#type: twoshot

[keopihaus]

Grab a cup of coffee and settle in—newly added: Splish Splash by @soo0hee

Splish, Splash Pt. 1/2

Pairing — Lifeguard!Hong Jisoo/Joshua x afab!Lifeguard!Reader

Summary — When you get stuck with the new guy at your shifts, you weren't sure what to make of him. His bright smile and the everlasting sunshine he seemed to carry around, paired with the good natured sass and way to juicy ass left you reeling. Will you be able to survive the summer without losing your mind?

Genre — fluff, angst, Lifeguard!Au, enemies to lovers au

Warnings — suggestive, cursing, alcohol, sexual harrassment, dare i say men(?)

Word Count — 4.0k

Rating — PG-13 — [may change for part 2]

Disclaimer: this fic is written and copyrighted by ©soo0hee on tumblr. do not rewrite or repost on any other plattforms without my permission.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED!

This work is part of the Carat Bay Collab by @camandemstudios ! Please check them out!

When one was working at a waterpark, they usually expected to get wet or hit by water at certain points of their job. Someone splashing around, a waterball that came rolling or straight up just jumping in to get someone out of it.

And yet, somehow when small drops hit you, you still flinched in surprise at the sudden contact.

It wasn’t on purpose, more like an instinct when the cold of it hit your skin that had you shuddering and flinch away from the offending liquid. Somethibg you should be, in theory, used to after 2 years of working at CaratBay. Or at least one would think so.

But somehow you still reacted the exact same way then when you had first started.

You still remembered your first day and how hard your new coworker and future best friend had laughed when he saw the mortification on your face , drops of water sliding down and dripping from your chin after having been drenched unexpectedly by a kid jumping in close by.

What you would give to have him laugh at you again if that meant to have him back as your shift partner instead of the new guy you had been presented with by the higher ups just 3 weeks ago.

Wooyoung, even if the biggest menace you had ever gotten to meet in your entire life, was who had gotten you out of your personal bubbleand build up the confidence you needed not to let guests talk over you and stand up for yourself and the decicisons that needed to be made to keep them and yourself safe.

And now he was gone. Not gone gone but moved far enough away to have him search for a job that wasn’t on the other side of seoul.

You wanted him back and the new guy gone. Hong Jisoo or Joshua as he introduced himself to you.

He seemed nice enough at first glance. His friendly smile and the way the rest of the staff kind of flogged to him instantly. And you had to admit he did look good.

Joshua was a good guy, that much you could tell but somehow you didn’t find yourself inclined to make an effort and get to know him on a personal level.

He was a coworker and that was it. No friendship – no getting close. A coworker.

It was easy to stick to that principle at first. Only talking to each other when it was about guests or the Bay in total, not giving to many details about your privat life instead keeping a polite distance that left you room to breath and that was it. Joshua accepted it.

Until he didn’t.

You had the feeling that it wasn’t because he didn’t accept the boundary you put in place but more because he genuinely tried to be on good terms with you. Simple things really like sitting at the same table at the parks restaurant during break time while you ate your fries, bringing you some water when he got himself one to stay hydrated or when offered to take your pool bar shift in the evening because he noticed you being uncomfortable when some idiots got a bit to tipsy and started flirting outrageously cause he was just sweet like that. And so you couldn’t be mad even if you wanted to be.

Snacking on your food you quietly watched Yuna, one of the other Lifeguards console a crying girl after she had fallen while running after an older boy. It was rare that you actually worked together with her as she was assigned a different are of the park, but every now and then there moments when you saw each other in passing. Like now where she took over while you were on break.

Joshua sat opposite you, scrolling on his phone while neither disturbed the hanging silence between you both. Not uncomfortable but definitely noticeable.

Mindlessly you reached for the next fry.

“Soo‐” your eyes flickered to the man as he suddenly spoke up, leaned back and gaze fixed on you while you pushed the fry into your mouth only to promptly—

“-why don’t you like me?”

— choke on it.

Coughing you stared at him in surprise before taking the offered water to flush down the part of the fry that left you gasping.

“I mean… I never said I didn’t like you…” you choked out and cleared your throat to get your voice back to normal.

“You also never acted like you don’t. Don’t get me wrong, you’re never rude just– distant?” not once did his friendly smile drop from his face. He seemed almost curious.

“Distant?” you asked.

“Distant.” He answered. “In 3 weeks, this is our first conversation that’s not about the park. At least not directly. So yeah, distant.”

Now that he said it, distant wasn’t wrong.

“I’m not- I mean I wasn’t—”

“But you are. And it’s okay, I don’t judge. You don’t know me and from what I gathered from the others, you were pretty close with the lifeguard before me.”

A little disarmed by his friendliness you needed a moment to gather yourself. You leaned forward to catch his eyes and gave him a much to sweet looking smile.

“You’re right, I don’t know you.”

“But you also don’t want to know me.” A statement more then it was a question the man accepted your answer with a nod.

“I don’t know you.” You repeated yourself.

“We’ve established that.” With one last look on his phone he put it back into the pocket of his shorts and got up. “But if you want to, you know where to find me”

Gone before you could answer you leaned back, baffled and nut hungry anymore you huffed.

The rest of the shift had been no different then before you went on break, the only difference being that Joshua was a lot more smiley then before.

You ignored it for the time being and when you fell in bed that night his words came to catch up, never leaving your mind and not letting you rest before you admitted to yourself that you had been a bit of an asshole to the man. You had told yourself that it wasn’t that you disliked him and that you had only been distant, yet somehow you found yourself not even willing to give him a chance.

“You also don’t want to know me.”

Joshua was right. So far you hadn’t even entertained the idea of it and that had been an A class asshole move.

The blanket shifted beside you, the added weight and the almost inaudible purring announcing the arrival of one of your kittens.

Nelli the blue ragdoll baby you had adopted from a shelter after your friend had take you to join her to walk a 2 of the dogs she regularly went out with was the by far cuddlier one of the two while, Sua, a white British shorthair, would rather liked to stay close but never wanted any pats unless she asked for them first.

The little kitten nudged your face with her nose and curled together next to your head, sounding like an engine running without it’s energy draining and soothing you to sleep.

--------

The coffee cup on Joshua’s locker in the changing room the next morning was a surprising but not unwelcome development the man certainly didn’t reject. He hadn’t slept a lot, not yet used to the silence his new apartment brought and how lonely he would be after moving halfway across the country.

Honestly it should have been something to expect after knowing only few people. The guys working at Carat Bay were amazing, taking to him like he had been with them for years and inviting him wherever they could. However the silence once the apartment door fell shut behind him was deafening.

So yes, the coffee was like a godsend gift this morning. The note attached to it however had him not just reeling but send his mind down an actual rollercoaster of emotions.

*Noticed you didn’t catch much sleep*

Simple and without a name he read the note obviously meant to stay anonymous.

And if he wasn’t able to recognize the handwriting, unique with its own little quirks, it might have even worked.

The t’s looking a little like d’s made it more then obvious who the author if it had been.

For a moment Joshua thought he’d gone entirely crazy from lack of sleep.

And then he found the this time slightly bigger portion of fries you ate in your break pushed slightly more to the middle of the table, a second plastic fork placed right next to it.

He tried catching your eyes to confirm that he wasn’t overstepping in anyway but you just stared at the giant palm tree behind him, seemingly lost in thought. Or simply avoiding his eyes like you usually did. He wasn’t sure which was the case.

Only for a small moment did Joshua think he had seen your eye twitch before it was gone again, yet you stayed silent and kept munching.

Well okay then, he thought and took a second fry to dip it into the ketchup.

A bit later after he had pulled a struggling and quite out of breath 7 year old out of the water who was trying to prove that he indeed was able to keep up with his older brother and his friend, the male was almost hit in the face with one of the waterparks provided towels meant for its staff and again a bit after that he thought he saw the beginning of a hesitant smile thrown in his direction.

He was ashamed to admit that his very first instinct had been to turn around and check if there was someone standing behind him only to promptly want to smack his head against the pool tiles when realizing that you had actually meant to look at him.

Thinking that day would be a one time occurrence had apparently also been a mistake as the days to come were much the same. Small moments in which it seemed like you were actively trying to bridge the gap between them without being to obvious in your attempts.

Joshua couldn’t help but think it was adorable how you worked yourself up to walk over to him and do the simplest of things like he was going to eat you if you so much as looked at him now. He knew you would do that with him should he ever dare voice those thoughts out loud.

“I’m getting a new crate pineapple juice.” He muttered in passing just as you handed a young woman her Piña Colada and scanned her wrist banned to add the drink to her tab.

“Can you bring a cherry one too? I’m almost out.”

The question was simple in itself and with everyone else he wouldn’t have thought twice about it.

With a wink and teasing, “You got it!” he disappeared behind a palm tree, leaving you to tend the pool bar alone for the time being.

It was a week day, so things were slow as most people were either working or at school at this time. Most were couples or small groups of friends seeking to get away from the daily stress of life.

The group of boys splashing each other not to far from where you were serving and had up until now annoyed more then half of the visitors you had currently spending their time in your area was laughing loudly while flicking water at eachother.

You rounded the bar walked to the edge of the pool, sharply blowing the whistle hanging from around your neck. The noise echoed from the walls and had multiple people look at you as you crouched down fixing them with a look that meant business.

“Keep it down, you’re not the only ones here and others would appreciate it if they got the same chance to unwind here like you do.”

One of the 3 mock saluted and dove right under water. His friend following right behind while the third ran his hand through his wet hair; eyes never leaving you even when you got up and checked with a quick look if the bar needed attention again. The look he had sent chills down your back even in the tropical heat inside the dome in which the regular pool was placed.

“Come one baby, we were just having fun! No need to be a buzzkill.”

His tone was obviously meant to be flirty but the way he said it gave you the heebie jibbies.

“Doesn’t change the fact that you aren’t alone in this pool. Please keep it down.”

You stepped back and left him with one last look.

Joshua came back carrying the crates and went back behind the bar. Having already seen that you were busy at the pool he didn’t worry that you weren’t where he had left you and when you joined him again he simply asked if everything was okay.

“Just some rowdy boys who can’t keep it down.”

“So nothing new?”

“No not really.” You chuckled and opened the industrial dishwasher below the counter. Steam surrounded you , causing you to wave your hands through the warm cloud to make it go away.

He looked past you to eye them like you had done before leaving your post earlier.

“Think they’re gonna cause trouble?”

“Not sure. Maybe just a bit excited but I didn’t get the vibe that they’d actually out for it.”

You grabbed the warm plastic cups and dried them over before stacking them back up. Joshua pushed the cherry and pineapple juice crates into their stack system.

Nodding you looked at the couple swimming up to you.

“What can I get for you?”

“Just a Fanta and some beer, please.”

You got the order started, scanning the chip the man held out to you and handed them over.

“Here you go.” You said with your customer service smile.

The two sat down at the build into the water seats to enjoy their drinks.

Not long after you recognized the 3 boys from before approach the bar. They had actually kept it down a bit much to the other visitors delight but somehow you felt the air shift.

“What can I get for you 3?” you asked, keeping your tone neutral with Joshua watching carefully.

“2 beers for these idiots and you for me baby.” His words had you halt, eyebrows jumping almost all the way up into your hair line.

The line was uncalled for and you’d rather he’d swim away again but went over to the cooler for said beers. Joshua having heard what had been said too, kept quiet and caught your eyes, waiting for you to signal to have him take over. You shook your head, telling him you were good.

“Here, your chips please?”

“Or instead I could have your number instead of a tab?”

You stared unimpressed with the scanner in your hand.

“Just the chips are fine.”

The two beside him let out a dramatic “Ohhhhhhh!” and “Damn girl, why so mean!” and you really had to hold yourself together to not roll your eyes right into your skull at their behavior.

“Pay your drinks or we’ll have to ask you to leave the premises.” Joshua called over, hovering behind you and waiting for them to react.

The held their hands up in surrender and gave you the chip. Quickly you scanned it down and watched them leave. The displeased frown on mr-number-instead did not go unnoticed.

And that was it.

The vanished a bit later, plastic cups carelessly left behind and not a trace of them in sight. You were glad, guessing that the 3 must have gone to a different part of the park just as Yuna came to take over.

"You good?" you heard Joshua ask as you made your way around the pool.

"Sure. Just an idiot thinking he's god's gift to mankind. Nothing new and nothing that hasn't happened before at some point. Youngie hated when I told him off for taking over without me asking for help, so thank you for letting me handle it. A least somewhat."

Joshua nodded. He understood why this Youngie wanted to help, the disgust he felt for the guy was still causing his stomach to churn when he thought back.

"It's all good. He was out of line and he should have backed off when you told him to."

Time went by without a hitch. Nothing happened beside the normal occurrences. A scraped knee from falling on the wet tiles and a busted lip and bleeding nose after collision underwater by 2 girls and the clock already struck 7pm. A loud gong went of telling everyone that it was time to make their way home soon.

The regular pool was one of the last parts of Carat Bay to close. The kids area and Waterslide already closed along with the Merchstand and Restaurants so it was only a matter of time until people were showered and on the way to the parking lot.

You stretched your arms and back and suppressed a yawn, feeling tired and more then ready to go home soon.

“Where is Joshua?”

Seungkwan, usually stationed at the Flow Rider stood by the swing door separating the main area and the visitor changing rooms, waiting for Vernon who came from the wave pool and looked up from his phone.

“Shua-hyung? Wanted to check the pool one last time before changing. Isn’t he back yet?”

You shock your head.

“Well he’s probably done soon. Anyways I’m heading out now. You coming?” the last part directed at Vernon he saluted quickly and was gone. The slightly younger right behind him.

You tried to oversee the pool, hoping to see your coworker coming back already but with a defeated sigh you gave up. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Joshua to do his job, you knew he was more then capable to do so, but it didn’t stop you from checking again yourself.

You found him further in the back behind a shut of waterfall and you froze.

Oh boy.

Joshua stood shoulder deep in the water, hair wet, water running down his face and falling into the pool. His black shirt clinging tightly onto his way to defined chest and arms, mocking in a way.

Of course you knew that he was attractive. You had tried to avoid him but you weren’t blind. You had seen that he hid well defined muscles underneath the fabric of his shirt but right now, it wasn’t just obvious. It was like a punch to the face, begging to be stared at.

What was even worse was that in the clear water you could see very well the shorts of his showcasing his thighs even if it was a little shaky.

“Uhmm…” you said a little dumb sounding even to your own ears. Joshua having noticed you standing at the edge lit up further then he should have in your opinion and triumphantly held up a pair of pink glasses.

“Found it!”

“F-found what?”

He held the glasses up higher.

“These! A woman called a said that their daughter probably left their glasses at the island, so I went and checked and voila! I got em.”

“I can see that.” Among other things. ”That doesn’t explain why you are in the water?”

With raised eyebrows and a picked up jaw you clearly didn’t care to hide the amusement you felt as you stared him down with crossed arms. Eyes quickly flicking up from his broad shoulders to his face.

Joshua looked like you had grown a second head. “To get the glasses? Didn’t you hear me?”

You nodded slowly.

“Yeah, no I got that part. What I don’t get is why you didn’t use the bridge to get there…”

It was almost comical how his face changed from Duh! to Huh? to Ohhh. As he looked back at the island and saw the bridge leading over to the little island where he came from.

Snorting you tried to hide your laugh and failed epically.

The man in the pool splashed you with water in retaliation.

“Don’t laugh, woman!” he fake whined, pout clearly there on hips.

