A Lonely Starfish

Han Jisung didn’t mean to catfish anyone.

At first, it was just a username.

It starts with a 3 a.m. scroll.

He’s in the studio, everyone else gone home, the monitors dimmed and his half-finished track looping in the background like it’s mocking him.

He’s stuck. The verse is fine, the pre-chorus is kind of fine, the hook is… not fine.

He spins in his chair, groans into his hoodie, and opens his laptop like a reflex.

Music forums. Anonymous, messy, full of people arguing about compressors and chord progressions.

He lurks more than he posts. Sometimes he drops generic advice. Sometimes he half-jokingly defends “that Han guy from Stray Kids” when people underestimate him.

Tonight, though, he types something out before he can overthink it.

user: nocturne_3am

Title: What do you do when all your hooks sound the same?

I keep writing stuff that feels like a weaker version of my own songs. Not other people’s. Mine. It’s like I’m stuck in my own head and can’t get out of my patterns.

How do you reset your ear? Serious answers only, my ego is already in pieces lol.

He hits post, immediately regrets it, and scrolls away.

He’s halfway through watching a video on vintage synths when the notification pops up.

user: polaroidMelody replied to your thread.

He clicks.

polaroidMelody:

First of all, I think this means you have a sound, which is not a bad thing. Stop bullying yourself.

Second, I do something so cringe it works: I write a song as if I’m someone else. Like, full roleplay. “What would X artist do with this drum pattern?” “How would Y phrase this line?” Then I go back and erase the specifics and it usually leaves some new paths in my brain.

Also, if you’re writing enough hooks that they’re starting to blur together, you’re already working your ass off, so… you’re probably doing better than you think.

He stares at it.

He… actually likes that idea.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he types back.

nocturne_3am:

This is the least cringe thing I’ve seen on this site, congrats.

Also wow, an actually helpful answer. Are you sure you belong here?

The reply is almost instant.

polaroidMelody:

I should be charging you for this tbh.

But seriously, try it. Pick someone whose writing you like (not your own pls lol), put on one of their songs, and then turn it off and write as if you’re ghostwriting for them. No copying, just vibes.

Bonus: when you get stuck, think “what would Han from Stray Kids do with this line” because that guy is insane in the best way when it comes to hooks.

Jisung nearly drops his laptop.

He chokes on nothing.

His heart is suddenly very aware of itself.

nocturne_3am:

lol Han huh

you a fan?

polaroidMelody:

Are you not???

Yes I’m a Stay, hi, nice to meet you, here’s my heart.

I swear this isn’t just fangirling, his melodic instincts are stupid good.

Why, you don’t like them?

He swallows a hysterical laugh.

His fingers hover over the keys.

nocturne_3am:

I… like them fine.

:]

He adds the smiley like a coward, shuts the laptop, and spins his chair away from the desk.

He should log off.

He doesn’t.

—

They start messaging the next day.

It’s small at first. Replies in the thread, then a DM when he asks if she has any reference tracks for the “write like you’re someone else” hack.

polaroidMelody:

depends what kind of mood you’re in 👀

what’s the genre? tempo? are we sad? angry? main character in a netflix show?

He finds himself smiling at the screen.

He tells her: midtempo, melancholy but not devastated, something that feels like city lights at 2 a.m. and that weird buzzing loneliness that isn’t quite isolation but isn’t comfort either.

She sends three songs.

One of them is a Stray Kids b-side he wrote.

He stares at the title.

nocturne_3am:

lol one of these seems… familiar

polaroidMelody:

yeah yeah mock me, I know I’m predictable

BUT if you strip your bias out of it and just listen to how the melody lifts on the pre-chorus?? disgusting. jail time.

also I feel safe enough here to say this:

3racha has literally saved my brain on multiple occasions.

His chest squeezes.

He plays the track anyway, headphones on. Tries to hear it through her ears, not his own.

Something clicks.

That night, he rewrites the hook like he’s ghostwriting for someone else.

It works.

He tells her.

nocturne_3am:

your stupid method worked

I hate you and thank you

polaroidMelody:

LMAO

pay up

tell me something about yourself as a fee

(not like your social security number or anything, just. idk. something you’d put in a zine)

He hesitates.

He knows the rules. Don’t reveal too much. Don’t leave breadcrumbs. Don’t be obvious.

But no one knows who “nocturne_3am” is. Nobody knows he lurks here. He uses VPNs. He doesn’t post at the company. He never mentions schedules or names.

So he picks something small.

nocturne_3am:

I have this thing where my best melodies come when I’m literally nowhere near my computer. Like in the shower. Or halfway to the convenience store. Or in the middle of a conversation.

I have so many voice notes of me going “da-da-dum” over nothing it’s embarrassing.

polaroidMelody:

that’s actually kind of cute

okay my fee in return:

I’m currently in a love-hate relationship with my laptop fan. it only screams when I open my DAW. if I browse the internet or watch youtube, silence. the second I want to create art? airplane mode.

anyway hi, I’m Sori, sorry in advance for oversharing.

Sori.

His mind immediately starts turning it into rhymes.

Sorry sorry I’m Sori sorry..

He smiles.

nocturne_3am:

hi sori

this is going to be confusing to say out loud

and your laptop fan is trying to gatekeep your art. you need to break up.

She sends a laughing emoji, then a long paragraph about the shitty secondhand laptop she lovingly calls Frankenstein.

It becomes a pattern.

Late nights become “talk to Sori” time. They send each other demo snippets and critique structuring. She rants about work and bad coffee. He rants about “clients” who can’t decide what they want (he never says “my label”).

She tells him, after a month, that she lives in Busan. Works a boring office job. Writes songs no one hears.

He tells her he lives in Seoul. Has “multiple jobs.”

He never uses the word idol.

She gushes about Stray Kids sometimes, because that’s the kind of safe space an anonymous forum feels like.

He learns that she fell into their music during a bad year. That “Sunshine” made her sob. That his rap in a specific song made her feel less alone in her burnout.

He reads those messages with his heart in his throat.

polaroidMelody:

sorry if this is cringe but

sometimes I wish I could tell him directly

not in a parasocial “notice me oppa” way

just like

hey, your weird brain saved mine a little

thanks.

He stares at the words until his eyes blur.

His thumbs hover.

He types, deletes, retypes.

nocturne_3am:

I think he’d want to hear it

even if it made him cry and hide under a blanket

polaroidMelody:

LMAO

you think he cries?

nocturne_3am:

yeah. the loud ones always do.

He doesn’t tell her that he does, in fact, cry. That he’s done it over lyrics that felt too raw, over fansigns where someone said “thank you for making it to today,” over reading her messages at 3:15 a.m. in a dark studio.

—

He falls first.

He doesn’t realize it until Chan asks why he’s giggling at his phone and nearly drops it like it’s on fire.

“Who are you texting?”

Jisung flinches so hard his phone nearly goes flying.

He clamps it to his chest like it’s state secrets.

“N-no one.”

Changbin raises one eyebrow from the other end of the couch.

“Uh-huh. You’ve been typing for fifteen minutes and smiling at nothing.”

“It’s a meme,” Jisung mutters.

“It’s always a meme,” Chan says dryly from the floor, leaning against the coffee table. “Let me see.”

“No!” Jisung yelps, curling into a protective ball.

Hyunjin, passing by with a bowl of ramen, snorts. “He’s either sexting or writing lyrics.”

“I’m not sexting!” Jisung squawks, then immediately regrets saying that sentence out loud.

“Writing lyrics,” Chan repeats slowly. “In a DM.”

Jisung groans and flops backwards.

“Fine,” he mutters. “There’s this… person.”

Three heads swivel.

“Person,” Changbin echoes. “As in…?”

“As in… a human,” Jisung says defensively. “We met on a music forum. She writes, like, actual feedback. Not ‘oppaaaa marry me’ stuff. She… gets it.”

He regrets that last part as soon as it’s out.

Because Chan’s face softens, Changbin’s smirk grows, and Hyunjin makes a delighted “ohhh” sound.

“How long have you been talking to her?” Chan asks gently.

“I don’t know,” Jisung lies.

“Two months,” Changbin says. “You started disappearing after practice about that long ago.”

“Does she know who you are?” Hyunjin asks.

A silence drops into the room.

Jisung looks at his phone.

At Sori’s latest message:

polaroidMelody:

sometimes I get really lonely here lol

not in a tragic way, just… I don’t have many people I can be weird about music with.

so… thanks, I guess. for not making me feel crazy.

His chest aches.

“No,” he says quietly. “She doesn’t.”

Chan’s brows knit. “At all?”

“I told her I live in Seoul. That I write. That I have dumb coworkers who don’t know how to communicate.” He smiles faintly. “It’s not technically a lie.”

“But she doesn’t know you’re… you,” Changbin says.

Jisung shakes his head.

“And you know she’s a Stay,” Hyunjin remembers.

Jisung nods.

Chan exhales. “That’s… tricky.”

“I know,” Jisung says quickly. “And I was going to say something, but then she told me how much she hates parasocial stuff, and how she likes being able to send her songs to ‘just another forum guy’ without feeling weird, and then I panicked and didn’t.”

“Hyung,” Hyunjin says carefully. “The longer you wait, the weirder it gets.”

“I know,” Jisung repeats, stomach twisting. “I just… I like being someone ordinary to her. If I tell her, everything will change.”

“Of course it will,” Changbin says. “Doesn’t mean it’ll be bad change.”

“She might disappear,” Jisung blurts. “Or think I was… I don’t know. Using her. Or laugh at how pathetic it is that I didn’t say anything sooner.”

Chan’s voice is soft. “Or she might be really glad the weird guy who gets her references is also the guy whose music helped her. But she should get to decide that with all the information, not half.”

Jisung knows that.

He’s always known.

He looks down at the chat again.

polaroidMelody:

sometimes I get jealous of your “clients” tbh

they don’t know how good they have it

having someone like you in their corner

Jisung’s throat burns.

“I’ll tell her,” he says. “Soon.”

He means it.

He fully intends to.

He just doesn’t realize that “soon” will be taken out of his hands.

—

The livestream happens on a Thursday.

It’s a chill one. He’s in the small practice room, hoodie up, hair flattened by his cap. He’s mostly there to calm Stays down after a rough schedule week, play a couple of snippets, chat.

He’s rambling about writer’s block and how the best ideas come at the worst times when he says it.

“That’s why I have, like, a thousand voice notes of me going ‘da da dum’ in the street,” he laughs. “Once I literally stopped a conversation with Chan-hyung to record a melody. He was so offended.”

You can almost hear the comment section explode.

He moves on, playing with the keyboard, humming something half-formed.

He doesn’t know that miles away, in a tiny apartment in Busan, Sori has the stream open on her phone… and the chat window with “nocturne_3am” open on her laptop.

Her fingers freeze over the keys.

Because three weeks ago, he told her:

I have so many voice notes of me going “da-da-dum” over nothing it’s embarrassing.

She remembers thinking it was such a specific, cute detail.

She remembers thinking it felt… familiar, somehow.

Now she watches Han Jisung on her screen say the exact same thing, with the same cadence, the same embarrassed smile in his voice.

Her heart stutters.

No. Coincidence. Musicians everywhere have voice notes. “Da da dum” is generic enough. She’s not crazy. She’s not..

Then he says, still laughing, “I swear, if you could see the names of my voice memos, you’d all leave the fandom. One is literally just ‘sad bread idea.’”

Her breath catches.

She Alt-Tabs to her DMs.

Scrolls up to a message from last month.

nocturne_3am:

just recorded a memo labeled “sad bread hook” because I was eating at 4 a.m. and suddenly wanted to cry. do not judge me.

The world tilts.

Her vision tunnels.

She looks back at the live.

He’s reading comments now, giggling. He looks… normal. Like usual.

Her stomach lurches.

She types with trembling hands.

polaroidMelody:

If you’re going to lie to me, at least change the punchlines.

She doesn’t hit send.

Not yet.

Her mind races through every message, every emoji, every late-night confession she’s poured into that chat window.

How she told “nocturne” that Han’s lyrics made her feel seen.

How she joked about marrying his brain.

How she sent a voice note once, shy and off-key, because “if you’re going to bully me about my bridge you should at least hear how it’s supposed to go.”

If he is who she thinks he is, he has that. He has all of that.

And he never said.

She hits send.

On his end, in Seoul, Jisung’s phone buzzes on the table.

He glances at it between songs.

Sees her name.

Sees the message.

Feels his soul leave his body.

The chat on the live blurs. He stammers through a goodbye, makes up an excuse about practice, and ends the stream so fast people clip the abrupt cut.

He’s already unlocking his phone.

nocturne_3am:

Sori..

polaroidMelody:

How long were you going to do this?

Until I sent you a selfie wearing your merch?

Until I told you I was going to your concert?

Until I said “I love him” and you got to be smug on two accounts?

His vision swims.

nocturne_3am:

It’s not like that. Please. Let me explain..

polaroidMelody:

Oh my god.

It is you, isn’t it?

He doesn’t type fast enough.

His excuses feel like sludge.

nocturne_3am:

Yes. It’s me. It’s Jisung. I was going to tell you, I swear, I just..

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Appear again.

polaroidMelody:

Don’t.

Just don’t.

—

She doesn’t log into the forum for days.

When she does, it’s only to see if he’s still there.

He is.

A long, pinned post appears under “nocturne_3am” on the front page.

nocturne_3am:

I need to apologize publicly to a specific person, but this is the only place I know we both share.

I lied by omission. I built a friendship on half-truths because I was scared of changing it. I let you talk about my work to my face without telling you it was mine. I let you be vulnerable as a fan to the person you were a fan of and I didn’t give you the choice to say no to that dynamic.

That was selfish.

You never owed me that trust. I should have respected yours more.

I’m sorry.

He doesn’t use her name.

He can’t.

But everyone in the comments knows this isn’t the usual forum drama. Most shrug and move on. Some speculate wildly. A few defend him without knowing the story. A few call him a catfish.

She reads it with her jaw clenched.

Then she goes to their DMs.

He’s written walls.

Some half-started messages he’s clearly deleted and re-written.

I didn’t go there looking for a fan.

I just wanted to be a musician somewhere without my label attached.

I swear I was going to tell you. I kept trying to find the right time and then every time I chickened out because you looked so happy talking to “just me” and not “Han”.

That’s not an excuse. I know.

I just… I never meant to laugh at you. I never did.

I was honoured and terrified and in love and stupid.

I understand if you never want to talk to me again.

But if you let me explain once, properly, I’ll shut up forever after if you want.

She stares at the screen until her eyes sting.

Her fingers hover over the keyboard.

She types.

polaroidMelody:

Do you have any idea how humiliating this feels from my side?

The reply is instant.

nocturne_3am:

Yes.

I mean

No.

I’m trying to imagine it and I hate myself for putting you there.

She swallows.

polaroidMelody:

I told you things I would NEVER have told Han Jisung.

Not because I don’t trust him.

Because I didn’t want to be “just another fan” in his head.

And the whole time, you were him.

Do you know what that feels like?

He doesn’t answer right away.

She waits.

nocturne_3am:

Violating.

Like your privacy was taken away without you knowing.

Like you were tricked into being vulnerable.

Her chest tightens.

He continues.

I can give you a hundred reasons why I did it.

None of them change the fact that I did.

I am so, so sorry, Sori.

I never shared your songs.

I never showed your messages to anyone.

I never laughed at you.

But I did enjoy a kind of closeness I hadn’t earned honestly.

And that’s on me.

She bites her lip so hard it hurts.

Part of her wants to scream at him.

Part of her wants to log out and pretend “nocturne” never existed.

Part of her remembers every 3 a.m. when his messages kept her from falling apart.

“You fell first,” she thinks bitterly. “And I fell harder into a half-truth.”

She types slower this time.

polaroidMelody:

I need space.

Don’t contact me for a while.

If you respect me at all, you’ll give me that.

The three dots appear.

Then vanish.

nocturne_3am:

Okay.

I’ll wait as long as you need.

I’m so sorry.

She blocks his account.

Her mouse hovers over the “delete account” button for a long time.

In the end, she simply closes the laptop.

And tries to figure out how to go back to hearing his music without hearing betrayal under every line.

—

He doesn’t sleep.

The others notice.

Changbin walks in on him sitting in the dark practice room one night, headphones around his neck, not actually listening to anything.

“She blocked me,” Jisung says hoarsely.

Changbin sits down beside him.

“You kind of deserve that,” he says gently.

“I know,” Jisung mutters. “It doesn’t make it… less.”

Hyunjin brings him tea he doesn’t drink.

Felix offers hugs he doesn’t deserve.

Minho, in his blunt way, says, “This is what happens when you’re a coward for six months.”

Chan, in quiet leader mode, asks, “What are you going to do to make it right, not just feel bad about it?”

Jisung doesn’t know.

He can’t message her. She asked him not to.

He doesn’t know her last name. Just Sori. Busan. Office job. Frankenstein laptop.

He worries that anything he does will feel like stalking. That he’s already crossed enough lines of trust.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do.

He writes.

Song after song after song.

Some are angry at himself. Some are apologies so specific he could never release them. Some are just sad little things about a girl with a broken laptop and better ears than she knows.

He keeps them in a folder labeled “S.”

Doesn’t let anyone open it.

Weeks pass.

The fandom moves on from the weirdly short live.

Schedules pile up. Comback prep. Variety filming. Endless dance practice.

He’s functional.

He’s not okay.

He talks less in meetings. Laughs a little too loudly when he’s trying to wrench himself into gear. Chan watches him like a hawk.

One day, during lunch, Minho says casually, “We have fansign in Busan next month.”

Jisung’s chopsticks pause.

He looks up.

Minho holds his gaze.

“I’m just saying,” Minho shrugs, too casual. “Busan is big. But not impossible.”

Chan kicks him under the table.

“Don’t encourage potential restraining order behaviour,” he hisses.

“I’m not saying hunt her down,” Minho replies. “I’m saying… if she’s a Stay, she might be there. Or near there. Or at least the same city. And if she does want to talk, she should know that he’s not hiding from the chance.”

Chan sighs. “You know what else she deserves? Space.”

“I gave her space,” Jisung says quietly. “She asked me not to contact her. She didn’t say anything about being where she might be. If she hates me, she can ignore me. If she… doesn’t, she might come.”

Felix chews slowly. “What are the chances she even knows which one of the weird forum guys you were?”

Jisung swallows.

“She knows,” he says. “She recognized stupid ‘sad bread’ and ‘da da dum.’ She’s… she’s smart. She connects dots. That’s kind of why I fell for her, remember?”

Changbin sighs. “Then maybe trust her to decide if she wants to connect this dot too.”

—

Sori isn’t planning to go to the fansign.

She stopped buying merch the week she blocked him.

Not because she stopped loving the music.

Because every time she looked at his face on an album, she heard him say, I never meant to laugh at you, and wanted to scream.

But the ticket was already in her email.

She’d joined the event pre-lottery on autopilot months ago, back when “Han” and “nocturne” were separate people in her mind.

She almost refunds it.

Instead, she shoves the envelope into her bag the morning of the event and tells herself she’s going “for closure” and “for the other members.”

The venue is bright and loud and full of nervous fans clutching albums to their chests.

She feels out of place. Too sharp around the edges.

When she reaches her seat in the middle rows, she considers bolting.

Then the music hits.

They walk out.

Eight boys. One by one. Laughing, waving, bowing.

Her heart betrays her and leaps anyway when she sees him.

Hair styled light and soft. Oversized cardigan. That nervous little half-smile he gets when the crowd volume spikes.

He looks exactly the same.

He doesn’t look like “nocturne.”

Except he does.

He laughs at something Changbin whispers. Covers his face. Rocks back in his chair. It’s the laugh she heard on voice notes as text bubbles popped up.

She grips her album harder.

They start the signing.

Fans go row by row. The line snakes. Hyunjin makes hearts and winks. Seungmin teases people. Jeongin giggles at their handwriting.

Sori’s heart hammers harder with each step.

By the time she reaches the table, she’s almost dizzy.

The staff slides her album to the first member, Chan.

He smiles up at her with that warm, steady leader gaze.

“Hi,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

She stammers something.

He asks her name.

“S-Sori,” she manages.

His pen pauses for half a second.

Something shifts in his expression.

It’s gone in an instant. He writes her name and a short message and sends her album down the line.

It passes through hands.

Changbin, bright and loud.

Hyunjin, all sharp beauty.

Han.

He pulls the album toward him without looking up.

“Hi, what’s your name?” he asks, pen ready.

His voice is the same as it always is at these things. Slightly higher, charming, a little theatrical.

“Sori,” she says.

The pen stops.

Slowly, he looks up.

For a moment, all the sound in the venue drops out for him.

He sees the girl he’s only ever known as a string of messages and an icon.

Dark eyes. A nervous twist to her mouth. Fingers worrying the edge of the table.

She sees the boy she’s watched through screens and written late-night essays about.

And also the boy who typed “I’m so, so sorry” at 4 a.m.

His hand shakes.

“Sori,” he repeats, barely audible.

Her throat is dry.

“So,” she says, because if she doesn’t talk she might cry, “do your clients know you call their ideas ‘sad bread’?”

He lets out a tiny, shocked laugh.

The staff glance over, startled.

Chan shoots them a quick, reassuring smile.

“No,” Jisung says hoarsely. “They don’t.”

He writes her name slowly.

His fingers are trembling so hard the letters wobble.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he blurts. “I swear, I didn’t… I mean, I hoped, but I didn’t… This isn’t… I’m not..”

“Stalking me?” she supplies, eyebrow arched.

He winces. “I deserve that.”

She exhales through her nose.

“I wanted to see if you’d pretend not to know me,” she says quietly.

He looks sick. “I could never.”

“Even after I blocked you?” she presses.

He meets her eyes, something raw and unguarded there.

“Blocking me was the kindest thing you’ve done so far,” he says. “You could’ve exposed me. You could’ve dragged me. You didn’t. You just… asked me to leave you alone.”

His voice cracks.

“I’m trying to respect that,” he continues. “Even now. If you tell me to shut up and sign the album and never speak to you again, I.. I will.”

She swallows hard.

“This is a really weird place to have this conversation,” she mutters, glancing at the hundred girls behind her.

He huffs a choked laugh.

“Yeah,” he says. “The universe has a bad sense of humour.”

She looks at him properly now.

At the tired smudges under his eyes.

At the way his shoulders curve in like he’s bracing for a hit.

He looks sorry.

He looks smaller than the man on stage.

He looks like “nocturne” sitting in the dark with his laptop open and his heart in a chat window.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper. “At the start. When I said I was a Stay. Why keep going?”

He takes a breath, lets it out slowly.

“Because for once, someone liked my brain without the stage,” he says quietly. “You argued with my chord choices and roasted my lyrics and suggested better metaphors. You weren’t trying to impress ‘Han from Stray Kids.’ You were just… talking to some guy who also overthinks snare sounds.”

He looks down at her album, fingers pressing into the paper.

“I got addicted to that,” he admits. “To being just ‘some guy’ to you. I was scared that if I told you, every message after would feel… different. Like work. Or like you were performing for me. I knew it wasn’t fair. I told myself I was protecting what we had. Really I was protecting my own cowardice.”

Her eyes sting.

“The thing is,” she says, “I was being different. I told you things I never would’ve put in a fan letter. Not because I don’t respect you, but because I didn’t want to be… like everyone else in your mentions.”

“I know,” he whispers. “And I’m so, so sorry for putting you in that position without your consent.”

A staff member coughs gently, motioning them to wrap up.

Jisung glances up, panicked.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me here,” he rushes out. “Or ever. I just… if you ever want to talk about it like normal humans and not in thirty seconds across a table with eight cameras pointed at us, I..”

He scribbles something under his signature. Two small words and a string of numbers.

“Only if you want,” he says, pushing the album slowly toward her. “If you don’t text it, I’ll delete the number in a week and never bother you again. I promise.”

Her hand hovers over the page.

It reads:

Let me try?

010-XXXX-XXXX

Her chest aches.

“Okay,” she says, voice thin. “I’ll… think about it.”

He looks like someone just handed him a second heartbeat.

“Thank you,” he breathes.

She moves down the table on shaky legs.

Felix grins at her so brightly she almost cries again.

“You made Hannie smile for the first time in days,” he says softly as he signs. “Thank you, noona.”

She laughs weakly. “I also made him cry, probably.”

Felix’s eyes twinkle. “Sometimes you gotta cry before you can smile properly.”

Minho, when her album reaches him, just writes:

Please don’t make him too happy. He’s unbearable when he’s confident.

-Lee Know

She snorts.

When she leaves the venue, her phone feels like it weighs a thousand kilos.

She doesn’t text for two days.

On the third, at 2:17 a.m., sitting in bed with Frankenstein’s fan whirring, she opens her messages.

Types:

hi nocturne

Deletes it.

Types:

hi jisung.

Stares at the name.

Hits send.

—

His reply takes thirty seconds.

Jisung:

hi.

I’m crying already this is so embarrassing.

She laughs out loud despite herself.

They don’t dive into heavy talk immediately.

He asks if she got home safe. She accuses him of writing his phone number like a middle schooler. He says, “it worked, didn’t it?”

The apology comes that weekend.

He calls.

She almost doesn’t pick up.

Then she does.

“Hi,” he says, voice small, through the speaker.

“Hi,” she says, heart hammering.

There’s a pause.

He fills it before it can get awkward.

“I need to say all of this out loud once,” he says. “You don’t have to answer. You can mute me and eat chips and just let me talk. But I need you to hear me say it with my actual stupid mouth.”

She snorts in spite of herself. “Okay.”

He takes a breath.

“I lied to you by omission,” he says. “That’s still lying. I let you be vulnerable without giving you the information to protect yourself. I hid behind anonymity because it was convenient for me. I hurt you. I know that. I’m sorry.”

He’s silent for a moment, then continues.

“I’m not going to say ‘I never thought of you as just a fan,’ because you were a fan, and that’s part of this. To pretend otherwise would be weird. But you weren’t only that. You were also the only person who told me my bridge was mid and then sent a better one.”

She snorts.

“And my favourite part of my day for months,” he adds quietly. “Not because of who you were to me as an idol. Because of who you were to me as… you. I should have trusted that enough to tell you the truth. I didn’t. I am so, so sorry, Sori.”

Her eyes blur.

She curls her knees up, phone pressed to her ear.

“I wanted to hate you,” she admits after a moment. “I wanted to delete all the songs and pretend I never cared.”

“Fair,” he says softly.

“But every time I did, I remembered some dumb thing you said at 4 a.m. about hi-hats or how you sent me a voice note of you whistling on the subway so you wouldn’t lose a melody,” she continues. “And I thought… that’s the same guy. The one on stage and the one in my DMs. Just… hiding.”

He doesn’t breathe for a second.

“I don’t know if I trust you yet,” she says. “Not completely. I don’t know if I ever will the way I did before. But I don’t… want to throw away what we had either. Is that stupid?”

“No,” he says, sounding choked. “That’s… more than I deserve.”

“I have conditions,” she says, wiping her eyes.

“Name them,” he replies instantly.

“You don’t get to be anonymous anymore,” she says. “If we talk, it’s as you. No more handles. No more ‘clients’ when you mean your company. I want the real context so I can say no when something feels wrong.”

“Done,” he says.

“And if I say ‘I need space’ again,” she continues, “you give it. No long posts. No big gestures. Just… space. Even if you’re scared I’ll disappear in it.”

He swallows. “Okay. I will.”

“And…” she hesitates. “If this ever turns into something more than… whatever we are now, I don’t want it to be because you feel guilty. Or because I saved your artist block. I want it to be because you actually choose me. With all the risk and all the mess. Not because I flatter your ego.”

There’s a beat.

“Sori,” he says quietly. “I already chose you. That was the problem. I chose my fear of losing you over giving you a real choice.”

Her heart clenches.

“Don’t say things like that if you don’t mean them,” she whispers.

“I’ve never meant anything more,” he says.

Silence.

She sits with it.

With the anger. The ache. The stubborn, stupid warmth.

“I’m not saying I forgive you yet,” she says finally. “But… I’m saying you can keep trying.”

She hears him exhale like he’s been underwater.

“That’s all I’ve been asking for,” he says. “A chance to try.”

—

“Wait, so when are you actually going to meet her like a normal person?” Changbin asks one afternoon, watching Jisung rewrite the same line for the third time.

“We already met,” Jisung mutters.

“At a fansign,” Changbin says. “Surrounded by screaming people and cameras and me judging you from two seats away. That doesn’t count.”

Chan looks up from his laptop. “He’s right. You can’t rebuild a normal relationship on text and the occasional glimpse across the stage.”

Jisung chews his lip.

He and Sori have been messaging again.

Slowly. Carefully.

He answers questions she didn’t know she had: yes, the company monitors their socials. No, they don’t read his personal DMs without cause. Yes, he’s written songs about her. No, she can’t hear them yet, because they’re too raw and also really bad.

He’s careful now. Over-careful. Checks himself before making jokes that might remind her of the anonymity. Checks in when she sounds off. Asks for consent before sharing any detail from their conversations even with the members.

Still, their connection is mostly words on screens.

“Busan’s not that far,” Felix says from the doorway, chewing a cookie. “We could go down early one day. Or she could come up. As long as she’s okay with it.”

“That’s the thing,” Jisung says. “I don’t want to pressure her. If I say ‘come to Seoul and meet me,’ it’s not the same as some random forum guy saying it. There’s this whole… power imbalance now. I hate it.”

“So let her pick,” Minho says. “Offer options. Neutral places. Public. She’s a grown woman, she can assess risk.”

Jisung bites his pen.

Later that night, he texts.

Jisung:

Can I ask you something? You can absolutely say no.

Would you ever want to hang out. Like real life hang out. In a coffee shop. With chairs. And maybe my hands shaking so bad I spill everything.

The three dots hover.

Sori:

You really know how to sell an experience.

…where?

His heart leaps.

Jisung:

Wherever you feel safest.

Public. Daytime. Your city, mine, or halfway.

You can bring a friend, a taser, and a lawyer if you want.

Sori:

Wow romantic.

There’s a café near the beach here that has terrible coffee but nice windows.

That okay?

Jisung:

I’d drink boiling sand if it meant seeing you, so yes.

—

He wears a mask, cap, and the biggest hoodie he owns.

Even so, he feels naked on the street.

He has a manager trailing in the distance, just-in-case. He argued for coming alone. The company argued back. They compromised.

He waits at a corner table with his back to the wall, hands clenched around a paper cup.

She’s smaller than he imagined, somehow, and bigger at the same time. More real. Her presence shifts the air.

She spots him, hesitates, then comes over.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” he echoes.

Up close, without a table and a timed fansign between them, she looks… human. Not like a fan, not like a username. Just a person with chapped lips and a flyaway hair strand she keeps tucking behind her ear.

“I got you this,” he blurts, thrusting a paper bag at her like it’s a shield.

She blinks. “You didn’t have to.”

“I did, actually,” he says. “It’s in the apology bylaws. I looked it up.”

She snorts and peeks inside.

A new laptop fan. A sticker of a little cartoon Frankenstein laptop. And a USB drive.

Her brows lift.

“What’s this?” she asks, holding up the drive.

