vivvangel

[vivvangel]

PUBLICITY STUNT

PAIRING > wang yixiang x idol!fem!reader

synopsis: nicholas is an old friend of yours from back when you were a trainee under hybe. however, due to a grudge you’re stubbornly holding onto years later, your relationship as fellow idols is strained. what happens when a video is leaked of you and nicholas bickering backstage, and your company wants you to fake date him to dispel the backlash from his fans?

TROPES > enemies (ex friends) to lovers, fake dating

FEATURING > yunjin (le sserafim), giselle (aespa), sophia (katseye), yuqi (gidle), wonyoung (ive), &team, hanbin (zerobaseone)

tags > a lot of bickering, teasing, pining, fluff, making out, small time skip, smut (only in last chapter)

warnings > alcohol consumption, mention of abusive relationship (through a misunderstanding), swearing, lmk if i miss anything

chapter 1: is this a safe space? (smau)

chapter 2: you can’t be serious (smau and writing)

chapter 3: strawberry tea (writing and smau)

chapter 4: get a grip (writing and smau)

chapter 5: an inkling (smau)

chapter 6: you’re special (smau and writing)

chapter 7: method acting (writing and smau)

chapter 8: in person (smau)

chapter 9: there must be a gas leak (smau and writing)

chapter 10: pillow fighting (writing)

chapter 11: plum blossoms (smau and writing)

chapter 12: tokyo (smau)

chapter 13: loserish (smau)

chapter 14: flirty bartender (smau and writing)

chapter 15: new years (writing)

chapter 16: drunk (MDNI) (writing)

complete

[vivvangel]

TERMS & CONDITIONS [TEASER] | lee anton.

synopsis: in families where business and legacy collide, marriage isn’t a choice; it’s a plan. a fake engagement. a shared past. and the slow, inevitable pull of something real.

› pairings & contents: chaebol!ex!anton x lawyer!reader. ✧ warnings: strong language, emotional tension and angst, messy past relationship, trauma (?), slow-burn romance, family + high society pressure and arranged marriage themes, sexual content, mature themes (to be specified)

estimated wc: 35k~50k

TAGLIST: comment or send an ask to be added to the taglist

RELEASE DATE: august.

The courthouse clock ticked too slowly, or maybe you were just too wound up to notice. You had argued your last case of the day—a close call that left you drained but victorious, and now the buzz of emails and messages buzzed in your mind like background static. Your father’s firm was counting on you to hold your ground, and you weren’t about to disappoint.

You took a deep breath, tightening the strap on your bag as you stepped out into the crisp evening air. The sky was bruised purple, city lights flickering on as students and professionals alike flooded the streets. Your phone buzzed, a reminder of tonight’s dinner, hosted, as usual, by anton’s family.

The thought twisted something tight in your chest.

You were dressed sharply in a sleek blazer and pencil skirt, heels clicking on the pavement as you headed towards the grand estate where your parents’ longtime friends lived. The same home where you’d shared a stolen kiss under the narrow staircase all those years ago in high school. The same place where you now had to sit through yet another one of those polished, painful dinners.

The door opened before you could knock. anton stood there, taller than you remembered (truly, it had been some time since you last saw him, having missed the last monthly dinner due to pulling an all nighter before an important case) ge was dressed in black, a crisp button-up that made him look like he belonged on a magazine cover. His eyes flicked to you, an unreadable expression settling like a mask.

“y/n,” He said quietly, voice low but clear.

“hi, anton,” You replied, forcing the smile that felt like armor.

this was gonna be a long night.

. . . !

COMING SOON.

💌 viv's note: first ever riize fic?? contrary to the belief that i only stan enha, i'm a fan of quite a few groups, including riize! so excited for this. hope you all will like this too :♡ ps, I adore anton (even if sungchan is my bias)

[vivvangel]

this already looks PHENOMENAL. can't wait.

WEAK FOR YOU — a PARK SUNGHOON story (TEASER)

SUMMARY 🖇️ you’ve been taught to keep your heart locked away, but what happens when someone keeps trying to pry it open? it’s only a matter of time before it unlocks and you let him inside.

OR

sunghoon is dangerous; he’s involved in issues that involve fights and chaos, and he’s also your best friend’s older brother, which means he should be totally off limits. but when your worlds keep colliding, and the two of you keep getting each other into trouble, you find yourself drawn to him in more ways than you can imagine.

FEATURING 🖇️ sunghoon x fem!reader, wonyoung & jake

WARNINGS 🖇️ implied parental abuse, mentions of death, lots of fights, blood, passing out, cursing, PTSD & anxiety symptoms, yn has scars, SMUT, penetration, unprotected sex, semi-public sex (jake is next door lol) fingering, body worship(?), praise, biting (vamphoon 😫), oral (fem!receiving), use of pet names (pretty, good girl)

WORD COUNT 🖇️ 24k words (teaser wc: 730)

RELEASE DATE 🖇️ 5th august

NOTE 🖇️ aaaaaa my first fic on this account !!! i hope you guys enjoy it,, this is heavily based on the k drama WEAK HERO! sunghoon is like a blend between suho & baku 🙈 please let me know if you wanted to be added to the taglist! (banner > @uzmacchiato )

You stare at him. “You’ve been gone for two hours.”

A cold look flies over his face for a second. It’s fleeting, but you see it. “Had to deal with some things. Plus, the best gukbap takes time to cook.”

When you see brand new injuries on his hands and face, you know what he dealt with was something violent. But you don’t question it, you can’t when he went out of his way to bring you one of your favourite comfort foods. “What did you get?”

“Oxtail soup.” He almost salivates as he opens both the lids, and you find it entertaining to watch him make such funny sounds and facial expressions. “Come on, eat up.” Something warm blooms in your chest as you take your first sip of the soup. You watch as Sunghoon slurps from his own bowl and you can feel a ghost of a smile lurking on your face. How easy life must be to enjoy something as small as food. “What?” He asks, cheeks full, lips soaked and soup dripping onto his chin.

Without really thinking much of it, you grab a napkin and hold out your hand to him. His head drops to your hand and then shoots back up at you with a confused brow. “Are you always like this?” His hands (and his mouth) are full so you take the liberty of wiping his chin yourself, unable to ease the anxiety of watching the soup leak onto his lap.

A beat of silence passes as he stares at you as though there’s a huge question mark hanging over his head. Then he blinks feverishly, fisting his chest as he tries to swallow his food. “Uh..like what?”

You take a couple of seconds to scan him. “So animated.”

“I could ask you the same question. Are you always so… reserved?”

That word: reserved. It’s such a refreshing term to describe you. It conflicts everything you’ve ever assumed people saw when they tried to get to know you. In fact, the word throws you so off guard, a smile sneaks onto your lips. It’s not a ‘reserved’ one, either. It’s big and careless, with flashing teeth and creased smile lines. A laugh builds up in your throat too and you let it fall out, suppressing it with another spoon of your soup.

Sunghoon still sits there like he’s caught a ghost, making your laugh die out a little. “Wow. Did you just laugh?”

“If you’re about to say, ‘You should smile more, it suits you’, I want you to park that thought right now.” You glance at him, lips resumed back to their usual position.

“Well I wasn’t going to say that. But it does suit you.”

You can’t find it in you to be angry at him. Not when he went out of his way to rescue you, to try and take you home, to bring you food, to keep you company. So you just tuck into your food instead.

“Oh, by the way.” He starts, and you notice the dribble again, so you hand him the same napkin as earlier. He takes it and continues talking. “I don’t know if this is obvious or not, but please keep what happened a secret from my sister. I don’t want her to know I’ve got her friends involved in my shit.”

Because that’s all this is. That’s all you are. His little friend’s sister that keeps getting reaped into his business, that will forever be reaped into his business if you keep bumping into him. Tension grabs you by the shoulders as a shiver trickles down your spine. A pain shoots up your leg as you grab it, remembering how you were dropped onto the floor by someone who seemed twice your size. That must’ve been how the injury happened. You give Sunghoon a fleeting look, hoping your fear doesn’t transpire past your eyes, “Do you think I’m still involved?”

His eyes try to burrow yours as his gaze flickers between them. You nearly falter, having to break away the eye contact to take another sip of your food. “Yes. And I’ll apologise a million times over for it.”

Reality washes over you. Sunghoon being here only makes you that much more of a target, you realise as you sit up and push your food away. “You should go, then.”

“Hey, I…”

“Go.”

NOTE 🖇️ please look forward to the full fic and again, lmk if you want to be on the taglist ^^

[vivvangel]

typing... | NM.R

synopsis: it’s 2 a.m. when his name lights up your phone again. weeks of silence, one knock at your door, and a kiss that feels like both an ending and a beginning.

› pairings & contents: situationship!niki x vulnerable!reader ✧ warnings: themes of ghosting & abandonment, commitment issues, love bombing elements, making out on couch (no smut), angst, emotional vulnerability

part of heartbreak weather, 2024.

You weren’t supposed to miss him.

Not after the way he left. Not after the way his name turned into nothing but a gray bubble that never lit up again.

Yet, at 2:13 a.m., you were still staring at his profile on Instagram, @riki.drive. The last message from him sat unopened, not because you didn’t read it, but because you couldn’t bring yourself to let the “seen” pop up under your “goodnight then, ily.”

That was six weeks ago.

You told yourself you’d moved on. You muted his posts, stopped refreshing his profile. But when his story lit up tonight; black leather jacket, blurred lights of some late-night arcade, and the caption “miss me?”—you felt your chest tighten like a punch. That son of a bitch. You thought to yourself.

Your phone buzzed.

[2:15 A.M.]

riki🤍: typing…

You froze.

The bubble blinked, disappeared. Came back. Vanished again.

And then:

riki🤍: you’re awake.

Your breath hitched. Six weeks of silence and that was what he opened with?

you: it’s 2 a.m. what do you want.

The reply came fast, almost desperate.

riki🤍: you.

Your heart stuttered. No. No, not again.

you: you can’t just show up like this. disappear. then drop that.

The typing bubble appeared, paused, like he was choosing every letter.

riki🤍: i know.

riki🤍: i’m sorry.

riki🤍: i freaked out. it was getting too real, yk how i am..

You closed your eyes. The words felt familiar. Too familiar. Niki didn’t date. Niki didn’t stay. He loved hard, fast, and then he ghosted like he was scared of his own heartbeat.

You knew all of this and still… still you’d fallen for him.

Your phone buzzed again.

riki🤍: can i see you?

You hesitated. And then, because you were weak for him, you typed:

you: now?

riki🤍 : yeah. before i lose my nerve again.

2:45 A.M.

The knock was soft but urgent, like he was afraid you’d change your mind. When you opened the door, there he was—hood up, hair a little damp from the mist outside, eyes wide and unsure.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

“Hi,” you whispered back.

You stepped aside, and the moment he crossed the threshold, the air shifted. Your apartment suddenly felt smaller, the walls closer. He hovered in the middle of the living room like he didn’t know if he was allowed to move.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said softly. “I just… I’ve never done this before. Stayed. Felt this much. It scared the hell out of me.”

You crossed your arms, more to steady yourself than to guard. “Then why come back?”

His lips pulled into the smallest, saddest smile. “I thought I could walk away. I tried. But every day without you felt… wrong. Like I was missing something I didn’t know how to live without.”

Your breath caught. “You can’t just love bomb me and vanish when it gets too much.”

He flinched at the words but stepped closer anyway. “I know. I won’t. Not this time.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Let me prove it. Please.”

You should’ve told him to leave. You should’ve made him earn this. But when his hand came up, fingers skimming your jaw with a touch so careful it hurt, you couldn’t move.

“Niki…”

“Tell me you don’t feel it too,” he murmured, stepping forward until your knees bumped the couch behind you. His forehead brushed yours, his breath warm against your lips. “And I’ll let you go.”

You didn’t speak. That was all the permission he needed.

The kiss started soft, tentative, like he was afraid you’d vanish. Then you clutched the front of his hoodie and pulled him in, and the carefulness shattered. His hands cradled the back of your head as you sank back into the couch, cushions dipping under your weight. He followed you down, one knee braced on the cushion beside your hip, the other sinking into the floor as if he couldn’t stand to not be close enough.

Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his hoodie, dragging him closer until his chest pressed against yours. The kiss deepened, slow but consuming, every brush of his mouth tasting like apology and want. One of his hands slid down, palm flattening against the small of your back, tugging you forward until your body molded against his.

The couch creaked faintly beneath you both as you shifted, his weight half over you now, his knee brushing the outside of your thigh. His thumb stroked absently over the curve of your waist, not moving higher, not lower —just there, steady, grounding you when everything else felt like it was spinning.

He broke the kiss only to breathe, lips barely an inch from yours, his voice trembling. “God… I missed you.”

You kissed him again instead of answering, catching his bottom lip between yours until you felt his quiet, shaky exhale ghost across your mouth. His fingers tangled gently in your hair as he kissed you deeper, slower, like he wanted to memorize every second.

By the time you both pulled away, the room was quiet except for your uneven breaths. His forehead stayed against yours, his hand still cupping your jaw like he wasn’t ready to let go.

“Don’t mute my stories anymore,” he whispered, voice rough. “I need you to see me.”

Your chest tightened, the words catching in your throat. “Then don’t disappear.”

His fingers slid down to lace with yours, squeezing once like a vow. “Not this time.”

viv's note: first ever niki fic!!! fun fact i wrote down the plot of this & even though i didn't have a particular idol in mind while writing it, i feel like niki with this plot works so, so well. as u all know i don't write smut about niki, so a make out scene is all you'll ever get from me about niki. even though he's only 2 years younger than me, he feels like my child 😭🙏

[vivvangel]

heartbreak weather | an enhypen series. (mlist)

💌 7 different people & 7 different stories, one thing in common? pure heartbreak.

warnings: more will be added separately in the fics themselves — pure angst, ghosting, manipulative behavior, love bombing, situationships, breakups, smut (?) this is NOT how i view the enha members, these fics are just made for entertainment (here, crying) purposes. the masterlist will be updated for the other members soon ! please please reblog 🫶🏼

> a million little times | yang jungwon

synopsis: he doesn't love you. but for him, you'd break yourself a million little times, did he want that? no. did he want you? also, no?

release date: out NOW

[vivvangel]

Is it bad for me to crave illegal car racer Heeseung with undercut hair, leather jacket, THE cross earrings and with a smirk plastered on his face ? 🫤

(I saw some edits of my fault back to back)

it is absolutely NOT bad to crave that. ive got just the thing for your craving 😋 REDLINE, this is for you. i loved writing and putting this together, thank you and your brain for coming up w this 🫶🏼

[vivvangel]

REDLINE — L.HS

synopsis: in the underground racing scene, Lee Heeseung is all cocky smirks and leather jackets — untouchable to everyone but you. you swear you two are just friends with benefits, yet, you’re the only one who sees the soft, vulnerable side beneath the swagger. one night at the track blurs the line between adrenaline and something dangerously close to love.

› pairings & contents: illegal racer!fwb!heeseung x fwb!reader. ✧ warnings: illegal street racing (mentions of danger, adrenaline), on & off fwb, hee gas trust/commitment issues, making out, LOTS OF TENSION, no smut, slight angst & emotional vulnerability, cocky!hee w a soft spot ONLY for y/n, mild language, mentions of alcohol & smoke (atmosphere). wc: 1.7K

@bunnihhoon is literally an icon. they requested such a long time ago, and apologies it's taken me such a long time to come around and do it. this one's for you, enjoy ⭐

The underground was loud enough to swallow thoughts you had tonight — engines snarling, the smell of gasoline clinging to the air, neon lights painting the cracked asphalt in shifting colors.

Lee Heeseung cut through it all like he owned it.

Leather jacket hanging loose, black, undercut hair pushed back just enough to show off the glint of his cross earrings, smirk sitting comfortably on his lips as other racers turned to look. He thrived in this chaos, wearing cockiness like a second skin.

“Try not to choke this time, Yeonjun,” Heeseung called out lazily to a rival across the track.

“Keep talking. I’ll be in front of you at the first turn.”

Heeseung didn’t even break stride. “You can’t lead if you’re too busy eating my smoke.” The crowd laughed, and he basked in it.

But the moment his eyes landed on you standing by the sidelines, that sharp edge of his smirk softened.

You weren’t new here. You weren’t supposed to be, either.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” he murmured when he reached you, voice dipping low enough that it was meant only for your ears.

You shrugged, eyes scanning his face like you weren’t supposed to care. “I was bored.”

He let out a quiet laugh, leaning in just a little. “Right. That’s why you’re wearing that. Totally just bored.” (he said, referring to the fact that you opted to wear a denim skirt with mesh leggings underneath)

You glared up at him, but he just grinned and tugged on the edge of your sleeve like he couldn’t stop himself. That was the thing about Heeseung, something everybody noticed, he cocky to everyone else, but around you, there was this unspoken gentleness buried under the smoke and metal.

“You racing or just here to annoy me?” you teased.

He tilted his head, the streetlight catching on his earring. “Both.” Then, softer, his voice lowering into something you almost missed under the engine noise: “Mostly here for you.”

You froze for half a second. That’s what always ruined you with him; not the heat of his smirk, not the rush of his hands on your waist when the doors closed later, but the way his words always slipped past your guard.

You’d been here before.

His passenger seat. His bed. His hands tangled with yours under thin sheets, kisses that tasted like promises neither of you were brave enough to make.

It was on and off, and you told yourself you were fine with that. Heeseung had walls, ones even you couldn’t climb. You knew about the trust issues, the way he flinched away from words heavier than stay.

Still, every time, he looked at you like this. Like he didn’t know how to let you go but didn’t know how to keep you either.

Behind him, someone shouted his name, calling him to the line. Heeseung didn’t look away from you. His hand reached out, fingers brushing over your wrist like a quiet question.

“Come with me?”

Your chest tightened. “And if I say no?”

He smirked again, but his voice stayed soft. “Then I’ll still win. But it won’t mean as much.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, slipping your hand into his. His smirk curved into the smallest, warmest smile.

“Buckle up,” he murmured as he opened the passenger door for you, his usual cockiness tempered by something rare, something vulnerable. “This one’s for you. Always is.”

And as the engine roared to life and the track burned under his tires, you realized he’d just told you more than he ever dared to say out loud.

The race was over, but the night still throbbed with adrenaline. Engines cooled, the crowd’s cheers faded into distant echoes, and the asphalt still smelled like burning rubber.

Heeseung’s car rolled to a stop, engine purring low as if it knew it had won. He didn’t even look at the scoreboard. He never had to.

You sat there in the passenger seat, heart still pounding, fingers curled tight around the seatbelt. The whole race had been a blur— neon lights streaking past, the weightless moments on sharp turns, and Heeseung’s calm, steady hands on the wheel. He drove like the world bent for him, but when he glanced at you mid-race, there was nothing cocky in his gaze. Just something warm. Something you didn’t want to name.

He cut the engine, the sudden silence deafening after the roar of speed. Then, without a word, he leaned over and unbuckled your seatbelt for you. The brush of his fingers against your collarbone was too casual to be an accident, too soft to be just friends with benefits, right?

“You okay?” His voice was low, rough around the edges from the race, but gentle in a way that made your stomach twist.

You scoffed lightly, trying to play it off. “I think my heart’s still back at the starting line.”

He chuckled under his breath, that small, rare smile tugging at his lips as he reached out and tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “Guess I’ll have to go back and get it for you.”

You hated the way your chest tightened. Hated that no matter how many times you told yourself this was temporary, you kept craving these small cracks in his armor.

Outside, the other racers yelled his name, clapping him on the back, demanding his usual post-race swagger. Heeseung didn’t move. His hand lingered on your jaw for half a second longer than necessary before he finally pulled back, glancing at the crowd like they were an entirely different world.

“Come with me,” he murmured, this time it's more of a statement than a request, voice dropping into something meant only for you.

You raised an eyebrow. “To celebrate?”

His lips quirked. “Something like that.”

He didn’t take you to the crowd. He didn’t take you to the afterparty either. Instead, he pulled you through the back of the lot, away from the noise, until the hum of engines was nothing but a dull memory. The air was cooler here, the night quieter. He stopped in front of an old brick wall tagged with faded graffiti, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

You crossed your arms. “So… what, this your new secret victory spot?”

Heeseung tilted his head, that familiar smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Nah. Just wanted you to myself.”

Something inside you faltered.

“Hee…”

He stepped closer, slow enough for you to back away if you wanted. You didn’t. His fingers found your chin, tilting it up gently until you were looking at him. The cocky mask was gone. What was left was rawer, quieter, almost nervous if you didn’t know him better.

“You know why I can’t–” he started, voice low and uneven.

“–commit,” you finished softly. You’d heard it before. You knew the script. His trust issues, his walls, the ghosts of people who’d left him with nothing but cracks.

But tonight, it sounded less like an excuse and more like an apology.

Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. “Then why do you keep doing this with me?”

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the wind tugging at the edge of his jacket. Then he leaned in, his forehead brushing yours. His answer was almost a whisper.

“Because I don’t know how not to love you.”

Your breath hitched, and before you could say anything, his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, desperate, a kiss that tasted like burnt rubber and everything he was too scared to admit in daylight.

His hands slid around your waist, pulling you in until your back hit the wall. You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound like it was his. When he finally broke away, his thumb traced the corner of your mouth like he was memorizing it.

“This doesn’t mean–” he started, his voice shaky despite the smirk trying to crawl back onto his lips.

You cut him off with a soft laugh, brushing your thumb over his earring. “Yeah, I know. Doesn’t mean anything. Right.”

But the way he looked at you after — soft, raw, yours — made it the biggest lie you’d ever told.

💌 viv's note: hee is so hot and so scrumptious oh my fucking god.

[vivvangel]

HEART OF GLASS — PSH. [masterlist.)

synopsis: they said never mix business with pleasure—but no one warned what happens when the pleasure runs out. she's the firm’s lead counsel. he's the ceo. married, barely speaking, and still signing documents side by side. between frosty boardroom meetings and a penthouse that echoes, two overachievers silently sabotaging their own love story, one cold glance at a time. It’s not a breakup… yet. but it sure feels like paperwork is involved.

› pairings & contents: CEO!husband!hoon x lawyer!reader, angst, slowburn, workplace, marriage conflicts ✧ warnings: in the chapters. porn w plot, and lots of plot.

CHAPTER 001 ⛧

CHAPTER 002 ⛧

CHAPTER 003 ⛧

CHAPTER 004 ⛧

epilogue.

[vivvangel]

🎧helloo just a cute sfw content but could u do enha meeting their s/o dad, make the dad like hella protective or smtg idk i just thought of this and i think it wud be rlly cute seeing them scared 😭😭 u dont have to do it it was jst a request hehe,btw i love all your works such an amazing writer🫶🏻

enhypen meeting their s/o’s hella protective dad

wc: 850

warnings: mild n dry humor, protective dad, light nervousness, bf!enha x reader

 ♡ lee heeseung

• politely stands straight as a ruler, eyes sharp but respectful. “hello, sir. i’m lee heeseung. it’s an honor.” (bro is STRESSING).

• when your dad gives him the “tell me you won’t break my kid” look, he starts nervously listing volunteer work. “i swear, sir, i help at animal shelters. i’m responsible, i promise.”

• you grab his hand under the table — “chill, it’s not an interview.” later, your dad eyes him over coffee, and he blurts out, “i also make amazing ramen, sir!”

• heeseung whispers later, “your dad can literally see into my soul, baby.”

 ♡ park jongseong

• walks in with the usual confident grin, but three and a half seconds later, your dad’s stare has him frozen mid-smile.

• “sir, you raised someone amazing. you should be proud of yourseld,” he tries to smooth talk. your dad deadpans, “and why should i be okay with you dating them?” jay stammers, face flushed like he lost his script.

• next time, he pulls out a small gift and maybe a dozen apologies. your dad folds his arms, and jay nervously says, “i uh… like to win people over… including dads.” lowkey thinking “definitely not ready for round two.”

 ♡ sim jaeyun

• is pure sunshine but totally rattled by the dad glare.

• “hi sir! i like your child a lot! no, like really! uh, respect too!” he trips over his words until you jump in to save him from digging his own grave.

• your dad warns, “you hurt them, i’ll find you,” voice so serious jake laughs nervously then stops.

• he spends the week texting your dad with “sir” after every sentence.

• some time latwr, nervously, jake would offer to help your dad with groceries to prove trustworthiness. “do you need help with the… uh, heavy things?”

 ♡ park sunghoon

• looks calm, collected, as you'd expect from him, but the dad glare cracks his ice just a bit.

• he answers questions like it’s a courtroom cross-exam. “my intention? to treat your kid with respect and buy them all the bubble tea their heart wants,” his voice a little shaky. you'd squeeze his hand, sensing his nerves under the cool surface. your dad says, “behave yourself.” sunghoon smirks, “trying my best, sir,” but his fingers twitch nervously.

• lowkey grateful you’re his anchor.

 ♡ yang jungwon

• bows so many times he practically folds in half.

• respectful energy is next level angel vibes. “yes sir, no sir, i promise sir,” he answers like a good student. dad’s stare equals sweating intensifies.

• after the meeting, jungwon admits, “your dad is intense. like, next level.”

• he would probably accidentally drop his phone nervously, pick it up, and mutter, “sorry sir.” you would laugh, and say, “he’s terrified but cute.”

 ♡ kim sunoo

• shows up with a huge smile and dessert gift, confident af, but his smile fades fast when your dad asks, “why do you think you can date my kid?”

• with no smile back. sunoo nervously rambles about how amazing you are and how he’s a good boy raised right.

• he tries charm but fails, ending up baking cookies to win over your dad. awkwardly, he offers the cookies saying, “for your health, sir… and my future.” your dad eyes him like a hawk but nods just a little.

 ♡ nishimura riki

• is calm, polite, bows slightly with very respectful japanese manners.

• “nice to meet you, sir,” his voice soft but confident. when your dad warns, “you’re young, but i’m watching,” ni-ki freezes but stays cool.

• after he leaves, ni-ki mutters, “your dad’s scary.” lowkey impressed but definitely nervous.

• before the meeting, he'd probably practice deep breaths saying, “okay… stay cool… you got this.” and adds under his breath, “what if i just say ‘please don’t kill me’?”

viv's note: not proofread, apologies for any and all grammatical errors.

[vivvangel]

HEART OF GLASS — PSH.

synopsis: they said never mix business with pleasure—but no one warned what happens when the pleasure runs out. she's the firm’s lead counsel. he's the ceo. married, barely speaking, and still signing documents side by side. between frosty boardroom meetings and a penthouse that echoes, two overachievers silently sabotaging their own love story, one cold glance at a time. It’s not a breakup… yet. but it sure feels like paperwork is involved. › pairings & contents: CEO!husband!hoon x lawyer!reader, angst, slowburn, workplace, marriage conflicts ✧ warnings: hoons softer in this, an argument between reader and hoon, tension LOTS OF TENSION, mentions of overworking (?), miscommunications, alot of banter, awkward small talks, you get the gist. no smut in this part either.

PART ONE — PART TWO — PART THREE (coming soon!)

The morning after the untouched pear tart sat in the fridge like a question neither of you dared to voice, you woke to a quiet that wasn’t empty—it was careful, tentative, like footsteps on thin ice.

Barefoot, you crossed the cold marble floor of your penthouse, the chill biting at your soles.

The city below was just waking, pale light slipping through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He was already in the kitchen, half-dressed—his crisp white shirt rumpled, sleeves rolled up unevenly past his elbows. His navy tie dangled loosely from his fingers, like a decision he hadn’t fully made yet.

His mug sat on the marble countertop, a wisp of steam curling upward in the still air.

You lingered near the fridge, pretending to search for something, but your eyes kept darting back to him. His back was to you, the tension in his broad shoulders unmistakable.

“You’re late,” you said softly, the words almost swallowed by the quiet.

He shrugged, voice flat but deliberate. “I canceled my 8 a.m. meeting.”

There was a pause, as if he debated adding something. Then, almost carefully, he said, “You looked tired.”

That phrase landed heavier than you expected. You didn’t answer.

Your gaze flicked to the tie in his hand. Without hesitation, your fingers closed around the silk, cold and smooth under your touch. He made no move to stop you, didn’t say a word, just let you close the distance.

Your hands moved with practiced ease, looping the fabric, tightening the knot firmer than necessary, smoothing the collar with gentle authority.

“There,” you said, eyes lifting to meet his. “Can’t let the board think their CEO’s falling apart.”

For the barest fraction of a second, the hard line of his mouth softened — maybe regret, maybe gratitude, but it was gone before you could catch it fully.

No thanks. No acknowledgement. Just the quiet hum of the city seeping in through the windows.

Later, the glass-walled conference room held a brittle kind of tension that no one dared to break.

You sat opposite Sunghoon, the usual suspects: the board, senior managers, your legal team, arranged around the polished table. An analyst was mid-presentation, her voice steady but clearly feeling the weight in the room.

Sunghoon cut in smoothly, his tone calm but sharp enough to slice through the air. “These projections assume the market will behave… compliantly. As if it owes us stability.”

You leaned forward, voice laced with dry sarcasm, cutting through the polite corporate fog. “Yes, because assuming the market obeys our whims has worked so well for us before.”

His dark eyes flicked to you, a spark of mischief glinting beneath the professionalism. “I prefer optimism over legal pessimism.”

You arched a brow, a half-smile tugging at your lips. “Optimism’s charming when it’s earned, not blind. If we all pretended every gamble was a sure thing, the legal team wouldn’t have jobs.”

The room shifted uncomfortably. Eyes darted between you two, sensing the undercurrent but saying nothing. Sunghoon’s voice dropped, colder this time, precise as a scalpel. “If caution was currency, we’d be bankrupt by now.”

Your retort was swift, biting. “At least we wouldn’t be insolvent.”

He leaned back, fingers steepled on the table, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You sound like you’d rather watch the company sink than risk the storm.”

You smiled, sharp and unyielding. “Better to survive the storm than drown with reckless hope.”

The analyst quickly redirected the meeting, but the tension lingered like a charged wire humming just beneath the surface.

Minutes later, you slipped back to your office, the storm inside you barely contained.

Before you could settle, the door swung open abruptly.

Sunghoon stepped in without hesitation, expression unreadable but his eyes burning with an intensity that made your pulse stutter.

You didn’t look up, fingers hovering over the keyboard, heart hammering beneath your ribs.

Without warning, he reached out and spun your chair around so you were forced to face him.

Suddenly, the space between you crackled with electricity. His arms landed heavily on your desk, framing your face like a challenge, pressing the tension into the air.

Your breath hitched, pulse thundering as his dark eyes locked with yours; intense, guarded, but dangerously close. He leaned in, voice low and measured, each word deliberate, like a threat and a promise all at once.

“Don’t mistake my risks for recklessness.”

You caught your breath, your eyes unwavering as you met his heat with your own quiet fire.

“And don’t confuse my caution for fear.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile, but just out of reach.

“This company needs both.”The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken feelings, the kind of silence that promises everything and nothing.

Then, as if snapping back into the role that’s been both your shield and your prison, he pulled away just enough, voice clipped and sharp.

“Keep up, or step aside.” Before you could say anything, he stepped back, the door clicking shut behind him with finality.

You sank back in your chair, breath ragged, heart racing. Questions swirled inside you, the same emotions you were so used to feeling hit you like a ton of bricks in your face;

Anger, longing, confusion.

But none of them dared to find their way past your lips.

The day went on.

Meetings blurring into one another, contracts stacking on your desk like a fortress, your mind fraying at the edges from the constant strain.

You barely had time to blink before another email pinged or a call cut through your concentration.

Somewhere in the blur, Sunghoon moved with his usual exacting pace—efficient, cold, distant. You barely crossed paths, except when he unexpectedly said, “Let’s leave together.” You blinked. Surprised?, yes, but there was a subtle invitation in that tone, like a rare crack in his carefully constructed armour. You said nothing, only nodded, eager for anything that might break the suffocating silence between you. A part you, despite everything, still wondered, if things between you two would ever be how they used to be.

The sleek black car slid out of the underground garage, city lights blurring past like distant stars. The cabin was dim, the only illumination coming from the dashboard’s soft glow. You sat stiffly, heels digging into the plush floor mat, exhaustion pulling at your bones. Sunghoon’s hands gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing anchoring him.

“Did you finally read the latest audit report?” you asked, voice quiet but sharp.

He didn’t answer immediately, his jaw tightening before he muttered, “Yes. And it’s a mess. Like every other quarter.”

You let out a dry laugh, folding your arms. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He glanced at you briefly, eyes flickering with something unreadable before returning to the road. “You could try not to make it messier.”

You swallowed a retort but pushed anyway. “Oh? And I suppose your ‘fix it with charm and a wink’ method is working wonders?”

His lips twitched into a smirk, though his eyes stayed cold. “Better than drowning in paperwork and second-guessing every move.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” you snapped, voice rising. “Meanwhile, I’m here trying to keep the entire legal department from imploding.”

“You do a great job pretending it’s not chaos,” he said quietly. You shot him a pointed look. “Pretending? I’m surviving.”

Silence thickened between you, heavy and charged. Then, as if on impulse, you pushed your hair back, letting it fall free down your shoulders. The silk brushed your collarbone, and you caught the subtle hitch in his breath. He stole a glance — longer this time, before clearing his throat. “Distracting,” he muttered, the word hanging between you like a challenge.

You met his gaze, eyes sparkling with mischief and something dangerously close to longing. “Good.”

The elevator was a glass box of tension. You stood with your back to the mirrored wall, arms folded, heart thudding loud enough to drown out the soft hum of machinery. He was close, a little too close, with the heat of him seeping into your skin, making your breath hitch.

“About that tie,” you said, voice low, leaning casually against the wall. “You owe me.”

He stepped forward, hands brushing against your waist in a way that sent electric sparks racing through you. “Debt collectors get no favors.”

You smiled, biting back a teasing remark. “Guess I’m stuck then.”

His eyes darkened, and without warning, his hands found your hips, fingers pressing in as if anchoring you to him. The space between you shrank until his breath fanned across your lips.

“You don’t make this easy,” he murmured, voice rough with tension.

“I’m not supposed to,” you shot back, your voice containing defiance, and something else you couldn't quite name yet.

... TBC ! ♡

viv's note: hi hi, okay so please don't hate me for splitting this into a part three. my laptop randomly crashed and it's a huge hassle to edit long paragraphs on tumblr with my phone, so i'm very very sorry. ill be releasing part three first thing tomorrow morning, i love u all, thank you for all the love on this fic 🫶🏻

taglist: @loveydoveyez @blueluvies @ilovhoonie @hoonkishoe @idknunsadly @heeseungissm @skzenhalove @somuchdard @semi-wife @cloud-lvyy @zerothreetwentyfive @cupiddolle @j4yhoonki @noidnoentry @silcry @beariegyu @antobooh @blossomedfloweroflove @quilevyt @cheerrxy @chvconn3 @jellymiki @jaehyunohpeach

[vivvangel]

my two worlds together hell yea 🧡

summer on the grid | jung sungchan

⟶ summary: you only had two goals for the summer: travel around europe and forget the last four years of your life but then you met sungchan; once on a plane, again in a club and then finally on the grid. you didn’t mean to fall for formula 1’s rising star…it kind of just happened.

