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𝟏𝟗𝟔𝟎년 서울

𝐒𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐥, 𝟏𝟗𝟔𝟎

THE EARLY SUMMER HEAT simmered under the warm lights that lit the narrow hallway of the Hong and the Lee’s apartment building, clinging to your already dewy skin as you politely directed the movers this way and that, instructing them where to put your or your husband’s things. After he’d gotten his promotion, your husband had decided that it would be a good idea for you to move deeper into Seoul as the season changed. You’d agreed, of course, having nothing more to do in Seoul than you had in Gyeonggi.

Flashes of red and gold and green flitted through your vision as Mrs Lee’s paper lamps swung overhead, above one of the particularly tall movers’ heads as he lumbered past, your precious tableware in hand. It had been a wedding gift, passed down through your husband’s family; from his great grandmother, his grandmother, his mother, and finally to you.

Frowning at a stack of comic books placed carefully onto your dark, maple coffee table, you picked them up with caution. “This isn’t ours,” you told one of the movers as he passed by, placing them from your delicate hold into his strong one. “It must’ve gotten mixed up from next door.”

The mover—a man with a nametag that read Duri—nodded dutifully, striding out of the room to surely return it to the neighbours, who were moving in today as well.

A few doors down, an empty flat lay silent and barren, save for the thump of the ceiling fan and the few boxes laying around on the sitting room floor and in the master bedroom. A man walked through each and every one of these rooms, his curious, bespectacled gaze flitting across every corner before strolling into the kitchen, the most busy room in the flat at present. He wiped a stripe of sweat from his brow, frowning in irritation at the heat. The Jeongs were supposed to have moved at the beginning of winter, but his promotion had been postponed, and they were only permitted to move houses when the season turned.

Jaehyun stared, perplexed, at the collection of romance books that had been ceremoniously placed upon his kitchen counter, wrestling with the uncertainty of whether or not they were his wife’s. “These books aren’t ours,” he told one of the movers as he passed by, carrying a collection of his comic books. “They must be from next door.”

“Oh.” Duri sighed, having thought he was finally free of his load, before picking up the leather bound books, nodding. “Apologies, Mr Jeong.”

Jaehyun said nothing, turning back to the bland beige walls that surrounded him. He’d have to paint these, soon; the monotony of the entire flat bothered him, made something in him itch. He remembered the house he’d lived in—a wedding gift, from his parents, painted in bright whites and browns, a spacious place with roots deep in tradition and even deeper roots in the countryside. Now, he was here, in the city. Surrounded by the same four walls as everyone else in the building, left to decorate a blank canvas all by himself again.

“Mrs Kim!” he heard someone yell happily. It was the old landlady, Hong Dahye, probably calling on his new neighbour. Jaehyun had only seen both women in passing, though the former did not seem like his kind of person. Neither did the other landlady, Mrs Lee. “Look at this place! You’ve already made it so beautiful.”

You smiled timidly, waving your hand as if it was nothing. “Oh, it’s not that big of a deal, Mrs Hong. But, thank you. I appreciate the compliment.”

“Say, where’s your husband?” the old woman asked. With a kind, weathered face and a mane of curly white hair, your landlady was the picture of Korean elders round the country. “He should be helping his beautiful wife move!”

You shook your head. Mr Kim, your beloved husband, was nowhere to be seen, rather opting to move his things into his new office a few streets away. You didn’t take much offence to it—neither you nor your husband owned many things, and you’d hired a whole moving team to help you, so it was not nearly the struggle Mrs Hong was making it out to be.

You and your husband didn’t do every little thing together, but were still happily married; you did practically everything contrary to what tradition had you believe.

Both of you were in your twenties and had not yet had your own children, nor had you given up your work after you’d gotten married to him, and he was more than happy with these courses of action—he’d, in fact, insisted upon them, given the fact that he wished to climb higher up the social ladder before bringing children into this world. You understood, for the modern world was only going to get more complex and more expensive as time went by. For now, both of you stayed childfree and career-oriented.

The same could be said for the Jeongs next door. They hadn’t made the executive decision, rather it came naturally. Jaehyun and Mrs Park had simply been too busy to think of children, and the latter enjoyed her job far too much to give it up in the name of caring for her child.

You stepped out into the hallway after another moved passed through, gently removing your cardigan, letting the soft material fall limp in your arms. It was as charming as it was cramped, the building, you thought, bowing in apology as you bumped into a mover before stalking on, deeper down the hallway.

Jaehyun was leaned on the wall right next to his front door. A cigarette balanced between his thumb and forefinger, his free hand clicked a lighter on, lowering it to the little flame that had gathered before his plump lips. A plume of smoke gathered around his face as he exhaled deeply, blowing it upwards and into the hot summer air.

“Afternoon,” you greeted, smiling politely at the older man. He only seemed to notice you then, eyes widening before he bowed, cigarette in hand. “My name is Mrs Kim.”

He smiled softly. “Hi. My name’s Jeong Jaehyun; pleased to meet you, Mrs Kim.”

Jeong Jaehyun was an attractive man, you had to admit. Tall, tanned, and with a certain sly glint in his eye that you’d only be able to catch if you paid extra attention. Dark brown locks in a tousle of waves, and dusted pink lips stuck in a permanent pout, there was something about the way he looked at you that made you want to bolt in the other direction.

You returned his bow, coming to rest at the side beside his, both of you on either side of his front door. “Are you moving in today?”

“Mm. We were supposed to move in at the start of the winter, but had some complications to deal with before we could,” Jaehyun elaborated, taking another drag from his cigarette.

You frowned. “‘We’?”

“Oh, right.” The older man chuckled. “My wife and I. I’m married.”

You perked up. Another married couple, living right next door to you! How fine that would be. “That’s lovely! Where is she?”

“Work,” said Jaehyun. “She’s a receptionist for a car company, so moving’s up to me today. She enjoys her work, so you probably won’t see her around much.”

He must’ve seen you deflate with disappointment, because he laughed softly. “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’d enjoy meeting you. What about your husband? Shouldn’t he be helping you move?”

“He’s at work, as well,” you said. “He’s an employee at a very big transport company, so he’s usually very busy. But, it’s no worry,” you assured kindly. “We don’t have many belongings, so moving is no problem for me.”

Jaehyun hummed. He lifted the cigarette to his lips, glancing at you from under his black spectacles as he took a long drag. “Well, good luck with that,” he said, summer-warmed cheeks growing red under the hallway lights. “I should be getting back to my own moving, actually.”

Smiling, you took note of his way to end the conversation. A bit abrupt, not like most men you’d spoken to, though you took the hint. “So should I,” you agreed, bowing in adieu, before finally taking your leave, slipping back into the flat.

Jaehyun watched in polite curiosity as you went, paying little attention to how your steps seemed as light as your voice, how the sway of your hips contrasted the formality of your words. Then, with a final drag, a final decadent exhale, he retreated back into his flat, already thinking of the next chapter of his comic book.

Your boss had let you go home early on account of the overtime you’d worked throughout the week, so you went home on Friday, an hour earlier than you usually would. With your husband away on business for the week, you didn’t have much to do around the house besides read.

You flipped boredly through a women’s magazine, before stumbling upon a foreign recipe. Rice cakes. You’d had them before at your husband’s insistence, but had never attempted to make them yourself. Struck with the inspiration that came only to a bored woman on a hot day, you cut out the section of the paper containing the recipe, tucking it into your handbag as you slipped on your outside shoes.

The market was rather busy today, with several people clamouring around farmers’ mothers selling their sons’ fresh produce and fishermens’ wives selling their husbands’ fresh fish. You’d need to walk through the bustling scene to get to the supermarket, though the prospect of it didn’t seem too daunting. You weren’t entirely accustomed to Korean markets yet, but the chaos was something one easily got used to.

Several colours entered your field of vision as you made your way past the many stalls, wonderfully mismatched smells wafted through the air as you walked through the street. The calls and hollers of vendors momentarily stole your attention, echoing in your mind like the keens and croons of an opera singer in the great ambience of a concert hall.

Jaehyun was leaned against one of the many carts lining the city streets, exchanging polite conversation with one of the younger men in the crowd who was assisting his mother with her shopping. Another man who worked at the same law firm as Jaehyun, they were dressed in nearly identical crisp black suits. Several plastic bags hung limply from Jaehyun’s arms, indicating a busy day around the town for the man. With his wife away on business for the week, all the cooking and cleaning had been left to him; a feat he’d taken up happily.

He smiled when he saw you, the corners of his mouth turning up only the slightest bit in formal greeting.

“Hello, Mr Jeong.” You bowed, though not the full ninety degrees, before walking past, jostled on by an older woman who clearly moved with more purpose than you did. “Oh—!”

Jaehyun’s coworker gave him a curious glance, subconsciously loading his mother’s groceries into a bag she held open for him. “Who’s that?”

“My neighbour,” said Jaehyun, hands itching to reach into his back pocket for a smoke. “We moved in on the same day a few weeks ago.”

This happened quite a few times—yours and Jaehyun’s paths crossing. It wasn’t uncommon of you to walk past one another on your ways to and from work, or on the morning walks you took on your days off. You’d always walk past, nodding politely, before completely forgetting of one another the moment you weren’t in each other’s sight anymore.

It happened again while you were on your way home from work one evening, walking up the stairs with your cardigan shrugged loosely over your shoulders. Your ears perked up as a second set of steps joined you, and you turned to see your neighbour just a few steps behind you. As if by natural instinct, your face split into a smile—one which was returned happily by Jaehyun.

“How was work?” he asked, only picking up his pace so that he could be level with you.

“Oh, as interesting as a receptionist’s job can be,” you chuckled. “My most important chore today was making coffee for my boss. Yours?”

“Mm. Stressful.” Jaehyun shook his head, sighing. “There’s tons of drama at the firm; someone embezzled billions of wons that were supposed to go into the workers’ bonuses at the end of the year.”

You gasped softly. “Really? That’s horrible!”

Jaehyun chuckled. “What’s worse, it was my boss.”

Rounding the corner that lead to your flats, you and Jaehyun bid one another a hushed good night, locking open your front doors in harmony.

Stepping into your flat, you frowned to see that the door had been previously unlocked. You could’ve sworn that you’d locked it before you went to work that morning, and double-checked it before finally leaving. Gaze flitting over your home, you saw that everything was untouched; the paintings that adorned the four walls of your living room were not a centimetre off centre, the carpets and candles and paper lanterns were in each and every one of their designated places. Every single bit and bob was in its place.

…Save for the throw pillows on your couch, which had previously been delicately arranged into a perfect little pyramid, that now sat in disarray, as if someone had taken a seat and left the couch in a mess.

Stalking down the hall that lead to your bedroom, you saw that the bed had been unmade, as well. Something that you, ever the stickler for a clean home, did not make a habit of.

Your husband popped his head out of the en suite bathroom, running a comb through his slicked back hair. “My lovely wife,” he greeted, and you smiled. You’d forgotten that he’d returned from his trip a few hours ago, and would of course make himself at home once he got back. Pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, he asked, “How was your day? Did anything interesting happen?”

“No, my love. Nothing of note,” you replied. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t greet you properly. If I’d have remembered that you’d be back today, I’d have prepared a homecoming feast for you!”

Mr Kim tutted. “Hush, that’s not necessary. We can go out tonight! I hear there’s a very good restaurant just down the street.” He patted your shoulders encouragingly when he didn’t receive an immediate response. “Come on, let’s treat ourselves, no? We never do.”

You nodded, slowly coming around to the idea. It wasn’t often that you and your husband ate out, much less together. “I don’t think that’s a bad idea, actually,” you said. “I just need to get ready; I’m in no position to go out looking like this!” you said, gesturing to your perfectly adequate outfit as if you were wearing rags.

“Ah, you women and your clothes,” he sighed, but didn’t protest. “I’ll be waiting by the door; don’t take too long, now!” he added, on his way to the bright red phone that hung on your kitchen wall.

You sat in the corner of the restaurant, in a booth rather secluded from the rest of the people inside. The lights were low, warm on your skin as you took your seats, evenly opening your menus as a waiter drifted by and took your orders. Lively music floated through the air, accompanying the sounds of several conversations, acting as a foreground to all the talk that threatened to take your attention off of your husband.

He wasn’t looking at you, his attention rather focused on the soju in front of him. He’d allowed for you to share a bottle, something that he did rarely. He didn’t like you drinking too much, so you never really asked, rather waited for him to offer. When he wasn’t focused on making himself seem presentable, you could see the stress flitting across his face—a frown marring his dark brows, his pink lips quirked downward in an unhappy fashion. You wondered whether you should enquire, whether you should ask your husband what bothered him so.

“My love,” you started. “What’s the matter? You’ve barely spoken a word the entire evening.” Because for Mr Kim, the entertainer, the observational comic, that was something highly out of the ordinary.

He hummed in a disintered sort of resignation, as if he couldn’t will himself to listen to you. “Mm? Oh, it’s nothing, my wife, really. Work has just been stressful these past months, and with the move…”

It’s just been even more difficult. You knew. Even for you, ever the quietly resilient soul, the change had been a force to reckon with. You didn’t even want to know how Mr Kim, who worked twice the hours you did, took it.

You reached across the table, taking his hand, turning his ring over in your hold. “Is there anything I could do to make it better, my love?”

He sighed softly, shaking his head. “No. There’s nothing you can do,” he said, and you felt the earlier hope you’d had for his mood to pick up vanish.

Before you could say more, a call of your name prompted you to pick up your head, opening your eyes to a scene outside of your booth. It was Jeong Jaehyun, with his wife hanging on his arm as if she were some prized trophy, his hand securely on her hip. If only your husband could hold you like that. For a fleeting moment you had the seething thought, before you got over your momentary ungratefulness and smiled at the sight of your neighbour.

“What a coincidence to see you here!” you said, offering him a polite smile. You could see your husband look up, though you missed the recognition flashing across his face as he glanced at the couple. “My husband and I decided we’d treat ourselves tonight, in honour of his return.”

