daydream

DAY ONE

"AND THIS WILL BE YOUR LIVING QUARTERS. DO YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS?"

You stare up at the man, baffled. The stranger who was waiting for you in your living room when you drunkenly stumbled home could not look any less bothered if he tried. He had been seated in the secondhand armchair you bought off Facebook Marketplace, and he looked way too expensive to have his ass touching something you kept telling yourself had no business being resold to you. He was dressed head to toe in black—all impressively the same exact shade of black, a feat you had yet to master—looking like he had stepped right off a runway and into your dingy apartment, which was probably the only reason you hadn't immediately screamed.

His eyes flicked over to you lazily as your door slammed shut behind you and you tripped over your heels, catching yourself on the corner of your kitchen island before realizing you weren't alone. He had one leg crossed over the other and one hand shoved into your last bag of ghost pepper chips as he stared at you like you were intruding on his space. Then, he withdrew his hand, shoved his pepper dusted fingers into his mouth, sucked briefly, wiped his fingers onto your armchair, then snapped. Your bag of chips promptly disappeared and he stood up. It wasn't even his presence or the chips disappearing without an explanation. It was his height that startled you back to your senses.

You weren't short by any means, but the man towered over you anyway, and you came to the sobering realization that being trapped in a space with a man that size would lead to very horrible things. Well, you were correct. Because before you could even finish inhaling to let out the loudest scream you were capable of, he was in front of you, huge hand clamping over your mouth and squeezing your cheeks together. What you were sure was a Guinness World Record-worthy scream became a pathetic squeak.

The sound, infuriatingly, made the man smirk, your eyes coming down to the small mole right above his lip. He raised a single eyebrow at you before stating your full government name. "That you?"

Your wide eyes must have answered the question for you because he didn't wait for verbal confirmation.

"Lovely." And then somehow, you were here. Wherever the fuck here is. Maybe you blacked out on the way. Maybe you're too drunk to remember how you got here. Either way, here is where you are now.

"Do I have any questions?" you shriek, stomping a foot. Your heel clacks against the pretentious black marble flooring, and you have half a mind to kick them off and throw both at the man's head. "You not only kidnapped me, but you kidnapped me while in my clubbing clothes, bro."

You look down at yourself, disheveled from a night out trying desperately to be sober enough to wrangle other, drunker friends to stay together. Your dress is no longer hugging you in places it was at the beginning of the night, your knees are scraped from where you ate shit trying to chase a friend down the street, and you're sure your hair is trying its best to become a suitable bird's nest.

"Jasmine threw up on me tonight," you inform him, mouth twisting in disgust at the small darkened spot on the edge of your dress where the birthday girl had missed the toilet by a mere inch. "You couldn't have let me change first?"

You startle when he snaps and you feel silk against your skin. You look down to find yourself in a black pajama set, perfectly fitted to you, the bottoms falling just shy of the floor and the sleeves just long enough to make sweater paws if you want them but short enough that they aren't a hindrance.

"Ew," you mutter. "I didn't even shower."

"Luckily for you, you have an en suite," he points out, nodding at the door across the massive bedroom.

"I don't have toiletries."

"You'll find it appropriately stocked."

"But what about my skincare?"

"Again. Appropriately stocked."

"You don't even know my skin concerns."

"Oily on the chin and T-zone, dry everywhere else. Terrible hormonal acne during your period or when you're stressed," he recites like he studied this information. Your mouth pops open in either awe or humiliation—you're not even sure. "You struggle with water intake throughout the day so you'll find a litany of moisturizing products in there. Also, maybe you should start using retinoids." His eyes go to your forehead. "You crinkle your eyebrows a lot. You'll get fine lines soon."

You gasp, slapping a hand over your forehead. "You asshole."

"I'm the asshole giving you all the skincare you could possibly ever want."

"You're the asshole kidnapping me!" you scream the last two words, finally losing your patience.

You thought your best bet would be finding a way to escape wherever you are once the man left you alone, but the mere mention of fine lines kicks you into fight or flight. You swing your tiny shoulder purse at his stomach as hard as you can, satisfied when you hear a soft oof from his lips. You shove past him, your new bunny slippers slowing you down considerably as you stumble down the pristine hallway. You only get to the corner before you slam into what feels like a wall, eating shit for the second time tonight.

"Ugh," you grunt as your ass meets the floor and you're laid out flat on your back. "Ow." You groan, hand coming to your ass while the other attempts to prop you up. You open your eyes to find the stranger crouching down in front of you, amused at your weak attempt at freedom. You glower at him as you massage your butt. "I hate you."

"And you're only going to hate me more," he mutters. The words give you pause. "You have free reign in my home." He stands now, tucking his large hands into the pockets of his slacks. "You can try to run but you'll find you can't. So you might as well get comfortable, and when you've finally come to terms with your circumstances… we'll talk."

Without another word, he disappears right before your very eyes.

DAY FOUR

For three days, you tried everything you could to escape.

You found your phone in your purse and tried calling your friends. They answered and you could talk, but as soon as you tried to tell them you'd been kidnapped, your mouth would suddenly be incapable of moving—like your lips had been glued shut. Terrifyingly enough, on your third call, you walked to the vanity in your room and found your mouth just gone any time you tried to say anything that had to do with the stranger and his house of horrors.

The most horrific thing being that it has no windows or exits. Every single door you've found and tried in this laughably huge house has led to a bedroom, a study, a library, a home theater, a gym, or a space that made no sense to you—one with nothing but racks and racks of clothes and shoes from what looked like every, single period of time in history, ever. Another stuffed to the brim with huge stacks of papers that reached the ceiling. Another with A/C blasting hard, presumably to keep the furniture completely crafted from ice inside rock solid.

The house made no sense, but in that way, it made perfect sense that it belonged to the weirdo that kidnapped you. Now, it's day four, you know the house like the back of your hand, and all your phone calls are spent pretending like you're fine while Stella tells you about her piece of shit boyfriend and begs you not to tell Marisol so she won't hate him any more than she already does. Please. If you're going to tell Marisol anything, it's going to be about your piece of shit kidnapper.

But beyond calling for help and finding an escape, you find that you're fresh out of ideas to find your way out. And sensing that, the stranger appears at your bedroom door first thing when you wake up, a small smirk on those pink lips as he leans against the doorframe, long, lean and dressed in a different variation of the same, black outfit. This time, with a winter coat that comes down to his ankles dramatically.

"Good morning. Kind of."

You scoff, pulling your eye mask back down over your eyes. "It's the middle of summer, you psycho."

"Had some business in Australia."

You freeze for a moment before shoving up one side of your eye mask and peeking at him. "Australia."

He nods. "Yup. Heard of it? Odd place with huge spiders and opposite seasons. Quite cold there right now." He pushes himself off the frame and walks to the foot of your massive California king-sized bed, where he sheds his coat and carelessly throws it on the bench.

You'll give it to him. You've been living like a queen while here. You hate to admit that if he had simply asked nicely, you probably would love to live here with him despite knowing nothing about him—you're not known for your logical or sound thinking. You simply survive the day, and surviving here would be nice. But the sheer audacity of forcing you to be here without your consent drives you to unprecedented levels of stubbornness. Levels of stubbornness that convince you it would be much better living in your tiny, sad apartment in your seedy neighborhood than here, in this mansion, with products that have your skin glowing like it never has before.

When you don't respond to his rhetorical question, he asks something more serious. "Are you ready to have a proper conversation now?"

You blow a raspberry and laugh, making a show of pulling your mask back down and snuggling deeper into your 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

"Perfect, I am too," he says sarcastically, the duvet ripped off you violently within the same breath. You shriek at the sudden cold. The psycho keeps his house freezing at all times, which means when you're not looking for the emergency exit, you're either always buried under several blankets or in the sauna down the hall. You hear the snap of his fingers and your eye mask disappears.

You gasp. "What is wrong with you?"

"Everything here is mine," he reminds you. "Or have you gotten so comfortable, you've forgotten you've been kidnapped?" He snorts at the word like it's a ridiculous thought even though that's literally what he did. He seats himself on the edge of your bed, crossing his legs and holding his hand out. As soon as he does, your bag of ghost pepper chips materialize in it.

"Hey!" you lean over to grab them, unperturbed by the way things just appear and disappear at his whim. He quickly holds them out of your reach, his expression bored as your face stops just shy of his. You glare at him. "Those are mine."

Though his expression doesn't change, his dark eyes suddenly flash a bright, angry red, and you struggle to refrain from flinching.

"Hm," he hums, smirking as you slowly lean away and he brings the bag back down to his lap. He smugly throws a chip into his mouth, crunching slowly before swallowing. Your eyes come down to the insane Adam's apple of his bobbing at the motion. You purse your lips and look back up. "It doesn't surprise me that those heinous parents of yours never taught you how to share."

The words pull all the fight and anger out of you immediately. Your shoulders deflate and you look at him with wide eyes. "My… what? You knew my parents?"

The man nods once. "Unfortunately. Really vile duo, weren't they?"

It's an understatement. Your parents should've never had a child to begin with, but your mother thought doing so would keep your father interested—a fact she never failed to remind you of. She never wanted you, never wanted to be a mother, never wanted someone to raise. All she ever wanted was to keep your father's attention, and you did, for a few years at least. Then, you turned four, and his fascination with being a parent waned, and the two of them deemed you old enough to fend for yourself while they carried on with their lives like they never even had you. You were left at home for hours at a time, teaching yourself to make cheese sandwiches with the microwave, and self-soothing with the TV when it would get dark and you were scared to be alone.

When they were home, you were a pseudo-maid, cleaning up after your mother and bringing your father beer after beer as he demanded them. You knew the brands and how to use a bottle opener before you even knew how to read. Sometimes, you caught yourself enjoying the time they were away more than when they were back, but then the sun would set, and you wouldn't be scared anymore or crying yourself to sleep, and you'd decide it was better than having to be alone.

It wasn't until they hadn't returned for almost a week, leaving you near-starved and dehydrated, that you finally went to the neighbor for help. You were in the foster system the next day, and you never saw your parents ever again. You've been without them far longer than you were ever with them, and still, their fingerprints are all over your life: your stunted education, your desperate need to be around your friends, your avoidance of an empty apartment, apparently this guy. Really, his house of horrors was a reminder of how much you despised being left to your own devices. Maybe that's why you were constantly on the phone even if it meant you couldn't ask for help.

"Um… how?" you ask, dumbfounded.

"They called to me one night," the stranger confides in you between bites of your own chips. Even as he talks with a full mouth, he manages to look just as regal. "Begged for a better life—all the money they could dream of in a land far from where they were, away from everything and everyone they've ever known."

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that he's talking about you.

"They didn't have anything to offer in exchange," he tells you, not bothering to explain why they would be asking him for anything at all. "They wanted to sell their souls, but what the fuck am I supposed to do with something so… ugly…?"

The word comes out of his mouth with a sneer, and you nod like you understand. You kind of do. Everything about the man is very pretty, down to his nail beds and his shined shoes. What would he need from two deadbeats like your parents?

Wait. Their souls?

"So they offered me something more pure," he says, the bag of chips disappearing once more. He plunges his thumb into his mouth to suck the ghost pepper dust off, and you find yourself a little entranced as it pops back out and he does the same with his index finger. You sigh as you turn toward your nightstand and pluck a tissue from the box and hand it to him. He frowns. "Uh, thanks."

"And what was that?" you ask as he wipes his saliva off on the tissue instead of whatever furniture is available to him (in this case, your 1,000-thread-count sheets).

"Their daughter."

You were expecting it. You hadn't been sure what to make of all this; half of you was convinced you were still blackout drunk, passed out somewhere in a bathroom stall while Jasmine puked her guts out. Maybe you were having a very elaborate dream. Or nightmare. But hearing him speak now, you believe it. You wouldn't put those two idiots above summoning some kind of demon to get them out of their gambling debts and make them rich—allow them a life among the elite. And you wouldn't put it past them to trade you for it.

You were expecting it. But still, it feels like another knife through your heart when he confirms it.

"I'm not a fucking monster, though," he says, snorting. You raise an eyebrow at him.

"But… I'm here…"

He nods. "I told them they can't just sell their child to the Devil. So—"

"The Devil?!"

"—I settled on servitude. I would just enslave them at the end of their contract for the rest of eternity."

You balk at him—the Devil. The Devil likes black oxfords and ghost pepper chips.

"But then…" he sighs, inconvenienced. "They died."

"They're dead," you repeat, the words coming out more like a statement than the question you meant for them to be. You find that you don't feel anything about that. You never even got a chance to love your parents. It doesn't feel like you've lost anything. You were always alone; still, the confirmation that you truly are now is odd.

"Mhm," he confirms, the tissue disappearing into thin air as he leans back on his hands. "Can you believe I made those two rich beyond their wildest dreams and they somehow still got into trouble with loan sharks?" His head lolls to the side to look at you. "Unlike you, they were actually kidnapped." He shrugs before adding an important detail. "And murdered."

"Oh," you breathe.

"Yes. Oh. But I still needed to collect payment. And unfortunately…"

He lets you connect the dots on your own. "I'm their only next of kin."

"Precisely," he nods once. "You've inherited their debt."

"So… you're… enslaving me?"

He looks at you with disgust. "What? No. I said I'm not a fucking monster."

"But you kidnapped me."

"I did not."

"You did."

"Let's not get into the semantics of it all," he says, waving a hand dismissively as his eyebrow twitches with irritation. "I am not enslaving you. I am here to offer you a contract."

"A contract."

"A contract." A piece of paper—sheer and made up of glittery red particles—materializes between the two of you, hundreds of lines of red print appearing one by one before you as he speaks. "You may serve your parents' sentence—"

"Enslavement."

He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Yes, enslavement—though I am giving you a choice!"

"Wow, what a gentleman."

"Or," he raises his voice slightly to get you back on track, "you can make your own contract." He nods at the piece of paper. You frown.

"But I didn't ask you for anything."

"Yes, but it will release you from your parents' debt."

"By putting me into my own pile of shit?"

He smirks. "Oh c'mon. I think I deserve more credit than that. Have I not been an incredibly generous host to you thus far?" He spreads one, long arm out to gesture to your bedroom—more like a large apartment in the corner of his mansion.

"A generous host during my stay in your prison?" you ask, snorting. "Sure." His face falls into a flat expression that you ignore as you lean forward to read the beginnings of your contract.

INFERNAL SUCCESSION OF DEBT

Contract ID 666-4 This Agreement is entered into between:

THE DEVIL, King of the Infernal Realms, Lord of Temptation, Prince of Darkness, Keeper of Eternal Contracts, Hereinafter referred to as "Employer," "His Infernal Majesty," or "Boss";

and

Y/N L/N, Sole Living Descendant and Responsible Party, Hereinafter referred to as "Employee".

PREAMBLE

WHEREAS, Employee's parents entered into a legally binding contract with Employer in exchange for wealth, prosperity, favorable stock performance, and several luxury vehicles;

WHEREAS, said parents were obligated to surrender themselves for eternal servitude upon collection;

WHEREAS, said parents have inconveniently perished before collection could be completed;

WHEREAS, Hell's Collections Department has determined Employee to be the sole inheritor of all outstanding debts, obligations, curses, liens, penalties, and miscellaneous infernal paperwork;

THEREFORE, Employer has graciously offered Employee the following alternatives:

OPTION A: In fulfillment of the obligations incurred by Employee's deceased parents, Employee shall enter the service of the Infernal Realm for all eternity.

Duties shall include, but are not limited to:

Processing approximately 4.8 million forms per day

Responding to customer complaints from damned souls

Sharpening ceremonial pitchforks

Serving as a chew toy for baby hellhounds during training exercises

Untangling chains in the Pit of Eternal Knots

Operating the Soul Intake Window during holiday rushes

Rewriting contracts damaged by hellfire

Cleaning the Room of Despair every third Tuesday

Escorting lost souls to the appropriate department

Conducting annual inventories of screams

Working closely with Minghao from Accounting

Employee acknowledges that eternity is a super long time and that the above list is not-at-all exhaustive.

OPTION B: Accept employment under Employer for the duration of Employee's natural mortal lifespan, after which Employee shall receive a permanent position with benefits.

You look back up at the Devil. He watches you with an unreadable expression.

"What's the catch?"

"You'd have to read all 666 pages of your contract to find it."

You narrow your eyes at him. "You don't think I'll do it." He neither confirms or denies. "I will. I will read all 666 pages."

"Fine by me," he says, shrugging one shoulder and standing. "But after you read them and decide on either option A or B, you'll have another contract to sign for terms of your servitude or your employment. I'm sure you can guess how many pages each are."

You feel the ambition leave your soul. You roll your eyes and shake your head. "Sit your ass down."

He smirks and follows directions.

"I assume they went to Hell, no?" He nods. "Why can't you just go find their souls and make them serve their sentence?"

"Debt must be collected before death and the souls are admitted into Hell and sorted into the proper circles of punishment, where they'll be doing something very different for all of eternity." He shakes his head regretfully. "Your parents are currently being fried in vats of oil over and over again. If they had survived until debt collection, they would've remained human for eternity, serving me even as their increasingly brittle bones repeatedly broke under the weight of their chores."

He smiles wistfully at what could have been, and you wince. "Um. Okay... well, what would my duties be for option B?"

The Devil nods to the space next to the contract, where an employment agreement appears, lines appearing one after the other just like the original contract. You groan.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Why is Hell a corporation?"

His eyebrows rise. "What else would Hell be?"

You pause, ruminating on the thought. "Okay, good point."

You sigh and skim the employment agreement.

POSITION

Employee shall serve as: Executive Assistant to His Infernal Majesty

Responsibilities include, but are not limited to:

Maintaining Employer's schedule

Screening calls

Organizing contracts

Overseeing scheduled plagues, wars, famines, etc.

Managing infernal correspondence

Other duties as assigned

Employee shall reside in Employer's primary estate for the duration of employment. Position will require 30% travel.

COMPENSATION

During mortal employment, Employee shall receive:

Free housing

Free meals

Free skincare

Access to infernal healthcare

Unlimited coffee

Following Employee's natural death, Employee shall receive:

Permanent demon status

Comfortable accommodations

Full retirement benefits

Choice of station

WORKPLACE CONDUCT

Employer shall not:

Steal Employee's soul

Curse Employee without written notice

Sell Employee to rival supernatural entities (or anyone else)

Employee shall not:

Summon competitors

Sign contracts on Employer's behalf

Open portals without supervision

Feed eldritch horrors after midnight

TERMINATION

This Agreement may only be terminated by:

Employee's natural death

The collapse of reality

Mutual agreement

A successful legal challenge upheld by three (3) cosmic authorities and at least one (1) archangel

INHERITED DEBT RESOLUTION

Upon execution of this Agreement:

Employee shall be considered to have satisfied all obligations inherited from their parents

Employer shall permanently cease collection efforts

Employee's parents shall remain classified as "Paid In Full"

The rest of your mortal life is a long time. You know very well that by agreeing to this, you're literally signing a deal with the Devil. It's sad and pathetic to acknowledge, but if this new life is anything like the last three days have been, it's already a huge upgrade from how you were living prior to your home invasion.

You lean away from the contracts and take a deep breath before nodding once. You can make it an even bigger upgrade.

"I want an unlimited budget for interior decorating of my living quarters," you start. His eyebrows rise to meet his hairline.

"You're negotiating with the Devil?" he asks, clarifying that he understands your intentions.

"Sure am," you confirm before shooting off your demands one after the other. "I want my apartment kept and paid for as a place to unwind when needed, and I want unlimited visiting rights to Earth. I want all my bills paid for and the newest Samsung any time I want to upgrade my phone. I want backstage passes to any K-Pop group of my choice at any concert I want. I want an expense account and a black credit card to match."

"We—"

"And I don't care if you don't use credit cards in Hell. I want a black credit card. And I want it to be metal and heavy. The fancy one."

He clamps his mouth back shut and nods for you to keep going.

"I want full autonomy over my soul while mortal and after death," you emphasize. "My employment does not mean you own me."

"How many times do you want me to remind you I am not a monster?"

"You're the literal Devil."

"Yes, exactly!" he agrees. "Not a monster!"

You scoff, unsure of how to even respond to that. "You don't own me!" you repeat.

"Yes! Of course! I do not own you! Obviously!" he says, appeasing you. "Go on."

"I also want protection from… whoever your enemies are."

He raises an eyebrow at you. "My enemies?"

You shrug. "Like… God or whatever."

He grins—a genuinely amused one. It's heart-shaped and wide and it's not befitting for the Devil. He looks like someone you could cuddle, not someone who could eat your soul for dinner after finishing your ghost pepper chips. "You, humans, have a very ill-conceived idea of Heaven and Hell. God is not my enemy. She is my colleague."

The smile that envelopes your face is uncontrollable. "She?! God is a woman?! I fucking knew it!"

"Of course she is," the Devil scoffs. "Why would a man be kept in charge of Heaven? That's absurd."

"Hm. Agreed," you say, a little suspicious of having something you both agree upon. "Okay, so no enemies…"

"None," he says, yawning. "Unless you consider damned souls enemies."

"Well, I want protection from anything that can hurt me."

He looks at you like you're dumb. "You'll be living with the Devil. You will be at my side at almost all times of the day. I am the protection."

"What if you hurt me?" you point out.

He rolls his eyes. "It would be counterproductive to hurt my own employee. If you haven't yet wandered into my contracts room, go find it later and you'll see how badly I need an assistant."

You try not to choke on your own spit as you think about the weird room stuffed full of paper. Does he expect you to do something with that…?

"Anything else?" he asks. "You've been so frugal with your demands. Are you sure you don't want to be a billionaire? The ruler of the free world?"

You ignore his sarcasm and shrug. "Is that possible?" He glares at you. "Okay, then no. I don't want those things. But I do have one more demand."

"Oh, goodie," he sighs. "What?"

"On the point of employment until death…"

The Devil laughs, the sound mocking. "That one is not negotiable, darling. It's either eternal servitude or employment until your mortal death—which is what you would be doing anyway if it weren't for your scumbag parents. One is definitely better than the other."

You glare at him. "I'm not going to play Devil's maid until I'm 100 and you're laughing at me as my bones are turning to dust."

"Per your employee agreement, you will have access to infernal healthcare, a perk that would not have been offered to your parents," he points out. "It might surprise you to know it's much more generous than whatever the hell you humans are offering these days. I assure you, your bones will never turn to dust."

"I want to remain as I am," you inform him, not taking no for an answer. "I will work for you until death, but I will remain as I am. No growing pains, no aches, completely healthy in the body and mind I'm in now until I die."

He fixes you with a hard stare for several moments, but you're determined to get your way. You don't avert your gaze and you don't give in. He sighs deeply through his nose. "Fine. Accepted."

The employment agreement changes before your very eyes, reflecting your negotiations, and you're pleased to see every point you argued written onto the paper in glittery red.

"Oh! And I refuse to call you Your Infernal Majesty."

He shrugs. "Okay."

"Okay…"

"What?"

"What do I call you?"

"Oh. Jun. You can call me Jun."

"Okay. I guess you have yourself an assistant, Jun."

He smirks, raising an open hand to you. You take a breath before you slip your hand into his, his slender fingers closing around you and shaking. On the final shake, he squeezes and you feel a just barely tolerable heat bind the two of you together for several seconds. Bursts of bright red lines glow around your joined hands, frantically circling them before they escape to the pieces of paper between you. Jun releases you just as you realize the lines have become both of your signatures on the contracts.

"It's done," he says, eyes flashing red again. "You, Y/N, have just signed a deal with the Devil."

And because you're not one to let a man intimidate you—Devil or not—you smile right back, lean in, and remind him in a theatrical whisper, "You're as stuck in here with me as I am with you."

When the arrogance painted all over his face falters the tiniest bit, you wink and throw yourself off your bed, finally ready to start your day at a bright and early 2 p.m.

"Don't you go regretting this now, Junnie!"

