hush hush . i bite ;

and drumroll i'm eun and i’m back with my second bby, chae seoha! first daughter and kid to the chae family of seri, she was born bred to be a high level politician by the best like some pureblood race horse—right up until her relationship with her government-involved father shattered into a million pieces. it’d be about right to describe her as an assertive and articulate hardass who’s too smart for her own good, too bitter about her father’s line of mistresses to function, and too much of a stickler for the rules. don’t let her catch you breaking the law; she’s a known-to-be-skilled prosecutor and not afraid to prove it. you can find her profile here and her bio here. i don’t have any plots up at the mo (because when do i ever) but you can find me through ims or discord (eunie#6676) if you’d be up for plotting! or you can hit that <3 button if you’d rather i slide into your dms. + leaving some headcanons under the cut, as always!

(...)

a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other, yohan has resolved that no matter what he will win against her in this little drinking competition. he returns to where she is and pours the champagne into the glasses.

“i would say ‘ladies first’.” he downs his glass. he hisses at the taste. “but i’m getting bored. your turn.”

“yeah, in the same way someone would mourn a bad habit,” comes a terse reply. 

it's almost as if he’d never grown up. 

physically, sure—seoha’s no longer taller (or as tall) as him, despite being armed with a pair of heels—but mentally? emotionally? their bickering is a spitting resemblance of how they used to be back in high school, only more bitter and hostile. a ball being sent back and forth within the same court of situation-ships. her silent rage wound tightly into wires that make up a racket, blows powerful enough to knock him out of the park, if he were to push her far enough. 

he hasn’t, yet. but she reckons he’s getting there, especially when he takes that jab at her, blatantly pointing out her “slip up” (no thanks to all the alcohol she’s had), teasing it into a joke that doesn’t have her laughing, not even in the slightest. and especially after yohan bites the bait, bolting for the bar and an expensive bottle of golden, shimmering liquid, that smug look on his face that seoha is ready to wipe off. 

hook, line, and sinker. she can see it already like a reading in crystal glass. her looming over his too-drunk-to-function body, an empty glass between triumphant fingers, a photo taken to remember the occasion. because if there’s one thing she hates more than the arrogance etched across his face, it’s losing. 

“how so polite of you,” seoha rolls her eyes, taking the other glass in a free hand. ladies first, her ass. he just wanted to show off and act as if he wasn’t drunk already. 

well, so be it. the more he felt the urge to gloat, the closer it brought her to a win. such an amateur move. 

upon him downing his glass, she brings her own up to glossy lips, emptying the glass in one swift motion. “and now yours,” she raises an eyebrow, pouring him a generous amount. “oh, i’m sorry,” a hand set to her chest, feigned concern, flushed face a little closer to his, “is that too much? because you made the ugliest expression at the first one. don’t want you spilling your guts on this beautiful bathroom floor.”

she’s so close that she can almost smell the too sweet champagne on his breath. but it doesn’t bother her, not yet. there’s a sliver of sobriety (and conscience) still left somewhere under loose dress straps and heartstrings, one that’s going to take more than a single cup to let go of. 

just like old times.

(...)

“no long time no see, babysitter,” jangmi greeted the older woman with a teasing lilt and a playful glint in her ebony iris. “i hope you don’t mind us being in the kitchen for a little while "the little ones here got a bit hungry so i was wondering if its alright to get them some snacks, just to hold off until dinner.” she explained before smiling kindly to the nearest child, a little girl no more than 4 who was clutching the fabric of her denim overalls while the rest carefully hid behind jangmi’s back.

she liked kids, don't get her wrong. 

or, well, it depended on one’s definition of “like.” did she despise them? no. did she find them a nuisance? not really. were they, sometimes, on occasion, cute? yes. but were they, sometimes, on occasion, annoying? also yes. when it came to children, seoha only had mixed feelings, and of the never-ending struggle of going back and forth between them, she’d opted for the safer, calmer, more putting-her-mind-at-ease answer, which was to simply just stay away. let the other attendants who preferred to be around the little youngsters, a handful of fumbling limbs and squeaky voices, handle them. let them be the “cool adults” to the orphans. she’d rather wash dishes and prepare dinner for hungry mouths than have to wipe a runny nose and pacify a kid who’d let their excitement get the better of them. 

