treasures of the soul

the office is small — it always has been, tucked at the end of a corridor on the third floor like an afterthought, shelves stacked with back issues and ink-stained notebooks and the particular smell of parchment and ambition. you’ve spent half your hogwarts career in this room. you love it. you are currently furious at it.

“it’s shallow,” you say.

“it’s fun.”

“it’s not what i do.”

“it’s what i’m asking you to do,” sora says, still pleasant, still level. “one piece. a proper feature — long form, first person, real observations. you get close to someone, you write about it. how to get the guy.” she pauses. “it’ll be the december issue centrepiece.”

“and if i say no?”

she looks at you. just looks at you. the complaint letters are visible on the corner of her desk from where you’re sitting.

you say, “fine,” in a tone that makes very clear it is not fine, and sora smiles like she knew you’d get there eventually.

“wonderful,” she says. “i was thinking james.”

you’re halfway out of your chair. “sorry?”

“james. hufflepuff captain. seventh year.” she says it like she’s reading off a grocery list. “he’s well-liked, he’s interesting, people have opinions about him. the readers will love it.”

“i know who he is.”

“good. that saves us some time.”

you stand there for a moment, hand on the back of the chair, running through every argument you have left and finding all of them useless against the particular expression on sora’s face — pleasant, immovable, slightly amused. like a door that looks like it should open and simply doesn’t.

“six weeks,” she says. “the article runs the first of december. get close, take notes, write something good. you’re good at this, y/n. that’s why i’m asking you.”

“you’re not asking me.”

“no,” she agrees pleasantly. “i’m not.”

you leave. the door clicks shut behind you with a quiet, decisive sound that feels very on brand for lee sora, and you stand in the corridor for a moment, staring at nothing, before you turn and walk back toward gryffindor tower with the particular energy of someone who has just agreed to something they are absolutely going to regret.

you tell your friends that night.

yoonchae finds out first, purely because she’s there when you walk into the common room and she takes one look at your face and says “what happened” with the focus of someone who has known you long enough to read your expression like a weather forecast.

you sit down on the couch. you explain.

by the end of it, yoonchae is pressing her lips together very hard in the way she does when she’s trying not to laugh and failing. “james,” she says.

“don’t.”

“the james.”

“yoonchae, i swear—”

“okay, okay.” she holds her hands up. but her eyes are doing the thing. you look away.

kazuha hears about it the next morning, over breakfast. she listens to the whole thing without interrupting, which you appreciate, and then she sets her fork down and says, “i don’t think this is a good idea,” which you also appreciate, mostly because it’s exactly what you think and it’s useful to hear it said out loud by someone else.

“i know,” you say.

“does sora understand what she’s asking you to—”

“sora understands exactly what she’s asking me to do. that’s the problem.”

kazuha nods slowly. “what are you going to do?”

“write the article,” you say, because what else is there. “get it over with.”

she looks at you for a moment longer than necessary, in that quiet ravenclaw way she has, like she’s filing something away for later. then she picks her fork back up and says, “okay. do you want help with the approach?”

you do. you say yes.

keonho is harder.

he comes to find you after dinner — you’d owled him, which felt necessary given that james is hufflepuff and keonho is hufflepuff and the world is, apparently, very small. he drops into the seat across from you in the library with his bag over one shoulder and his expression already doing something complicated.

“so,” he says.

“i didn’t choose this,” you say immediately.

“i know you didn’t.” he’s quiet for a second. “i know james. not well. but a bit.”

“i know.”

“he’s not—” keonho stops. starts again. “he seems like a lot on the surface. the captain thing, the confidence, all of that. but he’s not a bad person, y/n.”

“i’m not trying to do anything bad to him. i’m writing an article.”

“i know,” he says again. and then, lighter, almost like he means it as a joke: “just don’t actually fall for him.”

you roll your eyes. “please.”

he smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach. “i mean it.”

“keonho. it’s an assignment.”

he looks at you. you look back. he lets it go, because he knows you, and he knows that you’ve already made up your mind, and he knows there’s nothing left to say right now that you’re going to hear.

“okay,” he says. “buy me a butterbeer at hogsmeade and i’ll help you figure out how to approach him.”

“deal,” you say, and you mean it, and you almost don’t notice the way he glances down at the table for just a second before he looks back up and changes the subject.

you spend three days observing james before you do anything else.

this is, you tell yourself, basic journalistic practice. you wouldn’t write about anything without research. you wouldn’t walk into an interview without knowing your subject. this is just due diligence. it has nothing to do with nerves.

what you learn, in those three days:

he’s never late. to class, to practice, to anything — there’s a precision to him that surprises you, given how easy and unhurried he seems everywhere else. like the confidence isn’t carelessness. like he’s thought about things more than he lets on.

he’s funny. genuinely, quietly funny, in a way that’s easy to miss if you’re not paying attention. he says things deadpan, at low volume, and half the people around him don’t catch it and the other half lose it completely. his friend martin catches it every time. seonghyeon, you notice, usually gets there about three seconds late and then laughs too loud to compensate.

people gravitate toward him. you watch this happen in real time, in the great hall, in the corridor outside charms — people drifting toward him like he’s warm, like standing near him is just slightly more comfortable than standing anywhere else. he doesn’t perform it. he doesn’t seem to notice it.

that, you think, is the most interesting thing about him. not the confidence. not the quidditch. it’s that he’s so used to being the center of things that he’s stopped seeing it. the fish doesn’t notice the water.

you open your notebook. you write:

the first thing you need to understand about a boy like this is that he’s used to being the most interesting person in any room.

you underline it.

don’t let him be.

you engineer the first meeting on a thursday.

the cover is real, at least — the chronicle does a feature on each quidditch team at the start of the season, and hufflepuff’s is overdue. you owl the request to james the night before, professional and brief, and he sends back two lines confirming he can do friday after practice, signed with just his first name, no punctuation.

you meet him by the pitch.

he’s still in his quidditch gear when he finds you — broom over one shoulder, hair still wind-wrecked, looking almost aggressively like someone who knows exactly what they look like and has decided not to do anything about it. he sees you and nods, and you flip open your notebook and remind yourself that you are a journalist. you are a professional. you are completely unaffected by wind-wrecked hair.

“hong y/n,” he says. “the chronicles girl.”

“the chronicles girl,” you repeat.

something flickers at the corner of his mouth. “that bother you?”

“does it bother you that i’m going to call you the quidditch boy for the rest of this conversation?”

he looks at you for a second. “no,” he says, and now he’s almost smiling. “not particularly.”

you ask him your questions. he answers them — easy, practiced, the kind of answers a captain gives when he’s given a hundred interviews, all surface and team spirit and we’re feeling good about the season. you write them down. you do not find them interesting. you do not tell him this.

what you do find interesting, and do not write down, is the way he looks back at the pitch when he thinks you’re not watching. just for a second. like he’s checking something, or like he’s just not quite ready to leave it yet.

you wrap up. you close your notebook. he says “that it?” and you say yes and he nods, easy and unbothered, and turns to go.

he doesn’t ask you anything. not your name — he already knew it — and not anything else. you’re in and out of his afternoon like a footnote.

you walk back to the castle.

you write, later that night, at your desk in the gryffindor tower while yoonchae reads on the bed behind you:

tip one — don’t be impressed. everyone else already is. the moment you are, you become everyone else.

you stare at it for a while.yoonchae says, without looking up from her book, “how’d it go?”

“fine,” you say.

“just fine?”

“just fine.”

she turns a page. “okay.” you look back at your notebook. you think about the way he glanced at the pitch.

the second time you seek him out, you don’t have a reason.

this is, you are aware, a problem. you stand outside the great hall on a tuesday morning telling yourself you do have a reason — research, observation, journalistic necessity — and then you walk in and spot him at the hufflepuff table and think, okay, but what specifically am i going to say.

you don’t have to figure it out. keonho saves you.

he waves you over from across the hall — he’s sitting two seats down from james, which you had not planned but which the universe has apparently decided to arrange for you — and you cross the hall and slide in next to him with your bag and your toast and your completely casual expression.

“morning,” keonho says.

“morning,” you say.

james looks up from whatever he’s reading. he clocks you, and something in his expression does the faint, almost imperceptible thing it did by the pitch — not quite recognition, more like oh, you again. not unfriendly. just noticing.

“chronicle girl,” he says.

“quidditch boy,” you say.

keonho looks between you. “do i want to know?”

“no,” you both say, at the same time, and then you look at each other, and james almost smiles, and you look back at your toast.

it’s nothing. it’s a minute and a half of shared breakfast table and two words of actual conversation and then he’s back to his reading and you’re talking to keonho about something else entirely. but you are aware of him in the way you’re always aware of things you’re studying — that low, constant hum of attention, like keeping something in your peripheral vision without turning your head.

you don’t take notes until you get back to the tower.

he notices things. not obviously — he won’t make a show of it — but he’s paying more attention than he looks like he is. file that away.

it happens gradually, the way most things do when you’re not looking directly at them.

a week passes, and then most of another, and somewhere in the middle of it you stop engineering reasons and start just — showing up. to the great hall in the morning when you know keonho will be there. to the library on thursday evenings, which is when you do your best writing and which, it turns out, is also when james and juhoon apparently work through quidditch strategy in the corner booth by the window. you find this out by accident and then continue to find it out by accident, repeatedly, every thursday for the rest of the month.

you don’t talk every time. sometimes it’s just a nod. sometimes he says something on his way out, low and dry, that makes you bite down on a smile before you’ve decided to.

you’re in the corridor outside transfiguration, leaning against the wall waiting for yoonchae, when james comes around the corner with seonghyeon. seonghyeon sees you and says “y/n, hey,” because seonghyeon is like that — easy and warm, greets everyone like he’s genuinely glad to see them, which you suspect he usually is. you say hey back.

james stops next to him. he looks at you, then at the wall you’re leaning against, then back at you.

“you know that’s the wrong corridor,” he says.

“for what?”

“transfiguration.”

“i know where transfiguration is.”

“you’re facing the wrong direction.”

“i’m waiting for someone.”

“in the wrong corridor.”

you look at him. “are you actually trying to give me directions right now?”

“i’m trying to understand why you’re standing in a corridor that leads to nothing, looking very serious about it.”

“i always look serious. it’s called having a resting thinking face.”

“is that what that is,” he says, and it’s so flat and so perfectly timed that you actually laugh — just once, short, before you catch it — and something crosses his expression that you don’t quite get a name for before it’s gone.

seonghyeon is looking between you both with an expression you don’t examine too closely.

yoonchae appears at the end of the corridor. you push off the wall. “wrong corridor,” you say to james, on your way past. “noted.”

“you’re welcome,” he calls after you, and you don’t turn around, but you hear it — the almost-laugh in his voice — and you think about it, just briefly, before you file it away under research and move on.

there’s a quidditch practice on a friday evening that you tell yourself you’re attending because keonho mentioned it and you need the material and it’s a reasonable thing for a journalist to do, and all of that is true, which makes it very easy to ignore the other reason.

the pitch is cold. you sit in the lower stands with your scarf up around your jaw and your notebook open and you watch.

james runs a good practice. that’s the thing — you’d expected the confidence to curdle into arrogance when it was just his team, no audience, no performance. but it doesn’t. he’s demanding, yes, and he doesn’t pretend something was good when it wasn’t, but there’s nothing mean in it. he runs the same drills as his players. he stays on his broom longer than anyone.

at one point one of the chasers — a fifth year, nervous energy visible from the stands — misses a pass badly and braces like she’s expecting something and james just says, again, and waits, and when she gets it the second time he nods and moves on. no fanfare. just: you did it, next thing.

you write that down. you’re not sure yet which part of the article it belongs to.

practice ends. the team files off the pitch and you’re starting to gather your things when you hear boots on the stand and then james drops into the seat next to yours, still in his gear, broom across his knees, and says nothing for a second.

you say, “good practice.”

“you were watching the whole time?”

“i’m writing about you. observationally speaking.”

“the feature ran last week.”

“i’m thorough.”

he looks at you sideways. there’s a scratch along his jaw you hadn’t noticed before, recent, probably a branch or the wind. “most people don’t actually watch practice,” he says. “they say they will and then they leave after twenty minutes.”

“i stayed the whole time.”

“i know.” a beat. “why?”

you look at him. the honest answer is sitting right there and you step around it neatly. “you’re more interesting to watch than i expected,” you say, which is true, and which reveals nothing, and which makes something in his expression shift in a way that might be curiosity.

he doesn’t say anything for a moment. the pitch is emptying below you. the sun has mostly gone, the sky doing that deep cold purple it does in october, and it’s just the two of you in the stands and the distant sound of the castle.

“hong y/n,” he says eventually, like he’s trying out the weight of it.

“james,” you say back.

he stands. picks up his broom. looks down at you for a second with an expression you can’t fully read, which is new, and slightly annoying. “same time next week,” he says. “if you’re being thorough.”

he walks down the stands and you watch him go and then you look down at your notebook.

you realize you stopped writing about twenty minutes ago.

the thing is, you’re good at keeping things in their correct boxes.

you’ve always been like this — compartments, clear labels, nothing bleeding into anything else. it’s what makes you a good writer. you can look at something, understand it, put it into words, and then set it down. you don’t carry things around longer than they’re useful.

james goes in the box marked subject. it’s a perfectly good box. it has a lid.

you are not thinking about the way he said same time next week.

he finds you in the library on thursday, which is not unusual anymore, except this time juhoon isn’t with him and he sits down across from you without asking, which he hasn’t done before. you look up from your essay. he’s already pulling out what looks like a playbook — actual parchment covered in small, messy diagrams — and spreading it across his half of the table.

you look at the playbook. you look at him.

“i’m not stopping you from sitting there,” you say.

“i know.”

“i’m just noting that you didn’t ask.”

“would you have said no?”

you consider this honestly. “no,” you admit.

“there you go,” he says, and smooths out a corner of the parchment, and that’s it. that’s the whole conversation. you go back to your essay and he goes back to his diagrams and the library is quiet around you and it’s — fine. it’s normal. it doesn’t feel like anything in particular.

you stay until the library closes. so does he.

the saturdays start almost by accident.

the first one: you’re in the courtyard with your notebook, working on something that isn’t the article, and he comes through on his way somewhere and stops and says “you’re always writing,” not like a question.

“you’re always moving,” you say back.

he looks at you for a second. then he sits down on the bench across from yours, drops his bag, and says “i’ve got twenty minutes before i have to be anywhere,” in a tone that somehow makes it your problem.

“i didn’t ask you to sit down.”

“you didn’t tell me not to.”

that, you will come to understand, is just how james operates. he doesn’t ask for space in your life. he just quietly takes up residence in it, and by the time you notice, it already feels normal for him to be there.

those twenty minutes turn into forty. you don’t write much. he doesn’t go wherever he was going. you talk about — nothing, mostly. the kind of nothing that fills time easily, that doesn’t require anything from either of you. he tells you that martin got them all detention last tuesday, something involving a staircase and a fifth year’s lost toad that spiraled. you tell him about the complaint letters without meaning to and he laughs — actually laughs, short and genuine — and says “hufflepuff fifth years are ruthless,” and you say “you’re hufflepuff,” and he says “exactly, i know what they’re capable of,” and you smile before you decide to.

he notices. he doesn’t say anything about it, but he notices.

when he finally leaves he says “see you around, hong,” and you say “see you,” and you sit there for a moment after he’s gone, looking at the very small amount of writing you got done, before you pick your notebook back up.

you don’t write anything about the conversation. not for the article.

you will wonder about that later.

october deepens and so does this — whatever this is. the shape of it becoming familiar in the way that routines do, not because you planned it but because it simply kept happening and at some point stopping would have required more effort than continuing.

thursdays in the library. the occasional saturday. breakfast sometimes, when keonho’s there and the table is crowded and you end up next to each other by the logic of available seats. he starts nodding at you in the corridors, which sounds insignificant and is, except that james doesn’t nod at people he doesn’t know, and now apparently he knows you.

you’re collecting good material. real observations, specific details, the kind of thing that makes a piece feel lived-in rather than reported. you write in your notebook and you write in your draft and you keep them separate because some things are for the article and some things are just — yours. for no reason. just because you noticed them and writing things down is how you process the world.

the draft is good. you can feel it, the way you can always feel when the writing is working. you send sora two paragraphs as a check-in and she replies within the hour: keep going.

you keep going.

the first time it costs you something small, you don’t notice until later.

it’s a thursday, library, the usual. you’re there when he arrives and he sits across from you and you work in the kind of easy quiet you’ve both apparently agreed on without discussing it. at some point he says, without looking up, “can i ask you something?”

“you’re going to regardless,” you say.

“true.” he sets down his quill. “why the chronicle? you could write for actual publications. you’re good enough.”

you look up. “how do you know i’m good enough?”

“i read the quidditch piece,” he says simply.

“that was a standard season feature.”

“it was the best one we’ve gotten in three years. the seeker analysis alone—” he stops. something crosses his face, almost like he hadn’t meant to say that much. he picks his quill back up. “why the chronicle,” he repeats, redirecting.

you look at him for a moment. “because it’s mine,” you say. “everything i write there is mine. i decide what matters, i decide how to say it. no one tells me what the angle is.”

he’s quiet. “sora doesn’t tell you what the angle is?”

the question lands somewhere it shouldn’t. you keep your expression exactly where it is. “within reason,” you say smoothly. “she has opinions. i push back.”

he nods slowly. he’s looking at you in that way he has sometimes — not searching exactly, more like he’s already found something and is deciding what to do with it.

“that makes sense,” he says. “for you.”

“what does that mean?”

“it means it makes sense,” he says. “for you.” and he goes back to his playbook, and you go back to your essay, and you sit with the particular discomfort of someone who has just been seen slightly more clearly than they intended.

you don’t write that part down either.

the first thing you notice is that he remembers things.

not in a deliberate, i-was-paying-attention way. in a worse way — the offhand way, where it's clear he retained something without meaning to, without filing it, just because it stuck. you mention once, briefly, that you write better in the morning and can't draft anything after eight in the evening, and three days later he says something in passing about a chronicle deadline and adds "you've probably already drafted it, it's barely noon" without looking up from what he's doing.

you look at him. he doesn't seem to notice he said it.

you look back at your parchment. you write a sentence. you think, that's nothing, and you believe it, because it is nothing. people remember things. it's not a category.

the second thing is harder to explain.

it's not something he does. it's something that changes in the way he is around you — a kind of ease that you recognize because you feel it too, except when you feel it you have a reason for it and when he feels it you're not sure he does.

he stops performing, is the closest you can get to it. the golden boy thing — the confidence, the slight remove of someone who knows they're well-liked — it doesn't disappear exactly, but it thins. like a coat he forgets to put back on when it's just the two of you.

you notice this on a saturday in the courtyard when he's talking about the upcoming match against slytherin and he goes quiet mid-sentence and says, "i don't know if we're ready," and then looks almost surprised at himself, like the words came out before he approved them.

you don't make a big thing of it. "you've been running them hard," you say. "they'll be ready."

he looks at you. "you've been to two practices."

"i'm observant."

something settles in his expression. "yeah," he says. "you are." and he says it like it's just a fact, like he's simply confirming something he's already decided is true, and goes back to talking about the match, and you go back to listening, and it's fine.

it is fine.

the match is on a sunday.

you go because you always cover the quidditch matches for the chronicle and not for any other reason, and you sit in the gryffindor stands with yoonchae and you watch.

hufflepuff wins. james catches the snitch forty minutes in — you see the exact moment he spots it, the way his whole body shifts before he moves, that half-second of pure stillness and then he's gone, a streak of gold and black against the grey october sky, and the stands erupt and it's — fine. it's good. you're glad for the sake of the coverage.

afterwards there's the usual chaos on the pitch, teammates, celebrations, professor after professor coming down to shake hands. you're scribbling notes in the stands, not going down, that's not necessary, you have what you need—

yoonchae says, "he's looking for someone."

you don't look up. "what?"

"james. he keeps looking up at the stands." a pause. "oh. it's you."

you look up.

he's standing in the middle of the pitch chaos, broom in hand, and he's not looking at you anymore — he's turned back to his teammates, laughing at something martin's said — but yoonchae is right, in that way she sometimes is, where you can't prove it but you feel the truth of it anyway.

"he knows people in the stands," you say.

"seonghyeon is right there next to me," yoonchae says pleasantly. "he didn't look at seonghyeon."

you close your notebook. "i'm going to write up the match report."

"sure," she says.

you go.

it's martin who makes it impossible to ignore.

you're in the great hall, a week after the match, and you're sitting with keonho and kazuha and half-listening to the table behind you, which happens to be the hufflepuff table, which happens to be where james and his friends are sitting.

you're not listening on purpose. you're just — in proximity. journalistic habit.

martin is saying something about a girl in sixth year, some ongoing situation that you gather has been going on since september, and james says something back that you don't catch, and then martin says, loudly, with the energy of someone who has been waiting to say it: "you literally haven't looked at anyone in two months, what's going on with you."

silence from james.

"i'm just saying," martin continues, in the tone of someone who is enjoying himself. "usually by now you'd at least—"

"martin."

"i'm making an observation—"

"make it quieter."

keonho, next to you, has gone very still in the way he does when he's trying not to react to something. you become very interested in your food.

kazuha, across from you, is looking at you with an expression she has the decency to make very small.

"what," you say quietly.

"nothing," she says, equally quietly.

you eat your food. you do not think about what martin said. you are a professional. you have a job to do and a column to write and compartments with lids on them that are functioning perfectly fine.

later, when you're back in the tower, you open your notebook to the article draft.

you stare at it for a while.

you close it again.

the moment that gets you — the one you'll think about later, when you're trying to trace back exactly where the lid came off — happens on a thursday in november.

it's raining. the library is quieter than usual, the windows grey and streaked, the kind of evening that makes the castle feel smaller and warmer than it is. you're there before him. he comes in ten minutes late, which he never is, and drops into the seat across from yours and he looks — tired. not physically. the other kind.

you don't ask. that's not — you don't do that.

but you push your extra pot of ink across the table toward him because his is running low and you noticed last week and brought two tonight without really deciding to, and he looks at it and then looks at you, and something in his face does something you don't have words for yet.

"thanks," he says. quiet.

"you were almost out last week," you say. practical. informational.

"i know." a pause. "you noticed."

"i notice things. it's a whole—"

"personality trait," he finishes. "yeah." he almost smiles. it doesn't quite make it but it's close. he picks up his quill and doesn't say anything else and neither do you, and the rain comes down outside, and you sit there across from each other in the warm quiet of the library and something between you is different than it was an hour ago, you can feel it, you just can't name it yet.

you don't want to name it yet.

you're not oblivious.

that's the thing people might assume, later, if they were being uncharitable — that you didn't see it because you didn't want to. but that's not true. you see it. you've been trained, practically since birth, to notice the small things, the tells, the details that people don't know they're giving away. it's what makes you good at what you do.

so you notice.

you notice that he saves you a seat now. not obviously — not this seat is for you — just that when you arrive somewhere he's already at, there is somehow always space next to him. naturally. coincidentally. every time.

you notice that when you say something in a group and it doesn't land — when the conversation moves on before anyone responds — james will come back to it. five minutes later, ten, like he was turning it over while everything else was happening. what you said earlier, he'll start, and then finish the thought you'd abandoned, and you'll feel the strange, unsettling sensation of being heard by someone who wasn't even looking at you when you spoke.

you notice the way he angles toward you. physically — it's subtle, the kind of thing you'd miss if you weren't paying the kind of attention you're paid to pay. in the courtyard, in the library, at the breakfast table. a degree or two, no more. like a plant that doesn't know it's doing it.

you notice all of it. you catalogue it. you put it in the article, where it belongs.

and then one thursday, sitting across from him in the library with rain on the windows and his quill scratching steadily and his face soft in a way it isn't when other people are watching, you notice something else.

you notice that you've stopped wanting to write it down.

this is the part where you are very firm with yourself.

you are hong y/n. you are a writer. you were given an assignment — one you didn't ask for, one you tried to get out of, one that is nonetheless yours now and has a deadline and a word count and lee sora's name attached to it, which means it will absolutely be happening. you have five weeks of material. you have good material, real material, the kind that only comes from proximity and patience and actually doing the work.

you are not catching feelings for your subject. that would be embarrassing. that would be, frankly, the most cliché thing that has ever happened to anyone.

you are simply — warm. it's november. the castle is cold. he's easy to be around, and you've been spending a lot of time with him, and that's a normal human response to proximity, not a symptom of anything.

you repeat this to yourself on the walk back from the library, in the rain, which has moved from the windows to the actual outdoors where you are currently standing in it because you forgot your umbrella charm and james offered to walk with you under his and you said no, i'm fine, very quickly, and left.

you are fine.

you are standing in the rain.

yoonchae is asleep when you get back. kazuha answers your owl within twenty minutes, which is both impressive and a sign that she was already awake reading something, because she always is.

her reply is four words.

how bad is it.

you stare at the parchment for a long time. then you write back:

it's nothing. i'm handling it.

she writes: okay. i'm here if nothing gets worse.

you fold the letter. you sit at your desk. you open your article draft and you read through everything you've written in the past month, all the tips and the observations and the careful, precise language you've used to describe him, and somewhere around the third page you realize your hand has stopped moving.

you close the draft.

you open your personal notebook instead — the one that's not for sora, not for the chronicle, not for anyone — and you write, in small letters at the bottom of a page:

i'm handling it.

you underline it once. then you close that too, and you go to bed, and you are absolutely fine.

the draft, as it stands at the end of week five, looks like this:

how to get the guy — working draft, hong y/n

for: castle chronicles december issue

status: in progress

the first thing you need to understand about a boy like this is that he's used to being the most interesting person in any room.

[x don't try to be more interesting. you won't be, and he'll know you're trying. x]

don't let him be. not because you need to compete — you don't — but because the moment you're impressed, you become everyone else. and everyone else, he already knows how to handle.

tip one: don't perform.

he'll see through it. not because he's perceptive in any dramatic way — it's subtler than that. he's simply been around enough people being something for him that he knows the texture of it. the girl who laughs too readily, who agrees too easily, who makes herself smaller or larger depending on what she thinks he wants. he's polite about it. he's polite about everything.