DAY TEN

Hell is exactly what you expected it to be after seeing Jun's contracts: a corporate abyss. It's an open floor plan with unassigned desks, harsh overhead lighting, and a water cooler where a demon is stationed, their only task to make awkward small talk with the parched, tortured soul that comes up to it hoping for a cup. The demons, of course, have the time of their lives, scheduling meetings that could have been emails, demanding overtime of salaried souls, asking for things that were already given to them several days ago and promptly lost upon receipt.

You don't fully understand it. Before you were taken away from Earth, you were working as a full-time bartender. In fact, the only reason you and your friends hadn't gotten kicked out that night for being belligerently drunk was because you were being belligerently drunk at the club you worked at. Before that, your only foray into corporate life was as a customer service representative answering phones and talking to angry people who had nothing but free time to scream at you. You lasted exactly one week, and that's all you need to at least appreciate why it's the model for Hell.

And for the last few days, you've been following Jun around it, soaking in all the information you need. For example, Jun is in "the office" during most "daylight" hours (Hell doesn't have windows so how are you supposed to know when daylight is?), and usually brings his work back to the home you now share. Unclear if he sleeps at all.

He doesn't spend time around the damned souls—not that they even realize who he is as he walks by. He pays them no mind, letting his demon subordinates take care of tormenting them. Instead, his time in the office is spent attending meetings with high-ranking demons, archangels, and occasionally, God herself. If he's not in the office or at home, he'll be traveling. Unclear what he'll do on his trips, but you assume it's something akin to what he did for your parents. He assures you each trip will only be a few hours and that he'll call if that changes. You assure him you don't care.

Today is the first time you won't be shadowing him. Jun unceremoniously dropped you off at the mail room without so much as a goodbye, muttering something about picking you up at the end of the day. You didn't have time to point out that you have no idea when that is. And hours later, it seems that it still isn't the end of the day.

"So… who are you…?"

You look up from the mountain of envelopes you've been tasked with going through. Apparently, the Devil receives a lot of mail, and apparently, Jun is above simply throwing all of them into an incinerator. It turns out when people can't get a hold of God, they turn to the next best thing. And the next best thing insists that you read every last letter and decide whether it's worth responding to.

The demon talking to you entered the room just a minute or so ago. He's a man who looks to be about your age, though you're under no delusions that he actually is. For all you know, he's millions of years old. His spiky blonde hair is currently pointed to your right as he tilts his head at you curiously. "Actually, what are you…?"

You squint at him. "I'm human…" you gesture down at your lack of black leather, dressed like the pink Care Bear threw up on you as a quiet form of protest against the dreadfully drab aesthetic Hell insists on. "Obviously."

He nods. "Right… but… you're not dead."

"No," you say, using more force than needed to slice through the next envelope with the letter opener you were given—a knife with a handle shaped like a devil's tail. A tail you noticed Jun does not have.

The demon winces and you're glad for it. Just because Jun is convinced you're safe doesn't mean you are; the more of them who believe you'll shank them with a letter opener for breathing funny, the better.

"I am not dead."

"What's your—"

"I'm working," you cut him off icily, making a show of stabbing the letter opener into the wooden table and straightening the paper in front of your face. The man next to him snorts but says nothing, simply grabbing the mail he came in for and leaving.

"So you work in the mail room? Do we hire humans to do that now?"

You roll your eyes behind the piece of paper. You don't answer.

"Do you know whose mail you're going through…? Because it's His—"

"Jun's," you sigh, slamming the piece of paper down and shoving it toward your throw pile. "I am reading Jun's mail." You fold your hands in front of you on the table and lean forward to give him all the attention he obviously wants. The demon's eyes widen, leaning back the tiniest bit.

"Y-you can't just… say his name like that," he whispers to you, eyes sliding back and forth. The mail room is full of demons, and it isn't until he looks around that you realize all of them have frozen in place. You frown as you follow his gaze.

"Jun?" you repeat loudly, resisting the urge to smirk when more of them gasp.

"Stop!"

"Why?" you ask, snickering as you reach for the next envelope and rip it open without the help of the letter opener. Dear Satan, you read. "Is it like Voldemort here? Scared to say your own boss's name?"

"Pfft, no one here is scared to say 'Voldemort,'" he says, rolling his own eyes. "Rowling will be here as soon as God decides it's time for her to retire from Twitter. And life."

You hum in approval. "Good to hear."

"It's just wise to be a little more respectful when referring to His Infernal Majesty."

You smile. "Yeah, I'm not calling him that."

"Your funeral."

"Or yours," you say, pointedly looking at the letter opener stabbed into the surface right now. You look back at him and his eyes are on the tool too. "Think Jun would be happy about you distracting his personal assistant from very important work?"

The demon balks at you, but you return your attention to the letter. Dear Satan. "You're his assistant?" You hum in confirmation. "Oh wow. That's… wow. Um, I'm Soonyoung."

"I didn't ask."

"Are you sure you aren't a demon?"

You look up at him without putting your letter down. "I'm sure, Soonyoung." Your eyes flick back down to the letter. Dear Satan, you read for the third time.

"Well, you would make a really good one," he tells you. Your fingers crinkle the letter, twitching in as they try to keep from completely crumpling it in frustration. "Is that why His Infernal Majesty hired you? How did you two meet?"

"Soonyoung." It seems like the entire room freezes and the demon's eyes widen at something behind you. You look over your shoulder to find Jun standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and his brows pulled down. The other demons not named Soonyoung immediately flee the room. "Are you bothering Y/N?"

You huff. "Sure. You can give him my name."

Your boss smirks but ignores you. "Leave her alone. If I hear my name one more time, I'll make you work a shift in Accounting." You raise your eyebrows. No wonder they're so afraid to say his name. It literally summons him.

Soonyoung pushes himself off where he'd been leaning on the table across from you, immediately leaving the room and bowing to your boss and muttering apologies as he goes. You snort, turning back around and reading your letter in full for the first time.

Dear Satan,

If you're real, prove it.

You nod, taking a piece of paper out to write your response. Just as you finish, you hear Jun's voice—much closer this time—and you startle.

"Interesting."

"Holy shit," you breathe, leaning back to look at him reading over your shoulder. "I thought you left."

He reaches past you, allowing you to get a whiff of his cologne. Something that smells woodsy and spicy. He takes your pile of letters and responses and reads them aloud.

"'Dear Satan, if you're real, prove it,'" he reads. His eyes go to the piece of paper with your response. "'No.'"

He stares at you but reveals no indication of whether or not he approves. He puts the two pieces of paper down on the table next to you and moves on.

"'Dear Devil, did the dinosaurs go to Heaven or Hell?' 'They went to Heaven. What kind of fucking question is this?'" Papers down.

You think the twitch of his lips is a smile threatening to break through. He succeeds in hiding it if it is, and he just keeps going.

Dear Satan, should I text my ex?

I am the #1 advocate of free will. But know that if you do, I will haunt you for the rest of your mortal life and you will never find love. Ever.

Dear Satan, if you help me pass my AP Chem test, I will owe you my life. P.S. For my records, does this count as a legally binding contract?

No, it does not. Go study and never write here ever again.

Dear Satan, does my cat work for you? I love her, but sometimes, she does things that make me wonder. I don't think she sleeps. She just watches me. All the time. I also feel like she can maybe talk and is hiding it. Is she secretly a demon?

Jun pauses, eyes sliding to you, though you're unsure why. You hold his stare, but he just redirects his attention back to your response.

Probably. What's her name?

He seems to decide that's enough, calmly putting the pile of papers down with the others. "Hm." You don't know what it means and he doesn't clarify. Instead, he asks, "Hungry?"

You gasp, your work immediately forgotten. "Yes! Does Hell have sushi?"

"No. We only have the blood and organs of sinners here." You crinkle your nose but he doesn't say that he's joking, and it makes your stomach turn. "But Earth does. And I believe you negotiated unlimited visitation rights." You nod. You did. You absolutely did. "Come on. My treat for a good first day spent on your own."

"It's your treat no matter what," you mutter, standing up and leading the way out of the mail room, trusting your responses will be sent out by someone who isn't busy stuffing their face with sushi. "I literally have free food written into my employment agreement."

"You can never just let me have the last word, can you?"

"Nope. Get used to it."

DAY SIXTEEN

Your adrenaline spikes when the phone on your desk, right outside Jun's corner office (the only place with windows and a killer view of racists burning alive at all hours of the day), rings. You squeak with excitement as you answer it.

This should be nerve-wracking for you; your one week in customer service scarred you enough that the sheer sound of phones ringing sent anxiety crawling up your spine. But here, answering the phone meant all kinds of fun possibilities.

It could be a teenager calling via Ouija Board. It could be someone summoning Jun to sell their soul. It could be a demon needing help as a priest exorcises them from a possession. It could be God.

"You've reached Jun's desk. How may I help you?"

"Wrong." Your joy flatlines at your boss's voice. "I told you, you can't use my name when answering the phone."

"I'm not calling you whatever silly title everyone else here insists on calling you," you grumble.

"That's fine. I don't give a shit. Just don't use my name," he says. "I already hear everyone on Earth muttering about Satan. We don't need to add my Hell-given name to the mix."

You sigh. "Fine. What do you need? I've already taken care of your mail and schedule for the rest of the week, I have your requested reports from Accounting, and the Hellhounds have been caught. They're eating their midday snacks now."

"What snacks? You know that cannibals upset their stomachs. If they throw up, you will be cleaning it up."

"First of all, no. I won't." You've already seen the messes the Hellhounds are capable of, and you'd rather Jun eat your soul than have to clean up after one. "Second of all, I know. I gave them some family annihilators."

"Perfect. Thanks. Tell Soonyoung if he loses them one more time, he'll be fed to them next."

"Got it," you say, taking mental note to threaten the demon next time he comes around to annoy you. "So why are you calling? Did you forget whose debt you're collecting today? It's—"

"I know," he cuts you off. "Just checking to see how it's going since this is your first full day without me in Hell."

You frown at nothing in particular. "The Devil does check-in calls…? Oddly considerate."

You can practically hear Jun's glare through the phone. "No. The Devil is making sure you haven't completely run his empire into the ground."

"I am but a measly human," you sigh dramatically. "If I have the power to run a supernatural empire that predates time itself into the ground, it's probably a really bad empire."

"Hm." He clearly refuses to tell you that you have a good point. "I also called to let you know I'll be late tonight so you don't have to worry about working after you leave the office. I'll see you at breakfast."

You told him you didn't care if his trips made him late or if he even wanted to go out and do his own thing after; you aren't his mother or his wife, and you can probably discern this information from his calendar without him calling. But now that it's actually happening, you realize you care a tiny bit. Mostly because in the last two weeks, the two of you have gotten into a routine of sorts.

You woke up, usually from your duvet being ripped off and your eye mask being sent into whatever other dimension Jun sent things to, and you'd sit down for breakfast, going through everything your boss was doing for the day. Jun didn't need to eat, but he joined you anyway, occasionally having a bowl of cereal since you made it clear you never want to see him eating the blood and organs of sinners in the house. Then, he'd take the both of you to work, where you would do whatever it is the day demanded of you, before heading home and having dinner. If he had a trip that day, he still made it home in time to sit with you, eating whatever it is you made in the generously stocked kitchen.

You'd kind of forgotten to be afraid of being alone because you never were anymore. Jun was always there, and if he wasn't, you were either busy working or asleep. The thought of coming back to the house without him, having to eat dinner by yourself, and not having anyone to talk to gets your heart racing faster than usual.

"Hello?"

"Okay," you say, nodding even though he can't see you. Maybe if you force your body to agree to it, your mind will follow suit. "Have fun collecting those souls."

"Thanks," he says slowly.

"Is that all?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Okay then. Bye."

You don't wait for him to respond, hanging up and immediately standing to make your way back to the house while the clock tells you it's still daytime. Maybe if you fall asleep earlier than usual, you'll bypass the terror you already feel creeping in.

DAY TWENTY-THREE

"Junnie!" you call without turning over your shoulder.

You have to keep working on securing catering for the 1,700 demons who will be gathering for an "Innovation & Disruption: Bringing Medieval-Style Torture to the Modern Age" seminar in a few days. You don't even know how to get blood and organs catered. And never mind having to arrange accommodations for the demons that insist on bringing their eldritch horrors with them.

You hear your boss's usual grunt of acknowledgment. "Time to get going to that cult summoning if you want to make it on time!" You glance at the CCTV feed in the corner of your screen. "They're almost done drawing the pentagram!"

He groans but you hear the unmistakable sound of his chair rolling away from his desk and creaking as he stands anyway. A few moments later, he's standing next to you. You pause your catering research to look up at him.

"I don't assume the demons would want to have Subway or something at this seminar?" you ask.

"No." Jun's mouth curves into a small smile. "No, they probably do not want Subway."

"Shame." You shrug and turn back to your computer. "Well, have fun with the nut jobs! Remember, Risk & Assessment flagged the cult leader for us; his possession score is very high, so if you find him insufferable—and I'm sure that with your patience, you will—feel free to ring me and I'll send you a demon to torment him a bit."

"Noted," he says, chuckling a little. "And just so you know, I'll probably be late again."

You deflate a little. It's been a week since the last time Jun came home late from work, and you're still working out the stress knots it put into your shoulders.

"Oh." You try to think of what you'll do to stave off the panic this time since sleeping early didn't do it for you. When you realize your boss is standing there, scrutinizing you and waiting for a proper response, you say a pathetic "sounds good."

"Hm. I was actually thinking you may be more help coming with me tonight than staying here," he says suddenly. "Or at home."

You straighten up and try not to look too eager at the invitation. "Wait. I can come to the summoning?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Is that allowed?"

He stares at you blankly. "I'm the King of Hell."

You roll your eyes, your heart rate slowing down as your anxieties subside. "A simple 'yes' would have sufficed."

The second you and Jun make landfall in the middle of the cult's pentagram, there are fanatic screams and people in ridiculous cloaks falling to their knees and sobbing. You don't try to hide the revulsion on your face, flinching away when a follower crawls to you on their hands and knees, wailing and reaching for you. You inadvertently curl into your boss's side. You mutter a quiet apology when you realize you're touching him, but he ignores it, stepping between you and the enthusiastic follower.

"Hands to yourself," Jun hisses at the person, who immediately backs away.

The space becomes significantly warmer at that, and it only dawns on you now why your home is kept so cold. It never occurred to you that of course the Devil will run hot, and you feel that heat radiating from him now with nothing to quell it. The cult members must feel it too because aside from the overenthusiastic one, they give the two of you a wide berth.

Once you acclimate to the audience, you notice you're suddenly in a cloak reminiscent of the grim reaper's.

"What the hell is this?" you ask, lifting an arm and looking at the way the cloth drapes off of it.

"Summoning uniform."

"Then why don't you have one?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at Jun's all-black get-up: a crisp button-down, slim-fit slacks, and a jacket with shoulders adorned with a smattering of crystals, making it look like he's wearing the sky itself.

"I'm the Devil." Which seems to be his answer for everything. Your next complaint is drowned out by the deep and bizarre bellowing of a man on a tiny stage that quakes under his weight.

"Welcome, Our Unholiness!" You assume the man shouting is the cult leader. He wears a goat head that looks so realistic, you sorely hope it's just a mask and that the man is not wearing an animal corpse right now.

"Wrong!" you immediately call, making Jun frown at you as you step back around him, tripping a little when your foot catches on your cloak. "Fuck, ow." You yank at it violently before standing straight and addressing the man. "Accepted titles include King of Hell, King of the Infernal Realms, Lord of Temptation, Prince of Darkness, His Infernal Majesty, or The Big Bad Lord of Doom and Gloom."

"No, nope. Not that last one." You smile at him when he narrows his eyes at you. If you get the cloak, he gets the silly title.

"O-oh. Uh. Everyone, let's welcome… His Maj—"

"Infernal Majesty."

"His Infernal Majesty!" he shouts.

The crowd around you erupts into cheers, and you take the moment to look around. Your boss has been summoned to what looks like a remote compound in the middle of the desert with small concrete buildings scattered around you. The people around you look starved, dehydrated, and unclean. No wonder the Devil has been summoned; this is not a cult leader that leads very well.

"Enough," Jun says, his voice barely rising over the cheers but reverberating through the crowd anyway. It falls silent laughably fast, forcing you to stifle a giggle. "Why have you summoned me?"

"Satan, we—may I call you Satan…?" the goat head tilts toward you like he's asking you for permission. You nod and he turns back to your boss. "Satan, we have summoned you here today in the hopes that you will lend your devoted children a hand."

"I am nothing if not a provider," Jun says in a bored voice. You tilt your head and shrug before nodding as you ponder that statement. You suppose it's true. You have been living a very luxurious life since you moved to Hell.

"Oh, thank you, Satan," he sighs in relief, bowing his head and stumbling a little when the weight of the goat head makes him wobble. "We request a great boon of you."

"A boon," you echo in a whisper, mostly to yourself.

"Our tithes are declining."

"Tithes." Words you will have to Google upon returning home.

Jun's eyes flick down to you briefly before he responds. "Get on with it."

The abruptness throws the leader off, causing him to stutter. You buy him more time by stating, "As you can imagine, Ju—Satan! Satan is incredibly busy. Many summonings to tend to. Many plagues to schedule. Many damned souls to devour whole. Many—"

"He gets it," Jun cuts in.

"Right, of course!" the leader agrees. "Apologies! We would like to request monetary support."

"In exchange for?" the Devil asks, an eyebrow cocked at the man.

"For…?"

Jun glances at you and you nod, frowning when you realize for the first time that you are no longer holding your tablet. You gasp, patting your entire body before you find the needlessly deep inner pocket of your cloak. So deep, your tablet basically rests at your ankle.

"This is deeply humiliating," you mutter at your boss as you bend over to scoop it out. "Who was this made for—Shaquille O'Neal?"

"No," Jun answers, more amused than you've ever heard him. "It's mine."

You pause in your bend, cranking your neck to look at him upside down. "This is your grim reaper cloak?"

He nods, clearly suppressing a laugh. You roll your eyes, shaking your head as you continue digging your device out of the infinite pocket. You straighten back up when it's finally in your grip.

You quickly tap through for the handbook you haven't needed until now.

"Where deals with the Devil are concerned," you read aloud, projecting your voice so everyone can hear clearly, "the Devil accepts servitude of his chosen length, negotiable; a percentage of all future profits no less than 20 percent, negotiable; your luck for an amount of time of his choice, negotiable; the feeling you get when a song gives you chills, non-negotiable; your first-born child to be collected upon their 30th birthday, non—hey!"

You frown at that point and turn to your boss, your back to the cult leader. "What?"

"What the hell do you need a first-born child for?" you hiss in a whisper only he can hear because above all else, you are still very professional. "Your assistant position is already filled. You already have a first-born child that you have collected!"

Your boss's mouth curves into an arrogant smirk that you want to rip off his mouth. "First-born children are a hot commodity in Hell."

"Oh, are they?" you laugh humorlessly. "So where are they?"

"Where are they?"

"Yeah! Where are they?" you ask, unsure what you'll even do when you find out. Now that you've been in your position long enough to really appreciate its perks, the thought of being kicked to the curb fills you with a fight instinct so strong, you could choke on it. "Hiding them in the attic? Basement? In a closet I haven't found yet? Or did you build them a separate house? You have multiple offices? Multiple assistants?"

"Um, can we get back to the—"

"One minute!" you shout without turning back to the cult leader.

"Are you jealous?" Jun asks, his voice equal parts confusion and cocky. When your only answer to that is a glare, he exhales a breathy laugh and shakes his head. "The document you're reading from was last updated decades ago, darling. I assure you I have no other assistants and am not looking for any more—at least not until your contract with me is over."

"I want that added as an amendment to my agreement," you say through gritted teeth, noting to yourself to reach out to Demon Resources when you get back.

"Unnecessary, but we'll—"

"The Devil will not be accepting a first-born child!" you announce, three times as loud as you were before as you spin back around, kicking when your cloak tangles around your legs. "Keep your useless children to yourselves!"

"No children, got it," the cult leader nods. "Well… you see, we were not prepared for a proper offering tonight, as we assumed that as children of the Dark Lord—"

"Lord of Temptation or Prince of Darkness," you correct him, shaking your head.

"Er, yes. As children of the Prince of Darkness… we assumed we would just… um, receive? A gift? As loyal followers?"

Both you and Jun remain still, falling quiet at the assumption—you because you're unsure if your boss wants you to correct him, Jun because you assume he's debating whether he should kill someone or laugh. The leader laughs a little nervously, swaying back and forth and wringing his hands. It's a hilariously silly picture with his goat head still on.

"Correct this idiot before I summon a Hellhound," Jun mutters to you, turning away from the leader and taking a seat. A comically large throne appears under his ass at the perfect moment. He props his head in his hand in immense disinterest.

"You summoned the Devil," you point out the obvious. "If you were looking for handouts based on loyalty, you probably should have thrown your allegiance behind God—which by the way, did you know she's a woman?"

"Oh. Uh, that's… yeah, that makes sense."

"Right? We thought so too," you say, nodding and glancing at Jun briefly over your shoulder. He nods once, blinking slowly in the way he only does when he's finally starting to tire and needs to rest. You turn back to the leader. "If you would like Satan's financial support, he will need more than the promise that you'll continue to live in the desert, starving and unbathed. He will need something he can actually use." You point at his mask. "By the way, the goat head does nothing. He does not like that."

Jun speaks behind you, confirming. "I do not. I hate it."

The leader immediately rips the head off, chucking it away from him with so much force, it bounces several times and disappears into the darkness not lit by the torches that surround the pentagram. He's younger than you assumed he'd be, and he's sweaty and red from staying in the goat head.

"What will you be offering the Devil tonight?" you ask. "Would you like more examples of gifts he will accept?"

"Um, no, I think… I think we can offer, uh, servitude?" his followers groan, but he doesn't change his answer.

"Wonderful," you nod, making note of it in your tablet. One of Jun's famous contracts materializes in front of the sweaty man, the glow of it painting him even redder. "The Devil will award you with just enough money to keep this Burning Man-inspired cult thriving as long as at least one member present here tonight is alive. In exchange, His Infernal Majesty will collect their souls for eternal servitude at the end of their natural-born lives."

There's an uproar of protests as you finish reading the terms.

"Well, wait, hold on! You said this was negotiable."

"Indeed."

"Okay, so let's negotiate!" You watch him expectantly, waiting for said negotiation. "Right, um, yeah. So. Uh. If servitude is eternal… maybe our financial support should also be of unlimited nature?"

"'Maybe'?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"It should! It should!" he corrects himself. "Limitless money forever, regardless of whether or not the members here tonight are still alive, in exchange for our eternal servitude upon the end of life."

You watch as Jun's signature starts to scribble on the contract, signaling his acceptance of the agreement. You frown and shake your head. "Denied!"

Jun makes a sound of surprise as his signature stops mid-air.

"Limitless money forever, independent of tonight's members, in exchange for your current and future members' eternal servitude upon end of life—regardless of length of cult membership."

The silence that follows is tense, the cult leader chewing his lower lip as he thinks it through and his followers clearly ruminating on what limitless money can do for them.

"The Big Bad Lord is due for another engagement shortly," you inform him, earning you an annoyed grunt from your boss. "Please make your mind up quickly."

"Deal," he answers, nodding confidently. "Deal!"

You smile as you watch Jun sign on his dotted line. Your boss suddenly appears before the leader, outside the pentagram meant to keep you both contained and the summoners safe from you—obviously a myth. Once summoned, Jun is free to do as he pleases wherever he pleases. Everyone gasps at his reappearance, the leader flinching violently. Your boss extends his hand just as he did to you a month ago. When the man shakes it, the same red lines bind the agreement, and the cult leader's name and signature appear on the contract.

"Enjoy your boon, Lee Seokmin," Jun says, voice low and dangerous. "Don't go dying too soon. I'll be back to collect."

The Devil doesn't waste any more time on the cult, whisking the two of you away and back to your shared home.

"That was fun!" you exclaim, clapping your hands and giggling. "Much more fun than staying at home alone."

Jun snorts but keeps his face carefully blank as he goes to the pantry and grabs a bag of ghost pepper chips. "Yeah?"

"Definitely. Thanks for inviting me."

"I was right."

"Hm?"