it was probably better for the children anyway for her to keep herself confined to the kitchen. seoha never knew what to do around a human being under the age of, say, fourteen. what was she allowed to say? what was she allowed to do? what kind of vocabulary was acceptable? and how, in the god-damn-name of hell, did people get little babies to stop crying? 

give her a kid in tears and she’d most likely just hold the little person, legs dangling from underneath a pudgy body, with a look of utter confusion and helplessness on her face that reads, sos. someone please save me. a bigger dilemma than anything she’d ever face in her career. 

her fingers were freezing from washing and peeling vegetables for the last forty minutes. for a facility being funded by some of the wealthiest families in seoul, there was much work to be done, down to the most rudimentary of tasks. red hands handled another potato, a small knife working swiftly to remove the thin peel. while she’d much rather be somewhere other than here, acting as a mere pawn for the president’s shit-show, menial, physical work like this was oddly satisfying. for once, seoha had a chance to empty her brain. rest the neurons. let all her thoughts seep out of her like water draining out of the sink, like the cascade of potato and carrot peels falling from their origins in orderly fashion. 

it was peace not so often reached. that was, of course, until broken by a train of little kids waddling in, their feet thudding against tiled floors, with one particular face in lead. 

she put the finished potato in its designated bowl, wiping water from her hands against a borrowed apron, before turning around to face jangmi. 

“long time no see, kid,” came the retort, though fully aware the daughter of the moons was no longer the young girl she used to take care of. a smile danced across her face, perhaps the first one since the beginning of this laughable event, as a playful finger flicked jangmi’s cheek. 

(...)

He found comfort on the couch in the living room. His filthy jacket draped over his chest, his lengthy legs dangling at the end. Hyunwoo looked around the room one last time, unable to believe they were sharing the same living space. Of course, her furniture was arranged differently, and her lighting produced a different amount of warmth, and the room faced the Han River directly. Something strange about Seoha’s residence seemed to calm him down. Hyunwoo struggled to fall asleep easily even in his own home. Hers, though, was exceptional. It’s also possible that the cheap beer played a role. 

Tiredness began to engulf him, as if he were a soulless sack of sand laying on the ground. Hyunwoo closed his eyes. He hoped the tranquility would last longer.

did she remember how she got home? absolutely. 

did she wish she didn’t? absolutely. 

the only thing that hurt more than her head was the fire in her cheeks, embarrassment setting them ablaze even in the haze of drunken sleep. a dull hand felt around her covers for her phone, entangled among crumpled sheets, the back of her other hand rubbing tired eyes. which, she found out later by looking at her reflection in the screen, had been a completely terrible idea. seoha looked horrific, like some roadkill raccoon with mascara goop and smudged lipstick, and had made it arguably worse by getting it everywhere. 

god, could this situation get any worse? it was bad enough that she’d had to rely on her fiancé to get home from last night’s party—now she’d just learned that all of that had happened while she looked like this. and it was her second time seeing him, too. 

not very woman-like of her, her mother would argue. not very woman-like at all.

but screw being woman-like. that image of her, seoha realized, was pretty much done for. all of that poised conversation, the elegance orchestrated at their first meeting, the polite “pleased to meet you” and “i had a nice time” phase had been, well, phased out. 

on the flip side, it meant that she no longer had to play the part of the perfect to-be-married, since hyunwoo already bore witness to the consequences of too much liquor. she could be more like herself around him. the type of woman that preferred pressed suits over lace and frills, hard liquor over pretty cocktails. who wasn’t afraid to ask for what she wanted, in demand. who sometimes, occasionally, once in a while, rarely, liked to let loose a little. 

the problem was that seoha wasn’t sure he’d want to stick around after the night before. top prosecutor, famed for being a hardass and a stickler for the rules, seen wasted off her feet—didn’t paint “a good wife” picture. 

a groan escaped her lips as she peeled her exhausted body off the bed. she’d never been one to have an ill stomach after drinking—thank god—because if she had, without a doubt she’d have spilled her guts onto the floor. in a span of thirty long seconds, seoha made it to the bathroom, where she took the liberty of taking a desperately needed, hot shower. by the time she’d come out, dressed in a loose shirt and shorts with water dripping from her hair onto a towel hanging around her neck, the world had stopped being a blur and her gaze was a little clearer. 

and her throat was crying out for water. water, which was in the kitchen. the kitchen, which was next to the living room. and the living room, which had a sofa, which had... cheon hyunwoo? 

he hadn’t left? eyes blinking rapidly, seoha checked her phone again. it was a little past noon. a finished can of beer lay crinkled on the coffee table. he must’ve fallen asleep after lugging her drunk self all the way here. she stood there awkwardly in her own house, a single question running through her head: should she wake him up?