“Funny you should say that,” Jaehyun said. “Mrs Park and I had the exact same idea. Didn’t we, dove?”

At that question, Jaehyun’s wife finally looked at you, eyes having been trained somewhere else, and nodded.

Dove. A fitting nickname for a woman so beautiful, you had to admit. With flowing black hair nearly reaching her slender hips, and a cherub-like visage, you clearly understood why Jaehyun had married her. Even looking through the eyes of a happily married woman, you could see Mrs Park’s appeal.

“Oh, certainly,” she replied, and her voice flowed like honey when she did. “I’ve just come back from a business trip to Japan, and my husband insisted that we eat out tonight to celebrate my return. A silly thing, really, but I accepted nonetheless.” At that, she bumped her hip with his, and he chuckled.

“W-well, why don’t you two come sit with us?” Scooching closer to you, your husband gestured at the booth space opposite you that he’d occupied until that moment, inviting your neighbours to join you. Your cheeks flushed at the sudden proximity, and you had to hold in a smile at how close your husband was sitting to you; closer than he’d been in a long time.

“You don’t mind, do you, dear?” he asked, turning to your for confirmation. When you shook your head, Jaehyun and his wife shared a look, before taking seats opposite you.

That’s how you ended up ordering for the table, each of you picking a dish and sharing it with one another. Yours and Jaehyun’s spouses got to talking, and that’s when you realised that they’d had more in common than you’d anticipated.

Where you thought you’d be able to bond with Mrs Park over books or films, she had long-lasting conversations with your husband about the current political state of the country, about cars, and other such things. You assumed, since both of them were working at car companies, that that’s what prompted the connection.

You had to admit, it was nice, not having to carry the conversation. And the joint orders were a change from your usual routine of separate plates, though you knew that was just because your husband didn’t like to share his food, and your taste was not his.

At some point during the night, Jaehyun’s gaze drifted to you, taking in your reserved posture. It was an almost cinematic comparison; your husband, bathed in the booth’s light as he passionately discussed complex political matters with Mrs Park, and you, half in the shadow, half in the light, smiling in a gloomy manner, offering limited additions where you could.

“I started reading Much Ado About Nothing.”

Snapping your head up to meet Jaehyun’s gaze, your mouth formed an enquisitive line in silent question.

“I saw a copy of it, that day the movers accidentally switched our books,” he elaborated. He spoke softly, in a way that made it certain only you could hear him. A shrug. “I was intrigued, and went out and bought a copy. It’s good. Funny.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. “Do you… usually read foreign books?”

He exhaled through his nose, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Not a laugh, necessarily, but a sure show of amusement. “No, I don’t. In fact, I don’t read much at all, outside of comic books. But my curiosity got the best of me, and I bought a real book for once.”

“I’m sure comic books are real books,” you said, though you couldn’t help the warm feeling that bloomed in your chest. “Are you, er, enjoying it, so far?”

He nodded. “Very much. Romance books have never particularly interested me, but this one in particular is especially entertaining. I like the way the characters all interact; they’re all a bit ridiculous, in the best way.” He paused, then added, “I feel books should be a bit ridiculous, every now and then.”

Almost poetically, just as you were about to speak, the second orders of food came, and you were all roused from your respective conversations. The dinner continued in a amiable fashion, given the inherent common ground your age and relationships bade you. The night didn’t last long, however, for words murmured over shot glasses and through mouthfuls of each other’s food could only keep you in your seat for so long. You all had work in the morning, and couldn’t abandon routine on account of one nights’ spontaneity. Though, you had to admit that the change of scene was nice. You’d grown tired of packing away dinners and going to bed alone because your husband was away, or working late.

After a considerable amount of bickering, your husband and Jaehyun decided to split the bill between them, and you were on your way home for the second time that day. You bid each other good night, each of you retreating into your own flats as they sat next to each other, kicking off your shoes and sliding under your covers.

Unbeknownst to you as you happily retreated into your bed, dressed in the softest silk pyjama set, a gift sat on your bedside table, wrapped in expensive paper. A perfume, probably, that your husband had bought while he was in Japan. He always did that: bought you little things, souvenirs and gifts from places he’d travelled to. Handbags from Hong Kong, shoes from Singapore, and perfume from Japan.

Your boss’ office was an extremely uninteresting place. He had never had quite the decorative eye you had, so his walls lay bare, and every item was just a darker or lighter shade of the same colour. It was only your desk that brought some life into the place, with your few action figures and personal books stacked up on top of one another, and the several coloured pens that lay the desk full.

The room was brought alive by the familiar clicks and clacks of your typewriter as you typed up a document your boss had requested, as well as the frequent riiip! as you removed a paper from the typewriter, adding it to the stack you’d accumulated since the beginning of your shift.

When the phone rang, you glanced up at your boss, who seemed to be preoccupied with something else. He waved you off, indicating that you should get it. Standing up, you took the green device into your hold, keeping it to your ears. “Hwang Hyunjung’s office, how may I help you?”

“My wife,” came the voice of your husband. “I’m here at a mall in Tokyo, and I’m wondering which scent I should get for you. Floral, or fruity?”

You chuckled softly. “You know me well, my love.”

“Ah. Floral.”

No. Oriental. “Correct, my love. Is that all?”

“That’s all. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your important work. Bye-bye, now!”

“Goodbye, my love.”

Click.

“Who was that?” Mr Hwang asked as you took your seat again, going right back to typing up the document. “Your husband, I hope. It would be odd for anyone else to call you while you were at work.”

You exhaled, smiling. “Of course it was, Mr Hwang. No one else is that important to me.”

In an office surprisingly close to your own, Jaehyun was finishing up the last of the day’s work, having been occupied with a particularly harrowing case for the past month. After his boss’ money laundering was brought to light, he’d had to take over half of the workload that the old man had left behind, and the rest of the office were left to pick up the pieces.

One of Jaehyun’s coworkers, Sicheng, sighed, plopping down into the seat next to his as he entered the break room, eagerly clicking on a cigarette he balanced between his lips. “I feel like dissolving into a pool of tears.”

Jaehyun chuckled, though it was not without its thinly veiled hysteria. He was on the edge of insanity, but had to hold it together for the rest of the firm’s sakes. When you were a higher up in an institution like this, your own emotions didn’t matter in the least. “You’re not the only one, Win.”

Setting down the documents he’d collected from the rest of the lawyers, Jaehyun added, “I’m thinking of calling it a day. It’s…” Sighing, he lifted up his sleeve to reveal his watch—a gift from Mrs Park. “…It’s after nine. Too late to be able to get anything else done. Go tell the rest of the office; quitting time.”

Sicheng nodded dutifully, sighing a small sigh and squaring his shoulders, taking a drag of his cigarette before walking back to the offices to alert everyone that the day was over. Jaehyun collected his own blazer and briefcase, and soon enough, he was making his way down the stairs of the firm, several of his employees following. Dongyoung, one of his senior colleagues, had invited him to after-work drinks, but Jaehyun declined on account of a made-up headache.

As he made his way through the deserted city streets, his fingers itched to reach for a cigarette. His lips longed for something to wrap around, something to breathe in.

The light tips and taps of heels clicking against the ground caught his attention as he rounded the corner to the apartment building, and he saw you start to take the stairs one and a time, a cardigan hung loosely off your shoulders. He smiled slightly at the familiar sight, having grown used to seeing you on his way back home from work.

You only noticed him when he caught up to you, smiling in greeting at your neighbour. “Mr Jeong. What a coincidence seeing you here,” you joked, and he wanted to laugh at the way your lips curled into a self-satisfied smile at your own quip.

“Truly,” he said.

“For how long is your husband away this time, you said?”

Resisting a carnal urge to sigh, you placed down another card in front of you. “Two weeks, Mrs Hong, doing business in Shanghai.”

The old woman’s eyes widened, surprised both by the time you’d given her and the fact that you hadn’t celebrated your second win in a row. “Well, that’s an awfully long time to spend away from your wife, isn’t it? Doesn’t he miss you?”

You smiled. “Of course he does. But he calls me every day, before work to tell me good morning, and before bed to tell me good night. And he sends me gifts! Plenty of gifts.”

“Oh, don’t think I haven’t seen your new shoes, Mrs Kim!” your landlady jested, and you chuckled. “But that doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s away often. When will you ever get time to have children?”

You froze, caught off guard by the nature of the question. Even a month later, you hadn’t spoken to your husband of children. Of course you hadn’t—you were both too busy to even be intimate for pleasure, now you’d have to do so for purpose? The idea itself seemed foreign to you, foreign as the glyphs that stared back at you when you tried to read one of your husband’s books.

Smiling in discomfort, you shook your head. “That’s none of our concern these days, Mrs Hong. We have more important things to do than worry about babies. Times are changing, you know? Couples are waiting before they have them.”

You could tell the old woman wanted to say more, but she kept her mouth shut, simply sighing and continuing with the game as if she hadn’t already noticed you win.

Next door, Jaehyun was faced with a similar affliction; that affliction being his landlady probing about his personal life while absolutely destroying him at cards.

“So, where is your beautiful wife off to this time?” Mrs Lee asked, placing a card down. There was a vicious sort of curiosity in her eyes, and he knew she knew the effect it had on him.

“China, Mrs Lee,” Jaehyun sighed. “For two weeks.” She hadn’t said specifically where in China she’d be doing business, but Jaehyun trusted her enough to believe whatever she told him. After all, she was his dove. She never lied.

“How odd,” the old woman commented. “You know, back in my day, only the husband was allowed to work. His wife was to stay home and raise their children.” She quirked a brow. “Do you two have any children yet?”

This is not the kind of question you’d like to be asked just as you’re taking a sip of coffee. Jaehyun realised this as, when she posed her question, his brain seemed to have short-circuited, and so did his ability to swallow. Mrs Lee chuckled, thoroughly amused by the young man’s surprise.

“No,” Jaehyun said eventually, still half-choking. “Not yet.”

Children weren’t in the Jeongs five year plan, as far as the couple had discussed. Mrs Park eagerly wanted to work and make as much money as she can, while Jaehyun himself was more focused on climbing higher in the firm’s hierarchy. He’d always wanted children, and had been keen on them until he met his wife. She wanted to wait, she said, and he respected her decision. After all, who was he to demand such a thing as pregnancy of his wife when he merely had a bout of baby fever?

The man tried for a smile, setting down a card. “We’re waiting for a bit. Mrs Park wants to work for a bit longer, and I won’t deprive her of that pleasure.”

Self-consciously wiping at some of the coffee that had dribbled down his chin, Jaehyun wondered what his wife was currently doing. And, hearing the cackling laughter from next door, he was wondering if you’d been caught in the same predicament as him.

The day had been positively chaotic. After running through several meetings with the Chinese businessmen, Mr Kim was left to complete all the work that his colleagues couldn’t finish. It had been a tiring week, to say the least, and now he had another wild day to put behind him.

Bright lights shone overhead as Mr Kim made his way through the hallway leading to his hotel room, sighing with great fatigue. He fumbled for his keys, before the great crimson door opened on its own. His ears perked up at the sound, and he lightly pushed the door open, having a slight suspicion as to who was already in his room.

True to her words, Mrs Park was waiting for Mr Kim in the kitchen of his hotel suite, sitting with her legs coyly crossed over one another on top of the kitchen counter. She looked the picture of beauty, with her blue-black hair neatly done into a bun, and her face made up with the prettiest colours, her lips painted a daring red. You never wore red, too afraid to stand out and be seen. Mr Kim liked red.

“Hello, handsome,” she greeted, slinging her arms over his shoulders as he neared, scooping her up into his arms.

“Evening, beautiful,” he smiled, pressing a kiss to her lips, before pulling away with a smear of red staining his face. “Where shall we go tonight, hm? I feel like going out. Maybe we can go to that new restaurant down the street, share an order.”

Mrs Park rolled her eyes. “You always want to go out and share food. It’s ridiculous. Who’s paying for all of this?”

Mr Kim smiled. “Me. Always me, gorgeous.”

It had been going on for six months, the affair. They weren’t sure precisely when or how, but it blossomed long before they moved into the same apartment building. They’d met a year ago, working at the same car company, and could only make it as colleagues for six months before that grew into something more. Aside from surface level attraction, they claimed, they were drawn to one another not only because of similar interests, but because of like boredom with their respective spouses.

It wasn’t that they were bad, or abusive, or even all that uninteresting.

There was just something that Mr Kim and Mrs Park saw in each other that they couldn’t ever think to see in you or Jaehyun.

“When do you plan on telling her?” Mrs Park asked, hours after they’d gone out and enjoyed a passionate night in each other’s arms, now lain next to her secret lover as he rested next to her. He turned to her with a quirked brow. “Your wife, I mean.”

He sighed, the deep sigh of a man who did not wish to explain himself at present. “I don’t know. When do you plan on telling him? Your husband.”

She stilled, crossing her arms over her bare chest as she thought. “I don’t know.”

“Okay, okay. How about this? What was the most difficult thing to get used to when you moved to Korea?”

You frowned, brows creasing in thought. You chewed thoughtfully on your food, hands curling around your cup of tea. “Probably the people,” you decided, to which Jaehyun quirked a brow. “Koreans are very loud compared to the people in my home country.”

“I can’t relate,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve been in America before, for work, and people are exactly the same there as they are here.” He chuckled. “I can only wonder how peaceful your country is.”

The tea house was busy, bustling with people moving in and out of the dark, comfortably decorated building. You and your neighbour sat on either side of a small table, legs crossed as you discussed a variety of things as they crossed your minds. It had been a chance encounter, with Jaehyun inviting you to sit down with him when he saw you come in to pick up an order you’d placed at home.

It had also been somewhat of an awkward encounter, considering that Jaehyun must’ve been the first man you spoke to alone since you’d gotten married. You wondered how his wife would feel if she knew of it, or how your own husband would feel if he knew of it. But they were both away, gone overseas on business, only to return in the near future.

You enjoyed his conversation, however. He was a rather engaging person to talk to, and someone who you could consider a friendly acquaintance. You didn’t have many of those, real friends even less.

