for riki

Riki froze. The fury in his eyes shifted, hardening into something cold, calculating, and infinitely more dangerous.

"Where is this daughter of his?" Riki asked, his voice deceptively calm.

Ryan hesitated, his jaw locked in terror. Before he could even think about staying silent, the sharp, metallic click of a gun echoed through the room. Sunghoon stepped forward, pressing the cold barrel directly against Ryan’s temple.

"Where is she, little boy?" Sunghoon murmured, his eyes empty of mercy.

Ryan gulped, the hard steel biting into his skin as all his resolve evaporated.

"She—she goes to a university campus on the north side," Ryan stammered, the metal of Sunghoon’s gun leaving a red indent against his skin. "She lives in an off-campus apartment. Alone. Security is light during the week."

Sunghoon didn't lower the weapon. He looked over at Riki, waiting for the word.

Riki stood up slowly, wiping Ryan's sweat off his hands onto his jeans. The initial blind fury that had driven him into the club was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating focus. If this man took his sister, he would take his most prized possession in return.

"Get the address from him," Riki ordered, turning his back on Ryan as if the man were already dead. He looked at the rest of the boys crowded in the doorway. "Jake, get the car ready. Sunoo, I want eyes on that apartment complex before we even touch the perimeter."

"On it," Sunoo replied, already tapping away at his phone to pull up the campus blueprints.

Riki stepped out of the suffocating, neon-lit room and into the dim hallway of the club. His chest tightened at the thought of his sister, but a new, dark resolve took over. He didn't care who this girl was, what she looked like, or how innocent she might be in her father's war.

She was his leverage now.

The soft lo-fi beat playing from your laptop was the only thing keeping you awake. Your desk was a chaotic battlefield of highlighters, sticky notes, and half-empty coffee mugs. Outside, the night was perfectly still, the quiet streets of the north-side campus completely oblivious to the chaos unfolding across town.

You rubbed your tired eyes, leaning back in your chair and staring at the textbook open in front of you.

Just two more chapters, you promised yourself, glancing at the clock on your phone. It was past midnight. If I pass this midterm tomorrow, I can sleep for a week.

Your dad had called earlier in the evening—a short, tense conversation where he reminded you, for the hundredth time, to keep your doors locked. You had laughed it off, teasing him about being overly protective. You were safe here. The apartment complex was quiet, your neighbors were mostly sleepy design students, and nothing ever happened on this side of town.

Unbeknownst to you, miles away, a black SUV was already tearing down the highway, cutting through the dark toward your building.

You stood up to stretch, padding over to your small kitchen to pour another glass of water. As you passed the window, you caught your reflection in the glass. You looked exhausted, completely consumed by the mundane stress of a college exam.

You had no idea that a girl you had never met was missing. You had no idea who Riki was. And you certainly didn't know that right now, your name was being whispered in the dark by five men who were about to shatter your quiet world forever.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway outside your front door.

You paused, glass halfway to your mouth, and listened.

The silence that followed was suffocating. You held your breath, eyes locked on the deadbolt of your front door.

It’s just an old building, you told yourself, a nervous chuckle catching in your throat. The pipes click. The wood expands. It's fine.

You forced your feet to move, setting the water glass down on the counter with a soft clink. But as you turned back toward your desk, the soft lo-fi music coming from your laptop abruptly cut out. The screen flickered, a strange line of code flashing across the display before the entire device went completely black.

Then, the overhead lights died.

The sudden darkness was absolute, leaving only the weak moonlight filtering through your sheer curtains. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your chest. Your heart began to hammer against your ribs. You lunged for your phone on the desk, but the screen wouldn't light up. The battery was full, yet it was completely dead.

They had cut the power.

Before you could even scream, the heavy wood of your front door didn't just open—it splintered.

The sound of the deadbolt snapping echoed like a gunshot in the small apartment. Shadows flooded into your entryway, tall, imposing, and moving with terrifying coordination. You scrambled backward, knocking over your desk chair as you tried to find a weapon, a hiding place, anything.

"Clear the rooms," a low, smooth voice commanded from the dark.

"She's right there," another voice murmured.

A flashlight beam sliced through the darkness, blinding you. You blocked your eyes with your arm, backing up until your spine hit the kitchen counter. "Who are you? What do you want? I have money, just—"

"We don't want your money," a third voice interrupted. It was deeper, colder, and sent a shiver straight down your spine.

As your eyes adjusted to the glare of the flashlight, you could make out the silhouettes of five men closing in on you. One of them stepped forward, stepping directly into the moonlight.

It was Riki.

His eyes were completely devoid of warmth as they swept over your terrified form, taking in your oversized sweater, your trembling hands, and the sheer confusion on your face. For a fraction of a second, his gaze lingered, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his sharp features.

But just as quickly, his expression hardened back into ice.

You tried to push past him, but your hands only met the solid, unyielding wall of his chest.

"What— No! Do you know who my dad—"

Riki cut you off rudely, his hand instantly clamping around your wrist with a grip like steel. "I know exactly who your dad is, and frankly, I don't give a fuck."

The sheer malice in his voice made you freeze. He stepped closer, crowding you against the kitchen counter until you could feel the dangerous warmth radiating off him, completely contrasting his icy stare.

"Sunghoon, grab her coat," Riki ordered, not taking his eyes off you for a single second. "It’s freezing outside, and I don’t need her dying of hypothermia before we get what we want."

"Please," you choked out, terror finally loosening your vocal cords as tears stung the corners of your eyes. "You're making a mistake. I don't have anything to do with whatever my dad did."

A dark, humorless smile touched Riki's lips, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You're his daughter. That makes you his greatest asset—and my perfect leverage."

Before you could scream for help, a heavy jacket was thrown over your shoulders, and Riki yanked you forward, forcing you to move with him toward the splintered doorway. The other four boys formed a tight perimeter around you, their silent, lethal presence making it explicitly clear that running was not an option.

The backseat of the SUV was suffocatingly quiet. The only sound was the low hum of the engine and the rhythmic click of the turn signal as Jake navigated the dark, winding roads away from your campus.

They hadn't blindfolded you. They hadn't tied your wrists or held you down. In a strange way, that made it worse—it meant they weren't afraid of what you saw, because they knew you had absolutely nowhere to run.

Instead, you were trapped in the crushing weight of Riki’s gaze.

He sat directly across from you, leaning back against the leather seat with a terrifyingly casual posture. But his eyes were doing all the work. He examined you slowly, deliberately—from the nervous way you bit your lip to the slight tremble in your hands hidden beneath the oversized coat. Every time your eyes met his, he sent you a threatening, heavy glare. It was a silent promise of violence, a warning drilled into your head so you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was not someone to mess with.

"She's quiet," Sunoo remarked from the front passenger seat, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. "Expected her to scream more."

"She's smart enough to know it wouldn't change anything," Riki replied, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the quiet car. He didn't break eye contact with you as he spoke. "Right?"

You swallowed hard, pressing your back deeper into the seat, unable to look away from the lethal boy who now held your life in his hands.

You didn't answer. You just squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the suffocating intensity of his stare, but you could still feel his eyes burning into you.

The SUV finally slowed down, turning off the paved road onto a gravel path. The tires crunched loudly in the quiet night before the car came to a smooth halt. Through the tinted window, you could see the dark silhouette of a massive, secluded estate hidden deep within the trees. It looked less like a home and more like a fortress.

"We're here," Jake announced, killing the engine.

The heavy silence of the car shattered as the doors opened. Sunghoon got out first, scanning the perimeter out of pure habit, while Riki slid closer to you. He grabbed your upper arm—not enough to bruise, but firm enough to let you know he wasn't letting go—and pulled you out into the biting night air.

Your knees wobbled the second your sneakers hit the gravel, the adrenaline finally wearing off and leaving you weak. Riki caught you before you could fall, his grip tightening.

"Walk," he muttered against your ear, his breath warm against the cold skin of your neck.

He guided you through the side entrance of the estate, down a flight of concrete stairs that led into a heavily reinforced basement. It wasn't a dungeon, but it was far from comfortable. The room was large, containing a single bed, a chair, and a heavy iron door with a digital keypad lock on the outside.

Riki gently but firmly pushed you inside. The other boys lingered in the hallway, watching the exchange in silence.

"This is your home until your father decides to give back what he stole from me," Riki said, stepping backward toward the threshold.

You finally found your courage, taking a step toward him. "How long is that going to take?" your voice cracked, desperate and small. "What if he doesn't—"

"He will," Riki interrupted, his expression turning completely unreadable as he stared at you under the harsh fluorescent light. For a brief second, his eyes softened as he took in your disheveled, terrified state, but the wall went right back up. "And if he doesn't... well, let's hope he cares about you as much as Ryan said he does."

Before you could say another word, he stepped out, and the heavy iron door slammed shut, the electronic lock clicking into place with a definitive, terrifying snap.

You stood there for a moment, listening to the echo of his footsteps fade down the concrete hallway. Once the silence returned, you let out a sharp, disbelief-filled scoff, violently brushing a layer of basement dust off your sleeves.

"Rude bastard," you muttered to the empty room. "Could've at least had some manners."

Your fear was still there, a tight knot in the pit of your stomach, but your initial panic was fast being replaced by a strange, fiery spark of irritation. And beneath that irritation, a completely unexpected feeling started to take root: intrigue.

Your entire life, people had looked at you with a mix of fear and forced politeness. Everyone knew who your father was. Men twice your age trembled at the mere mention of his name, and anyone who ever approached you did so with extreme caution, terrified of the consequences.

But Riki? Riki had looked at you like you were nothing more than an inconvenience. He had cut you off, dragged you out of your apartment, and openly admitted he didn't give a single fuck about your dad’s reputation.

For the first time in your life, you were dealing with someone who wasn't afraid of the monster that ruled your world.

A slow, cynical smile touched your lips as you turned to look at the sparse bed. Well, you thought, walking over and tossing your borrowed coat onto the mattress, this is definitely going to be interesting.

The relentless glare of the fluorescent light overhead made it impossible to tell when night turned into day. You had managed to drift into a fitful, restless sleep, curling up on the sparse mattress with Riki’s heavy jacket draped over you for warmth. It smelled faintly of expensive cologne, rain, and leather—a scent that had completely filled your senses until you finally passed out.

The loud, metallic clank of the electronic keypad clearing woke you with a start.

You bolted upright, kicking the jacket aside as the heavy iron door swung open.

Riki stepped into the room. The cold, dangerous aura from the night before hadn't faded, but he looked different in the morning light filtering down from the hallway. He had changed into a clean black sweater, his dark hair slightly damp, and in his hands, he carried a porcelain mug and a small paper bag.

He stopped a few feet from the bed, his sharp eyes instantly tracking your movement as you scrambled back against the wall, fixing him with a glare.

"You're awake," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that suggested he hadn't slept much either.

"Hard to sleep when you've been kidnapped by a giant jerk," you snapped back, your voice laced with all the morning attitude you could muster.

Riki paused, one eyebrow arching in slight surprise at your tone. Most people in your position would be begging or crying. He took a slow step closer, setting the mug and the bag down on the small table next to the bed. The scent of fresh coffee and warm pastries instantly filled the damp room.

"Keep that attitude up and I'll skip the breakfast next time," Riki replied smoothly, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. He looked down at you, that same intense, calculating gaze from the car ride returning. "Your dad hasn't answered my calls yet. He's playing dumb."

You scoffed, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, refusing to let him intimidate you today. "Of course he is. He thinks he's untouchable. Everyone treats him like a god." You looked up, locking eyes with him, a challenging spark in your expression. "But you don't care about that, do you?"

Riki didn't answer right away. He just stared at you, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were trying to figure out if you were genuinely brave or just incredibly stupid. The silence stretched between you, heavy and loaded, until a dark, slow smirk pulled at the corner of his lips.

"Treat him like a god?" Riki repeated, taking a step away from the wall. He walked closer, stopping just inches from where you sat on the edge of the bed. He leaned down, bringing himself to your eye level, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before snapping back to your eyes. "Gods can bleed. And your dad is about to find out how easily he bleeds if he doesn't give me back what's mine."

You swallowed hard, the proximity making your heart do a strange, treacherous flip. Up close, you could see the sharp, lethal perfection of his features, the dangerous intensity that made him feel less like a captor and more like a storm you couldn't escape.

"You're confident," you murmured, refusing to back down, your voice a challenge despite the racing of your pulse.

"I'm impatient," Riki corrected coldly, straightening back up to his full, imposing height. He kicked the small table closer to you with the toe of his boot. "Eat. I don't need you starving on my watch. We're moving you upstairs in an hour—the boys think the basement is too depressing for a princess."

He turned on his heel, his long strides taking him back toward the heavy iron door.

"Hey," you called out before you could stop yourself.

Riki paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder, his dark silhouette cutting off the light from the hallway. "What?"

"The coffee," you said, gesturing to the steaming mug. "Is it poisoned?"

Riki let out a low, dry chuckle—the first real sound of amusement you'd heard from him. "If I wanted you dead, sweetheart, I wouldn't waste the caffeine."

With that, he stepped out, and the door slammed shut behind him.

His response made you smile a bit, a small, genuine huff of laughter escaping your lips. You shook your head, reaching for the steaming mug. This may have been a high-stakes, life-or-death hostage situation, but you couldn't deny it—the guy was funny. In a dark, twisted, incredibly aggravating sort of way.

The coffee was surprisingly good, hot and rich, and the pastry was still warm. As you ate, you found your eyes wandering back to the heavy black jacket he’d left behind on the bed. You reached out, running your fingers over the smooth leather. He was a criminal, a kidnapper, and your father's sworn enemy... but he was also the most fascinating thing to ever crash into your structured, suffocating life.

An hour passed quicker than you expected. You had just finished the last bite of the pastry when the electronic lock chimed again.

This time, the door swung open to reveal Sunoo leaning casually against the frame, a bright, almost playful grin on his face that entirely mismatched the fact that he was guarding a prisoner.

"Alright, princess," Sunoo said, tilting his head toward the hallway. "Time's up. Riki said to bring you upstairs, and trust me, the living room has a way better view than this dungeon."

"I'd hope so, my back was hurting while I was sleeping, i'm too young to have back pain you know?"

Sunoo let out a dramatic gasp, his hand flying to his chest in mock offense. "Oh, absolutely not. We cannot have the hostage getting back pain. Riki would kill us if you broke before your dad even called back."

He stepped aside, gesturing for you to lead the way out of the cell. "Come on. Let’s get you to a couch before you start complaining about arthritis."

You grabbed Riki’s heavy leather jacket, throwing it over your shoulders as you walked past Sunoo into the hallway. He didn't try to grab you or push you; instead, he just walked a step behind, escorting you up a grand, winding staircase that led out of the concrete basement and into the main floor of the estate.

The moment you stepped into the living room, your eyes widened.

The space was massive, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over miles of thick, secluded forest. It was minimalist, expensive, and drenched in morning sunlight. Sitting on a massive plush sofa in the center of the room were Jake and Sunghoon, both looking up the moment you walked in.

Riki was standing by a marble kitchen island, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand. He watched you enter, his eyes instantly dropping to his own jacket draped over your shoulders before snapping back up to your face.

"Look who decided to join us," Sunghoon muttered dryly, though his eyes held a flicker of curiosity as he took in your completely unbothered demeanor.

"She’s complaining about back pain," Sunoo announced to the room, practically pushing you toward the softest-looking armchair. "So, please, let’s accommodate the lady."

Riki set his coffee down with a soft clink, leaning against the counter as he fixed you with that familiar, intense stare. "Back pain? You were down there for eight hours."

"Eight hours too long," you countered smoothly, sinking into the expensive leather chair and looking right back at him. "If you're going to keep me here, the least you can do is provide better lumbar support."

A heavy silence fell over the room as the other boys looked between you and Riki, clearly waiting for him to snap or lose his temper at your audacity. Instead, Riki just stared at you, his jaw tightening slightly before that slow, dangerous smirk crept back onto his face.

"You've got a lot of nerve for someone in a cage," Riki murmured, his voice low and dangerous as he took a slow step toward your chair.

"and you're so rude for someone who has so much boyfriend potential" you bite back, the comment catching him off guard

A collective, stunned silence dropped over the room like an anvil.

Jake choked on whatever he was drinking, letting out a violent cough, while Sunoo’s jaw practically hit the floor. Sunghoon just stared at you, his eyes darting between you and Riki as if waiting for a bomb to go off.

Riki froze mid-stride. The cold, calculated mask he’d been wearing since the moment he broke down your door completely shattered. For a fraction of a second, his brain seemed to short-circuit. A dark flush of color crept up his neck, and his sharp eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated shock.

The comment had caught him entirely off guard.

"What did you just say?" Riki asked, his voice dropping an octave, though this time it wasn't out of malice—it was pure disbelief.

"You heard me," you said, crossing your legs and leaning back into the leather chair, entirely aware of the power dynamic shifting in the room. "You bring me breakfast, you make sure I'm not cold, you move me upstairs because the basement is too depressing... I'm just saying. Lose the attitude, and you’d actually be pretty good at this."

"Oh my god," Sunoo whispered, covering his mouth to hide a massive, delighted grin. "Riki, she's got you there. You did buy her the expensive pastries from down the street."

"Shut up, Sunoo," Riki snapped, though his eyes never left yours. He took the remaining steps toward your chair, leaning down until his shadow completely eclipsed you. The initial shock was gone, replaced by a dangerous, intense heat that made the air between you feel thick and heavy.

"You think this is a joke?" he murmured, his face inches from yours, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back to your eyes. "I kidnapped you. I can end your father's entire empire, and I hold your life in my hands. I am not your boyfriend."

"Not with that attitude, you aren't," you replied smoothly, refusing to blink.

Riki’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He stared at you, completely baffled by how a girl in an oversized sweater and his own jacket was successfully making him lose his composure.

"what did my dad do anyway?"

The playful tension in the room vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by a sudden, heavy coldness.

Jake stopped coughing, and Sunoo’s amused smile dropped instantly. Riki slowly straightened up to his full height, the lingering flush on his neck fading as his expression hardened back into unyielding ice.

"You really don't know?" Riki asked, his voice flat and devoid of the banter from a moment ago.

You shook your head, looking around at the boys, who were all suddenly avoiding your gaze. "He keeps me completely separate from his business. He always has. I just thought he was a strict, overprotective businessman."

Riki let out a harsh, humorless laugh that sent a chill down your spine. He walked back to the kitchen island, picking up his coffee, though he didn't drink it.

"Your 'businessman' father runs the largest smuggling ring on the coast," Riki said, his eyes cutting back to you, sharp and unforgiving. "And three days ago, his men ambushed a transport route that belonged to my family. They slaughtered four of my guys, took a shipment worth millions, and took my younger sister."

He set the mug down with a sharp crack against the marble.

"He's keeping her somewhere, and he's refusing to negotiate because he thinks he's a god who answers to no one," Riki stepped closer to you again, his voice dropping to a low, lethal whisper. "So I took you. Because if he won't listen to reason, he'll listen to the sound of his only daughter's life hanging in the balance."

"I always knew he was up to something," you muttered, staring down at your hands, your fingers tightly gripping the fabric of his oversized jacket. A dark, cynical laugh escaped your lips, though it sounded entirely hollow. "That motherfucker killed my mom. His own wife. Can you believe that? They called it a 'car accident,' but I found the files before he shipped me off to that campus. He had her erased because she threatened to go to the police about his 'investments'."

The room went completely, devastatingly quiet.

Jake, who had been leaning back on the sofa, sat up straight. Sunoo’s eyes widened, any trace of his earlier playfulness instantly vanishing as he looked at you with a mixture of shock and sudden sympathy. Sunghoon simply stared, his calculating expression faltering for the first time.

Riki froze. The furious, vengeful speech he had been preparing died in his throat. He looked down at you, his sharp eyes searching your face for any sign of a lie, any sign that this was a tactical play to get him to lower his guard.

But all he found was raw, bitter truth.

"What?" Riki asked, his voice losing its lethal edge, replaced by a stunned, low rumble.

You looked up, locking your eyes directly with Riki’s. The fear was entirely gone from your expression, replaced by a cold, burning resentment that mirrored his own.

"If you think threatening my life is going to make him break," you said softly, your voice steady despite the weight of the words, "you might want a backup plan. Because a man who kills his wife for his business isn't going to give up his empire for his daughter."

Riki didn't move. He stood completely still, his jaw tight as he processed the information. He had taken you expecting a spoiled, protected mafia princess who would cry for her daddy. Instead, he was looking at another casualty of the exact same monster he was trying to destroy.

A heavy shift passed through the room. The boys looked at Riki, silently waiting for his lead. Riki ran a hand through his dark hair, exhaling a slow, heavy breath as he stared at you, the dangerous hostility in his eyes shifting into something much deeper, darker, and infinitely more complicated.

"why are you all stunned? didn't you know he was evil?"

"We knew he was a monster," Jake said softly from the couch, his voice breaking the heavy silence. "But turning on his own blood? That's a different kind of sick."

Riki didn't say anything at first. He just kept his eyes locked on yours, his expression a storm of conflicting emotions. The cold, calculated barrier he usually kept between himself and his targets was completely disintegrating. He took a slow step toward your chair, his hands sliding casually into his pockets, though his shoulders remained tense.

"There's a line," Riki murmured, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register. "Even in our world, you don't touch family. You protect them at all costs."

He looked down at you, his sharp gaze taking in the defiant set of your jaw, the anger still burning in your eyes. He realized then that you weren't his enemy. You were just another piece of collateral damage left in your father's wake.

Sunoo leaned against the back of your chair, his tone unusually quiet. "If he doesn't care about getting you back... then our leverage is gone. What do we do now, Riki?"

All eyes in the room turned to Riki. He ran a hand through his dark hair, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the sprawling forest for a long moment before his eyes snapped back to yours. A dark, dangerous spark ignited in his eyes—but this time, it wasn't directed at you.

"If he won't trade for you," Riki said, a slow, lethal smirk creeping onto his lips, "then we use what you know. You want revenge for your mother, right?" He leaned down, bringing himself to your eye level, his presence completely consuming. "Help me take down his empire from the inside. Show me where he hides his assets, and I promise you, he will pay for what he did to your family. And what he did to mine."

A slow, sharp smile curved your lips, the fear completely gone from your eyes as you met his intense gaze.

"Like an alliance?" you asked softly.

Riki’s smirk widened just a fraction, a flash of genuine appreciation crossing his sharp features. He liked that you didn't flinch. He liked that instead of begging for mercy, you were negotiating terms.

"Exactly like an alliance," Riki murmured, holding your gaze. He straightened up and extended a hand toward you, his long fingers open in an invitation. "You give us the keys to his kingdom, and we give you the head of the man who ruined your life."

Behind him, Sunoo let out a low whistle. "Well, this took a turn. From hostage to business partner in less than twenty-four hours."

"Shut up, Sunoo," Riki said, though there was no real heat in it this time. His focus remained entirely on you, waiting to see if you would take his hand.

You looked at his open palm, then back up to his dark, lethal eyes. The monster who raised you had spent your entire life keeping you in the dark, treating you like a piece of property to be hidden away. But Riki was offering you a seat at the table. He was offering you a chance to fight back.

You reached out, your hand looking small against his as your fingers brushed against his skin. The moment your hand slid into his, Riki’s grip closed firmly around yours—a solid, unyielding pact sealed in the morning light.

"Deal," you said smoothly, your smile turning cold and dangerous. "Let's burn his empire to the ground."

Riki’s grip tightened on your hand for a beat before he let go, a dark satisfaction settling over his face. He stepped back, gesturing toward the large dining table at the edge of the living room.

"Sunghoon, get the blueprints of the city sectors. Jake, pull up the financial logs we intercepted last night," Riki commanded, his voice immediately shifting into the tone of a leader who meant business. The boys moved instantly, the playful atmosphere from earlier completely replaced by sharp, professional focus.

Sunghoon laid out a massive digital tablet on the glass table, flickering images of building layouts and secure warehouses illuminating the dark wood.

"If we're doing this, we start from the bottom up," Riki said, looking at you as you walked over to the table, still wrapped in his heavy leather jacket. "He has three main distribution hubs in the city. None of our contacts can get close to them without triggering an alarm. Which one is his favorite?"

You leaned over the table, your eyes scanning the map. Your fingers traced a path toward a secluded dock on the east side of the river.

"This one," you said, pointing to a non-descript warehouse labeled under a dummy corporation. "He always told me he was investing in shipping imports there. But every time he came back from 'inspecting the docks,' he smelled like heavy industrial grease and cigars. He only goes there when he's personally overseeing something high-value."

Riki leaned in next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The scent of his cologne wafted up again, a sharp contrast to the cold tactical data on the screen. He studied the point you marked, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"The docks," Riki murmured, his voice low. "That’s likely where he's keeping my sister. Or at least the records of where they moved her." He looked up, his face only inches from yours. "You're useful, princess."

"I told you," you replied, looking right back at him with a smirk. "Lose the attitude, and we make a great team."

Jake let out a stifled snort from across the table, quickly coughing to cover it up when Riki shot him a warning glare.

"Alright," Riki said, straightening up and tapping the screen to lock in the coordinates. "We move tonight. You're coming with us."

"Wait, she's coming with us?" Sunghoon asked, his eyebrows snapping together as he looked up from the screen. "Riki, it’s a live-fire zone. If things go sideways—"

"If things go sideways, she knows the layout better than any blueprint we have," Riki interrupted smoothly, his voice cutting off any further argument. He kept his eyes locked on you, analyzing your reaction. "Besides, she stays close to me. She’ll be fine."

The casual way he said she stays close to me sent a strange, sudden jolt through your chest. You covered it quickly, crossing your arms and tilting your head. "Don't worry about me, Sunghoon. I can handle myself. Just make sure your boss here keeps up his end of the bargain."

Riki let out a low, dark chuckle, stepping closer until the heat radiating from him completely enveloped you. "I always keep my word, princess. Now, let's get you prepared."

He led you down a side corridor to a heavily secured armory. The walls were lined with tactical gear, matte-black weapons, and rows of sleek tech. Riki walked over to a rack, pulling down a lightweight, bulletproof tactical vest and a pair of dark cargo pants. He tossed them onto a bench next to you, along with a small, sleek Glock.

"Put these on," he ordered, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms.

You picked up the vest, inspecting it before looking back at him with a raised eyebrow. "Are you going to stand there and watch, or do you actually have some of those manners we talked about?"

A faint, amused smirk tugged at his lips, though he didn't move right away. He took a slow step backward into the hallway, his eyes dropping down your frame one last time before he pulled the door shut. "You have ten minutes. Don't make me come back in there."

When the door clicked shut, you quickly changed out of your oversized campus clothes and into the tactical gear. The vest fit snugly, making you feel instantly grounded, dangerous, and ready. You strapped the holster to your thigh, checking the weight of the firearm just like you'd seen your father's guards do a thousand times.

When you stepped out into the hallway, Riki was leaning against the opposite wall, tossing a pocket knife casually in one hand. He stopped when he saw you. His gaze swept over you, starting from your boots, up your tightly fitted gear, to the defiant expression on your face.

For a second, his composure faltered again, his eyes darkening with something intense and entirely unreadable.

"Not bad," Riki murmured, his voice dropping into a low, rough register as he straightened up and closed the distance between you. He reached out, his long fingers brushing against your collarbone as he adjusted the strap of your tactical vest, pulling it just a bit tighter. His breath was warm against your cheek. "You actually look like one of us now."

"I told you," you whispered, looking right into his sharp eyes, your heart hammering against your ribs from the proximity. "I'm full of surprises."

"Good," Riki said, his smirk returning as his hand lingered on your shoulder for a split second before dropping away. "Because tonight, we're going to need all of them. Let's go."

The heavy, suffocating silence returned, but this time it felt twice as thick. The hum of the SUV’s engine was the only thing anchoring you to reality as the city skyline faded into the dark, jagged outline of the docks.

You couldn't handle it. The quiet always let the ghosts in.

"There's only six of you?"

The sudden question cut through the dark interior like glass. In the rearview mirror, Jake’s eyes closed tightly for a split second. Sunoo, who had been staring out the window, completely froze. Next to you, Riki tensed so violently his knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white against his weapon. He didn't look at you. He just stared out at the passing streetlights, his jaw tight enough to shatter.

"Yeah," Riki finally rasped. His voice sounded hollowed out, entirely stripped of the arrogant, dangerous confidence he'd carried all morning.

You hesitated, but the quiet was threatening to swallow you whole again. "I saw a picture in the foyer before we left. There were seven in it. Who's the seventh one?"

A sharp, ragged breath echoed from the front seat. Jake’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his hands shook.

"His name was Heeseung," Sunoo murmured, his voice cracking so badly he had to stop and swallow hard. He couldn't even bring himself to turn around. "He was our older brother. The one who actually looked out for us when everything else went to hell."

"It’s been three months," Riki whispered, his voice dropping into a low, devastating register. He finally turned his head, and the sheer, raw agony in his eyes hit you like a physical blow. The cold mafia boss vanished; in his place was a boy bleeding out from a wound that wouldn't heal.

"Your dad’s men ambushed us," Riki said, his words coming out slow and painful. "We were cornered. I made a reckless call... I thought I could outsmart them. I got trapped in the crossfire. I was a second away from taking a bullet to the chest."

Riki stopped, taking a shaky, uneven breath as he looked down at his own hands.

"Heeseung didn't even hesitate," Riki continued, his voice trembling with a dark, bitter fury. "He threw himself in front of me. He took three rounds to the torso so I could keep breathing. He died in my arms on that concrete floor, bleeding out while your father's guys laughed and retreated with our shipment."

The car was dead silent now, save for the faint, stifled sound of Sunoo wiping his eyes in the front seat. Riki leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes as a single, bitter tear slipped down his cheek, though his expression remained hard as stone.

"For ninety days, I’ve had to look in the mirror and know that the only reason I’m alive is because he’s in the ground," Riki whispered, opening his eyes to lock them onto yours, burning with a mix of profound grief and terrifying resolve. "Your father didn't just kill our leader. He made me live with the guilt of his death. Tonight, I’m giving that pain back to him."

"Is that why you're the leader now?"

Riki didn't answer immediately. He just stared out the window, the passing streetlights casting long, sharp shadows across his face. The silence in the car grew so heavy you could almost hear the weight of the unspoken words pressing down on everyone.

"I didn't want it," Riki said finally, his voice barely louder than the hum of the tires against the asphalt. He didn't look at you, but his jaw was wound so tight the muscle was practically twitching. "None of us wanted this. But when Heeseung died... everything fell apart. The guys were bleeding, the business was compromised, and your father was already moving in to take the rest of our territory."

He slowly turned his head back to look at you. The grief in his eyes hadn't disappeared, but a terrifying, icy layer of resolve had hardened over it.

"Heeseung spent his whole life protecting us," Riki whispered, leaning slightly closer so his words were meant for your ears alone. "When he died saving me, he left me with his jacket, his gun, and his crew. If I didn't step up, if I didn't take the heat, his sacrifice would have been for nothing. I became the leader because I’m the one who owes him a life."

From the front seat, Jake let out a low, rough breath. "He’s doing a good job," Jake muttered, his eyes fixed firmly on the dark road ahead. "Heeseung would be proud of him. We all are."

Riki swallowed hard, looking away from you and fixing his gaze back on his weapon. He didn't acknowledge Jake's words, but you could see the slight rise and fall of his shoulders as he took a stabilizing breath.

"We're five minutes out," Riki announced, his voice instantly snapping back into that cold, authoritative tone, burying the pain back down where it belonged. He looked at you one last time, his eyes searching yours. "When we hit those docks, you stay behind me. No exceptions. We're finishing this tonight."

You nodded silently, biting the inside of your cheek to hold back the prickle of tears threatening to blur your vision. You kept your eyes fixed on the dark floor of the SUV, wrapping Riki's heavy leather jacket a little tighter around yourself.

The name Heeseung was now permanently etched into your mind. He wasn't just a face in a photo anymore; he was a brother, a protector, a young man who had so much to live for, whose life was violently stolen away because of your father’s bottomless selfishness and greed. The weight of it settled heavily in your chest, a crushing mix of second-hand grief and a fierce, burning anger. Your father hadn't just destroyed your family—he was actively destroying others.

"Hey," a low voice murmured, breaking you out of your thoughts.

You looked up to find Riki watching you. The cold, unyielding mask of a mafia leader was still firmly in place, but as his eyes scanned your face, taking in the slight shine of tears you were desperately trying to hide, his expression softened just a fraction. He didn't say anything comforting—that wasn't who he was—but he reached over, his large, warm hand briefly gripping your shoulder, a grounding weight that told you he understood.

"Get ready," Riki said, his grip tightening for a split second before he pulled his hand away and racked the slide of his weapon with a sharp, lethal clack.

The SUV slowed to a crawl, the headlights cutting out as Jake pulled the vehicle into the deep, pitch-black shadows of an abandoned warehouse overlooking the east side docks. Outside, the fog was rolling in thick off the water, obscuring the towering shipping containers ahead.

"We're on site," Jake whispered, switching the comms on. "No mistakes tonight, boys."

The heavy iron doors of the SUV slid open with a faint, metallic hiss, and the freezing, salt-laced air of the docks immediately rushed in to fill the cabin. The fog was dense, rolling off the black water like smoke, swallowing the base of the towering shipping containers.

You followed Riki’s shadow. Every step felt heavy, the lightweight tactical vest pressing against your chest, matching the frantic, irregular rhythm of your heart. Ahead of you, the boys moved like ghosts. Sunghoon and Jake split off to the left, melting into the darkness of the crane towers, while Sunoo stayed low, checking the perimeter with his weapon drawn.

Riki didn't look back, but he kept his pace deliberately measured, ensuring you were right behind him as you navigated the maze of rusted metal and wooden crates.

As you neared Pier 4, the muffled sound of voices cut through the lapping of the waves. Riki held up a hand, and you instantly pressed your back against a cold shipping container, holding your breath.

Through the gap between two crates, the scene unfolded.

Under the harsh, flickering glare of a single halogen work light stood your father. He looked exactly as he always did—immaculate, wearing an expensive wool coat that entirely masked the monster underneath, a half-burned cigar clipped between his fingers. He was looking down at a map laid out on a wooden crate, flanked by six heavily armed guards.

And tied to a rusted iron pipe just a few feet away was a young girl. She couldn't have been older than sixteen, her face bruised, her dark hair matted with sweat. Riki's sister.

"We move the remaining cargo to the northern border by midnight," your father’s voice rang out, cold, clinical, and completely devoid of humanity. "And as for the boy, Riki... let him keep playing his little games. Once we have the docks fully locked down, I’m going to bleed his remaining crew dry. I want him to watch every single one of his pathetic friends die before I put a bullet in his head, just like I did with that idiot Heeseung."

Next to you, Riki went entirely rigid. A low, terrifying sound—halfway between a gasp and a growl—escaped his throat. The mention of Heeseung’s name was the final spark in a powder keg that had been building for three months.

"Now," Riki hissed into his comms.

The silence of the night was instantly shattered by a deafening, high-caliber crack. One of your father’s guards dropped instantly, a clean shot from Sunghoon’s sniper rifle taking him out.

"Ambush!" someone screamed.

Then, hell broke loose.

Gunfire erupted from all sides, the muzzle flashes illuminating the thick fog in jagged, violent bursts of orange light. The sound was overwhelming—the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of automatic weapons, the shattering of glass, the metallic ping of stray bullets ricocheting off the shipping containers.

Riki moved with a lethal, terrifying grace. He stepped out of cover, his weapon raised, firing with absolute, unyielding precision. Two guards rushed toward him; Riki dropped the first with a shot to the chest, dodging behind a stack of pallets as the second guard’s bullets tore through the wood, sending splinters flying into the air. Sunoo flanked from the right, taking the second guard down, but the air was thick with the smell of copper and sulfur.

It was messy. It was bloody. You watched as one of your father's men caught Jake in the shoulder; Jake stumbled back, swearing loudly as he fired back blindly, painting the concrete with dark crimson.

Your father didn't panic. He was a coward who let others die for him, and the moment the chaos started, he drew a heavy chrome revolver from his coat and grabbed Riki’s sister by the hair, using her as a human shield as he began backing away toward the edge of the pier.

"Riki!" you shouted over the deafening noise, pointing toward the water.

Riki’s eyes snapped to his sister. Blinded by fury and desperation, he broke cover, sprinting across the open concrete toward your father.

"Stop right there, you little bastard!" your father roared. With a brutal shove, he threw Riki’s sister onto the wet wood of the dock, freeing up his hand.

Riki raised his gun, but a sudden burst of gunfire from a hidden guard clipped his leg. Riki grunted, collapsing to one knee, his weapon slipping from his grip and clattering across the concrete, sliding just out of reach.

Your father smiled. It was that same, patronizing, hollow smile he used to give you across the dinner table before telling you everything was fine. He stepped forward, raising the chrome revolver, lining the barrel up directly between Riki’s eyes.

"You should have stayed in the dirt with your brother," your father sneered, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Time seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl. You looked at Riki, pinned to the ground, his eyes wide as he stared death in the face—the exact same death Heeseung had taken for him three months ago. You saw the exhaustion in Riki's shoulders, the phantom weight of the brother he couldn't save, the sheer, devastating unfairness of a world where monsters always won.

And suddenly, the fear inside you burned away, leaving nothing but a vast, icy void.

You didn't think. You didn't hesitate. You stepped out into the open, raising the sleek black Glock with both hands, your arms locked tight, just like you'd practiced in the mirror hours before.

The image of your mother's pale, lifeless face in the casket flashed before your eyes. The sound of Sunoo’s voice cracking when he spoke about Heeseung echoed in your ears. All the stolen futures, all the bleeding hearts, all the greed—it all condensed into the heavy iron weight of the trigger beneath your index finger.

"Hey!" you screamed, your voice tearing through the foggy night.

Your father’s head snapped toward you, his eyes widening in complete, genuine shock as he recognized his own daughter standing in tactical gear, a gun pointed directly at him. "What are you—"

A tear slipped down your cheek, hot and bitter, cutting through the dirt on your face.

This is for Mom, your mind whispered. This is for Heeseung.

You pulled the trigger.

A single, deafening bang echoed off the water.

The recoil shuddered up your arms, but your grip never wavered. The bullet tore through the air, clean and true, striking your father squarely in the center of his forehead.

His eyes rolled back, the shock freezing on his face forever. The chrome revolver slipped from his lifeless fingers, clattering loudly against the wood before he collapsed backward, tumbling over the edge of the pier and disappearing into the dark, icy depths of the black water with a heavy splash.

The silence that followed was absolute.

The remaining guards, seeing their leader dead, immediately threw down their weapons or fled into the dark. The gunfire died out, leaving only the sound of the lapping waves and the heavy, ragged breathing of the boys.

Your arms slowly dropped to your sides. The gun felt incredibly heavy now. The tears were free-flowing, hot and silent, washing over your face as the reality of what you had just done settled into your bones. You had killed the monster. But the ghosts were still there.

A pair of boots crunched on the gravel, approaching you slowly.

You didn't look up until a warm, trembling hand gently gripped your wrist, pulling your fingers away from the weapon. Riki stood in front of you, limping slightly, his face pale and smeared with soot. He didn't look at the water where your father had fallen. He just looked at you.

For the first time since you met him, the dangerous mafia leader completely vanished. His dark eyes were wide, soft, and filled with a profound, overwhelming reverence. He looked at you not as a hostage, not as an ally, but as the person who had just pulled him back from the edge of the grave.

Without a word, Riki reached out, his long arms wrapping firmly around your shoulders. He pulled you into his chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck, his grip so tight it almost hurt. You could feel the rapid, violent pounding of his heart against your ribs.

Wrapped in his warmth, surrounded by the remnants of the smoke and the sea, you finally let out a shaky, broken sob, your fingers tightly gripping the back of his tactical vest as you wept for the past, for the dead, and for the bloody, uncertain future you had just chosen.

The sharp, frantic sound of rubber soles slapping against wet wood suddenly cut through your tears.

"Riki!"

The small, broken voice fractured the heavy silence of the pier. Riki went rigid against you for a fraction of a second before his arms loosened, and he turned around just in time for a small whirlwind to throw itself directly into his torso.

His little sister sobbed violently, her face burying into his tactical vest, her small hands bunching into the fabric as if she were trying to crawl inside his skin just to feel safe again. Riki dropped heavily to his knees, his injured leg giving out entirely, but he didn't seem to care. He wrapped his arms around her, crushing her to his chest, his head dropping onto her shoulder as a ragged, trembling breath escaped his lips.

"I've got you," Riki choked out, his voice completely cracking, stripped of every ounce of the fierce leader he had been pretending to be. "I've got you, Sora. You're okay. You're safe."

You stood frozen a step back, the smoking Glock still heavy in your hand, watching the two of them. The fog swirled around their small, huddled figures on the concrete. For three months, this boy had carried the crushing guilt of Heeseung's death, surviving on nothing but the desperate, burning need to ensure he didn't lose his sister too. And now, the war was over.

Sunoo and Sunghoon limped over, Jake leaning heavily on Sunghoon’s good shoulder as they approached. None of them looked at the dark water where your father had vanished. Instead, their eyes drifted from the reunited siblings straight to you.

There was no judgment in their stares. No fear. Just a deep, silent understanding.

Sora’s quiet sobs began to quiet down, her small frame still shaking against Riki. Slowly, Riki lifted his head. His eyes, rimmed with red and fierce with an entirely new kind of emotion, found yours through the mist.

He didn't say thank you. He didn't have to. The profound, unyielding look in his eyes told you everything. He reached out one hand, keeping his sister securely tucked against his side with the other, and offered his palm to you once again.

Not as a captor. Not just as an ally. But as family.

The reality of what you had just done crashed over you like a tidal wave, heavy and suffocating. The gun slipped from your numb fingers, clattering loudly against the concrete, but the phantom weight of the trigger pull still burned in your palms.

"I-I killed him," you sobbed out, your voice small, trembling, and utterly broken. "I killed my dad."

The word dad tasted bitter, like poison on your tongue, but the biological truth of it anchored the horror deep in your chest. No matter what a monster he was, you had just taken a life. You had crossed a line you could never step back over.

Riki’s eyes snapped up from his sister. Seeing the sheer panic taking over your face, he didn't hesitate. He gave Sora a soft, reassuring squeeze, whispering, "Stay with Sunoo for a second, okay?"

Sora nodded quickly, wiping her eyes as Sunoo stepped forward, gently pulling her into a protective embrace.

Riki pushed himself up from the ground, ignoring the sharp flare of pain in his injured leg, and closed the distance between you in two strides. He didn't let you spiral. Before you could look down at your hands, his large, warm palms cupped your face, forcing you to look up at him. His thumbs swept across your cheekbones, brushing away the hot, fast-falling tears.

"Look at me," Riki commanded, his voice raw but fiercely steady, cutting through the ringing in your ears. "Look at me, princess."

You blinked through the blur, locking onto his intense, dark eyes.

"You didn't just kill a father," Riki said, his words low and heavy with absolute conviction. "You ended a monster. You saved my sister. You saved me. He was going to put a bullet in my head, and you stopped him." He leaned down slightly, his forehead resting gently against yours, his breath warm against your cold skin. "He took your mother, and he took Heeseung. Tonight, you took back your freedom."

Behind him, Jay stepped closer, his hand gripping his bleeding shoulder but his expression softer than you'd ever seen it. "He's right," Jay muttered quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "You did what had to be done. You're one of us now. We don't leave our own behind."

Riki slid his hands down from your face, wrapping his arms securely around your waist and pulling you tight against his chest again, shielding you from the blood-soaked pier and the dark, empty water.

"It's over," Riki whispered into your hair, his grip unyielding, offering you the one thing your father never could: a safe place to fall apart. "I've got you. We've got you. Let's go home."

The silence of the estate was different now. It wasn't the dangerous, tense quiet of a hostage situation, nor was it the heavy, mourning silence that had followed Heeseung’s death. It was a gentle, protective quiet, wrapping around the upstairs bedroom they had given you.

True to his word, Riki had told the boys to fix up the space. They had brought in plush blankets, warm lighting, and things in your favorite colors, trying to create a sanctuary. But no amount of soft fabric could shield you from what was happening inside your own mind.

You didn't leave the room for three days.

Every time you closed your eyes, you were back on that wet, foggy pier. You heard the deafening crack of the Glock echoing off the water. You felt the sharp, violent recoil shuddering up your arms. But worst of all, you kept seeing the life violently draining from your father's eyes—the exact moment his pupils dilated, his arrogant smirk froze, and his body tumbled backward into the pitch-black abyss.

It was destroying you. You couldn't eat. You barely slept, waking up drenched in cold sweat, the phantom smell of gunpowder clogging your throat. You had wanted revenge, you had wanted justice for your mother, but no one prepares you for the hollow, rotting guilt that comes with actually pulling the trigger.

On the fourth evening, a soft, hesitant knock sounded at your door.

Before you could answer, the door creaked open a few inches. Riki stood in the hallway, carrying a tray with a bowl of warm soup and a glass of water. His leg was heavily bandaged under his dark sweatpants, making him lean slightly against the doorframe.

He didn't have his usual cold mask on. He looked tired, his dark hair messy, his eyes searching yours with a quiet, profound worry.

"I brought you something to eat," he said softly, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. He stepped inside, setting the tray down on the nightstand before turning to look at you, curled tightly under the blankets. He didn't force you to sit up. Instead, he carefully sat on the very edge of the mattress, leaving a respectful distance between you.

He looked down at your pale face, taking in the dark circles under your eyes.

"The first time is the hardest," Riki murmured, his voice laced with a raw, heavy understanding. He stared at his own hands, his knuckles still scraped from the fight. "The mind doesn't know how to process taking a life, even when it's a monster who deserved it. I still see the face of the first man I killed. He haunts me every time it gets dark."

He looked back up, his intense gaze locking onto yours, filled with a gentle sincerity you hadn't known he was capable of.

"But you aren't alone in the dark anymore," he whispered, reaching out to gently trace the edge of the blanket near your shoulder. "You carried a heavy burden for your mom, and you carried one for Heeseung. Let us help you carry this one."

A broken, watery smile finally cracked through your exhaustion, the faint glimmer of your old spirit cutting through the heavy grief in the room.

"See," you whispered, your voice raspy from days of silence and crying. "When you fix your attitude, you actually have potential."

Riki froze for a fraction of a second, completely caught off guard. Then, the tense line of his shoulders dropped, and a low, genuine chuckle escaped his lips—the first real laugh you’d heard from him since you were brought here. It was a beautiful, rough sound that seemed to chase away some of the oppressive shadows clinging to the corners of the bedroom.

"Even when you're falling apart, you're still a brat," he murmured, a fond, amused glint returning to his dark eyes.

He reached over and grabbed the glass of water from the tray, handing it to you. "Drink. You look like a ghost, princess. And I didn't save you from your father just to let you starve to death in my house."

You sat up slowly, wrapping the plush blanket around your shoulders like a shield as you took the glass. The water cooled your parched throat, grounding you in the present moment. The memory of the pier was still there, a heavy ache in your chest, but looking at Riki sitting on the edge of your bed, the crushing weight of the guilt didn't feel entirely unbearable anymore.

"The guys are worried about you," Riki said softly, watching you pull the bowl of soup closer. "Sunoo tried to bake something yesterday to cheer you up. It burnt, and Sunghoon almost threw him out the window, but... the thought was there."

You let out a small, breathless laugh, the image easing the tight knot in your stomach.

you watched as he got up to leave, you took his wrist to stop him "thank you" you muttered "I wouldn't have been able to do this for my mom if it weren't for you"

Riki stopped in his tracks, his back pausing for a beat before he slowly turned around. Your fingers were still wrapped around his wrist, feeling the steady, rhythmic pulse beneath his skin.

He looked down at your hand, then up to your eyes. The moonlight filtered through the window, catching the soft, sincere curve of your lips. The fierce, untouchable mafia leader was entirely gone, replaced by a young man who looked deeply moved by your words.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his hand over, sliding his long fingers between yours to give your hand a firm, grounding squeeze.

"You did the hard part," Riki murmured, his voice dropping into that low, velvet register that always made your heart skip a beat. "We just gave you the map. You had the courage to finish it."

He stepped a fraction closer to the bed, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that burned away the remaining chills in the room.

"Your mother got her justice tonight," he whispered, his thumb gently tracing the back of your hand. "And Heeseung got his peace. Don't ever forget that."

He gave your hand one last, lingering squeeze before gently letting go. He walked toward the door, but just before stepping out into the hallway, he paused, looking back over his shoulder with a faint, genuine smile—the kind he usually hid from the world.

"Eat the soup before it gets cold, princess," he said softly.

With a quiet click, the door shut, leaving you alone in the warm room. But for the first time in days, the silence didn't feel suffocating. The ghosts of the pier were still there, but as you took a warm spoonful of soup, you knew you had a pack of wolves downstairs ready to help you fight them off.

The cool water of the pool lapped gently against your ankles, a soothing contrast to the warm summer air. You leaned back on your hands, staring up at the sprawling canopy of stars blanketing the night sky. For the first time in what felt like forever, the flashing imagery of the pier was quieted, replaced by the vast, peaceful emptiness of the universe.

You were so lost in the silver light that you didn't even hear the soft padding of footsteps across the concrete.

"The stars are pretty today, aren't they?"

You blinked, snapping out of your daze to find Sora sitting right next to you on the edge of the pool. Her small legs dangled over the water, splashing slightly. She looked so much smaller out here, stripped of the terrifying shadows of the docks, wearing an oversized hoodie that probably belonged to Riki.

Before you could answer, she reached over and slid her small hand into yours, squeezing it tight. She didn't look at you right away; she just kept her eyes fixed on the sky, a soft, resilient smile on her face.

"You saved my brother's life," she said softly, her voice carrying a weight that no sixteen-year-old should ever have to understand. "Heck, you saved mine. Thank you."

The sincerity in her voice caught in your throat. You looked down at your intertwined hands. You had spent the last few days drowning in the guilt of what you had taken, but looking at Sora—whole, safe, and breathing right next to you—the reality of what you had saved finally began to break through the armor of your grief.

"You don't have to thank me, Sora," you murmured, your voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. You squeezed her hand back. "I... I just did what I had to do."

"No, you did what nobody else could," she corrected gently, finally turning her head to look at you. Her eyes looked exactly like Riki's, but without the sharp, dangerous edge. They were just warm. "Riki pretends he’s made of stone because he thinks he has to be Heeseung now. But he’s not. He was going to let himself die on that pier if it meant keeping me safe. If it weren't for you, I’d be alone."

She leaned her head against your shoulder, a gesture of pure, unprompted trust that made your heart swell.

"You gave me my brother back," Sora whispered against your sleeve. "And you gave this house a chance to actually be a home again. I think... I think Heeseung sent you to us."

A single, quiet tear slipped down your cheek, but this time, it didn't feel bitter. As the two of you sat there with your feet in the water under the watch of a thousand stars, the cold, hollow void inside you finally started to fill with something new: a sense of belonging.

"My brother's really nice, actually," she continued, her voice drifting like the ripples in the water beneath your feet. "He just finds it difficult to love someone, because being in such a dangerous world means you can't trust anyone."

She pulled her head back from your shoulder, turning to look at you fully. The silver starlight caught the genuine, knowing look in her eyes—an expression that seemed far too wise for her age.

"You're the first girl I've seen him go soft for," Sora said, her smile widening just a fraction, a teasing but incredibly sweet edge to her tone. "And in such a short time, too."

A sudden, intense warmth flooded your cheeks, completely unrelated to the summer air. You looked away, staring down at where your feet disturbed the reflection of the stars in the pool. Go soft? Riki? The boy who had threatened you in an alley, who masked his grief in cold authority, who commanded a room with a single glance?

But then you remembered the way he had adjusted your tactical vest, the lingering touch of his hand on your shoulder, and the raw, unyielding way he had held your face in his hands just days ago, forcing the panic out of your mind.

"I don't know about that," you managed to mutter, a small, breathless laugh escaping your lips. "He still calls me a brat."

"Because he doesn't know what else to do with himself," Sora countered instantly with a soft giggle. She squeezed your hand one last time before pulling her feet out of the water, shaking the droplets off. "He’s been a shield for everyone else for three months. With you... I think he finally feels like he can just be Riki."

She stood up, smoothing down her oversized hoodie. "Don't stay out here too long, okay? The boys are making a terrible mess of dinner downstairs, and Riki’s already yelled at Sunghoon twice for burning the garlic bread."

With a playful wave, she padded back across the concrete, leaving you alone with the stars once more. You looked back up at the sky, your fingers touching your lips where a real, genuine smile was finally forming. The guilt of the past few days hadn't vanished completely, but for the first time, the future ahead of you didn't look dark. It looked bright, fierce, and undeniably intertwined with a certain young leader who was waiting for you downstairs.

The heavy glass door slid shut behind you, cutting off the cool night air and plunging you instantly into a chaotic wave of warmth, laughter, and the rich scent of burning garlic.

It was exactly the disaster Sora had promised.

Over by the island, Jungwon and Jay were completely covered in white dust, playfully tossing fistfuls of flour at each other while laughing so hard Jungwon was practically doubled over. Sunoo was aggressively tapping his phone screen, muttering about recipes, while Jake stood entirely frozen in the center of the kitchen, looking like a confused golden retriever caught in a crossfire. Near the oven, Sunghoon was gesturing wildly with a spatula, passionately mansplaining to Riki that he was following the instructions perfectly—despite the faint trail of black smoke curling out of the toaster oven.

But the moment your feet crossed the threshold, the noise faded into a dull, distant hum.

The frantic clatter of pans and the boys' shouting seemed to drift away as your eyes locked onto Riki. It felt as if a sudden, heavy weight had shifted the room, slowing everything down into a breathtaking, cinematic crawl.

You watched him. He had his dark sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the sharp lines of his forearms. A faint smudge of flour was dusted across his jawline, and his brow was furrowed in sheer, exasperated stress as he rubbed the bridge of his nose at Sunghoon's antics. He looked entirely human. Not the untouchable mob boss who ruled the city’s underground, and not the grieving boy bleeding out on a foggy pier. Just Riki.