[x he's actually quite good at making people feel comfortable. that's the danger, i think — he's so easy to be around that you stop noticing when you've started being honest. x]

just be yourself. i know that sounds like nothing advice. i mean it technically — just be the actual version of yourself, the one that exists when no one's watching. he'll notice the difference. he notices most things.

tip two: show up.

not in a desperate way. not in a god he's going to think i planned this way. just — be present. consistently. let yourself become a fixture in his landscape before you become a question in it. there's a version of familiarity that reads as comfort, and comfort, for someone who spends most of his time being looked at, is rarer than you'd think.

he moves through the world like it's easy. most of the time it is. [x what he doesn't say is that easy gets lonely in its own way. x] what he responds to, underneath all of it, is someone who just stays.

tip three: pay attention to the right things.

everyone pays attention to him. the quidditch, the captaincy, the easy confidence that fills a room. that's not attention, that's just — looking. [x real attention is noticing that he checks on his youngest teammate after every hard practice. that he reads the sports section and then the opinion column and then goes back to the sports section. that he brought his own copy of the chronicle to the library three thursdays in a row before he admitted he read it regularly. that he said it like it was a casual thing. it wasn't a casual thing. x]

notice the things he doesn't perform. those are the real ones.

tip four: don't make it easy.

this one he won't tell you himself, but i'm telling you. he's had easy his whole life — easy wins, easy company, easy mornings. he doesn't need you to be another easy thing. push back. disagree. let a silence sit. he finds it interesting when you do.

[x he finds you interesting when you do. i've watched it happen. i've watched him go still in the way he does when something has his actual attention, not the surface version, and it is. x ]

[section incomplete]

tip five: let him in slowly.

this is the one that matters most, i think, and the hardest one to explain. there's a version of openness that's performance — here is my personality, here are my charming flaws, look how human i am. he doesn't want that. [x or maybe he does, at first, and then he starts wanting something else, and by the time you realize he's switched what he's looking for it's too late to go back and start again. x]

just — let things happen in the order they happen. don't rush it. don't let yourself think too hard about the fact that somewhere in the past five weeks the line between research and reality has become extremely difficult to locate.

i think i

[section incomplete]

notes to self:

— the ending isn't there yet

— [x stop crossing things out, sora's going to think you've lost it. x]

— you have not lost it

— finish the piece

— it was just an assignment

— it was just an assignment.

you close the draft.

you sit at your desk in the quiet of the gryffindor tower, quill in hand, and you look out the window at the november dark, and you think very carefully about nothing in particular.

then you open a fresh piece of parchment and write, at the top:

week six.

week six starts on a monday, and james does something he's never done before.

he waits for you.

not in the library, not in the courtyard — outside the castle chronicles office, on the third floor, at half past eight in the morning, leaning against the wall with his bag over one shoulder like he has absolutely no reason to be on this corridor and hasn't noticed that yet. you turn the corner and stop.

"what are you doing here?"

"keonho said you had an early meeting with sora."

"keonho was right."

"i know." he pushes off the wall. falls into step beside you, which means he's walking with you, which means he waited on a corridor that leads nowhere specifically to walk with you to the great hall. "how'd it go?"

"fine," you say. "routine check-in."

"she giving you a hard time about the december piece?"

"sora gives everyone a hard time about everything. it's her primary personality trait."

"harsh."

"accurate."

he makes a sound that's almost a laugh. you walk down the stairs side by side and you are very carefully not thinking about the fact that he waited for you, specifically, on a corridor that requires a deliberate detour from anywhere he would normally be at half past eight on a monday.

you are not thinking about it.

you are thinking about it a little bit.

the thing about james, you've come to understand, is that he has two speeds.

there's the one everyone sees — easy, confident, slightly untouchable. the one that fills corridors and wins quidditch matches and makes people want to be near him without quite knowing why. that version of him is real. you're not saying it isn't.

and then there's the one that shows up when it's just you.

it's not dramatically different. that's almost the point — it's the same person, same dry humor, same unhurried way of moving through the world. but the remove is gone. the slight performance of it. like he's set something down because carrying it got tiring, and you happen to be the person he sets it down around.

you don't know when that started. you suspect it was gradual, the way everything between you has been gradual — incremental and unremarkable until suddenly it isn't.

on tuesday he finds you in the library and sits down and says, without preamble, "can i tell you something," and you say yes, and he says: "i don't think we're going to win the cup this year."

you look up. "you won the match against slytherin."

"i know. but ravenclaw's team this year is—" he stops. "i haven't told my team that. i haven't told anyone that."

"okay," you say carefully.

"i'm not — i'm not spiraling. i just." he turns his quill over in his hand, once. "it's seventh year. last shot. and i'm looking at the roster and i know what we are and i know what ravenclaw is and the math isn't—" he stops again.

you're quiet for a moment. "do you want me to say something reassuring or do you want me to just hear it?"

he looks at you. something shifts in his face. "the second one," he says, a little quietly.

"okay," you say. and you go back to your essay, and he goes back to his playbook, and you sit with it for him — the worry, the weight of it — and you don't try to fix it, and twenty minutes later he exhales slowly and says "thanks" to his parchment, and you say "mhm" to yours, and that's it.

that's all it is.

but on the walk back to the tower that night you think about the way he said i haven't told anyone that, and the particular way he looked at you after you gave him the choice, and you feel the lid on the box flex, very slightly, and you press it back down with both hands.

wednesday is when it becomes a problem.

you're in the courtyard, bundled against the november cold, and you're with yoonchae and keonho and it's the three of you on a bench being collectively miserable about the weather when james and seonghyeon come through. seonghyeon immediately inserts himself next to yoonchae, because that's just what seonghyeon does, and james stops in front of the bench and looks at the available space — the small available space, next to you — and sits down.

he's warm. that's the first thing. it's freezing and he's just — warm, the way people are when they run hot, and your arm is pressed against his from shoulder to elbow because the bench is not large and there's nowhere else to be and it's fine. it's nothing.

keonho is looking at the middle distance with an expression of great diplomacy.

"you're always cold," james says, to you, not a question.

"it's november."

"you've got three layers on."

"i run cold."

he looks at you sideways. then, without making anything of it, he shifts his weight slightly so he's — closer, barely, just enough — and says "better?" so quietly that only you can hear it and you feel your brain go completely offline for approximately three seconds.

"i was fine before," you say.

"sure," he says.

you look straight ahead. yoonchae, on your other side, has found something very interesting to look at on the opposite end of the courtyard. keonho has not moved. you cannot see his face and you are grateful for that.

james doesn't move either.

you sit there in the cold, his arm warm against yours, and the conversation continues around you — seonghyeon saying something, yoonchae laughing, keonho asking about the weekend — and you participate in it and you are normal about it and you are absolutely not aware of every single point of contact between your arm and his for the entire twenty minutes you sit there.

when he gets up to leave he says "later, hong," and you say "later," and you watch him cross the courtyard with seonghyeon and disappear around the corner.

keonho says, very quietly, to no one in particular: "oh no."

"don't," you say.

"i didn't say anything."

"keonho."

he looks at you. his expression is not unkind. it is, however, extremely knowing, which is almost worse. "y/n," he says, gently.

"i'm handling it," you say.

he nods slowly. "okay," he says. and he doesn't push, because he's keonho and he knows when you've hit a wall, but he reaches over and squeezes your hand once, brief and quiet, and you look away because if you look at him right now you'll say something true.

thursday comes and you go to the library and he's already there, which hasn't happened before — usually you arrive first. he's got two cups of something from the kitchens sitting on the table and he pushes one toward you when you sit down without looking up from his parchment, and you look at the cup and then at him.

"how did you know i was coming?" you ask.

"you always come thursdays."

"you're usually not here when i arrive."

"i was early today." a pause. "it's tea. the kind you had at breakfast last week. i asked the house elves."

you stare at him.

he is very focused on his parchment.

he asked the house elves. he was early, specifically, and he asked the house elves, specifically, about tea you had at breakfast a week ago that he apparently noticed and remembered and then acted on, and he's sitting there like that's a completely normal and unremarkable thing to have done.

"james," you say.

"it's just tea," he says, to his parchment.

it is not just tea. you both know it is not just tea. but you wrap your hands around the cup and it's warm and it tastes exactly right and you say "thank you" and he says "mhm" and you open your notebook and you stare at the page and you think, very clearly, with great precision:

i am in trouble.

and then you think, equally clearly: the article runs in eight days.

and you pick up your quill, and you write, and you do not look up for the rest of the evening, and when he says goodnight and leaves you sit there alone in the library for a while after, cup of tea cooling in your hands, and you think about the deadline and the draft and the ending you still haven't written.

you think about what the ending is going to cost.

the problem with being a writer is that you think in words.

everything that happens to you gets processed through language, filed away in sentences, given shape and edges and a place to live. it's how you've always worked — something happens, you find the words for it, and once it has words it has a box, and once it has a box you can put it down.

the problem with james is that every time you find the words, they're the wrong ones.

he's easy to be around — true, but not enough. he's interesting — accurate, insufficient. i notice him — you notice everyone, that's not it. you sit at your desk at eleven at night and you go through the vocabulary you have and none of it fits right and that, more than anything, is how you know you're in trouble. you've never been short on words before.

you try to be logical about it.

you make a list — not in the article draft, not in your notebook, on a loose scrap of parchment that you will later throw into the common room fire — of reasons why this is manageable.

one: it's proximity. you've spent six weeks in deliberate, sustained closeness with someone specifically because you needed to understand them. of course something happened. that's just how humans work.

two: he's objectively — fine. you're not a person who's immune to that. that would be weird.

three: it'll pass. it's not — it's not anything real. it's just a response to a situation and once the situation ends it'll correct itself.

you look at the list. you think about the tea. you think about the way he said i haven't told anyone that on tuesday like it was information he'd been carrying alone and had simply decided, without fanfare, that you were the place to put it down.

you fold the list up. you throw it in the fire.

logical isn't working.

the feeling, when you stop trying to name it and just let it exist for a moment, is something like this:

it's the thursday library quiet, the scratch of his quill, the way the lamp on his side of the table makes the shadows go warm. it's the specific way he looks when he laughs — not the easy social laugh, the real one, which is shorter and slightly more surprised, like it got out before he decided to let it. it's the fact that he always hands things back to you that you've set down without noticing — your quill when you put it behind your ear and forget about it, your scarf when it falls off the bench, small objects migrating back to you through his hands like he's just always watching where your things are.

it's the way he says hong — not your full name, not y/n, just the one syllable, like he's decided that's the version that belongs to him. you've heard other people use your name your whole life and it has never once done what it does when he says it.

it's the fact that you know things about him now that aren't in any article. that he's a light sleeper. that he rewrites his playbook diagrams at least three times before he's happy with them. that he gets quieter, not louder, when he's stressed, which is the opposite of what you'd expect from someone who takes up as much space as he does. that he's been carrying the weight of this last quidditch season like something he owes someone, though you're not sure who.

none of that is in the draft. you never put it in the draft. and you're starting to understand that the reason you didn't — told yourself it was too personal, too specific, too much — was actually much simpler than that.

it was yours. you wanted to keep it.

you tell kazuha on a friday night, sitting cross-legged on her bed in ravenclaw tower with the curtains drawn and the fire going, because if you don't tell someone you think you might actually combust.

you don't say i have feelings for him. you can't quite make yourself say that yet. what you say is: "i think i've made this complicated."

kazuha looks at you over her book. she sets it down. "how complicated?"

"complicated."

she's quiet for a moment. "how long?"

"i don't know. a while." you pull at a loose thread on her duvet. "i kept telling myself it was just — proximity. the assignment. that i was just doing the job."

"and now?"

"and now i know what tea he gets me from the kitchens." you look up. "he asked the house elves, kazuha. he remembered what i had at breakfast a week ago and he asked the house elves."

kazuha's expression does something careful and complicated. "y/n."

"i know."

"the article—"

"i know."

"it runs in—"

"i know." you press your hands over your face. "i know exactly when it runs. i know exactly what's in it. i know exactly what's going to happen when he reads it and i can't—" you stop. "i tried to pull it. i went to sora two weeks ago and she said it was too late. it's already — it's built into the issue. it's happening."

kazuha is quiet for a long moment. when she speaks, her voice is careful. "does any part of it — could it hurt him? reading it?"

you think about the draft. the crossed out lines. the incomplete sections. the notes to yourself that you forgot to delete. "i don't know," you say, which is not true. "yes," you say, which is.

kazuha reaches over and puts her hand over yours. she doesn't say it'll be fine because kazuha doesn't say things she doesn't know to be true. she just sits with you in it, which is what you needed anyway.

"what do i do," you say. it doesn't come out like a question.

"i don't know," she says honestly. "but i think you should finish the article and i think you should be honest in it. really honest." a pause. "you're always honest in your writing. don't stop now just because it's scary."

you sit there for a while. the fire goes. outside, ravenclaw tower is quiet, the kind of quiet that only exists late at night in the castle, deep and particular and old.

"i really didn't want this assignment," you say finally.

"i know," kazuha says.

"i told sora no."

"i know."

"this is her fault."

"it really isn't," kazuha says, gently, and you almost laugh, and it almost reaches your eyes, and she squeezes your hand once before she lets go and picks her book back up.

you sit there a little longer. you think about james. you think about the article. you think about the eight days between now and the first of december and how strange it is, to be running out of time on something you never wanted to start.

yoonchae finds out on saturday.

not because you tell her — you were going to, you'd been meaning to — but because you're sitting in the common room when james comes looking for seonghyeon and seonghyeon isn't there, and james looks at you on the couch and says "where is he," and you say "no idea," and he says "of course," under his breath, and then instead of leaving he drops into the armchair across from you like he's been here a hundred times, which he has, and says "what are you reading."

you tell him. he asks what it's about. you explain it badly, the way you always do when you're actually invested in something, all out of order and from the wrong end, and he listens to the whole thing without interrupting and then asks a question about the middle that tells you he was actually following, and you answer it, and he asks another, and fifteen minutes disappear before either of you notices.

seonghyeon never shows up.

james leaves an hour later, and the common room is quiet again, and yoonchae appears from the staircase where she has apparently been sitting for god knows how long and looks at you with an expression of profound, sympathetic devastation.

"oh, y/n," she says.

"don't," you say.

"babe."

"yoonchae, i'm serious, don't—"

"you're so—"

"don't."

she comes and sits next to you on the couch. she doesn't say the word. she just puts her head on your shoulder and you sit there together and you stare at the fire and you think about eight days and the draft and the ending you still haven't written and the way he asked questions about your book like he had all the time in the world.

"what am i going to do," you say.

"i don't know," yoonchae says into your shoulder. "but whatever happens — we're here. okay? all of us."

you lean your head against hers. outside, november is doing its worst against the tower windows, cold and relentless, and inside it's warm, and you close your eyes, and for just a little while you let yourself not think about the article.

just for a little while.

the last thing that happens before week six ends — before you have to sit down and finish the draft and send it to sora and let the whole thing become real and irreversible — is this:

sunday evening, the astronomy tower, which is your place, your thinking place, the one you retreat to when the common room is too loud and your head is too full. you've been coming here since fifth year. almost no one knows about it.

you hear footsteps on the stairs and your first thought is annoyance and your second thought, before you've even turned around, is somehow already oh.

james comes through the door. he sees you and stops.

"sorry," he says. "i didn't know anyone—"

"how did you know about this spot?"

a pause. "you mentioned it once. in october. you said you came here when you needed to think." he looks at you. "i wasn't following you. i just needed to—"

"think," you finish.

"yeah."

you look at each other. the tower is open to the sky, cold and clear, and the castle stretches below, all lit windows and moving staircases and the distant flicker of the quidditch pitch torches. it's a good spot. you've always thought so.

you move over on the stone ledge. just slightly.

he comes and sits next to you.

you don't talk for a while. the silence is the comfortable kind — the kind you've built, slowly, over six weeks of libraries and courtyards and thursday evenings, the kind that doesn't need anything from either of you. you look out at the castle and he does too and the wind is cold and it doesn't matter.

"you okay?" he says eventually.

"yeah," you say. "you?"

"yeah." a pause. "no. kind of." he exhales. "i keep thinking about the end of the year. like — what it's going to feel like. leaving."

"seventh year."

"seventh year," he agrees. he's quiet for a moment. "does it feel real to you? that it's almost over?"

you think about the article. you think about december first. you think about the fact that in eight days something is going to happen that you can't undo, and after that nothing is going to look the way it looks right now.

"no," you say honestly. "it doesn't feel real."

he nods slowly. he's looking out at the lights below, his jaw set in that particular way it gets when he's thinking about something he hasn't resolved. and then, very quietly, almost to himself: "i'm glad this year happened the way it did though. some of it."

you don't ask what he means. you're afraid of the answer. you're more afraid that you already know it.

you sit there until the cold gets too much, and then you both get up, and you walk back down the stairs side by side, and at the bottom where the corridors split he says "night, hong," and you say "goodnight, james," and you walk back to gryffindor tower and you go straight to your desk and you open the draft.

you read it from the beginning. all of it — the tips, the crossed out lines, the incomplete sections, the notes to yourself.

and then you pick up your quill, and your hand is very steady, and you write the ending.

you send it to sora on monday morning.

you don't read it again before you do. you made that decision the night before — write it, send it, don't look at it again, because if you look at it again you'll take something out and if you take something out it won't be honest anymore and kazuha told you to be honest and kazuha is almost always right.

sora's reply comes two hours later.

this is the best thing you've ever written.

and then, a minute after:

i mean that. truly.

and then, a minute after that, which is the most un-sora thing she's ever sent you:

are you okay.

you stare at the three owls lined up on your desk. outside, the november sky is doing something grey and noncommittal, the kind of day that can't decide what it wants to be. you think about james in the astronomy tower. i'm glad this year happened the way it did. some of it.

you write back to sora: just run it.

she does.

the week between sending the draft and the first of december is the strangest week of your seventh year.

on the surface, nothing changes. you go to class. you eat breakfast. you write. you go to the library on thursday and james is already there with two cups of tea and you sit across from him and you work in the quiet that belongs to both of you now, and you are normal about it — you are so normal about it, so careful and steady, that by the time you walk back to the tower you're exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with the essay you finished.

underneath the surface, everything is ending.

you know things he doesn't know yet. you carry that around all week like something breakable — the knowledge of what's coming, the shape of the impact, the fact that you sent sora the piece and it's being typeset right now in the little chronicles office on the third floor and there is nothing left to do but wait.

you think about telling him. you think about it seriously, more than once — just walking up to him and saying there's something you need to know before december first and watching his face and dealing with whatever comes after. you play it out in your head, different versions, different words.

in every version, he looks at you differently after.

you don't tell him.

you know that's the wrong choice. you make it anyway, because you're a coward about this specific thing in a way you've never been a coward about anything else, and because some part of you — the part you're least proud of — wants one more week of the library and the tea and the astronomy tower quiet. one more week of the way he says hong like it's the version of your name that belongs to him.

you take the week. you'll regret it. you take it anyway.

on wednesday, four days before the issue drops, james finds you after dinner.

not in the library, not in the courtyard — in the corridor outside the great hall, in the post-dinner crowd, and he just appears beside you the way he does now, like it's where he was always going to end up.

"walk?" he says.

you say yes.

you go the long way around the castle, no particular destination, the way you've both gotten into the habit of when neither of you wants to be anywhere specific. the corridors are quieter up on the fourth floor, away from the common rooms and the staircases. your footsteps echo.

he talks about the upcoming match. about martin doing something catastrophic at practice that he's sworn the whole team to secrecy about. about juhoon finding what might be an undiscovered room on the seventh floor that turns out to be full of broken furniture and nothing else, which is somehow funnier the way he tells it, flat and unhurried.

you laugh. genuinely, fully, in the way you don't have to think about with him anymore.

and then he goes quiet for a moment, and you walk in the comfortable silence, and he says: "i like talking to you."

simple. direct. no performance in it.

you look straight ahead. your chest does something complicated. "you talk to lots of people," you say, which is true and also completely beside the point and you both know it.

"not like this," he says.

you don't have an answer for that. you walk another few steps and the silence is different now, warmer, weighted in a way that makes the back of your neck feel warm despite the cold corridor.

"james," you say, and it comes out quieter than you meant it to.

"i know," he says. which could mean anything. which feels, somehow, like it means everything.

you reach the end of the corridor where it splits — his way and yours. you stop. he stops. and he looks at you in the torchlight with that expression you've been collecting for six weeks, the one he doesn't wear for anyone else, and you think about the article and the deadline and the four days between now and the first of december, and you think about kazuha saying be honest, and you open your mouth—

"goodnight, hong," he says softly.

and he goes.

you stand at the fork in the corridor for a long time after he's gone, looking at nothing, and then you go back to gryffindor tower and you sit on your bed and you press your hands over your face and you stay like that for a while.

yoonchae doesn't say anything. she just comes and sits beside you and that's enough.

december first arrives the way terrible things do — quietly, on an ordinary morning, while you're still half asleep.

you're awake before the rest of the dormitory. the sky outside is that particular december blue, early and cold and clear, and you lie there for a moment looking at it and thinking about the fact that today is the day.

you get up. you get dressed. you go downstairs.

the chronicles copies are always left in stacks by the great hall entrance — that's been the distribution method since second year, charm-duplicated, one per student, neat little towers of parchment that people grab on the way in to breakfast. you walk past them without taking one. you know what it says.

you sit at the gryffindor table. yoonchae arrives seven minutes later and sits next to you without a word and puts a cup of tea in front of you and you wrap both hands around it.

keonho arrives from the hufflepuff table. he crosses the hall, sits across from you, and looks at you with an expression that is entirely gentle and entirely serious. "it's out," he says.

"i know."

"are you okay?"

"not really."

he nods. he doesn't move.

kazuha appears on your other side, which means she came down from ravenclaw tower specifically to be here this morning, which means she owled yoonchae last night to coordinate, which means your friends are doing the thing they do where they quietly arrange themselves around you before you know you need it. you look at the three of them and feel something enormous and unnameable move through your chest.

"whatever happens," kazuha says, "we're here."

you nod. you drink your tea. you watch the great hall fill up around you, the familiar morning noise of it, students grabbing copies of the chronicle on their way in, the rustle of pages, someone at the ravenclaw table already laughing at something in it.

you watch the hufflepuff table.

james isn't there yet.

he reads it at breakfast.

you know because martin is the one who brings it to him — you watch it happen across the hall, martin sliding the open chronicle across the table with an expression you can't read from this distance, saying something. james looks at it.

you look away.

you can't watch. you stare at your plate and you breathe and you feel yoonchae's hand find yours under the table and you hold onto it.

a minute passes. another.

keonho says quietly, "he's still reading."

you don't look up.

another minute. the great hall noise continues around you, ordinary and oblivious, and you sit very still in the middle of it.

then keonho says nothing, which is somehow worse than anything he could say, and you look up.

james has put the chronicle down.

he's not doing anything dramatic. he's not standing up, not saying anything to martin, not looking across the hall. he's just sitting there, very still, in the particular way he gets when something has his actual attention — and he's looking at the parchment in front of him, and his expression is the one you've never seen before, the one that has no name in your catalogue, and even from across the great hall you can see the exact moment he understands.

he looks up.

across the hall. directly at you.

you don't look away. you can't. you sit there and you let him look and you think i'm sorry as clearly as you can, like maybe if you think it hard enough it'll cross the distance between you, and his expression does something you will spend a long time trying to describe and never quite manage.

then he looks back down.

he picks up the chronicle. he folds it. he puts it in his bag.

he gets up and leaves.

he doesn't come to the library on thursday.

you go anyway, out of habit or hope or something you don't have a name for, and you sit at the table that has been yours and his for six weeks and you open your notebook and you stare at a blank page for forty minutes and you write nothing.

the tea on his side of the table stays cold.

seonghyeon finds you in the common room on friday evening.

he sits down across from you with the expression of someone who has been asked to do something he's not sure about, which is so unlike seonghyeon's usual ease that it makes your chest tighten before he's said a word.

"i'm not here to — i'm not taking sides," he says carefully. "i just wanted to say that he's not — he's okay. he's fine."

"he's not fine," you say.

seonghyeon looks at you. "no," he admits. "but he's not — it's not like he's falling apart. he's just." he stops. "he let himself—" another stop. "james doesn't really do that. let people in. and he did, and then—"

"i know," you say. your voice is very even. "i know what i did."

seonghyeon nods slowly. he doesn't say anything else for a moment. then: "the article was—" he seems to be choosing words carefully. "you could tell. reading it. that it wasn't just an assignment."

you look at him.

"i think he knows that too," seonghyeon says. "i think that's almost the harder part. for him."

you sit with that for a long time after he leaves.

you write him a letter on saturday.

not for the chronicle. not for anyone else. you sit at your desk in the early morning quiet when the dormitory is still asleep and you write it the way you write when no one's watching — honest, unguarded, all the way down.

you tell him you didn't choose the assignment. you tell him you tried to get out of it, that you went to sora and she said it was too late, that you should have tried harder and you didn't and you know that. you tell him that somewhere in october the line between research and reality disappeared and you panicked and kept going anyway, which was wrong, and you know that too.

and then you tell him the true thing — the one that's been sitting in your chest since the astronomy tower, since the corridor, since the thursday library and the tea from the kitchens. you tell him that the last part of the article, the part that doesn't sound like tips anymore, the part where the writing changes and the distance collapses — that part has nothing to do with the assignment. that part is just real. that part is the most honest thing you've ever written and you'd written it long before you typed it up and sent it to sora.

you tell him you're sorry.

you fold it up. you write his name on the front. and on saturday morning you walk to the hufflepuff common room entrance — the one by the kitchens, that keonho showed you in third year — and you slide it under the door, and you stand there for a second with your hand flat against the stone, and then you walk away.

you don't hear from him.

not saturday. not sunday. the weekend passes in that particular slow, heavy way that bad weekends have, and your friends are there — yoonchae bringing food you don't ask for, kazuha sitting quietly with you, keonho checking in with that careful gentleness that costs him something too, you know, given that james is his housemate and this is all complicated in ways that extend beyond you — and you're grateful, genuinely, in a way you'll tell them properly later.

but the hours pass and there's no reply, and by sunday night you've decided that's your answer, and you sit at your desk and you look at the blank notebook in front of you and you think about the fact that you've managed, in six weeks, to take the most important thing you've built this year and dismantle it from the inside out.

you open the notebook. you pick up your quill.

you write, at the top of the page: things i know to be true.

you sit there for a long time.

you write: i didn't want this to happen.

you write: i let it happen anyway.

you write: i would do the last six weeks again.

you stop. you look at that last line. you don't cross it out.

he finds you on monday.

astronomy tower, just after curfew, which means he got past the prefects somehow, which means he came here specifically, which means he read the letter.

you hear the footsteps on the stairs and you know before the door opens. you've known the sound of him for two months now — the particular weight and rhythm of it, unhurried even when it shouldn't be. you look out at the castle lights below and you wait.

he comes through the door. he sees you. he doesn't say anything for a moment.