You hummed, placing the rounded cup down onto the table. “Have you finished the book yet?” you asked, meekly posing the question as a nonchalant enquiry.

Jaehyun smiled easily. “I have, actually. It was one of the best books I’ve read in a while. Do you know of anything else like it?”

You shook your head. “I don’t think I’ve ever read a book quite like Much Ado. It’s one of a kind, I’m afraid.”

Your neighbour tsked, pouting in disappointment. “Cripes, I’d have loved to read another book like it. The inherent silliness of it all really is captivating. Now I suppose I’m left to entertain myself while I’m at the office.”

You raised a brow. “What, and not work?”

“Of course not,” he quipped, and he flashed a smile that would’ve made any other woman’s knees buckle. But not you. You had your own husband, whom you loved, and admired, and couldn’t wait to see again.

A beat of silence followed, with you suddenly growing conscious as to how wide your smile actually was. You tapered it, got your emotions under control. Here you were, grinning like a schoolgirl while in conversation with a man who wasn’t even a friend, much less something more.

Jaehyun himself seemed pensive, eyes glazing over under his obsidian-rimmed glasses. “Where does your husband work, again?” he asked, lifting his head to look in your eyes.

You paused, unsure of why exactly he was asking. “At a transport company that foresees cars for overseas businessmen when they travel. Why do you ask?”

He shook his head. “No reason. He… travels a lot, right?”

You nodded. “He’s in Shanghai this week.”

Jaehyun nodded slowly, seemingly taking in information that you were not privy to. “Your wife travels a lot as well, doesn’t she?” you asked, needlessly.

“Yes,” Jaehyun said softly. “She’s currently working in China.”

After that interaction, your meetings with Jaehyun grew scarce. It’s never as if they hadn’t been, of course. He was only your neighbour. You passed him a few times in the marketplace, though you seemed to miss him whenever you walked to work in the morning or walked home at night. Perhaps his hours had changed, you reasoned. You heard from plenty of your husband’s colleagues that their hours could change whenever their boss decided it should.

Speaking of, your husband was back from overseas, finally staying at home for the month. You got to see him when you woke up in the morning, and you got to fall asleep next to him each night. For a moment, it felt as if he were growing close to you again, but only then did you realise how far he’d grown from you.

He’d made himself scarce since he’d come home, keeping to his work when he was at home. He took his meals in your bedroom, where his desk was, and only switched his light off when you decided to go to bed. Each morning that you went to work, when he’d be getting ready to go as well, would only be able to offer you a distracted kiss on the cheek before running off, briefcase in hand.

Over the course of the next few weeks, you wondered when this rift had started to form. You were twenty four, now, Mr Kim twenty eight. You’d been married for three years, since you were twenty one and he was twenty five, and during all that time, you’d never felt more estranged from your own husband than now. He’d always shared stories with you when he came home from work, and always talked your ear off if he was overseas for the week. He kissed you dizzy whenever he got the chance, and, as indelicate as it may have sounded coming from your mouth, intimacy was a frequent activity you delighted in. You shared food, lay down in each other’s arms anywhere possible, and spent every waking moment together.

Now, you could barely get three words from his mouth when he was at home, and he only called when he wanted to buy you the same gifts you already had six of. His kisses were rare and chaste, and that in and of itself made any further intimacy impossible. His food was his own, his space was his own, and his time was his own. It was as if you were simply flatmates who happened to share a bed and a contract legally binding you together.

Yet, you didn’t say a word to let him know you’d caught on to his distance. Mostly because you didn’t know what to do with that information further. What would you do, if you told him, made it known that you could feel him disappearing from your life like sand falling through an open, eager hand? Would you confront him? Leave him? No, you couldn’t do that. There was too much at stake if you even tried.

So, what better could you do than let your thoughts run wild, let them consume your very being as each and every notion grew darker and darker and your hope grew smaller and smaller?

You studied the typewriter in front of you, looking at how your fingers trembled as they rested on the keys. The diamond on your wedding ring glinted tauntingly in the low light of your boss’ office, and Jaehyun’s voice rang through your head.

“Where does your husband work, again? He… travels a lot, right?”

“He’s in Shanghai this week. Your wife travels a lot as well, doesn’t she?”

“Yes. She’s currently working in China.”

The phone chord curled around your finger as you picked it up, holding it to your ear as you punched in the number of Mr Kim’s office. It was picked up on the third ring, the line humming to life.

“Mr Kim’s office, how may I help you?” asked the voice of your husband’s colleague and deskmate, Youngho.

“Oh, evening, Youngho-ssi,” you smiled, hands trembling. “Is— is my husband nearby, by any chance?”

On the other end of the line, Youngho frowned. Kim had left earlier than usual, saying he was on his way home, while his wife was clearly still at work. “No. He left about an hour ago, Mrs Kim.”

You chuckled, grip around the phone tightening. “Oh, right! Silly me. I forgot he was going home earlier to rest today. Thank you, regardless, Youngho. Good night.” You slammed the phone back into place before the older man could answer, and covered your mouth in an attempt to catch the words at the tip of your tongue; Mr Hwang was still at his desk a few metres away.

“May I go home?” you requested, not looking at your boss.

He didn’t look up from his papers, brows raised. “I don’t see why not. There’s nothing more you can do for me today.” He chuckled. “You’re relieved of your duty for today, Mrs Kim.”

You nodded, smiling stiffly as you slung your handbag over your shoulder, briskly walking out of the office.

𝟑시간 전

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨

Jaehyun yawned, stretching his arms far above his head. His spine released a cathartic crack! and he sighed in relief. It was nearing sundown, and he had a particularly productive day under the belt. Sicheng was only a few desks away, floating on the same cloud as his colleague.

Standing up, Jaehyun waltzed over to the office phone, and dialled Mrs Park’s office number. She picked up on the third ring, singing, “I hope this is my love calling~”

Jaehyun chuckled. “What’s got you in such a good mood?”

Mrs Park straightened in her seat. “N-nothing, dear. I’m just… excited to hear from you. It’s been such a long day, and it’s only going to get longer for me.”

“No, have they got you working overtime again?” he gasped.

Mrs Park sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. I can’t make it to dinner tonight. We’ll have to reschedule that booking you made.”

Jaehyun pouted, frowning in disbelief. It’s almost as if ever since she came back from China, her workload had tripled. Every other night she was working late, or having drinks with colleagues after her shift. Never did she have time for him. But, he said nothing. If his wife wanted to work, he’d let her work without complaints. After all, he wasn’t a dependent toddler. He was a grown man, twenty eight and counting!

“Alright, my love,” he said. “Will I at least see you tonight?”

“Of course, my husband,” she assured warmly.

“Okay. Remember to take breaks,” Jaehyun said. “Goodbye. I love you.”

“Goodbye, Jaehyun.”

𝟏시간 전

𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐨

Frowning, Jaehyun’s impatience only grew with each second that passed as he waited for Mrs Park to pick up. It had been two hours since the last time they spoke, and he just wanted to let her know that he’d also be working late tonight, and that she shouldn’t lock the door when she got home.

“Where is she?” he muttered. He checked his watch. Only half past eight. Was she in the middle of a meeting, or an errand, or what?

After the tenth ring, the phone clicked, and the line hummed to life.

“Kia Motors, may I help you?” answered the voice of Mrs Park’s colleague, Park Sooyoung.

“Evening, Sooyoung-nim,” Jaehyun smiled. “Is my wife nearby? I spoke to her a few hours ago, and she said she’d be working overtime. I just have a message to relay to her.”

The woman hesitated, frowning at his sentiment. “Apologies, Jaehyun-ssi, but Mrs Park left two and a half hours ago. She asked to go home earlier today; I thought she’d tell you that.”

Silence.

Jaehyun’s eyes widened beneath his glasses, his breath growing shallow. His fingers, which had been drumming absently on his desk, were now balled into a fist that waited to meet the hard surface of a desk. “Oh.” He exhaled, inhaled, working on his jaw all the while. “Right. Sorry. I must’ve forgot. Thank you, anyway, Sooyoung-nim. Have a nice night.”

The line died abruptly before the younger woman could return his farewell.

You could hear voices next door.

After rushing home, you returned to find your flat empty. Bed made perfectly, couch untouched, and the food you’d prepared that morning gathering flies. Food you’d prepared for Mr Kim—your husband.

You wrung your hands, trying to figure out where he could be. Maybe he was just out with friends, colleagues, and didn’t feel it was important enough to mention to you. But Youngho had still been at the office, and as far as you knew, the two were thick as thieves. They always went out together. While you thought, and paced, you could faintly hear voices from the conjoined wall behind you. You hadn’t seen Jaehyun on your way home, so perhaps he’d returned home earlier. You couldn’t make out exactly who the voices were, but you could discern one female voice and another male voice. It had to be Jaehyun, or a brother, or a father, or…

…Maybe you were just imagining it. You’d been working longer hours these days, getting less sleep. And you were getting close to your monthlies. Perhaps you were just overworked and exhausted and hormonal and were imagining there being more than one voice. Maybe Mrs Park enjoyed having conversations with herself—a pastime you’d adopted as well.

Sighing, you steeled your nerves and marched to the front door of the Jeongs flat. Someone laughed, a woman, and you raised your hand to knock. When you did, the voices died out, and you could hear hurried footsteps to the door. The moment you saw Mrs Park, your heart fell to your stomach.

Messy hair, her lipstick smeared as if someone had tried to kiss it off of her. There was a glow about her, one that you hadn’t seen in yourself for almost a year.

“Sorry to bother you, Mrs Park.” Your voice came out weak, and you sounded far away in your own ears. “I just heard a commotion, and I wanted to know if you were alright.”

The older woman chuckled, nodding as she tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear. One of her earrings was missing, too, probably lost in the sheets of her bed.

“No worries, Mrs Kim,” she assured. The name Kim sounded too familiar in her mouth for your comfort. “It’s just me here.”

You nodded, giving her a warm smile before going back into your own flat, and you heard your door shut behind you, though you couldn’t remember closing it.

Steam fogged up the mirrors and windows in your bathroom, made your vision clouded and hot. Boiling water cascaded down your back, warming your spine, and you scrubbed at your skin until it was raw. The sound of the shower running was enough to drown out the pathetic sobs that racked your body, was enough to silence the hushed whispers that echoed from next door.

You weren’t sure who told you, but someone once said to you that when things get difficult in your personal life, work offers a type of asylum that no human could bid you. The following month, that was your experience.

Nights spent helping Mr Hwang at the office had become your new favourite thing to do, considering the fact that your husband always had to work late. You went to work as early as you were allowed to, before your husband woke up, and you came back only hours after he fell asleep.

You took your meals at work, took your calls at work, and bought groceries during your breaks and stored them in the office fridge until you got home. The only time you were doing something besides sleeping or bathing at home was when you made your husband lunch, placed it neatly in the fridge with a simple note.

내 사랑. My love.

As predicted, your husband didn’t notice the change, too caught up in his own life to really care. Perhaps he was under the impression that you were working harder because you wanted a promotion, unaware that it was impossible for you to be granted such a pleasure. Your neighbour was in a similar predicament, of which you wouldn’t know, because he hadn’t spoken to you since you sat down together at the tea house.

Almost as if spurred on by the mere thought of him in your pretty head, Jaehyun called you that night, at the office. You frowned when you answered, and heard his voice respond.

“Do you want to get coffee sometime?”

You paused, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, you asked, “Right now?”

“…Yes. Why not?”

Inclining your head, you weighed your options. You’d worked overtime the entire week now, and Mr Hwang was starting to get worried. You didn’t want to raise so much suspicion that he’d make a call home and ask your husband anything, so maybe working less hours tonight would do you good. Besides, it’s been a while since you actually went out somewhere that wasn’t work or the supermarket.

“Where?” you asked. You heard a sigh of relief on the other side, and found yourself smiling at his antics.

“How about that little diner down the street from your office?” Jaehyun suggested, and it was then that you remembered you only worked a few streets away from one another. “Their coffee is really good, and the seating is better than most diners in the area.”

You accepted, disconnecting the call and packing up your things, telling Mr Hwang that you’d be going home early. Well, technically on time, but that would count as early considering the hours you’d been working.

That’s how you got where you were now—sat across a crimson red booth from Jaehyun, stirring your cooling coffee as it warmed the gold-rimmed mint green cup it had been served in.

Jaehyun looked tired. Still handsome, you admitted. Of course you admitted it, because anyone could see it, even a married woman with a husband just as handsome. But there was something about the way he carried himself, about the circles starting to form under his eyes, about the near bird’s nest that was his hair, that made him look unspeakably tired, more so than any man his age should be. You didn’t know that he was thinking the same, wondering how someone as young as you could look so burnt out, as if your happiness was running thin, as if you needed a shoulder to cry on, arms to fall asleep in.

“I like your shoes,” he commented, bumping his foot with yours.

The action made you freeze, before you realised it was really just a harmless gesture. “Thanks,” you smiled. “My husband got them for me when he was in Singapore a few months ago. I’ve got a few more pairs in different colours.”

He hummed. “Do you know which store he got them from? You always look so put-together and chic wearing them. I want to buy a pair for my wife.”

“Mm, I’m not sure,” you said. “I’ll ask my husband. Do you know what size your wife wears?”

He scoffed softly. “Only a bad husband wouldn’t. She’s a size six.”

Nodding, you said, “I’ll ask him to pick up two pairs for me next time he goes, so that I could give your wife the second. It’s great that we’re the same size.”

A beat of silence followed, before you softly said, “I like your watch.”

Glancing at the shiny glass surface, Jaehyun nodded in thanks for the compliment. “Thank you. My wife got it for me when she was in Thailand.”

“Do you know which shop she bought it from?” you questioned, taking a sip of your coffee.

Jaehyun shook his head, taking a sip of his own coffee, savouring the bitterness as it seeped into his tastebuds. “M-mm,” he murmured. “But I’ll ask her, and let you know when she comes back to me.”

“It looks familiar, though,” you said, inclining your head. “I think I’ve seen it somewhere.”

Silence.

“My husband has a watch just like that.”

