Aeri

Soobin doesn’t react.

You try again. “Better news. Yeonjun’s not haunted. I mean he is, spiritually, probably—but not haunted-haunted.”

Nothing. He’s still staring at the phone, thumb hovering over the stop button, not pressing it, then pressing it halfway, then pulling away as if he’s scared to end it.

You clear your throat. “Okay. Great chat.”

Soobin finally lifts his head. His expression is unreadable. His eyes look like they’ve gone somewhere else entirely and left his body behind.

Your stomach tightens. “Soobin,” you say, quieter, and you hate that you’re saying his name like that. “Say something.”

He blinks slowly. Then he presses stop on the recording. The red dot disappears.

The silence hits harder.

He sets the phone down on the table with a careful little movement, as if his hands have forgotten how to be normal. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks. “We’re done,” he says.

You stare. “Done?”

He nods once, jaw tight. “We’re done here.”

You open your mouth to argue, close it, then open it again since your mouth loves being a nuisance even when your heart wants to shut down. “Right,” you say, voice sharp because you don’t know how to be gentle. “So you’re just quitting.”

Soobin’s eyes flick up briefly, then away. “I’m not quitting.”

“You’re quitting,” you insist. “That’s literally what done means.”

He lets out a slow breath that sounds too controlled, the kind of breath people take when they’re trying not to crack in front of witnesses. “I can’t break them up.”

The words land heavy.

You swallow. “You don’t know that.”

He looks at you now. His eyes are bright and flat at the same time, and it makes your chest ache in a way you hate. “We heard him,” Soobin says, voice low. “He meant it.”

You want to say people lie all the time. You want to say fuckboys are convincing. You want to say I can still find a way. Your brain runs through options like a scammer’s reflex—twist it, turn it, spin a narrative.

Your mouth doesn’t move. Because you heard Yeonjun too. You hated him for it—that’s how honest it sounded.

Soobin’s jaw tightens. “This was stupid from the start.”

You flinch at that, even though you’ve been saying it for days. “It wasn’t stupid,” you snap automatically.

Soobin’s brows lift, a humourless twitch. “It wasn’t?”

You gesture wildly at your rice bowl, your table, the sheet on the floor. “You crawled under my table. You hid under a bedsheet. We threw rice at a man and told him his dick was spiritually unstable. That’s commitment. That’s not stupid.”

Soobin’s mouth tightens. For half a second you think he’s going to laugh. He doesn’t.

He drags a hand down his face slowly, like he’s trying to wipe the whole week off his skin. “I convinced myself he’d be a bad g-guy,” he admits, and his voice cracks slightly on the last word. “I needed him to be a bad guy.”

Your throat tightens.

There it is. The real thing. The thing underneath the plan. It was easy to believe he’d have another chance if Yeonjun was a villain. It was easy to tell himself he was saving her. It was easy to be righteous.

Finding out Yeonjun isn’t… shatters that whole structure. It turns Soobin’s love into what it really is—longing with no place to go.

Your chest aches. Your eyes sting. You look down immediately, biting your lip hard enough to hurt, because you refuse to cry and make this about you. You refuse to be another burden on him. You refuse to be the girl who cries at him again—especially now, especially when he looks like he’s barely holding himself together.

So you do the only thing you know how to do when you want to comfort someone. You insult him. “So what?” you say, voice rough. “You’re just giving up?”

Soobin’s gaze flicks to you again, sharper this time. “Stop saying that.”

“Stop what?” you shoot back.

“Stop acting like this is something you can fix with a plan,” he says, and it’s not even angry. It’s tired. It’s resignation. “You can’t.”

You blink. It stings because it’s true. Your throat tightens anyway. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he says, simply.

Silence stretches.

Mangy flicks his tail on the windowsill once, bored. A car passes outside. Life keeps going.

Soobin stands up. The movement is slow, as if his body is too heavy. He smooths his shirt down—habit returning, neatness trying to save him. He looks out of place in your studio again. Too clean for your chaos. Too polite for your mess.

He picks up his phone.

You watch his hands, the careful movements, the way he won’t look at you, and something in your chest twists sharp. “Are you leaving?” you ask, and you hate how small it sounds.

Soobin pauses at the door.

He doesn’t turn fully. He just stands there, shoulders squared, voice quiet. “Yeah.”

You want to stop him. You want to say something comforting. Something human. Something that doesn’t come out as a joke or an insult.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Because you know very well that whatever you say won’t help. You can’t give him his dream girl. You can’t rewrite reality. You can’t unhear Yeonjun.

So you do nothing.

Soobin steps out. The door closes behind him with a soft click, and the sound feels louder than the slam did earlier.

You stand there in your studio, staring at the sheet on the floor, the rice still scattered on the table, the salt on your fingers, the chair slightly off-centre. Everything looks stupid now.

You sink into your chair slowly and let your head drop forward—it hurts.

And you don’t know if it hurts for Soobin, because watching someone lose like that is brutal. Or if it hurts for you, because somewhere between the ghost lies and the threats and the screaming and the fucked-up closeness in a cupboard, you finally admitted something you’ve been avoiding.

You fucking like him. And now he’s gone. And he won’t look at you twice.

Mangy jumps down from the windowsill, pads over, and sits on your notebook again.

You stare at him, throat tight. “If you judge me,” you whisper, “I’ll sell you.”

Mangy blinks slowly, then he starts purring—which is the closest thing you get to comfort. And you hate that it makes your eyes sting again anyway.

A few weeks pass and you pretend you’re normal.

You pretend you didn’t spend days stalking a man with a rich boy under your table. You pretend you didn’t throw rice at someone’s chest and called it cleansing. You pretend you didn’t like Soobin’s stupid earnest face when he listened to you talk about your life. You pretend you didn’t watch him leave your studio and feel your chest cave in.

You pretend a lot. It’s your core skill set.

Sometimes you think about texting him. Just one message. Something casual that doesn’t scream I miss you, since you have self-respect and also fear. You even typed out what you would text once or twice.

you: u alive you: hi. hope you’re not under a table anymore you: don’t die. that would be inconvenient for my conscience

You deleted it every time.

Your business is done. He’s done. You did the job—even if it didn’t go how he wanted. Seeing him again would just reopen the wound, and you’re not into self-harm. You already have student debt for that.

You haven’t seen Kang Taehyun much either—not since you told him to fuck off and he actually listened for once. Which is the worst part—Taehyun listening. It’s like a dog suddenly gaining free will. Terrifying.

Your weeks get quieter—a sad-quiet. Your studio feels emptier without the drama, and that pisses you off. You hate that you miss the chaos. You hate that you miss Soobin. You hate that you miss both.

Then Friday comes, and you finally cave. You text Taehyun first, since you’re not a masochist.

you: fcf? you: don’t be weird you: i’m hungry and i’m not apologising

He replies in under a minute.

plug: shift finishes in 20 plug: u better not throw a drink at me again plug: also ur buying the first round. emotional damages

You snort, grab your coat, and go. The bar is almost closing when you walk in. The lights are dimmed. Half the stools are flipped. The place smells of citrus cleaner, old beer, and poor life choices. You expect it to be empty.

It isn’t.

Choi Soobin is sat at the bar. Your stomach drops so hard it feels like a physical thing.

He’s not hunched, broken or wrecked how you expected. He’s sitting straight, shoulders squared, coat neat, hair done, looking expensive and composed in an infuriating way that makes it seem like he’s already moved on and you’re the only idiot still carrying it.

There’s a glass in front of him that looks like whisky—untouched.

He’s staring at it as if he’s waiting for it to give him answers. His hands rest on the bar, fingers relaxed. His face is blank like he’s trying not to feel.

You pause in the doorway for half a second, brain screaming turn around. Your legs don’t listen.

Taehyun is behind the counter, wiping down the same spot in slow circles. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. He just lifts his chin in greeting, then goes back to wiping like you never had a fight and you never stormed out and you never blocked him for two days like a dramatic teenager.

That’s the thing about you and Taehyun. You’ve known each other too long for apologies. You either talk or you don’t. You either show up or you don’t. The rest is noise.

You walk to the bar and slide onto the stool next to Soobin without asking permission. He doesn’t react at first.

Then you say, “Hi.”

His head turns slowly. Surprise flickers across his face. A brief crack in his composure like he didn’t expect to see you here, right beside him, acting normal. “Hi,” he replies, voice level.

You stare at the untouched whisky. “Are you drinking?”

He glances at the glass. “No.”

You nod. “Why is it there then?”

“So I can look at it,” he says, deadpan.

You blink. “That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

He exhales through his nose, almost amused. “It’s been a depressing few weeks.”

You don’t know what to do with that, so you do the only thing you know how to do—you make it worse. “Congratulations,” you say. “You’ve finally caught up to my lifestyle.”

Soobin’s mouth twitches. It doesn’t become a smile. It tries.

You look at his face properly now. He looks… okay. Not okay in the sense of healed. Okay as in functioning—clean, put together, no visible spiral, no haunted eyes, no table grapes trauma written across his forehead.

That’s what hits you. You expected him to look ruined. You expected drunk Soobin, wrecked Soobin, I haven’t slept Soobin. Instead he looks like a man wearing composure because composure is the only thing he can hold onto without falling apart.

It makes something in your chest go heavy. You hate that too. You clear your throat. “So. What have you been up to?”

Soobin’s gaze stays forward for a second, then he turns to you again. “Lectures.”

“Fun,” you say.

“Assignments,” he adds.

“Even better.”

He glances at you sideways. “You?”

You shrug. “Scams. Rent. Cat. Depression.”

Soobin blinks. “That’s… an interesting list.”

“It’s a CV,” you reply. “I’m employable.”

Taehyun makes a sound behind the bar that might be a laugh. He doesn’t look over. He keeps wiping.

Soobin’s eyes flick to Taehyun. “You waiting for him to finish working?”

“Sadly,” you say. “He belongs here. This is his habitat.”

Taehyun finally looks up, eyes flat. “I can hear you.”

“Good,” you reply. “Develop shame.”

Taehyun points at the whisky in front of Soobin. “You actually going to drink that or are you just torturing yourself?”

Soobin’s jaw tightens slightly. “I’m fine.”

Taehyun hums. “Sure.”

You turn to Soobin. “You look fine.”

Soobin’s eyes flick to you, sharp for half a second. “I am fine.”

“You’re so good at that sentence,” you say. “You should get it printed on a t-shirt.”

He doesn’t answer. He looks back at the glass instead.

The silence stretches, loaded.

Taehyun finishes wiping, checks the clock, then starts pulling his apron off with an end-of-shift relief. He hooks it over his arm, grabs his coat from under the counter, then looks at you like this was always the plan.

“Ready for FCF?” you ask, nodding toward him.

Taehyun’s mouth twitches. “FCF.”

Soobin’s head turns slightly. “What’s FCF?”

You and Taehyun look at each other. It’s quick, wordless, the kind of shared glance that comes from history—the kind that says should we?

Taehyun’s smile turns devilish. “Fried Chicken Friday.”

Soobin blinks. “That’s a… thing?”

“It’s a tradition,” you say.

“It’s a coping mechanism,” Taehyun adds.

“It’s grease and booze and bitching,” you finish.

Soobin looks between you both, something faintly curious in his eyes. “You do it every Friday?”

“Religiously,” Taehyun says.

Soobin hesitates. “And you’re going now?”

You lift a brow. “Yeah. Wanna come? Unless you want to sit here and stare at your whisky like it’s going to apologise to you.”

Taehyun tugs his coat on. “We’re going,” he says, then looks at Soobin. “You coming or not?”

Soobin pauses. He looks at his untouched glass. He looks at the bar. He looks at you. Something shifts in his expression—tiny, reluctant, tired. Then he nods once. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll come.”

Taehyun’s eyes brighten. “Good.”

You slide off your stool, tug your coat tighter, then glance at Soobin as he stands. “Don’t be weird,” you warn.

Soobin looks at you, deadpan. “You’re the weird one.”

You snort. “Fair.”

Taehyun pushes open the door to the cold night and gestures out. “Come on then. FCF.”

And somehow—against all your logic, and all your stubbornness, and all the ways you told yourself you’d never see him again—Choi Soobin follows you both out into the dark.

Choi Soobin doesn’t mean to come.

He means to say no, thanks, he’s got an early lecture, he’s tired, he’s fine—he’s always fine, he doesn’t need fried chicken and whatever stupid ritual you and Taehyun have built. He means to leave the bar and go home and stare at his ceiling in peace, the way he’s been doing for weeks.

Then you look at him and say, “Don’t be weird,” and Taehyun says, “FCF,” and Soobin hears himself say, “Alright.”

And now he’s outside in the cold night with both of you. The air bites his cheeks, and he realises that he’s already made the first bad decision.

He follows you to the off-licence where you buy too much beer—not even the nice kind, just stacks of cans that clink in the carrier bag. Taehyun holds them like he’s carrying groceries for his mum. You hold them like you’ve done this before. Soobin holds them like he’s about to be caught by campus security and expelled on the spot.

“This is already too much,” he says, watching Taehyun grab another four-pack.

Taehyun’s mouth twitches. “You’ve never been to a proper FCF.”

“I’ve had fried chicken before,” Soobin replies.

You look at him, deadpan. “Not spiritually.”

Soobin blinks. “What does that mean?”

“It means shut up and walk,” you say, then you lift the bag of beer higher. “Also you’re carrying this, Rich Boy.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. “I’m not—”

You stare at his coat. At his shoes. At the way his bank card would probably work on the first tap. “Yeah. Sure.”

He opens his mouth to argue. Taehyun cuts in. “Mate, don’t fight it. She calls everyone rich. It’s her hobby.”

“It is not my hobby,” you say. “It’s my coping mechanism.”

Soobin doesn’t know what to do with that sentence, so he just carries the beer and tries to behave.

Then you take him to the chicken shop and buy too many boxes of chicken and chips. The smell of hot grease and spice hits him immediately, making his stomach lurch in either hunger or anxiety. You both eat chips out of the box while you walk, since apparently you’re feral and civilisation doesn’t apply to you.

Soobin holds his box carefully, hands clean, posture polite. He takes one bite and tries not to react.

You clock him anyway. “You don’t like it.”

“I like it,” he says.

“You’re lying,” you reply. “Your face is doing something.”

Soobin chews, then swallows. “It’s—spicy.”

Taehyun laughs. “Spicy. He says spicy like he’s reviewing a dish on a cooking show.”

You point at Soobin. “You’re not allowed to have a sensitive palate. You’re a man.”

Soobin looks horrified. “That’s not how—”

“It is how,” you cut in. “If you can threaten to report us to our universities, you can handle seasoning.”

Soobin shuts his mouth, chewing slowly, and wonders how the hell he ended up here again—outside, carrying beer, eating fried chicken in the street, following two scammers into whatever criminal activity they’ve decided is self-care.

Taehyun turns down a side road.

Soobin follows, since he has no spine when it comes to leaving situations. The streetlights get fewer. The pavement gets quieter. The air gets colder. The buildings start looking older, emptier, half-renovated and abandoned, windows boarded, brickwork stained.

Soobin slows. “Where are we going?”

“Our spot,” you say.

“So you don’t have a spot,” he replies, and it comes out sharper than he means it to. “You have a crime scene.”

Taehyun grins. “Welcome.”

You stop in front of a building with a metal gate half bent, a warning sign that says NO ENTRY hanging crooked.

Soobin stares at it. “That says no entry.”

You tilt your head. “So you can read.”

He looks at you. “This is trespassing.”

Taehyun nods. “Yeah.”

Soobin’s voice tightens. “Why are you saying that so calmly?”

You shrug. “Vibes.”

Soobin blinks. “Vibes?”

“Vibes,” you repeat.

Taehyun slips through the gate first, ducking under a broken chain with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times. You follow without hesitation. Soobin falters, then steps through after you, clutching the beer bag like it’s a hostage.

The inside smells of damp, dust and old concrete. The kind of place where a horror movie would start and people would die in the first ten minutes.

Soobin whispers, “This is insane.”

“You’re the one who ate grapes under tables for eleven nights,” you whisper back, and the reminder hits him right in the shame.

He shuts up.

You find the emergency staircase and start climbing. The steps are metal and cold, echoing under your shoes. You take them fast. Taehyun takes them faster. Soobin takes them carefully, since he’d rather not break his neck in a building he’s not meant to be in.

Halfway up, he asks, breathing a little harder, “How did you even find this?”

Taehyun calls back without turning around, “We grew up in the countryside. When we get bored, we climb shit.”

Soobin thinks about his own adolescence—quiet, structured and safe. He thinks about you and Taehyun—younger, climbing abandoned buildings for entertainment because your town had nothing else. Something in his chest shifts, uncomfortable.

He reaches the rooftop and stops dead. The view is breathtakingly stupid.

The city spreads out under him, lights scattered, roads cutting through, buildings rising, the horizon soft with the hint of spring. The air up here is cleaner, colder, and the breeze hits his face in a way that makes him feel awake.

You walk to the edge and lean on the railing like you belong here.

Taehyun drops the carrier bags and starts unloading cans and chicken boxes, setting everything out with a weird level of organisation.

Soobin stands there for a beat, taking it in, then he realises he’s smiling.

He wipes it off his face immediately.

You notice anyway. You always notice. “You’re impressed,” you say.

“I’m not impressed,” he replies.

“You are,” you insist. “Your eyes are doing the thing.”

Soobin frowns. “What thing?”

“The thing where they don’t look miserable,” you say.

Taehyun cracks a can and tosses one to Soobin. He catches it awkwardly. The metal is cold against his palm.

“You drink,” Taehyun says, like it’s a command.

Soobin hesitates. “I don’t usually—”

You cut in. “Don’t start. You smoked in my living room.”

Soobin’s ears go hot. “That was an accident.”

“That was a choice,” you correct.

Taehyun lifts his can. “To bad choices.”

You lift yours. “To crimes.”

Soobin stares at both of you, then lifts his can slowly. “To—vibes,” he says, and he hates that he’s doing this, and he hates that you both burst out laughing.

He drinks. It tastes of bitter piss. He coughs. You laugh harder.

“Jesus,” he mutters, wiping his mouth. “How do you drink this?”

Taehyun shrugs. “Practice.”

You add, “Trauma.”

Soobin takes another sip, determined to survive the night without being the boring one. The bitterness eases slightly. Or his tongue gives up.

Cans open. Chicken boxes get demolished. The rooftop becomes a messy little party of three, the city below ignoring you completely.

Somehow, without him fully clocking when it happens, Soobin stops thinking about Yeonjun for a while. He stops thinking about the girl. He stops thinking about the ache in his chest.

He starts thinking about the way you laugh when Taehyun says something stupid. The way Taehyun looks softer when you’re not fighting. The way the wind hits his face and makes him feel alive.

It annoys him. It also feels good.

“This is illegal,” Soobin says at some point, holding a can and staring at the edge.

You nod. “Obviously.”

Taehyun shrugs. “Allegedly.”

Soobin looks at you. “You’re not scared.”

You glance at him, then point at the view. “Why would I be scared? Nobody’s up here except us.”

“So you do this often?” he says.

You smirk. “We used to. When we first moved here. When the city felt too big and we felt too small. We’d come up here and pretend we owned it.”

Soobin’s throat tightens at that sentence, even though it’s casual.

He takes another drink. Then another. And another.

At some point, his body starts getting warm. The wind feels less cold. His face feels loose. His thoughts get slower. His mouth starts feeling brave.

He hates that too.

You lean on the railing and point out toward the horizon. “In a few hours, the sun comes up,” you say. “It’ll hit the buildings first, then everything goes gold. Makes the whole place look… softer.”

Soobin blinks at you. “You stay up here until sunrise?”

You glance back at him, unimpressed. “Vibes.”

Taehyun laughs, already a little slurred. “She says vibes for everything.”

“So it’s just vibes,” Soobin repeats, and he’s half laughing now, half baffled.

“Yes,” you say. “Drink.”

Soobin drinks.

The cans pile up. The chicken boxes get flattened. Taehyun gets quieter, his laughter fading into tiredness. For a man who works behind a bar, he’s a lightweight. It’s embarrassing. He slumps against the wall, head tipping back, eyelids heavy.

“You alright?” you ask him.

Taehyun waves a hand. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just—” He stops. His eyes close. His chin dips. Five cans and he’s out cold, mouth slightly open, hoodie bunched around his neck. He’s snoring within minutes, soft and pathetic.

You stare at him. “Wow.”

Soobin stares too, then mutters, “He’s the bartender.”

“He’s also a liar,” you reply. “He pretends he’s built for it. He’s not.”

Soobin laughs under his breath. It surprises him.

You glance at him. “You’re laughing again.”

He clears his throat, tries to straighten his face. “I’m not.”

You lift a brow. “You are.”

Soobin takes another drink and doesn’t argue.

The rooftop quiets down without Taehyun’s voice, leaving just the city hum below, the wind, and the occasional car far away. You and Soobin sit with your backs against the railing, legs stretched out, a plastic bag beside you where you’ve stacked the empty boxes and cans with weird neatness.

Soobin watches you do it. “You’re tidying your trash.”

You glare. “I’m not leaving it up here. I’m a criminal, not a cunt.”

He nods slowly, amused. “Right.” He takes another drink. The warm buzz in his body grows heavier. His limbs feel loose. His mouth feels honest in a way he doesn’t trust.

He glances at you and thinks, against his will—he likes this version of you. The one that isn’t screaming. The one that isn’t lying. The one that’s just here, pointing at the skyline like it’s yours.

He immediately hates himself for thinking it. He takes another drink anyway. 

Choi Soobin is drunk enough that his thoughts have stopped sprinting. They’re still messy and loud. They’ve just slowed down from panic slideshow to sad documentary with occasional adverts for regret. He clears his throat. His voice comes out quieter than he intends. “You and Taehyun… are you a we?” 

You glance at him, eyes sharp even through alcohol. “Yeah.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. He hates that the answer hits. He hates that it stings. He also hates that he wants to ask anyway, since asking means he cares.

Soobin nods, then his chest tightens again, that heavy feeling he’s been trying to ignore all night. It’s been there since you walked into the bar and sat beside him like you belonged there. It’s been there when you and Taehyun bickered and moved around each other with an easy familiarity. It’s been there every time you said we, and the we didn’t include him.

He didn’t understand it at first. He thought it was just jealousy. He thought it was just him being pathetic again. Now, sitting up here with Taehyun snoring and you staring at the skyline, he realises it’s simpler than that.

It’s exclusion—history he wasn’t part of.

“Right,” he says.

You snort softly. “What? You jealous?”

Soobin immediately reacts. “No.”

You lift a brow. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he insists, voice too stiff.

You lean your head back against the railing, looking pleased with yourself. “You are. It’s fine. Everyone’s jealous of me and my annoying brother.”

Soobin blinks. “Your what?”

You turn your head toward him. “Taehyun.”

Soobin glances at the sleeping figure by the wall. Taehyun’s face is turned to the side, hair in his eyes, mouth slightly open, completely gone. If he was anyone else, Soobin would find it pathetic. Since it’s Taehyun, it’s just irritating.

“Brother,” Soobin repeats.

“Not biological,” you add quickly, waving a hand. “Before your good-boy brain starts doing a family tree.”

Soobin’s mouth tightens. “You’re not related?”

“No,” you say, deadpan. “He’s just been in my life long enough to qualify as a lifelong infection.”

Soobin’s chest loosens slightly. It’s subtle. He notices it anyway, and it annoys him. Relief should not feel this good. “You’ve known him that long?” he says.

You nod once. “Since we were kids.”

He looks back at the city, the lights, the buildings, the roads. “So you moved here together?”

“We moved for uni,” you say. “Same year. Same broke energy. Same the city will fix us delusion.”

Soobin watches Taehyun snore and feels that heavy feeling shift again—less sharp now. He says, quieter, “You two are close.”

You shrug. “He’s all I’ve got up here.”

Soobin’s throat tightens slightly. He hates that sentence. It makes him think of the way you said it’s just you and your grandma. It makes him think of your shitty father and how you should have received more love while you were growing up. 

He doesn’t say any of that. He takes another sip instead.

“You’re not close with your family, are you?” you say, out of nowhere.

Soobin turns his head toward you. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” you reply. “You talk about your dad the way people talk about a bank.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. “He’s fine.”

You stare at him. “That’s your favourite sentence.”

Soobin exhales through his nose. “He bought me a car.”

“You keep saying that,” you say. “As if that’s a hug.”

Soobin looks away. His voice comes out quieter. “It’s what he does.”

You tilt your head. “He buys instead of speaks.”

Soobin’s fingers tighten around the can. He can feel the cold metal biting his skin. He nods once, slow. “When he’s proud,” he admits, “he gives money. When he’s sorry, he gives money. When he doesn’t know what to say, he gives money.”

You snort. “So he’s emotionally illiterate with a wallet.”

Soobin almost laughs. He almost defends his dad—he doesn’t, since both of those things feel exhausting.

You continue, voice casual, as if you’re not digging into his ribs. “Does he ever just—talk to you?”

Soobin’s mouth tightens. He swallows. “Not really.”

You go quiet for a beat.

Soobin hears it in the silence. The way you understand that sentence too well.

He takes another sip and stares at the city, thinking of how strange it is that he’s up on a rooftop with two people who don’t fit into his life at all, and yet something about it feels… easier than the weeks he spent being fine.

You shift beside him. Your shoulder brushes his lightly.

Soobin stiffens out of habit, then relaxes again when nothing bad happens. He hates that his body is learning you. He hates that he doesn’t hate it.

You nod toward the horizon. Soobin follows your gaze. The sky starts changing colour so slowly that he almost misses it.

