(ノT＿T)ノ

The video played. Little Miguel, his face a picture of serious concentration, was leading a group of four other toddlers in what appeared to be a flawlessly synchronized dance routine. They stomped, clapped, spun in little circles, their movements surprisingly coordinated for three-year-olds. Miguel was at the front, his tiny arms cutting through the air with precise, high-energy gestures. It was adorable, hilarious, and oddly professional.

You laughed, a bright sound that bounced off the quiet walls. “See? I mean, the stage presence! The leadership! I’ve never seen a kid command a ‘toddler troupe’ like that.” You grinned up at Wonwoo, teasing. “Were you a theater kid? Or is there a secret performer gene in the family I should know about?”

Instead of a dad-joke or a sheepish grin, Wonwoo went incredibly still.

His gaze stayed locked on the phone screen, but his expression shifted. The soft, tired-dad look evaporated. A flicker of something intense and melancholic crossed his face—a sharp pang of memory, a deep, resonant pride that seemed to ache. His jaw tightened slightly. The room’s quiet suddenly felt different, charged.

When he finally looked up from the screen, his eyes found yours. The “tired dad” was gone. Replaced by a sharp, piercing focus that made your breath hitch in your throat. His gaze was heavy, deliberate, seeing you in a way he never had before.

He answered. His voice had dropped an octave—a low, resonant rumble you could feel in your own chest, a vibration that seemed to travel through the table. “He gets it from his mother.”

The words were simple. But his eyes, fixed on yours with an unwavering intensity, felt far too heavy for a parent-teacher meeting about dance routines. They held a story, a pain, a depth you couldn’t begin to understand.

A flush warmed your neck. You nodded, suddenly aware of the vast space his quietness had been filling. “Oh. Right.” You reached for your phone, your fingers extending to retrieve it from where it sat near his large, folded hands.

As your hand moved, the side of your pinky brushed against his knuckle.

He didn’t pull away immediately.

His skin was unexpectedly warm, a heat that seeped into your own. His hand was large, the bones prominent, the skin smooth. For a fraction of a second, his hand seemed to cover yours, not aggressively, but just… there. A solid, warm presence.

The air in the room thickened, pressurized. The scent of crayons faded, replaced by the clean, subtle scent of his wool cardigan and something else—something faintly masculine and clean. Your pulse thumped against your ribs. You pulled your hand back, clutching your phone like a lifeline.

“So,” you said, your voice a little higher than before, “I just wanted to ask… if it’s okay with you, I’d love to nurture that. The dancing, the leadership. He’s got a real spark. We could do little performance games, let him lead the music circle…”

Wonwoo just nodded. His movements were minimal, controlled. “No problem,” he said, his voice still that low, velvety rumble. The piercing focus in his eyes hadn’t dimmed; it had simply softened into something more… appreciative. He was looking at you, really looking, as if you’d just revealed something fascinating about yourself, not his son.

The front door bell jingled, a sharp, cheerful sound that shattered the spell.

Wonwoo stood up.

It wasn’t the slightly clumsy, dad-like shuffle you’d seen before. It was fluid. Graceful. He unfolded from the tiny chair with an effortless economy of motion, his height suddenly reasserting itself as he rose to his full stature. He loomed in the amber-lit space, the oversized cardigan seeming less like a cozy shield and more like a drape over a powerful frame.

He gave you a small, enigmatic nod. “Thank you for showing me.” His eyes lingered. Not on your eyes this time, but lower. On your lips, just for a second too long. The focus there was different—not analytical, but… contemplative. Warm.

Then he turned and walked toward the door. His stride was smooth, quiet, each step measured. He disappeared into the hallway, the soft sound of his footsteps fading away.

You were left alone.

The quiet classroom felt vast and empty. The plastic chair felt even smaller. Your heart was hammering, a frantic beat against the silence. You stared at the space where he had sat, the empty child-sized chair.

You didn’t know who “Jeon Wonwoo” used to be. You had no context for that flicker of melancholy, for the sudden drop in his voice, for the graceful, powerful way he moved when the mask slipped.

But you’d just realized something.

The quiet man in the oversized knits, the polite single dad who kept his hands folded neatly on his knees, was hiding a very powerful, very masculine energy just beneath the surface. And for a moment, when your hand touched his and his eyes held yours, that energy had brushed against you. It hadn’t been scary. It had been… thrilling.

You let out a shaky breath, running a hand through your messy ponytail. Okay. You gathered your phone and the daily report sheets. The afternoon was over.

The next day, Miguel was his usual bright self. Wonwoo dropped him off. He was back in the soft, beige knit sweater, glasses, messy hair. The gentle giant. He gave you the same polite, quiet nod. “Good morning.” His voice was back to its normal, subdued tone.

But this time, you saw it. You saw the careful stillness. You saw the way his eyes scanned the room, not nervously, but with a calm, assessing gaze before landing on you. You saw the slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head when you said, “Morning, Mr. Jeon! Miguel’s already talking about being the dance captain today.”

A faint smile touched his lips. Not the tired dad smile. Something smaller, more genuine. “He’s excited,” he said. Then he paused, as if considering something. “You… have a lot of energy for the mornings.”

It wasn’t a question. It was an observation, delivered in that low, calm voice.

You grinned, wiping a smudge of paint from your overalls strap. “Gotta match the kids, right? They’re basically tiny, caffeinated tornadoes.”

He watched you for a second longer, his dark eyes behind the glasses holding a quiet, thoughtful light. Then he nodded again and left.

The observation stuck with you. You have a lot of energy. It felt like he’d actually seen you, not just the teacher in front of him.

Days passed. The dance games became a highlight. Miguel flourished, and you found yourself watching for Wonwoo at pickup with a new, nervous anticipation. He was always polite. Always quiet. But the interactions changed, deepened in tiny, almost invisible ways.

One afternoon, you were helping Miguel put his shoes on at the cubby area near the door. Wonwoo arrived, standing a few feet away, waiting. You were kneeling, talking animatedly to Miguel about his “awesome robot dance,” your voice full of its usual enthusiasm.

You felt a presence behind you. Not a sound, just a shift in the air.

You turned your head slightly. Wonwoo was there, closer than he usually stood. He was looking down at you, not at his son. His oversized sweater sleeve brushed against the cubby shelf near your shoulder.

“He talks about you at home,” Wonwoo said softly. “Your energy. He says you’re ‘the fun sun.’”

You blinked, looking up at him from your kneeling position. The height difference was staggering. He towered over you, the soft fabric of his sweater creating a gentle wall of beige above you. His face was serene, but his eyes were focused, intent on your reaction.

“The fun sun?” you laughed, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks. “That’s… that’s adorable.”

“It is,” he agreed, his voice a low murmur. His gaze drifted from your eyes to your smiling lips, then back up. The focus was warm. Appraising. “It’s a good description.”

Miguel tugged his shoe. “Done!”

You stood up, suddenly aware of your proximity to Wonwoo. You were close enough to smell that clean, subtle scent again. Close enough to see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the sharp definition of his jaw beneath the soft facade.

“All set,” you said, your voice a little softer than usual.

Wonwoo reached down to take Miguel’s hand. But as he did, his other hand—the large, warm hand you’d briefly touched before—came up. He didn’t touch you. He just gestured slightly toward a smudge on your overalls, near your hip. “You’ve been busy,” he observed, a faint, almost invisible smile playing on his lips.

You looked down at the paint smear. “Occupational hazard.”

“It suits you,” he said quietly. Then he turned, leading Miguel toward the door. But before he stepped out, he glanced back at you. “Thank you, Miss…” He paused, as if realizing he’d never used your name.

“Lena,” you supplied.

“Lena,” he repeated. His voice wrapped around your name, giving it a weight, a resonance it never had before. “Thank you.”

He left.

The fun sun. The words echoed in your head. He’d said them with a quiet, deep appreciation that felt… intimate. Not parental. Not polite. Personal.

Friday arrived. The end-of-week chaos was amplified. You were tidying the art station, sleeves rolled up, ponytail a wreck, singing a silly song to yourself as you wiped down tables.

The door opened. It was later than usual pickup.

Wonwoo stood there, alone. No Miguel. He was dressed differently—not in an oversized knit, but in a simple, dark grey turtleneck that fit him more closely. It didn’t hug him, but it hinted. It hinted at the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his torso. The glasses were still there, but his hair was less messy, more deliberately tousled.

“Hi,” you said, stopping your singing abruptly. “Miguel’s already gone? His grandma picked him up earlier.”

“I know,” Wonwoo said, stepping inside. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the hallway noise. The daycare was empty, bathed in the late afternoon gold of the sunset. “I came to… discuss something. About the dance nurturing.”

“Oh,” you said, setting down the sponge. “Of course.” You gestured to the tiny chairs. “Want to…?”

He didn’t move toward the chairs. He walked closer to you, to the art station. He stood near you, looking at the colorful chaos of dried paint and paper scraps. “You create a good environment here,” he said, his voice back to that lower, resonant register. “It’s… vibrant.”

“It’s a daycare,” you said with a laugh, but your heart was starting that familiar, frantic beat.

“It is,” he agreed. He turned his head to look at you. His gaze was direct, unguarded. “But the vibrancy comes from you.” He paused. “You don’t… treat me like the others do.”

The statement hung in the air. You blinked. “The others?”

“The other teachers. The parents.” He said it simply. “They look at me with… a certain expectation. A memory. You look at me…” He trailed off, his dark eyes searching your face. “You look at me like I’m just Miguel’s dad.”

You swallowed. “Well… you are.”

A slow, deep smile spread across his face. It wasn’t broad. It was subtle, but it transformed him. The quiet intensity softened into something warmer, more genuine. It made him look younger, yet more mature. “Yes,” he said. “I am.” He took a half-step closer. The space between you reduced. You could see the texture of his turtleneck, the way it draped over his chest. “And you are Lena, the fun sun.”

Your breath caught. The nickname, said in that low, velvet voice, felt like a caress.

“I…” you started, but words failed.

“My son is happy here,” Wonwoo continued, his eyes holding yours. “Because of you. I… appreciate that.” He seemed to be choosing his words with immense care. “I would like to appreciate it… more properly.”

The implication hung in the golden, silent room. More properly. Not a parent-teacher conference. Something else.

He reached out, not toward you, but toward the art table. He picked up a discarded, brightly painted paper star a child had made. His large, elegant fingers held the fragile paper with a surprising gentleness. “You inspire this,” he said softly, looking at the star, then at you. “The creativity. The joy.”

He set the star down. His hand lingered near yours on the tabletop. Not touching. Just… close. The warmth of his proximity was a tangible force.

“Would you…” he began, his voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper, “…let me thank you? Not here. Somewhere… without tiny chairs.”

The air in the room felt like it had been physically sucked out, leaving only the scent of his sandalwood cologne and the lingering vibration of his voice in your ears. Your mouth was slightly open, a sharp reply or a breathless yes sitting right on the tip of your tongue, when the heavy wooden door groaned open.

"Hey, are you almost done?" Jihye, the toddler-room teacher, stuck her head in, her keys jingling loudly—a jarring, metallic sound that shattered the tension like glass. "The janitor wants to lock up the east wing. Oh! Sorry, Mr. Jeon, I didn't realize you were still here."

The transformation was instantaneous.

Wonwoo didn't jump or look guilty. Instead, he simply straightened his spine, the predatory stillness in his eyes vanishing behind the familiar, polite fog of 'Minjun's Dad.' He stepped back, creating a respectable three feet of distance between you in a single, fluid motion.

"Just finished," Wonwoo said, his voice back to that soft, humble murmur. He gave a small, formal bow to Jihye, then a brief, unreadable nod in your direction. As he walked past you toward the door, the sleeve of his heavy cardigan brushed against your arm—a final, scorching touch of wool that felt like a brand.

"See you tomorrow," Jihye called out as he vanished into the hallway. She turned to you, oblivious, popping a piece of gum. "God, he’s so quiet, isn't he? It’s like he’s trying to be invisible. Anyway, you coming? I’m starving."

You stared at the empty doorway, your hand instinctively clutching the edge of the tiny, primary-colored table. Your skin was still tingling where his hand had covered yours, and the phrase somewhere without tiny chairs was looping in your brain like a forbidden mantra.

You weren't starving. You were electrified. You had spent months thinking Jeon Wonwoo was a puzzle with missing pieces, but you’d just realized he wasn't a puzzle at all.

smut warnings: unprotected sex (dont be like them), oral (m&f rec.), fingering, marking, body worship, etc. more may be added once the fic is fully released.

a/n: oh lord im so excited about this one. i've been obsessed with the nanny literally my entire life, and i started rewatching it recently, so obviously i had to write a fic. also, to those who have seen it, please confirm my delusion of coups as mr sheffield. in case you haven't seen the show, each of the guest appearances are meant to represent the nanny characters, jeonghan = niles, joshua = c.c, momo = val, dino = maggie, and so on and so forth. the taglist for this fic is open, so please comment if you'd like to be tagged, or join my perm taglist by responding to the form on my navi page!

Something inside of you recoiled the second your boss said the words, “we’re like a family here.” You’ve heard it a million times before and you’re sure you’ll hear it again. You knew the minute those words were uttered that you’ll be thrust into a family more unstable than the one you were born into. 

You were used to corporate 9-5’s, used to doing jack shit to get paid even less, but what you weren’t used to was dealing with asshole coworkers who actually acted in their asshole ways. No one could really blame you for what you did, even though you didn’t actually do anything. 

It started on a fateful Wednesday, approximately three months since your first day on the job. You were sat at your desk, mindlessly replying to emails and organizing Microsoft excel sheets, when you received an urgent email from your boss. Inside contained four documents that were meant to be filed yesterday, so as a corporate boss typically does, he offloaded it all onto you. You quickly sent the files to be printed and stood from your irritatingly squeaky desk chair. At the printer was a coworker of yours, one that you were on decent terms with.

He leaned against the printer, talking almost obnoxiously loud into his phone about something that was definitely not work related. You walked up behind him and gently tapped his shoulder. He glared over his shoulder at you, “I need to use the printer.” He turned around fully, shaking his phone. You simply pointed at the printer as it whirred to life, very loudly beginning to print out the documents. It was then he dropped his arm to his side, the call seemingly having been hung up.

“Can you not use that right now? I’m clearly on a call.” He scoffed, placing his free hand on his hip and tapping his foot like he was your father who caught you with your hand in the cookie jar. 

“A call that’s not work related, what if the boss heard you? The same man who I’m currently printing files for.” Okay, maybe you weren’t on that good of terms with him, but no one in the office really liked him. You suppose you shouldn’t have said that because that was when shit hit the fan. You had never heard anyone yell that loud and of course, since noise travels and all, the boss heard him.

Of course, you were the one blamed for the whole fiasco and you found yourself trapped in your bosses office for about three hours trying to explain that breaking up with your side-piece didn’t qualify as an important enough call to take during work hours and that you were truly just trying to print out his documents. 

You got fired.

🏷️ : @eskoupe @codeinebelle

as i said before, the taglist is open! if you're interested, please comment and let me know, or join my permanent taglist using the form linked on my navi page <3

– CHERRYS-TEAS © 2026 ||

YOU'RE A HEARTBREAKER, DREAM MAKER LOVE TAKER, DON'T YOU MESS AROUND WITH ME

-

LEE JIHOON FUCKING HATES PAT BENATAR SONGS. Not because she's a bad singer - she really isn't. But every time he hears one of her refrains from a distance, he's forced to think of you, and thus, it ruins his fucking day.

He'd like to go a single day without it being ruined. Today doesn't feel like the day. Neither had yesterday, or the day before that, an endless cycles of bad days and things that remind Jihoon of you everywhere he goes and everywhere he looks.

Jihoon swears the looming cloud over practice and media day for Day One of the Australian Grand Prix has followed him all the way from Monaco where he took his single reprieve between preseason testing and the start of the Formula One season. It hadn't been much of a rest, considering testing in Bahrain had been so bad that it had haunted him every night. What should have been warm days by the pool and runs down by the water had turned into hiding in the dark of his apartment, going through simulations and data and about a million other things to prep for this weekend.

This weekend that Pat Fucking Benatar is kicking off.

Australia blurs by on the other side of the window. As many times as Jihoon has been here, the sun never gets any kinder. He can feel its oppressive heat even behind the tinted glass of the car, and his sunglasses do almost nothing to keep the brightness at bay. Still, the sparkling blue of the ocean and the swath of blue sky above him is a nice break from the grey interior of his gloomy apartment back in Monaco.

"Can we change the radio station?" Jihoon asks.

The man in the front makes a questioning sound and Jihoon curses internally. He knew he should have committed to studying Italian in the off season. He's been a part of the Ferrari Formula One team long enough to need a better grip on the language, but he'd been uncommitted in the off season to learning it. He'd been too busy sulking over the poor end to last year's racing season and the very abrupt end of your relationship.

Soonyoung turns around the the front seat of the car, face dubious. "You don't like Pat Benatar?"

Jihoon is surprised his new teammate even knows who Pat Benatar is. Soonyoung, though older than him by a few months, doesn't seem to know much about music beyond the thumping techno and house that is often coming through his headphones or the hiphop that he swears he knows every word to.

Kwon Soonyoung has taken a bit for Jihoon to get used to. As the new driver for the second Ferrari seat, he is a personality that Jihoon can only categorize as wildfire and uncontrollable so far, but he begrudgingly doesn't dislike Soonyoung, which is a surprise. He thought he was going to hate the reckless upstart, but he actually kind of finds him refreshing. Plus, he's got an infection personality about him that reminds Jihoon of Chan, who had only been his teammate for a year, but he'd liked nonetheless.

Soonyoung is the kind of driver in F1 that is in the headlines for his behavior as much as he is his wins. It had surprised Jihoon when they signed Soonyoung after Chan moved to Williams. Soonyoung wasn't exactly the refined, classic Ferrari brand, but he was a good driver, and the long-standing Formula One name needed good drivers, particularly after Jihoon's not-so-great season last year.

"She's not my favorite," Jihoon responds, looking back out the window.

Hobson Bay gleams in the distance. Boats bob in the distance, random pops of colored parasailers dragging across the sky, the people in them the size of ants against the vast blue. As afraid as he is of heights, Jihoon would rather be tangling from one of them right now than heading to the first practice session of the season. He has no idea when he became so adverse to his own career, but the knot in his stomach only tightens the closer they crawl to the circuit.

"Oh man, you're missing out!" Soonyoung puts his hand to his face like a fake microphone and proceeds to belt, "You're a heartbreaker! Dream taker! Love taker!"

"Soonyoung."

"Yeah, yeah." He turns to the man in the driver's seat. He's grinning, apparently as easily charmed by Soonyoung as everyone else always is. "Puoi cambiare la musica? Grazie."

The driver nods and flips it to jazz and Jihoon sighs, leaning back in the seat and closing his eyes behind his sunglasses. Of course the new addition to the team speaks perfect Italian. Why wouldn't he? There seems to be a world of things that Soonyoung can do that Jihoon can't, including driving the impossible cars that Ferrari has given them this year.

Preseason testing had gone well for Soonyoung. He had the kind of testing sessions that made the Tifosi hopeful again, article after article talking about how he was bringing the spark back to Ferrari after a challenging last season that had ended up with Jihoon finishing outside of the top three and Chan losing his seat to shift to Williams.

Ferrari is a tough team to drive for. Jihoon knows that. He knew that when he started his rookie year with Alfa Romeo three years ago. He's going on his third season with Ferrari now, and the only thing that seems to stick is that he chases Red Bull and Mercedes for World Championships.

Still, Jihoon has been the closest Ferrari has been to consistent podiums in a while and he knows that. He's sacrificed everything - including being able to listen to Pat Benatar - to help lift Ferrari back to its former glory. To do so would be any drivers dream, and Jihoon was on track to take it until the tail end of last year. Preseason hadn't been kind to him either, leaving him with a dangerous sense of foreboding for what this season has to offer him.

The car this year is a beast, hard to control, hard to steer. Jihoon spend most of the practice sessions trying to muscle it to make the turns he wanted and grip it to death when it wanted to make turns he didn't want. It was like he was in personal conflict with the car, and while the car isn't sentient, Jihoon can't help but feel like it's purposefully chosen to work against him.

If Jihoon's relationship with you had taught him anything, it was that he liked stubborn. Stubborn girl, stubborn car, stubborn driver. Thankfully, Soonyoung doesn't seem to know what the word stubborn is, going with the flow and doing whatever Ferrari asked him to do. Mostly.

Australian sun beats down on Jihoon as he steps out of the car. He can already hear the fans screaming in the distance, the echo of their voices carrying over the black asphalt. He cringes internally, pulling the hat on his head down a little lower, trying to hide from wandering eyes. Soonyoung seems to come alive in front of fans, yelling back at them with his hands cupped around his mouth, making them go nuts. Jihoon resists the urge to smack him, knowing it isn't fair to steal Soonyoung's excitement just because he's miserable.

The garage smells the same as it always does, like rubber mixed with the slick scent of grease. The glare of the sun reflecting off the cherry paint on the car nearly blinds him and he holds up a hand, shielding his eyes. Jihoon steps inside and feels the familiar prickle across his shoulders. It's like stepping backward into a house that used to be his but has sold, a stranger in his own house.

Mechanics pause mid-motion when they see him, nodding and giving him tight smiles. Members of his team clap him on the back as he goes, and the tension bleeds out of him when he sees familiar faces. These are the people who want him to win most in the world. Despite the very passionate fan base Ferrari has, the men and women of this garage put just as much time and effort into wins as he does, and the tension eases a little when he remembers that the people her want whats best for him.

Soonyoung bounces in behind him, already waving at people he met for five minutes during testing, marveling at the gold painted Ferrari on the nose of his car. Jihoon ignores him, strolling over to gaze at telemetry screens that line the back walls. Numbers and graphs make more sense to him than people do, and he likes to find comfort in the data, to dive deep and puzzle out what he needs to do next.

It hadn't always been that way. There had been a time in Jihoon's racing career where how he felt behind the car had mattered more than the data. Those were the years that he was finishing inside the top ten with a car no one expected to do well, and before he'd been moved up to Ferrari where he felt more pressure to win, where he felt like he needed more than instinct. Having an instinctual edge for the car wasn't enough - he needed to understand. To be in control.

Data had been the worst thing that ever happened to him, you'd told him once. Jihoon had thought it was ridiculous at the time, but now as he stares at the wall of all the adjustments they've made from Bahrain, he isn't so sure you were wrong. You rarely were.

Matteo spots him first, the senior race engineer grinning as he walks over. Matteo has the look of someone sharp and scary, his dark hair threaded through with grey and wireframe glasses perched on a hawkish nose. Thankfully, Matteo's looks are deceiving. He's warm and loud, a riot in the garage as bright as the paint on the cars.

"Jihoon!" He claps his hands, sound ringing out. "Ready to make the data team cry again?"

Jihoon exhales sharply. Matteo's sense of humor is only appreciated sometimes. "Maybe it'll be tears of joy."

"Così ti voglio!" He claps Jihoon on the shoulder. "That's the spirit!"

After walking around the car a few times and killing time, they head to the motorhome. With his head tilted down, Jihoon heads to the team meeting room on the second floor where there are people sitting inside already through he frosted glass, including the team principal.

Unlike Matteo, Nico isn't as easy on the humor. He's serious and driven, his frown lines deepening when Jihoon sits down. Nico is also Matteo's opposite in appearance, his warm brown eyes and light brown hair making him seem kind and approachable. Jihoon had learned early on that it was deceiving, discovering Nico was clipped, to the point and direct. Jihoon doesn't mind it, but it makes for uncomfortable conversations when Jihoon is under performing like he had in Bahrain.