Jaehyun ducked his head, smiling brokenly.

“My wife has a pair of shoes just like yours.”

You sighed softly, falling back in your seat. For someone who’d been very good at being silent and serene for the past month, you were feeling very much like crying as hard as you did when you first knocked on Mrs Park’s door only to find that she’d been ‘alone’, and your husband was nowhere to be found.

Jaehyun glanced at you from beneath his lenses as the light reflected off of them, plump lips forming an unsure frown. Your brows were furrowed as if you were angry, though he could see the tears forming in your eyes, brimming with emotion. You looked so sad, so hurt, that he wanted nothing more than to reach across the table and take your hand. But, even when Jaehyun didn’t know much about you, he knew you were loyal to your husband, even when the bastard couldn’t even return that loyalty.

“I’ve had my suspicions for a while,” he admitted, finally breaking the silence.

“Since when?” you asked, resting your chin in the palm of your hand as you elbow touched the table. You harshly wiped at your eyes, hoping he hadn’t seen the tears gathering there.

“Since we had dinner together, about six months ago,” he said. “My wife doesn’t talk about cars with just anyone.”

“And my husband doesn’t talk about politics with just anyone,” you added.

Jaehyun smiled. He found himself chuckling, snorting bitterly at the idea of your spouses together. They didn’t even make a bad match, he had to admit. They worked in similar industries, always travelled, and clearly shared more common ground than any of you had thought. You couldn’t help your own morose grin, your head falling into your hands as you shook with silent laughter.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” you said eventually, trying to taper your laughter. “I seriously have no idea how to proceed with my life.”

Jaehyun shook his head, clamping a hand over his mouth to silence himself. “Neither do I,” came his muffled voice.

You laughed together for a few moments, in virtual silence, save for the deep breaths you took in between hysterical giggles.

Jaehyun removed his hand from his mouth then, running it through his hair as his eyes widened slowly. He shook his head for a second time, as if still processing the information. Your own attention had gone from the situation to something more present: your coffee. Your painted fingers swirled around the rim, sliding easily along the green porcelain as the man in front of you settled his gaze elsewhere.

The lights above you flickered, and you became aware of the other conversations floating through the air, accompanied by melodious music. You were just every other person in this diner, in your own little world, discussing your own little dilemmas, feeling as if your world would come crashing down at any moment—and no one else in the restaurant would know, or care, just like how you didn’t care about their conversations or the state of their lives.

“We won’t be like them,” he promised, speaking his words of honour into the deafening silence.

You stared at him wordlessly, fingers trembling. “I don’t think we will,” you agreed softly.

The early autumn breeze filtered through your half opened windows, nipping at your thinly covered skin. You rolled onto your side, your hip hitting something soft—a pillow, probably. Your arms ached from the book you held high above your face, tired eyes flitting over the words on the page. Jaehyun chuckled at the sight, seeing how you overexerted yourself with the way your arms shook.

“How’s the book?” he enquired, his own fingers moving deftly across a page as he scrawled down words upon words of melancholy rhapsody.

“Good. The love interest was just introduced,” you said.

Your neighbour quirked a brow. “How do you know it’s the love interest, then?”

“Because the protagonist has been describing his hair for three pages now.”

Jaehyun’s laugh echoed through your small living room, and you nearly shot up from your position to shush him. He gave you a look, rolling his eyes. “I’m just visiting my neighbour for coffee and a chat,” he protested. “If Mrs Hong or Mrs Lee hear me, that’s what they’ll think. They think far too highly of you to assume you’d have me over for obscene reasons.”

You sighed softly, though that was the truth. The average person’s mind was far quicker to draw the conclusion of infidelity when it came to a man hosting a woman in his home, rarely the other way around. You plopped back down onto the couch without another word, going back to your book.

“How’s the song coming along?” you questioned, turning to a page where the protagonist finally moved on to describe her love interest’s eyes.

Jaehyun shrugged. “Alright, I suppose. It’s no Frank Sinatra, but it’s coming along.”

You smiled. “No one besides Frank Sinatra is Frank Sinatra. Don’t beat yourself up about it, Jaehyun-ssi.”

He snorted, before going back to his writing.

“I finished that comic you gave me, by the way,” you added, turning another page. You turned your head, glancing at him from your spot on the couch. “It was good. A bit ridiculous, but I think comics should be ridiculous every now and then.”

“Funny you’d say that,” your neighbour said. “I happen to think so, too.”

Time had passed more quickly than you’d anticipated, and before you knew it, a month had passed since you’d had coffee with Jaehyun that night, since you’d both uttered the words “We won’t be like them.” You supposed it was only natural, then, that you gravitated toward each other after you’d made your promise to one another.

You tilted your head. “Are you hungry?”

Jaehyun looked up, thoughtful. “I could eat.”

“Well… coffee, a chat, and lunch doesn’t sound too suspect, does it?” you asked, already sitting up.

He shook his head, smiling. “I don’t think so, no. Although, I’m biased, given the fact that I’d never say no to free food.”

Only natural that you’d become friends, that you’d fallen back into your previously forgotten routine of running into each other on your way to work or in the marketplace, this time purposely walking together, meeting each other at the crossroads where your two universes met.

“Can you pass the kimchi?” Jaehyun asked, and you dutifully gave him the little bowl of pickled cabbage for him to use. “You know, I think you’ve finally perfected how to grill your meat,” he said, through a mouthful of rice.

You smiled, warmth blossoming in your chest. “Really? I thought maybe this time it wouldn’t come out as good as last, but I’m glad you like my cooking.”

Only natural that you’d find solace in each other, having found one another in identical loneliness…

…Right?

With the inky black sky hanging so high above you, you felt smaller than ever, wrapped in your too-big raincoat, dwarfed by your massive umbrella. Jaehyun was taking long, and you were starting to wonder whether he’d show up at all. Rain was lashing from the heavens, soaking passersby rushing to get home and forming little rivers wherever it fell.

You didn’t lose hope in him, rather leaning against the wall behind you, and waited on the sidewalk that connected your route to work with his. Soon enough, you heard the scuff of dress shoes on the wet pavement, and you looked up to see Jaehyun jogging toward you, holding his blazer over his head.

You quickly ushered him under the umbrella, but not without accidentally taking his eye out as you forgot just how tall he was. “Why didn’t you bring a raincoat?” you asked. “You’ll catch a cold only wearing your suit! The radio said there was ninety percent chance for rain today!”

“Aren’t I a little old to be having my radio on all the time?” Jaehyun sassed, and you had to keep your scoff to yourself. “It’s no matter, anyhow. You would’ve let me under your umbrella regardless, wouldn’t you?”

You didn’t say anything, rather fixing him with a playful glare.

Jaehyun fell into step next to you as you walked uphill, him walking on the outside while you stayed shielded from the cars on the inside. “I talked to my wife today,” he said. You shared a glance, and he continued, “She still doesn’t know that I know, or that you do, for that matter.”

You sighed, staying wilfully silent as you made your way up the street. You could see your apartment building nearby, and waited for the silence to reach Jaehyun so that you could walk on in peace. The older man noticed this, of course. It was hard not to, with the way you looked like you’d rather be listening to rocks falling onto a tin roof than him. So he stayed silent as well, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked.

The steps leading up to your flats had been housing a steady stream of rainwater, leading Jaehyun to fall back and walk behind you. His hands twitched whenever you seemed like you were going to lose your balance, ready to catch you if you fell, but you never did.

The walk to your homes was filled with a palpable silence, neither of you saying so much as a word. You dug your keys out of your coat pocket, jamming them into the keyhole, turning them as quickly as you could. You weren’t sure if your husband was home yet, but judging from the fact that the door was locked, he’d be working another ‘late night’ tonight.

“I’m really sorry, you know.”

Eyes widening, you turned to the man next to you, giving Jaehyun a surprised glance. He sighed softly, unsure how to proceed.

“I know no one deserves what we got,” was what he settled on. “No one, no matter how uninteresting or unattractive they are, deserves to be cheated on. But I’m specifically sorry for you.” His eyes finally settling on yours, he added, “You don’t deserve to be treated the way your husband is treating you. You deserve better.”

Glancing up at him, you could only muster a weak smile. As much as you didn’t like discussing your spouses’ infidelity, you knew Jaehyun was going through the same things you were. You were the only other person who knew how he felt, what he thought.

“I know,” you said. “So do you.”

Over the course of the next few weeks, your visits with Jaehyun became more and more common. Your husband had left for Singapore, while Mrs Park was off in Europe visiting friends. Jaehyun couldn’t go on account of his work, and neither could you. So, the weeks that your spouses weren’t home were filled with light, friendly conversation that you’d never had before.

It became apparent to you early on in yours and Jaehyun’s friendship that your husband had deprived you of a world you loved every bit of, no matter its faults. He’d never allowed you more than a few words exchanged between his colleagues or his own friends, and that hadn’t gotten you the opportunity to make friends with anyone else, male or female.

Jeong Jaehyun made for stimulating conversation, and for a lovely travel partner. You found out more about him than you’d ever thought you would, and vice versa. You learnt that Jaehyun had wanted kids since he was sixteen, and Jaehyun learnt that you had a passion for painting. He wanted to go to an art museum at least once in his life, and you wanted to go to Paris before you turned thirty.

It was easier to talk to him, you assumed, because he was married as well, and because he was close by. You were both adults, married, albeit to cheaters, and weren’t held back by the societal norms of only needing to discuss certain things rather than whatever you pleased.

He had an odd liking for chicken and beer, and you were a better cook than you let on. He enjoyed Shakespeare in secret, and you appreciated the artwork of the comics he lent you. Your friendship was almost transactional, like that.

“I was thinking of inviting Mr Jeong over for coffee,” you told Mrs Hong, who was nursing her own cup at your dining table. “He’s had some time off these days—”

“Didn’t you hear?” the older woman interrupted. “He’s deathly sick! Came down with a terrible cold a few days ago. I think it’s because he’s been walking to work without an umbrella.”

You stopped, face contorting with worry. He hadn’t told you that he’d gotten sick, nor had you gotten the impression that he was. Then again, he’d made himself scarce this week; now you knew why.

“Oh, no,” you murmured, taking a seat opposite your landlady. “Has he shown any signs of getting better?”

Mrs Hong shook her head. “I brought him some food this morning, but he whined that all he wanted to eat was hotteok.” She chuckled. “He may be twenty eight, but he certainly behaves like a child when he’s sick.”

You hummed. Hotteok. You’d had it before, but you’d never attempted to make it. That would change today, it seemed.

𝟑시간 후

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬

It had been a challenge and a half, learning how to make hotteok. You’d taken one of your trusted housewives’ magazines and flipped through it until you found a recipe, and got to work. The first few were less than ideal, some burnt, some lumpy, some… hideously deformed, until you finally got the hang of it. You decided to make a syrup with it, just because Mrs Hong mentioned Jaehyun had wanted something sweet, as grateful as he was for her food.

You stacked them neatly onto a plate, both the pancakes and the syrup, making sure nothing spilled or sudated, before heading next door, knocking lightly on the Jeongs’ front door.

It swung open a moment later, revealing a disheveled Jaehyun. He was bundled in blankets, his hair a mess, and his nose rubbed red and raw. You nearly wanted to coo at the sight, but contained yourself for your dignity’s sake.

Your friend frowned, before breaking into a tired smile. “Afternoon, Mrs Kim,” he greeted, and you wondered how he even mustered up the energy to be jokey when he was on Death’s doorstep.

You held up the plate of pancakes, saying, “I made hotteok.”

Jaehyun’s red-rimmed eyes widened, and his face split into an astonished smile. He snatched it from your grasp, saying, “I’ve been craving these all day. How did you know?”

You shrugged. “I happened to make some this afternoon, and I thought you might like it. Call it a coincidence.”

“You’re late.”

“I told you, I was going to work overtime tonight.”

“I called your office, and your colleague said you’d gone home early.”

Sigh.

“Fine. Do you want to know where I’ve really been?”

“…Yes.”

Silence.

“Mrs Kim?” Your lip started to tremble, and you could feel the tears gathering in your eyes, waiting to roll down your cheeks in a steady flow of overwhelming emotion. “Mrs Kim?”

“I can’t do it,” you choked out. “I can’t do this.”

Jaehyun sighed softly, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. He rested his chin on your head, rubbing comforting circles on your clothed back. “This is just a rehearsal,” he chastised. “What are you going to do when you actually have to confront him, huh? You can’t just burst into tears.”

You sobbed, desperately wrapping your arms around his middle, your head resting in the crook of his neck. His hold was so gentle, softer than you’d ever felt before, as if you were made of glass, as if he was afraid of breaking you. “I’m sorry,” you cried. “I don’t know what I’m going to do when he’s actually standing in front of me. I don’t think I can even do it.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “You can do it.” Letting go of you, Jaehyun took your hands in his in a chaste gesture. “You just don’t have to do it right now. Come on.” He leaned back, giving you some space. “Let’s try with me, okay?”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Jaehyun cleared his throat. “You’ve been very distant lately.”

You sighed, trying to emulate Mrs Park’s sophisticated nonchalance. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you know very well what I mean,” he said.

These rehearsals were odd, sometimes. You weren’t used to acting, much less having someone else act as your spouse and you as theirs, all for the sake of preparing yourselves for a confrontation that might never come. And, much less acting out these situations in a rented hotel room where nothing but conversations happened.

Jaehyun continued, “You’ve been closed off with me recently, and you never used to be. Something’s the matter, dove.”

Dove. It seemed it was a genuine mistake, given your friend’s apologetic expression, and yet, your heart ached nonetheless.

“Sorry,” he said, sheepish.

“It’s okay,” you assured, smiling sadly, before clearing your throat to continue. “Nothing’s the matter. How can it be, when we barely see each other?”

“That’s the problem I’m talking about. You’re avoiding me.”

“Perhaps I simply don’t want to see you every day.”

“But you never see me.”

“…I’ve been having an affair with Mr Kim from next door.”

“For how long?”

You shrugged as Mrs Park. “I don’t know. A year and a half? It’s hard to tell.”

