starrywonn - Tumblr blog

starrywonn · 2 years ago

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parallels & almosts

♡ pairing: vernon x reader

♡ genre: friends to lovers, light angst

♡ word count: 10k

♡ warnings: slight description of panic attacks, alcohol consumption, slow burn-ish lol, occasional cursing, a little sad bc i wrote it in winter, yearning

a/n: i wrote this last christmas inspired by my first sem at uni, and finally got around to proofreading :) hope you like it, and if you have any thoughts about it id love to know <3

masterlist

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One day you’ll inevitably fall for someone. Someone, who will touch you for the first time like no one ever did before, and maybe no one ever will again. Full of love, admiration, and tenderness. Your chest is going to fill with pain and unending yearning, a fleeting moment that’s going to feel like nothing and everything whenever you think about it. And you’ll fall hard, hard enough that if any of it was real it might break your body in unspeakable ways.

When you wake up the next day you realise you’ll never love anyone as much as this, not in this lifetime.

Then it’s over.

You’re sitting in the bathroom, staring at the uneven paint where the tiles meet the wall, wondering if you could ever manage to crawl into one of the cracks there and disappear forever. No clichéd metaphor seems fitting enough, even though you understand you are not the first, and you won’t be the last either, to experience heartbreak quite like this. Something that squishes your heart until it feels numb, catches in your throat in a way that you can’t even find the words to explain the pain, a constant gloss over your eyes, like tears you can’t blink away.

Your upstairs neighbour is just a little too loud, the static of the tv humming just a little too much, drunk people screaming outside just a little too close, and it all feels so overbearing. You close your eyes, skin buzzing with all the loudness of the inside and outside combined. It’s hard to focus on one thing when it feels like the whole world is happening at once without you in it.

Then the phone rings.

The world stops, but your breathing quickens as panic takes over. It’s all so much in a way that seems impossible to deal with. At least for now, in this passing moment, even if it feels like an eternity. The ringing gets more and more deafening, your breaths quickening, and you know it won’t stop. It never really does. The cacophony of sounds slowly fades out, the only thing you can hear is your own body; your heartbeat, your own breaths, tired gasps for air. It’s okay. You claw at your skin, anything to distract yourself from the ongoing panic attack, even if you know it won’t help. It never does.

It’s okay.

Tears burn the corners of your eyes, even though you don’t know how long you’ve been crying. The world is slowly closing in, and it’s just you on the cold bathroom floor at 2am.

Is it okay?

It’s silent. So suddenly and so loudly, it almost knocks the air back into your lungs, as if the ground is being pulled from underneath your feet. The hot tears suddenly feel ice cold against your burning skin, and exhaustion crashes down on you. The sink is dripping again.

You’ll have to get it fixed.

Everything.

It’s a slow process to drag yourself from the bathroom to bed. The rain knocks politely on the window and you’re tempted to let it in, but instead just stare out into the cold night. The snow is slowly melting away, and you wish it washed away all the thoughts plaguing your mind too. It’s never that easy, you’ve always found it hard to let go of routines. The habit of waking up, turning over to give him a kiss, making coffee together. You don’t even like coffee that much, but for him you would’ve learned to love anything. For him, you even learned to love him. With all the pain and hurt.

Despite him, you loved him.

It’s all gone, and it’s okay.

“You didn’t pick up all weekend,” Vernon says in his usual nonchalant tone without as much as looking in your direction.

After you finally managed to calm down, sleep seemed much more inviting than looking at your phone. The next few days felt so peaceful in isolation, that it wouldn’t have been right to disturb it.

“Sorry.”

He only hums in response, quietly scribbling away in his notebook next to you. His hair is hidden behind one of his many beanies, one earphone in his ear, the other one between the two of you on the desk as a silent offering from his part. It’s the middle of the lecture, but you wordlessly take it anyway, knowing well that you won’t pay attention today no matter what.

Vernon is hard to read, even if you’ve been friends for a few years now. He mostly keeps to himself, barely showing if something is going on in his life. He occasionally lets you in on the big things, like when his sister graduated high school, or when his family got a new cat. You weren’t completely sure if he shared these things with you out of common courtesy - you were glad when he did anyway. He was a little more curious and attentive when you told him about something, but never asked on his own.

Vernon knows your coffee and takeout orders by heart, and you do his. Even if he’s a worse texter than talker, you still very much enjoy his company, and mostly the ability to exist together in comfortable silence.

You get lost in thought, only coming back to reality when your favourite song quietly starts playing in your ear. Vernon is putting his phone back down, giving you a small smile before returning to the paper in front of him. His eyes twinkle in the cheap fluorescent light of the lecture hall, and even if the thought makes your chest feel tight, he does look beautiful even at 9am on a Monday.

He furrows his eyebrows, tapping his pen against the desk to the beat of the music. You rest your head on top of your barely started notes, glancing at Vernon from the corner of your eye before getting lost in thought for the rest of the lecture. You only notice that it’s over when the boy next to you is already leaving, gently tapping your shoulder and giving you a small wave before walking off into the cold fog of the morning. The professor starts turning the lights off, and you scurry to gather your belongings, making your way to the exit. Suddenly you hear music in your ear once again, and you realise you forgot to give Vernon his earphones back.

However, music means he’s near, so you try and remember which way he went, and spot him a few benches over in front of the building. He’s standing in a lopsided circle with his friends, their laughter visible in the crisp air. You shuffle over to the group, standing a little awkwardly next to Vernon, who’s too invested in whatever conversation they’re having to notice your arrival. One of the boys spots you, and you give him a brief smile before deciding to finally tap Vernon’s shoulder. He quickly turns to you, the corners of his lips quirking up just enough for you to notice. You don’t want to overstay your welcome, so you quickly take the earphone and hand it back to him. His mouth turns into an O shape, and you can feel your cheeks warming up, so you look back down at your palm to avoid staring at his face even longer. He takes it from your hand, his cold fingers igniting fire in their wake. His eyes search for yours, and as soon as they meet you feel a little wobbly, a little warm, and a lot vulnerable.

You only decided on attending any classes you had that day to avoid sitting at home even longer, stewing in your own sadness and tears. When sitting in your bed that morning you felt as if you’d be okay, as if you’ll be able to get through all this without anyone knowing or noticing. As Vernon’s eyes bore into yours, you just knew that he could see everything. You were never sure how close he considered you, and you were always too scared to assume that you are close in the first place.

Your knees feel like they’re about to give out, so you shake your head a little, trying to hide the obvious blush on your cheeks behind your scarf.

“There’s gonna be a party later tonight, if you uh- If you wanna come,” Vernon tells you.

“It’s Monday,” it almost comes out as a question, eliciting a laugh from the boy.

“I’ll text you the address later, in case you change your mind. I’ll be there.”

His smile always makes everything a little easier, so you nod and turn to leave. For a second he looks like he might say something else, a concerned look on his face, but he fades back into the conversation instead.

As soon as you’re out of earshot Vernon’s got multiple curious eyes on him, waiting for some sort of an explanation. They all know you to some degree of course, but they haven’t seen their friend like this in quite some time.

“Dude,” Seungkwan is the first one to voice his thoughts.

“What?”

“Did we miss something?'' His tone is enough to make Vernon’s eyes widen. “Just a heads up, I’m gonna keep an eye on you tonight. And I’m gonna be updating the group chat constantly, too.”

A round of laughter and general agreement follows Seungkwan’s statement, and though Vernon loves his friends, he has to admit that they can be too much sometimes. Even if he considers himself a private person, he does still keep them up to date most of the time, except at times like this. At times when not only his feelings are concerned.

He could see even during class how out of it you were, certainly he could, but he didn’t want to bring up something you were not comfortable sharing on your own. So all he did was slide a lone earphone over, and put on a playlist he made for you. Of course, he would never tell you that - or anyone for that matter. His feelings and his playlist were kept as his most treasured secrets, even if they’re only meaningful to him. He would be lying to himself if he tried to deny the crush he’s been nursing on you since you met in your first Monday morning class, sitting in the same spot as today. He immediately memorised your name during the quick introduction game the professor insisted on, making use of it as much as he could during class, and right after, too. Grabbing coffee seemed like the logical choice at the time, texting all his friends for recommendations as soon as he could. Once class was over he made his move, striking up conversation with you, albeit a little awkwardly. Surprisingly even to him, you agreed, and shortly after you found yourselves at a small café just off campus. The impromptu hangout felt almost too comfortable for it to be your first time meeting, and Vernon couldn’t think about the way you laughed at his terrible jokes without getting butterflies in his stomach, not even years later.

He later had to face the fact that you’re taken, and even if it broke his heart a little, he enjoyed your company a lot more than for something like this to keep him from you. So here you are, almost 3 years later, still looking at each other with the same unmistakable tenderness that only you two seem to ignore. Always smiling brighter, laughing louder, and whispering even more quietly when the other is around.

You are his first love, even if he would never admit it to anyone, not even himself.

The dim orange street light illuminates the kitchen in a way that squeezes your soul just a little too tight, making you feel nostalgic for things that maybe never really happened. Snowflakes land on the window and melt away slowly, racing down the glass. Lately it only snows at night, so you decide to stay up late, the party Vernon invited you to long forgotten.

Tonight it’s a little different somehow. The air feels heavier than usual, and the streets are fully empty, which is an exceptionally rare sight this close to campus. You open the window, and climb up to sit on the sill, dangling your feet into the night. The crippling pressure on your chest doesn’t seem to cease, and you wish to be able to cry and scream, let it all out while it’s dark and quiet.

In the distance you spot a figure slowly treading through the snow, dressed in all black with their hands in their pockets. Their steps are completely silent except for the occasional crunch of the fresh snow. The knowledge that someone else is just this restless at the same time as you brings an odd sense of peace. Wordless company on such a lonely night.

For a fleeting moment you feel like everything’s going to be okay.

That night you fall asleep wondering what it’d be like to hold Vernon’s hands on a 2am walk. You dream about your kitchen window being gone.

Vernon waits for you patiently at the party that night, checking his phone way too often to make sure he doesn’t miss any of your calls or texts. A few drinks and too much teasing from his friends later he’s already getting ready to leave when some girl sidles up to him, giggling drunkenly right into his face. He remembers her from one of his classes, but not her name, and he doesn’t bother asking either.

“Heeey,” the girl chimes. “Are you uh- are you here uh- alone?” She stumbles a little, both with her words and her steps.

Vernon hesitates, but nods anyway.

“Really? So am I, that’s uh-” Vernon gets nervous that the girl might end up ruining his shoes. “That’s so cool. Wanna, do you wanna-”

She closes her eyes for a second and blindly reaches out for something to steady herself, so he grabs her arms on instinct.

“Are you okay?”

“You’re sooo cute, come with me, please?” She tries to pout at Vernon, but it comes out as almost every other emotion instead.

He shuffles through his choices mentally, deciding to make his way back into the living room with the girl clinging to him for dear life. The mind numbing music makes him wince a little, and he makes his way upstairs as fast as possible to get away from the hardcore party scene, not really in the mood for the smell of sweat and alcohol combined with the loudest room he could imagine in this moment. He manages to find an empty room on the third try, having seen a lot more naked people than he’s comfortable with in the span of the past few minutes.

He helps the girl lay down, and she mumbles something similar to a “don’t go, you’re so cute”, which Vernon decides to ignore, and turns her on her side instead - just in case she gets sick. He quickly makes his leave, and he can hear retching from the other side of the closed door as soon as he’s outside. It makes him wanna leave as soon as possible, so he does just that, bidding bye to some of his friends before vanishing into the dark. He’s never been so happy about silence before.

The night is tranquil, even his own footsteps barely audible as he makes his way home. When he hears rustling he looks around to find the source, finding someone climbing into the windowsill in a nearby building. He gets worried, immediately wondering if he should call someone, or maybe yell out to the stranger to stop, the 5th floor is a long way from the ground, it’s not worth it. He decides against it when he sees the stranger quietly settle down, but watches for a bit longer anyway before deciding to continue his journey.

That night he falls asleep wondering if he should’ve texted you, if you’re even okay.

He dreams about the stranger falling from the window in slow motion, and wakes up in cold sweat before they could hit the ground.

You find yourself spending more and more nights in the kitchen, the quiet hum of the fridge and lone passersby keeping you company as you watch the world go by. It was peaceful in a terrible way, one which you were sure was no good for you. That window became your survival, even if it made your chest ache with the sights it presented occasionally. Some nights were different. Some nights your phone buzzed to life with a new text from Vernon, asking about your day or just trying to make conversation. With how unavailable you made yourself he suddenly became better at texting than talking. You had to admit that it always made you a little sad when you didn’t receive his almost routinely ‘hey :)’ just a little past midnight. You always started by scowling him for being up late again, to which he responded by telling you the same.

It’s around 1am when your phone almost buzzes off the countertop.

Vernon: hey :)

Vernon: its finally snowing!!

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that the snowfall at night has been almost the only constant in your life lately.

Vernon: where r u???

Vernon: i know ur up we’re gonna go build a snowman

Vernon: dress warm!!

You’re about to force yourself to lie and turn him down, but something snaps inside of you and you find yourself asking for a location before hurriedly pulling on some warmer clothes. To your surprise he asks to meet in the park about a block from your complex, so you make your way over, waiting a few minutes for Vernon to arrive too.

He greets you with a warm smile, barely half his face visible from his beanie and scarf, his hands tucked deep in his pockets.

“Why are you even up this late?” You ask with furrowed eyebrows.

“My roommates threw a party,” he closes his eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh, his breath drawing the prettiest shapes in the crisp air. “But I could be asking the same.”

“You could, but don’t,” he laughs at your response. “It’s really fucking cold tonight though, so let’s hurry up with that snowman.”

He grins at you and gently bumps his elbow into yours as you set off to find a good patch of snow. It starts out mellow, rolling snowballs around until you get to a size you’re happy with. However, Vernon gets bored quickly and decides to start targeting you with his snowballs instead. The park is quickly filled with your laughter and screaming, chasing each other around until you’re both too tired to run anymore. He flops down into the snow onto his back, sprawling all his limbs out. He’s still laughing quietly, interrupting himself with a scream when you throw one last snowball at his chest, half of the snow ending up in his face as it falls apart on impact. Your eyes widen as he jumps to his feet, an excited squeal leaving your lips when he sets off running in your direction. You try to make your escape, but of course he’s quicker and tackles you to the ground almost immediately. You both end up on your backs, your heads almost touching and the quiet night comes to life as you burst out in giggles almost in perfect harmony.

“I think there’s a convenience store a few blocks away,” Vernon says once he’s calmed down enough to talk, and turns his head towards you.

“You hungry?” You move your gaze towards him, and suddenly his face is way too close - you could count his eyelashes or maybe get lost in his eyes forever. For a brief second it’s silent except for the pounding of your heart that you’re sure even he can hear.

“Yeah,” he whispers in response, not breaking eye contact. You swallow nervously and your eyes flicker to his lips. “I- Let’s go.”

“Okay,” you breathe out. Neither of you move.

You feel like even the world stops moving for a second, out of politeness, to give you time to think about what to do. You wonder what you’re so scared of, what is it about him that makes your brain short circuit with a single look. The thought of ruining your friendship with Vernon climbs to the front of your mind and suddenly it’s all you can think about. Your body moves on its own as you finally get up, dusting your clothes off and reaching down to help Vernon up. He stares at you dumbfounded, but takes your hand anyway and stands in front you in silence, watching you chew anxiously on your lower lip. Even if he doesn’t know all that’s been bothering you the past few weeks, he can clearly see that something isn’t quite right.

Suddenly you find himself in his embrace, his head squished to yours and his fingers tangled in the back of your coat. He holds you like this for a bit, playfully ruffling your hair when he finally pulls away.

“There’s nothing convenience store ramen can’t fix,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Especially since you’re paying,” you grin at him, and he only laughs at you, shaking his head a little. You never want this night to end.

The walk is quick and goes by in comfortable silence, only stealing glances at each other occasionally. You’re sitting under the flickering neon sign of the store, waiting for your ramen to finish cooking, Vernon almost falling asleep over his food. You offer him your couch for the night, but he politely declines, since surely the party must be over by now. You give him a small nod, poking away impatiently at your noodles, deciding to dig in whether it’s done or not, too hungry and tired to care. The clock above the cashier reads a little past 4am.

With your stomachs full you’re standing outside the shop, mesmerised by the way the green neon highlights Vernon’s face. Even like this, he looks tired and almost a little sad. Your thoughts wander to how little he has said since you left the park, and it leaves a weird taste in your mouth.

“Thank you.” You spot the perplexed look in his eyes. “For tonight. It was… nice. So, thank you.”

He has way too much to say and way too little consciousness left in him for the night. He tries to string his thoughts together in an order so that they make sense, but the lack of sleep takes over and he only manages a tired smile. He can see something in your eyes that’s new to him, but he decides to save that conversation for another time.

Once you say your goodbyes you slowly make your way home, walking past the half finished snowman. Once you reach the other end of the park you let out a sigh and turn around. You pull your freezing hands from your pockets and get to work once again, rolling a head for the snowman and looking around for some twigs for the arms. You put on a few pebbles as decorations, a smile adorning the snowman’s face now. You take your phone and quickly snap a picture to send to Vernon, even though you’re sure he’s already fast asleep.