The table is covered in print outs of historical track data, schematics, tire degradation curves and overlays that probably make more sense to the people surrounding the table than they do to Jihoon. He picks a paper up and frowns when he sees a map of energy deployment in the car that failed him in Sakhir. Energy is a confusing thing in Formula One, especially as the FIA and the teams make new rules about how to be environmentally friendly while being cost efficient.

Matteo doesn't waste anyone's time, tapping the first sheet to start the meeting. The room goes silent, employees leaning forward with their elbows on the table to listen to the man that's supposed to lead them all to victory.

"Front wing adjustment was too aggressive," Matteo starts. He looks at Jihoon. "You were fighting the adjustment too much, so that needs to be accounted for. We made some adjustments that should give you more more control without over correcting."

Jihoon nods once. Clinical. Logical. He's good at this when the alternative is screaming into a helmet to fix problems no one can handle as he drives 200 mph.

"What about rear suspension?" He asks. "It was a mess."

Matteo flips a page. "We're running you two millimeters higher than Bahrain to start."

"Can we drop it back if it's too much understeer?"

"Yes. Better than bouncing like a kangaroo, no?"

They move on to the power unit and show him the revised energy harvesting maps and their strategy to conserve energy on the corner exits to leave him with more juice when he needs it most. He nods, detailing each thing they've change, knowing he'll stay up tonight overthinking about it in that same way that he always does.

As the sun dips outside, the rest of the meeting carries on like that, the team firing data and adjustments at him while he tells them about how the car felt. When the meeting concludes, Jihoon feels a little better, but he has a laundry list of things to report back on for the day's practice run, and he's already trying to commit to memory all the adjustments he needs to make when driving the car.

Soonyoung is waiting outside for his own meeting with Nico and the engineering team, leg bouncing as he sits on the couch. He grins at Jihoon as they exchange places, Soonyoung's team swapping for Jihoon's. Like most teams, they only share a few personnel, keeping the driver's goals, teams, and strategy separate to ensure for clean, fair racing.

Jihoon spends the next hour in his room watching his races in Bahrain, flicking through his notes. The room in the motorhome is small, but it's got good air conditioning, a soft couch that he likes to doze on, and TV screens that he can use for leisure or data. He almost always picks data, touching the mousepad on the computer in front of him to flip screens.

By the time he's entering the garage for his first practice session, the garage has come to life, a full world of life and sound and smells. His personal race engineer Luca waits for him, arms crossed over his chest as he orders something in rapid Italian to the man handling tires. Jihoon likes Luca. He's built like a fire hydrant and manages pressure like one two, keeping most of his feelings bottled up until they come exploding out when Jihoon blows a tire or when someone puts him into the wall. Thankfully, his outbursts are often well-timed and never pointed at Jihoon.

"We'll start with mediums today," Luca says when he sees Jihoon. "We'll do softs after twenty minutes if the track allows."

Jihoon nods, listening as Luca fires off some technicalities about the car. It's hard to listen with Soonyoung's side of the garage turning into a circus, the driver shaking hands with every single one of his engineers and mechanics. Jihoon notices there's a tiny tiger pin clipped to his race suit and decides e doesn't want to open the can of worms by asking about it.

A calm settles over Jihoon as he readies to get in the car. The mechanics swarm around him and someone hands him his balaclava. He pulls it down over his head, noting that it smells faintly like laundry detergent. The helmet goes next, the squeeze of it familiar against his skull, tight and secure. He's field of vision narrows to the oval of the open visor, and he knocks on top of the helmet out of habit, the solid sound good.

Jihoon climbs the car and gets in, the sun glinting off the visor of his helmet as he sinks into the seat, body molding to it immediately. He leaves the visor up for now, reaching up as someone hands him the wheel to the car so he can plug it in. The dashboard lights up like Christmas, numbers colors, readings that are green. Green is good, though he doesn't expect to see red from the jump.

The garage doors are open now and Australian heat pours in, the sun vicious as it bounces off every shiny surface in the garage. Outside, the grandstands are starting to fill in for fans watching practice, team flags everywhere. Jihoon watches the clock on the wall, counting down the seconds until he can get out of the car again.

He runs through the start procedure in his head over and over again, reciting everything that he needs to do and everything tiny thing that can go wrong in the first five minutes of a season. Already he feels like he's forgetting what he talked about during the strategy session, but he'll just have to make do. If the car wants to fight with him today, he'll fight back. Jihoon is stubborn like that.

When the car's engine finally roars, Jihoon comes to life. He changes entirely with the sound of the engine humming and the vibrations climbing up through his legs, the steady buzz making him a little itchy and jumpy. The heat soaks through the carbon body of the car and the faint smell of brake fluid reaches him as he shuts the visor to the helmet, rolling his shoulders to ready himself.

"Radio check," Luca says, voice crackling over the comms.

"Good."

"Pit lane opens shortly. You're P2 in the queue."

"Copy."

"All good?

"Yeah," Jihoon says.

What Jihoon doesn't say is how hard it is not to think about how badly he fucked up in Bahrain. He doesn't tell Luca that he can still feel the understeer even though he hasn't started yet, and he doesn't say that it feels like the car hates him and that he hates the car back just as much.

Instead of telling Luca all that - because what the fuck would Luca say - the board goes green and mechanics step away from the ca so Jihoon can shift to idle the car forward, slow and easy out of the garage and into the blinding light of Albert Park.

The radio crackles again. "Out lap. Bring it in nice and slow."

Jihoon doesn't reply. He's already sinking, going deep into the icy, quiet place where the rest of the world falls away and there's only the car, the track, and the thin line between glory and utter disaster. Here, the only thing that can hurt him is himself.

Taking in a shaky breath, Jihoon starts his race weekend with the out lap. It's always the slowest part of the weekend, but Jihoon tries to treat it like the moment before the storm, taking his time to feel the car and see how it's doing. He grips the wheel tight, then let it slides, the hiss of his gloves against the wheel lost to the engine of the car. He feels the vibration of the drive, every bump and drag of the tires against the asphalt, every snag and pull.

Albert Park in March isn't as hot as it could be, but the track's surface is already hot enough to make the car feel stifling. He ignores it, his focus turning to a laser point as he eases into his first practice session, the heat and the nerves secondary to everything else.

Sector one is forgiving, Turn One a long, sweeping right that rewards his patience, and as Jihoon feathers the throttle and lets the car settle, he smiles as he takes it easy, no red on the dash, no losing power.

"Tires at 71 front, 68 reader. Good for now," Luca tells him.

"Copy."

"How's the understeer?"

Jihoon pauses, feeling the way the car takes a curve. "Not bad."

"Good."

At Turn Three, the car fights back a little and Jihoon feels the twitch through the rear, just enough to remind him that he's got new flooring. He notes it and continues to drive, pushing through the turn and leveling out the car.

By Turn Nine, he's relaxed, sliding into a rhythm he was terrified he would never find again, as irrational as it was. He flies down the straight, the wind and the force of the car pinning him to the seat. He feels alive, grinning for real as he remembers why he does this stupid, dangerous job in the first place. He brakes late into the chicane and takes the corner perfectly, the relief so suddenly that he nearly lets out a shout.

"Nice," Luca says. "Brake temps good."

Jihoon exhales. Its' the first time all week he hasn't felt like he's dragging his car by the balls toward the finish line. He settles in deeper, pushing the throttle faster, the car picking up pace as the crowd blurs, the smear of clouds and blue overhead a watercolor backdrop.

"Alright, let's go flying lap."

"Copy."

Turn One and Turn Two are nice to him, the car gliding and letting him feather the throttle again. There's no sudden loss of power and the tires feel good, and Jihoon feels a sense of relief as he starts to eat off half a tenth from his benchmark in 2024.

Then the circuit bites back.

He turns into Turn Six and the front loses its grip, the nose of the car pushing wide and causing the tires to protest. Jihoon corrects the snag of the car, but it costs him momentum as he lets go of the throttle for a moment to avoid going off track. It doesn't shake him at first, but the car continues to fights back as he nears Turn Seven, the rear end stepping out and causing him to break too soon. He curses, losing more time as he shakes his head and curses.

Turn Eight turns into a mess as he rear steps out again and Jihoon jerks the wheel, relieving the throttle for a split second too long. It immediately breaks his flow and he curses, feeling the fear from Bahrain creeping in on him. He'd managed not to think about it for a few laps, but now it's there, looming behind him like the final boss music from the video games Chan likes to play.

Jihoon brakes at Turn Fifteen late like he always does, but the car understeers and runs wide. He curses and corrects again, giving the feedback to Luca in a clipped, frustrated tone. Luca notes the understeer but Jihoon has to keep driving, so he does, despite the fact that he suddenly would rather stop the car, get out, and walk into the fucking ocean to be eaten by the sharks.

When he finally crosses the finish line, he waits. Jihoon already knows it's not great when Luca's feedback takes a beat too long before he says, "Alright. P8 on times so far. Soonyoung is on pace for P3 on time for reference."

Jihoon doesn't answer. He breathes through his nose, jaw locked, staring straight ahead.

Luca, knowing Jihoon, says, "We'll make the adjustments. P8 isn't terrible."

"Noted."

He peels into the pit lane and heads to the garage. When he stops the car, he doesn't move as the mechanics swarm around him like a school of red fish. Instead of getting out, he kills the engine and sits there, staring, staring, staring.

He knew Pat Benatar was going to ruin his day.

-

FP2 is somehow worse.

The changes they made after the morning session should have helped in theory. On paper. On a whim. On track, though, Jihoon spends nearly twenty-five minutes chasing a balance that refuses to stay put, fighting the wheel and the tires and the engine and the entire world through the entire session, and he gets absolutely nothing out of it.

His best lap puts him at P11 when the practice session ends. Meanwhile, Soonyoung floats his way to P4, the younger driver laughing and clapping someone on the back as Jihoon crawls out of the car in the garage, glaring at the back of Soonyoung's head as he greets some girl with a brief kiss. Of course Soonyoung is also in a successful relationship - why wouldn't he be? He's everything Jihoon isn't, apparently.

It isn't Soonyoung's fault. Part of Jihoon his happy for his teammate, but he knows how bad this looks for him specifically, and it eats at him despite how much he likes Soonyoung. Giving a poor performance as the team's senior driver when the fresh blood can handle the car no problem is a tale as old as time in this sport, and Jihoon has no desire to make it a permanent reality.

Jihoon is still damp and simmering when his media responsibilities pull him toward the press conference room. The public relations team walks beside him, rattling off instructions with a tablet in hand: fifteen minutes in the pen, then the main presser. Sky, F1TV, then the big room. You're third.

It's clinical. Rote.

The media pen is the usual circus of cameras, mics, and reporters jostling for position. The sun is lower now, slanting across Albert Park in burnt oranges and faded pinks while the asphalt simmers behind, a black mirror of heat. Jihoon pulls his hat low and steps into the chaos, swallowing thickly as he puts on a brave face and a polite smile that probably looks more like a grimace.

"How do you feel about your performance today in the second practice session?" Someone asks, leaning forward.

He takes it in stride. "Still working through balance issues. We made changes between sessions, but the car's not giving us what we expected. We'll keep digging."

"Frustrating day?"

"Frustrating, sure. But it's Friday. We'll reset and head into qualifying tomorrow."

He keeps his answers short and clipped, nothing short of professional. The anger is there, coiled low in his gut, but this swarm of reporters ask him fair questions. He hates that most of all, how the critique is fair and warranted, how each question is posed with the real question - are you worried?

Jihoon is worried, but he can't say that. So he keeps his frustration leashed, answering each questioning with unfaltering precision that Ferrari loves him so much for. Honestly, interviews and professionalism might be the only place he surpasses his teammate, who had gotten in trouble last year with Williams for mouthing off during an interview.

The rest of the questions pass Jihoon in a blur of more questions and more clipped answers. He's aware he sounds short, but he doesn't care. He gets through it until he's being ushered toward the media room where he lets someone hook him up to a mic on the collar of his shirt and he's instructed to sit between Choi Seungcheol from Red Bull and Chwe Vernon from McLaren, both who had done much better than him today.

One leg crossed over the other, Jihoon waits as the conference starts. He's both relieved and irritated to be sitting between Red Bull's shining star and the man who had blown everyone else out of the water during practice session, everyone wondering what the hell Vernon has brought to the team in orange as the new driver at McLaren. It gives Jihoon the respite he needs to collective his thoughts, but it also gives him just the right amount of time to look at the crowd of media personnel, which is a mistake.

He spots you immediately, his eyes drawn to where you're sitting like second second nature. Perhaps it is still an instinct to look for you after all this time. He's spent so long doing it that he doesn't know how to train himself not to, doesn't know how to forget that you'll be in the room for every single one of these.

You look the same as you always have. Same focused expression, same slight tilt to your head when you're listening hard. You scribble answers down on a notepad - old school, you used to joke - your quick hand visible from where he sits. He already sees parts of the pages where you've torn them, a nervous habit you obviously haven't gotten rid of, and he notices the prong on your pen cap has been snapped off. You never did have still hands, tearing bits of paper and snapping caps whenever things were too quiet around you.

It knots his stomach and he forces himself to look away, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. He hates that he knows so many things about you. Last season, he would have been watching you ask other drivers questions, trying to hide the smirk as you grilled them on strategy and performance. Now it's been months since you walked out on him in Austin, and he hasn't spoken to you since.

When it's your turn to ask questions and you fix your gaze on him, Jihoon thinks he's doing to die. If looks could kill, yours would certainly cut his beating heart right out of him. There's no warmth in your expression today, no secret smile as you're given a mic to ask questions, the cool sharpness of your stare so sharp he almost doesn't hear you over the pounding on his own heart as you start talking.

"Jihoon, two questions if I may," you say. He wants to say no, but even now, he can deny you nothing so he nods as if he has a choice. "After two difficult practice sessions, how confident are you that Ferrari can still fight for podiums this weekend?"

The question isn't unfair. It's not even particularly mean, but the way you phrase it in that infuriatingly calm and measured voice, almost clinical, makes it land like a slap. He feels the heat crawl up his neck as he stares at you, rage simmering under the surface immediately. You've always been the only person who can get a rise out of him, and it seems that hasn't changed.

"It's not where we want it," he answers, voice low and controlled as he can manage. "But we've got time. Podiums are still the target and are within reach."

“Even with the gap to Red Bull looking bigger than last year?”

"We’re not here to talk about gaps. We’re here to close them. Next question.”

Your eyes narrow, just a fraction because you are here to talk about gaps. He knows it, you know it. Vernon who is scratching the back of his neck and pretending to avert his gaze knows it.

“Second question, then," you continue. "You’ve spoken before about how important mental reset is after a tough preseason. How are you handling the pressure personally, given that your teammate has adapted to this year's car much faster?”

Jihoon wants to scream. He wants to say a lot of things. Wants to ask why you're asking that question. Wants to ask if this is revenge, if this is what happens when the pressure and his career gets in the way of being with you and if this is punishment for putting you second one time too many.

His answer comes out dangerously low. "I'm handling it the way I always do. I drive the car I'm given, and the rest is noise. I focus on the data, I do the work. The only pressure is from myself to do what I've been tasked to do."

You hold his gaze for a beat. It can't be more than a second, but he swears you cut down to the fucking core of him, your gaze a scalpel he cannot fight.

You nod. "Thank you."

Even though you've asked your questions, Jihoon is so acutely aware of you that he can barely focus on anything else. You stand there in the back, almost hidden behind a taller reporter, but you've opened the floodgates now - not just to the dam holding back his rage, but to the audience of reporters who were waiting for someone to poke him first.

"Jihoon," a reporter from Motorsport.com asks. "A follow up question for you. Given the performance gap to your teammate today, do you feel like the team's development direction still suits your driving style? Or maybe there's a risk that Ferrari has built a car that suits a different style?"

Jihoon scoffs. He can't help it because he hears the question for what it really is - do you think Ferrari has built the car for your teammate. Even Seungcheol makes a face, trying to cover his expression by putting his chin in his hand. It's a bold move to imply that a team has built a car for someone specific, and someone like Seungcheol who has that exact narrative year-after-year recognizes it the same way Jihoon does.

"I think the team is building the fastest car they can," Jihoon shoots back. "My job is to drive the car. If I can't drive the car, I need to adapt. Ferrari does not build the car for the driver. They build the car, the driver drives it. That's it."

No one asks him another question and he's glad. He doesn't want to answer more questions about the car and he doesn't want to answer questions that are the same questions you already asked him organized in different ways to make it sound like it's not a repeat question.

He knows it isn't fair to be upset with you, but he is all the same. He hates that once upon a time, he knew there wasn't malice behind your questions, knew that there was warmth and love instead of this this cold, calculated precision of a journalist and nothing more, asking him questions like he was just another driver.

But that's what he was to you now. Just another driver.

Back on the paddock, the sun is almost gone. The rrange light bleeds across the garages as Jihoon walks fast, cap low, shoulders up. He glances at the sky once and begrundingly acknowledges that the spill of tangerine light is beautiful, but when he nears the Ferrari motor home and hears your voice, he forgets all about where he is and appreciating his surroundings.

He looks up and sure enough, you're standing there with Soonyoung. From the distance you're standing from the motorhome, it's obvious you had just been walking by - not looking for him. Not waiting for him. Just passing through like anyone else, probably heading back to your hotel room to write a feature on how god fucking awful he was.

Soonyoung is laughing, his head thrown back, and you're smiling - not the polite, press smile you give everyone else - but the real kind that's genuine. The kind of smile that Jihoon used to get in hotel rooms at two in the morning when he showed you a funny video next to him in bed or when you woke up in the morning to find breakfast waiting. The kind of smile that you gave him and made anything and everything feel possible.

The sight hits him like break failure at 180 MPH.

Jihoon changes direction without thinking and he's in front of you before he can talk himself out of it, cutting off whatever Soonyoung is saying to ask, "Soonyoung, can you give us a minute?"

Soonyoung's laugh dies immediately. He looks at you and then back at Jihoon, suddenly unsure of the atmospheric change happening now that Jihoon is in the equation. "Uh… yes."

"No," you answer over Soonyoung. You stare at him, eyes flashing. "I'm in the middle of a conversation."

"It'll take two minutes."

"I'm not doing this here."

Jihoon steps closer, not crowding, bust enough that you can’t pretend he’s not there. “Then where? Because you had plenty to say in there.”

“That was work.”

“Work,” he repeats. The word tastes bitter. “Right.”

Soonyoung is frozen, looking like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. Jihoon ignores his teammate, watching as you try to look anywhere but at Jihoon directly. Rich, considering you'd looked at him sharp as ever in the media conference.

"I have to go." You step around him. "I have a deadline."

The urge to try and stop you nearly takes over. Jihoon doesn't move though, knowing he can't, a boundary he is unwilling to cross. So he stands rooted to the spot, watching you storm off into the dying sun, your silhouette blazing like the inside of his chest.

Silence stretches. Jihoon can feel his heart pounding just as hard as it does when he watches the lights go out at the start of the race, the adrenaline rush making him dizzy in the dying Australia evening. He wants to scream, his hands tight fists, walking you turn and vanish from his sight before he can muster up something to shout at you.

Soonyoung clears his throat awkwardly and Jihoon glances at his teammate, who is desperately fumbling for something to say. "Umm. Bad day?"

"Yeah."

"Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but she knows me from my time at Williams. Nothing weird. She's cool but I'm not - nothing weird here, alright? I'm not trying to step on anything. I have a girlfriend. Kind of. It's really complicated, to be honest."

Jihoon’s laugh is short and hollow. "You’re not stepping on anything.”

Soonyoung nods slowly. “Okay. Good. Cool.” Another beat. "You wanna grab a drink?"

Jihoon stares at the spot where you disappeared. He wishes you would re-materialize, that the sun's heatwaves will conjure a mirage of you, smiling and happy and looking at him the way you had Soonyoung.

"Yeah," Jihoon sighs. "Yeah man. I need a drink."

Soonyoung claps him once on the shoulder, light and tentative. "How many drinks until you tell me your beef with Pat Benatar?"

"In your fucking dreams, Soonyoung."

"No biggie. I can tell you about my fake girlfriend."

"Your what?"

-

Jihoon loses the Australian Grand Prix faster than he can conceptualize. One second the lights are going out, the next he's crossing the finish line in P12. It's not dead last, but P12 in a Ferrari at the start of the season feels like swallowing glass, especially with Soonyoung on the podium with a P3 finish after a ruthless drive that turned the crowd into roaring red flags and a thunder of noise.

First podium of the season for Ferrari, and it's Soonyoung's.

Jihoon kills the car and sits. Doesn't move. Mechanics swarm but he stays strapped in, visor down, breathing harshly. The radio doesn't crackle with Luca's voice because he knows there's no sense in a pep talk now. Everyone who knows Jihoon knows that a silver lining won't help cool the sting of reality cutting through Jihoon for the first finish of the season, not that there's any silver lining to pull from today's disaster.

Eventually, Jihoon unclips and climbs out of the car. The heat hits him like a wall, the Melbourne evening still thick and sticky even after the sun has faded beyond the track somewhere, the afternoon still raw but dying. He yanks his helmet off, balaclava soaked through while sweat runs into his eyes and he lets it, trudging toward weigh in before he has to cool down and head to the media pen.

He doesn't speak. No one speaks to him either. Seungcheol from Red Bull glances at him with a single brow arched, but says nothing. Jihoon doesn't expect the golden driver of Red Bull who snatched P2 behind Chwe from McLaren to get it. How could he? Seungcheol has done what Jihoon hasn't - fixed a team clawing for championships.

As always, the media pen is chaos. Jihoon walks through it with his head down, cap pulled low and race suit half-unzipped and hanging off his hips. The PR handler murmurs reminders that are lost to the pounding of his pulse in his ears and the sound of voices and questions and the post-race whirring of machines.

He barely stops walking before someone asks, "How disappointing is P12 after such high expectations from Ferrari this weekend?"

Jihoon stops and forces the corners of his mouth up in a mock smile. "Disappointing. We didn't extract what the car was capable of. That's on me and the team. We'll need to fix it."

"Your teammate just earned Ferrari's first podium of the season on his first race with the team," someone points out. Jihoon pivots toward them, staring. "How much does that result change the mood in the garage for you personally?"

"Soonyoung drove perfectly. He deserved podium. The mood in the garage is fine. I'm focused on why I wasn't there with him. Nothing changes and the goal is to be a team."

He keeps moving, giving short answers with no elaboration. The anger sits low and hot behind his ribs like old oil that won't clear, clogging up everything and making him overheat. Every question feels like someone pressing on a fresh bruise, and now half of them are laced with congratulations for Soonyoung that land like insults even though they're not.

The press conference room is blessedly cold when he enters. He drops to the seat on the far left with Soonyoung in the middle, still flushed and grinning from his race. Seungcheol sits to his right, relaxed and leaning back as Jihoon crosses his arms and stares at the sea of faces with unseeing eyes.

When the moderator starts, Jihoon barely hears her. Soonyoung gets a generic opening question and Jihoon listens to his teammate talk about the management of the car and the strategy, his easy energy making the room laugh. Jihoon has never been able to do that, but he admires Soonyoung for being able to command a room full of sharks.

"Jihoon."

He looks up and sees you're standing near the front row this time, not hidden like before. Your notebook is open, pen poised old school, just like you like it - and your expression is unreadable, save for the slight tightening at the corners of your mouth.

"Two questions," you say. It's the same calm delivery that used to make hotel rooms feel safe after bad races and now just makes him sick to his stomach. "After finishing P12 on a day when Ferrari still earned a podium, how do you assess the performance gap within the team, and what does that say about the car's direction?"

The room quiets or maybe that's just how it feels. It's a similar question to the one you asked after practice on day one, but now you've got a race to use against him and the poor performance as justification.

Jihoon hears his own heartbeat in his ears and notices the way Seungcheol shifts, a small uncomfortable movement. Seungcheol knows who you are and knows what you mean to Jihoon, and for some reason the empathy that comes from another driver that Jihoon considers a long-time friend makes him more irritable.