(...)

“What an excellent question,” Hyunwoo mumbled, wiping the corner of his lips with the napkin. He leaned back into his seat, attempting to unwind and allow himself time to organize the thoughts in his brain. He looked her in the eyes, as if he wanted every word he uttered to have weight and be taken seriously. "I didn’t choose you. I also don’t have any specific people in mind who I’d like to marry. That might explain why I didn’t know anything about you. I suppose I didn’t complete my homework well. I figured I’d simply come and see how it went, and thus far, I’m delighted. However, if you asked my parents that question, they might be able to provide you with a more appropriate answer.“

Hyunwoo cheered by raising his wine glass.

"Let’s be real here. Isn’t an arranged marriage out of date these days?”

honest, too. at least to some extent. of course, she had only see him for, how many hours now?—so there was more to be discovered, certainly. but he hadn’t beat around the bush, hadn’t felt the need to lead her around in circles. answered questions with an appropriate level of candor and humor. that was a balance that wasn’t easy to achieve, not in setting like this one, and especially in the presence of someone like herself who analyzed people for a living. 

she couldn’t help but let out a little chortle, genuine, at his confession of playing into stereotypes. serious was one way to describe work with the law. another would be high stakes, severe consequences. and another? would honestly be, well, aren’t they just all corrupt? 

rarely did the public ever so blatantly embrace the government. in these times, buying off cushioned officials with the right resources at the right time was more than just a “common sense” stereotype—it was, more often than not, true. a bleak look at reality that seoha so wanted to fix, though admittedly, it was a mission that’s impossible. 

a shrug answered hyunwoo’s grin, the one that had caught her little invitation. perceptive, too. “it would depend on the activity,” seoha mused, sipping her wine again, “though if i had to choose between those two options, would be mountain climbing.” she got too much into chess, and god forbid that after an hour of wrestling with the game, that she loses. that would not be such a pretty sight; she did not take defeat very well, even with a perfected poker face.

she doubted that they’d end up doing either, but her role tonight included going along with what was sent her way, humoring any ideas that didn’t overstep their boundaries. so far, he hadn’t crossed any lines, but only had made room for them. “i suppose it’ll also help balance the calories,” a stab at a joke, bringing the conversation back to the topic of his suggested food preference. more important than the food itself was the point that it conveyed: she’s paying attention, despite having been forced to be here. 

i didn’t choose you, the words echoed in her head. if it were any other woman, she might have been offended. everyone preferred to be special over being one of many, even if the latter made more sense. everyone liked to be flattered into pink. they wanted to be the top choice. 

but to be called unique was, from her experience, an illusion. a quicker way around introductions and the “getting to know each other” phase. so in fact, hyunwoo had said the right thing, whether he had intended it or not. it was obvious that his parents had picked his future to-be-wife for him. 

(...)

when seoha arrives, gyeoul’s already finished one bottle.

“look,” he points at the lights across the river, smiling big and boyish like he’s made some radical discovery. “you look like that.” which is to say, this view reminds him of her, if not for the way she carries all the light around her, a light he could almost touch, then for the way she’s always there when he’s lying helplessly across the floor of the proverbial rock-bottom.

“sorry to call you out so late,” he turns away, shy and tired and apologetic, “i thought i wanted to be alone.” a humorless laugh. then he sighs, smoke billowing from his mouth. “do you want a drink?”

though he'd texted at a late hour, seoha hadn't been surprised, not in the slightest. if anything, it had been expected. she'd seen the 9 pm news: his client (shamelessly) walking free of all charges in the wake of public dissent. by morning, the press would be buzzing about what a feat it had been, a win after a long battle, how it was so typical of big business to lawyer up and slither through the loopholes in the justice system. another success for Y&M LLP. 

having known gyeoul (and his persistent parents) for so long, she’d seen it all unfold one too many times. and bore witness to the toll it took on him. 