"you left a letter," he says finally.

"yes."

"under the door."

"yes."

he comes to stand beside you. not close, not far — a careful distance, the kind that's aware of itself. you look out at the lights. he does too.

"you should have told me," he says. not angry. just true.

"yes," you say. "i should have."

"the whole time—"

"not the whole time." you turn to look at him. it's important, suddenly, that he knows this part. "the first week, maybe. the first two. after that it stopped feeling like an assignment and i didn't know what to do with that, and i made the wrong choice, and i know that." a pause. "i'm not asking you to be okay with it. i just needed you to know."

he's quiet. he's looking at you with that expression again — the unreadable one, the one that doesn't fit any of the categories — and the wind comes across the tower and you're cold, you're always cold, and he doesn't move to close the distance between you and you don't ask him to.

"the article," he says.

"yes."

"the end of it." he stops. seems to be deciding something. "that wasn't — that wasn't part of the assignment."

it's not a question.

"no," you say. "it wasn't."

he looks out at the castle. something in his jaw works, once. "i know," he says, very quietly. "i could tell. that's—" he stops again. "that's the part that made it worse, actually. because i read the whole thing and i was—" he exhales. "and then i got to the end and it was different. and i know your writing well enough by now to know when you're doing something and when you're just being honest."

your chest aches. "james."

"i'm not—" he turns to look at you. "i'm not over it. i want to be clear about that. you had six weeks of—" he stops. finds the words. "i let you in. i don't do that easily. and you were taking notes."

"i know."

"but." he looks at you for a long moment. "you also stayed. when i didn't give you anything worth writing about — the tuesday in the library, the pitch after practice, all of it. you stayed." a pause. "i'm not stupid, y/n."

it's the first time he's used your name. not hong. your name.

you feel it everywhere.

"i know you're not," you say.

"so i know some of it was real." he looks back at the lights. "i just need—" he stops. "i need some time. to figure out what to do with all of it."

"okay," you say. and you mean it — fully, without conditions. "take whatever you need."

he nods slowly. he doesn't leave though. he stays where he is, the careful distance still between you, and you stay where you are, and you look out at hogwarts together — all lit windows and ancient stone and the far-off flicker of the quidditch pitch — and you breathe.

"the tea," he says eventually, out of nowhere.

"what?"

"in the article. you wrote about the tea. he brought it without asking, already knew what kind, said it like it was nothing. you kept that in."

"yes," you say quietly.

"why."

you look at him. "because it was the moment i knew i was in trouble," you say. "and i wanted to be honest about it. the way it actually happened."

something crosses his face. not the unreadable expression this time — something softer, something that almost looks like the boy in the library who forgot to perform for a little while.

he doesn't say anything. neither do you.

the castle glitters below you in the december cold, and the year is almost over, and nothing is fixed yet — that's the truth of it, you're not pretending otherwise — but he's here, and you're here, and he said some of it was real in a voice that meant more than that, and for right now, in this particular moment, that's enough.

it's not immediate.

that needs to be said. he doesn't take your hand on the way down the stairs. he doesn't appear at breakfast the next morning like nothing happened. the library on thursday is just you, alone, and the empty seat across from yours, and the single cup of tea you make for yourself, and the essay you actually manage to finish because there's nothing else to do.

it takes time. real time, the slow kind.

but things happen, in the days after.

small things, first.

he nods at you in the corridor on wednesday — not the old nod, the new one, the one that's shorter and slightly more uncertain, which is somehow more than the old one ever was because it costs him something and he does it anyway.

keonho tells you, very casually, that james asked how you were. keonho said she's okay. james said good. keonho delivers this information and then looks at his hands, and you look at yours, and neither of you makes anything of it.

seonghyeon stops looking guilty when he sees you, which means something has shifted.

and then one morning — a thursday, of course a thursday, it was always going to be a thursday — you come into the library and he's there.

your side of the table. your seat. two cups.

he looks up when you come in. he doesn't smile yet — you're not there yet, you both know it — but he looks at you, and he looks at the seat across his, and he looks back at you.

you sit down.

you wrap your hands around the cup. it's the right tea. of course it is.

"i'm not—" he starts. stops.

"i know," you say.

"i just." he looks at the table. "i missed this. the thursday thing."

something opens in your chest, careful and quiet. "me too," you say.

he nods. he opens his playbook. you open your notebook. and the library settles around you, warm and familiar, the scratch of quills and the distant sound of the castle, and it's not the same as it was — it won't be the same for a while — but it's something.

it's a start.

the rest happens slowly, the way it always has with you two. nothing announced, nothing performed. just the incremental return of things — the banter first, careful at the edges, then less careful. the saturday courtyard. the walk back from dinner that neither of you plans. the morning he falls into step beside you on the way to class and doesn't mention it and neither do you.

one evening in the astronomy tower — your spot, which is his spot now too, which happened without discussion and which you've stopped questioning — he sits close enough that your arms touch, and this time neither of you moves away.

"i read it again," he says. "the article."

you go still.

"the end," he says. "the part that wasn't tips anymore." he's looking out at the castle. "you wrote—" he stops. seems to decide something. "you wrote that somewhere in october you stopped being able to tell where the assignment ended. and that by the time you noticed, it was too late to go back." a pause. "you meant that."

"yes," you say.

"it wasn't—" he turns to look at you. "none of that last part was for sora."

"no," you say. "none of it."

he looks at you for a long moment. the december wind comes across the tower and you're cold — you're always cold — and this time he closes the careful distance between you, unhurried, like he's decided and there's no reason to perform the deciding. his shoulder against yours. solid and warm.

"okay," he says quietly.

"okay?" you say.

"yeah." a pause. "okay."

it's not everything yet. but with james it was never going to be everything all at once — you know that now, you've learned the way he works, the slow and deliberate way he gives things. and that's fine. that's more than fine.

you lean into him, just slightly. he doesn't move away.

below, hogwarts glitters in the dark, and the year is almost over — your last year, the one that's been running out since september — and there are things still to figure out and words still to say and you'll say them, in time, in the order they happen.

for now: december. the astronomy tower. the warmth of him beside you in the cold.

for now, that's everything.

how to get the guy: a field guide by hong y/n | castle chronicles, december issue

there's a type of person who makes everything look easy.

you've seen him — maybe you know him. the one who walks into a room and doesn't have to announce himself. the one who's funny without trying, confident without cruelty, well-liked without seeming to care about being liked. the one who catches the snitch and lands like it was never in question.

i spent six weeks trying to figure him out.

here's what i learned.

tip one: don't be impressed.

everyone else already is. and he knows it — not arrogantly, just factually, the way you know the sky is grey in november. the moment you join that crowd you become part of the landscape, and part of the landscape is invisible. be the thing that doesn't quite fit the pattern. let him wonder why.

tip two: show up. just keep showing up.

not desperately. not strategically. just — be there, consistently, until your presence becomes something he reaches for without thinking about it. there is a kind of person, underneath all the easy confidence, who is very used to being looked at and very rarely actually seen. proximity isn't nothing. let yourself become familiar. familiar, for someone like him, becomes necessary before he knows it's happened.

tip three: pay attention to the right things.

not the quidditch. not the confidence. not the thing he shows the room. pay attention to the thing he shows when he thinks no one's watching — the way he checks on the nervous fifth year after a hard practice. the way he rewrites the same diagram three times until it's right. the way he goes quieter, not louder, when something is actually wrong.

the performance is real but it isn't everything. find the everything.

tip four: don't make it easy.

push back. disagree. let a silence sit longer than is comfortable. he has spent his entire life having things come easily and he is, underneath it all, a little bored by easy. be the thing that requires something from him. be interesting in the way that has nothing to do with trying to be interesting.

he'll notice. i promise you he'll notice.

tip five: let it be real.

this is the one i got wrong.

i came into this with a notebook and an assignment and the professional certainty that i could observe something without becoming part of it. i was wrong about that. i was wrong about it somewhere around week three and i kept going anyway, and i'm not sure i can fully defend that choice.

what i can tell you is this: somewhere in october, in a library, over bad ink and thursday evenings and a cup of tea i didn't ask for, the line between the assignment and the actual thing disappeared. and by the time i found it again it was too late to do anything but be honest.

so here is the honest version:

he remembers things you say in passing. he makes space for you without announcing it. he tells you things he hasn't told anyone else and he does it quietly, like it's not a big deal, which makes it a bigger deal than anything he could have said loudly. he shows up to the corridor you're standing in even when it leads nowhere. and when you're cold — which you always are — he closes the distance without making you ask.

i don't have a tip for that part. i don't think it's the kind of thing you can engineer.

i think it's just what happens when you stop taking notes and start paying attention with something other than a pen.

i think — if i'm being fully honest, which i promised myself i would be, which is the only way i know how to write — i think i stopped doing this for the article a long time before the article was done.

i think that's the only tip that matters.

let it be real. even when it's terrifying. even when you have a deadline and a word count and a very composed slytherin editor waiting for your draft.

let it be real.

especially then.

“wow,” you deadpan. “did apollo bless you with that joke or did you strain yourself thinking it up?”

his cabin bursts into laughter from behind him. keonho nearly chokes on his drink. someone from apollo whistles low.

seonghyeon just hums, unfazed. “still grumpy. must be exhausting, being this angry before noon.”

“must be exhausting,” you snap back, stepping closer, “thinking you’re funny.”

martin appears at your side immediately, already biting back a smile like this is his favorite show. “please don’t flip a table before breakfast,” he says. “last time chiron made us scrub the pavilion.”

“stay out of it,” you mutter.

across from you, your bestfriend, yunjin sets her tray down next to yours, eyes flicking between the two of you with mild concern and obvious curiosity.

“you know,” yunjin says calmly, “some people say good morning.”

seonghyeon tilts his head, gaze flicking to her before returning to you. “i did. she just hears threats.”

“i hear you,” you shoot back. “and you're bloody irritating.”

“and yet,” he replies easily, “you always listen.”

that does it.

you step closer, lowering your voice. “keep talking and see what happens.” his smile sharpens. “is that a challenge, head counselor?”

everyone knows the two of you are the strongest, most experienced. chosen leaders of your cabins. keonho leans back in his seat, arms crossed, watching with interest. “i’ve got five drachmas on y/n throwing the first punch.”

“bold of you to assume i would let her,” seonghyeon says.

your jaw clenches. “you are so—”

“annoying?” martin supplies helpfully. “yeah, we know.”

“unbelievable,” you finish, glaring at seonghyeon. yunjin sighs, rubbing her temple. “do you two ever get tired?”

“no,” you and seonghyeon say at the exact same time.

there’s a beat. then he laughs, short and breathy, like he surprised himself. you scowl harder. “don’t laugh.”

“can’t help it,” he says. “you’re predictable.”

“and you’re insufferable.”

“and yet,” he leans back, relaxed, “camp would be boring without you.”

that earns him another glare, but the argument fizzles; not because it’s resolved, but because this is routine.

around you, campers murmur, whispering. everyone knows this story already. the ares head counselor and the apollo head counselor. always arguing. always clashing. they absolutely cannot stand each other.

as seonghyeon stands to leave, keonho claps him on the shoulder. “try not to die today.” seonghyeon glances back at you. “she’d miss me.”

you snort. “keep dreaming.”

he walks away smiling.

yunjin nudges you gently. “you’re going to combust one day.” you stab your fork into your food. “he provokes me on purpose.”

“mhmm,” she says. “and you fall for it every time.”

you don’t respond. you just watch his retreating figure for half a second too long before tearing your gaze away, irritation burning hot in your chest.

you hate him. everyone knows that.

──────

capture the flag has always been stupid.

you’ve thought this every year, every time chiron gathers camp members at the clearing and starts talking about 'tradition' and 'teamwork' like it isn’t just an excuse for cabins to beat the hell out of each other without consequences.

still, you tighten the straps of your armor anyway.

“remember,” chiron says, eyes sweeping over the crowd, lingering just a second too long on you and then, unfortunately, on seonghyeon, “this is a game. excessive force is not preferred.”

someone snorts. probably from your cabin.

across the field, the apollo cabin is already stretching like they’re ready for a fight. seonghyeon rolls his shoulders, bow slung easily across his back. he looks annoyingly composed.

your jaw tightens.

martin appears at your side, spear resting against his shoulder. “it’s gonna be them,” he says casually. “always is.”

“good,” you mutter. “i’m bored.”

from the other side, keonho laughs loudly, clapping seonghyeon on the back. “don’t let her break anything important this time.”

seonghyeon’s gaze flicks to you. his mouth quirks. just barely. you flip him off. he lets out a laugh, to your surprise.

the horn sounds.

chaos erupts instantly. demigods sprinting, yelling, arrows flying through the trees. you move on instinct, barking orders, ares cabin falling into formation without hesitation. this is what you’re good at. control.

you cut through athena cabin first. then hermes. hephaestus barely puts up a fight.

by the time the field clears, it’s exactly what everyone expected.

ares versus apollo.

campers gather at the edges now, sitting on rocks, leaning against trees, watching like this is a spectator sport. the camp counselors hover closer. chiron’s ears flick back.

you spot yunjin near the sidelines, arms crossed, worry etched into her face. martin grins like he’s having the time of his life.

“head counselor!” someone shouts. “take him down!”

you don’t need the encouragement. you charge.

seonghyeon moves at the same time, arrow already nocked. he fires without hesitation. you dodge, feel the wind of it skim past your shoulder. “too slow,” he calls.

you snarl and throw yourself forward, blade flashing. he pivots, barely avoiding it, boots skidding in the dirt.

“predictable,” he fires back.

you clash hard; steel on bow, magic flaring as you push too much power into the strike. he stumbles this time, surprise flashing across his face before it disappears.

good.

you press the advantage. he recovers fast. too fast.

an arrow whistles through the air, enhanced, sharp with intent. you twist, but not enough.

it slams into your shoulder, pain exploding white-hot as you’re thrown back into the dirt.

the field goes dead silent.

you hear martin yell your name. someone swears. yunjin takes a step forward before stopping herself.

you push up immediately, teeth clenched, shoulder screaming.

“cheap shot,” you spit. seonghyeon lowers his bow slowly. his expression is unreadable. calm. infuriatingly so.

“you left yourself open,” he says evenly.

“bullshit.”

“control your temper,” he adds, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “it makes you sloppy.”

that’s it.

you lunge again, ignoring the pain, fury blinding. you don’t even see chiron move until his staff slams into the ground between you, magic rippling outward and forcing you back.

“enough!” chiron snaps.

the game horn blares, sharp and final.

ares cabin protests loudly. apollo cabin argues back. instructors move in, separating people before this turns into something worse.

you’re still glaring at seonghyeon as martin grips your arm, holding you back.

“hey,” he says urgently. “hey. stop. you proved your point.”

“did i?” you snap. “looks like he thinks he won.”

seonghyeon turns as keonho pulls him away. for a second, his eyes meet yours.

no apology. no regret. just that same calm, infuriating composure.

“this,” chiron says sharply, addressing everyone, “is exactly what i mean when i say your arguments are becoming dangerous.”

his gaze settles on you. then seonghyeon. “both of you. head counselors or not.” murmurs ripple through the crowd.

seonghyeon inclines his head slightly, respectful. “won’t happen again.”

liar.

you scoff. “maybe tell him to stop aiming to injure next time.” he pauses, just before walking away. “next time,” he says without looking back, “i won’t miss.”

that earns him a collective gasp and a sharp rebuke from a counselor, but he's already gone, apollo cabin trailing after him.

martin swears under his breath. yunjin rushes to your side immediately. “you’re bleeding,” she says.

“i’m fine.”

she gives you a look. “you’re an idiot.”

“yeah,” you mutter, eyes still fixed on where he disappeared into the trees. “but at least i’m not him.”

around you, camp buzzes with whispers.

everyone knows it now, if they didn’t already. you and seonghyeon don’t just dislike each other. you absolutely despised each other.

──────

you insist you’re fine.

martin doesn’t believe you for a second, hovering like he expects your arm to fall off any minute, but you shove him toward the pavilion anyway.

“go eat,” you snap. “both of you. i’m not dying.”

yunjin hesitates. “you promise?”

“i promise,” you lie. “i just need ambrosia and ten minutes without everyone staring at me like i’m glass.”

eventually, they leave. reluctantly. you wait until their footsteps fade before turning toward the infirmary.

it’s quieter than you expect. the air smells like nectar and antiseptic herbs, beds mostly empty now that dinner’s started. you grab supplies one-handed, jaw clenched, when you hear movement behind you.

“—shit.”

you turn.

keonho’s standing there, shirt half off, a nasty cut along his ribs. he freezes when he sees you, clearly not expecting an ares counselor.

for a second, you just stare at each other.

then you sigh. “sit down before you bleed on the floor.”

he blinks. “uh—”

“do it,” you repeat, already grabbing gauze.

apollo-ares rivalry be damned. bleeding is bleeding.

keonho obeys, settling onto the bed with an awkward laugh. “didn’t think you’d… help.”

you kneel in front of him, efficient, careful despite your own shoulder screaming in protest. “don’t make this weird.” he watches you for a moment as you clean the wound, quiet now. eventually, he exhales.

“he talks a lot of shit about you,” keonho says. you snort. “that’s mutual.”

“yeah, but…” he hesitates. “he makes you sound worse. like you’re just anger and teeth.” your hands pause for half a second. then you tape the bandage down.

“you done?” you ask flatly.

keonho winces, then shakes his head. “i’m sorry. for today. and—” he scratches the back of his neck, uncomfortable. “for him. seonghyeon doesn’t know when to stop.”

that almost makes you laugh.

“neither do i,” you say.

keonho studies you like he’s recalibrating something. then he nods, sincere. “thanks. really.”

he leaves quietly.

the infirmary feels emptier after that.

you turn back to your own bed, shrugging out of your armor with a hiss. the arrow wound is ugly. angry red, torn deeper than you’d like. you grit your teeth as you clean it yourself, breath shallow.

the pain pulls something loose in your mind. four years ago.

──────

seonghyeon arrived at camp half-blood scrawny and silent, dragging a bag too big for him, eyes darting like he expected someone to hit him.

unclaimed.

you’d already been there a year, claimed within the first few minutes of your arrival. already loud, already sure of yourself.

you remember circling him with martin and a few others, bored, curious.

“you lost?” you’d asked, shoving his shoulder lightly. he’d stumbled. caught himself. stared back at you, jaw tight. “leave me alone,” he’d said, voice cracking just a bit.

you’d laughed.

“make me.”

he hadn’t cried. hadn’t fought back either. just stood there, fists clenched, swallowing whatever humiliation burned in his throat.

you’d walked away thinking nothing of it.

──────

you come back to the present with a sharp inhale, hands slick with blood. you stare at the gash in your shoulder, at the way it throbs with every heartbeat.

you scoff quietly. “serves me right,” you mutter.

for once, there’s no one around to hear it.

──────

you wake before the horn.

your shoulder aches in that deep, dull way that means it’ll scar. you sit up slowly, testing it, then swing your legs off the bed anyway. routine doesn’t wait for injuries.

you wash your face. change. reach for the brush. you always braid your hair for training. tight, practical, out of the way.

today, you don’t.

you leave it loose, letting it fall over your shoulder, dark and heavy and inconvenient. it brushes the bandage when you move. you wince, then still.

it’s not about vanity.

as much as you hate seonghyeon; as much as the thought of him makes something sharp curl in your chest, you won’t be the reason someone gets dragged into punishment. you won’t give chiron a reason to ask questions. you won’t give him anything.

breakfast is loud. you aren’t.

yunjin notices first, narrowing her eyes. “you’re quiet.”

“tired,” you say. martin squints at you from across the table. “you look like you’re planning murder.”

“always,” you reply, but the edge isn’t there.

your gaze keeps drifting, traitorous, toward the ares table.

seonghyeon sits with keonho and joshua, laughing at something you can’t hear. there’s a bruise blooming at his jaw. he looks… fine.

that irritates you more than it should.

halfway through breakfast, chiron’s voice cuts through the pavilion. “y/n of ares cabin. seonghyeon of—” he pauses, like the words still sit strangely in his mouth, “—apollo cabin. come with me.”

every conversation dies.

you freeze. slowly look up.

seonghyeon does the same, brows drawn tight, confusion written all over his face when his eyes meet yours.

great.

the walk to the big house is silent. deliberately so. you don’t look at him. he doesn’t speak. the floorboards creak under your boots like they’re counting the steps.

the attic smells like dust and old magic.

chiron stands near the window, grave. the oracle’s presence lingers in the air, heavy and metallic.

“do you know why you’re here?” he asks.

you and seonghyeon answer at the same time.

“no.”

chiron exhales. “a prophecy was spoken last night.” your stomach drops. he lifts the parchment, voice steady as he reads.

“when war is born of ember and sun, two blades must walk where one would run. bound by blood they tried to deny, the past will rise, the truth will bite. to heal the wound, one must fall— or both will burn, and lose it all.”

silence.

you feel it settle into your bones, cold and inevitable.

“this quest,” chiron says gently, “cannot be undertaken alone. the prophecy is… very clear.”

seonghyeon finally looks at you.

really looks at you. “you’ve got to be kidding me,” he says.

your jaw tightens.

“trust me,” you reply flatly, “i’m not thrilled either.” chiron’s gaze sharpens. “this is not about what you want.”

no. of course it isn’t.

because the fates never care about hatred. only consequence.

──────

apollo cabin hums with noise.

someone’s laughing too loudly. someone else is strumming a lyre in the corner, off-key on purpose. light spills in through the open windows, warm and gold, catching on white sheets and polished weapons.

seonghyeon hates how loud it is.

he sits on his bunk with his bag open at his feet, folding and refolding the same spare shirt like it might suddenly make sense if he does it enough times. arrows are laid out neatly beside him. too neatly. he keeps checking the straps on his quiver, tugging them tight, loosening them, tightening them again.

“you’re gonna wear a hole in that thing,” joshua says lightly from across the room.

seonghyeon forces a breath through his nose. “it’s fine.”

it isn’t.

keonho leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with an expression that’s far too knowing. “you’ve packed the ambrosia three times.”

“because i don’t want to die,” seonghyeon snaps, then grimaces. “—i mean. because chiron said to.”

martin, sitting on the floor and sharpening a blade that definitely isn’t apollo-approved, snorts. “you’ll be fine. it’s just a quest.”

seonghyeon shoots him a look. “people die on quests.”

“wow,” martin says. “comforting.”

seonghyeon presses his palm into his knee, grounding himself. he doesn’t say it out loud, but the truth coils tight in his chest: he’s good at training. he’s good at archery. he’s good at strategy.

but this?

this is real.

meanwhile, ares cabin is quiet.

you sit on your bunk with your bag already half packed. weapon first. extra wraps. ambrosia. drachmas. you don’t rush. you don’t stall. your hands know what to do.

this is what you were raised for.

no one hovers. no one asks if you’re scared. ares kids don’t do that. they pass by, nod once, maybe clap a hand on your shoulder in something that’s almost respect, then keep moving.

you pause only once, staring at the space in your bag where an extra shirt should go. your shoulder throbs faintly. you exhale, shove the shirt in anyway, and pull the drawstring tight.

later, the sun is lower when you see him.

seonghyeon stands near the armory, bag slung over one shoulder, posture rigid in a way no one else would clock. his jaw is set too tight. his fingers flex and unflex at his side.

you see it immediately.

he notices you looking and scowls. “what?”

“nothing,” you say. then, because you can’t help yourself, “you look like you’re about to throw up.”

he scoffs. “you wish.”

“trust me,” you shrug, adjusting your own bag, “if you throw up on this quest, i’m not carrying you.”

he huffs out a sharp breath. something like a laugh, dragged out of him against his will. it surprises him as much as it surprises you.

his shoulders drop a fraction.

you don’t say anything else. you don’t ask if he’s okay. you don’t tell him it’ll be fine. you just start walking.

after a beat, he follows.

──────

the walk back to the big house is anything but peaceful.

“i still think this is ridiculous,” seonghyeon says, breaking the silence first. “there are better combinations.”

“oh?” you glance sideways. “like who. you and your reflection?”

he scoffs. “at least i’d know what i’m dealing with.”

“yeah,” you mutter. “yourself.”

he opens his mouth to fire back, then closes it. exhales sharply through his nose. that alone tells you more than the words would’ve.

chiron waits for you in the foyer this time, the light from the tall windows cutting across the floor in long, pale stripes. he doesn’t waste time.

“this relic,” he says, once you’re both standing still, “was forged in a rare moment of cooperation between ares and apollo. it was never meant to be used by one without the other.”

he places a small, sealed box on the table between you.

“the aegis ember,” chiron continues. “it has passed through new york. my best guess is that whoever took it is moving west, toward places where divine presence is… diluted.”

seonghyeon straightens, attentive despite himself. you lean back against the wall, arms crossed, listening.

chiron turns to you first.

“y/n,” he says, “your instincts and endurance will keep you alive. take this.”

he hands you a short sword, lighter than your usual one, the metal warm beneath your fingers. balanced. made for long travel.

“and these,” he adds, pressing a small pouch into your palm. ambrosia. drachmas. emergency flares enchanted to burn red if you’re in danger.

then he turns to seonghyeon.

“seonghyeon,” chiron says, “you see what others miss. you aim before you act.”

he offers him a new quiver, etched faintly with runes. alongside it, a folded map that looks far too detailed to be mortal.

“this will update as you move,” chiron explains. “paths, dangers, divine interference.”

seonghyeon swallows, nodding. “thank you.”

chiron’s gaze moves between the two of you.

“you leave at dawn,” he says. “remember—this quest will test more than your strength.” and then he’s gone, hooves soft against the floor as he disappears down the hall, leaving the weight of it all behind.

the walk back is quieter.

not peaceful. just… heavy.

you stare ahead, the prophecy replaying itself in your head. to heal the wound, one must fall.

a sacrifice.

you don’t say it out loud, but the thought settles heavy in your chest. quests always take something. sometimes it’s pride. sometimes it’s blood.

sometimes it’s a life.

seonghyeon breaks the silence, softer this time. “you always walk like that?”

“like what.”

“like you’re already halfway into a battlefield.”

you shrug. “habit.” he nods slowly, eyes on the path. “figures.”

“don’t get any ideas,” you add. “i’m not saving you if you do something stupid.” he lets out a quiet huff. “relax. i plan on surviving.”

you glance at him then. he’s still tense, shoulders tight, fingers curled around the strap of his bag like it might disappear if he lets go.

you don’t comment on it. you just keep walking.

dawn isn’t far now.