The overhead kitchen lights caught the sharp angles of his face, casting a soft, golden glow around him. In that split second, as you watched the subtle rise and fall of his chest, a strange, profound quiet settled over your entire soul. The violent, crashing images of your father, the blood, and the smoking gun that had been torturing your mind for days suddenly withered away into nothingness.

Maybe it was love. Maybe it was the sudden, shattering realization of what you had saved. Or maybe it was just the simple fact that in a world full of monsters and ghosts, he was the only thing that made you feel alive. Whatever it was, the truth struck you with the force of a physical blow: you didn't ever want to leave his side.

As if feeling the weight of your gaze, Riki abruptly stopped listening to Sunghoon. His head turned, his dark, intense eyes cutting through the chaotic kitchen until they landed squarely on you standing by the door.

The exasperated, stressed look on his face instantly vanished. The corners of his lips twitched upward into that quiet, private smirk meant only for you, and the intense warmth in his eyes made your heart do a violent, erratic flip.

"Look who finally decided to join the living," Riki murmured, his voice cutting through the noise of the room effortlessly as he leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. "Come here, princess. Help me before Sunghoon burns the entire estate down."

That single word hung in the air between you, slicing right through the kitchen's chaotic noise. Your heart skipped a violent, erratic beat, a sudden jolt of electricity waking up your chest for the first time all day.

You tried to keep your face completely neutral, but the sudden heat rushing to your cheeks gave you away instantly.

"I'm not a princess," you muttered, though your voice lacked any real bite as you finally crossed the room, stepping into the warm light of the kitchen.

"Could've fooled me," Riki teased, his voice dropping into a lower, private register as you came to a stop beside him. He didn't move away. In fact, he leaned just a fraction closer, his shoulder brushing against yours—a small, grounding touch that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. "You spent four days hiding out upstairs like royalty."

"Hey! Don't let her distract you, Riki!" Sunghoon interrupted, completely oblivious to the shift in the air as he aggressively waved his spatula again. "I am telling you, the garlic bread is supposed to have a rustic char. It's French."

"It's burnt, Sunghoon," Riki sighed, though he didn't take his eyes off you. The sharp, guarded look he usually wore was completely gone, replaced by a soft, relaxed ease that made him look younger, happier.

Jungwon suddenly let out a loud laugh as a stray handful of flour from Jay caught Jake square in the face. Jake blinked through the white dust, looking completely betrayed, which only made Sunoo join in on the giggling.

Standing there in the middle of the mess, surrounded by the loud, ridiculous warmth of the boys, you felt the last lingering chill of the docks finally melt away. You glanced up at Riki, catching the way his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners as he watched his friends.

You didn't know what the future held, or how long it would take for the nightmares to stop completely. But looking at him, you knew you were exactly where you belonged.

The next few months were a blur of golden light and quiet healing. The boys took you far away from the city, traveling down the coastline to an isolated villa where the air smelled of salt and pine, not smoke and gunpowder. There were long, lazy afternoons by the water, midnight runs for junk food with Jake and Sunoo, and quiet mornings on the porch where Jungwon and Jay would argue over who made the better coffee.

For the first time in your life, you breathed. And through it all, there was Riki.

He was always just there—a steady, silent shadow at your perimeter. It was the way he’d silently slide his jacket over your shoulders when the ocean breeze picked up, or how his hand would instinctively find the small of your back to guide you through crowded markets. You didn't talk about the pier. You didn't have to. The way his dark eyes followed you around every room whispered everything his lips wouldn't. By the time the autumn leaves started to fall, you didn’t have to guess anymore: you were deeply, irrevocably in love with him.

But peace in their world is always borrowed time.

Eventually, the burner phones started ringing again. The calm, domestic bubble shattered the morning Jay walked into the kitchen, his expression deadpan as he dropped a thick manila folder onto the table. The syndicate your father had left behind was fracturing, and new enemies were rising to claim the vacuum. The missions were starting up again.

The atmosphere in the estate shifted overnight. The laughter died down, replaced by the clean, rhythmic sound of weapons being stripped and reassembled.

Watching Riki slide back into his tailored black suits and strap a holster to his shoulder broke something inside you. The soft, relaxed boy who had laughed with you under the stars was locked away again, replaced by the cold, unyielding leader who had to carry the lives of six people on his back.

One evening, you found him in the study, illuminated only by the green glow of a desk lamp as he went over blueprints for a high-risk warehouse raid scheduled for the morning.

The urge to tell him rose up in your throat so violently it almost choked you. You wanted to cross the room, wrap your arms around his neck, and bury your face in his chest. You wanted to tell him that you loved him, that he didn't have to be stone, that you needed him to come back alive because your heart was entirely in his hands.

But you froze at the edge of the desk.

The brutal reality of their world crashed back over you. In a life where a single second of distraction meant a bullet to the brain, love wasn't a sanctuary—it was a liability. If you told him now, would he hesitate on the battlefield? Would he make a reckless call to protect you instead of his crew, just like he had three months ago before Heeseung saved him?

"You're staring," Riki murmured, not lifting his eyes from the map. He circled a perimeter point with a red marker, his jaw tight. "If you're here to tell me I'm stressing out, save your breath, princess."

You forced a small, hollow laugh, swallowing down the confession that tasted like lead in your mouth.

"Just making sure you aren't planning on burning anything down like Sunghoon's garlic bread," you whispered, keeping your voice light despite the ache in your chest.

Riki paused, his pen hovering over the paper. He slowly raised his head, his dark, piercing eyes locking onto yours. For a fleeting second, the cold mask cracked, and you saw the profound, exhausted longing hiding underneath. He looked like he wanted to say something—like he could read the unspoken words hanging heavily in the space between you.

But he just shook his head, a ghost of a smirk appearing on his face. "Go to sleep. It’s going to be a long night."

"how am i supposed to sleep if you're on my mind all the time?" you say suddenly, making him freeze

The words left your lips before your brain could stop them. They hung in the heavy, shadowed air of the study, loud and undeniable.

Riki froze. The red marker in his hand stopped a millimeter above the blueprint, his entire body locking up as if he had just been hit by a sniper’s laser. The quiet in the room became so absolute you could hear the frantic, uneven thud of your own pulse.

For three long seconds, he didn't move. He didn't breathe.

Then, slowly, he set the marker down. He didn't look up at you right away. He kept his eyes on the map, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a deep, shaky breath that seemed to tear through his chest. When he finally lifted his head, the cold, calculating mafia leader was completely shattered. His dark eyes were wide, burning with a mixture of raw shock, intense longing, and a profound, terrifying vulnerability.

"What did you just say?" he whispered, his voice dangerously low, rough around the edges.

You swallowed hard, your knuckles turning white as you gripped the edge of the doorframe. The fear of his world was still screaming at you to run, to take it back, to laugh it off as a joke. But looking at the sheer intensity in his gaze, you knew you couldn't lie to him anymore. Not after everything.

"You heard me," you said, your voice trembling but resolute. You stepped back into the room, closing the door behind you with a soft, definitive click. "You tell me to go to sleep like it's that easy. But every time I close my eyes, I'm worried about tomorrow. I'm worried about you. How am I supposed to sleep when you're all I think about, Riki?"

Riki pushed himself up from the desk so fast his chair rolled backward, slamming against the bookshelf. In three long, predatory strides, he crossed the room, completely erasing the distance between you.

Before you could even gasp, his large, warm hands clamped onto your waist, his grip fierce and desperate as he pressed you back against the closed door. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips.

"Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" Riki growled softly, his voice thick with a dark, suffocating emotion. His dark eyes searched yours, frantic and wild. "I have spent months trying to keep my distance. I have spent every single night reminding myself that I'm dangerous, that my life is a curse, and that the best thing I can do for you is keep you out of it."

He leaned closer, his forehead dropping heavily against yours, his grip on your waist tightening until it almost hurt—but you didn't care. You could feel the violent, chaotic hammering of his heart against your chest.

"But I can't do it anymore," he whispered, a broken, breathless confession spilling into the space between your lips. "You think you're the only one? I sit at that desk for hours staring at these maps, and all I see is your face. I go into these fights, and the only target I care about is making it back to this house alive because you're in it."

He pulled back just enough to look you dead in the eye, his thumbs digging into your hips with an overwhelming, possessive reverence.

"If you tell me this now," Riki whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifyingly beautiful certainty, "I am never letting you go. Dangerous or not, you're mine. Do you understand?"

"I've been yours since I decided to take my dad's life just to save yours," you whisper.

The words leave your lips in a breathless rush, and for a fraction of a second, the entire universe seems to grind to a halt. Riki goes utterly rigid. The cold, calculating composure he wears like armor shatters into pieces, leaving his dark eyes wide, frantic, and completely undone. The sheer weight of what you’ve confessed—the raw, bleeding truth of it—hangs heavily in the space between you.

Then, a low, rough growl escapes his throat, and the fuse is lit.

Riki doesn’t hesitate. He closes the final fraction of an inch between you, his large hands clamping onto your waist with a fierce, possessive grip. Before you can even gasp, he lifts you effortlessly, pressing your back firmly against the heavy wood of the study door. Your legs instinctively wrap around his hips to stay anchored, the sudden friction sending a sharp jolt of electricity straight down your spine.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he mutters, his voice a gravelly, breathless whisper against your skin.

His lips travel up your jawline, trailing a path of pure fire until they find yours. This time, the kiss isn't just a promise—it’s an all-consuming demand. It is deep, heavy, and thick with months of starved, suffocating desire. His tongue parts your lips with a slow, agonizing precision, tasting you completely, destroying any remaining thoughts of the dangerous world outside this room.

You gasp into his mouth, your fingers tangling desperately in his dark hair, pulling him closer until there isn't a single millimeter of air left between your chests. You can feel the hard, rigid muscles of his torso pressing against you, his intense heat seeping right through your clothes.

Riki groans, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he slides one hand down your thigh. His long, warm fingers grip your skin, shifting you slightly higher against the door, anchoring you to him. Every touch is deliberate, heavy with a raw, unspoken hunger that makes your head spin. He kisses you harder, as if he’s trying to pour his entire soul into you, replacing every nightmare you've ever had with the feeling of his mouth on yours.

Slowly, without breaking the kiss, his hand migrates from your thigh up to the hem of your shirt, his calloused palms slipping underneath to find your bare skin. The contrast of his burning, rough hands against your soft waist makes your back arch against the door, a quiet whimpering sigh escaping your throat. He drinks the sound in greedily, his thumb tracing the curve of your ribs, memorizing the frantic, erratic beat of your heart beneath his palm.

He pulls back just an inch, his lips swollen and his breath coming in ragged hitches against yours. His dark eyes sweep over your flushed face, his gaze dripping with a fierce, heavy intensity. "I'm going to make sure you forget every single thing in this world but me."

He doesn't wait for your answer. He eases you down just enough to let your feet touch the floor, but before you can lose the warmth of his body, he takes your hand, his fingers locking tightly with yours. He guides you out of the shadows of the study and toward his bedroom, his gaze never leaving yours, promising a night where the only thing that matters is the two of you.

The heavy door to his bedroom clicks shut, and the rest of the world instantly ceases to exist.

Riki doesn’t waste another second. He presses you back against the wood, his body crowding over yours with a desperate, heavy heat that leaves you completely breathless. The moonlight filters through the sheer curtains, painting the room in silver shadows and illuminating the raw, unbridled desire burning in his eyes.

"You're mine," he growls softly against your lips, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that shudders straight through you. "Say it."

"I'm yours," you breathe out, the confession melting into a gasp as his mouth comes down on yours again.

This time, the kiss is intoxicatingly deep, thick with a possessive rhythm that makes your knees go weak. His hands are everywhere—sliding up your waist, tangling into your hair, gripping your hips to pull you impossibly closer until you can feel the hard, unyielding line of his thighs pressing against yours. The heat between you builds rapidly, heavy and undeniable.

Slowly, his calloused hands find the hem of your shirt, slipping underneath the fabric to map the bare skin of your waist. You shiver as his rough palms slide upward, his thumbs tracing the curve of your ribs and brushing against the soft skin just beneath your bra. A soft, needy whimper escapes your throat, and Riki groans into your mouth at the sound, the last vestige of his restraint snapping.

He breaks the kiss, his breath ragged and hot as his lips trail down your jawline, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He sucks gently at the sensitive skin just above your collarbone, marking you, making you arch into him as your fingers grip the fabric of his shirt to stay grounded.

"Riki..." your voice is a breathless plea, your head tilting back against the door as his hands slide lower, pulling your hips flush against his.

He responds by hooking his hands under the back of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, anchoring yourself to his heat as he carries you across the room, never breaking the searing contact of his lips against your skin. When your back hits the plush mattress, he follows you down, his heavy frame pinning you into the soft sheets, shadowing you completely.

Hovering over you, Riki slides his hands to the hem of your shirt again, pulling it up and over your head in one fluid motion, leaving you in just your underwear beneath his dark, burning gaze. His eyes darken significantly as he takes you in, his chest rising and falling heavily.

He reaches down, his fingers unbuttoning his own shirt and discarding it, exposing the lean, muscled lines of his torso. When he settles back down between your thighs, the friction of his bare skin against yours sends a violent rush of heat straight to your core.

"Every nightmare you've had," Riki whispers, his voice dropping into a dangerously soft, velvety register as his fingers slide down to your hips, his thumbs dipping beneath the waistband of your underwear with a slow, agonizing promise. "Let me take them away. Tonight, there is only this."

He leans down, capturing your lips again, his body pressing heavily, intimately into yours as he drags you under a wave of pure, exquisite sensation that makes everything else fade to black.

The soft, rhythmic hiss of the shower running against the tile is what finally wakes you.

Sunlight filters through the heavy curtains, casting a warm, golden glow across the messy bedsheets. As you shift to sit up, a subtle, deep ache blossoms through your lower back and thighs—a sweet, heavy reminder of exactly how thoroughly Riki kept his promise last night. A small smile tugs at your lips as you pull his discarded button-down shirt off the floor, slipping it over your shoulders. It hangs halfway down your thighs, smelling purely of him—rich cedar, rain, and a lingering trace of warmth.

Your bare feet pad quietly across the cold hardwood toward the bathroom. Steam pours out of the cracked door, carrying the scent of his cologne.

Pushing the door open, you find the glass shower stall completely fogged up. Through the blurred glass, you can see the sharp, muscular silhouette of his back under the cascading water. Without a word, you slide the glass door open, stepping inside the spacious stall. The sudden wave of hot water and steam envelops you instantly.

Riki turns around, pushing his wet, dark hair back from his forehead. Water droplets track down the sharp lines of his face, chest, and the lean muscles of his stomach.

The moment his dark eyes land on you—wearing nothing but his oversized shirt, your skin still flushed from sleep—the usual cold, guarded wall he keeps up for the world vanishes completely. A soft, breathtakingly genuine smile breaks across his face, lighting up his eyes in a way very few people ever get to see.

"Look who finally woke up," he murmurs, his voice deep and raspy from the morning.

Before you can answer, he reaches out, his large, wet hand wrapping gently around your waist to pull you directly into his space under the warm spray. The soaked fabric of his shirt clings instantly to your skin, making you gasp softly against his chest. He cradles the back of your head, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your wet lips, tasting of clean water and mint.

"How are you feeling?" he whispers against your mouth, his thumb gently caressing your hip, his gaze dropping to notice the faint, dark marks he left on your skin the night before. "Did I break you, princess?"

"Shut up" you say, lifting your hand to smack him

Riki lets out a low, rough laugh, the sound vibrating deeply against your chest as he catches your wrist mid-air. He doesn't pull away; instead, he wraps his long fingers gently around your hand, bringing it up to his lips to press a soft kiss right against your knuckles.

"Make me," he murmurs, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with a playful, dangerous spark that makes your stomach do a familiar, violent flip.

You don't give him the satisfaction of a witty comeback. Instead, you hook your fingers into his wet hair, pull his head down, and kiss him.

The sound of his teasing laugh is instantly swallowed into your mouth. Riki goes entirely rigid for a fraction of a second, caught completely off guard by your sudden boldness, before a low, deep groan rumbles in his chest. His restraint shatters all over again.

His large, wet hands slam against the tile on either side of your head, pinning you against the wall as he takes control of the kiss, deepening it with a fierce, possessive hunger. The hot shower water cascades over both of you, completely soaking the oversized shirt you’re wearing until it clings to every curve like a second skin, but neither of you cares.

You arch your back against the warm tile, your fingers tangling desperately in his dark hair as you drink him in. His mouth is hot and demanding, tasting of clean water and a desperate, intoxicating devotion.

Slowly, Riki breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, his forehead resting heavily against yours. His breath comes in ragged hitches, his eyes burning with a dark, intense heat as he looks down at your flushed face and swollen lips.

"God, princess," he whispers, his voice rough and breathless against your skin as his hands slide down the wall to grip your waist, pulling your hips flush against his bare, burning skin. "You really don't know how to play nice, do you?"

"I assumed thats what you like about me hm?"

A slow, wicked smirk pulls at the corner of Riki's lips, his dark eyes darkening until they look almost black beneath the wet strands of hair clinging to his forehead.

"Smart mouth," he growls softly, the vibration traveling straight through his chest into yours.

He doesn't deny it. Instead, he slides his large, calloused hands down from your waist, his palms tracing the smooth curve of your hips before hooking firmly under the back of your thighs. With a single, effortless lift, he hoists you up against the wet tile wall. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, anchoring you to him as the soaked fabric of his shirt bunches up between your bodies, leaving your bare skin pressing directly against his burning heat.

You let out a breathless gasp, your hands flying to his slick shoulders to stabilize yourself as he crowds impossibly closer, pinning you securely.

"I like everything about you," Riki whispers, his voice dangerously low, rough with an intensity that makes your head spin. His thumb strokes the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, sending a violent rush of electricity straight to your core. "Especially when you think you're in control."

He leans down, his lips brushing against yours in a maddeningly slow tease, his breath hot against your mouth.

"But let me remind you who you belong to," he murmurs against your lips before burying his face in your neck, his teeth gently nipping the sensitive skin just below your ear. A soft, helpless whine escapes your throat, and Riki drinks it in greedily, his grip tightening on your thighs as he deepens the kiss, thoroughly erasing the rest of the world once again.

By the time you and Riki finally head downstairs, the heavy, high-stakes tension of the upcoming mission has completely settled over the kitchen. But the second your feet hit the bottom step, the atmosphere shifts into something much more familiar.

The boys are scattered around the space, looking entirely exhausted. Sunoo is nursing a mug of coffee like his life depends on it, Sunghoon is aggressively rubbing his temples over a map, and Jay is quietly cleaning a blade at the island.

Jungwon is the first to look up. His eyes dart from you—wearing one of Riki's clean, oversized hoodies—to Riki, who looks remarkably relaxed, a faint, rare trace of a smirk still lingering on his lips.

"The lovebirds finally decided to make it down?" Jungwon says, a knowing, amused glint in his eyes as he takes a slow sip from his mug.

"Shut up, Jungwon," Riki mutters, though there's absolutely no weight behind it. He instinctively slides a heavy arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side as if declaring his territory to the entire room.

Across the table, Jake suddenly drops his head flat onto the wood with a dramatic, echoing thud.

"How the fuck did the youngest get a girlfriend before we did?" Jake whines into the table, his voice muffled and full of pure, unadulterated betrayal. "I'm older. I'm nicer. I don't threaten people for a living! It's statistically incorrect."

"Because you act like a golden retriever, Jake," Sunghoon chimes in without looking up from his blueprints, a dry smirk playing on his lips. "Women don't want a puppy, they want someone who can actually carry the groceries without getting distracted by a squirrel."

"Hey! I am incredibly focused!" Jake snaps, lifting his head to glare at Sunghoon, though a stray piece of hair sticking straight up ruins the effect entirely.

Riki just lets out a low, quiet chuckle, his grip tightening protectively around your hip. The warmth of his body beside you is a solid, grounding anchor, and despite the heavy mission looming over them, the ridiculous, loud bickering of the boys makes the estate feel exactly like what it has become.

Home.

Jake pauses, his dramatic pout freezing on his face as he actually processes your advice. He sits up straight, running a hand through his messy hair, his eyes widening as if you’ve just handed him the secret blueprints to the universe.

"Mysterious..." Jake echoes, his voice dropping an octave as he tries to narrow his eyes in what he clearly thinks is a smoldering, enigmatic look. "Like... 'I have secrets, but I'll only tell you if you survive the night' mysterious?"

"You look like you're having an allergic reaction, Jake," Sunoo chimes in from behind his coffee mug, not even blinking.

The entire kitchen erupts into chuckles, and you can't help but laugh against Riki’s chest. Even Jay looks up from his blade, a rare, amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Don't encourage him, princess," Riki murmurs over your head. His voice is a low, rumbling purr, and you feel his arm tighten around your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer. He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear so only you can hear him. "The last thing we need is Jake trying to corner a girl at a bar looking like he forgot his own name."

You stifle another laugh, nudging Riki playfully with your elbow, but he just traps your hand in his, his long fingers locking securely with yours.

"Hey, I could be mysterious!" Jake defends himself, pointing a finger at Riki. "Just because you have the whole 'brooding, silent assassin' thing down naturally doesn't mean I can't adapt. Watch me."

Jake grabs a piece of toast, takes a bite while staring intensely at a blank spot on the wall, and tries to slowly back out of the kitchen. Except he immediately stumbles over a stray chair legs, nearly dropping his food.

"Very mysterious," Jungwon sighs, shaking his head and sliding a fresh plate of breakfast toward you and Riki. "Sit down and eat before Sunghoon loses his patience."

The entire kitchen drops into a dead, ringing silence as there's a knock on the door. The easy laughter evaporates instantly, replaced by the rigid, hyper-vigilant instincts of seven trained killers.

Jay’s hand subtly slides over his blade, concealing it beneath a dish towel. Jungwon gently nudges you behind his shoulder, while Riki’s grip on your waist tightens to a vice-like hold, his body shifting seamlessly to shield yours from the line of sight.

Jake doesn't hesitate. His playful golden-retriever energy vanishes, replaced by a cold, cautious gravity as he glides silently toward the grand front foyer. The rest of the boys follow in a loose, coordinated sweep, weapons concealed but ready, keeping you safely in the center of the perimeter.

Jake reaches the massive oak door. He rests his hand on the handle, takes a breath, and quietly pulls it open.

Standing on the porch isn't a hitman or a rival syndicate enforcer.

It’s a girl.

She's wearing a slightly oversized denim jacket, her hair a bit messy from the coastal breeze, and she looks thoroughly intimidated by the sheer size of the estate.

"Um... does a Jake Sim live here?" she asks, her voice a little breathless as she holds up a small, plastic rectangle.

It's Jake's driver's license. He must have dropped it at the local convenience store during one of his midnight junk-food runs.

The entire universe seems to laugh at the timing. Jake stares at her, his jaw slightly slack. The lethal mafia soldier who could take down three men in a dark alley completely evaporates. His brain shorts out, all his social skills flying right out the window as he looks from his ID to her face, utterly struck dumb.

Sunghoon, standing just a step behind him, takes one look at Jake’s frozen, useless expression and can’t help but seize the opportunity. He steps forward with a smooth, effortless charm, flashing a dazzling smile.

"Yes! Sorry, he's a little shy," Sunghoon says, his voice dripping with playful warmth as he gently nudges Jake out of the way with his elbow.

Behind them, in the hallway, you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from bursting into a loud laugh. Riki relaxes his posture just a fraction, a dark, highly amused glint returning to his eyes as he leans down, his breath tickling your ear.

"Look at that," Riki whispers, his lips brushing your hair as he watches Jake turn a vivid shade of crimson. "Your advice worked sooner than you thought, princess."

The girl offers a small, slightly awkward smile, adjusting her grip on her purse strap. "I saw it on the floor when I left the convenience store," she explains, her voice soft against the quiet morning air. "The address on the back led me here."

Jake is still completely paralyzed. The world around him has slowed to an absolute crawl, the tough mafia enforcer entirely replaced by a guy experiencing love at first sight. He’s staring at her like she just handed him a winning lottery ticket, his cheeks a brilliant, burning shade of red.

Sensing the lingering, heavy silence from the massive house behind Sunghoon, the girl clears her throat nervously. "Anyway... I'll uh... head out now. Glad I could get it back to you."

She shifts on her feet, turning to take a step down the grand stone porch.

That movement finally shocks Jake's brain back online. Panic flaring in his eyes, he blurts out, "Wait!"

He steps right past Sunghoon, his hand reaching out instinctively before he catches himself. The girl stops, blinking in surprise as she turns back to look at him.

Jake swallows hard, trying to channel every single ounce of the "mysterious, intriguing" energy you had just been teasing him about inside. He squares his shoulders, but the sheer nervousness in his eyes gives him away completely.

"Could I maybe... get your number?" Jake asks, his voice cracking just a tiny bit before he clears his throat to deepen it. "It'd be nice to take you out somewhere. As a thank you. For, you know, not identity-theft-ing me."

Behind him in the foyer, a collective, silent gasp ripples through the boys. Sunoo quickly covers his mouth to muffle a squeal, Jungwon closes his eyes in mock prayer, and Riki hides his face directly in the crook of your neck, his shoulders shaking with silent, breathless laughter.

The girl stares at Jake for one agonizing second, two seconds—and then a genuinely pretty, amused smile breaks across her face.

"Sure," she says softly, pulling her phone from her jacket pocket. "I guess a thank-you coffee wouldn't hurt."

Jake types his number into her phone with hands that are visibly shaking, handing it back to her like it’s a fragile piece of glass. She gives him one last sweet, lingering smile before turning to walk down the driveway, leaving him standing on the porch like a man who has just seen a vision.

He watches her until she clears the gates, then slowly turns around, closing the heavy oak door behind him. The moment the lock clicks, Jake slides his back down the wood until he’s sitting flat on the floor, a completely dazed, goofy grin plastered across his face.

He holds his phone up to his chest like a prized trophy.

The boys immediately swarm him, dropping the tactical guard completely. Sunoo is the first to cross his arms, a brilliant, teasing smirk on his face as he looks down at Jake’s pathetic, love-struck form.

"Wow, Jake," Sunoo says, his voice dripping with playful mockery. "Maybe you'll also get a girlfriend sooner or later."

"Shut up, Sunoo, I'm having a moment," Jake groans from the floor, hiding his burning red face in his hands. "She smelled like vanilla. Did you guys smell that? She’s an angel."

"She’s a civilian who almost saw Jay's combat knife, you idiot," Jungwon sighs, though a fond smile cracks through his leader persona.

Riki guides you back toward the kitchen island, his arm still firmly hooked around your waist. He looks down at you, his dark eyes brimming with amusement as he leans his chin right on your shoulder.

"you gave him hope" Riki says, as he caresses your hip

"Well no—I gave him a little nudge of confidence, there's a difference," you correct him, leaning back slightly into his solid frame to watch the chaos unfold.

Riki hums, a low, vibrating sound that rumbles pleasantly against your spine. His long fingers trace lazy, possessive circles against your hip bone, the heat of his touch bleeding right through the thick fabric of the hoodie.

"A nudge," Riki repeats, his voice laced with a dark, velvet amusement. "Princess, the guy looked like he was about to propose right there on the porch. He's practically planning the wedding."

As if on cue, Jake suddenly scrambles up from the floor, clutching his phone like it's a live grenade. "I should text her. I need to text her right now so she has my number. Wait—what do I say? Is 'Hey' too eager? Should I use a period to look serious? An exclamation mark?!"

Sunghoon groans loudly, stepping forward to snatch the phone right out of Jake's trembling hands. "Give me that before you ruin it. If you use a period, she's going to think you're a serial killer."

"Give it back!" Jake yelps, lunging for the device while Sunoo happily steps in to block him, laughing hysterically as the three of them start wrestling for the phone in the middle of the grand foyer.

Jay just sighs, rubbing his temples as he heads back toward the kitchen to pour himself a much-needed cup of coffee, muttering under his breath about dealing with children.

Through it all, Riki simply shakes his head. He turns his attention entirely back to you, completely unfazed by the noise of his syndicate brothers turning into a bunch of high schoolers. He drops his forehead against your shoulder, his nose brushing the sensitive skin beneath your jaw.

"Let them deal with that," Riki murmurs, his tone dropping back into that heavy, intoxicating register meant only for you. His hand slides from your hip to wrap securely around your waist, slowly turning you in his arms until you're facing him.

His dark eyes sweep over your face, the playful amusement fading into something much hungrier, much more deliberate.

"I have much better things to do with my morning than watch Jake forget how to speak English," he whispers, his thumb gently tilting your chin up as he backs you slowly into the edge of the kitchen counter. "Now... where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?"

End

maybe jakes little crush is the next part.. hope you liked it, i rushed a little and didn't know what to do halfway so it's a little fast paced. This wasn't proofread so please call out any mistakes!

Keep my heart guarded ✶ lhs

word count: 22.7k

Your long-term relationship with your bodyguard-slash-personal assistant Lee Heeseung goes way back in high school. Ever since then, he keeps your heart guarded and humbled in every possible way since your makeup line started to rise into fame. But when a dating scandal tied you with your brand's ambassador, leading to a PR stunt that will last for two years, that's when you realized that your relationship with Heeseung was starting to crumble because of the fortune and popularity.

Play dates ✶ pjs

word count: 25.0k

A drunken one night stand went wrong when news of the darling socialite was seen leaving the penthouse of CEO Park Jongseong, one of the most sought bachelors in Korea. In order to save face and reputation, a fake dating contract of six months was proposed.

The problem? Turns out you and Jay were ex-lovers — a secret relationship that ended up in a bad light and three years after not seeing each other, you two ended up in the headline of the tabloids and gossip articles. Fake it 'til you make it, they say, and it doesn't help that your ex-boyfriend is great with the act, blurring the lines between repressed feelings and acting like everything's fine between the two of you.

Crayon portraits ✶ sjy

word count: 19.4k

You have a secret — you have a daughter. A four year old little girl who's the bright definition of summer sun. You have another secret, the father is nothing but a bartender at a local beach bar where you had a vacation a few years ago. With your reputation on the line, you forced yourself to keep them hidden from the world and thankfully, Jake was willing to hide his daughter and agree with your conditions — until he decided he doesn't want to for his daughter's sake, leaving you questioning your life as a career woman and a mother.

Conveniently, Mr. & Mrs. Park ✶ psh

It was simple. Go back to South Korea, take his inheritance from his late father, leave, and never return. But it wasn't simple for Park Sunghoon when he discovered that in order to receive his inheritance, his father required an heir and family from him.

Then came you. A mess, carrying an eight-month old baby, scared of the world. Sunghoon needed a family, you needed protection and shelter. Filling each other's needs, the two of you arranged a marriage of convenience for a year. It’s that simple. You two convinced, not until lines started to blur and wants started to diminish your supposed needs.

Chasing after storms ✶ ksn

word count: 20.3k

Your life has always been a matter of business. Even your marriage with the cold-hearted Kim Sunoo was purely out of business. An alliance. To strengthen one’s company and partnership. But when a conversation between Sunoo and a family lawyer suggesting to divorce you was overheard, you resorted to your only choice — ran away.

Seven months into your disappearance, and your husband found you in the smallest, most secluded isle in your country. Eager to bring you home, his desperation clashed with your stubbornness, creating a storm that left both of you stranded in your loveless marriage.

The world called us ✶ yjw

word count: 19.6k

Your relationship with Jungwon comes in hotel rooms and behind closed doors, where it's just the two of you who love each other with much tenderness. While in the outside world, the two of you are destined to be rivals due to your family's long-term rivalry when it comes to being the top corporation in your country. But when secrets are starting to spill, and meet-ups are getting harder to do so; you and Jungwon must face the world and prove that what you two have is real.

The art of tension ✶ nrk

word count: 22.4k

Your divorce has been the talk of the town. The cold and meticulous CEO who wasn’t able to give affection to her ex-husband, eventually was replaced with someone younger and prettier in less than five months after the divorce. You tried to keep your reputation stable despite all the names thrown to you, but when an art gallery exhibit trailed you to Nishimura Riki — handsome, fine, reputable-looking yet younger male who seems to be drawn to you, tension arises and gossip articles start to brew.

The beach house is quiet when you wake. The first rays of sunlight beam through your bedside window. The waves look softer in morning light, somehow even more peaceful than the prior evening. 

And Jay…

Somewhere between dreams and reality, you found your resolve. You’re not sure what this new sense of closeness is, where exactly it comes from. You’re sure it’s just because the two of you are truly alone for the first time. 

Besides, it’s not like it necessarily means anything. You’re sure Jay is just one of those people who lets his affection be known through touch, through closeness. He did tell you he wants to be friends, after all. You’re sure that’s what all of this must be. 

But the longer you look at it, the more your stomach begins to sink. Because friendship doesn’t account for a lot of things. Namely, the way he held you last night. The way he looked at you. 

Shaking your head, you force yourself out of bed. It’s no use mulling over it now. You’re not operating under any illusions. 

It doesn’t matter how sharp his jawline is or how nice it feels to rest your head in that space between his shoulder and neck. 

You’re sick. Your future is, in generous terms, uncertain. It wouldn’t be fair, to either you or him, to let things shift too much. To let them progress towards what they teetered on dangerously last night. 

Padding gently down the stairs, you realize you were the first one to wake. Good. That will give you some time to set your resolve, to plan for how you’ll go about maintaining space for the rest of your time together. 

You only have one more day here, after all. You’ll sleep at the beach house again tonight and then drive back to the hospital early tomorrow afternoon. You can survive another day, another evening. 

And then, upon your return, reality will do what it always done, and maintaining a comfortable distance will feel natural again.  

Yawning through a stretch as you enter the kitchen, you suppose you can start evening the playing field by returning favors. You’ll make breakfast today. An undergraduate degree built mostly on ready meals hasn’t exactly made you the best chef, but your family owns a restaurant. You can manage eggs, at least. 

Rifling through the cupboards for a frying pan, a small, nondescript notebook tucked away in the corner of the kitchen counter catches your eye. Drawing closer, you realize it’s his. Jay’s. The planner he always carries around with him everywhere. 

You bite at the small smile that appears on your lips without your permission. It’s easy to imagine him drafting your itinerary with the same intense focus he uses to write out his study schedules. 

You shake your head gently and then turn, about to move on, when a small slip of paper poking out from underneath the planner catches your eye. 

It’s folded and mostly obscured by the notebook on top of it, but you swear you can make out a few letters.

And, stranger still, you swear they align perfectly with the last few letters in your name.

You shouldn’t look. You really shouldn’t. If nothing else, it’s an invasion of privacy. You wouldn’t want him poking around through your planner, after all. 

He already did it one by accident, you think as you remember the way his gaze narrowed in focus when you mistakenly handed him your bucket list instead of a napkin at the charity gala. And the consequences of that have been nothing if not far reaching. 

Still, curiosity eats at you. It’s your name, after all. Or at least you think it is. 

Glancing quietly over your shoulder just to make sure he hasn’t somehow silently materialized since your internal struggle began, you confirm that you’re alone in the kitchen. And then you reach for that small, folded piece of paper.

Unfolding it slowly, you scan it from top to bottom. You were right, you realize. It is your name at the top. Glazing over it, this time with a more discerning gaze, your eyes widen with every uncovered line.

It’s a list. Penned in his neat, even handwriting, it details all of the medicines you’re currently taking, as well as every pharmacy within a twenty-mile radius of the beach house and their current stock of it. 

Beneath it, he’s written out every nearby hospital, along with their capacity to handle illnesses of your nature and their directors’ personal contact information. 

Below is yet another list. This one is of symptoms that Hana and Doctor Kim must have told him to keep an eye on. Confusion, dizziness, shortness of breath, fatigue, headaches. 

Both of them also left him with their personal phone numbers. 

Silently, breath shallow, you fold the paper back and tuck it back beneath the planner where you found it, heart thumping traitorously in your chest. 

Again, you’re forced to confront it head-on — he cares. Enough to plan this trip, enough to face your resistance and your excuses a thousand times over, enough to research pharmacies and hospitals and medication side effects. 

It’s not altruistic. It’s not for his own benefit. He cares about you. In writing, out loud, and in the way he’s always gentle when he reaches for you. 

You think, then, for the first time, of just how much his life has changed since your diagnosis, too. After all, you used to just be someone that sat behind him in lecture halls. Someone that made an irritating point to argue with everything he said. 

Now, he’s at the hospital more frequently than his own classes. He’s paying for your medical care. He’s asking doctors and nurses how to best take care of you, and he’s here, at a beach house on the coast, because you dreamed of seeing it one day. 

You never wanted to add anyone, much less Jay, to the ever-growing list of people you owe an unpayable debt to. 

But every memory, every piece of evidence at just how inextricably intertwined you’ve become, feels like a rock sinking in your gut. 

When, or perhaps if the universe takes pity on you, if this all ends in flames, you’re suddenly terrified of just how deeply he’ll be affected. 

His care is genuine, of that much you’re sure. You don’t want him to suffer any more than he has to when the time comes to say goodbye.

You’re so wrapped up in your sudden spiraling that you don’t notice when the scent of cooking turns pungent, when the eggs start to turn from golden-brown to coal black. 

But Jay does. Startling you from your thoughts, he raises an eyebrow at you from the edge of the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he says, calmly. There’s a hint of sleepiness that still clings to his words. 

“Good morning,” you return once you shake your startle, hardly able to meet his eye. You’re flushed for a thousand reasons, all of which you refuse to name. 

His eyebrow arches higher. Nodding at the pan on the stove, he adds, “I think something’s burning.”

“Shit.” Rushing to turn off the burner, you pull the pan off the heat, setting it aside. “Sorry,” you mumble, sheeping. “I was trying to make breakfast.”

Jay’s lips twitch. “It’s the thought that counts,” he tells you. “Here, let me—”

You shake your head. “No, no, it’s okay. Just let me— I can handle eggs.” 

For a moment, you think he’s going to tease you about it. But then he sees the defensive glint in your gaze. The way this suddenly feels like it’s about more than just eggs. You’ve had far more of your own self-sufficiency stripped from you than you’re comfortable with. 

It wouldn’t be an act of kindness to assume you can’t handle this task—it would be belittling. A reminder of just how much your life has changed in recent weeks. 

So Jay is just quiet for a moment longer. Then, he nods. Moving to join you, he doesn’t interfere with the eggs. Instead, he says, “I’ll start the coffee.” 

Thankfully, your second attempt is much more successful. 

With your eggs cooked to perfection this time and Jay’s freshly brewed coffee, the two of you find your seats at the dining table again. After a few bites, Jay asks for your opinion on his itinerary for the day. 

He hasn’t planned much, just a dinner at a nearby restaurant this evening, which leaves your morning and afternoon free. He has suggestions of course — heading back down to the beach, going for another ride in the convertible, sitting in the garden and just enjoying the view. 

Your indecision must play out across your features, because a beat later, he suggests starting the day close to home. You’re glad for it. 

You’re starting to feel like a broken record, but the garden really is beautiful. Two adjacent lounge chairs serve as your resting place for this pocket of time. 

Minutes slip into hours easily, the occasional lulls in conversation filled by the sound of waves and nearby sea birds. 

He mentions something about Professor Jung’s class, and a crease forms between your eyebrows. Jay notices, because of course he does, and so you tell him about the letter from Doctor Kim, your mother’s insistence that you take an official academic leave of absence for the rest of the semester. 

Jay schools his features into something carefully neutral. “How do you feel about that?” 

You sigh. “I mean, of course it’s not what I want. We’re almost to midterms already, and the thought of sacrificing all that work really sucks.” You exhale, something calm in your voice now that you’ve had time to think about it. “But it’s not the end of the world. I’ve kept up my scholarship this long, and I know I’ll be able to do it again. I suppose it’s better to focus on recovery now and then return to things when I can give it my all again. Even if it feels a little bit like failure right now.”

Jay stares at you for a moment, almost as if he expects a second head to pop out from between your shoulders. “That might be the most reasonable thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“I will reach over and smack that grin off your face,” you threaten. 

“I know.” He just relaxes further into his seat, grin still spread wide across his lips. 

You roll your eyes. The conversation continues, veers towards lighter topics. It takes you all the way to early afternoon, when Jay suggests heading back to the beach. 

“C’mon,” he urges, “We can actually put our feet in the ocean this time.”

You don’t need any more convincing than that. 

It’s still slightly humiliating, the way you have to walk slowly, the way your legs don’t always seem to want to cooperate with your mind. Jay takes it all in stride. He slows even before you do, patient as he walks by your side. 

Still a few yards from the water, you lose your balance on the edge of a sand bank, teetering dangerously as you try to right yourself. Jay doesn’t let you fall. Reaching out, he steadies you with one hand on your waist and the other around your wrist. 

Even after you’ve centered yourself again, he doesn’t let go. 

“You alright?” His brow creases deep in concern. 

“I’m fine,” you nod, not quite able to look him in the eye. Not when his open palm still rests against your hip. 

Slowly, Jay releases you. But the hand around your wrist doesn't leave your skin entirely. Instead, he slides it down, all the way until his long fingers are interlaced with yours. HIs touch is warm, steadying. Has your pulse thrumming in your ears. 

“Here,” he says. “To help you balance.”

“Right.” You nod. “For balance.”

After a few more steps, the two of you are at the water’s edge. Jay helps you slide off your shoes before removing his own. Then, he takes your hand again. This time, he doesn’t bother with excuses. 

Instead, he turns to you, eyes glittering like the sunlit sea, and asks, “Are you ready?”

Are you? You’re not sure. The ocean is one of many things in your life that you never bothered to dream too hard about, mostly because it always felt out of reach. Something frivolous not worth dedicating too much attention to. 

You’re not sure how to tell him that, so instead, you nod. 

Jay smiles, gently guiding you forward until the first waves can just reach you, barely brushing your toes as water trickles up the beach. 

A gasp escapes your lips. It’s colder than you expect, almost shockingly so. 

“You okay?” Jay asks.

You nod. “Just cold.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s warmer in the summer. We’ll have to come back.” There are a lot of assumptions wrapped up in his response, ones you don’t dare to correct now. 

Instead, you follow him a few more steps forward, all the way until water pools around your feet, now ankle-deep.

It’s still cold, but you’re getting used to it now. The sand feels different here, thicker maybe, more solid. You spread your toes and giggle as it pushes between them. 

Jay zeroes in on the noise, carefully tracking your expression as you venture deeper. Now it’s him that trails you, happy to be led by his hand still intertwined with yours. 

The first time you splash him is entirely by accident. You swear you see a fish swimming near your toes and it startles you so bad you nearly fall over. Thankfully, you manage to stay upright, but your flailing sends a smattering of droplets right towards the front of Jay’s shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, but it’s wrapped in laughter. “It was an accident. I thought I saw a—”

The words die on your lips as Jay returns the favor by splashing water back towards you, this time entirely on purpose. 

“No worries,” he grins. Nodding towards the wet hem of your shirt, he adds, “We’re even now, anyway.”

Your jaw drops at his audacity. “You little shit.” It’s the only warning he gets before your next splash comes, this one wreaking far more havoc than the first as sea water soaks through nearly the entirety of his rolled left pant leg. 

You try to run before he can have his revenge, but he catches up to you easily, fingers circling around your wrist before he slides it back towards your hand, interlacing your fingers once again. Then he bends at the waist, other hand dipping dangerously towards the water as he sends droplets flying towards your jeans. 

It’s funny — even though the water swirling around your ankles, being flung at your skin, is entirely novel, something you’ve been dreaming of experiencing for years, when you look back on your memory of this moment later, you’ll realize that nearly all of your focus was not on the beach or the your soaked clothes or the even ocean itself. 

No, it was locked on the steady, warm feeling of Jay’s hand in yours. 

…..

The sun tracks a steady path across the sky, and before you know it, it’s time to get ready for your dinner with Jay.

Despite your questioning, he hasn’t divulged many details. You’re not sure exactly where you’re going, nor what kind of attire is expected. Eyeing your small overnight bag, you’re suddenly worried that everything you’ve brought will be too casual. 

Then again, maybe he’s bringing you to something a little more quaint. He said it himself — most of the businesses around here are seasonal. You doubt that the truly fine dining establishments are even open this time of year. 

Before you can make up your mind on if you should just go across the hall and ask him again, a knock sounds on your bedroom door. 

Opening it, Jay stands on the other side, a large box in hand. 

You look at it, frowning. “What’s that?”

“For you,” Jay outstretches his arms, passing the box to you. “For tonight.”

“Jay…” you trail off. Gifts from him are nothing new at this point, but something in your pride still withers with every lavish present he lays at your feet. 

“Don’t even,” he shakes his head, silencing your protest before you can put words to it. “Besides,” he adds, nodding towards the box. “This was already yours.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “Already m—” Realization dawns across your features. You remove the lid from the box, confirming your suspicions. 

Inside is the gown, the one you selected from Sunghoon’s shop.

“I thought we were going to dinner,” you breathe. 

It’s Jay’s turn to be puzzled. “We are,” he confirms. 

“There’s a restaurant around here where this is standard attire?” You arch an eyebrow. “Are you sure?” Quieter, you add, “I don’t feel like getting stared at all night.”

Jay’s expression softens at your confession. “You won’t be. I promise. A dress that pretty deserves to be worn, don’t you think? Besides,” he adds, a gleam entering his gaze, “I’ll be the only one staring at you.”

“Jay,” you whine. 

“Okay, okay,” he puts his hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll only stare when you’re not looking.”

“I’ll still be able to tell,” you frown. 

“You haven’t so far,” he points out. 

He grins when your cheeks warm. 

And to that, you have nothing to say. Instead you ask, “What time are we leaving?”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Jay says. “There’s no rush. Take your time.”

The door closes, and you’re once again alone with your thoughts. You glance down at the box in your hands before setting it on the foot of the bed. 

You sigh. You really weren’t prepared for anything so formal. Glancing at your small makeup bag, you decide you’ll have to make do. 

Thirty minutes later, it’s apparent that you weren’t born with the talent of a makeup artist, but it’ll do. You give yourself another once-over in the mirror, assessing your handiwork. The work you’ve done on your makeup and hair might be simple, but it highlights the features you like most. Makes your reflection something that shimmers a little more than usual. Despite it all, you feel pretty. 

Which leaves only one step left before you meet Jay downstairs: the dress still sitting on your bed. Padding over towards it quietly, you take a deep breath before reaching into the box and retrieving it with gentle fingers. 

It unfurls as you pull it out, skirt falling down towards the floor in an elegant wave. Here in the evening glow of your borrowed bedroom, it’s even more spectacular than you remember. 

Quietly, you step into the skirt, pulling the top of the dress up over your body and securing the straps into place. 

Reaching behind you, you fumble blindly for the zipper. It takes a moment for you to find it, fingers closing around the cool metal. You tug, but the zipper hardly makes it an inch before your own dexterity fails you. 

Frowning, you try again. This attempt is no better. No matter how many times you try, you can’t get the zipper past the base of your spine. 

That’s right, you remember, hardly stopping yourself from cursing out loud, the store attendant helped you that day at Sunghoon’s store. 

A flicker of doubt sweeps through your mind. Is it even possible to close the zipper on your own? 

It has to be. Because if you can’t get it zipped on your own, the only other viable option is—

No. 

That’s not happening. 

Grimacing, you pull again, this time with far more force, fueled by your sudden desperation. But it’s to no avail. The angle simply won’t work. 

Head lolling forward, you groan aloud to the empty room. 

And then, gathering whatever fragmented remnants of dignity you have left, you call out quietly, “Jay?”

You wait for a heartbeat. Another. No response comes. 

Walking towards your door, you crack it open slightly.

Louder this time, you call again, “Jay?”

“Yeah?” You hear him respond, from downstairs you think. “Are you okay?” There’s an undertone of urgency in his voice that you would have more time to ponder if you weren’t panicking yourself. 

“I’m fine,” you assure. “But can you…” You trail off for a moment, losing your confidence. “Can you come here?”

He doesn’t say anything, but you hear the sound of his feet padding against the stairs. It takes him less than thirty seconds to reach the top, eyes locking on yours where you still brace yourself behind the door like it’s a shield. 

His brow furrows. “What’s wrong?”

You can barely hold his eye. “Nothing, I just…” Biting the inside of your lip, you manage to get out, “I need help with the zipper.”

“Oh.” It’s quiet for a moment. You watch as realization sets in, his eyes widening before he remembers to regain control of his expression. “Oh,” he repeats, softer this time. 

Then, he swallows. Once, roughly. You watch the way his throat works, jaw tightening, eyes sharpening before they soften again. He sets his resolve, pace steady as he walks towards you. 

You take a step back when he reaches you, silently pulling the door open wider, allowing him into your space. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, eyes on his feet. “I forgot that I needed help. I didn’t think I—”

“Don’t apologize,” Jay interrupts, voice rawer than it was before. “It’s okay,” he assures. “I don’t mind. Just…” He flails for a moment, words stuck in his throat. Then he whispers, “Turn around for me.”

You do. Quietly, steadily, all the way until you’re facing the bed. Jay’s presence behind you is an impossible thing to miss, especially when you hear the deep, shuddering inhale he takes. 

And then you feel it, the warmth of his hands as he wraps his fingers around the zipper. Your breath is shallow in your chest, heart pounding in your throat. 

You can feel his knuckles skimming the notches of your spine. A slow, deliberate pace as he drags them upwards. 

It’s agonizingly slow. It's over entirely too soon.

You feel his fingers reach the top, hesitating for only a moment before he retracts them. You release the exhale you hadn’t quite realized you were holding. 

Turning back halfway, you meet his eye.

“Thanks,” you manage, more breath than sound. 

“Of course,” he returns, and you don’t think you’re imagining the strain. He recovers quickly, though. Extending his arm, he offers, “Shall we?”

Only then do your eyes rake over him. Jay, it seems, has not made you dress up on your own this evening. 

Dressed in a suit so impossibly well-tailored you’re sure it must have been made with only him in mind, Jay is a vision. Dark hair falls into his eyes, loose across his forehead, flattering the angular set of his cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw. 

Under any other circumstances, the sight would serve as a reminder of the distance between the two of you, all the ways in which Jay will always exist just outside your reach. 

But his outstretched arm is an offering, an invitation. He’s not pulling away, not stepping back. He’s meeting you halfway, like he’s already decided that wherever you are is a place worth being. 

So you wrap your fingers around his forearm and let him lead the way down the stairs. You let him carry your purse and open your car door and smile at you from the driver’s seat. 

For a moment, it’s all too easy to pretend. That this, whatever is blossoming between the two of you, was never because of a deal. 

That you’re not dying and he’s not doing everything in his power to stop it. 

For a moment, just in the most secret parts of your mind, you’re just you and he’s just him. Two people that realized, somewhere between butting heads in lecture halls and always vying for first place, that you had more in common than you realized. That your differences were actually quite complimentary when you stacked them side by side. 

You pretend that it’s all natural to you, that you belong in the passenger seat of convertibles, wearing an average person’s monthly salary on your body and being treated like a princess. 

In your fantasy, no one feels sorry for you. No one pities you. If anything, they’re all jealous. That you’re the one on the receiving end of the ever-formidable Park Jongseong’s equally fierce affections. 

Sunoo has what he needs to follow his dreams all on his own, and your family was never wrecked by circumstances out of their control. 

You have room in your mind for yourself, for your own desires and hopes and goals. You have time for things outside of studying. There’s space in your life for friends and flings and maybe, you think, glancing over at Jay where he keeps his eyes trained on the road, maybe even enough room for love. 

It might just be a fantasy, but you decide that you don’t want to ruminate tonight. You’re tired of wallowing in your own misery and always worrying about what comes next. 

Is it so wrong? you wonder, to pretend, just for tonight, that this is nothing more than dinner with a boy?

Jay’s pulling into the parking lot before you can fully make up your mind. Taking a tentative glance at the dark building, you frown slightly. 

“Are you sure it’s open?” you ask. “It looks dark.”

“It’s open,” Jay nods. Glancing at you, he amends, “Well, it is for us.”

You balk. “What do you mean, for us?”

He shrugs. “I pulled a few strings. C’mon,” he smiles at you, “you’ll like it. I promise.”

The truth you already suspected becomes more apparent as he leads you inside. The restaurant has an understated kind of beauty. The rich colors and shimmering decor of quiet luxury. It reminds you faintly of spaces like the luxury department store, Sunghoon’s shop. Made to suit the tastes of the elite. 

Like the beach house, the far wall is almost entirely windows. With an hour until sunset, the view is breathtaking. The stretch of beach it faces must not be private, because you see figures in the distance. Couples walking along the shoreline, families splashing at the edge of the water. 

The cool weather keeps the beach from being crowded, but the sight makes you think that it’s probably never truly empty, even when winter sinks its ice-cold claws into the world. 

The restaurant, however, is strikingly empty. 

A waiter, dressed head-to-toe in a sleek black uniform greets you upon your arrival. He leads you past an array of empty tables, bare even from silverware, until he comes to stop at a small, round table pressed close to the window. 

Nodding gently, he smiles as Jay pulls out your chair for you. Once you’re both seated, he lays two menus down with a smile and instructs you to let him know if you have any questions. 

Jay thanks him, and you take a small sip from your water glass, throat suddenly feeling rather dry. 

“Jay,” you start, once the waiter is out of earshot, “why is no one else here?”

Jay shrugs, not bothering to glance up from the menu. “Must be a slow evening.”

“Jay.”

He sighs, setting it down. “Fine. You caught me. Everyone insisted this was the best dining anywhere on the coast, but when I called, they said they’d already shut down for the season. So I…” he trails off, trying to find the best words, “made a few requests.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you tell him, no real edge to your words. “I would have been happy cooking at home again, or even at that fast food restaurant we saw down the street.”

Jay’s brow furrows, something in his expression falling slightly. “You don’t like it?”

You shake your head immediately. That wasn’t the conclusion you intended him to land on. “Of course I like it,” you tell him truthfully. Something relaxes in his shoulders. “It’s incredible. How could I not? I just meant that… I don't want you to feel like you have to do all these things for me just because I’m—”

“I don’t.” He shakes his head, cutting you off. “I don’t feel like I have to. I like doing things for you. I want you to feel important and special and valued. Not because….” he trails off for a moment. “Not because of circumstances.” Meeting your eye, his gaze is imploring. “Just because you are.”