“Songs,” he says, suddenly shy. “Bad ones. Ones I wrote while I was blocked. Ones you helped unblock. They’re not for release. I… wanted you to have them. So you know I wasn’t just using you for ideas. I was… sharing parts of myself too. I just didn’t label them properly.”

Her fingers curl around the plastic.

He watches her face.

“This doesn’t erase what you did,” she says softly.

“I know,” he says.

“But…” She takes a breath. “It does make it harder to pretend you’re some malicious mastermind.”

He laughs weakly. “I’m barely a mastermind about my own breakfast.”

They talk.

For hours.

About everything they’d only skimmed over before. Not just music. Families. Dreams. The parts of fandom that scare her. The parts of idol life that scare him.

He tells her, explicitly, that she can say no. To anything. To meeting again. To him writing about her. To him sharing any part of their story.

She tests it.

Says, “Please don’t ever call me your muse.”

He winces. “I hate that word anyway. Deal.”

By the time the sky turns orange over the water, they’re both hoarse.

He walks her to the bus stop, hands jammed in his pockets.

“Can I hug you?” he asks, at the curb.

Her answer takes forever.

“Yes,” she says quietly. “You can.”

He steps forward like she’s made of glass. Wraps his arms around her gently. She smells like cheap coffee and sea air.

His throat feels tight.

“You’re real,” he mutters into her hair, before he can stop himself.

“You are too,” she says. “Annoyingly.”

He laughs, breath shuddering.

When they pull back, there’s something new between them.

—

He sends her drafts and actually asks, “is it okay if I keep this line you suggested in the final version?” She says yes. He credits her in the album booklet as “S.M.” with a smiley face. She pretends not to cry when she sees it.

She watches his lives with a different kind of awareness. When he tells an anecdote she’s heard at 3 a.m., she smiles instead of flinching, because he told her he was going to.

He stops going on anonymous forums.

If he wants a community, he joins under his real name. If he wants advice, he asks his members. Or Sori. Or both.

When an interviewer asks about “creative inspirations,” he laughs and says, “I have a friend who calls my first drafts ‘sad bread hooks.’ I hate her and she’s right.”

Twitter explodes with theories.

Sori sends him a screenshot, captioned, “congrats, we’re a meme.”

He replies, “we were always a meme.”

It takes months before she says, “I forgive you,” on a random Tuesday night, on a call where he’s half-asleep and she’s rambling about a new synth plugin.

“By the way,” she says, almost offhandedly, “I forgive you.”

He nearly drops his phone.

“For what?” he croaks.

“For being a coward,” she says. “For lying. For making me feel stupid. I still kind of want to hit you sometimes, but… I don’t feel that nauseous twist when I see your face anymore. That has to mean something.”

He laughs into his pillow, eyes stinging.

“Can I… ask you something insane?” he says.

She hums. “Depends how insane.”

“Would you ever… consider… like…” He flails. “Letting me be your coward boyfriend?”

She laughs softly.

“You’re not a coward anymore,” she says. “You’re just an idiot.”

“Is that a no?” he squeaks.

She’s quiet for a heartbeat.

“No,” she says. “It’s not.”

His heart stops.

“Is that a yes?” he whispers.

“Yes,” she says, and he hears the smile in it. “But only if you promise never to call me your muse, and you keep letting me bully your bridges.”

He grins into the dark, chest so full it hurts.

“Deal,” he says. “On one condition.”

“Oh?”

“You keep being a Stay,” he says. “Even if you’re dating me. Especially if you’re dating me. I don’t want to take that away from you.”

She’s quiet.

“I was a Stay before I met you,” she says. “I’ll be one even if you piss me off again.”

He groans. “Ouch.”

“You said I could say no to things,” she teases. “I’m saying no to rewriting my playlists.”

He laughs until he can’t breathe.

Later, when he writes a song about anonymous usernames and late-night voice notes and the terror of being known, he sends her the demo first.

“Is this too on the nose?” he asks.

She listens.

She hears her story in it.

His.

Theirs.

“A little,” she texts back.

He winces.

Then another bubble pops up.

But sometimes people need the obvious stuff sung out loud.

It’s good, Ji.

He stares at her nickname for him.

Smiles.

For the first time in a long time, he feels like he’s writing from a place that’s honest. Messy. Human.

Not the idol speaking to the fans.

Just a boy, telling the truth to the girl who refused to let him hide behind his own stage name.

He presses save.

And this time, the file name isn’t a joke.

The third time they pair you with Jeon Wonwoo, you consider quitting. Or at least pretending to be sick. You even open your notes app and half-type an excuse.

But when you see your editor’s email — You two make magic. Don’t fight it — you swear under your breath and toss your phone aside.

Jeon Wonwoo. Photographer. Zero small talk. One hundred percent pretentious. The man breathes in ISO and exhales shadows. Meanwhile, you're the girl who writes copy with color theory in mind, who believes every word should pop like a burst of sunlight.

He’s monochrome. You’re confetti. And somehow, it works.

You’ve done four campaigns together now. And every time, it starts the same: with passive-aggressive jabs in the pre-prod meeting and ends with a late-night moment in post where the both of you look at the final output — breathless, reluctant, electric.

Still, you groan out loud when he walks into the conference room. Tall, lean, dressed in black from head to toe, camera slung across his chest like a warning sign. He doesn’t say a word.

You look away, focus on the mood board you brought. Pastels. Messy hair. Laughing models. 

He glances at it and deadpans, “Too much movement.”

You roll your eyes. “Too much gloom gives people seasonal depression.”

He doesn’t flinch. Of course he doesn’t. But his dark eyes stay on you a second too long.

Then he says, coolly, “You like working with me.”

You bark a laugh. “I don’t.”

“Then why do you keep staring when you think I’m not looking?”

Your spine stiffens.

He takes a slow step closer, his voice dropping low, just for you. “I know I drive you crazy. I just haven’t figured out if it’s the good kind yet.”

Your heart kicks.

He’s too close. Not touching you, not really but the air shifts. The kind of shift you feel when the lights dim in a gallery and you realize you’re alone. Watched. Trapped in someone’s frame.

“I stare,” you say, voice sharper than you mean it, “because I’m trying to figure out how someone can be so annoying and artistically talented.”

He smirks. That maddening, barely-there twitch of his lips.

But before he can reply, your editor walks in. Meeting starts. Notes get passed around.

Still, all through the briefing, you can feel it — his eyes on you. Not just looking. Studying. Composing. Framing.

And when you turn a page in your notebook, you find a post-it that wasn’t there before.

Let’s make something beautiful again. This time, don’t fight me so much. —JWW

You blink. Glance up.

He’s already looking somewhere else, like he didn’t just slip you a note that sounds more like a threat than a request.

But when the campaign starts and he’s adjusting a model’s pose with fingers too firm, or when he tugs the lighting rig just a little closer to your side of the set, you start to wonder:

Is it the good kind of crazy?

Or is it the kind where he’s been collecting snapshots of you this whole time just waiting for you to notice?

=

Shoot day starts too early, as always. You arrive with a barely-touched coffee and your tote stuffed with scribbled notes, mockups, and emergency lipstick. 

The set’s already buzzing. Assistants adjusting lights, the stylist fussing over hangers, and makeup artists corralling models. And then there’s him.

Jeon Wonwoo, behind the camera, sleeves pushed up, silent and sharp-eyed like he’s already in some creative trance.

You don’t greet each other. You never do.

Instead, you walk past him and say, “Try not to suck the color out of this one.”

He doesn’t look up. “Try not to write another tagline that sounds like a horoscope.”

You snort, but you’re smiling as you walk away.

The first few hours are smooth. Too smooth. You jot notes, direct a few expressions, argue mildly over angles but it’s all routine. Familiar. Comfortable in a way that shouldn’t be. Especially not with him.

At one point, you hold a reflector steady because one of the interns bailed. He pauses mid-shot, glancing at your hand.

“You know,” he says casually, “you don’t have to do everything yourself.”

You glance up. “Neither do you. But here you are micromanaging every shadow.”

He lifts the camera. “Because not everyone sees things the way I do.”

There’s a beat.

Then he adds, voice lower, “But you get close.”

The shutter clicks. You look away first.

Later, you’re off to the side with one of the male models, a golden-retriever type who keeps finding excuses to hover near your clipboard. You laugh at something he says not because it’s particularly funny, but because it’s nice. Easy. Safe.

Wonwoo doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even loo but the next time he calls for lighting adjustment, his tone is clipped. Short. Sharp.

“Backlight’s wrong. We’re redoing this set. Everyone reset.”

The model groans good-naturedly. “Again? You’re ruthless, man.”

Wonwoo doesn’t answer. Just lifts the camera, jaw tense. You watch him a moment too long.

After the next break, you’re reviewing a few test shots on his monitor. You lean in, about to make a comment, when his voice stops you.

“Do you like him?”

You blink. “Who?”

“The model.”

You glance up. He’s not looking at you. He’s reviewing photos like this is the most casual conversation in the world.

“I don’t know,” you say slowly. “He’s nice.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

There’s a silence between you, stretched tight.

Then he turns to you. “He’s not your type.”

“Oh? And what is my type?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just looks at you like he already knows the answer.

“I think,” he says quietly, “you like being challenged. You like sharp edges. You like the kind of person who notices when you skip breakfast and leaves granola bars in your bag.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

He leans in, barely an inch, voice barely audible over the hum of set noise.

“I think you like me.”

You stare at him.

“And I think,” he murmurs, “he should stop talking to you.”

Just then, someone calls your name, breaking the moment. You step back, breath uneven, pretending not to see the way his gaze follows you the rest of the day like a loaded lens.

The shoot wraps late and people start packing up with tired smiles and half-finished drinks. You’re standing near the monitors, still mid-laugh with the editors, going over selects and teasing one of the assistants about their playlist.

Wonwoo walks past, camera bag slung over his shoulder, cool and unreadable as always. He doesn’t say a word but he doesn’t leave either.

You notice it how he slows near your things, pauses, then just… picks them up. Your tote, your extra charger, even your water bottle. Like it’s second nature. Like he’s done it a hundred times before.

You blink. “Hey—what are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps walking.

You hurry after him. “Jeon! What is your deal?”

The studio door swings shut behind you, warm dusk brushing your skin. He’s a few steps ahead, heading to the lot. Doesn’t even look back.

Then a voice calls out behind you. “Hey! Wait—wait, hold on!”

It’s the model from earlier, jogging over, shirt half-untucked, charming smile in place.

Wonwoo slows. You don’t.

The model catches up beside you, hands stuffed in his back pockets. “You heading out now? I was gonna ask, do you maybe wanna grab something to eat? I know this little place near here. Super chill, no pressure or anything.”

You open your mouth, polite and caught off guard.

Then he adds, grin widening, “Can I get your number?”

You feel Wonwoo stop completely. There’s a flicker in the air like a wire being pulled too tight.

Before you can say anything, you hear the click of a car door unlocking. Then Wonwoo moves, fast and wordless. He walks over, swings open the passenger door of his car with a thud, and looks at you like it’s not a question.

Like it never was. 

You stare at him. Then glance back at the model, who’s suddenly a lot less confident.

“Uh—sorry, are you two…?”

“She’s leaving,” Wonwoo says, voice low but final.

Then to you: “Get in.”

You freeze, torn between bristling and… something else. Something that pools in your chest at the way he doesn’t even look at the guy anymore.

Just you.

With a beat of hesitation—and maybe, curiosity—you slide into the seat.

Wonwoo shuts the door behind you. Not hard. But firm. Like punctuation. By the time he’s in the driver’s seat, engine purring, you’re still watching him.

“You didn’t let me answer,” you mutter.

“I didn’t need to.”

Then, quieter, he adds, “I don’t like sharing.”

You don’t say anything but you don’t ask to get out either.

The engine hums beneath you, low and steady, but the tension in the car is anything but. You glance over, crossing your arms.

“So,” you say, voice cool, “let me ask again.”

He doesn’t look at you.

You lean a little closer. “What’s your deal, Jeon?”

A pause. The city noise fades behind closed windows.

“I carry your stuff, I sit through your edits, I let you drag my lighting setups to hell and back—”

“You don’t let me—”

He cuts you a glance. Sharp “—and then I see you giggling with some guy who doesn’t know a softbox from a sunbeam, and suddenly I’m supposed to just stand there?”

You blink. “He was being nice.”

Wonwoo pulls the car to a red light. Turns to you fully.

“There’s a difference between being nice and thinking he can touch something that’s not his.”

The words drop between you like a match in dry grass.

You stare. “I’m not… yours.”

He doesn’t blink. “No. Not yet.”

You fumble, voice uneven. “You—you can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s insane?”

He scoffs, low under his breath. “You think I’m the crazy one? I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Damn him.

“I’m not an idiot,” he murmurs. “You like the push and pull. You like when I argue with you. You like that I see you.”

He turns again, a quiet street now, almost too quiet.

“I know what this is. You just don’t want to admit it first.”

You can feel your heartbeat in your throat. You look out the window, then back at him, and for a second, everything is suspended. Caught in headlights and breath.

“I don’t like you,” you lie.

His lips twitch. “Sure.”

You glare. “I don’t.”

“Then why are you still in my car?”

You scowl, shifting in your seat to face him more directly. “Oh, so what? You want me to jump out? Tuck and roll while you’re at a red light?”

Wonwoo shrugs, one hand still lazily on the wheel. “If you think your dramatic exit would prove a point, I won’t stop you.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You say that a lot.”

“That’s because you are.” You throw your hands up. “You act like you’re doing me a favor by being overbearing.”

“I carried your bag.”

“You kidnapped me.”

“I opened a door. You got in. That’s not kidnapping, that’s cooperation.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “God, how does anyone work with you?”

“Only one person keeps getting assigned to me,” he says flatly

You shoot him a glare. He smiles then. Barely. That infuriating ghost of a smirk that always makes your stomach tighten in the most inconvenient ways.

“Face it,” he murmurs, “you’d hate working with anyone else.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “You’re arrogant.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“You’re controlling.”

“You’re nosy.”

You exhale sharply. “You’re obsessed.”

He looks at you. No denial. Just a tilt of the head, like he’s considering it.

Then he says, calm and quiet, “Maybe.”

You falter.

“Is that what you want to hear?” he continues. “That I notice everything? That I know how many sugar packets you steal from catering. That you hum when you’re writing. That you bite your lip when you’re holding back a smartass comment—usually aimed at me.”

Your throat feels dry.

He slows the car in front of your building. Throws it in park. Doesn’t look at you when he says, “I notice everything.”

Then, voice softer, almost teasing: “If you notice everything, then you should know I don’t give my number out that easily.”

Wonwoo finally turns, gaze locked on yours. “I wasn’t going to let you give it to him at all.”

You blink. “Why?”

“Because he wouldn’t have known what to do with you.”

Silence again. The air between you is thick and crackling.

=

The next day is nonstop chaos.

Back-to-back meetings. Mood boards, budget revisions, brand notes that make you want to walk into traffic. You barely have time to breathe, let alone think about him.

You last overheard that Wonwoo was off on location today. Shooting some high-profile ad with another team across town. So you tell yourself you’re safe. No camera flashes. No quiet glances. No unsolicited car rides and infuriatingly perceptive commentary.

By the time your last meeting ends, your brain is mush and the office is half-deserted.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the sky outside has already dipped into that inky, late-evening blue. You tug your cardigan tighter around you, hug your folder to your chest, and start your slow walk toward the elevators.

You pass by the creative department on instinct, taking the long way out.

Most of the desks are empty now. Monitors dark, chairs askew, headphones abandoned. But at the far end of the open floor, where the studio heads have their corners, one light is still on.

Wonwoo’s space.

Spacious, minimalist, and annoyingly clean. Except for the piles of printed test shots currently spread across his desk.

He’s there, seated, hunched over his monitor. Serious. Focused. Hair slightly tousled like he’s been running his fingers through it. And he’s wearing glasses.

You pause mid-step.

You don’t mean to watch him. You’re just… taking in the scene. That’s all.

But then he tilts his head, squints at the screen, and mutters something under his breath before reaching for a pen to jot something down on a nearby notepad.

You take another step before your voice betrays you.

“Didn’t peg you as the type to pull late nights.”

His head lifts immediately, eyes flicking up to meet yours. Sharper, even behind the glasses.

You try not to fidget under the weight of his stare.

Wonwoo leans back slightly in his chair. “Didn’t peg you as the type to snoop.”

“I wasn’t snooping,” you say, walking a little closer despite yourself. “Just passing by.”

“Convenient.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile. “You always this charming after hours?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you quietly for a beat too long.

“Only when the company’s tolerable.”

You ignore the way your stomach flips.

He gestures vaguely to the photos spread out in front of him. “Client wants new mood adjustments. They can’t decide if they want moody or romantic.”

“Can’t they be both?”

He glances up at you again. “Exactly what I said.”

You lean in a little, scanning the images. portraits in soft light, blurred movement, aching stares between models. And for a second, it’s just the two of you, surrounded by stillness and the faint buzz of the desk lamp.

“You should go home,” he says quietly, breaking the silence

“I should,” you echo, but you don’t move

He doesn’t push. Just watches you, the corner of his mouth barely curved. Like he knows.

Then, with the same maddening calm “Still think I’m obsessed?”

You give him a look.

“I mean, you’re literally here in the dark with romantic portraits and mood lighting,” you say, deadpan. “You’re like a noir character who listens to sad jazz and pines dramatically.”

“I don’t listen to jazz.”

“So you do pine?”

That actually makes him smile, just slightly.

You blink. “Was that—did you just smile?”

He exhales, long-suffering. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“No,” you say sweetly. “But you keep listening.”

He leans back again, gaze slow and deliberate. “I told you. I notice everything.”

You should go. You should absolutely turn around and leave.

But instead, you ask, “Got room for one more opinion?”

Wonwoo raises a brow, then pushes one of the photo sets toward you, wordlessly. He raises a brow, eyes tracking your every move like he’s trying to figure you out. Again.

And you should’ve just stood next to him. You should’ve.

But instead—

You move.

You don’t know what possesses you. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you like he expects something, like he already knows you’re going to do it.

Maybe it’s how warm the room suddenly feels, or how your pulse is thudding in your ears louder than it should.

Either way, the next second, you’re putting your folder down on the edge of his desk carefully, and sliding onto his lap.

His body goes still beneath you.

You barely give yourself time to process it. Just lean forward, grab the mouse from his hand like you’ve done it a thousand times before, and start dragging one of the photos across the screen.

“Your layout’s messy,” you murmur, keeping your eyes on the monitor. “You’re blending contrast-heavy shots with soft light sets. That’s why the mood doesn’t stick.”

He doesn’t say a word.

His hands stay resting on the armrests of his chair, fingers twitching like he’s holding himself back. His chest rises against your back in slow, measured breaths.

“You’re insane,” he finally says, voice low

“And yet,” you say, still scrolling, “you’re letting me do this.”

“You think I won’t move you?”

“Then do it.”

Silence.

Then you feel it. His hand ghosting up to your waist, not gripping, just hovering, like he’s waiting for something. Waiting for you to bolt. Waiting for you to tell him to stop.

You don’t.

Instead, you nudge the brightness on one image down a few notches. “That one’s better. Warmer. More intentional.”

“Intentional,” he echoes, voice rougher now. “You know you’re playing with fire, right?”

You turn your head just slightly, enough to see him from the corner of your eye.

“Am I?”

His jaw flexes. You’re close enough now to see the faint crease in his brow, the sharp line of his cheekbone beneath the glasses. His eyes are darker than usual, trained fully on you.

“You climbed into my lap,” he says simply.

“I’m multitasking,” you reply.

He huffs a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “You’re driving me insane.”

“You started it.”

And yet… neither of you move. Not away.

Not at all.

You linger there for another beat, feeling the weight of his stare, the way his hand still hasn’t touched you but it could. So easily. You can feel the tension crackling like a live wire.

Then you shift. You slide off his lap, smooth your skirt like nothing happened, and pick up your folder from the desk.

Back to business.

“Don’t stay too late,” you say casually, voice light but not quite steady. “We have a morning huddle tomorrow.”

Wonwoo doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer right away.

You glance at him still seated, gaze pinned to you like you’ve just stolen something and he’s letting you run with it. For now.

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t blink. Just watches.

You turn toward the door.

And as you’re walking away, you hear his voice—quiet, but certain.

“You’re going to drive me crazy next.”

=

The next morning, the office is cold and bright in that awful, too-early kind of way. You’re running on four hours of sleep and one too many thoughts you didn’t ask for. You kept replaying last night in your head—what you did, what he didn’t stop, what he said.

You walk into the creative floor with your coffee gripped like a lifeline and a deliberately neutral expression.

Sooyoung eyes you the second you step into the meeting room.

“Why do you look like you haven’t slept and are also hiding a crime?”

You sit down and take a long, long sip. “Because I haven’t slept and I might be hiding something criminal.”

Before she can grill you, the conference room door opens.

Wonwoo walks in.

Dressed in black again. Hair slightly damp like he just got out of the shower. Camera strap slung over his shoulder. Glasses gone.

Your stomach flips. Sooyoung sees it. Her eyebrows fly up.

You nearly choke on your coffee.

The team lead starts the huddle, launching into project updates and timelines. You try to focus. Really. But it’s hard when Wonwoo sits directly across from you and doesn’t look at you once not really except…

Except he doesn’t need to. You feel him. Every time you speak. Every time you nod. Every time you flip a page in your notes.

The meeting continues. You swear you don’t breathe for ten minutes straight.

You should’ve known.

You should’ve known the moment you saw your name on the concept pitch team. You were already half-dreading the next round of campaign prep—but when you saw his name listed right below yours, your soul flatlined.

Creative Concept Leads: • (Your Name) • Jeon Wonwoo

You wanted to throw your tablet across the room.

Sooyoung just gave you a smug look and whispered, “The universe ships it.”

Now here you are—jammed in his car, en route to the client’s location for an ocular visit. The marketing head insisted someone from visuals and copy come together to “absorb the space creatively.” You tried to volunteer Sooyoung. You even tried to fake a cough.

The ocular goes smoother than expected.

You spend the better part of an hour with the client walking through the space, nodding thoughtfully, jotting down notes. There’s a lot of talk about “clean aesthetics” and “youthful energy” and “natural light flow.”

You walk up beside him. “Get anything usable?”

He nods. “Lighting’s better than expected. Colors need adjusting.”

You pause, watching him scroll through thumbnails. “You know, for someone who claims I talk too much, you really don’t complain when I’m around.”

He clicks through a few more images. “That’s because you’re distracting in the right ways.”

You blink, caught off guard for half a second. “That’s… either a compliment or a line.”

He finally looks up at you, one brow raised. “Why can’t it be both?”

You roll your eyes, turning toward the car, trying not to smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m sunburned.”

“I saw you put sunscreen on in the car.”

You whirl back around. “You were watching me?”

“I always watch you.”

That shuts you up for a second.

He closes the camera screen and pushes off the car, walking around to the driver’s side like it’s no big deal. “What are you doing Friday night?”

You blink. “Uh… nothing?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Great.”

He opens the door, slides in, and looks at you through the open window.

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

You stare at him.

He raises an eyebrow. “You gonna argue?”

You grip your folder a little tighter. “Only if you show up with mood lighting and your ‘mysterious artist’ playlist again.”

He smirks, starts the car. “So… seven.”

=

You expected dinner. Maybe somewhere moody and minimalist, some dimly lit place with overpriced appetizers and equally pretentious wine.

But instead here you are. Sitting side by side at a long wooden table, an apron tied around your waist, a half-painted ceramic mug in front of you, and a tiny tray of pastel paints between you.

Wonwoo doesn’t look away from his own mug. He’s holding it delicately like it’s some ancient relic, brows furrowed in concentration as he paints what looks like…a sunset?

“You said you wanted to do this.”

“No, I said I saw it while scrolling and thought it looked cute,” you point out. “That’s not the same thing as a formal request.”

He finally looks up at you, and the grin he’s trying not to wear is way too pleased.

“So you did say it.”

You narrow your eyes. “You were listening?”

“I always listen.”

You stare at him.

He dips his brush in a light yellow, still focused. “You said it two weeks ago. You were scrolling through your feed in the break room, showed Sooyoung the pictures, said—‘This looks fun, but no one would ever go with me to this.’”

Your mouth opens, then shuts.

Wonwoo glances at you now, and it’s not smug. It’s soft. Intent. Warm in a way that throws you a little off balance.

“I thought you might like it,” he says simply. “Something different. Something just for you.”

You don’t answer right away. Just look down at your mug and quietly add another dot of pink near the handle, heart doing something traitorous in your chest.

When you sneak a peek at him again, he's already watching you. Eyes bright. Chin rested in his hand, the corner of his mouth lifted in the smallest, most genuine smile.

“You’re enjoying this,” you accuse.

He shrugs, still staring. “You’re cute when you concentrate.”

Your brush slips. “I will paint you.”

He leans in slightly. “Promise?”

You try to scowl, but your face is already warm, and he knows it. He can see it. Wonwoo’s eyes crinkle faintly as he turns back to his mug, utterly content.

And that’s when it hits you.

This man—this brooding, black-wearing, shadow-chasing photographer—has remembered a throwaway comment you made two weeks ago. And now he’s painting a damn ceramic mug with you on a Friday night like it’s the only thing he’s wanted to do all week.

God help you. You’re in so much trouble.

You swirl your brush into the sky-blue paint, trying to distract yourself from how warm your face feels. It doesn’t work. 

“You know,” you mutter, not even bothering to look at him this time, “for someone who calls me annoying all the time…”

He looks up, eyes waiting.

You finish, “You seem to like me way too much.”

He doesn't answer right away. Just sets his brush down slowly, wipes his fingers on a paper towel, and leans his elbow onto the table. Tilts his head like he’s studying you.

“I don’t call you annoying all the time,” he says, voice maddeningly calm.

“Oh my god,” you huff. “That’s your response?”

“I’m being accurate.”

You give him a flat look.

He lets out a soft laugh barely a sound, just enough to tug at the corners of his mouth.

“I do like you too much,” he says, almost offhandedly.

That makes you blink.

Your heart skips like it missed the memo on how to beat properly. “What?”

Wonwoo picks up his mug again, like he didn’t just casually drop a bomb between you. “I said I like you too much.”

You just… stare.

He glances at you from the corner of his eye. “You gonna pretend you didn’t hear that too?”

You grab your own mug, suddenly very invested in outlining a tiny heart on the rim. “I just wasn’t expecting you to admit it.”

“I’m not subtle.”

“You’re the least subtle person I’ve ever met.”

“Then why are you acting surprised?”

You pause, brush mid-air.  “…Because you’re you.”

He looks over again, and this time, his expression is quieter. Steadier.

“Yeah,” he says. “And I’m sitting here painting mugs with you. What does that tell you?”

Wonwoo leans in just a little more, elbow still propped, voice low and even.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

You look up at him slowly. His face is unreadable but not cold. Focused. Like he’s waiting on a shutter click only you can trigger.

You swallow. Then shake your head. “Don’t.”

He doesn’t smile but his eyes say everything.

He doesn’t say anything after that. Jst gives you that long, unreadable look one last time before turning back to his mug like it never happened. Like he didn’t just casually tilt your entire emotional axis with a straight face.

You watch him quietly, lips parting, something light curling in your chest.

And then a slow smile creeps across your face.

You lean in closer, resting your elbow on the table, voice soft but laced with amusement. “Knew it.”

He glances sideways. “Knew what?”

“That you liked me,” you say, teasing now. “You’re, like… secretly a softie. Under all the black clothes and broody attitude. You're just a big, secretly sentimental guy who paints mugs and remembers stuff I say in passing.”

Wonwoo doesn’t even look up.

“That’s because you’re annoying.”

You gasp. “Wow.”

“Loud,” he continues calmly, as if listing facts. “Dramatic. Difficult. Always in my space. Won’t shut up.”

You swat his arm with your brush. “Rude.”

Paint dots his sleeve. He pauses, finally looks down at it, then up at you with the most deadpan expression.

“That was intentional.”

“I plead the fifth.”

He sighs, exaggerated and slow. “This is what I get for liking you.”

=

You weren’t expecting to hear from him over the weekend.

After Friday night. After that smile, that look, the mug painting, the soft teasing that still loops in your head on repeat you figured there’d be some space. A reset. Time to overthink everything.

But then, Saturday morning, your phone buzzed.

Wonwoo [8:02 AM]: Good morning.

You stared at the screen. Blinking. Then you squealed. Actually squealed. Like a teenager with a crush and no self-control.

You flopped back onto your bed, pillow over your face, heart doing somersaults. What is happening to me.

Before you could type a cool, detached response, another message came through.

Wonwoo [8:03 AM]: Breakfast?

Now here you are.

Twenty-five minutes later, seated side by side in a quiet café tucked into a sleepy street corner. It’s all soft sunlight through gauzy curtains, the clink of cutlery, and the hum of lazy weekend chatter.

He’s next to you, legs casually spread, forearm resting on the table, black hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Glasses on. 

You poke at your hash browns. “So this is your idea of a date?”

Wonwoo doesn’t look up from his fork. “You like breakfast food.”

“How do you even know that?”

“You always order pancakes at client brunches and complain when they don’t give you syrup on the side.”

Your fork pauses mid-air.

He glances over, like it’s not a big deal.

“I pay attention,” he says simply.

You don’t know what to do with that. You sip your coffee to buy time. “You know, if you keep doing things like this, I’m gonna start thinking you’re sweet.”

He raises a brow, chews a bite of toast. “That’s your first mistake.”

You grin. “So you’re saying you’re not secretly a sweetheart?”

He gives you a look. “I dragged you out of bed for carbs. Not a confession.”

“But you said good morning.”

He rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says.

You nudge his arm with your elbow. “And you like it.”

He doesn’t argue. Just takes a sip of his coffee, slow and quiet.

Then, voice lower, “You free tomorrow?”

You glance at him. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Might feel like seeing you again.”

You narrow your eyes at him, setting your coffee cup down with a little more force than necessary. “See—this is what gets me.”

Wonwoo quirks a brow, entirely unfazed. “What?”

“You can flirt like this,” you say, gesturing at him dramatically. “Be all… soft-voiced and casual and thoughtful and infuriatingly attractive—”

“Infuriating?” he echoes, amused.

“Let me finish,” you snap. “You can do all this. Make me flustered before 10 a.m.but instead, most of the time, you choose to argue with me like we’re in the middle of a creative deathmatch.”

He leans back in his seat, that familiar smirk creeping up. “That’s rich coming from the girl who picks a fight every time I suggest a muted color palette.”

“Because your idea of ‘muted’ is one shade above grayscale,” you shoot back.

“And your idea of contrast is blinding the audience.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

You scowl harder, jabbing your fork in his direction. “There. That. This is exactly what I mean. You’re flirting and fighting. It’s emotional whiplash.”

Wonwoo shrugs, cool as ever. “You’re the one who said I was secretly a softie. Can’t blame me for trying to keep up appearances.”

You huff, crossing your arms as you lean back. “You could try being normal.”

“I am being normal.”

“You are the opposite of normal. You have resting death glare, an emotional support camera, and a romantic streak that only shows up after 9 p.m.”

He snorts. “Says the woman who argues like it’s foreplay and sat on my lap in the office like that was a normal Tuesday.”

Your cheeks flare immediately. “That was—! Okay, first of all, that was an act of curiosity—”

“That’s what we’re calling it now?”

