Bang Chan 

[07:29] ; fluff, timestamp

Virtual Reality ; mainly fluff with some angst, video game au

song of the summer ; fluff, ceo au, somewhat strangers to lovers

one in a million ; mature, strangers to almost lovers

Lee Minho

[13:27] ; fluff, timestamp

♡summer love ; summer vacation au, strangers to lovers

Seo Changbin

[17:39] ; fluff, timestamp

gravitational pull ; friends to somewhat enemies to lovers

Hwang Hyunjin

[04:29] ; fluff, timestamp

a spell for you ; hogwarts au, enemies to lovers

Han Jisung

[19:39] ; fluff, timestamp

19 ; angst, fluff, soulmate au

alien ; fluff, drabble

Lee Felix

[23:59] ; fluff, timestamp

heliotropes and headphones ; neighbor au

Kim Seungmin

[23:01] ; fluff, timestamp

♡raison d’etre ; volleyball au, fluff

Yang Jeongin

[12:29] ; fluff, timestamp

comfort place ; friends to lovers, fluff

You live out of a suitcase, for no closet is available to you, and because it allows you to sink into a false life that convinces you this is temporary. So temporary that it may just stop too soon. 

Afternoons are spent with your brother hogging your temporary bed—his butt too close to the pillow you rest your head on. He puts on some investigative-comedy show, glancing at you after every joke to ensure your undivided attention is given. Reruns echo until his eyes sting with sleep. 

In the morning, pale, wispy curtains are hung improperly and filter next to nothing. As soon as the sun peeks over the horizon, it burns into your eyelids until sleep is stolen from you. 

When will life return to peace? And where will home be? You hope it won’t be long to find out. 

♡♡♡

“Are you familiar with a boy by the name of Hwang Hyunjin?” 

The name makes your ears perk up. Your chin tips downward in a half nod. 

“Yes. I am,” you hesitate, attempting to locate the correct term, “familiar.”  

The coffee shop is void of visitors. Leaning against the counter with your arms defensively crossed against your chest, it’s just you and your nosy coworker who stands across from you. Perhaps he saw your Facebook? Old, tagged pictures that serve no purpose and probably should have been deleted? A happy face that doesn’t match the current? If that were the case, maybe the upcoming question would be justified. 

You imagine the likely question: “What happened to you two?” 

Truly, you don’t know. He was tangible, and then he suddenly wasn’t—a ghost of your memory. Blurry, forgotten laughs captured under a saddened moonlight. Hell, it’s been so long you’re not sure you remember his voice. 

But, instead, he asks, “Did you know he moved back to Seoul?” 

Someone has taken a stake and has mistaken you for a vampire. Your heart is torn into two fleshy pieces, beating by a miraculous gristly connection. 

“I did not know that.” 

Hwang Hyunjin told you he would never return to Seoul. America was too glamorous for him to ever wish to return. This is betrayal, you think; but, he owes you nothing. This is a conflicted betrayal. Surely you shouldn’t care, but you do. A lot. 

“I can tell,” he laughs, languidly pointing at your face. “You’re blushing.” 

“I am not.” 

He challenges you with a simple quirk of the eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Mind your own business,” you advise, glaring out the shop windows in an incongruous attempt to lure someone in. 

“I can’t ask innocent questions now?”  

You nibble on the inside of your lip until blood is drawn. Finally, you snap, “You and I both know they aren’t simple, innocent questions asked from pure curiosity. You’re digging for drama and, frankly, it’s annoying. Get a hobby?” 

Your coworker falls silent and remains so until the next customer strides in. He takes their order, glances swiftly in your direction to make sure you heard it right, and busies himself with wiping down the bar again. Quiet is so peaceful: harmful only to those whose thoughts scream so loud. 

Hyunjin’s back? 

♡♡♡

A month passes before your luck runs dry. From the day your coworker mentioned him, your eyes skittered across the streets searching for him. Though, the larger half of you wished he would never turn up. The rumor seemed too good to be true. 

He stands in front of the counter, staring up at the menu with childlike eyes of curiosity. He’s bleached his hair. The long strands frame his soft cheeks enough to bring attention to his lips: pursed with concentration. 

Slight panic itches the nape of your neck, but you have to do your job. You’re the only one scheduled for the closing shift. 

You step out from the back, hands going behind your back to tighten your apron—and to make yourself appear calm, cool, and collected. This act of routine convinces yourself he’s not who you remember. For the time that has passed, he is nothing more than a stranger. 

“Sorry for the wait, what can I get started for you today?” 

“Yeah, can I-” he stops when he recognizes your voice, eyes dropping to study your face. “Wait, Y/N?” 

You point to your nametag casually. “That’s the one.” 

An awkward laugh passes between you two. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you majored in marketing.” 

Pain rips your chest apart, but you maintain neutrality in your face. “I did. Job market’s not the best right now. Employers are too desperate for workers to do all the right work for the wrong pay.” 

He nods, but it’s clear he doesn’t understand. You can tell by the way his mouth is slightly hanging open and his eyes squinting righteously. Hyunjin would never have that experience. 

You rip the tense silence. “Anyway, what can I get you?” 

“Um, a medium passionfruit smoothie, please. Do you have any pastries left?” 

You glance at the display case that is clearly right in front of him. “We have a few chocolate chip muffins.” 

“I’ll take one.” 

“Sweet. That’ll be $9.55.” 

He hands you a $10, and you hand him back his change. He promptly dumps it in the tip jar. That’s forty-five scents you didn’t have a minute ago. 

You serve him his muffin with a wad of napkins and he gently smiles. Fully expecting him not to continue the conversation, you turn to prepare his drink. 

He waits for the loud ice scoops and blending to stop before he starts, “Hey, Y/N.”

You glance back at him, pouring the freshly blended fruity concoction into a medium cup. 

As you click the lid on, he asks, “Are you free tomorrow?” 

A classy move, but alas. You offer a pitying smile as you set his drink on the counter. “I work tomorrow. Noon to close.” 

He groans. “That’s a shame. I’d love to catch up. When’s your next day off?” 

You think hard. “I work just about every day. Money’s tight.” 

“Where can I find you then?” His persistence is admirable, perhaps it even makes your heart skip a beat. 

You grit your teeth. Of all the embarrassing questions you could answer, this one spawns a rumbling sensation in your stomach. “My brother’s apartment. I’m staying there until I can score a place of my own.” 

Hyunjin’s face lights up. “You’re staying with Jisung?” 

“Unfortunately.” 

“That’s perfect! I’ll delegate two hangouts into one. You still have my number?” 

Duh. Why would you ever get rid of it? “I believe so.” 

He plunges a straw into the lid and grabs his drink. Backing out towards the door, he exclaims, “Perfect. I’ll text you. Tell Jisung I say hi!” 

You sigh a breath of relief. A dual hangout with your brother saves awkward conversations. And you have your day off tomorrow to look forward to. 

♡♡♡

“You lied to him?” Jisung exclaims, looking dumbfounded from across the couch. 

“I had to! You know what happened between us,” you trail, glancing down at your work-ridden fingernails. A trip to the nail salon wouldn’t hurt you. 

He huffs, resigning himself to his brotherly duties of reporting the truth. “You never told him you liked him. For all he knows, he went to chase his dreams and lost his best friend in the process via some long distance bullshit.” 

“He knew,” you assert. 

“No, Y/N, he didn’t. Just because you knew doesn’t mean he did. For the record, you withheld the information rather well. I only found out because Felix told me.” 

Heartbroken, you weakly repeat, “Felix?” 

Eyes wide with insistence and lips pressed into a distinct, matter of fact manner, he nods. 

Brothers never offer lies to comfort their siblings (most might even intentionally hurt their feelings), but you wish he would sugarcoat things a little bit. Things with Hyunjin were so complicated for you. Nights spent addressing the turmoil feel so small now that you know no one would have guessed. The circumstantial insomnia makes you feel even more silly. 

Heat sinks into your skin, seering every inch. “If Felix told you, then maybe he told Hyunjin too. You don’t know the way he shifted behavior like I do.” 

“I highly doubt Felix told Hyunjin.” 

“Then why did he tell you?” you exclaim. 

He rolls his eyes, “I am your brother. I ask the right questions. I didn’t even know until two weeks ago anyway. Felix protects your secrets in a triple-guarded vault. I promise.”

“Maybe.” 

“Look. Tell Hyunjin the truth. We’ll have him over tomorrow and everything will be just 

fine. Normal. Like before life pulled us in every opposite direction.” 

If only life had let you and Jisung be pulled apart instead of this nauseating proximity. You find comfort in the ceiling as you take a few deep breaths. Gathering your feelings in a pile, you want to stomp on them until nothing remains. However, you sift through them as an adult would. 

“Okay. I’ll tell him a truth with lying properties because it’ll be embarrassing to tell him the truth.” 

Jisung reaches across the couch, patting your shoulders. “If that’s how you want to navigate it. Just answer me this: do you still like him?” 

Warmth flushes your face. “Maybe. I don’t know.” 

“Tell me when you find out. I want to be a matchmaker!” 

You push him away from you. “After that confession, absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on!”  

Jisung tries his best, but you motion a zipper dragging across your lips before it’s thrown out. Lost in the fuzzy rug beneath your feet.

♡♡♡

“He’s on his way up,” your brother announces from the kitchen. 

Rushing into the bathroom, you take note of your appearance. A few flyaways make your hair look a bit disheveled, but they refuse to be tamed. You fix your shirt, untwisting the fabric across your chest. Finally, you get a glance at your face from every angle. 

There’s a loud sequence of knocks at the door. Before you can get to the door, Jisung cuts you off. 

“Remember, it can’t get worse than living on your brother’s couch!” 

You roll your eyes, but you must admit he has a point. It cannot get worse than that. 

So long as he doesn’t bring up you ghosting him. 

Hyunjin is greeted by his best friends from high school. Jisung standing up front, and you peering at him from over his shoulder. Both garner a big smile. 

“Hey!” the boys say in unison, each reaching for a quick hug, clapping each other’s backs cacophonously. 

Hyunjin moves to you, pulling you in for a much longer hug. “It’s good to see you,” he whispers in your ear as he pulls away. 

Jisung begins asking about his life, how it’s been in America, but the words are muffled to your ears. Hyunjin’s eyes linger on you as he tends to the endless questions. All the while maintaining a heartbreaking smile that you can’t peel your eyes from. 

The conversation moves with you as you advance towards the kitchen, where Jisung has prepared a gigantic Chicago pizza. For authenticity, he claims. Though, Hyunjin stayed in New York. 

As the boys claim their seats, you set three plates in the center of the table, picking the top one and offering it to Hyunjin. He winks at you as he continues his spiel, a silent thank you that ignites fire in your chest. 

“Yeah, so I picked up photography while I was over there.”

“Is that your job?” Jisung asks, stealing your plate from your hands absentmindedly. The brotherly instincts are deeply engraved in his mind. 

Hyunjin struggles to break the slices apart. Straining, he says, “Yep. Wedding photos, mainly. They pay more than landscape, which is what I really like capturing.” 

You wave his hands away and help him. Making it look way easier, he pouts as you slide a healthy slice on his plate. You offer, “It must be nice capturing love like that, though, right?” 

He nods. “Definitely. Makes me feel a bit lonely, but that’s okay.” 

Jisung kicks your leg under the table. When you glance at him, he lifts his eyebrows up. You quickly shake your head, turning back to Hyunjin. 

“So, what brings you home?” you ask. Home is a strong word to characterize someone’s hometown when they were so eager to get out of it. 

“My mom passed away about a month back. This was the earliest I could get back. I’m not staying long. Just enough to make sure my dad’s okay. He adopted a dog, y’know?” 

Jisung’s face softens. His eyes well with tears—he’s a sympathetic crier, though no one else’s eyes are damp. “I’m sorry for your loss. What kind of dog?” 

Hyunjin covers his mouth as he chews, waving away the tension of sadness with a flourish. “He’s some kind of chihuahua. Funny looking dog.” 

The conversation devolves into Jisung’s boring work life. Then, by the time the pizza has been devoured, it switches to old high-school drama. 

“Seungmin became a prosecutor,” Jisung announces. 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Hyunjin presses his back into the chair. “He’s always been the type.” 

“That seems insulting,” Jisung chimes in, even though he agress. 

You add, “I work with Changbin at the coffee place. He has, like, three jobs for some reason.” 

“I know,” Hyunjin says. “He’s the one who told me where to find you.” 

You ignore another kick to your shin. “What? You looked so surprised when you saw me!” 

Hyunjin chuckles. Presumably at how flustered you look. “I was. You look a lot different, grew into your features a bit more-” Another suggestive kick. You’ll have extensive bruises if this keeps up. “Plus, Changbin didn’t tell me when to find you. Just where.” 

“To be fair, Y/N,” Jisung intervenes so you will finally look at him, “you stopped posting pictures of yourself when Hyunjin left.” 

You acknowledge this with a long, thoughtful nod. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

“Did you recognize me when you saw me?” Hyunjin asks, tipping his head in a deranged flirtatious way. 

“Immediately. The bleached hair took me off guard, but really I was like ‘Why is Hyunjin wearing a wig?’” 

He picks at his hair, pouting. Glancing at Jisung, he asks, “Does it really look like a wig?” 

Jisung defensively puts his hands up. “Don’t look at me.” 

“Don’t get me wrong,” you rush, “I like it. A lot. It suits you.” 

Hyunjin grins. “Good. I thought you’d like it.”

What’s that supposed to mean? You want to ask, but your shin is aching from a supreme series of harsh kicks. 

Another conversation gets picked up, and you remain in the backseat for this one. It sounds deeply rooted in a secret language. Even if you wanted to participate, you’d have to learn how to communicate. 

After promptly fifteen minutes of gibberish, Hyunjin glances at his watch and groans. “Sorry, guys. My dad needs me home. Thank you for lunch. It was so nice seeing you guys.” 

He and Jisung perform another awkward, quick hug. Over Hyunjin’s shoulder, Jisung mouths, “Walk him out.” 

The hug splits, but Hyunjin allows his hand to linger on Jisung’s shoulder. Admiring his best friend up close, you suppose. Nonetheless, sibling envy soaks your being in dread. That stare lasts forever. At some point, you’re convinced silent words are being shared in that unidentifiable language. 

Finally, Hyunjin’s arm falls back to his side and he glances at you. Your withdrawn facade immediately shatters. “I’ll walk you out.” 

And you swear his face lights up. 

Hyunjin begins retracing his steps to the door, and you follow. You quickly glance back at Jisung, who winks and mouths words of encouragement. 

Out of earshot of Jisung, he drags, “So.”

“So,” you repeat. 

“I don’t know if this sounds too forward, but I’d love to take some pictures of you before I have to leave. There’s this sunflower field-”

The eagerness requires no further words, and you interrupt, “I’d love to.” 

He stares at you, mouth agape. Maybe you jumped the gun a little bit. 

But then his face blisters into a smile. “Perfect. Keep in touch?”

“Of course,” you smile up at him. 

And you just have to stare at him. Because he’s staring at you. And you’re staring back. And maybe this is a dream because you’re nearly certain you want to kiss him right now. 

He opens his arms out, and you meet him halfway. His hugs have been heavily missed, and he still smells like lemons and fresh laundry. 

He sighs into your hair. “I missed you. A lot.”

“I missed you too.” 

His wrist vibrates against your back, prompting an exasperated groan. Reluctantly, he pulls himself away from you. “I gotta go. Thanks for having me over. I’ll text you.” 

“Of course. Get home safe.” 

When the door clicks and five seconds have passed, Jisung leans into the foyer and says, “He’s so into you.” 

You pick up a shoe and throw it at him, shouting, “Shut up!”

He retracts back into safety before peeking out again. “You like him too!” 

Throwing its pair, you huff. You mutter, “So what if I do?” 

♡♡♡

Hwang Hyunjin texts you every minute of the day he can. He enjoys playing catch-up, asking what your new favorite colors, styles, and media are. Sometimes, his questions get too specific, but that’s just his flare. 

When you’re at work, he leaves you a long string of messages to read. Changbin hovers over your shoulder with a knowing grin, which you ensure is promptly whisked away.

“He’s into you,” he announces when the cafe is empty. 

He stretches his arms high above his head. You reach across and tap his armpit, making him squeal. 

Protecting his weak spots like a naked man, he hesitantly asks, “Are you into him?” 

“Why would I tell you that?” you glare. 

“So it’s a yes?” he taunts, smiling in an annoying, know-it-all manner. 

“Don’t speak to me.” 

He knowingly smirks. “Yeah, right.” 

Hyunjin even stops by during every shift. If it’s busy, he always moves to the end of the line so he can talk to you extra long, which doesn’t quell Changbin’s bothering. 

It’s as if nothing changed. 

Eventually, he possesses all of your days off. Whether via texting or impromptu hangouts that Changbin and Jisung respectfully call dates. 

“No man goes to a bookstore and buys you hardcovers if it’s not a date,” Jisung reasons.

It’s entirely different when the book being bought is a classic from your high school days. Hyunjin loves it too, claiming it in his top 5. Only one book, and it’s part of a friendship bond, which is totally normal! But, Jisung refuses to understand this.  

No questions regarding your status are ever shared, which to you is obvious. If there’s no romance like kissing, then there’s no reason to question and ruin what you have. 

Regardless of your perspective, Jisung is relentless in making sure you’re aware of his matchmaking abilities. “If you want an official date, I’ll score you one,” he offers every time Hyunjin takes you on a ‘whimsical adventure’ to McDonald’s at 2 A.M. Jisung’s description, of course. 

Perhaps this is because you caved and allowed him to know that the feelings for Hyunjin never ceased. Maybe the heart does grow fonder in absence, but it doesn’t fare well with persistent presence either. 

“You should just tell him,” Jisung advises one peaceful Wednesday night. Rain patters against the windows, drowning out the city’s signature honking and sirens. 

“And if he rejects me?” 

Jisung nods, carefully dictating his words, “That’s the worst possibility. Or, the better ones occur. You’d never know until it happens.” 

“Either way, he has to go home eventually,” you sigh. The realization shatters your heart into ten million pieces, each broken so specifically that the puzzle would never line up again. 

“You could always be his reason to stay. Home doesn’t always have to be a place.”

You shake your head. “No. He already made that decision.” 

“Prior to the knowledge of you liking him,” Jisung swiftly points out. 

“I suppose that is true,” you admit, but you cannot shake the impending sense of doom. Even if it’s love, it could be inane. Or rather, one destined to be temporary. At the end of that tunnel is a deeply rooted heartbreak that doesn’t seem worth the trouble. 

As if sensing the negativity oozing out of you, Jisung aids, “Just give it a shot. Maybe the warmth will outweigh the darkness. And if he breaks your heart, that just gives me an excuse to beat him up.”

You chuckle. Jisung has always wanted to fistfight Hyunjin for whatever reason. “Yeah. Maybe.” 

Standing up, Jisung concludes, “I’m going to bed. Give it some thought, but don’t destine yourself for the ravine of loneliness because that’s easier.” 

“I will. Goodnight. Love you.” 

“Love you too. Idiot.” 

“Heard that.” 

You turn to your phone, lit up with countless texts from a single man. Isn’t that weird? How can someone have so much reign over your life by simply being present? 

He asks about your plans for the upcoming weekend. Can you get someone to cover for you. Why? The weather will be nice, we can go to the sunflower field and finally get some pics. 

Then it hits you. What better time to tell a boy you like him than in a sunflower field where you are the focus? Albeit anxiety inducing to consider, you can’t picture yourself doing it any other place. Plus, with such short notice, you won’t have time to stress it. 

You tell Jisung of your plan in the morning, and his face lights up with glee. 

“I didn’t think you’d settle on something so quick,” he admits, smiling over a fresh cup of coffee. 

“I’m being spontaneous. Boys like that, right?” 

“Definitely. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Hyunjin is so into you it’s honestly kind of annoying.” 

“How?” 

“I should’ve been the sibling to fall in love with,” he pouts. “I’m way funnier, hotter, and all-around amazing.” 

You scoff. “In your dreams. I always had the valentines in high school. What did you get? Acorns stuffed in your locker?”

“I will never forgive Seungmin for that prank. I am not a squirrel. Simply a man desperate for love,” he dramatizes by pressing the back of his hand against his forehead. 

You grab your keys. “On that note, I am going to work.” 

“Kiss Hyunjin when he visits,” Jisung giggles. 

“I hope you fall into a large vessel on your way to work.” 

“Mutual.” 

♡♡♡

The remaining days leading up to the confession are long and dreadful. Changbin won’t mind his business after you asked him to cover your shift. Jisung bothers you on your breaks about whether the ‘lover boy’ has visited yet and if so, what was he wearing? He swears Hyunjin is dressing up to impress you. 

His texts grow spare, but no less eager to talk to you. You attribute it to being busy with other friends. Or maybe his dad is struggling more with each day. Who knows? 

When the day of the date arrives, you ask him what he’d want you to wear to best fulfill his vision. An hour, and then two, and then an apologetic text promptly followed by a screenshot from Pinterest. He assures that you don’t have to appeal closely to the idea, but if you’re on board with him that definitely works. 

He advises that it might be easier if you meet him there. 

A pit opens in your stomach, hollowing your body with pure anxiety. Something feels wrong, but it’s too late to back out. 

You consult your closet with wary eyes. Picking out multiple pieces, you set them on your bed and take a step back. Mix and match until the right one is as clear as glass. A burnt orange shirt with a small logo on the shoulder and roughed shorts. You’ll pair it with a brown belt and an old, beaten pair of sneakers to match Hyunjin’s vision as best as your closet allows. 

You mumble affirmations to yourself as you dress. They’re meant to ease your nerves, but they make you feel exceedingly more aware of the situation. 

Taking a glance at the clock, you puff your cheeks and dismiss hesitant air. 

You pass Jisung in the kitchen, declaring you’re on your way. 

“He’s not picking you up?” he asks.

“No, I guess something came up. We’re meeting there.”

He offers a comforting smile in lieu of his normal banter. “Good luck. It’ll be fine.” 

Wildly enough, that doesn’t ease anything in your gut. In fact, you fear it makes you more nauseous. 

♡♡♡

The sunflower field is connected to a plot of land owned by a well-traveled tourist farm. They sell all sorts of foods like jam, fruits, and vegetables. Pumpkins to pumpkin jam to pumpkin apples. You’ve heard their apple cider is to die for. Jisung comes and buys a huge gallon every Halloween season, but he’d threaten you every time you got near it. 

Upon arrival, you find a bench under a tree dedicated to the farm’s previous owner. When ten minutes go by, you temporarily abandon your spot to indulge in some warm apple cider. 

You nervously refresh your messages every few seconds as if your phone plan has ever cheated you out of your texts before. In the meantime, you text Jisung. 

It’s not like Hyunjin to be late without warning. He’s always complained about those types of people, deeming them inconsiderate and selfish. Maybe that’s something Americans view normal. Adjusted his brain chemistry or something. 

You try calling, but it goes straight to voicemail. You sigh as the machine gives you the inane instructions. At the beep, you say, “Hey, it’s me. Call me when you can. Or text. Just let me know what’s going on.” 

Suddenly you feel incredibly stupid for thinking any man could be interested in you enough to a) suggest taking pictures of you, b) arrive on time, and after all that c) like you back. 

Naivete. 

An older couple sits beside you on the bench for a while, discussing their grandchildren. 

“I bet Channie would like this place,” the man says, releasing a contented sigh as a smile takes over his face. 

“He truly would. When will he visit again?” 

The man sets a gentle hand on his wife’s knee. “I’m not sure, dear. You know he takes his work so seriously.” 