To that, you suddenly have nothing to say. 

“Jay…” You’re not sure if you’re warning him or something else entirely. 

He shakes his head, as if he can sense your internal struggle. “Let’s decide on food.”

There, you let him take the lead. Mostly because you haven’t heard of half of the menu items before. Jay is patient as he explains them to you. When your mind is made up, he waves the waiter over with a raised hand.

The sun falls a little further towards the horizon, the end of another day. Beneath you, families begin to pack up for the evening. Couples return to their cards, hand-in-hand as they make their way back up the beach. 

Distantly, you wonder what you and Jay look like from the outside. You must seem like a couple, especially now. Dressed to the nines and sat opposite from each other at the nicest restaurant in town. It wouldn’t be a stretch to assume; it would only be natural. 

You can’t quite decide how that makes you feel. Suddenly, you’re rather glad there are no other patrons tonight. The only witness is your waiter. 

Dinner is a rather quiet affair. Conversation lulls before it starts again, both of you skirting around delicate topics. It’s there, though—something that simmers just beneath the surface. A truth that the two of you are too afraid to touch. 

The food is delicious, and dessert even more so. 

When the bill has been settled, Jay guides you back to his car with a hand on the small of your back. His touch is gentle, present without demand. 

Once you arrive back at the beach house, he opens your door for you, falls into place beside you as the two of you make a path towards the entrance. 

Halfway to the front door, your footsteps falter. Jay turns to you with a question in his gaze. 

The sun has already settled beneath the skyline. It’s dusk now. Everything is covered in the hazy dark glow of evening. 

“It’s our last night,” you tell him, words barely a whisper. “Can we go down to the beach?”

He passes a questioning look over the dress you still wear, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods. 

This time, it’s you that initiates contact. Quietly, traces of your hesitation plain as day in the way you bite at your bottom lip, you reach your hand towards his. 

For a moment, you just wrap your hand around his three longest fingers, holding them loosely as your thumb strokes over his pointer finger. 

Your eyes follow the motion. His are locked on you. Above you, the moon begins to glow. 

Jay sighs but makes no effort to move. He remains motionless, pliant under your gentle touch. After another moment, you slide your hand further into his, lacing your fingers together. 

Glancing up, you find him already looking at you, lips parted, eyes lidded, a distinct sense of longing in his gaze, raw and steady. 

“Let’s go,” you whisper. 

Jay makes no attempt to move. He only nods. 

This time, it’s him that trails behind you, led by the firm grip you have on his hand and you follow the path back down to the water. Your pace is slow, but now it doesn’t feel like it’s due to the limits of your abilities. 

It just feels like a moment that the two of you want to savor a little longer. 

When you do finally reach the shoreline, you release your grip reluctantly. Only because it allows you to lift the skirt of your dress up past your ankles, watching quietly as the water swirls around your feet. 

Next to you, Jay does the same. He rolls his pant legs, slightly unevenly, and you’d tease him about it under any other circumstances. 

Now, though, there’s no laughter in your throat. Only a deep sense of calm as you look up at the sky, eyes tracing the stars that have started to shine against the inky black expanse. 

The moon casts a silver reflection on the water, rippling slightly with every ebb and flow of the current. 

After another long beat of stillness, Jay turns to you, eyes tracing your profile. He asks, “Should we sit?”

You look at him, considering. “We don’t have the blanket.” The evening chill is the least of your concerns. You hardly feel it at all. But the thought of letting your dress fill with sand is enough to give you pause. 

Jay nods, then begins to shrug off his suit jacket. Even in the low light, you can see the way his dress shirt follows the motion of his body, the way it sits against his skin. “We can use this,” he suggests. 

It’s impractical and might render the jacket ruined, but if he doesn't mind, you suppose you won’t either. Nodding, you follow him a bit further up the beach, until you’re out of the reach of the gentle waves. 

He spreads it against the sand, settling down on one side. Then he looks up at you, patting the space next to him. 

You hesitate, suddenly unsure. It’s far smaller than the blanket from yesterday. There’s no room for distance, no way for you to maintain space. 

If Jay notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he reaches his hand towards you. You take it, because of course you do. Even with sudden doubt flashing through your mind, his outstretched fingers will always be something you accept. 

Gently, he guides you down next to him, helps arrange your dress so that the fabric doesn’t spill over onto the sand. 

You were right to be wary. No matter how close to the edge of his jacket you sit, your knee brushes against his. You can feel the warmth of his skin through the thin layer of his shirt. 

For a moment, the two of you watch the waves. 

Then he asks, voice low, “Your beach trip, the convertible, were they as good as you hoped for?”

At his side, you nod, a small smile tugging on your lips. “Even better.” Turning your head, your chin nearly brushes his shoulder. You look up at him, lips parting at the sudden proximity as his gaze falls down towards you. Your voice carries a bit more weight now, the lightness from earlier swallowed by your sincerity. “Thank you, Jay.” His eyes are heavy, laden with something indecipherable. “For everything.”

For a moment, he says nothing, quiet as his eyes search yours. The longer he looks, the warmer your cheeks begin to feel. But you can’t bring yourself to look away, can hardly dare to blink. 

Slowly, he brings a hand to your temple, brushing back a strand of hair that had fallen across your forehead. 

He doesn’t remove his touch. Instead, he traces a steady path, fingers light as he ghosts them across the shell of your ear, all the way until they come to curve just beneath your jaw. 

“Jay,” you whisper, voice nearly swallowed by the breeze. 

His eyes follow the motion, falling to your parted lips before he finds your gaze again. 

He leans closer, just a fraction of an inch, like the motion is involuntary. Like he can’t quite help himself. 

“This was on your bucket list, too,” he murmurs, breath washing over your heated cheekbones. 

“You’re not a stranger,” you point out, voice more breath than sound. 

“Mm,” he hums. “Do you want me to go find one for you?” But he’s even closer now, his nose brushing against yours. 

You call his bluff. “You’d do that?”

“No,” he admits, thumb stroking along your jawline, angling you slightly. “Probably not.”

“Probably?” you echo.

“Definitely,” he decides, lips brushing against your own. 

You’re touching now, lips brushing, moving against each other with every shallow breath. His fingers splay against your overly warm skin. Stroking, soothing, coaxing like he can't quite stop himself. 

But he doesn’t move further. Even here, even now, he won’t take what you haven’t asked him for. 

“Jay,” you breathe, and he nearly groans at the sound of his name, a low breathy thing. 

“Mm,” he hums again, fingers flexing, nose brushing. 

“Kiss me,” you tell him. 

He releases an exhale, long, deep, desperate, and then he’s finally pressing forward. His hand beneath your jaw serves as an anchor as he finally increases the pressure, lips parted against yours like he wants to breathe you in. 

Your eyes flutter shut, sighing as he takes your bottom lip between his. His lips part against yours, and you do your best to follow the motion, moving with him. 

The pace he sets is gentle, tentative, searching. As if he has all the time in the world and plans to spend it with his mouth on yours. 

There’s nothing demanding in his touch, even as his breath begins to quicken, as his sighs start to sound more strangled, lower in his chest. 

It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s gentle and sweet and so impossibly slow. 

His hands, however, can’t seem to decide where to land. Once they’ve had their fill of your jaw, they fall to your neck, the pulse point that jumps in your throat. The skin of your shoulders, the length of your spine. Eventually, they settle at the small of your back, pulling gently as he encourages you further into his space. 

You release a breathy exhale, head full of stars and sighs and him.

Above you, the moon glows. The ocean laps against the shore. Jay moves his affections from your swollen lips to the angle of your jaw, trailing downwards below your ear until he finds a place that makes you shudder. 

But when his hand comes to your arm, he feels the goosebumps that have started to rise. 

Lips still on yours, you feel him frown. “You’re cold.”

You shake your head, mind spinning as you try to catch your breath. “I’m fine.”

It’s no use. Jay presses one more kiss against your lips before moving to your cheekbone. He lays a gentle kiss there too. One last kiss finds the tip of your nose before he leans back.

“Come on,” he urges, “Let’s go.”

“But—” you start to protest, words dying on your lips. You’re afraid to move, afraid that leaving your place on the right side of his suit jacket will shatter the illusion, will send you plummeting back to a reality you’re not ready to face. 

“I know,” Jay whispers, like he understands, like he feels it, too. “It’s okay.”

He helps you stand, and then he brushes off the sand from his jacket before settling it over your shoulder. The kiss he presses against your lips after securing it into place surprises you. He smiles at your wide eyes, something unbearably fond in his gaze as he catches your hand in his own. 

The walk back to the house is quiet, save for the sound of your breath. Once you’re both inside, Jay turns back to you, cradling your head as you look up at him in surprise before kissing you again. Once, twice, three times before he finally pulls his lips away, resting his forehead against yours.

“Sorry,” he says. “I like doing that.”

“Don’t apologize,” you shake your head. “I…” Even with his admission laid bare, it’s hard to find the courage, the honesty to do the same. For him, you manage, “I do, too.”

Jay smiles at that, leaning back as his eyes trace over you. They catch for a moment on the unmistakable flush, on your slightly swollen lips. 

He swallows, shakes his head. 

He tells you, “It’s late. We should probably get some sleep.”

You nod at the suggestion. It is late, after all, and you’ll have to drive back tomorrow. 

Tomorrow. The thought of a new day has sudden dread curling deep in your gut. 

Jay takes your hand in his again as he leads you up the stairs. At the top, he hesitates for a moment before dropping it. Eyes on yours, he tells you quietly, “Good night.”

You return the sentiment. Your words are done, but both of you hover a moment longer. Night, this night, feels like a bubble that the sunrise will inevitably burst. Neither of you are quite ready to let it go. 

Jay nods gently towards your bedroom door behind you. “Go,” he urges, even if you can see his unwillingness written across his features. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

You know he will be, but that’s not what you’re worried about, not what has you hesitating. 

Still, you nod, hoping your thoughts don’t play out as openly across your features as you fear they might. Then, you turn, walking towards your bedroom. Hand hovering on the handle, you turn back only once. 

“Good night, Jay,” you tell him again. 

He nods, expression full of something you can only call longing. “Sleep well.”

The water from your shower falls relentlessly against your skin, sharpens the events of the day into something sobering. 

You kissed Jay. You kissed him. Your thoughts swirl just as surely as the water that circles the drain, but no matter how long you search them, you can’t find anything that stings like regret. 

Even as you step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around your body before drying your hair. Even as you pull a pair of worn pajamas over your body, you can’t bring yourself to wish it hadn’t happened. 

You don’t regret it, you realize, pulling back the covers as you sink into your bed. It may complicate things, it will surely make them more difficult, but even if given the chance to relive the evening, you wouldn’t change anything. 

In fact, the only thing you’d do is—

No. Even in the privacy of your own mind, the thought swims like a bad idea. 

Still… 

Your eyes fall on the door across from you. You debate internally for a moment, logical parts of yourself warring with the ones fueled by self-serving desire. 

“Oh, fuck it,” you whisper out loud to your empty bedroom. And then you stand up from your bed. 

The distance from your bedroom to his feels even shorter now. Fueled by a sudden stroke of bravery, you knock three times against his door before you can talk yourself out of it. 

You’re being ridiculous. You already said goodnight. He’s probably asleep, anyway—

In front of you, Jay’s door opens, just enough to reveal him. Hair messy like he’s been tossing and turning, Jay’s eyes are wide when he looks down at you. 

“Are you okay?” is the first thing he asks. You’re reminded of the list you found, of hospitals and pharmacies and emergency contact information. Of just how prepared he was to take care of you. “Is something wrong? We can go—”

“Jay,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “I’m fine.” But there, your words die. You hadn’t planned this far ahead. Haven't decided what to say now that he’s in front of you. “I just…” you try. Deciding that beating around the bush will get you nowhere, you ask, “Can I sleep with you?”

Jay’s eyes widen even further at that, lips parting as your request sinks in. 

Immediately, your cheeks flame as you realize the connotation. “I don’t—” Your words die on your lips, embarrassment making you struggle through speech as you try to remedy the institution. “I didn’t mean—I’m not ready for… that.” You wince internally, then outwardly. “I just,” you sigh, fingers finding the hem of your sleep shirt. “It would be nice, I think. To be close.”

For a moment, Jay says nothing. And then he opens his door further, stepping aside to let you in. 

His room is similar to yours in both layout and appearance. He hasn’t drawn his curtains shut, though. You can see the moon shining outside, casting a silver glow across the space. 

You aren’t particularly concerned with the window, though. Your attention falls to his bed. There’s enough space for you to both fit comfortably, but there are no illusions to be had here. No pretence of maintaining distance. 

Jay walks to the bed, pulling back the blanket as he looks back at you. “Here,” he nods. Considering for a moment, he adds, “Unless you prefer the other side.”

You shake your head. “This side is good.”

Slowly, you crawl into the space between the blanket and the sheets. Jay walks around to the other side of the bed, pulling back the blanket there as he does the same. 

It’s dark. Laying down against his pillows, you turn to face him. You can make out his features — the angles of his cheekbones, the curve of his lips — but only just. 

For a moment, the two of you just lie like that. Motionless, looking at one another. 

Then, Jay reaches for you. Hand settling around your hip, he pulls you closer, all the way until you’re nestled against his chest. 

He looks down at you, the faint trace of a smile on his lips. “Hi,” he whispers.

“Hi,” you return. 

Then, slowly, he’s leaning down. All the way until his lips meet yours. 

Like the beach, it’s slow, searching. Careful, like you’re something precious. 

Night settles around you quietly, steadily. The moon climbs higher into the sky while the two of you trade giggles and whispers. And between it all, kisses. 

Eventually, the pull of sleep becomes too strong to ignore. Your eyelids flutter shut, breath evening out while your head rests against his chest. 

You’re still not sure what tomorrow will bring, what the morning light will do to whatever fragile thing has just taken flight. But tonight, wrapped in Jay’s arms with evidence of his affection on your swollen lips and flushed cheeks and somewhere deep within your heart, happiness feels like it might not be so terribly out of reach as you once thought. 

….. 

You wake to sunlight. Beneath your cheek, Jay’s heartbeat is steady, even. 

He feels you stir, arm adjusting as you come to. 

“Good morning,” he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss against the crown of your head. 

“Mm,” you hum, still trying to shake the lingering sleepiness from your mind. The events of the previous night come back to you. The restaurant, the beach. Kissing Jay, falling asleep next to him, in his arms. 

You wait for the wave of regret to crash over you like a tidal wave. But it never comes. Instead, you squint at the sunlight streaming in through the window. 

“What time is it?” you ask. 

“Almost noon,” Jay tells you. That surprises you. You can’t remember the last time you slept past eight. It also affirms your dread. “We’ll have to leave soon.”

You nod, pulling yourself up to a sitting position. 

The coming week is not one you’re rushing to get back to. Your next round of treatment starts tomorrow, which means Sunoo and your mother will be on their way back as well. You’re excited to see them, of course, but…

Glancing down at where Jay is still splayed across the sheets, you sigh. You’re not ready to leave this behind you. 

Again, you decide gratitude is in order. “Thank you, Jay,” you tell him again. “For everything. I can’t believe I actually got to come here.” Looking around, it still feels too good to be true. “I never thought I’d actually get to see the beach, to do all those things on my bucket list.”

Jay smiles up at you, a soft warm thing. “All that’s left now is the northern lights.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “That’s not going to happen. It’s okay, though. I crossed it off the same night I wrote it. It’s not an actual part of the list.”

“Mm,” Jay hums, but something in his expression tells you he’s not going to let it go so easily. 

“Besides,” you argue, changing the subject. “I also haven’t technically kissed a stranger.”

At that, Jay’s lips pull into a flat line. “I’m a stranger enough,” he grumbles. 

“Are you sure?” you ask, something sly in your gaze. It’s fun to tease him like this, you think. There’s something horribly endearing about watching him get sulky. “I don’t think it would be very safe or responsible of me to agree to spend the night in a new city with a stranger—”

Jay’s movement is so sudden it nearly has your heart jumping out of your throat. In one sweeping motion, he rises from his position against the pillows, hands on your shoulders until you’re the one beneath him.

Flat on your back, head on the pillows, he hovers above you. 

“Hi,” he breathes, gaze falling from your eyes to your lips. “My name is Jay. Nice to meet you.”

“Jay, what are you—”

“Shh,” he shushes above you. “I’m a stranger.” 

There’s a gleam in his eyes, a giggle on your lips from the absurdity of it all that dies as he lowers himself. Slowly, but with intention.

All the way until his lips find yours. Like the night before, it’s slow at first. Gentle, searching, like he’s afraid you'll evaporate beneath him.

Under him, you sigh. He swallows the sound. For a moment, his lips are slack against yours. Just there, breathing. 

Then, he renews his efforts. Jay is more insistent this time as his lips find yours with a renowned fervence. 

You do your best to keep up, breath becoming more shallow with every passing second. You're having a hard time catching it until Jay decides he finds the space just beneath your ear fascinating and redirects his attention there.

Your heart beats traitorously in your chest. Sighing, singing, yearning even though you promised yourself yesterday that you would maintain distance. 

You sigh, out loud this time, hands splaying against his chest as his mouth works against your throat, fingers coming to your jaw as he angles you to his liking. 

Moments bleed to minutes until enough sense comes back to you to remember that a world does exist outside the two of you. That the time is only getting later. 

“Jay,” you sigh, just as reluctant to let go as he is. When the sound of his name seems to do nothing but encourage him further, you try again. “Jay.”

This time, he pulls back from you, only slightly. Just enough to meet your reluctant gaze.

Lips swollen, hair messy where your fingers ran through it, you have half a mind to just pull him back down to you. 

“It’s almost noon,” you remind him. By now, the hour has probably arrived.

“Yeah,” he agrees, breath ragged where he looks down at you. “Yeah,” he repeats, closing his eyes. “You’re right.”

But Jay seems to feel the same reluctance plaguing you. His movement is just as slow as yours as he begins to pack up his belongings, just as hesitant as you feel when he tells you the car is ready. 

When you slide down into the passenger seat next to him this time, he waits for a moment before starting the engine. 

Glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, he hesitates for a moment. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was nervous. After everything, it seems almost laughable. 

 But his voice shakes a little when he finally says, “I have something for you.”

Another gift? You almost want to refuse, just based on the principle of it all.

“It’s nothing big,” he adds. “Just…” His words trail off as he reaches into his pocket, retrieving a small heart-shaped stone. “Here,” he holds it out to you. “For your collection,” he explains. 

A confused furrow builds between your brows. Taking it, you ask, “My collection?”

Jay nods. “Didn’t you say you used to collect rocks when you were younger?” Pausing, a flicker of doubt crosses his features. “I swear you mentioned it on the drive over.”

You did. But it was such a minute detail, such an offhanded comment that you hardly remember it. You certainly never expected him to. 

And you might not have added any rocks to your collection since you were seven years old, might not even know where any of your tiny treasures ended up, but that’s not the point. 

The point is that he cared enough to listen. To remember. To think of you while he walked down the beach and stumbled across a rock shaped like a heart. To pick it up and slide it into his pocket thinking that you might like it, that it might feed that same youthful delight that made you start your collection in the first place. 

If the last two days are nothing but an illusion, Jay has just made it a million times harder to let go of. 

You run your finger around the worn edges of the rock. It really does look like a heart. Then, you set it down on your lap, your smile holding steady as he pulls out of the driveway. 

Even later, once you’re back on the road, this still feels a little bit like a world that belongs to only the two of you. That neither of you are quite ready to say goodbye to. 

The illusion holds steady on backroads and down highways, all the way until you’re nearly back to the hospital when the buzzing of your phone breaks through the quiet. 

Pulling it out, you glance at the called ID. 

“Who is it?” Jay asks. 

“Sunoo,” you tell him before answering. “Hello?” you say into the receiver. 

“____.” Sunoo says your name on the other end. “Where are you?”

In your sudden scramble to answer, you don’t realize how strange of a question it is for him to be asking in the first place. 

Immediately, you suppose the most believable response is—

“Just at the hospital,” you tell him, trying to disguise the telltale lilt to your voice that always comes out when you lie. 

Jay turns to you, a question in his gaze. You shrug in response. 

“Really?” Even through the phone, your brother’s voice has a strange edge to it.

“Yes, really,” you tell him, trying not to let the speaker pick up on too much of your nervous laughter. “Where else would I be?” 

“I don’t know,” Sunoo says, “But I’m at the hospital right now.” The ice cold shock of dread that pools in your stomach is immediate. “I managed to get an extra day off, so I came early. I wanted to surprise you,” he adds, every new word making you feel like you’ve suddenly been submerged in ice.

“But when I got here,” he continues, “Hana said you weren’t here. She said you left for a couple of days.”

Your pulse spikes. You have no idea how you’re going to justify this, what excuse you could possibly come up with—

Sunoo deals his last card. “With your boyfriend.”

…..

The scene in front of you would be comical if Sunoo’s scrutinizing glare wasn’t also pointed in your direction. 

Thankfully, it’s now focused, and rather intensely at that, on Jay, who sits at your side. He shifts uncomfortably and the tiny motion has his arm brushing against yours. Just barely, but it’s enough.

Sunoo tracks the movement with a frown.

“So, you’re not dating?” He asks again, eyes narrowed like he still doesn’t believe you. 

“No,” you shake your head.

Unbidden, you remember the feel of his arms around you this morning when you woke to sunlight. The press of his lips against—

No. This is hardly the time and certainly not the place. 

“Then why did Hana say you are?” Sunoo asks.

Hana. Of course. That stupid assumption neither of you ever bothered to correct, all the way back before any of this really started. Before you made your deal, before you understood the consequences of it.

You shrug, doing your best to feign nonchalance. “She must have misunderstood. Jay is my…” you trail off, suddenly unsure how to finish the sentence. After another beat of silence, you settle on, “friend. We’re in the same major, and we have some classes together.”

I owe him more than I can even begin to describe. The words remain unsaid, but they hang distractingly in the air between you and the boy at your side. 

“You never mentioned him.” Sunoo frowns. 

“It’s new,” Jay says, finally breaking his silence. “We ended up sitting next to each other in class this semester.”

At that, Sunoo’s brow only arches higher. “New,” he echoes, “but you went on an overnight trip together somewhere hours away?”

“I mean, these aren’t exactly normal circumstances,” you point out. “Yes, I suppose most people would wait longer, but…” Your words trail off, the obvious implication lingering in the air.

“Right.” Sunoo nods, lips suddenly tight. He tilts his head for a moment, considering. Then, a moment later, he turns to the man at your side. “Jay, was it?”

Jay nods, eyes widening slightly from the direct address. “Yeah.”

“I suppose it’s a little late for introductions, but I’m Sunoo.”

“I know.” Jay nods. “She’s told me about you.”

“Mm,” Sunoo hums. You don’t think you’re imagining the way he sits up a bit straighter. It’d be funny if it weren’t so embarrassing—the sight of your brother, sweet, gentle Sunoo, trying to look intimidating. Turning back to you, he says, “Well, I was about to see if you wanted to get lunch. Somewhere other than the hospital cafeteria this time.” He pauses, glancing at the clock. “Although I suppose it’s closer to dinner time now.” You think you must be hearing things when he looks at Jay again and asks, “Would you like to join us?”

If he’s as surprised as you are, Jay hides it well. You only catch a flicker of it, some unnamed emotion that crosses his features, before he nods. Once, slowly.

Then, once the idea has a moment to settle, he tells Sunoo, “I’d like that.”

Dinner is a quiet affair at first. 

Sunoo’s probing questions get one word answers at best, and you and Jay make a mission of avoiding as much eye contact as possible. 

“Okay,” Sunoo finally says after another ten minutes of uncomfortable silence. “I believe you. You’re not dating. Actually I’m starting to wonder if the two of you even like each other.”

An assumption that’s probably safer, even if the sudden memory of Jay’s bed this morning begs to differ. 

You sigh. “Sorry, Sunoo,” you apologize. “It’s just…” you glance at Jay then back to your brother. “It’s awkward.” 

“Right,” Sunoo nods. “Which is why we’re at dinner. To get to know each other. To make it less awkward.”

But between the three of you, Sunoo seems to be the only one blessed with the gift of easy conversation and small talk. 

To his credit, Jay tries. He answers Sunoo’s questions about his classes and his hobbies and his interests outside of school.

But when the food comes, he winces slightly when he bites into the steak he ordered. A minuscule movement that's gone as quick as it comes, but Sunoo notices.

“What’s wrong?” He asks. “It’s not good?”

“No,” Jay shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” Sunoo raises a brow. 

“Good,” Jay clarifies. “It tastes good.”

“You winced.”

“I didn’t,” Jay lies. “I just…”

“Winced,” Sunoo supplies again. 

Jay hesitates for a moment. Then he admits, “It is good. Really. It’s just a little dry.”

To both of your surprise, Sunoo nods enthusiastically. “Right?” He agrees. “I thought so, too. I’ve been researching common restaurant steak preparation methods lately. I feel like this was probably pan seared, but the heat was too high. That’s why—“

“It’s so dry,” Jay finishes for him, leaning forward slightly. “Yeah, you have to be careful when you’re searing. It’s always better to go low and slow, but the dinner rush doesn’t always leave enough time for the perfect sear.”

Watching their conversation unfold, you’d roll your eyes if you didn’t feel such a strong flash of unadulterated relief surge through you.

It would seem that the two of them have found common ground. From there, the awkward silence is anything but.

And it seems Jay was afflicted with false modesty when he told you his mom only taught him a little bit in the kitchen. Sunoo spends the rest of the evening picking Jay’s brain about different recipes and cooking techniques, all of which he seems to be intimately familiar with. 

You’d be surprised if you didn’t know him better, if you weren’t already aware of how obsessive he is about things that interest him. 

So instead, you breathe a sigh of relief. Suddenly, all the effort you put into keeping them from each other feels a little silly. Of course you still have no intention of letting your brother know about the deal you made, but watching the two of them talk together, you wonder if your fear of letting your family get to know more about your life was misplaced.

Jay, despite the rather unorthodox start of your friendship, seems to fit in just fine.  

Even if cooking is the only common denominator they’ve established so far, there’s something heartwarming about it. 

Something that makes you smile as you watch them go back and forth, debating spices and wine pairing and the merits of various cooking oils. 

Not for the first time, you wish things were different. That the circumstances that brought the three of you together today weren’t shrouded in secrecy. In that terrible, looming weight of your illness. 

You wonder what it would be like, under normal circumstances, to introduce the two of them. 

Maybe, you think, in this fantasy world, Sunoo’s assumption would have been correct. Maybe there wouldn't have been anything holding you back from saying yes to good things that come your way and returning affection like it’s second nature. 

Maybe, just maybe, Jay would be fighting for a different kind of approval from your brother. 

Not as your friend, not as your classmate. 

Maybe he’d be fidgeting in his seat for a different reason entirely. Trying to earn the respect and good faith of your family as your boyfriend instead of one half of a bargain you made in secret.

At first, the thought makes you smile.

Then, it makes your heart clench, sends a deep, resonant ache scattering through your bones. Then, it makes you feel a little bit like crying.

…..

Your second round of treatment begins the same morning dew freezes on the leaves just outside the window of your hospital room. 

It’s winter now. The unmistakable chill in the air is evidence enough.

Sunoo and your mother visit again, both of your hands enclosed in theirs while Doctor Kim settles the IV into place. You know what to expect now. You understand the fatigue that will follow, the wide array of symptoms that you’ll be likely to experience for the next week.

It doesn’t make it easier, not exactly, but there is a small sense of comfort in facing the known. In familiary, even if it isn’t pleasant.

And this time, Jay didn’t make himself scarce upon the arrival of your family. Instead, he greeted Sunoo with a nod and looked into your mother’s eyes while he shook her hand and introduced himself. 

When he turns to say hello to Hana, your mother mouths at you behind her hand with wide eyes and an approving smile, “He’s handsome.”

You wave her off with a glare. Sunoo just laughs, feigning some lie about a joke he suddenly remembered when Jay asks him what’s funny. 

It feels good to have them all here with you, even if it’s only for now. Your mother and Sunoo will have to return home for a few days, but until then, you’ll cherish your time together. 

Life passes similar to the way it did with your first treatment cycle. You sleep. You eat. You talk with your family, with Jay. You try reading and abandon it when your head starts to throb. Try knitting and set the needles to the side when your beginner’s mistakes make you feel more frustrated than entertained. 

Then, one afternoon, you’re disturbed from a light, restless sleep with a knock at your door.

You know it’s not your family, who left this morning with teary eyes and promises to return this coming weekend. You know it’s not Jay, who’s currently sitting in his least favorite lecture, if the string of angry emojis he sent you fifteen minutes ago are anything to go by.

Hana told you she would check on you this evening around dinner, which a glance at the clock confirms is still hours away. 

A frown creases your brow. Besides them, you haven’t had any other visitors. 

Despite your confusion, you manage a weak, “Come in.”

Then, the door to your room opens slowly, and through it, enters a man.

Tall, polished, and clean with an undeniable aura of refinement, you’re sure you’ve never seen him before. Although, the longer you look, the more he starts to bear a certain resemblance to…

The breath that passes your lips in a shaky exhale is involuntary.

If the boy you know were older, sharper, crueler, then the man making his way towards you would be nearly identical to Jay.

“Miss ___,” he breaks the silence as he comes to stand at the foot of your bed. His voice is cold, even. “I’ve been hoping to make your acquaintance.”

Your position, lying flat against your pillows, suddenly feels like humiliation. A stark contrast of the differences between you and him. As if his gaze is an assessment you’re failing horribly. Gritting your teeth through the exertion, you push yourself up into a sitting position.

“Forgive me,” you manage, voice more strained than you hoped. “Have we met before?”

The man just shakes his head. A smile crosses his lips, but there’s no warmth in it. No reassurance. Instead, it makes the temperature of the room suddenly feel ten degrees cooler. 

You suppress a shiver.

“No, I don’t believe we have. Forgive my lack of manners. I won’t waste your time, Miss ____. I can see that you’re rather…” He trails off, eyes flickering between the IV bag attached to your arm and vitals monitor at your side, “occupied,” he finishes.

Then, meeting your eye again, he confirms your worst suspicions. “I’m Park Jongseong’s father.”

Immediately, your head swims. Why is he here? What does he want with you?

True to his word, at least, he doesn’t leave you in the dark for long. 

“Tell me,” he says, voice slippery as it weaves around your ears. “What exactly is the nature of your relationship with my son?”

Your lips press together. You haven’t learned much about Jay’s father, but nearly everything you know paints him in a rather unfavorable light. This current interaction included.

The contrast between him and his son is stark, you think. They both have a certain air to them, a brand of untouchableness that comes with money and practiced grace. But where Jay has learned to bend the unbreakable until it soothes like something soft, his father has only become more rigid.

In your hospital bed, you feel all of two feet tall. It pains something deep within you to admit it, but you’re suddenly terrified. 

Steeling your resolve, you do your best to keep your fear from becoming too apparent. 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” you tell him, with far more self-assurance than you feel. 

A shadow crosses his features. “I suppose it’s not,” he drawls, “but I think you’ll agree I’m well within my right to question my own family’s financials.”

Slowly, he walks closer to you, all the way until he stands just in front of your bedside table. From his suit pocket, he pulls a small stack of papers. One by one, he lays them on the surface, tongue clicking in disapproval.

The sound of paper brushing the table top is no louder than a pin drop. In the silence of your hospital room, it’s deafening. 

“What are those?” you ask.

“Bills.” He returns his stare to you, eyes even colder than before. “Settled by the trust fund my son shouldn’t even have access to yet. Tell me, have your professors ever covered the potential consequences of forgery in your courses?”

You don’t understand what this is. You don’t understand how he even found you, how he knows that you and Jay are classmates. Why he’s asking all these questions. 

“I didn’t forge anything,” you defend.

“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t. I suppose that’s a conversation to be had with my son. Forgery, however, was done on your behalf. I’d like to know why.”

You press your lips together tighter. 

Jay’s father sighs, like he expected your refusal. “Then again, I don’t really need to know, I suppose. I could just as easily sue for misuse of funds. I’d be more than happy to pass the invoices along to you and your mother. Or your brother, if you prefer. Sunoo, was it?”

At the sound of your brother’s name, your blood runs cold. 

You can’t help yourself then. “How do you—”

“I’m well-versed in due diligence, Miss ___. I know everything I need to know about you and your family. They’ve worked themselves into quite a bit of debt, haven’t they? Medical, mostly. Tell me, how are profits at the restaurant these days?”

At that, you look down, eyes suddenly stinging. It’s one of your least favorite things, the way your frustration so easily builds to tears. You won’t let them fall now, though. Even if every word is like a knife on skin. And you certainly won’t let him see. 

“So, you see, Miss ____,” he starts again, voice deceptively soft. “I know everything I need to know about you. Except, of course, the nature of your relationship with my son.”

“We’re classmates,” you work out through gritted teeth. 

He shakes his head. “Classmates don’t cover hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of medical debt with their personal trust funds. They don’t forge their father’s signature to gain access to it prematurely. Do you have something on him? Did he do something to you—”

It nearly makes you shake with rage, the casual insinuation that Jay would in some way hurt you, that he would use money to shut you up. The cold, clinical detachment with which his father discusses the conclusion he finds most logical. The obvious way with which he so easily misjudges his own son’s character.

“No,” you shake your head. You can’t let anyone, even him, follow that train of thought for even a second longer. “Nothing like that.”

He sighs again. “Very well. If you won’t be forthcoming, then I’ll cut to the chase. How much money did he offer you?”

You shake your head, “He didn—”

“Whatever it is, I’ll triple it.” His words slice through the air like a knife, send a shock of cold careening down the length of your spine. “I can change your life, Miss ___. The restaurant debt, the medical bills, they can all disappear. Just like,” he snaps his fingers, “that.”

At that, your lips part, exhale shaky like your gasping for breath. Your heart is suddenly in your throat. 

“And in return,” he continues, “you’ll agree to never contact my son again. You won’t speak to him. You won’t see him in person. You won’t communicate with him in any way, shape, or form. You’ll also need to sign a nondisclosure agreement, in regards to this conversation, my offer, and any previous relationship you held with my son.”

Immediately, your blood runs cold. It’s as if you’ve been submerged in water, hearing everything in distorted, distant waves. 

Money. Enough money. So much fucking money that everything you’ve been desperately clinging onto by your fingertips is suddenly within reach. 

Your mother could finally rest. Sunoo could quit all of his part-time jobs and commit to becoming the restaurant owner of his dreams. Every tragedy that’s ever befallen you and your family could fade to a tiny, inconsequential blip. An unvisited memory instead of a knife over your head. 

And Jay…

It’s hard to summarize your feelings, hard to put a name to things that have just begun to bloom, difficult to label wings that have never truly taken flight. 

But what was your relationship with him if not a deal? A mutual agreement that benefits both sides. 

He’ll understand, you tell yourself. He studies the same principles that you’ve dedicated your undergraduate career to. He knows that when you’re presented with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, you’d be a fool not to take it. 

He’ll forgive you. He will. 

Still, something in you hesitates. The decision, even if obvious, is not one you’re ready to commit to just yet. 

Quietly, you tell him, “I need time.”

It’s stupid, you think. Even dirty money, misplaced hush money, whatever the hell you want to call this, has the power to change your life. To change Sunoo’s. Your family’s. 

For them, you can do it. You can ignore the discomfort gnawing at your gut, the guilt that’s begun to swirl with fervence. 

He sighs, the deepest breath yet, and then nods one. “You have twenty-four hours, Miss, ___. I’ll be back at the same time tomorrow. I hope you’ll consider your options carefully. Your resume is impressive, truly. You can have a bright future ahead of you, if you act accordingly. I trust you’ll make the correct decision.”

The correct decision. It’s so obvious. It has to be. 

Still, as soon as the door clicks shut behind him, the most prominent of your emotions is doubt. 

It’s like you’re spitting on it, part of you pleads. All those years of effort, everything you sacrificed. Are you really willing to bury it all ten feet under just to take the easy way out?

But another part of you can already see the future, painted with previously unreachable possibilities. Why should you have to struggle? Why shouldn’t you take the easy way out?

Is it a moral failing or simply, as Jay’s father called it, the correct decision?

The headache that begins to build at the base of your skull doesn’t ebb in slowly. The onset is sudden, but it spreads with a vengeance, all the way through to your temple. 

Wincing, you reach for the water on your bedside table, pointedly ignoring the stack of bills still laying there like an accusation. 

Maybe, you think, through the haze that’s beginning to cloud your mind, maybe Jay will be grateful not to have you as his responsibility anymore. 

The argument sounds weak even to your own ears. It’s been a long time since you felt like a burden to Jay. Mostly because he spends every second of his time with you insisting on the opposite. 

Still, he’s not immune to rose colored glasses of his own. Maybe this is for the best. A clean break. 

He can stop worrying about you and use his trust fund to add another car to his collection instead. He’ll move on quickly, you’re sure. People like him always do. With a plethora of distractions at his fingertips, it won’t take him long to find a new source of entertainment. 

But even that train of thought will have to wait for later. 

Wincing again, your eyes shutter closed as another throbbing wave of pain circulates your skull. This one feels different from before. Sharper. Glancing at the call button next to the IV stand, you consider it for a moment. 

Hana did tell you to call her if you felt any unusual discomfort after all. 

Biting at your bottom lip, you can’t quite commit to it. She’s probably busy, you reason. Besides, this will pass. Your headaches always do. 

But as another wave of intense, narrowed pain vibrates between your ears, a tiny whimper escapes your lips. 

This time, your vision starts to swim with it, black spots crowding in at the edges. You feel dizzy all of a sudden, disoriented. Forcing air in between your teeth, even that action feels labored.

Reaching towards the call button again, you decide that this is worth Hana’s attention. But before your fingers can close around in, the dark spots in your vision become wider, as if they’re searching for light to swallow.

You feel your head loll forward. Once, twice, until the darkness feels less like a threat and more like an invitation. 

With your fingers halfway between you and the call button, a stack of bills on your bedside table, and an unmade decision waging war in your mind, the world around you goes dark. 

…..

There is no sensation in unconsciousness. 

You don’t feel Hana’s fingers on your pulse nearly an hour later, don’t hear Doctor Kim’s urgent instructions as a team of nurses check your vitals. 

You don’t feel the warmth of Sunoo’s hand against yours as he keeps vigil at your bedside, praying to whoever might be listening that you’ll wake up. 

You don’t feel the damp impact of your mother’s tears as she leans over you, don’t hear the quiet, choked sobs she releases in the somber silence of your hospital room. 

And you certainly don’t hear Jay enter quietly, hands tucked behind his back like a child attempting a surprise. You don’t see the ways his eyebrows furrow when he takes you in, don’t see the way panic claws at his throat, plays across his features when he sees how pale, how fragile you look. 

You don’t hear the way he exhales roughly when Hana finds him there, motionless. When she explains that you’ve been asleep, unconscious, for the better part of a day now. 

Don’t hear his panicked questions or her carefully controlled but undoubtedly sorrowful answers. 

You don’t see the way the two pieces of paper he’d been holding behind his back slip from his fingers, don’t hear the muted impact as they brush against the linoleum floor. 

Don’t see the way he picks them up again silently, tucking them into his pocket with all the composure he has left. 

Don’t feel his hands against your forehead, smoothing hair out of your face as his expression breaks, angry, hot tears rolling down his cheeks in the silence. 

You don’t see the way Sunoo finds him like that, pausing for a moment before he lays a palm against his shoulder, a silent consolation. 

“Jay,” he finally says, breaking the silence after a long moment. “I know this isn’t the time, but…”

Jay turns to your brother, eyes shadowed, face still crumpled. Next to him, Sunoo is equally hollow. The worry plays out across his features plain as day as he glances at you.

“But what?” Jay echoes, voice as hollow as he feels. 

Sunoo sighs. “These were on her bedside, when Hana called us here. After she found her…” he trails off. The sight of you unconscious is enough to fill in the blanks. Jay doesn’t need to hear him call a spade a spade. 

Lips dry, Jay’s mouth parts with more effort that it should. He frowns at the stack of papers in Sunoo’s hands, still half hidden between his fingers. “What are those?”

“Hospital bills.” He casts a look at Jay. Weighted, meaningful. Not accusatory, but leaden with something that carries a similar connotation. “Settled ones. In your name.”

Jay’s lips part, preparing for an explanation that his mind still hasn’t managed to conjure. 

Sunoo sighs. “Look, I don’t know exactly what’s going on. Here,” he nods to the bills, “or between the two of you. But my mom was told that expenses were being covered under a special university fund. If something else is happening, then…”

“It’s hard to explain,” Jay mumbles. 

“Right.” Sunoo’s gaze is a bit more pointed now. “But you’re going to have to. You’ve given me no reason not to like you, but this amount of money doesn’t come for free. If my sister is being pressured into anything, then—”

“No,” Jay shakes his head. “No, it’s nothing like that.” He takes a breath. “We… we made a deal.”

“A deal,” Sunoo echoes flatly. 

Jay nods. “My family has money. I found out by chance that she was sick. And connected enough dots to realize she wasn’t planning to tell anyone about it, that she wasn’t planning to get treatment.”

“What?” Sunoo’s expression falls, brows slack. “Why?”

“It’s not my place to say, but I think she was scared. She didn’t want to be a burden.”

“She’s not a burden.”

“I know.” Jay nods. “Which is why I offered.”

“That’s still…” He looks uncertain. “You said you made a deal,” Sunoo reminds him. “What did she give you?”

“First rank in our class,” Jay admits. He laughs, a humorless thing. “Not that it matters. I could come dead last for all I care, but it was the only way I could think of to get her to agree.” He casts a glance down at you, as if he expects to find anything other than your expressionless face. “To let me handle it.”

Sunoo is quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, he looks directly at Jay. “And the two of you are…”

Jay shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “We never talked about it. I think she’d bite my head off if I tried to ask her.” He smiles, a distinct edge of sorrow to it. “But I care about her. More than I could ever say.”

“Then why did you bring these here?” Sunoo gestures towards the bills still tucked between his fingers. 

“I didn’t.” Jay shakes his head. “I would never—” He sighs, letting the declaration fade. His anger is misplaced. Sunoo is hurting too and doesn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of it. “Those aren’t from me.”

Sunoo’s brow furrows. “Then who did?”

Jay isn’t sure. Not entirely. But he has a suspicion that’s starting to form. That has his vision going redder with every passing second, fingers curling into fists at his sides. 

His lips pull into a thin line, jaw setting in determination. “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

Jay’s childhood home is hardly deserving of the name. 

Full of more carefully curated art pieces than family photos, it feels more like a museum than a home. 

He’s lived in his own apartment since he started undergrad for a variety of reasons. It’s closer to campus, it gives him the space he needs to study effectively, it’s taught him valuable lessons about the responsibilities of home ownership. But more than anything, it’s given him space away from this—the oppressive perfection expected in every corner and crevice of this house. 

Jay doesn’t stop to reminisce on his childhood as he storms through the foyer, footsteps even but heavy. There’s not much fondness to be had, anyway. He spent more time with his nannies and tutors than he ever did with his father. 

His mother tried, but even the most noble of efforts are often strangled under the crushing weight of reality. She had her own responsibilities and appearances to upkeep. And Jay, although loved, was often left in the dust. 

His father was a different story. He didn’t call upon his son or pay him any attention unless he thought there was a lesson to be learned. He was relieved when Jay was born. A son meant he had an heir. They weren’t royalty, but corporations like the one he heads value blood and tradition in the same way. 

He had his legacy, and that was that. It didn’t matter that his wife had always dreamed of a big family. It didn’t matter that Jay was all alone in a room full of toys with no one to share them with. 

His father made it clear from before he took his first steps. Jay was, first and foremost, the heir to the company. Business would always come first. Always. 

Jay didn’t get to choose his own clothes or friends or hobbies. Children can’t be trusted to make decisions, and his father knew best. 

He wasn’t allowed to finish second in anything or misspeak or do anything that could potentially tarnish the last name he was born with. He didn’t get to decide if he was competitive or self-motivated or ambitious. He was expected to be; he had to be, to survive. Jay’s entire life was a construction of someone else’s making. 

And even when he did well, rose to every expectation and impossible standard, even when he surpassed them, the most he ever got from his father was a mildly pleased nod.

Never a thank you. Never a congratulations. Never a well done. 

Just the same lack of admonition he watched his father use with his least hated subordinates. 

Of course Jay escaped his golden cage the second he could. Even if the responsibilities and expectations remained, at least now he had a place to curse them in peace. 

Jay hasn’t been back to his father’s house since his presence was required at the last family dinner, and that was nearly three months ago. Still, he walks the hallways with certainty. He remembers where everything is. He has a feeling he always will, no matter how much time passes. 

He turns past the second-floor kitchen and follows the curve of the hallway all the way to the end where he knows his father’s home office stands just as solitary as ever. A home office, because the actual office he already spent nearly every waking hour in apparently wasn’t enough. 

Jay wraps his hand around the handle, and without any fanfare or announcement, barges right in. 

Across from the rich, mahogany desk, his father quirks an eyebrow at him. 

“Surely you haven’t been out of good society long enough to forget all of your manners,” he drawls, voice even. “You were raised to knock.”

Jay ignores him. Instead, he steps forward, slamming the stack of bills from your hospital room on his father’s desk. The force sends them scattering across the surface, one falling to the floor in his rage. 

Neither man bothers to pick it up. 

“What the fuck is this?” Jay fumes. 

At that, his father’s expression turns sharp. “I don’t know what you came here intending to do, but you are my son, and you will remember yourself. You will not come into my home, into my office, and curse at me.”

Jay’s eyebrows pinch together. Again, without the profanity, he repeats, “What is this?”

His father casts the bills a scathing glance, as if they’re little more than a buzzing fly. An annoyance he’d rather be rid of. “I should be asking the same to you.”

Jay’s lips part, shoulders tense as he tries to piece it together. “Why did you— How did you even—”

“Again,” his father interrupts, with the same cold detachment of a dictator, “I should be asking you. Luckily, our investment firm has quite good security cameras. Tell me,” he drawls, “how long did it take you to learn to forge my signature?”

Even standing above him, Jay suddenly feels like a child again. All of four feet tall. Begging for scraps of his father’s approval, his attention. 

But even caught red handed, he won’t back down. “It’s my money,” Jay argues.

His father shakes his head. “It’s not, actually. Not in any sense of the law. Not until you’re twenty-five. And even that’s operating under the assumption that you’ve been formally initiated into the company. Something that I fear is becoming less likely with every… questionable decision you make.”

Jay does his best to keep his expression blank, even as the fury threatens to boil over in his chest. “Saving a life is questionable?”

His father all but rolls his eyes. “There are charities if you’ve suddenly developed a bleeding heart. Reputable ones. Take your pick, and I’ll have our publicist set up a photo opportunity—”

“I know her.” Jay’s breath is erratic now, even as he tries to control it. He sounds like he’s run a marathon. “She’s my… she’s my classmate. And she was going to die.”

In the stillness of his father’s office, the truth feels unbearable. Jay hates it, resents the way even something as tragic as death can’t seem to shake his father into something resembling empathy. 

“That’s precisely the problem,” he says, with all the cold calculation of a businessman looking to cut his losses. “It’s personal. And you didn’t even take proper precautions. No contract, no non-disclosure agreement… You’ve made yourself into a liability.”

Jay shakes his head. There have to be exceptions, even to the best kept rules. “She’s not going to tell anyone. She’s the one who begged me to keep it a secret—”

“For now,” his father interrupts again, voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “But what happens when she realizes just how easy it is to extort money from you? When she threatens to take her story, real or fabricated, to the press unless you cough up another thousand? Another ten thousand? Another million?  When she posts something incriminating on social media and we lose half of our shareholders for it?” His eyes hold nothing but disdain when he reminds, “All from your carelessness.”

Jay realizes then that he can argue until he’s blue in the face. He can search for shreds of his father’s humanity for as long as he wants. He won’t find them here.

He asks the question that’s been dangling at his fingertips since the beginning. “So I should have let her die?”

His father sighs. “You should have spoken with me first—”

“You would have said no.”

He doesn’t deny it. “I would have acted in the best interest of this family.”

Jay scoffs, no humor in it. “This company, you mean.”

“One day you’ll understand that the line between them is not so strong as you thought.” When he looks at Jay now, his gaze is evaluative. Disappointed, as if he’s failed some test. “For now, you don’t. Which is why you aren’t yet burdened with decisions regarding our philanthropy.”

“So I’ll ask you again.” Jay won’t let it go so easily. Won’t let him wrap cruelty in niceties. “I should have just let her die?”

But his response is even crueler. “From the looks of it, she’s going to anyway. How long has she been unresponsive now? A day?”

The quiet, mangled sound that escapes Jay’s throat is involuntary. The reminder of your current state, the thought of his father keeping tabs on you, makes him feel ill. “How do you—”

“Don’t act surprised,” he scoffs. “You decided to involve our name. I have to stay informed now to clean up any potential fallout from the mess you’ve made.”

“And this was how you did it?” Jay gestures towards the scattered pile of bills. “Threatening her with medical bills you knew she could never pay?”

“I merely made her aware of the reality of the situation. Made my offer one she couldn’t refuse. I’m sure when,” he pauses, “if she wakes up,” he amends, “she’ll confirm our deal.”

Jay feels his blood run cold. “What fucking deal.” It’s not a question.

His fathers eyes turn sharp. “Watch your mouth. I won’t tell you again.”

“What,” Jay repeats, voice low, “deal.”

“Money, of course. What else?” He waves his hand flippantly. “It’s all people like that ever want.”

Jay flounders for a moment, scrambling to make sense of it. “You just berated me for giving money. How is this any different?”

“Because mine,” his father enunciates, “comes with stipulations. Protection.”

Jay can feel his heart starting to sink in his chest. He has his suspicions, but he has to be sure. “What are you talking about?”

“She’d have to sign a non-disclosure agreement, of course. She wouldn’t be allowed to speak of our agreement or any members of our family or company in private or public.” His eyes turn to his son. Assessing. “And you.”

“What about me?” Jay holds his breath. 

“She agreed to cut all contact with you. Any form of communication would immediately negate the contract.”

Jay falters, for just a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. “She agreed to that?”

His father watches the way his expression falls, lips tightening like he’s just confirmed a terrible suspicion. “I gave her a day to think it over. She lost consciousness before she could sign anything.”

But still. You’d considered it. You were willing to cut Jay completely from your life for whatever amount of money his father had offered you. 

The sudden punch to the gut must play out across Jay’s features. Across from him, his father scoffs. 

“Let this be a lesson,” he advises. “It’s always money. Always. No one can resist the way it glitters. Whatever… affections,” his voice wraps around the word like a sneer, “you hold for her clearly aren’t returned. Cut your losses, and move on. I’ll handle it from here.”

“Like hell—”

“You’re lucky you haven’t been stripped from your titles completely,” his voice is sharper now. More reprimand than conversation. “That I’m still giving you the opportunity for shareholder initiation at all. Let me be very clear, Park Jongseong, when I tell you that you’re very lucky you haven’t been disowned. I’d have done it already if your mother wouldn’t put up such a fight.”

Jay’s shoulders slump, fight draining from his body as reality begins to sink in around him. 

“You want to save that girl?” his father goads, “Then stay as far away from that hospital as you can. Focus on your studies.” And then, more mockery than reminder, “I expect great things from you.”

It’s his way of ending the conversation. Of reasserting their relative positions, his control over everything. 

Jay’s footsteps feel like defeat on the way out. A coward’s retreat. He feels as if he’s been backed into a corner with no way out. 

With fingers wrapped so tight around the steering wheel his knuckles have turned white, he thinks that the worst of all is that you’d agreed. Or had at least been close to it. Enough to not refuse his father outright. 

You were going to do it. To take the money. To cut Jay out of your life like none of this ever happened, like he was nothing to you. 

Like the time you spent together in lecture halls and hospital rooms and the passenger seat of his car was disposable. Worthless. 

Like the moments you shared in the secrecy of a beach house were easy to let go of. To move on from without so much as a goodbye. 

Despite his father’s assumptions, Jay is intimately aware of what money does to people. The way it warps them, the way it eats at every moral and standard and principle until they’ve rotted down to the bone. 

He knows it’s hardly fair for him to pass judgement. He’s never known the struggle of missed meals or eviction notices or irregular paychecks. 

He tries to understand why. And he lands on the only conclusion he can think of. You’re doing it for them, for your family. 

You haven’t told him everything, but you’ve told him enough. He can guess what it would mean to you—to them—to have all those worries disappear overnight. 

But it still…

It still fucking hurts. 

The thought that you’d so easily agree to just cutting him out of your life completely. He knows that whatever is building between the two or you is soon, it’s sudden. He doesn’t expect to be a priority, for the connection between you to supersede your dedication to your family. 

It makes him want to shout, to scream until his ears bleed. He’d give you the world if you’d let him. But you won’t. The most you’ll do is take reluctant fragments and feel guilty all the while. 

And now, with his father’s iron claws embedded into everything, Jay can’t so much as see you without jeopardizing the future you’ve abandoned him to ensure. 

But even those fears feel small in the face of reality. You’re unconscious. For over a day now. The doctors have you under constant monitoring. They’ve done everything they can think of, but you’re not waking up. 

You didn’t even get the three months you were promised.

Jay’s never studied medicine, but he knew what the look on Doctor Kim’s face meant when he saw him speaking to your mother in the hallway, understood that deep, resigned gaze when he stood over your hospital bed, adjusting the IV dripping into your arm. 

It was the face of a man who recognized what he saw. Who was looking at nothing more than a possibility he expected. Doctor Kim wasn’t surprised when you became unresponsive. Just sighed like he was worried it might come to this. 

But Jay can’t… he can’t quite wrap his head around it. 

There are so many things he wants to say to you, do with you. He wants to make some snide comment and watch you roll your eyes. He wants to take you out for coffee and suppress a smile when you let him hold your hand. 

He wants to hold you, wants to kiss you till you’re breathless. Wants to get caught in a rainstorm without an umbrella and laugh while both of your clothes get soaked through. Wants to wrap you in a blanket afterwards and fuss over drying your hair so you don’t catch a cold.

