Lulu♡

POST-JUMP.

When your eyes opened, you saw disorienting blackness. The fuzzy, twisted branches of trees slashing through a whole moon so blurry it seemed spilt. When your hand shifted, you felt the grit roll underneath. When your nose twitched, you smelled cold air overlapped by a receding burnt odour. It may have been an hour. Maybe two. Where you just lied on the grainy ground, watching the spilt-milk moon, knowing nothing about who you were, where you were, why you were there. You weren’t even sure if you were alive, although, every now and then, a breeze would whisper against your temples, stir your baby hairs.

Maybe you weren’t incorporeal.

Maybe you were… something. One breath from human.

And then it happened. A trenchant sizzle in your neck. It felt so hot and searing it was reminiscent of a bullet wound, had your fully-cognizant-self had to guess what a bullet wound might feel like. You shot up from the grit you were pancaked against, grabbing the side of your neck where the electric pain pulsed. At that moment, every limb, every bone, every muscle in your body seemed to brittlely crack at once, like a handful of dry twigs snapping between strong hands. Alone, under a nimbus sky, along a deadbeat path, you tried to scream. But it was the thinnest, wispiest trail of your failing voice, then, absolutely nothing.

Not one word.

Not one groan or a rumble.

It almost seemed mythological. Your voice suddenly stolen, stored somewhere, left swirling around discordantly in a spell-guarded jar. You tried to stand, but your body ignored whatever effort you willed. An ache with the same depth as hell itself charged through you and it took a moment of only soft breathing before you worked yourself up again.

Promptly, you began to crawl across the dirt and grit, wincing and dry-coughing, feeling the fabric of your clothes snag and tear. You didn’t know where to go, who to go to. You didn’t know fucking anything.

But you knew your body had reached something much more comfortable than that absent pathway. Your eyes squinched as you pulled the little sprigs between your fingers, smelling of petrichor and minerals. Your cheek collapsed and you laid there, hand tangled in what you had tried to place as grass. Maybe another hour went by.

Wind blew over your body.

Wriggled the singed tails of your clothing like you were something abandoned. A lost flyer. A stuck kite. A shiny wrapper.

The urge built quietly under the moonlight.

And the next time you moved, it was with intent.

You managed a very staggered, dilapidated walk, making it your mission to reach that tall, black pole with yellow light agleam and uncannily solar from the top. The pole was ice cold as you leaned your cheek against it, your dirty fingertips brushing over its rusting, flaked surface until you caught your next wind of fight. You followed the lights one after the other, using them as a goldlit pathway to nowhere, until your neck ferociously crackled again and your knees wobbled.

All your oil had been burned off.

So you collapsed onto an uncomfortable stoop, curling into yourself for warmth, ignoring the chewing discomfort, the aches, the pain.

Somehow, the ignorance came easy to you.

Like you had done it hundreds of times before.

“Looking for fake girlfriend for hire aged 25-35, preferably with job, neat, and single. Negotiable compensation. About myself. I am a 30yo, 5’10 male with six figure job trying to relate to my colleagues by appearing as though I have a Significant Other. Your required duties will only be your punctual company to public events. Serious inquires only. Thank you.”

You stared long and hard at the Craigslist listing before quickly shooting a message, not giving yourself a moment to hesitate and regret your choices and quickly clicked off the window to avert your attention elsewhere. 

Craigslist was not a website you browsed every day, but today was not like every day. Today commemorated your last and final friend who celebrated her relationship hitting their two year milestone, reminding you that you’re the final single on the lonely island that was your life.

For as long as you could remember, everyone—including you—had been in some kind of relationship. And for some convoluted reason, having a girlfriend/wife/mother status mattered in the circles you ran, especially now when your dating history has been stretched and chewed like bubble gum. At this point, you weren’t closed off to anything, not even fake relationships.

You were sick and tired of putting in the effort of meeting these guys with nothing to come out of it; it was dud after dud, shitty date after shitty date. At the end of the day, you knew you were just meeting other people to satisfy the expectations of others, succumbing to the pressure of being coupled up with anyone to have your happy ending.

This was your chance to say fuck it. If they were all so insistent on seeing you date someone, you were going to give them just that. It didn’t matter who it was.

The Craigslist guy seemed to be in the same boat. Albeit, his situation sounded more unique compared to yours, he was also just trying to survive in this inherently judgemental world. You could imagine a compromise that would benefit you both correspondingly. It was just a matter of convincing your new potential faux beau that you were in desperate need of his assistance.

Then again, how bad was his situation that he needed a fake girlfriend to make himself remotely likable?

You didn’t know it yet, but in Choi Seungcheol’s case, it was dire. 

The effect he had by walking through the sixty-story VENTE Co. building already brought locals to shivers, but the air of the department he led was frigid whenever he passed through. Each heavy footstep of his grew louder as he made his way to his private office, and always with that empty soulless stare that never ceases to miss a day at work. No subordinate would dare even think of locking eyes, nor breathe the oxygen lingering on him, until the door closed behind him with no air to escape.

Before Seungcheol came to power as office manager, the rumors circulating about how he got into his position of power before transferring over to his current branch were the kind you’d hear about in fiction. Word got around about the possible blood he spilled, the secrets he told, or even the secret withheld for exploitation to get where he is now. This wasn’t any lowly position, after all, he was ten to twenty years younger than his colleagues holding the same position, earlier on track than anyone else in the company for someone who wasn’t an heir or a product of nepotism. Everyone assumed the gossip must’ve had some truth to them. 

Even Chan, the poor new intern fresh out of college, had fallen victim to the water cooler talk and seamlessly fell into the office dynamics. He cowered in his cubicle after seeing Manager Choi pass through the hall, clutching the toner cartridge he was asked to change out that now stained his fingers. And a breath of relief escaped him to hear the sound of a closing door.

Seungcheol didn’t do anything aggressive or violent with the way he ran the office, but he was a man of a few words. He neither confirmed nor denied these rumors, he just never addressed them, thinking maybe that’s how it should stay. Instead, he let the stone-cold glare that made the hairs on people’s necks stand upright speak for him. He didn’t go to company events, or plan them for that matter, he would just work his hours (often more hours than less), send out his orders, and leave work without saying so much as a goodbye. 

And why would he have to? He was the boss. He didn’t need to do more than what was necessary.

Yet, there was something he craved that couldn’t be achieved in the current workplace climate. Something he didn’t realize until it was already too late to turn things around unless the world was flipped on its head. 

From a young age, he was taught being feared was a good thing. It’s why his parents would put him in hard-hitting hobbies like taekwondo, hapkido, and boxing. He was groomed to be a leader who was strong, demanded his power, and strived to be the apex.

Yet, he was never taught that being lonely was something that came along with it. That climbing ranks, that gaining power and authority could make him feel so empty inside. Just like climbing the top of Mount Everest alone, it was just as cold and lonesome if no one was there to see it.

One weekend, curiosity got the best of him, and he wondered on the search engines if this feeling was normal, if others had this problem, or if it was a side effect of his ambition. Research and being a net explorer was a hobby that he fell victim to on occasion, this being an extreme case where he could not seem to grasp. One trending word led to another and then the web sucked him into a spiral of Google snippets from Reddit stories to self-help guides. 

What had felt like minutes had actually been hours since he started his search and he was beginning to get impatient until articles about How to be Likeable popped on his screen. Like many of the others, it sounded like nonsense or gimmicky, but one title stood out to him amongst others.

He scoffed as he moved his mouse to scroll through the pages, thinking it couldn’t have been that easy or perfect, but it just was. Unlike everyone else’s advice that told him to ‘smile more’ or ‘show positive body language’ (whatever the hell that meant), if he had a significant other defending him and complimenting him all the time, he wouldn’t have to do the work. They would do all the talking for him. He just had to compensate them enough to make it happen. It was idiot proof.

And that’s how he found himself on Craigslist, the site that seemed to have it all with no exceptions. His post was decent, vague enough to not make his status or identity known, yet enticing enough to possibly arouse a candidate. He just had to be sure they were someone he could work with.

After scouring through about twenty to thirty scammy and near-illegal offers, one piqued his interest, the single sensible response amongst a hoard of crazies. Maybe he found his girl. His fake girl that is.

“Hello, Are you still looking for a girlfriend? I seem to suit all your criteria.”

Things were looking up for Seungcheol, all that was next was the meeting. Being the workaholic he was, Seungcheol only managed to squeeze you in for a 45-minute interview during lunch, but it had to be by the office, giving you both the smallest time window imaginable. His lunch was the only time he would be able to do transactions such as this, and any weekend of his was solely for his leisure. Talking business–such as a fake dating proposition–on his well deserved weekend was not something he wanted to pencil in his calendar.

The coffee shop was perfect, only a ten-minute walk from the VENTE Co. building if Seungcheol speed-walked, and if he was early enough, he could get a freshly made deli sliced sandwich they were known for to have on his way back. However, he didn’t want to prolong this interaction more than he needed to. He knew that others from the office would occasionally visit or pass by this same cafe, but it was the most viable option. He just needed everything to go according to plan and at his pace. So far, it seemed as if it was; all that was left was your punctual arrival–but that moment had passed ten minutes ago.

He looked at his watch impatiently, tapping his foot in the incessant way he would, sighing as everyone that came through the passing door didn't even spare him a glance, maybe even some actively avoiding his eyes. He started to wonder if his description of himself was specific enough: male in his 30s with dark hair in a tailored gray suit. It wasn’t rocket science. Yet, not one who arrived looked like his potential match.

Seungcheol was beginning to think he wasted his time, his energy, and his effort. Is that what it felt like? To put heart into something and be burned after. He hadn’t felt anything like this since—

He groaned, scanning the perimeter self consciously and never feeling more humiliated in his life. As if he was actually stood up from a date. Running his tongue against his molars, Seungcheol scoffed, plucking himself off his seat as he bowed his head to avoid eyes. He was filled with silent rage, seething with resentment for someone who did not even bother to show up and reject him in person. This was one of the reasons why he didn’t date. 

As if on cue, the automatic glass doors opened, and a hoard of familiar voices were boisterously laughing as they entered the cafe, joking and jabbing at each other, as if ready to cue the sitcom music any time now. However, as Seungcheol barely lifted his gaze, they stopped in their tracks, flight or fight responses taking over and the instinct to survive this encounter held precedence above anything else. They straighten their postures like soldiers in a line up, changing their light atmosphere in the flip of a switch. 

“Mr. Choi! Good to see you,” Seokmin greeted, his smile quivering. 

“D-do you like their coffee too! How good to know,” Soonyoung followed, eyes shifting. 

“Did you just have lunch, sir?” Chan managed to say while staring at his own feet, hiding behind Hansol, who respectfully nodded and kept eye contact to a minimum.

The office manager nodded, scheming an escape route to retain some ounce of the dignity he had left, if any. The exit was a mere couple of feet away. He could just walk out, and his subordinates wouldn’t have a say against it. The plan was ready to be set in motion until he felt something–rather someone, coiling their arm around his bicep. Their warmth jolted him erect, making him stand pin-straight, much like his employees when they came across him. 

His head snapped at the unheralded intruder, locking eyes with a pair unexpectedly warm and wide, staring back at him with an unspoken fondness, and glint of humor. He couldn’t help but feel as if he’d seen them before, along with that smile that broke out so wide the cheekbones reached their eyes, but somehow still effortless.

“Forgot something?” You asked, beaming at him with anticipation, clinging to him for companionship.

Seungcheol narrowed his eyes at you, his intrigue now replaced with puzzlement and his head was filled with noise, none of which making any sense, starting with the person in front of him. “You–”

The crowd of Seungcheol’s colleagues all started harmoniously greeting you, their eyes lighting up and genuine smiles forming for the first time since encountering their superior outside the office. You were quick to entertain them, never leaving Seungcheol’s side as his arm essentially became a leash, lugging the thirty-year-old man around like a purse dog, and being at the receiving end, he was too stunned to object.

“Hi, you must work with this guy right here,” you grinned, nudging into Seungcheol with the crown of your head.

“How do you know Mr. Choi, Miss…” Jihoon began to ask, curiosity radiating off of him as much as it did everyone else.

“Well,” you took Seungcheol’s hand out of his pocket, interlocking your fingers together, earning a bigger reaction than a simple thousand-yard stare from the office manager. “I’m Seungcheol’s girlfriend.”

Everyone involved in the conversation stared at you as if you had grown a second head and Seungcheol looked at you as if you had grown a third.

“You and Mr.Choi?”

“This is news to us!”

“You both look so good together!”

You quietly laughed as they all prodded you with questions, while your supposed boyfriend did what only what his motor skills would allow him; that was to observe, watching how your expression turned just naturally light and jovial as you blatantly lie in front of the strangers before you. It’s when he realized for once in his life he feared someone, and it was this smiley little creature that lied through their teeth as easily as they breathed.

“Well, I’ve got to walk him back to the office,” you rolled your eyes playfully, “otherwise he will not go back, and he’ll lose track of time. It was nice meeting everyone. Maybe I can do it officially in better circumstances!”

“Of course! We’ll see you in the office, Mr. Choi!”

“Yeah, see you! Pleasure meeting you Miss!”

You made your way out of the cafe and onto the sidewalk and gunned for it as soon as you were out of their sight, all while he was still holding your hand, having not spoken a single word the entire altercation and not knowing a single word to speak thereafter. You sighed when you found an alleyway away from prying eyes, hands on your knees as you panted, reminding yourself you really needed to take advantage of that at home gym equipment you bought for yourself. “Finally. Wow, they’re really nosy, aren’t they?”

“Who the hell are you?” he finally asked.

You lifted your eyes to meet his eyes, seeing the pits of black that glared down at you. If you were phased by it, you didn’t let it show, only dusting yourself off as you stuck out your hand. The unwavering grin on your face. “Didn’t you hear? I’m your girlfriend.”

“You’re late,” he pointed out plainly.

“Yeah, you try to catch three buses and a subway to get here.”

“You could've gotten a cab.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “And waste my money? No, thank you.”

“You’re getting compensated anyway. Why would that matter?”

You gave him a teeth baring grin, ulterior motives written all over your face. “Well, actually, I had a deal in mind.”

Seungcheol scoffed, scanning his eyes over you as judgment fogged his vision. He trusted you as far as he could throw you–which frankly, could be really far, but there was something frightening about you. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “I’m not a gigolo and never plan on being one. You had one job and it was to be punctual and you’d get paid. How is that so hard?”

“But I did a good job, didn’t I? Pretending to be your girlfriend?”

He didn’t want to admit it, but you made a good point, and knowing you’ve already made an impression back at the cafe, the younger guys in the office had probably spread the news throughout the floor by now, if not then throughout the whole building. Just like those vicious rumors had spread. Except maybe for once the word ‘conniving’ or ‘intimidating’ wasn’t being used in the context.

He sighed, growing weary, checking his watch for the time, since he was in desperate need for this encounter to be wrapped up as soon as possible. “What is it you want?”

You grinned. “Well, to be honest. I need a fake boyfriend–”

“No.”

“But–”

“That’s not how things are going to work. I pay you to work for me. You do a job. And that’s that. There’s no deals to be made here.”

You chuckled, shaking your head in disbelief. “Wow, sorry, but this is actually crazy to me.”

“How the real world works? I do apologize that no one’s ever taught you that.”

You shook your head, smiling. “No, it’s just…Choi Seungcheol. You’ve really grown up, haven’t you?”

“Excuse me?” He asked, hearing his full name as if he was being told a slur. “However, you found my name, my status, you have a lot of nerve–”

“Eight years old. You had just won champions for competitors under ten and you felt like you were on top of the world. You wanted to scream but not because you had won, but because no one was there to watch you win, not anyone you cared about anyway. Except for one person, the person competing against you. So you screamed together at a nearby cliff in the mountains. You were still sad, bawling your eyes out, but at least you weren't alone.”

He couldn’t breathe. In his chest, something grabbed at his lungs, and it squeezed, cutting off his airways. His gut tightened and jaw clenched. He had never planned on being reminded of that time of his life again. “How…”

“Hi, Cheol. It’s good to see you too, bud.”

Seungcheol had a particular youth, and as a kid, he was forced to do more than enough to prove himself. Achievements were not only required but expected of him. If he won something, it was the standard. He had to learn quickly that everything was meant to be earned, not given, both fear and attention.

You were weird. You had a lot going on, and he didn’t like that. Yet, you took the same classes he did, performed as high as he did, were recommended to the same competitions, and commended for simply existing. It was blasphemy. His young little heart couldn’t fathom such anarchy.

He couldn’t understand it before, but he was jealous. Jealous of you, your family, your dynamics, and everything you represented. You were ignorantly happy, and he hated that you still were just as good of a student as him, even if it was just at taekwondo.

Things started to make sense when he decided to place focus on himself, the gold, the medals, and everything he’s worked hard to achieve. Why did it matter that you were barely great at taekwondo, he excelled. Not only that, he was getting straight As, a model student, and someone respected and feared amongst his peers.

Well, those kinds of kids don't cry when their parents don’t come to their taekwondo championships, do they? No matter how many times he’s reminded them of the day to ensure they make it. He felt so pathetic. So utterly alone. He was a fucking winner, yet he was whining and crying about mommy and daddy like a loser.

“Hi, are you okay?” the snot-covered young Seungcheol turned his head, seeing you, a silver medal winner asking if he was okay. Pathetic. 

He was going to brush you off. Quite literally shove you away for wasting his time and invading his personal space, but you sounded so concerned, voice light and warm like sun rays, and before he knew it, your arms came around him, pulling him into a tight hug. His tears soaked someone else's uniform that day and that frustrated him like hell. 

It had to be you of all people to see him cry. His rival. The bane of his existence. Well, the bane of his existence had nice hugs and smelled like strawberry smackers and sweat. He didn’t know how he knew what those were but remembering it all now, it’s exactly what they were.

It was then you convinced him to scream from that cliff with you. You both screamed so loud that it made the birds nearby fly away out of fear, and it made you both belly laugh so hard you fell on your backs. The tears had dried against his flushed cheeks by now, but he still felt them coming, every passing second just reminded him that his parents didn't find him all that important to celebrate. And when you noticed, you made him scream some more. Screamed until your throats hurt.

And you were right, he wasn’t alone anymore.

He had something to look forward to at every taekwondo class now other than the sense of accomplishment. He had a friend to spend time with. And for the next few years, you’d continue to be that person for him. His person. The only person who would know how to break him out of the mental prison he was forced into since birth. 

The times waiting around to be picked up, he’d spend time with you, getting ice cream or eating the convenience store snack that he’s been told would rot his brain and eat away at his skin. Other days when they felt like it, they’d ditch class entirely, pretending they were sick just to go watch a movie or find somewhere far away to be themselves, alone together.

Then you both turned eleven. Eleven was when things changed almost drastically. New insecurities formed at that delicate age. Taekwondo classes were harder, kids were getting bigger and stronger, meanwhile you were getting taller. Taller than Seungcheol even, and that shook him.

Maybe that’s when your dynamic started to change. Then came a ripple of bad events, tumbling forward like a domino effect that led to the demise of your friendship. A series of events that Seungcheol forced himself to repress as it gnawed at him like a bad infection.

But not like the way your presence did at this very moment.

“Out of all of the people that answered…”

“Kind of like fate, huh?”

Seungcheol shook his head. “Or Divine punishment.”

You furrowed your brows. “Hey.”

"Okay, so, what? You think because we were peers in a Taekwondo class together it meant something?”

“Well, not really, but, you don’t think it’s nice to see a friendly face?”

“Someone I haven’t seen in twenty years is something I would hardly call friendly.”

Your smile fell a little for the first time, only to pick right back up as if it never happened. “Ouch, hurtful. But, I'm still very down to help you play your girlfriend; if you’ll help me, that is.”

Seungcheol looked over at you cautiously, wondering why you, someone who once threw caution to the wind, would take matters into your hands and fake-date for any reason. “Why do you need the help?”

You shrugged. “Bragging rights.”

His eyes could not roll further back into his head. “Can’t do that with a real boyfriend?”

“And you can’t get a real girlfriend to get your employees to like you?”

He stared back at you unamused, but with nothing to come back with.

You shrugged, knowing you had him backed into a corner. “Like it or not, we are alike, you and I. And, we kind of know each other, so it works out.”

“...How much do you actually need this?”

“Just as much as you do.”

He found himself contemplating, crazy enough to think that he could make a situation like this work. “Fine, we’ll draw up a contract at our next meeting during my next lunch hour.”

He started taking his leave quickly in the direction of his office building, not looking back. Still, you called out to him, with more to ask. “Our next date. Why not this weekend?”

“I’m not wasting my weekend for this.” he shouted back, his back shrinking away out of view.

“You’re not going to waste your weekend on your girlfriend?” you shouted louder, only for it to be no use; now you were just a woman screaming by yourself in an alleyway.

You didn’t have too many expectations for this appointment, you were just blessed that you were a freelancer and could make time for it at all. Otherwise, you would’ve never made that lunch. You managed to sneak past his line of vision, eyes darting at him immediately and processing his features before slowly backing away into a corner and taking up a booth. You wanted to observe him before you eventually met him face-to-face, ensuring he wasn’t some weirdo until you realized the face you were looking at was the spitting image of someone you once knew 20 years ago.

You had to be sure, pulling up your phone immediately to stalk any possible social media pages. You found a perfect match and the exact name. Hand over your mouth, you were beyond shocked, You hadn’t thought about this boy in ages and here he was before you, a grown man. A hot, brooding man. 

What the actual fuck.

He started getting up, frustration and impatience written all over his face as he let out a big huff, and you couldn’t help but break out in a smile seeing him sulk until the panic sunk in that he was trying to leave. As he began to head to the door, the exits were blocked, the people passing through all smiles until they laid their eyes on him, and immediately you see their bodies tense up in his presence.

You were beginning to understand the severity and unease that settled in the room when he was present. It was as if their lighthearted comedy turned into a thriller in a matter of seconds. At that moment, you saw your window, so quickly you jumped through it.

You chuckled as you remembered his expression when he first caught sight of you, the pure confusion and bewilderment on his face when you introduced yourself to his coworkers. You were surprised yourself when he did absolutely nothing, but perhaps he showed it as a sign of faith, or maybe he was just that out of it.

Nonetheless, things seemed to work in your favor, and the fake boyfriend you’ve come across was none other than the Choi Seungcheol. A mixed bag of emotions, but something you could work with, way better than any internet creep. It just looked like there was a lot of catching up that needed to be done.

And soon enough, you were about to catch up to the fact that Seungcheol meant business and was anal about his terms and conditions. 

“You have to be punctual, that was your only requirement in the ad alone. There cannot be a repeat of yesterday.”

You nodded, watching as he entered it in the shared document you both had displayed on both your laptops. “Okay, fine, but are you sure about discussing this here? What if you have a run-in with your coworkers again?”

“We’re in the corner, so we’re less likely to be spotted, and if we are it’ll look like another lunch…date.”

You raised an eyebrow, stopping at mid-sip of your Americano. “What was that?”

“What?”

“Why did you say it like that?”

He sighed, eyes visibly dull. “Like what?”

You moved your head animatedly, trying to prove a point. “Like you were choking on it. Like you were revolted by the idea of a date. A date with me?”

“Nothing personal. Don’t get defensive. This stuff is just arbitrary to me.”

“What’s arbitrary about it? People go on dates with people they like and sometimes fall in love. It happens every day.”

“Not me,” he retorted, typing in an important detail.

“So you don’t go on dates?”

“I work. Like everyone should be doing.”

“I work.”

He glanced up from the screen. “What do you do?”

“I freelance.”

“Hmm.” His eyes averted back to the screen. “Vague.”

“I make a good wage,” you emphasized. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

However, he didn’t seem to look convinced. “Are you sure you don't want to be financially compensated?”

“Shut up. I’m doing fine. Let’s get back to the contract please.”

“Finally.”

Things were officially being drawn up electronically before being sent over for you to sign, giving you a sense of relief and a weight off your shoulders. You craned your neck, feeling the strain of peering down at a laptop have its effect on you. “Okay looks like it's all good. Looks like we can finally be in business. What will be our first move, considering you are the first to have proposed the idea?”

“Yes, well, that will be the office party the company is hosting. Usually, everyone is required to attend, and I've skipped many events like it–”

“And you want me to come with you to make you look good for your team?”

“No, I want to make you an excuse so I don’t have to go.”

You furrowed your brows. “That’s counterproductive. Literally the opposite of what I’m here for.”

“But neither of us would have to go.”

Your fingers curled up into your palms, forming halfhearted fists before you unfurled them, trying to cherry-pick the right words to get through this tinman’s head. “You have to realize that simply having a girlfriend is not enough for people to like you. It’s about talking you up, showing off your redeeming qualities. Getting people to understand Seungcheol the person, not Seungcheol the boss.”

“Are you proposing I have no redeeming qualities?”

“You were trying to use me as an excuse to avoid going to a company party. What were you going to do with that time on your own?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“This is exactly why you need my help, Cheol,” you reminded, feeling like you’re lecturing a cat about not scratching up the couch.

He gave a light grimace, “You don’t need to call me that childish abbreviation. I have a whole name.”

You leaned over from your seat, staring over at him wide eyes, fluttering your lashes and feigning a lovestruck grin. “I need to give you a nickname if we’re dating. What about Babe? Baby? Honey? Lover?”

“Seungcheol is just fine,” he answered, unaffected, not bothering to look past his laptop.

Your smile dropped in an exaggerated scowl as you pulled yourself back down, crossing your arms. “How have your other girlfriends dealt with you?”

Seungcheol suddenly had nothing else to say, his eyes started darting everywhere but you, leaning back against the booth and preoccupying his mouth with his scalding hot vanilla latte.

Your eyes narrowed at him suspiciously as the silence persisted and the click-clacking of his keyboard, “Seungcheol, you have dated before, right?”

His eyes flitted back to you like a flickering flame before it went out, directing themselves back to his laptop, typing away at something at a more urgent pace, or looking as if he did. 

“Oh my god. You haven’t.”

“Silence,” he finally said.

“You…You haven’t been on a date with anyone? With a woman? Or even a man?”

He rolled his eyes, groaning under his breath. “Don’t make a scene.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” you reassured, “of course, I'm just very surprised…and confused. For 30 years of your life?”

“It was never something I prioritized.”

“Middle school. High school. College,” you began listing off.

“I went to an all boys school, and college does not leave much time for dating when you’re getting your Bachelor’s and Master’s.”

You waved your hands bizarrely. “So what? You worked your entire life?”

“Yes.”

“…Hmm.”

“What?”

Curiosity killed the cat, so the cat never came to know Seungcheol and apparently he never came to know the cat. “So if you’ve never been on a date, your intimate life…?”

He raised his brow, and sighed, realizing he was doing that a lot today. He closed his laptop, placing his hands neatly in his lap. “That goes without saying, but yes. I haven’t been intimate with anyone.”

“Right,” you responded, processing the information in real time.

“Are we done here? Is this game of 101 questions over with?”

“Just one more.”

“What?”

“What are you so big for then?” You asked earnestly. 

His brows furrowed, before a subtle cocky smile crept against his face. “A healthy body in its top form is crucial for the average working man. It keeps my physical and mental health from deteriorating, and it’s the only way I can keep up with work, from carrying heavy work loads to travel. Aesthetics weren’t the goal, but thank you for noticing.”

“I didn’t compliment you for being big now, did I?”

Time running out on the clock, your meeting came to a close. You walked out together, keeping up appearances, and despite your protests, he started to hail you a taxi. You frowned as it arrived, seeing him open the door all gentleman like, but the stoic expression tattooed always on his face said otherwise.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I’m not walking you to a bus stop, so take the cab. I’ll pay if you’re in dire need of financial assistance.” You had choice words to say on the tip of your tongue before he ushered you in the back seat, ducking his head in and tapping his card on the machine to pay. “Wherever she wants to go.”

Looking up behind the back of his head, you caught the sight of a few familiar faces, the same ones that you ran into yesterday with and quickly you suddenly found yourself wrapping your arms around his torso. He stiffed under your touch, his arms stuck up hovering above you inside the car. “What are you doing?” he questioned, tone cold. 

“Don’t look,” you whispered, “but I see some of your coworkers. Just roll with it until they’re gone.”

Your chin settled into the crook of his neck, fastening yourself and determined to hold on until they were out of sight. Meanwhile, he stared down the slope of your spine, watching your hips shift to comfortably align with his, fitting yourself around his frame, and he helplessly took in your perfume wafting in his nose, noting its clean and pleasant scent. Before he realized, his arms rose, hovering around over your back and moving to close in to claim your warmth.

”Okay, it looks like they left.”

Instead, you released him with a light shove out of the car and patted him on the back before waving him off. He watched as it drove off, your hand waving back at him frantically before the car turned left at an intersection and disappeared on the road. From then, Seungcheol quietly returned to the office to organize his thoughts. Down the street, past the front desk, up the elevator, down the hallway, and entering his office. In all that time, he still could not make sense of what just happened.

But then again, he was learning that he didn’t make sense of a lot of things. Like company dinners, why did they matter?

In fact, Seungcheol had his gripes about company dinners. They were loud, rambunctious, and were centered around drinking until one needed their stomach to get pumped. Don't get him wrong, he enjoyed the occasional glass of whiskey and a fine wine, but that’s not what this was. 

Tonight, he was surrounded by blue and green bottles, then silver and green cans, all mixed to create a revolting concoction that the team seemed to thrive on to make the night a tolerable one, but what would have made it tolerable for a certain office manager was his fake girlfriend. His eyes shifted from one side of the restaurant to the other, seeing each member of his department slowly loosening their reins as alcohol poured into their system, pinking their cheeks and slurring their words. He did not look forward to the kind of conversations spoken out of turn under the influence.

The manager had been offered a drink five minutes after his arrival, surprised at the minimal spillage with how much Chan’s hands were shaking as he held it with both hands. Nevertheless, he accepted with a wordless nod as the cup was set in front of him, another working man comfortably escaping the clutches of Manager Choi.

Seungcheol was beginning to get annoyed at your tardiness. First it was the initial meeting—the one he still hadn’t gotten over—but now this was the first official public outing. You never cease to amaze him with careless conduct, as if life didn’t have consequences. It was almost as if you never grew up. This was starting to feel like a mistake.

“There you are!” Warmth snaked around his neck and tucked around his chin as someone’s cheek flattened against his.

He didn’t have to look to know it was you; only you were brave enough to commit this far, but he had just as much of a reason to be convincing as you did. He slightly turned his head, a vision of you in his peripheral before you faced him with a grin. “I’m sorry I’m late, don’t be mad,” you lightly pleaded, jutting your lips in a pout.

“Where have you been?” he bluntly asked, hoping it sounded concerned. It did not.

Your pout sunk deeper and you took the empty seat beside him, tugging on his arm. “I told you not to get mad!”

“She’s real?”

“You owe me 50 bucks! Cough up!”

The voices were growing louder, more banter rising at your sudden appearance, and Seungcheol was starting to wonder why he ever wanted this attention in the first place.

“Is this for me?” you asked pointing at the horrid cocktail Chan placed in front of your fake boyfriend before he then covered the top with the back of his hand.

“You evaded my question.”

“I was getting ready and lost track of time. God forbid, I try to look nice for my boyfriend and the people he works with.”

He lightly scoffed, almost impressed with the girlfriend's act.

“So you’re really Mr. Choi’s girlfriend?” An employee you’ve yet to meet sitting across from you asked.

“Yes! Why is that so hard to believe,” you chuckled.

Soonyoung, well off his rocker and having already taken down a bottle or two of soju, was quick to intrude. “Well, because he’s terrifying.”

And not even a second after, his coworker–Seungkwan, if you recall correctly–clasped a hand over his mouth, his eyes growing wide as saucers before immediately clarifying. “He’s exaggerating! Mr. Choi just seems very…reserved and independent. Maybe too involved with his work?” The man trod lightly, lowering his gaze as Seungcheol shot his eyes back at him when he might as well shoot laser beams. Seungkwan felt them burn through his skull as he internally scolded himself, repeatedly tapping his mouth, for possibly speaking out of turn.

You nodded, pouring yourself a shot and following with a slice of beef off the grill. “It’s true. He’s a lunatic.”

The room went silent, all eyes falling on you as your words sunk in. The second hand fear was palpable, even Soonyoung began to sober up. Seungcheol scoffed, turning to the side as you enjoyed your free meal, not giving a second thought to your insult.

“I tell him he’s always in the office. Always, always! When is he gonna make time for anything else? He might die in that office one day,” you egged, taking another piece of meat followed by another shot.

The young man who introduced himself as Joshua tried his best to come to your rescue, “Miss, that might be–”

“It’s why I started visiting him during lunch. If I didn’t he would live off chicken, rice, and those disgusting whey shakes, wouldn’t he?”

Team member Jihoon chortled before immediately piping down when he saw Seungcheol’s quick side eye before the manager directed his attention back to you, who had a lot to say. The entire team stood, thinking their superior was seconds away from blowing up his shit in your face, they braced for impact. Instead, he rested his elbow on the dining table, rubbing his fingers to his temple, simply responding with, “You’re so loud.”

You pointed childishly, taunting him as if it was recess at a playground. “See, he doesn’t even have a comeback! He isn’t human.”

“Why did I invite you again?”

“Because I’m pretty and delightful?”

“No, seriously.”

Relief fanned out amongst the crew, and held breaths were released as chuckles and smiles took their place. They could breathe knowing that they had you to distract him, settling the nerves they had. Finally, most of them could find themselves enjoying the rest of the night and drinking all the soju and beer their hearts desired.

Throughout the evening, you and Seungcheol would bicker, picking each other apart like an old married couple as the rest watched, occasionally joining in when a common interest was brought up. You would usually engage as Seungcheol just quietly sat back listening, sometimes silently agreeing, learning more things about his employees this one night than the entire year he’s been manager. Seungcheol hadn’t experienced anything like this, or if he had, he didn’t remember.

“You’re enjoying this,” Seungcheol said under his breath, watching you finish a third lettuce wrap.

“I am,” you whispered, chuckling.

“This is the strangest combination I’ve ever seen, but it strangely works,” Jeonghan, one of the more honest members of the department, confidently stated.

Joshua joined in, agreeing. “They really compliment each other for some reason.”

“How did you two meet anyway,” Jihoon politely asked, “If you’re comfortable telling that story.”

You turned to Seungcheol, “You want to tell them or should I?”

He gave you a look, one that said, it’s your job, and you quickly got the hint. 

He was prepared for some cliche, something dumb like out of a romance movie. What he didn’t expect was the next words to come out of your mouth. 

“We actually are childhood friends.”

“You’re the same age?!”

That set them off. Suddenly flurries of grown adults gather around you to hear your story with their starry eyes, eating out of the palm of your hand with every word. It was a talent how you could lie, sprinkling in bits of the truth for authenticity, making every word that came out of your mouth sound like scripture. All while you tossed back soju shots and Seungcheol nursed a single beer in his hand.

“You’re like a movie, childhood rivals to estranged friends to lovers, wow. Lifetime would pay millions,” Chan gushed with red cheeks, covering his face with his palms.

Jeonghan suddenly pounced at an exciting idea. “Love Shot. Love Shot. Love Shot. Love Shot.”

They rest followed after him, chanting louder and louder. “Love Shot! Love Shot! Love Shot! Love Shot! Love Shot! Love Shot!”

Seungcheol shook his head. “No, no. We’re not doing that.”

The chants immediately faded out, only a whisper of its remains left in the form of a lost Soonyoung.

“Don’t take it personal, guys. He’s a lightweight. He’s had that beer since he came in and still hasn’t finished because we both know he’d be out like a light if he drank even half of it,” You taunted.

Seungcheol felt challenge brew within him, narrowing his eyes back at you. “Oh, yeah?”

“It’s okay, Honey, being a weak drinker doesn’t mean it's the end of the world.”

The office manager huffed, standing up slamming the metal dining table and startling everyone around him. “One of you, any of you, bring us some soju and two of the biggest glasses you have.”

Their feet scrambled, and demands were met. Your fake boyfriend smirked back at you as he started filling up your glass, pushing it toward you before he started filling up his.

“Lun-a-tic,” you sounded, claiming the glass.

You scooted closer holding the cups in the air before locking elbows and gazes. The glass pressed to your lips, the bitter liquid making it past your mouth and feeling it burn down your throat and then brewing something sinister in your gut, having you struggle to finish it. Meanwhile, your opponent drank his as if it was water, his eyes staring back at you in mockingly, grinning apparently despite his lips being preoccupied.

This little shit.

You both ended with a clean finish, slamming the cups on the metal surface, and you’re swarmed with cheers, reminding you that you had an audience. The heat was instantaneous, spreading all over you like fire, as your eyes grew heavy, the rush of cheeks becoming less coherent and just noise at this point of the night.

“Yeah, they definitely did taekwondo together.”

“I have never seen Mr. Choi that competitive before. He’s so cool!”

That last bit made Seungcheol snicker as he wiped the remaining alcohol off his lips, observing you as you uncharacteristically remained quietly seated with nothing else to say. “And I’m the lightweight? Can you even stand up right now?”

You gave him a mocking look, pulling yourself up from your seat and began doing all the sobriety tests you could possibly think of. From talking in a straight line to touching your toes, you made sure to do all the nine yards. After feeling like you succeeded (you didn’t), you then blew raspberries in his face until finally doing your perfect impression of a big buzzer. “Try again!”

Seungcheol fell off his chair laughing, face bright red in the matter of seconds, belly laughing and stunning everyone that was lucky enough to witness before he crawled up to get back in his chair. He pointed at you, still laughing, “You look so stupid!”

“Oh,” Minghao pointed at his superior’s face, “He has a dimple.”

“Nevermind that, he’s laughing.”

“Take a picture! Take hundreds of them!”

The rest of the night became a blur, a chaotic blur Seungcheol was probably better off not remembering, but all of the things he did remember made him feel warm. Or perhaps that was the alcohol lodged into his system. Company dinners can be alright. He probably won’t go to all of them, but one here and there wouldn’t hurt.

The next time Seungcheol felt awake was when he was in his bedroom, the sun peeking through the curtain as it beamed down on him. It was rare for him to wake up after the sun came up. “What the…”

He had no idea how he got home, pulling the covers off himself and immediately looking for his phone and found it conveniently plugged, and said that it was– “9:34. Fuck.”

"Rise and shine, sunshine,” you said bursting through the room, and Seungcheol immediately threw the covers back on, hiding his body as soon as he realized he looked the shittiest he’s ever looked. “How the fuck–why the hell are you in my apartment? How the hell are you in my apartment?”

“I took you home yesterday.”

“There’s a keypad!”

You giggled. “You put in the code for me. Drunk you is very nice.”

“You were drunk too!”

You clamped your hands over your ears. “Stop yelling, god. I sobered up hours before you did. Hangover still sucks though.”

“Still doesn’t explain how you found out where I fucking live.”

“The ID in your wallet, of course, which you should really be more careful about giving it to people when you’re drunk because, holy shit, I would've scammed you. What if it got into the wrong hands?”

“I’M LOOKING RIGHT AT THEM!”

“OW! Chill out. How are you not hungover right now?”

“I am, but–shit, none of this is making sense.”

“Well, while you have your mid-life crisis, I left a hangover cure and breakfast on your coffee table. Eat it, you’re going to want it. I’ve got to go.”

“Wait.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you sleep here?”

You shrugged, “Oh the couch. It was like 2am and I was still tipsy, I wasn’t gonna go out there and become a statistic.”

“You just slept in a man’s apartment like nothing.”

“It’s your apartment. I’m fine.”

“Am I not a man?”

You rolled your eyes, waving him off. “You are hardly a human, iRobot. Now go eat. Oh, and remember next Sunday is my day, Carts and Tarts. Golfing and brunch with some of my college friends, I’m sure you’ll like it.”

“What did I tell you about weekends?”

“Make an exception, yesterday went extremely well. I think everyone is warming up to you a bit more, and all you have to do is stand next to me. And maybe smile, but that's it!”

He groaned, throwing a pillow in his face, the migraines kicking in hard. “I feel like shit.”

“Which means it was a success! We’ll go over what you’ll be wearing and a bit of characterization over the week.”

“Characterization?” Seungcheol mumbled, the word foreign on his tongue. 

“Enjoy your Saturday!”

Carefully, you walked out, closing the door behind you and hearing the automatic lock click in pace. You passed through his front lawn, making your way past his gates, and you took sight of his neighborhood–admittedly prettier in daylight– before heading down the sidewalk to hail a cab. Waiting for one to arrive, you marinated in what transpired the night before and the images played in your mind in full color, as if it happened just moments ago.

“Fuck, you’re huge.”

“You tol’ me ta’ already.” Seungcheol murmured as he buried himself into your shoulder, letting you drag him to the entrance of his residence.

“What’s your code?”

“Secret,” he giggled. 

To which, you rolled your eyes. “You put it in then.”

You pushed him closer to the keypad, holding his wrist up to the screen and lifting up his head so he could see the numbers. His eyelids almost sunk to the bottom, but it was barely visible enough to make out what was in front of him. “Oh, I know this game, I’m good at games…”

“I’m sure you are, try this one out.”

His finger limply hovered over the keypad, giggling up a storm.“ 0…5…2…6.”

“You said it was a secret and said it out loud anyway, are you that drunk?”

“I win!”

“Oh, my god.” You rushed him inside, hoping none of the neighbors showed up or were nearby to have heard that, and scanned the perimeter for his bedroom. His instinct kicked in the second he entered inside, and he pulled away from you, taking himself upstairs.

“He’s gonna fucking kill himself.” You trailed behind him, on every step behind him, ready to catch him behind every tumble, and ensuring that Seungcheol in no way hurt himself as he made it up those steps.

As he finally reached the top floor, he turned the corner, entered a very obvious bedroom, and collapsed on the king-sized bed in the center. He laid sprawl, limbs spread wide like a starfish, and the biggest grin on his face that showcased his dimple gracefully embedded in his cheek.

You chuckled before dragging his body up the bed, urging him off the covers to usher him under. “Okay. I’m leaving now.”

You then turned away, about to leave when felt something wrap around your wrist pulling you near the bed.

“Don’t go.”

Your head back to see Seungcheol at the brink of tears, his features softening at the sight of you as he curled up into bed, sniffling. You dipped a little closer. “You don’t want me to leave?”

He shook his head, whining childishly, “Stay…”

He pulled you closer, now ushering you on the bed, and suddenly you were there together, him ready to sleep all tucked in, and you firmly sat because a grown man with the most heart wrenching puppy dog eyes asked you not to go. 

So you stayed, just as he asked, and slept in the living room once he was sound asleep.

You smiled to yourself, regretful you didn’t take a picture or record a video of the incident. Although, if you did and he found out, he would’ve killed you. Or, you would’ve had some delicious blackmail material. The world may never know. You were just happy to know he still had that side to him. It was refreshing, and honestly, it made you a little hopeful.

Now you had to see if you could drag it out of him sober.

“Now to be the perfect boyfriend, my friend group has always said that the guy had to check at least five of these boxes.”

He looked back at you, not showing any interest in the matter while absentmindedly drinking his Americano that he used to hate, but he’s been enjoying a lot more lately thanks to you. “Is this all really necessary?”

You nodded determinedly. “You’re unlikable, and you need lessons. Yes, this is very important.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve received two good mornings today, and only five people decided to hide from me.”

“No one should be hiding from you,” you rubbed your chin in thought, “Sounds like you still need work. I might have to phase in a new method.”

“Excuse me, what new method would that be?”

“Never mind that. For now, Carts and Tarts. The girls have always said a guy needs five things: eyes, ears, mouth, heart, and…” Your gaze lowered to his nether regions, and Seungcheol did a double take, covering his privates with a pained expression.

“Those are just body parts, and have some decorum, would you?”

You pointed to the first box you needed checked. “Eyes: they need to be able to pay attention to you, notice things about you that you or other people wouldn’t otherwise see. To be loved is to be seen.”

Seungcheol listening to your reasoning and then mentally noting it for later. “Ah, and ears.”

“Listening to what you have to say. Being heard is just as important, but it doesn’t stop at hearing the words, it’s understanding the meaning behind them, which brings me to…”

“Mouth. To speak?” he easily guessed.

You nodded, passing him a cookie. “Ask questions. Learn why they’re happy, sad, angry, or anxious. Or even, include them in your conversations, sometimes they want to hear what you’re interested in. I think you’re getting where I’m going next.”

He took apart the cookie, breaking it in half, and passed it back to you. “Heart. Have a passion for something.”

“Ding. Ding. Ding. Sometimes it's a job, or a family, or a passion projection, but there needs to be ambition and drive, but most importantly and above all, they love you. If they love you enough, they can balance both. They should have something in their life besides you, but still love you, you know?”

Seungcheol was buffering a bit on that last one but he decided not to question it. “I’m assuming that last one has to do with coitus?”

Mid-chew of your snack, appalled enough to speak with it still in your mouth while spewing out its crumbs, “Why would you use that word?”

“I knew I would invoke an interesting reaction, but not cause an avalanche.” 

You rolled your eyes, tapping your mouth with a napkin. “Everyone wants to have orgasms in their relationships, it’s at the top of their Christmas list. I’ve seen so many relationships get broken up because the sex sucked or someone has a weird kink–and I’m not kink shaming! Being weird can be cool.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he said plainly.

“I’m just saying.”

“Never in my life did I expect this to be the topic of today’s meeting.”

You flatten your hands against the table, a satisfied smile on your face. “Well, now you understand. Try to pretend you're at least any one of these, and play up the boyfriend bit. You already know a little about me, just put it to good use.”

He observed you, studying your intent under the humor and lighthearted candor. “You really care a lot about this.”

“It’s just annoying how much they care about how much I'm getting laid. They’re a very large and very involved bunch.”

Seungcheol shut his eyes in disdain. “Why do they care?”

“Everyone is just either dating, married, or engaged. I'm the last person left, and I haven’t had a relationship that’s lasted more than three months. I just want them to lay off, make them think I'm dating someone with marriage in mind.”

“And when we don’t get married?”

You grinned, as if you have been waiting for this question to be asked. “I’ve curated a long 2-year plan to make us look like a committed couple. We fall in love passionately, so in love that we summer together and backpack over Europe, Asia, seeing all the great seas, seeing the world together…but then, I come back home, sad and single because even though you proposed and are desperately in love with me–”

“I think there are some plot holes–”

“You fall ill bitten by a radioactive spider exploring a jungle and pass away,” You concluded, exaggeratedly gasping into your hands.

“...isn’t that the plot to Madame Web?”

“You actually watched that?”

“You don’t know what I do on my weekends.”

“Watching awful movies is what it sounds like.”

He looked up to the ceiling, trying to visual all this together, as if any of this was remotely feasible. “We live in the same city, has it ever occurred to you that I could bump into any one of them?”

You shrugged, “Easy. You turn around and run in the other direction.”

“Your plan is horrendously flawed.”

“You wanna get married then?”

“Where’s the spider? I can get a headstart.”

“Just be a good little boyfriend.”

Seungcheol tsked. 

“What?”

He looked off at the window, noticing that it was going to rain soon. Things needed to pick up if he wanted to get back to the office dry. “I just wouldn’t have thought that you of all people would cater to a society that cared about something superficial like having a boyfriend.”

Your smile faltered. “Well, a lot has happened in 20 years. And who says I’m catering to anyone? Ever consider maybe…forget it.”

He narrowed his eyes, challenge burning through them, “What? Finish your thought.”

“We’re done here. Just come on Sunday, follow the dress code, and don’t be yourself,” and with that you threw your tote over your shoulder and walked out, not bothering to wait for him to trail after you, hailing a cab on your own accord.

The rest of the week you would make your lunch ‘dates,’ but it would be mainly for show, having you only swirling your straw in your drink as you moped, halfheartedly being present for most of the time. Usually, Seungcheol would appreciate silence, but from you, it was deafening, even with the background noise of the cafe. 

He pretended not to notice, sitting in silence with you, but he’d occasionally look up, seeing you glued to your phone, only interacting with him when it came to what they were contractually obligated to do for one another. He should’ve been pleased, yet, he was dying to talk to you.

Sunday finally came around and unfortunately, your bad mood had traveled with you, even in your cute little tennis skirt get-up you had been looking for the opportunity to wear. At least, Seungcheol had made the effort to look the part for the day. That morning you met, and he surprised you with his cooperation by looking like every country club asshole you've ever met, down to the pristine khakis and golf shoes with matching socks. You wondered if he bought that before the plans were set in motion, or if he already had it lying around. Either way, he looked convincing enough to persuade a few friends. 

“Good job,” you whispered halfheartedly.

“How long do we have to be here?” He mumbled under his breath, cutting into his spinach omelet after forgoing all the possible carb options, just like you expected him to.

“Two hours, tops. Just watch them get a couple swings in and we can excuse ourselves after, say we have another thing we gotta go to.”

You were then greeted by a familiar voice, beckoning you from the other end of the table. Her eyes were bright and perfectly cat eyed, lips pink and glossy, but her voice was mature and curious, dying to pull the information she could out of you. “So, how did you two come to know each other?”

Chaeyoung had always been an instigator, asking the pressing questions and demanding answers. It was natural for her as a news investigator, and she was the one who insisted your new boyfriend come to initiate him into their pack. This happened to be the first time you accepted her challenge, earning her intrigue, and like she did with all your boyfriends she’s had the pleasure–or more often displeasure than not–of meeting, she had to get the rundown. And she would do whatever she could to get it.

You cleared your throat, wiping your lips with a tablecloth. “Well—“

“Not you, darling, let’s hear it from Seungcheol.”

He hadn’t prepared for this, snapping his head at you a glint of panic was in his eyes. You grinned over at Chaeyoung, holding onto Seungcheol’s hand that rested on the table. “Don’t go interrogating my boyfriend, he just got here.”

“Well, it’s only fair to tell his version while he's here. There’s never been a gathering as big as this with your other boyfriends. He has to be special if you brought him here today.”

“Chaeyoung—“

“I can tell the story,” Seungcheol finally reassured.

You looked at him confused then bewilderment, fearing the words that come out of his next could be the end all be all of this entire charade.

You had to stop him before he ruined this. “Cheol—“

“She came crashing into my life, and I haven’t known peace since.”

If your eyes bulged any bigger, they would be falling out of your head. “I—“

“Really?” Chaeyoung’s interest got piqued, leaning in closer as the everyone else at the table lowered their voice, hoping to listen in. “How so?”

“We had met before. A long, long time ago, and I couldn’t fathom her existence in the slightest. She was a mind bending whirlwind, like no one else I’ve ever met before, and I couldn’t get her out of my head. That period of our lives we spent almost every waking moment with each other, telling each other things that we promised not to tell anybody else. Like an oath. And then all of a sudden, one day, we lost contact. No calls, no letters, no voicemails. We didn’t speak to each other for years until…,” he turned to you, a subtle softness in his eyes that only you could barely recognize under that cold, stiff exterior. “We passed by each other at a cafe near my office. I didn’t know what to think of it first…but she called it fate.”

He turned back to everyone, and they all just stared, peering at the newcomer as if he was a saint dropped from the sky, while the women at the table swooned after listening to his story, clinging onto his every word.

“Men like him do exist…” Yeri said dreamily, ignoring her longtime boyfriend, who at the moment was scarfing down his fifth quiche.

You were shell shocked, jaw actually dropped slack until Seungcheol stuffed an egg tart in it, occupying your mouth to avoid suspicion.

“And he’s feeding her. Why don’t you feed me?!”

“Dammit, they’re adorable.”

You weren’t sure who you were sitting with anymore. The fake boyfriend you hired was a calculating, condescending, arrogant prick that relied on you to make him look good. How was he doing a better job than you?

“Do you golf, Seungcheol?” Baekho inquired, warming up to him after hearing the sweet fable. “If so, we have to see your swing.”

He replied back with a shrug, “I’ve dabbled, although I was going to take it easy today.”

He rested a hand on your shoulder. “This one isn’t sure how long we can stay.”

You glared at him, how dare he push the blame on you. You looked back at Baekho apologetically. “We had a prior engagement. I’m sorry. I mixed the dates up and couldn’t cancel on either one of you.”

“Oh, well, that doesn’t mean you can’t play. Just a round, what do you both say?”

Seungcheol looked at you, an unreadable expression on his face, and you truly do not know how to approach it in the slightest.

“Okay, I guess a round can’t hurt.”

Baekho along with many other guests lit up in excitement. “Well, what are we waiting for? On the field, we go!”

Several members of the brunch got a head start on the field, taking their clubs and carts as they started heading off the first hole. Meanwhile, Seungcheol pulled you aside, seeing that you were both alone with no one else to eavesdrop. “Do you know what you’ve just done?”

“What? It’s one round.” You shrugged. “A game can’t be that long.”

A pained expression struck his face, wrinkles forming on his forehead as he tightly shut his eyes. “Have you ever played golf?”

“No, I was never interested in it.”

“Jesus—do you see how big this field is? An average game of golf is four hours, sometimes more.”

Your eyes were about to shoot out of their sockets like any of the golf balls on the field. “Four hours?!”

“Yes, and you just,” he sighed, “Come on.” 

He took you by your hands, noticing them covered in a pair of gloves before dragging you to your designated cart. “Why the hell do you own golf gloves if you don’t golf?

“I thought today was the day I’d start,” you cried, nearing the verge of tears as you came to the realization of the eternal hell you’ve subjected yourself to.

And Seungcheol did not lie, it felt as if it would go on forever. As everyone was putting, the sun was beaming down on you, slowly but surely killing your will to live. At this point, you welcomed it. You already started to envy the ice in your lemonade that melted, seeing it was given the mercy of peace from this endless boredom. You weren’t used to being outside for this long. During these brunches, you would be inside in the spa by now with mud baths, not getting ready to be spattered in mud puddles when a ball hits water.

“Fore!”

“Just let the ball hit me right at the temple, right here,” you quietly mumbled from your golf cart, watching Baekho in front of you take a swing as a couple of other members of the brunch spectated from behind.

Seungcheol reunited beside you, taking a swig of his water bottle and sweating after swinging a few times around the field. “I guess this counts as my workout for the day.”

“Congratu-fucking-lations,” you responded sarcastically, numb to all feelings.

He leaned over the golf cart, arms over the cart roof. “You had every opportunity to say no.”

“And I didn’t, okay? You gonna rub it in my face?”

He grinned, that dimple you once found cute growing increasingly irritating. “Potentially.”

“You’re actually having fun, aren’t you?”

He shrugged, not denying it. “Golf is entertaining on occasion, and it’s true I didn’t plan on playing, but it’s kind of nice to be playing with a group this big. It used to be just me and father.”

“He taught you how to play?”

“He thought it was good to teach about control. It forced me to utilize the amount of strength and helped me understand optimal angles. Once you master that, you can get closer to reaching your optimal target. He said that’s just about all you need to be the person you want to be in life.” Although he sounded as if he spoke fondly, a storm brewed in his gaze, one that it seemed like it would persist if you pressed on any further.

“Wow…somehow you made golf even more boring.” You stepped off the cart, stretching your legs and bending your knees to make sure they don’t give out on you in pins and needles. “I might go back to the club house. Get something more to eat, catch the news, learn about some new propaganda, anything but this really.”

His gaze pulled up behind, staring past your head at coming towards you both, eyes widening in fear. “Look out!”

His arms wrapped around you, clutching your body before he tore you away from the ground beneath you, and shielded you from the incoming impact. Your face buried in his chest, hearing the deafening screech of wheels scraping the grass as it dug into a puddle conveniently in front of you both and just in the way of the vehicle gone rogue, splashing mud water onto whoever was nearby.

“Oh shit, my bad!” Beomgyu, the cart boy and designated driver of the vehicle, said quickly before driving off.