Leaning your elbows on your knees, you tuck your chin into your palm. It hides your face from the elderly couple. They can’t see the tears glossing over your eyes or how they eventually spill, puddling into your cupped hand. 

The sun slithers in and out of clouds until suddenly, the sun is nearly gone. The couple is long gone by now, but you wish they had stayed longer. At least their presence was there. 

When it hits 5 P.M., you stand up, brushing imaginary dust from your knees. You open Jisung’s text log, telling him you’re on your way home. 

He tries to call, but you let each one ring out. 

♡♡♡

Of all the times to not have a room, now is the worst. Jisung fails to comprehend that trying to explain only makes the sobs rush out faster, but he’s only trying to console you. Trying to get the message across, you turn your back to him and push your face into the couch cushion. 

He paces in front of the couch. Back and forth, the neighbors beneath you must hate him. 

“We have options,” Jisung declares after a peaceful moment of silence. “I can sneak into his home when he’s sleeping and place a pillow over his face and ever so gently push down.” 

Your pillows shake with a lost effort to laugh. 

“Will pizza make you feel better?” he asks, voice gone quiet with the gentleness only an older brother can possess. 

You roll over to look up at him. The sudden light stings your eyes in pair with the never-ending flow of the river that is your tears. Hiccuping, you manage, “T-Tacos.” 

He leans down and rests a hand on your shoulder, smiling as he gives a squeeze. “Sure. I’m sorry I encouraged you to go out with him.”

You dismissively shake your head. He couldn’t have known you would get stood up on a date idea that wasn’t even yours. 

He starts for the foyer, tossing over his shoulder, “If I return bloody, I’m cashing out my sibling favor for your silence.” 

You smile to yourself. At least you have Jisung to help remedy the heartbreak. And tacos. But you wouldn’t get the tacos if not for your brother. Maybe what you’re trying to say is that you love him, but those words would never dare leave your mouth. 

♡♡♡

“Why do tacos taste better after sobbing my brains out?” 

“It’s your loss of salt catching up to you,” Jisung reasons, his cheeks stuffed with big bites. 

You reluctantly nod in approval, totally believing him. 

♡♡♡

The days before the detour were inevitable, but you fear you’ll never return to normal. Changbin asked his questions, and you answered. You didn’t put up a fight or threaten his life for, yet again, being in your business. 

You go to work, make fancy coffees for minimum wage, go home, sleep, and repeat. You ignore texts from Hyunjin, who is now just a number. He’s no different than the Red Cross begging for your blood donation. Except, Hyunjin’s not offering money for his mistake. Just begging your answer and dramatically apologizing. 

When he starts appearing at your workplace, Changbin steps in while you attend to restocking cups, napkins, and wiping off tables. 

Changbin keeps him busy from the moment he enters until the moment he is shuffled out. 

“How much longer do you think until he gives up?” he asks one day, pushing his hair back to reveal his stress induced receding hairline. “He’s ruining my hair growth.” 

You cross your arms against your chest, gravely attempting to suppress your smile. “Hopefully he’ll take the hint soon. My brother is threatening murder.” 

Changbin smiles crookedly, a signal that he’s amused by that. “He has a prosecutor friend who could get him out of it.”

“And reasonable cause. The dude is practically stalking me,” you glance back to the window to ensure he’s not peeking in like Michael Myers. 

Changbin points back to his hair. “And he’s making me lose my hair. That is a horrendous offense.” 

“Right,” you laugh. 

“Don’t laugh! This is real!”

“Real stupid,” you retort. Glancing at your watch, you light up, “Would you look at the time? It’s my break. Have fun!”

Changbin whines as you push past him to the breakroom. He stares at the empty spot you once held, saddened by the eternal breaktime excuse that always snipes his arguments with you. He liked your presence before the Hyunjin situation brought you closer, but now you’re nicer and more willing to entertain his dumb arguments. Shifts pass quicker with this newfound submission. 

It’s only fifteen minutes that go by all too fast for you, and way too slow for him. 

The moment you return, he starts an argument about the ideal pizza toppings. In the middle of defending anchovies and bacon, the store bell alerts you that a customer enters. You wave Changbin off and turn to greet them.

Mouth half ready to say, “Welcome to Seoul Searching,” you stop dead in your tracks. 

The blond-headed boy looks entirely miserable. He’s dressed in stained sweats and an entirely too big hoodie. Dark rings surround his eyes as though he hasn’t slept in ten years. He is a saddened raccoon who merely wants dumpster food. 

Changbin steps in front of you, finishing the greeting and asking what he can get started for him. He intimidatingly flexes his muscles in the process, a warning not to even think about it. 

He tries anyway. 

He peers around Changbin’s shoulders. “Please, Y/N, just talk to me. I can explain things. I can fix this.” 

You turn around to busy yourself with cleaning the hot bar. 

“I saw you there, but I just got so nervous. I’m so sorry.” 

You grip the rag beneath your palm. The anger builds up inside you like a spinning top building up momentum. You fling the rag on the ground and turn back to him. “You were just going to leave me anyway. What was the point, Hyunjin? Really? To get me to fall in love with you again just so you could pack up and leave when things got inconvenient?” 

Dread sinks into his face, relieving color from his face. “A-Again?” he stutters. 

Remembering Jisung’s assurance it wasn’t obvious, you press your lips into a fine line. You nod, asserting that yes, this is the second occurrence despite his ignorance. Sure, he probably was unaware the first time, but this time was so different. 

Everyone assured he was into you. 

You watch him experience the stages of grief through vague twitches. 

Changbin grows annoyed. “Come on, dude, it was so obvious.” 

You’re relieved someone agrees with you. 

Hyunjin glances over to him but swiftly returns his confused look to you. “You really liked me?” 

Your voice breaks pitifully as you answer, “Stupid, huh?” 

Finally, you dismiss yourself into the breakroom before you cry in front of a customer. He simply could be nothing more to you. Even a friend was a stretch now. 

He calls out behind you. “I know it won’t matter but I like you too. I have since the day we met.” 

You stop dead in your tracks. Love is at your fingertips, but instead of turning around and graciously accepting it, you shake the thought away and push forward. Jisung always warned you about your self-worth. It is better to grow as a person than to fall at the hands of someone who hurts you for the selfish greed of love. 

You hear Changbin return to his customer service voice. “So. Can I help you with anything?” 

♡♡♡

When you get home, tears in your eyes,  Jisung is camped in the living room with Seungmin. They gossip over reality TV commercial breaks. 

Jisung glances up at you with the remnants of a smile from the conversation, which swiftly drifts away. “Holy shit, are you okay?” 

Your shoulders tremble, trying to withhold the tears to not embarrass yourself before Seungmin (whom you barely know). But, you have set up a simple 4x4 to block the flood. 

You recount today’s happenings, making sure to go into detail about the context leading up to Hyunjin’s appearance. Horrible customers, a loud child’s iPad, and a spilled caramel frappe all over the floor. Every time you walked over it, your shoe stuck to the floor and made a horrible squelching noise. 

When you finish, Jisung opens his mouth to spew threats on Hyunjin’s name, but Seungmin sets his hand out to stop him. Seungmin takes a deep breath. “I think he is a plain and simple idiot. Even I knew you liked him the first time.” 

“What?” Jisung interjects, “How did you know? I didn’t even know!” 

Seungmin’s jaw falls slack in disbelief. “How could you not know? Y/N stared at him during history daily. You,” he points at you accusatorily, “almost failed our finals because you couldn’t bring yourself to pay attention.” 

Jisung looks to you as if asking for confirmation. You offer a measly nod. His following outburst is ugly. 

Seungmin manages to suppress his noise long enough to redirect the conversation back. “So, he said he liked you back?”

“Yeah, but I just kept walking. I mean, he stood me up. If he genuinely liked me, he wouldn’t have done that,” you reason. 

“Maybe he got nervous,” Jisung offers. You glare at him. His voice was the one you heard when Hyunjin offered his confession. He shouldn’t be turning 180 on you, because now you lead yourself to believe you might have made the wrong decision.

Seungmin punches his shoulder. “He could have had the basic decency to have warranted a no-show.” 

You sigh. “I just wish things made sense.” 

“If you want a background check or,” Seungmin’s voice grows flat and serious. “If you need a legal hitman.” 

“Jesus, Seungmin, I don’t want him dead.” 

He shrugs. “It’s comforting to know it’s an option.” 

♡♡♡

Unwarranted texts bombard your phone, again. The vibration of your phone sends a spike of pain through your head. Blocking him would be easy. So, so easy. And yet, you cannot convince yourself to follow through. 

After a text sent at 4 A.M. that awakens you, you exasperatedly open your texts and tell him to stop bugging you. 

Surprisingly, he does. He follows the simple direction from your concentrated burst of anger. Diligently, too. 

Surprisingly, peace returns.

But peace never stays. 

In the time before you inevitably get harassed by his presence again, you find a place for yourself. It’s not far from Jisung’s, just down the hall. He makes sure to copy a key for himself. Oftentimes, he is waiting for you to get off work. In the dark. Like a serial killer. 

On the topic of jobs, one of your applications finally goes through for a huge music company on the expensive side of Seoul. They really loved you, and you were hired immediately as a social media advisor. 

You visit Changbin at the coffee shop often. He and your replacement get along well, too. They bicker more than you did. 

After Hyunjin’s absence allowed a period for your healing, Seungmin invited you on a date or two. It ended up just before double digits, you think. With his salary, he took you out to a lot of high-end restaurants, and always assured that he would pay for whatever you wanted. He was really good to you, but the interest fizzled out. Regardless, you remain better friends because of it. 

Overall, the issue with Hyunjin felt like a minuscule pothole in an otherwise smooth road. Life has been good to you. 

Rather, it was good to you until you opened Instagram this morning. At the top of your feed, Hwang Hyunjin is posed in front of your company, mouth open in superfluous excitement that cannot be contained with a smile. Your eyes, panicked, drift down to the caption. 

“Nothing beats pictures of home.” 

You mutter, “You have got to be fucking kidding me.” 

You hang low on the way to work, aside from the mandatory stop at Seoul Searching. 

Changbin beams when you walk in. “My love!”

“My idiot!” you return, grinning back as you approach the counter. 

“Your usual?” he asks, and you pull your wallet out to pay him the usual, exact amount. 

“You won’t believe it,” you start after he takes your money. “Hyunjin got a job at my company, and I think we might work in the same department.” 

Changbin snaps his head to look at you. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.” 

His face grows red. “That dude is stalking you!” he exclaims. 

“I don’t think he is anymore. It’s been, what, six months?” you sheepishly admit. “Very unfortunate, though.” 

Changbin leans over the counter, resting his elbows as leverage, and whispers, “Text me if he tries anything funny. I will be there in fifteen seconds.” 

You drag your lip between your teeth, fighting a smile, nodding. 

He encouragingly claps your shoulder before turning around to make your drink. 

♡♡♡

A voice torments the normally quiet office all morning. Everso, the voice grows closer. “This is the social media department, where you’ll be working under.” 

You glance over the breadth of your desktop, but immediately regret it, snapping your head back down. Too late, they saw you. 

“Y/N,” your boss calls. “Meet our new hire.”

You stand up dutifully, offering Hyunjin a polite smile and a partial bow. He offers the same respect. You are nothing more than strangers, you remind. 

Your boss continues her spiel, forcing you to awkwardly stand while she says, “And your desk is right over there, beside our youngest employee,  Jeongin.” 

You drop back into your seat when they turn the corner. 

“You know each other?” your coworker, Jeongin, inquires without ever looking up from his phone. 

You spin in your chair to look at him. “Uh, yeah. We kinda have history.” 

“Let me guess: you liked him, he asked you on a date, then stood you up, but promptly begged for forgiveness as though he didn’t wrong you so terribly?” 

Amazed yet also terrified, you hesitantly ask, “How do you know that?” 

He shrugs. “Just an educated guess.”

Your eyes inspect him for a little longer before you drag them back to your desktop. 

Jeongin’s phone clanks against his desk repeatedly until you look at him. His eyes are blazed with amusement. “Can I play matchmaker?” 

You shiver. “God, you sound like my brother. Absolutely not.” 

“Why not? I could get you a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, but-” you try.

“You want it.”

“I do not,” you assert, attempting a harsh glare that only seems to fuel the fire. 

He smiles, dimples pressing into his skin as he slowly turns back to his desk. “Sure.” 

With his back fully facing you, he warns, “If you change your mind, it better be quick. I have a feeling he’ll be off the market sooner rather than later.”

♡♡♡

To your dismay, Jisung says, “Maybe he’s right.” 

“Not you, too,” you whine, throwing your head back against the couch in irritation. 

“I mean, I know he hurt you, but maybe he didn’t realize how things would happen. At least give him a chance to explain if he tries approaching you. I mean, it’s been six months,” he advises. 

If anyone has any sense, it’s Seungmin. You’ll text him when Jisung finally tredges home. 

You dwell over the minutes that feel like hours. Between Jisung’s stark conversation, you begin explaining to Seungmin over text. You read it over, and always add a new bit you previously forgot. By the time Jisung leaves, the text is freshly sent. 

You don’t get a response until much later, and the anticipation disappoints in contrast to the response you receive.

Upon reading Seungmin’s text, you have concluded: men will always choose the wrong perspective. “Maybe it’ll be a learning experience. You don’t forgive often.” Nonetheless, you will take the advice, albeit begrudgingly. 

♡♡♡

Jeongin gives you a mischievous smile when you walk in. “Hey, Y/N.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. Why do you assume I did something?”

You keep your distance as you set your things down. “You’re smiling like Pennywise in the dream sequences.” 

“I just have good news.”

“And?”

“Hyunjin is very single. Very lonely. He confided in me about a few things,” he smirks. 

“First of all, you are a menace. Second of all, when did you find the time to weasel this information?” 

“I found his Instagram. Cute pics from high school by the way. I’m surprised you didn’t date back then.” 

You roll your eyes. “Respectfully, stay away from me.” 

“You know you don’t want me to,” he sings, loudly spinning in his chair until you tune him out. 

♡♡♡

A tranquil week of getting your work done and leaving immediately passes, but you cannot hide in your facade much longer, especially with Jeongin’s increasingly incessant demands. 

He enlists the time you would spend leaving with asking questions he definitely knows the answers to, perhaps to up your game in the rush to steal Hyunjin’s eye. Nothing screams “I’m a catch” quite like answering the most basic questions daily with a dwindling patience. 

One random Friday, he interrupts your daydreams of the long weekend ahead of you with his grating voice. “Hey, Y/N, if a company email is sent to all of us, how do I respond without notifying all of the company?” 

You throw your head back, heaving a big, deep breath before spinning in your chair to show him. He feigns surprise when it clicks, gasping. “Thanks, Y/N! You’re the best!”

You drag your chair back to your desk, returning to your duties. Email them regarding this sponsorship, reach out to this division about their upcoming comeback, and did they want jade green or more of a scarab for their promotional pictures?

Jeongin smiles from ear to ear as he announces his departure. 

“So early?” Hyunjin asks, voice still partially reluctant in your presence. You may pretend to be strangers, but the tension of past events remains between you like a dense fog. 

“Yeah, I have a doctor’s appointment on the other side of town. Gotta beat Seoul traffic, amirite?” 

He is a terrible liar. Aside from the awkward quirk in his voice, the knowledge that he walks to work because he doesn’t own a car is not exactly confidential. Alongside that, his doctor is sponsored by the company, nestled down the street. This much might not be as known, but he knows you know. He sends you an affirmative wink to confirm your suspicions as he jogs to the elevator. 

Disgruntled and frankly agitated with his incessant likeness to your brother, you glare at your computer screen. The lines of text blur into a fuzzy conglomerate. Until finally, the moment passes and you can proceed with your day. 

Hyunjin’s voice comes into tune. The vibrations of his vocal cords make noise, and your ears process the sounds as words, words as sentences. 

Peace never prevails. 

“So. I heard you got your own place. Is it sweet?” 

Without offering as small a flicker of a glance in his direction, you simply respond, “Yes.” 

“Yeah, Jisung told me it was. Just down the hall from him, right?” 

Though your heart instantly plummets to a place beneath your stomach, perhaps the depths of hell, you refuse to allow it to show. Your brother has betrayed you in a light you could have never imagined. He’s probably kept normal contact this whole time, that scheming troublemaker. And then it clicks. The sudden switch. Jisung knew. Hyunjin was playing you for months in his wake, claiming your brother as a means to conduct his vile behavior against you.

What sin have you committed to be treated like this? 

“It is.” 

“Come on. Give me something to work with here,” he begs, and though you continue to glare at the screen, you can hear his smirk clear through his words. 

You clench your jaw, teeming with firecrackers of rage. All the mean things you could say glimmers in your mind, but you resolve politely, “I owe you nothing.” 

He hesitates. For a split second, you think he might snap back into reality. Hwang Hyunjin, not everyone is going to fall for every word that glides off your tongue. But then, his vain returns. “I suppose not, but I really want to defend myself.” 

Impulsively, you force your nails into the flesh of your palm to prevent screaming. Reluctantly, you spin in your chair to face him. His bottom lip is lodged between his teeth, gnawing nervously, but your empathy runs low. You huff, explaining gently, “So you acknowledge that I want nothing to do with you, and for good reason, but you expect me to hear you out. Why should I?”

His mouth mocks syllables, but nothing emerges. “Uh, well…”

You turn your computer off, standing too abruptly as you snatch your coat from the back of your chair. “Exactly. Shut the lights off on your way out.” 

♡♡♡

Disappointedly, Jeongin plays as a mediator once you retire his matchmaking for him. When Hyunjin directs a conversation towards you, Jeongin instigates one in the opposite direction. If Hyunjin catches on, he ignores it and remains persistent. 

He’ll ask, “Hey, Y/N, do you know when the deadline for the production company’s sponsorship is?” 

And Jeongin will intervene, “Next Friday. I know because I harvest dates like energy. They’re instantly engraved in the folds of my brain.” 

On some days, his persistence exceeds the threshold you can bear. You cradle your head, attempting to tune out his voice, but always to no avail. More days than not, you leave early with a pounding head. Jeongin picks up after you, but you fear the boss is centimeters away from summoning you to her office with intrusive questions. 

Even at home, you cannot avoid his name. Jisung admitted to maintaining contact with him, revealing his betrayal but displaying no remorse under the guise of, “He’s matured. Give him a shot.” 

Hint: no man will ever fully mature in six months. 

The only way to escape him would be to flee the city, denounce yourself from your family, and change your identity so he can’t find you. Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad. 

Jisung lays uncomfortably on your couch when you return from work one day. His head is craned against the armrest, contorting his neck at a harsh angle. 

You drape your coat on the doorknob. “What are you doing here?” you ask as you cross into the kitchen and consult the medicine cabinet. 

“I have a proposal.” 

You reach up and grab the large bottle of Ibuprofen. 

“I’m not talking to Hyunjin.” 

You decap the receptacle, dumping two capsules into your palm. Slinging the pills into your mouth, you tip your head back and swallow harshly against the friction. 

“Stop being stubborn,” he chastises, just like your mother. “What if I give you incentive?” 

“Unless you have a million dollars stowed away, it’s not gonna work.” 

You walk towards him as his voice builds. “Okay, I don’t, but I have an idea.”

He sits up and allows you room on the couch as you approach. 

You sigh, plopping down next to him. “Does it include me compromising once again so he can feel comfortable? Because I’m not doing that, either.” 

“No, well, kinda. I guess the whole thing is a compromise, but—not the point. I ask you to give him a single day at work. Just one. All you have to do is not go out of your way to be mean,” Jisung reasons. 

You scoff. “First of all, I don’t go out of my way to be mean. Secondly, I’m not hearing what I get out of this.” 

“I’ll buy 20 boxes of Thin Mints.” 

“20?”

“20.”

“Make it 25, and you have to promise not to steal two boxes every time you come over.”

“Deal. I’ll put this in writing.” 

“Now can you get out of my house so I can rest?”

Jisung pouts, “But 90 Day Fiance is about to come on.” 

♡♡♡

At the end of the week, Hyunjin shoots up from his desk and announces he’d like to reward you and Jeongin with dinner. “It’ll be a fun little thing, my treat,” he defends, perhaps preceding his ego to catch up. 

Jeongin quickly bows out, citing family issues. His eyes skitter towards you, but they prove his innocence when he offers, “Dad’s in town.” 

You announce, “Sorry, I can’t. I have plans with an old friend.” Your deal with Jisung was civility. Nothing more. Nowhere had he requested you to be honest. 

He dips his fists into his pockets. “Who? Seungmin?” 

The skin on your cheeks blaze hot. For fear of him choosing to invite Seungmin along, you putter, “Uh, no. You don’t know him.” 

Hyunjin shoots you a knowing look, and for a split second your heart mends and you nearly reveal the truth. You look back to your desk with shame. After all, at one point, he was all you knew. It would be pretentious to admit he hadn’t left a giant hole in your life. 

At the end of the day, Jeongin bids his goodbyes. “See you all Monday. Oh, Y/N, text me the details about that idea we discussed.” 

You nod, scribbling a reminder on your sticky note and sealing it to the frame of your desktop. Silence drains the office of energy in Jeongin’s absence. Despite the heavy presence Hyunjin holds, you manage to ignore him and the eyes he bores into you. 

After dwelling in a comfortable silence, Hyunjin ventures to ruin it. “Would you like to go to dinner with me?”

“Does the latter half of that involve the bill coming, you excusing yourself to the restroom, and then climbing out the window?” You smile, looking over at him. 

He deadpans, “Ha-ha, very funny. I won’t. I’ll even pay for the whole thing. Pick somewhere expensive, I’ll prove it.” 

No one in their right mind would deny free (expensive) food. Unless, of course, you’re a medieval queen and have many people who wish to poison you. Even if you fell into this category, Hyunjin would have no obligation to. If it were the other way around, though…

You tap the cap of your pen against your lips. “Hmm. You like Italian. Giuseppe’s?” 

He nods. “If that’s what you want, sure. Only issue: we’re not exactly in fancy-shmancy clothes. Is takeout okay?” 

“Sure. Then I know you won’t dump the bill on me.” 

He gathers his things, joking, “Don’t get too comfy on that.” 

Blindly, you grab the pack of sticky notes and throw them. They hit his head with a hollow thunk. He cradles his head, rambling in pain. You have nothing to do but giggle at the sight. 

“That hurt!” he exclaims.

“Don’t threaten my free food, then.” 

His hand falls to his side, tipping his head back up to question your countenance. Transitionally, his glimmering smile falters until his face draws blank. You admire his features from afar, praying your face isn’t betraying the demeanor you set. That deceiving beauty. Lips part to speak, but words fail him. Then, the smile returns. “Let’s get going, shall we?” 

♡♡♡

After a long debate, including you refusing to let Jisung see Hyunjin at your apartment, he relents and takes you to his. Ironically, it’s only a block over from yours. He was closer than you anticipated, and despite the warm feeling in your stomach (similar to the heat a beer will provide), you hate it. 

At his front door, he struggles manning the rustling bags of food while trying to grant entrance. The stubborn man insisted on carrying everything. You brashly reach and relieve him of the heavy order of chicken parmesan and a healthy platter of alfredo. Swiftly after, the door caves under his push and he guides you inside. 

“You can just kick your shoes off here,” he gestures, stealing the food back with a snarky smirk. 

Longer, intentional strides beat you to the kitchen. By the time you make it, he’s already digging out cutlery and plates. 

“So,” you say, pressing your elbows on the island separating you. “What happened to going back to America?” 

His shoulders tense, and his gaze falls to the pale ceramic in his grip. Reluctantly, he turns around to face you. “Uh, okay, I didn’t want to just jump into this, but since you asked I expect you want a forward response.” 