You shift beside Soobin, restless, eyes on the horizon. You’ve got that look again—the one you get when you’re about to be delighted by something simple, like you can still be surprised by beauty even though your life is a bin fire.

Soobin watches you instead of the sky, and he tells himself it’s just habit, he’s just keeping track of the situation. He tells himself he’s being aware.

He’s lying.

You sit up suddenly. “Oh my God.”

Soobin flinches slightly. “What?”

“It’s starting,” you say, already scrambling to your feet.

“What’s starting?” he asks, slow, since his brain is running on beer and confusion.

You point with the kind of urgency people reserve for fires. “The sunrise, you idiot.”

Soobin blinks, then pushes himself up too, joints stiff, head light, stomach warm. He joins you at the railing, elbows resting on cold metal.

The horizon has softened. There’s a thin band of pale colour spreading across it, faint at first, then stronger—like the sky is rubbing sleep out of its eyes. You make a small squeal and press your hands to the railing, leaning forward as if the city needs you to witness it properly.

Soobin doesn’t say anything. He just watches you.

Because you look ridiculous right now—excited over a sunrise on an illegal rooftop, eyes bright, mouth open in awe, body leaning into the moment. You’re not pretending to be tough. You’re not swearing. You’re not performing I don’t care. You’re just… here, unguarded.

The sun starts creeping up, and the city changes with it. The buildings go from grey to soft gold. The windows catch light and throw it back. The whole place looks cleaner than it actually is, like daylight is a filter.

You breathe out, and the sound is quiet and reverent.

Soobin realises he’s holding his own breath.

Something shifts in his chest. It’s not the heavy ache he’s been living with. It’s not the jealousy. It’s not the sadness. It’s something warmer and more confusing, something that makes his stomach flutter like he’s fourteen again and stupid.

He should be miserable. He should be thinking about her. He should be thinking about how he lost. He should be thinking about how Yeonjun meant it when he said he loves her.

Instead, he’s watching you get lit up by sunrise and feeling something that doesn’t belong in his body right now.

You glance sideways and catch him staring. Your brows lift slightly. “What?”

Soobin blinks, caught. He looks away too fast, then hates himself for it. “Nothing.”

“You’re doing the nothing thing,” you say, amused. “Your face is loud.”

Soobin’s ears warm. He forces himself to look back at the skyline, jaw tight. “I’m just… looking.”

“At the city?” you say.

He pauses. Then, honest and quiet, “At you.” The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

He freezes immediately after, heart kicking.

You go still too. Then your mouth twitches. “That was almost romantic,” you say, and your tone is light, but there’s something fragile under it.

Soobin swallows hard. He wants to make it a joke—he can’t find one, too drunk for clever.

You turn back to the sunrise, and he sees it—your eyes are shiny. Not the glossy, drunk kind. The kind that comes with wonder. The kind you had when you talked about your grandma. The kind you had when you pointed out the horizon like it was proof the world can still do something nice.

A tear slips out. You wipe at it quickly, irritated at yourself. “Ugh. Don’t.”

Soobin’s body moves before his brain catches up. He leans in, reaches out, and wipes the tear away with his thumb.

The touch is gentle. His thumb brushes your cheekbone. Your skin is warm from the cold air and alcohol and whatever you are inside.

You go still under his hand.

Soobin goes still too, thumb lingering for half a beat too long.

He can smell beer on your breath when you exhale, and something sweet—gum, maybe. He can feel your pulse in your cheek through his thumb. He can feel how close you are, close enough that if he leans another inch—

He does—just a fraction, unthinking, drawn in.

Your face tilts up slightly, instinctive, as if your body understands something his brain is still trying to deny. Your lips are close—too close.

Soobin’s stomach flips hard.

For one breath, he almost kisses you.

And then his brain finally catches up and punches him in the head with shame. What the fuck is he doing?

Is he really about to do this right now? On a rooftop? With you? After everything?

Is he using you as a rebound? Is he turning you into a comfort object? Is he making you a replacement for the girl he can’t have? 

The thought hits him so violently that his whole body recoils. He flinches away as if you’ve burned him, his hand dropping from your cheek too fast.

The air between you snaps cold.

You blink at him, expression shifting in real time. For half a second there’s hurt there—small, quick, honest—then it slides away as if you’ve watched it shut itself down.

Your mouth flattens. Your eyes harden. You turn back to the city, shoulders squaring. “I understand,” you say, voice calm.

Soobin’s chest tightens. He knows you don’t. He doesn’t even understand.

He opens his mouth anyway, desperate to fix it, desperate to explain, desperate to stop that look from settling on your face. “I—”

You lift a hand slightly, cutting him off without even looking at him. “It’s fine.”

It isn’t fine. It feels like a door closing.

Soobin stands there, heart hammering, shame crawling up his throat. He wants to say the right thing. He wants to say I’m sorry, but he’s already said sorry a thousand times in his life and it’s never saved anything.

He wants to say I wasn’t trying to use you. He wants to say I don’t know what I’m doing. He wants to say I think I’m starting to like you and it terrifies me.

His mouth stays empty.

Because that’s what Choi Soobin does. He’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. He’s afraid of saying the right thing and changing the trajectory of his life.

So he does the only thing his body knows how to do when it’s overwhelmed.

He nods.

And the sunrise keeps happening without him, gold spreading across the city while the space between you turns sharp and silent.

Your studio looks like a natural disaster happened in it and then decided to take a second pass just to be petty.

Suitcase open on the floor. Clothes piled half in, half out. Socks everywhere. Toiletries rolling around. Your notebook is on the bed with the page still open where you scribbled DO NOT CRY AGAIN in block capitals, as if a reminder has ever stopped your face from betraying you.

Mangy is sat on top of a folded jumper, watching you pack with the offended expression of a creature who just found out his staff is going on holiday without clearing it with him first.

You’re halfway through deciding whether to take your good hoodie or your I don’t care if I die in this hoodie when your front door opens—Taehyun letting himself in like he pays rent.

“Hello?” you shout.

“It’s me,” Taehyun calls back, already walking down the hall.

He steps into your studio and stops dead.

The suitcase. The piles. The chaos. The fact you’re sat on the floor with your hair up and your eyes slightly puffy, trying to pack your life into a rectangle of fabric.

Taehyun’s brows lift slowly. “What, you get rejected and decide to flee the country?”

You grab the nearest object—book, hoodie, whatever—and throw it at his face.

He catches it without looking, smug bastard, and tosses it back onto your bed as if you’ve just thrown him a pillow. “That was rude,” he says.

“So was you coming in without knocking,” you snap.

He walks forward anyway and flops onto your bed like it’s his, legs stretched out, hands behind his head—completely unbothered by the fact there’s a suitcase on the floor and your sanity is hanging by a thread. “Are we doing drama,” he asks, eyes flicking over you. “Or are we doing logistics?”

“We’re doing neither,” you say, shoving a bundle of clothes into the suitcase with too much force. “We’re doing mind your fucking business.”

Taehyun’s mouth twitches. “That means drama.”

You glare. “It means I’m packing.”

“And why are you packing?” he presses, since he loves being annoying.

You pause, hands still on the suitcase. Your throat tightens thinking of rooftops and sunrises and a hand on your cheek and then the immediate flinch. The rejection wasn’t even a rejection—which is somehow worse, since you can’t even be mad properly.

You force your voice flat. “Because my grandma’s birthday is next week.”

Taehyun’s brows lift. “You’re going to the countryside?”

“Yes.”

“Voluntarily?”

“Yes.”

He sits up a bit, studying you now. “That’s not a normal reaction to a man almost kissing you and then immediately panicking.”

You pick up another book and throw it again.

Taehyun catches it again, still annoying. “Okay, alright. Violence. Noted.”

“You’re so fucking irritating,” you snap.

He shrugs, unapologetic. “You love me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“That’s love,” he says.

You shove a pair of trousers into the suitcase, then sit back on your heels and stare at the mess. Your suitcase looks like it’s losing. Your brain feels the same.

Taehyun’s voice softens slightly. “So. Rooftop.”

You don’t answer immediately.

He doesn’t push right away, which is how you know he’s being serious. When Taehyun is serious, he gets quieter—less jokes and more eyes.

You keep your gaze on the suitcase. “Getting rejected was something I expected,” you say. “I’m surprisingly good at handling it.”

Taehyun hums. “Are you?”

“Yes,” you lie.

He stares at you.

You glare back. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve already decided I’m a liar,” you snap.

Taehyun’s mouth twitches. “I have already decided.”

You roll your eyes. “Anyways, me and Soobin don’t even make sense. It was stupid. It was just… vibes.” You say it like it’s nothing. You say it like you didn’t feel your whole body lean into him for that half second before he flinched away. “A few days and I’ll get over it.”

Taehyun’s expression stays flat.

You add, louder, defensive now. “I will.”

Taehyun nods slowly. “Sure.”

You hate him.

You look down and shove a toothbrush into the suitcase just to have something to do with your hands. You can’t sit still. Sitting still makes you think. Thinking makes you feel. Feeling is embarrassing.

Taehyun reaches out and kicks the suitcase gently with his foot. “You’re going for your grandma?” he says, changing topic in a way that still feels like he’s talking about you without saying it.

You nod. “I don’t want her spending it alone.”

Taehyun’s face softens. He looks less like a bartender and more like the boy you grew up with, the one who used to get fed at your grandma’s house and then pretend he didn’t love it. “Tell her I said happy birthday,” he says.

You snort. “She’ll ask why you’re not coming.”

Taehyun groans. “Don’t tell her that.”

“She’ll ask,” you insist. “She loves you.”

Taehyun rolls his eyes. “She loves everyone. She even loves Mangy and he’s a terrorist.”

Mangy flicks his tail at the mention of his name, then shifts his weight and sits directly on your folded clothes again, as if to prove the point.

Taehyun points at him. “See. Look at him. No remorse.”

You sigh. “She made tangerine jam last time. The good one.”

Taehyun’s eyes light up like you’ve offered him money. “Bring me tangerine jam.”

You stare. “That’s what you took from this conversation?”

“Tangerine jam is sacred,” he says, dead serious. “Tell her I need it. Tell her it’s medically necessary.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll bring it.”

“Good,” Taehyun says, satisfied, then he glances at the suitcase again. “So how long are you gone?

“A week,” you reply.

Taehyun nods. “Right.”

You hesitate, then glance at Mangy, who is now grooming himself with the arrogance of a cat who thinks he’s immortal. You swallow. This is the part you’ve been avoiding, since it makes everything real. “Can you take Mangy?” you ask, trying to sound casual and failing.

Taehyun stares. “Take him?”

“Just for the week,” you say quickly. “He’ll be fine. He knows you. He likes you.”

Taehyun’s brows lift. “He doesn’t like me. He tolerates me the way you tolerate me.”

“That’s love,” you mutter, then you sigh. “Please.”

Taehyun looks at Mangy, then back at you, then back at Mangy. Mangy looks away, offended at being discussed without consent.

Taehyun exhales. “Fine. I’ll take your demon cat.”

You feel your shoulders drop slightly, relief slipping in before you can stop it.

Taehyun clocks it immediately. “Don’t,” he warns.

“Don’t what.”

“Don’t look relieved,” he says. “It makes me feel feelings.”

You snort. “You have feelings?”

“Barely,” he replies. “Mostly just hunger and judgement.”

You laugh once, small and tired.

Taehyun stands up and grabs your second suitcase—the one you haven’t even started filling—and kicks it gently toward you with his foot. “Pack properly,” he says. “Don’t forget chargers. Don’t forget meds. Don’t forget your ID.”

You glare. “You’re acting like my mum.”

Taehyun points at you. “You need mothering.”

“Fuck off.”

He smiles. “Gladly.”

He bends, scoops Mangy up before the cat can escape—Mangy immediately goes stiff in his arms, eyes wide, offended at being handled. Taehyun holds him tighter. “Stop acting like you’re being kidnapped. You live rent-free.”

Mangy makes a small, angry noise.

Taehyun looks at you. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow,” you reply.

Taehyun nods once, then pauses at the doorway. His voice goes quieter. “You’ll be okay?”

You roll your eyes fast, sharp. “Obviously.”

Taehyun’s mouth twitches. He doesn’t argue. He just shifts Mangy in his arms and leaves your studio.

The door clicks shut.

You sit on the floor surrounded by clothes and half-packed bags and the faint ache in your chest you’ve been trying not to name.

You tell yourself, again, that it’ll be fine—even though you don’t believe it.

Choi Soobin attends his lecture as normal.

He does the whole routine—ironed shirt, bag packed the night before, water bottle filled, laptop charged. The expected version of himself. The one people like. The one people praise. The one that functions even when his head is full of you.

He tells himself you didn’t happen. 

He tells himself the rooftop didn’t happen. The sunrise didn’t happen. The almost-kiss didn’t happen. The way you said I understand—with a face that clearly didn’t understand—didn’t happen.

He sits through the lecture anyway, staring at slides and pretending he’s absorbing information when really his brain is doing a slow, miserable replay of your mouth saying fuck off and also your hand wiping tears you wouldn’t admit were tears.

When the lecture ends, he packs up with his usual careful movements, shoving pens into the right pocket, zipping things neatly—as if neatness can keep his life under control.

He walks out of the lecture hall and he sees them. Yeonjun and her.

Right there in the corridor, leaning into each other like they belong together, laughing at something on a phone screen, heads close, bodies angled. She’s smiling in the soft way Soobin used to fantasise about. Yeonjun looks smug without even trying.

Soobin stops walking.

His stomach should drop. His chest should ache. He should feel the usual jealousy, the usual sharp pang of that should have been me, the usual humiliation.

Instead—nothing.

It’s so strange that it startles him. It’s like reaching for a familiar wound and finding skin there instead. He stands there, watching, and the absence of pain feels louder than pain ever did.

Yeonjun spots him. He lifts his hand and waves, grinning as if they’re mates and not enemies. “Soobin!”

Soobin’s first instinct is to pretend he didn’t hear. That’s what he’s done for weeks. That’s what his pride likes—but his pride feels tired lately. His pride feels pointless.

So he walks over. He doesn’t even think about it. He just moves.

Yeonjun’s smile widens as Soobin approaches. “Hey, man!” he says, clapping Soobin’s shoulder with the confidence of a man who thinks he’s charming. “How are you?”

Soobin hears himself answer with the expected response. “Fine.”

Yeonjun nods like he believes him, which is annoying. “Good, good.”

Her eyes flick to Soobin. She smiles politely. She says his name gently, like he’s an old acquaintance and not a boy she once left mid-date. “Hi, Soobin.”

Soobin nods back, voice steady. “Hey.”

She’s pretty. She’s always been pretty. That used to be the whole point. That used to be the reason he clung to her like she was destiny.

Now he looks at her and the first thought that comes to him is not awe.

It’s comparison.

She doesn’t have your eyes when you’re about to cry and trying to hide it. She doesn’t have your mouth when you’re about to swear and hold it back for half a second, then decide fuck it. She doesn’t have your nose when you huff angrily as if you’re personally offended by the existence of men.

Soobin almost flinches at his own thoughts. He’s never thought about anyone’s nose like that in his life.

Yeonjun’s voice cuts through it, casual as anything. “By the way,” he says, grinning, “how’s your girlfriend?”

Soobin’s brain stutters. Girlfriend. The word lands like a brick.

He blinks once, then forces his face to stay neutral.

Yeonjun continues, still smiling. “Tell her thanks again for that free session, man. My shoulders have been feeling so much lighter since.”

Soobin’s body goes cold. He feels a stab under the ribs. The first real ache all day.

Not jealousy or heartbreak—just you. Your studio. Your rice bowl. Your bullshit voice. Your hands throwing salt at Yeonjun’s chest. The way you shut the door on him. The way you looked tired and mean and alive.

The way you’re not here.

Yeonjun nudges his girlfriend with his elbow. “Babe, you should totally go see her too.”

Soobin’s stomach turns.

Her brows lift. “Seriously?”

Yeonjun nods, still grinning. “Yeah. She’s scary but she’s legit. I swear I’ve been sleeping better.”

Soobin hears you in his head, deadpan—Men will do anything except therapy.

He clenches his jaw so hard his teeth ache. He looks at her again—at his “dream girl”—and realises, with frightening clarity, that she isn’t his dream anymore.

Maybe she never was. Maybe she was just the safe ending he could rehearse for years without risking anything. The neat story. The predictable choice. The girl everyone would clap him for getting.

And maybe she left him that night because she was sick of safe too.

The thought is so sharp it makes him dizzy.

He watches her lean slightly closer to Yeonjun and laugh again, and he feels… nothing—no possessive ache, no fury, no panic.

Just understanding—a quiet, humiliating understanding.

Soobin lifts his hand and smacks his own forehead, hard enough to wake himself up. “Ah,” he says out loud. “I’m such an idiot.”

Yeonjun’s grin falters. “What?”

His girlfriend blinks. “Soobin?”

Soobin doesn’t answer. He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t apologise. He doesn’t even do his normal polite smile. He turns around and walks away. For the first time in his life, he skips a lecture. He doesn’t even look back.

He just goes.

His legs move faster. His breath comes quicker. His heart pounds for a reason that isn’t heartbreak. It’s urgency. It’s the sick realisation that he’s been chasing the wrong person because it was easier than admitting the truth.

He runs straight out of campus. He runs straight through the cold air. He runs straight to your studio.

The only thing he can think is, Fuck. I have to tell her.

Choi Soobin runs to your studio the way he has never run to anything.

He doesn’t run to lectures. He doesn’t run to trains. He doesn’t run to catch up with people. He plans. He arrives early. He waits. He is polite about time. He is polite about everything.

Right now, he’s not polite. Right now, he’s just desperate.

His bag thumps against his side. His breath comes too loud in his ears. His shirt clings to his back. His hair keeps falling into his eyes and he keeps pushing it away with the same irritated swipe, as if he can physically shove his own panic out of his face.

He can’t. His brain won’t stop replaying the corridor outside the lecture hall.

Because the second Yeonjun talked about you, something inside Soobin finally clicked into place. The girl he built into a dream stops feeling like a dream. She turns into a person he can’t reach anymore. And you—somehow—you become the only person he can picture clearly.

He hates it. He hates that it took him this long. He hates that he’s only brave when it’s already too late.

So he runs.

He takes your building stairs two at a time, because his legs are long and he’s angry at them for always being late to the point. He rings your doorbell.

Once. Twice.

Then switches to knocking, because the silence feels unbearable. He knocks six times before he realises he’s doing it.

There’s still nothing. No footsteps. No muffled fuck off. No sound of your curtain brushing against the washing machine. No Mangy meowing like he’s calling the police.

Just a locked door and Soobin’s own breathing, too loud in the corridor. He stands there, chest heaving, staring at the peephole as if you’re watching him through it and choosing not to open out of spite.

His throat goes tight. He pulls his phone out and calls you. It rings. It keeps ringing. No answer.

He texts.

soobin: are you home soobin: please answer soobin: it’s important

He stares at the screen until his eyes sting. He refreshes, even though refresh won’t make a person appear.

Nothing. He calls again. Nothing.

His stomach twists, and panic starts crawling up his throat in an ugly, physical way. He can feel it in his hands—his fingers won’t stay still, tapping the phone case, gripping it, loosening, gripping again. He can feel it in his chest, tight and hot.

A swear slips out of him before he can stop it. “Fuck.” He freezes immediately.

He looks down the corridor as if someone’s mum might appear and scold him for it. Nobody does. He hates that he swore. He hates that he needed to. He hates that his body is acting like this is life or death.

It shouldn’t be life or death. It feels like it anyway.

He slides down the wall and sits on the floor outside your studio, legs stretched out awkwardly, phone in his hand, bag on his lap. He tells himself he’ll wait five minutes.

Five minutes becomes twenty.

Twenty becomes an hour.

People walk past him. A girl with headphones glances at him and speeds up, as if he’s a hazard. A guy steps around him without acknowledging him. Someone opens their door, looks at him, then closes it again, deciding he’s not their business.

Soobin stays put.

He checks your door again, like it might soften out of pity. It doesn’t.

By midday, his back aches from the wall. His stomach growls. He ignores it. By afternoon, his phone battery is low and he turns the brightness down like that’s the solution to everything.

By evening, he feels stupid.

Stupid in a quiet way. Stupid in the way that makes him want to laugh, except laughing would make it real and he doesn’t want real.

He finally stands up on legs that feel numb and useless. He brushes dust off his trousers, adjusts his bag strap, and looks at your door one last time.

Still nothing. He doesn’t know what to do. He knows one person who will know where you are.

He walks to Taehyun’s bar.

It’s busy and loud. It smells of beer, citrus cleaner and bodies—the kind of place where people come to forget their problems. Soobin walks in carrying his problem on his chest like a weight.

Taehyun’s behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, wiping glasses with the usual bored, efficient rhythm he does when he’s pretending he’s not listening to everyone’s private disasters.

Soobin doesn’t sit.

He goes straight to the bar and stands there until Taehyun looks up.

Taehyun’s eyes flick over him—his creased shirt, his damp hair, the fact he looks… unpolished. Taehyun’s brows lift a fraction. “Mate,” he says.

Soobin doesn’t bother with hello. “Where is she?”

Taehyun blinks once. “What?”

Soobin leans forward, voice tight. “I went to her studio and camped outside, called her a bunch of times and nothing. Where can I find her? I—I need to talk to her.”

Taehyun’s rag pauses mid-wipe. His mouth twitches like he wants to make a joke and decides not to. He sets the glass down slowly. “She’s gone,” he says.

Soobin’s chest drops. “Gone?”

Taehyun nods. “Gone.”

Soobin’s voice shakes slightly despite his effort. “Where?”

Taehyun holds his gaze for a long beat, too long. Then he says, calm, “Her hometown.”

Soobin swallows hard. “For how long?”

Taehyun’s answer is immediate. “Forever.”

The word hits Soobin straight in the ribs.

Forever?

His ears ring. His vision blurs for half a second. He blinks hard and forces it back into focus. He cannot cry here. Not in a bar. Not in front of Taehyun. Not with people laughing behind him like they aren’t all one bad day away from sitting where he’s sitting.

“She’s not coming back?” Soobin says, voice thin.

Taehyun doesn’t flinch. He nods once.

Soobin’s throat tightens so hard he feels sick. His shoulders slump. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

He missed his chance again. He said the wrong thing again. He did the Soobin thing—overthought, hesitated, tried to be good and correct and safe—until the moment passed.

Now you’re gone.

“So—” His voice cracks. He swallows and tries again. “Is it because of me?”

Taehyun nods.

Soobin feels heat behind his eyes immediately. He looks down fast, jaw clenched, blinking too hard. A horrible thought punches through him—She left because you couldn’t even kiss her when you wanted to.

He hates himself.

Then something else rises under the shame—stubbornness. The same stubbornness that made him crawl under tables for grapes, the same stubbornness that made him keep believing when he should’ve stopped. He lifts his head, voice rough. “Where?

Taehyun’s brows lift. “Mate.”

“Where?” Soobin repeats, sharper now. “Tell me where she is.”

Taehyun watches him. Something in Taehyun’s face shifts—annoyance, maybe, or reluctant respect. Then he sighs, reaches under the bar, and pulls out a scrap of paper and a pen.

Soobin blinks. “What are you doing?”

“Drawing you a map,” Taehyun says, deadpan. “Since you look like the type to trust GPS and end up crying in a hedge.”

“I’m not going to cry,” Soobin mutters automatically.

Taehyun doesn’t even look up. “Sure.”

He scribbles quick. Roads. Arrows. Notes. A petrol station. A roundabout. A warning about hills and bad signal. It’s annoyingly detailed.

Taehyun slides the paper over the bar. “Don’t take the shorter road,” he adds. “It’s a lie. You’ll end up on a farm.”

Soobin grabs the map like it’s a lifeline. His hands shake slightly. He hates that too. “Thanks,” he says, quieter.

Taehyun shrugs. “Whatever.”

Soobin turns to leave.

Then Taehyun calls after him, casual. “Oi. One more thing.”

Soobin turns back.

Taehyun is smiling—it looks like a wicked kind of smile. The kind Soobin has seen once before—when he first told Soobin about a shaman and slid a business card across the bar like he was handing over fate.

Taehyun’s eyes gleam with it now. “Good luck,” he says.

Soobin’s stomach twists. He doesn’t wait to ask why. He walks out with the map in his hand, panic in his chest, and one clear thought pounding through him louder than everything else—he’s not letting you disappear.

The countryside is irritatingly good for you.

You hate admitting it, because you didn’t drag yourself to the city for fun. You dragged yourself there for uni, for freedom, for the feeling that your life wasn’t going to be confined to hills and gossip and neighbours who know your business before you do.

And yet.

Up here, the air feels cleaner. Your head feels quieter. Your chest feels less tight. Your grandma keeps feeding you like she’s trying to fix every bad thing that ever happened to you with food and love and an aggressive amount of tea. Your jeans are already fitting a bit tighter and you’re pretending you’re annoyed when you’re secretly grateful, because being taken care of is a drug you don’t know how to quit.

Tonight, your grandma’s asleep early, blanket tucked up under her chin. You should be asleep too.

Instead you’re outside in the garden with a torch in one hand and garden shears in the other, crouched by the lettuce patch. Grandma asked for lettuce. You don’t ask questions. When an old woman wants lettuce, you get her lettuce. That’s the hierarchy.

The grass is damp. The air is sharp. Somewhere in the dark, water is running. You shine the torch over the rows and snip a head of lettuce, muttering to yourself, “If I die for lettuce, I’m haunting everyone. Including the lettuce.”

Something rustles to your left.

You pause.

The shears hover mid-air. The torch beam shakes slightly, landing on soil and leaves and nothing else. Your brain immediately supplies fox, because that’s what everyone blames in the countryside. Fox. Ghost. Wind.