“Do you love him?”

You bit your lip so hard it nearly started bleeding. “Well, I must. After all, there’s only so much physical attraction can do for you.”

Silence.

Jaehyun pursed his lips, opening his arms for you. “Oh, come here,” he said, gently taking you into his hold. Your body shook with sobs as he hummed comfortingly, keeping his arms wrapped around you as you cried into his shoulder.

Everything about this felt so overwhelming, so wrong. You felt filthy, speaking the words your spouses spoke to each other. How did they even make it through a day without collapsing with guilt? Did neither of them think that far, care that much? How was it that they could go behind your backs for nearly a year and a half, yet you felt guilty just accepting a hug from someone else’s husband?

“Shh, shh… it’s okay,” Jaehyun assured. “You’re going to be alright.”

You sniffled, disentangling yourself from his arms. Your posture was deflated, your expression dejected. You felt so tired, wanted nothing more than for all this to be gone. You enjoyed Jaehyun’s company, but you had a husband who you wanted to spend time with, who you wanted to love. It was just…

…Why couldn’t he see it that way? Why did he go anywhere but you for love?

When Jaehyun stared at you, taking in your heartbroken appearance, your tired, sunken eyes, your trembling lip, the tips of his fingers brushing yours, he realised you were never going to leave your husband.

When you opened your door to a brisk knock, smile ready for your friend, you were not expecting to see your landlady in his place, looking very much like she knew something that you didn’t.

“Mrs Kim!” she greeted, and you swore she put an extra emphasis on Kim before she rushed into your flat, a woven basket in hand. “How are you? How’s your husband? Is he well? I hope he is.”

As she whizzed past you, switching on your kettle and taking out cups and coffee powder as if she owned the place, you turned with a quizzical expression, a bit afraid to ask what’s got her so whipped up in a frenzy.

“I’m quite well,” you said. “I’m sure Mr Kim is, too. He’s in Singapore for work, but he hasn’t gotten the opportunity to call me these days.” He’d called you once, to brightly ask which shoes you wanted this time. That was a week ago.

“Oh, that’s lovely.” Mrs Hong smiled, nearly ripping open your fridge for the milk. “You know, I hear of a lot of women travelling with their husbands when they go to work overseas.”

You paused.

“And Singapore is so nice this time of year, or any time of year, really, that I think you should consider becoming one of those wives!” the old woman continued, none the wiser. “Your work here may seem important, but it’s so labourous, and I think you’d just love Singapore. Have I said it was lovely this time of year?”

“Mrs Hong,” you started, struggling to keep the hurt out of your voice, “do you want me gone?”

“What?” She clearly hadn’t expected that straightforward of a question. “No, no, you’re mistaken, Mrs Kim!” she laughed, rushing over to you and taking your shoulders. “No, I don’t want you gone. What a silly thought! I just…” She sighed, looking at you as if you were a lost lamb. “You are lonely here, I think, without your husband to keep you company. And… and I see that you’ve made friends with Mr Jeong from next door, but if you’re not careful—”

“I may fall prey to his charms and become unfaithful,” you guessed, nodding. Of course she did, because to women like Mrs Hong, men besides their husband were merely temptations put there to test them, rather than real, flawed human beings who just may not exist as sexual devices, waiting for you to stray.

You shook your head. “You don’t need to worry, Mrs Hong. Jaehyun-ssi is just a friend to me, and that’s all he ever will be. I love my husband very much, and he loves his wife just as much. There’s nothing to be concerned about.”

Mrs Hong sighed a great, relieved sigh, putting her hand over her heart. “Oh, you’re so strong!” she praised. “It’s good that you and Mr Jeong know not to grow too fond of one another. Goodness knows young people these days don’t have your kind of sense.”

Jaehyun was in love with you.

He wasn’t sure when exactly it happened. Or how, for that matter. It seemed that somewhere between making that pact with you and your last ‘confrontation’, his feelings for you turned from platonic fondness to ardent, passionate love. When he realised that you wouldn’t leave your husband on account of your weakened heart, it hurt him so much more than it should’ve. Why? Because he wanted to be married to you? Or simply because he’d been deprived of intimacy for so long that he was beginning to think like his wife, to go for who’s nearest?

And yet, even as Jaehyun contemplated the possibility of that being a reality, he knew it wasn’t just because he liked the way you looked. He liked everything about you. The way you looked, the way you spoke, the things you spoke of, the way you tried to brush off genuine, thought-out gestures and attempted to remain blasé, the way your hips swayed when you walked, the way you dressed, the way you laughed, the way you cooked, the way you read. Everything you did, Jaehyun found adorable.

He also wasn’t sure how to approach it. He knew that you loved him as well. He knew it. But he also knew that you’d been depriving yourself of so many things—enjoyment, revenge, a goddamn break—and would never, ever think to leave your husband. You were too afraid, because then you’d have to confront him about his affair, which could lead to him leaving you, which meant divorce. Divorce meant spending money that you didn’t have, dividing things that he would probably get the bulk of, all on account of him being a man, and you being a woman.

That’s also partly why he didn’t want to divorce Mrs Park. He didn’t love her the way he used to, clearly she didn’t, either, but he didn’t want to leave her out to dry just because of that. He was a lawyer; if they divorced, he could, and probably would, be able to leave her in the dust, penniless and pitiful. But he didn’t want to.

“We won’t be like them.” Those were the words Jaehyun uttered to you, those were the words you agreed on. You’d only be as bad as them if you left them in the name of revenge, if you started an affair of your own. But by God, it would’ve been a much easier promise to keep if you weren’t so… you.

And Jaehyun loved you.

Thoughts like this running through his mind, Jaehyun was preoccupied the whole day. He barely paid attention at work, rather letting the workload fall back onto his colleagues; he couldn’t eat, and as he was making dinner, he almost burnt the rice because his mind was in a much more important place. He didn’t even notice the door open until he heard the click of it shutting.

The first person that came to mind was you, and Jaehyun internally scolded himself for that. When he turned, he came face to face with the exact opposite.

His wife stood in front of the door, several shopping bags hanging from her slender frame, her suitcase trailing behind her. She was white as a ghost, her usually made up face a mess of mascara smudges and desolate eyes. Her hair seemed a mess, and Jaehyun wondered if this is what he usually looked like when he worked as long as she had.

“My love,” he greeted, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek and relieving her of her load, taking the shopping bags and setting them down on the kitchen counter. “How was your flight? Not too bad, I hope.”

“No, it was fine,” she smiled, though there was something fickle about it. “Nothing of note.”

Jaehyun was reminded of how you looked before you burst into tears, the way you tried to bite your trembling lip in an attempt to stop an onslaught of hot, messy tears. His wife was doing that exact thing, now. Funny, how you seemed to have become the default. It always used to be her.

He hummed, unconvinced. “Is there something you want to tell me, dove?”

Despite the nickname slipping out earlier in the week, Jaehyun hadn’t called his wife by her special name in a long, long time. He knew it would prompt her to cave; she pitied him that much, at least.

“I…” She swallowed, and reached to grip onto the kitchen counter, as if steeling herself. With a turn, almost an anguished flourish, she settled her gaze on Jaehyun. “I’m pregnant.”

Okay. What the fuck?

Jaehyun’s eyes widened, and he was suddenly made very aware that nothing would’ve prepared him for those words coming from his wife’s mouth. And, what would’ve been a blessing in his life at any other moment, what would’ve made tears of joy spring to his eyes if she’d said it in any other universe, now made his insides churn, now made his mouth run dry with terror.

Mrs Park tried for a smile, opening her arms as she awaited for her husband to embrace her. “It’s a miracle, my darling,” she said, smiling nervously. “Aren’t you… aren’t you happy? We’re going to have a baby!”

Jaehyun, leaned against the dining table, arms crossed over his chest, said, “We haven’t slept together.” It took everything in him not to burst into tears and throw himself out of the nearest window.

She faltered. “Wh-what? No, don’t be ridiculous, honey,” she laughed, her tone becoming frantic now. “We did, just a few weeks ago!”

“You were on your monthlies then,” Jaehyun reminded her, “and that was two months ago. We haven’t slept together at a time where you could’ve fallen pregnant, I made sure of that, because you told me you didn’t want children yet, and you wouldn’t want them for a long while. That’s why we always planned around your fertility window.”

She scoffed, though he could see her starting to panic. “Stop it, Jaehyun. You’re lying. Don’t lie to me. We slept together, and now I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a father.”

He sighed softly. “I’m lying? My wife, look me in the eyes, and tell me, I’m the one who’s lying.”

“I just did!” she cried. “You’re going to be a father. We’re going to be parents, and that’s that.”

“Does he know?” Jaehyun asked.

“Does who know?”

“Your lover.”

Silence had never settled more quickly over two people. Mrs Park shook her head, her teary eyes widening in horror. “No,” she said. “No. I didn’t— I don’t—”

“It’s alright,” he sighed. “I’ve known for a while, now. I mean, all those overseas business trips with the workers from the other transport company? The watches we wear? The shoes you come home with? You don’t think I’ve noticed the similarities, the fact that they’re all identical?” He scoffed, shocked beyond words. “You must’ve thought you’d married an idiot.”

Click. Click. Click.

Smoke clouded Jaehyun’s face as he took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling deeply, letting the smoke fill his nostrils, overpower his senses in any way they could.

Click. Click. Click.

He didn’t look up when you came down the steps of the apartment building. He guessed you were dressed in more casual clothing, as today was your day off. He then wondered why on Earth he knew that, and reminded himself that you knew him and his schedule just as well.

“Jaehyun-ssi.”

Your voice was soft, agreeable in the same way you were as a person. You reached for his arm, fingers curling around his bicep in your own unique way of greeting. He didn’t like the fact that he could feel your wedding ring digging into his skin, where his sat on his bedside table, long forgotten.

He tried for a smile, grasping your hand. You probably hoped the action was friendly rather than fond, and he couldn’t fault you for it. “Evening,” he said. “You out on a stroll?”

You chuckled. “About as much as you are.” You settled on the wall next to him, your touch leaving his skin cold and wanting for more. You crossed your arms over your chest, and Jaehyun indicated his cigarette. You glanced at it curiously, but accepted it and took an experimental drag.

Coughs racked your body as you immediately handed it back to Jaehyun, who was laughing lightly at the sight. “Sorry,” he said. “I forgot you don’t smoke.”

“And I don’t much feel like trying after that,” you wheezed.

Your friend scoffed. “Oh, come on, don’t be dramatic,” he chided. “It wasn’t that bad. You barely even took a proper drag!”

You shook your head, signalling to the older man that it had been that bad.

A silence enveloped the two of you, calm and welcome. Jaehyun’s cigarette lit a small, red light in front of his eyes, lighting up his face, his tanned skin, his dark hair. You stayed next to him, fingers tapping gently against your own arm, wedding ring burning against your skin. It burnt with the same intensity as your husband’s kisses, scorching you like hellfire. It was not the gentle, pleasurable warmth that you felt when your hands brushed Jaehyun’s, nowhere near as gentle or gladly received. Of course, Mr Kim was none the wiser. Didn’t even know that you’d slipped out of bed to go see someone else, didn’t even know that what he thought were kisses covering up his infidelity made your skin crawl with disgust.

It had been a hard week for Jaehyun to power through, especially without you to fall back on for company. His wife barely ever spoke to him unless they were discussing plans on how to proceed with their relationship, unless they were attempting to keep face in front of the elders’ keen eyes. Nor did you, on account of your husband finally returning from his travels. The man had been attached to your hip since he walked through that door, and it made Jaehyun sick because he knew. Knew what you didn’t. What he didn’t know, however, was that your husband’s presence had been as well-received by you as it had been by him.

“I’m moving into a new flat across town,” Jaehyun spoke into silence. He rubbed at his eyes, as if tired. “I leave at the end of the month.”

Your eyes widened, shocked. Hurt.

“Gongmi and I are getting a divorce,” he added. They hadn’t spoken further after she revealed that she was pregnant, had only agreed that it would be best for Jaehyun to move out, a feat he gladly took up. He shrugged. “Just decided it’s for the best.”

“Oh… Well, I’m happy you found the heart to do it,” you said, because you know you never could. Thinking of having to leave your husband, it made you so afraid. What would you do, if you didn’t have him?

Jaehyun chuckled with the same kind of bitterness as that day he realised Gongmi was cheating on him. As if your mere words caused him immense distress and anger just to hear. He wished you could leave your husband. He wished he could be with you. He wished you could be with him.

“Yeah. Me too. I wish you would, too, but I know you won’t ever leave your husband.”

As of late, you found yourself staring at Jaehyun’s face, analysing his every expression or word, every little laugh he gave, whether it was good or bad, every twitch of his nose, every quirk of his lips. It was the same thing you used to do if you had a crush on someone as a little girl. You’d look at them for hours on end, memorise every centimetre of their face, and hope they wouldn’t see.

You’d never looked at Kim Myeong like that.

Jaehyun looked hurt, even though you knew he was wearing an expression that tried to cover it up. He looked at you with the softest eyes, as if you held his heart in your hands like a prized possession. You sighed shakily, smiling.

“I didn’t think you’d fall in love with me.”

“I didn’t, either. I was only curious to know how it started. Now I know. Feelings can creep up just like that. I thought I was in control.”

The winter storms came early this year, ripping through the city like a vengeful deity wreaking havoc upon a civilisation who wronged him. The roads grew slick and slippery with ice, and people’s noses turned red from the cold. Layers upon layers were shrugged on to no avail, for the frost always found its way into one’s bones.

Jeong Jaehyun’s new apartment building had better central heating than the previous one had. When he stepped inside the meticulously decorated flat, he could shrug off at least two of the four layers he’d been wearing, could gather in front of his desk with a cup of coffee without needing to wrap himself in a blanket.

It had been two months since he last saw you, spoke to you. You’d returned home that night, wiping tears from your eyes. Jaehyun didn’t follow, too scared he might grasp your arm too hard, too scared his voice may crack with hidden emotion if he tried to utter your beautiful name.