Staggering back a bit to avoid the water you laughed again and Joshua couldn’t help but relish in the sound.

“I’m sorry!”

“No you aren’t.”

“No I’m not.”

“At least help me out of here!”

You sat down, smile not even attempted to be hidden from him as you stared at his hand reaching out for you to take.

“Just take the stairs over there.” You hummed.

“Y/nn!”

“Okay, jesus fine you big baby!”

The playful banter did not get lost on either of you and you hated to admit that you enjoyed the moment a lot more then you thought. It felt as easy as breathing.

Maybe you should have been a bit more hesitant and maybe you should have seen it coming when you took his hand ready to pull him out but instead of him actually coming up and out of the water, you suddenly found yourself in it with him.

“HONG JOSHUA?!” You shrieked loudly as soon as you came back up for air, blindly splashing water into the direction you heard him cackle loudly before rubbing the water out of your eyes.

You had still been wearing your red bathing suit and the standard black shorts so at least you didn’t get drenched in your normal clothes but you hadn’t expected to have to dry yourself completely before going home either.

Again you splashed him when he could stop laughing at your predicament, now purposefully going after him. Joshua immediately reacted, the glasses he had saved quickly placed on the edge to not damage them before retaliating with just as much enthusiasm and coming closer.

You felt his arms suddenly wrapping around your midsection, barely having time to hold your breath as you suddenly found yourself dunked under. Your fingers held tightly onto him, hoping to avoid your impending doom.

“No, please! I’m sorry I shouldn’t have laughed!” you spluttered quickly.

“But are you really?”

You froze.

His voice was suddenly much closer then you had anticipated and when you looked up you found yourself almost nose to nose with his own. The tone he had used indicating something much darker hidden behind all those soft eyes that seemed to hold something wild and ready to attack given the chance.

“Well, are you…” he hummed into to space between you, making your ears ring as you fidgeted nervously. You could feel the heat of his skin in contrast to the cool of the water. It left you feeling breathless in a way you hadn’t been since your last boyfriend had first asked you out.

You choked out something that sounded a lot like “I– , you—”

when suddenly…

“What the fuck are you two doing?”

Seungkwan.

[inkandtension]

Hi, Dad.

Single dad! Photogrpher Lee Know x Traumatic amnesia suffering, pilot! Reader

Note: Reader is the mother of his daughter, this is part 1, so wait for part 2 which will be posted soon!

[trope: love at first sight, cuz it's unreal]

Stories without Queens

Lee Minho, adjusted the strap of his camera bag over his shoulder as he stepped out of his studio.

It was a little past four. Time to pick up his daughter.

Hae-soo was six—sharp, talkative, and curious to a fault. Born with a storm in her lungs and the resilience of her father’s silence, she had Minho’s eyes but her mother’s laugh—not that she knew what her mother looked like, or sounded like. There were no pictures. No letters.

Minho waited near the gate like always. Parents around him made small talk, but he barely responded, eyes sweeping over the sea of uniforms until he saw her.

Ponytail slightly crooked. A blue pencil pouch clutched too tightly. No skipping steps. No running into his arms today.

Odd.

She walked past him without a word.

Well… that’s new.

Back home, their apartment smelled of mint tea and grilled garlic—the signature of Minho's uncle, Hyun-chul, who had raised hae-soo with Minho after her mom wasn't there anymore. He had been there through everything, the career, the heartbreak, the child. Not by blood, but by bond. A kind-eyed man who wore aprons like a badge and scolded them when they skipped meals.

“Welcome back, my babies” Hyun-chul grinned, handing Minho a bottle of water. “How was school, Hae-soo-ah?”

Silence.

She kicked off her shoes quietly and padded into the living room, plopping onto the couch. She didn’t reach for the cats as well.

Dinner was unusually quiet, chopsticks clinking and soup bowls steaming.

Minho leaned closer to Hae-soo, brushing her bangs aside. “Alright, little fox. Tell us. What’s eating you?”

She looked up, lips trembling in dramatic indignation.

“There’s this guy in my class...”

Minho’s brows shot up.

Hyun-chul blinked. “Guy?”

Minho leaned sideways and whispered behind his hand, “Is this the age where she starts thinking about guys?”

Hyun-chul was about to reply when Hae-soo slammed her spoon down.

“He got 1% more than me on the math test, and now he won’t shut up about it!”

Minho sighed loudly, leaning back in relief.

“Oh, You misunderstood.” he says to Hyun-chul, as he scoffs, saying something like you did, idiot.

“Sweetheart, it’s just one mark. You’ll beat him next time.”

“I know” she mumbled, pouting. “But still.”

Minho hides his grin behind his glass of water. She’s so much like someone else.

That night, tucked under lilac bedsheets in a room dotted with star stickers and glow-in-the-dark planets, Hae-soo waits, hands under her chin. Minho settles beside her, legs folded, in pajama pants and a sleepy hoodie.

He runs his hand through her soft, dark hair. It’s a ritual. The bedtime story.

“Okay” he says softly. “Once upon a time… there was a king.”

Her eyes light up. “You’re the king!”

He chuckles, “The king had a beautiful daughter.”

“Me!” she says, grinning.

“Of course. You. And the king had three guards who protected the princess and made her laugh when she was sad.”

“Who?” she whispers. “Who do I imagine?”

Minho tilts his head. “What about… Soonie, Doongie, and Dori?”

She gasps, delighted.

He goes on, voice gentle, threading together a tale of mischief and kindness and cats saving her from imaginary monsters.

But when he finishes, when he says “The end” she doesn’t clap like she usually does.

She just lies there. Quiet again.

“Appa?” she says.

“Yes, baby?”

“There was no queen in this story.”

He stills.

“And last night’s story didn’t have one either,” she adds, a little sharper now. “None of the stories you tell ever have a mom. Do I not have a mom?”

His heart tightens. His hand falters where it’s been stroking her back.

He smiles faintly. “Some stories are like that, Hae-soo.”

“But… all your stories are like that,” she whispered. “There’s never a mom.”

she says. “All my classmates have moms. They ask me what my mom looks like. What do I say?”

There’s a pressure behind his eyes now. He exhales slowly.

She folds her arms. “Then I won’t take my tablets.”

“Yah,” he says gently. “Hae-soo…”

“I mean it. Unless you tell me a story about my mom.”

He pauses. Then leans down, kissing her forehead. His voice is low. “If you score higher than that boy in the next test.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Promise?”

“On all three cats,” he said smiling small.

She opens her little pill box. Cystic fibrosis medication — several of them, multiple times a day.

He sat there a while longer, staring at her small frame, listening to her breaths over the hum of the humidifier.

It’s 11:47 p.m. by the time Minho returns home. The studio had run late — a celebrity shoot, followed by last-minute lighting changes, a stubborn makeup artist, and endless calls from sponsors. He’s tired.

His body ached, jacket half slipping from one shoulder as he nudged open the door to Hae-soo’s room, expecting her to be out like a light, wrapped in her burrito-style strawberry blanket.

But she wasn’t asleep.

Not even close.

She sat upright, legs crossed, her face glowing with a kind of anxious excitement.

“You’re not asleep yet?” he asked gently, unzipping his coat, dropping his camera bag softly onto the chair.

She didn’t answer.

She just held up a piece of paper.

Minho’s eyes narrowed slightly. He took a step forward.

He took the sheet from her and scanned it—and there it was. A perfect 98%. Top of the class. Mathematics. English. Even Science, despite the breathing breaks she needed to get through lessons.

Minho let out a dramatic gasp, paper fluttering in one hand as he reached forward with the other and scooped her up.

“You did it!” he spun her around, careful of her lungs, mindful of her joints—but it didn’t stop her from shrieking with laughter, her giggles bouncing off the walls.

“I told you I would!” she puffed her cheeks. “And now… the mom story. You promised.”

Minho hesitated for a second.

She was still in his arms, her tiny fingers curled into his coat, her cheek resting on his shoulder. She sounded so hopeful. So sure that he would finally break the one silence in their home that even the cats avoided.

His smile faded just a little.

“I’m really tired today, sweetheart” he said softly, setting her down.

“But dad—!”

“You promised! You said—!”

“I said I’m tired.” His voice snapped slightly, sharper than he meant it to be.

She flinched.

Minho regretted it instantly, but he didn’t know how to take it back. So instead, he walked to the door. Paused. Turned away.

Outside, leaning against the hallway wall, stood his uncle.

The old man had been there for the entire exchange—his hearing may have weakened, but he never missed things when it came to Minho or Hae-soo.

“You can’t hide from her forever,” he said quietly, his voice soft like cotton soaked in old sorrow.

Minho didn’t reply. Just sighed, dragging his feet toward his own room.

By morning, the storm had passed.

Or so Minho thought.

No Doraemon playing from the living room. No squeals of cats being over-cuddled. No Hae-soo singing baby shark lyrics off-key while brushing her hair.

Minho walked into her room, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Empty.

The bed was made. The blanket neatly folded.

She was gone, so was soonie.

Minho stood frozen for a second before yelling, “uncle—! She’s not in her room!”

Hyun-chul, who had just started heating some soup in the kitchen, dropped the spoon. “What?”

“She’s not here. Not anywhere in the house.”

“She wouldn’t—she couldn’t have—” The old man’s breath hitched.

Minho’s jaw clenched. “She could. You know she could.”

Because running away when her wishes didn’t come true—that wasn’t just Hae-soo.

The next few hours were chaos.

Minho drove like a madman—rushing to her school, scanning every classroom, the playground, even the security footage. Nothing. No one had seen her arrive.

He called her classmates’ parents. Three of her closest friends. No luck.

Hyun-chul stayed home in case she came back. Every twenty minutes, he called again, his voice sounding increasingly shaky.

But Minho was spiraling.

She could barely walk long distances. She had a specific dietary routine. Her medications. What if—what if she—

His phone rang.

He picked it up mid-drive, engine growling beneath him.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end was unlike anything he expected.

Calm. Warm.

“Is this Mr. Lee Minho?”

“Yes—yes, this is Minho—who is this?”

“Your daughter, Hae-soo, is here with me” the woman said gently. “She’s safe. We’re at Café Bae in xyz. Please come pick her up.”

Just the sound of her voice felt like exhaling after being underwater.

Minho blinked, gripping the steering wheel.

His heart finally began to beat normally again.

“I’m on my way.” he says, heart pounding. “Thank you. Please… please stay with her.”

Café Bae sat right under the shade of a ginkgo tree whose yellow petals were dancing across the entrance. It was too early for lunch but late enough for caffeine emergencies, and his heart was still somewhere around his ankles as he pushed through the glass doors.

Then he saw her.

Not Hae-soo.

You.

And beside you, his daughter—with her bright pink cheeks, sipping a neon-blue drink from a tall straw, giggling like she hadn’t just made every cell in his body burn with panic.

You sat in front of her, posture straight, one arm resting across the back of your chair. A pressed pilot uniform hugged your frame—white shirt and a black and an obvious airline uniform blazer on the table corner. Your hair was tucked behind one ear, a pen clipped into your lapel.

Hae-soo was beaming.

Even Soonie—his grumpy, shy, emotionally selective cat—was on your lap.

Minho almost tripped.

Soonie did not seem to forget. He's 98% sure soonie is the one who dragged you to Hae-soo.

Then you laugh softly — something offhandedly sweet — as Hae-soo pushes a napkin toward you.

“Sign it, please!” she demands. “You’re so cool! You fly planes!”

You raise an eyebrow, amused, tugging a pen. “I fly people,” you say with mock severity, scribbling your name. “But thank you, co-pilot. Next time, bring me a boarding pass, not a stolen cat.”

“She’s not stolen!” Hae-soo pouts. “She just… walked with me.”

You glance at the cat now lazily draped over the booth divider and whisper, “Traitor.”

Then you sense the new presence behind you.

“Hae-soo.”

His voice makes you look up.

The man standing near the booth wears a black coat over a grey sweatshirt, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes, his features carved with tension and a worry that hasn’t quite left his shoulders.

You stand.

She beams. “this is dad.” she says to you.

He walks closer, nods once at you.

You reach out first, polite, practiced. “Hi, Dad.”

“Minho” he replies, shaking your hand — firm, steady.

You offer a soft smile. “Y/N. And you’re welcome. She’s a fighter. Also, she’s been trying to convince me to adopt her for the last thirty minutes.”

You’d just gotten back from a red-eye Seoul-to-Tokyo route. Two cappuccinos and a rebellious cat had barely kept you conscious.

But when you’d seen the girl crying on the steps outside the bookstore, shivering, and a cat that approached you first, dragging your pants towards the child, you crouched immediately.

“Thanks for taking care of her” Minho said, brushing Hae-soo’s hair back with a mixture of relief and affection.

“She’s surprisingly easy to talk to,” you said, then looked down at the girl. “When she’s not screaming about being motherless in public.”

“Yah,” Minho muttered under his breath.

“I won’t leave, Appa,” Hae-soo declared, arms crossed, mouth still ringed blue from her drink. “Not unless you tell me the story. Now.”

“Sweetheart,” Minho tried. “Let’s go home, hmm? I’ll tell you in the evening. I promise—”

“No!” she whined loudly, stomping her feet under the table, making Soonie’s ears twitch. “You said that yesterday!”

You leaned back, arms folded. “To be fair, she said you use that excuse a lot.”

Minho gave you a look—half amused, half exasperated. “You told her everything?”

you said innocently. she told you everything. Down to his card PIN.

“I’m serious, Hae-soo” he says, voice patient. “Can we not talk about it here?”

“I’ll cry.”

“You can’t use tears to blackmail—”

She starts blinking very fast.

You cough lightly and sip your coffee. “I’d let her win, if I were you.”

He glares at you. “You’re not helping.”

“I flew a cargo-laden boeing across Japan this morning. I think I’m allowed to stir a little emotional drama.”

Minho groans under his breath.

Minho pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve really inherited the dramatics.”

“She’s six” you shrugged. “And probably smarter than half my flight deck.”

Minho gave you a long, almost suspicious glance. “And you’re really a pilot?”

“Last I checked.”

“Okay,” he finally said.

And then he begins.

Minho’s voice is quieter now. A little rough.

“About ten years ago” he says, brushing Hae-soo’s hair gently to the side, “I wasn’t like this. I mean— I wasn’t ‘Lee Minho, Studio Owner.’”

You tilt your head, resting your elbow on the table. There’s something in the way he speaks — like each word is walking barefoot over gravel.

“I was just a guy with a second-hand camera, a half-broken lens, and this internship that didn’t pay enough to cover even my rent,” he continues, eyes slightly distant now. “One of our assignments was to go to Gangwon and capture images of movement. Real, raw movement. Machines.”

Hae-soo is practically bouncing. “Like trains?”

He nods. “Exactly. So I went to this tiny station. No one around. Just fog, rust, and the distant rattle of wheels. Jisung was there, with an umbrella as it was raining.”

You imagine it — grey skies, empty benches, a younger Minho in a faded hoodie with his camera hanging loosely around his neck, eyes squinting through the viewfinder. Another guy, holding an umbrella for him in the rain.

“And while I was taking pictures of the train as it stopped, a woman, your mom, stepped down holding a—”

“Wait!” Hae-soo interrupts, shooting her hand up like a student in class. “Who do I imagine as mom?”

Silence falls.

It’s the kind that folds itself tightly into the corners of the café, the kind that pulls the air inward like a breath waiting to be exhaled.

Minho stills. His gaze drops to the table.