“I hate you.”

“You like me too much to hate me.”

You roll your eyes, but your mouth twitches.

“See?” he says, smug. “That smile. You always pretend like you’re annoyed, but you love it.”

“I do not—”

“You do.” He leans in slightly, voice dipping. “You like when I push your buttons. When I argue with you. You light up every time.”

Your lips part, caught halfway between protest and denial—but he’s not wrong. Not completely. You reach for your toast instead of replying.

Wonwoo watches you for a moment longer, then adds, “I argue with you because you’re the only one who can keep up.”

You glance up. He’s not teasing anymore. There’s something behind his voice. Quieter. Real.

“That… was kind of sweet,” you admit cautiously.

He sighs dramatically, stabbing at a piece of his pancake. “Guess I’m slipping.”

You smirk, nudging him under the table with your knee. “Don’t worry. You’ll say something annoying again in about three minutes.”

His smile returns, slow and knowing. “Then I better enjoy the peace while it lasts.”

=

The next few days pass with no big declarations, no dramatic shifts just… the quiet continuation of whatever this thing between you and Wonwoo has become.

You still bicker during team discussions. You still roll your eyes when he insists on shadow-heavy frames. He still pokes holes in your captions until you threaten to delete his entire photo folder.

But you also catch him holding the elevator for you without saying a word. He always walks you to the lobby. Opens the passenger door. Drives you home like it’s automatic now. You tease him about it, call him your grumpy chauffeur. He says nothing just gives you that small side glance, the one that means he’s secretly pleased.

It’s those little things. Consistent. Steady.

Then Thursday rolls around.

The office has emptied out hours ago, the hum of fluorescent lights the only company left. You’re still at your desk, eyes glued to your screen, headphones in, halfway through rewriting a tagline that just won’t cooperate.

You don’t notice the time. Not until a quiet shadow moves behind you.

You pull your earbuds out and spin your chair around. He’s just standing there. In a black hoodie again, hands in his pockets, gaze half-lidded.

You blink at him, surprised. “Wonwoo?”

“It’s past ten.”

You check the time at the corner of your screen and curse. “Shit. Really?”

“You skipped dinner.”

You frown. “How do you know that?”

“You’re still here,” he says simply. “And your coffee cup’s empty.”

You stare at him. “Are you keeping tabs on my caffeine intake now?”

He shrugs. “Someone has to.”

You snort softly. “Okay, dad.”

He doesn’t move. Just studies you from where he’s standing, eyes tracing your tired face, your slumped shoulders. He tilts his head slightly, and in that quiet office, it feels like he’s close enough to hear your heartbeat.

“You should’ve gone home,” you murmur

“I was about to.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I saw your light still on.”

You don’t say anything to that. Can’t because he didn’t have to come up. He didn’t have to check on you. But he always does. In his quiet, maddening, consistent way.

You finally stand up, gathering your things. “Alright. Let me just shut this down.”

Wonwoo steps back slightly, waiting.

Then, while your computer hums its shutdown tune, he asks, voice quieter, “You always stay this late when I’m not around?”

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Why, getting jealous of my overtime?”

He meets your gaze head-on. “I’m serious.”

You shoulder your bag, facing him fully now. “No. I just got stuck in the zone.”

Wonwoo doesn’t respond. Just reaches forward, gently plucks your phone off your desk and hands it to you, thumb brushing yours in the process.

You take it. He turns toward the elevator, expecting you to follow.And you do. As the elevator doors close with a soft ding, the hum of motion filling the silence, Wonwoo speaks again 

“Next time you stay this late,” he says, “text or call me.”

You glance at him through the faint reflection on the elevator doors

“It’s dangerous to go home this late.”

Your brow arches, a smile tugging at your lips. “Wow,” you murmur. “You quoting video games now? ‘It’s dangerous to go alone’ what are you, my pixelated knight in shining armor?”

He doesn’t answer. You turn your head to glance at him, and his eyes are still on you. Calm, unreadable.

You can’t help it, you keep going. “What’s next? You gonna give me a sword and three hearts?”

“Would you shut up for five seconds,” he mutters under his breath, more fond than irritated.

“Oh my god, you are a secret softie. I knew it.”

He exhales like you’re the world’s biggest problem set wrapped in an overactive imagination. The elevator slows to a stop. You’re still teasing, still poking at him. Words halfway out of your mouth as the doors slide open.

And somewhere between your rambling and your dramatic gasp over his concern, his hand finds yours.

Fingers threading together. Warm, natural. You don’t even register it at first.

Still caught in your usual antics. “Should I be worried now? Are you gonna make me wear pepper spray on a lanyard and check in every hour?”

Wonwoo doesn’t answer. Just walks with you, still holding your hand like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You glance down—finally, finally noticing.

You blink. “Wait—are you holding my hand?”

“Brilliant observation.”

“When did this happen?!”

He sighs. “Three insults ago.”

You blink again, looking down at your tangled fingers like they’re foreign. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“Didn’t want to interrupt you. You were busy dragging my entire personality.”

Your cheeks flush before you can stop it, and suddenly you’re way too aware of the heat in your palm, of how his thumb brushes yours once before he lets go to open the building’s front door.

You walk out together into the cool night air, heart rattling somewhere near your throat.

And when you glance at him again, all he says is

“You talk too much.”

But his hand brushes yours again, like it’s waiting. So you take it back.

“Yeah, well,” you say smugly, fingers still laced with his as he walks you toward his car. “You like me, so.”

He exhales one of those long-suffering breaths, like he’s dealing with a particularly persistent migraine that he’s secretly fond of. Then he opens the car door for you, motions you in with a dramatic flourish, and mutters, “Should’ve just kept you guessing.”

You scoff, sliding into the seat. “As if you’re capable of being subtle.”

He closes the door, rounds the car. You’re still going by the time he’s in the driver’s seat.

“You’re the opposite of lowkey, Jeon Wonwoo. You scared that male model the other week just for saying I looked good in pink.”

He adjusts the mirror, nonchalant. “He was too close.”

“And what about that time the new photographer tried to ask what I was doing Friday night? You cut in mid-sentence and told him I already had plans—with you. You didn’t even blink.”

“He was wasting his breath.”

You point at him accusingly. “Exactly. That’s what I mean! You act like you’re all calm and detached but you’re the most obvious person in the room. If anyone even looks at me for too long, you show up like some passive-aggressive shadow with a lens and a grudge—”

“Hmm.”

“—and you say I’m dramatic, but meanwhile you’re plotting someone’s downfall because they complimented my sentence structure—”

“Right.”

“—and honestly I don’t even know how you’re still pretending to be chill about any of this when you literally—”

“Are you done?” he cuts in suddenly, turning to you

You blink, mid-rant. “No, I—”

Then he’s leaning in. No warning. No dramatic pause. Just moving. Smooth, easy, like it’s always been this simple for him.

His hand finds your jaw, steadying you, and then his lips are on yours. Warm and unhurried, but firm, certain. Like he’s finally tired of hearing you talk but can’t bear the thought of shutting you up any other way.

It knocks the air from your lungs.

You don’t even realize your hands have curled into his hoodie until he pulls back, just slightly, enough to speak against your lips.

“I like it better when your mouth’s busy doing that.”

Your heart’s still hammering when you murmur, “You’re unbelievable.”

His thumb brushes your cheek. “You’re impossible.”

The drive was quiet but electric. When you got to your building, he walks you to your floor.

Now here you are. 

Your back hits the door to your apartment with a soft thud, and thank god the hallway’s empty because right now, Jeon Wonwoo has you pressed against it and your mouth is very, very busy.

You breathe out, lips brushing his. “I should go.”

“Mhm,” he murmurs, mouth already finding yours again, slow and deep like he has no intention of stopping.

You make a quiet sound, tilt your head to kiss him harder. Your hands slide up his chest, into his hair. His palms are flat on either side of your waist, thumbs brushing your skin through your shirt like it’s second nature.

You break away again, breathless, eyes hazy. “Wonwoo—really—I have to go—”

He only pulls you closer, mouth dragging along your jaw, his voice low against your skin. “Then open the door.”

You shiver. “I didn’t say you were coming in.”

“Then stop kissing me like you want me to.”

That shuts you up.

He pulls back just enough to look at you flushed, lips swollen, pupils blown wide. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip like he’s memorizing it.

You hate how easy it is to melt into him again. Hate how your body doesn’t listen to your brain at all.

“I’m serious,” you whisper, though your fingers are tugging him closer again. “I should really—go—”

“You keep saying that,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “But you keep chasing me.”

You groan into his lips, smiling helplessly. “You’re so annoying.”

“You’re obsessed with me,” he says, smug now.

You don’t deny it.

Instead, you kiss him again, slow and lingering, until your hand’s fumbling behind you for the doorknob—

And you know, deep down, you’re definitely not going anywhere.

The next morning, you wake up tangled in your sheets, your hoodie sliding off one shoulder—his hoodie that he left with you.

Sunlight spills through the curtains, soft and warm across your legs. Your apartment is still. Quiet. Suspiciously so. You blink up at the ceiling for a solid five seconds before it hits you.

Oh my god.

Your eyes fly open.

You sit up so fast your head spins. “Oh my god, that happened.”

You cover your face with your hands, your voice muffled behind your palms. “No, no, no, that happened. I made out with Jeon Wonwoo in the hallway. I let him kiss me like that outside my apartment where there are cameras—”

You groan, falling back onto the mattress. “He left his hoodie here. I wore his hoodie here. We’re a cliché.”

You peek at the hoodie you’re still wearing and groan again.

“Why is this so soft—he did this on purpose—”

Then your phone rings.

You jolt, scrambling across the bed to grab it, heart already pounding.

Wonwoo[Incoming Call]

You stare at the screen like it’s personally offended you.

“Oh my god,” you whisper again. “Is this what regret feels like? Is this karma?”

You hesitate then answer, trying to sound normal. “Hello?”

His voice comes through, low and way too calm. “You awake?”

You clear your throat, sitting up straighter. “Yeah. Just now.”

“Good,” he says. “Come to the door.”

Your heart jumps. “What?”

“I’m outside.”

Your mouth falls open. “Wonwoo—”

“I brought breakfast.” A pause. “And your favorite kind of coffee. Because I do listen, remember?”

You’re stunned silent.

Then he adds, dryly, “Also, I want my hoodie back.”

You hang your head, whispering to yourself, “I’m in so much trouble.”

But you’re already getting up. You open the door in his hoodie and sleep shorts, hair a mess, bare-faced, and still halfway in denial.

And there he is.

Jeon Wonwoo. In all his early morning glory black ball cap, grey hoodie, two cups of coffee in one hand, a paper bag of what smells suspiciously like breakfast carbs in the other.

You blink at him. “...Hi.”

Wonwoo blinks back. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird,” you say too quickly, stepping aside to let him in. “You’re acting weird. You just showed up. Unannounced. With breakfast. And feelings.”

He walks in, drops the food on your kitchen counter like he’s done it a hundred times. “I told you I was outside.”

“That doesn’t make it less weird!”

“You wore my hoodie to bed.”

“Yeah, well, it was cold—”

“You sniffed it first.”

You freeze mid-step. “I did not.”

“You’re obsessed.”

You point a finger at him. “You kissed me first.”

“And you chased me like it was a sport.”

You fumble for a comeback, but your brain short-circuits, short-wired by sleep and his voice and the way he’s looking at you.

So you just sputter, waving your arms in a full-body flail of denial. “I’m not—! I don’t—! This is your fault!”

Wonwoo tilts his head. “What is?”

“You! Being... like this!”

He raises an eyebrow, steps closer. “Like what?”

You backpedal. “Like—tall. And smug. And weirdly nice in the most aggressive way possible. You remembered my pancake order and you brought coffee—”

“Because you like it with two sugars and a splash of oat milk—”

“STOP BEING PERFECT,” you shout, face burning.

Wonwoo just watches you. Calm. Unmoving. Infuriating. Then, while you’re mid-rant, hands flying, voice loud—

He grabs your wrist.

Pulls you forward.

And kisses you.

Right there in your kitchen, your sleep hair everywhere, no lip balm, no sense of logic. Just his lips on yours. Quieting every thought. Shutting you up the only way he knows how now.

When he finally pulls back, he’s still annoyingly close. “Better?”

You blink at him, stunned.

Then you mutter, dazed: “I literally forgot my name for a second.”

He smirks, presses another kiss to your forehead, and says, “Good. Now sit down before you combust. Your pancakes are getting cold.”

He chuckles softly from across the table, watching you stab at your pancakes with way more intensity than necessary.

“You mad at the syrup or just taking it out on the carbs?” he asks, resting his chin in his hand, thoroughly amused.

You shoot him a half-hearted glare as you chew. “You’re lucky these are good.”

“I’m amazing at breakfast choices.”

“You’re annoying.”

He grins. That’s the thing about you, always calling him annoying, always pushing, always rolling your eyes and pretending to be fed up. But he knows. He knows now.

You critique his muted color tones, call him dramatic when he won’t let you walk to your car alone, mock the way he glares at everyone within a ten-foot radius of you but you’ve never once stopped him.

Not once.

Not when he cuts in between you and another guy trying to ask where you’re from. Not when he shuts down some overeager creative lead asking if you’re “single off-duty.” You don’t even flinch.

In fact, he’s noticed the opposite.

You lean into it.

Literally.

You inch closer to his side at events. Your elbow brushes his more often than it needs to. You never stop him when he mutters “she’s busy” on your behalf. And when someone has the guts to ask for your number, he catches the flicker of relief in your eyes.

Wonwoo’s not a mind reader. But he pays attention.

It’s one of the many things about you he’s learning to love.

“Hey,” he says now, voice lower, soft.

You look up, mid-bite, eyebrows raised. “Hmm?”

He leans forward, eyes tracing your face. “You gonna let me keep doing this?”

You swallow. “Doing what?”

“This,” he says, gesturing between you two. “Waking you up. Bringing breakfast. Stealing kisses before you’ve brushed your hair.”

You flush, stabbing another piece of pancake with less force this time. “Depends. You gonna keep cutting off every guy who even breathes in my direction?”

Wonwoo leans back in his chair, smirking. “Obviously.”

You smirk back, cheeks pink. “Then yeah. I’ll allow it.”

He pretends to exhale in relief. “Wow. Finally. Permission.”

“Don’t push it,” you mutter.

But you're smiling. And he’s watching you like you're his favorite bad habit. Because you are.

You twirl your fork through the syrup, casually, like you’re not about to ask the question that’s been crawling through your brain all morning. Like your heart isn’t already speeding up just from the way he’s watching you.

You poke at your pancake again. “So…”

Wonwoo raises a brow.

You glance at him. “When did it start?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

You look up fully now, resting your elbow on the table, eyes narrowing playfully. “You. This. Me.” You motion vaguely between the two of you. “Whatever this is. When did it start for you?”

Wonwoo pauses, blinking once, then sits back a little, coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “You mean when did I start liking you?”

You shrug, feigning casual. “I mean. If you wanna be all straightforward about it.”

He hums, sets his cup down, like he’s actually thinking. And that just makes you more nervous.

You’re expecting some recent, dramatic moment but when he answers, it’s quiet. Blunt. Like it’s not a big deal.

“The second campaign.”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs. “You argued with me for a full twenty minutes over the tone of the ad copy. You refused to change it just because the client said so.”

“I—” You blink again. “I wasn’t even nice to you back then.”

“You weren’t,” he agrees. “But you were right. And you didn’t care that I was annoyed. You stood your ground. And you looked good doing it.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

“And then,” he continues, “you tried to storm out but knocked over your coffee and tripped over a light stand.”

You cover your face with your hands. “Oh my god.”

“I caught you,” he adds, sipping his coffee again.

“Stop talking.”

“I liked you after that.”

You peek through your fingers. “You’re insane.”

“You were wearing green that day,” he adds. “You never wear green.”

You lower your hands slowly, staring at him like he’s just admitted to memorizing your closet. “You remember what I was wearing?”

He shrugs again. “I always remember.”

Wonwoo leans forward, voice lower now. “Your turn.”

You blink. “My turn for what?”

“When did it start for you?” He’s already smirking. Like he knows. Like he’s just waiting for you to squirm.

“Go on,” he says, voice low and maddeningly smug. “Say it. When exactly?”

You glare at him. “I hate you.”

He just leans back in his seat, arms folded across his chest, sipping his coffee like he’s got all the time in the world. “That’s not a date.”

You scowl harder. He waits. Silent. Patient. Amused. You look at your plate. Your fork. The wall. The napkin dispenser. Anywhere but his face.

Eventually, with a dramatic sigh, you mutter under your breath, “The first introduction.”

Wonwoo raises a brow. “What was that?”

You roll your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “The first introduction, alright?! When you joined the company.”

He freezes and you catch the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth before he tries to hide it behind his mug.

“Seriously?” he says, voice a little smug but mostly surprised. “That early?”

You wave your fork at him like it’s a weapon. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Oh no, too late.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “You walked into the meeting room in that dumb black button-up, all tall and unreadable and broody-looking, and I knew. I knew you were going to be a problem.”

“Problem,” he echoes, smiling now. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

“You didn’t even smile,” you go on, ignoring him. “Just nodded at everyone and sat down like you were already too good for us. And then later you criticized the storyboard without even reading my captions.”

“It was a bad storyboard.”

“I worked all night on it.”

“It still sucked.”

You throw your napkin at him. He catches it, grinning.

“I literally said to Sooyoung,” you mutter, “‘That guy’s going to be the death of me.’”

“And here I am,” he says, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Still killing you softly.”

And you want to be mad. You try to glare. But his eyes are warm and his mouth is smiling and he looks entirely too pleased with himself.

You grumble, “I should’ve transferred departments.”

He shrugs. “You didn’t.”

You sigh. “I almost did.”

“You liked me the second I walked into the room,” he says with zero shame.

You groan, dropping your head to the table. “I should’ve transferred to another building.”

He reaches over, threads his fingers into yours on top of the table like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You don’t pull away.

“You didn’t,” he murmurs again. “That’s what matters.”

And you hate how that makes your chest feel stupidly full.

=

It’s already midday by the time you arrive on set. The shoot’s in full swing, assistants buzzing around, lights flashing, stylists adjusting hems and hair. The usual chaos, but organized in that beautiful, creative kind of way.

Wonwoo’s in the center of it all, camera in hand, black tee and cargo pants, sleeves rolled, hair slightly. He hasn’t seen you yet.

You’re off to the side, talking quietly with the campaign coordinator and art director, catching up on what’s been done so far. 

Wonwoo, mid-cue, camera lifted, one eye squinted behind the lens. His voice calm and low as he gives the model directions.

You watch the flash go off.

Then he lowers the camera and she laughs. Loud. High-pitched. She says something and reaches out, her fingers grazing his arm.

You see him glance down. See him step slightly out of range. But she doesn’t seem to care. Keeps talking. Her lips curve a little too much. She tosses her hair and says something else. You can't hear everything, but you catch the tone. The shift.

 “Are you always this serious?” Her voice rings just clear enough through the lights and buzz.

Wonwoo doesn’t respond right away. He adjusts a setting on his camera.

“I mean, it’s kind of hot,” she says.

That’s when you walk up. You stop at the monitor behind him, pretending to review the last few shots. You feel the shift before he says a word. His body turns slightly. His shoulders ease.

And then, mid-shot, he murmurs, “Didn’t know you were here.”

You don’t look at him, flipping through the clipboard with studied nonchalance. “I’ve been here a while. Watching you be mysterious and hard to look away from.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then a quiet exhale. Almost a laugh. Almost. You finally glance up and meet his eyes. And he’s already looking at you. Already wearing that expression, the one that only ever appears when it’s you.

The model, still nearby, clears her throat, clearly expecting more attention.

Wonwoo turns back to her briefly, voice distant now. “Hold that pose for a moment.”

You stand a few feet from the setup, arms crossed loosely as you watch him work. Wonwoo is in his element

“Like this?” she asks, tilting her head just slightly toward him, her hand brushing her collarbone as if to draw his eye. “Or should I be looking at you?”

Wonwoo doesn’t react. Just peers through the lens. “At the light. Not me.”

She laughs. “But you’re kind of hard to ignore.”

You roll your eyes so hard they might leave your body. Oh my god.

She giggles after every other shutter click. Touches her hair. Tilts toward him like she’s trying to melt into his camera.

And then finally the shoot wraps.

Wonwoo lowers the camera and wordlessly hands it off to one of the assistants. No nod. No thank-you. Just turns. And walks straight to you.

He doesn’t say much. Doesn’t need to. He stops right in front of you, eyes locked on yours, voice low but crystal clear

“Ready to go, babe?”

Silence. The model? Jaw dropped. You? Stunned. Speechless. You can literally hear your brain buffering. The stylist next to you physically gasps. A tech guy across the room drops something. Somewhere, someone forgets how to breathe.

You’re frozen. But he’s already taking the folder from your hands, slinging his own camera bag over one shoulder then grabbing your bag like it’s just a matter of routine.

And then he’s strolling toward the exit. Cool, calm, deadly.

He stops by the doorway. Turns. Holds his hand out, fingers open like he’s done this a hundred times.  You stare. One beat. Two.

Then you move.

You walk toward him, wordless. Your fingers slide into his like they were meant to be there all along. The room behind you stays completely, utterly silent.

And he just smiles, the smallest bit, like this was the plan all along.

The moment the car door shuts behind you, your brain is still catching up. He doesn’t say a word as he starts the car, calm as ever, hands steady on the wheel.

And finally, as he turns out onto the street, smooth and quiet like nothing earth-shattering just happened

You whip your head toward him. “Okay. Hold up. Pause. What. Was. THAT?”

Wonwoo hums like he doesn’t already know exactly what you’re talking about. “What?”

You throw your hands in the air. “What? Are you serious right now?”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other resting lazily between you. “You mean at the shoot?”

You scoff. “Yes, at the shoot, Jeon Wonwoo. You dropped ‘babe’ like it was your job title.”

“Right.” He nods like he’s just remembered. “Because you are.”

You stare. “That’s not the point!”

“I think it is.”

“You shattered the room.”

“Not my fault they’re slow,” he shrugs.

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “The model looked like she saw her career flash before her eyes.”

“She kept flirting with me,” he says simply. “You looked annoyed.”

You glare at him. “I was annoyed. But I wasn’t expecting a public broadcast. You never say stuff like that in front of anyone.”

He glances at you now, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. “You didn’t like it?”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t think so.”

You cross your arms. “Still. That was... aggressive.”

“She kept touching me.”

“Okay but—”

“She said I was hard to ignore,” he adds, like that alone should justify the entire situation.

“Because you are!” you snap, then immediately shut your mouth like you didn’t mean to say that out loud.

You groan again, slumping in your seat. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You glance at him again, arms still folded. “You’re getting cocky.”

He parks, puts the car in park, then looks at you fully, finally.

“Let them know,” he says simply.

You blink. “Let who know?”

“The ones who flirt,” he says, voice low, eyes on yours. “That I’m not going anywhere.”

Your heart does a very stupid flip. You try to act unaffected. Fail spectacularly.

“…Okay,” you mumble.

You push his shoulder, trying not to smile. You fail at that too.

You scowl at him as you unbuckle your seatbelt, twisting to face him fully. “Subtlety is really not for you, Jeon Wonwoo.”

He shrugs, annoyingly unbothered, wrist draped over the wheel, head turned toward you like he’s got all the time in the world. “Not when it comes to you, no.”

Then, with a glance out the windshield, he adds, “I don’t like people thinking I’m available.”

That makes your stomach twist. You blink, leaning back slightly. “Aren’t you?”

The question slips out before you can really think it through. And now it hangs in the air between you.

You’re not… not together. You’ve been tangled in each other’s orbit for weeks now. Shoots, coffee, hand-holding, car rides, sleepovers, kisses in hallways and pancakes in your kitchen but still, technically…

No one’s said the words. Not officially. Not aloud.

Wonwoo’s quiet for a second. Then he exhales once, and his voice is steady when he says, “You really think I’d be doing all this if I was?”

You shrug, avoiding his eyes. “I mean… I don’t know. Maybe you’re just a very romantic situationship.”

“Don’t joke.”

“I’m not—” You look at him. “Okay, maybe I am joking, but—look, I’m just saying… You’ve never actually said it.”

He watches you.

And you hate how serious he looks now. Like you touched something buried a little deeper in him.

“Do you want me to?” he asks, quiet.

You hesitate. “I don’t know. Do you want to?”

He turns his body toward you slightly, the car engine humming low in the silence. “I’m not the type who says things just to say them.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I know.”

“I do things when I mean it. That’s why I take my time.”

You speak, a little softer now. “So what is this, then?”

“Mine.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “...You can’t just say that.”

“You asked.”

You swallow. “So that’s it? That’s your label?”

“It’s not a label. It’s a fact.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile. “You’re unbelievable.”

He leans a little closer, hand brushing yours on the console between you. “You haven’t stopped me once. Not when I held your hand. Not when I kissed you in your hallway. Not when I called you babe in front of other people.”

“You don’t want to be available either,” he murmurs.

“…I never said I did,” you say under your breath.

“Then stop looking surprised when I act like you’re mine.”

You glance down at your hands and then back at him. “So you’re not available.”

He squeezes your fingers. “Not even close.”

You don’t even get two full steps from the car before you hear the door close behind him and his footsteps following right after.

You roll your eyes, barely glancing over your shoulder. “Don’t you have, like, a mysterious exit to make or something?”

“Nope,” he says, and when you turn, he’s already there. One tugs gently at the hem of his hoodie still draped on you, the other brushing your hair behind your ear, so casual, so him.

“Don’t act like you’re not excited to call me boyfriend.”

You scoff, heat crawling up your neck despite the very valiant eye roll you throw at him. “You’re literally unbearable.”

“And yet,” he says, fingers sliding down your arm until he catches your hand, “you let me call you babe in front of, what, fifteen people?”

“That was ambush flirtation,” you say, trying to keep your face straight. “You weaponized affection.”

“You didn’t say stop,” he murmurs, leaning in, voice low. “You blushed. You froze. You followed me out like I was your ride home and your last meal.”

You jab a finger at his chest. “First of all, you were my ride home. Second, I was in shock.”

He grins. “Exactly. You like it when I keep you on your toes.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you mutter.

His fingers lace through yours. “I know I’m lucky.”

That catches you off guard, softens your smile just a little. And then he’s kissing you again light, unhurried, the kind of kiss that says yeah, this is mine.

When he pulls back, he murmurs, “Say it.”

You raise a brow. “Say what?”

He brushes his thumb across your knuckles. “Say I’m your boyfriend.”

“Why? Need the validation?”

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe I just like hearing you say it.”

You look up at him for a long second, chest warm, lips twitching.

You tug him closer by the front of his ahirt, grinning now. “You’re my boyfriend, Jeon Wonwoo. Happy?”

He pretends to think about it, then leans in again. “Ecstatic.”

And this time, you’re the one who kisses him.

=

The gallery is already full when you step inside the buzz of soft conversation, and the click of polished shoes against polished floors. His name is printed in bold black lettering on the entrance wall:  Jeon Wonwoo — Light / Shadow 

You smile, tugging your coat tighter around you, your suitcase still wheeling behind. You’d just landed an hour ago. He thinks you’re still three cities away, deep in a client shoot.

But there was no way you were missing this.

You move quietly through the crowd, scanning the framed photos.. There’s his signature minimalism, sure.  One in particular makes you stop cold.

It’s a photo of hands, your hands. Mid-motion. A soft focus, a blurred laugh caught in the background. You remember the day he took it. You didn’t even know he was shooting.

Then a familiar voice, low and polite from across the room.

“Thanks for coming,” he says to someone. “No—really, I wasn’t sure anyone would show up.”

You turn. He’s across the floor, in a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair styled like he hasn’t touched it since this morning. He looks calm. Grounded. But there's a nervous edge in his stance you know too well.

He hasn’t seen you yet.

You watch as someone gestures to one of the larger portraits and he answers with that quiet way of his but you can see the way he tugs slightly at his cuff when no one’s looking.

Your heart aches.

You wait until there’s a lull, until the guest he’s speaking to turns away—then you step forward, voice soft, just enough for him to hear:

“You really thought I’d miss this?”

Wonwoo turns eyes wide. He stares for a solid three seconds like you’re a ghost then his shoulders drop, and something in his face just melts.

“You said—”

“Flight got moved up,” you say with a grin, stepping into his space. “So I made a detour.”

He looks you up and down like he’s still trying to believe it. “You flew straight here?”

You shrug. “Had to see your name on a wall in person.”

He blinks. “You’re insane.”

You smirk. “You’re welcome.”

And before he can say another word, you’re pulling him in, arms sliding around his neck, ignoring the murmurs and background clinking of glasses. He exhales sharply, head ducking against your shoulder like he’s been holding his breath all night.

“Hi,” he murmurs into your ear.

“Hi,” you whisper back. “Proud of you, boyfriend.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I put that photo in the exhibit for a reason,” he says, tilting his head toward the picture of your hands.

You glance at it again. “Why?”

He leans in. “Because that’s what my work looks like when I’m in love.”

You freeze. He smiles, soft and barely there but oh, it wrecks you.

And then he presses a kiss to your cheek, grounding, quiet, before whispering “Don’t ever stay out of town that long again.”

You’re already talking before you even finish your second step into the room again.

“Okay but that one over there—tell me that’s the one you almost deleted. You’re insane for even thinking about it—oh my god, Yeji! Hi!” you beam, waving to one of the junior curators you’d met before, leaning into Wonwoo slightly as she waves back excitedly.

Your fingers are laced with his like it’s second nature, your other hand gesturing animatedly as you keep talking, already switching topics mid-thought.

Wonwoo just watches you.

Still holding your hand. Still pulling your small carry-on behind him like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just travel hours to be here. Like his chest didn’t finally unclench the second you walked through the gallery doors.

You keep talking, not even noticing how quiet he is. You’re too busy waving, pointing at framed photos, complimenting random staff, joking about wine choices.

And he just lets you. Like always. Like your voice fills in the spaces that get too loud in his own head. Like the background noise of his thoughts dims the longer you’re near.

Like your voice, no matter how fast or chaotic, is the only kind of noise that feels like silence to him. The good kind. The kind that settles him.

He squeezes your hand once, a silent I missed this.

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “You’re doing the thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The… staring-like-I’m-your-favorite-plot-twist thing.”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “You are.”

You blink, caught off guard for half a second before you groan and bump his shoulder with yours. “You’re lucky I missed you.”

Wonwoo just follows along, carrying your bag, carrying your chatter, letting the sound of you fill in all the quiet spaces that haven’t felt quite right since you left.

And somehow—this chaos? This fast-talking, opinion-sharing, story-hopping version of you?

It’s the most peace he’s had in weeks.

He glances over at you from the driver’s seat, and you don’t even notice. You’re too busy gesturing with your hands, buzzing from pride and energy and airport coffee.

“You don’t even get it, Wonwoo, I almost cried. And you know I don’t cry at things with clean lighting and clean lines. I cry at commercials and drama specials and dogs. But that last shot with the man on the bench?? I was like, sobbing internally. I swear the woman next to me was crying too, or maybe I just imagined that to feel less insane—”

He’s smiling now. Small, quiet, not for you to notice. But he’s listening because you haven’t stopped since the gallery. And he doesn’t want you to.