It’s past 5am once you get home, managing to fall asleep without tossing and turning for the first time in weeks. You don’t have a dream that night.

When Vernon stumbles through the front door he’s greeted by Seungkwan and Soonyoung watching some movie in the living room, probably half asleep as they don’t seem to notice his arrival. He takes off his shoes and coat, quietly moving towards his room when he hears a tired yawn from the couch. Seungkwan blinks at him sleepily, Vernon greeting him with a small wave that either goes unnoticed, or the boy really was asleep.

“You missed movie night,” Seungkwan croaks out. “What time is it anyways?”

“It’s really, really late. I just had to check on a friend.”

“A friend…” Seungkwan studies Vernon’s face. “You look like shit, dude.”

Vernon only looks back at him with a tired expression, letting out a low sigh before disappearing into his room. He flops down on his bed, not even bothering to change out of his clothes. He thinks back to your face so close to his, all the things he could’ve said and done. The moon peeks through his blinds, and he wonders if he kissed you would you have kissed him back.

He dreams about the feeling of your lips on his.

Vernon never replies to your finished snowman, and somehow it bothers you a lot more than it should. For the first time this winter the snow didn’t end up melting by the morning, and it’s even there covering the ground in a plush white layer a few days later.

It’s one of those nights again where the dark amplifies your loneliness, and you find yourself in the park again, sitting on a bench in front of your snowman. It’s leaning to the side a little, the daytime sun not taking mercy on it. You stare into its pebble eyes, your elbows resting on your knees and your chin in your palms - almost studying the little creature you made. You know it's going to melt and be gone in a few days, and the thought puts a frown on your face. You wish you never got attached to something so impermanent.

You check your phone for the time, but instead have to face a missed call and a message from Vernon. All it reads is “r u up?”, and you mentally cringe at the tinder-esque nature of his texting habits. You decide not to reply.

You get up to leave, but fix the snowman up before you do so, wrapping your scarf around its neck. You zip your coat up as high as possible and set off with silent steps. Being alone feels suffocating, even though you’re the one who turned Vernon down once again. It’s been weird seeing him around at school, only being able to think about how pretty he looks under cheap neon lights. He doesn’t make much of an effort to reach out either.

Later that week one of his friends invites you to some party he’s hosting, but you politely turn the offer down. You do end up buying a bottle of the cheapest grapefruit soju you can find that very same night, laying drunkenly on the floor and singing along to every song that comes on. You are glad that your phone is dead and you are too out of it to get up for the charger, because all you can think about is texting Vernon. It’s way past midnight when you finally feel well enough to get up, realising that you’ve been ignoring how hungry you are for the past few hours. The kitchen sounds like the worst place to be, so you get dressed and decide on the convenience store that Vernon showed you.

Vernon isn’t much for parties, but he realises that he’s in dire need of some socialisation, so when Mingyu invites him over he says yes without thinking. He regrets it just a little when he can hear the blaring music from outside the house, giving himself a mental pep talk before walking inside. He’s immediately met with a crowded room, barely able to squeeze past the swarm of sweaty bodies. Finding any of his friends seems impossible, but the kitchen is right on the other side of the living room, so he beelines there. He grabs a beer from the fridge, and almost jumps out of his skin when he closes the door to find someone standing right next to it, expectantly looking at him. The girl is familiar, but he can’t quite remember her.

“Hey,” she says with a shy smile. “I don’t think we’ve met, at least not when I’m sober.”

The memory suddenly hits him, and the look of realisation on his face makes the girl laugh. She does look different when she’s not about to throw up all over Vernon’s shoes and the floor.

“Oh yeah, that was… A night, for sure. Hi. I’m Vernon, by the way.”

He leans against the counter next to her and cracks his beer open. The girl reaches a free hand towards him, the other cradling a cup of something, and introduces herself as Seohyun. They make small talk for a while, both of them finishing their drinks before she asks Vernon if he wants to dance. He hesitates a little, but nods anyway, and she immediately grabs his hand with a giggle before pulling him into the crowd.

They dance like that, bodies pressed a little too close together, laughing over the music and singing along to every song they know. Vernon feels weird anyway, like something is missing, even if he couldn’t pinpoint what exactly.

He has no idea how long he’s been there when he finally spots Seungkwan in the kitchen, mixing multiple drinks at once. He excuses himself for a second from Seohyun and makes his way over to his friend to greet him. Seungkwan only nods at him, and the response puzzles Vernon.

“What?” Seungkwan asks when he notices Vernon silently staring at him.

“Nothing. Having fun?”

Once again, he only nods. Vernon furrows his eyebrows in confusion, but doesn’t press on, knowing fully well that Seungkwan will eventually tell him whatever is going on.

“Have you seen Mingyu?” Vernon shakes his head no and watches as Seungkwan somehow lifts all the cups at once and disappears out of sight without as much as a bye. He wonders if he should’ve stayed home to sleep instead.

He finds Seohyun on the couch, her head lazily thrown back and her eyes glistening in the dim light. She flashes a small smile when she spots Vernon, gesturing for him to sit down.

“I’m getting kind of hungry,” she pouts at him, and he feels like this is his chance to get out.

“I know just the place.”

You’re waiting for your ramen to finish cooking, sitting in the window of the convenience store with the neon lights lazily blinking down at you. Those 5 minutes feel like forever, but you’re not hungry enough to eat raw noodles.

The street in front of you is peaceful, even though there’s barely any snow left outside once again. You wonder how your snowman is doing. You wonder how Vernon is doing.

You look up at the clock above the cashier and notice that your food is finally done. Loud giggling grabs your attention from outside the store, and you wish you got more drunk so that you couldn’t be sitting here right now. Vernon’s eyes bore into your own through the glass, an unreadable expression on his face. The girl next to him is obviously lost as to what she’s witnessing, but doesn’t say anything. You quickly gather your belongings, grabbing your dinner too, before rushing out of the store. You glance at the boy one more time, and even though he’s clearly about to say something you rush off home. Tears blur your vision and leave burning trails along your face, but you just want to be home already.

Vernon is too stunned to move, only coming back to reality when he hears Seohyun’s voice.

“Who was that?”

“Just a friend.” A friend. “Let’s go eat.”

Seohyun beams at him, but he wishes he ran after you.

New Year’s Eve comes a lot quicker than you wish it did. Fireworks start going off way before midnight, and you can’t help but be annoyed. Maybe more sad than anything else, not really knowing how to feel excited about the new year. It used to be something you found exciting, but over the years it turned into peak isolation and anxiety season for you. Not out of choice, of course, life just happens sometimes.

You haven’t talked to Vernon at all since the convenience store. You haven’t really talked to anyone lately, except for a short call with your family to wish them happy holidays. You weren’t sure what went wrong, or where, but winter always brings a crippling feeling of cosmic insignificance into your life. Loneliness slowly turns into a black hole that absorbs all light and happiness in your life, and you find it harder and harder with each passing day to reach out. By the end of the year the light is barely a pinhole, and you’re sitting in the kitchen once again, watching the fireworks in silence.

Vernon can barely recognize their apartment after Seungkwan and Soonyoung are done with decorating, even less once it’s filled with music and all their friends. He doesn’t know most of them, but for one night he can find it in himself to be okay with this arrangement. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he finds a text from Seohyun telling him that she’s outside. Vernon takes the elevator down to the first floor to let the girl in. He unlocks the door for her, and she hugs him with the brightest smile on her face. Guilt immediately floods Vernon’s chest, but he doesn’t want to back away now, after all he was the one who invited Seohyun to this party. They make their way up in silence and enter the bustling apartment, Seohyun finding Vernon’s hand quickly at the overwhelming sight.

It’s still a few hours until midnight and Vernon wonders why he ever thought this to be a good idea.

A few drinks and a lot more dancing later he already feels worn out. He’s almost a hundred percent sure that there’s people doing the worst thing imaginable in his room, and the thought alone makes him want to leave for the rest of the night. He’s way too close to actually ditching all his friends and his sort-of-date, when Seungkwan suddenly yells over the music and the crowd, telling everyone to get to the rooftop. Vernon’s never been so relieved to hear his friend yell. He lets the crowd go out first, Seohyun still by his side. They leave last, Vernon making sure to close the door behind them. He catches a mischievous glint in Seohyun’s eyes, and she challenges him to a race to the staircase at the other end of the building. He lets out a tired sigh, but the girl tugs on his arm - and possibly his heartstrings - in a way he can’t resist. So they run, giggling and being just a little too loud.

It’s only a few minutes until the new year when they finally join the others, out of breath and still laughing. He can see Seohyun’s lips moving, but can’t make out any of it over the noise of all other people present. Suddenly the cacophony turns into clear chanting, and he can faintly recognise Seungkwan who yells “ten” first. They join in to the countdown, fireworks already going off in the distance.

Three. Two. One.

The crowd erupts in cheers, fireworks going off all around them as they enter a new year. Seohyun looks up into Vernon’s eyes, getting on her tiptoes and gently grabbing the collar of his coat. It feels wrong, so wrong, to lead someone on like this, and somehow Vernon still decides to kiss her, his hands settling on her waist as their lips meet. She smiles into the kiss, one of her hands gently moving up to rest on his cheek.

“Happy new year,” Seohyun whispers, still out of breath, resting her forehead against Vernon’s. He doesn’t say it back.

His phone buzzes away on the kitchen counter, your name weakly flashing on the screen. The call disconnects, and the house falls into darkness, before lighting up once again, this time with a text.

“happy new year”

Then it’s dark again.

Soon the days start getting longer and you finally say goodbye to snowy nights. You still dream about draping your scarf around Vernon, late night grocery runs, a kitchen window that’s brighter and doesn’t make you feel like the shell of who you used to be.

However, sleep still doesn’t come easy, it never really did. You occasionally find yourself looking out the same window, the sight comforting you with its continuity. Sometimes all you have is the view and the sill where you dangle your feet into a reality where you don't feel so left behind by life.

Tonight is no different, a blanket over your shoulders as you watch over the city. The distant noise of buzzing life makes you feel at peace, and you’re about to crawl back inside when you hear someone yelling your name. The word almost sounds unfamiliar, not having heard it in a while. You look around for the source of the sound, finally spotting Vernon who blends into the night in his usual all black outfit.

“Hey,” he yells once again, and he continues before you can stop him. “Come down? Please?”

You quickly climb inside, Vernon’s voice drowned out by your heart hammering in your chest. You only put on some slippers as you run out of your apartment, fuzzy sucks on your feet and the same blanket still over your shoulder. The elevator ride seems to take forever, but you finally get down, finding Vernon right outside the building sitting on the stairs. He scrambles to his feet when he hears the door behind him open, staring at you with an unreadable expression on his face. Even though it’s dark, you can see he looks different somehow. Maybe more tired, maybe a little more sad.

“What are you doing here?” The question comes out almost as a whisper.

“I recognized your socks. That sounded a little weird, I’m sorry, I just… Haven’t seen you in a while.”

It’s true, you were focused on your exams and skipped most of your classes whenever you didn’t feel like leaving your apartment for the day. It’s also true that Vernon never called you back or replied to your text since new year’s. He couldn’t bring himself to look you in the eyes after kissing Seohyun, even though he told her everything a few days later. She was very understanding, albeit understandably sad, and they did find good friends in each other with Vernon after all that happened.

“Is that my scarf?” You step closer to him, gently touching the soft fabric.

“I found it in the park. I was gonna bring it back, but then things kind of… happened,” His voice is barely above a whisper and he looks a little too deep into your eyes.

“How’s Seohyun?” You take a step back, and Vernon visibly gulps. Somehow he just knows that you’ve been talking to Seungkwan.

“I think she’s got a girlfriend now, actually. How’s your boyfriend?”

You’re taken aback by his question, his words sharp and purposeful, making you wince. He doesn’t say anything else, holding your stare as if it was a challenge. You feel the tears welling in your eyes, but neither of you move.

“Happy with someone else.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You called me down for this? Really, Vernon?” You snap at him, unwinding the scarf from his neck, tears freely racing down your face and you almost miss the front door as you push it open.

“Fuck you,” you spit at him before slamming the door shut.

Monday morning classes roll around once again, and you find yourself in your usual spot in the lecture hall. For a few weeks you sit alone, Vernon vanishing out of your life along with winter. It’s not until spring finally arrives that a familiar head of messy hair is occupying the seat next to yours by the time you arrive. You quietly settle into your chair, choosing to look everywhere except for the boy next to you. There’s still time until class starts, and you consider leaving to avoid whatever is about to happen, but Vernon is quicker, sliding a lone earphone in front of you on the desk. He patiently waits for you to pick it up and place it in your ear, one of your favourite songs already softly playing. He doesn’t say anything for the rest of the class, doodling away in his notebook as usual, and it feels like winter again. When class is over Vernon hurries to leave, but you proceed to stop him in his tracks to give him the earphone back. He almost looks disappointed.

For a moment it’s only the two of you, getting lost in each other’s eyes and wondering when things turned like this, so distant and unfamiliar.

“Wanna go grab some coffee?” Vernon asks suddenly, even though he sounds a little unsure himself. It all feels like the first Monday you met.

The walk is quiet, but not in the comfortable way you’re used to. He still knows your order by heart, and somehow it just makes your chest feel even more tight. Vernon feels like a stranger and your dearest friend at the same time. Sometimes when you look at him too much you go back to the night where things still felt okay and you wonder if he ever thinks about it - about how badly you wanted to hold his hands, kiss him still lying in the snow.

“Your face is gonna stay like that if you frown so much,” he says nonchalantly as he hands you a to-go paper cup.

“I wish,” your words make him snort into his drink as he’s about to take a sip, and it makes you smile too.

You let Vernon lead the way through the neighbourhood, making small talk about all the things you missed in each other’s lives, although you don’t have much to offer having mostly sat at home. You end up on a park bench next to a small lake, and you watch as the ducks peacefully swim along. You wonder if the water isn’t still too cold for them. Vernon is still fiddling with his cup, almost looking somewhat nervous.

“I missed you,” he says quietly.

“You could’ve texted me.” He doesn’t reply. You do your best not to raise your voice. “At least say something now.”

“What the fuck do you want me to say? Confess my undying love for you? Tell you how I think about you every single day? How guilty I feel that I can’t even bring myself to look you in the eyes?” He’s looking for something, anything in your eyes, but you’re too angry to give it to him that easily.

“Maybe.”

“Oh you’re one to talk, like you’d ever tell me any of it!”

Vernon lets out a frustrated sigh, squeezing the cup in his hands until it buckles. His words fill your head, then your whole body, and you feel like your whole being is vibrating and slowly vanishing at the edges.

Maybe you’ve already fallen hard, hard enough that it did break your body in unspeakable ways. You get up to leave, barely standing on shaky legs, not completely aware of your surroundings. The ringing in your ears gets louder and the air feels a little too thick and the sink is dripping again, and you know you’ll have to get it fixed.

Cold hands come to rest on your face, Vernon’s forehead against yours and you wonder if love is supposed to hurt like this. You close your eyes, the snow is falling and your snowman is smiling at you warmly, your scarf around its neck. A teardrop rolls down your face and you open your eyes slowly.

“Are you okay?”

“Kiss me.”

A sad smile appears on his lips, his hands moving from your face and he wraps his arm around you instead, tucking your face into his neck.

“I promise I will,” He pulls away just enough to see your face. “Another time.”

Your head is still buzzing as he walks you home, gently holding your hand, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of your hand. You’re reluctant to let go when you reach your building, and your hesitation draws a faint smile on Vernon’s face.

He leaves a kiss on your forehead before saying bye.

That night you dream about being a duck, floating on glimmering ponds in the early spring sunset. You wake up crying at 2am.

You’re on your way home after a late night grocery run when your phone starts vibrating in your pocket. Vernon’s incoming call confuses you at such an odd hour, but you pick it up anyway. It’s loud on the other end of the line, loud music and even louder screaming drowning out Vernon’s voice almost completely.

“Where are you?” He yells into the phone.

“Out. Why?” You’re not sure if he’s sober.

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, then suddenly it’s entirely quiet. You check if he’s ended the call. A loud bang reassures you that he’s still there.

“Someone’s having the worst sex I’ve ever witnessed right in my room. Are you free?” The distress in his voice makes you laugh, and you can imagine the frown on his face too well.

“You can come over if you want to, I’ll be home in a bit.”

He doesn’t need much convincing, so you hang up to finally focus on your groceries, grabbing a few extra drinks and snacks for your sudden guest. He’s sitting on the stairs in front of the building when you get home, listening to music that you can faintly make out from his headphones. He notices you as you halt to a stop right in front of him, a tired look on his face as he looks up at you. He smiles at you still and you can’t help but return the gesture.

You blindly reach into your bag, shuffling around for a can of cola that you bought for him. Your fingers finally wrap around the cold metal, and you hand the drink to Vernon, taking another one out for yourself. You take a seat on the stairs next to him, your knees slightly touching - he doesn’t move, so you don’t, either. The wind quietly shakes the barely-there leaves on the trees, and it moves something within you, too.