──────

dawn breaks too cleanly for what you’re about to do.

the camp is already awake. word travels fast here, especially when it involves a prophecy and two people who would rather be anywhere else than together.

by the time you reach the gates, half the cabins are lingering, pretending not to stare, pretending this isn’t a spectacle.

martin claps seonghyeon on the back first. “don’t die.”

“comforting,” seonghyeon mutters.

keonho says nothing, just grips seonghyeon’s shoulder once, firm. seonghyeon nods, jaw tight. yunjin pulls you into a hug before you can dodge it.

“be safe,” she says into your shoulder, voice low. “and don’t be stupid.”

you snort. “that’s rich coming from you.” she squeezes harder anyway. “i mean it.” you don’t promise. you just hug her back, once, then step away.

chiron stands at the edge of the path, staff planted in the dirt. “remember,” he says, voice carrying, “this quest cannot be completed alone. in moments of danger, you must trust each other.”

you and seonghyeon exchange a look.

“we’ll manage,” you say. he mutters, “somehow.”

and then you’re gone.

──────

the greyhound bus smells like sweat and old upholstery and regret.

the seats are narrow. the aisle is narrower. the only open spot is one seat, already half claimed by a sleeping mortal with his mouth open.

you sit first. seonghyeon hesitates, then squeezes in beside you, knees knocking yours.

“move,” he says.

“you’re the one built like a lamppost,” you reply.

he glares. you glare back.

the bus lurches forward.

ten minutes in, you feel it.

the prickle at the back of your neck. the wrongness. the way the air feels too thick, too watchful.

you scan the bus casually.

three rows ahead, a woman with too many teeth smiles at nothing. across the aisle, a man’s shadow moves a second slower than he does. near the back, something hunched breathes wetly.

you lean closer to seonghyeon, voice low. “don’t look. we’ve got company.”

he stiffens. “what?”

“three. maybe four,” you murmur. “they’re clocking us.” he glances anyway, just once. his eyes widen a fraction before he calms his face.

“how did you—”

“training,” you cut in. “stay calm.”

the monsters don’t attack. not yet. they just stare. watch. wait. the moment the bus screeches to a stop in new york, you’re on your feet.

“now,” you say.

you push off into the crowd, seonghyeon right behind you. the city swallows you whole; sirens, honking, people who don’t see what’s hunting you.

then the glamours drop.

claws scrape asphalt. skin sloughs away. one of them unfolds into something long limbed and grey, eyes glowing yellow. another’s jaw splits too wide, teeth sharp like broken glass.

“really?” seonghyeon mutters, already reaching for his bow.

you don’t answer. you’re already moving.

your sword sings as it leaves its sheath. you take the first one head-on, ducking under a swipe and driving the blade up, clean and precise. it dissolves into ash before it hits the ground.

seonghyeon’s arrows fly past your shoulder, each one finding its mark. he covers you without thinking. you notice. you don’t comment.

the last monster lunges for him.

you intercept it, shoulder screaming as you slam into it, blade flashing.

silence falls. people walk past, oblivious to what just happened. you wipe your blade on your sleeve and glance back at him. “told you.”

he exhales, staring at the spot where the monsters were. “you really don’t miss much, do you?”

you smirk faintly. “you’re welcome.”

the city stretches out in front of you.

and the quest has officially begun.

──────

the motel smells like mildew and cheap coffee. flickering neon outside the window casts the room in pinkish light that makes everything feel unreal.

one room. one bed. one bathroom. nothing else.

you dump your bag by the door, shoulders stiff from the day, every muscle aching. seonghyeon leans against the wall, arms crossed, glancing at the bed like it’s an enemy.

“couch?” he asks flatly.

“nah,” you reply, already shrugging out of your coat. “you can have the space by the window if you want. it’s a hell of a view.”

he glares. “i’m not sleeping on the floor.”

“you’re not?” you deadpan.

“i’m not,” he repeats.

a beat passes. you both stare at the bed. the air is taut, just long enough to make the silence almost physical. finally, you shrug again. “fine,” you mutter. “we share. but if you try anything stupid i’ll—”

“i know,” he interrupts, voice rougher than you’d expect. “i’ll behave.”

you roll your eyes, but when you crawl under the blankets, you notice the space he leaves, polite, careful.

after two quick, silent, reheated showers that leave the room steaming, you flop onto the bed. he sits on the edge for a minute, unwrapping his bow, inspecting arrows, jaw tight.

you swing your legs over the side and draw your knees up, still tense from the fight, still keyed in to every sound.

“we can’t just sit here,” you finally say. voice low. “we need a plan. think.”

he doesn’t respond immediately. you glance at him. tension lines his face. “we need information,” you continue. “and we get that by going to a god. a minor one. someone who deals in messages and knowledge, subtle stuff. someone like… iris.”

his brow raises. “the rainbow god?”

you nod. “yeah. messenger of messages. rainbows. crossroads. she knows who’s been carrying relics, where they’ve been, what they’ve seen. she’s the kind of person my brother sunghoon went to when he needed intel on a quest. he got a ton of useful info from her.”

“you know where to find her?”

“of course,” you say. “she’s near the edge of the city. old rooftop garden, always quiet, lots of mirrors and light. we go there first thing tomorrow. gather information. minimize surprises.”

he exhales sharply. “figures you’re already three steps ahead.”

“someone has to be,” you mutter, turning your gaze to the ceiling. “or we’d be dead in half a day.”

he sits back on the bed, running a hand through his hair. “alright. iris tomorrow. got it.”

you don’t say anything else. the room grows quiet. outside, the neon flickers, the city hums. eventually, the exhaustion wins. the argument about who gets the bed is forgotten.

you can feel the heat radiating off him, the subtle rise and fall of his chest. he can feel yours. neither of you speaks.

and for the first time since the prophecy, the world outside the room doesn’t matter.

you close your eyes. so does he.

──────

the rooftop is quiet, only the faint hum of the city below and the whisper of early wind through dew-drenched leaves.

mirrors hang from poles, angled strangely, catching light in fragments. the rainbow refracts across the stones, painting the garden in impossible colors.

“well,” seonghyeon mutters, scanning the space, “this is… something.”

“try not to trip over the reflections,” you reply, shoulders tense, eyes on the edges.

then Iris appears. she doesn’t announce herself. one moment the rainbow is just light bending, the next, a figure stands in the center. hair like liquid color, eyes bright, impossibly old and young at the same time.

“ah,” she says, voice musical, teasing. “two blades walking where one would run. I wondered when you’d arrive.”

seonghyeon straightens, defensive. “we need… guidance.”

“guidance, dear boy, or information,” she corrects, stepping closer. “sometimes you can’t tell the difference until it’s too late.”

you bristle. “we already kind of know what we’re doing.”

“do you?” she tilts her head, watching you like she can see all the missteps before they happen. “the relic is unstable. handled alone, it twists the hand that grasps it. You two, together, are the only chance to touch it and survive.”

her words make your stomach tighten, more than the prophecy did.

“last I saw it,” Iris continues, pointing with a delicate finger, “it was leaving the city. A minor demigod had it. Or maybe a monster. I don’t know which. You’ll have to figure that out for yourselves. Clues only, children. Always clues.”

then she steps back and smiles. “Now, I will speak to you individually. Sometimes truths are easier to hear when the other isn’t listening.”

seonghyeon stiffens but doesn’t argue. you give a short shrug, folding your arms.

she gestures to you first.

──────

she walks beside you along a narrow path lined with mirrors.

“your instincts are sharp,” she says. “you notice what others miss, and you act before it’s too late. But don’t rely only on speed. Patience is just as dangerous a weapon as impulsiveness.”

you nod, face unreadable. “i can handle it. what else?”

“your brother,” she teases, a faint smile playing on her lips, “he learned a lot by listening. Don’t think you’re above that.”

you bite back a smirk. “he also got himself nearly killed a few times.”

“learning, danger, survival—they are siblings. You will see.”

then she touches your shoulder lightly. “the relic moves toward the west. Watch for shadows that don’t belong. Listen for whispers that don’t make sense. Trust your instincts, but do not forget your strength.”

you nod again. no words needed. she disappears like a prism snapping.

──────

he paces in another corner, frowning at a cluster of mirrors. Iris appears beside him, casual, observing.

“you see what others cannot,” she says. “but you hesitate. Precision is wasted if you cannot act in time.”

he grits his teeth. “i know what i’m doing.”

“do you?” she asks, teasing, leaning in. “Rely on sight alone, and you will fail. You must rely on intuition. Read the intentions of those around you… even those you dislike.”

he stares at her, caught off-guard, but doesn’t speak.

“listen carefully,” she continues. “the relic has a guardian nearby. It will test you. It will make you doubt. Trust yourself… and your companion, whether you like it or not.”

he swallows. “i see.”

“good,” she says, and is gone in a shimmer of light, leaving him staring at the empty space.

──────

you meet back in the center of the rooftop. his face is unreadable, but his shoulders are just slightly less rigid.

“so,” you say, folding your arms, “we’re going west to either a minor demigod or monster.”

“figures you already have a plan,” he mutters, eyes scanning the skyline.

“of course i do,” you reply. he snorts. “don’t think this means i’m letting you take the lead.”

“of course not,” you say, smirking faintly. “i wouldn’t dream of it.”

──────

the city falls behind you like a memory. the subway rattles fade into the quiet hum of the hudson river as you hike west along the path Iris indicated.

you pass through old industrial streets, empty warehouses, then hit the water. a small rental ferry waits near pier 45, rusted, but serviceable.

“we cross there,” you say, gesturing. your shoulder aches, a dull throb that doesn’t stop, but you keep walking like it isn’t there.

seonghyeon follows closely, hands brushing yours sometimes as he steadies himself on the slippery boards. neither of you speaks as you push off, letting the ferry glide slowly into the river current.

the mist from the hudson swirls around your boots. silence stretches between you. it’s not awkward. it’s… rare.

eventually, you break it. “we’ll reach the forests of upstate soon. albany outskirts first, then through the hudson highlands.”

“great,” seonghyeon mutters, voice flat. “i’ve been dying to walk ten more miles through damp fog.”

you smirk. “thought you liked this kind of thing.”

he gives you a look sharp enough to cut, but there’s something lighter in it now. smaller cracks in the armor.

──────

the road out of albany is quiet. too quiet. a shimmer of motion in the trees catches your eye. before either of you can react, a figure steps from the shadows: winged sandals, broad grin, mischief radiating.

“ah,” he says. “i see the prophecy children together. how… adorable.”

you tighten your grip on your sword. seonghyeon narrows his eyes.

hermes’s grin widens. “so many questions. i wonder… can you trust each other? hmm? perhaps one of you should betray the other. just a thought.”

you glance at seonghyeon, heart skipping, doubt crawling in. you feel the seed of uncertainty. what if he is keeping something from you?

he notices immediately. eyes sharp, unyielding. “don’t even think about it,” he says firmly. “ignore him. we work together. full stop.”

the words cut through the doubt like a blade. hermes frowns, mutters something about mortals being too predictable, and vanishes in a gust of wind.

“damn it,” seonghyeon mutters, eyes flicking to you, “you almost—”

“i know,” you interrupt, face flushing. “i’m sorry. shouldn’t have… almost believed him.”

he exhales, a mixture of annoyance and something softer, like he’s weighing whether he’s allowed to be irritated. “hm. fine. don’t let it happen again.”

you nod, silence falling between you. but now it’s lighter, steadier.

──────

dusk falls as you near the highlands. the fog thickens, curling around trees and rocks. shapes flicker at the edges of your vision, elongated limbs, glowing yellow eyes.

“shadow hounds,” you mutter, already stepping forward.

“figures,” seonghyeon replies, nocking an arrow with precise calm.

they move faster than expected, claws scraping stone, teeth snapping. instinct takes over. you swing your sword in wide, controlled arcs, deflecting strikes and keeping the beasts at bay.

seonghyeon covers your flank, each arrow finding its mark before the hounds can circle.

one lunges from behind. you pivot, blade catching it mid-leap. its teeth scrape past your ribs. you grit your teeth, forcing yourself to move fluidly despite the sharp throb in your shoulder, keeping your injury hidden.

seonghyeon drops a hound with a clean shot, eyes scanning constantly, every movement deliberate. there’s no hesitation, no wasted energy.

another hound charges. you step in front, meeting it with a spinning strike. it snaps at you, and you twist, shoulder screaming in protest beneath the bandage, but you grit your teeth and keep going.

the pain is yours alone.

he guards your flank, you guard his. each movement complements the other. every strike, dodge, arrow, and swing is in perfect sync.

finally, the last hound dissipates into mist, leaving only the echo of growls behind.

you drop to one knee, chest heaving, forcing yourself to look composed. seonghyeon crouches beside you, scanning the treeline, unaware of the hidden pain you’re masking.

“let’s keep moving,” he says, voice steady, tension still in his shoulders. “daylight’s fading.”

you nod, brushing off the exhaustion and hiding the ache in your shoulder.

──────

the tent is cramped, the fabric brushing your shoulders as you unzip your pack. night has fallen, the forest around you whispering in the wind. the only light comes from a small lantern, casting everything in soft, flickering gold.

you’re changing into a clean shirt, careful, mind on your shoulder more than anything else. the bandage itches, stiff from sweat and blood, but you move slowly, trying to keep it hidden.

the flap shifts.

“y/n—”

you freeze. seonghyeon stands there, pale lantern light catching his face. his eyes go wide, then narrow in shock.

“oh—i didn’t… i’m sorry,” he stammers, taking a careful step back. but then the anger—genuine, protective anger—shifts over his features. “you’re worse off than i thought. this… this is my fault.”

you pause, heart thudding. “it’s fine. i’m fine,” you mutter, but the lie tastes bitter.

“fine?” he snaps, voice low, shaking with the edge of guilt. “look at it. you’ve been carrying this and didn’t say a word?” before you can answer, he kneels beside you, taking the lantern and tilting your arm gently. “let me help,” he says firmly. “now.”

you hesitate, surprised. his tone isn’t teasing or commanding, it’s urgent, real. you swallow, nod, and let him.

he works carefully, cleaning the wound, the cloth damp and warm in his hands. the faint smell of antiseptic mixes with the forest air. every brush, every touch makes your chest tighten.

“you’re careless,” he murmurs, more to himself than you, but you hear it. “you can’t just—carry everything alone. not like this.”

“i can handle it,” you reply softly, voice barely audible, but you don’t move him away.

he gives a sharp look, like he won’t argue. “not alone,” he says, and it’s not a question.

you bite back a laugh, tension coiling in your stomach. the heat of him kneeling so close, focused, hands brushing yours, is… distracting. you let him finish, guiding the bandage in place. every movement is intimate, careful.

when he’s done, you sit back slightly. the room is quiet except for the faint rustle of fabric and the distant hoot of an owl.

“your turn,” you finally say, grabbing a small cloth and inspecting his back. he stiffens, then lets you work. minor cuts, scratches from earlier fights, nothing life threatening, but you clean each one anyway.

“see?” you murmur, voice soft. “i’m not useless.”

he chuckles, low, almost amused, though the tension doesn’t leave him. “hm. barely.”

the brush of your fingers over his skin is fleeting, yet it sends a thrill through you both. every glance lingers a little longer than necessary, every touch heavier than it should be.

the lantern flickers again, and for a long moment, neither of you speaks. the quiet is full of words unspoken, of guilt, and something else, something raw and unsaid.

finally, he shifts slightly, giving you a small, reluctant smile. “you better rest. early start tomorrow. the forest won’t wait.”

“don’t lecture me,” you reply, smirking faintly, though the ache in your shoulder reminds you of the truth behind his worry.

he shakes his head, exasperated, but not moving away. “sleep,” he says again, softer this time.

you lie back, shoulder wrapped, heart still thudding from pain, proximity, and… him.

and in the quiet of the tent, for the first time, you let yourself notice that maybe, just maybe, the prophecy didn’t only mean danger.

it meant him too.

──────

you wake to the sound of fabric shifting.

for a second, you don’t remember where you are. then the ache in your shoulder registers, deep and insistent, and the smell of damp earth and smoke fills your lungs.

camp.

no— not camp.

the tent.

you keep your eyes closed. your body is stiff from sleeping wrong, from the ground, from pain you refuse to name. beside you, seonghyeon moves carefully, like he’s trying not to disturb you. the tent canvas rustles softly as he sits up.

you expect a comment. a jab. something sarcastic or sharp to restore the balance between you.

nothing comes.

you open your eyes slowly.

morning light seeps through the thin fabric, pale and grey. seonghyeon has his back to you, shoulders tense but still. his hair is a mess, curls flattened on one side from sleep. he’s already dressed, bow leaned carefully against his pack.

he doesn’t look at you.

you sit up, biting back a wince. the movement doesn’t go unnoticed. he stiffens almost imperceptibly, but still doesn’t turn.

“we should move soon,” he says finally. neutral. calm. like last night didn’t happen.

“yeah,” you reply.

your voice sounds rougher than you expect.

you change quietly, facing away from him. the silence stretches, not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy. full. when you reach for your jacket, you hesitate, then pull it on carefully over your shoulder.

you feel his gaze then, brief, restrained, before he looks away again.

outside, the air is cool and damp. mist clings low to the ground, curling around tree roots and rocks. seonghyeon packs efficiently, movements precise. when you reach for your sword, he’s already holding it out to you.

you blink, then take it.

“thanks,” you say.

he nods once.

as you start walking, you notice it in small ways.

he adjusts his pace without comment, slowing when you do, speeding up when you push through the ache. when you stop to drink water, he does too, even if he clearly doesn’t need it yet. when you reach for something in your pack and your fingers fumble, he passes it to you before you ask.

you don’t mention it.

but it sits between you, quiet and undeniable.

──────

iris’s instructions echo in your head as you travel.

west.

“places where gods were once worshipped, but now forgotten,” she’d said, her voice shimmering through the mist of rainbow light. “abandoned shrines. bridges people no longer cross. towns that dried up when belief did.”

you take the lead instinctively.

you don’t need a map to know which roads feel wrong, which paths prickle under your skin. you choose trails that feel old, worn down by more than feet. places where the air hums faintly, like something is listening.

seonghyeon doesn’t argue.

instead, he focuses on the practical.

he counts miles under his breath. keeps track of time. pulls you off the road just before a patrol of mortals would notice too much. he watches reflections in windows, shadows on water.

you realize, slowly, that you make a good team.

that thought unsettles you more than it should.

by late afternoon, you reach a stretch of coastline. weathered docks jut out into dark water, most of them half-rotted, boards warped and splintered. fishing boats sit abandoned, nets tangled and useless.

the place feels wrong.

not hostile. just… waiting.

you slow.

“you feel that?” seonghyeon murmurs.

“yeah,” you say. “something’s close.”

not attacking. not yet.

watching.

you scan the docks, eyes sharp. your hand drifts toward your sword.

seonghyeon catches your wrist.

“not yet,” he whispers. you pause, then nod. voices drift from somewhere ahead. too low. too distorted.

you don’t need to see them to know.

monsters.

“dock’s too open,” seonghyeon says quietly. “there—” he gestures toward a half-sunk cargo boat pulled close to shore. “under the hull.”

you don’t argue.

you move together, steps light, careful. as you duck beneath the boat, the space tightens immediately. damp wood inches above your head, water lapping softly against the sides. the smell of salt and rot fills your nose.

you crouch beside him, knees nearly touching.

too close.

you focus on breathing quietly. above you, footsteps scrape against wood. something sniffs the air.

your heart pounds.

seonghyeon leans closer, lips near your ear. “don’t move.” his breath is warm.

you swallow.

the voices drift closer, then farther. shadows pass over the narrow sliver of light between the hull and the dock. something growls, low and irritated.

you tense, ready.

minutes pass.

finally, the presence fades.

only when the water stills completely does seonghyeon relax. you exhale slowly. he looks at you, eyes searching your face. “you good?”

“yeah,” you say.

it’s a lie.

your shoulder throbs, sharp and angry from the crouch, but you keep your expression neutral.

he doesn’t push.

when you emerge, the docks feel emptier. quieter. “we should move inland,” he says. “before nightfall.”

you nod.

──────

as the sun dips lower, the weight of the prophecy presses heavier on your chest.

when war is born of ember and sun.

ares. apollo.

two blades must walk where one would run.

you glance at seonghyeon’s back as he walks ahead of you.

bound by blood they tried to deny. you don’t know what that means yet. you don’t want to.

to heal the wound, one must fall.

your fingers curl into your palm. you start making choices without thinking about them.

you take the outer path when the ground narrows. step closer to the edge of cliffs. volunteer to scout ahead. when something shifts in the shadows, you move first, putting yourself between it and him.

seonghyeon notices.

not all at once. not immediately.

but he starts watching you more closely. the third time you step forward without waiting, he grabs your arm.

“what are you doing?” he snaps, voice low but sharp.

“handling it,” you say, pulling free.

“you’re not invincible.”

“never said i was.” you move on before he can respond. his jaw tightens.

──────

night falls fast.

you’re crossing an old stone bridge when it happens.

the air ripples. shadows peel themselves off the ground, coalescing into forms too thin, too long. eyes glow faintly, like dying embers.

shadow hounds.

they don’t attack immediately. they circle.

you draw your sword.

“three,” seonghyeon murmurs. “no— four.”

you step forward. “stay back,” he says. you ignore him.

the first hound lunges. you meet it head-on, blade flashing. it dissolves into smoke with a howl.

another comes from the side.

you pivot, shoulder screaming as you swing. you grit your teeth, push through it.

a third leaps straight at seonghyeon.

you don’t think.

you shove him aside, taking the impact yourself. claws rake across your jacket, missing the bandage by inches.

you stagger, but don’t fall.

seonghyeon fires, arrow blazing with light. the hound disintegrates midair. the last one flees.

silence crashes down.

seonghyeon rounds on you immediately. “what the hell was that?”

“what?” you say, breathing hard.

“you didn’t have to take that hit.”

“i handled it.”

“you could’ve been killed.”

“but i wasn’t.”

he stares at you, anger flashing in his eyes. “you’re being reckless.” you laugh, sharp and humorless. “welcome to questing.”

“this isn’t strategy,” he says. “this is you throwing yourself in front of everything.”

you sheath your sword, hands shaking slightly. “drop it.”

he doesn’t. he steps closer. “no. you don’t get to—”

you whirl on him.

“don’t you understand?” the words tear out of you before you can stop them. “one of us has to be willing to sacrifice ourselves for the relic.”

he freezes.

you keep going, voice tight. “and i’m trying to tell you i will.”

silence.

the bridge creaks softly beneath your feet.

seonghyeon’s face hardens. “no.” you scoff. “you don’t get a say.”

“i do,” he snaps. “because this is my quest too.”

“then deal with it!,” you shoot back. “that’s what quests are.”

he steps back, running a hand through his hair, frustration etched into every line of him. “you don’t get to decide that alone.”

“i already did.”

you turn away. behind you, his voice is quieter. steadier. “we’ll deal with it when we get there.”

not if.

when.

you don’t respond.

but the words stay with you as you walk into the dark together, closer than you’ve ever been, and further apart than you’ll admit.

──────

morning comes without warmth.

you wake stiff and sore, the argument from the night before lodged somewhere behind your ribs. neither of you mention it. neither of you apologize.

you pack faster than usual.

seonghyeon doesn’t say much either. but things are… different.

when you instinctively move ahead, he matches your stride and steps in front without looking back. when you drift toward the edge of the path, he nudges you inward with his shoulder. not gentle. not rough. just enough.

you don’t argue.

that worries you more than if you had.

you travel southwest, cutting inland toward arizona. the land dries out quickly, green bleeding into brown, then dust. abandoned gas stations dot the road like bones. places people used to stop, used to pray for safe passage without knowing that’s what they were doing.

by the second evening, you reach it.

an old roadside museum, half-collapsed, sign rusted and barely legible. inside: broken display cases, cracked statues of gods with their names worn away. offerings left decades ago; coins, glass beads, scraps of paper.

belief, forgotten.

the air hums.

“this place still remembers,” seonghyeon says quietly.

you nod.

inside, you find it etched into the stone floor. an old symbol, barely visible beneath dust and sand. not the relic itself, but a mark it leaves behind.

you kneel, brushing dirt away.

your chest tightens as understanding settles.

“it doesn’t just need a sacrifice,” you say slowly.

seonghyeon stiffens. “what do you mean?”

you trace the symbol with your fingers. “it chooses.”

silence.

“someone willing,” you say. “someone who steps forward without being asked.”

you don’t look at him when you say it.

when you do finally glance up, his expression has gone very still. calculating. controlled.

“y/n,” he says quietly.

you stand. “someone has to.”

he doesn’t argue.

he doesn’t yell.

that scares you even more.

──────

you don’t get far before the ground gives way beneath your feet.

stone shifts. ancient magic snaps tight like a net. the world tilts and suddenly you’re suspended, bindings glowing faintly around your limbs. illusion magic presses in, heavy and disorienting.

you struggle.

nothing.

“don’t fight it,” seonghyeon says sharply. “look at me.”

you do.

“breathe with me,” he says. “now.”

you inhale. he exhales. again.

the bindings flicker. “on three,” he murmurs. “you cut. i blind.”

you nod once.

three.

your blade slices through the weak point just as light explodes from his hands, dazzling the illusion. the trap shatters, stone crumbling beneath you both.

you hit the ground hard. he lands beside you.

for a second, neither of you move. then you laugh, breathless and disbelieving. “guess we don’t suck together,” you mutter.

his lips twitch despite himself.

──────

that night, you sit close by the fire, exhaustion weighing heavy. no tension this time. just quiet.

he hands you water. you accept. “i don’t plan on letting the relic choose,” he says suddenly.

you look at him.

“i’ll find another way,” he continues. “even if the prophecy doesn’t like it.” you study his face, lit by firelight.

“you can’t outthink the fates,” you say softly.

he meets your gaze. “watch me.”

for the first time, you don’t argue.

──────

by morning, you’re close.

too close.

two paths stretch ahead: one winding and safe, one cutting straight through land that makes your skin crawl.

you already know which one you’ll take.

so does he.

“the direct route,” you say.

he nods. no hesitation. that’s when fear finally settles in your chest. because he trusts you now.

and you’re not sure you deserve it.