Your stomach anticipates his response before words can confirm them. Innate intuition ruins you every time. 

He stammers over every word like he’s sinking in quicksand, and no word holds the proper weight before he’s sentenced to smothering. To make up for it, he dishes out noodles and savory chicken. “I guess it starts from the beginning. And, I guess, beginning isn’t the right word for it, because our history stretches far back.

“Sunflower. Picture day, or, I guess, supposed to be picture day. You recall?” 

You sympathetically smile, but the pain of that day rings clear. “Yes, I remember.”

He heaves a big breath, but it doesn’t seem to calm his nerves. “I guess I should just jump into it. I liked you, still do,” he glances up for your reaction, but quickly regrets it and his gaze dips back, “A lot. Like more than I can comprehend.” 

“Huh,” is all you can manage to muster. 

“It doesn’t make sense, right? If I liked you as much as I did, then why did I abandon you there? Frankly, I don’t have a straight answer to justify that. Being scared or nervous or whatever that stupid fucking emotion was clouded my judgment.” 

He hands you a plate full of delectable food, but you suddenly feel dread at the thought of putting anything in your body. The repulsion is so strong, you wonder how you’ve ever felt delight in eating. 

You swallow the stone in your throat, reaching out to accept it. 

He uses his fork to push the food around on his plate, but it never lifts to his mouth. “So, to answer your question, I realized going back to America would solidify my actions that day. I couldn’t handle that, especially since the love has never faltered. And, trust me, I don’t expect you to return it; but, you deserve the truth. That day at the coffee shop, it all came crashing down in some dizzying clarity, and by then, it was too late. I’m so sorry.” 

You draw your lip between your teeth, avoiding his eyes. “How long?” 

“What?” 

“How long did you really like me? In Seoul Searching, you had said since you first met me, but I think we both know you were just trying to save yourself.” 

His shoulders fall as he releases a pent up mass of stress. “I realized when I left that first time. America felt so empty without you, and then I started thinking of all the things we could do when I got back. But, I guess I’ve always liked you. Truly. No one could ever compare to you. Hell, no place could ever compare if you’re not there with me.” 

Despite it all, a bittersweet smile grazes your lips. Maybe those words were all you needed to move forward. Some kind of assertion that you were never the problem and that’s finally being verbally announced. You glance up, “Jeongin tried playing Cupid, y’know?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, I know. The boy pinned me against a wall to pry information out of me. He even asked me about your brother, I guess to get a bigger picture. He weaseled his number out of me.” 

You exclaim. “Maybe that’s why Jisung offered a compromise so I’d be nice to you! Those little—” you stop yourself, falling into a fit of laughter. 

Hyunjin matches you, but his smile is far away as if he still has stuff to say. When the laughter dwindles, he rushes to add, “To be clear, I don’t intend to make advances on you. If I can have you as a friend that will be enough.” 

You analyze his features. Those eyes share stories in their glistening expression, that mouth shares jokes and witty remarks, and by God have you missed him. Perhaps you should go on a whim and act spontaneously. Boys like that, right? You extend your hand over the granite, “Make it a date, Hwang Hyunjin.” 

He gawks. “Are you sure?” 

You nod, waving your hand until he grabs it. “Why not? I already know what best friend Hyunjin is like. Show me potential suitor Hyunjin.” 

“First date, part two,” he declares with a tiny shrug. 

“I guess the only way to get you on a date with me is to trick you into one so you don’t get caught up in your thoughts,” you ponder, retracting your hand to attack dinner. 

He fails to even scoff because the truth in your words is haunting. Instead, he returns to sentiment. “Thank you for giving me a second chance.” 

“Use it wisely.” 

♡♡♡

“Hypothetically, then, would I have to gain permission to enter your apartment so I don’t…interrupt something?” 

You drop your fork with a loud clatter and stare at him in disgust. You glance around the crowded restaurant, leaning to whisper scoldings at him. “Oh my God, Jisung, I’m not gonna have sex with him right out of the gates. We’re not even official yet!” 

He shoots his hands up in defense. “You’ll make it out of the platonic dating phase. Damn me for preparing.”

You stab around your salad. “How are you so sure?” 

Jisung rolls his eyes. “A brother just knows, okay? You’d know if I randomly got romantically involved with someone I’d been best friends with for years. Your smell changes or something crazy like that.” 

“I think you’re thinking of that purity culture propaganda piece,” you point out, and he shrugs. 

To your surprise, the news of the first date did anything but shock Jisung. He stared at you as you delivered the gossip, but he didn’t even crack a smile. It’s like your love life is suddenly old news to him. 

Cupid falls from the sky when his job is done. Boredom, you suppose. Cupid is a dramatic force. 

Your phone vibrates against the table. Hyunjin’s name pops up accompanied by the silly work groupchat name, gifted by Jeongin. He asks when you intend on returning from your lunch, to which Jeongin responds with awkward emojis that silently warn him. You imagine a blanche, shocked look harboring his features when you respond cordially with an apology and an expected time. 

“Lover boy?” Jisung asks, breaking the crust of his pizza into two and dipping one into an offering of ranch. 

“No, it was Hyunjin,” you stubbornly respond, raising your eyebrows at his displeased face. 

You dig in your canvas bag for your wallet. “I have to run. Twenty should cover it, right?” You offer him the cash. 

Jisung waves your hand away, swallowing a large chunk of bread. “I’ve got it. My treat.” 

To your discontented face, he quickly adds, “View it as my congratulations for new beginnings.”

Rolling your eyes, you mutter, “Fine. But I pay next time with no ifs, ands, or buts.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” 

When you return to the office, Jeongin is certainly scared by the abrupt shift in the atmosphere. Hyunjin asks how lunch with your brother was, to which you respond truthfully. “He wasn’t as shocked as I thought he’d be about us.” 

“Us?” Jeongin interjects, eyes shooting between you and Hyunjin. They rest on Hyunjin, “You finally got the balls to ask?” 

Your voice drags his attention back to you. “It was my idea.” 

He jumps up and approaches you. “Okay, what? Are you feeling okay?” He presses the back of his palm to your forehead. 

You reach up and push his arm away. “Yep. All good.”

Jeongin initiates another questioning bounce of looks. Thousands of thoughts travel through his mind at once, but none are vocalized. Finally, he turns back to his desk and mutters, “Weird. I owe your brother fifty bucks.” 

♡♡♡

In the months to come, a relationship buds. Hyunjin atones his mistakes with daily knicknacks—snow globes in May, thrift store finds of picture frames embroidered with stranger’s names, and a hoodie he claims doesn’t fit him the same (but you saw him wearing it the week before and it was baggy and totally normal). Eventually, he upgrades to forehead kisses and good mornings by breakfast in bed. 

Even though Jisung feigned disinterest, he probably gained the most from the development. He knocks before entering your apartment, but only on occasions he knows your boyfriend is there. Then, he’ll nestle between you on the couch and alternate discussions with each commercial break. The boy is in hog heaven knowing his best friends worked it out. 

Awkward conversations still arise, with differing opinions on children and marriage (like those could even be viable questions right now). He asks you to move in with him on multiple occasions, but you shoot him down until you’re fully ready. When you finally approach readiness, and even then you’re not super sure in your decision, he is ecstatic. Finally, you can walk home together, eliminating his worries about you getting dragged into an alley and mugged of the three dollars in your wallet. Jisung pouts over this decision for a week, but his qualms are erased when Hyunjin offers information that a spare key is hidden in a fake potted fern outside. 

When he leaves work early because of a migraine that’s stretching into his muscles and causing extreme aches, you think nothing of it. Until, that is, you open the front door and are greeted by a puppy sitting next to puppy pads and a bowl of water. 

“Do you like him? His name is Kkami. Look, he even knows some tricks! Kkami, sit.” 

Though not your idea of a relaxing Thursday, that’s just what you get with Hyunjin. He’s full of surprises, like when he also came home from work with a little tattoo along his wrist of a quote you once offered him in high school. 

“I thought it’d be a curse to get your name, so I just got something you said that really helped me.” 

Or like how he threw an outfit at you and told you to get dressed. Then, he hustled you into his car and drove without giving any answers to your undying questions of where. The sights grew familiar, and you glanced into the backseat and noticed his camera bag. The sunflower field, an outfit eerily similar to the one he sent you that day. He finally made it up to you. 

His spontaneity is simply one of his best qualities. Sometimes, he’ll stand up from the couch, march into the kitchen for thirty seconds, and return with two takeout menus for you to decide at random, only for you to discover it had nothing to do with food in the first place. 

What triggered this question requires no investigation. Above you, the stars dot the vast navy sky. Planets shine bright, and the planets beg questions. They trigger thinking in an intimate level unique to any other Saturday night activity.

“What if we’re the aliens?” you counter after a moment of daze.

He shifts on the blanket, tilting his head to analyze you. From afar, up close. He succumbs to staring more than he would care to admit. The crushed blades of grass beneath him feel oddly symbolic to him as he says, “I feel like one a lot.”

Your eyebrows curiously jump as you tip your head to meet his gaze. “Like what? An alien?”

Reluctantly, he tips his chin in a minimal nod.

“How come?” you ask, though you fear the answer is already known. Secrets are fated in friendships, but certain things are facts.

You are well familiar with Han Jisung’s facts. The ones everyone knows, and the ones limited to your knowledge only. How his nights are spent writing his own stories. Ones he wishes he lived, ones he envies, ones he does live.

Jisung manages a small laugh. “Well, what is an alien? An outsider? Outcast? You know I fit those definitions.”

You readjust yourself on the blanket, elbow digging into the soil beneath the cloth and resting your head on your palm. “You’re not an outcast to me.”

“To you,” he repeats. “In a deep sea of people.” He looks back to the sky, velvet with the secrets of every intimate conversation being held beneath its blanket of darkness.

Darkness is vulnerable. If no one can see, then surely they cannot hear. How many other conversations like this are occurring simultaneously? What words are being shared like yours? Admissions of love, admissions of defeat, admission that they were wrong, admission of apology. The darkness allows for these possibilities.

Under the vast moonlight, you see Jisung in clear focus.

Compelled to say something, anything that can be of memorability for him, you admit, “I’d rather see you for who you are as an alien than having everyone see you for your surface. People don’t like real. That’s why you feel the way you do. Alone like an alien. But your real is just as beautiful, if not more, as your surface view.”

From this perspective, you watch as his eyelashes link with each blink. You watch his lips tip into a meek smile. He holds his gaze with the stars for a long moment. His chest lifts as he takes in a deep breath, and falls when he releases it.

Panic travels the lengths of your veins as you attempt to remember the details of last night. New year, new boy toy. It’s a resolution anyone can have—some might even be jealous of you right now. Which would be fine, of course, if you knew who this boy was.

Sharp pain in your frontal lobe disrupts your attempt at recollection. You silently hiss, a hand pointlessly flying up to aid the internal aching.

Who is this boy? You must have met him at Hyunjin’s New Year bash. Where tons of free alcohol was presented before you. Peach champagne lingers on your tongue still. And a hint of something else. Is that beer? You must have been completely out of it for the free drink of choice to be beer.

Maybe he’s one of Hyunjin’s friends? He seems oddly familiar. Like you’ve seen his face in a passing Instagram post or something.

You glance to the bedside table beside the mysterious sleeping boy. Sure enough, your phone is there. Plugged in, too. At least you were responsible enough not to lose it in your drunken rampage.

Stealthily, you crawl out of bed, locating forgotten clothes that belong to you on the floor. You ignore the strewn heels and underwear, stealing the black dress as a shield before dashing into your closet. You drop the dress when the door latches shut with a single, loud click. Blindly, you search in the dark for new garments of protection.

Admittedly, the situation is bad, but you acknowledge the positive fact that you are in your house. Shame would drown you if you had to borrow a stranger’s clothes.

Clothed and slightly warmer than before, you step back into the familiar bedroom. Your eyes scan the room like a hawk to your phone. Next to it is his. Overflooded with curiosity and presented with an opportunity to quench it, you rush over.

You tap on the screen, displaying a selfie of him and one of his friends at the gym. They are both flexing their biceps. A smile with hints of laughter rests on the face of the boy who now sleeps beside you. He has dimples tucked in the plush of his cheeks. You roll your eyes. An avid gym-goer with an ego so inflated he has a picture of himself as his wallpaper? Are you serious? You couldn’t have bagged a peculiar boy who could make this investigation a bit more intriguing?

You unlock your phone after discovering he was smart enough to put a passcode on his. You open your text logs, hoping to steal even the tiniest of hints. Nothing new, though.

If anyone, Felix or Saerom would know, they were with you all night—from what you can remember.

You scroll to their group text, promptly typing a vague inquiry along the lines of “did you see me leave with anyone?”

The bubble that pops up to alert you that Felix is typing sends a pit of butterflies wild in your stomach. Please offer some insight. Please.

Lee Felix: Hmm, not sure. Why? Did you score? Lol

Frustration triggers an unintentional huff. The boy stirs from the noise. You wince.

Felix was supposed to be the designated driver. He should have been alert to make sure you didn’t slip away with someone of harsh intentions.

Saerom holds the most hope for you now. You just pray that she didn’t go wild with the alcohol like you apparently did.

You slip your phone into your pocket. The boy is hugging your dog plushie like it’s the last thing he’ll ever hold. He suddenly whimpers, whispering in his sleep, “Don’t leave me.”

Investigation takes over your vision, and you step around the discarded garments to further your search. You crouch beside his pants. They’re nice, expensive black cotton. A tie lays a few feet away. Hmm. Part of a suit.

Maybe drunk you’s option wasn’t too bad? Fashion sense outweighs the factor of his potential narcissism.

You slip a hand into the pocket. Relief flushes over your skin as you feel the thick leather of his wallet. His driver’s license gives you the greatest hint of personhood.

Bang Chan. DOB: October 3rd, 1997. He wields a serious, blank face. So different from the one he shows in the peace of sleep. But still, you don’t know who he is. Sure, you have a name to match the face, but that doesn’t make him any less of a stranger.

You return the wallet to its home while your phone continuously vibrates in your pocket.

Lee Saerom: Oh, I watched you leave with that guy in the suit. One of Changbin’s friends. Chan maybe?

Lee Felix: No way you fucked Bang Chan

Lee Saerom: Do you have a pic of him?? I can confirm his identity.

Lee Felix sent an image

Lee Saerom: Yup. That’s him. They looked pretty close haha.

Lee Felix: Oh Seungmin’s gonna love this

You rest your forehead against your palm as you stare at the chat. A deep sigh escapes your lips. “Fuck,” you mutter.

Seungmin, you’ve heard that name. Is he the tall one who was mocking Hyunjin about his new haircut? You think so, but that could have been Minho.

Hyunjin and Felix have too many friends to keep track of.

Behind you, the boy groans as he disappears from his dream world. You sit on the floor, looking up at him. A hand flies up to push his hair out of his eyes. “Shit,” he blinks hard, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling. His eyebrows knit.

“Hi. Good morning?” you start.

He flinches at the sound of your voice, sitting up defensively. He glances down at his chest and yanks a pillow to cover himself.

You sputter a laugh. “Sorry. I shouldn’t laugh.”

“Who are you?” he asks.

“Who am I?” your eyebrows jump in amusement. “I should be asking you that, considering you’re in my room.”

He takes a long look around your room, finally acknowledging the possibilities of last night. “Right,” he draws the word out. “I’m Chan. Bang Chan?” He doesn’t seem too sure of his own identity. Perhaps he thinks this is some unthinkable dream.

“Friend of Changbin?” you ask.

Confused, he hesitantly nods.

“Hmm. I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you. Soberly.”

This rises a half laugh from him. The smile lingers on his face, and there those dimples are, peeking out so boyishly your heart tugs. “You too.”

After a disturbingly long silence (what do you say to someone after you’ve drunkenly had sex with them?), you say, “Seungmin’s probably going to make fun of you for this.”

“You know Seungmin?” His tone tips upward in curiosity.

“No, my friend does. But he said, and I quote, ‘Oh, Seungmin’s gonna love this’ end quote.”

He tilts his head to analyze your face. Maybe he thinks he sees familiarity in your features, but you’re sure he’s never seen you before this encounter. “Who’s your friend?”

“You have a lot of questions,” you observe.

His eyes narrow at this. “I feel like I have the right to.”

“Fair point. His name’s Felix. Now, what do you remember from last night? Because personally, I got nothing.”

His face lights up as though you’ve just told him he’s won the lottery. “Oh shit, you’re friends with Felix?” he laughs.

You nod. “Four years now. We met at the airport. He was flying to Australia, I was going to the States for a rendezvous with some guy from Tinder.”

“That’s crazy. Felix never talks about you.”

For some reason, this alerts a harmful pang in your chest. You thought you were closer to Felix than that, but maybe this just proves this Chan guy is so different from you that Felix has never felt the need to introduce him to your existence.

“Okay, answer my question now,” you say.

“I don’t remember anything either,” he admits.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I don’t exactly trust you on that. You’re a gym rat after all. You could be some gross dude who uses girls for sex and I’m the perfect prey,” you snap. It was the Felix comment. Hurt triggers some mean words.

“How do you know I’m a gym rat? I’m not a gym rat,” he defensively shakes his head, letting the pillow rest in his lap.

Right, you think, because non-gym rats have perfect pecs and a set of abs that look chiseled carefully by the gods.

You tip your chin towards his phone. “Your wallpaper.”

“You went through my phone?” he scoffs, face twisting into shock.

“I didn’t exactly know who you were. You’re not Mr. Popular, you know.”

He stares at you with wide eyes. “Other girls would disagree.”

You marvel at this oh-so-manly admission. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

You lean over and grab his pants, promptly throwing them at him. The last thing you want is to continue this conversation. You don’t even listen to your guy friends talk about their game, so the interest of listening to a stranger speak on this is skyrocketing in the wrong direction.

Pulling yourself up, you say, “Do you want breakfast?”

“Um, sure?”

“All I have are Eggos.” He gives you an incredulous look, causing you to add, “Be grateful I even offered.”

II.

Saerom and Felix sit on your couch while you pace the room, recounting the angering fling in great detail.

“Are you sure that was Chan? It doesn’t sound like him,” Felix shakes his head in disbelief.

“Well, does he have an evil twin with the same name or something?” you throw your arms around to emphasize the tense feeling in your stomach.

“No,” he mumbles, sinking back into the couch.

“He could have at least been grateful for the Eggos,” Saerom chimes in.

You’re glad she gets it.

“I don’t even remember the sex,” you admit.

“That wasted?” Saerom’s lips press into a fine line of shared disappointment.

“What a great start to the new year. Do you want to know something about Chan to make you feel better?” Felix inquires. His eyes are warm and welcoming, and you can’t bear saying no to him.

“Chan’s not a one-night-stand kind of guy. He probably just didn’t know what to do when he woke up. And he’s not a gym rat. He spends more time at work than anything. Changbin just drags him along every Saturday. I know because he tried doing the same to me. Except I’m not a sucker for my friends the way Chan is.”

“You are a sucker for your friends, though?” Saerom comments.

Felix offers her a short look. “Not as bad as Chan is. One time, he drove three hours across the country to pick Minho up from a dance competition gone wrong. I would never waste my gas like that.”

“Felix, this doesn’t make me feel any better,” you say.

He takes a deep breath, contemplating his next words with great concern. “If you run into him again, just give him a chance. Alright? I wouldn’t hang around a douchebag. You know that.”

You doubt you’ll willingly run into this man ever again, but you do have mutual friends, so you don’t dismiss Felix’s words entirely.

III.

You have made the executive decision to skip Hyunjin’s upcoming rager. Not because of the Chan dude. It’s been months since the fling even happened and you honestly forgot about it until Felix interrogated you about skipping.

“Chan’s not even gonna be there, you won’t risk running into him,” Felix had said, and you had to stop and think about who Chan even was.

Parties are just too much sometimes. Plus, you and Saerom have had plans to go up to the mountains for weeks and the party just so happens to fall upon the same weekend. It would be rude of you to miss out on a trip you helped plan.

“Should I pack a bathing suit?” Saerom asks over the phone. “I mean, the Airbnb has an indoor hot tub listed in the description.”

“Sure, I’ll pack mine too,” you say, backtracking to your dresser and grabbing the first suit you could find. You toss it in your suitcase.

“So you know how we’re sharing the place with another renter?” you start.

Saerom hums.

“Do you think it’ll be anyone cute?” you smile to yourself at the possibility.

“I hope so,” she chuckles on the other end. “The host told me there would be a group of boys around our age but she said they reminded her of frat boys.”

You throw your head back in agony and groan. What is this luck you have?

“Hey,” Saerom defends, “Frat boys can be nice. It’s just a-”

You cut her off, picking up one of your sweaters and holding it to your chest before tossing it on your bed, “One in a million chance?”

“Right.”

Saerom starts asking about music for the drive but is promptly interrupted by an incoming call.

“Shit, sorry, Hyunjin is calling. I’ll call you back,” you profusely apologize before accepting the new call. Felix probably told him you were bailing.

Before you can say hello, Hyunjin’s voice bombards your ears. “Are you skipping my party to go see your secret, mysterious boyfriend in the mountains?”

A laugh drifts past your lips. “Hello to you too.”

“Answer the question, Y/N.” He can’t possibly be angry at you for this, but he’s making a show.

“Since when do I have a secret, mysterious boyfriend?” you counter.

He huffs. “Nevermind. You have to come to the next party though, okay? It’s mandatory for maintaining your status as my best friend.”

“Ha! Best friend? Really?”

You’re truly amused by the silence that follows as he tries to spin a believable lie.

“Just free up your schedule, okay?” he whines.

“I’ll think about it.”

He makes a noise of histrionic Hyunjin-ness. A mix between a scream and a groan. Exaggerated in a way only he could pull off. “Please? I’ll get you that peach champagne shit again.”

“Hmm,” you consider.

“And I’ll make sure your boy shows up,” he hurriedly adds.

“My boy?”

“Yeah, well, a boy. Not necessarily yours.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What else do I have to throw in to convince you?”

You take a moment to draw his neediness in. Finally, you admit, “I was honestly just waiting to see if you’d bribe me. I’ll go. But make sure that peach stuff is there. It was really good.”

You think he’s screaming into a pillow for a second. He comes back to the phone, voice completely even. “I will ensure that the peach alcohol is waiting patiently for your return. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a minute. Have fun on your trip. Be safe. Tell your mystery boyfriend I say hi.”

Before you can shut down the secret boyfriend accusations, Hyunjin has already hung up.

IV.

Saerom has earned the award for the best Airbnb scouter in the history of your friends.

You hadn’t seen the pictures until the drive up. Saerom wanted to keep it a surprise but failed in the final hours. The log cabin is straight from a movie—one with a budget of a couple million. The high ceilings, the exposed support beams that add to the character, the tall windows that offer a view of the nearby mountaintops. Beauty doesn’t end there. A miniature theater, the hot tub room shares a view of the snowy trees, even the bedrooms have unique personalities.

“This is so cool!” you exclaim, spinning slowly to take in the living room. The leather couch is in pristine condition. Not a single scratch. You offer a round of applause for the owners of this place. They even put a wicker basket of blankets next to the couch for optimal coziness.

“Let’s go claim our rooms before the other group gets here,” Saerom grabs her suitcase handle and starts for the hallway adjacent to the kitchen. You trail after her like an amazed child, looking around with saucers for eyes.

She takes the room on one end of the Jack and Jill bathroom and you take the other. It comes in agreement that it would be too awkward to share a bathroom with a random (allegedly frat) boy.