Jihoon leans into the mic. “The gap is real. We saw it all weekend. Soonyoung maximized what the car could do today. I didn’t. My job is to close the gap. We'll keep working."

You don’t flinch or soften. “You’ve been vocal in the past about the importance of mental reset after difficult sessions. Clearly that reset didn’t happen between FP2 and the race today. With your teammate delivering under the same conditions, what specifically prevented you from finding the same level of performance?”

The question isn’t cruel, but It’s surgical. Fair. Asked the same way you’d ask any driver who just threw away twenty points while his teammate stood on the second step. Butt it's you who's asking the question and it' Soonyoung who is sitting right there, proof that the car wasn’t the problem. Jihoon was.

He exhales through his nose. “Pressure. Expectations. Execution. Same things everyone deals with. I didn’t handle it well enough today and Soonyoung did, that’s the difference.”

You nod once. “Thank you.”

He wants to laugh. Or throw the mic. Or ask why the fuck you’re doing this - why you're sitting there looking at him like he's just data on a screen. But he doesn't. He sits through the rest of the questions and lets Soonyoung charm the room with humble gratitude and jokes, lets Seungcheol talk strategy like the golden boy he is. Jihoon stays quiet unless directly addressed, and when it ends, he stands first.

He doesn't go straight to the motorhome. The buzzing in his veins won't let him. Instead, he stands outside the narrow service corridor behind the media center and leans against the wall, arms crossed. He knows you'll walk this way because you always used to cut through here to avoid the main paddock and the crowd crush when you were on a deadline.

Knowing things like that about you is agony. He hates the way he knows your quirks and tells, hates the way it's instinct for him to know what you'll say or do. Hates that he knows you were being fair in the media conference but he's angry anyway, rage and something like heartbreak simmering just under the placid surface of him.

You appear a few minutes later, phone in your hand and notepad tucked under your arm, typing away at your phone. He says nothing but you sense him, pulling up short as you jerk your attention up to see him. Surprise briefly flickers across your face before it settles into a cool, unreadable mask.

"What, Jihoon?" You sigh, sliding the phone into your pocket.

"You're nitpicking," he says.

"I'm asking questions."

"You don't have to phrase them like I'm the only person who failed today."

"Maybe you didn't notice, but you were on the stage among podium winners and people who finished inside top ten. Bitch at the moderator for the shitting press window, not me."

The laugh that comes out of him is sharp and humorless. "Right. And you've got a story to write, yeah? Am I getting a villain edit?"

"I'm not writing fanfiction, Jihoon. I'm writing what happened. Ferrari got a podium and it wasn't you. The why is relevant. This is my job."

“Your job,” he repeats, the word tasting like bile. “And what exactly is your job now? Because it feels a lot like following me around and twisting the knife every time I open my mouth while everyone else gets to clap for the new guy.”

"Get used to it." You storm passed him and he fights the urge to reach out and stop you. "I've been assigned Ferrari full-time this season for a feature series. I will continue to twist the knife, since apparently asking appropriate interview questions is a crime now."

Jihoon feels something crack inside his chest when the words hang. Knowing you will be in the garage to write about his every failure and Soonyoung's every win makes the room spin as he puts together what you're telling him.

"So I get to see you every race," he grits out. "Every time I fuck up, and you get to write about it."

You watch him with an unreadable gaze before you dismiss yourself. "I'm not hunting you for sport, Jihoon. Stop acting like it. Thankfully for you, your teammate has a lot to write about and is a lot less of an asshole when I ask him about his mistakes."

Jihoon says nothing. He stares at you as you walk away, never looking back to him. The service hallway is cold against his still-damp skin. He stays there even after you're gone, back against the wall, head tipped back, eyes staring fluorescent lights until his vision is swimming in coalescing lights.

The sounds of the paddock are distant - laughter from hospitality, someone singing off-key, the hum of engines as people break down the race. Normal Sunday night noises after a race, except nothing feels normal to Jihoon. Not anymore, not when he's P12 and you've gone somewhere he doesn't know how to reach.

Fucking heartbreaker.

-

The Jeddah Corniche Circuit is one of Jihoon's least favorite tracks. He doesn't hate it because of the walls that come out of nowhere or the straights that punish any ounce of hesitation, but rather hates it because last year when he'd been here, you'd been fighting. Maybe he should have known then that the fighting happening between closed doors wasn't going to mend itself. Now you're here in the garage and he feels that familiar fight or flight hammering under his ribs, your presence in the garage bringing back to life the bickering you'd done in hotel rooms just a year ago in this very city.

He hates seeing you around, the awful sense of desire and frustration clashing inside him every time he sees you, the newest permanent fixture in Ferrari's garage. You move through the garage with the same quiet authority you used to have when you were dating, and he hates how normal it is to see you here, how easy it is for you.

You ask Matteo questions while leaning over Luca's shoulder at the telemetry wall, scribbling notes while you skirt around mechanics and team personnel. You fit in so well that it makes him want to scream, and worst of all, everyone likes you. They had liked you when you'd been around in a less official capacity last year, but seeing the way you make Soonyoung laugh and the way the mechanics stick close to you is just proof that you're not the problem.

Jihoon is.

This will be the fourth race in with you in the garage and Jihoon still flinches when he sees you. He tries to compartmentalize when he sees you with his visor down in the car or headphones on in the garage, but sometimes he can't avoid you, like right now when you're standing in hospitality in front of the coffee machine he was heading toward.

He swallows. Your back is to him, head ducked as you scroll on your phone, the espresso machine churning as it processes your coffee. You're dressed in the black jeans that used to - still - drive him crazy, your media pass dangling around your neck.

"Settling in nicely?" His voice makes you startle and you whirl, looking at him with wide eyes. "Sorry."

You don't answer immediately. "I guess."

He leans a shoulder against the wall a few feet away. Arms crossed. “Garage suits you. You’re practically living there now.”

"Yeah. Now I’m just like you.”

He pauses and let's the words settle. For a second, he doesn't know what you mean. Then he sees the immediate wince on your face, instant regret that tells him it's a barb. He narrows his eyes, arms tightening a little.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asks evenly.

"Nothing. I shouldn't have-"

"No. Tell me what you mean."

For a second, you don't answer. Instead you take the coffee from the machine and put a sleeve and lid on, doing anything you can to delay an answer. You've always been good at. taking time to choose your words. It's the single quality you have that makes you stick out among the other journalists, thoughtful and careful in your questions, never stupid, never rage baiting.

"It means," you answer carefully. "That I'm here because the job demands it. No space for anything else. I assumed it would be familiar to you."

"That's not fair."

“Isn’t it?” You tilt your head, the same way you used to when you were trying not to cry in hotel rooms after he missed another anniversary dinner. “You were never really there, Jihoon. You chose the garage. Every time.”

He opens his mouth but nothing comes out because you’re right, and the truth tastes acidic. This isn't how he imagined starting a Grand Prix day. Outside the room, team members drift past like nothing is wrong, carrying about their day without a care in the world while Jihoon feels like someone is ripping the scab off of a wound he was hoping was finally healing.

It was a futile hope and he knows it. Jihoon has known from the moment he saw you that he isn't healing, and hearing you say why you left so plainly turns his thoughts to static. He doesn't know what to say or do - he never does. That was part of the problem too. You'd wait for him with tears in your eyes looking defeated and he'd come home tired, unsure of what to say or how to make it better. So he just didn't.

You swallow thickly and shake your head. "I apologize. We shouldn't be talking about this. You have a race and I was out of line. I apologize."

"No," he says, though his voice feels distant. "I asked for honesty."

Silence stretches for a moment before you nod and clear your throat. "Good luck today, then."

Jihoon doesn't follow you out when you leave. Doesn't watch you go. Doesn't do anything. He stands and stares with unseeing eyes, his thoughts grinding like the failing engine of his car in practice two days ago.

You were never really there.

It's all he can hear when the lights go out. He starts clean but his head is a mess, the car kissing the wall at Turn 22, him feathering the throttle too early exiting Turn 13. Every fuck up he makes, your voice echoes over and over again until it feels like he's talking to you through the headset, not Luca.

You were never really there.

Despite the haunting drone of your voice, he fights anyway, trying to defend hard against Xu into the final sector on lap 12, managing to hold the inside to force him wide. He even manages to overtake Lee in the Williams car with a late brake down the inside of Turn 1 that makes Luca praise him over the radio, but it's lost to the static of his mind.

You were never really there.

Jihoon finishes in points, but it feels hollow. P8 isn't anything to brag about, but at least he's inside the fucking points for the first time this season. It should feel like a weight off his shoulders, but its not. He still has work to do, the gap between him and Soonyoung at P4 not much smaller than it has been the last four races.

The press routine becomes rote. Jihoon climbs out the car, yanks the helmet off, lets the sweat burn his eyes, and eventually pulls a cap low over his sweaty hair before following PR out to the pen. It's the same wash, rinse, repeat of every race before this one, a time loop he can't break.

"P8 from last weeks P11 - is this a step forward?"

No, he wants to scream. Instead, his voice is clipped and efficient. "Points are points. Car is improving. We keep pushing."

"Mentality still good, then?"

Absolutely fucking not, he wants to holler. "Focused as always. We reset. We move on."

The press conference is a haze of questions and rehearsed answers. He barely hears the questions he's asked, but he somehow manages to ask them. You ask him no questions - pity or resentment, he's not sure - but he's grateful anyway.

Jihoon goes through the motions of finishing a race weekend, sitting through debrief silent and offering feedback when asked. His team looks at him sideways, but no one pushes. No one wants to be too hard on him, like he's fragile. It makes him want to throw something, to scream to stop treating him like a child.

He doesn't. He just gets through it with gritted teeth and steely focus until he's sitting in a hotel room that's too quiet and too clean, too empty.

Jihoon showers to escape the silence, the heat of the water burning away the residual anger and turning it into something else that hurts just as bad. He stays under the spray of water until it runs colder and his fingers prune, reluctantly getting out only to sit on the bed in a towel, staring down at his phone in his hand.

A blank thread with your name stares back at him, the blinking text cursor waiting for him to type. So he swallows and types, fingers moving haltingly.

I'm sorry about this morning.

Deletes.

You were right but I don't know how to do this with you around

Deletes.

You're fucking up my head.

Deletes.

The problem is me. I miss you.

Deletes.

Jihoon locks his phone and throws it onto the armchair across the room. He lies back, still damp as he stares at the textured ceiling. The room smells like generic hotel soap and the faint scent of the cologne you bought him two years ago.

Outside, the city thrums, the traffic and distant thrum of bass from a car echoing toward his window. Inside, your voice loop on repeat, haunting him like that stupid Pat Benatar song you love so much.

You were never really there. Heartbreaker.

You were never really there. Dream maker.

You were never really there. Love taker.

-

Rain beats down on the garage, the wind coming off Biscayne Bay blowing sheets of it across the track, turning it into a black mirror. Jihoon watches the radar with arms crossed in the motorhome, still in his fireproofs, suit tied around the waist. They expect a long delay and he blows out a sigh, hating the waiting game, his nerves frayed and the after burn of lost adrenaline making him itchy.

Mechanics kill time by playing cards and engineers scroll data on tablets while Soonyoung sits on the ground playing his switch, chatting with his race engineer. Soonyoung laughs at something she says, corner of his eyes crinkling when he smiles. Jihoon gives them a wide berth, staying away from that ticking time bomb of a PR nightmare as much as he can.

Jihoon spots you coming his way and his heart starts to hammer on instinct. You look toward an empty meeting room and jerk you're head toward it, half a command, half request. Jihoon should say no, considering the last time he spoke to you one-on-one fucked with him so bad he could barely drive the car. But the same desire to be close to you and to hear your voice overrides any logic he has and he nods.

You enter the room first, dropping yourself into one of the armchairs. He sits on the couch across from you, elbows on his knees, watching you fidget as you settle. You don't have a notebook or anything for an interview, so he realizes whatever this conversation is, it's personal. It makes him brace for the worst, muscles locking like he's going in for a fight, heart racing.

"You need to stop fighting the car."

He blinks, momentarily stunned. "What?"

"The car. You're muscling the shit out of the car, and that's never been your style of driving. You're bleeding time in sectors because you're not trusting yourself and you're over-correcting before the rear even steps out."

Jihoon stares. The words land like cold data readouts that are clinical and accurate, brutal in their simplicity. He wants to snap back and tell you to save it for the article, but you're not doing an interview right now. You're starring at him with the same analytical gaze you used to give him when talking strategy on a plane while heading to the next race.

He swallows hard and looks away toward the rain hammering on the window. The sky is gunmetal beyond the glass, Miami turning into a canvas of grey and purple, lightning cracking.

"I don't know how to stop fighting it," he sighs. "Every time I ease off, it feels like I'm losing grip or giving up."

You hum thoughtfully. "Remember Imola last year?"

He nods. Imola last year was one of his best races, a beautiful performance clawing his way from P14 to P1. You'd both celebrated well into the early hours of morning, you pinned under him, him drunk off of the high of winning and the heat of your mouth.

"That was a race you won on pure instinct," you point out. "You just locked in and didn't fight the car. You just drove.

He exhales long and slow. The advice sinks in and he thinks about every race prior to this season, all of his feathering too early, snapping the wheel, the way the car in Bahrain testing had started out like a dialogue but ended up as a confrontation.

Jihoon meets your eyes. You're watching him, fingers fidgeting in your lap, and he realizes you're nervous and that maybe he's not the only one who regrets the conversation in Saudi Arabia.

"You really think that's it?"

"I know it is." There's no hesitation when you answer. "I've watched every single part of your racing. You're fast when you let go. You lose it when you start to overthink."

"I guess."

"You never used to overthink."

You're right. Jihoon have never been someone who was over-controlling on the car or strategy. He was often calm and collected, absorbing the problems as they came. He'd been like that with you too, though. He didn't overthink your problems, didn't dig his heels in to try and figure out each one.

And then you'd left and he realized that maybe he hadn't thought about it enough.

Jihoon wants to tell you that, but he doesn't know how to say it in a way that doesn't make it sound like his failures this season are your fault, because they're not. He just wishes you understood his newfound obsession with control, how he doesn't know how to let it go because the last tie he had, you'd walked out of his life.

Rain taps on the window as he nods, exhaling long and slow. "Alright."

You nod and stand, wiping your hands on your jeans. "That's all I came to say."

"Thanks," he murmurs, voice soft beneath the patter of rain. "For telling me instead of making it a headline."

"I'm not your enemy." He nods but says nothing. "Good luck."

Then you're gone, leaving him with nothing but the rain until the delay ends an hour later.

It's a shortened race, the track wet and slick. Jihoon climbs into the car, a new energy humming in his veins, and for once, it isn't nervousness or the determination to control the car - it's confidence. Confidence in himself and in the car., confidence that he's driven on wet tracks and worse cars than what Ferrari's given him.

So he tries not to think about it too much when the lights go out and the spray is everywhere. The car feels different immediately and even though he starts to tighten his grip, he takes a deep breath and lets the car slide into Turn 3 instead of forcing it. He lets the rear slide a little, heart leaping until it catches and he's out the turn.

Jihoon grins a little, pressing the throttle to gain pace, the water on his helmet slicking off as he hunts the McLaren in front of him, the brake lights a smear of color in the mist off the track.

Luca's voice crackles over the radio. "Good pace. Keep it tidy."

Jihoon keeps it squeaky fucking clean. No over-corrections, no white-knuckles on the wheel, and he breathes through the turns, feeling the hum of the engine and the drag of the tires. He trusts the tires to catch when they need and by lap 12, he's up to P5 after overtaking Lee in the McLaren and Hong in the Mercedes.

Soonyoung is ahead of him, fighting with Choi for P3. Jihoon doesn't worry about chasing him. He drives his own race, cruising into Turn 1 with a late break and beautiful exit, defending against Hong desperately trying to retake P5 behind him.

And then he crosses the finish line inside the top five for the first time since last season. For the first time this season, Ferrari has two cars in the top five and Jihoon starts to laugh, Luca's excitement bleeding through the radio.

It is far from perfect and it's not on the podium where he wants to be, but its so much better than P8 or lower. So much better that he feels like he drove better, not grinding the brakes or bumping the wall on his exits, too tight on the control. For the first time all season, it felt like it was instinct, like he just drove without worrying about trying to control the result.

He rolls the car slowly down the pit lane, engine dropping to a soft purr as his adrenaline bleeds out. Jihoon kills the engine in the garage and sits for a second longer than usual, letting the post-race high crash a little.

He unclips, pushes the steering wheel up and out, and climbs onto the halo. He yanks the helmet off, balaclava peeling away with it, and shakes out sweat-soaked hair. Soonyoung is already out of his car, arms raised as he jumps down from the car and gives Jihoon a feral grin.

"Fuck yeah!" He bellows over the noise of mechanics and dying engines. Soonyoung meets him in the garage, clapping Jihoon hard on the back. "You drove like your old self today. Fucking loved it."

Jihoon swallows and nods once, not trusting himself to say more without his voice cracking.

The media pen is mercifully under cover as the rain picks back up, water streaming off the edges of the canopy in steady ropes as Jihoon stands with a towel around his neck, hair still dripping. He sees you before you see him, speaking to a Sky Sports producer, gesturing with your notebook the way you always do when you’re working out angles in real time. Black jeans. Ferrari media pass. Hair damp from the rain you must have crossed without an umbrella. You look focused. Professional.

Beautiful. So beautiful its like a knife to the ribs.

When your eyes finally meet his across the pen, you don’t flinch or look away. You just give a single, small nod and he returns the gesture, not friends but not enemies. It eases the pressure a little bit, but doesn't ease the ache.

Media goes better today, as it so often does when he's not sucking behind the wheel. Jihoon answers just as short and to the point as usual, but there's less bite today and he doesn't feel snappy, doesn't feel tired and poked and prodded. He just feels…. good, which he hasn't in a long time.

By the time he's back in the garage, you're coming his way, calm and collected. He pauses, brows raised as rain beats down on the garage roof.

"You have a moment to spare for an interview?" You ask.

He nods and gestures toward his dressing room. You look like you want to protest - the dressing room feels too personal - but it's you and him and he charges down the back hall without looking back, knowing you'll follow him.

You do, slipping in and closing the door behind you with a metallic click. He sits on the small couch, melting into it as he closes his eyes, thankful for the cool, dry air to fight of the wet Miami heat. You sit down on a folding chair where his trainer usually sits, crossing one leg over the other.

"Ready when you are," he murmurs.

"Alright." You tap your phone. "I'm recording today."

"No note pad?"

"No, I still have my notepad. It just makes it easier for the longer pieces."

"Got it."

"So," you start. "P5 today. First top five of the season for you personally and Ferrari's strongest team result so far. Walk me through what made the difference."

"Track was tricky," he admits. "But the car felt good but predictable. For the first time in a while, I could learn on the rear without it loosing control. The team gave me a good balance before the restart, and once I stopped trying to fight the car, the pace came naturally."

"You mention you stopped trying to fight the car. Was there a specific moment it clicked today?"

Jihoon opens his eyes and looks at you. He can tell you mean the question honestly - you're not asking him if what you said made a difference. You're asking if something happened during his drive, if the feedback on the radio or the data helped him figure it out.

"Yes," he says. "Someone reminded me that I've never been fast when I'm fighting the car. I took their advice. It had nothing to do with anything else but that."

You hold his gaze for a beat longer than necessary after his answer before nodding. "Team radio was pretty quiet on your drive today, you had less changes and corrections. Was that deliberate or did the drive just go that well?

"Bit of both. Drive just started right from the beginning and Luca and I just sort of reached a flow state. Didn't need to talk much. Sometimes I just need to shut up and drive."

The corner of your mouth lifts just enough that he knows you're amused. He stares at it, heart skipping a little, and for the first time in a long time, this feels like familiar territory. You've interviewed him in every corner of every track for years, but the two years you were together were the best of them.

This feels almost like that now. Almost. You've reverted back to the polished, calculated interview style you had before you'd started dating, but there's something softer there that has stuck, even after the breakup, something personal. Something in the way you look at him, like it takes you a second to remember that you're not together when you're asking him questions.

Jihoon realizes how much he wishes you were. He enjoyed interviews more back then when it felt like you'd dissect his race because you cared about what was going on in his head and less to piece together a story. It helped that most of them were followed by him pressing you into the mattress until neither one of you thought about racing anymore, but things had been easier then.

Until they hadn't.

As much as he misses it, not every night was perfect. Most nights you'd sit in a hotel room and pore over telemetry together, head on his shoulder and he'd lean into your insights without question, nodding along. You strategy had always been - and still is - sharp as ever. He used to joke about you becoming a race engineer, but you like journalism and the challenge of a story.

But then there were other nights. Missed calls, reschedule dinners, him prioritizing workouts and strategy sessions over planned time with you. Jihoon has no idea when he started making you secondary to the garage, but you'd walked away from him before he figured it out.

"So," you start. "Soonyoung's been the benchmark for Ferrari so far this season with consistent top-five pace. Today you matched him more closely than you have all season. Does that make it feel like pressure is easing internally with the team?"

Jihoon looks down at his hands for a beat, thumbs tracing the edge of the couch cushion. This is the kind of question that could be spun a dozen different ways in print, and he knows you know that. Still, you've asked it anyway - not to hurt him, but to get something out of him that you probably know is there.

So he thinks about the question before he says, "Soonyoung is a good driver. His start reminds me of my first year with Ferrari. He's hungry and adaptive. The pressure isn't to match Soonyoung or catch up, but to drive the car the way I know I can. Today I showed that I can. It doesn't mean the job is done, but it means I'm capable when I apply myself."

Surprisingly, you do smile at that. It's like watching the first spill of pink into a morning sky as the sun rises, warm and startling. He feels his heart race a little faster as you look up, holding his gaze longer than you have all season. You nod once, acknowledging that you like the answer, before dropping your gaze back down to your notes.

"Last question," you tell him. "You've talked a lot in the past about instinct being your strongest weapon. Would you say you're getting that version of yourself back?"

Jihoon leans back, letting his head rest against the couch. He stares up at the lights, blinding by the fluorescent, color swimming at the edge of his vision as he chews on the question. Instinct is how he used to drive - it's what made him stand out from other drivers as he climbed his way through F2 and into F1. Where others spent years getting the mechanics and feel for racing, Jihoon just instinctively raced.

It's what initially drew you to him in the first place. His raw, uncalculated drive on the track was something you appreciated. You'd always told him there was a kind of honestly about it, that Jihoon was never trying to beat anyone else or be anyone else. His biggest competition had always been himself, and he was only ever trying to drive how he knew he could.

Somewhere in the last year, he'd lost that and started comparing himself to his teammates, to the other drivers on the grid that were younger and fresher. He had started thinking that if he just spent more time in the garage, if he just looked over the data more, he could keep up. That he could keep pace with where he wanted to be - needed to be.

Now, Jihoon see's the gap in the logic and sees your question for what it truly is: do you get it, Jihoon. Do you see where you've lost your way?

"Yeah," he croaks finally. "I think I get it now."

You let the silence stretch while you lean back, watching him as he drops his gaze down and looks at you. There's no follow up question. You just stare at him with an unreadable expression, and just when he thinks you're going to say something, you nod and lean forward to stop the recording.

"Thank you." You lean back for a second, finger tapping on your thigh. "It'll be a good piece. Honest without being brutal." You stand then, sliding your phone in your pocket. You hesitate just before you reach the door, turning a fraction to glance at him. "You looked good out there today. Like the old Jihoon."

The compliment makes his heart race. He nods, a tired smile splitting his face. "Felt good."

Before the moment can stretch too long, you slide out of the room, the door clicking behind you. Jihoon stays seated, staring at the door. The absence of you feels heavier than it used to, the ache behind his ribs steadily rising when he realizes that now you'll go back to a hotel room that isn't his and work on a piece without any chances of him distracting or interrupting you. No late night coffee date with your fingers intertwined, no shower hot enough to melt metal to ease the tension of a deadline.