"You were a lot more helpful going with me than staying back here," he clarifies, opening the bag and chomping on the snack, which he now keeps an unlimited stock of for both of you. "I should've known you'd be good at negotiating." He throws you a look of fake contempt. You smirk. "I think you should come with me to all my summonings."

You shrug, trying not to reveal how relieved you are about late nights alone not having to be a worry for you anymore. "Sure. I will make myself available."

"So generous…" Jun comments, mouth slanting in amusement. "I'm going to turn in. You good?"

You frown. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

He watches you for a moment more before shaking his head. "No reason." He looks down at your cloak and nods. "Keep it for the next summoning. Night." He turns and lazily stalks off toward his suite on the other side of the house from yours.

DAY TWENTY-SEVEN

You're getting the hang of Jun in a way you never really understood any of your previous bosses. Before, your managers were people who just told you what to do and gave you minuscule raises once in a while, but being the Devil's assistant demanded knowing him on a level more intimate than you were expecting.

Because why do you know that eating too much human food will have him in the bathroom for ungodly amounts of time? It turned out that your restriction of blood in the house was actually ruining his digestive track. You're not totally uncaring, though; you now allow the Devil his blood consumption—strictly from opaque bottles. Organs, on the other hand, will never be negotiable.

You know that his favorite thing to listen to to relax after a long, stressful day is the tortured screams of damned souls drowning in the river of boiling blood. He likes falling asleep to the screams of damned souls being quartered. If he needs to hunker down and really concentrate on work, the screams of the racists burning alive right outside his window are his preferred background noise, which is probably why his office is where it is.

Jun actually hates having to negotiate. It took that first trip and a handful more to realize that he's fairly quick to accept the first offer he's given unless it's a particularly nasty human being. Since you've started accompanying him, though, you've been getting him a lot more promised benefits than before. So far, you're most proud of convincing a human to sign over her whimsy once 10 years passes. You think it will really brighten up the place once Hell receives it.

There are a lot of devilish stereotypes you've also debunked during your time with him. He has no horns or tail or wings that he's hiding. Everything you see seems to be all of it. His skin has never been red or any other color aside from the golden tan it is now. The Devil does not have an advocate, as he finds people who relentlessly challenge ideas simply for the sake of it exhausting (though, as the ruler of Hell, he does have the privilege of everyone being too scared to challenge anything he thinks or says anyway). He doesn't rely on the worship of anybody on Earth, and he doesn't care to lure pure souls to Hell; he only makes deals with the people he knows belong with him. That inspired an hours-long conversation in which you demanded he assure you your deal was the exception and you do not belong here in Hell with him.

Why? Don't you feel like you belong here? he asked, smirking. You fit right in, darling.

That might be true, but I don't belong here, right? Like, I'm not an evil person. I would've gone to Heaven if not for my terrible parents. Right?

Will you leave me alone if I agree?

JUN.

One thing you're learning now is that your boss tends to be perceived very differently by his demon subordinates. Where you see a particular and sometimes bratty individual, others see a man they need to appease lest they get their heads cut off. Where you see a softie who cuddles with his pets upon returning home, others see a king with an army of Hellhounds starving for the chance to tear them to pieces. Where you see someone who has become your own personal barista in the mornings, others see someone they're too afraid to ask even the smallest of favors from.

Exhibit A: Soonyoung.

Who is currently hissing at you to come meet him around the corner, away from your desk and away from your boss's door. You look over your shoulder quickly to find Jun deep in reviewing the piles of contracts you left for him this morning. You roll your eyes as you stand, dragging your feet lazily as you shuffle over to where Soonyoung is practically crouching to keep from being seen.

"What is it, Soonyoung?" you sigh. He waves for you to bend down and you ignore him, not bothering to crouch to match his height. "You have one minute. The purgatory's auditorium was double booked for the new hire orientation and the monthly angel-demon networking mixer, and I have to find a solution that will not only please Jun but God. I'm this close to suggesting we go to Earth and book a Chili's."

The demon doesn't even pretend to listen to your mini rant, practically speaking over your last few words. "Do you think you can ask His Infernal Majesty if I can have the next full moon off?"

You cock an eyebrow at him. "Why would I do that?"

He looks around nervously. "Um. Because you're pure of heart and soul? And you like me?"

"First of all, only one of those two statements is true," you inform him, enjoying the way he frowns as he tries to figure out which it is, "and second of all, I meant why would I need to do that?" He stares blankly at you. "Ask him yourself."

He scoffs. "Are you crazy?"

"Yes. Next question."

The answer clearly catches him off-guard, and he stammers over several syllables before standing straight and shaking his head. "I can't ask him myself."

"Why not?"

He opens and closes his mouth several times but offers you no valid reasons. He shrugs pathetically before finally admitting. "Because he scares me!"

You look at him incredulously. "Jun… scares you."

"Don't say his name!" he shriek-whispers, frantically grabbing your wrist and pulling you even further down the hall and away from your desk. He stops just outside the copy room, where a damned soul is slapping the broken copy machine. "Of course he scares me."

"The man who needs to be reminded to eat lunch and take his vitamins despite being older than the world itself scares you."

"Yes."

"The guy who gets ghost pepper chip dust all over his fingers and wipes them on whatever surface is closest to him scares you."

Soonyoung doesn't seem to find an issue with that the way you do but he still nods. "Yes."

"The dude—"

"Yes!" he nearly shouts. "Yes! No amount of ridiculous things you say right now are going to convince me to not be scared of him! I am scared of him!"

The soul at the copy machine finally gets fed up and walks out of the copy room, screaming and nearly falling over, their papers flying every direction, when Soonyoung instinctively bares his teeth and growls. They run the rest of the way back to their desk, abandoning the papers they dropped.

You bend down to start collecting them and snort when you find meaningless doodles done by one of the executives whose office is on this floor.

"You see a very different, non-scary version of him, okay?" Soonyoung continues like he didn't just scare the shit out of someone himself. "You're not scared because you don't have to see him when Hell is down on damned souls for the quarter, or when I breathe wrong around him."

You raise your eyebrows. "And this is my problem, why…?"

"It's not a problem," he says, grinning mischievously. He squats down to help you pick up the papers. "It's an advantage! You're his favorite employee! If you ask him if I can have the day off, he'll say yes!"

You pause, looking up at him and laughing. "Me. His favorite employee. After one month."

"Yeah, don't rub it in, new kid," the demon grunts, rolling his eyes. "Some of us have been kissing his ass for centuries, and you walk in and suddenly own the place. But worry not. I'm choosing to view this as a beautiful opportunity, rather than something to be jealous of."

"Sure," you follow, nodding as you continue to gather the drawings that never saw the copy machine. "You still haven't given me a good reason why you can't do it, though. Your fear is not a good reason."

He groans. "Yes it is!"

"It isn't."

"Okay, I mean. On top of that, he'll just say no."

"Why do you think that?"

He stares at you blankly. When he realizes it's a sincere question, he licks his lips and sighs. "Dude. It's been a month. You haven't had a single day off and you haven't noticed?"

You frown as you pick up the last piece of paper. You stand and think about it. "Oh my god…"

"I thought about asking God a few centuries ago too," he says, misunderstanding you. He stands and takes the pile of papers from you. "Didn't work out. Turns out they have no say in each other's teams, and His Infernal Majesty doesn't like it when demons go over his head."

"Naturally," you mutter. "Not what I meant, though. I just didn't realize I'd been working so much."

"Yeah, yeah, time flies when you're having fun," he says, waving a hand. "Anyway, I really need the day off to go to Earth."

"And do what?"

His face lights up now. "I was summoned by a hot witch the other day, and I want to pay her a visit during the full moon."

"Ooooh, a date!" You lean in, actually interested in where the conversation is going now. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know about a date," he says bashfully, cheeks turning pink. "I just want to see—"

"Soonyoung. How many times do you want me to threaten your life for distracting my assistant?"

The demon squeals, all the papers the two of you picked up exploding into confetti as they rain down around you again. You sigh, staring as they fall to the ground, deciding immediately you will not be gathering them a second time. You look to your left to find Jun suddenly standing next to you, hands in his pockets as he stares daggers at the demon. You narrow your eyes at your boss and think, yes. Yes, you would probably be scared to be on the receiving end of that look.

But you're not so you aren't. You smile.

"Hi Junnie," you greet him. His eyes flick down to you and he shoots you a flat expression at your usage of the juvenile nickname in front of his demon. "Soonyoung has a favor to ask you."

The man in question shoots you a panicked and betrayed look before grinning nervously at his boss, who turns his attention to him now. He continues giving him that stupid grin for several seconds, failing to say anything until Jun raises one eyebrow.

"Well?"

"Oh! I, um. I was wondering if—if I could have, uh—"

"Spit it out."

"If I—um, couldhavethenextfullmoonoff." He swallows nothing. "Please."

You roll your eyes at the anxiety-riddled request.

"Absolutely not," Jun says immediately, inspiring a small, stunned gasp from you. You don't think you've ever heard him deny someone of something. But then again, you've never heard anyone ask anything of him. "You know how busy full moons are."

"No, yeah, for sure, I'm so sorry," he rambles, bowing his head a few times before giggling nervously and waving a hand. "That was so silly. Yeah. Dumb of me. I was actually just kidding. Got you! So silly. Ha…"

"Oh, come on!" you whine on behalf of Soonyoung, who looks at you with wide eyes and shakes his head quickly, silently begging you to shut up. Jun looks down at you, turning to face you completely. "That's so mean! He asked nicely!" You pause, shrugging. "Nicely enough. Why can't he have the day off?"

"Because it's the full moon."

"Okay…" you elongate the word. "And there will be many more full moons. This is just one, and you have thousands of demons. When was the last time Soonyoung had a day off?"

Jun suddenly averts his eyes, clearing his throat uncomfortably. You turn to Soonyoung, who refuses to answer. You frown at your boss.

"He's… he's never had a day off…?" you ask, making it clear how appalled you are at the idea. Your lip curls up in disgust and you look him up and down judgmentally. "What kind of boss are you?"

You gawk at him as his cheeks begin to turn red.

"You don't give your employees days off? Ever? How old are you, Soonyoung? Like a million years old?"

"Okay, relax," he mutters.

"A million years, and no days off? That's really horrible, Junnie. You should be embarrassed. I am very disappoi—"

"Soonyoung, go ahead and take the full moon off ," Jun practically barks at him, taking your arm in his grip at the same time. "Enjoy your day off, and stop talking to my fucking assistant or I'll have you as a midday snack."

The last thing you see before Jun turns you around and guides you back down the hall and away from Soonyoung is the huge, grateful, and excited smile on his face. You giggle, the sound cut off by a startled squeak when you hear the demon bellow at a damned soul.

"What the hell are you looking at?! Pick these papers up and make me a thousand copies!"

When your boss releases you back at your desk, you sit down, already back to figuring out the purgatory auditorium issue. It takes a few seconds for you to realize Jun isn't going anywhere, though. You pause, looking up at him and tilting your head.

"What is it?" you ask.

"I am a great boss."

"Uh," you exhale in a laugh. "Yeah. I know."

"Do you? Because you—"

"Oh, Junnie," you sigh, rolling your eyes as you return your attention to your computer. "Soonyoung just deserves a day off." You're not sure that statement is true, but you'll be damned if anything stops you from getting the first date gossip you're guaranteed now. "I know you're a good boss."

"Hm."

"Hm," you mimic him, smiling a little. When you look back at him, his eyes are narrowed like he's not sure you're telling the truth. "I wouldn't be willingly working seven days a week if you weren't a good boss, okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Alright."

"Mhm."

"I'm just gonna—" he points at his desk, not bothering to finish his sentence as he disappears back into his office.

DAY THIRTY

You know something is wrong when you wake up on your own naturally, something you haven't done since you accepted the position with Jun. You frown from under your eye mask, hand coming up to rip it off your face. You slowly sit up, finding every single blanket and the duvet still atop you, and your eyes find the clock on the wall, finding that it's almost a full hour after your usual wake-up time.

"My alarm didn't go off," you mutter.

Jun is your alarm. Jun didn't go off. You shove the blankets off you, shivering a little as you slip off the bed and tuck your feet into your bunny slippers. You shuffle out of your bedroom, poking your head into the hall to find it barren and silent.

"Jun?" you call quietly, knowing he'll hear it regardless. He doesn't answer. You walk further out into the hall, going to the kitchen to find it empty. The coffee machine wasn't touched either, even though it's always on and ready in the morning.

Your anxiety spikes as you start to wonder if he left in the middle of the night without letting you know. You scramble back to your room for your tablet, pulling his calendar up and staring at it in confusion when you find nothing different than when you left it last night.

Meeting with Archangel Joshua Marketing Team pitch Block for contracts Block for collection Monthly Satan/God touchbase (leave 30m for travel to Purgatory) Hellhound training check-in Block for contracts 1:1 with Chief Torment Officer

His meeting with Joshua would've started five minutes ago, so maybe he was just running late and needed to go without you? When has he ever run late? You're not even sure he slept. He's had meetings much earlier than that and he never failed to wake you up and sit down for breakfast. You decide the only way you'll find out is if you head to the office and see if he's there. You're one leg into your pants when your phone starts ringing.

"Thanks for calling Hell. You've reached the Devil's office. How can I help you?" you half-grunt with your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder as you pull your pants on.

"Do you have any idea how busy archangels are?"

"Joshua!" you gasp, immediately forgetting your pants and leaving them unbuttoned as you take your phone into your hand. "Is Jun with you?"

"Funny," he says in a way that suggests he doesn't find that funny at all. You get the feeling you won't find what he says next humorous either. "I was about to ask you the same thing. He hasn't shown for our meeting, and while he's the most vexing person I've ever met, he's also never been late. I can only really wait ten more minutes before I have to go appear as a hallucination to some humans and ask them to build a home for the less fortunate."

You groan, free hand applying pressure to your temple and eyes squeezing shut. "You know what, just… go do that. I'm sorry about this. I accidentally double-booked him. Totally my fault. I'll work with your admin to reschedule. Sorry again." You figure you'll take the fall to keep Jun away from scrutiny until you can find out where the fuck he is.

"'Kay. Don't let it happen again," he sighs dramatically.

"Okay, relax, you glorified gnat with feathers," you scoff, continuing to get dressed. "I said sorry. Y'know what? Don't call me for these things in the future! Have Seungkwan do it next time. I don't want to be subjected to your whiny, little rants."

Joshua makes a noise of disbelief before laughing. "Wow, you're the perfect assistant for Satan. For the record, I was totally kidding. I got to sit here and do nothing but doom scroll, so I don't mind. But I will have my assistant call next time. Sorry for bothering you."

"Good. Don't let it happen again." You don't allow him a response, hanging up and gathering your things as you hurry to leave for the office.

But as you exit your room, you hear your name, called so softly, you would have missed it if you hadn't paused to make sure your tablet was on you. You freeze, frowning in the direction of the sound.

"Jun?" you call, mindlessly setting your bag down in the kitchen as you walk toward your boss's suite. You find his door at the end of the hall, a deep, dark blood red, open just a crack. You knock lightly, and when you don't hear anything, you poke your head through.

And there he is, your missing boss, still cocooned in his bed, his favorite Hellcat and Hellhound sleeping at his feet, the former passed out atop the latter.

"Junnie?" you call again. He groans this time.

"Y/N…" he murmurs, not moving an inch or opening his eyes.

You tiptoe into the room, making a kissy face at Key when the hound's tail starts wagging at the sight of you. The movement makes Lock slide off the dog, meowing helplessly as she does. You get to Jun's bedside and wince when you realize how sick he looks.

The Devil is pale, sweating with a sickly sheen, and looking so weak, it's the first time you've thought he could believably pass as human. You reach out to press the back of your hand to his forehead, but he swats it away.

"Hey!"

"Don't," he whispers, voice hoarse with fatigue. "Fever. I'll burn your skin off."

"Oh," you mutter, immediately taking your hand back. "You're sick. I didn't know the Devil could get sick."

"Demon Flu," he says, eyes fluttering open just enough to peek at you. "Soonyoung sneezed in my face the other day."

"Oh!" you blink at him in surprise. "Ew! Good to know! I will make a note to send him to the Hellhounds to serve as a chew toy for the day."

"Week."

"Got it," you say, nodding. You fidget a little, looking down at your boss with pity. He looks so helpless and sad and cute. You fight the urge to run your fingers through his damp hair. "What do you need? What can I do for you?"

"Nothing. I'll be down until 3:33 a.m. tomorrow," he informs you.

"Specific."

"Just… do… assistant things," he says pathetically, fingers twitching when he tries to wave his hand dismissively.

You can do that. Your first order of business is getting him a tall glass of water and force-feeding it to him until he has rivulets of water very distractingly dribbling down his chin, neck, and between his pecs, where it disappears under the covers.

Then, you get him a cold compress, screeching in surprise when the towel crackles and steams upon contact with his forehead. When that warms up within a minute, you try getting him an actual ice block, chipped straight off the furniture of his weird ice room. You take his moan of relief as a good thing and quickly get to work butchering the ice room until you have an endless supply of blocks for Jun's sizzling forehead.

When you're done with that, you make him the hot pot you made yourself one night and noticed he had several helpings of, spoon feeding it to him despite his several protests. After two slurps, though, there isn't much of a fight, with Jun relaxing back into his pillows and happily allowing you to feed him as he lets his eyes close. You pause, wondering if he fell asleep, but he immediately whines for his next spoonful.

"You're a baby when you're sick."

"I could die."

"You literally couldn't."

He slurps his latest spoonful of broth. "Feels like it."

"Mmm," you hum, smiling at how endearing he is when he doesn't have the energy to put up his big, bad act.

"Y'know…" he rasps, "when I said do assistant things, I meant at work."

"My work is making your life easier, no?" you counter, letting go of the spoon to pick up the chopsticks and pluck meat out of the broth for Jun to eat. He practically purrs when his mouth closes around the chopsticks, and you struggle not to watch his Adam's apple as he swallows. "So I am doing assistant things at work."

Jun opens his eyes, able to open them wider than he was when you first found him. "Just work, hm?"

You set the chopsticks down and pick up the spoon to chase his bite down with broth, but his fingers circle around your wrist, stopping before the spoon can touch his lips. His grip is hot but it doesn't hurt—not how you imagine his face would. "You're full?"

"Why are you feeding me?"

You raise your eyebrows at him. "Because you're sick and need to eat…?"

Jun's eyes narrow infinitesimally, but he releases your wrist, allowing you to feed him more broth.

"Not used to being cared for, are you?" you observe, chuckling. "Big, bad Devil has never been spoonfed?" Your boss rolls his eyes but doesn't entertain you by acknowledging your question.

After a few more bites, his long, slender fingers gently push the bowl away, and he shakes his head, muttering a quiet thank you as you set the food aside on his nightstand. You stand, pulling his blankets up even higher when you see him shiver.

"You don't have to do all this," he sighs as you shove your fingers under his back and legs, tucking his blankets in along his entire body until he looks like an oversized, swaddled baby. "It's not in your employment agreement. Go work."

"I will," you say, rolling your eyes at his stubbornness. "And you realize I can help you without being contractually obligated to, right?" you ask, laughing and collecting all the dishes you need to bring back to the kitchen. "You don't need to have me sign my soul away to get me to care, Junnie. I know I don't need to do any of this. Consider it a friend-slash-roommate helping you."

You finish cleaning up and don't allow him the chance to retort or protest, immediately turning away and calling Lock and Key to follow you out of the room.

"Come on, kiddies," you coo as his pets exit. "Your daddy needs to rest." You glance back up at Jun, who stares at you hard with a deep frown on his face. "Call if you need anything. I'll stay nearby and check on you in an hour!"

DAY THIRTY-SIX

Jun has been weird around you for the last week. It's like that dumb flu of his altered his brain chemistry and made him cold and detached.

There was no more going into your room to wake you up; now he has a shrill alarm clock appear to scream in your ear like a demented banshee, disappearing every time you try to smack wherever its snooze button is. He no longer sits for breakfast with you; now, he tells you he needs to be at the office ahead of you and will simply meet you there. Thankfully, he allows you to continue accompanying him to his summonings, but with how weird he's acting, you wonder if it would be better to just face your fears and be alone.

You attempted to talk to him throughout the week, trying not to take it personally when all you got were one-worded responses or grunts or blank stares.

Three days in, you started slacking a little to force him to say more than one word to you. You scheduled meetings so he'd show up ten minutes late. You sent a Hell-wide email promising everyone a four-day work week if quotas were met. You even threatened to release the lower-level sinners from their torture chambers to cause trouble for the archangels. All that got you was a severe glare, and a notice from Demon Resources that one more mistake would get you on a performance improvement plan, which you were informed would involve giving the Hellhounds baths alongside the damned souls in charge of that.

It's clear that Jun is in a mood—probably the aftereffects of the mysterious Demon Flu you can't catch. You've resigned yourself to riding it out, accepting that even the Devil is prone to tantrums and mood swings.

The phone on your desk rings, and you heave a tired sigh before answering.

"Hi. You've reached the desk of The Supreme Lord of Sulkiness," you greet loudly, ignoring the series of choked coughs that erupt from your boss's office behind you. "How may I help you?"

"Oh, uh…" the voice pauses like they're checking something. "This is His Infernal Majesty's desk, correct?"

"Yep, that's what I just saaaaid," you sing-song. "Now how can I help you?"

"This is the front desk. We have an archangel on the line that insists on speaking with His Infernal Majesty."

You roll your eyes. "Who is it?"

"Archangel Brayden…?"

The idiot is the biggest pain in your ass. You're not even sure why he constantly asks after Jun when Joshua is the archangel appointed with all relations having to do with Hell. It's probably a weird power play in Heaven that you're not privy to, but you've been dodging him for days now.

"Tell him he's not available."

"He is threatening to visit for the third time this week."

"Jesus Christ," you mutter.

"You want me to transfer him to Christ?"

You frown deeply at that. "What? We can transfer him to—wait, what?"

"You said—"

"Never mind, just—ugh," you groan in frustration, resting your elbows on the desk and cradling your head in your free hand. "Put him through."

"Will do." The line cuts to the agonized screams of damned souls as you wait for her to transfer him to you.

"Hello?" his dumb voice drifts through the receiver.

"Hi. You've reached the desk of—"

"Who am I speaking to?"

You clamp your mouth shut, rolling your lips between your teeth to keep from immediately snapping at him. When you're sure you won't, you state your name.

He still manages to say it wrong, but you don't bother correcting him. "I need a meeting with Satan."

"And why is that?"

He laughs arrogantly. "That's between me and him."

"Well, he's busy."

"I haven't even given you my availability."

"Don't need yours. I have his, and he's busy." You tack on "for the rest of time" for good measure.

There's a loaded silence long enough that you wonder if you've effectively driven him into hanging up. Of course, that would be too easy. "You really don't want to mouth off with me."

"Excuse me?" You huff a laugh of disbelief. You swear some of these angels are bigger assholes than the demons crawling around here.

"You heard me," he seethes. You feel your self-control dissolving by the second. "Now you can either transfer me to your boss like a good, little demon slave—"

"I am literally none of those four things."

"—or," he near-shouts over you, "you can put me in his books. This is a very important meeting, and I'd hate for you to have your soul ripped apart for failing to schedule it."

"Listen here," you hiss, "you repulsive, pretentious, foul excuse for an—"

"Brayden."

You freeze as Jun's voice cuts into the call. You turn toward his office to find him leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest and legs crossed at the ankles. His eyes slide over to you and he lazily lifts a hand and beckons you over with two fingers. You quickly hang the phone up and stand, entering Jun's office in time to catch the archangel bumbling nonsensically on speakerphone.

He nods at the seats in front of him and you take one, slowly lowering yourself as he speaks.

"I don't believe we've met," Jun says, interrupting his stuttering.

"Um, no, we haven't! I just wanted to schedule a coffee chat to introduce myself!" You glare at the phone. A coffee chat is his very important meeting?

"What a fucking tool," you murmur.

"A coffee chat," the Devil repeats.