By the time you’re inside his apartment, you’ve kicked off your shoes and peeled off your coat, still talking. Now you’re sitting on his bed, cross-legged in his clothes, hands moving as fast as your mouth.

He leans against the doorframe for a second, watching you. Silently. Like you’re the main feature now.

“And the print layout? Gorgeous. I mean, obviously, because you, but still—like, museum-quality. Like, people will look at that ten years from now and pretend they saw it when it first opened. You know that, right? You know this is one of those shows people brag about seeing? I heard two people talking in the corner, one of them was like ‘this guy’s gonna blow up’ and I was just there smiling like, he already did.”

Wonwoo walks in slowly, dropping his keys on the desk, tossing your overnight bag onto the chair, and you still don’t notice that he hasn’t said a word in minutes.

You’re too busy beaming, caught mid-rant as you shift to face him better on the bed.

“I’m just saying,” you breathe out, finally pausing, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with sincerity, “it was beautiful. You were—are—brilliant. And I’m so, so proud of you.”

Then you realize—he’s just been watching you.

You blink. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He walks over. Sits at the edge of the bed facing you. Still quiet. Still watching.

“What?”

He shrugs lightly. “You didn’t run out of words.”

“Obviously,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I never do.”

“No,” he says, voice low now. Honest. “Not for this. Not for me.”

“That bothers you?”

He shakes his head. “No. That’s not what I mean.”

You blink again. “Then what’s the look for?”

He reaches out, gently tugging your ankle until you slide closer across the blanket. He leans in, resting his forehead against yours.

“That’s what it feels like,” he murmurs, “when someone sees you.”

You’re quiet now. For once. Not because you don’t have anything to say. But because you don’t need to say it.

You smile, confused but soft, a breath of laughter slipping out. “What do you mean?”

He doesn’t pull back right away. Just stays close, breath mingling with yours. “You talk like you’re trying to hold everything I’ve ever done in your hands.”

He brushes his thumb along the side of your knee absentmindedly, gaze dropping for a second, like the words are too raw to say while fully looking at you.

“You remember every frame, every detail. You talk about it like it matters. Like I matter.”

Your breath catches a little. “Wonwoo…”

“I’m used to people liking the work,” he says, almost absently. “Liking the photos. Liking the light, the angles. Not a lot of people care about what I was thinking when I shot something. Or what I felt.”

You lean forward slightly, bumping your forehead against his again, voice low. “I care.”

He looks at you now. “I know. That’s what I mean.”

You let out another soft laugh, your hand sliding up to cup his cheek. “Well, yeah. That’s what happens when you date a girl who’s annoyingly observant and thinks everything you make is magic.”

He kisses you. Just once slow, unhurried, like a thank you.

Then, pulling back barely an inch, he mutters against your lips, “You really are the loudest kind of peace.”

You smile. “Good. Because I’m not shutting up anytime soon.”

Later you’re pulling your hair up into a messy bun, having just washed your face. You hear the soft creak of the floorboards just before he knocks gently on the open bedroom door. When you look up, he’s standing there, still in the same dark sweater from earlier, now holding an envelope in one hand.

He crosses the room and holds it out to you.

You frown, taking it. “What’s this?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Open it.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, curious now, sliding your thumb under the seal. Inside is a print carefully wrapped, thick matte paper, the corners taped gently with that photographer precision.

You pull it out. It’s that photo.

The quiet field from the road in that small town a year go. The one with the lone tree and golden haze just before sunset. You’d both stopped there briefly accidental detour while scouting for another location. It wasn’t even part of the job. He took the photo anyway.

You’d stared at the view through the passenger window and said, half under your breath, “God, that’s beautiful.”

And he had—without a word—gotten out of the car and taken the shot.

It was the first time you both agreed on a frame without bickering, no debate, no teasing.

You run your fingers over the print now, gently. “I didn’t see this at the exhibit.”

Wonwoo sits down beside you, quiet. “That’s ‘cause it’s not part of the exhibit,” he says. “It’s yours.”

You look at him.

He’s not even watching you, eyes on the photo in your lap. “Was never meant for the gallery. I knew that the second I shot it.”

You swallow. “Wonwoo…”

He finally looks at you then, soft and serious.

“You said that one stopped time for you.”

Your heart squeezes. You glance down at the photo again, holding it like it might slip through your fingers.

“…It kind of did.”

He doesn’t answer, just leans in and presses a kiss to your temple.

You look up at him, fingers still curled around his, that photo now resting gently on your lap. The moment’s soft but your chest is full to the brim and holding it in feels impossible.

You meet his eyes, steady and sure, and say it without blinking.

“You know I’m so deeply, crazily in love with you, right?”

It hangs there for a beat. Raw. Unapologetic. And he freezes. Like your words landed somewhere inside him that he’s been keeping guarded.

His gaze doesn’t leave yours. Not for a second. Then, quietly, he says, “Say it again.”

You laugh softly. “Greedy.”

“Yeah.” His voice is rougher now, quieter. “Just this once.”

You shift closer, knees touching, your hand now resting flat over his heart like it’ll help him feel every word more clearly.

“I love you,” you whisper. “So much it’s actually kind of a problem. Like—I can’t shut up about you. I annoy Sooyoung daily. My notes app has your name in it. My camera roll is 80% you. I think about you when nothing’s even happening. It’s dumb.”

Wonwoo stares at you like you just short-circuited something in him. His jaw ticks, his eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. No teasing now. Just this quiet awe that settles between you.

He cups your cheek, thumb brushing along your skin like he’s grounding himself.

“You’re not dumb,” he murmurs. “You’re… everything.”

You smile, eyes crinkling. “That was dangerously close to cheesy.”

“Don’t care,” he says, leaning in. “I’m deeply, crazily in love with you, too. So get used to it.”

And then he kisses you slow, deep, final in the way that says this is what all the photos, all the silence, all the waiting was leading up to.

And you kiss him back like you’re not afraid to show it anymore.

You laugh one of those breathy, overwhelmed little laughs and then groan into your hands, flopping backwards onto the bed dramatically.

“Noooo,” you whine, voice muffled. “You don’t understand.”

Wonwoo tilts his head, clearly amused, hovering over you now with one hand braced beside your shoulder. “Then explain it to me.”

You peek up at him through your fingers. “It was cute before. Like—the banter? The arguing? The smug ‘you’re obsessed with me’ stuff?”

He nods slowly. “Still accurate.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it easily.

“I’m serious!” you laugh, sitting up again, cross-legged, your hands flying now. “It was fun! You were annoying, and hot, and I got to act like I wasn’t affected, you know? I had control.”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you think you had?”

You ignore that entirely, already on a roll. “But then we started dating for real and it’s like—ugh. My brain broke. Like I get shy.”

He blinks. “You.”

“Me!” you say, gesturing to yourself. “Shy! Over you. And I’ve seen you grumpy, and sweaty, and hangry, and I still—” You cut yourself off with a strangled sound. “It’s a problem, Wonwoo. I’m in too deep. I don’t even know what to do with myself anymore. Like who am I?”

Wonwoo laughs. He can’t help it. Not in a teasing way just totally endeared, like he’s watching his favorite movie unfold frame by frame.

You squint at him. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“Because I remember the version of you who glared at me every time I disagreed with a shot,” he murmurs. “Who used to call me emotionally constipated. And now you’re here… in my bed, wearing my shirt, blushing over your own feelings like I don’t already know every version of you.”

You make a strangled noise. “See! That’s another thing! You say stuff like that and my brain short circuits. I’m supposed to be good with words, but nooo, I just go all—” You wave your hands helplessly, making an unintelligible noise.

He’s laughing now, full chest laugh, eyes crinkling, and it only makes it worse because you love that laugh, and he knows it.

“I hate you,” you groan, flopping back down again.

He shifts, laying beside you, propping his head on one hand while the other traces idle shapes against your arm.

“No, you don’t,” he says easily.

He leans in close again, his grin gentler now. “I know you’re shy. I know you ramble. I know you pretend to be annoyed when you’re just flustered. And I know you love me. Because I love you back, exactly like this.”

You sigh, tucking into his side with a dramatic groan. “Ugh. Fine. Be perfect. Whatever.”

He laughs again, pulling you closer. “Keep talking. It’s my favorite sound.”

You shift slightly, just enough to look up at him, chin resting on his chest.

“Hey,” you mumble.

He hums. “Mm?”

You trace a lazy line on the fabric of his shirt. “Remember when you said I drove you crazy?”

Wonwoo tilts his head, glancing down at you. “Yeah.”

You squint at him. “You still think that?”

A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes are already soft. “Of course.”

You roll your eyes dramatically. “Rude.”

“But now it’s worse,” he says, barely biting back a laugh.

“Worse?!” you squawk, smacking his chest lightly. “Wow. So glad I flew in early to support you. Really feeling appreciated right now.”

He catches your wrist easily and kisses the inside of it before lacing your fingers together again. “Let me finish.”

You glare. “This better be a recovery arc, Jeon.”

Wonwoo shifts onto his side, face close, nose brushing yours, his voice low and serious in a way that melts your bones every time. 

“It’s worse now because I don’t just think about kissing you. Or arguing with you until you cave. Or watching you ramble while you wave your hands like you're trying to fly off the bed.”

You blink. “...okay, those are all very specific.”

He smiles. “I think about you being in my life all the time. Like… routines. Mornings. Groceries. Long drives. You showing up when I don’t expect it, ruining my peace in the best possible way.”

He tugs you a little closer. “So yeah. You still drive me crazy. But now it’s the kind of crazy where I don’t want anything else.”

You stare. Then, deadpan, “Wow.”

Wonwoo lifts a brow. “What?”

You grin. “You are getting romantic.”

He sighs. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You lean up and kiss him quick, all smile. “No. You’re lucky you’re mine.”

His hand curls against your back. “That too.”

And somehow, even when the silence returns, your heart’s louder than ever.

=

Six months later.

You’re both standing at the edge of a rooftop late evening. Wonwoo’s camera hangs lazily from his neck, forgotten for now. You’re nursing two plastic cups of terrible rooftop wine. Your coat is buttoned halfway, your hand is in his.

You both worked late, again. Another campaign, another rush deadline. But it’s different now.

The tension’s still there, sure. You still argue over color tones and layout space and whether the tagline needs to be six words or five. But now he kisses you in the middle of those arguments, presses your notes against your chest with a grin and says, “Wrong. But passionate.”

He drives you home every night. Sometimes you stay up eating ramen barefoot in his kitchen. Sometimes you fall asleep mid-sentence on his couch, and he tucks you in, then stays awake just to finish editing with you curled up beside him.

“Hey,” he says now, bumping your shoulder as you lean into the rail.

“Hmm?”

He doesn’t look at you. “Remember the first campaign we worked on together?”

You groan, loudly. “Do not bring that up—”

“You kept fighting with me over that blue backdrop,” he says, already smirking.

“I was right, and you know it.”

He chuckles, sips from his cup. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“That we used to only know each other through disagreements.” He turns to face you fully. “And now I know what your voice sounds like when you’re half-asleep. I know you hog the blanket and always re-watch the same three movies when you’re stressed. I know you ramble when you’re happy, and fake-annoyed when you’re overwhelmed.”

You blink, a little caught off guard. “...Where’s this coming from?”

Wonwoo shrugs. “Just thinking.”

You stare at him, heart catching. “You’ve gotten sappy.”

“Blame you.”

You smile, stepping closer until your nose brushes his sweater. “Blame me all you want. You’re the one who fell.”

He doesn’t answer that. Just lets his hand slide around your waist, pulling you in gently.

And then, after a beat— “Got something for you.”

You look up. “Right now?”

He nods, pulling a folded envelope from his coat pocket. Your brows furrow. “Is this another print? You know I’m running out of wall space—”

“Open it,” he says, quiet.

You do.

Inside is a photo, your photo. The two of you, standing outside the gallery from months ago. You hadn’t realized someone captured it: the way you were holding hands, forehead to his chest, mid-laugh. You, looking up at him like he hung the moon. Him, looking back like he’d never wanted anything more.

It’s simple. And perfect.

“Wanted to give you something that wasn’t for work,” he says. “No concept. No shadows. Just… us.”

You blink once. Twice. Then you tackle him, nearly sloshing your wine onto his shoes, arms around his neck, photo clutched in your hand.

“I love you, you idiot,” you whisper.

He just holds you tighter.

You grin around the banana mush and Soonyoung pushes himself off the desk.

“I’m gonna raid the snackbar– oh no, do not look at me like that. You’re not getting a thing.”

You swallow thickly, it makes a gross sound. “We get to raid the snackbar? There’s a snackbar?”

“Are you an idiot? Of course there’s a snackbar. And officially, no we don’t get to raid it, but unofficially Junhui doesn’t care.”

“What do they have?“

“Snackbar stuff, I don’t know.” Soonyoung shrugs. “Leave me alone now, I’m leaving.”

You grab at him. “Please please please can I have something bready. I need carbs or I’ll die. I need coffee. Please Soonyoung, please.”

“Ew oh my God, get off me, freak.”

Thirty minutes later, he still isn’t back, and you’ve got your head in your arms on your desk. You’re famished. You’re wasting away. You’re–

“Hi.”

You lift your head to see there’s a blonde man outside your booth. You’re stunned, is what you are. He’s maybe the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. You blink, still sleepy, and say, “Sorry, we’re not open yet.”

He blinks comically slow. “Uh– no. I work here.”

He points to the little visor with Carat Bay’s logo printed on the front, perched atop his head. Red and white. Makes him look like a Pokemon trainer.

“Oh. What’s your name?”

“I’m Jun– Junhui.” He goes to shake your hand but stops when he seemingly remembers there’s a pane of glass separating you. Oh my God, he’s cute.

You make your eyes go big. “No fucking way, dude,” you exclaim. “That’s my name too.”

You have no words to describe his expression, but you have to work hard to keep your face straight.

“Really?”

“Really. You wanna see my birth certificate?”

His eyes narrow. “Your name isn’t Jun.”

“No, it’s Jun Junhui.” The corners of your lips twitch.

“Are you new?”

“Yup,” you say. “Started yesterday.”

It’s April, and the water park adjoining the area’s most popular resort is just opening up again for the season. The only reason you got this job is because you were bullied into it by your roommates, Soonyoung and Minghyu, who would really really like it if you didn’t go into debt this time to make your share of the rent (they never listen when you tell them that’s what your student loan is there for) and both of whom have been working here for years.

Your place is supposed to be (strictly) a student let, but Soonyoung dropped out within the first two months of university, and has since worked two jobs most of the year, and somehow fits in a lifeguarding position at Carat Bay April through October. Mingyu worked the hotel reception for a while, graduated two years ago, and now he works as the resorts’ LFTS Coordinator. Whatever that means. He’s well paid and could move into somewhere much nicer, but he says he likes the company (for some reason) and he’s saving to buy a house in a nicer part of the city, so he’ll stay so long as your landlord keeps avoiding all contact. Anyway, what’s crucial here is that they’ve forgotten what it’s like to live as a poverty stricken film student. (You’re fine, just a little broke.)

The turn of winter into spring has been marred by your lack of 1) funds, 2) social life, and 3) inspiration. You’ve got a few months before your final project is due but it’s supposed to be half done by now, and you’re struggling to find a drop of creativity. Your last attempt fell through as you were two thirds into filming thanks to your useless fuck of a partner, and you spent weeks trying to work through it by yourself before giving up entirely. There were too many plates for one person to keep spinning. Your notebooks are a mess of scratched out ideas and fragmented thoughts. It doesn’t need to be long– in fact, shorter is probably better. Quality over quantity and all that. You thumb through Mingyu’s books, love letters your grandparents wrote, Soonyoung’s softcore porn collection (why does he have them in magazine format anyway? Is he from the 80s?) and the old photographs tucked away in your parents garage for inspiration– but it doesn’t come. You had wanted something romantic, something sweet and full of feeling, but everything came to a standstill. Maybe you’re just bitter that you’ve been left to pick up the pieces of a failed start.

Maybe you’re bitter about Jiho. It was fun while it lasted, but he is precisely the reason you had your preference for crushes over relationships in the first place. It’s not your fault he slipped in during the night. It’s not that your feelings are hurt, per se. It’s more that the chance for something real wasn’t there for the taking like you’d come to think. It’s more that you’d rather have just kept it light like always, and he didn’t, and then you didn’t, and the safety net wasn’t there when you needed it. It’s something of a relief that he got himself kicked off the course when he did. You haven’t spoken since.

Back to the point– item 1 is how you end up working (just part time, you’re not as ambitious (read: insane) as your roommates) in the ticket booth at Carat Bay. You didn’t get to meet many of your coworkers yesterday, since the morning was eaten up by induction (not much to induct, you think, since all there is to do is take the money, push a few buttons, give customers their wristbands, and make sure to upsell the goggles.) and lunch was taken in a break room that was completely empty, save for a few harvest spiders and one dead wasp.

You learned quickly (from Joshua, the other ticket staff who sits across the entryway) that the shifts are long and boring, since you’ll be sitting in a single occupancy booth for four to eight hours. Apparently it’s a rush of people at opening, having barely-there interactions with most of the patrons, and they come in dribs and drabs throughout the day. Occasionally a lost kid will wander over, and you’ll get to make a call for their adult over the tannoy. Before you knew it, Mingyu was scolding Soonyoung for leaving handprints and kiss marks on your window (someone has to clean that, Soonyoung!), and it was time to go home.

“What’s your real name?” says Jun Not Junhui, leaning in through your open window to look for the name badge that you’ve forgotten to put on. He smells like your type- good weed and expensive soap.

You tell him the truth this time, since he’ll find out soon enough anyway, and he repeats it for confirmation. Twice. You roll your lips between your teeth in effort not to laugh.

“Soonyoung’s talked about you a lot,” he says, looking you over. “You don’t seem evil.”

“You should’ve seen me an hour ago,” you grin. “You run the snackbar?”

Jun blinks, surprised. “Food and Beverage Manager. Did I say that already? I didn’t feel my mouth move.”

“No,” you say. “Soonyoung mentioned you. He’s gone to the snack bar to get us breakfast.”

His eyes blow wide. Panicked, he says, “Kwon Soonyoung is in my kitchen?”

“Uh–”

“He’s using my kitchen?”

“Um–”

“Why didn’t you say that earlier?”

“Why would I say that?”

He doesn’t reply. He takes off sprinting into the park, yelling Soonyoung’s name, and as he disappears around the corner of the locker rooms, you remember that you’re supposed to check everyones’ staff ID cards. Oops.

Soonyoung walks back over a minute later, one to-go coffee stacked precariously on top of the other, and a couple of paper bags clutched in his other hand.

“I just met Jun,” you say, taking the balanced cup from him as soon as he gets to your booth. You take a sip– it tastes burned, but it’s caffeine. Anything will do.

“Yeah, I figured. I heard him screaming like a banshee and had to hide in the log flume so he didn’t see me,” he grumbles. He tosses a paper bag at you. Inside is an egg and cheese bagel. “My ass is wet.”

“You’re a lifeguard in a water park. You’re wearing board shorts. Isn’t getting wet part of the job description?”

“Not before nine AM.”

“Thought you said he didn’t mind people raiding the kitchen?” You take a bite of your bagel. It’s– uh. It’s edible.

Soonyoung smiles mischievously. “Well yeah, so long as he’s there to supervise. He doesn’t like anyone touching his precious fridge magnets.”

“He didn’t seem like a manager.”

“He’s full of surprises, that one.”

You’re interrupted by the sound of slammed car doors and a rev of the engine as it pulls away, and a moment later, in trudge a bunch of guys in a uniform similar to Soonyoung’s. White polo shirt, pink board shorts, comically small pink visor. You want one too, why haven’t you got a visor? Soonyoung wears a white shirt too, but his has ‘LIFEGUARD’ emboldened on both sides in red. You just get the white polo, three sizes too large because it was either this or one that was clearly from unsold children’s merch stock. Nothing cute in pink, or blue like Joshua.

“Who are they?”

Soonyoung points them out left to right. “Chan, mat racing. Minghao, kiddie slide. Vernon, wave pool. Seungcheol, hot springs.” You’ve heard a lot about these guys at home.

When they get to your booth and Soonyoung starts introductions, Chan hangs back a little.

“Oh my God,” he says, wide eyed. “A woman.”

You stare at him.

“Sorry about him.” Minghao grimaces as he presses his ID against your window. “He didn’t mean that in a weird way.”

“Is there a not-weird way?” you ask, tapping his name on the ipad to mark him signed in.

“There hasn’t been a woman hire in like, eight years,” explains Seungcheol, showing his ID too. “There was a little scandal with the HR guy last season. Turns out he ran some incel subreddit and it bled into his hiring practice.”

There’s a long pause while you wait for someone– anyone– to laugh. No one does.

“You’re joking?”

“He’s been sacked. Don’t worry.”

You rag a hand over your face. “You’re telling me I’m the only woman who’s worked here in nearly a decade?”

The four men stare at you. If this were a sitcom you’d be hearing crickets.

You turn on Soonyoung, who’s trying to escape out of your booth unnoticed. Too slow.

“AH! Let go!”

“Why wouldn’t you tell me that, Soonyoung?” You tighten your grip on his hair. He yelps. “Doesn’t that seem like crucial information your best friend should know before taking a job here? It does, doesn’t it?”

“I forgot, you psychopath! Best friends don’t hurt each other!”

You twist and Soonyoung falls into a squat in an effort to break free, smacking at your hand. “Men best friends tell their women best friends when they’re stepping into a testosterone fuelled snake pit.”

“Little harsh,” whistles Minghao. “The snakes are standing right here.”

“There was that one woman,” says Vernon, tongue pushed into the fat of his cheek, eyes up in thought. “The elderly one. What was her name? Jun’s cook from a few years ago?”

“The one he killed?” asks Chan.

“What?” you sputter, releasing Soonyoung, who falls backwards out the door.

“He didn’t kill her,” insists Minghao.

“She’s not even dead,” says Vernon, brow furrowed. “Jun visited her two weeks ago.”

“She had a stroke, didn’t she?” questions Seungcheol.

Minghao rolls his eyes. “It was never proven that it was Jun’s fault though.”

Is everyone working here insane?

You can hear flip flops smacking the pavement and you turn to look– Soonyoung is running away. Fearing premature hair loss, probably. You and the guys watch him go.

“He’ll suffer later,” you reassure yourself.

“So– uh– you live with Soonyoung?” asks Seungcheol. “And the events guy?”

“Events guy?”

“Mingyu,” confirms Vernon.

Events– is that what Mingyu does? What the fuck does FSHL stand for then?

“That’s me.”

“We’re not all incels,” says Chan. “We only had one.”

Everyone turns to look at him. Minghao’s mouth is hanging open and Vernon is wide eyed and tight-lipped, trying not to laugh.

“Okaaay?”

“Well. Only one that we know of,” he blurts. “Although–”

He’s cut off as Minghao elbows him hard in the ribs.

“We’ll be seeing you then!” Seungcheol smiles. “What time is your lunch?”

“Twelve–thirty.”

“Same as me,” Vernon pipes up. “Wanna meet some of us at Sharkbait?”

“Where?”

“Jun’s place–” Vernon taps the spot on the map taped to your window. “Next to the log flume. It’s where we all take our breaks.”

Explains the empty break room. You’re not sure how safe you’ll be in Jun Not Junhui’s territory, given recent revelations, but you’re curious.

“Sure, see you then.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Sharkbait is pretty small. The exterior is pastel blue, serves what can only be described as beige food, and there’s a huge plastic shark in sunglasses and bermuda shorts riding a surfboard attached to the roof. It’s nestled amongst a bunch of other themed eateries, and the tables on the veranda outside are spilling over with people. There’s a long line of people queuing, and one bored teenager behind the counter on the left. Soonyoung is at the other end of the bar, pouring himself a drink and chewing on a peperami. He waves you over when he spots you.

“Hey,” he says, as you reach the bar. “We’re friends right?”

“I guess,” you say, shrugging. It’s been eight years, you’re stuck like glue. “Why?”

“Will you settle something for us?”

“Us?” you ask, peering over the counter, because save for the kid working the till, he’s the only one there.

Soonyoung ignores your question. “Is a waffle just a grilled pancake?”

“What?” you say, leaning on the counter and unboxing your sandwich. It’s gone all soggy and gross next to your salad.

Vernon pops his head through a hatch behind Soonyoung. He’s eating a hard-boiled egg.

“Pancakes are waffles– same ingredients, same thing, right?” says Vernon.

Your eyebrows furrow. “By that logic ice cream is just frozen flavoured butter.”

“Yeah!” shouts Vernon, pointing his egg at you. “See, she gets it.”

“Pretty sure that wasn’t her getting it,” says Soonyoung. “Pretty sure she was saying butter and ice cream are distinctly different things.”

Vernon scoffs and his eyes slide over to you. “Is that what you meant?”

You shrug, too busy inspecting your wet bread, looking for a bit that isn’t mushy. Your stomach rumbles so loud that the guys stare at you quietly for a moment.

“Agree with me and I’ll get Jun to make you a grilled cheese.”

Two cheese heavy meals in a day? Your guts might complain but your mouth certainly won't. “Sold.”

“That’s bribery,” argues Soonyoung. He turns on you. “I’ll remember this, traitor.”

Vernon laughs. “Wanna come hang out back here?”

You nod, and Vernon disappears out of view. You make your way around the bar, and follow Soonyoung through the door to the kitchen.

Jun is already starting on your grilled cheese. He’s slicing the bread and offering you a smile as you walk in and copy Vernon and Soonyoung, pulling yourself up to sit on the only counter not being used for prepping food. Jun is wearing his visor backwards, and there’s flour (powdered sugar?) dusting his nose. Cute.

“Hi Jun Junhui.”

He blinks, confused. “Sorry, it’s just Jun– not Junhui.”

Oh, so he’s easy to fuck with.

“Junnot Junhui?”

He stares at you blankly. “Call me Jun.”

“I’ll try to remember,” you say, with mock-earnest. “But Junnot is pretty cemented in there now.” You rap your knuckles on your head. “Ow.”

Jun glances at Soonyoung. “Is she always like this?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, dramatically. “She’s even worse when you get to know her. Problem is she’s actually pretty useful so you end up keeping her around.”

You grin. “I’m like a bedbug.”

Vernon frowns. “What’s great about bedbugs?”

“Huh,” you say, thinking hard. He’s got a point. You click your fingers– “A rat!”

“If I found a rat in my kitchen I’d get the traps out,” says Jun flatly, and then clarifies– “The no-kill ones. I’m not a monster.”

“Type two diabetes?” offers Vernon.

Soonyoung shakes his head. “She’s not sweet enough.”

“Dandelions,” cuts in a voice behind you, making you jump. Mingyu’s face is peeking through the hatch, he looks so out of place here, in his crisp shirt and expensive blue tie. The others go a little quiet in his presence, so you wonder how often he spends time out of his office in the resort.

“For fuck’s sake,” you groan, scowling. “Could you breathe louder so we in the land of the living know you’re coming?”

“Dandelions are perfect,” Soonyoung agrees, clicking his fingers. “Annoying, everywhere-“

“Can’t get rid of them-“ Mingyu chimes in.

“Suck a dick and die, assholes.”

A wicked grin spreads across Soonyoung’s face. “Kind of ugly until the sun comes up-“

“I’m not ugly,” you say with a petulant pout. “I’m an easy eight, nine on a good hair day.”

“Ten,” says Jun quickly. You give him a thumbs up and he smiles, casting his eyes down to focus very hard on grating cheese. You’re making him your new favourite.

“We’ve seen you drunk with your head in a toilet,” says Mingyu simply. “We’ve seen you when pneumonia bit your ass so hard you didn’t shower for nearly two weeks.”

“You smelled so baaaaad, dude,” nods Soonyoung emphatically.

You pull an affronted face. “I feel like looking like shit while having a life-threatening illness shouldn’t count against me, actually.”

“Every time you coughed you almost peed yourse–”

“Key word being almost–” you interrupt, nearly yelling. You turn to face the people you met just a few hours ago to insist– “I’ve never peed myself.”

Soonyoung laughs, delighted.

“Say something nice about dandelions or I’ll cry.”

Mingyu looks up into his big empty brain to think. “Good for bees…” he trails off.

Jun cuts in- “and for making wishes on.”

“Thanks so much, guys. Way to make a girl feel good.” You roll your eyes. “What are you here for, anyway?” you say to Mingyu. “Are you keeping tabs on me?”

Mingyu raises an eyebrow. “No,” he says, reaching through the hatch and holding out a sheet of paper for Vernon to take. “We’ve got a crew on site in two weeks, they’re filming the ads for the summer. They’ll want to–”

“Uhh, hello?” you interject. Mingyu looks at you expectantly. “Why are you paying a film crew when you literally have an in-house filmography student?”

“No offence,” he starts gently, and he does actually look like he means it. “But this might be above your pay grade. You know this is a multi-million dollar resort, right?”

“Damn. Fair enough,” you say. You didn’t realise that, actually. You knew it was nice, sure, but Jesus Christ. “Out of curiosity, what’s the budget for the filming?”

“Just the film crew?” he asks. You nod. “Sixty thousand, ish.”

You whistle, low. “Could’ve paid my rent with that.”

Mingyu laughs in a fake way.

“I’ll keep you in mind next time,” he says. “Haven’t they given you your proper uniform yet?”

You glance down at your much too-big polo shirt. “Should I be in something different?”

“You should be in blue. White means you’re first aid trained.”

“Oh shit, yeah,” you say, eyes widening. “No one wants me doing mouth to mouth, I’d be more likely to kill them.”

Vernon cackles and kicks at Jun, who ignores him.

“Yup,” agrees Mingyu. “Call in at reception at closing and we'll get Seokmin to find you the right kit.”

You nod, and with a wave to the group, he’s gone.

“Any allergies? Is there anything you don’t like?” Jun asks.

“No allergies. But a big no to beans. Texture’s weird.”

“Got it.”

Soonyoung makes to leave, his break’s over. As the door shuts behind him, the remaining three of you settle into comfortable conversation. You ask Jun and Vernon how long they’ve worked here– five and three years respectively. Vernon grew up here, like you and Soonyoung, just a different part of the city. Tutors English via Zoom as his main job, but he works the wave pool every year just for the plot, apparently. Jun got a job here during a summer trip and never left. He works in the resort kitchen during the off-season, but he prefers it out here in the park.

“Less eyes on you,” he says, drizzling something red and sticky over your sandwich. He presses the pieces together, and moves it over to the grill.

“How ominous.”

Jun smiles but doesn’t elaborate. “You’re a film student?”

“Yeah,” you say, sighing dramatically. “Until I get kicked out for failing.”

“Why are you failing?” asks Vernon, around a mouthful of fries.

Two months, three weeks, and one day left. You have nothing, nada, zilch. Stumped for ideas, inspiration, and manpower. Fuck Jiho and his absent manpower.

“Got a project due soon that I haven’t even started– well, I did start, but then my partner got kicked out of school and it was too big to keep going by myself. So now I need something new.”

“What’s the brief?”

“We’ve got a lot of creative freedom to be honest. Fiction, non-fiction– doesn’t matter. Just needs to be between twenty and thirty minutes and have a quote-unquote nostalgic feel.”

“Sounds simple enough,” says Vernon, casually.