──────

the land shifts again as you head deeper inland.

it isn’t dramatic. no sudden cliffs or storms. just a gradual quieting of everything. fewer birds. less wind. the sky stretched thin and pale above you.

you walk for hours.

normally, this is where you’d argue. about direction. about pacing. about who’s slowing who down.

you don’t.

your steps fall into rhythm without discussion. when you stop, he stops. when he slows, you match it. it’s unconscious. automatic.

you start noticing things you never cared to before.

the way seonghyeon doesn’t look straight ahead for long. his gaze flicks constantly, checking reflections in glass, in water pooled on rock, even in the dull shine of metal. the way he mutters numbers under his breath when the ground slopes, timing steps like it matters.

it probably does.

he notices things too.

the way you always scan exits first. how you angle your body when you walk, subtly placing yourself between him and anything that feels off. how you grit your teeth when you lift your arm too fast, then smooth your expression like nothing happened.

neither of you says anything.

by late afternoon, the ground turns uneven. cracked stone, narrow footing. you reach a drop where the path slopes sharply downward, gravel loose beneath your boots.

you go first.

halfway down, your foot slips.

your breath catches—

and suddenly there’s a hand around your wrist.

firm. steady.

you look back.

seonghyeon’s grip is strong, fingers warm against your skin. his brows are drawn tight, focus absolute.

“don’t rush,” he says quietly.

you nod.

he doesn’t let go right away. neither do you.

eventually, you pull free, turning away before he can see your face. your pulse is loud in your ears.

you tell yourself it was instinct.

nothing more.

──────

near dusk, you reach a stretch of land threaded with wildflowers and broken stone columns. an old place. sacred once, even if no one remembers why.

someone else is there.

a minor god, one of the old ones; not powerful enough to demand worship anymore.

she lounges atop a fallen column, sunlight caught in her hair like it belongs there. her eyes flick to seonghyeon immediately, interest bright and unapologetic.

“apollo’s,” she says, smiling. “i can tell.”

you feel it then.

sharp. irrational. immediate.

it makes no sense. you don’t know what it is, only that it irritates you to no end.

“we’re just passing through,” you say flatly.

her gaze slides to you, amused. “ares,” she notes. “figures.”

she turns back to seonghyeon. “you travel with interesting company.”

he stiffens slightly. “we’re on a quest.”

“mm,” she hums. “dangerous ones tend to be more fun.” you cross your arms. this is stupid, you tell yourself. tactical annoyance. distraction.

still, when she steps closer to him, your jaw tightens.

seonghyeon shifts subtly, one step back, one step closer to you. not obvious. not defensive.

but deliberate.

“we should go,” he says. she laughs softly. “pity.” when she vanishes, the air feels clearer. you walk for a while before he speaks.

“you were quiet back there.”

“you didn’t complain,” you shoot back.

he glances at you. “were you jealous?”

you scoff immediately. “don’t flatter yourself.”

he watches you a moment longer than necessary, then looks ahead. “right.”

you’re grateful he drops it.

──────

night falls colder than expected.

you set up camp near a cluster of rocks that break the wind. the fire burns low, crackling softly. you sit opposite each other, shadows stretching between you.

after a while, he speaks.

“have you ever been scared on a quest?”

the question catches you off guard. you stare into the fire. “define scared.”

“just... scared.”

you’re quiet for a long moment.

“not of dying,” you say finally. “that part’s easy.”

he waits.

“i’m scared of failing someone else,” you admit. “of walking away when i shouldn’t have. of surviving when someone better didn’t.”

he nods slowly.

“me too,” he says.

the fire pops. you glance up at him, surprised.

he doesn’t look at you. his gaze is fixed on the flames, expression unreadable.

“if something happens, y/n—” he starts.

the ground shudders. you’re on your feet instantly, sword half-drawn. “later,” you say.

danger never waits for confessions.

──────

it doesn’t come that night.

whatever lurked nearby moves on.

you sit watch together, backs against the same rock, shoulders almost touching. eventually, the cold seeps too deep.

without looking at him, you spread the blanket between you.

he hesitates, then sits closer.

your shoulders brush.

it feels… right.

neither of you sleeps. but neither of you moves away either.

──────

the morning air is thin and still, almost oppressive. the desert rocks ahead glow pale under the rising sun. your boots crunch on dry sand as you lead, eyes scanning every crack, every shadow. seonghyeon is close behind, silent, calculating, like he’s measuring not just the terrain but you too.

“this place feels wrong,” he mutters without looking up. “we’re close,” you reply, voice low. “the relic leaves traces.”

he doesn’t respond. just follows.

you round a bend and the wind drops. the space opens into a shallow canyon. sunlight blinds you in patches, and a shimmer ripples across the sand.

instinct screams before your brain even registers.

a phantom of the relic? some trick of the light? it’s wrong, something’s moving too fast. the air warps, then solidifies.

something lunges from the shadows. claws glinting, teeth bare. not fully human. not fully animal. too fast, too precise.

you spin, draw your sword.

“y/n!” seonghyeon shouts. “behind me—no wait—move!”

you pivot, slicing, but the thing ducks, hissing. it’s agile, serpentine, eyes like molten gold. your pulse races. adrenaline floods.

you realize too late that the ground beneath your next step is loose. sand collapses, and you slip, sword swinging wildly.

“y/n!” seonghyeon’s voice cuts through the haze. he grabs your arm, hauls you backward. your shoulder jerks painfully against the old wound, but you don’t scream.

the monster growls, circling. seonghyeon steps in front of you, bow drawn with lightning precision. arrows streak past, forcing it to back off, but it’s not enough. it waits, patient, calculating.

“stay low!” he hisses. “don’t—don’t move until I tell you!”

you crouch, chest heaving, sweat stinging your eyes. your fingers tighten on the sword handle. the sand beneath you is shaky, unstable. the thing strikes again.

“y/n!” he shouts. this time, he lunges, body slamming into yours as you roll to the side. your back presses against his chest. his arms are around you, stabilizing you, holding you as the creature snaps at the spot where you stood.

for a moment, time slows. your heart hammers, not just from the fight but from him holding you. so close. so solid. alive.

“you’re reckless!” he growls, breath hot against your ear. “do you know what could’ve—”

“don’t!” you snap, turning to face him. “don’t tell me what could’ve happened! I’m fine!”

he freezes, eyes wide, a flash of something. fear, anger, something you don’t have words for, crosses his face.

“fine?” he echoes, voice tight. “you almost died!”

“we both almost died!” you fire back. “and I don’t need you babysitting me every second!”

he exhales sharply, jaw clenching. “you can’t keep doing this.”

“doing what?” you challenge, chest heaving. “trying to make sure we survive? trying to—” your voice catches. “trying to—” you break off, frustration and fear tangling in your chest.

he takes a step closer, lowering his voice until it’s almost a growl. “stop deciding things for me. stop—you think I can’t handle this, that I’ll let something happen—”

“don’t you get it?!” you shout, eyes flashing, shaking with exhaustion and adrenaline. “one of us has to be willing! I’m telling you—I will! I will do it if it comes to it, and you’re not allowed to stop me!”

his hands tighten on the bow he’s still gripping, knuckles white. for a second, he’s still. then he shakes his head, voice low but firm. “and i already told you. we’ll deal with that when we get to it. not here. not like this.”

you glare at him, chest heaving. he stares back, unflinching.

and then the creature lunges again.

this time, you don’t hesitate. you move in perfect sync, every step and strike coordinated without words. seonghyeon blocks, you strike, he pushes, you duck. it’s instinct, honed from years of training, years of rivalry turned trust.

the monster collapses finally, sand and stone scattering. both of you stagger, breathing hard, eyes locked.

neither speaks.

finally, you exhale, leaning against a rock. he doesn’t move away. his shoulder brushes yours.

“you scared me,” he mutters, voice quiet enough for only you to hear.

you blink at him, not trusting the words. “good,” you reply flatly. “you should be.” he looks at you, expression unreadable, then shifts his gaze to the horizon.

you realize then that it’s not just the monster that scared him.

it was the idea of losing you.

and maybe, just maybe, that scares you too.

──────

night settles heavier than usual.

the canyon holds onto heat from the day, air thick and unmoving. the stars come out sharp and cold, scattered across the sky like they’re watching. you build the fire together without speaking. it burns low, steady, controlled.

neither of you suggests taking separate watches.

neither of you moves far from the other.

you sit closer than you ever have before, knees nearly touching. not because you planned it. because distance feels… wrong right now. unsafe.

your hands are still shaking, just a little.

you curl them into fists, press them into your thighs.

seonghyeon notices.

he doesn’t say anything. he just shifts, sitting closer so his shoulder brushes yours. not pressing. just there. solid.

it grounds you more than you want to admit.

“you almost fell,” he says quietly after a while.

you swallow. “yeah.”

his voice is careful. “you didn’t even look scared.”

you let out a short breath. “i was.”

that surprises him.

you don’t look at him when you add, “i just don’t stop long enough to feel it.”

he nods like that makes sense.

the fire pops softly.

“when i thought—” he starts, then stops.

you glance at him.

he’s staring into the flames, jaw tight, shoulders tense like he’s bracing for something that already passed.

“when i thought i was going to lose you,” he continues, slower now, “i couldn’t think.”

your chest tightens.

“that’s not normal for me,” he admits.

you don’t know what to say to that.

so you don’t joke. don’t deflect. you just sit there and let it exist.

after a while, the cold creeps in.

without comment, he reaches for the blanket and spreads it wider, draping it across both of you. your sides touch fully now. your arm presses against his. warmth seeps through layers of fabric.

you tense instinctively, then relax.

“this doesn’t mean anything,” you murmur.

he exhales something that might be a laugh. “obviously.”

silence stretches again.

you lie back slowly, staring up at the stars. after a beat, he does the same, shoulder still pressed to yours. close enough that you can feel his breathing change when yours does.

your fingers twitch.

after a moment, they brush his hand. neither of you pulls away. your pinkies hook together by accident. you stay like that.

“if it comes down to it,” you say softly, “i won’t hesitate.”

he turns his head toward you. “i know.” his voice is quiet. steady. “and i hate that about you.”

you smile faintly. “right back at you.”

the fire burns lower.

at some point, exhaustion finally wins. you don’t remember falling asleep. only that when you do, your shoulder is pressed into his chest, and his arm rests loosely beside you, not quite holding you, but ready.

for once, you don’t dream of battles.

you dream of not being alone.

──────

the land changes again as you near the end.

it’s subtle at first. the air grows warmer, humming faintly, like something beneath the ground is breathing. your sword vibrates softly at your side. seonghyeon’s arrows glow, light pulsing once, then going still.

you stop walking. “we’re here,” you say. not here here. not yet. but close enough that your chest tightens with it.

the entrance is hidden beneath a collapsed stretch of highway, concrete split open like a wound. sand pours down into darkness below, endless and slow. old symbols are carved into the exposed stone, half eroded, barely legible.

a vault.

a place meant to be forgotten.

seonghyeon crouches beside the edge, peering down. “no way back once we go in.”

you nod.

normally, this is where you’d move first. decide. jump. you don’t. you turn to him instead.

“what do you think?” you ask.

the words feel strange in your mouth.

he looks at you, really looks at you, like he’s memorizing your face. then he exhales. “i think the relic knows we’re coming,” he says. “and i think it’s going to try to separate us.”

“physically?”

“emotionally.”

you swallow.

“then we don’t let it,” you say. he nods. “together.”

together.

you descend slowly, boots scraping against stone, light fading with every step. the chamber opens beneath you, vast and hollow, pillars cracked and leaning, old offerings scattered like debris.

the relic sits at the center.

it’s smaller than you expected. simple. ancient. humming softly, like a heartbeat.

as soon as you step closer, the chamber dissolves. you’re standing alone.

camp. ares cabin. everyone is alive. laughing. safe. no prophecy. no relic. no seonghyeon.

the absence hits harder than the illusion itself.

“no,” you whisper. “this isn’t real.”

the image wavers, but holds.

you feel it then. the truth beneath the trick.

it isn’t offering you peace. it’s offering you him gone.

you stumble forward, and collide with seonghyeon.

he’s breathing hard, eyes wild, like he just tore himself out of something worse.

“it showed me a future without you,” he says hoarsely.

your chest aches. “me too.”

you stand there, inches apart, relic humming louder now, reacting to the truth between you.

“i don’t work right without you,” he admits suddenly. the words rush out, raw and unfiltered. “everything goes wrong.”

you stare at him, heart pounding.

“you make this harder,” you say. “and easier.”

he lets out a shaky breath, hands lifting like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “if we step forward,” he says, “we might not come back the same.”

you step closer.

“we already haven’t,” you reply. for a moment, neither of you moves. then the fear hits you both at once.

not of dying.

of losing each other.

you grab his collar. he freezes, then pulls you in.

the kiss is desperate. unpolished. all teeth and breath and unspoken terror. his hands cup your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. you kiss him like you’ve been holding this back for years.

when you break apart, foreheads pressed together, you’re both shaking.

“that doesn’t change anything,” you murmur.

“it changes everything,” he says quietly. you lace your fingers together. this time, intentionally.

──────

the relic doesn’t fight quietly. the moment your fingers brush its surface, the chamber reacts.

stone groans. the pillars crack wider, dust raining down in sheets. the air turns sharp, burning your lungs like smoke. symbols ignite along the floor, glowing red gold, spinning into something that looks almost alive.

“it’s bound to blood,” seonghyeon says, voice tight. “yours or mine.”

“then we don’t hesitate,” you say.

you grip the relic fully. pain slams into you.

it’s not one place. it’s everywhere at once. like something reaches inside your chest and twists. you hear yourself cry out, feel your knees buckle.

“hey—” seonghyeon lunges forward, grabbing you before you hit the ground. “hey, i’ve got you.”

the relic flares brighter.

seonghyeon shoves you aside and draws his bow, firing arrow after arrow, light streaking through the dark. they slow it, but don’t stop it.

you force yourself upright, every breath hurting.

“seonghyeon,” you say. “get back.”

he doesn’t. the construct moves faster than it should. too fast. it strikes.

pain explodes across your torso. you feel yourself lifted off the ground, thrown back into stone so hard the world goes white. something cracks, inside you, unmistakably.

you slide down the wall, barely conscious.

“no,” seonghyeon breathes.

he’s at your side instantly, hands shaking as he presses them to your ribs, your stomach, like he can hold you together by force alone.

“stay with me,” he says. “please. don’t do this. not now.”

your vision blurs. you taste blood.

“did we… get it?” you whisper.

his laugh breaks. “you’re unbelievable.”

he grabs the relic, light blazing around him this time. the construct shrieks and collapses inward, armor shattering into embers.

the chamber stills.

you’re barely breathing. seonghyeon doesn’t think. he just yells.

“ares!” the air splits open. the god of war steps through like he owns the space, which, apparently, he does. tall. armored. eyes sharp and calculating, not angry. curious.

his gaze snaps to you on the ground.

for a long moment, he says nothing.

then, quietly, “that’s my kid.” you try to smile. it comes out weak.

“took you long enough.”

seonghyeon stiffens. “sir—”

ares lifts a hand. “save it. i’ve been watching.”

his eyes flick between the two of you. linger on seonghyeon’s grip on your hand. the way he hasn’t let go. “you fight like i expected,” ares says. “reckless. ”

he crouches beside you, armor creaking. when he touches your chest, the pain spikes, then dulls slightly, like it’s being held at bay.

“you’d die if i leave you here,” he says flatly. “yeah,” you rasp. “figured.”

ares exhales through his nose. not unkind. the chamber dissolves into light. you wake up on marble.

cold. smooth. endless white stretching in every direction. columns rise into clouds. the air hums with power so thick it presses against your skin.

mount olympus.

seonghyeon is kneeling beside you, relief flooding his face the moment your eyes open. “hey,” he whispers. “you’re here.”

“still?” you ask.

“barely,” he says.

gods surround you now.

ares stands at your side. apollo lounges against a column nearby, golden and amused, eyes fixed on seonghyeon. “wow,” apollo says. “you really ran yourself ragged down there.”

seonghyeon straightens instinctively. “dad.”

apollo smiles, softer than expected. “you did well. stubborn, but well.” ares snorts. “they both did.”

athena watches you with sharp interest. her gaze makes your skin prickle.

“you spoke back to the illusions,” she says. “that’s rare.”

you shrug weakly. “they were wrong.”

some gods bristle. ares grins.

apollo’s eyes flick to your intertwined hands. “so,” he says lightly. “is this strategic bonding or emotional compromise?”

you open your mouth.

seonghyeon speaks first. “with respect, dad, that’s not your concern.”

apollo laughs. full and bright. “oh, i like you.” ares huffs. “you protect each other. that’s enough.” he places a hand over your chest again. heat floods through you, pain easing, bones knitting, breath coming easier.

“you’re not unbreakable,” ares says. “remember that.”

“never thought i was,” you reply.

his mouth twitches. when the healing finishes, you feel hollow. exhausted. alive. zeus’ voice rolls through the air, distant and final. “the relic is secured. return them.”

light swallows you again.

camp appears beneath your feet, grass, cabins, the familiar smell of smoke and pine.

you sway. seonghyeon catches you immediately. this time, he doesn’t let go.

──────

a week passes.

camp treats you differently now.

people look twice when you walk past. some stare. some smile like they know something about you they didn’t before. the counselors clap you on the shoulder. younger campers whisper. the relic is locked away, the threat neutralized, the story already half myth.

heroes.

you hate the word.

you spend most of your time anywhere seonghyeon isn’t.

training arena with friends. cabin dinners that go long. late afternoons by the lake, skipping stones until your arm aches. you laugh when you’re supposed to. you nod when people talk to you.

you do not look at him.

you can feel him anyway.

sometimes you sense his presence everywhere. across the fire, at the edge of the clearing, standing too still near the archery range. once, you catch his reflection in a shield and have to look away so fast it makes your chest hurt.

because the quest felt too real.

because the way he held you on olympus still lives in your bones.

because if you talk to him, you won’t know how to pretend none of it mattered.

martin corners you near the cabins one evening.

“you’re being an idiot,” he says mildly. you roll your eyes. “nice to see you too.” he doesn’t smile. “you haven’t spoken to him once.”

“i’ve been busy.”

“you’ve been avoiding.”

you stop walking.

martin sighs. “he thinks he did something wrong.”

your stomach drops. “he didn’t.”

“then tell him that.”

you shake your head. “i don’t know how.”

martin’s voice softens. “he meant it. everything. the way he protected you. the way he looked at you like—” he cuts himself off. “he’s not sleeping much.”

fuck.

the campfire dies down. cabins quiet. cicadas fill the gaps. you stand outside your cabin for a long time, staring at the dark.

then you start walking.

apollo cabin lights are low. you stop outside, heart pounding, pride screaming at you to turn around.

you knock anyway.

nothing.

“seonghyeon,” you say. “it’s me.”

silence.

you swallow. “i just… i need to talk.”

still nothing.

your chest tightens. “if you don’t want to, that’s fine. i’ll go.”

the door opens.

he stands there barefoot, hair messy, eyes tired. when he sees you, something breaks across his face. relief and... hurt.

“you disappeared,” he says quietly.

“i know.”

he steps aside. lets you in.

his cabin smells like cedar and smoke. neat, but not obsessive. you stand awkwardly, hands clenched.

neither of you speaks for a moment.

then he says, “did i imagine it?”

your throat burns. “no.”

“because it felt real,” he continues. “and then you wouldn’t even look at me.”

you laugh weakly. “because it felt real.”

that makes him still.

you breathe out. “i don’t know how to do this. i’m good at fighting. i’m good at leaving. i’m terrible at staying when things matter.”

he watches you carefully. “i wasn’t asking you to decide everything.”

“i know,” you say. “but i was scared. and instead of dealing with it, i ran.”

you step closer. “i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

his voice is quiet. “you did.”

you flinch. “i’m sorry.”

he exhales, long and shaky. “i would’ve waited. i just needed to know i wasn’t alone in it.”

your eyes sting. “you weren’t. you aren’t.”

he looks at you then, really looks, and the space between you feels full again, like on the quest, like the night you almost lost everything.

“come here,” he says softly.

you do.

this time, when he touches you, it’s gentle. careful. his forehead rests against yours. “i don’t need grand promises,” he murmurs. “just don’t shut me out.”

you nod. “i can do that.”

his hand tightens slightly at your waist. “good.”

you kiss him first.

it’s slow. not desperate. like a decision. when you pull back, he smiles. “so,” he says. “partners?”

you huff. “guess so.” outside, the camp sleeps. inside, for once, you don’t feel like running.

and that’s enough.

he launches into it without hesitation; classes, expectations, people pulling at him from every direction. you listen, nodding, filling in the silences, saying the right things at the right time. you’ve gotten good at this. you know when to reassure and when to joke.

“i swear,” he says, staring at the ceiling, “you’re the only person who actually gets me.” your chest tightens. you tell yourself that sentence means something.

this is how it goes. he comes to you drained and leaves lighter. he thanks you with a smile, maybe a hug, maybe his arm around your shoulders when he’s tired. you tell yourself this is love in disguise. you tell yourself not all love is loud.

you don’t notice how often he takes and how rarely he gives back.

people on campus know you as a pair. james-and-you. always together. always laughing. always sitting too close. someone asks you once, casually, “so when did you guys start dating?”

james laughs. “we’re not.”

the word lands between you.

“oh,” the person says. “could’ve fooled me.”

james shrugs. “yeah, well.” he doesn’t look at you when he says it. later, you ask, lightly, “does it bother you when people think that?”

he snorts. “what? no. why would it?”

“just asking.”

he bumps your shoulder. “relax. you know what we are.”

you nod, because you don’t know how to ask him to say it.

the closeness keeps escalating in ways that never cross the line but always hover near it. his head on your shoulder during movies. his hand resting on your thigh when he’s tired. falling asleep next to each other fully clothed, inches apart, breathing syncing like it means something.

one night, lying in the dark, you turn toward him without thinking. your faces are too close. his eyes flick to your mouth. your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

for one suspended second, you think, this is it.

then he exhales, rolls onto his back. “we should sleep. early class tomorrow.”

you stare at the ceiling, pulse racing, feeling stupid for expecting more.

you start shaping your life around his.

you cancel plans because he “might stop by.” you keep your nights open just in case. when your phone lights up with his name, everything else fades. when it doesn’t, you feel hollow and embarrassed for caring so much.

he doesn’t ask you how your day was unless you ask him first. he doesn’t notice when you’re quiet. when you finally admit you’re struggling, he listens for a minute, then says, “yeah, i get that,” and starts talking about himself again.

you tell yourself love isn’t supposed to keep score.

but you are always the one waiting.

one afternoon, you’re walking back from class together. he’s animated, talking about someone he met, some party you weren’t at.

“she’s cool,” he says. “funny. easy to talk to.”

something cold settles in your stomach. “do you like her?”

he shrugs. “maybe. i don’t know.”

you stop walking. “okay.”

he frowns. “what?”

“nothing,” you say. “just—do you ever think about what you’re doing to me?”

the words slip out, raw and unpolished.

he stares at you. “what are you talking about?”

“you can’t keep acting like this,” you say quietly. “you can’t keep treating me like i’m… like this means nothing.”

he scoffs, defensive. “i never said it meant nothing.”

“then what does it mean?” your voice cracks despite yourself. “because it feels like everything to me and like something you pick up when you’re bored.”

his jaw tightens. “that’s not fair.”

“isn’t it?” you whisper.

he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “i don’t want to label things. labels ruin stuff.”

“labels give people clarity,” you say. “they stop people from getting hurt.”

he looks at you, really looks, and for a second you think he might finally say it. choose you. make it real.

instead, he says, “i never asked you to feel this way.”

the sentence guts you.

you nod, slowly. “no. you just let me.”

he goes quiet. then softer, “i don’t want to lose you.”

you almost laugh. “you don’t want to lose me,” you repeat. “but you don’t want me either.”

he doesn’t answer.

you stay anyway.

because you tell yourself loving him quietly is better than not loving him at all. because walking away feels like erasing a part of your life. because every time he smiles at you, every time he leans into you like you’re home, hope flickers again.

until it doesn’t.

you’ve been waiting for him. again. you saved him a seat. you ignored your phone all evening just in case he texted. he shows up late, laughing, distracted. “sorry. lost track of time.”

“with her?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

he sighs. “why are you making this a thing?”

you look at him, really look at him, and something inside you finally snaps into place.

“because i’m tired,” you say. “and you keep pretending you don’t know why.”

he opens his mouth, then closes it. annoyed now. “i don’t know what you want from me.”

you swallow hard. “i wanted you to love me.”

the silence is brutal.

he looks away first.

“i can’t give you that,” he says. “and i don’t think i ever pretended i could.”

that’s when you understand.

this wasn’t love. it was proximity. convenience. him keeping you close enough to soften his loneliness while never committing to yours.

you nod. slowly. “okay.”

when you tell him you’re leaving, there’s no fights. no tears. just exhaustion.

“so that’s it?” he asks, incredulous. “after everything?”

you meet his eyes. “everything was mostly me.”

he doesn’t follow you. he doesn’t stop you. he watches you walk away, far out of his sight.

after, the silence is deafening. you reach for your phone out of habit. you stop yourself. you learn how to sit alone without waiting for footsteps in the hallway.

he doesn’t come back. not with apologies that matter. life just keeps going.

you loved him louder than he loved you.

and when you finally stopped shouting, he barely noticed because he was never listening in the first place.

the article is personal. they always are.

you write about loneliness the way people write about weather. casually, like it’s something everyone understands. about ambition, about choosing yourself, about the cost of leaving things behind.

your editor, mia, once told you your writing feels like a conversation people didn’t realize they were waiting to have. the comment section proves it. random strangers pour their hearts out beneath your writing, thanking you for putting into words something they couldn’t name.

your column is widely read now. shared, reposted, quoted in think pieces. your byline looks good in clean serif font. impressive, even.

still, when you hit save, there’s no rush. no relief. the thing you earlier loved feels like a chore now.

your apartment is quiet. too quiet. the kind of quiet that makes you aware of your loneliness.

you check your phone.

your mother texted three days ago. did you eat? your sister sent a photo yesterday of some new café back home, latte art shaped like a heart. you never replied.

you tell yourself you’ll respond after you submit. you always do.

you stand up and pace the small living room, stepping around half-packed laundry and a tote bag you haven’t unpacked since your last work trip.

the walls are empty except for a single framed clipping, your first big piece, yellowed slightly at the edges. proof that this life is real. that you didn’t imagine it. that you worked hard for it.

sometimes it feels like your life is on pause, like you stepped out of a scene and forgot to step back in.

your phone buzzes again. this time, you answer.