her reply to his sos had been succinct. one hour. within those sixty minutes, seoha manages to wrap up the case she’d been reviewing at home, change out of silk pajamas into jeans and a hoodie, stash a quarter finished bottle of red wine and potato chips into her bag, then catch a taxi. the driver is a bit chatty, celebrating the lack of yellow dust, asking if she did anything to enjoy the clear weather; she hums in response, not wanting to be rude, but not particularly in the mood to make small talk. it’s a quick drive from her apartment, maybe ten, twelve minutes, but when seoha spots him curled up into a ball on the grass, looking lifeless and drained, she wonders if she’d come too late. 

the empty soju bottle is confirmation. hollow and sad amidst the green.

“only you’d say so,” she offers a smile as she takes a seat next to him, legs folding in criss-cross position as she leans back on her palms. “and you look like that,” a gentle hand directs his finger downwards, towards the river. dark, at times, but deep. reflective. and always there, day or night.

seoha shrugs away his apology. “it’s fine,” and it really is fine, not just for the sake of saying it, “and i came prepared this time.” a cheeky grin, one that she dotes only around gyeoul, as she pulls out the snacks, then the already opened wine from a corduroy tote. “i know it’s a bit uncivilized to have it straight from the bottle,” a low pop! with the removal of the cork from the rim, “but what the hell.” 

she takes a long swig, red liquid sloshing around in stained glass, before letting out a satisfied sigh and popping one of his crackers into her mouth. there’s a moment of silence, and only after he finishes burning through another cigarette does seoha speak again. 

“i’m glad you texted.” there’s not much that she can say to comfort him. so convoluted is his relationship with his job—too much family and statistics and societal expectations involved. she knows it stresses him out, that he hates it, but also knows that empty words of “it’ll be over soon” are useless. a ‘get well’ card isn’t enough to make it better. 

she'd been muttering to herself about how her superior had her handling minor cases—a car accident? really? snu law school graduate and the quickest newbie to move up the ranks, and he had her chasing after some spineless asshole who’d crashed his vehicle then fled the scene, as if that’s her first priority (which it’s not; that’s why the system employs detectives, for fuck’s sake)—and had been listlessly flipping through the pages of the report when seoha came across a name she knew. not mentioned under potential perpetrators, but under “victim.” she wasn’t sure which was worse.

her finger stopped on it, hovering over the text, brow furrowed slightly as she took a moment to process. 

printed in clean font was park hajoon, male, age twenty-five. one-way collision on a highway. hard impact. multiple injuries, car wrecked beyond salvation. she’d seen worse, undoubtedly. graphic details, large scale crime, delinquency edging the dangerous line of pure criminality: they were all part of the job. having a hard stomach attuned to gruesome sights, she’d never really had a problem with managing those particular prerequisites. 

this time, however, was different. while the description of the accident wasn’t enough to make her visibly wince, the next page was. filled from top margin to bottom were pictures of the aftermath, major damage to his head, shoulders, and limbs. and maybe it was the fact that she knew the kid (mind you, she’s only five years older but that’s also half a decade), or maybe it was her being aware of his particularly unique occupation, but seoha found the sight horrific. it didn’t take reading the captions on his impairment to realize its implications on his career. 

she checked the time: 11:12 AM. “i’m heading to naseul,” seoha called out to her secretary and legal assistant as she put on her jacket. “i’ll be back by 1 at the latest, so you guys can go ahead and take your lunch break early.” screw what she’d said earlier about this being a minor case; getting hajoon’s witness statement was suddenly the first thing on her to-do list. “oh, and when you get the chance, kim-jooim, could you contact the incheon joong-boo police station for the cctv and black box footage on this case? and check the registered driver for the first vehicle. i’m sure they’ve run the plates already. yes, as soon as possible, thank you.”