“I thought you like parties,” you tease him.

“You don’t know what I saw there. Consider yourself lucky, honestly.”

“I mean, you’re lucky that I’m nice enough to offer you my couch for the night.” He scoffs in response, and bumps his knee into yours.

You wonder if Vernon only exists on Mondays and at night.

His profile is sharp and soft at the same time in the flickering, orange light blinking at you from a nearby street lamp. He seems lost in thought and you don’t have it in yourself to bother him right now, not when everything feels so at peace for once. A few faint stars twinkle in the sky, and the moon looks as full as your heart feels. Spring always knew how to take your troubles away - it even happened a little too easily, the ice around your heart melting with the first golden rays of sunshine.

You know you’re going to be okay.

Almost on instinct you lean your head on Vernon’s shoulder, and you feel his arm circling your waist and squeezing gently, his head coming to rest on top of yours.

Maybe he could help you fix the dripping sink in your bathroom, too.

The lack of sleep finally finds you, the gentle breeze making both of you shiver just enough for you to make your way inside. The elevator has never felt so slow as you wait for it, but when Vernon carefully takes your hand in his, you don’t mind as much anymore. You can feel your face heating up a little, thankful when the elevator dings open. Vernon doesn’t let go of your hand, but you can also tell that his eyes are barely open, so you do your best not to think too much of it even if your skin feels like it’s on fire. You put in your passcode and walk into the small apartment, both of you kicking off your shoes before you lead him into the living room, where he collapses on the couch immediately.

It’s a little endearing somehow, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he struggles to keep his eyes. You fetch him a blanket and leave a toothbrush on the side of the sink, but he’s fast asleep by the time you get back, a throw pillow tucked under his head. You gently cover him with the blanket, and leave to get ready for bed after whispering a “good night” into the dark room.

You have a hard time falling asleep, wondering if he’s going to be there in the morning.

You dream about having his toothbrush in your cup next to yours.

You wake up to the smell of breakfast, worry flooding your mind before you remember that it’s most likely just Vernon. You slowly open your door, peeking into the kitchen to see him in front of the stove, fumbling with a pan and a pair of chopsticks.

“Smells good,” your sudden voice makes him jump, and he almost drops the pan.

“Just because I don’t know how to unlock the front door you don’t get to scare me to death.”

His focus is back on the eggs in front of him, so you slip into the bathroom to brush your teeth. You grab everything without even looking, but the toothbrush feels foreign in your hand. You look at yourself in the mirror and realise that you’re holding the one that you left out for Vernon last night. Then it hits you, he put it in the cup himself.

You quickly finish your morning routine and walk back into the kitchen where he’s sitting at the table, two plates of food set out for both of you. The sun filters in through the sheer curtain, painting everything golden, and you feel like your heart might rip out of your chest with how it’s hammering away.

Breakfast is quiet and peaceful, Vernon showing no signs of being in a hurry. You thank him for making you food as you place the dishes in the sink, only to find him staring at you when you turn back around. His eyes are soft, a smile playing at the corners of his lips, and you feel almost naked under his gaze.

“What?” You know you’re blushing, but you have nowhere to hide in the small kitchen.

“Nothing.”

The smile doesn’t leave his lips still, and you quickly excuse yourself as you rush into your room, feeling too overwhelmed. It’s weird to have someone, especially him, in your kitchen, looking so domestic and so pretty in the early morning sunlight. You can hear him doing the dishes in the other room and it almost makes you cry. By the time you gather yourself enough to face him again he’s getting ready to leave, one of his shoes already on his feet. You watch in silence, and unlock the door for him when he stands up straight.

He’s halfway out the door when he turns back around and presses a kiss to your cheek; your mouth opens and closes as you try to say something. Vernon says bye with a laugh and leaves you standing there, way too flustered to even close the door.

A neighbour appears in the hallway which prompts you to slam the door shut way too quickly and loudly, pressing your back against it and sliding to the floor.

You wonder if you’re still dreaming.

You’re running late to your morning class, having missed your alarm, feeling kind of asleep still. The seat next to yours is empty when you arrive just a few seconds before the professor, and you wish you went back to bed instead of running all the way to school.

The class is halfway through when the door quietly opens and Vernon slips in, two to-go cups in his hands. He looks completely unbothered by the fact that he’s this late as he takes his usual seat. He slides one of the drinks in front of you, your name scribbled on the side of the paper cup. You give him a confused look, but he only nods at you before taking a sip of his coffee. You do the same, quickly realising that he bought you your favourite. Maybe coming to class wasn’t the worst idea.

You leave the lecture together, coming to a halt in front of the building as Vernon spots his friends huddled together in their usual circle.

“There’s gonna be a party tonight,” he turns to you suddenly. “I want you to come.”

His eyes are intense and it makes your heart flutter.

“Okay, I’ll be there. Thank you for the drink.” You give him a soft smile.

“I was gonna be late anyway, so I figured why not.” It’s obvious that he’s not telling the truth, his cheeks turning red along with his ears. It makes you feel warm inside. “I’ll see you tonight?”

“Will you watch the sunset with me before?”

With the way you’re looking at him, he doesn’t think he could say no to you, so he nods and turns to say bye. You stop him, your fingers wrapping around his arm, and you press a quick kiss to his cheek before walking away. He looks even more flustered, his feet glued in place as he watches you disappear into the morning mist.

You can hear his friends faintly as they cheer for him from afar.

It’s already getting dark when you rush out of your apartment towards the address that Vernon texted you. The air is crisp against your skin, and you realise you didn’t dress nearly warm enough to be sitting out in the cold, but it’s too late to go back home. You will yourself to a jogging speed, finally spotting Vernon in front of his complex.

“Please tell me the elevator is working,” you say, still trying to catch your breath. “My body was not made for this.”

“Well…” Vernon starts, but the look in your eyes makes him burst out in laughter. “I’m just fucking with you, it’s fine.”

“You better hope it’s fine, or you’ll get to carry me up to the rooftop on your back,” it’s his turn to give you a distraught look.

Lucky for both of you, the elevator is in working condition, so you only have to take the stairs on the last two floors. Vernon makes a show of opening the door leading up to the rooftop, a fond look on his face as he watches you take in the view. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you this happy. You turn to him and wrap your arms around him in a tight hug, muttering a “thank you” into his coat. The pink sky, along with the last few rays of sunshine make Vernon look even more angelic than you usually find him, and you wonder if he too can hear how fast and loud your heart is beating. He says something that you can’t hear from being lost in thought, but before you can ask him to repeat himself he’s pulling a blanket from his backpack and putting it down on the ground. You both take a seat, sitting close enough that your thighs are touching, your head almost immediately coming to rest on his shoulder.

The city is quietly buzzing away in the distance, glass buildings glistening pink, birds flying across the horizon. Vernon feels warm and familiar, his head on top of yours and his arm around you. You don’t remember the last time you felt so at peace.

The top of the sky is fading into blue, the last bit of sun still poking out from behind the city, but the stars are already visible. It feels like a moment you’ll remember forever.

You’re getting ready to leave, Vernon reaching a hand towards you to help you up. You watch him fold and put the blanket away in silence, and he freezes when he turns around, his backpack in his hands, finally noticing that you’re looking at him.

“What?”

He looks confused, but you simply step closer instead of replying. Your mind is a mess of incomprehensible thoughts no matter how hard you try to regain control over yourself.

“Can you kiss me?” It’s barely a whisper, your thoughts somewhere far away, somewhere where you’re lying in the snow, eating ramen under neon lights. Somehow, Vernon looks the same kind of dazed.

His bag lands on the ground with a thud, his hands cupping your face as he leans in without thinking, his lips crashing against yours almost hungrily. Your fingers find his collars easily even with your eyes closed, pulling him closer, closer, closer. Your lips move perfectly together, your hearts beating in unison. He tastes like how it feels to wake up next to someone you love, and even though his lips are cold, a warm feeling floods your whole body. You only pull away when your lungs beg you for air, and as your eyes find Vernon’s you can’t help but smile. With his hands still gently resting on your face he wipes away a few stray tears, and you turn your head to the side to press your lips against his palm.

The air feels thick from all the words left unsaid, but they can wait. For now, you’re okay with this.

“I don’t wanna go to that party anymore.”

“I’ve got a better idea.”

You’re sitting at your usual table under the flickering neon lights at the convenience store, already having finished your food. For the first time in months, your chest feels light, and you’re not sure if it’s because of spring or Vernon. You don’t mind either way.

He walks you home, almost kisses you goodnight, but you pull away. He looks at you anxiously, waiting for something to happen.

“Sleep over,” you say in a small voice.

“Your couch isn’t that comfortable,” he’s only half joking, a smirk on his lips and his hands reaching to find yours.

“But my bed is.”

The smile vanishes off his face, his eyes widening, and you’re about to make up an excuse, say that you were only joking, when you notice that he’s blushing. Suddenly he nods, beaming at you, and you mimic his expression, pulling him towards the entrance.

It’s odd, having him this close, especially in your own home after having been alone in it for so long. He smells like your shampoo, and tastes like your toothpaste, and it makes you nervous and excited at the same time, your heart feeling too big for your chest.

You watch with a fond look on your face as he moves around in the apartment, and somehow it feels like this is how it’s always been, his comfortable presence filling a void you weren’t even fully aware of..

In the dark of your room, under the warm covers, he holds you against his chest as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He looks at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips.

“Can I kiss you?” His question makes you let out an airy laugh, but he waits for your answer patiently.

“Only if you promise that you’ll do it again.”

With that, his lips are on yours, softly and slowly. He’s touching you like no one did before, with so much love and patience, that you can’t help but think about how this will break your body in unspeakable ways.

When you wake up, his bag is in the corner of your room, his toothbrush is still next to yours in the cup, and the sink isn’t dripping anymore. He’s still asleep, and you trace his features in your mind, trying to memorise how beautiful he looks even like this.

You know you’ll never love anyone as much as this, not in this lifetime.

A fleeting moment of everything and nothing.

#HE PUT IT THERE HIMSELF #THAT LINE DESTROYED ME OP #YOU WONDER IF VERNON EXISTS ONLY ON MONDAYS AND AT NIGHT #WHAT IF I CRIED.#SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UPPPPP #beautifully written op!!!#the yearning was so strong i actually started yelling #fr: vernon chwe #fr: seventeen

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starrywonn · 2 years ago

Text

title: eat. play. love.

pairing: seungcheol x f!reader

wc: 19.4k

summary: being one of new york's top food critics comes with a lot of perks: free dinners, nice awards, and a linkedin profile your parents could be proud of. that doesn't stop you from wanting a lofty promotion to editor, and the only person standing in your way is choi seungcheol. just one problem: his romance column has half of new york under his grimy little thumb. that, and you hate him.

in which your love language is food. seungcheol doesn't have one.

notes: romcom with mild angst, coworkers!au, slow burn enemies to lovers, playboy!cheol, suggestive (one moment in particular) + mentions of sex (otherwise sfw), swearing, lots of alcohol, also you will probably get hungry reading this. extra special thanks a million times over to my fav person @wuahae for bearing with me through literally all 20k words of this. i love you:')

It's underneath a layer of paper-thin egg yolk pasta where you think you see god.

Spoon meets whipped ricotta, white truffle, sage oil. A sip of 1979 cabernet, punishing and oaky. Rinse and repeat.

None of these words are in the Bible, yet you are having nothing short of a religious experience.

"Well, this seems like good news for the place," Jeonghan says. "Wine's tasty. Three stars?"

At this point, you're fairly sure Jeonghan has tuned the explanation of your elaborate rating process out (he's there for the wine, anyway), so instead you top him up and help yourself to a generous portion of his pappardelle.

"Four, then?" He leans forward on his elbows. "Or critic's choice?"

Candied lemon, pecorino, garlic. Derivative, but it's a good bite.

"You're distracting me." You point your fork at him. "You're like 80% alcohol, anyway. Bad opinions."

"Sue me," he laughs. "I would take a client here, is all I'm saying."

You pass on the opportunity to bring up that Jeonghan once brought a client to a Bubba Gump because he was craving coconut shrimp. But Jeonghan isn't a food critic—he's a business analyst and your best friend from college, back when all you cared about was Friday's house party and writing pizza joint reviews for the university paper.

It's a good arrangement. You appreciate his company, and he's never one to turn down a free meal. The both of you keep a small circle—such is the price of discernment.

There aren't many things that can come between you and a delicious meal. But, you have notifications turned on for just three things (all work-related) and you both watch the linen tablecloth light up under your face-down phone in true horror-movie fashion.

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. "Popular on a Saturday night," he jokes. "Copy on your ass again?"

"Nothing's in production," you reply, letting the evil claws of your terrible work-life balance encircle you once again as you open your email.

URGENT: LIFESTYLE EDITOR TRANSITIONAL PLANS, it reads. It's from Wonwoo, your editor in chief, who has sent it with priority, as if the caps lock wasn't scary enough.

"So Joshua decided to quit. Just like you said," Jeonghan says, but it's like he's speaking to you through a wet paper bag because it takes every working brain cell of yours to read the email.

As you may know, Joshua has decided to step down from his position as our current Lifestyle editor.

Not a surprise, given his wife is having a kid. You had called it six months ago over the paper's Christmas dinner at Eleven Madison Park, when Joshua spent half of it outside on a phone call and the other half browsing the Baby Gap website.

I have decided to hire internally to fill his position. I and upper management believe you would be a good fit for the position. Please plan for a meeting 9 AM Monday to discuss transitional plans.

It's that part that you have to read over three times. And then you read it over a fourth, just for good measure.

"You're starting to scare me." Jeonghan puts down his glass, which is something akin to a baby separating from their bottle.

Sometimes you need a dictionary to understand Wonwoo, but the email seems clear as day to you. Good fit. Transitional plans. Suddenly you wish Jeonghan hadn't had so much of the wine because you're in desperate need of a drink.

"I-I think…I think I'm getting promoted."

How funny to think your lifelong dream would be realized over a 40 dollar plate of pasta. You want to cry and hug the maître d' and eat the entire complimentary bread basket.

"It's about time." The glass finds his relieved hand again. "You breathe journalism. I'm afraid one day you'll text me in AP style."

You read over all of it again, trying to memorialize the words that undoubtedly will launch your wonderful and long career in the upper echelons of media.

Looking forward to talking with the two of you.

Wait—two?

Then the proverbial cherry on top, the laughably convenient other thing your eyes had glazed over before.

CC: Choi Seungcheol.

"Choi Seungcheol?!"

Nothing is ever that easy and it then dawns on you that this is a competition type thing because never in the history of the printing press has there been two editors for a section.

Jeonghan stares at you blankly. It would be funny if you didn't feel like you were being double deep-fried like terrible fair food, all the thrill and elation of the moment boiled down to lead in your chest.

"I—he," you stammer.

Jeonghan mouths check to the poor waiter assigned to watch your table. God bless him.

"Words," he tells you. "You went to journalism school."

You take a syrupy breath that sits in your lungs unhappily. Your food is cold. This is a disaster.

"Well, actually, I'm not getting promoted."

Jeonghan's eyes soften, just enough without making you pity yourself more.

"There's this guy," you start. "He's the love and relationships columnist, the one I complain about all the time." Jeonghan makes a small ahh sound, your predicament finally dawning on him. "I guess we're both under consideration for the position. I didn't-I didn't even think of him. I—"

You slump into your seat, the arancini your only solace despite your complaint that the breading was too salty earlier.

"So? I bet you're a way better fit than him. It'll be a shoe-in. Easy decision."

Jeonghan's confidence in you makes you want to cry.

The problem is that Seungcheol is the human equivalent of Cosmopolitan Magazine. You can't recall the last time he walked into the office with a fully buttoned up shirt. You also can't recall the last time one of his advice columns wasn't in the end of quarter recap for popularity.

It's not in you to explain this debacle to Jeonghan. This whole situation is so cosmically awful that all you can do is ask for dessert in a takeout box and watch Jeonghan calculate tip without a calculator because that's all you learn in business school.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Jeonghan asks when you're both in the Uber.

"Yeah." You have a headache. You also can't decide whether or not to give the restaurant three or four stars, and you always know by the time you're out the door. "It's fine."

The tiramisu is cold in your lap. Jeonghan squeezes your shoulder. You refresh your email.

Choi Seungcheol's name stares back at you.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

The meeting goes exactly how you would expect.

Wonwoo, in his lanky taupe sweater vest, says that Joshua is leaving and you and Seungcheol are standing toe-to-toe in the space left behind.

"I'm sure you two are well-acquainted," he begins.

You stifle a laugh, but Seungcheol's cat-like grimace says more than enough. Neither of you have the heart to tell Wonwoo that your very first impression of Seungcheol was that he tried to hit on you at the new recruit party, or that Joshua probably deserves reparations for how often he mediated fights between the two of you during weekly meetings. (Maybe not reparations, but at least an Edible Arrangements.)

For better or for worse, Wonwoo's genius does not extend to social cues, and he follows with a blithe, "Therefore, I hope you two will treat this as a friendly competition between equals."