Just you. Without him.

Fucking heartbreaker.

-

The streets of Barcelona past midnight are nice. It's quiet but not empty, making Jihoon feel like he has just enough room to breathe without being entirely alone. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he walks, the streetlamps casting pools of light on him as he wanders, the smell of the bougainvilleas strong, the violet flowers spilling over iron balconies and gates.

Jihoon had been stellar today. Not just stellar - he'd made his first podium of the season, securing P2 with a clean start and flawless driving. He'd been held off from winning by the McLaren, but for the first time in his career, Jihoon doesn't care about P1. He cares about his drive - about himself - and the trust he's had to put into himself to make the drive possible today.

After having to retire the car in Ferrari's first home circuit of the year at Imola, it's a fucking relief. While he'd done fine afterward in Monaco, being the heartbreaker of the home race had been weighing on Jihoon since slamming his head on the wheel and screaming as the car's engine gave out. Soonyoung had been Ferrari's only pride that day, making podium as a sea of red exploded in the Italian grandstands.

Seeing all that red again today in Spain had lessened the sting of it all. It had been a long time since he stood on a podium with the Tifosi screaming his name, red flags rippling in a sea of fans. Soonyoung had finished in P4, grinning like an idiot when Jihoon had wandered back to the garage, saying welcome back as though even Soonyoung knew the real Jihoon had been found again.

Jihoon turns left, walking toward a string of shops and late-night restaurants. He's still buzzing from the win, restlessness and a little hunger driving him from the quiet luxury of the hotel room onto the familiar streets of Spain.

He looks up and stops dead when he sees you.

You're learning against the low stone rim of a fountain that gurgles quietly, the lights strung between buildings casts a soft, gold light on you that makes you glow. You're in jeans and a soft grey hoodie that Jihoon realizes is his, making him jolt.

Sensing his gaze, you look up at him. You seem confused for a split second before you realize it's him and freeze. "Jihoon."

"Hi." His voice comes out a little more unsteady than he means it to. He clears his through, heart doing that stupid thing that it does whenever it sees you recently. "What are you doing out here?"

"Couldn't sleep." You pocket your phone. "You?"

"Same. Too much adrenaline."

You grin - a real grin, full of warmth that makes Jihoon want to burst at the seams. "Congratulations again. You raced clean today."

"Thanks. Felt good."

"I bet."

He hesitates a beat, the fountain bubbling as the two of you stare at one another. "I'm kind of starving and trying to find something open. Do you want to come?"

Surprise followed by hesitation flickers across your face. He braces for a polite no, realizing that he has over-extended beyond the polite fencing you've put up between the two of you.

"Sure," you say finally. He blinks in surprise. "I skipped dinner to make a deadline."

The two of you walk in silence for the first two blocks. The alleys narrow, forcing you a little closer, shoulders nearly brushing. Jihoon is hyper aware of your warmth and the soft smell of sandalwood perfume you like to wear, the one he bought you when you were in Singapore the year before. The scent nearly undoes him, his hands flexing in his pockets as he keeps himself from reaching over to close the distance and pull you closer.

You discover a tiny bodega tucked under a low archway almost by accident, the stripped awning sagging but the neon on the door flashing that its open. The tables outside are mismatched, some with wicker chairs some with metal, but the smell of hot oil and something spicy drifting from the door is too hard to resit.

A server gestures through the window to take one of the tables so you do, chairs scraping silently against the night. When the server appears, Jihoon panics for only a moment before remembering you are the Spanish speaker between the two of you, relief flooding him as you order two glasses of wine and plates of garlic prawns, bread and thing slices of jamón.

"Wine, huh?" Jihoon grins. "Are we celebrating?"

"Maybe." You take a sip and hum. "Better than podium champagne."

"Everything's better than podium champagne. You learn to hate the smell and taste after a while."

"Still crave being showered in it though, yeah?" He nods, sipping the wine. It's dry, the taste of cherries rich on his tongue. "You looked happy up there today."

"I was. The car felt good. Didn't have to fight the car."

"The car or yourself?"

As always, your question is sharp and to the point. You always had a way of voicing the real issue, of asking the right question. When Jihoon first met you, he thought maybe it was because you were a journalist, but now he knows its because you're good at seeing through the bullshit, your instinct for truth better than anyone else he knows.

"Both, I guess."

When the food arrives, your conversation lulls. Not in a way that feels awkward, but it feels nice. Jihoon watches you bite into a garlic prawn and make a little noise that does things to his stomach and chest, his eyes going to his plate as he steals a slice of jamón.

It melts on his tongue and he makes an equally obscene noise that has you laughing, leaning back in your chair as you nod and sip your wine. "Yeah. It's good."

"Remember Singapore?" He asks, peeling back the shell on a prawn. "That hole in the wall that we loved to go to with the laksa that almost killed me?"

"You mean the one that made you cry?"

"I did not!"

"You absolutely did, Ji."

The nickname is so sudden that it pulls both of you up short. Jihoon’s fingers freeze around the prawn shell. He doesn’t look up right away. He can’t. If he does, he’s afraid the careful distance you’ve both been maintaining since Miami will shatter, and he doesn't know what will spill out of him if it does.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “Old habit.”

When he lifts his faze, your eyes are fixed on the table. You look embarrassed, like the armor you've been wearing all season with him has as single weakness and you've just pressed on it yourself.

"It's okay." He swallows, still frozen. "It was nice hearing it. I know we're not-" He stops and shakes his head, putting the prawn down and wiping garlicky fingers on a napkin. "I know we're not together anymore, but hearing you say it just now felt nice."

You pick up a piece of bread, tear it in half, then tear one half again. You’re not really eating it, you're just giving your hands something to do. Jihoon has seen you do it a hundred times, usually with pens or pieces of paper, snapping caps and ripping corners of notebooks.

"I've almost used it before this," you admit, not looking at him. "It's an adjustment. You're not the only one who thinks of places like Singapore."

Jihoon’s throat closes as he nods. It's both heaven and hell to hear you say it, to know that you remember the smell of the hotel shampoo on skin, the way you'd lay in bed while you read over a piece as he dozed against your side.

"I fucked that up," he admits.

It's not a question and you don't rush to correct him. Jihoon feels his stomach hollow out, heart dropping to his ass. You're nice enough not to agree, but your silence is somehow worse, like you're trying to spare him.

He hates it.

"You can say it. I know. I did."

You lift a shoulder. "You chose something else. Over and over until I decided I wanted to make a choice for once, so I chose me."

“I thought if I gave everything to the car, I would be able to catch up. I guess I just thought you'd understand."

"I did - I do. But I'm not a pit stop, you don't get to come and go as you please."

Jihoon remembers the night you left so clearly. He remembers the exact shade of gold of the Austin skyline, the live music drifting from Rainey Street. You always liked it better than Sixth, and it was closer to the river. He'd almost made podium that day, finishing P5 after Ferrari finally began clicking after Jihoon had spent the entire first half of the season grinding himself to dust to chase Red Bull and Mercedes.

He remembers the way you'd come out of the bathroom fully showered, voice soft as you tried to spark up a conversation. Jihoon was staring at data, looping on how he could have done better, how he could have pushed the car a little harder. P5 was fine, but it wasn't good enough. Wasn't right.

The fight had started softly at first - you asking him if he was listening, him insisting he was. You never raised your voice, but you did that night, your anger sharp against the buzz of Austin traffic, accusing him of making the relationship too low-priority.

He remembers you pacing the room as he yelled back at you, raw and angry. This was his career, his life, you knew what you were getting into. If you didn't want someone who worked hard, what were you doing there? It had been the wrong thing to say, and as he remembers it now, he winces.

You'd packed by morning, pale grey light spilling across the Texas sky as Jihoon watched you numbly. You'd folded your clothes with shaking hands, your silence a wall of ice meant to keep him out. And he'd let you keep him out. He hadn't fought. Hadn't begged.

"Yeah," Jihoon sighs. "Yeah I know. I get it."

Your eyes soften, but there’s a guarded edge too, like this kind of honesty scares you more than it helps. "I know you do. It doesn't make it easier."

For a moment, the two of you stare at one another. Jihoon opens his mouth to take a risk, heart pounding, to apologize and tell you to let him try and fix it. But before he can, he watches you straighten, the softness in your eyes shuttering, replaced by the cool mask you've kept all of this season.

"It's late," you sigh, signaling for the check. "Early flight tomorrow."

Jihoon slams into your wall of ice at 200 MPH. He reaches for the check before you can, waving off your soft protest. You say nothing as he signs for it, the silence pressing in as you both stand, chairs scraping.

The lights of Barcelona hum softly in the night. He thinks of Austin again, the dim lights reminding him of the same strip of restaurants and bars burning outside the suite, the absence of your voice pressing in on him as he lay on the hotel bed staring at the ceiling.

When you part ways, Jihoon's blood is buzzing. He feels it in his hands and arms, a nagging feeling that he can't stop as he murmurs a quiet goodbye. You give him a small smile and head off. Just like in Austin, he doesn't stop you. Doesn't know what to say.

Somewhere, music is drifting through an open window of an apartment, the crackling sound of Pat Benatar's voice drifting on the wind, a constant phantom that always drifts behind him.

Heartbreaker. Dream maker. Love taker.

-

The roar of the Tifosi is a living thing. Sound crashes over the Autodromo Nazionale Monza, so loud that Jihoon can barely thing. Jihoon's car gleams under the Italian sun, the sea of red flags rippling in the grandstands visible as the heat presses in.

Visor down, the world narrows to the inside of the car. He doesn't let the crowd get to him. Breathes in. Breathes out. Wills his hands to stop shaking. Monza is just like any race, but it feels like more than that today. This is the home race, bigger than Imola, with higher stakes and a louder crowd.

There's no room for error today. Not with Seungcheol on pole, untouchable all weekend in qualifying. Jihoon is slotted at P3 behind Chwe's orange McLaren, and Soonyoung is just behind Jihoon in P4, the energy of two Ferrari's starting so high up palpable.

Beneath him, the engine hums. It feels like an extension of his own body, nervous and edgy but ready. Jihoon knows every straight here, every turn - knows that power and clean exits will reward him here if he just lets the car do what needs to get done.

Today, the goal is simple - finish the race where he started. He's not chasing Chwe and he's not trying to jockey for position with Soonyoung. Jihoon's only goal is to finish the race under his own terms without fighting the car, without forcing it.

Jihoon sucks in a sharp breathe. The grandstands are a blur of crimson, but he focuses on the five lights ahead, thumbs brushing over the wheel. He breathes out as the first light illuminates, then the second. He breathes in. The lights go out, and he exhales.

The launch slams into him immediately. He's careful as the vehicle shoots forward, holding the inside line to Turn 1 as Vernon's McLaren goes wide on the exit. Jihoon attacks without thinking, surging into P2 and peeling off as Luca says something encouraging in Italian. It's lost in the roaring blood in Jihoon's ears, eyes laser-focused on Seungcheol's car ahead.

Jihoon falls into a rhythm of feathering the wheel and braking late. The car feels good under him, each bump of the chicane smooth. His hands grip the wheel as he sails through the sectors, narrowing the gap between him and Red Bull.

"Gap to leader 0.8 seconds," Luca says. "Push push."

Jihoon doesn't respond. He's too focused, the world reduced to turns and braking points. He hardly registers the passing of time until he's debating pit maneuvers with Luca while he defends Soonyoung from overtaking him.

"Solid," Luca says and Jihoon grins, putting space between him and his teammate on the straight. "Gap to Soonyoung 1.2. Can the tires handle more?"

"Yes."

"Keep up the pace and stay out as long as you can. Box for hards on lap twenty four."

"Heard."

On lap twenty, Seungcheol makes a tiny mistake and locks up going into a turn. Jihoon presses the advantage, diving around the outside through the second part of the chicane to overtake. The car slides close enough to the gravel that he feels the rocks kick up and rattle against the metal floor, each ping of the stone on metal that he cut it too close to going out of bounds for an overtake.

He pulls out in front of Seungcheol and grins, pushing the car harder. He knows the heat is building in his tires as Seungcheol heads to the pit lane. The front tires are staring to wear, and the car pushes too wide through a turn, fighting him. Behind him, Soonyoung pits, the orange McLaren hunting Jihoon down.

"Gap to Chwe 3.2"

Jihoon feels the pressure in his shoulders, feels the wheel fight back. He doesn't grip it harder. He breathes deeper and lets the car slide a fraction more than usual, trusting it to catch the edges of each turns. It does, and he exhales, fending off Vernon until Luca calls for new tires.

The mechanics are a blur in his peripheral. He barely registers the stop before he's peeling back out onto the track again, narrowly sliding out in front of Choi to slot himself in P3 behind Soonyoung. But now Jihoon has fresher tires, closing the gap between his teammate on an inside overtake at Rettifilo that forces Soonyoung wide with a late brake.

Jihoon grins, hunting down the back of Chwe's car until he rolls across the finish line in P2 with Soonyoung narrowly behind him in P3.

"Belissimo!" Luca screams, his voice peaking the radio mic. "Fucking beautiful! What a drive, Jihoon. Kwon is in P3, forza!"

Grinning, Jihoon rolls the car into parc fermé and kills the engine. His hands are shaking like he just finished pole, and for Ferrari, it may as well be. He sits for a long second, chest heaving, sweat burning his eyes and soaking through the balaclava.

Outside, the roar washes over him like a wave crashing onto the cliffs. The Tifosi are so loud the air vibrates, smoke and flares of red drifting across the crowd as he rests his head on the back of the seat. Something cracks open inside of him, relief and joy spilling out that he hasn't felt in weeks.

Jihoon unclips and pushes the wheel away, climbing onto the halo to rip of his helmet and balaclava. His hair is plastered to his neck with sweat but he grins, raising his arms as he jumps down, the Tifosi screaming.

Soonyoung is there in an instant, helmet gone, grinning like a madman as he grabs Jihoon and kisses him on the head.

"Double fucking podium at Monza!" Soonyoung screams. Jihoon laughs, shoving Soonyoung off. "What a fucking race!"

Jihoon sees Chwe running to his crew as he launches into them, celebrating another win in what has to be the best season McLaren has had in years. Jihoon is happy for Vernon - happy for himself, jogging toward his crew as he and Soonyoung both celebrate with them, the sound of the crowd swelling even louder.

The podium ceremony is chaos, the fans so loud that the speakers become irrelevant. Champagne hits Jihoon in thick, foamy sprays as Vernon turns to shoot it right at his face, Jihoon choking on sweet fizz as he steps off to shake his bottle in retaliation. He laughs in delight as Soonyoung dumps half the bottle of champagne on Vernon's head in retaliation, screaming wildly like a kid.

A pressure releases in Jihoon's chest. Every missed point, ever bad turn of the car, every night spent staring at the ceiling of a hotel room - it all pours out of him as he yells, spraying the rest of his champagne in white arcs.

Jihoon is buzzing by the time the formalities end and he's jogging back to the paddock, heart hammering, blood buzzing. He waves to the crimson see of fans, holding a fist up in the air as he goes.

And then he sees you.

You're standing at the edge of the paddock, media pass flickering around your neck in the breeze. Your notebook is clutched to your chest like always, and Jihoon is surprised to see the smile on your face. For once, you look unguarded, and the small smile that used to light up dim hotel rooms at three in the morning cuts right fucking through him.

He doesn't think. He doesn't warn you. He just takes six long strides across the asphalt, cups your face in his hands, and he kisses you like he's been starving for it because he is. He pours every apology he never said out loud into the kiss, every regret from last season but especially Austin. Every follow race that felt empty without you comfort him after.

You freeze for half a heartbeat, your hands frozen near his hips like you don't know if you want to push him away or pull him closer. Jihoon's heart is hammering and he pulls back a fraction, lips still tasting like champagne and your lip balm - birthday cake, he thinks.

"You told me to stop fighting myself," he murmurs. "So I am. I'm not fighting the fact that I'm an idiot and an asshole or that I fucked up. I did. I'm sorry. I know I don't have to put you first all the time, but I can't make you a permanent second. I won't anymore. Even if I never make another podium again."

Your breath catches, eyes flaring with surprise. Your hands land on his hips, not pushing, but holding, your fingers curling into the sweat-dampened racing suit. Your eyes search his, wide and more vulnerable than they've been in months, looking for any hesitation that he doesn't mean it, any fault in his words.

Jihoon sees the indecision flicker through you. He knows you remember the sting of missed dinners, the lonely nights waiting for him, the way he'd chosen other things over you. But he sees the warmth there too, knowing that there is room for you, knowing that you trust him to be capable of doing both.

Then you're kissing him.

He grins into it, sighing as you press into him. Your kiss is softer than his, hands sliding up to his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair to pull him closer until the champagne staining him is soaking through your clothes.

Love swells in his chest so much he thinks he might not be able to breathe. He crushes you to him, lost in the heat of your mouth and the sweetness of your birthday cake lip balm and the sweep of your tongue. He groans, a shiver rippling through him.

And then Soonyoung's wolf-whistle cuts through the haze and Jihoon breaks the kiss, glancing over. Soonyoung stands with his eyebrows raised, a swarm of mechanics around him, the girl that is Soonyoung's fake girlfriend standing next to the race engineer Soonyoung wants to be his real girlfriend, all of them watching.

Then they start cheering and you laugh covering your face with your hand as Jihoon cracks a smile, laughing as his team yells at him in Italian. He doesn't care, he just turns to you again, hand sliding to your waist as he keeps you close.

"I'm sorry."

"You're still an idiot. And we have talking to do."

"I know."

“And I’m still writing about Ferrari. Full season. That doesn’t change.”

“I know that too.”

You study him for several long seconds and he doesn’t look away. Then you lean up and kiss him again, short and sweet.

"You have press to do. Let's go."

Press is a breeze for once. Jihoon can hardly stop looking at you. For the first time in a long time, when you ask him questions, he trusts that they're not meant to hurt him. They never had been, but it's one thing to know something than it is to feel it. He answers them easily, a small smile on his face as he answers other questions.

Honestly, he barely hears them. His gaze goes back to you every time, watching the way you rip the edges of your notebook to keep your hands busy, watches the way you scribble things down on the corner of the paper. He wants nothing more than to finish this press conference and steal you away, to take you somewhere behind closed doors.

Jihoon is good at waiting. He waited most of his life to earn a seat in an F1 car, and waited again to get promoted to Ferrari. Now, he waits through the rest of a press conference, media responsibilities, a post-race strategy session, and some sponsorship related handshakes and greetings.

It's nothing compared to how many times he's left you waiting, he's sure. He intends to make up for it, spotting you near the coffee machine of hospitality, leaning against the counter with your head cocked. He doesn't say anything - doesn't have to. He nods toward the stairs and you follow, slipping behind him as he leads you toward the small, but clean room that belongs to him in the motorhome.

He doesn't want to wait anymore. Neither do you.

The door to the room clicks shut behind you. The space is small, filled by a single couch pressed against one wall, a coffee table, a mini fridge and two TV's directly across from the couch. The paddock hums faintly outside, but right now he's not worried about that. Right now he's turning to you, the post-race adrenaline humming in his veins.

Neither of you says a word a he closes the distance, hands finding your waist to pull you toward him. His mouth finds yours, desperate and hungry, all teeth and tongue, the past melting as soon as his tongue brushes against yours. He spins you toward the couch, careful as he cradles your face and walks you backward.

"Fuck I've missed this," he breathes against you. His fingers dig into your hips briefly as you tug at his team polo. Your hands peel it upward and off, fingers dancing along the taught muscle of his stomach, his heart hammering. "I've missed you."

"You never said so."

"I didn't think you wanted to hear me."

You press a palm to his jeans where he's already hard and straining. He makes a sound that's strained, lids fluttering as you drop to your knees and look up at him through your lashes. "I guess I didn't. I want to hear you now, though."

Jihoon's heart leaps as you tug the zipper of his jeans down. He doesn't dare move, watching with shaky breath as you hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and briefs and pull down just enough to free his aching cock. He shivers, the air cold, the tip of his cock flushed and hardening as you wrap your hand around the base, stroking gently.

"Oh fuck," he groans, tilting his head back, lashes fluttering.

You laugh. "Look at you."

Jihoon can't help it. He feels himself grow harder at just the touch of your hand, velvet around his shaft, stroking agonizingly slow in a way that makes his knees a little weak. He presses a hand against the wall, trying to keep himself steady when he feels the heat of your tongue slither up the underside of his cock.

A broken sound escapes him. His free hand threads in your hair, not pulling or pushing, but grounding himself, trying to gain some sort of semblance of control over himself. Your tongue is devilish, rolling around his swollen tip, and Jihoon swears he sees god.

"Fuck," he whispers.

"You're so fucking hard for me already," you tease.

He doesn't respond. He doesn't think he has the words. His hips twitch of their own accord when you take him into your mouth, slow and deliberate. He shivers, pressing his fist against the wall as he lets out an agonized sound. It feels so fucking good he can't think straight, and when you hollow your cheeks to suck him deeper, he thinks he's going to die.

"Shit," he swears. "Like that. Please. Fuck."

Your free hand grips what you can't swallow down, twisting as your spit drips down to ease the slide of your hand. Jihoon squeezes his eyes, trying not to come as you bob your head and suck him leisurely, humming lightly as your tongue scrapes the vein on the underside of his shaft.

The wet sounds of your mouth nearly break him. You take him deeper, throat relaxing as you swallow around him and his hips twitch. He grits his teeth, growling to stop himself from busting, feeling you gag around him and pull back a little.

"Sorry," he rasps. "You're gonna make me come if you do that again."

He glances down at you and thinks he's going to pass out. You're looking up at him with wide eyes, wet with want, mouth covering in spit and come, tongue darting out to wet your lips as you take a breath, hand sliding up and down his length.

"Come here," he growls, yanking you off the floor to crash your mouth into his.

The kiss is messy, spit and come mixed with the taste of you. He doesn't care. He'll take you anyway he can have you, his hands peeling your shirt away, your bra - anything that stops him from palming your warm skin.

Jihoon sinks to the couch and pulls you with him, your knees straddling his thighs. You're warm and soft in his hands, making him groan as you kiss him, fingers tangled in his hair, pussy pressed to his slick shaft. He grunts, fingers digging into your ass as he encourages you grind on him, the friction turning his stomach to static.

He slides a hand between your legs, fingers finding you slick and ready. He let's out a whimper as he circles your clit with feather-light touches that make you crumble, your head falling to his shoulder as your hips chase the friction of his fingers.

"So fucking wet, huh?" He asks, grinning as he kisses your neck. You nod, clinging to him like a life line. "Missed this pussy gripping my fingers. Can I stretch you out, baby?"

You whine and nod, rocking against him. He sucks greedily at the spot underneath your ear as he presses a finger in, the slide easy. You whine and a shiver ripples through you when his finger presses against your front wall, pressing against that spot he's learned over and over.

"Yeah?" He asks. "That the spot?"

"Please."

He doesn't make you wait. He presses another finger in, pumping slowly as you roll your hips to meet his fingers, pussy gripping him hard. He let's out a sound that sounds strangled as he fucks you with his fingers, grinning at the way you writhe for him, still sensitive just like he remembered.

Your mouths tangle again and Jihoon is spinning, his thoughts turning to a staticky mess as he strokes you, loving the way you drip into his hand, loving the way you whimper and can't focus on kissing him, your brows pinched tight, mouth open as you breath hard.

"Feels good," you whisper.

"Good. Come for me like this, baby. Let me hear you."

It doesn't take you long. His fingers are relentless and you shatter around him with a muffled cry in his neck, walls clenching around him. He works you through it, his heart hammering as he presses his mouth to your ear, tongue darting out to ease your lobe.