In true vacation format, you have packed a book or two to reach maximum relaxation. So here you lay, on the queen-sized bed feeling like royalty with a book hovering over your face. Your phone lays beside you on Do Not Disturb mode. Royalty doesn’t feel obligated to respond, so neither should you for this weekend away. Still, you check it periodically to make sure no one’s dying.

Sudden noise alerts you that the other group has arrived. Saerom rushes through the bathroom.

“Should we go say hi? Scout out the cute ones? I’ll let you pick first dibs.”

You grin, setting the book down and following her anticipating footsteps. She peeks out into the living room, greeting them joyously. Before you analyze faces, you take a headcount. One, two three, four. Four boys. That’s kind of intimidating-holy shit is that Chan?

The moment your eyes fall on him, your heart skips at least two beats. His eyes catch your stare. You’re sure he sees the abrupt shift of your expression because he offers a small, apologetic smile. Then, in case that’s not enough, he mouths, “Sorry.”

You break eye contact, glancing to Saerom for advice, but she’s busy introducing herself.

The other boys are named Bambam, Minghao, and Seokmin. Against your own thoughts, they seem rather nice. Not outwardly frat-esque. Chan keeps trying to steal your attention, but you keep your eyes glued to the one talking, nodding along to his words, and playing your best acting role.

In the moment of silence, you say, “Well, I’m gonna head back to my room and get some reading done. It was nice meeting you all.”

The boys chorus their regards before you sneak back into the hallway. Shutting the door behind you, you take a deep breath. It offers temporary calm. You grab your phone as a distraction. Noticing Felix has sent you a Snapchat, you rush to open it. It’s a screenshot of his location tracker that shows you and Chan being in the same place. Beneath the picture is an array of question marks.

You quickly type back: I had no idea he’d be here. Saerom got a dual boarding bc it was cheap. What are the chances of this??

One in a million, you think. Likely less than that, if we’re being realistic. You’re three hours away from Seoul. How? Just how?

Lee Felix: Hmm. You sure he’s not your secret boo or something?? Seems pretty convenient

Felix’s words trigger a light switch in your brain. Angrily, you scroll down to Hyunjin’s contact and click the call icon. You hold the phone to your ear, impatient at every ring that echoes.

When he fails to answer, you leave a frustrated voicemail to call you back when he can or text you at the very least.

At the same time, Saerom texts you.

Lee Saerom: Holy shit?? Is that the guy you slept with at the beginning of the year? The super rude one who scoffed at your Eggos offer??

You text back a simple frowning emoji, and she understands instantly, apologizing profusely. She swears she didn’t know.

You: No, it’s okay. I know you couldn’t have known who the group would be. I’m just gonna be avoidant and it’ll be okay, but don’t let me ruin your vacation. Socialize!!

Really, you try to be genuine. Maybe you won’t even have to avoid him. Maybe he really just feels bad. As Felix said, he probably just didn’t know what to do. Everyone has their moments.

Lee Felix: Remember what I told you, okay?

It’s like he can read your mind. You’re typing a response back when there’s a knock on your door. Your eyes shoot up. The sound echoes in your ears as you realize who’s on the other side. You keep quiet, drafting your text back to Felix when the knock repeats. Again, you stay silent; but, the knocker persists.

You start for the door, swinging it open. “What?”

Chan’s fist is hovering to knock again, and his eyebrows jump in shock when he acknowledges that you stand before him. His arm falls to his side. “Can-Can I come in? I just want to talk about…you know.” He nervously looks to his feet, then up to your stony eyes, and then back down.

There are mean words waiting on the tip of your tongue, but Felix’s heavy voice rings in your ears and you sigh, stepping out of the way and quickly waving him in.

His shock intensifies at this, but he steps inside. You close the door behind him and turn to look at him, arms crossed expectantly. “Go on,” you urge.

“Look, I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t present myself in a way I would proudly do now, so I would like a redo if you would graciously allow me that,” he spits the words out in a hurry.

You’re only doing this because of Felix. Kind, beautiful Felix who has never intentionally hurt you, and thus you trust his judgment, despite your inner contradicting thoughts. Sticking a hand out, you say, “I’m Y/N, very nice to meet you. And you are?”

He takes your hand in his, “Chan. A pleasure to formally meet you in a sober state in which I’m not a douche.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you smile, playing along.

“Right, I don’t know what I’m talking about either,” he laughs, and his dimples are on full display.

Chan stays for a bit longer, sitting next to you on the foot of your bed. You learn that he’s a hopeful actor, but in substitution for his lost time, he’s studying law. He only goes to the gym when Changbin fears he’s too involved in his studies, by means of distraction.

You were wrong about him. In all ways but one: his beauty is strikingly overwhelming. When he talks, you catch yourself glancing down at his lips with a weird sense of hope. In your defense, you’ve already reached peak intimacy with him so there’s no point in acting like attraction requires levels of achievement.

Some people have to be friends first. Some people skip that, and that’s decently fine. Friends to lovers? Overdone in your book. Failed hookups to lovers? It’s new. This is the path that you wish to explore, but you still want to admire the beauty along the way.

V.

In the morning, you sneak into the kitchen to make breakfast. Plans abruptly change when you see the boy on the couch nearby. A blanket pulled to his chin, his lips gently parted. Light snores escape from the gap.

Was the walk to his room really that troublesome?

You step over a forgotten throw pillow and push his shoulder. He groans, burying his face in the blanket. You try again. “Chan.”

“What?” he whines, not bothering to open his eyes.

“I’m about to make breakfast. Either endure the noise or help me.”

His sleep swollen eyes try to make out your face. “Fine. Since you ask so kindly.”

If you were to have a nickel for every time you’ve seen this man wake up, you’d have two, which doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s weird that it’s happened twice given the context of time between you (or lack of).

After an intense debate, you settle on French toast. You monitor the pan while Chan dips the bread into the egg mix. Perfect teams always derive from people who were recently strangers.

“The girl you came with,” Chan starts, “Saerom?”

You hum, urging him to continue.

“She’s nice. Was she at the party?”

“Which party?” you ask, though you know which one he’s talking about.

“The only party that I could be talking about. You know,” his voice trails off.

You laugh at the pouted look on his face. “I’m just messing with you. She was there. She was the one who told me your identity the next morning. And Felix was the one who notoriously spilled the beans because he just so happened to be in the group text.”

He nods, letting the information permeate. The look on his face. It begs to ask more, but he fails to act on it in time. One of his friends has blanketed the space with his presence.

“Good morning,” Minghao yawns, stretching his arms above his head.

“Morning,” you turn to him. “French toast?”

“Please.”

You still don’t know why Chan showed up again. Coincidence? Fate? Often mistaken for each other. Fate proposes an idea of hope, and getting your hopes up is a crime in the changing world we live in. You shake the idea. It’s just a coincidence. But if the path allows, you plan to travel it.

VI.

The boys decide to hit the slopes as a token of their vacation. When prompted with the notion that the check-in cabin offers loan skis and garb, Saerom shrugs and joins them. You lag behind, making up some excuse to stay home. What you really want to do is sit in the hot tub for an hour or two.

A phone call from work delays your entry. And then a call from Hyunjin (“When are you coming home? I probably look so suspicious at the ABC store right now trying to scout all of their peach shit.”). And another from Felix (“If I were a worm, would you build me a haven? No, Y/N, this can’t wait. I must know ASAP.”).

By the hour the time comes, the sun is tilting towards sunset. What was meant to be a solo relaxation is now threatened by the group’s return. Regardless, you sink into the hot tub and bask in the warmth. The view really is no joke. You look onto it for so long you lose track of time, and yet, you can’t find yourself being bored of it. The world is ever changing. There will always be something new to admire.

“Tsk. Beat me to it,” a voice says from behind you.

You jump at the sudden appearance of the intruder, splashing water everywhere as you turn to look at them.

“Don’t do that! You don’t just creep up on a girl like that!”

“Sorry,” Chan winces, offering a meek smile as further apology.

You breathe out, looking back to the sea of trees past the glass.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not particularly,” you glance back at him. There is a hint of a smile on your face, you can feel the muscles betraying the internal want to be alone.

“I will return, then,” he says, disappearing back into the house momentarily.

You check your phone in the meantime. A few texts from Felix (“Are you sure about what you said about my worm transformation?”) and one from Hyunjin—a simple picture of a cart filled with peach flavored vodka, beer, and the likes. You laugh to yourself.

“What’s so funny?” Chan asks, pulling the glass door shut behind him. You glance up. He’s in swim trunks, of course. Chest fully exposed. Collarbones. Abs.

It’s a lot to take in.

“Oh come on,” he points at your awed face. “You’ve seen me naked!”

You sputter, looking back to your phone, “Oh, shut up.”

He sits opposite you, a smug grin resting gently on his lips.

“How was snowboarding?” you ask, setting your phone back down before dunking your arms in the water. You nervously trap your hands between your thighs.

He shrugs. “It was fine. Cold.”

You chuckle. “I expected that much.”

“How about you? What did you do all day?”

“I was stuck in the dimension of phone calls for most of it. Work, Felix, Hyunjin.”

His neck vein pulses outwards as he makes a yikes face. “Let me guess: worm haven?”

You laugh and shake your head. “How’d you know?”

He struggles to get the words out in between laughing, “He asked me the same thing last week. Wouldn’t let me leave his apartment until I gave him an in-depth response on how I would structure his worm utopia and everything.”

“Sounds so very Felix of him.”

His laugh wanes into a faraway smile. Those eyes of his stare into yours like they hold the moon, and he’s always wanted to see the moon up close. He pushes himself to move towards you.

“I’m not the best with words,” he offers.

“Who says you had to be?” Your eyes linger on his lips as he draws closer. Falling back into the habit, one that doesn’t beg to be broken.

With his body virtually flushed against yours, you jump to meet him. He breathes a laugh through his nose, which tickles your upper lip. His lips feel so familiar against yours. Matched. Fated. The warmth from his body (or maybe that’s just the water) ignites a hive of buzzing bees in your stomach. Different from the butterflies associated with proximity. Bees are less archetypically beautiful, and yet they hold this specific beauty at the moment. Who would ever want butterflies when there are bees that he offers you? This is how love is addictive. Yet, you will fall for its ruses if it means kissing Chan like this. His hand reaches up from the water and cups your cheek, all the while holding you closer to him.

Despite your attempts to hold on to the moment, he pulls away. “Have you ever kissed anyone in a hot tub before?”

You shake your head, confusedly staring back at him.

“You sure? Feels like you’re a pro at this.” He leans back in, pressing a quick kiss at your lips before submitting to a longer one.

Your stomach feels warm—and you’re 99% certain it is not of fault by the hot tub.

VII.

He dedicates his night to getting to know you better, claiming that one with your capabilities should not simply slip through his fingers. Plus, tomorrow you return to Seoul. It’s only appropriate to pull an all-nighter seeing as you aren’t driving.

You lay on your bed, staring up at the blank ceiling. He beside you, though with considerable distance.

“Where do you work?”

“Confidential information,” you declare.

“Oh, come on. You’ve used that same excuse for the past three things I’ve asked you.”

You roll over to look at him. “Some things you don’t reveal before the first date.”

He squints at you, convinced, “Touche.”

You press on, “Because how do I know you’re not one of those psychos who show up at my place of work and harass me?”

“I won’t,” he shakes his head.

“How can you be so sure?”

“First of all, I’m studying law. If I wanted to stalk you, I’d do it in a way that wouldn’t get me convinced. Plus, Seungmin’s a law student. He’d kill me or any of his friends if we tried something like that, and he’d especially kill me if I tried to abuse the law.”

“Seungmin’s a law student?”

He nods.

“A gossip-loving law student. Seems oxymoronic, doesn’t it?” you laugh.

“You’re right, but I hope you know we’re going to be his favorite spectacle for a while,” he chuckles, reaching an arm around you and pulling you closer.

You melt into his touch. “Can I blame him? Not really. We are a spectacle.”

VIII.

The morning you leave, you get Chan’s number and text him the whole ride home.

“What are you smiling at?” Saerom glances between you and the road before you, a teasing smile of her own on her lips.

“Nothing.” Your voice is that gross, nasally intimate kind. Part of you hates it, but another piece of you loves the thrill. Right now, the concept of being with someone is still a game. Nothing is set in stone and nothing is serious. You are navigating things at your own pace, just the way you want it to be.

Saerom drops you off at your apartment, and you thank her for the getaway.

“Anytime you need, just call me and I’ll book us a place. Keep me in the loop with Chan,” she winks.

Despite shooting her a threatening look, a smile creeps onto your lips. You wave her off as you advance toward the building, suitcase in tow. You greet the doorman with a bouncy nod of acknowledgement. His eye curiously follows you, but he fails to question you by the time you step into the elevator.

A call disturbs your silence.

You glance at the contact. A smile graces your face.

“Hello?”

“Are you coming to my party this upcoming weekend? I know you’re home because I’ve been ardently supervising your location.”

You suck your teeth. “Hmm. I might have plans.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Hyunjin groans.

Once the elevator doors allow, you step into the hallway and follow it until your door. Pressing the phone against your shoulder, you struggle with the key. “I’m playing. I’ll show.”

If he had continued to ignore your calls, you might have been serious about skipping another one of his parties. As it turns out, Hyunjin knew Chan was going on vacation at the same spot but didn’t mention anything to you or him. He simply sat back and watched like a man graced with playing Cupid on one special occasion, armed with precious secrets he couldn’t reveal until his accidental plan followed through. As for Felix, he was out of the loop too. Simply a coincidence that he used the same words as Hyunjin.

Coincidences are weird, aren’t they?

“Sweet. Knew I could count on you.” He blows kisses through the phone before returning you into the world of quiet. After the weekend, it’s peacefully comforting. The vacation was relaxing, but Chan and his friends were a little loud. Especially when video games entered the mix.

Tired, you rest the suitcase by your bed before throwing yourself on the mattress. You wrap your arm around your midriff, expanding the illusion of someone else’s arm. Within minutes, you are completely out. Who knew car drives could be so draining?

When you wake, there are texts waiting for you. Saerom announced she made it home safe with only an almost minor crash at the intersection by the city’s huge grocery store—infamous for its dangerousness. A selfie from Chan and Felix. Below it, Chan sends a saccharine text regarding how excited he is for the next meeting with you. Your stomach swells with glee.

IX.

The week drags on. Mundane workdays that stretched into your free time. Winddown time went into napping. You barely had time to interact with your friends.

But, the weekend is here. As you promised, you will make an appearance at Hyunjin’s party. Chan will be there too, so that means you must devote special care to your evening look. You call in the big guns (Saerom and Felix) to aid your search for the perfect outfit.

They sit at the foot of your bed while you stand before your closet of options.

“So, are you and Chan gonna,” Saerom hesitates before gesturing a finger into a hole established by the okay signal.

“No!” you shout. Heat rises to your cheeks and, oh my god, is this embarrassment? You’ve never been ashamed of your sex life before. Why now? This is the danger of becoming attached.

Felix’s shoulders shudder in a failed attempt to suppress laughter. “Chan’s favorite color is black. Not that you’re dressing for him or anything.”

You rush to agree. “Right.” Meekly, you add, “I’m dressing for me.”

Neither of them believes you, but they help you nonetheless. Saerom points at your closet. You follow her aim to an article that has been left forgotten since the fateful party. “Isn’t that what you wore to the New Year’s party?”

You turn back to her, dumbfounded but forcing a nod.

She tilts her head in contemplation. “Hmm.” She makes her plotting thoughts known. All she needs is someone to question her before she continues.

“What are you thinking?” Felix beats you to the punch.

Pleased that someone has fallen into her trap, she confidently states, “If it worked the first time, it’ll work again.”

You stare at her. She has a point.

“What if he thinks I’m some weirdo who only owns one dress even though I actively attend these hustler parties?” you ask.

Felix shakes his head, almost with the same intensity as someone who’s offended. “He wouldn’t think that. If anything, he’d just be like ‘wow this girl has a favorite dress and it looks good on her.”

“Plus he said he didn’t remember meeting you before the sober wakeup anyway,” Saerom jumps to add.

“Drunk him liked the dress, so sober him will too,” Felix assures.

This is all the convincing you need. The dress does look good on you. And it’s one of your favorites. A black bodycon dress has never failed you, so you hope that fate does not change tonight. You can pair it with those thermal tights to combat the outside chill.

You smile gratefully at your friends. “Thanks. Wish me luck, then.”

X.

Per usual, Hyunjin’s large house is a staple for college students seeking a fun time. It helps that Hyunjin has connections as his recent alma mater. And his roommate, Jeongin, is still a junior. The kitchen is crowded with beer pong games and chatting groups. You stalk into the living room where you last saw Saerom. Unfortunately, you don’t see her perfectly styled hair among the sea of people. However, you do catch the eye of a boy with dimples on either side of his smile. The smile broadens when he notices it’s you, and he steadily evades a conversation to approach you.

“Look at you!” he says, wrapping an arm around you while balancing a drink in his hand. He’s in casual clothes, but he still wears them as though they were businessy. With confidence and poise. His cologne is strong. Vaguely woodsy but particularly resembling the sea.

He steals away quicker than you hoped.

“Did you just get here? Do you want a drink?” he presses.

“Yeah, I just saw Hyunjin so I stopped to talk with him before I came to find you. Hyunjin’s getting me stuff from my hidden peach alc stash,” you chuckle, and he mirrors it.

“You’re on that good terms with Hyunie that he has alcohol specifically for you? Damn. Jealous.”

You shrug. “It was a bribe so I’d keep coming to these things. I feel too old to be partying with college kids. But, Hyunjin has referred to me as his ‘best friend’. So that counts for something, right?”

“Oh, definitely,” Chan trails. He glances back down to your body, quickly returning to your gaze.

“You look beautiful, by the way.”

“Thank you,” you grin. Mission accomplished. You add, reaching out to adjust how his black tee sits on his shoulders, “You look good too.”

“Psh,” he shakes his head, “I came from the gym with Changbin. So apologies if I smell bad. Sweaty.” He shudders in disgust.

“Very much the opposite, you smell nice.”

Hyunjin interrupts your conversation. Two red solo cups rest in either hand. He juts the one in his left hand out to you. “Yours.”

“The man of the hour,” Chan declares, pulling Hyunjin in a disattached friend hug.

Hyunjin sheepishly laughs. “Jeongin orchestrated this one. All him, man.”

They engage in an overbearing bro-conversation that you tune out of when you hear the word ‘gym’. Hyunjin grabs Chan’s muscles, but his words fail to permeate your ears. You zone out completely.

Until Hyunjin waves a hand before your face. “Hello? Anyone home?”

“Sorry,” you blink, taking a sip of the drink (vodka?) to regain consciousness. Chan looks at you curiously.

“I asked how your love life is going,” Hyunjin says.

You glance quickly at Chan. Playfully, you ask, “I don’t know, how is it going?”

Chan’s cheeks blister red. He shuts his eyes tight and shakes his head. “I think it’s going pretty well, but that’s how I see things. We should probably go on an official date soon, though.”

“And with that, I take my leave. Have fun, lovebirds,” Hyunjin shakes Chan’s shoulder, a means of encouragement, before stepping back and shooting you a wink. Gone he is, and thus your night begins.

“Date, huh? That’s a scary word.”

“Only if you want to,” he quickly amends.

You nod. “I’ll go on a date with you. Felix hyped you up too much, and now I’m curious.”

If it were possible, his cheeks grow lusciously more crimson. He takes a deep breath, “Right. I hope I’ll live up to the standards Felix has set for me.” You don’t say, but he’s exceeded them so far. With this in mind, you remind yourself that all good things must come down. But, for now, you think you can enjoy the high safely. Heartbreak is merely a conditional clause of messing around with someone.

Only a few hours later, his lips are hungrily pressed against yours. Your back is against the wall of his bedroom door, and despite the liquor in your system, you are unequivocally here. In the moment. His cold hands sneak under the cloth guarding your shoulders. He breaks from your lips only momentarily to ask a simple question. “Is this okay?”

Fervently, you nod, hurrying back to the kiss. His hands move from your shoulders. They curve past your ribs, down to your hips, and land on the underside of your thighs. “Jump,” he orders huskily. Of course, you oblige. Your legs link around his hips. You steady yourself by wrapping your arms around his neck.

Despite the neighboring alcohol in his system, his walk is steady as he guides you to his bed. Gently, and never abandoning your lips, he sets you down. His palms press into the freshly washed duvet, holding himself confidently above you.

He slips away from you to remove his shirt. You reach up to trace the outline of his abs as he hovers over you.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” he pants. Eagerly making out causes you to lose your breath, break a sweat. It’s a workout better than the gym could offer.

You nod. “Yes. I’m here this time. Decently sober. So at least I’ll remember this in the

morning,” you joke. He releases a breathy laugh.

“Are you okay with this?” you counter, absorbing the moment in great detail. You want to remember this. The way he looks at you. The way gravity plays with his hair, leaving it to hang off of his forehead.

“Yeah. 100%. No, scratch that. 110.”

“Alright then,” you say, snaking your hand around his neck and pulling him closer to

return his pretty lips to yours. Euphoria takes hold of your body. The buzzing bees strangle your insides.

Before you proceed, he mumbles lazily against your lips, “I’ll take you on all the extravagant dates you deserve starting tomorrow. Free up dinner so I can see you. K?”

“K,” you smile.

XI.

When consciousness meets you again, the smell of unfamiliar laundry detergent and distant cologne tickles your senses. Abruptly, your eyes shoot open. There is a moment of time in which you look around the empty room with great confusion. It passes quicker than it came.

You roll over, stretching your legs beneath the comforter as you reach for your phone.

It’s 10 AM.

There is a text awaiting you.

Bang Chan: Good morning, beautiful! Sorry I’m not there, I had an 8 AM lecture that I completely forgot about. I should be done by 11. Do you need me to bring anything on my way back?

Bang Chan: Oh btw, help yourself to any clothes you need.

You bite your nail, giddily smiling to yourself.

Leaving the train station with a suitcase trailing behind you and a bag hanging from your shoulders, you inhale the cold winter air. It smells like Christmas, the smell of pollution that taints the air mixed with the brew of snow falling gently from the clouds. The weight you drag reminds you of a time when your father would tote your bags around, and you’ve never felt more alone in this vast world.

The streets of Busan are busy, per usual, as everyone rushes to complete gift shopping. It’s Christmas Eve, their last chance.

It’s a miracle you can hail a taxi of your own.

“Home for the holidays?” the driver asks as he takes your suitcase and stuffs it into the trunk.

“Mhm,” you hum, pulling the back door open and slipping inside. The heat blasts from the A/C and dries your eyes out, but at least you’re safe from the nipping breeze outside.

You offer an address to the driver, and he promptly plugs it into the GPS.

The ride is quiet and you use this time to stare out the window, watching as the snowflakes rush to the sidewalk. Part of you wants to ask the man about his plans, but he seems serene with his eyes glued to the road. You imagine a false life for him, hoping that some parts are true. He’s working on Christmas Eve for the same reason everyone else is. A kid at home with big dreams the man wants to help them reach.

The streets become more familiar as you draw closer to ‘home’. You know you’re there when the car brakes in front of a house with white lights lining the roof. The only one in the neighborhood. Dad always thought they were better than the colorful ones, and Mom always nodded in agreement.

As you pay the driver, he grins, “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, sir,” you mimic his glee.

You wait and watch the car’s lights fade into the dark night before dragging your things up to the front door. A deep breath invades your lungs as you raise your fist to knock (Mom hates the sound of the doorbell), but a voice interrupts you.

“Y/N? I didn’t know you were coming home for Christmas!”

Your head swivels to the voice. A brunette boy smiles over the wall separating your house and the neighbor’s. His folded arms are resting on the cemented bricks, his chin resting upon them.

“Same for you.” You smile not to match his energy, but because it is an innate requirement.