Even Soonie, who had been nuzzling your shoelace, seems to pause. A soft nudge to your foot, like he knows something deeper than he should.

And then…

You clear your throat.

You don’t even look at Minho.

You just say it. Softly. Kindly. “You can imagine me. It’s okay.”

Her eyes turn to you, surprised. Not because you offered — but because you didn’t hesitate.

Minho kind of chokes.

Somewhere between Seoul and a little nowhere town filled with flowers and fog, it happened.

Minho’s shoes were soaked, his jeans cuffed sloppily at the ankles, and his half-worn beanie kept sliding backward from the weight of his messy hair.

“Hyung, hyung, hyung!” came Han Jisung’s panicked voice from behind, one hand on Minho’s back, the other above his head holding an umbrella like his life depended on it. “Your camera, man! If that gets water damage again, your internship’s dead! Your career’s dead! I’m not paying for another one!”

“Just five more shots!” Minho yelled over the wind, trying to get the perfect frame. “Look at that lighting! It’s like a movie poster!”

As Jisung leaned further out, Minho suddenly snapped the shutter again—and paused.

“Wait.”

“What.”

“Who… is that?”

You had just stepped down from the train for a two-minute halt, your yellow umbrella blooming like a sunflower against the rain. The station was empty, mist curling under benches, the signage blurred. You walked across the platform, letting the rain touch your boots, face tilted upward.

Minho lowered the camera.

“Bro…” Jisung groaned. “Don’t say it.”

“She looks like a goddamn angel.”

“There it is.”

Minho raised his camera and clicked.

Once. Twice.

Again.

Then kept going.

Click. Click. Click.

Each frame framed you—feet splashing in puddles, your umbrella turning slightly in the wind, your head tilting, your smile at a passing dog.

Jisung peeked over his shoulder and blanched. “Hyung! No! That’s a person! A woman! You’re literally photographing a woman without her consent! That’s, like, lawsuit grounds! That’s creepy!”

“I’m not being creepy,” Minho murmured dreamily. “I’m capturing… serenity.”

“You’re capturing a restraining order!”

“She’s not the subject,” Jisung hissed behind Minho, eyes squinting. “Don’t you dare zoom.”

Minho didn’t respond. He was already following you — carefully, casually, through the lens.

“She’s just a person, bro. A very umbrella’d person. Not your muse.”

“But look at her movement,” Minho said, mouth slightly open.

“She’s just walking.”

“Exactly. But look at how she walks.”

“Do you hear yourself?”

You wandered further down the gravel path that hugged the coastline. The train hissed behind you as it settled to a stop. The umbrella kept dancing above your head like it had its own personality.

Minho wasn’t stalking, not exactly.

He was documenting.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

He took three more shots as you passed the station sign. Then two more near the curve in the track. Then one when you spun briefly to let the wind hit your face.

He couldn’t explain it.

He fell in love. The rain was a witness.

You weren’t even looking at him.

But your presence in the frame made it feel like the scene finally made sense.

“Hyung, this is literally what professors warn us about in class” Jisung hissed beside him, umbrella now tilted sideways as he tried to peer through Minho’s camera. “No model release form. No consent. No plan.”

“I’m not publishing it” Minho muttered. “Just… capturing it.”

“You’re capturing a person like she’s a butterfly in a jar.”

“She’s not a butterfly” Minho whispered, already adjusting the focus again.

You had paused near the edge of the platform, your yellow umbrella resting on your shoulder, eyes closed, like you were soaking in something no one else could see.

“She’s the beginning of something.”

Jisung groaned dramatically. “Oh my god. You’re down bad already.”

But Minho wasn’t listening.

Because in that moment — mist curling around the tracks, wind teasing at your scarf, his camera breathing quietly with every shutter — he thought maybe he’d already met the woman he would fall in love with.

Even if he didn’t know your name yet.

Even if you hadn’t looked at him once.

Even if the only thing between you and him was a yellow umbrella and about a thousand questions.

He clicked one last photo as you turned, briefly meeting his gaze from across the fog.

You had felt it. The subtle “click” through the rainfall.

You turn slightly, the yellow umbrella spinning on your wrist, and spot two drenched idiots about fifteen feet away. One — tall, soft features, camera plastered to his face like a fifth limb. The other — shorter, dramatically holding an umbrella over the first one, dressed like a K-drama sidekick who was done with life.

You squint. The taller one is staring directly at you.

You raise a brow.

He’s not blinking.

Just… snapping. Again. And again.

You frown. He’s cute, sure. But he’s not invisible.

You adjust your scarf, stomp toward them, your boots making little squeaks—

SNATCH.

Camera: confiscated.

“HEY!” Jisung yelps, nearly dropping the umbrella. “Whoa, whoa, whoa—chill! Lady!”

“You a pervert?” you bark, stepping back with Minho’s cam in hand. “Clicking my photos without asking? I’ll report you to the cops.”

Minho blinks, mouth open. He hasn't said a word. Still hasn’t. Still staring. Like his entire soul just walked out of a train in the rain, insulted him, and stole his heart (and also his camera).

“Yah!” Jisung yelped. “Whoa whoa whoa! Chill, woman!”

Minho blinked at you, mouth opening to protest—until he saw your eyes.

Sharp. Alert. Furious.

“You’re taking pictures of me, aren’t you?” you snapped, holding the camera up like evidence. “You freaking creep. I will report you.”

“Okay, okay, first of all — he’s not a creep, alright? He’s… just brain-dead right now.”

“Clearly,” you mutter, glaring at the tall one who’s currently blinking like a deer caught in hi-def.

“He’s interning for a photography course,” Jisung explains. “The project is on movement. Nature. Emotion. Not… stalking.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s what every stalker says.”

“He didn’t even notice you at first,” Jisung continues. “He just said, ‘train, train,’ like a Pokemon. If you want, check the photos. They’re all on movement. The sky, the fog, the wheels. Nothing inappropriate.”

Minho opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

His brain had short-circuited. This close, you were even more stunning. Even your anger had symmetry. Your eyebrows furrowed at a perfect 32° angle. Your umbrella was dripping on his shoes.

But all he could think was: Whoa.

“I–uh–I–” he stammered.

“Ma’am,” Jisung stepped between you two, hands raised in peace, voice pitched higher in panic. “I swear, Minho’s not a creep. He’s a photography intern. He has a mentor and everything. He was just clicking nature, okay? No vulgar sho—”

You look at him, then at the camera.

“He has a name?” you snapped, flipping through the pictures. “Minho? Okay, Minho. Still. You ask before photographing people. That’s basic human decency.”

Then—you start flipping through the screen.

And okay… okay, yeah. It’s… good.

Actually, it’s insanely good.

There’s a shot of the tracks before the train, one with the wheels in motion — and yes, two, three zoom-in clear images with you in them. But they’re... artistic. Captured like a color or an emotion, not like a girl with a body.

You cross your arms. “That’s fine. But you still ask before clicking someone, don’t you?”

“You’re right” Jisung says quickly, nudging the frozen Minho. “Tell her, bro. Say sorry.”

Minho looked at you.

Still silent. Still completely gone. Still love-struck.

“I like you. Marry me.”

Dead silence.

You stare at him.

Jisung lets out a sound like someone choking on rice. Then he moves to stand protectively in front of you.

“Ma’am, I didn’t know he was like this. I have nothing to do with him. You want to complain? I’ll be your witness. I’ll even drive you to the station myself. I am so sorry. I don’t even like this guy, honestly. We just met today. I thought he was mute until two seconds ago. He may need psychiatric help.”

You’re gaping now. “You want me to—what?”

“Marry me” Minho repeats, calm now. “I mean, maybe not today. I’m broke. But like. In the future. If you want. You don’t have to, obviously. It’s just… a thought.”

You stare at him.

Then at Jisung.

Then at the camera in your hand.

You scowl, brow crunching, nose scrunching with disbelief and a kind of offended disbelief that someone just proposed to you without knowing your name.

Minho just smiled like he’d won the lottery. “You look beautiful when you’re angry.”

Jisung slapped his forehead.

Minho is staring at the crunch of your brow like God spent a little extra time sculpting just that particular expression.

You turn around and walk, with the camera still in your hand.

“Wait—HEY—” Jisung stammers. “She took the camera!”

Minho watches you go.

Your yellow umbrella bobbing above the sea of fog..

You, muttering to yourself about weirdos as you disappear down the platform with his most expensive gear.

Jisung slaps Minho’s arm. “Dude?! Your CAMERA?!”

Minho smiles dreamily.

“It’s okay.”

“…WHAT?”

“It’s with my wife.”

The platform still echoed with your footsteps long after you left, his cameras swaying on your shoulder like spoils of war. Minho blinked. Once. Twice. Then took a step to chase you.

That’s when Jisung tackled him from the side.

“I’m following her.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Jisung, let go.”

“I am letting go. Of my dignity. By being seen with you in public.”

“I’m going after her—”

“She has your camera, hyung. Not your soul. Don’t run after her like some tragic k-drama lead with debt.”

“Let me—”

Jisung latches onto Minho’s collar like a leech. “You’re gonna get banned from the station. BANNED. We still haven’t submitted your damn movement assignment. Let’s go.”

Minho scowls. “I just proposed to my future wife, and you’re talking about assignments?”

“I’m talking about prison time. For unsolicited photography.”

Minho sighs dramatically, but follows, mostly because Jisung is now crying loudly about “career suicide.” They trudge through the light drizzle, Minho still craning his head back toward the direction your umbrella disappeared.

Minho burst into the lobby just a minute late, hair wind-tossed, shirt wrinkled, panting.

Jisung trailed behind dramatically. “We’re alive. Barely.”

Jisung is just about to drop another comeback when he freezes mid-step.

“…Hyung.”

Minho walks into him. “What?”

“Bro. Don’t. Look. Left.”

“brodontlookleftbrodontlookleftbrodontlookleft”

Minho turns his head.

And saw you.

His thief.

You were standing—casual as anything—laughing with his boss, holding his camera in your hand like it was a soda can. Your umbrella leaned against the chair beside you, dripping politely onto the tiled floor. Your bag hung across your shoulder. And the minute Minho entered, your eyes flicked toward him.

Jisung gaped.

“Oh my god,” Jisung whispers. “You’re dead. You’re actually dead. This is a revenge arc. You messed with the niece of the boss. You’re gonna get kicked out of the program. Fired. Blacklisted.”

Minho swallows. “I didn’t know—”

“You called her your wife, bro. I am no longer emotionally invested in your survival.”

“Boys!”

Both boys jump.

Boss Kim waves him over.

Minho walks forward like a soldier to war. Jisung hovers nearby, muttering prayers under his breath.

“You’re good at printing, yes?” Boss Kim says. “Help my niece with the printer. She needs copies of some files.”

Jisung immediately points to Minho like he’s testifying in court. “This hyung can print in ten formats. TIFF, JPEG, RAW, Excel, Word, even power point.”

Minho looks at Jisung a bit betrayed, and Jisung whispers, “He said boys, I'm a man” back.

“Minho! Great, you're here. Help Y/N with printing some photos.”

Minho blinked.

“P–pardon?”

His boss pointed at you like it was nothing. “She needs the printing room. Help her with format settings and all that boring junk. It’s her first time here.”

Jisung was already scooting away like a crab.

You hand him the camera, coolly. “Printer?”

“This way” he mutters, leading you down the hall.

The printing room was silent.

Minho held the door for you. You didn’t say thank you. He smiled nervously and followed you in.

You sat by the monitor, inserted an SD card, then leaned back, arms folded, as the preview screen opened.

His stomach dropped.

They were all photos he’d taken. Of you.

The umbrella. The station. The yellow. The rain. That moment when you smiled at the stray dog. The shot where you were squinting at the cloudy sky.

You turned to him slowly, eyes glinting.

“My uncle said your compositions are nice,” you murmured. “But you should ask for permission next time.”

“Your… uncle?”

“Boss.”

“Like blood uncle? Real uncle?”

You nodded, clicking Print on one of the images.

The printer hissed and started whirring, slowly birthing out a photo that had consumed all of Minho’s heartbeats in the last twelve hours.

“I wasn’t being creepy” he said quietly.

“I know,” you replied. “That’s why I didn’t smash your lens.”

Minho smiled faintly. “Thanks.”

You turned to him with narrowed eyes. “But still, you said, and I quote—‘I like you. Marry me.’”

He coughed into his sleeve. “I was… under the influence.”

“Of?”

“Your face.”

You blinked. “You’re so weird.”

“I’m aware.”

Another photo slid out of the printer.

You picked it up, stared at it.

“…you do have good angles. Even though, they seem a bit lonely.”

Minho took the compliment like it was his Pulitzer prize.

Then, as you gathered the photos, you tossed him his camera back.

Then, after a beat— “Wait. We’re not even friends?”

You glance over.

Minho blinks. “Can we be?”

You raise a brow. “You want friends?”

“I want marriage, actually.”

You shake your head.

He raises both hands, grinning. “Okay, okay. Friends.”

“I have two weeks left in Seoul. Then I head back for exams. So, if you press pause to your love story, then we can be friends.”

She said pause, not end, right?

Three days into the Pause

It was supposed to be simple.

Hang out. Walks. Coffee. Art exhibits. Maybe a photography trip or two.

What Minho didn’t account for was Soonie.

The world’s most dramatic, most demanding, least affectionate rescue kitten.

And how he immediately hated you.

Minho had found him crying in an alleyway three days ago—fur soaked from the rain, limping, crying like a siren.

You’d been with him when minho spotted him. While Minho knelt and cooed and pulled off his hoodie to wrap him in, you’d stood there looking unimpressed.

“That’s a stray.”

“he’s a baby.”

“he might bite.”

“he needs love.”

“he needs shots, Minho.”

“he needs a name.”

You paused. “he looks like a grumpy Ajhumma.”

“Okay, I love animals,” you said, sitting cross-legged in Minho’s living room, a green tea in your hand, “but this one’s got a personal grudge against my soul.”

Soonie, the tiny gray tabby with judgment in his eyes, hissed once and then retreated behind the couch like a soldier in trench warfare.

“he doesn’t hate you,” Minho lied. “He’s just shy.”

“Bro, he literally tried to slap my leg like I owed it rent.”

“he probably does that when he senses someone equally independent.”

You glared.

Soonie glared back from under the curtain.

It was war.

Later that night, after you left, Jisung flopped onto Minho’s couch, Soonie curled up on his stomach as if to spite Minho.

“he hates your girl,” Jisung whispered.

Minho, staring at the door you just walked out of, sighed dreamily. “She’s not my girl.”

“Bro, you said she’s your wife when she stole your camera.”

“I meant it.”

“Minho, she roasted your entire existence, threatened you with police, and insulted your cat.”

“She’s perfect.”

Jisung patted Soonie’s back. “You’re gonna have to up your game, my little furry niece.”

The problem with loving someone like you was that Minho hadn’t realized how much noise you were surviving in silence.

By the time he’d spent two weeks trailing behind your footsteps like a camera-smitten cat—buying you canned coffee after class, racing you to street food stalls at night, bribing Jisung with gimbap so he could third-wheel without sulking—he thought he’d seen every shade of your world.

He knew how your laughter curled when you were amused. He knew how you chewed on straws when you were thinking. He knew how you kicked vending machines when they refused your coins.

But he didn’t know that when your phone rang at 7:42 PM every night, your entire body tensed.

He didn’t know that your eyes darted out of focus.

Or that you always turned your back and whispered, “I’m busy, mom. Please—please, not now.”

He didn’t know that you always cut the call just before your brothers voice began crying on the other end.