You almost laugh again, but this time it's because you need the promotion more than you need air, and you cannot allow some Buzzfeed reject with the face of a model take that from you. And you don't doubt Seungcheol wants it as bad as you do, considering how often you've seen him try to schmooze his way up the ranks.

He may have become a columnist by rubbing elbows with the right people, but you'll never forget the late nights you spent sifting through hours of interview transcripts, on the grueling climb up the totem pole to earn your position.

"We'll evaluate an article of your own submission at the end of the month before we decide. Best of luck."

At least Wonwoo knows to quit while he's ahead—he closes the meeting with a succinct nod before returning to his seemingly infinite unread emails.

"Exciting," Seungcheol says. He claps his hands together, Rolex gaudy under the office lights, and sends a nauseating smile your way. "May the best writer win."

He offers you a handshake. You think he has real life cooties, so instead you close your planner and shoot him a very pointed look.

"There's only one writer here. Thrilled to read your next thinkpiece on how men should spend more time on Tinder and not therapy."

That earns you a chuckle from Wonwoo, but Seungcheol is not easily fazed.

Instead he rushes to hold the door open for you on your way out, likely his favorite piece of advice to give his poor, indolent readers.

"I'll book a table for us at Avra next month," Seungcheol gloats. "Consider it a gift from your future boss."

"They don't have a kids menu, you know."

"No problem. I'll have my darling food critic order for me." He places a wicked hand over his polyester covered heart. "Ending misogyny in one fell swoop, huh?"

You wait for the door to Wonwoo's office to close before looking at him right in his wet, cow eyes with the most malice you can possibly muster. You feel it collect in your bones, enough to feel like you can physically hack it up and hurl it at him.

"You have no clue what you're talking about, huh? Do you actually attract women with that attitude? Or are you just a really good liar?"

You are so close to him, you could kiss him if you wanted—luckily for the both of you, you would rather die a thousand fiery, terrible deaths, and then die all over again. Instead, you watch his pout unravel into a grin from hell, and he leans in closer, the scent of Old Spice and break room coffee heavy on him. This morning's matcha latte churns in your stomach, and you wonder if you should have gotten oatmilk instead of dairy.

Up close, he's worse. His hair reminds you of the sad, tired swoop of the washed-up lead of a daytime soap opera. And he has no pores, which is deeply upsetting because he looks like the type to wash his face with Palmolive and a prayer.

"You know what?"

His breath hits your lips and your skin prickles like you have an allergy.

"What?"

"You just gave me the winning idea for my next column." No way, you think. Mind games. Classy. "See you at dinner, sweetheart. Looking forward to it."

The pet name makes you seethe. There are a million things you want to say, all colorful and none workplace appropriate.

"I'd rather starve."

"Better not let Wonwoo hear you with that bad attitude. I'm sure management loves a team player." His cheshire grin somehow gets bigger, all white teeth and pink lip. "Try to smile a little, huh? Have fun writing about snails and black garlic and cwa-ssants, or whatever it is that you do."

you watch all the laminated syllables of croissant go through his paper shredder smile and you think you black out.

He spins on his heel triumphantly, almost bowling over Minghao from Arts & Entertainment, who is undoubtedly wondering if you did, in fact, kiss.

Seungcheol laughs as he walks away, linebacker shoulders rippling under his one size too small shirt.

The metal-red knot of anger swells in your gut as you watch his perfect silhouette and his tiny little waist disappear into the staff room. Then you realize what you've been looking at and let yourself get mad all over again.

He does have a nice ass, though. You'll give him that.

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"You'll never guess what I have."

"Is it better than this lox bagel?" You answer, mouth unattractively full.

Seungkwan's answer is the sound of a straw hitting the bottom of an empty cup and the grating jostle of ice. Phone calls with him are like ASMR because he's always doing a million things at once, but you wouldn't have it any other way.

"Infinitely," he finally says, after procuring the last milliliter of what's likely his second coffee of the day. "Besides, we all know pesto is way better."

"Wrong, but okay," you reply. "What is it?"

"You're not gonna thank me for being the best friend in the world? Me, an editor, keeping nepotism alive for you? A mere columnist?"

"Senior columnist," you laugh between bites. "You need me. Who else would you text during content meetings?"

"Whatever." His eye roll is audible. "I guess I won't tell you."

He shakes his cup again, all ice and no patience.

"Fine! I owe you. My career and my life."

"And a seat at Momofuku."

"And that."

You take another greedy bite, letting the everything on an everything bagel get all over your chin. You love dressing up and going to restaurants that cost more than both of your kidneys, but there's something sacred about eating a $10 bagel behind the shield of your computer screen at a cafe where no one knows you.

There's someone laughing really loudly somewhere, and if you weren't otherwise preoccupied, you would look for the offender and give them a hard glare. You don't know what could possibly be that funny at 9 AM, but, then again, you never were a morning person.

"So, I have intel. About Seungcheol." You can picture the glint in Seungkwan's eyes, glittery and caramel. Unfortunately, the news that it's related to your worst enemy makes you sit up a little straighter. "At today's content meeting, Joshua said that he's working on some kind of challenge to go on as many dates as possible. He might make it a series."

"How tacky," you say, but the information clanks around in your brain like shoes in a washing machine. The indulgent, clickbaity headline just falls together perfectly—I Went On 50 First Dates So You Don't Have To. Exactly the kind of article your mom sees on Facebook and sends to you.

"You have to admit it's a decent idea. Not as good as yours, but it'll get engagement," is Seungkwan's reply, but you can barely hear it over the swell of another sitcom-esque laugh, this time, from a woman. "The other editors are very invested in this whole thing, by the way. Of course, I'm betting on you."

You're about to very openly stress about people gambling on your success when your eyes wander to the backside of the Sports Illustrated model getting napkins at the counter. Not bad at all, you think. It may be too early for the comedy club, but appreciating the male figure has no schedule.

And then he turns around, and you're able to see past the curly hair, muscle tee, beauty pageant smile—it's none other than Choi Seungcheol, fully outfitted with the audacity to trespass on your bagel place. You have never been more disgusted by your heterosexuality.

You hide behind your computer screen.

"Helloooo?" comes Seungkwan on the line. "Are you making out with your breakfast or something?"

"Seungkwan, I gotta go," you hiss. Your eyes follow Seungcheol as he makes his way back to his table. "There's a…situation."

You watch him sit across from a beautiful girl in a sundress and Prada sunglasses, and her lips tumble into a brilliant red smile.

It would be really fucking funny if he was on a date, you think, but then you see him make the kind of eyes you last saw in the deepest, stickiest recesses of a frat house on thirsty Thursday. Then you realize he is on a date, that he's been on a date, and it's his laugh that is equally annoying as it is loud.

Seungkwan works hard, but the devil always works harder.

"Ok, talk to you later. Bye!" You can hear the beginning of one of Seungkwan's protests, but you hang up before he's able to properly complain. Maybe you'll have to do a little better than Momofuku—that's a problem for later.

Over the rim of your laptop, you catch glimpses of their conversation. You notice Seungcheol talks a lot with his hands, and you wonder if that's another one of his tips or if that's just him. Him and those big clown hands, illustrating a story that you're unfortunately too far away to hear.

But you can hear her laugh again, and you try to guess what he's talking about. His childhood dog. The insurmountable burden of being prom king and captain of the football team. This little not-competition and this little not-rivalry between the two of you. How the PB&J bagel is the best thing on the menu (it's not, but you see the berry compote all over his fingers and you know that's the hill he's dying on).

No matter how you spin it, it's a hard pill to swallow. Choi Seungcheol is good at what he does, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

You hear the careening lilt of what seems to be Seungcheol whining, and there's a brief flash of something like endearment in your stomach before the repulsion sets in.

Nothing you can do to stop him, huh?

The question, sinister and burning, writhes in your brain as you chew on the ice from your coffee and stare at a blank Word document, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat.

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Beware the wrath of a woman scorned.

It's number 3 on Seungcheol's article titled Revenge and Other Stories. Unsurprisingly, he must not practice what he preaches, because you currently have all nine circles of Dante's Inferno inside you right now.

Play nice, Jeonghan had told you. Looks better to upper management.

And you did, until one of your photo requests mysteriously got deleted. Then Joshua told you to cut 500 words from this week's column because Seungcheol's just "happened" to be a little longer this time.

The knockout punch was yesterday when Seungcheol told you he was using your January critic's choice pick to take Wonwoo out for a friendly dinner, his treat. If you had known, you would've called ahead and told them to poison the hamachi. (No matter. Any foodie worth their salt knows Thursday is the worst day for sushi).

Now you sit on the C train, dressed to the nines, because you have a date with destiny at Nai. Sometimes destiny is a big pan of paella for one, but this time, it's Seungcheol and his next victim on date night.

Getting him there was so easy, it was almost criminal. An obnoxiously loud elevator phone call in which you name dropped the executive chef, a friend of yours, at least four times. Seungkwan very strategically asking you if a press pass can bypass reservations for a booked-out restaurant. Gossip in the break room with the intentional use of "intimate," "sangria drunk," and "affordable."

Affordable was a lie, but you're learning quickly that a hungry fish will take any bait. And seeing Seungcheol's face is never a joy, but you're not opposed to watching him open the menu for the first time.

"I have a killer Spanish accent," Seungcheol told you on the way out today.

Hook, line, and sinker.

The subway car rumbles under you. You're almost in East Village. You don't normally spend your Friday nights crashing dates—you actually don't really spend them outside your apartment at all, but Seungcheol is the exception to the rule and you're making a lot of them for him. A small price to pay for the glory of dethroning Casanova.

The plan is to "accidentally" run into Seungcheol and his Friday night exploit, and then to casually, non-bitterly mention a, that she is about to become a statistic, b, that his idea of chivalry was birthed in the basement of the Alpha Omega house, and c, that you're surprised he's still single because you always happen to catch him on dates. Something like that.

This is admittedly the best you could come up with. Like you said, you don't really crash dates. You don't really sabotage people either, but Seungcheol declared war the minute his Folgers breath hit your face outside Wonwoo's office.

Then you think of all the ways things can absolutely backfire. Seungcheol's warm, carefree whirl of laughter when he explains you're office rivals, or worse, lies and says you're nothing but a jilted, jealous ex. Or this whole thing could simply be immortalized in his winning article as a jaunty sentence about making the most out of a bad situation, yada yada yada.

You picture watching another girl, spellbound, as you dig into your table-for-one paella.

In your mind's eye, she laughs, floaty like his date at the bagel place, and for a moment you understand what it might feel like to want Choi Seungcheol.

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Friday night at Nai is red and glittering and heady with saffron.

You remember when you first ate here, two weekends after the soft open, early in your career at the paper. After a three hour conversation over wine and octopus with the owner, you wrote the restaurant a glowing review that, to your surprise, helped land it several ritzy awards. Now the dining room is never empty, but they always find space for you.

That was the first time you learned that all of this work meant something. Yeah, you loved an excuse to stuff your face and get paid for it, but what was even better was the chance to tell the stories of a working father's hand-pulled noodles, the drunk, midnight origins of a tasting menu, the caramel-greedy fingers of a well-loved childhood.

This is the long way of explaining how you bypass the two hour standby wait time, and how you walk in on a first name basis with the manager.

You're fully prepared to see Seungcheol mid-churro, perhaps four pick-up lines deep and wondering if he still has a condom in his wallet.

That's why you almost miss him on your way to your table. His is empty, other than a lonely, watered down martini on the rocks and two menus.

"Seungcheol?"

He looks up at you, and something like genuine surprise melts into relief, then intrigue.

"Look at who crawled out of her dungeon," he chuckles. "You clean up good."

Whatever pity you may have felt for him vaporizes instantly. Although, when he beckons for you to sit in the empty seat across from him, you do take the bait—you're not about to pass up a good opportunity to humble your least formidable foe.

"Refreshing to see that our love guru isn't above dining solo," you reply. "I have to admit, your acting is impressive. What an elaborate ruse to get another poor, single diner to pity you enough to sit with you."

"It worked, didn't it?" He takes a sip of his cocktail, which is almost a brand new drink because it's 90% water, 10% martini by now.

"I'm no expert, but pretending to get stood up is not a tip I would give the general public."

"Who said I was pretending?"

No fucking way. Your jaw drops. It's too unreal to believe. Even if the slutty cut of Seungcheol's shirt wasn't persuasive enough, surely the prospect of enjoying a free Michelin star dinner would warrant an appearance, even for you. Breaking News: New York's Hottest Bachelor Ghosted at Top Restaurant. If only that were as wonderful to the average reader as it is to you.

Because waiters are trained to enter conversations at the best possible time, you're forced to pause and order a wine for the table and some tapas. (No paella for one? Seungcheol asks, and you try to reconcile your annoyance with the fact that one, he's read your review of this place, and two, that he looks mildly turned on that you can pronounce all the menu items. You tell the waiter to add a paella.)

"You got stood up?" You cross your arms over your chest. "You may think I'm dumb, but I'm not that dumb."

"You have no idea how flattering your reaction is." He laughs, and the air shifts around him, drawing you further into his eyes, inky under the lowlight. "I understand you think I'm irresistible, but, alas, not everyone shares your opinion."

"I never said that."

You hate how easy it is for him to push your buttons. You hate how in control he is, and you hate how he's looking at you like you're on the menu.

The waiter returns with the wine, and you decide you're feeling equally as terrible.

"Truly, you can't be that irresistible. After all this time writing about relationships, you would think you'd actually be in one."

Touché, you think. Normally, it would be too low a blow, even for you, except that his column-related debauchery is one of the four thrilling conversation topics he subjects you to at the office. And who are you to bury the lede?

"Coaches don't play," Seungcheol says, leaning back and popping the martini olive in his mouth offensively, as if he's not at a restaurant that takes months to get a good table at.

"Bullshit." You lean forward and chase his gaze. He doesn't shy away; rather, he meets you with an appraising raise of an eyebrow. "Coaches should at least know how to throw the ball."

"What do you think we're doing right now?"

"Oh, please." Your wrist twitches as you fight the urge to down your entire glass of merlot in a single gulp. You picture the title of his next article: Top 10 Ways To Get A Woman Drunk. And then the oh so charming punchline: 1. Be so insufferable she cannot last a conversation without her real life partner, wine.

"See? I've already got you laughing." He notices the generous sip missing from your glass and tops you up.

"No, you do not get to make this about me."

Somehow, you are laughing, but you chalk it up to the spiteful little man in your brain writing headlines for Seungcheol's column.

How To Antagonize Your Date In 5 Easy Steps.

"Need I remind you I'm only here because your actual date stood you up? Too soon?"

"I prefer you anyway," he answers, his expression half-challenge, half-something else that you don't really want to think about.

"Crazy, because I'd rather be literally anywhere else."

Signs You Are In A Hostage Situation, Not A Date.

"You should stick to food. You're a bad liar." He cocks his head to the empty table next to him. "It's still open if you want it."

"I'm no quitter."

Maybe The Male Gaze Isn't So Bad: A Thinkpiece.

Definitely not that one.

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"So, before I try anything," Seungcheol says, leaning across the table. "Teach me how to be a food critic."

"Why, so you can steal my job?"

"You can keep it," he laughs. "I'm gonna be your boss, not your replacement."

You notice he'll linger on the tail end of his sentences, betting on the response you haven't even come up with yet. He's picking apart the furrow of your brow, the marrow of your brain. It's like one drawn out interview, but you suppose that's all dating really is. Maybe your journalism degree wasn't a waste of money after all.

You won't give him the satisfaction of a fight (plus, you don't want the food to get cold), so you change the subject.

"Well, I take pictures first," you say, waving away his overeager fork.

"Genius. They really scammed you out of your Pulitzer, huh?"

You ignore him in lieu of repositioning the chorizo. Unfortunately, Seungcheol is unrelenting. You hear the snap of his phone camera, clearly taking a photo of you and not the meal—clever, but you won't bite.

"Wanna be in my story? I can tag you."

In your periphery hovers his wry, wanting smile.

"Sure. So the world can know I'm a charity worker too."

He whistles, clutching his heart. If he weren't so annoying, you would find him a little cute. Just a little. You blame the kitchen for whatever aphrodisiac is in the food today.

"Live update: date with food critic going about as well as an episode of Hell's Kitchen."

He says this leaning forward, elbows on the table, so close to you that your knees might touch. You tense at the thought.

"Any date of mine would be on better behavior."

"So you're admitting this is a date?"

"This," you wave your hand over the table. "This is not a date. This is me regretting ever pitying you."

"Well, pity looks good on you."

And there it is again, that accursed, perfect smile. This time, it works, and you fight the losing battle of the wine flush undoubtedly all over your face. It bothers you that there's a little part of you that enjoys this, but that's a confession you plan on taking to the grave.

"Enjoy it while it lasts, because you're not getting any again."

"Fine. I'm still waiting for your grand secret," he says, now biting the tines of his fork like an untrained dog. No rest for the weary, you suppose. "Food is food. Prove me wrong."