Another sound. Footsteps—not the light scuttle of an animal. Real footsteps. Uneven. Coming closer.

Your stomach drops.

You straighten slowly, torch lifting, heart thudding in your throat. You scan the darkness, trying to make shapes out of it. A shadow moves. A figure shifts near the hedge line.

A man. Tall. In a coat. In your grandma’s garden. At night. Your brain doesn’t even finish the thought. Your body reacts first.

You grab the shovel propped up by the shed and hold it with both hands, knuckles white, because you are not about to get murdered. You have student debt. You don’t get to die until you’ve at least bullied the government into forgiving it.

“WHO’S THERE?” you scream, voice cracking. “GET THE FUCK OUT.”

The figure freezes.

You don’t. You march forward, shovel raised, torch beam swinging wildly as you close the distance, adrenaline making your whole body hot.

“SHOW YOURSELF,” you shout again. “I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL—”

“It’s me!” the man blurts, panicked. “It’s me!”

You don’t stop. “I DON’T CARE WHO YOU ARE—”

“It’s Soobin!” he yells, louder now, like he’s trying to stop a car. “CHOI SOOBIN!”

You stop so abruptly your boots slip in the damp dirt. The shovel stops mid-air. Your chest heaves. Your brain stalls. “… Soobin?” you say, breathless.

You point the torch straight at his face.

And there he is.

Hair a mess. Leaves stuck in it. Coat dusty. Jeans smeared with mud. Cheeks flushed from cold and panic, eyes wide like he genuinely thought you were about to crack his skull open. He looks nothing like the clean, pressed, controlled boy from campus.

He looks like he got dragged here by the universe and regret.

You blink once, slow. Then again. “Choi Soobin?” you repeat, louder this time, still not believing it.

He swallows. “Yes.”

You tighten your grip on the shovel, offended on principle. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He opens his mouth.

You don’t let him speak yet. You tilt the torch up and down him, as if you’re scanning for proof he’s real. “Why do you look like you fought a bush?”

His ears go pink even in the torchlight. “I—”

“You’re in my grandma’s garden,” you cut in, voice sharp. “At night. You nearly got concussed for lettuce.”

Soobin stares at the shovel. Then at you. Then at the lettuce in your other hand. His face does something that might be disbelief. “… Lettuce,” he repeats, weak.

You glare. “Don’t judge me. Old people want salad at stupid hours.”

His mouth twitches, then flattens again, like he’s trying not to laugh and doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

You stare at him for a beat longer, shovel still raised, torch still blinding him, your pulse still raging. “Say something,” you demand. “Before I decide this is a hallucination and hit you anyway.”

Soobin inhales, chest rising.

Choi Soobin has never been chased with a shovel before.

He thinks that’s a reasonable sentence to be able to say at twenty-one, yet here he is in your grandma’s garden—cheeks burning, lungs aching, leaves stuck in his hair—staring down the metal edge of a shovel while you point a torch at his face and ask what the fuck he’s doing here.

He tries to swallow and his throat feels glued shut.

You’re still holding the lettuce in your other hand, which makes the whole thing even more ridiculous. He doesn’t know whether to be terrified or offended or impressed. Probably all three.

He lifts his hands slowly, palms out, the way you do when a dog looks ready to bite. “Okay,” he says, voice strained. “Can you—can you put that down?”

“Give me a reason,” you snap.

His eyes flick from the shovel to your face. Your hair’s messy. Your hoodie is oversized. Your cheeks are flushed from cold and adrenaline. You look fierce and feral and alive in a way he can’t stop noticing. “I have something to say,” he blurts. “And I need to say it now.”

You blink. “Can’t you come inside and say it there?”

Soobin shakes his head. He’s still breathing too hard. His legs feel untrustworthy. His stomach feels hollow. “If I go inside I might pass out.”

Your face stalls. Then, annoyingly, a laugh threatens at the corner of your mouth. “You might pass out?”

“I’m serious,” he insists.

“I’m not,” you reply. “You’re stood in my grandma’s garden looking like you fought a hedge, and you’re telling me you’re about to faint.”

Soobin’s ears go warm. “I didn’t fight a hedge.”

“You absolutely did.”

He exhales, then tries to push through it, since you will derail this conversation into insults if he gives you an inch. “I don’t want you gone,” he says.

Your brows lift. “Gone?”

“Forever,” he says, voice tight.

You stare at him for a beat. Then your expression changes into something sharp and incredulous. “What?”

Soobin nods once, miserable. “Taehyun told me.”

Your face does something violent. You smack your own forehead with your free hand, torch wobbling. “That liar.”

Soobin blinks. “So you’re—”

“I’m here for my grandma’s birthday,” you cut in, still pissed. “There’s no signal up here. My phone’s been dead. I’m not gone forever.”

Soobin’s whole body loosens so hard it’s almost painful. Relief hits him like a wave, then instantly turns into rage at the next thought—Taehyun drew him a map. A literal map. In pen. With roundabouts. He brought him into the hills for a prank. Soobin exhales through his nose. “I’m going to kill him.”

You nod, satisfied. “Good.”

Then your eyes flick back to the shovel. “So. Why are you here?”

Soobin’s chest tightens again. Right. The point. The reason he ran. The reason he sat outside your studio for hours. The reason he skipped a lecture for the first time in his life and didn’t even care.

His mouth opens. Closes. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.

You stare. “Is that… a script?”

Soobin’s ears burn. “Yes.”

You lift a brow. “You wrote a script.”

“I thought it would help,” he says, defensive.

“You’re a freak,” you mutter, but your voice isn’t as sharp as it could be.

Soobin unfolds it with shaking fingers and clears his throat, trying to read. He gets through two lines before he realises he can’t do it. The words look wrong. Too tidy. Too rehearsed. Too polite. He’s sick of polite.

He stops mid-sentence, jaw clenched, then just tears the paper in half. Then tears it again. Then again, because he’s committed now and if he’s going to be dramatic, he’s going to do it properly. “Okay,” he says, voice rough. “That sounded stupid.”

You stare at the shredded paper in his hands. “You came here, in the dark, into my grandma’s garden, to rip up a script?”

Soobin exhales. “Yes.”

You shake your head slowly. “You’re actually insane.”

Soobin nods once. “Probably.”

The torch beam wobbles as your hand shakes slightly. You steady it. Your face is still hard, still defensive, but your eyes are listening now.

Soobin takes a breath. He forces himself to meet your eyes, properly. “You’re annoying,” he says.

Your brows shoot up. “Excuse you?”

“You’re loud,” he continues, and he can hear the tremor in his voice now, the honesty fighting through. “You swear at everything.”

“That’s a skill,” you snap.

“And you cry at everything,” he adds, and he regrets the wording immediately when your expression sharpens—then softens into confusion, because you know it’s true.

“I don’t cry,” you say.

“You do,” Soobin says, firm. “You just pretend it’s anger.”

Your throat tightens. You look away for half a second and he hates himself for hitting something real.

He pushes on anyway, since he didn’t come all this way to shut up now. “You’re the biggest liar I’ve ever met,” he says, and your mouth opens to protest, but he doesn’t let you. “And you’re also the most earnest person I’ve ever met.”

You go still.

“And I don’t—I don’t understand how that works,” Soobin admits, voice cracking slightly. “But it does.”

You stare at him, torchlight catching the wet shine in your eyes. He knows that shine now. It terrifies him. He keeps going anyway.

“I don’t know when it happened,” he says. “I thought it was just desperation. I thought it was just me being pathetic again. I thought I was clinging to anything that made me feel like I had control.”

He swallows hard. The words feel too big in the cold night air.

“But somewhere between you scamming me,” he continues, “and me blackmailing you—” He winces at himself. “—I fell for you.”

Your breath catches.

Soobin’s chest tightens. He forces himself to say it clean. “I like you. A lot.”

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

Soobin’s stomach flips in panic. He’s said it now. He can’t unsay it. He can’t dress it up. He can’t hide behind politeness. He’s just stood here in mud with leaves in his hair confessing feelings to a girl holding lettuce and a shovel.

He tries to keep his voice steady. “I’m an idiot,” he says. “I don’t know how to be honest about my feelings. I only know how to be—good. Get good grades. Be the kid everyone expects. Say the right thing. Do the right thing.” He looks at you, eyes burning. “But with you, I don’t have to do that.”

Your grip on the shovel loosens slightly, the metal dipping a fraction.

Soobin steps closer without thinking, careful and slow—as if you might bolt. “I don’t have to perform politeness,” he says, quieter now. “Or goodness. I can just be.”

Your throat works. Your lips part.

Soobin’s heart slams. “You make me feel… free,” he says, and the word comes out like a confession and a plea. “You liberate me in ways no one has, and I hate that I didn’t realise it sooner, and I hate that I almost kissed you and then flinched away because I thought I was using you, and I—”

He stops himself, breathing hard.

He’s said too much. He’s said the wrong things and the right things. He’s changed the trajectory of his life. He’s done the thing he’s been terrified of doing since he was thirteen and feelings first started ruining his sleep.

He tries to finish anyway, because he came here to say it. He came here to finally stop being a coward. “What I’m trying to say,” he murmurs, voice shaking, “is that I—”

You drop the shovel.

It lands in the grass with a dull thud. The torch slips from your hand and swings down, light bouncing off the ground and his shoes and the lettuce abandoned by your feet.

You step forward, grab his collar with both hands, rise up on your toes, and crash your mouth against his.

Soobin freezes for half a heartbeat. Shock flashes through him so hard it feels like electricity.

Then instinct takes over. His hands lift, find your waist, pull you closer like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. He kisses you back—hard, urgent, real. No script. No manners. No pretending.

Your mouth fits against his in a way that makes his whole body stop fighting itself.

When you finally pull back for air, you’re still gripping his collar, eyes bright and breathing hard.

Soobin stares at you, dazed, then lets out a shaky laugh that sounds like a sob he swallowed. His thumbs brush your sides, grounding himself. “Right,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Okay.”

You blink, lips swollen. “Okay?”

He nods once, still holding you, still stunned. “Yeah,” he says. 

His brain shuts up, even his guilt shuts up. It’s just you and the taste of you. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t feel like he has to be good to be chosen.

(the end)

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a/n: hi my loves! a/n from past imzy (the one still editing the last chapter and having so many emotions lmao, the one posting is usually too lazy to do an in depth a/n). i’m literally tearing up while editing. i can’t believe the vpb and misguided journey have come to an end. i cannot thank you guys for all the love shown to both me and my characters. i hope there is a lesson we all learnt while reading (and writing for me haha). DO NOT LIE!! or crawl under tables with grapes lmao. i hope you all also enjoyed. please let me know your thoughts in the comments, reblogs and asks. what part was your favourite? what made you laugh the most? what made you cry (if you cried because i did a little lol)? who will you miss the most?

although the vpb and misguided journey ends here, mine does not!! so i hope to see you all at my next fic, the art of defeat!! pls show it as much love as you have shown misguided and vpb. much much love and see you all again soon <3

He paces your living room with his hands clenched so tight his knuckles ache. Your carpet is cheap and thin and the pattern has been worn down in patches, and he’s pretty sure he’s about to wear a new path into it. He keeps walking back and forth, forth and back—jaw clenched, tongue pressing hard against his teeth—trying to hold the anger in his body where it belongs.

You’re on the sofa with Taehyun—yes, the bartender. That’s the part that keeps making his rage spike.

You’re not tied up or trembling in fear. You’re not even pretending to be sorry properly. You’re sat there in your hoodie, head down and your hands in your lap. You hiccup every few seconds, eyes shiny and cheeks flushed. Taehyun’s next to you with a bottle of water; one hand on your shoulder like he’s managing a crisis, the other rubbing his own neck like he’s trying to figure out how the fuck you both ended up here.

The air smells faintly of fried food, and alcohol, and your incense. The scene is so normal it’s obscene.

Soobin stops pacing and turns to face you. His voice goes thin. “Truth—I want the full truth.”

A hiccup punches out of you.

He closes his eyes for half a second. “Don’t.”

You hiccup again, then glare at him through watery eyes, offended by his tone as if you aren’t the one who convinced him a virgin ghost eats fallen grapes off café floors.

Taehyun shifts beside you. His expression isn’t smug now—it’s tight with guilt and nerves. He’s still trying to look calm, but the remorse sits on him in the way his shoulders hold themselves. Taehyun is good at pretending he doesn’t care—he’s worse when he actually does.

Soobin points at both of you. “Not the ghost version,” he says again.

You try to speak. Your body betrays you again. You clamp a hand over your mouth, furious at your own body.

Taehyun gives you the water. “Drink,” he murmurs, then looks at Soobin and sighs. “Alright. Fine.”

Soobin’s eyes narrow. “Fine.”

Taehyun nods once, jaw flexing. “We scammed you.”

Soobin’s chest tightens. It lands heavy even though he already knew. Hearing it out loud makes it real in a way he hates.

You hiccup again, then choke out, “I—” and nothing else comes out.

Taehyun keeps going, voice low, careful. “I told her about you. I sent you to her and got commission out of it.”

Soobin’s gaze snaps to him. “Commission.”

Taehyun winces. “Yeah.”

Soobin’s hands ball into fists again. “So I sat at your bar and spilled my guts and you were calculating commission in your head.”

Taehyun flinches and looks down. “I wasn’t calculating. I—”

“You were,” Soobin snaps, then immediately catches his own volume and swallows it down. “You did.”

You make a small sound in the back of your throat and you squeeze your eyes shut, mortified.

Taehyun’s hand tightens on your shoulder. He looks at Soobin again. “She didn’t think you’d keep coming back.”

Soobin turns to you, voice sharpening. “You didn’t mind when I kept coming back. You—you took my money.”

You try to lift your head. Your eyes meet his for half a second. Your fingers worry the cuff of your sleeve until it twists. You look guilty—proper guilty. The kind that makes his stomach twist.

You hiccup and whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Soobin laughs once, bitter. “Sorry.”

Taehyun rubs his face with his free hand. “Mate, I swear, it wasn’t meant to go this far.”

“It went as far as grapes under tables,” Soobin says, voice flat with disbelief. “That’s pretty far.”

You press the heel of your palm into your forehead, breathing through your nose, as if your body has decided that this is how you’ll be punished—humiliation with sound effects.

Taehyun speaks over it. “There’s no real ghost—she made it up on the spot.”

Soobin’s eyes flick to you. “On the spot?”

You nod weakly, then hiccup. You hate yourself.

Taehyun continues, voice getting faster now. “The virgin ghost thing was supposed to scare you a bit, make you take it seriously, then you’d stop coming, and that would be the end. People come once, realise it’s bullshit, never come back. You—” he gestures at Soobin, “—kept showing up.”

“Because I wanted it to work.” The words come out rawer than he intends. He hates that you both hear it. He hates that Taehyun’s expression shifts, shame deepening, and you hiccup again like your body’s reacting to the honesty.

You whisper, hoarse, “I didn’t think you would—you’d believe it.”

Soobin stares at you. “You didn’t think I’d believe a ghost was attached to me?”

Taehyun’s voice drops. “You were desperate, mate.”

Soobin’s throat tightens at that. “So you both thought I was—what? A joke?”

You flinch. Your eyes drop.

Taehyun doesn’t defend himself this time. He just nods once, small. “We took the piss.”

Soobin’s stomach turns. He drags a hand down his face. He wants to be angry—he is angry. But under the anger there’s something else—humiliation, hurt, the sharp sting of realising he begged for help from two people who made fun of him after.

He points at you, voice tight. “You laughed about it.”

“I—I didn’t—not at first. I didn’t mean—” A hiccup cuts you off. You slam your palm against your thigh, furious. “Stop,” you hiss at your own body.

Taehyun steps in again, voice steadier. “She did laugh, yeah. We both did. We shouldn’t have.”

Soobin’s eyes flicker between you. Your face is flushed. Your eyes are wet. Your mouth keeps twitching as you fight the hiccups. Taehyun looks guilty in a way Soobin has never seen on anyone before—quiet, real, no performance.

It makes the anger wobble. It doesn’t disappear—but it wobbles.

Soobin inhales. “I don’t care about your life stories. I don’t care why you scam. I care that I was sat there with you—” he points at Taehyun, “—talking about her, and you were already planning how to profit off it.”

Taehyun’s shoulders drop. “I know.”

“And you,” Soobin turns back to you, “you took it and ran with it.”

You nod, voice small. “I know.”

The guilt in your face is real. It angers him off even more, because it means you knew it was wrong and did it anyway.

You wipe at your cheek quickly, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” you manage again.

Soobin’s voice sharpens. “Stop saying sorry.”

Your eyes widen, hurt flashing.

Taehyun looks between you both, jaw tight. “Mate—”

Soobin lifts a hand. “No. Stop butting in. I want to hear from her.”

You nod quickly, desperate, then another stupid hiccup jumps you. You squeeze your eyes shut, inhale, and try to speak. “It started when I was nine—”

Soobin stares. “You started scamming people when you were nine years old.”

You shake your head hard. “No— I—”

Taehyun sighs and fills in, because he can see you drowning in your own body. “Her dad’s business went bankrupt when she was nine. She’s been broke since she could spell broke.”

You glare at Taehyun through tears. “Why are you telling him that?”

Taehyun keeps his voice low. “Because you’re hiccuping yourself into silence.”

Soobin’s throat works. He doesn’t know what to do with that information. It doesn’t absolve you. It just makes everything messier—he hates messy.

You sniff, angry now, and the hiccups get worse. “Why the fuck am I crying?” you choke out, failing at life.

Taehyun’s mouth twitches once, then he sobers. “Because this is humiliating.”

Soobin’s chest twists. He rubs his face, fighting the urge to bolt.

“We’re sorry,” Taehyun says, and it sounds real this time. “We didn’t mean to take it this far.”

Soobin laughs again, bitter. “You took it as far as you could and it still wasn’t enough. You kept adding steps.”

Your shoulders curl in. You whisper, “You kept coming.”

Soobin’s eyes flash. “Because I wanted her back.”

Silence lands heavy in the room.

Taehyun is the one to break it, voice cautious. “Normally, people come once, realise it’s not real, then they disappear.”

Soobin’s head snaps up. “What?”

Taehyun freezes, realising he’s stepped on something.

Soobin points at him. “You said people come once. You said they disappear.”

Taehyun swallows. His gaze flicks to you with warning. You’re still hiccuping, still flushed, still caught.

Soobin leans forward slightly. “There are other clients?”

Taehyun exhales, defeated. “Yeah.”

Hope blooms in Soobin’s chest in the most pathetic way possible. He hates it—he also clings to it anyway. “What happens,” he asks, slow and careful, “when your scam accidentally… works?”

You stare at him. Taehyun stares at him. 

Taehyun speaks first, reluctant. “There was a couple. They came for compatibility stuff. Horoscope.”

Soobin’s eyes sharpen. “And?”

Taehyun keeps going. “She asked questions. He answered and lied—but not well enough.”

Soobin’s voice tightens. “He cheated?”

You flinch. Taehyun flinches. Your guilt spikes and you look down.

Taehyun nods. “Yeah.”

Soobin steps closer, intensity building. “So you can break people up?”

“No,” you choke out, voice sharp. “We don’t do that.”

Taehyun shakes his head. “It was an accident.”

Soobin’s laugh is ugly. “An accident.”

You lean forward, hands clenched. “We don’t get involved with couples who are happily together.”

Soobin points at you. “You told me a virgin ghost is attached to me and eats fallen grapes.”

You wince. “That’s different.”

“How,” he snaps, then catches his tone and tries again through gritted teeth, “is that different?”

You swallow hard. “Because you were single and miserable.”

“So only couples deserve happy endings.”

“That’s not—” you start, then hiccup, then get louder out of frustration. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“So help me,” Soobin says, and the politeness finally cracks. “For real this time.”

You shake your head immediately. “We can’t.”

Soobin’s eyes go cold. “Then I’ll report you.”

Taehyun stiffens.

Soobin continues, voice low and deadly. “A full refund, and I’ll also report you. Authorities, university—everyone.”

Your stomach drops. Your hands go clammy. Taehyun goes pale, and you see it—the flash of fear that he tries to swallow.

Soobin looks sick saying it. Shame creeps across his face. He hates that he’s doing this. He does it anyway. “I don’t want to but I will if I have to,” he says, quieter. “I just—I don’t know what else to do.”

Taehyun’s voice is careful. “Mate.”

Soobin shakes his head once. “I can’t let her go.”

Your throat tightens. Your chest hurts. Your guilt sits heavy now, because you can see how cornered he feels. You look at Taehyun. Taehyun shakes his head, sharp. Don’t. Please don’t.

You ignore him. “Okay,” you say.

Taehyun’s head snaps toward you. “What?”

You glare at him. “I decided.”

Taehyun looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “No, you didn’t.”

“Yes,” you say, voice firm. “We’ll help you.”

Soobin’s face changes—relief hitting so hard it looks painful. He swallows, trying not to show it, then fails. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” you snap, eyes stinging. “If you thank me, I’ll change my mind.”

Taehyun drags a hand down his face. “We are so fucked.”

Soobin stands there in your living room, hope back in his eyes, and you sit on your own sofa feeling your remorse settle into something heavier.

You got caught—and instead of running, you just agreed to make it worse.

Soobin leaves with the kind of slammed door he’s never been the type to give.

It rattles the cheap picture frame in the hallway. It makes the washing machine behind the curtain thump once, offended at the noise. It even makes Mangy lift his head from the windowsill and blink toward the door, then blink at you, then put his head back down with the expression of a creature thinking, pathetic, all of you.

The second the lock clicks, Taehyun explodes.

“What’s wrong with you?” he spits, standing in the middle of your studio with his hands out, palms up, as if he’s about to present you to the jury. “How could you agree to that?”

You don’t answer immediately. You just stand there for a beat, staring at the place where Soobin was. The cushion still has the shape of him. Your rice bowl sits on the table like it’s witnessed war crimes. Your notebook is open to a page of doodles and fake symbols and now it feels less funny, more… real—which is disgusting.

Then your body remembers it’s tired.

Tired in the bones. Tired in the teeth. Tired in the little space behind your eyes where you keep your last scraps of patience. You turn away from Taehyun mid-rant and walk into your bedroom with the slow, heavy steps of someone dragging a corpse of a day behind them.

Taehyun follows, still going. “He’s going to report us,” he says. “He’s going to ruin us. He’s going to—”

You flop onto your bed face-first, coat still on, hoodie still on, one leg hanging off the side like you’ve been shot. The mattress squeaks. The pillow smells faintly of your shampoo and stale smoke. You lie there and let the ceiling exist.

Taehyun stands by your doorframe, fuming. “Say something.”

You roll your face to the side, cheek squashed into the pillow, voice muffled. “I am saying something. I’m saying I’m dead.”

“That’s not helpful,” he snaps.

You lift your head, hair sticking up, eyes dry and angry. “What did you want me to do,” you ask, “tell him no and get us both kicked out of uni? That kid wasn’t messing about.”

Taehyun’s jaw tightens. He paces once, then twice, then stops and plants himself at the foot of your bed—arms crossed so hard his shoulders rise. “He wouldn’t actually report you,” he says, like he needs to believe that.

“He absolutely would,” you reply. “He looked me in the eyes and threatened the authorities. The man is a fucking hall monitor with heartbreak.”

Taehyun rubs his face. “We shouldn’t have picked him.”

You scoff. “We didn’t pick him. You picked him.”

His gaze snaps up. “Don’t.”

“Oh, don’t,” you echo, sitting up and pushing your hair out of your face. “You want to act like you’re not complicit now? You sent him to me. You took your cut. You listened to him cry in your bar and thought, delicious, let’s monetise that.”

Taehyun flinches, then looks away, guilt flashing across his face fast enough that you almost miss it. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, biting his cheek in that thinking way he does when he’s trying not to spiral. “I feel bad,” he says, quieter now. “I shouldn’t have— I shouldn’t have used him. He was genuinely… fucked up.”

You stare at him. “Welcome to our business model.”

He shakes his head. “No, you don’t get to say that and make it a joke.”

“I’m not making it a joke,” you reply. “I’m making it survivable.”

Taehyun’s mouth tightens. He looks tired too, just in a different way. He looks like someone who built a life in the city by being sharp and unbothered, and now the unbothered part is slipping.

You exhale and rub your eyes hard enough to sting. “What’s done is done,” you say. “We just need to figure this shit out.”

Taehyun stares at you. “Figure what out?”

“How to keep him from reporting us,” you say, deadpan. “How to keep him from coming back with a warrant and his polite little sorry face while we get escorted out of uni.”

Taehyun lets out a short laugh that has no humour in it. “You agreed to help him break up a couple.”

You lift a finger. “I agreed to help him. He thinks it's a break-up. We can steer it.”

Taehyun’s brows knit. “Steer it into what?”

You open your mouth—nothing comes out. Your brain offers a blank screen. Your stomach twists. You hate that. You hate that Soobin has backed you into a corner where you actually have to think instead of just perform.

Taehyun watches your face and scoffs. “You don’t even have a plan.”

“I’m brainstorming,” you say.

“You’re lying,” he shoots back.

You glare. “Lying is my skill set.”

Taehyun turns, drags a hand through his hair, then turns back again, voice sharper. “I want nothing to do with this anymore.”

You sit up straighter. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he says. “This is on you. You agreed to it.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you say immediately. “You’re not walking away now.”

“I am,” he says, and he sounds angry, but there’s fear under it. “I can’t get kicked out. I can’t have my sister finding out I got expelled because I was running a scam with my best friend and a heartbreak case.”

You blink. “So you’re leaving me to take the fall.”