You’d had a long, ugly phone call with your parents. The kind that leaves your hands shaking and your voice hollow.

Minho, blissfully unaware, found you on the rooftop terrace of his apartment building, watching the skyline blur.

He walked up grinning, two corn dogs in hand.

“Guess who got offered a spot in a photography panel and a free tripod.”

You smiled weakly.

He paused, then slid in beside you.

“…so,” he said, nudging your elbow, “we’re past friends now, right?”

You blinked.

“Like, officially. So can I officially say... we’re getting married next?”

He laughed lightly, half-joking, half-serious.

You didn’t laugh.

“Marriage” you repeated.

He blinked. “I mean—yes? Not now, not this second—but eventually. You know.”

You stood up.

“Kids, too?” you asked. “Just throw it in there, why not?”

Now he was worried.

“…Y/N?”

You were trembling. Your hands shook even as you shoved them into your hoodie.

“You know what happens with marriage, Minho?” Your voice cracked. “People scream. People break things. People leave. Even when they say they won’t.”

He stood. “What—?”

“They say I love you and then they throw cups at each other the next month. They stay for the kids and then blame the kids.”

Minho’s brows knit. “What’s—”

“Every time I come home, it’s like war. And my brother’s crying. And I’m the one holding him while my parents scream about us like we aren’t even human beings—”

“Y/N—”

“I don’t want marriage. I don’t want love. It NEVER. ENDS. WELL—!”

And then—

CRACK—CRACK—POP!

Firecrackers.

Someone downstairs had lit them early. Golden sparks burst behind the buildings, loud and sudden.

You dropped to your knees.

Minho dove forward, arms wrapping around you instantly, his hands flying to your ears.

“Shhh, shhh—Y/N, it’s okay. It’s okay. It’s just fireworks. Just stupid kids—”

You were crying now.

“I hate loud things” you whispered. “Everything’s always loud.”

Minho leaned closer, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Then we’ll be quiet,” he murmured. “From now on, I’ll be the quiet.”

You sniffed. “What kind of line is that?”

He smiled softly. “The kind you write for your wife.”

You looked up at him, red eyes and tear-lined cheeks.

“…We’re not married.”

He nodded.

He pulled you closer into a slow hug, your face pressing against his shoulder, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into your spine.

Two days later.

The problem with warming up to someone was that it always came with a side effect: vulnerability.

And you, who had trained your heart into a vault, had started to… melt.

It was subtle at first.

You no longer flinched when Minho looped your pinky in his for no reason while walking.

You had started texting first. Even dumb things—“Your shoelace was untied today. Fix your life.”

And Soonie.

That tiny demon with a food complex and a jealousy problem. The kitten you once side-eyed like he was a rat in disguise.

Now? You’d sneak treats into your hoodie pocket for him.

You let him curl against your legs when you studied.

You even whispered “don’t scratch me today, thanks” like he was your coworker.

Minho bounced into the studio with a wide grin, waving his brand-new tier DSLR camera like it was excalibur.

“Look what I got! Look at this beauty!”

You glanced up from the corner where you were editing some shots. You smiled faintly.

“New toy?”

“New future!” he beamed. “It cost, like, half my soul. But worth it, right?”

Jisung was at the coffee machine, suspiciously quiet.

You frowned.

“What happened?” you asked.

Minho turned to Jisung. “Tell her! Tell her how cool it is!”

Jisung stirred his coffee slowly.

Then turned to you with a plastic smile and said, “Oh nothing. He just sold Soonie, that’s all.”

Silence.

You blinked.

“What?”

Minho laughed awkwardly. “Not sold. he’s with a rich couple who love cats. he gets air-conditioning and filtered salmon! he’s living better than me!”

You stared at him.

“What if he doesn’t want that? What if he wants us? What if he waits by the alley for you every night?”

Minho hesitated. “I mean—he’s a cat, Y/N—”

You stood up slowly, eyes dark.

“Do you know how rich I am, Minho?”

Minho blinked. “Huh?”

“I’m rich. But rich isn’t everything.” Your voice cracked.

“I was dumb, Minho” you whispered, eyes burning. “Dumb to believe that for once someone could stay.”

Minho’s jaw tensed.

“Will you leave me the way you left Soonie?” you asked. “When you realize you can’t afford me?”

“No—”

“Will you give me away to someone richer too? Someone with more cameras? More tuna? Is that what love is for you? Just trade when you can’t provide?”

“Y/N, stop—”

“You’re stubborn, Minho. I know that. But you’re not responsible.”

His face went pale. His fingers twitched. His mouth opened and closed like he couldn’t find which sentence to start with.

But you were already turning.

6 months later.

You hadn’t planned to walk that way. Honestly, you thought he wouldn’t even remember. You were just tired after your exams, dragging your suitcase through the familiar streets after an exhausting train ride, the breeze crisp with cherry blossoms. The campus break was long this time—an extended semester with project work and portfolio submissions. You hadn't texted him once. You didn’t know what you’d say.

And yet, there he was.

Right where he used to wait. By the same platform where he took his first ever candid shot of you.

Standing awkwardly, like someone unsure if his love was still allowed. And in either arm, a cat.

You tried to turn. Tried to walk right past. Pretend the last six months hadn’t existed, that your heart didn’t skip and your lungs didn’t tighten.

But Soonie jumped off his arm. Ran right to you.

And you just—

You dropped your bag, crumbled to your knees, and wrapped your arms around the little furball.

he purred.

You buried your face in his fur and cried. Not hard, but like a kettle slowly releasing steam, soft sobs pressed into the tiny warmth of the cat that somehow meant everything.

“Hey,” came a familiar voice behind you.

You turned slightly.

Jisung.

He knelt beside you, smile small, soft, knowing.

“He brought him back that same night, you know?” Jisung said, brushing Soonie’s back like he was an old friend. “I went with him. The rich folks were mad, but he wouldn’t leave without him.”

Your lips parted.

Jisung leaned closer, whispering, “He didn’t sleep that night. He just sat with him and cried. Like a loser.”

You laughed wetly through your tears.

From behind you came the sound of a camera shutter.

Minho. Camera in hand.

You turned.

He lowered it slowly.

“I… I’ve been waiting to take that picture,” he said.

He took a few steps forward.

Then gently said, “I gave the money back. Every cent. The rich couple didn’t even need it, but I made sure they took it. And… this—” he lifted the DSLR in his hand, “—this one I bought with what I earned in six months.”

You stared at him. He looked different. Not drastically. But there was something in the way he stood. Still reckless. Still hopeful. But now…

PRESENT DAY – THE CAFE

“Then?” Hae-soo sniffled, mouth still blue from her butterfly lemonade, face flushed with stubborn tears. “Then what happened?”

Minho leaned forward. “After a long time, we got married, her mom didn't like it and then— you were born, she didn't want you, so she left. Thats what happened.”

Maybe because he said it so intently that you—unfortunately, imagined to be her mother as well and it just doesn't add up, why would she leave him? why would she—

Hae-soo sniffled, angry tears clinging to her lashes. “You’re not even my mom.”

Minho, calm but clearly frayed, crouched and tried to soothe her. “Hae-soo, don’t say that—”

“She left us” she sobbed. “She—” she started sobbing.

You tried to soothe her when she pushes your hands away, rude.

“I should go” you said softly. “She’s overwhelmed.”

Minho stood, lifting Hae-soo into his arms as she wiped her nose against his shirt.

“I’m… sorry, she did that because she imagined you as her mom, thats all” he said, voice thick.

Outside, you followed them—just a few steps behind.

As Minho tucked Hae-soo into her booster seat and adjusted her straps, you hovered awkwardly near the sidewalk, arms crossed tightly like they were holding something fragile inside you.

You stood awkwardly, hands wringing.

Then, with a quick glance, you said, “Please call me when she’s fine. I… I gave her my number. Just in case.”

Minho nodded once.

And then, just before he turned, he looked at you properly for the first time since he started telling that story.

Your eyes gave you away.

You hadn’t even realized you had water in your eyes.

He blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his own voice.

“Please…” he said, voice low “…don’t cry.”

“I don’t know why,” you said honestly, swallowing, brushing your face, “I just—when she cried like that… I just—”

Minho gave a tight nod, as if saying he understood.

he picked up Soonie, who was nuzzling shamelessly at your boots like he wanted to stay.

You looked up just as the car pulled away.

Just as he drove into a night you weren’t part of.

And the moment the taillights disappeared, you exhaled.

Your heart didn’t feel heavy.

It felt confused.

The driver pulls into your apartment complex.

Your co-pilot texts you. “Wheels up at 0400”

You look down at your phone, and find that message from a girl named “Hae-soo's dad” still sitting in your messages. It reads:

‘I hope you ride safe always. Please dont forget me. im soryy I behaved rude with you.’

You should forget her.

She’s not your child.

Minho stepped into the study, needing to distract himself from the sudden throb in his chest.

He dusted off his old laptop—the one he hadn’t touched in years, not since his early photography days, back when all his dreams still fit into unpaid gigs, coffee-fueled edits, and your laughter echoing in hallways.

The screen flickered to life with a gentle hum.

And then—his breath caught.

The wallpaper loaded slowly. A woman with a yellow umbrella in the rain.

A little blurred by time, but still there.

Still her.

Still you.

The Next Morning

The table was far too quiet for three people and a plate of kimchi pancakes.

Minho sat on one side of the table, sipping his black coffee without a word. Hae-soo had her spoon in her cereal, poking at the same soggy flake for the past seven minutes.

Across from them, Jisung blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then cleared his throat.

“So…” he said, drumming his fingers. “Y’all fighting or…?”

Nothing.

Hae-soo picked up one cornflake and stared at it like it had betrayed her.

Minho didn't even look up from his cup.

Jisung shifted in his seat. “Okay, cool. Cold war it is. Just say the word if we’re throwing nukes or eggs.”

Still nothing.

He tried again.

“Two breakfast diners walk into a silence—”

Ding-dong.

The doorbell cut through the room like an actual miracle.

“THANK GOD,” Jisung groaned, getting up and half-jogging toward the door. “It’s probably the mailman. Or even better—a traveling mariachi band here to save my sanity—”

He opened the door.

And froze.

His face went from peach to ghost-white in one second flat.

Standing in front of him was you.

Your pilot jacket was draped neatly over one arm, your hair pulled back in a casual ponytail. The sun bounced off your eyes just right—enough to make Jisung’s jaw fall slightly slack.

“Jisung?”

You tilted your head.

He blinked. “Y/N?”

His mouth opened and closed, he clutched his heart. “H-How do you know—”

You laughed gently. “Relax. When he told her about… her mom. I imagined the whole thing, you were very animated in my head.”

“Ohhh…” he said, hand on heart like a pigeon just flew into it. “That story. The traumatic memory-dumpster of a story. Cool. Cool cool cool cool.”

You laughed. “So how do you know me?”

And before he could answer, Minho appeared behind him, eyes wide and alarmed.

“Y/N?” he asked, already reaching for your elbow to gently usher you away from the doorway. “Why are you here?”

You held up the inhaler. “Hae-soo forgot this with me. She said she needed it every morning.”

Minho exhaled. “Right. Thanks.”

You hesitated. “Also... I promised her something last night. A small party. I’d like to take her out tonight. Just something light—ice cream, maybe a bakery stop. Kids' pilot-themed café I know in town.”

Minho stiffened. “No.”

Your brows lifted.

“I said no” he repeated, firm. “She’s not going.”

You blinked, surprised. “I’ll ask her myself, then.”

He stepped in front of you. “Y/N. No.”

You gave a dry smile. “Right. Okay.”

For one small second, he relaxed.

Then—bam. You slipped past him.

Straight into the house.

“Hae-soo!” you called.

She looked up from her cereal—and her entire face lit up.

“Y/N!!”

She scrambled down the chair, nearly knocking over her bowl.

You knelt to catch her as she jumped into your arms.

“I’m sorry for last night,” she said immediately, muffled into your shoulder. “Can I have your autograph again? I smudged the last one.”

You chuckled. “Of course.”

You pulled a pen from your bag and signed the back of the airline brochure on the table. She looked at it like it was a lottery ticket.

Meanwhile, Jisung stood there, quiet now, watching you in uniform, as you put your coat on the table.

But before the moment could soften—

“OH NO!” Hae-soo all but shouted.

Your eyes dropped to your coat.

Your very expensive, airline uniform blazer—

Now covered in chocolate cereal milk.

“Ah.”

Jisung let out a gasp like he was watching a historical tragedy unfold. “That jacket costs, like, what—?”

“About as much as your liver” you muttered, eyes wide.

Minho stood in the doorway, horrified, watching the entire chaos play out.

You slowly turned to Hae-soo.

She looked up at you, lower lip trembling. “I’ll give you all my pocket money for the next four years.”

Minho looked like he was about to cry.

The spill wasn’t a big deal.

At least, that’s what you kept saying out loud, even as you tried very hard not to cry over your extremely limited-edition, regulation-fit aircraft uniform jacket now looking like it’d been attacked by a milk monster.

You’d left it just for a moment. One second. But that was all it took.

“Oh my god—oh my god,” Jisung had been muttering in the background, pacing like you were about to detonate. “This is a government property situation. This is a uniform. Do we have insurance? Minho-hyung, do we have—”

You patted Hae-soo’s head when she looked up at you with eyes like shattered glass.

“I’ll tell my future kids never to touch cereal,” she mumbled solemnly.

Minho stood by, eyes locked onto the scene like he was trying to calculate damage control.

“I’m so sorry” she whispered again, panic in her little voice.

“Hey” you soothed, placing your hands on her cheeks. “It’s okay. No emergency. My assistant’s nearby. I’ll have her take it back to base.”

“You’re still… planning to take her out tonight?” Minho asked, voice quieter now. Less defensive. More guilty.

You stood. “Of course. It’s just a little cake-and-balloons party. She’s been looking forward to it.”

Minho hesitated.

Hae-soo looked up with wide, begging eyes.

He sighed. “Fine. Okay.”

You blinked. “Wait, really?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Just… text me the location. I’ll drop her.”

And with that, you waved goodbye and stepped out.

MINHO – FIVE MINUTES LATER

He slammed the laptop shut. Grabbed his wallet. Pulled out his phone.

“Jisung,” he said, not looking at him, “pack a bag.”

Hae-soo squealed. “Are we going to the party?”

“No. We’re going to Jeju. Iam not letting her go.”

Jisung almost choked on air. “WHAT?”

Minho’s eyes were steel. “Now. Tickets. Tonight. I don’t care how.”

Minho, Jisung, and Hae-soo touched down in Jeju just as the sun dipped into orange.

“Hyung” Jisung muttered, as he dragged two suitcases through the terminal. “You are either the most brilliant genius or the worst dad alive.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re actually fleeing the city just to avoid a children’s party. That’s commitment.”

Minho shot him a glare.

“I don’t want her… getting closer to someone who’s going to leave again.”

Hae-soo walked quietly between them, holding Minho’s hand.

She hadn’t cried. Not really.

But she hadn’t smiled, either.

“I wanted to go…” she mumbled. “She promised…”

Minho gently squeezed her hand. “We’ll have a party here. Beach cake. Balloon shells. Right, Jisung?”

“Yup,” Jisung forced cheer. “And��if we’re lucky—I’ll do the dolphin voice.”

Hae-soo blinked. “That’s a punishment.”

But then—

From the front of the arriving crew tunnel

You stepped out of the cockpit. In a new uniform. Hair neat, steps sharp.