❀ genre: summer love, fast burn, strangers to lovers ❀ word count: 23.3k ❀ staring: jurin (22)- xg, sungchan (23)- riize, anton (21)- riize, eunseok (24)- riize, brief mentions of actual f1 drivers such as: lando norris, charles leclerc, lewis hamilton, yuki tsunoda and max verstappen. ⟶ what to expect: fluff, online bullying, invasion of privacy, borderline stalking, mentions of panic attacks, grinding and groping, drinking, profanity, romance, inaccuracy in race dates, prehaps inaccurate use of f1 terms (i'm still learning), mentions of actual f1 drivers (lando norris, yuki tsunoda, george russel, charles leclerc, ollie barman). the smau version can be found here.

✎୭:  f1 has been the only thing on my mind lately pls enjoy my self-indulgence. happy silverstone weekend!

Newark Airport, USA  - Saturday, May 31st

“Did you know that the A350’s wingspan is longer than a blue whale?” you ask, chin propped in your palm, eyes on the tarmac.

Jurin doesn’t look up from her phone but the corners of her mouth twitch. “How long’s a blue whale again?”

“About a hundred feet give or take. The plane’s longer.” She hums like that’s the most fascinating thing she’s heard all day. It isn’t—she’s heard this exact fact from you three times now. Most people tune out your plane trivia after fact one but Jurin lets you say things five times if that’s what it takes to get them out right, she even pretends to be interested.

You’ve known her since middle school, since the time you both got detention for sneaking into the library to google how planes fly. She was wearing a NASA hoodie two sizes too big and split her lunch with you. You’ve been orbiting each other ever since.

She’s curled up beside you in the same kind of hoodie; McLaren this time, faded and oversized. Her red hair is twisted up into a clip and she’s wearing sunglasses indoors for no reason other than stubbornness while tapping away mindlessly on her phone. Gate E7 is filling slowly and you’re slouched in your seat, legs hooked over the edge of your carry-on, watching a plane taxi down the runway through the wide terminal glass.

You’ve always loved planes. From the way they move to the way they lift off the ground like they’re weightless. Airports have always been your favorite place to be. Transitional spaces where anything can happen, where you’re not quite here or there just…in between. It’s part of why you chose aerospace engineering as your major.

You’ve spent the last four years drowning in propulsion equations and glitchy simulations that never ran right the first time, pushing through all-nighters and surviving off vending machine granola bars just to get your degree. It was worth it…probably. You’re still not sure. All you know is that you need this break.

You and Jurin started planning this trip a whole year ago with your mutual friend Sohee but he had to drop out at the last minute after securing a post grad job at one of the top hospitals in the state. The year gave you time to budget, map things out and actually look forward to something.

You wanted to travel the world and Jurin wanted to chase Formula 1, a surprisingly easy compromise. The two of you worked out the details between late-night ramen nights and pinterest boards during finals week—her tabs open to track layouts and driver stats, yours cluttered with flight paths and packing lists.

Five weeks in Europe. No itinerary beyond three key stops: London, Barcelona and Monaco. You’re hitting a few other cities in between but those are the ones written in your calendar, locked in since spring. You check the screen above your gate.

Flight 9423 | Newark → Heathrow | Gate E7 | On Time

It’s the first flight of the summer, the first of many. The intercom buzzes. “Passengers seated in 4A and 45G, please come to the gate desk for a quick seating update. That’s four-A and four-five-G. Thank you.”

Jurin pulls out one AirPod and looks at you. “45G, That’s me right?” You nod. She drags herself up, tugs her hoodie over her head a little and walks toward the counter. You watch her go then turn back to the tarmac. Another plane is taking off sleek and slow then suddenly airborne, climbing into the clouds like it’s nothing. Jurin comes back five minutes later, waving a new boarding pass in your face. “They upgraded me to premium economy.”

You blink. “What? Why you?”

“Jealousy isn’t a good look, sweetie,” she teases, wiggling the pass in your face.

You roll your eyes and slap her hand away. “Did the other person get bumped too?”

“Nope. They didn’t show. Their loss.”

You groan and flop back in your seat. “So I’m stuck back there alone?”

She smirks. “You’ll be fine. Talk to your new seat neighbor. Maybe they like plane facts.”

As if on cue, the intercom pings again. “Passenger in seat 4A, please approach the desk for your boarding information.” You look around to see if you can catch this mystery person but no one moves. You glance at the screen then back at Jurin. “Whoever they are, they’re late.”

She shrugs again, sliding her sunglasses back into place. “Oh well.”

Boarding starts not long after. She gives you a quick hug before slipping into the premium line, smug grin and all. You roll your eyes but smile anyway. You’re glad she’s getting the upgrade even if it means you’ll be stuck in the back alone. You pull on your backpack and inch forward with the rest of the crowd. It’s slow and awkward, the way boarding always is; too many bags, not enough space and people suddenly forgetting how the alphabet works. You make it past the gate agent and head down the jet bridge, the sound of rolling suitcases echoing off the metal walls.

The air smells faintly of cold metal and something artificial but it’s oddly comforting. You step into the plane offering a quiet “hi”and “thank you” to the flight attendants and follow the narrow aisle toward the back. It takes you a minute to find your row. When you do, it’s as cramped as expected. You hoist your carry-on into the overhead bin, nudge it into place and then ease into your window seat with a soft sigh. The vinyl is cool against your legs, the window even colder against your fingertips when you press your hand to the glass.

You bend down to slide your backpack under the seat in front of you. The straps get caught so you adjust them until they lie flat the way you always do, tight and neat and ready for takeoff.

You settle back into your seat, exhaling slowly but just as you’re about to close your eyes, you hear the soft shuffle of someone new stepping into the row. They move quietly, placing their bag overhead before easing into the seat beside you. You glance up offering a polite automatic smile and then freeze.

The guy next to you is tall, taller than airplane seats are built for and unfairly good-looking. His dark hair flops over his forehead in soft layers with the ends brushing the collar of his zip-up, sharp cheekbones and wireless earbuds hanging loose like he’s pretending to listen to something.

He meets your gaze for half a second then gives you a polite nod. You look away immediately, heat crawling up your neck. Great. He’s hot and now he’s sitting next to you for the next seven hours. You press your cheek to the window and exhale slowly, trying not to think about how close his knee is to yours or how he smells like bergamot and something expensive.

Soon, the cabin crew starts their usual safety spiel, voices chipper as they move through the motions. The guy next to you actually reaches for the safety card in the seat pocket like he plans to study it. You blink mildly impressed, no one ever reads those. “British Airways’ crash rate is one in 7.1 million,” you say, voice soft and conversational, eyes on the safety card.

He pauses then glances over at you slowly. There’s a slight furrow between his brows, like he’s trying to decide if you’re joking or just weird. “…good to know,” he says eventually, nodding once before looking back at the card.

You purse your lips silently cursing yourself. So much for your seat neighbor liking plane facts. There’s a beat of silence then— “What’s the rate for first-class passengers getting bumped to economy?” he asks, voice dry but curious.

You blink, a tad bit thrown off. “I…don’t think they publish those kinds of stats but they do tend to overbook on popular routes like this one. Especially into Heathrow.”

He hums and smiles faintly. “Figured. I was supposed to be in 4A; first class but got booted.”

That catches your attention. 4A, the other passenger they called with Jurin. You shift in your seat to face him a little more. “You didn’t ask to take the next flight?”

“Thought about it,” he says, lips quirking. “But I need to be in London at a specific time. Work.”

You nod slowly then glance toward the window. “Fair enough but still, you’d think they’d let you wait it out. The next flight is usually the A380. Upper deck, wider seats, quieter cabin. It’s a nice ride.”

He looks at you with genuine amusement now. “You know a lot about planes.”

You shrug. “Aerospace engineering major…planes are kinda my thing.”

His brows lift. “That explains the stats.”

You grin. “You want another?”

He pauses then shrugs. “Why not.”

You perk up. “Okay, so if you’re flying on a 787, you can feel the difference in cabin pressure. They keep the altitude lower, like 6,000 feet instead of 8,000, to reduce jet lag and fatigue.”

Before he can answer, a flight attendant passes through the aisle, gently reminding him to fasten his seatbelt. He does so wordlessly, tugging the strap over his hips and snapping it into place. You take that as a cue to keep talking because for once someone other than your family, Jurin and Sohee is actually listening.

You’re mid-ramble about engine thrust when you pause and peer out the window as the plane lines up on the runway. “I’m not totally sure what engines this aircraft uses,” you admit, voice thoughtful. “Sometimes you can tell based on the sound, for example GE engines have this lower whine during acceleration but—”

“GEnx,” he says smoothly, cutting you off.

You blink and glance over at him. He’s still looking ahead but there’s a slight upward tilt to his lips like he knows something you don’t. “That’s what this one uses.”

You study him for a second, surprised. “How do you know that?”

He hesitates for just a beat, barely noticeable then shrugs. “I work with engines.”

Before you can say anything in response, the plane begins to pick up speed and your attention shifts instinctively, eyes trained on the runway and chest buzzing as the aircraft starts to lift. You’ve always loved takeoff, it’s your favorite part of airplane rides. You’re momentarily too caught up to remember you were in the middle of a conversation. Once the plane levels out and the seatbelt sign dings off, he turns toward you again. “You all out of facts?”

You blink, lips parting. “Oh—sorry. Sometimes I get carried away. I forget not everyone cares about planes and physics.”

He shakes his head and smiles softly. “I don’t mind, I travel a lot so I’ve already seen every movie they have. This is better.”

You let out a small laugh. “Well, in that case, you’re in luck. I’ve got facts for days.” He laughs and you lean back into your seat, more relaxed than before.

“So what do you do, exactly?” You ask and this time you see him visibly pause.

“Umm…I work for Ferrari,” he says slowly, almost like he’s testing out the waters.

You hum, thinking of Jurin. The way you could go on about planes, she could go on about F1. You’ve tried to keep up but it’s all a little confusing. You know she’s a die-hard McLaren fan, has been since high school and she’s been annoyed for weeks about their drivers placing second and…sixth? You’re not sure, what you do know though is that some rookie’s been dominating the standings and won’t let McLaren take first. You think he might be a Ferrari driver but you’re not one hundred percent. “That’s nice. So you work with their engineers?”

He lets out a short laugh. “Yeah…something like that.” You nod but don’t push. Maybe it’s impolite.

“What about you?” he asks. “What do you do?”

You shrug. “Just graduated. Haven’t landed a job yet.”

“Congrats,” he says, meaning it. “If you could work anywhere, where would it be?”

You think for a moment. “Maybe Emirates. They’ve got a good fleet and I like their aircraft models. I wouldn’t mind helping design new engines for them.” That sparks another round of back-and-forth, nothing too deep, just light conversation while dinner is passed around. You learn he’s from South Korea but went to a private school in England, travels a lot for work and enjoys working out. You tell him about growing up and going to school in the same state, how traveling’s always been your escape but school made it harder and how this five-week Europe trip is your reset.

Eventually, the cabin dims and the hum of the engines blends into the background. You feel your body getting heavier, exhaustion settling into your bones. You try to keep your eyes open a little longer but it’s getting harder. “You should sleep,” he says, voice quiet.

You nod already fighting a yawn. “Yeah…probably a good idea.” You lean your head gently against the window. You’re thousands of feet in the air, somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow, seated next to a stranger with a voice like honey and answers that only leave you wondering.

___

When you wake up a few hours later, you wake up to something warm beneath your cheek and something heavier pressing against your head. You blink groggily, adjusting to the low cabin lights. You shift a little and register the broad shape of a shoulder beneath your head and the way his body leans slightly to accommodate your weight. You sit up carefully and as you do he shifts too, stretching with a soft exhale as if he’s just now waking up. Your gaze meets his and you immediately blurt, “Sorry.”

He blinks sleepily, rubbing at one eye. “For what?”

You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “Falling asleep on you. I could’ve sworn I passed out facing the window.”

“You did,” he says with a yawn. “But you looked uncomfortable so I nudged you over.”

Your mouth opens slightly. “Oh.” You don’t really know what to say after that. You manage a soft, “Thanks.”

He gives you a barely-there smile, eyes flicking to the window. “We’ll be landing soon.” He says.

You turn to look too and sure enough the clouds have started to break. You can see the edges of the city now, glowing with early morning light. London is just beneath you but you don’t want to say goodbye yet. You’re already trying to think of something to say, something that doesn’t sound like you’re desperate to hold on to the moment when he turns toward you first. “So, where are you staying?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question. “Oh…I’m not actually sure. My best friend Jurin planned most of London. I planned our next stop.” He nods slowly. For a moment, something flickers across his face. It might be disappointment or maybe it’s just the lighting. You can’t tell.

You both sit in silence for a beat then at the exact same time you both open your mouths to speak. He laughs under his breath and motions for you to go first. You hesitate then ask quietly, “What’s your name?”

He looks at you for a long moment as if he’s thinking about something, like he’s debating. Finally, he says, “Jinsu.”

You try it out. “Jinsu?”

He nods when you pronounce it right. “Yeah. That’s me.”

You give him your name and he repeats it softly, more to himself than to you. You watch him as he says it again under his breath, like he’s committing it to memory. The seatbelt sign dings back on and you both shift, buckling in and straightening up. The descent begins slowly and you can feel the plane tilt.

You try to make conversation; you ask if this is his first time back to London since his private school days, if he likes it, if he’ll be staying long but neither of you really cares what the answers are. You’re just trying to fill the space before time runs out. Realistically, you could ask for his number. Be bold and put yourself out there but the possibility of rejection knots your stomach and you bite the urge down. Instead, you glance at him and murmur, “You know, landing’s the trickiest part of any flight. You’ve got lower visibility, unpredictable wind shear, plus the stress on the landing gear.”

He chuckles quietly, head tilted toward you. “Another fact?”

You smile a little sheepish. “Sorry. I can’t help it.”

“I didn’t say I mind.”

The wheels hit the runway with a soft jolt. The plane slows and you feel the shift in momentum as the brakes kick in. You stay seated quietly, heart heavier than expected. The engines hum low as the aircraft slows to taxi. Soon, everyone’s unbuckling, overhead bins flying open with impatient hands. Jinsu’s up first. He grabs his bag then turns to you like he’s about to say something but he stops. His eyes flick to the window then back to your face. He swallows like he’s choosing not to say what he really wants. “Thanks for the in-flight facts,” he says instead. “And…good luck on your trip.”

You smile but it feels a little bitter. “Thanks. Safe travels.” He hesitates a second longer then walks down the aisle, disappearing toward the front of the plane. You sit there for a moment, staring at the empty seat beside you. Eventually, you grab your bag, shuffle down the aisle and pass by Jurin, who’s still busy rearranging the contents of her tote. You slide into her row and plop down beside her. She startles slightly when she sees you. “You scared me,” she mutters. “How was the flight?”

You adjust your backpack, still in a bit of a daze. “Met someone.”

She raises a brow. “On the flight?”

You nod. “Jinsu, my seatmate.”

She eyes you carefully. “Cute?”

You shrug, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah. Tall. Mullet. Asian.” There’s a beat before she asks if you got his number. You shake your head and she groans, smacking your arm. You flinch and tell her to leave you alone. As the line inches forward, she asks if he said anything you could use to find him. You hesitate then say quietly, “He works for Ferrari.”

Jurin stops mid-step. “Ferrari? Ew. Maybe it’s a good thing you fumbled. I can’t be caught hanging out with someone who’s into red cars and bad decisions.”

That makes you laugh and for a second you forget about seat 45G. The two of you step off the plane and move through the terminal half-awake. The airport’s already buzzing with people but your body is starting to feel the effects of the long haul flight.

You exchange some cash at a kiosk near the exit and catch the tram into the city. Jurin talks you through the week ahead; food spots, museum stops, nightclubs and race weekend at Silverstone. You listen and nod along, letting her voice fill the space between your thoughts. By the time you reach your hotel, check in and ride the lift up to your floor, everything’s caught up to you. Your body aches so you both toss your bags down and agree to nap before doing anything else.

London, England - Wednesday, June 4th

Your first four days pass in a blur.

You two hit the ground running; figuratively and literally. The first full day was spent walking through Covent Garden and Notting Hill, stopping at thrift stores and overpriced bakeries. You and Jurin made it your mission to eat your way through every borough.

By day two, your camera rolls were full of aesthetic pictures in front of red phone booths and crooked pictures of Big Ben courtesy of Jurin. Day three was the museum circuit: the Tate, the V&A and a short stop at the Design Museum for you, where you geeked out over old aviation schematics while Jurin humored you with a patient smile.

Today, it rained all morning so you stayed in and ordered in food, watched half a rom-com and took turns scrolling Tiktok while cuddling under the covers. It was a calm day really, until Jurin sat up around 7 PM and said, “I got us on a list.”

Which is how you now find yourself standing at the vanity in your hotel bathroom, curling your lashes with Sohee on facetime while Jurin rifles through her suitcase for the y2k dress she swore she packed.

“I know it’s in here,” she mutters, digging through layers of mesh packing cubes.

You glance at her in the mirror. “You said this was gonna be a chill night.”

“It still is,” she says, holding up the black dress triumphantly. “You can thank Leah.”

You blink. “Leah from Oh Polly?”

She nods. “Apparently some of the reps are in town and they’re doing a soft launch event at a club tonight. Industry-only. Fashion, media, that kind of thing.”

You pause mid-swipe of lip gloss. “And that’s the list you got us on?”

Jurin grins. “I didn’t get a communications degree to let opportunities slide.”

You don’t retort because if there’s anything Jurin loves more than motorsports, its media. She worked her way through undergrad building a social presence from scratch, mixing brand deals with PR internships, teaching herself video editing between classes and cold-emailing reps just to get her foot in the door. She says the dream is to work on Mclaren’s media team full time.

“Do I need to be camera-ready?” you ask half-joking.

“Always. I gotta get content tonight so you might end up on my feed again.”

You finish your makeup and trade spots at the sink. Jurin ties her hair into two pigtails and braids them while you change into the outfit Sohee helped you pick out earlier, a baby blue butterfly top you had gotten off of amazon and low rise skinny jeans. For shoes you settled on some white kiichi pumps.

By the time you’re both ready it’s close to ten. You down a mini bottle of wine from the fridge while she chases her shot of tequila with flat soda. You both laugh and head downstairs and slide into the back of an UberX. Jurin gives the driver the name of the place, some unmarked building in Soho with a velvet rope out front and a guest list you can’t fathom.

“Are you nervous?” you ask, watching her adjust her necklace in the reflection of the car window.

She shrugs, smiling. “Not really. It’s just networking. If I make the right impression, it could mean more brand work this summer, more content. Maybe a foot in the door.” You hum and turn your attention back to the city blurring past. By the time you arrive, the line is still relatively short and you’re inside in under thirty minutes. You scan your surroundings, the club lights are too bright and strobing too fast, just asking for someone to seize. The dance floor is crowded with people and there are drunks stumbling all around you.

You and Jurin elbow your way in, looking around in awe. “Shots first,” she says over the music, already tugging you toward the bar. Her pigtails bounce as she walks, phone in hand, thumb tapping out a quick story update for her close friends list. At the bar, you squeeze into a tiny pocket of space pressed between a man in a glittery mesh shirt and someone in a puffer vest that definitely doesn’t belong indoors. Jurin flags down the bartender. “Two lemon drops,” she shouts.

The bartender nods and moments later, you’re each holding a tiny glass rimmed in sugar. Jurin raises hers with a grin and you cheers her before you both throw them back. Your lips pucker at the taste and your eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck that’s strong.” You say.

“Another?” Jurin asks smirking, you stare at her in shock and before you can say no, she’s already ordering another round. Four shots later, everything is hazier and warmer. The music is louder too, the bass vibrating in your chest. Jurin’s laughing again, grabbing your hand with a sharp tug. “C’mon! Dance floor!”

You stumble a bit, letting her guide you through the crowd. The air is thick with perfume and heat but Jurin doesn’t care. She pulls you right into the center and starts dancing, her pigtails whip back and forth as she mouths the lyrics, phone in hand capturing snippets of you both. You roll your eyes but laugh too and sing along for her video.

The two of you dance for what feels like hours but was really more like thirty minutes. You turn to face her, “I’m gonna pee,” you yell over the music, leaning toward Jurin. She nods without missing a beat, you turn to make your way through the crowd. The bathroom line is mercifully short. You wipe your face and check your reflection, surprisingly your makeup is holding up well. By the time you re-emerge into the main room, the DJ’s switched tracks and the floor is even more packed.

You glance around, eyes scanning the crowd for Jurin but she’s nowhere in sight. You get a notification that she’s posted on her instagram, you look at the post before texting her quickly asking where she’s gone. She responds letting you know she’s found her way behind the dj booth. You snort, not surprised. You pocket your phone and look around, trying to find something to occupy your time with. You scan the VIP section and you pause when your eyes fall on someone familiar.

For a second, your brain doesn’t register it. There’s too much going on; flashing lights, bodies pressed close but then your gaze sharpens. The person standing near the edge of the roped-off section, drink in hand, half-laughing at something someone said, turns slightly and it hits you all at once. It’s him! Jinsu.

He’s wearing a loose button-up, the first three buttons undone, showing smooth skin and the glint of a silver chrome hearts chain that rests against his chest. His sleeves are short, revealing his forearms and his hair’s gelled back, mullet framing his face. He looks good, almost too good. You freeze. He hasn’t noticed you yet. He’s still talking to someone, solo cup in one hand, his head tilted as he listens but then he shifts and scans the crowd like he’s looking for someone and his gaze collides with yours.

There’s a flicker of disbelief that passes through his expression. A beat where his eyes widen slightly like he’s making sure he’s not imagining it. Then the surprise softens into a smile. You don’t move. You can’t, all you can do is stare as he begins to cross the floor toward you, weaving through the crowd like this isn’t a coincidence at all. You fumble for your phone and text Jurin. The two of you have a quick back and forth before you shakily pocket your phone into your back pocket just in time to see him step into your space, that same breathless smile on his face.

“Hi,” he says, almost like a question.

You swallow. “Hi.” You echo, heart beating erratically in your chest. Neither of you say anything for a moment. You’re too busy just…staring the other down. You’re the one who breaks it. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Ditto,” he murmurs, eyes flicking over your outfit like he’s committing it to memory. “Thought I was seeing things for a second.”

You laugh, quiet and a little shaky, still caught off guard by how good he looks. Another pause arises but this time he breaks first by nodding toward the bar. “Can I buy you a drink?”

You nod wordlessly. He steps aside for you to lead the way, hand grazing your back lightly as you move through the crowd. At the bar, he flags down the bartender and orders you something simple and himself a water. You feel his gaze every few seconds, like he’s checking to see if you’re still real. When the drinks come, he hands you yours, fingers brushing and you both lean against the bar.

You sip your cocktail, grateful for something to do with your hands. He watches you over the rim of his cup, then shifts slightly, angling toward you. “So, how’s the trip?”

You smile a little. “Busy. We’ve been doing everything. Museums, food spots, the usual tourist checklist. We walked like eight miles the first day.”

He laughs, nodding along. “Sounds about right. Are you doing all the landmarks too?”

“Mhm. Covent Garden, Notting Hill, some places Jurin saw on Tiktok.”

He chuckles like he finds that endearing. You glance down at your drink, swirling the liquid absently then you look back up and say, “Have you found your burger place yet?”

He blinks, thrown. “What?”

You laugh softly. “On the plane. You said you always try a new burger spot in every country you visit. That it’s your thing.”

His brows lift in shock. “You remembered that?”

You shrug. “It was cute. Stuck with me.”

He smiles down into his cup. “Not yet,” he says after a moment. “Probably after Sunday.”

You narrow your eyes a little. “That’s oddly specific.”

He shakes his head still smiling, like the answer’s too complicated or too stupid to share. “It’s just a thing. Timing, I guess.” Before you can press further, he sets his drink down on the bar and leans in slightly, voice dipping low again. “Wanna dance?”

You hesitate for a second but then push aside your doubts before you can talk yourself out of it and nod. “Sure.”

Jinsu doesn’t smile this time. He just tilts his head slightly and reaches out, fingers curling loosely around your wrist. The gesture is simple but the feel of his skin against yours sends a little jolt down your spine. He pulls you gently through the crowd, leading you toward a less-packed corner near the speakers where the lights strobe in soft pulses. You don’t miss the way people make space for him as he passes. You file it away for later.

Jinsu squeezes your hips one last time before turning you around and helping you slowly grind down on him to the beat of the song, once you have a steady rhythm going on he begins to buck his hips to meet your pace.

You’re arched slightly, whining your waist against him and catching the attention of those around you. Jinsu sneaks one arm around your front and gently squeezes at your right boob over your top, getting turned on by how you apply the right amount of pressure to his front every time you bounce off his lower half and the lustful gaze of those watching.

He slides the hand gripping your hip up a bit to squeeze your waist as he sensually moves his hips to the beat of the song, practically humping you. You can feel yourself getting turned on as his lower half brushes against you.

He leans in a bit and shoves his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in. This time you can’t hold back your moan. Just as the song starts to build, you feel him still and his hands loosen slightly, grip shifting. You turn, confused at the change in pace but see that someone’s at his side, a guy in dark clothes, speaking urgently into his ear. Whatever he says, Jinsu’s face falls and his jaw clenches. You step back instinctively. “Everything okay?”

He looks at you and for a second, it’s like he doesn’t want to move. Like he might say screw it but then he huffs frustrated and says, “I have to go.”

You blink. “Now?”

He nods once. “Yeah. My…Something came up.”

Your buzz falters but you mask it with a tight-lipped smile. “Oh okay. That’s fine.”

He hesitates, like he’s fighting the clock then finally, “I’m really glad I saw you again.”

You’re about to say something, anything. Maybe even ask for his number but he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd before your lips can even form the shape to let out the syllables.

Jurin appears beside you out of nowhere, practically bouncing, her phone clutched in one hand and a crooked grin tugging at her lips. “Where’d Ferrari boy go?” she asks, eyes scanning over your shoulder like he might still be somewhere nearby.

You shake your head, lips pressed into a thin line. “Had to go.”

Her brows knit. “Seriously? Again?”

You nod, exhaling through your nose, still a little dazed. “Yeah. Something came up.”

She squints at you. “Are you sure he’s not fake? A figment of your jetlagged, horny brain?”

You snort and shove her shoulder. “Shut up.”

She grins and throws an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close. “C’mon. Let’s go drink and you can debrief me about it.”

You let her tug you through the crowd back to the bar, the space where Jinsu stood just minutes ago already filled by strangers. It’s like he was never there. Jurin orders for both of you as you slide onto a stool, resting your elbows on the bar. She passes you a drink, something soft pink and sweet-smelling and raises her own in a mock toast. “To mysterious men who disappear into the night.”

You laugh and clink glasses. You swirl your drink slowly, watching the ice shift. Maybe third time’s the charm you think. It has to be fate doesn’t it? There’s no way two people meet like that on a plane only to run into each other again four days later in a city this big. That kind of coincidence feels too deliberate, too perfect. Tonight isn’t the last time you see Jinsu. You’re sure of it.

Silverstone Circuit — Qualifying Day, June 7th

The first thing you notice is the sound; buzzing, humming and too many overlapping voices. Radios chirping, tires being dragged across concrete, the distant roar of an engine firing up. The whole place is alive with motion, heat and adrenaline. You’re not even at the grandstands yet but the energy is bursting at the seams. Jurin is vibrating beside you, practically skipping with each step, pointing out things left and right—different team motorhomes, hospitality tents, a camera crew filming something for sky sports.

She’s grinning wide, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. “Okay, so fun fact: Silverstone has the second fastest average speed on the calendar, Monza is first.” she says as you trail behind her, one hand gripping the lanyard around your neck. “Silverstone is like almost 170 miles per hour. It’s insane. It’s an aggressive track, no room for mistakes. It’s why everyone loves this race.”

You nod, more focused on the way the garages line the paddock rather than whatever corner complex she just named. She doesn’t mind that you’re quiet. She never does, as long as you rep McLaren all is well and good. “That’s Red Bull,” she adds, pointing to a sleek, blue setup with security guards already waving fans back. “And Mercedes is down that row. I promised Sohee a picture of Eunseok so we gotta make a stop there before qualifying starts.”

You nod still trailing a step behind. It’s Day 2 of race weekend, Jurin opted to skip FP yesterday in favor of shopping for some discounted F1 Merch and argued that qualifying was more fun. Jurin’s in full fangirl mode, eyeing every driver that passes and you can’t blame her. She’s been waiting for this for years. You barely register when she stops walking.

“Wait,” she says suddenly, grabbing your wrist. “There! The papaya! That’s McLaren!”

You glance in the direction she’s pointing. It’s bright orange and unmissable. The garage doors are partially open and you can just make out a few people inside; some engineers, a cluster of photographers and maybe…one of the drivers? You can’t tell. It’s too far.

“I’m gonna see if I can sneak a pic,” Jurin says, already half-turning. “Anton might be there or Lando. I’ll be fast!”

You raise an eyebrow. “Fast as in…ten minutes or fast as in I’ll see you when the race starts?”

She flashes you a grin. “You love me.”

“Tragically.” And with that, she’s gone. Darting off in the direction of the papaya, digicam in hand, hair bouncing as she disappears into the crowd. You don’t chase after her, just shake your head and start walking in the opposite direction, trying to familiarize yourself with the paddock before it gets too packed. You don’t have a plan just time to kill. You check your phone, scrolling past the messages you meant to reply to earlier and pull up the paddock map Jurin made you download.

A few turns later, you think you’re somewhere near the Ferrari garage. It’s quieter over here—less screaming fans. Most of the people around you look like they work here. You catch flashes of red shirts, team radios, branded sunglasses. It feels like a different world. You open your phone again to text Jurin. The two of you go back and forth, Jurin tells you to look up and describe the area you’re in. You glance up to orient yourself with your surroundings but stop cold when your eyes fall on the large screen overhead. Your screen dims in your hand, forgotten.

There, just beyond the taped-off section of the garage is a digital display. It cycles between graphics: driver stats, race history, sponsor logos but what makes you pause is the face currently displayed. You stare at it for a full ten seconds before it really registers. It’s him.

Hair styled back off his forehead, race suit zipped to his collarbone, standing in front of a Ferrari backdrop with his arms folded, mouth set in a sharp, focused line. He looks older somehow, less like the guy who you gave plane trivia to and danced with in a nightclub and more like someone who’s used to being watched. The caption below confirms it.

Sungchan Jung – Scuderia Ferrari No. 2 Driver

Your stomach drops. You blink once, twice, hoping the image will change. That maybe it’s a mistake or maybe it’s someone who just looks like him. A cousin. A fan. A really well-dressed imposter but it doesn’t change because it’s him. Not “Jinsu.” Not Mr. “I work with engines.” Not the quiet and charming guy you met in the economy section of a redeye. He’s Ferrari’s golden boy, Formula 1’s rising star. He lied.

You feel heat rise in your throat, too fast to control. The shock turns sour in your chest. You’re embarrassed, angry and honestly? A little heartbroken. The worst part is you were starting to trust him. Starting to think that it was fate and maybe you two were meant to cross paths again. Ever the hopeless romantic.

You frantically text Jurin, telling her what you just stumbled upon. You take a step back. Then another. You just want to get out of here. You don’t even care which direction. Anywhere that’s not under this garage’s fluorescent lighting, not where you could run into him so you turn to leave. “Hey—wait.” His voice hits you before anything else causing you to freeze. You already know it’s him, you don’t need to look. You know how he sounds, you remember how he said your name somewhere over the Atlantic. You turn slowly.

He’s walking toward you, race suit half unzipped, sleeves tied around his waist. One hand is holding a bottle, the other is hovering like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. His expression is somewhere between stunned and sheepish. You don’t say anything, you don’t need to. It’s all written on your face anyway.

“Can I—can I talk to you?” he says, softer now. “Please.”

You just look at him. At the version of him you never knew. You can’t tell what you’re feeling anymore; it's all layered on top of itself. Confused. Hurt. Maybe a little relieved that he didn’t disappear forever but mostly hurt.

You shake your head and start to back away again. He follows, more urgently this time. “Wait—please. Just five minutes. I know I should’ve told you. I was going to, I just—” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t think I’d see you again and then when I did, it felt like it was too late to explain but I swear I wanted to.”

You hesitate and he takes the opportunity to step closer, voice quieter now. “Please. Just five minutes.” You don’t say yes but you do stop walking and he sees it as a win. He doesn’t wait for permission. Just gestures toward a quieter corridor behind the garage then walks ahead without checking to see if you’re following.

You follow him deeper into the corridor passing a few team staff on your way. A security guard nods at him then a door clicks open, held for you. You assume it’s his driver room and take in a deep breath before entering. He shuts the door behind him and you’re both enveloped in silence.

You glance around not sure where to look. It’s smaller than you expected, barely more than a converted office. One long bench. A chair. A wall-mounted monitor still playing track telemetry in the background. His race helmet sits on a shelf, matte red and white, the Ferrari logo gleaming under the overhead light.

Sungchan runs a hand through his hair. You can tell he’s trying to figure out what to say first. You beat him to it. “Why? Why lie?” Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to.

He exhales slowly. Not defensive, just tired. “I didn’t want you to treat me differently.”

That makes you go still. He takes a step closer, cautious. “It’s not an excuse. I know that but when we met, it was just…normal. You didn’t know who I was. You weren’t looking at me like a headline or a stat sheet or someone you’d kill to get a photo with. You were just…” He shrugs. “You.”

You hold his gaze, even though your chest feels tight. “I don’t get that a lot anymore,” he adds. “People recognize me everywhere now. Airports, restaurants. Even when I’m trying to lay low and if they don’t, they find out within ten minutes and suddenly it’s like I’m not a person anymore, just…Ferrari’s number two.”

His voice drops slightly at that last part. You catch something in it—resentment? Weariness? You don’t press. Instead, you nod slowly. The anger that sat heavy in your ribs when you saw his face on the screen is still there but it’s not burning anymore. You get it, maybe more than you want to admit.

You’ve had moments like that too, not with fame of course but with people who wanted something from you before even knowing you. You think about all the times you’ve wondered if someone liked you because they wanted to or because they just wanted the version of you they’d built in their head.

He doesn’t say anything for a second, just watches your face like he’s trying to figure out if he’s already lost you. You cross your arms to steady yourself. “So…Jinsu?”

That makes him crack the smallest smile. It’s the first one you’ve seen since he caught you by the garage. “It’s a name my close friends use,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I used to give it to strangers when I didn’t want to be recognized and then I guess it…stuck. It’s kind of dumb.”

You shake your head. “It’s not dumb.” Another silence settles and you sigh, letting your arms fall to your sides. “I should go find Jurin.”

He straightens immediately. “Wait.” You do and he takes a small step forward. Not in a pushy way but enough to be in your space again. To make sure you don’t drift out of his orbit a third time. “I don’t want to leave it like this. Not again.” He says. You meet his eyes and there’s something in his face that wasn’t there before, he looks nervous. He swallows then says it like he’s deciding the second he speaks it aloud. “Can I have your number?”

You blink in shock. For a second, you think you misheard him. He waits, hands at his sides, mouth set in a faint uncertain line like he’s afraid he might’ve misread the whole thing. You tilt your head then smile softly. “Win the race tomorrow then maybe I’ll give it to you.”

That makes him laugh. His eyes flick down and then back up like he can’t believe you just said that but he’s grinning now, wide and real. It suits him better than the helmet. “Alright. Challenge accepted.” He says.

You nod once, still half-smiling. “Good. I like winners.” He opens the door for you without saying anything more. You step back into the hallway and he doesn't follow you out. Just stays in the doorway watching you walk away because this time he knows you’ll come back.