Your heart was beating out of your chest, pounding against his as it raced at the same erratic pace. Your bodies intertwined with one another, his caging yours like a momentary safe haven. He pulled back you to level with him, feeling his firm grip hold you steady. “You okay?” Seungcheol asked, scanning you over.

You panted softly, your breath caught in your throat, since you were still in shock from the near collision that had just happened before calmly nodding. He looked you over, dusting any dirt and debris off of you, and he finally let you free once he was sure for himself you were fine. “You should’ve just stayed on the cart. That could’ve gotten really bad,” he scolded, pushing your golf cap over your eyes.

“Hey! Oh my god! What happened?”

Your friends rushed over after seeing the scene, prodding you with concerning questions to which you answered with ‘I’m fine’s and ‘okay’s. However, amongst the noise, you finally took notice of Seungcheol, specifically, the aftermath of the incident and his clothes stained in murky brown specks and splotches.

“Your clothes…” you pointed out with a guilt ridden face.

He shook his head reassuringly, “I’ll change once I get home.”

“Nonsense,” Minhyun retorted, “Grab something from the merch shop. Complimentary of course.”

“I appreciate it,” Seungcheol nodded, “I do think I’ll have to take her back home. I don’t know if I can keep playing after that just happened.”

“Of course! We understand,” Junhui agreed, looking toward you empathetically. “Make sure she’s okay, and take care, kid.”

“Thank you,” Seungcheol said, finally getting on the cart and driving off the field. It wasn’t until you were halfway across the field that you realized what he had managed to do in the matter of seconds you had. You pivoted your head to him, seeing that the concern that was once on his face melt into his default expression, phlegmatic with a hint of arrogance.

“You evil genius.”

Seungcheol smirked, looking at you through his peripheral vision. “‘Strike the iron, while it’s hot,’ I believe the saying is called.” 

You made a visit to the merch shop as Minhyun suggested and met with the shopkeeper about getting their signature embroidered shirt with the country club's logo on the breast. He welcomed you, saying he was expecting you both after getting a call, but apologizing for the limited sizes. It was out of both your hands at that point, so you accepted it, handing Seungcheol off the medium and hoping for the best.

“I think this room is good.” You looked for an empty multipurpose for him to change into after seeing all the bathrooms nearby were closed for maintenance. The efforts to go further across the club for other bathrooms wasn’t worth the trouble, so this seemed to be the next best thing.

He followed after you, holding the shirt and walking in nonchalantly as you tried to quietly close the heavy door shut. He peered over at you, watching you behave strangely suspicious. “What are you doing?”

“Closing the door!” you shout-whispered. “What if people see us sneaking around and think we’re doing something indecent?”

“You think shutting the door quietly and whispering makes us look any better?” he asked in a normal volume.

“Well, when you put it like that,” you respond in your normal volume.

He rolled his eyes before pulling the bottom of his shirt up and over his head, seeing every inch of his abdomen: every muscle, every curve, and every vein.

“Woah,” you quickly turned around. “Just couldn’t wait to get your clothes off in front of me, could you?”

He scoffed, putting his dirty shirt aside before picking up the new one. “Why’d you turn around? Nothing you’ve never seen before, I’m sure.”

“Did you just slut shame me while you’re the one taking your clothes off? The gall!”

He pulled his newly acquired shirt over his head, feeling it hug his body as he stretched out the fabric. “You can look now.”

You spun back, seeing that the shirt they’ve got might have been a tad smaller than they anticipated, compressing against him to the point that his muscles bulged at the seams, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. He might as well not have worn a shirt at all. “That might be a bit small on you,” you stiffly pointed out.

“Well, it’s all we have.” He looked in the reflection in the mirror placed on the wall, unfortunately agreeing with you, checking himself in the mirror and already feeling it start to chafe.

“I’m surprised you did that today,” you brought up. “The speech, then the crazy save, wow.”

He scoffed, “Yeah, so was I. You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. How did you improv all that so quickly?”

He shrugged, attempting to stretch the fabric even a little bit, hoping it wouldn't tear. “I didn’t really. I just said how I felt.”

“Wait, really?”

He slightly turned his head. “Yes. Like how I couldn’t fathom how someone as insane and careless as you existed.”

You clenched your teeth, knitting your eyebrows together, “You fu-“

“Or when I couldn’t get you out of my head. It’s true, I made it my life’s mission then to beat you at every taekwondo match possible.”

“I hate you so—”

“And you said it was fate, not me, so technically I didn’t even lie.” He turned back, walking back to you, “Then again, omission is a form of lying on its own. You would know since lying to my employees is like an Olympic sport to you.”

Your nose scrunched, displeased. “Your welcome, whatever. We fooled them. Good work. That will keep them off my back for a couple weeks.”

He clapped his hands. “Good, sounds like my work is done.”

“Ha. For now. Your end though, still requires a lot of work. Look forward to that overtime.”

That’s where phasing the new method came in. It was a risky move that you had your doubts about, but considering the trauma bonding that fine Sunday, you were sure Seungcheol could warm up to the idea. However, it couldn’t work if he knew it was happening, that’s why he had to go in blind.

[part 2 immediately found here]

When Wonwoo saw his older brother standing across the expanse of bright, sinisterly white airport, a part of him caught fire like a sleeve held too close to a candlestick. Bohyuk, already grinning without end (a perfected grin at that) as Wonwoo maneuvered his way between the crowds, hauling along his single, practical suitcase meanwhile his arms burned with the strength of also carrying your numerous bags. But he wouldn’t complain. You were slicing through the airport like you owned it, your brisk, intentional walk the same kind of perfect as his brother’s smile.

You reached Bohyuk, then paused, staring over your shoulder in demanding question until your eyes stuck to the diligent boyfriend readjusting a backpack slipping off his shoulder.

“Wonwoo!” you called, waving him over.

He wanted to drop all the bags to the floor the second he joined you, his arms continuing to ache. Bohyuk was still smiling—more of a smirk, now—when you helped Wonwoo untangle all the dangling weight, arranging the bags around your feet in that typical prim nature. Quickly, you dusted his hair off, like you were attempting to make him presentable to meet his own brother. Like Bohyuk hadn’t been the one to give Wonwoo a haircut in their aunt’s washroom when they were children. A haircut that resulted in Wonwoo’s entire head getting a rabid-looking chainsawed buzzcut.

Wonwoo sighed. “Stop smiling.”

And Bohyuk grabbed him, pulled him in tight with a guttural slap on the back that caused Wonwoo to cough up half an oatmeal cookie he ate on the plane. The embrace was awkward at first, but then Wonwoo started to relax. He could hear the passing flitters of his birth language. Recognize his brother’s heartbeat. Smell the faintest tinges of a native Korean dish lingering on Bohyuk’s clothes.

His brother’s big hand immediately ruffled the hair that you had just brushed into place. “A face I thought I would only see over screens for the rest of my life,” Bohyuk hummed, at last giving Wonwoo some space. “Good to see you.” He then proceeded to eye you, surrounded by bags, waiting calmly for your introduction.

You had been practicing your Korean quite piously. It frustrated you, turned your mouth in circles, had you jumping up and down on his bed, screaming at your language app like there was someone underneath your phone screen cowering in peril for making the lesson too confusing. But you stuck with it, Wonwoo doing his best to teach you what mattered and not all the complicated frills.

Bohyuk smiled when your pronunciation was just right.

“Very good,” he commended, firmly shaking your hand. “Lots of practice here. Has my brother been a pleasant teacher?”

You nibbled your lip for a moment. Bohyuk repeated himself and your face lit up. “Oh! Yes! He is a good teacher!” you replied, bobbing on your heels, clearly a bit proud you understood.

Bohyuk laughed. He then bent down, gathering your bags. “Great. You can tell me how he really is in English.”

Although his older brother still carried a thicker accent, he was pretty well-versed in English as a second language. Wonwoo had almost lost his accent entirely at that point, although it slipped out between particular words on occasion, or during jumbled, heated arguments (often, with you), over stupid things. “My family always played stacking! It makes the game more fun!” – “Fun? I don’t wanna have the entire deck in my fucking hand after five minutes.” – “Then be more skilled!” – “It’s chance. Not skill.” – “That’s exactly what an unskilled person would say.”

You and Wonwoo followed Bohyuk toward the exit. He felt your hand nudge his and he promptly interlaced your fingers.

“Well?” Your eyebrows wriggled. “Are you feeling alright?”

Wonwoo nodded. “Yeah.”

“He seemed happy to see you.”

“I’m sure he’s missed bullying me.” He couldn’t help but deflect from the intimate moment, tonguing the inside of his cheek.

“Don’t deflect.”

How acute.

Wonwoo sighed. “I know he’s happy. We’ve talked a lot on the phone about things. He’ll dig into me more later. He’s surgical.”

You squeezed his hand, always the gentle cue to rewire his mind from being cynical to human. “He cares,” you pitted tenderly.

For the first week, Wonwoo and you were staying with his older brother and wife, Nari, at their chic, top-floor, two-level penthouse amongst a lavish hub in Seoul.

They both made good money, the kind that earned them gaping glass windows, a kitchen fit for an entire brigade of chefs, silk-sheeted bedrooms, and a washroom with a large enough counter that you physically gasped upon peeking inside. Dinner was on them, Bohyuk insisted, and the fragrant smells of fresh spring onion, roasted sesame oil, and steaming salmon pulled the travel sickness straight from his stomach and replaced it with hunger.

You relaxed on the bed, toes twiddling, taking in the room, while Wonwoo zipped open his suitcase, pulling out his laptop.

“Nari is so kind. Did you see the hot towel she gave me?”

He nodded, unwinding his charger. “She loves having people over. I think they haven’t had guests in a while.” Reaching under the desk, he plugged his block into the outlet. “And, uh…” Wonwoo grunted, attempting not to bang his head. “Via my passing anecdotes of you, they may possibly have the impression you’re… high maintenance.” Wonwoo was back on his feet, about to grimace.

But your lips were pursed, and you merely shrugged. “I am.”

“I know you are.”

“Why did you say it like it’s a bad thing?”

“It’s not,” Wonwoo responded, wandering back to his suitcase and pulling out a camera you had bought him. “It’s just different to what Jeanie was like. I think I was giving them a little whiplash.”

“Well, I’m glad they know,” you declared, clucking. “That’s why I got a hot towel and you didn’t.” He watched in amusement as your tongue poked out at him, your foot toeing his arm. “Loser.”

“Say cheese,” Wonwoo said, bringing the camera to his eye, taking a brief second to focus the lens. The shutter snapped. “Great. I now have a photo of your beautiful smile right after degrading me.”

“Degrading men makes me smile. And you like it.”

“Why don’t you see if Nari needs any help with dinner?”

“Why? Because I’m a woman? And women belong in the kitchen?” you teased, beginning to shuffle off the bed, unhurried.

“Please go ask.”

“Now you’re bossing me around. I’m not your doormat.”

He stuck a kiss to your cheek on your way past him. “Thanks.”

Although you had left the bedroom, Bohyuk replaced your presence a few minutes later. He waltzed toward Wonwoo, his slicked hair not moved an inch, hands tucked into the pockets on his ironed pants, white t-shirt sculpted to his torso in a way that wouldn’t work for anybody else but him. Bohyuk was always so put-together. It was like he came that way, straight from a manufactured box. That had always consistently annoyed Wonwoo because on the contrary he felt as though he came disassembled and had spent his entire life looking for his own instructions. But Bohyuk was his brother, and despite their arguments, their differences, petty squabbles, he was once the steadfast compass Wonwoo took guidance from.

“Still shoving everything into one suitcase?” Bohyuk humoured. “You’re here for more than a month, you know.”

Wonwoo shrugged. “I don’t wear that many things.”

“You’ve always been quite minimalist.”

He pulled out a tiny toiletries bag. “Mom’s ways.”

“It’s great that you’re here,” Bohyuk said, staring at his younger brother with a sunny warmth Wonwoo pretended not to feel.

“Yeah.”

“Means you’re healing.”

Wonwoo scoffed, smirked a little. “Shut up, Bohyuk.”

He moved past the tender insult in a heartbeat. “I was so worried about you over there, even when you were staying with Uncle Geom. Even when you became so capable, I still couldn’t stop worrying. I would try to call you, even though I knew you wouldn’t answer, because at least you’d decline me and I’d have some semblance you were managing. Now you’re here. Not just a name.”

Wonwoo flipped his suitcase shut, rubbing into his eye so that his brother became uncoordinated stars. “You’ve told me this already, over the phone,” he sighed cumbersomely. “I know, Bohyuk.”

“But I wanted to say it to your face,” he affirmed. “Your stupid, silly, oddly mature little face,” Bohyuk started teasing, reaching out to pinch Wonwoo’s slender cheek. “Not as much fat here.”

Consequently, Wonwoo swatted his hand away.

 “I can see you’re trying,” Bohyuk noticed. “Not hiding. Not pretending. Not dipping in your toe and calling it quits. You’re trying.”

Wonwoo nodded, hoping he wouldn’t flush. Bohyuk’s compliments were always purposeful. There wasn’t any gaudiness, or flattering. He could deconstruct the one thing you wanted to hear and roll it out at your feet before you even took stock. Wonwoo could feel his smile flickering. He promptly rubbed the back of his neck and let the smile take over despite his coyness; his way of thanking Bohyuk without forcing awkward, stilted acceptance from his teeth.

“I’m looking forward to understanding more about this eclectic girlfriend of yours who was walking through the airport like a runway,” Bohyuk pointed out, not bothering to minimize his smirk. “She has presence. I like that.” Glancing at his glitzy watch, Bohyuk proceeded to mumble about checking on dinner. Before he left Wonwoo to continue sorting through his suitcase, he paused at the door, tapped the frame. “By the way, upstairs is more soundproof than you think. Take that as you will.”

Nari certainly hadn’t skimped on the cooking. The dining table was intricately organized; an assortment of dishes that were colourful, steaming, and painfully familiar to Wonwoo in a way that almost made him teary-eyed as he pulled out his seat next to yours.

She had prongs in her hand, pointing out every dish, some not as cultural compared to the hearty budae jjigae stew, others a little easier to palate for a newcomer, such as the geotjeori that Bohyuk was already eyeing. There was a sweet salmon dish. Classic mashed potatoes. Glistening pork dumplings. Wonwoo felt like he was at the forefront of a personalized buffet and his appetite-dappled-homesickness was pulling all the strings. Still, he collected your plate and served you first, making sure to explain everything a little more thoroughly in his hushed English while Nari and Bohyuk began filling their plates. Of course, you were willing to try everything.

Upon Wonwoo’s first bite of warm stew, he melted back in his chair, tempted to moan because the flavours were destined bliss on his tongue and his body felt the immediate surge of comfort. Bohyuk was smiling at him, watching, knowing his brother like a fingerprint.

“Fuck me. Oh, fuck.”

Everyone paused in their slurping and chewing.

Your eyes widened subtly. “Oh, sorry. Um—this here—I can’t remember the name. It’s just really good. Pardon my language.”

Bohyuk laughed, exchanged a tender glance with Nari as she shook her head in amusement and went back to her spicy noodles.

“It’s a dumpling soup,” Bohyuk added.

You nodded. “It’s delicious.”

“Do you drink wine?”

As if you weren’t sated enough, you grinned. “I do.”

“Perfect,” Bohyuk said, excusing himself from the table. “I’ll grab some. We have a friend who makes their own wine, actually. We were sent this new flavour.” He opened the double-doored fridge and pulled out a chilled white bottle. “Oh, strawberry mango. Does that sound good? Honey, have you tried this one yet?”

Nari shook her head.

Bohyuk fetched everyone glasses.

“Oh, Wonwoo, are you drinking?” his brother asked upon pausing the perspiring bottle just above his crystal.

“I won’t have any right now.”

“Tea, Wonwoo?” Nari questioned; her expression thoughtful, considerate, always attentive. “I can make green tea.”

“No need. We can finish eating first.”

Dinner was everything Wonwoo needed. It wasn’t too conversation heavy, which he was thankful for. He just wanted to stuff his face with childhood delicacies and not have to worry about threading together his entire story since leaving Korea. Still, there were some questions every now and then, mostly directed at the newcomer, you, already on your second wine glass, your plate a decorated mess, your leg twitching with the urge to pull it up onto the seat and tear the food apart with your hands—or as Wonwoo called it—“goblin mode”—when you were at your most comfortable.

Bohyuk would have loved it.

Nari, however, was a bit more buttoned-up.

Everyone did their part in washing dishes, putting containers away, and wiping down the table after supper was done. Rather than a late night, there was an unspoken decision to turn in early, a general sense of fullness, laziness, deep in the atmosphere like a thick snow.

Wonwoo poked back into the upstairs bedroom. You were fanned out over the seafoam sheets, one of your clay face masks brushed to your skin, fitted in a pink headband to keep your hair away.

“I’m about to go comatose,” you muttered, fighting a yawn.

“It’s possible you ate more than Bohyuk.”

“I think he was avoiding the potatoes for me.”

He chuckled, coming to sit next to your ankle, still fixed with a delicate bracelet you forgot to remove. “Well, Nari makes excellent mashed potatoes. But I think he’s cutting back on starch.”

“It was all so good,” you hummed.

Wonwoo nodded, sliding the bracelet off your ankle. “It was.”

Settling an arm behind your head, you peeked down at him, the beginnings of a faint smile wrinkling under the clay mask. “You looked happy… really happy,” you murmured. “I’m glad we’re here.”

He shifted your ankle into his lap, began to rub the sole of your foot with firm movements from his thumbs. “Me too,” Wonwoo agreed, enjoying the manner in which your body mellowed even further. “I’m glad you came with me. It takes some of the pressure off, you know? There’s another person. Way more interesting than me.”

You giggled, wriggled your toes. “No problem.”

“They like you,” he decided to assure.

You shrugged. “Bohyuk does.”

“There’s just more of a language barrier with Nari,” he reasoned, pressing along a sinewy groove of your bare foot that made your chest arch in delight. “Her English is around the level of your Korean. And you’re quite bold. She’s not exactly like that, so it’s something you have to give some time.” Wonwoo then leaned forward, close to your face, studying the wide, observant wells of your eyes before softly brushing his lips to yours. “You’re doing great.”

“Thanks,” you whispered, placing a hand to his cheek and running your thumb just under his glasses. “I should wash this off.”

He smiled, giving you space to squirm off the bed.

The week to follow was a whirlwind for Wonwoo, although he already knew you would be keen to explore as opposed to staying most days in at his brother’s penthouse. He brought a book to read during his downtime. Since he stepped foot in Seoul, into his brother’s opulent, twinkling home, Wonwoo hadn’t read more than ten goddamn pages.

Nonetheless, he still brought the novel everywhere he went, hoping he could be afforded just one paragraph.

He was in and out of shopping centres, cosmetic shops, shoe stores, cafés, and tourist attractions as though he were tethered to your hip, but you needed somebody to hold your bag, help you slide into heels, give you advice on which perfume smelled best even when his head was an aching hurricane of rose and vanilla and hibiscus and sandalwood. You needed someone to take your photograph. Carry even more shopping bags. Buy your lunch. Help translate ingredient lists. Turn you in the right direction. Fetch your credit card.

Wonwoo spotted Bohyuk seated outside a clothing store you were currently surfing, guarding your hoard of bags while drinking leisurely from his coffee. At last, you had dismissed him, because evidently, he was not educated enough on the nature of cool versus warm tones, gold versus silver, summer versus winter, and whatever the hell that amounted to when choosing a halter top. The salesclerk helping you could speak English, anyway. He wasn’t really needed.

He slipped into the chair adjacent to his brother’s.

“Does she want to return something?” Bohyuk asked.

“No. Apparently I don’t know anything about colours,” Wonwoo sighed, feeling ever so slightly bitter.

“Oh—” Bohyuk grunted, setting down the book he brought with him and folding his slim reading glasses into a pocket on his t-shirt, “—cool versus warm?”

“Why does everyone know about this but me?”

“I didn’t know either until I met Nari. She used to work in retail. Knew a lot about that colour-matching stuff.”

Upon eying his older brother’s coffee, Bohyuk nudged it toward him. The flavour was slightly sweet, caramel-like, akin to something you would enjoy. Wonwoo preferred his coffees straight. Still, he needed the caffeine. The mall was desiccating his energy.

“No need to be hard on yourself,” Bohyuk reassured, swiping a hand along the clean groove of his gelled hair. “You’ve been quite submissive to all her whims this week.”

Wonwoo scooted the coffee away. “I like helping her.”

“You’re something like an unpaid personal assistant,” his brother humoured, leaning forward on his elbows, meaning to impose his younger brother in a way he knew would irk him.

But Wonwoo shrugged, uninterested, tired.

“Not the reaction I was expecting,” Bohyuk chuckled.

“Because I know what you’re doing.”

“What’s that?”

Wonwoo proceeded to throw Bohyuk a dry, coarse look.

His older brother smirked; lip pursed. “It’s nice that you’re not so defensive. There was once a time I’d say something far less provocative and you'd nearly be at my throat."

“I’m well aware.”

“You know how much worse it will be with Mom.”

At that, Wonwoo tensed. With you keeping him busy all week, such thoughts only skimmed the surface of his ruminating without ever puncturing. But now there was a lapse. Now Wonwoo was remembering how straightforward his mother could be, a knife that always hit its target no matter the angle it was thrown from. He still felt the sharp winces in his spine from some of her previous comments—mostly judgements about his decisions, comparisons to his successful older brother who ‘didn’t need to go grovelling somewhere afar because he knew where home was’, how Wonwoo’s apathetic pallid was laziness, never depression—and he felt the nail of his index finger automatically push against the scar on his thumb.

Wonwoo exhaled, scratched his head. “I know.”

“But I’ll be there,” Bohyuk mollified, softening his expression. “She thinks your defensiveness has always been proof she’s right. You can’t give her that. I think, honestly, what she wants is for you to stand up to her, show her you’re confident and trying. Otherwise she’ll just peck and peck. And…” Bohyuk glanced across the mall, toward the store you were now leaving with a tiny bag hanging from your wrist. “You know she’ll have something to say about her.”

Wonwoo started bouncing his knee. “I know.”

“Hey, hey—guess what?!” you squeaked, throwing yourself into another chair at the table. “I got the perfect halter top! That lady really knew a lot about colours. She had this sheet, full of swatches, and she damn near gave me a full consultation for free!”

Bohyuk nursed his coffee. “Colour-matching is big here.”

“Seems so. Hey—where did you get that drink?”

He pointed down the mall. “There’s a small café.”

“Really? Is yours good?”

“Try it,” Bohyuk said, passing you his now communal cup.

After an inspecting, throaty sip, you nodded. “I love that.”

“I can get you one.”

“Really? Okay. That would be awesome. Thank you.”

Bohyuk offered you a polite, dazzling smile, then tucking his book away into his favourite cross-body bag before leaving you alone.

You glanced at Wonwoo. “You okay? I noticed your leg.”

“Just trying to keep myself awake,” Wonwoo hummed. He didn’t quite feel like bringing up the tribulations with his mother amidst the noisy mall. “Sorry that I couldn’t help out in there.”

He felt your soft, smooth hand settle over his. “You don’t have to apologize for that. I figured you needed a moment anyway when you almost walked straight into a mannequin and didn’t notice.”

Wonwoo smiled a little, shaking his head.

You scooted your chair in closer, your knee pushing purposefully into his under the table. “Once Bohyuk grabs my coffee, we’ll head back. I promise no shopping or wandering tomorrow.”

“No, you don’t need to promise that,” Wonwoo chuckled, wrapping his finger around yours. “I want you to get the most out of this trip; do whatever makes you feel happy.”

“Yes, shopping obsessively and bossing you around does make me happy,” you agreed, nodding factually. “But when it’s just us, I’m even happier.” The hand slipped from over his and found Wonwoo’s knee instead, fingers squeezing, a shiver lingering along his neck.

He smiled at you, loving how lissomly you made the world around him fall away until the ache in his head flurried.

 “I can’t wait to see the top,” Wonwoo murmured, flirtatiously pushing his knee into yours. “You’ll have to show me tonight.”

“Just the top?”

He shrugged; a bit cocky. “Up to your discretion.”

As promised, the next day was lazy.

Neither of you set an alarm. There was no urgency to wake up early and cram the day with costly adventuring and sightseeing.

Yesterday’s shopping bags swarmed your side of the room.

The bedsheets were a tangled, sloppy mess. Wonwoo was just coming to, feeling the spry behind his eyelids, faintly overhearing your muttered, unconscious ramblings that drifted in and out of sensible. He rolled onto his other side, sliding his arms deep underneath the cool, silk pillow, and enjoyed observing the bare curve of your exposed back. The sleep talk never really bothered him. He liked listening to the odd drawls that your sluggish mind somehow managed to communicate, even when you were impossibly asleep.

“Not that… no… not… I want it there… not that…”

Wonwoo rubbed into his eye, half-smiling.

“There… when you go over, it’s not there. Please.”

It rarely made sense.

“I’m going… turn it off, then tell me to go.”

Sometimes he would try to interpret. Give your unconscious ramblings a real story. You were never aware of what you said. The sleepy haze of your morning discussions always spread with laughter as you brayed in disbelief at his retellings—“I did not say that! You stupid liar!”—followed by a pillow smacked ungraciously against his face. Nonetheless, it turned Wonwoo’s general lacklustre for mornings into something ineffably fond. A moment of hearing your groggy voice, feeling your skin warm and rubbing against his, smelling your soap. It was poetic. Love sharpened to a point, but still soft. Wonwoo reached for his glasses, giving your frame pronunciation. When you didn’t set an alarm, you could sleep well past lunch. There was no indication you were going to wake up.

Wonwoo decided to leave you be, parting ways from the bed with a chaste kiss to your shoulder. He got dressed, picking up discarded clothes from the night before, at last sliding into an oversized quarter-zip that smelled more like your signature strawberry scent than his own cologne. Down in the kitchen, Nari was already preparing breakfast. She was typically the first one awake, of the same productive, neat, steady nature as Bohyuk.

“Need any help?” Wonwoo queried, his voice still hoarse.

She turned, baring her seraphic smile. “Sure.”

He helped Nari cut some vegetables for an omelette. There was already coffee brewing, a nutty dark roast, and the smell stuck comfortingly in his nose. A few minutes later, she slid him a mug.

“Thanks.”

Nari had a quaint, fragile-looking cup in her hand, stirring around a teabag. “I can’t believe this week is almost over.”

He pushed aside some chives with his knife. “Yeah.”

“I really do hope the two of you have enjoyed your stay. We’ve been looking forward to it all summer.”

Wonwoo smiled, briefly adjusting his glasses before chopping a pepper. “It’s been amazing, Nari. We’re so grateful.”

She nodded, accepting the compliment, although her fingers rubbed together for a moment, a bit stiff. “Has she been enjoying her stay, too? I can’t read her very well. I suppose it’s the language barrier. She’s been out of the house so much.”

He decided to put the knife down, figuring this conversation might spring up when you weren’t around. “I can assure you she’s been enjoying her stay, Nari,” Wonwoo laughed. “I promise you. It’s not often we get to be this downtown in Seoul, and there’s a lot she wanted to do and see. But she’s very grateful. Just like I am.” He swung his coffee closer, blowing at the steam and appreciating that first careful sip.

Nari nodded, seeming at ease. “Thank you, Wonwoo.”

After eating breakfast together, admiring the Seoul cityscape, and catching up on some Bohyuk lore he probably shouldn't know, Nari at last sent Wonwoo upstairs with some sort of fruity green tea she brewed especially for you. But when he pushed open the bedroom door, wondering if he should wake you, he was abruptly caught off guard by your hushed, tentative crying, the bedsheets pulled into a large lump over your lap. Wonwoo hurried to your side of the bed, leaving the hot tea next to your water bottle on the nightstand.

“What’s wrong?” he urged you in a gentle tone, leaning in close and instinctively reaching for your damp, blotchy cheek.

You huffed, shoulders limp. “I’m fucking nervous.”

“Okay,” Wonwoo murmured. “About what?”

Another big, quivering huff. You met his eyes, and there was a vulnerable, sensitive energy he seldom saw from you. “About meeting your parents,” you confessed, another tear hitting his hand. He stroked it away, listened to your congested fears. “I’m afraid they’ll think I’m terrible for you. That my Korean isn’t good enough. I thought I was doing well but I can hardly hold a conversation with Nari. And they’ll probably think I’m so materialistic and shallow. I mean, look at all the fucking shit I have to bring to Changwon—” you flung out a hand toward the cluttered shopping bags, “—I look like a gold digger! And what if I say something stupid? Or do something stupid? I don’t want to give them any reason that I’m not good enough for you, but I’m so fucking scared I’ll do it anyway, Wonwoo.”

You shook your head and leaned over, losing the warmth of his hand against your supple cheek. “It’s making me think back to my mom, you know. How everything had to be so perfect. How much it tormented me. And I want to be myself. I want to be honest with your parents. But what if they hate that? What if they don’t like the fake me or the real me? Then what? I’m just fucking screwed, aren’t I?”

Wonwoo squeezed beside you on the bed.

“Come here,” he whispered.

Although you were hesitant, rigid with worry and the looming uncertainty of the Changwon trip, you were never any good at neglecting his touch. Gradually, you unwound. You climbed into his lap, reached an arm around his neck, felt the thick fleece of his blue quarter-zip especially fluffy against your bare skin. Wonwoo held you close, one hand settled on your knee with familiar steadiness.

“My dad’s pretty mellow,” he sighed. “My mom isn’t the easiest to win over. She’s got teeth. But do you remember what I said to you when you were freaking out at your family dinner last year?”

Sniffling, you nodded. “I’m not going to abandon you.”

Wonwoo gripped your knee. “Exactly. Nothing’s changed.”

“I know…” you mumbled in begrudging acceptance. “But my own family doesn’t even like me that much. I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do if your family doesn’t like me either.”

“Bohyuk and Nari are my family, too,” he chuckled. “They like you. They’ll be on your side. Whatever happens, you’ve got us.”

“Yeah… I guess.”

He kissed your forehead sweetly in the centre. “Okay?”

You nuzzled into his neck, finding the crux of an attractive musk that dilated your chest with stillness. At last, your shoulders unpinned.

“Okay.”

“Nari made tea for you, by the way.”

“She did?” you perked up; your breath warm on his skin.

“Yeah. Green tea. Pomegranate or mango or something.” He helped hand you the mug from the nightstand, tucking some matted hairs away from your forehead and cheeks as you took a tiny sip.

During the drive to Changwon, you were quieter than usual, keeping your hands tucked together in the lap of your floral white sundress. Bohyuk was driving with his window down, Nari beside him in the passenger seat, eating chopped dragon fruit using a toothpick, her hair occasionally fluttering amongst the stronger gusts of a summer breeze. Wonwoo had his book. It was a good opportunity to read, but his mind couldn’t have been less interested. Every time your shoulders rose, every time you scratched your face, every time you toyed with the heel of your sandal, Wonwoo’s concern was blistering.

Although he tried not to make it obvious.

He would mostly side-eye you, or give you a proper glance and a stupid, smudgy little smile that you blinked weirdly at because why the hell are you staring at me like a Cabbage Patch Doll?

Then his phone buzzed.

A text message from you: i’m okay stop staring

His reply: 👎

“Any places you two will be visiting, hm?” Bohyuk asked from the front seat, his steely designer sunglasses glinting in the rear-view.

Wonwoo shrugged. “The waterpark, maybe.”

“It’s closed now, you know.”

You scratched your nose again, ankle bobbing. “Like no one’s ever trespassed before.” He could sense an undertone of impatience.

Bohyuk guffawed. “True. Don’t say that to our Mom, though.”

“There’s lots of lovely parks,” Nari added. “There’s a hot spring, isn’t there, dear? And you took me to Yeojwacheon Romance Bridge on my first visit.”

“Lots of beautiful parks,” Bohyuk agreed, catching his brother’s eye in the mirror. “They’ll manage just fine.”

However, the closer everyone came to Wonwoo and Bohyuk’s childhood home amongst the rural greenery of Changwon, the stranger you started to act. You had rolled down your window, practically gulping in the wind as it came scything through, clinging to the verdant smell of the creeks, the sun-warmed dirt kicked up by Bohyuk’s SUV, the late blossoms losing their colour. Nari kept eying you. Bohyuk offered you water at least three separate times. Wonwoo knew you didn’t want to be bothered, so he sucked back his worry.

Less than a kilometer from his parents’ house, however, you inexorably cracked, suddenly imploring Bohyuk to pull over along the bush-stippled road. The second the car stopped, you damn near kicked open the heavy door, rushing off behind a tree.

“God—is she okay?” Nari warbled, cupping her mouth.

Bohyuk gripped the steering wheel hard. “I noticed she was looking pretty ill about half an hour ago. Poor thing.”

A moment later, you stepped away from the tree, the back of your hand wiping winsomely against your mouth, your skin shining with perspiration when you returned under the August sun.

“Don’t say anything,” Wonwoo warned sharply. “Bo, give me the water.” His brother stuck the bottle backward.

You gripped the car door left ajar.

“Here,” Wonwoo offered.

Without a word, you snatched the plastic bottle from his hand, tore the cap off, and took a large swig that filled your cheeks.

Then you turned around and spat it all out.

Another wipe of your mouth. A very feeble, “thanks.”

You settled back into the car, the door pulled shut.

“Fuck. Anyone have gum?”

Bohyuk passed you a container of mints.

Not a word was said until Wonwoo and Bohyuk were home.

It was all a bit incongruous, to stand in the poorly lit, slim entryway of a home he had nearly exiled, feeling like he didn’t quite belong despite the surging memories that proved otherwise. That one stained, foggy photograph of his maternal great-great grandparents hadn’t moved from the wall. His mother’s slippers were even more worn than he remembered, the heels somehow flatter than paper. Even the air persisted to smell the same: like a plain wax candle melted down to a glossy lump, washed starch, and an aged oil his mother rubbed on her hands every morning.

Their single washroom was tinier to Wonwoo. His head was half cut-off in the mirror above the sink. The kitchen hadn’t experienced this many bodies tightly minnowing around each other since a childhood Christmas party. Nari and Bohyuk weren’t staying for more than a few days. They had important jobs in Seoul. True professionals. No time to avoid work and make people wait.

“My beautiful, handsome sons!” his mother had professed, practically squishing Wonwoo and Bohyuk’s heads together as she kissed each of their cheeks. “And my effortlessly gorgeous Nari!” Another hug to her only daughter-in-law.

“Nice to see you didn’t forget us,” Wonwoo’s father hummed amidst their more personal embrace in the living room, his body feeling bonier, thinner, and yet Wonwoo hugged him tighter anyway, grateful to hear that dry, familiar rasp in his ear.

You introduced yourself to Wonwoo’s father first. He was immensely pleased, smiling wide the entire time, gripping both your hands in his and offering a fairly steep bow despite his knotty back.

“Welcome to our home. It’s not much, but anything we can do to accommodate you, please let us know.”

Wonwoo briefly translated for you.

All you could earnestly repeat were cheerful thank you’s.

There was much settling to do. Spaces to figure out. As children, Wonwoo and Bohyuk shared a single bedroom at the end of a hallway, but as they grew older, more defiant, keen for individualism and independence, Wonwoo moved upstairs into a sun-baked room with a slanted ceiling that had once been a storage space.

He took you inside.

Thankfully his father had installed an air conditioning unit just outside the window a month before the trip. Unlike the brutal, sweltering summer days of his childhood spent wriggling around in his own sweat, the space was much cooler. It seemed some stray boxes had been moved back into the room, piled up in a corner.

However, not much of Wonwoo remained inside.

Nothing but a crude, crayon drawing of his old cat.

You dumped yourself onto the creaky bed.

He sat beside you. “Feeling any better?”

“I don’t know…” you muttered, thumbs massaging underneath your eyebrows. “I mean, your Dad seemed to really like me. He looked super happy I’m here. But your Mom has hardly breathed my way. She was all over Nari. I wanted to introduce myself but she was so busy helping us move shit from the car.”

Wonwoo huffed, amused. “She hustles.” He then settled his hand onto your thigh, breathed in the room’s coolness and your sweet, peachy sunblock. “I’m sure she wants to talk to you. I know she does, actually. There’s always a moment. She waits for it.”

“Yeah…” you sighed; cheek slumped on his shoulder. “Sorry I was being so moody during the car ride. I was trying to talk myself down but that somehow only made my nerves expand.”

“I get it,” Wonwoo said with an easy smile. “I sorta felt the same when I was meeting your parents. I snapped a little at Vernon.”

You splintered into laughter. “What is it about meeting parents that makes us fucking demonic? They’re just people, really, like us. Albeit people we’re trying to impress, but still people. My mom has a goddamn DUI. Who cares about impressing her?”

Wonwoo’s grin pressed against the crown of your head, still a bit warm with lingering nausea, his fingers wrapping thick around your inner thigh. “I know. It’s cruel, isn’t it? But I couldn’t even be bothered to care if you don’t impress them. I’m fucking impressed by you.” He nuzzled a kiss to your temple, started to chuckle. “Was it weird that you made throwing up stomach acid look attractive?”

“No. Not at all. Hey—should I go goblin mode at dinner tonight?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“Alright... now you’re just setting me up for failure.”

He shrugged, his fingers dancing along your spine. “Failing in front of my parents is nothing I haven’t already done. Go ahead.”

Dinner was almost over. Plates were rather bare, nothing but streaks of sauces, clean bones, and crumpled wrappers from the chilled plantain tarts Wonwoo’s mother prepared. The conversation started loud and animated, then slowly peddled into a languorous lull the more people ate. Subsequently, amongst the slaked silence, his mother at last let her eyes fall over you for more than a thin moment and she offered a smile bereft of the softness everyone else received.

She said your name in an inquisitive, accented coo.

At once you snapped into complete alertness, distracted from licking some sauce off your finger. You straightened, looked calm.

“What’s your family like?”

You blinked. Wonwoo knew you understood the question but the moment was so sudden that the words were strictly foreign.

Bohyuk murmured a translation into your ear and Wonwoo almost glared at him for not giving your brain the chance to click.

“Uh… selfish, I think. And opportunistic. Which I guess might fall under the category of selfish. Childish, too. Rarely organized, although from the outside that sounds unbelievable. I don’t really enjoy being around them, and they don’t like being around me, so we haven’t spoken a lot. But… it’s right. I can’t give in because then I would be enabling everything. How they treat me. Uh, yeah.”

Immediately, Bohyuk’s eyes were beading into his younger brother with an unspoken question of are you actually going to translate that? Wonwoo returned his brother a simplistic half-shrug.

He translated every word, as precise as possible.

His father nodded along, his face attentive but sympathetic.

“It seems like you don’t communicate well,” his mother was quick to reply. “Wonwoo knows about that,” she said, lifting up a wrinkled finger and slightly pointing across the table at her son with a deceivingly kindred look. “I can see your connection.”

Bohyuk shot Wonwoo another hard glance, the type of subtle, non-verbal conversing only siblings could master: don’t get defensive.

“I can be like that,” Wonwoo hummed, only mildly accepting to keep the conversational flow in favour. He translated for you: “She says you must not communicate well.”

“Oh? With my parents? Not at all,” you nearly bellowed. “But it’s not due to ineptitude on my part. I am a good communicator, actually. Maybe it’s weird to say about yourself, but I do wear my heart on my sleeve. But my parents are so… unyielding. They can’t possibly stomach making a mistake, saying the wrong thing, having their shortcomings pointed out. It’s suddenly an attack. And I can communicate well all I want, but if they don’t hear me… then why should I waste my effort on them? I have a life of my own. Goals of my own. Family’s important. But it’s not my only value.”

Bohyuk pursed his lip, nodded, as if to say good answer.

While Wonwoo translated your response, his mother’s eyes drew slimmer, never straying from the newcomer her youngest, misguided son brought to her home. It was a needling stare he was familiar with, the kind that felt like an insatiable itch you writhed to scratch but could not because the itch would only burn back worse.

“Then what are your values?”

Wonwoo translated.

“I value individualism. Courage. Freedom. Authenticity. I value your son,” you added, and Wonwoo’s lips twitched with the urge to smile. “His patience, determination, and reliability.”

He began to translate, although his mother cut through, keeping you focused under her silver fox-like stare. “What kind of life are you planning to live with my son? He’s always suffered from a lack of clear direction. He won’t thrive with someone who lives too nonsensically.”

Bohyuk was sedating Wonwoo from a trenchant reply with his stern gaze. Settle. You know what she’s going after. Don’t bite yet.

So he swallowed, translated for his mother with diligence.

You glanced sharply at Wonwoo, and then back at his mother, clearly attuned to the backhanded slipperiness of her question.

“A fucking good one,” you answered in exasperation, a fist curled up like a rock in your lap. “A happy one. I love him. I’d do anything for him.” Your eyes were now of the same tactful knives as his mother. “Would you?” you dared ask, furrowing your brow.

There was a palpably sticky silence.

Something in Wonwoo’s gut told him he didn’t need to translate what you had said. It was Bohyuk who cleared his throat, stood from his seat, and started collecting dishes.

“It’s been a long day. Lots of travel,” he mitigated with his usual smile, attempting to push ease into the pressure, just one more hairsbreadth from a landslide. “I think it’s biting nerves. Mom, I’ll help you clean with Wonwoo, okay?”

At that, she nodded.

Nari was already up, gesturing for you to follow her because the length of your fuse was already short and the cutting remarks from a cynical, testing parent did nothing but singe its length.

When it was just Wonwoo, Bohyuk, and their mother alone in the kitchen, a molasses sunset staining through the windows, the conversation kicked up again. Bohyuk was stood at the sink, scrubbing and rinsing soapy dishes, meanwhile Wonwoo helped his mother wipe down the table.

He breathed out, relaxed his jaw.

“You don’t like her.”

His mother chuckled. “Wonwoo, I know the kind of woman she is. I've been watching closely all day. She will make everything harder for you.”

“We’ve been dating for almost a year, Mom.”

“Should it last longer than that, I’ll be surprised.”

Bohyuk called out from the sink, placing another plate into the dry-wrack. “Mom, you’ve had one conversation with her, okay? And you were slighting her the entire time.”

“She’s lightning in a bottle,” she reasoned, rubbing a particular spot on the table with unceasing vigour. “And not in a good way. Wonwoo, I want the best for you. I want someone who has a strong, clear vision of their future. Keep you in line. So you don’t get upset again. But with this girl, her bruteness, her dangerous flare, that temper. She’ll knock you right over. We’d never hear from you again.”

Wonwoo scoffed.

Bohyuk took off his rubber gloves, carefully ready to be his brother’s armour, to stop him from getting bulldozed.

However, Wonwoo shook his head, and Bohyuk paused.

“Mom, you know why you’re saying this? You don’t understand her because you don’t understand me.”

She merely grunted, walking over to the kitchen countertop, cleaning up the messy splashes of water by the sink.

Wonwoo continued. “You make me out to be something tragic and frail. And at one point, I was like that. But I’m far away from that now. I’m here to try and repatch our relationship and have you meet the girl who’s the biggest reason for my growth, but you’re shunning her. You’re treating me like I’m the same kid. How come I’m the one whose done all this reflection, stretched myself so thin to understand you, but you just… can’t do the same? Why is that so hard to ask? Why can’t you bother to meet your son halfway?” He slicked a hand along his hair, then folded his arms, chewed his lip with the itch to let his emotion bubble over. But he folded it down, remembered his purpose. “I’m going out there to spend time with my girlfriend.” Wonwoo was on the verge of slipping out the room, but he fixed his hand on the threshold. “If you won’t give us any grace, we can be gone by tomorrow. It’s your choice.”

He then left Bohyuk alone in the kitchen with their mother. She was still rubbing the countertop, although the spot was already bone-dry.

Neither you nor Wonwoo slept well that night, and it certainly wasn’t because his bed was a puny twin abrasively creaking upon the slightest movement, although such factors certainly hadn’t helped.

You were both restive, holding onto the uncomfortable vestiges of supper and the laconic evening that followed.

Wonwoo’s mother hadn’t joined the rest of the family in the living room for an old movie courtesy of his father’s collection. Instead, she traipsed off to her room where she kept the door open the smallest degree, probably knitting or reading or occupying herself with any task that might distract her from the fact her typically downcast, desultory son had finally put his foot down. Before bed, as Wonwoo brushed his teeth, his had father pulled him aside for a quiet conversation about how: you know she wants the best for you; she’s still feeling hurt by your departure all those years ago and tonight she can’t help but let it show.

Rather than accepting face value, Wonwoo could only shrug.

At a certain point Dad, it can’t be my problem anymore.

Wonwoo wasn’t sure what the time was. There was no clock apart from your phones charging on the windowsill behind him. His arm had gone numb an hour ago from the weight of your warm body.

He breathed in, “I’m sorry.”

You wriggled, and the bed creaked.

“There’s nothing to apologize for…” your murmur was half-swallowed by the pillow. “M’not mad at you. I’m proud.”

Wonwoo stared at the back of your head, an inky silhouette in the juvenile bedroom. “We won’t stay if she can’t give us a chance.”

The bed heaved dramatically. You had shifted your body around to face him, and he could ever so slightly trace the glossy whites of your eyes. “Your parents feel different than mine…” you said. “And I think there’s something deep in your Mom that wants to drop the toughness. I can see it. Through the guise of whatever she has going on. Her love for you is just too strong. I think she’ll realize it.”

Gradually, his vision began to adjust, and your expression was clearer, starker than the bedroom's shapeless shadows. “She hasn’t seen me in forever. I suppose it’s a clusterfuck of feelings.”

“You were one way when you left and now, you’re something completely different. You showed her that and she felt it.”

He sighed, shaking his head a little. “I wish she would just project all her bullshit onto me instead of you… I wish my parents could somehow heal the wounds from your parents, be this perfect little nook, you know? I hate that it’s more alienation.”

There was a fragile, sweet smile that graced your face. A hand reached out, brushing against Wonwoo’s cheek. “Hey—in a perfect fucking world—we wouldn’t have been this screwed up, and we wouldn’t have ever found each other. I don’t want that,” you clucked, running your fingers in a tender sweep along his jaw. “I want this version. I would choose it every time.” With a simple stretch forward, your mouth slotted against his and Wonwoo smiled quite foolishly into a kiss that was still reminiscent of your melon lip balm.

He proceeded to pull his phone off the windowsill to check the time. The screen was bright and stinging, although through his abrupt squinting he noticed it was just past two in the morning. Everyone should be sleeping, unless they were still chewing the gritty atmosphere and drinking the bleeding awkwardness of supper like you were. Contrarily, however, Wonwoo didn’t particularly care.

“You bored?” he asked.

Resting your cheek against your fist, you shrugged. “I guess.”

His arm was finally loose from underneath your hip and the rush of needled prickling was beginning to subside. Wonwoo pulled his glasses off the sill and the room took more shape than just ebbing blobs. You hadn’t stopped gazing at him, waiting for the ball to drop.

He bit his inner cheek. “Wanna ride me?”

The request had you sitting up, leaning on your arm instead of a lazy elbow, eyes narrowed at the boy through the indigo.

You scoffed. “In this fucking loud insufferably creaky bed?”

“Uh… yeah?”

There was less than a second of contemplation.

“Sure.”

It was a rather perfect storm—stress, family, travel, and an upstairs bed that would most certainly betray any indication of movement—one that Wonwoo was surely grateful for in the strangest way. There was something about your kisses that shut off the world, almost like a mental remote control. There was something about the tender warmth of your thighs bracketing his hips that plucked an electric cord deep in his gut, something about your circular, smooth, perfectly sensual grooves against his erection that made him want to become more than just pathetic. The bed creaked. Scraped. Sounded like it might buckle apart into pieces every time your hips undulated.

But it didn’t matter.

Wonwoo had you close. He had your long t-shirt pulled up and over your head. His hand desperately scratched the wall for the shutter string so he could slant them open and allow the beautiful glow of late summer moonlight to ignite your bare skin.

There was no thinking involved—only carnality—as his head practically thunked forward into your soft breasts, eagerly inhaling the faint scent of your day’s perfume and hearing your heartbeat.

You giggled, always eager to be the seductress, helping push your breasts against your simpering boyfriend’s face. His mouth strayed and his tongue licked, the hard, cold edges of his glasses somewhat biting but not nearly enough to care. He always wanted to see you. Every inch. Every crease and fold. A nipple was deep in his mouth, fingers captured around your other breast and squeezing relentlessly. Wonwoo didn’t understand how he could have you on his tongue and between his teeth. Sometimes it still didn’t feel real. A cruel dream he hadn’t woken up from yet. He might die if he did.

“Enjoying yourself?” you teased as Wonwoo suckled his way across the expanse of your chest to tongue your other pert nipple.

“Mmm,” was all he could grunt, too concentrated to speak.

Something about his desperation, his neediness, he knew, always made you fawn. Your doting fingers came to brush away his satin-black tresses while he purred in throaty satisfaction around your stimulated breast. Every sweep of your fingers was akin to a magic wand, alighting his scalp, neck, and spine with shivers.

“You’re such a good boy…” you breathed unsteadily into the moonlit room, enjoying the sensation of his heated palms sliding along your bare back. “Always make me feel so damn good.”

“Inside now?” Wonwoo whispered into your ear, his breath warm and damp, his mouth so close, so soft, against your skin.

Your fingers combed through his hair again, purposeful with their every tug and graze. “Want me to ride you, sweetie?”

His tone was huskier, fractured at the edges. “Please.”

Upon biting your lip, you murmured, “please, what?”

“I want to feel your pussy wrapped around my cock, how fucking perfectly you grip every inch,” Wonwoo groaned, his thumbs digging at your hips. He had never surmised himself to be very submissive, especially not when he was dating Jeanie. Then, his words were few and far between. But you were a domineering livewire, sometimes punishing, sometimes sweet, or an infuriatingly arousing mix of both that he couldn’t help but writhe for.

Consequently, your giggle proceeded to flutter around the room like a windchime. “You’re so fucking pathetic.”

His length pulsed stiffly underneath his sweatpants.

You then cupped his dazed face in your hands, grasped his cheeks tight, leaned in close, your lips just ghosting his in a way that made his adam’s apple tense. “Will you lay here nice and pretty for me while I fuck myself on this desperate cock of yours?”

Wonwoo swallowed tight. “Y-Yes.”

As he leaned into the rather thin, inadequate pillow propped against the wall, you gave his cheek a loving caress. “Good boy.”

In fact, maybe you should have been a bit more cognizant of Wonwoo’s frail childhood bed. But you were fierce, hungry, and your every wicked slap down to the base of his exhausted length was a ruthless pressure that tested the bedframe. It’s not like Wonwoo had any idea the top right bed leg was going to snap—not with your breasts shimmering and bouncing so hypnotizingly, your hair a sweaty, matted mess, your thighs inadvertently trembling and clenching hard whenever you managed to hit the sweet spot, tired breaths escaping your mouth with each effort to milk him dry.

“FF-Fuck, Wonwoo—m’gonna cum s-so fuckin’ hard!” you cried, nails stinging along his chest. Another powerful slap enveloped his erection deep inside and you careened, gasping in a way that could almost sound painful, as he felt your muscle undeniably furl and a gush of something liquid leak from between your bodies.

Snap!

The bed tilted ever so slightly.

Yet neither of you noticed.

He caught your body in his arms. The slipperiness of your sweat was sticky, uncomfortable, but Wonwoo only pressed you closer into his chest, breathing the sex-soaked humidity thick in the air.

“God…” you croaked a few minutes later. “So fucking good...”

Wonwoo smiled against your forehead. “You’re insane.” Then his hand smoothed over your tangled, frizzed hair. “Fuck. I love you.”

With what little strength you had left, you raised the weight of your shaking head and just managed to half-plant your lips against his mouth. “Love you too, baby,” you sighed, inevitable tire creeping in. “Didn’t realize I was holding onto all that stress. Sorry.”

He smirked. “I like when you use me, my love.”  

“Hey—what was that sound, by the way. Did you hear it?”

Wonwoo kissed his teeth. “Uh… yeah. You broke the bed.”

“Me?!”

“I mean—we—us,” he amended, chuckling nervously.

While Wonwoo and you slept upstairs, the rest of the family awoke one by one. There was breakfast, a sunny walk throughout the neighbourhood, visiting little nostalgic landmarks: the cobble well that Bohyuk lost his first paycheck down during a windy day; the shrunken creek where the brothers used to catch frogs; a rotting gazebo in a forgotten park, once the place of numerous birthdays.

Morning melted into late afternoon.

Bohyuk and Nari went out shopping in order to handle dinner for that evening. Wonwoo’s father took his daily nap lazed along the living room couch while his mother watched the fat bumblebees sway drunkenly from flower to flower in her tiny garden.

His bedroom shutters rattled against a gentle breeze, fragrant with pollen, and Wonwoo’s eyes creaked open in reluctance. Light glowed through the slants, bathed his bedroom, reintroduced him to dusty shelves, your assortment of bags, and the miscellaneous stack of boxes propped in the corner. His mouth felt dry. When he rubbed his head, he thought his hair must be a stubborn, rumpled mess.

Then Wonwoo glanced down to the weight steady against his shoulder, thinking you might still be sleeping, except your eyes were already open and twinkling.

He attempted to wriggle, remember his limbs.

“And for how long have you been ogling me?” Wonwoo questioned, his voice hoarse from the thickness of sleep.

Your finger tapped a bruise on his collarbone. “Not long. I think your mom is sitting outside. I heard her sneeze.”

“Oh, yeah. Her patented Garden Time.” His head flopped toward the window. Though the stained shutters, he could visualize lines of a bright, cloudless sky, perhaps the purest blue he had seen.

You whispered against his neck, “it’s past noon.”

“Fucking Christ—really?”

Then you snorted. “Yeah.”

He scrunched his nose. “Surprised we didn’t get woken up.”

“Well,” you huffed, pushing up onto your arm and staring down at Wonwoo from between fluttering lashes, “we weren’t exactly quiet and behaved.” The tip of your finger traced a scratch on his chest, carved by your nail the night before. “I don’t blame them.”

“God—” he smeared hands down his face, bumping off his glasses such that they slid onto the covers, “—why did we do that?”

“If it wasn’t last night, then probably tonight.” You shrugged.

Wonwoo chuckled in disbelief. “No wonder they left us alone.”

You leaned down, your nose hovering above his, breath a skittish willow’s tickle against his lips. “Are you saying you regret it?”

He kissed you. “No. We’re stuck here for quite a while. I guess they should get used to it. Not that I’ll be any less embarrassed.”

“You’re so cute,” you giggled, grabbing firmly onto his jaw and shaking it as though he was your pet. “Not their fault their son likes to be mercilessly dominated by none other than myself.” Picking up his glasses, you carefully nudged them back onto his face. “Or maybe it is? Because, you know, butterfly effect and all that.” You then stretched, arms curving high into the sunlit air, your chest arching forward with a gentle groan, and Wonwoo thought you could be a goddess worthy of immortalization into the finest marble.

“Hey, mind passing me the camera?” he asked.

You pulled the compact Nikon off the windowsill and handed it to him. He removed the lens cap and turned the camera on, then fiddled with some of the settings to help mend the glaring lighting.

“Spotted something worth taking a picture of?” you couldn't help but lilt knowingly while staring down the lens, your fierce eyes pinning his through the tiny screen.

Wonwoo smiled. “Care to pose for me?”

“Pose how, exactly, Mr. Photographer?” You leaned closer toward the camera, your smirk no less than sinful and your tone a slithering, smooth snake. “I'm capable of many poses, you know?”

“Raise your arms again, like when you were stretching," he decided to instruct, willfully ignoring the jarring spike in his heartbeat.

