t change a thing. You want to be a martyr? Fine.”

Suguru turns, but he doesn’t walk away, he can’t. He can’t bear to shut off that part of his mind that is begging for you to tell him to wait.

He hears you take a shaky breath in, “Just remember, there will be no man but you, but I cannot stand by and get hurt watching you destroy yourself and the world.”

For the first time, he doesn’t have a rebuttal. His back remains turned to you, rigid, but his silence speaks volumes. When he finally responds, his voice is eerily calm, too measured to be genuine.  

"Then go… But remember this moment when you realize I was the only one who ever truly saw you."  

“You used to be,” you whisper, your head bowed. 

His footsteps halt, then, he whispers back from the shadows, almost too quiet to hear. 

“I still am.”

He doesn’t come back, the footsteps don’t resume, almost waiting for you to assume it’s genuine or just another twist of a knife.

You turn around, barely getting a few steps before you fall to your knees, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

There’s a rustle of fabric and he stands above you, his shadow falling over you.

“Get up. I didn’t teach you to kneel to anyone.” A pause. “Even to me,” his voice cracks as he whispers the last part, his emotions as shattered as you feel.

You look up, eyes glossy and tear tracks on your face, “You once told me love wasn’t a weakness. What happened?”

Suguru's breath hitches. His resolve crumbles right then and there because for the first time in years, he can't bring himself to lie, not when you look at him like that, when your voice trembles with something achingly raw, something real.

“I don’t know,” he admits, voice shaky, “But I do know one thing.”

There’s a beat of silence as he takes in your expression.

“I lied,” he whispers, sinking to his knees in front of you, “Love is a weakness. And you… were always mine.” His breaths mingle with yours, hands hover near your face like he wants to wipe the tears away but he doesn’t dare. For the first time in years, his mask slips completely, undone by the one person who always saw through him.

You lift your head, searching for your Suguru in the wreckage and ruin of the man in front of you. “Then be weak with me,” you beg, “Just this once, Suguru.”

A plea, a final offer between the two. 

And Suguru, who built his empire on lies, who swore he’d never kneel to anyone again, who forgot what it felt to be human… he collapses.

His forehead drops against yours, their shared breaths uneven, his fingers finally, finally cradling your face like something fragile. Something sacred.  

"I can't," he chokes out, not a rejection, but a confession. "If I let myself... I'll never be able to do what needs to be done."  

The truth hangs between them: the cult, the war, all his grand designs, none of it matters as much as this single weakness. This girl who still believes in him despite everything.  

When he pulls back, there are tears tracking silently down his own face for the first time in years. "Run," he murmurs. "Before I ruin you completely."  

And for once in his life, Suguru Geto tells the truth.

Shakily, you rise, kissing him on the temple one last time before you walk away, trembling as you put one foot in front of the other.

He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t call after you. Just stays there on his knees, golden robes pooled around him like a fallen king, watching as the only light he ever truly cared for walks out of his life.

The night swallows you whole.  

And when he finally stands, his face is dry again. The mask reforged in the silence you left behind.  

But later, much later, when the world is asleep and even curses still their tongues, he’ll trace absent fingers over the spot where your lips brushed his skin...  

And wonder if mercy was always just another kind of cruelty in disguise.

The wind howls between them like a mourning hymn, carrying away the ghost of your touch from his brow. His fingers twitch, half-raised toward the space where you stood moments before they fall limp at his sides.

"Coward," he murmurs to the empty air.  

He isn't sure if he means you or himself.  

A single black bird takes flight overhead as he turns toward the horizon, gold robes flaring like funeral banners behind him. The path ahead is drenched in blood and moonlight.

But for the first time in all his wretched, glorious years... Suguru Geto walks it utterly alone.

:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:

You traveled miles, mind numb and feet aching until you see the silhouette of Satoru Gojo’s house, collapsing on the porch, heartbroken and exhausted from your tears.

Gojo’s door flies open before you even lift a hand to knock, white-haired, blindfolded, but seeing more than anyone ever could. His usual smirk drops the second he takes in your shattered form.  

”Oh, kid,” he breathes, ”What did that bastard do to you?”  

His arms are around you before you crumple further, holding you up with the same effortless strength that once made Suguru laugh beside him under cherry blossom trees. But now there’s no laughter. Just the quiet understanding of two people who love, loved the same broken man.  

A beat. Then Gojo exhales sharply through his nose, decision made. ”C’mon,” he murmurs, scooping you into his arms like you weigh nothing, ”Shoko’s gonna check you over. And then we ruin him.”

“I don’t want to,” you whisper, staring forward blankly.

Gojo freezes mid-step, arms tightening around you just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor. His eyes blaze behind his blindfold like twin suns.  

"Too bad," he says lightly, but there’s steel beneath the sugar. "Because he doesn’t get to break my people and walk away."  

A beat. Then his voice softens as he nudges the door shut with his foot:  

"...But we'll do it your way first." He sets you gently on the couch, tossing a blanket over your shaking shoulders. "Rest. Cry. Throw my expensive china at the wall if it helps."  

And somewhere in Kyoto, Suguru’s sake cup shatters without reason in his grip.

:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:

You sleep most of the days, letting Gojo and Shoko take care of you. They talk to you, simple conversation just to keep you aware, give you something to get your mind coherent. They feed you, clothe you, make sure you bathe and sleep.

Until one day, you don’t wake up.

The world tilts.  

Gojo’s infinity flickers out for the first time in a decade as he sinks to his knees beside the couch, fingers hovering over your still-warm cheek. "No," he laughs, sharp, disbelieving. "C’mon, this isn’t funny… She was fine yesterday. She laughed at my joke.”

(You hadn’t laughed in weeks but saying it made it feel somewhat real.)

But your chest doesn’t rise again. And when Shoko arrives moments later, all she has to do is meet Gojo’s eyes before going pale beneath her cigarette smoke.  

A natural cause, they'll say later, as if hearts can simply stop from grief alone.  

By the time Geto hears, through whispers in dark alleys, through drunken curse users who don’t know whose death they're toasting, your body is already ashes in the wind.  

He laughs when they tell him. Loud enough to startle his followers. Bright enough to crack something vital in his chest.  

"Good," he says to no one, "Now she won't have to watch."  

That night, for the first time since he was a teen, Suguru Geto kneels at a shrine, not to pray, but to scream himself raw into clenched fists until Mimiko finds him at dawn with blood under his nails and salt on his cheeks.  

But on a bloodstained temple rooftop months after that…  

Satoru Gojo looks Suguru Geto dead in the eyes and says: ”She died missing you.”  

And for one terrible, glorious moment, the great curse user forgets how to breathe.

Time stills. The battlefield falls silent, even the curses seem to hold their breath.  

Suguru's outstretched hand trembles mid-air, his lips parting on a word that never comes. His vision tunnels until all he sees is Satoru’s icy glare, until all he feels is the weight of those five syllables collapsing his ribcage like a dying star.  

"Liar," he finally chokes out, voice ragged as an open wound but the cracks in it are too wide to hide now. "You're trying to-"  

Gojo doesn’t let him finish. He steps closer through the debris, infinity humming with barely restrained violence as he rips off his blindfold revealing eyes brighter than hellfire and twice as merciless. 

"Everytime she made a meal, she’d set out an extra place for you, for your ghost." A pause that shatters galaxies between them. "You want to call me a liar again?"  

And Geto, prophet of a new world, slaughterer of thousands, architect of his own ruin does something unprecedented:  

He staggers back like Satoru just ran him through.

The battlefield is deathly silent, save for the ragged hitch in Suguru’s breath. His hands, usually so steady when wielding cursed techniques or spinning lies clench into fists, his nails biting into his palms hard enough to draw blood.  

"She... what?" His voice is a whisper, barely there, as if speaking any louder might fracture him entirely.  

Gojo doesn't soften. He can't afford to now. Not when Suguru looks like he’s one word away from unraveling at the seams.  

"You heard me," Gojo snaps, "Right up until the end." His jaw tightens as he watches realization dawn in Suguru's violet eyes, watches it gut him alive from the inside out. "Congrats. You broke her worse than I ever could."  

There is a beat of suffocating silence before Suguru does something Gojo hasn't seen since they were boys.

He breaks.

His knees hit the ground, and the impact sends a shockwave through the battlefield. His breath comes in ragged gasps, no, not gasps. Sobs. Ugly, shattered things that rip from his throat like they’ve been clawing to get out for years.  

“Stop-” he chokes out, “Just, stop.” His fingers scrabble against the broken earth as if searching for purchase against a truth too heavy to bear.  

Gojo doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches with bitterness as every carefully constructed lie Suguru ever told himself crumbles into dust at his feet.  

The cultists gape from a distance, curses writhe uneasily in their master’s unraveling presence. The man who preached revolution now kneels in its wreckage, utterly ruined by the one weapon he never accounted for.

Love.  

And when Suguru finally lifts his head, tears carving tracks through blood and dirt alike, when he opens his mouth and howls your name into the uncaring sky like it might bring you back, only Satoru hears him whisper afterward, "I didn't know it would kill you.”

Gojo exhales through long and slow as he stares at his best friend, utterly shattered at his feet. He feels no victory, no triumph, just something ugly and hollow. 

Oh, to turn back time. Oh, how everything fell apart in just a short day, fracturing further as time went on. Oh, how did their friendship go from such a tight group of friends to half dead, the surviving all hating each other, blaming each other, guilt festering deep in their minds.

He turns then, leaving Suguru broken in the dirt where she once stood, alive, because some things are worse than death. And Satoru Gojo knows better than anyone:

The strongest curses aren’t made of hate, nor malice.

They’re made of regret, of guilt, of what ifs and worst of all:

love.

:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:

A/N: Sort of a repost just changed the format bc I didn't like the old one :P + was feeling in an angsty mood

[se7vnn]

(more) plug!nct dream texts ˖𖥔 ݁.𖧧

it’s been a while since i’ve done some texts but it helps the creative flow :)) had so much fun getting back into it, hope u enjoy!

cw: dreamies are down bad what’s new, situationship/flirtationship type (no one is officially together) mentions of weed use, mildly suggestive, pet names: pretty, angel, baby