Behind you trailed three assistants, a co-pilot, and a crowd of people. A few kids from the plane even rushed up asking for autographs, and you signed them all patiently.

Jisung turned slowly to Minho. “Did she just… pilot the plane we flew in?”

Minho grabbed Jisung’s sleeve. “Don’t make eye contact.”

But it was too late.

“Y/N!!”

Hae-soo wiggled out of Jisung’s arms and ran.

Straight to you.

You caught her effortlessly, lifting her off the ground with a laugh. “Whoa, whoa, what are you doing here?”

Her arms wrapped tightly around your neck. “I missed you!”

You blinked. A warm smile stretched across your face.

“I… missed you too, kid.”

Behind you, Jin-ah raised an eyebrow. “Captain. Are you collecting children now?”

“I have no idea what’s happening” you muttered, still smiling.

When you turned—still holding Hae-soo—your eyes met his.

Minho, dragging a suitcase, standing behind a wide-eyed Jisung, who looked like he’d seen two ghosts.

You stared at Minho.

He stared back.

Minho approached, defeated, Jisung trailing behind like a man being sent to the electric chair.

“Hi, I was just about to text you to postpone the party as I had an emergency flight. Such a pleasant surprise, right?” you said.

“Hi, yes, of course.” he sighed, still in shock.

By the time they reached the resort lobby, Hae-soo had already climbed into your arms again—legs swinging from your hips, arms around your shoulders like she belonged there. Like she had never belonged anywhere else.

You didn’t mind. You held her with the same careful balance that you used when taking over an aircraft in turbulence.

She fit.

Inside, the receptionist bowed and handed over keycards to Minho and Jisung.

Minho was still rattled, trying not to show it.

You saw it in the way his fingers flexed tightly around the handle of the suitcase. How his jaw twitched when Hae-soo tugged your jacket and said, “Y/N, will you stay for dinner too?”

You smiled gently at her. “Let’s see, hm?”

Jisung was still mumbling to himself like a conspiracy theorist. “We fly to Jeju to escape you, and somehow you pilot the actual plane. What kind of final destination sequel are we living in—”

Minho glanced sideways at you, then finally said it:

“So, uh. Where are you staying?”

You blinked. “Here.”

They stared.

“What, you mean here here?” Jisung narrowed his eyes. “This exact resort?”

You nodded, unfazed. “I own this resort.”

Both men blinked.

“You what.”

The days in Jeju were quieter than you expected.

Not quiet like loneliness. Quiet like… pause. The kind where time stretches gently between waves and sunlight, and suddenly, you don’t feel the rush to be anything but present.

Even the little girl, Hae-soo, had begun climbing your limbs like you were born to be her treehouse. Her curls often caught the wind, her laugh sometimes tangled in your jacket, and you had no idea how she’d managed to burrow under your skin so fast.

She liked pressing her cheek to your shoulder during sunsets. She liked hiding her whole face when she sneezed. She liked holding your pinky when she was sleepy.

You hadn’t realized how long it had been since you liked things.

You and Minho didn’t speak much at first.

Just greetings. Nods. Half-smiles when Hae-soo latched onto you like you were gravity.

But by the fourth evening, it was different.

There was a pillow and a striped mat spread out near the shore. Someone had brought snacks. Soonie kept switching laps like he couldn’t decide who was his favorite anymore.

And you… You weren’t in your uniform today.

You wore a soft white beach shirt, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, tucked into cream shorts. Your feet were bare. There was sand on your knees from where Hae-soo had pulled you down to build a pathetic sandcastle.

Minho was watching from the balcony for a while. It's just been so long since he's seen you in comfortable clothes.

“You know” you said, half-laughing as you wiped sunscreen off your nose, “I used to hate sand.”

Minho chuckled. “Still do?”

You shook your head. “No. Now I think I just hate wet socks.”

He smiled.

It wasn’t the kind that faded fast—it was the kind that stayed.

And the way the evening sun bounced off your cheekbones as you spoke about completely normal things, like airline food and your weird fear of inflatable animals, made something ache in his chest.

Jisung noticed it. Which is why he took Hae-soo away with a dramatic “I need help picking out beach sticks for tomorrow’s sand sculpture. Only you can help me, kid.”

She bolted. Because sugar. Because Jisung.

And then, it was just the two of you again.

Like before.

Like always.

You turned your face toward him, folding your legs on the mat.

“Can we be friends?” you asked softly. “Normal friends? I… want to be close to Hae-soo.”

Minho met your eyes, and for a moment he looked too young, too tired, too full.

“She makes everything else disappear,” you admit. “Things have been… hard at home.”

He blinked, nodded once, and gave you a smile so soft it almost broke.

“Yeah. Of course,” he said. “She already loves you.”

“She told me she wants to become a pilot” you added, laughing.

He grinned. “I’m doomed.”

The silence returned, warm like a blanket.

You picked at the loose thread on the pillow. “Your love story though… it doesn’t really… add up.”

He turned to you slowly.

He glances sideways, blinking more than once.

“We got married after a bit of.....issues,” Minho said softly. “Not much of a plan. Just… hope.”

You nodded, drawn in.

“Then,” he continued, “we fought a lot about kids. She wanted to wait. I didn’t want to. Then I apologized, said I’d wait however long. She changed her mind first.”

You smiled.

He chuckled. “Yeah. Then Hae-soo was born.”

Your eyes sparkled. “That part I do like.”

“But she had a condition. Cystic fibrosis.”

You froze for a second. “eh, wha—65 Roses?”

His head snapped toward you.

Minho chuckled—really chuckled—for the first time in a while.

“She said the same thing” he said. “My wife. The first time the doctors explained it to us.”

Your throat tightened.

“She cried for hours,” Minho continued, eyes unfocused. “Because she had it. Mild, but genetic. Blamed herself as Hae-soo's was an inherited one.”

You don’t interrupt.

“Then an accident happened... She was on a transplant list already, but… her lungs were too damaged, she had a lung transplant, but after the surgery, when I ran to her to show that they took Hae-soo out of the incubator and we can finally take her home, her mom stopped us and asked us to stay away because she doesnt remember anything, and trigerring any memory might be dangerous, and blah blah blah. we were out of her life for good.”

You know what he means even before he says it.

“Her mom told me never to come again. Said she wanted a divorce. Said she’d mentioned it before. But I don’t believe that part.”

He looks down and runs a thumb over his palm like he’s trying to erase a scar.

You nod slowly. Then reach behind your neck and gently pull your hair to the side.

“There was an accident,” you say. “For me, too.”

He looks at you then. Properly.

“I forgot everything. Woke up with stitches down the back of my neck. And dreams I don’t understand. Nothing else.”

He shifts closer on instinct, fingertips brushing the scar as you turn your back to him slightly. he traces the line gently, and he doesn’t speak. Just breathes.

“I used to have that too, that—65 roses, I never bother remembering how to pronounce it properly.” you add.

Minho lets out the softest hum. Of course you did, you were her mom.

“I still get weird dreams sometimes, no one at home tells me anything, dad's not even there, he's living somewhere else for his job.” you said, voice lighter than your bones felt.

Minho looked away and wiped at his eye quickly.

You pretended not to notice.

“So” you said after a pause. “It’s a good story.”

He looked at you.

You smiled. “Really. Wild.”

He didn’t answer, just looked at you.

Like he was staring at a house he built that someone else moved into.

He’d promised himself a hundred times over these past days: keep your distance. Let her live.

He told himself it wasn’t fair.

Not to her. Not to the life she’s built. Not to the new name she carries. Not to a woman who doesn't remember the ache he’s carried like bone-deep scar tissue.

But that night?

He came anyway.

He didn’t even realize he was walking out to the deck until he was already barefoot, jacketless, holding Soonie like a warm excuse.

You turned toward him. Just slightly.

“Why do you keep running away from me?” you asked, suddenly. “We talk. Then you disappear.”

He stiffened. “I don’t—”

“You do” you cut him gently.

He looked at you then.

And what he saw was terrifying.

Because you—wrapped in a blanket, in soft linen clothes, hair curling at the ends, with a teacup that smelled like ginger and sleep— looked exactly like you used to.

He’d sat too close. He’d let the cats crawl over the boundary he swore to keep. He’d let his shoulder brush yours. Let his silence feel like permission.

Because if he didn’t—

He might take your hand. He might press his forehead to your shoulder. He might cry and kiss you senseless.

Instead, he stood. Quietly.

“I should go check on Hae-soo,” he said, not meeting your eyes.

You nodded. “Of course.”

You were in a small, sun-warmed house. There was music playing faintly from a speaker in the corner. The light through the curtains was soft like milk, the smell of something fried was wafting through the air.

And you were laughing.

Because your belly was round and full and alive, And the man with the shorter hair, wearing the faded black shirt with oil paint on the sleeve, had his lips pressed to the skin just beneath your navel.

“Appa is talking,” he said in a baby voice.

You giggled. You couldn’t help it.

“Appa says,” he continued dramatically, “that he is going to buy a better, more expensive camera. One that captures even moonlight. One that—” he paused, kissing your bump again, “—will take your pictures till you're a grandma.”

You reached down and carded your fingers through his hair.

“I’ll buy it for you.”

“I want to earn it,” he said, seriously this time. “I want her to see how her father chased dreams like a maniac for her and her mother.”

“You’re dramatic” you whispered.

He looked up at you and smiled, still resting his cheek against your belly.

You sighed.

“You know… one day, we should visit a glowing beach” you said softly.

He blinked up at you. “What’s that?”

“Some beaches glow sometime. Because of bioluminescent algae. It’s beautiful. Like… the sea turning into stars.”

Minho sat up slightly, eyes flickering with interest. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Wherever it glows.”

“Take a photo.”

“Take a hundred.”

Then he leaned forward and kissed you.

And you woke up.

Next morning, Hae-soo's birthday.

Balloons were being tied to beach umbrellas. Jisung was running around yelling about cake sizes and blowing a whistle to “control the chaos.” And you?

You were kneeling in front of a beaming Hae-soo, handing her a gift wrapped in blue.

“A walkie-talkie set?” she gasped.

You smiled. “Five of them. You said you don't have a phone to talk to me, so....”

“YES!” she yelled, throwing her arms around your neck. “Y/N, you’re the coolest!”

“One for you, one for me, one for Minho, one for Jisung…” you said, ticking your fingers.

“And one for Soonie!” she shrieked.

“Obviously.”

The cat was less impressed but allowed the small device to be strapped across his chest like a soldier reporting for duty.

“Testing! Captain Hae-soo to Y/N!”

You picked yours up. “Come in, Captain.”

“I like the gift, Over” she said, nodding officially.

You saluted back. “Roger that. Over.”

Your heart felt like it had found a piece of itself you didn’t know was missing.

That evening, after cake and sparklers and a round of musical chairs where Minho was forced to join by Hae-soo and got beaten by a seven-year-old, you were sitting again.

You were still in your light summer dress—hair pulled back with one of Hae-soo’s birthday clips—and Minho was beside you, knees drawn up, resting his chin on them.

“I’m getting married next week” you said casually.

You continued, voice gentler. “He’s a doctor. Very kind. Works a lot, but good with kids. Kind of introverted. I think Hae-soo will like him.”

“Right,” Minho said, clearing his throat. “That’s… good.”

One more week and I'm out of your life.

Minho’s jaw flexed once before he nodded. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

There was a long pause.

You traced circles on your knee, voice dropping softer. “Lately though… I’ve been getting this feeling.”

“What kind?”

“The kind that makes you afraid of things you were once sure of.”

Minho turned his head slowly, watching you. “Marriage?”

You nodded.

His hand hovered, then gently rested on your shoulder.

“You’ll be okay,” he said softly.

You smiled a little. “Do you think some people are just… cursed when it comes to love?”

He doesn't answer.

The evening rolled on.

The mat was shifted closer to the patio lights of the resort as darkness deepened. More people had joined—other vacationers from the hotel who had been enchanted by Hae-soo’s megawatt charm. There were conversations and soft music, some light dancing, and even a small talent show put on by a pair of kids from Busan.

At some point, Jisung took a yawning Hae-soo inside—her walkie-talkie now crackling unintelligible static from Soonie sitting on the windowsill.

You saw from the corner of your eye, Minho leaving somehwere else with his camera and a tripod.

your mind drifted…back to that dream.

You follow him, to see him setting up the tripod, near the shore on the side where it was alone and dark. The camera clicks softly into place, and he sits down beside it, drawing his knees up, arms resting loosely.

You stand for a while before sinking down next to him.

He doesn’t look at you.

His eyes are distant, somewhere far away.

“For a man with a camera,” you said softly, “you sure pick the loneliest angles.”

He exhaled, just a little. Not quite a chuckle. “Some rare nights, the sea glows blue,” he said, adjusting a dial. “Because of bioluminescent algae.”

“Oh?” You tilted your head, a bit intrigued. “Tonight’s one of them?”

“Maybe,” he murmured. “If I fall asleep, I’ll miss it. And I can’t miss it.”

You looked at him, the hard line of his jaw, the mess of his bangs above one eyebrow.

“So you’ll just sit here?”

“Yeah.” he said.

“Did your wife say that? about the glowing algae?” you whispered.

He finally looked at you.

Then nodded.

Then you shift a little closer, arms brushing.

“She must’ve been wonderful,” you whisper. “How did she look?”

His breath caught.

“You must’ve taken pictures, right?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“None at all?”

His jaw tightened.

“Show me please, Just one?”

He stood. Picked up the camera. Moved five paces away, into the darker part of the shore, where the sand had different shades.

You sat still. Then called, “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to. I just—”

He hesitates. A moment too long. You go to him, he lets you sit next to him.

Moments ticked by.

“No, wait,” you said, voice trembling yet firm. “At least describe her.”

Again, he stands.

Again, he starts walking away—further this time, past the rocks, toward another curve of sand.

You shoot up, brushing off your shorts.

“Hey! I said I’m sorry, okay?! I won’t ask again!”

But he doesn’t stop.

You frown.

“What? You forgot how she looks like? Is that it?” You yell after him, tone sharp, a little mean, desperate in its ache. “I bet you did!”

He turned slowly. Walked over. Eyes blazing.

You were good at rage-baiting.

He was close. Too close.

“No,” he said, through gritted teeth.

“Then what? Tell me.”

He looked angry, looking at the beach once more before saying;

“She had pretty small eyes.”

You smiled—victory glinting, cheeks coming out to hide your eyes. But then he looked at you. Not just at you, into your eyes.

“And her smile… it made her cheeks puff. Her eyes would disappear. Like moons.”

Your smile softened.

He pointed to a particular shade of sand.

“Her skin was… like this.”

You looked down. He looked at you.

He wasn’t angry anymore.

“And no matter how irked I was,” he murmured, “Just looking at her would make me feel good. She was a heart-melting sight.”

You let that sink in, a soft warmth blooming.

His voice is gentler now, almost fond.

“She used to wear this black dress sometimes… it looked like she smeared all the night sky on herself—” he smiles softly.

You blink slowly.

His eyes find yours again.

“After a shower, she wouldn’t dry her hair properly. Let it fall… wet and wavy, all hair on one side. She'd probably do it on purpose...”

He says while showing with his own hands, how she'd move her hair to one shoulder.

You can’t look away from him.

Then he pointed to your cheek. “There was a mole right here.”

Your eyes flickered.

“She hated it sometimes. I told her it was the full stop that ended all my sentences.”

Suddenly blue illuminates his face, he turns to the beach as you still stared at his face.