"That's it, just like that," he whispers, grinning when you nod, dazed.

Before you can catch your breath, you're lifting yourself and grabbing his cock, positioning him at your entrance. He barely registered you've pulled off his hand when you're sinking down on him, his brain whiting out as the heat of you wraps around him.

"Fuck," you swear. "You feel so fucking good."

Jihoon grips your hips, guiding your movements as you start to ride him, slow rolls turning into urgent bounces. His hands roam everywhere he can grab - your ass, your thighs, your tits - he can't keep his hands off of you, like if he lets go he might lose you again.

"Just like that," he groans, planting his feet on the ground to thrust up into you. "Fuck I missed this. Missed you so much."

You lean forward, foreheads pressing together, your breath fanning his lips as you quicken your pace. The couch leather creaks beneath you but he doesn't care, the heat of your skin sliding against his driving him insane, the smell of your skin and the sandalwood driving him to madness.

He wraps his arms around your waist, barring you to him as he fucks up into you hard, knocking you into his chest, your hands sliding against his sweaty shoulders. You make a loud sound and he lets you, uncaring who hears.

"Right there," you gasp. "Please don't stop, fucking asshole - oh my god."

"Yeah?" He grits. "I'm an asshole?"

"Yes!"

He laughs and shifts, lifting you off him. Your surprise is evident but he smiles and turns you around. "Ass up."

You comply, knees on the couch, hands braced on the cushions as he kneels behind you. You look over your shoulder, smirking as he presses the crown of his cock against your entrance.

"Still an ass man?"

He thrusts in hard and your smugness is knocked right out of you as his hands squeeze the globes of your ass. "Yes. Especially for this ass in particular."

Your head drops down as he thrusts in slow, grinding his hips each time he slides in fully. He presses forward, leaning over you to keep his chest pressed to your back, craving the nearness. You lift your head and lean into him, eager to press back as he fucks into you hard, hands grabbing at your hips.

When you beg him to go harder, he does, driving into you as one hand reaches around to toy with your clit, deft fingers circling as you turn into a mess underneath him. He loves the effect he has on you, loves to watch the ice between you all season melt, loves that he can have you like this.

"Come with me," he murmurs, breath shaky. "Please baby."

You nod, the two of you sliding together until you clench around him, squeezing him tight until he spills. Your name is broken on his mouth, his lips pressed to your shoulder, tasting the sweat on your skin. Your hand is reaching back, digging into his wrist, nails leaving crescent moons as you shake underneath him, coming undone.

Carefully, the two of you collapse together, both on your side. His back is against the couch, one arm slung around your waist to keep you from sliding off the couch, the other under your head. The couch barely fits the two of you - made for relaxing, not desperate sex - but neither of you moves to get up.

Jihoon noses the curve of your neck, still damp with sweat, lips brushing the tender spot beneath your ear. He kisses you lazily and you press into him, making him smile into your warm skin.

"Still alive?" He asks, voice rough.

"Barely. You?"

"Dead. I think you killed me." His teeth graze your earlobe playfully. "Worth it."

"Hmm."

He tightens his hold around you, desperate to keep you closer than you've been in months. "I meant what I said earlier. I won't be perfect, but I'll never put you as a permanent second again."

You turn your head just enough to catch the corner of his eye. You examine him before you nod and say, "That's all I've ever asked for."

“I’ll set reminders to not be a dick to my girlfriend. I'll make it a recurring alarm.”

"Girlfriend? Haven't heard that in a while."

He presses a kiss behind your ear, lingering. "Get used to it. I don't make the same mistake twice."

You twist in his arms until you’re facing him, noses almost touching. Even this close, he can't help but think you're the most beautiful woman on the planet. He grins, watching you through his lashes as you reach up to brush strands of sweaty hair from his face.

"You're sticky from champagne," you note.

"You're sticky from cum."

"Ji!"

He laughs deeply for the first time in forever, squeezing you close. You settle against him, the room falling quiet for a bit with the low hum of the air conditioning and the murmur of post-race activity beyond the door. Jihoon almost drifts to sleep when he hears a sound drifting through the door, muffled at first. When it gets louder, he cracks an eye open, recognizing the unmistakable voice of Soonyoung belting at top volume somewhere in the motorhome.

"You're a heartbreaker! Dream maker! Love taker don't you mess around with me!" Soonyoung shouts, the faint sound of the song on speakers somewhere muted somewhere beyond his yelling.

Jihoon’s entire body goes rigid behind you. Then you start laughing, slapping a hand over your mouth to muffle your voice as you lose it. The tension bleeds out of him as Soonyoung continues into the second verse, his voice moving around the building, a traveling circus.

"Of course he's singing that fucking song," Jihoon groans."

“Heartbreaker! Dream maker! Every time I think of you-"

You're laughing so hard you're nearly doubled over in his arms, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Jihoon groans as you clutch your stomach, Soonyoung's voice cracking beyond the door.

"I hate him," Jihoon sighs.

"I actually think he's really good for you. He looks up to you, you know?"

"I guess."

"Come on," you tease, trying to free yourself from his arms. "Let's join."

"No!"

"Team bonding."

"I bonded when he kissed my forehead already."

"Jihoon."

He sighs and lets you stand, staring at the ceiling. "Fine."

Looking up at you, Jihoon can't help but smile, his entire world finally settling, the pieces falling back into place where they belong. All he had to do was stop trying to control it and let it happen. He watches you get dressed, entranced with the way you move, the way you smile at him.

Chris had never been particularly fond of his curly hair, often opting to straighten it since it was easier to manage and deal with. The constant heat styling and bleaching had become routine; a small price to pay for the convenience of low-maintenance mornings and predictable styling. That changed, however, when he met you.

You took genuine pride in your curls and your hair care routine, no matter how long or expensive it was. He’d watch in fascination as you worked through each step with the precision of a scientist and the care of an artist—leave-in conditioner(not always), curl creams and moisturizers,defining brushes, defining gels, diffusing, oils amongst other things he definitely forgot. You spoke about porosity and protein moisture balance like they were actually important and somehow, you made him believe they were.

He remembers the first time he’d let you wash and style his hair. He’d been at your place, running your fingers through it absently while you watched a movie together, when you’d suddenly sat up and declared that his hair felt “absolutely fried” from all the bleaching and straightening. Before he could protest, you’d already pulled him into the bathroom, armed with an arsenal of products and unwavering determination.

That first experience had been revelatory. The way your fingers had massaged his scalp, the careful attention you’d paid to every strand, the genuine excitement in your eyes when his natural curl pattern started to emerge—it had been intoxicating. Needless to say, Chris had become thoroughly spoiled after that.

Now, whenever his hair needed a breather or some pampering, you’d become his personal hairdresser. He’d show up at your door with that boyish smile and puppy-dog eyes, asking if you had time for a “quick wash,” though you both knew there was nothing quick about your process.

Not that you were complaining. You hadn’t paid for your own hair care products in the longest time and that was entirely because Chris insisted on covering the costs. “If I’m benefiting from them too, I should pay,” he’d argued, waving away your protests as he added yet another expensive curl cream to the online cart. The arrangement had quickly evolved into him replacing your products before you even ran out, his bathroom slowly accumulating its own collection that mirrored yours.

It’s what has you in your current situation; standing in his bathroom with his head leaned back over the sink as you work shampoo through his dark curls. Water runs through your fingers as you massage his scalp in slow, deliberate circles, working the product into a luxurious lather. His hair is longer now than when you first met, the curls springy and healthy after months of proper care.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you chide, catching his gaze fixed upward. “I told you to close your eyes because you always get soap in them.”

“I’m looking at your tiddies if I’m being honest.” The corner of his mouth quirks up in an unapologetic smirk, his eyes still very much open and not at all focused on anything resembling your face. “You don’t really expect me to keep my eyes closed for long when they’re all up in my face, do you?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks as you realize the somewhat compromising position; you leaned over him, the neckline of your shirt offering a view you hadn’t considered when you’d started this whole operation. You flick water at his face in retaliation.

“Christopher!” you gasp, trying to sound scandalized despite the laugh threatening to escape. “You’re impossible. Close your eyes or I’m going to get soap in them on purpose.”

“Worth it,” he declares shamelessly, though he does finally let his eyes flutter closed, that self-satisfied grin still playing on his lips. “But for the record, this is my favorite part of wash day.”

“Getting your hair washed?”

“Having you take care of me,” he corrects, his voice softer now, more sincere. “Though the view doesn’t hurt.”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it but you can’t quite suppress your smile as you continue working the shampoo through his curls, your touch perhaps a bit more tender than before. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“And that I pay for your products,” he adds helpfully.

“That too,” you agree and his quiet laughter vibrates through your fingertips where they rest against his scalp, warm and familiar and entirely too comfortable with making your heart skip beats.

“You’re still staring, Christopher.”

The use of his full name makes his grin widen rather than diminish. He doesn’t even pretend to look apologetic.

“You’re pretty.”

The simple statement, delivered with such casual sincerity, makes your breath catch for just a moment. You try to recover quickly, focusing intently on working the shampoo through a particularly stubborn section of curls near his temple.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” you manage, though your voice comes out softer than you intended, betraying the effect his words have on you.

“Are your lips as soft as they look?”

Your fingers pause in his hair as you look down at him, soap suds forgotten. His eyes are already on you; not wandering anymore but fixed with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. There’s something different in his gaze now, something that transforms the playful banter into something heavier, more charged. The bathroom suddenly feels smaller, warmer, the sound of running water fading into background noise.

“You’re teasing me,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. Your fingers slowly start back massaging but it’s almost automatic now, your mind entirely focused on the way he’s looking at you.

But he’s still staring; not at your chest anymore but at your lips with an attention that feels almost tangible. His tongue darts out to wet his own lips unconsciously, and you track the movement despite yourself.

“I’m really not,” Chris replies, his voice lower now, rougher. There’s no trace of his earlier playfulness. “I’ve been wanting to know for a while now, actually.”

The confession hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication. Water drips from his hair, running down the side of his face but neither of you move to wipe it away. Your hands are still buried in his curls, his head still tilted back over the sink but the position that seemed so innocent moments ago now feels intimate in an entirely different way.

“Chris…” you start, though you’re not sure what you’re planning to say—a warning, an encouragement, something to break the tension or maybe give in to it.

“Can I?” he asks and there’s a vulnerability in the question that makes your heart stutter. “Kiss you, I mean. I’ve been thinking about it every time you do this. Every time you touch my hair, every time you get close, every time you smile at me when my curls turn out good.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “Actually, I think about it pretty much all the time.”

Your breath hitches. The bathroom feels impossibly warm now, steam from the running water curling around you both, or maybe that’s just the heat of the moment. His eyes search yours, patient despite the wanting written clearly across his features.

“You still have shampoo in your hair,” you point out weakly, even as your hands slide down from his curls to cup his face, your thumbs brushing along his cheekbones.

His smile is soft, hopeful. “I don’t care.”

“It’s going to get everywhere…”

“I really don’t care,” he repeats and there’s such certainty in his voice that you can’t help but believe him.

You lean down slowly, giving him every opportunity to change his mind, to laugh it off as a joke. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts his head slightly from the sink, meeting you halfway with an eagerness that makes you smile against his lips just before they touch.

The kiss is soft, tentative—a question and an answer all at once. His lips are warm and gentle against yours, moving with a carefulness that makes your chest ache. One of his hands comes up to cup the back of your neck and you can’t even bring yourself to care about the mess.

When you pull back, it’s only barely, your forehead resting against his as you both breathe unevenly. His eyes flutter open, dark and warm and full of something that looks a lot like wonder.

“Softer,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking along your jaw. “Definitely softer than they look.”

You laugh, the sound breathy and a little unsteady. “You’re going to get soap in your eyes after all.”

“Worth it,”

Somehow you’ve moved—or been moved—from standing over the sink to straddling him on the computer chair he’d dragged in from his bedroom earlier, claiming he wanted to be comfortable during the “long process.” Your fingers are still buried in his shampoo-lathered hair, working through the curls more on instinct than conscious thought now, while his hands have found their home on the curve of your ass, holding you firmly against him.

The kiss starts slow, almost sweet—a gentle exploration of lips and breath but it doesn’t stay that way. Chris’ fingers flex against you, pulling you closer and you respond by pressing down into his lap, feeling the growing evidence of his interest beneath you. The small noise he makes against your mouth sends heat pooling low in your belly.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips, requesting entry and you grant it without hesitation. The kiss deepens, turns hungry. Your fingers tighten in his hair and he groans; whether from the scalp massage or the kiss or the way you’re grinding down against him now, you’re not sure. Probably all three.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth when you pull back for air, his pupils blown wide, lips already kiss-swollen and wet. His hands slide up your sides, under your shirt, palms hot against your skin. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Show me,” you challenge and his eyes darken further.

He kisses you again, harder this time, all teeth and tongue and desperation. One hand tangles in your hair while the other grips your hip, guiding you to rock against him in a rhythm that has you both panting. You can feel him hard and thick beneath you, the friction even through layers of clothing making your head spin.

Your hands slide from his hair down his neck, his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex as he holds you. Soap suds transfer onto his shirt, onto your arms, neither of you caring about the mess. His mouth leaves yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your neck, finding that sensitive spot just below your ear that makes you gasp and arch into him.

“Chris,” you whimper and the sound of his name seems to undo something in him.

He sucks a mark into your neck, his teeth grazing the skin before his tongue soothes the sting. Your hips roll against him with more urgency now, chasing friction and his grip tightens almost to the point of pain—grounding and possessive and perfect.

“You feel so good,” he groans against your throat, his breath hot and ragged. “So fucking good and we’re not even—” He cuts himself off with another kiss, this one filthy and demanding, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes you clench around nothing.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt and slip beneath it, nails dragging up his abs, feeling them contract under your touch. He hisses against your mouth, his hips bucking up involuntarily and the pressure against your core makes you moan.

“Want you,” he pants, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to maintain some semblance of control. “Been wanting you so fucking bad.”

You grind down harder, deliberate and his control visibly frays. His hands slide to your thighs, gripping hard enough to leave marks, encouraging the movement. The chair creaks beneath you with the motion and some distant part of your brain registers that you’re making a complete mess; soap dripping from his hair onto both of you, water spots on your shirt, the whole situation absolutely ridiculous.

But then Chris’ mouth finds yours again, his tongue sliding deep and you forget to care about anything else. One of his hands moves between your bodies, palming himself through his sweats before his fingers find the button of your jeans—

“Wait,” you gasp, pulling back with what feels like superhuman effort. You’re both breathing hard, lips swollen, pupils dilated. His hand freezes where it is. “Your hair.”

He blinks at you, looking dazed and thoroughly debauched. “What?”

“The shampoo,” you manage, your voice wrecked. “I need to rinse it out before it dries. And we haven’t even done conditioner yet.”

For a moment, he just stares at you like you’ve spoken another language. Then he laughs, the sound breathless and slightly hysterical. “You’re thinking about my hair care routine right now?”

“I’m always thinking about hair care,” you counter, though you make no move to get off his lap just yet. “And you dragged me in here to wash your hair, so we’re finishing what we started.”

His hands slide up your back, still under your shirt, his touch possessive even as his expression turns playful again. “We can finish other things after?” He nips at your neck, teeth grazing skin that’s already sensitized from his earlier attention.

The promise in his voice makes heat flare through you again. “After,” you agree, finally climbing off his lap on unsteady legs. “Now lean back over the sink before I have to clarify your hair all over again.”

He groans but complies, adjusting himself obviously in his sweats before leaning back over the sink. The outline of him is impossible to miss and you watch his hand linger there for just a moment, applying pressure before he forces himself to grip the arm of the chair instead. “You’re cruel,” he informs you, tilting his head back under the running water.

“And you’re about to have the best conditioned curls of your life,” you reply, trying to ignore how your hands shake slightly as you begin rinsing the shampoo away, white suds swirling down the drain. Your fingers work through his hair methodically, making sure to get every trace of product out. “So stop complaining and maybe I’ll show you what else my mouth can do.”

The words hang in the steamy air between you and you feel rather than see the way his entire body goes taut. His hands grip the armrest of the chair so hard his knuckles go white and when he speaks, his voice is strained.

“You can’t just say shit like that and expect me to stay still.”

“I expect you to stay still because you want your hair to look good,” you counter, your fingers working through his curls with practiced efficiency, even as your heart races. “And because you know good things come to those who wait.”

“I’ve been waiting,” he grumbles, but there’s heat in his voice rather than real complaint. “Feels like I’ve been waiting forever.”

The water runs clear, all traces of shampoo finally gone but you keep rinsing, taking your time, making him wait just a little bit longer. Your fingers massage his scalp in slow, deliberate circles and you’re rewarded with a low groan that he doesn’t quite manage to suppress.

“That’s not fair,” he mutters, his eyes still closed, though whether it’s to keep water out or because he’s trying to maintain his composure, you’re not sure.

“What’s not fair?”

“You know what you’re doing to me.” His voice is rough, edged with frustration and want. “You’re dragging this out on purpose.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” you reply innocently, even as your fingers trail down to the nape of his neck, nails scratching lightly. “I’m just being thorough.”

His hips shift against the chair and you know he’s seeking friction, trying to relieve some of the pressure. The knowledge that you’re affecting him this much sends a thrill through you.

When you finally—finally—reach for the conditioner, your movements are deliberately slow. You pump the product into your palm, the soft scent of shea butter and coconut filling the bathroom and take your time warming it between your hands.

“Are you serious right now?” His eyes open, fixing on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. “You’re really going to make me sit through the entire routine?”

“You asked me to wash your hair,” you remind him, beginning to work the conditioner through his curls, starting at the ends like you always do. “And I’m going to do it properly.”

“I’m starting to regret that decision,” he says, but his eyes flutter closed again when your fingers reach his scalp, working the product in with the same methodical care you always use.

“Liar,” you murmur, leaning closer. Your breath ghosts across his ear and you feel him shiver. “You love this.”

“I love you touching me,” he corrects, his voice dropping lower. “I love your hands in my hair. I love the way you’re looking at me right now, like you want to devour me but you’re making yourself wait.”

Your hands pause for just a moment before continuing their work. “And what if I do want to devour you?”

His eyes snap open, dark and heated. “Then stop torturing me with hair care and do it already.”

“Patience,” you chide, though your own voice has gone breathy. You work the conditioner through another section of curls, your movements perhaps a bit less steady than before. “Good curls require time and attention.”

“So do I,” he counters and there’s a hint of a whine in his voice that makes you smile despite the heat pooling in your belly.

You let the conditioner sit, your fingers playing idly with his curls, no longer pretending there’s a technical reason for the touch. His eyes track your every movement, watching the way your hands move through his hair, the way your teeth catch your lower lip in concentration.

“You’re killing me,” he says quietly and this time there’s no humor in it, just raw honesty. “Standing there looking like that, touching me like this, saying things that make me want to throw you over my shoulder and—”

“And what?” you prompt, your fingers stilling in his hair.

He holds your gaze, something challenging flickering in his expression. “And make good on every promise in that pretty mouth of yours.”

Heat floods through you at his words, at the way he’s looking at you like he’s two seconds away from doing exactly that. The air between you feels charged, electric, heavy with anticipation.

“Let me rinse this out,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “And then we’ll see about those promises.”

“How long does it need to sit?” he asks, and there’s definitely a whine in his voice now.

You glance at the bottle, then back at him with a smile that you know is pure wickedness. “Five to seven minutes.”

The groan he lets out is so pained, so genuinely frustrated, that you almost take pity on him. Almost.

Instead, you lean down, bringing your face close to his, your lips barely an inch from his own. “Tick tock, Christopher,” you whisper, and then you pull back, leaving him staring after you with an expression caught somewhere between agony and anticipation.

You make a show of washing your hands, of checking your phone for the time, of doing absolutely anything except acknowledging the way his eyes bore into you. Every second stretches out, thick and heavy with tension, and you can practically feel the restraint it’s taking for him to stay still.

“Time’s up,” you finally announce and the speed with which he tilts his head back over the sink is almost comical.

Your fingers return to his hair, working out the conditioner with the same care and attention you’ve shown throughout the entire process. But this time, there’s an urgency underlying your movements, a barely contained anticipation that matches the tension radiating from him.

The conditioner rinses away, leaving his curls soft and perfectly defined beneath your fingertips. You run your hands through one more time, making absolutely sure there’s no product left, before reaching for a towel.

“Done?” he asks and his voice is so hopeful, so desperate, that you can’t help but laugh.

“Almost.” You wrap the towel around his hair, gently squeezing out excess water. “Just need to—”

But before you can finish the sentence, he’s standing, turning, backing you against the bathroom counter. His hair is still wrapped in the towel, water droplets running down his neck and he’s never looked more beautiful than he does right now; thoroughly disheveled and looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“Hair’s done,” he says, his voice rough. “Now, about those promises…”

“Chris, I still need to add products and dry—”

“Turn around.”

His voice has dropped to something darker, more commanding and it sends a shiver down your spine despite the warmth of the bathroom. You hesitate, your hand still holding the towel wrapped around his head.

“Chris—”

“What’d I just say, nena?”

The endearment rolls off his tongue with an edge that makes your knees weak. His hands find your hips, firm and insistent, and suddenly you’re being guided to turn, to face the mirror above the sink. Your breath catches as you meet his eyes in the reflection—dark, heated, filled with intent.

“Your hair—” you try again but your protest sounds weak even to your own ears.

“Will still be there in ten minutes,” he finishes for you, stepping closer until his chest is pressed against your back, until you can feel every line of him against you. His hands slide from your hips to splay across your stomach, holding you in place. “Right now, I need you to stop talking about my hair and start making good on what you promised me.”

His lips find the side of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat and your head tilts back automatically, giving him better access. In the mirror, you watch his hands move up your body, watch the way your own breath quickens, the way your pupils dilate.

“I didn’t promise anything,” you manage, though your voice comes out breathy and unconvincing.

“No?” His teeth graze your earlobe, and one hand slides higher, fingers ghosting just beneath the swell of your breast. “So you weren’t suggesting that your mouth could do other things? Because I’ve been thinking about that—about you on your knees for me—for a while now.”

Heat floods through you, pooling low and insistent. Your hands grip the edge of the counter, knuckles going white.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs against your ear, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror. Despite the command in his voice, despite the way his hands are mapping your body like he’s memorizing it, there’s a question there. Consent wrapped in dominance. “Tell me you want me as much as I want you.”

You hold his gaze in the reflection, see the want and the restraint warring in his expression. The towel is still wrapped around his hair, slightly askew now and there’s something absurdly endearing about it; this moment of raw desire interrupted by hair care, now resuming with even more intensity.

“I want you,” you breathe and watch the way his eyes darken further, the way his grip on you tightens. “I want this.”

“Good,” he says, his voice rough with satisfaction. His hand slides up to cup your jaw, turning your face toward him so he can capture your lips in a kiss that’s all heat and promise. “Because I’m done waiting.”

When he pulls back, you’re both breathing hard. His thumb traces your lower lip, his eyes following the movement with rapt attention.

“Now,” he says, his voice dropping even lower, “get on your knees for me, nena. Show me what that pretty mouth can do.”

The command sends liquid heat straight through you. Your legs feel unsteady as you turn to face him fully, his hand falling away from your jaw but his eyes never leaving yours. There’s something intoxicating about the way he’s looking at you; like he’s been starving and you’re the first meal he’s seen in days.

Slowly, deliberately, you sink down to your knees on the bathroom mat. The tile is cool through the fabric but you barely notice, too focused on the way his breath stutters, the way his hand reaches out to brace against the counter like he needs the support.

From this angle, he’s overwhelming. You’re eye-level with the very obvious bulge straining against his grey sweats, the fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide how affected he is. Your mouth waters at the sight and when you look up at him through your lashes, you find him staring down at you with an expression that’s pure hunger.