Taehyun’s eyes flash. “Don’t turn it into that.”

“It is that,” you reply. “You’re saying it’s on me.”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it, then exhales and looks down at the floor like the carpet might give him a better answer than you can.

You feel something hot crawl up your throat—rage, panic, whatever the fuck it is when you realise you’re alone in the mess you both made. “Taehyun,” you say, voice low. “We built this together.”

He looks up, jaw clenched. “I know.”

“So don’t abandon me,” you snap.

His mouth twitches, pained. “I’m not abandoning you. I’m setting a boundary.”

“Your boundary is convenient,” you shoot back.

He flinches again, then turns away, shoulders tight. He walks toward your door, grabs his coat from the back of your chair, and yanks it on.

You watch him do it and it makes your chest ache. Not because he’s leaving—because you hate that he’s right to be scared.

He pauses in your doorway. For a second he doesn’t look like a bartender. He doesn’t look like a plug. He looks like the boy you grew up with—the one who used to share his snacks with you at lunch breaks, the one who used to talk about the city as if it was salvation.

He turns back slowly. “You did this for me, didn’t you?” he asks.

It’s quiet and sharp—it hits you right in the gut. 

You stare at him.

Your mouth opens. You could tell him the truth. You could say yes, because if he got kicked out you’d never be able to face his sister again. She'd look at you with disappointment instead of affection, she’d say you ruined him—because you’ve always ruined good things.

But honesty is not your talent. Not with feelings, not when it makes you look soft.

So you swallow it. You lift your chin and let your voice go rude. “Fuck off,” you say.

Taehyun’s eyes narrow. He holds your gaze for a beat longer than you want him to. Then his mouth twitches, like he understands you anyway. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Thought so.”

He leaves.

The door clicks shut.

You sit on your bed in your coat and stare at the cracks in the ceiling, feeling burnt out and drained and run over and then reversed over again for good measure. Mangy jumps up beside you, circles twice, and sits with his back to you, tail flicking.

Choi Soobin turns up the next day with a folder in his hands.

You open the door and just stare at him for a second—taking in the crisp shirt, the neat hair, the clean coat, the calm eyes. He looks pressed and prepared, like he’s about to tell a teacher you forgot the homework.

You look down at yourself—hoodie, leggings, socks that don’t match, hair shoved up, under-eyes living their own life—and you feel that familiar, ugly pinch in your chest. Not jealousy or admiration. Just the knowledge that he’s never had to walk around with your kind of exhaustion in his bones.

He clears his throat. “Hi.”

“Don’t come into my house looking like a tax accountant,” you reply. “It makes me violent.”

He blinks. “I’m dressed normally.”

“Normal for you,” you mutter, stepping aside. “Shoes off.”

He does it neatly—of course he does—and the neatness makes your eye twitch. Then he follows you, folder tucked under his arm, into the studio where your incense is still burning and your rice bowl is still on the table.

He sits straight away, posture perfect, knees tucked in slightly. The cushion doesn’t deserve this kind of respect.

You sit down behind the table and tap your pen once against your notebook. The pen makes you feel like you have authority and not just audacity. “So,” you say. “What’s the plan, Mr Stationery.”

“It’s not stationery,” he says, already annoyed. “It’s notes.”

“Notes,” you repeat. “You’re writing notes about breaking up a couple.”

His tongue presses to his teeth. “I’m writing notes about stopping someone from being hurt.”

You laugh once, sharp. “That’s adorable. You think you’re a hero.”

He stiffens. “I think I’m right.”

“Even cuter,” you say, leaning back. “You’ve got the confidence of a man who’s never been wrong in public.”

His eyes narrow. “Can we not do this?”

“We can,” you reply, “but I won’t. Tell me the plan.”

He opens the folder and slides a page toward you. It has bullet points and headings, his handwriting looks neat enough to be framed.

You stare at it. “You made a timetable.”

“It’s organised,” he says, defensive.

“It’s psychotic,” you correct.

His mouth tightens. “I’m trying.”

“You’re trying in a way that makes me want to pour rice on my own head,” you say. “Talk.”

He points at the first bullet point. “We get Choi Yeonjun to come here for a consultation.”

You blink. “We.”

“So you can feel included,” he says, then immediately regrets the sentence.

You lean forward. “Don’t try and patronise me—it makes me itch.”

“I’m not patronising you,” he says, voice even, like he’s speaking to a difficult customer.

You scoff. “You’re doing that thing where you say words gently so you can pretend you’re not being a cunt.”

His ears go red. “I’m not being a—”

“A cunt,” you finish, smiling. “There. See. You can say it.”

His jaw works. “Can you please not swear every other sentence?”

You stare at him. “No.”

He blinks. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, slow. “This is my mouth. If you don’t like it, you can go home and write a complaint in your little folder.”

His nostrils flare. He looks down at the page again, determined not to rise to it. “You lure him in.”

You snort. “Lure.”

“Yes,” he insists. “You say you sensed something. You say there’s spiritual—whatever.”

“Spiritual whatever,” you repeat. “Brilliant. You’re really across my field.”

His eyes flick up. “I’m not here to learn your… craft.”

You laugh. “Craft—fucking hell. You sound like I’m crocheting ghosts.”

He presses his lips together, then says, too calm, “You do lie for money.”

There it is. The moral superiority, delivered with a polite voice and clean hands. It hits you right behind the ribs. You stare at him. “Say that again.”

His eyes hold yours. “You lie for money.”

You smile. It’s not a nice smile. “And you threaten people for love. We all have hobbies.”

“That’s not the same,” he says immediately.

“Of course you’d say that,” you reply, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “You don’t know what the same is. You think money stress is when your card machine takes too long.”

His brows knit. “That’s not fair.”

You bark out a laugh. “Fair? That’s rich coming from a man who has never had to choose between rent and food.”

His fingers tighten on the edge of the folder. “I’m not rich.”

You glance at his coat, his watch, his haircut, the general aura of I grew up with options. “Yeah, alright.”

He swallows something down and tries to keep his voice steady. “I worked hard.”

You laugh again, softer and meaner. “So did I. Mine just didn’t come with a safety net.”

His eyes flicker, uncomfortable. Then he straightens, clinging to his argument. “None of this excuses what you did.”

You lean back. “You’re in my studio asking me to do more of it.”

“I’m asking you to do it to help someone,” he says, as if that makes it clean.

You stare at him. “You want me to scam a man into confessing he’s cheating.”

You pause. “And you’ve decided he’s cheating based on what, exactly?”

His face tightens. “His reputation.”

“Ah,” you say. “The vibes-based legal system.”

He flinches. “I’m not doing this for fun.”

“No,” you reply. “You’re doing it because you can’t handle losing.”

His eyes flash. “I can handle losing.”

“You can’t even handle silence,” you shoot back. “You survived forty-eight hours and acted like you’d been tortured.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s always different for you,” you say. “That’s the privilege part.”

His jaw clenches. “Stop calling me privileged.”

“Stop acting like you’re morally superior,” you fire back. “You don’t get to sit there with your tidy little handwriting and judge me when you came here begging for a ghost to fix your feelings.”

He opens his mouth, shuts it, then opens it again—frustration slipping through. “I didn’t beg.”

“You begged,” you say. “You were one apology away from crying in my rice bowl.”

His face goes fully red. “I was desperate.”

“And you think desperate people don’t do desperate things,” you reply. “Welcome to the club.”

He stares at you for a long second, then he exhales through his nose and tries to pull it back to the plan, because that’s what he does when emotions get too big—he turns them into tasks. “Fine,” he says, clipped. “You’re right. I don’t know what it’s like to be you.”

“No shit,” you mutter.

He ignores that. “So tell me what will work.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“What will work,” he repeats, eyes sharp. “Since you’re the one who lies professionally.”

The wording makes your stomach twist again. He said it like it’s dirty, like it’s beneath him, like it isn’t the only reason you’re still alive. You lean forward, voice low. “First, you don’t get to talk to me like I’m your tool.”

He frowns. “I’m not—”

“You are,” you cut in. “You came here with a folder and a

 plan and assumed I’d just do it. You don’t get to treat me like a service. Pay your therapist for that.”

His mouth tightens. “Then what do you want?”

You laugh once. “I want you to stop acting like you’re doing this for her.”

His eyes narrow. “I am.”

“You’re doing it for you,” you say. “You want proof so you can feel righteous. You want a reason to hate him so you don’t have to sit with the fact that she chose him.”

Soobin’s throat works. His gaze drops to the paper, then back up. His voice comes out tight. “You don’t know her.”

“I don’t need to,” you reply. “I know you.”

His jaw clenches at that. He looks offended, then something else flickers—panic, maybe, at being seen too cleanly.

You tap your pen once. “Now. If you still want to do this, you listen.”

He sits straighter, as if posture will help.

“You cannot be in the room,” you say.

He immediately protests. “Why not?”

“Because you’ll ruin it,” you reply. “You’ll breathe too loud. You’ll twitch. You’ll glare. You’ll make him perform. He won’t say shit.”

“I won’t,” he says.

“You will,” you repeat, dead calm. “Your entire body is a tell. You’re basically a lie detector with legs.”

He looks like he wants to argue, then clamps his mouth shut instead.

“Second,” you continue, “you need to accept a possibility.”

His brows knit. “What possibility?”

“That he isn’t cheating,” you say.

Soobin goes still. “He is.”

“You don’t know that,” you reply. “You know rumours. Rumours are bored people with mouths.”

He stares at you. “He’s a fuckboy.”

“You keep saying that,” you say. “It’s not evidence. It’s a coping mechanism.”

“I know what men like him do.”

“And I know what men like you do,” you shoot back. “You mistake being good for being owed.”

His eyes widen. “I don’t—”

“You do,” you cut in. “You just package it nicely.”

Silence drops. Your chest rises and falls hard. His hands grip his knees. 

Both of you look annoyed. Both of you look tired.

Soobin speaks first, voice quieter and stubborn. “So what am I supposed to do?”

You stare at him. You want to say, let her go. You want to say, stop trying to control everything. You want to say, go to therapy and stop outsourcing your feelings to scammers.

You don’t. You’re not that generous—not for free. You lean back. “I’m supposed to come up with a plan that doesn’t get me arrested.”

“So come up with one,” he says, and the entitlement slips out again before he can catch it.

You blink. “There it is.”

His brows pull together. “What?”

“You,” you say. “You think you can just—order me.”

“I’m not ordering—”

“You are,” you snap. “You threatened to report me. You’re here because you think you can force me. That’s not asking. That’s coercion with a clean shirt.”

Soobin’s face tightens. Shame flickers across it fast, then gets shoved down. “I don’t want to force you.”

“But you are,” you reply. “Because you’re desperate.”

He stares at you, jaw clenched, then nods once, stiff. “Yes.” The admission hangs there, ugly and honest.

You exhale. “Alright. Give me time. Let me think.”

“You’ve had time,” he argues.

“I’ve had panic,” you correct. “Thinking costs extra.”

He looks like he wants to fight. He stands instead, stiff, controlled, and angry in a quiet way that makes you want to poke him just to see if he’ll crack.

At the door, he pauses, hand on the handle. “You’re still going to help me, right?”

You lift your brows. “You’re still threatening me, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t deny it, he just says, quieter, “Please.”

It’s the first time he’s said it without packaging it into a demand. It annoys you—it also hits you somewhere soft. You hate that. You hate him.

You wave him off. “Get out of my flat, Choi Soobin.”

He leaves.

You lock the door, turn around, and whisper into the empty room, “I’m going to kill Taehyun.”

Mangy blinks slowly from the windowsill, tail flicking once, as if he agrees.

By day two of planning, you realise Choi Soobin’s definition of a plan is you doing all the thinking while he stands there with his moral superiority and a folder.

By day three, his definition of a plan is stalking.

You find out in the worst way possible—texts at 07:42am that makes your stomach clench.

fucking moron: be ready in ten fucking moron: wear something normal fucking moron: no swearing today please

You stare at the messages. You stare at them some more. Then you type back with the fury of a woman who is not a passenger in her own life.

you: who the fuck are you talking to you: “no swearing” you: i will swear on purpose

Three dots appear. Disappear. Then appear again, as if he’s struggling.

fucking moron: can you just fucking moron: please fucking moron: we need to observe him

Observe. Observe what, exactly? His hands? His phone? Who he disappears with when he thinks no one’s looking?

You sigh. Soobin thinks he’s in a nature documentary. Next he’ll be whispering into the bushes about mating calls.

You throw your hoodie on, pull your hair into a knot, and shove your feet into trainers. Mangy watches from the windowsill with a look that says you’re doing it again, you loser. Your cat has never supported a single one of your decisions.

Soobin’s car is parked outside your building when you step out. It’s a clean, black BMW. The kind of car that doesn’t make a noise when you shut the door and makes you feel like you should apologise for existing near it.

Soobin is leaning against it, hands in his coat pockets, jaw tight, eyes scanning the street—like he expects Choi Yeonjun to appear behind a bin and start shagging someone in public.

He sees you and straightens immediately, then his gaze flicks to your hoodie and your trainers and your messy hair.

His mouth tightens. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

You stop walking. “Is that a problem?”

“It’s—fine,” he says, voice clipped, then he adds, “Just—try to look less like you’re here to rob someone.”

You snort. “We’re stalking someone.”

He opens his mouth, shuts it, then walks around and opens the passenger door for you.

You pause. “Are you opening my door?”

He looks irritated. “Get in.”

You slide in. The interior smells expensive. Clean leather and subtle cologne. Your whole body stiffens out of habit. You don’t like sitting in things you can’t afford—it makes you feel loud.

Soobin gets in and starts the engine. He checks his mirrors like he’s about to commit a crime—which, to be fair, he is.

You look at him. “So. What’s the plan?”

He grips the steering wheel. “We follow him.”

“We,” you repeat. “Like a couple of creeps.”

He glances at you. “Don’t start.”

“I’m starting,” you say. “You’ve dragged me out of bed before nine. This is a hostage situation.”

Soobin pulls out smoothly and drives with the calm focus of someone who’s never had to drive a car held together by hope. He doesn’t speed or swerve. He doesn’t even look slightly anxious behind the wheel, which is unfair.

Ten minutes later, you’re at his campus.

It’s all glass buildings and clean pavements and students who look like they’re living in an advert—carrying matcha lattes and tote bags, laughing as if their biggest problem is choosing which society to join. 

Your whole body wants to recoil on principle.

Soobin parks far enough away that nobody will see his car and connect it to anything embarrassing. He looks over at you, serious. “You can’t talk,” he says.

You stare. “Excuse me?”

“We’re blending in,” he says. “We need to blend.”

“Blend,” you repeat. “As what? A couple of fucking losers?”

“Please. Just—keep it minimal. No swearing. No… you.”

You smile, slow. “You’re obsessed with controlling things, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. He just gets out and closes the door a little too hard, then walks around to your side and opens your door again.

You step out, squinting at him. “Stop doing that.”

He glances up, frowning. “Doing what?”

“Opening my door,” you snap. “You’re not my dad.”

His ears go slightly red. “It’s just—polite.”

“It’s weird,” you mutter, then you follow him anyway.

Soobin walks like he belongs here. He nods at people and moves with purpose. His shoulders are tense, but he hides it behind posture. You trail beside him with your hands shoved in your hoodie pocket, trying not to look like you’re casing the place for a robbery.

He turns to you as you approach the main building. “Stay close.”

You raise a brow. “Why?”

“So you don’t stand out.”

“Too late,” you say. “My aura is screaming debt.”

He ignores that and pushes through the doors.

Inside is worse. Warm and bright and too clean. It smells of coffee and money and posh twats. Students are everywhere—sitting on benches, clustered in groups, laughing, typing, living. You feel instantly out of place, like you’ve walked into a world that assumes everyone is fine.

Soobin’s eyes scan the hall. “There,” he murmurs.

You follow his gaze.

Choi Yeonjun is walking through the lobby with a group of friends, easy posture, hands in his pockets, hair messy in an intentional way, laughter loud enough to make people turn. He looks exactly like his reputation—too comfortable, too confident, too unbothered by the fact he takes up space in a room.

And he’s surrounded.

The universe would never hand you an easy target. Yeonjun walks with three people flanking him, two behind him, one girl hanging off his shoulder as if she lives there. They look like a moving wall of noise.

Soobin’s jaw tightens. You can see the anger in the way he holds himself, the way his shoulders square.

“He’s always with someone,” Soobin mutters.

You glance at him. “Maybe he has friends. You should try it sometime.”

Soobin shoots you a look. “Do you have to start?”

“I’m just saying,” you reply. “You can’t be mad at a man for having mates.”

“I’m mad at him for existing,” Soobin says, then immediately looks horrified that he said that out loud.

You blink. “Oh. There it is.”

He glares at you. “Shut up.”

You both follow Yeonjun at a distance that makes you feel like an undercover cop in a really shit TV show. Soobin keeps stopping behind pillars. You keep stopping behind him, trying not to bump into him. It’s awkward and pathetic. It’s the least sexy thing you’ve ever done.

Yeonjun heads to a lecture hall.

Soobin leans toward you. “We wait.”

You both stand there in the corridor pretending you’re on your phones, except you’re not on your phone because Soobin will have an aneurysm if you look suspicious. You stare at a poster advertising a society for law students and try not to laugh.

Soobin watches the lecture hall doors like he’s guarding a bank vault.

“Do you see how insane this is?” you whisper.

Soobin doesn’t look away. “Be quiet.”

“I’m literally your accomplice,” you hiss. “You can’t talk to me like I’m your child.”

He finally glances at you, eyes sharp. “I’m trying not to get caught.”

“Caught doing what,” you ask. “Standing. Menacingly. With your good posture.”

His jaw clenches. He looks away again.

The lecture ends and students pour out. Yeonjun steps out with his group. Still surrounded.

Soobin’s face tightens again. You almost feel bad for him. Almost.

Yeonjun walks across the courtyard and stops to talk to someone else. His group expands.

Soobin mutters, “This is fucking mad.”

You look at him. “You swore.”

He freezes. “I didn’t.”

“You did,” you say, delighted. “You’re evolving.”

He looks furious. “Don’t talk to me.”

You follow Yeonjun for hours—lecture halls, coffee runs, the student union, some damp little smoking spot where everyone somehow already knows his name. He’s never alone. Not once. 

You move through campus like you’re about to be asked for your student ID and escorted out.

Soobin keeps checking his watch. You keep checking your feet—they hurt. Your back hurts. Your patience has left your body and moved to a different postcode.

At one point, Soobin pulls you behind a vending machine because Yeonjun turns his head too suddenly. You end up crushed into Soobin’s chest in a space that smells of crisps and dust. Soobin’s hand lands on your shoulder, steadying you, and his fingers are warm through your hoodie. Annoyingly steady. 

You stiffen—because you’re annoyed and your body is not allowed to have feelings right now. “Soobin,” you hiss, pushing his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m not—” he starts.

“You are,” you snap. “Hands to yourself. We’re not in a romcom.”

He glares at you. “Then stop making noise.”

“I’m not making noise,” you whisper.

“You breathe loudly,” he replies, dead serious.

You stare at him. “You’re insane.”

He ignores you and peeks around the vending machine again. Yeonjun is gone.

Soobin straightens, scanning the corridor. “Where did he go?”

“Maybe he vanished,” you say. “Maybe the virgin ghost ate him.”

Soobin shoots you a murderous look.

Then you see it. Yeonjun turns a corner down the hall, heading toward the toilets.

Soobin’s whole body goes tense, hope sparking. “He’s alone.”

You squint. “He’s going to the men’s toilets.”

Soobin nods. “Yes.”

You stare at him. “Absolutely fucking not.”

Soobin’s expression hardens. “We don’t have a choice.”

“I have a choice,” you snap. “The choice is not following a man into the men’s toilets.”

Soobin looks at you, offended. “We’re not going in.”

“Then what are we doing?” you ask. “Waiting outside the men’s toilets like creeps?”

Soobin doesn’t answer. He just starts walking.

You grab his sleeve and yank him back. “Soobin. Listen to me. I will not be batshit crazy with you. I have standards.”

He turns, eyes sharp. “You scam people for a living.”

“And you drink iced americano in winter,” you fire back. “We both make questionable choices. This is where I draw the line.”

Soobin looks like he wants to argue, then he forces himself to swallow it down. He stops. He watches the toilet door like he’s waiting for Yeonjun to come out and confess to cheating on the spot.

Five minutes pass. Ten. A student walks past and looks at you both suspiciously.

You adjust your hoodie and mutter, “I’m never coming here again.”

Soobin doesn’t even blink. “We need one moment. One.”

“You’ve been saying one moment for six hours,” you reply.

Soobin’s jaw tightens. 

Then the toilet door opens. Yeonjun steps out. And he’s not alone.

Two of his mates appear behind him, laughing, one of them slapping his shoulder—the three of them walking away together as if solitude doesn’t exist in his life.

Soobin’s face drops.

You stare at Yeonjun disappearing into the crowd, then back at Soobin. “Told you.”

Soobin doesn’t speak for a long second. Then he says, very quietly, “We’re not leaving.”

You blink. “Excuse me.”

He looks at you with that stubborn, awful determination again. “We’re not leaving until we get something.”

You laugh once, tired and disbelieving. “You’re actually insane.”

Soobin turns away and starts walking after Yeonjun again. You follow, because somehow, despite everything, you’re in this now.

By the time the sky starts darkening, you’ve walked enough steps to qualify for a half marathon and a mental breakdown.

Soobin’s still on campus, still scanning crowds, still watching Yeonjun’s orbit of friends. You’re standing beside him with your hands shoved in your hoodie pockets, ankles aching, patience evaporated, and the very specific rage that comes from spending a whole day stalking a man who refuses to be alone for even thirty seconds.

Yeonjun disappears into another group. 

You exhale through your nose. “That guy’s social life is fucking mad.”

Soobin doesn’t look away. “I know.”

“I totally see why you think he’s a red flag,” you add, since you’re already here, already committing crimes. “No one should have that many friends—it’s suspicious.”

Soobin finally glances at you, eyes sharp. “That’s not why he’s a red flag.”

“Then why?” you ask, bored. “Tell me. I’ve been following him for eight hours. I deserve context.”

Soobin’s mouth tightens. He looks like he wants to argue, then he realises his argument will sound insane. He looks away again. “Because he’s—”

“The campus fuckboy?” you supply.

He flinches. “Stop saying that.”

“You said fuckboy first,” you remind him.

He glares, then checks his watch. He’s been doing that all day—checking the time, checking the crowd, checking the direction Yeonjun’s walking, checking his own misery. It’s exhausting to witness. It’s also weirdly… consistent. Soobin is nothing if not committed to suffering.

Your stomach growls loud enough to count as an announcement.

Soobin’s eyes flick to you. “You haven’t eaten?”

You blink. “No.”

“Why?” he asks, frowning.

“Because I’m stalking a man with you,” you reply. “I’ve been too busy committing crimes to have lunch.”

He looks like he wants to say sorry, then catches himself and clamps his mouth shut. “We can get food.”

“We?” you repeat, suspicious.

He exhales. “Yes. We. Unless you want to faint dramatically in the middle of campus.”

“Tempting,” you mutter.

Soobin leads you off campus and into town—still tense, still scanning crowds. You end up at one of those vintage burger spots that’s been open longer than you’ve been alive, all dim lights and laminated menus and the smell of fried oil soaked into the walls as a permanent personality.

You slide into a booth with cracked vinyl. Soobin sits opposite you and pulls his phone out immediately, then puts it down again as if he’s remembered he’s meant to be present.

“Two burgers with fries,” you tell the server without looking at Soobin. “And a Coke.”

Soobin clears his throat. “Diet Coke, please.”

You turn your head slowly. “You drink Diet Coke?”

He looks offended. “Yes.”

“That explains a lot,” you say.

He glares at you. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re the type of man who thinks suffering should be calorie-controlled,” you reply, leaning back. “Don’t worry. I won’t judge you. I’ll just tell everyone.”

He mutters something under his breath that sounds dangerously close to swearing, then he presses his lips together hard enough to turn them pale.

When the food arrives, you eat like you’ve been starved—fries first, then burger, grease on your fingers, ketchup on your thumb, dignity gone. Soobin eats slower. He cuts his burger in half with a knife and fork at first, then seems to realise how insane that looks in a burger place and puts the cutlery down with a stiff little cough.

“You’re doing it again,” you say.

He pauses mid-bite. “Doing what?”

“Trying to behave,” you reply. “This is a burger. It’s allowed to be messy.”

His ears go faintly red. He takes a bite with his hands and looks annoyed that he’s grateful for the permission.

A few minutes pass in silence. You can hear the fryer and the music and the couple in the corner arguing quietly, and realise Soobin looks quieter than usual. Less angry and controlled. Just… annoyed at life.

You wipe your hands on a napkin and nudge his foot under the table with yours. “So,” you say. “I didn’t see your dream girl today. Are you ever going to introduce us?”

Soobin’s head snaps up. “Hell no.”

You snort. “Why? You think I’m going to hex her?”

“Yes,” he replies instantly.

You blink. “Wow. Rude.”

He frowns. “You lied to me about a virgin ghost.”

“That’s not an answer,” you say. “Why won’t you introduce me?”

He looks away, jaw tight. “She’s visiting her hometown.”

“You know you can just say where,” you reply. “You’re acting like she’ll appear behind you if you say her postcode.”

Soobin rubs his thumb along the edge of his napkin, a small restless movement. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?” you push.

He exhales, annoyed. “I don’t want you talking about her.”

“Is it because I’m rude?” you ask, deadpan.

“Yes,” he says, deadpan back.

You laugh, then point at him with a fry. “Okay. Fine. Rude question—if you’ve liked her for years, why did you wait until now?”