You followed his request, somehow managing to enhance your radiance and beauty in a manner Wonwoo couldn't possibly calculate while he snapped a few photos, trying not to get lost in where he was subsequently aiming the camera.

“Beautiful,” Wonwoo hummed. “Thanks.”

“Can I try?”

He shrugged, passing you the Nikon.

You quickly swung an arm around his neck, tugged him into your bare, sun-warmed skin, and held the pose of a kiss being pressed against his cheek. Wonwoo's skin crawled with heat and he couldn't help the slightly dazed, star-spotted look he must have been giving the camera. But his feelings for you were impossible to ignore or deny or reshape in any way. He shyly readjusted his glasses as you handed him back the camera, any ounce of dialogue caught in his windpipe.

“Should we eat?” you groaned. “I'm feeling ravenous.”

Wonwoo cleared his throat with an obvious cough. “Sure.”

The kitchen was bright and quiet. Wonwoo’s father was still napping on the couch, completely oblivious to the noisy squeaking of the wooden stairway. You were back in one of Wonwoo’s oversized shirts that you pestered him to pack. Leftover fruit was sitting in the fridge and some dried pieces of silver-looking fish were left out on a napkin.

“Not much,” Wonwoo sighed. “We can always go out.”

“If I don’t eat before going out, you’re going to be very miserable and upset,” you warned while pulling out a chair at the dinner table, sitting with your foot curled up on the edge.

That wasn’t a lesson he cared to relearn.

“Where’s Bohyuk and Nari?” you wondered, yawning.

“Dunno.”

When Wonwoo closed the fridge door, he was surprised to see his mother standing on the other side, dressed in her favourite lounge dress and his father’s old fisherman’s hat to help keep the sun off her face. At first, he was frozen. There was a stick lodged in his throat. But she didn’t carry the same toughness in her small shoulders, nor the stubborn glint in her grey eyes. She was smiling a little, perhaps nervous, and Wonwoo noticed an envelope in her hand.

“Bohyuk and Nari are shopping,” she said. “They should be back soon. I have dumplings in the freezer I can reheat if you’re hungry.” Wonwoo glanced at you briefly from across the kitchen as his mother took the dumplings out. “These ones here. There’s some honey sauce in the fridge.”

“That sounds good,” Wonwoo replied. “What’s that?” He then pointed to the envelope she placed on the countertop.

“Will you get a pan ready for me, Wonwoo?”

“Sure,” he complied, swallowing uncertainly.

While he dug a scraped-up pan out from the crowded cupboard, he watched peripherally as his mother approached you, holding the white envelope close to her bodice. Once he clanged the pan onto the stove and started the clicking gas, Wonwoo quickly moved to stand behind the chair you were crouched on.

He watched his mother extend the envelope to you.

“Please, take this,” she offered, smiling. “I’m sorry.”

You blinked. Rubbed your lips together. But when you accepted the envelope, Wonwoo could see that both your names were written across its surface with an elegant, practiced cursive.

“I asked Bohyuk to help me translate a lot into English,” she added, her tiny, wrinkled hands wringing together and some part of Wonwoo hated to see her this nervous, doubtful. “I wanted you both to be able to read it simultaneously. It doesn’t need to be opened now. Whatever you want to do.” Tentatively, her hand settled on your shoulder. “Please accept my apology,” she entreated of you, her smile worrisome but earnest. “And welcome to our family.”

Wonwoo’s heartbeat was hot lead in his throat.

He thumbed the back of the kitchen chair.

You returned a gentle smile, a polite dip of the head. “Thank you.”

His mother then reached out, brushing Wonwoo’s cheek in that solacing, careful manner, her old way of saying goodbye to both him and his brother before they would leave the house for school. The touch was more than just nostalgia. It felt like acceptance. He wished it hadn’t been so painful getting to this point, but he remembered what you told him the night before—your rejection of a perfect world if it meant you could be together—and that eased his soul.

“I’ll get the dumplings ready,” his mother said.

Wonwoo pulled out a chair for himself at the dinner table, enjoying the smitten smile you angled his way. There was a notable wateriness lining your eyes, and Wonwoo wondered if his mother’s apology and acceptance might possibly mean even more to you.

As long as you were loved.

That was all he really cared for.

The next night, Seungcheol was stood outside on the wet street, watching the neon letter R in the word Recess flicker intermittently, as if it was sharing his uncertainty and flightiness. Tangled vines crept up the cobble building, the leaves a dark olive, refusing to capitulate to the October cold and mist. A few people laughing amongst themselves stepped around Seungcheol, following the small stoop downward to the awning hiding the door. He settled his hand onto the black, flecking metal of the handrail, suddenly wishing he had spent more time here alone, more time picking up the pieces of his glitter-like grief that never really seemed to clean itself up, even at his most diligent.

But Seungcheol was here now.

He was committed.

The door chimed just like it always had when he entered, the basement warmth ushering him inside, personified into steady, familiar hands. Unfortunately, the bar was busier than he had ever seen it. Tables were packed with flushed faces, fried food and beer bottles, coats and sweaters hanging off the backs of chairs. There was a small stage across from the main counter, with two women busying themselves in arranging cords, unwinding microphones, standing on a stepladder to reach a stereo speaker. Seungcheol had to take everything in again—every murmur, every chuckle, hissing caps, clinking glass—it filled his head like a bubble until he remembered to breathe.

“Hey! Choi Seungcheol!”

Suddenly, there was a flash of a bright red sweater across the room and a waving hand. Jeonghan. The bubble popped in relief and he wound his way between the tables until he reached the lowcut booth his friends picked, cozy against the authentic stone wall. Joshua was already pulling him down into the leather. Wonwoo sat opposite, having the only view that pointed directly at the stage Phoebe was soon to take.

“Couldn’t have sat somewhere… better?” Seungcheol teased as he slipped off his trench coat, letting it fold behind his back.

Joshua had a colourful cocktail, a fusion of syrupy cherry and orange juice that he proceeded to sip from. “Jeonghan’s fault. As usual.”

“Did I hear you say something?” Jeonghan lilted.

“Yes,” Joshua hummed restlessly. “I said that our poorly positioned seats are your fault.” He placed the glass down and smiled.

“I didn’t know it was gonna be this busy, okay?”

“Oh, you’re so right. Who could possibly want to enjoy a drink at a bar at the end of a work week? Nobody I know. We totally forgive you.”

Jeonghan laid his hand on Joshua’s shoulder, squeezing. “I knew you’d get it.” The apples of his cheeks were ripe and rosy. It seemed he had already braved through a beer before Seungcheol’s arrival.

“Ugh, get off,” Joshua groaned, shimmying. “You’ve got nacho crumbs and grease all over your fingers. And this is a new cardigan!”

Seungcheol huffed, deciding to ignore their squabbling in favour of perusing the menu. He glanced up at Wonwoo, always the quiet observer, still adjusting to the antics of the group, and noted his basket of half-eaten fried chicken. Wonwoo picked up another golden piece, tearing the tender skin from the bone in such a practiced, elegant, tidy way—nothing like how Seungcheol or Phoebe or Joshua and Jeonghan ate—only to lick off his thumb and set the bone down excruciatingly proper. Seungcheol almost caught himself being judgemental.

He sucked it back.

“How’s the chicken, Wonwoo?”

The man padded off his fingers with a napkin, then pulled his alcohol closer toward him, a near-black beer. “Pretty good, actually.”

“Told you!” Jeonghan exclaimed. He then dipped his hand into Wonwoo’s basket and picked up a piece, about to tear into it ravenously.

Until Joshua swatted his arm. “Stop taking his food!”

“Oh, c’mon, Shua. Unbutton your cardigan a bit. It’s family style!” Jeonghan cackled, sinking his teeth straight into the meat.

“No…” Joshua sighed, rubbing his temple. “It’s not.”

Wonwoo adjusted his glasses and smiled. “It’s fine. I doubt I could finish the entire basket myself. These are crazy portions.”

Joshua continued to watch Jeonghan unabashedly ravage the chicken until there was nothing but a spotless, clean bone, more polished than silverware, popping out from his shimmering mouth. “Not to a hungry drunk…” Joshua eventually hummed, furrowing his brow.

“Have you ever heard Phoebe sing, Wonwoo?” Jeonghan asked.

He shook his head. “Not at all.”

“That’s okay. She doesn’t typically sing for anyone unless it’s something like this,” Joshua remedied, gesturing around the room. “But she’s amazing. Always gets the place roaring. None of us knew she could sing until like, four years after we met her. It was a crazy shock.”

“Oh, I’ve always wondered about that,” Wonwoo said, covering his mouth before he subtly burped. “How did she get to know you guys?”

For a moment, both Jeonghan and Joshua looked Seungcheol’s way, a bit calmer, a bit expectant, and he finally stopped flicking the plastic corner of his menu. He wished Phoebe had already gone over the group’s history. But he knew he was selfish for thinking like that.

Instead, Seungcheol smiled. “Well, I met Jeonghan in college, and he introduced me to Joshua. Then a year later I met my wife, Hunter, and she introduced me to Phoebe. They were college roommates.”

“Mhm,” Jeonghan hummed hazily, proceeding to subtly hook his finger into the corner of Wonwoo’s unfinished chicken and pull it toward himself. “Seungcheol was the pair of big, strong arms that wrangled us all together. Like sheep. What do they call those guys? Checkers?”

Joshua scoffed, “shepherds.”

“Oh, right. Like the pie.”

“That’s cool. I kept wanting to ask Phoebe but then something else would come up,” Wonwoo answered, his expression becoming softer, not as elusive. “I know it’s weird to say, but I really hope I’m not intruding on your dynamic or anything. You guys have all known each other for so long. I don’t mean to be the stoic new guy who dampens it.”

“No!”

“Of course not!”

“No one thinks that,” Seungcheol reaffirmed in passionate chorus with his friends. “That’s how people meet. Simple as that.”

“Alright, thanks,” Wonwoo acknowledged, smitten and slightly pink in the face as he stared down into his glass of beer.

“Don’t think you need to be loud and obnoxious to fit in,” Joshua clarified, wrapping himself in the stitched rose of his cardigan. “Only Jeonghan’s like that. Seungcheol, Pheobs and I are all normal.”

“And you’re the freak who’s into me,” Jeonghan was all too ready to quip back, pinching Joshua’s slender cheek in his fingers.

“Bug off,” Joshua groaned, pushing his boyfriend’s hand away, although the twilight in his jewelled eyes was unfolding and bright.

Before Phoebe took the stage, Seungcheol placed an order for a beer and a cheeseburger. Joshua asked for another maraschino Shirley Temple meanwhile Jeonghan got himself a coke and rum. They conversed, they laughed. Seungcheol unwillingly gave Jeonghan the crispy pickles lying underneath his toasted sesame seed bun. Joshua entertained everyone with the antics of his third graders and the smuggled frog they let loose in the classroom. Every now and then someone would field Wonwoo a question about his future with Phoebe and his face surely glowed like a red bulb on a Christmas tree.

Suddenly, Seungcheol had moved onto his third beer, a rich and foamy Stout that melted down his throat and blended the edges of the dim room as though there was a painter working with a brush. He hadn’t felt so lax in a long while. Even Wonwoo was beginning to crack. His teeth were sharp and flashed like ivory when he laughed hard. His neatness and reserved nature ebbed with every drink he ordered.

Then the speakers crackled. An electronic whine gradually silenced the room. Seungcheol craned his head around, saw one of the tech women from earlier adjusting a microphone stand.

“Hi everyone! How are we all doing tonight?”

The room rumbled, hands clapped, whistles cut the air.

“Alright—loud and clear—that’s how we wanna hear it!” she continued, a sudden mirage of blue and white stage lights enshrouding her like fog. “We’ve got a great performance tonight!” Jeonghan suddenly cupped his hands around his mouth, unafraid to hurtle out a hoarse, shrill woooo! There were more claps and cheers. “She’ll be performing with our phenomenal band, Lulu! Buckle up everyone! It’s the uber-talented Phoebe Argyros covering Ain’t It Fun by Paramore!”

Jeonghan hopped to his feet, nearly throwing over the table, as his hands beat together and he brayed Phoebe’s name as though she were a worldwide popstar. Joshua immediately grabbed his partner’s leg to steady him. Wonwoo stood up, too, fixed the suede jacket he was wearing, clapped his hands much softer than Jeonghan had. Nonetheless, Seungcheol could read his smile, buzzing, rejecting stillness, the stage lights reflecting like tinted stars off the circular lenses of his glasses.

And then Phoebe pranced out, eclectic and bubbly, dressed in layers of black, intricate lace; purposeful threads, her favourite bat-patterned tights, blue and pink faux curls pinned to her hair. Those old combat boots were weathered, but they had always suited her so well, especially when she was stomping around on a stage with that thunderous, thrilling voice. Seungcheol decided to get up like all his friends had, turned around and half-kneeled on the booth. He clapped, hollered, as Phoebe’s hand curled around the microphone. She allowed a thick pause to settle, and then she screamed an electric high-note that pierced the centre of Seungcheol’s brain like a freshly drawn arrow. He clapped hard, grinned harder; forgot how much he missed watching his friend perform. The pride was warm in his chest, or maybe it was beer.

“Let’s have some fucking fun!” Phoebe hollered.

The band had seamlessly slipped into place behind her. Notes started clanging, sounding rounded, reverberating. People were anticipating the lyrics before they left her lipsticked mouth.

I don’t mind, lettin’ you down easy, but just give it time If it don’t hurt now, but just wait awhile You’re not the big fish in the pond no more You are what they’re feedin’ on

Joshua had wriggled around in the booth, kneeling onto the leather, practically hanging over the group jamming next door. His face flashed with colours that made him look even more boyish than he already did, like the preppy college student Seungcheol was introduced to all those years ago, velvet-voiced but daringly witty.

He suddenly shot Seungcheol a glance. “I love this song!”

Seungcheol nodded. “Sounds so familiar.”

There was something surprised in the transient look Joshua gave him, but no time to analyze deeper. Joshua joined Jeonghan in his drunken jiggy, the table shaking each time they bumped it with a leg or a hip. Phoebe’s voice only gained more grit and power. Seungcheol peeked over his shoulder to gauge Wonwoo’s reaction. He was clapping along to the beat, his smile small but giddy, although his eyes followed Phoebe to every corner of the stage as though he were a fish on her lure.

Ain’t it fun? Livin’ in the real world Ain’t it fun? Bein’ all alone

Seungcheol basked in her performance until the very last chord.

“Fuck yeah, Phoebe! We fucking love you!”

He turned, saw Jeonghan standing on the leather booth, his dark hair helplessly tousled and his warm skin flushed like a damn pomegranate. Joshua gasped, already clawing his boyfriend down before the manager crossly eyeing him over a martini glass could get to the table first. Seungcheol clapped until his palms felt raw. Phoebe trilled all her melodic graces, her makeup a little smudged, dampened, with sweat, but her smile never once hindered. He figured it would be a moment before they saw her as she decomposed in the bar’s tiny backstage room.

“What did you think of that, Wonwoo?” Jeonghan slurred while Joshua attempted to fix his disarrayed tresses flopped in every direction.

“I’m, uh… speechless, honestly,” he laughed, and it seemed there was a daze running through his eyes. “Speechless. I had no idea she could sing like that. I’m having a weird out-of-body moment.”

“She’s our little rockstar,” Jeonghan cooed. “Ow!”

“What?” Joshua pouted.

“You just poked my goddamn eye!”

“Okay, well stop squirming around so much!”

“I have to piss! I held it for her performance!”

“Ew! Go!” Joshua grunted, dismissing him.

Wonwoo leaned back as Jeonghan clambered past him.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen her perform,” Seungcheol admitted, spinning his dark amber beer bottle against its coaster. Phoebe had started off as a fairly timid performer, typically fixed to one spot on the stage and clutching the microphone all too tightly, like it was going to slip out from her hands akin to bar of soap. Gradually, however, her confidence solidified, and no longer was she frayed. “I can’t believe how much she’s improved.” He rubbed across his browbone and polished off his beer, the taste sinking deep into his chest like hot gold. “I just hope she doesn’t fucking hate me for missing some of her gigs.”

“No!” Joshua smacked his arm. “She would never! We know she only hates one person and it’s her slimy ex who was reselling all her shoes on Threads. What was his name? Anton or something? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Phoebe is gonna flip once she sees you!”

“Jesus. Yeah,” Seungcheol sighed under a chuckle. “It’s getting warm. Think I’m gonna pop outside for some air. I’ll only be a few minutes.” Grabbing his trench coat, Seungcheol kept it folded over his arm while maneuvering around the tables of the intimately sized room, hearing the front door tinkle when he pushed it open. He skipped up the stoop and emerged into the crisp night, the wind wasting no time in bringing a chill to his skin. Seungcheol threw on his trench coat.

The air smelled of cigarettes. Mulch and rain.

“Oh my god—hey—Seungcheol!”

He turned to the voice, noticed a small clump of people leaned against a black railing. There was Phoebe, waving him over, her smile so pearlescent that it seemed to be siphoning the moonlight. She was with the band members who played her song, some taking drags from a shared cigarette. But Phoebe had her water bottle, still with the worn, fading, hardly discernible stickers that Hunter placed there over five years ago.

The second he was close enough, Phoebe’s arm was slinging around the back of his neck, pulling him down into a hug. She was impressively warm, almost like a furnace. A blue coil of synthetic hair was falling from her head, so Seungcheol pulled it out for her.

“Oh—thanks,” she laughed, tucking it into her shirt.

He smiled. “You were phenomenal, Phoebs.”

She snorted, folding over herself.

“I’m serious!” Seungcheol chuckled, wanting to sound the part, because he was, but feeling the contagious nature of his friend’s laughter break his sincerity apart. “Hey, I know I haven’t come to see you sing in a while, and I’m sorry for that. This was a big slap in the face that I’ve been missing out on your journey. It’s still stinging, actually,” he joked.

Phoebe straightened out, swinging her water bottle to her other hand. “Dude, you don’t need to apologize for jack shit. I know why you weren’t going. We’re all still adjusting. Everyone’s pace is different. Blah, blah, blah. You know the deal. You showed up tonight and that’s what matters to me right now.” She shrugged, balanced on her edges of her feet and grinned. “I’m like, a rockstar or whatever. That’s what they say.”

He laughed. “It’s a hot topic.”

“It felt kinda weird to sing that song again.”

Seungcheol tilted his head. “Hm? Why’s that?”

Phoebe stopped balancing on her shoes. There was a flatness to her face, unlike her usual animated expression. “I sang it before.”

“Something about it did sound familiar.”

“You don’t remember?”

He squinched an eye shut. “Uh… should I?”

She paused, seemingly contemplating something with a lick along her lips, and Seungcheol was suddenly petrified he had just kicked dirt over a significant memory. Phoebe smiled again. “It’s okay if you don’t remember. Nothing to worry about. I’m glad you liked it!”

But now he was curious, and somewhat afraid. “Was it the first song you ever sang here or something? I thought that was the Catrina and the Waves song?” He buried his hands in his pockets. “Am I stupid?”

“I sang it for your birthday. A long time ago. Back then I was super scared about performing, or singing at all in general. So to help me feel more comfortable… Hunter sang it with me.” She tucked a black coil of hair behind her ear, watching him carefully. “It was at the barbeque in the park. I was still dating Redacted, if you know what I mean.”

His mouth twitched. “Oh. Fuck.”

Phoebe grabbed his elbow. “It was forever ago. Don’t feel upset about it. We weren’t that good, anyway,” she giggled. “It’s for the best.”

“Right…” Seungcheol said, knowing his entire lexicon had suddenly shrunk to the size of a needle’s point. It was overwhelming—the urge gestated within him, to disappear, to become nothing—and he couldn’t find Phoebe’s eyes the way he had before. Instead, he felt thick with heat. He wanted to tear off his trench coat and lie face down on the wet, dark concrete like a molted leaf. For a moment, Seungcheol didn’t know where he was, what he was doing, until his friend placed a hand on his back and pushed him forward. The air struck him, icy and clawed.

“Let’s go inside and see everyone!” she exclaimed.

He let himself be guided.

When Wonwoo bought everyone a round of beers, he stared down into neck of his fourth bottle like it was his first. Like he was a college student again with an unsatiable penchant for drinking.

3 MONTHS AGO.

It was hot. Even the coarse fabric of your jean shorts kept sticking to your skin, and when you thought nobody was looking you would awkwardly readjust everything. Moo’s house had air conditioning—a little white box sticking out his living room window with a flimsy piece of cardboard wedged beside it—but the machine wasn’t on. He liked the heat, moving through the house in beige, baggy shorts armed with numerous pockets, a cargo t-shirt, and a tacky vest that a fisherman might wear if it wasn’t so clearly nibbled at by moths. You watched from your place on the sofa as Moo flopped down into a plaid green armchair and cracked open a sizzley beer can.

He proceeded to make a very loud slurping noise, his eyes skipping around the bright living room, finding you. “Want one?”

You dug out the water bottle that had slipped between a gap in the sofa. The springs dug at you from underneath the cushion. “I have this.”

Suddenly, you heard the house’s rickety front door shutter. In walked Vernon and Moo’s roommate, Snozz, who had gone outside to light for a brief moment, trailing in with them the scent of stale smoke from cheap, old cigarettes. Vernon sunk into place beside you on the sofa. Snozz leaned against the sliding glass door. You wondered if they were feeling the heat. Maybe you wanted Vernon to yell at Moo to use his damn AC unit.

Moo started rocking in his green armchair. “Okay, Vern. Tell us.”

Your boyfriend scoffed, jerked his thumb at you. “She can tell you.”

And your forehead creased. “I can?”

Vernon shrugged. “You were in the club. Not me.”

Moo cackled, pointed his finger. “He can’t get in the club!”

“Shut up,” Vernon coughed back. “Nice gear you fuckin’ loser.”

“Hey! I’m going dock-fishing later! I have worms in the fridge.”

You sucked on your lower lip. “What am I saying?”

Vernon nudged your shoulder, raised his sharp, clean eyebrows. His t-shirt was sticking to your bare arm. “Who did you chat to at Prerogative?”

“Woah, woah!” Moo hollered, sitting up straight in his chair, the flashy tackles on his vest twinkling. “Prerogative? You do insider trading?”

“Uh, no?”

“Dude, shut up so she can talk!” Vernon grunted.

Finally, the roaring waves that had crashed through the living room were now calmly ebbing away. You felt nervous, pinched along the seam of your jean shorts while all the boys stared at you from every angle, and the heat turned heavier. But then Vernon squeezed your shoulder, his fingers resting on your skin like cool stones.

So you spoke up. “Well… last week, I went to Prerogative with my friends. I didn’t get in ‘cause I’m secretly loaded, or doing… insider trading…” you eyed Moo from across the small room, “but I used, erm, someone else’s name. Anyways. Yeah, I talked to Jeonghan—”

Moo squealed, “El Timador?!” while slapping a splotchy hand to his mouth, and you nearly thought there was a ten-year-old girl in the room.

“Yes,” you continued, clearing your throat. “I know that Vernon has an issue with some territories that you guys lost, or something? That were taken over by Jeonghan. So… well… I got Jeonghan to agree… he told me he’s going to arrange some sort of meeting with Vernon, essentially. I’m assuming to work something out. And I know that it wasn’t my business to intervene. Trust me, I already got an ear,” you glanced sideways at your boyfriend. “But Vernon was really bent about it. Anyway, that’s the story.”

The patched armchair sounded a rusty squeak. Moo was leaning forward, nodding at you, his lips pursed with sympathy… gratitude... reverence… you had no idea, really. “Wow, you are so brave,” he said.

“Um… thanks?”

Snozz had been so still and silent by the sliding glass door that you somewhat jumped when he used his voice, much lower and scratchier in cadence, like there were barbs in his throat. “Heard anything, Vernon?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“Wait, so, what the fuck does this mean?” Moo questioned, lowering his beer can to the matted carpet. “You want them… back?”

Vernon scoffed. “Yes. What the fuck do you think?”

“But are we sure that’s a good idea?”

And Vernon shrugged. “Dunno. You want more money?”

“Well, always. But—”

Vernon leaned forward, the tattoos along his sunkissed skin flexing, prowling. “Me too. I mean, we don’t have Hylands anymore—Minghao fucked that for us—not to mention we lost Starlight, the whole underground scene at Smog, and that fuckin’ washed up Russian idiot popstar who had us on speed dial for all his celebrity parties. Dude, we were makin’ fuckin’ bank back then. Carryin’ it in duffle bags bustin’ at the zippers.”

Moo didn’t seem to flourish with his usual glow. “I know, but—”

“But, but, but,” Vernon interrupted, teasing him. “But what, man?”

Silence then permeated itself into the slippery folds of heat in the sweltering air, and you wished, for the love of all things holy, that someone would just whack that damn AC and turn it on—even just to hear a rattling hum that could somehow succeed in squashing the nauseating silence.

You watched Moo collapse back into the chair with dejection.

“But that’s when we had Dots…” he added listlessly.

And no one spoke. No one moved. Some drifting clouds had streamed their way over the blurry orange ball in the summer sky and the living room was washed in mournful, hurt dimness. Even you glanced down at your lap, bit the inside of your cheek, and refused to disrupt the atmosphere bleeding over everything in the room. It made you acknowledge how powerful another person’s impact could be, to the point where time visibly slowed at the mere summoning of their name, like the world was suddenly dipped into a clear molasses. You wondered if you were an intruder, spoiling the stillness of their memories to someone you hardly, transiently knew.

Vernon scratched his nose. The gesture was faint, simple, but it was a pair of scissors that sheared the conversation apart from the exhumed hurt. “We can get them back…” he spoke softly. “I know it. Jeonghan isn’t bulletproof.”

“You trust him?” Snozz croaked, his hands now pulled out from his pockets, arms folded stoutly across his chest. “You trust fucking Jeonghan?”

“Dude, this may be as far as we ever fuckin’ get with him. That man’s a ghost, okay? You can’t find him if he doesn’t wanna be found. I think he’s got a penthouse in the fuckin’ Shadow Realm or some shit.”

But Snozz didn’t twitch. “He fucked over Dots,” he said, vitriolic, his nose crinkling and lips peeling. “He fucked over all of us.”

“Yeah, I know,” Vernon bit back. “I was fuckin’ there.”

The cool water bottle was pressing against your thigh and you terribly craved a sip from it, but you didn’t want it to crinkle and pop.

Moo’s long fingers were pulling at threads on the armchair as he stepped back into his voice, a calmer shade of blue. “Vern, shit was different then, y’know? We were so much more structured with Dotsy. We had more distributors selling. More people to move product. I mean, yeah, shit was tough when we had to compete with Jeonghan. But we never fell off the rails, right?” He paused, lips rubbing together, contemplating. “Nothing’s been the same since he died. We don’t have the horsepower. Not like we did.”

Vernon sighed. He leaned over, the heels of his palms rubbing into his eyes, and you wanted to stroke his back, but sometimes Vernon’s emotions were thorny and he needed to feel everything first, as it came through him in slices. You wondered if he knew that Jeonghan had submitted that leaf for Dots at Sherwood. Perhaps that was why he seemed to believe so much that Jeonghan might yield. You touched the edge of your face and felt a sticky moisture.

“Then it’s a respect thing,” Vernon suddenly barked. “It’s a fuckin’ respect thing that he gives those territories back. He wouldn’t have them without Dots. He wouldn’t have half the shit he has without Dots.”

You saw Moo frown and your heart ached. “What’s the point—"

“I’m sick of him bein’ gone, and everyone fuckin’ mopin’ around, actin’ like they can’t do shit anymore!” Vernon crackled with electric emotions, his language stabs of thunderbolts. “We can be what we were, how the fuck do you guys not see that? We’re just complacent now, y’know? It’s like we don’t give a fuck. All the hard work. All the sweat and blood.” He collapsed back into the sofa, spreading out his legs and turning up his palms, two roughed surfaces calloused over with hard grit. “It’s just… I don’t wanna be that. I don’t wanna go back to havin’ fuckin’ nothin’ at all…”

And you tensed, realizing that you were hearing a part of him that you had never heard before. The fear of having nothing. Believing he was nothing. Just a spot rubbed away until there was only glaring bareness, falling back into a bubbling pit of black that would swallow him. You saw into him a little more. He was scared.

You thought that was impossible.

Sighing out tenderly through your nose, you reached for his hand, slotting your fingers in between his. “You won’t have nothing.”

He smiled at you, but it was somewhat empty and crestfallen, in a way that might communicate—you don’t understand, you never will, but I do get what you’re saying—and he leaned forward to sweetly kiss your cheek.

Moo sniffled, his bare knees tapping together, the hollow thudding of bone echoing around the room. “What do you think Danny?” He asked.

It was strange to hear. They always used nicknames. Sometimes you forgot they had actual names, actual lives beyond your dwindled snapshots into the brunt of their suspect business. Snozz, Danny, Daniel—he didn’t speak for a moment—looking out the smudged glass door, until he deeply sighed, “let’s just wait and see what happens with this meeting. If it happens.” Then he smacked the shoddy conditioning unit.

It spluttered, squeaked, rattled to life, and you almost threw yourself at his feet in prostration. He walked out the room, leaving behind the mild scent of smoke, his eyes skimming yours lithely, and disappeared.

“Well, that’s freakin’ that,” Moo mumbled. You all sat in silence for a few seconds, staring blankly. “Time for worms!” Moo suddenly shouted, scrambling into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge. “Don’t vanish yet, Snoodles! We can fish!”

Vernon rolled his eyes. “He hates fishing.”

“But he’s good at untangling lines and hooking worms!”

With the living room emptied out, you looked to Vernon. “I know it’s difficult. But you really won’t have nothing,” you murmured, admiring the perfect ferns of his eyelashes, dark and earthy. “I must count for something, right?”

“You count for everything,” he answered, pecking your mouth.

Later in the day, when it was a bit cooler, everyone gradually moved outside. You hadn’t realized it the first time you came by Moo’s house, but he lived on a rather sizeable lake, and his backyard had a dock that stuck out onto the water as well as a firepit surrounded by frayed and faded-looking lawn chairs. Trees beaming with all their full, healthy leaves swayed above your head as you sat upon a beach towel laid out in the uncut grass.

A few other people came to the house, seeming friendly. You were nervous, but the lapping feeling subsided when you realized that at least none of them were Kitty.

There was one girl you spoke to more than the others.

She was Moo’s younger sister, around your age, and she came outside in an orange bikini top decorated by hot pink flowers, wearing jean shorts similar to yours. Her hair was woven back in neat, thin cornrows that coiled down the back of her neck. She smelled like sweet sunscreen. She had stopped by your beach towel.

“I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Oh, I’m new, I guess.”

“A friend? Sibling?”

Your face held onto the heat tightly as you said, “Vernon’s girlfriend.”

Her eyes had widened, and you saw the surrounding leaves of the property's elms and maples reflected in their creaseless brown. “That Vernon?” She gawked, pointing her finger toward the dock, where Moo and Vernon were fooling around with the fishing rods. “I hope my surprise doesn’t offend you! That’s great.”

You had nodded back. “It’s okay. I get that reaction a lot.”

Jade, that was her name. She was pleasant to speak with, and she was surprisingly open about her experiences with the other boys. You didn’t want to interrupt her as she rambled, occasionally pulling at a piece of her dark, coiled hair or grabbing onto her small hand to inspect her plain but well-groomed nails. She told you about getting rides home from Dots. About the time she was yanked into an upstairs closet at their old group house and told to stay put, hearing a few terrifying pops from a gun while she hid. She talked to you about school—a more relatable topic—and you saw some pieces that were reminiscent of Diana in her.

“I didn’t really get along with Vernon initially,” she explained. “I don’t know. He didn’t have much interest in speaking to me. He kinda scared me.”

And you laughed, tossing your head back. “Tell me about it.”

“Auggie is a good brother. He always makes me laugh. And he tries really hard to keep me uninvolved in his stuff. So, y’know, I don’t get hurt. But it’s hard. I don’t always understand it. I want to protect him, too. So it gets frustrating.”

God—you had nearly shaken her hand—“I know right!”

She asked if you wanted to swim with her. But you didn’t have the right clothes, so she nodded and got ready to excuse herself from the corner of your Clifford: The Big Red Dog towel that Moo had tossed you earlier. While she was dusting herself off, Snozz came outside, smiled at her with closed, curled lips as he wandered down flat stones to the dock, the breeze fluffing through his overgrown locks. She watched him for a moment, then looked back to you, her eyes a bit weighted, cloudy, as she whispered, “we used to date. Not anymore. Auggie didn’t like it. But Danny’s so sweet. Honestly, they all are. But there's a lot of stuff there that hurts.”

And then she started running toward the bank. You watched her jump onto her brother’s shoulders, and he swung her around playfully, threatening to dip her in the water cold against the dock.

Naturally, your gaze floated in Vernon’s direction, bent down over a fishing rod laid out on wood, his hands clasped around a black-spotted pike that he managed to unhook and sink gently back into the dark, glittering blue.

“But there's a lot of stuff there that hurts.” You heard Jade in your ear, and your insides stirred with dread that you might lose him.

Vernon might be too much for you, after all.

But you hated to think about it. Hated it like a raw blister.

Inside Mr. York’s kitchen, you, Tara, and Lara were standing around a bare counter space beside two oil vats, picking away at a square tin of sweet potato fries that Costello had hidden in one of the sleek convection ovens. The restaurant was officially closed for the night, the kitchen sanitized, wiped down, mopped, and everything glinted in starry silver.

He had always been a kinder cook, often hiding food for the waitstaff to eat, especially for Lara, whom he had a silly little crush on. But she was on a strict no-dating policy, citing things like: I need to work on myself, I should get back into dance, relationships are so distracting, I know how to please myself better than anyone, I’ve been neglecting a lot, while she came into work with the same patented scowl and sloppy attitude completely untouched. You wouldn’t recognize her otherwise. There were bumpy nicks still visible through her thin eyebrow, the discolouration hidden by makeup. She said it kept getting her attention from masculinely dressed woman with windswept-looking hair and Tara was snickering, grinning.

“Oh! Oh! Guys!” Tara yelped. “Guess what just opened?”

Lara dipped a golden, crispy fry into a tiny plastic cup of garlic sauce. “Your brain?” she muttered, sticking the fry into her mouth.

“Ugh—no—shut up.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That new nail place? On Fifth?”

“No,” Tara said, “but that would be amazing, too. Catherine Love’s assistant position is finally open! They started accepting applications this morning. I’m totally sending mine in the second I get home.”

“Wow, awesome,” you acknowledged.

“I know! It is awesome. It’s the definition of awesome.”

Continuing to nod, you pushed over a floppier fry for a dark, flaky one hiding underneath. Its sweetness squished delectably between your teeth. You had helped Tara practice her interviewing skills so much that you betted you could recite almost all her answers just from memory alone. She was more polished than a pearl.

“Maybe I’ll apply, too,” Lara mumbled around a thick, salted fry.

And you laughed. “Me three.”

Tara licked her lips, removing some orange crumbs. “You guys can apply all you want,” she invited confidently. “But I was born to do this.”

Lara grunted. “You were born to be someone’s assistant?”

“Not just someone! She’s an icon.”

“I’ve been looking through her website,” you admitted, deciding to try the garlic sauce that Lara was hogging. “And her exhibits are really gorgeous. I don’t know, but they feel super light. She seems to enjoy art that feels like sunshine on your skin, or a breeze in your hair. Does that make any sense?” The aromatic flavour of the garlic melted buttery on your tongue.

“Can I use that line?” Tara suddenly queried.

You sipped some water from a mason jar. “Uh, sure?” There was a thrumming vibration against your back pocket, so you pulled out your phone to read a text message from Vernon. Quickly gulping the rest of the mild tap water, you swirled out the jar into the large, deep sink. “Okay, chatty time is over for me,” you announced. “Vernon’s here. I’m gonna grab my stuff.”

“Ou la la,” Tara trilled. “Your Dark Knight.”

“To take you away on his impressive, black stallion,” Lara goaded.

After throwing the cinnamon bag over your shoulder, you made sure to poke your head back into the kitchen to blow a raspberry at them, still picking their way through the orange fries. “Goodnight, losers.”

As usual, Vernon was leaned against the edge of his car, so casual, wrapped in the humid gauze of a late summer night. He smiled when he saw you trotting up—still dressed in your work clothes—a hand raking through his dust-black hair while his eyes immediately warmed. Before he could speak, your hands had settled politely on his shoulders, massaging the breezy fabric of his white t-shirt splattered with a band logo. You kissed him, short and sweet, tasting a lingering mintiness from the gum he kept in his driver’s console.

“Hello, there,” you crooned. “How was that for timing, hm?”

He fingered a loose, bulbed button on your shirt, and the way his gaze travelled your body was a delicious longing. “Can’t complain.”

Once you were both settled inside the car, he asked about work.

You shrugged. “Fine. Not a drag. We were eating fries…” and you contemplated whether or not to bring up Catherine Love. Upon cranking the window down slightly, a city breeze flittered in, touching along your temples and baby hairs. “Do you think it would be weird if I applied for something I’m completely unqualified for and have no chance of attaining?”

Vernon’s eyes skipped to yours in the rear-view mirror. “People do shit like that all the time. They were gonna make Moo a project manager for a hotel construction rig. Don’t think he even knows how to use a drill.” He glanced at you for a moment, red light flushing in. “What’ch’ya thinkin’?”

Teeth scraped the inside of your cheek. “It’s stupid.”

“Nah,” Vernon hummed. “What’s the gig, PJ’s?”

“Well, Tara is obsessed with this artist lady. Catherine Love. She sets up exhibits and stuff. Worldwide. Have you seen her stuff before?”

The car smoothly rolled across the intersection. “Uh, dunno.”

You figured he wouldn’t know. “Anyways, it doesn’t matter. But she’s opened up a position to be her assistant. I’ve done some research on the building she works from—it’s Skyline—and it’s totally gorgeous. Right along the coastline. The more Tara gabs about it, and the more I look into everything…” you trailed off, unsure. “Would it hurt to apply?”

Vernon shrugged, leafy shadows tumbling in through the street lamps and running over him in flickers. “Why don’t you just do whatever the hell you want.” He tapped the steering wheel. “Who cares what happens?”

“Yeah, but—what if I get an interview?”

“Then you go do the interview.”

“But I’m unqualified.”

“Not that unqualified if you got an interview.”

“Well, I suppose so, but—”

“Dude, why’d you even ask what I thought if you were just gonna shoot yourself down the entire time?” He laughed. “I can’t control you with puppet strings or whatever the fuck. No one can. Only person who can make you do or not do things is yourself. So just shut up and pick one.”

Typical Vernon advice. Straight to the point.

Shuffling up in the chair, you huffed. More wind fluttered inside and you could feel the cool tendrils slipping through little gaps between the buttons on your fresh-ironed shirt. You talked a little more, asked him if he heard anything from Jeonghan, and he said no.

Your street was quiet. Vernon helped you out from the car.

“Staying over?” You asked.

He shook his head. “Can’t. Business. I’ll be gone for a few days.”

“What?!” You cried. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

“It was recent stuff. An order never got dropped off. I’m gonna go investigate with Snozz. Nothin’ too major. It’s happened before.”

But you still got unusually quiet, your stinging eyes scanning the pavement, panging reverberations aching from deep inside your chest. Your different lines of work already separated you enough.

Vernon stepped closer to you. He cupped your soft face, burning over with hot emotions, in his calloused hands. You met his eyes lined in the ivory moonlight and immediately wanted to cry, shifting your hand over his and strumming at his rough knuckles. “I wanted to spend time with you…”

“I know, beautiful,” he murmured, stroking your cheek.

“Why do you have to leave tonight?”

“Need to be there at a certain time.”

You sighed, bit your lip, choked back a stupid whine. “Okay, fine.”

He chuckled. “I have your approval, is that it?”

“You shouldn’t have it, but you do. Unforch.”

And he clicked his teeth, repeated your colloquialism, “unforch,” in a way that mimicked your tone and made you laugh, smile. He suddenly fastened his arms around your waist, his muscles digging into your plump skin, setting you on the edge of the car’s hood. You giggled, shoved at his chest, could hardly breathe, as he smothered you with kisses—some left tingling on your warm lips, others ticklish down your neck—each pouring more and more reassurance inside you until you were slaked.

“Okay, okay!” You fought to articulate through the breathlessness and contagious laughter. “I-I g-get it!” When your head spilt back, and you saw the black quilt of a night sky with stars speckled across it like salt granules, and breathed in the foggy wind, and Vernon’s thick amber, and felt his hands squeeze into the back pockets on your work slacks, his hair brush your bare skin, his lips pulling bruises to the surface of your pulsing neck, you thought you could be someplace next to heaven. As long as he was there.

“You do, huh? You get it?” He purred.

Draping fingers through his hair to make the locks even messier, you nodded. “I guess you’ll miss me. Maybe. Is that it? The point?”

Then he pulled you off the hood. “Okay, smartass. Go to bed.”

As you stumbled onto the sidewalk, his palm thwacked your bum hard, enough to feel a jarring ripple that made you stagger, gasp.

“Hey!”

“Night!” He called, standing by his door.

You waved him off, smiling lopsidedly, limping up to the building despite trying your best not to. You said goodnight, too, but it was crinkled in the middle as your lower bum positively stung with the weight of his hand.

When Vernon called you, it was midday, Saturday. The summer air was weighted with a greasy humidity. Two whirring fans sat on the coffee table, one pointed at Ruby and another angled at you, while you watched a reality competition show. Neither of you really spoke or moved. The heat had made you drowsy. Some guy tumbled off a log dangling in the air, splashed into the flat, cold lake underneath, and you both groaned, jealous.

You picked up the vibrating phone, yawned, “hello?”

“PJ’s? What’chya up to?”

“Um, nothing, really. Watching people fumbling obstacle courses.”

“Well, grab a bag, pack some water. I’m gonna come get you.”

And you sat up from the indent you’d been making in the sofa, feeling the fan’s breeze tickle at your knees. “Huh? Why? What’s the matter?”

The sound of a car door slamming echoed across the line. “Dude, I got a note. Came outside from the store and it was tucked under my windshield wiper. Only got coordinates on it. Nothin’ else. Now, who the fuck do you think that is?”

You swallowed, touched your lips. “What? Really?”

“Really. Pack your shit. I’ll be there in twenty.” The phone beeped as the call collapsed. You glanced over at Ruby, the tanned glow of her olive skin, to see she was already looking back. “I’m going somewhere with Vernon.”

“If you’re going swimming, you have to invite me,” she huffed.

“Uh, I doubt it’s swimming.”

The heat had made her too lethargic to argue and pester. She was fanning herself with a cork coaster as you scrambled around the apartment, stuffing items into a tiny backpack—two bottles of water, a hydration drink, some sunblock, a change of clothes in case you sweated through your first outfit, apartment keys, and a little switchblade that you bought at a street market sale.

Vernon honked the horn when he arrived.

You said goodbye to your roommate and hurried outdoors, feeling the immediate scorch of the afternoon sun prickle you while the moisture made the air muggy. Escaping inside the car, you were relieved to get blasted by icy air conditioning.

“Here,” you offered Vernon a water bottle.

“Oh—fuck—thanks.”

The bottles crinkled as you each took lustily long sips.

“So—” you exhaled, breathless, “—you check the coordinates?”

“Mm. That’s why I know it’s him.”

“Oh. They go where?”

Vernon sighed, puffing out his chest. “Our old group house…” and there was a faint underbelly of sadness staining his words.

You nodded. “Jade told me about it. Briefly.” Your gaze wandered outside, to the woman trotting clumsily down the sidewalk with a newspaper clasped over her head, to the birds flapping their wings together along a shady tree branch. “Are you okay? Going there?”

He shrugged, running his thumb around the loose cap of the water bottle, a gleam on his forehead. “Dunno. It’ll sting. No two ways about it.”

“Yeah… but I’ll be there, if you need me.”

Vernon smiled.

While he drove to the location, you examined the note that he pulled from underneath his wipers. The paper was lined and margined, with hole punches, and a clear tear running down the side. The coordinates were written in dark purple, with the flakiness of a pencil crayon. Very neat handwriting. You wondered if Jeonghan tore the paper from his daughter’s notebook, used one of her crayons, though you couldn’t imagine he was the one to slide it under Vernon’s windshield wiper. He had people watching.

People watching.

And that made you feel mucky, thick fear in your gut.

The drive was longer than you expected. You passed landmarks you had never seen before, travelled across overpasses that revealed jagged neighbourhoods unfamiliar to your memory. Sometimes the streets were very thin, with the houses in between hardly houses, but scrappy shingles and skeletal structures and tarps that covered windows, doors, and garage openings. Sometimes the streets were wide and sunnily amicable, sprinklers chittering rainbows of spray across lush grass as children tossed beach balls at each other, splashing in their beautiful outdoor pools.

Sometimes there was nothing. Just road and dull, dull land. The liminal stretch that could not be avoided, linking unknowns together.

“We’re almost there,” Vernon said in a heavy, knotted tone.

The car bumped along a gravelly road. Each house was relatively spread apart. Some nicer than others—none well-groomed—but glittering in tiny charms that showed behind smudgy windows and aged patios. You hadn’t realized Vernon was pushing down a driveway until you saw something flicker through the dense trees.

The beginnings of a house.

The car settled. Vernon pulled out his keys. It was quiet.

“So…” you managed to croak. “This is the place?”

He nodded, let his eyes drift loosely. “Once upon a time.”

Your stomach writhed, getting out of the car. It wriggled and crawled and twisted. Swinging the backpack over your shoulder, you followed after Vernon toward the front door. But there was no door, just a bare threshold. Items littered the sprouting, wild grass. Some were mere decomposing lumps of brownish-black-rotting colour that were impossible to identify. Then there were plates, cups, metal rods, bottles, pieces of tile, brass knobs. You saw a broken alarm clock shattered into chunks, and a damn microwave sticking out from the earth at a strange angle, as though it had been thrown from above. When you glanced skyward, you noticed the upstairs windows were broken, embracing the full hail of seasons.

Suddenly, Vernon clutched your hand. “There’s glass,” he warned, nudging you to look at a splatter of hard edges close to your foot.

The humidity followed you inside. Dewiness and tangy, sour odours were hanging everywhere, cloaking you, and you wondered what kind of fever had soaked through the house, sucking things in and then spitting them out in pieces. Everything was positively ransacked.

It was total upturn.

Vernon was quiet, with a buried expression. He glanced into the kitchen but wouldn’t enter, his hand pressing into the peeling, graffitied wall.

You stood back and read the black letters.

G3M1N1 WAZ H3R3

TE EXTRAÑAMOS

More graffiti dried dripping in the rummaged living room.

761-8223 4 CANDY

COME HOME

EL TIMADOR DID IT

Emotions lingered. Certain spaces you walked past, and you could sense the immediate, blustery howl. The emotions were never going to leave. Even without people, the house was still full.

Vernon came up beside you. Together, you stood at the base of a staircase that extended toward a dark rectangle. Something was up there. It held the strongest emotion. Prowling in the decay and moldy blackness.

You swallowed. Hated to breathe the air. “Up there, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Up there.”

When you looked to Vernon, he was not himself. In the dimness and glossy heat, surrounded by fragile memories, he came to mirror a boy as opposed to the rugged, steely man you knew. It was in his blushing cheeks, his uncertain frown, and the vulnerable softness that stirred his eyes like a honey wand. His shoulders were not firm, and his forehead worried.

You touched his back, hoping the sensation was grounding. “I don’t think Jeonghan’s here yet. Should we wait in the car? What do you think?”

Instead, Vernon turned his back to the stairway, sat on one of the sturdier-looking steps, letting his elbows point into his knees. As he mused there in silence, you breathed out the dampness, and decided to gingerly fit beside him after brushing some grit off the step. It wasn’t comfortable at all.

At least not to you.

He clutched onto his hands, wringing them together. “Y’know, it wasn’t me who found him, Dots… it was Moo and Snozz. They went up to his room… saw him in bed with the covers pulled up to his waist. He looked asleep, they said. Nothin’ was weird. But then he just wouldn’t move. And they found the vomit under him. I remember, like, I was at this stupid waitin’ room, sittin’ in there with a bunch of other sweaty, nervous folk. For an interview. A sales position. At a car dealership of all goddamn places. N’ just as I got called into the big ole’ office, my phone started ringin’ off the hook. It was Moo, and he never calls. First thing I hear is ‘he won’t wake up, man—he’s not even breathing—he’s not anything—his heart’s gone’ and I fuckin’ collapsed into this old woman’s lap as she read a magazine about fuckin’ mental health and addiction.”

You watched him bite the nail of his thumb as he laughed, the clogged emotions starchy in his throat. “So I had to go over there, obviously, ditch the whole interview shit,” he sighed. “All three of us were in his room, just, fuckin’ stunned to silence, lookin’ at him in bed, so peaceful. Nothin’ was out of place. But he had the window open. Never. We were never allowed to have windows open or curtains open. It was a whole thing and you’d get slapped silly for ignorin’ it. And, like, the brightest fuckin’ light I had ever seen was comin’ through this damn window while we all stood around his bed, fucked in our heads, couldn’t even cry or talk.

Moo always says it was him comin’ to see us for the last time, spiritual shit like that. But, y’know, I always liked to think it was actually him leavin’, flowin’ away from us. ‘Cause he never should have been there. We knew it was over. We knew once word got out, shit would get hot quick. So we took all our stuff out and flipped the whole fuckin’ house. Ransacked it before anyone else could. I mean, this wasn’t all us. Who knows how many have been here since. But once it was over, we all sat down on the couch together for the last time, knew we’d never be back. That we’d have to accept not bein’ okay with anything, walkin’ around with holes in us, just empty sandbags, y’know? I can’t believe I’m here. It’s just numbness.”

You smiled, appreciating his honesty and openness. Interlocking your fingers through his, you grasped his hand tightly in the humid stairwell of the disembowelled house. “I know you’ll fill up. Drop by drop. Maybe drain a little, too. But that’s balance. I don’t think it ever truly goes away.”

Vernon squeezed your hand in return. “You fill me up well.” And his eyes were brighter, smiling in their own way, pleasant and uncoiling.

“Might I say, that is very, very touching.”

The unsuspecting, velvety voice made you crush together the bones in Vernon’s inked hand. Through the kitchen doorway, you saw Jeonghan, leaned against a dented countertop beside the bare outline of the wall where the fridge once stood. His hair was tied back, though a few loose strands tickled the pale edges of his smirking face. At your side, Vernon stiffened.

“Did you just get here?” You squeaked.

Jeonghan shook his head, and then slid his hands into the pockets of the black slacks he was wearing. “I’ve been here a while. Just wandering the property and that. Sorting through memories. No different than you two.”

Vernon stood up. “You picked a shitty day to do this.”

Upon drifting his way, unburdened, to the doorframe, Jeonghan shook his head. “Your manners are just as refined as I remember them. I think you should speak to the person you desire to negotiate with a bit more wise-mindedly.” Jeonghan flattened out a wrinkle in his glaring white shirt, a breezy button-up of tightly-woven lace, as he continued smiling. “Is that too much to ask, Hansol?”

You saw Vernon’s fingers twitch, his jaw flex.

Jeonghan sighed. “I know this house, too.” His stretched out his arms, clutched the doorway, squeezed the spongey wood in his fingers. “I helped with his body. I took the last look at him. Nothing but skin and bones, by then. Absent was his breath of life.”

And Vernon muttered something particularly guttural to himself that you failed to hear properly. So you let your hand sit on the boy’s shoulder, gave him a squeeze to smooth down his bristles.

“I knew you would bring her,” Jeonghan said, nodding at you. “I am glad to see you again, Clever Girl,” he called you. “I think Hansol must hold you very close to his heart if he’s showing you this place.”

Suddenly, Vernon jerked his head. “Let’s go talk.”

“Where would you like to talk?”

“Basement.”

“Ah, the old locker room. I used to count the money,” he remarked wistfully, letting his fingertip drag along a stain in the wallpaper. “You were never short, Hansol. Never. You were always so efficient.”

He rolled his eyes at Jeonghan, then strummed your arm into his warm fingers. “I think we should talk alone,” Vernon whispered. “I’m sorry, I can’t say how long this might take. He… he’s hard to deal with, always been that way, the cheeky fucker.” You felt something being pressed into your hand, and you noticed it was his bulky car keys attached to the carabiner. “If you need AC.” He kissed your cheek. “I owe you, ‘kay, baby? Thanks for comin’ with.”

“O-Okay,” you stuttered, clutching his keys.

Vernon waved at Jeonghan, and the man proceeded to follow him down the foyer into another room, where they disappeared from sight. You stood there for a moment, unsure, until you decided that the house was speaking too many things and you needed to be outside. But then you wondered where Jeonghan even came from. Upon walking into the kitchen, you noticed another doorway lacking a door. It led to a small porch, the wood stripped of its colour, a circular glass table tipped over and shattered.

Was anything in this house unwounded?

You slipped his keys into a pocket on your backpack.

The sun and heat were still singeing. Your feet moved carefully through the long blades of grass and matted weeds, finding a lighter, a spoon with a burnt underside, some tattered fabrics dried into lumps, and a molted book whose pages thunked lifelessly to the ground when you picked up the sleeveless hardcover. As you crouched down, pulled apart dried, wrinkly papers with faded script, one page was immediately yanked from your hand by a sudden breeze, bouncing and swirling back toward the porch. You stood up, turned around, noticed something astonishing.

A large mural painted to the back of the house, with heavy colours coated meticulously over the peeling boards, demonstrating prayer hands clasping a beaded, dangling rosary. The detail was bright and nimbus. Black font was sprayed under the shadow of the roofing, in a different language.

DIOS TE HA LIBERADO

VERNON.

His world started tilting the minute he got there and it wasn’t going to stop. The dizziness, the heat, the flashes of memories—voices, smells, laughter, and pain—all overwhelming him, like his head was dunked and held underwater. Right when he thought he might catch a breath, Jeonghan was there, with that tricky light in his eyes undimmed, pawing at Vernon’s raw hurt.

They hadn’t grown on each other immediately.

Jeonghan was older. He made rules and then broke them but no one else was allowed the same leisure. He rung aside stiffened curtains and busted open kitchen doors to the smell of burnt plastic and shifted through the downstairs deposits whenever he wanted.

He pickpocketed in elevators, subways, malls, cafés, movie theatres, markets, house parties—even in the line-up for the ATM—with his silkened fingers. He was also a slight lunatic. He reared his first car, a black corvette, into his old dealer’s Corolla for duping him with sugared-down coke, which sent the Corolla rolling into a boggy riverbank. He pulled out Basil’s tooth with pilers and kept it in one of those velvet charm pouches for bracelets after he caught him stealing from the depository.

He said he learned a magic trick and then proceeded to cough up an elusive, small key sticky in his saliva.

No, Jeonghan was fucking insane.

And after a while Vernon had no choice but to like him.

Jeonghan was gunpowder. He turned everyone into his sparks.

“I love you! I fucking love you Hansol Chwe!” He had started weeping uncontrollably into Vernon’s shoulder one night. “You understand me! You’re just like me! You don’t give a fucking fuck.” Then he took the can of compressed nitrous oxide and let the thin nozzle shoot a flushed stream up his nostril, and Vernon saw the glaze suffuse across Jeonghan’s eyes like a heated knife spreading butter.

He stared up into the starry night sky, his mouth hanging open in bliss. “Try it, try it! Holy fuck! Try it, Chwe! I’m fucking tingling everywhere. I’m floating!”

The next morning, with his head splintering into aching, stabbing pieces, teenage Vernon heard Dots yelling at Jeonghan from downstairs. He had never heard Dots yell.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! You’re too wild sometimes, Jeonghan! He’s a fucking teenager. He shouldn’t be snorting fucking compressed air! Your faces are full of bruises! Were you punching the shit out of each other?”