"Yes. I figured Hell is a huge place. Maybe you need two archangels to serve as point. I'd love to put my name in the ring—"

"And you thought threatening my assistant was the best way to do it?" Jun asks, face blank as he stares at you.

"Oh, no," he says, laughing like it's a joke, "No, no, definitely not. I was not threatening her."

"Hm."

You've grown accustomed to Jun's many variations of hm. There's his thoughtful hm. The hm when he's trying not to smile or laugh. His angry hm. The that-is-the-dumbest-thing-I've-ever-fucking-heard hm. A hm reserved especially for when Soonyoung annoys him. This one isn't one you're familiar with.

"What was it you were saying about her soul being torn apart?" Saying the words again makes Jun's eyes turn a deep red. His hands turn into fists, making the veins running up his forearm pop.

"I was joking!" Brayden insists. "I was totally joking. She and I joke like that! We—"

"Lie to me one more time and I'll have God cast you out of Heaven so fast, you won't know how you ended up in my Hellhound's digestive system."

The line falls silent, and your body does interesting things in reaction to the words—the most obvious one being the odd ache between your legs. You fidget a little, finger slipping into your collar and pulling a little as you begin to feel warm.

"How long have you been an archangel, Brayden?"

"Uh, well, heh," he laughs nervously. "So, I'm not quite an archangel yet. I'm—"

Jun cuts him off with a sharp, terrifying laugh. "And now you never will be," he informs him. "I'm sure both Archangel Joshua and God will agree that you aren't fit for that role."

He squeaks in protest. "I—"

"Wow, how productive!" Jun says with feigned glee. "Look at us, we had a great chat and we didn't even need to waste time breathing each other's air or ruining the joys of drinking caffeine."

"Uh, I, um, sir—"

"Have any other demands you'd like to make?"

"No," he answers immediately. "No, I… I don't. I'm sorry. I—"

"Perfect," he says. "Now if you'll apologize to my assistant, we can get on with our lives. And make it good, Brayden. I don't like to repeat orders."

"I'm so sorry," Brayden grovels, sounding like he's on the verge of tears, if not fully crying already. He sniffles and his voice cracks on his next words. "I don't know why I was acting like such an asshole and bothering all of you when I had no business going over Archangel Joshua's head like that. I'm sorry, Satan."

Jun narrows his eyes. "I don't want your apologies."

"I'm sorry, Y/N."

"Hm," he accepts it. "Then I think our business is done. And Brayden?"

"Yes?" his voice trembles.

"If I hear that you called anyone here in Hell again, let alone my assistant," he starts, eyes flashing a bright and violent scarlet now, "I will personally come up there, pluck you right out of the fucking sky, and take my sweet, sweet time flaying you with a dull butter knife—wings and all—before I tear your soul apart, piece by agonizing piece myself."

There's a loud sniffle followed by a whimper on the line, but the ache inside you is so strong now, you can't even enjoy the sound.

"And if you think my friendships with your superiors will stop me, you are so sorely mistaken." His pause is pregnant with tension, his eyes boring into you as he lands his final threat. "I have absolutely no problem with starting a war over you."

The words send a chill down your spine, and you cross your legs tightly to keep from twitching at the sensation. You grip the arms of your chair and avert your eyes from your boss, trying to understand what the fuck is happening to your body right now. You quietly blow a breath out through your mouth when the sensation doesn't let up.

As expected, the angel doesn't have a proper response to that.

"Good talk, Brayden," Jun says sardonically. "Don't let me hear your voice ever again."

He reaches over and presses a button on his phone, ending the call. He looks back to you, his eyes finally fading back to that deep, comforting brown. He sighs, seeming suddenly and significantly less sure of himself than he was on the phone.

"Um," he clears his throat, coughing a little as he grips the edge of his desk with both hands. He looks down at his lap and inhales deeply. His breath is spicy with the smell of your chips on his exhale, blowing strands of your hair away from your face. "Sorry."

"Why?" you laugh in disbelief. The sound must unwind something in him because his posture relaxes and he looks back up at you. "That was amazing!"

He snorts, shaking his head at himself. "Yeah, well. It's going to result in a lot of discussions with God and Joshua, so… please find something on their calendars."

"Got it, boss," you say, standing to return to your own desk.

Before you get far, though, Jun calls your name, the syllables sounding weird from him—much softer and gentler than you've ever heard him be. It almost triggers your fight or flight for some reason.

"Yeah?" you ask slowly, eyes flitting about the room nervously.

"You don't have to stay on calls like that for my sake," he tells you, crossing his arms again, this time like he's almost trying to protect himself from you. "I know you took the blame for me missing all my meetings while sick, and I know you try to deal with all kinds of bullshit because you don't want people to think the Devil hired someone without a backbone."

The words strike a chord with you that you didn't realize even existed. Did you do that? If you think about it, you can see why your boss would think so. Day in and day out, no matter how much attitude you gave to whoever you were talking to, you still stayed and dealt with the problem so that the others would find you reliable—so that they wouldn't have to bring it to Jun.

You also took the blame for the missed meetings because Jun's health wasn't anyone's business, not until he made it clear it was okay to share with others, anyway. No one needed to know he missed a few meetings without notice.

"So… don't do that," Jun says, sighing. "Assholes—whether in Heaven or Hell—they're always going to try and give you a hard time because they're too scared to say it to my face. And I know without a doubt that you can handle it, but… you're not my shield, okay?"

"Okay."

"I know you were about to rip that prick a new asshole," he continues, making you smile, "but I want you to feel like you can do that from the jump if you need to. Next time, just tell him to fuck off. Or hang up. Or bring me in. Whatever. If anyone has an issue with the way you work, they can talk to me. Just… don't sit there and take it."

You nod slowly. "Alright, I won't… thanks."

"Mhm."

"Hey, Junnie," you say suddenly, taking advantage of his sudden willingness to talk to you now. He hums again, nodding for you to go on, his eyes skimming every surface of your face. It isn't until this moment that you realize he hasn't properly looked at you in a week. "Um. Are we good?"

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

"You've just been…" you trail off, shrugging. "I don't know, a little cold lately?" You hate how pathetic and whiny it makes you sound. "And if it's because I did something wrong, well, I would just like to remind you that our agreement can only be terminated by my death, the collapse of reality, or mutual agreement."

The corner of his mouth twitches upward, but his expression stays serious and he keeps taking his time watching you. So much time, you start to wring your hands nervously. Finally, when he seems to be finished with studying every last millimeter of your face, he shakes his head.

"You haven't done anything wrong," he assures you, sounding tired. "I was just feeling weird. I'm okay, though. We're okay. You don't have to worry about termination. You've made it clear I'm stuck with you."

You grin, nodding. "Good. Because I have grown very accustomed to my unlimited interior design budget and my 1,000-thread-count sheets."

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure you have. Now go schedule me a coffee chat with God and Joshua for tomorrow, please. Move things around if you must. I'm sure Brayden has gone crying about it to Mommy by now."

You laugh. "Will do."

You leave his office feeling lighter than you have all week.

DAY THIRTY-SEVEN

Jun: where tf r u Me: have a dr appt!!! Jun: what why r u ok Jun: i'll come over Me: no it's ok it's just a check-up Jun: liar we don't do check-ups in hell Me: yeah well i am human and i need a check-up Jun: u sure ur ok? Me: yes! i'll be in the office soon. Jun: fine… if a few hellhounds find u just send them back Me: bruh Me: did you give the dogs my scent to find me??? Jun: u never wake up before me let alone leave the house before me Me: you could have just called Jun: k wtvr noted Me: 23 HELLHOUNDS IS NOT A FEW JUNNIE WTF Jun: SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP JUST SEND THEM BACK

"His Infernal Majesty seems to be very… protective over you," the doctor observes, still clearly annoyed with having 23 fire-breathing Hellhounds at her door.

You wave a hand and laugh uncomfortably. "Oh, he's just a very concerned and, uh, considerate person."

The doctor just stares. "The Devil. Considerate. Right."

"Um. So anyway," you clear your throat, desperate to change the subject. "Do you have experience with humans?"

"No, but I will do everything I can to ensure you leave healthy." Her voice is stern and uncompromising, and you suddenly feel like you're in a principal's office rather than a doctor's. She sits down on a rolling stool, scoots closer to the table you're perched on, and mutters, "Wouldn't want more Hellhounds plowing my door down, ready to melt my face off because the Devil's charge was unhappy."

You shift on the table a bit uncomfortably but smile. It's clear that she will not be forgetting about the 23 Hellhounds sent to her office just because a human wasn't in bed when the Devil woke up anytime soon. Not while you're still in her office, at least.

Jun wouldn't do anything to her anyway. You'd probably just go to a doctor on Earth next time if Hell's medical services weren't sufficient.

"So what brings you in today?" she sighs, crossing her legs and folding her hands over her knees.

"Right, so I experienced something weird yesterday," you start. "I had a stressful workplace issue and my body reacted very unexpectedly, and I now require medical attention."

The doctor frowns, rolling closer to you on her stool. "Okay, if you're comfortable, can you describe the stressful event and how your body reacted?"

"Well, an angel was harassing the front desk so they had him talk to me, and then he started saying all this foul shit—"

"Brayden."

Your eyebrows shoot up. "Yes! How did you know?"

"He's called every department of this Devil-forsaken hellscape," she says, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "How is a demon doctor supposed to get an archangel a meeting with the Devil?"

You scoff. "Well, he's not an archangel, and it was just a coffee chat."

The doctor snorts, and as you watch her terse personality start to melt, you deem it safe to dive into the full story. By the end of it, she's clapping and giggling, a massive difference from when she was forced to face 23 Hellhounds.

"Wow, that's very attractive of His Infernal Majesty."

You frown. "What?"

She raises an eyebrow at you. "You don't think so?"

"Uh…" You're stumped.

It's not that you've never found anyone attractive… actually, it absolutely is that you've never found anyone attractive.

You tried dating but stopped years ago when you recognized that you were doing it because you felt an obligation to. All your friends were dating or in long-term committed relationships—or at the very least, sleeping around. Dating apps seemed like something you were supposed to do. You quickly shut that idea down. Romance wasn't a hole you've felt in your life so it's not one you lingered on or thought about often. Sure, you knew when people were beautiful or handsome or hot or cute—you know without a doubt that Jun is all of the above. But attraction is harder. You're not sure you've ever felt it.

"You've never felt attraction." Your eyes widen at the demon physician.

"Can you read minds?"

She snorts. "No. I can read your face." She narrows her eyes at you and nods. "And I think I know what happened to you."

"But I haven't given you my symptoms."

"Let me guess," she says, crossing her arms and scooting her stool back so she can lean against the counter behind her. "Elevated heart rate, flushing, perspiration… maybe some pain in the abdominal area or… lower."

You stare at her. "Are you sure you can't read my mind?"

She smirks. "I'm sure, human." She sighs. "You're going to be perfectly fine. Though I do recommend you explore options for therapy."

You startle. "What? Why?"

"Because what you felt was arousal," she reveals, "and I'm guessing you might need someone to process those thoughts about your boss with and it will not be me."

You choke on nothing, triggering a coughing attack that lasts embarrassingly long. When you finally stop, your chest is heaving and the doctor is staring at you blankly.

"Are you done?"

"Coughing? Yes. With you? Absolutely not," you inform her, ignoring the way she sighs like this is an inconvenience. "What do you mean arousal?"

"I mean, you found His Infernal Majesty's defense of you attractive and your body responded accordingly. Very strongly—much more strongly than anyone else probably would—but accordingly."

Your face turns Hellfire hot, and you wish the dogs had barbecued you while they were here.

"You have nothing to worry about as far as your health is concerned. These feelings are very natural." She thinks for a moment before adding: "For humans. Demons are better at discretion."

"But… he was just being nice… why would that be attractive?"

She shrugs. "The bar is in Hell, literally."

"Oh god…" you murmur. Is this what happened to your friends when they insisted that a man paying half the bill after ordering several cocktails to their one water was modern day romance?

"I will say…" she starts, looking a little hesitant as she does.

"You can say it," you encourage her. "I won't tell anyone. HIPAA, right?"

"One, that's an American thing, and two, that's meant to protect the patient's privacy, not the other way around."

"Whatever," you sigh. "You get it."

"Between us girls," she says, even though you two aren't even of the same species. It makes you smile. "I understand why your body would react the way it did. It is quite nice to feel protected and safe."

"Protected and safe," you echo quietly.

"Mhm. Has anyone ever made you feel that?"

The answer comes to you fast. No. No one has ever made you feel protected or safe. That has been your own responsibility since you were four. Still, it takes you a moment to answer because you realize that although that would've been the answer a few months ago, it's more complicated now.

Now, the answer is: no. No one has ever made you feel that way. Not until Jun.

"Can I have a referral to that therapist?"

She smiles. "I'll give you a list of recs, but this isn't that putrid Hell hole you call Earth; you don't need a referral to seek healthcare."

"Right."

When you get into the office and Jun apologizes for the Hellhounds and asks if everything was fine at the doctor's (and if he needs to throw anyone into a vat of boiling oil), you feel your symptoms again. And you know Hell's doctor is right.

DAY FORTY-TWO

Hell is closed tomorrow, and it's all thanks to you. You hope that you'll be included in some sort of history book for this. Every demon you've come across has made it clear that you deserve to be anyway. Because after the debacle with Soonyoung's day off and a single complaint you made to Jun about how Hell doesn't have enough paid holidays, the underworld now has Demon Appreciation Day (DAD!), an unprecedented day off for all of Hell's employees as a thank you for their hard work terrorizing humans.

Unfortunately, it also means the damned souls get a break from torment, but Jeonghan, Chief Torment and Innovation Officer, has assured Jun he's already on it, figuring out ways to automate torture for one day so that the worst human beings in history do not get a break ever again.

"What are you going to do for DAD?" Soonyoung asks the current watercooler demon on shift as soon as she's done small talking a damned soul to tears.

"I'm going to abstain from speaking to anyone." You smile at the answer as you get your own cup of water.

"Oh," Soonyoung chirps, nodding slowly. She glares at him and he immediately walks away, beckoning you to hurry. "We don't want to mess with Jeongyeon when her social battery is dead." You wave bye to her and she winks at you. You know very well her social battery is always dead around Soonyoung no matter what. "Anyway, what are you, our amazing Queen of DAD, going to do on your day off?"

"Queen is a little excessive," you say, not very keen on taking a title that would encroach on any of Jun's millions, even as a joke. "Maybe mayor."

Soonyoung clearly doesn't like the suggested edit, scoffing. "No. Queen is fitting."

You roll your eyes. "Sure."

"What? It is! You're the reason we have our first mandated day off ever!" the demon reminds you. His mouth twists into a mischievous smirk now. "Plus, with all the rumors going 'round, 'queen' is perfect for our king."

You stop in your tracks. "What?"

He giggles so obnoxiously, you slap his arm more out of reflex than anything else. He gasps, rubbing the spot dramatically. "What?! I'm just the messenger! Everyone is talking about it."

"About what?"

"About how His Infernal Majesty must be in love with you if he's willing to create an entire day off just for you."

The words make your stomach jump into your throat. Ever since your appointment, you've been paying extra attention to your feelings, and you're convinced you actually have no idea what anything feels like. Have you ever properly known what you were feeling? What is a feeling anyway?

When Jun ripped the blankets off you in the morning, did you feel annoyed, furious, or helpless?

When Jun wordlessly handed you your coffee, did you feel grateful, enamored, or nothing at all because you were still half asleep?

When he wrapped his long ass fingers around your wrist to travel to Earth for summonings, did you feel giddy, excited, or grateful that you wouldn't be alone at home?

When Soonyoung says that there are rumors that Jun is in love with you, do you feel confused, anxious, or endlessly irritated with the demon?

Since you haven't had a chance to see a therapist, you pick the last one.

You scoff. "It isn't for me, you idiot. I just floated the idea by him."

"And any idea you float by him becomes a fully fleshed out thing by the end of the day."

"Okay, so he's a good and receptive boss."

His eyebrows rise at that. "He's the Devil."

Touché. "It's ridiculous."

"That he loves you to the point of invention? No, I d—"

You shove him into the wall, effectively making him spill his water all over himself. "Hey! You can't just go hitting people f—"

"Actually, I can!" you correct him, walking away. "Jun explicitly gave me permission to do whatever the fuck I want! So take it up with him!"

What a ridiculous rumor from an even more ridiculous demon.

Of all the much cooler rumors that could've been made, that one is the one they settled on? If you knew that's the news that would be spreading, you would've started your own rumors about yourself. Like you're actually God's super cool daughter and this is just a nepotism internship before you become the heiress of Heaven. Or that Hell is just a simulation being run by a crazy scientist named Jun and your arrival marks the imminent end of the experiment—an antichrist of sorts. Kind of poetic.

But the Devil being in love with his assistant? Both impossible and cliche and scary to think about because you don't think you'd be able to pick up on it even if it were possible.

When you return home, you're debating telling Jun about this rumor just to watch him stutter and squirm and turn red (and maybe make plans to disembowel a demon or two), but that's all forgotten when you find your boss back early from a meeting with God he took in purgatory. And endearingly enough, he's sprawled across the couch with both Lock and Key on his stomach and leg respectively, all three of them fast asleep.

You grin, taking several photos before you pocket your phone and watch his chest rise and fall, slowly coming to the realization that Jun needed this break too. You've never seen the man nap, and up until the day he got sick, you were still convinced he never even slept at all. If he's taking a nap, you know it's because he badly needs it. You're determined to leave him be, but you hear your name just as you're about to leave the living room.

"Hey," you greet him, smiling at how confused and sleepy he looks as he lifts his head and stares at his pets. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

He shakes his head, letting it plop back onto the couch when it's clear Lock and Key have no intention of moving. "No, I've been napping long enough," he says, his voice deep and gravely with sleep. You shift your weight from foot to foot as he continues speaking, settling for squeezing your thighs together when your sudden discomfort isn't alleviated. Oh god. Is this arousal again? "God cancelled last minute." He yawns, mouth opening comically wide. "Something about a miracle gone wrong."

"Ah," you nod, walking over to the three of them and taking the empty sectional by his head while you try to get yours to shut up. "What are your plans for this rare afternoon off then?" you ask. "And for DAD?"

Jun tilts his head up to look at you. "Stop calling it that," he deadpans.

"No," you say simply. "It's my holiday and I will call it what I want."

You expect him to point out it isn't your holiday; after all, you aren't even a demon. You're just the catalyst behind something that was a long time coming. But the argument doesn't come. Instead, your boss sighs and straightens his head again, staring at the ceiling.

"Fair enough, I suppose."

You raise your eyebrows, smiling. You're about to point out he basically just agreed that it's your holiday when you hear Soonyoung's stupid voice in the back of your mind. He created a holiday for you. Is that not a man who loves you?

You shudder, shaking a little like that will exorcise the demon from your subconscious.

"You okay?" Jun asks, looking back up at you.

"Huh? Yeah." You struggle to wipe the frown off your face before looking down at the Devil. "Want dinner?"

"Hot pot?"

"I've made hot pot several times this month," you groan. "Are you not tired of it?"

He looks at you like you're crazy. "No?" He sits up abruptly without removing Lock from his stomach first, and the cat releases an ear-piercing yowl before jumping off him. Key follows suit as Jun pulls his legs away and plants his feet on the floor. "You humans tire of things so fast. It's why you're all so vulnerable to temptation."

"Pfft. Me? Prone to temptation?" You pause and think of all the material things you've forced Jun to buy you under the guise of it being absolutely necessary for your productivity as his assistant. You shrug. "Okay, yeah. That is true."

Jun smirks and shakes his head. "Come on. Let's eat."

You nod, following him as he gets up ahead of you and walks into the kitchen. You slow at the door when you find him leaning his back against the fridge, his arms crossed and his lips pursed. He's blushing slightly, and he looks like he almost regrets doing this.

"Happy DAD, I guess."

The kitchen is decorated in every possible shade of pink you've ever seen—balloons, streamers, tinsel, confetti, a sign that says Demon Human Appreciation Day! And in the middle of the kitchen island is a cake, and just looking at it, you know it's not like the blood-based desserts that the demons around here like to indulge in.

"I never had a meeting with God," Jun mutters. "I just had you put that in for me. I was actually meeting Joshua to get this. It's angel cake. Actual angel cake. They use stardust sugar, moon milk, morning dew, and cloudberries. Figured you'd prefer this over devil's cake… actual devil's cake."

You stare at it, decorated beautifully with piped frosting and fresh berries. It's a pale pink—so pale, it looks white compared to the other shades that litter the space—and its frosting just barely glitters under the light. The top reads, Best Human Ever.

"Of course, the angels chose the message. To be clear, I would never call you the best."

You're finally snapped out of your daze at the words, which prompt you to roll your eyes. "Yes because you would use something much better. Like Most Perfect Human Ever, right, Junnie?"

His blush deepens and he glares at the wall across from him. "No."

You look around, stunned by the display of appreciation, especially for someone who was technically just fulfilling her part of the contract. You've never even gotten a birthday party thrown for you, and the happiness you're filled with threatens to strangle you. You swallow the knot forming in your throat, thinking that maybe DAD is your favorite holiday.

"Can I hug you?"

"Absolutely not."

"Oh come on!" you whine, already walking to him with open arms. "You can't do something so kind and cute and wonderful and not accept a hug!"

He backs away from you, hands splayed in front of him to keep you away. "The Devil doesn't do hugs."

"The Devil probably also doesn't have a history of showing his assistant appreciation," you point out. "Or securing her an angel cake she's going to eat in one sitting!"

Jun pauses, frowning. "One sitting?! It's meant to serve 10 people!"

"Give me a hug!" you shriek, jumping at him.

He, of course, disappears. You stumble into the space he was just standing in and gasp in mock offense at being evaded. You spin around, pouting, and find him right behind you, glaring. You sigh.

"Okay, if you're really not consenting to a hug, I will not force you into one. But if you're just being an emotionally constipated weirdo, I would ask that you suppress that for DAD and allow just one—" You hold up one finger for emphasis. "—hug. Please."

Jun's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows nothing, his eyes zoning out on something above your head. He shakes his head and sighs. "Fine. One hug, bu—oof."

You don't wait for him to finish his sentence, hugging him so tightly, you immediately start sweating from the heat radiating through his clothes. But you don't care, tightening your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek as far into his chest as it will go. You're on the verge of tears and your boss doesn't need to see it.

When he realizes you fully intend on making your hug last more than a millisecond, a single hand comes up to rest on your shoulder, thumb hesitantly sweeping back and forth in a comforting caress.

For the first time in several days, you don't bother to check in with your feelings and you decide maybe it's time to stop. Because this just feels nice, and if it feels nice, then that's all you want to know. Everything else is noise that threatens to pop this bubble of safety you're in—Jun's arms. You decide then that the nuances of your happiness are none of your business as long as you are happy. Happy. Something you're starting to think you've never fully been now that you've truly experienced it here, in Hell.

"Thank you, Junnie," you mumble against his chest. You know it's easy to tell you've been brought to tears from the way your watery voice trembles, but thankfully, the Devil doesn't point it out. "You don't know how much this means to me."

He sighs, squeezing your shoulder. "I think I do." After a moment, he adds: "Thanks for everything you do for Hell… and for me. You are very…" He clears his throat uncomfortably, "… appreciated here."

You smile, sighing as you finally pull away from him, wiping at your eyes discreetly as you do. "Thank you. Now let me make you hot pot and let's eat this cake."

You turn away fast to hide your glassy eyes, missing the way Jun rests a palm to his chest where you had just been pressed against him.

A/N: again, this is already done and tumblr just kept me from keeping this a one shot bc of its 1000 block limit bc it HATES ME! i've queued the next part to release this wed 7/1 so pls stay tuned! :)

**

Dear Little One           I wish you could have seen your dad's reaction. It was so beautiful and funny at the same time. I still can't believe it took him a full 5 minutes to understand that we have you growing in my tummy.     Your dad, he's so silly. You're going to love him so much once you meet him. He's probably going to smother you with kisses and tickles, but that's just who Kwon Soon-Young is. Gosh I'm getting sidetracked again!     Did you hear him when he sang to you? I told him you are still too small to hear him, but once your dad gets an idea, you can't talk him out of it. He forced me to lay on our bed and sang you and me to sleep.     Will you have the voice of an angel that he has? I certainly hope so. I'm growing so much more impatient by the minute sweetheart, and I still have to wait 7 and a half months to hold you in my arms!