Despite the betrayal of your basal human instincts, you're determined to make this a bad encounter. Maybe you hadn't anticipated the full force of Seungcheol's overgrown fratboy persona, but you came here for a reason and you do plan to see it through.

"There is no secret." You split apart an empanada, the guts steaming and fragrant. "You eat."

"Like this?" He crams an entire piece in his mouth, and you watch him recoil and huff the heat out. "Mmm, 's pretty good, though."

Your eyes almost roll back far enough to see the wrinkles of your brain. Of course he wouldn't get it, but you don't know what you were expecting from a guy who thinks Hot Pockets are fine dining.

You put on your most pretentious food critic face. "Eating is about respect. Storytelling. He's retelling the first time someone made him this dish. The ingredients—they're words on a page. An autobiography." Your hand finds your chest and you sigh, a final touch to your Oscar winning melodrama that would certainly annoy anyone with even half a brain.

"Huh. Poetic," he says. He's still fanning his (very full) mouth, but he chews a little more slowly. "I'm respecting. I'm taking it in."

You don't know if he's actually doing any of that, but, when he takes his next bite he asks about what's in it (tomato, raisin, egg) and if someone really made the chef an empanada when he was younger (yes, on the flour-printed counter, every Sunday morning).

You press on. It shouldn't take much to bore him, but with every question, food-related factoid, and snide comment you have, he matches you with genuine curiosity. Either he's an excellent actor or he's secretly culinary school-bound, because you can't actually imagine anyone putting up with any of that, nonetheless I like dick jokes and football Choi Seungcheol.

You spend the rest of the evening like this, spoon to heart to cherry mouth. The wine is abundant, and Seungcheol spends more time listening than talking, which he admits is a first for him.

"You really know a lot about food," he says, likely fighting the urge to use his finger to get the last of the chocolate sauce off the churro plate. "I like that."

It's a cheap compliment in a game of low blows, but it sits warm and content in your chest. You have to force yourself back to the night you met him, when he was all cognac and one-liners and he gave you his spare hotel room key. A good reminder of his true nature, you think, despite the fact that he just listened to you talk about all the different grains of rice, ad nauseum.

"It's my job," is your reply, adequately distant for your liking.

"Fair. You gonna ask me about mine?"

"What more is there to know?" You hold up the check. "You're paying, right? Chivalry and all that?"

You're waiting for him to mention the company card, the only one allocated to your section that Seungcheol couldn't possibly have because it's sitting snug in your purse. The one you'll say you conveniently forgot so you get to see a grown man squirm at paying the bill.

"Already did. Gave the host my card when I got here. You're holding the customer copy." His chuckle disappears under the lip of his wine glass. "Bet you were excited to use the company card, huh?"

If shame were a physical object, you feel like your own personal Atlas. Your only option is to stare at the wasteland of empty plates before you and wonder how deep Seungcheol's pockets really are.

"Hardly. More excited that I burned a hole in your wallet." You click your tongue, out of options on how to ruin Seungcheol's night. You would spill wine on him but there's none left. "Anyway, I'm heading out."

"Running away?"

"Bored," you lie.

He calls you a taxi, and you walk out together, night heavy with the rhinestone glare of Friday night traffic.

"I actually had a nice time tonight," Seungcheol says, emphasis on the actually.

"Unfortunate."

"How do you think I feel?"

The taxi pulls to the curb, and he sighs, weighty with exaggerated relief. You can't even take it seriously because he's looking right at you and badly failing to push down the smile at the corners of his mouth.

It's only now that you notice his eyes are really brown, like he's from a cartoon or something. Worse, you'd daresay they're nice, less menacing, when they're tempered by a good meal and semi-public humiliation.

"Text me when you get back to your villain lair."

"If I were a real villain, you would have a lot more to worry about."

Seungcheol opens the cab door for you, and you catch a whiff of the cologne he undoubtedly smeared on in the toothpaste-streaked mirror of his five by five studio bathroom. Pine, leather, and citrus, which is the most pedestrian combination of smells to exist and yet you doubt it hasn't done him any favors.

"I'm terrified. Shaking." You clamber into the backseat, and he smiles at you again, as if you've forgotten what all his other ones looked like. "By the way—"

You have half a mind to shut the door in his face, but you can't find it within you—maybe it's the wine, or perhaps pure defeat. Probably the former.

"This job. It's—" He clicks his tongue and looks at the tops of his leather shoes. He's actually thinking, and you don't like it. "Never mind. See you Monday."

And then the words are gone. He shuts the cab door, and they're left in a plume of exhaust and Seungcheol's tiny waving figure in the rearview mirror.

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"So you're telling me you went on a date with your worst enemy."

It's 8 AM, and Jeonghan isn't pulling punches. Even through the phone, you can see his lazy grin, the pen he's flipping in his hand, the green ribbon of the Dow Jones on his desktop.

The newsroom is refreshingly near empty, except for Joshua, who hovers around the water cooler like a fly on the wall, if flies wore Armani ties and cigarette jeans.

"It wasn't a date, and I wanted to ruin it so he would have nothing to write about."

"No one goes on a date to ruin it. You could have just left."

"Clearly you haven't seen How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days."

"Are you serious." Jeonghan laughs, crackly and bright. "Care to tell me how that movie ends?"

"Except he isn't Matthew Mcconaughey. He says spaghetti like pah-scetti and doesn't use Oxford commas."

Mid-laugh, you endure another beat of extended eye contact with your editor until he beckons you over. He'd likely been waiting for the perfect time to interrupt the conversation he was so subtly eavesdropping on—oh, how you love a newsroom with an "open floor plan" to "facilitate communication." Sometimes you think the reason Joshua's stuck around this long is because reporters can't stay away from drama, especially if they're not the ones reporting it.

"I gotta go," you tell Jeonghan, whose version of a goodbye is a triumphant cackle.

You find Joshua putzing around, plastic water cup incriminatingly full.

"I take it you had an enjoyable weekend?" he asks, eyes sequined with all the secrets they hold.

"Yup. Just working on that Dining Through The Years article." Not entirely a lie—you are hedging your bets on this story, one where you revisit the restaurants you wrote about when you first got your start at the paper (Nai included, although admittedly yesterday's food was the least of your concerns). "You needed me?"

"Glad to see New York's finest chefs are well-versed in Kate Hudson's filmography," he says, grinning something beastly. If he weren't your boss, you'd knock that little water cup clean out of his hand. "Anyway, if your interview is over, I need you to go on a field trip."

"Field trip?"

Surely you're better than a task for the interns. You wonder if they're off fighting their own demons, seeing as you missed the circus in the elevator this morning, the usual juggle of hazelnut lattes and lemon poppyseed muffins for the higher-ups.

"Wonwoo needs you to help pick out catering for the corporate event later next week." Joshua tips his head back at Wonwoo's glass-plated office, where you see him redoing his tie in the reflection of his computer monitor. "My guess is that Yerim is going to be there, and he wants to make a good impression. Like an 'I consulted a food expert' impression."

Classic gossip queen Hong Joshua, always with the unnecessary but incredibly cogent commentary on office politics. You think you're actually going to miss the bastard.

"Flattered," you remark dryly. "Catering from where?"

"That's the thing. It's from this Thai place like two hours out from the city."

Two hours: code for an all day endeavor. He wasn't kidding when he said field trip.

You graciously resist the urge to groan out loud. No one told you taking the high road is one big slog through the mud, but here you are. You tell yourself this will help your campaign to be editor—the stinky, dirt-smeared silver lining.

"Before you ask—yes, I know you cannot take the subway there." You blink at him, wondering why this all feels like the set-up to a terrible joke. "Luckily, as you probably know, Seungcheol drives here every day and has offered to help."

Ah. There it is. You look for the blinking applause sign hanging above your head and the chorus of riotous Seungcheols making up your own personal laugh track.

"Only back to the office, though—" Joshua adds, as if that provides you any solace. "There's a one-way bus going up there at noon."

"N-not both ways?" you croak.

"Something about funds," he replies, shrugging. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger."

"You're not the one I'm thinking of shooting."

"Who knows? Maybe he is Matthew McConaughey." And when your glare turns sharp as the edge of a santoku knife, he holds his hands up like he's getting arrested. "I'm just saying. As your friend, not your editor."

Whatever.

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You have to admit, Wonwoo does have impeccable taste in Thai food.

Three noodle dishes, two curries, and the best mango sticky rice you've ever had: that's what it took for you to finally say "not all men." Certainly not Wonwoo, who's in deep enough to send his goons cross-state for a girl he's tried to woo for almost a whole year now.

A tamarind sunset blankets the countryside in milk and honey. You're sitting on a bench, ridiculously full with leftovers to spare, waiting for your chauffeur from hell.

Two years and you still don't know what car Seungcheol drives. Your last memory of it is it being flashy, impractical, and loud, much like him.

You know this, and yet you are still surprised when a gnat of a BMW rips into the curb in front of you. The passenger window crawls down, and Seungcheol has the gall to whistle at you.

For someone so predictable, he sure does manage to find new ways to piss you off. Unfortunately, on brand— according to him, Consistency Is Key (number 2 on Keeping the Spark Alive, August 2022 issue). You've done your reading.

"You're welcome," is the first thing Seungcheol says to you after cranking down the volume of the radio and watching you fumble with the seatbelt.

"You really didn't have to." You look at the array of gas station snacks bubbling out of the cupholders—Sour Patch Kids, a Big Gulp, and Flamin’ Hot Fritos. You didn't even know they sold Sour Patch Kids to full grown adults.

Still, you do feel a little bad. You can count on one hand the amount of people you would do this for and still have one or two cheese-dusted fingers left.

"But, thank you."

"Joshua made me," he says, and what happened this morning starts to make a lot more sense. "Plus, I was a little jealous. I would kill for a day frolicking in the sun, eating delicious food, far, far away from the big city. Not trapped like me in the newsroom, exhausted, toiling away on my magnum opus."

The sigh that crawls from his chapped lips practically shakes the car.

"I'm retracting my thank you."

"I'm devastated. Really."

You choose to watch the strip of shitty New York highway unravel through the greasy passenger window. No point in picking a fight when you're in a leather quilted jail cell for the foreseeable future.

It's at the thirty minute mark where Seungcheol casts the first stone of terrible, stilted small talk.

"Why'd you get sent all the way out here anyway?"

The red taillight flush of rush hour floods the car, an unpleasant reminder of the real sunset left far behind you.

"Thought you knew it was Wonwoo."

"Yeah, but why?"

Why does it matter? Is your first thought, but you realize he's attempting to actually have a genuine conversation with you, which you suppose is better than him flinging around another rude remark. Either that, or he's falling asleep, and you'd rather not have the last moments of your life be in Seungcheol's chick magnet car.

"Joshua thinks it's because he wants to impress Yerim at the corporate meeting this week. I guess she likes Thai."

Traffic is slow enough for him to turn to look at you, really look at you.

"Come on, he can't like her that much."

"Yes, he can." you try to read his expression, neon-glossy. "This isn't even that much effort."

"Nah," he shrugs. "There's gotta be some kind of ulterior motive. Maybe he wants to move into corporate."

"Hot take for a romantic." You frown. "Not everything people do is a career move, you know."

You omit the unlike you that sits heavy in the back of your throat, although, his cavalier approach to relationships is starting to make a little more sense. You wonder if this whole thing—the dates, the watch, the Invisalign smiles—is just a long, drawn-out joke to him.

"Seems like a lot of effort to go through for an office crush." His gaze drifts back to the road. "The extravagant birthday present. Always having her favorite flowers in the office. That one cringe voicemail we all heard him re-record ten times. No one likes anyone that much. Come on. Her dad is the CEO of the company."

Suddenly his winning smile doesn't seem so triumphant. It almost feels like a betrayal, but you don't know why.

"Maybe he just likes her," you reply. "I dunno. I choose to believe that. I think it's sweet."

"Maybe you're the romantic." The words come out like an accusation; Seungcheol laughs, but all the joy's been sucked out of it.

"Who hurt you?"

"No one did. I'm just being honest."

You would laugh at the irony if it didn't feel like there was a vine wrapped round your throat. Life is funny, but never so funny as to curse New York's favorite romance writer with cynicism and a lying streak.

"Controversial, but I actually want to do nice things for the person I like."

"And when was the last time that happened?" He's deflecting, which is predictably on brand for him. His grin, now playful, is propped up by a pair of frustratingly well-formed dimples.

You can't even find it within you to protest because he's right—you haven't dated in a long time. Joshua stopped asking if you were bringing a plus one to office parties ages ago.

But it's not that you can't—in fact, the last time you did, you think it broke you a little inside. It's certainly not a story Seungcheol's privy to, though. You already feel strange, cut-open, trying to convince him that people are capable of meaningful relationships.

Childishly, there's also a part of you chasing the truth about him because it takes him further and further away from you. So you do what you do best and deflect again. Two can play at that game.

"Not taking criticism from a guy who's dated half of the city and has nothing to show for it."

"I wouldn't say nothing."

He opens his mouth then closes it again, as if he's revising the words on his tongue. Journalist behavior, which you didn't even know he could still exhibit.

Now you're really thinking. Who hurt him, and how? The development that Seungcheol is more than the playboy slime haunting page 3 intrigues you more than you'd care to admit.

Before you can pry, Seungcheol's stomach growls, almost offensively loud.

"Sorry," he says. "Who would've thunk that corn chips aren't a balanced meal?"

You stare at the takeout boxes snug in your lap. There is a cosmic message being sent right now.

Seungcheol's sad, Frito-filled belly. Fresh noodle that won't keep well in the fridge. Tax and tip for a four hour car ride back to the city. Expanding your repertoire of blackmail so that you can claim your rightful helm at the paper.

These are all the reasons you give yourself for what you ask next.

"You in a rush?"

"How could I be—do you see the blinding speed we're driving at?" He laughs at his own incredibly unfunny attempt at a joke. "No, I'm not."

"I may or may not have an actual balanced meal for you."

That’s how you end up in the parking lot of a random 7/11 off the freeway. In any other circumstances, it would be a cruel and unusual punishment, but you've already been whittled down enough to actually care about Seungcheol, even if just a little.

That's what you tell yourself, anyway, as you watch him finish the last of the takeout.

"So I'm bad at food, and you're bad at love. Why the fuck did Wonwoo even think of promoting either of us?" Seungcheol kicks his shoes off and props his feet up on the dashboard. You notice his socks have dogs on them, little linty brown ones, and you feel a little worse about openly bullying him about his fashion taste in front of the entirety of copy staff.

"I may be bad at love, but you're worse. Especially for someone who does it for a living," you retort. "Don't think I forgot our earlier conversation."

You try to read the tiny text on a receipt he's got stashed in the center console, among his graveyard of snack wrappers. (2) CHEESY GORDITA CRUNCH…8.78. (1) M MT DEW BAJA BLAST…1.00.

Definitely bad at food, you muse to yourself.

"You think I'm not kicking myself right now? That I have a beautiful girl in my car right now, and all we do is argue?"

Now that—nothing could have prepared you for that.

It gets awfully quiet. The noise of the freeway seems to screech to a fever pitch, all horns and the thrum of the asphalt. You wish anything but John Mayer was playing on the radio.

You will the headlines man in your head to make you laugh. Instead, your brain presses the word beautiful into your neurons and you feel all the heat in your body float to your face, traitorously, dizzyingly. John Mayer croons, your body is a wonderland and your stomach knots into itself over and over again.

"Stop that."

"What?" Seungcheol's head lolls to his shoulder so he can look at you from the corner of his eye. " 's not a big deal. Never been called beautiful?"

A grin plays on his lips, expression dancing on something grim, like he's spoken his final words.

"I'm serious! Stop trying to get me to like you." You huff and cross your arms over your chest, like it'll somehow make you feel more normal. "I'm not some experiment for your column."

"Is it working?"

You don't answer. How can you? There's a yes resting on the roof of your mouth, surely the product of the handful of real, actual moments you've now had with him—far too many for your liking. This whole charade has been a balancing act on the razor edge between rivals and something else, and now you're feeling the sting.

"For the record, I have been called beautiful before."

"And for the record, you're not an experiment for my column. You never were."

There's a relief that pulses through your chest, a breathless, wonderful kind of dizziness. You grab hold of it as soon as it's reared its ugly head. You're flying way too close to the sun, chasing cheap validation from the same guy who ate your lunch out of the fridge last week.

He's no better—he looks like the vulnerability cracked him open a little, and you're the one holding the hammer. It makes for a grubby, unflattering portrait of two emotionally inept people trying to play feelings.

However, much like all other things Seungcheol, any glimpse of something real is gone before you know it. He takes a loud, noisy pull of Diet Coke, and the spell is broken.

"Want any?" And when you shake your head, grateful to swallow the words pressed to your tongue, he says, "Should we wait out traffic here?"

This is an easier yes. You tell yourself you're getting sick of brake lights and reading the license plates on the back of other people's cars. Certainly that makes Seungcheol's gaze, lingering and moonlight-warmed, a little more tolerable.

For once, you don't talk about Wonwoo or your job. You don't talk about love, either.

Maybe this is the reason the next few hours slip through your fingers. Three folded takeout pagodas and a secret—somehow this is all it takes for you to hate Seungcheol just a little less.