It had trickled back to him slowly. Jeonghan leaning close, nothing in his eyes but twitching, sporadic blackness, entreating Vernon to punch him as hard as he could. So he did it. Right in the lip. The older boy knocked him back, bruising his jaw. And then they were grappling around in the soft beds of thick field grass, choking with laughter, with hoarse screams, with euphoria, as they punched and kicked and scratched and tore, midnight milky and clear overhead.

“Look, I fucking love Chwe. But you can’t save him, Paulo. You should fucking save yourself. He doesn’t want anything else. You can get out but he’ll still be here.”

Vernon looked around the basement. The windows were intact, placed high up the wall to be level with the overgrown grass consuming the outside. Although the light was sparse, it was adequate enough to see, and he observed in utmost intensity through the glowing green haze as Jeonghan grinned at the gaping hole busted into the concrete wall. The lockers were gone; had been for a while. Some people kept theirs. Others were destroyed.

“Do you still remember your number?” Jeonghan asked.

“Yeah.”

“I remember everyone’s. Snozz, Moo, Basil, Yo-Yo, Casper, 8-Ball, Tech, Froggy, Peppermint… when Peppermint kltch—” Jeonghan drew a line across his throat, “—and we had to replace him with Lipsy and we all hated Lipsy because he used to resell Snozz’s Provigil.” He sighed, hands bulging in his pants pockets. “And I remember yours, too.”

“Of all the places to fuckin’ meet, Jeonghan. Why this place?”

“I missed it.”

“You probably live in a fuckin’ castle by now. Hidden behind a waterfall or some majestic shit. Like hell you miss this place. Probably one of your fuckin’ weird mind games. Can’t ever do anything normal.”

“And you can? People look at you and they think a million things. I bet not one of those things is that you’re normal. But you know that. Who wants to be normal, anyway? Who doesn’t want to have a story that makes everyone stop and listen? You’re a walking storybook, Hansol. Everyone who lived in this house is or was a storybook. This house itself is a book.”

“Whatever, man.”

“I like to reread old books. That’s why I came here.”

“Are you gonna give me the territories back or not?”

“I don’t like that question. It’s very demanding. I always wonder how could you have spent so much time with Paulo and not adopt one ounce of his manners. No P’s and Q’s. You’re a man now, Hansol.”

“Oh, I have fuckin’ manners. Just not for you.”

“You know, what I did was not personal.”

“I really don’t care.”

“Then why are you so… angry? Impatient?”

“Maybe ‘cause you brought me to the fuckin’ house my friend died in on a hot-ass fuckin’ day after blue-ballin’ me for two weeks?”

 “That is your surface. But it’s not your insides.”

“What? You become a shrink?”

“No. But I know you Hansol. I know the ribs and the meat of your story. I know anger doesn’t come that easily to you unless it’s something very, very deep. You can be dismissive and cruel but not angry. The way I wanted to run things was different from Paulo. He held onto all of you too closely. He couldn’t get stern with you. He protected all your feelings.”

“S’not true. He just didn’t wanna pull out our fuckin’ teeth with pliers when we did somethin’ stupid, or burn off our fingerprints.”

“Basil never stole again, did he?”

“I don’t care what Basil did.”

“But when Moo lost Hylands? Mr. Shafaee? Prerogative?”

“So? Who gives a fuck! You just shuffle the cards!”

“He shouldn’t have any teeth at all.”

“Fuck off. Auggie doesn’t need this shit, anyway.”

“The only thing I’m pointing out is that while Dots did think strategically, he never put his foot all the way down. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. And I didn’t agree. And now I have Hylands. Mr. Shaefaee exclusively tunnels our LSD, and I’ve got Prerogative in between my teeth, like a toothpick, Hansol. I’m not giving you anything. I’m done owing you.”

“Y’know what? Fuck you.”

“Once all this anger is out, maybe you could consider coming to work for me. I know what you’re capable of. I find impressiveness in you, things that no one else will, because—well—you’re a criminal.”

“You never gave a fuck about Dots. You twisted him up.”

“That is a whole other can of worms, Hansol. Don’t open it.”

“He did all the heavy-liftin’ for your sorry ass. Then you fuckin’ stabbed him in the back and took it all out from under him. You’re so damn corrupt. You owe us those fuckin’ territories, you ungrateful freak. I bet he would still be here, y’know? If you didn’t fuckin’ gut him like a fish.”

“Hansol, you don’t know anything about the conversation—”

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that! Vernon! Vernon! Not fuckin’ Hansol!”

“Well… Vernon… you weren’t there for our conversation.”

“You killed him.”

“Vernon—”

“You crushed him! And you took away the only fuckin’ person who actually fuckin’ cared about me! You just crushed him up and stole him from us like he was one of your bullshit drugs! He was the only person who thought I could do somethin’ other than this and then you pushed everything down and you fuckin’ ruined everybody’s life in this house!”

“Vernon, I never asked to leave.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“No. Paulo. He asked me to go. He didn’t want me there.”

“Bullshit.”

“He did, Hans—Vernon. I knew the ways we did things were different, but that didn’t mean I wanted to leave. I felt the same community you did. I know I’m fucking strange and a mess and I know I did things that were unfair but I was a free spirit, you see? When we were sucking air up our noses and punching each other to pieces, I never wanted it to end. You remember that night. How we had to hold each other. All the blood we leaked over that gas station sink. Then we ate those hot dogs, spilling mustard and ketchup and relish all over our shirts, before we started feeling the pain in our mouths and we swore we were angels. You knocked out three of my teeth and I had them filled with gold caps. I busted the eyebrow you wanted to get your piercing in so you had to pierce the other.

I still think about that night. But Paulo was furious. I didn’t understand how he could be so ginger and protective of you, but then I was getting reamed by the boy I fucking saved from another halfway house and tarps under bridges and picking scraps out of dumpsters. But it was because he was getting you steady. He was giving you responsibility and confidence and trust and all the fancy little dressings that parents are supposed to do, except you never got that. And I was bulldozing through his work. It got too much. I was too much. I had no place there anymore. I told him if I left, everything between us would change, and he said it already had.

You see, I saved him, but I never saved myself. And then the same thing happened to Paulo. He tried to save you. Get you steady. But then he’s a corpse lying beneath his own vomit in the upstairs bedroom of a trap house. So I ask this of you Chwe: if you see yourself staying in this scummy little world we have for ourselves, then you are still my competitor, and I cannot simply hand you anything. But if you want to leave, get away from all this, then I can help you. I will help get you out for Paulo’s sake. I will wire you money earned from your old territories. Not just some little lump. It’ll give you quite the boost. And you can cut it up with Auggie and Danny. But I understand if you don’t want the charity. That’s as far as I’m willing to go, alright? It’s a hefty choice. So think on it. Think about you.”

You returned to sitting on the stairs. It was too hot to stay outside, directly under the sun. The knapsack was creating a line of dampness down your back so you removed it, now flipping through Vernon’s stacked carabiner to keep yourself entertained. You only recognized two: one for his car and the other for his bachelor. There was a tiny silver key with an engrained number, 623, looking a bit scuffed, worn, as your thumb brushed across it.

Maybe for unlocking a suitcase. You weren’t sure.

From around the corner, there was a shuttering sound, and Vernon was suddenly striding up to you with a very blank expression.

“C’mon.” He gestured, limply raising his hand. “Let’s go. I’m gonna fuckin’ melt.”

“Okay—” you stood back up, flung the bag on, “—how did it go?”

“Tell you later.”

“Did you get to see the mural? It’s painted against the house.”

“No. Let’s go, okay?”

There was no room for patience in his stone-flat tone. You assumed the conversation hadn’t gone the way he wanted it to. As you followed him toward the empty front door, studying the rigidness in his sharp shoulders, you heard calm, sweeping footsteps from behind you. Jeonghan.

He placed his hand against the wall, missing chunks of plaster and running in dried paint. A wave. “Goodbye Clever Girl, Vernon.”

You didn’t say anything back, and Vernon certainly didn’t, either. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to. But in that moment, as Jeonghan’s palm embraced the fragile wall and his smile touched both sides of his cheeks, left in the house’s dust, rot, and sadness, he looked so perfectly at home. As though he weren’t standing in a boneyard.

You couldn’t say anything.

It was sticky inside the car. You opened the pink hydration drink and took several sips, huffing to Vernon if he wanted any, but he shook his head. The drive back to his apartment was long and silent. Cool air revving through the filters gradually stifled the heat. You unpeeled your bare thighs from the leather seat. Let the air hit them.

Closed your eyes and breathed.

When they opened again, you were rolling into the parking lot behind his building. Vernon didn’t shut the car off, the vibrations continuing to gently shake the vehicle. “Go inside, alright?” He slipped the appropriate key off the carabiner and handed it to you. “I’m gonna hang back a few minutes.”

You knew he wanted space, so you didn’t question him, instead accepting the key wordlessly and pulling up the knapsack from its hiding place at your feet.

“My clothes are full of sweat. Is it okay if I shower?”

“Do whatever the hell you want, PJ’s,” he sighed.

Vernon had the same white box as Moo sticking out his window, with a few brown dials and buttons that you squinted between. You couldn’t imagine him caring that much about the heat in his apartment considering how little time he spent there, and you wondered if he pulled this out from some cobwebby closet just for your comfort. After turning the unit on, you entered his washroom, plopping the knapsack down on the closed toilet lid before craning your neck over your shoulder, examining the rivulet of sweat travelling down the back of your old t-shirt.

You immediately peeled the fabric off, twisted the tight knobs in the shower, let the water spray.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that conversation, you couldn’t stop thinking, fingers brushing at your arms and tangling through your sopping hair. What kind of things had they discussed? What had made Vernon so crusted and folded-in? You were worried, but he never liked the suffocation.

Turning around, you let the cool water thrum like trenchant needles against your face, eyes squeezed shut and lips tucked in, sinking fully into the sensation of liquid rinsing the sun’s sweaty film away. Your fingers slid everywhere, swirling and rubbing, until the water began turning colder and colder and you knew it was time to get out. Fuck—you stood there, dripping all over the tiles—without a towel. When you cracked the washroom door open no more than a tentative sliver, about to shout Vernon’s name and pray he had finally come inside, you noticed a towel hung from the doorknob.

You quickly tugged it inside to pat yourself dry, then searched through the knapsack for a palm-sized tube of white lotion with a pleasant lactonic smell. Dressed in a fresh tank-top and airy shorts, you then flung the moistured towel over the shower bar and quietly padded out into the living room, where you found Vernon slumped deeply into the swallowing futon, arms crossed and legs spread desultorily. You stood behind him, eased your fingers into his knotted shoulders and squeezed. “How are you feeling?”

“He made it impossible for me,” Vernon hummed, tired. “I’m supposed to choose. ‘Course it’s a fuckin’ choice. It’s always a choice.”

“How do you mean?” Coming to sit across from him on the coffee table, you let him see the softness in your eyes. “What’s the choice?”

But he didn’t speak again. His gaze was an absent line drifting toward the windows and the grey industrial spots of city. It was taking everything inside you not to press him like he was dough underneath your kneading palms, and every beat of your heart was heavy. Please, you wanted to entreat, please tell me, let me in, let me help you, let me understand. What kind of choice? It felt scary. But you sat there quietly as the air conditioning purred, scraping at the underside of the coffee table, knowing that Vernon’s words always came to him and that he was so uniquely eloquent when it mattered.

You sighed, “can I help you right now? At all?”

His eyes flickered to you, and there was a sudden opening in their cloudiness to the true copper beneath. Then his lips twitched, gentle, leaning into a smile with dizzying prettiness.

“C’mere,” he rumbled, gesturing for you.

So you straddled his lap, sunk down, hands massaging his shoulders to realize their usual looseness. You missed his body so badly. You missed tracing his corded veins and letting your fingers glide along his sharp jaw and feeling the bulb of metal in his lip dig at your mouth. You missed touching his sooty hair, squeezing your arms around his elbow, nuzzling into his black tattoos, intoxicating yourself with his smell. Smoke and amber. He had been so distracted and you had been distracted with his distractedness.

His hands smoothed to your waist, gripped you hard.

You shivered.

And then he pulled your face in close to his. “You know I need you, baby,” he whispered, and every word tingled on your lips like a hundred blended spices. He kissed you, nudging his warm, soft mouth against yours. The heat was still there. Once lingering, now unfurling, as you pushed back, falling into the slippery lulls of tongue, teeth, breath, and rhythm. His hands scooped underneath your bum. You were wrapped around him in threads as he carried you over to his untouched bed, threw you down such that you bounced against the sheets tinged in old detergent.

“That wasn’t nice!” You pouted.

“Whoever said I was nice, Miss?” He replied, proceeding to crawl toward you like a sleek panther, his muscles lean and rolling. There were pulses in your abdomen upon watching and feeling him rub his lips against your ankle, up your shin to your knee, the dampness of a silk tongue licking slowly along your thigh as your hands shaped into fists and you forgot how to act human. He sat back, bracketing your waist. “Look a little fuzzy, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” you mewled, beginning to open your chest with air and pull the sheets into your nervous fingers. “What the heck was that?”

Vernon leaned over you, imposing, obstructing the sunny light with the edges of his body, his favourite gold chain dangling down, feathering in cold strokes along your collarbone the closer he hovered. “You don’t like when I taste you?” He was practically humming the sensual words into your hovering lips. Then the boy gripped your boiling face, pushed his thumbs into your mouth where they pressed against your ribbed teeth. “Taste yourself from me,” he whispered throatily, replacing his thumbs with his tongue, and your chest bloomed up, rubbing against his, as you welcomed the sudden slipperiness that filled your mouth. 

You were jelly. Liquid. Holding form on the bed. His hair was wrapped in between your fingers, and then your arms were hanging around his neck. Anything to keep his mouth on yours, his tongue thickly coating your tongue, tweaking cords in your body like a trained musician. You noticed his palm drifting, and then it engulfed your right breast over the tank-top, no sort of bra to blur the intimate, squeezing feeling. Suddenly, you were back in Kitty’s pale bedroom as the night turned everything deep blue, with Vernon licking your neck and rubbing circles to your nipples.

But this was different.

You needed more. It was terrifying, unfamiliar, but if you were going to make this moment with anyone then you would only allow him.

“Vernon,” came the shaky whisper as his clever tongue receded. He leaned back, allowing you to sit up, your eyes tracing the room.

“You okay?” Vernon asked, brushing some saliva off your chin, the edge of your flushed lips. “Wanna stop? It’s fine with me, yeah?”

If you spoke, it would break everything you built up. Taking in a long breath, you suddenly pinched your eyes shut and gripped the hem of the thin tank-top, beginning to peel it, inch after inch of skin exposing, burning, thrumming, but you kept going until the top was off your body and now a fabric lump discarded to the side. You were tingling, couldn’t open your eyes because what if Vernon was scowling or angry or disappointed or regretting everything—“I’m sorry,” you panicked, reaching for your top, trying to unfold it as your hands shook. “I screwed this up. I’m sorry.”

But then you blinked, and the shirt was fucking gone.

Vernon had thrown it away, somewhere unknown.

Fingers clasped your bare shoulders and you were being pressed back into the bed, the pillow plumping around your head. You tried to find the air. Instead, Vernon’s lips, your cheeks in his hands, a kiss that drew stars to the slates of your eyelids like chalk to a blackboard. He let you breathe while his kisses sunk lower. Something stupid and probably incoherent was on the tip of your tongue, but then you felt his mouth—that fucking delinquent mouth—drape itself onto one of your bare breasts and you hollered. The feeling was completely wet and smooth and comfortingly warm. Suction. As he squeezed his lips and slurped your nipple deep into his feverish mouth, you grasped at his hair like long grass sprigs. “Vernon! Oh my g-god!”

His hand curled around your other breast, kneaded it, then let your swollen nipple slip out from his mouth, dressed in silver threads of connecting, sordid spit. He sat back, gripped each breast, let his fingers dig as harshly as they needed while you squirmed and keened under him. “I waited so goddamn long to see these perfect tits of yours,” Vernon growled. “So don’t you dare fuckin’ tease me, you insufferable fuckin' girl.” He leaned down toward the breast untainted with his saliva. Your mind faded, surging between white vignettes and startling consciousness. Vernon pursed spit from his mouth, watched with leery eyes as it fell to your pert nipple, unable to contain himself from suddenly flicking and laving his tongue.

You squealed again, wrangled at his hair, panted. “I-I just, I didn’t think you would—I thoughttt—” he let his teeth run over your erect nipple, and a spike of sensitivity melted throughout your abdomen like warmed honey. “I always thought you wouldn’t like me.”

Your breasts remained secured and massaged underneath his calloused hands. Another hot kiss smudged your mouth, the feeling of fresh embers. “I would fuckin’ kill someone with my bare hands for you, lovely girl. What the fuck do you mean? You’re so beautiful.” He nudged you with a second kiss, reassurance and light. “N’ your tits fit so fuckin’ perfectly in my hands, baby. So, so soft in my mouth.”

“Don’t,” you giggled, losing your breath.

Your wet nipple was slipped between his fingers and suddenly there was a careful, sweet pinch that made your entire body delightfully careen.

“Hm? Don’t what?” Vernon murmured into your ear, the tune of his husky voice causing you to shiver, grasp onto him. “Don’t like when I play with your gorgeous tits, baby?” He pinched again, a little harder, and it stung. “Then what should I play with? Hm?” The ceiling began to swirl and wobble like a still pool of water after a rock breaks its surface. The tender backs of his fingers swept down your ribs, your tummy, reaching the drawstring on your cloth shorts. “Any suggestions?” And then his hand started to sink, slowly, sliding between your legs. But Vernon stopped for a moment to look into your eyes, which you could only imagine were embarrassingly glazed in pleasure. “What do you think?” He smiled, and it alighted your heart. “You don’t have to let me, okay? You can stop me. Yeah?”

This is real, you thought, your chest drilling, I can ask him to touch me, I can really fucking ask him to touch me. It’s not like that time. I trust him. So you swallowed, nodded, speaking in a runny, scared whisper. “I want to.”

He nodded back. “You want to, baby?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Okay. Fuck. C’mere then.”

Vernon sat against the wall, gestured for you to come between his legs. You crawled over, timid, thrilled, afraid, eager, and proceeded to get comfortable leaning back into his chest. He stiffened a little. You were right against his erection. Gosh—don’t think about that—don’t think about how big he is and how he might feel and how much he’s going to stretch you apart.

The way his hands moved were delicate, pulling apart the drawstring on your shorts, getting the hem nice and loose. He rubbed up and down the sensitive, shivering insides of your thighs, the grit on his fingertips threatening to make you a puddle. All those little imperfections you thought would disappoint him, turn him away from you—thick downy hairs and razor bumps and translucent creases in your skin—he didn’t seem to give a fuck about.

He nuzzled your ear. “You touch yourself?”

“What?”

Then he laughed, and it rumbled against your back. “With your fingers. Inside. Just so I know what you’re used to. That’s all.”

“Oh… um…” you didn’t want to answer, so you sat coyly for a minute, fishing the sheets into your hands, thinking. “Sometimes… I mean, only a few times with my fingers. If that means anything to you.”

Vernon nodded. “M’kay, that’s fine.” His inked arms suddenly wove around your waist, his muscles tightening and pressing into you. “I just wanna make sure you’re comfortable, PJ’s,” he murmured.

“I am,” you smiled. “A little nervous.”

“That’s normal. I don’t fault you. Just breathe. You don’t gotta worry much. I’ll make you feel really good. Really fuckin’ good. Okay?” He placed a lingering, soft kiss to the pounding vein in your neck.

Rolling out your shoulders, you went limp as best you could, letting your boyfriend take control. The sunlight outside was dimming. Clouds were pouring in. Large, fuzzy, dark clouds, like smeared ashes in the sky. Vernon was gentle with every movement, his large hand sliding underneath your shorts, dipping down over your pastel underwear. You fisted the cool bedsheets. Let him rub you with the rough flat of his textured palm. Bit your lip because you hadn’t realized how damn slippery and sensitive and aroused you were. The heat from his skin was a pressure. It made your head tingle.

“How’s that, princess?” Vernon murmured. “Feel alright?”

You didn’t want to speak. Just feel. Soak. Instead, you nodded.

Then his fingers started to prod. They curled and pushed gently, moving up and down the damp blotches on your underwear, figuring you out, getting a grasp for your anatomy without being too abruptly invasive.

His thumb pushed against you in just the right spot and you rolled against him, grabbing onto his knees without thought. Vernon smiled at your ear. “Does that feel good, baby?” He exercised the spot in thick, sweeping circles, drawing and drawing, letting you twitch, wriggle, and buck your hips the more he dug. “That’s your favourite spot, isn’t it?” He continued teasing into your burning ear, his voice rubbing through you, invoking desires you had always kept hidden. “I bet you always touch your clit, don’t you, princess? That feels the best, right? So sensitive.” Then two of his fingers slipped your sticky, uncomfortable panties to the side, softly poked at you, stroked the slimy wetness until it was wrapped between the digits. You turned immediately into his neck and huffed a big, deep breath.

Vernon laughed. “Fuckin’ feels good, yeah?” His fingers slid easily between your folds, made silky with arousal. The cold touch of his silver rings quickly warmed, and he nuzzled around your clit, squeezed a little. “Can feel you gettin’ fuckin’ wetter by the second. Hm? Gonna soak through your shorts, baby?”

You shook your head. Still didn’t want to use your voice.

He nibbled at the cartilage cusp of your ear; his words raspy as they slithered off his tongue. “Don’t wanna talk to me?” His entire hand shifted underneath the panties. A finger rubbed carefully at the slit where you leaked from like a broken faucet while his thumb tended to your overwhelmed clit, pushing, circling. “Afraid you’re gonna moan?” He dipped his finger inside you, shallow, just feeling, and you tensed, breathed hot, frustrated, needy air against his amber-scented neck. You felt his finger sink in a little deeper, closer to the knuckle. Your thighs somehow tilted further apart without you realizing. He was holding your throat, now.

Wouldn’t let your head squirm around as he groaned, “slutty fuckin’ girl, wants my fingers in her desperate, virgin cunt.” Pressure pushed through his warm, gripping hand to your beating throat, and your eyelids fluttered, the world ebbing with haze. Little by little, his index finger slid into your slit with a slight, creeping stretch, past his knuckle, stopping at his ring. You whined against his scarred palm, breathed in ragged, untrimmed pieces that were hot and damp. “You like that, baby girl?” The finger stroked you from the inside, hithering. His thumb pushed back on your clit. “Or is this too much for you? Just my fingers?” Vernon began to submerge in another, and the skin of your slit stung dully. “Jesus Christ. How are you gonna take my dick, then? Hm? I can’t split you in half, can I? Or are you such a brainless, dumb girl that you’ll let me? Huh? You gonna let me ruin your pussy, baby?”

The pressure lifted from your throat. Air surged in as you gasped, moaned, scraped down his hard, carved thighs. “Yes!” You gritted into sharp fragments. “I want you t-to—ff-fuck—it’s gonna c-come. I-I think—“ without a damn clue what you were babbling, you braced for the inevitable ripple, building like a shockwave.

But there was no ripple.

Vernon’s hand was gone from your shorts. A second later, he was pulling you back by the hair, then sliding his slimy fingers coated in your tasteful musk inside your own mouth. You couldn’t help but swallow, losing every thought you ever had, as his digits pushed deeper, making you choke.

“My face,” he breathed hotly against your ear, his voice tight and twisted in need. “You’ll cum on my face like a good fuckin’ girl, hm?” The fingers proceeded to pop out your mouth, but not without thick webs of your glistening spit following, your eyes widening at how erotic it was. “Take your shorts off, your panties,” Vernon ordered while nudging you off him, coming to his feet at the bedside, staring at you with an electrical heat. When you were moving too slowly, fingers too shaky, Vernon grabbed your tattooed shin in blatant impatience and roughly dragged you down the bed toward him.

You yelped, could do nothing but observe in a stupefying sense of shock and arousal as he grasped the shorts and panties in his deft, inked hands, peeled them off you with hunger until they were another lump on the floor alongside your discarded top. There you were, stripped to bareness of which there was nowhere to hide, sweating in his dishevelled bed, soiling his sheets with tangy liquids dripping down your thighs. Vernon’s fingers skimmed up to your knee. He wouldn’t stop staring, and his dark eyes seemed like gaping mouths that were drinking you in complete headiness.

Both your knees were in his hands.

Slowly, he began to spread your bent legs open, and you winced, chewed your lip to bruises, as the unfamiliar sensation of intimate exposure tendered you in its powerful grip. His gaze slipped down. You writhed a bit, looked but then didn’t look, looked again, as Vernon’s fingers brushed down the tops of your tremouring thighs. He pulled you a little more, had your soaking, bare centre gingerly meeting the bulge of his clothed erection.

Your forehead creased. The friction was slight yet delicious.

But he wouldn’t say anything. Vernon studied you wordlessly, perhaps confined in his own overlapping musings, much like you.

Still, you felt that flutter of emerging fear. “V-Vernon? Are—”

He dropped to his knees, and your mouth buttoned shut. Then his soft, nimble lips were dusting the interior of your right thigh with the kind of kisses that left invisible burn marks. Your head dropped into the sheets and his name slipped out in a wispy, quiet moan, meanwhile the room darkened into shadows from the swathing rain clouds collecting outside, in the heat.

 “God…” his breath tickled you. “Look at you, PJ’s…” his hands swept up your thighs, pushing them further apart with care, curiosity, eagerness. “Soakin’ my fuckin’ bed with your pretty cunt.” You felt his thumbs, settling down onto your slickened folds, and then he spread you open right there, right in front of his goddamn face that was and always had been way too beautiful for you to compute or handle.

You squirmed, toes curling in embarrassment because your body was gleefully responding in coursing thrums that turned you swollen, sticky, ready for him. “Gosh.” Your teeth grinded, and you started to laugh. “Why do you have to look so freaking intensely?” In a timid gesture, your legs began to close.

But Vernon peeled them back open in a heartbeat, almost flattening them to the bed, his scary strength never quite evaporating. “Fuck off, PJ’s,” he warned. His thumbs opened you again. “So, so fuckin’ pretty, sweetheart. You're fuckin' gorgeous. Look at how ready you are for me to taste you. To be inside you.”

The sheets dampened in your perspiring hands as Vernon used the pointed, strong tip of his tongue to lick at a glossy trail along the crease of your inner thigh. Suddenly, the spellbound boy nuzzled into you without hesitation, his nose pressed deep against your clit and his mouth opened, tongue dragging at you, letting everything slowly melt. You turned the sheets in circles around your fists, keened at the ceiling. What was that fucking feeling? What was it doing to you? Why was everything slipping away and numbing apart from the hot, oozing sensation of his heavy tongue tasting you? Again and again, his wet tongue swept, his hands unwavering in their grip.

“Oh, baby, you taste so fuckin’ good,” he slurred into your buttery folds, speaking against skin. “M’gonna fuckin’ die in this cunt.” His lips finally secured around your clit that his nose had kept nudging. Immediate suction overwhelmed you. Sloppy, vibrating with his throaty groans. You almost screamed at the feeling, squeezed your thighs around his head, but then worried you might possibly be suffocating him and let them shakily flutter back open. Vernon laughed against you. “Go ahead, beautiful. You can fuckin’ drown me, alright?” He spoke between thorough, flat licks to your needy clit that plastered you in his bubbly spit. “Let me die with your pussy in my mouth, won’t you?” The boy chuckled again, dug his blunt nails into the tissue of your thigh. “Or give me a new pair of your cute panties so I have somethin’ to jack myself off with when you’re not around.”

Your hips jerked up to his pierced mouth. “D-Don’t talk anymore, holy hell,” you gasped, floating between the coherency for proper words and the pleasure from his skilled tongue working your clit. “Y-You shouldn’t be in jail for drugs. It’s—yy-your—d-damn—” you succumbed, forgot everything, when he pressed his mouth firmly against you, let his tongue flick, faster, faster, until he settled into a pace that was solid and consistent, relentless in the stimulation. The pleasure was causing your back to bend off the mattress, dampness flush to the wrinkly sheets below. Glistering thighs gripped around his head, fingers scraping, while his tongue knew nothing but fast, euphoric taps to your clit that made your eyes reel backward.

And then you burst, screaming his name with the volume of splintering wood because you fucking doubted this was the first time his neighbours had heard it and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. In sensitive twitches, you started to relax, unfurl, thighs collapsing wide open. For a brief moment, you were worried about Vernon.

But then he popped up, grinning, chin and lips and nose wet.

“Your mouth,” you finally completed the lost thought circling your buzzing mind. “You should be in jail for your damn mouth…”

“You should come with me,” he breathed laboriously.

“No…” your eyelids were limp, weighted by unseen fingers pulling them down, “never...” However, something slippery started gentle laps that maneuvered your clit and dipped between your folds. You shuddered, wanted to curl up. “Vernon, I can’t.”

“Mmm…” he ignored you, spread you open once more, suckled lazily on your sore clit that still pulsed under his lips. Again, your body jerked, twitched, overrun with fire. “A little longer, baby,” Vernon mumbled. “Be good for me, okay? Relax for a few minutes.” He was being much slower, much slighter, his warm hand pressing into your gut while his thumb comfortingly stroked a fold in your tummy. Another lick. Another suckle. Another kiss. You felt the climb start over, but softer, while you breathed out his name, your chest reaching for more, more, more. “That’s it,” he whispered scratchily. “I’ve got you, baby, okay?” More kisses. More tender suckling. More lentamente licks. “M’gonna take care of you.” A finger pressing in, wriggling deep, squelching. “You can cum for me again, yeah? Can’t you, pretty girl? Let me feel your cunt around my fingers. Get your clit right on my tongue. Wanna feel you, baby. Taste you. Forever.”

Another ripple. The intensity wasn’t as sharp, but strong and clanging, rolling through you like summer thunder. You throbbed hotly against his tongue and clamped onto his thick finger. After a minute—spent faded, loosened, drifting—Vernon had kissed his way back up your body, and now his scuffed knuckles were stroking against your cheek in a tenderness meant only for you.

“I wish I didn’t know why you’re so unfairly good at that,” you huffed, letting a hand pull some dewy sweat off your forehead.

He grinned. “I only care about you.”

It was quiet for a moment. Amongst the humid stillness of your breaths, you heard a sudden spattering noise, and when you both looked toward the windows, rain had started washed the glass. Not an inch of sky was visible. Just very ruffled, grey valleys of clouds.

“Nature’s gotta run its course, huh?” Vernon sighed.

You nodded.

The boy looked back at you, his gaze lightened with sweetness, and brushed your chin. “If you don’t want to continue,” he whispered, “that’s okay. I’m not in a rush. And I don’t want you to feel like it’s a rush. As long as I can be around you. That’s all I need.”

While the rain pattered at the windows, you thought. Fingers then settled at the back of his neck, and you pulled him down, sinking into a kiss that tasted of your star-speckled orgasm.

Your hand brushed past his belt buckle to reach the popping tent in his pants. Gently, you squeezed him, ran your tongue along his bottom lip and nibbled his metal piercing. “I want to.”

Vernon twitched as you continued groping his pants. “Yeah?”

“I think we've both waited enough.”

He chuckled. You proceeded to watch him steadily as he stood on his knees, grasped the hem of his white t-shirt, removed it from his body that always passed by in flitters whenever you dreamt. Oddly enough, you had never wondered if Vernon was tattooed in places other than his arms. But there was a winding vine tattooed at his waist, and it split in different directions, coiling in delicately needled loops of ink that wound from his chest to patterns unknown down his back. You reached up, placing your palm flat to his pronounced clavicle, and then slowly dragged it down his sturdy, lean body, along the definitions in his abdomen. He let the shirt drop.

“Who gave you that?” You asked.

Vernon took off the fragile gold chain, let it spool onto his nightstand. “Snozz,” he said. “A long time ago. In a desert.”

“Hm. Why a vine?”

“Why not?” He smirked. “Start growin’ and don’t seem to stop.”

“Creeping vines used to grow all over the side of our house.”

“Lucky you,” Vernon said.

He started kissing you again, and your hands explored his torso, the smoothness of his back, where your fingertips occasionally bumped over logged scars or dried scratches. His body held so much—you felt it underneath the skin and muscle—and when you started tinkering with his belt you hoped he understood that your touch could be healing. He helped you unwind the belt from his waist, and unbutton his pants, and push the fabric down and off. It was difficult to stop kissing him and breathe. But you were under a spell, you were in love, and as he stood up to kick the boxers from his ankles, your dizzy head spun like a twinkling carousel.

You held your lip in your teeth at his exposure. There were some elder scars on his hard thighs, a few more tattoos that you couldn’t possibly pick apart because gravity was focused someplace else. Vernon crawled back over you. His lips found yours, two opposing magnets, and he kissed you with powerful depth.

You hand reached down to brush him. He was nothing but heat and firmness, so heavy in your clammy fingers, twitching, straining. Trying to remember what you had practiced before, you stroked him, still finding the motion awkward but noticing more rhythm and less nerves. “Am I doing okay?” You asked, hushed. He was getting slipperier in your grip.

“Mmm, yes, baby,” Vernon’s words flushed in a hot breath against your neck as he continued throbbing in your hand. “Such a good job.” You applied more pressure, and your thumb came to circle his sensitive, reddened tip that was beading out premature ejaculate. “Fuck,” he hissed, at last nudging your hand away and swallowing audibly. “M’too fuckin’ hard for that. I’ll bust.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.” He grabbed a pillow from his headboard, folded it in half, stuffed it politely behind your head. “Want me to show you somethin’ fuckin’ goddamn magical, sweetheart?” Vernon hummed.

“Okay,” you agreed, your smile loopy and crooked.

His arm braced beside your head. In between your bent, spread legs, he settled, and you felt yourself begin to wriggle and warm with anticipation as he grasped around the middle of his heavy erection. Suddenly, his smooth tip was rubbing against you, slippery in the gloss, and your cheeks pooled with so much heat that you swore they might sluice off your bones. Your arms fastened around his neck for support and closeness. He was biting his lip.

“What the fuck…” you whispered, watching, entranced. Vernon smirked, letting his tip catch your slit ever so slightly before it smeared up through your folds and nudged at your puffy clit. “That should be freaking illegal,” you whined, breathless. “It feels so good.” Going loose, your head pressed into the folded pillow, letting him continue to tease you, rub you, give you small slaps with the flat, hard base of his girth that tingled in a euphoric way you could not admit.

 “I fuckin’ love this,” Vernon said hoarsely. “Don’t even need to fuck you—can just tease you like this, yeah?” He chuckled, tapped his head against your clit again to make you pulse and writhe. “But you need to take it, don’t you?” He leaned closer to your face, rubbed circles into you with his tip until you were dizzy and flickering. “Tell me,” Vernon groaned across your parted mouth, hinged open and desperate. “Tell me you want my dick. Tell me how deep you want it inside your cunt. Tell me it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted.”

Your heart slammed. “I want it.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Use your big girl words.”

“I-I can’t say what you said…” your eyes stung with water.

“Why?” Vernon murmured. “You never shut up half the time.”

“Y’know… it’s too… dirty.”

He grinned, and his honey-brown eyes were sharp. “But I wanna hear you be dirty,” the boy urged. “What’s wrong with that?” His lips hovered over yours, and there was his tip again, pressing shallowly into your slit, just breaching. “I know how much you like to be good, but I want you to be bad for me, Pyjamas. Just for me.”

“I-I can’t,” you whined, sweltering under him as he turned blurrier.

“Yes, you can, baby.”

“Vernon.”

His mouth was damp against your ear. “You’re gonna fuckin’ say it to me. You can cry if you want to. But you’re gonna say it. Say you want my dick deep in your cunt, that all you want is for me to fuck you.”

You tucked back your tears. “I-I want your dick…” you swallowed, bit your cheek, huffed out, “deep inside my… cunt… and all I want is for you to…” a helpless, desperate, aching sniffle, “is for you to fuck me.”

He stroked the edge of your cheek. “Good girl.” Then Vernon was leaning over to his nightstand, a drawer pulled out, and he rifled around inside until a golden-coloured foil in a square shape was revealed. He tore a strip off the top with his teeth, spat it out, and removed a clear, limp condom. Your fingertips rubbed together as he rolled it on, stretched over his erection, knowing that this was really going to fucking happen. Then he was back over you, his eyes much softer. “I’ll be slow,” he said, brushing a small tear from your cheek. “It’ll sting and stretch the more I push in, but it shouldn’t hurt, and if it does, you need to tell me, baby, hm?” You nodded; butterflies alive in your gut. “I care about you so fuckin’ much, okay? I want this to feel good. It’ll always feel good for me but it’s different for you, so you need to communicate with me, yeah? I’m gonna be real gentle, baby.”

“Yes,” you squeaked, “I know. I know.”

He steadied over you. With your thighs spread open, legs hanging loose as possible, Vernon had enough room to operate. Your eyes closed, and you listened for the constant thrumming of raindrops dappling the windows, the distant thunder that followed forked, glittery lightning. But you were inside. Safe. With a man you loved. A man that cared. A man that was not used to being gentle, or slow, or delicate, when it came to sex, but understood how important you were and how little he mattered in this moment that was about pleasing you. Vernon began to push inside, opening you up inch by inch, his eyes creasing as he fought against his typical antics of rough, lusty, heavy slaps from his hips that broke bedposts and rendered him enough noise complaints to fill a book. You squeezed his arms.

“Okay?” Vernon asked.

“Yes,” you whined. “I’m stretching. It’s stinging.”

He nuzzled your cheek. “I know, baby. Breathe.”

A moment after the pause, and he resumed, pressing deeper into your insides. Your thighs started to tremble; the muscles ached. Vernon was pulsing inside you, to which you felt every vein and groove rubbing. Further, further, the sensation foreign, a bit uncomfortable. He was so hard. You sucked in your bottom lip and tried not to cry, but Vernon told you to communicate, so you scratched his shoulders and sniffled. “It’s a lot. It’s really a lot.” Pressure spread between your hips. “Are you there?”

Vernon kissed your forehead; let you burn his arms with your prickling nails. “Almost, okay? I know it’s a lot. But you’re takin’ it so, so fuckin’ well, baby. It’s gonna settle. It’ll start to feel good. I won’t hurt you.” A few minutes later, Vernon’s hips were clicking against yours. No more room was possible. You were stuffed and weeping, your head full of teased fuzz, while he kissed across your face over and over, his whispers like warm, tickling feathers. “Good girl, breathe. I’m there. No more.” And your tears started to dry up, revealing his sweet, flushed cheeks and foggy golden eyes. “Hey,” he chuckled, kissing your mouth. “You okay? Nothin’ hurts?”

“Okay,” you answered. “It feels weird.”

“I know.”

“But not to you. What’s it like?”

He shook his head. “Dude, I can’t be thinkin’ about that shit too much, or I’ll have you flat under me, poundin' you through the bed.”

“O-Oh,” you stuttered, licking your lips.

Vernon smiled, the edges dreamy and faint. “Don’t wanna break you just yet, huh? Later, maybe.” Ever so slightly, you felt his hips stir, grind, buck against you, and each time, little shockwaves echoed under your skin, more and more pleasurable. “Just wanna love you,” he whispered against the side of your mouth, cracked open, as his grinding developed more depth and groove, soft moans building in the seamy air. You heard him. The tears that had dried up were dampened over with new tears. Vernon had his knees bent on either side of you, his hips jutting in tender and deep, the angle allowing you to feel something unbeknownst, sensitive. “How’s that?” He rumbled into your ear. “Do you like it, sweetheart? How buried I am inside you?” More rutting. It felt desperate. Passionate. His tip was sinking into a cushy spot that took your voice away, filled your mouth with stones.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Vernon groaned. “This pretty cunt wraps around me so fuckin’ well.” He started to squeeze your chest, pinch and pluck at your sore nipples. When you touched the corner of your mouth, you realized it was runny in sappy drool, and you promptly decided to not give a fuck, curling your arms around him, urging him closer. “If you ever let anyone else inside you, I’ll fuckin' rip them apart. I’ll make sure there's nothin' left of them.” A little harder, he was fucking you a little harder, slippery, sunctiony, smacking noises filling the room, breaking between the raindrops. His bed was squeaking in tandem with every thrust, its legs scarring the floor, practically sanding it down.

Finally, you untangled the words in your throat. “Feels so fucking good,” you choked out, face stinging with tears. “I fucking love you.”

He slotted his mouth onto yours. “Tell me again.”

Another slow, thick, hard rut from his hips. You scratched his toned back, tearing at the skin. “I fucking love you, Vernon.” He was reaching that spot, pressing into it so deeply, over and over, kissing it.

“No,” he grunted. “Hansol. Tell me again. Fuck. Please.”

You swallowed, then fastened your fingers into his hair. “I fucking love you, Hansol.” He reared you especially deep at that moment, the veins of his erection pulsing inside you, pumping, pumping. “I’m so fucking in love with you. I need you. I fucking need you. Give it to me. Please.”

Everything happened so quickly. Your shoulder was digging into the wall, elbow cramped against the mattress, your leg stretched up, ankle resting off his shoulder. He held your waist, fingertips moulding at the skin, fucking you, fucking you, forcing himself deeper, sweat glimmering on his pronounced collarbone, leaking down his chest, his tattoos seemingly crawling. You were a whining, whimpering, gushing mess, hardly able to keep your head up or the drool from tipping over the lip of your mouth like a spout.

“O-Oh, ff-fuck—” Vernon’s throat was dewy, tight, his jaw hinging open. “O-Oh, fuck this sloppy fuckin’ cunt. You pretty slut. Take me. Take this fuckin’ big dick deep in your pussy.” Tears piped down your face. Your hand clawed at the wall you were being crushed into. “Wanted t’fuck you for so goddamn long. Feel your guts around me.” Your leg started slipping off his hard shoulder from the sweat. He grabbed you by the shin, hoisted it back, licked his tongue along your tattoo of bundled rye tied up with ribbon. “If I didn’t have this fuckin’ dumbass condom, I’d fill you up so much, PJ’s. I’d stuff this pretty womb of yours. N’ you’d take it so well, baby, wouldn’t you?” He was bulging up into the base of your gut whenever he thrusted, and you were going weak, losing senses. “Tell me you’d take it.”

“I-I’d take it!” You cried, head thumping the wall.

He shook his head. “I’d take it, Hansol.”

You spluttered out, “I’d take it, Hansol.”

There was finality in it. Vernon kept thrusting, and the pulses you felt from the inside were ringing through you. Another snap. Another hoarse scream, as you clenched, wept, buckled. Where were you? What was happening? Why was there so much dampness underneath your body? How did you suddenly come to feel overwhelmingly empty and cold? Was that a cloth? A warm, wet cloth rubbing over your skin? That felt solacing. Oh—that place was fucking sore and raw—but the cloth was so gentle and there were sweet kisses against your thighs. You were still tremoring. There was a fabric being slipped over your dizzy head. It smelled like fresh, crisp laundry after hanging outside all day on a peg line. Gosh—you loved that—it was a big sweatshirt, you thought. Swallowed you. Now there were arms, lovely arms with storybooks of tattoos wrapping around you. There were lips on your forehead, then some sweet juice being tilted into your dry mouth.

Wherever you were, whoever you were with, you weren’t afraid.

You were safe, adored, and cared for.

The rain continued to pour all throughout the evening and late into the night. You woke up once, unsure of the time, to black in the windows and stormy rumbling echoing outside. Vernon was sat on the futon in the darkness, a small square of white light positioned on his lap, illuminating his face and the photographs he was passing between, and you remembered his furrowed brow, pushed down. You wanted him beside you, but you were too tired and confused. Instead, your eyes fluttered once, twice, perhaps three or four times more, before everything faded away and you were asleep again, your boyfriend’s haloed face the last thing outlined in your mind.

By morning, you were brittle and dry. A line of paste had crusted down your chin. The bright air made your eyes stinging and tender. A bone somewhere in your left shoulder popped when you shifted a little ways up the bed. Your mouth was dehydrated. For a moment, you sat up, rubbing away at your eye and smearing around the tears, until your hand reached backward in search of your phone, only to feel something human.

“Fuck!” You jumped, gasping. “What the fuck, Vernon?”

He was sitting criss-crossed, a pillow propped behind his back. You began noticing the scent of cinnamon and stewed apples. There was a bowl in his hand. A plastic spoon in the other, lumped in sticky oatmeal. “You’re in my bed, dumbass,” he mumbled around the utensil.

You sighed, scraping a line of white substance off your bottom lip, rubbing it away between your fingers. Glancing back, you stared at his bare upper body, decorated in that beautiful creeping vine, a few bruises around his neck, like splashes of red wine. Some thin scratches. You suddenly stroked at the dark green sweatshirt stitched with yellow letters, saw your clothes folded at the very edge of the bed, moved your legs and felt a raw, lingering soreness between the hips. “We had sex… I had sex…” you turned around, stared at Vernon. “I’m not… wait—” peaking underneath the covers, you realized just how damn naked you were. “Oh, shit.” Then back at Vernon. Shyness spread throughout your body, hot and tingling.

“Somethin’ like that,” he muttered, beginning to spoon up more oatmeal, though he put the bowl onto his nightstand when you looked frozen in ice. “Feel okay, PJ’s?” Vernon asked, scooting closer to you. His hand brushed along your cheek, which was warm and lined with imprints of wrinkled bedsheets, before he rubbed the dried drool off your chin.

“I’m okay,” you breathed unsteadily, shifting away from his touch.

He frowned, his eyebrows sloping. “What’s wrong?”

“Um…” you tucked the sweatshirt under your bum, surrounded your lap with the puffed covers. “I just can’t believe that happened.”

Vernon kept frowning, eyes a bit shiny. “Why?”

“Well… it’s always seemed so far-fetched in my mind, I guess. I always thought you would… recoil, or get grossed out, or—”

“Grossed out?” He scoffed. “Am I fuckin’ thirteen?”

“No! I mean, like, you wouldn’t find me… attractive. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it that way. I just—I’ve never had the greatest self-esteem or confidence in my body—so it’s strange to me, still, that you could… feel that way about me. That’s it. That’s what I meant.”

Vernon’s tight shoulders relaxed, caving in. He scooted closer to you, and the knee of his black sweats brushed yours underneath the comforter. His eyes were filled with sweetness in the morning light, ashy curls of hair tickling his forehead. “Last night was the fuckin’ happiest moment of my life. Not ‘cause we fucked—I mean, that’s a great bonus, don’t get me wrong—but ‘cause you trusted me. Enough to let me see all a’ you, touch you, get close to you.” His mouth smoothed into a smile, a perfect line. “That’s what made me so fuckin’ happy, PJ’s. Your trust.” His fingers stroked playfully under your chin and you giggled. “My beautiful girl. N’ don’t turn away from me like that, okay? Scared me a little. Thought you regretted it.”

You nodded, tying knots into the sheets. “Sorry.”

He shrugged. “It’s okay.” Then his gaze flitted toward your clothes stacked a few feet away, and he leaned forward to pull them closer. “Need these? Probably make you feel a little comfier.”

Grabbing the shorts from the folded pile, you quickly yanked them under the bed and wrestled them on, meanwhile Vernon fell backward onto his pillow with his hands cupped over his eyes. You proceeded to squirm on top of him, wrap yourself around his warm body like a koala hugging a tree, breathe in deeply the scent of his skin, his hair. He squeezed you back, pressing his thick arms around you so tightly that you felt flattened. Laugher caught in your squished lungs, beating like giddy wings.

“O-Okay!” You squeaked. “Y’re crushing me!”

So he let go, and you puffed back up, an ear cozied against the warm spot of his bare chest where you could clearly hear and feel his beating heart. With a fingertip, you traced a tattooed vine along his pectoral muscle, breathed in, wanted to stay against him forever.

Time slipped by. Hunger reached you. There was an empty cup on his nightstand holding a small tinge of juice, and his emptied bowl of oatmeal. He must have noticed you staring. Vernon set his phone down, tilted his head. “Need food?”

“Yes,” you answered. “I think I slept through dinner.”

He laughed. “Kinda, yeah. I’ll fix you breakfast. Think I have some sesame bagels and cream cheese. You good with that? Maybe a yogurt.”

“I’ll take anything.”

While he sliced the bagel in half at the kitchen countertop, you glanced around the apartment. “Have you seen my knapsack?”

“In the washroom.”

“Too far,” you sighed, collapsing back into his bed.

Vernon made himself a bagel, too. “Okay, you gotta move to the futon or some shit,” he said. “Can’t stand crumbs in my bed.”

“I’m not a messy eater!”

“That’s what every fuckin’ messy eater says.” He snapped his fingers, gestured toward the coffee table. “Move your ass, beautiful.”

Your bare feet planted on the cool, scuffed floor, but when you tried standing up, a sore quiver ran down your thighs and fluttered between your hips, similar to overworking a muscle. You were like a mermaid learning to use their jellied land legs. Vernon smiled at you while setting down the plates at the coffee table, laughed, enjoyed your wobbling. “Gonna get over here today?”

“Shut up!” You barked. “I’m trying.”

“I see that,” he sighed, crossing his arms. “You’re lucky you can even stand. But, as it was your first n’ all, had to dial back a little.”

You huffed. “You’re doing a lot of talking and not a lot of helping.”

He raised his dark eyebrow notched with a piercing, lipped sarcastically, “oh, you want help? Hard to tell ‘cause you didn’t—”

“Okay, okay. Blah, blah. Yes, I would like help.”

Vernon smirked. Before you were ready, he had you swept up in his arms, and you clung to the fabric of the zombie t-shirt he’d slipped on. But he set you down very gingerly on the futon.

“There you go, Miss.”

Together, you ate breakfast, albeit the bagel tasted a bit stale, though you would have noticed it more if you weren’t so hungry and it wasn’t so deliciously slathered in cream cheese. You shovelled the cold vanilla yogurt into your mouth, then threw back some tangy pineapple juice, finished eating long before Vernon. After making him take your knapsack out from the washroom to update Ruby on your whereabouts with a text, you wondered if he would be willing to discuss what had happened last night.

“Hey,” you murmured, petting down the back of his head after he finished eating. “Maybe you don’t wanna talk about it lots, and I get that, but I just gotta know even a little about what happened with Jeonghan.”

Vernon sighed, scraping his spoon around the empty cup of yogurt, tonguing against his inner cheek. “He didn’t give me what I asked for,” he announced in a large breath, shrugging. “Made it some stupid choice.”

Your hand settled atop his wrist, thumb drawing circles to his skin, and he finally stopped dragging the spoon. “What’s the choice?” The air was very still as your question drifted apart into pieces.

Whatever the choice was, it seemed to make Vernon stiff and reproachful, his eyes steadied on the coffee table, hardened. You didn’t push. Just waited in the stillness.

He then leaned forward, putting down the empty yogurt, leaving the plastic spoon sticking out. Vernon faced you, but his gaze didn’t connect, and it cut somewhere distant and unreachable to you. “It’s some moral bullshit, Pyjamas. Either I’m his charity case that got away off his money, or I’m his freakin’ competition and it’ll always stay that way. He told me to choose, think about it. Like he’s so high n’ mighty and not some stupid, fucked up kid at heart, like the rest of us. Smug asshole.”

Your lips pressed together. “He’s going to pay you off?”

“He said he would, if I leave this all behind.”

“Dealing? He doesn’t want you to deal?”

His words hit a wall and Vernon was within another one of his silent, internal conversations, leaving you to study the faint contortions and colours that passed along his face. You had grabbed his wrist tighter, thinking about something he had mentioned before—not wanting to be nothing, slipping back into nothingness, having nothing—and you realized he didn’t know how to place himself inside your trivial society. The things you dealt with were not familiar to him, and vice versa. Maybe you were the outstretched branch reaching between the worlds, a place to cross over, but you didn’t know if Vernon knew that, if he wanted that. It stoked conflict in your belly. But damn it—it wasn’t about you—and that was hard to swallow.

Your tight grip softened. “It’s a big choice.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“But not one you have to make right now. Right?”

“Yeah,” he repeated himself.

“So don’t make it,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around his elbow, curling close beside him, cheek nudging his shoulder. “Let’s just sit.”

Around evening, Vernon drove you home. The rain had cooled away much of the slick heat, and small street puddles still reflected the cloudy sky in potholes and dips. It was Sunday and tomorrow was another work week and greedy hours away from Vernon. After last night, you felt more tethered to him than ever before, but you threw back the emotions like a tart shot of alcohol and put on a flaky, thin smile. He had enough to think about. Vernon helped you out the car by offering a hand, which you held onto carefully yet firmly, not wanting to let go, feel him slip away into the pastel summer, but understanding your paths couldn’t always overlap.

“Alright,” you sighed. “Text me tomorrow?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

Before you drifted away, your fingers brushing down the scars of his warm palm, a feathery sensation tickled your throat. Should you say it? You hadn’t talked about it at all. Had it been something momentous? Or was it forever? You hesitated at first, but the tickle got stronger, and Vernon had his index finger wrapped around yours.

“Um… okay. Later. I love you.”

The words made your throat hot and you wanted to fling around, disappear inside the building before he could say anything—or not say anything—and you felt your body already begin to pull away.

Stamp up the cobbled walkway in heavy steps. Breaths getting tangled in your chest. He hadn’t said it back.

Fuck. He hadn’t said it back.

It was momentous, wasn’t it?

He wasn’t going to cross the branch.

Even though you weren’t in the mood to go, you decided to suck it up and attend Soonyoung’s going-away party. He was leaving, after all. And he had been excitedly mentioning it during your shifts together. You weren’t sure if anyone else was bringing gifts—you didn’t really know anybody else there—but you bought one, anyway: a new ballcap in his favourite colourway, purple and red, with the tag still freshly hanging off. It would have been nice to have someone else there with you. Ruby was on another excursion for work. Tara heard that they were going to start releasing call-backs for Catherine Love interviews, and she was too anxious to leave her house. Lara had gotten mono and was out sick for an entire week.

You waited patiently at the doorstep to Soonyoung’s building, staring through the glass door at the tiny lobby area; a wall with silver mailboxes and a dresser scattered in abandoned pamphlets, until you noticed someone inside swagger jauntily down a staircase.

“Damn. Finally here, huh?” Soonyoung said, opening the door.

“Sorry! Didn’t mean to be so late. I took the bus.” Inside, the building air felt somewhat damp, smelled like old paper, the walls faded, everything wooden or carpeted. “I brought you something, by the way,” you added, raising up the unassuming brown bag.

“Aw, you didn’t have to do that!” Soonyoung smiled, throwing an arm around your shoulders for a moment, creating a wind of his spicy, vanilla-noted cologne as he squeezed you. “Thanks, though.”

You followed after him up a winding staircase.

“The bus, you said?” Soonyoung questioned, tossing you a look. “I thought maybe you would get a drive from Mr. Bad Boy?” He stopped on the top floor, where you continued down a long hallway with robust, dark wooden doors on either side.

Different doormats passed by you. We Have Cats! Check Your Vibe Before You Come Inside. Stop Throwing My Packages at The Door. Welcome Home! If You Find Yourself Standing Here, You Should Probably Go Away.

“Uh, no, not today,” you answered, smiling smally. For once, Soonyoung seemed like he wanted to ask instead of blathering about his own issues, but you wouldn’t allow it. “Let’s go inside. I’m excited!”

His apartment was much nicer than you were expecting. It was an open-concept, somewhat rustic, with a ceiling that sloped upward and had beautiful, smooth logs of maple from which he draped soft yellow lights. His kitchen was spacious. Wide countertops organized in drink stations and snack bowls, stainless steel appliances, a glass cabinet just for wine bottles.