The Ferrari hospitality is cooler than the rest of the paddock, shaded, polished and oddly quiet in contrast to the sound outside. You spot Jurin immediately, she’s pacing near the espresso machine and chewing the edge of her thumbnail, her badge swinging wildly with each turn. She doesn’t see you until you’re close. “Where the hell have you been?” she says, striding toward you, eyes scanning your face like she’s trying to figure out if you’ve been crying. “You texted me you saw him and then you just disappeared. I’ve been texting you like crazy!”

You glance down at your phone, now buzzing uselessly in your hand. Six missed texts, a few all caps. You hadn’t even felt it vibrate. “I was going to text back.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I got distracted.” You weakly say.

She stares at you blankly. “You got distracted.”

“I was talking to him.”

“Talking.” She repeats the word slowly, like slowing it down will help you understand how ridiculous it sounds. “To the guy who introduced himself as Jinsu and then turned out to be Ferrari’s wildcard rookie.” You nod. She blinks twice. “You—what the hell happened?”

So you tell her. You give her the Sparknotes version, how he looked like he’d seen a ghost, how he said he didn’t mean to lie, not really. That he liked how normal it felt between you and how rare that is for him now; being a person and not a headline. Jurin doesn’t interrupt. Just watches you with her arms folded and lips pursed.

“I mean…” you trail off. “It made sense when he said it.”

She nods once, slowly. “It usually does when the guy who hurt you is hot.”

You scowl a little offended. “He didn’t hurt me.”

“Fine, he lied to you.”

You hesitate. “...He left some stuff out.”

“That’s not better.” Jurin argues.

You shift your weight and glance at the ground. “I don’t know. I really do get it though. People look at him and see…whatever they want to see. Fame, money, fast cars—”

“A PR relationship opportunity,” Jurin adds.

“...Yeah…sure but I didn’t know any of that. I just thought he was a guy who liked engines and didn’t mind my plane trivia.”

“He is a guy who likes engines,” she says. “But he’s also a five-time Grand Prix winner who drives for Ferrari and lives in the spotlight.”

You know she’s right. You’ve known it since the moment you saw his face on that monitor. Jurin keeps going though. “You have six hundred followers on Instagram ____. You hate being perceived. You don’t even let me tag you in my stories!”

You shrug, not really having much to say in response. “Sixhundred and forty and I know.”

You see her eye twitch at your attempt of dry humor but she brushes it off. “And now you’re what? Giving your number to someone who gets followed by paparazzi everywhere he goes?”

“I haven’t given it to him.” You say.

She frowns. “Wait, seriously?”

You nod. “He asked.”

Her mouth opens. “And?”

You shrug. “I told him if he wins the race tomorrow…then maybe.”

There’s a beat then Jurin makes a sound that can only be described as a strangled groan. “Oh my Gosh!”

You wince in anticipation. “Do you realize what you’ve done?!” she half-yells, smacking your arm. “I was praying for a McLaren 1-2 and you just gave Ferrari the power of love!”

“I panicked!” you hiss. “It felt bold at the time!”

“Bold?” she repeats. “You cursed McLaren!”

You grimace. “Maybe he won’t win?” She gives you a look that says be serious and you want to cower away. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” You pout.

She glares. “You might as well have handed him pole position on a gold platter.”

“I said maybe!”

Jurin rubs a hand over her face. “You better pray Anton and Lando both end on podium or I swear we are never speaking again.”

You clasp your hands together and say you’ll start a prayer circle for a papaya podium right now and that gets her to crack a small smile. She sighs and drains the last of her red bull then jerks her chin toward the crowd building around the fences. “Let’s go. Quali starts in ten.”

Silverstone Circuit — Race Day, June 8th

It’s hotter than you expected. The kind of heat that clings to your skin and settles at the base of your neck no matter how much water you’ve had. On top of that, it’s loud; blaringly loud. Not just the engines, which haven’t even started yet mind you but the sheer noise of people. You can barely hear yourself think.

You and Jurin are wedged into your seats in the grandstands, somewhere near the front row. The sun is merciless up here; no shade, no breeze, just heat radiating off the metal beneath your legs. Jurin’s wearing a papaya McLaren jersey, her favorite one, the back stretched slightly from years of wear. She has on black biker shorts and a bucket hat that’s already started to droop from sweat.

You’re in one of her extras: an oversized tee and a McLaren lanyard with your weekend pass swinging around your neck. Neither of you look cute but you definitely look like you have spirit. Jurin places her binoculars beside her and opens up a new bottle of water. “Race day,” she sighs, like it’s something sacred.

You glance around. “It’s loud.”

“It’s perfect,” she corrects. Your shoes are sticking to the floor of the grandstand and someone behind you just dropped their drink with a splash. It doesn’t really feel perfect but Jurin’s eyes are glued to the grid below and you don’t want to ruin her moment.

You’d gotten here early, well before the national anthem or any of the fanfare just to claim good seats. Jurin has been vibrating since she opened her eyes this morning and saw clear skies. A dry track and not a chance of rain. Nothing to mess with McLaren’s chances.

Yesterday’s qualifying had been a dream for her: A McLaren lockout with Lando in P1, Anton right behind him in P2. Her two papaya boys right where they belonged. Sungchan had slotted into third, Red Bull’s Shotaro in fourth and Eunseok in fifth—though that hadn’t lasted. He’d gotten slapped with a three-place grid penalty for overtaking under yellows after that Aston Martin rookie, Wonbin (?) picked up a puncture and crawled through sector two.

Sohee had lost his mind in the group chat: voice notes, screenshots of timing data, a single all-caps ‘I’M NOT OKAY’ followed by fifteen crying emojis. Jurin sent back a picture of her looking smug with McLaren hospitality in the back within five minutes. You were pretty sure the chat was still going. You kind of pitied him. Mercedes has been in shambles all season and Jurin hasn’t let him hear the end of it.

Your fingers brush the folded piece of paper tucked beside your phone. Just a small square with your phone number written in your neatest handwriting. The commentary over the loudspeakers cuts through your thoughts. Something about track temperatures and tire strategies. The cars are beginning to line up now; twenty single-file machines slotted into position. Your stomach flutters.

You’ve watched races before, mostly in Jurin’s room half-asleep on her bed while she explains DRS zones and rages at the drivers through her screen but this is different. You feel the adrenaline coursing through your body now, you finally understand the thrill. The five red lights blink on above the grid. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Lights out.

The grandstands erupt as the cars launch forward. A scream of engines and tire smoke and raw speed as they surge toward turn one. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Jurin crushes your hand in hers. Sungchan makes a move immediately, swinging out wide. You see the Ferrari dart to the right, wheels inches from Anton’s. The two of them are neck and neck, fighting for the inside line. “Don’t you dare—” Jurin hisses under her breath but he does.

He takes it. Clean and aggressive right on the edge of track limits. When he comes out of the corner in second ahead of Anton, tucked behind Lando you’re already on your feet. “Yes!” you shout, fists in the air. Jurin lets go of your hand so fast it’s like it burned her. You sit down slowly, realizing what you’ve just done. She’s staring at you, mouth open in disbelief.

You try to play it off. “Sorry. Reflex.”

She squints at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’ve been brainwashed. “You’re wearing a McLaren shirt.”

“I know.”

“You cheered for Ferrari.”

“I know.”

She sighs, long and dramatic and mutters something under her breath about betrayal. You apologize again and promise it won’t happen twice but the truth is…it might because watching Sungchan drive is addictive.

The race unfolds like it always does. Long stretches of tactical shuffling, a near crash at turn seven. A pit lane double stack that nearly goes wrong for McLaren. Your bum goes numb from sitting too long and your bra is soaked in sweat but none of it matters because every few seconds your eyes flick back to the leaderboard and in bold font is Sungchans name in P1. He won the position in lap 38.

You sneak a glance at Jurin. She’s sunk a little lower in her seat, hat pulled low over her eyes. She hasn’t said anything in a while, which is usually a bad sign but her leg is still bouncing and you’re pretty sure she’s not actually mad just…sulking.

By lap fifty, it’s clear the race is his. Lando’s fallen to fourth, Anton can’t quite claw his way back past Shotaro and Charles, Sungchan’s teammate, has slotted into second with a comfortable gap. You feel the shift in the atmosphere even from the stands: the race isn’t over but everyone knows how it’ll end.

When the checkered flag finally waves after lap 52, Sungchan crosses first, Charles in second, Shotaro in third. No McLaren on the podium. Jurin lets out a long, dramatic sigh, flops back into her seat and says nothing. You glance sideways, unsure if it’s safe to speak. “You good?” you ask carefully.

She doesn’t look at you. “I could be petty right now but I’m not going to be because I’m mature and supportive.”

You fight a smile. “You’re pouting.”

“I’m processing.” She exhales. “It’s fine. Lando still got fourth. Anton was on mediums. It’s fine.”

You pat her on the arm gently. “He did great.”

“He got sixth.”

“…Great for the tire choice?” You offer, not really knowing what difference medium tires even make.

She gives you a flat look then softens. “Go get your man.”

You hesitate for a second then throw your arms around her in a quick hug, squeezing tight. She doesn’t hug back but she doesn’t shove you off either. That’s how you know she means it.

You practically leap down the grandstand steps, weaving through the crowd as fans swarm toward the podium area. It takes a minute to get to the barriers and by the time you do, the Ferrari crew is already there. Sungchan is being lifted off the ground by his team, a flurry of hugs and pats on the helmet. His visor is up now, dark hair damp with sweat, grin stretched impossibly wide

He spots you and catches your eyes through the fence. You see it in real time; him pushing forward, ducking around his engineer, slipping through the gap in the fence to get to you. His fire suit is still half-zipped, gloves loose in one hand and he looks like someone who’s just won the world.

“I think I’m owed something?” he says, still breathless.

You laugh. “Congratulations.”

He leans a little closer, eyes bright. “You know what I’m here for.”

You try to tame your smile but it's futile, “I think Jurin might actually kill me in my sleep tonight.” You glance around. Half the Ferrari crew is watching and you’re pretty sure some sports station is live streaming.

He leans forward. “Don’t stall.”

You pull the folded paper from your pocket and slide it into his palm “Don’t lose it. That’s a one-time-only offer.” You joke.

He grins. “Noted.” His team principal calls his name from behind, motioning toward the press pen. Sungchan glances over then back at you. “I’ll text you,” he says and then he’s gone, swallowed back into the sea of red.

Venice, Italy — Wednesday, June 12th

Four days have passed since Silverstone. Four days since you watched Ferrari’s golden boy win yet another Grand Prix and beam down at you like you were the only person in the stands. Since then, you’ve packed up your things and headed south with Jurin, the pair of you swapping British fog for Venetian sun.

Venice has been kind to you.

You’ve eaten your weight in pasta—cacio e pepe, vongole, one plate that came out of a tiny alley trattoria covered in so much truffle oil you nearly cried. Jurin has insisted on taking photos of everything. Half your camera roll now looks like the inside of a pasta cookbook. The other half is her doing outfit changes in front of canal bridges, dragging you into the frame anytime she remembers she isn’t traveling alone.

You’ve taken thousands of photos on your phones, on her digicam and even on a disposable you picked up from a street vendor just because it felt nostalgic. You’ve ridden the water bus, fed pigeons in Piazza San Marco and nearly got scammed buying a knockoff Murano ring. You’ve seen enough sunsets to last a lifetime and still, the first thing you think of when you wake up is him. Sungchan has been texting you nonstop.

Sometimes early in the morning, sometimes late at night when he can’t sleep, sometimes just to send you blurry photos from track walks or links to songs he thinks you’d like. You’ve fallen into a rhythm that feels alarmingly natural for two people who’ve only met in person three times. You don’t always reply right away, sometimes you take a minute to breathe and figure out how not to sound like you’re already too far gone. Sometimes he doesn't reply for hours and you’d picture him in meetings, in briefings you don’t know enough about to even ask but somehow it doesn’t matter. The silence in between texts never feels heavy or weird.

Now, it’s early evening and Jurin has stayed behind at the Airbnb to film something for her Tiktok while you wandered back out to do a little souvenir shopping. A final gift run before your flight to Barcelona in two days. You’re standing inside a tiny storefront, debating between two identical postcards for your dad when your phone buzzes.

Incoming facetime: sungchan 🏎️

You don’t hesitate and quickly swipe to accept already smiling. His face fills the screen a second later, up close and a little off-center. His hair is damp and pushed back, cheeks a little flushed. You can see a plain white wall behind him and hear a fan oscillating somewhere in the background.

“Hi,” he says, voice soft and boyish.

“Hi,” you echo, adjusting your grip on your phone as you pretend to still consider the postcards.

He squints a little, trying to place where you are. “Are you in a store?”

“Souvenir shop,” you say, spinning around slowly so he can see. “Jurin’s back home playing influencer so I figured I should get out for a bit and do my shopping, maybe bring something back for my dad so he doesn’t complain I only send pictures of food.”

Sungchan hums. “You’ve had a good day?”

You nod. “Great, actually! We went to the glass museum this morning then took a gondola to Giudecca after lunch. I swear Chanie, I had the best pasta of my life.”

His eyes light up. “Best pasta of your life?”

You nod eagerly. “Swear on my life.”

He frowns, mock offended. “Doubt it was better than mine.”

You pause. “Yours?”

“I make really good pasta,” he says, like it’s common knowledge. “I’ve been told it’s the best in Monaco.”

You raise a skeptical brow. “By who?”

“The rookies,” he says. “And myself.”

You laugh, shifting your phone. “Well, I’d need to try it to confirm.”

He grins. “You should come to my apartment sometime. I’ll cook for you.”

Your smile falters for a second and not because you’re unhappy but because your body doesn’t quite know what to do with a sentence like that. You glance away and pretend to study the magnets on a nearby shelf. “That’s a dangerous offer.”

“Why?”

“Because I might actually take you up on it.”

He opens his mouth to say something but a voice off-camera cuts in before he can. “Sungchan!”

He groans, head dropping slightly. “Sorry. Hold on.” You hear some commotion before the camera swings wildly and focuses on someone else; floppy hair and too much papaya orange. Anton. He’s sat beside Sungchan’s shoulder, eyes narrowed like he wasn’t trying to be caught on camera.

“Oh, hey,” you say, blinking at the sudden face.

Anton gives a little nod. “Hey.” Then he throws a pillow at Sungchan’s head.

You try to stifle your laugh while Sungchan barely dodges it, making a wounded noise as he whips the camera back at his face. “You see how I’m treated?”

You’re still grinning. “You probably deserved it.”

“I’m being harassed in my own hotel room.”

“Shouldn’t have given him your keycard then.” You shrug.

“I didn’t!” he huffs. “I was nice to the rookie once and now he follows me around like a duckling.”

You tilt your head. “He seems sweet.”

Sungchan pretends to look betrayed. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

You shrug and he sighs dramatically. You faintly hear a ‘I like her’ come from Anton off camera. You smile and fidget with an I love Venice keychain. Sungchan’s camera steadies again, angled so you can see just his head. You go about your shopping while he just stares at you. You don’t realize how long the silence lingers until he breaks it.

“There’s a grid dinner in a bit,” he says reluctantly. “I should probably start getting ready.”

You nod. “Right. Go do your PR duties.”

He scoffs. “It’s just dinner.” You give him a look and he sighs. “Fine. PR dinner.”

He doesn’t move right away though. Just looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your face. You smile and tell him you’ll text later and he says, “Send me what you pick out for your dad, belle fleur.” You blush at the nickname and promise you will.

He hangs up first this time. You stare at your screen for a second after the call ends then exhale through your nose, quietly and a little dazed. You’re not even sure what you talked about exactly. Just that it was easy. That it felt like something you could get used to, like something you wanted to. You slide your phone into your back pocket and turn back to the postcards, wondering if he was serious about the pasta.

You continue your shopping and find items for all your family members. Your tote feels heavy carrying all your goods; a fine linen-bound notebook pressed with flowers on the cover, keychains, postcards, tiny jars of honey wrapped in gingham cloth and a glass dish.

The streets are quieter now. Late enough in the evening that most of the tourists have retreated into restaurants and the locals are shutting their storefronts for the night. The air smells like salt and warm brick. You take your time getting back. Your phone buzzes once in your back pocket. You pull it out and find a photo from Sungchan. To your surprise he’s not even in the shot, it’s a picture of Lando and Anton, the text that follows makes you chuckle.

6:48 pm | sungchan🏎️: think jurin will like me if i send more pics of the two ? 6:48 pm | you: hmmm idk she’s still upset about silverstone… 6:49 pm | sungchan🏎️: what if i throw the next race? 6:49 pm | you: haha she’d adore u 6:49 pm | sungchan🏎️: then consider it done 6:50 pm | you: and what if i bet on u to win ?? 6:50 pm | you: that parlay could cover my student loans 6:51 pm | sungchan🏎️: then of course i’d choose you 6:51 pm | you: good answer

You two go back and forth for a bit more before he has to go again. The apartment is dim when you return, the big window in the kitchen cracked open and letting in a breeze. Jurin’s at the counter with her laptop open, the light from her screen throwing blue shadows across her face. She’s still in her outfit from earlier, a pink tank top with white linen shorts but her hair is tied up now, a pen stuck behind one ear. Her digicam plugged in beside her, footage playing on loop as she trims the clips. She glances up when she hears the door. “Honey I’m homeeee.” You sing.

Jurin snorts. “Welcome back sweetie. Buy anything good?”

“Yes!” you say, digging through the bag. You take out the items and showcase them and she compliments each choice and how she thinks each family member of yours will react. She’s still talking as you move around the kitchen, unpacking a small box of cookies you’d picked up on the way. You place them on the counter between you and lean your hip against the edge, still half-listening as Jurin talks.

Just as she wraps up talking, her screen lights up with an incoming facetime. She glances at it and grins. “My baby!” You lean in just as she answers. Sohee’s face fills the screen, slightly flushed and backlit by what looks like the inside of his car. He’s in scrubs and there’s a takeout cup balanced in the console beside him. “About time,” Jurin says.

“You act like I don’t work twelve-hour shifts,” he mutters, squinting at the sun. “What are you two up to?”

“Eating cookies,” you say. “Being domestic.”

He scowls “Must be nice.” he says, voice flat.

You raise an eyebrow, “You could be here too, we literally invited you.”

“I’m a nurse. You think I’ve got time?”

You shrug. “On the bright side at least you’re employed.”

He waves you off and yawns. “I’m heading in for another twelve hour, just wanted to check in on you two and make sure you’re still alive. Anything new happening? Any updates about plane guy?” You and Jurin exchange a glance and Sohee’s brows pull together. “What? What was that look for?” He asks as he slows to a stop.

“You’ll never believe what happened on Sunday.” You say, Sohee takes a sip of his coffee and urges you to continue. You walk him through Silverstone, how you saw Sungchan, how you found out his real name, you tell him about the driver’s room and the phone number exchange. You keep it short but by the end, Sohee’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“So you’re telling me,” he says, hands clapping together once in disbelief, “that the man from your redeye flight is actually a Formula 1 driver?” You nod. He exhales through his teeth. “God really does have favorites.” You and Jurin both snort. He shifts in his seat, resting one arm across the steering wheel. “And you’ve been talking since?”

You hum and nod. “I think every day since Silverstone.”

Jurin pipes in, “they’re like lovesick teenagers I swear!”

You shove her gently and Sohee laughs before asking. “How do you feel about him?”

You press your thumb into the table and try to be honest. “I think…I like talking to him. I like the way he is when it’s just the two of us…I like that he texts me dumb things throughout the day and that he makes time to call even when he’s probably running on empty.” 

Jurin hums knowingly. “Sounds like you like him babes.”

You tense a bit, a little thrown by the statement. You don’t answer right away. Just lean your against the counter and fold your arms like that might help you feel a little less bare. The kitchen’s quiet except for the faint hum of Jurin’s digicam transferring files and the sounds from Sohee’s car on the other end of the call. Sohee breaks it first. “Why do you look like that? There’s no shame in liking someone. Especially when that someone is a billionaire and goes out of his way to facetime you just to ask what you ate for lunch.”

You let out a half-laugh but it doesn’t really stick. “It’s not that I’m embarrassed,” you say eventually, voice softer than before. “I just—” You sigh and reach for another cookie you don’t even want. Your hands need something to do. “I don’t know. He’s just so…him? He’s twenty-three, has a Ferrari contract and an apartment in Monaco…Monaco! And then there’s me.”

Sohee’s quiet, Jurin too. You stare down at the wrapper in your hand. “I just finished school and I don’t even know what comes next. I don’t have a title or a path or any certainty about where I’m heading. My idea of fine dining is splitting a bowl of pasta with Jurin and pretending we don’t need to check our bank accounts. Like, what do I have to offer someone who is in the one percent?” It comes out more bitter than you mean for it to. Not angry, just honest. Uncomfortably so.

“I know how this sounds,” you add after a second. “But it’s hard not to feel like there’s a gap between us that can’t be filled by liking the same movies or texting every night. He lives a fast life that gets dissected and gossiped about. I get stressed at the thought of even being perceived.”

Sohee exhales. “Okay yeah…that makes sense.” You appreciate that he doesn’t sugarcoat it. That he doesn’t rush to contradict you or feed you a line about how you’ll work it out. It’s not that you don’t want to. You really really like Sungchan but it would be dumb to not acknowledge the stark difference in your lives, what you would be subjecting yourself to if anything were to come from this.

Jurin leans forward, fingers tapping her water bottle thoughtfully. “I hear you…I do but I also think…I think it’s not normal to lie about who you are on a plane because you’re scared someone will only like the version of you they’ve seen in a headline.”

You look up, confused. She nods toward your phone, the one that buzzes every evening now with his name lighting up the screen. “He lied because he’s tired of constantly performing and for once he didn’t want to and you gave him that even if it was just for a few hours on a flight.” You blink hard, throat tightening a little.

Jurin reaches over and squeezes your arm. “Don’t talk like you’re some consolation prize, you’re not. You’re someone who made him feel human again.” You look at her then at the phone still perched against the cookie box with Sohee’s waiting expression staring back.

“Just…” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “be honest with yourself about what you want and what you’re okay with because if this turns into something more, it’s not just going to be the two of you.” You nod slowly, trying to take that in.

Jurin glances between you and your phone, hesitates and then says, “While we’re on this topic…you should know that there’s a post going around.”

You stiffen, “A post? About what?’ You and Sohee both watch her close out her digicam photos and pull up instagram before scrolling on her mousepad to find said post. She pulls up a page named ‘paddocktea’ and turns her laptop to face you. Thankfully it’s not a picture of your face, not even your back or side profile. Just a picture of Sungchan blurry from movement with his helmet in hand and suit still half-zipped as he walks past the Ferrari hospitality lounge. The caption below it is what makes your stomach twist.

allegedly, ferrari’s golden boy sungchan might be off the market! multiple fans spotted a girl coming out of his driver’s room last race weekend at silverstone and sources say he’s been glued to his phone ever since. what do we think? is there a new wag?

You read it twice to make sure it says what you think it does. Jurin watches you carefully. “There’s no photos of you, not even a name just…speculation.” She says genty. You nod slowly letting that sink in. It’s a little surreal and a little unnerving but not the end of the world. There’s something reassuring in the vagueness…like you’re still shielded, still able to step back if you really need to. Your name hasn’t entered the conversation yet and maybe it won’t. Maybe this is just noise, destined to pass through the F1 rumor mill and fizzle out by the next race weekend.

Jurin closes her laptop and leans forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “You should talk to him. Not because of the post but…just to see where his head’s at. What he wants.”

You glance at your phone where it sits, screen dark. “Not gonna spiral about it tonight,” you say, stretching your arms overhead with a dramatic sigh. “I’m choosing peace.”

Sohee snorts and Jurin hums. “As long as you talk to him at some point.” She says. You nod and sigh before taking a seat beside her. You let it go for now because not everything has to be sorted out all at once, because you’ve still got two more nights in Venice and the view outside the window is golden and especially because life didn’t end when you first said hello to Jinsu, if anything it feels like it’s just beginning.

Venice, Italy — Thursday, June 13th

Today is your last day in Venice. It’s the kind of sentence that makes your chest feel weird, like something good is ending even though you knew it would. You and Jurin spent the morning wandering through the streets, stopping for cappuccinos and taking turns with your disposable. You bought things you don’t need nor have room for: a ceramic trinket shaped like a gondola and a tiny bottle of perfume that already leaked in your tote.

In the afternoon, you took the vaporetto out to Lido. The beach was busy but tolerable with kids building lopsided castles, old men napping under umbrellas, someone strumming a guitar a little off key. Jurin took her content photos while you played camerawoman, calling out pose prompts and adjusting angles until the light was just right. She caught a few good ones of you too, silhouetted against the water, laughing off camera, one where the hem of your dress is caught in the breeze.

You ate prosciutto sandwiches and split a bag of cherries while your legs dried in the sun. Bought a fizzy peach soda and a new pair of sunglasses that won’t survive the summer. You even spent the last of your euros on lemon cookies for the plane ride tomorrow and a little magnet for your younger sibling that you’ll pretend is a thoughtful gift, even though you grabbed it last-minute.

Now you’re showered, warm from the inside out and stretched across your bed in a clean t-shirt with your hair still damp. Jurin is at the kitchen table editing footage, mumbling to herself about lighting and captions. Your phone buzzes somewhere near your hip.

8:59 pm | sungchan 🏎️: how was your last day in venice?

You bite back a smile before you even read it again, thumb already reaching to reply.

9:00 pm | you: beautiful! 9:00 pm | you: jurin and i spent the day at the beach 9:00 pm | you: the sunset was insane 9:01 pm | sungchan 🏎️: that sounds perfect 9:01 pm | you: it was !! 9:01 pm | sungchan 🏎️: u get anything delivered to your place today? 9:01 pm | you: ermm 9:01 pm | you: i don’t think so let me go check

You pause the conversation to head back toward the entryway where the Airbnb host told you packages get left and sure enough, nestled beside the umbrella stand is a large white box tied with a deep red ribbon. You carry it back inside with both hands, your brows lifting as you carefully untie the bow and peel back the lid. Inside is a bouquet so large it takes your breath away. An explosion of soft pink peonies, buttery yellow garden roses and delicate white ranunculus tied together with a pale silk ribbon. You call out a confused “Um?” to Jurin who peeks over her laptop and lets out a low whistle. Your phone buzzes again.

9:06 pm | sungchan 🏎️: hope u like them :)

You don’t reply right away just stare down at the flowers in awe. The gesture is unexpected but not unwelcome. You type back a quick thank you with three exclamation points and a red heart. A few messages later, he asks what time you’re arriving in Barcelona tomorrow. You tell him around 10, after which he sends a long voice note explaining the weekend schedule—how you’ll be getting in around the end of free practice and that he and a few of the other drivers are thinking of taking the yacht out in the afternoon. He says you and Jurin are more than welcome to join if you’re free. You practically beam at your screen.

You’ve never been on a yacht before. Just the idea of it sends a ripple of excitement through you. Sungchan of course says it so casually like this is a totally normal thing to offer someone you’ve known less than a month. You already know Jurin is going to freak out. Getting to hang out with her favorite drivers on a yacht in Spain is practically Christmas come early.

He asks if you’re planning on attending quali and the race and you say yes, that Jurin secured tickets for both Barcelona and Monaco. He immediately offers to upgrade you to VIP, which sends another rush of heat to your cheeks. You thank him again, a little more emphatically this time and he just says, “It’s the least I can do.”

You chat a bit longer about nothing in particular. He sends a photo of his room, clothes already laid out for media day. You tell him to go to bed and get some rest and he sends back a smiley face and says he’ll try. You stay quiet for a moment, then scroll through the photos Jurin took of you earlier on the beach. You pick your favorites and pair them with a close-up of the flowers. You hesitate only for a second before posting them with a caption that reads: you’re everything i ever dreamed of.

The post gains more traction than usual; more likes, more saves, a few random follows you don’t recognize. You catch Sungchan’s username among the likes, feel your stomach flip and then force yourself to put your phone face down on the nightstand. You’re not going to overthink it. Instead, you’re going to sleep with the biggest smile on your face.

Barcelona, Spain — Friday, June 14th

The sun is high and brutal and you’re doing your best to hide from it. Your shoulder is pressed into Sungchan’s side, your cheek resting against the warm fabric of his shirt. He shifts slightly enough to press a kiss to the top of your shoulder. You don’t say anything, just hum and let yourself sink deeper into the curve of his arm.

Across from you Jurin is animatedly talking, knees pulled up to her chest, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she explains something about content creating to Eunseok who nods like he understands but probably doesn’t. He smiles anyway.

Anton drops into the seat beside you with a sigh, water still dripping from his hair and chest. He opens the cooler wedged between your feet, rifles through it then holds up a grape soda in offering. You take it with a small “Thanks,” the can cold against your warmed fingers. He nods and leans back, stretching his legs until they bump against yours.

It’s been a long morning. You and Jurin landed in Barcelona around 9:20 am barely coherent, running on two hours of sleep and one shared red bull. The airport felt like a fever dream. You split a cab into the city, dropped your bags at the apartment and crashed for a brief barely-there nap before getting ready and heading to the marina.

Jurin had talked your ear off the whole ride over about Sungchan’s free practice session, gushing about his pace and how clean his lines were. You had to hide your shock at her willingly complimenting a Ferrari driver and tried not to fixate on the way your stomach flipped whenever his name came up.

By the time you reached the dock, most of the boys were already there shirtless, loud and very clearly off-duty. Sungchan was waiting at the edge with one foot up on the dock and one hand outstretched. He’d helped you and Jurin aboard and introduced you to the rest of the drivers—Shotaro, Wonbin, Eunseok, Anton, and Seunghan (the Aston Martin reserve driver you’d only heard about in passing) before pushing off from the dock and steering the boat into open water.

Since then, you’ve swam, eaten and sunbathed. Your stomach is full from too many sandwiches and a handful of truffle chips you swore you wouldn’t touch. The waves are gentle and the music is low as one of the boys whistle off-beat. You glance up at Sungchan for a second and find he’s already looking at you while tracing slow circles over your knee with the pad of his thumb. You take a sip of your soda and lean into him a little more. “This is nice.” You hum.

From the other end of the deck, there’s a thud and a sigh so dramatic it pulls your attention. Wonbin walks over and throws himself onto the closed cooler, arms crossed like a sulking kid, and Seunghan follows behind him, trying not to laugh. “You can’t just quit because you’re losing,” he says nudging Wonbin’s foot with his own.

“I wasn’t losing,” Wonbin mutters, face buried in his hand. “I just wasn’t winning.” You snort into your soda can.

Anton leans back into his seat with a scoff. “Same thing dude.”

“I don’t like playing games I’m bad at,” Wonbin says, still sulking. “It’s not good for my confidence.”

Seunghan just laughs and lets it go while Shotaro continues playing against no one, muttering about sore losers. You’re about to make a joke when a sudden wave knocks the boat off rhythm. The boat rocks back and forth trying to restabilize and you grip on to Sungchan a little tighter. Wonbin’s eyes widen. “Turbulence? On a boat?”

You glance up at him, lips twitching. “Not turbulence. That’s more of a plane thing.”

He squints at you. “Same difference.”

“Not really. Boat motion is surface-level but turbulence on planes is usually due to pockets of unstable air. It’s kind of like hitting invisible potholes.” You say. There’s a pause.

You feel Sungchan hold you closer and kiss the back of your head as Anton stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. “Why do you just know that?”

“She’s obsessed,” Jurin calls from somewhere behind her sunglasses.

“Hot girl with hyperfixations. A tale as old as time.” Wonbin says solemnly. Sungchan grabs a chip and flicks it straight at his forehead. “Hey!” Wonbin laughs, wiping salt from his face as Anton hauls him to his feet with a sigh. “Let’s go before he actually throws a punch.” Anton salutes you both lazily before tugging Wonbin toward the front of the yacht, muttering something about cannonballs.

You’re still half-draped over Sungchan’s side when he taps your hip gently, a silent signal to move. You shift without question, letting him guide you until you’re seated properly facing him with one leg folded between his and the other bent at the knee. He mirrors your posture, one hand finding your waist like it’s second nature.

He learns forward for the fruit bowl and picks out some grapes. He feeds you them one at a time without saying anything. He plucks them from the bowl and offers them to you between two fingers, waiting until you chew and swallow before handing over the next. You take them without question too relaxed to bother teasing him for it. Besides, it feels nice. “You know I could grab them myself,” you murmur around a bite.

“I know,” he says like that’s the whole point. He shifts a little, arms curling around your waist so you’re more fully in his lap. His chest is broad and warm against your front. For a few seconds you sit in silence while the boys shout somewhere on the other side of the boat then his voice cuts through it. “I’ve been thinking about Turn 7.”

You blink. “What?”

“High-speed corner in Sector 3.” He shifts slightly, nudging the bowl of grapes aside to use both hands while he talks. “Last year I lost in Barcelona because I took it too wide.”

“I don’t know what that means,” you admit gently.

He chuckles. “I know.” You stay quiet and let him keep talking. He goes on for another minute or two, laying out strategies like he’s trying to work through them in real time. It doesn’t really matter that you’re not following most of it, you can tell that talking it out helps, that he thinks better out loud and that he trusts you enough to be that person he tells his race strategy to. When he trails off, you glance at him again. “Do you always get this in your head before a race?”

“Not always,” he shrugs. “Only when I want to win.”

You smile. “Don’t you always want to win?”

He gives a noncommittal hum then says out of nowhere: “You’re really beautiful.” You freeze for half a second and then roll your eyes even as your heart trips. “Even with sweat dripping down my back?”

He leans forward and kisses the corner of your mouth anyway. “Especially then.”

Your mouth is parted just slightly from the surprise and he’s still close, so close you can feel the shift in his breath as it brushes your cheek. He doesn’t move for a second and neither do you. “You’re really beautiful,” he says again, this time lower like it’s a secret.

Your stomach dips. He’s waiting you realize, he won’t make the next move unless you do so you close the distance. It starts out soft and slow enough to make you second guess whether you’re actually kissing him or just thinking about it too hard but then loosely, his hand moves to grip your neck and you lift your chin higher so you can press your lips harder into his while your hands fist into his shirt. His free hand drops to wind around your waist and in one swift movement he pulls your body flush against his.

You gasp at the motion and Sungchan uses the opportunity to slip his tongue between your teeth, your lips parting further in response. You moan into his mouth, your chin lifting higher as you press your lips harder against his. You lose yourself into the intoxicating feeling of his lips against yours. When you feel his tongue flick against yours, your hands uncurl from his shirt only to wind up his chest, along his throat, towards the nape of his neck.

Both of you lose track of time, your tongues gliding and sliding against each other, both of you consumed by the other. There’s a soft ache in your lungs from the lack of oxygen but you don’t care. Right now, breathing is the last thing on your mind. In fact, the only thing you can think of is Sungchan and the intoxicating sensation of his tongue against yours.

When the ache grows too much to be ignored, the two of you pull away breathing harshly against each other. Your lips are slightly swollen and as you flick out your tongue to soothe them, you can’t help but whimper at the aftertaste of him in your mouth.

You stay like that for a while tucked into his arm. You can still feel the shape of his mouth on yours. You glance over at him, wondering if he’s thinking about it too but he just looks so calm hand still moving absentmindedly across the dip of your waist.

Your first kiss with Sungchan. You turn the thought over in your mind trying to make sense of it but you don’t know what it means or where this is going. All you know is how it made you feel, like something you didn’t even know you’d been waiting for had finally found you.