(...)

at the accusation he shakes his head and smirks, “me, drunk?” oh, he definitely is. “i am perfectly fine.” lies. “hell, i’m actually going to get a couple more drinks.” probably the first thing he said that’s true. “you know why? because i’m not drunk. not at all. i’d invite you, but i’m sure you have something else you want to do.”

it's not driver park, the name far removed from her hazy memory (and the family chauffeur hasn’t taken her home in years, not after getting her own license), but she nods. the answer he’s offered for her is better than the one that had been sitting in the back of her mind, which had been, more or less, a bad idea. as all ideas seem to be when conjured under the influence. 

like this one. it’s one of her many mistakes of the night, if not the worst so far—seoha slips up. says this response: “bet driver park missed you more than i did.” it’s muttered subconsciously, unfiltered, meant as a jab; but the more it sinks in, the more it translates into undercut bitterness. into an old reminder and a dulled ache.

while trying to counteract yohan’s biting tone, act as if she cared less about him than their favorite driver, seoha had basically ended up admitting that she had, in fact, missed him.  

all of that bravado driven down to dust. 

fuck. the moment’s over in another second, her gaze steadied. or, at least, as steady as she can get it when she’s drunk. there’s no acknowledgement of what’s just been said and the words bleed out like ink on wet paper, but the harm is done. 

a laugh, half incredulous and half sarcastic, as she crosses her arms over her chest. “you are not fine,” seoha wants to wipe that smirk right off his face, prove him wrong, “i can still tell when you’re lying.” (though it’s ironic she’d say that, considering she obviously doesn’t see through him well enough to realize his true feelings.) 

and it’s probably the alcohol talking (or listening, in this particular situation), but to her, his declaration of (fake) sobriety sounds like a challenge. “you know what?” against her better judgment, she walks away from him, a few steps, only to take a seat on the sink counter, back against the mirror, hair fanned out like a lion against pale shoulders and flushed cheeks. “why stop at a couple of drinks? be brave, go grab a bottle, and we’ll see if you’re drunk or not.” a single eyebrow, raised, a taunt. “unless it’s too much for you.”

is this a good idea? definitely not. 

(...)

When they got to her floor, he glanced around and tallied the unit numbers to identify hers. However, the quicker he moved, the more weary he became. After the encounter with Song Sangwoo, his body began to ache all over and he felt filthy from sweating. Hyunwoo knew he had neglected one thing after he recognized the number from the information Chae Seoha had given him: he forgot to ask the door lock of her apartment.  He clenched his teeth and asked the inquiry through his harsh breathing. “What’s your door password, Seoha-ssi?”

was she aware that she was being carried by a man she'd only met twice? possibly. did she care? she would the next morning, and perhaps the morning after that, and maybe for the next few weeks seoha would shame herself for having no self-control, but in the moment of it happening, all she was concerned about was getting home. she missed the comfort of her bed. she wanted a hot shower. the pain of her scratched knee was starting to settle in and the desperate need for water was starting to announce its presence; incoherent mumbles barely made their way out of a parched throat, dying before they properly left the lips. 

in the haze of being lifted off the ground, limp limbs swinging from underneath her body, the words uttered by hyunwoo swept over her in waves, like white noise, bgm to a rocky ride. not one word in particular made sense in her drunken mind, which was probably for the better: the realization of them being neighbors (because what were the odds?) would be too much for her to process in this state. 

(if her parents knew, they’d insist that the proximity was just “perfect.” a well-written setting to a pre-planned story. to the two masterminds behind her romance, the situation couldn’t get any better than this.)

as they entered the building and then the elevator, seoha said something similar to “watch the head!” as hyunwoo swung her onto the lift. he was starting to struggle; she could feel it. in some sympathy, she knew she had to be heavy; despite her slender figure, her height added weight, a fact that most didn’t learn until too late. 

just like him, unfortunately. his shirt was getting damp against her skin and instinctively, afraid of slipping from her position in the air, seoha’s grip around hyunwoo’s neck tightened. 

she couldn’t remember the last time she’d so readily depended on someone. or when she’d needed someone’s help. seoha was an independent woman (prided on being independent, self-sufficient, even), and had liked to keep it that way. independence kept matters clean and low maintenance. put herself first. and most importantly, it minimized emotional discharge. there were no unnecessary feelings to be left out in the open, no need to waste heart on things that didn’t concern her. in her own logic, not dragging others into her life was just being efficient.

but she’d definitely remember this night. because nothing about her current encounter with cheon hyunwoo could be identified as “independent.” in fact, it was far from it. 

“my door password,” seoha murmured, mostly to herself. “umm...” her mind went blank and another ten seconds went by, slow torture for his already strained arms. “i swear i know it, i just... oh!” she was on the brink of giving up before it hit her after another slow ten, and in a fast slurry of numbers, finally got the front door open. 

with      —      𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐇𝐀,

(...)