“You know I have to come home. I have a little brother to amuse, you know?”

Yang Jeongin has a small, high dimple on his cheek. It flares when he talks about his family especially.

“So, how’s college up at Seoul University?” Jeongin tilts his head to get a better look at you.

“It’s good,” you nod, “not easy, that’s for sure.”

Jeongin giggles, “Right. But I’m sure you’re doing fine. You were always super good at all that academic stuff.”

Despite the freezing air biting at your cheeks, you feel warmth when he says this. It starts in your face, and then travels to your stomach.

“I’m glad you think so highly of me.”

“Always have,” he admits. Then, before you can interject, he says, “Go inside. Your parents probably miss you. I’ll catch you later.”

He hops down from the box giving him height to rest on the wall, and you hear him disappear into his house. You think you stood out in the snow for another ten minutes before finally knocking on the door to your home.

Christmas passes like it always does, in an underwhelming fall after the month-long build up. Your parents have gone to some New Year’s party for the day, even though there’s still four days remaining of the year.

The couch provides for a good resting spot for you and the family dog, Lucky, as you rewatch movies from childhood. Funnily enough, you’re not watching it. Neither is Lucky, as she snores loudly on your chest. You stare somewhere beyond the TV, thinking about Yang Jeongin.

He’s a cliche when paired with you. Childhood friends, neighbors nonetheless. Best friends all throughout school, but managed to grow distant when college came around.

There’s a knock on the door that pulls you from the pondering.

You push the sleeping dog off of you and take your time stumbling to the door. When you pull it open, Yang Jeongin’s little brother smiles up at you. You can see the resemblance clearly in the smiles.

He has a letter in his hands, folded neatly in half.

“This is for you,” he sheepishly sticks it out. You take it from his hands, and he quickly bows before running off.

“Dear Y/N,

Thank you for coming home for Christmas. I couldn’t find a way to admit this in person because it’s a little embarrassing, so I’ll say it here: your presence has been a greater present than anything I could ever receive. Don’t forget about me while you’re in college! Remember the cute boy who grew up with you, for he could never forget you.

Love only,

Yang Jeongin”

Peeking your head out of the doorframe, you glance over at the tall wall from which he normally talks to you. Though the boy isn’t there, you can feel him staring at you still.

Laughing, cheeks warm with gratitude, you call out, “I could never forget you, Yang Jeongin. Maybe you should text me more though so I really don’t.”

Your phone buzzes in your pocket almost instantly.

Yang Jeongin: Are you free on New Year’s Eve? I have a hunch you could use company.

You feel again a child as you stare down at your phone with a smile, thumbs typing out a “I’m free.”

One of the dance representatives from the back of the room twirls his pen between his fingers. Leaning back in his chair, he apathetically wonders aloud, “So it’s true, then?”

“What’s that, Mr. Lee?” the marketing representative, a Mr. Choi, holds his remote between both hands as he leans toward the table. The word ‘full’ dances across his face as he steps in front of the projector’s path.

“That they’re making a comeback. A full one?”

Mr. Choi nods, scanning the rest of the patrons’ reactions with squinted eyes as he says, “That would be correct.”

Of course, the three who would walk onstage and perform aren’t here. Mr. Bang is probably running around, abiding by his role as the professional CEO who never skips a beat. Regarding the other two, you’re not sure. They’re not as predictable.

The project is pretty tight in terms of what needs to be met. Summer is around the corner, and everyone and their mother will be fighting to hold that mere title of having the temporary greatest hit. When the general public awaits their yearly easily digestible, flowery songs.

“Keep in mind that we are all under Bang! Entertainment,” Choi remarks, clicking to his next slide displaying headlines questioning the company’s next move. “It should go without saying, but all eyes will be on us as the season turns.”

You stare at the bolded words, trying to digest each of them. Joining the company was likely the best decision you’ve ever made, outside of adopting a cat named Loba. When you got scouted as a producer, you were under a different company. Bang! offered a contract, but didn’t require an interview because they ‘didn’t want to invalidate or question a talent they’ve already seen.’

It was an ego boost.

“I’m sure you all know what your roles are in this,” Choi says, taking glances around the room to make sure each face isn’t lost or distant. This is 3Racha we’re talking about. Everything must be perfect.

You take a glance of your own. A few belong to the dance department, some to hair and makeup; however, you are the only producer here.

You raise a low hand to garner Mr. Choi’s attention. “Why am I here?” you subsequently ask, dropping your hand and crossing it against your chest as before.

“The team personally requested you,” he says.

Connections, you instantly understand. In a place like this, in a time like this, they’re a necessity. Nepotism is practically required in the world of music, hence why it sucks for most aspiring indie artists. You didn’t choose to befriend a guy who happens to be best friends with one of the big three here. So, you cast a blind eye.

It’s all a game of luck.

The meeting doesn’t run much longer. A concluding statement with hints of a threat if anyone messes up rings through your ears. A project end date of July 20th, when the album is supposed to go live. You’re not nervous, per se. Simply blindsided given the lack of information. What’s the song about? When’s the due date? Will 3Racha come to you first, or do you have to take time out of your day to the CEO’s harrowing office? The uncertainties aggravate the impulse of opening a new document on your computer and delving into your producer rituals. You can’t create someone else’s project out of blankness. And that irritates you to no end.

Someone throws their arm around your shoulder in an attempt to throw you off your purposeful stride.

“Congrats,” the belonger says.

You glance over to look, even though you know the voice well. He is your connection, of course.

“Thanks.”

Minho pulls you back to a slower pace. Familiar faces from the meeting pass you to the elevator, a majority in a meaningless chatter. They expected an appearance on this project.

“What are you doing tonight?” he finally asks, stopping altogether and dropping his arm from your shoulder.

You shrug, looking curiously at him. Minho’s not one to beat around the bush.

“Hypothetically,” he starts, “how would you feel being invited to bro night?”

“And actually witness you or Felix puke on the lawn instead of hearing about it? No thanks,” you scoff, making an attempt to abandon the situation by following the distancing crowd.

He grabs your wrist, spinning you back to him. “Please?” His eyes are pleading, glaring back at you like an innocent kitten.

You tip your head and sigh. “Why?”

Instead of cutting to the chase, he sucks in a deep breath and says, “I’ll pay you.”

An eyebrow cocks. Regardless of your amusement—a desperate Minho doesn’t appear often—worries consume you. “What’s up? Why are you acting like this?”

Wary eyes jump around the hallway before they land back on you. “Follow me,” he mumbles.

His steps are calculated as he guides you to the elevator and presses the floor his office resides on. The ride is silent, as is the walk down the hall. You step into the room first, and he closes the door behind him. Despite the urge to ask if he’s about to murder you, you bite your tongue and take a seat on his upholstered couch. Identical to the one in your office.

Gently, he lowers himself into his chair. A few minutes pass of you simply staring at each other. Nerves crawl up your spine and you disguise them with a snarky comment. “Are you going to tell me why you’re willing to bribe me into spending time with your friends?”

In the time he takes to respond, you think about how the only mutual friend you have is Jisung. Sure, you know everyone on a name basis; but it’s not like you’ve known them as long as Minho. He doesn’t have other, more qualified, friends to drag to bro night?

“Chan’s kinda in a mood right now,” Minho’s words are slurred by the breath he releases as he speaks.

“And?” you press.

“I want you to see it before you work with him. And for him to understand you in advance. Y’know. You’re a little,” he hesitates, “forward sometimes.”

You should take this as an insult, but you can’t because words’ owner knows you too well. Minho never speaks unjustly.

“Touche,” you nod. It’s better to own up to your flaws. If you don’t, that’s how you end up walking into a carefully curated narcissistic personality.

His features loosen as he presses his forearms on his thighs. “So. You in?”

“I don’t really have a choice,” you emit a wry laugh. All in one sentence, you’ve managed to prove his point. It’s simple, really.

“You see, I’ve already told the boys you’re coming. Either way, I would’ve gotten you to go. The only other option would have been to threaten you with a knife,” he admits. As you gawk at him in awe, realizing you stand in the same boat, a proud grin grows on his face. With time, you begin to mirror the ones you admire. Friends, for example.

“I think Seungmin will like you,” he adds.

“Why do you say that?”

All you know of Kim Seungmin is that he’s in the vocal department, along with his younger counterpart Yang Jeongin, and that he’s a menace. Minho’s words.

“You’re both evil.”

That’s the last straw. You stand up without a word and stomp for the door.

His laugh echoes behind you, striking a quieter one of your own. Still, you stay in character and slip out into the hallway. Minho has won too many of these scenarios.

ii.

Loba sneaks into the kitchen as you wait impatiently for Minho. Thirty minutes. That’s how late he is. You consider texting him, but acknowledge the possibility he’s stuck in traffic or something. Agitation tells you to do it anyway since he only lives two blocks over.

The orange cat paws at your calf for attention, momentarily distracting you as you set your phone down on the counter. Minho’s chat is wide open. She, too, finds excuses for him.

Her head nuzzles against your palm as you scratch behind her ears. She meddles successfully enough to trick you into feeding her a few treats. While you reach for the top shelf of your pantry, a pair of footsteps sneak up behind you. Heavier than Loba’s.

“Did the cat convince you to spoil her again?”

“Son of a-” you recoil, whirling around to greet the man, the myth, the late bastard.

The familiar appearance of a sly smirk, mischievous eyes, and an outfit that makes him look like a casual runway model, pierce your vision.

“You’re late,” you mutter, stepping past him and scooping Loba up. You rest her head on your left arm, cradling her like a baby. She tilts her head up to stare back at Minho. Traitor.

Minho grabs the bag of treats for you.

“Sorry, I had to pick up Jisung. He’s in the car,” his voice trails as he slips his thumbs between the plastic fold and focuses on opening the difficult seal.

“Damn it,” he curses. Karma arrives faster in deserving situations.

“It took you thirty extra minutes to pick him up?”

He deadpans, “You know he likes to be presentable for the boys.”

When you don’t give him the satisfaction of a single laugh, let alone a change in emotion, he whines, “Oh come on, that was funny.”

“You trick me into going to your stupid hangout, and now you have the nerve to show up late?”

He sneaks a few treats to Loba. “You’re really not mad at me right now, are you?”

“Irritated, at the least,” you admit.

“Well, then I’m sorry. Jisung got off late so I had to wait at Bang! for him.”

The words sink into your skin, but you don’t acknowledge them further. The anger fades on the walk down to the car, a great distance separating you and Minho. It’s practically dissipated by the time you climb into the backseat of Minho’s Kia Soul.

Jisung turns in the front seat and offers his hand at an awkward angle. “It’s a pleasure to be working with you.”

You hold your seatbelt in one hand, accepting his with the other as you force a measly smile. “Same for you. Thanks for suggesting me to Mr. Bang.”

Confusion warps his face, twisting his eyebrows in a weird knit as he shakes his head. “It wasn’t me. Must’ve been Chan.”

Minho drops himself into the driver’s seat, suspending any further questioning.

Jisung returns to his original poise as when you approached the car. Eyes focused on his phone, actively typing something out.

You click your seatbelt into locking. An unnatural feeling plagues your gut. Mr. Bang wanted you on the team? It feels unlikely, but you know Jisung wouldn’t joke like that. Even if he were the type, his acting of unawareness gives away the truth.

Minho glances back at you in the mirror. “Ready?” he asks as his hand rests on the gearshift.

You press your lips into a line as you nod. “Mhm.”

You stare down at your hands carefully folded in your lap. For the first time since before producing, the itch to create is drowned by an intense, overwhelming brew of something lingering in your veins.

The expectation of you has pierced through the roof and is shooting out of the stratosphere.

Chan—Jisung quickly advised you to drop all formalities, so you’re rewiring your thoughts—has a home in Gangnam. Fitting for his status, but smaller than you expected. It’s still able to fit at least four of your apartment in it, though.

Jisung and Minho walk ahead of you up the stairs. The elevators in rich apartments on this end can only fit two people if you really scrunch together. What’s the money for, then?

“Today’s Monopoly night, right?” Jisung examines Minho’s side profile as he cautiously lifts one foot after the other. The stairs here are steeper than any you’ve seen. Hiking sounds better than this.

He hums in approval. “I guess we’ll sort teams later. We probably won’t live through the night with last week’s.”

A brash laugh escapes Jisung’s lips, subsequently echoing against the walls and bouncing back to your ears. “Right.”

You tune out their conversation for the rest of the climb, settling for watching your shoelaces sway with each step.

Jisung pushes on the door for the fourth floor, holding it open until you’re fully into the hallway. “Chan’s the second door on the right,” Jisung nods to one of the identical doors along the hall—appearing more expensive than your monthly rent with its rich stain.

Minho doesn’t bother knocking, instead opting for trying the doorknob. It allows access to the gigantic living space and the loud chatter previously muffled by walls.

You must be the last to arrive, but you probably could’ve guessed such.

“Hey,” Jeongin looks up from his conversation, inspiring a round of greetings from all the others.

“You all know each other enough so I’ll skip the introductions,” Minho glances between you and the group, starting for an empty end of the couch.

When Jisung follows his lead, you take a headcount. It appears everyone’s present except Chan—his birth name still feels awkwardly informal in your thoughts. You glance down the dark hallway to your right, counting one, two, three closed doors. Nature drags you into curiosity.

Seungmin, your alleged evil twin, waves you over.

As you take the empty spot beside him, he says, “Sorry, you looked a little awkward just standing there. Thought I’d save you before Hyunjin said something.” He shoots a pointed nod at the long-haired blond lounging between Changbin and Minho.

“Oh. Thanks,” you force a little smile that imitates gratitude. You didn’t feel awkward observing, but maybe your aura screamed otherwise.

Jeongin leans slightly over Seungmin’s shoulder with an inquisitive eye. “How did Minho convince you to come?”

“Blackmail,” you nod. Not attempting to summon a laugh, but managing so in the process.

“That’s Minho for you,” Seungmin tips his head in a slightly disbelieving manner.

“It’s okay, though. We’ll make tonight fun for you,” Jeongin raises his hand, and you meet it with a high-five.

Bro night might not be as bad as you thought.

“If only Chan comes out from his room,” Seungmin mutters, particularly to himself, as he leans his arm on the back of the couch and twists his body to look back into the hallway.

Questions. You want to ask them, but then Minho’s words return in full, blaring effect. Forward, he said. Meaning: blunt. In your face.

You bite your tongue. Redirect the temptation, you think, as your eyes scan the room. Admittedly, it’s odd seeing all these people away from their respective passions. However, Changbin’s phone is cradled in his hands, and his fingers are typing away potential lyrics. Felix, too, is hiding the fact his fingers are mirroring the directions of his recent choreography. Maybe passions are always a shadow of you.

“Should we just fix teams?” Minho says above the impatient silence.

“We can,” Hyunjin leans his forearms on his thighs. His hair falls in front of his shoulders like he’s some kind of Greek god.

“Team captains?” Seungmin asks.

“Let’s do the oldest of each unit, but since Chan’s God-knows-where, Changbin can represent,” Minho nods, glancing around for looks of satisfaction.

“Sure, rock-paper-scissors for who goes first?” Seungmin pushes a strand of hair out of his eye.

Short story short, Minho wins the first round with a victorious cheer of, “Easy!”

“You only say that because you know they always pick scissors first,” you accuse.

Minho points a finger at you, “Allegedly.”

You land a spot on Minho’s team since he got the first pick of the litter. Then, by Minho’s attempt at matchmaking, Chan lands on your team.

As you’re moving spots, you shoot Seungmin a sad, unmoving look.

He laughs, pushing you towards Minho. “Maybe next time.”

“What?” Minho glances between you. “Are you planning a coup against me?”

“You wish, Lee Minho,” you sigh, falling into the empty space beside him.

After a few beats of silence, for good measure, Minho leans down to your ear and says, “I told you you’d like him.”

“Yeah, he’s like a better version of you,” you turn to see the predictable look of offense on his features.

“Fine then, get Seungmin to drive you home,” he pouts, crossing his arms against his chest and pushing his back into the couch.

“Oh come on,” you nudge his elbow, laughing at his exaggeration.

You see a smile tug at his lips before he breaks, letting a chuckle break through his barrier.

In the remaining meantime that you wait, Minho calls dibs on the cat. Seungmin’s team claims the dog, with an offhand comment from Minho going, “You would choose the dog.” Finally, Changbin’s team chooses the hat.

“Is that a joke because you’re so short? So you can gain a few inches with the hat?” Hyunjin jabs.

Changbin reaches over the couch to try and hit him.

From this end of the couch, you can look directly into the dark, mysterious hallway. You watch as the second door knob slowly turns. You focus on it, and the shouting dispute fades out in your ears.

Chan steps out from the room, carefully closing the door behind him so as to not bring all the eyes on him at once. You fight your facial expressions to remain neutral as you take in his appearance—which is shockingly normal. Suits are his workplace fashion, and consequently, all you’ve seen him in. Now, he wears black basketball shorts and a black tee. His hair is even loosening into curls. Is this the same man who runs a massive music company? Are we sure?

His cover is blown the moment he steps into the light of the living room. Jeongin warily points a finger in your direction, “You’re on their team.”

Chan presses his lips into a makeshift smile as he approaches you and Minho. He pushes out a small ‘hey’ before taking his spot on the other side of Minho.

His reclusive figure makes your heart wrench. You wish you could have talked Minho out of going. To him, you’re just an outsider he has to put a front up for. But, the thing is, he isn’t trying to build a barrier. It appears that he doesn’t have any more energy to try.

You catch yourself staring when Minho nudges your knee with his. “You take the first roll.”

Collecting the die, you notice your hands trembling a little. Not good. You manage, somehow knocking Seungmin’s dog in the process. He feigns shock, whining in an accusatory tone, “You’re no different than Minho.”

The choir of laughter shuffles you back into reality when you glance back at your accused teammate, catching the look of the other. The corners of Chan’s lips are slightly turning up into a smile.

Whew. You’re amazed by the amount of relief that little smile gives you.

iii.

The game trails into the early hours of the morning, and a few times a boy will point at Chan and say, in an attempt to be lighthearted, “This is all your fault.”

To the dismay of the rivals, Changbin’s team manages to win. Jisung, a member of Seungmin’s team, flips the board twenty turns too late at the news. “This game is stupid!” he laughs through his words.

“You’re cleaning that up,” Changbin says as the money flutters to the rug beneath the glass coffee table. A cue for the group to laugh blinks above their heads, each varying in intensity. Hyunjin even claps a few times, for his vocal contribution pales insufficient.

Jisung slumps to the ground, “I know.”

Chan lifts himself from the couch to aid him with a lingering smile from all the laughs. As the night progressed, he seemed to slowly inch into his ‘normal’ state, as Jisung had referred to in the car.

Minho slips his phone out from his pocket. At the single-digit time, nearing close to sunrise, he heaves a sigh and pushes himself up. “Guess I should get you home.”

He extends a hand to help you up.

“You’re leaving already?” Seungmin asks.

“Uh, yeah. It’s like three A.M.,” Minho squints at him, turning his lit home screen at him for proof.

Chan snickers as he stacks all the thousands. “That’s early for me.”

See? He’s even making jokes now. This is a weird normal, considering all you know of him is his status, but admittedly better than whatever funk he was previously in.

“See you on Monday, I’ll just spend the night,” Jisung lifts his hand in a semi-wave.

Chan doesn’t protest. Instead, he looks up at you and sticks his hand up. “Can’t wait to work with you,” and smiles. Dimples indent his cheeks in a way that makes your stomach churn.

You take his hand and mirror his smile, though it’s rather genuine in comparison to the one you offered Jisung.

Minho has the decency to wait to call you out on it until you’re in the soundproof safety of his car.

“I saw that,” he says.

“What?”

“The smile. Don’t like Chan. That’d be way too awkward for me.”

You laugh, examining his twisted face of disgust as he starts the car. “Why?”

You’re not asking out of curiosity. You don’t like Chan, and you don’t see yourself liking him anytime soon. Or in the far future, for that matter. It’s just so easy to mess with Minho.

“Uh, my best friend dating my other best friend? That’s third-wheel central. I’m too hot to be a third wheel.”

Later, as you’re unbuckling your seatbelt to venture into the apartment building, Minho mumbles, “But, I mean, if you like him it’s whatever. I don’t want you feeling like you have to hide anything from me.”

You punch his arm.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“You’re getting all sappy on me again. You don’t have to worry about stuff like that, dude,” you frown. Above anything Minho can say to you, his insecurities taking over his words hurts the most.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” you say, then adding, “Unless you want to come over sometime this weekend. I’ll be home.”

He smiles, though you sense the differing thoughts behind his eyes. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” you say before shutting the door.

iv.

In all the wrong ways, Monday comes too fast. Faster than you can process Friday night, essentially.

You try to scramble your remaining thoughts into order as you walk into the lobby.

Is Chan going to be normal today? Hoping so. Why was that relief so astonishing? Did Minho catch onto something-

“Hey, Y/N!” Jisung intercepts your thoughts.

Your eyes involuntarily widen as he pops out from seemingly nowhere. Your gaze drifts to his outstretched hands, offering you one of the drinks each brandishes.

“I didn’t know which you’d prefer, and Minho wasn’t awake so I couldn’t text him. So, I got coffee and tea.”

You take your pick and nod a ‘thank you.’

“How was your weekend?” you find yourself asking as he leads you to the elevator.

He shrugs, “I did absolutely nothing other than a brain detox for this project. You?”

Despite his back being to you, your chin twitches into a nod. “Same as you, pretty much.”

“I think Chan’s in a good enough mood,” Jisung glances back at you as he reaches for the up arrow on the elevator’s panel.

“Sweet.”

Minho is your gateway to an easy conversation. Of course, he’s not here, but you slightly wish he was. You’re forced to meander in an abrasive silence until the elevator takes you up to the eighth floor.

Eight, because Chan detests the idea of being too close to anyone. He doesn’t want his presence to divide anyone’s attempt at creating their best. An icon in distancing, Minho joked as during your first week under Bang!

Jisung sucks in a deep breath as he turns into a room whose door is partially cracked. “Here goes nothing.”

On the far side of the room is an L-shaped couch. Resting upon the vertical side as if he were in his own bed is Changbin. A laptop sits in his lap, closed, but his phone is inches away from his face as he types.

“It’d be more effective if you used that laptop,” Jisung comments, resting his drink on the coffee table and sitting by Changbin’s feet. Giving Changbin the perfect opportunity to wedge his foot between the younger’s ribcage. A cry of pain shoots out of Jisung’s mouth. Truly, he should have seen that coming.

“Dude!” he shouts, jumping to his feet and clutching his side.

“I told you not to mess with me,” Changbin’s eyes narrow into a warning gaze, but Jisung laughs anyway.

“You are not scary, bro.”

You start for the opposite end of the couch, pressing your back into the armrest as you watch the scene unfold. Cupping your drink with both hands, you’re unsure if the warmth stems from it or the sibling-esque fight before you.

Changbin slides the laptop off of his lap and pulls himself to his feet. He stands before Jisung, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Then, as his eyes flutter open, he brings his fists up.

“Come on. Fight me.”

Jisung takes a step back. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Changbin shakes his head. “I’m not.”

Jisung’s eyes flit around the room for help. It would be that when the muscle man wants to fight, the only person physically capable of pacifying him isn’t here. Pure, unadulterated luck.

“And when you break my arm, then what?” Jisung’s eyebrows raise in taunting interrogation.

“Then I break your arm? What about it? You can perform with a shattered humerus. Right, ace?”