“hey,” you say softly, voice rough from disuse.

your editor doesn’t waste time. she never does. “how close are you?”

“ten minutes,” you lie.

mia laughs, “you always say that. but i trust you. your numbers are insane this week.”

you thank her, as a reflex. praise slides off you like rain. what you really want is to be understood.

after the call, you finally hit submit. the email whooshes away, taking the last of your focus with it. your body sags, exhaustion settling in your bones, your eyes aching with numbness.

you sink onto the couch and let your head fall back.

this is the life you wanted. you remind yourself of that often. new york. journalism. your name attached to words that matter. a career people back home brag about on your behalf.

you don’t regret it. not really.

but some nights, like tonight, you feel like you’re standing in a glass room, watching everything happen from a distance. successful, admired, untouchable.

alone.

you scroll through your phone again, this time opening your sister’s photo. it’s blurry, taken mid-laugh. familiar streets behind her. you recognize the café without trying. you could walk there blindfolded.

your chest tightens before you can stop it.

home feels like a concept more than a place these days. something you can only reference in writing. something you left behind deliberately, something you barely remember anymore.

you turn your phone face down again.

outside, a train rumbles past, shaking the window just enough to remind you where you are. you press your forehead to the cool glass and stare out at the city.

new york is beautiful. the friends you've made here makes it feel like a home. but not your home.

it’s been a long time since you went back.

your phone rings, a sudden sound cutting through the soft calm of your apartment. the picture on screen is your sister’s, and for a moment, you hesitate. your thumb hovers over the green button, then finally, you swipe.

“hey hayoung” you say, keeping your voice steady even though your chest tightens the second you hear her tone.

“y/n,” she says, voice small, almost fragile. “it’s mom… she’s—she’s in the hospital.”

your stomach flips, your knees feel weak. “what happened?” you ask before your brain catches up.

“she fainted. nothing critical. they say it’s dehydration and fatigue, but appa… he wanted me to call you. he—he said you should come home.” her voice wavers on the last word, like she’s not sure how much you’ll care, how far you’ve let yourself drift.

home. the word hangs in the air. home.

your throat tightens. your hand trembles around the phone. “i… i’ll book a flight,” you manage to say.

“y/n,” she whispers, voice trembling. “i mean, you don’t have to rush if it’s too much… we just… we just want you here.”

guilt hits first, a bitter feeling on your tongue. it’s not fear, not yet, but the sudden, gutting awareness that years have passed, years in which you haven’t been there for the people who shaped you, who helped you grow and it claws at your insides.

you’ve written about home more than you’ve visited it.

you’ve written essays and columns, pensive pieces about longing, about family, about the weight of memory and the importance of roots. you’ve been able to capture the ache of leaving, the sweet ache of returning, but you’ve never really… returned.

you swallow hard. “i’ll come,” you say again, firmer this time, the decision clear in your mind. “i’ll book a ticket right now.”

her sigh on the other end is shaky but relieved, as if she didn't think you'd agree. “thank you. we… we’ll wait for you.”

after the call ends, you stare at the phone like it just bit you. your hands feel cold. the apartment suddenly feels too quiet, too large, too distant.

the skyline outside doesn’t look as beautiful as it just did minutes ago. the lights that once seemed alive now feel like they’re mocking you, tiny reminders of all the years you’ve spent building a life elsewhere, while everyone you loved was miles away from you.

you sit down, resting your elbows on your knees. you think of your mother’s laugh, high and unrestrained, of the way your father always hums when he cooks, even if he burns the rice sometimes.

of your younger sister, still trying to fit into your old shoes, metaphorically and literally. your chest tightens at the memory. how many birthdays have you missed? how many dinners? how many nights your mother stayed up waiting for you to call and check in, only to fall asleep alone?

the guilt is sharper than fear. sharper than anything else.

you scroll through old photos on your phone, memories you thought you’d neatly stored away. pictures of home, of your childhood room, of streets you could navigate blindfolded. your parents smiling at the corner café, the one that serves the perfect latte. hayoung with a crooked grin, arms around your waist in a photo you didn’t take. the corners of the images blur, because you haven’t looked at them in years. you close your eyes, pressing your palms to your face.

it’s time to go home. you know it.

the next morning, you sit across from your editor at a small café near your apartment, the same one you’ve been visiting for the last three years. her hands cradle a steaming cup of coffee, her eyes softening when she notices the way you fidget with your phone, the tension in your shoulders.

“what’s going on?” she asks gently. “you’re jittery, even for you.”

you exhale slowly. “it’s… family,” you say, and the words feel too small for the weight they carry. “my mom… had a health scare. she’s okay, but I… I need to go home for a while.”

her brows lift slightly. “home?” she sips her coffee. “how long are we talking?”

“two months, maybe,” you say. your voice wavers. “i can submit articles remotely while I’m there. I’ll stay on top of everything, i promise. i just… I need to be there. with them. i haven't been home at all.”

she nods slowly, studying you. “two months. that’s not insignificant. are you sure? your column, your deadlines… it’s a big gap.”

you nod. “i know. I’ve planned for that. I’ll submit everything on schedule. i just… i need to do this. for them, for me… for the first time in years, maybe.”

her lips press together. “alright, i understand. this is important too.” she finally says. “two months. i’ll let the team know. keep in touch. keep submitting. don’t stress, you’ll be fine.”

the decision is made, but the weight hasn’t left your chest. it settles there in a dull, steady ache.

you sip your coffee, your usual order tasting more bitter than usual, staring out at the city that has been your world for years.

later that night, back in your apartment, you start packing. the suitcase sits open, half-empty. clothing folds into neat piles beside it, but there’s one box on the corner of your closet you can’t bring yourself to touch.

it’s your old sweater box. soft knits, faded tees, a few photos tucked between the folds. polaroids you didn’t dare look at, small reminders of someone you’ve tried to forget.

you stare at it for a long time. your fingers itch to pull one out, to see the familiar face, to feel the ache again, but for the sake of your peace, you don’t.

not yet.

you fold the first few shirts anyway, ignoring the box. each shirt carries a faint memory of home, of small, trivial moments; your mother folding the laundry next to you after school, your sister tugging at the sleeves to see if they still fit, your father cutting fruits for you after lunch.

packing is harder than you expected. the memories of years spent away, of small moments you will never get back. every folded sweater, every neatly stacked pair of socks feels like a silent apology to the people you willingly left behind.

you finish the first layer of packing, then pause. your gaze drifts to the box again, to the small pile of memories. one photo peeks out, just the corner of a face you recognize instantly. the corner of a smile, the tilt of a head, the ghost of a laugh.

you close your eyes, swallowing hard. some part of you wants to leave it untouched, keep the illusion that it doesn’t hurt anymore.

some part of you aches to see it, to hold it, to let the memories wash over you and maybe, somehow, let yourself forgive.

you leave the box for now, standing over it for a moment longer than you probably should. tomorrow, you’ll leave for the airport. tomorrow, you’ll see the streets you know by heart, the home you haven’t walked into in five years.

you zip the suitcase, stack it by the door, and sit on your bed. the city outside is restless, but you feel frozen. you feel suspended between two lives, the one you built here, in hope and ambition, and the one waiting for you, warm and messy and achingly familiar.

you are leaving. and nothing, not the city, not your work, not even yourself can stop you.

tomorrow, you go home.

the plane lifts off slowly, the city shrinking beneath you, lights fading into dots. the hum of the engines fills the cabin, steady and constant, and you press your forehead to the window, taking in a breath.

you close your eyes. new york disappears, the noise and neon replaced by quiet flashes of memory.

there’s the corner of your old street, the one where you and juhoon used to race on your bikes, laughing until your sides ached. you remember the wind on your face, the way he’d shout for you to wait for him.

you can almost see him, short brown hair sticking up in every direction, cheeks always flushed from running around all the time.

the memory hits you harder than you expect. you’ve avoided thinking of him too much these last five years, pushed the pain away under deadlines and busied yourself with work. but now with nothing to distract you, it's all coming back

the cafeteria in your high school, where he once bought you ice cream just because it was your favorite. the way he’d smile when he thought no one was looking. the long walks home from the library, carrying your books for you even though you insisted you could do it yourself. small, perfect moments that should have stayed perfect.

you bite your lip, pressing your hand to your chest. you can almost feel the pain in your chest, as if it was physical.

the memories are sweet, but they arouse something inside you. regret. longing. the kind of sadness that you can't explain with just words, sadness that's been building over years.

you tell yourself it’s been five years. he’s probably changed. maybe he’s… moved on. then you push the thought away.

and yet, even as the plane moves through the clouds, even as the flight attendants serve coffee, you find your mind drifting back.

you remember the day you left korea, suitcase packed, heart silently breaking into pieces. you remember the words you told him. words you hadn't meant at all, words you'd hoped would make leaving easier, for both of you. “i… don’t feel the same anymore,” you’d said. the lie came out easy, smooth, practiced.

your throat burns. you're not sure if it's the coffee, or if it's the ache from the old guilt. you remember the look on his face, a mix of pain and confusion. you still see it sometimes before you sleep.

but you also remember the little smiles, the shy touches under the tables, the way he held your hand as if he never wanted to let go.

the evenings you spent on rooftops, talking about dreams that felt too big. your dreams had pulled you away then. now, years later, you’re heading back, unsure if those memories will feel like home or like chains.

your fingers trace the rim of your coffee cup. you stare at the clouds, you're scared to go home. your hometown is waiting. your family. your parents’ worried faces. your sister. and him.

he’s somewhere in that town, living the life you left behind. maybe he’s still smiling at the little things, still buying ice cream for someone he cares about. maybe he’s changed. maybe he’s stayed the same.

your chest hurts at the thought of seeing him again. five years is a long time. you wonder if he remembers, if he misses it, if he remembers you.

you remember the afternoon he dragged you to the little park near your house, insisting you both climb the tallest tree. he’d looked at you then, really looked, and smiled that toothy smile of his, a look in his eyes that made it seem like you could do anything if you had him.

the image is painfully bright in your mind. you catch your lip between your teeth and blink quickly, trying not to cry. the flight attendant passes by, smiles politely, oblivious to the storm inside you.

you let your hand rest on your suitcase, on the one side that holds the sweater you avoided touching for so long. maybe once you get home, you’ll open it.

maybe he’ll be standing somewhere you can’t avoid.

you think of the streets, the small café where your sister had sent you a photo, the library you used to sneak into on rainy days. every place is a memory. every memory is him, in some shape, some fragment, some shadow.

you let yourself imagine him, five years older, maybe changed, maybe not; and you wonder if, when you see him again, he’ll recognize you the way you remember him, the way you never stopped remembering him.

14 hours later, and you're home.

the taxi ride from the airport feels strange. every turn of the wheel brings streets you know so well into view, the bakery where you once stole cookies with your bestfriend minji, as a kid, the little bridge over the stream where you and juhoon raced on your bikes, the library where you spent rainy afternoons with hayoung, hiding from the world. the memories press against your heart like they’re trying to escape.

when the car stops in front of your house, you hesitate. it looks exactly the same, cream-colored walls, small garden with the overgrown flowers your mother refused to pull out, the front porch light glowing warmly. you stop, suitcase in hand, almost afraid to knock.

the door opens before you even raise your hand. your mother’s eyes widen. “y/n?” she whispers, voice trembling.

“mom,” you choke out, stepping forward. the hug comes first, warm and overwhelming. she clings to you like she’s been holding her breath all these years, letting it out now that you’re here.

your father’s arms wrap around your shoulders, strong and familiar. “you’re really here,” he says softly.

and then your younger sister, yoon hayoung, comes barreling into the living room, almost tripping over your suitcase. “unnie!” she squeals, throwing herself into you. you laugh through the tears, holding her tight, feeling all the years you missed in one moment.

inside, the house smells the same, faint cinnamon from the kitchen, the slightly musty scent of old books, and a hint of your mother’s perfume lingering in the corners. every sound, every smell is a memory waiting for you.

later, after your parents ask about work and life and friends, you drag your suitcase into your old room. everything is exactly as you left it. your bed neat, your desk organized, the polaroids still pinned to the corkboard above your headboard.

and there, tucked between childhood photos, are pictures of him. sunghoon. smiling at you in moments frozen in time, the summer after the college entrance exams, the barbeque with your friends at the park. your fingers hover over them. you swallow hard.

you unpack slowly, folding clothes into drawers, stacking shoes neatly. you're really here. you finally reach the box you avoided before, the one with the sweater.

your fingers brush the fabric. it smells faintly of home, of sun, of all the years past. you press it to your nose for a moment, letting the memories wash over you.

the shower feels amazing. hot water streams down your back, easing the tension from the long flight. you close your eyes, letting the warmth seep into your skin.

you’re stepping out of the bathroom, hair still damp, when the doorbell rings. weird, were they expecting anyone?

your mother calls out from the kitchen, “i’ll get it!” but before she can, you open the door.

he’s standing there. juhoon. exactly how you remember, yet he looks older, quieter, with a subtle crease between his brows you’ve never seen before. in his hands is a small bag of groceries.

he freezes the second he sees you.

you’re wearing one of your old oversized shirts, the one he used to tease you about, the color faded. the sight of you makes something in him clench painfully.

“y/n…” he breathes, almost not audible.

and in that moment, everything floods back. for a second, it’s like nothing has passed and yet, everything has.

he clears his throat, composes himself. “uh… i… brought some things for your dad. groceries,” he says, voice tight, clipped.

you barely register the words. the room seems to shrink around him. your heart is hammering in your ears. the air feels charged, every second stretching longer than it should.

“oh… thank you,” you manage, voice shaky.

he steps inside, places the bag on the counter, his gaze flicking briefly toward you before looking away. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t move closer. it’s a small, careful distance, but the tension is unbearable.

“i… i should go,” he mutters, finally.

your chest tightens further, a strange mix of relief, longing, and ache coursing through you. he turns to leave, pausing for a fraction of a second at the doorway, glancing back at you, eyes shadowed. then he’s gone.

the room feels emptier after him, though he never really fully entered.

you sink onto your bed, pressing the sweater to your chest, breathing shakily.

he’s back in your life now, whether you’re ready for it or not.

dinner that night is louder than you remember.

your mother keeps putting food onto your plate even when you insist you’re full. your father complains about the soup being too salty, then goes back for seconds anyway. hayoung talks nonstop, words tumbling over each other as she fills you in on everything you missed; school drama, friends you vaguely remember, the café she’s obsessed with lately.

you sit there, chopsticks paused mid-air more than once, just watching them.

this is what you missed.

your father’s low humming while he eats, your mother scolding hayoung for chewing too loudly, the way the kitchen light casts everything in a soft yellow shine. you swallow hard, throat tight for reasons you don’t fully want to unpack.

“why are you staring like that?” hayoung asks, squinting at you. “it’s creepy.”

you laugh, the sound surprising even yourself. “nothing. i just… forgot how loud it gets.”

your mother smiles at that, fond. “you’ll get used to it again.”

again.

the word settles into you gently. like a promise.

that night, when you crawl into your old bed, the sheets smell faintly of laundry detergent and home. you stare at the ceiling for a long time, listening to the familiar creaks of the house, the distant sound of your parents talking in the living room. your body feels heavy, but your mind won’t slow down.

juhoon's face flashes behind your eyelids, uninvited. the way his eyes widened when he saw you. the way he closed himself off just as quickly. the grocery bag. the distance.

you turn onto your side and pull the blanket closer.

sleep comes eventually, soft and deep, like it’s been waiting for you.

the next few days pass slowly, gently, like the town is easing you back into itself.

you wake up early without trying, sunlight streaming through the curtains in the same way it always did. you help your mother fold laundry, even though she insists she doesn’t need help. you sit with your father while he watches the morning news, nodding along even when you don’t fully care about what’s being said.

it feels good to be useful here. to exist without deadlines pressing against your ribs.

one morning, your mother asks if you want to go grocery shopping with her.

you say yes immediately.

the market hasn’t changed much. same aisles, same shelves, same familiar smell of produce and cleaning supplies. you push the cart while your mother walks beside you, picking things up and putting them back with careful thought.

“do you still like these?” she asks, holding up a pack of snacks you used to love.

you smile. “yeah. i forgot about those.”

she hums, pleased, and drops them into the cart. “i’ll make your favorite side dish tonight.”

something warm spreads through your chest at that.

as you turn down one of the aisles, you nearly collide with someone pushing their own cart.

“oh—sorry,” you say automatically.

“y/n?”

you freeze.

minji's eyes go wide, then she drops her basket entirely and pulls you into a hug before you can react. “you’re really back,” she says, voice muffled against your shoulder. “i thought hayoung was lying.”

you laugh, hugging her back just as tightly. “wow. thanks.”

she pulls away, hands still gripping your arms like she’s making sure you’re real. “you look… the same. but different. in a good way.”

“you too,” you say honestly.

james appears a second later, eyes lighting up the moment he sees you. “no way,” he says, grinning. “it’s actually you.”

the three of you stand there for a moment, smiling at each other like no time has passed at all.

later, the three of you sit at a small café near the market, drinks sweating on the table between you. minji keeps asking questions—about new york, your work, your articles.

“i read all of them,” she says proudly. “like, every single one.”

james nods. “yeah. my mom sends them to our family group chat.”

you groan softly. “please don’t tell me that.”

they laugh, and for a moment, everything feels light. normal.

“so,” minji says carefully, eyes flicking between you and james, “how long are you staying?”

“two months,” you answer. “just… a break.”

james hums. “that’s good. you need it.”

there’s a pause. you hesitate, fingers tightening around your cup. “how’s… everyone?” you ask, voice casual enough. “from around here.”

minji gives james a look. he shifts slightly in his seat.

“juhoon's doing fine,” james says finally. “he’s… busy. working a lot.”

you nod, heart thudding. “yeah?”

“yeah,” he says, carefully. “he’s… changed a bit. but he’s good.”

you don’t push further. you don’t trust yourself to.

after you part ways, you walk home with your mother, arms full of groceries. the town feels smaller with every step, but also warmer. like it’s wrapping itself around you again.

the next day, as you step out of a small shop near the main road, you nearly run straight into someone else.

“y/n?”

you look up.

juhoon's mother stands there, eyes lighting up in surprise. park misun still looks the same—gentle smile, warm eyes, hair pulled back neatly. beside her is jaemin, taller now, her face bright with recognition.

“unnie!” jaemin squeals, pulling you into a hug. “you’re back!”

your heart squeezes painfully, but you smile and hug her back. “i am.”

misun reaches out, touching your arm softly. “you should come by for lunch next week,” she says immediately. “it’s been too long.”

you open your mouth to protest, but she’s already shaking her head. “no excuses. we miss you.”

jaemin nods enthusiastically. “yeah. mom already decided.”

you laugh softly, warmth spreading through your chest. “okay. lunch next week.”

as you walk away, the town feels different now. full with memories and people who never really let you go.

you didn’t just miss this place.

you missed being this version of yourself.

and you know that the longer you stay, the harder it will be to pretend that the past doesn’t still matter.

the mornings here are quieter than you remember.

you and sora walk side by side along the main road, the air cool enough to wake you up properly. the sun hasn’t fully risen yet, just soft light spilling over rooftops. the town feels slower at this hour, like it’s stretching before the day begins.

“i missed this,” sora says, hands tucked into her jacket sleeves. “walking without feeling like the world’s about to run you over.”

you hum in agreement. “new york doesn’t believe in silence.”

she laughs. “yeah, i figured.”

you walk a little more, comfortable, until you realize where you’re headed. your steps slow before you can stop yourself.

no. no, no, no.

you recognize the building immediately.

it’s not flashy. nothing here ever is. a modest sports facility near the edge of town, clean and well-kept. large windows. a sign out front you hadn’t seen before.

you stop walking.

“sora,” you say carefully, “why are we here?”

she keeps going. “oh, right, james asked me to give something to juhoon.”

your heart drops. “what?”

she turns, grinning like she’s already won. “it’s just a folder. paperwork stuff. relax.”

“no,” you say quickly, grabbing her arm. “you can go in. i’ll wait.”

she gives you a look. the kind that says she absolutely will not let this go.

“yoon y/n,” she says slowly, “you can’t avoid him forever.”

“i’m not avoiding him,” you lie. “i’m just… not ready.”

she softens slightly but doesn’t let go of your arm. “then this is good. quick. controlled. public place.”

you let her pull you forward, heart hammering in your chest.

inside, the place smells faintly of rubber mats and cleaning solution. the sound of skates on ice echoes from somewhere deeper inside the building. you swallow hard.

and then you see him.

kim juhoon stands near the rink, clipboard in hand, posture relaxed but focused. he’s wearing a fitted jacket with the facility’s logo, hair slightly damp, sleeves rolled up. he looks… grounded. steady. like someone who knows exactly where they’re meant to be.

he’s talking to a younger skater, demonstrating something with practiced ease. patient. encouraging. confident.

your chest tightens painfully.

he’s good at this.

sora nudges you gently. “he’s really good,” she whispers, as if reading your thoughts.

you nod, unable to speak.

juhoon notices movement near the entrance and looks up.

for a split second, his eyes flick past you.

then they come back.

he freezes.

it’s subtle. anyone else might miss it. but you see it—the slight stillness, the way his grip tightens around the clipboard. his gaze meets yours, holds for just a moment too long.

then he looks away.

sora clears her throat and walks up to him. “james asked me to give you this.”

juhoon takes the folder, nodding. “thanks.”

his voice is calm. polite. distant.

he doesn’t look at you again.

“okay,” sora says brightly, clapping her hands. “we’ll head out.”

you turn quickly, heart racing, and follow her out without a word.

only when you’re a few steps away does he speak.

“y/n.”

your body reacts before your mind does. you stop.

you turn back slowly.

he looks at you now. really looks. his expression unreadable, guarded.

“welcome back,” he says.

your throat tightens. “thanks.”

there’s a pause. too much left unsaid. then he nods once and turns back to his work.

and that’s it.

you walk away on shaky legs, the image of him burned into your mind.

the group hangout happens two days later.

sora texts you that morning like it’s nothing.

we’re all meeting later. don’t bail.

you consider it. for a long time.

but you go.

it’s at a small restaurant near the harbor. familiar. cozy. the kind of place where the owner still recognizes you.

james is already there when you arrive, waving enthusiastically. sora follows behind you, already chatting.

juhoon arrives last.

he takes the seat farthest from you.

conversation flows easily at first. sora and james fill the space with laughter, inside jokes, stories you missed. you smile, nod, laugh when appropriate.

juhoon barely speaks.

when he does, it’s short answers. polite. distant.

he doesn’t look at you much.

it hurts more than you expect.

halfway through dinner, sora glances at her phone dramatically. “oh! james, didn’t you say we had to go check on that thing?”

james catches on immediately. “right. yeah. very important.”

you look between them. “what thing?”

they’re already standing.

“we’ll be back,” minji says, far too cheerfully. “don’t leave.”

and then they’re gone.

the silence that settles is heavy.

juhoon exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. then he looks at you.

“how’ve you been?” he asks.

simple. careful.

you swallow. “i’ve been… okay.”

he nods. “new york?”

“busy.”

“yeah.”

another pause.

“you look healthy,” he says finally.

you almost laugh. almost cry.

“you too,” you reply softly.

the words hang between you, delicate, like if either of you says the wrong thing they’ll shatter.

juhoon looks down at his hands again. you notice how familiar they still are. long fingers, faint scars you remember noticing years ago for the first time. you wonder when the last time you held them was. the thought makes your chest ache.

“i read your article last month,” he says suddenly.

your head snaps up. “what?”

he blinks, like he didn’t expect that reaction. “the one about winter. about feeling homesick even when you’re surrounded by people.”

your breath catches.

“you wrote something like… ‘some places live in your body longer than they live on a map,’” he continues quietly. “i liked that.”

you stare at him, heart pounding.

that line wasn’t one of the highlighted ones. it wasn’t quoted in interviews or shared on social media. it was buried halfway through the piece. something you wrote late at night, alone, not thinking anyone would really see it.

“you… read that?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

he nods once. “i read most of them.”

most.

the room feels too small all of a sudden.

“i didn’t know you—” you stop yourself, throat tightening. “i didn’t think anyone back home really read my work.”

he gives a small, almost self-conscious shrug. “we all do.”

you don’t know what to say to that. a strange mix of warmth and overwhelm spreads through you, heavy and light at the same time. you press your fingers together under the table, trying to ground yourself.

“thank you,” you manage.

he looks at you, really looks, like he’s trying to memorize your face all over again. “you write beautifully,” he says. “even when it hurts.”

your chest tightens. “yeah,” you murmur. “especially then.”

there’s a pause. not uncomfortable, but not familiar either.

you clear your throat. “sora told me about your job.”

his eyebrows lift slightly. “yeah?”

“she said you’re really good at it.”

a small smile flickers across his face, gone almost as quickly as it appears. “i like it. coaching. helping kids figure things out.”

“you always were patient,” you say without thinking. “remember when you used to make me stay with you late after practice just to redo your jumps? even when everyone else had already left?”

the moment the words leave your mouth, you regret them.

his shoulders tense.

the air changes.

juhoon's jaw tightens, and he looks away, eyes fixed on something past your shoulder. the silence stretches, heavier than before.

“i don’t really think about that time anymore,” he says finally.

his voice is calm, but there’s something underneath it. pain.

“oh,” you whisper. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” he cuts in, shaking his head slightly. “really. it’s just… different now.”

you nod, guilt settling in your stomach. “yeah. i get that.”

another pause.

he exhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself. then he looks back at you, expression softer but closed off again.

“it’s good to have you back,” he says. your heart stutters. “yeah. it’s… good to be back.”

he stands before you can say anything else, pushing his chair in gently.

“i should go,” he adds. “work tomorrow.”

“right,” you say, standing too quickly. “of course.” he hesitates, just for a second, like he wants to say more.

but he doesn’t. “take care, y/n,” he says instead.