“Uh huh,” you deadpan. “You come up with something for me then, Mr Spielberg.”

He’s biting his lip, embarrassed, while Jun laughs, plating your grilled cheese next to a much more appealing salad.

“Order up.”

“Ooh thank you, this looks way better than what I had.”

Jun eyes the box sitting next to you. “Not a difficult challenge to beat.”

“Hm, I’m not much of a cook,” you say, pausing to take a bite. Oh God. It’s spicy and sweet and cheesy. It’s the best thing you’ve ever eaten. The best thing you’ve ever eaten from a place called Sharkbait and made by a guy who smells like weed. How tragic. “This is– uh– it’s pretty good.”

Jun scoffs. “It’s really good. They won’t let me put it on the menu though.”

“Fuck those guys,” says Vernon.

Jun smiles. “Yeah. Fuck ‘em.”

You devour your lunch in record time. Jun looks pleased with himself as he rushes out the rest of the orders coming through from out front, and Vernon says his goodbyes as he heads back to the wave pool.

And then it’s just the two of you. Jun works fast and methodically. He doesn’t talk so much as listens to you yap away, but answers a question here and there, laughs at your jokes.

“Hey, how come you’re the manager if you don’t have anyone here to like– manage?”

“It’s usually just me in the kitchen ever since Marnie had an aneurysm, and Jay out front. I can handle it until high-season, and then they’ll hire a temp to see us through.”

You mull this over. “Don’t you get lonely?”

Jun shakes his head. “Everyone comes to visit me, I could use a little more alone time, actually.”

You pout. “So I shouldn’t come back for lunch tomorrow?”

Pink creeps up his neck, and he turns to busy himself tossing the fries in seasoning. “I didn’t say that.”

“Cool,” you say. “Cause I’m gonna need one of those off-menu grilled cheeses for every single shift I pick up.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It turns out everyone who works here is a comedian and/or an idiot, as evidenced when you meet Seokmin, Front Office Manager, and the most sunshine personified dude you’ve ever met.

You turn up at the resort’s reception at closing hours, and now you know why your parents never brought you to the restaurant here for your birthday dinner all these years, because God is it expensive. It’s all marble floors, and gilded details, but in that elegant way that doesn’t throw the money in your face.

Seokmin brings you into the office and motions for you to have a seat while he calls the uniform company.

He smiles brightly as he asks them for your size, then falters.

“You only do unisex clothes?” Seokmin says into the receiver. “Don’t you do unisex for women?”

You poorly disguise your snort as a sneeze as he doesn’t appear to understand whatever the sales rep is telling him.

“Unisex is fine,” you whisper, and Seokmin smiles at you with relief.

He’s still on the phone a minute later, when Mingyu pops his head in the open door.

“Soonyoung’s got a date, I’ve had a day from hell, and you’re my only irresponsible friend,” he whispers. “Wanna come get high with me?”

“Hell yeah,” you say, jumping up as Seokmin waves you off. Wait– “Fuck you, man, who are you calling irresponsible?”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Your plug’s place isn’t far, a ten minute walk at most. On the way you talk about work, you ask questions about the people you’ve met so far, but Mingyu doesn’t know them as well as he’d like. He’s always shut in the office. You ask what his job title is again, he levels you with a look, and he tells you– LTPS. Or something. He’s in charge of like, resort events and some other really boring shit like– uh– whatever, you’ve already forgotten.

Mingyu concedes he’s buying, since he has been extra snappy lately, but that’s just on account of the extra pressure that comes with the busy season. Once he’s into the swing of summer, he settles down and he’s back to his usual loveable self.

Not long later, you’re standing in Mark’s kitchen, staring at him in disbelief.

Mingyu isn’t sure either. He tugs at your hand holding the bag, sniffs, and immediately recoils. “This smells like shit, man. Don’t you have what we usually get?”

“Frosty Flurkle is so goooood, dude,” Mark insists. “My buddy grew that!”

“Tell your buddy that the people don’t want to smoke lavender and cat vomit. Not for twenty-five a gram.”

He snatches the bag out of your hands. “Well I dunno what to tell you, this is what I’ve got.” Mark puffs out his chest. “I’m his sole dealer.”

“Hmmm.” You draw out the sound. “Maybe you should have a little think about why that is.”

Mark scoffs. “Do you want it or not?”

You look at Mingyu. He looks at you. Your last dealer moved across the country, and you can’t be bothered searching out anyone else at this time of night. Might as well take one gram, you say with your eyes, see if it’s better once it’s in your system. Would be silly to go home empty handed, you assume Mingyu says with his.

“One gram,” you say. “And we’re only paying fifteen.”

“Twenty tw–”

“Sevente–“

One hour and twenty dollars later, you feel sick to your stomach, Mingyu is clutching his head, and you set a reminder to hire an Etsy witch to curse Mark’s entire bloodline. Then you order cheese fries and fall into a restless sleep before they even arrive.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Sunday is probably the worst day to be at work. Why would you pick up a shift on a Sunday when you have so many assignments to procrastinate on? Especially this Sunday, when you’re feeling the fuzzy effects of a crappy high, an empty stomach, and a bad night’s rest.

“Woah,” says Jun upon arrival. He smells much nicer than the Foisty Flumple you had last night. Good weed and nice perfume. And pretty. God, he looks amazing. On a better day you’d flirt outrageously with him, but today is one of those days where it was an effort to wash your face, let alone put on makeup. What a cruel, awful world. “You look–”

“If you don’t say some variation of stunning, beautiful, and/or captivating, Jun Junhui, I will eat you alive.”

He grins. “Ravishing.”

Your brows pinch together and a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.

“Interesting choice.”

“Uh huh.” Jun rubs the back of his neck. “Hungover?”

You shake your head. “Bad high.”

“Want breakfast?” he asks. You perk up at that. Literally– your face immediately feels less grey. He laughs. “Sweet or savory?”

“Sweet please,” you say, leaning closer to the window. “Just like you.”

You’ve never seen a grown man blush harder. Cute.

He’s back a little later with an iced americano and a warm croissant, filled with raspberry jam, and dusted with sugar.

“Junnot Junhui, you’re the best,” you mumble around a bite. “I could kiss you.”

“Hahahaha,” says Jun, not casually at all. “I– uh– I’d–”

“I’m joking, Romeo.” You wipe the jam from the corner of your mouth. “Settle down, I can smell your adrenaline spiking from over here.”

“Oh, yeah I knew that,” he says, running a hand through his hair in what he must think seems nonchalant and chill. It isn’t. Your grin is akin to the Cheshire Cat.

“I don’t kiss people at work,” you say. And then, meeting his eyes, “You’ll have to take me on a date if you’d like one from me.”

Jun’s adams apple bobs in his throat.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’re having lunch at the snackbar again, and this time it’s so rammed full with staff on their breaks, it takes Jun a little while to get around to handing over your sandwich. He goes silent when he works, only stopping to break the chaos with a sharp yell, anytime someone messes with the cat magnets on his fridge. You like watching him– his arms while he chops vegetables, the way his little muscles flex when he’s carrying a heavy box, the movement of his fingers when he’s sprinkling seasoning over a pan.

Jeonghan, who works the big slide, grins at you with sparkling eyes. You can sense his evil nature bubbling beneath that angelic facade– that’s best friend material. “You know you’re practically drooling, right?”

You pat your stomach. “Really hungry.”

“For the food or for Jun?”

You push your tongue into the fat of your cheek. “Both.”

Jun makes his way through the people crowding his station, plate held high above his head. He’s smiling lovely when he reaches you, and pushes the plate into your hands.

“Thanks, Junhui, you’re so sexy.” He’s immediately bright red, and Soonyoung throws a wet cloth at you. It smacks off your collar and drips dishwater down your shirt. “AH! Soonyoung, what the FUCK?”

“Don’t flirt with him!”

You wave at him dismissively. “I flirt with everyone.”

“You’ll corrupt my sweet, innocent, Junnot Junhui!”

Jun makes a frustrated sound. “Not you, too? How did I get this nickname?”

“You did it to yourself, sweetheart,” you say, fondly stroking his arm. It’s a feeble excuse to touch.

“You haven’t flirted with me yet,” complains Seungcheol.

You play your part and bat your eyelashes. “Oh, darling, would you like me to?”

He nods, making puppy-dog eyes and pouting. You squeeze his bicep and gasp for the drama of it. “Cheollie, have you been working out?”

Soonyoung gags, and you smirk. Jun looks down at his arms.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Despite the last experience, you are back at Mark’s. Mingyu had a particularly bad day in the office, you will do anything for the bit, and Mark has assured you that his supplier has something better.

You have your reservations, but surely nothing could be as bad as Foisty Farmyard. Surely?

It’s whatever. Mark cuts you a deal on account of your bad experience last time, and that should’ve been your first red flag. The second should’ve been that you met his supplier, Johnny, who apparently wears the jeans low enough to hang off his kneecaps and a huge, gold chain with a dollar sign unironically. But what a deal Mark cuts! Two grams for the price of one can’t be that bad.

Dear reader: it is that bad.

Mingyu greens out within ten minutes. You’re not far behind. Soonyoung comes home from his date and finds you both on the bathroom floor, rolls his eyes, and leaves you both to sort yourselves out.

In the morning, Soonyoung says that if you don’t find a witch to curse Mark, he certainly will.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

All of your new colleagues are easy to like (they’re loud, funny, sweet in their own ways), but it’s Jun who quickly becomes your favourite. Your shifts start with a sweet pastry and an iced americano, sometimes left in your booth with a note, sometimes hand delivered with a sleepy smile. You thought he was quiet, and he is, but he’s also sharp, and playful, and funny in that really cool, witty way. He shines brighter in quieter spaces, when fewer staff crowd his kitchen, and when he forgets his shyness. On the days he’s in early enough to deliver your breakfast, he’ll squeeze into your booth and take your chair while you sit on the counter, and he’ll try very hard to ignore the way you flirt with him.

You’ve been thinking about the vanilla danish he left on your desk all day, and with the way you had to skip lunch, you haven’t had a chance to thank him yet. Two minutes before your break starts is precisely when the film crew arrived on site and for some reason the office radioed through to make it your job to organise their visitor passes. There were so many of them it took up most of your break, and Joshua ended up having to bring you a neatly packaged panini from Jun to speed-eat on the floor of your booth. So with Mingyu’s meeting running over, and Soonyoung heading over to the lazy river to persuade Jihoon to come over for drinks, you rush through the park to catch Jun before he heads home.

The park is deathly quiet at this time– no patrons, no staff, no overplayed feel-good pop music playing from the speakers. From outside the snackbar looks spotless and empty, the hatch window firmly closed. It stinks, though. Jun is here, somewhere. Pushing open the door, the kitchen is just as clean as the front, but with a haze of smoke filling the room. You round the corner and find Jun laying on the floor– joint in hand, staring, unblinking, at the ceiling.

You kick his foot and he doesn’t move. “Dude, are you dead?”

“Maybe,” he chuckles. “Hey, did you know the camels in Petra have wifi?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“It’s true,” he insists, laughing so hard tears stream from his bloodshot eyes. “It’s shav– it’s shaved into their neck hair.”

You laugh. “That can’t be right.”

Jun pats the floor. “Sit with me, I wanna ask you stuff.”

You roll your lips between your teeth to stop your smile spreading further, and you sink cross-legged on the floor next to him. Jun rests his hand on your shoe, little finger tracing the edge of your sock.

“Can’t stay long, Mingyu’s driving us home,” you say, plucking the joint from his hand and taking a drag. “Holy shit, this is good. You wouldn’t believe the crap we picked up last.”

“Mhm, yeah it’s pretty nice.” Jun looks pleased with himself. “You live far?”

“That’s your question? Borrrrring.”

Jun turns to smile up at you, lazy and slow, with dark half-lidded eyes. God, he’s hot.

“No. I know where Soonyoung lives. And you live with Soonyoung.”

“You’ve been to our place?”

“Just once. You weren’t there. I’d have remembered.”

There are butterflies in your stomach. You let them swirl.

“Ask me something better, then.”

Jun stares at you. Quietly, he says, “I can’t think straight.”

His little finger brushes your ankle, pretty mouth parted, and looking like there are too many thoughts behind his eyes. Can’t sort through them, probably, on account of the weed fogging his brain, but it’s nicer to imagine it’s because of you. The silence hangs, so quiet you can almost hear the cogs turning.

You take another drag before offering up the joint above his mouth– your fingers brush his lips as you place the joint between them as he takes a hit. The softness of them is really fucking with you. Boys' lips shouldn’t be that soft. You should ask him what lip balm he uses.

It’s like this, quiet, and soft, and hazy for a little while, the joint getting shorter and shorter as you pass it back and forth. Your body goes liquid and heavy and Jun laughs along with you when you get the giggles over the feeling of his lips brushing your fingertips again. Feels weirdly intimate for sitting on the floor of an industrial kitchen.

“Question.”

“Hit me.”

“Have you–” A long pause. If he weren't looking directly at you you’d think he’d fallen asleep. “You ever been to the Galapagos Islands?”

“Uh,” you cough. “No.”

“Damn. I wanna know what the big heads feel like.”

“Probably really hard.”

Jun chews on his lip. “Yeah.”

Your phone is ringing. Feels like a million miles away. Mingyu’s name is on the screen, and you know you need to answer, but you’re high as shit and he’ll only give you grief for smoking at work. Something something unprofessional. Something something irresponsible. Something something hypocritical. You don’t want to hear it. You let it ring off, wait for a moment, and send him a text.

Me: hanging out with jun. i’ll get the bus

Gyu: You sure?

Me: yeah, won’t be long <3

Before you forget you look up the time for the bus– there aren’t many at this time of day– and set an alarm so you’ll make it to the bus stop in time.

Gyu: Be good. Don’t kill the guy

Me: would never kill the guy i have a big fat crush on

Gyu: 🙄 you have big fat crushes on everyone

“I’ve got one,” you say, leaning back against the dishwasher. Jun turns on his side to look at you properly. “What did you wanna be when you were a kid?”

The corners of his lips twitch. “Promise not to laugh at me?” You smile and shake your head, you’d never promise such a thing. Jun laughs, cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment. “I wanted– oh God. I wanted to be Jackie Chan.”

“An actor?”

“No, like actually him.” Jun is the first to start laughing, full body shakes, his hands fly up to cover his face, and you’re near silent with laughter just watching him. It’s not even that funny, but he is. “I wanted– I wanted to like.. morph into his body or something. I wanted become actual Jackie Chan.”

The silence you fall into is easy. There’s nothing left to smoke and the feeling sets in, a soft buzz in your body, heavy arms, heavy eyes. This is so nice.

“Got ‘nother one,” Jun says, after a little while. “What was your project about? The one you dropped.”

It’s hard to explain. “S’about how, like– like how crushes are better than the real thing, y’know?” Just looking at him, you can tell he doesn’t get it. “Like when you get a crush, and it’s fuzzy and silly and exciting, and everything about them feels electric. And you think they’re the best person you’ve ever met, and your stomach is in knots wondering what they think about you. And your imagination runs wild wondering how they like to kiss.”

Jun is staring at your lips. Your breath hitches. There are flashes of Jiho in your mind’s eye. It’s not like you loved him or anything, it was just turning into something a little more than like. Him in the morning, sleepy and soft, texting other girls. Him fresh out of the shower– water in his hair and running down his neck, snapping a selfie in the mirror to use on Tinder– then slipping back into bed just to get annoyed that he couldn’t make you come. More likely that you wouldn’t fake it for him. Whatever. A ‘red-flag’, your friends had called him. It’s okay. A walking reminder of why crushes reign supreme. It’s really okay, you weren’t in deep enough for it to matter.

“But six months later it’s real, and you can touch, but they don’t get you off like you’d hoped, you know? And you don’t like the way they kiss as much as you did in your imagination. And they don’t always say the right thing. They’re always competing with the imaginary version you made up of them, and you’re fighting something invisible to be seen as enough.”

“You keep saying ‘you know’,” he says carefully. “But this sounds like a unique experience.”

The silence hangs between you.

“Was it about you? You prefer limerence over the real thing?”

Yes and no. It’s not that you prefer limerence as such, but nothing you’ve experienced yet has been better than the feeling of almost. If the real thing ever lived up to the make believe in your head you’d snatch it up in a heartbeat. The trouble is that it feels rare, only meant for a few and not the many.

“Crushes are easier to come by,” you say. “It isn’t like that for you?”

Jun shakes his head. “I hardly ever like anyone. No projections when I do, though.”

You gawk at him. “Wah, what a life. What’s that like?”

“Pretty good,” Jun says, smile spreading crooked across his lovely face. His hand isn’t draped across your ankle anymore, it rests by his side on the tile floor, and you miss the weight of it. “Easier than whatever the fuck you’re doing. Your way would give me anxiety.”

You nudge him in the side. “Oh, is your way going well for you, then?”

Jun stretches his arms out, pushes himself up to sit, and says, “I’m still single; so not that well, no.”

Your alarm goes off, and when you say you’ve got to get going, he almost looks a little disappointed. You push yourself off the ground and turn.

“Are my shorts covered in dirt?”

Jun eyes you with suspicion. “Are you trying to get me to look at your ass?”

“Obviously.” You peek at him over your shoulder. “Is it working?”

“You’re not slick,” Jun scoffs lightly, and tips his head back against the cupboard, exposing the long line of his neck. It’d be nice to kiss him there. You pout at him, make moments like these light so you can play pretend in this crush a little longer. He laughs, and his eyes flicker down. “Dust yourself off a little– there, now you’re good.”

“Thanks, pal.”

“You’re welcome, amigo.”

“See you later, alligator.”

“In a while, crocodile.”

“Wait–” Jun grabs your wrist on your way out. The tips of his ears are tinged red. “Gimme your number. In case– y’know, in case you can’t find any good shit again.”

God, he’s cute.

Later, when you get home and find yourself raiding all the snacks in the cupboard, Mingyu catches you in the act, immediately clocks your bloodshot eyes and the stench of weed, and chews you out on the spot for 1) getting stoned in the workplace, and 2) not sharing the good stuff with him.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“I met Weird Al Yankovic once,” Jun says, when you ask if he’s ever met any celebrities. “We made eye contact through the hatch and told me to be careful not to chop a finger off. That’s probably when my fear of knives kicked in.”

“Dude, I mean this in the nicest possible way, but you’re like the strangest person I’ve ever known.”

Jun plucks the joint from your lips and puts it to his own. You like when he does that. When the smallest brush of skin can be felt all over.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Getting stoned with Jun after work is fast becoming a semi-regular thing. Never anywhere but his kitchen, never organised but it becomes expected. At lunch, if he’s planning on staying late, he’ll ask if you’re riding with Mingyu or getting the bus, and that’s the decider. Sometimes Vernon is there, sometimes Seungcheol.

After the third session you start offering to buy, because you’re smoking all his shit and it seems unfair that you’re probably putting his kitchen at a deficit too. Jun waves you off. He likes to do things for people, apparently. After the sixth, you start asking who his dealer is (mostly on account of Mingyu, who is vehemently against getting dummy high at work, but is just as bitter he’s been left with Mark With The Bad Stash as a supplier.) but Jun won’t say. No amount of flirting will make him fold.

Trading ridiculous questions on the floor of Sharkbait’s kitchen is becoming a semi-regular thing too. The questions are silly, always surface level, could be one of those scripted five minute mock-interviews you see online sometimes, and you know it’s because you hardly know each other to ask the real stuff yet, but you like it. It’s easy. It’s simple.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Mingyu is positively grey when you get home from visiting your parents on Thursday evening.

“Do not tell me you went to fuckass Mark again?”

“I went to fuckass Mark,” he wails.

“Whyyyyyyy, Mingyu? Why fuckass Mark?” You start to shake his shoulders but stop short when it looks like he’s about to empty his stomach over your shoes. “Get yourself to bed.”

“Can’t,” he says, ashen face knotted up into a frown. “You’re gonna have to take me.”

“You’re the size of an ostrich, Mingyu, be serious.”

“I’m not an ostrich,” he cries. “Please please please help me.”

Jesus Christ. “You’re a baby.”

He pouts. “A sick baby.”

“Soonyoung—” you yell down the hall. “Come help me drag the baby to bed!”

“Will you curse him this time?”

“Soonyoung? Did he melt a chopping board on the stove again?”

“No,” says Mingyu, screwing his eyes shut. “Mark.”

“Sure, why not.”

Finding the right kind of Etsy witch proves difficult. It’s not the scams you care about as such, but more so one that isn’t too scary looking. You don’t actually want anything serious to happen to Mark, you’ll settle for something like a bad case of halitosis– but all of these Bad Luck spell reviews cite awful occurrences that you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, let alone some doofus who overcharged you for shitty weed.

You’re sitting on the floor of your apartment, freshly showered and drinking leftover wine, while Soonyoung lays across the sofa and peers at your laptop screen over your shoulder. You’re waiting on your food to arrive before starting your show, and figured you’d better find a witch sooner rather than later.

“What about this one?” says Soonyoung, pointing at a listing.

“You want me to buy a curse from someone called LadyEviliansCoven?” you say, incredulous. “The one who literally has Evil Ian in her name?”

Your phone goes off.

Jun: Will you be my guinea pig tomorrow?

Me: depends. what’ve you got in mind for me ;)

Jun: Lol. It’s a surprise.

Me: okaaaaaaay fine

Me: just so long as it’s not cheese again, i fear i’m going to turn into a block of cheddar

Soonyoung reads over your shoulder. “You’re talking to Jun?”

“Yeah, we swapped numbers last week.”

Jun: I like cheddar :)

Me: omg you’re so smooth :)

Soonyoung tuts.

“What’s with you lately,” you ask. “Why are you being so weird?”

He sighs heavy. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way–” and it immediately gets your back up because he’s about to say something offensive and– “but could you not be a– um– a flirt at work?”

You spin around to pull a face at him. “I thought you were going to call me a whore for a second.”

Soonyoung smirks. “I considered it.”

“I’m not flirting with everyone.” Not seriously, anyway. Soonyoung levels you with a look. “I’m not.”

Jun: Wanna come get high with me? I have better shit than your weed guy.

“All I’m saying is don’t toy with Jun for the bit. He’s too soft-hearted.” It’s so rare that Soonyoung goes serious that it’s hard to counter it. He’s right. You have a tendency to take a joke too far, to flirt your way into and out of too many crushes. People get attached quicker than you do and it’s easy to forget when you move like the wind. Maybe it’s the other way around? Move like the wind so it’s easier to forget.

Me: can’t, sorry. it’s gilmore girls night. raincheck?

Jun: I’ll hold you to it :)

“She’s so fucking hot,” drools Soonyoung, reaching across your shoulder to jab at your screen. “Pick her.”

You scoff. “Who chooses an Etsy witch based on her level of hotness–” You stop short as you peer closer to inspect the sellers’ profile picture. “Soonyoung, that’s an AI photo, you fucking imbecile.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Sharkbait has been off limits for the last three days for recording. Mingyu said on no account can Jun or anyone else (i.e. you) get high in there until filming has wrapped, and you’re quietly convinced it’s because he wants to be invited to your smoke sessions. You don’t blame him.

This is how you end up sitting on the living room floor with everything feeling pink and golden, and off balance in that really cool, roller coaster moving in slow motion type of way. Mingyu is laying face down on the sofa, fast asleep and drooling. The bowl lays as spent as him on the table, embers fading out. Vernon and Soonyoung are chatting away and you can hardly focus on the words. Jun catches your eye, and he makes this funny expression like he’s making fun of you, and though you’re not quite following it makes you laugh anyway.

You’ve become hyper-aware of his body next to you. The long line of his legs, how he stretches out like a cat, and how you could fit your finger between the part in his lips. Soonyoung is saying something about how hungry he is, and you are too but you can’t get up from the floor as fast as Jun.

“Come help me,” Jun says. “Show me around your kitchen.”

“Ughhhhh,” you groan. But he’s pulling you up by the wrist and you’re thinking how unfair it is that someone so wiry is as strong as he is. Not just unfair but hot. Crushes are evil, you think. He’s tugging you into the kitchen by the hand, and it’s all clammy and warm but not so bad you want to let go.

You’re too high to be of much help, but you direct Jun to where you keep whatever he asks for, hold the ingredients he pulls from the fridge, chop whatever he tells you to chop, and stir whatever he tells you to stir.

“That’s a lot of garlic,” you muse.

“Yeah,” says Jun. “I know how to party.”

You’re not much of a cook, but Jun is, and he’s here with his soft voice and his soft heart, and very occasional soft touches keeping you steady. He doesn’t look at you often, but when he does his smile near breaks his face. God, it’s so nice.

Time moves strange and fluid, and the laughter from your friends filters faintly down the hallway. They sound so much further away. And then Jun is in front of you, holding a spoon up to your lips and telling you to open wide. Hard not to hear the implication behind the words, hard not to look him in the eye as you open your mouth for him and take what he offers. You’re too high for this.

There are butterflies in your stomach, in your eyes, in your mouth. You let them fly.

You swallow, thick. Lick your upper lip, slow. Under his breath, Jun swears.

“This is so good, I’d let it get me pregnant.”

Jun startles. “Uh– I’m not ready to be a dad.”

“The food, Junhui.”

A long pause. Jun stares. “Right. Hahaha.”

Mingyu is in the doorway, white-knuckling the frame. “OhmyfuckingGod, guys,” he says. “I got this vision you were kissing. I think I’m telescopic.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Monday morning rolls around far too quickly and you’re wondering who decided an eight o’clock lecture would be appropriate for the start of the week. Professor Lee talks of how the progress of technology affects aesthetics in her usual soft way of speaking, and you make an attempt at concentrating enough to take notes while ignoring the incessant buzzing in your pocket. At the end of the session, Professor Lee calls your name as you’re packing up your bag. Your friends hang back, but knowing the line for coffee will be miles long if they don’t hustle you tell them not to wait and to grab you a coffee, and you make your way to the front.

Professor Lee greets you warmly. She’s felt sorry for you ever since Jiho left you in the lurch. When it all came to light she’d tried to get you to join another group, but your peers were so far into their projects you’d only disrupt their rhythm if they had to find something for you to do, and your contribution would be next to nothing. You’ve never liked being a burden, but with the deadline edging closer you’re starting to regret not taking Professor Lee’s advice.

“I wanted to check in with you,” she says gently. Bless her. “How’s your assignment coming along?”

One month, two weeks, and five days left. You still have nothing, nada, zilch. Unfortunately, your first instinct is to lie out of your arsehole.

“Good, thank you!” you say brightly.

“I didn’t see your name on the equipment rentals list?”

Fuck. Fucking shitballs.

“Oh, that’s because I’m filming on my dad’s Super 8.” Shit shit shit shit. He does have a Super 8 but there’s not a chance in hell he’ll let you use enough film to make up twenty minutes worth of footage. “Thought it’d give it that authentic nostalgic feel.”

Professor Lee’s eyebrows fly up in surprise. “Super 8? Audio film is hard to get hold of these days. What are you doing for sound?”

“Tascam. I’ll edit it together in post.”

“Are you having someone slate for you? It’s tricky to sync if you don’t.”

“Yeah, one of my friends.”

This lie is already getting too big. You have no time– since for all the days you’re not in lectures, you’re at work, and it’s not like there’s anything to film there. People on animal floaties bobbing down the lazy river? Bored lifeguards messing around by the wave pool? Jun, high as fuck, making you sandwiches and pretending not to have a big fat crush on you and pointedly ignoring how you flirt with him?

Wait.

Wait.

It’s a moment not unlike all those old cartoons, in which the light bulb flashes above the characters head.

“I’ve got to say– I’m really concerned you’ve bitten off more than you can chew,” Professor Lee says, her voice low and serious. But you’re not paying it mind, because now– now you finally have an idea. And the guys will help, they’re all born entertainers. The trouble will be convincing your dad. The trouble will also be not telling Mingyu and convincing Soonyoung to not give the game away.

“I’m okay, really.”

Professor Lee is unconvinced, but you’re resolute now. You can turn this around.

Out in the hallway, you pull out your phone to see a slew of messages.

Gyu: I need your help

Gyu: I’m FUCKED

Gyu: I also need to get catastrophically drunk and/or stoned tonight, please beg Jun to give up his dealer because I sure as shit am not going back to motherfucking Mark

Jun: guinea pig duties tomorrow? new pancake recipe

Gyu: I’m so fucked CALL ME

Soonsoon: u will never guess what’s happened

Gyu: Never forgetting that you abandoned me in my time of need

Gyu: If I pay you a lot of money will you call me????

Soonsoon: btw mingyu’s about to have a heart attack please call him so he stops crying

Gyu: I think I’m dying, please make sure my family know it was your fault

You call Mingyu back. It’s hard to hear through all the tears and the wailing but eventually Soonyoung snatches the phone from his hand and walks you through the drama of the day. The long and short of it is Mingyu has been scammed out of fifty percent of the filming allowance, a whole thirty-thousand dollars and the biggest budget he’s been tasked with managing so far. The film crew has disappeared into thin air. The deadline for rolling out the summer ad is looming over his head, and now he’s begging you to help him fix it before he loses face, and/or his job.

Well.

Shit.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Okay. The plan is you’ve got the green light for a mockumentary, of sorts– in exchange for a thirty-second ad for television. And you’re being paid. Not the same amount as the scammy crew, of course, but way more than you could’ve hoped for as a filmography student. Sure, you’re good, but this is unheard of. Unbelievable. You’re taking it as a compliment, even though Mingyu was unnecessarily clear about only asking you because it’s too late in the game to ask anyone else.

Truth be told, you had no idea Mingyu had so much power. He’s talked your manager into giving you a half shift off ticket booth duty until filming is complete, and wrangled you an intern from the office to assist.

Seungkwan the intern is apparently grateful to be ‘let out of the dungeon’ and although he doesn’t have the first clue about what he’ll be doing for you, he’s a quick learner and very eager to avoid hot desking and spending his day fetching coffee. You’ve roped in a bunch of your coworkers to act as your characters. Some extreme version of themselves will do, you’d said, but some of them want to bring something new to the table. Seokmin in particular was rather excited.

You’ve settled on using Super 8 for both projects. You figure you could recycle some of the footage if necessary, and it saves switching between two different styles and sets of equipment. With the payment Mingyu has approved for you, you can afford to buy your own film instead of attempting to persuade your dad to use his, so for all intents and purposes– it’s all systems go.

Except it’s closing hours, and tomorrow will be your first half-day of filming, and you’re laying down in the log flume, not knowing where you’ll start. This is where Jun finds you, legs flopped over the edge of the plastic log, picking at your cuticles and fretting over the enormity of the work you have before you.

“Bad day?” he says. He’s wearing his visor backwards, hair falling in his soft eyes, looking like sugar and all things nice.

“Weird day.” You heave a sigh. “I think I’m not good enough for this.” Jun doesn’t reply, just waits for you to carry on. How could he know what you’re good for? “I think I peaked when I was fourteen, and now it’s all downhill.”

“Fourteen was a nightmare for me, who peaks at that age?” says an unconvinced Jun.

“I could do, like, fuckloads of backflips. Like ten.”

Jun’s eyes bug out. “In a row?”

“Yeah.”

“Woah,” says Jun, under his breath. “So does that make you up-down dizzy instead of circle dizzy?”