He now sat at his desk, glowering at the bright green phone that hung on his wall, just sitting there and taunting him, egging him on, saying, Go on. Call her.

What would he even say to you? When you parted ways that night, you made your stance clear. You would never leave your husband, you wouldn’t even confront him about his affair.

Speaking of, Jaehyun’s divorce with Gongmi had been swift. Not a clean break, per se, but thanks to Jaehyun’s profession, it took half the time it would’ve if he hadn’t been a lawyer.

Sighing, Jaehyun wondered when she’d actually tell Myeong that she was pregnant. It wasn’t his business in the least to tell anyone, but it was eating away at him, day by day, with every second that passed.

He glanced at the telephone again, before lurching forward, punching in a familiar number.

“Hwang Hyunjung’s office, how may I help you?”

The sound of your voice was enough to stop Jaehyun’s heart in its tracks, picking up pulse as it began to beat erratically. On the other end, you frowned. “Hel—?”

“Hi,” he greeted, breathless.

“…Jaehyun. Why are you calling me at the office?” you enquired lightly. Despite the clipped words, your tone was pleasant, as if you were letting him in on a joke. “I’m working.”

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” he admitted.

God, he was pathetic. Spending his day off thinking of someone else’s wife, writing shoddy songs about her, all while not even being able to face her.

You smiled. “Oh. Then, hi, Jaehyun-ssi.” It had just occurred to you that you hadn’t greeted him properly. “How was your day?”

“It was alright,” he sighed. “I’ve finally finished moving in, and handed in the last of the paperwork to finalise the divorce. How… how have you been?”

Have you left him yet? is more what his question sounded like. You sighed softly, toying with the telephone chord between your fingers. “I’ve been well,” you said.

That was it. No, ‘This and this happened at work,’ no, ‘I finished this book yesterday,’ no, ‘I left my husband and I’m ready to admit that I’m in love with you.’

He exhaled, releasing a frustrated little moan. You were so young, only twenty four, and still you were more adult than Jaehyun had ever been, he thought.

Or were you, truly? you thought. He’d had the heart to leave his wife and move out, completely removing himself from a situation that wouldn’t have done him any good if he’d stayed longer. Perhaps you were afraid, rather than mature, staying with a man who didn’t love you when there was one who did.

Myeong didn’t love you. That, you had to remind yourself of whenever he kissed you, whenever he twirled the bottom of your dress in his fingers. He loved Park Gongmi, Jaehyun’s w— No. Not Jaehyun’s wife. Not anymore. Whenever he had the time, he went out to see her. He still worked late hours. He still went on business trips with her. Still kissed her behind closed doors, still promised to tell you about her sooner rather than later.

You sighed softly, your shoulders slumping. These thoughts, these thoughts running through your head. How would you proceed? You had to think about this logically, yet sometimes the urge to simply pack your bags and run away into Jeong Jaehyun’s arms gripped you like a vice.

“I’m going to Paris,” Jaehyun said promptly, in that same, abrupt, Jaehyun-esque fashion. “Next week.”

The line stayed silent, and he could imagine your expression. He didn’t want to.

“If…” He hesitated, his fingers beginning to tremble. “If I had an extra plane ticket, would you go with me?”

Once again, silence. You shifted unsurely, leaning against the wall of Mr Hwang’s office.

“Jaehyun-ssi…”

Sigh.

“…I know.”

몇 시간이 지났습니다

𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬

Winter was in full swing. Several snowstorms a day, slick, slippery pavements coated in frost, your home like a winter wonderland in the worst way possible.

You weren’t exactly sure what you were doing, walking to your crossroads at this hour. Navigating your way through a sea of inky black skies and warm paper lanterns, however, you took the steps two at a time, narrowly missing hitting your head on one of them as you passed. The only lights illuminating the street were the lamps that lined the concrete, the only sounds were cars passing by, each carrying salary workers on their way home.

Several conversations swirling through your head, you rounded a corner, nearly tripping over your own shoes with how fast you were running. “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Myeong’s desperate voice crackled in your mind like an announcement over an intercom.

“Yet you didn’t,” you’d said evenly. “And you lied to me for a year and a half.” You’d simply shaken your head, waving the older man off. “You don’t love me anymore. Part of me wonders if you ever did… Or if I ever loved you.”

You’d not the slightest as to what could’ve possibly possessed you to act so brashly. Perhaps you’d finally had enough, enough of the lies and the pretending. Perhaps you’d finally come to your senses, realised that a life lived in a lie was not a life worth living. All you knew was that you were running, and Jaehyun was going to Paris next week, and you ran faster the moment you spotted the familiar plume of smoke rising from the crossroads.

Jaehyun wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing, waiting at the crossroads until this hour. After your conversation—could one even call it that?—something strange had possessed him to take a walk, and his legs carried him here. It was as if his body knew nothing else, knew only to wait there, not sure what he was waiting for, until he saw you run around the corner.

You looked as if you’d run several blocks to get here, and he wondered why. You’d have finished up work a few hours before, and should’ve been resting at home currently. Except, of course, you weren’t.

You were here. With Jaehyun.

Your pace slowed to a light stroll, ambling over to him with legs weak and gawky from running. You never had been a runner, not for any man.

Jaehyun said nothing as you approached him, stopping in front of him. He could hear your shallow inhales deepen as you regained your breath, could smell the perfume he’d bought for you in secret and disguised as a thank you gift one night. Oriental, the soft, warm scent of cinnamon and patchouli clinging to your skin. He could see your shoes enter his line of sight, those cute black kitten heels you always wore to work.

He finally looked up at you when he heard you sigh softly, as if readying yourself for a speech; a rant, at the very least.

Yet all you said was,

“I don’t want to go home.”

And that was enough for Jaehyun.

It had been a mess of kisses then, the moment you two stepped foot in his flat, a clash of lips and teeth in the most spectacular way possible. He’d all but ran home with you in his arms, not even waiting for the door to open properly before pressing his lips to yours. His hands were everywhere; in your hair, on your hips, eagerly shrugging off your coat, and then your shirt, whatever he could find.

“Jaehyun-ssi,” you’d breathed, barely grasping onto his shirt before you were enveloped in his arms, his hands circling your waist from behind. His glasses hung low on the bridge of his nose, threatening to fall off if you hadn’t pushed them back into place.

“Yoonoh,” he corrected, softly pressing his lips against your neck. “My name is Yoonoh.”

You could barely speak, could barely even utter the first syllables of his name before he called yours, his warm, strong hands digging into your skin. He reached for your hand, stopping his movements then, as he held it over your shoulder. Your wedding ring was nowhere to be found, and he almost wept with joy. He stayed like that for a moment, drinking in the sound of your breaths mingling, the sight of you from this angle, the feeling of your skin against his.

Yoonoh turned you round in his arms, inhaling the soft scent of your perfume marrying with his, cinnamon and patchouli and myrrh and tonka, clinging to your dewy skin like an invisible halo. He pressed a kiss to your neck, then your forehead, and finally to your lips.

“I love you,” he whispered later that night, your cheek pressed against his bare collarbone, your lips resting in the crook of his neck. “So much.”

You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his. His gorgeous bleary brown eyes, and his wonderful swollen pink lips, and kissed them softly. Your hands deftly threaded through his dark hair; it was longer now, splayed across his pillow like a halo. “I love you, too, Jeong Yoonoh.”

𝟏𝟗𝟔𝟓년 서울

𝐒𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐥, 𝟏𝟗𝟔𝟓

The early spring breeze was light and cool on your skin, blowing through your dress, through your hair and in your face as you lay back on the checkered blanket beneath you, listening to the delightful sound of your daughter’s little laughs as she played a game of tag with her father. It was holiday season for the salaryworkers and students, so you and Yoonoh had plenty of time off to spend with one another.

Jeong Byulyi squealed as her father scooped her up into his arms, trying to wriggle free of his strong grasp to no avail. “Appa!” she whined, pouting that familiar pout she’d inherited from her father. “Lemme go.”

“Mm…” Yoonoh feigned thoughtfulness, making sure to squeeze her tighter as he did. “No. I don’t think I will.”

Contrary to his words, he let Byulyi finally worm herself out of his grasp, running to you instead. “Eomma,” she whined, making sure to drag out the last few syllables. She practically threw herself into your lap, expertly ignoring the way you wheezed at the sudden weight, sighing dramatically. “Appa won’t listen to me.”

You chuckled fondly, twirling a strand of her hair absently. “Appa doesn’t listen to me, either,” you assured. “He’s a pain in the neck sometimes, isn’t he?”

“Mm.”

Scoffing at your antics, Yoonoh plopped down onto the blanket beside you, moving your head into his lap out of instict. His fingers deftly moved over your lips, shushing you. “Don’t listen to Eomma, Byulyi,” he chided in a stage whisper. “If there’s one person I always obey, it’s her.”

“Really?” you asked, widening your eyes in feigned wonder. “Gosh, when were you going to tell me this?”

“Shut up,” he murmured, the fond smile on his face counteracting the nature of his words. “You know I’m loyal as a dog.”

“I know,” you whispered back, hands reaching up to cup his face. “As am I to you.”

Five years you’ve been married to Jeong Yoonoh, been introducing yourself with his name attached, been wearing his ring, been bathed in the perfume he’d gifted you. Four years you’d been the mother of his child, loved her with the same passion as you had him, attending parent-teacher meetings with the man who’d once been nothing more than a friend, a faraway desire.

Five years since you’d divorced Myeong, and he’d started a family of his own. He was happy, too, you assumed. The push he got from you had apparently been the push he needed to stop lying to himself. You were glad he could finally live, be free of you, and you be free of him. The same went for Gongmi; you wished her and her new husband and their child nothing but the best.

Five glorious years you’ve spent with the people most important to you. You couldn’t have asked for a better life, in your opinion, even with the difficulties that had come with attaining it.

Yoonoh dipped down to press a longing kiss to your lips, holding both your hands in his as you rose the slightest to meet him halfway.

Your daughter stuck her tongue out in mock disgust. “Eomma, Appa, gross!” she chided.

Breaking from the kiss with a chuckle, Yoonoh reached for your daughter with a, “Come here, you little pest!” and she squealed with laughter, running into your arms once more.

10 FEBRUARY

HMPH. VALENTINE’S DAY. WHILE the fateful, love-filled day had not yet come or passed, Sakuya was already dreading its arrival. He didn’t understand the need for a day dedicated to romantic love, especially when it seemed to be rubbed in his nose every other day. Couples spend their entire lives committing to one another, making sure everyone else knows, yet they still need a whole day—nay, in a capitalistic society, a whole month—dedicated to them and their frivolous… affection? He didn’t understand it.

Perhaps it was because, as a mind reader, he knew the true thoughts people had of their spouses and otherwise lesser committed romantic partners. Behind all the too-public kisses, and the declarations of love and adoration, many people didn’t really like whoever they were with. Whenever he walked past a couple, physically, they’d be holding hands, hugging in the middle of the darn street, yet he could hear their voices as he passed: “God, she’s clingy,” the boyfriend would think to himself. “Cripes, I’ve tied myself down to an emotionally unavailable manchild who can’t even stand to hold my hand properly,” the girlfriend would lament. No quote-unquote ‘taken’ person was really all that taken with their partner, so why make such a fuss over Valentine’s Day?

He made a point to bring this up every February of his adult life—the sheer lack of necessity in having a day dedicated to love when a) every person in a relationship made it their life’s mission to have everyone know how in love they were with their partner anyway, and b) every person in a relationship secretly hated said partner, regardless. His friends never tired of his complaints, at least, not outwardly. No matter how many times he brought it up, they’d find a way to lighten the mood or deflect, most times with a joke or jab directed at him. 

Like today, when he was walking home from school with his friend, Riku, who’d joined him about halfway to his house, having finished up his shift at work.

“I think it’s just ‘cause you’re too chicken to ask her to be your Valentine,” the older boy said, hands shoved in his pockets as he strolled leisurely next to Sakuya. The audience would probably need some elaboration on who ‘her’ was—it was you, of course. A girl in his class who he, according to his meddling friends, had been crushing on since age thirteen.

Technically, he was twelve when he started crushing on you, but, semantics.

Riku wasn’t Sakuya’s smartest friend. He had plenty of other wonderful qualities; good fashion sense, a laugh that seemed to light up a room, a relatively upbeat inner voice. But smarts? Not so much. He relied mostly on natural intuition and vibes over logic which, usually, wouldn’t faze Sakuya. Everyone needed that one friend who trusted horoscope readings and overinterpreted body language rather than the musings of a sound mind, but sometimes—usually when it came to you, or Sakuya’s alleged affection for you—it got to be a bit much.

Sakuya glanced at him through the corner of his eye, not necessarily glaring, but certainly making his disapproval clear. A chilly breeze ruffled his hair, a faded shade of pink that looked permanently as if he were on his second week of washing out dye, and he pulled his jacket tighter over his body. “It’s because romantic love is nothing that needs to have a day dedicated to it,” he corrected. “It’s everpresent in our lives. Everyone experiences it, every single baby on Earth was born from it. It’s not a big deal.”

“I’d argue that it is,” Riku countered. Of course he did. Riku, who could fall in love after once chance encounter with a moderately interesting or pretty girl, just to fall out of it the moment someone more worthwhile came into the picture. “I mean, it’s literally keeping the human race alive.”

“A lot of things are keeping the human race alive.” A bad argument, something of a strawman, he supposed, but Sakuya really wasn’t in the mood to debate his opinions at the moment. All he wanted to do was get home and dig into the coffee jelly he’d bought the previous weekend, and had been waiting to devour.

Riku regarded him with a sort of curiosity; not at what he said, but at what he was about to say. Mmm, if I could just convince him…

Convince me of what? He hated that his friends had gotten better at guarding their thoughts since learning of his powers. No amount of physical strain would get him to be able to decipher whatever Riku was thinking up if he didn’t explicitly want him to hear it. His brow creased with effort. He caught the words ask, Valentine, and date.

Oh, good grief.