“you too, juhoon."

he gives you a small nod, then turns and walks away. you watch him leave, realizing something all at once.

you’re both standing in the same place again, but the space between you has never felt wider.

the reminder comes in the middle of the afternoon.

you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, phone face-down beside you, staring at the wall like it might start speaking first. your room is exactly how you left it five years ago. posters slightly crooked, polaroids pinned with wooden clips, the dent in the mattress where you used to sit and talk on the phone for hours.

your phone vibrates.

you don’t need to look to know who it is.

mia gentle reminder — article due in 2 days 🤍 no pressure, just checking in. hope you’re settling okay.

you pick up the phone, thumb hovering over the screen.

two days.

you exhale slowly and type back.

yoon y/n yeah. i know. i’ll send it on time. thank you.

a moment later, three dots appear, then disappear.

mia take care of yourself. write what feels honest.

you lock the phone and let it fall onto the bed beside you.

honest.

you look around the room again. outside, you hear distant voices, a motorbike passing, someone laughing down the street. the sounds feel smaller than new york. slower. kinder.

you move to your desk, pulling out the chair. you open your laptop. the familiar glow fills the room. for a few seconds, you just stare at the blank document. then your eyes drift up.

there’s a photo taped to the corner of the wall. one of you and juhoon at sixteen, standing too close, shoulders touching. you're both smiling like you don't know what it is to be hurt yet.

you swallow and look away.

you start typing before you can overthink it.

draft — untitled

there’s a strange kind of distance that doesn’t come from miles.

it happens when you return to a place you once knew by heart and realize it hasn’t been waiting for you. the streets still exist. the buildings still stand. but something is different, and you’re no longer sure where you fit.

i used to think leaving meant moving forward. that distance was proof of growth. i told myself that staying would mean recession, that wanting more required sacrifice.

and it did.

but no one tells you how quiet it gets when the sacrifice is over.

no one tells you that you can build a life somewhere else. full, accomplished, admired, and still feel like something important was left behind. not because you failed. not because you regret trying. but because some versions of yourself don’t survive the move.

they stay behind.

you pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

you lean back in the chair, eyes drifting to the window. sunlight filters through the curtains, soft and warm. you remember juhoon saying once that this room always smelled like afternoon. you don’t know if that still makes sense.

you turn back to the screen and keep going.

i’ve been home for less than a week, and already i feel like a visitor in my own memories.

people ask how it feels to be back. they expect relief. comfort. closure. i smile and tell them it’s nice. familiar. grounding.

the truth is more complicated.

home has a way of showing you who you used to be before ambition got to you. before time taught you how to leave without looking back. it reminds you of the things you loved softly, without fear of losing them.

it reminds you of people.

some connections don’t fade neatly. they don’t end with a clear conclusion or mutual understanding. they linger in the background of your life, resurfacing in unexpected moments. a sentence you read, a street you pass, a laugh that sounds too familiar.

you don’t talk about them much. not because they didn’t matter, but because they mattered too much.

your throat tightens.

you stop typing.

your eyes blur, just slightly. you blink, press your fingers into your palms, grounding yourself.

you think of juhoon standing across from you earlier. the way he looked older, steadier. the way his voice stayed calm even when you could feel the hurt behind it.

you write beautifully. even when it hurts.

you swallow hard and keep going, slower now.

there’s a difference between moving on and moving forward.

moving on means erasing. forgetting. closing doors.

moving forward is quieter. harder. it’s carrying the past with you even when you don’t know where to put it. it’s standing in the same place again, years later, and realizing that the space between you and someone else has grown, not because of anger, but because of time.

and maybe that distance isn’t meant to be crossed.

maybe it’s just meant to be acknowledged.

your fingers freeze.

the words stare back at you, too close. too sharp.

you feel it then, that familiar ache in your chest, the kind that makes breathing feel like work. the room suddenly feels smaller, the memories louder.

you close the laptop. fuck.

you sit there for a moment, unmoving, staring at the dark screen that reflects your own face back at you. you look tired. older than twenty six somehow. like someone who has lived several lives and still hasn’t figured out which ending is hers.

you stand and change into one of your old t-shirts without thinking.

it’s loose, soft, worn thin with age.

it smells faintly like home. faintly like him.

you crawl into bed, pulling the blanket up to your chest. the mattress creaks under your weight, familiar and comforting.

your phone buzzes again, but you ignore it.

you don’t cry. not fully.

you just lie there, eyes open, realizing that writing about distance is easier than feeling it. sleep finally finds you soft and incomplete, just like the things you left unfinished.

the text comes late in the morning, just as you’re tying your hair up in front of the mirror.

jaemin 💗 unnieee don’t forget lunch today 12:30 ok? eomma's already excited 😭

you stare at the screen for a second.

lunch. with juhoon’s family. your stomach flips, a slow uneasy turn. you type back anyway.

yoon y/n i rememberrr. i’ll be there.

another buzz almost immediately.

jaemin 💗 yay!!! i missed you so much eomma keeps saying you probably forgot how to get here but i told her you basically lived with us

you smile despite yourself.

some things really don’t change.

you take your time getting ready. too much time, actually.

you change your top twice, then put on an old cardigan without thinking, one you used to wear all the time when you’d go over to their house after school. you hesitate when you realize, fingers pausing on the buttons.

old habits.

you almost change again, then stop. it’s just lunch, you tell yourself. just his mom. just jaemin.

you stop by a small bakery on the way, picking up the chestnut bread juhoon’s mom always loved. the lady behind the counter wraps it neatly, smiling when you thank her.

as you walk, your feet take familiar turns without you thinking. you notice it only when you’re halfway there.

your body remembers this place better than your mind wants to.

their house looks the same.

the gate. the little potted plants near the entrance. even the wind chime by the door.

you stand there for a moment longer than necessary, chest tight, before lifting your hand and knocking.

the door opens almost immediately.

“y/n-ah!”

juhoon’s mom pulls you into a hug before you can even say hello. she smells like laundry soap and sesame oil, warm and familiar.

“you’re so thin,” she says, hands on your shoulders, already inspecting you. “are they feeding you properly over there?”

you laugh softly. “i eat well, auntie.”

“that’s what everyone says,” she scoffs, ushering you inside. “you should’ve told me earlier you were coming back. i would’ve prepared more.” jaemin appears from the kitchen, eyes lighting up the moment she sees you.

“unnie!”

she hugs you tight, almost knocking the air out of your lungs. “i can’t believe you’re really here. you look exactly the same.” you pull back, smiling. “you grew.” she beams. “right??”

you slip off your shoes automatically, lining them up neatly the way you always used to. you place the bakery bag on the counter without being told.

“i brought bread,” you say. “the chestnut one.” juhoon’s mom gasps. “you remembered?” you shrug lightly. “of course.”

she clicks her tongue fondly. “you always were thoughtful.” the words land heavier than she means them to.

lunch is already laid out when you sit down. too many dishes, as always. you help bring bowls to the table without thinking, reaching for the same cabinet you’ve reached into a hundred times before.

jaemin watches you with a grin. “see? i told you she didn’t forget anything.”

“how could she?” her mom says. “this house practically raised her.” you smile, but something twists in your chest. you sit where you always used to. across from juhoon’s mom. beside jaemin. you’re halfway through eating when the front door opens. you hear footsteps. a familiar voice greeting his mom. your hand stills around your chopsticks.

“i’m home.”

juhoon steps into the dining room and freezes.

his eyes land on you. “what are you doing here?” he blurts out. the words come out sharper than he probably intends.

his mom turns, frowning. “yah. what kind of greeting is that?” he blinks, like he’s just realized what he said. “i— i didn’t mean—”

“go wash your hands,” she interrupts. “and come sit. we’re eating.”

he hesitates, eyes flicking back to you. you offer a small, polite smile. the kind you’ve perfected over the years. the kind that doesn’t reveal anything.

“hi, juhoon,” you say softly.

his jaw tightens. “hi.”

he disappears down the hall, and the air feels different the moment he’s gone. jaemin shoots you an apologetic look. “he didn’t know you were coming.”

“it’s okay,” you say quickly. “i didn’t tell him either.”

he comes back a minute later and sits down.

next to you.

your breath catches before you can stop it.

it’s instinctive the way your shoulders tense, the way your body shifts just slightly to make space. he smells the same. clean. familiar.

for a moment, neither of you speaks.

without thinking, you reach over and pick the carrots out of his rice, placing them neatly on your plate.

you freeze halfway through.

he freezes too.

your fingers hover in the air, suddenly aware of what you’re doing. you pull your hand back slowly. “sorry. habit.”

he says nothing, just stares at his bowl.

a few seconds later, he slides the bowl of soup closer to you. “it’ll get cold,” he mutters.

your heart twists.

jaemin doesn’t notice. her mom doesn’t either. they’re too busy talking, laughing, filling the space.

but you and juhoon feel it. it’s like your bodies still know each other, even if your hearts are pretending not to.

you eat quietly, nodding when spoken to, laughing at the right moments. but your chest feels tight, like it’s being pulled in opposite directions.

juhoon barely looks at you.

when he does, it’s brief. guarded.

all he can see when he looks at you is the past colliding with the present. the way you left. the words you said.

the nights he spent staring at his phone, waiting for a message that never came.

and yet here you are.

in his house. at his table. picking carrots out of his rice like nothing ever broke. it makes something in him ache.

after lunch, you stand quickly.

“i should go,” you say, a little too fast. “i have some work to finish.”

his mom waves you off. “already? stay for tea at least.”

“next time,” you promise. “i’ll come again soon.” jaemin pouts. “you better.” you slip your shoes on, heart pounding.

juhoon follows you to the door without a word. outside, the air feels colder.

“thanks for lunch,” you say softly. “yeah,” he replies. “thanks for coming.”

there’s so much left unsaid between you. it presses against your ribs, heavy and painful.

you bow slightly to his mom, wave to jaemin, and then you’re walking away.

fast.

you don’t look back.

juhoon stands there for a long moment after you’re gone. his chest feels tight. all he remembers is the pain you caused. and all he feels is how much he missed you anyway.

the house feels quieter after you leave.

juhoon’s mom starts clearing the table, stacking dishes with a little more force than necessary. jaemin watches her for a moment, then looks at juhoon, arms crossed.

“you were being so weird,” she says plainly.

juhoon exhales. “jaemin.”

“no, i’m serious,” she continues, unfazed. “you barely looked at her. you snapped when you walked in. and then you sat there like you were holding your breath the whole time.”

his mom hums in agreement. “you didn’t even offer her more rice. you always used to.”

juhoon presses his lips together. “can we not do this right now?”

“why?” jaemin asks. “because it’s obvious?”

he shoots her a look. “obvious how?”

“obvious that you’re still not over her,” she says. “and obvious that you’re pretending you are.”

his mom sighs softly, wiping her hands on a towel. “you don’t have to be rude to protect yourself, juhoon.”

he stiffens. “i wasn’t rude.”

“you were cold,” she corrects gently. “there’s a difference.”

he looks away.

they all know what happened. they always have. there was never a moment where you disappeared without explanation, never a version of the story where you became a stranger. you were still the girl who helped wash dishes, who slept over in jaemin’s room, who laughed too loud at stupid jokes.

love doesn’t just vanish like that.

“she looked tired,” his mom adds quietly. “but she looked like she was trying.”

jaemin nods. “i’m just saying. if you’re going to act like that, at least admit why.”

juhoon pushes his chair back. “i’m going to my room.”

“juhoon,” his mom calls.

he pauses at the doorway.

“we still love her,” she says. “that doesn’t mean we love you any less.”

his throat tightens. he nods once, then disappears down the hall.

he drops onto his bed fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling. seeing you today did something to him. cracked something open he’s spent five years carefully sealing shut.

he thinks of the way you picked the carrots out of his rice without realizing it. the way you apologized like you were the one who crossed a line.

he presses his forearm over his eyes.

it hurts more than he expected.

his phone buzzes. he ignores it at first. then it buzzes again. with a sigh, he pulls it out of his pocket.

new post from yoon y/n “on returning, and the quiet distances we carry”

he stares at the screen, thumb hovering. he knows he shouldn’t read it. he knows exactly what will happen if he does. but he’s been subscribed for five years.

he taps it anyway.

the words load slowly, line by line. he reads.

about distance that doesn’t come from miles. about leaving to grow, and growing in ways that still feel lonely. about returning to places that remember you better than you remember yourself.

his heart hurts with every paragraph.

then he reaches the part about standing in the same place again. about time creating space where love once lived. about acknowledging that space instead of pretending it doesn’t exist.

his jaw clenches.

because he knows.

he knows those words didn’t come from nowhere.

they came from today. from her sitting at his table. from her standing across from him and smiling like she was holding herself together with thread.

he scrolls slowly, breathing shallow.

when he reaches the end, he doesn’t move.

he just stares at the screen.

memories flood in before he can stop them.

you standing at the airport, hands shaking. your voice steady when it shouldn’t have been. i don’t feel the same anymore.

the way it felt like the ground dropped out from under him.

the months after. the quiet. the unanswered questions. the ache that never really left, just dulled.

he squeezes his eyes shut.

a tear slips out anyway.

he doesn’t wipe it away. he lets it fall, chest rising and falling unevenly.

for the first time in years, he doesn’t push the pain down. doesn’t tell himself to be stronger, colder, better at pretending.

he just lies there, phone resting on his chest, and lets himself feel it.

missing you.

loving you.

and not knowing what to do with either.

morning comes quietly.

you wake to the sound of chopping from the kitchen and the faint clatter of pans. for a second, you forget where you are. then the smell of sesame oil reaches you, warm and familiar, and your chest softens.

home.

you pull yourself out of bed, change into a loose t-shirt, and pad down the hallway. your mom is already at the stove, hair clipped back, sleeves rolled up.

“you’re awake early,” she says without turning.

“jet lag,” you reply, grabbing an apron from the hook. “what do you need help with?”

she glances at you, surprised. “since when do you volunteer?”

you smile. “since i missed this.”

she doesn’t say anything else, just hands you a bowl of eggs to beat. you work side by side in comfortable silence, the kind that only exists with family. hayoung wanders in halfway through, still half-asleep, steals a piece of kimchi, and immediately gets scolded.

breakfast is noisy. laughter. plates clinking. your dad talking about something he read online, hayoung arguing back. you sit there, spoon in hand, realizing how much you forgot this rhythm. how alive it feels.

halfway through, your phone rings.

mia.

you excuse yourself and step into the living room.

“hey,” you answer.

“good morning, ny-in-korea,” mia says. “how’s home?”

“loud,” you say fondly. “but good.”

“good. listen—i wanted to talk about your next piece.”

you lean against the wall. “yeah?”

“we’ve been getting a lot of responses,” she explains. “people want something more grounded. personal, but lighter. hometown energy.”

you close your eyes briefly. you already know where this is going.

“i was thinking,” mia continues, “since you’re back home… what about a short feature? local life, small town routines, you know."

your heart skips. “what?”

“yeah. interviews, photos, little moments. nothing heavy. just… human.”

you swallow. “okay.”

“i’ll need it in about a week,” she says. “do you have someone in mind to interview?”

that’s the problem.

you go back to the kitchen after the call, quiet. your mom notices immediately.

“what is it?”

“work,” you say. “they want me to write about the town. someone here.”

your dad hums. “that’s nice.”

“i need someone local,” you add. “someone… well-known, i guess.”

your mom doesn’t hesitate. “juhoon.”

the word hits the air too cleanly.

you blink. “what?”

she shrugs like it’s obvious. “everyone knows him. good job. good reputation. works with kids. you two were always—”

“mom,” you cut in gently. “no.”

she studies you for a moment, then nods. “alright.”

but the idea sticks.

later that afternoon, you meet sora and james at the café near the main road. they’re sitting close, shoulders touching, sharing a drink like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“you look tired,” sora says, immediately.

“you look annoying,” you reply, sitting down.

james laughs. “still the same.”

you tell them about the article. about the interviews. about not knowing who to ask.

sora doesn’t even wait for you to finish.

“juhoon.”

you groan. “of course you’d say that.”

“why wouldn’t i?” she says. “he’s perfect for it.” james nods. “he is, actually. everyone knows him.”

“that’s exactly why i shouldn’t,” you mutter. sora leans forward. “y/n. this is work. not a confession.”

“easy for you to say.”

“true,” she admits. “but listen. professional setting. clear boundaries. you talk about skating, kids. not feelings.”

you stare into your coffee.

“and,” james adds casually, “he already reads your work.” you freeze. “how do you know that?”

james raises an eyebrow. “he’s terrible at hiding things.” sora smiles, evil and soft all at once. “just ask him.” you hesitate for a long moment.

then you nod.

you find him at the rink the next day, clipboard tucked under his arm, kids skating in messy circles around him. he looks focused. in his element. you wait until he’s done.

“juhoon,” you say. he turns. surprise flickers across his face, then settles.

“hey.”

you take a breath. “this is… work.”

he tilts his head. “okay.”

“i’m writing a piece about the town,” you continue. “and i was wondering if you’d be willing to let me interview you. professionally.”

he looks at you for a long second. then nods. “yeah,” he says. “okay.”

you don’t know why that feels like relief.

the rink is quieter the next day.

fewer kids, softer echoes, the scrape of blades against ice less frantic than yesterday. you arrive early anyway, because of course you do.

clipboard tucked under your arm. phone fully charged. extra pens in your pocket. questions already drafted, crossed out, rewritten.

you stand near the boards, watching juhoon from a distance.

he’s focused, moving easily along the edge of the rink, correcting a kid’s posture with gentle taps, clapping when someone lands a jump they’ve been struggling with. he smiles when they look back at him, proud and relieved.

it makes something in your chest loosen.

when he finally notices you, he skates over, pushing to a stop near the edge.

“you’re early,” he says.

you blink, pulled out of your thoughts. “yeah. i like being prepared.”

he huffs a quiet laugh. “i remember.”

you pretend not to hear the implication and step closer, already flipping your clipboard open.

“okay,” you say, slipping straight into work mode. “this won’t take long today. i mostly just want to go over logistics.”

he leans his elbows on the boards, listening.

“i’m thinking we do three short sessions,” you continue, pointing at your notes. “one here at the rink, mostly about your work, the kids, why you stayed. one walking through town. and one more informal, maybe at a café?"

you glance up. he’s watching you, not the clipboard.

“is that okay?” you ask.

“yeah,” he says easily. “sounds fine.”

“great.” you nod to yourself, pen tapping against the paper. “i’ll record everything, but i’ll send you the quotes i plan to use before publishing. and if there’s anything you don’t want included—”

“y/n,” he interrupts gently.

you look up again. “it’s okay,” he says. “you don’t have to convince me.” your cheeks warm. “right. sorry.”

he smiles then. small, fond, almost soft. and that’s when you notice it. he’s not just smiling. he’s watching you.

the way you pace slightly as you talk. the way your voice steadies when you explain things. the way your eyes light up just a little when you’re in control of the moment.

it reminds him of before.

of you at seventeen, planning everything down to the minute. of you in college, color coding your notes while he pretended not to stare.

you clear your throat. “uh. i also wanted to record a short intro today. just basic stuff. name, job, how long you’ve been here.”

“right now?” he asks.

“if you’re okay with it,” you say. “we can do it quickly.”

he nods. “sure.”

you step closer, holding up your phone. “just talk like you normally would. i’ll handle the rest.”

he takes a breath, then starts.

“i’m kim juhoon,” he says. “i work as a skating coach here in town. i’ve been here since i graduated college.” his voice is steady. calm.

you watch him through the screen, adjusting the angle slightly, nodding when he pauses.

when he finishes, you lower the phone.

“that was perfect,” you say automatically. “you say that to everyone,” he replies. “i don’t,” you argue. “i’d tell you if it was bad.”

he laughs softly. there’s a pause.

then he says, “you really do love your job, huh?”

you blink. “what?”

“the way you talk,” he explains. “the way you plan everything. you look… happy.”

you think about it for a second. “i am,” you say. “most of the time.”

he nods, eyes dropping briefly to the ice.

maybe this is why you left, he thinks.

maybe this is what you needed.

and maybe—maybe that means it was worth it. even if it broke him in the process.

“i’m glad,” he says quietly.

you look at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“thank you,” you reply. you glance down at your clipboard again, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing. of how familiar this feels, despite everything.

“i’ll send you the schedule later,” you say. “and the questions.”

“okay.”

you pack up your things, efficient as ever. when you look up again, he’s still watching you. “what?” you ask, half- smiling.

he shakes his head. “nothing. just… feels like you never left.”

“yeah,” you whisper. “sometimes it feels like that too.” you leave the rink a few minutes later, heart lighter and heavier all at once. juhoon watches you go, standing very still.

for the first time in years, the distance between you doesn’t feel quite so fixed.

a few days pass.

they’re quiet days. slow ones.

you keep yourself busy, writing in short bursts, helping your mom with errands, walking hayoung to places she doesn’t actually need company for. you tell yourself you’re just settling back into routine.

but at night, when the house goes still, you catch yourself thinking about the rink. about the way juhoon smiled when you talked about work. about how easy it felt, standing next to him again, like slipping into an old rhythm your body never forgot.

you don’t text him. not unless it’s about the interview. today is about the interview. you check the time for the third time in ten minutes.

10:07 a.m.

you were supposed to meet him at ten. you open your messages.

you: hey, i’m on my way to the rink now!

no reply.

you wait a few minutes, then send another.

you: i’m here. everything okay?

still nothing.

you hesitate, then call him.

it rings.

and rings.

and goes to voicemail.

you pull the phone away from your ear, frowning at the screen.

“what the hell,” you mutter.

juhoon isn’t careless. not with commitments. not with work.

a familiar address comes to mind before you can stop it.

his house.

you don’t even let yourself overthink it. you grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and head out.

jaemin answers the door, hair tied up messily, wearing an oversized hoodie. “unnie?” she blinks. “what are you doing here?”

“hi,” you say, slightly breathless. “i’m supposed to interview juhoon today. he’s not answering his phone.” jaemin’s eyes widen. then she grins. “oh. did he forget?”

“did he?” you echo.

she laughs. “he came home really late last night. i think he’s dead asleep.”

you hesitate. “should i… come back later?”

jaemin shakes her head immediately. “no, no. you can wake him up. i’ll be too nice, he won’t get up.”

you pause. “are you sure?”

“very,” she says, already stepping aside. “he’s in his room. you know where.”

you do. your feet carry you down the hallway without guidance. the door at the end is slightly ajar.

you knock once, softly. no response.

“juhoon?” you call quietly. nothing. you push the door open. his room is dim, curtains drawn, sunlight sneaking through the edges. it looks almost exactly the same as it did five years ago.

same bed. same desk. same shelves.

and the walls—

your chest tightens.

photos. polaroids. printed pictures. taped notes.

him. you. the two of you together in every version of time. kids, teenagers, college students. smiles frozen in moments that feel both distant and painfully close.

you step inside slowly, closing the door behind you. he’s sprawled across the bed, face turned into the pillow, hair a mess. one arm hangs off the side, fingers brushing the floor.

you can’t help it. you smile. “still sleeps like that,” you murmur. you set your bag down gently and step closer. “juhoon,” you say, nudging his shoulder. “wake up.”

he doesn’t move. you try again, firmer this time. “hey. you overslept.”

nothing. you sigh. “you’re unbelievable.” you grab his arm and shake him lightly. then harder.

“juhoon.” still dead asleep.

“oh my god,” you whisper, half amused, half exasperated. you brace yourself and push him more forcefully. he stirs. turns. and suddenly his arm hooks around your waist, pulling you forward. you gasp as you lose balance, stumbling straight onto the bed.

onto him. you land half on his chest, half tangled in his arms, your face inches from his neck.

“wait— juhoon—”

he tightens his hold instinctively, still asleep, mumbling something unintelligible.

your heart slams against your ribs. you freeze. your palms press against his chest. solid. warm. you try to push yourself up. you can’t.

“are you serious,” you whisper frantically. “let go.”

he shifts again and his eyes open.

it takes him a second to register the situation.

then his gaze focuses.

on you. on your face. on the fact that you are very much lying on top of him. his eyes widen.

“what—” he chokes. “y/n?”

you stare back, equally stunned. “hi.”

there’s a beat. then another. his face flushes red. he lets go instantly, like he’s been burned. you scramble back, heart racing, nearly falling off the bed in the process. “i’m so sorry,” he blurts out. “i thought— i didn’t— i mean—”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, cheeks burning. “you were asleep. i was trying to wake you up. you wouldn’t move.” he sits up, running a hand through his hair. “what time is it?”

“ten twenty.” his eyes widen. “shit.” he jumps up. “the interview.”

“yeah,” you say. “that thing.”

“i’m so sorry,” he groans. “i stayed up late and— just give me ten minutes.”

“take your time,” you reply, already backing toward the door. “i’ll wait outside.” you step into the hallway, heart still pounding. jaemin looks up from her phone and immediately smirks.

“so?” she asks. “did you wake him?” you glare at her. “you knew.” she laughs. “i had a feeling.”

you cross your arms. “he pulled me onto the bed.” her eyes widen. “no way.”

“way.” jaemin grins. “wow. progress.”

“stop,” you groan. “he’s changing.”

“relax,” she says. “he always does that when he’s comfortable. means he trusts you."

a few minutes later, juhoon comes out, hair still damp, jacket half-zipped. “ready?” he asks. you nod. “yeah.”

you walk out together, the morning air cool and bright. neither of you mentions what happened.

you walk side by side, matching pace without thinking about it. the town feels awake today. shops open, doors pulled up, people greeting each other by name. it’s the kind of morning where everyone knows everyone, where nothing really goes unnoticed.

and that includes the two of you.

“oh?” an older woman near the fruit stand pauses mid-sentence when she sees you. her eyes flick between you and juhoon. “you’re together again?”

your heart jumps.

“ah—” you start.

“no,” juhoon says at the same time.

then, softer, “she’s working.”

the woman smiles anyway. “well, it’s nice seeing you two together again. feels familiar.” you nod politely, smile fixed, and keep walking.

a few steps later, someone else waves. “y/n! welcome back!” then glances at juhoon. “good to see you both.”

both.

it happens again. and again.

small comments. passing remarks. nothing malicious. just… memory.

you feel like the town remembers the two of you as a single thing.

when you reach the rink, you let out a quiet breath.

“small towns,” you murmur. juhoon huffs a laugh. “they don’t forget.”

inside, the rink is already lively. kids tying skates, parents sitting along the benches, the familiar chill of ice in the air.

you set up quickly. phone, recorder, notebook.

“ready?” you ask.

he nods. “yeah.” you start with easy questions.

how long he’s been coaching. why he stayed. what he likes most about it.

his answers come easily.

“i like watching them figure it out,” he says, glancing at the kids on the ice. “the moment it clicks. when they realize they can do something they were scared of.”

you nod, scribbling notes.

“and i like that i’m here,” he adds. “this place. it feels… right.” you watch him as he talks. really watch him. he’s relaxed. smiling. alive in a way that feels grounded. not restless. not chasing something else.

something inside you softens.

maybe leaving was the right choice, you think. maybe this is where he was always meant to be.

a kid suddenly breaks away from the group and skates straight toward you, nearly tripping. “teacher!” she shouts, pointing at you. “who’s that?”

juhoon laughs. “that’s y/n.”

the girl looks up at you, eyes wide. “you’re really pretty.”

you blink. “oh— thank you.” the girl turns to juhoon seriously. “she’s really pretty, right?” he doesn’t hesitate.