You furrow your brow. “I never really thought about it.”

“This isn’t helping?”

You purse your lips and shake your head. “Not at all.”

“Wanna come over and I’ll make you dinner?”

It takes all of 0.3 seconds to mull it over. “Yeah, okay,” you say, stretching out an arm for Jun to pull you up from the log. He wraps his long fingers around your wrist and tugs, setting you on your feet, and as you start to walk he slings his arm, familiar and friendly, to rest across your shoulders.

“Can we have literally anything that isn’t cheese based?”

Jun sucks air between his teeth. “Well– I had planned on lasagne.”

“Jun, please no,” you beg, clutching at his waist. “My heart is two grams of saturated fat away from sending in its resignation letter.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

His place is bigger than you expected. But whatever, his finances aren’t your business. Much bigger than you’d thought would be manageable for a guy on a cook’s salary. He gives you the tour. There’s three bedrooms. Two of which are devoid of any character, and his, which is full of it. Very him.

“Are your roommates at work?”

“I don’t have any,” he says. “Just me.”

Oh. His finances aren’t your business.

“I like your cat painting,” you say, pointing to the wiry black kitten sitting in a bodega fridge, hanging above his bedside table.

“Thanks,” he says.

He shows you out the bedroom and back downstairs, for quote unquote the rest– there’s more?

There is more. In the entryway is a door you’d assumed a cupboard, but no– it leads downstairs through to a fucking cinema room.

“Dude are you, like, rich?”

Jun laughs, rubs the back of his neck, goes a little red. Very cute.

“This place belonged to my uncle.”

“Woah,” you marvel. “All I ever inherited was the foot in mouth gene and my granddad’s Hi-Fi system.”

“What’s that?”

“Exactly.”

Much like at Sharkbait, you sit on the counter and yap while Jun cooks. He makes hot pot (thank god, because your body has been crying out for vegetables for too long) and keeps having you taste the stock, and when it’s finally done, he asks you to choose something to drink– “beer, wine, liquor, choose whatever,” he says. “It’s all there.”

You chew on the corner of your mouth as you stare at the selection. There’s too much of it and everything looks expensive. The wine bottles have real corks, for Christ’s sake. It’s starting to feel like you’ve been standing there too long, confirmed when Jun comes to stand beside you and asks if you like red. You do, so he picks up something with a worn label. Pomerol, or something. 1952.

“Do you collect this stuff?” you ask, as Jun pours two glasses, and slides one over to you.

Jun laughs for real this time.

“Nah, it was my uncle’s hobby,” he says. “Feels weird to get rid of it.”

“I’m so sorry,” you say softly, resting your hand on his arm.

Jun blinks at you, confused. You take a sip of wine. It tastes old.

“Were you close?”

“Oh– no, he’s not dead. He’s in prison for tax fraud.”

You nearly choke.

Jun slaps your back so hard you’re sure it’ll leave prints that’ll last long enough for Soonyoung to drag you for, and when you finally get your breath back you leap into scolding him.

“Why’d you make it sound like he died?”

Jun gapes. “Hey, you just assume! I didn’t make it sound like anything!”

“You should’ve led with the prison thing, fucknut! People get the wrong idea.”

Jun’s lips twitch. “You’re right, I should introduce myself like that,” he scoffs. “Hi, I’m Jun– by the way, my uncle is a felon and I live in his obnoxiously large house.”

You laugh. “Solid intro.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, rolling his eyes but he’s smiling. “Want me to top up your glass.”

“Fuck no, it tastes like shit.”

“Oh, thank God. I hate it too.”

“Have you got anything stronger?”

Jun grins like the devil.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Your head is throbbing. So sick to your stomach that you can’t stand the smell of the breakfast sandwich Jun had slipped into your bag this morning, before you’d run out the door to get to work early. But now Soonyoung is here being a bother– initially concerned but now delighted.

“Where’d you sleep last night?” he sing-songs.

“Fuck off.”

“Not Jun’s place, surely?” He’s putting on his gross cutesy voice.

“Fuck off, Soonyoung.”

“Did you get dicked down?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Oooooh! You wanna tell me the dirty details so bad!”

“I wanna ram this fucking boom mic up your asshole,” you snap, waving it at him menacingly, and it’s enough to make Soonyoung to take a step back and cover his backside with his hands.

“I hate when you’re hungover,” he mutters. “You’re mean.”

“You and me both, sunshine,” you grumble. “But you’re annoying.”

“Yup,” he says. “Can I have your breakfast? I didn’t eat yet.”

“Go nuts.”

Soonyoung inhales your food, and it doesn’t do much to settle your stomach. Seungkwan, Seokmin, Mingyu, Joshua, and Chan show up– and you try very hard to concentrate on explaining the shots you want for the advert. A walk-through of the entrance, Joshua handing over their tickets, and following them walking into the park. And later, when it’s busier with actual customers, focusing on them on the rides, eating lunch, hanging out on the lazy river. Splashes of water from the slides, etcetera etcetera. Some of this might do for an intro to your mockumentary, too.

You ready the camera, Seungkwan stands there waiting with the slate, Soonyoung is on mic duty, the others are in their positions.

And you try to focus, you really do, but your mind just keeps slipping back to last night– going over the conversations you had on the floor of Jun’s living room, after a bottle of something you can’t begin to pronounce and the shittiest rolled joint you’ve had since you were a teenager. You’d played twenty questions, Jun hesitated, and like an idiot you pushed.

“I really wanted to ask if you flirt with me ‘cause you like me or if it’s the same for everyone.” He sucked in a breath. “But I chickened out. Don’t wanna have my dreams crushed yet.”

“Uh-huh,” you’d said, as you passed the joint back to him. His fingers brushed yours. “Ask me again when you wanna know.”

You’re chicken too.

“Sound?”

Soonyoung nods.

“Camera rolling.”

Seungkwan claps the slate.

You notice him on a Tuesday.

Which is strange, because Tuesdays are usually your most half-hearted gym days. Mondays are for fake enthusiasm. Wednesdays are for convincing yourself you're halfway through the week and therefore invincible. But Tuesdays? Tuesdays are for regretting all your life choices while trudging on a treadmill and pretending not to hate everyone around you.

But then he appears.

Tall. Built like someone who owns multiple foam rollers and actually uses them. His hair is tousled in that “I totally woke up like this but in an expensive shampoo commercial way,” and his eyes—oh God, his eyes—are these wide, soft things, like they were stolen from a Disney deer. If Bambi decided to bulk up and develop a jawline.

You try not to stare. You fail.

He doesn’t look like a brooding gym type. No aggressive grunting. No primal chest thumps. No mirror selfies. Instead, he quietly sets up at the far corner near the free weights, earbuds in, hoodie on despite the heat. Private, maybe. Or shy. Or both.

You spend longer than you'd like to admit trying to figure out if he's intimidating or just doesn’t like people.

There's a difference, you think. Intimidating guys usually flex unnecessarily and wink at you when you’re just trying to do lunges without dying. This guy? He barely makes eye contact with anyone. When someone walks too close to his bench, he politely scoots over without making a fuss.

It's almost disappointing.

Because if he was a jerk, you could just write him off and move on with your life.

But no. Instead, he has the audacity to stretch quietly in the corner with perfect posture and soft eyelashes and forearms that look carved out of daydreams. Who even looks like that at your local gym? This isn’t Hollywood.

And you, meanwhile, are pretending to know how to deadlift properly while sneaking glances like you're trying to memorize the periodic table. You are not slick.

At one point, he catches you mid-glance, and for a brief, painful second, you both hold eye contact.

Your brain short-circuits.

You do the only logical thing and immediately look away like you've just remembered an urgent errand in the opposite direction. Possibly in another country.

You spend the rest of your workout way too aware of his presence. Like he’s gravity and your body is betraying you by orbiting around him.

You leave the gym sweaty, confused, and very annoyed with yourself. You don’t even know his name.

But you’re definitely going to find out.

=

A few days later and you’re at the gym again..

You're not proud of it, but you're here standing in front of a very complicated-looking machine that has too many pulleys and not enough labels. You've never used it before. You don’t even know its name. 

Chest press? Lat pulldown? Mid-life crisis simulator?

Honestly, you just got bored of the StairMaster. Your usual routine suddenly felt repetitive… or maybe it just felt less interesting now that he’s become part of your peripheral gym experience.

And hey, maybe it’s time to switch it up. Be spontaneous. Try new things. Be mysterious and well-rounded.

You immediately regret it.

Because you’ve been standing here for a full minute pretending to “study the mechanics” of this cursed contraption, while mostly just staring at the diagram like it’s written in ancient Sumerian. There are straps. Levers. Pins. Maybe even a hidden booby trap?

You tug at one handle, and it clonks loudly against the frame, echoing across the gym like the sound of your pride imploding.

And then—

“You, uh… planning to fight it or use it?”

The voice is soft, warm—teasing without being mean. Like maple syrup with a smirk.

You freeze. Your brain goes completely silent.

Because it’s him.

And God, he’s even better up close. There’s this effortless softness to him, like he’s not trying to be charming but it just… leaks out of him naturally. Like an accidental flirt. A boy-band heartthrob doing errands.

You laugh, but it comes out weird and high-pitched, like you’ve swallowed helium and regret all your life choices.

“I’m, uh. Studying it. For science.”

He grins, bright and immediate, like you’ve said the most charming thing ever. “Well, if you figure out how to make it time travel, let me know. I think it's supposed to be a row machine. Or a medieval torture device. Could go either way.”

“So,” he continues, still smiling, “want a hand? Or do you prefer to risk dislocating something for the thrill of it?”

You blink. “I mean… I do like to live dangerously.”

He chuckles, then steps closer. “Dangerous is not knowing which pin to pull and just yanking stuff randomly. Let me show you.”

You do your best to stay calm while he casually leans over, adjusting the weights, pulling one of the pins like it’s nothing. His arm brushes yours and it’s electric. Not in a dramatic, soul-bonding way—just enough to make you forget your own name for a second.

“There,” he says. “Now you just sit here, pull this toward your chest. Keep your back straight, don’t yank.”

You nod, fully intending to listen.

You will absolutely not remember a single word of that.

He steps back, giving you space, but that soft smile lingers like a secret between you. “You got this. I’m Joshua, by the way”

You quickly mumble your name back, then look at the equipment again

“Damn,” you say. “Guess I’ll have to actually work out now.”

He starts to walk away, then glances over his shoulder. “If you survive this thing, I’ll be impressed.”

You don’t say anything back. Mostly because your brain still hasn’t rebooted.

But your heart is definitely doing wind sprints.

After the brutal set you tried to finish, you grab your water bottle, stealing one last glance his way. He’s still watching.

You take a long sip of water, trying to ignore the way your pulse is very much not calming down. It’s not the workout. It’s not the row machine. It’s definitely not the totally casual conversation with the gym’s most charming human.

You glance back at him, and that teasing glint is still there, like he’s waiting for a comeback.

So you give him one.

“I’m gonna get you back,” you say, capping your bottle. “Just you wait until you try the StairMaster.”

He snorts. “Is that a threat?”

“Oh, absolutely. That thing humbles even the cockiest of men.”

He groans dramatically, head dropping back against the bench. “Ugh. Not the StairMaster. That thing is evil in mechanical form.”

You gasp, mock offended. “You take that back.”

“I won’t. It’s unnatural. No human should ever climb stairs endlessly to nowhere. It's a trap.”

You grin, arms crossed. “Spoken like someone who’s never reached the top.”

He squints at you suspiciously. “There’s no top. That’s the whole scam. It just keeps going until your legs give out and your soul leaves your body.”

“That’s where the character-building happens.”

“That’s where the near-death experience happens.”

You walk past him toward the water fountain, tossing a smirk over your shoulder. “Someday, Joshua. I’m gonna catch you on it. And when I do, I’ll be right there. Watching.”

He laughs, low and warm. “If that day comes, I expect emotional support. And probably an ambulance.”

“Nope,” you call back. “Only judgment.”

“Brutal.”

You glance at him again as you turn the corner. He’s still looking, shaking his head, that smile spreading slow like he’s already thinking about what he’s going to say next time.

And you? You’re definitely planning what machine to “accidentally” use wrong next.

=

A few days later, you’re back.

Same gym. Same playlist. Same questionable protein shake sloshing around in your stomach.

You’ve already stretched, done your usual warm-up, and for some reason—maybe it’s the memory of a certain pair of bambi-eyes watching you flirt with death on the row machine—you find yourself standing in front of the pull-up bar.

Just staring.

It stares back. Cold. Unforgiving. Judgy.

You’ve never really attempted it. You know you have the upper body strength of a sleepy cat. The last time you even tried, you managed one and a half reps and pulled a muscle in your neck that made it look like you were perpetually trying to dodge an awkward hug.

But today… today you’re thinking about it.

And thinking about it is basically halfway to doing it, right?

You clap your hands like you’re about to do something epic. Then you hop up, grab the handles, and immediately regret all your choices.

You get one. One clean pull-up, arms shaking, face doing things that definitely aren’t attractive.

The second one? You try. God, you try.

Halfway up, your arms begin to betray you. Your legs flail in a pathetic attempt to help. Your body says “absolutely not” and your pride goes down with you. You hang there, a weird little noodle of a human, wondering if there’s a graceful way to descend without collapsing completely.

“Alright,” a voice says behind you, amused. “Now that’s bravery.”

You don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

“Don’t,” you groan. “Don’t you dare say anything.”

Joshua’s laugh is warm and merciless. “I wasn’t gonna say anything! Just… observing. You know. For science.”

You drop down from the bar and turn to face him, breathless, cheeks burning, arms already sore.

“You’re stalking me,” you accuse, pointing a finger at him.

He raises both hands in mock surrender. “Hey. You were the one declaring StairMaster vengeance. I came to see if you were plotting.”

“Plotting,” you huff. “Right. Clearly I’m too busy being an upper-body icon.”

“Iconic,” he nods solemnly. “In the way baby goats are iconic for trying to jump and immediately falling over.”

You glare, but it’s only half-hearted. “Wow. First, sarcasm coach. Now personal trainer and comedian.”

“I contain multitudes,” he says, then glances up at the bar. “You almost had that second one though.”

You raise a brow. “You’re lying to make me feel better.”

“I’m lying to make me feel better,” he grins. “Because if you get better at this stuff, you’re gonna be way too powerful.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “Well, if I mysteriously vanish, check under the StairMaster. That’s where I hide all my victims.”

Joshua tilts his head, considering. “Dark. Unexpected. I like it.”

You’re just about to make some kind of witty escape when Joshua says it.

“Come on,” he nods toward the pull-up bar. “I’ll spot you.”

You blink. “You’ll what now?”

He’s already walking over, casual like it’s no big deal, like this isn’t a defining moment in your emotional history.

“Spot you,” he says again, glancing back at you with that stupidly gentle smile. “So you don’t fall to your dramatic death after one and a half pull-ups.”

You try to laugh. It comes out as more of a nervous wheeze.

“Very heroic of you,” you manage, eyeing the bar like it personally wronged you.

He shrugs, standing just under it now, hands flexing like he’s warming them up. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive.”

You stare at him. At the way his shirt clings to his shoulders. At the veins in his arms. At the way he’s looking at you like this is casual. Normal.

It is not normal. You try to be cool. You try to be composed. But your body? Your body has completely abandoned the plan.

Because now you’re walking toward him. Slowly. Automatically. Like some magnetic force is pulling you in.

You step under the bar. He’s standing right behind you now, close but not too close. His hands lift, hovering for a second like he’s giving you a chance to back out.

You don’t.

And then—

His hands land gently on your waist.

It’s a soft, grounding touch, not too firm, but very present. Your breath catches.

This is fine, you tell yourself.

This is so not fine. Your brain screams.

“You good?” he asks, voice quiet now. There’s something softer in his tone, like he knows exactly what he's doing to your internal system and is pretending he doesn’t.

You nod, eyes fixed on the bar above. “Yep. Good. Great.”

“You're gonna pull up, and I’ll just support your hips a little. Let you push through it without dropping.”

You manage a strangled “cool” and grab the handles, arms already shaking from the sheer adrenaline surging through you.

You pull.

It’s not perfect. Not clean. Your arms scream and your legs do a weird little kick at the end. But you make it. Higher than before. Controlled.

His hands steady you the whole way up—and then guide you gently back down.

“See?” he murmurs near your ear. “Told you. You got this.”

You’re pretty sure your heart is doing backflips. Loud, panicked backflips. You let go of the bar, drop to the floor, and immediately step away like physical distance might help your brain reset.

Spoiler: it does not.

Joshua’s grinning again, hands back at his sides, like he didn’t just ruin your ability to form coherent thought.

“Thanks,” you say, trying to sound chill and not like you’re about to collapse into a puddle.

“Anytime,” he says easily. “You let me know when it’s StairMaster Day. I’ll be there.”

You almost say something flirty. You almost say you already are.

But instead, you toss him a half-smile and mumble, “Better start working on your cardio.”

And then you walk away. Quickly. Before you combust right there in front of the pull-up bar.

The second your front door closes behind you, you're already pulling your phone out of your bag with shaking hands. You don’t even kick off your shoes. There are more important matters at hand.

Like the fact that Joshua Hong just touched your waist and told you you got this in a voice that should be illegal in public gyms.

You hit Nayeon’s contact. She picks up before the second ring.

“What.”

You skip hello entirely.

“GUESS WHAT.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “Oh my god. Did you finally throw a dumbbell at that guy who grunts like a mating walrus?”

“What? No—focus. I—Joshua. Joshua was at the gym.”

A dramatic gasp. “Bambi guy?!”

“Yes. And he spotted me. Like, hands-on-me, spotted me.”

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I was lying. He offered, I blacked out emotionally, and then I walked toward him like some possessed gym siren. And then—wait for it—his hands were on my waist.”

Nayeon lets out a long, satisfied scream that you have to pull your phone away from your ear for.

“I’m sorry,” she says breathlessly. “You touched souls and you’re casually calling me like it’s a weather update?! How was it?! What did it feel like?! Did your body leave your spirit plane?!”

You collapse onto your couch, still not fully recovered. “It felt like… like my brain stopped working but in a good way? Like the kind of malfunction where you’re aware something deeply unprofessional is happening to your heart rate?”

“I’m so proud of you. You’ve officially entered RomCom Phase Two: The Accidental Intimate Contact.”

You groan. “It wasn’t even that intimate! It was… I don’t know. Friendly. Gym-friendly.”

“Did he look you in the eyes like he knew you were about to internally combust?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“Did he say something in a voice that made you question your ability to speak?”

“...Yes.”

“Then congratulations,” Nayeon says smugly. “That boy is flirting. Lightly. Respectfully. But definitely.”

You flop backward, one hand over your eyes. “I said you better start working on your cardio and then walked away like I didn’t want to collapse in a corner and scream into my towel.”

Nayeon howls. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. I’m putting it in my will.”

You’re quiet for a second, smiling up at your ceiling like it just told you a secret.

“He really is nice,” you murmur.

“I bet he is,” Nayeon says. “But let me know when he touches your waist again. I’ll bring confetti.”

=

You’re half-awake, phone in one hand, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, and every ounce of your remaining energy focused on surviving the Monday morning café line. The air smells like roasted beans and too much cologne, and you’re two seconds from ordering the largest iced americano known to man.

The barista gives you the tiniest smile and asks, “What would you like?”

“Iced americano, please,” you say in a daze, already pulling out your card, head down, ready to tap and shuffle off like every other caffeine-dependent adult.

But then—

A hand slides in next to yours. Card first.

And a voice, soft but teasing: “I got it.”

You freeze. Look up.

Joshua.

In a hoodie and cap pulled low, like he’s trying not to be recognized—but there’s no mistaking him. Not when he’s standing right there, grinning like this is normal. Like this is not the second time he’s absolutely obliterated your nervous system in public.

Your brain short-circuits.

“Wait—what—are you—what are you doing here?”

He tilts his head. “Getting coffee. What are you doing here? Practicing your dramatic gasp?”

You blink. “How did you even—?”

“I saw you through the window,” he says, gesturing casually over his shoulder. “Recognized the tragic posture.Thought, hey, she probably needs caffeine and emotional support.”

“You didn’t have to pay for me.”

Joshua shrugs, already sliding his card back into his wallet. “Consider it a reward. For surviving the pull-up bar. And for not actually passing out while I spotted you.”

You squint at him. “So this is payback.”

“Exactly,” he says, eyes crinkling. “Also, I owed you for the StairMaster threats. This is safer.”

You step aside so the next customer can order, taking your receipt with numb fingers. “You are dangerously charming, you know that?”

“I’ve heard rumors,” he says, walking with you to the pickup counter.

You eye him sideways. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Not really,” he says, then glances at you. “Maybe I will now.”

And just like that—there it is again. That look.

The light, flirty, annoyingly smooth look that says he’s enjoying this way too much. That he’s already planning his next move.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling like an idiot. Your name gets called. You grab your drink. He grabs his.

And then he leans in just a little, low enough that you can feel the warmth of his voice when he says, “You still owe me one StairMaster session, by the way.”

You take a long sip of your coffee just to avoid answering.

But the blush creeping up your neck?

Yeah, he definitely sees it.

You both step out of the café, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft ding. The morning air’s brisk but not cold, sunlight just beginning to slip between buildings, painting the street in soft gold.

Joshua falls into step beside you, sipping his coffee like this is some everyday thing. Like the two of you didn’t just share a casual rom-com scene inside a café.

He glances at you. “Heading to work?”

You nod, clutching your cup a little tighter. “Yep. You?”

“Yeah,” he says, then gestures down the opposite sidewalk. “That way.”

You look in the direction he points. Opposite of yours.

Of course.

You both pause on the corner. People stream around you—students in uniforms, office workers, ahjummas with shopping bags—but there’s a strange little pocket of quiet that hovers around you two.

You shift your weight. “So… different directions.”

Joshua nods, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Tragic.”

You laugh lightly. “Life’s tough.”

“For now,” he says, watching you over the rim of his cup. “But hey, I still owe you cardio humiliation. I’ll find you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You sure you’re ready for that?”

“Emotionally? No. Physically? Also no. But for you?” He leans in just slightly, eyes sparkling. “I’ll suffer.”

You snort, trying not to let your entire face betray you. “What a romantic.”

He grins. “It’s in my nature.”

The crosswalk signal chirps. You both glance at it, then back at each other.

You step backward slowly, toward your side of the street. “Okay, go be mysterious and productive or whatever it is you do.”

“And you,” he says, pointing with his cup, “go be chaotic and competitive. Just… don’t fall off anything.”

You flash him a final grin, walking backward a few more steps. “No promises.”

=

It’s been a week. Seven full days. Four gym sessions. Not that he’s counting. (He is absolutely counting.)

Joshua had figured maybe you were switching up your schedule. Or taking a break. Or plotting your next slow-burn attack on his cardiovascular endurance. But by day five, when you still hadn’t walked through the gym doors in your usual comfy hoodie and defiant energy, he started to feel… something.

Nothing dramatic. Just… He kind of missed seeing you.

Not in a we should talk about our feelings kind of way. More like a where did the chaos go? way. The gym felt weirdly quiet without your teasing, your grumbling, your almost-impossible pull-ups.

So when he drags himself to the café after his morning run the following week, hoodie damp with sweat and music still playing in one earbud, he’s not expecting much more than caffeine and maybe a bagel if the world is kind.

What he doesn’t expect is to hear the bell chime behind him and your voice.

“Ugh, finally. I swear this place is the only thing getting me out of bed lately.”

He turns before he can even stop himself. There you are—messy bun, oversized sweater, tired eyes, and all. You don’t see him at first, too busy mumbling something to yourself about how oat milk better not be sold out again.

He smiles. And waits.

Then you glance up, catch him standing near the pickup counter, and blink like your brain needs a second to register.

“Oh—hey!”

Joshua raises an eyebrow. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the girl who ghosted the gym.”

You smirk, stepping into line. “Excuse me. I did not ghost. I was temporarily out of commission.”

He leans an elbow on the counter, coffee in hand, grinning. “So mysterious.”

You sigh dramatically. “Cramps were killing me. Girl things. War zone. You wouldn’t survive.”

Joshua chokes a little on his sip.

You laugh at his expression. “What? You asked.”

“I didn’t ask for that mental image,” he says, shaking his head, amused.

“I gave it anyway,” you say brightly, stepping up to order. “That’s what I do. I give.”

He watches you place your order, then swipes his card before you can reach for your own.

“Again?” you protest.

“Call it a welcome back gift.”

You squint at him. “You’re trying to train me like a puppy. Every time I show up, you give me treats.”

“Is it working?”

You pause. Then grin. “Maybe.”

You both wait for your drinks at the end of the counter, shoulders brushing just slightly in the morning rush.

He tilts his head toward you. “You coming back to the gym this week?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Tomorrow, probably. I’ve got rage to burn and stairs to climb.”

His smile widens. “Music to my ears.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Missed me, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks at you over his coffee lid.

“Wouldn’t survive a war zone,” he says. “But yeah. I kinda did.”

You swear you played it cool.

You smiled. You sassed. You walked out of that café with your dignity intact and your coffee in hand like someone who has not been emotionally steamrolled by a boy in a hoodie.

But the second you slid into the booth across from Nayeon at lunch, all bets were off.

You didn’t even wait for her to finish her first bite.

“I’m losing it,” you whisper-shriek, leaning across the table like you’re confessing a federal crime.

Nayeon blinks. “Hi? Good to see you too?”

“No, listen. He was at the café again. Joshua. After his run. Sweaty. Hoodie. Smiling. Paid for my coffee again.”

She gasps, already putting down her chopsticks. “Did he say something flirty?”

You nod, wide-eyed. “He said he missed me.”

Dead silence. Then Nayeon slaps the table so hard the metal chopsticks clatter. “YOU’RE DATING.”

“We are not dating,” you hiss, glancing around to make sure no one’s listening. “We’re flirting. Lightly. Slowly. Like… like an air fryer setting.”

“Okay, so when’s the wedding?”

You groan, sliding down in your seat. “I panicked. I made a girl-things joke and then elbowed him. Elbowed. Him.”

“I mean, that is your version of affection.”

You cover your face with your hands. “And now? Now I have to go back to the gym. Where I used to look like a sleep-deprived raccoon. And now I have to… I don’t know, try.”

Nayeon grins like the devil. “Oh? Someone’s thinking about their gym fit now?”

You peek through your fingers. “I literally bought new leggings this morning. I googled cute-but-functional ponytail styles.”

She clutches her heart. “You’re in deep.”

You nod solemnly. “Drowning.”

“You know what this means, right?” she says, sipping her soda. “You’re officially entering RomCom Phase Three.”

You raise a brow. “Which is?”

She smirks. “The ‘oh no, I actually care how I look around him’ phase. It's fatal.”

You sigh dramatically and stab a piece of kimchi. “Send flowers to the old me. She didn’t contour for cardio.”

Nayeon lifts her glass in salute. “To gym crushes and unexpected motivation.”

You clink her glass with yours, already plotting tomorrow’s playlist and wondering if there’s a subtle way to make “accidentally” run into Joshua without… you know… trying.

=

You walk into the gym like it’s just another day. Just another normal, totally-not-overthought, not-at-all-strategically-timed workout.

You’ve got your hair up in a ponytail that took two tries, a matching set you absolutely didn’t panic-buy during a midnight scroll, and your face set in what you hope is a calm, effortless expression.

Internally? Screaming.

You head over to the mats to warm up, muttering to yourself like you always do. It’s kind of your thing. Mostly because talking through your workouts distracts you from the sheer indignity of physical effort.

"Okay. Back. Finally. Time to prove I can still do a crunch without crying. Just twenty reps. Or ten. Or like... four. Let’s not be ambitious."

You drop into a stretch, huffing as your hamstrings scream at you.

"See, this is what happens when you let your uterus bench you for a week—your body turns into string cheese."

Then a voice behind you, smooth and slightly smug. 

“String cheese, huh? That’s a new one.”

Your soul leaves your body. You whip around, nearly falling sideways out of your stretch.

Joshua is there. Hoodie slung over his shoulder. Hair a little damp. Sweaty in the way that looks criminally good on him. And smiling, like he’s been standing there for longer than you’d like to think about.

You blink at him. “How long have you been there.”

“Long enough to hear your motivational speech,” he says, stepping onto the mat next to you.

You groan, covering your face with your towel. “God. I was doing bits. I was mid-rant. You can’t sneak up on a person during that.”

He chuckles, sitting down to stretch beside you like this is routine. “You talk to yourself a lot when you work out?”

“Only when I’m trying not to die.”

“Well,” he says, reaching forward with ease that makes you regret your whole existence, “it’s entertaining. I’ve missed the commentary.”

You peek at him through your fingers. “Don’t make me regret coming back.”

“You regret it already,” he says, nudging you gently with his knee. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

You try to scoff, but it comes out as a smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“Tell that to your string cheese arms.”

Then Joshua stretches, stands up, and says it so casually you almost miss it.

“Come on. I’ll spot you.”

Just like that. Like he didn’t just turn your heart into a meteorite. Like it’s normal to say things like that with his hair all messy and his shirt clinging to his back like a sin.

You pause, blinking up at him from your sad little mat. “Spot me where?”

He nods his head toward the weights section. “Pull-ups.”

You immediately shake your head. “Nooooi. No, no, no. We’re not doing that. My arms are still in recovery. Mentally.”

He grins, totally unfazed. “One rep. I’ll help.”

“You say that like I won’t dramatically collapse and cause a gym-wide scene.”

“I say that,” he replies, holding a hand out to you, “because I want to see if string cheese can fight gravity.”

You squint at him. “You really like testing your luck, huh?”

He just wiggles his fingers. Still waiting. You groan, roll your eyes, and slap your hand into his like you’ve just signed a very bad contract with a very cute devil.

“Fine. But when I fall, I’m haunting you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

He leads the way, and you follow grumbling the whole time, of course. Loud enough that a few people glance over, but you’re too focused on not combusting to care.

And when you reach the bar, he steps behind you, hands automatically ready at your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hesitate. Just one second. Long enough to register how close he is. How warm his hands are. How your brain is already trying to malfunction.

Then you huff, grab the bar, and mutter, “This is bullying disguised as fitness.”

And he, as expected, laughs. “Welcome back.”

You take a breath.

Hands on the bar. Shoulders tense. Joshua standing behind you, hands already hovering at your waist, warm and steady and—God. Focus.

“You ready?” he asks, voice low near your ear.

“No,” you answer flatly.

“Perfect. That’s the spirit.”

You suppress a groan and pull. Immediately, your arms are like, absolutely not, but then his hands are there—gently guiding, lifting just enough for you to move, your body rising in a way that’s technically assisted but still feels monumental.

Halfway up, your brain forgets how to form thoughts. Mostly because his hands are still on your waist and you are 98% sure he’s smiling. You can't see it, but you can feel it. That smug little smirk of his radiating off his face like heat.

You grunt. “I hate this. I hate you. I hate physics.”

Joshua chuckles. “You’re doing great.”

You manage a shaky pull, then drop with a dramatic gasp, limbs jelly.

He steadies you as you land, laughing. “That was almost one and a half.”

“I demand a trophy. And an ice pack. And maybe a wheelchair.”

“I’ll start a GoFundMe.”