Numerous people mingled in the heart of the living room. The music was noticeable but not particularly loud. Maybe this would be okay.

“This is really nice, Soonyoung!” You complimented, setting your brown bag in between bowls of sourdough pretzels and cheese puffs, while he filled a blue glass with tap water that he handed off to you.

“Everyone says that. And with a lot of surprise, too. I think they expect me to live in a cardboard box or something.” He shrugged.

“Maybe you give off a cardboard box vibe.”

“Can’t fight it, right?”

A shallow set of steps slightly elevated the kitchen above the living room. Soonyoung had always blabbered names, and somehow, you were able to put some of those names to faces just by inspecting the crowd and their innate descriptors.

You sipped from the water. “Want to see your gift?”

“Fuck yeah I do,” Soonyoung chuckled. He pulled the brown bag toward him, carefully removed the ballcap that was concealed in an opaque fibre cover. You squeezed the glass tighter as Soonyoung slid the fibre off the hat, his slanted eyes alight, mouth softly gasping. “Woah! Nice pick!” He reached over to punch your shoulder, but it was gentle. Soonyoung brushed through his ashy blonde hair a few times, smoothing it backward. It was longer now, enough to curl at his ears. “Does it look good?” The boy asked while fitting the ballcap on backward, the tag dangling behind his head.

“Yeah, it looks great. Fits you really well, too.”

“I’ll have to go look in a mirror. Hit some poses. Uh—” he gestured around before walking off, “—make yourself at home. Fashion up a drank or get some snacks on a plate, there. Whatevs. Thanks for the gift!”

Once Soonyoung was gone, you were alone in the polished kitchen, holding the glass of water snuggly to your chest and watching the collected groups in the living room shift. Everyone seemed to know each other. You wanted to move, to involve yourself, to be that person who effortlessly sews their way into a group and becomes part of the seam. But you had never been good at doing that. It made you long for Vernon, who could talk to just about anybody like he knew them for years, because he didn’t care what they might think.

As you glanced between the snacks, unfocused, someone suddenly emerged at the kitchen countertop, standing across from you. He paused, perusing his options, and then ladled some red punch into a plastic cup.

“Hey,” you said, forced.

He went back into the bowl to ladle in a lemon slice and more ice cubes, which rattled inside his drink. “Hey,” he responded. His smile was warm, curled at the edges, and you thought he was a good place to start.

“Uh, I just got here. What’s the punch?”

“It’s Jungle Juice. Got some vodka, white rum, pink lemonade, and I think there might be another juice in there. Can’t remember.” He brought the cup to his mouth, tilted in some liquid. “Tasty, though!”

You nodded. “I’ll try some.” Not wanting him to walk away and leave you lonesome in the kitchen, you pinned him down with another question while mixing the concoction with the ladle. “What’s your name?”

“Josh.” He watched you for a moment, his eyes large and dewy, like melted, black jewels. “Are you chasing it with water?” He then laughed.

“Oh, no! Soonyoung handed this to me. Guess I looked super thirsty or something? Or he thinks I’m an alcoholic. Who knows.”

As you filled a plastic cup with a full ladle of punch, making sure to avoid the citrus slices, Josh laughed. It was delicate. A man could have a delicate laugh? Who knew.  “Soons might be the alcoholic.” “How do you know him?”

“I play recreational volleyball at Cumberland. He was part of our team for a few months, and he was actually pretty good. Saved us from a few losing streaks. A couple of us here are from the team, actually,” Josh said, turning around to glean the room briefly. “There’s Maddy, down there, with the braid. And Olive is here, too. She’s always going to the damn washroom so we tease her. There’s Seungkwan. Yeah. Anyway. It's a lot of fun.” He turned back to you, adjusted the cup to his other hand. “You like volleyball?”

You hadn’t tasted your drink yet, and the condensation from the ice was chilly but welcomed against your palm. “Well, I’m not sure. I played in high school. Because of the gym curriculum. I wasn’t great but I wasn’t awful.” Finally, you sipped from it, and tried not to make a bitter face.

Josh nodded. “Well, we’re always looking for new players ‘cause sometimes things shuffle around a lot. It’s fun. Really. And ‘cause it’s recreational, it’s not all that stressful. Cumberland. If you’re interested.”

“Cumberland. Got it,” you replied, trying to mirror his perfect curly smile that was so friendly but immediately gave up. “Is it all year ‘round?”

“Our team specifically plays in the summer and fall. But there’s multiple teams, so your options are wide. But—obviously—I would prefer it if you wanted to play with us.” Josh laughed again, tracing back a loose frond of chocolate hair that slipped down into his eyes. “No pressure. How do you know Soonyoung? Can’t say that I’ve seen you around before.”

“Co-workers,” you said, “at Common Cents.”

“Oh, shoot! That’s you? Okay, I think Soonyoung might have dropped your name a few times.” Josh placed his drink down, let his hands rest on the reflective countertop. “Said you were dating this mysterious, dreamy bad boy with coarse manners. I think he was a little jealous.”

You didn’t say anything.

He tapped the counter with a fingertip. “Gosh… what was his name... something with… Vernon, right? Weird but I actually know of him in a roundabout way, ‘cause Maddy used to buy weed off his frienddd…” he paused, reaching into the corners of his memory, eyes searching. “Dots? I think? This was a while ago, though. Yeah. Dots. Wonder why he was called that. I don’t really have a nickname. Just Josh, Joshy. Nothing cool.”

“Right,” you answered breathlessly, noticing a tightness pulling your chest into a confined box. The drink was trembling a bit in your hand, so you placed it down, pushed it away. “Where’s the washroom?”

Josh pointed to a corridor beside the flatscreen television. “Down there. Door on the right is Soonyoung’s bedroom, though.”

“Thanks,” you nodded, excusing yourself.

In a hurry, you were slipping down the dark corridor, immediately pressing into the washroom, not bothering to check if it was in use. But the door gave way and you quickly closed, locked it, taking a moment to pace in confused circles, passing back and forth across the sink mirror. The truth was, Vernon hadn’t texted you like he said he would. And you didn’t text him because you were so afraid that you biffed it all up by telling the boy you loved him. It probably made his choice easy. He probably told Jeonghan what he wanted to do already. You were on the curb with your bags. A week had passed. Nothing. Worry made you sick, but then realism grounded you, and you had been fighting between the two each day, unsure, afraid.

To calm down, you washed your hands. Let the cool, surging water gush between your fingers and create pools in your overheated palms. The liquid soap had a sweet melon scent. It was inside a fancy, stone bottle.

You were not going to be the anxious girl who hid inside a damn washroom, fretting, letting the time slowly bleed into wasted, uncollectable whorls. So you dried your hands off, brushed down your shirt, and walked back into the buzzing living room with a false sense of stillness, attempting to spot Josh with his volleyball crew or Soonyoung in his flashy hat.

But they were together, standing by a window housing a neat storage system of what you assumed were vinyls. One was rested flat against the window. You approached them, and were quickly acquainted with Maddy, Olive, and Seungkwan. Mostly, you listened to them talk, because their words flowed and bounced off each other so smoothly that your intervention felt unnecessary. They spoke of such normal things. Maddy was going to a bridal shower. Olive said she was taking a summer course on Ancient Greece, the Myceneans. Seungkwan wanted to go bowling but everyone in the group groaned, grumbling about how terrible they were at the game.

Sometimes you added a comment, laughed along with their jokes that weren’t particularly funny to an outsider but made them squawk, shriek, and slap each other’s arms. At times, they were curious about you, listening to your awkward anecdotes that seemed fitting in the moment, but rushing messily through the details in case they turned bored. It felt right. This was what people did and this was how friends were made and how you got involved. But, somehow, a wall was there, an invisible wall that you might not be able to press against or breathe on to see the spreading warmth, but still noticed. Perhaps it was pessimism, the thought that you were just a passing face through a glaring window, but these weren’t your people.

It could be that Josh, Maddy, Olive, and Seungkwan were supposed to be fleeting. You were never meant to understand their jokes, or tell the perfect story that they related to, or collect all their numbers and keep them close, hoping you had made enough of an impact for them to text you—wanna get a drink? Wanna get breakfast? Wanna come to a movie? Wanna join our next game?

That was okay.

Breathe. It was all okay.

Soonyoung’s party ended right before midnight. Everyone trickled out in groups, and he saw each down the staircase, through the front door.

You were amongst the last to leave. Alongside another girl, you stayed behind to help Soonyoung clean up, trashing plastic cups into a garbage bag, locking unemptied snacks inside fresh containers, throwing beer and soda cans into his recycling under the kitchen sink. Through mild conversation, you realized the girl helping was his cousin, staying over to help him pack up his things and make the move. “So he doesn’t forget anything,” she sighed heavily, shoving a sushi tray into her glimmery garbage bag.

Soonyoung hugged you before you left. He was a little drunk off the flavourful punch and it lingered faintly on his breath. “M’gonna miss you, kiddo,” he mumbled, leaning on you. “Y’re a freakin’ kick ass co-worker.”

Your fingers pushed into his shoulder blades. “So you are.”

“I’ll come visit. All my pals are here.” He pulled back. His hands were thick and warm, grabbing you by the arms, shaking you once, his eyes seeming blurry but focused. “N’listen. Don’t take shit from Patsy, okay? Or from anybody.” His hat was just about slanting off his blonde head. “You can get a little rough with the regulars. They always come back. Huh?”

A stone sat in your throat. The air was suddenly dry, stinging.

You nodded, promised him, “I won’t,” in a quivery voice.

Gosh, you were gonna miss Soonyoung. Why did things have to change just when they felt settled? He said goodnight, waved you off.

Outside in the dull heat of late July, you thought about calling a ride service. The trip to Soonyoung’s building was long and the specific bus you needed to get back home didn’t come frequently. You stood on the final step of the brick building, in between luscious, plump bushes, staring at the map on your phone. From somewhere down the street, you heard laughter.

You stepped onto the sidewalk.

The Camry was parked under a street lamp. Vernon was there, leaned against its side as usual, speaking to a girl with a braided ponytail that resembled the friend from Josh’s volleyball team, Maddy.

Anxiety and anger and confusion fizzled in your body, hot then cool, and back to hot again. Was he supposed to be her ride? Why didn’t she go home with Josh and the others? Did he know you were here? You were tempted to slink away down the shadows of the street, staying close to the frilly bushes until you got around the corner. But the longer you stood and watched them converse so cordially, Soonyoung’s pink, round face placed together in your mind like pieces of a tiled mosaic. No. Go forward.

You got closer, passing under the yellow orbs lighting up the sidewalk, watched Maddy reach out and squeeze Vernon’s shoulder.

She must have heard your stamping footsteps, because she looked your way with a smile that dropped slightly, but recovered. To be fair, you weren’t really upset at her.

She didn’t know your history with Vernon. At least, you thought.

“What are you guys chatting about?” You interrupted, but kept the fiery line of your gaze nailed to Vernon as to avoid scalding Maddy. He didn’t say anything, but stared at you deeply, so damn deeply, that you felt a pulse ripple inside you. It was staggering, disorientating, and you almost touched the cold edge of his car for balance as the night dragged in dizziness.

Maddy stepped away from him, her hands tucked politely at her abdomen. “Oh, we kinda know each other. Long story. I think.” She then pointed down the street, toward another similar looking building. “I live right there, actually. We were just talking about how I moved.”

“Vernon?” You asked.

He shrugged. “What she said.”

God—he was so infuriating—you wanted to take his beautifully featured face that you had missed terribly throughout the week and shove it against the car window. You twitched in anger. “Okay. Night.”

No, you couldn’t handle seeing him.

Once you started to walk away, you hoped, prayed, to feel a hand on your hand, preferably a tattooed hand with tough scars, a hand that had rubbed patterns across your back just like it had tightened around your fragile throat and stroked you from the inside.

But you felt nothing.

And it only forced you to stalk faster and faster, fingers wound up into balls. You rounded the corner, marched up to the empty bus stop placed along the quiet, residential street, sat down on the bench and inhaled the sticky, sweet smell of lilacs shedding behind you.

The moon was thin, a crescent that looked easily breakable. You craned your neck to stare at its gentle glow until someone had slid onto the bench, right next to you.

Husky amber melanged with the lilac.

Neither of you spoke for a few minutes.

Vernon opened his mouth, took in a breath.

“Shut up,” you hissed. “Don’t freaking talk to me.” When you looked his way, he seemed calm and expectant of your anger. “I told you I loved you, you—you take my virginity—or whatever the fucking fuck you want to call it, and then you don’t contact me for a week. Now, you show up down the street of Soonyoung’s going-away party, and you don’t even fucking care that I was there. You’re impossible Vernon. You’re so impossible.” Your arms were folded, squeezing yourself for comfort. “That is so not boyfriend of you. I don’t know what do anymore. Most people don’t have fucking drug dealers for boyfriends. They have boring boyfriends. At least with sense.”

He stayed silent. Your foot bobbed up and down.

After another minute went by, you sighed. “Thanks for the talk.”

Vernon started to smile. “Well, you said don’t talk to you.”

You looked at him again, going stiff.

He raised his eyebrows. “So, can I talk to you, Miss? Officially?”

“Stop calling me Miss! I don’t like it!”

Again, he was quiet, his lips tightened but grinning.

You huffed, annoyed, sinking defeatedly down the bench with your legs sticking out. “Fine, fine, whatever. Talk. You can officially talk to me. I should freaking slap you.” Your finger lurched at him. “Don’t turn that into a dirty joke, either. Or I will really slap you. For real. And don’t turn that into a joke. Don’t turn anything I’m saying into a joke because I’m so—”

He stood up. Grasped you by the hand. In a swift tug, he pulled you up from your slouching, brooding seat, and you found your body tucked close to his, the late, fragrant heat warm around you, melting you both together. His hand was gentle, stroking carefully along the curve of your face as though he were touching something thin and fragile. Instinctually, you pushed into the affection, your eyes beginning to close just to feel him more.

“I’m no good for you,” Vernon murmured.

Your eyes shot back open. His closeness wasn’t a memory anymore, nor the tenderness faint but full in his gaze, and you wanted to stitch your body to his so he could never leave. “Well, it’s just that I’m mad, but…”

“I’ve given Jeonghan’s choice some more thought. I think I know what I might do. I think.” His hands gripped your waist, smoothed along the fabric of your shirt to grasp your lower back, push you closer against him.

“Oh… that’s good. Um, yeah.” You didn’t want to know. “Vernon, I know that I’m upset. I still am. But you are good for me. Just because something doesn’t always feel good doesn’t mean it’s not good. Maybe I scared you a bit when I said it. Maybe it was supposed to stay inside that moment at your place and not go anywhere else. I just—I want you to be ready to say it, and say it sincerely—not feel forced for my sake. So, I guess I’m glad you didn’t say it. But we should have talked about it.” Your hands were resting against his chest, flat and feeling his heartbeat.

“PJ’s…” he said, and the way it caught deeply in his throat made your knees stupidly weak, spaghetti-like. “Come with me, okay?”

So you followed behind him, fingers wrapped in his, returning around the corner to his car parked underneath the foggy lamp. He opened the backdoor. You climbed inside first, and he slid in after you, tugging the door shut.

Everything was so still and silent. The leather buckled and squeaked when you climbed onto his lap. Your breathing was layered in the minty air as his hands drifted up the tingling bareness of your thighs, squeezing. The small, slick, suctioning noises of your intimate kissing was like quiet water droplets. His fingers undid the buttons on your shorts. Then his warm hand was down your underwear, softly feeling around your sticky, flooding centre, massaging between your folds, and pressing into you. His fingers made you gasp and twitch, moan against his ear, burn for more, until your clothes were useless piles sitting abandoned on the leather or fallen to the carpet floors under the backseat. His hands were spread flat to your hips, guiding you to move along the thick shaft of his hard, aching length. Not inside. Just feeling the skin to skin. Anticipating. Knowing. You lubricated him more with every movement. Breathed hard and heavy into his ear. Listened to the wet noises of him slipping between you. Right before you started sinking down, he held your face as opposed to your hips, and his eyes were full of you like a golden, reflective lake.

“I love you,” Vernon said, his thumbs running across your fleshy, hot cheeks. “I fuckin’ love you, okay? N’ I’m sorry I wimped out and couldn’t say it back, even when I knew how much you wanted to hear it. But it fuckin' scares me. I never thought it would but it does.”

You rested your forehead against his. “It scares me, too.”

He chuckled. “Guess you’re not as wimpy as me, huh?”

You smiled, let your thighs fall wider apart so that his tip brushed along the side of your folds, hugged him close. “I just need you. That’s all.”

Vernon took his length back into his hand, began to gently coax himself inside your heat, open and warm and waiting. “I need you, too, baby.”

Together, you went back to your apartment. Vernon took a hot shower while you laid in bed, his maroon sweatshirt draped across your lap, your fingertips rubbing at some of its pilling. You checked emails on your phone, gazing between notifications for old, free subscriptions you no longer cared about—Learning to Budget! Are You Still Interested in Building a Stellar Website? Check Out These Unclaimed Scholarships!—until your thumb paused over something unfamiliar. You sat up, opened the professional email, hardly read an ounce of text until the very bottom, where an electronic signature was twinkling at you.

If you are interested in proceeding with an interview for this position, please contact [email protected] for confirmation and further inquiry.

Small, excited throbs filled your veins. You looked around the room for someone to share your energy with, but it was just you, shaking on the bed, as you processed what had happened. Suddenly, you heard a thumping noise inside the walls, and you knew Vernon had just turned off the knobs for the shower. He came inside your bedroom a few minutes later, rubbing a hand towel from the toiletries closet against his damp, springy hair, bringing in with him a very clean, pleasant smell. You had the phone screen turned into your chest, hidden. The syllables were on your lips but wouldn’t form.

Vernon looked back at you, glanced up and down. “You good?”

“Something just happened,” you managed to exhale.

He squished the hand towel in his lap. “ And what’s that?”

You peeled the phone away from your chest, stared at the email again just to make sure you weren’t hallucinatory and that the words hadn’t morphed, before you handed the device to Vernon. He took the phone, leaned forward with elbows on his knees, and threw the white towel over his shoulder. You tried not to squirm around as he read the tiny printed information which he zoomed in to see better. Once he got to the end, he sat up again, nodded satisfactorily, and gave the phone back to you.

“Well?” You engaged. “Isn’t that… I don’t know? Freaking crazy?”

“Is it? You’re a talented girl.”

“My resume was hardly anything special or stand-outish.” You looked at the email again, smiling. “Maybe it was my cover letter?”

“Who knows, baby. Good news, though.”

For a moment, you wanted to message Tara, but she hadn’t texted you and it didn’t seem appropriate to flaunt the email to her when you weren’t sure if she had received one herself. So you let the phone clatter onto your nightstand. Instead, you crawled over to Vernon and threw your arms around his shoulders, breathing in the mild soapiness of the washed shampoo lingering in his damp hair.

“I have to thank you, ‘cause you motivated me to do it,” you hummed, closing your eyes, hugging him hard.

He said nothing, but grabbed onto your wrist and squeezed.

TWO MONTHS AGO.

You were sitting in a loungeroom at the Skyline. Several people were dispersed throughout the space. Some occupied the leather L-shaped sofa and unwrapped complementary truffles from the potter’s bowl on the coffee table. Others hovered by the countertop, sipping at teas whose soothing fragrance, a bit of rosehip and lavender, remedied the nerves. You were sitting on a stool at the island. The surface was clean, white marble, reflecting the light fixture overhead like still cream. A very small part of you felt prepared. However, the bigger, much more prominent part wanted to hurl into the large palm plant potted in the corner.

Tara was called in ten minutes ago. She left behind a teacup painted with bluebells, still steaming, and you pulled it closer. The warmth soaked through the porcelain and into your palms.

Reminded you to be calm, be steady.

Different strings of quiet conversation zipped through one ear and out the other. No one in the room dressed or looked alike. Everyone seemed to have a unique story. You could see it in how they styled their hair, where they placed their jewelry, the colours draping their bodies, hear it in the particular linguistics that flavoured their sentences. What kind of story did you portray—if any story at all?

Hey Catherine, I’ve spent nearly a year of my life falling in love with a drug dealer, and before that, I was lost, drifting, and probably depressed because my degree wasn’t what I thought it would be and I was too chicken to make a change! Don’t I seem like the perfect candidate to be your assistant?

Really, you didn’t know who she was looking for.

Maybe that would make you more unique than anyone.

The lounge door pushed open.

In walked Tara, her cream pantsuit swaying around her like weightless water. She seemed to have more vibrance in her skin than when she left. The same man who escorted everyone from the building’s ground lobby to the twentieth-floor lounge room was keeping the door held open with his back. Using a thin, white stylus, he made a calculated swipe at the tablet held against his arm, then looked up placidly and called, “Mariam Kestle?”

A woman stood from the couch. She quickly cleaned her fingertips of chocolatey truffle, dabbed at her lipstick, and hurried toward the door.

“Good luck!” Everyone sang collectively, though it sounded thicker than when Tara had gone for her interview twenty minutes ago.

She wasn’t allowed to linger in the loungeroom. You continued grasping her teacup, much cooler now, as she picked up her purse from the stool beside yours. “Don’t stress,” she whispered, her pearl-powdered eyes quickly meeting yours. “It’s easy.” And then she was gone, leaving behind a cloud of elegant, flowery perfume she had been saving for the occasion.

Yes, easy because she was more practiced than a heart surgeon! But you clung onto her words regardless, daring to hope.

Over the hour, nearly everybody in the loungeroom had gone, person after person returning to collect their things. It got quieter, and somehow heavier, each time someone disappeared. You moved to the bare sofa, spoke a little with an older man in a very colourful dress shirt full of popping nineties-esque shapes, until the door opened for the umpteenth time and the attendant finally, finally said your name.

The woman you passed on your way out seemed crestfallen. You tried hard, scrubbing and scrubbing, to erase the imagery of her downturned lips, distracted eyes, and solemn expression on your way toward Catherine’s office. When the attendant knocked, waiting for his superior’s response, you caught the puzzled look he shot your way, and just as she called out, you nearly grabbed his presumptuous little tablet and broke it over your knee.

“Good luck,” he said in his tinny, snotty voice.

You couldn’t help it—your face twisted in annoyance. “Keep it.”

Her office was bright, like it was founded on biblical firmament, and sunlight stung through the windows, rendering you bleary-eyed.

She stood up, reached across her desk. “Hello, there.”

You squinted, pawed at a space in the air and prayed her hand would be there. “Bright in here, isn’t it?” Her cool fingers brushed yours.

“Oh! Right, right. I always forget how bright the sun gets around this time. I love it.” You fumbled and tripped your way into a chair as she proceeded to tug the curtains shut, one by one. “But I also sit behind with my back to the windows. So I forget how the light seems to flashbang everyone who walks in here.”

She tugged on a bulbed chain, and the final curtain unravelled like a gigantic parchment, dropping down over the window. A soft, comfortable dimness touched her office. At last, Catherine settled back into her chair. “Thanks for pointing it out.”

You expected her office to be tidy. The kind that looked seldom used because it was kept so spiffy and neat. But there was clutter. Boxes sat against the walls, stuffed with packed files, papers, canvases, fabrics, a coffee machine, a printer, books, manuals, DVDs, corners and shiny pieces to things you couldn’t identify. Paintings and picture frames were taken down, ordered against one another. She had a shelf, but it was emptied out, and clear circles and squares where knickknacks once stood were surrounded by a faint layer of dust. Her desk was cluttered, too. There was a file split open, assumed to be your file, sitting on top of several thick catalogues.

She clicked on her desk lamp, aimed it down at the file.

“Is that man with the tablet the assistant that’s leaving?”

As she adjusted the lamp, she laughed. “No, no. He’s a substitute for now, until I decide on an assistant who permanently fills the role.”

“Okay, I see.”

You didn’t speak again. Instead, in the quiet and soft light, you let her glance across your file, watched how her eyes, a dark grey, moved lower, lower, until she reached the bottom. Then, she looked up, and her thin mouth adapted a smile that was neither comforting nor cold.

“Your resume doesn’t seem to align with the experience I require in this position, although you do have some lovely qualities.”

Sharpness poked your throat. “I know...”

Again, she said nothing, but flipped a page in the file and continued to read—even started humming—and it was a blended, silky sound that made your focus drift in and out, like a camera lens tinged by salted sea water. She giggled at something she read, brushed her finger over the ink. “Your letter has a sort of charm to it. I can feel you in the words. Your honesty.”

You swallowed. “Thanks.”

Catherine clasped her pale hands together on the humble-sized desk, not one finger with a ring. But she wore a thin gold bracelet made of links. “So, you say you know art through a friend. A friend lost and then rekindled. You call that rekindling in itself art. Because art makes you feel, think, discover, and question. I find that interesting.” She aimed the desk lamp away from the file, slightly toward your face, as though she were a detective and you, her suspect. “How did this rekindling come to be?”

That was something you couldn’t explain.

Didn’t really expect to be questioned on.

“Uh… well, to save you from a very long story, our friendship hit a fizzle, as those things often do. She had slipped away from herself, and I guess I did a little bit, too. But we had a good talk at your Winter Wonderland show, actually. And that sort of started things up again. She got clean. And I…” you peered into the lamp’s golden rings emanating toward you, let your shoulders drop. “I had to change my perspective. Stop moping around, getting all passive. I want life to come from me, not happen to me.”

She nodded. “Invictus.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a good thing to realize. And good on your friend.”

“I wanted her to apply.”

“She never did?”

“Well, I didn’t see her today. Plus, she never said anything.”

“If this round is not successful, we hold another. There could still be a chance for her, if she wishes.” Catherine sat back, bouncing her chair, and tucked some fraying, wispy brown curls behind her ear. “You know, my assistant comes with me when I travel. I support having a tethered life, actually. Because that’s where home is. But this job is not for people who have those tethered lives. Things that hold them to home. Home has to be no more than a place. How do you feel about travel? What tethers you?”

So many pictures fell through your mind like stones dropping out from a sack. But the one picture that kept reappearing more than any other was Vernon—and he was deciding his own tethers.

Your hands tightened, and then released, blood rushing through your fingers. “I don’t know. I’ve never been that adventurous. But that’s changed a lot this past year.”

“Well,” she gestured around her office, at the boxes and paintings and odd spaces of spilling emptiness, “I ask for a reason. Because I’m going to be leaving Skyline for some time. I’m going to Seoul for my next series of exhibitions. But I also have family ties there. I know a handful of applicants were excited to settle into Skyline, but this job is like a magic carpet. It flies you places. It’s fun, but you need to be ready to work.”

Very little of what she said stuck to you. “Leaving? When?”

“By the end of the month.”

“Jeez, that’s—that’s sudden.”

“It is. And I understand that. So I’ve been letting all interviewees know that they have the option to join me in October. I will take Henry with me for the first month instead.” She tilted her head, smiled a little. “I must admit, it’s a bit of a selfish choice. I stayed at Skyline longer than I really should have…” you noticed her grey eyes adrift, lingering on a picture frame turned toward her, the photograph hidden from your curiosity.

“Well, if you have family there…” you laughed, though it sounded awkward and breathy in an unnecessary attempt to be comforting.

Catherine sighed. “I love your story, about losing a friendship and then rekindling it. How rare is that? Don’t you think that when people leave, it’s for a reason? Even if we are not meant to fully understand that reason?” She gripped her chin, shook her head. “I think about it often. How do we know if someone isn’t supposed to come back?”

Your throat was dry. “Wow. I-I’m not sure—” and you started to cough, splatter spit into your elbow, stinging bleariness flooding your eyes, feathers in your throat. Catherine stood up, said something about fetching you some water, before leaving you alone in the tenebrosity of her packaged office. There was a tissue box somewhere on her desk, and your hand reached around cluelessly as the tears in your eyes turned the world disorganized. You grabbed something cold and heavy in your hand, held it up to your hot, flushed face as your vision gradually cleared. Not tissues.

The photograph.

An adolescent boy with braces and shaggy hair holding onto a baby girl wrapped up in a starry pink swaddle. You held the picture underneath the lamp to make sure you were interpreting every detail correctly. Trembling fingertips reached out to touch the glass, its hard but fragile surface, along the boy’s face, his crooked teeth, his eyes. You knew him. You knew him. Hansol.

Catherine returned to the office. From over your shoulder, she sat a mug of water onto the desk. Then she said, “pretty, aren’t they?”

You set the frame down, turned it away from you.

She plopped back in the chair and smiled. There was a glint in her cinder eyes, a lopsided curl in her smile, and it all painfully, vividly, overwhelmingly reminded you of him. “It’s a clean mug,” she said. “Just some water from our machine. Are you alright? Got a tickle?”

The interview came to stand in your way.

You wanted out. Wanted the curtains whipped open again, with the blistering sunlight to turn the room to fire. But you stayed in your seat. “I’m fine. Sorry about that.” You pulled the mug into your grip but didn’t sip anything. “I shouldn’t have looked at your photograph.”

“No, it’s alright. I can’t pack it away just yet. Something inside won’t let me.” She grabbed the frame, angled it in a way she preferred.

“That’s the family you’re going to see?”

“Just my daughter. As you said before, it would be a long story.”

You nodded, teeth aching as though they might fall out. She looked to you again, except you couldn’t meet her gaze.

“Right. Things happen,” you said, attempting to be soothing.

Things happen. Things happen. Things happen.

You became a ticking timebomb in that seat.

Vernon was picking you up after the interview.

As you left behind the miraculous building and its infinite glass capturing the coastline blue, you stared down at your phone, reading his text message. Then you stalked down several blocks to his location, your heels practically grating through the flimsy flats stuck on your feet, barrelling across walkways and shouldering around unhurried people. You found the diner where he was eating a late lunch. Just as he was about to stick a salted, yellow fry in his mouth, you marched up to his booth and slapped it away.

He sat back. “Uh—excuse you, asshole?”

When you said nothing, he grabbed another fry off his plate—stopped to give you an expectant, skeptic look—only to have you smack it from his hand again, where it landed under a table on the checkered floor.

His arm dropped. “What? Your interview suck?”

“Don’t play dumb,” you hissed.

“So, it didn’t suck?”

You dropped down into the seat across from him, feeling the aged, cracked pleats of dark green leather under your fingertips. He must have just gotten his food. The plate was messily surrounded by fries and a big buttery burger with a gleaming bun, a small red flag wrapped around a toothpick sticking out. The interview had ended earlier than you originally surmised.

Vernon sighed, dragging the tall glass of brown soda toward him, dripping in condensation. “Dude, I can’t understand if you don’t tell.”

And you laughed. “Says you!”

“What?”

“Your freaking goddamn mother is Catherine Love!”

The diner wasn’t very full. Just some older folk taking their time perusing newspapers or writing onto notepads. Behind the counter, you could see two cooks, busying themselves in the greasy, steamy air. The blinds at the table were angled shut, patterning the surface in white lines.

Surprisingly, Vernon’s face didn’t change. “Not really.”

You scoffed, “what the hell does that mean?”

He slurped up some soda, swallowed. “Technically, her name’s Catherine Melody. That’s how I know her. It’s different.”

“Vernon,” you urged, leaning forward, shoulders sticking up, “she’s still your mother! Why—I just don’t get why? Why didn’t you tell me? Don’t you think that’s a huge thing? That I’m going to get interviewed by your mom?” The air fell flat out of you. Grabbing a napkin off the table, you slapped it over your forehead, perspiring with stress, and heaved.

Silence sat between you. Heavier than the loungeroom.

You pulled the napkin off your forehead, stared into him.

He shrugged. “You were excited about this. Why would I tell you that she’s my mom? Wouldn’t you agree it would change things? I wanted you to have that moment without my personal shit gettin’ in the way.”

It had to marinate. You couldn’t just spew up all your conflicted, rash feelings without considering his perspective, too. The napkin was squeezed into a ball in your hand, and you kept massaging it until a sense of quiet unfurled inside you. Letting the napkin open itself on the table, you rubbed down your thighs, glanced at him. “I suppose… you’re right. But I figured it out anyway. I’m sure I biffed it. It was all I could think about for the rest of the interview. Not that I was a fitting candidate from the start.”

Vernon pushed the soda across the table. You sipped from it, closed your eyes, enjoyed the rush of cold sweetness and fizzing bubbles.

He cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m sorry, PJ’s. Maybe I should have told you to avoid all this blindsided bullshit.” You nudged the glass back and he sipped, too. “But I didn’t think you would put it together right fuckin’ there. Did she have my goddamn grade school picture collaged to the wall?”

“Not really,” you sighed. “I don’t think I would have figured it out, but I picked up a picture frame off her desk when she left the room, and it was the same picture on your nightstand—you and your little sister—that made it quite obvious.” You noticed that Vernon’s face had started to creep with something that felt dark. It charcoaled shadows underneath his eyes and along his cheekbones. “And now that I think about it, some of the things she said make a lot more sense with context… she’s… going to Seoul.”

Vernon cackled a bit. “Yeah, off to Sofia.”

Was it your place to say more? You were uncertain. He seemed to have lost his interest in eating, so you pulled some fries off his plate, let him brood for a few minutes, stare at the blinds with the filtered sunlight.

“She said something about—” you had his plate now, grabbed the tiny spritzer of vinegar and shook it over the fries, “—about staying here longer than she should have. I think she was hoping to see you.”

“Yeah, so she can judge what I’ve become, no doubt.”

“Well, maybe… maybe not. There was hurt. A lot of it.” Wiping the crumbs off your fingers, you let Vernon have his plate back. “Look, I know it’s a sensitive subject for you, so if I’m overstepping, let me know. But would you ever consider talking to her? You don’t have to forgive, or accept anything she says, but just… to like… hear her? Would you ever do that?”

He dug some fries away from the burger. “Man, I don’t know…”

“I know you have a lot to think about right now,” you said tenderly, twining each word with thought, “but she’s leaving at the end of the month.”

Vernon sighed, picking up his burger and sliding out a crisp pickle to eat. Then he finally took a bite, and you noticed some tension vacate him.

A man stopped by the table. He was dressed fairly casually, but wore a black waist apron stuffed with a crinkled-up notepad. “Can I get you anything?” He asked politely, his hands clasped. After you thought for a moment, eyes trailing the menu, you asked for the ice cream sundae.

Because, damn. You deserved it.

VERNON.

It was quite easy to hang out with Moo. He could entertain himself to no end, which let Vernon be more absented-minded than usual.

Moo used a cube of blue chalk to powder the tip of the lacquered cue. Vernon leaned against the wall, smelled the beer in the air, the fried food, stale smoke. He always liked this bar. The smells comforted him, the sounds of cans being cracked open and hard balls splashing around a felted table were unchanged. Moo finally leaned over, lined up his cue, slid the stick back and then knocked it forward, but the tap was a little too hard.

He stood up, ground down on his cheek. “That’s fucking stupid.”

Vernon reached for his beer on the small table beside him. The glass was cold on his lips, and the beer was frothy in his mouth. “Loser.”

“Shut up, tool. You do better then.”

Vernon shrugged. He grabbed his cue, walked around the table to find the white ball. Similar to his friend, he leaned over, let the cue slide across a groove in his hand, and then struck, pocketing a ball.

Moo swatted his hand through the air. “Easiest shot I’ve seen in my life,” he muttered while picking at his plate of nachos. “Baby could do that.”

“You know a baby?”

“I will. Sharla’s due in three months.”

“Guess we’ll have to wait.”

Vernon sunk another ball, and then another, until he decided he wanted a break and purposefully let his cue falter. Moo rubbed his hands together, delighted to try again, leaving behind his plate of chips, stringy cheese, salsa, and blackened chicken bits. Vernon got comfortable against the wall while Moo studied the table, rubbing his chin.

“Now that I’m thinking about it …” Moo hummed, “isn’t it so fucking weird that Sharla’s pregnant? I mean, I’m gonna be a freakin’ uncle, man, and Jade’s gonna be an aunt, and Sharla’s gonna be a mom. A goddamn mom. A mother. Time flies, man. Straight like an arrow.”

“Yeah… sure does.”

“I mean, it feels like yesterday she would sneak out and make me cover for her, then get me to come pick her up in our dad’s car.” Moo chose a spot, blew at the tip of his cue. “She’s well-rounded and all. But she had a crazy streak dad never knew about.” He bent down, went quiet for a moment as he settled the cue into position. “You guys had a little thing, didn’t you? At one point? Back in the day, as we say. I always knew. She’d smell like you some days.” Then he struck the white ball into another, a loud clacking noise echoing around the bar just as the ball swiftly pocketed. Moo stood back, clutched his fist. “Fuck yeah. You see that angle? Finesse, Vern.”

“And you’re how many balls behind?”

“Slow and steady wins the race. Mrs. Yee’s class type shit.”

Vernon crossed his arms and laughed.

“Anyway.” Moo grabbed his drink and sipped. “I’m looking forward to being an uncle. To be honest, though, I always thought the first kid in my life would be yours.” He rubbed his nose, laughed a little. “But you’re not as promiscuous now. Guess PJ straightened that out.” He approached the table again, quieted down as he focused on making a particularly tricky shot, the edge of his tongue sticking out. The colourful balls scattered and Moo cheered before walking back to his mixed drink for a necessary victory sip.

It was true. Vernon was surprised too that he never got a girl pregnant, although there had been a few scares in the past he still remembered in uncomfortable vividness. Sex had never been multifaceted to him until he met you—it was pleasure and escape, another drug—but the way you grated on him was impossible to ignore. You made him feel things that he thought weren’t for him. Strong things. Things he didn’t always understand. Things that scared him. But things he came to want just like any other human being once he realized how starved he was of it. And then you were the most important thing. But not a thing. You. And he thought of you every day. His body started to ache like a sore tooth.

He was missing you.

“Oh, damn. Just fucked it,” Moo scoffed. “Alright. You go.”

Vernon sighed. “Dude, I can’t lie. I don’t feel like playin’.”

“No—what?! Come on! At least do your turn! Danny’s gonna be here soon and he call fill in for you. At least finish your turn. Please.”

He sighed again and grabbed his cue. Vernon’s shots were aimless and rushed. One ball sank but the other bumped off the side and zoomed down the green felt with no direction at all. After another taste of his beer, beginning to gradually warm, Vernon said he needed a few minutes alone.

Outside, the evening was warm.

The sky was luminous compared to the dusky lighting inside the bar. Calm clouds looked like stirred cream in a baby blue coffee cup. He breathed in. Lost was the scent of foaming beer, cooking oil, and faded cigarette smoke. Instead, there was a weightless nothingness. Vernon took out his phone as well as a toothpick to play with in his teeth, saw you had texted him, and started to smile.

omg! a spider in my shoe!! JPG_387456 i shook it outside i just can’t bear to squish it D:

In his head, he could hear your scream, see the way you jumped, raced around, got all trembly with freight. He could picture you squatted at the edge of the walkway outside your apartment, shaking your shoe to coax the spider out while your face puckered up and your lips got tight.

what a good person u are up to anything? been missing u all day

He walked across the tiny parking lot to his car and leaned against the driver’s door, circling the toothpick around his mouth with a prodding tongue, tasting its wood flavour. You had your interview about two weeks ago. Since that day, you hadn’t mentioned anything about the position again, and Vernon suspected you just didn’t want to stir the pot when it came to his mother as a topic. Which he understood. He hadn’t exactly built her up with much kindness. Hearing you compliment her artwork and exhibitions—it hadn’t been easy to keep a straight face—but your enthusiasm was too flowering and he was too soft about you to uproot it.

Vernon’s phone vibrated in his hand. When he glanced down, he saw an unrecognized number labeled above a text message. Skeptical, he opened the conversation initiated by the strange number.

Ready to make a decision? 709 Dooley Dr. 8pm. Let’s talk.

And he looked up, glancing around the quiet parking lot, then into the dark bar windows obscured with neon signs and dusty shutters.

It wasn’t like Vernon didn’t know who it was. But he wished he didn’t.

Pulling the toothpick out from his mouth, Vernon rubbed it between his fingers while continuing to read the text over again. The group house. He didn’t want to go back there, among the rot, the graffiti, the staleness of memories succumbing to age and seasons. He didn’t want to see Jeonghan’s face. It was like getting belted into a rollercoaster, thrust up a drop, and then over the precipice, pelted by stinging air that was hard to breathe.

Suddenly, his phone whirred again.

Don’t wait too long. Time flies, right?

He shut his phone off, flicked the toothpick aside.

Vernon swung into the car and started its engine. Without knowing what he was going to decide, Vernon followed the familiar route back to a place he once considered home.

He arrived a few minutes before eight o’clock. The sky was a melting gradient. A big ball of gold, stretching into peach, and then a long, long stretch of lilac that convulsed akin to a thin bedsheet fluttering on a peg line. Vernon entered through the broken doorway, careful in his steps, was about to walk past the threshold to the kitchen when he noticed someone there already. Jeonghan was sitting at a table. It looked old, plucked from a curb. The chair left for him to sit on was a scrappy lawn chair that might just rip.

“You’re here.” Jeonghan gestured to the chair. “I brought seats.”

Vernon stayed in the doorframe. “From a dumpster?”

“It matches the house.”

He stepped into the kitchen. The floor was strewn in dirt, dead leaves, scuffs from furniture and equipment being dragged about. It always seemed to be the heart of the house. On good days, where everyone gathered, sharing barbecue and playing music. On bad days, where arguments happened and cupboards rattled when fists came slamming down. Sometimes, a place of mystery that Vernon wasn’t allowed to see, simply because he was too young, even though he knew what was happening,

Vernon hooked his ankle around the chair leg, pulled it further away from Jeonghan and more toward himself. Finally, he sat, and the chair creaked. “If this snaps, man…” he warned, gritting his teeth.

“Oh, mine is much worse,” Jeonghan laughed. “I feel as though I’m about to fall through the bottom any minute now! But I can’t deny there’s a little fun in not knowing. Russian Roulette in shitty lawn chair form.”

“Nice to know you’ve got little informants sprinkled everywhere.”

“You only go to so many places.”

Vernon wanted to roll his eyes. Jeonghan’s power was much bigger than it seemed, but that had always been his allure. Sort of like an iceberg, the top seeming eerie enough, but the unseen much scarier.

“Has it been difficult?” Jeonghan asked. “Choosing?”

His blunt nails scraped the hard plastic of the chair arms, scribbled with crayon. “No,” Vernon scoffed, “it was all cookies n’ cream.”

“I thought it was courteous to ask, Vernon.”

“Well, I don’t really want your fuckin’ courtesy. Did you drag me all the way out here to socialize? I get you told me the truth and all, but I’ve spent so long upset at you that it isn’t really gonna fly away all that quick.”

Jeonghan nodded. “I understand.”

“Not that you really care how I feel about you.”

“I do, Vernon.”

And the boy shivered a little despite the warmth seeped into the kitchen. Jeonghan always called him Hansol. He was never one to use the nicknames they all coined for each other. It was another one of his natural mannerisms that set him apart, above, a discreet way of telling everybody that he knew them inside, not just their surface. But Vernon had exploded at him for continuing to call him Hansol. Was it a mind game or an honest attempt at proving his compassion? Vernon never knew with Jeonghan.

“You know,” Jeonghan said, setting his elbow onto the scratched table and letting his chin sit in his palm, “if you’re really in that much of a rush, then why don’t you just come out with it? What are you going to do?” His eyes were large, black like soaked bark. “I won’t judge you. Safe space and all.”

“Yeah,” Vernon tutted, leaning back in the chair, hearing its metal hinges stretch crustily. “You’re the person I’m worried about judgin’ me.”

“To think you’d worry about anyone judging you is not in your character, is it? Unless you’re thinking something big, Vernon.” Jeonghan smiled, ducked his head a little, and there was a sudden sinisterness.

“Well,” he huffed, “maybe I am...”

The kitchen was silent for a moment. Outside, he could hear the tall grass rustling in the evening wind, and when Vernon looked out the doorway onto the porch, he remembered all those nights in one big rush of nostalgia. Moo always manned the barbecue. Dots always controlled the music. Snozz made the drinks and passed out mint Swishers. Vernon would keep the little bonfire going, and across from him—in the translucent areas of hot flames—Jeonghan would be staring up at the stars, smiling. Before he pushed all those thoughts away, Vernon heard all their different laughs blending together, hoarse with Swisher smoke and then velvety with alcohol.

He closed his eyes tightly. You see, I saved him, but I never saved myself. And then the same thing happened to Paulo. He tried to save you. Get you steady. But then he’s a corpse lying beneath his own vomit in the upstairs bedroom of a trap house.

Vernon opened his eyes again to see Jeonghan, except not through the dancing heat of an alive fire, but in the sunset fragility of a broken kitchen.

Jeonghan tapped his finger. “Did you think about you?”

“I tried to.”

“Good. That’s good. You can’t make a decision like that clearly with anyone else in mind but yourself. What will you do, Vernon?”

He held the answer on his tongue for a moment. “There’s some sort of mural outside, isn’t there? You’ve seen it, yeah?”

Jeonghan nodded. “Would you care to take a look?”

Together, they moved through the kitchen, down the rotten porch where Jade used to do her homework, and around tall heaps of untended grass well-stoked by the summer sun and rain. They each turned around to glance at the back of the house. Vernon admired the paint. The thickness of the colours. How brightly the mural stood against the golden sky. He felt his eyes prick. Little tears had gathered. Jeonghan’s hand was on his shoulder, squeezing, as Vernon felt more and more like that misguided teenager isolated into a world that had already decided things for him.

Vernon sighed, “I’ve got to leave. I’ve just gotta.”

The hand on his shoulder slipped off. “I’m glad you finally feel like you can do that now, Hansol,” Jeonghan said, his tone warmer than it ever had been. They studied the mural until the sun seeped into blackness and the yard filled with the intermittent glow of fireflies, carrying flickers of their own charged starlight.

You and Vernon returned to the art shop to finish your pictures. At first, you had overgrown with worry that they threw the paintings out after receiving an email from the business about hitting their deadline. But you emailed them back, and to your relief, they held both your pictures. It was nearing the end of summer and you wanted each other to have something as a memory. The art shop was quieter than usual. Only a few tables were occupied. The air smelled like dried watercolour, acrylic, and soap.

Much like the first time, Vernon was quiet as he painted. The little girl’s apron with the bubblegum pink and stitched butterflies was gone, so he chose a regular black apron that matched his hair. While you suspected the quietness, something about it was different. Vernon would at least swear when he made a mistake, or sigh a lot, set the canvas back onto the easel and glare at it every few minutes. But he was moving along fluidly. You didn’t want to disturb his rhythm so you stayed quiet, too, occasionally pausing to sip from your water bottle or put the brush down to rest your wrist.

He was done before you.

“I need maybe… twenty more minutes? I think?”

“That’s fine,” Vernon said, getting up from the table. “Feelin’ a little warm. Gonna sit outside on the step for a minute. Be right back.”

“Uh, okay,” you answered, unsure of how to respond while watching him push open the door to the art shop. It closed, and he was gone. Sighing, you had to trust he would tell you, and returned to your painting.

Then you were finished. You insisted on showing him the product, an intense labour of love, but Vernon shook his head, told you that it was better to wait until you were back home. The drive was quiet. Your paintings were dried under a lamp at the shop and tucked safely into a paper bag that sat in your lap. Ruby wasn’t there. Vernon wandered into your bedroom before you could offer if he wanted anything (even when you knew how capable he was of getting things himself), so you followed, strangely loathing that sticky quietness because conversation with him was one of your favourites. Laughter. He always made you laugh, get teary.

You plopped down on the end of your bed, bounced a few times.

Vernon leaned against the dresser across from you.

Setting the bag down to the floor, you reached for a stuffed toy behind you. It was filled with so much cotton that you could feel the cloudy lumps under your fingers. “Is everything okay?” You hummed.

He grasped the dresser’s edges. “Yeah, but no.”

“What’s that mean?”

Vernon looked down at his golden chain, shiny against his black t-shirt. He touched it for a moment, then looked to you and smiled, but he didn’t speak. Your fingers pushed harder into the stuffed toy, thumbs pressing the beaded eyes deep into its head until you felt bad.

“PJ’s,” he said, and his voice shook a little. “I’m leavin’.”

You blinked. Put the stuffed toy aside. “Huh? Leaving?”

He nodded, like it was too difficult to speak.

“Uh, okay. Leaving to where? For what?” You wanted to seem calm, levelled, even though you had just burst on the inside like an old pipe, emotions sputtering everywhere, stepping over each other, gripping and crawling, agony. “Is this related to Jeonghan?”

Vernon nodded again. He wiped a hand across his face, and his skin turned a little flushed from the pressure. “Yeah. I talked to him a few days ago.” The hand dropped, his fingers starting to curl in and out, flex their tendons. “I really didn’t know what I was gonna do ‘til I got there and started talkin’ to him. I feel like the answer came from my gut, y’know? It was practically singin’ to me.”

“Well, that’s good,” you said, smiling. “You can’t ignore that.”

“I have to go see my mom. My sister. In Seoul.”

Suddenly, you felt very cold. It was late summer but, in your body, it was a winter storm. Everything started to freeze over. Become hard. You couldn’t look at Vernon. Then you were shaking, wanted to reach around yourself for comfort but found that you were rusted.

“Oh…” you managed to squeeze out. “Yes. That’s important. That’s big. You should do it.”

“PJ’s…”

“No, you should go. This is your life.” You stood up, accidentally kicked the paper bag with your foot and it crinkled loudly, almost a cry. “It’s just really unexpected that’s all. But I want you to go. I do. I really do, and I was the one who made you consider it, and—”

He grabbed your arms and pulled you against him. The frigidness inside you twisted around into nothing but withering heat. For a second, you resisted, beginning to push back on him, push away, shake your head as the stinging sensation engendered water from your eyes. But you gave up the pushing the second you smelled him. It was all too familiar. It was that winter night in the front seat of his car with his bomber jacket pulled up to your chin. When his scent soothed you for the first time. Found its way to an open fold in your memory and slotted inside like a handwritten letter.

“PJ’s, you can be upset,” Vernon whispered, stroking the back of your head tenderly as you sniffled, cried, ached, into his neck. “I didn’t expect you to be okay. If you were, I might be a little fuckin’ miffed,” he laughed, and you pressed your hands hard against his chest to feel that deep, hearty vibration; let it run through his skin and into yours.

“For how long?” You mumbled, closing your eyes.

Vernon held your waist, sighed. “Dunno. As long as I need t’be.”

“And… and… you want to go… alone?”

Your face was gently lifted from the dampness of his shoulder. You saw the emotion in his eyes, full like a fat water droplet threatening to spill apart. His thumbs casted away the tears. “PJ’s, you have steadiness here. A great support circle. Maybe things aren’t always sweet but that doesn’t make it so. I want you to be here and continue leadin’ this beautiful life of yours.”

“But I want to be with you…” you sniffled, grabbing his tattooed wrists, hoping the touch of your soft fingers was a magic spell. “I know you have to go but I just can’t imagine my life if you’re not beside me.”

He nodded. Then Vernon leaned forward, and his lips were kissing the thin, fragile skin of your closed eyelids, still trembling as tears pooled underneath. “I just wanted to tell you. I didn’t want it to be another big secret, hm?” He kissed your forehead, made sure it lasted. “We can talk about it more later. Let’s try to relax.” His hands gripped your weak, sunken shoulders. “There’s some paint on your face,” he said with a tiny smile, “and some more on your arms. I think you need a shower. Want to shower?”

For a moment, you stood and thought, looking off to the side feeling hurt, confused. You let the feelings exist, but took a deep, long breath, and willed them not to control you, such that you finally lost sight of that infinite, dark chasm, bearing a gravitational pull like no other. Vernon led you into the washroom. Water started spraying from the showerhead until there was hot steam dense in the air and fog slicking the mirror. In the misty heat, you both undressed. Vernon got under the water first while you huddled at the end of the tub, wincing at the temperature of the fiery droplets.

“C’mere—” he pulled at your arm.

And you wriggled him off. “It’s too hot you maniac.”

“Feels so good though.” He tugged you again.

You shrunk against his chest, hiding from the water, but it reached you anyway. Vernon gripped your shoulders and turned you around. There was a snapping noise, and then a soapy lathering noise. Before you could ask, his hands were beginning to glide along your body, dressing you in suds that smelled tropical and peachy. Even though his hands were slippery and wet, they maintained their textured roughness, and you couldn’t help but shiver, gasp, whenever they lingered around intimate areas.

His body was firm against yours. You bit your lip while watching his long, thick fingers drag slowly up the centre of your tummy, how they stroked underneath your breasts, gliding with water. He started to kiss along your shoulder, drag his tongue to your neck, press his gritty voice far inside your ear to feel your knees wobble. “I’ll always take care of you, my love.”

Everything was different in the shower. There was more echo, inescapable wetness, dizzying heat in your head and hot water stinging in your eyes and the sloppiest moans you had ever made finding their way up your throat. But he was right. Vernon always took care of you. The shower tiles lost their coolness the more he thrusted into you, pushing your body into the wall. That tattooed hand stayed hard but attentive around your neck.

It got messier and messier, the noises of skin slapping against skin getting louder, but at least you were in the shower. Vernon pulled your head back onto his shoulder, then clutched your hips tight in his fingers, and the fact you could already sense the dermal ache of bruises forming made you grin a little bit twisted.

He kept thrusting. The fullness intoxicated you.

“Good girl,” he grunted, rubbing your throat. “You take this big dick so well now, don’t you, yeah? Moan so loud whenever I get inside this gorgeous pussy.” He hugged you against him, squeezed you. “You don’t understand—” Vernon rasped, his hips intense and working, “—I fuckin’ love you so much, PJ’s. Make me think about crazy fuckin’ shit I never even considered. Gettin’ married n’ buyin’ a stupid house n’ havin’ babies. I love you. Just some shit I gotta do first, right?” Suddenly, he couldn’t manage to speak through the orgasm that throbbed at your insides, filling you deep with heat.

After showering, washing away the stress, you and Vernon spent some time in your bedroom. You thought about cooking or ordering food.

But then his phone started to rumble on your nightstand. He groaned, lifting his head from your stomach, where your fingers had been sweeping through his damp, black tresses. Vernon pulled the phone close to him, squinted at the screen, shoved himself up with a tired sigh.

You watched him stand and pull his t-shirt back on, hiding the hard, gilded lines of his back from your fond eyes that always wandered.

“Gotta take this.” He leaned down to kiss you. “Sorry. I’ll be back.”

Once you heard the echo of the front door closing, you decided to roll off the bed and check what groceries were available in the kitchen for you to cook with. Ruby had been quite busy with work, mostly eating pre-packaged meals she bought from their cafeteria, and you had been neglecting shopping for almost a week now. You touched the loose handle on the fridge, only to be grabbed by your shoulder a second later, and then yanked backward into Ruby’s bedroom that smelled like one of her fragrancy candles.

It happened so quickly you hadn’t time to scream.

“Ruby!” You exclaimed while she shut her bedroom door. “What the heck was that? When did you come home? Have you been here all day?”

“No.” She shook her head, still dressed in her black work pants and a fancy white button-up. But her hair was down, and she scraped her fingers through the molasses-brown strands. “I got home, like, twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh…” you said, your brow coming to furrow. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Ruby gawked, rolling her eyes. “Oh.”

Embarrassment unsheathed itself from the base of your stomach and you found that words were running off toward your mind’s distant horizon. You watched them go, blinking into twinkles, gone.

Ruby sighed, walking over to her large candle that she had lit, in a bright fuchsia jar. She inhaled the hibiscus smoke, looked at you. “I mean, I’m not upset! I promise I’m not. It just took me by surprise.” Then your roommate started laughing, unbuttoning the bottom of her shirt. “I’m pleased you two have such a prosperous sex life. At least, it sounds like it.”