“Tell you what.” Riku stuck his hands impossibly further into his pockets, delicate, ringed fingers disappearing into the crevices of his bedazzled baggy jeans. “If romance and love and dating are so arbitrary, it shouldn’t be that big of a deal for you to ask her out for Valentine’s Day.”

Sakuya very nearly rolled his eyes. Unfortunately, his face was mostly blank regardless of how he felt. Only a truly outrageous thing would grant anyone the luxury of seeing him express emotion. “That is not the conclusion you should have come to,” he told him.

“All I’m hearing is that you’re too chicken to do it.”

“I cannot be a chicken. I am a psychic human.”

Riku scoffed softly, shaking his head as if he had anticipated such a smart response. “I knew it. You’re chicken.”

“My resistance to asking her out has nothing to do with how courageous I am,” he replied. “Have you ever considered that I don’t like her, and as such, I have no desire to waste my time in trying to date her?”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, the way someone would make clear that they do not at all believe what was said before it. What a coward. Can’t even ask out the girl he likes, and he’s acting all high and mighty about it. Meanwhile, he’s just a wuss.

I heard that. Sakuya narrowed his eyes imperceptibly. A pause followed, before he relented, “Fine. I will ask her to be my Valentine, only to show you that romantic relationships hold no real relevance and, thus, should not be taken as seriously as they are.”

Riku bit back a smile, but managed to keep it professional. “And are there any stakes to this game?”

Sakuya seemed to consider. “Hmm. If I can ask her out, you buy me ¥3,000 worth of coffee jelly. If I can’t, I’ll announce how much I love and respect you over the intercom at your work, in front of every employee and customer present.”

“What makes you think I want you to do that?”

“The fact that your brain practically jumped for joy the moment I said the words ‘love’ and ‘respect’.”

“…Alright. Yeah.” He stuck out his hand for Sakuya to shake; he took it, palm flaring up at the touch. Euch. Physical contact. “Deal.”

Sakuya nodded. “Deal.”

Now, all that was left to do was find you, and ask you to be his Valentine. Piece of pink frosting strawberry cake.

11 FEBRUARY

It was, in fact, not a piece of pink frosting strawberry cake. As someone with zero romantic experience, not even from serial dramas, Sakuya wasn’t quite sure how exactly to actually… ask you out. Sure, he had the means and repressed eagerness to, but he had no idea what to say, when to say it, how to say it. He just— he didn’t know. What he did know was that girls typically liked to he asked out in personal ways. 

Only problem: he didn’t know you that well. 

Only other problem: he’d never even spoken to you.

Sure, the two of you were classmates. You sat in the desk behind him, so distance wasn’t an issue. What was the issue was that, due to the lack of contact he’d had with you (or hadn’t had, he supposed), he had no idea how you’d liked to be asked out. You didn’t seem like the artsy type, so he scratched serenades off his mental list; a good thing, because he cringed at the thought of having to sing for you. Maybe with food? A box of pocky with a note reading, Be my Valentine? attached to it seemed like it would work… it was just a bit cliché. Perhaps Sakuya didn’t care about romantic relationships, but that didn’t mean he’d skimp on asking you out. 

Not because he liked you much, or anything of that sort. Just because he wasn’t lazy.

He spent the better part of the morning sitting at his desk, pretending to listen to whatever Mrs Ogawa had to say and thinking about how he’d approach you. You sat behind him, dutifully taking notes. He could hear the scratches of your glittery pen against your workbook as well as he heard your thoughts. Pythagorean theorem… purple highlighter for the hypotenuse… numbers… ninety degrees… black pen for the legs…

He found it cute that you colour-coded your work. He wondered what your handwriting looked like. Probably pretty. 

He finally mustered up the courage to turn around and ask you for an rubber about halfway through the lesson. He’d already turned and stared at you for a few moments before you even noticed him, perking up in recognition. You didn’t talk to Sakuya much—or at all, really—but you’d obviously seen him around school. 

Your voice was light, crisp, melodic, like manicured nails flicking a crystal glass. It made Sakuya freeze. “Can I help you with anything?”

Now, Sakuya had always been quite the cool, composed teenager. He didn’t need to act blasé, because he always and sincerely was. Except, it seemed, when you spoke, graced him with your summery voice, like birdsong. All he could manage to say was, “I— you… rubber.” He glanced at the cute, cloud-shaped rubber on your desk.

Your eyes flicked down to it, then up to him, then back down the rubber. You nodded, gesturing for him to take it. 

He gave you a hushed thanks, taking the stationery and pretending to rub out one of the pictures he’d doodled in the corner of the page. He found his eyes widening in embarrassment, his lips moving in a shocked whisper as if on their own. “What on Earth?” What had gotten into him? Since when did he not know how to talk to someone? He felt sick. Giddy, but sick.

He turned back and placed it on your desk with another soft, rushed thanks, before returning to his work. First attempt officially failed.

His second attempt came soon after the lesson ended, when your class filed out of the room for lunchtime. Sakuya had taken his own lunchbox—a shiny, brightly-coloured contraption with his favourite cartoon character on it—and made his way to the cafeteria. Ryo was waiting for him at their usual table, secluded in the leftmost corner of the room, munching on chocolate-covered pretzels. 

Ryo, like most of Sakuya’s friends, didn’t have super powers like he did, though sometimes he was sure he had supersonic hearing, or something. Like right now, when he glanced up and spotted Sakuya walking into the cafeteria only seconds after he came through the door, and waved him over with a smile. When Sakuya took the seat opposite him, Ryo asked, “So, you ask her out yet?”

Sakuya paused. “How did you know about that?”

“Riku called me last night to tell me about your deal.”

“Of course he did.” He sighed, opening up his bento box. He tapped his chopsticks against the tabletop, the sticks shifting into place between his fingers, and picked up a riceball. “I haven’t asked her out yet, no. I got close to asking her in Maths, but…”

Ryo eyed him with polite interest. “But what?”

“It was the craziest thing,” said Sakuya, mystified. “I turned around, the words on the tip of my tongue, and then…” He made a wide, sweeping gesture with his hand, grains of chewy rice flying all over the place. “It was as if all my words disappeared.” He shrugged. “Not sure what happened. I think maybe my speech processors lagged.” At that, he flicked the top of his antennas—small, special-made green spheres that sat on either side of his head. They kept his powers in check, so him calling them speech processors was, perhaps, inaccurate. 

“Mm.” Ryo spared him a glance, cheeks full with pretzels and chocolate. Speech processors— lagging. Pfft. He got shy, is what happened.

Sakuya glanced at his friend pointedly. “I did not get shy. The weather’s bad today. It’s interfering with my…” Another indistinct wave of the hand. Everything, he thought. 

“Sure, Fujinaga,” Ryo acquiesced. Sakuya didn’t press to convince his friend any further—not because he thought Ryo believed him, but because he simply did not wish to waste time and breath arguing about an objective truth. They continued eating in hospitable silence, exchanging menial chatter in-between bites of food. They discussed their plans for the coming weekend, which was a few days away, discussed club meetings and their future Sailor Moon rewatch marathons.

You walked in around halfway through lunchtime, a book tucked under your arm and one of your friends trailing behind. Despite having his back turned to you, Sakuya could hear the two new unspoken voices approaching from behind. You seemed to take a seat two or three tables away from them, in deep conversation about some sort of English project. You were proficient in English, Sakuya knew from his unbothered observations of you through the years, despite it being your second or third language.

He turned only when your tête-à-tête simmered to short words exchanged every now and then, watching through the eyes on the back of his head, gauging whether or not you were busy, and what with. Of course, he didn’t actually have eyes on the back of his head. No amount of changing the world would’ve made extra organs commonplace, and as un-squeamish as Sakuya was, he didn’t want it to be. No, instead, these eyes would be referring to a set of metaphorical eyes. Short-range clairvoyance, so to speak. The ones he could see through once his front—or should he say physical?—eyes were crossed.

When he saw that you weren’t, he glanced at Ryo with a quiet sort of determination that made his friend’s eyes widen in question, and stood up to go and talk to you. He approached your table confidently, calmly as he did everything else, yet once again, the moment he looked into your eyes, his entire mind went blank. If you were a mind reader like him, you’d have found nothing going on in his head at that moment.

You smiled—you seemed to smile a lot, but not in an annoying, tryhard sort of way—the gesture soft, almost personal. Was he overthinking this? He was overthinking this. For sure. Was that a glimmer in your eye? Where was that music coming from? Why did you come with glittery sound effects?

“I, uh…” Sakuya trailed off, eyes wide as saucers, both in shock at your face closeup, and himself for acting like such a fool in front of you. If he wasn’t so enamoured with the sight of you, he would’ve noticed your friend, Nana, glancing at him with something akin to amusement. “Would you—? Do you want to be my study partner?”

You frowned, and even that looked pretty. “For what?”

“Oh, you know.” How would you know? “That Science test. It’s… it’s pretty soon.”

“Isn’t it in May?” you asked. Easily three months away.

He actually laughed, nervously! “It… is. But, I mean, it’s never too early to start studying for a test, right?” What was wrong with him? Why did he sound so unsure? Why was he using so many synereses and filler words? What was happening to him?!

You paused, deliberating. He could hear the cogs turn in your head. Mm, he’s got a point, you thought. “…I suppose so,” you agreed. “I’ve been needing to up my average in Science, anyway, so some extra studying wouldn’t hurt.”

No, you didn’t. Sakuya could hear from your thoughts that you hadn’t received lower than eighty in Science since you moved to Japan nine years ago. That could mean something, couldn’t it?

He nodded, the gesture far too eager for his liking. He felt like a caricature of himself, acting outside of his own body. “Great,” he said, managing a small, sincere smile. “How about we get together, say, tomorrow afternoon?”

You nodded. “Sure! See you then. Let me give you my number, and you can text me your address.”

When Sakuya returned to his table, a note with your number crumpled in his hand, Ryo was waiting for him with a shrewd, knowing expression, like a smug cat. “So?” he prodded, when Sakuya had taken a seat and dug back into his food without a word. “Did you ask her out?”

Sakuya shrugged, blasé, slightly annoyed façade restored. “Sort of.”

12 FEBRUARY

Sakuya’s homelife wasn’t particularly normal. Of course, him being a psychic made living a totally insignificant, uninteresting life a bit difficult, but his parents were no help, either. While neither of them had powers, Sakuya wasn’t certain they were fully human. Or, at all, for that matter.

His father was an eccentric househusband who spent too much of his time singing lullabies to his plants, and his mother was a breadwinner with little to no visible working facial muscles. By that, of course, he meant that you’d never know what she was feeling if you were only able to tell by looking at her face.

There was a resounding belief that no one was really normal, that no matter how boring a family may have looked on the surface, everyone had a bit of crazy in them, but Sakuya knew his parents were different from the rest. So-called ‘oddball’ families looked like a walk in the park compared to his. You heard of his parents—don’t even ask about the rest of his family.

He wondered, as he was tidying the house before you came over to study, if you’d be intimidated by them, or if you’d be beyond weirded out by them. Of course he hoped you wouldn’t be, but he couldn’t be sure just how tolerant you’d be of their behaviour. He simply shrugged to himself after a bit of fretting while preparing sandwiches and brewing sweet tea; what will be, will be. If you didn’t like his parents, well, then… there went that dream.

Of staying with his parents, of course. You thought he meant the dream of dating you? Not a chance.

Well, no one can really blame you. You haven’t known Sakuya too long. But it was the truth—he’d much rather risk teenage emancipation than not being able to date you. Screw that!

You arrived mid afternoon, around an hour or two after school ended. You’d gone home to change and collect your study materials before heading over to the Fujinagas’. It had only been a short walk from your host parents’ house, in a smaller, more traditional neighbourhood than you were used to. His home was a mixture of Western and Japanese architecture, with a white-panelled front porch and sliding doors on either side of the house. You pulled off your shoes before heading inside, peeking your head into the living room, where Sakuya had finished setting the low coffee table where you’d be studying.

He turned, surprised, at the sound of your feet padding along the floor. You hadn’t announced your arrival, nor had it been any louder than the soft tread of a fieldmouse. His eyes widened, and he became hyperaware of how he looked—moreso than usual, what with him being psychic. His hair was messy, ruffled too many times by his father, his shirt ratty and old, his pants loose and so wide they made him look small.

You saw him differently. You saw his messy locks and wanted to coo at the fact that they looked soft to the touch, wanted to smile at the homey look his shirt gave him, wanted to tell him how cute he looked in his worn jeans. But, unsurprisingly, Sakuya was too busy freezing like a computer from the eighties on startup to read your thoughts and realise that you thought he looked adorable.

“I… I made food,” he said in lieu of a greeting, pointing blankly at the collection of plates on the table. He’d spread it out nicely, in a way that left space for your textbooks and pencil cases once you’d start studying, sandwiches and crisps and pretzels and sweet tea accompanied by dips and fine china and pudding cups, looking like they’d been made, brewed, or packed by hand.

You smiled. “Thanks. I usually forget to eat when I study, so having this close is great. You’re really smart to have thought of that.”

He would’ve preened at the praise if he wasn’t busy internally losing his shit. “Uh. Thanks. I just— I like food. A lot. So. That’s why I put it out.”

Your smile widened. He wondered if you knew your eyes crinkled at the sides and turned into pretty crescents when you smiled wider. He’s really cute. I wonder if he can tell I think he’s cute.

Well, that’s a new one.

Sakuya urged to you sit down while he ran to fetch his books. He swore repeatedly under his breath as he searched for his Science textbook, wanting to scream and jump for joy and cry and maybe puke a little bit. You thought he was cute. You actually thought he was cute. And not in, like, a belittling way, the way a bully would call the loser cute as an insult. You thought he was cute in, like, an attractive way, the way pretty girls said pretty boys were cute as a sincere compliment. You thought he was cute, even when he was wearing his loose, raggedy houseclothes. Who would’ve guessed? Maybe you had a thing for the domestic look.

All was going well until he went back to the living room.