“whenever you need,” a quiet chuckle escapes past his lips after he says that, and he even shrugs a little. “i’ll be willing to help you get rid of those assholes whenever you need, seoha.” he means it when he says that, a protective side of him clearly showing and he’s not ashamed of it. he cares about her, and he wants her to know she can always count on him. “just call me and i’ll be ready to play pretend again.”

“very well,” the words are said almost as a whisper, a smile hidden behind barely parted lips. their gazes lock for a moment before she breaks it, looking back at her “once” boyfriend coyly, being as daring as to award him a light shrug. as if to say, and that’s that. 

they've changed over the years, undeniably. it'd come with age, of course; with seoha now nearing thirty (!), the only remnants left of her time at saebom is a mere resemblance of who she once used to be. a rosy reflection of the person she is now. because not only had she graduated from puberty, but also from the illusion of her “perfect” father, which had been more of a rude awakening than any test thrown at her in college. 

for the most part, however, seoha thinks kyung has stayed the same. not to say that he hadn’t aged, per se, but that his best qualities seemed to be left untouched by the hands of passing years. such as his consistency. if there’s one thing she can confidently say about him (despite knowing less than she should—and they liked to keep it that way), it’s that he’d always be there, whenever she needed him. consistency in the form of reliability, reliability in the form of trust.

that’s only, really, what mattered. screw all the rumors surrounding him (because who isn’t the topic of gossip in this town?), screw all the judgmental stares. while he dressed in black, he had a heart of gold, and for a high school girl who’d trapped herself in ice, who’d willingly separated herself from the flock, that’s all she had needed.

“you might regret saying that,” she teases, but it’s all in good fun. both he and her know that this is a rare opportunity, her getting caught up in such a mess, running into so many ex-lovers at one time. her usual party stance is to stay above it all, but she’d failed miserably at this one. 

(...)

The red wine was finally brought to the table and poured into each person’s glass. Hyunwoo swirled it and sniffed it before taking a little sip from the brim of his glass. He let out a short hum, pleased with the choice. "All right, Seoha-ssi. Is there anything else you’d like to ask me now that you’ve done your study on me?” Hyunwoo assessed it with a hard expression on his face. He was willing to take up the challenge. It was up to her whether she would take the bait or be cautious. Hyunwoo pondered how well she had researched him and his family. Apart from being an obedient daughter and putting on this nice lady demeanor to impress his family, what was her aim in agreeing to the marriage? “You’re a prosecutor. I’m sure you can think of thousands of interesting questions to ask your respondent, can’t you?“ his smug smile hid behind the red wine.

there's a certain air that cheon hyunwoo wears, unassuming but present, and it's one that's hard to place. not because it’s a particularly difficult demeanor to comprehend (as there’s nothing tricky about the amused glimmer in his eyes, the casual interest in his balanced yet enthused tone), but because of its rarity. in such a position like his, most tended to boast of their fortunes. spout as much brainy information as they can as if to prove their knowledge in overkill. adorn as many diamonds and golden darlings as they can on already lavishly wrapped bodies. make their presence known, and as straightforwardly as possible.

but with him, the heir to the cheon business, seoha can’t help but notice the apparent lack of rich snobbiness. while polite mannerisms and socially mandated etiquette belies his high socioeconomic standing, little else does. 

for what seems to be the first time, her father had picked a good one. 

a smile received his positive answer to red wine, then another to the comment about her (apparently unexpected) proclivity for desserts. “now that i think about it,” she says after a moment of thought, “i do hear that a lot. i’m not sure why.” figures there’s irony in her pairing of sugar highs and black caffeine. but isn’t there logic in balancing out bitter with sweet?