Finally, your senses regrew, and you collapsed onto her bed, hands covering your eyes. “You should have slammed the door extra loud!” You cried out, laughing, too, in hiccups. “Like, five times! So we knew!”

The mattress dipped at her weight beside you. “I thought about it, but I’m not sure Vernon would care, actually. And, I consider it proper to leave you uninterrupted after my, erm, experiences in the past.”

Pulling the hands off your face, you saw Ruby’s soft expression peering down at you as she tucked a lock of thick hair behind her ear.

And you puffed out a breath, smiling. “I guess so…”

Ruby was probably your closest friend now. Naturally, you told her just about everything, including your first night with Vernon. At first, you thought it might be somewhat strange to mention it considering she had her own sexual history with him, in a different time, but it wasn’t awkward or weird at all. She wasn’t too picky when it came to detail—she was merely happy to listen as you stumbled through it—and said she would never be shy to offer advice or answer questions. So, despite your embarrassment that she heard Vernon plowing you in the damn shower, you were just relieved it was your roommate that walked in, not anybody’s parents or a friend of hers.

She sat on her side, tucked her knees up. “Babe, I’m literally jealous, if anything. But my dating life has been ultra-dry ‘cause of work.”

You decided to sit up. “What? There’re no cuties there?”

“No,” Ruby pouted, blowing out a stream of air from her lips that made some hair dance off her nose. “I mean, there are a few attractive guys, but their personality is awful, like—I don’t know—tissues.” She peeled off her ankle socks, rubbed at the indents they left against her olive skin. “I hate when attractive people think they don’t need a personality just ‘cause they’re attractive! I mean, look at me, girl. I’m the walking talking truth!”

Together, you laughed. “Never lower your standards, Ruby.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, her smile faint but remaining, “I won’t.” A flash of something reluctant passed across her face, and you noticed the restraint in her expression as she pondered, chewing her lip. But then she seemed to decide there was no reason to avoid it. “Well… I guess it makes the most sense to tell you this…” she began, and the apples of her cheeks suffused with a pretty redness. “But I’m kinda talking to Moo… I mean, he told me to call him August—Auggie—but I guess you call him Moo?”

“Ruby!” You trilled. “Are you really?!”

She nodded, pulled out the phone from her back pocket to show you the proof of a text message conversation. You scrolled through some of it while she cared to explain. “At first, I wasn’t taking it that serious. We started chatting on IG and then he asked for my number. I let the message sit for a couple days, but then I gave in.” Ruby smiled. “He’s just really funny. I like that he can entertain himself, too. And I can get him to do just about anything for me,” she snickered. “I was texting him at work that I was really craving a yogurt parfait for lunch, and those Mediterranean chips we tried one time. Then, like, just as I was about to go on my lunch, I got a buzz from the lobby. He left the snacks there for me. Isn’t that so sweet?”

You handed the phone back. “No, that is really sweet.”

Ruby nodded, put the phone away. “I mean, we’re not serious or anything, still talking and feelings things out. But… I might like him,” she said with a giggle, her hazel eyes alight as she pinched her fingers together.

“I support it,” you said, encouraging her.

“Thanks. TBD, I guess. How’s Vern doing?”

You paused, glancing over her decorative bedspread and pulling at a small thread that was much tighter than you expected it to be. Vernon had mentioned that you were the first person he told, and even though you were surging to tell Ruby—to let your emotions flow and tangle with hers in search of empathy—it wasn’t your place. So you straightened up, brushed at your bare knee, smiled. “He’s well. Like usual. I was thinking of either making dinner or ordering in? What do you think?” You asked.

“Oh, ordering in,” Ruby insisted. “He’ll pay, anyway.”

And so for dinner, Vernon ordered Souvlaki bowls. He was surprised to come back inside and find that Ruby was there, but, unlike you, he hadn’t flickered in one ounce of shame. Together, you ate at the couch and played a movie. You nibbled from your golden boiled potatoes and shovelled creamy, flavourful rice into your hungry mouth alongside a garlicky salad and strips of grilled chicken, at times wondering if Vernon was going to mention anything about his departure to Ruby. But he never said a word.

Dessert was a deep-dish marble cake from the back of the fridge, and you all scraped it apart with forks until you could see the yellow, shiny tin underneath amongst the chocolate crumbs and cheap icing. You tried not to think about how horribly you would miss this, tried to focus on the memory you were in the midst of creating as opposed to how it would feel to leave it behind. Whenever your eyes felt particularly watery, you would bury the feelings with another large mouthful of cake, to which Vernon would remove the icing from your lips with a sweep of his thumb.

Ruby eventually excused herself to her bedroom when she got a phone call from her parents. Once you and Vernon cleaned up the coffee table and kitchen counters, you went to your bedroom, too.

“Oh!” You picked up the brown paper bag. “We still have to do our paintings. It’s been long enough, hasn’t it?” He sat down next to you on the bed while you held the bag closed. “Should I just reach in and pull one out?”

“Sure.” Vernon shrugged.

“Do you think it will be mine or yours?” You hummed, your fingers picking a random canvas, the dried paint rough and full of texture.

He thought for a moment. “Yours.”

Then you pulled the canvas out. “Oh! It is mine!” You flipped it toward Vernon so he could see, your heart beating anticipatorily.

Vernon raised his sharp eyebrows. “Woah, nice,” the boy complimented, reaching out to take the picture from you. He held the canvas in both his hands, continued staring, as you took pride in the pleased edges of his impressed smile. “The old Camry, huh?” Vernon laughed. “I sent you a pic, didn’t I? I can tell you added some shine on the bumper.”

You nodded. “It was my reference photo.”

“This is fuckin’ great, PJ’s,” he said, meeting your eyeline.

Heat rubbed underneath your cheeks. “Thank you… I’m glad you like it. I know how much it means to you and everything.”

Vernon hummed, agreeing. “Guess mine’s next.”

A smile was wide and bursting on your mouth.

He snatched the brown paper bag from you. “Alright. Don’t look so damn eager, over there. I know you’re ready to see a trainwreck.” Vernon reached inside the bag, then let it drop to the floor between his legs as he pulled the canvas out. “I didn’t get the artsy bone, yeah?”

“I’m smiling so much because I’m genuinely excited!” You countered, proceeding to roughly grasp the painting from Vernon’s hand in retaliation. “I know how hard you worked on it. I was freakin’ there.” And you flipped it over, a hand immediately shooting to your mouth. “Vernon!”

The boy leaned back on his hands, shrugged. “What?”

“What is this even from?!” You exclaimed.

“Can’t you tell?”

“Am I wearing… my pony t-shirt?”

“Yeah. It’s the day I saw you for the first time. When you came outta your room.” He sat up, reached over to tap the picture. “I even drew your juice.” And you saw the funnily outlined pink glass in your hand.

“Why are my eyes so big?”

“You looked surprised as hell. Which I get. It’s not too often you see a face like mine,” he said while winking at you, and you pushed his arm. “I know it’s not perfect n’ all that. But—it’s like—one of my favourite memories. It’s how I think to like of you. Just tryin’ to drink some juice one mornin’ and then your entire life gets turned upside down. Funny, huh?”

“No. It is perfect, Vernon,” you told him, admiring the hues of effort and the gingerly painted-over mistakes and how detailed everything was in a crude mixture. “I love it. Genuinely. It’s amazing.” Then you leaned over to kiss his cheek, which felt warm and soft underneath your lips, like the surface of a blushed peach. “It’s the start of everything. Of us.”

Vernon nodded, a little sigh huffing through his nose. The sound was small but sorrowful. He stared around your room. “Yeah, the start…”

ONE MONTH AGO.

In early September, you said goodbye.

Vernon came to your apartment in the morning. Everything was exceptionally still as the sun began to rise. Its light broke through the dawn like a blossoming flower. But you were already awake, waiting, unable to sleep. In fact, you hadn’t slept properly in about a week. Instead, you dreamt in bursts, with intricate stories crammed into mere minutes of mistiness and restless tossing. But your body didn’t feel the tiredness. It could only feel that something was about to happen, and so it stayed awake in preparation.

Ruby had already said her goodbye. For the past two weeks she had been away in Tuscany visiting her sick grandmother, alongside her parents and some other relatives. Family was paramount to them. She was coming back tomorrow tonight and you planned to surprise her at the airport.

As it turned out, you hadn’t gotten Catherine Love’s assistant position. Tara didn’t either, and she came into her shift crying, blowing her reddened nose with a tissue while Lara helped her into the locker room, taking the purse off her friend’s shoulder while you sat next to Tara on the little bench, rubbing her back. She calmed down with you and Lara squeezing her soft, slender hands, and you had to admit it felt strange to hold a hand that wasn’t rough and hardened with earned callouses.

“I’m so lucky to have friends like you guys,” Tara sniffled.

A letter eventually came to your mailbox. You were pulling out crumpled fliers, advertisements, and old subscriptions from unchanged addresses, and you nearly tossed a blank, white envelope addressed to you straight into the mail room’s recycling bin. But you noticed the name at the top left corner, written in neat black pen that looked like perfect computer font—Diana Basu—and you gripped the envelope so tightly that you left behind imprints of your sweaty fingertips. Back in your apartment, you stood at the kitchen counter while recovering a handwritten letter from Diana.

In the first few sentences, she explained her decision to apply for Catherine’s assistant position, and she got the job. Diana wrote about getting ready to leave for Seoul. She wrote about her new sense of freedom and lightness, how she broke up with Darian, how a friend from the Sherwood narcotic’s group had helped her journey into steadfast sobriety, and, finally, that so many positive changes had happened to her because of you. That you had never stopped caring.

She wrote that it was your best quality.

You read the sentence over and over again, feeling the penned words become ink in your eyes glossy with tears. Then you saw her updated phone number written along the bottom of the paper, a small smiley face beside it—the same face she would doodle onto the corner of your notebooks during boring, clock-watching lectures—and you suddenly hugged the letter to your chest like it was her.

Before you came outside the apartment to see Vernon, you quickly stepped into Ruby’s old slippers whose heels were thin and flatly worn. The early air was still holding onto summer’s languorous heat, but there was permeating coolness now, and it felt fresh against your arms and legs. There he was, leaned against the vanilla car, dressed in a prim jean jacket you had never seen before with a white t-shirt underneath. He smiled at you, raised his dark eyebrows, and it somehow felt like the very first time—your heart remembering itself, that it could beat that rapidly for another person.

The morning stillness blurred around you.

His golden eyes embraced you before anything else, his sun-kissed summer skin reflecting the morning light in radiance. “Nice to see the famous shirt before I go. Startin’ to think you burned it.”

“This shirt is literal history. This is its own Library of Alexandria.”

“I’m sure the shirt feels charmed.”

You smiled, and then stood on your toes, attempting to peer around him and into the backseat. “Uh, where’s all your luggage?”

“Didn’t have much. Just a suitcase in the trunk. Auggie and Danny took some old stuff from my pad. And then I sold some other shit.”

You nodded. “Did Jeonghan wire you the money?”

“I told him to wire the guys.”

“Oh.” You blinked. “That’s good. But you didn’t take any?”

Vernon shook his head. “Nah. I’ve got enough. Whatever. But there are some leftovers if you need it. Jeonghan said so. I know you didn’t take the money from Minghao so I doubt you’ll take this. But it’s there regardless”

Crossing your arms, you laughed. “I wouldn’t know how to get it.”

“Just ask Auggie or Danny. And I’m not sure that’s true. You’re a lot fuckin’ sneakier than you let on,” Vernon chuckled, tilting his head.

You approached him, flattened out the collar of his jacket, tried not to breathe in his amber musk but doing so anyway because you never wanted the sentimental smell and all the memories it harboured to dissipate. “I like to call it resourceful,” you answered, flicking your tongue along your teeth. “But sneaky works, too.”

It was hard to stomach that you were his last goodbye.

Vernon didn’t know how long he was going to be in Seoul. He often said he didn’t know if anything was going to work out. Maybe he would see his mother’s face, softened by age, for the first time in years and feel deep in his bones that he was not ready. Or maybe he would sense the relief casting over him like raindrops that he was letting the weight finally fall. Regardless, it was time for his own quest of sorts. One that would not support your relationship as the distance stretched and his world opened in difficult, painful ways.

If Vernon was meant to come back, if you were meant to be, then you trusted the universe to handle your rekindling. You had already cried enough repeating the thought to yourself when nights were especially sleepless. Sometimes it was solacing.

And if not solacing then tormenting.

Like most thoughts were.

“Well,” you hummed thoughtfully, tucking your hands behind your back so he wouldn’t notice how they quivered, “you should get going, considering how terrible you are with time. It would be kinda awkward if you missed your flight and had to reschedule everything and we needed to do this a second time.” You laughed together, his nose crinkled like a rabbit. “Is the Camry coming with you to Seoul?”

“That would be sweet, huh? But the Camry's gonna get signed over to Auggie. He'll pick it up from the airport with Danny. Hey—he said he'd sell it to you for a cheap price, once you get your licence, of course. How's that sound, PJ's? Think you can handle the Camry?”

“Maybe. With a good driving teacher.”

“Ask Danny about that. Moo just grips it and rips it,” Vernon said.

“Sounds no different from you,” you teased.

Vernon cupped your cheek. “You wouldn't like me as a teacher. We'd spend more time in the backseat than the front.”

And you pressed on his chest, leaning back to loudly laugh, only to feel him encase you in his arms, his lips skimming the sensitive skin of your throat. “Okay, okay!” You giggled. “You'll be late!”

“No chance,” Vernon hummed, and his tattooed hands moved to hold your cheeks. “I can be responsible sometimes, yeah?”

You nodded, spoke in a broken whisper, “I know.” Promptly, your hands settled overtop his, brushing your fingers over his fingers, feeling his scuffed knuckles, his scratched skin. Your eyes closed for a moment and you felt the burning embellishment of a new memory, bittersweet, sink deep into your brain. “I’m really going to miss you,” came the fragile confession of total obviousness, half-stuck in your congested throat that was beginning to close up.

“I know, lovely girl. I’ll miss you, too, yeah?” Vernon said.

But the tears stayed in place, sealed by your own will. “And you have to come back at some point. Out of principal. You still owe me molotes and a new canteen. Don’t you dare forget. Moocher.”

He chuckled with an emotional rasp, the edges of his eyes wrinkling, his smile full. “I won’t. Not with your threat hangin’ over me.”

“If you’re going to use my canteen, at least fill it with some quality soju or something. I’ll know if you don’t. I have good spidey senses.”

“Not better than mine.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Smartass.”

“Remember your manners, too.”

“You know I have manners.”

“Yes—optional manners—of which you never choose the option to have manners. You know that Diana will be down there.”

“Is she your informant now?”

“She could be.” You grasped the edges of his jacket and pulled him close, enough to press your forehead against his and spurn out the sunlight from dazzling between unnecessary spaces that were meant for your energies, instead. “So you best behave, Hansol.”

He kissed you, lips flush and sacred on yours. A part of you wanted to kick and scream, tear everything into slivers, crush the sun between your ferocious hands until the fire oozed out like magma and darkness fell like a stage curtain. But another part of you was tranquil, and it felt every second of the intimate kiss, every movement, every emotion that combined into singularity at the warmth of your soft mouths. Your fingers swept down the tattoos on his wrists, touching the ink for the last time, holding their enigmatic stories.

“Okay,” Vernon sighed. “I should hit the road, PJ’s.”

“Yes.” You nodded, beginning to let him go. “Drive safely.”

He opened the door to the car. It suddenly stung, and you struggled to compute that his body had drifted away with the faintness of fog. Then he lowered himself into the seat. The door was pulled shut, and its echo embraced the quietness in the early September air.

You listened to the engine start. Its rumble. One you hated to hear but then grew to love because it meant your person was just outside, waiting for you. Then the car was moving. It started to roll. Roll away. You took a few steps forward, slippers scuffing down the centre of the road, wanted to chase that damn car and the charming, silver-tongued boy inside who had unnegotiably changed your life.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you studied the Camry until it disappeared.

Outside, stillness of movement and sound returned. The summer's dulled heat flirted with the incoming autumn coolness in some sort of persuasion to stay longer. You returned indoors.

While Vernon was gone, you knew part of him would always linger.

Almost like a ghost.

You stopped by the apartment to grab a few things. After leaving the pastry behind in the fridge for Ruby, you shoved pyjamas into your knapsack—checkered bottoms and the pony t-shirt, as you had been coming to the end of your clothes—and some skincare from the washroom.

It didn’t take as long as you remembered to reach Vernon’s place.

The small, frisky dog with cataracts was barking at you two, scratching against the shutters, just like last time. Someone had finally fixed the broken doorway, replacing the wooden board with glass. You repeated the same tiresome trek up the winding staircase until reaching the fourth floor, where you released an audible breath of repose upon entering his cozy bachelor. No plain grey walls, no stiffness, no apprehension.

“Do you mind texting Ruby?” You sighed, handing Vernon your phone. “She’s asking about what happened. Just tell her I’ll explain everything tomorrow, and not to worry too much.” It was torturous to open your messages and see Lee’s unopened notifications pleading at you. “It is okay if I use your bathroom for a second? To change and wash up?”

Vernon looked down at your phone, then back at you. “Sure.”

The washroom wasn’t in great shape, but it was still better than what you imagined—at least for someone who was hardly there to clean it.

Most of the damage didn’t seem like Vernon’s fault, but rather the cheap costliness pertaining to the landlord. A crappy patch job in the shower, chips in the porcelain sink, peeling, faded wallpaper beginning to curl from the corners.

You set your knapsack down on the toilet, unzipped it, and pulled out your face product, which you soaked onto a cotton pad. Staring yourself down in the water-stained mirror, underneath the ghostly sterileness of the washroom’s pale lighting, you began wiping off all the dried tears and grime that stippled your skin. Every swipe of the cotton pad only made you focus with more intensity on yourself, until you felt so unbelievably and wildly unattractive that you couldn’t bear to stare into the mirror any longer.

With an exhausted sniffle, you unbuttoned your jeans. One leg at a time, you kicked them off, before removing the shirt overtop your head, tossing your bra onto the clothes you left bunched on the floor. Before you could catch a glimpse of your bare body in the mirror, every little detail under the light’s harsh dissection, you quickly jumped into your pyjama bottoms and wrestled on the loose t-shirt to unaesthetically match.

A deep breath before going back out to face Vernon.

He was lounging on the futon. You dropped your knapsack onto the coffee table, gave him a queasy, weak smile, and collapsed next to him.

Vernon tilted his head toward you. “Need anything? Water? There isn’t much in the fridge and I’m a shitty fuckin’ cook, but I can make a pretty gnarly grilled cheese. Takeout is fine, too. The world’s your… uh… oyster.”

But you shook your head. “I’m fine.”

He then held out your phone, which you dropped into your bag. You didn't want to read anything. You didn't want to know anything.

“I told Ruby what you said,” Vernon mumbled. “She responded a few times. Didn’t read it.” He proceeded to shrug. “Well, didn’t answer it.”

“I’ll set aside some time to text her tonight.”

He nodded, looking out the apartment window for a moment or two before Vernon turned his attention back to you. There was a reluctance in his expression, a withdrawal, like he desperately wanted to ask but felt tentative in case his queries were too intruding. You appreciated his sensitivity. His eyes flicked you up and down a few times in thought.

And then he pulled the trigger. “So? I get to know anything?”

You were curled up closer to him than usual, your cheek just barely grazing the boy’s shoulder. It was solacing to feel his heat, smell the outdoors on his clothes, the tinges of flavoured smoke. Your body untied itself.

Then, you were drawing in a long, long breath. “I tried breaking up with Lee…” you started, speaking quietly, “and it turned to… shit.”

No antagonizing remarks. No comical digs. He stayed silent.

“I didn’t expect it to be that hard. He was being so nice to me the second I stepped in the door. I just… couldn’t get the words out, y’know? It was torture.” Pulling your knees closer into your chest, you stared down at the open space of Vernon’s lap, his strong thighs. “Once he was done his homework, he came right next to me on the bed…” it was suddenly harder to speak, your throat automatically tightening up. “I was so stupidly nervous that I couldn’t articulate enough. Lee started kissing me… on my neck… he started moving his hand down my shirt…” your eyes began to sting again, blurring your vision into a cloudy vignette. “He tried to touch me, you know, in between my legs,” you breathed out in a trembly voice, “but I got too scared and stopped it. It’s like he was completely missing the signals I was giving. He was like, pulling me back down onto the bed and I freaked out even more. I had to leave. I couldn’t—I felt like I was on fire—like he was trying to trap me. I-I don’t know. It was all so quick.”

You started looking around for a tissue box.

Vernon reached underneath the coffee table to grab you one.

Pulling out two tissues, you fought to capture a structured breath, taking a moment to dry your eyes and blow your nose. “Then…” you huffed, skin irritated and wet, “I couldn’t help but think it was my fault, y’know? That I should have been upfront. I’ve just been so nervous and uncomfortable about intimacy with him. I don’t know why. But… maybe if I was more vocal, he would have understood, and, like…” bringing another tissue to your face, you blotted up the tears, sniffling louder and louder. “I just feel like, so useless. So dumb.” Blinking at the crumpled tissue squeezed into the flesh of your sore hand, you wanted to shrink, to disappear, as the embarrassment flushed through you.

Vernon shook his head. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

You nodded. “I-I know. It’s just hard not to think that way…”

“No, PJ’s, look at me.” Vernon angled himself on the futon so he could face you more intimately, capturing your fullest attention, until the brilliant rings of his earthen irises were all you could gauge. “What he did was completely not your fault. There’s no excuse for it. Someone who actually has your best interests at heart is not gonna treat you like that,” he reaffirmed you, his tone much more serious, unnegotiable. “He was countin’ on your discomfort to keep you quiet, so he could do whatever the fuck he wanted. He wasn’t bein’ oblivious, or missin’ your signals. Bet he knew what was comin’ and figured gettin’ inside you could change your mind. That’s real slimy fuckin’ behaviour. I should kill him for that. But you stood up for yourself, right? And even if you didn’t, it still wouldn’t be your fault.” Vernon reached his arm around you, rubbing up and down your shoulder as his firm reassurance only sparked another onslaught of waterworks.

“I’m sorry,” you spluttered, piling all your used tissues onto the coffee table before pulling the collar of your t-shirt up against your cheek, letting it absorb all the dampness. “I’m such a mess.”

“Fuck that,” Vernon laughed, pulling you closer into him. “You can be a mess when you’re with me, yeah? You really think I give a fuck?”

A smile broke through your lips. “N-No.”

“Exactly.” He nudged his nose against your hair. “I’ve been around you enough to know how dramatic you are. Usually you’re dramatic about shit that doesn’t matter,” Vernon chuckled. “But I like it.”

Your head slid into the crook underneath his chin. “So, I’m being perfectly dramatic about this. Is that what you’re saying?” You teased.

“Hey, you be the master of your emotions, alright? Don’t let anyone else dictate anything without good reason.”

“How are you so randomly eloquent and insightful?” You let out a half-hearted giggle, snuggling your face in closer to his neck. That’s where his cologne was most concentrated. Rich amber filled your nose and floated to the centre of your head.

The backs of Vernon’s fingers stopped at your elbow. After what felt like an oddly long pause, he rubbed his nose and chuckled, “dunno.”

Silence followed, soft enough to touch.

And you couldn’t have embraced it more.

Closeness with Vernon felt so easy that you wondered why you ever bothered grasping at straws when it came to Lee. The way you slotted against his side was like perfectly matched puzzle pieces. His calloused fingertips drifting along your bare arm was equal parts soothing and arousing. Having the weight of his chin rested on your head made you feel so protected, as though nothing in the world could reach you. With his other arm lax in his lap, you took the opportunity to meet your fingertip with a vein underneath his prettily inked skin, which you proceeded to trace until it disappeared into the elbow's crook. His shifted his hips as you touched him and nothing had ever made you want to jump across his thighs more.

Swallowing, you retracted your hand. “Was it good?”

Vernon casted back his hair, humming. “What?”

You repeated yourself, more audibly this time. “Was it good?”

 “Was what good?”

Biting your lip, you eventually came to murmur, “the head?”

“Oh,” Vernon laughed, snorting. “Uh, fuck, it was fine.”

You stared up at him through your lashes. “Is she a friend?”

There was a prominent stiffness to his rising adam’s apple, sharp against his throat, like an arrowhead. “Not really. I know her name, where I met her, and that she fucks heavy with ketamine. But she’s not that nice around the privates, you feel? I try to tell her what I like but she just fuckin’ operates my dick like she’s drivin’ a damn stick,” Vernon chuckled, shrugging. “You’re easy priority over that.”

Looking back down, you smiled. “I guess that’s nice to know.”

“Shit—even if it was the best fuckin’ brain I ever got—I still would have come got you,” Vernon asserted, slipping his hand underneath your arm, his fingers pressing deep into your ribs. “Lucky you, huh?”

You nodded, adjusting the knees against your chest.

Vernon cleared his throat. “Why don’t I throw on a movie?”

“Okay,” you obliged. “What kind?”

“Let’s look on my Netflix—well—not mine. I’ve been bummin’ off the dude who lives underneath me. But I give him mint weed. So it’s fair.”

He grabbed the remote off the coffee table and turned on his flat-screen television, which took a moment to start up. You assumed he didn’t use it much as you both watched the spinning loading circle.

Vernon smirked. “Is it really comfy to sit like that?”

You frowned. “Like what?”

“With your knees against your chest. You always sit like that. Why don’t you spread out more?” He offered. “Put your legs across my lap.”

A weight hit your throat. “Are you sure?”

“No, I gave you that option so I could take it back three fuckin’ seconds after I said it,” he sighed, chuckling. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Naturally, you obeyed, untucking your legs and resting them across the boy’s thighs. He was right. It felt way more leisurely.

“Why don’t you pick the movie? Show me one of your favourites.”

While you operated the remote, Vernon had his palm lying flat against your knee. The smile that shot to your face was immediate, unbridled twitches dancing in your cheeks, though you attempted to hide it. Whenever he touched you, no matter how faint, it set off unstoppable fireworks from the base of your abdomen, fulgurant and hot and sizzling with desire that was near impossible to quench.

“There,” you sniffed. “Wall-E.”

“Oh, that’s a banger. I haven’t seen it in ages.”

You grinned into his neck. “Then you’ll love it even more.”

It was difficult not to fall asleep as the movie played.

The apartment grew dimmer and dimmer over the hour, with the sun setting outside, pulling all the baby blue out from the winter sky until it was an unsaturated cloth. Your head was in such a comfortable position, cradled against Vernon’s shoulder, and you had only curled up more such that you were a ball half-supported in his lap. His body heat was pulling down your eyelids and the strokes of his hand along your thigh’s underside was so lulling. You didn’t even realize the movie had ended. It was Vernon’s fingers tenderly brushing the hair from your face that rekindled your senses, and you began to stretch, watching the film’s credits through the apartment’s hazy darkness.

“It’s over?” You yawned.

Vernon laughed. “It’s been over.”

“Oh…” you blinked, still wearing off your brain fog. “Why didn’t you wake me up for my favourite part?! When Eve gets Wall-E to remember everything! And they hold hands! It always makes me cry in happiness!”

“And how the fuck am I supposed to know that?”

You ignored him, falling back against his shoulder. Staring out the wide windows, gazing across the last embers of sunlight buried far against the horizon, you sighed, “that’s my absolute favourite part…”

Vernon picked up the remote. “I can go back.”

“No, it won’t be the same.”

“Don’t fall asleep then.”

“Uh? Wake me up then?” You retorted. “Dumbass.”

“Aren’t you gettin’ all relaxed with the language?” He snickered, rubbing his thumb to your thigh in such a way that you nearly purred. “I’ve never heard you drop so many swears. Should I call your mom?”

“Hey—I’ve had an awful day—I can drop all the swears I want.”

“M’kay, fair.”

Your eyes stilled on the empty fish tank that caught your curiosity when you first visited. It seemed like it had been sitting on the shelf for months. The glass was cloudy, uncleaned, with some tubes left curled up against the bottom. If it never belonged to Vernon, you couldn’t help but wonder who. Maybe the presumed sister shown in the photo frame on his nightstand. The tank was large, likely fitting a decent number of fish. It must have required a notable deal of commitment and responsibility. Vernon hadn’t spared much information when you originally asked him, though you were tempted to ask again, even if it got you nowhere.

“If the tank isn’t yours, then whose is it?”

He chuckled. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Is it a secret?”

“Not… exactly…” Vernon answered, sounding hesitant. “It just belonged to someone who was really important to me, y’know?”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” He breathed out for a moment, and you could feel the shallowing of his broad chest underneath your hand. There was a subtle increase in his heartbeat, each thud gentle but quickened. “I’ll show you something, actually,” Vernon said. “But you gotta move.”

You smiled, shuffling away from his heat. “Sure.”

Vernon got up from the futon. He turned on a light belonging to a ceiling fan above his bed, then approached one of the drawers on his dresser and started rifling around through its unorganized contents.

Oh my gosh, it’s happening! It’s happening! You were shrieking inside your head, jumping up and down like you’d just won an insane lottery.

He’s actually going to show me something personal!

He trusts me! He’s opening up!

As he sunk back into the futon, you noticed that Vernon had a few photographs in his hand. They looked like polaroid images based on the fuzziness and white-cast. You straightened up, practically vibrating with anticipation, while he arranged them a certain way.

“So, for context’s sake: this dude was my best friend for years. I met him when I was sixteen. He was nineteen, at the time. You could call it a double-edged knife—” (sword, you thought), “—but he showed me everything I know. When it felt like no one else gave a fuck about me, if I lived or died, he was, like, the hand on my shoulder, y’know?” At last, he gave you one of the glossy polaroid images. It was taken on a concrete staircase belonging to an aged-looking brick house. Vernon was on the right, dressed in his thick bomber jacket and throwing up a peace sign. The young man beside him wore a dark green windbreaker. His complexion was much tanner than Vernon’s, his rusty hair slicked back and a cigarette loosely hanging from the corner of his mouth. You stared at the stranger intently, bringing the photograph closer to your face. Vernon sighed. “That’s him.”

“What’s his name?” You wondered.

“Everyone called him Dots.”

“A nickname?”

“Yeah,” Vernon said, nodding. “It’s hard to tell in that picture, but his cheeks, across his nose, was all covered in freckles. Y’know, dots.” He began to laugh as his eyes roamed the other image in his hand. “Girls fuckin’ loved that. It was the first thing they’d compliment—your freckles are so pretty—and he was always so polite. But his real name was Paulo—the other guy that Minghao asked you about.”

Vernon passed you another fuzzy polaroid, though he didn’t feature in the shot this time. His friend occupied the image, likely taken at a house party judging from the bedazzled strangers frozen in time behind him. He was wearing glittery New Year’s Eve glasses shaped just like the number, a red solo cup in one hand, a smoking cigar packed with herb in the other. There was something so irritatingly familiar about Vernon’s friend. It was akin to an itch you just couldn’t scratch, no matter how hard you stretched.

“Yeah…” Vernon hummed, “he was a sweet guy. Pretty mellow, actually. Not that into parties, clubs. He had a lot of interests, too. That fish tank was one of ‘em. He kept all kinds of shit in there. Snails, little shrimps, all these fishies whose names I can’t fuckin’ remember. He liked to read books a lot. He even showed me how to press flowers one time when we got bored in the summer—no clue where the fuck he learned how to do that—he just kinda knew stuff.”

You laughed. “Probably from all his books.”

Vernon nodded. “Good point.”

“So… he does what you do?”

“Kinda. When I first met him, he was just a dealer. But he knew all the right people. And he was super charismatic. So it was easy for him the climb the ranks and get the right promotions. Instead of pullin’ the shots, he was callin’ them, y’know?” Vernon let the last photograph slip into your hand, which you brought close to your inspection. “He was more of a distributor. He got people to move product. I did that for him. At one point I wanted to be more, but he told me it wasn’t worth it. Low profile is better in the long run. Especially if you want to get out. Makes it way easier.”

It wasn’t a polaroid image.

The detail was much crisper, with a full spectrum of vivid colour. You recognized the Camry. The two boys were sitting atop its hood, rough sneakers on the silver bumper (then, without a spot of rust), elbows weighted against their knees. Vernon was in his cherished bomber while his friend wore a jacket, green-checkered fleece. Without the polaroid glare, you could see all the details of his freckled face, from the big, dark brown eyes to the piercing in his dimple.

You knew him.

You had seen him before.

“That shitty car I drive,” he snorted, “that used to be his. But he sold it to me for a cheap buck. I always wondered why. That car went everywhere he went. Sentimental type shit. I was honoured, though.”

“Vernon.”

“Yeah?”

Looking at him, your eyes widened. “I met your friend, Dots.”

His forehead was quick to wrinkle. “Really? No bullshit?”

You cast through the photos again, your certainty only becoming stronger, the memories crawling out from the deepest recesses of your mind like the dead unearthing from tombs. “He came to Mr. York’s, I think over a year ago,” you started explaining. “I was newer, having a super hard night… I thought he was gonna be another customer to shove me around but he was sweet. He even… drove me home.” The memory was uncompletely unthawed. Everything rushed back to you: missing the bus, chasing after him down the dewy street, getting into the car, feeling nervous but relieved. There was a softness about him that you had never experienced from anyone else, a certain trustworthiness that sat so right in your gut. “I remembered asking for his name, too. He didn’t tell me.”

“Shit—he drove you home?” Vernon was astonished, immediately pressing for more information. “When was this again?”

“Over a year ago. Not this recent fall, but the one before it.”

“At… where?”

“Mr. York’s,” you laughed. “Where I work, as a server.”

“Oh, fuck. Right.”

“I never saw him again,” you admitted, suddenly becoming overwhelmed with forlorn. How funny that one encounter with a complete stranger could evoke such powerful yearning, as though he had been a dear friend, someone like Diana. You supposed it was the unexplored possibility of everything ahead, a road never taken, a bridge never crossed. Lives skimming by but never blending.

“That’s crazy as fuck,” Vernon rasped, dragging a hand through his loose, shiny hair, grinning formidably bright. “You and Dotsy, huh?”

“Wow—you have a nickname for his nickname?”

“Of course.” His hands fell back into his lap. Vernon started prodding at the cuticle of his thumb. “It makes sense, though.”

You looked between the photographs again. “What makes sense?”

“Why he drove you home.” Vernon sunk lower into the futon, spreading out his legs and folding his arms, running the tip of his tongue along his teeth. “He liked shy, awkward, weird girls like you."

“Gee,” you coughed. “Thanks, I guess.”

He grabbed your knee and shook it. “It’s a good thing. I think people like that feel the sincerest, right? It’s not an act. That’s just how they are. They can’t help it.”

You pursed your lip, appreciating the nuance of the idea, and the comfort it harboured. “Maybe… I never thought about it like that.” At last, you set the three photographs onto the coffee table, leaving the particular polaroid of the two boys relaxed against the concrete stoop on top, and joined Vernon in leaning back into the futon. Rubbing your lips, you thought for a moment. “Are you guys still friends?”

Vernon tilted his head at you, laughed heartily. “He’s dead.”

“O-Oh…” you stuttered, frowning. “I’m so sorry.”

But he casually dismissed your sympathy. “No need to apologize.”

“That’s really upsetting,” you sighed, grabbing onto your ankles. “I would have loved to know him better. I mean, he seemed so kind.”

“He was. He did his job well, but he never should have been there. I’m sure you two would have got on well. I mean, already seemed like it.”

Your smile beamed at him, like a gleaming rainbow.

Fiddling with the collar of your sock, you wavered on whether or not to ask about the gloomy specifics. The smile began to drift from your countenance, replaced by teeth nervously chewing your lip. “Am I allowed to ask how he passed? You don't have to tell me.”

“Overdose,” Vernon answered. “Gruesome stuff.”

He didn’t mention if it was accidental or not.

Either way, you sensed the distant hurt underneath his firm tone.

Picking up the photographs, Vernon took them to the privacy of his dresser, setting them down into the cabinet space with gentleness, as though he were handling a delicate flower bouquet. “Talk later, Dotsy,” he lilted before shutting the drawer. “Miss you every day.”

You were woken up much earlier than preferred by the daylight glaring in through the windows. At first, you assumed you were in your own bedroom, where you almost always kept the curtains shut because your view was a parking lot. Hence your confusion to pull the covers off your face and realize there was a ceiling fan directly above you, in addition to a series of posters against the wall that definitely weren’t yours. Shuffling to sit upright, you saw Vernon sprawled across the futon with a grey blanket half-pooled onto the floor, exactly where you had left him the night before.

He was holding a phone above his face, thumbs tapping away, rogue bits of hair sticking straight up. It was unbelievably strange to awaken in a bed that wasn’t yours. At least it was a Sunday.

You had nowhere to be.

Rubbing the bleariness from your eyes, you yawned. “Morning.”

Vernon poked his head up. “Oh—you’re awake. Sleep alright?”

While adjusting the blankets in your lap, you nodded, glancing around the apartment and noticing how subtly the morning light impacted its appearance. Everything felt cooler, softer. “Yeah… I think I conked right out, to be honest.” You grabbed your phone, making a quick pitstop of your messages. The notification to Lee’s had disappeared. Ruby had texted you a few times around midnight. “Have you been up long?”

He shrugged, guesstimating. “Uh, maybe an hour?”

“I can’t believe you’re an early-riser. It doesn’t fit you at all.”

“Why?” The boy snickered, continuing to dawdle on his phone, throwing his leg over the back of the futon. “You think I’m lazy? That us drug dealers just mooch around all day, stoned and fuckin’ brainless?”

“Well, you don’t have the best portrayals through media.”

Finally, he slapped his phone down. “I’m glad I can be a little science experiment to you. Contact with the specimen is critical, huh?”

Your eyes rolled, and you reached for the water glass that Vernon left you atop his nightstand, taking a brief gulp. Most of his glasses were dusty, but the water tasted pure. “I wonder if the specimen will prove his productive nature by making breakfast? Science has to know.”

Vernon pushed himself to sit up, tossing the blanket off his legs.

He ruffled a hand through his fuzzy bedhead, attempting to calm the hectic tangles but somehow only making them worse. “Is that your fancy-smancy way of askin’ me to make you a meal? You’re a demandin’ scientist.”

“Science is always demanding. It’s serious stuff.”

Grinning, you watched Vernon lethargically drag himself over to the kitchenette, pulling out a frying pan from one of the cabinets that he clanged onto the stove. He made you a grilled cheese, paired with orange juice and a vanilla yogurt that you double-checked the expiry date on, the ensemble served to you in bed, with a dramatic bow from Vernon and the flap of the kitchen towel landing over his shoulder. “There you go, Miss. Is it to your utmost liking?” He asked in a quaint, smooth British accent, attempting to mimic a natural poshness.

“It is,” you answered. “Your productivity has been noted.”

Vernon didn’t at all rush you through breakfast, though you suspected he had somewhere to be judging from the change of clothes and quick self-pampering in the washroom. He plopped himself back down on the futon after fixing his whirlwind hair and brushing his teeth. “Mintiness is next to godliness or whatever the fuck,” he had said, sticking a Listerine strip on his tongue.

He drove you home about an hour later.

It was the worst car ride of your life—not that it was actually terrible in any sense—but chiefly because it meant your night with him was over, long gone, flicked away to the ephemeral past. He had been so supportive, so reassuring, so polite, more than you could have expected. You never would have thought those qualities of Vernon when you first met him back in the fall, though time and trust had eased you two closer, and in the process, your understanding became enriched. He was stubbornly himself in ways that others could never grasp or accept, not that it mattered to him.

The good, the bad—it wasn’t separate—but an interwoven whole.

As the car stalled outside the curb to your apartment, you gave the boy an earnest, appreciative smile. “Thank you, Vernon. Seriously.”

“All good.” He shrugged. “Talk later, PJ’s.”

Your heart was heavy, watching him pull away, disappear into whatever venture awaited him next. It felt like your connection was a thread that tied you two together, and whenever he left, the thread was unraveling, being pulled, aching at the strain of your accumulating distance.

Entering the apartment, you jammed to a holt upon noticing Ruby sat on the sofa, arms folded crossly. She was clad in a hot pink bathrobe and her sleek-furred designer slippers, wet hair pulled into a bun, bright white cream smeared underneath her eyes.

She bobbed her ankle up and down.

You smiled at her, sheepish. “Heyyy…”

“Don’t ‘heyyy’ me,” the girl snapped, regurgitating your awkward tone of voice. “My phone has exploded with text messages from Lee, saying how badly he needs to apologize to you—apologize for what—I have no fucking clue! Because you left me out to dry! I’ve been worried sick! And then I realized you’re not even home, you’re sleeping over at Vernon’s?!” She gestured at you, babbling on. “Dressed in your pyjamas?! I mean, walk of shame, much? Please, please, please tell me you didn’t—”

“No,” you laughed, pulling off your lazily-adorned coat and throwing it on the rack, “we did not have sex. All I did was sleep over.”

Ruby furrowed her faint brow, eyes boring into you with the strength of flying knives. Giggling, you dragged your knapsack over to the sofa, plopping down beside her and settling your hand over top hers, which was splayed on her knee. It actually felt nice to get scolded by Ruby, to defrost her mellowness and sense the depth of her care.

She proceeded to dramatically whip her hand away. “I want to be even meaner, but considering I don’t know what happened… I’m dialing back much of the meanness…” sighing, Ruby softened her gaze. “What the hell happened? Lee’s texts have been worrying me to death.”

You hated having to rehash the ugly details. Once already felt like enough, but the second time was just unabashedly painful. Guilt was scribbled all over Ruby’s face, and while it was impossible to blame her, you knew she was deeply upset about being the one to introduce you and Lee. He was her friend, too. Someone she trusted and regarded highly enough to suggest a relationship with her roommate. But you were adamant that she shouldn’t criticize herself so undeservingly, and after the exchanges of comfort between you, the girl was furious, stomping around the living room.

“I should call his mother!”

“I should throw a bucket of molasses over his windshield!”

“I should superglue his law textbook shut!”

You decided it was best to let her vent.

Until Ruby finally came to a pause, dropped open her mouth, and looked at you quizzically. “Wait—you told this to Vernon, too, right? What was his reaction? What did he say?”

“He was a sweetheart. Really nice about everything.”

Ruby jutted out her hip, readjusting the straps to her flashy bathrobe before slicking her hands against her damp hair. “You don’t say?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting it either.”

“Where did he go, after he dropped you off?”

You shrugged, settling back against the sofa. “I’m not sure. I assume he has, y’know, drug dealy stuff to do. He didn’t linger, just took off.”

“Oh,” Ruby said with a breathy, faltering smile. “Okay, well, I’m going to, uh, get dressed. We can do whatever you want afterward!’ She scrambled to grab her charm-decorated phone off the coffee table, slippers scuffing fast across the floor as she burst into her bedroom.

Weird. 

Holding your breath, you listened intently to the silence.

But then you heard your roommate’s voice echoing at low from her room, and you knew she was on the phone. Using your tiptoes, you pranced over to Ruby’s door, ever so subtly pressing your ear against the crack. Yes, you were being a gigantic sleuthing snoop, but something about it felt warranted.

“Vernon, just listen to me, this isn’t going to help—okay, yes! It’s going to help you feel better, but what about her? You never think things through… I understand what happened, she just told me… he is a piece of shit! I agree with you, but—I care about her, too! You don’t think I want to dent Lee’s face in for how he made her feel? … Please, please, please, for the love of God, you already get into enough trouble! Don’t add another freaking battery charge to your already insane resume of illegal activity! You seriously won’t get out of prison, you idiot! … Yes… Yes, I get it… I know how much you care for her… thank the fucking holy fucking ghost. You made the right choice, okay? I know it.”

Hearing Ruby hang up the call, you sped away from her door and settled back onto the couch, fingers twiddling anxiously in your lap.

Was Vernon going to do something to Lee?

You couldn’t be sure about the situation without admitting you had eavesdropped on Ruby. When she came out from her bedroom, you reminded her she still had cream under her eyes. She started rubbing it in, sighing aloud, like she had just adverted an assassination attempt. You weren’t sure what to think, what to feel, just that you couldn’t shake Vernon from your mind for the rest of the day, no matter what you did.

“Honey Buns, wow, I haven’t had these in a lifetime.”

“Doesn’t that technically mean you’ve never had it?”

Soonyoung’s voice sounded from over your shoulder, followed by the rustling of plastic. “Dunno—they’re good, though.”

You were helping him stock some of the snacks. It was opening and the morning crowd would start trickling in soon. While Soonyoung worked on more of the individually packaged foods, you were refilling the candy bars. The Twix and KitKats were almost completely empty.

“Anyway,” Soonyoung mumbled, “back to my story…”

Since he was stocking the aisle behind yours, you could freely roll your eyes without worrying about being rude, unlike Soonyoung, who would roll his eyes straight to your face. But you always listened to the babblings of his weekend antics because he always listened to your incessant qualms about the universe and your issues—it was only fair. Half the time you tuned him out, anyway. It was typically the same stuff: getting drunk or high, stirring up trouble, running into a handsome guy, and then they’d end up having sex some place unorthodox, like a porta-potty, or a toolshed.

You tore open another box of chocolate bars.

“… and I was, like, starting to get nervous, ‘cause I promised everyone I would get them tablets, but my plug wasn’t answering. So, I had to, like, keep assuring them and shit, right? I’ve had this specific acid tablet before so I knew it was good, but the thing is, I can only get them from this mysterious Chinese dude who kinda looks like a punk rock vampire. That’s beside the point, though. Anyway, at the last second, he comes through—”

“Wait,” you interrupted, turning around and brushing the boy’s shoulder to get his attention. “Are the tablets from Minghao?”

Soonyoung stopped stocking his Honey Buns. He looked at you, sun-bleached eyebrows strung high up his forehead. “You know Minghao?”

“Uh, not really… but I’ve been trying to, uh… it’s complicated…”

You couldn’t believe it! So, maybe it wasn’t Darian that told Minghao about you and Vernon, maybe it was Soonyoung all along. He did have a pretty big mouth… you wouldn’t be surprised if he let something stupid fly off the cuff. It somehow made too much sense.

Even though you wanted to holler, you tried to stay relaxed.

He adjusted his backwards cap. “Shit, you’re trying to buy?”

“No,” you assured, shaking your head. “Not at all. But, uh, did you know he was the one who was spray painting the building? Those octopuses? Octopi? Whatever.”

He scratched behind his neck, adverting eye contact. “Maybe…”

You gasped, “and you didn’t tell me you figured it out?!”

“Okay, okay, okay, before you have a cow, I didn’t say anything because I handled the situation and I just wanted it to be behind us. Once I realized it was him, I just slipped the dude some extra cash so he’d stop with the doodles. And—would you look at that—he stopped!” Soonyoung defended.

This time, you rolled your eyes to his face. “I can’t believe this.”

“I solved the problem, alright?”

“Those doodles had my arms limp and lifeless. I had to work cash hardly being able to lift a damn thing! Do you know how dehumanizing it was to ask men to tilt their beer to the side so I could scan it? I’ve never been called sweetheart, cupcake, and honey more in my entire life!”

“Well, I apologize,” Soonyoung tutted. “But it’s in the past.”

You huffed, turning back around to continue cramming chocolate bars onto the shelf, chewing your inner cheek. But you didn’t get very far in the task. “So, you’re familiar with him? Where does he stay?”

“Fuck if I know,” Soonyoung scoffed, bending down to grab another box and bumping you. “I just meet the dude in random ass places.”

“Does he ever mention anything specific?”

“Like what?” He groaned.

“I don’t know, like, clues to where he might live?”

“Why do you wanna know?” Soonyoung retaliated, laughing as he tore open the box in his hands. “Gonna get him back? Pull a prank on him? Finger-paint all over his windows?”

“No,” you grumbled, pausing to think of a reason. “It’s for… Ruby. She’s interested.” Oops, sorry Ruby, you winced. “They hit it off at the club. Minghao gave her an address on a slip of paper, but she can’t read his handwriting. She has no trail. It’s a real crisis.”

Soonyoung paused. “Really? Why aren’t you mad at her?”

“She genuinely didn’t know, nor did she pretend she never met him!”

He sighed, utterly drained. “Jeez.”

“Yeah. She’s super upset about it.”

“I thought Minghao had a girlfriend.”

“My guess is that they’re broken up,” you attempted to answer quickly, before he could think too hard, unaware of what Soonyoung actually knew about Minghao. “She flew back to China, apparently…”

“Damn… well…” he shoved more packaged sweets onto the shelf, taking a moment before speaking again. You dared not speak. Once Soonyoung lost a thought, it might never return. “One time, he mentioned a trailer.”

“A trailer?”

“Yeah… after we finished our deal last weekend, he told me he needed to get back to his trailer. That’s about it. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Like, a trailer park?”

“Maybe.”

Okay, it wasn’t the best lead, but it wasn’t the worst. You could work with that, even if it was ambiguous. It was definitely more than what you and Vernon had been able to scrounge up the week before. Upon organizing the last few chocolate bars onto the shelf, you heard the tinkling bell above the front door ring out.

“I better get to cash,” you said, ultimately satisfied with your play.

One socked foot was pulled onto the edge of the bench.

You left your elbow propped onto your knee, helping to secure the phone before your face as you scrolled through a citywide map. It was closing time at Mr. York’s, and since you were responsibly finished with all your cleaning duties, you were supposed to be getting ready to leave for the night.

Lara slipped into the locker area, standing behind you. As she fiddled with the combination, she mumbled, “what are you searching?”

You sighed in frustration. “Nothing, at this point.”

She took out her purse and a pair of tall, luxury winter boots from her locker. Realizing the bench was strewn messily in your coat and tote bag, you moved the items aside so she could sit next to you.

“Tonight genuinely sucked,” Lara complained, tugging off her work shoes one by one, letting them bounce rubbery against the tiles. “That fancy business lady—she makes me want to put a shotgun in my mouth.” She then began massaging her feet, blowing a tuft of long hair from her face. “The way she orders me around, makes all these cunty, unnecessary comments…”

“Oh, I know,” you chided, setting your phone aside. “And then the entire group stands out front, smoking, blocking everyone’s way.”

Shoving her foot into one of the black boots, Lara nodded. “I hate the fact she’s becoming a regular...” Lara tugged up the zipper and grabbed the other boot, rubbing some dirt off the white-fur detailing. “You think if I gave Costello a handie, he’d slip, like, a laxative in her food in return? Or something that makes her fade away?”

You giggled, returning to putting on your own boots that you had left scattered on the ground. “He’s really into you. I think it might work.”

Lara shrugged, reaching behind her to snatch a pretty coat out from her locker. “A little too into me. That business lady sucks but at least she gave me a decent tip for once. Costello is useless apart from having good timing on the meat section.” After buttoning up her chic coat, Lara flipped the shimmery strands of her dark brown hair from underneath the collar, sighing. “I’m getting damn sick of men. And women. I am a terrible person.”

“Can’t you stick it out until we can confirm the laxative thing?”

She pitted a very unsatisfactory glance in your direction.

“Only kidding,” you teased.

Lara stood up, grabbing her purse. “Do you need a ride home? Tars is warming up the car. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind an extra person.”

“Sure,” you smiled. “Thanks for asking.”

As you gathered together the rest of your things and shut your locker, Lara picked up your forgotten phone, her eyes narrowing in inspection at the map you had pulled up. “Seriously? What’s this for?”

You grabbed the phone back, stuffing it in your pocket, still disappointed at the sparse results. Lara had to pull you in the direction of the back door when you automatically veered for the front entrance. The parking lot was behind the restaurant.

You were used to the bus.

“I’ve been trying to find trailer parks that are close by.”

She chuckled while shouldering open the door. “Jeez—is the pay here really that damn bad? Don’t you work two jobs?”

“No!” You laughed, following Lara across the empty lot. “It’s for another reason that’s hard to explain. But I’m not having much luck.”

Lara opened the passenger door of Tara’s car, bending down to greet her friend before gesturing to you, standing awkwardly behind her, arms folded to help protect yourself against the biting wind.

You could hardly hear what the two girls were saying—Tara was blasting electronic pop music while taking off her lipstick with a makeup wipe—and you could only hope that maybe she would turn the volume down a tad. Vernon played his music quite loudly, too. Sometimes he would compromise, sometimes not. It depended on how much he liked the artist.

“Hop in,” Lara then said. “She’s fine with it.”

You smiled, pulling open the back door and sliding in behind Lara. It smelled so strongly of her perfume that you nearly coughed.

“Hey, gorgeous!” Tara shouted over the music. “Apologies—the backseat it a little messy—you can just push all those magazines over!”

“Oh, no problem!” You shouted. “Thanks for the ride!”

“What was that?!”

You set your tote bag beside you, swallowing tightly as the music vibrated through the car’s speaker system. “I said thank you for—"

Suddenly, everything went dead silent.

“Gosh, Tars,” Lara grumbled, wriggling out from her coat. “You don’t need it that fucking loud. The concert was five months ago. And there’s a guest in your car. I think she appreciates having intact ear drums.”

You giggled breathily, nervous. “It was a little loud.”

“Don’t sugar coat it,” Lara groaned.  “She needs an intervention.”

“Okay, whatever!” Tara yelled, loosening her scarf and pulling out her phone. “I get the point. Where do you live? For the GPS?”

“2269 Roxbury.”

“Perfect—we’ll drop you off first.”

“Oh, by the way,” Lara began, glancing at you through the rear-view mirror, “I’ve seen a few trailers, but it wasn’t necessarily a park.”

You brightened up. “Really?”

She nodded. “Right before it got super cold, my friends and I meshed with this other random group at a bar. We ended up going to a scrap yard, I think it’s called. There were old cars and motorcycles everywhere. A few trailers, too. Anyway, stuff was definitely getting passed around. I tried this LSD gummy and then got on a rusty bike. Got a super nasty cut on my leg. Had to go to the doctor and everything.”

“Oh,” Tara hummed, focused on the road. “I remember that. I had to come pick you up! That cut was awful! You’re lucky you had your shots!”

“Where was it, do you remember?” You pressed for information.

“I remember,” Tara sighed. “It’s along Kichesippi Woods. It’s a big scrap yard that doesn’t really get used any more. If you’re wondering about the trailers, I think there were three. People definitely lived in them. I guess they're used to people sneaking around.”

You were already making notes in your phone, excited to share the news with Vernon later on. “That’s amazing! Thank you both!”

Tara poised a polite expression. “Why are you so curious?”

“It’s a secret,” Lara answered in your place.

You shrugged, smirking ever so slightly. “Something like that.”

Vernon was staying the night at your apartment. He made himself comfortable on the couch, already prepared with an extra pillow and a pink blanket (he usually preferred Ruby’s black blanket that came with a special heating remote, but you thought the fairy pink was much better), in addition to slapping on his casual clothes—grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt—which truly wasn’t that different from his everyday attire. You were anticipating having him over, considering the fact you had been sitting on some very pertinent information all week. While waiting for your tea to finish steeping, you and Vernon were chatting up random topics.

Ruby wouldn’t be home until later.

Vernon had rolled himself a blunt. You never liked the astringent smokiness of the smell, how it stuck to everything, but after enough rendezvous with Vernon, you were unfortunately used to it. Ruby was into weed as well. She always puffed out her bedroom window.

“I’m actually so excited to tell you what I figured out!” You exclaimed, unable to stop fidgeting in your seat on the couch.

He eyed you up and down. “I can see that.”

“No, like, I’m really proud of myself.”

“Congratulations.”

It felt like being a child the night before the big birthday party, knowing your parents got you a specific gift, being ecstatic to rip it open, having an ear-to-ear grin plastered on your face akin to a mask.