By chance of a higher being granting Han Jisung a break, Chan enters his office with a manila folder in his hand. Only a few steps into the room, he has to halt. His hand finds his hip, releasing a big sigh as he clutches the folder. To no surprise, he’s wearing a perfectly tailored suit. Black, of course. But with a surprising navy undershirt, which you give him credit for.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to cause injury in my office? Can you imagine the lawsuit? Would you do that to your beloved friend?” he asks a stream of questions.

He seems relatively happy.

Changbin drops his fists to his sides, gaze dropping back to his abandoned laptop. He scoops it up before reclaiming his spot. To fully conclude the argument, he opens the laptop’s lid. “Jisung started it.”

The accused boy looks at Chan and silently pleads his case. His hands clasp into a prayer.

Chan waves him off with a smile and a breathy laugh before starting for his desk. He acknowledges you with a small raise of his hand.

“Ah, where to begin?” he asks, to no one in particular, as he tosses the folder onto his desk and sinks into his chair.

“Han, can you turn the projector on?” Changbin takes the initiative, reaching over the couch’s back to grab a white USB cord.

He does as told, warily trying to avoid another pseudo-fight, before rushing to the light switch and fading the room into a mass of darkness. Chan must not like having his blinds open. Black world he lives in.

Changbin’s screen presents against the vacant wall across from him. A pre-written document appears, with the title ‘TT Ideas’ and a dashed list. 1.5 spacing, you admire.

“Okay, I did my homework,” he sighs, dragging his cursor over the highlighted ideas for the title track. “These are my personal favorites, but I’m up to debate.”

Jisung shivers at those words. Debate. Meaning: duel.

In the darkness, Chan steps in front of you. He sits halfway between you and Changbin, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies the list. You notice that his lips pout as he focuses, and his eyes squint a little.

You shift your own attention, for you’ll lose pacing if you stare at Chan the whole day. Changbin has highlighted unrequited love, turning the aura of summer into a song, unique abilities, and simply ‘flexing our equities’.

“Yeah, I definitely think that last one will go over well,” Jisung sardonically comments.

Changbin sighs in defeat and drags his cursor over his beloved idea, hitting the backspace in pity, “I knew you’d say that.”

“Can you elaborate on the unique abilities?” you ask, quieter than anticipated but still reaching its aim.

“Not to tute my own horn,” Changbin starts, running a hand through his hair, “but we’re sought after. When people see our names on tracklists, they immediately know the song is going to be good. They don’t sit and wonder if they’ll be disappointed, because they know with 3Racha that’s unpalatable. Hell, I saw someone tweet the other day that their favorite artist was spotted here, and the fandom went fucking crazy.

“People know what they expect from us, and that’s excellence. We deliver. You can’t say the same for a lot of producers. Doubt is inevitable for a lot of them, even if it’s only personal.”

“Couldn’t have said it better,” Jisung smirks, leaning his extended hand out to Changbin for him to high-five.

“What if we did it with an,” Chan hesitates, tilting his head at the screen to try and ease out the right words, “unnatural sound.”

“An experiment no one else could attempt,” you mumble, not expecting him to hear. His head snaps over to you, snapping, pointing a finger, and nodding.

“Exactly.”

The boys look between each other, bobbing their heads in agreement. “We can do that,” Jisung grins.

“You know, I had a feeling you would say that,” Changbin slips his phone out of his pocket, swiftly unlocking it and opening his notes app. “So I’ve already written my verse.”

“No way,” Jisung cocks his head at him.

“Okay,” Changbin mutters, “I had verses written for all the highlighted ones.”

“You are insane,” Chan chuckles, but not in an insulting tone.

From here on out, it’s smooth sailing.

v.

Until Jisung pats the pockets of his jeans two weeks later. “Shit,” he mutters, glancing back at the elevator you had just come from.

Midnight was around the corner and Jisung had promised Minho they’d go see the late-night showing of the latest horror film.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He turns to you with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. “I think I left my phone in Chan’s room. I’m gonna be late. Minho’s gonna kill me.”

You cease his rambling by putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll go get it. Just tell Minho to text me when you’re done so you can pick it up. ‘Kay?”

So what if Loba’s waiting for you at home, probably pawing at the front door and meowing like, “I’m hungry”? You have a profound soft spot for Jisung. And not because Minho threatened you if you ever showed any disliking. Plus, Loba’s spoiled in all other walks of her life. She can handle you coming home a little later than usual for one night.

He breathes a sigh of relief, looking up at the high ceiling in some kind of grateful manner. “You are a lifesaver, Y/N.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you smile, starting back to the elevator as he continues his path.

The company is rather unsettling without its daytime bustle. It’s even worse on the eighth floor. A usual ghost-town, except with an increased darkness and an odd chill trailing down your back.

The hallways feel stuffy as you get close to Chan’s office, your gaze set ahead. A sniffling sound seeps into your range of hearing, though you don’t think much of it. You can get colds in summer.

Naive to think a man as esteemed as Mr. Bang would succumb to a measly cold.

As you sneak your head between the cracked door, placing your hand around its width and slightly pushing forward, the view sends your heart crashing into your stomach. Chan’s head is lowered, either hand cupping his head as incessant tears drip from his nose.

Awkwardly stepping forward, you clear your throat.

His glossy eyes, rimmed with red and slightly puffy, jump up to you. Instinctively, he attempts to discard the evidence.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he croaks, pulling his sleeve over his hand and gliding it across his damp cheek.

That’s something he could learn. If someone’s a witness, you can expect them to ease into questions. It’s only nature.

“Do you need a hug?” you attempt. Don’t be forward, don’t be blunt, don’t be mean. Minho’s reminder blinks across your vision.

He laughs, “Maybe.”

A pitiful smile creeps onto your lips as you step around the desk. Your arms link semi-awkwardly around his shoulders. He presses his cheek against your collarbone, silently crying a little. You take careful breaths, trying to stabilize your chest for him.

“Does anyone know?” Your hand rubs soft circles against his back. He shakes his head against your body. A small hiccup shakes his frame.

“You can tell me if you want.”

“I don’t want to burden you,” he manages through his tears.

You pull back a little for him to look at you. “I will smack sense into you if you say some stupid shit like that again.” In spite of his eyes crinkling into a smile—looking at you like you’re a childhood friend who he knows like the back of his hand—you try to recover. “I swear, you won’t burden me.”

He takes in a shaky breath. A blaring thought curses the forefront of your eyes. “Do you mind if we go to my apartment, though? I have a hungry cat waiting for me.”

Your arms retreat to your sides as he nods and drags the back of his hand across either cheek. “Yeah, no problem.”

You glance over at the couch, and the object of your mission stares back at you. For a second, you swear it’s glowing gold and screaming, “Your quest ends here! Bring me to my owner!”

You shuffle for the couch and scoop it up. When Chan looks at your hand in confusion, you offer, “Jisung left it. I’m the delivery service.”

“Right.” And he smiles. Comfort engulfs your body when you notice the flood has stopped.

Since you normally walk or ride the bus to work, Chan drives. His shiny sports car looks rather alien beside your used, well-used, car.

“I should warn you,” you turn to him as you push your key into the lock, “Loba’s a cuddler.”

“Sweet. I’d feel bad asking you for more hugs,” he jokes.

Sure enough, Loba is lying before the door. She scrambles to her feet and stares up at her guardian and the new intruder. Conveniently misplacing her cries for food, she scopes out the new man.

“What’d you say her name was again?” Chan asks, squatting in front of her and scratching behind her ears.

“Loba,” you say, opening the fridge to dish out Loba’s expensive special food. Adopting a cat with stomach issues, am I right?

“Loba?” Chan repeats, stifling a laugh.

“I didn’t name her,” you turn to him in defense.

Chan lowers himself, crossing his legs as Loba climbs into his lap. The love-hungry cat doesn’t even notice when you set her ceramic bowl next to her water station. She’s too absorbed in her newfound friend.

Rather than forcing them to relocate to the couch, you sit offset from them on the tile. Smiling down at the orange cat, you admit, “She’s not even like this with Minho.”

“Really?” Chan’s amused face stuns a vibration in your chest.

You appeal confirmation.

“That’s crazy. I’m a dog person, normally,” he coos down at the lovebug.

Don’t let this distract you from the task at hand, you remind yourself.

“So,” you drag. How do you say this without tempting the tears again? Admittedly, it would be nice if you had an ounce of insight. You’re walking into a minefield without a blueprint of where they lie.

Chan sighs, acknowledging his cue. “My dad doesn’t really like me all too much,” he wryly laughs.

“He seems stupid then,” you offer, not thinking further than trying to comfort him, “You’re very likable.”

“Thank you,” Chan drags his tongue against his bottom lip.

He continues, “Moreso, he dislikes his father. The one who skipped a generation when trying to continue his legacy. By association, I kind of take the brunt of it.” He looks at you through blurry eyes as he bites the inside of his cheek.

“If it makes you feel any better, I think you were the only person who could have continued the company. Your dad seems,” you hesitate, “insolent. You, on the other hand, are an ace.”

“I try to tell myself that. He makes me go to all of his business parties to keep his reputation up, as well as mine in a way. You don’t want the broken family running a huge corporation,” he mimics what he’s been told.

“So you can’t tune him out,” you echo.

“Yep,” he drags the word out, prompting a heavy sigh.

“I’m not really good at the whole comforting thing,” you study the creases of your palms. “But I’ll say that you are, by far, the most amazing person I could work for. You’re really admirable. Plus, Minho really likes you. You’re kind of like the brother he never had.”

“God, you’re gonna make me cry,” he laughs, staring up at the light as he pulls a hand away from Loba to wipe at his waterline.

“I’m serious,” you chuckle. “Would I blow smoke up your ass if you’re crying on my floor with my cat in your arms?”

When he hesitates to respond, you do it for him. “The answer is no. I don’t even do that for Minho.”

“That’s comforting,” he admits.

“I’d hope so. Now, hand me your phone,” you stick your hand out.

“Why?”

“So I can give you my number. Text me if stuff goes downhill, now that I’m in the loop.”

He looks at you quizzically.

“What? Do you think I’m going to let you suffer in silence now that I know?”

He leans to the side, cradling Loba protectively, as he draws his phone from his pocket. Unlocking it before he hands it to you.

As you type in a new contact, you say, “Do you want something to eat? I can order a pizza.”

vi.

Unfortunately, peace is temporary. Always and forever.

When you enter Chan’s office a few weeks after the father debacle, prepared to start the official recording of the album as decided on the previous day, you’re met with two confused men. Admittedly, you’re a little late, but not enough for them to be lost.

Changbin looks up at you as you cross the threshold. “Have you seen Chan?”

You shake your head.

“Heard from him?” Jisung follows.

Again, you shake your head.

“Shit,” they both fall back against the couch cushions in defeat.

“What’s wrong?” The grip on your bag tightens. Despite your inquisitive words, your gut gives you a fair answer.

“We haven’t heard from him since five this morning,” Changbin looks at Jisung for confirmation on the details.

“No one’s seen him?” you follow up.

“No one. He won’t answer our group chat either.”

Your foot taps against the floor as you try to remain composed. He texted you last night about his dad’s upcoming gala but was sparse about details. Or about the fact he would straight up disappear. Obviously, you can’t offer this information to them. A promise is a promise, even if half unspoken.

“Should we work through it? Get his parts whenever he decides to show up?” Changbin speaks.

“We can’t exactly meander anymore. Tracklist goes out at noon,” Jisung shakes his phone as annoyingly clear evidence.

“And you still need to learn the choreo for the title track,” you add. There’s only a month left. You bite your tongue, allowing the pain to slightly calm you down.

“God, what horrible timing,” Jisung laughs, but no joy laces through his tone.

You point harsh eyes at them, heavy steps leading you to the microphone stand designated for recording. “Come on then. Let’s get ahead before we can fall behind.”

vii.

You leave work the moment recording is done for the day, a discovery pulling you from focusing on anything else. Chan shared his location with you a few days ago when he offered a reciprocal to what you’ve done for him. “So you can always find me,” he said via text.

Though not for the right purpose, per se, you’re going to find him. And when you do, you might have to smack sense into him this time. With love, you convince yourself as you pull up to the stadium.

Who in their right mind rents an indoor stadium for an evening party? Rich people, evidently.

You find Chan’s car, among its shiny counterparts, and park as close to it as you can. As you get out, you pull your phone out of your pocket and call him. Not expecting him to answer, honestly.

“Hello?” his voice penetrates your ears.

“I’m outside,” you say, fighting the heavy heartbeat echoing in your head. Your hands tremble at the thought of him here, all dressed up and acting like nothing’s wrong.

“What?” he mumbles.

You look up to the big screen above the gate. “Gangnam Public Stadium, right?”

The background noise slightly fades as he says, “Wait where you are, I’ll come meet you.”

“Parking lot,” you offer before he hangs up.

You step into the shade and lean against a brick wall.

Today’s one of the finer days of summer. It’s mid-June. The solstice is just around the corner. A light breeze brushes against your skin and gently ruffles your hair. It probably helps that you’re surrounded by wealthy cars. A mood booster, in a weird way.

Quick, heavy steps draw closer. You turn your head to the source.

Chan drops his hands onto his knees as he pants. “You shouldn’t be here,” he manages.

“You should’ve told someone why you wouldn’t be at work. We all have our regrets,” you nibble on the inside of your cheek as you stare at him.

“God,” he mutters, straightening himself before standing next to you against the wall.

“You’ll get your suit dirty,” you comment, but he doesn’t care.

“You should leave.” His eyes, heavy with an emotion akin to irritation and sadness, scan over your face.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me why you did this,” you stand your ground. Just like Minho would hate in a moment like this. “To get to a person, you have to ease them into it,” he guided at one point. Frankly, you couldn’t care less right now.

He avoids your eyes as he tries to flatten his staggered breathing. In due time, he composes himself and finally looks at you. His features have loosened, and you note his brow is no longer creased.

“I didn’t want to lose my cool in front of them,” he admits.

“Scared to?”

He nods. “It was scary enough having one person see me cry.”

The place between your heart and ribs begins to pulsate heat.It begins to spread across your bones and through your muscles. For once, you have to think about what to say next. You can’t be mad at him, for his reasoning makes more sense than it had before. God, this is irritating.

“Let’s make the song of the summer, then,” you reassure him with a curt nod. “Pull you out of this monster field around you and let’s make history.”

The dark surrounding encasing him cracks away as an unbelievable smile finds its place. One like you have never seen. One that pierces your heart with its joy. “Let’s do it.” And he drags you into a hug. Despite the roles taking a quick turn, you feel comforted. But he’s squeezing the life out of you.

viii.

You’ve done all you can do for 3Racha within the next week. The album is complete, as far as instrumentals and lyrics. All that’s left is promotion, along with all the theatrical elements left to be discussed. But that’s separate from you.

It feels bittersweet that it’s come to an end. You know that sometime in the future you’ll return to the studio with them, working alongside creative geniuses to invent a piece. Together. That’s the key. But it feels so far away.

You sit in your empty office, staring at the broad window as raindrops fall down the glass. Recounting the process in your head with distant gratitude. Title track: God’s Menu. You’re proud of it, viewing it as your child. Watching it grow into a real song, with real words and sounds attached to it. Wow. You catch a glimpse at the meaning of life as you watch two raindrops race down. It’s this: blossoming art from a tiny idea. Admittedly not entirely your own, but the principle remains.

The other tracks enlist an equal amount of precious memories for you. Late nights felt normal with the unreal energy coursing through your veins. You notice the products of effort as you consider all those extra hours. Admiration shoots through your body, leaving it numb.

It was all them, though, you acknowledge. You were only there as a caretaker, offering your own hint to mark the music.

3Racha is like a shooting star. It's fantastic, in a sense. Not everyone can say they’ve seen a shooting star in the same way not many can say they’ve witnessed the production process with three of the most talented producers in the game. They’re unreal.

A knock against your doorframe shocks you out of your thoughts. You drag your foot against the floor to turn your chair.

Chan, dressed in an outfit similar to that of boys’ night, awaits your attention. Sweat lines his forehead, glistening his skin. You can guess where he’s been.

“Hey.”

“I need your help.” His words were trailing your simple greeting so close you could say he interrupted you. Seriousness brings his face into a dimness, slightly intimidating you.

“With?” you prompt.

He leans against the frame with his arm, replaying his words in his head over and over before spitting them out, “I kind of told my dad I’d bring a date to his next party.”

“Oh?” you say, slowly realizing. “Oh.”

“Will you do it?” His features twist into a nervous reflection.

“Sure, if you pay for my outfit.”

You say this as a joke, but he fails to convey it this way. “Deal. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Does Loba need a cat tree by any chance?”

He doesn’t await your answer as he slips back into the hall. Was that conversation even real?

An indistinguishable whiplash conquers your body into a sudden realization. You turn to your desk, scooping your phone into your hands and texting Minho, beginning with, “When you see this…”

ix.

Certainly, Chan is a man of his word. From the mere month you’ve known him, you should have gathered this. But as you stand in his living room, decked out in some outfit he carefully chose for you, it blares against all of your senses in bright, evident clarity.

Minho’s message buzzes against your palm.

Lee Knows: Loba’s conked already, two minutes after she ate. Have fun ;)

You: Lol thanks again for taking care of her.

Lee Knows: Of course. Anything for my bestest friend in the world. Now, a night of yearning!

The only way to describe this feeling rooted in the base of your stomach are the words: raw emotion. It’s a cluster. Jitters mixed with a blend of uncertainty and a weird elation? To be fair, you are about to lie your way through expensive drinks and hors d’oeuvres. What even are those?

Regardless, one thing is certain. Minho was right. It’s...discouraging to admit. Frankly, you’d ignore it for as long as possible if you could. But adoration is difficult. In your face. Forward, some would refer to it as.

God, this is all Minho’s fault.

“Ready?” Chan’s shoes click against the hardwood as he departs from his dark hole of a room. He looks stunning, though his attire isn’t much different from his office wear. A small sign of rebellion appears in his appearance, which ignites a flame in your chest.

Chan brings a hand to where your eyes are burning a whole into—his hair. The curls are there, less accentuated than bro night, but evident. “Ah, I didn’t really want to straighten it. I’ve already had fried hair one too many times in my life.”

“It looks nice,” you smile. Your throat tightens as you swallow. “You look nice.”

“Same for you,” he allows a prolonged scan of you. Sheepishly, you do one of those cheesy twirls you always see in the romance movies before Prom night or whatever expensive evening the protagonists are attending. Sincerely, with all the love rampaging through your chest, you’re going to kill Minho for cursing your life like this.

He snaps out of his trance, starting for the door. “We should get going.”

Aside from the quiet hum of the radio, the ride to the venue is silent. It wouldn’t be complete without hitting every redlight, either. Jisung’s luck must have rubbed off on you when you had that group hug.

You sit at one now, red gleaming against your face as you stare out at the sidewalk vacant of pedestrians. No one’s even at any of the other lights.

“You okay?” Chan asks.

“Yeah,” you turn back to him.

“Good,” he nods, instantly averting your eyes.

Perhaps you should have found a way to decline. Even Loba would have been a better date option. At least she has chemistry with him.

x.

To no one’s surprise, the venue is huge. Potentially larger than the stadium. From ceiling to the carpeted floor, decorated properly with the black tie theme.

Chan reluctantly grabs your hand before you tackle the crowd. If you were cold, the warmth radiating against your palm is sufficient for heating the rest of your body. Unluckily, though, you aren’t cold. Your hand feels clammy in his. If he wasn’t attracted to you before, he certainly isn’t now.

You stare at your shoes as you follow.

“Just a heads up about my dad,” he glances over his shoulder to make sure you’re still there, despite the tether between you, “he most definitely thinks we’re dating, so be prepared for questions.”

“Oh great,” you mumble. How do you cure a lovesick heart? What an ambiguous question offering up to a plethora of potential answers. One incorrect answer, though: acting out romance. In real time, too.

“Sorry, I probably should have told you sooner. Kind of slipped my mind,” he squeezes your hand in apology.

Even when you break out into a free space, his hand doesn’t pull from yours. Instead, he slightly tightens the hold as he approaches an older man. Without any prior knowledge (ie. not Googling his dad after he cried on your kitchen floor over the bastard), you could guess this is his dad. They practically have the same face. Striking differences, however, given some context.

“Hey,” the man grins, eyes shifting curiously between you and his son.

You dip your head in respect. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bang.”

His hand claps your shoulder as you look up. “You don’t have to be so formal with me.” Silence hangs onto the end of his sentence as he glances at Chan for help.

“Y/N,” Chan offers. Your name sounds pretty coming from him.

“Y/N,” his father repeats. You want to sock him for saying your name.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Would have been nicer if Chan had given a little notice,” he laughs for you, alternatively offering a subtle, but not unnoticeable, glare to Chan.

Reflexively, your unoccupied hand clenches until you feel your nails pressing sharply into your skin. Discreetly, you nudge Chan’s arm with your elbow as a sign that you’re here. Slightly, his hand loosens in yours as his nerves slowly ease.

“Sorry, it’s kind of recent,” Chan laughs. His eyes crinkle into a faux delight.

“Of course,” his father nods. “Haven’t seen any articles about it yet, which is good. You might not want this being exposed to the GP.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Chan manages through gritted teeth, albeit hidden in a way only you could notice.

Then, as if the attack didn’t have a cooldown, he reaches up and tugs at one of Chan’s curls. “Your hair looks...interesting.”

It’s really difficult trying to remain neutral in the face of backhanded advice and compliments. Especially in front of this man, who shouldn’t even be given a title as esteemed as that. He’s scum stuck to the back of your old, rusty car that won’t go away in spite of however many power washes.

“Mr. Bang,” a waiter appears behind him, stealing his attention long enough for you to drag Chan in the opposite direction. He’ll find his way into a business conversation soon anyway. With no recollection of what he said to his son whatsoever. Considering his words will always stick with Chan, your face heats up.

You ignore Chan’s repelling tug, and his words that go in one ear and out the other. A hidden area near the bar is the only place where he has enough courage to stop you. But only because you let it happen.

“If we stayed there much longer, I would have caught an assault charge,” you huff.

“You handled it well, though,” he admits, “Even if you were about to break my hand.”

In the face of anger personified, he manages to smile and crack a laugh.

“Sorry,” you mumble, finally pulling your hand away from his.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks, glancing back at the bartender serving an established looking woman a margarita. Likely strawberry from its tint.

You shake your head, “I’m good. Thank you.”

“Well, then, I’ll be back,” he reaches out to rub your shoulder before slipping back into the crowd. You’re jealous of the effect he has to just become invisible.

You pull your phone from its hidden spot and open Minho’s awaiting text.

Lee Knows: Has he made a move yet?

You: Why would he?

Lee Knows: Idk you’re kind of obvious.

Before you can answer, an incoming notification from Seungmin pops up.

Seungmo: Is it true that you like Chan?

Minho. Lee Minho. You grimace.

You: No comment.

Seungmo: Sweet. Jeongin owes me twenty bucks. But ew. Who would romantically like Chan?

The text really ties together with the barfing emoji.

“Who’s that?” the subject of both text logs peeks his head over your phone.

You snatch it back, instinctively turning it off. “Seungmin.”

“I didn’t know you were friends with him,” Chan observes, placing the black straw between his lips. His drink is also tinted pink, but not in a margarita glass.

“Minho built the bridge during bro night. Now we plot behind his back,” you joke, promptly making Chan choke. He coughs, covering his mouth with his sleeve as he sputters.

“Don’t do that when I’m drinking!” he laughs.

Your chest heaves as you try to stifle the laugh building up in your chest.

“Oh come on, you’re even gonna have the nerve to laugh at me?” he tips his head to look at your quivering frame. He finds this funny, but he can’t just not tease you. That’s not in the rule book.