With all the love in the world, Your very impatient mom

**

Dear Little One,

You're three months today! Your daddy and I are going to go to the doctor for your first viewing! I can't believe I'm finally going to get to see you.     I'm a little intimidated, however. You are such a great responsibility, and I don't think it has fully hit me that I have an actual life living in me. Today is also the day the doctor will tell us if you are a boy or a girl, and I am so excited about the news!     As soon as I get the results we are going to go visit your grandparents to finally break the news to them. Your grandfather is going to be so happy to know that you're on the way, and your grandma will probably spoil you before you are even born.     Your dad is getting a little impatient now. He wants to leave a whole hour early. I'll listen to him because I know he is just as excited as I am to finally see the first images of you. You are my everything, baby Kwon.                With love,                Your blessed mom.

**

Dear Little One,           You are a baby boy. A healthy one, it seems. I cried the whole time you were on the screen. I could see the outline of your little nose and your legs and arms. Your dad couldn't stop crying either. Our smiles were SO BIG that the joker would have been jealous.     Your grandparents freaked out, baby! You should have seen how pale their faces got! Their smiles were so BIG too.      When we drove back home your dad and I began to think about names for you. I like Hyun-woo and your dad likes Ji-Hoon like his best friend, also your uncle who has no idea you even exist. What would you like? I guess you'll just have to settle for the one we choose. I'm so glad today was such a good day, baby!

With a blessed heart,                 The mom to a Kwon boy

**

Dear Little One,

Happy  5 months of existence. Last night I had to wake up your dad because your cravings were too much! What is up with you and convenience store kimbap? Your dad never says no, though, and at 12:50 am he left for the corner convenience store to get me some. He even got himself one.     We haven't chosen your name yet but Ji-hoon is out of the question now. Do you like the sound of  Hyun-Woo? I'm seriously in love with that name, baby. I think it's time to start convincing your dad now.     Your dad broke the news to your SEVENTEEN uncles. Actually, your uncle Hansol visited last week. He got you your first pair of shoes. They are all very excited to see you growing. My stomach is starting to show a bit more now.     Did you hear your dad sing us to sleep again? He spent all night rubbing my belly in hopes of getting us to sleep soundly. He loves you so much. He's put all his dreams and hopes in you and I swear I could not ask for a better partner to do this with. I'm growing tired, I need a nap. Until next time Baby Kwon.                       Hugs and Kisses,                                             Mommy

**

Dear Little One,                You are 6 months now. You scared me a bit today. I was walking to the store and I felt a very strong pain in my lower stomach. I had never felt that way, baby. I couldn't even walk so I had to call your dad and ask if he could pick me up. We went to the doctor right after that.     I'm still scared (I'm so sorry for the tear stains on the paper). The doctor said that if I'd made any rash movement in that small amount of time I could have lost you. I can't lose you. We can't lose you. Your dad was in so much shock, baby. He kept blaming himself and now, as I write this letter, he is asleep with his head on my belly and holding us tight. Protecting us.     I am going to have to be on bed rest for the rest of the pregnancy. Your grandma will be coming now to help me while your dad is out. I love you dearly, but everything that happened today has exhausted me. I will write soon.

Love you too much to lose you, Mommy

**

Dear Little One,

I am so scared. My health has been bad lately. I can't even start to express how terrified I am of the things that may be coming. I talked to my doctor today. He said that my pregnancy has suddenly become high risk. Do you know what that means? It means that I could lose you any second now. How does one cope with that? How can I live with the possibility that you and I may never meet?     I hate myself for being sick while you are in there. It's like I can't fend for myself, or you. I'm supposed to be your mom. I'm supposed to be able to protect you, to bring safety to you. Why can't I do that?     Your dad has taken it worse than I thought. He dropped me off home and he hasn't come back. It's midnight now, and I am worried sick. The worst part is that you have not settled down in there. You started moving a lot when you turned seven months. Please stick in there my love. Please don't come home just yet. Please.                             With love,

Mommy

**

Dear Little One,              I'm writing this as your father is driving me to the hospital. You're 8 months now and I'm bleeding. I'm not supposed to be bleeding. Your dad is crying and I can't seem to make him stop. I'm putting a brave front right now, but you really are twisting in there.    You can't be doing this right now, baby. You still have a month to go. Just one more, but if God's will is to have you here now, then so be it, please just be strong for me and daddy.                                Love always,                                           Mommy

**

You are wheeled into the hospital close to a panic attack. Everything around you is going blurry as nurses yell orders. Soonyoung's encouraging words are drowned out by all the noise.

"We're going to be ok, baby. You're going to be fine" he keeps repeating those words like they'll ensure your and the baby's safety.

"Is the doctor in the delivery room?!"

"Sir you need to remain calm!"

"THAT'S MY WIFE AND MY KID YOU AS*HOLE WHAT DO YOU MEAN STAY CALM?!"

You're not sure what is happening as you're wheeled into what you believe is the delivery room.

"What's the status?" A deep voice that you hadn't heard in all the chaos speaks up as a mask is set on your face.

"She is supposed to be due in six weeks, doctor, but the baby is coming earlier than anticipated"

Your eyes widen as you hear this. You didn't expect to have the baby. You, for some reason, thought you'd be admitted and then get to go home eventually... just like the time before.

"No"

"Shhh sweetie, you and your baby will be fine"

"Him." you manage to mumble. "Him over me"

At that point, you don't know if you're hallucinating or if you're actually seeing things right, but the look in the nurse's face tells you that what you're asking for may be a little more than you can bargain for.

**

Dear Little One,                 You were born on February 10, 2023. You are so beautiful but we can't take you home just yet. We have to wait for your lungs to fully develop, so we will have to visit you every day until further notice.     The doctors said it was a miracle that we're both alive. Your father nearly died when they told him that there was only a 10% chance that we'd both make it. But here we are.     You are so tiny, I can't see your eyes just yet but I'm willing to bet that they're just as pretty and cute as your father's. You have dark pitch-black hair too. You are going to be such a handsome man one day.     We are going to go visit you, and your dad keeps telling me to hurry, so I guess I'll write to you later.

Kwon Hyun-Woo

Welcome to the Family.

With joy,                                       Mommy

**

Her heart twists in agony but no sobs leave her lips. Soonyoung is sat speechless with eyes clamped shut and lips pressed into a tight line. The world around them seems to stop and they can't feel anything. She's numb. Y/N wishes she could stay numb forever.

"2 months at most" repeats the doctor. Or maybe he didn't, maybe he just never finished saying it. Maybe time actually stopped while she took his words in.

"We can do a surgical procedure on him that will give Hyun-Woo a chance. There have been cases where they live a somewhat full life, of course with complications, but other cases are just 5 years of life depending on how he reacts to the procedure... and the risks are high"

"We'll do that" snaps Soonyoung as he looks at their doctor "He's going to live"

"I don't want to get your hopes up, Mr. Kwon-"

Soonyoung pushes out of his chair red with anger. Y/N's eyes turn to him but everything is so hazy that she can't bring herself to tell him to stop or to calm down.

"Listen to me, my son is on the brink of death here, and if you do your job right, you are going to save his life and ensure that he lives it, do you hear me?!"

The broken woman doesn't even flinch at how loud he is being. Everything feels like an ugly and twisted nightmare. Their son couldn't have been born with such a serious defect in his lungs. Their son was a healthy baby. That's what the doctor said. This isn't right there has to be a mistake.

"Mr. Kwon, I'm going to do everything that is in my hands to save Hyun-Woo, meanwhile I suggest that you go home and rest-"

"I haven't even seen my son today and you want me to leave?"

Y/N is snapped back to reality. She wants to see him. She wants to see her baby. "Can we please see him?"

Her voice sounds hoarse and nothing like herself. She's hurt but for some reason, nothing is coming out. She knows she has to cry because that's what is supposed to happen, right?

The doctor nods and guides them both to the incubator room. They are dressed in disposable scrubs for good measure and step into the room.

With sullen expressions they near their son. Unable to walk quickly to his incubator her body feels like it's aged 30 years.

Finally, Y/N's eyes catch sight of the tiny, beautiful baby boy laying in the incubator with IVs and cables sticking to him. Just like that, her heart rips into impossibly small pieces and she finally feels it coming. It starts with a whimper, building up to a small choked-up sob and then turning into cries of despair.

In no time Soonyoung's arms have her pressed against him. She grips at his clothes tightly trying to make sense of everything that is happening.

"Why Soonyoung why?" She cries out.

His chest shudders as he sobs silently into her hair.

He doesn't answer.

There isn't an answer.

And it scares Y/N that there's a possibility that there will never be one.

**

Dear little one,           You are a one-month-old babe, today. The doctors are preparing you for surgery. I'm scared, and so is your dad. We have nearly no sleep in our systems and how could we if you are about to go in that big scary room with all those doctors all alone.      I keep telling myself that my heart is prepared for whatever outcome, but I know for certain that it is not. I know that if the worst is to come I might just die.      Your father has not been ok. He isn't eating and he buries himself in work. I know he doesn't do it on purpose, but I'm scared that he won't be there for me if something bad happens. I'm your mother, I'm supposed to be brave, but I just can't do it. They're wheeling you into the surgery room now. Please try hard baby. Please fight for your life my love, fight as much as I'm trying to fight the bad thoughts.

I love you with all my heart,                                            Mommy

**

Everyone in the room turns to look at both of them. He feels exposed. He feels bitter. He feels hurt.

We never deserved this. We were going to love him like nobody else would.

We never deserved this.

Soonyoung looks at his sobbing wife. The love of his life. Her hands are holding a white box to her chest as she mumbles inaudible words. Family members come up to pay their respects and one by one they start leaving the room.

The heartbroken man wraps an arm over his wife's shoulders as guilt eats at him. He hasn't been there like he was supposed to. Her head falls on his shoulder softly and they sit that way until everyone is gone. He can't even bring himself to stand. He just feels tired.

"I wrote him letters," she says.

Soonyoung turns to look at her. Her gaze looks empty as she stares at the small casket in front of them.

"I wrote him letters that he was supposed to read when he was older." Tears stream down her face as she cries quietly.

"My baby, Soonyoung. Our son"

He holds her tight as she stands and walks them over to the casket placing the white box on top of it.

"I need a minute" she mumbles. Soonyoung nods and buries his hands in his pockets as he stares at the mysterious white box tied shut with a light blue ribbon.

I wrote him letters

Before he knows it his hands have taken a hold of the box and pried it open. One by one he reads the folded-up letters not realizing he's crying until one of his tears hits the last letter she wrote him. His heart is ripped into pieces... yet again.

After a while, the sad shell of a man gets to his feet and walks himself to a small office inside the funeral home, and grabs a paper and pen.

Without hesitance, his fingers write away. Soonyoung tells him everything his heart has to say. He pours his feelings out.

By the time his letter is finished he folds it up and slides it in the box with the ones the love of his life wrote.

His head rests on top of the box as he takes one last moment to cry.

**

Dear Hyun-Woo,           When I was 22 and I saw your mother for the first time, I knew she was the one woman I would be spending the rest of my life with. Her voice was like a flowing current, her eyes always alight with joy, her lips spoke words of love, and her hands left a trail of giddiness wherever they met my skin. To this day, she still does that to me.       I wasn't aware that I could love someone more than I love your mom until I got home from work one night and she broke the news to me... All I wished since that moment was to be the best dad to you. I wanted to hold you and sing songs to you. Teach you to swim in our backyard pool, then take you to the beach. I wanted to teach you to dance and play guitar. I had so many hopes and dreams for us to fulfill but things changed.       God saw something in you, my baby, that he needed up there, and I will never understand why you had to go, but I will try my best to accept it. You are our own little angel now, and we will forever love and remember you, so that is why I will ask you for a favor. When you are up there, please protect your mommy more than anything. Don't forget how much she's loved you since she found out you were growing in her. Her love for you runs deep as does mine.       You may have been torn from life by the unwanted and twisted games of this world, but you will never be torn from my heart. I love you very much Hyun-woo. Please wait for me.

Missing and loving you,                                    Dad

**

The house is silent except for the pitter-patter of the rain against the ceiling.

It has been a month since Hyun-Woo passed and barely any words have been exchanged between the two. Their marriage is faltering and he finds himself scared. He doesn't want to lose his wife, but how does he save her without breaking her even more than she already is? Every moment he spent with her used to be his home, but now all he can see himself being is homeless. She is always locked up asleep in their bedroom or sitting by the large window of their living room- as she is at the moment.

Soonyoung's heart can't take anymore. Her cold shoulder is hurting him nearly as much as Hyun-Woo's passing. He always tries to convince himself that it isn't on purpose. That she doesn't mean to be this way, but how can he believe himself when all she does is push him away.

His vision goes blurry as he continues to watch her. She looks so small, so frail, and all he's been able to do to help her is nothing. When they got married he promised to be there for her when times were bad, but he's a big old coward that doesn't know how to help the only thing left in this world that he can possibly adore.

"I'm sorry" he croaks.

He doesn't even know where that came from. His voice is shaky and there is a thick lump of nothing that chokes him up. It's like he's at a loss of breath and has no more hope. What am I even sorry for?

"I'm sorry for leaving you by yourself so much. I'm sorry for being so weak. For not being helpful. For not being... Enough" He tries his hardest to make his words clear, but he's crying again, and there is no possible way he can succeed at that.

She stays immobile as she continues to stare outside, her knees hugged to her chest.

Soonyoung's heart breaks and he walks towards her. "Why won't you say a damn thing?" he asks.

Her eyes meet his and he's shocked to see how vacant her gaze looks. "I have nothing to say, Soonyoung"

Again he feels like everything is slipping out of his grasp. She keeps pushing him, more and more, and he doesn't think he has the force to hold on anymore. I can't fight forever.

"So what?" He questions kneeling in front of her, his arms falling limply by his sides. "We're just going to give up?"

She remains silent sending him into a fit of pathetic cries. What was happening to his life? In the course of 8 months, everything seemed to spiral downward with no sign of a healthy return. She doesn't care and now he's alone? How does he even survive that? How does he cope?

"Just because I give up doesn't mean you have to" she murmurs.

"Really? What's the point in that?! I feel guilty about all of this and I have no idea why. You- you're not supposed to be broken. I promised you two years ago when we got married that I wouldn't let you be broken. And now here I am crying like a complete idiot because I can't find a single way to fix you!"

He's being hysterical, but all this time he hadn't said what was on my mind freely. He couldn't express a single one of his concerns when it came to his loss and his marriage, but he wants his wife back. He wants his son back. He wants it all back, but there seems to be no one out there that can possibly fix his issue. No one can return to him what's been stolen.

"Why don't you stop trying then?" She asks.

His eyes fall on her, "because you're worth fighting for, can't you see it?! You are everything I live for and you are letting this depression eat you up"

"STOP TALKING LIKE THIS WASN'T A BIG DEAL, SOONYOUNG"

"THEN YOU STOP ACTING LIKE THIS DOESN'T HURT ME, Y/N... THAT WAS MY SON, GOD DAMN IT! I LOVED HIM!-"

A sneer leaves her lips and she's standing now, her chest heaving like a wild animal that has gone on a rage, "OH PLEASE! YOU'RE NEVER GOING TO UNDERSTAND! YOU DIDN'T CARRY HIM IN YOUR WOMB FOR 8 MONTHS"

Soonyoung can't help the incredulous glare he sends her way, "you think I'm not hurting?"

Realization comes to her face along with a regretful gaze, "Soon-"

"I had dreams and hopes for that baby. I wanted to wake up early on Saturday mornings to take him out to play ball. I wanted him to choose something, whatever it was, just something to be passionate about so that I could watch him be the best at it. I wanted him to graduate from school go to college, get married, I WANTED ALL OF THAT FOR HIM!  I WANTED ALL OF THAT FOR ME, FOR YOU, FOR US! THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE OUR STORY." he yells, "you weren't going to be an only parent, Hyun-Woo was going to be as much a son to me as he was going to be yours. So yes. Yes, it hurts me! It kills me every damn time to think that he won't be here... But you are."

For the first time in what feels like forever Soonyoung sees life in her eyes. She's looking at him like she's woken up from a terrible nightmare in which she was alone, only to find out that the nightmare was real... But this time she was with him.

"I'm so sorry, Soonyoung" she sobs. Her hands covered her lips in an attempt to silence her cries.

He opens his arms wide and watches as she runs into them holding tightly onto him like he'd once again become her lifeline.

**

Dear Hyun-Woo,

My name is Ha-Neul. I am 15 years old and today I found a white box sitting in the attic of my house. It was full of letters written to you, and I couldn't help but read every single one of them out of curiosity.     I would lie if I told you that I didn't shed a tear or two while reading them. The letters actually opened my eyes to many things.       I guess I should start by telling you that the two people that wrote those letters to you are doing great. They are two of the happiest people I have met, and I understand why; you're probably taking well care of them from your resting place. They had two kids aside from you but now that I've let myself into this whole other dimension where you existed... I understand SO much more about them.      I used to think that the authors of your letters sometimes didn't make sense. For example, I wouldn't understand why March the tenth was such a sad day for them. I never understood why they'd disappear that day for a full two hours, or why they'd come home with dull gazes and sad sighs, but now I do. They never forgot you, Hyun-Woo. It is clear to me now that they never once stopped loving or caring for you and your memory and that is a new life lesson that without knowing, they've taught me.

You are such an important part of their lives and I completely understand why they decided to keep you to themselves. I will never question them, Hyun-Woo. They are such loving people, I will never question them unless they ask to be questioned.

I hope to meet you one day far from today, and I hope that when I do you can love me as much as I've grown to love you with the help of 11 simple and beautiful letters. For now, though, I hope it's not much of me to ask you to take care of me and Haru. Thank you for teaching me to value my life again.

With newfound love, Your sister

You and Seungcheol go way back. Way way back. So far back that there isn't a day in your life you haven't known him. The thing is, your parents were neighbours, bought houses in the same village, befriended each other while your mothers were pregnant with you and him.

Your presence in each other's lives is so natural and meant to be that neither of you ever questions it.

Childhood is filled with summers riding bikes, running around until your lungs burn, playing games where the rules change by the minute. Swimming in the lake until your fingers prune and your lips turn purple, eating stolen berries from the gardens, tart juice staining your chins and hands. Building a tent by his house or yours, just to pretend you're somewhere far away, hiking through mountains. Bruised knees and scraped palms are your medals. Celebrating Seungcheol's birthday is like its own separate summer festival, with popsicles and homemade cake his mom lets you lick the bowl from. In winters, it's always Christmas celebrations at his house, both your families and some neighbours packed into the warm, noisy dining room. You sit at the table side by side, listening to adult conversations you only half-understand, eating delicious food until it becomes boring. Then the two of you sneak away to another room to watch TV on the couch or layer up and play games in the snow until your noses run. Even when you move cities for your first school year, your communication actively persists over the landline. You still see each other every summer and every winter. It is the law of your world.

Throughout your entire childhood, you only fight once. It is an accident. The two of you are playing at your house, and you recklessly swing a charger cord like a makeshift weapon, smacking him straight across his forehead. A sharp thwack and then silence.

You feel starkly embarrassed and flustered and startled, too. Your throat closes. He blinks, a red mark already blooming on his skin.

"I didn't mean to," is all you whisper, instead of a proper apology. You don't know to this day why those simple words are so difficult. Perhaps, even to this day you just don't dare to admit that some part of you being cruel at that age, like many children are.

Seungcheol just looks at you, his eyes wide and a little watery, but he doesn't cry. He stands up, quietly, and walks out of your house. After that, you don't talk until the end of summer and then for some more months, dodging your parents' questions with something incoherent about him throwing a tantrum—it has happened before, it's a believable lie. The space that used to be filled with his laughter and gummy smiles is now silent and uncomfortable.

You only reconcile when you muster the courage to call him one late November evening. The phone rings four times. His mother picks up and gingerly you ask her if Seungcheol can come to the phone. He does.

"Hello?" His voice is the same you remember, a little cautious, a little distant with remaining hurt—probably.

You swallow. "It's me. I'm… I just wanted to say that I'm really sorry. For the charger. And for not apologising properly that day."

A pause on the line, just the faint static of the connection. Then, "It's okay. I knew you didn't mean it."

The grudge is forgotten that very moment, melting like winter's first snow. You feel the heaviness in your heart lift and suddenly breathing is manageable once more. And now your parents have to worry about phone bills yet again—because the two of you can be on the phone for hours, talking about everything and nothing, or staying in a comfortable silence, just content to be in each other's company while doing homework or playing video games, even if it's just through a wire.

You think him to be your bestest of friends, the one you cherish the most, considering him family even though Seungcheol has an actual older brother of his own. Sure, he isn't a girl, and as you grow up some topics are apparently not discussable with him, like your crushes and all these complicated, stupid feelings that you keep catching. You try once, telling him about a boy in your class that you had a crush on for a while now, and he goes quiet for so long you can literally imagine his thick eyebrows cinched in a frown. "He sounds stupid," is all he says, and you never bring it up again because you are suddenly embarrassed and defensive. But you still have a thousand other things in common, and you are fine with it. Spending time together during summers is still the best thing you can remember about your childhood and your early teen years. It is your constant. It is the core of who you are.

Things crack later.

One summer, between grade eight and nine of school, your parents decide it is a good idea to send you to summer camp abroad. Together. You are both excited. Especially you. You have experience with summer camps; your parents have sent you to some over the past few years. It is always fun to socialise, to find new friends, to have stories that don't include anyone from home.

On the bus you want to sit by Seungcheol's side at first, but seating is decided prior, and unfortunately, you two have to sit with different people. Not far away—he only sits a row behind you. You aren't sad for long, quickly befriending the girl you sit with, a talkative redhead named Maya from a city you've never visited.

When you arrive, everyone is distributed to houses by gender, six to seven people to one house. You get to live with your new friend and also quickly make friends with two other girls in your house, Lana and Sophie. You are on good terms with the rest. It quickly becomes apparent to you that Seungcheol has some issues socialising with peers. Not because he is awkward or introverted—before this, his social circle consists of you, his brother, and his brother's friends, who are all older than him. He is used to being the baby, the one who is let into conversations, not the one who has to start them. And so he finds himself not very interested in the constant, buzzing chatter of the guys from his house. Their jokes fall flat for him, their interests feel shallow. He tries to stick to you, and you don't mind for the most part.

But a part of you feels a little irritated that he needs mothering. There's this sense of low, simmering impatience high in your chest. After all, what is the point of coming all the way here if he isn't going to make friends, go out of his way, put himself out there? Especially when it is just all fun around—going to the beach with the curators on sunny days, on tours about historical sights in the old cities nearby, doing whatever you want in your free time. You want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Talk to them. Laugh at their stupid jokes. Try.

Everything begins to change on a day when the curators take you to a neighbouring town, to a beach, to watch some local music festival happening there. Everyone is excited, and it is fun. The air smells of salt and fried food. You and your girl friends wander around the beach, take photos of the sea, the sunset, each other. The music is in a foreign language, upbeat and full of brass; it's kinda fun to listen to the local scene. But as the sun sinks lower, painting the sky in oranges and purples, a breeze picks up off the water. It begins to get chilly. You secretly regret not taking something warmer to throw on. You'll tough it out, though. It's not that bad. It's summer, after all, even though you're right by the seaside, and goosebumps are rising on your arms.

You're on the outskirts of the crowd when Seungcheol finds you and your girl friends. He doesn't even assess you, just immediately suggests you take his flannel shirt since you seem cold. He's already unbuttoning it.

"Here," he says, his voice cutting through the music.

But you're stubborn. Overly self-reliant. A strong independent girl even at that age. And for some reason, accepting his small, familiar help feels belittling in a way. Or just embarrassing for a reason you're not so sure exists. Like it's a sign of weakness he's spotted. And you're certainly tougher than some chilly evening air.