And then he gestures to the sea—and this time, finally, finally—it glows.

Tiny specks of blue. Like fireflies caught in water. The waves shimmer with bioluminescence, dancing in motion where the foam rolls, painting the dark sea electric. Glowing.

He whispers, comes closer.

“She looked as pretty like that.”

You look at the beach and gasp, then smile wide. Full. Bright. Honest.

He takes in your reaction and sniffs once. The glowing blue bounces off his face, making his cheekbones shimmer.

He turns back to the camera, hiding the way he wipes at his eyes.

Click.

A few photos. He doesn’t speak.

You step beside him, the light kissing both your faces.

“You know” you say softly, watching the glowing water, “I feel like… I might fall in love with her too.”

He doesn't answer.

Just stares through the viewfinder a few seconds longer, finishes the last photo.

And then, without a word, he picks up the tripod, packs it away, slings the camera over his shoulder, and walks ahead.

You follow, and the laughter of people drifts from the resort’s direction. Music. Someone yelling about night drinks.

You're not even that drunk. Not really.

Okay, maybe the room is tilting a little. And okay, maybe Minho’s voice is way too loud for someone sitting right next to you. But you are definitely, totally, completely in control of your memory.

“You fellow” Minho slurs dramatically, pointing at your face, eyes squinty and full of betrayal, “You deleted all your past and I’m the one suffering!”

You blink. “Whaaaat?”

“She’ll remember tomorrow, hyung,” Jisung chips in from the floor, where he’s cross-legged and nursing a half-finished bottle of soju like it’s a baby. “I read somewhere. Like dreams. You forget when you wake up—unless it's traumatic. So just traumatize her.”

“That’s not even—”

“She won’t remember!” Minho declares over you, gripping your shoulder, and shaking you hard. “You won’t, don’t lie! You’re lying!”

“I DAMN well will!” you shoot back, poking him right in the chest.

He gasps. “Huh? What?! HUH??” He turns to Jisung, then back to you, dramatic as ever. “Your mom ruined my liiiiife, maaah liiiiife—”

“What are you talking about?” you shout over his howling, eyes wide.

Minho lunges forward, grabs your shoulders again, very seriously this time. “You’ll remember this tomorrow?”

You nod, aggressive. “Yeah!”

“Okay. Wait.” He holds a finger up in front of your face like a magician about to perform a trick. “Wait five seconds. Just five. Count with me. Five—”

“Four—” you mumble, narrowing your eyes.

“Three, two, ONE!” he finishes, then leans in way too close. “Now. What did you say five seconds ago?”

“What?”

He smacks his own forehead and falls backward onto the mat. “SEE?! YOU DON’T REMEMBER FIVE SECONDS AGO. What’ll you remember about a whole night ago, huh?”

Jisung starts laughing so hard he chokes on his own spit and ends up coughing violently.

You glare between both of them, rage bubbling up with the alcohol. “Idiots! Idiots, both of you! You had a great-ass love story! You idiot! I imagined being your wife, stupid! It’s all—stupid! Now I can’t—I’ve never—I mean sure I’ve never, but now I can’t even try to like my fiancée!”

Minho stares at you, mouth parted.

You gasp. “And I dreamt of being pregnant! With you! And I was telling you about some algae and you were crying and—ugh!” You dramatically flop onto the mat next to Minho.

“Did she say algae?” Jisung whispers.

Minho just murmurs, “Pregnant…” and then, like some puppet with cut strings, collapses beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

And that’s how all three of you pass out on a woven mat that smells faintly of the sea and seaweed snacks.

The Next Morning

There’s a rustle. Then a groan..

Minho's head hurts. His shirt is crooked. And your forehead is tucked right against the curve of his throat, breathing slow, arm accidentally draped across his waist.

“Bro…” Jisung whispers, already awake, staring. “She’s like… still asleep. But real question: is she actually remembering stuff or nah?”

Minho’s quiet. His arm’s around your shoulder, and he didn’t even realize until just now. Carefully, he tucks a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, like he’s done a hundred times in the past, and yet, not recently at all.

Jisung’s eyes light up. “Hyung. You can be together again. Right? You. Her. Hae Soo. Like, actually happy.”

Minho lets out a soft scoff. “No chance. Yesterday night I was at the beach. I took photos. Must’ve triggered something. That’s all.”

Jisung’s still sparkly-eyed, like some anime character full of hope and tragedy.

“She’s getting married next week.”

Jisung’s jaw drops. “WHAT?!”

He SCREAMS it, like a banshee’s final cry—enough to wake the entire resort and possibly startle a few birds off palm trees.

Your eyes fly open. Minho freezes. Jisung clamps his hands over his mouth.

Jisung is still whisper-screaming into his palms: married next week? MARRIED NEXT WEEK??

[trickclouds]

Niko my beloved

My sweet summer child ❤ 🥞

[yoyieland]

💙💚

[keopihaus]

Grab a cup of coffee and settle in—newly added: sleepless in busan by @shinysobi

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon. 

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched. 

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it. 

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step. 

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.  

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid. 

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s  important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes. 

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response. 

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight. 

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it. 

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing. 

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.” 

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were. 

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.” 

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself. 

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things. 

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.” 

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying. 

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine. 

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument. 

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one. 

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately. 

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls. 

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate. 

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has  the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not. 

We do not speak for the rest of the night. 

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right. 

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don’t, that’s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.” 

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now. 

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

 Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?” 

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope. 

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong. 

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure. 

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too. 

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything. 

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch. 

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth. 

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh. 

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s. 

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month. 

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout. 

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words. 

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head. 

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her. 

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university? 

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea. 

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane. 

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway. 

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared. 

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan. 

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking? 

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul. 

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in. 

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family. 

Either way, I miss it. 

Before I can stop myself, I send a text. 

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January. 

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting. 

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing. 

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

—

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself. 

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date. 

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops. 

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money. 

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her. 

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous. 

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks. 

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message. 

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things. 

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now. 

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi. 

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up. 

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju. 

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday. 

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family. 

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much. 

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well. 

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in. 

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced. 

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has. 

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him,  do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it. 

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most. 

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her. 

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it. 

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it. 

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I  say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why  I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship. 

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving. 

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in. 

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up: 

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,”  I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

—

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies. 

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know.  It’s better this way. 

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts. 

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really. 

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

 I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now. 

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this. 

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan. 

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it. 

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed. 

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon. 

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date. 

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot. 

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space. 

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement. 

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago: 

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. 

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already. 

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand. 

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move. 

—

I wish I never came here. 

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances. 

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now. 

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh? 

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!” 

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful. 

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much. 

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've  been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it. 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now. 

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps. 

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show. 

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words. 

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place. 

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken. 

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu. 

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once. 

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells. 

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm            specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it. 

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand. 

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy. 

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders. 

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them. 

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

 A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!” 

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not. 

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.” 

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath,  “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—

[tinytennisskirt]

A Chaotic Reunion: Part One

Pt 1 Summary: You and Art were childhood best friends who grew apart. It's been about five years since you saw him in the flesh, but you run into each other at the club and make plans to catch up. It's good to rekindle, but maybe this time around things are starting to feel different.

Warnings: mentions of drinking

You and Art had been best friends as kids. Every moment from 4-12 was spent playing together. Sometimes girl things, sometimes boy things. Most times shared things, like pirates or thieves or creek monsters. You’d roll around the neighbourhood together every day, swinging from tire swings and buying corner store popsicles and a kiss on the cheek every now and then. At 4 you’d promised to get married. And it was pure and simple and so much fun.

You were at his house every day that he wasn't with you at yours. But after Art left for school, the correspondence was a lot harder. And as you both grew, you grew even further apart. Your best friend and next door neighbourhood was becoming someone new. And you were too, but differently. You had braces for a while that were the wrong colour, you cut your hair badly a few times.

Art came home sometimes for Christmas but all you’d get was a hi on the sidewalk if you managed to catch him. It was just different. And then he stopped coming back altogether around fifteen- and at eighteen you moved across the country for school. So you wouldn’t even get a glimpse on the driveway anyways.

You were content and doing what you love. Then came nineteen, then twenty, then twenty one. You’d settled in your looks, finally feeling a bit normal. You had an apartment with your best friends in a cool area, you had a good job, and you were finally of legal drinking age.

You and your roommates decided one night to get cute and hit the club downtown instead. So you went, cute outfit, cute hair, eye makeup perfect and on point. Talking about work ceased, conversations about possible tattoos and past flings ensued. You and your roommates had a great night drinking and dancing. You all hit the dance floor, pushing touchy men away from each other and enjoying the music, the lights. You and one of your roommates were spinning, dancing around each other and you took a misstep and spun right into someone.

His chest was hard, but his hands were surprisingly soft as his they gently gripped your upper arms to steady you. “I’m so sorry,” you said, backing up and recalibrating. It was loud, the bass of the music thumping through your feet and purple, pink, and blue lights. You brushed your hair out of your face and looked up to a face that you knew. An older version of a face you knew.

You recognized him, just barely. Cheekbones carved out, jawline sharp, nose perfect, blonde hair a mess, eyes still sleepy, but just about as wide as yours. His hands stayed on your upper arms. “Y/N?”

“Art, oh my god!” You laughed. He grinned and immediately it was like you two weren’t without talking for years. He wrapped his arms around you and the chest you bumped into, you were now pressed against. You backed up, staying close. “How are you?!” You asked over the music. He couldn’t hear you, he leaned closer to your mouth to hear. “How are you?” You asked again.

He smiled, face inches from yours so you could hear. “I’m good! I’m okay, how are you?”

Your focus shifted- He was much taller, his hair was much longer, and he was… gorgeous, quite frankly. You blinked hard, “I’m doing okay, I’m just here with my roommates what are you doing here?”

“I’m in town for tennis,” he replied. “You live here?”

“I do!” You answered.

“That’s amazing, what have you been up to?” You two were about to catch up in the middle of the dance floor. You wondered who he was here with. He followed your wandering eyes- “We should probably go off to the side-“

You chuckled, “For sure!” And walked a bit ahead of him to the not-much-quieter bar section. His hand grazed your waist once or twice as you both pushed through the crowd. You hated that you noticed it.

You sat yourself at one of the smaller booths. You didn’t need another drink. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

He shook his head, smiling at you without end, “Me neither, I-“ he shook his head. “It’s been years, you look… different.”

“Is it the boobs?” You tease, looking down. You look back up to see his eyes trained down, then immediately snapping back to meet your own. You smile knowingly.

“No, uh-“ he noticed, rubbed his neck sheepishly. “You’re older, your hair is less… light and you look- you look really pretty.”

“So do you,” you replied immediately. It wasn't like you didn't mean it- he was pretty. The image of him as your childhood best friend was no longer forefront. He was pretty- he was quite gorgeous. He smiled a crooked grin, something that was cute on a kid, but now it was just… hot. The way his cheek creased to one side of his smile. You leaned forward, elbows on the table. He looked surprised to hear you say it.

���I-uh-“ he looked down, long eyelashes of his fluttering a bit. The word 'pretty' bounced around your head looking at him. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was the three drinks you’d had. “Thank you,“ His eyes met yours again. He looked like he was trying not to smile so big. “So what have you been up to?”

He was cute, changing the topic. You were allowed to think so, “I went to school for art history, gallery organization. I have a job in that now- I’m a gallerist. And that takes up a lot of my weekdays, but I have a lot of time to myself in the evenings and I own my gallery, so I don’t even have to go into work if I don’t want, it’s pretty flexible. I work with my roommates, which is also perfect. And we have similar hours so we spend a lot of time together but they’re my best friends.”

“Wow, that’s- amazing. I had no idea you were so successful, that’s crazy.” He looked almost shy for a 21 year old. Like there was anything to be shy about. “Is the gallery local?"

You smiled and nodded, "Not far from here at all."

"I'd love to visit, could I come by? Is that a stretch?”

“Not at all, we’re open until 9pm tomorrow so you can come in at anytime. I’ll be there.” You offered. You were flattered. “I’d love that. What have you been up to?”

“Just tennis, mostly. I'm here with a friend actually, he plays too. It's all just Stanford and tournaments. I wish I had a success story that fulfilling I’m still-“

“Are you kidding?” You interrupted. “Sorry I’m interrupting but I’ve followed your tennis career and you’re amazing. You’re really good.”

You wondered if he looked away because of a flush to his face. You swore you could make one out. “Thank you. I meant more like a settle-down type of success but tennis means travel and it’s a bit hard to settle when you’re constantly moving.”

“Oh, I see. That makes sense. I’m still amazed, though. I watched your most recent match on YouTube, you were going crazy. I’m not surprised you’re getting all these deals and sponsorships, you are amazing at what you do. Not many people can say that.”

“I’m no gallerist,” he grinned that crooked grin again, his face lit pink by the club lights.

You rolled your eyes with a grin, “Okay…”

"I'm just saying..." he teased. "Tennis is great but selling art to pretentious rich people who probably don't understand the real value of an art piece takes a lot more skill."

"Oh, you wouldn't imagine the assholes we deal with sometimes," You chimed. "You're very right, it takes a lot of patience."

He nodded with that gorgeous grin that stayed on his face. "You remember the art my parents used to have?"

"Oh the weird twisty 3D tree art?" You laughed. He chuckled too and rubbed his eyes. "I remember scraping my arm on it running past."

"The worst," He grimaced at the thought. "They were pretentious art-buyers who didn't care what they were purchasing. Nothing matched, they just liked having it. I'm pretty sure they told fake stories about it too."

You grimaced at that point, "I think I remember hearing one of those at your mom's barbeques. Not sure how I remember, but I think I do. It was about the lemon lady in the bathroom and how-"

"It was haunted," He finished your sentence. You both laughed. "She would tell it in front of me like it didn't scare me to go near that painting for the next ten years. I would always go to the upstairs bathroom no matter what." You both kept laughing, it was silly to remember such simple things. Easy. "Naming me Art wasn't enough?"

He was still sweet. "I guess not." And there was a moment of silence, even in the loudness of the club. His eyes stayed trained on yours, you wondered if he was taking in all the changes, discarding the mental image of who you'd used to be the way you had been discarding the mental image of how you used to see him. Tennis videos of him reminded you, but the image never stuck until now. He was here, sitting opposite of you, eyes still locked. God, he was so gorgeous it almost hurt to look at him.

You both noticed the staring and the 'silence' simultaneously, it seemed. He snapped out of it, and so did you.

“It’s good to know you’re doing well.” He said. “Wrong to say I've missed you?"

“You could have called,” you replied, poking the back of his hand as it rested on the table.

“So could you,”

“I didn’t know you missed me.” You said, shrugging. He nodded like it was fair with a small smile pulling at his lips. You fought the same smile. “But I’ve been proud of you from afar.”

He covered his face, peeking through his fingers before speaking, “I wish I could say the same, but from now on, I promise I am.” You grinned. “I'd love to catch up more while I'm here- Could I come by your gallery? Maybe around 10? When do you open?”

“Eleven,” you smiled. “Rich people who buy art are people who sleep in. But ten is perfect. You’re going to think I’m crazy, but yes I keep these on me when I’m at the club.” You reached into your bag and pulled out a business card with the address. He took it no hesitation and put it in his pocket immediately.

Your arm was tapped by one of your girlfriends, Shailene. “Hey, Y/N, Julie had one too many shots and I'm taking her home, are you coming?" She asked.

“Oh no- yes.” You closed your bag and sat up a little straighter. This booth had become your own little corner of the world.