Soobin’s face closes instantly. “I didn’t wait.”

“You did,” you reply. “Years is waiting. That’s literally what years are.”

He stares at you. “I was in a relationship.”

You lift your brows. “You had a girlfriend?”

He looks irritated. “Yes.”

“And it wasn’t her?” you ask.

“No.”

You tap the table with your fingertips. “Tell me more.”

He takes a breath and speaks through his annoyance, words clipped. “She asked me out in high school. My girlfriend—ex-girlfriend. She liked me. I thought it would—maybe work.”

You tilt your head. “Did it?”

He gives you a look that says obviously not. “No.”

“Because,” you say slowly, watching his face, “it was always her.”

Soobin goes still for a beat. Then he looks away, staring at the ketchup bottle like it’s the safest thing in the room. “Yes,” he says quietly.

Your stomach does a weird little twist—that uncomfortable feeling of witnessing something honest when you’re used to jokes.

He continues, voice tighter. “And I thought she was out of my league.”

You snort. “You?”

He glares. “What?”

“You think she’s out of your league,” you repeat, disbelief creeping in. “You, Mr Fancy Car, Mr Switzerland, Mr Clean Shirt.”

His face hardens. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“It does,” you say. “That’s literally how leagues work.”

He shakes his head once. “Not when you actually—” he stops, frustration flashing, then forces the words out. “Not when you actually like someone. It makes you—stupid.”

You blink at him. “You’re already stupid.”

He shoots you a look that could kill. “Shut up.”

You grin. “No.”

He takes another bite of his burger, then speaks again, quieter now—as if the words are heavier than he wants them to be. “When I got to uni, I still thought I had no chance. Then I did the exchange semester and—I-I don’t know. Switzerland made me braver—or lonelier… or both.”

You chew on that for a second, then ask the question you’ve been thinking all day. “Why don’t you just move on?”

Soobin’s head snaps up. His eyes sharpen. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because it’s an option,” you reply. “Normal people do that.”

He laughs once, harsh. “Normal people.”

You shrug. “Yeah. There are other girls. There are other—”

He cuts you off, voice sharp. “No.”

You blink. “No?”

“No,” he repeats. His hands grip his burger harder than necessary. “There are other girls. There isn’t another her.”

You open your mouth with some rude comeback ready, and it dies in your throat.

Soobin keeps going, voice lower, angry and raw at once. “I’ve tried. I’ve dated. I’ve been the good boyfriend. I’ve done everything you’re meant to do. I still wake up and think about her. I still see her in stupid places. I still—“ He stops, jaw clenched, then exhales through his nose. “I still feel like I’m living the wrong life when she isn’t in it.”

The words hit you harder than you expect—not because they’re poetic. Because they’re honest in a way that doesn’t try to be pretty.

Your eyes sting. You blink. Hard.

It doesn’t help. Your tear glands decide to betray you in the middle of a burger place over a rich boy’s tragic love life. It’s embarrassing—criminal, even.

Soobin turns his head and catches you wiping at your face. His expression changes instantly—panic flashing across it, then confusion, then something softer he doesn’t know what to do with. “Why—why the—” he starts, then stops himself, flustered. “Are you crying?”

You glare at him, offended at your own moisture. “Shut the fuck up,” you say, voice thick. “I’m not crying.”

A tear drops. You wipe it away aggressively.

Soobin stares. “You are crying.”

“I’m not crying,” you insist, even as more tears pool. “My eyes are—reacting.”

“To what?” he asks, still flustered.

“To the fact you’re a fucking idiot,” you snap, then your voice cracks and you hate yourself for it. “Why the fuck would I get emotional over your failed love life?” 

Soobin’s face heats. He looks genuinely at a loss. He reaches for his napkin, then stops halfway, unsure if offering it would make it worse or better. “I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” you cut in, wiping your cheeks with your sleeve. “Don’t be nice. It’ll make me worse.”

His mouth twitches, helpless. “I’m not trying to be nice.”

“You’re literally panicking,” you say, pointing at his face. “Your whole face is panicking.”

He mutters, “I don’t know what to do,” then immediately looks annoyed that he said it.

You laugh once, watery. “Welcome.”

For a second, you just sit there. Two idiots in a booth. Grease on your fingers. Drinks sweating on the table. Soobin watching you as if you’re more confusing than the ghost story.

You wipe your eyes again and take a breath. 

Fine. Fine. Fine.

You hate that his earnestness has touched you. You hate that you feel bad for him. You hate that your body reacted before your pride could stop it.

You point at him with a fry, voice firm. “Don’t get excited. I’m only helping you because you’re blackmailing me.”

Soobin blinks. “Right.”

“And also,” you add, quieter, annoyed at yourself, “because you clearly actually care—which is inconvenient.”

His gaze holds yours. His voice comes out soft and careful. “I do care.”

You roll your eyes and shove the fry in your mouth before your face does something embarrassing again. “Eat your burger, Choi Soobin.”

He does.

And somewhere under all your swearing and irritation, your brain makes a decision you don’t say out loud. You’ll help him. Not because he deserves it. Because you can’t stand watching someone try that hard and still lose.

The next day you’re back on campus again.

Not because you woke up and thought, God, I can’t wait to stalk a stranger with a man who threatens people for sport. You’re here because you said you’d help, and yesterday’s talk over burger and fries did something irritating to your insides. 

Soobin stopped being a pure nuisance for a second. He became a person. A stubborn, exhausting person, but still.

You hate that you noticed. You hate that it softened you.

You’re walking beside him with a coffee you didn’t want and a headache you want even less. Soobin’s jaw is tight, eyes scanning the place, shoulders squared. He looks like he’s trying to hold himself together through posture alone. It’s familiar now—less annoying, but still annoying.

“You’re tense,” you say, not even teasing as hard.

“I’m focused,” he replies, clipped.

“That’s the same thing with better branding,” you mutter.

He glances at you. “Can you stop narrating me?”

“Can you stop walking like you’re about to arrest someone?” you shoot back, then your tone shifts before you can stop it. “You’re going to give yourself a migraine.”

He blinks at that, as if he didn’t expect care from your mouth. His ears go a shade pink. He looks away quickly, pretending he didn’t hear it.

You pretend you didn’t say it.

You spot Choi Yeonjun by accident—or by the universe still being petty. He’s crossing the courtyard with a book in his hand—which is already weird, since yesterday he moved through campus surrounded by mates and noise and confidence. 

Today he’s alone, hood up, walking fast as if he’s late.

Soobin freezes. You freeze too, then you feel that little spark of opportunity in your chest, the one that makes you think, Finally. A moment. A gap.

Soobin grabs your sleeve and pulls you toward the side of the building. “There,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m not blind.”

He doesn’t snap at you this time. He just nods once and keeps moving, like he’s learnt that you’re going to talk no matter what he asks.

Yeonjun heads inside.

So do you, since you’re in too deep now.

The building is quieter than the rest of campus. It smells of paper and dust and coffee that’s been abused. A sign near the entrance reads LIBRARY — QUIET ZONE.

Soobin pauses under it and looks at you. “No swearing,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “I’m not swearing.”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re thinking it.”

You open your mouth to deny it and a swear tries to climb out anyway. You clamp it down. Soobin looks smug for half a second—it’s unbearable.

You follow him past the desk, past the security gates, past students hunched over laptops with dead eyes.

Yeonjun weaves between shelves.

Soobin follows. You stick close, hood up, trying to look like you’re here to study and not here to ruin someone’s relationship.

Yeonjun turns down an aisle.

Soobin turns down the same aisle.

You trail behind him, stepping carefully, the carpet thick enough to swallow sound. The vents above hiss constantly, a soft white-noise that makes you bolder than you should be. 

Yeonjun reaches the end of the aisle and disappears around the corner.

Soobin quickens his pace. “Now,” he murmurs.

“Now what?” you whisper.

He ignores you and peeks around the corner. His whole body goes rigid.

You step up beside him and look.

There’s a cluster of people sitting at a table tucked into the corner of the library, sprawled with drinks and notebooks and the irritating ease of people who treat campus like a playground. Yeonjun is right there with them, dropping his book onto the table and leaning in to say something. They laugh. He laughs. His social life has respawned.

Soobin’s jaw tightens so hard you can see it. He looks like he wants to combust. He doesn’t. He just stands there, breathing through his nose, hands flexing at his sides.

You lean in, quieter than you’ve been all day. “Told you he’s never alone.”

Soobin shoots you a look. “Not helping.”

Your mouth twitches. “It’s factual.”

He turns back toward the aisle, then freezes again, eyes flicking past you.

Yeonjun turns his head—a small glance, a little scan, like his instincts have clocked something off. His gaze moves across the aisle.

Towards you.

Your stomach drops. Soobin’s hand shoots out and grabs your wrist.

Your heart jumps into your throat. “What are you—” you start.

He yanks you sideways with enough force that you nearly trip, and you stumble into a door you didn’t even notice tucked between shelves—a cleaning supplies room. A tiny sign reads STAFF ONLY in peeling tape. He pushes it open and pulls you inside fast, then slips in after you and shuts it.

The click of the latch lands in your brain.

The room is tiny—really tiny. Mop bucket. Brooms. Shelf of cleaning sprays. A stack of paper towels. It smells of bleach, lemon, damp cloth.

And it smells of Soobin—clean, warm, a scent that makes you think of fresh laundry and stable lives.

You’re pressed against the wall. Soobin is pressed against you. There is no space. No air. His chest rises and falls against yours. Your breath catches and your brain immediately starts panicking about things that are not helpful.

You can feel the heat of him through your hoodie. Your boobs brush against him every time you shift. He freezes when he realises it too.

“What the—” you whisper, then you swallow hard. “Soobin.”

He brings a finger to his lips, eyes wide. He’s listening.

You try to step back. There’s nowhere to go. Your shoulder bumps the shelf and a bottle of disinfectant wobbles. You catch it before it falls, heart pounding, then realise your hand is shaking.

Soobin’s gaze flicks down, then up, then down again, and his jaw tightens.

“What?” you mouth.

He shakes his head once, tight, then murmurs, barely a breath, “Don’t move.”

You stare. You try not to move. Your body betrays you anyway—your knee shifts a fraction, your hoodie rustles, and your boobs brush his chest again.

And he shifts too—now away, but closer.

It’s subtle, but you feel it immediately—his hips pressing tighter, his thigh nudging your thigh, the full line of him pinning you in place. Body heat and panic and the fact you’re both shoved into a cupboard like idiots.

And a hard press against your thigh.

Your eyes widen slowly, dragging down to his waist, then snapping back up to his face.

Soobin looks horrified—like he wants to die on the spot and would apologise to the grim reaper on the way out. His swallow is loud in the tiny space, he hates that you can hear it. He tries to shift his hips back and only succeeds in pinning you worse. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you whisper, voice shaking with disbelief. “Is that—”

His face goes red in a rush. “Stop,” he hisses.

“A boner,” you whisper, stunned. “A fucking boner.”

“It’s not—” he starts, then he clamps his jaw shut because there is no alternative explanation. 

There is only the fact his body has decided now is the time to betray him in the least convenient place possible.

Outside, the library goes dead quiet.

Then you hear voices again. Yeonjun’s voice, lazy and amused, drifting closer down the aisle. His mates with him, footsteps soft on carpet.

Soobin’s whole body goes rigid. He leans toward you slightly, mouth near your ear. He whispers, “Don’t breathe loud.”

You feel his breath and your brain short-circuits for the dumbest reason. You jerk your head, panicking, and press your palm to his cheek to push him back on instinct—pure get away from my ear before my mind does something stupid.

Soobin freezes. His eyes go wide.

You freeze too, hand still on his cheek, your palm pressed against his mouth. You pull it back quickly, cheeks burning. “Sorry,” you mouth.

His stare turns sharp. “What are you doing?” he whispers, annoyed now. “Knock it out.”

“Knock what out?” you whisper back.

“That,” he hisses, gesturing vaguely at your hand and his face and the fact you’re both losing your minds in a cupboard.

You scoff, too loud.

Soobin’s eyes go even wider. “Shh—”

Outside, the voices pause. “Did you hear that?” one of Yeonjun’s mates says, and the laughter drops a notch.

Your blood turns cold. Soobin’s hand shoots out and clamps over your mouth. He holds you still against the wall, eyes locked on yours, breathing shallow. Your eyes go wide. You stare at him, offended and terrified all at once. He looks back at you with a single clear message: If you make a sound, we’re dead.

Footsteps shift outside. Closer now.

Someone stops right by the cupboard door. You can feel it in the air—the presence, the shadow.

Soobin’s body presses tighter against yours, not on purpose, hiding you behind him even though there is nowhere to hide. Your thigh is still pinned. His hand is still over your mouth. Your heart is pounding so hard you think they’ll hear it through the wood.

The cupboard handle rattles. Not locked—just jammed, and old. 

Soobin’s eyes flick down to it, then back to you. His pupils are huge. His face is flushed. His jaw is set hard.

The footsteps pause.

You hold your breath.

Then the footsteps recede, moving away down the aisle. The voices pick up again. Laughter returns. The danger drifts off.

Soobin’s hand stays on your mouth for a beat too long.

Then he releases you. You inhale sharply, lungs burning, and glare at him.

He whispers, “Are you trying to get us caught?”

You whisper back, furious, “Are you trying to cum on my leg?”

His eyes flash with mortified anger. “I can’t control it.”

“Control it,” you hiss.

“Control your mouth,” he snaps back.

You open your mouth to argue again and Soobin immediately lifts his hand, pointing at you in warning. You clamp it shut.

You both stand there—sweating, breathing hard, furious, and trapped in a cupboard that smells of lemon bleach and poor decisions.

You think you’re clear. You think the danger has passed. You even let your shoulders drop a fraction, finally.

Then the cupboard door swings wide open. You both freeze at the same time—finally, blessedly silent. 

Choi Soobin wants to die. He wishes the ground would open up, swallow him, then politely close again so nobody has to deal with the mess. Because standing in the doorway, framed by fluorescent library lighting and the stink of lemon disinfectant, is Choi Yeonjun.

And Yeonjun is looking at Soobin—then at you—then back at Soobin with the slow, delighted expression of someone who thinks he’s just walked in on a live porno demonstration.

Soobin’s brain does that horrible buffering thing it does under pressure. His mouth goes dry. His spine goes cold. His body is still pressed too close to yours in the cleaning cupboard, and if the universe had any mercy at all, it would’ve erased the last sixty seconds from existence.

Yeonjun’s eyebrows lift. A grin starts forming—it’s smug before it’s even fully there. “Choi Soobin?” Yeonjun asks, voice low, incredulous, like he’s just spotted a rare animal in the wrong habitat. “What are you doing here, man?”

Soobin’s throat works. Nothing comes out.

He can’t even do his normal polite response. He can’t even say hello or pretend he’s in control. He’s just standing there with his cheeks burning and his dignity in pieces, and Yeonjun’s eyes are flickering between him and you. It makes Soobin want to launch himself headfirst into a bookshelf.

You’re beside him, wide-eyed, frozen, still half caught in the cupboard’s doorway. Your mouth is slightly open. Your hoodie is rumpled. Your hair looks like you’ve been fighting for your life in cleaning chemicals.

Soobin’s brain supplies, very unhelpfully, You have been fighting for your life in cleaning chemicals.

Yeonjun leans on the doorframe with the ease of a man who’s never once been humbled in public. His gaze drops—one second, quick—and Soobin feels his soul leave his body.

Oh God.

He knows what Yeonjun’s seen. He knows Yeonjun’s clocked the closeness, the weird tension, the fact Soobin’s breathing a little too fast, the fact you’re still pink in the face—

—and the fact Soobin is absolutely, undeniably, mortifyingly hard.

He wants to pass away on the spot.

Yeonjun’s smirk turns sharper. “I was worried about you,” he says, in a tone that suggests he was never worried about Soobin a day in his life. “But look at you.”

Soobin’s hands curl into fists at his sides. He forces his jaw to unclench. He forces himself to breathe through his nose. He tells himself, Don’t punch him. Don’t punch him. Don’t punch him. This is a library.

Yeonjun’s eyes slide to you again. His chin tips. “Who’s this?”

Soobin’s brain scrambles. He cannot tell the truth.

He cannot look Yeonjun in the eyes and say: This is the broke, foul-mouthed scammer who invented a virgin ghost and stole my money. I blackmailed her into helping me sabotage you, since you’re dating the girl I’m in love with.

That sentence would get him institutionalised.

He also cannot say: This is my friend.

Friends don’t end up wedged in a cupboard together, bodies pressed chest-to-chest, with Soobin’s dignity and erection both fully out of control. Friends do not have their breath caught in each other’s throats. Friends do not stand there with their eyes wide and their mouths shut, praying for death.

Yeonjun lifts a brow, waiting.

Soobin’s pulse bangs against his ribs. His ears are hot. His stomach churns. His pride tries to climb out of his throat and die.

He has two choices. Admit he’s been stalking Yeonjun around campus for two days like a deranged Victorian widow. Or lie.

Soobin is very honest. He’s always been honest. He’s been raised on honesty. He’s the kind of person who returns lost wallets, the kind of person who feels guilty if he takes two napkins instead of one.

Today, he is also the kind of person cornered in a cleaning cupboard with a smug bastard in the doorway and his own hormones actively committing crimes.

Soobin chooses lie.

He smiles. It’s the worst smile of his entire life. It feels stretched, wrong, too wide. His face does not know how to do it. “Yes,” he says, too bright. “Hi.”

Yeonjun’s expression turns even more entertained. “Hi,” he echoes, eyes still on you.

Soobin’s lungs forget how to work. Say something normal—say something that ends this. He nods again, eager and manic. “This is my girlfriend.”

The cupboard goes silent.

Soobin hears the words leave his mouth and he wants to bite his tongue clean off. Your head snaps toward him so fast your hair moves. Your face is pure horror. Soobin keeps smiling. He keeps smiling harder. He keeps smiling in a way that says please, for the love of God, just go with it.

You don’t go with it—not immediately. You just stare at him, lips parted, eyes wide, as if you’re about to say something that will ruin every single one of you.

Soobin, still smiling, brings his hand down and pinches your side. Hard. Not enough to bruise. Enough to make you react, drag you out of shock and into violence.

You yelp—an actual sound, loud enough that a few heads on the other side of the aisle might’ve turned if the classical music of the library wasn’t swallowing everything.

Yeonjun’s eyebrows shoot up. He looks delighted. “Oh?”

You glare at Soobin with the fury of a woman who has just been dragged into a lie against her will. Then you plaster on an expression that’s… something. It’s not sweet, nor convincing. It’s more I’m going to kill him later and bury him behind the science building.

“Yeah,” you manage, voice tight. “Hi.”

Yeonjun’s grin widens. He looks between you again. “Girlfriend,” he repeats slowly, tasting it. “Right.”

Soobin nods far too quickly. “Yes.”

Yeonjun hums, eyes sparkling with evil. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Soobin.”

Soobin’s eyelid twitches. “I—”

Yeonjun cuts him off with a lazy little laugh. “Honestly? Good for you. Character development.”

Soobin wants to set himself on fire.

He tries to step forward out of the cupboard. His shoulder bumps the shelf, something rattles and a bottle clinks. He catches it on instinct, then freezes again, remembering he’s in a cleaning cupboard in the library, pretending you’re his girlfriend, while his actual enemy stands in the doorway smiling.

Yeonjun’s gaze flicks past them, down the aisle, then back. “So,” he says, all casual. “What are you two doing in here?”

Soobin’s brain sprints. He gestures vaguely at the shelf. “Cleaning.”

You make a sound that’s half cough, half laugh. Soobin shoots you a warning look.

Yeonjun’s smile gets even nastier. “Cleaning,” he repeats, amused. He leans a fraction closer, lowering his voice. “In the middle of the day—in a cupboard.”

Soobin feels the heat climb up his neck. He can’t stop it. He can’t hide it. He’s losing at being a person.

Yeonjun’s eyes land on you again. “You don’t look like a cleaner.”

You glare. “You don’t look like you read books.”

Yeonjun’s laugh bursts out. It’s loud enough that someone shushes him from two aisles over. He lifts a hand in apology, still smiling.

Soobin’s stomach twists—of course Yeonjun finds it funny, of course Yeonjun can laugh. Yeonjun has never once been humiliated in a way that sticks. He just glides through life with his perfect teeth and his too-easy charm and his friends and his attention.

Yeonjun’s gaze flicks back to Soobin. “Anyway,” he drawls. “I’ll leave you two to it.”

He starts to close the cupboard door slowly, the way someone closes a curtain at the end of a show.

Soobin’s panic spikes. If that door closes, they’re stuck again. If that door closes, the cupboard becomes a trap. If that door closes, Soobin is stuck with you pressed to him and his body will keep betraying him and—

Yeonjun pauses with the door half shut, as if he can feel Soobin’s internal screaming.

Then he leans in again, voice conspiratorial. “I do recommend you find a better spot, though.”

Soobin’s stomach drops.

Yeonjun smiles wider, eyes gleaming. “Gym storage room’s much better. You can lock it from the inside.”

He winks. Soobin goes cold. That wink lands in his body like a punch. It’s not a joke. It is a loaded piece of information from a man who has absolutely, definitely used that storage room for something filthy.

Soobin’s mind flashes a mental image before he can stop it—your hands, your mouth, that storage room, the lock—

He nearly gags.

Yeonjun finishes closing the door with a soft click, and the cupboard becomes a sealed little hell again.

Soobin stands there in the dark-ish, surrounded by mops and cleaning fluid, feeling the humiliation sink in layer by layer. He stares at the door, eyes wide. “Did he… did he just—”

You, still pressed near him, whisper, “He just recommended a shag spot.”

Soobin makes a sound that’s half strangled breath, half disgust. “Why would there be a lock? Why would a storage room have a lock? That’s—”

“That’s not your business,” you hiss.

“It is my business,” he snaps back quietly, then immediately regrets snapping, because you turn your head and glare at him with the kind of look that says you’re one word away from being murdered with bleach.

“Don’t even start,” you snap, shifting slightly.

The moment you shift, Soobin’s entire body reacts. His breath catches. His thigh presses. His shame floods in all over again.

You freeze. “Oh my God,” you whisper, appalled. “Still?”

Soobin squeezes his eyes shut. “Stop moving.”

“I moved one centimetre.”

“Then stop moving that centimetre,” he hisses.

You stare at him in the dim. Your expression is furious. Your cheeks are hot. Your voice drops lower, almost venomous. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Soobin opens his eyes, mortified rage flashing. “Nothing is wrong with me.”

“You’re hard in a cupboard.”

“I’m under stress,” he snaps.

“Your penis isn’t,” you whisper, disgusted. “Your penis is thriving.”

He swallows. “I need a second,” he mutters.

The fight drains out of your face a fraction, replaced by something awkward and uncomfortable and human. “Oh,” you say, suddenly quieter. “Right.”

Soobin stares at the cupboard door, breathing through his nose, trying to force his body to behave. He tries thinking of anything else. His dad’s face. His professor’s voice. His own humiliation. Death. Taxes. The smell of bleach.

Nothing works. His brain keeps circling back to Yeonjun’s wink, the storage room, the lock, and you standing there with your mouth sharp and your eyes bright.

He hates his own hormones. He hates Choi Yeonjun. He hates the fact this is happening while he’s meant to be saving Dream Girl from a fuckboy. He hates that he even thought saving.

Soobin swallows again, jaw clenched. “Don’t say anything,” he whispers.

You let out a slow breath. “Trust me,” you whisper back. “I’m trying not to exist right now.”

Outside the cupboard, the library sound drifts back in—soft footsteps, pages turning, someone coughing into their sleeve. Inside, it’s just the two of you, pressed into a corner of lemon-scented humiliation, waiting for Soobin’s body to stop betraying him.

He shifts his weight carefully, trying to create an inch of space. Your breath catches. Soobin hears it. 

This is how people end up pregnant and angry. Not you. Not here. Not with bleach in the air. 

Your voice comes out tight, annoyed, and slightly shaken. “If you so much as breathe on my neck again, I’m going to elbow you in the throat.”

Soobin glares at the cupboard door, voice flat. “Let’s be mature about this.”

“Your dick is not being mature,” you mutter.

You don’t catch Choi Yeonjun cheating or alone or doing anything except existing with his mates and smirking at you from across corridors in a way that makes your skin crawl.

By the time you finally leave campus, it’s dark enough that the streetlights are doing most of the work. The air is cold and damp. Your hoodie smells faintly of cleaning spray from the cupboard incident. Your pride feels bruised in places you didn’t know pride could bruise.

Soobin walks beside you with his hands shoved into his coat pockets, jaw clenched, shoulders tight. He hasn’t said much since the library. He’s been doing that thing where he goes quiet and tries to act like he’s not boiling from the inside. It’s not working.

It makes you want to poke him just to see if he’ll crack. You don’t initially, since you’ve learnt that cracked Soobin isn’t funny cracked—it’s sharp cracked, the kind that cuts.

You try anyway, because you can’t help yourself. “Well,” you say, stretching the word out. “Today was productive.”

Soobin doesn’t look at you. “Be quiet.”

“What?” you say, innocent. “We got to smell lemon bleach. We got sexually harassed by a storage room. We—”

Soobin stops walking. He turns his head slowly. His eyes are dark with irritation. “Stop.”

You blink. “Alright, sorry, Mister Panties Twisted.”

His nostrils flare. “This isn’t funny.”

“It’s a bit funny,” you argue, trying to keep your tone light. “It’s humiliating but—”

“I’m not laughing,” he says, voice flat.

“You never laugh,” you shoot back. 