Eventually, Jurin appears with her phone in hand and a grin. “Photo time,” she announces. You groan but Sungchan just laughs and helps you up, smoothing a hand over your back before pressing a soft kiss to your temple like it’s second nature now. You take a few pictures, half-laughing and squinting into the sun. By the time the yacht heads back toward the dock, the sun is dipping lower and everything’s tinged with orange. Jurin waves you off with a wink and a promise to text later saying she’s staying behind with the boys for a night out. Something about a club one of them swears by.

You and Sungchan split off from the group, walking the streets before finding a gelato stand still open. You each pick a flavor and walk side by side, arms brushing now and then, saying very little. He asks if you’re tired and you say a little. He says he is too but doesn’t want the night to end. You hum in agreement, licking dripping pistachio off your cone. “It’s been a good day.” He nods in agreement.

Once you finish your ice cream you make your way along the waterfront, passing closed cafés and dimly lit shopfronts. The waves are lapping gently against the docked boats and there’s a breeze picking up, light but enough to make you pull your free hand into your sleeve. He notices and tugs you a little closer. “This still doesn’t feel real.” You say.

He looks at you. “What doesn’t?”

“This,” you say, glancing down at your joined hands like you’re not entirely sure how they got there. “You, us. All of it.” He doesn’t say anything right away, just lets your words hang in the air for a second. You both step around a stack of folded café chairs, his hand never loosening from yours. The breeze shifts again, a little colder this time and you try to ignore the way your skin prickles. “I know who you are. Like, who the world thinks you are and I know that’s not all of you but…it’s still kind of a lot to wrap my head around.”

Sungchan exhales through his nose. “That’s fair.” You look up at him expecting a joke or some light deflection but there’s none. “I guess it’s weird for me too,” he says eventually. “Not because of who you are but because of how fast this feels like it’s moving. Normally I meet people and it’s just…small talk and media-trained reactions but with you—” He breaks off, eyebrows drawing in slightly like he’s looking for the right words. “With you I don’t feel like I have to filter anything. That’s rare for me.”

You try to swallow past the tightness in your throat. “It’s not just a phase, then?”

He slows to a stop beside one of the railings, glancing out at the dark water before turning fully toward you. “If it were just a phase, I don’t think I’d have let you in the way I have or kissed you like that.” You nod and he squeezes your hand. “I like you,” he says simply. “Not the idea of you, not as a distraction. Just…you.”

It’s not an overblown declaration. Not some grand romantic gesture but it still hits the same. You don’t say anything, instead you lean into him again, your head against his shoulder as he slides his arm around your waist, tucking you closer as the breeze lifts again and the lights of the marina shimmer across the water.

He walks you the rest of the way home holding you a little tighter. Your hands stay intertwined and every so often he brings the back of yours up to his mouth like he can’t help himself. You don’t say much, everything that needs to be said already has been.

Your building comes into view sooner than you want it to. You’re not sure how the night passed so quickly, only that you’re already missing it, missing him and he hasn’t even left yet. Sungchan walks you to the door and lingers there. You stop in front of him, tilt your face up and he takes the cue, brushing his fingers along your cheek. “Get some sleep,” he murmurs. “Need my good luck charm well rested.” You nod but neither of you moves.

Then like gravity pulling you together he leans in and kisses you again. His hand rests lightly against your jaw and your fingers find the front of his shirt without thinking. He pulls back just a little not too far though, close enough that your noses still touch. “Goodnight,” he says.

“Goodnight,” you whisper and then you’re inside. The apartment is mostly dark save for the kitchen light. You round the corner and find Jurin perched on the counter in her pajamas drinking from a water bottle. She looks up startled then grins. “Back already?”

You raise a brow. “What happened to your big night out?”

She shrugs and hops off the counter. “The guys flaked. Said they were tired and needed to rest up for quali. Lame.” She opens the fridge again and grabs another bottle, tossing it to you. “What about you?”

You take the water and thank her before saying same and that, “Sungchan needs his sleep.”

Jurin hums as she twists the cap back onto her water bottle. “I’m happy for you. Sungchan seems like a good guy.”

You glance over at her, caught off guard by the softness in her tone. “Yeah,” you say after a beat, lips curving. “He is.” She opens her arms and you step into them easily. It’s a brief hug, she pulls away first and says goodnight before heading into her room.

You finish your water before heading to your room too. You toss your phone onto the bed as soon as you enter and peel off your clothes, not even glancing at the screen before walking into the ensuite bathroom. You step into the shower and let the water run while you think about tomorrow and what to wear, maybe you should wear red? Would Sungchan like that you’d be matching?

When you finally finish your shower and step out, the air feels cooler against your damp skin. You wrap yourself in a towel and pad into the bedroom, heading for your suitcase to dig out your skincare bag only to find your phone is buzzing like it’s trying to crawl off the bed. You blink at it confused but before you can reach for it Jurin pounds on your door. You flinch, heart jumping. “What the—”

“Open the door!” Jurin’s voice comes muffled through the wood, frantic.

Still dripping and naked, you yank the door open. “What’s going on?”

She’s wide-eyed, holding her phone out. “Have you seen this?” She turns the phone screen to you and your heart drops into your ass. On her screen is yet another post from paddocktea but this time you’re in it. In fact you’re in two photos. One of you and Sungchan on the yacht kissing and the other of you two holding hands and walking around the marina. The caption nearly stops your breathing.

looks like ferrari’s golden boy might be off the market for real this time. jung sungchan was spotted on a yacht in barcelona this week, where he was seen making out with a mystery girl on the upper deck—very publicly, we might add. sources say the two have been glued to each other since silverstone. if the pics are anything to go by, he’s not hiding it anymore. are we witnessing the soft launch of the paddock’s newest it couple?

Your breath goes shallow before you even finish reading the caption. There’s a strange ringing in your ears like the world’s been dunked underwater. The phone screen blurs and sharpens again and for a moment you don’t know if it’s because your vision is going or because the photo is just that clear. “Oh my Gosh,” you whisper, the words hollow and quiet.

“Hey…hey, sit,” Jurin says quickly guiding you back toward your bed. Your knees fold before you can register it, the towel barely tucked around you now. Your heart feels like it’s vibrating out of your chest. “I—I can’t—” you wheeze.

“Breathe,” she says, kneeling in front of you now, hands on your knees. “Breathe, babe. You’re okay. It’s gonna be okay.” But you’re not listening. Your hand fumbles around for your phone and as soon as you grab it, you swipe open your notifications. Instagram, Twitter, even Tiktok. They’re pouring in. Mentions, tags, reposts, comments from strangers, screenshots. The post has made rounds faster than you thought possible. You open Twitter and instantly regret it. You scroll down the trending tag, your vision blurring as you read them.

⤑ never thought i’d say this but i miss his ex ⤑ she’s disgusting what does he even see in her ?? ⤑ if she’s a wag then i’m queen of england 💀 ⤑ this pr ass relationship BYEEEE ⤑ how do you go from dating thee literal princess of monaco to this… ⤑ propaganda i will NAWT be falling for she’s so ugly

Your stomach twists. You don’t even know what wag material means. You didn’t sign up for this. You didn’t sign up for any of this. Jurin catches the change in your breathing before you do, you’re gasping again. Your hands are shaking so hard you nearly drop the phone. She grabs it from you gently, prying it out of your grip even as you reach for it again. “No,” she says firmly. “Absolutely not. You’re done. You’re not reading this. You’re not doing this to yourself.”

Tears spill out fast and hot, surprising even you. “I can’t do this,” you choke out. “I can’t—”

“Hey, hey,” Jurin tries but you’re already shaking your head, curling into yourself.

“I can’t go tomorrow. I’m not going to the race. I can’t show up and pretend this is normal. I don’t want this.” You’re crying now, like full on bawling. These people don’t know you yet they’re so cruel. You feel so exposed and out of place, like a fraud.

You knew being involved with someone like him came with attention but this? This is something else entirely. It’s invasive, it’s cruel and it’s a reminder that no matter how kind Sungchan is or how close he’s made you feel, you’re still not from his world. You don’t come from money or fame. You’re just…you. A fresh grad with mountains of student debt, a resume you’re still editing and a stomach that knots any time the spotlight gets too close. You’re not built for this and it shows.

Jurin’s quiet for a second, just watching you. Eventually she decides to speak up. “Don’t make any big decisions right now, okay? You’re overwhelmed and this is a lot but let’s breathe before we do something we can’t take back.” You nod but it’s more of a reflex than a promise because the truth is: you’re already halfway down the tunnel.

Your phone buzzes on the bed again and you lunge for it before she can stop you. You know it’s him. You don’t need to check. “Don’t. Not like this. You need to calm down first.” Jurin begs.

You of course don’t listen, you’re already pressing the phone to your ear. “Hello?” Your voice comes out watery and broken.

There’s a beat of silence then he softly asks, “have you been crying?” You don’t answer, just sniff once and that says enough. “I’m sorry. I just saw the post. I’ve already called my team. I’m trying to get it taken down. I didn’t even realize anyone was taking pictures or I would’ve—”

“We should end this,” you cut in. The words taste bitter and final.

There’s a beat of silence. “W–what?”

You close your eyes. “We should end this. Who were we kidding, Sungchan? It was never going to last.”

“Don’t say that. Yes, it’s been fast I know that but that doesn’t make it any less real.”

You shake your head even though he can’t see you. “It doesn’t matter. You may be used to people digging through your life and making think pieces about your relationships but I’m not. I’m not okay with strangers smearing my name or spreading rumors that could cost me job interviews. I don’t have your security. I’m not backed by a team of reps or PR handlers. I’m just…me. A normal person trying to get by.”

Jurin looks at you then, quite visibly disappointed. Her shoulders fold in on themselves like she knows you’re not being fair but also understands that the hurt is too fresh to stop. “That’s not fair,” Sungchan says, his voice more fragile.

“No,” you agree. “It’s not but it’s the truth.”

“Hang up. Please, just hang up.” Jurin begs.

You ignore her and continue. “People are calling me a nobody, a gold digger, a joke.” You swipe at your cheeks, your voice cracking. “And maybe I could brush it off if it weren’t all true but I am a nobody. I’m just a girl you met on a plane.”

There’s a long pause. “You’re not a nobody. You’re smart and funny and beautiful and you’re worth so much more than what these people think.” You just stare ahead, jaw clenched, heart breaking even as you do it. “Please,” he says again, quieter this time. “Let’s figure this out. Don’t just walk away.”

You close your eyes. “I’m sorry Sungchan. I think it’s better if we cut ties now.” He says your name like a plea but you don’t wait for the rest. You end the call before he can say anything more, the dial tone loud in your ear as the screen goes black. Jurin pulls you into her arms and you let yourself fall, sobbing into her shoulder. You cry until your body is sore from it. You fall asleep like that; wrapped in your best friend’s arms, your phone face down on the floor and a knot in your chest that feels like it may never go away.

Circuit de Barcelona  — Qualifying day, June 15th

The sun is high and beating down on the paddock like it has something to prove. The garage smells like burnt rubber and engine oil and the air feels thicker than usual. Sungchan doesn’t say much as he pulls his balaclava over his head. He’s been quiet all morning. The first quali run didn’t go as planned, he clipped the curb too tight on Turn 9, lost a tenth in Sector 3 and barely scraped through. It was sloppy and messy. Not like him.

Now he’s sat in the back of the garage with his fireproofs clinging to his skin and eyes glued to the live timing screen even though he’s not really seeing it. His engineer is crouched beside him, tapping notes on a clipboard. “You need to pull it together this run,” the man says plainly, not unkind but firm. “Your pace in free practice was top five. There’s no reason you shouldn’t be through. You got this.” Sungchan nods once, stiff and mechanical. He hears the words but they barely register because you’re not here.

Jurin is—he spotted her earlier, bouncing on her heels and talking to one of the Red Bull social media crew, wearing sunglasses too big for her face and a McLaren tee knotted at the waist but not you. You said you were done and you meant it. It shouldn’t matter but it does. He slips into the car, fingers tightening around the wheel. The sound of the engine roars to life and the world gets a little smaller. “You’re going out first on the mediums. You just need to beat Anton’s pace to make it through.” His race engineer says in his ear. The pit lane light goes green and Sungchan releases the clutch.

He sets off and for the first time since joining F1, he’s not thinking about the tire degradation or the wind direction. He’s not thinking about pole position or winning at all. He’s thinking about you. About your voice, hoarse from crying. About how small and unsure it sounded when you told him you couldn’t do this. About how you didn’t even give him a chance to respond before hanging up. He flies through Sectors One and Two making too many mistakes. He’s flying down the track on Sector 3, trying to match Anton’s pace but the back tire keeps slipping. He comes up on Turn 6 and takes it a little too fast and adjusts too late. “Careful on entry,” his engineer warns.

He grips the wheel tighter as he comes up on turn 7. He told you about this corner yesterday. Last season he went too wide, blew his lead and lost the race. You didn’t understand most of what he said, you nodded and listened, let him talk it through. You made space for him, in a way no one else does and now you’re all he can think about. You, with your trembling voice telling him you weren’t cut out for this. You, calling yourself a nobody like he hasn’t just spent two weeks chasing your presence.

The car rockets down the straight. His grip is tight…too tight. The numbers on his display blur with speed. He’s still thinking about your voice. “Watch your line,” his engineer says. “You’re too—” Turn 7 comes too fast. He turns in late, tries to catch it but the rear snaps. There’s a split second where he thinks maybe he can hold it but sadly he can’t. The cars too far gone.

The car fishtails violently and then hooks left. He slams the brakes but it does nothing, all four tires are locked. His halo cuts across his line of sight as the wall barrels toward him and then boom. Straight into the barrier.

Seventy kilos of carbon fiber and steel slam into the barrier at full speed, the nose shattering on contact, the rear end flipping slightly before slamming back down. His helmet snaps forward then violently back, his whole body restrained only by belts as the G-force spikes higher than he’s ever felt.

His visor fogs as he groans in pain. His radio crackles. “Yellow flag, yellow flag…red flag. Sungchan, status check—can you hear me? Sungchan, respond.” He blinks. The cockpit smells like burning rubber and hot oil. His chest aches, everything aches. The marshal lights flash in the distance. People are running toward him. He swallows hard and forces a breath then another. Your face, stupidly, is still the only thing in his head. He presses the comm. “I’m here,” he says, hoarse. “I think I’m okay.” Truthfully, he’s not. Not really.

___

You’re curled up on the apartment couch blanket bunched in your lap and remote resting useless beside you. The TV is on, coverage flickering between pit lane footage and sector analysis. You’re on the edge of your seat praying for a miracle. The qualifying session is partway through and nothing’s going to plan.

You chew on your lip as the commentators recap the Q1 results. Charles is out, starting P12 tomorrow. Some issue with the tires or engine, no one’s really sure yet. Sungchan only just scraped through in P10. His pace is off and his corners are messier than usual. You don’t need to be an expert to see it.

Your phone buzzes beside you with a text from Jurin. You exhale through your nose. She’s been trying to get you to come all day, sweet-talking you in the morning, even laying out a spare outfit for you but you couldn’t. You told her you needed time to yourself, that you would be a distraction. You shift the blanket higher over your chest, thumb hovering over your screen before typing.

10:35 am | you: do you think it’s my fault he’s not doing so well?

You stare at the message, then delete it. Retype it. Delete it again. Type it then send before you can second guess. Jurin doesn’t answer fast enough either way and it makes you feel worse. Your stomach churns.

You know what this track means to him. He told you about it yesterday, rambled on about Turn 7 like it was a living, breathing enemy. He needs a clear head and a clean lap but instead you’ve disrupted his peace with your breakdown and your uncertainty. You can’t shake the guilt. The coverage cuts to onboard footage again, Sungchan’s out for his second run. The camera jolts with every gear shift and you’re practically holding your breath. “Come on,” you whisper. “Come on, just make it through.”

Your eyes are locked on the screen as Sungchan rounds Turn 5, the onboard view rattling with speed, the edges of the frame blurring slightly as he pushes down the straight. You lean forward without realizing, fingers fisted in the hem of your shirt, breath caught high in your chest. “He’s coming up on Sector 3 now,” one of the commentators says.

You don’t blink as he dives into Turn 6, he takes it a little too aggressively, the car wobbling slightly as he corrects. “Careful. Please be careful.” You murmur.

Then he hits Turn 7, he goes in too fast and too wide. Again. The back end of the car kicks out and it feels like your heart stopped. You don’t hear the commentator’s voice spike. You don’t hear Jurin’s text come through. You don’t even hear yourself when you gasp out loud because the screen cuts to an external shot just in time to show his car hook left and slam into the barrier at full speed. It’s not a normal crash, it’s a full-on bone-rattling impact. Your hand flies to your mouth.

“Red flag! That’s a heavy impact at Turn 7,” the announcer’s voice comes back in. “That’s Jung Sungchan—yellow flags went out just before he lost it. Medical car’s already been deployed. That was a hard hit.”

You’re already standing, your knees weak and your body trembling. The replay plays again in slow motion and it’s worse this time. The way the car sails into the wall. The way the halo jars violently under the impact. How still everything goes right after. You don’t realize you’re crying until the tears hit your neck. “Sungchan,” you whisper but it doesn’t do anything. Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay.

Your fingers tremble as you unlock your phone again, eyes darting between apps hoping and praying for an update. The coverage shows the car from a distance now, crumpled and still. Your fingers are still trembling when the static crackles through the team radio. “I’m here.” He says hoarsely.

You collapse back onto the couch with a sob that’s equal parts relief and exhaustion, covering your face with both hands as tears stream freely now. The camera cuts to a wide shot with marshals and medics surrounding him as he climbs slowly out of the car. You swipe at your face trying to pull yourself together and trying not to think about what could’ve happened.

You clutch your phone tighter as messages start rolling in, notifications blinking at the top of your screen. They’re mostly from Jurin telling you that he’s okay and he’s being looked at now. That the impact was hard but his vitals are stable and he’s still cracking jokes with the team. That no, this isn’t your fault, not even a little bit. Still, you can’t help but feel like it is. A few minutes later, Ferrari’s instagram page updates with a statement. You read it once, then again.

An unfortunate end to Jung Sungchan’s qualifying session today in Barcelona. Following a high-impact crash in Sector 3, Sungchan has been ruled out for Sunday’s race on medical grounds. The team is with him every step of the way. Forza, Sungchan—we race again soon.

Your thumb hovers over the screen for a long time, ruled out makes your throat tighten. He was supposed to win here. Not just do well but win. You stare at your texts for what feels like forever before finally typing:

10:59 am | you: hi 10:59 am | you: i saw the race, i’m sorry you can’t race tomorrow. 11:03 am | you: i’m glad you’re okay

Monaco Circuit — Race Day, June 29th

It’s been two weeks since Barcelona but it doesn’t feel like it, in fact it feels longer. It’s been two weeks of complete silence. After the crash everything just…stopped. No texts, no calls, no more updates from the Ferrari garage. No little red heart reactions on your stories, nothing. You told yourself you wouldn’t reach out again, not after the way you left things and he didn’t either. Yet the silence doesn’t feel mutual.

You stayed in Barcelona for three more days after the race, drifting around the city like a ghost. Jurin kept trying to cheer you up but it didn’t help. She suggested cafés and boat rides, pointed out the shops she thought you’d like but you barely remember any of it. You didn’t eat much and didn’t sleep much either.

You rewatched the crash on your phone at least thirty times, looking for something that might tell you he really was okay. The official updates from Ferrari helped a little and so did the photo Anton sent you of Sungchan giving a thumbs up from the medical room with messy hair and his race suit half-unzipped but it wasn’t the same. You didn’t reply to Anton, you didn’t know how.

After Barcelona came Germany. Munich was colder than you expected, clouded over in the afternoons like the city was matching your mood on purpose. You walked through museums with Jurin, stared at renaissance paintings until they blurred together. You climbed towers and looked down at the old city, imagining what it might feel like to be someone else. You tried schnitzel even though you weren’t hungry and bought gifts for your family they didn’t need. Jurin begged you to go out one night and you agreed just to stop her pleading but you left after thirty minutes and cried in the hostel bathroom instead.

Paris came next. You were supposed to love Paris. You ate macarons by the river and drank a glass of wine you couldn’t finish. Jurin took pictures of you on a disposable camera, told you they’d look better after the film developed but you could already see the sadness in your eyes.

You rode the carousel near the Eiffel Tower and didn’t even pretend to smile. The comments online had only gotten worse. Every post, every tweet, every Tiktok blaming you for Sungchan’s crash sank deeper under your skin. People who didn’t even know your name before suddenly had so much to say. You made all your socials private and deleted Twitter altogether. Jurin and Sohee reported everything they could but it didn’t really help. The damage had already been done.

And now Monaco, you’ve been here five days. The water is bluer than you imagined and the air smells like salt and old money. Every time you step outside it’s like walking onto the set of a movie. Everything’s pristine. You haven’t left the hotel much, just walks to get coffee or follow Jurin to dinner. Monaco is your last stop, it’s also the last race before F1’s summer break. Race weekend started two days ago and Jurin tried convincing you to go, said it would do you some good but you told her you weren’t going, you’re not ready to face him. You had meant it when you said it but then Anton sent over paddock passes.

​​He didn’t even ask just texted you the confirmation barcodes and said, you should come. even if it’s just to say bye.

You stared at the screen for a full ten minutes before typing thank you and nothing else. He didn’t press, didn’t mention Sungchan, only sent a selfie of himself in sunglasses with a McLaren umbrella and said, it’s hot as balls here btw. bring sunscreen.

And so now, somehow, you’re going. Not because you’ve worked up the courage or found a new wave of confidence but because you feel like you owe it to yourself to try. You’re dressed in a black dress, sleek and simple but elegant. The paddock pass hangs around your neck and shifts with every step you take. Jurin’s hand stays linked with yours as you walk through the paddock, weaving around crew members and engineers.

The McLaren garage comes into view just as Anton is zipping up his race suit. His hair is damp from prep and there’s a thin layer of sweat covering his forehead. He looks up as you approach, “Look who finally decided to show up,” he grins, jogging over.

“Hi,” you murmur, hugging him quickly. He returns it, squeezing just tight enough to let you know he’s glad you’re here.

“Good timing, we’re about to line up.” He says after pulling away. “Glad you’re here…even if I know who you’re really rooting for.” You manage a faint laugh. 

Jurin hugs him next and whispers something in his ear that makes him roll his eyes and nudge her back toward the garage. One of the McLaren engineers calls his name from behind a rack of tires and he gives you both one last smile before jogging off. You and Jurin edge deeper into the garage, just far enough to stay out of the crew’s way but close enough to see the pit lane buzzing to life. It’s almost enough to distract you.

The overhead screens show the grid feed, switching between shots of the track and the formation lap. When a broadcast camera pans toward the McLaren garage, you instinctively angle yourself away not wanting to be seen. Jurin squeezes your hand, “Sungchan had a good qualifying session, he starts fifth today.”

You nod. “I know.” You watched qualifying yesterday in your hotel room while Jurin watched from the pitlane. Your eyes flick to the screen again and there he is strapped into the car, visor up and hands on the wheel. A Ferrari crew member leans in and adjusts something then he’s alone again, eyes locked forward.

A reporter slips into frame, headset already in place and mic in hand, crouching next to the cockpit. “Sungchan, just a quick one, you’re starting P5 today—solid qualifying yesterday after a tough few weeks. How are you feeling heading into this race?”

He blinks once, twice. “Good. Car feels strong. Looking forward to the start.” You shiver at the lack of warmth in his tone but the interviewer nods, completely unbothered. “Right, of course. And obviously, it’s been two weeks since your crash in Barcelona. A lot of fans are worried, physically you’re cleared but some people are wondering…mentally, emotionally; how’s your headspace?”

Just like with the last question, he takes his time with answering. You see his fingers curl around the wheel again. “I’m fine.”

The reporter nods again then shifts tone. “And just to address the elephant in the room, I’m sure you’ve seen the photos from Barcelona, you and the girl from the yacht. A lot of attention there. Is that still a factor this weekend?”

Jurin stiffens beside you and you go completely still. On screen, Sungchan lifts his eyes, deadpan. For someone who’s known for his warmth and his soft-spokenness in interviews…there’s none of that now. “I don’t race with distractions. What I do off-track stays there.” He says flatly.

The reporter tilts her head. “So no comment on—”

“I said what I said,” Sungchan cuts in, firmer this time. The reporter backs off with a tight-lipped smile and nods to the camera. The feed cuts back to the grid, a wide shot of Monaco’s winding corners and gleaming yachts.

Jurin lets out a breath beside you. “Yikes, he’s usually so nice.” You say nothing, eyes still on the screen. You’ve spent two weeks convincing yourself that you ruined everything, that he’s angry with you. You told yourself he must’ve hated you or at the very least resented the way you disappeared but hearing the way he shut that question down, you know that isn’t it at all.

He never pushed you away, you’re the one who walked. He was willing and still wanting something real but you panicked. You let fear convince you that what you had wouldn’t possibly last and in your spiral and shame you said things you didn’t mean. Things that weren’t fair.

You told him he was used to it, that this was normal for him. That being picked apart by strangers and having every piece of his life dragged into the spotlight was just part of the job but just because it’s happened before doesn’t mean it hurts any less and just because he knows how to handle it doesn’t mean it doesn’t tear him up every time.

You were so focused on your own privacy being ripped apart that you forgot it wasn’t just you in that moment. You weren’t the only one in those pictures, you weren’t the only one whose boundaries were crossed. That kiss on the yacht, that walk through Barcelona, even the initial post about Silverstone…those had been his too. Yours, yes but also his and for once, he had something that hadn’t been commodified or analyzed or dissected by millions of eyes. Something untouched and honest.

You took the one part of his life that still felt like his and ended it over a phone call. A rushed, panicked phone call where he didn’t even get the chance to defend it. You see that now, too clearly to pretend otherwise and somehow that hurts far worse than the hate ever did.

The pitlane begins to clear, mechanics retreating behind the white line and engineers tugging off headsets. One by one, the grid boxes fill, the final cars rolling into place. Sungchan’s car settles into fifth and the camera lingers on him for a beat longer than the others almost like even the broadcast team knows he’s the one to watch. The engine noise swells, all twenty cars in sync. The five red lights blink on above the grid. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Lights out and just like that, they’re out.

The grid jolts forward, their tires screaming against asphalt. Sungchan’s launch is clean but not perfect. You watch anxiously with your hands clutched around your paddock lanyard as he gets boxed in heading into Turn 1. Anton, you think dives aggressively on the inside and Sungchan has to lift ever so slightly. The moment costs him, he drops one position, then another in the shuffle into Turn 3. By the end of the first lap, he’s sitting in P7, just behind both Mercedes and one of the Red Bulls. You catch yourself holding your breath.

The midfield keeps things tense for the next ten laps. McLaren surges ahead with Lando and Anton trading fastest sector times, keeping the commentary team on their toes. You catch sight of Jurin from the corner of your eye, teeth digging into her straw as she chews anxiously on the end of her iced coffee. By Lap 15, the first major shakeup happens; Wonbin spins out at Turn 11 after a brake failure. The rear of his car kisses the wall and sends debris flying. “Oh no,” Jurin mutters as yellow flags wave.

Just three laps later, Anton clips his front wing into Eunseok at the hairpin. The wing doesn’t come off but the contact throws both cars slightly off their lines. Eunseok recovers but Anton is forced into an early pit for repairs, dropping him down to P8. The McLaren garage groans in unison and then as if that weren’t enough, Shotaro’s radio crackles on the broadcast. “Power unit failure,” his engineer confirms grimly. The car crawls to a stop just shy of the tunnel, another DNF.

Through it all though, Sungchan slowly climbs back lap by lap. He takes advantage of the undercut during pit windows, dodges a near miss when Olli locks up into the chicane and finds his rhythm again. By Lap 30, he’s in P4. By Lap 40, P3 and by the time the Alpines collide at Sainte Devote he’s sitting tight in second right behind Lando.

The race gets halted after the crash, a red flag is called and all the cars head into the pit lane. The tension is thick as the replay plays on loop: the Alpine crash is one of the worst of the season so far. No injuries thankfully but it takes nearly twenty minutes for the marshals to clean up the debris. When the restart finally happens, everything feels even more intense. Lando keeps his lead and Anton’s quick reflexes puts him right beside his teammate in P2, now fully repaired and hungry to make up for lost time. Sungchan loses a spot at the restart, falling to P3 after a shaky exit from Turn 2 but he manages to holds it.

You don’t think you breathe for the final fifteen laps. Lando and Anton fight each other tooth and nail for the win and behind them Sungchan holds off his teammate and then George, then Charles again. The Ferrari pit wall is practically vibrating by the final lap. Finally the checkered flag appears after lap 78. Lando P1, Anton P2, Sungchan P3.

You exhale finally, like your ribs had been clamped in a vice this entire time. Jurin is shaking you by the shoulders, practically shouting, “PODIUM! HE MADE PODIUM!” and you can only laugh, stunned and teary-eyed, your hands shaking a little from the adrenaline. The McLaren garage erupts around you, orange shirts flooding the pit wall as engineers and crew members rush out to embrace their drivers. Jurin tugs your hand and you follow, the two of you getting swept up in the wave of bodies surging toward parc fermé. The front row is packed now, camera crews jostling for position, arms raised to catch every angle of the celebration.

You’re happy for Lando and Anton but your eyes never stray far from the third step of the podium. From Sungchan.

Sungchan stands there in his red race suit, damp with sweat and champagne and a tired but genuine grin pulling at his lips. His hair is messy, eyes bright. His trophy is on the ground beside him while he aims a stream of champagne at Anton’s chest, laughter spilling out of him like it can’t be helped.

He looks happy, really happy. You hadn’t realized how much you missed that until now. You don’t even flinch when the camera swings toward you, it doesn't even register in your body to duck or turn away. All you can do is stare, eyes glassy and heart thudding painfully in your chest. Jurin leans in, still gripping your hand and says, “Go!”

You hesitate, your eyes flicking toward the podium and back again, mouth parting like you want to protest but can’t quite find the words. Jurin tugs your arm. “This is your last chance! Just go.”

You don’t reply, not at first. You just glance up again and see that the drivers are already starting to head down the steps, laughing as they make their way off the podium and toward the back where their teams are waiting. It’s a small window and it’s closing fast.

You turn to Jurin, wrapping her in a quick but firm hug and murmuring, “Thank you,” against her shoulder, your voice thick with everything you don’t have the time or the right words to say then you’re moving before you can change your mind, weaving through the paddock crowd and pushing past the McLaren celebrations, cutting a sharp turn in the direction of the Ferrari garage, your pass swinging from your neck and your heart racing in time with your steps.

You spot him just ahead, flanked by a few Ferrari staff as they guide him toward his drivers’ room. He’s still half in uniform, suit rolled down to his waist and the sleeves of his fireproofs tied at his hips, a towel draped around his neck. He’s nodding at something one of the engineers says, clearly still riding the high of the podium.

You don’t think, you just call out his name. “Sungchan!” Your voice isn’t loud but it’s enough. His head turns immediately like his body knew before his mind did. His eyes find you through the crowd and for a moment, everything else stops moving. You can see the flicker of surprise in his face, the way his mouth parts slightly like he doesn’t quite believe it’s you. He doesn’t move at first, he just stares. When he registers you’re real, he tells his staff he’ll meet them soon and then slowly starts walking toward you. One step, then another, until he’s closing the distance between you with long, careful strides.

“P3,” you manage, even though your voice is already starting to wobble. “Congrats, Sungchan. You were incredible today.”

He nods slowly, still watching you. “Thank you.”

That’s all he says and something in your chest starts to cave in. You nod, clearing your throat even though it doesn’t do much. “Of course.”

“Where’d you watch from?” he asks and you’re surprised he even wants to know.

“Anton got us paddock passes,” you say.

“Cool,” he replies. The way that one syllable settles between you like a full stop makes your resolve crumble completely.

Your fingers twist together at your front. “Well,” you say, stepping back half a pace, “I should probably go. My flight’s tomorrow and I haven’t packed.”

Another nod. His expression doesn’t shift. “Safe travels.”

Those two words hit you like a punch to the chest because that was how it ended last time, wasn’t it? Him sparing you one last look on the plane and then turning around and walking away. You swallow hard and nod once. “Take care,” you whisper. “Rest during the break, okay?” You turn before he can see your face, before he can watch you fall apart. You get five steps, five whole steps before you hear him curse under his breath.

“Shit—wait. ____!” You stop and turn just as he reaches for you, his hand wrapping gently around your wrist. You blink at him startled as he tugs you gently but insistently away from the crowd, away from the Ferrari garage and the lingering press. He leads you down a quiet hallway behind hospitality where there's no noise and no crew.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he says, eyes locked on yours, the words unraveling fast and raw. “I told myself I’d let you go. That if you wanted to leave, I’d respect it but now you’re here and I can’t—” He runs a hand through his hair, chest heaving. “I can’t just watch you walk away again.”

Your lips part, a protest forming on your tongue but he cuts in before you can speak. “These last few weeks with you have been the best part of my year,” he says, chest rising and falling. “Maybe my whole career so far. I know you didn’t sign up for the cameras or the comments or the way people treated you and I’m sorry, I should have protected you more.”

You shake your head but he doesn’t let you speak. He barrels forward like he’s afraid if he doesn’t say it all now, he’ll never get the chance. “No, let me say this. Please.” He swallows hard. “When you pulled away, I should’ve run after you. I should’ve fought harder. I’ve never cared about someone like this. I’ve never wanted something to work so badly. I like you so much it scares the shit out of me and maybe this is too fast or too messy or too hard but I don’t care. I want you.”

You’re frozen, breath caught in your throat. He steps closer, his hand finding yours again, threading your fingers together. “Please stay. Come with me to Austria, to Hungary, to Australia. I don’t care where we go I just want you with me. Be my girlfriend and let me show you we can make this work.”

“Sungchan…” you whisper, overwhelmed. “I don’t know what to say.”

He lifts your chin gently, eyes scanning your face. “Say you’ll stay.”

You close your eyes. “It’s not that simple.”

“It could be if you’ll let it. I just need a chance.” He argues.

You look up at him then, really look and what you see knocks the air out of you, you’ve seen this look before. You saw it on the plane when he turned one last time before walking down the aisle, not knowing if he’d ever see you again. At the club, when you ran into him by sheer chance and he held you closer like your love story had been written long before that night even if he hadn’t told you the whole truth. At Silverstone, when you stumbled into the Ferrari garage and he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. It was there during the late night calls where he’d teach you bits of French and Korean between yawns calling you his belle fleur. On the yacht, where he kissed you with an intensity that rivaled the sun. That look has always been there, waiting for you to catch up.

You nod slowly and shakily, like your body is still catching up to your mind. “Yeah,” you manage, voice catching in your throat. “I’ll stay.” It’s not eloquent or put together but it still gets the job done.

“Really?” he breathes, almost as if he doesn’t fully believe he’s heard you right. You nod again, biting back a sob and he smiles brightly at you before taking your face in his hands and kissing you. You barely have time to react, eyes widening at the feel of Sungchan’s lips against yours, ultimately relaxing into his kiss.

You feel sparks fly within your stomach at the way his large palms completely engulf your cheeks and are pulling you onto his lips. Lost in the intoxicating sweetness of Sunghcan’s tongue against your own, you barely register the way he pushes you backwards until you’re pressed between him and the wall.

Your own hands desperately wander over his chest before they reach the collar of his compression shirt. His hands fall down to your hips, squeezing your butt and pulling your lower half into him before pulling away to lay kissing down the column of your neck. You sigh at the feeling, completely forgetting anyone could walk in at any given moment.