You turn to him, still breathless, hair sticking to your forehead, and jab a finger at his chest. “You’re having way too much fun with this.”

“I really am,” he admits without shame.

You both stand there for a second, grinning like idiots, way too close for two people pretending this is just a casual gym friendship.

Then he adds, softer this time, “I meant it though. You did good.”

You glance up at him. He’s not teasing now. Not entirely. Just watching you with those warm eyes, a little out of breath himself.

And okay. Fine. You definitely need to leave before your knees give out for reasons unrelated to exercise.

“I’m going to the treadmill,” you say, turning abruptly.

Joshua calls after you. “What happened to hating cardio?”

“I hate being perceived more!”

You climb onto the treadmill with the grace of someone who just survived emotional warfare. You press a few random buttons, pretending to focus, when really you’re just trying to calm your entire nervous system.

And of course. Of course he follows you.

You glance to your side, and there he is, casually stepping onto the treadmill next to yours like he’s not the reason your soul left your body fifteen minutes ago.

“Please. Let me breathe.”

“I would, but I’m trying to flirt with you.”

Your feet nearly miss the belt.

You turn slowly, narrowing your eyes. “Trying?”

He shrugs, smirking. “Well, not very hard. You’re kinda doing all the work just existing.”

You make a noise—half choke, half laugh—as your brain trips over itself.

“That’s the line you’re going with?” you say, mock-scandalized.

“I didn’t plan it,” he says, grinning. “But I stand by it.”

You shake your head, biting your lip, heart pounding in your ears more than your feet on the treadmill.

“You know you’re not supposed to flirt while I’m exercising. I’m vulnerable. My dignity’s compromised.”

Joshua taps the speed up on your treadmill by 0.2 just to be annoying. “Dangerous territory. Anything could happen.”

You gasp. “Are you trying to get me to trip?”

“Trying to impress you with my multitasking.”

“Impress me by not getting kicked out for harassment.”

He raises a brow. “So flirting with you is harassment now?”

You glance at him, cheeks flushed, heartbeat wild, but your mouth still knows exactly what to say.

“Only because it’s working.”

He stares at you for a second. A beat. Then he grins wider, a tiny laugh slipping out as he looks back at the front of his treadmill.

And that silence between you? Buzzing. Effortless. Dangerous.

A few minutes pass. You’re both running now, side by side, music low, heart rates up, bodies warming into that steady, breathy rhythm. Joshua’s quiet for a while, eyes forward, jaw sharp in profile, the kind of focused that should not look as attractive as it does.

And then—casually, almost like he’s commenting on the weather—he says, 

“So… no boyfriend, or…?”

You glance at him, startled but amused, nearly tripping over your own feet again. The treadmill beeps angrily as you stabilize.

You huff out a laugh. “Wow. Smooth.”

“I thought so,” he says, lips twitching.

You shake your head. “Nope. No boyfriend.”

He raises a brow, like he’s waiting for the follow-up.

“I think my very tragic, very bold attempts at flirting should be proof enough that I’ve been single for a while.”

Joshua laughs, genuinely, the sound slipping out between breaths. “That bad, huh?”

“I elbowed you, Hong. That was one of my first moves.”

“Hey, I kind of liked that. Very… assertive.”

You snort. “If elbowing is the bar, your standards worry me.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, tapping up his speed just slightly. “I’m not looking for a black belt. Just someone who talks to herself and calls her arms string cheese.”

You let out a loud, delighted laugh, nearly doubling over on the belt before catching yourself.

“God, you're lucky I’m too out of breath to roast you right now.”

He glances at you, smiling. “I’ll take what I can get.”

You slow your treadmill just a little, You glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

“You’re dangerous,” you say, almost offhand, but not really.

Joshua arches a brow. “Yeah?”

You nod, swallowing back a grin. “You make me laugh.”

He turns fully toward you now, still jogging, like he doesn’t even feel the effort. “And?”

“And then my mind goes completely blank the next second,” you admit, mock dramatic. “It's inconvenient. Hazardous, even.”

He chuckles, tilting his head. “So I’m a health risk now?”

“Absolutely. Emotional distraction. Should come with a warning label.”

“Funny. You’re the one running next to me looking like an ad for gym crushes.”

You nearly stumble again. “Okay, sir—”

“I’m just saying,” he continues, all smug and unbothered, “if anyone’s dangerous here, it’s you. With your string cheese arms and motivational mumbling.”

“Oh my God,” you groan, dragging a hand down your face, but you’re smiling too hard to commit to the bit.

He leans slightly closer, not enough to break form, just enough for you to feel the heat off his skin. “Blank mind, huh?”

You blink up at him.

“Right now?” he adds, voice a little lower, just teasing enough.

Your brain promptly does exactly what he said: goes blank. You open your mouth. Nothing.

He grins. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He grins, then slows down too, finally stepping off and grabbing his water bottle. For a second, it’s just the low hum of the gym around you, the distant clank of weights, your own heartbeat in your ears.

You swipe your phone from the cubby, pretending not to glance his way. Pretending like your entire body isn’t aware of his body standing just a little too close beside you.

He clears his throat. You look up.

He’s watching you, towel around his neck, a tiny flicker of nervousness in his eyes. It’s subtle, but it’s there—just enough to make your breath catch.

“So,” he starts, “are you doing anything Saturday?”

You blink.

He rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish but still somehow maddeningly composed. “I figured since we’ve got this... ongoing string cheese banter thing, maybe we upgrade to real food. No treadmills. No pull-ups. Just—you know. A proper hangout.”

You stare at him.

Then blink again.

“Wait, are you asking me out?”

He smiles, boyish and warm. “Trying to.”

You feel your face flush. Completely. No saving it now.

“Okay, wow. Um. Yeah. Yes. I mean, if you're willing to risk spending time with me outside of a fluorescent-lit torture room.”

Joshua’s eyes crinkle. “I think I’ll manage.”

“Cool,” you say, suddenly hyper-aware of how sweaty and ridiculous you look. “So. Saturday.”

“Saturday,” he echoes.

You start walking toward the locker rooms, heart in your throat, smile you can’t hide, and just as you’re about to turn the corner, he calls out—

“Oh, and hey?”

You glance back.

He’s leaning against the wall now, casually, towel slung over his shoulder, smirking like he already knows what he’s done to you tonight.

“I like the ponytail.”

You're pretty sure you black out for a second.

And yeah, you definitely almost walk into a water fountain.

=

Saturday evening.

You’ve changed outfits no less than eight times. Jeans? Too casual. Skirt? Too short. White top? Too risky. That one jumpsuit you swore made you look expensive? Suddenly feels like a Halloween costume.

Nayeon is lying belly-down on your bed, scrolling through her phone with the kind of serenity only someone not going on a date can possess.

“You’ve tried on enough outfits to walk a runway twice,” she says, not even looking up. “Just wear the pink one. The flowy dress. You looked cute.”

You groan from the floor. “I don’t want to look cute. I want to look like… I don’t know. Dateable. Like, someone who won’t say ‘string cheese’ in conversation.”

“Too late for that,” she mutters.

You glare. “Traitor.”

But fifteen minutes and a mini breakdown later, you're standing in front of the mirror in that exact pink summer dress, hair soft and just messy enough to look effortless, cheeks lightly flushed from the nerves. You turn to Nayeon.

“Be honest. Do I look like I’m trying too hard?”

“You look like someone’s about to fall in love with you.”

Your face scrunches. “Ew.”

She just grins. “Text me when you’re home or I’m calling the cops.”

Your phone buzzes.

Joshua: I’m downstairs :)

Cue heart skipping a beat. You grab your purse, whisper-scream into it for good measure, then fly down the stairs like your life depends on it.

The front door opens to a soft summer breeze. And Joshua—standing there by a black car, in a white linen shirt and jeans that somehow make your brain short-circuit—holding a small bouquet of pink tulips.

You freeze.

He blinks, eyes raking over you once, slowly. Then a smile spreads across his face, that gentle kind that feels like it’s meant just for you.

“These…” He holds out the bouquet. “These match your dress. I swear it wasn’t planned. I didn’t even know what you were wearing. But—” He tilts his head. “I’m not mad about it.”

You reach for the flowers, trying to play it cool even as your fingers brush his. “Wow. So now you’re dangerous and lucky.”

Joshua laughs. “Let’s call it fate. Shall we?”

And with that, he opens the car door for you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like this is just the beginning.

You slide into the passenger seat, bouquet clutched in your hands, cheeks already burning. 

Breathe, you tell yourself. Be normal. Be chill. Be a functioning adult woman who is not immediately reduced to mush by a man in linen and a watch.

Joshua climbs in, starts the car with one smooth twist of his wrist, and you catch a glimpse of the watch on his arm—sleek, minimal, silver. The kind of thing that shouldn't be so attractive but somehow is. It hugs his wrist perfectly, gleaming in the evening light, making his whole presence feel like a very curated attack on your willpower.

“You look really pretty,” he says, glancing over at you.

You smile, teeth and all, like an idiot. “Thank you. You, uh…” You gesture vaguely at him. “You’re doing a lot. With your existence.”

He grins. “That’s the plan.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat in your face says otherwise. He shifts into reverse, turning in his seat—and that’s when it happens.

That move.

Hand casually reaching behind your seat for support as he backs out of the spot, arm stretched out behind you, the other on the wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. And you—sitting there—trying not to make a sound because wow.

Your brain short circuits. Every rom-com you’ve ever watched flashes before your eyes. You hate how effective it is. You hate that you notice. You really hate that the veins in his forearm are doing some kind of ancient magic on your heart.

“You okay?” he asks, glancing at you with a knowing smile.

You clear your throat, gaze locked out the window. “Yeah. Just, uh. You know. Processing.”

“Processing?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Me backing out of a parking spot?”

“Yep. Very intense. Emotionally charged moment for me.”

He laughs, head tilting toward you. “You’re not very good at pretending you’re unimpressed.”

“And you’re not very good at pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

He raises a brow. “Touché.”

You’re still trying to recover from the parking maneuver thing when Joshua pulls onto the main road, one hand casually on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift like he's not out here causing emotional chaos.

You steal a glance at him, then look away just as quickly. Your cheeks are still flaming. Your pulse? Racing. Your entire internal system? Malfunctioning.

“You sure you’ll survive tonight?”

You scoff, crossing your arms with the tulips still in hand. “Wow. Cocky and observant.”

He chuckles. “It’s a genuine question. I’ve seen, like, six flustered expressions in the past ten minutes. That’s a record.”

“I’m just—” You gesture vaguely at the air between you. “Adjusting. You’re very… composed for a man who brought flowers and wore a thirst trap on his wrist.”

Joshua raises an eyebrow. “Thirst trap?”

You point at his watch. “That.”

He glances down, then smirks. “So that’s what’s doing it?”

You narrow your eyes. “That and the parking move. Don’t play dumb.”

He laughs, actually laughs, and it’s that soft, warm sound again—like he can’t help it, like it’s just you who gets this version of him.

“You’re fun,” he says simply.

“That’s it? No sarcasm? No comeback?”

“Nope.” He glances over at you, smile still playing at his lips. “Just letting you have the moment.”

You make a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a dying noise. “Okay, you need to stop with the sincerity. My brain is short-circuiting.”

Joshua glances over, takes his time, then says in a tone so casual it might as well be criminal,

“You really do look beautiful tonight.”

He tilts his head, that gentle smile still playing at the corner of his mouth. “Why? Can’t handle a compliment?”

“No, I can, just—” You gesture vaguely. “Not when you say it like that. With your whole… face.”

“You mean, my face that you were just staring at for two straight minutes?”

Your jaw drops. “I was not—”

“You were. I timed it.”

“I was—strategizing.”

“Oh? About what?”

“About how not to combust before we even get to dinner.”

He hums, turning the wheel with one hand as he takes the next turn. “I like that you spiral. It’s cute.”

You glare at the dashboard. “Okay, wow. New level unlocked: professional menace.”

“You’re going to be a mess by dessert, aren’t you?”

Your mouth drops open again, and he laughs, that warm, smug, boyish laugh like he already knows he’s won.

You whip your head toward him. “Are you trying to kill me?”

He shrugs, far too pleased with himself. “Just saying. If you’re already like this now…” He glances at you, slow and deliberate. “I should warn you—I get worse.”

Your lungs fail. Your brain turns to soup. You want to fling yourself out the window in the most ladylike way possible.

You step out of the car and immediately stop in your tracks.

You were expecting a restaurant—like, a normal place with chairs and walls and menus laminated within an inch of their lives.

What you’re not expecting is this.

String lights drape like golden vines overhead, hanging between soft, leafy canopies and curved archways made of blooming roses and ivy. Candle-lit tables are scattered like little secrets across a stone path, with delicate place settings and linen napkins that scream “yes, this fork has three siblings and a trust fund.”

The view? A clear shot of the river, glistening under the dying blush of sunset.

You blink. “Is this… real?”

Joshua rounds the car, comes to stand beside you, hands casually in his pockets like he hasn’t just walked you into a scene from a K-drama finale.

“You like it?” he asks, with a glint in his eye he knows will wreck you.

You glance at him, wide-eyed. “I thought we were doing food. Not walking into a proposal.”

He just smirks, leading you towards the entrance. The host greets him by name.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re being suspiciously smooth tonight.”

He pulls out your chair. “I’m always smooth.”

You sit down slowly, tilting your head at him. “You wore the watch and chose a place with fairy lights. Who told you my entire aesthetic?”

“I pay attention.”

“You’re dangerous.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that tonight.”

“I stand by it.”

The server comes by, and Joshua lets you order first, doesn’t even look at the menu, just says, “I’ll have whatever she’s having,” with a flash of a grin.

You eye him. “Careful, I panic-order.”

He smirks. “Exactly. It’s more fun that way.”

When the server leaves, you rest your chin on your hand. “So. This is your idea of a casual first date?”

Joshua shrugs, eyes dancing. “I told you. I get worse.”

You raise a brow. “You’re lucky I find that incredibly hot.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “You think I wore the watch for me?”

You choke on your laugh, nearly knocking over your water. He just grins again, leaning back with that maddening ease, the lights catching in his hair like he’s made to be part of this setting. 

And for a second, the world around you blurs. Just you, him, and the slow burn of something very, very real.

The night drips by like honey.

Joshua’s leaned back in his chair now, elbow resting against the armrest, fingers lazily twirling his wine glass. He says something—dry, sarcastic, just a bit ridiculous—and you burst out laughing.

“Okay, wait,” you say, breathless, wiping at your eyes. “That’s not even a real story. You’re making that up.”

He grins like it’s a secret between you two. “Maybe. But you laughed. That’s a win.”

“Barely!” you say, even though you're still giggling.

He watches you, and it’s not in a way that makes you feel self-conscious—it’s the opposite. It’s warm. Attentive. Like you’re the only thing in the room worth looking at. And that’s what really does it.

You sip your wine to distract yourself. “Do you practice your charm? Like, in the mirror? Or were you just born annoying and heart-melting?”

Joshua tilts his head. “A little of both. But I do study.”

“Oh yeah?”

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table now, voice dipping just enough to make you sit straighter.

“Like… I noticed you blush when I compliment you. But only if it’s quiet. Just between us.”

Your lips part slightly. “I—No, I don’t.”

“Sure.” He smiles like he’s absolutely sure. “And you smile bigger when you’re trying not to. Like right now.”

You press your lips together, willing yourself not to grin.

“And,” he continues, “you’re trying really hard to look unimpressed, but I caught you staring at me while I was talking about that ridiculous high school band story. Twice.”

You drop your head onto the table with a groan. “You’re unbearable.”

He laughs, soft and low. “But you like me anyway.”

You peek up at him, cheeks warm, heartbeat wrecked. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He tilts his head. “Let me walk you out later and I just might.”

You know you should say something smart, witty—anything—but you’re gone. Gone in the way that makes your chest ache with excitement and dread, both.

Because you know this kind of thing doesn’t come around often. Not the fancy lights, not the food, not even the compliments. But the way he looks at you. The way he listens. The way he talks to you like he’s always known how to.

You’d kick yourself if you let this go.

So, you sit up straighter, meet his gaze across the candlelight, and smile—soft and certain.

“Okay,” you say, lifting your glass. “Let’s see how charming you really are.”

After that night—the fairy lights, the river view, that maddening smirk—you knew you were done for.

But what you didn’t know was that Joshua Hong would treat this whole thing like a personal mission.

Not to impress you. No. To ruin you. Softly. Deliberately. One blush, one laugh, one lingering glance at a time.

The first date? A glowing success.

The second? A late-night bookshop crawl followed by hotteok from a street cart, where he brushed a crumb off your cheek and you nearly forgot how to speak.

The third? Rainy-day coffees and pressed knees in a tiny corner booth, and the way he said your name when you laughed—like it meant something.

Fourth? He taught you how to play pool. You lost. On purpose. (Okay, not really. But the way he leaned over to show you how to hold the cue stick? Yeah. You didn’t mind losing.)

By the time your fifth official date rolls around—some rooftop dinner he somehow made feel private and cozy in the middle of Seoul—you’re barely holding it together. The city lights glitter below. The food is untouched. Your wine’s going warm.

You’re talking about something—you don’t even remember what—when he tilts his head and says it:

“You’re driving me a little crazy, you know that?”

You stop breathing for a beat too long “I am?”

“Mm-hmm. And I’m being very patient.”

Your fingers tighten around your glass. “Are you saying I’m testing your willpower, Hong?”

He grins, slow and devastating. “I’m saying, if this keeps up, I might kiss you before dessert.”

The air shifts. You’re aware of everything—the hum of the rooftop heater, the buzz of the city below, the way your pulse is loud enough to hear in your ears.

You set your glass down. Very carefully. “Would that be a problem?”

He leans in slightly, elbows on the table. “For who?”

You lick your lips, heartbeat now fully sprinting. “For the cheesecake you ordered.”

Joshua laughs, but there’s tension under it. Electricity.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs again.

You smile, sweet and shaken. “Takes one to know one.”

After dinner, neither of you said anything about leaving. You just stood up, your hands brushed, and somehow—without planning, without speaking—they laced together like they'd been doing it forever.

No one commented. No one let go.

Now you’re walking through the quiet streets of the city, the kind that still shimmer with soft light, where the buildings are lower, the night quieter. A gentle breeze wraps around your bare arms, and his thumb brushes along your knuckles every few steps.

He swings your hands a little, like he’s not aware of the fact that every single nerve in your body is alert and buzzing. “So,” he says casually, “fifth date.”

You side-eye him, smiling. “Who's counting?”

He smirks. “I am. I keep a very detailed record. For science.”

You roll your eyes. “Let me guess—charts, graphs, infographics?”

He nods. “There's even a bar graph for the amount of times I’ve caught you staring at me.”

Your jaw drops in offense. “I do not—”

Joshua stops walking. You almost take another step before you notice, but he holds your hand just tight enough that you pause too, blinking up at him.

He’s looking at you. But not in the teasing, boyish way you’re used to. It’s softer now. Serious.

“You do,” he says gently. “But it’s okay. I stare too.”

You can’t find your voice for a second. It’s stuck somewhere behind your ribs.

The breeze moves your hair. He tucks a strand behind your ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I was gonna wait. Be smooth. You know, the gentleman thing.”

Your heart is pounding so hard you’re afraid it might echo in the stillness.

“But you look at me like that,” he murmurs, “and I kind of forget how to pretend.”

You open your mouth—but nothing comes out.

He steps closer. Just enough that you feel the warmth of him, smell the faint trace of his cologne and something clean and crisp like fresh laundry and summer air. He’s still holding your hand.

He tilts his head, slow, careful. “Can I?”

And you whisper—because it’s all you can manage—“Please.”

The kiss is soft. Barely there at first. His hand cups your cheek like he’s afraid you might vanish, and you lean in like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment since the beginning of time.

It’s gentle. Tender. But it’s not hesitant.

Because when his other hand settles on your waist, when he deepens the kiss just slightly, when you move closer without even thinking—it’s clear that every step, every look, every smile, led here.

And when you pull apart, just an inch, still close enough to breathe each other in, he doesn’t say anything right away.

He just rests his forehead against yours and whispers, “Yep. Definitely a sixth date.”

You laugh, quiet and breathless, standing on your tiptoes so your noses are still brushing, your hands curling lightly into the front of his shirt without even thinking.

His eyes crinkle as he watches you, his forehead still pressed gently to yours. You’re so close you can see the curl of his lashes, the shine in his pupils that makes your stomach flip like it’s never known peace.

Then he murmurs, voice low and teasing, “What’s the look for, pretty girl?”

Your smile wobbles just a little because he says it like he means it. Like you’re not just pretty, you’re his pretty girl. And you don’t even think he realizes how much that nickname already has you unraveling.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “You’re just…”

You trail off, shaking your head a little, and he pulls back just enough to look at you fully, still smiling, still curious. 

“Just what?”

You lift your brows like really? “You kissed me under fairy lights, brought me flowers, opened my car door, made me laugh so hard I choked on water, and looked at me like I hung the stars—and now you’re asking what the look is for?”

Joshua grins, the kind that starts at his lips but ends in his eyes—so warm, so soft it’s almost unbearable. “So I’m doing okay, then?”

“You’re so lucky you’re cute.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Mm,” you hum, pretending to think, still pressed close to him. “You also smell nice.”

He laughs, tilting his head back just a little, and it vibrates through his chest where your hands still rest.

He brings one hand up to tuck your hair behind your ear again and lets his fingers linger just behind your jaw. “You’re making it really hard not to kiss you again.”

You shrug, leaning in even closer. “Who said you had to stop?”

And you kiss him this time. His hands find your waist again, his thumbs brushing the fabric of your dress as he kisses you like he has nowhere else to be, like the city around you doesn’t exist, like this sidewalk is the only place in the world.

When you finally pull away—barely—you’re both smiling. Staring. A little stunned, maybe.

“I can’t believe this is real,” you say, laughing into his chest.

He wraps his arms around you then, pulling you in, your feet slightly off the ground for just a second as he murmurs into your hair, “It’s real. All of it. You. Me.”

You nestle closer, your smile pressed to his shoulder. “You’re the best kind of trouble, Hong.”

He chuckles. “You’ve got no idea.”

=

Another day, another gym session, and naturally—you’re swearing under your breath at the cable machine like it personally insulted your ancestors.

“Why,” you mutter, wrestling with the pin, “do you exist—”

“You okay there?” a voice cuts in.

You look up, blinking.

He’s tall. Friendly smile. The kind of guy who probably means well but is leaning just a little too close to be casual.

You smile politely. “Oh, yeah. Just… negotiating with this death trap.”

He chuckles, clearly taking it as an invitation. “First time trying that machine?”

You nod, tugging your towel over your shoulder. “Yeah. I usually avoid anything that might require actual upper body strength.”

He laughs again, inching closer. “Well, I could show you how to—”

“I have a boyfriend,” you blurt out.

He freezes.

So do you.

You don’t know why you said it. It just… slipped out. Pure panic. Your fight-or-flight response has a third setting now: fake boyfriend defense.

The guy straightens, brows raised slightly. “Oh. Cool, cool. Just being friendly.”

Before you can awkwardly backtrack, you hear him.

“Everything good here?”

Joshua. He appears behind you like magic, towel slung over one shoulder, hair damp and sticking adorably to his forehead, shirt clinging in all the distracting places.

You glance at him like please go with it, and he slides in next to you, one hand gently resting at the small of your back. You lean into him without hesitation.

The guy eyes Joshua, clocking the very real heat in the space between you two, and holds his hands up in surrender. “Got it. My bad. See you around.”

Once he’s gone, Joshua doesn’t say anything at first. Just lifts a brow and leans in, murmuring near your ear, “Boyfriend, huh?”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “I panicked.”

Joshua smirks, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Didn’t seem like panic. Seemed… natural.”

You scoff. “What are you, pleased about it?”

He shrugs. “A little flattered, not gonna lie.”

“You’re impossible.”

He grins. “And yet… you called me your boyfriend.”

You jab him lightly in the ribs with your elbow. “Shut up.”

He doesn't even give you a second to recover.

Just flashes that maddeningly smug grin, rests a hand on your back like it's the most natural thing in the world, and says, “Okay, let’s go, girlfriend. Time to do pull-ups.”

You blink.

“You—what—excuse me?”

Joshua shrugs like it’s nothing. “You said it, not me. I'm just respecting the title.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “That’s… not how this works.”

“Oh no?” He glances over his shoulder, leading you toward the pull-up bar. “So I don’t get boyfriend privileges now?”

You gape. “What privileges?”

“Well for starters, teasing rights. Unlimited. Spotting privileges—obviously. And I think there’s something in the fine print about post-gym smoothies. My treat, of course.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm, your heart racing like he just kissed you again.

He stops in front of the pull-up bar and turns to face you, offering his hands to help you up like he’s done this a hundred times. “Come on, girlfriend. You’ve got this.”

You squint at him. “You’re gonna milk this forever, aren’t you?”

He tilts his head, smile boyish, eyes soft. “Only if you let me.”

You stare at him a beat longer. Then sigh dramatically as you step forward, placing your hands on the bar. “Fine. But if I fall on my face, I’m blaming my fake boyfriend.”

Joshua’s hands find your waist—confident, gentle. “Correction. You said I am your boyfriend. I’m just honoring your truth.”

You groan. “I’m never living this down.”

“Not a chance,” he says, grinning. “But don’t worry, girlfriend. I’ve got you.”

Later you two are in his car, in the parking lot of the smoothie place that has now become part of the routine. You’re curled up in the passenger seat, legs tucked under you, sipping your mango smoothie through a bright yellow straw. 

Joshua’s smoothie is already half gone, sitting in his cup holder while he taps the steering wheel lightly with his fingers.

You’re both quiet. Not in a weird way. Just that post-gym, smoothie-in-hand, everything-is-good kind of quiet.

Until he breaks it.

“So…” he says, glancing over at you with that unmistakable spark in his eyes, “how long have we been dating?”

You nearly choke on your drink.

You turn to him, eyes wide. “What?”

Joshua shrugs like he’s asking about the weather. “I just think it’s important to know. Like… are we new-new? Or established couple? Do I get to call you babe yet? Do we have matching outfits in our future? Are we meeting the parents? You know, just the basics.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He leans his head against the headrest, grinning over at you. “I’m ridiculous? You’re the one out here declaring relationships under pressure.”

“It was a reflex!”

“So was kissing you under fairy lights,” he counters smoothly. “But I don’t regret it.”

Your cheeks burn immediately. “That was different.”

“Was it?” he teases, voice soft now. “Felt pretty real to me.”

You try to focus on your smoothie again, the straw suddenly too interesting. But then his hand reaches over, fingers curling around your wrist gently, guiding the cup away.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and your eyes lift to meet his.

It’s not as teasing now. Still warm. Still boyish. But there’s something else behind it, too. Something softer.

“I’m not making fun of you, you know,” he says. “You could’ve said anything back there. But you said boyfriend. And… I liked it.”

Your breath catches. He watches your face carefully, fingers still brushing lightly against your wrist.

You swallow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A small pause. “And if it ever stops being a reflex and starts being real—I'd be really, really okay with that.”

Your heart is thudding so hard you’re surprised the smoothie cup doesn’t crack in your hand.

So you do the only thing that makes sense. You lean over the console, your hand resting lightly on his shoulder, and kiss him.

No hesitation this time. No fairy lights or shy glances. Just you and him and the quiet of his car and the electricity that seems to spark to life the second your lips meet.

He kisses you back immediately—like he’s been waiting, like he’s memorized the rhythm of your laugh just to get here. His hand slides into your hair, other one anchoring at your waist as you shift slightly, leaning into him more. The center console is a pain, but neither of you seem to care.

It’s soft, at first. And then it’s not.

There’s something heady about it like all the teasing and tension and almost-kisses are finally catching up to you in a rush of heat and breath and fingertips that linger just a second longer than they should.

When you finally pull away, your noses still brushing, both of you a little dazed, he grins.

“Okay,” he breathes, “so I’m definitely calling you babe now.”

You laugh, dropping your forehead to his shoulder. “I knew you were going to say that.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, lips warm and slow. “Get used to it, girlfriend.”

=

It’s been a couple of months now.

You’re officially, undeniably, Joshua Hong’s girlfriend—which still feels slightly unreal whenever he smiles at you across a gym mirror like you hung the stars yourself.

Today, he’s in full personal trainer mode Which should be illegal, honestly.

The sleeveless shirt. The backwards cap. The little encouraging claps. The smirk he tries to hide when you’re clearly avoiding the workout he set up for you.

You eye the bench like it just threatened your family.

“Okay,” he says brightly, standing next to it, arms crossed and grinning, “three sets of twelve. You’ve got this.”

You hold your water bottle like a shield. “Can’t we just… not?”

“Baby.”

You pout instantly. “Josh.”

He walks over, lowers his voice into that dangerous territory of sweet and smug. “You said you wanted to work on your arms.”

“Yes, but I didn’t mean today.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You say that every time.”

You take a dramatic step back. “Because every time you try to kill me.”

“It’s literally three sets.”

“Three sets too many!”

“Come on,” he coaxes, reaching for your hand. “I’ll do them with you.”

“You’ll make it look effortless.”

“I’ll pretend to struggle.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s worse.”

He chuckles, catching you by the waist and pulling you toward him. “Baby, please,” he murmurs, leaning down to nuzzle your cheek, voice low and sinful. “You’ll look so good doing them.”

You groan, weak to the way he says it. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re stalling.” He grins, presses a kiss to your temple. “Let’s go. I’ll spot you. We’ll flirt between sets. It’ll be romantic.”

You look up at him, trying to stay strong, but the boyish grin, the arms, the literal audacity of him being this supportive and attractive—it’s too much.

You sigh in surrender. “Fine. But if I start crying, I want bubble tea after.”

He winks. “Deal. But only if you flex for me when we’re done.”

“Joshua!”

“Babe.”

You grab the dumbbells, grumbling under your breath. He’s already standing behind the bench like your biggest fan, hyping you up with a proud grin.

And honestly? He makes it hard to say no.

He’s driving with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on your thigh like it belongs there which, apparently, it does now. The windows are cracked just enough to let in the late evening breeze, your gym bag tucked in the backseat along with your pride.

You're slouched dramatically in the passenger seat, arms crossed, head turned toward the window. “I’m never going to the gym with you again.”

Joshua chuckles under his breath, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You say that every time.”

You whip your head toward him, scandalized. “Because every time you make me do something that feels like some part of my body will fall off afterwards”

He just grins, full of sunshine and mischief. “And yet, you keep showing up. Interesting.”

“I was sore for three days last week. Three. I couldn’t even reach for my lip balm without my arm threatening to fall off.”

Joshua laughs outright this time, his thumb rubbing lazy circles against your thigh. “You’re being so dramatic.”

“I’m being realistic. I almost saw my ancestors mid shoulder press.”

He’s still laughing when he pulls up to a red light, finally turning to face you fully, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Darling,” he says, voice low and teasing, “you flirted with me at the gym the moment we met.”

You gape at him. “I did not.”

He raises a brow. “You called me ‘Bambi eyes’ to your bestfriend”

Your jaw drops. “That doesn’t count!”

“Oh, it counts.”

“You were wearing that stupid tight shirt!”

He smirks, turning back to the road as the light goes green. “So you were looking.”