His jaw tightens. “Can you stop making jokes for one minute?”

You frown. “I’m literally trying to stop you from having a stroke.”

“I’m fine,” he snaps.

“Yeah,” you say. “You look fine.”

He keeps walking, faster now. You have to speed up to match him, trainers slapping wet pavement.

“So what’s your plan?” you ask, not joking this time. “We just follow him forever. We grow old on campus. We start paying tuition again. We become furniture.”

“So you admit you’ve done fuck all?” he says, and it lands cold.

You stop walking. He keeps going for two steps, then stops too, like he realises you’re not following and that makes him angry all over again. He turns back.

Your chest tightens. “What did you just say?” you ask.

Soobin’s expression is sharp now. “You heard me.”

“I heard you,” you say, voice rising. “I just want to know if you’re actually stupid enough to say it twice.”

His jaw jumps. “You’re a scammer.”

You know that you’re a scammer—you’ve been proud of it at times. For some reason, coming out of Soobin’s lips right now, the word hits you like a slap. You blink once. “Oh. We’re doing this.”

“You’re a crook,” he says, louder, and now you can hear the rage shaking under his politeness. “You lie to people for money. You take advantage of them when they’re desperate. You—”

“Oh, you don’t,” you cut in, stepping closer. “Do not stand there and talk to me like you’re better when you blackmailed me into helping you sabotage someone’s relationship.”

Soobin’s eyes flash. “I wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t scam me in the first place.”

“And you wouldn’t have gotten scammed if you had a single ounce of critical thinking,” you snap back. “You came to a random girl’s flat and believed a virgin ghost was latched onto your back.”

His face goes red. “That is not—”

“It is,” you say. “That is exactly what it is. You were desperate, and you were stupid, and I was broke.”

He flinches at broke, like the word tastes bad. It’s the first time you’ve seen him hesitate like he’s just realised the game has different rules for you. You clock it and it makes something ugly surge in your chest.

“So you’re admitting you did it,” he says, voice tight. “Because you’re broke.”

“Yes,” you say, stepping even closer now. “Yes, I did it. What do you want, a confession? A certificate? A fucking trophy? I scammed you. I scam people. Not because it’s fun.”

Soobin scoffs. “You seemed like you were having fun.”

“That’s my coping mechanism,” you bite out. “Sorry I don’t cry prettily in public and wear a clean shirt and sit upright.”

He stares at you, breathing hard now, anger fully out.

“You don’t get it,” you continue, and your voice is shaking now, not with fear—with fury. “You don’t get to come in here acting like you’re some noble victim when your biggest problem is some girl didn’t pick you.”

Soobin’s lips part. “It’s not—”

“It is,” you cut in. “It is. That’s your tragedy. That’s your heartbreak. And yeah, I get it, it hurts, but you have no idea what it’s like to wake up with your stomach in your throat because rent is due and your bank balance is a joke.”

Soobin’s expression shifts, uncomfortable. “I—”

“Don’t try,” you snap, pointing at him. “Don’t try and act like you understand. You drive a fancy car around. You don’t worry about tuition fees. You don’t worry about whether your landlord is going to evict you and pretend it’s renovations. You don’t worry about whether you’ll have to drop out because you can’t fucking pay.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. “You don’t know what I worry about.”

You laugh, sharp and humourless. “Oh yeah? Tell me. Tell me your worries.”

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

You keep going, voice cracking now because the anger is too big and you can feel it pushing tears up even though you hate it. “Fuck, you never had to fall like this,” you say, the words spilling out faster now. “You never had to claw your way up while everything keeps trying to pull you back down. You never had to scam people to survive. You never had to sit there and decide between groceries and your phone bill. You never had to—”

Your throat tightens hard. You swallow and it doesn’t help.

“So don’t you dare look at me like I’m disgusting,” you say, and your voice breaks on the last word. “Don’t you dare.”

Soobin’s face changes. The anger flickers. Something else shows through for half a second—shock, maybe, or guilt, or the realisation that he stepped on a live wire.

“You’re not—” he starts.

You wipe at your cheek harshly with the sleeve of your hoodie. “Stop.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” you snap, and more tears spill anyway, hot and humiliating. “You meant every word. Scammer. Like you’ve never benefited from anyone’s kindness and still called it earned.”

Soobin’s hands lift slightly, then drop again. He looks lost for a moment. He looks like he wants to say something that isn’t angry. “You don’t have to—” he starts again.

“You don’t get to comfort me,” you cut in immediately, voice thick, furious at yourself for crying in front of him. “You don’t get to call me disgusting and then try to be nice. Pick a lane.”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t call you disgusting.”

“You didn’t have to,” you spit. “Your face did.”

Soobin flinches. He takes a small step forward. “I’m sorry.”

You laugh, wet and mean. “There you go. You can say it.”

He stops. His hands curl into fists again, not aggressive, helpless. “I didn’t know.”

“Exactly,” you say, voice shaking. “You didn’t know. So stop acting like you’re above me.”

Silence hangs between you, heavy and damp. Cars pass. A couple walks by on the other side of the street, laughing, normal, living their little normal lives, and it makes you want to scream.

Soobin’s voice comes out quieter. “I didn’t have a choice.”

You stare at him, eyes burning. “Neither did I.”

He looks at you for a long beat. His face is tight. He looks like he wants to say something—he doesn’t. His pride is still there, clinging.

And you’re done. You turn away from him sharply, wiping at your face again, and start walking—not walking, actually. Storming.

Soobin calls after you. “Wait—”

You don’t turn around.

“Wait,” he says again, louder.

You keep going. Your breath comes fast. Your chest hurts. Your eyes sting. Your whole body feels hot with anger and humiliation, and you tell yourself you’re crying because you’re pissed off, not because he managed to make you feel small in the same way the world always does.

You hear his footsteps behind you for a second.

Then they stop.

You don’t look back. You just keep walking, then speeding up, then practically jogging, as if you can outrun the feeling in your chest.

You get to the corner and you don’t even wipe your face anymore.

Let people see. Let them judge. You’ve been judged your whole life. Another stranger’s opinion won’t pay your rent.

You turn the corner and you’re gone.

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a/n: guys i would love to do a long an but i'm so exhausted hahah!! i hope this was worth the wait, lmk. pls remember that your comments, reblogs and asks fuel my fingers!! much love <3

target: you know the drill!! next part dropping at either 350 notes or 03/03. want faster updates? spam me in the comments, reblogs and asks.

review your experience, thoughts, or unhinged feelings here

You sit behind your folding table—one leg shorter than the others—trying to make the wobble look like atmosphere. There’s a bowl of rice on your right, tarot decks stacked on your left. A notebook with CLIENT NOTES on the front that’s ninety percent doodles and unpaid invoices. Your incense burner coughs out smoke in lazy little bursts.

You’re supposed to be closed. The doorbell rings anyway. A long press that says whoever is outside thinks that the world should open its legs for them. 

You don’t move at first. You just stare at the bowl of rice and consider becoming a different person—one with a proper job and morals.

The doorbell rings again.

“Alright,” you mutter, dragging yourself up. “Keep your fucking hair on.”

You pad down the short hall, stepping over a parcel you haven’t opened because it might be a bill in disguise, and yank the door open.

He’s standing there like he’s been dropped off by a private school.

Tall. Clean. Denim jacket too crisp for winter. Hair soft and floppy and annoyingly nice. His face is unfair—pretty in a way that says he never had to survive on adrenaline and paracetamol. He smells of money, too—clean laundry and subtle cologne.

And he’s holding an envelope—a thick one. You don’t even pretend you’re above it. Hunger’s not shameful, it’s just inconvenient.

He clears his throat. “Hi. Sorry—um—”

You cut him off. “If you’re here to convert me to some new religion or sell me broadband, I’m going to bite you.”

His eyes widen, startled. He blinks, buffering. “No—no. I’m not. I’m here for—” He glances down at the business card he’s holding, not trusting his own memory. “For the—sh-shaman.”

You lean on the doorframe. “That’s me.”

His eyes widen a fraction, then he schools his expression. “Oh.”

“What?” you say, already irritated. “Expected incense and chanting? Expected an old woman with a crystal ball and a warning about your bloodline?”

“I didn’t—” He flushes, quick. “No. I just—hi.”

“Hi,” you echo, deadpan. “You gonna stand on my doorstep all day or are you coming in?”

He hesitates, then steps forward, clutching the envelope so hard it creases at the corners. His gaze flicks past you, taking in the hallway—shoe rack overflowing, recycling piled in the corner, a dead plant you keep on the windowsill—and his polite face cracks for half a second into surprise.

You catch it. “What?” you snap.

“Nothing,” he says too fast. “Sorry.”

“Shoes off,” you tell him, pointing.

He pauses. “Oh—right.” 

He takes his trainers off and lines them up neatly, toe to heel, like he’s at his mum’s house. You hate him a bit more for it. Not because it’s wrong—because it’s him.

You turn and walk him toward the back room. He follows with careful steps, shoulders slightly tense, as if he expects a spirit to jump him in the hallway. You don’t look back, you don’t need to—you can feel the rich-boy caution rolling off him, the kind that says he’s never been in a place where people don’t perform politeness.

You pull the curtain aside and gesture him in.

He stops just inside and takes the room in properly—folding table, rice bowl, fairy lights, the curtain hiding the washing machine, incense smoke crawling up the wall, a tiny space heater in the corner because the radiator is as useless as your degree.

“This is—” he starts again.

“My studio,” you say. “Sit down before you start narrating your shock out loud.”

He lowers himself onto the cushion opposite the table, posture straight. He tucks in his knees slightly, trying to take up less space. The envelope is placed on his lap, fingers still clutched tightly around it. You clock the tension. When he shifts, you also clock the expensive watch peeking out from his sleeve. 

Your stomach turns in the familiar way it does around money—the sharp awareness that you live in two different worlds and his one has softer landings.

You drop into your chair and kick the table leg lightly with your foot until the wobble stops. Professional. “Name,” you say.

He swallows. “Choi Soobin.”

“Course it is,” you mumble, because you’ve never met a Soobin who wasn’t tragic. Your eyes flick over his face. “You look like you’ve come back from a fancy year abroad and realised life didn’t magically sort itself out just because you saw mountains.”

His brows lift, offended on instinct. “I—how do you—”

You hold up a hand. “Don’t. If you start asking me how do you know questions, I’m going to charge you extra.”

His mouth twitches. He hesitates, then clears his throat.

“It’s a consultation,” you add, tapping the table. “Talk.”

He nudges the envelope onto the table, sliding it toward you with both hands, offering tribute. “I was told you could help me with a—r-ritual. Or a talisman. Something love-related.”

“Love-related,” you repeat. “God, you lot talk like you’re booking a dentist appointment.”

He frowns. “You’re rude.”

“And you’re paying me,” you fire back, leaning in. “So either you’ve got a humiliation kink or you’re desperate.”

His cheeks go red. “I’m not—”

“Desperate,” you say, nodding. “Got it. Who’s upset you?”

His jaw tightens. There it is, the crack under all the politeness. “It’s not like that.”

You gesture at the rice bowl. “Mate, you walked into a stranger’s flat with a fat envelope asking for a love ritual. It’s exactly like that.”

He glances at the bowl, frowns, then looks back up. “Are you going to use that?”

“Depends on how annoying you are,” you say.

He sits up straighter. “I’m not annoying.”

You snort. “You’re already annoying and you’ve said about twelve words. Continue.”

He inhales, visibly trying to keep his voice steady. “There’s a girl,” he begins, and you can hear him hating himself for matching the script of every sad man you’ve ever scammed. “I’ve liked her for years. We started talking properly a few months ago. Like—every day. It felt—r-real. And then she met someone else.”

You don’t let your face change. You’ve seen heartbreak in every flavour—snotty, dramatic, smug, pathetic. Soobin’s is the worst kind: quiet, polite, trying not to spill in public.

“Right,” you say. “And you want me to do what? Rip her away from the other guy with my magical rice?”

His mouth twitches again; he wants to laugh, but he’s not sure if laughter is allowed in a shaman’s studio. “I just want a—a chance.”

“That’s embarrassing,” you tell him immediately, allergic to sincerity.

His eyes sharpen, hurt flashing. “Excuse me?”

“It’s embarrassing,” you repeat. “That you’ve waited years and now you’re here paying for destiny because you still can’t say what you want to her face.”

His throat works, gaze dropping to his hands. “I did ask her out.”

“Did you?” you say, unimpressed. “Or did you send a polite little message and hope the universe did the rest?”

He goes still, jaw clenching. “I asked her.”

“And?”

“And she said yes,” he says, voice flat. “Then she—she left.”

You pause. “She left?”

He nods once, tight. “During the date.”

“Fuck me,” you mutter, genuine for the first time. “That’s brutal.”

He flinches at your vocabulary. You clock it and grin. “Oh, you’re one of those.”

“One of what?” he snaps, finally showing teeth.

“One of those posh boys who think swearing is a personality flaw,” you say, delighted. “I could have so much fun ruining you.”

His ears go bright red. “I’m not posh.”

You lift a brow and look pointedly at his jacket, his watch, the envelope, the whole vibe. “Yeah, sure.”

He exhales, frustrated. “Can you help me or not?”

There we go—the spine and pulse under all that good-boy packaging. You reach for the bowl of rice with a sigh, all the enthusiasm of charity work. “Fine. Hold still.”

He falters. “What are you doing?”

“Diagnosis,” you say. “Shut up.”

You scoop a handful of rice and throw it at his chest. The grains bounce off his denim and stick to the fabric, a few landing in his hair. He jerks, eyes wide, hands frozen mid-air—unsure whether touching the rice will get him cursed. His whole body screams I have never been in a situation like this in my life.

“Is this—uhm—normal?”

“No,” you say. “But neither is paying a stranger to fix your love life, so let’s not start demanding normal now.”

He goes still again, breathing shallow. “Okay.”

You lean forward, squinting at his shoulder, pretending to look at some spectral shit. You stand up and circle him once—slow enough to make him uncomfortable—then click your tongue in disappointment. “Yeah,” you say. “Now it makes sense.”

His eyes widen. “What does?”

You drop your voice. “There’s a virgin ghost attached to your back.”

Silence.

Soobin’s mouth parts. He keeps checking over his shoulder, checking you, then checking over his shoulder again—determined to spot the ghost without fully turning around. “A—w-what?” he whispers.

“A virgin ghost,” you repeat, nodding with full confidence. “She’s clinging on. Blocking your love energy. That’s why you’re getting dumped mid-date.”

His throat bobs. “How—how do you know that?”

You smile. “Because you’re giving off tragic, untouched, emotionally constipated energy.”

His face goes scarlet. “That’s not—”

And because my mate at the bar basically spoon-fed me your entire sob story, you think, but you don’t say it, because you’re not stupid. You’re a scammer. There’s a difference.

Instead you tilt your head, all calm confidence. “I’m a shaman,” you say. “This is what I do best.”

He stares at you, genuinely horrified, then looks down at the rice on his clothes, waiting for it to do something supernatural.

“So,” you continue, grabbing your notebook and scribbling absolute nonsense—circles, lines, something that looks ancient if you don’t stare too hard—“tell me about her.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. “I’m not telling you her name.”

“Alright,” you say. “I’ll call her Soobin’s Problem.”

He looks ready to argue, then thinks better of it. He’s in your flat, you’ve got rice within arm’s reach, and your patience is clearly optional. He swallows it down. “She’s—important.”

“Obviously,” you say. “She’s got you sat here with rice in your hair.”

He reaches up, finally plucks a grain out of his fringe, and glares at it with personal offence.

You tap your pen. “Who’s she with?”

His whole body goes tight. “Someone.”

“Someone?” you repeat, bored on purpose.

He exhales. “Choi Yeonjun.”

You let the name land, not because you’re impressed—because you enjoy watching him suffer.

Soobin’s eyes flicker. “You know him?”

“Everyone knows him,” you say. “Campus bicycle.”

Soobin looks taken aback. “That’s—”

“Accurate,” you cut in. “Now. You want her back? You want him gone? You want me to meddle?”

He leans forward, voice low and serious. “I want you to fix it.”

“Fix it,” you echo, and you open the envelope at last.

It’s full of crisp, thick notes. The kind of money that doesn’t come from part-time jobs and overdrafts. The kind of money that makes your chest squeeze in a way you hate. You could pay rent with this, you could buy groceries without doing maths in the aisle, you could stop pretending you’re fine for a month.

You keep your face neutral anyway. You’re not giving him the satisfaction of seeing you react.

He watches you, waiting for you to say it’s not enough. You don’t. 

You just slide the cash into your drawer and close it with a click. “So,” you say, folding your hands. “You want a talisman.”

Soobin nods fast. “Yes.”

You reach into a little box beside you and pull out a pendant on a string—cheap metal you bought from AliExpress, washed in salt water, dressed up as destiny—and drop it into his palm.

He stares at it with the seriousness of a man holding a relic. “I need to wear this?”

“All the time,” you say.

“In the shower?”

“Yes.”

“While I sleep?”

“Yes.”

He hesitates. “What if it falls off?”

You meet his eyes. “Then the ghost gets stronger.”

He goes pale. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing—because you’re a professional and also because you’ve got a reputation to maintain as the local love shaman, not the local menace.

Soobin closes his fingers around the pendant, gripping it as if it might save his life. “How long does it take?”

You shrug. “Depends how clingy she is.”

“The ghost?”

“Yeah,” you say, deadpan. “Not the girl—the girl left. The ghost stayed.”

He flinches. “That’s not even funny.”

“It is a bit funny,” you reply. “Not to you, obviously—to me.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. “You’re awful.”

“And you’re paying me,” you remind him, leaning back. “So maybe ask yourself what that says about your decision-making.”

He exhales, frustrated, then nods once, accepting his fate. He stands, still clutching the pendant. He looks as though he’s walked into a cult and decided to commit anyway because heartbreak is worse.

At the door, he pauses. He glances back, voice quieter. “This is real, right?”

You smile, bright and sweet, and lie straight through your teeth. “Of course it’s real.”

Soobin nods, believing you—then leaves with rice in his hair and hope in his pocket. You watch him go, and turn to open your drawer again, just to look at the cash. It reminds you that morality is for people with savings.

“Easy money,” you mutter.

If only you had known how badly this was going to come back and bite you in the ass.

A week after you hand Soobin the damp pendant and take his cash, you learn something important about Choi Soobin as a person.

He does not know how to leave shit alone.

You already knew he was polite. You already knew he had the spine of a wet napkin when feelings got involved. What you didn’t clock fast enough is that he treats spiritual work the way people treat their Amazon orders—track it, refresh it, poke it, panic when it doesn’t arrive within twenty-four hours.

Your phone becomes his second talisman. It starts with messages that pretend they’re quick.

fucking moron: hi sorry fucking moron: quick one fucking moron: if i walk under a ladder will something bad happen

You ignore it for ten minutes, then answer anyway—since you’re weak and also trying to keep your scam believable.

you: no. fuck off.

Three dots appear instantly.

fucking moron: okay sorry fucking moron: i walked under one by accident fucking moron: it should be fine right

You put your phone face-down and press your forehead to the table—the folding one with the dodgy leg that wobbles any time you show emotion, as if it’s embarrassed to be seen with you.

Mangy watches you from the cushion, eyes half-lidded, tail flicking once. He’s been fed and watered, yet he still treats you like a disappointment.

Then the calls start.

Your phone rings at 12:17am while you’re standing over the sink eating noodles straight out of the pot. fucking moron flashes up. Your whole body goes rigid because you know the next ten minutes are about to be stolen.

You answer without greeting. “What?”

“Oh,” he says, startled, as if he expected you to answer with a smile and a prayer. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to call this late.”

“You called,” you reply. “This isn’t a sneeze. It didn’t happen by accident.”

He pauses, then rushes on. “The pendant. It’s—warm.”

You shut your eyes. “It’s on your chest.”

“It’s warmer than normal,” he insists. “I noticed it and I thought—what if it’s a sign?”

“Your sign is that you’re anxious and have too much free time,” you tell him. 

“I can’t sleep,” he admits. “I keep thinking about her.” The words come out like he’s ashamed of them.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Right. So you’re ringing me to tell me you’re heartbroken?”

“No,” he says quickly. “I’m ringing because the talisman—”

“Yeah,” you cut in, “and the talisman is warm because your body is warm and your feelings are boiling your brain. This is Year Seven science and Year One emotional incompetence. Were you bullied in school or did you just outsource your brain to Switzerland?”

He clears his throat. “I wasn’t bullied.”

“You should’ve been,” you mutter.

“You’re very rude,” he says.

“And you’re very persistent,” you reply. “We all have flaws.”

Silence.

Then, very careful, “So it means nothing.”

It cannot mean nothing—not to him, not to your rent, not to your pride.

You drop your voice into your professional tone, the one that sounds calm even when you’re exhausted. “It means something,” you say. “Warmth means movement. Movement means the ghost is reacting.”

“So it’s working?”

“It’s working,” you confirm. “Now hang up and stop treating me as your spiritual 111.”

“Okay,” he whispers. “Sorry. Thank you.”

He hangs up.

You stare at your pot of noodles and whisper, “I hate my life.”

Mangy blinks slowly and yawns.

By day three, he starts sending photos.

Not of the girl—of course not—because that would be logical and useful. Choi Soobin does not do logical and useful. 

Instead, he sends photos of the pendant. Pendant in his palm. Pendant on his desk. Pendant next to an iced americano.

fucking moron: is it the right colour fucking moron: does it look normal fucking moron: sorry fucking moron: i know you said don’t check fucking moron: i’m not checking i’m just asking

You don’t even answer anymore, you just throw your phone onto your bed and let it bounce.

That night, you dream he’s standing in your hallway holding the pendant out, saying sorry on loop, and you’re trying to scream but your voice won’t work. 

When you wake up, your jaw aches from clenching.

By Thursday, he escalates.

Three visits in one day.

You’ve been up all night working on an assignment you hate. Your laptop’s open. Your essay cursor blinks at you. Your eyes feel gritty. Your brain feels empty. Your hoodie is inside out and you don’t have the energy to care.

At 9am on the dot, your doorbell starts ringing. You stare at the door for a full five seconds, hoping it’s a hallucination.

It’s not, because it rings again. You drag yourself up, shuffle down the hall barefoot, and yank the door open. Soobin stands there holding two iced coffees.

He’s dressed clean again. Hair neat, face calm. He looks like he slept. You feel personally attacked.

“Morning,” he says, too bright.

“I don’t morning,” you reply.

He lifts the tray. “I brought coffee.”

You look down at the label. Iced americano. You look back up. “Do you hate yourself or is this a cry for help?”

He frowns. “It wakes me up.”

“So does fear,” you snap. “Shoes off.”

He steps inside—lines up his trainers neatly, of course—follows you into the back room. He sets the coffees down with care, then looks at you with a hopeful expression that makes you want to swear at the universe.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you point at the sweating cups. “This is unsolicited suffering.”

“I thought you might want caffeine,” he offers.

“I want silence,” you tell him.

His hand jerks back. “Sorry.”

“You apologise like it’s your hobby,” you say. “You know what, stop—apologise when you actually do something wrong, not every time you exist.”

His mouth parts. He looks genuinely confused, then nods once, taking notes mentally like you’re teaching him something sacred.

“Sit,” you say. “Report your ghost symptoms.”

You both get comfortable, your face switching to serious—after all, you’re a professional.

“Warm,” he says quickly. “The talisman was warm around seven.”

“Good,” you say, nodding like you’ve read omens in the steam of his iced americano. 

Relief hits him again.

Then you wave at the door. “Now take your drinks and fuck off.”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“Yes,” you say. “Go away. Go attend your lectures. Go haunt someone else. Go stop making my life your side quest.”

He nods, clutching his cup, and leaves.

You watch him go and mutter, “I’m going to die.”

Mangy jumps onto the table, sniffs the other iced americano he left behind, recoils, then stares at you with judgement. 

Even your cat has standards.

The second visit happens in the afternoon.

You’re mid-paragraph—fighting your essay into submission—when your phone lights up with his name and the doorbell rings immediately after, as if he’s timed it for maximum damage. You open the door and he’s there again, damp from drizzle, eyes wide in the exact brand of panic that should be illegal in daylight.

“I stepped on a crack,” he says.

You blink once. “Okay?”

“So—” he swallows. “So what do I do?”

You stare at him harder. “You came here—for a crack?”

“It wasn’t just a crack,” he says, offended. “It was a long one.”

You lean on the doorframe. “Soobin. Be serious.”

“I am being serious,” he insists, voice tight. “You said signs matter. I stepped on it and then I thought—what if that’s her? What if that’s the ghost telling me I’m—” he makes a small helpless gesture, “—done?”

You rub your face with both hands. “You’re going to put me in an early grave.”

His shoulders rise, then drop. “Is it bad?”

You make your voice calm. Professional. The tone of someone who charges for emotional labour. “Yes.”

He goes paler.

“Not doomed bad,” you add, because you’re not trying to actually kill him. “Just—you’ve disrupted the energy line.”

“The energy line,” he repeats.

“You stepped on a crack,” you say. “You basically stepped on her throat.”

His eyes widen. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah,” you deadpan. “She’s pissed.”

He panics immediately. “I didn’t mean to—I-I didn’t see it. It was raining and people were walking and—”

“Stop,” you cut in. “She doesn’t care about your excuses.”

His mouth opens, closes, opens again. “So what do I do?”

You sigh. “Go back to the crack.”

His face does something ugly. “Go back?”

“Yeah,” you say. “You go back,” you continue, “you step over it—not on it—three times. Don’t touch it. Don’t breathe on it. Don’t do your little sorry face at the pavement.”

“I don’t have a sorry face.”