“Fuck,” he breathes and the rawness in his voice makes you clench. His free hand comes up to pull the towel from his hair, tossing it carelessly aside. Damp curls fall around his face, messy and perfect and he’s never looked better. “You look so good like this. Been dreaming about this.”

“Yeah?” You lean forward, pressing your palms against his thighs, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch. “Tell me what you’ve been dreaming about.”

His hand moves to your hair, fingers threading through it, not pushing but holding a promise of control. “You really want to know?”

“Every detail,” you say, your hands sliding higher, fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweats.

He groans, hips shifting forward involuntarily. “I think about this every time you touch my hair. Every time you lean over me, every time your fingers massage my scalp…I imagine them somewhere else. I imagine your mouth on me, those pretty lips wrapped around my cock while I watch in the mirror.”

Your breath catches at his words, at the explicit honesty of them. You look up at him, finding his eyes blazing, his jaw tight with restraint.

“I think about how good you’d look with tears in your eyes because I’m too deep but you take it anyway because you want to make me feel good,” he continues, his voice getting rougher with each word. “I think about how sweet you’d sound choking on it, how pretty you’d be when I come down your throat.”

“Chris,” you breathe and you’re not sure if it’s a protest or encouragement or just his name torn from you by the sheer want his words inspire.

“Too much?” he asks and despite the dominance in his voice, there’s genuine concern there too.

You shake your head, your fingers tightening on his waistband. “Not enough. I want it all.”

Something in him breaks at that, what little restraint he’d been clinging to snapping like a thread pulled too tight. His hand tightens in your hair, not painful but firm, guiding.

“Then take them off,” he commands, his voice steady despite the way you can see his chest heaving. “And show me how good you can be for me.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you pull at his sweats, dragging them down his hips along with his boxers. He springs free, thick and hard and already leaking, and the sight of him makes your mouth water. He’s bigger than you expected, flushed and pretty, and you can’t help but lean forward, pressing a kiss to his hip, then lower, teasing.

“Don’t tease,” he warns, his grip in your hair tightening just enough to make your scalp tingle. “You’ve made me wait long enough.”

You look up at him, holding his gaze as you finally—finally—wrap your hand around him. He’s hot and heavy in your palm and the sound he makes when you stroke him once, twice, is absolutely obscene.

“Fuck, yes,” he hisses, his free hand bracing harder against the counter. “Just like that.”

But you want more than that. You want to see him fall apart, want to reduce him to nothing but sensation and need. So you lean forward, maintaining eye contact and drag your tongue along the underside of his length, base to tip, feeling him pulse against your lips.

“Holy shit,” he gasps, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. “Your mouth—”

You cut him off by taking him in, wrapping your lips around the head and sucking gently. The taste of him floods your tongue—salt and skin and pure Chris—and you moan around him, the vibration making him curse again.

“Look at you,” he groans and you realize he’s angled himself so he can see in the mirror; can watch you on your knees for him, can watch the way your lips stretch around him. “So fucking perfect. Taking me so well.”

Encouraged by his words, you take him deeper, relaxing your throat, using every trick you know. Your hand works what you can’t fit and you set a rhythm that has him panting above you, his fingers flexing in your hair.

“That’s it, nena,” he praises, his voice strained. “Just like that. So good for me, so fucking good—”

You hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, and his control visibly wavers. His hips start to move, shallow thrusts that you encourage by relaxing further, letting him take what he needs.

“Can I—” he starts, then groans when you take him particularly deep. “Can I fuck your mouth? Please, I need—”

You pull off just long enough to gasp, “Yes, use me,” before taking him back in and the sound he makes is somewhere between a curse and a prayer.

His grip in your hair becomes purposeful now, holding you steady as he starts to thrust. It’s slow at first, careful but when you look up at him with watering eyes and moan around him, his restraint cracks further.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he pants, moving faster now, deeper. “Feel so good, so perfect, fuck—”

Tears are streaming down your face now, your jaw aching in the best way and you’ve never felt more powerful than you do in this moment; on your knees but completely in control of his pleasure, reducing him to desperate sounds and broken praise.

“Close,” he warns, his movements becoming erratic. “I’m so close, where—”

You double your efforts, sucking harder, taking him deeper, making your intentions clear.

“Fuck, fuck, fuckkk—” His words dissolve into a groan as he comes, spilling hot and thick down your throat. You swallow around him, working him through it until he’s shaking, until his hand in your hair goes gentle, almost reverent.

When you finally pull off, his eyes are glazed, his chest heaving and he looks thoroughly wrecked. You sit back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and the way he’s staring at you—like you’ve just given him religion—makes every second worth it.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes finally, reaching down to help you to your feet. Your knees protest the movement but then his mouth is on yours, kissing you deep and dirty, tasting himself on your tongue. “You’re incredible. That was…you’re—”

“Good?” you supply with a smile, your voice rough.

“Transcendent,” he corrects, pulling back to look at you properly. His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away the tears there with such tenderness it makes your chest ache. “But now we have a problem.”

“What’s that?”

His eyes darken again, heat already building anew despite what just happened. “I need to return the favor. Need to make you feel as good as you just made me feel. And then—” his hand slides down your body, cupping between your legs and even through your jeans the pressure makes you gasp, “I need to fuck you properly. Think you can handle that?”

Your breath catches at the promise in his voice. “What about your hair?”

He laughs, the sound bright and genuine, before kissing you again. “Fuck my hair. It can air dry. Right now, the only thing I care about is getting you out of these clothes and making you scream my name.”

And with the way he’s looking at you, the way his hands are already working at your button, you’re inclined to let him do exactly that.

“Lemme at least put some moisturizer in it.”

“Do it with my head between your legs ‘cause I’m not waiting.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before he’s moving, hands gripping your hips and lifting you onto the bathroom counter in one fluid motion before pulling up his chair and dropping onto it.

“Chris—”

“Reach for your products,” he interrupts, already working at the button of your jeans with practiced efficiency. “You wanted to do your hair routine? Fine but like this.”

Heat floods through you as he yanks your jeans down your legs, taking your underwear with them. The cool air of the bathroom hits your overheated skin, making you shiver but then his hands are on your thighs, spreading them apart, resting them on the armrests of the chair and suddenly you can’t think about anything else.

“Chris, oh my god—” Your hand fumbles behind you for the moisturizer bottle on the counter, nearly knocking it over in your haste.

“That’s it,” he encourages, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses up your inner thigh. “Get what you need but don’t you dare ask me to stop.”

You manage to grab the bottle, your hands shaking as you pump product into your palm but the moment you reach for his hair, the moment your fingers make contact with his damp curls, he leans forward and licks a stripe right through your center and you nearly drop the entire bottle.

“Fuck!” The word tears from you, your free hand immediately flying to grip the edge of the counter for stability.

“Keep going,” he murmurs against you, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. “Work it through my hair like you always do. Nice and slow. Thorough.”

“You can’t—I can’t—” Your protest dissolves into a moan as his tongue finds your clit, circling it with maddening precision.

“You can,” he counters, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in. “You’re good at multitasking, remember? All those lectures about proper technique?”

Your fingers thread through his curls, trembling as you try to work the product through like you normally would—sectioning, smoothing, scrunching to define—but it’s nearly impossible when his mouth is doing sinful things to you, when his tongue is alternating between broad strokes and focused attention that has your thighs shaking.

“Baby, please—” You’re not sure what you’re begging for anymore. For him to stop so you can concentrate? For him to never stop? Both seem equally urgent.

“Please what, nena?” His words vibrate against you, and the sensation makes you gasp. “You wanted to finish the routine. So finish it.”

There’s a challenge in his voice, even muffled as it is, and something in you rises to meet it. Your hands move with more purpose now, working through another section of his hair, smoothing the product from root to tip, combing the defining brush through then scrunching to encourage his curl pattern; all while he’s eating you out like a man starving.

“That’s my girl,” he praises when you manage to complete a section and the words combined with a particularly wicked flick of his​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ tongue has you crying out. “Doing so good for me. Keep going.”

Your head falls back against the mirror, your free hand fisting in his hair; less for styling purposes now and more to hold on, to ground yourself. He doesn’t seem to mind—if anything it spurs him on—his hands gripping your thighs harder, holding you open for him.

“Almost done,” you gasp out, your movements becoming more erratic as pleasure builds hot and insistent in your core. “Just need to—ay dio, right there—”

He hums in acknowledgment, focusing his attention exactly where you need it and your hands are shaking so badly now you can barely hold the bottle. You manage to pump out more product, manage to work it through the final section of his hair with movements that are more instinct than technique.

“There,” you breathe, dropping the bottle carelessly. “Done, I’m done—”

“Good,” he growls against you and then both his hands are on you, one sliding up to palm your breast while the other joins his mouth, fingers teasing your entrance before sliding inside. “Now you can stop thinking about my hair and focus on this. On me. On how good I’m making you feel.”

And god, he is. His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes you see stars, while his tongue works your clit with relentless precision. The combination is overwhelming, devastating and you can feel yourself hurtling toward the edge embarrassingly fast.

“That’s it,” he encourages, feeling you clench around his fingers. “Let go for me. Wanna feel you come on my tongue, wanna taste you—”

His words, combined with the addition of another finger, the way he sucks your clit into his mouth, send you flying over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your back arching off the mirror, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, a curse, a benediction.

He works you through it, gentling his touch as you come down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones, anywhere he can reach. When you finally open your eyes, still panting, you find him looking up at you with the most self-satisfied smirk you’ve ever seen.

“How’s my hair look?” he asks and you can’t help but laugh, breathless and slightly hysterical.

“Like you just got fucked,” you manage, taking in his thoroughly mussed curls, some sections clearly more defined than others, the whole thing slightly chaotic. “But honestly? It works for you.”

“Yeah?” He rises from the chair, settling between your legs and you can see he’s already hard again, heavy and flushed against his stomach. “Well, it’s gonna look even worse in a few minutes.”

“Oh?” You reach for him, wrapping your hand around his length—after you wash it—and revel in the way his breath stutters. “And why’s that?”

“Because,” he says, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tastes like you, “I’m about to fuck you right here on this counter and I have a feeling you’re gonna pull it pretty hard.”

The promise in his words sends another wave of heat through you. “Bold of you to assume I’m a hair puller.”

“Nena,” he says, positioning himself at your entrance, the head of his cock teasing through your wetness, making you both gasp, “after what we just did? I know exactly what you are.”

And then he’s pushing inside, slow and steady and so perfectly filling that you do exactly what he predicted; your hands fly to his hair, gripping those carefully moisturized curls, and pull.

The sound he makes is absolutely worth ruining your styling work.

“Fuck,” he groans, his hips stuttering as he sinks deeper. “Do that again.”

You oblige, tugging at his hair as he bottoms out and his forehead drops to yours, his breathing ragged. “You feel so good,” he mutters, pulling back only to thrust in again, harder this time. “So fucking perfect around me.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, urging him deeper, faster. The counter is hard and cold against your ass but you barely notice, too focused on the delicious drag of him inside you, the way he’s hitting that perfect spot with every thrust.

“More,” you gasp, your nails scraping against his scalp and he responds immediately, his pace becoming punishing, desperate. One hand braces against the mirror beside your head, the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise and the slight pain only adds to the pleasure.

“This what you wanted?” he pants against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Wanted me to fuck you like this? Ruin you on this counter?”

“Yes,” you moan, your head falling back against the mirror with a dull thunk. “God, yes, Chris—”

His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sounds, his tongue sliding against yours in rhythm with his thrusts. It’s messy, desperate, perfect—all teeth and tongue and shared breath.

“Touch yourself,” he commands, pulling back just enough to watch your face. “Want to feel you come around my cock.”

Your hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit and the added stimulation combined with the angle of his thrusts has you trembling, teetering on the edge already.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice strained. “Can feel you getting tighter. Come for me, baby. Lemme feel it.”

A few more circles of your fingers, a few more perfectly angled thrusts and you’re shattering around him, crying out his name as pleasure whites out your vision. Your walls clench around him rhythmically and the sensation pulls him over the edge with you.

“Fuck, fuck—” His hips stutter, burying himself as deep as possible as he comes, spilling hot inside you. His face is buried in your neck and you can feel his lips forming words against your skin; a mixture of your name and curses and praise that makes your chest tight.

You stay like that for a long moment, both of you trying to catch your breath, hearts pounding in sync. Eventually, he lifts his head and the look on his face—sated and soft and a little awed—makes you smile.

“So,” you say, your voice rough and thoroughly used, “how’s the hair?”

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours and reaches up to run his fingers through his curls. They spring back, perfectly defined despite—or maybe because of—your rough handling.

“Actually looks pretty good,” he admits, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm. “Might need to incorporate this into the routine.”

“What, the sex or the multitasking?”

“Both,” he says with that devastating grin.“Definitely both.”

"So, you dated him?"

The sudden question made Haru's fingers freeze over the keyboard of her laptop. She blinked, caught off guard before turning to her supervisor, who had her chin propped lazily on one hand, lips curving into a teasing smirk.

Currently, they were isolated inside the meeting room to arrange some documents since the intern that was given the task called for a sick leave due allergy reaction.

"That guy." Jiho jutted her chin subtly toward the glass window of the room, directing Haru's gaze to a familiar figure outside.

Through the clear panel, Haru saw Wonwoo seated at his desk, his posture awkwardly stiff with his eyes narrowed in deep concentration at his monitor. His brow furrowed slightly as if he were solving world peace instead of preparing reports.

"Ah. Well, yeah. Sort of."

"Sort of?" Jiho raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound very exciting."

Haru chuckled lightly, shrugging her shoulders carelessly. "It just... happened. I'm not even sure how to explain it."

"Who confessed first?" Jiho pressed, clearly invested. "I'd be surprised if he did because let's be honest, he's cute but he's a bit emotionally constipated, don't you think? Are you the one initiated the first move?"

Haru swallowed, unsure of how to answer to those questions.

The so-called 'confession' was more like a casual pact made over two working adults at a bus stop after hours of gaming under a street drinking tent. Jiho would definitely found it ridiculous if Haru chose to be truthful.

But before she could make up a believable lie, a knock on the meeting room door interrupted the conversation. Wonwoo stepped in with a black file in hand.

"New file in," he said flatly.

Jiho waved him off. "Just place it in front of Haru with the rest."

He complied without question, neatly aligning the file on the growing stack.

Then Jiho, still riding the wave of nosy energy, grinned devilishly. "Hey, Wonwoo!"

Wonwoo straighten up to meet her, brows slightly arching at the sudden call out.

Out of the blue, Jiho wrapped an arm around Haru's shoulders and squished their faces together, her cheek pressing into Haru's in exaggerated affection. "Haru's cute, right?"

...

"She's... okay," Wonwoo responded.

Plainly. His face muscles barely moved as he answered to it that even Jiho looks offended on Haru's behalf.

The male doesn't even wait for any reaction as he simply turned his heels around and walk out the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

There was a moment of stillness. Even the sound of the clock ticking on the wall behind them louder than anything else. Jiho turned to her, scandalized. "What was that!?"

Haru blinked. "What was what?"

"Just look at him!" She half yelled, her hand gesturing wildly towards the door where his ghost remained. "He didn't even blink! Not a flinch, not a twitch like...! I-Is he emotionally sedated or are you two just messing with me!?"

A sheepish grin tugged at Haru's lips as she decided to keep everything to herself where she agreed to date Wonwoo simply because he's willing to be her personal chaffeur to any of her fan event. So, she just let her supervisor to fill in the blank herself.

"God, I can't believe it!" Jiho scoffed in frustration, now turning to resume organizing the files and documents in front of her. Haru chuckled.

"It's okay. I grew up with him. I'm used to it," She said, not paying attention if Jiho even bother to hear her.

Then as if its on cue, her phone rang with a reminder for their lunch break of the day.

"It's lunch time. Shall we go somewhere to have lunch together?" Haru suggested. Jiho reached for her phone, scrolling for a bit before she nod.

"Yeah. Cheol had to join a lunch meeting outside the company so I guess I'm available,"

Cheol? Haru assumed that he probably the same guy who was with Wonwoo during that first cafeteria encounter on the other day.

Without another word, the two gathered their things and stepped out from the meeting room, walking into the hum of the office hallway towards the company's cafeteria.

****

****

The next morning, Haru pushed through the glass doors while balancing her iced Americano in one hand and her tote bag slung over her shoulder. As she made her way to her desk, she instinctively glanced over at the adjacent row, expecting to see Wonwoo hunched over his monitor, probably wearing those noise-cancelling headphones he lowkey bragged about for how good quality it is and that it is one of his best purchase he had done in his lifetime.

But, she met with an empty seat instead.

Haru blinked, and blinked again.

'Maybe he's late,' she thought at first and decided to shrug it off for now.

An hour ticked by. The working hour has long started and yet, the sight of his unattended desk felt bizarrely unsettling for her.

She finally turned to Jiho, who was halfway through sipping on her own 3-in-1 coffee she had stole from the pantry earlier, her eyes busy scrolling through rows of texts on her monitor.

"Sorry for asking but... is Wonwoo on leave today?"

Jiho looked up, mildly confused. "Huh? Oh. Right. He's not in."

"...Yeah, I can see that," Haru muttered, lips curling in a dry line. "Do you know why?"

Jiho shrugged, spinning her chair slightly. "Nope. Didn't mention anything since yesterday either. Maybe he took a sudden leave? He's not the type to ghost work, though." She said.

But then, Jiho sent her another confusing look, brows knitting together. "Wait, why are you asking me this? You're his girlfriend. I thought you're supposed to know,"

"I tried texting him but there's no reply," She admitted.

Jiho leaned slightly against her seat, arms crossing across her chest. "Honestly, I couldn't make up any possibilities. Maybe he just slept in and forgot to inform you?"

Haru let out a laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah. Hopefully."

But even as she tried to shake it off, her mind still spiraled. She sat back at her desk, pulling up her phone. Her fingers tapping the screen few times before she came across the tweet replying to Jiho a few days ago.

The one mentioning that her ideal type is more of a man like Choi Seungcheol rather that him..

Even after she had replied to his quote tweet, he never respond afterward.

God, no way he's being petty about that, right? she thought, her teeth biting the tip of her nail. No way he's that dramatic. Is he?

She remembered one of her exes who once ghosted her for two days because she praised a male actor during a movie night. It was petty and possessive and completely absurd but somehow, jealousy could make people irrational no matter how ridiculous it sounds.

Was Wonwoo the jealous type? He never struck her as one. But then again, she never really understood him either even if she already knew him for years as a kid.

****

After a long consideration, Haru decided to take a taxi all the way from her home to his that weekend. She has to see him. To confirm it with her eyes, to hear it verbally from his own mouth.

Haru found herself standing in front of Wonwoo's apartment by the evening, her palms already turned clammy, her heart drumming inside her chest due to the ovewhelming nerves. She knocked softly at first.

"Wonwoo?"

There is no answer. She tried again, this time a little more harder with her voice calling him out a little more louder.

"Wonwoo! It's me! Can you open the door please?"

But once again, she was left with nothing. And for some reason, the anxiety overpowered her that she began to bang her fist mercilessly against the door.

"Wonwoo, I'm sorry okay!? I swear I didn't mean it like that! I'm sorry if my tweet offended you badly, I promised I'll try to read the room, okay!? Please! Open the door! I don't want this to be the reason you ended up dumping me!" She cried. From one fist, she now had both of them hitting the surface repeatedly that the sound literally echoes through the empty hallway.

Before she could spiral further into her emotional breakdown, the door creaked open with a soft click. Haru stumbled backward in surprise, almost losing her balance until she came face to face with the man himself.

Wonwoo stood there in casual house clothes, his dark hair slightly messy and a pair of headphones still hanging around his neck. His eyes were wide behind his glasses as he blinked at her, confused and a little dazed.

"Haru?"

Her body react before she could even second guess herself. Haru threw herself into his arms and clung to him like a koala as she blurted, 

"I AM SO SORRY. I PROMISE I WON'T SAY THAT SEUNGCHEOL IS HOTTER THAN YOU OR THAT YOU AREN'T MY TYPE. I'M BEGGING YOU PLEASE DO NOT BREAK UP WITH ME!"

Wonwoo stood frozen on the spot, arms hovering awkwardly in the air, completely baffled. He looked down at her, lips parting slowly.

"What...?"

*****

"Livestream?"

Haru echoed, eyes wide in disbelief as she stood awkwardly inside Wonwoo's bedroom, still holding onto the strap of her handbag like a lifeline.

Wonwoo sighed and sank into his chair, ruffling his already messy hair. "Yeah. I was in the middle of it until I heard... well, everyone heard, someone banging on my door like a maniac."

He reached for his phone and tapped the screen a few times before turning it toward her. "Here. See it for yourself,"

Haru squinted at the screen, where a replay of the stream played back. There was the calm voice of Wonwoo explaining something about some gaming mechanism, until suddenly the audio interrupted with a sharp BANG! BANG! BANG! followed by a faint, but unmistakable voice yelling tons of apologize and something about him dumping her.

The chat was exploding with countless "WTF?!" and "BRO GO CHECK THE DOOR" while his camera shook faintly from the echo of her furious knocking and screaming. The final moment showed Wonwoo pulling off his headset with a look of sheer confusion before abruptly ending the stream with a tired "I'm sorry. I'll be back later..."

"Oh my god," she gasped under her breath, her palm wiping her already flushed face. "OH MY GOD-"

"Technically, the clip's already being clipped by a few people on Twitter," Wonwoo added casually. "But don't worry. They think you're my roommate or something."

Haru covered her face. "I AM NOT REASSURED. Also, these clips got thousand of likes! Literally how famous are you?"

He casually shrugged before turning his chair towards his monitor. "I have quite a followers. 125k at most?"

"THAT MANY!?" Her jaws almost touched the floor.

"I did it for fun. People watch my livestream for fun too,"

"But still—" Her words died on her tongue, sighing. "You know what? I came just to check if you're alive or not and seems like you are doing very well so I guess I'm going to take my leave,"

But before she could even turn and leave, a hand gently tugged on her wrist.

Wonwoo looked up at her, his eyes behind the thick rimmed glasses gone unusually soft. "It's fine. Stream's already over. You came all the way here to see me so I guess it's important to you. What's going on?"

His tone was so gentle it made her knees wobble a little. She blinked at him, lips parting before her brain caught up.

"I just..." she began, biting her lip. "I thought you were ghosting me because of that stupid tweet. You didn't answer my call, you didn't reply to my text. I don't even know that you were on a leave even though I'm your girlfriend!"

Her hands flailing around as she continued with her ranting, "I know I said you weren't my type but I didn't mean it like—! I mean, obviously you're good-looking, and smart, and sometimes even too smart it's annoying, but you're—"

Wonwoo stared at her. "You... thought I was mad about that?"

"...Yeah?" She shut her eyes, her shoulders slumping as a huff escaping her lips. "I really thought that you're upset with me,"

A beat of silence stretched between them before she felt his grip around her wrist slowly loosening as he leaned back just so he can properly see her.

"I didn't reply to your texts or calls because I didn't see them," he finally said, tone softening. "I caught a cold. Been staying home since, and... yeah, I don't really update people when I'm sick. Forgot I was dating someone now."

That line hit her square in the chest like an arrow.

"...Oh. Right," she said, voice small.

"Didn't mean anything by it," he quickly added. "I just never had to think about someone else waiting for me before."

She nodded quietly.

"I'm sorry for not telling you. I didn't mean to ignore you. I guess I'm still figuring things out,"

There was a beat of silence before he added, more hesitantly this time, "I did think... maybe I shouldn't be doing this. Maybe it was not a good idea and we're rushing into things that I'm obviously not good at. I mean, I never been in a relationship. I can't communicate really well and because of my lacking, I have made you feel like I disappeared."

Haru looked at him for a moment before she shook her head. "No, Wonwoo.."