You slap his arm lightly. “You’re impossible.”

He chuckles again, sliding his hand back up to lace your fingers with his. “And yet, here you are. In my car. Post-workout. Holding my hand.”

He squeezes your hand, voice softer now. “And you love it.”

You sigh, leaning your head back with a little grin. “Ugh. Unfortunately.”

He glances over at you, and even with just streetlight shadows flickering through the windshield, his smile is pure trouble. “Good. Because I love you right back, sore arms and all.”

=

It’s way too early for anything.

The sun isn’t even fully up, just a soft hint of light peeking through the curtains. The room is still cloaked in that hazy warmth of sleep, all tangled sheets and the familiar scent of him lingering in the air. You’re curled deep into the blanket, refusing to move.

Joshua, however, is shirtless and awake—stretching by the window like it’s normal to be up at this ungodly hour. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, hair a fluffy, sleep-tousled mess, and he’s doing this thing where he rolls his shoulders like he doesn’t know what it does to you.

Menace.

Absolute menace.

You squint at him from your cozy cocoon. “If this is your way of seducing me into jogging, I’m still not going.”

He grins, walking over to your side of the bed with slow, obnoxiously confident steps. “It’s not seduction, babe. It’s encouragement.”

“Encouragement should not involve looking like that while I’m still horizontal and emotionally vulnerable.”

He leans down, brushing his nose against your cheek. “Come run with me. Just fifteen minutes.”

You groan, clutching the blanket tighter. “If my legs weren’t sore from yesterday, I’d consider it.”

Joshua chuckles, voice deep and warm against your skin. “Whose fault is that?”

Your eyes snap open. “Yours. You and your ‘just one more set, babe, you got this’ nonsense. I did not have that.”

“Pretty sure you liked it.”

“Pretty sure you’re single if you don’t let me sleep.”

He laughs again, reaching for your blanket—but you swat his hand away with a sleepy glare. “Don’t you dare.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll go suffer by myself. All alone. With no company. No moral support. No—”

“I’ll give you a back massage when you get home,” you mumble, cutting him off.

Silence. You peek one eye open to find him blinking down at you, stunned.

“Full massage,” you add. “Oil and everything. No complaints.”

Joshua narrows his eyes. “You’re bribing me.”

You smile sweetly. “I’m winning.”

He sighs again, much more theatrically this time, and drops back into bed beside you. “Fine. Morning run postponed. I expect thirty minutes, minimum.”

You grin, rolling over to bury your face in his neck. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Hong.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, voice low and satisfied. “I’m still getting that massage though.”

You hum sleepily. “Mmhm. Only if you promise to stop being hot before 7 a.m.”

Joshua laughs quietly, wrapping his arms around you like he has nowhere else to be. “No promises.”

You’re nursing the last of your drink, ice clinking against the glass as you swirl it with deliberate disinterest, hoping the guy beside you gets the hint. He doesn't. His hand lingers too close to your elbow, and every laugh he exhales smells like beer and desperation.

You've already tried subtle. You even lied about having a boyfriend — twice. Still, he leans in with that rehearsed smirk like he's the one doing you a favor.

You scan the room, fast. Desperation breeds boldness, and tonight, you’re emboldened.

Then you see him.

He’s impossible to miss. Seated at the far end of the bar, broad shoulders framed in black, head dipped low as he nurses something amber in a short glass. He looks like he belongs somewhere darker, quieter. Maybe someplace where men don’t smile, only nod. 

You’re not even sure how your legs carry you there, but in three long strides, you’re beside him, heart skittering in your chest like it knows you’ve made a gamble. He glances up, and for a second, you're sure this was a mistake but there's no time for second-guessing.

“Hey, babe,” you say, and your voice barely wavers. “Sorry I took so long.”

His eyes narrow a fraction, and for one charged second, silence stretches between you like a fuse waiting to be lit.

Then his expression shifts. It's subtle, the faintest curl of his mouth, a spark of recognition in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“There you are,” he says, low and even, like the words were always meant for you. He slips an arm around your waist with a kind of confidence that feels too natural, too smooth.

You think you’ve pulled it off — until a voice slices through the act.

“Seungcheol,” she purrs. She’s suddenly there, close enough that you feel the static of her presence before you even see her. “You weren’t gonna introduce me to your little friend?”

You tense, barely hiding the wince. The stranger, Seungcheol,  doesn’t move his arm.

His voice is calm, even, as if this happens all the time. “Not now, Jiwon”

“But babe—”

He doesn’t even look at her. “And how many times do I have to tell you to not call me that”

Something in his tone makes her falter. She huffs, audibly, but walks away with a forced flick of her hair.

You glance up at him, parting your lips to apologize, but he cuts you off before you can speak.

“You okay?” he murmurs, just for you and you don’t know why but you believe him. You nod.

He leans in just a little, just enough that the warmth of him slips past your skin. “You want me to make sure he stays away?”

And god help you, you say yes.

Seungcheol shifts in his seat, gaze sharp now, trained somewhere over your shoulder. You don’t even have to turn to know the persistent guy’s still hovering. You can feel the weight of him, orbiting.

“Stay close,” Seungcheol says, barely more than a breath against your ear. It shouldn’t send a chill down your spine, but it does.

He stands in one smooth motion, hand still warm against your lower back as he guides you forwar. You catch the guy’s expression the moment he sees who you’re with now. The faux confidence drains from his face in real-time, replaced by something caught between confusion and an almost primal, involuntary instinct to back off.

“Problem?” Seungcheol asks him. He’s not loud. Doesn’t need to be. There’s something in the way he holds himself, loose and deadly, like a predator who doesn’t have to growl to be heard.

The guy lifts his hands in weak surrender. “Nah, man. Just talking.”

“You were done talking when she walked away.”

It’s not a threat. It’s a statement. Inevitable. Irrefutable.

The guy backs off, muttering something that doesn’t sound like an apology, but it doesn’t matter. He’s gone. You exhale for the first time in what feels like minutes.

Seungcheol turns to you again, and just like that, the sharpness in him softens—no less intense, but different now. He looks at you like he’s cataloging something he doesn’t quite understand yet.

“You okay?” he asks again, but this time the question feels more layered. Not just are you safe, but what made you need someone like me?

You nod, slower this time. “Yeah. Thanks. That was… I didn’t expect you to actually go along with it.”

He shrugs. “You looked like you needed out.”

There’s a beat of silence, then—

“You wanna sit?” he asks, gesturing to his now-vacant seat. “I won’t bite. Unless that’s what you’re into.”

It’s deadpan. Almost. You glance at him and find the smallest glint of mischief tucked in the dark of his eyes.

You sit. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe it’s something else entirely but you get the distinct feeling your night just shifted on an axis you didn’t see coming.

You’ve barely settled into the seat beside him when you feel the disturbance before you see it. She’s back. Jiwon. Her heels click soft and calculated across the floor, posture loose but eyes laser-focused on Seungcheol. She doesn't bother with you, not really. 

She stops at his other side, voice syrupy. “Thought I’d grab you that drink you like,” she says, holding it out like a peace offering. Like she’s done this before and won.

But Seungcheol doesn’t even glance at the glass. He doesn’t blink.

“I’m good here,” he says, calm as still water. “With my girl.”

It hits with the kind of weight that lands sharp but quiet. No performance, no dramatic pause. Just absolute certainty, smooth as silk and impossible to argue with.

You blink. My girl?

Then, as if on cue, he leans in—closer than he’s been all night. His hand brushes against your thigh under the bar, casual but unmistakable. The space between you disappears, and suddenly, all you can see is him.

The edge of his mouth tilts just slightly, a private smirk made only for you.

“I help you,” he murmurs, voice pitched low, just for your ears. “You help me.”

Like a switch, you slip into the role. No hesitation. No breath to second-guess.

You lean in until you’re practically folded into his side, your shoulder brushing his chest, the scent of him filling your senses like a hit of something you’re not supposed to want.

Your fingers find his thigh beneath the bar, light but deliberate, and when you turn your head to face her, your expression is sugar-laced steel.

“Thanks for keeping my boyfriend company,” you say, voice sweet enough to rot, “but we’re good now.”

Jiwon stiffens. You see it in the tight pull of her jaw, the way her hand curls around the untouched glass like she might throw it but she doesn’t say anything. Not really. Just a scoff, quiet and bitter, before she turns on her heel and disappears into the crowd again.

The moment she’s gone, Seungcheol exhales a laugh. Low. Quiet. Almost impressed.

“Well damn,” he says, tilting his head to look at you properly. “Didn’t think you had that in you.”

You arch a brow. “What, the spine or the spite?”

His grin widens, lazy and wolfish. “Both.”

You should pull away. You should return to your drink, your solitude, the night you had before this turned into something else entirely.

But you don’t.

Because now, you’re curious—and curiosity is a dangerous thing when someone like Seungcheol is involved. He smirks again, but there’s something different behind it then he leans down, slow enough to feel deliberate, and you feel it:

The brush of his lips against your bare shoulder.

Barely there. Barely anything. But it sets off a fire low in your belly, a spark you weren’t expecting and definitely weren’t prepared for. Your breath catches, and you turn your head to say something but you’re interrupted.

“Yo, Choi!” a voice calls out, casual and easy, and you look up just as two guys approach the table.

They’re both tall, well-dressed, and annoyingly attractive in that infuriating way that only works because they know it. The one with the long and cat-like grin lifts his brows as he takes in the scene. Your hand still on Seungcheol’s thigh, your body tucked into his side, his lips a breath away from your skin.

“Are we interrupting?” the long haired one asks

Seungcheol doesn’t move away. If anything, his arm tightens slightly around you. “If I say yes, will you go away”

The other one—gentler-looking, nudges his friend. “Jeonghan, stop being an ass. Hi,” he says, this time to you. “I’m Joshua. You?”

You give your name, and Jeonghan grins like you just told him a secret. “Cute. She’s cute.”

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything. He just takes a sip from his drink but there’s something in the way his thumb traces idle circles against your hip that says plenty.

“You’re not usually the type to play house, Seungcheol,” Jeonghan adds, sliding into the seat across from you both. “What’s this, new leaf?”

“Maybe I like what I’m playing with,” Seungcheol says, and his voice is so calm, so unapologetic, that for a second, even you forget this started as pretend.

Joshua raises a brow but doesn’t push it. He just smiles a little, as if he already sees where this is going before either of you do. And when you feel Seungcheol’s hand settle more firmly against your thigh, like he’s staking a claim in front of his friends.

A few drinks later, your head’s pleasantly light, the warmth of alcohol and laughter still lingering in your chest.  Jeonghan and Joshua had finally wandered off to harass someone else, leaving you and Seungcheol alone again, though somehow the silence between you isn’t awkward—it’s alive.

You glance at your phone, blinking at the time. Late.

You push your glass away and sigh, “Alright, I should probably call it. Before I start thinking karaoke’s a good idea.”

Seungcheol chuckles, low and easy. “You’d make a great bad decision at karaoke.”

You shoot him a look, but you’re smiling. “I’m not drunk enough to embarrass myself like that.”

“Pity. I’d pay good money to hear you scream-sing something tragic.”

You snort. “You’re not even pretending to be nice.”

He tilts his head, mock thoughtful. “Did I ever pretend?”

You open your mouth to fire back something snarky, but the moment shifts. Just slightly. Just enough.

You glance toward the exit, suddenly uneasy. The weight of earlier brushes the edge of your thoughts, and now that the buzz is wearing down, the memory of that guy—the lingering stare, the way he didn’t get the hint—sticks.

Seungcheol notices. Of course he does. His eyes sharpen, but his voice stays light.

“Want me to walk you out?”

You hesitate then nod. “Actually… would it be weird if I asked you to drive me home?”

His brows rise just a touch but he doesn’t hesitate. “Not weird,” he says. “I was hoping you'd ask.”

You raise a brow, teasing. “You were hoping?”

“I mean, you’re kind of glued to me tonight,” he says, smirking as he stands, grabbing his jacket. “Thought I’d return the favor.”

You follow him out, the air outside cooler than expected. He opens the passenger door like it’s instinct—like he’s done this for you a hundred times already—and when you slide in, he leans down just enough that your eyes meet.

“You trust me to drive you home?” he asks, voice lower now, a touch more serious, but still laced with that lazy confidence.

You look up at him through your lashes, lips quirking. “I don’t know. Should I?”

And just like that, the door shuts with a soft click and your pulse doesn’t quite settle the whole ride home. When he slides into the driver’s seat, the engine purring to life beneath his hands, you glance sideways at him, half-joking, half-not, voice just a little too casual.

“I’m not gonna end up in a true crime documentary, right?”

He smirks without looking at you, eyes on the road as he pulls out of the lot. “Nah. Too much paperwork.”

You laugh, but he doesn’t stop there.

“If I was gonna murder you, I wouldn’t have bought you drinks first. That’s just inefficient.”

You raise a brow. “Wow. Comforting.”

He glances over at you, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, his voice a bit softer now

“I mean, you approached me. Technically, this is your villain origin story.”

You feign scandal. “So I lured you in.”

“Exactly. Innocent-looking girl at a bar, bold enough to lie her way into my lap? Yeah, you’re the dangerous one here.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a grin tugging at your lips. “You think I’m innocent-looking?”

He cuts his eyes toward you, a slow once-over that makes the air between you crackle.

“I think you’re a lot of things,” he says. “But innocent? Not buying it.”

And just like that, the car gets a little quieter. Not uncomfortable. Just… charged.

And you wonder, as the streetlights blur past the windows, what you’ve really gotten yourself into tonight.

“Oh,” you say, feigning surprise, a slow smirk curling at your lips. “So you’ve got me all figured out already?”

He glances over, and this time he doesn’t hide the smile.

“Didn’t say that,” he replies smoothly. “I said I’m not buying the innocent act. Big difference.”

You hum, dragging your gaze out the window like you're not grinning.

“Maybe I’m just mysterious,” you tease. “Hard to read. Dangerous, even.”

He snorts. “You’re definitely dangerous.”

“Yeah?” you ask, turning back to him, playful but edged with something more. “Afraid I’ll break your heart?”

He laughs once but then his eyes flick over to you, and it’s different now. He’s not smiling anymore, not quite. His voice drops, soft but steady.

“Nah,” he murmurs, “I’m enjoying this too much.”

You don’t answer right away, and neither does he. The quiet stretches, dense with something neither of you name. But when his hand brushes yours over the center console—barely there, just a question—you don’t pull away.

“And you?” he says, voice quiet, like he’s easing into something he actually wants the answer to. “How come, out of everyone there… you suddenly let yourself strut my way?”

“I don’t know,” you say at first, then pause. “You just looked like the kind of guy who wouldn’t ask questions.”

He huffs a laugh, amused. “You were banking on me being cooperative?”

“I was banking on you being scary enough to make the other guy piss himself.”

“And I was.”

You grin despite yourself. “So humble.”

He finally turns to look at you fully, eyes dark but curious, a faint crease in his brow like he’s studying you a little deeper now.

“But that’s not it,” he says. “Not really.”

You tilt your head. “No?”

“No. You could’ve gone to the bartender. The bouncer. Your friends, if you had any there. But you came to me.”

You’re quiet for a beat too long, because—yeah. He’s right.

So you shrug, pretending it’s simple when it’s not. “Guess I like walking toward the fire sometimes.”

He laughs again, deeper this time, but there’s something thoughtful behind it.

“Then lucky for you,” he murmurs, eyes still on you, “I don’t burn easy.”

And your heart? Yeah. It skips. Hard.

=

The next morning, Seungcheol walks into the office ten minutes late with zero regrets and exactly one iced Americano in hand, looking irritatingly composed for someone who got maybe four hours of sleep.

He’s barely set his cup down when Jeonghan’s voice sings from across the room.

“Well, well, well—if it isn’t Mr. I-Don’t-Do-Relationships strolling in like a man who definitely didn’t go straight home last night.”

Joshua looks up from his laptop, raising a brow with a barely contained smirk. “So… who was she?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer. Just pulls off his jacket and hangs it up with surgical precision, like he’s trying not to indulge them.

Which, of course, only makes them hungrier.

“C’mon, Cheol,” Jeonghan pushes, trailing him to his desk like a cat stalking something shiny. “You had her in your lap half the night. You don’t cuddle in public. I didn’t even know you could cuddle.”

“Technically,” Joshua adds, “I think she was in the driver’s seat.”

“Literally and figuratively,” Jeonghan nods. “She had you wrapped. It was… inspiring.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose and finally turns around, arms folded, leaning against the edge of his desk like he’s humoring children.

“She was someone who needed help,” he says evenly. “That’s it.”

Jeonghan’s eyes glint. “So you just happened to keep your hand on her thigh all night out of… community service?”

Joshua’s tone is gentler, but no less pointed. “You looked comfortable. Not pretending-comfortable. Just… real.”

Seungcheol hesitates. He hates that they’re good at this. That they know how to read the cracks in his tone.

“She was easy to talk to,” he admits. “Didn’t play games. No agenda.”

Jeonghan fake gasps. “Wait. You liked her.”

He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it,” Joshua counters.

Jeonghan grins like he just won something. “What’s her name?”

Seungcheol smirks now, because this is the part he won’t give them. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

And when he turns back to his desk, his phone buzzes once.

A message from you.

You:  So… if I walk into your office right now, am I gonna ruin your mysterious, emotionally unavailable persona?

He stares at it for a second, then smiles—small and private. Maybe he is in trouble. He stares at your text for a beat longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard like he’s weighing something heavier than the words.

Seungcheol: Only if you walk in looking like last night. My reputation wouldn’t survive it.

Seungcheol: Free for lunch? I’ll come to you.

He hits send before he can think better of it.

Across the room, Jeonghan is still dramatically theorizing about your identity, now halfway into a ridiculous monologue about you being an international art thief who seduced Seungcheol for corporate secrets.

He ignores it because right now, he’s more interested in seeing you again and if that means sneaking in an hour between meetings and pretending he’s not the kind of guy who clears his calendar for a woman he just met, then so be it.

A little past noon, your phone buzzes again. You’re mid-email, squinting at your screen, when the notification pops up.

Seungcheol: Outside. Come down. I brought bribes.

You blink. Bribes? What does that even mean? Curiosity wins out fast. You grab your phone, smooth your outfit and head down.

The moment you step out, you see him leaning against a sleek black car that absolutely screams expensive and unnecessary, sunglasses pushed up in his hair, holding a paper bag and two drinks.

Your brows lift. “So this is you not trying?”

He grins, looking annoyingly perfect for someone who probably woke up late and still somehow managed to make the pavement feel like a runway. “Told you. Bribes.”

You walk up slowly, eyeing the bag. “What is it?”

“Sandwiches. From that overpriced place near here. Hope you’re not one of those 'just salad' people.”

You narrow your eyes. “I contain multitudes.”

He chuckles, hands you your drink. “Good. You’ll need them to keep up.”

You gesture toward the car. “So, this your day job? Picking up women and showing off your mysterious wealth?”

He laughs genuinely, this time. “Would you believe me if I said I’m just a humble middle manager?”

You give him a long, skeptical once-over. “Not a chance.”

He opens the passenger door for you again like it's a habit. Like he already knows you’ll get in and you do. Because lunch with Choi Seungcheol? Yeah. That sounds like danger worth walking toward twice.

You slide into the passenger seat, you glance at him as he rounds the front of the car and settles into the driver’s seat again, placing the food carefully between you.

“Okay, so what is it that you actually do?” you ask, peeling open the sandwich wrapper, the scent already unfairly good.

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Management. Mostly.”

“That’s vague as hell.”

“Intentionally,” he says, shooting you a sideways glance. “You’ll find I’m very good at withholding.”

You snort. “Is that your way of saying you’re emotionally constipated?”

“No, that’s me saying I like keeping some cards close.” He takes a bite of his sandwich, chews, swallows. “Makes things interesting.”

You hum, eyes narrowing just a touch. “So you’re not gonna tell me what your job actually is?”

He shakes his head slowly. “Not yet. I kind of like that you don’t know.”

You blink. “Why?”

He turns toward you fully now, one arm draped over the back of your seat, eyes lazy and unreadable but focused—very focused—on you.

“Because if you knew,” he says slowly, “you might treat me differently.”

Something flickers behind his tone. Not arrogance. Something quieter. Something worn and for a second, you forget you're supposed to be teasing him.

You hold his gaze. “Then maybe I’d rather not know.”

He searches your face for a beat, like he’s waiting for you to flinch, waiting for that inevitable shift he’s used to seeing in people when they do find out. But you don’t.

You just take another bite of your sandwich and speak through your smirk.

“So, Mr. Vague Middle Manager, are all your dates catered and chauffeured?”

That draws a full laugh out of him—deep and unguarded.

“This a date now?” he throws back.

You shrug with exaggerated innocence. “You did bring food. And bribes. And you’re staring at me like you wanna ruin my whole week.”

He hums, low and amused, eyes dropping to your lips and staying there just a little too long.

“Trust me,” he murmurs, “if I wanted to ruin your week… you’d know.”

And just like that, your heart forgets how to beat steady.

Again.

The place he takes you to is tucked away on a quiet side street. nothing flashy, no fancy valet, no five-star pretensions. Just the warm, familiar smell of grilled meat and the faint sizzle of something delicious already hitting a hot pan.

You recognize it immediately. The kind of Korean spot that’s half comfort, half chaos. Worn wooden tables, metal chopsticks in tin cups, steam clouding the windows from hot broth and soju-fueled laughter. A place where people don’t come to impress, they come because it feels like home.

He pulls the door open for you, and the ahjumma behind the counter beams when she sees him.

“Seungcheol-ah!” she calls, already bustling toward the kitchen. “Same table?”

He nods, bowing slightly in greeting. 

You look at him sideways. “Regular, huh?”

He shrugs, the edge of his mouth twitching. “Told you. I like places where people don’t ask too many questions.”

She’s already setting the table as you both slide into the booth. The tabletop grill is already heating, meat—samgyeopsal, thick-cut and glistening—lands in the center with a satisfying thud.

He picks up the tongs like he’s done this a hundred times, which he probably has, and starts placing the pork belly on the grill, the sizzle instant and loud.

“Wow,” you say, smirking. “So this is how you impress women.”

“I’m feeding you, aren’t I?” he says, eyes focused on flipping the meat with practiced ease. “It’s a love language.”

“You do seem suspiciously fluent in this.”

“You gonna psychoanalyze me now?”

You lean your chin into your hand, watching him with lazy interest. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like watching you cook.”

He glances up, brow raised, but there’s a flicker of something else in his gaze now. That slow burn again.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Flirting with me at a restaurant I come to every week? You’re treading into girlfriend territory.”

You pop a piece of kimchi into your mouth and smile like it’s nothing. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.”

“Too late.”

There’s something light about this but underneath, there's a current neither of you are pretending to ignore anymore.

He wraps a piece of grilled meat in lettuce, adds a bit of ssamjang and garlic, then holds it out across the table.

“For you,” he says, voice soft, hand steady.

You pause. Then lean forward, take it straight from his fingers, lips brushing his skin on the way.

And the look in his eyes?

Yeah, lunch just got a lot more complicated.

You're mid-chew when the ahjumma comes back over, wiping her hands on her apron, eyes sharp and curious as she sets another bowl of pickled radish down on the table.

She turns to Seungcheol with a knowing grin. “You’re not with the usual troublemakers today. Who’s this lovely girl? You got married and didn’t tell us?”

You almost choke. Seungcheol freezes for a secondbut then, smooth as ever, he swallows, glances at you, and smiles like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Not married yet,” he says casually, sliding his chopsticks into the rice like punctuation. “But I’m working on it.”

Your eyes snap to him. Excuse me?

The ahjumma gasps, clearly delighted. “Aigoo! She’s pretty and patient—finally, a girl who can handle you! Yah, I prayed for this!”

You blink at her. Then at Seungcheol. He’s not even flinching. The man has the audacity to look pleased.

“Ah, he’s exaggerating,” you say quickly, giving the auntie a smile and trying not to combust. “We just—”

“—Make a good team,” Seungcheol finishes for you, eyes flicking to yours with a glint of mischief. “She keeps me in line.”

The ahjumma sighs dreamily, clearly buying the whole act. “Don’t let him go, sweet girl. He might act cool, but he needs someone who’ll yell at him when he forgets to eat. This one’s stubborn.”

You nod solemnly. “He does give off that energy.”

“Exactly!” she points at you like you’re a genius. “You understand already! Just marry him.”

Seungcheol coughs into his drink, but he’s grinning now, and you can’t help it—you’re laughing, eyes narrowed at him across the table.

The auntie bustles off, muttering about bringing more side dishes for the happy couple.

You lean in, tone low and pointed. “Married? Really?”

He shrugs, unabashed. “What? You handled it like a pro. I’m impressed.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, sliding another wrap your way, “you’re still here.”

You hate how easy it is to smile at him. Hate it even more that he’s smiling too—like he likes whatever this is just as much as you do.

The ride back to your office is quieter, he pulls up in front of your building, shifts the car into park, and glances over at you.

You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly. “Thanks for lunch.”

“You make it sound like I’m not planning on doing it again.”

You grin, leaning just a little closer. “Oh? Planning on making a habit out of me?”

His smirk is there, but softer now. “Thinking about it.”

You hop out before you say something stupid. Before he says something worse. But before you can shut the door, he leans across the console and says, quieter:

“Text me when you get up there. Just so I know you made it.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “Yes, Dad.”

He raises a brow. “You really want to test that boundary this early?”

You shut the door before your brain melts and give him a mock salute through the window.

By the time Seungcheol pulls into the garage under his own office building, he’s five minutes behind schedule and vaguely irritated at how fast traffic moved now that he was in a rush.

He checks his phone in the elevator: one message from you.

You: Alive. Fed. Still thinking about that ssam you made. 8/10.

He grins to himself just as the elevator dings open on his floor. Unfortunately, his mood immediately sours when he sees who’s already in the conference room, arms folded, feet on the table like he owns the place.

Jeonghan.

The second Seungcheol steps through the door, Jeonghan looks at his watch dramatically.

“Five minutes late. How domestic of you.”

“Save it,” Seungcheol mutters, dropping into the seat across from him.

Jeonghan smirks like he’s been waiting for this moment. “So? Was it worth it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh. You’re flushed, your hair’s a little messy, and for once, you didn’t glare at anyone” Jeonghan taps his fingers against the table. “You’re basically glowing.”

Seungcheol sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “Can we just get through this meeting?”

“Oh, we will,” Jeonghan says brightly. “But not before you tell me if she’s single, if she has friends, and if your sudden boyfriend energy is gonna affect this quarter’s performance.”

Seungcheol narrows his eyes. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Absolutely.”

The days blur together. You two still talk, in between meetings and his hectic schedule he would always find some time for you. When he’s free he’ll go drive to you and grab lunch, wherever you want or sometimes a surprise.

It’s just past six when Seungcheol finally leans back in his chair, eyes dragging away from the spreadsheet he’s barely processed for the last fifteen minutes.

His fingers hover over his phone for a second before he gives in to the impulse—simple and direct.

Seungcheol: You free for dinner?

You:Yes. Come rescue me.

He smirks, already pushing back from his desk. Jacket on. Sleeves rolled. A very quiet kind of urgency in his steps.

On your end, the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Your coworkers have been hovering at your desk all afternoon, buzzing about Friday drinks like it’s the social event of the year. They’re already lining up shots in their heads, plotting karaoke and potential chaos.

“You coming, right?” one of them asks, nudging your elbow. “C’mon, you always dip. Just one night.”

You smile politely, already trying to edge away. “I actually have plans—”

“With who?” another cuts in, eyebrows raised. “You’ve been glowing all week.”

You blink. “What is it with people and this glowing thing?”

They groan. “So you do have a date. Who is he?”

Before you can lie—or dodge, or disappear into thin air—your phone buzzes again.

Seungcheol: Be there in twenty. What kind of rescue we talking? Fire escape or just dramatic entrance?

You bite your lip to suppress the grin that tries to surface.

“Just someone picking me up,” you say vaguely, grabbing your bag and ignoring the chorus of curious oohs that follow.

“You’re no fun,” one of them whines as you make your escape. “At least send us a picture! We won’t believe he exists!”

You wave behind you. “Exactly why I’m not sending one.”

They groan louder, but you’re already walking toward the elevator, pulse picking up just a little. You don’t know what this is with him yet—not really. But it’s enough to have you hoping the next twenty minutes pass just fast enough.

You make it out of the building just as the sun is dipping behind the city skyline, casting everything in that dusky golden glow that feels almost too cinematic for real life. As if on cue, his car pulls up. 

The passenger window rolls down, and there he is, arm resting on the wheel, watching you with that lazy, low-key amused smile that somehow makes your heart skip like it’s late for something.

“You always look like you just walked out of a movie,” you say as you slide in, tossing your bag at your feet.

He glances over, that grin growing as he shifts the car into drive. “Funny. I was just thinking the same about you.”

You shake your head, suppressing a smile. “Flattery before food? Risky move.”

“Not flattery,” he says, glancing at you as he pulls into traffic. “Observation. You look like you needed a getaway.”

You sigh dramatically, letting your head thud against the seat. “You have no idea. They were trying to hold me hostage for soju and noraebang.”

He chuckles, tapping the wheel. “I’d pay to see that.”

“You would,” you mutter. “Anyway, thanks for the timely rescue.”

“Anytime,” he says, tone quiet but sincere.

For a moment, you both fall into comfortable silence, the hum of the road filling the space. It’s not awkward. If anything, it’s the kind of quiet that only settles when someone’s presence feels... easy.

“Where are we going?” you ask after a while, glancing at him.

He tilts his head, lips tugging upward. “Somewhere that serves food hot, drinks cold, and lets me look at you across the table without interruption.”

You arch a brow. “Is that your version of romantic?”

“No,” he says. “That’s my version of honest.”

Your stomach does that annoying little flutter again. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, but his hand briefly brushes your knee in a turn—accidental, maybe—but he doesn’t pull away too quickly.

The drive takes longer this time, farther out from the noise of downtown, the streets growing quieter, narrower.

You glance over at him. “You’ve got a thing for hidden spots, huh?”

“I don’t like crowds,” he says simply. “And I like places that let me hear you when you talk.”

You pause, caught off guard by the casual weight of it. “You’re smooth.”

“I’m observant,” he corrects, pulling into a tiny gravel lot tucked away

You step out and take in the place. No line. No obvious branding. Just the kind of restaurant people guard like a secret.

“This place looks like it has stories,” you murmur, tucking your hands into your coat.

“It does,” he says, rounding the car to walk beside you. “Mostly about good food. And about the owner being mildly terrifying if you show up drunk and disrespectful.”

You laugh, and he pulls the door open for you, holding it until you step inside.

It’s warm. Cozy. The scent of doenjang jjigae and grilled mackerel hangs in the air. The lights are soft, yellow, casting everything in that old-kitchen comfort glow. You’re seated in the farthest corner, a little nook with floor cushions and a small table already set with water, chopsticks, and folded linen napkins. The privacy of it feels intentional.

The owner, a silver-haired woman in a worn apron, comes over with barely a word, just a sharp eye and a small smile when she sees Seungcheol.

“You brought someone,” she says, voice raspy but kind. “She’s pretty. And awake, unlike the last idiot your friend brought.”

Seungcheol winces. “That was Mingyu.”