“yeah,” he says, smiling. “she is.”

your chest tightens.

the kid nods, satisfied, then skates away like she’s just stated a universal truth.

you clear your throat, pretending to focus on your notes.

the interview wraps up smoother than you expect. it feels less like work, more like… conversation. when the rink starts emptying out, juhoon checks the clock.

“we’ve got time before closing,” he says. “do you want to skate?”

you hesitate. “i’m… rusty.” he smiles gently. “no pressure.” you think about it. about how long it’s been.

“okay,” you say finally. “yeah.” his smile widens.

he helps you with the skates, kneeling in front of you, fingers moving easily. it feels intimate in a quiet, careful way. like something you both remember how to do without speaking.

on the ice, you wobble at first. he’s there instantly, hands steady on your waist. “i’ve got you,” he says.

you nod, trusting him without question. you skate slowly, his presence solid beside you. the rink is nearly empty now, just the sound of blades cutting through ice.

it feels… easy.

after, you help him close up.

you stack the cones while he shuts off the lights one by one, the rink dimming slowly until it’s just the two of you and the echo of your skates on concrete.

“they did better today,” you say, nodding toward the ice.

juhoon hums. “yeah. minseo finally stopped crying.”

you smile. “progress.”

he laughs quietly. “you have no idea how big that is.”

there’s a beat of silence as he locks the equipment room. he leans against the wall for a second, exhaling.

“they exhaust me,” he says. “but i like it. i go home tired, but it’s the good kind.”

“the kind where you feel like you did something,” you say.

he glances at you, a little surprised. “yeah. exactly that.”

you both step outside. the air is cooler now, cleaner. the town feels slower at night, softer around the edges.

juhoon pockets his hands. “your work though… it’s always moving, right? new places, new people.”

you nod quickly. “yeah. it’s good. i mean it’s exciting. there’s always something happening.”

he waits.

you add, like you have to convince both of you, “it’s rewarding. people read what i write. it matters.”

“but?”

you blink. “but what?”

he shrugs lightly. “you paused.”

you look down at the pavement. “it’s just… loud. all the time. even when it’s quiet, it’s loud. i feel like i’m always running to the next thing.”

he nods slowly. “do you like it?”

“i do,” you say immediately. then softer, “i think i do.”

another few steps pass.

“it’s weird,” you admit. “being here. i feel… lighter. like i can breathe properly again.”

he stops walking.

you stop too.

“then maybe you could—” he starts, then cuts himself off, shaking his head. “sorry. that was stupid.”

“juhoon—”

“of course you wouldn’t want to stay,” he says quickly. “this place is small. you didn’t leave for nothing.”

the air shifts. old hurt, sharp and familiar.

you swallow. “i didn’t leave because i hated it.”

he meets your eyes. “you left anyway.”

there's silence for a moment.

“i should go,” you say quietly. “yeah,” he replies, just as quiet. “me too.” you stand there for a second longer, like you’re both waiting for something neither of you can say.

then you turn.

and as you walk in opposite directions, the distance between you feels familiar and close enough to hurt.

you wake up late that morning.

breakfast is quiet. your parents exchange looks over their coffee, subtle but not unnoticed. hayoung nudges you with her foot under the table. “you okay, unnie?”

you wave her off. “fine.”

but they all know. your shoulders slump, eyes unfocused as you stare at the newspaper, pretending to read. your mom places a hand on your arm. “work getting to you?”

“just tired,” you mutter, though it’s not work. it’s juhoon, the rink, the awkward closeness yesterday, and that ache that never really left.

later, sora calls. her tone is teasing, but you hear the concern underneath. “y/n, come over today. you’ll feel better. forget work for a bit.”

you sigh, dragging yourself out the door, brushing off hayoung’s whispered concern as you go. you end up at the rink, hesitant, heart thudding.

and you see him. juhoon.

he’s standing in the middle of the rink, skates off, leaning casually against the boards. his eyes light up as he talks, animated and open, with a girl you don’t recognize. her hair shines under the rink lights, laugh ringing out, perfect and effortless.

you freeze. they’re talking, laughing. comfortable. happy.

it takes you a second. then you realize, this is the girl from his Instagram. he’d posted a picture with her earlier in the year. college friend, you remember.

and suddenly the air feels too thin, the rink too big, the space between you and him impossibly wide.

you swallow and turn, walking away. you’re not a part of his life anymore. you remind yourself of that over and over as you leave.

back at home, you slump into your bed. you pull out your phone, text him. “sick today. could you send a few videos of the kids at the rink? that’d be enough.”

his reply is almost immediate.

“sure. everything okay?”

“just tired,” you type. simple, neutral. he doesn’t press. he trusts you. he’s looking forward to the interview too.

hours pass. you lie on your bed, scrolling through your phone. you end up on juhoon’s Instagram.

and there she is. the girl from the rink. smiling at him, arms around his shoulder. beside them, sora and james, grinning.

they look happy. so happy. so… easy. a pang twists in your chest. everyone seems happier without you here. sora calls, her voice cheerful but insistent. “come over. now. you need to stop moping.”

you drag yourself out anyway.

at sora’s apartment, the drinks come out. beers. cheap but comforting. you tell her everything—the rink, the girl, the picture, how it’s eating at you.

“jealous?” she asks, a sly grin.

“maybe,” you mumble.

she laughs. “of course. that's normal. but don't worry. they were good friends throughout college."

“yeah,” you agree. “and she’s… perfect. and—i don’t know. it’s stupid.”

sora smirks. “no, it’s not. I get it.” she leans closer, whispering like she’s conspiring. “but you’re human. and honestly? i kinda like seeing you like this. it’s… honest.”

the beers keep coming. laughter. arguments about nothing. confessions. the room tilts slightly as the alcohol settles warm in your chest.

midway, sora calls james. loud enough for you to hear snippets.

“y/n’s completely passed out drunk. someone’s gotta take her home.”

you hear juhoon’s voice on the other end. “i’ll do it.”

your head spins. your stomach lurches. before you can protest, the door opens. there he is, a faint look of amusement and exasperation.

“come on,” he says, voice steady. “you’re going home.”

you stumble toward him, he shifts slightly, and suddenly you’re on his back, clinging as he navigates the streets.

“juhoon,” you slur, voice low and thick. “the girl… the girl at the rink… is she… happy?”

he laughs quietly, shaking his head. “i don’t know. and it’s not your concern.”

“but…” you mumble, squirming slightly. “i just… hope… you’re happy.”

he’s silent for a moment, and the quiet is heavier than the words.

“y/n,” he says softly, “you don’t have to—”

“i know,” you interrupt, half-laughing, half-sighing. “i just… care. okay?”

he smirks down at you, adjusting you slightly on his back. “okay.”

the streets blur around you. your head rests against his shoulder, and for a few moments, the ache in your chest eases.

when you reach your house, he sets you down carefully.

you stumble toward the door, breathless. “thanks,” you whisper.

he watches you, expression softening.

then, unthinking, you reach up, pressing your lips lightly to his cheek.

he freezes.

you turn and push the door open, collapsing onto the couch in the living room. juhoon lingers in the doorway, watching you, a mix of amusement, affection, and something you dont recognize in his gaze.

he exhales softly, shaking his head, and eventually closes the door behind him. and for now, the quiet is yours.

the house is buzzing. laughter, music, clinking glasses.

you sit on the couch with sora and james, the warmth of the room making it easy to forget everything else. drinks in hand, stories bouncing back and forth, people spilling into corners of the living room. the world feels full. chaotic. alive.

juhoon is across the room, leaning against the counter, chatting with someone about a project at the rink. his smile is easy, casual, but your stomach twists every time you catch it.

you sip your drink, trying to push down the feelings that have been creeping up all day—the longing, the guilt, the memory of him. you’re hot and cold, as you’ve been since you got back. laughing, teasing, then slipping away for quiet moments alone. it’s safer that way, you tell yourself. safer for him, safer for you.

at some point, the buzz gets too loud. you slip outside onto the balcony to take a call. your phone buzzes. it’s mia.

“y/n! hey, just checking in—how’s it going? we need to talk deadlines.”

“hey,” you murmur, the night air cool on your flushed cheeks. “yeah, it’s going okay… listen, i think i’m going to head back to NY soon. i can finish the pieces from there, it’ll be easier.”

you hear movement behind you. freeze.

juhoon. he’s standing in the doorway, half-shadowed by the light from inside. his arms crossed. his jaw tight. his eyes are sharp, stormy.

“if that’s what you’re going to do,” he says quietly, but there’s ice under the words, “then just leave. go back to New York. if you’re going to do the same thing again—hurt everyone—then just go.”

the words hit you like a slap. your stomach drops.

“juhoon—” you start, voice breaking.

“no, i mean it!” he snaps. “i’m done pretending. done waiting for you to decide what you want while everyone else suffers!”

you swallow hard, trying to steady yourself. tears prick at your eyes. “i… juhoon, i never wanted to hurt you.”

“never wanted to?” he scoffs, stepping closer, voice rising. “y/n, do you have any idea how much you hurt me? do you? do you know what it was like seeing you disappear, knowing nothing would ever be the same? seeing you everywhere… on your posts, your articles, your pictures in New York… and i couldn’t do anything! i couldn’t even be with you, and yet i followed your life just so i’d still have some piece of you!”

his hands shake slightly, his chest heaving. “i was in pain, every day! and you… you just left. like it was nothing. like i didn’t matter!”

you press your hands to your face, sobbing softly. “juhoon… i left because i was scared. scared of holding you back. scared of holding myself back. i thought… i thought if you stayed here, you’d give up your life, your dreams for me. and i couldn’t—i couldn’t do that to you. you have a good life here, you’re happy… i thought leaving was the right thing.”

he runs a hand through his hair, pacing slightly, voice trembling. “that’s not your decision to make! y/n! do you know how many people you hurt in the process? do you know how much pain you caused me?”

you step forward, voice soft but steady. “i never wanted to hurt anyone. especially you. it’s just… i didn’t know how else to fix things.”

he glares at you, chest heaving, tears welling in his eyes. “you can’t just decide everything for everyone, y/n. i… i needed you. i needed you here. i needed to know you were mine, and you left. like it was all just… nothing!”

you shake your head, tears streaming freely now. “juhoon, it wasn’t nothing! i love you. i always have. but i thought… i thought i was protecting you. protecting us. i never wanted to leave you broken.”

he closes his eyes for a second, jaw tight. then takes a step closer. “do you even understand how lonely it was? how every street, every corner, every café reminded me of you? how i wanted to be with you and couldn’t? do you know what that felt like?”

“i can’t even imagine,” you whisper, voice cracking. “i’m so sorry. i—i thought i was doing the right thing. i thought if i left, you could be happy.”

“happy?” he laughs bitterly. “y/n, happiness isn’t something you give me by leaving. i could have been happy… if you were here. if we were… together. but you made that choice for me.”

he runs a hand down his face, like he’s trying to erase the memory of the past five years in one motion. his voice is quieter now, trembling with something deeper than anger.

“y/n… the love i had for you,” he says slowly, “it never left. not once. not a day. i hated that it hurt me so much, but… i never stopped caring. never stopped hoping somehow, some way, you’d come back.”

your throat tightens. you want to reach out, to grab him, to tell him it’s been the same for you—but the words catch. the fear of hurting him again is too strong, and the guilt presses down on your chest.

he takes a step back, just enough to put space between you. “i can’t… not yet. i can’t pretend everything’s okay because it isn’t. seeing you, hearing your voice… it’s too much.”

“juhoon…” you whisper, your hands clenching at your sides.

he shakes his head, forcing a small, bitter smile. “i need time. i need… to figure out how to be around you without falling apart.”

“i—”

“y/n,” he interrupts gently, but firmly, “i care about you. more than i can say. but right now, i need to step away. for both of us.”

your chest aches, the weight of the years, the confession, the pain between you, all pressing down.

“please… don’t go,” you manage, voice breaking.

he looks at you one last time, eyes soft but resolute. “i can’t stay. not like this. just… know that loving you never stopped.”

and with that, he turns, walking out the door, leaving the cool night air between you heavier than ever.

you sink against the wall, sliding down to the floor, trembling. the silence of the empty hallway presses in. you’re alone. aching. full of relief and heartbreak all at once.

and even though he’s gone, you feel him there, in the way your chest tightens, in the memory of his voice, in the echo of the words he finally said.

the morning sun filters through the curtains, soft and warm, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you wake up without the heavy weight pressing on your chest.

well… almost.

you’re still tired, still raw from last night, but there’s a strange sense of calm now. the confrontation is over. the truth is out. you know where you stand, and he does too, even if it’s messy.

after breakfast with your parents and hayoung, you find yourself heading toward the rink, clipboard in hand, camera slung over your shoulder. today’s the last interview for your hometown piece, and it’s mostly with the kids. your stomach twists slightly at the thought of seeing juhoon again, but it’s easier than yesterday. lighter somehow.

he’s already there when you arrive, skates off, talking to one of the children about technique. he turns when he hears your footsteps, gives a small nod, a tight-lipped smile, nothing over the top. nothing flustered. calm. controlled.

“good morning,” you say, trying for casual.

“morning,” he replies, voice low, but not cold. you notice the small flicker in his eyes. the way he’s always been when he’s genuinely happy.

the kids run up to you as soon as you step onto the rink floor. “y/n!” one of them shouts, dragging you into a hug. another waves excitedly, chattering about how they’ve been practicing their spins. your camera comes out quickly, snapping candid shots, but your eyes keep flicking to juhoon.

he’s laughing, correcting a child gently, adjusting a little helmet for another, and your chest aches with that familiar mix of pride and longing.

“he’s really good with them,” you murmur to no one in particular, almost whispering to yourself.

juhoon glances over, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “that obvious?”

you glance at him, cheeks heating. “i… notice things.”

he shakes his head, smiling softly. “still the same.”

you pretend to focus on your notes, but your heart isn’t in it. he’s talking to a child, leaning close in a way that makes you remember when he used to do the same with you, teaching you how to ride your bike, how to skate without falling, how to aim for the top shelf even if it seemed impossible.

the morning passes in a blur of laughter, photos, and kids tripping over skates. juhoon is right there beside you, helping steady a child, passing you props for the photos, teasing you when you crouch too low or kneel in an awkward angle to get the perfect shot.

“you’re taking this way too seriously,” he says at one point, nudging your shoulder with his elbow.

“i have to,” you reply, smiling despite yourself. “it’s an article. i need it to be good.”

“or maybe you just like being close to me,” he teases, leaning just enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

you freeze. your fingers tighten on the clipboard. “juhoon…”

“what?” he asks innocently, still smiling, eyes dancing.

“nothing,” you whisper, trying to keep your voice steady, but your heart is racing.

he laughs softly, but the laugh is full of something deeper. something that used to make your chest hurt with longing. he’s bolder today, braver with the small touches, the glances that linger just a moment too long.

after the kids’ interviews are done, you sit on the bench with sora and james, reviewing some of the photos. juhoon sits beside you, close enough that your knees brush, and you can feel the warmth radiating from him.

“this one’s great,” you say, holding up a picture of a child mid-spin.

“yeah,” juhoon agrees, glancing at it, then at you. “but you’re taking all the credit.”

“i’m taking all the credit,” you reply, rolling your eyes.

he chuckles, shaking his head. “still bossy.”

“you liked it when i was bossy,” you mutter, almost under your breath.

his eyes flick to yours, a spark in them, and you feel the weight of those five years collapse into a quiet tension between you. he doesn’t say anything, just watches you, and you feel yourself leaning slightly closer, though you try not to.

later, after the rink closes, he helps you carry equipment back into the storage room. it’s quiet, the only sounds the scrape of your shoes and the faint hum of the city outside.

“thanks for… you know, helping today,” you say softly, glancing at him.

“don’t mention it,” he replies. but there’s a warmth in his tone, a softness that makes your chest ache again.

you stand side by side, sorting skates and helmets, occasionally brushing hands, and it feels natural. normal. like it should have been this way all along.

“so… new york,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence. “you're going back?”

you hesitate. “i'm not sure if i want to.”

“sounds like you’re not enjoying it,” he says quietly, watching you carefully.

“i mean… i enjoy it,” you say, trying to make it sound like you do. “but… here, i feel like myself.”

he nods, thoughtful. “i get that.”

you glance at him, eyes meeting his, and something passes between you. a small, silent acknowledgment that even after everything, you’re still drawn to each other.

“maybe i will stay,” you whisper. “but… i don’t know. there’s still work.”

he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “just… don’t leave again, y/n. not like last time.”

you nod, words caught in your throat. the weight of the past, the lingering tension, and the unspoken feelings hang between you.

you step outside together, the evening air cool and soft. the distance between you feels smaller than it has in years, but it’s still there. a fragile, tentative thread, connecting you both, ready to be pulled tighter with time.

and as you walk back toward the small cluster of houses, joking with sora and james trailing behind, juhoon glances at you again.

the streets are quiet now, the soft glow of the streetlights reflecting off the pavement. the air is cool, carrying that faint smell of home—fresh laundry, the distant hum of someone’s late-night cooking, a hint of jasmine from a neighbor’s garden.

juhoon walks beside you, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in a way that makes your heart skip. every now and then, he nudges you with his elbow, teasing you about something you said hours ago. you laugh, the sound spilling freely into the night. it’s easy, natural, and you feel yourself leaning closer without thinking.

“remember that time we tried to make ramen in your kitchen and almost burned the place down?” he asks, a grin tugging at his lips.

“oh my god, yes,” you giggle. “and you were so proud of yourself for flipping the noodles perfectly. i nearly cried laughing.”

he shakes his head, laughing too. “i was an excellent chef. not like you’d appreciate it at the time.”

“i appreciate it now,” you say, smiling up at him. your fingers brush briefly, and a shiver runs up your spine.

they’re the kind of moments that feel so ordinary, yet so charged—like every glance, every brush of skin, is filled with everything you both tried to ignore for years.

when you reach your street, the familiar little houses lined up, the corner store with its flickering neon, the memories flood in. you stop for a moment, looking at your own front door, feeling a warmth in your chest.

juhoon glances at you, eyes soft, full of that unreadable mixture of longing and something braver now. “so, we're here."

“yeah,” you murmur. “home.”

he steps a little closer, and suddenly the teasing, the small talk fades. the laughter dissolves, replaced by a quiet tension that’s been building for hours, maybe years. he studies your face, and you can feel the weight of his gaze, the way it’s always found you, even when you were far away.

“y/n…” he says softly.

you look up at him. your heart is hammering. your hands tighten on your bag strap.

he leans in slowly, giving you time to step back if you want to. but you don’t. your chest tightens, breath catching. and then his lips brush yours, gentle at first, tentative, like he’s testing the waters.

you freeze for a heartbeat. the world narrows to just the two of you, just this moment. and then, instinctively, you respond.

he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, eyes dark and full, searching your face. “i’ve missed you,” he murmurs.

“me too,” you whisper, a smile tugging at your lips, tears threatening but happiness spilling through them instead.

and then he kisses you again, slower this time, hands resting lightly on your waist, holding you close in the quiet night. you laugh softly against his lips, pulling him just a little closer, and the tension, the hurt, the uncertainty, all of it dissolves, if only for now.

finally, you pull back enough to catch your breath, cheeks flushed, hair slightly messy from the wind and the kiss. “i should… go inside,” you say, smiling.

he grins, taking your hand for a brief squeeze. “i’ll see you tomorrow.”

you step onto your porch, still smiling, and as soon as you open the door, the house erupts.

“y/n!” your mom yells, rushing forward with hayoung trailing behind. “what happened? tell us everything!”

hayoung grabs your arm, practically shaking you with excitement. “i’ve been WAITING for this! tell me—juhoon? did he—”

you can’t help it. you laugh, cheeks flushed, nodding. “he kissed me.”

“finally!” hayoung screams, hugging you tightly. “i’ve been WAITING for this since forever!”

your mom grins, eyes sparkling, shaking her head in disbelief. “so he’s back… so you’re back together?”

you can only nod, still grinning, heart racing. the warmth of your family, their excitement, their love—it all washes over you.

and even as the door closes behind you, shutting out the quiet night, the memory of juhoon’s lips lingers, soft and warm, and for the first time in years, you feel… whole.

you sink onto the couch, still smiling, while hayoung and your mom chatter excitedly around you, the air buzzing with happiness, relief, and a kind of joy that feels like it was always meant to be.

“i’m so happy for you,” hayoung whispers, squeezing your hand. “i knew this day would come. i’ve been WAITING for this forever.”

you laugh, leaning back, heart full. “me too,” you murmur. “me too.”

and somewhere in the quiet, under the hum of your family’s voices, you think of juhoon, and you know that for the first time, maybe… everything really could be okay.

he grins, taking your hand for a brief squeeze. “i’ll see you tomorrow.”

you step onto your porch, still smiling, and as soon as you open the door, the house erupts.

“y/n!” your mom yells, rushing forward with hayoung trailing behind. “what happened? tell us everything!”

hayoung grabs your arm, practically shaking you with excitement. “i’ve been WAITING for this! tell me—juhoon? did he—”

you can’t help it. you laugh, cheeks flushed, nodding. “he kissed me.”

“finally!” hayoung screams, hugging you tightly. “i’ve been WAITING for this since forever!”

your mom grins, eyes sparkling, shaking her head in disbelief. “so he’s back… so you’re back together?”

you can only nod, still grinning, heart racing. the warmth of your family, their excitement, their love—it all washes over you.

and even as the door closes behind you, shutting out the quiet night, the memory of juhoon’s lips lingers, soft and warm, and for the first time in years, you feel… whole.

you sink onto the couch, still smiling, while hayoung and your mom chatter excitedly around you, the air buzzing with happiness, relief, and a kind of joy that feels like it was always meant to be.

“i’m so happy for you,” hayoung whispers, squeezing your hand. “i knew this day would come. i’ve been waiting for this forever.”

you laugh, leaning back, heart full. “me too,” you murmur. “me too.”

and somewhere in the quiet, under the hum of your family’s voices, you think of juhoon, and you know that for the first time, maybe… everything really could be okay.

— time skip : three months —

three months have passed, and everything feels… different. better. lighter.

you’re back home for good, the apartment in new york cleared out, all your belongings moved, boxes unpacked. juhoon even helped you with the last of it, his strong hands carrying boxes you hadn’t wanted to deal with alone, teasing you the entire time. the night before you left, you stayed up together in your NY apartment, eating greasy takeout, watching ridiculous movies, and making out in between bites of pizza. you had laughed so hard you’d cried, and for the first time in years, you felt completely at peace.

back in your hometown, you’ve left the newspaper behind and started your own blog. your loyal readers followed you, and now you’ve grown into a well-known personality, still writing those intimate, reflective pieces, but finally doing it on your own terms. the freedom, the calm of being home, the closeness with juhoon—it all makes your heart feel lighter.

juhoon and you are dating officially. it’s healthy, steady, and sweet. mornings are slow, filled with soft teasing over breakfast. evenings are long, holding hands on walks through the familiar streets, laughing over inside jokes only the two of you understand. the memories of the past five years, painful though they were, have become part of what makes your love now feel stronger.

one afternoon, you find juhoon on the phone with james, sitting in your living room with a cup of coffee in hand.

“i just… want it to be perfect,” he says quietly. “like… something she’ll never forget.”

“you’ve got this, man,” james replies. “she’s gonna say yes. trust me. she’s been waiting for this too, you know?”

juhoon smiles softly, a little nervous. “yeah… i hope so. i just… want to make her happy. she’s been through enough.”

you glance at him from the kitchen doorway, heart swelling. just watching him talk about you like that makes your chest ache in the best way. he hangs up eventually, looking a little bashful, scratching the back of his neck.

“what was that about?” you ask teasingly.

“nothing,” he mutters, cheeks pink. “just… planning some things.”

you roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest refuses to fade.

a few weeks later, it’s james and sora’s wedding. you’re the maid of honor, juhoon the best man, and the day is perfect. the small-town chapel is decorated with soft white flowers and strings of lights that twinkle in the late afternoon sun. the air is warm, the breeze carrying the faint scent of blossoms from the garden outside.

you and juhoon walk down the aisle together as part of the wedding party, hands brushing occasionally, stealing small, private smiles at each other. the ceremony is beautiful, emotional, filled with laughter and happy tears.

“i can’t believe you two finally tied the knot,” juhoon whispers during the reception, leaning close so only you can hear.

“they’re perfect together,” you reply softly, brushing your hair back behind your ear.

he nods, watching you more than anyone else. “we should… do this one day,” he murmurs, voice low and intimate.

you glance at him, curiosity in your eyes.

“you know… a wedding,” he says, smiling nervously. “us. one day.”

you laugh softly, heart fluttering. “juhoon…”

“i mean it,” he says, sincerity in his tone. “i’ve been waiting a long time, y/n. i want… all of it. you. me. us.”

you can’t help but smile, feeling tears prick the corners of your eyes. “me too,” you whisper, reaching for his hand.

later, as the night winds down and guests trickle out, he suggests a quiet dinner date, just the two of you. you sit across from each other in a small, cozy restaurant, warm lights hanging low above your table. the wine is soft, the conversation easy. the memories of the past months, the hurt, the reconciliation, the love slowly rebuilt, hang quietly in the space between you, but now with joy, not pain.

he reaches across the table, taking your hand in his. “i’ve been thinking,” he says softly. “about us. about… everything. and i don’t want to wait anymore.”

you blink at him, heart racing.

“y/n,” he continues, pulling something small from his pocket, a ring sparkling under the light. “i love you. i never stopped. and i want to spend the rest of my life with you. will you… marry me?”

for a moment, you don’t breathe. the world stills. the memories of the past, the tears, the distance, the longing, flash in your mind, but they’re all washed away by this single, perfect moment.

“yes,” you whisper, voice trembling. “yes, juhoon. of course.”

he slides the ring onto your finger, and the warmth of his hand against yours feels like coming home. he leans across the table and kisses you, slow and sweet, and the world outside disappears.

later, walking home under the stars, hand in hand, you rest your head on his shoulder. “i can’t believe this is real,” you murmur.

you smile against him, heart full, feeling the kind of happiness you never thought you’d have again. the past may have hurt, but now… now it’s all worth it. and as the lights of the town glow softly around you, you know this is just the beginning.