"I'm fine," you deflect, crossing your arms over your chest.

"You have goosebumps."

"It's just the wind. It'll pass," you shrug with a dismissive wave of your hand.

He insists, holding the shirt out. "Just take it."

"No, really. I don't need it." You attempt to sound lighter, to sound convincing. Because you're painfully aware of your new friends watching the interaction and you don't like it.

He looks at you for a long second, then gives up with a slight roll of his eyes, shrugging the flannel back on. This is when Lana, one of your new friends, pipes up. "I'm actually freezing. Can I borrow it?"

Seungcheol just nods and gives it to her in his simple, reflexive act of kindness. He stays with you all for a few minutes of stilted chat about the bands, his hands now shoved into the pockets of his jeans, and then goes off into the crowd to find a curator, saying he wants to ask about the departure time.

The moment he leaves and is surely out of earshot, all hell breaks loose.

Your friends are like sharks sensing blood. They swarm you, talking over each other in a conspiratorial rush.

"Oh my god," Sophie whispers, her eyes wide. "He is totally into you."

"Did you see the way he looked at you?" Lana adds, snuggling into his flannel. "It was like… puppy eyes. Big, sad puppy eyes because you rejected his shirt."

"Right! Guys don't just offer their clothes like that," Maya proclaims, as if she's an expert because her own boyfriend back home carries her bag sometimes.

You bristle with a sharp spike of irritation, your whole body goes hot then cold. Because it's nonsense. It's just Seungcheol. Just the way it's always been with the two of you. Sharing your mother's big jacket as children, on chilly summer evenings—his arm in one sleeve and yours in the other. Lending umbrellas to run from one house to the other. They don't know what they're talking about. They've known him for two weeks; you've known him for a lifetime.

"Stop it," you hiss, but it comes out weak. "He's just polite. He just has a proper upbringing, that's it. It doesn't mean anything."

"Polite is holding a door," Maya counters. "This isn't just that."

"You don't know what you're talking about," you snap, frustration bubbling over. "We've shared shirts and jackets and whatever our whole lives. We grew up together. It never meant anything. It's just the right thing to do because it's fucking cold."

The girls exchange looks that say we know better and you do your best not to roll your eyes in irritation and walk away. They drop it, but the air is charged. The seed is planted. And it's a toxic, fast-growing vine.

From that moment on you slowly and invisibly begin to rethink everything. Every interaction from the past weeks, the past year, maybe even your whole life—okay no, that would be a stretch. The way he always saves you a seat. How he remembers your favourite snack. All the times he walked you in the rain—and any other weather—from his house to yours in the village, even though it's no more than a five minute walk. You ask yourself, in a frantic loop, does he actually like you? Or are your friends just stupid and don't know what it's like to be friends with a boy for your entire life? Is everything tainted with this unbidden feeling now? Or are you just spiralling and overthinking?

The doubt is corrosive.

You don't notice at first, but you begin distancing yourself from Seungcheol. It's small, almost involuntary. Finding excuses to walk with your new friends instead of him during tours. Begging off joint plans, saying you're tired. You stop seeking him out for anything at all.

Once, because you shared your phone with him during the trip—his was broken, shattered screen from a clumsy drop on day two—you do something you know is wrong. He'd messaged his brother from your profile and didn't delete the messages. Your thumb hovers over the dialogue. The curiosity is an insistent sharp itch, fed by your new, ugly uncertainty. You tap on it.

You read their conversation. His brother asks how it's going.

Seungcheol: Boring. The guys here are… I don't know. They talk about games I don't play, make jokes I don't get. I can't keep a conversation going. I say something and they just nod and change the topic.

Brother: That's just how it is sometimes. At least you have Y/N there. She's your best friend after all.

This makes you lowkey mad. Being best friends doesn't make it your obligation to keep him company. You don't owe Seungcheol staying by his side only because he's so sad about being unable to socialise.

Seungcheol: She's with others all the time now. I think she's bored of me too.

The words punch you to the throat. They are simple and they sound so lonely. Your irritation vanishes and instead you feel guilty for the way you're thinking. There's no self-pity in that text, just a statement of fact as he sees it. You are suddenly sharply aware of the fact that you're intruding and it makes you feel sick. You close the app, your heart hammering against your ribs. You decide to keep it to yourself, to pretend you never saw these messages. But the knowledge sits inside you, heavy and cold.

Just a few days later, by the end of a trip to the beach, you find yourself searching for your wallet. A real, swooping panic claws at your insides as you rummage through your backpack. You tell your friends, your voice rising in alarm.

"I had it this morning! I paid for the lemonade at the cafe! It can't be gone, it has all my money…"

The girls only shrug and offer no help, just sympathy. So your first instinct, your absolute first instinct despite all the distance you've created, is to find Seungcheol. Your eyes immediately find him in the crowd of people standing by the curator, waiting to depart back to the camp grounds.

"Cheol," you call as you approach him, the childhood nickname slips out in your distress. Your eyes flicker to the curator, you'll have to inform her anyways but first him. "I think I lost my wallet. I don't know where but probably at the beach."

His face shifts immediately into a mode you know well: focused, practical, ready to solve the problem. "Okay. Where did you go? Let's retrace your steps. We should ask at the cafes."

The two of you quickly inform the adults and rush back. You go from cafe to cafe along the beachfront, and he does most of the talking, his manner calm and clear, while you flutter anxiously beside him.

"It's green, leather, with a button," you hear him explain for the third time. He sounds so sure, so capable. You feel like a child.

Finally, in despair, you slump onto a low wall and rummage through your backpack one more time, digging past your damp towel. Your fingers brush against a familiar, smooth shape, tucked into a side pocket you usually never use. And suddenly you remember that it's exactly the reason why you put your wallet there, to keep it safe.

"Oh," the air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. You pull out the wallet. The alarm turns out false. The relief is so tangible it makes you lightheaded. You look up at him, a weak, nervous laugh escaping you. "I'm… I'm so stupid. It was here the whole time."

He doesn't laugh. He just looks at you, his expression unreadable for a moment, then he shakes his head, a small, wry smile touching his lips. "Yeah. You are."

But he says it softly, without any bite. The way that means I'm glad you found it, you scarecrow. For a second, everything is normal. You walk back to the camp group together, the setting sun casting long shadows. You should say something, bridge this gap you made. But the moment slips away, swallowed by your own awkward silence and the curator's immediate questions on whether the search was successful.

For the rest of that summer trip, you continue barely talking to him. The exchanges are polite, necessary, and hollow. You feel shitty and avoidant, a coward, still utterly impacted by what your girl friends pointed out on that chilly beach. You watch him from a distance. He stops trying to stick to you. He starts spending more time alone, or sitting quietly with a book, or attempting to interact with the guys that you know he has no interest interacting with. The easy dimpled smile you've known forever appears less and less.

And just like that the crack stops being a hairline fracture and turns into a chasm instead. And you are standing on one side, actively choosing not to cross it, too confused and scared to even understand what you're looking at on the other side.

The last month of summer that year is spent in the village as usual. You spend it avoiding Seungcheol most of the time. The air between your houses, once so easily traversed, now feels thick with something unsaid. Every time he texts you—Hey, want to go ride bikes? or I found that old board game. Come over?—you scramble for an excuse.

Sorry, I'm in the middle of this new book, you type back, glancing at the novel on your nightstand, its spine still uncracked.

Or: Trying to finally learn some basic art stuff. You know, the online course I told you about. You haven't opened the lessons in weeks.

Most of the time, in reality, you're not doing any of those things you tell him you're doing. You're lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, or scrolling mindlessly on your phone, too hung up on the growing chasm of awkwardness you helped create. You're waiting, almost passively, for the opportunity for real distance to solidify between you. The summer days, once endless and golden, now feel like a countdown you're both enduring. Or at the very least you are.

It's really too much, and you're glad you don't have time to think about it when the school year starts. The relief is grand as you pack your bag and return to your city with your parents. You're glad you don't live in the same place, that you only text now on social media, that there are no more hour-long calls where silence was comfortable. Now it would be suffocating. You're glad to return to your routine of school friends, to your one-sided school crushes that don't require you to address anything heavy, that allow you to suffer in silence, pining and complaining to your friends without actually taking any action to change the situation. You cling to the safety of it, this feeling of things being stable and normal again.

Meanwhile the distance grows, a quiet, persistent weed, no matter how much you try to pretend that it doesn't. You are too preoccupied with your constructed normalcy—which isn't exactly normal anymore, just a busy distraction that you refuse to admit—to notice how everything shifts. You don't notice the moment Seungcheol stops trying to reach out that much. The texts become fewer. The how was your day? messages appear once a week, then once a fortnight. They are easy to miss in the flood of notifications from your closer, present-circle friends.

You still talk, but it's mundane, scarce. It's comments on each other's social media posts. Looks fun :) he writes under a picture of you at a school event. Happy holiday! you comment on a photo of his family's Christmas tree because it's the first year that you don't celebrate together. The exchanges are polite ghosts of your past conversations.

It also feels strange, there's a deep, background wrongness, because neither of you celebrates your birthdays together anymore. Now, all you do is you send heartfelt messages. You type out paragraphs—Happy birthday! I hope you have the most amazing day! Remember that time we…—trying to conjure the old warmth. The congratulations, when you read them back, sound as if nothing has changed and everything is just as it used to be. But if you let yourself see the truth, it feels more like trying to save something that has already died. You are performing CPR on a corpse—or something soon to become it. His replies are equally long, equally kind, and equally final. Thanks so much! Yeah, I remember that haha. Hope you're doing well.

What once felt natural, something that neither of you ever questioned, a steady, humming chord that connected you two across any distance, now lies severed and damaged. It doesn't snap with a dramatic sound. It hangs by a frayed thread, and neither of you seems to know how, or if, you should reach for it or just cut it off. The weight of all those summers, all those winters, all those shared things and silent phone calls and scraped palms, now just pulls that thread tighter, thinner, towards breaking.

High school years pass somewhat like this. At one point you feel like you managed to overcome your overthinking, to put it behind you. So you make more attempts to reach out, see each other during summers sometimes, but it's nearly not as much as it used to be. The visits to his house are now mostly prompted by your or his parents over family dinners. You sit by him at the table, making safe, surface-level conversation about university plans and mutual acquaintances from the summer camp. You laugh at the same old stories your fathers tell, but the laughter doesn't travel between you two like it used to. It just lands on the tablecloth with the crumbs.

It seems that the relatively short time of barely any contact—in comparison to a lifetime of being by each other's side—has highlighted the differences between you, the growing lack of common ground as the two of you grow apart, both in physical distance and mental.

And then the university time comes. And Seungcheol moves to your city. The news comes via your mother, who heard it from his. A bolt of something—anxiety, hope, sheer surprise—shoots through you. Obviously, you don't go to the same university, you choosing languages and him—business. But by that time, the last teen bits in you stop worrying. High school is over, a messy, self-conscious era sealed shut. The one-sided crushes and that pervasive, teenage fear of missing out are no longer the factors on your horizon. You've had your heart bruised in simple ways that unrequited feelings provide. You let go of the weird, tangled guilt from the summer camp. You free up the mental space it had been squatting in. And in that new quiet you suddenly realise, with a clarity that makes your heart ache, that you miss your friend. His steady presence. His dumb jokes. The person who knew you before you were anyone at all. The one you always competed against to do something before he does and yet were always happy for his achievements.

So you start trying to talk to him more again. You send a message: Hey, mom told me you're moving here! That's huge. Let me know if you need any tips on the city.

He replies a day later. Thanks. Yeah, it's… a lot. Might take you up on that.

He seems… normal. Stressing about the move, about the new place, new beginnings. His texts are clipped, a little distant, but you chalk it up to pre-university nerves. You try to be supportive, reassuring. Texting him that he's going to be all good, it's just an adaptation period, he'll be fine, that you believe he's going to be alright. Everyone feels scared and worried. I do too, you write and it's true.

You're just as overwhelmed in your own university, and for a little while, it becomes a small bonding moment, this common struggle of the academic grind. You talk sometimes, on social media of course. You send each other memes about all-nighters and terrible cafeteria food. It's light and easy, a surface-level safe zone. It almost feels like a fresh start.

And at some point, you realise that he's found himself a girlfriend. You see her first in the background of a photo he's tagged in—a group shot at some small flat party, his arm casually around a girl with a bright smile. You feel a strange little lurch in your stomach, which you immediately dismiss as surprise. You text him: OMG who is that?? She's pretty!

He sends back a blushing emoji. Her name's Ella. We've been hanging out.

You're happy and excited for him. You tell yourself you are. He even sends you a few photos from their small trip to a different city a few months later—the two of them hugging in front of a famous bridge. Looks amazing! you reply. You guys are cute. And you mean it. Or you think you do.

They date for almost a year and a half. Most of your news on them you get through your mother, who is talking to his. It's a weird, second-hand way to track the life of your once-best friend. And you find out through her that they broke up too. Your mom mentions it in a that voice that is filled with gossipy pity but doesn't mean it at all. "His mother says the girl was getting too insistent, you know? Seeing that Seungcheol's family is… well, comfortable. Talking about rings and things, and he's not even twenty yet! Can you imagine?"

"Wow, cringe," you say and you mean it. It's ridiculous to be trying to bag anyone regardless of gender at this age. Let a person live, for god's sake. You dismiss the subtle, quiet wave of relief that follows it. You just file the information away and don't ask him about it. He doesn't offer.

During your third year, things begin to get kind of strained between the two of you. Yes, you're texting. And Seungcheol is always answering kindly, apologising for delays, engaging in some deeper topics sometimes. But you've also been noticing that he'd stopped texting you first for quite some time now. On top of that, you've been trying to get him to hang out with you for quite some time now. Properly hang out, just the two of you, in the same city you now share. You see his Instagram stories—he's making new friends, a bunch of people from his business program and beyond. They look confident, stylish, laughing in sleek bars or at someone's apartment. And while you have friends of your own too, a solid group that you've build from middle to high school to now university, you still want your best friend back. You want to bridge the gap that you created, but now it feels like the landscape on his side of the chasm has changed completely.

You're suddenly unable to recognise this person. And it's not just visually, though that's a part of it. The boy whose clothes you used to borrow is gone. In his place is a young man who is… transforming. He's been working out; the softness of his teenage frame has hardened into something defined. He's discovering his style and he's doing it really well, you must admit. He's hanging out with new friends, going to parties or clubbing even. You watch a seven-second clip of him in a dim, pulsing room, pursing his lips and bobbing his head to the beat, a drink in hand. It's not your scene. You're a homebody, a 'watch a movie and order takeout' or a 'quiet cafe and a walk' type of person. So on some level, you do judge him. You judge the performative ease, the curated cool. Who is he trying to be? you think, a bitter little seed in your mind. So you tease and joke around a little in his DMs, nothing you haven't done before.

But more than that, you're angry and hurt. Because every time you try to suggest meeting for a coffee or a walk, he always comes up with a reason why he cannot, or just rain checks into the vague, never-arriving future.

Sorry, got a group project meeting. Ah, I promised I'd go to the gym with a friend. Maybe next week? Homework load is crazy.

You don't want to look desperate, but he's also Seungcheol, your lifetime-long friend. There's nothing desperate about wanting to see your friend at least once every six months, is there? The imbalance infuriates you. You were the one who pulled away, but now you're the one reaching, and he's the one who is slipping through your fingers.

On one of those attempts to drag him out, you snap.

Your last lecture of the day ends early and it's a totally welcome gift on a surprisingly warm afternoon. Because you've been previously texting Seungcheol earlier—a meaningless exchange about most terrible professors in your universities—you know that he also has his last lecture today and that's it. No other plans mentioned. The sun is out. The weather looks friendly and pleasant. It feels like a good chance.

You text him: Hey. My class just ended early. You free? Could grab a coffee by the river. My treat for being a flake for the past many years.

You send it and see his status flick to 'online'. Then, a second later, 'offline'. You wait, phone in hand, assuming he's just glanced at his phone in his lecture. You wait fifteen minutes. Then twenty. The little 'delivered' receipt stares back at you.

Finally, your screen lights up.

Seungcheol: sorry baby, i was in a lecture. also, won't be able to make it, i promised my mom that i'll go shopping with her

You read it once. Then twice. The words refuse to compute at first.

A cold then hot flush sweeps over you. Flustered and weirded out. Because who does he think he's talking to, calling you 'baby'? Is this a text meant for some girl from a party he hooked up with, someone who's acting needy now? The generic, placating excuse—shopping with his mom? His mother lives two hours away by train. It's a Wednesday afternoon. It's the laziest, most blatant brush-off you've ever received. And the 'baby'… it feels like a violation. A careless, casual term of endearment he now tosses around, landing on you like a splash of cold water.

The anger that's been simmering for months boils over. Your thumbs fly across the screen.

You: Wtf? Baby? Seriously? Who exactly do you think you're texting right now? You: And shopping with your mom? On a Wednesday? Come up with something better, Seungcheol. Or just be honest and say you don't want to see me.

You hit send. The seconds tick by, heavy and loud in your head.

Seungcheol: what? it was a typo. busy. meant to say maybe. Seungcheol: and i am going to see her. she's in the city for a doctor's appointment.

It's the defensive, clipped tone that does it. The refusal to acknowledge the sheer weirdness of it all.

You: A typo from 'maybe' to 'baby'? That's a stretch. And fine, whatever. But you know what? Forget it. Forget the coffee. Forget everything. You've been blowing me off for two years straight. Every single time I try. I get it. You have a new life, new cool friends, a whole new persona. I don't fit into it. Just have the decency to say that openly instead of treating me like some annoying hook up you have to manage with bad excuses and pet names.

You're shaking with rage and adrenaline. You've said too much. You've shown your hand, all the hurt and the need you've been trying to hide. The three dots appear. They disappear. Appear again. A long, agonising minute passes.

Seungcheol: are you done? Seungcheol: wanna to know why i 'blow you off'? try to remember the last time you actually wanted to hang out with me. not the idea of me you have in your head from when we were twelve. not because you feel guilty or because you're trying to fix some old crack. me. now.

You stare at his words. They feel like a slap across your face. You can almost feel the sting of it. You want to fire back, but your mind is blank, white with shock.

Seungcheol: you called me cringe when i started going to the gym. then made fun of me when i posted stories from a club with people from my major. every time we talk, it feels like you're waiting for me to revert back to the kid who followed you around. you don't even know me anymore. so why would i want to have coffee with someone who doesn't like who i've become?

His accusations are somewhat true but are also unfair. Regardless, the truth of them lands and it is sharp and undeniable, carving grooves of shame in your chest. Yes, maybe you've had a hard time accepting his new persona. The gym, the clubs, the style—it's all a language you don't speak, a club you aren't invited to. You judge and make jokes because you don't understand it, and because, secretly, it scares you. It is proof he is building a world you aren't a part of.

But he wasn't giving you a proper chance at that either. He'd just… vanished into that new world, posting snippets of it for everyone to see, including you, but never opening the door. Every attempt you made was met with that bland, brick-wall politeness or a flimsy excuse. As he isn't giving it now.

A fresh surge of anger cuts through the hurt. You tell him that.

You: You're right. I have been judging and making jokes. I didn't know how to fit the new version of you into the old space you occupied. That's on me. You: But you're not being fair either. You changed the rules and then got mad at me for not knowing how to play. You never let me in to try. You just shut the door. Every single time I knocked. That's totally on you!

You send it, your heart a drumming against your ribs. The three dots appear immediately, pulsing, then stop. No reply comes. The silence is heavy, expectant. It stretches for a full minute, then two. He's reading it. He's thinking. You've thrown your truth back, and now you're both standing in the wreckage of it.

You impatiently pace the hallway of your university, staring at the screen.

And then, just because you can and because it was long, long overdue, you do what you feel is right in that moment. The grand, clenching knot of pride and fear and regret in your stomach loosens, just a fraction, telling you this is the only way through. You need to voice the thing that has been rotting between you for years. You start typing again, your thumbs moving almost on their own, the words seeping out like water from a cracked dam.

You: But that's not the main thing. The main thing is something I should have said years ago. Maybe if I had, none of this… distance… would have happened. Or maybe it would have. I don't know. You: Either way I'm sorry, Cheol.

You take a sharp breath, the air in the quiet hallway feeling thin and charged with your own emotions.

You: I'm sorry for the summer camp. I'm sorry for pulling away from you when you needed a friend there the most. I'm sorry for leaving you behind back then, for being so wrapped up in my own stupid head that I made you feel alone. I'm sorry for not cherishing what we had, for taking it for granted because you'd always been there like a part of me I never had to worry about losing.

The memories flood in, unbidden. His lonely text to his brother. The way he'd looked on the beach when you rejected his shirt. The hollow feeling of that last summer in the village when everything went south.

You: My fifteen-year-old self was acting like a bitch to her only friend. Scared, confused and selfish. And I've felt bad about it for years, but I was too much of a coward to just say it. I thought if I just pretended it never happened, or if I just tried to be friends again like normal, it would just… disappear. But it doesn't. It's been sitting here this whole time.

You don't talk about what started your intensified withdrawal—the shark-like whispers of your friends, the planted seed of doubt about his feelings. That is a separate, tangled vine. It's too vulnerable and close to the heart, and it feels impossible, wrong, to ask over text: Were they right? Did you look at me like that? Was I blind, or were they hallucinating? That question requires a face, eyes, the courage to hold a gaze. It requires him, in front of you. So you leave it unsaid, a silent, trembling asterisk at the end of your apology.

You: I don't expect you to forgive me. I probably wouldn't, if I were you. But I needed you to know that I see it now, clearly. And I'm sorry. Truly.

You hit send.

The finality of it echoes in the empty corridor. You're standing near a window, the afternoon sun casting long rectangles of light on the scuffed floor. You lower your phone, pressing it against your chest. You feel dizzy, stripped bare. There is no immediate relief, only a vast, shaky emptiness. You've just lobbed a piece of your soul over a digital wall and have no idea what ground it will land on.

Minutes pass. Five. Ten. Your phone doesn't vibrate in your hand. You lift it, check the connection, open the chat. 'Read 4:32 PM'. He's seen it all. And he's saying nothing.

You quickly find that silence is worse than any angry reply. An angry reply would still be engagement, a continuation of the fight, a connection, however toxic. This silence, however, is akin to a void. It's a door not just closed, but walled up. You sink down onto a nearby bench tucked into an alcove, your backpack heavy beside you. You don't cry. You just feel terribly, overwhelmingly sad. For the past, for the present, for the future that now seems to definitively not include him. You stare out the window at students crossing the courtyard, their lives moving seamlessly forward while yours feels suspended in this painful, silent limbo.

You must zone out, because the sudden buzz of your phone against your leg jolts you back. The light in the corridor has shifted, grown warmer, later. Your heart leaps into your throat. You fumble for it.

It's not a text. It's a call. Seungcheol's name flashes on your screen.

For a wild second, you consider not answering. The vulnerability of your spoken voice feels like too much here in public. But you swipe to accept, bringing the phone to your ear.

"Hello?" Your voice is raspy from tension.

A beat of silence on the other end, filled with ambient city noise—the distant sound of traffic, the murmur of a crowd. He's outside.

"Hey," he sounds quiet, flat. Not angry. More like tired.

"Hey," you echo, your grip tightening on the phone.

More silence. You can almost hear him choosing his words, weighing them.

"You weren't a bitch," he says finally, the word sounds awkward coming from him in the context of you. "You were fifteen. And I was… a lot. I know I was hard to be around that summer. I was miserable and I took it out on you by just expecting you to fix it."

This isn't what you expected. Not absolution, and certainly not self-recrimination from him.

"You didn't take it out on me," you argue softly, lowering your voice as a pair of students walk past. "I was the one who abandoned you."

"You had every right to make other friends," he counters, and there's a hint of the old, stubborn Seungcheol in his tone. "That was the whole point of the camp. I was the one who couldn't handle it. I was the one who read your normal, healthy behaviour as you being bored of me."

You swallow hard, your throat tight. "It wasn't… healthy. What I did. The ignoring you. That wasn't about making friends. That was about me being scared of something stupid."