“i prefer whiskey to coffee, too,” a short laugh, “but unfortunately i can’t turn up to work with liquor on my breath.”

fingers hold the neck of her glass and she breaks her gaze briefly to watch the red liquid swirl around in her cup. the tart scent of sour grape is welcomed with a sip, the alcohol met with some loss of her rigidity—which only seems fitting when their topic of conversation is nothing critically important (though not trivial), skirting around usual “arranged dates for the top 1%” talking points of how many children are you thinking about having?, when do your parents plan for you to inherit the family fortune?, where do you live and how many cars? 

he’s so different from her past “suitors,” airheads that she often described as clouds of dust. he feels like a breath of fresh air in comparison. just, well, normal. 

she hasn’t experienced normal in ages. “i’ll make sure to pass them to you,” seoha confirms, noting his food preferences. then, adds, “i suppose we could meet at a more casual setting next time.” aside from accepting his open invitation to grab fast food together, it also throws into question the idea of a second date. not very subtle, but then again, she’s never been one to be shy about approval. 

a thoughtful hum. “only if the respondent is interesting enough.” a light joke first to match the lightened mood before she says casually, “here’s one. why me?” 

she knows why her politician of a father deliberately chose the cheons. a relatively spotless reputation, stable wealth, clean family ties. a good public image. their two kids? not big troublemakers. good publicity for a man who wants to expand his political reign. 

(...)

“cmon.” within the empty halls at this particular hour, jiahn is especially brazen with the way his hand winds around her, settling on the small of her back as he leads the way to the nearest on-call room.

“we’re on a tight schedule.”

a solid decade, and then some. that's how long they've known each other for—or at least, since the first time she’d started to find him attractive (and not just another kid on the block or the younger brother of a friend). that winter of 2011, han jiahn had changed. and the two-year age gap that had once felt like oceans of difference had shrunk with the mere matter of godly, well-received, eye-opening puberty. 

it’d only taken her maybe a week or so to stride up to his desk on a lesser floor, same steely eyes boring into the same handsome head of hair, and more or less “ask” him out. although it hadn’t been much of a question. nothing ever really is with seoha. 

he’d ended up giving her the answer that she’d been expecting to hear. 

ten years, and then some, has gone by. yet still, she’s never hesitant about letting him know how she feels about him. the emotional attachment is gone, obviously, long faded after years of platonic friendship and an inevitable, low maintenance breakup, but the urge to get him out of that pretentious white coat?

that’s still there. “two minutes,” seoha bites out in response to his question, but not unkindly. if anything, this is her being as friendly as she can be until they’re out of view. 

“careful,” the word is said under her breath, a hand coming from around her back to curl around his wrist, grip firm. the last thing she wants to do is give people the wrong impression. which would be ironic, considering that whatever shit they’d manage to concoct from their unlikely appearance, would probably be right. 

his touch just about leaves her waist when a door is pushed open in front of her and then shut in one swift motion. a click. locked. silence. finally, after ten minutes of walking through the bustling halls of cheongdam’s main hospital, has seoha found privacy. 

if she had it her way, she'd huff. right in the detective's face. in 100% all honesty, she's offended: it's a question with a precedented, stating-the-obvious answer. why was she there, at the scene of the murder, the night it all happened? because she was fucking invited. very few invited guests would dare to pass up on the opportunity to attend one of the most famous parties of the year, not in this time and place, not in a society that thrived off of gossip and bled out for public affirmation. to be seen at the event was a social branding of attractiveness and "star material." lack of attendance was so rare, it was an anomaly.

and for seoha, someone who could care less about how visually attractive she was thought to be, it hadn't been a matter of going that was important; rather, her not going, even after being expected to be there, had been of greater significance. more rumors would be bred from her absence than her actually showing up.

she looks back at her interrogator, body leaning back in her chair with ease, one leg crossed over the other. he looks familiar, but seeing as she can't put a name to his face, he must be trivial. just another pawn in this game of legal power play—the police trying to get ahead of this case faster than prosecution so they can claim bragging rights. puff out their chest. act as if they've managed to handle this, all by themselves, like they always do.

the smug expression on his face makes it obvious that he's pleased to have seated a hotshot prosecutor for questioning. almost to the point of wishing for her to actually be the person they're looking for.

(...)