He comes back up, eyes flickering over yours for a beat before he kisses you again but this time it’s quick light pecks that make you laugh despite yourself, the sound bubbling up between your mouths, your foreheads bumping clumsily as you try to keep up with him. “Stop,” you whisper through a grin, breathless from the affection.

He of course doesn’t stop. He smiles and uses his thumb to wipe away the tears that slipped down. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world,” he says quietly. You blush at his words but don’t say anything, just stare at him happily and content.

Still holding onto his hand, you glance toward the clock on the wall. “Come on, you’ve got media stuff, remember?” You tug at his fingers, gently guiding him back toward the outside world. He groans dramatically but lets you lead. The moment you both step out, the buzz of the paddock comes rushing back like nothing ever happened.

“Well,” Jurin says, one brow arched as she spots you first, leaning casually against a crate of equipment with her arms crossed. “Took you long enough.”

Anton swivels beside her, still half in his fireproofs and sipping from a water bottle. His grin is instant and far too knowing. “About damn time.”

You freeze for half a second, instinctively pulling your hand back but Sungchan just laces your fingers tighter, proudly, like there’s no part of him that’s trying to hide. “Landed podium and I got the girl, Monaco how I love you.”

taglist: @1-itsneverthatserious-1 @yoursyuno @milkiae @syrawberry

[vivvangel]

writing heart of glass pt2 😝😝

BUT IM KINDA WORRIED ABT THE SMUT PART..cus i was on hiatus for so long, feel like ive forgotten how to write toe curling, jaw dropping smut but isssokay ill see what i can do. stay tuned <3

[vivvangel]

I EATTTTT CEO HOON AGENDA UP EVERYY SINGLEEE TIMEEE !!!!

bounded by fate | psh

pairing: Ceo!Sunghoon x Secretary!Reader

summary: When CEO Park Sunghoon needs a date for his friend’s wedding, he unexpectedly asks you—his dedicated secretary—to accompany him on a three-day trip. What starts as a professional arrangement quickly shifts into something more as unforeseen circumstances bring you closer together.

word count: 3.8k

Sunghoon Park was a man of routine. Everything in his life was carefully structured—work came first, emotions were secondary, and personal entanglements were unnecessary distractions.

As his secretary, you had long accepted that he was a machine in human form.

Efficient. Cold. Untouchable.

So when he asked you to be his date for a three-day wedding trip, you were… stunned.

"You need a date?" you repeated, wondering if you had misheard him.

Sunghoon, seated at his desk in his pristine office, didn’t even blink. "For a wedding this weekend. Three days."

You folded your arms. "And I was your first choice?"

"You’re the most logical option."

Logical. Of course.

"And this is strictly professional?"

He tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. "Unless you’d like it to be something else."

Your stomach flipped. "I’ll pass."

He smirked. "Then it’s professional."

You should have expected that answer.

"Fine," you said. "I’ll go."

Sunghoon nodded, satisfied. "I’ll pick you up Friday morning."

Friday morning arrived faster than expected.

The sound of a sleek black car pulling up outside made your stomach twist.

Sunghoon stepped out, effortlessly elegant in his black coat, his sharp gaze scanning your apartment building before landing on you.

Without a word, he took your suitcase and placed it in the trunk, then opened the passenger door.

"You didn’t have to do that," you muttered as you slid inside.

He shrugged. "Get in."

The drive was… oddly comfortable. Sunghoon wasn’t one for small talk, but he surprised you by stopping at a café and ordering your usual coffee.

"You remember my order?" you asked.

"You get the same thing every day," he replied, handing you the cup.

You tried not to read into it.

જ⁀➴ ♡°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･જ⁀➴ ♡°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･જ⁀➴ ♡°⋆.ೃ࿔*

Hours later, when you arrived at the resort, the trouble began.

“There must be some mistake,” Sunghoon said, his voice firm as he spoke to the receptionist.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” the receptionist

apologized, looking flustered. “We’re fully booked for the wedding, and due to a system error, only one room was reserved under your name.”

You froze. “One room?”

Sunghoon exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There aren’t any other rooms available?”

The receptionist winced. “Not for the next three days.”

Silence.

You turned to Sunghoon. “Well. This is unexpected.”

Sunghoon looked at you, his face unreadable.

Then, finally, he sighed. “Fine. We’ll take it.”

The room was beautiful—spacious, elegantly decorated, and boasting a breathtaking view of the ocean.

The only problem?

One bed.

You both stood at the doorway, staring at the large, king-sized bed as if it had personally offended you.

“I can sleep on the couch,” Sunghoon said immediately.

You eyed the small, decorative loveseat in the corner. “You’ll break your back.��

“I’ll manage.”

You sighed, placing your suitcase down. “Sunghoon, the bed is huge. We’re both adults. We can just… stay on our own sides.”

He glanced at you, expression unreadable, then nodded. “Fine.”

The first few minutes in the room were awkward. You busied yourself unpacking, hyper-aware of every movement Sunghoon made.

“You take the bathroom first,” he said after a while, his voice softer than usual.

When you stepped out in your pajamas—shorts and an oversized T-shirt—you caught him staring for a split second before he looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Your turn,” you mumbled, quickly getting into bed.

When he emerged, he was in a simple black T-shirt and sweatpants, looking impossibly relaxed. He climbed into bed stiffly, keeping as much distance as possible.

The silence stretched.

“You’re acting like I bite,” you teased, glancing at him.

Sunghoon exhaled a quiet laugh. "Do you?"

Your breath hitched. "Go to sleep."

Somewhere in the middle of the night, you woke up to warmth.

Sunghoon.

At some point, he had moved closer, his arm draped lazily over your waist, his breath steady against your shoulder.

Your heart pounded.

For a moment, you considered waking him. But instead, you let yourself relax. Just for a little while.

Sunghoon Park was not a morning person.

You discovered this the hard way when you woke up to him groaning into his pillow, his usual sharp composure completely ruined by sleep. His hair was an adorable mess, his voice groggy as he mumbled something incoherent.

“What was that?” you teased, sitting up.

His hand lazily swatted at the air. “Too early.”

You glanced at the clock. “It’s eight.”

He groaned again, shifting to bury his face deeper into the pillow. “Five more minutes.”

You grinned, enjoying this rare, unfiltered side of him. “You’re the one who said we should be on time for brunch.”

“Regret,” he muttered.

You chuckled before nudging him with your foot. “C’mon, Sunghoon.”

At that, he cracked one eye open, and a slow smirk formed on his lips. “Hmm. That’s the second time you’ve called me by my name.”

You froze, heart skipping a beat. He was still half-asleep, voice lower than usual, and yet he had the audacity to sound so smug about it.

“I—”

“Say it again,” he murmured.

You grabbed a pillow and smacked him with it. “Get up.”

That woke him up.

જ⁀➴ ♡°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･જ⁀➴ ♡°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･જ⁀➴ ♡°⋆.ೃ࿔*

The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the elegant seaside restaurant, casting a golden glow over the neatly arranged tables. You smoothed down the fabric of your dress, taking a deep breath as Sunghoon led you inside with a casual hand on your lower back.

“Relax,” he murmured close to your ear. “They’re not that bad.”

You shot him a look. “Easy for you to say. You know them.”

Before he could respond, a loud voice called out.

“Sunghoon! Over here!”

A group of well-dressed men and women waved from a round table near the window, their smiles teasing before you even reached them. As soon as you arrived, a woman with sleek black hair leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

“So this is the date?” she asked, her gaze flickering between you and Sunghoon.

Sunghoon pulled out a chair for you before taking his own seat beside you. “This is my secretary,” he said smoothly, but before you could nod in agreement, he added, “and my plus-one for the weekend.”

You barely held back a sigh. Great. That definitely didn’t clear anything up.

A man with dimples smirked. “Ahh, so you’re the one who keeps him from losing his mind at work.”

You chuckled, finally easing into the situation. “I try my best.”

The conversation flowed easily after that. Sunghoon’s friends were charming, playful, and had no problem teasing him relentlessly. Stories about his university days, awkward moments at past weddings, and even a particularly embarrassing karaoke night were shared freely—all while Sunghoon rolled his eyes and sipped his coffee with an air of practiced patience.

At one point, his best friend, Jaehyun, leaned over with a smirk. “So, how did he convince you to come? Did he bribe you with a raise?”

You grinned. “Surprisingly, no. He actually asked politely.”

The table erupted into laughter. Sunghoon sighed. “Why is that so shocking?”

The woman from earlier smirked. “Because you don’t ask, Sunghoon. You tell.”

You turned to him, feigning curiosity. “Wait… was I supposed to say no?”

Sunghoon narrowed his eyes at you, but there was amusement in them. “It’s too late now.”

As the laughter died down and the meal continued, you found yourself enjoying their company. They made you feel welcomed, teasing included, and with Sunghoon occasionally leaning close to refill your drink or murmuring small remarks just for you, the entire brunch felt… easy. Comfortable.

And when Jaehyun sent a knowing glance between the two of you before saying, “You two look good together,” you felt Sunghoon’s knee brush against yours under the table.

He didn’t move it away.

And neither did you.

After brunch, with the afternoon sun warming the air, you found yourself walking along the beach with Sunghoon.

He wasn’t the kind of man who did casual strolls, yet here he was, walking beside you, his hands tucked in his pockets. The waves crashed gently against the shore, and the salty breeze played with your hair.

“This is nice,” you admitted.

Sunghoon glanced at you. “You like the beach?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It reminds me to slow down.”

He hummed, gazing out at the ocean. “I don’t slow down much.”

“No kidding.” You smirked. “I’ve never even seen you take a vacation.”

“I don’t like wasting time.”

You rolled your eyes. “Enjoying life isn’t a waste of time.”

He was quiet for a moment before surprising you with, “What would you do if you weren’t my secretary?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I mean…” He hesitated, then continued, “What’s something you’ve always wanted to do?”

The question caught you off guard.

Sunghoon never asked personal things.

You thought for a moment. “I used to want to be a travel writer. Just exploring places and writing about them.”

He looked at you thoughtfully. “You should do that.”

You chuckled. “Easier said than done.”

“You’re capable,” he said simply. “If you wanted it, you’d do it.”

His confidence in you made warmth bloom in your chest.

“What about you?” you asked. “What would you be if you weren’t a CEO?”

He exhaled, looking away. “I don’t know. My whole life has been planned out for me.”

Something in his voice made you soften. “That doesn’t mean you can’t want something more.”

Sunghoon met your gaze, something unreadable in his eyes. “…Maybe.”

You walked in silence for a while, but it wasn’t awkward. It felt… nice.

જ⁀➴ ♡°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･જ⁀➴ ♡°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･જ⁀➴ ♡°⋆.ೃ࿔*

The rooftop pool of the hotel was breathtaking—an infinity pool that stretched toward the sky, its waters reflecting the soft glow of sunset. The beach skyline sparkled in the distance, and a warm breeze carried the sound of laughter, splashes, and clinking glasses.

You stood near the pool’s edge, taking in the view when Sunghoon walked up beside you, a drink in his hand. “You’re not going in?”

You glanced at the pool, where his friends were already having fun. Some were in the water, splashing around, while others lounged in cabanas with drinks. “I don’t know… I didn’t exactly plan for this.”

Sunghoon eyed you for a moment, then smirked. “You’re wearing a dress, but I bet you packed something.”

You sighed. “Of course I did. Just didn’t expect to use it.”

His smirk deepened. “So go change.”

You raised a brow. “Are you giving me orders, boss?”

Sunghoon took a slow sip of his drink, eyes gleaming. “Consider it a suggestion.”

Rolling your eyes, you turned to head back inside. But before you left, you heard Jaehyun call out, “Sunghoon! Get in here, man!”

You glanced over your shoulder in time to see him unbuttoning his shirt.

And wow.

You quickly looked away, heart thudding, before you made it obvious you were staring.

When you returned in your swimsuit, the atmosphere had grown even livelier. The pool lights cast a soft glow across the water, and the laughter was louder, conversations easy and flowing. You hesitated for a moment, standing near the edge when—

SPLASH!

You gasped as a sudden wave of water hit you. Sunghoon stood a few feet away in the pool, smirking as he wiped droplets from his face. “You’re already wet. Might as well come in.”

You glared at him. “Did you just—”

Before you could finish, Jaehyun swam up behind Sunghoon and pushed him underwater.

The table turned instantly.

Sunghoon resurfaced, coughing and swiping water from his face. “Jaehyun, you—”

You burst into laughter.

His head snapped toward you, eyes narrowing. “Oh, you think that’s funny?”

You grinned. “Very.”

He stepped forward, the water sloshing around him. “Then come in and say that to my face.”

You crossed your arms. “What if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll make you.”

There was barely a second to react before Sunghoon reached up, grabbed your wrist, and pulled.

You squealed as you tumbled straight into the pool, water swallowing you whole before you surfaced with a gasp. Sunghoon was standing right in front of you, smirking.

“You—” You splashed water straight at his face.

Sunghoon didn’t even flinch. “I warned you.”

The night continued like that—teasing, laughter, playful bickering. At one point, you ended up lounging on a pool float, drifting lazily while watching the lights. Sunghoon swam over, resting his arms against the float, keeping you in place.

“You having fun?” he asked, voice softer now.

You met his gaze. “Yeah. I really am.”

Something passed between you, something that had been building since the trip started.

And as the night carried on, you couldn’t help but feel like this trip wasn’t just about Sunghoon needing a date for a wedding.

It was becoming something else entirely.

જ⁀➴ ♡°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･જ⁀➴ ♡°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･જ⁀➴ ♡°⋆.ೃ࿔*

That night, when you both got into bed, things were different.

There was no stiff, awkward distance between you. Instead, there was a quiet understanding—an unspoken comfort that hadn’t been there before.

When you shifted slightly under the covers, Sunghoon turned his head to look at you.

“…Goodnight,” he murmured.

You smiled. “Goodnight, Sunghoon.”

This time, he didn’t tease you about saying his name.

And when you woke up in the middle of the night, warm and safe, you realized he had instinctively moved closer again.

But this time, you didn’t pull away.

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was warmth.

The second was the weight of a strong arm wrapped snugly around your waist.

Your breath hitched.

Sunghoon was curled against you, his chest pressed lightly against your back, his slow and steady breathing tickling your neck. His grip on you was firm, protective—like he belonged there.

Your heart pounded as you carefully turned your head.

Big mistake.

His face was impossibly close, his sharp features softened by sleep. His dark hair was tousled, and his lips—God, his lips—were slightly parted.

Your stomach did an embarrassing flip.

Just as you were debating whether to wake him up or stay like this a little longer, he let out a sleepy groan and nuzzled closer.

Okay. Now this is dangerous.

“Sunghoon,” you whispered.

A low hum.

“Wake up.”

He groaned dramatically, tightening his grip on you. “Five more minutes.”

You huffed. “You’re literally using me as a pillow.”

“Mm,” he murmured. “Comfy.”

Your face burned. “Sunghoon.”

He finally cracked one eye open, sleepily meeting your gaze. His lips curled into a smirk. “You’re blushing.”

You shoved him. “Get up.”

With a quiet chuckle, he finally released you and stretched, looking far too smug for someone who had been caught cuddling.

You threw a pillow at him.

જ⁀➴ ♡°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･જ⁀➴ ♡°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･જ⁀➴ ♡°⋆.ೃ࿔*

Later, as you were getting dressed, you found yourself struggling with your zipper.

“Ugh,” you muttered, twisting your arms awkwardly.

A deep voice interrupted your struggle. “Need help?”

You turned to see Sunghoon leaning against the doorway, already dressed in a crisp black suit. His dark eyes scanned you lazily, a smirk playing on his lips.

You swallowed. “Fine.”

He stepped forward, closing the distance between you. His hands brushed your bare back as he reached for the zipper, and your breath hitched.

“You’re tense,” he murmured, his fingers grazing your skin.

“Maybe because you’re—” Your words caught as he slowly zipped up the dress, his touch lingering.

When he finished, he leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your neck. “There,” he murmured. “Perfect.”

Your pulse was out of control.

You turned quickly. “Thanks. Now go before you start charging me for personal assistant duties.”

Sunghoon smirked. “I’d pay extra for this.”

Your jaw dropped, and he walked away, laughing under his breath.

The ceremony was beautiful. With the ocean stretching out behind the altar and golden sunlight casting a warm glow over the venue, it was straight out of a dream.

Sunghoon stood beside you, his presence steady and warm.

At one point, you noticed him watching the bride and groom with an unreadable expression.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He glanced at you, then back at the couple. “Yeah. It’s just… nice.”

There was something wistful in his voice.

You smiled. “Maybe one day that’ll be you.”

Sunghoon scoffed. “Doubt it.”

You nudged him playfully. “You never know.”

His lips quirked, but he didn’t argue.

And somehow, that made your heart race.

જ⁀➴ ♡°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･જ⁀➴ ♡°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･જ⁀➴ ♡°⋆.ೃ࿔*

As the reception went on, the announcement came.

“Ladies, it’s time for the bouquet toss!”

You instinctively started to step back, but before you could escape, Sunghoon placed a firm hand on your lower back.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he murmured.

You shot him a look. “I don’t do bouquet tosses.”

He smirked. “You do today.”

You frowned. “Sunghoon—”

“Come on.” His voice was teasing but firm as he gently pushed you forward. “Just try.”

You sighed but reluctantly walked toward the group of women gathering in the center.

The bride stood with her back to you all, grinning as she tossed the bouquet high into the air.

Time seemed to slow as the flowers arched toward you.

Instinct kicked in.

Before you could even think, your hands shot up—and caught it.

The room erupted in cheers.

Your jaw dropped. “Oh, come on!”

As laughter and applause filled the air, you turned toward Sunghoon, expecting him to be smug.

He was.

Standing at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, he smirked at you.

Then someone shouted, “Guess who’s next?!”

You groaned as people started teasingly glancing between you and Sunghoon.

Another voice called out, “Better start planning, Sunghoon!”

Instead of brushing it off, he smirked, eyes locked onto yours.

And then he said the words that made your stomach flip.

“We’ll see.”

The crowd laughed, hooting and whistling, but you couldn’t focus on anything except the way he was looking at you.

Did he mean that?

Because suddenly, it didn’t feel like a joke anymore.

જ⁀➴ ♡°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･જ⁀➴ ♡°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･જ⁀➴ ♡°⋆.ೃ࿔*

Back in your hotel room, the air between you and Sunghoon felt different.

The teasing from the wedding, the warmth of the day, the way his eyes lingered on you—it was all leading to something unspoken.

You placed the bouquet on the nightstand, staring at it for a long moment. “I still can’t believe I caught it.”

Sunghoon, who was loosening his tie, chuckled. “I can.”

You turned to him, raising a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He smirked, walking toward you with slow, deliberate steps. “You were meant to.”

Your stomach flipped. “Sunghoon—”

“It suits you,” he murmured, gaze locked onto yours. “Flowers. Love. Happiness.”

Your breath caught. “That’s… surprisingly sweet of you.”

He exhaled, as if debating something, then muttered, “Don’t get used to it.”

You laughed softly, but the warmth in your chest remained.

After changing into your sleepwear—an oversized shirt and shorts—you found Sunghoon already on the bed, dressed in a loose t-shirt and sweatpants instead of his usual crisp suits.

It was unfair how effortlessly good he looked.

He was scrolling through his phone, but as you climbed into bed, he put it away and turned to you. “Tired?”

You sighed, settling into the pillows. “A little.”

He hummed. “Come here.”

You blinked. “What?”

His expression was unreadable, but his voice was softer than usual. “Just come here.”

Hesitantly, you shifted closer.

Sunghoon didn’t hesitate. He reached out, pulling you gently into his arms, letting you rest your head against his shoulder. His body was warm, steady.

Your heart pounded. “You’re clingy at night, huh?”

He scoffed. “Maybe. You’re the only one who’s ever had to deal with it.”

That admission made your breath hitch.

You glanced up at him, only to find him already watching you. The dim glow of the bedside lamp cast soft shadows on his sharp features, making him look more relaxed, more vulnerable.

Then, to your utter surprise, he lifted a hand and brushed his knuckles against your cheek.

You stilled. “Sunghoon…”

His fingers lingered for a moment before he exhaled and—just as you thought he might kiss you—he leaned in and placed a soft, lingering peck against your cheek.

The tenderness of it made your stomach flip.

Not rushed. Not teasing. Just… sweet.

When he pulled back, his voice was lower, almost husky. “Goodnight.”

You swallowed hard, heat creeping up your neck. “G-Goodnight.”

Sunghoon smirked. “You’re blushing.”

You huffed. “I’m not—”

But before you could finish, he wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His warmth, his scent, the steadiness of his breathing—it surrounded you entirely.

And for the first time, lying beside him didn’t feel awkward.

It felt right.

As sleep slowly took over, you felt Sunghoon’s fingers lazily tracing patterns against your back. It was the last thing you registered before slipping into the most peaceful sleep you’d had in a long time.

જ⁀➴ ♡°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･જ⁀➴ ♡°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･જ⁀➴ ♡°⋆.ೃ࿔*

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was warmth.

Again.

But this time, it was even more overwhelming.

Sunghoon was completely curled around you, his arm draped lazily over your waist, his face buried against the crook of your neck.

His breaths were slow and even, and the way he held you was… different.

Less accidental. More deliberate.

Your heart pounded.

Carefully, you shifted to look at him.

His dark lashes rested against his cheeks, and his hair was adorably messy. The soft morning light filtering through the curtains made him look unfairly attractive.

You were admiring him when, suddenly, his eyes cracked open.

He blinked sleepily, then let out a raspy groan. “Mmm.”

You stiffened. “Uh—”

Instead of letting go, he only tightened his hold on you.

“You’re warm,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Your breath hitched. “S-Sunghoon—”

“Five more minutes,” he murmured, nuzzling closer.

You felt your whole body heat up. “You said that yesterday!”

He made a low sound, halfway between a chuckle and a sigh. “Still true.”

You squirmed. “I have to get up.”

“No, you don’t,” he muttered, voice teasing.

“You’re my secretary. I’ll give you the day off.”

You rolled your eyes. “We still have to check out, remember?”

Another groan. “Fine. But first…”

Before you could react, he pulled you even closer and—without thinking—pressed another quick peck against your cheek.

You gasped. “Sunghoon!”

He smirked sleepily. “Now I’m awake.”

Your face burned as you stared at him. He just lay there, smirking up at you like he hadn’t just completely wrecked your sanity.

After a beat, you blurted out, “What happened to being professionals?”

Sunghoon didn’t even hesitate.

He propped himself up on one elbow, looked you dead in the eye, and murmured, “I think we passed that line the moment you woke up in my arms.”

Your jaw dropped.

His smirk widened.

You grabbed the nearest pillow and smacked him with it.

He only laughed, dodging the next hit as he sat up. “Come on, let’s get ready. We still have a long trip home.”

You huffed but got out of bed, still feeling the ghost of his lips on your cheek.

As you went to freshen up, one thought lingered in your mind.

This thing between you and Sunghoon?

Yeah, it was far from over.

taglist: @cyjhhyj

©️tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

[vivvangel]

CEO/boss agenda park sunghoon fic recs.

HEART OF GLASS

synopsis: they said never mix business with pleasure—but no one warned what happens when the pleasure runs out. she's the firm’s lead counsel. he's the ceo. married, barely speaking, and still signing documents side by side. between frosty boardroom meetings and a penthouse that echoes, two overachievers silently sabotaging their own love story, one cold glance at a time. It’s not a breakup… yet. But it sure feels like paperwork is involved.

pairings & contents: CEO!husband!hoon x lawyer!reader, angst, slowburn, workplac, marriage conflicts

warnings: hoon being a bitch ngl..., arguments, work place conflict, sunwoo from tbz cameo ( v random), cold distant hoon, you get the drill. no smut in this part :) oh and a little self-indulgent luv for tarts.

KING OF TEARS by @enhaflixer

‎word count: 20K‎

genre: angst | slow burn | second chance romance | marriage in crisis | Queen of Tears AU | SMUT ANGST FLUFF (in that order)

𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗙𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗔𝗟  by‎ @emisluvr

‎𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗈'𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍.

word count: 1k+ ish

genre: 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍 , 𝗎𝗇𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 & 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗑 , 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 , 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗅k

‎BOUNDED BY FATE by @tobiosbbyghorl

pairing: Ceo!Sunghoon x Secretary!Reader

‎summary: When CEO Park Sunghoon needs a date for his friend’s wedding, he unexpectedly asks you—his dedicated secretary—to accompany him on a three-day trip. What starts as a professional arrangement quickly shifts into something more as unforeseen circumstances bring you closer together.

ONE CUP, ONE CHANCE by @hottestvirgin

summary: never accidentally spill a cup of coffee on a ceo's suit.. it may change your life forever.

‎warnings. smut, fluff, age gap (sunghoon!30s & reader!20s), swearing, dirty talk, pet names (ex. princess), unprotected sex,  big dick p.sh, praising, light degrading, sweet talking

[vivvangel]

viv just randomly made a comeback

HEART OF GLASS — P.SH

synopsis: they said never mix business with pleasure—but no one warned what happens when the pleasure runs out. she's the firm’s lead counsel. he's the ceo. married, barely speaking, and still signing documents side by side. between frosty boardroom meetings and a penthouse that echoes, two overachievers silently sabotaging their own love story, one cold glance at a time. It’s not a breakup… yet. But it sure feels like paperwork is involved. › pairings & contents: CEO!husband!hoon x lawyer!reader, angst, slowburn, workplac, marriage conflicts ✧ warnings: hoon being a bitch ngl..., arguments, work place conflict, sunwoo from tbz cameo ( v random), cold distant hoon, you get the drill. no smut in this part :) oh and a little self-indulgent luv for tarts.

PART ONE — PART TWO (COMING SOON!)

wc: 2k ish.

vivs note: slightly based on queen of tears, credits where due.

The whispers started the day after your wedding.

The glossy wedding photos—strategically leaked by someone in PR—showed you both looking devastatingly poised. Him in a sharply tailored suit, jaw locked, hand resting on your waist like a CEO poses with a trophy. You, unsmiling, veil draped over your shoulders like snow refusing to melt.

It was a love marriage. You were sure of that once.

But even then, people wondered.

Still do. You hear them talk when they think you’re not listening.

“They work so well together. It’s almost clinical.”

“She’s the firm’s star—he’d be stupid to let that go.”

“Arranged, for sure. You don’t marry someone like Y/N without a strategy.”

You never correct them. You used to be good at setting the record straight.

Now, you're too tired to fan the flame.

Your colleagues used to ask how you balanced being married to the CEO. You’d smile politely, say, “We leave work at the office.”

You see Sunghoon more at the office than you do at home. Which is saying something—because you live together, in the penthouse gifted to you both by Sunghoon's parents.

At Park Holdings, you’re the lead counsel—his right hand on paper, even if it doesn’t feel like it anymore. You’ve negotiated billion-won acquisitions with less effort than it takes to get him to say good morning.

Now you wonder if maybe that’s all you ever were to him—just part of the office.

There’s tension in the way he enters meeting rooms now.

Precise. Controlled. Always four minutes early, never five. He avoids your eye like it’s strategic. Sometimes you wonder if he even notices what you wear anymore. You still dress like someone’s watching. Even if it’s not him.

You pass him in hallways. Exchange notes during board reviews. He speaks only when necessary. You jab when you can.

“I revised your acquisition draft,” you say during a boardroom briefing. “It had... bold assumptions." He doesn’t flinch. “And you corrected them, I presume.”

“Someone had to.”

His eyes flick to you, bored. “If you need validation, I’m not the one to ask.” You smile. Tight.

“If I needed validation, I wouldn’t be married to you.”

At home, the penthouse has grown quieter. He gets in later now. You know by the sound of the door—heavy, slow, measured. Never rushed. Never guilty.

6ou stopped waiting up months ago. You don’t even pretend to fall asleep on the couch anymore.

Still, you hear him in the kitchen sometimes. Pouring water. Moving quietly. Avoiding creaking floorboards you never warned him about but he somehow learned anyway.

One night, utterly drained after a relentless marathon of back-to-back meetings that had left your mind buzzing with numbers, legal jargon, and clipped boardroom exchanges, you finally step into the penthouse. Your heels click sharply against the cold marble floor, each step heavier than the last as the weight of the day settles in your bones. Your shoulders ache from holding tension too long, and your fingers tremble slightly as they clutch a stack of bulky legal binders, each one stuffed with contracts, case notes, and late-night revisions you barely had time to glance at between calls. The fluorescent lights overhead glare down, making your eyes sting, but you barely notice; your focus is on the bed calling your name like a lighthouse in the storm.

You don’t even slow down to hang up your coat or put your briefcase away. Instead, you let the binders fall onto the dining table with a soft but definitive thud, the leather spines cracked and worn from constant use, like reminders of the battles you’ve fought all day. For a moment, your fingers brush over the edges, tiredly tracing the ridges as if trying to transfer some of your exhaustion onto the papers. Then, without another thought, you turn away, your body too heavy, your mind already drifting toward sleep. You collapse onto the bed, still in your work clothes, the fabric stiff against your skin, and the city lights below flicker like distant stars, indifferent to your fatigue.

The next morning, you wake to find the binders meticulously arranged—stacked upright, sorted by case code, and alphabetized with a precision only someone like him could manage. Not a single spine is out of place; every edge flush and every label perfectly facing forward.

The evidence of his care in the smallest, quietest way possible. No note. No words. Just order. It’s a small, careful gesture of care, delivered in his way, speaking volumes in silence. And though you don’t say anything, your heart catches at the thought that maybe, beneath all the cold and distance,

he still notices you.

You’ve become a specialist in watching him without staring.

At the office, he keeps his distance, but you know every tick. The way his jaw shifts when he’s annoyed. The little breath he holds before disagreeing with someone in a meeting. How he taps his pen—three times, never four—before signing anything.

You used to find that endearing. Now it’s just another thing you know about him that doesn’t matter. And yet—on certain mornings—when the light hits just right and his sleeves are rolled up and his hair is messier than usual from rubbing his temples, you remember.

But drifting apart doesn't happen with one moment, It starts with paper cuts.

God, you remember how much you loved him.

You feel it building like a migraine. A tension behind your eyes, waiting to detonate.

A dismissed comment. A contract rerouted. An empty coffee mug he used to refill without asking. A breakfast he leaves half-eaten.

The paper cuts start at the 10 a.m. strategy meeting.

And then it happens.

You blink. Legal hasn’t seen those terms. Not even in draft.

You’re seated three seats down from him—far enough to look impartial, close enough to read every shift in his expression. The team is halfway through a regional expansion pitch when one junior exec—Sunwoo, too green, too eager—speaks up.

“We can guarantee the terms by Q3 if legal approves the expedited clause—per Mr. Park’s directive.”

Your pen freezes mid-note. “Actually,” you say, calm but cutting, “legal hasn’t seen that draft. We weren’t briefed on expedited anything.”

Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate. “We’ll proceed under that assumption. Y/N can adjust the language accordingly.” It’s subtle how your breath catches. You glance down at the file in front of you. No expedited clause. No prior review.

Sunghoon doesn’t look at you. “Then consider this your briefing.”

Laughter ripples around the table. Controlled. Polite. Painfully performative.

You stare at him, your pulse ticking behind your ears. “Noted,” you say, folding the file shut. Your voice is syrup-sweet. “But I don’t clean up messes I didn’t make.”

A beat of silence.

Sunghoon doesn’t react. He moves to the next slide, like you hadn’t just undermined him in front of twelve people.

Like you hadn’t just snapped.

“I’m not cleaning this up,” you repeat. Sharper now. Bitter.

You’re in his office ten minutes later, of course. The door slammed close. Rage barely tethered. The contract in your hand crinkled from your grip.

He doesn’t look up. “Legal was briefed.”

“Briefed? They offered clauses we can’t legally deliver on. Were they briefed by someone who passed the bar?” He glances up. Cold. “That’s dramatic.”

You scoff. “You really love that word, don’t you?”

“Because you keep proving it right.”

Your jaw tightens. “You’d rather dismiss me than admit you didn’t catch the mistake.”

“Oh, excuse me,” you bite. “Did I bruise your image? Did the wife forget she’s not supposed to embarrass you?”

His eyes narrow. “You think I don’t know how this looks? You barging in here in front of everyone, waving that draft like a threat—”

“You’re not just my wife here, Y/N. You’re Chief Counsel.”

“And you’re not just my boss. You’re my husband,” you snap. “Though you sure as hell don’t act like it.”

The silence after is sharp. A paper-thin blade.

His gaze turns glacial. “Then maybe you should start acting like someone who wants this marriage to work instead of performing martyrdom in front of my board.” Your chest heaves.

You shoot up a look, “But maybe that’s the only title you’re actually qualified for these days—just one that sounds good on a press release.”

“I’m not performing. I’ve been begging for air while you pretend drowning is discipline.”

“I don’t have time for theatrics, Y/N.”

His hands curl around the edge of his desk. Not in anger. In control. Always in control.

You leave before you say something unforgivable.

“Right,” you whisper. “You only make time for what matters.”

But a part of you thinks maybe you already did.

You return home late that night, the city still clinging to your skin—car horns humming in your ears, the faint chill of office air-conditioning trapped in your sleeves. The elevator ride up to the penthouse feels longer than usual, even though you know the seconds by heart. When the doors slide open, the apartment is dim but not dark. A soft glow spills from the kitchen—the under-cabinet lights he sometimes leaves on when he’s home but not expecting conversation. You step inside, heels dangling from your fingers, the pads of your feet sore from a day that refused to end. Your blazer slides off your shoulders and lands somewhere near the stool. You don’t care. You’re too tired to be neat, too full of words from other people to form your own.

The kitchen is quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge. A single dish sits in the sink—his mug. The dark green one you got him for his birthday 2 years ago. Steam still clings faintly to the rim. Next to it, on the counter, wrapped carefully in foil, is a slice of pear tart. The one from the café near your old apartment. The one he used to get for you on nights like this—nights when your heels were in your hands and your voice was gone and all you wanted was something small and sweet to feel like the day hadn’t swallowed you whole. He hasn't brought it home in over a year.

You stare at it for a long moment, lips parting like you might say something to it. To him. But no words come. You don’t eat it. You can’t. Your chest tightens, just looking at it. Instead, you rewrap it slowly, as if tenderness might explain everything you don’t know how to ask. You tuck it into the fridge like it might matter tomorrow.

You hear the shift of footsteps behind you before he speaks—barefoot against the hardwood, quiet but not sneaking. You don’t turn around.

“You left the office late,” Sunghoon says, voice low, rough at the edges.

You rest your hands on the edge of the counter. “Back-to-back closings. One of the associates forgot to redline the nondisclosures." He hums in acknowledgment. Not quite sympathy. Not quite indifference.

“Still,” he says after a pause. “You should’ve called.”

That makes you turn. He’s standing at the hallway’s edge, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from a shower. Barefoot, yes—but still composed, still unreadable. Like he’s been standing in that same spot for hours, rehearsing how not to be obvious.

“I didn’t realize we were still at the calling stage,” you say, not cruelly—just honestly.

His mouth presses into a line. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you say, folding your arms. “But it’s not false either.”

He looks at you then,, not past you, not through you. At you. And for a moment, his expression softens, even if his body doesn’t move an inch. “I-I saw you didn’t eat lunch today,” he murmurs. “You missed the catered tray. So I wonde- anyway, I got you the tart.” Sunghoon stammers around for a bit.

Your throat tightens. “That was a year ago,” you whisper, because it feels easier than saying thank you. Because it’s easier than asking why now?

“I know.” His voice is quiet. “I remember.”