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Usually, a good eggs benedict can solve the majority of your problems. Today seems to be the exception. The hollandaise is broken, Jeonghan is already laughing at you, and nothing will ever erase the fact that Seungcheol drove you home last night and now he knows where you live. If you wake up one morning and see a sniper laser pointed at your forehead, you have no one to blame but yourself.

"You look exhausted." An eighth of a buckwheat pancake disappears into Jeonghan's mouth. "You literally eat for a living. There is no reason for them to keep you late."

Jeonghan has a funny way of caring about you, but he's right. You did get home at 2 AM yesterday, but that was on you, not Wonwoo.

"I'm not going to let a corporate slug tell me what is and isn't a real job," you sigh, taking a swig of your half-flat mimosa and reminding yourself to figure out which staff writer gave this place 4 stars in last week's paper.

"Says the girl who needs the company card to afford bottomless brunch," Jeonghan replies.

"At least I'm not a slave to my career."

"What do you call this whole thing with your coworker then, huh? It's all you text me about." The smirk on Jeonghan's face is miserably, tragically righteous, and you can't even be mad about it.

"Seungcheol is my enemy, remember?"

"You sent me a five minute voice memo the other day ranting about how he went on a date with another girl." And just like the little shit he is, he even pulls up your mile-long text history, just to rub it in your face a little harder.

"Am I not allowed to wish for his demise? Since when were you the mature one?"

"I wouldn't call keeping track of his whereabouts wishing for his demise." Jeonghan takes a well-timed bite of your hashbrowns. "Something tells me you're wishing for something a little different."

You almost choke on a blueberry.

"Absolutely not."

You watch Jeonghan power down another mimosa, half-fascinated, half-appalled he would even dream of suggesting something so vile.

The memory of Seungcheol, leant back in the driver’s seat, lowering greasy spools of rice noodles into his mouth, crosses your mind. He had laughed until he cried when he asked you if a pineapple had really fried this rice. That was the kind of man you were dealing with. You can't believe you laughed with him.

"I think it'll be good for you to get back into dating again. Mingyu was, what, three years ago?"

And that's the chocolate chip studded, syrup-covered nail in your coffin. Of course all roads had to lead back to you and your relationship trauma Jeonghan considered unresolved.

You had dated Mingyu when you were younger, softer. It was a love of firsts, of sun-washed mornings and farmer's market Sundays, of raw, black currant midnights and whatever long-winded conversation you had spent all day on.

Mingyu was a chef. His hands, his lips, his eyes—that's how you fell in love with food. Strawberry kisses into fresh pasta into the first time someone had ever cooked for you. What a wonderful, terrible thing to see all your history on a plate, the I could never eat peas, the once I ate mangos till I was sick, the guilty spoon in the vanilla ice cream after a bad day and the dark chocolate you keep in your purse. He remembered that you like your noodles just a little bit overcooked, and you don't even think you told him that.

Food, like some shitty piece of home decor would say in that swirling, curly font, really is some window to the soul. It didn't fully hit you until, one day, you were at the grocery store alone, and somehow you knew exactly what brand of everything Mingyu liked.

You opened a restaurant together after you graduated from college. Then it closed, and you lost Mingyu to Naples or New Orleans or Seoul—somewhere, anywhere to escape the corner of 5th and 40th, the December-pleated memory of his hands in yours and a promise you could never keep.

You're sure you're over it by now, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't look for him in a bowl of his favorite ramyun, the one you could never replicate even though he insisted he just added hot water (Food tastes best when it's a gift, he'd say. You never understood until now.).

Jeonghan doesn't believe you because every time you try explaining this to him, you end up sounding like the most chronically lonely person on planet Earth.

"That is the wrong guy to suggest then," you instead reply, feeling all the food dry up in your mouth.

"I'm running out of options."

"Don't you have a hot coworker or something?"

You shut your eyes, pushing Mingyu back to recall literally any face from one of the many swanky corporate parties Jeonghan bullied you into attending. The only person coming to mind is Lee Chan, and even more than his face, you remember the fat platinum band around his ring finger (Better luck next time, Jeonghan had said, mid-cheese cube).

Worse, amidst all the fuzz, a grainy recollection of Seungcheol's wet cow eyes washes up against your eyelids, and it's not going away this time.

"I thought we were all corporate slugs," Jeonghan replies, enjoying the way you glower at him over your fork. "I was kidding, anyway. Relax."

Your entire body heaves with the sigh that escapes you.

You thank god that Jeonghan is never serious, because otherwise you'd have to consider the fact that he really thought you should date Seungcheol. Jeonghan, who knows the pizza column you, the Mingyu you, and now the you that works late because there's nothing else left to do, really might have thought you should date grifter by day, con artist by night Seungcheol.

The fluorescent glaze of the gas station lights. Seungcheol's hand on the gear stick. His voice, warm and gauzy. It's like there's a flash drive of last night plugged into your head, and you can't take it out.

The stem of the champagne glass finds your hand, and you down the whole thing.

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Monday is uneventful. So is Tuesday, and you wonder what good deed you'd done to deserve such a blessing.

Wednesday, you realize you're just three interviews away from what could possibly be the best article of your life. Unfortunately, two of those won't pick up the phone and the third keeps rescheduling on you.

That's fine—Rome wasn't built in a day, and the same hopefully applies to your future noodle empire.

You're using your lunch break to write an email to number two when you notice Seungcheol hovering around your desk, a plastic straw in his mouth and evil in his eyes.

He's taken to publicly annoying you at work more than usual—Progress, Joshua had told you in the elevator this morning. Towards what? you had asked. He shrugged, letting his crafty, knowing look do all the talking.

"Me, you, and date number two?" is today's opening line. Before you can peel yourself away from your computer and give him a good lashing for whatever the fuck he just said to you, he continues with, "How's that for a follow-up text to my speakeasy date?"

"Lame," you reply, hackles still raised but now re-reading your email for typos.

"Wrong. You were supposed to say incredibly romantic, extremely witty, and unfairly charming." He perches his baseball player ass on the corner of your desk, waiting to be humbled. This is the usual order of things, which has shockingly become more of a familiarity than anything else.

"Do you even have a romantic bone in your body?"

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. "Just one, but it's the only one that matters."

"Ew. Gross." You wrinkle your nose and attempt to soothe your temper with a sip of the terrible protein shake you got for lunch. "No wonder your column sucks."

"If mine sucks, I'd hate to see what people are saying about yours." And when your reply is a tired, hungry swig of your sad drink, he says, "No lunch today? Even I had something better."

"Lucky you."

The bigger truth is that that the deadline for your article, looming before you, is getting to you more than you'd care to admit. Seungcheol isn't helping, not with his bottomless magic hat of date stories that seems to only grow deeper by the day. Now you're forgetting to pack a lunch, and the highlight of your day has been reduced to punching numbers into a vending machine.

Things are bad, but you'll never say that aloud, especially not to the guy who'll spend the next five years dunking on you if you keep this up.

You stare down the lip of your bottle at the faux-chocolate dregs streaking the bottom.

The month before Mingyu opened his restaurant, you were so preoccupied with making sure everything was just right that you also forgot to eat. One day, leftovers from his work started magically appearing in your fridge. Chow fun (miss you!), salt and pepper shrimp (don't forget to drink water!), a gargantuan vat of hot and sour soup (love you most!).

It was a perfect coincidence until you realized there was no way Chinese takeout was coming out of a very French restaurant, and it was then you learned that love is never really a coincidence.

Now you have no coincidences, mapo tofu, or romance. Just muscle milk and a front row view of the struggling inseam of a man who must shrink his pants in the dryer.

He's peeling a tangerine. Your worst confession to date is that it's easy on the eyes. For once, his hands, always made busy with some scheme, now still over the rind, steady, practiced. Plus, it looks like a marble in his huge hands, which is unfortunately both funny and a little hot.

"Stare any longer, and I'm gonna forget how to peel this."

"Don’t flatter yourself. Just hungry," you half-lie.

Hungry, Stressed, And Delusional—The New Holy Trinity.

It's a catchy headline, but not a great look for you. Never in your life did you think you'd be ogling a man peeling an orange. He even takes all the pith off, and you don't have the heart to tell him that's where all the nutrients are.

"Exactly," he replies. Then he plops the naked, shiny fruit right on your bare desk. "Here. Eat."

You’re so taken aback, all you can do is stare. First at the orange, then at Seungcheol, who suddenly cannot make eye contact with you. Instead, he stacks the peel in his hands, dimpled piece over piece.

"Payback for the, uh, Thai," he says, and although you wouldn't equate a tangerine to James Beard awarded pad kee mao, all you can think of is an lime green sticky note in your fridge and a smile.

A gift. A pithless, wrinkly one.

The idea that Seungcheol was capable of being genuinely nice to anyone, nonetheless, you—probably the most undeserving person of it in the world—makes you feel something close to guilt.

You push through the feeling, instead taking the fruit in your hand and splitting it between your thumbs. The flesh caves so easily, and it's then you remember that food, unlike people, doesn't have to be complicated.

You can feel a better person somewhere inside you, someone easier to care for and with less of a bad attitude. You're not there yet, but there's a dark, satisfying comfort in not being good enough for the indulgence of that kind of intimacy. An arm's length was never too far away for you, except now there's someone sitting on your desk and they gave you lunch. Worst of all, you don't think you mind.

You hold out the half—sticky, guilty fingers and all.

Seungcheol wordlessly accepts it. There's no surprise or confusion—he smiles, you say cheers, and you both take a bite.

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On weekends, the Korean place down the street from your college apartment sold corn dogs until 3 AM. That was when words came easy and love came easier.

It was with sugar all over your nose, eyes pressed to the once forgiving half-moon, where you told Mingyu you would become a writer.

The thing about youth is that it can float anything, no matter how holey, desperate it was. So you sailed through college, that gasping hope wound tight in your fist. Then you started freelancing, just in time for Mingyu’s soft open. You wanted to write, but more importantly, you wanted some way, any way to be useful to the person who had given you so much.

In retrospect, there was no way your crude attempts at actual journalism could ever generate real publicity for him. Not in the heart of New York, where a new restaurant opened every two days and someone wanted to get published every three.

So you eventually sank, and so did Mingyu, leaving you with all this creased, no good love in your chest to shrivel up with nowhere to go.

All of that landed you here. A degree, a dream job, and a laundry list of accolades, but the fruit of that love still hangs heavy and joy-rot on the vine, as you wait for it to be good enough for the taking.

Ironically, it reminded you of cooking. No one ever teaches you when to stop, and now every other joint has dry-aged steak and some version of a three-day demi glacé. But at least demi glacé tastes good—you don't even know what the fuck you're doing some days, and the feeling's never been worse than now, waiting on a call you were supposed to get two days ago.

The phone rings, just in time to distract you from the top button of Seungcheol's fitted shirt, which looks like it's holding on for dear life. He's currently deep in conversation with Mina from design, but every so often, he'll glance your way to see if you're just free enough to be bothered.

The unspoken perils of working late—less people around to pester on Wonwoo's dime.

Mina stuffs her laptop in her bag and checks her watch. Strike three for Seungcheol.

Working Hard Or Hardly Working: A Guide To Office Romances. You're surprised he hasn't written that one yet. Maybe Joshua shot it down.

"Hello?" The dial tone breaks into the warm, risen-bread voice of the woman you know to be the owner of one of your favorite hole-in-the-wall noodle spots. The Friday night after your review was published, there was a line out the door. It honestly felt like a no-brainer to you, and you had no hesitation telling the owner that you were sure her place would become a local mainstay. You watched her crow-footed eyes go moony and you couldn't help but picture the day your yellowed newspaper would be posted up on the wall, framed and prophetic.

You're ready to profusely apologize for not stopping by—truthfully, no bone broth has come close to hers. Instead, she apologizes to you, which you aren't sure is flattering or a sign something terrible has happened.

You hope it's the former, but you should have known that hoping has never been enough.

She tells you that she closed the doors to her restaurant yesterday. It all comes spilling out, one gut punch after the other, the bills and the empty tables and how things just weren't the same the year after your review was published. She thanks you for your time, your writing, and your belief, and then she hangs up.

Not a thing in your body feels capable of moving. All the phone static passes right through you until the week's canned up dread balls up in your throat and some darker-than-black feeling swallows you whole.

The fluorescent ceiling lights sear into you. You think you're going to cry, and that's the last thing you want.

To anyone else, it wouldn't be that serious. Restaurants close all the time, and you know an entry in your silly little column is a far cry from a Hail Mary. But all you can think of is Mingyu’s neon sign on 5th and 40th and the two pairs of hands that had to take it down. You think your fingerprints are still on it, right over the blue shock of the I and the N.

One more dream taking on water, and once again, you're at the sad, cruel center of it.

You try to imagine the gumpaste walls, bumpy and water-stained. Maybe a pale square where your review used to hang.

No, you're definitely going to cry.

Fuck this, fuck work, fuck the article. And fuck Seungcheol, who's packing up his annoying, jingly messenger bag and is the only thing standing between you and an empty office to lose your shit in.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to remember if you're wearing waterproof mascara today. Unfortunately, the cowbell of Seungcheol's bag sounds like it's catching up to you, and, like it or not, you are two shaky breaths away from breaking down in front of the last person in the world you want to see.

"Final touches on another titillating piece about pineapple on pizza?"

You have no stomach for yelling at him. You can't even look at him. Instead, you bury your head in your hands and tell him to never use the word titillating again.

"A little too soon to play editor, in my humble opinion."

You don't reply. You're trying to scare him off without really scaring him off because god knows you've done that with enough people. Either way, he's calling you a crazy bitch at the next holiday party. You can just hear it.

But you should've known Seungcheol, of all people, doesn't flinch at a little silence. You still feel him hovering behind you, probably wondering if it's the half-full vanilla protein shake on your desk that's turned you sour. Or if you'll really make good on your threat to shank him with the plastic knife you keep in your top drawer.

Just walk away, you think. Go the fuck home.

Seungcheol, who gets paid to play cupid like it's fantasy football, would never understand that bite of the dial tone. Not like that. Half an orange is a hell of a toll to pay for your unfortunate work-related trauma.

You count the seconds till he walks away.

One. Two. Three.

Four is cut short because instead of doing what he should have done and left, he places a hesitant hand at the base of your neck, between your shoulder blades.

"Hey, you ok?"

Easy, noncommittal words, but something in you cracks. You don't know what it is—maybe it's because it's late and you're running on nothing, maybe it's because you can't remember the last time a hand was so warm.

And so, against your better judgment, you lift your streaky, raccoon-eyed face (definitely didn't use waterproof today) from your hands to look at the same eyes you looked at not more than a month ago and swore at.

You're glad you have no idea what you look like, because it's bad enough that all the corners of Seungcheol's face fall.

"Whoa," he breathes.

Now he'll know when to leave me alone, you think, but then that hand slides to your shoulder and his expression becomes impossibly soft and what you thought was confusion, pity even, dips into affection, stinging and raw.

"Listen, I—," he clears his throat nervously. Perhaps he's running through his repertoire of Wikihow phrases to say to a sad person, but you, inexplicably, don't believe that. "I don't know what's going on, but if you, you know, ever needed to talk…" Then he points to himself because that's probably the longest he's gone without attempting to tell a joke.

You're two and a half shaky breaths into this conversation, and the likelihood you will start crying has not changed. If anything, the odds have gotten much worse because the stubbornness of Seungcheol's expression is fooling you into thinking he actually cares. The illusion is comforting—after all the fighting and sabotage and inconveniences, he's still made space for you. That, or he's keeping his enemies close.

Then his thumb rubs over the plane of your collarbone, and all the little walls and hurdles and dams and shields in you drop.

Close friends, closer enemies, and the infinitesimal space between you and Seungcheol.

You'll blame your sorry state of mind for what you're about to do because you can't really cope with any other explanation. That's a tomorrow problem.

Today, you trust Seungcheol. Today, you tell him not everything, but enough.

"Forgive yourself," he says. And before you protest and tell him, through the waves of tears and snot and lightheadedness, that your heart has yet to catch up to the rest of you, he interrupts you before you even start. "I get it. Just try."

You’re all too familiar with his sugar-floss, candy-coated platitudes that make everything seem so simple, but he looks you in the eye, or somewhere even deeper than that, with so much belief, it's contagious.

The words are ripped out from under you. All you can do is what you wanted to do in the first place. So you cry, and when Seungcheol takes you into his arms, at first tentatively and then all at once, you cry even harder.

"Is this ok?" he asks, so quietly, you almost don't hear him.

"Yeah, I-I think so."

You let him hold you, and all the noise and the heat and the static fades into a hum. His chin finds the top of your head and you let him do that too.

Neither of you say anything more. You don't need to.

All that matters is the welcome sound of someone else's heartbeat, a kind hand in your hair, and Seungcheol, with none of the charms and boasts and failed, half-baked insults he hides behind.

Just him, and you decide you like this version best.

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The emotional hangover you wake up with rivals that of every vodka-flavored morning you had when you were in college, plus another two shots.