He wants to bring you to his apartment and cook you dinner. Wants to wake up with your head on his chest and his arm around your shoulders as he scatters tiny kisses against your hairline. 

He wants to watch you graduate, to earn that degree you worked so hard for. He wants to obnoxiously scream your name as you walk across the stage to accept your diploma, laughing at the way your cheeks flush red in embarrassment. 

He wants to watch you realize every last one of your dreams, wants to remind you how much you’re cared for, how capable you truly are, even on the days they seem impossible.

He wants, more than anything, to be given the chance to fall in love with you.

Mostly because he knows he’s already started to. 

He thinks of that night, back in his car, when you agreed to get treatment. When he watched the beginnings of hope bleed back into your eyes when you thought he wasn’t looking. 

When he realized it was never never altruism that made you hesitate. When he saw for himself that with every fiber of your being, you want to live. 

You have to live, he thinks. You have to. 

All of it, his father’s threats, your agreement to cut him out of your life, he can face it. He can. He can find a way for it to all be okay. 

You just have to live. 

Minutes later, alone in his bedroom with no one to bear witness but the expanse of his own four walls, Jay lets loose the tears that have been threatening his lash line the entire drive home. 

He cries, he sobs, deep, gut-wrenching, gasping. 

And when he reaches into his pocket, he finds it— the surprise he planned to give to you at the hospital earlier today. The two pieces of paper he’d picked back up off the hospital floor. It already feels like a lifetime ago.

Tickets. Plane tickets to Iceland. First class on a flight leaving in three weeks, right when the northern lights are projected to reach peak visibility. 

Helpless, he crumples them between his fingers, squeezing as tight as he can until they form an unidentifiable mass of jumbled letters and misplaced hope. 

Still sobbing, he hurls it at the wall across from him with enough force to put a hole in it.

But empty dreams are still empty. And paper is still paper.

The mangled plane tickets bounce harmlessly off his bedroom wall and fall to the ground in a silent heap.

…..

Life moves in patterns, cycles. 

And despite the unpredictability of it all, it always moves forward.

Days pass. Then weeks. Months. 

Jay knows better than to anger his father, but he also knows that nothing has been signed yet. There’s no agreement to violate. 

Winter sharpens its icy grip on the world, and he spends most days at your bedside. He talks to you, tells you about his day, about all the little things he wishes you could have seen too. 

He holds your hand, pulls your blanket a little more snug around your body whenever your fingers feel cold. Does his best to ignore the way they always feel cold. 

He talks to Sunoo, too. To your mother. Learns about their lives, about your place in them and their place in yours. He likes seeing you from their eyes, loves learning just how fiercely adored you are.

Sunoo rolls his eyes at an old memory, complaining but only half-heartedly, “She always babied me.” 

Reminiscing makes them laugh until it makes them cry. But whatever it is, it beats the hollow, empty feeling Jay goes home with most nights. 

December breaches the horizon, and the semester ends. Jay finishes first in the class, although most of it is due to the work he completed at the beginning of the semester. He’s been on the receiving end of more than a few conversations conveying concern for his more recent academic progress.

Your official leave of absence is given to the university, and one afternoon in early December, Professor Jung makes a visit to the hospital. When she finds Jay already sitting at your bedside, fingers interlaced together, all she does is raise an eyebrow. 

“Jay,” she greets, like she’s not entirely surprised. 

“Professor,” he returns, voice hoarse from overuse. 

The flowers she leaves are beautiful, truly to your taste. Jay tells her as much, and all she does is offer a knowing smile. 

“Take care of yourself,” she tells him. 

Jay spends Christmas with your family, eating food served from the hospital cafeteria. There have been three family dinners that he’s missed since the last conversation he had with his father, but his absence for the holiday is the most egregious of all. 

His mother calls him, and after staring at her name on his screen for several long seconds, he finally picks up on the sixth ring.

“Jay,” she tells him, voice full of admonishment and worry in the way only mothers can manage. “Come home. It’s Christmas.”

But Jay refuses to step foot in that house, refuses to look his father in the eye. To sit across from him like this holiday is some sort of celebration. To pretend that the blood that connects them is anything other than a formality. 

“Merry Christmas, Mom,” he whispers into the receiver, guilt rolling when he swears he hears her stifle a sob on the other end. But his mother is used to masking her emotions, and the sound is gone as quickly as it came. 

New Year’s passes, and Jay feels nothing. It doesn’t matter if the date’s last digit has changed. His life feels frozen, stuck in this hospital room. Watching you cling to the last fragments of life left in your body. Hoping against all odds, that today will be the day everyone’s agony can finally end. 

After all, hope is the only thing that’s left. Some days it feels like a bird with wings, ready to soar and fly and sing at the first sight of morning light. Some days it feels frayed around the edges. A torn, tattered thing threatening to dissolve at a moment’s notice. 

But it’s always there. Steady, constant. Alive. 

Slowly, winter begins to loosen its grip on the world. 

Scattered snowstorms turn to rain showers. Spring starts to take root. Jay sees flowers now, on his drive to the hospital. Sees some of the green returning to the trees that line the highway. 

Sunoo and him exchange recipes. Your mother notices the way he fidgets with his hands whenever he’s been sitting at your side for two long and teaches him how to crochet one quiet afternoon. 

Classes start again, and Jay’s mind is anywhere but textbooks. This is his last semester, and it should be a celebration. The end of a chapter, the segue to new beginnings. 

He’s been promised a place in his father’s company upon graduation for as long as he can remember. After their last conversation and his blatant dismissal of his father’s wishes, he’s not sure if the offer still stands, and he doesn’t care to ask. 

When he hounds Doctor Kim for updates, he just looks at Jay with that same resigned expression he’s come to resent. Like he’s seeing probabilities instead of you. “The same,” he always says, voice carefully controlled like he’s been practicing empathy all his life. “We’ll tell you if anything develops.”

Life continues like that, an endless cycle of days that feel repeated, until one Tuesday afternoon in early April. 

Jay is sitting in the library, waiting for his next class to start, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Retrieving it, he checks the caller ID only briefly before answering. 

“Sunoo,” he breathes into the receiver. 

“Jay,” he hears the younger boy say. “She…” his voice trails off for a moment. “Her finger twitched.”

“What?” Jay asks, even though he’s already sitting up straighter in his seat. Already shoving his laptop into his bag. 

“I was holding her hand earlier, and I squeezed her fingers, and she…” he pauses again. “I mean, it was weak, but I swear,” he emphasizes. “She squeezed back.”

Jay feels it then, for the first time in a long time, the kind of hope that feels like wings instead of a cage. 

“I’m on my way.”

You don’t wake up that afternoon, even with Jay, Sunoo, your mother, along with Doctor Kim and Hana, all practically sitting vigil around you. 

But nearly a week and a half later, you do. 

The light makes you squint. It’s too bright, and your eyes have been closed for… You’re not entirely sure.

Frowning, you reach for a memory, something to center yourself. Breakfast this morning, maybe. Dinner last night. A conversation with Sunoo or Jay or maybe Hana. 

Sunoo. Eyes squeezed shut, you search your mind for pieces of the familiar name. Your brother, you think. Sweet, gentle, younger than you. 

And Jay is a bit more disorienting. The emotions that surge at the sound of his name are more complicated, more difficult to sift through. There’s annoyance, frustration, emerald green envy, all tangled together with a strange, budding sense of affection. A deep, poignant gratitude. Bashfulness. Like a schoolgirl with a crush, you think. 

And Hana. She’s… she’s your nurse. Your nurse because you’re at the hospital. Because there’s a malignant tumor sitting just behind your heart. 

Suddenly, the gaps in memory feel terrifying. Why don’t you remember breakfast this morning? Why do you have the strangest, dizziest sense that time has passed without your permission?

Scanning your body, you try to make sense of it. There’s a distinct heaviness in your limbs. They feel exhausted, but not the kind that comes with exertion. No, it’s the kind that comes with disuse. 

Your throat feels as if someone has taken sandpaper to it. Almost painfully dry like it’s been months since you had a sip of water. 

And your head — the ache is dull, throbbing. Persistent against the front of your skull. Like someone is knocking from the inside, begging to be let out.

You don’t hear anything but the steady beep of something mechanical. The faint rush of blood from your own pulse in your ears. 

Slowly, you try to open your eyes again. It’s still bright, but if you squint, you can manage. 

To your left, the beeping becomes frantic for a moment before it evens out again. But it’s enough to draw attention. 

You hear it then, the quiet, desperate sound of your name. The scattered scuffle of footsteps against linoleum as multiple people rush to your bedside. 

A hand against both of yours, a palm against your forehead. 

“Call Hana,” you hear, intelligible even through the surge of emotion in the voice. “And Doctor Kim. Tell them she’s…” The voice trails off, a sob, a choked sound of elated disbelief breaking the sentence in two. “Tell them she’s awake.”

…..

Your memories return slowly, in disjointed fragments. 

Doctor Kim explains that it’s normal, that you’re lucky to be recovering your memories at all. 

There’s no accurate description for the kind of disorientation that comes with missing months of your own life, but you’re grateful to have people at your side who’ve made it their mission to do their best at filling in the gaps. 

For days, it’s enough to just listen. To your brother’s enthusiastic stories and your mother’s fond memories and Jay’s gentle retellings. It helps you to hear their perspective, to stack it against the reconstructions being built within your own mind. 

If your memories return slowly, then strength comes at a snail’s pace. It takes you nearly two days to sit up again, almost a week to walk. 

But you do. 

The flowers are blooming outside of your window, and even on cloudy days, sunlight slants across the linoleum floor in a way that’s almost beautiful.

One afternoon, nearly three weeks after you wake up, Doctor Kim comes with a clipboard and something that almost looks like a smile. 

“It’s working,” he tells you. “Better than before. You’ll be strong enough for surgery soon.” The final step in his treatment plan. Removing the tumor that sits just behind your heart. 

At your bedside, your mother and Sunoo all but collapse into one another, tears streaming as smiles overtake their features. 

Next to you, Jay interlaces your fingers with his, strokes gently with his thumb against the back of your hand. His eyes shine too, and when he looks down at you, you see hope in his smile. 

It’s rare these days for the two of you to find yourselves alone. But one spring morning, nearly five weeks after you regain consciousness, your mother and Sunoo have stepped out for a moment. 

And the last of your scattered memories have clicked back into place. 

“Jay,” you call gently, startling him from his handiwork. In the chair next to your bed, he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he works his crochet needles around a particularly difficult pattern. You haven’t told him yet how terribly endearing you find his new hobby. “What are you making?”

“Just a coaster.” He holds up the half-finished work so you can have a better look at it. “Your mom says I’m getting pretty good, though. She’s going to show me how to do dishcloths next.”

“Mm,” you hum, smiling. But there’s still something sitting heavy in your chest. After a moment, you ask, “Can we go for a walk?”

Jay’s eyes widen in surprise. “Are you up for that”

“I think so,” you nod. “We might have to go slow.”

It’s how you do everything these days, with a body that’s still learning to work again. 

Jay doesn’t mind. You have a feeling he’d crawl if you asked him to. “Slow is perfect,” he tells you.

The small garden just outside the hospital is bright with fresh blooms and morning sunlight. It reminds you of a beach house months ago. Of the time the two of you spent there, of everything that happened between you. 

It makes the beginnings of this conversation feel even more difficult to work out. 

“Jay,” you tell him, drawing in a long breath of fresh air. You hesitate for a moment, reluctant to break the peace between you. 

Jay just waits, patient as ever. 

“Last winter,” you continue, “right before I lost consciousness.” You pause. Inhale. “Your father came here, to the hospital. To see me.”

At your side, Jay’s exhale is audible. Then, he tells you, “I know.”

You turn to him, eyes wide. “You do? You never said…”

“Is it terrible if I say I was hoping you’d forget?” He smiles, but there’s no joy in it. “I was afraid if you remembered, then…”

Even as his words trail off, you an fill in the blanks well enough. “You know what he told me, then,” you say. “What he offered me.”

“Not specifically,” Jay shakes his head. “But enough.”

There’s no use hiding it then. No use prolonging it any further. Breathing deep, you gather the last of your courage, your honesty.

“I was going to tell him yes,” you say. At your side, Jay’s footsteps falter. Stopping, you turn back to face him. Eye contact is suddenly difficult to maintain, but you owe him that, at least. “For a moment, I was going to accept his offer. I told myself it was for the best. That you’d forgive me.”

Jay takes half a step closer to you. He shakes his head, hair loose across his forehead, scattering with the motion. “I wouldn’t,” he vows lowly. “I wouldn’t forgive you.”

“I know.” You nod. You do look down then, if only to admit, “I don’t think I could have forgiven myself either.” You meet his eye again, gaze glassy. “Not just because of you, although I’d be lying if I said that didn’t play a part.” 

You sigh, glancing at the flowers before you begin again. 

“My whole life, money has felt like a knife over my head,” you explain. “LIke sand between my fingers. There was never enough of it. I learned how to stop wanting things, to stop asking for things, to stop thinking I deserved things, because it made the truth a little easier to bear.”

You look at him again, trying to regain control over the emotions that threaten to rise. “But I’ve always wanted things. I wanted a better life for my family, of course, but there were so many other things, too. Stupid things, frivolous things. I wanted nicer bedsheets that didn’t feel so scratchy when I slept. I wanted a new computer that didn’t crash every time I had too many open tabs. I wanted nice clothes and pretty jewelry and to finally feel like I belonged in the world I worked so hard to fit into. When I looked at you, all I saw was everything I never had. I resented you for it. I was so horribly jealous of you for it.”

Jay’s eyes are shining now, too. But he doesn’t say anything. He just listens.

“And then,” you continue, “you swooped in with this deal like some knight in shining armor, and I think I hated that most of all. That I couldn’t just save myself. That I needed you, at least in some capacity, if I wanted to live. I never wanted someone to save me, and I certainly never wanted to depend on anyone else. It felt like debt. Like owing you something I could never repay. I was scared, too. Accepting help meant accepting the possibility that it could be taken away, and then I’d be right back where I started. Maybe even worse off. Losing hope is worse than never having it at all, I think.”

You pause for a moment to breathe, to gather your thoughts.

“And then your father visited me, and he promised me all this money. It felt… I don’t know. Safer, somehow. Because it felt like I was losing something, too. But then I thought about it and if I took that money from him… what would that make me? I’ve made it this far without it, haven’t I? I can do it.”

You nod, resolve steeling as you voice your thoughts out loud. “I almost died. But I’m not a victim. My life isn't some tragedy. It’s just my life. There are hard things and good things and everything in between. But if I took that money from him, I’d become a victim. One of my own making. Someone that abandons people they care about and has to resort to underhanded deals just for the easy way out. That’s not me. It never has been.”

You look down at your sleeve, tugging at the hemline as doubts start to take shape in your mind. “I don’t know if it’s stupid. I don’t know if I’ll regret it. But I know that if I took that money, I wouldn’t be able to look Sunoo in the eye even if I gave him the restaurant of his dreams. I wouldn’t be able to tell my mother to rest without the words tasting bitter in my mouth. And,” you look back up at him. “I would miss you. So much. More than I even think I understand.”

You bite at your bottom lip, as if the slight, sharp pain will distract from the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes.

“I can struggle. I can. I have and I will again. But I can’t lose myself. I refuse to change everything about me. Although,” you consider voice losing its edge as something lighter seeps into it, “there are a few changes I have been thinking of making.”

“Really?” Jay asks. His voice is rough as he breaks his silence, scraped raw. “Like what?”

“Well,” you tilt your head, a quivering smile crossing your lips. “For starters, I think it might be nice to have a friend.”

“A friend?” He echoes.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Who knows?” you shrug. “Maybe I’ll even get really crazy and get two friends.”

Jay wants to press the conversation further, wants to go back to the all of the admissions you’ve just laid at his feet and dissect them one by one. But he knows you. He can tell that your sudden shift in topic, in tone, is intentional. 

Admitting it once was enough. For right now, at least, you want to move on. And Jay can do that for you.

So instead of demanding answers, he just gasps playfully. “I never thought I’d see the day.” A moment passes. Still, he can’t help but press his luck a little. Something in his gaze shifts, becomes heavier. “Is a friend the only thing you’re looking for?”

At that, your teeth find your bottom lip again, eyes falling down to the flowers at your feet. It’s spring. If there was ever a time to breathe life into something fragile that’s just begun to blossom, it’s now. 

“I’m still deciding,” is what you tell him. But even as you look at him now, you can feel the ghost of his lips against yours, months ago in the sanctuary of a beach house he chose just for you. 

It burns like a reminder, sings like a promise. 

Between the two of you, at least, you’re certain of this. Things have just begun. 

…..

epilogue

When your phone starts working again, the first notification that comes through is from your brother. 

It’s a selfie of him and the new set of cookware he special ordered last week. As it turns out, years of saving every last penny from every part-time job added up all on their own. Without any of your help, Sunoo has nearly saved enough to turn his dream into a reality. 

All on his own. 

The idea still resonates somewhere deep in you, still tastes a bit bittersweet. For as long as you can remember, a huge part of your identity has come from supporting your family. You’ve prided yourself on helping Sunoo, on easing his struggles. On making his dreams come true.

But your brother has been growing up, too. He’s not a fragile little kid anymore that needs you to shield him from the world. He understands responsibility and disappointment and hard work just as well as you. He’s survived difficult things and come out the other side stronger. He’s not crumbling under the weight of life’s challenges. 

 Like you, like everyone, he’s learning how to live with them and get through them and thrive all the while. 

The restaurant is still a long way from being profitable, and there is still work to be done. Work that you’re happy to do your share of. But the burden doesn’t feel like it falls solely on your shoulders anymore. The responsibility that you decided was your alone has been divided, shared. 

It feels like a collective effort now, and somehow, that’s even more gratifying.

Trying new recipes! he writes beneath the picture, along with a ridiculously long string of smiley faces. 

Beneath it, he tells you, 

Have the best time ever! I want to hear about all of it when you get back. And send pictures!!

You smile at the message. From the seat next to you, Jay leans over into your space, shoulder brushing yours. “What is it?” he asks. 

“Just a message from Sunoo,” you tell him. “He wants me to send pictures.”

“Mm,” he agrees. “Good.” With gentle fingers, he reaches for the phone tucked between your hands. 

Confusion creases your brow as he takes it from you. “What are you doing?”

“Taking a picture,” he says like it’s obvious. Turning the camera towards you, he instructs, “Smile.”

“Jay,” you whine, covering your face with your hands. “I haven’t slept since the layover, and I didn’t put on any makeup this morning. I look gross,” you protest.

But he’s not having any of it. “You look beautiful,” he tells you. “Now and always.” Gently, he wraps his fingers around one of your wrists. Not forcing, just urging. “Move your hands, pretty girl.”

Peeking from between your fingers, you don’t dare to lower them completely. “You can take my picture after I’ve showered,” you bargain. 

He won’t give in so easily. You should have known better than to think he ever would, even now. “C’mon,” he urges. “It’s a memory. Your first international flight.” Pausing for a moment, he adds, “You don’t have to send it to Sunoo if you don’t want to. It can just be for you. For us,” he amends. 

You sigh. “Fine,” you agree, dropping your hands. “But you have to be in it, too.” 

“Deal,” Jay grins. Next to you, he switches your phone to the front-facing camera. Then, he wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close as he smiles for the picture. Leaning into him, you do the same. 

You suppose it really doesn’t matter. Whether you’ve showered, whether your makeup is done, whether it’s been thirty minutes or twenty-four hours since your last full night of rest. Whether the plane lighting washes you out or makes your dark circles look a million times worse.

You’ve just touched down in Reykjavik, after all. Over a year since you first wrote it, the last piece of your bucket list is becoming a reality. 

Looking back at it now, it’s almost hard to believe how much time has passed. 

So many things have changed — your energy is still low, even on good days. Sometimes, your memories feel harder to access than they should. You’ll be returning to school for your final semester after winter vacation, and you’re already preparing for extra difficulties due to the brain fog you can never seem to fully shake. 

Doctor Kim assures you that it’s normal at every check-up you have. Promises that it will get better with time, that your body is still recovering from losing so many healthy blood cells, from the surgery you underwent. That it’s natural to feel more tired than you did before, both physically and mentally. 

That there is plenty to celebrate, too. Namely, the fact that months after your first clean bill of health was given, there are no signs of any new malignant cells forming. That the tumor behind your heart was removed successfully. Completely. 

That the three months he estimated have come and gone. That your life is, once again, yours to live. 

And other things, stranger yet, have remained exactly the same. 

For starters, you still feel uncomfortable whenever Jay gets a little too outlandish with his gift ideas. You made him promise you that he wouldn’t get you anything for your birthday or the next three Christmases before you begrudgingly accepted the first class plane ticket to Iceland that brought you here now. 

He broke it, of course, but he at least had the decency to look sheepish.

You have gotten a bit better at it, though. At letting him love you the way he wants to, at letting things go. 

Like when the gate agent apologized for difficulty sorting out the rebooking fee, and you looked at him with a question in your gaze. Jay waved it off, rattling off some excuse about inclement weather that hardly made any sense. More suspicious yet, you swore his cheekbones were dusted with a sudden rosy pink that hadn’t been there before. 

Still, you let it go. The sudden avoidance of his gaze, along with the tension in his shoulders, made you think it perhaps wasn’t a memory he was quite ready to revisit. 

Besides, you know that he’ll tell you in his own time, when he’s ready. That’s the way things are between the two of you now. Affection, fondness, and even something that shimmers a whole lot like love, it’s all built on a solid foundation of trust. 

It’s why you didn’t press the issue in the airport. Why you didn’t hound him for updates on his status in his father’s company post-graduation, even though you saw his updated resume when he accidentally left it open on his laptop one evening. 

Why you waited, until he was ready to tell you himself, that he accepted a different position, one in a much smaller company, one that he got on merit alone instead of the weight of his family name. 

It’s changed things for him, you know. His mother’s smile still sometimes doesn’t quite reach her eyes when she looks at him. He still hasn’t spoken to his father since the day he threatened you in the hospital. 

It took time, it’s taking time, but Jay is happier, too, you think. He’s more sure of himself these days. Trusts his decisions, his instincts, more than he did before. 

It’s not perfect, not by a long shot, but the beginning of his career is something that belongs to him and no one else. He smiles when he talks about it, even the difficult parts, like he’s proud of it, like it means the world to him that he gets to call it his. 

And you, even now, as the dust settles and leaves a million possibilities in its wake, you can’t find yourself to regret any of it. Not the decisions you made, nor the reasons you made them. 

If you could go back in time and choose a different career path, a different field of study, you’re not sure what choice you would make. Without the tragedy of Sunoo’s childhood, if business would still be the path you followed. 

But you can’t go back in time. You can’t erase the past, and you can’t change what happened. You can’t conjure wealth from thin air, and you can’t erase all of your family’s struggles or pain with a snap of your fingers. 

All you can do is move forward, give every past version of yourself grace for making the decisions she thought were best at the time. Trust the version of you that exists now to make decisions going forward. 

At the very least, the future isn’t something you look at with trepidation anymore. After everything, failure doesn’t feel quite so terrifying, after all. 

You’re a miracle now, too. Someone that’s been through hell and back and has come out with the scars to prove it. 

You don’t need perfection. Your life doesn’t have to be something that you wrap into a bow and hand deliver to someone else on a silver platter. 

You’re allowed to take care of your family, and you’re allowed to want things for yourself, too. It doesn’t make you greedy or selfish or ungrateful. You’re learning, too. There are times when it’s hard, but you’re doing your best. Especially when it comes to accepting things from others.

When Jay told you he wanted to bring you to Iceland to see the northern lights, it wasn’t because he wanted to watch you squirm uncomfortably at the differences in your finances. It wasn’t because he wanted you to feel like you owe him or because he felt pity for everything you’ve been through. 

No, it was because he could see it all in his head — you, eyes turned towards the stars in the night sky, a wide, barely controlled smile breaking across your lips as the first rays of light began to dance across the universe above you. 

He told you already once before. Love isn’t some transaction you pass back and forth. 

When you brought him a coffee and a photo of the two of you to christen his new office, he wasn’t totalling up the amount you spent on the frame. He was thinking about how lucky he is to have someone that cares enough to think of him at all, how much it means to him to have a picture of you to glance at and smile whenever his meetings start to run too long. 

Even now, as the plane draws to a stop on the tarmac, he takes both your bag and his, sliding it over his shoulder like the effort means nothing to him. Like it’s as natural as breathing. Not because you’re weak. Not because you’re fragile. Just because he likes doing things for you. 

And as you stand to disembark, your gaze lands, not for the first time, right on the back of his head. Hair slightly mussed from the hours you just spent in the air, the sight makes you smile. 

Biting at your bottom lip, you have a sudden memory of hours spent in lecture halls, staring at the back of his head, cursing the way it always seemed so out of reach, so effortlessly perfect. How desperately you wished you could have been like that too. 

Reality, you think, no matter how messy, strained, and imperfect it may be, will always be so much better. You’re grateful for every day you’ve been given, for all the ways in which you’ve been able to see through the facade and your own misconceptions. For all the ways that you’ve gotten to know him, for all the ways you’ve let him get to know you, the real you.

Reaching up, you brush a few misplaced strands back into place with your fingers.

Jay turns back to face you, a soft smile on his lips, a question in his eyes. “What was that for?” he asks.

Keep my heart guarded ✶ lhs

word count: 22.7k

Your long-term relationship with your bodyguard-slash-personal assistant Lee Heeseung goes way back in high school. Ever since then, he keeps your heart guarded and humbled in every possible way since your makeup line started to rise into fame. But when a dating scandal tied you with your brand's ambassador, leading to a PR stunt that will last for two years, that's when you realized that your relationship with Heeseung was starting to crumble because of the fortune and popularity.

Play dates ✶ pjs

word count: 25k

A drunken one night stand went wrong when news of the darling socialite was seen leaving the penthouse of CEO Park Jongseong, one of the most sought bachelors in Korea. In order to save face and reputation, a fake dating contract of six months was proposed.

The problem? Turns out you and Jay were ex-lovers — a secret relationship that ended up in a bad light and three years after not seeing each other, you two ended up in the headline of the tabloids and gossip articles. Fake it 'til you make it, they say, and it doesn't help that your ex-boyfriend is great with the act, blurring the lines between repressed feelings and acting like everything's fine between the two of you.

Crayon portraits ✶ sjy

word count: 19.4k

You have a secret — you have a daughter. A four year old little girl who's the bright definition of summer sun. You have another secret, the father is nothing but a bartender at a local beach bar where you had a vacation a few years ago. With your reputation on the line, you forced yourself to keep them hidden from the world and thankfully, Jake was willing to hide his daughter and agree with your conditions — until he decided he doesn't want to for his daughter's sake, leaving you questioning your life as a career woman and a mother.

Conveniently, Mr. & Mrs. Park ✶ psh

It was simple. Go back to South Korea, take his inheritance from his late father, leave, and never return. But it wasn't simple for Park Sunghoon when he discovered that in order to receive his inheritance, his father required an heir and family from him.

Then came you. A mess, carrying an eight-month old baby, scared of the world. Sunghoon needed a family, you needed protection and shelter. Filling each other's needs, the two of you arranged a marriage of convenience for a year. It’s that simple. You two convinced, not until lines started to blur and wants started to diminish your supposed needs.

Chasing after storms ✶ ksn

word count: 20.3k

Your life has always been a matter of business. Even your marriage with the cold-hearted Kim Sunoo was purely out of business. An alliance. To strengthen one’s company and partnership. But when a conversation between Sunoo and a family lawyer suggesting to divorce you was overheard, you resorted to your only choice — ran away.

Seven months into your disappearance, and your husband found you in the smallest, most secluded isle in your country. Eager to bring you home, his desperation clashed with your stubbornness, creating a storm that left both of you stranded in your loveless marriage.

Ruining empires ✶ yjw

Your relationship with Jungwon comes in hotel rooms and behind closed doors, where it's just the two of you who love each other with much tenderness. While in the outside world, the two of you are destined to be rivals due to your family's long-term rivalry when it comes to being the top corporation in your country. But when secrets are starting to spill, and meet-ups are getting harder to do so; you and Jungwon must face the world and prove that what you two have is real.

The art of tension ✶ nrk

word count: 22.4k

Your divorce has been the talk of the town. The cold and meticulous CEO who wasn’t able to give affection to her ex-husband, eventually was replaced with someone younger and prettier in less than five months after the divorce. You tried to keep your reputation stable despite all the names thrown to you, but when an art gallery exhibit trailed you to Nishimura Riki — handsome, fine, reputable-looking yet younger male who seems to be drawn to you, tension arises and gossip articles start to brew.

There is only one thorn on the otherwise immaculate rose that is your life.

Every morning, you wake up feeling refreshed from eight hours of restful sleep. You go downstairs to the kitchen, a boiling cup of milky Earl Grey tea already waiting for you, and eat breakfast with your brother Jinwoo and father. Your mom dashes in, placing a kiss on your and Jinwoo’s foreheads, and on your dad’s lips, saying she’s late for work but will see you in the evening. “Have fun at school,” she bids every morning without fail. Your dad teaches Korean Literature at your school, so the three of you drive there together. He watches amusedly as you and Jinwoo bicker light-heartedly on the way there—even in the pits of his puberty, you and your brother get along like two peas in a pod. He still tells you about everything he learns at school and fills you in on the drama in his class, up-to-date with everything even though he pretends not to be interested.

You’re always one of the first to arrive at school, so you scroll through your feed or finish up some homework as you wait for your classmates to file in. Your friends circle your table and you chat about the last episode of the show you’ve been watching until the bell rings and they leave you for their assigned seat.

Class starts with your teacher handing out the math tests you took last week. “Jay and Y/N, great job, keep it up,” he says as he walks past you and the boy in front of you, and hands you your paper. Relief floods your body as you take in the bright red 82 in the top right-hand corner—not the best of the class, but enough for you to be satisfied. 

Good friends, good grades—nothing extraordinary, but it’s a life you dare say any high school senior would want.

There’s just that one thing. The thorn in your side that won’t stop poking.

You glare at it as it whips around in its seat and takes a peek at the grade on your paper before you get to snatch it away from view. It only gives you three seconds to rejoice over your grade. 

“Aw, Y/N. Good effort! Maybe you’ll do better next time!” Jongseong coos, holding up his test for you to see and glare even harder at. 85. Not that big of a difference, but it makes you want to punch the faux sympathetic pout off of his face. 

You’re about to spit something just as petty back at him, but someone whispers your name, and you turn your head in their direction. Beside you, Jake is smiling at you as he asks what grade you got. Your attention is swiftly taken off of Jongseong, whom you don’t even notice dramatically rolling his eyes, huffing in annoyance, and turning around. 

“82,” you whisper back, holding up your paper for Jake to see. His friendly, absurdly handsome smile makes your ears burn. “You?”

The corners of his lips fall down into a sad pout—the kind that makes your heart melt rather than gets on your nerves like someone else. “68,” he says. Leans in over the gap between your tables. Your heart jumps uncontrollably around your rib cage. “Do you wanna go over it together during the break? I think I need some help.”

One-on-one time with Jake Sim? You don’t need to be asked twice. You nod silently, almost mesmerized by Jake as his grin widens. He leans back in his chair. “Perfect. I’ll see you in the library, then.”

“Library, yeah,” you echo dumbly, but thankfully, your teacher tells you to all quiet down and starts the lesson. 

You’re antsy all throughout the rest of your morning classes and lunch break, so nervous that you barely manage to finish your yogurt. Of course, your friends, Sunoo and Kazuha, have a field day with this, and even you can’t help but laugh along as they jump between reassuring you that it’ll be fine, slapping your shoulders with excitement and making fun of your uncharacteristic quietness.

Jake arrives at the library five minutes after you, looking around the room before he finds you at the big round table in the back of the library. Your brain is too riddled with anxiety for you to make more small talk than “Hey,” “Hey,” “How was your lunch?” “Good, yours?” “Good.” And so you just jump straight into it.

You’ve only had a couple minutes of quiet explanation on your part and heavy nodding on Jake’s when Jay appears at the entrance of the library. He spots you and Jake immediately, and without any hesitation whatsoever heads towards you and sits down at your table, right across from the two of you.

“Hey, Jay,” Jake greets in a friendly manner, but Jay only responds with a nod of his head.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he says when he notices you glaring. “I won’t bother you.”

As if he could be anything other than a bother, you think, but courteously keep to yourself. The childish rivalry you and Jongseong have got going on has no business spoiling a rare hour of alone time you get with Jake. As you go over the exercises he had the most trouble with on the test with you, your eyes often drift over to Jongseong as if to check on him—you’re cautious like he’s a spider in the corner of the room that might spring on you at any moment.

And indeed, the moment your gaze leaves him for more than a minute as you explain an intricate theorem to Jake, he’s out of sight, and panic shoots through you. Where the hell has he suddenly gone off to? you wonder, but not for long.

“There’s a much easier way to do this, really,” says a voice from behind you, and of course, it’s none other than Jongseong himself, quite literally butting his way into your tutoring session. Right between you and Jake, he bends over and rests his elbows on the table, taking Jake’s pencil from him and describing the theorem in a way that isn’t that much simpler. Your eyes shoot bullets into the side of his face while he, unbothered, explains this and that to Jake, who glances at you a couple of times but otherwise does not seem so perturbed by the sudden change of tutor. Either Jongseong doesn’t notice your glare or doesn’t care, because he doesn’t budge.

Just when they’re done with the exercise and you think you’ll get Jake to yourself again, another voice appears from behind, a much higher, girlier one. You notice the hand on Jake’s shoulder first, until slowly, your eyes drift to the face—you recognize Yunjin, head of the cheerleading squad, and she’s smiling at you, a smile that at once tries to cover and betrays her surprise at seeing you and Jake together. She doesn’t acknowledge you any more than that, gaze going back to “Jakey,” asking him if he wants to head to class together. You check the time—five minutes before the first bell rings. What do they need so much time getting to class for? It’s not like any room in this school is more than a three-minute walk away.

But Jake doesn’t even look back at you, just says “Sure!” with far too much enthusiasm for your taste as he packs his stuff. “Thanks, you two,” he says, looking at Jay first, then at you. You think his eyes linger on you for a second, but just like that, he’s gone, him and Yunjin walking side-by-side.

You watch them leave—they look good together, the cheerleading captain and the soccer team’s star. The white Vans she’s wearing have a bunch of red love hearts on them that look drawn on, and you think, Of course, Jake is the type to date someone cute, someone fun, someone who would draw on their shoes. Not someone like you, whose idea of a good Friday night is lighting up a scented candle and reading your favorite novel for the nth time. When they’ve left the library, you slump in your seat, crumpling the sheet of paper you had drawn a bunch of graphs and formulae on to make things clearer for Jake. Jay awkwardly clears his throat and finally returns to his seat, looking at you with his lips pressed in a tight line.

“Y/N?” he asks tentatively, and the sound is too much to bear, so you pack your things and head to your next class early, too. Your mind is racing with a million thoughts a minute—who is that girl to Jake, how come you’ve never seen them together before, how come he was so eager to leave with her, what was that smile she gave you about? In the fifty-five minutes of your biology class, which you uncharacteristically don’t pay any attention to, you’ve convinced yourself that they are crazy in love and that none of Jake’s actions or words towards you had ever meant anything, that you’d liked him so much you’d dreamt up the possibility of his liking you back, too.

Your next lesson starts—the smile Jake gives you as he walks into History is so bright, it dissipates any clouds hanging over your head. You do believe in male-female friendships, but despite yourself, you can’t help but think that anyone in a relationship wouldn’t give someone else such a perfect, warm smile. It just wouldn’t be right. And so, you reason with yourself that simply walking to a class together didn’t mean two people were a couple.

For an hour, you stare at the back of Jake’s head, and although you do eventually come to the more sensible conclusion that a smile may just be a smile, you also think it's unlikely that he and Yunjin would be a thing. If they were, why would they hide it? Jake is so nice, you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d exaggerated his enthusiasm upon seeing her. You’re sure you still have your chances. He even says see you tomorrow when class is over and slips out of the room to go to soccer practice. 

You feel like you’re walking on cloud 9 as you head from History to your next class—but when you remember that the next class is German, your mood drops significantly. Because the universe has it out for you, you and Jay are two of just ten students in your year taking German as your second foreign language option, everyone else having gone for either French, Japanese or Spanish. Your reasoning for it is that your dad has had an obsession with Germany since his year abroad in Bavaria, and twelve-year-old you had wanted to make him happy. Eighteen-year-old you regrets it slightly, but at least now your dad is ecstatic every time you tell him in German that the dinner he made was really tasty. Why Jongseong decided to take it beats you—he’s probably just insane.

But because you don’t really know anyone else in the class, and because it’s your last period of the day, you have no friends to run off with once the lesson is over, and he gets to bother you all the way from the classroom door to the staff parking lot. 

You’ve barely finished bidding Auf Wiedersehen to your teacher and Jongseong is already harassing you. “So, I didn’t take you as the type to be into guys like Jake Sim.” He says Jake’s name with such disdain, like he thinks he’s so much better than him, or like he hates him. It confuses you just as much as it annoys you; Jongseong didn’t seem to have a problem with Jake earlier at the library.

“And that’s your business, because…?”

You don’t look at Jongseong, who’s quickened his pace to keep up with yours, but you can feel the smirk on his face. It’s insufferable. “Oh, it’s none of my business. I’m just surprised, is all. You guys are so… I don’t know, different.”

You scoff. “If you think I’m not good enough for someone like Jake, I’d rather you tell me straight up, Jongseong. Or actually,” you say, looking up at him with a dry smile. “Keep it to yourself and leave me alone.”

He looks offended by your words, and it only adds to your already immense annoyance—he’s the one who just insulted you, so why is he looking at you with those stupid furrowed eyebrows?

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“No, Y/N.” He grabs your wrist and makes you face him, your stomach flipping in surprise that you quickly cover up. When he releases you, you cross your arms over your chest and wait for him to speak, keeping your eyes trained on a spot behind him. “I don’t think he’s too good for you.” 

This makes you look at him. You have to admit, your curiosity is piqued. Not like Jongseong to say anything even vaguely in your favor. “He’s just…” He sighs, searches for the right word. “Well, he’s just a bit of a dick, isn’t he?”

You freeze for a second. You’re so taken aback, your scoff comes out more as a laugh—Park Jongseong, king supreme of all dicks at this school, just called Jake Sim a dick?

“I’m sorry?”

He sighs again, as though you’re the unreasonable one. “He’s so… smug. A wannabe class clown and thinks he’s the shit because he’s on the soccer team. Have you seen the way he swaggers around school?”

You look at him with fake sympathy. “Jong, are you jealous?”

“Pfft. No way. I just think it’s a shame you keep going after these dudes who are not even worth your time, or whatever, so yeah…” he says, voice trailing off and looking down at his feet as he speaks. Hands in pockets and blank expression on his face, you can tell he’s trying to look cool, but the way he’s avoiding your gaze is a dead give-away. Even his ears have turned red. Jongseong is having one of those shy moments he has when he’s trying to be nice to you. Clearly, a simple act of kindness towards you is so hard for him that it radically changes the way he behaves. 

Like when you were fifteen and you just couldn’t get this stupid art project right, so he stayed behind for three hours after school with you, helping you draw and paint and cut and glue. 

Like when you were sixteen and your grandma just passed away, making you miss a week of school, and without a word, barely looking at you, he gave you a stack of handwritten notes of all the lessons you missed. To this day, you’re not sure how he did it—you weren’t in the same class that year.

Like when you were seventeen and Park Sunghoon rejected you in the middle of a crowded hallway. You’d run off to the girls’ bathroom to cry it out, but Jongseong quickly found you and spent the entire period cursing Sunghoon out instead of being in English, like you were both meant to be. He was uncharacteristically nice to you for a few days after that, never starting an argument for no reason or interrupting you when you spoke. When you snapped at him, telling him it only made you feel worse that he treated you differently, he smiled and told you how stupid you looked when you cried. It made you laugh more than it should’ve.

Like now, when he suddenly decides that Jake Sim is also a wrong choice for you. “Him and Sunghoon are good friends, you know that?” he says. “Birds of a feather, and all…”

So you know that Jongseong is not all bad. He has his redeeming qualities. He can even be nice sometimes, when he so wishes. But those moments are so few and far between that when he returns to his usual insufferable self, you wonder if you’d dreamt it all up. Which is why you can’t quite take him seriously right now. You roll your eyes and resume walking towards the parking lot, but of course, he continues to follow you. “Why do you even care who I go after?”

“I don’t-”

“You clearly do, otherwise you wouldn’t be bothering me like this.”

“Well, if all your attention is taken up by that douche, who am I going to go up against?”

“That’s what you’re worried about? That I stop arguing with you?” you say, disbelief clear in your voice.

“I’m offended, Y/N,” he starts, his sarcastic tone making you roll your eyes again. “That our little rivalry matters so little to you.”

“We’re not even the top students of our class, for God’s sake, we’re not fighting over anything.”

“I’ve actually got the best grades in German, thanks very much.”

“Whatever. I wouldn’t call it a rivalry so much as a mutual dislike of each other, because one of us woke up one day and decided to start going against everything the other said.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

The exit to the parking lot now appears to you like the gates of heaven. You don’t even bother replying to him, thinking that he’ll just leave you alone now that you’re here. But as you step outside, he places himself in front of you and blocks your path, arms splayed out, eyes wide like he’s just seen a ghost.

“What are you-”

“Have you done the German homework for tomorrow?”

The sudden change of subject gives you whiplash. “What? No, Miss Schumacher assigned it just now-”

“Well, given your tendency for getting the word order all wrong, I can already tell you you’re not gonna have fun with it-”

You pinch the nose of your bridge, trying to calm yourself down before you lose what’s remaining of your mind. “Jongseong, were you actually dropped on the head as a baby? Go away. My dad’s gonna be here any second.” You try to walk around him, but he steps in front of you again. You peer up at him, undisguised annoyance in your eyes. Where are your dad and brother when you need them?

“I’m just saying, you’ll probably need help with it-”

“I won’t. And if I do, I’ll just use Google. Now get out of my way,” you say, and manage to duck under one of his arms.

Then you see it.

Well, actually, it takes you a second to understand what it is you’re seeing. At first, you think it’s one of those horny couples thinking they’re being really discreet by going to the staff parking lot to make out, when in reality they could be caught by any one at any time. They’re just far enough that when you do a double take, you realize that you do know the back of that head; that fluffy mop of brown hair. You sit behind it every History period, next to it every Maths and English period.

The girl is up against the wall, and you can’t really see her, what with her and Jake’s tongues being down each other’s throat and his body blocking her from your view, his hands on her hips, her arms around his shoulders. All the works. She’s wearing a cheerleader uniform, so she could be any of twenty girls—but you’re pretty sure only one of them wears a pair of white Vans with red love hearts on them.

Your heart sinks to your stomach.

You’re frozen in place when a whistle rings in the distance, and Jake and Yunjin separate, giggling to each other as they jog to wherever the sound came from. The sports field, probably. It’s Monday; the cheerleaders and the soccer team share the field for their practice. 

Jake spots you and Jongseong staring at them. He waves quickly, awkwardly at you, still smiling even when surprise coats his features. Yunjin tugs on his hand and just like that, they’re gone. 

“Y/N-” 

Jay’s voice fades in the background. You want to get away from this situation as quickly as possible—it’s embarrassing enough seeing the guy you like and thought you had a chance with kissing a girl that is arguably much more on his level than you are, but having Jongseong of all people not only witness it, but try to protect you from it, God knows why, makes it impossibly mortifying. You speed-walk to your dad’s car, huffing as you plop in your seat and slamming the door behind you. Your brother is already sitting in the passenger seat, and you don’t even argue with him about it. When you only give single-word replies to his questions, he shrugs and returns to playing Clash of Clans on his phone. 

The moment you get home, you fish a five cent coin from your purse, change into mud boots and grab your dog’s leash. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

After half-an-hour of trudging through leaves and soft ground, muddy from many a rainy November night, you and Pablo, your massive, fluffy airhead of a German Shepherd, find yourselves at the well in the middle of the forest. Ever since you were little, you have attributed magic powers to the well—not that anyone told you any sort of myth about it, but you remember reading a story about a magic well and decided that your well would be magical, too. You’ve never wanted to abuse its powers, so you’ve used your wishes conscientiously: things like getting a certain present at Christmas (when you were nine and the most important thing ever was getting the Monster High doll you wanted) or not stuttering during your presentation in class (when you really didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of Park Sunghoon and his cool friends). Every wish you’ve made has come true. Whenever a faint voice of reason tells you that it’s because you always ask for very realistic things, you squash it and continue to believe in the well.

Because today, you’re not asking for something realistic. 

Today, you’re asking the well to show you the way to love.

You’ve grown up watching The Notebook and Pride & Prejudice. Your parents are high school sweethearts who are still, twenty-five years later, happily married. You devour romance novels and binge-watch Asian dramas, the more unrealistic and romantic, the better. You are convinced that soulmates exist, that love always finds a way, that it is there for anyone to see. That it can take form in a childhood friend, an archnemesis, a total stranger.  

But for some reason, it hasn’t shown itself to you yet, no matter how valiantly you’ve looked. 

You’re absolutely sick and tired of it. It is Jake kissing another girl, it’s Sunghoon leading you on for months and then rejecting you in front of everyone, it’s your ex-boyfriend-who-shall-not-be-named, your first love and first heartbreak, dumping you after a year and getting with the girl he had told you not to worry about a week later. At a party a few months later, he’d said, word for word, “At least I didn’t cheat on you.”

Coin lodged between your hands, you interlace your fingers and press your palms closely together, eyes screwed shut in desperation. “Hey,” you start simply, because you and the well are good friends. “It’s been a while since I’ve asked for anything, so I hope you can indulge me… This is gonna sound so cliché, but I’m really tired of getting fucked over by boys — excuse my French — and I just wanna meet the person who’s right for me, you know? Mom’s always reminding me that I’m only eighteen, and that I’ve got plenty of time to meet someone, but I just feel like if I don’t find someone now, I never will. And if I get fucked over again — sorry — I’ll just lose hope and write off men for the rest of my life. So help a girl out, will you? I’ll leave it to you how you wanna go about it, but… just show me that there’s someone out there. Please.”

When you open your eyes, you need a few seconds to adjust to the darkness. You toss the coin in the well. It doesn’t make a sound as it hits the bottom, as if it has been absorbed within the old brick walls. You know better than to question it—the well works in mysterious ways.

You’re quiet that entire evening, making up an excuse of a tiring day at school when your parents ask. Really, you’re just thinking about your wish, whether it’ll work, what might happen. You half-ass your homework—Jay was right, the German exercises throw you into a bout of despair, so you quickly close your textbook and bury yourself in your sheets, falling asleep hours earlier than you usually would.

--

For some reason, the first thing you notice when you wake up is that it’s still dark outside. It must be the middle of the night, you think. It takes you a few seconds to realize that you’re in a completely strange room.

Instead of your floral-patterned sheets, you find yourself covered by delicate silk sheets that your parents would never agree to buy you, no matter how adamantly you argued for the benefits of silk for your skin. If skincare experts online had convinced you of one thing, it was that silk would do wonders for your obstinate acne. You slide out of bed and find a pair of slippers on the floor, as if waiting for you. Even the pajamas you’re wearing are fancier, more grown up than the ones you have at home, a set composed of a pinstriped button-up and shorts. You look around, for some reason more surprised and curious than panicked. You could’ve been kidnapped, for all you know, but all you care about right now is this room. Rather than the pink and white walls that have surrounded you since childhood, covered with pictures of you and your friends, postcards of artwork bought at museums, and posters of your favorite movies, the walls here are beige and mostly bare, except for a painting of Japanese cherry blossoms above the bed and a family portrait on the opposite wall, above a wooden chest of drawers. 

The family portrait. A woman, a man, and what you can only assume are their children. They look like twins—two girls. Can’t be older than three years old. Out of the four faces, you recognize two of them. You recognize them far too well. One of them is yours, of course. You look slightly older, by a decade, maybe? You’re glad to know that you won’t fall off after twenty-five, like much of social media has led you to believe. 

The other face you recognize immediately, too, but it takes you a few seconds to truly believe it.

It belongs to none other than Park Jongseong.

A dry chuckle falls from your throat, as if someone has just made a very insulting joke at your expense and you have to pretend you find it funny. The well has a very odd sense of humor, you think. It’s probably just a prank, a magic-induced nightmare before the real thing. Except this already feels real, disorientingly so. The fabric on your skin, the picture, the room. It all feels too real, more tangible than any dream you’ve ever had.

You take a step closer towards the picture, as if looking at it harder will make Jongseong’s face fade into that of another man, the real man that will become your husband and father of your children. But alas, his features remain the same, frozen in time by the photographer’s camera. He, too, looks older—and not only does he not fall off after twenty-five, he becomes all the more handsome for it.

Is this how you find out that Jongseong was handsome all along? You stare at it until the familiar face becomes practically unrecognizable, like repeating a word so much it stops feeling like one. The straight nose, the almond-shaped eyes that seem to have softened overtime, whereas his jaw has remained as sharp as ever. Have his eyebrows always framed his face so perfectly? Has that dimple always been there? 

You look around again, and the bright numbers on the bedside alarm clock catches your attention. They read 9:57 p.m., but it’s the date that makes your stomach sink—today is still the 18th of November, but ten years later. You stare at the clock, at the unfamiliar number, a date so far into the future you can’t wrap your head around it. You could barely envision life after high school.

Downstairs, the sudden clang of pots and the sound of a tap running manage to rip your gaze away from the alarm clock. An overwhelming curiosity tells you to follow the noise. This is all a dream, so there are no consequences if you explore a bit more, right? 

You’ve never been in this house before, and you have no idea where your feet are taking you until you find yourself in the kitchen. It’s the only lit room in the house, and you’re creepily standing in the dark under a wide archway that connects the kitchen to what looks like the dining room. A man has his back to you, washing dishes and putting them out to dry on a rack next to the sink. He’s wearing a white cotton sweater, one that you feel you recognise without ever having seen before, and a brown apron is tied around his neck and waist. 

The first thing you think to yourself is Oh, his haircut hasn’t changed. In almost every class you share with him, Jongseong has made it a point to sit either next to you or right in front of you, so you’ve spent a lot of time glaring at the back of his head. You wouldn’t be surprised if he started developing two eye-shaped bald spots there. His hair is still short and spiky at the back and on the sides, longer on the top. When he lets it grow too long, it sometimes covers his eyes, and he obnoxiously keeps having to push it back like a heartthrob in an 80s movie. 

Something like a memory flashes through your mind, blurry like those images you aren’t sure came from a dream or from real life. Your surroundings are unclear, but Jay’s face is nestled against your neck, your hand in his hair. You can feel the softness of the close shave against your palm as clearly as if you were touching it right now. You ask him why he’s always kept it that way, and he replies that it’s simple to maintain. Then in classic Jay fashion, he adds, “And it makes me look awesome.”

Another memory, a clearer one, this time—this definitely happened. It’s halfway through sophomore year, a random Tuesday, and Jay walks in, holding his head high and looking smugly around himself. The bastard got a new haircut. Long gone, his messy, unorganized flop of black hair that looked like it didn’t know what it was doing; hello, sleek undercut. It accentuates all of his best features, which is terrible news for you. You had never even thought of Jongseong as someone having “best” features, but now they’re being thrown in your face. His nose. His jawline. His smile.

It ruins your day, and a few after that. You can’t quite put it into words when your friends ask what’s wrong at lunch—or rather, you don’t wanna face the humiliation of uttering something along the lines of “Park Jongseong looks good with his new haircut, and it’s bothering me.”

Here, it’s a familiar sight in an unfamiliar environment, the back of his head. Without really thinking, you take a step forward. Jongseong starts at the sound of your slippers against the marble floor tiles, but his face relaxes into a smile when he sees you.

“Oh, it’s just you, honey. I thought you were sleeping.”

Just you. As if the two of you being in the same kitchen is normal. You guess it must be, to this version of Jongseong. To him, you’re not the annoying girl he strives to best in every class—you’re honey. 

“I was,” you say, walking around the kitchen island to join him by the sink. Something in you needs to look at him, really look at him, maybe pinch yourself or pinch him to be sure you’re not going crazy. Maybe you caught wafts of some ancient algae that lives in the well and made you hallucinate?

“I left a plate out for you in case you woke up. Made your favorite. The girls weren’t so happy, seeing as it’s the third time this month,” he says with the special kind of smile reserved for parents talking about their children. The girls. A mention so casual, so obvious, your heart hurts. “But I think I got it really right this time,” he continues. “Honestly, it might even be better than the original.”

He goes back to washing the dishes and you watch the sponge in his hands as it scrubs away tomato sauce, the soap as it runs from the plates into the sink. A knot forms in your stomach, something like a deep sadness that overwhelms you all of a sudden, and tears form in your eyes, threatening to fall any second.

When you haven’t budged in almost a minute, Jongseong starts to say, in an intimate, almost worried voice, “Aren’t you going to eat, honey?” but when he sees your wet eyes, the tremble in your lower lip, he shuts the water immediately and dries his hands. With his thumbs, he wipes away the tears that have started falling from your eyes. “What’s wrong?” he whispers.

You can’t reconcile the man in front of you with the image you have of the boy that torments you in every class you share. You can’t reconcile the genuine concern in his voice with the snarky tone you’re met with every day. And yet, they respond to the same name, their features are identical, if not for the years that separate them, the stress of adulthood on one and the carefreeness of youth on the other. 

Your body reacts automatically to the soft touch—never in a million years would you let the Jongseong you know come near you like this, but here, nothing feels more natural than his hands on your face, your shoulders, your hair, as though they’re just as much his as they are yours. You realize the emotion in your stomach is not sadness—tears fall, but you’re not sad. You’ve never felt as home as you do now, and if one thing romantic novels have taught you, is that this must be love.

You look up at the man in front of you, eyebrows furrowed as you search his face for confirmation or some sort of an answer. There’s a tremble in your voice when you speak next. “I just… I think I love you, Jongseong.”

He chuckles. “Well, we established that a while ago, didn’t we? What with getting married and having kids. But I’m glad you still feel that way.”