Vernon exhaled a cloud of billowing, smooth smoke. He made everything look so effortless. You were a coughing, spluttering mess the last time you tried a basic joint, rolled courteously by your high school best friend. To be honest, you just never had much interest in it. Although you were probably smoking cheap, dull strains.

“When can I know the news?” He asked, keeping the blunt secured between his fingers as his hand fell upon his lap. “Why the big wait?”

“My tea,” you answered. “It has to finish steeping.”

The boy groaned, rolling his head against the sofa, frustrated at the delayed gratification. You looked along the column of his throat, noted the skin's bareness, without dark purplish-brown bruises pressed like flowers. There hadn’t been any marks for a few weeks. At least none you had noticed or seen—not that you were keeping track.

“Who cares?” Vernon grunted.

“I care!” You smacked his thigh with an embroidered pillow, a gift from Ruby’s seamstress mother. “Don’t be so impatient.”

“Is your special tea the equivalent of this?” Vernon inquired, holding the blunt up to his lips. The next time he spoke, the thin smoke crawled out from his mouth, as though he was a fire-breathing dragon. “Then I could understand. You gotta ride the wave.”

“Sure, it’s exactly like that. It’s probably done, actually.” Getting up from the couch, you checked the tea that you left steaming on the counter, stirring the bag around a few more times for good measure before plopping it in the trash. Once you rejoined Vernon in the living room, you snuggled against your end of the sofa, legs stretched out and daring to poke into his space. “Okay, are you ready?”

He shrugged. “Floor’s all yours.”

“Can I please have some more excitement?”

Vernon sighed. He tucked the blunt behind his ear and cleared his throat. Then, the boy was leaning over you, grabbing your shoulders and rattling them. “Oh, please, please, please won’t you tell me your awesome secret!” He fake-pleaded, squinching his eyes shut. “I’ll genuinely kill myself if I don’t get to know!”

Giggling, you pulled up your foot and lightly shoved it against the edge of his ribs, prodding him to sit back down. “That’s much better, although it didn't seem very sincere. Anyway, okay I'll tell you. Whew, this is really good. Okay, okay... I know where Minghao is!”

“Do you?” Vernon engaged, entertaining himself with another intake of smoke. “And where would that be? Burlington Coat Factory?”

“There’s a scrap yard along Kichesippi Woods,” you explained, tightly gripping your tea. “He lives in one of the trailers there. I’m positive.”

“Kichesippi Woods? Didn’t a guy get murdered there last year?”

You leaned forward, willfully ignoring him. “And guess how I figured it out? Through my savvy investigation skills! It was Soonyoung! He gets tablets from Minghao. I figured he was the one who blabbed about us, knowing his big mouth and all, so that’s how Minghao knew I was familiar with you. Apparently, Minghao mentioned getting back to a trailer, so, naturally, I think—” you paused, blowing on your tea and taking a shallow sip to test its flavours before continuing, “—I think he lives in a trailer park, but there’s hardly any around the city.

So, I’m working a closing shift at Mr. York’s a few days later, and I get a major scoop from Tara and Lara. Lara went to a scrap yard with this big group of people to do drugs or get drunk or steal a rusty bicycle or something—I don’t really know—and she tells me she noticed trailers there. Tara backed her up. One has to be Minghao’s! The yard’s along Kichesippi Woods!”

Vernon was squinting at you, his eyes slim and red. You assumed it was a boatload of information to absorb at once, and you hadn’t exactly held his hand and waltzed through everything at a gentle pace. But you had collected all the evidence—even a location!

The boy nodded. “That’s good news, for sure.”

Letting the tea sit between your legs, you clapped at him. “Who’s pulling the weight now, huh? I did all that handiwork myself!”

“Handiwork?” Vernon scoffed, itching his studded eyebrow. “You have destiny on your side. Everyone you fuckin’ breathe around is tangled up in this bullshit, somehow. Not that I’m complainin’.”

You fell back against the arm of the couch, pouting. “Why can’t you let me win? Did I still not do a good job? Did I not help us out?”

“No, 'course you did a good job,” he assured you. “And you helped us a lot. You’re right. I should celebrate your wins more.”

Feeling the hot tea begin to burn your inner thighs, you picked it back up and nodded at him in satisfaction. “That’s what I like to hear.”

“I’m sure.”

“So, when should we check it out? Tomorrow?”

Vernon shook his head, fixing his tattooed arm around the back of the couch. “Can’t,” he muttered, “I’ve got business.”

“Ugh, you’re so boo.” You frowned, slipping down the sofa. Holding the tea against your stomach, feeling a circle of heat sink through your shirt, you began nibbling your lip, different ideas forming bubbles in your mind as you examined the ceiling. “Maybe I can—”

“Forget it,” he chuckled. “You’re not goin’ by yourself,”

“I wasn’t thinking that,” you corrected him. “The only thing I wanna do is check it out. I can’t help being curious. Maybe Tara would—”

“You don’t go if I don’t go,” Vernon stated, shrugging a shoulder.

Lifting your head to rest against the sofa, you scowled at him. “I don’t think that choice falls into your authority. I can do what I want.”

“Oh, can you?” He goaded, raising an eyebrow. “What a big girl.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” Vernon said. “I don’t want you there without me. Minghao’s snakey. I know how to deal with him.”

You sighed in capitulation, wriggling your toes. “Fine.”

He gave you a stern but entreating glance. “Promise?”

Sitting up, you set the tea onto the coffee table. “I promise.”

Vernon held out his pinky finger.

You wrapped yours around his and shook on it.

Curling your legs underneath you, playing with a thread of the pink blanket now pulled onto your lap, you began to smile. “I can't help but find it weird when things actually go my way."

He chuckled. “It only feels weird ‘cause you think the world’s against you. But it’s not.” Vernon exhaled another wispy cloud. “It’s just the world. Plus, you’re high-strained enough to start up a car battery.”

“I am not!”

The boy tossed his eyes in a circle. “Your delusion charms me.”

“Actually, I think I’ve calmed down a lot…” you hummed, winding the thread around your finger. “Compared to when we first met.”

Vernon nodded. “Maybe.”

“You don't believe me? That I've mellowed out?”

“Somehow, I think it's the opposite. You talk a fuckin' lot.”

“I do? All my report cards said I was too quiet.”

“Maybe I just bring it outta you, huh?” He chuckled, letting the blunt nestle between his lips. The papery tip singed its orange glow as he puffed, more smoke drifting throughout the living room. You noticed the burnt odor lingering for longer than usual, though you weren’t particularly concerned. Maybe you were half-high. “Spike?” He was suddenly holding out the blunt, thick in his fingers and packed with an earthly, musty smell, and your heart restricted, frozen at the offer.

“Uh…” you swallowed, a deep fire rising from the base of your throat that made the words difficult to pronounce. “I’m not sure if…”

He moved it away before you could decide, drew in more smoke that soon streamed out his nose and rolled from between his lips like a waterfall of weightless clouds. “I knew your ass wouldn’t do shit.”

“Because you pressured me!”

He almost choked on his own splitting cackle. “Fuckin—how?! All I did was hold the damn thing out in front of you! You fuckin’ weirdo!”

“You set up a pretense for me to be pressured!”

“No—that was you,” Vernon chuckled. “Nice fuckin’ try.”

Grumbling, you stayed hunched over the blanket, continuing to play with the baby pink thread by feeding it between your fingers.

“Unless,” Vernon sang, “you actually did want a spike?”

You glanced up at him, eyebrows knitted together.

He nodded his head. “I don’t care if you do, PJ’s.”

Sighing, you reached out, though you paused midway, your fingers twitching in the air. No—you couldn’t. There was too much unspoken tension with him watching you. What if you started hacking up a lung like back in your high school days? You were never good at holding the breath in—the part that was crucial to feeling the high—without your eyes sprouting tears from the heated dryness.

Then, shaking your head, you refused. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“It’s been too long…” you worried, forgetting the thread and lying back against the arm of the sofa. “I’m gonna look dumb, or something.”

He shrugged. “Who cares? It’s just me.”

“And you’ll make fun of me.”

“Well, I won’t mean it.” He smirked, giving you another moment to twiddle your thumbs and think. Suddenly, Vernon grabbed your knee and squeezed it. “I won’t say a damn thing, okay? I promise.”

“No.”

“Yes, c’mere,” he encouraged. His textured fingertips squeezed into the flesh of your arm, pulling you to sit back up despite all your grouchy, reluctant noises. “Swear I’ll be good.”

Staring him square in his pretty face, you shook your head.

“How ‘bout I make it easier, then?” Vernon suggested an unknown compromise, the dark hues of his golden eyes softening. “You trust me?”

At that moment, your skin thrummed with heat. You felt its pulse, travelling like a crashing ocean wave, and you couldn’t stop your gaze from narrowing as you traced the crests and contours of Vernon’s scheming expression. You coughed slightly. “What does that mean?”

He pursed his lip. “I’m askin’ if you trust me.”

You sniffled, nodded your head. “I do… but—”

“Close your eyes.”

“What? Why? What are you gonna do?” The nervousness of not knowing his intentions caused your mind to flitter like paper birds. You did trust him, but that didn’t exactly quell your timorousness with one easy sweep. “I-I just… you’re making me… nervous.”

“I know,” Vernon said, smiling. “I’m not gonna do anything you won’t like, yeah?” He brushed his fingers along your knee, and you took in a long, quivering breath. “Just keep relaxed. That’s it. And at any point, if you don’t want to, then stop me. Sound good?”

“Okay.” You nodded, your voice a squeak.

He put the blunt between his lips. Grabbing his lighter off the coffee table, you leaned back as he crisped the end with a few sparks, feeling the flame’s warmth ever so gently against your cheeks. Once Vernon was satisfied, he tossed the lighter and gave the blunt a quick, obligatory puff, making sure to politely blow the smoke away from your face. “Alright,” he sighed, “you ready, PJ’s?”

Gulping, the only thing you could do was nod, too afraid to use your voice again in case it embarrassingly cracked. Vernon reminded you to close your eyes. As soon as the room went dark, your heartbeat leapt tenfold.

You felt his hand touch your knee, attempting to soothe you with massaging circles. “Relax, okay?” He whispered. “You’ll like it.”

There was the faintest sound of a crackle as you heard the boy inhale, taking his time to let the smoke settle right. Then, you sensed his fingertips drift against your tingling cheek, curling behind your ear, and your nails scraped the fabric of your pyjama bottoms. He was holding the edge of your face, so close that your atmospheres seemed overlapping despite the sheer, unmoving blackness.

Softly, his nose bumped yours and you gasped. That’s when you felt the fantom breeze—his pierced lips delicately mouthing over your own—his fingers dancing to fasten your chin, the smoke crawling inside you, spilling against the back of your throat like a breath of prickly fog. The sensation was overwhelming. You didn’t know where it came from, but you mewled, wanting to chase Vernon’s touch like a swaying, golden reed. His hand skimmed down your waist, pulled along your thigh, and then the smoke had vanished.

Holy hell—you were going to pass out.

Everything around you felt fuzzy, dream-like.

There was so much heat inside you that it was no wonder your tissues and bones weren’t melting into each other, bubbling, fusing.

But then you realized what had happened. Your eyes flung open, and you scrambled backward until you were pressed against the arm of the sofa, gawking at the clever, smirking boy. “Why the hell would you do that?” You admonished.

Vernon relaxed back into his spot, arms crossed, blunt tucked behind his ear. “I wanted to,” he said. “Made you feel good, yeah?”

Yes, yes!  You had never felt anything so electric! Sparks had coursed the lengths of your sensitive skin like flying livewires. They were ticklish and molten and crackling with pleasure.

“No! It did not!”

He bit his lip, shrugged. “Fine, it didn’t.” But then he tilted his head at you. “Thanks for moanin’ into my mouth, by the way. That was hot.”

“Shut up!” You recoiled off the sofa. “No I freaking didn’t!”

“My word against yours, beautiful,” Vernon countered, winking.

“I can’t believe this!” You fretted, beginning to pace back and forth in front of the coffee table, fingernails running against your teeth. “Why on earth would you do that? I don’t understand! Are you trying to trick me?”

He spoke through a haze of smoke. “Trick you how?”

“By damn near kissing me!” You cried. “Why would you do that!”

Vernon didn’t seem as concerned. “You like me,” he stated.

“So?!” At that point, it didn’t even matter. He obviously knew. You were terrible at hiding it—big surprise—but you had gradually stopped caring about how obvious you were being because there had been the boundary of his feelings diverging from yours. You were safe in a world of fantasy. There was nothing else to worry about. He would never reciprocate. “That isn’t something you can do, Vernon! It doesn’t mean anything to you like it does to me!”

“Who said it didn’t mean anything to me?”

Your feet tripped on the shag carpet at the shock of his questioning and you slammed to an awkward, confused stop. He was still reclined against the sofa, hands tucked behind his head, one holding onto his blunt that produced a finite tail of smoke into the air.

“What?” You gasped. “And what the hell does that mean?”

He bit his lip ring, stared at you. “What do you think?”

“No,” you choked, shaking your head. “No, no, no, no!”

“No, what?” Vernon laughed, leaning forward and splaying out his hands. “Why is this suddenly such a bad thing? I can’t like you?”

You sat on the coffee table, squeezing your scalp in agony.

He moved closer to you, reaching his touch underneath your knee.

“It’s not the same…” you sniffled, wiping off your runny, wet nose.

Vernon shrugged, sweetly rubbing your leg. “How come?” He murmured, attentive to your overflowing sensitivity. “Explain it to me.”

You sighed, gulping in a breath. “It just isn’t. When you didn’t like me back, I could like you even more, as much as I wanted! Because I thought you would never like me! But if you’re being serious… then it changes things! It puts… realism… on the table… and there’s just no realism with us!” Tears beaded down your cheeks, but you wiped them away before Vernon could get his hand back to your face, before you could melt all over again. “I’ll want more, I’ll want a relationship. But you won’t because you’ll get bored in a relationship—that’s why you only have unattached sex! And you’re a freaking drug dealer! How am I supposed to introduce a drug dealer to my parents, o-or survive without worrying about you, or stay out of your business no matter how many times you tell me to. I won’t!”

“Jeez,” Vernon chuckled, his voice becoming hoarse from the potency of the Indica. “That was quite the speech.”

“But did you listen?!”

“Yes, yes, I listened.” Vernon put the blunt behind his ear, then eased your anxious buzzing by grabbing onto your shaky hands and surrounding them tightly with his warm, rough, calloused ones. “I listened, PJ’s. Alright? I think you have valid worries. But why do we have to focus on the uncertainty right now? Why can’t we just… I dunno… go where the wind takes us? Huh?”

Your shoulders sunk. “Do you really like me?”

The boy smiled, flashing a glimpse of his sharp teeth as a response.

“Well… I think you’re lying. We’re friends.”

No matter what he told you tonight, your mind was solidified. It was not going to accept that this boy was being truthful. It was not going to accept that your fantasy was threatening the bounds of real life.

Vernon shook his head, moved aside some sooty hairs tickling his eyes. “Y’know what? Sure. We’re friends. Let’s keep it simple, yeah? I’ll just think about you every wakin’ fuckin’ second of my goddamn day, and you’ll think about me, and we’ll just call it even. Right?”

 Nipping anxiously on your bottom lip, you nodded. “Right.”

Vernon took the blunt down from his ear. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Once Ruby came home, she could clearly tell something was off between you, though she refrained from being vocal about it. You were certain she noted how distant you were from Vernon, not just metaphorically, but also physically, cramming yourself against the opposite end of the sofa like you were attached by hot-glue.

Most of your responses were minimal and squeaky. She sent you a text before bed, when you came out from the washroom and screamed at Vernon innocently waiting his turn.

WTF is going on???

You sent her a text back.

I’ll explain tmo… you won’t BELIEVE it…

7 MONTHS AGO.

The next morning, you decided to take Ruby out for breakfast to explain the situation. Vernon was gone by the time you awoke. Strangely, the pink blanket was folded nice and neat on the couch as opposed to the usual lump he would leave behind in his haste. You placed the blanket on the corner of your bed prior to heading out, giving it a long, confused stare.

Ruby loved Get Cracking. It was her favourite breakfast restaurant in the city. No matter your age, they left you pencil crayons and a colouring book to work on while awaiting your food. It made for a very interesting exposé as you shaded in the bejewelled crown atop your princess’s curly hair.

“No… I don’t even know how to start…” you sighed.

Your roommate was colouring a frog perched on a lilypad. “Just come straight out with it,” Ruby encouraged. “That’s the best way.”

“Well, I’ll set up some background first…” you murmured, replacing your bright yellow pencil with a deep purple one to colour in the crown’s amulets. “So, basically… Vernon almost freakin’ kissed me.”

Suddenly, there was a loud, harsh snap. Ruby had broken the lead to her blue pencil. “Uh—” she swallowed, hard, bulging her golden-green eyes at you like saucers “—so much for background information!”

“It gets worse!”

“Jesus. How?”

Collapsing your shoulders, taking a timid glance around the restaurant, you proceeded to lower your voice and whisper, “because, then he told me… he essentially told me that he liked me! I almost fainted!”

Ruby’s jaw dropped. She leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Are you freaking serious? Like, on your life? You’re being serious? He said that?”

You nodded gravely. “No, I’m being so serious. The seriousest.”

“Is that a word?”

“I don’t know! That’s how serious this is!”

She couldn’t produce even a sound. Instead, Ruby dropped her broken pencil and sunk back into the booth like she was just delivered the most devastating news, her tongue circling around her inner cheek. To be honest, you were still reeling from the moment. It consumed your mind without mercy for the entire night. You saw Vernon in your dreams. You touched him. You caressed him. You felt him in ways you couldn’t confess.

After a palatable silence, Ruby shifted from her stony, stiff position that made her seem almost corpse-like. She casted fingers through a silky red streak of her dark hair, puffing out from deep within her chest. “Damn…”

“That’s all you have to say?” You whined. “I need guidance!”

“Well—jeez—I need to process it!” Ruby defended.

“I thought that silence was you processing it!”

“No,” she laughed, shaking her head. “That was me talking myself down from buying ten Screwdrivers!”

Squeezing the pencil in between your fingers, you tried desperately not to let yourself spiral. After all, you were the master of spiralling. It wasn’t a hard thing to do, but it was terribly exhausting to come back down and grasp the extent of mental wreckage. Ruby was far better at composure, though she seemed most keen for a drink before you went any further.

You grabbed a pink pencil for the princess’s dress. “I don’t know… all I’m saying is that it’s confusing… if he’s being honest about it, then I don’t understand why he likes me. We’re so different in every aspect.”

Ruby sighed, grabbing her blue pencil and attempting to colour with it again, only to remember it was broken. She took another shade from the assorted cup, blowing some shavings off it. “I’m not gonna pretend to fully understand how the guy’s mind works…” she admitted, shrugging a shoulder. “Ever since I’ve known him, he’s never liked anybody romantically. He’s always been a free spirit, you know? Doesn't like to be tethered. I think the fact you are so different from him, so beyond what he’s used to… maybe it’s refreshing?”

Frowning, you pushed harder on the pencil, outlining the princess’s dress in a darker hue of hot pink. “Yeah, and then he’ll get totally bored of me. I’ll lose my refreshingness! I feel like I’m just a phase, you know?”

“I wish I could give you a clear answer.”

You wished for that, too.

But if someone were to plop a miraculous crystal ball into your hands and harness the undeniable truth, that would be too easy, and your life was certainly not founded on easiness. Sucking in your cheeks, you continued colouring, noting more streakiness through the thin paper as pressure flooded your hand and cramped your fingers.

“How did he try to kiss you?” Ruby asked.

You let the pencil roll away. “It was a tricky trick.”

“What kind of tricky trick?”

The memory remained sharp in your mind. Every little sensation, breath, gliding of fingers, nervous words—you could recreate it with clay and make a damn movie! Having to explain the situation to Ruby turned you hotter than the fresh plate of browned, buttery pancakes the waitress had just delivered to the table.

Ruby pulled the waitress’s attention. “Can I ask for one Screwdriver, if that’s okay? With a raspberry flavour shot?”

As you spilled the warmed, smooth syrup around in circles, you sighed aloud. “He had a blunt, and asked if I wanted a hit. I said I couldn’t because it had been too long since I last smoked—I didn’t wanna look like a gigantic fool—what if I started choking to death or something?” Setting the pitcher back down, grabbing hold of your utensils, you continued. “So, whatever, I let him take control of the situation. He asked me to close my eyes, right? Then… he gets close to me… he has his hand on my face and his lips are like, feathering over mine, and he’s blowing the smoke into my mouth!”

Ruby brought a hand to her face, gasping.

“The worst part…” you whispered, embarrassment fizzling up your chest as you leaned further toward your roommate, “I moaned!”

“You what?!” She shouted, beginning to cough. “You moan—”

Picking up a napkin, you shoved it against her loud mouth before the entire diner could hear your intimate, inappropriate details while in the midst of eating breakfast. She used the napkin to wipe some crumbs off her lips. “S-Sorry—” Ruby spluttered, “—I just—holy fuck. He kinda got you.”

“He was so damn cocky about it!” You flustered.

“Well,” Ruby sighed in a helpless breath, cutting across her pancakes. “That’s Vernon for you. If he gets a reaction, he runs with it.”

Prodding at your food with a fork, you again thought back to the dreams running rampant through your imagination last night. How vivid each sensation felt, to the point that the little hairs on your arms began bristling in response. His rough hands all over you, pulling, kneading, smacking. The ghosted recollection of what it might feel like to be filled by him, a warmth and fullness you couldn't make sense of. There had been sweat shining off your body with the glow of a newborn star. There were moans, loud and then soft, weak.

You hadn’t realized you were staring into space.

Ruby’s lips tightened. “Uh… what exactly are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not what your pupils are telling me.” When you didn’t entertain the topic any further, Ruby smiled, her expression comforting. “It’s okay to want him. It’s okay to think about him in ways that feel… not okay.”

You stabbed a sliced piece of banana onto your fork. “How is it okay, though? You always freak out about us potentially having sex.”

Ruby nodded. “Yeah, but that was before I knew all this, how he feels about you. I would hate for your first time to be with someone who isn’t on your wavelength romantically.” She paused as the waitress stopped by with her orange Screwdriver. “Things could have changed once he got to know you. I mean, clearly, they did. It’s just… you might not be ready for the same things.”

“We definitely aren’t. I can’t… be with a drug dealer,” you whispered.

She chuckled. “Most people would probably say the same.”

Letting your chin rest in your palm, you glanced at your roommate from across the table. “Do you think he’s serious? He really likes me?”

Ruby grabbed her beverage, taking a sip. “I know he’s serious,” she confessed after settling the glass back down. “Dude, he was gonna beat the shit out of Lee. I had to talk him out of it. He laughs and smiles so much when he's with you. I think he genuinely cares about you. And I bet you’re all he thinks about.”

You started to smile, your eyes fluttering. “That’s sweet…”

“I really can’t tell you what to do,” Ruby admitted with a defeated shrug, spearing some fruit onto her fork, “since you know yourself best. But I bet the answer will come to you when you’re least expecting it.”

After bringing the sliced banana to your mouth, you began cutting into your pancakes frustratedly, nodding. “My god. I hope so.”

Before you and Vernon could jump into investigating the scrap yard, he told you that he had a deal planned right around lunchtime. Of course, this was mentioned after you had already sat down in his car, and since you weren’t in the mood to bail out into a pile of pebbled, greying snow and concrete, the best thing you could do was begrudgingly cross your arms and sigh.

Now, you didn’t know where you were.

It was a gigantic, empty hanger graffitied to hell with large garage doorways. Probably some sort of warehouse left to complete abandonment years and years ago, turned to an ideal location for Vernon to sell his friends drugs. How forward thinking.

The air was still and frosty, the surrounding land barren, lumped, and dead, with nothing but a coarse field to stare at from across the quiet road. While Vernon sat on the hood of his car, feeling the warmth grumble from the running engine underneath, you were stiffly leaned against the threshold of the garage doorway. Ever since the second incident (taking name after the now labelled first incident AKA the failed confession), you couldn’t help but make it weird.

Vernon acted the same as he always did.

Unfortunately, you weren’t hardwired that way.

Kicking at a stone, you sighed, “when is he coming?”

“Soon.”

“Can I have a time?”

Vernon stared at you. “12:12.”

“No, I mean, like, the time that he’s supposed to show up.”

“Well, if I had the time for that, I would have said it.”

Displeased at the unproductive exchange, you turned around, keeping your arms folded, and took a few steps inside the industrial-sized hanger. There were some gashes in the metallic roofing, letting through thick beams of white light that staggered against the ruined cement floor. You then looked right, saw a huge slew of black, graffitied letters dried dripping above a hole broken through the infrastructure.

WORLD’S LARGEST GLORYHOLE!

Promptly, you turned back around. “What a lovely place this is.”

Vernon scoffed, stretching out his hands behind him. “I know you wanna leave. It won’t be much longer, alright? Moo’s good at that.”

“Not me to me, he’s not. Did you guys not discuss a time? Or do you just throw out arbitrary numbers and show up when you feel like it?”

“Ease the attitude. Damn.”

Your eyes rolled. It was impossible not to give attitude.

Giving attitude was the only way for you to place distance that was more than just physical in between yourself and Vernon. It was your only means of putting up a barbed front. You were not an attitude person by nature. But being around him just pulled it straight out of you like a child yanking their loose, wriggling tooth.

He patted the spot beside him. “Come sit here.”

You made a sour, repulsive face. “Mmm… no.”

Vernon shook his head, chuckling. “I knew you would do this.”

Rolling a rock underneath your heel, you muttered, “do what?”

“Make it fuckin’ awkward.”

“No—” you argued back, instantly tense and hot, “—you made me make it awkward! And since you knew I would be awkward about it, my awkwardness right now is completely and unequivocally your fault!”

Vernon shrugged, pressing against a sore spot on the side of his neck, beginning to yawn. “I can’t be bothered t'give a fuck.”

“Then why’d you bring it up?”

He shuffled backward, reclining against the car’s windshield, tucking his arms comfortably behind his head. “The not givin’ a fuck part didn’t kick in until just now. Can you hit the radio? I want some tunage.”

“Do it yourself.”

“Prick,” he muttered, closing his eyes.

“Idiot,” you mumbled back, punting the rock.

Vernon’s friend appeared about ten minutes later, ripping into the lot with a concerning level of speed. He pulled his all-black car right next to the rumbling Camry. It looked like something salvaged from the early 1990’s with its small, square lights, short hood, and compact structure. Vernon greeted his friend, Moo. He was sporting a thin black zip-up, some track pants, and weathered white sneakers. His hair was a fluffed-out, wispy afro and you were quick to notice that some splotches of skin on his hands and neck were pale in comparison to his dark complexion. Vitiligo. You remembered the name since one of Diana’s cousins had the condition.

Unsure of what to do as Vernon and Moo cordially conserved, you returned your attention back toward the hanger, scuffing your shoes and hearing the consequential echo. Until Vernon called you.

“PJ’s—this is Moo. Old buddy a' mine.”

Shuffling over, you leaned against Vernon’s car. “Hello.”

Moo smiled, sticking out his hand. Vernon always dapped up all his friends, and you assumed it would be no different with Moo, hence his quirky laughter when the attempted handshake was met with you scraping at his palm and clutching his fingers.

“Oh, shit,” Moo chuckled, rubbing his nose as you reclined into yourself, embarrassed. “Didn’t know you were cool like that.”

“I’m sorry. Vernon always does it and—”

“Hey, I’m throwing something this weekend,” Moo suddenly interrupted your bumbling, returning his attention to Vernon. “Kitty’s finally back from Europe and she brought some crazy freak shit they’ve been smashing in those underground clubs. Said it’s cut with stardust. What a fucking liar, huh?” He smacked Vernon’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Anyway, if you’re free, you should swing by.” Moo looked at you. “And you, too. If you're into that”

Vernon nodded, returning the gesture and giving his friend’s shoulder a stern squeeze. “Alright, man. Thanks for the invite.”

Moo waggled his tiny baggies full of white powder, seeming satisfied that he delivered forth the message. “No worries, street rat. I'll make sure this gets to Mish, the lazy bastard.” He plopped back into his car, saluted you both. “Later guys.”

Upon his friend tearing out from the parking lot, Vernon slapped the money against his hand. “Okay, the treacherous, scary deed is done.”

Squirming into the warm car, you asked, “are you going?”

Vernon tucked the money into a black knapsack that he proceeded to toss into the rear of the car. “Yes, yes, holy shit—can you give me a fuckin’ second to at least breathe the air? Jesus Christ…”

“No!” You shouted. “I meant are you going to the party?”

“Oh,” he sighed cumbersomely, puffing out his cheeks. “Uh, probably. And it’s not a party.” He stretched on his seatbelt.

You undid the buttons on your woolly coat. “Then what is it?”

“Nothin’ that you’d give a fancy fuck about,” he chuckled while proceeding to steer the car out from the lot. “That’s for damn sure.”

“Well, what if I want to go?”

Suddenly, Vernon smashed the breaks.

In the midst of putting on your seatbelt, you were shot forward like a rock in a slingshot, ramming into the dashboard. Shaking your head, you glared at him, feeling the crookedness in your arm. “What the hell!”

The boy’s brow was heavily contorted in bewilderment. “Please, tell me you did not just say that, Pyjamas,” he implored. “There’s no way.”

With a grumble, you adjusted yourself back into the chair, ensuring your seatbelt was safely secured before you dared say anything else. Vernon's stare was crisply burning, like sunlight through a magnifying glass, and it became increasingly harder to put a sentence together.

Rolling out your shoulders, you nipped, “stop staring at me.”

“I wanna understand why you wanna go. I mean, it makes absolutely zero fuckin’ sense. There’s nothin’ there that appeals to you.”

“Can you just drive?”

Vernon obliged, peeling out onto the long road bordered by stiff country fields and pearl blue sky. “I think you’re tryin’ to pull my chain.”

“Of course you do.”

He laughed again. “Seriously, though. What’s this about?”

With the industrial hanger being pulled away from your peripheral, you had nothing to stare at but the encompassing fields, prickled and ice-crusted with frost. Honestly, it was quite pleasant to take in such openness after habituating to the crowded city life. Your childhood home had been right across from a farm.

Vernon’s elbow bumped your arm. “Eh? What’s the deal?”

You took in a breath, keeping your tone calm. “I don’t know… I just don’t get the fuss about me wanting to go. I mean, I get that it doesn’t really suit what you think of me… but there’s no harm in trying new things.”

“Okay,” Vernon huffed, “but people say that about, like, tryin’ a new hobby or some shit. You’re wantin’ to put yourself in a position where you straight up know you won’t have a good time. Like, seriously.”

“Because you can only have a good time when you’re high?”

“No—because you’re gonna be around other high people—and as a sober person, that’s gonna suck. It’s gonna suck real fuckin’ bad.”

Your head rolled along the seat such that you were staring at him while he drove, an eyebrow tweaking in question. “And I can only assume you’re going to be in the high population. Not the sober.”

“What the fuck do you think?” He chuckled.

“I still want to go.”

Vernon shook his head. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

“I feel like there has to be specific a reason you’re so against me going…” you hummed in contemplation, crossing one leg over your knee and beginning to bob your foot. “I think I know what it is.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I just told you—you’re gonna hate it.”

“It’s because you want to screw around with a girl.”

The boy cackled, leaning forward in his seat, rubbing a hand through his soft, black locks. “Jesus Christ, you’re killin’ me, you know that?”

“I see…” you muttered, folding your arms. “No denial…”

“Shut the fuck up, honestly,” Vernon laughed.

“Well, if that’s what you want to do, then just be honest.”

“Okay, fine,” he declared with a shrug. “I’ll play your game, PJ’s.”

“There’s no game,” you chastised him, rolling your eyes.

But he ignored your insistence. “Say there was a girl. And I did fuck her while you were there. Loud enough that you could hear every time the bed frame hit the wall. Hear every single one of her moans. Every single time I smacked her ass.” He glanced over you slowly from top to bottom while you sat rigid in your seat, likely taking pleasure from how you squirmed. “How would that make you feel?”

Your entire mouth and throat were papery dry.

Truth be told, you would hate it.

In fact, you would probably start crying. The silence was louder than any crash or clap. You didn’t want to answer the question. You didn’t want him to know how utterly heartbroken that would make you feel. Just the fact that he had even asked such a question, knowing how it would stab you, made you get teary-eyed.

Swallowing gruffly, you squeaked out, “well… if that’s what you want.”

Vernon snorted. “That’s not at all what I want!” He paused for a moment, a sparkle darting through his eyes. “Unless the girl is you.”

You couldn’t help but make a twisted, flustered facial expression.

His hand then found the top of your back and he started rubbing in circles, easing the emotions colliding inside you that had packed into a knot between your shoulders. “If you went and fucked someone else in the house, I’d care, too! I’d fuckin’ want to murder the guy!”

You sniffled. “Really?”

Squeezing your shoulder, he smiled at you, full of confidence and conviction. “A hundred percent, PJ’s. I said I liked you, 'member?”

Shuddering out a breath, you felt Vernon’s touch leave your body, and the loss of physical consolation seemed so cruel. No one had ever communicated something like that to you before. At least not in a romantically-inclined way—Ruby did say from time to time that she would gladly throttle anyone who upset you—and you appreciated the sentiment from both sides of the coin. Maybe Vernon really did feel something for you. Maybe.

“I don’t feel like talking anymore,” you sighed, heavy in thought as the sparse fields started thickening with conifers, casting out the light and pushing in shadows that webbed the dark ground. “Can we sit in silence until we get there?”

“Whatever you need,” Vernon answered, shrugging a shoulder.

The entrance to the scrap yard was very unassuming. It was a mere dirt road that veered off from the pavement, leading downward, between a continuous brigade of tall, still pine trees. You couldn’t help but think back to Lara’s story about being brought here by a group of strangers—you would think you were getting murdered—though you were also a complete worrywart. Lara was definitely more adventurous by comparison.

Vernon seemed pretty assured that Minghao wouldn’t be there since it was a Saturday, and Minghao was apparently a very busy bee on Saturdays, dealing drugs no doubt, or painting buildings—you weren't sure. But soon the dirt road and trees opened up until you came to a clearing. There was a large, tall fence, caged around the scrap yard. Vernon pulled the car off to the side, taking out his keys.

“Is it locked?” You asked.

He pushed open his door. “Probably.”

“So, what does that—”

Vernon had already shut the door.

Grumbling to yourself, you threw off your seatbelt and hurried after him. He was inspecting a large, hardy padlock secured around two posts of the fence with chain links.

“I’m guessing it’s locked,” you sighed.

“No, it’s wide open.”

You scowled at his unhelpful sarcasm. “I was just asking!”

“I can pick the shitty locks, but this isn’t a shitty lock.”

“Shame.”

Vernon looked up. He placed two hands on the fence and shook it, hearing the metal rattle. “Seems stiff enough. And not electric. Bonus.”

Instantly, your stomach surged with trepidation. His thinking was obvious. And you were not mentally nor physically prepared to hop aboard. Taking a step back, you scoffed, “no—no way.”

Vernon laughed, gesturing innocently. “What? I told you it’s not electric! There’s not even any barbed wire up top. It’s askin’ to be climbed!”

You gagged; mouth slacked. “So, what? You talk to fences now? I am not climbing that! It’s dangerous! And tall as heck! I’m not doing it.” For emphasis, you crossly folded your arms and stood firmly in place. “If you want me over that, you’ll have to drag me.”

Rolling his eyes, Vernon mirrored your hardened stance. “Okay, honestly, what did you expect, PJ’s? That we’d just be able to skippy-doodle-doo our way in here? You should have learned by now it’s never that easy.” He waved his hand toward the fence. “Now, stop bein’ a spoiled princess and get your ass over here so we can get this show on the road.”

But you didn’t move. “No.”

“Holy shit. You’ll be fine,” Vernon drawled, his tone beginning to bleed from patience and amusement to annoyance. “Nothin’ is gonna happen. All’s you need is a tetanus shot and opposable thumbs. Thumbs may even be optional.”

“Ah, but I have a brain. You’re better off.”

He seemed done with the stalling. Vernon stalked toward you, eyes steely, his hand grooving around your elbow, beginning to tug you.

“Hey!” You hollered, attempting to thrash free. “Don’t—even—”

But Vernon was strong. He was dragging you a little too easily. “Don’t make me fuckin’ throw you over my shoulder,” he grunted in warning, forcing you to move closer and closer toward the fence.

At last, you capitulated. “Fine, fine! I’ll climb it!” He let go of your elbow, to which you rubbed down your arm sorely. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vernon dismissed. He then grabbed your hand and slapped it right onto the cold fence, curling your fingers around the metal wiring. “You’re more prepared than I am. You’re the rock climber.”

“Don’t make me remember that,” you gritted. “Also, the fact you’re making me go first is so… you should be ashamed, abhorred—”

“Shut the fuck up and do it.”

Upon spearing him a glare, you decided to bite the bullet. At least when you had been rock climbing there was a safety harness, and helmet, and ropes to catch you in the event you slipped. Trying not to harp on the dangers, your teeth clenched tight into your inner cheek as you began to climb, ignoring how horribly icy the metal felt as your fingers wrapped around the wires.

The higher you scaled, the more your heart raced, until you reached the thick bar on top and you had a perfect vantage point across the entirety of the scrap yard. Right in the middle was three RVs. You knew to get over the fence you had to straddle the bar, though the task seemed impossible. Swallowing densely, you took a moment to breathe in the brisk, sharp air, smell the earth and the pine. Grunting and trembling, you managed to get one leg over the bar.

Choosing to peer down at Vernon, recall the safety of solid ground, you gulped. “This sucks ass!”

“You’re doin’ great!” He called, sticking out a thumbs-up to demonstrate his pride. “And you gave me a great view from down below.”

“Shut up!” You nagged him, though you were smiling widely.

Soon enough, your feet were back on the dirt.

Vernon smirked at you from across the fence. “Easy, right?”

“Even easier if you knew how to pick that lock.”

“Boohoo,” Vernon said. “Let me pull out my YouTube tutorial.”

Suddenly, he had hopped onto the fence, and in a few fast, swift movements, the boy was already scaling the top. Once he climbed down about halfway, he leapt off, landing neatly in the spot beside you, clapping off his calloused hands like he’d just shoved a pie into a warm oven.

“Show off,” you muttered.

“Always,” Vernon said with a click of the teeth.

He proceeded down the shallow hill toward the inner bowl of the scrap yard, and you supposed there was no other choice but to follow him, hurrying to match step with his stride. The junk piles were organized for the most part. Broken bicycles, car doors, and odd metal contraptions tossed into one mound, while others were slightly more miscellaneous but seeming tended to. You walked past a sewing machine that didn’t look too rough.

“Oh! Ruby would love this!”

Vernon stopped to glance at the machine. “Yeah? It looks like shit.”

“It’s just dirty,” you answered, nudging it with your foot.

“Let’s go shoppin’ later,” he insisted, picking up your hand and continuing to pull you in the direction of the RVs. “No distractions.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Together, you perched behind a rusted, red-striped fishing boat lifted off the ground by a steel trailer. Vernon let your hand drop, brushing something off his nose. The series of RVs were about twenty feet away, with reasonable distance in between them, their colours mostly ugly beiges and bleached creams with no discernible detail. You expected Minghao’s RV to have some freaky aquatic design painted across it—anything that might suggest which belonged to him—but there was no graffiti in sight.

With your fingers anxiously digging into your knees, you looked in between the RVs and back to Vernon. “How should we do this?”

“Cautiously,” he stated, and you giggled in response.

“That’s not a word I’d expect you to know.”

“Blame yourself,” Vernon rasped. “If you weren’t here, I could go about this any way I wanted. But we’re a unit now.”

“How sweet,” you muttered.

“Okay, this is what we’ll do,” Vernon announced. “I’ll take the trailer in the middle; you take the one closest to us. Start by lookin’ around the area, see if there’s a thing or two that gives Minghao vibes. Try to look in the windows if you can, but be careful, obviously. Listen for TVs, runnin’ water, couches squeakin’, doors openin’—anything that could indicate someone's inside—and we should have a signal if there’s a spat.”

“Like what?”

“How about a whistle? Can you whistle?”

“Barely,” you commented, forming the appropriate shape with your lips and blowing air through your teeth, hardly any noise.

“What the fuck was that?” He sneered.

“I was whistling!”

“You sound like a fuckin’ busted teakettle, man. That got ran over, and dragged for a kilometer. Okay, change of tactic. Ah—can you do this?” He layered his hands together, made a small opening between his thumbs, and proceeded to blow inside, mimicking the elegant sound of a loon.

You scowled at him. “If I sound like a busted teakettle, what makes you think I can make a freakin’ bird noise? Are your neurons okay?”

“Whatever—fuck the signal, actually. Let’s just get in and out.”

Vernon went around one side of the fishing boat while you crept along the other. He was quick, darting off to the central RV while keeping low, and you got the suspecting, blaring sense this was far from his first time hopping a fence or spying through another’s window. Moving slower in comparison, you approached the first RV. Your stomach was an unsettled hive of buzzing, frantic bees.

What if someone really was inside?

The vehicle wasn’t in the best condition. Worn wheels were sagging and the headlights were busted. Treading airy steps, you paced the perimeter of the vehicle. There were lawn chairs spread out in the back, propped between a plastic, cheap table sitting an ash tray and a few crushed beer cans. A makeshift firepit displayed the remnants of ashy, grey logs and charred newspaper, tiny pieces fluttering loose in the chilly breeze like snowfall.

Was this Minghao? Did this seem like him? Beer cans and ash trays?

Vernon knew him better. You should have requested insight.

You approached the RV, gliding your hand along its cold, smooth surface, until you stopped underneath a window. It was too tall to glance in, so you decided to grab one of the lawn chairs for assistance. The fabric didn’t seem very reliable. Letting your foot press deep onto the surface, the entire chair squeaked, seeming to bend inward on itself. But you took a breath, subtly applying more weight until you were fully standing on it.

“Jesus Christ…” you sighed quietly to yourself, fingers clasping the windowsill. “If this breaks, I’m never standing on anything again in my entire life.”

The curtains were closed apart from a tiny sliver down the middle.

It took all your concentration to not make a single noise as you attempted to peer through the opening. From your inspection, no one was inside. There was a sink with some fancy glass cups splayed around it. Basic wooden cupboards, tinted by age. A cuckoo clock near the door. An armchair embroidered by a dated pattern of roses. Whatever’s Minghao aura was, this didn’t seem to match. You thought back to his luxurious, long-swept coat, his chic, cherry-red hair, the chunky rings agleam on his fingers.

Stepping off the lawn chair, you knew this couldn’t be his RV.

You wondered if Vernon was having any luck. As you walked over to the RV centered in the yard, head cocked in an attempt to find where he had disappeared to, the boy suddenly exploded into you, grasping your hand and tearing you flush against the trailer’s wall.

“What the hell—”

His palm pressed over your mouth, muffling your voice.

“Shh!” He whispered. “There’s someone in this one!”

You grabbed his wrist, peeling away the contact. Hiding behind the RV didn’t seem very practical. “And you got their attention?”

“I was lookin’ in the front window, and this cat hopped up on the sill, started battin’ at me through the glass. Then this woman appeared from nowhere to grab him. I ducked. Dunno if she saw me or not.”

“And what are we supposed to—”

His hand was on your mouth again. “Shut up! You hear that?”

You were still as stone, listening. Apart from the blood rushing in your ears, adrenaline beginning to twitch throughout your body, you heard a noise echo from the front of the vehicle, a squeak, as though a door had opened. Vernon slowly removed his hand from your lips. You two exchanged a wrought look. Your chest was heaving in deep breaths.

“Did you see something, Mr. Big? Hm?”

A few seconds later, you heard a sharp, loud meow, almost demanding in its cadence. Vernon was chewing on his lip ring, hands placed flat to his waist. Instinctively, you pushed yourself closer against him, searching for a trace of his warm, smooth scent to keep your heart grounded.

“Okay. Show Mommy where.”

“Fuck,” Vernon cursed. “Little kitty’s gonna bust us.”

You grabbed onto his hand. “What do we do?”

An orange, plump cat with faint burnt stripes had padded its way around the corner of the RV, its long tail sticking up and flicking. Paw after paw, the cat started to approach you in a slow stride, and your nails dug straight into the inked skin of Vernon’s hand.

You knew you should run.

“Go away Mr. Big,” Vernon gritted his teeth and hissed at the approaching cat. But then the cat butted its square, flat head into Vernon’s leg, purring aloud, rubbing its cheek against his pants. You wanted to giggle despite the seriousness of the situation.

“Hey!” A lady stood at the corner, fists on her hips.

You and Vernon froze against each other.

She was older, her hair a greyish-brown, curly mess flipped over to one side, dressed in flipflops with fluffy green fur and a drooping night gown. While the cat continued persuading Vernon for attention, the lady opted to squint heavily at the two of you, the skin by her eyes wrinkling intensely.

“Qian?” The lady barked, her tone strict and cutting. “Is that you?”

You exchanged a worrisome, confused glance with Vernon. He looked down at the orange cat, gulping heavily, contemplating something.

“Qian!” She snapped again, taking a step closer. “Is that—”

“Uh, yes?” Vernon answered, wincing. “It’s me.”

“Who the hell is Qian?” You whispered, squirming with nerves.

Vernon spoke very lowly, “Minghao’s friend.”

“I told you; you can’t give sardines to Mr. Big anymore!”

“My apologies, m’mam…” he stuttered in response.

She paused, tilted her head. “Qian, you sound different.”

Vernon’s complexion turned pale. “Uh, that’s—”

“Your English has certainly come a long, long way. You barely spoke a word of it when I first met you.” She started to walk closer, her flipflops scuffing across the dusty ground. “Is that Mr. Big down there, by your feet? He thinks you’re about to give him another sardine. I left my glasses in the washroom, you know. I thought there was—” she immediately cut herself off, a gasp flushing out from her mouth. “Is that Biyu?!”

Her reference was clearly aimed at you.

Before you could even decide to speak, Vernon beat you to it.

“It is.”

“And what are you doing behind my trailer?”

Vernon sucked in a breath. “We’re—”

“Well, I’m sure Minghao will be impressed! Knowing his closest friend is out lollygagging around with his ex-girlfriend!” She babbled on and on, as though she hadn’t spoken to anyone in months apart from her cat, the words flowing out in a critical, fast-paced tone. “Have you no shame, the both of you? And you thought behind my trailer was a good place to start?”

Vernon scratched his head. “It won’t happen again.”

“I better hope not! Or else I’ll tell him straight away!”

At last, Vernon bent down, picking up the chunky orange cat that had been sitting at his feet, licking a paw. He gave the cat a few scratches behind its tufted ear before handing him off to his owner.

“There you are, Mr. Big,” she cooed. “Come back to Mommy.”

Your lips pressed together tightly.

While she kept the cat wrapped up against her chest using a single arm, bouncing him like a baby, she had suddenly gripped onto Vernon’s wrist. Moving away from the trailer, your heart plunged.

“Lord—when did you get all this ink?!” She exclaimed. Vernon wasn’t given the opportunity to answer. It seemed to be dawning on her that perhaps the young man with golden-brown eyes, facial piercings, an undeniable gruffness in his voice, and plentiful tattoos wasn’t Qian.

She opened her mouth, thin lips stretched, the breath in her throat hitching. “You… you aren’t Qian…” the lady’s words warped with confusion and shock. “And that isn’t…” keeping the tubby cat cradled against her chest, she pushed around Vernon to approach you. “That can’t be Biyu.”

You felt magnetized to the wall of the trailer. Her eyes were slimmed to a permanent squint as she seemed to be taking in your every detail, the floral, piney scent of her perfume overwhelming your senses, the deep wrinkles of her skin twisting. “No! You can’t be Biyu! She’s much prettier!” The lady whipped around, her cat meowing sharply, as she glared at Vernon. “You two are lying trespassers!”

“No, I’m Qian,” Vernon persisted, smiling.

Shooting him straight-faced daggers, you couldn’t believe he was deciding to push his luck. Everything was totally, undeniably screwed.

“You are not!” She stuck a finger in his face. “Who are you?!”

“Woah, woah, woah. I think you need your glasses before you start with the accusations.” He proceeded to shoulder around her, sliding his arm along your waist, as you stood stiffly, still offended that this lady in her lime-green flip flops and dusty nightgown had called you unattractive in a roundabout insult. “They have chains for em’, no? So you can’t lose ‘em?”

She flung out her arm. “Leave! Right now!”

Vernon clasped his fingers around yours, beginning to pull you away. “I’ll get you a pair for Christmas!” He shouted. “You’ll love it!”

You two began running back up the sloping path that had led downward into the scrap yard, refusing to look back. Digging your nails into the warm skin of Vernon’s hand, you grumbled, “why did you push it?!”

“I didn’t push it!” He laughed.

“She figured out we were lying! And then you got smart!”

At the fence, you two paused to catch your breath.

Vernon smirked at you. “Still want that shitty sewin’ machine?”

Your eyes rolled. There was no point in going back and forth, and so you refused to wait for him, clutching onto the fence and beginning to haul yourself up impatiently, feeling humiliated.

“So, that’s a no?!” He yelled as you reached the top.

If you had the sewing machine, you would have dropped it on him.

“I don’t get what you’re so ticked about. We know the last trailer has to be Minghao’s. And, so what we got busted? That lady can’t see two feet in front of her. For all she knows, I’m Willy fuckin’ Wonka.”

“Oh, yeah,” you retorted dryly. “Because who else could it be? A tattooed, face-pierced liar and a random, apparently very unattractive girl sleuthing around Minghao’s home. Oh, wow,” your voice pitched in a sarcastic tone, hands slapped to your face in mock dramatics. “He’ll be so puzzled! Who could it be?”

Vernon kissed his teeth, keeping his sight on the flat, long road that the car shot down. “Minghao’s probably hardly ever there. Can’t see him bein’ real eager to dish about life with his youthful neighbours.”

“We could have so easily screwed everything up.”

“And we didn’t.”

“You don’t know that!” The frustration belted out in a cry.

The boy shook his head, reaching for the stereo. “Let’s just agree to disagree,” he said, reaching for the knob on his radio. A crackle vibrated through the tired speakers; his phone plugged into the radio using a stringy cable that looked like it might electrocute whoever touched it. “I need my brain to be completely empty.”

“Great…” you muttered, head tilted woefully in the direction of your window, the corners still tinged with frost. “I hate hearing, anyway.”

Vernon snorted. “That’s ‘cause you have to listen to yourself.”

If it weren’t for the finest string of self-control that you unspooled from your insides, then you would have kept up the bickering until he capitulated, and that was rarer than a flying pig. At that point of your relationship, it was almost second nature to chastise each other. You still couldn’t tell if it was making you more or less sensitive.

By the time you arrived back to your apartment, you were surprised the universe wasn’t ringing. Vernon loved to blast his music like the angels were eager to hear every word from heaven, though he had played it notably quieter than usual. You tossed him a lacklustre thank you for his chaperoning duties, beginning to shove outside the car, but the boy’s hand was on your shoulder and he was pushing you back into the seat.

“I have work tomorrow,” you whined. “What is it?”

“And you go to bed at three o'clock? Wow, you really are a loser.”

You smacked his arm. “And you made me climb a fence!”

“Okay, you’re not usually like this,” Vernon took it upon himself to point out, leaning against his door while squinting at you intrusively. “I mean, you can be annoyin’ about things, but this is different.” He started rubbing his chin, pinching at his adam’s apple. “What’s the matter?”

The simple question sparked your laugh. “Yes, let’s discuss it.”

He gestured at you, nodding. “Let’s.”

“That was sarcasm, dummy,” you clarified. “Nothing’s the matter, except for the fact I wanna take a hot bath.” Again, you attempted to open your door, but Vernon was quick to lean over, pulling it shut. When you tried again, he wouldn’t let it open even an inch.

“Hey!” You yelped.

“C’mon, talk to me,” he encouraged, his voice warm.

“Vernon, I’m serious. There’s nothing to—”

“Is this ‘cause of the party? The fact I said you shouldn’t go?” He resumed touching his chin, his head tilted in question. “Is that the problem?”

You couldn’t help scoffing.

His eyebrows leapt upward, and he hummed. “Ahh, so that’s it.”

“Well, you know what, actually…” purposefully keeping your delivery soft and vulnerable, you started to entertain him. “Maybe it was the fact your friend was twenty minutes late, you absolutely hated the idea of me going to a party with you, you made me climb a fence, twice,” your tone started to strip itself of the daintiness, “only to potentially ruin our entire game plan! And then I basically got called ugly by some reclusive lady who smells like a funeral home and whose best friend is her cat! And now I know the entirety of No Hands from start to finish and it’s going to keep me up at night because all I can hear is R-O-S-C-O-E, Mr. Shawty-Put-It-On-Me, I be going HAM, shawty upgrade from bologna! And it’s all your fault!” The breath was beating against your lungs, causing your chest to noticeably shrink and expand.

Vernon’s lips twitched into a smile. “I knew you liked that song.”

“It’s not a matter of liking it!” You shouted while rolling down your window using the crank, feeling the chilled breeze. “It’s just catchy!”

“Well,” the boy cleared the rasp from his throat, proceeding to sit up straighter, focusing his attention. “Do you understand why I was insistent you shouldn’t go? Because I know for a fact you’ll hate it.”

“Okay!” You cried out, shrugging. “So I’ll hate it! So I’ll be miserable! Don’t you think I can assume some of that myself? What if I wanted to hear ‘I’d love it if you were there, but you should know…’ blah, blah, blah. But you just shot me down! You made it seem like—like—you would hate it if I were there. That you wouldn’t want to see me at all…”

Vernon leaned forward, shaking his head, while your fingers twisted together anxiously in your lap, your lip quivering, eyes delicately burning.

“No, PJ’s,” he murmured. “Of course not.”

“But that’s what I heard,” you urged him. “Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Vernon answered. He set his hand atop your wrist, gave you a reassuring, comfortable squeeze. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it like that,” the boy admitted, his voice gritty but gentle. “It doesn’t matter where we are—whenever I see you—I get this soarin’ feelin’ deep in my chest. And then it flows everywhere in my body. Makes me feel like I can grow wings. It’s like… I dunno… you give me a weird high that no other drug could ever do. And I want it more and more, every day.” He paused, his fingers finding their way in between yours, laced together, gripping your sweaty hand so firm and strong. He bit his lip. “I want you more and more.”

Immediately, your face cracked into a smile. All that irritability thinned out, gone like a dense morning fog when the sun catches its blaze. Adverting your timid stare away from his sincere, straightforward eyes that dilated more with every second, you giggled out, “stop…”

He let go of your hand to brush something off your cheek with a few soft strokes from his thumb. “Stop what?” Vernon teased. “Hm?” He then slid his hand around the back of your neck, and you could feel the massaging, warm pressure from the boy’s rough fingertips. The muscles in your thighs automatically clenched. “If you tell me I can’t want you, I’ll only want you more,” he laughed. “You know, I hate goin’ back to my place even more than I did before. Can’t stand the sight of my bed without you in it.”

Your gut was insistent that you give in. But your cautionary heart and mind were ringing the alarm bells. Playfully, you shoved him away, though the sensitive skin of your neck was still sizzling hot from his touch, and you crossed one leg overtop the other, sealing up yourself tightly.

“I’m sure that line was recycled from five other girls,” you mumbled, eyes rolling. “So you can kindly recycle it back into your mouth.”

“But I never meant it with them.”

Your chuckle was short and dry. “Sure.”

“Well… if you want to go to Moo’s shitshow, then be my guest.”

“Really?” You responded in disbelief. “What’s the catch?”

Vernon sighed. “Please bring Ruby.”