There is nothing worse than the aftermath of a particularly bad episode of oversharing. There's a reason you don't talk about your personal life at all, but something about Seungcheol makes every single thing claw its way back up your throat.

A need to prove yourself. A tiny, whispering hope that if you give a little, you'll get a little in return. Or your pride, the familiar knife you keep wedged into your side. A million excuses rattle around in your head, but nothing will ever take away the fact that it felt good.

Shields down, heart bleeding—never did you think that's how you would find yourself in a state where you actually liked Seungcheol. It felt good to be taken seriously, to say that all the talk about foie gras and peppercorns and microgreens was just tableside service for a great love and an even greater apology. And you'd like to think somewhere between the tears and the linen of his shirt, you were finally understood.

Just try. The words, sun-warmed stones, float in the hollow of your chest. It felt a little more possible, coming out of Seungcheol's mouth, with that dumb, resolute expression of his.

You don't even know if you would do the same for him. If he came to you, rosy-eyed and breakdown-adjacent, would you drop everything and listen to him? Clearly his problems ran deeper than a pretty girl not calling him back, but you had never really cared to listen.

And that's something you'll give Seungcheol credit for—he puts up with you, with everything, really, albeit with clumsy hands and the mask of reluctance.

You roll onto your side to reach for your phone. There's a text from Jeonghan asking if you're still up for grabbing drinks this evening. (Always). You have your final interview at 2. (Thank god).

And no text from Seungcheol. (Damn.)

Somehow this is disappointing, which makes your day that much worse. Maybe the runny mascara wasn't as flattering as you thought.

8 Totally Normal Texts To Send When You're Overthinking.

Not a good headline for a worse situation. Honestly, you shouldn't care, but now you're here, staring at your phone and undecided on if you even want Monday to come or not.

You'll order one (or three) margaritas tonight. You'll ask Jeonghan about his upcoming trip to Seoul. You'll make your favorite overnight oats and you'll go to sleep and Sunday will pass just the same.

You won't think about Seungcheol's arms around you or his head on top of yours or the way he insisted he would drive you to the subway so you didn't have to walk. You almost brushed against his hand on the gear stick and the nearness made you want to throw up.

But you're not thinking about it. You can't. Not without falling in love just a little.

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"Here. Drink."

You set two cups on the table before sitting face-to-face with Seungcheol, who decided to roll up to a coffee date in a somehow flattering polo and slacks.

But it's not a date—you're just talking. It's a meet-up. Not a hangout, which sounds too familiar, and definitely not a date.

Yesterday did not go as planned. Margarita-buzzed and under Jeonghan's terrible influence, you texted Seungcheol. Just to clear up some stuff, you told yourself. Friday night's like a scab, and you just can't help coming back to it.

"So, you're a coffee connoisseur too, huh?" Seungcheol says, tipping his head to the side.

"Not nearly," you reply. "Just wanted to pay for something for once. I'm pretty sure I owe you at least fifty of these."

"I'll hold you to it." He's doing that thing where it's like he stares past you. It's the most impressive eye contact on the planet, and it's making you nervous.

Then the silence, once welcome, becomes awkward—the air turns stiff, clinging to all the things you haven't said yet.

You play chicken with the idea of being an emotionally intelligent person and just talking about what most certainly is on everyone's mind right now. The cup between your hands is burning your palms. Seungcheol smiles.

"I'm—" The exact moment you start, the words crinkle up on your tongue and all the walls come back up again. It's a terrible, inevitable instinct. "I'm sorry. For Friday."

"For…what?" Seungcheol pauses mid-sip to say this. "Also, this coffee is really good."

Arabica, orange, and honey, you want to say. But you can't deflect this time. Somehow Seungcheol has cornered you into this tiny cafe chair with that disarming grin and an overabundance of patience.

"Everything, I guess. You were just trying to leave."

"No, I wasn't." And he laughs, which makes your stomach fold over trying to figure out what there possibly is to laugh at. "I actually liked getting to know you. You…care a lot. And I didn't expect that."

Seungcheol's sincerity staggers you. You could ask what the hell he just meant by all of that, but you decide to take him for his word. You think you've experienced the most honesty from him in the past three days than you have in the entire span of time you've known him, and it almost feels like a privilege.

"Thanks…?"

"Don’t let it go to your head, though," he adds, as if to erase what he just said. "Can't have you walking around the office with a bigger stick in your ass."

"Poetic." You sigh. Once again, the illusion is shattered. You wonder if his kindness has a time limit. "How's your article coming along?"

"Nice try," he replies. "I'm not that easy."

"You're literally the definition of easy."

"Is that a compliment?" There's that challenge in his eyes again, that same look that he gave you outside Wonwoo's office. "You did ask me out on a date, despite saying that you'd rather eat glass. So I guess either there's a half-eaten plate in your trash or you've finally come to your senses."

"This is not a date. Dream on."

"You're right. This isn't a date." He leans forward on his elbows. "Just like our dinner date wasn't a date."

"It wasn't."

"Of course. If it was, I'd be asking stuff like…Where you're from. But I already know—h, e, double hockey—"

"Chicago."

"Same difference."

Your conversation continues as such.

Not a date, but where'd you go to college? Not a date, but do you have a pet? Not a date, but can I walk you home?

You realize your talk in his car two weeks ago involved everything but your pasts, but you suppose neither of you are the type to unwrap old wounds. Sometimes the bandaid is better on, but, in your case, there's really nothing left to tell.

You divulge that you went to Northwestern for journalism. You have a family tabby, and no, you wouldn't mind being walked home.

You also realize before today, you knew less about Seungcheol than you thought, but there's some give to his secrecy. He went to USC because his parents wanted him to. Played football for half of it until he tore his ACL and got adopted by the sports section of the school paper. He even captained the advice column for three semesters—something he wants to return to, but you're happy to tell him you wouldn't trust his advice as far as you could throw him. (What was your alias? Samuel. Sounds kinda like Seungcheol, huh? You say no. He laughs.)

After circling the same park three times, you reach the doorstep of your apartment building. You cycle through some one-liners to end on a high note, but none of them seem quite right.

It's not a date, but you've noticed Seungcheol keeps glancing at your lips, and it almost seems like one.

It's not a date, but Seungcheol asks some stupid question about if coffee could be considered tea, which you start to answer before you are rudely interrupted.

First, the bump of his nose against yours, then his lips, slow, insistent, dizzying. Your heart jumps all the way to your throat and you think there's so much heat in your cheeks that he can feel it.

It's not a date, but Seungcheol just kissed you and you liked it.

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The next time you see Seungcheol is in the elevator to the newsroom on Monday.

He sticks his dumb, big arm out of the cabin to hold the door open for you, and his smile bruises your overripe heart.

"Hi," he says, sneaking a glance like a guilty child.

"Hi."

The floor indicators flicker like fireflies, one by one. He sidesteps toward you so that your shoulders touch. You watch the 4 crawl to 5. The air in the cabin is sticky, electric.

And as if taking a great big dive, you kiss him, a fleeting, tender thing that you rolled around in your head for a good thirty minutes earlier this morning—and you never thought the fruit of overthinking could be so sweet.

The elevator dings.

Before the doors open to your floor, Seungcheol slams the close button, takes your face in his hands, and kisses you again.

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You have three reasons to get drunk.

1. It's Friday.

2. You finished your article.

3. You and Seungcheol are no longer mortal enemies, but now you don't know what you are.

(The other day, you both worked late, and he ordered takeout to the office. You sat crosslegged on his desk as he tried to explain what a touchdown was and why he was obsessed with the Steelers. Normally a two hour long conversation about football would be a punishable offense, but that night he made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt the next day.)

After Wonwoo's dinner with corporate, he went to the market across the street and picked up a few handles of soju and the fattest bottle of cheap vodka you've ever seen.

You're all getting a raise—you guess the Thai must have worked out well, although Wonwoo must have struck out with Yerim since he's spending his Friday night drinking with you guys instead.

So you get drunk.

Drunk enough to tune out of Jihyo from Sports giving Wonwoo dating advice—riveting, if not for your near double vision—and follow Seungcheol to the staff bathroom.

"Anyone—," you manage. His lips are hot on your neck, and every dizzy neuron in your body seems to be reaching, grasping for him. "Anyone ever tell you that your forearms look really good when you roll up your sleeves?"

"All the time," he replies, and he swallows the laugh right off of your tongue.

"You are so annoying." Your palm finds his heartbeat, and you revel in how it leaps towards your skin every hurried beat. You don't want to think about how many girls came before you, leant back against the bathroom counter just like this, but having a body against yours never felt so good. You guess that's what a three year hiatus will do to you. "Bet you hear that one a lot too, huh?"

"You got that right."

Another kiss, just a nudge of his nose and you're leaning up to him; your lips feel swollen and warm and somehow they still crave the feeling.

"How is it that we still bump noses," you ask, half words, half air. Seungcheol's hands, skin-greedy, skim over the back of your thighs like they're water and find the swell of your ass.

"You make me impatient." Cheshire grin across heart lips and you're toast. "Anyone tell you that you have a great ass?"

"All the time," you squeak out. It's a lie and a half but who cares. His fingers drag under the seam of your underwear and you've never been so thankful you forgot to wear shorts under your dress.

"Need you," he says, lips flush to the skin behind your ear, and your lower half would give out if you weren't propped against the sink.

The idea of Seungcheol on his knees, your thigh hiked over his shoulder, crosses your mind. He'd probably be really good at head, and that makes you dizzier than any ungodly combination of alcohol would. Or would he press you against the mirror, want your skirt pushed to your waist so he could fuck you from behind?

Anticipation tumbles into anxiety into some primordial, horrible shyness because you haven't had sex in years. You feel hot and damp and sweaty and you can't remember if you shaved or not. Plus, you're already seizing in his arms and he hasn't even touched you for real yet.

"H-home," you breathe. "Let's go home."

"Hm?" His hand slows in the dip between your thighs. "You wanna stop? We can stop."

"No, I just…I just thought it would be better if we went home. To…you know."

"Yours or mine?"

"Mine’s closer," you answer after a considerable amount of mental gymnastics trying to figure out if you're both drunk enough to not mind the mess.

You know your apartment and you know your bed and you know where the bathroom is in case you have to pee. There's a box of condoms under the sink. You have an extra toothbrush for him. Less variables to worry about because nothing else has really gone to plan. You watch Seungcheol misbutton the top two buttons on his shirt and all the fondness in your heart feels like a welcome stranger in your body.

How To Ruin The Moment In One Easy Step!

You feel incredibly horny and guilty all at once, but Seungcheol kisses your cheek on the way out and it's like you're able to breathe again.

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It seems that the car ride to your place sucks all the sobriety back into the both of you.

You're lying stomach-down on your bed, Seungcheol against the headboard with his shirt undone. You're in your bra and your still sticky underwear, and somehow, despite being ready to break your three-year spell, you like this much better.

"Imagine if someone needed to piss," Seungcheol groans. "I think we would have gotten fired. Lifestyle would have no editor."

"I honestly think that's why Seungkwan was standing outside for so long."

Upon hearing this, Seungcheol's eyes shoot open. If your phone wasn't charging, you would take a picture. He fell asleep on your shoulder in the car, and now, even with all the affection you can muster, you can only describe his hair as broom-adjacent. Einstein-core. How far you've fallen from grace.

"Don't worry, he won't say anything." And as you watch the color return to his face, you add, "Also, it's not that I didn't want to have sex, I just…" you trail off, hoping he'll get it even though you're making no sense.

"No, it was the right call. I wanna do it when we're both sober."

It smooths your frayed-out nerves knowing that none of this was a performance or a test, just two shy, touch-starved people stumbling in the dark.

"Lemme guess—this is just a typical Friday night for you."

"Flattering but no," Seungcheol replies, grinning something stupid. "Do you always spend this much time wondering what I'm doing?"

"No!" His hands, once busy with scrunching up the fabric of your bedsheets, now find yours, and he runs a careful thumb over your knuckles. You notice he has the care-worn hands of a line chef, or maybe even a baker, which is funny because you don't even think the man knows how to turn on an oven. "I dunno. You just seem so experienced. What about all of those other girls?"

He flips your hand over, tracing the creases of your palm.

"Just dates. Nothing serious."

You want to ask—What about us? Are we serious? But you swallow it all down. You watch Seungcheol's eyes, midnight-weary, fall back upon you, and it feels like he's trusted you with something important.

"Don’t get it twisted, though," he adds, before yawning big and wide without covering his mouth. "I'm a loser, not a virgin. Definitely not."

You bite back a laugh. Killer journalist bio, but that's something to pitch next content meeting.

"Definitely a loser. I think you make me a loser by association."

"Good. So we're both losers. I like that." He smiles at you with so much warmth, it makes your heart physically hurt. Then he clamps down another yawn. "God, I'm exhausted. I think if we fucked in the bathroom, I'd have passed out. Or pulled my back."

"Then sleep," you chide, shucking a pillow at him. "Also take your shirt off. I don't like outside clothes on the bed."

"Say less," Seungcheol says. "I’ll blow your back out another day. Save the date." Between your almost audible gulp and his unfortunately attractive physique, you almost forget the place you're in-between.

Did everyone fit into his arms? Did he lift a hand for just anyone? Two silhouettes in the lamplight—was that how every day with him ended? Or just you, the only other person competing with him for his dream job? The convenient reality scares you.

The thought never seems to cross Seungcheol's mind. His head hits the pillow, and he's out like a light. But not without a not-so-subtle scoot to your side of the bed, near enough that the heat of his skin plays off yours.

You lean into it, liking how your skin buzzes with the closeness.

You're lulled by the sway of Seungcheol's breathing behind you—probably the most quiet he'll ever be. The moonlight oozes into the room; sleep comes over you like water, a slow, gentle wash.

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You can't remember the last time you cooked for two.

You open your fridge, and the hollow insides stare back at you. Rows of condiments and two water bottles. You have finally reached K-drama CEO status.

"Is this the part where I get kicked out?" Seungcheol says, shrugging his shirt back on as he walks out of the bedroom.

"This is the part where I cook breakfast for you."

"Really? You don't have to." He sounds genuinely surprised, which tips your heart a little off-axis.

"I want to," you reply, double checking the fridge as if opening it a second time would repopulate it. "That's what people do when they care about each other."

"Or if they're trying to poison you."

"Will you just let me do something nice for you?" You yank your head out to glare at him, and he looks stung.

"Thanks." He says it after so much pause that you wonder if this is the first time someone has done this for him. You wish you had a better offering, but surely the man with the worst palate in the world could spare his judgment for one meal. "No really, 'cause I am starving."

You let him bask in the rare glory of the unobstructed refrigerator light while you rummage through the pantry for a plan B.

"Holy shit. You live like this?"

"Not always. It's been…a week." All you have is the ramyun Mingyu likes, which feels like a weird, culinary betrayal. But you're hungry, and Seungcheol is eyeing a strange bag in the freezer that you don't even remember putting there. "You good with ramyun?"

"Honestly, I'll eat anything," he whines, gnawing on the ice straight from the freezer drawer.

At least he's self-aware. But he makes all the spaces Mingyu left behind seem a little less empty, and you can't find it in you to be mad at that.

You wait for the water to boil and Seungcheol finds a seat at your tiny dinner table, a misaligned, wobbly product of Mingyu’s inability to read an Ikea manual.

"I'm hoping your week got better?" Seungcheol asks, referring to your capital W week.

You tentatively nod before dropping the noodles in.

"Of course it did—you woke up to me in your bed. Can't get better than that."

"Actually, it's because I finished my article yesterday."

Seungcheol pauses before laughing to himself. "Congrats," he replies, now wiggling the table on its bad leg. "Can't say the same for myself."

you watch the starch-foam wash over the mouth of the pot, precariously close to the edge. You overfilled it, which mildly surprises you until you consider that you're cooking double the food.

There's a stretchy, anxious tumble in your stomach. It's not like you were expecting him to cheer or anything, but it just reminds you that you are, still in fact, competitors. When all of this is said and done, one of you is losing, and from every angle, it seems like quite the death knell for whatever you've got going on now.

It's a pity because you actually kind of like this arrangement. If Seungcheol was in your banged-up flea market chair next Saturday morning, you wouldn't be mad. Maybe you would even make him waffles. From scratch, even.

"What, too many dates to cover?"

He laughs again, somehow to no one in particular. "Something like that."

Past the bruising swell of his smile is the much sharper, more unforgiving edge of an unspoken hurt that you're neither trusted with nor owed, and yet you refuse to drop it. What about me? It feels like you're almost there, wrapped around something bigger, a scoop you can't pull your stubborn teeth out of.

"Is there a reason none of those were serious? Come on."

"What's so wrong with that?" And when you don't say anything, he says, "Trust me, it is never that serious."

His voice ticks up at the end like a teenager trying to play cool and the noodle water boils up around your chopsticks as you try to get your portion cooked through.

You won't—can't—turn to face him. You committed to the line, and now you must see it through, no matter how bad an idea it may be.

"That's not true," you finally squeeze out, finding the right footing for your voice. "It was serious for me. I'm sorry it wasn’t for you."

The table stops rocking.