*

Hyunwoo had entered the building after midnight, believing it to be the correct location of her apartment. He parked the car securely at a location where he could sight the door leading to the main building. Hyunwoo turned around and checked on her condition after unbuckling his own belt. She was still silent on her side, and she hadn’t vomited anything on the floor of his car, thankfully. He grabbed for her safety equipment and unhooked it. “Seoha-ssi. We’ve arrived–I believe. How are you feeling? Can you get up? Or walk?“

she didn't remember much from the car ride. most of it was dulled out by the settling effects of liquor, fire turned to water turned to sand, the imprint of her body sinking further and further into her seat by the inevitable weight of limbs and gravity. the rumbling of the smooth engine, expensive leather; the rugged warmth of his jacket on cold thighs, hot air ejected out of linen-scented heaters. the car window, rolled down just a tad to let in the city, to let in night wind that nipped at her cheeks, her hair. a meek attempt at breaking the wall of chemical haziness. 

what she appreciated most was the silence. not unsettling, not uncomfortable, but rather feeling satisfaction in the absence of loud club music and tipsy chatter. it was almost deafening in comparison to the edm (that seoha had never fancied) and the self-indulging drawl of egotistic celebrities (that she had once fancied) that had ricocheted off her eardrums. sure, her head was still spinning (and let’s be honest, she wasn’t getting sober any time soon), but she could now hear. seoha was no longer an echo in drunk conversation. 

and the presence of cheon hyunwoo was starting to feel more real. 

a tall, broad figure next to her, one hand on the steering wheel, the other by his side, moving on occasion. black hair that had begun to escape the confines of hard wax. sporadic glances at the vehicle’s navigation, questions left unsaid. he wasn’t having the time of his life, obviously, but at least he wasn’t getting angry with her. that much, seoha could tell. 

that would be, unfortunately, the maximum point of sobriety for tonight. it’s not as unfortunate as it was for her than it was for him—in fact, seoha was doing herself a favor for not being any more awake (because how else was she supposed to survive this utter embarrassment? if any recollection of this somehow survived the downpour of alcohol she’d consumed tonight, biting down on her tongue and just fucking dying would be the first thing on her to-do list tomorrow). 

sloppy fingers felt around for her purse, which she managed to haphazardly sling over one arm before gripping the door handle. “dizzy,” seoha answered, unfiltered. the man had seen enough to see through any other lie she could have uttered. “i’m feeling dizzy, but not nauseous, if that’s what you’re worried about.” while it’s not something to be said at a time like this, seoha considered herself to be lucky that vomiting was not one of her drinking symptoms. her free hand pushed the door open and the bottom of heels landed on solid ground uncertainly.

“get up,” she repeated, mostly to herself. easy enough, task one managed. seoha had brought her long limbs out of the vehicle and had taken a shaky step forward. “done.”

(...)

“you sure it’s a good idea to go around without a bra on?” even if they’re no longer friends (her words, not his; he still thinks he can salvage the friendship), doesn’t mean he can’t be worried about her. “you never know what these people will do. they’re drunk too, even worse.” he doesn’t realise that he’s squeezing her hips. “why don’t you just go home? i can get you home.”

there's a thorn in his response, one that has inevitably dulled over the years but still has an effect, hits home all the same. one still sharp enough to poke through her hard surface, just enough to leave a mark and sting, like a paper cut. because he’s right. at one point in her life, for most of their childhood, she’d spouted information about herself, trivial and substantial, to him, unfiltered. an irreplaceable and rare presence let in through the walls of the oldest and wariest chae. a companion that she hadn’t thought she’d needed until she’d had him. 

now, he seems farthest from it. “and whose fault is that?” it’s a rhetorical question, uttered in the most sarcastic tone possible, but a part of seoha wants him to answer. admit his wrongdoings. admit that he’d also basically forced her to say that she hates him the last time they’d met. recognize the shit he’d put her through for walking out of her life. a page ripped out of her book. a door unhinged. 

even though he won’t. they are both too proud to say such words, drunk or sober. 

“and that’s all i’m asking,” seoha retorts, crossing her arms over her chest as yohan busies himself from behind her back. “i’m sure you’re smart enough to figure it out, mixed or not.” if it sounds like a compliment, it isn’t. 

his grip feels strange on her waist. foreign. they haven’t been so close to each other in years, nearly a decade. it’s then she realizes that they’ve both changed and he feels almost unrecognizable. ok yohan is no longer the boy she used to know. 

she remembers the high schooler doting a cheeky grin, bag slung over shoulder, and being particular about his hair. she remembers the high schooler that had studied for their driving test with her, that had talked big about ditching orientation and taking classes together at university. she remembers familiar smiles, after school walks, inside jokes, snacks left at her desk during exam season, promises of shared futures. 

but she doesn’t remember this. him, taller than her, with alcohol on his breath, hot air hitting the nape of her neck.