The line is quiet again. You've stepped to the very edge of the unspoken thing. You can feel the tension of it humming down the line.

He doesn't ask what do you mean. Just lets the statement hang. And a thought crosses your mind that maybe he knows. Maybe he's always known what your friends whispered.

"Anyway," he clears his throat, moving past the precipice. "The apology. It's… thank you. For saying it."

"It doesn't fix anything," you whisper, stating the obvious.

"No," he agrees, his voice a little rough. "It doesn't. Some cracks don't get fixed. They just become part of the shape of the thing."

The metaphor sinks into you. Is that what you are now? A friendship defined by its fractures?

"I don't want that," you say, the words coming out before you can stop them, pleading and vulnerable. "I don't want us to just be a broken shape."

He sighs, a long, weary sound that travels through the connection. "I don't know what we are, Y/N. Honestly. You're right that I haven't made it easy. This… persona, as you call it. It wasn't about leaving you behind. It was about adapting to a bunch of new things. University, this city, being away from everything I knew. So, the gym, the clothes, the going out… it was a suit of armour. I put it on so I could walk into rooms and not feel like that lonely kid at the camp anymore."

His confession disarms you completely. You see it now—not a rejection of his past, but a desperate construction to protect the soft, unsure parts of him that still existed. And you have to give him the credit, the said armour fits him seamlessly now. You think he grew into it comfortably now. Fake it till you make it, they say?

"I'm sorry," you repeat, the words meaning something new this time. "For judging your attempts to adapt."

A small, humourless huff of air from his end. "It's pretty stupid sometimes. I'm not that much into clubbing, actually. The music just isn't it half of the time and drinks are overpriced."

A surprised, wet laugh escapes you. You quickly stifle it, looking around the empty corridor. "Oh, is that so?"

"Yeah. I usually end up wishing I was home watching a movie or something."

The image is so familiarly and comfortingly him that it cracks something open in your chest. "That's… that's probably the most Seungcheol thing I've heard from you in the past years."

"Yeah, well, I'm not an entirely different person after all." He pauses. The background noise shifts, as if he's moving to a quieter spot. "The 'baby' thing. That was… I was texting someone else right before responding to you. It was a stupid, careless copy-paste from another conversation. I wasn't thinking. It wasn't… it wasn't meant for you like that."

The clarification is a surprise and it strips the weird, intimate charge from the word, leaving only the fact that it was a bad, stupid decision. It's a relief, and also, faintly, a disappointment you refuse to examine in this very moment.

"Okay," you nod even though he can't see it. "Good to know."

Another pause, but this one already feels a lot less charged.

"My mom really does have a doctor's appointment," he offers quietly. "I am meeting her after. But… I could maybe be late. If you still wanted that coffee."

The offer is so tentative, stripped of the defensive bravado from earlier, that it feels more vulnerable than any of the angry texts. He's taking off a piece of the armour, just for you. Just for now.

Your eyes sting. You look out the window at sunlight glinting off the library windows. "I'd like that," you say, voice thick. "You know this new cafe by the river?"

"Yeah," he confirms. "Give me twenty minutes?"

"I'll get us a table outside," you respond, already standing up, swinging your backpack over one shoulder.

You end the call and stand there for a moment, just breathing in the quiet air of the old academic building and fighting off tears of immediate relief. Sure, it's not fixed between you two. Nothing can be truly fixed with a phone conversation. But maybe that's where you should start. Not with fixing, but with acknowledging.

You take a deep breath and head outside, the weight in your chest feels both lighter and not. Maybe it has lifted or maybe it has taken on a new shape and you just don't know what it is yet.

You sit with a cup of latte, hands wrapped around the ceramic for warmth, watching the river glisten and mind its own watery thing. When you spot Seungcheol moving in your direction, a familiar lurch happens in your stomach—part nerves, part a deep, old recognition. Once again, you're painfully reminded how different he is from what you've been clinging to in your head. The way he moves now has a certain easy confidence that is difficult to look away from, his shoulders set in his dark jacket, no longer the loose-limbed, careless gait of a boy. And yet, still the same. At least you think you see the same things in him, not just visually—the gummy smile that appears as he nods at you, the dimples that won't ever change—but internally, in the careful way his eyes meet yours. You think, you hope, that even with some changing and growing up he's still the boy you were so proud to call your best friend back in the sunny days of that camp, before everything went south.

He doesn't order coffee, just greets you with a soft hey and slides into the chair across the small, wrought-iron table. And silence sits between you too, a third, unwelcome guest. It's suddenly charged and complicated. Awkward in a way your childhood silences never were. It's like you've said everything you needed to in your texts, ripped the bandage off from a distance, and now you're left with the raw, exposed skin and nothing else to clean it with. So you start with the mundane—the social equivalent of applying a clean, basic gauze.

"About your mom's appointment," you begin, your voice suddenly sounding too weird to your own ears. "Is everything okay?"

Seungcheol nods, picking at the edge of the paper napkin dispenser. "Yeah, just a follow up. She's fine. She actually asked about you."

"Yeah? Tell her I say hi," you take a sip of your latte. "My mom mentioned your brother got that promotion he wanted. That's huge."

"It is. He's insufferably proud of himself, but… yeah, it's good."

You try not to cringe at yourself. This isn't what you wanted this conversation to be but you can't help it. It's everything safe and familiar to the both of you, the well-trodden path of family updates that kept you tenuously connected for years. And it gives you a chance to drink him in, to actually pay attention to his energy now that he's a physical presence and not just a series of curated images. You watch the way his fingers tap a quiet rhythm on the table, the slight furrow in his brow when he's listening to you talk and thinking of an answer. You listen to yourself in his presence. The nervous chatter, the way you lean forward. You try to dissect what you feel in this moment. Is it just the fond, complex warmth of history? Or is it something else you've warped and stretched over the years out of loneliness or desperation? Sitting here, under the gentle weight of his attention, it feels… you don't think you can put a finger on it yet.

You don't ask about the past right now. The big, heavy questions about that summer, about feelings and perceptions, feel too monumental. You're facing him now, but talking about something like that when he's in a low-grade hurry to leave, to meet his mom—seems unfair, like springing a trap. You tell yourself you'll find a better time for a discussion like that, a time that isn't borrowed. Instead, you focus on the smaller things about the present, about the people you've become in each other's absence.

"So," you start tracing the rim of your cup. "The clubbing. You really hate it?"

He lets out a short, genuine laugh, and the sound loosens a knot in your chest. "I wouldn't say hate necessarily. But it's not as enjoyable as some find it. It's loud, sweaty and people spill drinks on the dance floor. You have to be in the mood for it, I guess. But… it's something to do. The guys from my major are into it. It feels like… participation, you know?"

"I think I do," you say slowly though you're not sure you actually get it, being the homebody you are. It's an alien concept for you to force yourself into something you don't enjoy. "Like you said, it's the armour. Or a mask. You have to put it on to move through certain spaces."

Seungcheol nods. "Exactly."

Encouraged, you dip your toes further. "I think I went the opposite way. I just avoid uncomfortable spaces altogether. The books, the movies and TV-shows, the cafes. It's my cocoon. It's safe and familiar." You offer a small, self-deprecating smile. The irony of literally switching places with him isn't lost on you. "Probably incredibly boring from the outside."

"No, it's not boring," he says, and he sounds like he means it. "I see your posts about the books you read or movies you watch. It's… it's very you."

The compliment, simple as it is, warms you more than the latte. You realize you're being honest about how these choices make you feel, and you're trying to keep an open mind towards these new, unfamiliar facets of him. It's a tentative, mutual exploration.

However, you do think, watching him talk about the pragmatic reasons behind his social choices, that out of the two of you, you changed the least. Your world is still built from the same materials—the comfort of stories, the peace of a quiet afternoon, the line of hobbies and interests you've cultivated and tended to over the years. It's uncomplicated, steadfast. But in comparison to him—to his adaptive, strategic navigation of a loud, demanding world—you feel quietly embarrassed. It's a faint heat at the back of your neck. Seungcheol says that he doesn't necessarily enjoy everything he does and you think his point of view is valid. But seeing all his changes also makes you feel like you're dragging behind somewhere, a relic of a different, simpler age, while he has learned to evolve, to put on and take off masks as needed. You wonder if he looks at your cocoon and sees not comfort, but a hiding place despite what he says.

"I should probably go," he glances at his phone. "Mom's waiting."

"Right, of course." You try to mask your disappointment. It felt like you were just getting started.

Seungcheol stands up, but hesitates. "This was… good. Talking. Without… you know. Overthinking the subtext."

"It was," you agree, standing as well.

"We should do it again," he says, and it's not a polite brush off this time. His eyes are sincere, holding yours. "Maybe without a time limit. And maybe… we could just watch a movie. Like we used to. No clubs or cafes. Just a sofa and some snacks."

His suggestion is so perfectly, achingly targeted to the core of your history—and your confessed preferences—that it feels like a peace offering, and an acceptance of who you are now, cocoon and all.

"I'd really like that," you say with a nod, and you mean it, no matter how scared you're to fully allow yourself to feel it.

He returns it, the gummy smile you've always known, and gives you a brief hug before turning to go. You sink back into your chair, watching him walk away until he blends into the crowd along the riverwalk.

Things don't change overnight. You don't expect it to happen either. A friendship—or whatever this is now—that took years to fray can't be rewoven in a week. But you're happy to have the small shifts that come, the tiny realignments that feel seismic in the quiet of your own heart. It's a strange, careful rearrangement, one that stops your heart just a little when you think about it too closely. It feels a little like childhood, that easy, default closeness. No, you don't stay on landline phones for hours anymore, but whenever one of you wants to talk, you notice you both lean towards calling more than texting. A voice feels necessary.

Texting becomes purely functional: Thursday at 8? or Your place or mine? You don't even send memes or funny reels to each other. At first, you think it's because your circles of interests are too different, that you have nothing silly or topical in common—and partially, that is the reason—but as you observe the days go by, you conclude it's something else. There's something about hearing each other talk, or the way you can stay silent on the line for a beat too long without it immediately feeling wrong, that tugs at the old, familiar sting in your heart in a nice, aching way. It's the sound of his breath, the way he says "Yeah?" or hums when he's listening, the quiet laugh that isn't just an emoji. It feels earned and real.

It is as familiar as it is new.

Somewhere around May, Seungcheol introduces you to his new friends. He phrases it casually over one of your calls. "Some of us are grabbing pizza on Friday. You should come. They've heard about you since, like, forever."

The group consists of a few guys from his business program and two girls, one of whom is actually from your university, though you've never seen her before. It's nice, you tell yourself, to finally put faces to the names and Instagram handles, to know the people he's talking about and spending his time with. But as the evening goes on, a quiet certainty settles in your gut: you are not going to become a part of this group.

They're not unkind. They're just… different. Their humour is a rapid-fire, insider brand of sarcasm that relies on references to professors and parties you weren't at. Their conversations pivot quickly between internship stress, gym routines, and plans for a beach house rental that sounds both expensive and exhausting. Where you can snort and chuckle at Seungcheol's stupid, familiar jokes because you know the history behind them, theirs feel performative, and you often find yourself staying politely silent, offering a generic smile that makes your cheeks ache.

You do your best not to cling to his side. You answer questions when they're asked, you ask a few of your own. Seungcheol doesn't abandon you to fend for yourself; he throws you the occasional lifeline, a "Y/N and I used to do that too," or a raised eyebrow across the table when someone tells a particularly outrageous story. But you still don't feel comfortable. You feel like a subtitled version of yourself. The girls are somewhat nice, asking about your major, but the connection is thin, polite. They are an alien crowd orbiting a version of Seungcheol you are only just beginning to understand.

The next day, during your now-usual call, you tell him. You choose your words with care, aiming for gentle honesty.

"Thanks for inviting me last night," you start, curled on your sofa. "It was cool to finally meet everyone."

"Yeah? They're a lot, but they're good people," he says, and you can hear the faint defensive note you were hoping to avoid.

"They are! I could tell. It's just…" You search for the right phrasing. "I think my social battery is calibrated differently. All that energy is fun to witness, but I think I'd short-circuit if I tried to join the grid, you know?"

There's a pause on the line. You hold your breath.

"So, you're not gonna be our new regular plus-one?" he asks, but his tone is lighter now, teasing.

"I think my role is better as the mysterious childhood friend you sometimes reference," you smile even though he can't see it. "The one they're not quite sure is real. Or just an occasional witness."

He laughs, and the tension dissolves. "Fair enough. They did ask if you were always that quiet."

"What did you tell them?"

"I told them you're just warming up and aren't what you seem."

The immediate relief is a sweet, liberating feeling. He's fine with it. He isn't taking it as an insult to his new life or his new self. He understands the boundaries of your worlds are different now, and that's okay. You don't have to force yourself into the shiny, loud puzzle of his present to still be important in it.

Your own friend group—fortunately or not—does not require any such introduction or integration. It's a few people from your school years or that same fateful summer camp, and he met them all back when you were all still teenagers, all elbows and awkward phases and shared, simpler dramas. When he joins you for a lazy weekend movie night at your apartment, it's less of an introduction and more of a reunion. The girls greet him with a chorus of "Hey, stranger!" and "Whoa, look at you!", the teasing immediate and familiar. The conversation is a comfortable, overlapping mess of shared memories and easy updates. Here, he doesn't have to explain any backstory. They already know it. They know the kid he was, which makes the young man he's become simply an extension, not a separate entity. You watch him sink into your sofa, laughing at a stupid story about Sophie's former biology teacher, and you see the armour fully off, left at the door. In this cocoon of your making, with your relics and your quiet joys, he fits perfectly, not despite the changes, but because beneath them, the core remains, solid and known.

It's July, the gruelling finals of your second year are done, and you're back in the village by the lake. You spend your days soaking in the quiet, the endless singing of birds in your backyard garden, the clear, cool water of the lake. It's all as it was before—the scent of pine, the way the light dapples through the trees in the late afternoon—but there is a different energy to it this time. A humming, anticipatory quiet you haven't really felt in a long while. Not the empty silence of the estranged years. A waiting.

You're waiting.

Seungcheol is due to arrive at his parents' house later today. He wasn't here last week, having been away with his friends at some rented house in the woods. He'd texted you an open invitation: The place has a huge deck. You could actually get some quiet writing or sketching done here. And there's a lake too. You'd politely declined, not wanting to insert yourself into the heart of his other world, not yet. Thanks, I'm good with our own lake this summer, you'd replied. But save me a fun story.

You're swimming in said lake when he comes to find you. You see a figure walking onto the old wooden pier, and you know it's him even from a distance. He moves with a relaxed ease, eyes covered with sunglasses, hands in the pockets of his shorts, shirtless. The sun glints off his skin. You wave at him from afar, treading water, and he lifts a hand in response. As you swim closer, he sits down at the very edge of the pier, his ankles dipping into the water, and pushes the shades up onto the top of his head. You don't get out, just cling to the rusty ladder, your arms resting on a worn rung.

"Hey," you say, the water lapping at your chin. "When did you get back?"

"Couple of hours ago," he responds, looking down at you. His voice is calm, warm like the sun shining overhead. "Unpacked, got nagged by my mom about laundry, and escaped."

You snort at that. "How was the woods? Catch any ghosts or anything?"

He grins, that familiar, gummy smile that immediately softens the stronger lines of his jaw. "No ghosts. Just a lot of mosquitoes and Gyu trying to prove he could still do a backflip off the dock. He cannot."

You laugh, and the sound skips across the water. You catch yourself then, sneaking a glance at the defined line of his shoulders, the way his torso tapers. It's the first time in years—since you were probably sixteen—that you're seeing him like this, so casually bare. And you're painfully aware of two sets of changes. Not just that he's obviously been diligent, his body an example of discipline you don't possess. But your own reaction. There's a heart rate that quickens its rhythm against your ribs. There are thoughts that flicker, unbidden and warm, that go a little bit beyond what you'd think about a friend who's simply gotten a glow-up. Thoughts about how the sun traces the muscle of his arm, about the contrast of his dark shorts against his light tan. It's a purely physical, startling awareness.

You do your best to push it all away, especially when it immediately makes you self-conscious about your own physique—soft where you'd wish it were more toned, not full enough in certain places or too full in others. You've never been to a gym or committed to any work out routine, content with long walks and the occasional swim or a bike ride. That's why you don't get out of the water for a long while, using the lake as your cover. Instead, you push off from the ladder, doing small, easy laps back and forth, the silence between you filled with the sound of your movement through the water and the distant cry of a bird.

"You're going to turn into a prune," he comments after your third lap, his voice laced with amusement.

"I'm part fish, you know this," you call back and hum an H2O intro song between giggles, but you're running out of casual stamina.

It's when he stands, leaves his shades and slippers by your pile of things, and jumps into the water that you finally move. He hits the surface with a clean splash, sending waves that rock you. You seize the moment, hurrying up the ladder before he surfaces. You grab your towel, wrapping it around yourself like a sarong, and perch on the pier to now be the one looking down at him. You swipe his sunglasses, settling them on your nose. The world takes on a smoky, golden tint.

"Thief," he says, shaking the water from his hair as he treads water.

"Security fee," you reply, your voice thankfully steady.

You watch him. He does a strong, smooth lap to the middle of the lake and back, his form efficient, cutting through the water like it's nothing. Then he stands where the lake is shallower, his height allowing his shoulders to emerge, the water sluicing off the defined planes of his chest and back. Droplets catch the sunlight like scattered diamonds on his skin. He walks over slowly, the water parting around him with a soft resistance until he's right below where you're sitting. He rests his forearms on the sun-warmed wood of the pier beside your thigh, his skin cool and damp where it almost brushes yours.

"Show-off," you tsk, and your voice comes out in the old, easy tone, the one you've used for a lifetime. It's a little gruff, a little teasing—the voice you'd use to call him a loser for winning a race. It feels like pulling on a well-worn sweater.

He tilts his head back, squinting up at you against the sun. A slow grin spreads. "Just reminding the local wildlife who's on top of the food chain."

"The fish are trembling," you roll your eyes, even though he can't see it behind the shades, swinging your leg so it disturbs the water surface right near his side. "They're telling legends about the splash monster."

Seungcheol laughs, and you find comfort in the sound of it. "Good. I aim to inspire myth." He pushes his wet hair back from his forehead, his thick eyebrows on full display now as he raises one. "You're just jealous because your laps look like ones of a startled frog."

It's the kind of insult that has flown between you for years. Harmless, stupid. You lean into it, because it's safe. It's the script. You raise an eyebrow back at him. "At least frogs are cute. You look like a… a commercial for expensive water. All serious and… slick." A teasing grimace finds its way onto your face.

"Slick?" He raises an eyebrow, feigning offence and pouting about it. "I'm a model of hydrodynamic efficiency. You're the one clinging to that ladder like it's a life raft."

"It's my strategic base," you counter, nudging his shoulder with your knee. The contact is brief, casual. Or it's meant to be. Your skin tingles where you touched him, a spark that travels straight up your spine. You keep your face carefully neutral behind his stolen sunglasses. "For observing the wildlife. And critiquing its form."

He shakes his head, drops of water flying. "You're a terrible critic. You have no frame of reference. When's the last time you swam more than four meters?"

"I'll have you know I executed several excellent laps today. Very contemplative laps."

"Contemplative," he echoes, his voice dripping with mock reverence. "Right. Looked more like you were hiding."

The words land a little too close to the bone. He says it lightly, but it hangs in the air between you. You force a snort. "From your blinding pectorals when you stepped on the pier? Yeah, maybe. They're a public nuisance, Cheollie. Someone should fine you for flashing."

It's the childhood nickname that does it—that seals the mask in place. It says, See? We're just us. Nothing has changed. I can still call you that.

He goes still for a fraction of a second, his smile softening into something even more familiar and sincere. He looks at you, and for a heart-stopping moment you're afraid he can see right through the heavily tinted lenses, right through the performed ease. But then he just hums, looking back out over the lake. "You love it and you know it."

The statement is vague, could apply to anything—the nuisance, the lake, the summer, him. You don't ask for clarification. You can't. Instead, you scoff and hug your knees to your chest, the towel secure around you, your own personal blanket. The familiar, sibling-like banter sits between you, but it feels different now. It's not unconscious. Not for you at least. It's a choice you're making, a dialect you're speaking fluently to maintain an era you're no longer sure you both live in. You watch the water drip from his hair onto the pier in a steady rhythm, and you think this mask of old familiarity is the most fragile thing you've held.

Later that week, the two of you go for a bike ride along the old, familiar path that winds through the woods outside the village. Your destination is a secluded spot on the lake you discovered together back when you were both eleven, armed with nothing but a sense of adventure and a shared bag of mint candy. The shore is soft and shallow there, the trees giving way to a quiet, sun-dappled opening just big enough for a small bunch of people. You haven't been to the spot for a long time, years maybe. It felt like a place that required two people, and going there alone always seemed like a betrayal of its purpose.

When you arrive, it's like nothing has changed. The air is still, the water lapping gently at the sandy shore. The old, mossy log—a makeshift bench some other explorer must have rolled into place years before you ever found it—is still there. You brush off a few pine needles and sit down. He leans his bike against a tree and joins you, his shoulder a warm, solid line next to yours.

The two of you talk about nothing and everything. The easy flow from the other day returns, but here, in this capsule of your childhood, it feels deeper. You discuss ridiculous stories from the university year—the professor who fell asleep during his own lecture while talking, the time the fire alarm went off in your friend's dorm at 3 AM. You talk about the future, the vague, scary shape of it after graduation. Just thoughts, tossed into the space between you like stones into the still lake.

And then, inevitably, the topic circles back. Not with a jerk, but with a gentle, unavoidable pull, like the current.

"Remember the camp?" you say, your gaze fixed on the opposite shore. "The music festival on the beach?"

He nods beside you. "The cold one. Yeah."

You take a slow breath. The air smells of wet earth and sun-heated pine. This is it. This is finally the better time, the right place, to ask the question. To clear the air, to leave it all behind, to find closure. If he'll give you one.

You start from afar, skirting the edges. "I was such an idiot that summer. So caught up in trying to be… I don't know. Cool? Independent? It feels so stupid now."

"We were all idiots," he offers, his voice low.

"Not like me," you insist, your fingers knotting together in your lap. "I pulled away from you because I got scared. My friends… they said some things. About you. About how you looked at me. And instead of just asking you, or ignoring it, I let it get in my head. I convinced myself that the easiest and safest thing was to just… create distance. I thought I was protecting our friendship by doing it."

You risk a glance at him. He's looking straight ahead, his profile serious, listening.

"My overthinking brain ruined it all because it was terrified of ruining it," you whisper, the confession feeling both shameful and freeing. "And I've always kept wondering…"

The question fills your lungs in place of air, the one question that has worried your mind and heart for years. It feels enormous here, in this small, quiet clearing.

"Did it actually mean anything?" you finally ask, the words barely audible. "The way you were with me. The shirt on the beach. Any of it. Was I just seeing ghosts because my friends put the idea there, or… or was there something else?"

You don't know what answer you're looking for. A yes would rewrite your entire shared history. A no would solidify your long-held guilt. Your heart skips a painful beat as you look at him with bated breath, the whole world reduced to the space between this log and the water's edge.

Seungcheol is silent for a long time. He picks up a flat, grey pebble and turns it over in his fingers. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, measured, as if choosing each word from a deep well.

"Yes," he says, and your stomach drops. "And no."

He finally turns his head to look at you, his eyes holding yours. "You were my lifelong best friend. My only real friend. Of course the way I was with you meant everything. Offering you my shirt wasn't a gesture. More of a reflex, I would say. You were cold. That was the whole story."

He looks back at the pebble. "But… were there moments? Yeah. Sometimes. I was fifteen. And you were too. It would flash through my mind, and then it would be gone, because you were you, and I was me, and what we had was too big to risk on a feeling I didn't even understand."

He flicks the pebble into the lake. It skips once, twice, then sinks. Seungcheol lets out a dissatisfied huff. "So, no. I didn't have some big secret crush. But yes, you weren't entirely seeing ghosts. Just… more like echoes."