The silence stretches again. It’s not cold, not sharp. But it’s heavy with everything you haven’t talked about. You feel it wrap around your ribs, a strange warmth that threatens to crack something open.

“I put your binders away,” he adds, as if that explains everything. Or maybe as if it explains nothing at all.

“I saw,” you reply.

You both stand there for a second too long—close enough to close the gap, but neither of you does. The hallway light flickers faintly behind him. Somewhere in the apartment, the central heating kicks in with a distant hum.

You exhale. “I’m going to shower.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

You move past him—close enough to catch the scent of his cologne, faint from the collar of his shirt, and the warmth of freshly washed skin. And just as you reach the threshold of the bedroom, his voice cuts the silence again.

“y/n?"

You pause.

He hesitates, jaw tense like he’s fighting every syllable. Then, with a softness that borders on something painful, he says:

“...Do you still like it?”

You turn your head just slightly. “The tart?”

He nods. Eyes steady, but unreadable.

You hold his gaze for a moment. You don’t smile. You don’t flinch.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I do.”

Then you step into the room, and the door doesn’t close behind you—but he doesn’t follow either.

And the light stays on.

[vivvangel]

HEART OF GLASS — P.SH

synopsis: they said never mix business with pleasure—but no one warned what happens when the pleasure runs out. she's the firm’s lead counsel. he's the ceo. married, barely speaking, and still signing documents side by side. between frosty boardroom meetings and a penthouse that echoes, two overachievers silently sabotaging their own love story, one cold glance at a time. It’s not a breakup… yet. But it sure feels like paperwork is involved. › pairings & contents: CEO!husband!hoon x lawyer!reader, angst, slowburn, workplac, marriage conflicts ✧ warnings: hoon being a bitch ngl..., arguments, work place conflict, sunwoo from tbz cameo ( v random), cold distant hoon, you get the drill. no smut in this part :) oh and a little self-indulgent luv for tarts.

PART ONE — PART TWO — PART THREE (COMING SOON!)

wc: 2k ish.

vivs note: slightly based on queen of tears, credits where due.

The whispers started the day after your wedding.

The glossy wedding photos—strategically leaked by someone in PR—showed you both looking devastatingly poised. Him in a sharply tailored suit, jaw locked, hand resting on your waist like a CEO poses with a trophy. You, unsmiling, veil draped over your shoulders like snow refusing to melt.

It was a love marriage. You were sure of that once.

But even then, people wondered.

Still do. You hear them talk when they think you’re not listening.

“They work so well together. It’s almost clinical.”

“She’s the firm’s star—he’d be stupid to let that go.”

“Arranged, for sure. You don’t marry someone like Y/N without a strategy.”

You never correct them. You used to be good at setting the record straight.

Now, you're too tired to fan the flame.

You see Sunghoon more at the office than you do at home. Which is saying something—because you live together, in the penthouse gifted to you both by Sunghoon's parents.

At Park Holdings, you’re the lead counsel—his right hand on paper, even if it doesn’t feel like it anymore. You’ve negotiated billion-won acquisitions with less effort than it takes to get him to say good morning.

Your colleagues used to ask how you balanced being married to the CEO. You’d smile politely, say, “We leave work at the office.”

Now you wonder if maybe that’s all you ever were to him—just part of the office.

There’s tension in the way he enters meeting rooms now.

Precise. Controlled. Always four minutes early, never five. He avoids your eye like it’s strategic. Sometimes you wonder if he even notices what you wear anymore. You still dress like someone’s watching. Even if it’s not him.

You pass him in hallways. Exchange notes during board reviews. He speaks only when necessary. You jab when you can.

“I revised your acquisition draft,” you say during a boardroom briefing. “It had... bold assumptions." He doesn’t flinch. “And you corrected them, I presume.”

“Someone had to.”

His eyes flick to you, bored. “If you need validation, I’m not the one to ask.” You smile. Tight.

“If I needed validation, I wouldn’t be married to you.”

At home, the penthouse has grown quieter. He gets in later now. You know by the sound of the door—heavy, slow, measured. Never rushed. Never guilty.

6ou stopped waiting up months ago. You don’t even pretend to fall asleep on the couch anymore.

Still, you hear him in the kitchen sometimes. Pouring water. Moving quietly. Avoiding creaking floorboards you never warned him about but he somehow learned anyway.

One night, utterly drained after a relentless marathon of back-to-back meetings that had left your mind buzzing with numbers, legal jargon, and clipped boardroom exchanges, you finally step into the penthouse. Your heels click sharply against the cold marble floor, each step heavier than the last as the weight of the day settles in your bones. Your shoulders ache from holding tension too long, and your fingers tremble slightly as they clutch a stack of bulky legal binders, each one stuffed with contracts, case notes, and late-night revisions you barely had time to glance at between calls. The fluorescent lights overhead glare down, making your eyes sting, but you barely notice; your focus is on the bed calling your name like a lighthouse in the storm.

You don’t even slow down to hang up your coat or put your briefcase away. Instead, you let the binders fall onto the dining table with a soft but definitive thud, the leather spines cracked and worn from constant use, like reminders of the battles you’ve fought all day. For a moment, your fingers brush over the edges, tiredly tracing the ridges as if trying to transfer some of your exhaustion onto the papers. Then, without another thought, you turn away, your body too heavy, your mind already drifting toward sleep. You collapse onto the bed, still in your work clothes, the fabric stiff against your skin, and the city lights below flicker like distant stars, indifferent to your fatigue.

The next morning, you wake to find the binders meticulously arranged—stacked upright, sorted by case code, and alphabetized with a precision only someone like him could manage. Not a single spine is out of place; every edge flush and every label perfectly facing forward.

The evidence of his care in the smallest, quietest way possible. No note. No words. Just order. It’s a small, careful gesture of care, delivered in his way, speaking volumes in silence. And though you don’t say anything, your heart catches at the thought that maybe, beneath all the cold and distance,

he still notices you.

You’ve become a specialist in watching him without staring.

At the office, he keeps his distance, but you know every tick. The way his jaw shifts when he’s annoyed. The little breath he holds before disagreeing with someone in a meeting. How he taps his pen—three times, never four—before signing anything.

You used to find that endearing. Now it’s just another thing you know about him that doesn’t matter. And yet—on certain mornings—when the light hits just right and his sleeves are rolled up and his hair is messier than usual from rubbing his temples, you remember.

God, you remember how much you loved him.

But drifting apart doesn't happen with one moment, It starts with paper cuts.

A dismissed comment. A contract rerouted. An empty coffee mug he used to refill without asking. A breakfast he leaves half-eaten.

You feel it building like a migraine. A tension behind your eyes, waiting to detonate.

And then it happens.

The paper cuts start at the 10 a.m. strategy meeting.

You’re seated three seats down from him—far enough to look impartial, close enough to read every shift in his expression. The team is halfway through a regional expansion pitch when one junior exec—Sunwoo, too green, too eager—speaks up.

“We can guarantee the terms by Q3 if legal approves the expedited clause—per Mr. Park’s directive.”

You blink. Legal hasn’t seen those terms. Not even in draft.

Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate. “We’ll proceed under that assumption. Y/N can adjust the language accordingly.” It’s subtle how your breath catches. You glance down at the file in front of you. No expedited clause. No prior review.

Your pen freezes mid-note. “Actually,” you say, calm but cutting, “legal hasn’t seen that draft. We weren’t briefed on expedited anything.”

Sunghoon doesn’t look at you. “Then consider this your briefing.”

Laughter ripples around the table. Controlled. Polite. Painfully performative.

You stare at him, your pulse ticking behind your ears. “Noted,” you say, folding the file shut. Your voice is syrup-sweet. “But I don’t clean up messes I didn’t make.”

A beat of silence.

Sunghoon doesn’t react. He moves to the next slide, like you hadn’t just undermined him in front of twelve people.

Like you hadn’t just snapped.

You’re in his office ten minutes later, of course. The door slammed close. Rage barely tethered. The contract in your hand crinkled from your grip.

“I’m not cleaning this up,” you repeat. Sharper now. Bitter.

He doesn’t look up. “Legal was briefed.”

“Briefed? They offered clauses we can’t legally deliver on. Were they briefed by someone who passed the bar?” He glances up. Cold. “That’s dramatic.”

You scoff. “You really love that word, don’t you?”

“Because you keep proving it right.”

Your jaw tightens. “You’d rather dismiss me than admit you didn’t catch the mistake.”

His eyes narrow. “You think I don’t know how this looks? You barging in here in front of everyone, waving that draft like a threat—”

“Oh, excuse me,” you bite. “Did I bruise your image? Did the wife forget she’s not supposed to embarrass you?”

“You’re not just my wife here, Y/N. You’re Chief Counsel.”

“And you’re not just my boss. You’re my husband,” you snap. “Though you sure as hell don’t act like it.”

The silence after is sharp. A paper-thin blade.

You shoot up a look, “But maybe that’s the only title you’re actually qualified for these days—just one that sounds good on a press release.”

His gaze turns glacial. “Then maybe you should start acting like someone who wants this marriage to work instead of performing martyrdom in front of my board.” Your chest heaves.

“I’m not performing. I’ve been begging for air while you pretend drowning is discipline.”

His hands curl around the edge of his desk. Not in anger. In control. Always in control.

“I don’t have time for theatrics, Y/N.”

“Right,” you whisper. “You only make time for what matters.”

You leave before you say something unforgivable.

But a part of you thinks maybe you already did.

You return home late that night, the city still clinging to your skin—car horns humming in your ears, the faint chill of office air-conditioning trapped in your sleeves. The elevator ride up to the penthouse feels longer than usual, even though you know the seconds by heart. When the doors slide open, the apartment is dim but not dark. A soft glow spills from the kitchen—the under-cabinet lights he sometimes leaves on when he’s home but not expecting conversation. You step inside, heels dangling from your fingers, the pads of your feet sore from a day that refused to end. Your blazer slides off your shoulders and lands somewhere near the stool. You don’t care. You’re too tired to be neat, too full of words from other people to form your own.

The kitchen is quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge. A single dish sits in the sink—his mug. The dark green one you got him for his birthday 2 years ago. Steam still clings faintly to the rim. Next to it, on the counter, wrapped carefully in foil, is a slice of pear tart. The one from the café near your old apartment. The one he used to get for you on nights like this—nights when your heels were in your hands and your voice was gone and all you wanted was something small and sweet to feel like the day hadn’t swallowed you whole. He hasn't brought it home in over a year.

You stare at it for a long moment, lips parting like you might say something to it. To him. But no words come. You don’t eat it. You can’t. Your chest tightens, just looking at it. Instead, you rewrap it slowly, as if tenderness might explain everything you don’t know how to ask. You tuck it into the fridge like it might matter tomorrow.

You hear the shift of footsteps behind you before he speaks—barefoot against the hardwood, quiet but not sneaking. You don’t turn around.

“You left the office late,” Sunghoon says, voice low, rough at the edges.

You rest your hands on the edge of the counter. “Back-to-back closings. One of the associates forgot to redline the nondisclosures." He hums in acknowledgment. Not quite sympathy. Not quite indifference.

“Still,” he says after a pause. “You should’ve called.”

That makes you turn. He’s standing at the hallway’s edge, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from a shower. Barefoot, yes—but still composed, still unreadable. Like he’s been standing in that same spot for hours, rehearsing how not to be obvious.

“I didn’t realize we were still at the calling stage,” you say, not cruelly—just honestly.

His mouth presses into a line. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you say, folding your arms. “But it’s not false either.”

He looks at you then,, not past you, not through you. At you. And for a moment, his expression softens, even if his body doesn’t move an inch. “I-I saw you didn’t eat lunch today,” he murmurs. “You missed the catered tray. So I wonde- anyway, I got you the tart.” Sunghoon stammers around for a bit.

Your throat tightens. “That was a year ago,” you whisper, because it feels easier than saying thank you. Because it’s easier than asking why now?

“I know.” His voice is quiet. “I remember.”

The silence stretches again. It’s not cold, not sharp. But it’s heavy with everything you haven’t talked about. You feel it wrap around your ribs, a strange warmth that threatens to crack something open.

“I put your binders away,” he adds, as if that explains everything. Or maybe as if it explains nothing at all.

“I saw,” you reply.

You both stand there for a second too long—close enough to close the gap, but neither of you does. The hallway light flickers faintly behind him. Somewhere in the apartment, the central heating kicks in with a distant hum.

You exhale. “I’m going to shower.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

You move past him—close enough to catch the scent of his cologne, faint from the collar of his shirt, and the warmth of freshly washed skin. And just as you reach the threshold of the bedroom, his voice cuts the silence again.

“y/n?"

You pause.

He hesitates, jaw tense like he’s fighting every syllable. Then, with a softness that borders on something painful, he says:

“...Do you still like it?”

You turn your head just slightly. “The tart?”

He nods. Eyes steady, but unreadable.

You hold his gaze for a moment. You don’t smile. You don’t flinch.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I do.”

Then you step into the room, and the door doesn’t close behind you—but he doesn’t follow either.

And the light stays on.

[vivvangel]

genuinely the best fic I've read in a while. this made me feel things. gosh.

Goodbye Summer | l.anton (18+)

Crazy what two years can do to a person. What do you mean the cutie pie, adorable ball of sunshine Chanyoung Lee, has turned into this tall, grumpy, and unfairly hot specimen who calls himself Anton?

Genre: childhood friends to lovers Pairing: Lee Chanyoung|Anton x afab!Reader Warnings: mature themes, explicit sexual content (18+) Notes: 19k words. Listening to Goodbye Summer by F(X) ft. D.O. Posted a little late because I got carried away, lol. Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know them personally, nor do I claim they would ever behave in real life like they were portrayed in this story. ALSO, if you see a similar story from a different blog for a different idol, that is me. xoxo, cal.

You rolled the car windows down, letting the salty air fill the car as you hummed along to the music playing through the speakers. It had been two years since you last made this drive, but every curve of the road was ingrained in your memory. You remembered how you used to count the palm trees as a kid, making up silly games to pass the time while your mom laughed at your endless energy. Back then, the beach house felt like the one constant in your summers, a place where time moved slower and the world outside didn’t matter.

Two years away felt like an eternity, but now, as the Lee family’s beach house came into view, it was like no time had passed at all.

Your mom stirred in the passenger seat, stretching as the car slowed down. “Did you sleep well?” you asked.

“I would’ve, if you hadn’t been singing off-key the entire time,” she replied, rolling her eyes playfully.

You gasped in mock offense. “Off-key? Excuse me, but that was a performance, mom. You’re just not cultured enough to appreciate my artistry.”

“Artistry, huh?” She laughed, shaking her head. “Is that what we're calling it now?”

You parked the car in front of the house, taking a moment to soak it in. The Lee family’s beach house looked exactly as it always had—whitewashed walls with a wide porch and tall windows that reflected the warm glow of the setting sun. For a second, it felt like you were stepping back in time, like the past two years hadn’t happened at all.

Aunt Hyejin was the first to greet you at the door, her arms wrapping tightly around you as she exclaimed, “Look at you! You’ve grown so much! You’ve gotten prettier too.”

You laughed, leaning into her embrace. “I could say the same about you, Auntie. You are glowing! What’s your secret?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she teased, brushing your hair back to study your face. She squeezed your cheeks lightly before kissing your forehead. “Come in, come in! Junyoung is dying to show off how tall he’s gotten.”

Junyoung was quick to make good on his mom’s words, bounding down the stairs with a grin. He too greeted you with a hug, crouching down to your smaller frame.

“Told you I’d be taller than you one day!” he declared, puffing out his chest.

“And I told you I’d deny it when it happened,” you shot back, ruffling his hair and gasping because you had to tiptoe to reach the top of his head. “Wow. You really did grow up.”

The house itself was almost exactly as you remembered it. The same yellow curtains fluttered in the breeze, and the faint smell of ocean air and Aunt Hyejin’s cooking permeated the halls. It was comforting, familiar.

But there was one thing—or rather, one person—who didn’t match your memories.

He was sitting on the sofa when you walked into the living room, one leg crossed over the other, a phone in hand, and not the slightest hint of acknowledgement on his face. His hair was darker, longer, falling into his eyes in a way that seemed deliberate. His clothes—a loose linen shirt and tailored shorts—looked like they belonged to someone who spent their summers at yacht clubs, not building sandcastles on the beach.

“Chanyoung, greet them properly!” Aunt Hyejin chided with both affection and exasperation in her tone.

The man on the sofa finally looked up, his eyes meeting yours. For a moment, you froze, searching for something familiar in the sharp line of his jaw and the effortless confidence in his posture.

“Welcome back,” he said, his voice lower than you remembered, more measured.

You blinked, trying to reconcile the image in front of you with the boy you used to know. Before you could say anything, your mom appeared beside you, greeting Chanyoung with a hug. He rose to his feet, smiling genuinely as he let your mom embrace him.

“You’ve grown so much!”

While they were catching up, Junyoung approached you quietly, whispering in your ear. “I know what you’re thinking.”

You glanced sideways at him. “I’m sure you do,” you scoffed. “When did this happen?”

Junyoung shrugged. “Dunno. He went to college and came back like this. He’s called Anton now by the way.”

“Anton? He hates that name.”

“Right?” he agreed, chuckling. “Dude gained some muscles and turned into this emo cool kid.”

The rest of the day passed without a single meaningful interaction with Anton. Not for lack of trying on your part—you simply didn’t get the chance.

It was subtle, his avoidance. The kind of thing no one else would pick up on. Your mom, Aunt Hyejin, and Junyoung didn’t seem to notice anything, too caught up in catching up. But you? You noticed. Every time you entered a room, Anton was suddenly walking out. If you so much as glanced his way, he was already looking elsewhere, pretending to be engrossed in his phone or staring at some invisible point in the distance.

And then at lunch, he didn’t even sit down to eat with everyone. “I’m going out. Back before dinner.” he said nonchalantly, already halfway out the door.

“Probably off to the clubhouse to meet his friends,” Aunt Hyejin explained with a shrug, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You nodded along politely, but inside, you were itching with curiosity. What friends? Since when did Chanyoung—no, Anton—have a social life so demanding that he couldn’t sit down for a meal?

Eventually, the guessing—and the long drive—caught up with you. You slumped into your room, the familiar comfort of the bed almost tricking you into thinking nothing had changed in this place. But the moment your head hit the pillow, your eyes grew heavy, and the next thing you knew was waking up to the faint glow of moonlight and a dim bedroom.

You groaned, blinking at your phone. Dinnertime.

Throwing on a sweatshirt, you stepped into the hallway, still half-asleep and thinking only of food. You turned the corner—and walked straight into a wall.

Or, well, what felt like a wall.

“Ow,” you muttered, stumbling back and clutching your nose. You looked up to find Anton standing there, looking as unfazed as he had been since you got here.

“Oh, it’s you,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say a word. Without thinking, you blurted, “What did you do to your hair?”

Anton didn’t respond right away. Instead, he tilted his head, like he was deciding whether to entertain your question. Then, he reached out and rested his hand on top of your head.

“What are you—”

Before you could finish, he brought his hand down to his chest, his eyes flicking between the two points as if measuring your height.

You scowled. “Hah! Wow. I see you got a few inches taller. Congratulations,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

Anton’s lips twitched, just barely, but he didn’t say anything.

“Ugh, whatever,” you huffed, spinning on your heel and stomping down the hallway toward the dining room.

Behind you, you didn’t see the way his lips curved into a small, teasing smile.

By the time you reached the dining room, the table was already set, laden with dishes that made your stomach growl on the spot. 

The dining table was a sight to behold, as always. Aunt Hyejin had gone all out—steamed crab, grilled shrimp, roasted vegetables, and enough side dishes to feed a small army. The familiar spread made you smile; some things never changed.

The family had already gathered when you arrived, and everyone greeted you with warm smiles. “Sweetie, can you go get Anton?” Aunt Hyejin asked, beaming at you as she placed bowls of rice on the table.

You turned your head just in time to see him walk in, his hair still damp from what must’ve been a shower. He wore a plain white t-shirt, its loose fit and sleeves doing nothing to hide his defined shoulders. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’d walked out of a magazine ad.

Anton glanced around the table before taking the empty seat next to his mom. “Where’s Dad?” he asked simply, reaching for the pitcher of water.

“His trip is getting extended for a few more days,” Aunt Hyejin explained, placing a rice bowl in front of Anton. “He’ll be back next Saturday.”

You made a point of sitting as far from Anton as possible. Not that you were being petty or anything. Okay, maybe you were a little petty.

“Dig in, everyone!” Aunt Hyejin said cheerfully as she sat down.

You didn’t need to be told twice. The meal was as delicious as you remembered, and for a while, the conversation was light—updates on Junyoung’s basketball team, your mom recounting a funny story from work, Aunt Hyejin asking about your classes.

Then, inevitably, the focus shifted to Anton.

“So, Anton,” your mom began, her tone warm and curious. “What have you been up to lately? Your mom tells me you’ve been very busy.”

Anton looked up from his plate, his expression polite but detached. “Just the usual,” he said. “School, work, hanging out with friends.”

“Oh, right! You’re working at that startup now, aren’t you?” Aunt Hyejin chimed in proudly. “He’s been so dedicated, working part-time while keeping his grades up.”

You tried to hide your surprise. The Chanyoung you remembered hated being busy. He used to complain about school work piling up, always looking for an excuse to go to the beach instead.

“Wow,” you said, before you could stop yourself. “Who knew Chanyoung Lee would turn into such a responsible adult?”

Anton’s eyes flicked to you, and for a moment, you thought he might actually smile. Instead, he just shrugged. “People change.”

The casual way he said it annoyed you more than it should have. “Clearly,” you muttered, stabbing a piece of shrimp with your fork.

If anyone noticed the tension, they didn’t comment on it. The conversation moved on, but you couldn’t help sneaking glances at Anton throughout the meal. He barely spoke, answering questions with short, polite responses and deflecting anything too personal. It was so unlike the boy who used to dominate every dinner table conversation with ridiculous stories and bad jokes.

At one point, Junyoung leaned over to whisper, “You’re staring.”

“I am not,” you whispered back, cheeks heating.

“You are,” he insisted with a grin. “What’s your deal?”

You glared at him. “What’s his deal? He’s acting so weird.”

“If you ask me, I think you’re the one acting weird,” he whispered back.

You were about to retort when Aunt Hyejin’s voice prompted the attention of the table. “So, Anton, are you spending time at the clubhouse tomorrow too?” she asked.

“Yeah. A few friends are back in town, so I’ll be there a lot,” he replied, his tone casual.

“Oh, the clubhouse,” you deadpanned, unable to resist. “Sounds very exclusive.”

Anton’s eyes flicked to yours, something unreadable passing through his gaze. “It’s just a place to hang out,” he said evenly.

“Hm. Fancy.” You stabbed at your food with a bit more force than necessary.

Junyoung snickered beside you, “She’s jealous.”

You elbowed him hard, making him yelp. Across the table, Anton’s lips twitched, but he didn’t say anything.

When dinner was over and the plates were being cleared, Anton finally turned to you, his tone deceptively casual. “You’ve got some rice on your face.”

“What?” You froze, quickly swiping at your cheek.

“No, other side.”

You wiped again, glaring at him when his expression didn’t change. “Is it gone?”

He shrugged, standing up and grabbing his plate. “Sure,” he said, walking off, and you could’ve sworn you heard him chuckle under his breath.

Beside you, Junyoung was laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.

The morning light filtered through the open window, and the cool breeze made the thin curtains sway gently. You stretched lazily, the familiar sound of waves crashing against the shore reminding you that you were in the Lee family’s beach house, finally back after two years. 

You got up and brushed your teeth, observing your face in the mirror for any changes. As you stepped out of your room, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and waffles made your tummy growl. You could hear your mom and Aunt Hyejin talking.

And by the time you made it to the kitchen, they were already preparing to leave. “Morning. You guys heading out?” you asked, helping yourself to the coffee machine.

“Good morning, honey!” Your mom turned to you with a smile. “We’ll be downtown all day to see the market and buy some things for the house.”

“What are your plans for today, sweetie?” Aunt Hyejin asked.

“I think I’ll go for a swim,” you replied, setting your mug down the table.

“That’s nice,” Aunt Hyejin beamed, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “I was thinking of asking Anton to show you around or take you to the clubhouse, but he went out for a jog early this morning.”

“Thanks, Auntie, but it’s okay,” you replied quickly, almost too quickly. “I don’t really feel like going anyway.”

Your mom raised an eyebrow at your tone, but she didn’t comment. Instead, she kissed your forehead before grabbing her purse. “Alright, have breakfast before you go out, and don’t forget your sunscreen!”

“Also, sweetheart,” Aunt Hyejin prompted, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Could you tell Anton when he gets back that I left a note for him? It’s on the fridge and tell him he needs to do it as soon as he’s back from his run.”

“Okay, Auntie. I’ll let him know.”

You walked them to the door, waving them off as they left, then headed upstairs to change. A swim sounded like the perfect way to spend your first real morning back—just you, the ocean, and some much-needed time to clear your head. Usually, Anton would wake you up early on your first day back and drag you to the beach for a swim, but you weren’t counting on it today.

When you made your way down to the beach, you weren’t expecting to find Junyoung and his friends there.

“Oh, it’s the old lady!” Junyoung called out to you as soon as he saw you, a cheeky grin plastered across his face.

“I’m not old, you brat,” you shot back, squinting at him. He’d gathered quite the group, and a few familiar faces smiled at you from where they sat on beach towels.

“Wow, you’re really here,” one of the girls, Hana, said with a laugh as she stood up to hug you. “It’s been ages!”

“It’s only been two years,” you chuckled, hugging her back. “But I can see that you’ve all grown up so much,” you added, marveling at how much they’d changed in two years. The boys were taller, the girls more polished, and there was an air of confidence about them that made you miss being a teenager a little.

“You sound like my grandma,” Hana teased, shaking her head.

“Don’t encourage her,” Junyoung interjected, smirking. “She’s ancient.”

You rolled your eyes, flicking sand at him playfully. “Whatever, I’m going for a swim. Enjoy roasting me while I’m gone.”

Junyoung laughed, holding up a hand as if in surrender. “Don’t drown, grandma!”

You flipped him off as you walked toward the water, grinning.

The water was cool and refreshing, lapping against your skin as you waded in deeper. From the corner of your eye, you noticed the beach slowly coming to life. Families were setting up umbrellas, kids were building sandcastles, and a couple was walking hand in hand along the shore. It was a scene you’d witnessed countless times over the years, but it never failed to make you smile.

Your thoughts drifted to the summers you’d spent here as a kid. Each year brought new faces—tourists you’d befriended for a few fleeting weeks, locals who became your seasonal playmates. You’d always been quick to mke friends and form bonds, though many of them faded as quickly as they’d formed.

And, of course, there were the crushes. The endless parade of cute boys who caught your eye. Some of them, you tried to shoot your shot. Most of them, you’d never had the courage to talk to. As usual, those feeling faded when the summer was over.

Well, except for one. Sungchan.

He’d been your longest-running crush, a boy from the neighborhood who was a few years older. Every summer, you’d spot him on the beach or at the local shops, always surrounded by friends, always smiling. You never got beyond the occasional shy wave or stolen glance, but that didn’t stop you from swooning over him every chance you got.

You smiled to yourself, wondering what he was up to these days. Was he still living here? Still as effortlessly cool as you remembered?

Your gaze drifted toward the lifeguard tower, the only unfamiliar fixture along the beachline. It wasn’t there last time you were here, but that wasn’t the reason you couldn’t keep your gaze away. Sitting there, casually surveying the beach, was none other than Sungchan. And he looked even better than you remembered.

His features had sharpened with age, his shoulders broader, his smile just as dazzling. He wore a red lifeguard tank top and sunglasses, looking relaxed and confident as he chatted with another lifeguard.

“Of course,” you muttered under your breath, treading water as you stared. “He’s still ridiculously handsome. Great.”

You shook your head, forcing yourself to look away. You weren’t that starstruck kid anymore, and you weren’t about to start crushing on him all over again.

Soon, the water started to lose its allure when the morning sun climbed higher and the heat started to prick your shoulder. With a content sigh, you decided to head back toward the shore. You ran your fingers through your wet hair, mentally noting how good the ocean always felt no matter how many summers you spent here.

But just as your feet hit the shallows, a sudden shout caught your attention.

“HEADS UP!”

Before you could react, something smacked into your forehead with a dull thunk. The world turned slightly as you stumbled backward, landing awkwardly in the sand.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” A boy hurried over, looking horrified as he grabbed the Frisbee floating on the water.

“It’s alright,” you muttered, waving him off as you pushed yourself up.

“Hey, are you okay?” another voice called out—calm, authoritative. You turned your head, and there he was, Sungchan, jogging toward you.

The boy with the Frisbee immediately began apologizing again, but Sungchan dismissed him with a quick, “It’s alright, just be more careful next time.” His focus shifted to you. “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, trying to brush sand off your legs. “No. I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Sungchan cut you off, gesturing at your forehead. “You’re bleeding.”

“What?” You blinked, reaching up to touch your temple. Sure enough, there was a faint smear of blood when you looked at your fingers.

“Just a small cut,” he said, helping you up. “Come on, let’s clean that up.”

You barely had time to protest before Sungchan was already leading you toward the lifeguard tower. You waited by the steps as he grabbed a first aid kit with urgency.

“Sit,” he said as he stepped down. You sat and watched Sungchan do his thing. “This’ll sting a little,” he warned, dabbing at your cut with an antiseptic wipe.

“It’s fine,” you mumbled, feeling the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck. The proximity was overwhelming—he smelled like sunscreen and saltwater, his face far too close for comfort.

As he finished cleaning the cut, Sungchan grabbed a band-aid and carefully placed it over the small wound. His hand lingered for a second longer than necessary, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” he asked suddenly.

Of course, he didn’t remember you. “I guess,” you said, offering a small, nervous smile as you told him your name. “From a couple summers ago.”

Sungchan’s hands paused for a second, recognition lighting up his face. “Ah! Yes. I remember you now.” He let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Wow. You’ve… changed.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you quipped, trying to ignore the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “You’ve changed quite a bit too.”

He smiled and pointed at yout cut. “You’re lucky it was just a small scratch,” he said, eyes lingering on you. “Or else I might have had to go full lifeguard mode and perform some CPR.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back on the lifeguard tower. “I’m pretty sure I’d survive without the dramatic rescue.”

Sungchan chuckled, his voice dropping just low enough for you to hear. “You sure? Because I don’t mind saving you each time you need me to.”

A small laugh escaped you, feeling more at ease now. “Why, thank you. But I think I can handle myself.”

“Oh I don’t doubt it,” he said, his tone shifting to something a little more teasing. “But I really wouldn’t mind seeing more of you.”

You raised an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth twitching into a smirk. “Is that so? Are you flirting with me, Sungchan?”

He shrugged, pretending to look innocent. “Would it be so bad if I was?” he asked back, gaze flicking at your lips for a split-second.

Before you could respond, you caught movement from the corner of your eye. When you glanced sideways, it was Anton. He stood just a few feet away, his expression dark and unreadable. His eyes moved from you to Sungchan, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

You waved at him. “Hey! You’re back!” you called out, remembering Aunt Hyejin’s instruction to remind him of a chore.

Anton didn’t respond, his eyes flicking over you briefly before he turned and jogged toward the house, his pace quick as if he had somewhere to be.

You frowned slightly, unable to dismiss the attitude. “I’ve gotta go,” you said, standing up quickly. “Thanks for this. And see you around, Sungchan.”

“Oh, you’re leaving?” Sungchan asked, his tone still light, but there was a spark of curiosity in his eyes. He stood up too. “Will I see you at the party tonight? 8pm at the clubhouse?”

You didn’t give it much thought as you glanced at Anton’s retreating figure. “Yeah! See you there!” You flashed a smile, already jogging after Anton.

“Anton, wait up!” you called, sprinting after him on the sand. Your feet sank with every step, making it harder to keep up. He didn’t even glance back, his strides deliberate and fast, like he was on a mission to get as far away from you as possible.

“Seriously? Are you even listening?” you shouted, frustration lacing your voice.

Still nothing. By the time you made it to the house, your chest was heaving, partly from running and partly from annoyance. Anton was already in the kitchen, chugging down a glass of water.

“Your mom left a note for you on the fridge,” you said, your tone sharper than you intended.

He didn’t say a word, just set the glass down, turned the fridge door, yanked the note and held it up for you to see without a word.

“What? It’s for you, not me,” you blurted, crossing your arms.

Anton simply folded the note in half, shoved it into his pocket, and walked away. You stood there, fuming, watching his retreating figure disappear around the corner. What was his problem?

Something was definitely wrong. Leaning against the counter, you tried to make sense of what just happened. Was it something you said? Something you did? You wracked your brain, sifting through every interaction you’d had with him, wondering if you somehow did something to offend or anger him in any way.

The last time you’d seen him was at your high school graduation two years ago. He’d been his usual self then—kind, supportive, making jokes to ease your nerves before the ceremony. If something had happened between then and now, it would have to be major for him to act like this after two whole years. But try as you might, you couldn’t think of anything.

And maybe that was true, this wasn’t about what you did. Maybe nothing had happened at all. Maybe this was just him now—more distant, more mature. The kind of guy who had outgrown childhood friendships.

Your chest tightened as the realization slowly crept in. Anton has changed. He doesn’t even look like the Anton you knew anymore. The messy bangs that used to fall into his eyes were gone, replaced by a clean, swept-back look that showed off his sharp jawline and cheekbones. Back then, he had that cute, boy-next-door thing going on, but now? Now he looked like he’d stepped out of some posh fashion campaign.

Even his eyes were different. They were the same shade, sure, but the warmth was missing. Instead, they felt sharper, like he wasn’t just looking at you but sizing you up, as if he didn’t quite know what to make of you anymore.

It was weird. And upsetting. Because no matter how much you tried to shake it off, it felt like the guy you used to know was gone. And you weren’t sure if you should feel proud of the man he’d become or mourn the boy you’d lost.

The tinkling sound of the door chime signaled someone’s arrival, jolting you out of your thoughts. Your mom popped her head in from the main door, flashing you a quick smile. “Hi, hun. Can you come down and help with the groceries? We’ve got bags of stuff to unload.”

“Yeah, sure,” you said, grateful for the excuse to stop spiraling. “I’ll go change first.” You pushed off the counter and headed for the stairs, trying to leave thoughts of Anton behind.

Chatter filled the kitchen as you unpacked groceries with your mom and Aunt Hyejin. They worked efficiently and synchronously, the kind of rhythm that only came from years of friendship.

“I’m telling you, we did not run into a celebrity at the market,” Aunt Hyejin said, waving a carton of eggs for emphasis.

“Then why did he look exactly like Gong Yoo?” your mom shot back, her tone smug.

“Because you see Gong Yoo in every man with nice hair and a sharp jawline,” Aunt Hyejin retorted, placing the eggs on the counter.

“What about that one time at the airport…”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head as they continued their playful bickering. And just as your mood started to lighten, Anton walked into the kitchen. Without a word, he handed an envelope to Aunt Hyejin. His mom looked at it briefly and set it aside, mid-sentence with your mom.

Anton turned to leave, but then paused. “I’m heading to the clubhouse,” he said, his tone flat.

Aunt Hyejin looked up with a casual smile on her face. “Why don’t you take her with you?” she asked, nodding toward you. “I’m sure she’s bored hanging out with us.”

Anton’s eyes flicked to yours, holding your gaze for a moment longer than necessary. His expression was unreadable, but something in his stare made you shift uncomfortably.