Haru heaved a deep breath, letting her brain to process everything properly before she finally spoke.

"I... I want to try," she said. "I want to learn more about you. If you'll let me."

Wonwoo blinked.

"Honestly, maybe I'm not great at navigating a relationship. All this time, I'm the only one doing the chasing. But with you, it was different. You're the first one trying to understand me and my interest. No one have ever done that to me before,"

"Yet, I barely know anything about you and... I'm willing to learn it. I want to know more about you. Your interest in gaming, your livestreaming routines. Everything. I want to figure this out with you, even if it's awkward or slow or confusing for both of us,"

Wonwoo froze.

Literally froze. They both stared each other for a good ten seconds before she noticed it.

His ears turned pink first. Then the blush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks like a fast-forwarded sunset. His hand flew up to cover the lower half of his face, eyes widening behind his glasses.

She blinked. "Wonwoo? Wha— Why are you covering your face?"

"Nothing," He turned away dramatically, mumbling something incoherent into his hand.

"What? I can't hear you! Talk to me!" She gasped. "Are you blushing?"

"Leave me alone,"

"You are! Oh my God!"

"I SAID LEAVE ME ALONE."

****

****

Love is Hard For Us ; bonus round - choi seungcheol (coming soon)

pairing : boyfriend! seungcheol x kpop fan! fem oc "song jiho"

summary : After years of relationship, Jiho suddenly calls it off which shocking everyone around her. Haru uncover the story’s of Jiho’s first encounter with Choi Seungcheol back in their high school days.

theme : friends to lover au

tags : fluff, high school romance, love-hate relationship, mention of his ACL injury, smut

[read here]

Love is Hard For Us ; another bonus round - kwon soonyoung (Coming Soon)

pairing : older brother! kwon soonyoung x gamer! fem oc "park euna"

summary : Newly official as a couple, Soonyoung and Euna set out on their very first date.

tags : newly established relationship so they are awkward, fluff, smut

[read here]

**** The elevator doors slid open with a quiet ding, revealing the sleek, modern interior of her new office floor. Haru took in a slow breath while clutching the strap of her bag like it was the only anchor in the world.

That morning, she had stared into the mirror longer than necessary, adjusting her blouse, redoing her lipstick, and wondering if she looked normal enough. Just another face in a sea of working adults.

It had taken an unreasonable amount of willpower to detach her beloved Bamgeut plushie keychain from her bag. The tiny stuffed figure had followed her everywhere for the past few years so removing it is like taking a piece of herself away. But first impression at the new place is above anything else at the moment.

She intend of keeping her side job as a fangirl as a secret for now until she find a comfortable moment to expose herself. Until she figured out whether anyone here would understand with her likings.

"Come on, newbie," Baek Jiho called cheerfully, her shoulders length hair swaying slightly as she turned towards her. She was Haru's direct supervisor, senior marketing exec, and clearly the kind of person who knew exactly how much blush to wear and how to make business casual look like a runway.

"Y-Yes, senior," Haru stammered, quickly catching up.

Jiho is so stunning in a way that made Haru slightly intimidated. Jiho had this strong commandable energy that makes her appears strong in her own way.

As Jiho led her through the office, Haru got a quick rundown of everything. Jiho pointed out the essentials, starting from her desk, the shared pantry, the nearest emergency exit and gave rapid-fire commentary along the way. Haru tried to keep up, nodding diligently, occasionally sneaking glances at Jiho in awe.

"And this is the cafeteria. It's the Stress-Free Zone. That means no talking about work in here. You leave your workload at the door." Jiho said, pushing open a wide glass door.

Haru chuckled and nodded. "Got it."

Inside, two men were standing near the coffee machine. One of them leaned against the counter casually, his build athletic and presence loud without saying a word. The other stood with a paper cup in his hand, his posture straight and rigid as he listened to the other guy talking.

Haru's breath caught at one of the familiar face.

"Seungcheol! Wonwoo!" Jiho called. "Come say hi to our new hire."

The one doing all the talking—Seungcheol—looked up and offered a lazy smile. "Oh, the new recruit?"

Then the quiet one turned.

"...Wonwoo?" Haru blurted before she could stop herself.

All pair of eyes blinked at her.

"Oh, it's you,"

Classic Jeon Wonwoo. The same unreadable face. The same monotonous voice. Like no amount of surprise could ever stir his perfectly neutral expression.

"Wait, you two know each other?" Jiho asked, surprised.

"We went to elementary school together. We haven't seen each other since college, though." Haru said, trying her best to sound casual despite the tremor of seeing him in the same space as hers.

"It's great, actually," she added, turning to Wonwoo with a hopeful smile. "Now that I know someone here, maybe we can go for drinks after work or something."

Wonwoo gave the barest of nods. "Yeah, sure."

Jiho looked between them, amusement painted on her face. "That's nice. Small world, huh."

Then, without a beat of hesitation, Wonwoo added in that deadpan tone Haru remembered way too well.

"Yeah, I've known her long enough to know she used to have 'Lee Taemin' tattooed across her back."

Dead silence, they can even hear the sound of vending machine whirring at the back.

Meanwhile, Haru's soul literally evacuated her body.

Jiho's eyebrows slowly rose. "...Lee Taemin as in... SHINee's Taemin?"

"I—!" Haru's voice came out high and sharp. "That was years ago, okay?"

Jiho blinked, like she couldn't decide whether to be horrified or impressed. "You really had a K-pop idol's name tattooed on you?"

"It was small! And temporary!" Haru lied, both hands flying up defensively. "And I already got them removed!"

"Yeah, after her mom made a whole scene over it," He added while casually sipping her instant coffee from the paper cup.

"That's—! Okay, Wonwoo, what the hell?!"

Seungcheol looked way too entertained now, quietly chuckling from behind the counter. "Respect. That's commitment I don't even have for my own job."

Haru turned to Jiho, face burning. "I swear I'm a functioning adult now. That was... a different version of me."

Jiho laughed, finally easing the tension. "Don't worry, Haru. This place has seen worse."

But as they continued the tour, Haru kept her eyes glued to the floor, cheeks still on fire. Her one and only goal to keep a low profile, to not let anyone know she was an unhinged K-pop stan were ruined forty minutes into her first day, all thanks to Jeon Wonwoo. She even considered the idea of filed for an immediate resignation or jumping out the nearest window.

Whatever, either way still worked to help her get out from this embarrassment.

*****

****

"I see. So, you're keeping your K-pop thing a secret now?" Wonwoo muttered, eyes never leaving the screen of his phone.

His thumbs moved quickly, expertly guiding the character through a labyrinth quest in the RPG world. The warm yellowish lighting of the restaurant reflected off his glasses, casting a faint glow on his otherwise expressionless face. It was as if the entire world around him had dimmed in comparison to whatever digital battlefield he was currently conquering.

Across the table, Haru rolled her eyes and took a slow sip of soju. "Yeah," she replied, her voice quieter than usual. "Not gonna lie... I was this close to killing you back then."

Wonwoo barely flinching at her threats. "Because I outed you?"

"On my first day," she pressed on. Haru sighed, setting her glass down with a soft clink. "I hate this so much, honestly. Always having to be careful. Like liking K-pop is some felony or something."

"True," he said flatly, still absorbed in his screen.

The dismissal stung more than she expected.

Haru leaned forward. "Hey,"

Still nothing.

Her irritation sparked. "Hey!" she snapped, louder this time as she knocked the table once.

Finally, Wonwoo blinked and looked up, just for a brief. Without apology, he turned his phone toward her.

"Your character build is pretty bad."

Haru's jaws slightly dropped. "Excuse me?"

He began scrolling through her gaming profile like he was reviewing a failed report."Your artifacts are all mismatched. And why..." he paused, squinting. "...why would you give Barbara a crit damage set? She's a good healer,"

"I thought it looked cute on her!" Haru defended, puffing her cheeks slightly. "The colors matched her outfit, okay? I thought they were just... decorative or something."

Wonwoo looked genuinely offended. "They're not accessories, they affect your entire stat output. No wonder your healing's trash."

Haru sank into her seat, warmth creeping up her face as she slightly jutted her bottom lips at his comment. "That's harsh,"

She paused for a moment

A blush crept up her cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and mild shame.

"I didn't even like the game that much," she mumbled. "I only started it because my ex played it. I've seen people going for a virtual dates as couple in those games so I thought it'd be cute to explore domains together or whatever."

Wonwoo didn't say anything to that. Instead, he clicked his tongue in disapproval when he came across one of her underleveled weapons.

"I didn't know how to build teams properly, okay?" Haru straighten up from her seating so she can properly face him. "I just wanted to be... a supportive girlfriend or something."

The words hung heavy in the air. Seeing Wonwoo barely reacted to her words frustrated her a bit that she reached for the soju bottle again, pouring herself another shot. It went down harsher this time.

Wonwoo was the only person she knew who still played the game now. And ironically, despite their awkward reunion, he was the only familiar face in this new chapter of her life. She hadn't expected much. Maybe a bit of small talk or a little teasing would be nice.

But instead, she got a barely responsive gamer and a critique of her character loadouts.

The silence dragged.

She set her glass down and huffed. "You're paying tonight, by the way."

"Hm," Wonwoo murmured in reply, distracted.

Haru groaned. "Oh my god. SPEAK, WILL YOU?"

Wonwoo finally looked up, eyes slightly widened, his mouth parted like she'd just yanked him out of a dream. His expression hovered between startled and guilty, the kind that said he hadn't realized how long he'd tuned her out.

"...Sorry," he said quietly. "I was doing your daily quest,"

Haru stared at him for a good 10 seconds before she buried her face in her hands. "God..."

****

****

"Keep attacking them. Then changed into another character. No! Not the hydro one! You'll get freeze. Use Xiangling instead," Wonwoo's voice was firm as he guiding her through the chaos unfolding on the screen.

Haru's fingers scrambled across her phone, trying to keep up with his instructions. The battle felt like an endurance test for her.

By the time the last enemy collapsed and the 'Mission Completed' words popped up, her shoulders were already sore and her hands has beginning to cramped.

"That was so exhausting," she groaned, letting the phone fall flat onto the table. The screen had grown uncomfortably hot, practically radiating heat from the frantic tapping. She reached for the soju bottle and poured herself another shot, hoping the alcohol would soothe her nerves.

"It's exhausting because your character level is too low for your world level," Wonwoo remarked, unbothered as he slipped a hand into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small box and set it on the table. Haru blinked, startled to recognize the unmistakable red and white of a cigarette pack.

"You smoke?" she asked before she could stop herself.

Wonwoo gave a nonchalant shrug. "When I'm stressed."

She narrowed her eyes. Is he implying that playing games with her stressing him out?

He clamped one of the cigs between his finger while his other hand bringing the lighter and later, the flame catching on the cigarette tip before he took a short drag. Smoke curled lazily between them, and Haru watched the way it swirled in the air, feeling a bit uneasy.

She wasn't fond of cigarettes as the smell always clung to her clothes, and the sharpness in her nose made her scrunch up. But somehow, seeing Wonwoo taking it so casually made her hesitate to say anything.

He still said nothing. Just exhaled another breath of smoke, his eyes focused somewhere in the distance. Haru looked away, trying to ignore the sting in her throat, the strange shift in atmosphere.

Then, out of nowhere, he asked, "So. How's your boyfriend?"

She stiffened. Her fingers hovered over the shot glass, still warm in her hand.

"Which one?" she answered feigning nonchalance despite the storm stirring inside her from the question alone. 

Wonwoo arched an eyebrow. "You have more than one?"

"What?" she scoffed, "You think I'm not capable of dating more than one guy?"

"Never said that."

She let out a breath. "Well... the longest one I dated was back in school. You know him,"

He pondered for a bit. "That senior?"

Haru nodded. "And the last one was from my previous job." Her voice softened. "Both dumped me for the same reason."

Wonwoo didn't press further. He even quietly poured another shot and slid the glass toward her without a word.

"Is that why you decide to hide about your love with K-pop?" He questioned before taking another drag of his cig.

"Yeah..." she groaned, dragging her fingers through her hair. "You don't want to share me your tips? You seem like you hide your gamer side pretty well."

"I don't hide it," he said plainly.

"Seriously? People don't judge you for that?"

"I barely care."

She let out a frustrated sigh, propping her chin on her palm. "Wish I could be like that."

Wonwoo tilted his head slightly. "Then why don't you just find someone who understands it? Or at least shares the same interest?"

"Like who?" she huffed. "There's no man who would understand it. Unless he's as creepy as me."

He didn't respond right away. He just took another drag from his cigarette, then slowly put it out in the ashtray nearby. The soft crush of ash filled the silence as he gently tucked the remaining stick back into the box and turned his attention to the phone again.

"The respawn time's up," he said quietly.

Haru jolted a little. "WAIT! WAIT!" she cried, quickly pouring herself another shot. "Let me take another drink first!"

She downed it in one gulp, the liquid burning slightly down her throat. Wonwoo glanced her way, his gaze unreadable, but there was something gentle flickering in his eyes as he watched her silently from the side.

****

"Sorry for keeping you so late, Wonwoo," Haru said, her voice laced with guilt as they sat side by side at the bus stop. He could've easily taken the train home earlier, but instead, here he was... waiting for the last bus with her.

"No worries," he replied, calm as ever. "It's been a while since I did co-op."

She gave a quiet nod. They both knew multiplayer wasn't really his thing. Wonwoo was the type who preferred to do everything solo, especially when it came to gaming. It's just apart of his introverted nature.

Silence settled between them. Just the sound of the occasional car passing by and the rustle of wind through the trees. Might be a little bit wkward, maybe.

But it's also quite peaceful.

Then, out of nowhere, Wonwoo broke it.

"Do you want to go out with me?"

Haru nearly choked on her own breath. "Sorry?"

"It's a proposal," he said again, turning to face her, his face muscle barely moving.

She blinked at him, confused. "Wait... what kind of proposal are we talking about?"

Wonwoo didn't waver. "After what you told me before, I gave it some thought," he said. "I think I can treat you better."

That made her pause. "H-How?" she asked, voice caught between a laugh and disbelief.

He pushed his glasses up, clearing his throat like he was presenting a thesis rather than confessing. "You and I... we're similar. I have my games, you have your K-pop thing. Not everyone can handle that kind of stuff."

Haru blinked at him.

"I know your past relationships weren't great. Maybe you'd look at me like one of the guy you'd find creepy due to my interests with games," Wonwoo paused, as if he was trying to think of a better word to offer. 

"But I'd never hurt you. I'd never want to make you cry."

His words hung heavy in the air. She stared at him, searching his face for even a flicker of dishonesty. But all she saw was that same cold gaze but there is also something else behind them.

Sincerity.

She looked away quickly, trying to keep her emotions in check. "My exes said the same thing, you know. And look how that turned out. Give me something better."

Wonwoo faltered for a second, as if he was unexpected by her statement. He craned his neck up, staring at the skies above them with one hand gently rubbing his chin.

Then, after a beat, he said, "I guess I'll help build all your Genshin characters. I'll even grind primos for Kazuha's rerun soon."

She narrowed her eyes. "Cute, but not strong enough."

He scratched the back of his head, thinking. "I saw through your Instagram that you actively attending cupsleeves. I have my license. I can drive you there,"

Now that was pretty tempting.

Her place was a good walk from the nearest station, and she was always dead tired after events. Having her own personal ride? Definitely appealing.

"And I can be your assistant to help you out doing the packings for the freebies. I saw that you have tons of them sometimes,"

Now that's more like it.

With a grin, she held out her hand. "Deal!"

Wonwoo stared for a second before he slowly took it. 

"Is that all it take?" He asked, and she could see the confusion look behind the pair of glasses sitting at the bridge of his nose. Haru nodded. 

"Yeah. I'm sold the moment you offered to be my extra hand," She chuckled. "Packing freebies are super tiring sometimes,"

 Wonwoo blinked but he didn't comment further. The shake was firm, more like a silent pact between the two for a certain benefits.

"So... we're dating now?" he said, once again his tone laced with uncertainty—almost disbelief. 

"Mhm. We're dating." She confirmed.

Haru paused for a while to spare a good look on him.

She'd known Wonwoo since they were kids. He wasn't her type, never had been. Not someone she imagined as a boyfriend, or even as a coworker back then.

But maybe fates had decided something even better. And Haru was anticipating to see what has await for them in the future.

taglist : @tooflef @hye-na03 @cheolifyme @ameliamirabela @hwangmin1 @peachytokki @minwonfairy @bingumingoo1004 @ninixgyu4eva @codeinebelle @avyskai @sejonggggg @dianasvt82 @padfoots-child @arinations @lilylikesthat @mysteriouskoalastranger

When he finally pushes the apartment door open, balancing the brown bag on his hip, it’s already past sunset. Jeonghan is lounging in front of the TV as he usually does around this time, but what makes Joshua freeze is that he’s not alone tonight.

You’re very pretty, hair fluttering around your head when you turn to look at who walked in through the door. Your eyes are wide and bright, maybe a bit surprised, like you didn’t expect him. They flit to Jeonghan, who sits beside you, and Jeonghan supplies an answer.

“My roommate.” He says. “Shua, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is Joshua.”

“Hi.” You have a pretty smile. It lifts all your features as it spreads on your face, but Joshua feels dread creep up on him.

“Hi.” He manages to reply, but he gives Jeonghan a long look, which Jeonghan doesn’t pay any mind to, engrossed in whatever is playing on the TV. Joshua leaves you both on the couch, trudging to the kitchen and dropping the bag on the island. He immediately starts pulling stuff out of it.

Joshua believes he has fairly strong morals. But lately, Joshua thinks his sense of morality is really in question. And he doesn’t know what to do about it.

He stiffens when he hears shuffling behind him, turning to see that it’s Jeonghan. He watches his friend pull two beers out of the refrigerator.

“I thought I told you.” He keeps his voice low. “No one at the house. It’s against the rules.”

Jeonghan huffs out a laugh. “Chill. It’s not like that. I thought she was cute. I asked her if she wanted to hang out.”

Joshua blinks, processing the words. “She’s a date?”

“Yeah.” Jeonghan is nonchalant about it, leaning his hip against the counter and peering through the door into the living room, watching the back of your head. “Cute, right?”

“You-” Joshua breathes deep, trying to calm down. Jeonghan’s eyes are on him now, watching quietly in that unnerving way of his. “You can’t possibly think this is a good idea.”

Jeonghan shrugs. “I can’t stop living my life.”

Joshua just grits his teeth and turns back to the groceries. He doesn’t know what else to say, doesn’t know how to hammer home that the slightest of missteps could get Jeonghan caught, especially after that last kill. It was sloppy in a way Jeonghan rarely is, but in the moment, he slipped up a bit. At least that’s what Jeonghan says. It’s not like Joshua was there. That was the biggest stipulation. Whatever Jeonghan does is Jeonghan’s business. He doesn’t bring it home, he doesn’t tell Joshua any details, and in return, Joshua keeps his mouth shut about the large canvas bag in Jeonghan’s closet.

He watches Jeonghan return to the couch, dropping beside you and draping an arm over your shoulders. You lean into him, talking in low voices about something, and everything in your body language clearly suggests that you’re interested in Jeonghan. And the way Jeonghan brushes his fingers over your arm, he’s making it fairly obvious that he’s interested too.

Joshua knows where this is going, even if it’s been a while. Jeonghan hasn’t hooked up with anyone since the killing started almost eight months ago. Joshua thought that was for the best. Involving anyone else in this mess would just make things more complicated. He himself hadn’t even thought of another girl in months. He can hear you now, giggling at something his friend is saying, and he can’t blame you. Jeonghan is ridiculously charming, Joshua knows this. Even when they were teenagers, ever since they were interested in girls, Jeonghan was always popular among them. He has a quick wit and a silver tongue, both of which are great tools in getting attention from anyone he wants.

Maybe that’s why he’s so good at….. other stuff.

Joshua has to physically shake his head to not think about it, instead focusing on the meat he is seasoning. He watches the oil in the pan crackle a bit before he starts actually searing the thing, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as he continues to think about what the fuck his life is now. All because he wants to protect his friend.

Maybe he’s just as immoral as Jeonghan.

By the time his plate is ready to be eaten, neither you nor Jeonghan is on the couch. Joshua immediately beelines to his room so he can stick his headphones over his ears. It reminds him of college, almost. Jeonghan bringing a girl back after a date, and Joshua trying his best to ignore whatever sounds they make that they think he can’t hear. He wishes he could go back to that time, when the only thing he had to worry about was sneaking a girl into the boys’ dorm. Life was simpler back then.

He eats his food quickly, music blasting at full volume.

………………………….

You become a sort of regular presence at the Yoon-Hong residence.

Joshua is taken aback when he sees you in the kitchen the morning after, swimming in one of Jeonghan’s shirts. You look sheepish as you make coffee for yourself, but Joshua offers you a friendly smile. He tries not to focus on your legs, at the slightest of bruises on your inner thighs that he can see. He just sits on the island, sipping his own coffee, looking through his listings and showings for the day.

“What do you do for a living, Joshua?” You ask, munching on a piece of toast.

“I’m a real estate agent.” He replies.

“Oh.” You blink. “I don’t know why I assumed you worked with Jeonghan down at the station.”

Jeonghan is a medical examiner with the local police department, and oftentimes Joshua thinks that has been his saving grace when it comes to the murders. He shakes his head at your suggestion.

“I’ve known him since we were kids. We lived together in college too. It just made sense to keep going after graduation, you know?”

You nod. “It’s sweet. You’re probably like brothers at this point.”

You’re right. They are. Joshua doesn’t have siblings. And Jeonghan has a sister only. In every sense of the word, Jeonghan and Joshua are brothers. Maybe that’s why it was so easy for Joshua to not walk into the police station and report Jeonghan when he found out about Jeonghan’s extracurricular activities. And maybe that’s why Jeonghan kept doing it, because he knows deep inside that Joshua would never betray him.

Jeonghan emerges from the bathroom with wet hair and a towel draped over his shoulders. He lays a kiss on your lips, and when he tries to slide his tongue into your mouth, you giggle and push him away, chastising him to be appropriate.

“Nothing Shua hasn’t seen already.” Jeonghan grins.

Joshua rolls his eyes. “I’m going to head out.”

Joshua genuinely didn’t believe Jeonghan would want anything other than a one night stand, so when you’re there most days of the week after that, he is confused and more than slightly irritated. Especially when he sees Jeonghan walk out of the apartment next Tuesday night with his canvas bag over his shoulder. Joshua knows exactly what that means, and he tries not to think about the fact that Jeonghan is actively seeing someone while he goes out at night and kills someone else.

“So she’s your girlfriend now? What’s the deal?” He asks Jeonghan later that night, after he’s back.

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “You’re curious about her, Shuji. You like her?”

Joshua scowls. “Of course not. I’m just thinking how stupid it is to get close to someone right now.”

Jeonghan waves a dismissive hand, as if he’s not concerned at all. “Don’t worry about that.”

“I can’t not worry.”

“Look, she won’t find out. And besides, you got on board, right? Maybe she will too.”

Joshua gapes at his friend. Is he suggesting what Joshua thinks he is?

“I’m on board because you’re my best friend.”

Jeonghan barks out a laugh. “Shua, be serious. No one would be on board just because they’re friends. You don’t turn me in because deep down, you know what I’m doing is right.”

He doesn’t say anything more, leaving Joshua on the living room couch, his mind racing. Joshua doesn’t correct him, doesn’t protest. He can’t. Not when Jeonghan has called him out like that. The truth is, he isn’t entirely wrong. There are injustices in this world that are never corrected. Criminals who are never punished. He has been listening to Jeonghan’s work stories for years. And maybe Joshua doesn’t entirely approve of the vigilante approach of taking matters into your own hands, but he knows that sometimes, things just can’t be left up to the system.

He doesn’t mention you to Jeonghan after that.