You stare at him until he gives up. 

“Okay,” he mutters. “Three times.”

“And after that,” you say, pointing at him, “you stop showing up here.”

His throat works. “I just—I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You already did,” you reply. “Now fix it and leave me alone.”

He nods like you’ve saved his life. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Go,” you snap. “Before I curse you myself.”

He looks offended and tired, but he leaves anyway.

The third visit is the worst. It happens at 11pm.

You’re in bed with a mask on, hair wrapped and duvet pulled up. Mangy is pressed against your thigh, purring as he gets comfortable. The doorbell rings. You don’t move, willing for the noise to be a hallucination. It rings again—and again.

You throw the duvet off, stomp down the hall, and rip the door open. Soobin stands there with his coat on, eyes wide with guilt.

You stare at him. “No.”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “I had a dream.”

Your eyelid twitches. “Of course you did.”

“It felt important,” he insists.

“You’re in my building at eleven in the night,” you reply. “Everything feels important when you’re being a lunatic.”

He steps inside without asking. Takes his shoes off and lines them neatly again—it makes your eyelid twitch harder.

You drag him into the studio in your pyjamas and face mask, then point at the cushion. “Sit. Talk. Make it quick before my skin dries and cracks off my face.”

He sits and explains the dream with mortifying sincerity. Corridors. The girl. A faceless man. Panic. He uses his hands too, drawing shapes in the air. You listen with your chin in your hand—face mask tightening and patience evaporating. 

When he finishes, you stare at him for a beat, then you start laughing—a full, exhausted laughter that makes your face mask crack at the corner.

Soobin looks wounded. “Why are you laughing?”

“I’m laughing at the situation,” you manage. “Not at you.” You are absolutely laughing at him. You straighten up and slip back into your shaman voice—calm, grounded and certain. “It’s instruction,” you say. “It means you’re ready for the next step.”

Hope hits him immediately. “What step?”

You tap the table once. “Go home. Sleep. Forty-eight hours of silence. No temperature reports and no dreams in my inbox. Then come back and we’ll talk.”

He nods fast. “Okay.”

“And if you text me at four in the morning about some next level bullshit,” you add, “I’m charging you extra and telling the ghost you’ve been cheating on her with an iced americano.”

His eyes widen. “You can do that?”

“I’m self-employed,” you say. “Spiritually burdened—underpaid. I can do whatever I want.”

He leaves. You lock the door and go back to bed. You get under the duvet and stare at the cracks in the ceiling.

At 03:58am, your phone buzzes. 

fucking moron: sorry. quick one. there’s a full moon tonight. is that a bad sign?

You stare at the message until your eyes sting. Then you type back with the fury of a woman whose lies have evolved into a full-time job.

you: no. go to sleep. stop texting me. 

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

fucking moron: okay. sorry. thank you.

You throw the phone onto the pillow and whisper into the dark, “I regret everything.”

Mangy purrs, smug, and presses his head against your ribs. You lie there realising you didn’t scam a normal man—you scammed a man who will destroy you with manners.

By Saturday, you decide that you’re going to get rid of Choi Soobin.

Not permanently—you’re not a murderer. You’re tired, broke, spiritually fraudulent, but not homicidal. You just need him off your fucking doorstep long enough to finish your assignment, wash your hair, and remember what silence sounds like without his pendant updates creeping into it.

He’s sat opposite you again, upright, buttoned up, clean as always. Same neat hair, same expensive watch, same careful posture. He’s holding the pendant under his collar with two fingers, still treating it with reverence. He’s learnt nothing—which is impressive, in a depressing way.

You stare at him over the rim of your mug and let your face go blank—no warmth, no comfort, no empathy. He doesn’t pay you enough for that.

“So,” he says, quiet and controlled. “I did what you said—I didn’t come and I didn’t text.”

“You did text,” you correct.

His ears go red immediately. “I didn’t spam text.”

“Still text,” you reply, then you wave your hand. “Whatever. You didn’t show up—that’s something.”

He nods once, relieved you’re not about to lecture him. “It still feels warm sometimes.”

You lean back in your chair and squint at him, starting your performance. Then you stand. Soobin’s eyes track you with nervous focus. He sits up straighter—which is ridiculous, since he’s already sat up straight. His hands flatten on his thighs. 

You circle him once, slow and deliberate. You stare at his shoulder, his collarbone, the space behind him, the air.

Soobin swallows hard. “What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” you say. “I’m reading.”

“I’m not talking,” he says automatically, then stops himself, and adds, quieter, “Sorry.”

You click your tongue.

His face tightens. “What?”

You click your tongue again, louder and meaner. Soobin’s gaze flicks to Mangy on the windowsill, as if your cat might translate. Mangy doesn’t even look at him—-he’s too busy ignoring the entire human race.

You stop in front of Soobin and stare down at him until he starts squirming. His knee shifts, his hands flex, his whole body tries to stay polite while his brain panics.

“Yeah,” you say at last. “Now it makes sense.”

Soobin goes very still. “What makes sense?”

You lean in slightly, voice dropping, serious enough to frighten him. “The ghost has gotten stronger.”

He blinks. “The—g-ghost?”

“The virgin ghost,” you say, enunciating slowly. “She’s resisting the talisman.”

His hands lift, hover near his collar, then drop again. He doesn’t know where to put them. He looks genuinely scared and it makes you want to kick yourself—except you’re also annoyed, since he’s the one who walked into your life and decided you’re his spiritual saviour.

“What does that mean,” he asks, voice tight. “Is it—bad? Is she—she angry?

“She’s territorial,” you say. “She doesn’t want you to move on. She likes the attention.”

Soobin’s throat works. “So the pendant isn’t enough?”

“It’s doing work,” you say, firm, selling it. “We just need to escalate.”

His eyes widen. “What do I have to do?”

Here we go—the part where you commit your greatest masterpiece of bullshit. You walk back to your pillow, sit down, and open your notebook as if it contains ancient knowledge instead of doodles. You pick up your pen and tap it twice on the page, letting the silence build.

Soobin leans forward without meaning to. His hands grip his knees. “Please,” he says, and it comes out raw enough to make you feel a twinge of something inconvenient in your chest. “Tell me what to do.”

You hold his gaze and nod slowly, grave as hell. “You need a stronger ritual.”

He nods immediately, desperate. “Okay.”

You keep your face straight. You can’t laugh—not yet. “Eleven days straight.”

He nods again. “Okay.”

“At 11:11pm,” you continue, voice steady, “you eat eleven grapes under a table.”

You watch his brain try to process that sentence.  His eyes flicker. His mouth parts and he looks at you as if you’ve just asked him to commit a crime. “Under a table?” he repeats.

“Under a table,” you confirm.

He frowns, confused and horrified at once. “Why?”

You lean forward, lowering your voice. “Tables are thresholds.”

He stares at you. “Tables are—thresholds?”

“Between worlds,” you add, tapping the notebook once for emphasis.

Soobin swallows. “Right.”

“You cannot use your own table,” you say. “If it’s your table, she follows you under it.”

Soobin’s eyes widen. “She can follow me under it?”

“Yes,” you say, calm, as if you’re discussing the weather. “It can be a friend’s table. Café table. Common room. Anywhere—just not yours.”

He nods slowly, trying to keep up. “Okay.”

“You can’t use the same table twice,” you add.

His head jerks. “Why not?”

“Pattern,” you say. “She learns the pattern.”

He looks pained. “So I have to find eleven different tables.”

“You’re a student,” you reply. “Your entire life is tables.”

He flinches, then nods like that’s fair. “Okay.”

“The grapes must be green,” you continue. “Same size. Same shape. No random grapes or close enough—no lumpy ones either.”

His brows pull together. “How am I meant to—”

“You’re rich,” you cut in. “Go buy posh grapes.”

His ears go red. “I’m not—”

“One grape per minute,” you say. “In complete silence,” you add, pointing at him. “No phone. No talking. No music. No praying out loud. No whispering. No chewing with enthusiasm.”

He looks terrified. “Why silence?”

“Sound attracts her,” you say. “Silence starves her,” you continue, and you can hear how much he wants this to be true. “She feeds on attention. She feeds on desperation. She feeds on you checking and panicking.”

Soobin nods faster now, fully locked in. “Okay. I can do silence.”

“You can’t even do silence for ten minutes,” you mutter.

His eyes snap up. “I can.”

“We’ll see,” you reply, and you flip the page in your notebook with a flourish, as if you’re consulting a sacred text. You keep your tone very serious while you deliver the final nail, the one that will keep him away for at least a week out of sheer stress. “And Soobin,” you say, voice low, “whatever you do, don’t let the grapes fall on the floor.”

He freezes completely. His eyes widen slowly, dread creeping in. “Why?”

You lean in closer, enough to make him hold his breath. You whisper, “She eats what falls.”

Soobin goes so pale he looks unwell. He sits there for a second, silent, then his voice comes out small. “She—e-eats it?

You nod once.

He stares at the table as if the floor beneath it is suddenly dangerous. His hands curl around his knees. “So I have to—eat grapes under a table. Eleven days. Eleven-eleven. Silence. Different table. Green grapes. Same size. One per minute. No dropping.”

“Look at you,” you say. “You can follow instructions.”

He looks up at you with raw misery. “This is humiliating.”

You tilt your head. “Humiliation is temporary. Losing the love of your life is longer.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. His eyes flicker, stubbornness sparking under the fear. “Fine,” he says, voice rough. “I’ll do it.”

“Good,” you reply, satisfied, and you push yourself up from your chair. “Now take your pendant, stop texting me, and go plan your table tour.”

He stands too, still pale, still holding the string under his collar as if it’s the only thing keeping his life together. “Do I start tonight?”

“Yes,” you say immediately. “Tonight.”

He nods once, then hesitates at your door, coat half on, keys in hand—the look of a man about to walk out and willingly crawl under a table with fruit. He glances back, voice quieter. “This will work?”

You smile, bright and sweet, and lie straight through your teeth. “Of course it will.”

Soobin nods, believing you, and leaves.

You lock the door behind him, lean your forehead against it, and let out the ugliest laugh you’ve ever made in your life. “Fucking idiot.”

Mangy chooses that moment to jump onto your table, sniff the rice bowl, then sit down on your notebook as if he’s heard the whole plan and approves.

You stare at him. “I’m going to hell.”

Mangy blinks slowly.

Eleven days of peace. No full-moon calls. No cloud photos. No is my talisman warm bullshit. Priceless.

And then—annoyingly—your brain flashes his face again. The way he looked at you like you were the last door left unlocked. Shit. Why does his desperation feel so... raw? 

You shove the thought away. Not your problem.

Choi Soobin tells himself this is a test.

A trade with the universe—the love of his life in exchange for his pride. He has smiled through worse. He has survived a date where she ran away to another man and still managed to say, “It’s alright,” with a straight face, then gone and drank until sunrise.

So yes. Grapes under a table. Humiliation is nothing new.

He repeats that to himself while he walks into a café he’s never been to before. It’s on a side street far enough from campus that nobody should clock him; close enough to your studio that he can sprint to you if something goes wrong and the ghost eats his fruit. He hates that he can picture you saying it, deadpan, and eyes narrowed.

The café is warm and smells of burnt coffee and syrup. Two students sit in the corner with laptops open, whispering about deadlines. A couple by the window argue about something quietly—faces close, voices soft, the kind of intimacy that makes Soobin’s throat tighten for reasons he’s not willing to admit. The barista wipes down the counter with bored efficiency, eyes half-lidded, hair clipped back.

Soobin steps up, adjusting the strap of his bag. It’s heavy since the grapes are inside. He can feel them knocking gently against each other with every shift of his shoulder—neat, little green stones he paid far too much attention to in the supermarket.

The barista looks up. “You alright?”

Soobin forces a polite smile. “Yeah. Hi. Can I get a—”

He stops himself from saying hot chocolate. He doesn’t drink hot chocolate. He doesn’t do that. That’s you, not Soobin. He ends up ordering something out of character regardless, because he can hear your voice in his head making fun of him for his choices in beverages. “A tea, please,” he says. “English breakfast.”

The barista nods. “Sit in or take away?”

“Ta—” His tongue sticks for a second. “Sit in. Please.”

“Cash or card?”

He taps his card, machine beeping, receipt spitting out. He takes the tea with both hands as if he’s carrying something fragile.

He chooses the corner table on instinct. It’s small and round, with two chairs. One of the chairs wobbles slightly and Soobin finds himself irrationally irritated by it. Even furniture has more freedom than him tonight.

He sets the tea down, sits and tries to act normal. He checks the time. Eight minutes left.

His stomach flips. His chest feels tight. His throat tastes faintly metallic, the way it does when he’s nervous and pretending he’s not. He pulls his phone out again—then remembers you said no phone during the ritual, no sound, no whispers, no music, no praying out loud. So he turns it face-down on the table and stares at the wood grain as if it’s going to offer guidance.

He tells himself he’s in control, he can do this and nobody will notice.

A group of three walks in, cold air follows them. They talk over each other. One of them laughs too hard. The café seems smaller all of a sudden.

Soobin adjusts his posture, shoulders tense. He wraps his fingers around his tea cup just to have something to hold. The tea is too hot. He doesn’t care—heat feels better than the empty churn in his body.

He watches the barista glance toward the CLOSING SOON sign, then back at the group, then at the clock. It’s late. People linger anyway, dragging out their last warm minutes.

He reaches into his bag and touches the grape container through the fabric—plastic, smooth, cold. He imagines the grapes inside, uniform and green, all as identical as he could make them. He spent ten minutes in the supermarket staring at fruit, comparing sizes, turning them gently—feeling like an idiot while a woman next to him picked up a bag of clementines and walked away without a second thought.

He wonders what his dad would say if he saw him now. He wonders what she would say. He already knows what you’d say.

You’d swear. You’d laugh. You’d call him a fucking moron and then tell him to do it properly—no skipping, no excuses, no whining.

His chest tightens with gratitude at the thought of you, which is inconvenient. You are not supposed to be part of this. You are the person he paid. You are the person who threw rice at him. You are not supposed to take up space in his head.

He checks the time. 11:09pm. He stands up.

His chair scrapes against the floor, loud in his ears. The barista glances over, eyes flicking to him, then away. Soobin keeps his face. The group of three has moved toward the counter, debating pastries. The couple by the window is still whispering. The two students are typing, headphones in, faces blank. The barista is stacking cups.

Soobin slides off his chair, bends down slowly, and ducks under the table.

His long legs are immediately a problem. His knees knock against the underside of the table. His back hunches. The floor is cold and the air down here smells faintly of dust and old crumbs.

He hates everything.

He lays a napkin on the floor first. Not for the café’s sake—for his own. If a grape falls and rolls away, he needs a surface he can control. He needs to believe he can stop the ghost from eating what falls.

He places the grapes on the napkin in neat lines. His fingers shake slightly and he forces them still. 

He adjusts his position again, his knees ache already. He tries to sit back on his heels and his back complains, his shoulders complain, his dignity screams.

He checks the time again. 11:10pm. He doesn’t have long. He shuts his eyes for a second and breathes through his nose.

He thinks of Switzerland. The snow and mountains. Professors who smiled at him. The air sharp and clean. The routine of it, the safety of it. He thinks of her voice over the phone, soft in his ear, familiar and dangerous in a way he didn’t understand until it was too late.

He thinks of the cinema date he rehearsed for years. Warm golden lights. Popcorn between them. Her smile when she laughed at something on screen. The way his chest swelled with relief every time she leaned closer.

He thinks of her eyes drifting elsewhere. He thinks of her saying, “Then I met someone else.”

His stomach turns and his chest feels twisted. He hates the way his body remembers that moment as if it happened an hour ago.

He opens his eyes.

The underside of the table is right there, the chair legs, his own shoes near the edge of the napkin.

He checks the time again. 11:11pm. It’s time. He picks up the first grape. He hears her voice in his head again, crisp and gentle and ruinous, “I met someone else.”

He shoves the grape into his mouth. It’s cold, sweet and crunches slightly. Juice hits his tongue. He chews carefully, silently, as if the ghost is hovering above him with a clipboard.

He swallows.

He sits perfectly still, waiting for the minute to pass. A chair scrapes somewhere above him. The café floor vibrates faintly. His heart starts hammering. Someone walks past his table. Soobin’s whole body goes rigid. He keeps his gaze fixed on the napkin, he keeps his hands still and doesn’t breathe loudly. He doesn’t move—doesn’t exist.

The footsteps move on.

He picks up the second grape at 11:12. His fingers tremble. He forces them steady. He eats it, chewing in silence.

His back aches, his neck is already stiff, his jaw hurts from clenching. He cannot believe that this is his life.

At 11:13, the third grape. At 11:14, the fourth. At 11:15, the fifth.

Time becomes a series of grapes and fear.

His thoughts keep trying to escape, drifting back to her, to Yeonjun, to the humiliation of sitting across from her while she smiled politely and held his hand and then left him in the street with an apology he didn’t deserve.

He drags his focus back. He counts minutes and grapes. He keeps his mouth shut and his hands steady.

At the sixth grape, something absurd bubbles up in him—a laugh. A sharp, disbelieving sound he has to swallow down so hard it makes his eyes water. He almost laughs at himself.

Choi Soobin. Golden boy. Professor’s favourite. Son of a man who gives cars instead of praises. 

On his knees under a café table. Eating grapes. In silence. For a ghost.

If anyone he knows could see him right now, he would never recover. He’d have to transfer universities. Change his name. Fake his death. Move to Scotland and become a sheep farmer. He’d have to live among animals that don’t talk.

At the eighth grape, his stomach growls quietly. He panics all over again. You said sound attracts the ghost and silence starves her. His stomach is making noise—his body is betraying him. He presses his lips together and holds his breath, hoping the ghost doesn’t hear hunger.

At the ninth grape, his jaw starts to ache.

At the tenth, his fingers are stiff and cold.

He picks up the last grape at 11:21pm, chews slowly, swallows, then sits perfectly still under the table with nothing left on the napkin except a few tiny wet marks where the grapes rested.

He has done it.

He expects—something. A shift, a sign, a feeling, a weight lifting off his chest. The ghost retreating or destiny cracking open.

Nothing happens.

The café continues above him. Cups clink. Someone laughs. The barista calls out an order. Life goes on with zero respect for his suffering.

Soobin remains on his knees for another full minute anyway, staring at the napkin, waiting for the universe to acknowledge him. Then he hears your voice in his head again. Humiliation is temporary. Losing the love of your life is longer.

He squeezes his eyes shut and thinks, please. Please let this work. Please let him stop feeling like this.

He crawls out from under the table slowly—dust on his knees, pain in his back, shame clinging to him in layers.

He stands, brushes his hands on his jeans, adjusts his coat, and forces his face into calm.

The barista glances over. “You alright, mate?”

Soobin nods once. “Yeah.”

His voice comes out steady and he hates himself for being able to sound normal. He gulps down his tea, now cold, and walks out into the night with the pendant tucked under his shirt. He takes three steps down the pavement before he pulls his phone out and opens your chat.

His thumb hovers, but he doesn’t type.

He puts the phone back in his pocket and keeps walking—jaw tight, eyes burning, determined to finish eleven days of this even if it kills him.

He is not letting a ghost beat him. He is not letting Yeonjun beat him. He is not letting his own pride beat him either.

He walks to his car with dust on his knees, a plan in his head and one ugly thought circling again and again, refusing to leave.

Tomorrow, he has to find another table.

It’s been a week since you last saw Choi Soobin. Thank fuck.

Your doorbell hasn’t been violated. Your phone hasn’t lit up with pendant photos and moon anxiety. Your studio hasn’t had to host a rich boy breathing politely while you invent a virgin ghost on the spot. The quiet should feel like peace—it mostly feels like you’re in the eye of something that’s about to swing back round and hit you.

Mangy is loafed on the windowsill, back turned, tail flicking in slow judgement. He’s been fed and still acting offended. Your cat has never worked a day in his life and yet he carries himself with the confidence of a CEO.

Your phone buzzes.

plug

You grin before you even open it. You nicknamed Kang Taehyun that years ago when you were both stuck in the countryside and he started connecting people for favours—who had cigarettes, who had vodka, who had a spare charger, who had a cousin that could get you a cheap fake ID. 

He’s been a plug since he had acne and a mouth that didn’t know when to shut.

plug: you’re going to hell plug: meet me. fcf. now.

Your stomach does a tiny relieved drop because you know you’re about to leave your flat and be around someone who understands you without having to explain your whole life story first.

you: where

plug: mike’s. i’m outside yours in five.

You look at Mangy. Mangy looks at the street. Nobody cares that you’re being summoned.

You grab your coat, shove your feet into trainers, and step out into the cold. The air bites your face, sharp and damp. You pull your hood up and lock the door, then stand there, waiting.

Taehyun appears at the end of the street with his hoodie up and his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the weather. He’s got that city version of himself now—faster walk, harder edges, eyes that have seen too many drunk breakdowns—but his mouth is the same you’ve known since you were kids—blunt, quick, always ready to be a cunt.

He stops in front of you and looks you up and down. “You look like shit,” he says.

“Nice to see you too,” you reply. “You look underpaid.”

He snorts. “I am underpaid. I also have morals, which is why I’m here to tell you that you’re evil.”

“Shut the fuck up, Plug,” you say, stepping past him. “You’re the one who dropped that unyielding moron in my lap and went rich, pathetic, prime as if you were seasoning him.”

Taehyun catches up, walking beside you. “I did not say prime.”

“You did,” you reply. “You called him fresh in the same message you asked me for your cut.”

He flinches with fake offence. “It’s not a cut. It’s commission.”

“It’s a cut,” you insist. “You siphon clients out of your bar and send them to me when they’re emotionally bleeding. That’s not a friendship. That’s an MLM.”

Taehyun points at you without looking. “Don’t start with me. I heard your voice note. I heard the whole eleven thing.”

You grin. “It was a strong story.”

“That is not a story,” he says. “That’s psychological terrorism.”

You glance at him. “And you’re acting brand new for a man who has lied straight out of his ass for less than a tenner.”

Taehyun’s mouth twists. “That’s different.”

“Explain.”

He exhales, annoyed. “When I lie, it’s for survival.”

“And when I lie, it’s what?” you shoot back. “Performance art?”

He doesn’t answer for a second, and you feel it—the little guilt line he’s trying to pretend isn’t there. Taehyun’s conscience only turns up when he’s sober and the bar’s quiet. Once he’s had a drink, it clocks out again.

“You’ve got a conscience now?” you say, dragging it out.

He groans. “Don’t.”

“So grapes under tables is where your moral compass draws the line?” you continue. “Not the virgin ghost. Not the pendant. Not the fact you sent a heartbreak case to a scammer. The grapes?”

Taehyun’s jaw tightens. “It’s not the grapes. It’s the table.”

You stare. “The table?”

He spreads his hands. “He’s on his knees under public furniture. That’s where it tips into this man might actually collapse.”

“He won’t collapse,” you say. “He’s too polite to collapse.”

Taehyun’s lips twitch. “That’s the saddest sentence I’ve heard all week.”

You both walk in silence for a few beats, the city noise soft around you—cars passing, someone shouting into a phone, the wet hush of pavement. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s familiar. You’ve known each other too long for awkward.

You and Taehyun grew up in the same nowhere. Same hills, same muddy fields, same bus that came late, same kind of boredom that makes you either rot or plot. You left for uni and dragged your baggage into the city with you. He got a job behind a bar and realised how easy it is to become everyone’s confessional. You realised how easy it is to sell hope when you’re hungry and good at reading faces.

Fridays are FCF. Fried Chicken Friday. Grease, booze, and bitching. Your version of therapy—cheaper and somehow still effective.

Taehyun nudges your shoulder. “Anyway. Enough spiritual crimes. We’re getting wasted.”

“You’re paying,” you say, immediately.

He laughs. “No, I’m not.”

“You are,” you say. “You’re the one with a job.”

“You’re the one who just scammed a rich boy,” he fires back.

You stop walking and turn to him. “Do not make me buy shots using Soobin’s money.”

Taehyun’s grin goes feral. “You already did worse. You bought incense with his money.”

“That was business expenses.”

“So are shots,” he says. “Emotional labour.”

You roll your eyes and keep walking. Mike’s is a grim little pub off the high street that survives entirely on students and poor decisions. It has sticky tables, a battered jukebox, and booths that feel permanently damp. It also has cheap shots, which is the only spiritual protection you need.

When you push the door open, warm stale air hits you. The lighting is bad. The music is worse. Someone’s already laughing too loud at the bar. 

Perfect.

Taehyun heads straight for your usual booth in the corner, the one with the cracked vinyl seat and the table scarred with initials. You slide in opposite him, shrugging your coat off, letting the noise of the pub settle around you.

A server walks past. Taehyun lifts two fingers. “One portion of niblets and chips. Two shots of whatever’s cheapest and will ruin our night.”

You glance at him. “You’re going to die.”

Taehyun leans back, grinning. “We’re already dying. Might as well do it drunk.”

The shots arrive first. Two little glasses of clear liquid that smell of petrol and poor decisions. Taehyun drags one closer and nudges the other toward you with his knuckle—eyes bright in that feral way he gets when he’s about to enjoy your crimes in real time.

“Cheers,” he says.

“Cheers,” you echo, clinking glasses.

You both knock them back.

It burns all the way down. It hits your chest and makes your brain loosen its grip on the week. Your eyes water. Taehyun’s face twists, then he slaps the table once, satisfied. The niblets and chips land next—hot plate, greasy smell, sauce in a little plastic pot. You both dig in immediately, since neither of you has ever pretended to be classy and this pub would eat you alive if you tried.

Taehyun chews, points at you with a chip. “Right. Script. From the start. Don’t skip—I want the full fucking thing.”