The answer neither calms nor cuts. It leaves you in a more complex state of swallowing that pill. So, it was real, and it also was not. There was a possibility that flickered and died, choked by the overpowering reality of your friendship. The closure you sought turns out to be not a ribbon, tied in a pretty bow, but something messier that can't be put in a yes or no box.

You let out a breath you were holding and the silence returns, though different. The air feels clearer, the weight of the unsaid finally dissolved and for the first time in years you're looking at the same picture, seeing the same complicated blend of colours. And yet you think it will take time for you to understand what you feel about this revelation.

When his birthday comes around in August, you're the first to congratulate him. First to text him at midnight on the dot, a simple string of celebratory emojis and a Happy Birthday, old man. You get a sleepy, heart-eyed sticker in return minutes later. And then, in the soft, dewy morning, you find yourself walking the familiar path to his house, a small, carefully wrapped present in your hands. You'd bought it back in June, a silly vintage keychain shaped like cherries, a nod to a thousand childhood summer days spent stealing berries and fruit from gardens, carefree and happy.

You haven't stepped foot into his house for a long time. Not since those stiff, polite family dinners during the strained years. It is becoming a quiet anecdote in your head, a growing list: Haven't done this in a long time, haven't said that in a long time, haven't felt this in a long time—all when it comes to him. But his parents are overjoyed to see you, his mother pulling you into a hug that smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. "He's still dead to the world upstairs," she says, rolling her eyes with fondness. "You can wait in the living room, sweetheart. I'll make you some tea."

You hover in the familiar hallway, contemplating. The lingering unfamiliarity with this newer, more guarded version of him suggests you should wait politely, or perhaps just leave the present on the table with a note. It's the respectful, distanced thing to do. But the older, bolder side of you—the side that remembers racing up and down these stairs, the side that wants to reclaim a fraction of that unthinking closeness—insists on a loud, chaotic intrusion. That side wins.

Only, when you go upstairs to carry out your mischief, nothing goes to plan.

You push his bedroom door open with infinite care, avoiding the spot that used to creak. The room is dim, the blinds drawn against the morning sun. It smells faintly of his laundry detergent and that warm wood scent of a wooden house. You can just make him out in the bed tucked into the corner, a mountain of pillows and a tangled blanket. One foot is sticking out from under the covers. You stifle a giggle, creeping further inside to leave your small present on his cluttered desk. Your eyes adjust to the gloom, and you turn to finally execute your plan.

And then you freeze.

His cheek is pressed into the pillow he's hugging, his face turned toward you. His lips, slightly parted, are soft and full in sleep. His long, dark lashes form delicate crescents against his skin, trembling faintly with each dream. You hear the soft, rhythmic sound of his snoring, a tiny, vulnerable noise that makes your own breath catch. You stand there, mesmerized. You always knew, even at your most stubbornly platonic, that Seungcheol was a good-looking guy. It was an objective fact, like the sky being blue. You'd acknowledged it the way you'd acknowledge a well-designed poster—with appreciation, then moving on.

But now, watching him in this private, unguarded state, the knowledge doesn't just sit in your mind. It sinks into your chest, a heavy, sweet ache. It's not just objective anymore. It's a feeling, a physical pull deep in your gut, a faint, intensifying heartache that has nothing to do with nostalgia and everything to do with the curve of his jaw against the cotton, the way his hand lies open and trusting on the sheet.

Before you can snap out of your daze and pounce, his phone on the nightstand erupts into a shrill, pulsing ringtone.

It jolts you so violently you don't even process the movement. One second you're standing, the next you've stumbled to your knees on the rug with a soft thump, your hand clutching at the sudden, frantic beat of your own heart. Seungcheol, meanwhile, just grunts, fumbles blindly for the device, and brings it to his ear without even opening his eyes.

"Mm'yeah?" he croaks, his voice thick with sleep.

You can hear the tinny, excited chatter of a male voice on the other end. Seungcheol listens, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Uh-huh… Yeah, I'm up… What time?" A pause. He cracks one eye open, squinting at the clock. "That's in like, four hours. Why are you calling me now, you psycho?" But he says it with a groan that's more fond than annoyed.

Your stomach twists. They're coming here. His friends. Today.

Something bitter as pine resin, rises in the back of your throat. The emotion is immediate and easy to identify: jealousy. Hot, unwelcome, and possessive. This village, this house, this room—they've always existed in a separate world, a world that belonged only to the two of you and your shared history. The idea of his loud, shiny university friends invading this sanctuary, filling this quiet space with their alien energy, feels like a violation. And he didn't even mention it. The disappointment is a cold stone dropping inside you.

You shove the feeling down, mentally chastising yourself. You don't own this place. You don't own him. He has a whole life you're not a part of, and he's allowed to share pieces of it with whoever he wants. It doesn't help that tangled up with the jealousy is a sting of secret envy. You've tried, more than once, to convince one of your own friends to visit you here, to see the lake, to understand this part of you. The answers were always polite refusals, conflicting plans, a lack of interest, promises of someday that never came. The fact that his friends are not just willing, but eager enough to travel here feels like an indirect, cosmic jab. You need to come to terms with the fact that the universe loves pulling jokes like this on you.

The moment shatters when Seungcheol, finally hanging up the phone, rolls onto his back with a sigh—and his sleep-blurred gaze lands on you, kneeling like a startled deer on his bedroom floor.

He blinks. Once. Twice. Frowns. His brain clearly struggling to process the input: Phone call. Friend coming. Girl on the floor.

A slow, bewildered smile dawns on his face. "Are you… praying?" he rasps, his voice still gravelly. "Or did my supreme birthday majesty finally strike you with the appropriate awe?"

The familiar teasing is your lifeline. You scramble to your feet, brushing nonexistent dust from your knees, your face hot. "You wish. I was attempting a dramatic, birthday ambush, but your stupid phone gave me a heart attack. I think I have permanent hearing damage."

He pushes himself up on his elbows, the blanket pooling around his waist. His hair is a glorious, sleep-tousled mess. "An ambush, huh? What was the plan? A bucket of water? An air horn?"

"A severely disappointed glare," you shoot back, falling back into the rhythm as your heartbeat slowly calms. "For still being asleep when the sun is clearly up. Lazy."

"It's my birthday," he says, as if this explains everything. He finally notices the small package on his desk. "What's that?"

"A peace offering for the premature aging I'm about to give you by dragging you out of bed."

He laughs, a warm, sleepy sound that fills the dim room, and for a second, the jealousy and the envy and the complicated ache are shoved aside, forgotten. Here, in this moment, it's just you and him and a shared joke. But the knowledge of the incoming visitors hangs in the air between you, an unspoken, new fact that has already begun to subtly reshape the borders of the day, and of this fragile space you're trying to rebuild.

"Open it," you insist, nodding toward the gift. You don't move from your spot in the middle of his room. The planned ambush is forgotten, replaced by a sudden, desperate need to see his face.

"Now? Can't a guy brush his teeth first?" he grumbles, but he's already swinging his legs out of bed and padding over to the desk. He picks up the small box, turning it over in his hands.

"No. Birthday rules. Immediate gratification only."

He rolls his eyes but begins carefully peeling back the tape, his sleep-clumsy fingers surprisingly gentle. He lifts the lid, pushes aside the tissue paper, and goes utterly still.

Nestled inside is a simple, polished silver keychain. Two perfect, glossy cherries, their stems linked together.

A slow, quiet breath leaves him. He doesn't look at you, just runs his thumb over the smooth, cool metal fruit. "Cherries," he says, his voice low.

"From Mrs. Green's garden," you remind softly. Countless summer raids, sticky juice on your fingertips, her shrill voice chasing you off her property. The triumphant, shared sweetness. It's his favourite berries too.

A real, tender smile breaks over his face, it reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners, makes his dimples dent his cheeks. He looks at you then, and the weight of the shared memory is right here in the dim room with you. "I love it. Seriously. Thank you," he says, and he means it. He hooks it onto his phone case immediately, the cherries dangling.

Your mission accomplished, the intimacy of the moment suddenly feels too vast. You take a step back, toward the door. "Okay. Good. Now you can go be human. I'll be downstairs stealing your birthday breakfast."

He's still looking at the keychain, a softness on his face you haven't seen in years, if ever. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Give me ten."

You slip out, closing the door softly behind you, leaving him alone with the gift and the ghosts of a thousand stolen summer days. The image of his smile stays with you, warmer than the morning sun now streaming into the hallway as you come back downstairs while your heart pounds in your chest.

You don't stay at his house for long. Just long enough to sing Seungcheol a ridiculously off-key happy birthday song while he blows out the single candle on the small, sweet cake his mother made for him while he was still asleep. You have the privilege of being the first of his friends to share his birthday cake with him, a fact that feels both trivial and deeply significant as you clink your fork against his. His mother, bustling around the kitchen, launches into reminiscing about your childhood—the times you both tried to make a 'cake' out of mud and stones in a puddle that always forms on the road by their house, the way you'd always race each other while going from one house to the other.

"You were such a pair," she sighs, beaming. "Always attached at the hip."

You and Seungcheol share a glance across the table, a soft, complicated smile passing between you. The memory is warm, but the path from then to now feels newly fragile.

After you're done with tea and the last crumbs of cake, you head back to your house. He walks you to the garden wicket gate, the wood weathered and familiar.

"So," he says, leaning against the post. "My friends. They're gonna descend around four."

You nod, plucking a leaf from the overgrown hedge. "I figured from the wake-up call that nearly sent me to meet my ancestors."

He winces with a chuckle. "Sorry about that." A beat of comfortable silence settles, filled with the buzz of midday insects. Then he reaches out, his hand finding yours. He gives it a firm, warm squeeze. "Come tonight. To the guest house. We're just gonna grill some stuff, hang out. Please?"

He's using the big, pleading eyes on you—the ones you've never been able to resist since you were both toddlers. It's profoundly unfair.

"Seungcheol…"

"Come on," he presses, a playful stomp of his foot cementing the full-blown, faux tantrum. His lower lip juts out in an exaggerated pout. "It's my birthday. You have to. It's the law."

Just to make it worse he swings your arm and whines. Oh my god, you think.

You try to hold onto your reluctance, the fear of being the awkward outsider at a party for his other life. But you're a done deal and you both know it. "Fine. You menace. But only for a little while."

There isn't a brighter smile than the one that breaks across his face. He lets out a quiet "Yes!" and before you can react, he pulls you into a brief, hard hug, his arms tight around you for one solid, heart-stopping moment. He smells like sleep and his mom's laundry soap and home. "It'll be okay," he murmurs near your ear, letting go just as quickly. "I promise. I won't let you feel left out."

You leave then, the ghost of his hug lingering on your skin, a brand of both comfort and confusion.

You're at war with yourself the entire afternoon. The conflict must be plain on your face because your mother pauses while watering her plants. "Everything alright, sweetie? You've been pacing between your room and the kitchen for an hour."

"Just… deciding what to wear tonight," you say, which isn't entirely a lie, and it seems to satisfy her.

The question feels monumental. Do you dress to impress—within the casual, village-appropriate framework—or do you not give a fuck and wear your old shorts and a faded t-shirt, making a statement that you refuse to try in a space you consider yours? The urge to armour up is strong. But so is the desire to feel like yourself.

You settle for the middle ground. A flowy, comfortable summer dress in a soft rose pink. It's pretty but not fussy. You don't bother with makeup beyond a swipe of lip balm, or with your hair beyond brushing it out. The decision feels like a declaration: This is me. I am comfortable here. There is no one here I need to perform for. It's a reclaiming of your own realm.

At around six, Seungcheol's text comes through: The barbarians are at the gate. Table-setting chaos imminent. Your calm, organizing presence is formally requested.

You smile, give one last spray of your favourite floral perfume—the one you only really wear here in the village—and head over.

The guest house, a small, charming cottage at the edge of their property, is indeed in a state of happy chaos. You're immediately spotted by the group spilling out onto the stone patio.

"Hey! It's the mystery friend!" calls out Mingyu, one of the guys you recognize, waving a bag of charcoal.

The two girls, Violet and Ginger (you've finally sorted their names), offer warm smiles. "He said you might save us from his questionable decorating skills," Violet laughs.

Seungcheol is nowhere in sight. "Where is the birthday disaster?" you ask, slipping into the familiar role of teasing him.

"Carrying the sacred meat from the house!" Soonyoung announces dramatically, just as Seungcheol's voice comes from behind you.

"Incoming! Heavy stuff, make way—"

You spin and quickly sidestep as he manoeuvres past, his arms laden with platters of marinated chicken and vegetables. You instinctively reach out and take the top couple of platters from him.

"See?" he says, grinning at you over the stack. "I knew you were essential personnel. Everyone else is just standing around looking pretty."

You roll your eyes at him, ready to give him an earful for calling you personnel but you're cut off before you can even open your mouth.

"We're creating ambiance!" Vernon protests, and everyone laughs.

It falls into a somewhat familiar rhythm. This time, his friends don't feel like an impenetrable, alien wall. Maybe it's because you're on your own turf—the dappled evening light through the trees, the scent of the lake on the breeze, this place is yours. Or maybe it's because the silent, cold war you'd been waging against his new life has officially ended with your apology by the lake. You don't feel threatened by their easy laughter, by their inside jokes. You observe them now with curiosity rather than judgment.

You help Violet thread vegetables onto skewers. You listen to Chan and Vernon debate the best way to stack wood. You learn that Soonyoung is terrifyingly competitive about lawn games. And through it all, Seungcheol moves, a warm, steady nucleus to the group, his eyes finding you often, a quick check-in, a shared smile when Mingyu attempts a failed cartwheel. You feel your skin prickle every time your eyes meet.

At one point, as you're both inside fetching drinks from the cooler, he bumps your shoulder with his. "Okay?" he asks, his voice low.

You nod, handing him a soda. "Yeah. I take it back. They're… they're nice. Actually."

He looks relieved, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. "Good. I told you."

The evening melts into a soft, golden blur. The food is delicious, the chatter easy. You don't feel the pressure to be the loudest or the funniest. You chime in when you have something to say, you laugh when something is genuinely funny, and you lapse into comfortable silence, watching the fireflies begin to blink in the deepening twilight. You're not one of them, not really. You don't think you'll be swapping deep secrets with Ginger or planning trips with the guys. But you're not an outsider either. You're a respected ally, a piece of Seungcheol's world that they are politely, kindly making space for.

As the sky turns indigo and the citronella candles are lit, Seungcheol drops into the empty Adirondack chair beside you, letting out a contented sigh. The others are in a heated debate a few feet away about some movie sequel.

"Tired, old man?" you tease softly and receive a playful glare from him.

"Happy," he corrects, and the simple word feels weighted. He glances at you, the candlelight flickering in his eyes. "Thanks for coming. It… means a lot."

"Thanks for making me," you reply, and you mean it.

You both sit there, side by side, listening to the murmur of voices and the chorus of crickets. The divide between his old world and his new one doesn't feel like a canyon here in the dark. It feels more like a seam, and you are sitting right on the stitch, belonging to both sides in a way you're only just beginning to understand. The night is peaceful, and for the first time in a while, the future—his, yours, whatever it may hold—doesn't feel like a threat, but rather a quiet, open possibility.

Things are peaceful for a long while after that. You're content, deeply so, with the state of your friendship with Seungcheol. The two of you have reacquainted yourselves with the people you've become, building a new bridge over the old crack. In a way, it makes you feel stronger when you think about everything you two went through. If you managed to circle back to a close, honest friendship after what felt like an irreparable loss, then there's nothing you won't be able to overcome with just enough effort and care. This knowledge becomes a small but durable pillar in your life.

But as with everything else, this all-encompassing peace doesn't last forever. Or rather, it evolves into something less peaceful, more electrically charged.

When you asked Seungcheol about your summer camp past while sitting on that log by the shoreline, you only asked about that—the past. You had a follow-up question coiled in your chest, about the present, about the now. You planned to ask it depending on his response. But since he didn't give you a definite yes, a clear confession of past feelings, you never came around to voicing the present question. You got scared once again, terrified of ruining what had been rebuilt with such painstaking difficulty. In that moment, yet again, the scales of your hesitation tipped in favour of your old reasoning: having him as your friend was more valuable, more secure, than taking a chance on something that could possibly burn it all down without hope of restoration. You valued his presence in your life much more than any relationship chance.

In the days and weeks that followed, as your comfort level with each other grew into something even easier than before, you began noticing subtle things about his behaviour that left you quietly puzzled. Little things that made it "weird" again, in a wholly different way, that made your mind spin in frantic, hopeful circles. But unlike your teen self that got scared and pulled away, your current self relished and lingered. It craved the confusing, delicious tension of what it was getting. So you allowed Seungcheol his little behaviours—the prolonged glances, the way his attention would focus on you completely in a room filled with other people, the touches that lasted a beat too long. They often felt probing, careful, testing the waters, before he'd snap back into something casually comfortable.

For example, now you watch as he settles onto your couch by your side, setting the greasy takeout boxes on the coffee table for your bi-weekly movie night. Your eyes briefly travel across his body, a habit you've stopped trying to break. He's gotten stupidly big over the past couple of years with his dedicated gym routine. Thick thighs that strain against the fabric of his sweats, big arms that make the simple act of holding a remote look strangely purposeful, a broad back that seems to take up more than its fair share of the world. And a whole ass bakery—a fact you, along with Soonyoung and Mingyu, have mocked him for quite a few times. (Only, in your case the teasing is just a convenient cover for the fact that you stare at his ass every chance you can get). He's built like a bear—no, not that unreasonably huge type like some body builder (ew), there's just something strong yet undeniably soft about him in this shape—and it drives you quietly mad sometimes, when you allow your mind to linger.

And so you observe him from the corner of your eye as you turn the movie on—some big, loud action film he chose instead of his usual romance picks—and take the container of noodles and chopsticks he passes you. Your sofa isn't very big, but it's got enough space for three people to fit comfortably side by side. And yet Seungcheol would always, without fail, choose to sit as close to you as physically possible, ensuring at least a minuscule point of contact. Like right now, your knee is pressed firmly into the solid muscle of his thigh, and it makes you hyper-aware of his immediate presence, of every tiny shift he makes.

"This is the one where the skyscraper collapses, right?" he asks, shovelling a bite of food into his mouth.

"I think so. Or maybe it's the one where they steal something." You try to sound normal, but your voice feels like it's coming from somewhere outside your body, which is currently mapping the exact heat signature of his leg against yours.

He laughs, and you feel it through his thigh pressing more firmly into your knee. You don't pull away. "Same difference. Pass the spring rolls."

You hand him the carton, your fingers brushing. The movie starts with a roar of engines, but the real noise is the staticky buzz in your own veins. He settles back, and in doing so, he doesn't just relax; he seems to expand, his arm coming to rest along the back of the couch when hes' not eating his rolls, his fingers dangling perilously close to the slope of your shoulder. There's no touching. But it's hovering. And you feel like he's probing another boundary between you.

You focus very hard on your noodles, on the explosion happening on screen, on anything but the screaming awareness of his proximity. This is the new, quiet war: your contented friendship against the thrilling, terrifying possibility of a single, deliberate movement—his hand inching closer, your head tilting—that could change the definition of everything.

And yet, neither of you dares to breach that gap.

You're at a club. You're here only because Seungcheol begged you to come with him and his friends, wielding his lethal weapon of baby cow eyes and a practised, devastating pout. Just once, he'd pleaded. It'll be fun, I promise. You can judge us all from a safe distance. The fucker has learned how to play you to get what he wants. You wish you had the same power over him sometimes, but you don't think you do. Your weapons—logic, mild guilt-tripping—are useless against the sheer force of his earnest, playful need. And sometimes that imbalance makes you feel at a disadvantage. It makes you want to build a taller wall, to be more in control of yourself and the situation, because you're never quite sure what the situation is with him anymore.

This is so far outside your scene and your comfort zone, you're really starting to regret agreeing to come. The bass is a physical thing, pounding against your sternum. Strobing lights cut through the smoky air, illuminating flashes of undulating bodies on the dance floor in a way that feels more chaotic than celebratory. You don't like drinking much, you don't get this music, and the sheer volume of people is overwhelming. Your only salvation is that your group managed to claim a secluded booth in a shadowy corner, and you've planted yourself there like a barnacle, a bottle of water in hand, while the others migrate between the bar and the dance floor.

This is the guy who told me he doesn't particularly enjoy clubbing… all men do is lie, you think grimly, watching across the space as Mingyu and Seungcheol line up another round of shots at the crowded bar. You're beginning to suspect his motive. He needed a designated driver. The thought sparks a low, familiar flame of annoyance. You're not his keeper. And yet you're here because he can look at you like the cat from Shrek and make you fold.

You pull out your phone, scrolling through social media with aggressive taps, trying to distract yourself and not fan that spark. You know if you let it grow, you'll be out of here in a flash of righteous indignation, leaving him to deal with the consequences of his own choices.

When a body slides into the booth on your side of the U-shaped seat, you don't even look up, thinking it's maybe Soonyoung returning from his dance marathon.

Only for a second.

"Hey there. You look a little lonely sitting all by yourself."

Your defences slam up, a full-body flinch. You look up from your phone to find a guy leaning into your space, maybe around your age or a little older—it's difficult to tell in the epileptic lighting. He has a slick, confident smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"I'm with friends," you say flatly, turning your body away, a clear dismissal.

"I don't see any friends," he persists, his voice louder to cut through the music. He gestures to the empty seats. "Looks like they left you hanging. Can I buy you a drink?"

"No, thanks." Your voice is tighter now. "I'm good."

"Come on, don't be like that. Just one drink." He leans closer, and the smell of too-strong cologne and alcohol hits you.

A cold thread of anxiety winds through your gut. "I said no. Please go away."

He chuckles, as if your discomfort is cute. "You're not being very friendly."

Your politeness evaporates. "And you're not taking a hint. Fuck off."

The words are bold, but your voice wavers. You're not as confident in your tactics as you're trying to sound. Your heart is beginning to hammer against your ribs. He doesn't move, his smile turning into something colder, more stubborn. He's blocking your easy exit from the booth.

You're clutching your phone, your knuckles white, readying to awkwardly scramble over the back of the seat or slip out the other end to get away from him, when you see them. Mingyu and Seungcheol are weaving their way back through the crowd toward the booth, bobbing their heads to the beat, laughing about something. Mingyu is gesturing wildly.

Your eyes lock onto Seungcheol. The look you give him is a frantic mix of alarmed hope and sheer relief. See me. Look over, please.

You don't even get to stand and meet them halfway. Seungcheol's eyes, bright and slightly glassy from the shots, flicker from Mingyu's face to the booth, to you, to the stranger invading your space. It's like you can visibly see the process happen in a split second: the recognition, the assessment, the click. All the loose-limbed, drunken relaxation drains from his posture instantly. His smile vanishes. His shoulders square. He sobers up in the space of a breath, no matter how much alcohol is in his system.

"Hey!" Mingyu calls out, his tone changing as he reads the room a second after Seungcheol does.

A few seconds later, they're at the booth. Seungcheol doesn't even look at the guy first. His eyes find yours, a silent you okay? You give a tiny, tense nod.

Then he turns. "You got a problem?" His voice is low, but it cuts through the thrumming bass, all rough edges and clear threat.

The guy at your side finally leans back, holding up his hands in a mock-surrender. "Whoa, man. Just talking. No need to get territorial."

Mingyu doesn't bother with words. He just reaches in, his grip firm on the guy's shoulder. "Out. Now."

What happens next unfolds in a horrifying, slow-motion clarity. As Mingyu tries to physically extract him and almost succeeds, the guy shoves back, angry, spitting insults and dropping back onto the seat. "Get your hands off me! She wanted company!"

It's a bad move. A terrible one in fact.

Seungcheol moves. Not with a wild swing. With a frighteningly precise one. He steps past Mingyu, his body coiled, and his fist connects with the guy's jaw with a sickening, wet crack that you feel in your own teeth. The guy's head snaps to the side, and he goes down like a sack of stones, collapsing against the seat.

*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* Please like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this! This means a lot and motivates me to continue posting.