The mention of marriage and children doesn’t faze you nearly as much as it should. You’ve only got one thing on your mind. “Do you love me too?”

You expect him to laugh—not out of cruelty, but because the answer is so obvious, it almost doesn’t deserve to be answered seriously. Like when your brother asks if he can have one more of your cookies and you tell him you’ll cut his hand off. Sometimes you think it’s easier to be sarcastic than be unabashedly nice to someone. Especially with Jongseong, whom you don’t expect kindness or patience from, you wait for him to stay something like, “No, that’s why I’ve stayed with you these eight years.” 

So when instead, he says, “More than anything on this Earth,” voice low and vulnerable, tears flow even harder. 

“Sorry, it’s probably just my period,” you say through sobs, although you have no idea where in her menstrual cycle this version of you is.

Jongseong chuckles again, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You do get emotional around this time.” And you cry more, because you can’t believe someone other than your mother knows you so well that they know what your period symptoms are.

Rubbing soothing circles against your back and whispering soft words in your ear, he holds you for as long as you need to calm down. When you finally do, he tells you to go sit on the couch, that he’ll finish up the dishes then heat and bring your food for you. You think you’ve got your emotions under control, but the moment you bite the pasta, cooked to perfection with the most succulent tomato sauce you’ve ever had, sweet with a little kick of spice and a generous amount of parmesan cheese, tears start to fall again as if you had an endless stock of water behind your eyes.

“This is so good,” you mumble.

Jongseong smiles, his gaze full of affection miraculously directed at you as he tucks away strands of your hair so they don’t get in your eyes or in your food. “I’m glad, baby.”

You react to the nickname viscerally, words tumbling out of your mouth before you can even understand them. “You haven’t called me that in ages.” You widen your eyes at yourself, wondering how this was something you even knew. But when you look at Jongseong, all he does is smile more.

“You’re right, I haven’t. I guess I was reminded of college. You cried all the time back then. As much as it pained me, I can’t say I wasn’t happy to be the one you always came to for comfort.”

You haven’t been through college yet, so you should be unable to tell whether this truly happened or not—and yet, the memories of the body you’re in all confirm what Jongseong just said. But it feels impossible—going to university with him, letting yourself be vulnerable enough with him to not only cry in front of him but let him comfort you. Whatever could have happened in the years between the present you know and your time at university for things to change so drastically?

But before you can make sense of any of it, Jongseong speaks again. “Why? Do you like it when I call you baby?”

Your stomach flips. Heat rises to your face at his words, the tone with which he said them, the things he was alluding to—you know that having children means you’d popped your cherry at some point, that you’d had sex with Jongseong specifically, but to be confronted with the fact was something else. 

“Maybe,” you mumble, and proceed to stuff your mouth with pasta so that you can’t incriminate yourself further.

He puts on a recent movie, something you should arguably be paying attention to, since you’re literally getting a glimpse into the future of cinema—you could steal the idea, go back to your present and sell it for an outrageous price.

But Jongseong’s presence next to you makes it impossible to concentrate on anything but him. The warmth emanating from him, the scent of his perfume envelop you, give you a sense of just how real this all is—despite how comfortable being with him like this feels, you’re still not convinced you’re not just in an unsettlingly vivid dream. You take one of his hands in yours, examining each finger, turning his hand over, tracing the lines of his palm, smoothing your thumb over his nails—it’s an undeniably human hand. Warm against yours, slightly rough. He’s started using hand cream, you think, all these winters when his dry hands would crack because of the cold coming up to your mind, teenage Jongseong’s hard refusal to wear any sort of cream to protect himself. Memories bob up to the surface: fixing his cracked hands up with a plaster, your tear falling on his hand, the both of you in your school uniforms in what looks like the school infirmary; awkwardly gifting him some hand cream the Christmas of that year, not looking at him as you hand him the small package. Saying, “It’s a waste of plasters for something that could be fixed so easily.” Him treating you to warm, spicy tteokbokki because he felt bad for not having gotten you anything, even though this was the first time either of you had ever given the other one a present.

As your fingers trail up from his hand to his forearm, his shoulder, his jawline, more memories flood your mind. Clumsy first kisses; squabbles of the kind you were already used to; lazy mornings in bed; hours spent in your kitchen or his, before you shared one, cooking dinner together; the way you felt when he proposed, a feeling so intense remembering it is almost unbearable now. Your eyes and fingers examine his face in detail—even though you’ve seen him almost every day since the start of high school, this feels like the first time you really perceive him. The delicate bow of his lips, the strong nose, the softness in his eyes when he looks at you. Your heart beats uncontrollably as you hold each other’s gazes, but you feel inexplicably relaxed at the same time, two nearly opposing realities fighting each other inside of you—one in which you and Jongseong regarding each other with such affection is unthinkable, the other in which it is daily routine.

“Movie not to your taste?” he asks, voice gentle, breaking you out of your stupor.

“Hm?”

He nods towards the TV screen. “I see you’re not paying much attention.”

“No. I have… things on my mind.”

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk slowly growing on his lips. “Yeah?” You think your heart might actually flatline when he brings you in closer to his chest, and, face buried in your hair, says, “You know, I’ve been thinking that the twins might want a younger sibling to play with soon enough…”

You’re not sure whether he actually wants a third child or if this is weird dirty talk that apparently turns parents on—all you know is that this is something future you will deal with, not high school senior you. 

You whip up your head at him, eyes wide in panic that he mirrors immediately. “Or—or not. Later. Later?” You nod fervently, and the worry dissipates from his handsome features. “Okay, later,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head before returning his attention to the movie. 

A couple hours later, you’re laying in bed in the dark together—you can tell Jongseong is falling asleep by the regularity of his breathing and his stillness, but you’re wide awake. You don’t know how you’ve managed to spend all this time with him, acting like the wife he knows and loves, without imploding. But suddenly, the idea of waking up in your childhood bed, surrounded by your pink-and-white walls, going downstairs to be greeted by your brother and parents, sends a wave of panic through you. You haven’t felt this comfortable in a long time—Jongseong’s arm draped over your waist, the fact that you could reach over and feel his skin against your palm if you wanted. You don’t want to go back to a time where you hate him. In fact, you don’t know if you could hate him after this.

“Jongseong?” you say softly, the syllables unfamiliar on your tongue, even though the name rings brusquely through your head for the best part of every day.

It takes a few seconds, but he reacts eventually. “Hm? Did you just call me Jongseong?” he murmurs sleepily, as if you’d just called him Robert or Christopher and not the name his own parents gave him.

“Yeah.”

He chuckles. “Now that’s something you haven’t called me in ages. Makes me feel like you’re mad at me,” he says, turning over and burying his face in the crook of your neck. His hair tickles your skin, and one of your hands comes up reflexively to feel the softness of his close shave.

“...Jong?” you try.

“That’s a step up, but not quite what I want,” he mumbles.

You’re silent for a few moments. “Honey,” you say tentatively, voice a mere whisper.

“That’s better.” You can hear the smile in his voice.

“Will you be here in the morning?”

“Mh-hm. It’s Saturday tomorrow.”

“No,” you say, feeling out of breath. “I mean, will you be here?”

You’re aware you’re not making much sense—and yet, Jongseong needs no further explanation. “Of course, baby,” he starts, voice soothing. “I’ll be here tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day afterwards. ‘Til death do us part, remember?”

You let out a shaky breath. “Okay.”

“I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you, too,” you find yourself saying, and, more importantly, meaning. It’s the last thing either of you says before falling asleep.

--

Tears are streaming down your face when you wake up the next day. When you open your eyes, pink and white obnoxiously stare back at you. The clock reads 7:12, just three minutes before your alarm goes off, and unfortunately for high school you, the night hasn’t given in to Saturday morning—it’s Tuesday, and you have to go to school and act as if you hadn’t just had the weirdest, most realistic dream of your life. You don’t even get a weekend to shake this weird feeling in your stomach off, you’re going to have to face Park Jongseong full force. At least, this will become your friends’ favorite bit for the foreseeable future.

They’re already sitting in the classroom when you get there, animatedly chatting to each other. You plop down in your seat in front of them, and when they see the sullen look on your face, ask you what’s wrong.

“Did you wake up during the night to play Hay Day again?” Kazuha asks, eyebrows knotted with genuine worry.

“I’m not that person anymore,” you reply. “No, I just had a really weird dream. More like a nightmare, really. It feels like I didn’t get any sleep.”

“What was it about?” Sunoo asks.

Your eyes dart back-and-forth between the two of them as you brace yourself for their reactions. Not wanting anyone else to overhear, you lean in conspiratorially. They mirror you. “I was married to Park Jongseong,” you whisper. As expected, they burst into laughter immediately, and you lean back in your seat, crossing your arms in annoyance. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s very funny,” Kazuha retorts. “It’s ironic, even, considering how much you hate the guy.”

“Exactly!”

“But I guess even you know how ridiculous it is that you hate him, if your brain is able to imagine yourself being married to him,” Sunoo adds, shrugging. “It’s a good reminder that you’re literally the only person in this school with a vendetta against him.”

Kazuha nods energetically. “He picked up a pen for me, once. He’s a nice guy.”

You look around the room in panic. “Keep it down, will you?” you hush, despite the fact that no one is paying any attention to the three of you. You sigh, resolving yourself to telling them the entire truth. “But guys, I’m scared. I think this might be a sign.”

Their eyebrows perk up. “A sign that your hatred of him has actually been disguising a crush this entire time?” Sunoo asks, feigning innocence.

“No—what? Where did you get that idea?”

“Nowhere. Go on.”

“Whatever. Come here,” you say, gesturing for them to huddle again. “It’s the well.”

“Oh my God, Y/N, you’ve actually lost it,” Kazuha says, fascinated by your stupidity.

“I’m not going to tolerate any well slander, this is serious. I just wanted it to reassure me that there was someone out there for me. And then I had that stupid dream.”

Kazuha and Sunoo exchange a look like they’re parents trying to announce to their daughter that she’s adopted. “Y/N…” Sunoo starts.

“This is crazy. Like, love philters and writing Park Sunghoon’s name a hundred times are one thing, this is…”

“Crazy,” Sunoo said, nodding along. “This is crazy. There’s no other word for it. Your eighteen years of boyfriendlessness have finally caught up to you.”

“You guys don’t get it. What about that time I asked it to give me a good grade on our Literature exam and I literally came first out of our class? Or when I told it I missed Jung Hae-in and his military discharge announcement came the next day?” you say, aware that the look in your eyes is only confirming their suspicions—but you need someone to believe you, or at the very least understand you.

“One, you’re a good student. Two, that was pure coincidence,” Sunoo explains.

“But girl, if you want to marry Jay, that’s fine. You’ve got our blessing,” Kazuha says, shrugging.

“Yeah. He picked up her pen, once,” Sunoo adds.

“And you know, you guys clearly have some sort of chemistry.”

You scoff. “If you think that him refuting my every word and finding every opportunity to make fun of me, then yeah, I guess you could say we have chemistry.”

“You guys have banter,” Kazuha says as if it’s obvious.

“Oh, please. Banter is cute. I want to kill him every time he opens his mouth.”

Your friends both roll their eyes. “While I understand that most men are better off staying quiet—no offense, Sunoo—”

“None taken.”

“You have to admit Jay is not nearly as insufferable as you make him out to be,” Kazuha says.

“Are you kidding me? He’s always acting like a child. Rubbing it in my face when he gets a better grade, trying to start arguments for no reason, sucking up to teachers, stealing my erasers, for God’s sake, you’d think he’s twelve. I know that I’m not on the majority's side, but I seriously cannot understand how other people tolerate him at all.”

Sunoo sighs. “Because he’s nice to everyone. He never hesitates to help people, he’s even funny, sometimes, and—well, look at him.” He nods his head towards the door, and when you turn around, Jongseong is indeed walking in the classroom. “He’s not a bad-looking boy.”

“Gosh, Sunoo, maybe you should marry him,” Kazuha says, but since you laid your eyes on Jongseong, you’ve stopped listening.

You feel weird. You look at him, and you feel weird. It’s the same feeling you had during your sleep last night, a feeling that paralyzes you from head to toe, that starts in your stomach and spreads to your entire body, weighs you down in your chair. 

“Hey, guys,” he greets simply, and his voice wraps itself around your heart and squeezes. You can’t do anything but watch him as he takes his seat next to you, plopping his bag on the table and taking his notebook out. He looks at you, watches you watching him, then swivels around in his chair.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asks your friends.

“She had a dream that she m—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Zuha, if you want to live to see another day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replies, a satisfied little smile on her lips.

Despite yourself, you’re still staring at Jongseong, trying to figure out what the hell these emotions are that are raging up a storm inside of you. Instead of ignoring you, he turns to face you, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his palm as he stares back at you, smirking. “What’s up, Y/N? Has it finally dawned on you how devastatingly handsome I am?” he asks, and you frown, because he’s not so far off from the truth.

“Please, kids, it’s 9 a.m., don’t flirt right in front of us,” Sunoo says, despair in his voice.

“She’s the one who started it,” Jongseong replies, still looking at you, his smirk growing.

For some reason, this startles you out of your trance, and you look away from him like you’ve been burned, preoccupying yourself instead with your notes for this class. “In your dreams, Jongseong,” you mumble.

“More like in yours,” Kazuha says, her and Sunoo giggling.

“Zuha!” you exclaim. Jongseong looks at you with raised eyebrows, and with his infuriating capacity to put two and two together, you’re scared he’s figured out what she meant, but you’re literally saved by your teacher who walks in at that moment and starts the class. 

The second the bell rings to signify the end of the class, you hurriedly pack your things and mutter an excuse about needing the bathroom, trying to get as far away as possible from the boy whose all-too familiar scent had messed with your thoughts all class, whose every brush of his arm against yours had made your heart race uncontrollably.

--

It hadn’t just been a dream. It couldn’t have been.

Just like there was no doubt the 28-year-old Jongseong from last night had once been the annoying boy you knew, the 18-year-old Jongseong was sure to one day become the husband of your dreams. A devoted partner and father, his presence comforting, his good looks indeed devastating, unwavering.

There was no mistake to be made. The well had worked its magic.

Whether you liked it or not, you would end up marrying Park Jongseong. You, of all people; him, of all people.

Was there already something of your future husband in the boy that snickered when you mixed up your genders in German class, or would he one day spring out of nowhere? Apparently, you’d be around to find out.

But for now, how to act around him? It felt unfair that you were privy to this knowledge of your shared future while he was ignorant of it. Blissfully, perhaps. You couldn’t imagine that he would rejoice much at this news.

Your mind is somewhere else the entire day. At lunch, your other friends try to get the thing that’s obviously bothering you out of you, but Kazuha and Sunoo are there to tell them not to bother. You’d needed to tell someone about it, but you don’t want the entire school to know about your marital premonitions. The two knuckleheads you call your best friends are already doing a good enough job teasing you about it—”There’s your husband, Y/N,” when Jongseong walks past; “So have you thought of baby names? Kayleigh and Mackayleigh, perhaps?” unsolicited, during Physics. You turn around to check on the culprit — because yes, Jongseong is the culprit here, you, a mere a victim — and when he notices you staring, nods at you as if to say, What’s your problem?, trying to look threatening in his white lab coat that’s three sizes too big and protective goggles.

It doesn’t help that Jongseong has a way of hovering around you. Even in classes in which your teachers assigned the seats for you, he’s never far from your seat. The two of you sit next to each other in German, your last class every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday. But today, the seat next to you is empty—what would’ve been a cause for celebration just yesterday is now a source of worry. You’d seen him just two hours ago in your previous class together, so where the hell was he now? He’s lucky that your teacher is an old German lady who always spends the first ten minutes of the lesson rambling about something in dialectal German no one understands but nods along to anyway. When he walks into the room, five minutes late, she just says, “Hallo, Jay,” and continues with her story. It’s about her first school trip to Berlin when she was fifteen and the country was still divided. You think.

He winks at you when he takes his seat and you roll your eyes. You pretend to listen to your teacher for thirty seconds, then hit him gently with your elbow. “Where were you?” you ask without looking at him.

He doesn’t answer immediately, probably surprised you initiated a non-hostile conversation with him for once. “I was just hanging out with my friends, something you clearly wouldn’t understand.”

And your friends wondered why you hated him?

“Still having imaginary friends at eighteen is really concerning, Jongseong. You should see someone about it.”

When you glance at him, he’s already looking right at you, smiling. You’ve never felt so conscious of your side profile. 

“Why? Were you worried?” he whispers, kicking your foot with his.

You look at him, horrified—where the hell had he gotten that idea? How was he so spot-on? You scoff, trying to diffuse the tension inside yourself. “No.”

He kicks your foot again. “I was five minutes late and you started to worry?”

“No. Stop.”

“I didn’t know you cared about me so much, Y/N.”

This time, you give him a harsh look, one that lets him know you really mean your words—“Stop it.” Finally, he relents, getting the assigned homework out now that the teacher has actually started the lesson. Your face softens—he looks hurt. Guilt tugs at your heartstrings.

Despite what you might say, you like the way things are with Jongseong. If some people always need to be crushing on someone, you always need to have someone you perceive as an enemy—it was Na Jaemin in elementary school, because he’d once made fun of your incapability to climb the monkey bars; Shin Ryujin, in middle school, for kissing your crush during a game of spin-the-bottle at your own birthday party; Park Jongseong, since freshman year, for simply existing. Your reasons for disliking him are trivial, you’ll admit. You weren’t sure you could even place a finger on what had first triggered your disdain towards him—one too many awful jokes, one too many times raising his hand in class and rattling off a perfect answer, then looking around himself proudly, one too many roars of laughter heard throughout the entire cafeteria. The fact that no one else seemed to be bothered by him only added to your aggravation. He just got on your nerves, and it seemed that you openly showing your dislike of him — him, who was so used to being loved by everyone around him, pampered by his family, praised by his teachers, popular among his peers — was enough to make him dislike you, too. So, after a few failed attempts at trying to be your friend, because Jongseong was unable to not be friends with everyone he met, he didn’t simply give up. 

If he couldn’t be your friend, then fine, he’d be your enemy.

At least, that’s how it appears to you, still now. It’s never gone dangerously far, but if there’s an opening to tease you or get on your nerves, he’ll do it. Not passing you the ball during soccer, or conversely, only aiming for you during dodgeball, not sharing his textbook with you when you forgot it unless you beg, loudly clearing his throat when you speak in class. And, lately, pouring salt on your wounds in the form of reminding you how impossible you and Jake Sim are. His motto must be if there’s a will, there’s a way. And when it comes to making your life hell, his will is infinite.

Everything is upside-down now. The question of how your relationship can possibly go from this to that obsesses you. It feels like you’re more capable of sharing a funeral, dying at each others’ hands, than a wedding. 

“Jong, your textbook.”

He squints at you. “Funny how I’m Jongseong when you hate me, Jong when you need a textbook,” he says, sliding his book closer to himself.

“It’s not my fault your name is a mouthful,” you retort, trying to pull it back to the middle of the table, but he’s quicker than you.

“Then maybe you should call me Jay, like everyone else on Earth.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Now give it here. Please?” you ask, mustering your best smile. Any other teacher would’ve scolded the two of you by now, but Ms. Schumacher is peacefully going on about the importance of word order and punctuation in the German sentence, oblivious to her two students bickering in the back row. Jongseong usually never sits at the back of the classroom—only here.

He gives in, smiling back, but there’s something behind it, something that tells you nothing good is brewing in his brain. “Only because you’re so pretty.”

Normally, this kind of remark would’ve warranted a slap on the arm or an array of insults, but if today is anything, it is not normal. You look at him like you’ve been stung, visions of your not-dream coming to you in flashes like you’re the titular character on That’s So Raven—the affection in your husband’s eyes, the kindness in his words, the sincerity in his smile. Again, you’re left to wonder if this man is already taking root inside of the boy next to you, if Jongseong’s future capacity to love you presently exists in his heart.

Does your future capacity to love him already exist in your heart?

You watch as his smirk softens into a grin, your flusteredness and lack of a response clearly amusing him, then as he circles the exercises Ms. Schumacher is assigning for the lesson. She seems to have forgotten there was homework due—Jongseong will be sure to remind her of it quickly.

He kicks your foot again, tells you to focus. His ears have turned red.

You wonder if those capacities haven’t existed from the start.

--

As much as you love a good friends-to-lovers story, characters hiding their feelings out of fear of ruining the friendship have never failed to frustrate you — just tell her, you dummy, it’s obvious she likes you too — and yet, you’ve never related more than now.

Whatever it is that you and Jongseong have, you don’t want to lose it. It adds entertainment to your otherwise average life. 

“Good thing she didn’t pick on you while we went over the homework, ‘cause you clearly put zero effort in. And I wouldn’t have helped you, even if you’d asked, by the way.”

You hum absent-mindedly as you put your notebook and pencil holder in your bag. Are you sure that these are even your feelings in the first place? Just because the well put a silly idea in your head doesn’t mean you have to believe it like it’s scripture. If what you saw is real, then it will happen in its own time. Things don’t have to start changing right this instant.

“Gosh, Y/N, what’s up with you today? You’re so boring,” Jongseong continues, following you out of the classroom. 

“Just tired,” you reply. Wouldn’t it be unnatural if you were to radically alter the way you behave with Jongseong? Love should come about organically. Sure, his presence has always provoked some kind of reaction within you, but that’s usually been annoyance. Whether he’s stealing the fifth eraser you’ve bought that month or running on the soccer field, beads of sweat running down his temples, hair sticking out everywhere, victoriously smiling when his team scores—you’re annoyed. Whether he’s sticking up his hand higher than yours or going to the school dance with Ahn Yujin—you’re annoyed. When you learned that she’d been his neighbor since infancy and that she had a boyfriend, who went to another school and only trusted Jongseong to take her to the dance, you were still annoyed—this time at yourself for feeling even the tiniest bit relieved that nothing was going on between them.

And this — his quick steps trying to keep up with yours, his dumb story about yogurt coming out of Heeseung’s nose today at lunch when they were laughing too hard — yes, you’re still annoyed. But you realize you’re not annoyed at him.

You’re annoyed at how he makes you feel.

“Y/N?” he says, but you’re too deep in your thoughts, only vaguely registering the sound until he repeats it, louder this time, and grabs your hand, making you abruptly stop walking. “Are you sure everything’s okay?” he asks with genuine concern in his voice. “You’re barely listening to me. I mean, it’s not like you usually really do, but you’d have told me to get lost, like, five minutes ago now…”

He chuckles self-deprecatingly, but despite his words, you’re focusing on something else yet again. His hand on yours, his loose hold on your fingers. Your brain is yelling at you—hold his hand, hug him. It’s like there are still traces of the 28-year-old version of you you visited yesterday, urging you to behave like her and not 18-year-old you. 

So, the well had let you know that you need not look much further to find what you wanted. Here it is, in the form of a boy you have convinced yourself you hated, and hated you, and yet, he’s holding your hand, asking you if you’re okay, worry knotting his eyebrows together. 

Hold his hand. Hug him. Instead, you retract your hand, let it fall limply by your side. Jongseong’s eyebrows shoot up.

He’s so close, the supposed love of your life. You don’t know how to reach out to him.

For now, you smile. “Get lost, Jong.”

--

you guys how the hell do i act around jongseong now that i know our fates are romantically intertwined

kazuha i think not treating him like the number one public enemy would be a good start

you so what… be nice to him? how do i do that

sunoo oh my god y/n when she has to treat another person like a regular human being

you he’s not just another person!

sunoo okayyyyy i see you little miss repressed feelings

you i hate u

kazuha just don’t roll your eyes at everything he says anymore and don’t start arguments for no reason

you he’s the one who starts them… but okay i’ll try

--

“Let’s pair up for the reading analysis today. You can stay with your deskmate or pick a partner, I don’t mind as long as you get the work done. I’m talking about you, Chaewon and Yuri. This is English class, not a gossip session.”

The second your English teacher has finished speaking, Jongseong swivels in his chair. “Let’s partner up, Y/N?”

“What about me?” Jake asks, eyes darting back-and-forth between the two of you.

“You can partner up with Minju,” Jongseong replies, pointing to the girl he’s usually seated next to. “Look. You guys will be great together. Say hi, Minju.” Minju waves shyly at Jake, braces on display as she smiles ecstatically. It’s not everyday that she gets to talk to one of the most popular guys in school.

Jake reluctantly switches seats with him, glancing back at you and Jongseong who just grins at him, fake friendliness plastered on his lips, until he turns around again. Your new partner’s smile softens and reaches his eyes when he looks at you. “Hi.”

You have to look away—you feel your face burn under his gaze. “Hi, Jong.”

He tilts his head. “What? Do you hate me so much that you can’t even look at me now?” he asks, and you can’t tell whether he’s joking or genuine.

You frown. “I don’t hate you.”

“Oh? That’s a recent development.”

“I guess,” you mumble after a few seconds. Is it really? You suddenly can’t remember if you ever really hated him, or if you’d exaggerated your own feelings.

His smile widens. “Well, good. I mean, you were going to have to realize at some point that I really am funny, smart, endearing, handsome-”

“Back to hating.”

“Let’s start the assignment.”

You agree on reading the passage first, but you realize halfway through that not a single word has been absorbed. “Hey. Why did you switch seats with him?” you ask, whispering so as not to be overheard.

Jongseong shrugs. “I thought you wouldn’t want to work with him, considering…”

“Right.” You’re silent again, but only for a bit. “What’s it to you?” you mumble. 

He scoffs. “Sorry for trying to be considerate.”

“That’s not—”

“Let’s just focus on this.”

His sudden coldness vexes you. You know you should let it go — don’t start arguments for no reason, and all that — and you know it’s childish, but you can’t help yourself. You have certain reflexes you’re not particularly proud of when it comes to one Park Jongseong. “Let’s just focus on this,” you repeat, mocking his grumbling tone of voice and shaking your head like a puppet.

He glares at you. “Can you not act like a toddler for once?”

“Can you not be a dick for once?” you bite back.

“Y/N, Jongseong, I’m sure you’re having a fascinating conversation on the use of chiaroscuro in the text?” your teacher asks, a look of warning on his face.

“Yes, sir,” you reply, embarrassed.

“Yes, so much chiaroscuro,” Jongseong mumbles, resting his cheek on his knuckles. When the teacher has turned away, he kicks your foot. “See, you’re getting us in trouble.”

“Do you even know what chiaroscuro is?” 

He hesitates. “That’s not the problem here. You are.”

“Well, maybe if you didn’t-”

“Y/N, Jay, final warning.”

“Sorry,” you both say at the same time. With one last glare at each other, you finally get to work.

So your plan to start getting along with Jongseong isn’t in full-force yet. On the drive back home that afternoon, you reassure yourself that these things take time. When the moment is right, the two of you will grow closer.

--

But increasingly, it feels as though the right moment will never come.

Two months have passed since your visit to the well, and things between you and Jongseong have not changed. Not really, at least.

You still bicker like cat and dog — it goes without saying that you’re the cute puppy and he’s the heartless cat — and he gets as much on your nerves as ever, especially now that you know that the potential to be nice to you, to love you, even, exists somewhere inside him. Somewhere deeply hidden perhaps, but somewhere nonetheless. Of course, after telling yourself that what must come will come of its own accord, you haven’t done much to change the dynamic between the two of you. But if you used to see your retaliations against him as necessary to your survival, you now find some sort of enjoyment in them—some might call it Stockholm Syndrome, you perceive it as a step in the right direction. You’ve followed one of Kazuha’s pieces of advice: you don’t roll your eyes at him anymore, simply because you don’t feel the need to. You argue with him with a smile on your face, his attempts at insulting or annoying you have started to make you laugh.

He doesn’t say anything but seems to gladly welcome this change. If you get a lower grade than him on a test, he doesn’t try to stick the knife in further, but genuinely offers to go over it with you later. If you give in after two hours of tearing your hair out over a German exercise and text him for help, he doesn’t make fun of you. If he says something particularly arrogant or makes a really bad joke, all you need to do is give him a look, and he’ll mumble an apology. 

Could it have been like this the entire time? you wonder, watching him across the schoolyard as he and Heeseung hunt for Pokémon. Just a couple months ago, you would’ve scrunched your nose at the sight, making fun of him for his childish interests. Now, you notice the way he laughs, audible all the way to where you sit with Kazuha and Sunoo, the way he jumps excitedly and points at things only he and his friend see, and all you feel is endearment.

“Look at you, look at that,” Sunoo says as he hits you on the forehead with his metal spoon, startling you. He tuts. “You’ve got love dripping from your eyes, sweetie.”

“Sunoo, that’s disgusting.”

“Love? I know.”

“No, your spoon. Your saliva’s all over that,” you say, and all he does is eat another mouthful of his yogurt while staring wide-eyed right at you. When you look back at Jongseong, he’s high-fiving Heeseung. You wonder which creature he’s caught now. In the library yesterday, he spent thirty minutes showing you every single one he had captured so far instead of revising for the upcoming Physics test.

“Yeah, we know you’d like someone else’s saliva more,” Kazuha chimes in, and the two of them snort.

“It’s not like that,” you say, biting into an apple slice.

“Oh yeah? What’s it like, then?” Kazuha asks.

“We’re… becoming friends,” you say, but you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince more.

“Y/N, I’ve had to watch the two of you giggling to yourselves in the library one too many times to believe you’re friends. I know your homework’s not that funny,” Sunoo argues.

“Friends can giggle with each other!” you exclaim, but your friends are inflexible.

“I would tell you to get yourself together if you giggled at me like that,” he says.

“I saw you twirl your hair the other day,” Kazuha adds.

“I never—When?!”

She shrugs. “The other day.”

You deflate, crushed under your friends’ accusations. “I wouldn’t twirl my hair…” you mumble. You decide to busy yourself with your apple slices, not even bothering to find out what Kazuha and Sunoo start snickering and elbowing each other about.

“Hey,” a familiar voice greets, making you look up. Jongseong smiles at you and steals an apple slice from your tupperware as he sits down next to you, Heeseung across from him.

“Hi, Jong,” you say, sitting up straighter. You offer a piece of fruit to Heeseung but he declines, saying he doesn’t like apples without peanut butter.

In front of you, your friends exchange a look, and you’re immediately terrified of what they’ll do next. Leaning in, they place their elbows on the table, and Kazuha starts them off. “Jay, you and Y/N know each other pretty well, right?”

Jongseong glances at you, eyes wide. “Uh, sure.”

“Have you ever noticed her, say, twirling her hair?” Sunoo asks, tilting his head innocently at the poor boy by your side.

You’ve never seen him look so confused. “Um, yeah, she does that when she’s concentrating on something, sometimes…”

They lean back. “Huh,” Kazuha says, studying Jongseong’s face.

“Interesting. Very interesting,” Sunoo says, slowly nodding.

You glare at your friends. “See, that’s different,” you tell them. “I was concentrating on something, not doing… whatever you guys had in mind.”

Jongseong looks at you. “What did they have in mind?”

You answer before either of them can dig your grave any deeper. “Nothing. It’s nothing. We were just having a stupid conversation.” You muster your most convincing smile, and the subject is finally dropped.

No one says anything for a few moments, until Heeseung decides to speak up: “You should’ve seen Jay earlier, Y/N. He caught this super rare version of Pikachu earlier, it was awesome.”

“Dude…” Jongseong murmurs.

“What?” Heeseung asks, his enthusiasm quickly dissolving into confusion. Jongseong just shakes his head. Thankfully for all of you, the bell rings then, and you head to class. The three of them walk in front of you while you and Jongseong fall back a step.

“Why were you guys sitting outside? It’s freezing today,” he asks you. Walking side-by-side like this, you can’t help but notice the inches he has over you, the broadness of his shoulders in comparison to yours.

“They turned the heat way too high in the cafeteria, so we came outside for some fresh air,” you explain. He’s right, the air is chilly today—it’s a few days into December, and the temperatures have been accordingly low.

“Aren’t you cold?”

Your heart skips a beat. One of the side effects of not being at each other’s throat anymore was that you got more and more often to be privy to this side of Jongseong—attentive, considerate, kind. What you once thought were his moral attempts at not being so mean to you all the time, you found out was actually his real nature. He wasn’t a prick who was sometimes nice, he was a nice person who turned into a prick with you. Whether the fault lay on him or you was another debate.

“No, I’m alright,” you say, but your body decides to betray you and makes you sneeze three times in a row.

“Bless you,” Jongseong says, laughing. “Here.” You try to stop him, pushing his hands away, but he takes his gloves off and forces them in your palms.

“I’m going to be inside for the next four hours, Jong, I’ll be fine. Keep them.”

“No, it’s okay. Just so you can warm up quicker.”

You eventually give in, putting the gloves over your hands, laughing at the extra fabric that hangs off the tip of your fingers. But when you look at Jongseong’s now-bare hands, something catches your attention. Stopping in the hallway, you grab one of them, examining the cuts on his knuckles. “You need to wear hand cream, Jong, your hands are too chapped.”

He lets you turn his hand over, smooth over his skin, do the same thing with his other hand. “Men don’t wear hand cream,” he says, a grin on his lips.

You burst out laughing. “I think that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Seriously, though, I don’t like the way it feels. Too sticky.”

“You just need to get a quick-absorption one.” Then, you make the terrible mistake of looking up from his hand and meeting his eyes—you gasp silently, his gaze and soft smile transporting you right back to that night, the images of 28-year-old and 18-year-old Jongseong mixing into each other, becoming indistinct from each other. Your gaze drifts down to his lips — chapped, too, when they’re usually plumper, rosier — and his hand, still in yours, balls into a fist. The second bell rings and you both take a step back, eyes meeting again for a brief moment before looking down at the floor. With uncharacteristically shy, embarrassed words of parting, you make your separate ways to your next classes.

“That was beautiful, Y/N,” Sunoo says, waiting for you by the door, and you walk past him without so much as a glance.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

--

sunoo jay and y/n almost kissed earlier

kazuha WHAAAAT

you KIM SUNOO.

kazuha WHEN?????

sunoo right before class after the lunch break y/n was sooo embarrassed afterwards lol

you we did NOT almost kiss you’re talking out of your ass

kazuha i can’t believe i missed this fml

you YOU DIDNT MISS ANYTHING NOTHING HAPPENED

sunoo be serious u guys we’re standing inches apart

you were* and no we weren’t

sunoo oh stfu it was autocorrect i saw it w my own eyes y/n… you WERE literally holding his hand and staring into those beautiful eyes of his

kazuha sunoo…?

sunoo what can’t a man acknowledge another man’s objective attractiveness if i was y/n i would’ve folded the moment i saw him

you literally one of the first times he talked to me was to make fun of my handwriting

sunoo yeah he’s on his tsundere shit i fw it

you …

sunoo anyways zuha you shouldve seen it when the bell rang they practically leaped away from each other and u didnt know what to do w yourselves afterwards likeeee it was so obvi what you both were thinking of

kazuha cuuuute

you i resent these accusations.

sunoo istg if u dont kiss him next time i will

kazuha ???

you SUNOO?

sunoo WHAT

--

Something happens a few days before the start of winter break.

Ms. Schumacher is absent, gone off to Germany to visit her family there—she has enough seniority in the school that they let her abandon her responsibilities as a teacher once in a while. A week is too short a period of time for them to bother finding a substitute. It’s usually your last class of the day, but you have to wait around for your dad to be done working, so while most of your classmates have gone home early, you sit with about six other people in the unsupervised study room, absent-mindedly jotting down tid-bits of dialogue for your new story idea, too preoccupied with Jongseong’s absence to really pay attention to anything else. It’s fifteen minutes after the hour, but he’s nowhere to be found, although you know for a fact that he takes those weird Molecular Gastronomy cooking classes your Chemistry teacher offers for extra credit every Thursday after school, so he should be here. And anyways, if he’d gone home, he would’ve texted you something like, Have fun sitting around for an hour, I’m gonna go do awesome stuff with Heeseung, even if awesome stuff meant playing Mario Kart or drinking Sprite and holding a two-person burping contest.

You’re so engrossed in your own thoughts that you pay no mind to the sudden ding of a phone in the room, followed by some gasps and heated whispers. The exchanged words go through one ear and out the other—There was a fight? In the locker rooms? It must be bad if they were sent to the nurse before the principal… Huh? Over who? So he took both of them on? Damn, I didn’t know Jay got like that. He seems so well-behaved.

Your head whips up at the mention of your friend’s name. “Jay? Did something happen to him?” you ask out loud, the whispers dying down immediately as everybody stares at you. 

Gaeul, who was in your class last year, is the only one who answers you. Holding up and waving her phone, she says, “They say he got into a fight.”

Jongseong? A fight? It sounds like a practical joke. He admitted to you he once started crying watching Heeseung playing Call of Duty, it was so violent. You shake your head. “He-he did? With who?”

Gaeul and the girl next to her exchange a concerned, almost guilty look. “Jake and Sunghoon.” The crease between your eyebrows deepened. You don’t need to ask anything else before she adds, “They’re at the nurse’s station. It sounds pretty bad…”

That’s enough for you to leap out of your chair and run to the nurse’s station. It seems the news has spread impossibly quickly among your year group—even Kazuha and Sunoo are already blowing your phone, asking you if you’ve heard, if you know how Jay is. You ignore them, reminding yourself to text them back later, until one message from Sunoo in particular catches your attention: It apparently started because Sunghoon said something about you, Y/N. They’re saying Jay got angry.

The nurse is busy on the phone when you get there, her back to the entrance, so you’re able to slip in unnoticed. You head to the adjoining room where the beds are, all three of them taken—you walk by Sunghoon first, his arms crossed over his chest and pointedly not looking at you, then by Jake, who calls out your name. You glare at him and pull on the white plastic curtain that separates his bed from Jongseong’s. They’re already going to hear you, you don’t need them seeing you on top of that. 

Jongseong sits up with a grunt when you appear at the end of his bed. The sight of him makes your stomach flip, and not in a good way, for once—his left eye is swollen and circled by a deep purple bruise, shiny with ointment, there’s a cut on his cheek, his lower lip is busted, his right hand is wrapped in bandages. “Oh my God,” you whisper as you help him up, voice breaking. He stares at his hands, jaw locking when you gently place one palm on his good hand, the other on the side of his face, moving it this way and that so you can take a better look at his injuries. He winces, and you let go, resting your hand on his shoulder instead. “What the hell got into you?” you whisper vehemently, unable to decide if you’re worried or angry or both as tears form in your eyes.

He tries to shrug, but even that seems to hurt. “Don’t shrug, Jongseong, tell me what happened.”

“I’m Jongseong again now?” he says, attempting a smile, but only one corner of his lips rises.

You sigh. Even in this state, he has to be a smart-ass. “You’re Jong when I need a textbook, Jongseong when you get into stupid fights,” you reply, and he smiles wider but immediately winces, hand coming up to the cut on his lip. You notice that his hand is still riddled with cracks, and whether they’re due to their dryness or to this fight doesn’t matter—”Wait here,” you say, and go rummage through some drawers for plasters. “She forgot some spots.” You feel Jongseong’s eyes on your face as you patch him up to the best of your abilities.

“I don’t want to tell you what happened. I’ll do the job of hating these idiots for the both of us, so don’t concern yourself with them,” he says, apparently not caring that the idiots in question can hear his every word.

He keeps his promise—you never hear another word from him about the cause of the fight. 

Later, you find out through other means, namely Sunoo’s questionably remarkable ability to unearth any and all gossip, that in the locker rooms after Phys Ed, someone had started Jake on the topic of Yunjin, who had been recently revealed as his girlfriend. They’d apparently kept it secret because it was just fooling around at first, and only later had gotten serious enough for them to parade around the school as the couple. 

It had been an unremarkable conversation until Jake said, “You guys know Y/N from our class? She saw us in the staff parking lot once, and I was sure we’d be busted then. But she didn’t tell anyone.” And just like that, the conversation turned to you, someone who was usually never a topic among these boys, jocks, soccer players, “the kind of people who peak in high school and still have a superiority complex at forty,” as Sunoo describes them. 

He has a harder time explaining what happened next, can’t quite look you in the eye as he recounts what was said. “So, this is what they say, apparently someone said that you used to be obsessed with Sunghoon, then with Jake, and Sunghoon said you… Well, he said you were pathetic, that asshole, and that you had been so easy to lead on, then Jake joined in, saying the same things, basically, how funny it was seeing you so obviously in love with him when he would never give you a chance…” He looks at you worriedly, but you tell him to go on. “And so that’s when Jay got up and just straight-up punched Jake in the face. And while Jake was trying to figure out what happened, Jay punched Sunghoon, and then they both got on him, pushing him, but when he wouldn’t stop throwing punches, they started fighting, too. I think they all got some good ones in before the other boys were able to break them apart and the P.E. teacher arrived…”

But that would be later. Now, sitting with Jongseong in the nurse’s station, tears falling onto the plasters you place on his hand, nothing matters but him. You don’t need the details—he’s hurt, he got hurt over you, you feel as though every cut on his body may well have been done by your own hand. You’ve never felt so guilty for something you didn’t do. Your voice trembles when you speak; you’re unable to look at him, at his busted eye. “I just don’t want you to get hurt for me.”

Without missing a beat, he says, “What else would I get hurt for?”

You can only meet his eyes for a split second. Even like this, he manages to look at you with the same softness that has haunted you since the night you met 28-year-old Jongseong, that has rendered all thoughts of anything other than him meaningless since the day your gaze drifted down to his lips just weeks ago. “Jong…” is all you can mutter as you look down at your hands holding each others’, your lips trembling.

He raises his bandaged hand, still not used to his dominant side being ineffective for now, then lowers it when he realizes. Clumsily, he pats your hair with his left hand. “Don’t cry, please…”

Jake’s head pops out from behind the curtain. “Y/N, I’m really sorry—”

“Not right now, man,” Jay quickly interrupts. Jake pathetically disappears behind the curtain again.

“Just promise me you won’t do this again.”

“Y/N…”

“Promise me,” you say, more demanding this time, sticking out your pinky finger. Jay, hesitant, looks between your outstretched finger and your face a few times, but eventually gives in.

The nurse, upon coming to check on the boys, catches you with Jongseong and chases you out immediately. You sulk back to study hall, where everyone’s head perks up the moment you walk in. “They’re okay,” you reassure vaguely, and unenthusiastically answer their many questions. It’s only a few minutes until the bell rings, and you’re free to go then.

--

jong so… guess who got a five-day suspension

you you idiot what did your parents say?

jong they’re not happy i have to do all the household chores for a month

you boo-hoo

jong not sure why i came here thinking i’d get some comfort…

you … are you feeling better?

jong a little bit the nurse gave us some really strong painkillers but i’m okay because there’s a pretty girl that’s going to drop off the homework for me after school every day :)

you oh did you ask chaewon to do that?

jong um no i was talking about you ..if that’s okay

you haha i know i just wanted you to say it straight up

jong ykw maybe i should just ask chaewon

you i’ll see you tomorrow jong!!

jong :) see you tomorrow pretty 

 --

The months that separate your return to school and graduation come and go in the blink of an eye. Jongseong can’t come to school the last day before the holidays or the first four days after, and he’s grounded in-between. Things change bit by bit with every day you visit him—To give him the homework, you tell his parents, although there isn’t much to do when the semester isn’t in full swing, and you could’ve easily sent him pictures. The first time, you spend more time scouring the pictures and trinkets in his room than actually talking to him, and awkwardly give him a half-hug when he tells you he won’t be able to hang out at all during the break before practically running out of his house, your heart beating a thousand miles a minute from the innocent contact. By the fourth time, you lie together on his bed and talk about your plans for college, your hands sitting centimeters apart on the navy sheets. You haven’t dared touch his hand since that day in the nurse’s station.

You’re window-shopping with Kazuha when you spot the hand cream you had seen yourself gifting Jongseong in your well-given vision. Buying it is one thing, actually giving it to him is another, an awkward, stuttery situation in which the wrapping done by the store employee suddenly seems over-the-top and out-of-place. But Jongseong seems to like it—it’s the last day of his suspension, his black eye is now a yellow-ish color, he can smile without risking splitting his lip in two. He applies it immediately, tells you he’ll make sure to wear it every day until the end of winter. You find yourself wishing there was something you could give him for every season so he wouldn’t go a day without thinking of you. When you leave, he bashfully thanks you for making sure he doesn’t fall behind and says he’s excited to see you at school the next day. You hardly know what to do with yourself, so you squeak out a “me too” and slip out the door.

His first day back is a Friday. It starts with Mathematics, a class in which you sit by each other. You remember the first week of classes when Kazuha and Sunoo had ran to sit with each other, expressly because they knew that if he saw you were sitting alone, he’d take the seat next to you, just to better torment you all year. You’d resented it then; it couldn’t make you happier now. Your body is humming with nervous energy, your foot tapping relentlessly against the tiled floor. When he appears in the doorframe, you wave at him as if he’d forgotten his seat in three weeks of absence. His elbow brushes against yours as he sits down.

Between the two of you, friendship blossoms over these months. To the detriment of everyone around you, you continue to bicker as you always have, but it’s now clearly done out of habit, out of affection, even, than out of actual dislike of each other. He and Heeseung slowly integrate your small group of three, and before you know it, it feels as though there have always been five of you. Together, you welcome spring.

In January, to thank you for helping him to pick out his mom’s birthday present, Jongseong treats you to some tteokbokki, which you said you’d been craving all week. He orders the spiciest one, then has to take a sip of water between every bite. You laugh at his teary eyes and red face while you devour the bright red rice cakes easily. 

In February, he makes a show of giving you and Kazuha and Heeseung and Sunoo some homemade chocolates, saying it’s a friend thing. You find out that evening that the others each have five in their box—there are twenty in yours. It’s one of the things that makes you second guess what sort of feelings he has for you. For years, you’ve been convinced he harbored strong feelings of disdain for you; now, he seems to enjoy your friendship. You’re scared to read too much into anything, because if Jongseong is well-liked throughout school, it’s for a reason: he’s nice. To everyone. Even to you, too, nowadays. But if nice is giving five chocolates, what is giving twenty?

A sudden realization hits you in March—Jongseong appears at your door, drenched from the rain, a bag of your favorite snacks in hand. “You weren’t at school today. I had to find out you were sick from Kazuha,” he says as if she was a random classmate of yours and not your best friend, as if he should be the first to know about these kinds of things. Your mom rushes him in, finds him so charming in the five minutes they converse that she decides he should stay over for dinner, and as you watch him laughing with her, you think, I haven’t thought of 28-year-old Jongseong in ages. I’ve only thought of you. And although you can trace the start of your feelings to that dream-like experience you had, you can now say with confidence that it’s not the only reason for them.

College application results come out in April, right on his birthday. The five of you celebrate together at an American-style diner, gorging yourselves on crispy bacon and chocolate chip pancakes. Kazuha is going back to Japan, almost a decade after moving to South Korea—”I’m gonna miss you guys, but I miss takoyaki and my grandma more right now.” Heeseung has been accepted into the Engineering department at the country’s top university. You, Sunoo and Jongseong are all heading to the same place: you for Screenwriting, which you’ve known since you were one of the winners of the scholarship contest last October, Sunoo for Communications, whatever that is, and Jongseong for European History and Literature with a minor in German, that freak. It’s a good university, and it’s not far from home. The way Jongseong tells you about his acceptance sticks with you: he doesn’t say, They accepted me, too, or, I’m going to the same university as you. He says, We’ll be together.

May is filled with afternoons at the park when you should all be studying for exams. Your mom keeps asking when she’s going to see “that wonderful boy” again. Your friendship with Jongseong has given him new ways of teasing you—after four years of near-kleptomaniac tendencies, he’s finally stopped stealing your erasers and has instead started to let his gaze linger on your face, to call you pretty when you least expect it, to tuck your hair behind your ear. You hate it most when he asks you whether there’s something from your romance novels or movies that you want him to recreate. “Is there a field big enough nearby that I can walk through at the break of dawn, Mister Darcy-style?” he’ll say, or “I’ve always wanted to try that upside-down kiss from Spider-Man. It’s a classic, really.” 

Summer comes early in June. You need to bring a two-liter water bottle and a hand fan to your exams, and you’ve never felt such relief as when it was all over. After endless pictures with your parents and siblings, just your parents, just your siblings, then Kazuha and Sunoo, together, then separately, then with Heeseung and Jongseong as well, Kazuha forces you and Jongseong together, watching with a smile as he shyly wraps an arm around your waist and you awkwardly throw up a peace sign. It’s your first picture of just the two of you.

In July, you and Jongseong unlock a new first: saying goodbye. He’s leaving to stay with his American family as he does every summer. You show up at his house the day before at four p.m. “to help him pack,” you say, but it’s Jongseong, and he finished packing two days ago. So instead, you sit on his desk chair, he on his bed, and you fight back tears. “You’re coming back, right?” you ask, like he’s leaving to go to war and not Seattle. Amusement and affection flicker in his eyes. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t throw four more years of being a pain in your ass away, would I?” he says, and you smile, because you know it’s going to be much more than four years.

But he doesn’t just leave you with a few nice words. Avoiding your gaze, he hands you an envelope. Inside is a single ticket, a two-month membership for your city’s arthouse cinema that you can only go to when they have student deals or when your parents have had enough of your begging. You can’t even begin to imagine how much this must’ve cost. “Jong…” you murmur, in awe at the thin slip of paper between your hands. “This is incredible. Thank you so much.”

Jongseong looks down at his feet, fighting a smile as he kicks the invisible rocks that obviously litter the floor of his bedroom. “I thought you’d get bored without me around, so, that way you can entertain yourself, I guess… And if you run into any film bros next year, you’ll have seen as many pretentious movies as them.”

You burst into laughter then, and, without thinking, wrap your arms around his neck, thanking him over and over again. It takes him a second, but he wraps his arms around your waist and says it’s no big deal.

As you walk down the path from your house, he calls out your name. “Don’t be a stranger,” he says.

You smile. “Never.”

So, he’s not here for summer. Kazuha is working in her parents’ ramen restaurant to make some money before leaving, even Heeseung leaves two weeks into July for Seoul to visit some relatives there and get accustomed to life in the big city. You only get to laze around with Sunoo, but even he eventually leaves for his grandparents’ house by the sea, making you promise you’ll come visit him at some point, otherwise he’ll “die of boredom.” 

It’s August now, and your brain and body alike buzz with restlessness. You go to the cinema almost every day, making the best of your subscription. If you’re not going around your house looking for spider webs with your vacuum cleaner, you’re riding random bus lines and discovering parts of your town you’ve never set foot in before. If you’re not making your way through your never-ending pile of unread books, you’re creating your own stories, finally taking the time to properly outline and draft the one-line ideas you’ve had sitting in your Notes app, preparing yourself for the start of your degree. Your mind is taken up with love stories. From Romeo & Juliet to Dirty Dancing to Book Lovers, you can’t get enough of the genre. You become particularly obsessed with stories involving time travel, rewatching After Time and Lovely Runner like they contain some precious knowledge. By the end of the month, you’ve turned your life into an eight-episode TV series—a desperate girl makes a wish on a star only to discover she is fated to marry the one boy she hates most. You know you’d watch that. You send Sunoo and Kazuha the pilot, and after calling you insane numerous times but also heaping on praises, Sunoo says this: lol your going through jay withdrawals.

It shakes you so much you’re not even compelled to message back you’re*.

But he’s not wrong. The more you let yourself admit it, the more you realize how true it is: you miss Jongseong. You text once in a while, you’ve even stayed up late talking on the phone a couple of times, but you miss him, his corporeal form, having his gaze on you, having the possibility but never the courage to touch him. Every day, there’s something you want to tell him about. The cats huddling around a young neighborhood kid as he pours milk into a bowl, the clearance sale at your local library, most books for one buck only, the actor from an 90s Hong Kong film you swear has the exact same smile as him. You don’t want to bother him, so you write letters instead. Some you send, some you don’t—the ones you keep hidden in your drawer usually hint too obviously at your feelings for him. Some of them don’t just hint and contain lines of your declarations: I miss you, everything I see reminds me of you, I want to check that your bruises have healed completely even though the last trace of them faded months ago. You keep these letters a secret, even from Sunoo and Kazuha, who would never let you live down such woebegone, down bad behavior.

You do it because it feels good, getting all of your feelings out on paper. You’re a romantic at heart, so you’re prone to over-exaggeration when it comes to things like these—but everything that you write remains based in truth. You’d started with a postcard of your hometown, jokingly writing, Don’t forget where you came from. How is it over there? and he’d actually replied with a postcard of his own, filling it from top to bottom. You easily went from these small postcards to multiple pages of stream-of-consciousness-like writing. You think it’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done—although you’re not sure he feels the same way, considering he still writes to the German pen pal Ms. Schumacher had assigned him in your first year of high school. No one else’s correspondence had lasted more than four months because she’d immediately forgotten to make sure you kept in touch regularly.

I ran into Jake Sim at the city library, you write one day. You’ve replied to everything in his latest letter, so you’re now catching him up on your recent adventures. He was checking out some books about Linguistics, of all things—he bought me bubble tea afterwards and told me that the injury he got last April was actually a relief. Did you know his father was a big name in soccer here? Apparently, he never wanted to be a soccer player that badly, and he wants to do Linguistics and Social Anthropology, who would’ve guessed it. He’s like Troy Bolton if High School Musical was about Humanities and not singing. Anyways, you probably don’t want me to go on and on about him, so I won’t, but we did talk about that fight you guys had back in December. He apologized for it, to you and me both, although he didn’t go into much detail — Sunoo is still the only one who’s had the balls to tell me exactly what happened, and he wasn’t even there! — and I was reticent at first, but he seemed genuine. He said he didn’t even hang out with Sunghoon or Yunjin or any of those people anymore, that it was only out of convenience really, and that he hopes starting university will be like turning over a new leaf. Well, he could be full of shit, who knows. As I sat there listening to him I wondered what it was I used to see in him. He’s nice enough, but we only spoke about him for the entire hour. He asked me no questions that weren’t “and you?” so it was a bit exhausting. 

But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you.