“I’m not laughing,” you try to convince him, lips pressed into a fine line as quick breaths leave your nose.

“Right,” he rolls his eyes.

If he were being honest with you, he was doing this as a ploy to take your mind off of his dad. Honesty isn’t one of his finer points, though. So he stays quiet.

“Do you want a sip?” he offers the fruity looking drink to you.

“What is it?” you ask, but accepting the glass anyway.

“Just a strawberry mimosa.”

Again, if he were honest, he’d tell you he only got it to share with you. It was a shot in the dark, neutral enough. But, again, not one of his stronger urges. Minho would refer to this as him ‘making a move’, unbeknownst to you.

You take a quick sip. Humming in approval, you hand it back to him. “It’s good, I can barely even taste the alcohol.”

He fixes his hair absentmindedly as a passing conversation arises. Subject: Minho. Goal: offering both parties ammunition for his next offhand comment or prank.

“Did you know that Minho talks in his sleep?” you laugh.

Chan pulls at a curl, pulling it straight. “He seems like the type.”

You reach up and flick his wrist.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Stop thinking about what your dad said,” you scold. The nerves in your stomach dissipate as your hand ruffles his hair, fluffing it out. He looks more relaxed as you pull away.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t apologize, or I’ll punch you next time.”

“I can see why you and Minho get along so well.”

xi.

By the time you’re set free from the hell of socializing with all of Chan’s dad’s friends who last saw him when he was ‘this high’, the effects of the single mimosa wear off. Luckily for Chan, you drank most of it, so he’s set to drive.

“My feet hurt,” you complain. Maybe it would have been smart to break in the fancy shoes Chan invested for you before the event.

“Do you want me to carry you?” Chan asks, turning to you.

Against all voices inside of you screaming to decline, your pain receptors answer for you. “That’d be great, since you're offering.”

He bends his knees slightly and holds his arms slightly out. When you jump onto his back, he doesn’t even react.

“Do you religiously workout or something?” you joke, though true curiosity shines through your words. You’re pretty obvious.

“Duh. Every breathing moment I’m not working or crying over my dad. It’s a stress reliever.” Your arms, hanging from his neck, feel each vibration in his chest as he laughs.

As he readjusts his hands beneath your thighs, maintaining a steady hold of your body against his, your body grows warm and you can envision your cheeks glowing red. Minho was so right. And the field day he’s going to have with the upcoming weeks until the joke grows stale. You shiver at the thought.

“Are you cold?” Chan asks.

“Oh, no, I was just thinking about Minho.”

“Scary,” Chan mimics his own shiver at the mention.

You press your cheek against his shoulder, his steady steps drawing your eyes shut.

The silence you find is unparalleled to the one in the car earlier. This one is comfortable, homely even. So much so that you feel yourself fall asleep.

xii.

When you get to his apartment, he nudges your shoulder.

Your eyes slowly open, fighting against the dull light from the roof of his car.

“You can spend the night at my house. I’m not confident in pulling a sleeping body out of a car. Putting you in was hard enough,” he chuckles.

You manage a smile and hazily push the passenger door open. From the rest, your feet should be fine walking to the elevator (since there’s one less body than bro night, you’ll fit) and to his apartment. Still, he wraps his arm around your shoulders to steady you all the way up to his front door.

“I’ll grab you some clothes,” he says as you fall onto his couch. You didn’t acknowledge how comfortable it was just from sitting on it. Honestly, it feels like a normal mattress.

He returns from his room quickly with a pair of sweatpants and a shirt. Both black, as you could have guessed.

You walk to the bathroom and sleepily tug your fancy outfit off, careful not to ruin it. As you pull his shirt over your head, a rush of his cologne hugs you. You fight off the ‘I could get used to this’ comment that floats through your head.

You don’t remember walking back to the couch. But you remember Chan pulling a blanket up to your chin.

xiii.

Chan pokes your cheek, drawing you away from your precious dream of living in a cottage on the seafront—conveniently with him. You whine, pulling the blanket over your head in an attempt to ward him away. Dream Chan is waiting for you.

“Y/N, come on. You can’t sleep on my couch all day.” The worst part is: you can hear the faux pout in his voice. And potentially worse: you definitely could sleep on this couch all day if your life depended on it. Even if it didn’t, to be honest.

“Go away,” you grumble.

He sighs. His presence beside you disappears for a few moments, long enough for sleep to momentarily return. The bubble of peace pops eventually.

“Hey, Minho,” his voice returns, slightly muffled by the distance and the cloth pressed against your ear.

This is enough to spring liveliness into your bones. You sit up, hateful eyes shooting in the direction of the voice. When you see him laughing, his dark phone pressed against his ear, you reel. “One of these days, I’m gonna leave your company and then your stocks are gonna plummet,” you groan.

“Is that the best insult you can come up with?” he counters, dropping his hoisted arm to his side.

“I have more, but they're still closed off. You know, since you’ve rudely interrupted my sleep.”

“I’m sorry. Not really, though. It’s like noon.”

“And?”

“I can’t leave you here alone,” he laughs.

“What, do you have a date to attend?”

Awaiting his response, you reach for your phone on the coffee table. Two missed calls. A few Snapchats from Seungmin, likely pictures of his new puppy, but no matter.

“I wish. I have to meet up with Jisung. Pressing news he has to tell me, too confidential to be told over text.”

“He’s gonna confess,” you shoot him a look.

“Yes, because Han Jisung would be in love with me,” he starts for the kitchen. An extended arm pulls at the fridge, and he pulls two waters out.

“To be fair, if I were Jisung, I’d probably be in love with you,” you say, obviously without much thought behind it.

Okay. In your defense, you were a little too focused on reading Minho’s latest string of confusing messages. Trying to decipher the code, Chan’s response passes right through you like a ghost.

Lee Knows: Y/N you won’t believe this.

Lee Knows: Loba’s gonna be so happy.

Lee Knows: I know you’re probably cuddled up with Chan or whatever but call me ASAP.

Chan lowers himself beside you, tossing the cold water in your lap. He peeks over your shoulder. “Huh. That’s pretty much what Jisung said to me.”

“Why are you invading my privacy?” you glare at him, considering elbowing him precisely between the ribs. Ultimately deciding against it, of course. Through tense internal conflict.

“Really? You’re sitting on my couch, in my clothes, refusing to leave, and you wanna talk about privacy?”

Just because he has a point doesn’t mean he should voice it. Plus, he offered the clothes. And the couch for you to sleep on. It really just seems like a self jab to you.

“Should I call him?” Your finger glides across your bottom lip as you look at him for an answer.

“Sure, why not?” he throws his hands up in defeat. “Let’s see what Jisung and Minho have conspired this time.”

The ring echoing sparks a nervous pit in your stomach. You pick at the sticker of the water bottle. It feels like forever by the time he answers.

“Morning, sunshine,” Minho’s sweet voice reeks of sarcasm.

“You’re on speaker, by the way,” you close your eyes to avoid looking at Chan’s burning eyes.

“Oh perfect, you are too,” Jisung joins in, a dry laugh escaping his throat.

“We have some questions,” Minho begins, but fails to continue.

“Such as?” Chan prompts.

“Are you guys dating yet?” Jisung bluntly jumps to the case.

Your heart rams against your chest. That ‘yet’ tugs at your insides.

“Uh, no,” you draw out.

“The media sure thinks otherwise,” Minho jabs.

Chan’s already searching for the articles by the time you can react.

“Fuck.” He throws his head back against the couch in frustration, tilting his phone towards you so you can see.

CEO Bang Chan Lands a Date Weeks Before Comeback.

Bang Caught With Employee?

Bang Chan, CEO, Makes a Striking Appearance at Dad’s Gala.

“What? Did you really think there wouldn’t be journalists there? Come on Chan, do better.” You never knew Jisung had this cutting edge to him. If the words were aimed at you, you know you’d break down. It’s a miracle that Chan is this composed.

“Can you calm down? My god,” you say without realizing. “It’s not like we can’t fix this.” How, though, you ponder?

“If it makes you feel any better,” Minho reluctantly says, like this sentence could put his life on the line, “you looked cute.”

“Thanks,” you mutter. In any other circumstance, you’d be quick to mock him. Well. At least he’s not outwardly making fun of you. Another one of Minho’s late night insights seeping into your thoughts: see the positive.

A text notification drops down against your screen. Despite having the luxury of using his voice, it’s Minho.

Lee Knows: Would now be a bad time to out you?

You: Horribly.

“Well,” Jisung draws in a sharp breath.

“Good luck,” Minho finishes for him.

After he hangs up, promptly after letting you know he fed Loba this morning, you pick up the water bottle and place it against your cheek. The shocking chill redirects your nerves momentarily.

You try not to look at Chan, but you know he’s looking at you.

After a moment to catch your breath, he sighs, “I have an idea.”

It takes an effort to pull your attention to him. A war against yourself.

“Play along with me for a second,” he says, pulling his leg beneath him as he repositions himself beside you. Fully facing you, taking in your entire being—which doesn’t help your burning skin. You’d give anything to be invisible right now.

“What if,” he starts, “we go along with it?”

You laugh in his face. “Are you sure that wouldn’t blow up even worse? Imagine people finding out we faked it. That wouldn’t be good for you.”

He messes with his fingers, suddenly finding an intense interest in the linework of them. He rubs his thumb against the crease of his ring finger. “I don’t think anyone would have to find out it’s fake, per se.”

“How are you so confident?” You look at him in awe. Even when he’s spewing absolute nonsense and under pressure, he looks like a god. Calm as ever. It’s horrifying for your heart. And for common sense, but that’s not as important right now.

“I don’t think Minho would lie to me.”

“What does Minho have to do with this?”

His dimple shows itself as a measly smile crosses his lips. “He may have told me.”

Regardless of what he may have spilled, you know instantly. “You’re kidding me,” you huff. What was the point of his dramatic message, then? A distraction, maybe.

“I mean it’s okay. It’s not like it’s not reciprocated or anything.”

“You are unbelievable,” you shake your head. “How did you know and not say a single thing?”

His hands shoot up in defense. “To be fair, I didn’t find out until after you fell asleep last night. For the second time. He texted me with this whole ‘I know something you don’t’ facade. I wasn’t going to act on it until I had a stupidly romantic plan, but then this happened,” he gestures around the room, as if it’s the decor’s fault. He’s quick to add, “And I couldn’t do that as soon as they said anything about the articles. That’d kinda ruin the mood, don’t you think?”

So Chan’s probably not good with looking amazing under pressure—he very well could be, but you wouldn’t know that right now. Which slightly irritates you, but no matter.

“Well,” you sigh. “I guess that solves the problem.”

He nods, looking at you solemnly.

“Your dad’s gonna be pissed, though,” you comment, and he laughs.

“I know.”

Funny. As soon as the problem jumped at you, the imminent solution scared you just as fast. Your head hurts from the whiplash. That must be a pattern with him.

“You know what’s kinda perfect about this?” he says after a moment.

“Tell me.”

“We can write love songs together now. Isn’t that cool?” The sheer joy in his face shatters any aggravation left in your veins. A smile creeps up on you.

“You’re such a nerd.”

“And you’re madly in love with a nerd so I don’t see what your point is.”

You pull the pillow out from behind your back and chuck it at his head.

“Oh so you’re trying to kill your beloved love interest? Real classy, Y/N.”

“Please just shut up and kiss me already,” you lean over halfway and wait for him to meet you.

Kissing a major CEO doesn’t feel much different than kissing a normal person, but there’s a striking flare of passion to it. Maybe that’s a personal thing.

His lips fit against yours in a way that makes your soul instantly tethered to him. You hope he can’t feel your heartbeat against your lips, for it’s pulsing rather loud and antsy for you.

Chan radiates warmth in every piece of his body, extending all the way to his aura. If it wasn’t for your pesky lungs running out of air, you’d never pull away.

xiv.

In spite of his idea for a romantic confession going down the drain as soon as he decided to think one up, he makes up for it with incessant gestures. Bringing you snacks when he should be in meetings. Buying you sweets when you get stressed. Purchasing Loba a huge cat tree, even though she doesn’t need to be spoiled further. Spending the night at your house even when his is way more comfortable for the sheer reason that Loba would feel lonely.When you mention taking her with you, he’d say, “I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable with the new environment.”

He even postponed bro night because you got sick and wanted to be the one to take care of you.

You don’t need reminders that he loves you, but it’s all the while heartwarming when he says it.

Even now, with his arm wrapped around your waist and his chin propped on your shoulder, he’s thinking aloud in romance land. “What if we went on a vacation to France for Christmas? Isn’t Paris the city of love?”

You watch the TV, but his voice drowns out all of the dialogue. “I don’t know, Chan. Why can’t we stay here?” you shift in his arms to roll over and face him. This close, as you’ve grown accustomed to these past months, you can count all of his eyelashes. And you can see tiny freckles scattered across his cheeks. It must be an Aussie thing.

He presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. “We can stay here. I’m fine with that.”

Loba jumps onto the bed, her collar jingling with her sudden movement to warn you she’s arrived. You pull away from Chan a little to make room for her between you. “Here comes the princess,” you feign disappointment with a sigh.

She claims her spot between your chests and curls herself into a ball, burying her face in Chan’s chest. Per usual. She often forgets who feeds her around here.

“Anyway,” Chan leans over her, kissing your lips gently, “I’m okay wherever. As long as you’re with me.”

After a beat of silence, you cup his cheek delicately and say, “Let’s go to the moon.”

“Yeah,” he grins, “Let’s go to the moon.”

xv.

He leans over and presses a kiss to your temple, setting a bottle of water in front of you.

Jisung gags from across the room. “Get a room,” he complains.

“You are a grown man and you can’t handle a couple being affectionate?” Changbin criticizes. “Get a life, dude.”

“Yeah,” you chime in, “Just ‘cos you live a poor, single life doesn’t mean you can hate on us.”

“Jeez, I didn’t sign up for slander on this Monday morning.”

“You definitely asked for it, but let’s get to work.” Chan draws his phone from his pocket and prepares for the official meeting regarding 3Racha’s next comeback.

God’s Menu was well received from the public, sending Chan’s dating scandal into the shadows. Minho basked in the compliments on the choreography. Seungmin whined when no one on Twitter noticed he was the vocal coach—and Minho didn’t make it much better by rubbing his glory in Seungmin’s face every chance he got. And you couldn’t get Chan to stop showing you funny Tweets and praise for nearly a month. Likely longer.

Here you sit in Chan’s office at the beginning of the new year. A lot of things can go south during six months, but things can shoot north too. Generally, for you, it’s been pretty north.

This time around, Jisung has calculated his homework and broadcasts his thoughts onto the wall.

“I already know what you’re gonna choose for the title track, so let’s choose B-sides,” he adds the disclaimer before anyone can mutter a peep.

“I don’t know about you all,” Chan dips his hands into the pockets of his trousers and leans against his desk, “but I’d say I’m pretty confident in writing a love song right now.”

You groan alongside Jisung. “Stop talking.”

“That,” your eyes go wide as you nod at his stature. He’s hunched over your trash can. Blue gloves shield his hands as he digs. 

“Oh. I think I lost my earring or something.” 

“And your first instinct was to search my trash can?” you quirk an eyebrow. Perhaps you should mention that this isn’t just any trash can, it’s your kitchen one. Full of discarded, burnt ramen and your roommate’s weird protein shakes that will clog your drain otherwise. 

He nods, as though this is the most normal first step to a lost earring. Yang Jeongin is many things, but being questionable is one of his strongest traits. 

You slip behind him to get to the fridge. Water bottles line the right half, more commonly known as your roommate’s side. You reach for one. 

“What are you doing on March twenty-fifth?” he asks, arms deep in your trashcan. He’s really going to endure this conversation without a single shred of his pride disappearing. 

You try not to look at him as you glance at the calendar. Two weeks away, the small square for that Saturday reads “NATIONALS” in large red letters. 

You hum to yourself. “Dog sitting.” 

“What?” he looks at you, eyes squinted in confusion, “Why?” 

“Danceracha’s going out of town for the dance contest. I told you this.” 

He exhales a deep, surrendering sigh as he straightens his back and plucks the gloves off. He shakes his hands in the cool air before starting for your sink. The calm stream of water trickles out. “Man. That sucks.” 

“Why?” you question. Your fingertips draw marks of condensation along the plastic. 

“I was gonna invite you to a party,” he mutters. A pout comes to his lips. For a moment, your heart drops. He looks the same as when you met him. All those years, long with memories but short in quantity, whizz past you. 

“Party?” you repeat. 

“Yeah,” he nudges the water stream off. 

Parties and Jeongin don’t mix well. History has proven this. 

“Whose party is it?” you start for the living room, knowing he’ll follow. 

“You don’t know him,” he says, his voice never once fading because, indeed, he’s on your tail. 

“Okay, but what’s his name?” 

“Chan. Actually,” he hesitates, “you might know him.” 

As you sink into the couch, chipped leather scratching your legs, you glance at him. His eyebrows are scrunched into his thinking stance. Then, his features light up once he finds the answer. “Do you remember sophomore year’s biology class?” 

You nod. 

“Remember when that senior came in to make fun of Mr. Lee?” 

Again, you nod. 

“His best friend is Chan. You probably saw them in our freshman yearbook for spirit week. They dressed up as Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum for Twins Day.” 

Your mouth forms into an acknowledging part. “Got it.” In fact, the recurring image instantly pops into your head. You can thank all the hours spent staring at it with stifled laughter for that. 

“So what’s the party for?” 

He shrugs, “Some college achievement shit.” 

“And you got invited?” you laugh. Jeongin barely made it out of high school. He took one harrowed glance at the local campus and nearly cried. You don’t blame him, though. That place is stressful. Even as a freshman you can say this. 

He rolls his eyes. “I’m cool, you know? I don’t need to be in academics for them to know that.” 

“Sure,” you nod. 

“I’m serious!” His lips quirk up in a defensive manner that sends a spark through your chest. 

Among other things, Jeongin is confusing. Questionable and confusing. These are the words you say when someone asks you what he’s like. Because seriously, why does he always do things so infuriating yet endearing? 

He runs a hand through his hair as he unlocks his phone. His thumb works quickly to swipe through a message log before he tilts the phone so you can see. “See?” 

The conversation in question is short, a maximum of four texts. The details blur as he snatches his phone back as quickly as he showed it. Again, infuriating. 

“Are you planning on going alone, then?” 

This question makes him freeze. He stares at the wall wielding a mounted TV, whose black screen reflects the image of him by your side, shoulder to shoulder. A small smile tilts his lips. “I guess. People want me there. So I’ll find my niche.” 

See? Endearing. 

You have no doubts that he can find a place to fit in. He did it in high school and he’ll proceed to do it in the future. That’s just how he is. Plus, maybe he can allow someone else to feel safe too. Like he did for you. 

ii.

High school is a demon with a comforting smile. When you’re forced to transition, they tell you it’s all fun. Sunshine and rainbows, if you will. What they don’t tell you is that luck will always make it so you don’t get any of your friends in your classes. And this, with your contradicting lunch shifts, will slowly force you out of the friend group you had stuck with since elementary school. 

Perpetual tears are stocked behind your eyes. Waiting for the perfect moment to fall because let’s be honest, any minor inconvenience could push you over the edge. Stress does that to you. 

In third period of your second week, your math teacher announces that she’s decided on her seating chart. She makes you line up against the walls as she grabs her reference sheet, lined with the images of desks, names scribbled atop them. “Jeongin,” she says, pointing to a desk in the front row. 

A boy a few feet away from you steps out from the crowd to claim his desk. He’s wearing an oversized maroon hoodie whose back is marked “Yang” in white letters. 

Your teacher stops at the seat next to him. She glances at you and your heart drops. “Y/N,” she points to a desk. 

Sitting up front is worse than the incessant plagues of high school drama. All eyes permanently burn into the back of your head, even when not a single soul acknowledges you. 

As you try to settle into your seat, back a little stiff from trying to shrink yourself into a tiny marble, the boy beside you leans over. “Hey, you okay?” 

For the first time, your eyes lock. His remind you of the innocence of childhood, that blank yet full gaze. You nearly melt, but instead, your back loosens. 

“Yeah. I just don’t like sitting in the front,” you chuckle awkwardly. 

He smiles. Not one of the pity ones, but a real toothy smile. “Aww. Me neither, I always feel like everyone’s watching me.” 

Finally, a person who gets it. 

“But I just have to trick myself into not caring,” he says, glancing at the whiteboard. Shadows of poorly erased marker line the corners. 

Abruptly, after his serene gaze, he jumps back to you. “Do you like coffee by any chance?” 

Despite the initial shock of the question, you say, “Yeah, I do.” 

As it turns out, his family owns this huge coffee shop right next to the bookstore you used to frequent. His mom was rather happy to see a new face. On that day, she accepted you as family. 

And math didn’t turn out to be so hard that year. 

iii.

The apartment grows quiet after Jeongin inevitably has to leave. Your roommate’s dog comes trotting out from his room. His nose is upturned, scouting for a soul to give him attention. 

“Come here, Kkami,” you pat the empty spot on the couch beside you. He runs the rest of the way. Instead of resting on the couch cushion, he prefers your lap. This pickiness he obtained from his owner. 

Hyunjin’s anything but a bad roommate. He does the dishes, sweeps when he finds a large puff of Kkami’s fur traveling your hardwood like a tumbleweed, even brings home coffee when you have a huge study night ahead of you. However, when it comes to you and Jeongin, your mutual hangouts on weekends, he has a very specific need. And that’s to be around you two as little as possible. 

He claims it’s because he can’t stand third-wheeling. Jeongin refuses to understand this concept. “If we’re not dating, it’s not third-wheeling?” he’d said, numerous times. 

Hyunjin won’t budge on the subject. 

The tune set as Jeongin’s ringtone, chosen by him, plagues the air. You reach for your phone, placing a protective hand on Kkami’s side to prevent him from falling. 

“Hello?”

“Problem: What would you do if your brother told you he got a girlfriend?” 

You squint at your reflection in the TV between scene transitions. It looks odd without him beside you. “Which brother?” 

“Guess which one would make me more dumbfounded. Hint, it’s not the older one.” 

“Your younger brother got someone before you?” you snicker. Jeongin holds his pride in his individuality. Losing to a younger brother with something like this is hilarious. 

“This isn’t funny! Should I be a serious big brother and talk to him or should I just seethe in silence?” 

“Neither. Leave him alone.” 

He does something akin to a whine. “But-”

You stick up a finger, though he can’t see you as you interrupt, “C’mon, Jeongin. He’s a teenager. Let him be.” 

Sometimes, it feels like he’s the outsider and you’re the true, reasonable sibling. 

He sighs. You imagine him pushing his hair out of his eyes and staring up at his ceiling. All lost in the possibilities that lay before him, since you and him both know he won’t listen to you. 

“Can I hang up now?” you ask, glancing at the front door. 

“Are you gonna abandon me for your significant other too?” 

You scoff as the front door opens. “You’re ridiculous.” 

Hyunjin steps into the apartment. His hair is damp with sweat and lays jagged in front of his eyes. You raise a hand to wave. 

“It’s a real question, though. You know whoever it is will be jealous of me.” Now, you know, he’s just prodding for a reaction. You can practically hear the smirk in his voice. 

“Yes, Jeongin. I would one hundred percent drop you for some person who offers emotional stimulation,” you monotonously chide. 

Hyunjin gives you a curious look as he passes. You would think he’d be used to this by now. 

“Okay but,” Jeongin’s voice grows low as he settles onto his bed, “would you really? Tell me you won’t.” 

“I won’t,” you press your back deeper into the couch. It’s not like you’ve had many romantic opportunities since meeting him. Jeongin, though also needy, is more interesting than anyone else you’ve met. He’s a shiny emerald among a sea of charcoal. 