“I’m sorry for interrupting- ooh, he’s cute.” Art could hear her. She was a great deal louder than you were willing to be and a few more drinks in than you.

“I- yeah,” you nodded. You turned to Art, “I’m so sorry, I have to go, but I’ll see you tomorrow! It was so good seeing you! I can’t believe you’re here.”

“No, you’re good,” he chuckled. “It was good to see you too, really. I’ll see you tomorrow. 10am,” he grinned his crooked grin. You squeezed his hand as you got up and followed your roommate out.

“Who was that?” She asked as you waved a cab.

“An old friend of mine,” you replied. “My old next door neighbour.”

“He’s gorgeous, girl. Looked familiar though... I hope you’re seeing him again, I didn't mean to drag you away."

You chuckled, “I am, I am. And don't worry about it." And as the taxi pulled up and you three piled into the taxi together, you were thinking about him. His grin, how he'd grown into his features, his hair, his eyes, his grin. He had a gorgeous grin. You yourself found yourself smiling at the thought. And you'd see him tomorrow.

(Part Two Here)

- masterlist

[puhpandas]

Rabbit Burrow

(5180 words) part 2 (1 found here)

Tony Becker, one year after surviving the attack from GGY, tracks down Gregory post-SB. But he has to get through Vanessa and Freddy before he can get to Gregory.

Its only after Tony has run through the interaction with Vanessa ten times over that he realizes she never told him how she knows Gregory.

He'd been nothing but restless since she left. His eyes have been darting to and from the digital clock on the end table on the other side of arm of the couch, and his brain has been so scattered, all he can focus on is the awaiting reunion.

The baking show has long since switched to a new episode since he last checked the TV. Tony's worried that at this point, his fingers will start bleeding if he keeps picking at them like this.

The only saving grace in a long chunk of nothing-but-anticipation is when Tony's phone buzzes at 6:01pm, right when he had started to gather his thoughts and began plan out the reunion in his head like remembering a speech.

Ellis: dude where r u????

Ellis: yr mom said u arent home and she keeps asking me if ur with me and where u r

All Tony does is sigh. He cant even find it in him to feel bad that his Mom and Grandma are probably worried. All he can think about is how his arms are shaking and his stomach feels floaty.

He types back with thumbs that have peeling skin on the edge of the fingernails.

Tony: Remember how I covered for you that one time?

Tony: I need you to cover for me. If you need to tell her that I'm with you and I'm staying over do that. I just need any excuse.

Ellis: yea i remember but why?

Ellis: if a guy covers for u u can at least tell him what the deal is

Tony: I'm doing something really important. I can't tell you all the details yet.

Tony: I just need you to trust me. Please. It'll help me out a lot, Ellis.

Tony: I promise I'll make it up to you next time you need something.

Ellis: dude didnt know it was that important

Ellis: dont worry then. u know i can tell a mean lie when i need to

Tony: Dude thanks. That's a big relief. It wont be in vain.

Ellis: my services will not be for free tho

Ellis: i will need something in return

Tony: What do you want?

Ellis: for u to buy me a cookie next time i see u at lunch

Tony finds it in him to roll his eyes at that. He smiles a bit, and right as he goes to send back I'll buy you two, Freddy Fazbear makes some sort of clunking sound.

Its enough to make his already fluttery heart clench and himself almost fly off of the couch. He jerks and yelps and can only stare Freddy Fazbears black eyelids phwip open, and his pupils glow..

They're blank, though, like they're on but Freddy himself isnt. His body whirs and shifts slowly, as if running a diagnostic, and after his ears wiggle, theres a clear difference.

Tony just sits rigid as a board with eyes wide as saucers as Freddy doesnt notice him right away. He just takes the jump cables off of his ears and sets them on the carpet, and moves his torso to face the window.

Which Tony is blocking. Since hes on the couch sitting directly next to the animatronic.

Theres a staring contest with a distinct lack of breathing for all but a few moments, before the small black plastic pieces that are Freddys eyebrows tilt downwards.

"Wait wait wait!" Tony holds out his hands, but Freddy doesnt get off the couch and attack him like his fears. Freddys eyes dont leave his once, and it reminds him too much of those few times Freddy would stare him down and be hot on his heels in the Pizzaplex during the GGY debacle.

Freddy pauses, not even so much as twitching as he burns an LED hole into him. Tony tries to get over the unease and stutters out, "Um, Vanessa trusts me. I talked to her. She told me to stay here."

For a fleeting moment, Tony believes he somehow said the wrong thing and that Freddy is now going to grab him and beat him into a pulp like he feared back at the Pizzaplex all that time ago. But during the rigid silence, the glow in Freddys eyes flickers for half a second, and some sort of beeping sound emits from a hidden speaker.

"I have just contacted her." Freddy finally breaks the tension, and Tony sighs at how his voice does not sound aggressive. In fact, Freddy hadn't spoken at all when Tony had been afraid of him last year. "You are telling the truth... my apologies."

"Theres no issue." Tony manages when Freddy looks so undoubtedly apologetic theres no doubt that he's not genuine. He scratches the back of his neck. "...I guess I wouldnt be too keen on a stranger being in my house when I wake up either."

"Yes," Freddy nods, and his ears bob at the motion. Theres a split second of silence where the baking show Tony hasn't caught a single second of is the only noise in the room. "so that begs the question; why are you here?"

Tony jerks. "What?"

"You are a stranger in my house, like you said." Freddy points out, not unkindly. "I would appreciate knowing why. Even if you already went over it with Vanessa."

"Oh. Well. I dont know what all Vanessa told you, but... I'm here for Gregory."

Freddy doesnt immediately turn distrustful or wary like Vanessa had. Probably because he already knows Tony is a friend. "She said you were an old friend of his." Freddy confirms. His "So, you are the boy Gregory talks to much about."

Tony doesnt really know how to respond to that. He grabs a fold of fabric from the arm of his jacket in-between his fingers. "Uh...yeah."

"I'm sure you've already talked to Vanessa. So I wont beat around the bush." Freddy says. "But Gregory has tried so hard to remember you."

Tony brows furrow. "...She said he has dreams sometimes. And that's how he knows I-- we exist."

"Yes." Freddy nods."But she probably did not tell you that he tries to figure out what reminded him of you, so he can continue to keep dreaming."

Tony's eyes widen, and he picks at his fingers. No. Vanessa did not mention that. She said nothing about Gregory actively searching for Tony around his life to see him in his dreams.

Freddys LED eyes dim, and his ears and eyelids droop in a clear sign of upset. "It breaks my heart. To see Gregory try to gather the broken pieces of his memories." His eyes stare at the couch cushion below them, before they dart up to look him in the eye. "You were obviously very important to him, if he searches like this."

"He is to me too." Is all Tony can manage. He's suddenly getting a sense adjacent to deja vu.

"Its clear that he is." Freddy is still looking him in the eye, but somehow, Tony feels like he's smiling at him. "If you came all this way to see him."

And he really did come a long way, didnt he? He took a bus to a different county. He spent hours and hours scouring the internet for any mention of Greg after he suddenly up and went missing as soon by the time Tony had recovered enough to look for him.

Greg has searched too, apparently. Tony cant help but be aware of. Even after losing his memories.

"What is your name?" Freddy suddenly asks him.

"Tony Becker." Tony answers easily. "I guess he doesnt remember my name, huh?"

"No. But he has tried. Believe me when I say that." Freddy says. "He wants to know more about his life before what happened more than anything."

"...You think he'll be happy to see me?"

"There is no doubt, Tony Becker."

The last time he had seen Greg, it was in a dusty back room with a knife in his back.

But despite that, it isnt what Tony thinks when he thinks Greg. When he thinks of Greg, he thinks of the sleepovers and the days Greg would show up at school one day with his hair different lengths. He thinks about how He, Greg, and Ellis would Vs. eachother on the air hockey machine. He thinks about the stories they'd come up with in creative writing.

When he thinks of that afternoon at the Pizzaplex, he doesnt think Greg. He thinks GGY. Maybe its that first inkling of separation that got him here.

Theres been a stretch of silence while Tony soaked it in. The rain outside has slowed, and the sun peeking through the gray clouds shines through the window, white lines on the coffee table like the blinds are a stencil.

"But the truth is... I do not think Vanessa feels the same." Freddy suddenly says. "She wants to protect him from the awful memories. I do not have to deal with them like she does, but I assume they... that they haunt her."

His ears droop. "I believe that she does not want Gregory to have to as well."

"So shes trying to keep them from him?" Tony asks, a brow raised. "But that's his choice, isn't it?"

"That is how I feel." Freddy agrees, looking at him again. It's starting to become less uncomfortable. "Listen, Tony Becker. I may not know for sure, but I feel that Vanessa is afraid to let you near Gregory. Seeing you will make him remember so much."

His mind immediately jumps to a thousand implications at that."If shes scared, what does that mean?" He asks. "She'll make me leave? She'll change her mind?"

"I do not think so." Freddy assures. "But my point is that she has been trying for so long to keep Gregorys memories under wraps. It is not with malice, but this is why I ask you this."

"Gregory has long since chosen to remember, even if Vanessa does not want him to." Freddy says havent left his once, and Tony doesnt look away, either. Freddys pupils suddenly appear brighter in a way when he speaks again, "To keep them from him after he has already made his choice would be cruel. Which is why I would like you to help him, Tony Becker."

Tony hasnt forgotten how Greg fought for him that day at the Pizzaplex. He hasnt forgotten how all that mattered was Tony escaping. Not if Greg would get in trouble. Not if something would happen to him.

Gregory has, though. Greg has forgotten a lot of things.

But if seeing Tony in danger that fateful afternoon made him remember himself enough to fight, and win against mind control?

Tony can fight for Greg's memories, too. Even if it takes another year.

"He deserves to remember his old life." Freddy says. "Vanessa has told me that his parents are dead. Any life he had before is nothing but a faint memory." He hums, melancholy. "But it's one I want him to remember."

Me too Tony almost says. Because all Tony has wanted throughout this last year is his friend back.

"Greg was one of my best friends." Tony says quietly, eyes downcast. He counts the threads in the couch cushion. "I want him to remember me and Ellis and... everything. It's why I'm here."

"I have not been able to help him, no matter how much I've wanted to." Freddy responds, sounding sad. "But I am glad you are here. Now Gregory truly has a chance of obtaining what hes been chasing for so long."

"Me too." Tony replies, not knowing which exactly hes responding too.

"So," Freddy pauses. "what do you say?"

"I'll do it." Tony responds immediately. "But... I just have to ask. Why do you trust me so much? Vanessa wouldnt even tell me anything until I answered her riddles."

Freddy hums. "It is exactly as you said." Freddy answers. "You earned Vanessa's trust. So in turn you have earned my trust. I trust Vanessa to trust you."

Tony doesnt respond, for a moment, just taking that in.

The amount of faith you have in someone to trust them that much. To know you can rely on them. To have no doubt...

Tony glances at the hallway he can see just over the back of the couch and down the hall into the room with the slightly open door, with the pens and pencils and bed and desk, and wonders how tightly wound the people in this house are with eachother.

"...Then I'll return the favor." Tony smiles. "You're friends of Greg's, and, well... I was friends with him, once upon an time. And he still seems to think so." He holds out a hand. "Any friend of Greg's is a friend of mine."

Freddys ears wiggle, and his eyelids come up in a way that make him look overjoyed. "Any friend of Gregory's is a friend of mine." Freddy repeats, shaking Tony's hand. "We are in this together, now. We will have to be there for Gregory if he remembers not so great things."

"And for the great things." Tony smiles, going over the few months worth of memories of their three amigos friendship he has in his head. "Its worth it, I think."

After all, if Tony's found a way to seperate killer Greg with his Greg, then he thinks Gregory probably can as well.

"I'm glad we have that settled." Freddys ears wiggle, and his eyes do that dimming thing again for half a second. "Because Vanessa has just contacted me and let me know that she is almost back with Gregory."

He makes some sort of choking noise. Theres a thousand things on the tip of Tony's tongue in seconds. His eyes blow wide as saucers, and he twists his back to look at the clock that reads 6:34.

He immediately feels like someone dumped a bucket of ice water on his head. He stutters, trying to gather his thoughts, and eventually gets out "How long?!"

"Soon." Freddy smiles. "It wont be long, now. It seems all the work you've done has paid off."

Tony cant find it in him to move his mouth after that. Just too rigid. It feels like theres electricity buzzing up his skin and a wildfire in his chest. It feels like he cold start floating like a balloon at any moment.

He doesnt respond to Freddy, after that. He just twists his body to face the front door (his back twinges. maybe he shouldn't slouch over his laptop and desk so much) and waits.

A few minutes is nothing in the grand scheme of things. Not really when its put up against the year he's taken to track Greg down. But its somehow more agonizing waiting now when he knows Greg is in arms reach, instead of it being uncertain if he'd ever see him again.

It's not uncertain, now. Is the thing. Greg is on his way, and Tony, for once, doesn't even know what to think. All he can do is sit there and be clammy and impatient.

Freddy chuckles. Tony ignores it. He burns a hole into the front door just across the living room, only hearing his own jumbled thoughts and roaring in his ears over the baking show on the TV.

Its Winter right now. So by 6:45, all the light outside has darkened into pitch blackness. The residential street lights outside the apartments make the raindrops on the window glow. The TV is still going in the background.

Freddy is as still as he is, joining him in watching the door as restless as a bored puppy. Listening to the ventilation inside of Freddys inner workings is the only thing that reminds Tony to breathe.

After multiple agonizing minutes, Tony jerks when the slam of a car door is heard distantly outside the window.

"Are you ready, Tony Becker?" Freddy breaks the silence. Looking back at Freddy is the first time Tony looks away from the door. "We do not know how much he will remember at first. It may be messy. It may not."

Messy is definitely a word he would use to describe a lot of the things that have happened, here. So he just nods, a tilt of his head. "I'm ready."

"He is ready, too." replies Freddy.

And that's all that's said until the doorknob begins to rattle.

All that Tony manages is a strangled gasp before he's bolting off the couch, almost tripping over Freddys legs. His converse slide on the laminate wood, and he stands there. In perfect view of the door.

His legs feel cold and his chest airy as he watches. He waits for movement, and cant help the tremble in his hands when the deadbolt unlocks. He can hear voices. Only because hes straining his ears, but he can hear a high pitched voice muffled and faint behind the door.

The doorknob rattles, and Tony watches as the deadbolt unlocks from the inside. His heart stutters in his chest when he hears voices outside, and he can pinpoint one of the pitches as Greg's.

"Come on, Vanessa. Were home. Now tell me what the suprise is!"

"I think you'll want to see it for yourself, Greg."

"Its inside? Well what could it possibly be if you wont even give me a hint--"

The knob twists, and the door creaks open. Its steady and agonizingalmost as if it's in slow motion.

And there he is.

Theres the pale skin and short stature and blue clothes. Tony isnt breathing when he just looks, and sees the boy he'd been searching for so long right in front of him.

He has raindrops in his chocolate brown hair. Greg doesnt look away from Vanessa while he walks in, at first, but Vanessa looks away from Gregory. She meets his eyes, and Tony doesnt have it in him to dissect what the look could mean.

All he cares about is how Greg follows her gaze.

He stops in his tracks, his mud stained Pizzaplex brand sneakers planting him firmly in place.

It's like everything else falls away when Greg meets his eyes. Huge, amber eyes that grow as wide as saucers when they see him. Theres a dark jagged scar wrapped around his cheek that makes it to his nose that wasnt there before.