You look at your words, smiling to yourself—this is one of the times where you find yourself erring from the topic at hand, instead indulging in sappiness and nostalgia. You write about how your opinion of Jongseong has changed over these months, how it wasn’t seeing him as your husband in all those years that had really shaken things up, but rather that day in the nurse’s station, the frightening colors around his eye, his attitude like it was natural that he would get hurt like this for you. You write, Have I been wrong about you this whole time? I thought you harbored the same negative feelings towards me as I had you since the moment you’d laid eyes on me, but all of a sudden, here you were, bloody, bandaged hand holding mine. Even with your busted eye, you looked like an angel next to all that white in the nurse’s station. I’ll never forget your words that day. Would you really not get hurt for anything else, Jong?

“I’m going to the Post Office for a package soon, Y/N. Are you done with your letter?” your mom calls from the staircase landing.

“Give me five minutes!” you call back.

You forage through your drawer for a new sheet of paper and re-write your letter, making sure to leave any compromising parts out and fold both letters into neat squares—one that will cross the seas and reach Jongseong, one that will live out its days in the darkness of your crowded drawer. You’ve run out of envelopes, so you go look for one in your parents’ office. Your mom calls out your name again, impatient to leave — if she sends her package off before twelve p.m., it will get to the receiver tomorrow, and she’s hell-bent on getting perfect five-star Vinted reviews — so you hurriedly put your letter in the envelope, close it, stamp it, and write Jongseong’s name and address on the back. The other letter you absent-mindedly throw in your drawer with the dozens of other letters in which you’d crossed the line.

--

A few weeks later, like an apparition, Jongseong stands before you again.

He’s tanner from months under the Washington sun, from afternoons spent at his family’s lake house, on their boat. His hair is slightly shorter and suits him even better; you don’t recognize any of the clothes he wears. He grumbles as his mother goes back-and-forth between hugging him, staring at him worriedly and reminding him to call at least twice a week while his father unpacks the trunk. “I’ll only be a thirty-minute train ride away, Mom,” he says. 

He’s still Jong.

You moved in yesterday, and you’re now waiting for your new roommate, who, after five minutes of deliberating whether she should bring a jacket or not and finally decided against it, changed her mind the minute she stepped outside. 

It’s been two months since you last saw him. Shortly after sending your letter, you’d gone to stay with Sunoo’s grandparents for a week, just a day before he was set to come back from Seattle. Amid packing and other preparations, you haven’t had time to see each other. Is it okay if I respond to your letter in person? I think I’ll be too busy these two coming weeks, he texted you. You replied that it wasn’t a problem, you told him which dorm you’d been assigned and found out his was the one next door.

When he notices you staring, he does a double-take. You wave at him, and even from this distance, you see the blush that creeps up his neck and takes over his face as he shyly waves back. You’ve never seen him like this—he’s always been either arrogant or friendly, never… flustered. He makes a motion as if to say, I’ll text you, and heads inside the building with his parents and all of his luggage.  

Indeed, he texts you some hours later while you’re sharing a piece of strawberry and matcha cake with your roommate Liz, whom you find out is half-German—Jongseong and your dad would probably love her for that simple fact. Some of the first things she’d asked you were what your astrological signs were and whether you wanted her to pull tarot cards for you when she was all done setting up her side of the room. Between that and her dyed blonde hair, you’d felt comfortable telling her all about Jongseong, the well and your dream. Unlike your skeptical and sarcastic friends, she’d nodded along to your every word, a serious expression on her face. “A sign from the universe,” she’d called it, and she gasped in excitement when his name appeared on your screen.

He sends you a link to a freshers’ week event, some potted plant sale happening on the main campus square, and asks if you’re free to go with him tomorrow. I need something to liven up that depressing room, he writes.

So that’s how you find yourselves among green plants of all shapes and sizes, searching for one that’s both low-maintenance and appealing to the eye. You’re glad that you have something to actually do—if you were just sitting at a café and having a conversation, you’re not sure you’d be able to stand the awkwardness. You’d chalked up his behavior on the day of his move-in to nerves, or to surprise upon seeing you so unexpectedly. But apparently, it wasn’t a one-time thing. He keeps clearing his throat as if he were sick with some cold, won’t look into your eyes for more than split seconds at a time, and in complete opposition to his usual confident, deliberate speech, talks in a quick and disorderly manner. And he’s either really caught a cold, or his ears have just permanently turned red. You ask him if something’s wrong a couple times, but he violently shakes his head, says, “No, what could be wrong?” then looks at you as if you might tell him what’s wrong.

When you’re alone again, you wonder what on earth could have happened over the summer that could make him change his behavior with you so radically. Did something happen in Seattle? Maybe he met someone there and doesn’t know how to tell you. Maybe you went overboard with your letters, he doesn’t want to be friends anymore, he wants to let you down easy but doesn’t know how to tell you. Or maybe—maybe you got impossibly pretty during those two months, and absence does make the heart grow fonder, as they say, and every thought you have about him, he has about you, but he doesn’t know how to tell you.

In any case, he’s hiding something.

The theory that he might want to stop being friends soon falls flat—the invitations to other freshers’ events keep coming, be it free wine & pizza taster sessions from the Wine Society, karaoke nights with the Taylor Swift Society or a shark movie marathon with the Bad Film Society, and he never turns you down when you tell him there’s something you want to visit in this new city of yours, even when the thing you want to visit in question is a bakery you have to queue in front of at seven a.m. if you want to get a pain au chocolat. In your defense, they turn out to be the best ones you and Jongseong have ever tried—although, to be fair, neither of you has been to France.

Things progressively return to normal. He’s able to make eye contact for more than three seconds again, he listens carefully and laughs along when you tell him about your week by the sea with Sunoo, he fills you in on what Heeseung’s been up to. One thing remains different, however—when you throw quips at him, he usually would’ve delighted in coming up with a better, wittier response, but now, he’ll roll his eyes at best, look at you amusedly and stay silent at worst. “Won’t you even entertain me?” you ask him once, to which he replies that you’re doing a good job entertaining yourself as is. 

Instead, he becomes more earnest. As per usual you badger him with questions like Aren’t I so pretty right now? or Isn’t my outfit so cute today? to get a reaction out of him, and if during your high school days he’d either fake a puking sound or look you up and down and grumble I guess, he now smiles and simply says Yes, you are, Yes, it is. It seems impossible to keep track of his attitude: one day, he’s one thing, the next, he’s another person entirely. 

It annoys you. You take his changing demeanor to mean that now that he’s a college student, he won’t indulge in your childish squabbles anymore, as though he was above all of that now, when just three months ago he was stalking your parents’ Facebooks to find unfavorable photos of you from when you were thirteen and using them as reaction pictures in your friends’ group chat. You think of your graduation day, of the box he’d given you, all done up in wrapper paper and a bow—he had filled it with every eraser he’d stolen from you over the years, he’d even gone so far as to date every single one of them, from the second of October freshman year to the twenty-eighth of November of your senior year. You didn’t count them, but there had to be at least a hundred. At the time, you’d just thought it was funny—but what if the gesture had meant something deeper than you’d realized? What if he was marking the end of something with that box? No more playing around, we’re adults now. But classes have barely started, you don’t know your way to the off-campus library, you aren’t a different person to who you were just weeks or even months earlier. Why is he acting like he is? You look at him, and you see the boy whose fault it was you had to buy a new eraser every week—who knows how many books you could’ve bought with that money. But when he turns to look at you, too, and your eyes meet, you’re suddenly assailed with the memories of that night, the kind eyes, the soft smile. 

Does his future capacity to love me already exist in his heart?

Your heartbeat speeds up and you have to look away.

--

From your letters, it seems to be much hotter back home than in Seattle—you talk of sunburns, of afternoons spent inside with the fan on maximum speed, of ice melting instantly and watering down your Coke Zeros, whereas Jay can walk around the city pleasantly and needs to bring a jacket if he’ll be out until late after sundown. And yet, as he reads your latest letter, his skin prickles feverishly, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. He’d excitedly torn the envelope open the second it arrived in the mail, heart thumping as he counted the pages, at least three more than usual — he was always happy that you wanted to talk to him at all, so the fact that you had this much to tell him sent him over the moon — but he would have never expected what was awaiting him inside.

With a smile on his face, he read your replies to the questions he’d asked you last time, your reactions to everything he told you about, the live Mariners game, the lake house, the rides on the boat. He imagined you as you sat at your desk in your room he’d only seen once, when you’d held a small party for your birthday and he, having arrived first, was honored with a tour of your house. He imagined your smile, the way you played with your hair when you focused on something, wondered whether you pondered every word before you wrote it down as he did or whether you poured your thoughts out onto the page without hesitation. His smile faltered when Jake Sim’s name appeared in your neat handwriting, but he was relieved to find out your description of him now was miles away from the one at the start of the school year. 

Then you start writing about him. Him, Park Jongseong, and your words startle him so much, it’s like he’d forgotten he was the recipient of this letter in the first place.

But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you. 

He’s been lying comfortably in his bed, but he sits up the moment his eyes take in these words. If there is one topic the two of you have practically never broached, it’s this exactly: your relationship, the changes it’s gone through this past year. Except for a few mentions made in jest here and there, you’ve always conveniently ignored the fact that not so long ago, you were at each other’s throats. At least, you were at his throat, and Jay let you be, let you think the hatred went both ways, when in reality all he wanted was to keep you close one way or another. To him, anything was better than indifference.

But here you are, writing about how you feel about him, not in hints, not in jokes, but actually telling him black and white what goes through your head when you think of him—in other words, everything he’s been dying to know ever since he met you and especially ever since you started warming up to him a few months ago.

I have never told you about that night because I know it’ll just be more fodder for you to endlessly tease me, and I haven’t even mentioned it in these letters that I write and don’t send. Sometimes I debate the ethics of it—if I know something about our futures, isn’t it right that you know, too? But then again, I still hesitate whether what happened was real or not. As with anything, the more time passes, the more I forget about it. What kind of cheese you’d put on the pasta, the movie that played in the background, whether the stairs were carpeted or wooded—these details have evaded me by now. All I clearly remember is your face and how I felt, seeing it then, seeing it the next day at school, ten years younger, the same exact person in what felt like a different universe. As much as I tried to deny it, I know now that it was no coincidence—I was talking about it with Sunoo and he said that sometimes, we want something so badly, we conjure it up for ourselves. He’s not always a dimwit. And he’s right, the kind of love I felt from you in that dream — or not-dream — I’ve yearned for it ever since I first watched Pride & Prejudice, the 2005 film to be precise, when I was ten. But with you? That was what I couldn’t believe at first. I don’t think I need to explain why—you were there, I think you knew how I felt about you for over three years, it’s not like I tried to hide it.

Then you turned up and the sight of you was enough to bring back all the feelings from that dream. You must’ve wondered why my behavior with you switched so suddenly—well, a glimpse into marital bliss is sometimes enough for a girl to make some changes in her life. Yet I valiantly tried to convince myself that any flutter of my heart around you was due to this stupid dream, to a version of you my brain had conjured up because it was starved for affection, and you happened to be at the forefront of my mind, even if not for the right reasons. But it was no use. I had entertained the possibility that this future was really mine, and I couldn’t go back to seeing you as the boy who annoyed the living daylights out of me.

But Jong, if you weren’t you, I would’ve been confused for a week and then I would’ve gotten over it. I stayed confused for a while, and everything you did only served to confuse me further. I started to notice you more, to see you for who you were and not for the idea I had constructed of you in my head, I stopped taking note of only the things that reinforced this idea. And that changed everything.

Let’s get it out of the way: as much as I hate to admit it because it proves you right, I saw that you are indeed devastatingly handsome. It devastates me every time I have to look at that stupid, wonderful face of yours. And if aging is something you’re worried about, don’t be. I’ve seen you at 28, and let’s just say that your jaw somehow only gets more chiseled. I’ve realized that you don’t just participate in class to be a prick — except for when you contradict me in Literature, I know you only do that to piss me off, and yes, it works — but that you actually care about what we learn and that you don’t want the teacher to feel like they’re talking to a classroom full of students made out of bricks. I’ve also realized that you didn’t specifically pick German to be the one subject where you must beat me at all costs, you just actually really like German, even if I’m still undetermined as to why. And I can finally admit to myself—you are funny. Sometimes. There were so many times I had to stop myself from laughing at one of your idiotic puns because I could not bear to give you the satisfaction. That feeling when the worst person you know makes a funny joke, and all that. And as much as I’ve mocked you for it, I do actually like your laugh. I like that you’re only loud when you laugh, or sneeze, or get excited over something. You don’t scream, you don’t get angry, and I think that’s a lot for a boy fresh out of puberty. Or for any boy, really. 

But above all, you’re kind, Jong. I think it’s the best thing about you. I think it’s the best thing anyone can be. I see it in your patience with Heeseung when he starts one of his rants better reserved for Reddit than real life, I see it in the way you took Sunoo and Kazuha in stride, even though they’re a bit rough around the edges sometimes, I see it in the way you guide the freshmen at the start of every year, when all anyone does is complain about them, I see it in the gentleness with which you let down the girls who confess to you, even the more persistent ones. I used to think they were crazy, but I understand them more than ever now. I also used to think that all those kindnesses meant that the ones you occasionally showed me meant nothing more than that—occasional kindnesses. You were just a nice guy, occasionally so to me. But you sort of ratted yourself out when you gave me those twenty chocolates for Valentine’s.

Or, really, what made things clearer was that fight in December. I guess I was wrong—you do get angry. I remember a thought I had at the time: just when I think I know you, you do something to shake it all up. You punched two of the star soccer players of our school in the face because they said some mean, unimportant things about me. Thinking about it now, I still don’t understand it. Was it another one of your acts of kindness? 

And then I thought of those other times you helped me out. Do you remember them—the art project, the handwritten notes after my grandma passed away, you tearing Park Sunghoon a new one in the girls’ bathroom. I’m sure there are many more that I’ve dismissed simply because I did not want to see you in any other light than the one I’d decided to shine on you. 

Maybe I’m rewriting the past here, but I’ve been thinking about something lately. The theme today seems to be honesty, so I’ll lay myself bare and tell you something I haven’t told anyone yet, not even myself. The more I write, the more I become aware of its truth. I like you, Jong. I think I have for a long time, longer than either of us thinks. Maybe that’s why I kept buying erasers.

I don’t have the best memory — I suspect iron deficiency, it runs in my mom’s side of the family — but I do remember this. The first time I saw you. I haven’t noticed your face changing in real time, but I’m sure I’d laugh at how much of a baby you looked back then. Although I didn’t fare much better, I’m sure. Well, you’re the one that has all these embarrassing pictures of me, you freak, so I’m sure you could tell me. Moving on… 

I found you really cute. You were chatting to the person next to you, maybe it was Heeseung, I didn’t look properly—I only looked at you. Don’t laugh at me. It was the first day of high school, there was a nervous energy in the air, but you seemed happy to be there. You know I don’t have hordes of friends like you do, I don’t walk through life with people naturally gravitating towards me. I’m okay with it now, but it was something I struggled with back then. Kazuha, Sunoo and I have had each other since our elementary days, and I never needed more than that—but fifteen is the prime age for comparison, and as the weeks passed and we got used to being high schoolers, I listened to everyone sing your praises, I watched as you talked with all of our classmates, even our teachers, like you were old friends. But we sat next to each other in a couple of classes, and you wouldn't talk to me outside of partnered work. I, who wanted to be easily charmed by you like everyone else was, who thought maybe you’d help me come out of my shell. But it felt like sitting next to me was torture to you, like the boy whom I watched speak with ease to everyone else disappeared when I was around. And so — and I’m not proud of this — every smart remark in class, every joke that had the entire class roaring, every high five you gave out in the hallway, I started to despise them. And by association, I started to despise you. After that, it was easy to find fault in everything you did, my contempt was only enhanced by everyone’s admiration. But I’m not alone here. It went both ways, didn’t it? I don’t think you liked that I didn’t like you and openly showed it, so used to being everyone’s favorite person you were. I remember how you showily tried to be nice to me after that, maybe you just wanted another friend, but I didn’t let you. I don’t blame us for how we acted, only for taking so long to get our heads out of our asses.

(I have to say, I also have a thing for hating people. Remind me to tell you about Na Jaemin and Shin Ryujin one of these days.)

Anyways, I think it’s because I had liked you so much at first that I could then seemingly hate you so much. But I never hated you, Jong, not really. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. Can I take it all back now? 

Now that we’re entering university soon, I can’t help but look back on high school. This is what I want to know, but I’m not sure I’ll ever have the courage to ask you, because if your answer is the one I suspect, I don’t know how I’ll handle all the regret in my heart.

Have I been wrong about you this whole time? I thought you harbored the same negative feelings towards me as I had you since the moment you’d laid eyes on me, but all of a sudden, here you were, bloody, bandaged hand holding mine. Even with your busted eye, you looked like an angel next to all that white in the nurse’s station. I’ll never forget your words that day. Would you really not get hurt for anything else, Jong?

Your letter abruptly ends here, no concluding remarks, no wishing him a fun time in Seattle and looking forward to his next letter, no sign-off. It was as if someone cut you off before you could say everything you wanted, but then why send him this seemingly unfinished letter? It is all the more bizarre since your letters are usually meticulous: you write on every other line, it looks like you take your time with every single letter, the only disturbance in your otherwise perfect handwriting is your going back-and-forth between cursive and script s’s. But this particular letter looks rushed, your lines are sloppy, some words need to be read a few times over to be understood. What kind of state had you been in, writing these words? Jay’s heart swells, thinking that you were as moved writing as he was reading. He even looks through your letter again, wishing to find a tear stain somewhere, but there are none. Maybe he’s been watching too many of these romantic period dramas you always go on about.

He has to pace his room when he’s done reading your letter, but he feels trapped inside these four walls, so he dashes outside, saying that he’s getting some air when his relatives ask him where he’s off to in such a rush, and walks around the block five times. When he’s back in his room, he rereads your letter, eyes taking in each and every word slowly and carefully, making sure he doesn’t misread anything.

You like him. You, Y/N, like him, Jongseong, it’s a fact, it’s real, you said so yourself, you went into quite some detail about it, he can’t believe it, but it’s real, it’s written right there on the page, if anyone dares tell him he’s fooling himself, he can prove them wrong, you’re the one who said it.

The smile doesn’t leave his lips for the rest of the day, he can barely eat, he’s already full of happiness. He reads your words over and over before falling asleep, committing them to memory, dreaming about them, about you.

You. How should he respond to this? Are you even expecting a response? You seem to know he’s not impartial to you, either, although that’s an understatement. 

In the following days, the thought that you hadn’t meant to send him this letter nags at him. The abrupt ending, the absence of your usual Love, Y/N. The fact that this had come out of left field—none of your previous letters had even a romantic undertone, no matter how he tried in his own to hint at his missing you, the most reference to seeing each other again you would give him was It’ll be better to show you this in real life. The act of sending letters itself didn’t feel very platonic, but you never went there, so he didn’t, either. He had secretly yearned to have you this close all these years, he would never forgive himself if he ended up chasing you away now with his over-eagerness.

You had landed on something very real in your letter: I don’t think you liked that I didn’t like you and openly showed it, so used to being everyone’s favorite person you were. I remember how you showily tried to be nice to me after that, maybe you just wanted another friend, but I didn’t let you. He cursed his fifteen-year-old self, that idiot who couldn’t even speak to a girl no matter how much he wanted to, just because she was so pretty, he was afraid of saying something stupid and messing it up before it even had a chance to start.

On days when you’d had particularly nasty or petty arguments — it could get pretty bad, at the start, before you both started maturing and realized how ridiculous you were, especially with your classmates telling you to keep it classy — he’d stay up all night, wondering why you hated him so much in the first place, what on Earth he could’ve done to warrant such vitriol. Now, finally, he knew, and he could only resent the fact that no one had invented time machines yet, so he could nip his useless ego in the bud; so he could tell younger Jay not to take it personally, that you had your reasons for disliking him, that even if you hadn’t, the world won’t end if someone doesn’t like him like everyone usually does. 

Because, he hates to admit, that was what had done it for Jay. He couldn’t stand that someone — not just someone, but one of the prettiest girls he’d ever seen, a girl he’d been hyping himself up to talk to every day, but never found the courage to — didn’t immediately fall for his charms. And not just that, but even showed just how much she disliked him. You looked him up-and-down with disdain, made disgusted faces at his jokes, rolled your eyes when he spoke up in class. It made him burn with anger, but he also weirdly enjoyed it—at least, you were paying attention to him. So, he amped it up. Talked louder, laughed louder, hovered around you. He even stole your erasers, wrote the date on which he’d taken them, kept them in a box on his desk that he looked at every time he studied at home. He aimed to beat you in every class you shared, even though neither of you cared that much about grades—the annoyed look on your face when he boasted about the two points he’d gotten over you was enough satisfaction.

All in all, he behaved like a child, and you reciprocated in like.

Until you didn’t.

It was a random Tuesday when something in your attitude towards him shifted. It wasn’t a complete 180, but he noticed everything about you, so even a slight change of your tone was obvious to him. You started using your nickname for him more often than his full name—he never told you, but of course he loved that you didn’t call him Jay like everyone else, that you had your own way of addressing him. It was a sign to him that the two of you had something special, even if it was on the opposite end of the spectrum of what he wanted with you.

He again spent sleepless nights wondering what had caused this change: was it something he had done, or something within you? It was a welcome change, that much was sure, but he was initially too confused to take it in stride. He’d long made peace with the fact that he’d never have you the way he really wanted, so he was fine with whatever this was—but now, you were changing, your interactions were tinged with something like shyness, the distance between you felt greater than ever. He tried to keep up his smart-ass appearances around you, but you only indulged in your old habits once in a while, as though you had grown tired of arguing with him, even of giving him the time of day.

So he resolved himself to adapting his behavior to yours. If you stared at him intently like his face was a puzzle you were trying to solve, he let you, rested his head on his palm and smiled as he stared back at you. Finally, he had an excuse to look at you without you threatening to punch him or saying a picture would last longer. He knew they did, he’d had to resort to scrolling through Sunoo’s and Kazuha’s Instagrams to find any photos of you. Yours was private and at the time, you would’ve probably cursed him out if he’d sent a follow request. If you seemed too annoyed or upset over something, he’d leave you alone, he’d do something nice to let you know you didn’t need to have your guards up at all times around him. If you seemed to silently call for a truce of hostilities, he easily complied.

Then, after a few weeks, your petty arguments resumed, but those too were different—if before they felt filled with real disdain and irritation, they now seemed to be a comfortable habit to fall back on, almost like a fun hobby. Those, too, Jay readily welcomed.

And so things changed in a direction Jay had never thought would one day be possible. You gave him no explanations, nor did he ask for any, and soon he stopped losing sleep over the why’s and the how’s and simply let himself enjoy the fact that you now had the semblance of a friendship, that he could compliment you and pass it off as amical teasing, that he could learn things about you like what you spent your weekends doing, what your relationship with your family was like, whether you were a dog or cat person, whether you wanted to visit his farm in Stardew Valley. 

Unsurprisingly, this only enhanced his already pathetically strong feelings for you. He worried over how to make sure this wasn’t some sort of 30-day friendship trial you had wanted to test out. He reveled in the fact that his top university of choice was the one you had already been accepted to. He now knew what it felt like to have you smile at him, smile because of him, and he never wanted again to live in a world where this was not a daily occurrence. 

He now sort of has an answer—your letter doesn’t make it very clear, it makes him think again that you really had not meant to send it, but you seem to have had a dream. A dream of him, 28-year-old him, to be precise, of your life together—he’s not sure. At this point in time, he doesn’t care much, either. Whether it was a dream or a real vision of the future that you had, all that matters is that it allowed you to see him in a new light, a light which he had hoped for years would one day appear to you, and it had changed things. And now, you liked him.

You said so yourself.

He’s at a loss for words. He can’t concentrate for long enough to put all his thoughts in order, he can’t make himself calm down and write his feelings down. He has to pack to go home, once he’s home, he’ll have to pack for university. But it’s only two weeks from now to the day you meet again, and it’ll be better to say what he wants to say in person, anyway.

Is it okay if I respond to your letter in person? I think I’ll be too busy these two coming weeks, he texts you.

And then those two weeks pass like two seconds and you’re there, a few meters away from him. All the speeches he’d prepared in his head, from grand declarations of love to laid-back admittances of Yeah, I like you too, you’re cool, I guess, they all vanish from his head. For fourteen days he’s been going through scenarios upon scenarios of your reunion, what you’d look like, what he’d say, how you’d react. But now that he can actually see you, now that he would just have to walk a few steps if he wanted to touch you, hug you, kiss you — hoping that was something you wanted to do — he freezes. He forgets how his body works, the part in his brain that’s meant to manage language ability fails him. HIs mom calls him over, urging him into his new dorm building, and all he can do is wave back at you like an idiot.

When finally he musters the courage to text you, what he hopes will be the day that starts your romantic relationship turns into the day Park Jongseong realizes how much of a loser he is. For the first hour, he can’t look at you, he can’t get through a sentence without stuttering out half of his words, he runs out of things to say in record time. All he can think of is how easy it’d be to grab one of your hands, hold it in his and walk around this stupid potted plant sale as if the two of you were two halves of a whole. He doesn’t even want a potted plant, his roommate already has five, he just wanted an excuse to see you. He steals glances at you when you’re looking elsewhere, and he notices everything about you tenfold now that he can, now that caring about you doesn’t need to be in vain any longer. He tells himself that he just needs to calm down a bit, even when you have the confirmation that the person you’re about to confess to already likes you, revealing your feelings to someone is always nerve-wracking, the two of you haven’t seen in each other in a while, he’ll talk to you once his heart gets out of his throat.

But you’re acting normal. Suspiciously so. You’re acting like you never told him you liked him, like nothing has changed between you. He rereads your letter the second he gets back to his dorm. He’s not crazy, it’s written right there, I like you, Jong. I think I have for a long time, longer than either of us thinks. He knows the words by heart now, but he checks them anyway. So why are you acting like you never said anything? Had you really not meant to send that letter? Did Jay actually intrude on your private thoughts by reading words that had never meant to be seen by another soul?

You continue to behave as you usually would around him, but if he couldn’t go back to vicious bickering when things changed the first time, he can’t go back to friendly bickering now that things — for him — have changed a second time. He doesn’t even want friendly to be in your shared vocabulary anymore. 

So he stops giving in. If you make fun of him, he just stands there with an unimpressed if amused look on his face. If you pedantically correct him on something, he just nods his head and accepts it. He can tell you’re bothered by it, but he needs to show you that he doesn’t want to go on being just friends with you—he wants to compliment you without having to pass it off as teasing, he wants to stare at you with hearts in his eyes without having to look away when you catch him, he wants to spend every waking second of every day with you, he wants to hold your hand, hold you. 

He could wait for things to change slowly again, but why wait when he could help things along?

--

It’s nine p.m. on a Saturday and you’re sneaking Jongseong into your dorm. Liz is away for the weekend, gone back home to celebrate her aunt’s birthday, so you have the room to yourselves. It took some convincing to get him to come — What if we get caught coming in, What if your T.A. sees us, What if I get reported to campus police — and so when your verbal reassurances failed to work, you resorted to blinking up at him through your lashes and that did the trick.

Jongseong was in many ways unlike any other man you’d ever met; in some other ways, he was the exact same.

Plastic bag of the tteokbokki you’d asked for in hand, he looks around the deserted hallways like someone might jump out of nowhere and beat him to a pulp at any given moment. At this time of the week, everyone’s out partying or holed up in their dorms, presumably either to rest or because of a lack of friends so early on in the semester. You grab his free hand and hurry him along to the elevator—once inside, it takes you a few seconds before you realize you’re still holding it, and you retract your hand quickly while he just smiles. 

You settle yourselves on the floor—comfort is not worth getting gochujang sauce on your white sheets. You sit criss-cross in front of each other, the food between the two of you, and catch up on your first week of class in-between bites of spicy, gooey rice cakes and fish cakes. You wonder, if one day you and Jongseong are no longer friends, how long you will keep associating tteokbokki with him.

When you tell him that you and Jake share a class, Introduction to Film Studies, he gives you a look. “What’s that face for?” you ask.

“Did you guys sit next to each other?”

You chuckle. “Of course. We only knew each other in that room, it would’ve been weird not to.”

He continues to stare at you. After a while, he muses, “You’re not…?”

You halt in your tracks, rice cake at the end of your plastic fork hanging in the air, halfway between the container and your mouth. “Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.” Still in love with him, interested in him again, you don’t know the exact details of Jongseong’s thought process, all you know is he has nothing to worry about—if it’s something he worries about.

When a smile slowly grows on his lips and he nods, saying, “Okay, good,” you let yourself think it might be.

Later, you’re ten minutes into a senseless blockbuster movie when he suddenly pauses it. It snaps you out of a trance—his hand was awfully close to yours, so is his shoulder, his thigh, his knee, everything, really, and you haven’t been able to concentrate on anything but the warmth radiating off his skin and the intensity with which you crave to feel it intentionally rather than accidentally. When he speaks, there’s something serious in his tone that makes you nervous. “Y/N,” he says as he turns to you, and now his face is awfully close, too. There’s still many centimeters separating you, but in this tiny, barely lit-up room, he feels closer than ever before. “Do you remember when I said I’d reply to your letter in real life?”

You tilt your head. “Yeah, that was ages ago.”

“Well, I thought I’d do it now.”

“Now?”

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Now.”

And then those safe centimeters suddenly disappear, and Jongseong’s lips are on yours. It’s a brief, chaste kiss, so quick you wonder if it even happened when he leans back again.

“I like you, too,” he says, and your heart stops.

“W-what?” is all you can say back, eyes wide like he’s just admitted to killing someone rather than reciprocating your feelings.

His confident facade quickly crumbles. “God, this was so much cooler in my head, I-I’m sorry.” He pulls something out of his sweatpants pocket, pages folded over and over into a tiny square. As he unfolds them, you recognize your paper, your handwriting—but what do your letters have anything to do with him kissing you, of all things? “I don’t think you meant to send this. But I’m glad you did.”

He hands you the pages and your eyes skim over the words, not detecting anything out of the ordinary, until—But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you. You remember this line, because you had made sure to strike it and everything that came afterward out when you rewrote the letter that you would actually send Jongseong. So how was he giving you this? 

“I-How do you have this?” you ask, voice trembling. You feel as though your heart overflows with all kinds of emotions, and so your eyes follow, tears staining your lower lashes. 

But Jongseong is not one to let you hide things from him. “Hey, no, it’s okay,” he says, warm hands coming to cup your face. “Look at me.” You have no choice but to oblige—his gaze is somehow both soft and stern, a mix of concern and determination. “Did you mean what you wrote in here?” You nod. “Then everything’s okay. You don’t know how happy I was reading this.”

The tension in your body slowly starts to fade. “Really?”

“Really. I cherish every single word in there.”

“Really?” you repeat, and he chuckles.

“Really.”

Your heartbeat speeds up as you gaze into his eyes, as you let yourself bask in the affection and endearment you find there. You can’t quite comprehend what’s happening. The letter, the kiss, his confession, your inadvertent confession, it’s all a mess in your head; so sudden, but such a long time coming at the same time. You never imagined that things would change so quickly—less than a year ago, you thought Jongseong was the most irritating person on this planet. After meeting his 28-year-old self, you thought it’d take ages for the two of you to be on such good terms. But now, just a week into your first semester of university, belly full of tteokbokki and Sprite, you like each other enough not only to be in the same room without hurling insults at each other but to actually be smiling at each other, willingly at that.

Your eyes drift down to his lips, just like in the hallway all those months ago, and the words slip out before you can stop them. They’re a mere whisper—”Kiss me again.”

Jongseong doesn’t need to be told twice. Still cupping your face, he bridges the gap between the two of you again, and this time, when your lips meet, they don’t come apart so quickly. It’s your first kiss, and it’s nothing short of magical, better than any romance novel could’ve prepared you for. His lips are warm and soft against yours, moving slowly, gingerly; as if he’s scared to take any wrong step, he lets you control the pace, follows every tilt of your head this way and that. It’s a relief that he seems to know as little about this as you do—his hands haven’t moved from your face, yours are on his knees, all you can do is focus on the movement of your lips, to think of anything else at the same time would be overwhelming. 

“I’ve liked you from the start,” he suddenly says, face still so close you can feel his breath on your lips as he speaks. 

“Hm?” you hum, body reeling from the kiss.

“I’ve liked you from the start,” he repeats, grinning—he looks relieved, like he’s been waiting to say these words for a long time. “I can’t believe this is happening after all these years. Or at all, really.”

“I think I did, too.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that in your letter.”

Your eyes widen and you bury your face in your hands as Jongseong laughs. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” you mumble.

He smooths over your hair with one hand, brings your face back up with the other. “Don’t worry. I won’t ever make you regret this.”

Your brain and heart are too all over the place for you to come up with a coherent answer, so you lean in and reconnect your lips to his. It’s already becoming your favorite sensation, feeling him smile into the kiss, threading your fingers in his soft hair.

Time passes delicately like this, the two of you on your single bed, in the sheets that you bought three weeks ago. A lot of it is spent kissing and learning how to fall into each other’s rhythm, but you also spend hours talking, comparing situations and how you’d experienced them. You thought his occasional acts of kindness were done out of guilt, evidence that he did have some morals; he was trying to show he cared about you. He thought you’d despised him from the moment you saw him; you reiterate in more detail than your letter what really happened, you say you wish you knew then what you know now. 

“But I never hated you, Jong. I think I wanted to believe that I did, but I never actually did.”

“You glared at me everytime I walked past like I killed a member of your family.”

You groan, ashamed of yourself. “I did, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he says, chuckling, placing a kiss on your forehead. His arms are around you, your head rests atop his heart—you’ve never felt more comfortable in your life. “But it’s okay. We’re here now, and I don’t want us to have any regrets about high school. We had a good time, didn’t we?”

You tilt your head up to look at him. “I’m sure you did, stealing all my erasers.”

He lets out a hearty laugh. Clearly, he’s very proud of his feat. “Hey, I gave all of them back.”

“And what am I going to do with a hundred erasers, Jong?” you ask, laughing too, pecking his cheek aggressively—your way of punishing him for a grave deed.

“Keep them as a token of my love for you,” he says, and your breath falters at the mention of that word. “In fifty years, it’ll be a sign that I’ve liked you since the beginning, I just had a funny way of showing it.”

“Fifty years, huh?”

He grins. “Fifty, a hundred, whatever. You’re not getting rid of me.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

You’re both smiling so wide, you can barely manage a kiss. He trails kisses from your lips to your ear. Holding you close, he whispers, “It’s always been you, Y/N. Always and only you.”

There may be thorns on the otherwise immaculate rose that is your life, but Park Jongseong was never one of them—all along, he was a bud waiting to bloom.

--

The more time passes, the more you wonder whether that night you had seen in your vision will ever come. There’s been evenings similar to it—crashing the minute you came home from a long day on set, telling yourself you’d take a fifteen-minute power nap only to wake up three hours later and coming downstairs to find your husband cooking dinner, cleaning the kitchen, taking care of your son or simply watching TV, but waiting for you, always waiting for you. He seems as happy now watching you come down the stairs as he was then finding your face among all the students flocking out of lecture halls. 

The details are blurry now, but many small things seem to be different from what you’d seen. He still tries to recreate your favorite meal, but it’s not pasta all'arrabbiata, it’s laksa, because your first date as an official couple was to a Malaysian restaurant, not an Italian one. He’s still the best father you know, but you have one son, not twin girls—although that offer to “give him a younger sibling to play with” is always on the table. Even the house you live in is different from the one in your dream, which has now become nothing more than a funny anecdote you share with people when they ask you the story of how you and Jongseong met.

You think of Sunoo’s words from all those years ago: Sometimes, we want something so badly, we conjure it up for ourselves. Had 18-year-old you been in such denial over her feelings for Jongseong that she’d had to convince herself a magical well had bestowed a crazy dream upon her to admit that, yes, there was something there, something other than childish hatred?

It doesn’t matter anymore. Months pass without you thinking about that well, anyway. 

Tonight, you come home late from work after having had to do last-minute changes to the script for your current project, a movie that starts shooting in a few days. Jongseong texted you that he was going to bed an hour or so again, so you’re greeted by a plate of japchae covered in film paper. The post-it note stuck to it reads, I’m afraid of the repercussions of too much curry consumption on our son, so no laksa tonight my love. Hope you like it. Come to bed quick. You were starving a second ago, but you decide food can wait—other things can’t.

You tiptoe up the stairs and into your son’s room, breathing in the scent of his hair and placing a kiss there. His hair is still worryingly sparse, but if he’s anything like his dad, it’ll come in a bit later than the other kids. You always thought babies with a full head of hair were freaky, anyway. He doesn’t budge a bit, sleeping like a log—his dad is another story, shuffling in bed the moment you step into your shared bedroom. He opens his arms wide, a silent invitation.

“You’re home,” he says as you attach yourself to his body, your leg hiked up over his, your face buried in the crook of his neck, your thumb caressing the start of stubble on his cheeks.

You smile. “I am.”

© asahicore on Tumblr, 2024. please do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works. support your creators by reblogging and leaving feedback!

"Of course," you say automatically, because that's what you do. Say yes. Exceed expectations. Maintain the 4.0 that's going to get you into Stanford. "What do you need?"

"I need you to tutor someone." She pauses, and something in that pause makes your stomach drop. "Park Sunghoon. Senior English. He's taking it for the fourth time."

Oh. Everyone knows Park Sunghoon. Hard not to when he rolls into the parking lot every morning in a black Mustang that's louder than the first bell, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, looking like he walked out of a movie about teenagers your parents wouldn't let you watch. He's in your English class this year—always in the back row, usually late, definitely not paying attention. "I don't know if I'm the right person—"

"You're exactly the right person. Top of the class, excellent communication skills, patient." Mrs. Morrison leans forward, her expression softening into something that looks almost like desperation. "He needs to pass this class to graduate. And between you and me, I think he needs someone who won't give up on him."

The weight of expectation settles on your shoulders—familiar, heavy, accepted. This is what you do. You help. You achieve. You make your parents proud and your teachers grateful and everyone believes you can fix anything if you just try hard enough. "When would I—"

"Tuesdays and Thursdays after school. Library, four to five. I've already cleared it with him." She smiles like this is settled. "Thank you. I knew I could count on you." You leave her office with a sinking feeling and the distinct impression that you've just been assigned the impossible.

—

Thursday afternoon, 4:02 PM. You're in the library with your AP Lit textbook, notes on The Great Gatsby, and growing certainty that Sunghoon Park isn't going to show up.

At 4:15, you're proven wrong. He walks in like he's doing you a favor—leather jacket, ripped jeans, boots that definitely violate dress code. His dark hair falls into his eyes, and when he spots you at the corner table, something crosses his face. Resignation, maybe. Or irritation. "You're my tutor?" he says by way of greeting, dropping his backpack on the table with a thud that makes the librarian shoot him a warning look.

"Looks like it." You gesture to the empty chair. "Have a seat." He sits, sprawling in the chair like he owns it, and pulls out an absolutely destroyed copy of Of Mice and Men. The cover's hanging by threads, pages dog-eared and crumpled. "So," you start, trying to figure out where to begin. "Mrs. Morrison said you're taking senior English again?"

"Fourth time." He says it flat, like it doesn't bother him, but you see the tension in his jaw.

"Okay. What's giving you the most trouble?"

He laughs—short and bitter. "All of it. The reading. The writing. The whole goddamn thing."

"Have you read the book?" You nod at Of Mice and Men.

"I tried." He flips it open randomly, stares at the page like it personally offended him. "The words just—they don't make sense. I read the same line five times and still don't know what it says."

Something clicks in your brain. The way he's holding the book. The frustration that seems deeper than just dislike. The fact that he's clearly not stupid—he wouldn't have made it to senior year four times if he was—but something's not connecting. "Can you read this page out loud for me?" you ask gently.

His expression shuts down immediately. "No."

"Sunghoon—"

"I said no." He's already standing, grabbing his bag. "This is pointless. I'm not some charity case for you to fix so you can put it on your college applications."

"That's not—" You're standing too now, and the librarian is definitely watching. "I'm trying to help."

"I don't need help. I need people to stop pretending I'm going to magically get this shit." His voice is low, controlled, which somehow makes it worse. "I'm stupid. Everyone knows it. Let's not waste each other's time."

"You're not stupid."

He looks at you then—really looks—and for a second you see past the armor. There's hurt there. Years of it. "Yeah?" he challenges. "Then why can't I read a fucking book that every other senior finished in a week?"

"Because I think you might be dyslexic." The word hangs between you. He goes very still.

"What?"

"Dyslexia. It's a learning disability that affects reading. The way you described it—reading the same line multiple times, words not making sense—those are classic signs." You're speaking carefully now, aware that this could go very wrong. "My cousin has it. He's brilliant. Mechanical engineer at Purdue. But reading was hell for him until he got diagnosed and learned strategies."

Sunghoon is staring at you like you're speaking another language. "That's not—I'm just—" He stops. Tries again. "Nobody ever said—"

"Have you ever been tested?"

"No. Teachers just kept saying I wasn't trying hard enough." The bitterness is back, but underneath it there's something else. Hope, maybe. Fragile and dangerous.

"Sit down," you say quietly. "Please. Let me show you something." He hesitates, then slowly sinks back into the chair. You pull out a blank piece of paper and write a sentence in clear print: THE CAT SAT ON THE MAT. "Read this."

He stares at it for a long moment. "The... cat... sat..." He stops, frustrated. "Some of the letters keep moving."

"Exactly." You pull out a red plastic sheet—the kind photographers use for color correction—from your bag. Your cousin's old trick. "Try reading it through this."

He looks skeptical but places the red sheet over the paper. His eyes widen. "The cat sat on the mat." He reads it perfectly. Looks up at you with an expression you can't quite name. "What the fuck."

"Colored overlays help some people with dyslexia. The colored filter reduces visual stress and makes the letters more stable." You're trying to keep your voice steady, professional, but your heart is racing. "This doesn't mean you're stupid, Sunghoon. It means your brain processes visual information differently."

He's still staring at the paper through the red sheet, reading the sentence over and over like he can't believe it. "All this time," he says finally, voice rough. "All these fucking years, and it was just—"

"Not your fault," you finish firmly. "Never your fault." He looks at you then, and something shifts in his expression. The armor cracks, just a little.

"Can you—" He stops, clears his throat. "Can you teach me? Actually teach me, not just make me read shit I can't understand?"

"Yes," you say without hesitation. "But we're going to need more time than an hour twice a week."

"I work at my dad's garage after school most days. Can't really get out of that."

"Evenings?"

He hesitates. "There's a diner. Miller's, out on Route 40. They have booths in the back, it's quiet. I could meet you there. After the garage closes. Seven?"

Your mother is going to have opinions about you spending evenings at a diner with Park Sunghoon. Your father is going to ask if this is really the best use of your time when you should be focused on AP classes and scholarship applications. "Seven works," you hear yourself say.

His smile is small but genuine. "Okay. Tuesday?"

"Tuesday." He leaves with the red plastic sheet folded carefully in his pocket, and you sit there in the empty library wondering what you've just started.

Mrs. Henderson, the librarian, appears at your elbow. "That was kind," she says quietly.

"I just showed him a color filter."

"You gave him hope." She pats your shoulder. "Sometimes that's more important."

You pack up your things slowly, thinking about Sunghoon's expression when he read that sentence. About years of being told he wasn't trying hard enough. About intelligence that doesn't fit in the boxes that schools make. About the fact that you just agreed to spend your evenings in a diner with the most dangerous boy in school.

And the scariest part? You're looking forward to it.

—

Tuesday night arrives too fast and too slow at the same time. You tell your mother you're studying at the library. It's not technically a lie—you are helping someone study. She doesn't need to know the someone is Park Sunghoon or that the library is actually a diner on the edge of town.

Miller's Diner looks like it hasn't changed since 1955. Red vinyl booths, checkerboard floor, a jukebox in the corner playing Tiffany. The smell of coffee and frying oil. A handful of truckers at the counter, a couple of farmers in the corner booth, and exactly zero people from school.

Sunghoon is already there, sitting in the last booth by the window. He's changed out of his leather jacket into a plain black t-shirt, and there's grease under his fingernails. He sees you and something in his expression softens. "You came," he says, like he half-expected you to bail.

"I said I would." You slide into the booth across from him, setting down your bag full of books and teaching materials. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

"People make promises they don't keep." He shrugs. "Had a few tutors give up before."

"I'm not going to give up."

"We'll see."

A waitress appears—Sally, her name tag says, probably in her fifties with kind eyes and a skeptical expression when she looks at Sunghoon. "What can I get you kids?"

"Coffee, black," Sunghoon says. "And a chocolate milkshake."

You raise an eyebrow. "Both?"

"Coffee's for staying awake. Milkshake's for when reading gives me a headache." He looks almost defensive. "What?"

"Nothing. I'll have the same."

Sally writes it down, her skepticism softening into something that might be approval. "Be right back."

When she's gone, you pull out your materials. You've spent the past four days researching dyslexia, strategies, techniques. Your cousin sent you a care package—more colored overlays, a reading ruler, special paper with slightly tinted backgrounds that's easier on dyslexic eyes. "Okay," you start, spreading everything out. "First things first. I'm not a diagnostician, so I can't officially test you for dyslexia. But I can teach you strategies that help people with dyslexia read more effectively."

"Like the red sheet."

"Exactly. Different colors work for different people." You push the stack of overlays toward him. "Try these on a page of your book. See which one makes the words most stable."

He pulls out Of Mice and Men, that same destroyed copy, and starts testing. Blue—no good. Yellow—better. Green—worse. Red— "Red's still best," he says finally.

"Then red it is. I also got you this." You slide over a reading ruler—a long transparent strip with a colored bar that helps track lines of text. "And this paper." Special cream-colored pages. "Some people find it easier to read on colored backgrounds."

He's looking at all of it like you've just handed him gold. "You did all this for me?"

"It wasn't a big deal. My cousin had extras."

"It's a big deal to me." His voice is quiet. Genuine. "Nobody's ever—" He stops. Starts again. "Thank you."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "You're welcome. Now let's see if we can get through chapter one together."

For the next hour, you work. You read passages out loud while he follows along with the red overlay and reading ruler. You stop every few paragraphs to discuss what's happening, to make sure he's comprehending. When he gets frustrated with a particularly difficult section, you break it down sentence by sentence. The milkshakes arrive halfway through. You're both so focused you barely notice Sally setting them down.

"This is about friendship, right?" Sunghoon says suddenly. You're on chapter three now, George and Lennie planning their dream farm. "Like, George takes care of Lennie even though it makes his life harder."

"Yes. Exactly." You're surprised by how quickly he's grasping the themes. "Why do you think George does that?"

"Because Lennie's the only person who sees him as more than just some ranch hand. Because having someone need you is better than being alone." He pauses. "And maybe because George knows what it's like to be different. To not fit."

You stare at him. That's a deeper reading than half your AP class came up with. "That's—that's brilliant, Sunghoon."

He looks up, startled. "Really?"

"Really. You're understanding the emotional core of the story. That's harder than just reading the words."

"But I can't write a paper about it. Can't spell half the words I'd need."

"So we'll work on that too. Writing strategies. Spell check. Audio recording your ideas and transcribing them." You're already making notes. "There are ways around every obstacle."

"You really believe that?"

"I really do."

He takes a long drink of his milkshake, studying you over the rim of the glass. "Why are you doing this? And don't say it's for college apps. You've got those locked down."

The question catches you off guard. You consider lying, giving some easy answer about community service or helping others. But something about the way he's looking at you—open, genuine, vulnerable—demands honesty. "Because nobody should feel stupid when they're not," you say finally. "Because intelligence comes in so many forms and school only tests for one. Because you deserve someone who sees you as more than just a problem to fix."

His expression does something complicated. "You don't even know me."

"Then tell me about you. Who is Park Sunghoon when he's not in the back of English class?"

He hesitates, then: "I work at my dad's garage. Park's Auto Repair, down on Fifth Street. Been working there since I was twelve. Can rebuild an engine blindfolded."

"Really?"

"Really. Cars make sense to me. They're logical. If something's broken, there's a reason. A fix. It's all mechanical. No hidden meanings or metaphors or bullshit."

"Unlike English class."

"Unlike English class." He grins—the first real smile you've seen from him. It transforms his whole face. "But mostly I build cars. Race them, sometimes."

"The Mustang?"

"The Mustang. '67 Fastback. Bought it for five hundred bucks three years ago when it was basically a rusted shell. Been rebuilding it piece by piece ever since." There's passion in his voice now, the same passion that's been missing when he talks about school. "She's almost done. Just needs a new transmission and some body work."

"She?"

"All cars are she." He says it like it's obvious. "You probably think it's stupid. Racing."

"I think it sounds exciting. Terrifying, but exciting."

"You scared of going fast?"

"I'm scared of everything going wrong."

He studies you for a moment. "You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"Stuck-up. Judgmental. Like everyone else who's got their shit together." He's playing with his milkshake straw now, not quite looking at you. "But you're not. You're... nice. Actually nice, not fake nice."

"You're not what I expected either."

"What did you expect?"

"Honestly? Someone who didn't care. Someone who'd blow off tutoring or not even try." You pause. "But you're trying really hard. You care about this even though it's difficult."

"I care about graduating. Getting out of this town."

"Where would you go?"

"Anywhere. Indianapolis, maybe. Or Detroit. Somewhere with real garages, real racing circuits. Somewhere I'm not the Park kid who can't read." The bitterness creeps back into his voice.

"You can read. You're reading right now."

He looks down at the book, the red overlay, the progress you've made. "Yeah. I guess I am."

For a moment, you just sit there. The diner's nearly empty now, the jukebox playing something slow. Through the window, you can see the Mustang parked under a streetlight, all black paint and chrome, beautiful and dangerous. "Same time Thursday?" you ask.

"Same time Thursday." He pauses. "And... thanks. For not giving up on me after one session."

"I told you I wouldn't."

"Yeah, but people say a lot of things."

"I'm not people."

His smile is small but genuine. "No. You're really not."

You leave the diner at nine, and your mother's waiting up when you get home. "The library was open until nine?" she asks, voice carefully neutral.

"I was helping someone study. Lost track of time."

"Someone?"

"A classmate." Not technically a lie.

She studies your face, and you wonder if she can see it—the flutter of something new and dangerous. The feeling that tonight was about more than just teaching someone to read. "Just be careful," she says finally. "Senior year's important. Don't let anyone distract you from your goals."

"I won't, Mom."

But later, lying in bed, you think about Sunghoon's smile when he read that first sentence. About the passion in his voice when he talked about his Mustang. About the fact that you're already looking forward to Thursday. And you wonder if maybe, possibly, you're already distracted.

—

The next six weeks blur together in a pattern: School. Student council. Thursday tutoring in the library for appearances. Tuesday and Thursday nights at Miller's Diner for actual progress.

You learn things about Sunghoon: He drinks his coffee black because his dad taught him that's how men drink it, but he'd secretly prefer cream and sugar. He's left-handed. He has a younger sister, Soo-ah, who's in eighth grade and wants to be a vet. His mom left when he was ten and he doesn't talk about it. He can identify any car by the sound of its engine. He's terrified of failing English again. He thinks Holden Caulfield from Catcher in the Rye is whiny but he understands why the character's so angry at everything.

You learn how to teach him: Breaking chapters into smaller sections works. Audio books help, but he feels guilty using them, like they're cheating. He comprehends better when he can discuss ideas out loud rather than writing them down. His spelling is creative but phonetic. When he's frustrated, he needs five minutes to walk it off before trying again. Positive reinforcement matters more than criticism. He works twice as hard as anyone you've ever met.

You learn things about yourself: that you look forward to Tuesday and Thursday nights more than any other part of your week. You started leaving your hair down instead of in a ponytail. You think about him during AP Calc. The sound of an engine makes your heart race now, wondering if it's his Mustang. You're lying to your parents about where you spend your evenings and you don't feel guilty enough about it.

By mid-October, Sunghoon's reading at a tenth-grade level—not great, but light years beyond where he started. He got a B-minus on his Of Mice and Men essay. Mr. Peterson, the English teacher, wrote "significant improvement" on the top. "I can't believe it," Sunghoon says, staring at the paper like it might disappear. You're in your usual booth at Miller's, chemistry homework spread out in front of you (because you still have actual classes), his English work in front of him.

"I can. You earned it."

"We earned it. I couldn't have done this without you."

"You did the work. I just showed you different strategies."

He looks up, and there's something intense in his expression. "It's more than that. You believed I could do it. That matters."

The air between you feels charged suddenly. You're very aware that you're sitting in a back booth of a diner where nobody from school ever comes, that it's just the two of you and Sally wiping down counters, that Sunghoon is looking at you like you're something more than just his tutor. "I should—" You gesture vaguely at your chemistry homework. "Midterm next week."

"Right. Yeah." He clears his throat, looking away. "You want help?"

"You want to help with chemistry?"

"I'm good at it. Sciences make sense. They're like cars—everything has a reason, a reaction, a cause and effect." So you trade. He helps you understand molecular bonds and chemical reactions, explaining them with an ease that surprises you. You help him with his reading comprehension questions for Catcher in the Rye.

It's past ten when you finally pack up. Sally's given up pretending she's not watching you two, a small smile on her face as she tops off Sunghoon's coffee for the third time. In the parking lot, you walk toward your car—a sensible Honda Civic your parents bought you junior year—but Sunghoon catches your wrist. "Hey," he says. "You want to see something?"

"See what?"

"The Mustang. Properly. I finished the transmission last week."

You should say no. It's late. Your mom's going to ask questions if you're not home by ten-thirty. You have homework still. "Yeah," you hear yourself say. "I'd like that."

He leads you to the Mustang, parked under the streetlight like always, but this time he opens the hood. The engine gleams underneath—chrome and steel and meticulous care. "You rebuilt all of this?" you ask, genuinely awed.

"Most of it. Dad helped with some of the specialized stuff, but yeah. Took three years." There's pride in his voice. "Want to hear her run?"

"Please." He slides into the driver's seat, and when he turns the key, the engine roars to life. It's loud and powerful and sounds like controlled chaos. He revs it once, and you can feel the vibration in your chest.

When he kills the engine and gets out, he's grinning. "What do you think?"

"I think she's beautiful."