“Good,” he says, and you can tell he’s smiling. The image of his little dimple indenting makes you mirror the sentiment. 

“Now can I hang up?” 

“Fine,” he sighs.

Through a laugh, you manage, “Goodnight. Love you.” 

“Love you too.” And then the line goes dead. 

iv.

“Are you sure you don’t like him?” must be a trendy replacement for ‘good morning.’ 

“Who?” you ask, rubbing your eye as you start for the cereal cabinet. 

“Jeongin. Who else?” Hyunjin says. He sits at the kitchen table. A plate of freshly heated blueberry waffles sits before him. 

Without turning to him, you say, “I’m sure.” 

It’s a reflex, really. 

He exhales in the most exaggerated way possible to grab your attention. His eyes are cold with the hunger for an answer. A real one. 

“I don’t like him,” you say slowly, allowing each word time to sink into the air. 

The thought has surely crossed your mind. It’d be unrealistic to say you’ve never pondered the great possibility of being in love with your best friend. But ultimately, you don’t think you are. Sure, you’d take a bullet for Jeongin. Just not in the ‘wow I’m madly in love with you’ kind of way. You tell yourself it’s in the ‘you’re going to do so much good for the world’ kind of way. 

“Fine,” Hyunjin admits, picking up one of his waffles and taking a caveman bite. 

Most of breakfast is quiet as you sit opposite him, staring into your bowl. Your milky reflection takes you off guard a few times. 

“You know,” Hyunjin says after a while, his voice raw and a little croaky. He has to bring a hand to cover his mouth as he clears his throat. “You should get him to stay with you while I’m away.” 

As you look back up at him, he adds defensively, “I’m not trying to play Cupid.”

You shrug, “He probably has other plans.” 

Yet when you text him a few hours later, he jumps on it. “It’ll be like a sleepover! Don’t you miss when we did those?” 

You did, but you don’t admit it. 

v.

The week of nationals arrives too quickly for your mind to process. One minute, you’re studying for an upcoming exam and the next there’s a knock on your bedroom door. It doesn’t wait for a sound before opening. 

“Hey, I’m leaving.” 

Hyunjin’s dressed in black sweatpants and a black hoodie, which covers his messy hair. Perfect for his night of sleeping on the bus. A duffel bag packed and puffy hangs off his shoulder. 

“Good luck,” you smile up at him. 

“Thanks. Don’t try sneaking into the venue with your rat like you did last year,” he returns the smile. 

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea,” you rush to defend yourself. 

He scoffs. “Yeah, right. You still played into it.” 

“And we got to support you as your lovely friends.” 

“You were the only people cheering during the contemporary dance,” he mumbles, stepping back into the hall. 

“To be fair, we couldn’t realize because we were so involved!” you shout to match the increasing distance. 

“Right!” he calls, a laugh shaking his words. 

Studying is now a failed mission. Every time you glance at the words printed on the textbook’s glossed pages, they just blur together until your mind drifts to Jeongin. When is he coming over? He said he’d be here by seven. It’s roughly a quarter past. He has a key, so it’s not like you have to be free when he gets here.

When you succumb and close the textbook, you hear shuffling in the living room. Shortly followed by Kkami’s familiar barking, which he only pursues when someone’s here. 

The feeling of a generously excited puppy fills you as you follow the source. 

“Hi,” you smile. 

Jeongin has treated himself to a coffee. He must have just worked a shift. 

“Hi,” he hands you the paper cup. 

“Oh, is this for me?” you take it. It’s hot against your palms. 

“Yeah. It’s hot chocolate. Thought you might want it.” 

He drops his backpack, likely stuffed with potential party outfits, by the couch. He stands and scans your face as you take the first sip of the drink. The sweetness takes over and makes you shiver, but the warmth minimizes the shiver to nothing. Surely enough, this is his mother’s hot chocolate. 

“Thank you,” you say, looking into his eyes. The living room light has speckled his eyes with stars.

“Of course.” 

A moment passes of just looking at each other. Not a single word. You’re not even sure if you’re remembering to breathe. 

It breaks when he glances at the TV. “Movie time?” 

Settling on the couch doesn’t take long. He sits close enough to you, resting his head on your shoulder. He’s done this for as long as you remember, but why does it feel so close all of a sudden? 

He chooses the movie. A tradition you’ve established ever since you accidentally chose a movie so repulsively awful you had to take a break from watching movies at all. The teasing was barely bearable. 

Even now, when someone says something similar to that movie, you shiver. 

“Are we feeling sci-fi?” he asks. 

You almost shrug until you remember where his head is. “I don’t care,” you say instead. 

He chooses a romance movie, his safe pick. 

And he falls asleep not even ten minutes in. 

Hyunjin’s question returns to you in neon lights. Certainly, this tight feeling in your chest couldn’t be akin to liking someone. When you like someone, there’s always a telltale sign. There’s a bright moment of realization. That’s never come for you. Even now, all you can do is question. Question. Question. Question. 

vi.

Jeongin’s party outfit is the most conspicuous thing ever. A light blue tee from middle school that has all his classmate’s signatures on the back. Black jeans with holes at the knees. You can’t tell if he’s going to a child’s party or not. 

He catches your tilted gaze, matched with the furrowed eyebrows, and huffs. “Would you rather I get puke on a good shirt?” 

You blink. “I’d rather you not puke on yourself.” 

A noise close to laughter bursts past his lips. “Ha. Funny. I won’t reach that point. I’m thinking people puking on me.” 

You nod. Jeongin’s a lightweight, from what you know. But hey, if it helps him sleep at night. 

He departs after a long phone call with Chan. He offers a little wave as he opens the door. “I’ll give you live updates.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“But I will.” 

And indeed, he follows through. Selfies bombard your phone every three minutes. One is taken with Chan, but it’s so shaky and dark that they look like blobs with highlighted cheeks. 

These only make you more confused. Maybe Hyunjin was right. But you don’t want him to be. Nothing makes you feel more foolish than catching feelings for a friend who is just that. Friend. That painful, heartbreaking word. 

You open Hyunjin’s message log, prepared to reach out and ask if he can help you break down what you’re feeling, but his contact transitions to consuming your entire screen—perfect timing, he’s calling. 

“Hello?” 

“Guess what?” His voice is drowned out by external shouts. 

“What?” 

“We took second place!”

“Congrats,” you smile to yourself, leaning against the couch arm. 

“It’s all thanks to Felix’s freestyle. That surprise category threw us off, but he really came through,” he rambles. He tells you about all his points and each error, which ultimately seem mundane but apparently make a difference in his detail loving mind. 

“Anyway, I just wanted to call. See how you’re doing, you know.”

“I’m doing good,” you nod as though to convince yourself. 

“How’s Jeongin?” 

“At a party,” you say as your phone buzzes again. Another selfie. This time, he’s in a lonesome bathroom and posing in the mirror. A peace sign that surrounds his eye. That stupid dimple makes your heart jump. 

Hyunjin giggles at something on his end and says something not aimed at you. He quickly returns to his serious tone with, “How are you really feeling? Don’t bullshit me.” 

You stifle a laugh. Resting your head on the back of the couch, you glare at the ceiling, “Confused.” 

“About Jeongin?” 

He slips into a quieter place. You sigh. Why are your hands shaking all of a sudden? “Yeah.” 

“Well,” he starts, “I pushed you into thinking about it for a reason.” 

“He doesn’t like me like that.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because friends don’t like friends like that.” 

“But you like him like that, so doesn’t that ruin your statement?” 

You sit in the silence for a minute. “I guess so.” 

His breath is amplified and you can hear each inhale and exhale. “You’ll probably just brush this off, but I think you have a shot.” 

You nod. “Sure. A shot at going to the moon maybe. A shot at Jeongin liking me? No way.” 

“Look, pessimism isn’t gonna get you anywhere. If you’re too much of a pussy to talk to him, I will. But not because I want to, because it’s terrible seeing you sulk,” he mutters. 

A round of applause for your roommate. 

“Just give me some time. I still don’t know if I like him,” you glance at the dog, who’s cuddled up on a pile of blankets. Why can’t your life be that simple? 

“Not trying to force you or anything, but I think you know the answer to that.” 

He’s probably right. It’s not like you can retaliate anyway. There’s a distant knock before he says, “Sorry. I gotta go. I’ll be home tomorrow.” 

The following silence is truly suffocating. 

vii.

That party changes everything. 

Jeongin stumbles home, each step a potential path to faceplanting. It’s this exact stumble that forces him to trip over a box. 

The noise draws you from sleep. Through squinted eyes, you stare at him as he tries to regain his balance. His arms are splayed out, searching for a stable support beam. 

“Jeongin?” you whisper, though you know it’s him. Who else would be drunkenly returning home at, you glance at your phone, three in the morning?

“Y/N,” he gasps. Your voice prompts him to follow it. 

As you stand, he finds his way through the narrow path between couch and coffee table. He throws his arms around you. 

“I missed you,” he mumbles, words meshing together. 

“I missed you too?” It’s only been six hours. 

He holds you at arms length, palms resting on your shoulders. “I love you,” he slurs, eyes drunkenly taking a long blink. 

“I love you too?” 

“No, like, I really love you. ‘The moon is beautiful’ type of stuff,” he nods. 

You’re not sure what he means by this. But it doesn’t matter if you try to question him, because he continues. 

“I think about the future a lot,” he says, hands falling to his sides before he falls onto the couch. “Nothing’s ever consistent. But you’re always there.” 

“That’s-” you begin. 

He wasn’t finished. “I think our wedding would be nice.” 

Now, he goes silent as you stand there in shock. He thinks about that? How often? 

The moment your lips part to ask these things, a light snore escapes his lips. You grab a blanket from your room, the Totoro one he loves, and you gently cover him. You lean over his face. His cheeks are a little swollen, as are his lips. You push his hair away from his eyes before going to your room. You’re careful not to make a noise as you shut the door. 

He’s gone by the time you wake up. For the first twenty-four hours, you shrug it off as a painful hangover he’s just sleeping through. 

Most hangovers don’t last a week, though. 

One time, sitting beneath a sky littered with stars, Jeongin released a deep breath. “Do you think we’ll ever stop being friends?” 

Jeongin’s not insecure about many things, as his philosophy is that if one person finds something unattractive, there’s a hoard who will think otherwise. But this topic is an exception. 

“Unless you do something unthinkably terrible, no,” you mumble. And you truly meant it. 

So, Jeongin: You haven’t done anything unthinkable.Why have you disappeared? 

Life without Jeongin has been incredibly boring. It’s prompted an imminent heartache. Attending class is a lame option considering your bed is so much more comfortable. You never knew missing someone could form a black hole in your body, consuming each grain of energy. 

Hyunjin’s the only reason you’re eating. Since he knows you’re not up for any meal, he brings you snacks and another bottle of water—to add to the mountain of empty bottles on your desk. 

“Do I need to go break his ankles?” Hyunjin asks one day, nearly a month after his tournament. 

You shrug. You know he’s joking, but laughter doesn’t seem to bubble up. It’s lost in the dark cave that is this confusing state. 

“I texted him today. No response yet,” Hyunjin adds. 

You nod. You got the same treatment, but you stopped trying a while ago. 

“Have you gone to the coffee shop? To see his mom or something?” 

You shake your head. “No point in it. He doesn’t tell her much. Plus I don’t want to pin her against him or anything.” 

Hyunjin sighs. He doesn’t know what else to say, or offer, or do to help you. Not that you’re a lost cause, but he’s starting to lose the ounce of hope he had. To him, you’re too good for this. Telling and convincing you of that is a difficult task. 

When he leaves you alone, you cry again. At this point, your eyes hurt when you aren’t crying. But hey, at least you’re sleeping nice. The desperate need to escape can do that to you. 

viii.

You tell Hyunjin your conclusion at dinner—something he’s finally tricked you into eating. “I think I love him.” 

He nods. “Yeah. Didn’t we already establish that?” 

You push the noodles around. “I didn’t want to admit it.” 

“Why?” 

Averted gaze set to the ramen, though his remains scalding. “I don’t know.”

He reaches across the table to regain your focus. He knows the noodles aren’t that interesting. “That’s okay. Look, we can go beat his ass if you want. Or we can hunt him down and hold him hostage-”

He stops when he sees the small hint of a smile turning your lips up. One of his own appears, and in his mind, he’s breaking into a congratulatory dance. The crack in the sadness is exposed, and it’s slowly breaking further. All that’s next is revealing the ravine of happiness. 

After dinner, you sit on the couch and decide to watch a movie. Unlike Jeongin, he gives you movie pick. It reminds you of the bitter taste that’s overcome your mouth since he up and left. 

Halfway through the movie, some shitty one Jeongin and you watched a few months ago, Kkami barks at the couch. He looks between you and the crack behind it as if to say, “Hello? Get my bone!” 

You glance at Hyunjin, who also waits for you to get up and retrieve the dog’s lost bone. Normally you take turns with this task, but he seems to have forgotten it’s been his turn for the last five times. 

With a muted sigh, you pull yourself off the couch. Hyunjin doesn’t even bother to pause the movie. Jeongin wouldn’t do that.  

You lower yourself to look into the dark tunnel. With a blind hand you swipe against the floor. A small object connects with the palm of your hand. You drag it out. A small metal earring glares back at you. You drop it in the pocket of your hoodie—which was a gift from Jeongin as you drifted into adulthood. You return to the bone search with a sting in your eyes. 

ix.

Happiness is a fragile object. 

At the same hour that Jeongin had said the unthinkable, your phone buzzes loudly against your side. Ultimately, this brings you back to the post-sleep daze as you trudge to answer it. Looking at the contact is the last of your concerns. 

“Hello?” Your voice is raw. A long gulp of water would be kindly appreciated. 

“Hey, Y/N, right?” This is a voice you’ve never heard before. You pull back to look at the contact and, unsurprisingly, there isn’t one. All that stares back is a string of numbers, unique to this person. 

“Yeah?” 

“Hi, sorry for the late call. I’m Chan-” you nearly hang up out of defensive instinct, but you let him finish. “I kind of need a favor right now.” 

“What kind of favor?” 

In the background, there’s a loud retching noise. “Um, so Jeongin, right?” Chan nervously laughs. 

“We’re not really-” you start. 

He interrupts, “I know. But he’s been talking about you nonstop. He’s really a wimp, you know. Actually, I guess I’m not really asking for a favor. I’m doing you a favor.” 

You know where he’s going with this. “I’m sorry, Chan, but I don’t think that’s a-”

“Hush,” he says before his voice distances. 

“Y/N? It’s Y/N?” the familiar, slurred voice asks. 

He wasn’t going to give you an option. Deep down, you’re kind of grateful for that. 

When Chan returns to the phone, he says, “I can send you the address. We’re on the first floor, so it shouldn’t be too bad. I would offer to come pick you up, but I’m babysitting.” At these final words, he laughs. 

You consider waking up Hyunjin to take you—he’s the one with the car—but you think against it when you realize it’s only a five minute walk. 

Despite the daytime weather that is clear sky and sun that hugs your skin, the nighttime 

version is a little less welcoming. Indeed the air is breezeless, but it’s a bitter cold. Grabbing a hoodie would have been smart, but alas. 

Chan opens the door with a smile. “Hi, come on in.” 

He points to a closed door, “Jeongin’s in there. He should be decent. Just a little pukey.” 

You follow his directions, while he starts for the couch. At least he’s allowing privacy, you think. You knock lightly on the door. After a long trial of waiting with no response, you slowly push the door open. 

His cheek is resting on the cold porcelain of the bathtub. Through dazed and squinted eyes, he looks at you. “Hi?” 

“Hey,” you say, stepping into his space for the first time in over a month. Despite the stain of puke on his shirt, you realize that he hasn’t changed much. What physical changes can someone go through in a month? Well. Everything. 

You appreciate your mind for allowing his appearance to never leave. Otherwise, you might have looked at him just now and been disgusted. Because it’s Jeongin, and because of this weird tugging feeling in your chest, you don’t. In its place, you look at him as though he holds the world’s most valuable object. 

He tries to sit up, nearly falls on his face, but manages. “Do you hate me?” 

“No. I don’t think so,” you squat next to him. The familiar weight of his head meets with your shoulder. 

“I shouldn’t say this,” he laughs. His mind is going a mile a minute, but his lips refuse to go at an accompanying speed. “I love you.” 

You stare at the top of his head. “I love you too.” 

“Really?” he lifts his head. He seems to search your eyes for the similar sparkle his hold. 

“Yeah,” you nod. You decide to save your cheesy comments until the morning. No point in wasting them if he won’t remember this when he wakes up. 

“Did you know that I,” he says, trying to lift himself to his feet. He leans a little too far on a foot, prompting you to rush and steady him. “thought you and Hyunjin were dating for the longest time.” He laughs again. 

You squint at him, “Is that why you disappeared?” 

A drunk smile finds his lips and his cheeks glow beneath the bathroom light. “Guilty.” 

“You’re stupid for thinking it’d ever be anyone but you,” you whisper, glancing anywhere but him. You could say this to the mirror too. Stupid for thinking it could be anyone but him. 

He’s ridiculous. Ridiculous enough to allow his smile to drop a little as he leans closer to your face. “I’m going to kiss you,” he whispers. 

You watch as he leans a little bit closer. Bit by bit. You even close your eyes at one point. At the last minute, when his breath begins to mingle with yours, he pulls away. “No. Let me brush my teeth first.” 

You watch in a stunned silence as he stumbles to the living room. “Do you have a spare toothbrush I could use?” he asks Chan. 

Chan responds quietly with, “Yeah, under the sink.” 

You beat Jeongin to it, offering him the packaged toothbrush. 

“Thanks, love,” he says. 

Questionable Jeongin who calls you pet names. You like it, though you’ll try your hardest not to admit it. That’d only feed into his questionable choices. 

Minty Jeongin has sobered up a little bit. Instead of kissing you immediately after rinsing his mouth, he stares. 

“What?” you prompt. 

“Nothing.” 

And then he leans in and kisses you. In all honesty, it’s exactly how you imagined kissing him. There’s no stereotypical sparks. It’s just Jeongin, whose lips happen to be on yours. That’s enough. Afterward, though, you acknowledge that Cloud 9 is beneath your feet. 

x.

Chan drives you and Jeongin back to your apartment after a difficult talk and one final puke. (The puker looks at you when he feels it coming and asks, “Can you hold my hair back?”)

As you’re helping Jeongin out of the car, Chan leans back in the driver seat and glares a strong eye at Jeonign, “Run away again and I will beat your ass.” 

Jeongin chuckles. “Right. Catch me first.” As he says this, he throws his arm over your shoulder for stability. Though, he’s sober enough to walk on his own now. The occasional stumble, sure, but he’s not in dire need of someone to guide him. 

You take it as his way of saying he plans on staying. 

However, when you make it into the apartment, you don’t bear right to the couch. 

Keeping him close will prevent him sneaking out and running away again. That’s a thing of the past, and you’ll make sure of it. 

He doesn’t even complain. 

“Don’t puke on me, please,” you whisper as you climb into bed. He follows shortly after. Arms naturally find your waist as he pulls you closer to him. 

He hums. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Dreamless sleep takes over you, but the entire time you’re aware of his arms and his proximity. In a way, it’s better than dreaming. 

It’s even better when you wake up before him. His lips are a pretty shade of pink and for a moment you forget about his eventful night. You press a light kiss to his cheek. 

His eyes don’t open, nor does he stir. He’s in that beautiful, drunken sleep. You try not to laugh at the thought of his hangover to come. God, he’s going to be so whiny. 

You try to slip out of his arms, but the death grip only becomes tighter. He whines a little, mutters something like, “Don’t go.” 

After a few more minutes of just staring at the sleeping boy, boredom takes over. Yeah, staring is nice and all, whatever, but it reaches a certain intolerable point. Ten minutes is that point. 

You nudge him, “Jeongin, let go. I need to go to the bathroom.” 

“No,” he mutters, burying his face deeper into the pillow. 

“Jeongin.” 

“What?” 

“Let go.” 

His eyes finally open. They hold a small sense of surprise, which prompts you to tease, “What? Do you need a breakdown of what happened? Were you seriously that out of it?” 

“No. Well, a little,” he stumbles over the words. 

“What do you remember?” 

“Puking,” he winces as he laughs. There’s that signature headache. 

“You don’t remember kissing me?” 

Wide eyes stare back at you. His lip shakes as he tries to force words out. “What?” 

You laugh quietly. “Yeah. You did that.” 

“I’m sorry,” he sits up. His vacant arms feel cold. 

“No it’s okay. You only kissed me because I told you I loved you,” you sit up to match him. 

His head turns to look at you. Tufts of hair stick up in an oddly symmetrical way. “Really? Since when?” 

You nod. “Yeah. Time frame is unknown, but I think the feeling might have always been there. So you wasted a month of your life hiding.” 

He tips his head, “Hey now, I had a valid reason.” 

Your eyes squint at him. “It could have been avoided if you answered my texts. Or Hyunjin’s. Or if you checked your voicemail. Or-”

“Okay, I get it,” he nods, leaning in to shut you up. He presses a quick kiss to your lips. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t say how weird it feels to kiss his best friend—but he’s incredibly excited to get used to it. 

“It’s fine. I think. My grades kind of tanked,” you comment, glancing at your desk. The tower of water bottles still stands. Somewhere buried beneath them are your abandoned papers. 

“Because of me?” his voice is soft, as are his eyes as he fights back the sting of tears. Of all his intentions, this wasn’t one of them. 

This look pains you. “Kinda. I thought I had lost my comfort place.” 

In order to disguise his tears, he pulls you into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be good to you. We can make latte art together at the shop and stargaze at stupid hours. Whatever you want.” 

You laugh into his shoulder. “Is that a promise?” 

He sniffles. “Yes. I love you. That’s the second promise.” 

xi.

Hyunjin’s reaction is lackluster. A forced gasp as he waves his hands in surprise. “Wow. I totally didn’t give Chan your number or anything,” he says. 

“Are you serious?” 

“Yeah. He called me trying to drop him,” he points at Jeongin, “on me.”

“And you didn’t want to get out of bed?” Jeongin asks, bringing his mug of freshly brewed coffee to his lips. 

“No,” Hyunjin sticks a finger up in defense. “Kkami wouldn’t let me move.” 

What he means is: Yes, I didn’t want to get up but allow me to use my dog as a ploy. 

You and Jeongin share a glance to confirm this thought. You burst out laughing. 

“Do not tell me you’ve developed a couple's telepathy already,” Hyunjin whines, throwing his head back as he begins to pace the kitchen. 

Jeongin begs your stare again. He wiggles his eyebrows to pseudo-communicate. 

“I’m going to retail therapy,” Hyunjin sighs, dragging his keys off the counter before starting for the door. 

A loud fit of laughter fills the air as the door shakes in its frame. 

“He’s so overdramatic,” Jeongin manages, wiping a stray tear away from his eye. 

You allow this time to watch him intently. All of his details flood over you with definitive clarity. His skin has gotten its first film of tan now that spring is in full swing. A change of season which you had missed out on together. It’s okay, he’ll take you to see the cherry blossoms next year. 

“Oh, I found your earring, by the way,” you say when he catches you staring. 

“Really? Where was it?” On instinct, he brings his hand up to his right ear. The lobes are not blinged, but it’s still worth checking. 

“Behind the couch.” 

He gapes at you. “How’d it get back there?” 

“How would I know?” 

You allow a silence to lay upon you as his face twists to think. All at once, it lights up again, “Ah. It was probably when we had that wrestling match. I didn’t have the back on because my ear was itchy or something.” 

Interesting Jeongin. Questionable Jeongin.