It becomes routine to see you in the kitchen or the living room when he gets home from the office. He sees you and Jeonghan surrounded by a myriad of snacks on the couch, and you insist that he joins. You’re so kind, and endlessly accommodating. You clean up not only after yourself, but also after Jeonghan and Joshua sometimes. You cook them meals a few times, and while Joshua thinks he’s a good cook, it feels nice to have someone else cook for him. And you always get so happy when he compliments your cooking. Eyes bright in a way that Joshua thinks neither Jeonghan nor he deserves.

You like working with your hands, and Joshua often finds the coffee table covered in little trinkets of whatever new project you are working on. Sometimes it is jewelry, sometimes key chains. He spends one lazy Saturday beading bracelets with you when Jeonghan is suddenly called into work, and he has a wonderful time. You’re clever and funny, and Joshua can understand why Jeonghan likes you so much, why he can’t seem to keep things casual with you. You’re like sunlight on a gloomy afternoon.

He doesn’t know when he decides to stop wearing headphones at night, but when he hears your moans through the thin walls of the apartment for the first time, he thinks there’s no better sound in the world. He feels a little sick, shoving his hand down his pants, stroking over himself with the same rhythm as Jeonghan’s bed creaks, but you sound so sweet, and he can’t help imagining what it would feel like if it was him and not Jeonghan, draped over you, fucking you through an orgasm before chasing his own.

He’s depraved. He doesn’t want to dwell on it.

When you and Jeonghan hit your six month anniversary, Joshua insists on treating you both, even though you tell him he doesn’t have to do that. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but Joshua is glad you came into Jeonghan’s life, and by extension his own. You have somehow broken Jeonghan’s momentum a bit. What was maybe three kills in a month had slowed to only one, and Joshua hopes that maybe they can stop altogether. He takes you and Jeonghan out for drinks at a bar that isn’t crowded enough to be uncomfortable, and not loud enough to make talking impossible. He makes sure they serve food too. He knows you’re more of a homebody. You and Jeonghan rarely go out, but today is a special day.

He gets there directly from work and waits in a booth, staring at the clock on his phone. You and Jeonghan aren’t here yet, and Joshua starts feeling uneasy as the minutes tick by. Something isn’t right. There’s a pit in his stomach he can’t shake, and when he sees you and Jeonghan finally walk into the bar, your face pale and near sickly, he feels bile rise up to his throat.

Jeonghan’s face is blank, set in stone. He guides you into the booth, on the same side as Joshua, before reaching into his pocket to pull his wallet out, sliding it into Joshua’s hands. Joshua’s heart is beating fast, and he has a million questions on the tip of his tongue.

“Buy drinks using my credit card.” Jeonghan says. “Stay here for a bit. Then take a cab home. Cash only.”

An alibi. Joshua feels lightheaded. Jeonghan gives him a look, the hollowness of his face breaking only briefly, his eyes pleading. Joshua understands.

Once Jeonghan leaves, Joshua does as he says, ordering drinks before sitting cautiously next to you. You haven’t moved, you’ve barely blinked, and he is concerned about what happened and what’s going on in your head.

“Hey.” He whispers, trying not to startle you. “Just hang in there, okay? I’ll take you home in a little bit.”

You blink, slowly, lifting your head up to look at him. Joshua’s heart squeezes at how red-rimmed your eyes are, and he notices the dried tear tracks on your face. It’s killing him to not know what caused you to be like this. He knows Jeonghan isn’t stupid enough to let you get in the middle of his mess, and as he gently coaxes you out of a booth and outside into a cab, he decides he will just wait for Jeonghan to come back with answers. Right now, he needs to focus on taking care of you.

When you two finally get home, he guides you to Jeonghan’s bedroom, helping you lay down and tucking you in. He makes a mental plan, wondering if he has the ingredients for something nice and warm like a soup or a stew, something comforting. He rummages through Jeonghan’s drawers until he finds a bottle of painkillers that he leaves on the bedside table just in case, but as he is about to leave for a glass of water, he hears you finally speak.

“Shua.”

Your voice is thin and shaky, and Joshua immediately freezes, walking back and kneeling down beside the bed so he can look at you.

“I’m here.” You’re staring at him, but he can see unshed tears in your eyes. “What do you need?”

“Stay.”

Joshua hesitates for less than a second. He can’t refuse you. He would never dare. He slowly climbs into the bed, making sure you are jostled as little as possible. You have other ideas, it seems, because you rest your head on his chest, arm draping over his torso. Joshua lets out a long breath, slowly letting his hand run over your back in soothing circles. This close to you, he can feel the slightest tremor in your body, and he wants to scream. He’s frustrated that he can’t do more for you. That something shook you up this badly and he’s helpless. He doesn’t think before leaning down, pressing his lips to your forehead and leaving them there. You don’t move away.

It’s well past midnight before Jeonghan comes back. He looks tired, but otherwise put together, and he huffs out a laugh when he sees you both in his bed.

“Aren’t you cozy.” He comments, and Joshua sighs in relief. He had started to worry about Jeonghan’s radio silence, even though he knows Jeonghan doesn’t use his phone on the nights he kills. Joshua detaches himself slowly from your sleeping figure, making sure to wrap you in the blanket before following Jeonghan out of the room. His shoulders are sore from being in one position so long, and his arm tingles because of your weight on it, but Joshua doesn’t complain.

“Tell me everything.”

“And make you an accessory after the fact?” Jeonghan snorts.

Joshua feels irritation gnaw at him. “Hannie.”

Jeonghan stares for a good moment, before sighing and dropping onto the couch. He massages the bridge of his nose, as if staving off a headache.

“Some asshole broke into her house. He was waving a knife in her face when I showed up.”

Joshua feels his heart skip, an invisible panic gripping him. He lowers himself on the other end of the couch.

“What did you do?”

Jeonghan huffs. “What do you think? I killed him.”

Joshua shifts uncomfortably at how nonchalant Jeonghan sounds about it. “In front of her?”

A shake of his friend’s head. “Another room. But she saw the blood.”

No wonder you looked so traumatised. Joshua imagines anyone in your situation would react the same. Scratch that, they would react worse. It’s a miracle you hadn’t screamed and bawled in the middle of the bar.

“And,” Joshua hesitates, “what about… the mess?”

Jeonghan looks amused, staring at Joshua as he fidgets. “Don’t worry, I’m a professional.”

Joshua groans. “Please don’t call yourself that.”

That makes Jeonghan laugh, and Joshua’s heart lightens just a little bit after being so wound up the entire night.

“I’m just saying I took care of it. Like you took care of Y/N.” Jeonghan’s smile gets a little suggestive. “You’re sweet on her, aren’t you Shua?”

Joshua feels his face warm, and he knows his ears are turning pink. He sighs and stands up. “I’m going to bed.”

Jeonghan is still chuckling. “I don’t mind, you know?”

That makes him pause. “What?”

Jeonghan is kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “You and Y/N. It’s cute.”

Joshua’s mind short circuits, and he stares at his friend for a good minute. Jeonghan seems unfazed under the scrutiny, still rubbing on his temples to relieve his headache. Joshua huffs, trudging into the kitchen. He returns with two pills and a glass of water, which he hands to Jeonghan. Jeonghan takes it with a grateful smile, and Joshua drops heavily onto the couch again. Silence descends over the room.

“I didn’t mean to like her.” He says. The sentence barely makes sense, but he hopes Jeonghan understands.

Jeonghan hums. “I know.”

“How are you okay with it?”

Jeonghan sits up so he can set the now empty glass on the coffee table before leaning back again. “Youre different, Shuji. You take care of her. She deserves that.”

“So do you.” Joshua stares at the wall. He feels exhaustion pull at his limbs. “You literally killed someone for her.”

Jeonghan clicks his tongue. “It’s not the same thing as what you do. You look at her different.”

Joshua doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know what to say, honestly. So he sits with it, Jeonghan by his side, just letting their words settle in the air that surrounds them. Jeonghan’s breaths are even and regular, and Joshua follows his breathing patterns until he feels more relaxed. He should head to bed. But sleep would elude him, he knows it already. He would much rather have company right now, even if it’s silent.

Dawn is breaking when the door of Jeonghan’s bedroom creaks open and you step out. Jeonghan is immediately on his feet, beelining to you and gathering you in his arms in a tight hug. Joshua sits up, feeling his joints groan in protest. He watches Jeonghan guide you to the couch, and your eyes finally meet his.

“Hi.” He can’t think of what else to say.

“You left.” You say, voice tiny in the heavy silence. “I got scared.”

Joshua’s chest tightens as he shuffles closer to you. You wrap your arms around his chest, hugging him tight, and Joshua’s eyes flit to his friend. Jeonghan is watching you two, and he nods at Joshua. So he returns the hug, relaxing into you.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve stayed.” He mumbles.

The morning is peaceful despite the events of last night. Your usually bubbly personality is nowhere to be found as Joshua starts making breakfast. He watches you stare off into space, and he gives Jeonghan a look. They can’t leave you like this. Jeonghan sighs in resignation before sitting in front of you at the kitchen island, taking your hands in his. He leans forward until his nose nudges yours, and your eyelids flutter.

“Talk to me, angel.” He coos, and the moment feels so intimate that Joshua has to look away, staring at the stove.

You have a lot of questions about what exactly Jeonghan did after leaving you at the bar, and Jeonghan answers all of them honestly. Joshua is a bit impressed, because he assumed his friend would leave a lot of the details out, maybe even lie to you so you wouldn’t feel worse. But it seems there are parts of Jeonghan that he’s tired of hiding. He might not be telling you the full truth, but under the guise of last night’s events, he reveals more of himself than ever before.

Joshua wonders if he should leave, let you two talk it out alone. But when he tries to, Jeonghan gestures at him to not move, so he takes a seat at the opposite end of the counter and stays silent. Maybe it’s best that you have someone else here right now as a buffer. He imagines it can’t be easy hearing all this about your boyfriend.

You handle it surprisingly well. You don’t scream, at least. Or try to leave immediately. In fact, you hold Jeonghan’s hand tightly as he talks. You nod when he tells you how it all makes him feel, like you can understand even an iota of it. You cry a little, but you lean into his touch when he wipes your tears. You let him kiss you, and you kiss him back hard, and Joshua watches. He watches you love his best friend. He watches you accept Jeonghan for who he is, just like Joshua has always accepted him from the very start.

When Joshua confirms that he knew everything, you hug him too. He holds on to you tightly, desperately, but his eyes are trained on Jeonghan. His friend looks exhausted by now, but there’s calm on his face, and a genuine smile. Joshua lays a kiss on your forehead, another on your temple, your cheek, and he can feel you relax into him. He doesn’t let his lips leave your face. He’s tired of holding back, and Jeonghan only watches as he crosses invisible lines.

There’s a silent agreement there. Joshua doesn’t dare question it, or what little he finally has might be taken away.

October is colder this time around as compared to last year. Joshua is messing with the thermostat way earlier than he usually would, partly because of how quickly the weather is changing, and partly because you are more sensitive to cold than either of the men are. You’ve pretty much moved in at this point, too scared to even set foot in your apartment again. He often finds you swathed in blankets on the couch, already in thick socks at the slightest of chills. Jeonghan loves taking advantage of that, wrapping himself around you to warm you up, teasing you about how much you need him.

Joshua thinks Jeonghan is fucking with his head a bit when he insists on wrapping a giant blanket over all three of you during movie night around halfway through the month. His side is pressed tight against yours, and when you shift around to get comfortable, he catches the ghost of a smile on Jeonghan’s face. Joshua reaches an arm around you so he can pinch Jeonghan hard on the back of his neck, and Jeonghan uses that moment to press into you so you are pressing back into Joshua’s chest. He knows you both have been pushing physical boundaries a little bit, but this is brazen, even for him. He swallows tightly, grits his teeth. Fine. If this is what Jeonghan wants.

He wraps his arm around your shoulders, encouraging you to cuddle into him. Jeonghan is grinning, now blatantly eyeing you two. He leans forward to whisper to you, but Joshua can hear it clearly.

“Angel.” He hums. “Why don’t you tell Shua what we were talking about the other day?”

He can feel the way you stiffen, since you’re pretty much glued to him. He even feels the hitch in your breath. Curiosity hits him like a train, and he shifts a bit so he can get a better look at your face. You look hesitant, shy, and Joshua finds that he likes this look on you very much. Between that and how close you are to him, he feels his dick twitch.

“We were talking about you.” You say to him, eyes flitting to Jeonghan for a brief second. Jeonghan nods in encouragement, before leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to your neck. Your eyelids flutter, lips parting, and Joshua watches in awe as Jeonghan keeps laving kisses over your neck, tongue peeking out to lick over your skin. Joshua’s mouth waters.

“Tell him.” Jeonghan says again when he notices you don’t continue, nipping at your earlobe as he says it. Your head leans back on Joshua’s shoulder, giving Jeonghan more space to keep kissing you. Joshua’s head spins, and his erection is rapidly growing. One look down and he knows you will see it through his sweatpants.

“Hannie.” You whine, and this is a familiar sound. He’s heard it through the walls late at night, along with the slap of skin on skin, and the not so subtle creaks of Jeonghan’s old ass bed that he just won’t replace. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t replace it. Because he knows how loud it is. Joshua won’t put it past him.

“Aw, are you getting all shy?” Jeonghan chuckles. He’s busy sucking a hickey into your neck, so his words are muffled, but Joshua hears him loud and clear. “You weren’t so shy when you were telling me how bad you want Shua’s cock.”

Joshua stiffens, eyes nearly popping out of his head. He doesn’t dare move, not when he feels how wound up your body is, like you’re about to snap. He watches Jeonghan, who looks like he’s thoroughly enjoying this. He nearly jumps when Jeonghan takes your wrist and guides it back, placing your hand directly over Joshua’s crotch. He bites his lip, almost moans when you hesitantly rub.

Jeonghan watches you both carefully. Joshua can’t take it anymore.

He bucks his hips into your touch, sighs softly. His arm around your shoulder shifts down to wrap around your waist, giving your side a little squeeze. When your head turns and your eyes meet his, Joshua can’t help the little groan that escapes his throat. Your eyes are bright, open wide as you test the waters. Your bottom lip is trapped between your teeth, bitten raw, and Joshua can’t fight the urge to reach down and push his lips into yours, pulling your body into him with the arm he has wrapped around you.

You moan into his mouth, the most delicious sound, and Joshua kisses you harder. He pushes his tongue past your lips, hungry for your taste, and he feels your unoccupied hand flit over his abs, up his chest. Your other one squeezes his crotch, and he curses. He uses his hold on you to heave you up, your leg swinging over his hips so you are effectively straddling him. Joshua grabs handfuls of your ass, savoring the feeling, the give of your soft flesh under his fingertips. His mind reels, he can’t believe he’s doing this, and the realisation makes him pull back, chest heaving in big gulps of air. His head snaps to his left.

“Don’t stop on my account.” There’s jest in Jeonghan’s tone. He is leaning against the opposite arm of the couch, draped casually on it while he watches. Joshua’s face heats, but you shift over him, and his eyes find you again. You look divine like this, eyes half lidded as you peer up at him. It’s a new look, one he has only ever imagined on you and not seen. When you arch into him, it makes your core drag over his throbbing cock so deliciously that it pulls a strangled sound from him, and he’s kissing you hungrily again.

Joshua can’t get enough of your body, no matter how many times he runs his hands over you. He squeezes at every curve he can, and when he gets irritated by your clothes, he tugs them off you like he’s offended by their presence. When he finally sees your bare body, he feels like he’s not worthy of it. You’re beautiful beyond anything he could have created in his head. Your spine undulates when he trails a finger up the line of your back. You’re like a canvas, willing to be painted by him, and Joshua feels the carnal need to leave traces of himself all over you. There’s a darkening blotch on your neck, the one where your boyfriend had sucked on your skin, the same boyfriend that now watches Joshua lick a stripe over the column of your throat, one hand pinching sharply at your left nipple until you’re crying out.

“Shua.” You whimper. “Need you. Please.”

Joshua wants to tell you he needs you just as bad. His cock is twitching so painfully that he feels like it might fall off if he doesn’t put it inside you immediately. But there’s so much of you he wants to explore. So he slides his arms around you, shifting so he can lay you down on the couch. Your head hits Jeonghan’s lap, and he immediately straightens, looking down at you sprawled on him. Jeonghan’s eyes meet Joshua’s, and Joshua’s stare hardens.

Watch me pleasure your girl.

Then he shuffles down, burying his head between your legs.

You’re sensitive, Joshua observes only a couple of minutes in. The littlest licks over your pussy have you crying out, legs twitching under his hold. You try to close your thighs around his head, and Joshua would love that, but he wants to see you right now, open and slicked up for him, half your own juices and half his spit. When he sucks your clit into his mouth, you almost sob, and Joshua can hear Jeonghan shush you, coo at you with an almost mocking tone. He is running his hand gently through your hair, wiping a tear from your cheek, and it only turns Joshua on even more, making him double his efforts.

He feels your orgasm coming from a mile away. You buck your hips into him again and again, sloppier in your moves, your hand tugging harshly at his hair in a way that makes precum ruin his sweatpants even more, and Joshua lets your legs go finally, letting you press his head from both sides as you finally reach your high. He can’t breathe for a few seconds, and he loves it, loves how lightheaded it makes him feel. He doesn’t slow even once throughout it, and only pulls his mouth off your cunt when you push him away, chest heaving with great gulps of air. Jeonghan has his mouth sealed over yours upside down, tongue dancing with yours. Joshua watches a trail of spit run down the side of your face.

He tugs his pants off, followed by his shirt. It sticks to him because of the sweat, even though it’s cold outside. Joshua feels like his body is on fire, and if he isn’t inside you in the next ten seconds, he thinks he might lose his mind.

He grips your legs and pulls, ending your kiss with Jeonghan as you slide down the couch towards him, which makes the man chuckle in amusement. Joshua doesn’t care, he lines himself up with you and slides in with one smooth motion, all the way inside until his hips are flush against yours.

“Oh fuck.” Joshua’s voice cracks, eyes rolling up and jaw going slack when he feels how fucking tight you are, walls squeezing and releasing around him over and over until he’s so sure he will cum on the spot. He releases a long breath, taking another in to try and calm down. He places his hands on either side of your head, blinking to clear his vision so he can take in the sight before him, your mouth open in a silent cry, chest heaving, covered in a thin layer of sweat. You’re so beautiful it almost seems like a mirage, like you’re not real, and all of this is just a very elaborate, fucked up dream. Joshua pulls back just a few inches, thrusting back in. It’s like his dick can’t bear to leave your warm cavern, and if it wasn’t for the delicious drag he felt when he moved, he would stay inside you forever. But you’re starting to get antsy, and so Joshua finally moves, setting a quick pace from the start.

Your moans are loud and breathy, hands reaching up to claw at his forearms with every thrust. Your eyes meet his and don’t leave them, and Joshua feels something zip down to his core at how you look at him. You’re soft, all of you is so soft, and he feels, once more, that he doesn’t deserve this. He’s immoral, and so is Jeonghan, and he wishes you would go far, far away from both of them, so you don’t get tangled in this huge mess they’ve created.

But he only thrusts in you harder, feels the way your pussy weeps for him, sucks him in every time, and he realises after tonight, he can never let you go. He’s addicted after this one taste. Tonight, he feels like he understands Jeonghan on a level that he has never done before. When he looks into your eyes, he realises he would kill for you too, and he would clean up any mess in the world, lie to anyone he has to, if it means he can have you forever.

He’s dizzy with pleasure, and he thinks he’s a little bit in love with you too, when he finally curses and lowers his head to your neck, burying himself deep inside you as ropes of cum shoot out of him, orgasm racking through his body like it is unraveling every muscle inside him. He goes cross eyed at the feeling of it, clawing at the couch cushions for anything to hold on to. And when he finally comes down, he feels your hands, light and soft, running over his back in whispy strokes. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, tethering him to you, and Joshua’s chest squeezes. He pulls away just enough to kiss you again, gentler this time, slower, so he can savor you completely.

When he finally detaches from your body, you smile at him, and it’s this happy, dopey thing that makes him smile at you too. He feels the couch seat shift, and he blinks, face heating up when he realises Jeonghan is appraising both of you with mirth in his face. His friend reaches out, brushing a hand through your hair, now damp with sweat, and you look back at your boyfriend. Jeonghan taps affectionately at your temple.

“Up.” He quips, and you sit up so you can turn around to face him. Joshua’s eyes shoot down to your ass, at the mess that dribbles out of you between your legs. He feels himself twitch again, biting his lip at the sight.

“I can’t take care of myself, baby. Not when you’re here.” Jeonghan is saying, settling back into the couch and manspreading a bit. Joshua watches you pull Jeonghan’s hard cock out of his pants, mouthing on it before you suckle at the tip. That incites a satisfied hum from the man, and then Jeonghan is smirking at Joshua, who can already feel himself hardening again as he watches your head bob up and down.

It will be a long night. Not that he’s complaining.

……………………………

Joshua is exhausted.

He can feel it before he even opens his eyes, the way his limbs are weighed down by what feel like heavy sandbags. He rubs his eyes to clear his vision, stretching on the bed. The sheets brush over his bare skin, and that wakes him up a bit more.

The events of last night are clear in his head, the sounds of moans and grunts, the smell of sex and cum heavy in the air. Hours and hours of kissing, licking, sucking, fucking, until he felt like every drop of life had been squeezed out of him. When he turns his head, he sees you on the bed beside him, back bare, rising and falling steadily, hair sprawled over the pillow. Joshua sits up with a wince, joints protesting. He definitely needs a bath. And he needs to start working out again. His stamina is shit.

He pulls on the first shirt and pants he spots on the floor, not giving a fuck if they are his or Jeonghan’s. They’ve crossed every line in the book at this point, so clothes are the least of his worries now.

He finds the man in question in the kitchen, on his laptop while he sips coffee, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He nods at Joshua, who sees if there’s enough coffee in the machine for another cup. He realises there’s enough for two, and wonders if Jeonghan did it so him and you can have fresh coffee without the hassle of making it.

“When did you wake up?” He asks, settling on the other side of the counter with his cup.

“Didn’t really sleep.” Jeonghan mumbles, and Joshua watches him closely. He worries what might have happened. When Jeonghan catches him watching, he laughs and smiles, shaking his head.

“Nothing is wrong.” He clarifies without Joshua even asking. “I would actually say that things feel right for the first time in a long while.”

Joshua relaxes a bit at his friend’s words. Jeonghan has no reason to lie to him. And he’s never lied before, so he won’t start now. Jeonghan continues talking.

“I’m glad last night happened.” He mumbles, eyes still trained on the laptop screen. “I know you’ve liked her for a while. Maybe from the start. And it makes me feel better that when I get caught, at least you two will have each other.”

Joshua’s stomach knots, tightens. Dread creeps up on him. “What the hell happened?”

“Nothing!” There’s insistence in Jeonghan’s voice, but Joshua grits his teeth.

“You won’t get caught.”

Now Jeonghan looks at him, lips still tugged up in a tiny smile, and Joshua sees it. The fatigue that lines his eyes. In the dead quiet of the kitchen, both of them staring at each other, it hits Joshua how difficult it is to carry the burden Jeonghan carries. There’s something fundamentally screwed in his friend’s mind, the thing that makes him do the things he does, but it can’t be easy to live with that. Maybe that’s why Jeonghan chose you of all people. There’s a joy in you, a purity that makes Jeonghan’s hands feel less tough, less evil, when he runs them over your skin. Joshua knows what that feels like, to be washed of sin when those very same hands are responsible for bringing you pleasure.

He nods slowly, making Jeonghan turn back to the screen, satisfied by Joshua’s silent promise. He doesn’t want to dwell on the future, but he knows situations like this can’t last forever. So he just sips his coffee, basks in what he has right now, and hopes this happiness lasts at least a little bit longer.