"Yeah?" He's standing close now, close enough that you can smell motor oil and coffee and something that's just him. "You want to go for a ride sometime?"

Your heart's racing. "Where would we go?"

"Anywhere. Nowhere. There's this place, about twenty minutes out of town. The quarry. People race there sometimes." He pauses. "I could teach you to drive stick shift."

"My parents would kill me."

"They don't have to know."

It's a terrible idea. Sneaking around. Going to the quarry where kids race and drink and do all the things that good students don't do. Getting into a car with a boy your parents definitely wouldn't approve of. "Saturday?" you ask.

His smile is worth every risk. "Saturday. Pick you up at eight?"

"I'll meet you. The QuickMart on the edge of town."

"You don't want me picking you up at your house."

"My dad owns a shotgun and strong opinions about boys. So no."

He laughs—full and genuine. "Fair enough. QuickMart at eight."

You drive home with butterflies in your stomach and the sound of that engine still echoing in your ears. When you slip in the front door at 10:45, your mom's reading on the couch. "Library close late again?" she asks.

"Big project. Sorry."

She studies you over the top of her book. "You're smiling a lot for someone who's been doing homework all night."

"Just had a productive study session."

"Uh-huh." She doesn't believe you, but she doesn't push. "Get some sleep. You look tired."

In your room, you try to focus on chemistry but your mind keeps drifting to Saturday. To the Mustang. To Sunghoon's smile and the way he looked at you in the parking lot. Your phone rings. The landline extension in your room. You pick up. "Hi." It's him. You don't know how he got your number, but you're glad he did.

"Hi."

"I just wanted to make sure you got home okay."

"I'm fine. It's like fifteen minutes."

"I know. But still." He pauses. "I'm looking forward to Saturday."

"Me too."

"Good. Get some sleep. I'll see you Thursday."

"See you Thursday." You hang up, and you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. Your best friend Wonyoung is going to lose her mind when you tell her about this. If you tell her about this. Because maybe some things are meant to be secret. Maybe some things are just yours.

—

Saturday night at 7:55 PM. You're standing in the QuickMart parking lot wearing jeans and a sweater, telling yourself this is fine. This is normal. Lots of people go to the quarry on Saturday nights. (Except you're not lots of people. You're the girl who spends Saturday nights doing extra credit or organizing student council activities or watching movies with Wonyoung while she talks about her on-again-off-again thing with Jake Sim.)

The Mustang rumbles into the parking lot at exactly eight, all black paint and chrome gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Sunghoon leans over to open the passenger door, grinning. "You came."

"You sound surprised."

"Half-expected you to bail. Come to your senses."

"Maybe I came to my senses by showing up."

His grin widens. "Get in." You do. The interior's been restored too—black leather seats, a tape deck, the smell of new upholstery and possibility. "Buckle up," he says, and then he's peeling out of the parking lot, and you're pressed back against the seat as the engine roars.

He drives fast but controlled, taking the roads out of town with easy confidence. The radio's playing—some rock station, The Bangles bleeding into Bon Jovi. The windows are down and the October air is cold and crisp and perfect. "Where'd you tell your parents you were going?" he asks over the music.

"Wonyoung's house. Movie night."

"She covering for you?"

"She doesn't know. I'll call her later, make sure our stories match if anyone asks." You glance at him. "Where'd you tell your dad?"

"That I was going to the quarry. He doesn't care as long as I'm home by midnight and don't wreck the car."

"Different parenting styles."

"You could say that."

The quarry is exactly what you expected and nothing like it at the same time. It's an old limestone quarry, abandoned for years, now filled with water that's probably freezing and definitely not safe to swim in. There's a flat area at the top that's become the unofficial racing strip—a quarter mile of cracked pavement with enough room for two cars to line up side by side.

There are maybe twenty cars already there when you arrive. You recognize some from school—Jay Park's Camaro, Jake Sim's pickup truck, a few others. Music blasts from someone's stereo. A group of kids stands around a bonfire that's definitely illegal. Sunghoon parks at the edge of the group, and immediately people start gravitating toward the Mustang. "Yo, Hoon!" A guy you vaguely recognize from auto shop class—Jay, you think—jogs over. "Transmission finally done?"

"Finished her last week." Sunghoon gets out, popping the hood. "Want to see?" You get out too, feeling wildly out of place in your neat jeans and sweater while everyone else is in leather and ripped denim and the kind of casual confidence that comes from belonging.

"Holy shit," Jay says, looking at the engine. "You did this yourself?"

"Mostly. Dad helped with the specs."

More people gather, asking technical questions about compression ratios and torque and things you don't understand. You stand slightly apart, and that's when you notice her. A girl about your age, leaning against a cherry-red Corvette, watching you with undisguised curiosity. She's gorgeous—leather jacket, dark lipstick, the kind of effortless cool you've never managed. She walks over. "You're new."

"I'm—yeah. First time here."

"I can tell." She's not mean about it, just observational. "I'm Ryujin. That's my car." She gestures to the Corvette. "You're Sunghoon's tutor, right?"

Apparently everyone knows. "Yeah. How did you—"

"Small town. Word travels." She studies you with sharp eyes. "You seem nervous."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Little bit. But don't worry. Nobody bites. Well, Jay bites sometimes, but only if you ask nicely." Despite yourself, you laugh. "There we go. You have a smile." Ryujin nods toward where Sunghoon's still showing off his engine. "He talks about you, you know."

Your heart skips. "He does?"

"All the time. 'My tutor this, my tutor that. She's so smart. She actually believes I can pass.'" Ryujin's expression softens. "It's good for him. Having someone who sees past the reputation."

"What reputation?"

"Park's delinquent kid. The one who can't hack it academically. The loser who's going to end up pumping gas at his dad's garage for the rest of his life." She says it matter-of-factly, but there's an edge of anger underneath. "People are assholes."

"He's not—he's brilliant. He's just dyslexic."

"I know. But nobody else seems to get that." She glances back toward Sunghoon. "Anyway. I'm glad he brought you. He doesn't bring people here. It's his space, you know? The fact that he wanted to share it with you means something."

Before you can process that, Sunghoon's back, sliding an arm around your waist casually, naturally, like he's done it a hundred times before. "You good?" he asks.

"Yeah. Ryujin was just introducing herself."

"Ryu's good people. Wins half the races here."

"Only half?" Ryujin says, mock-offended. "Try three-quarters, Park."

"You want to test that?"

"You challenging me?"

"Maybe." They're grinning at each other, and you realize this is friendship. This is his people—the ones who see him as more than the kid who failed English three times.

"I'll race you later," Ryujin says. "Right now, I think you were going to teach your girl to drive stick." Your girl. The words settle warm in your chest.

Sunghoon leads you back to the Mustang, away from the crowd. "You ready for this?"

"To drive your baby? The car you've spent three years restoring?"

"To learn something new." He opens the driver's door. "Come on. Slide in." You do. The driver's seat feels different—powerful, dangerous. Sunghoon gets in the passenger side, talking you through the basics.

"Clutch, brake, gas. Three pedals instead of two. You're going to push the clutch all the way down, put her in first gear, then slowly let the clutch out while giving her gas. Too fast, she'll stall. Too slow, she'll—" The engine dies immediately. "—stall. That's okay. Everyone does that the first time. Try again."

It takes six tries before you manage to actually move forward without stalling. By try seven, you're doing laps around the parking area, grinding the gears occasionally but mostly getting it. "You're a natural," Sunghoon says, and he sounds impressed.

"I'm terrible at this."

"You're learning. That's different." He guides you through shifting to second, then third. "Feel that? The way she catches when you hit the right spot? That's perfect."

You do three successful laps, and on the fourth, you catch him watching you instead of the road. "What?"

"Nothing. You just—you look happy."

"I am happy."

"Good."

You park after the fifth lap, heart racing with adrenaline and something else. Something that might be dangerous. "That was amazing," you say.

"You did great."

"No, I mean—this. Being here. Learning something completely unrelated to school or college applications or my parents' expectations. Just—doing something for me."

He's looking at you with that intense focus that makes your stomach flip. "You don't do things for yourself much, do you?"

"I'm busy."

"That's not an answer."

"No," you admit. "I don't. Everything I do has a purpose. An end goal. Get into Stanford. Make my parents proud. Secure my future."

"What do you want? Not your parents. You."

The question catches you completely off guard. Nobody's asked you that before. Nobody's cared to ask. "I don't know," you say finally. Honestly. "I've spent so long doing what I'm supposed to do, I'm not sure what I want anymore."

"That's sad."

"That's realistic."

"Maybe." He shifts in the seat, turning to face you fully. "You want to know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you're scared. I think you've built this perfect life, this perfect plan, and you're terrified of anything that might mess it up. But I also think—" He pauses. "I think you're only here, in this car, at this quarry, because part of you wants something different. Something real."

Your heart is pounding. "And if I do?"

"Then maybe you should let yourself have it."

You're sitting in his Mustang, at a quarry where people race and break rules, with a boy who makes your heart race faster than any engine, and you're tired. So tired of being good. Of being perfect. Of doing everything right. "Teach me to race," you say suddenly.

His eyes widen. "What?"

"Teach me to race. Actually race. Not just drive around a parking lot."

"That's—do you know how dangerous that is?"

"I'm asking anyway."

He studies you for a long moment. "You're serious."

"Completely."

A slow smile spreads across his face. "Okay. But not tonight. You need more practice first. Real practice. We'll come back next Saturday. And the Saturday after that. I'll teach you everything."

"Everything?"

"Everything." The word hangs heavy with promise. The night continues. You meet more people—Jay, who's loud and funny and clearly Sunghoon's best friend. Yuna, who drags her boyfriend Sunoo around by the hand and asks you about student council. Niki, who's only sixteen but drives better than half the seniors here.

You watch three races. Ryujin wins two of them, Sunghoon wins the third. The way he drives is like watching art—controlled chaos, perfect timing, raw skill. At eleven, he takes you back to your car at the QuickMart. "Same time next week?" he asks.

"Same time next week."

"And Thursday. Diner."

"I'll be there."

He leans across the console, and for a moment you think he might kiss you. But instead, he just tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "Drive safe," he says.

"You too." You call Wonyoung from the parking lot, apologizing for the short notice, establishing your alibi. She's suspicious but covers for you without question, because that's what best friends do.

When you get home, your mom's asleep but your dad's still up, reading in his study. "Good movie?" he asks.

"Great movie."

"You and Wonyoung have fun?"

"Always."

He studies you over his reading glasses, and you wonder if he can see it—the change. The fact that his perfect daughter just spent the evening at an illegal street racing spot with a boy he'd definitely disapprove of. "Get some rest," he says finally. "You have SAT prep in the morning."

"Right. SAT prep."

In your room, you strip off your sweater, and it smells like motor oil and bonfire smoke and freedom. You should wash it immediately. Instead, you fold it carefully and put it in the back of your closet, where the smell might linger just a little longer. You lie in bed thinking about Sunghoon's hands on the steering wheel. About the way he looked at you when you said you were happy. About the fact that for the first time in your carefully planned life, you have a secret that's just yours.

And you're not sorry about it at all.

—

November arrives cold and sudden, turning Millbrook into a postcard of autumn—all orange leaves and early frost, the smell of wood smoke and approaching winter. You and Sunghoon fall into a rhythm. Tuesdays and Thursdays: Miller's Diner. Books and milkshakes and watching him improve week by week. He's reading at grade level now. Got a B on his Catcher in the Rye essay. Mr. Peterson keeps looking at him like he doesn't quite believe the transformation.

Saturdays: The quarry. Learning to drive—really drive. Stick shift, speed shifting, the physics of acceleration and control. The first time you beat Niki in a practice race (his reaction time was slow, you didn't actually outdrive him, but still), you screamed so loud Sunghoon laughed until he cried. Weekdays: Stolen moments between classes. His hand brushing yours in the hallway. Notes passed during English (ironic, since he can actually read them now). The way your heart jumps every time you see the Mustang in the parking lot.

It's not dating. You're not calling it dating. That would make it real, and real things have consequences. But it's something. Something that makes you smile when you should be concentrating on calculus. Something that has Wonyoung giving you knowing looks across the lunch table. "You're going to have to tell me eventually," she says one Monday, stealing a fry from your tray.

"Tell you what?"

"Who he is. The guy you're sneaking around with."

Your heart stops. "I'm not—"

"Please. You smell like motor oil every Saturday night. You smile at your phone. You're distracted in student council meetings." She grins. "I'm your best friend. I know everything."

"It's complicated."

"Complicated is fun. Uncomplicated is boring." She leans closer, voice dropping. "Is it Park Sunghoon?"

You nearly choke on your water. "What? No. Why would you—"

"Because he looks at you in English class like you're the only person in the room. And you look back the same way when you think nobody's watching."

"We're—I'm tutoring him. That's all."

"Uh-huh. And I'm the Queen of England." But she doesn't push, because Wonyoung gets boundaries. "Just be careful, okay? I know you. You're all-or-nothing. When you fall, you fall hard." The problem is: she's right. You're falling.

—

The first time Sunghoon holds your hand (really holds it, not just brushes against it), you're at the diner on a Thursday night in mid-November. You've just finished analyzing a chapter of Lord of the Flies, and he's frustrated because the symbolism still doesn't quite click. "Why can't the conch just be a conch?" he says, stabbing at his milkshake with a straw. "Why does everything have to mean something else?"

"Because that's how literature works. Golding's commenting on society, civilization, human nature—"

"Through a fucking seashell."

"Through a symbol that represents order and democracy." You're trying not to smile at his frustration. "You're overthinking it."

"I'm underthinking it. That's my problem. Everyone else sees this deep meaning and I just see a story about kids on an island."

"The story IS about kids on an island. The symbolism is just another layer."

He looks at you, and something in his expression softens. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Make me feel like I'm not stupid even when I don't get something."

"Because you're not stupid. You just learn differently."

His hand reaches across the table, covering yours. It's not accidental this time. It's deliberate, warm, sending electricity up your arm. "Thank you," he says quietly. "For everything. For not giving up. For making me believe I could actually pass this class."

Your throat is tight. "You're going to pass. You're going to graduate."

"Because of you." He doesn't let go of your hand. Neither do you. Sally comes by to refill coffee and doesn't comment on it, but you see her smile.

When you leave that night, he walks you to your car like always, but this time he doesn't step back. He stands close, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him even in the November cold. "I've been wanting to ask you something," he says.

Your heart's in your throat. "Okay."

"There's a race next Saturday. Real race, not just practice. Winner takes two hundred bucks." He pauses. "I want you to come. Not to race. Just to watch. To be there."

"I'm always there on Saturdays."

"I know, but—" He runs a hand through his hair, looking uncertain for the first time since you've met him. "I want you there as mine. Not my tutor. Not my friend. As—as my girl."

The world narrows to just the two of you, standing in a diner parking lot under harsh fluorescent lights that suddenly feel romantic. "Sunghoon—"

"I know it's complicated. I know your parents wouldn't approve. I know I'm not the kind of guy you're supposed to be with." The words rush out. "But I like you. More than like you. Have for weeks. And I think—I hope—you might feel the same?"

You should say no. Should remind him about Stanford, about your carefully planned future, about all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Instead, you reach up and kiss him. It's brief and sweet and tastes like chocolate milkshake and possibility. When you pull back, he's staring at you like you've performed a miracle. "Yeah," you say, breathless. "I feel the same."

His smile is brilliant. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You kiss him again, longer this time, his hands coming up to cup your face, gentle and sure. "I'll be there Saturday. As yours."

"As mine," he repeats, like he's testing out the words. "I like the sound of that."

You drive home giddy and terrified, the taste of him still on your lips. Your phone's ringing when you get to your room—the landline, Sunghoon's voice on the other end. "Hi," he says.

"Hi. You just saw me twenty minutes ago."

"I know. I missed you already." You can hear the smile in his voice. "Is that stupid?"

"No. It's—" Perfect. Terrifying. Everything. "It's really sweet."

You talk for an hour about nothing and everything. About his sister's soccer game and your student council drama and what it felt like to finally kiss each other after weeks of dancing around it. When you finally hang up, it's past midnight, and you have a chemistry test tomorrow you haven't studied for. You don't even care.

—

Saturday's race is different from practice runs. There's money on the line, real stakes. The crowd's bigger—maybe thirty cars, fifty people. You spot a few seniors from school and hope they don't recognize you. Sunghoon's racing against Jay, best two out of three. The Mustang versus the Camaro. Both engines roar at the starting line, and you're standing with Ryujin and Yuna, heart in your throat. "He's good," Ryujin says, watching the cars line up. "But Jay's reckless. Could go either way."

"Sunghoon's better," you say with more confidence than you feel.

"Look at you. All defensive of your man." She grins. "It's cute."

The flag drops. They're off—two bullets of metal and gasoline, neck and neck down the quarter mile. Sunghoon takes the first race by half a car length. Jay takes the second by less. The third race is for everything.

You can barely watch. Can barely breathe. The engines scream, the crowd roars, and then Sunghoon crosses the finish line first by inches. The crowd erupts. Jay's laughing, shaking Sunghoon's hand, because it's all good fun until it's not. Money exchanges hands. And then Sunghoon's walking toward you, adrenaline-high and grinning, and he picks you up and spins you around right there in front of everyone. "Did you see that?" he says, breathless.

"I saw. You were amazing."

"I had good motivation." He sets you down but doesn't let go, his forehead resting against yours. "Wanted to win for you."

"Sunghoon—" He kisses you, right there in front of everyone, and it's not brief or sweet. It's deep and claiming and says mine more clearly than words ever could.

When you break apart, half the people there are staring. Including Jake Sim, who's in your AP History class and definitely knows who you are. "Shit," you mutter.

"What?"

"Jake goes to our school. This is going to be all over by Monday."

Sunghoon's expression hardens. "Is that a problem?"

"My parents—they're going to—"

"Hey." He cups your face, making you look at him. "If you want to keep this quiet, we can keep this quiet. I get it. I'm not exactly parent-approved material." The hurt in his voice kills you.

"No. I don't—I don't want to hide." The words surprise you, but you mean them. "I'm tired of hiding. Of being perfect. Of living my life for everyone else's approval."

"You sure?"

"Completely."

His smile is slow and genuine. "Good. Because I'm done pretending you're just my tutor."

The rest of the night is perfect. You meet his friends properly—Jay and his girlfriend Jungwon, Niki who's secretly a poetry nerd, Yuna and Sunoo who are the most wholesome couple you've ever seen. They accept you immediately, and it's strange and wonderful to be part of a group that doesn't care about GPAs or college applications or any of the things that usually define you.

Around eleven, Sunghoon pulls you away from the crowd, leading you to a spot overlooking the quarry. The water's black and still below, stars reflected on the surface. "I've been thinking," he says, sitting on the hood of the Mustang and pulling you to stand between his legs. "About after graduation."

Your stomach drops. "What about it?"

"I'm not going to college. Can't afford it even if I wanted to, and honestly? I don't want to. I want to work with my dad, take over the garage eventually. Maybe open my own shop someday."

"That sounds perfect for you."

"But you're going to Stanford. All the way across the country." The reality of it sits heavy between you. You've been so focused on now—on Tuesdays and Thursdays and Saturday nights—that you haven't let yourself think about graduation. About what happens when your carefully planned future collides with this unexpected present.

"Maybe I don't go to Stanford," you say quietly. His eyes widen."Maybe I stay. Go to Indiana State or Purdue. Somewhere closer."

"No." He says it firmly. "Absolutely not. You're not giving up Stanford for me."

"It wouldn't be giving up. It would be choosing—"

"You'd resent me. Eventually. You'd look back and wonder what if, and you'd hate me for it." He takes your hands. "I care about you too much to let you do that."

"So what, we just break up when I leave?"

"I don't know." The honesty in his voice breaks your heart. "I haven't figured that part out yet. All I know is that I want you to go chase your dreams, even if it means losing you."

You kiss him to shut him up, to stop the conversation from going somewhere too painful. His hands settle on your waist, pulling you closer, and for a while there's nothing but this—the two of you, the Mustang, the stars overhead. "We have seven months," you murmur against his mouth. "Seven months before we have to figure any of that out."

"Seven months."

"So let's make them count."

"Yeah." He kisses you again, deeper. "Let's make them count."

You stay like that for a while—his hands in your hair, yours in his, the city glittering below and the night cold around you—and the kissing shifts into something else slowly, the way things do when you’ve been holding back for a long time and the holding back finally stops. "Hey," he says softly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hands frame your face, thumbs tracing your cheekbones. "You sure?"

You’ve never been more sure of anything. "Yes." He kisses you again—slower now, intentional, one hand sliding down your waist—and then he’s reaching past you to recline the passenger seat, and you climb over the console and into his lap, and the Mustang’s interior is small and warm and entirely yours.

He undresses you carefully, methodically, like he’s done everything in his life—with patience and complete attention. Your sweater first, then his jacket, his eyes on your face the whole time, watching for hesitation. There isn’t any.

"You’re beautiful," he says, and it’s so simple and so honest that it lodges somewhere in your chest and stays there.

His hands are warm everywhere they touch—down your sides, over your hips, learning you the way he’s learned everything that matters to him: slowly, thoroughly, like he means to know it forever. When his fingers find the hem of your jeans, he pauses. "Still yes?"

"Still yes." He takes his time. That’s the thing about Sunghoon—he has always taken his time with things that matter. His mouth finds your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, and you’re acutely aware of the city lights through the windshield and the sound of both of you breathing and how small and perfect this space is.

He works you open with his fingers first—slow and attentive, watching your face, adjusting when your breath catches—his thumb circling your clit in a rhythm that makes your hips roll against his hand involuntarily. You grip the headrest behind him and he says your name, just your name, low and reverent. "Okay?" he asks.

"More than," you manage. "Don’t stop." He doesn’t. He keeps going until you’re shaking and breathless, until you come with your forehead dropped against his shoulder and his name in your mouth like a prayer. He holds you through it—both arms, steady—and presses his lips to your temple like it matters, which it does, which everything does with him.

When you finally shift, rising over him, his eyes stay on yours. His hands settle warm on your hips, steadying but not directing—letting you set the pace, the depth, the whole thing, because that’s always been how he is with you. He gives you the wheel.

You take him in slowly. He exhales long and low, jaw tight, hands gripping your hips hard enough to feel it, and you understand in that moment that he’s been holding back too. That there has been patience on both sides of this for months, accumulating. "You okay?" he asks, voice rough.

"Perfect," you say, and mean it in every possible sense. You move together—unhurried, finding the rhythm, his cock filling you completely, his thumb finding your clit again as you roll your hips—and it’s nothing like you expected and exactly what it should be. He tips his head back and watches you with dark eyes and that unguarded expression he only ever gives you, the one that has no performance in it at all.

His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your tits, and you arch into the touch. He sits up, mouth finding your throat, and the change in angle makes you gasp. "There," you breathe. "Right there—"

"I’ve got you," he says against your skin, and he does. His arms wrap around you, pulling you tight against him, and he rocks into you from below, steady and deep, and you hold on and let go at the same time. The second orgasm builds faster, sharper, and when it breaks you’re holding his face in your hands and looking right at him and he’s looking back with something in his expression that you have no word for but will spend a long time remembering.

He follows you, his whole body pulling you closer as he does, your name on his lips like a finish line he’s been driving toward this whole time.

Afterward you stay tangled together in the reclined seat. The city still glitters through the windshield. His heartbeat slows under your palm. Your head fits perfectly in the curve of his neck, like it was made for exactly that purpose, which you are starting to believe it was. "Seven months," you say quietly, into the warmth of his chest.

He presses his mouth to the top of your head. "Seven months," he agrees. "Every single one."

—

Monday arrives with exactly the fallout you expected. Jake Sim must have told someone, who told someone else, who told everyone, because by second period the entire school knows you're dating Park Sunghoon. The reactions vary:

Wonyoung: "FINALLY. I've been waiting for you to admit it. Also, he's hot. Well done." Your lab partner in Chemistry: "I didn't know you were into bad boys." Some random freshman: "Aren't you supposed to be smart?"

The worst is lunch. You're sitting with Wonyoung and your usual student council crowd when Sunghoon appears. "Can I sit?" he asks, looking directly at you, ignoring everyone else.

The table goes silent. This is unprecedented. Park Sunghoon doesn't sit with the honor students. The honor students don't sit with the kids who've failed English three times. But you're not most honor students. "Yeah," you say, scooting over to make room. "Sit."

He does. Drops his lunch tray next to yours like he belongs there, which apparently he does now. The student council people exchange glances. Wonyoung's grinning like Christmas came early. "So," Sunghoon says, stealing a fry from your tray. "What are we discussing? Student council stuff? World domination?"

"Both," Wonyoung says immediately, because she's never met an awkward silence she couldn't fill. "We're planning the winter formal. Theme, decorations, the whole thing."

"What's the theme?"

"Winter Wonderland. Very original, I know."

"You could do Winter Racing. Decorate with checkered flags and—" He stops, looking at your expression. "What?"

"That's actually not a terrible idea."

"Don't sound so surprised."

The conversation continues, and slowly, impossibly, your two worlds start to merge. Wonyoung asks Sunghoon about cars. He asks her about whatever Jake drama is currently happening (apparently there's always Jake drama). Your student council friends warm up when they realize he's funny and not actually scary. By the end of lunch, it almost feels normal.

Until you're walking to English and Principal Morrison stops you in the hall. "Can I see you in my office?" she asks. Not quite a question.

Your stomach sinks. "Now?"

"Now."

Sunghoon squeezes your hand once before you follow Morrison down the hall. Her office still smells like coffee, but there's no warmth in her smile today. "I've been hearing things," she says once the door closes. "About you and Mr. Park."

"We're dating." You say it firmly, even though your heart's racing. "Is that a problem?"

"That depends. Is this relationship interfering with your tutoring duties?"

"No. He's doing better than ever. You've seen his grades."

"I have. Which is why I'm concerned." She leans forward. "You're an exceptional student with a bright future. Stanford. Pre-law. You've worked very hard to get where you are."

"I'm aware."

"Park Sunghoon is a nice young man, but he's not on the same path you are. I'd hate to see you distracted. To see your focus shift away from your goals." The implication is clear: he's not good enough for you. He's going to drag you down.

"With respect, Mrs. Morrison, my personal life is my business." Your voice is steady even though you're shaking. "I'm maintaining my grades. I'm fulfilling my student council responsibilities. What I do outside of school isn't up for discussion."

"I'm just trying to look out for you—"

"I don't need looking out for. I need people to trust that I can make my own decisions." You stand. "Is there anything else?"

She sighs. "Just—be careful. That's all I'm saying."

"I will be. Thank you." You leave her office furious and shaking, and Sunghoon's waiting in the hall even though he's definitely supposed to be in class.

"What did she say?" he asks.

"That I'm making a mistake. That you're going to ruin my future." The words taste bitter.

His expression shuts down. "Maybe she's right."

"Don't." You grab his hand. "Don't do that. Don't let other people's opinions make you doubt this."

"I'm not good enough for you. Everyone thinks it. Hell, I think it sometimes."

"Good enough according to what? Their standards? Fuck their standards." The profanity feels good, rebellious. "You make me happy. That's what matters."

"Your parents are going to lose it when they find out."

"They'll find out when I'm ready to tell them." You kiss him quick, not caring who sees. "And when they do, I'm not changing my mind."

His smile is small but real. "You're kind of badass when you're angry."

"I'm learning from you."

"Nah. This was always in you. You just needed permission to let it out."

—

Thanksgiving arrives, and with it, the dreaded family dinner where your parents expect you to discuss your college applications and your perfectly planned future. Instead, you spend the morning texting Sunghoon while your mother prepares turkey. Sunghoon: What are you wearing?

You: Why, are you coming over to see me?

Sunghoon: No, but I'm thinking about you. Want to picture it accurately.

You: Sweater and jeans. Very exciting.

Sunghoon: Everything about you is exciting.

You: Smooth talker.

Sunghoon: I'm working on my English skills. My tutor's really good.

You: Your tutor thinks you're pretty great too.

Sunghoon: Just pretty great?

You: Fishing for compliments?

Sunghoon: Maybe. Is it working?

You: You're incredible. Happy now?

Sunghoon: Very. What time's dinner?

You: Six. Why?

Sunghoon: Because I'm picking you up at eight. There's a place I want to show you.

You: It's Thanksgiving. I can't just leave family dinner.

Sunghoon: Sure you can. Tell them you're going to Wonyoung's.

*You: I use that excuse too much.

Sunghoon: Then tell them the truth. That you're seeing your boyfriend.

The word stops you. Boyfriend. He's never used it before. You've never defined what this is, too scared to put labels on something so new and fragile. You: Is that what you are? My boyfriend?

The little text bubble appears, disappears, appears again. Finally: Sunghoon: I want to be. If that's okay with you.

Your heart soars. You: It's more than okay. I'll see you at eight, boyfriend.

Sunghoon: See you at eight, girlfriend.

Dinner is exactly as expected—your dad asking about Stanford applications, your mom discussing scholarship opportunities, your older brother (home from MIT for the holiday) pontificating about the importance of networking. Around seven-thirty, you clear your throat. "I'm going out after dinner," you announce.

Your mother looks up from the pumpkin pie. "Out where?"

"To see someone."

"Wonyoung?"

"No. A friend. From school."

Your father's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. "What friend?"

This is it. The moment of truth. You could lie, make up another excuse, keep hiding. Instead: "His name is Sunghoon. He's my boyfriend." The silence is deafening.

"Boyfriend?" your mother repeats faintly.

"Since when do you have a boyfriend?" your brother asks.

"Since October. We've been seeing each other for about two months."

Your father sets down his fork carefully. "Who is this boy? Do we know his family?"

"Park's Auto Repair. His dad owns it."

Recognition flashes across your father's face. "The Park boy? The one who's failed English multiple times?"

"He's passing now. Because I've been tutoring him."

"That's what this is about?" Your mother's expression clears with relief. "You're tutoring him. That's not dating, honey."

"It started as tutoring. It became dating. There's a difference."

"Absolutely not." Your father's voice is firm. "You are not dating that boy."

Your heart pounds, but you keep your voice steady. "I am. And I'm going to see him tonight."

"You are not leaving this house."

"I'm eighteen. You can't stop me."

"We can take away your car. Your allowance. We can make this very difficult for you."

The threat hangs in the air. Your mother looks distressed, your brother shocked, your father furious. "Do what you need to do," you say quietly. "But I'm still going." You stand, grabbing your coat, and your father stands too.

"If you walk out that door to see that boy, there will be consequences."

"I understand."

"You're throwing away your future for someone who isn't worth it."

That snaps something in you. "He's worth more than you know. He's kind and smart and he works harder than anyone I've ever met. The only people who can't see that are people who judge based on grades and class and things that don't actually matter."

"Grades matter. Your education matters. Stanford matters."

"I know. And I'm still going to Stanford. I'm still maintaining my 4.0. I'm still doing everything I'm supposed to do." You pause at the door. "I'm just also choosing to be happy." You leave before they can respond.

The Mustang's idling at the end of your driveway, and when you climb in, Sunghoon takes one look at your face and knows. "You told them."

"I told them."

"And?"

"And my dad's pissed. My mom's horrified. My brother thinks I've lost my mind." You buckle your seatbelt. "But I did it. I chose you."

His expression does something complicated. "You didn't have to—"

"Yes, I did. I'm tired of hiding. Tired of living my life for other people's approval." You take his hand. "Where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere special. You'll see."

He drives out of town, past the quarry, along back roads you've never seen. The radio plays soft—Fleetwood Mac, "Landslide"—and his hand stays linked with yours. After twenty minutes, he pulls onto a dirt road that leads to a field. In the distance, you can see Indianapolis's skyline glittering, all lights and possibility. "What is this place?" you ask.

"My spot. When everything gets too much—school, my dad, all of it—I come here." He parks, and you both get out. The November air is freezing, but he pulls a blanket from the trunk, spreading it on the hood of the Mustang. You climb up, and he settles behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, chin on your shoulder. The city sparkles in the distance, close enough to see but far enough to feel like a different world.

"I've been coming here since I was fifteen," he says quietly. "Whenever I felt like I didn't fit anywhere, I'd drive out here and look at the city. Remind myself that there's more than just Millbrook. More than just people who think I'm stupid."

"You're not stupid."

"I know that now. Because of you." He holds you tighter. "You changed everything for me. Not just teaching me to read—though that's huge. But making me believe I'm worth something. That I have value beyond fixing cars."

"You always had value. I just helped you see it."

"Same thing you did for me, you did for yourself." He turns you to face him. "Before us, you were so focused on being perfect that you forgot to be happy. Now look at you. Standing up to your parents. Choosing what you want instead of what you're supposed to want."

"I'm terrified."

"Good. Being terrified means it matters."

You kiss him as the city lights blur behind your closed eyes, and it feels like standing at the edge of a cliff—scary and exhilarating and exactly where you're supposed to be. "I'm falling in love with you," you whisper against his mouth. The admission feels huge, terrifying.

He pulls back to look at you, his expression soft and open and completely vulnerable. "Good," he says. "Because I fell in love with you weeks ago. Just been waiting for you to catch up." You laugh, and cry, and kiss him again, and in the distance Indianapolis glitters like a promise that maybe, just maybe, everything's going to be okay.

—

Your parents aren't speaking to you. Well, they're speaking—terse, polite conversations about dinner times and whether you need the car—but the warmth is gone. Your mother looks at you like you're a stranger. Your father's disappointment is a physical presence at every meal.

They took away your allowance but not your car (you need it for student council, and they're not quite willing to sabotage that). They've forbidden Sunghoon from coming to the house. They've made it clear that this relationship is temporary, a phase, something you'll grow out of when you come to your senses. You've made it equally clear that you disagree. The upside is: You're no longer sneaking around. The downside: Everything is harder now. But you have Sunghoon, and somehow that makes it bearable.

—

The first real snow falls on a Tuesday in mid-December. You and Sunghoon are at Miller's Diner, working through a Lord of the Flies essay that's due Friday. He's gotten good at this—organizing his thoughts verbally, using voice-to-text for first drafts, then going back to clean up spelling and grammar. "So Piggy represents intelligence and reason," he says, "but nobody listens to him because he doesn't fit their idea of what a leader should be."

"Exactly. What does that say about society?"

"That we're idiots who value the wrong things?" He grins. "That sound about right?"

"Bit cynical, but not wrong." You're making notes for him to reference later. "What evidence supports that?"

He flips through the book—using his red overlay, reading more fluently than he did three months ago. It's not perfect. It's probably never going to be easy. But it's worlds better than where he started. "Here," he says, pointing to a passage. "Where they're voting for chief and everyone picks Ralph because he's good-looking and has the conch, even though Piggy's clearly smarter."

"Perfect. Use that quote, explain why it matters, connect it to real-world examples."

"Real-world examples like people thinking I'm dumb because I can't read?"

Your heart squeezes. "Yeah. Like that."

He's quiet for a moment, then: "You know what's weird? I used to hate English. Hated everything about it. But now—" He gestures at the books, the notes. "It's not so bad. Some of it's actually interesting."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean, Golding's kind of depressing, but he's got a point. People do judge based on stupid shit. They make assumptions. And the conch thing—order versus chaos—that actually makes sense when you think about it."

You're grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. "You're doing literary analysis. Voluntarily."

"Don't sound so shocked."

"I'm not shocked. I'm proud."

His smile is soft, genuine. "Thanks. For not giving up on me."

"Never." Sally brings your milkshakes—chocolate for him, strawberry for you, a routine she's memorized by now. The diner's nearly empty, just a couple of truckers at the counter and you two in your usual booth.

"How are things at home?" Sunghoon asks carefully.

"Tense. My mom keeps leaving college brochures on my desk like I've forgotten about Stanford. My dad barely looks at me." You stir your milkshake. "But I'm not backing down."

"I hate that I'm causing problems with your family."

"You're not. Their expectations are causing problems. I'm just finally standing up to them."

"Still." He reaches across the table, taking your hand. "If you ever want to—if this gets too hard—"

"Don't." You squeeze his fingers. "I'm not giving up on us. Not for them. Not for anyone."

"Even if they cut you off? Refuse to pay for Stanford?"

The fear in his voice breaks your heart. "I'll figure it out. Loans, scholarships, whatever it takes."

"You shouldn't have to—"

"But I will. Because you're worth it." You mean every word. "Besides, I'm not doing this just for you. I'm doing it for me. For the first time in my life, I'm choosing what I want instead of what everyone else wants for me."

His expression softens. "What do you want?"

"You. Stanford. A future where I don't have to choose between love and ambition." You pause. "Is that too much to ask?"

"No. It's exactly right."

You work for another hour, then Sunghoon walks you to your car like always. The snow's still falling, turning the parking lot into a winter postcard. His hands settle on your waist, pulling you close. "You cold?" he asks.

"A little." He shrugs out of his jacket—that same leather jacket he always wears—and drapes it over your shoulders. It's warm from his body heat and smells like him, motor oil and cologne and something that's just Sunghoon. "You're going to freeze," you protest.

"I'll survive. Besides, you look good in my jacket." You do. You've seen yourself in mirrors, in car windows—his too-big jacket swallowing you up, making you look dangerous and claimed and exactly like someone who'd date Park Sunghoon.

You kiss him in the falling snow, and it's perfect. Movie-perfect. The kind of moment that would be cheesy if it wasn't so real. "I love you," he says against your mouth.

"I love you too."

"Even though I'm causing problems with your parents?"

"Especially because of that. You make me brave."

His smile is everything. "You were always brave. You just needed permission to show it."

—

The winter formal is the third Saturday of December, your mother assumes you're going with Wonyoung or solo. She's bought you a dress—beautiful, conservative, exactly the kind of thing the future Stanford student should wear. "I'm going with Sunghoon," you tell her Friday night at dinner.

She nearly drops her fork. "Excuse me?"

"To the winter formal. Sunghoon's my date."

"Absolutely not."

"I'm going either way. You can't stop me."

Your father sets down his newspaper. "We can forbid you from going at all."

"Then I guess I'm forbidden." You stand, taking your plate to the sink. "But I'm still going. So you can either accept that I'm going with Sunghoon, or you can spend the evening knowing I'm there against your wishes. Your choice." You leave before they can respond, and you're shaking but proud. Standing up to them is getting easier, but it still takes everything you have.

Saturday arrives clear and cold. You get ready at Wonyoung's house—she's going with Jake (they're on-again this week), and she helps you with your hair and makeup. "You're really doing this," she says, watching you in the mirror. "Going with him. In front of everyone."

"Yeah."

"Your parents are going to lose it."

"They already have."

"And you're okay with that?"

You think about it—really think about it. About the future you'd planned, the one where you did everything right and made everyone proud. About the future you're building now, messier and scarier but entirely yours. "Yeah," you say finally. "I'm okay with it."

The dress your mother bought hangs in your closet at home. Instead, you're wearing something Wonyoung helped you find—still nice, still appropriate, but edgier. A dark red dress that your mother would call too much and you call perfect. Sunghoon picks you up at Wonyoung's at seven, and when he sees you, he stops mid-step. "Wow."

"Good wow or bad wow?"

"Incredible wow." He's wearing actual dress clothes—dark slacks, button-down, tie. He looks unfamiliar and handsome and still completely him. "You're beautiful."

"You're not so bad yourself."

He hands you flowers—simple roses from the grocery store, but the gesture makes your heart melt. "Ready?"

"Completely."

The dance is in the school gym, transformed with the Winter Racing theme that won the student council vote (Sunghoon's idea, your influence). Checkered flags, silver and white decorations, lights that make everything sparkle. When you walk in together, conversations stop. People stare. This is unexpected—the valedictorian and the kid who failed English, together at the most visible school event of the year. But Sunghoon's hand is firm in yours, and you're done hiding. "Want to dance?" he asks.

"I should warn you—I'm terrible at it."

"Then we'll be terrible together."

He leads you to the dance floor just as a slow song starts. His hands settle on your waist, yours on his shoulders, and you sway to music that's probably supposed to have actual dance steps but you're both improvising. "People are staring," you murmur.

"Let them."

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"Used to. But then I figured out that people's opinions don't change who I am. I'm still the guy who rebuilt a Mustang from scrap. Still the guy who's finally passing English. Still the guy who's somehow dating the smartest, most beautiful girl in school." He pulls you closer. "Their opinions don't matter."

"When did you get so wise?"

"I have a really good tutor." You laugh, and the tension breaks. The next song is faster, and Wonyoung drags you both into a group dance with her and Jake and some other student council people. Sunghoon's terrible at dancing but enthusiastic, and watching him attempt choreography he's clearly making up is the highlight of your night.

Around nine, you slip outside for air. The December night is freezing, and you're shivering in your dress when Sunghoon's jacket settles around your shoulders. "You need to stop giving me your jacket," you say. "You're going to get hypothermia."

"Worth it." He stands behind you, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder. "You having fun?"

"The most fun. You?"

"Better than I expected. Though I still think the refreshments are weak. Diner milkshakes are better."

"Obviously."

You stand there in comfortable silence, watching your breath fog in the cold air, and you think about how much has changed since September. How you've changed. "What are you thinking?" Sunghoon asks.

"That I'm happy. Really, genuinely happy. And that scares me."

"Why?"

"Because happiness like this doesn't last. Because we're graduating in June and you're staying here and I'm going to California and—" Your throat tightens. "Because I don't know how to keep this when everything's pulling us apart."

His arms tighten around you. "We'll figure it out."

"How?"

"I don't know yet. But we will." He turns you to face him. "I love you. That's not going to change just because you're three thousand miles away."

"Long distance is hard."

"So? Lots of things are hard. Reading's hard. Racing's hard. Standing up to your parents is hard. But we do them anyway because they matter." He cups your face. "You matter. We matter. And I'm not giving up on us just because it's going to be difficult."

You kiss him, tasting determination and promise and the future you're both trying to hold onto. "Seven months," you say. "We have seven more months before Stanford."

"Then let's make them count."

The rest of December passes in a blur of finals and family tension and stolen time with Sunghoon. You ace your finals (because some things don't change). He passes English with a B-minus (because some things do). Christmas is awkward. Your parents got you practical gifts—a new laptop for college, organizational systems, things that say we're investing in your future whether or not we approve of your present.

You spend Christmas night at the quarry with Sunghoon and his friends, sitting around a bonfire, drinking hot chocolate spiked with peppermint schnapps that Ryujin brought. "To surviving senior year," Jay toasts, raising his mug.

"To graduation," Niki adds.

"To getting the hell out of Millbrook," Ryujin says.

"To the people who make staying worthwhile," Sunghoon says, looking directly at you.

Everyone drinks, and you lean into Sunghoon's side, warm despite the December cold, surrounded by people who've become your friends as much as his. This is what family should feel like, you think. Not obligation and expectation, but choice and acceptance and love. "What are you thinking?" Wonyoung asks. She's on Jake's lap (they're very on-again), but her eyes are on you.

"That I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

"Even though it's complicated?"

"Especially because it's complicated."

She smiles. "Good answer."

Later, Sunghoon drives you home, but instead of dropping you off, he parks down the street. "I got you something," he says, pulling a small wrapped box from his jacket pocket. "For Christmas."

"Sunghoon, we said no gifts—"

"I know. But I saw this and thought of you." You unwrap it carefully. Inside is a keychain—simple silver, with a tiny Mustang charm attached. "It's from my car," he explains. "Well, a replica. Because wherever you go, whatever happens, you'll have a piece of us. A piece of this."

Your eyes are burning. "It's perfect."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You lean across the console to kiss him. "I love it. I love you."

"I love you too."

You sit there in his Mustang, engine off, snow falling outside, and you make promises you hope you can keep. That distance won't change things. That you'll make it work. That love is enough. You want to believe it. You have to believe it. Because the alternative—losing him—is unthinkable.

—

January through March pass faster than you want them to. Stanford acceptance letter arrives in early March—thick envelope, congratulations, everything you've worked for. Your parents are ecstatic. They throw you a celebration dinner, invite relatives, act like your relationship with Sunghoon is a phase that's ending now that you've gotten into your dream school. You don't correct them. You just smile and accept congratulations and hold the letter that represents your future while thinking about the boy who represents your present.

Sunghoon's proud when you tell him. Genuinely, completely proud. "Stanford," he says, kissing you in the diner parking lot. "That's huge."

"It doesn't feel huge. It feels like goodbye."

"It's not goodbye. It's—" He pauses, searching for words. "It's see you later."

"That's optimistic."

"I'm learning optimism from you."

Spring arrives with brutal honesty about the future. Graduation is June seventh. You leave for Stanford's summer orientation June twentieth. That gives you less than two weeks after graduation before everything changes. The quarry races continue through April, and you've gotten good. Not as good as Sunghoon or Ryujin, but good enough to win against Niki (who's actually trying now) and to place second against Jay (who's still reckless but respects your skill). "You should race for real," Ryujin says one Saturday night in mid-April. "There's a circuit in Indianapolis. Real tracks, real prizes. You could do it."

"I'm going to California in June."

"But you're here now."

You look at Sunghoon, who's watching you with that expression that means he's proud and scared and trying not to show either. "One race," you say. "Before I leave. A real one."

His smile is beautiful and sad. "Yeah. One real race."

You tell your parents you're staying after school for a student council project on the last Friday of April. Instead, you drive to Indianapolis with Sunghoon, Ryujin following in her Corvette, to register for your first real race. The track is terrifying and exhilarating. Professional. Dangerous. Everything the quarry isn't. "You don't have to do this," Sunghoon says as you're filling out forms.

"I want to."

"Why?"

"Because I've spent my whole life playing it safe. Doing the smart thing. The responsible thing." You sign your name with a flourish. "I want one irresponsible thing to remember. One time I did something just because it scared me."

"Racing scares you?"

"Terrifies me. That's why I have to do it."

The race is scheduled for the second Saturday in May. That gives you two weeks to practice, to prepare, to possibly come to your senses (you don't). You practice at the quarry every Saturday, and Sunghoon teaches you things he's learned from years of racing. How to take curves at speed. When to brake and when to accelerate. How to listen to the engine, to feel when the car's about to lose traction. "You're good at this," he says after a particularly clean run. "Natural."

"I have a good teacher."

"Best teacher you ever had?" He's grinning, cocky.

"Most humble, definitely."

The night before the race, you can't sleep. Sunghoon calls at midnight. "You nervous?" he asks.

"Terrified."

"Good. Use that. Fear keeps you sharp."

"What if I crash?"

"You won't."

"But if I do?"

"Then I'll be there to pull you out and tell you you're an idiot for racing in the first place." His voice softens. "But you won't crash. You're too good for that."

"How are you so sure?"

"Because I've watched you do impossible things. Ace AP classes. Stand up to your parents. Take a kid who couldn't read and teach him to love literature. Racing is just one more impossible thing you're going to conquer." You fall asleep with your phone pressed to your ear, his breathing steady on the other end, feeling brave and terrified and ready.

Race day arrives sunny and perfect. The track in Indianapolis is packed—real racers, real crowds, real stakes. You're racing in the amateur division, but that doesn't make it less intimidating. Your parents think you're at a college prep seminar. Wonyoung knows the truth and made you promise to be careful. Sunghoon's in the pit area, having helped prep the Mustang (you're borrowing his car for this, because yours is sensible and slow and entirely wrong for racing). "You ready?" he asks, checking the tire pressure for the third time.

"Ask me after."

"You're going to be great."

"You're biased."

"Completely. Doesn't make it less true."

Ryujin appears, already in her racing suit. "You're up in fifteen. Stop overthinking it."

"I'm not overthinking—"

"You're absolutely overthinking. It's what you do." She grins. "Just drive like you do at the quarry. Pretend you're trying to beat Niki's sorry ass."

"I heard that!" Niki calls from somewhere nearby.

The fifteen minutes pass too fast. Suddenly you're in the Mustang, helmet on, strapped in tight. The engine's roar is familiar now, comforting. You can do this. The flag drops. You're off, and for the first few seconds you can't think, can barely breathe. Then muscle memory kicks in. Sunghoon's lessons, hours of practice, raw instinct.

The track blurs. You're not first—not even close—but you're not last either. Sixth out of twelve. Holding your own. Lap two: you pass someone. Fifth place. Lap three: someone passes you. Back to sixth. Lap four (final lap): You see an opening. A gap between two cars. It's risky. Probably stupid. You take it.

The Mustang responds perfectly, threading the needle, and suddenly you're fourth. The finish line approaches and you're laughing inside the helmet because you're doing it, you're actually doing it— You cross the line in fourth place. Not first. Not even podium. But fourth out of twelve in your first real race, and when you pull into the pit area, Sunghoon's there pulling you out of the car and spinning you around and kissing you right there in front of everyone. "Fourth place!" he's saying. "In your first fucking race!"

"I can't believe I did that."

"I can. I knew you would." He's grinning so wide it must hurt. "You were amazing."

Ryujin finished second (because of course she did), and she's laughing at both of you. "Not bad for a brainiac. You've got real potential."

"Thanks."

"You racing again?"

The question makes your stomach drop. Because the answer is no. You're leaving in five weeks. This was it. Your one race. Your one irresponsible thing. "Probably not," you say quietly.

Ryujin's expression shifts to understanding. "Right. Stanford." She squeezes your shoulder. "Then I'm glad you got to do this one. Fourth place is nothing to sneeze at."

The rest of the afternoon passes in a celebration. Jay brings beer (illegal but who cares), and you all sit in the parking lot reliving the race, analyzing turns, celebrating small victories. This is freedom, you think. This is what it feels like to do something just because you want to, not because it's part of a plan or looks good on applications or makes anyone proud. This is what it feels like to be young and reckless and alive.

Later, Sunghoon drives you back to Millbrook, and you're quiet, processing. "You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah. Just thinking."

"About?"

"About how in five weeks this is over. This—" You gesture between you. "—is over."

His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "It doesn't have to be over."

"How? You're here. I'm going to be three thousand miles away."

"We'll figure it out. Phone calls. Visits. We'll make it work."

"Do you really believe that?"

He's quiet for a long moment. "I want to. I'm trying to."

"But?"

"But I'm scared." The admission costs him. "I'm scared that you'll get to California and realize there's a whole world of guys who aren't broken. Who can read without colored filters. Who graduated on time and don't work at their dad's garage."

"Sunghoon—"

"I'm scared you'll forget about the small-town kid who fell in love with you over milkshakes and car engines."

You reach across the console, taking his hand. "I could never forget you. You changed my life."

"For now. But in a year? Two years?"

"Forever," you say firmly. "You changed me forever."

He pulls over at your usual spot—the overlook of Indianapolis, the city glittering in the distance. Turns to face you fully. "I love you," he says. "I'm always going to love you. But I also love you too much to make you choose between me and your dreams."

"What does that mean?"

"It means—" He swallows hard. "It means when you leave for Stanford, I'm not going to hold you back. I'm not going to guilt you or make you feel bad for living your life. I want you to experience everything. To be free."

"I don't want to be free. I want to be with you."

"You can't have both. Not really. Not with three thousand miles between us."

Tears are streaming down your face now. "So what, we just break up? Pretend this never happened?"

"No. We love each other for the next five weeks. We make every moment count. And then—" His voice cracks. "And then we let each other go."

"I don't want to let you go."

"I don't want to let you go either. But we have to."

You climb into his lap in the front seat of the Mustang, kissing him desperately, trying to memorize everything—the taste of him, the feel of his hands, the way he holds you like you're precious and breakable and strong all at once. "Five weeks," you whisper against his mouth.

"Five weeks," he agrees. "Let's make them perfect."

He drives. Not back to town—not yet. He takes the back roads out past the quarry, past the field where you used to watch Indianapolis glow, until he finds a stretch of empty road where the stars are visible and the nearest person is miles away. Then he parks. Neither of you speaks for a moment. The Mustang idles and then goes quiet and the May night presses warm against the windows. "Come here," he says softly.

You go. You cross the console and fit yourself against him and he holds you so tight it almost hurts, his face buried in your hair, both of you breathing like you’ve been running. This time it isn’t urgent the way the first time was—that first night at the overlook, the months of held breath finally released. This time it’s slower and sadder and more deliberate, the way you do something when you know you’re doing it for the last time in a long time.

He undresses you like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s filing it away somewhere safe. Every piece of clothing that comes off, his hands follow—mapping your shoulders, your waist, the curve of your spine—and you do the same for him, learning by touch what you already know by heart. His chest, the line of his collarbone, the old scar on his ribs from a car part that slipped when he was sixteen. "I love you," you say, against his shoulder. Not for the first time. But with a weight to it you haven’t used before.

"I love you," he says back, and pulls you closer. He lays you back in the reclined seat and takes his time. His mouth traces down your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your breast—lips finding your nipples, soft at first and then less so, until your fingers are in his hair and you’re arching up toward him. He smiles against your skin and keeps going.

His hand slides down your stomach, fingers stroking through your folds with the ease of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing now, who has paid close attention every time before this. He finds your clit and works it slow and steady until your hips are rocking against his hand and you’re whispering his name at the dark of the car ceiling. "Sunghoon—"

"I know," he says. "I’ve got you. I always have you." He pushes two fingers into your pussy and curls them, thumb still on your clit, and you come apart quietly—the way you do now, the way you’ve learned to, teeth pressed into your lower lip, breathless and shaking and his. He holds you through it, watching your face like he’s trying to memorize that too.

Then he settles between your thighs and presses into you slowly—taking his time even now, or maybe especially now—and you wrap your legs around him and pull him closer and closer until there’s no space between you at all. He moves like the night is long and he intends to use all of it. Deep and unhurried, his cock filling you completely with every thrust, his forehead resting against yours so you’re breathing the same air, his eyes open and on yours the whole time. It’s almost too much—the eye contact, the closeness, the specific weight of knowing what this is. You don’t look away. Neither does he.

He shifts his angle and you gasp and his jaw goes tight and he keeps it there—that exact angle, the head of his cock dragging against the right place every time—until the tension winds up tight and sharp and breaks in a long wave that makes you clutch his shoulders and hold on. He follows you—"I love you," he says, rough and honest and helpless, right at the end—and stays there, arms around you, both of you catching your breath while the Indiana night hums outside.

You stay tangled together for a long time. Long enough that the windows fog. Long enough that somewhere in the dark a car passes on the far road and its headlights sweep briefly across yours and neither of you moves. "Don’t let go yet," you say quietly.