“I was gonna do that anyway.”

He leaned over to push open the car door. “You’re fuckin’ free, Pyjamas. Go take your hot bath. Send me a picture, yeah?”

Upon stepping outside onto the curb, you bent down for a goodbye, smiling. “Yes, I will send you a fully clothed picture of myself fresh from the bath with all my acne patches on. I will make it my utmost priority.”

“Can’t wait,” he answered, flashing you a teething, dirty smirk, though his honeyed eyes were far too shining and pure for it to be anything other than his honest excitement. “I’ll text you the info when I know it.”

As expected, Ruby didn’t show as much hesitance to the idea compared to Vernon. She had been attempting to get you clubbing ever since she had known you, and although that triumph was still far away, the opportunity currently presenting itself was much more idealistic. Nonetheless, she was still cautious to indulge you. Ruby didn’t know all of Vernon’s acquaintances—merely a small droplet in a gigantic bucket—but from what she did know, it was enough to prompt her careful lecturing. When you told her that you knew what Vernon was like high, she cackled flippantly directly into your face before highlighting that Vernon dazed off a blunt was much different than him off three lines of coke. You knew she had a point.

The closer it came to Saturday night, the more nervous you became, and the more doubt infested your insistence that had seemed so unshakeable. You thought about how much you still didn’t know when it came to Vernon, the fact you only observed pieces of his life through flashes, like seeing your transient reflection against a speeding car. But now you were taking a much deeper step. What if everything changed? What if you couldn’t handle it? What if this was all just a disguised test to understand if you could really visualize yourself patched into Vernon’s life, despite all the evidence against it? However, you ignored those thoughts very willfully.

And then it was Saturday night.

Ruby was getting ready in the washroom while you went through the clothes in your closest. Your styles and personalities were quite distinguished from each other in almost every sense. When Ruby got ready, she would bring her wireless speaker with her, letting it sit on the sink countertop amongst the widespread mess of her expensive makeup and brushes, singing along to the lyrics of her favourite R&B artists. When you got ready, you pretty much sat in silence at your desk, keeping any touch-ups to your face minimal because you never really learned how to do makeup and it seemed too difficult to figure out now.

You could hear Ruby’s tone-deaf singing. “Can you distract me from all the disaster? Can you touch on me and not call me after? Can you hate on me and mask it with laughter?” Her grating voice was actually pleasantly distracting.

Unsurprisingly, your roommate took her sweet time getting ready, urging you not to worry since, “who the fuck shows up to a party on time?” But once she was done, presenting you the final look, you applauded her prancing around the living room accordingly. Unlike you, Ruby had been experimenting with her hair and makeup consistently, since she was a tween, her flawless skin and thick, loosely curled hair looking like velvet. She then forced you to watch an episode of her soapy drama before booking the ride to Moo’s place, somewhere far, where there was more swamp and grass and mosquitoes than houses and people.

It wasn’t until you were strapped into the backseat that you felt sick.

“Moo?” Ruby squawked, looking down at her phone. “Who’s he?”

You swallowed; your mouth dehydrated. “He’s the host, Ruby.”

“Oh, well, he just requested to follow me on IG. I wonder if Vernon gave my handle to him… he’s a bit cute… but these pictures—feeling myself like I lost my keys—interesting caption. But that Hellcat is definitely not his!” She continued to babble, mostly to herself, during the car ride to Moo’s house. You listened on occasion, caught between engaging her talkative splurges and contemplating how hard the driver might judge you for rolling down the window and upchucking your lunch onto the road.

Finally, you arrived.

“Thanks! Have a great night!” Ruby chirped aloud to the driver who seemed to pull off questionably fast. She started walking up the driveway, but you grabbed her wrist, drawing the girl into a wobble.

“Wait,” you said worriedly. “How do I… look?”

Ruby licked her thumb and smoothed it along one of your eyebrows, and then adjusted the spaghetti straps to the top hidden underneath the long coat you borrowed from the girl’s wardrobe. “Stunning.”

 “Are you sure?”

“Of course!” She exclaimed. Her hands were suddenly gripping your shoulders, her hazel eyes accented by the smoky flare of an umber powder sharpened into knife-like points. “Look, I know it’s easier said than done, but even if you have to fake it, confidence is key! This crowd is definitely not what you’re used to, and even for me this is a stretch, but the great thing about high people, they only care about getting higher. So, in a way, no one cares about you.”

 You were able to laugh at her comment. “Makes sense. Thanks.”

Ruby removed her hands from your shoulders. “Besides, as long as you’re there, I’ll be there. If you need me at any point, I won’t be far.”

Appreciating your roommate’s comfort, you proceeded to breathe out your anxious thoughts, even giving your body a jitter to physically shake off the nerves. Together, you walked up the driveway. The house seemed small from the outside. An open window allowed you to hear distant music and excited, jumbled layers of conversation, smell the burnt, stingy aroma of marijuana. Ruby knocked a pattern against the door, loud and certain.

It didn’t take long before you recognized Moo.

“Hey!” He shouted, a beer bottle clasped in one hand, his cheeks rounded in a welcoming smile. “Fuck—uh—you’re Ruby, right?”

Your roommate nodded. “Indeed.”

“Anddd,” Moo sang while turning to you, squinting one eye shut, his forehead creased and his brow raised in thought. “PJ? Did I get it?”

While you did consider correcting him on the nickname, you decided it was best to just stick with what he already knew. “That works.”

“Fuck yeah. Well, enter the pad, ladies.” He stood aside, keeping the door held open as you and Ruby shuffled into the front foyer—a narrow hallway—the walls blanketed in jackets, the floor swathed with shoes toppled over each other.

Ruby shrugged off her coat, chuckling, “are there any hooks?”

“Oh, certainly!” Moo exclaimed just before he set the beer bottle to his lips. “I think there’s one near the back, right on the left!” As Ruby primly set her coat onto the hook, you couldn’t help but note how Moo’s eyes started to drag down her body, practically bulging at her bum. “Damn!”

She turned around, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Sorry?”

“Uh,” Moo coughed into his elbow. “Sorry—just—stepped on something! Can’t lie, haven’t vacuumed this rug in a dog’s age.”

You held your lips in a flat, downturned line.

“Oh,” Ruby hummed. “Good to know, I guess.” She then looked at you, gesturing for the coat folded in your arms. “I’ll find a place for it.”

Moo encouraged you to join him in the kitchen once you were ready, to which he disappeared through the threshold in the slim, dark hallway. Once he was gone, you instantly told Ruby, “he gagged at your ass!”

She tossed the hair over her shoulder, snorting, “I know.”

“Men are pigs!” You quipped.

“And we’re in the pigpen,” Ruby answered, giggling.

The kitchen was just on the other side of the front foyer. It was a fairly small, intimate space, with the dining table opposite from it, and a bigger opening into the living room, where most people seemed to congregate. From your flying, uneasy glances between faces, you had yet to see Vernon, and that seemed to make your stomach drop like a brick. The kitchen countertops were crowded with empty cans, cutting boards, rolling papers, ash trays, and opened bags of salted snacks. Moo swung open the fridge, reaching around inside before he offered the both of you a drink.

“I’ll take anything spicy,” Ruby said, making sure to raise her voice so she could be heard over the living room’s vivacious, bubbly chatter.

You swayed on the balls of your feet. “A water is fine.”

“What about juice?” Ruby offered, brushing down your arm.

“Sorry,” Moo apologized, pulling out a beer can. “We just used the last of the juice for drinks. Cups are to your right. Tap water’s all I got.”

Teeth gnawed at your inner cheek as you opened Moo’s concerningly loose cupboard, pulling down a dusty, plastic cup. You squirmed around him to reach the sink. Water didn’t start spraying from the tap until you had turned the knob several times, to which a rumbling, guttural noise sounded from the pipes. Attempting not to make it obvious, you sniffed the water before drinking it, noting a strong mineral scent.

“So, Ruby?” Moo leaned against the counter. “Is that ‘cause of the red streaks in your hair? Which are very pretty, by the way.”

Your roommate shrugged. “Well, thank you, but I’m pretty sure I was named Ruby before I ever had red streaks in my hair.” She cracked open her beer. “It’s the stone associated with my birth month—July.”

He gritted his teeth, chuckling off the embarrassment. “Ah, you make a good point. I love that. What’s my birthstone? I’m born in May.”

The girl laughed, “I don’t know the others, just my own!”

“See, I’m gonna have to Google that later.”

“Please, don’t hesitate,” she answered, fluttering a sweet smile.

At that moment, someone else squeezed into the kitchen, a man whom smelled like firewood and rich cologne. He was tall, cutting in between you and Moo with the height of his body.

Moo hardly noticed, keeping the sparks of conversation lit with Ruby, while you were ungracefully separated by the stranger digging through the fridge, his large back all you could see. Upon pulling out a silver can, he shimmied his way out. You sighed, plucking some lint off your top, before reinserting yourself into the conversation that you hadn’t been a part of, anyway.

“No, no, that’s my dad’s…” Moo was saying, rubbing his neck.

Ruby cackled. “I knew it!”

“Does this place look like it should have a fuckin’ Hellcat in the driveway? Nah, I got my Nissan fuckin’ Micra. Pussy magnet.”

She sipped from the beer; eyes kept trained to Moo as he only inched his way closer toward her. “Humble king,” Ruby commented.

“If you ever wanna take a spin in it,” Moo enticed, lifting up a shoulder and tugging at his bottom lip, “you can be my humble queen.”

Oh, god.

You were suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to find Vernon, wherever he was tucked away. Dumping the remaining water into the sink and leaving the plastic cup with it, you nodded briefly at Ruby while escaping the kitchen, assuming she knew what you had in mind. Nobody slumped at the dinner table seemed coherent, so you tapped on the arm of a girl sat at the couch, scrolling through her phone. She glanced up at you, her eyes a watery, stinging red. Smoke rolled out ghostily from between her lips.

“Sorry to bother,” you squeaked. “But, uh, you know Vernon?”

The girl nodded. She then dug into the couch cushions, pulling out what resembled a small, black container with an attached mouthpiece.

Swallowing nervously, you asked, “where would he be?”

While she fixed her mouth around the attachment and started to slowly, deeply breathe in, the girl flicked a finger toward the hallway behind her, with a door planted at the very end. You smiled, thanking her, although you weren’t entirely sure what do next. Was it a bedroom? Were you allowed to just waltz in? Could Vernon be in there… with someone else?

You stood at the door, noticing a mild trembling in your hands.

But you didn’t sink into the doubt. Instead, you hailed Ruby’s words of encouragement, straightened out your shoulders, fixed your chin high, and pushed the door open. Simultaneously, you were braced to see the absolute worst. However, it wasn’t what you expected. The room was dark apart from a television’s fuzzy, twitching glow that washed across the carpet and bed in faint, blue hues. Someone was sitting in an armchair poised close to the TV, seeming completely dissonant, a smoking blunt of some sort caught in their fingers. There were two people relaxed on the bed, a cutting board in between them, a woman you had never seen, and… Vernon.

She dipped her head down after arranging a small, neat white line using a pocket knife. Vernon flipped her long hair to one side as she reached the board, sucking the powder up her nostril with a casual, easy quickness. “Fuck,” the woman cursed, her voice gritty, wiping off her nose with a finger and smearing whatever powder stuck across her tongue. “That’s fuckin’ sharp. I'm gonna be on the moon.”

Vernon smirked. “They cut with fuckin' crystals.”

She laughed, flipping back her hair. “That’s pure ice, babe.”

You definitely felt as though you were interrupting something private, but it would have been more awkward to simply stand there, watching, until someone noticed you. Letting the door fall shut, you forced on a crooked smile and stepped closer into the bedroom, clearing your throat to make your presence known.

Both Vernon and the woman looked your way. For a slow, trudging moment, Vernon didn’t recognize you, and he looked annoyed.

She huffed. “Sorry, sweets. I’d give you a lick but this shit cost me a motherfuckin’ arm and a leg to get. You’re better off, anyway.”

The twinkling aura of the light reflected off her arms and her pronounced chest, the skin needled with tattoos that wrapped around her like snakes made of black ink. She had similar facial piercings to Vernon, though her nose was pierced, too. Just from her temperament, you could tell she was a bit older in age, perhaps in her late twenties, and assumed she must be the one Moo referenced in their conversation at the hanger, the one who took that vacation to Europe and was able to scoop something good.

“Oh, what the fuck?” Vernon shook his head. “PJ’s?”

You started to smile, hands wringing together. “I’m here.”

“No shit,” he answered, pushing himself off the bed. Cemented to your place on the shoddy carpet, you let Vernon approach you, one arm weaving around the back of your neck while the other wrapped your waist, pulling you into his firm body. “Didn’t know you were here.”

Timidly, you held onto him, fingers feeling along the fabric of his white t-shirt, your smile refusing to fade. “I haven’t been here long.”

“No?” He mumbled in question, letting his hands fall onto your hips as he began to rescind the closeness. It was right then that you noticed the difference in his eyes—those pupils were extremely dilated—dark like the ocean without any moonlight, almost… shimmering, twitching, coursing with energy that made you stiffen ever so slightly. Vernon sunk his thumbs into the waistband of your jeans, hooking you, dragging you further into his chest. “You look so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmured, the husk in his voice thicker than usual. “I’ve missed you all week. What kinda bullshit is that, huh?”

You giggled, lips pressing together, taking in the close-up beauty of his gentle features, how such softness seemed to betray him. “Me too,” you answered, sniffling. “I’ve never seen your eyes like this.”

He chuckled. “You’ve never seen me off coke.” Vernon then turned around, gesturing to the woman who was now sprawled on her side across the bed. “Especially the fuckin’ wild shit this lunatic gets. This is Kitty.”

“Uh, hi.” You waved at her, feeling small under her piercing gaze.

Kitty nodded, tilting her head. “Your next girlfriend, Vernon?”

You gulped while Vernon shot back at her, “you’re fuckin’ nasty.”

“Quel surprise.” She winked a hooded eye, tongue prodding along a glimmering tooth in her mouth. “But I guess you would know better than most.” Kitty slid off the bed, proceeding to straighten out her short, skin-gripping skirt that didn’t leave much to be revealed. “I’m gonna use the washroom, you know, to freshen up.” She sauntered past you, out the door, leaving behind a whiff of her strong, powerful aroma, like a dark cherry.

Vernon groaned. “She’s a fuckin’ psychopath.” He returned to the bed, flopping beside the cutting board. There was a baggie left on it.

Continuing to hold your place, you exhaled nervously, looking around the bedroom and its unusual blankness. “Who’s that?” You asked, pointing at the guy in the chair with the burning blunt. He hadn’t moved an inch since you walked in the room.

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Vernon answered, coughing against his elbow. “That’s Snozz, Moo’s roommate. Dude’s got narcolepsy.”

Your lips pursed. “Are you serious?”

Vernon folded his arms. “Yeah. Cool, huh?”

“Well… I don’t know… I feel like it’s a bit… inconvenient.”

“So are the pills he pops every fuckin’ week. Dude’s got every battle there is. But we keep an eye on him.” He wriggled up against the wooden headboard, propping an arm across his bent knee. “Now, come sit with me,” Vernon invited, nodding toward the available space. “Hard to see how gorgeous you look when you’re so far.”

While approaching the bed, you couldn’t help but take another glance at Moo’s roommate, Snozz, sunken into the armchair. His head was collapsed awkwardly onto his shoulder, fronds of long, brown hair masking his eyes, a slight fissure between his lips. You wondered how long he had been asleep; his blunt was still glowing but the television was jouncing static.

You sat beside Vernon, the cutting board in between you.

He picked it up. “Don’t need this shit anymore.” And placed it on the adjacent night table. “Unless you wanna finish Kitty’s pixie dust?”

Squishing up your tight shoulders, you shook your head. “Nope.”

Despite the heavy shadows, you could see the soft grin develop on his face, however, you also noticed him pick up the small baggie off the cutting board. There was hardly any powder left inside it, but that didn’t deter Vernon from dragging a finger along the inside of his cheek and using the moisture to collect the rest. You watched him rub the powder across his gums, wondering how much was already in his system, waiting to activate, already activated.

“Shouldn’t you have left the rest for Kitty?”

Vernon cackled, scratching his eye. “Hell no! She owes me. I busted my ass last year to get her the purest shit on the market for New Year’s.”

“Hm.” You nodded, curling your legs underneath you.

He slid down the bed sluggishly until he his head was cushioned on a pillow, proceeding to tuck his arms underneath it. The boy stared up at the ceiling as though it were a night sky scattered with iridescent galaxies, beginning to grin, bite onto his lip, giggle. “She thinks she’s such a peach, gettin’ this fancy European shit for us, but she’s a moocher to her core, always lookin’ for scraps. Damn—fuckin’ Snozz took one line and now he’s incapacitated!” He flung an arm out toward the chair. “He went off his meds for this shit! She should be in here babysittin’ his narcoleptic ass.”

Unsure of what to say, you merely clasped onto your hands harder, smiled like your mouth was being pulled back by someone else’s invasive fingers. This side of Vernon was foreign to you, not to mention extremely unnerving.

“Was Moo alright?” Vernon asked.

For a moment, the unstable catch in his words was gone, and you managed to breathe a little easier. “He was kind,” you answered, smoothing a hand along your jeans. “Definitely more interested in chatting up Ruby.”

“Shit!” He yelled, suddenly slamming upward. “I fuckin’ forgot Ruby’s here!” Rapidly patting down his pockets, Vernon then pulled out his phone, incorrectly thumbing the passcode in several times. You observed him open his text messages, select your roommate’s contact, and type out a string of mismatched letters that he struggled to send her. “Fuck—I can’t believe I forgot she was here! Aw, I miss her, y’know?” He buckled into a concerning haze of coughing and laughing, leaning over his elbow while his back shuddered like shifting plates. “She parties hard. I fuckin’ miss that, dude. I think a bit of you’s leaked into her. Fuck, she used to get so dirty. She’s vanilla now.”

Wincing, you tried not to let your disconcertedness bleed through, although your heart was noticeably heavier in your chest, pumping hard, making the air feel denser to breathe. “Uh…” you prodded in a weak, uncertain tone, nails digging into the bed. “Meaning what?”

Vernon slid off the bed. He started swaying, massaging the knobs of his scuffed, scabbed knuckles. “She has limits now—I’ve gotta be home by eleven, I can only take three shots, I’m just smokin’ for an hour—she didn’t give no fucks about that before.” He marched over to Snozz, removing the dulled, orange blunt from his fingers. “When she worked at Puttin’-Edge, she was a fuckin’ deviant. She’d take almost anything, man. You couldn’t tear her away from the function until she was on the verge of blackin’ out.”

Inadvertently, your eyebrows furrowed together. “That sounds healthier to me. I’m proud she’s winding down a bit. She’s still herself.”

“I know, I know,” Vernon muttered, sounding almost agitated as he puffed Snozz’s blunt. “Not fuckin’ sayin’ she’s a goddamn prude, just that I miss her crazy.” He ruffled a hand through his hair, tousling the black tresses. Then he was pulling a lighter out from his pocket, keeping the blunt held between his lips while he crisped it using the strong flame. “Fuck, I’m stargazin’ now, PJ’s,” he laughed hoarsely around a cloud of smoke.

You didn’t know what to do.

Vernon’s energy was disseminating throughout the room. It was like a sparkler, drawing hectic, amorphous shapes into the dark that remained in place for only a second before fading.

And you couldn’t keep up.

Suddenly, the door burst open. In paraded Kitty, twirling herself around the room, holding onto a small, black box with a mouthpiece, very similar to the girl’s from before. You heard her singing, words slurring into each other, careless in every sense. While you were utterly lost, Vernon seemed to recognize her messily constructed melody, singing along with her as they grooved in circles.

“C'mon, Snozz!” Kitty shouted, dropping to her knees in front of him as he remained fast asleep. “Let’s hear you sing!” She continued her musical number, grabbing Snozz by his shoulders, then holding up his head by tufts of fluffy hair, pressing the lyrics into his ear.

You were dead stiff.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ weirdo!” Vernon cackled.

Kitty tossed her hair back, laughing deliriously. “He needs fun!” She stumbled over to the bed where you were huddled akin to a sopping wet kitten caught in a flash freeze, watching her collapse onto the covers, praying you were invisible. Kitty breathed in, her device crackling, and exhaled a thick, rolling smoke that had a distinct, sweet smell. “Especially you,” she purred, capturing you in her enlarged, misty eyes. “You need fun.”

“Well, actually, I—”

“Vernon and Kitty are in the bedroom!” Someone shouted, interrupting your non-existent rebuttal after popping their head into the room.

And then the floodgates broke. About six or seven people streamed into the dark space, squawking over each other, muddling the air with a concoction of bitter smells and escalating the temperature to an uncomfortable warmth in a matter of mere seconds. Somebody found the remote control for the television. In a few blips, there was a music channel playing, the volume cranked until a consistent, rhythmic club beat was all you could hear. It was terrible. Wanting to spend some time with Vernon away from the chaos had morphed into a gathering for the completely inebriated.

Now, the chaos was taunting you at every angle.

Kitty crawled closer, holding the box between her teeth.

She proceeded to sit clumsily on her knees, legs opened wide, enough to see her underwear if you were curious to look. But she had such blissful unawareness, taking in another huff from her vape, letting the burn settle in her throat before blowing everything out. Your wrinkled, displeased face caught the brunt of a manufactured flavour you didn’t particularly appreciate.

“Seriously, babe,” Kitty drawled, scooting herself closer toward you, her knees nudging yours. “I have tablets. And they’re low dose. Easy.”

“Uh, that’s fine.” Gosh—your tone was so blatantly fragile—it sounded like your voice was thin glass. “I really don’t want any.”

“Yeah,” Kitty laughed, gasping for air, but instead lifting the vape to her round, full lips. “You don’t want them! I can see that!” She took another restless hit. You made sure to hold your breath. “But you definitely fuckin’ need ‘em, baby girl! It’ll take the edge off! I’ll even half the price!”

Abruptly, another body flopped onto the bed, toward the foot. Kitty turned around, and together, you watched a girl climb her way onto a man’s lap, arching her back smoothly as she bent over him, the tips of her fingers tickling down his face before their lips brushed in a kiss.

“Ew!” Kitty screamed around the mouthpiece to her vape. “Get a fuckin’ room, you sick freaks!” She pushed against the girl’s tiny arm, though it was a frivolous, teasing touch without scalding intention.

As you anxiously rubbed the back of your hand against your thrumming forehead, you felt a slickness, quickly realizing that the crown of your hair was dampened with sweat. Vernon blended into the crowd well. It seemed there were more people in the room, and no matter how intensely your eyes sorted between the dazed faces, none were recognizable. You attempted to shuffle off the bed, but Kitty had caught you, luring you sit back down. And you did, despite your gut hollering in vehement protest.

“I wanna know—,” she sang, pulling at a long loop of dyed hair close to her ear, “—and don’t take offense to it, sweetheart. But why come here if you weren’t planning on getting fucked up?” Almost to emphasize her point, she returned the vape to her lips. “Like, are you a masochist?”

Huddling away from a man standing a little too close to the bed, you rubbed along your arm in a pitiful attempt to self-soothe. “I-I, I don’t really…” you couldn’t think, and watching Kitty’s wide, unmoving eyes delightfully swallow your fear had you frozen. “I don’t know.”

“Because of Vernon?”

You couldn’t answer.

She suddenly cackled, head tossed back. The device hissed while she secured her lips around the mouthpiece, sucking in. When Kitty elaborated through a drifting screen of smoke, you couldn’t be bothered to hold your breath at the smell—you needed to breathe—your body wasn’t giving you a choice. “That’s cute,” the girl giggled. “Although, are you sure you’re completely sober? I know Vernon’s type…” her gaze subtly flickered over you in a heartbeat, “and I’m not sure how well you tick the boxes.” She flipped the hair off her shoulder, laughing. “You must be nasty in bed, then.”

When you swallowed, smudging your lips together, they felt drier than old, strained leather. It was near impossible to speak. Every word quivered, leaving your twitching tongue with such timidness and dread. “I-I don’t know…” you laughed brokenly. “I just—I think I’m gonna—"

“Know what I miss most about Vernon?” Kitty interrupted, her head tilting to the side, cheek rubbing her shoulder as though she were reminiscing a memory so magnificent and tender. But then her stare shot toward you, hardened, challenging, devilish. “How he would fuck me until my brain melted.” You swallowed, trembling. “He told me I was the best at taking him, that no one would ever compare.” Kitty started smirking, dragging a hand up her thigh, slow and flirtatious, as though she were retracing a sensual touch. “No pressure or anything!” Her taunting façade vanished, the smirk replaced by a smile, the challenging tone replaced by a nonchalant, almost encouraging warmth. But you knew it wasn’t genuine. Not at all.

“Thanks for sharing,” you sighed, completely deflated.

A part of you bristled with the urge to be more assertive as opposed to reclusive, but it was a very small part, enough to feel yet not enough to follow through with a vengeance.

Understanding the conversation was done now that Kitty had put you in your place with a calculated slash of humiliation, you slid off the bed, pushing around the bodies packed into the room. Regret had never raised so fast from the depth of your stomach. You could taste the acridness tangy in your mouth, feel the moment’s inertia, how the atmosphere seemed to be pulling you down with every step. How on Earth could you think this was a good idea? That you could somehow fit into Vernon’s life like a perfect building block? Were you really that delusional? That naïve?

Entering into the living room, you weren’t able to make it far without someone stepping into your way. So—he had left the bedroom.

“Where’re you off to?” Vernon asked.

You were too miserable to feign any softness. “I’m leaving.”

As you attempted to weave past him, Vernon opposed you. He tucked the blunt behind his ear, the edges of his lips furling into a disbelieving smile. “Fuck, you just got here PJ’s. Can’t be leavin’ so soon.”

“Well, I am,” you answered matter-of-factly. “Goodnight, Vernon.”

Again, he cut you off, stepping into your way. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay… so you’re headin’ out early 'cause…?”

“Because I want to. Now, can you please move?”

Predictably, the boy ignored your plea. He still wasn’t himself, and he wouldn’t be for a while. You didn’t want to speak with him regardless of his intoxication. The stinging, draping heaviness of your misjudgment was like a smothering blanket and Vernon was merely keeping the hot fabric trapped around you. His gaze seemed lost, refusing to connect the pieces.

You watched him shake his head. “No… somethin’ happened. And now it’s got you all upset, and you won’t fuckin’ tell me.”

Groaning, you shouldered past him forcefully. “Thanks, detective!”

He grabbed your wrist.

You whipped around, wresting for it back. “Vernon!”

“Let’s talk outside.” He nodded at the sliding glass doors across the carpeted living room. “No one’s out there. C’mon.” When you resisted his pulling with a deep scowl, he immediately opted for a different technique of zero patience, one that involved sweeping you off your damn feet and carrying you in his toned arms like a newlywed bride.

“Vernon!” You hollered; your cheeks aroused with heat. “Put me—p-put me down—you freaking idiot!” People were looking, but they didn’t seem to assume much, even stepping aside to let Vernon through the open sliding doors onto the cement platform. He dropped you down, and you stumbled, wobbling into a plastic lawn chair. “What the hell is your issue!”

“Okay,” he huffed, closing the curtains before pulling the sliding glass door shut. “Now that we’ve got some real privacy—” he turned toward you, “—let’s talk.”

“Talk about what!” You yelled. “I said I wanted to leave!”

“And you can,” Vernon encouraged, “as soon as you tell me—”

“It doesn’t matter what happened!” Standing behind the white lawn chair to place distance in between you, your head swung adamantly. “I’m glad it happened, actually. Because now I understand how stupid and delusional I've been!” You refused to look at Vernon, flickering your glassy eyes toward a buzzing lantern along the brick, trapped with dead leaves.

“Okay,” he hummed. “About what?”

“Stop,” you demanded.

He laughed, throwing out his arms. “Stop what?”

The answer didn’t come to you.

Nothing was. Inside your head was loud, overpowering static that deflected every possible thought, from the articulate to nonsensical, just like the television inside the bedroom. Not even the brisk, feathering cold of the pure night could penetrate you.

Vernon grabbed onto the lawn chair, moving it aside. You let him press into your melancholic aurora because you would and always have let him do just about anything. He pulled the most delicate strings inside you that you had never sensed before. He sparked feelings your body and mind had never experienced. It was like riding an unbelievable wind that refused to let your feet touch the ground, keeping you petrified but addicted to the freedom. And when you were back on Earth, it wasn’t long before you hated it, before you desperately wanted the rise, the gust, the weightlessness.

He told you that you were like a drug to him.

It was only now that you truly understood what he meant.

But you had never used drugs, and you weren’t about to start.

Vernon stood close enough to breathe you in; his arms folded; his warmth palpable. “Your eyes are all teary,” he murmured with concern.

“How do you not get it?” You whispered while staring down at the cracked slabs of cement. “We’re never, ever going to work. Not as friends, or as anything else—” your voice split, and you needed a moment to pause, reabsorb the pain. “It just won’t ever happen.”

He exhaled deeply, fingernails puncturing into his arms.

You quickly wiped off your own tears.

That was the moment Vernon finally caught your eyes. Everything about his stance shifted. It was like someone administered him a dose of clarity. “PJ’s…” he murmured, grabbing onto your arms, sliding his rough palms down your skin until your hands were gathered in his. “You’re fuckin’ jumpin’ to conclusions, you know that, right?” There was a squeeze against your fingers. “You’re seein’ the worst of everything, diggin’ a hole.”

“How else am I supposed to see it?!” You snapped, tearing your hands out from his solacing, sweet grip, beginning to pace around the cold patches of textured cement. “This is such a big part of your life! You love the freedom, the adventure, the high. You don’t want the lesser, boring, mundane stuff that everyone else has going on. And that’s exactly what I am, what I always will be!” After rubbing away the thin trails of tears scurrying down your cheeks, you bit back a futile, immature whine. “I can’t fit into your life and you can’t fit into mine! It’s that simple! There’s no meeting in the middle, no compromising. Nothing that could ever make us gel!”

Vernon stopped your pacing by shoving you at the shoulder. “Are you fuckin’ crazy, PJ’s?” He deadpanned. “We make us gel! We like each other! You just fuckin’ tiptoe around it, avoidin’ us at every turn. Doesn’t that just enforce our differences even more?”

“Likeness isn’t enough!” You told him, pushing off his hand. “How am I ever supposed to be okay with you snorting coke beside a girl you have sexual history with! How am I ever supposed to be okay that you’re affiliated with all these shady, dangerous weirdos! How will I ever get over the inevitable fact you’ll just get bored of me! We make absolutely no sense!”

Vernon chuckled irritably, tonguing against his cheek. “To you.”

“I-I can’t make it any clearer,” you admitted, exasperated.

“So, what now?” He snorted.

“Now,” you sniffled, wiping underneath your eye, “I’m leaving.”

Vernon removed the blunt from his ear. It was hardly smoking at that point, though he still attempted a puff, shaking his head. “I can’t fuckin’ believe you,” he laughed, exhaling swiftly. “You’re so fuckin’ stupid.”

“Goodnight,” you pronounced to the boy sharply.

Throwing the glass door back open, you stalked into the kitchen, finding your roommate in the exact place you had left her, with Moo exactly where you had left him. Their conversation seemed animated and jovial, and you would have felt awful about interrupting them if you weren’t so high-strung from arguing with Vernon.

Every inch of you was vibrating.

You sighed aloud cumbersomely. “I’m sorry if you guys are having fun, but I need to go home.”

They both paused, taking in your appearance.

Ruby raised her eyebrow. “Uh… sure.”

Moo wrinkled his nose. “Damn, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, fanning your sweltering face.

He checked the time on his phone, his expression bulging. “You guys have hardly made a dent here! C’mon! You can’t leave this early—”

“I want to go home!” You shouted, glaring him into a stupefied silence.

Ruby swallowed, unable to hide her shock that such a booming, aggressive statement could come from such a docile person. But it was the flash of desperation she needed to see, immediately understanding that something had gone wrong and you were in the process of crumbling.

“No, we gotta leave,” Ruby said tersely. “Thanks for the drink.”

Moo followed after you into the corridor, his head tilted against the frame. Ruby helped you into her cushiony coat before reaching for her own. “Can I at least order your Uber?” He offered, hopeful.

Ruby brushed some hair off her lip. “No, it’s alright. I’ve got a friend who’s just coming off work. She’ll be way faster. And no payment needed.”

“Ah, okay,” Moo nodded, his tone dragging with disappointment, although you assumed it was due to losing Ruby and not yourself.

Outside, the cold suddenly felt way colder than it had when you were filled to the brim with heat, arguing. Now, you sensed every nip and bite from the wind. Ruby hurried after you to the base of the driveway, scurrying along the rough gravel as she texted her friend. Once you reached the dented mailbox sticking out from the ground at an odd angle, Ruby had finally caught up to you, the concern in her expression evident.

“What happened?” She asked, frowning.

You didn’t know how to respond, standing silently while the wind whipped the bottoms of your lengthy coat. The only thing you could squeeze out was a self-deprecating croak of regret. “I’m so stupid, Ruby,” you cried, the water flooding your eyes instantly, turning the night a blur. “I always make the dumbest choices!” 

“No you don’t!” Ruby was quick to correct you.

“Is this not proof enough?” You rebutted, throwing your arm in the direction of the house. “I mean, what the hell am I doing here? It’s because a made a stupid choice, about a stupid guy, and I followed it, stupidly!”

Your roommate sighed, pulling some fluttering crimson tresses away from her tinged, blushed cheeks. She then stood next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist, pressing you against her warm side. Honestly, you weren’t looking for a lecture, another back and forth, a pep-talk about how you were treating yourself too unfairly. She seemed to understand that, opting to comfort you with her closeness instead, and you leaned into her jasmine scent gratefully.

Although, the relief was only temporary.

You could only surmise how much it was going to hurt later.

It didn’t take long for your stomach to realize you were awake.

Hungry, you stepped into the kitchen, immediately opening the fridge to see if Ruby had stored any leftovers from the food truck inside, though you were quite disappointed to realize there was nothing. Hopelessly pushing aside old containers and produce, you huffed out a large sigh.

You supposed that meant burnt peanut butter toast. In an attempt to palate the idea, you poured a glass of juice and began walking into the living room, thinking you might watch television.

But that’s not what happened at all.

Because someone was sitting on your couch.

Someone who was not Ruby, nor a friend you could recognize.

It was a man, with his legs spread out like he paid rent, poking a fork into a white takeout box of Mexican food. In that moment, you could only stand there, stupefied, wondering if it was more appropriate to scream, run into Ruby’s room crying, or pinch yourself.

He glanced up at you, raising his fork speared with something colourful, before shoving the utensil in his mouth. “Mornin’.”

You said nothing in response.

Instead, you set your juice on the counter, went straight to Ruby’s room, entering without a single knock—very ignorant to the fact she had probably come home at four in the morning and was nowhere near prepared to wake up at that exact second—and immediately started shaking her. The girl’s body was heavy and limp like a corpse, except she was warm.

“Ruby, wake up,” you whisper-shouted with unprecedented urgency. “Wake up, wake up, wake up. Please wake up.” When she still refused to stir, you lightly slapped her face a few times. “Please, Ruby. I need you to wake up. There’s a random freaking guy on our couch and—”

“W-What? What are you doing? What time is it?”

You nearly gasped in relief when your roommate started mumbling and groaning. The sheets were partly wrapped around her like a vampire using their cape to shield themselves from burning sunlight, to which you started pulling them off, not caring that she was half-dressed or smelling like club sweat mixed with alcohol. Ruby scratched at her messy bedhead.

“I don’t know the time—it’s eight-something—but there’s a guy out there, Ruby! A literal man! He’s eating my Mexican food. He’s—”

“Girl, what?” She squinted at you, rubbing some lipstick off her teeth that she never managed to clean. “Are you talking about Vernon?”

“Who’s Vernon?”

“Probably the guy on our couch eating Mexican food.”

“And—you—are you—he’s a friend of yours?”

Grumbling, Ruby got to her feet, picking up a pair of shorts left in a lump on the carpet to wear. She slapped at her nightstand, finding the glasses she was looking for—and her hazel eyes immediately grew in size—admittedly allowing you to see all the annoyance they harboured.

Chewing nervously on your fingernail, you followed Ruby past the kitchen and back into the living room, where her friend—Vernon—was playing something on the TV while sipping from your juice.

She paused, huffed, and then gestured at him wildly. “This is Vernon!”

You folded your arms. “How was I supposed to know!”

“Because I texted you!”

“Well, I just—I haven’t even looked at my phone yet!”

“You haven’t?”

“No.”

Ruby rubbed something off her cheek. It was too early for her to be arguing with you, and she seemed to realize that as she picked at her tight shorts and sighed. “Okay, okay. That’s fine. Whatever. But now you know.”

Taking a few steps closer to her, keeping your voice hushed, you murmured, “why is he here? He’s—” you paused, glimpsing around her shoulder to see that so-called Vernon was still watching the television, blissfully not giving a damn about the evident conversation concerning him a mere few feet away, “—he’s eating my leftovers! And drinking my juice!”

“He’s a vulture. Like most men.” She shrugged.

“Why is he still here?”

“I ran into him last night. We got to talking. He’s gonna be in the city for a while. He’s got some stuff to deal with. I told him it was okay if he crashed here every now and then. It’s no big deal. You won’t even notice.”

“Uh, Ruby—” you gagged at her, “—I am noticing. I am very, very much so noticing! That’s a big choice to make—without me, I should add—and I just—I don’t think that—I don’t know him! He’s a stranger!”

“Well, take this as an opportunity to make a friend. Start chatting,” she responded while beginning to yawn, still half-asleep. “I’m going back to bed. I’ll get you some good grub another time, alright?”

And then your roommate dared to leave, groggily swinging her way back toward the shadowy bedroom that she soon isolated herself inside. You were left to stare at the unbothered stranger—the guy—some random man—who was sipping at your favourite flavour of pink Very Berry juice after eating the cold but still delicious molotes that were supposed to be your breakfast.

The situation was so unforeseen, you couldn’t even be sure if you were mad. You felt something earthing around in your gut like worms.

He turned to look at you, pushing out his bottom lip. “Damn. Sorry you got yelled at.” Your eyebrow twitched—you sensed it—a tiny muscle spasm. “Want the last sip?” He held out the nearly emptied glass.

Vernon didn’t appear like any of Ruby’s friends that you had briefly met though seldom engaged with over the months. No, he was much different, in such a stark, almost disorientating way, somewhat akin to vertigo as your gaze narrowed and you tried to make his face stop swaying.

“No, I don’t want the last sip,” you said, nettled.

He smirked at you. “Didn’t want you to have it anyway.”

It was eight-something in the morning and you were aflame.

He tipped the rest of the juice into his mouth, then slapped the empty glass onto the coffee table, proceeding to relax and extend his arm against the back of the couch. Swiftly, he glanced over your figure. “Nice pyjamas you got there.”

Looking down at the shirt you were wearing, your stomach wrinkled up like a dried-out fruit—it was an old t-shirt, to be fair—not really intended to be seen by anyone other than family and your roommate. After all, it was gifted to you by your grandma a few years ago, a sort of grace for staying an entire week with her at the retirement home, where strolls through the courtyard, dusty boardgames, and outdated television reruns were the only entertainment. The shirt’s colour was cloudy white besides an image in the centre of an animated purple pony trotting through a field. Find Your Wild! was the exclamation curving along a rainbow. Unbeknownst to your grandma, you had stopped liking ponies when you were twelve.

Quite frankly, it was not the shirt you wanted a man who looked and sounded like Vernon to see you wearing.

There was an edge about him. His forearms crawled in tattoos, darkly needled, clean, and interspersed with what you interpreted to be care, even if it was half-hearted. When you saw the metal piercing dug through his eyebrow and the shiny ring around his soft-looking bottom lip, you thought of your boss at Common Cents, Patsy, who had made an off-handed comment about a face-studded girl after she left the convenience store: such pretty features ruined by all that metal! Except, you didn’t think it ruined his features. He was fortunate to have such lustrous, coppery eyes and long, wisped lashes, thick enough to paint a canvas. It made you frustrated.

Why do guys always get what they don’t deserve!

His hair was sooty black, shiny, like flints ground into a fine powder, curtained at his forehead. Ruby had never mentioned him. Maybe they were exes. Maybe something worse.

“Thanks…” you finally came to mutter. You wanted him gone, but you weren’t sure how to say it. “How long are you staying?”

Vernon crossed his arms, shrugged. “Dunno. For a while.”

“Okay… well… do you have a timeframe?”

He proceeded to flash you a lazy smile that was slight teeth but hundred-percent cockiness. “Yeah—it’s a while.”

You were on the cusp of releasing fumes like a broken gas canister as you began hugging yourself tight. “I’m going to my room,” you grumbled, proceeding to slam the door shut and jump back into bed.

Vernon shouldn’t be here. That was all you could be certain of.

Ruby slept for two more hours before officially waking up. You heard the washroom door close, and that weird thumping sound the old water pipes made whenever the shower started, as you continued to roll around in bed, distraught with frustration. You were mad at Ruby for making such a decision without you. You were mad she had basically just allowed this random man a free pass into your apartment whenever he pleased, even if he was her friend. You were mad that a relaxing Saturday morning was ultimately spoiled by a smug and inconsiderate stranger.

She joined him in the living room after showering. Even with your head swathed underneath the covers, their laughter still found its way to you in irritable fashion, like a baby who wouldn’t stop shaking their rattler.

He did end up leaving around lunch time.

In fact, you watched him discreetly from your window. Vernon strolled into the parking lot and got into an older style of vanilla Camry that you remembered your mother owning back when you were in primary school.

That was your cue.

Marching into the living room, you saw Ruby cleaning up small, thin translucent papers from the coffee table. There was a heavy stench in the air, tart and burning and likely the reason for the pronounced redness watering your roommate’s eyes. She tucked the papers into a plastic bag.

“Ruby—did you both smoke? Did he just get into a car? And drive away? High?” You pestered the girl with questions. “What’s going on?”

“I smoked,” she clarified, tucking a crimson streak of hair behind her ear, smiling at you. “He didn’t smoke. But he gave me the nugget.”

Sighing, you collapsed next to her on the couch cushions. “I’m not okay with this,” you said, staring at the television.

You rarely made your grievances known to Ruby. She was always so mellow about everything that you thought you should be that way, too. But you weren’t. It was impossible.

“It’s not gonna be what you think it is,” Ruby attempted to reassure you, thumbing over a scab on her knee. “He’s not some weirdo who’s gonna be couch-potatoing here every day. Vernon’s a lot more competent than that. He’ll drop by from time to time. That’s probably it. No worries.”

Staring at her earnestly, your head shook. “Well, I am worrying. I don’t know him, Ruby! I mean, I just wish you had waited to confide in me first…” picking at a loose thread from the sofa, your mind was racing with a plethora of thoughts that felt too jumbled for articulation. “I don’t think you’ve ever brought him up before. Can I least know how you guys are friends? Can I know anything about him that will make me feel better?”

“We used to work together at Putting Edge—the mini-put golf course place.” Okay, that didn’t seem so bad. You were on board with that. He has, or had, a job. Ruby began itching her face. “Then he started dealing to me. Like, weed and stuff. Oh—and the molly. I don’t know where he was getting that shit from, but it was heavenly.” She let herself sink back into the cushions, eyes fluttering shut.

Meanwhile you were sitting up straighter than a board. “What?”

“He’s chill.”

“No—wait—he’s a drug dealer?!” You were off the couch, nearly clambering over the coffee table, to begin pacing the room that you swore had started melting like saltwater taffy left in the sweltering heat. “Ruby, I honestly don’t mean to be crass but—” you shook your hands at her deflated-looking body, “—what the fuck! What the fucking fuck! No! We can’t!”

She raised her expression at you, piqued by your uncharacteristic use of language. Cursing was always heavily shamed in your family. Even as an adult, the guilt that accompanied swearing felt like a hot cattle brand.

Ruby sat criss-crossed, tilting her head. “Relax, babe.”

“No, no. I can’t!” You were still pacing, fretting. “We cannot have a drug dealer under our roof, Ruby!” The worry was whisper-shouted, as though your walls were already wire-tapped from just his presence.

“He’s not dealing at our doorstep.”

“That doesn’t matter!”

“Okay, I don’t want to invalidate your feelings or anything,” she started with a drawl in her voice that already felt very invalidating, “but you don’t know him. And that’s not to make a point. He’s not an idiot. He’s been doing this a while and he knows how to keep the trouble to himself.”

“I just don’t know if I can get behind this.”

“Come sit with me,” Ruby gestured, patting the cushion beside her, and with cumbersome steps, it was now your turn to sink into the sofa. She grabbed onto your arm, squeezing it softly. “Look, if I’m not worried, you shouldn’t be either.” That wasn’t saying much. Ruby was never worried. If an axe-murderer shattered through the window right that second, she’d probably just blink at him and continue on with her conceding. “He won’t be here all the time. I’ll tell him to be mindful. He’s good that way.”

You wanted to believe her. Behind those reddened eyes and their traces of greenish-gold, there had to be some legitimate, concrete truth to her words. Agonizing was your speciality. It was quite exhausting.

“Why is he here?” Letting your head fall onto her shoulder, you started toying with the drawstring on your pyjama shorts, wondering how you were supposed to be okay with it all. “Did he ever tell you that?”

“A little bit. Something about money he’s owed.”

You grimaced. “Sounds awful already.”

Ruby laughed, nuzzling your head affectionately.  “He’ll be gone before you even know it. Trust me. Boys like that always are.”

✧✎ a/n: so, contrary to my usual author's notes, i don't have all that much to say since i yapped most of it in my latest update post! this fic has brought me so much joy and excitement and i hope those who read it enjoy and feel every word! definitely not a fic for everybody. but for the longlonglong fic readers out there, i tip my hat.

as mentioned in my initial author's note in addition to my latest update, i am incorporating a donation aspect to every chapter posted. so i will just copy & paste it here for those unaware:

"you leave a comment or make a reblog stating something you enjoyed abt the chapter! at the end of the week, i will tally all legitimate comments/reblogs and make a donation to an organization!"

IE: chapter one gets 15 comments, 25 reblogs - i donate 40$! pls note that i am a uni student living away from home so i will vary my donations accordingly to my financial situation at the time <3

i will only count comments/reblogs that are added within the first week of the chapter being posted. this way you can contribute as a reader without needing to make a donation since i will be doing it on your behalf, essentially. although i would always encourage a donation if you have the means to do so!"

there are seven chapters, so i am looking for seven organizations that i can make donations to. so far i have:

The Sameer Project

Care For Gaza

Salam Animal Care

Ghana's Many Hopes

First Nations Indspire

finally, i will be making a taglist just as i did for HER! so if you are interested in being added, pls comment, DM, or inbox me! pls make sure your blog is able to be tagged! if you also want off the taglist at any point, you can reach out to me as well.

THANK YOU!!! <3 :]

He sighs, tossing the magazine back onto the coffee table as you cross your arms on your chest. He's looking at you like you've grown a second head, as if his reaction to this information is perfectly valid and you are the one getting your panties in a twist. Granted, it's only been a few hours since you got home from the horrible Friday of sitting at a desk and getting paid to do nothing but answer the phone and book one or two appointments – but you're in distress, damnit!

"What do you want me to say, Y/N? I've got you? Because you know I do." You hate the way your heart warms at that. It was true – Joshua was your best friend through and through. He'd saved you from so many odd situations – including the time you somehow let a pipe burst in your old student apartment, and he found a way to blame it on the university (read: coaxed Yoon Jeonghan to fuck up more parts of your apartment with a promise of letting him borrow his car for dates.) He'd been a huge rock in your years away from home, and when home was no longer home and your relationship with your parents crumbled.

Joshua was the only sense of home that you had left, and you'd be a fool not to recognize the fruits of his efforts: the apartment you both safely inhabited, the food in your belly and the unlimited storage plan he paid for that allowed you to download multiple oddball games of the Doodle Jump and Candy Crush nature. You huff, choosing to plop down on the couch next to him with a pout on your lip.

"But I like having my own money." You mutter. "It helps me feel like an adult that contributes to society."

"You are an adult that contributes to society, Y/N. Don't be so hard on yourself." He reminds you, before reaching for the television remote. You open your mouth to argue when a soft zztt sound is heard, leaving you and Joshua sitting in the darkness. There is a moment of silence before you feel Joshua shift next to you, the only light coming from the setting sun through the blinds. You put your head in your hands, before Joshua sighs.

"You're not serious." You look up slightly, peeking at him through your fingers. From the low light, you can see the furrow in his brows and it only makes you let out a noise of guilt.

"Sixty dollars, Y/N. You didn't have sixty dollars?" "...I spent it all." Your voice is meek, and he runs a hand over his face slowly, a heavy breath from his nostrils sounding in your ears before he crosses his arms.

"On what? What could have possibly been more important than the light bill? You know we can't cook without it, right?" You feel your face grow hot as he gives you a pointed look, and you sigh. You avoid his eyes as you clear your throat. "You remember when you came home last week and you asked me where your green hoodie was? And I told you it was in my drawer and then you…you found the, uh…" You feel your throat grow tight in embarrassment as his eyes widen, and he covers his face with his hand.

"Let me get this straight, okay? You mean to tell me, you spent your last sixty dollars on that stupid vibrator? You didn't pay our light bill because you wanted to…I can't even look at you right now." He shakes his head in disbelief, moving to stand up when you grab his arm.

"I'm sorry! It has sixteen different settings, you wouldn't understand–" "Y/N, why do you even need that many?!" You let go of his arm, crossing yours with a huff as you stare at your feet. "Can't a girl want options?" "When it's between jerking off and paying your light bill, you don't get a choice. How would you feel if I wasted our grocery money on one of those inflatable fuck dolls?" "Embarrassed, honestly. You're a good looking guy, you can do better." He scoffs out a laugh, and you try to swallow the humiliated laugh that's crawling up your throat but it only slips out the moment he turns back around to look at you. He covers his face, crouching by the side of the couch before running his fingers through his hair and giving you a pointed look. "You know what? I was going to take it easy on you, but you've really just left me no choice." He shakes his head, digging his phone out of his pocket as your eyes widen. You lurch forward, knocking him over in your attempt to grab it out of his hand as he wriggles away from you. "Shua, no!" "Shua, yes! Sixty dollars on a piece of plastic, Y/N! I don't even perceive you as a romantic entity and I could do better!" "Hey! It's silicone!" You shove his shoulder as he manages to click around his contacts, before the phone starts dialing. You manage to climb onto his chest, your legs straddling his torso as your thighs pin him in place, your hand knocking the phone out of his hand just as he presses the speaker button.

"Hello?"

Jeonghan.

"No! Jeonghan–" Joshua manages to flip the two of you over, quickly pinning your arms to your sides as he straddles you. You let out a strangled groan, attempting to kick his back as Jeonghan's staticky, cynical laugh rings through his phone.

"Han, please tell me you still need a lifeguard to take over your spot this summer." Joshua breathes out, semi-out of breath as you manage to free one of your hands, reaching up and twisting his nipple through his shirt. He squeals, pushing your hand away and pinning it above you on the floor as you let out an aimless scream.

"Joshua, I'll see you on Monday, alright? Stop torturing that poor girl, she pays your light bill."

"That's the thing, Jeonghan! She didn't, so you have to let her take your spot. Please! I'll even shell out another week of paid vacation time for you!" Another thing about Joshua? Aside from the incredible efforts he put forth into your friendship, your roommate was also known to manage a waterpark with Yoon Jeonghan every summer; just six miles from your apartment was Carat Bay, where he'd been working since you were freshmen in college.

He also worked as a vocal coach from Monday to Friday at one of the local entertainment companies; but that was just for his Pokémon cards, his caffeine addiction, and the occasional ice cream from the convenience store down the street. Rarely did any of that money see the light of day, simply stacking interest in his savings account while he hoarded the money from his job at the waterpark to make last the whole year.

Out of all the odd jobs the two of you took (because Lord knows neither of you were using your degrees all that much) – his job at the company, the waterpark, and your clerical position were the steadiest. You would occasionally find yourself patrolling random hotel grounds on the weekends as security, or slipping into an apron to fill in for your friend Sana at her cafe for a bit more cash to stuff into your rainy day fund.

Sometimes Joshua would come home smelling like fried chicken (and carrying it, too) or with his face covered in grease from swooping in at Soonyoung's auto repair shop. The nights when the two of you were home were restless – scavenging newspapers and Craigslist ads for anything you could find: house sitting, housekeeping, even weekend nannying gigs.

Every penny that landed in Joshua's bank account was frugally spent – but it was smartly spent. Hence why you, not paying for the one thing he put in your name, is a big deal.

"Fine, I'll talk to you on Monday. I need to run some things by you before the park opens. Tell Y/N to get a bathing suit, preferably not that pretty pink one she wore to Junhui's birthday last year." "Oh, fuck off! I was the life of the party!" You scowl, attempting once more to free yourself from Joshua's grasp but ultimately failing. He giggles, like the lunatic he is, your roommate giggles.

"I'll see you on Monday, pretty girl. You and your nip slips." Jeonghan hangs up before you can retort, your sentence caught in your throat as Joshua smiles down at you smugly.

"I hate you." You grumble, before feeling his lips press to your forehead. You move your head to hit his face, but he swiftly moves back before you can make contact with his chin. "You love me. Now, go fetch me the bill from the fridge, I'll pay it." He climbs off you, letting go of your hand as you scowl. You make it a point to kick his hip, your heel meeting the socket and making him scoff before nudging his toe into your ribcage. "Go!"

The night is full of bickering after Joshua pays the bill, with muttered curses as you bump into things and open the front window to let the cooler night breeze flow through the room. You fan your face with the morning newspaper, with Joshua making a snide remark about you looking at the job offers in the Business section.

You retreat to your room for the night as he picks at you, and the lights turn on just as you pass the bathroom. He's finishing shaving his face in the dark, using the light of a candle to look at himself in the mirror. You roll your eyes, sliding into your room when he catches the door.

"What are you doing?" Your eyes are wide as your dripping roommate pushes past you, beelining for your dresser in the corner. He yanks open the top drawer, throwing a few pairs of your underwear over his shoulder. "Joshua!" "Aha!" He holds up the hot pink vibrator you'd spent the light bill money on, tilting it towards you. "You'll get this back after your first paycheck hits the bank, or when you start prioritizing things."

You scoff, reaching for it as he holds it over his head. "Joshua, give it back! I paid good money for that thing!" You grimace, "and you shouldn't be so comfortable grabbing my intimate items! I put that inside me!" "There are many other things you could put inside you that don't cost sixty dollars, Y/N." He rolls his eyes as you claw at his shirt, your fingernails sinking into his bicep as he shakes you off like a leaf. "Me included." "Joshua!" "Either I keep it or you use it in front of me. Your choice." A part of you wants to believe he's joking, but yet another thing about you and Joshua – no conversation topic was off limits, and there had been quite a few conversations that should've never left the sanctity of your sober minds.

Kinks, fetishes and favorite sex positions included. Did Joshua need to know you wanted to be folded like a pretzel? No! Did it matter when you were drunk off three mango margaritas two years ago at the cabana in that fuckass waterpark he manages? Also no!

So he's not kidding. Not in the slightest, and you can tell he knows he's won as you shrink back with a scowl.

"So, that's a no on the peep show?" He has the audacity to tease you as he slinks out of your bedroom, your vibrator bright in his hand as he presses buttons. "Ooh, this is nice~" "Joshua!" "Goodnight, Y/N!"

You bury your face in your hands, a groan from your lips as you contemplate your choices. 

And ultimately, make the wrong one as you follow Joshua back down the hall towards his bedroom.