You wipe your fingers on a napkin. “Why are you so obsessed?”

“Because it’s insane,” he says. “You traumatised a man with fruit and I need to witness the full extent of your villain era.”

You snort. “He deserved it.”

“He did not deserve it,” Taehyun replies immediately, then ruins his own point with a grin. “Actually—no, wait. He kind of did. He kept turning up at your flat, didn’t he?”

“Every day,” you say. “Every hour. He was treating my studio like it was A&E. Sorry, quick one, is warmth good—Sorry, quick one, is the moon a bad sign—Sorry, quick one, can the ghost follow me into Tesco.’”

Taehyun chokes on a laugh. “Not Tesco.”

“I swear on my life,” you say, stabbing a niblet with your fork. “He didn’t say Tesco out loud but his face implied it. His face implied he’d apologise to a self-checkout machine.”

Taehyun slams his palm on the table, wheezing. “That’s so him.”

“Exactly,” you say. “So I needed him gone. I needed to stop hearing quick one before I snapped and started chewing my own arm off.”

Taehyun points at you. “So you invented the grapes.”

“Masterpiece,” you correct.

Taehyun’s grin widens. “Go on.”

You lean forward, lowering your voice as if anyone in this pub gives a shit. “I told him the ghost got stronger.”

Taehyun stares, delighted. “You did not.”

“I did,” you say. “He went pale. The man looked like he was about to faint politely.”

Taehyun laughs so hard he has to wipe his eyes. “Stop. Stop. That’s exactly the image.”

“And then,” you continue, fully warmed up now, “I hit him with the whole eleven thing under a table.”

Taehyun makes a noise that is half laugh, half despair. “You’re going to hell.”

“I’m already in hell,” you say, then gesture at yourself. “Broke uni student. Debts bigger than me. Bad skin. Cat hates me. Landlord thinks mould is a vibe.”

Taehyun, in the same boat, laughs harder. “That’s fair.”

“I literally scam for a living,” you add, voice warm with alcohol and truth. “Tell me how hell can get any worse.”

Taehyun wipes at his mouth, still laughing. “I don’t know, man. You’ve sort of maxed it out.”

By the fourth shot, the line between sobriety and client confidentiality starts blurring. By the fifth, it’s fully gone. The two of you start bitching about clients, since that’s what you do when you’re drunk and bitter and pretending the city didn’t chew you up.

Taehyun starts first. “This one girl came last week and cried at my bar because her ex unfollowed her.”

You groan. “Don’t.”

“She kept asking me if I think it means he still loves her,” Taehyun says, voice rising. “I was stood there polishing a glass, thinking, babe, it means he’s tired of your shit.”

You snort. “I had a girl ask me if she should burn cinnamon under her bed to make her crush text her back.”

Taehyun stares. “Under her bed?”

“Under her bed,” you repeat. “I told her yes—I told her to do it at 3:33am and to whisper his name into the smoke. She paid me thirty quid.”

Taehyun’s mouth drops open. “You’re evil.”

“Thank you,” you say.

“This one bloke came in convinced he was cursed,” Taehyun adds. “Turns out he was just a cunt.”

“That’s most men,” you reply, picking at the chips. “If your life is falling apart, check your personality first.”

Taehyun lifts his glass again. “Cheers to being mentally ill and employed.”

“Barely employed,” you correct, clinking.

You laugh. You talk over each other, voices getting louder and jokes meaner. The pub noise wraps around you like insulation. For a few minutes, it’s easy. It feels like being fifteen again, both of you sat on a wall outside the corner shop, swearing at the sky and plotting your escape. 

Same mouths. Same filth. Just bigger problems now.

Taehyun brings it back to Soobin, of course. “The virgin ghost story is diabolical though,” he says. “Poor guy probably shitting himself.”

“Good,” you say. “He should be scared. He was too calm for a man whose entire life was on fire.”

Taehyun laughs again. “He’s so polite. He probably apologised to the table before crawling under it.”

You mimic Soobin’s voice, soft and careful. “Sorry, excuse me, just going to—“

Taehyun is crying laughing now. “You’re going to get jumped one day.”

“By who?” you ask, smug. “The ghost?”

You reach for another shot, laughing, and take a mouthful—

—and then you hear it.

A scrape. A thud. Something knocks against the booth opposite yours, hard enough to rattle the table. The laughter in your throat dies halfway out. Your eyes flick up. The booth opposite shifts, the table leg taps something underneath. There’s the unmistakable sound of someone banging their head on wood.

Your stomach drops, cold and sober.

Taehyun is still laughing, wiping sauce off his fingers, about to say something nasty.

Something moves beneath the opposite table. A head appears. Messy hair. Eyes wide, furious and locked straight on you.

Choi Soobin.

He rises up from under the table as if the floor spat him out—shoulders tense, jaw clenched, face flushed, expression murderous in a way you didn’t even know he was capable of. His shirt is rumpled. His whole vibe screams I have been suffering and now I’ve found the cunt responsible.

You choke. The alcohol goes down the wrong way. You cough so hard your body jerks forward and the shot you just swallowed comes straight back out onto the table—and onto Taehyun’s face.

Taehyun splutters. “What the fuck—”

You keep coughing, eyes watering, throat burning, staring past him. Soobin stands there fully upright now, staring at you with pure intent.

Taehyun grabs a napkin, dabs his face, disgusted. “You’re fucking vile,” he snaps, wiping his cheek. “What is wrong with you?”

You don’t answer—you can’t. Your whole body has gone rigid. Taehyun’s eyes follow your stare. He turns his head.

He clocks Soobin.

The napkin slips out of his hand and drops onto the table.

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a/n: hiiiii my loves! so excited to share this one with you. i have so so so much to yap about and that's why i always put my a/n at the end so you can skip it if you want. okay writing misguided had me laughing, crying, screaming at my screen, pacing around the living room, and the whole jazz. part one was probably the hardest and after re-writing it five times, i threw my hands in the air and called it a day. thankfully the other parts were sm easier to write!! i will say, this is one of of my fav oc's (i love all of them). she's highly inspired by my good friend @matchastwb -- not the swearing part! i won't spoil it but both oc and mei are such soft mochis. i was also inspired by the kdrama head over heels, but just the shaman part because i didn't get past episode one of the kdrama lmao it was a bit too cringe for me but my sister loved it!! i listened to a lot of ABBA and Queen while writing misguided, do check out the playlist if you'd like!! pls let me know your thoughts on oc, taehyun and soobin!! much much love <33

target: you know the drill!! next part dropping at either 400 notes or 17/02!!

review your experience, thoughts, or unhinged feelings here

One pair of hands encircling his neck, the other firmly gripping the waist of the more delicate body as it undulated up and down against the firmer one; intense, deep bounces, without the peculiar desperation that had brought them to that point in the first place.

Lotus position, perfect for demonstrating their feelings for each other, allowed them to draw as close as possible, establishing deep within their souls the overwhelming need to be together no matter what, because it was always written that their souls were meant to merge, achieving it only in the most carnal and worldly way possible, the closest they could come to Nirvana, at least on that material plane.

Short gasps and unintelligible murmurs clashed between two mouths that couldn't decide whether to kiss each other hungrily or utter each other's names like a prayer as they made love passionately...

Full lips swollen from so many kisses that night, to make up for the time he had wasted so many years hiding his true feelings for fear of losing her forever. Sharp eyes, half-closed, glassy. His pupils dilated as he gazed at the view before him, maintaining eye contact with hers, thinking that if he were to close his eyes for even a second, everything would vanish into a misty dream.

A slight lean and their lips met again in a slow, deep kiss, the sounds of their mouths echoing off the bedroom walls, joining the symphony of sounds that surrounded them in their small, warm world, just for them.

His strong arms encircled her warm body, a layer of sweat covering her smooth, perfect skin, one arm around her waist, the other resting on her back between her shoulder blades, scratching her skin every now and then when pleasure overwhelmed his senses. The kiss broke, eliciting a moan from both of them. He rested his forehead against her shoulder, his breath growing heavier as he tried to steady himself, feeling her velvety walls contract around him—a clear sign that the imminent climax was near, and that it would soon engulf both their bodies.

He lost himself in the sensation of being buried deep within her enveloping warmth, the feeling of now being whole with her in his arms like this made his breath quicken, his heart pound wildly.

He lifted his head, his gaze locked with hers, their noses brushing, their lips almost touching.

“N-never... never let me go...”

The words came out as a breathless babble, his voice barely a pleading, vulnerable whisper. His half-closed eyes grew more glassy, the film of tears about to spill over. His gaze locked on hers, a look of pure love, desire, and longing.

“Stay here, w-with me... let me stay inside you, where I belong, forever, please...”

As someone who loves to take charge, Yeonjun can't help but bring the same attitude to your shared bed.

He said that he had a long day, and what he really needed right now is the warmth of your body while cuddling nicely on your scented sheets. Yet, it doesn't take so long for his hands to wander on the plush of your mounds, caressing them gently with the reason that it was a stress ball.

And the moment you let him do what he wants, there is absolutely no way you could stop his nuances. A few minutes after you agreed to cuddle him, you found yourself bare naked with him hovering your unguarded body.

"Fuck, look at these," Yeonjun breathes out, mouth evidently watering at the sight of your chest all tender and perfect for him to devour. "I could suck on these every day."

Yeonjun's mouth instantly found your perked nipple, lips teasing the soft part of your breast before he gave your bud a gentle suck. A gentle whine left your lips, trying to stifle the sounds with the back of your hand.

"Jjunie..." His nickname came out sultry when the satisfying pleasure surged in your nerves. He was playing with your nipples in the best way you could think of, making your aching pussy crave more.

"Hmmm?" Your boyfriend hummed into your nipple, making another sweet whimper pass through your throat. The vibrations of his voice left a satisfying feeling in your system. His tongue began to slide on your fibble bud, making your back arch subtly.

"What is it?" He gently asked, the lewd sounds of his mouth sucking your nipple filling in the room's quiet atmosphere. Yeonjun has always been considerate when it comes to you, but today—he seems different. He demands your body to react to him and stimulates your mind into thinking that this is what you need after a long day.

Feeling the delicious slide of his wet muscle on your bud, your thoughts began to scatter everywhere. The drowning pleasure of his mouth made you incapable of replying to him, your hand even flying to grasp his arms to cope with the overwhelming sensation.

For which he caught instantly, a large palm pinning your hands into the bed before you could even scratch his skin. Yeonjun didn't even bat an eye at you, solely focused on toying with your breasts as if they were the most delectable dish he had ever tasted.

"Yeonjun, hah—" You gasped audibly when his teeth gradually tugged your nipple, the pain mixed with an undeniable luscious feeling drove your mind into ecstasy.

"Shhh," Yeonjun tightened his grip on your hand before he licked his tongue into frantic, up and down movements that made it more sensitive than before. The worst part is, he was only focused on one bud, leaving the other aching and begging for his attention. Your drenched pussy was no different to it, feeling uncomfortable with your slick dripping out to your inner thighs.

Your moan became high-pitched when his tongue toyed with your nipple, causing him to lowly chuckle at how beautiful you sounded to his ears. Yeonjun was merely gratified by your reactions, but he knew this was only the beginning.

A warm glob of his saliva covered your chest when he started to use his lips to suck on your nipples harder. Beyond caring if you are already whiny and twitching below him.

In fact, you only sought and listened to the advice from Taehyun, who offered to help capture the supposed 'mice' chewing right through your shirts and socks. Whether it was leaving your belongings inside of his room for safekeeping, or letting him handle all the dirty laundry, as well as allowing him to search through your room for the missing hairbrush you were desperate to find. Whenever you did leave your sacred possessions with him, they'd be back in your grasp by the time you returned— perfectly clean, albeit slightly crumpled.

Eventually, he was evicted back into his own space after a dive too deep into your belongings led his snooping nose right into your stash of vibrators— and handheld mirrors, and tissues, and gel pens among other things stuffed in there. But by the next day you'd be at his door with another shirt in hand, asking him to keep it safe in his room just as he advised. In the same way you're now slumped into the compress of the couch, letting your weight drag you into as you sprawl your limbs over the just-for-show pillows.

"I think this is driving me insane. Tell me I'm insane—"

"You're insane." The corners of Taehyun's lips rise as he shuffles up to make space on the cramped sofa. Only managing to move a couple more inches while his foot remains between your legs that take up 90% of the area.

Huffing, you throw the soiled t-shirt right on centre with his face, hurled with as much fortitude as your strengthless arms could handle. Even mimicking unfolding the shirt with your hands to get your clueless roommate to uncrumple the slightly-crunchy top and just notice the huge stain left all over it.

"What does that look like to you?" Directing his eyes back (from your chest) to the unmistakable patch of bleached fabric and dried flakes, you can't help but push the shirt closer towards his face for an answer.

"This? I don't know...a toothpaste stain, maybe?" Within seconds, your interrogative brows drop into pure disbelief as you flip the shirt back around to face you. Feeling as if you were about to burst out in hysterical laughter from the absurdity of his answer compared to the confession you were expecting from him.

"I'd hope you've jerked off enough to know what a cum stain looks like Taehyun. I mean the mice chewing through my undies, fine. But I doubt they're jerking off to everything in my closet because now I don't have anything to fucking wear!" You try one last time to put on your best stern face in hopes of receiving a guilty confession from your very much touch-starved roommate, and still he shrugs his shoulders and denies it once more.

Back leaned over the armrest, shoulders rolled as they relax further into the couch— Taehyun could feign complete innocence right now and you'd believe him through that strong poker face of his. A forte you may call it, just not now when you're trying to get to the bottom of who's been ripping through the gusset of your underwear like it's nothing.

"Or, great idea...maybe. They're. Just. Toothpaste. Stains." Taehyun pries away your face with a finger to your forehead, ushering you back with each overly emphasised word of his as you groan in frustration

"Yeah right, I hope that 5'10" tube of toothpaste cums all over my shirt tomorrow." Left with more questions than answers, you groggily carry yourself back into your room with an extra aggravated slam to the door. Clad in your teeny-tiny top you fit into years ago and never threw out, now having to resort to it with all of your other clothes in the wash.

And Taehyun wants to apologise, he wants to come clean about messing with the fasteners of all your bras while you were out in the city, just so he could catch you bare enough under your already thin top. Grinning to himself internally when he catches your nipples perking through the flimsy material, round buds bulging through your shirt which he subconsciously swirls his tongue in his mouth at. It just so happens that the second he lets his mind run off with a libido of its own, there's no telling when he'll return to his senses before you're waving a hand in front of him.

But it's not like Taehyun tries to be subtle about his 'problem' at hand. Since you've already caught his eyes drifting towards your chest in every conversation you've had, and you've always accepted his excuse of it being instinct with a raised brow.

While on movie nights he'll blatantly ask you to let him rest his head between your thighs, smiling as you give in so easily to him. Waiting for them to clench as you try to ignore your wet folds that he can hear perfectly clear between the valley of your legs.

Plus, if he's feeling extra provocative, he might feign falling asleep too. Allowing his head to drift to the side in his slumber as he rolls and turns until his lips are practically moulded right between your thighs and your clothed cunt. Faking snores that hum through his mouth, trying to restrain himself from smirking right against you when he feels your hand push gently on his head to guide his vibrating hums closer against your core than they already are.

Within that reasoning, Taehyun can't take the sole blame for being perverted. Not when you have that rough pair of real handcuffs hidden under the piles of socks on the left hand side of your closet, buried within a drawstring bag which is a terrible attempt at being discreet. Which quite literally, is what he's best at.

Since he'll do the classic underwear stealing from the pile of dirty laundry. Stuff it in his pockets, bring it up to his nose to catch any remnants of your scent or dampness, jerk off with it and so on. Cut a hole into the material where your cunt would mould against— just a decent sized hole. One that's big enough for him to fit through, and still small enough to feel as tight as he imagines you'd be. Fucking his fist raw continuously as the burn of friction between skin and fabric drives him towards release, until the tearing and fraying threads rip open the hole completely.

He'll do the cliche cumming over your bedsheets while you're out with your best friends. Hovering over where your mattress is still imprinted by the dip of your weight into the bed, giving lengthy and prolonged strokes as he spurts his warm seed all over them. Not leaving without making sure he's painted your grey sheets damp and white with at least four dumptruck loads of cum. More accurately, pools of cum by the end of his four rounds while his cock swells all over with thick globs of cream-white that'll continue ejecting for over a minute. A piece of art he would leave to your discretion and for you to discover, if only he didn't prioritise hoarding the scent of your sheets before washday all to himself.

Like any other blockbuster movie's typical pervert, he'll press his ear up against the thin drywall. Searching for anything close to your mewls he imagines you're muffling with your duvet, proving useless when all he needs to focus on is the smacking of your fingers with each wet schlk. The lewdest melody he can just about hear as its echo bounces off your walls with each plunge inside your dripping cunt.

Oh? You complained that your face towel smells weird? Looks like he didn't do that great of a job cleaning out the stain after all even though he tried his best. Too caught up in the scent of you filling all his senses. With the fragrance of your shampoo still fresh in his hair, and your lotion lathered down the underside of his cock. Its signature strawberry scent growing addictive as it forms white rings at the base of his girth, squelching and smacking against skin with every jerk of your towel wrapped around him. Pretending as though each soft stroke of your towel along his sensitive veins was your pretty hole engulfing him in your warmth. Even simulating your clenching walls with each tightened grip of his fist around his tip, whispering sweet whines to himself under hushed breaths in his best attempt at your voice. Imagining it's you who's whining for him to not pull out, imagining the scent surrounding him is your body melting against his as sweat infuses itself with the shower's condensation.

Taehyun should feel guilty about it, cumming all over your towel until it was completely soaked in his arousal. White streaks of hot seed accumulating around his rosy tip as he wipes the rest onto the lilac rag, oozing with thick droplets of his gunk as he tries to clean after his mess.

Although the effort turns out to be short lived when he's rinsing the stain off in the sink, face-to-face with his slightly foggy reflection in the mirror. Then eyeing your toothbrush left idle inside your rinse cup, instantly leading his already gross mind into a labyrinth of unchaste thoughts.

Thinking back to every morning that your schedule happens to run perfectly aligned with his, leading to your bodies bumping against each other as you simultaneously brush your teeth. Your brows knitted and intent on finishing before him, whereas he's all focused on the way your mouth parts open as you brush along the back of your teeth and round your gums. The small toothbrush poking into the side of your cheek every now and then while white foam drips from your chin— and fuck, all he can think about now for the rest of the day is pushing his fat cock past your mouth. Mocking you as you claw at his thighs, telling him your jaw aches through pitiful tears as your tongue struggles to accommodate his girth.

So he happened to have tampered about with your toothbrush and cup that day as well, unnoticed. Completely set on cumming all over your belongings as he teases over his flushed tip with the bristles of your toothbrush. Hand gripping over the edge of the bathtub he sits on, chest blushing with pink over his defined muscle and broad shoulders. Head flicking back as he grunts from the tingling sensation of your toothbrush, rubbing down his sensitive slit his eyes squeeze close at. Aiming to cum inside your cute little rinse cup with painted daisies running down the glass; it's just wrong, so wrong.

Terrible of him to do so despite him scrubbing it clean of his cum he uses to mark everything that you own. Terrible of him to be so turned on when you're hot-headed and frustrated at him. Asking over and over again if he was the one ripping through your tights. Failing to mention the batteries he took out of your vibrator, as well as the chargers he threw away into the household trash— hoping it would be enough for you to grow needy without them and instead approach him for help.

Which you do in all the slyest indirect ways you could imagine. Not wanting to fall into his ploy but unable to help it when he's spreading his legs over the couch in the tightest pair of shorts he owns. The fabric clinging tight to his bulge you can't distract your eyes from even as he calls you over to pick a strawberry from your yoghurt bowl. Licking over his fingers as he bares his canines on display, tongue swathing over each finger just to tell you the fruit was sweet like he wasn't egging you on on purpose. He notices the way you awkwardly shuffle to your room and lock the door, blasting the loudest music you could despite saying you were going to study, hoping to drown your pathetic moans out.

You'll continue to interrogate and pick at old scabs he thought he healed, bringing up the ten pieces of clothing you left in his care to wash, only to receive just nine of them back with an even muskier scent than before. Listening to the same excuses he's backed up into his memory log, telling the same lies that you only gave him nine pieces and to take out your anger on the brand of washing detergent instead. Blaming the holes ripped in your clothing on your own carelessness and the imaginary mice rummaging through your room, and equally, going silent when you mention the stains.

Taehyun knows his lies are brittle and poorly executed, but he'd rather be caught for the 'small' inconveniences than be spotted fucking into the plushie you're always hugging at night. Unaware of the zipper down the back that couldn't have loosed over time without Taehyun to help. Pulling down the zip every time he fucks his cock directly into the stuffed animal he won you as a prize at a local carnival when you first moved in, driving him crazy that you've held onto it so dearly. Taking care of the fluffy squirrel you buy all sorts of decorative clips and hand-sewn clothes for.

It's a shame that Taehyun's the one who'll have to tread lightly with each of his thrusts in order to not rip through the delicate material, he just can't help himself when he sees the outline of his cock bulging through the belly of your plushie. He just can't help it when he cums inside of the cotton with no hopes of cleaning it out. Mind reeling just thinking about his cum stuffed inside the toy being so close to you without your knowledge.

Thinking back to everything he's corrupted with his dirty deeds, painting your belongings in his off-white gunk he's unashamed over. The pocket pussy he clothes with your panties and fucks until it's gushing with his cum, your pictures on his phone he pays tributes to with a nasty jerk off session, and all the times he's insisted on riding the back seat in the car when it was just you two alone. For no other reason than to slowly fuck his cock with his fist behind your leather-padded driver's seat, plastering a smile on his lips whenever you observe him through the rear-view mirror.

At the end of the day, you can call Taehyun all the vile and spiteful words you've pent up for him, call him a gross freak and a weirdo. Call him a pervert for all he cares. Since it won't change the fact that he's into it, and it won't erase the memory of you moaning out his name on the first night you moved in <3

taeyhun almost feels bad, looking down at you as you try to muffle sobs of pleasure with your palm as he rams into you from behind. "how'd you do it?" he hisses, bruising grip latched onto the plush of your hips. you've got a grip on the desk, but your legs begin to shake from the force and you know the end is coming near.

"d-dunno what—fuck—" you whine when he jams his cock into your warm cunt with vigor that has you lurching ageainst the desk, gripping the edges so tight your knuckles are beginning to burn white. "—dunno what you're t-talkin' about," you manage to gasp out in the short moment of recuperation taehyun gives you before dragging his hips back and shoving his length back in just as deep.

"fuckin' liar," the faux, brown haired boy grunts from behind. a strangled moan escapes your throat as he continues to drill into you, and you press your cheek against the cool wood of the desk in fruitless hopes that it will keep you sane for just a moment longer.

"t-taehy—"

"save it," he growls, and the way his voice is so gravely, so deeply animalistic has you unconsciously thrusting your ass backwards too to meet his forceful thrusts. "can't even gim'me a—" his breath hitches when he feels your sopping cunt tighten around his length. "—a straight fucking answer." blood rushes through his head as he says the words, veins coursing with some mix of anger and adrenaline.

you try to shake your head but with the way your body is throttling after ever snap of his cock into your cunt, the task proves extremely difficult. "feels so-oh good," you tell him in airy breaths. "c-can't—" you can't think, is what you want to say, but you're too fucked out to even be able to form coherent words, and the thought makes you grow dizzy with heat.

taehyun moans at the sight that follows—you looking up from him as you crane your neck to face him, back arched into the hottest fuckin' view he's ever had the pleasure of seeing, tears streaming down your pretty face, staining your cute cheeks, dripping off your swollen lips and—fuck, he might as well bust it on the spot if he wasn't so damn furious.

"feels too good, huh?" taehyun scoffs. "too good to tell me how you outscored me?"

"i-i—" you choke out when he rams into you so hard the sound of skin slapping against skin rings in your ears. "—told you i dunno. it's j-just i did better," you choose to add, not realizing that those five words were probably the last things you should have said.

taehyun pulls out of you in an instant.

it happens so fast that you swear you can still sense the lingering feeling of his fat cock inside of you, all pretty curves and veins carving their shape into your hot, gummy walls.

and then it hits you.

you're painfully empty.

"sh-shit!" you whimper, scrambling against the desk with jelly legs and sore hips as you mindlessly try to do anything that'll fill you up. it nearly angers you how quickly you resort to begging. "no, no, no, no—please, no! why'd you stop?!" you cry out, turning to face him him completely now. your ass now presses into the side of the table with taehyun looming over you in front, eyes dark and jaw clenched.

your eyebrows curve into a frown, puffy bottom lip jutted out in a pout as taehyun watches you intensely as you mewl softly, pushing yourself to sit on your desk and spread you legs for him. "taehyun, i—”

"so now you wanna talk?" he scoffs, surprising you by grabbing your thighs and yanking you closer to the end of the desk so that your dripping cunt are positions right in front of his shining cock. "tell me," he mutters, sliding the thick tip between your pulsing folds but not giving you what you want the most.

"please, taehyun, please," you repeat, writhing against his hold in a dreadful attempt at slipping his cock into you.

"you gotta tell me, pretty," taehyun whispers, nudging his length against your throbbing clit so that you jerk slightly at the stimulation.

"already told you," you huff out, having half the mind to roll your eyes at him, but something tells you you know better. "dunno—guess i just—"

you shriek loudly when he sinks into you at once, balls pressed against your ass as he leans over you and pins you to the desk. "say it," taehyun dares, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear as you close your eyes and revel in the feeling of him so deep inside of you. "say it and you won't walk for a week."