The silence is deafening, as they just stand there and stare at eachother. Tony thinks he isnt breathing. Theres electricity shooting up his spine. His fingers twitch and tremble. Greg just stares, mouth agape.

Tony's own twitches, and he smacks his lips together, testing if he can still speak at all. His legs are rooted to the ground as he says, just above a whisper, "Greg."

Greg's face shifts ever so slightly, and it's only now Tony realizes his eyes are a bit faraway. Like he's...

Remembering something.

In an instant, they dart and blink, and Greg is looking at him again.

Tony dares to break through the water by taking a step. He never tears his eyes away from Gregory's own.

At some point, Vanessa moved away from the door and somewhere else in the house.

Which means the coast is clear when Tony takes a step, and then another, and Greg is meeting him in the middle.

Hes almost sprinting when they crash into eachother like waves. Immediately, Tony wraps his arms around Greg tight, and Greg clutches back just as desperately.

"Tony." Gregory says breathlessly. Tony can feel Greg's hair brush against his cheek and his hands ball up his jacket. "Its you. That's your name. You're the..."

"The one you've been dreaming about?" Tony chuckles, and to his suprise, it's a little wet. His legs ache from pushing himself into the hug so much, but he ignores it. "Yeah. Me and Ellis. Your friends."

"Tony and Ellis." Greg repeats, and Tony could cry at how it's the same voice in all of his memories. A few things are different; Gregory's face has changed a bit, and so has his hair and clothes. But all of the things that made him Greg back then are still here.

"I--" Greg stutters. "I tried so hard to remember anything about you. I was gonna track you down, I hope you know. Cause you're the only things I remember about..."

"I know, Greg." Tony replies. Greg pulls away from the hug, and Tony still has a grip on his shoulders. "They told me everything."

He jerks his head towards Freddy and Vanessa, and when Greg looks over at him, Freddys ears wiggle and Vanessa does a small little wave.

"Some suprise." Gregory chuckles, wiping at his dry eyes. "Jeez, its just-- I just remembered so much. Just by seeing you, and--"

Greg's eyes turn a little misty as he looks in Tony's own. "We were friends." He says. "And I forgot you for so long."

"It wasnt your fault." Tony smiles slightly. Greg still has to look up at him a bit, like he did last time Tony saw him. "Freddy and Vanessa told me you tried your best to remember us."

Gregory nods, glancing over at them. "I did." He says. "I wanted to know what triggered the first dream so bad. But... I never figured it out."

"I guess it doesn't matter now." Tony says. "I'm right here in front of you, and you remember now. Ellis'll be really glad to see you, too."

Gregory chuckles. "I missed him." He says. "I missed you, too."

"Me too." Tony replies, and it doesn't feel like those two words can encapsulate how much Tony has felt the past year. "Ellis really missed you as well. He still is. You don't know what happened to him when you went missing."

Gregory ducks his head, eyes downcast. "I wish I did."

Tony eyes Freddy from the corner of his eye, and he nods. Tony looks back towards Greg. "I can tell you some stuff, if you want. Vanessa said something reminded you of me one day." He smiles. "I can try to help remind you of stuff enough to remember more."

Gregory's head shoots up, and to Tony's suprise, tears gather in his eyes. As quick as they come, he ducks his head, using the sleeve of his navy jacket to wipe them away. "Yeah." He sniffs. "That'd be great."

"I'm glad you guys reunited." Vanessa pipes up to their left. "But, Gregory, I think you should go take a breather. I wanna talk to Tony anyway."

Greg doesnt answer for a second, but eventually he nods, smiling at Tony as he peels himself away. Tony takes note of how the tooth Gregory had been missing last year is still gone.

Tony watches him go, and his eyes dont leave his back until the door to his room shuts.

"Kid," Vanessa grabs his attention. She gestures to sit down on the couch, and he moves over, sitting in-between Freddy and her. "that went well. Really well."

Tony just nods, not able to shake the trembling in his fingers and the floaty feeling in his chest.

"It doesnt seem like he remembered anything bad." Vanessa points out. "He couldnt have. He wouldn't be so calm if he did, trust me."

Tony remembers Freddys words about how Vanessa grapples with the things shes done, so he does. He nods again, and Vanessa smiles. "So that's good. Listen, kid. If you can somehow have Gregory remember his old life without any of the mind control murder stuff, that would be the best case scenario."

Freddy whirs and straightens out a but, opening his mouth to speak, but he stops at the last second. "It wouldnt be unfair to Gregory if he wasnt remembering anything good, Fred." Vanessa points out.

"That is true." Freddy agrees. "There is no point in Gregory remembering anything harmful to him if avoidable. Vanessa knows that better than anyone."

Tony opens his mouth to speak, but pauses.

Not remember anything bad? As in he wouldnt be able to remember that day at the Pizzaplex?

How Greg had put himself on the line and fought for Tony's life? How he'd succeeded? How Tony always desperately wanted to see Greg again just to talk about it?

Words get caught in his throat, but he pushes them down and shoves his feelings aside. He just nods. "I'll do my best."

"Thanks." Vanessa says, and she sounds more relieved than Tony's ever heard anyone. She puts a hand on his shoulder, offering him a smile. "Really. Thank you, kid. I'd do anything for Gregory to never have to remember the same things I do."

Tony just nods again, finding that for the first time in his life, he has no words to say. "Yeah."

"I am sure you're dying to catch up with Gregory." Freddy smiles. "Go on, Tony Becker. We will give you both space."

Tony smiles, shooting up and shimmying past Freddys legs in-between the coffee table towards the hall. "Okay. Sure." He only lingers for another moment to say "Thanks!"

Its jet black outside when Tony passes a window, and by the time he makes it to Greg's room, the only light available is a small table lamp on the desk with paper strewn about. Greg sits on his bed, deep in thought, before snapping out of it when Tony walks in.

"Hey." Gregory smiles, and Tony grins back when he shuts the door behind him. He cant help how his eyes wander about the room, taking in every detail as he moves further into the room. His backpack is tossed on the floor beside his bed, and theres comic pages and drawings thumbtacked up across every wall. Theres a corkboard with blocky letters written on paper sheets scattered around, and his bedsheets have constellations on them.

Tony's eyes linger on the desk, where there are multiple comics covering every inch, some half-finished and some fully colored.

"You would draw comics when we were friends, too." Tony says, making his way over and peering at all of the different drawings. "I'd call them graphic novels. I'd write the story and you'd draw."

"I think I had a dream about that." Greg says. "We'd go in your room and brainstorm, right?"

"Yeah." Tony smiles. He looks at the dates scribbles in the corners of them all, and notices that most of them are recent.

"Its one of the only dreams I had." Gregory says. "It... it would make me so mad because it never went any different. And it had been the only indication you even existed for so long." He chuckles without humor. "The other dreams weren't much different, but, well, I was never really able to figure out how to trigger a new dream."

As he keeps looking, some of the older comics, like the ones on the walls and the underneath the piles of recent ones have dates from a few months ago.

It's like a tiny lightbulb goes off above his head. He turns to Gregory, asking "Do you remember when you had the first dream?"

Gregory pauses for a moment. "Yeah." He says. "It was a few months ago. The first dream I had was about us drawing comics in your room."

Tony smiles, finding the earliest date to be near October last year. Its February now. "Did you ever think the thing that triggered that memory was drawing a comic?"

Tony watches as the gears turn in Greg's head. Hes silent for a moment, before muttering, "No. I didnt."

Tony looks at the window on the wall by Greg's bed and watches as raindrops drip down the screen on the other side. Crickets are chirping faintly, and he can hear Freddy and Vanessa's voices muffled behind the door.

The days events catch up to him, and right as the first inkling of tiredness creep up on him, he says "So how about we try to make a comic together like the dream? Maybe it'll bring back some new memories."

Gregory is silent for a moment, and Tony watches as his eyes widen, and a grin gradually stretches across his face. "Okay." He says. "Yeah. Let's do it."

So it's in Greg's room, instead of Tony's, where they hunker down for the night and squish next to eachother on the same chair at the same desk and brainstorm a comic. Tony makes a point of calling it a graphic novel like he used to, because Greg would always say something about it, and unsurprisingly, this time is no different.

The only light is from Gregory's small table lamp shoved to the very corner to make room for more papers, and it's only when they have everything ready does Greg finally ask about the story.

"You said you'd write the story and I'd draw." Gregory says. His shoulder is pressed up against Tony's on the chair and his voice is loud in his ear. "So what's the story?"

Tony hums for a second, jumbled thoughts and ideas running course in his mind, then he gets an idea.

He grins slowly as it dawns on him. He glances over at Greg.

"You always liked nonfiction better, right?" Gregory says, voice up an octave like a question. "Real life stuff."

"Yeah." Tony confirms. "This is a real story."

"So tell me." Greg smiles, leaning back to get a good view of Tony. Tony himself does the same, and Greg is doing one of those lopsided smiles that shows off his missing tooth. "And I'll start drawing the panels."

Its only after theyve hunkered down does Tony really let himself revel in the fact that he found Greg, and he's here and okay. It may not be perfect, since Tony never really will be able to speak to that Gregory that saved him that day and thank him, but its content. Tony has his friend back, and he can't ask for any more.

He's long since decided on a story when he finally tells Gregory. He smiles softly, before saying,

"This story is about a kid named Gregory, who once hacked the school PA speakers and started beatboxing."

🔎🐰

Ellis: um so how long will i have to keep this up???

Ellis: would be nice to know

Tony: I dont know how long I'll be gone.

Tony: I'll buy you as many cookies as you want for this.

Ellis: we will negotiate when you come back

Ellis: for now ill uphold my end of the deal mr. becker

Tony: I'll uphold mine early.

Tony sent an image

Image ID: A boy with short dark brown hair and a green jacket angling the camera so by his head is a boy with pale skin and chocolate brown hair. The boy with dark hair is smiling and the boy with brown hair is looking suprised at the camera.

Ellis is typing...

ao3 link

[heartsoir]

Two Best Friends in a Room (marichat)

"Marinette Dupain-Cheng wants to understand what's so cool about TikTok, and if Chat Noir (aka the digital influencer "gottabekittenme") let this big opportunity slip away, he wouldn't be Chat Noir. (Opportunity to make Marinette participate in his favorite trends, watch her learn silly dances, and, to top it off, "ruin" their friendship with style.)"

[imsolnoo]

｡ ꞝ namora comigo? - yeonbin᠉

Choi Yeonjun é o típico jovem metido a bad boy que flerta com qualquer um que lhe dê atenção. Contudo, felizmente, ele não é tão clichê quanto parece. Primeiro, ele só curte os mocinhos. Segundo, qualquer resquício de seu lado paquerador desaparece quando ele está perto do rapaz mais bonito que já viu, Choi Soobin, seu crush desde o fundamental. Após ser convidado pessoalmente para a festa de aniversário de Soobin, ele decide tomar iniciativa e expressar seus sentimentos, só não esperava fazer isso da forma mais boba possível: em uma partida de telefone sem fio.

⎙ leia aqui!

✎ 02.11.23 | @mixyl

[biffhofosho]

Coming This October...

Come one! Come all!

You're invited to attend a theatrical performance the likes of which you've never imagined. Thanks to our troop of unparalleled, dare I say otherworldy, performers, every sense will be tested--especially your sense of reality.

Don't worry about directions. We'll find you.

Admission is but a trivial token... A dream for a dream.

Welcome to...

Le Cirque du Fantasme

A transcendent event two parts in the making!

Inspired by a "Daydream"...

[ginnyw-potter-archive]

Wonderful Wondrous Witches Magic Match Meetings Chapter 2/2: Magical Menagerie of Men

They made it to the chip shop minutes later.

She paused by the entrance. “Ooh, a vendy machine.”

Harry followed her gaze. “It’s a vending machine, I’ve told you before.”

“I know,” she said, unbothered by his correction. “But that’s what dad calls it, and he is Senior Muggle Expert.”

Harry nodded. He patted his pockets for change. He went into the pocket and was happy to find muggle currency in there. “Get me a coke? You should have enough change for one for you.”

“Which one did I like?” she asked. It had been a while since she had a muggle drink.

Harry looked over at the vending machine. “Fanta. You see the bottle over there spelt ‘Fanta’ and it is yellow and—”

“Are you done?” she shot back with an amused smile.

Full chapter: AO3

[jungkookfanfictionhappy]

sequel

My name is 01001010 01001011 (Alien!Jungkook! x Human!Reader)

Summary: “So you’re a human?” The alien that looked and acted like a human asked. The only difference between him and you was that he had two upside down triangles starting from his jaw going down under his shirt. Also, he was huge. “I’m talking 8 foot tall” huge.

Warning: Daddy kink, Dirty talk, size kink, cunt slapping, Jungkook being rlly big, fingering, nipple sucking (?), Dom/sub themes, and Jungkook being a curious alien.

Genre: Fluff, Smut

Word Count: 6.3k

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

COVID-19 vs Human kind. Human kind was pretty much fucked. In front of your eyes, the world population went from a staggering 8 billion people to an exponentially low 1 million. Within two years. It was in October 2020, when scientist realized that instead of working on a vaccine, they needed to discover a place where those free from this deadly disease could live. Safely and peacefully.

Keep reading

[imsolnoo]

｡ ꞝ mixórdia de sentimentos - jaywon᠉

Yang Jungwon, um jovem estudante de letras, tem uma peculiar mania de escolher adjetivos e palavras pouco usuais para se descrever. Apesar de ter lutado para estabilizar sua vida, tudo vira de cabeça para baixo quando ele percebe que seus sentimentos por Park Jongseong, colega de faculdade, vão além da amizade. Em meio a palavras feinhas, surtos de paixão e uma dose generosa de insegurança, Jungwon precisa confrontar seu grande medo de lidar com suas emoções, se quiser se permitir ser feliz ao lado de Jongseong.

⎙ leia aqui!

✎ 23.07.23 | @chanyouchan

[ohhmydyosfics]

(Haobin) The Impossible Dream

Hao stands up, the condoms in one hand, the lube in the other, and turns around to face him with what he knows is probably the smuggest expression any human being has ever worn.

“Care to explain?”

Hanbin turns white. His jaw drops. He’s so cute Hao could eat him whole.

“Oh no. Oh my god.”

The night of the Boys Planet finale, having already surpassed all expectations he had for his success, Zhang Hao has one more goal to fulfil before he spends the next few years sharing rooms with children. It would be helpful if Hanbin would learn to cooperate.

https://href.li/?https://archiveofourown.org/works/47159476/chapters/118820776

[jungkookfanfictionhappy]

Sequel here: Bicker

Banter

Banter Ship: Superhero!Jungkook | Supervillain!Reader Description: Roommates!AU, Super!AU. Ironically, some of your best moments are with your archnemesis, the man who you literally fight every other day. But the two of you might be closer than you originally thought. Warnings: Intercourse, Fluff, Small Angst, Oral, Dirty Talk, Orgasm Denial, Dry Humping, Grinding, Kind of Cracky Word Count: 10,861

Keep reading

[a2zsportsnews]

Echavarria takes two-shot lead into final round at Zozo Championship

Nico Echavarria remained ahead in Saturday’s penultimate round at the Zozo Championship with a two-shot lead, with former world number one Justin Thomas leading the chasing pack at the Narashino Country Club in Japan. Echavarria hit five birdies but had bogeys on the fourth and 11th, before holding his nerve to sink an eagle putt from two feet out on the 18th. The Colombian, who shot a five-under…