His arms tighten. "Not yet," he says. "Not yet."

—

The last five weeks of senior year pass in a blur of lasts. Last student council meeting. Last AP exam. Last time sitting in your assigned seat in English class. Last ordinary Tuesday at Miller's Diner. You and Sunghoon make a pact: No talking about Stanford. No discussing the future. Just now. Just these five weeks. It's denial and it's beautiful and it's breaking both your hearts.

Prom happens the third weekend of May. You go together—officially, publicly, to hell with anyone who has opinions. Your parents don't speak to you for three days after, but you don't care because you have pictures of you and Sunghoon in formal wear, his arms around your waist, both of you smiling like nothing bad is coming.

Senior Week is a blur of parties and celebrations. The quarry fills up every night with graduates celebrating freedom and dreading change. You race twice more—not officially, just for fun—and win once against Jay (he claims the track was slippery).

Wonyoung throws a party at her house the Saturday before graduation. Her parents are gone for the weekend (conveniently), and half the senior class shows up. "I can't believe this is almost over," she says, slightly drunk on the punch that someone definitely spiked. "We're leaving. All of us. Going to different colleges, different states. Everything's changing."

"Not everything. We'll still be friends."

"Promise?"

"Promise." But even as you say it, you wonder if it's true. If friendships survive distance and change and growing up. If anything survives that.

The Tuesday before graduation, you and Sunghoon are at Miller's Diner for the last time. You both know it without saying it—after graduation, this routine ends. Sally brings your milkshakes without asking. "Last week of school?"

"Last week of everything," Sunghoon says.

She pats his shoulder sympathetically. "You kids going to be okay?"

"We're going to try to be."

When she's gone, you're both quiet. There's no homework to do. No tutoring needed. Sunghoon passed English with a B. He's graduating. Everything you worked for together is complete. "I've been thinking," he says finally. "About us. About what happens after."

"You said no future talk."

"I know. But we need to talk about it. We can't just pretend—"

"I know." You take a shaky breath. "What have you been thinking?"

"That I love you. That I'm always going to love you. But that trying to hold onto something when we're both moving in different directions is just going to hurt more in the end."

The tears are already falling. "So what are you saying?"

"That I think we should make a clean break. After graduation. You go to Stanford, I stay here, and we don't drag it out with phone calls and promises we can't keep."

"I could keep them. I would keep them."

"For how long? A semester? A year? Eventually you'd meet someone there. Someone smart and ambitious who's going places. Someone who fits your future better than a mechanic from Millbrook."

"Don't do that. Don't diminish yourself."

"I'm being realistic. You deserve someone who can give you everything. I can only give you parts and pieces and long-distance phone calls."

You're crying harder now. "You give me everything that matters. You make me happy. Isn't that enough?"

"Not when it means holding you back."

"You're not—"

"I am. Your parents are right about that." He reaches across the table, taking both your hands. "You're meant for amazing things. And I'm so proud to have been part of your journey. But I can't be the thing that keeps you from flying."

"I don't want to fly without you."

"You don't have a choice. We both know this was always temporary. We just pretended it wasn't."

You're sobbing now, and Sally's watching from behind the counter with sad eyes, and Sunghoon's crying too even though he's trying to hide it. "I don't want this to end," you manage.

"Neither do I. But it has to." He stands, pulling you up with him, holding you while you both fall apart. "But we still have four more days. Let's not waste them being sad."

—

Graduation Day arrives. You're wearing your honor cords, valedictorian medal, all the symbols of everything you've achieved. Sunghoon's in his cap and gown next to you in the alphabetical lineup, grinning like a kid because he's actually here, actually graduating. "We did it," he says.

"You did it. This was all you."

"Couldn't have done it without you."

The ceremony is long. Principal Morrison gives a speech about futures and potential. You give your valedictorian speech about change and growth and becoming who you're meant to be. (You wrote it thinking about Sunghoon. Everyone assumes it's about college.) When they call his name—"Park Sunghoon"—the cheering is loud. His dad is in the stands, looking proud and slightly shocked. His sister's jumping up and down. You're clapping so hard your hands hurt.

He walks across the stage, accepts his diploma, and when he looks out at the audience, he finds you. Smiles. Mouths "we did it." You mouth back "you did it."

After the ceremony, there are pictures and celebrations. Your parents are polite to Sunghoon when he appears in family photos, but the frost is still there. His dad shakes your hand, thanks you for helping his son, doesn't quite meet your eyes. "Party at the quarry tonight," Jay announces to everyone. "Everyone's invited. Last blowout before we all scatter." You and Sunghoon exchange glances. Tonight. This is it.

The quarry is packed for graduation night. Someone's brought a whole sound system. The bonfire's huge. There's alcohol and celebration and the particular bittersweet feeling of knowing everything's about to change. You stay close to Sunghoon all night. Dancing when the music's good, sitting on the hood of the Mustang when you need quiet, kissing like you're trying to memorize the taste of him.

Around midnight, he pulls you away from the crowd. "Come with me. I want to show you something." He drives out to the overlook—your spot, where Indianapolis glitters in the distance. Parks the Mustang and leads you to sit on the hood, arms around you, both of you looking at the city. "I'm going to miss this," he says quietly. "Every part of this."

"Me too."

"You changed my life, you know. Before you, I thought I was stupid. Broken. Going nowhere. But you saw something in me that nobody else did. You made me believe I could be more."

"You were always more. I just helped you see it."

"Same thing." He turns you to face him. "I'm going to let you go tomorrow. It's going to be the hardest thing I've ever done. But I need you to know that you're the best thing that ever happened to me. That these eight months were the happiest I've ever been." You're crying again, and he wipes your tears with his thumbs. "I need you to promise me something," he continues. "Promise me you'll go to Stanford and be brilliant. Promise me you'll chase every dream. Promise me you won't look back and regret this. Regret us."

"I could never regret us."

"Promise me anyway."

"I promise." Your voice is shaking. "But only if you promise me something too."

"Anything."

"Promise me you'll be happy. That you won't let anyone make you feel small again. That you'll remember you're brilliant and talented and worthy of everything good."

"I promise." You kiss him one last time at the overlook, the city glittering behind you, and it's desperate and perfect and goodbye.

The next morning, you're packing for Stanford. Your room is full of boxes, your whole life sorted into keep and leave behind. There's a knock on your door. Your mom. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah."

She sits on your bed, looking at all the boxes. "I've been thinking. About you and that Park boy."

Your stomach drops. "Mom—"

"Let me finish." She takes a breath. "I don't approve. I want to be clear about that. I think he's a distraction. I think he represents everything you're supposed to be moving away from."

"Thanks for the honesty," you say bitterly.

"But." She looks at you, really looks. "I've also watched you this year. You've been happier. More confident. More yourself than I've seen in a long time. And I can't ignore that he's part of that." You don't know what to say. "I'm not saying I approve. I'm not saying I think this will last. But I am saying—" She pauses. "I'm saying I see that he matters to you. And that you matter to him. And that's worth something."

"We broke up," you say quietly. "Yesterday. Decided it was better to end it than try to make long distance work."

Her expression softens into something that might be sympathy. "I'm sorry."

"Are you really?"

"I'm sorry you're hurting. Even if I think it's for the best." She leaves, and you sit among your boxes, holding the keychain Sunghoon gave you for Christmas, crying for everything you're losing.

—

You leave for Stanford orientation on June twentieth. Your parents drive you to the airport, help you check your bags, hug you goodbye. "We're proud of you," your dad says. "So proud."

"Make the most of this opportunity," your mom adds. "Don't waste it." You nod, unable to speak around the lump in your throat.

The flight to California is long. You press your forehead against the window and watch Indiana disappear beneath you. Somewhere down there is Millbrook. Miller's Diner. The quarry. A black Mustang and a boy who taught you to fly. You pull out your phone, scrolling to his contact. He hasn't called or texted since graduation night. Clean break, like he said.

Your finger hovers over his name. One call. One message. Just to hear his voice. You don't do it. You're strong enough to keep the promise you made. Instead, you clutch the Mustang keychain and cry quietly into your complimentary ginger ale while the flight attendant pretends not to notice.

Stanford is beautiful. Your dorm is nice. Your roommate is friendly. Orientation is overwhelming and exciting and everything you hoped for. But at night, alone in your new bed in your new life, you dream about engines and milkshakes and a boy who made you brave enough to claim your future. You just wish that future could have included him.

—

FOUR YEARS LATER

Stanford Law School graduation is held outdoors in perfect California sunshine. You're wearing your JD regalia, cum laude honors cord, everything you worked for. Your parents are in the stands, beaming. Your brother flew in from Boston where he's doing his medical residency. Wonyoung's here too—she's at UCLA, came up for the weekend to celebrate.

The ceremony is long. When they finally call your name, the cheering is loud, and you walk across the stage thinking about all the paths that led you here. Four years of undergraduate. Three years of law school. Summers clerking at firms in San Francisco, making connections, building a future. You have a job lined up at a prestigious firm. You have your whole career ahead of you.

You did everything you planned. Everything you were supposed to do. And you're proud. You are. But sometimes, late at night, you still dream about a diner in Indiana and a boy who taught you that plans aren't everything.

You haven't spoken to Sunghoon since the day you left. Kept your promise to make a clean break. Forced yourself not to check his social media (you blocked it all the first week at Stanford because you knew you'd be too tempted).

Wonyoung updates you occasionally. Sunghoon's still in Millbrook, working at his dad's garage. Took it over last year when his dad had a heart attack. Business is good. He's doing well. She never mentions if he's seeing anyone. You never ask.

After graduation, there's a reception. Food, drinks, celebration. You're talking to a professor about your upcoming job when your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number. Unknown: Congratulations, Dr. soon-to-be lawyer. I always knew you'd do amazing things.

Your heart stops. You know that phrasing. That voice. You step away from the reception, hands shaking as you reply. You: Sunghoon?

Unknown: Yeah. It's me. Sorry for texting out of the blue. I just—I saw Wonyoung's Instagram. You graduating. I wanted to say I'm proud of you.

You: How did you get my number?

Unknown: Wonyoung. Made her promise not to tell you I asked for it. Didn't want to pressure you.

You: It's been four years.

Unknown: I know. Too long. Not long enough. Both.

Your heart is racing. You look around at your graduation party, at your future unfolding exactly as planned, and you make a decision. You: Are you in California?

Unknown: Flew in this morning. I'm actually in Palo Alto. At a coffee shop near campus. I understand if you don't want to see me. I just thought—hoped—maybe you'd want to grab coffee. Catch up.

This is crazy. You have a reception to get back to. People waiting. A whole celebration planned. You: Where?

He sends you an address. It's ten minutes from where you're standing. "I need to go," you tell Wonyoung, grabbing your purse.

"Go where? We're celebrating you—" She sees your expression. "Oh my god. He's here, isn't he?"

"How did you know?"

"Because you only look like that when it's about him." She grins. "Go. I'll cover for you with your parents."

"You knew he was coming?"

"He asked for your number last week. Told me he wanted to congratulate you. I didn't think he'd actually show up." She pushes you toward the exit. "Go. Find out what four years has done to you both."

The coffee shop is small and crowded with students. You spot him immediately, sitting at a corner table, wearing jeans and a button-down shirt that's so different from the leather jacket and ripped jeans you remember but somehow still completely him. He sees you and stands. Older. Broader. Still beautiful. "Hi," he says.

"Hi." For a moment you just stare at each other, and then he's crossing the distance and pulling you into a hug that feels like coming home. "You're here," you say into his shoulder. "You're really here."

"I'm here." He pulls back to look at you. "You look amazing. Different. More—I don't know. More yourself."

"You look good too. Really good."

You sit, and for a minute it's awkward. Four years is a long time. You're not the same people who said goodbye in Indiana. "So," he starts. "Law school. That's huge."

"Thanks. What about you? Wonyoung said you took over the garage?"

"Yeah. Dad's heart couldn't take the long hours anymore. So now it's Park & Son Auto Repair." He smiles, proud. "We're doing well. Expanded last year. Hired three new mechanics."

"That's amazing."

"Not as amazing as law school."

"Different amazing."

The conversation flows easier after that. You tell him about Stanford, about your classes, about the firm job you're starting in San Francisco in August. He tells you about the garage, about his sister (she's at Purdue studying veterinary science), about life in Millbrook (some things change, most things don't). "I've been following you," he admits after an hour. "Not in a creepy way. But Wonyoung posts about you sometimes. I couldn't help checking."

"I blocked your social media that first week at Stanford."

"I know. I noticed."

"I had to. If I didn't, I would have looked every day. Tortured myself with missing you."

"Did you? Miss me?"

You look at him—really look. At the boy who taught you to be brave. Who believed in you before you believed in yourself. Who let you go because he loved you too much to hold you back. "Every single day," you admit. "For four years. Every day."

His expression does something complicated. "Me too."

"Then why didn't you call? Text? Anything?"

"Because I made you a promise. To let you go. To let you have your future without me pulling you back."

"That was a stupid promise."

"Maybe. Or maybe it was what we both needed." He reaches across the table, taking your hand. "You did it. Everything you set out to do. Would you have done that if I'd been calling every week? Visiting every break? Being a constant reminder of Millbrook?"

"I don't know," you admit.

"I do. You needed to be free to become who you were meant to be. And look at you." His smile is soft, proud. "You're brilliant. You're successful. You're everything I knew you would be."

"I'm also alone." The admission hurts. "I dated. Nothing stuck. Nobody was—"

"Was me?"

"Was you."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "I'm still in Millbrook. Still working at a garage. Still the guy who can barely read without colored overlays."

"I don't care about any of that."

"You should. You're about to start your career in San Francisco. You're going to be surrounded by successful people. People who—"

"Are you seriously still doing this? Four years later, you're still telling me I'm too good for you?"

"I'm being realistic."

"You're being scared." You squeeze his hand. "I'm scared too. I don't know how we'd make this work. San Francisco and Millbrook are three thousand miles apart. But—" You pause, heart racing. "But I've spent four years doing the practical thing. The smart thing. The thing everyone expected. And I've been successful and professional and completely miserable."

"You're not—"

"I am. Because I've been trying to fill a hole that's shaped like you." Tears are streaming down your face now. "I love my career. I love what I do. But I don't love doing it alone. I don't love going home every night to an empty apartment. I don't love dating men who check all the boxes except the one that matters."

"What box is that?"

"Making me happy. Making me feel alive. Making me feel like myself." You're full-on crying now. "You did that. Four years ago, in a town I couldn't wait to leave, you made me happier than I've been before or since."

He's crying too. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I don't want practical. I want you."

"I'm in Millbrook. You're starting a job in San Francisco."

"Then we'll figure it out. Phone calls. Visits. I'll fly home every few months. You can come to California. We'll make it work."

"That's what we said four years ago."

"No. Four years ago you decided we couldn't make it work. You didn't even give us a chance." You stand, pulling him up with you. "I'm not asking for perfect. I'm not asking for easy. I'm asking for a chance to try."

He studies your face, searching for certainty. Whatever he sees must convince him because suddenly he's kissing you, right there in the coffee shop, and it's desperate and perfect and tastes like four years of missing him. When you break apart, you're both laughing and crying. "I can't believe you flew three thousand miles to see me graduate," you say.

"I've been wanting to for four years. Today I finally worked up the courage."

"I'm glad you did."

"Me too." He kisses you again, softer. "So what now?"

"Now we try. For real this time. No clean breaks. No letting each other go."

"Long distance is hard."

"So? Lots of things are hard. We do them anyway because they matter." You smile, using his words from four years ago. "You matter. We matter."

"I love you," he says. "Never stopped."

"I love you too. Let's not waste any more time pretending we don't."

—

SIX MONTHS LATER

You're back in Millbrook for Christmas break, sitting in Miller's Diner in your old booth. Sally brings milkshakes without asking—chocolate for Sunghoon, strawberry for you. "Some things never change," she says, grinning.

"Best things don't," Sunghoon replies.

The past six months have been hard. San Francisco and Millbrook are three thousand miles apart. Your work hours are brutal. His garage has been expanding and demanding more time. But you've made it work. FaceTime calls every night. Visits once a month (you fly to Indiana or he flies to California, alternating). Texts throughout the day, sharing the small moments. It's not perfect. It's often frustrating. But it's worth it. "I've been thinking," Sunghoon says, playing with your fingers across the table.

"About?"

"About the future. Our future."

Your heart skips. "Okay."

"The garage is doing well. Really well. Well enough that I could hire a manager. Take a step back from the day-to-day."

"What would you do instead?"

"Move to California. Be with you."

You nearly drop your milkshake. "What?"

"I've been talking to some shops in San Francisco. There's actually a demand for mechanics who specialize in classic car restoration. I could start my own business. Build it up." He pauses. "But only if you want that. I don't want to pressure you. I know your career is important. I know you need space and independence and—"

You kiss him to shut him up. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I want you to move to California. Yes, I want to build a life with you. Yes to all of it."

His smile is brilliant. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm done with long distance. I want you there when I come home from work. I want weekends together. I want normal."

"Normal is overrated."

"Normal with you isn't."

He pulls a small box from his jacket pocket, and your breath stops. "I was going to wait until Christmas," he says. "Make it romantic. But I can't wait any longer." He opens the box. Inside is a ring—simple, beautiful, with a tiny diamond that catches the diner's lights.

"Four years ago, I let you go because I thought it was the right thing. Turns out, letting you go was the stupidest thing I ever did." He takes your hand. "I don't want to let you go again. Ever. So—will you marry me? Put up with late-night phone calls about carburetor problems? Let me mess up your very organized closet with my disorganized life? Build a future together that's messy and complicated and completely ours?"

You're crying and laughing and nodding all at once. "Yes. Yes, absolutely yes." He slides the ring onto your finger, and it fits perfectly. Like it was always meant to be there.

Sally's watching from behind the counter, grinning. "About damn time," she calls over.

Sunghoon laughs, pulling you around the table to sit in his lap. "We did it backwards. Fell in love, broke up, spent four years apart, and now we're getting engaged."

"Who says there's a right way to do this?"

"Fair point." He kisses you softly. "I love you. Have since that first day in the library when you called me brilliant."

"I love you too. Have since you looked at me like I could save you."

"You did save me. In every way that matters."

You sit in Miller's Diner, in the booth that's been yours for years, with a ring on your finger and a future stretching out ahead of you. It's not the future you planned when you were eighteen and valedictorian and sure you had everything figured out. It's better.

Because plans are just maps, and the best destinations are the ones you find by taking the scenic route. The ones that surprise you. The ones that feel like coming home.

And Sunghoon—dyslexic, street-racing, brilliant Sunghoon—feels exactly like coming home. "What are you thinking?" he asks, reading your expression like he's always been able to.

"That I'm glad I took the assignment. That day in Principal Morrison's office."

"Best assignment you ever got?"

"Best decision I ever made was showing up to tutor you. Second best was getting in this Mustang with you that first Saturday night."

"Third best?"

"Loving you. Choosing you. Over and over, every single time."

His kiss tastes like chocolate milkshake and promise and forever. "Let's get out of here," he says. "I want to take you to the overlook. Show you how Indianapolis looks on a winter night."

"Haven't we been there a thousand times?"

"Yeah, but never as fiancés." He grins. "Every view's better when you know you're keeping it forever."

You leave Miller's Diner hand in hand, and Sally calls out "Congratulations!" as the door swings shut behind you. The Mustang's parked outside, still beautiful, still loud, still the car he built from nothing with patience and skill and determination. Kind of like what you built together. "Ready?" he asks, opening the passenger door for you.

You slide in, the leather seat familiar and perfect. He climbs in the driver's side, starts the engine, and it roars to life. "Ready," you say. And you are. Ready for California. Ready for the future. Ready for whatever comes next, as long as it's with him.

He pulls out of the parking lot, and the Mustang's taillights disappear into the Indiana night, carrying two people who fell in love over milkshakes and literature and the radical act of seeing each other clearly.

Some stories end with goodbye. This one starts with it—and becomes something better.

The castle was a home like no other. You had never felt so welcome in a place that belonged to all — portraits that often gossiped to you, halls that invited you to explore them, passages that opened in time of need. The castle was a friend you welcomed into your heart without protest.

You were not someone who let things in easily, never had. People came with expectations, questions, and noise you did not always have the energy to answer. Hogwarts came naturally to you it all settled around you so easily it stopped feeling new almost immediately. Portraits whispering like bored aunties with nothing better to do, staircases shifting as if they had moods, doors opening for you like they were in on something you were not. You let it all in.

You received your letter at eleven years old. Being a half-blood — it was simply standard procedure. You stayed on for university like a lot of people did, but unlike most of them it didn’t feel like a choice. It felt like returning to something that had already claimed you.

And somewhere in the middle of it, you met him. It was annoying at first because your life was perfectly fine. Up until then it was quiet, controlled with minimal emotional risk — exactly how you liked it.

You had known Yang Jungwon for four years now, but it had not always been that way. You met in your sixth year after being paired up by Professor Snape for a three day run on Felix Felicis.

Snape paired you together like it was funny, like he didn’t just throw a Slytherin who avoids eye contact like it’s a sport with a Gryffindor who… looks.

The moment your names were called you had looked across the room, already mildly irritated, to the black-haired Gryffindor — only to find he was already looking at you. You vaguely recognized him. He was someone you had passed in corridors, one of those people who existed in your peripheral vision. You two had never spoken as there had never been a reason to, until then.

His expression did this small thing — eyebrows lifting, like he expected literally anyone else. The moment your eyes met, he looked away, offering a small, tight-lipped smile. He looked a little nervous.

You weren't too bothered to be paired with him, he seemed to be a good enough partner — at least he wasn’t Seamus.. low bar, but still.

The seat beside you was already taken. So you gathered your things without hesitation and moved — sliding into the empty space next to him instead. As you settled into the seat you had looked over to your old table. You were only a seat behind — with a perfect view of your previous place.

"Y/n right?" His voice pulled you out of your thoughts. You turned slightly, catching the way his eyes couldn’t decide where to land, like looking at you directly might be too much. Flickering between you and the chalkboard at the front of the room. You almost smiled.. almost.

"Yeah," you answer, a little softer than intended. He nods, almost immediately, like that confirms something for him. Even though he already knew.

Yang Jungwon was popular, though not in the loud, attention-seeking way others were. Known as the composed, hard-working Gryffindor, he carried himself with a kind of steady confidence that people trusted. Down to earth, reliable, kind but not soft. Never someone you could easily push around. He had made that clear and yet sitting beside you now, with your attention fully on him, he felt something in that composure slip.

He had never been someone easily taken by others. He had never found himself captivated by someone’s presence, never caught himself returning to the same person in his thoughts without reason, until you.

The first time Jungwon had noticed you, he had been half-listening in Herbology. His attention slipping as the professor droned on about Venomous Tentacula. His gaze had wandered, unfocused — until it landed on you.

You were seated a row ahead. Not directly in front of him but just off to the side, angled enough that he could see the curve of your profile. Your head rested against your hand, posture relaxed in a way that suggested you were not entirely paying attention either. Looking like you could not care less about Venomous Tentacula trying to eat someone two tables over.

All he knew about you was your house, Slytherin. Obviously. He had his own assumptions about you, but not in the obvious way. Most people assume all Slytherins are calculated and cold. They decide before you even utter a word — that you are aloof and detached. It's not that you don't feel things — it's that you feel them too much and learned the hard way that not everyone deserves access to that.

But you didn't seem to care for what others thought. You let them have their assumptions about you.

The plant in front of you swirled around your fingers as though it had chosen you. You did not react nor did you pull away either. You just let it weave between your fingers. Watching like it was mildly interesting at best. It was subtle.

The kind of moment no one would notice unless they were already looking.

Jungwon raised an eyebrow with something alike to curiosity flickering across his expression. Before he realized it, his own lips mirrored yours without his knowledge. Afterwards, it became a habit.

Not an intentional one — he never sought you out but his attention found you anyway. His gaze would drift in the middle of lessons, between notes, during long stretches of nothing. It would settle on you without a second thought.

Often times, he didn’t even let himself think about it long enough to question it. It was easier to let it exist as it was — something small and unspoken. You existed in his subconscious.

Which is why, when he heard your name called alongside his — it didn’t feel real. You were not supposed to exist like this, not in front of him, not real in the way everything else was. Not close enough to talk to or look at properly.

"Jungwon?" you said his name like it wasn’t a big deal, like he wasn't suddenly aware of everything. The way you tilted your head, the almost-smile you gave him as if you were being polite, not trying too hard.

"Oh! yeah, that's me." he replied rather fast. Realization settling in that he had spent more time thinking about you as an idea rather than as a person.. and now you were both.

You nodded, turning back to your notes and pulling out the correct pages as Snape rambled about ingredients.

You fell into a comfortable rhythm. Passing ingredients without speaking, writing notes like you shared a brain cell for a few hours. You had found yourselves to be great partners. Often times passing things between you wordlessly or having the answers the other didn't have.

By the second day, conversation came easier. You talked about things that had nothing to do with potions, debated topics you didn’t need to care about...and agreed on almost all of it. Almost.

"You Gryffindors and your pride" you rolled your eyes in faux annoyance as he passed you a serrated knife, a quiet scoff leaving him in return.

"I do not have pride! Besides you lot are practically evil." he shot back, leaning slightly against the desk. You dropped your jaw, exaggerated and offended like he had just personally offended your entire bloodline.

"That is a serious accusation." you deadpan. The Murtlap tentacle squelched unpleasantly under the blade — you winced at the texture, just a little, trying not to let it show. He noticed.

"Your stereotyping wounds me." you added flatly, beginning to write notes into both your books without thinking.

"Yeah, that was bad rage-bait," He grinned sheepishly while waiting for the knife, "Besides," you said flatly, glancing up at him with deliberate intent, "do I look evil?" you teased.

Jungwon scoffed automatically, ignoring the way he couldn't look away, fingers fumbling as you handed him the blade, just slightly in a way he hoped you didn’t notice.

"Yeah," he said, clearing his throat as he adjusted his grip on the knife, "Completely. The devil in disguise." he responded as he added the cut up ingredients into the cauldron, focusing a little too hard on the task.

You laughed under your breath and smacked his arm, with no real force behind it. He laughed too but quieter.

From that day forward, you were rarely apart. It wasn’t something either of you planned, it just happened. One day turned into the next and suddenly it felt natural to look for him without thinking. The unregistered expectation of him beside you like he had always been there.

In the library, you would sit across from each other with books spread out between you, the intention to study long forgotten. He would kick your foot under the table just to get a reaction. Which, annoyingly — you let him.

Other times, he would be sprawled across your bed, entirely too comfortable in your space, half-listening as you rambled about assignments, deadlines, anything that crossed your mind.

You found yourself seeking him out without realizing it. Waiting for him and measuring parts of your day by whether or not he was there to share them.

Even on the days when everything felt slightly off, when something sat heavy in your chest or doubt crept in quietly — you found yourself at his door. Not to soothe you or to push your burdens on him, but to exist beside someone who didn’t need you to explain anything for it to feel easier. Because his presence made you feel better without trying.

You didn’t rely on people like that. Didn’t need people like that. Well, apparently you did.. at least when it came to him, which is… deeply inconvenient.

When you'd show up at his door, quieter than usual, a little distant, eyes not quite focused — he would let you in, something in his chest tightening at the sight of you like that. Because your upset, somehow always became his.

He wouldn't speak to you different nor did he make you speak, he would just sit besides you as you watched the life outside his window. You always said his view was better along with some bitter comment about Gryffindor privilege. He’d laugh every time, and just like that.. something would lift, just enough.

It scared him how easily you fit into his life. He found himself looking for you without meaning to, glancing toward the places you usually were, expecting to see you there like it was a given.

When he would find you, a grin would take over before he could stop it, because somehow — no matter how big the castle got, no matter how many people filled it, Jungwon always found you.

One time, he found you in your common room. He’d walked in with Ni-ki, half-listening to whatever he was saying. His attention had already started drifting, and then it landed on you.

You’d picked the far corner sofa — the one slightly too close to the fireplace, where it was warm enough to make people leave you alone after five minutes. You were curled into it, book open, fully committed to looking unapproachable. Which, ironically, had never worked on him

"Hey, miss," Jungwon greeted as he made his way over, dropping onto the sofa beside you without hesitation, close enough that your shoulders brushed.

You didn’t look up immediately. You let the page sit there for a second longer, like you were deeply invested in whatever paragraph you hadn’t actually been reading.

You shifted just enough to turn your knees toward him, the book still half open in your lap. "Hey, Won." you'd return lazily, not thinking about it. He did.

That was the first time you had called him that. He stiffened — just for a split second, as though he hadn’t just short-circuited internally over one syllable. You hadn't noticed because he had pulled his arm free between you and rested it along the back of the sofa, fingers brushing against your shoulder like it was nothing. Tracing small, idle patterns against your sleeve as his gaze dropped to the pages.

He also didn’t comment on the fact you hadn’t turned a page in five minutes.

Over time, you became familiar with his friends and him with yours. It just happened, the way everything else between you did. Conversations overlapped with introductions blurring into inside jokes. Before long, there wasn’t really a separation between your friends and his.

Your "friends" being Kenny, she was your best friend from day one, she was the type of friend that would go to war for you — loud where you weren’t, reactive where you were measured. The kind of person who would absolutely escalate a situation on your behalf without hesitation. If you felt something, she felt it louder.

And then there were Jungwon’s friends. Jake, a Ravenclaw Astronomy nerd. Somehow capable of making constellations sound like gossip. You didn’t understand half of what he said, but you listened anyway.

Ni-ki, a Slytherin Quidditch Seeker. Sharp and quick in a way that kept everyone on their toes.

And Heeseung, a Gryffindor Transfiguration major. Annoyingly perceptive, he always carried himself with an ease that made it seem like he understood more than he let on.

The two of you fell into an easy friendship with the group, however they did question your new found friendship. "You two look good together." Heeseung said casually, like he was commenting on the weather, tossing the words into the air without warning.

Jungwon choked — coughing as he turned too quickly, nearly twisting his neck to stare at him. "We're friends," Jungwon managed, the words coming out uneven, far less composed than he usually sounded.

A chorus of groans followed immediately. "Yeah, obviously," Ni-ki muttered. "Painfully obvious," Jake added under his breath. Jungwon frowned, defensive now. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Heeseung said easily, though the look he exchanged with the others said otherwise. They didn’t press it because, technically Jungwon was right.

You were just friends.

Then, quieter this time, "So," Heeseung started, leaning slightly forward, voice low enough that it didn’t carry beyond them, “What’s her friend’s name?”

Jungwon blinked, "…Kenny?" Heeseung hummed and Jake smirked faintly.

"So.. you don't like him?" Kenny’s voice came from somewhere behind you as she sprawled across her bed. She’d been watching you for months now, watching the way your friendship with Jungwon had unfolded and she wasn’t quite convinced there wasn’t any foul play going on between you.

"Kenn," you sighed, not even looking up from where you lay on your own bed, "How many times do I have to say it? He’s just a friend." She groaned and turned over to stare at you upside down. Her hair falling messily over the edge.

"Sure. Yeah." she muttered, entirely unconvinced. You rolled your eyes, used to this by now. "So what’s the pink-haired guy’s name?" she added, quieter this time.

You blinked. Then laughed loud, thanking her mentally for switching the topic as she grinned, unapologetic.

As your groups grew closer, so did Kenny and Heeseung who had fallen into something of their own. It hadn’t been sudden, by the time it became official, it felt almost expected. A year after you met Jungwon, they started dating. And somehow nothing really changed. Not in the ways that mattered, at least. Other than your teasing.

She once said "You know, I thought you and Jungwon would have gotten together before me and Hee— " she paused, catching your bewildered look.

"Jungwon?" you said suddenly feeling your oxygen supply run out, "Nah it's not like that." you said simply, even then she didn't press — only pressing her lips together in response.

At first people also thought your friendship with Jungwon was something else entirely, tossed out with knowing smiles and raised brows. "You two look really good together." And every time you both reacted the same way. With immediate denial, you'd dissolve into small shakes of your heads, overlapping explanations, a little too quick to correct them. It became routine.

Sometimes people didn’t ask you at all. They went to Kenny. "Is Jungwon actually taken?" someone had asked her once, leaning in like it was some kind of secret. She had only blinked at them, unimpressed. "Ask him yourself," she replied simply. She never clarified and never denied it either.

Jungwon got it too. Only he had no idea how to respond. Guys would approach him casual, like it meant nothing and he’d pause because he didn’t know how to answer. The obvious response was easy, "No, we’re just friends. Go for it."

But Jungwon didn't want to say that, nor did he enjoy the thought. Didn’t like the idea of someone else approaching you, talking to you like that, looking at you like that. So instead, he’d shut it down."We're friends." he’d say, not waiting for a follow-up, not giving them space to ask more. Not that they ever went through with it, because where you were, so was he.

Over time, the questions faded. People stopped asking and not because they stopped noticing but because they’d already decided. After all you'd been best friends for 4 years and you were together more often than not. And neither of you corrected them anymore.

You returned to Hogwarts after two years. This time as a University student or survivors, in a way. Those two years hadn’t been spent learning in classrooms or complaining about assignments. You had stayed —worked alongside the professors, helping keep the castle standing in the shadow of Lord Voldemort.

Even if no one had seen him. Even if he had vanished again like smoke slipping through fingers — the disappearances said enough.

Those two years had changed everything. Not loudly, not in ways anyone else could fully understand — but in the quiet, constant ways that mattered. You had learned each other in survival. It brought you all closer in ways no one else could comprehend. Every worry was shared, every fear met halfway. There was no space for pretending and no room for distance. The Room of Requirement became something more than just a hidden space. It became yours, it offered escape when the rest of the castle felt too exposed.

Jungwon knew where to find you, he always did. If you weren’t checking the protective shields or burying yourself in work no one else wanted to touch, you were there, trying to keep yourself busy, trying not to think and he never let you stay like that for long.

"Enough," he’d say, quieter than it sounded and you’d argue, of course. But he didn’t listen, he’d drag you back to his dorms if he had to, ignoring your protests until the exhaustion settled in properly. Watching over you after you'd finally given in. You always did.

Over the years, you had both grown into yourselves. It wasn’t something you noticed all at once it came in passing glances, in the way people started looking at you a little longer than before.

"Do I have something on my face?" you muttered to Kenny as you walked through the halls toward your dorms. Hogwarts University students no longer had to share quarters within their houses, they could room with whoever they like. Which is how you’d ended up at the very top of the university tower with Kenny.

She turned to you immediately, eyes narrowing as she scanned over your features — eyebrows knit in concentration. "Nope," she concluded after a moment, straightening. "You’re good."

You hummed, only half-convinced as you continued up the winding staircase beside her. You waved at a passing portrait that greeted you by name.

"—You’re just hot," she added casually. You scoffed turning to her, "Be serious."

"I am serious," she insisted, nudging your shoulder. "Did you not see the way Beomgyu was staring at you earlier?"

"Heeseung's friend? the Quidditch player?" you said as you turned your head slightly. Kenny groaned at your reaction. "Yes, that Beomgyu."

"He was totally eyeing you earlier." she winked as you reached the top floor. You hummed, any retort dying on your tongue when you saw that there were only two dorms on the top floor, most the other floors had 4 or more on each of them. You had no idea what you’d done to deserve that kind of luck but you weren’t about to question it.

Two doors stood opposite each other, a large curved window decorated the space at the end of the hallway, the light spilled through, inviting and warm. Making the space feel almost intimate.

You had both arrived early, eager to settle in — to decorate, to breathe in the castle before the chaos of the Sorting Ceremony began. As you neared the doors you heard voices from one, men specifically. You and Kenny slowed at the same time, sharing a look as if to say oh god. Kenny, unfortunately, looked far more interested than she should’ve been.

You, on the other hand? Already considering turning around and pretending you got the wrong floor. As if on cue the door swung open, a blonde haired boy walked out. You barely spared him a glance at first, too focused on reaching your own door until he made a noise.

"Y/n??" he gawked, you froze for a moment, then turned. "Jungwon?" you both spoke with raised voices. He laughed still a little startled but there was no hesitation in what he did next — he stepped forward and pulled you into a hug. It was immediate, familiar and not.

Because the second his arms wrapped around you, you noticed it. His arms felt, stronger.. broader. There was more of him than you remembered. His frame filled out, solid in a way that made your breath hitch just slightly.

Since when was he built like this? And then you breathed in. Bad idea.

He had always smelled good.. annoyingly so but now it was something warmer, deeper… addicting. As though someone had personally curated a scent just to mess with your composure.

"How did you guys know we're here?" he asked as he pulled back from you, still grinning. His hands lingering on your arms like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. You smiled automatically, your body was on autopilot while your brain was still catching up.

Your eyes instinctively scanning over him. You hadn't seen him in what felt like forever, your only form of communication had been letters, since you had been on holiday with Kenny for the summer. Letters didn’t prepare you for this version of him.

His hair caught your attention next. Once dark, now an ashy blonde that fell just enough into his eyes to make him blow it away every few seconds. It softened his features in a way that made him look different but still him. He caught you staring and smiled — smaller this time, almost shy. Like he knew and didn’t at the same time.

"We didn’t," you said, letting out a quiet laugh as you nodded toward the door behind him. "That’s our dorm." His smile only widened. Beside you, Kenny raised an eyebrow, her gaze flicking between the two of you, lingering on where his hands still rested against your arms. Clocked, immediately.

Before he could respond the other boys filtered out, coming to investigate the commotion — his hands left your arms almost reluctantly. "This year is going to be so good." Jake declared the moment he saw you both, his excitement immediate and infectious.

You huffed out a quiet laugh, leaning back slightly against the wall as the hallway filled with noise — overlapping voices, half-made plans, people talking over each other like they hadn’t just had an entire summer to do exactly that.

It was easy, like slipping back into something that already fits and yet — your eyes flicked back to Jungwon without meaning to. He was already looking at you. Of course he was. You looked away first, because you were not about to unpack that in a hallway at like… 10am. Still, your lips pressed together to hide a smile.

This year was definitely going to be something.

After greeting everyone you opted to decorate your room and unpack. Deciding unpacking was safer than socialising for more than ten minutes straight.

Barely 5 minutes had passed with your absence when you heard the door open. You were midway through murmuring an enchantment, flicking lazily as your clothes lifted from your suitcase and sorted themselves into your wardrobe.

You didn’t even need to turn to know who it was but you glanced over your shoulder anyway. Jungwon stood there, grinning like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

"Hey Won." you hummed, turning back like your heart didn’t just do something weird and unnecessary. Another flick of your wand sent books gliding into place on a shelf.

He stepped inside slowly, he noticed your posters already stuck around the walls — most of your possessions already found their home in your room. The fact that you’d basically moved in within five minutes because you hated living out of a suitcase.

"It feels like I haven't seen you in years." he said, stopping in front of you. You paused, setting your wand down before turning to face him properly. He was already looking at you. Not casually either — like he was actually looking, as though he was updating some kind of mental file on you. Or like he was taking note of everything he hadn’t been able to see through letters alone. Stop that.

Jungwon had always been like that though. Quiet about it, but present. He didn’t need a room full of people — just one. You.

He was the kind of friend who showed up without being asked, the second something felt off. The kind who would sit with you through your half-finished thoughts, letting you find your way to the point without rushing you there.

No pressure, no "Just say it already." Just there, annoyingly perfect. He knew he had a soft spot for you, you're his best friend. The one who challenged him without hesitation. The one who never raised her voice, even when hurt. The one he had missed more than he’d expected over the summer.

"I know," you said, a lazy smile pulling at your lips. "I missed you." you added. He tilted his head slightly, something softer settling into his expression.

"Come here." he murmured, it wasn’t really a request, he pulled you into him, arms wrapping around you before you could respond, and you melted into it almost instantly — a quiet, content sigh leaving you.

"I missed you too," he murmured into your hair. You hummed, your fingers drifted up to play with the soft blonde strands at the back of his head — like it was muscle memory.

He slid his hand from your back to your waist, his grip tightening around it. Just for a split second, but you felt it. He pulled back, and your arms fell away reluctantly as you stepped out of his space. He looked over you with narrowed eyes as though something wasn’t adding up.

"What are you looking at?" you teased stepping forward just to mess with him. Just enough to throw him off, he faltered before rolling his eyes in faux annoyance. You almost laughed.

"You look different." he spoke, not moving despite you being close enough you could see every detail on his sun lit face. The light spilled over half of his face, highlighting the soft curve of his lips as they parted in quiet amusement.

"Is that good or bad?" you questioned, he’d always thought you were beautiful but now there was something more. You were almost glowing — confidence and charisma, you’d grown into yourself in a way he hadn’t been there to see.

"Good," he said. "You look pretty—" he paused, then added quickly, "I mean, you’re always pretty." Right.

You turned your head, hiding the smile that tugged at your lips. You were not letting him see that.. he saw it anyway and exhaled through his nose at your reaction.

"Your hair…" you started, glancing back at him and looking over the strands falling over his forehead, the light catching in them.

"What about it?" he challenged.

"Suits you, it's pretty" you nodded. He gasped dramatically, falling back onto your bed. You laughed, shaking your head as you went back to finishing your room.

Conversation came easily after that. "Also, Kenn and I went clubbing, and I got so paranoid at one point because of this guy—" you started, pacing slightly as you spoke, wand flicking absentmindedly as objects whizzed past. Jungwon watched you.

"He was a muggle, I think… anyway, he kept trying to get between me and Kenny, and I got so pissed I could’ve hexed him—" you continued.

That was all Jungwon heard before he zoned out. Something tight had settled in his chest, something he didn’t want to name. "and then I went to get a drink and he just followed us—"

"Won?" He blinked, refocusing, still leaning back against your bed, propped up on his elbows. "Mm?" he hummed. "So he’s dead now, right?"

You rolled your eyes. "Yeah, we killed him Dexter style." He huffed out a quiet laugh as the last of your belongings floated into place.

You heard a knock and a chestnut head peeked around the corner. "Heyy guys." Jake spoke with a goofy smile as he stepped into the room, "Hi Jake." you greeted, settling onto your bed beside Jungwon. "We’re all going to The Three Broomsticks, if you want to come," he said, his eyes flicking briefly to Jungwon — who was playing with the hem of your sleeve.

Since when does he do that. Jungwon glanced at you, he was surprised to see your eyes already on him. "Yeah I'm down." you said, dragging your attention back to Jake before your brain can start over analysing like it's paid to do so.

"Won?" you added, quieter now, turning back to him — searching, though you didn’t know for what. For the little time you'd been back in his presence, you had felt a shift — it was was barely noticeable, like the world had tilted slightly off its axis. It wasn't something you listened to, even as your brain screamed that things were different. Even as it grabbed you by the arms and shook you, you ignored it.

Throughout your friendship you hadn't dated. Not seriously. Not even accidentally. It’s not that you couldn’t, you just… didn’t care to. There had been moments — people who almost asked, words that almost formed but something always stopped them.

You hadn't seen Jungwon staring holes into their eyes, his fingers curling into his palms. One boy had spewed apologies as he scrambled off, leaving you with an eyebrow raised and a "That was weird."

"Yeah, let's go," he hopped up, extending his hand out for you and without thinking, you took it.

But he didn't let go. Instead, he guided you gently behind Jake, your hand still in his, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s nothing and it should have been, but something unfamiliar threaded through the familiarity. His hand in yours felt comfortable but now you were aware of it. Which is annoying because you were perfectly fine not being aware.

You also had never over-thought anything physical with him before, not that that's what you were doing…

Kenny looked between you both, her eyes immediately dropping to your hand in his loosely. Her smirk was instant, like she just unlocked a new form of entertainment.

"You okay?" Jungwon murmured, leaning down so his voice brushed against your ear. He pulled back, just enough to look at your lips as you talked.

"Mhm," you nodded quickly and then, you slipped your hand from his — stepping forward to urge the others along. You didn’t look back at him, didn’t see the way his hand lingered in the air for just a second longer than it should have.

Didn’t know if he noticed the way your fingers had twitched before you pulled away. Definitely didn't think about the fact that for the first time in four years — being around him doesn’t feel simple, and that might be a problem.

The air was crisp, fresh in a way that made everything feel lighter, clearer. The hills stretched endlessly in the distance, and the pristine lake sat below you as you walked along the bridge.

You slowed, falling a step behind the others without realizing it. Your gaze softened as you took it all in, a small smile settling on your lips at the quiet beauty of it. You breathed out, shoulders dropping a little.

Jungwon looked around mid-conversation, half-listening to Jake ramble about something irrelevant, and when you weren’t there, something in his chest did this annoying tight thing. Like when you forget something but don’t know what.

Until he turned and there you were, a few steps behind, walking like the world had paused just for you. It was the same thing that had caught his attention the very first time. He hated how that got him, as though every time was the first time.

He slowed without thinking, letting the others move ahead as he fell back into step beside you. He didn't speak — his arm brushing lightly against yours as he followed your gaze out toward the horizon.

The Three Broomsticks had a comfortable amount of people wandering in and out, it smelt faintly of butter-beer and a woodsy scent you couldn't quite put your finger on.

Your group took to the corner booth as usual, you sat besides Jungwon at the end of the booth and ordered a butter-beer as you all settled into chatter and laughs sipping your beers. As your cup emptied, you leaned back with a quiet sigh, the warmth of it settling heavily in your chest.

You slumped sideways until your weight rested against Jungwon’s shoulder. His shoulder shifted just slightly to fit you better, like it was muscle memory. His voice kept going, talking to the others, but softer now, closer. He smiled small, fond but you didn’t see. You felt the faint vibration of his voice and his hand settle on the small of your back against the seat.

"Sleepy?" he asked, brushing against your hair. "Mm, no," you mumbled, lifting your cup slightly before setting it down with a quiet clink. "Just recovering from this, it was so filling." You pushed yourself upright, pulling away from his shoulder — acting like your heart didn’t just do a weird little thing.

But his hand didn’t move. He just hummed, fingers moving in slow circles like it was the most normal thing in the world, and the annoying part? It was normal, it’s always been normal.

The front door swung open, the bell chiming lightly as a group of Quidditch players walked in, their voices loud and easy, already caught up in talk of the upcoming season. Many of them were back with hopes of becoming successful professional players.

That included Choi Beomgyu. Heeseung and Ni-ki were up instantly to greet the Chaser, shoulders knocking together in greeting. As their chatters died down he was pulled into your table and then into the seat beside you.

"Hey Y/n." he sent you a lazy smirk as he settled into the seat "Hey." you returned with a slight tilt to your head. You’d always known him — never closely, but enough. Passing smiles, casual greetings. You'd often see him around since he was also a Slytherin — he always sent you a boyish smile if he saw you sat in the Quidditch stands.

His eyes flit from yours to your lips and then over the rest of you. You noticed that too. "How was your summer?" he asked after taking a long sip of his butter-beer. "It was great, How was yours?" As he spoke, you felt it.

Jungwon's hand had stopped its lazy motions and now rested fully against your lower back, fingers spread like he’s anchoring you there without making a show of it. Your eyes flickered to him for just a second. He was leaning closer now.

"Hey, you guys wanna get going?" Jake called, breaking the moment. Voices overlapped in agreement, chairs scraping as everyone stood. Heeseung invited Beomgyu along without hesitation. Jungwon said nothing.

He bumped against you as you walked, your friends gathered ahead of you as the path stretched back toward the castle. Beomgyu glanced back once, eyes flicking between the two of you. Taking in the space, the distance, the way it didn’t quite feel like distance at all.

Jungwon looked to you and while you took in the world, he took you in.

"I’m doing the re-run on potions tomorrow," you groaned, dragging your attention back to him. He barked out a quiet laugh. "Me too."

"Snape?" he added — amused. "Hey! Snape loves me." you laughed swatting at his arm. "Of course he does!" He teased, "his bias towards you Slytherins is too obvious."

"Whatever." you rolled your eyes, yelping as he poked your sides. "I really missed this," he spoke low.

"I missed this too." you responded easily, he smiled flashing his dimples and for a moment, you just looked at him — really looked. Eyes catching on the curves of his cheeks and the flicker of mischief in his eyes. He seemed to have to same idea, looking over the details on your face. Pupils dragging side to side, you both looked away after a moment without a word.

As you reached the dorms your friends all turned, stopping you in your tracks "Thoughts on going to the lake, we have time to kill before the sorting ceremony?" Heeseung suggested, glancing between you all.

"…Yeah, okay," you nodded with the others, like you weren’t internally negotiating with yourself. Everyone else agreed easily, except Beomgyu who waved it off with something about joining later. You all filtered into your rooms.

You pulled out a bikini you’d bought over the summer, layering it with loose joggers and a top. Low effort, high reward. Soon enough, you were all heading down together arms full of towels and drinks, laughter echoing through the halls.

"Give that here." Jungwon’s voice came from behind you as he took the bag from your shoulder, without waiting for permission. He looked almost offended that you’d been carrying it yourself.

"Thanks, Won," you said glancing back and sending him a smile. You didn’t see Jake’s smirk. Kenny, however, absolutely did. "You’re getting boyfriend privileges," she sang under her breath.

You rolled your eyes, "He’d do that for anyone." Even as you said it, something in your brain went …would he though? She only groaned, unconvinced.

The Great Lake stretched endlessly before you, framed by rolling hills that dipped into the distance. It had been a while since you'd been here, not by choice. Between N.E.W.T.s and those two years confined to the castle, moments like this had been rare — almost unfamiliar.

But now the air was light, warm — the sun was out. It hung high above you as you laid out blankets, dropping your things with a satisfied sigh before standing over one of them — kicking off your joggers, pulling your top over your head.

You stretched, rolling your shoulders, fingers combing through your hair — completely unaware of anything beyond the sun on your skin.

Jungwon had been standing near the water, looking out across the lake and zoning out like he does when he’s thinking too much. Until he turned and saw you. He just, stopped.

His gaze locked without meaning to and dragged, slowly, over you as you moved — unthinking, unguarded. He didn’t even notice Jake walking up behind him. He followed his line of sight and smirked.

"She looks good, hm?" Jake murmured clapping a hand on Jungwon's shoulder, "Shit— don’t do that," Jungwon exhaled, his body jolting slightly, a faint flush crept up his neck.

Jungwon turned back toward the lake quickly, "She always looks good," he said, too fast, too dismissive like he needed to neutralise it. "Just friends?" Jake asked incredulously. "Yeah."

"So you wouldn’t care if I tried something with her?" That did it. Jungwon turned fully, deadpan. The look he gave Jake was enough. Jake laughed, clapping his shoulder. "Thought so. What are you waiting for?"

"I’m not— that’s not—" Jungwon cut himself off, jaw tightening. "We’re friends, Jake." he finalised. He opened his mouth and then stopped when he saw you walking towards them.

You weren’t paying attention to any of that, obviously. You were looking at the water, already halfway mentally in it, and you reached out, fingers wrapping lightly around his wrist, then slid down intertwining with his fingers like it was muscle memory.

His breath caught for a second, before he tightened his grip, grounding himself in it. You stepped into the water first, testing it with your toe before wading in fully. When you deemed it safe you stepped in completely. Then you turned back to him, smiling. He followed without hesitation.

Jake watched for a moment, turning around with a shake to his head "Idiots."

"Ah— fuck," Jungwon muttered as the water climbed higher, soaking through his clothes. You laughed, pulling him further in until the water reached your waist, he wrapped his other hand in yours.

The breeze danced through your hair, sunlight catching on the ripples around you as you tilted your head back slightly, eyes closing for just a second. The water was warm and inviting, the blonde in front of you inched closer. Without thinking his hand slipped from yours only to rise to your face. Your brain went very quiet. Which was rare, concerning, even.

He brushed a stray piece of hair away but his fingers lingered at your jaw. Careful, like he didn’t quite trust himself. Your lips quirked at his touch, then he dropped his hand and a drop of rain hit your shoulder. Another followed.

"Do you wanna go back inside?" he asked. You shook your head immediately, a grin spread across your face and before you could act normal about it you stepped back and splashed him square in the chest.

He gasped dramatically standing there for moment in shock. "Oh.. you’re dead." you barely had time to laugh before he lunged forward, sending water crashing back toward you, enough to make you shriek.

"Jungwon!—" you huffed, you stumbled backwards through the lake while your hands flew up too late to defend yourself. "You started it!" he shouted back, his laugh cracked loudly across the lake, messy and breathless and so stupidly pretty it made your chest hurt a little.

The others sat near the shore watching like this was the most entertaining thing they’d seen all week. Which, to be fair, Hogwarts was basically just academic trauma and near death experiences, so your standards for fun got weird here.

Both of you were soaked within seconds. The rain picked up, steady now — but the sun hadn’t disappeared, casting everything in a strange, golden haze, like a memory while it was still happening.

By now all of you were completely drenched, you waded through the water to the shore and grabbed your wand — relief settling in as you saw your belongings still dry beneath the shield you’d cast earlier.

You flicked your wand, casting a shield overhead to block the rain like a makeshift umbrella. The others immediately crowded underneath it with grateful groans, wrapping towels around themselves, you opted to do the same but Jungwon had beat you to it.

He picked it up and wrapped it around your shoulders rubbing against your arms. Your breath caught slightly and only then did you notice how his black shirt clung to him, soaked through — defining the lines of his arms, his shoulders, the shape of him in a way you hadn’t seen before.

You looked away, back to his face. This was safer.. right. Not really, because he was staring at you with this soft concentration that somehow felt worse. He was entirely too focused on drying your arms, still rubbing. You shivered, exaggerating it just slightly with teeth chattering sounds as you leaned into him, wrapping your arms around him.

"So dramatic," he snorted, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he held you closer — his hands moving up and down your back, warming you through the fabric.

"Wait— I’m an idiot," you laughed after a few moments, suddenly pulling back. He blinked. "That’s not new—"

You ignored him and grabbed your wand, flicking it with practised ease. A warm gust of air spilled out, surrounding you instantly. Everyone huddled around you like a pack of penguins, they all groaned in relief.

"Thank fuck for you" Jake sighed as he leaned against you without thinking. The flicker in Jungwon's expression was brief but it was there.

After a hot shower you changed into your new robes, which were a lot more flattering than the school attire. Still house colours, still mildly humiliating, but at least you only had to wear them in classes.