"I'm glad. Really." He claps his hands together like a cruel punctuation mark, and it's then you remember that the only person as ill-tempered as you happens to be sitting two feet away.

Like an injured animal, your heart wants to cower back into your chest. You knew this was a mistake—this being everything—but an open wound can't help but bleed and your pride can't do without seeing the knife.

"Look, I don't know what your problem is." The pot hisses, astringent and pleading, beneath your fist. "I don't know what happened with your love life, but don't take it out on me."

"You asked."

"Yeah? Well, what is this?" You turn to face him, feeling the air between you tense, pulled like a rubber band. "You can't sit in my kitchen and tell me you don't care about whatever this is."

After all of the terse meetings, elevator spats, and foul-mouthed encounters in the parking lot, you can now recognize the fresh twist of Seungcheol's mouth and the livewire of a temper you've become so familiar with.

"Who said I didn't care? I'm just tired of you trying to lecture me about my life. I—"

"I'm not lecturing you, I just know you can't really believe what you're saying." Every word stumbles out, trembling and doe-legged, barely audible over his attempts to interrupt you. "There's nothing wrong with admitting you were in love with someone. And if you can't, I just feel really fucking sorry for you."

There’s an incredulous look in Seungcheol's eyes. But it's the worse part of you, ruthless and hungry for acceptance, that makes you say, "Maybe the fact that nothing lasts is your fault."

"Oh, really?" Seungcheol's voice, half-laugh with none of the warmth, rips through you. "You're really gonna act like you're better than me? As if you don't write in your pretentious little column every week, just waiting for your ex to read it and decide he wants you back again?"

There’s a red hot flash behind your eyes and everything inside you feels like it breaks at once.

"You know, at least I had someone who cared about me. Can't say the same about your miserable, sorry ass. Now get the fuck out of my apartment."

"Wh—"

he stands up, table croaking underneath his fists, and you realize you've crossed a bridge that can never be uncrossed.

"Get. Out."

It feels like a stitch in you has come undone. The water has long boiled over the pot and there's no joy to be found in watching Seungcheol stumble over his pant legs on the way to the door.

"I didn't want Mingyu. I wanted you."

it's not an apology, nor is it an indictment. You don't know why you say it, and you guess Seungcheol doesn't either. The door slams behind him, and all you're left with is a bloated pot of ramyun you never really wanted anyway.

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Celery. Red wine. Short rib.

If you had one day left on earth, you think you would go grocery shopping. It was like a prayer to you—you could close your eyes and know exactly what aisle had the beef broth, or feel the stone weight of a can of San Marzano tomato paste.

That's one thing you can thank Mingyu for—it's true that you don't love him like you used to, but you refuse to believe that any love worth having is also worth leaving behind.

Fingerling potatoes, the red ones. A Vidalia onion.

You recite your shopping list, slowly, quietly, a rosary.

Baguette is the next item, with a question mark next to it because sometimes your local bakery sells out after 3.

You pass by, expecting to see the shop window cleared out. Instead you see a familiar crown of cowlicked black hair and a horribly well-worn grin that only looks good because it's on Choi Seungcheol's face.

He's paying for a pretty girl's sourdough, and thyme, rosemary gets washed out by a dizzying riptide of heartache.

It was never personal, you tell yourself. Just another date. That's the angle.

You think it hurts a little less, knowing that it all was a business transaction. A long interview.

The thyme is next to the dill. The rosemary is next to the chives, at the end of the shelf.

You watch Seungcheol lean over the tiny cafe table to take a sip of his date's Americano. Did he always laugh like that? Were you really any different?

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Monday feels tilted.

There's the usual gust of cinnamon sugar and cold brew—today's offering from the interns, who have begun to master the art of pressing the elevator buttons with full hands. Wonwoo is wearing his Monday outfit, a wrinkled cream button up under a navy blue sweater vest. Your cubicle is empty, just the way you like it, save for the ass-shaped spot cleared off on the desk edge.

You like days like this, except today you don't and you know exactly why.

"Today's the day," Joshua says, nose buried in a bakery-style muffin, the top pillowing out of the wrapper.

He stares over your shoulder at your article, locked and loaded for submission to copy.

You are not exaggerating when you say you would die for these four thousand words. You ate and cried and argued for them in what you can only describe as the worst literary coliseum of your life, and now their (and your) fate rests in Joshua’s massive Mickey Mouse hands and Wonwoo's bespectacled whimsy.

"Well, don't let me stop you." He laughs and then totters away, sucking a crumb off a finger. Just another Monday.

Your cursor hovers over the SUBMIT button. You've always been a little scared of it—unsurprising, since you're also the type to triple read an email before sending it—but there's a new kind of fear boxed in those little pixels.

Last night, you emptied out your freezer. Stuck on the back wall was a neon green sticky note, behind all the bags. See you when you get home, it said. You laughed and then you cried and then you ripped it up because that's probably what Seungcheol was looking at the morning you chewed him out.

All of that heartache must have been good for something. To say you wasted it on a no-love situationship wouldn't do any of it justice, not when all that's left is most definitely a crude shoutout on Seungcheol's next listicle. If you weren't already getting one earlier, you sure are now.

You wonder what you'll be:

10 Signs She Is Clinically Insane.

It's Not You, It's Them!

Help! My Friend With Benefits Isn't A Friend Or A Benefit!

At least that one is funny, although if it's the winning line, you don't think you can ever show your face in the office again.

The beginning and the end and the muddy in-between. Entrenched in all of it was this article and this job, and you'll be damned if you let your misplaced faith get co-opted by a sweaty-palmed Casanova.

(8:19 AM; the smell of summer and dried-down cologne. A hand on your ribcage, just beneath your heart. Good morning, Seungcheol says, as if emerging from a long, wonderful dream.)

You picture the byline with editor tacked next to your name. To run your finger over the ink spackled serif of a paper hot off the press, as if somehow it would radiate the misery you had to endure.

(11:41 PM; jajangmyeon and a pack of rice crackers. Seungcheol had given you his chopsticks because you dropped yours. The hum of the broken light outside Wonwoo's office sings in the silence of an empty newsroom. Your eyes meet, and you don't look away.)

There's a sinking feeling in your chest. You close your eyes and hit submit.

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Ask Samuel!

It's 6 PM on a Thursday and if you weren't already on your last thread, you are now. The angry red of the Daily Trojan website glares back at you from your phone as you step into the elevator with none other than your editor-in-chief.

You've resorted to reading Seungcheol's old advice columns. Not because you miss him, but because you want to know if he was ever a competent writer capable of talking about something other than how to score on a second date.

That's the only way he's beating you.

(There's also no way you miss him. The thought would make you laugh out loud if you weren't standing next to your boss).

One column became four became ten. After thirteen you concluded Seungcheol must have sustained a head injury some time before starting his job here—you can find no other explanation for how someone so generous and intuitive could've gotten lost in the chaff of articles with more pictures than words.

"Congrats," Wonwoo says, seemingly speaking into the void.

"Pardon?" You close out a particularly riveting query about estranged childhood friends to look up at him.

"Congrats."

"F-for what?" You get that head rush again, the same one you got a month ago at the Italian restaurant with Jeonghan.

"The job. You got the position." Wonwoo clears his throat calmly, as if he's not delivering the most important news of your life. "I wanted to let you know in person before we sent out Monday’s email."

For once, you have no words. In a wonderful instant, they are all zapped out of your brain. You feel hot and clammy and anxious all at once and you half expect to close your eyes and see either god or the flare of a hospital light, waking you up from an impossible coma.

"Holy shit," the primordial ooze inside you says instead. "T-thank you."

"No need."

"What about Seungcheol? Does he know?"

"I haven't told him yet, but he should be aware." Wonwoo pauses. "He didn't submit anything."

"What?!"

There are only so many surprises your body can handle. You feel like you are being held together by a fast-unraveling string on a poorly made sweater. Your stomach is somewhere in your feet and you don't even know where your heart is. Part of you is waiting for the elevator to stop so the entire office can jump out of the walls and laugh at you.

"I too was surprised," Wonwoo says, now checking his smartwatch for messages. "He must have changed his mind. No matter—I'm confident you will be an excellent fit."

The elevator jerks to a stop at the first floor. You feel boneless, like a can of cranberry sauce.

"Forgive me, I have a dinner appointment." Wonwoo ends the conversation the best way he can—with his trademark parentheses smile and a nod of the head—and leaves you in the elevator cabin alone.

All the times you've dreamed of this moment, you're tear-dizzy, joyous, fumbling with your phone to call your parents.

Instead you stand motionless, waiting, emptied.

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To make croissants, you fold a slab of butter into a square of yeasted dough. You roll it out thin and then fold it into itself before leaving it to rest in the fridge. Then you take it out again, roll it, and fold it. You do this until you've forgotten how many times you folded it and you no longer crave croissants.

When you were five, you pressed your nose to the window of your favorite patisserie and decided this is how your mind works.

You've had ample time now to flatten out Saturday morning, to watch all the little layers of doubt and loathing form, and now you're sick of it. It's not often you're star witness to your own unhappiness, but, as if you were called to the stand, you can easily play back the moment you lit the match and then watched everything explode.

You're not sure what either of you were expecting. A playboy and you, who loves so insistently, almost as if out of spite—there is truly no reality in which it makes sense. The fact that you fought over a literal pot of ramyun only proves this.

And now he's saddled you with the final blow. The position of your dreams with none of the glory because he gave up.

He gave up.

None of this should matter to you.

You're standing outside the office, waiting for your ride to your celebratory dinner (this time, on Jeonghan). The little headline man in your brain is silent for once. Instead, you try to enjoy the breeze, honeyed with late June, and not dwell on the horrible twist in your stomach every time you think about your new position. It's been 24 hours since you found out but it is no less raw.

It's then that you catch Seungcheol, creeping out the double doors of the office like some sort of criminal. You're not sure if it's the plod of his Sasquatch feet or that bag you hate so dearly, but you could recognize that walk from anywhere.

His pace quickens when you turn to face him—he's running away. You won't grant him the satisfaction. Not when he's fucked up what little you had left, and then some.

"You're an idiot, Seungcheol."

That does the trick.

"Funny way of saying hi," he responds, bracing himself on the sidewalk as if you're about to hit him.

"Why didn't you submit anything? What the fuck were you thinking?"

"What does it matter to you? You got the position."

"Look, I—" You shut your eyes, feeling the frenetic ice-cream churn of your brain try to put together a million broken up words. "I'm sorry for Saturday. But I never wanted to scare you off from the job. You deserve it as much as I do, and, as much as I hate to say it, I care about you too fucking much to watch you throw away your shot."

Saying the words is like cutting something loose from your chest, a million strings coming undone.

Seungcheol takes a deep, unsteady breath. You watch the crest and fall of his shoulders and the inescapable tar pits he calls eyes get big and shiny.

"No, I—" He pulls himself from your gaze. "I'm sorry. I should have never said that to you. And I should have never treated you like that."

The silence between you ripples, as if after a long rain.

"I was scared. A long time ago, I threw myself into a relationship. I thought we had something really, really good, and then I found out she was also seeing someone else."

Being right never felt so bad. It's even worse that something you would look forward to—the I told you so, the jokes really write themselves—no longer holds any satisfaction, only a sense of loss and a terrible urge to make it right again.

"And it's not right, but I decided that it was a mistake to take chances like that again. And it was fine, fun even, going on all of these casual dates and getting paid for it. Then you just had to mess it up."

"H-how?"

"You were so dead-set on convincing me otherwise. You wouldn't let it go, not with your weird sayings and the way you talked about your ex and when you told me you were making me breakfast. I started believing you, and it really fucking scared me."

There's a sharp pain in your head. It feels like, at once, you were skinned like a fruit. Like the interlude between dream and waking, all the sheets of sleep yanked from your person.

"What…what about the article?" you ask, scrambling. You don't really want to contend with what he just told you. You don't think you can.

"You deserved it more. And you really love what you do. I used to think it was all bullshit, but I was wrong."

You take a hard swallow. The image of Seungcheol, head bowed, a nervous hand on the back of his neck, swims in front of your eyes.

"Whatever. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore," he laughs, mirthless.

"No, wait," you say. "I-I also…never took you seriously, not even when I should've. You know, I read your advice columns. Crazy, I know."

"I do have to say that is one of your more insane claims."

"No, I thought, they were actually, you know…really good." You watch him blink, mouth already twisting up as he fights a smile. "What I'm trying to say is that I think we messed up. In a lot of ways. But I want to be friends again. Or at least not enemies."

Seungcheol takes a long pause before he sticks his hand out.

"Choi Seungcheol. Writer. It's nice to meet you."

Some force, as if you had always been connected, pulls your skin to his. You shake his hand for the very first time, and starting over never felt so good.

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"You're booking Eleven Madison for the office dinner again, right?"

Wonwoo pops his head into your office, his Monday uniform now festive with a holiday tie. Today, it's snowmen with glasses.

"Naturally," you reply. "Unless you have plans on that Friday."

You're referring to last week, when Wonwoo took a call in the middle of a staff meeting and revealed that yes, he would most definitely be available for drinks with Yerim that evening. He ended the meeting thirty short seconds later, and you think you saw him skip to the elevator.

He laughs, deep and caramel. "Not this time. Also—don't forget to review those job applications. Sent them to your email."

Before you can tease him again, he leaves, and you are forced to look at your teeming inbox, the only unfortunate side effect of your new position. But you've never been happier, and a hundred new unread emails never seemed so wonderful. The first time Jeonghan saw you in your new office, you were so giddy he thought you were coming down with something.

You take a hefty sip of today's coffee (ginger, molasses, cinnamon). On the side of the cup, the one you keep facing away from the door, reads SEUNGCHEOL and OAT, in loopy marker letters.

After you shook hands in the parking lot, you agreed to take it slow. You thought bringing everything to a simmer would cure you of your affection, but it wasn't even a month before Seungcheol was back in that same seat in your kitchen, eating the blueberry waffles you promised him.

But if slow meant long phone calls and the nervous twine of your hands after an ice cream date, then you think you like slow. You could do slow for a while.

He's taken to bringing you coffee in the morning. He claims it's your editorial right, but you think he just likes having an excuse to barge into your office. (And close the door behind him. And kiss you. But that's aside the point.)

Plus, Seungcheol's had plenty of legitimate reasons to be in your office. The newest one is the launch of Ask Sunny! , which you think is the best idea he's had since deciding to get you coffee every day. He spent the last few days campaigning to reuse his old alias, but you're pretty sure he was just looking for reasons to argue with you.

"Afternoon, boss."

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. You always seem to learn the hard way with Seungcheol.

He swaggers in, ear-to-ear smile on his face, before taking a seat at the designated corner of your table.

"I think I like this desk better," he says, folding at the waist so he can lean close to you. Instead of reminding him it's the same desk, you just choose to make space for him, you let him press his nose to yours.

"Friendly reminder we're at work."

"Everyone's at lunch, genius."

He interrupts you with just a touch of his lips, which should be considered no less than a war crime by now.

"You are the worst."

"Not what you said last night. Not even close." He places another wet kiss on your nose before sliding off the table edge to his feet. There's a horrible warmth in his eyes as he watches you very clearly remember what exactly he's referring to. (A wandering hand. A cherry. Dark hair, wound through your fingers). "Anyway, I've got serious problems to solve. Or should I say Sunny? I still think we should have gone with Samuel."

"Executive decision," you tease. "Now if you don't need anything, scram. Out of my office."

"Just wanted to remind you I made reservations for us at Avra today," Seungcheol says, lingering in the doorframe with the shit-eating grin he tends to sport nowadays. "I'll even let you order."

There's no fighting the familiar bloom of laughter in your chest. It boils up, sparkling and citrusy, as you roll your eyes and watch Seungcheol return to his desk no less starry-eyed than how he walked in.

If cooking is a language, then love is the words, and you finally think you're learning to speak them.

You open the email at the top of your inbox: Seungcheol's last draft of the article he never published. You urged him to let you consider it for the next issue, and he finally caved (although you're learning that he really doesn't take much convincing when it comes to you).

Eat, Play, Love: A Guide.

Maybe you'd put it through. Maybe.

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#OP THIS WAS INSANE U EMOTIONALLY DESTROYED ME LIKE TWELEVE DIFFERENT TIMES THROUGHOUT THIS FIC GODDAMN #inalready know i’ll be coming back to this #this shit altered my brain chemistry FR…….#obscure reference but this fic reminded me of my favourite wbetoon!#gourmet hound’s the name of the webtoon btw #like conveying love through food aughfhhfhfhfh ‘ll always have a soft spot for it #when sc was looking at mg’s green sticky note i was gonna cry #i thught they were ok and good and it was done n then they argued AUFHFHFDJF #wonderfully written beautiful words and an even better story #i would do the quotes + reactions but i’m horribly sick but just know that this entire story made me laugh cry scream kick my blanket etc #op i will be binging (rebinging? i remember reading stuff from you before i think) all ur fics u better count on it #thank u for blessing me w this #fr: choi seungcheol #fr: seventeen #I NEED TO COMPILE MY ALL TIME FAVES INTO A LIST……

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