You waved it off quickly. “It’s fine, Auntie. I’ll go next time.”

Anton tilted his head, lips curving into a faint smirk. “She doesn’t need me to take her there anyway,” he said, his voice laced with a condescension that set your teeth on edge. “She’s already got someone’s invitation to tonight’s party.”

The insinuation hit its mark, and for a second, you stared at him, trying to process the shade he’d just thrown. He didn’t wait for a response, though. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving you simmering in annoyance.

Your mom and Aunt Hyejin exchanged a look. “Did you two fight?” your mom asked, eyebrows raised in concern.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, slamming a box of cereal onto the counter. “He’s been grumpy since this morning. I don’t wanna deal with it. And seriously, what’s up with his hair?”

“I think it looks great on him,” your mom said, glancing at Aunt Hyejin. “He’s grown so much in just two years. I almost didn’t recognize him at first.”

Aunt Hyejin nodded, a fond smile softening her features. “Yeah. Junyoung kept saying he’s got a glow up. We’re a family of late bloomers, you see.”

Their conversation continued, shifting to reminiscing about childhood antics and growth spurts, but you weren’t paying attention anymore. Your hands moved automatically, storing away groceries, while your mind replayed Anton’s jab over and over. Annoyance bubbled to the surface, threatening to spill over.

By the time the last bag was unpacked, you were practically seething. If this was the new Anton, you weren’t sure how much of him you could take.

The clubhouse was already crowded when you arrived. It was the same lively scene you remembered from previous summers: groups of people chatting at small tables, others lounging by the bar, drinks and snacks being passed around, strobe lights, and noisy music.

“Hey, you made it!” Sungchan’s familiar voice rang out above the noise. He was by the pool table, his grin as easy as ever, as he waved you over.

You smiled and headed his way. “Barely,” you teased. “This place is packed.”

“Summer crowd,” he said with a shrug. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

Sungchan was effortlessly charming, bringing you into conversations with people you’d only vaguely remembered from previous summers—or didn’t know at all. He had a way of making things feel casual, light, and fun, and it wasn’t long before you were laughing with his friends.

Somewhere in between introductions, Sungchan leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially.  “Did you come here with Anton?”

Your smile faltered. “No. Why?”

He tilted his head toward the bar. “Because he’s been looking this way every five seconds since you walked in.”

You followed his gaze, and there he was—Anton, leaning casually against the bar, a drink in hand. His relaxed posture contradicted the sharpness in his eyes as they flicked in your direction. He was talking to a group of people you recognized as the self-proclaimed elites of the clubhouse—the rich kids, the ones he’d always found insufferable.

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. Since when had Anton started hanging out with them? He used to avoid this place altogether, grumbling about the kids who were too rich, too smug, and too full of themselves. And yet, there he was, laughing along with them, fitting in like he’d belonged there all along. 

Before you could dwell on it, a voice called out your name. You spun around to see Yejin, one of the friends you’d spent countless summer days with.

“There you are!” she called, waving from a nearby table. “Took you long enough!”

Grateful for the distraction, you turned away from Anton and made your way to Yejin, Hana, and Sohee, who greeted you with the kind of warmth and comfort that came from being with people you’d known for years. You got swept up in a hearty conversation—reminiscing, teasing, catching up on the details of two summers you’d missed. They bombarded you with questions, half-complaints about your absence, and enough inside jokes to make you laugh until your cheeks hurt.

“But seriously,” Sohee said, narrowing her eyes at you. “Where were you?”

“Life just got crazy, okay?” you explained, putting your hands up in mock surrender.

“Crazy? You ditched us for two whole years!” Hana chimed in, raising an eyebrow. “That’s two summers.”

“I know. So instead of holding me hostage for being gone, how about filling me in on what I missed?” you shot back, laughing.

Yejin leaned closer, her voice dripping with mischief. “We’ll fill you in, all right. But first—what’s going on with you and Sungchan?”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but before you could, Sungchan appeared beside you, an innocent smile plastered across his face.

“Am I the topic of conversation?” he asked, his elbow nudging yours as he stood beside you. “I see, you’re catching up with your friends.”

Yejin narrowed her eyes at Sungchan, feigning suspicion. “Mr. Jung Sungchan, what’s the meaning of this?”

Sungchan glanced briefly at you. “Nothing. Your cute friend just happened to be generous enough to spare some of her precious time for me.”

Your friends exchanged glances and burst out laughing. Sohee was uncannily loud. “Generous enough? Surely you knew she was head over—”

You lunged at him, covering his mouth before he could finish talking. “This party is amazing, isn’t it?”

Sungchan just chuckled. “It is. Like I said, summer crowd.”

The chat continued, most of the attention directed at you because obviously, they wanted to catch up with you.

“So, are you two like a thing now?” Yejin asked, her tone playful as she raised an eyebrow at you and Sungchan.

“Definitely not,” you replied, rolling your eyes.

Sungchan clutched his chest, feigning hurt. “Wow, didn’t even hesitate. And here I  was, thinking we had something special.”

“Dude, we only started talking like five hours ago,” you retorted. “You’ll live.”

The group erupted in laughter, and Sohee grinned. “I don’t know, man. You seem to have some competition.”

“Competition?” Sungchan repeated.

Before Sohee could elaborate, Anton appeared beside him, clapping a hand on his back. “Don’t mind him,” he said, his voice smooth but pointed. “Sohee thinks everything’s a competition. Remember last summer’s beach volleyball? He still claims he didn’t cheat.”

Sohee gasped, his hand to his chest. “I didn’t!”

“Sure,” Anton drawled, his gaze flicking briefly to you before shifting back to Sohee. “Just like you didn’t accidentally trip over Hana to block that shot.”

“Speaking of beach volleyball,” Sungchan slid back into the group seamlessly, his charm lighting up the conversation. He nudged your arm playfully. “Weren’t you a former MVP?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider. “I used to be. That was three years ago, though. I think I’ve gotten rusty.”

“Don’t be modest,” Yejin teased, grinning at Sungchan. “She was a menace on the court. You’ve seen her, right? Our team was unbeatable because of her.”

Hana pointed at Sungchan. “Remember when we massacred Bay Area-3 four years ago? Must’ve sucked,” she added, shaking her head in exaggerated pity.

You hummed contentedly, leaning into the lightheartedness. “Too bad the season’s over. I would’ve loved to do it again.”

“Hey, I was on that team too,” Sohee interjected, pouting as if his contributions had been forgotten.

Sungchan’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I think we need a rematch. Let me know when you’re ready to lose.”

Yejin scoffed. “You’re on.”

“I’ll referee,” Anton offered unexpectedly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Someone’s gotta keep things fair, after all.”

“Oh, because you’re so unbiased?” you quipped before you could stop yourself.

Anton glanced at you, his gaze steady but unreadable. “I’m just saying, someone needs to make sure Sungchan doesn’t get away with calling fouls on every play.”

“Hey, I don’t do that!” Sungchan protested, laughing.

“You totally do,” Yejin chimed in, pointing a finger at him. “Remember last time? Every time you missed, suddenly it was, ‘The sun was in my eyes,’ or, ‘That wasn’t regulation height.’”

The group dissolved into laughter, and after some playful banter, a spontaneous agreement was made to hold a beach volleyball rematch in a few days. Sungchan excused himself first, saying he needed to spread the word to his Bay Area-3 team.

To you, he added, “You can find me back at the pool table later. Have fun catching up.”

As Sungchan walked away, you felt a prickle of awareness. Anton’s gaze was on you again. You met his eyes and raised an eyebrow. What? you mouthed, a silent challenge.

Predictably, he didn’t respond. His expression didn’t change, but he looked away, taking a slow sip from his drink. The moment passed as one of his new, polished friends called him over. He offered your group a brisk goodbye before heading back to their circle.

You exhaled, but your chest felt tight. It was weird seeing Anton blend so naturally with people he’d once disliked. You hadn’t realized how much it bothered you until now.

“Since when has he been hanging out with those people?” you asked, unable to keep the curiosity—and maybe the faintest trace of disbelief—out of your voice.

Hana leaned closer, lowering her tone conspiratorially. “He went to the same college as some of them. It’s actually kind of impressive, in a way. I didn’t think any of them were smart enough to get into a good university.”

You nodded absently, your thoughts tangled. “It’s just... weird seeing him with them when he used to complain about them all the time.”

“Well, people change,” Yejin said with a shrug, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Maybe he likes them now.”

You didn’t respond. There was no point in sharing the discomfort curling in your stomach when no one else seemed fazed. Instead, you busied yourself with your drink as conversation shifted to lighter topics—new schools, old gossip, and what everyone had been up to since high school.

You smiled and laughed along, but your thoughts kept drifting. No matter how much you tried, they always found their way back to Anton.

The night was in full swing by the time you found yourself sitting at a round table with Yejin, Hana, and a few other familiar faces. Sungchan leaned back in his chair beside you, his easy grin practically lighting up the conversation.

“So,” one acquaintance said, raising an eyebrow as she swirled her drink, “how does it feel to be back after two years? Like nothing’s changed?”

You smiled, though the question struck a little too close to home. “It feels great, honestly. I didn’t realize how much I missed everyone until now.”

“You’re lucky we even let you back in,” another one teased, leaning forward with a mock stern look. “Two summers is basically an eternity.”

Yejin chimed in, pointing her straw at you. “I told you she’d just waltz back in like nothing happened.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but a new voice cut through the chatter. “That’s kind of her thing, isn’t it?”

Your head whipped toward Anton, who had been leaning casually against the wall nearby. His voice was calm, almost disinterested, but there was a sharpness to it that pricked at your skin.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, forcing a laugh that felt a little too light.

Anton glanced at you briefly, his expression unreadable, before looking back at the group. “She’s good at jumping back into things like nothing ever happened.” Then to you, he said slowly and clearly, “That’s just how you’ve always been.”

The table went quiet for a few seconds too long. Sungchan shot you a look—half amused, half wary—while Yejin frowned, the corners of her mouth twitching as if unsure whether to laugh or intervene.

You felt your cheeks burn, but you refused to let it show. “Well, some of us don’t go through drastic changes in just two years,” you shot back, forcing a smile.

Anton’s gaze flicked to you for a moment, his lips curling in a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. “Guess not.”

The conversation resumed, though the tension lingered in the background. Yejin quickly steered the group onto lighter topics, and soon enough, the table was filled with laughter again.

But you couldn’t shake away Anton’s words. They sat in the back of your mind, nagging at you even as you tried to ignore them.

Sungchan leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “You okay?” he asked softly.

“Fine.” You smiled at him, grateful, but the knot in your chest didn’t loosen. Instead, your eyes found Anton again, now standing by the bar with a drink in hand. He didn’t look your way, but you were swearing at him in your head, determined to get to the bottom of whatever his problem was as soon as you were alone.

The wait didn’t take long. While you were squeezed beside Sungchan on a plush couch, his arm draped over your shoulder, feeling more carefree after several drinks, Anton appeared before you with his brows furrowed.

“I’m going home,” he said flatly, his eyes flicking between you and Sungchan.

You scowled. “And? What does that have to do with me?”

He sighed, taking your drink away and placing it on the table with a pointed glance. “Your mom would kill me if I left without you. Come on.”

You rolled your eyes and stood up, bidding Sungchan a quick goodbye. He let you go with a soft kiss on your cheek, his voice warm as he said, “Text me when you’re home, okay?”

You nodded, though you knew you’d probably forget. Your focus was already on Anton, who was heading out the door without waiting for you.

You struggled to catch up with his long strides, but you didn’t complain, knowing he’d just ignore you if you did. The alcohol made your annoyance simmer louder, and in your head, you practiced the scathing words you’d unleash as soon as you were alone with him.

But Anton had other plans. The car stereo blasted as soon as the engine started, drowning out any attempt you made to speak. You knew he was doing it on purpose, and it made you angrier.

The ride felt like an eternity, tension crackling in the silence between the loud beats of the music. When the car finally pulled up in the garage, Anton got out without a word, leaving you to stumble after him. He was already halfway inside the house when you kicked off your heels and stormed in.

“You’re back early,” Aunt Hyejin greeted from the living room, where she and your mom sat in their pajamas watching a movie. “Oh, what’s wrong?”

“Hi, Auntie. Hi, Mom,” you said briskly, barely glancing their way as you followed Anton up the stairs.

“What happened?” your mom called after you, but you didn’t stop to answer.

The alcohol made it easier to ignore the logic telling you to let it go. You caught the door just as Anton was about to close it, your hand slamming against the wood.

“What’s your problem?” you snapped as you pushed your way into his bedroom, slamming the door behind you.

Anton didn’t even flinch. He casually walked over to his closet, rummaging through it for a fresh shirt. “What is it this time?” His tone was too monotonous, almost mocking.

“‘That’s just how you’ve always been.’” You gestured wildly, your voice rising with frustration as you mimicked his indifferent tone. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Anton?”

His brow twitched, and for a split second, you thought he might actually look sorry. But no. Instead, he leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms like he had all the time in the world to deal with your meltdown.

“It’s not that deep,” he said, his tone infuriatingly calm. “You’re overreacting.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “Overreacting? You’ve barely said two words to me since I got here, and when you finally do, it’s to throw some passive-aggressive jab about how I’ve ‘always been’ like that? What is it exactly? Too loud? Too much? Too—”

“Annoying,” he cut in, his voice low but sharp enough to slice through your tirade.

The word struck a nerve, silencing you. Your breath hitched, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him.

“Annoying?” you echoed, your voice shaking. “Wow. So that’s what you think of me now? Or have you always thought I was annoying?”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if this conversation was physically exhausting him. “Why are you so hung up on this?”

“Am I?” You took a step closer, your pulse quickening as anger spiked through you. “Alright then, sue me for always being like this. I didn’t change like you did. I’m still annoying, and I’ve—” You made air quotes, your voice dripping with sarcasm, “—‘always been like this.’”

“Enough,” Anton sighed, exasperated.

“What other grievances do you have against me, Anton?” you shot back, your patience worn thin. “Come on. Let’s hear it.”

“That’s enough,” he said firmly, uttering your name warningly in a way that made your stomach flip—not with fear, but with something far more complicated.

But you weren’t about to back down. “No, I’m not done. You don’t get to act like you’re some untouchable, brooding—”

Before you could finish, he grabbed your wrist—not hard, but enough to make you freeze. His other hand settled on your waist, and in one swift motion, he pulled you closer. You opened your mouth to protest, but his lips crashed into yours before you could even make a sound.

Anton kissed you.

It wasn’t soft or tentative. It was messy and careless, born of frustration and something you couldn’t put a finger on. Your hands pressed against his chest instinctively, not enough to push him away but not quite pulling him closer either.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was warm against your cheek. His grip on your waist loosened, but he didn’t let go completely.

“See?” he muttered, smirking as he took a small step back. “Still annoying.”

You stood there, your heart pounding in your chest, your mind a storm of confusion and something else you couldn’t quite name. Anton seemed completely unfazed, tugging his shirt off and changing right there in front of you. You were still frozen in place when he glanced back at you, flicking your forehead with an almost playful arrogance.

“Ow!” you groaned, snapped back to reality.

“It's just a kiss. Don’t obsess over it,” he teased, his eyes flicking to your lips for a moment before he turned, striding toward the door.

You stood there, the words echoing in your head—‘Just a kiss.’ He didn’t even look back as he walked out, leaving you standing in the middle of his room, heart still racing, mind still reeling.

You first met Anton when you were seven. It was the first of your many summers in their little hometown by the sea. Your mom had just finished unpacking your bags when Anton’s mother brought him over to say hello.

He didn’t say much, hiding behind her skirt and eyeing you like you were some strange creature he wasn’t sure he liked yet. But that didn’t last long. Later that afternoon, when the adults were chatting over iced tea on the porch, he shyly tugged at your sleeve and said, “Do you wanna see my pet turtle?”

You had gasped at the time, pleasantly surprised. “You have a turtle?”

“Yeah! It looks like a dinosaur!” he had responded with gleaming eyes.

That was all it took. One look at the tiny turtle swimming in a glass tank on his bedroom windowsill, and suddenly you weren’t just visiting strangers—you had a friend.

Summer after summer, the two of you grew closer. You didn’t get to spend Christmases together or birthdays, but summer break was sacred. Your families would get together at their beach house like a tradition, and that house quickly became a second home to you. Its wooden floors creaked under your bare feet, and the salty breeze always carried the sound of seagulls and laughter.

Anton was funny in a way that always caught you off guard, soft-spoken but bursting with energy when the mood struck. He had a wild streak too, like the time he dared you to jump off the pier into the ocean—even though you’d both been warned a hundred times not to. You ended up doing it, and you both got grounded for the rest of the week.

When you were eleven, he taught you how to ride a bike—well, tried to. He kept insisting he wasn’t laughing at you every time you tipped over, but you could see the way he bit his lip to hold back a grin. And when you finally managed to ride down the dirt path without falling, he cheered so loudly the neighbors peeked out their windows to see what all the fuss was about.

He wasn’t always the wild one, though. There were quieter moments too—like when the two of you built sandcastles on the beach and argued about whether a moat was necessary, or when you’d sit under the teepee in his room, eating popsicles and reading comic books.

For years, he was a head shorter than you, something you loved to tease him about relentlessly. “When are you gonna catch up, Anton?” you’d giggle, ruffling his hair.

“You’ll see,” he’d retort with a determined pout. “I’m gonna grow taller than you someday. Dad said it’s gonna happen soon.”

It became an annual joke, one he stubbornly refused to give up on even as the years passed and your height difference barely changed. Then, when you were sixteen, it finally happened. You came back that summer and found Anton waiting at the door, looking taller than he’d ever been. At first, you didn’t believe it, but the smug grin on his face told you he waited for you at the front door on purpose.

“You’re standing on something,” you accused, squinting at him.

“Nope,” he said, grinning wide as he tapped his bare feet against the porch. “I told you, didn’t I?”

By then, he wasn’t just taller; he was different in ways you couldn’t quite put into words. It was sometime after that same summer that you realized your feelings for Anton weren’t as simple as you thought.

You were teenagers, going through all the awkward, messy stages of puberty. He was becoming more handsome by the day, his boyish features sharpening in ways that made you notice things you hadn’t before. His smile seemed more charming, his laughter endearing, and you were left grappling with a new, inconvenient truth—you had a crush on your best friend.

It wasn’t like it was hard to fall for him. You’d never given it much thought before, but Anton had always been attentive to you. Having a crush on him made you see him in a different light, and his kind nature soon made your heart flutter. He teased you mercilessly, sure, but he always knew when to stop. If you were upset or sulking, he had this uncanny ability to bring you out of it without even trying.

He’d wait for you at the end of the dock whenever you hesitated to jump, his hand outstretched with a soft smile on his lips. If you got hurt—whether it was a scraped knee or a bruised ego—he was always the first to check on you. He never let you carry heavy things, always taking your bag without a word even when you protested. Sometimes you’d be shivering after a late swim, he would throw his towel over your shoulders and grin, saying you looked like a wet puppy.

He had this way of making you feel like you were the most important person in the world, even when he was teasing you. Like the summer he spent two hours untangling the kite you’d accidentally gotten stuck in a tree, refusing to let you help because “you’ll just make it worse.” Or the time he taught you how to skip stones on the water. He’d stood behind you, guiding your arm with his, his chest brushing your back as he whispered instructions, so close you could barely focus. 

For a while, you were convinced you were in love with him. But even then, you knew better than to say anything. What if it ruined everything? What if your confession turned your friendship into something awkward and strained? What would his parents—your second family—think if you jeopardized the bond your two families shared?

So, you buried it. Tucked away that silly, puppy love into the deepest corners of your mind, letting it stay there as a bittersweet secret. You told yourself it was fine. You didn’t need him to love you back. It was enough just to be around him, to laugh with him, to call him your best friend.

And it worked. For years, it worked.

He went back to being your platonic soulmate, the person who knew you better than anyone else. The crush faded into the background, becoming a harmless relic of your teenage years—something you could look back on with fondness but without longing. Anton was family. Almost like a brother, considering the way you’d grown up together.

Or so you thought..

Now, you lay in your dimly lit bedroom, staring at the ceiling with your hand pressed to your chest. You could still feel the sensation of his lips on yours, and the memory played on a loop in your mind. 

Anton had kissed you. On the lips. And you didn’t know how to feel about it.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. You did know.

The affection you’d convinced yourself was long gone—that you’d painstakingly buried under layers of denial—wasn’t gone at all. It had been lying dormant, quietly waiting for something to wake it up. And now, with one impulsive kiss, Anton had yanked it out of its slumber.

What made it worse was Anton himself. He didn’t seem the least bit affected. He’d walked out of the room as if the kiss meant nothing, leaving you to deal with the fallout alone. Did he even care? Did he even think about what it would do to you, kissing you like that and walking away?

You let out a frustrated sigh, pressing your palms to your eyes as if you could physically stop your thoughts from spiraling.

It was too much. Anton had been too much these days. And now, he’d managed to unravel years of carefully built denial with one impulsive, reckless kiss.

What are you supposed to do now?

The next few days were unbearable. You tried your best to pretend nothing had happened between you and Anton, but that had never been your strong suit. Pretending didn’t come naturally to you, and something as major as that kiss was impossible to ignore. And Anton? Oh, he must have been having the time of his life watching you squirm.

He didn’t ignore you anymore—not like before—but a big part of you wished he just stayed indifferent and mean. He’d sit beside you at breakfast, close enough for his knee to bump against yours under the table. He’d call your name just to ask something unimportant, so casually too like the kiss didn’t even happen. Then, every once in a while, he’d throw in a remark that made your stomach flip.

“Still thinking about it?” he asked once, leaning against the dock railing as you peered down at the clear water.

You’d nearly dropped your phone in the water. “About what?”

He raised an eyebrow, a sly smile pulling at his lips. “You know what.”

You wanted to strangle him.

And the worst part? He didn’t care if anyone else was around when he did it. Around family, he kept his teasing just vague enough that no one else would catch on, subtle enough not to raise suspicions. But his remarks were bold enough to set your heart racing and leave you panicking that someone might pick up on your little secret.

By the time a week had passed, you were on the brink of losing it.

Anton’s dad had arrived back from work, and to celebrate, the family decided on a big barbecue dinner. Naturally, you and Anton were tasked with picking up groceries. It was something you often did together, but that was before. Now you just wanted to be as far away from him as possible.

Still, you didn’t argue. Obviously you couldn’t risk drawing attention to yourself and raising questions. Since the kiss, you hadn’t yet been alone with him, and the thought of sitting in a car with just him was making your stomach churn.

When Anton leaned over to buckle your seatbelt—his hand brushing your arm in a way that felt entirely too intentional—you swatted him away.

“I can do it myself,” you snapped.

He smirked, leaning back into his seat as if you hadn’t just scolded him. “You’re welcome.”

At the grocery store, things were mercifully normal. The conversation stayed focused on the errand. You stuck to the list, pointing out items while Anton grabbed them, and for a moment, it felt like those times in the past when you did the same errand. But then, as you were scanning a shelf for the right brand of barbecue sauce, you saw a familiar face along the aisle.

“Sungchan!” you called out, waving a hand in the air and failing to notice Anton scowling behind you.

The sight of him brought a welcome distraction, and you walked over with a smile creeping onto your face. You exchanged pleasantries, and he introduced you to his mom, who seemed just as charming as he was. Over the past week, you’d been texting with him and had even gone on a few strolls along the beach. He was funny and easygoing, and things seemed to be going well—if only you could focus on this rather than having Anton occupy space in your head.

“Didn’t expect to run into you here,” he said, his gaze flickering briefly to Anton, who stood a few steps behind you, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Small town,” you replied with a laugh.

You chatted for a few minutes before his mom gently reminded him about their errands. Before leaving, he leaned in to press a kiss to your cheek. It was quick and casual, but it made your cheeks burn nonetheless.

“See you soon,” Sungchan said, stepping back. “Volleyball match is on Tuesday. Don’t forget,” he added, glancing between you and Anton before walking away.

You turned back to Anton, hoping he hadn’t noticed your flushed cheeks, but of course, he had.

“You’re blushing,” he said, his voice teasing but sharper at the edges than usual.

“It’s hot,” you muttered, grabbing a random bottle of barbecue sauce and tossing it into the cart without even looking at the label.

Anton reached over, grabbed the bottle, and placed it back on the shelf. “This one’s for pasta. You’re a mess today.”

You glared at him. “Maybe I wouldn’t be if someone wasn’t constantly trying to mess with me.”

“Who, me?” Anton’s expression was pure mock innocence.

“Yes, you!” You snatched another bottle off the shelf, shoving it into the cart with unnecessary force before walking ahead.

He trailed behind, his voice light but carrying a certain edge. “So... you and Sungchan, huh?”

“What about us?” you said flatly, not bothering to look back.

“Oh, nothing,” Anton replied, leaning casually against the cart handle. “It’s just cute, that’s all. The way he looks at you like you’re a goddess or something. And that kiss on the cheek?” He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Real smooth.”

Your brows furrowed, genuinely wondering if he was being sarcastic. He looked at you and added, “Bet he writes poems about you in his free time.”

You scoffed. “Do you really think he’s that kind of guy? Have you seen him?”

Anton shrugged. “How would I know? I’m just making a guess since you’ve had the biggest crush on him for a long time and you once told me he looked like the kind of guy who writes poems for their girlfriend.”

You grimaced. “Ew. When did I say that?”

“When we were twelve,” he answered with a nonchalant shrug.

Your eyes widened slightly before you huffed. “Well, I was twelve. And I didn’t know what I was talking about.”

Anton scoffed mockingly. “No. He is that kind of guy. Romantic, spontaneous, and totally not like other guys who party till sunrise, chase after pretty girls and hookup for funsies,” he said sarcastically, smirking.

You turned to face him, your annoyance now outweighing your embarrassment. “What’s your problem?”

“No problem,” he said with a too-innocent shrug. “Just thought it was cute, that’s all. You’ve got a little admirer.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing a pack of skewers and tossing it into the cart. “Whatever. It’s none of your business, anyway.”

“Nice, sure,” Anton drawled, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “I do hope you don’t end up as another notch on his bedpost by the time summer ends.”

“Are you seriously doing this right now?” you shot back in frustration.

He straightened up, his smirk softening into something you couldn’t quite read. “What? I’m just looking out for you. Making sure you know what you’re getting into.”

“By mocking me?”

“By being honest,” he corrected, leaning slightly closer, his voice dropping low enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You huffed, staring right back at him with no intention to back down. “Whatever I do this summer, whoever I do it with, is none of your business, Anton. Just keep doing what you’ve been doing since I got here. Keep ignoring me and continue acting like a total prick, because I’m done trying to figure out what I did so wrong to deserve this treatment from you.”

Anton’s smirk faltered, replaced by something harder to read. His jaw tightened, but instead of snapping back, he turned away. Without another word, he pushed the cart down the aisle, leaving you standing there, fuming and wondering if it was possible to strangle someone with barbecue tongs. 

The silence that followed felt heavy, pressing against your chest, but you refused to dwell on it. Let him walk away if he wanted. Let him stew in whatever self-righteous attitude he’d decided to adopt this summer. You’re done walking on eggshells around him.

In the evening, you gathered in the backyard with your mom and the Lee family, everyone moving around busily to prepare dinner—setting up the table, checking the grill, and bringing out the salads and sides.

The sound of sizzling meat, the laughter and chatter, along with the faint echo of the waves lapping at the beach made you feel nostalgic. Barbecue nights like this had been a staple of your summers here. You hadn’t thought about them much in the two years you were away, but now that you were experiencing it again, you realized how much you’d missed it.

You focused on your tasks, determined to push away the tension from earlier at the store. The last thing you wanted was to let Anton get under your skin.

But Anton had other ideas. He was stuck to you like glue. Every time you moved to do something, he was right there, offering to help.

While you were helping Aunt Hyejin arrange side dishes, you were also trying to brush off the occasional bump of Anton’s shoulder as he reached for something nearby. It was hard to ignore the way he hovered close—not enough to draw attention, but enough to keep your nerves on edge.

“Need anything?” he asked as you washed the lettuce.

You glanced at him, your expression flat. “No, I’m good,” you said, shaking the excess water off the leaves.

He didn’t seem to take the hint. “You sure? I can—”

“No,” you cut him off, tugging the lettuce away when he reached for it. “I can do it myself.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly, but instead of arguing, he grabbed a tray of meat and started skewering it—purposefully working a little too close to where you were standing.

The family, oblivious to your silent war, carried on. Junyoung teased you about your time abroad, nudging you playfully. “Bet you missed this, huh?”

“Missed what?” you asked, playing along.

“This. You can’t get this kind of barbecue anywhere else.”

You laughed but didn’t answer because Anton spoke first. “Junyoung, didn’t Dad ask you to get the charcoal?”

“Oh, crap. Right.” Junyoung hurried off, leaving you and Anton alone at the counter.

Your eyes flicked toward Anton who seemed too immersed in his task. “Move. I need space for this,” you demanded, motioning to the tray in your hand.

His gaze shifted to you for a moment, before he returned to the meat and vegetables. “If you’re done with that, come help me with these,” he said flatly.

Scoffing, you picked up the tray of washed greens and headed outside.

Once everything was set up, you took a seat at the long table, intentionally placing yourself as far from Anton as possible. Plates were filled, glasses poured, and lively chatter filled the air. But just as you lifted your fork, Anton’s voice caught your attention.

“Junyoung, move over. I’m sitting there.”

Your eyes widened as Anton casually nudged his brother out of the way, sliding into the seat beside you without hesitation. Junyoung gave you a confused look, and you could only shrug.

Anton glanced at you as he settled in. “You don’t mind, right?” he asked, his tone almost too sweet, like he wasn’t giving you a choice.

You grimaced. “Do whatever you want. It’s your house.”

To your surprise, Anton became uncharacteristically attentive. He refilled your plate with meat, made wraps for you, and handed over dishes you couldn’t reach. You tried to focus on the conversation around you, but it was impossible to ignore the sincerity in his actions—or the way his gaze lingered a little too long.

It wasn’t long before Anton’s father spoke up, his deep voice cutting through the chatter. “Well, it’s nice to see you two getting along again,” he said, his gentle gaze flicking between you and Anton.

Anton raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a half-smile. “What do you mean?”

“The two of you,” his father replied, pointing at you and Anton. “I heard whispers about how you two weren’t speaking while I was gone. Did something happen?”

“You noticed that?” Anton asked.

Your mom chimed. “Oh, we all did. You’ve been inseparable since you were kids. Of course we’d notice if you suddenly act like strangers.”

“It’s good that you’ve made up. I thought we’d have to mediate some big falling out,” Aunt Hyejin added with a laugh, glancing between you and Anton.

Anton’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t say anything, focusing instead on the wrap he was making.

“It was weird,” your mom continued, clearly enjoying the opportunity to tease. “These two were like peas in a pod growing up. They’d even sneak out at night to stargaze on the beach together. Remember that?”

You groaned inwardly. “Mom, please.”

“Oh, don’t act embarrassed,” your aunt said, waving a hand. “It’s cute! We all thought it was adorable.”

Anton’s father narrowed his eyes playfully. “So, what happened? Did you fight?”

Before you could stammer out a reply, Anton finally spoke, his voice calm but firm. “Nothing happened. We’re fine.”

“That’s it?” his father pressed, clearly unsatisfied.

Anton glanced at you, his gaze lingering for a moment too long. “That’s it.”

The table erupted into laughter, with your mom and Aunt Hyejin exchanging knowing looks.

“Well, I guess all’s well that ends well,” your mom said, smiling. “You two were always quick to make up anyway.”

You tried to laugh it off, focusing on your plate and ignoring the way Anton’s arm brushed against yours under the table.

As the meal wrapped up and people began clearing plates, Anton stood abruptly. He didn’t announce anything to the table, just leaned down slightly toward you, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“Air?” he asked simply, gesturing toward the beach.

For a moment, you hesitated. Then, realizing the family’s focus was elsewhere, you pushed your chair back and followed him.

Anton led the way down the path toward the beach, hands in his pockets. You followed, keeping your eyes on the back of his head as your feet sank slightly into the cool sand. The sound of waves crashing on the shore stirred something in you—restlessness, maybe. Or nostalgia.

Then he stopped by the shoreline, where the water lapped softly, and sat down.

“Are you planning to stand there all night?” he asked, glancing up at you and tapping the space next to him.

You rolled your eyes and plopped down a few feet away, deliberately creating distance. The breeze tugged at your hair, and for a moment, neither of you spoke, letting the sound of the waves fill the silence.

“They think we’ve made up,” you said finally, breaking the stillness.

Anton huffed a quiet laugh. “They’ve got no idea, huh?”

“Not a clue,” you replied, smirking faintly. “I don’t even know why we were fighting. Or if it was even a fight in the first place. This is your fault.”

His brow quirked at that, but instead of biting back, he chuckled softly. “Maybe it was me. I’ll take the blame.”

“You’ve been sticking to me all night,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him. “Acting all nice, making wraps for me at dinner… What’s that about?”

Anton tilted his head toward you, his expression unreadable. “Why? You don’t like it?”

You shot him a look. “No, it’s just weird. You’ve been a prick all week, and now suddenly you’re trying to play nice. What’s your deal?”

He leaned back on his hands, eyes drifting to the horizon. “Maybe I just felt bad,” he said finally. “For these past few days, I mean.”

You snorted, trying to hide the way his sincerity caught you off guard. “So, what? It took you this long to feel bad?”

His gaze slid back to yours, and this time, it lingered. The playful edge in his expression softened, replaced by something quieter, something heavier.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

The words hung between you, stirring up emotions you weren’t prepared to unpack. You wanted to brush it off, to throw a snarky remark his way and shift the mood back to something you could handle, but the look in his eyes kept you rooted in place.

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but he beat you to it.

“I didn’t mean to treat you like that,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I didn’t mean to change… us.”

Your heart twisted, but you forced a scoff. “You didn’t mean it? Could’ve fooled me.”

Anton didn’t respond right away. He simply stared at you, his eyes tracing your features like he was seeing them for the first time. The ocean breeze carried the faint scent of the summer evening, and the sound of waves crashing filled the spaces his words left behind.

And for a moment, you thought he might close the distance. His shoulders shifted, his posture leaning ever so slightly toward you, his gaze dropping to your lips—so brief you almost thought you imagined it.

But just as quickly, he pulled back. His expression returned to the smirk you were all too familiar with.

“Welp, let’s not get too sentimental,” he said lightly, brushing sand off his hands as he stood up. “You might actually start thinking I’ve changed for the better.”

You blinked, caught somewhere between frustration and something softer, as he offered you a hand to help you up.

“I still haven’t decided if I like this version of you,” you muttered, brushing past him as you started back toward the house.

He chuckled, walking ahead of you and gently bumping your shoulder as he passed you. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

A part of you wondered if the conversation was done for the night. But as you glanced at the back of his head, you couldn’t resist one last question.

“Why did you do it?” you called out.

Anton slowed but didn’t stop, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Do what?”

You caught up, falling into step beside him. “Why’d you kiss me?”

He didn’t react right away, his gaze shifting back to the path ahead. “You’re asking me that now? Have you been thinking about it all week?” he asked with a teasing lilt in his voice.

“I’m serious. Come on,” you said, keeping your tone light but steady. “It’s not because you wanted to, right? I was just getting on your nerves, and there was no other way to shut me up. Right, Anton? Right?”

Your heart thudded in your chest as the silence stretched. Anton finally came to a stop, his hands slipping into his pockets as he turned to face you. The moonlight caught the faint curve of his smirk, but his eyes were unreadable.

“Wrong,” he said simply.

“What?” you blurted, waiting for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.

Anton turned and kept walking, leaving you standing there, staring after him as the word echoed in your mind.

The weekend at the beach house passed in a blur. After your conversation with Anton, things between you weren’t awkward anymore, but they weren’t exactly normal either. You talked like usual, bantered like usual, interacted like usual—everything was as usual. Except for when his eyes would focus on you every now and then—the kind of look that seemed to communicate something your mind couldn’t comprehend, but you knew they meant something.

Sometimes, when it was just the two of you—bringing drinks outside or crossing paths in the hallway—you found yourself running through a dozen different scenarios in your head. Ones where the air grew heavy, his hand brushed yours, and somehow, the silence ended in a feverish kiss. You weren’t sure where these thoughts were coming from, but they made you giddy and nervous at the same time, unsure how to handle the growing interest that crept quietly under your skin.

Soon, the day of the volleyball game rolled around, and you headed to the beach with your friends. Sungchan was easy to spot near the net, casually chatting with a group while fiddling with the ropes. When he caught sight of you, his smile stretched wide as he jogged toward you.

“You finally showed up,” he teased, hands on his hips.

You rolled your eyes at his dramatic tone. “I’m literally on time.”

“Late, early—it’s all relative.” He grinned, taking a step back and gesturing to the setup. “So, wanna be on my team? I’m giving you a chance to switch sides before we kick your team’s ass.”

You scoffed. “How generous. But I’ve already pictured your defeat in my head, so, no thank you.”

His laugh was easy, but you couldn’t ignore the way his gaze softened as it lingered on you. That familiar charm of his—it was almost effortless, but you knew what you had to say.

“By the way, I have something to tell you,” you said, glancing past the others before looking back at him.

“Sure,” he nodded, his smile dimming just slightly. “That look is making me nervous, but let’s hear it.”

You took a breath. “You’re a fun guy, you really are. You’re nice too. And to be honest, I had a crush on you since I was like—” you shrugged—“twelve? I think?”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, and I really enjoyed hanging out with you, but  I don’t think I want to be anything other than friends with you.”

For a second, you worried how he’d take it. But Sungchan just stared at you, then let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “I knew you’d break my heart eventually.”

“Sungchan—”

“I’m kidding,” he cut you off, flashing his usual grin. “It���s cool, really. You didn’t drag it out, so thanks for that.”

Relief washed over you. “I just didn’t want to keep you hanging.”

“I know. I really appreciate that,” he replied, his grin turning teasing again. “Gives me more time to get to know other people. Lots of pretty girls in town this summer, you know? They’d be thrilled to know I’m still available.”

You couldn’t help chuckling. “Did you really just say that out loud?”

“Why not?” he said, smirking. “We’re friends. There’s no need to filter my words around friends.”

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, but the laughter that followed between you both was easy and genuine.

The volleyball setup was simple but lively—teams were already strategizing, with Sungchan’s voice ringing out as he rallied his group together. You lingered near the sidelines, soaking in the warm sun and salty breeze, until a familiar figure stepped into your peripheral vision.

Anton.

His hair was a little tousled from the wind, and he had that usual air of nonchalance as he approached. You noticed the faint furrow in his brow as his gaze shifted from Sungchan back to you.

“Are you ready for this?” you asked, keeping your tone casual.

Anton ignored the question entirely. “What were you two talking about?”

“Sungchan?” you asked innocently, tilting your head. “Nothing much. Just clearing the air.”

Anton narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything, his jaw tightening slightly before he turned his attention to the players warming up.

“Didn’t think you’d actually referee,” you teased, eyeing his rashguard and short outfit.

“Someone has to keep things fair,” he replied, his tone dry as his eyes flicked to Sungchan, who was busy high-fiving his teammates.

You raised an eyebrow, catching his not-so-subtle focus. “What’s that look for?”

He shrugged, but his casual tone didn’t match the sharpness in his gaze. “Just wondering why you were all chummy with him.”

“What?” you said, rolling your eyes. “I told you. We were just talking. We’re friends. He’s nice.”

“Too nice, if you ask me,” Anton muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening. “You do remember that he’s older than us, right?”

You tilted your head, amusement tugging at your lips. “Is that jealousy I hear, Anton Lee?”

“Not jealousy,” he shot back quickly. “Concern. You shouldn’t be fraternizing with the enemy.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Enemy? Aren’t referees supposed to be neutral and not pick sides.”

Anton’s lips twitched, but his expression remained guarded. “Not when it comes to him.”

“Sounds personal,” you teased.

Before he could reply, Sungchan’s voice called from across the net. “Hey, MVP! You ready to show us what you’ve got?”

A confident grin spread across your face as you turned to him. “Hope you’re ready to lose,” you shot back, adjusting your stance.

Anton muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “cocky,” but you ignored him, stepping onto the sand with the kind of ease that came from years of practice.

The game started fast, with energy running high as the teams gave their all to the game. You were quick on your feet, diving for saves and landing precise spikes that sent the ball flying past the other team’s defenses more than once.

“Still got it,” you muttered to yourself after a particularly clean shot, wiping sand off your knees.

“Nice!” Hana cheered, and you all huddled for a high-five.

Sungchan whistled, shaking his head as he retrieved the ball. “Alright, I’ll give you that one. But don’t think you’re getting another easy point.”

“Easy?” Hana echoed, smirking playfully. “Your team’s been missing half your serves. Why don’t you concede?”

“Less talking, more playing,” Yejin retorted, clapping her hands loudly.

The banter drew a laugh from the sidelines, where Anton stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Still, you caught the slight twitch of his lips whenever you scored, even if he didn’t say a word.

During a quick break, Sungchan jogged over, tossing you a water bottle. “You’re making me work harder than I thought,” he said, flashing his signature grin.

“Good,” you replied, taking a sip and wiping your brow. “I’m just getting started.”

Sungchan stood there for a few seconds, watching you. Then, out of nowhere, he asked, “So, how are things with Anton?”

The water caught in your throat mid-sip, and you barely managed not to spit it out. Coughing, you waved him off as he laughed and patted your back. “What? Why would you even ask me that?”

“Has he told you about it yet?”

“About what?”

Sungchan raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Don’t make me spell it out. The guy’s practically wearing a neon sign over his head that says, ‘I’m in love with her.’”

You rolled your eyes, brushing off the warmth creeping up your neck. “You’re so dramatic. He doesn’t—”

“Sure, sure.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But you’ve noticed, haven’t you? The way he gets all broody whenever we talk?”

“Broody?”

“You know, sulky. Jealous,” he grinned, casually draping an arm on your shoulder. “I didn’t think it would be so fun to tease him.”

Without thinking, you glanced over. Anton stood with his arms crossed, stealing glances at you and Sungchan. His face was unreadable, but the tight set of his jaw and the sharpness in his gaze gave him away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, turning back to Sungchan, though your pulse quickened under Anton’s gaze.

Before he could respond, a sharp whistle broke through the conversation.

“Break’s over,” Anton called, his voice firm as he motioned for everyone to get back into position.

Sungchan glanced at him, then back at you, grinning like he’d just cracked a code. “See? Broody.” He threw you a wink before jogging back to his side of the net.

As the game resumed, you couldn’t help but notice Anton’s slightly biased officiating—whistling a little too loud when Sungchan’s team scored, or muttering under his breath whenever their team celebrated.

By the time the final point was scored—your team taking the win with a flawless spike—you caught Anton watching you again, his expression softening just slightly. But as quickly as it came, it was gone, replaced with his usual cool detachment as he blew the whistle to signal the end of the game.

The sound of cheers and laughter filled the air as your team huddled together, celebrating the win. Sohee slung an arm over your shoulder, grinning from ear to ear.

“Still the MVP, huh?” he teased, ruffling your hair playfully. “I don’t know why I thought this would go any other way.”

“Because you’re overconfident,” Hana chimed in, nudging Yejin with her elbow. “And we’re, you know, actually good at this.”

You smirked. “Don’t beat yourself up, though. You guys put up a good fight.”

“Good fight, my ass,” Sohee grumbled, flopping onto the sand dramatically. “We got obliterated. I’m never playing against you guys again.”

“Come on, Sohee,” you replied, tossing him a grin as you helped him up. “It’s just for fun. You didn’t do that bad.”

“He missed three serves in a row,” Hana deadpanned, earning a loud groan from Sohee.

“Okay, no need to rub it in!” Sohee huffed, dusting the sand off his hands.

Anton approached the group, his whistle still dangling from around his neck. “You all done patting yourselves on the back?” he asked, his tone neutral but his eyes briefly meeting yours.

“What exactly are we winning? Do we get a prize?” Yejin asked, looking around.

Sungchan shrugged. “Bragging rights?” he said with evident uncertainty in his tone and expression.

Your team groaned, unsatisfied. Sungchan stammered. “Hey, we didn’t decide on a prize when we talked about this game.”

Sohee raised a hand. “Okay, guys, since I’m basically responsible for our loss, ice cream’s on me for the winners. Losers can fend for themselves.”

“Wow, so generous,” Sungchan deadpanned, but he followed anyway, dragging his team along.

“It’s okay, dude,” Yejin said, clapping him on the back. “You’re rewarded enough. It’s not every day you get to play with an MVP.”

“You mean lose to an MVP,” Sungchan corrected, nodding toward you. “You’re a beast out there, seriously. Respect.”

“Respectfully defeated, you mean?” Hana teased, crossing her arms.

Sungchan shrugged, unfazed. “I’m not bitter. I’d rather lose to a skilled player than Sohee.”

“Okay, man. Low blow,” Sohee sighed, shoulders sagging in defeat.

Sungchan flashed you a knowing grin before his gaze flickered toward Anton. “Guess you’re proud of her too, huh, ref?”

Anton’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, but he only shrugged. “She’s decent.”

“Decent?” you echoed, narrowing your eyes at him. “Pretty sure I just carried my team to victory.”

“I’d rather not inflate your ego,” he retorted, smirking.

As the group headed toward the snack stand, you lingered for a moment, brushing sand off your legs. Anton hung back too, his gaze lingering on the horizon before he glanced at you.

“Decent, huh?” you said, crossing your arms as you turned to him.

His lips twitched. “You heard me.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “You could just admit you’re impressed.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he replied, turning toward the snack stand without waiting for a response.

Shaking your head, you followed, the playful energy from the game lingering in the air.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the group gathered around a bonfire on the beach. Drinks were passed around, the conversation flowing easily. More people arrived as the evening deepened, including some of Anton’s posh friends. They blended effortlessly into the group, their polished smiles and designer outfits standing out against the casual beachwear.

At some point, Sohee handed Anton a guitar with a knowing smirk. “Would you play something for us?”

Anton chuckled, adjusting the strap before strumming a few chords. The group around the fire cheered, and soon everyone was singing along, their voices blending beautifully with the melody Anton was playing.

You leaned back against the driftwood bench, watching him as his fingers glided over the strings with ease. There was something captivating about how relaxed he seemed—more confident, more self-assured. The shy boy you’d grown up with had always seemed happiest when he was off to the side, letting others take the spotlight. Now, he was in the center of it, getting attention without even trying.

In hindsight, this should’ve made you happy. Seeing him like this—more mature, more comfortable in his own skin—should’ve felt like a victory for the both of you. But you didn’t have time to process this because the joy of his transformation had been buried under your indignation, your frustration at being treated like a stranger.

You sighed and turned your gaze to the fire, trying to push the thoughts away.

Later, as the party stretched into the night, Sungchan plopped down beside you with a drink in hand.

“Long face at a party?” he teased, nudging your arm lightly.

You smiled faintly. “Just thinking about stuff.”

“Stuff like Anton?” he asked, raising a brow.

You gave him a side-eye, but his grin was disarming enough that you found yourself nodding. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” he echoed, leaning closer like he was fishing for details. “Come on, you can tell me. I’m great at giving unsolicited advice.”

That earned a laugh out of you. “Why are you nosy?”

He shrugged. “This is the most interesting thing that happened here since summer break started. I’m a little too invested.”

“Fine,” you chuckled, shaking your head. “Get ready.”

And so, you told him everything—how you and Anton had grown up together, spending every summer side by side, how he used to be this sweet, shy boy you adored. You told him about your silly teenage crush on him, how you’d skipped the last two summers, and how things were so different now that you were back. Sungchan listened intently, nodding along as you spoke.

“And then he kissed me,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “And now I’m… I don’t know. I can’t tell if I’m falling for him again or if I’m just confusing old feelings for something they’re not.”

Sungchan leaned back, letting out a low whistle. “That’s a lot to unpack,” he said, then smirked. “But hey, you’ve got options. If it’s real, great. If it’s not, at least you’ll know. Either way, you win.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not exactly helpful.”

“Look, all I’m saying is, maybe stop overthinking it. You’ll figure it out,” he replied. “But if you’re asking me? I think you’re not confusing old feelings. It’s just that the old feelings are stronger now that you’re older and wiser. Well, not so wise, but still wiser than when you were sixteen.”

Your laugh came out startled. “What makes you think so?”

“Just a hunch,” he said, winking.

Before you could respond, a shadow fell over the both of you. You looked up to see Anton standing there, his expression unreadable as he glanced between you and Sungchan.

“Time to go,” Anton said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You frowned, leaning back against the bench. “It’s still early.”

Anton huffed, unfazed. “I’d hate to ruin your night, but I’m tired, so let’s just go.”

You groaned, glancing at Sungchan, who gave you an exaggerated pout. “Guess this is goodbye,” he said dramatically.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” you retorted, but you smiled as you stood. “Thanks for listening.”

He gave you a two-fingered salute as you turned to follow Anton.

As you walked up the beach, the sounds of the party fading behind you, you glanced at Anton. “Can’t you go home by yourself?”

“You think I’m dragging you along because I want to?” he asked back, glancing sideways at you. “Take it up to your two moms if you have a problem with it.”

You huffed. “I probably should. One can’t go home without the other? What are we, fifteen?”

Anton didn’t respond, but you caught the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as he walked ahead.

The car ride was too quiet for your liking. Anton kept his grip tight on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched, and you couldn’t ignore the hint of annoyance on his expression. 

You’d been stealing glances over at him, but he didn’t meet your eyes. The way he was acting—the sudden coldness after the bonfire, the way he pulled away emotionally—it was all too confusing and infuriating. 

“Anton, you’re angry,” you said, your voice low but steady. “What’s going on? Another mood swing?”

He finally looked at you, his eyes dark, the frustration in them almost raw. “Can you mind your own business?”

“I can if you stop making me feel like this was my business too.”

Anton let out a sharp exhale, and with a swift turn of the steering wheel, he pulled over to the side of the road, stepping on the brakes so abruptly, you were jolted forward, the seatbelt digging into your chest.

“What the hell—”

“What do you want me to say?” he cut you off, his voice rough.

“What do I want you to say?” you echoed, heart pounding as anger rose in your chest. “Are you serious? You’ve been treating me like a stranger since I got here. You’ve barely talked to me, and when you do, it’s like I’m the last person you want to be around. What do I want you to say?”

You scoffed incredulously. “I want you to tell me what I did so wrong to deserve this.”

Anton’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, his jaw clenching so hard it was a wonder it didn’t crack. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, quieter, but no less intense. “I missed you. So fucking much.”

For a second, his words knocked the wind out of you. But the anger came rushing back. “That doesn’t make any fucking sense. You missed me, so you’re treating me like crap? What the hell, Anton?”

“I don’t know!” he snapped, his voice breaking slightly. He groaned, leaning back in his seat and pressing his hands to his face. “I don’t know, alright? I just—I couldn’t reach you. I couldn’t talk to you. You were supposed to be here, and you weren’t. And now you’re back, and I’m—” He broke off, dragging his hands through his hair in frustration.

You blinked, caught off-guard by the vulnerability in his voice. You opened your mouth to speak, but you didn’t know what to say so you closed it again. At that moment, it was as if the only thing you could do was reach out your hand and place it on his arm, squeezing gently in hopes that it would somehow comfort him, that it would be enough to express what your words cannot.

His head turned toward you, and the look in his eyes made your breath hitch. His gaze flicked to your lips, and before you could process what was happening, his hand was on your arm, pulling you toward him. Then his lips crashed against yours, desperate and unrestrained, like he couldn’t stop himself anymore. 

And you couldn’t pull away—not that you wanted to. Everything you had been holding back, everything you’d been pretending not to feel, was suddenly pouring out in that kiss.

He tugged you closer, his other hand sliding to your waist as the kiss deepened, raw and messy, with a kind of desperation that matched your own. You could feel his heavy breathing against your lips as his body tensed beneath you, and it only made you want to close the distance even more.  You wrapped your arms around his neck, clutching a handful of his hair because you needed to hold on to something—anything—that was real.

Anton’s hands moved to your neck, his touch possessive, as if he was trying to assure himself that you were here, that you weren’t going anywhere. You pulled away for a breath, your chest rising and falling quickly as you stared at each other, both of you trying to catch your breath.

“Anton…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

He pressed his forehead to yours, his voice hoarse. “Don’t say it. Just—don’t say anything right now.” He kissed you again, one hand slipping under your shirt but you stopped him.

“No.” You pushed him away gently, your lips curving into a small smile. “Not here. Come on, dude. Not in the car. Let’s at least make this special.”

He leaned back, a short, dark laugh escaping him. “I just kissed you till you’re breathless, and you call me dude after?”

You laughed lightly, still breathless yourself. “Are you seriously gonna hold that against me instead of focusing on more pressing matters?” You glanced at the unmistakable bulge in his jeans.

Anton grunted, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he shifted the gear stick, suddenly looking more determined than ever as he stepped on the gas.

You couldn’t help grinning at the look on his face. You reached for his chin, pulling him close just enough to press a soft kiss on his cheek. As you sat back, Anton’s fingers brushed against yours, holding your hand with a light squeeze as the car sped down the highway.

The house was quiet when you and Anton arrived. It was past 1am, and the soft hum of the house was the only sound that filled the air as you both tiptoed down the dimly lit hallway. Your footsteps were almost inaudible on the hardwood floor, but your heart raced in your chest. When you passed by his parents’ room, you both paused for a moment, checking for any signs of movement, worried that someone might wake up and catch you sneaking.

When you reached the upper floor landing, Anton grabbed your hand, pulling you closer to him. His lips brushed the side of your neck as you walked down the hall. The thrill of the risk only heightened your need for each other, and you couldn’t keep the smile from tugging at your lips as his hand slid to the small of your back, pressing you against him for a second.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” you whispered, though the mischief in your voice gave  away the fact that you were enjoying this too.

He groaned impatiently. “Why is your bedroom so far away?”

“It’s not, you’re just dramatic,” you chided softly, pressing a soft kiss on his lips and slipping away when he moved to cage you in his arms.

The need for each other was overwhelming, but you couldn’t risk waking anyone up, couldn’t let anyone see this side of you two yet.

When you finally reached your bedroom door, you turned to face Anton, curling your fingers in his shirt. “Don’t you dare go in there without me,” you said, pulling him toward you for another kiss, the same fervent kiss he’d been giving you all night.

As you both stumbled into the room, the door clicking shut behind you, everything else disappeared—the house, the people, the secrets. The room was quiet except for the sound of your uneven breaths. He was so close, his familiar face somehow different now, his eyes tracing yours like he was seeing you for the first time.

“This is insane,” you whispered, a shaky laugh slipping out as you broke eye contact. “Are we really gonna do this?”

“Oh, it’s totally up to you,” he said softly, his voice dipping lower as he tucked a few strands of hair behind your ear. “But right now, I can’t stop thinking about you… like this,” he added, his fingers brushing on the sleeves of your shirt, tugging it off slowly.

You let him undress you as your stomach fluttered at his confession. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned forward, your lips meeting his. It started soft, tentative, like you were afraid to push too far. But then his hand found the back of your neck, pulling you in, and suddenly it wasn’t soft anymore.

The kiss deepened, years of restraint unraveling all at once. He laid you back against the bed, his weight hovering over you. As his lips trailed down your neck with slow and careful kisses, your mind began to spiral with a sensation that was both new and unfamiliar.

When he got rid of your bra and revealed your bosoms before his eyes, he had to take a moment and look at you—really look at you, with a face of disbelief and amazement. That gaze made you shy, but you tried not to show it, hoping he liked what he was seeing. 

“This feels… a bit different,” he murmured, meeting your gaze. His voice trembled slightly, and it struck you that he was just as nervous as you were.

“Because it is,” you whispered back, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “But it’s still us.”

That seemed to settle something in him. He leaned down to kiss you again, only for a short while before abandoning your lips and moving to your neck. He licked and nipped at your skin, leaving a slight sting that sent shivers down your spine—a delightful balance of pain and pleasure. His lips trailed down to your collarbone, the center of your chest, and the soft hollow beneath your breast before moving to suck on your nipple.

The sudden jolt of pleasure made you arch your back, stifling a gasp that almost tore out of your lungs. Anton continued, eyes locked with yours, studying every expression you were making.

His hands grew bolder, fingertips traveling to your belly, down to your sex with curiosity and reverence. His motions were gentle at first, tentative, as if testing the waters. But with each soft gasp or subtle shift of your body, his confidence grew. When his thumb brushed a spot that made you shiver, he paused, repeating the motion with a soft hum, like he’d just unlocked a secret meant only for him.

He already knew you so well—the way your eyes lit up when you were excited, the way your laugh sounded when you tried to muffle it, and the things that made you fold into yourself when you were upset. But this—this part of you—was new, uncharted territory neither of you had thought you’d ever explore.

“Didn’t know you could make that face,” he teased, tickling your ear.

A quiet laugh slipped out of you when his hand fumbled at an awkward angle. “You lost it,” you giggled and he let out a soft chuckle in return.

“Sorry. Where did it go?” he asked, grinning toothily. “Guess I’m not as smooth as I thought.”

You shook your head, still grinning, and cupped his jaw in your hand. “You’re doing fine.”

The laughter didn’t last long. It faded into urgency when you reached between his legs where his manhood was trapped in his tight jeans. Anton let out a pained grunt when your hand brushed it, murmuring “Fuck,” before backing away from you and stripping out of his clothes in a matter of seconds.

He dived back to your lips, crashing with intense fervor while his hand spread your legs wider. He held you tight as he positioned himself, shushing you gently as he slowly fitted himself inside. Every fiber in your body stood in attention, anticipating the delightful pain to shoot through you. And when it came, it was infinitely better than what you imagined.

Instinct took over as you clung to him, your pulse racing as he began to move at a languid pace, familiarizing before going at a steadier pace. The sheets twisted under your fingers, the soft rasp of his name escaping your lips as he pressed harder.

Every thrust ignited something inside you, every whispered murmur of your name leaving you more breathless than the last. You could no longer keep track of what was happening, too far gone to think clearly, but conscious enough to know you wanted more—more of him, more of this pleasure that was driving you insane in the best way possible.

After who knows how long, a throaty moan ripped out of you, your back arching as you let the high engulf you in waves. Anton kept his thrusts steady, riding through your high until your knees shook with too much stimulation. Then you fell back on the bed, limbs weak and your energy depleted.

When it was over, you lay tangled together, your pulse still racing as he held you in his arms. In the atmosphere was a quiet kind of understanding that didn’t need words. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, slowly pulling you out of the haze of desire.

You shifted slightly, looking up to find him already watching you. He was smiling, a little shy but undeniably happy. His hand slid up, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face before letting his fingers linger on your jaw. 

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, taking a deep breath as you smiled. “Yeah. We’re okay.”

The next morning, you woke up with Anton’s arm still wrapped around you, his warmth enveloping you nicely. The sunlight poured into the room and for a moment, it felt like nothing else in the world mattered. Your body was still tingling from the night before, but you were content and happy.

Anton stirred beside you, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist. He buried his face in your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“You awake?” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly along your jaw.

You smiled faintly, glancing up at him. “Yeah. We need to talk.”

He nodded, exhaling deeply as he stretched, the movement shifting you slightly before he pulled you close again. “Figured you’d say that,” he said, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. But then his expression softened. “I know I’ve got a lot to answer for.”

The night had brought you closer, but it had also left things unanswered, things that neither of you could avoid any longer.

You stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“I was an idiot,” he began, his tone quieter now. “I shouldn’t have pushed you away when you came back. I just... I didn’t know how to handle it.”

You blinked at him, watching his face and saw the faint flicker of guilt and uncertainty in his eyes. This was a side of Anton you hadn’t seen in a while—the one who let his guard down, even if only for a moment.

“I thought I’d lost you for good,” he continued, his voice steady but low. “You didn’t come for two summers. No calls, no texts—it felt like you disappeared, and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

You frowned. “No one told you I was away for uni?” you asked sarcastically.

He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, I knew. But…” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. We didn’t talk much in the last two years. Different time zones, schedules, and all. You were out there, living your life. I see your posts online. You were killing it in school, making new friends, living your life. Hell, you even had a boyfriend at one point.” He chuckled bitterly, the sound more self-deprecating than amused. Then he continued. “I guess I got insecure and thought you were content living a life without me in it.”

“Come on. That’s not true,” you defended, scowling.

“I know,” he said quickly, cutting you off. “I know that now. But back then, it just... I don’t know how else to say it—it messed me up. Like I said, I was insecure.”

“So I decided to live my life too, and it was good. I learned lots of new things, met lots of people, and discovered interests in fields I didn’t know I had interest in. It was great.” He paused, swallowing hard, then muttered, “Then mom said you were coming for summer this year and suddenly, I was thinking about you again. I realized that I wasn’t mad because I felt abandoned and forgotten. I was just… in love with you.”

You gasped softly, pulse racing at his confession. Anton smiled at you as he continued. “I didn’t know how to deal with that and I knew you’d leave eventually, so I thought if I acted like you were a stranger, it’d hurt less when you’re gone. Obviously it didn’t. It just made everything worse.”

You could feel the sincerity of his words, the honesty finally breaking through the wall he’d built.

“You didn’t have to go through all that,” you said gently, your hand cupping his cheek. “I never forgot about you, Anton. I could never, even if I try. You and me, we’re like, stuck with each other.”

A faint smile broke through his solemn expression. “You make it sound like a punishment.”

You chuckled softly, your fingers brushing through his hair. “I mean, for me, it kind of is.”

His eyes widened slightly, surprised. “For real?”

“No,” you replied quickly, grinning and wrapping your arm tighter around him.

Anton chuckled. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re one to talk,” you retorted, your voice gentle and light.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the quiet between you filled with the soft hum of the morning. Then Anton sighed. “I don’t want to screw this up,” he said. “Not with you. Not again.”

“You won’t,” you promised, your head resting against his chest as his arms wrapped around you. “I’ll kill you if you do.”

Anton’s expression softened, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, I’ll do my best. I love living my life, you see.”

You nodded, resting your head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. There was no need for more words right now. You were finally on the same page, and for the first time in a long time, everything felt right.

No one knew, and that was the beauty of it.

To the outside world, nothing had changed. You and Anton had always been close, always spent summers attached at the hip, so when you were together—laughing over shared inside jokes or disappearing for hours at a time—it wasn’t out of the ordinary. No one thought to question it. But for the two of you, everything was different.

You snuck out late at night, barefoot and giddy, to watch the stars from the beach. Anton would bring a blanket and a bottle of his dad’s wine he swiped from the kitchen, and the two of you would lie there for hours, trading stories and stolen kisses. Sometimes, you’d just sit in comfortable silence, your fingers intertwined, his lips occasionally pressing against your temple.

In the mornings, you’d meet for coffee at the little café down the street, pretending it was a casual thing when your families asked. But as soon as you were alone, Anton would squeeze himself beside you, smiling as he held your hand in his. 

“Think they’re catching on?” he’d tease, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“No idea,” you’d reply, grinning. “We’d probably get married and they’d think it’s just us being silly.”

Anton gasped, covering his mouth. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

You rolled your eyes, feigning exasperation. “Oh my god. Can you go back to being nonchalant? I don’t miss your old dramatic self.”

“Aw,” he said cutely, leaning his head on your shoulder. “Come on, baby. You don’t mean that.”

You revisited the places you’d loved as kids, seeing them through new eyes. The old treehouse near the playground became your hideout, where you’d sit together, legs tangled as you reminisced about summers past. 

“You used to boss me around so much here,” Anton would say, laughing when you nudged him. “Still do, actually.”

“You love it,” you’d shoot back, and he’d smirk before kissing you, his hand slipping beneath your shirt in a way that made you forget whatever you were about to say next.

There were days when you explored each other in ways that left you breathless—your skin tingling, your heart racing. Anton was patient and attentive, his touch both gentle and electrifying. He’d study you like he was learning a language, his lips tracing paths across your body as if trying to commit every inch of you to memory. You discovered parts of him, too—little things he liked, the way he shivered when you kissed just below his jaw, the way he whispered your name like a prayer whenever you gave him the ride of his life.

You got to know him in ways you never had before, and it made you fall harder. Behind his teasing and occasional grumpiness, there was a gentle boy, a vulnerability that he only ever let you see. And you held it close, cherishing every piece of him.

Together, you built a world of your own—one filled with secret smiles, lingering touches, and endless laughter. No one else was privy to it, and you liked it that way. The privacy made it feel more sacred, more yours.

You were looking for some cards in the drawers in Anton’s room when you spotted something familiar. Pulling it out, you found an old photo tucked between the pages of a dusty book. It was from one of those endless summers, taken when you and Anton were maybe sixteen. The two of you were sitting side by side on the wooden dock, feet dipped into the water. His grin was wide, his arm slung lazily over your shoulders, and your expression was somewhere between laughing and rolling your eyes.

“Hey, Anton,” you called out, walking into the living room where he was sprawled out on the couch. He glanced up lazily, but his eyes immediately sharpened when he saw what you were holding.

“Where’d you find that?” he asked, reaching for it.

“In your room. You didn’t think I’d find it tucked safely in your old guitar book?” you teased, holding the photo out of his reach.

He shook his head, smiling faintly. “Man, I looked so good back then.”

You snorted, flopping down beside him. “You’re ridiculous. You look the same, just taller and with more expensive haircuts.”

He raised a brow at you. “And you?”

You grinned. “I peaked at sixteen. Obviously.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You were annoying at sixteen.”

“Funny you say that,” you said, leaning back into the couch, the photo still clutched in your hand. “Because I had a crush on you back then.”

The confession rolled off your tongue casually, but the way Anton’s head snapped toward you was anything but casual.

“You what?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

You shrugged nonchalantly. “No big deal. It didn’t even last long.”

Anton stared at you for a second, his expression unreadable. Then, to your surprise, he crossed his arms and pouted, sulking like a child.

“That’s unfair,” he muttered.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What’s unfair?”

“That you stopped liking me,” he said, scowling. “Because I was in love with you around that time.”

Your mouth fell open. “No, you’re not.”

He grumbled something under his breath and refused to meet your eyes, but the tips of his ears were red.

“No, you’re not,” you repeated, half-laughing, half-shocked. You grabbed his arm and shook him playfully. “Come on, be serious. You’re lying, aren’t you?”

Anton just tutted and gave you a side-eye. Her mom walked in at that moment, struggling to hook her necklace.

“Sweetheart, come help me with this,” she asked, handing the jewelry to you. You quickly rose to help her. As you did, she narrowed her eyes at Anton and said, “Now, what’s going on? Are you guys fighting again?”

“Anton’s a liar,” you teased, glancing briefly at him. “He said he had a crush on me when we were sixteen.”

“Really?” Aunt Hyejin asked, tilting her head a little. She looked at you just as you finished locking her necklace. “You’re only finding out about it now?”

“Mom!” Anton interjected, standing up and dragging Aunt Hyejin away.

“What? I thought she knew the whole time,” Aunt Hyejin said, laughing as they disappeared into a corner.

You stood there dumbfounded and confused, though your heart was fluttering so much it made your cheeks burn.

Later that evening, you found yourself standing in front of a mirror. “Can you believe it?” you scoffed, turning toward Anton, who was buttoning up his shirt. “Me, going to Belle’s cocktail party?”

Anton, leaning against the doorframe as he adjusted his cufflinks. “If you hate it that much, we can just ditch.”

You rolled your eyes, smoothing out your skirt. “No. I’d love to see how you ended up being friends with those stuck-ups.” You paused, catching Anton’s gaze in the mirror. “Sorry, I forgot they’re your friends now.”

He smirked, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around your waist. “Well, they’re still stuck-ups. But they’re chill when you get to know them.”

You snorted. “We’ll see about that.”

Surprisingly, you did see. The cocktail party was better than you’d expected. The rich kids, despite their reputation, were easygoing and friendly once you got past their posh exteriors. Anton, fit right in as a rich kid himself, but his attention was never far from you.

At some point, someone mentioned Anton’s ‘first love’, and your ears perked up.

“He told us about her once, when he was drunk,” Belle said with a grin, sipping her drink. “ We’ve never seen Anton act and speak so cutely.”

You raised a brow, curious but playing it cool. “Really?”

Belle nodded, leaning in conspiratorially. “Yeah. Apparently, she used to tease him so much he wanted to strangle her half the time, but he also couldn’t imagine life without her.”

One guy added, “He even said she had this little laugh, you know, like a giggle that always got him. Man was a goner.”

“Yeah. He said she was his everything, but he was too scared to tell her. Isn’t that cute?”

Your heart skipped a beat as Anton avoided your gaze, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

Later, as you walked down the beach with Anton, your high heels dangling from one hand and your other hand holding onto his arm, you couldn’t stop thinking about it. The waves lapped at your feet, cool and soothing, as you glanced up at him.

“So,” you began, grinning, “I’m your everything, huh?”

Anton groaned, closing his eyes. “Don’t start.”

You laughed, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his jaw. “You’re so cute.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he muttered, but his hand tightened around yours.

You leaned against his chest, enjoying his warmth in the cool summer night.

“You were right,” you admitted, glancing up at him. “Your new friends aren’t so bad.”

“Told you,” he said smugly.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t get cocky. I still think it’s hilarious you used to hate them and now you’re all buddy-buddy.”

Anton gave you a dry look. “Of course you do. I sometimes can’t believe it myself.”

You grinned mischievously. “Anton Lee, a social butterfly. Who would’ve thought?”

He chuckled softly. “Not me.”

The moonlight reflected off the water as you walked in comfortable silence, stealing kisses here and there. Your fingers were laced together, his thumb occasionally brushing against yours.

You glanced at him, the soft glow of the moonlight highlighting his features. It was hard to believe that this was the same boy you’d grown up with, the one who used to argue with you over who got the last piece of pizza or who could jump farther off the dock.

Being with him now, like this, felt surreal. But it also felt right.

“I still think you’re a loser, though,” you teased. Anton narrowed his eyes, and you saw the flicker of mischief in them a second too late.

“Take it back,” he said, his tone warning.

“Or what?” you taunted, stepping backward, a playful grin on your face.

He didn’t reply, already kicking off his shoes and rolling up his pants.

You shrieked, spinning around to run, the cool sand shifting under your bare feet. Anton’s laugh echoed behind you as he chased you down, his longer strides closing the distance easily.

“No!” you squealed, laughing so hard you could barely keep running.

It wasn’t long before he caught you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he lifted you off the ground. He spun you around, your laughter and shrieks echoing in the air.

Romantic relationships between childhood friends weren’t without their risks. You knew that. There was always the fear of ruining what had been there for so long, of losing not just a lover but a best friend. But as you glanced down at your intertwined hands, you realized you weren’t afraid.

Because no matter where life took you, as long as you were with Anton, you’d figure it out together.

[fin]