He’d finally found everything he needed, plus a few almost-dry highlighters he wanted to use to impress you (he didn’t usually colour-code his things, but you didn’t need to know that), when he made his way through the hall that led from his room to the living room. His father was in his study, door open as he worked on the family’s taxes and hummed to the cactus sitting on his desk. He passed him by after popping in and greeting him, and went on his jolly way back to you.

When he came back, he found you, seated cross-legged on a pillow on the floor, your books open in front of you. That wasn’t the issue. What was the issue was the boy next to you, and the boy next to him, and the boy next to him. Ryo, Riku, and Yushi, all staring at him like cats who’d done something terribly wrong and were terribly smug about it.

Hi! Yushi’s subconscious seemed to sing as he raised his hand, wriggling his wiry fingers in greeting. Come to pay you and your girlfriend a visit.

She’s not my girlfriend, Sakuya replied telepathically, an action that would’ve scared anyone but one of his three friends to death. All Yushi did was smirk. 

Ryo turned, darling, but no less guilty. “We heard you guys were having a study date, and we wanted in.”

Riku popped a crisp in his mouth, the loud crunching grating enough to make a pacifist want to punch a wall. He smiled through a full mouth, and something told him that, after Ryo had tattled to him about the previous days’ events, he’d had the genius idea to come and interrupt (read: ruin) your study session.

“…Right.” Sakuya’s hold on his books tightened impossibly. It was taking everything in him not to raise his friends into the air and throw them out a window without lifting a finger, an ability which he very much possessed. He narrowed his eyes at Yushi and Riku. “Aren’t you two in university? What’ve you got to study Science for?”

“Oh, I had to take a second class,” Riku said smartly. “Electives, amiright?” No matter that I’m a Dance major, and this is Japan.

Yushi raised his hand. Like Riku, he was one of Sakuya’s older friends, a boy who’d tutored him in middle school and just didn’t feel the need to leave him alone after that. “I just came to cause trouble,” he announced. And cause trouble, I will.

“And, obviously, I came to study,” said Ryo innocently. “But, of course, I’m still in highschool, so I didn’t need to answer your question.” He turned discreetly to you, as if sharing a secret. “I felt left out.”

You nodded sagely, and despite his rage, Sakuya adored the fact that you were so understanding, even if it was towards one of his no-good, meddlesome best friends.

“Why don’t we get to studying?” you asked Sakuya, voice raising in pitch at the end; an indication of question. Your eyes looked big and beautiful and hopeful. It’s kind of weird that his two older friends are here, but he invited me over, and I’m going to follow through after accepting. It’s just good manners. Besides, they seem… nice enough.

Oh, she’s wonderful. Sakuya found his heart—his cold, dead, rock-hard, all-knowing psychic heart—softening at the sound of your thoughts. He nodded, traipsing through the room to sit across from you, next to Ryo, who seemed to be the least infuriating of his friends at present, and opened up his textbook.

You’d skimmed through most of the material that you’d write about by the time the sun started to set, and several pages of your workbooks had been filled with colourful notes and doodles over the hours you spent poring over the pages. The lights that had been left off were now turned on, substituting what little sunlight was left with a warm overhead glow; the table was nearly empty, only your books and stacked plates left on the polished surface; Sakuya’s patience seemed to be at its very end, frayed at the edges like the sleeves of the old jumper you wore.

Riku, Yushi, and Ryo had spent the better part of the afternoon making his life more difficult than it already was, apparently trying their very hardest to get a rise out of him. Most of their jabs revolved around Valentine’s Day, how he’d never “seen the need” for one—which, in their eyes, was a desperate cry for help—though there was one joke about his hair and how it looked like cotton candy; wispy, too light, too pink. He’d heard how you’d thought to yourself just how bad that could be, considering the fact that cotton candy was soft, and sweet, and he felt a little bit better.

At one point, at the tail end of the afternoon, just before his mother was due home, he got up to put away the dirty dishes. You rose with him, already halfway through an offer to help him, when he shook his head an assured you that you should sit and start packing up your own things. Instead, he was accompanied by Yushi, who slunk into the kitchen with his hands wringing like some sort of socially awkward supervillain.

“Before you start,” Sakuya began, “I want to know why you three are really here.”

Yushi shrugged. “Like I said. I wanted to cause trouble.”

“I know that. But why now? Why here? Why in front of her?”

“Don’t you remember? You made a deal with Riku. You’d ask her to be your Valentine. It’s the twelfth, and nothing’s happened.”

Sakuya frowned. “I asked her to come over to my house, didn’t I? It’d have been a date if you three hadn’t shown up.”

“Studying Science does not count as a date,” Yushi scoffed. “Inviting a girl over for sweet tea and coffee jelly does not count as a date.”

“Hey! That coffee jelly was limited edition, and you seemed to enjoy it enough.”

“I did. It was delicious. But still, not a date, Fujinaga.”

The younger boy rolled his eyes. “Why do you even care? Haven’t you got adults things to do? Taxes to pay?”

His older friend nodded, smiling. “I do, but meddling in your romantic life is way more fun.”

13 FEBRUARY

Sakuya’s third attempt to ask you out was probably the worst.

Since the trainwreck which had been the previous afternoon, he’d become knee-deep in research on how to approach a romantic relationship. How to ask girls out, how to properly converse with them, how to know what they liked without having to put your dignity on the line and actually asking them. He scrolled through article upon article, tried to read as many first-person accounts from girls all over the world to gain a deeper understanding into what they liked. And the result, overwhelmingly and predictably, was Sakuya discovering that every girl liked different things…

But every girl liked chocolate.

When he’d started the endeavour of asking you to be his Valentine, he’d wished to steer clear of any food-related avenues. What if you were a picky eater, and didn’t like what he’d assumed you liked? What if you had an allergy, and he killed you? Death by hazelnut praline did not sound appealing in the least.

He spent most of his day glued to Ryo’s side, the two discussing amongst themselves the best way to ask you out, and Sakuya started to feel, if only fleetingly, that maybe this had gone further than his deal with Riku. As they walked to lunch, bento boxes and trays balanced in their arms, Ryo turned to his friend with a frown and a question on his tongue, something that seemed to have been on his mind for a while judging by his confusion.

“Why don’t you just read her mind?” he asked. “Can’t you, I don’t know, learn everything about a person just by doing a quick scan of their brains? You could learn what she likes and how she’d like to be asked out without even talking to her.”

Sakuya sat down with a sigh. This escapade had drained him of all his usual monotony, making way for a much more expressive, albeit exhausted, Fujinaga Sakuya. “I could,” he relented, “but… I don’t want to.”

Why did he not want to? That’s a question he’d been asking himself since the first passed up the opportunity to. It would’ve made asking you out significantly easier, knowing you inside and out without even having to talk to you. He could’ve used it to his advantage, could’ve lied and told you that he felt a connection, that he just knew what you’d like. But he didn’t. Not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t want to. 

He wanted to learn these things from you, wanted to find out slowly, over the course of several months, years, the sort of person you were. He wanted to remember things about you through observation; what music you liked, how you sat, which side of a café you’d sit facing on dates. He wanted you to learn of him the same way, remember things only he liked, while he remembered things only you liked. He wanted to take his time getting to know you. Dating you. Loving you.

The love would only come later. What festered in his heart at present was merely affection, perhaps a bit of infatuation with the idea of you. But he wanted to love you, and that was what mattered. He wanted to learn the ins and outs and ups and downs and rights and wrongs of your personality. Wanted to be exposed to the good, the bad, and the ugly. Wanted to be there for your best moments, to comfort you through your worst. That’s why he didn’t wish to simply “read your mind”.

Ryo hummed. He didn’t prod further, accepted the answer he was given. “Alright. We’ve got to take a different approach, then.” He shifted in his seat, not unlike a therapist guiding a mentally unstable patient. “You see, this dating thing— you go in blind half the time. You won’t know what she likes in the beginning. You won’t know if she even likes you back. But I guess that’s what makes it wonderful, you know? It’s all a leap of faith.”

A beat of silence passed between the boys, wherein the psychic gave his friend a very careful, contemplative look.

“Where did that come from?” Sakuya asked.

Ryo shrugged, shoving a riceball into his mouth. “Heard it in a drama once. Pretty touching stuff, huh?”

“Yeah.” Sakuya paused, nodding slowly. “I guess so.” He glanced a few tables behind him, where you were sitting with your friend, Nana. It seemed that had become your new spot in the cafeteria. He didn’t mind it in the least. “I’ll probably get her a chocolate, or something.”

He made a sound of approval. “Mm. Smart. Not too risky. Everyone likes chocolate. And if she doesn’t, well… don’t date her.”

“Why would I not date her just because she doesn’t like chocolate?” he asked with a frown, perplexed. The idea seemed inane, asinine if he were to be archaic. He liked you too much to drop his pursuit of you in the impossible scenario that you didn’t like chocolate.

Ryo’s eyes widened. “Because you can’t trust anyone who doesn’t like chocolate! I mean, imagine if she didn’t like coffee jelly.”

“But she does.”

“Well, imagine if she didn’t.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Y—” Ryo cut himself off with a sigh. “Whatever. Just get her the chocolate and get back to me on the outcome.”

After school and the, quite frankly, useless meeting at lunchtime, Sakuya journeyed to a convenience store near his house in search of a chocolate worthy of your consumption. This particular shop was renowned for its favourable selection of sweets (confirmed by Yushi, who considered himself quite the candy connoisseur), so Sakuya hoped it would have something even close to good enough for you. Jaunty city pop drifted from the speakers as he perused the candy aisle, eyes roving over what the shop had to offer.

He could easily tell, with psychometry and a few well-placed guesses, which of the chocolates were objectively the best according to taste, popularity, and sometimes even just packaging. He was able to narrow it down to five sweets; first, a Black Thunder chocolate bar, coconut-flavoured; second, two chocolate lollipops of Peko and Poko-chan, though something told him giving you candy shaped like a child’s head would perhaps not be the best idea; third, a bag of Look chocolate, the fancy Nuts A La Mode version; fourth, Kabaya sebon chocolate with magical girl charms; lastly, and certainly not least, a bar of KitKat from its Sanrio collaboration. To Sakuya, he would’ve easily chosen the latter for himself, though he was quickly reminded that he wasn’t there to get himself a Valentine’s gift.

Which would you have liked? He weighed the options of each of the five snacks before him, thumb brushing over the fancy packaging of one of the more distinguished chocolates. He wouldn’t read your mind for all the riches in the world, but gosh, did he wish he knew if you were a chocolate-covered nuts or a caramel-filled chocolate sort of girl!

Out of all the sweets, his eyes drifted most frequently to the sebon chocolate and charms. Something about it just seemed right, be it the bright packaging, or the fact that it boasted magical girl charms. 

“You lookin’ for anything in particular?”

He jumped (though he wasn’t sure why, because he’d heard the girl approaching) with fright, animated shivers running up his spine. He gritted his teeth to swallow a ridiculous yelp, and turned to face the girl who’d popped up behind him—the cashier, he assumed, though she could’ve easily been mistaken as a dollish mascot for the shop. Bright orange hair touched just below her round chin, brown eyes turned inquisitively to the shelf of sweets, as if she were choosing gifts for you with him.

Sakuya shrugged, composing himself. “Not really,” he replied. “I’m simply looking for something to get a girl for Valentine’s Day. Do you have any recommendations?”

She chuckled, as if his formal tone contrasted humorously with his age and stature, pink-haired and only a bit taller than she was, though eventually provided him with a helpful answer. “It sort of depends what kind of girl you’re buying for, but I think the sebon chocos are an overall crowd pleaser. I’ve had kids come in here, buy them, and come back with a girlfriend, so I’d say they have a 100% success rate!”

Sakuya frowned. There were quite a few data points missing from that hypothesis. First of all, the hundred percent success rate was easily achieved if one only had a handful of test subjects. Secondly, how would she know the boys had been single before they bought the chocolate? There was not one structurally sound reasoning to be found within her statement, but he didn’t concern himself with that. Questionable research methods be damned, Sakuya needed something he knew would guarantee good results, and he’d been given the best option on a silver platter— nay, a golden platter.

“Mm…” He grabbed a pack of the sebon sweets, and a box of chocopies for good measure, giving the cashier a definitive nod. “Thanks, orushi-ya. Do you take debit cards?”

“Sure do!”

Once the chocolates were purchased, all that was left for Sakuya was to find you and give them to you. He didn’t, surprisingly enough, know where you lived, despite you knowing where he lived, and that left him wandering around the neighbourhoods surrounding Wishful High for a while, much longer than he’d have liked to wander. He passed by a basketball court somewhere between the way to his house and the school, and found your friend, Nana, shooting a few hoops with an unfamiliar boy. You weren’t anywhere to be found, but perhaps Nana would know where you were.

She didn’t. He’d approached her with the question on his tongue, and he’d received nothing more than a shrug and an I’m not sure in response. He took the answer in stride, following up with a question of where you may be. Another shrug, though a significantly more helpful response followed.

“She’s probably at the school library. She spends most afternoons studying there. Not sure if she’ll be there today, but you’ve got a seventy percent chance of catching her there,” said Nana. She’d tucked the basketball under her arm, while the boy she’d been playing with waited for her to finish her chat with Sakuya. 

He gave her a thankful nod, bowing shortly. “Thanks, Kawasaki. I owe you one.”

Mm. That was odd. Sakuya didn’t usually tell people he owed them anything. Not out of lack of respect, but simply because he wasn’t the modest sort of person who felt indebted to people. He often said thank you, but he never said he owed someone one. It was as if he were starting to lose control over his speech patterns—and, if the past few days were any indication, everything else he may have had control over in the past. Gestures. Facial expressions. Body temperature. It was all up to his emotions, these days, and he wasn’t quite sure how he could change his body back. If he even could, that was.

That was a horrifying thought. What if Sakuya could never change his body and personality back to the way it had been before Riku took him up on his deal? Or had he taken Riku up on his deal? The details had become murky in such a small amount of time. Was he even in this to prove Riku wrong, anymore? The fact that he had to deliberate made him briefly think not.

He dismissed his worries, thanking Nana for her services and making his way to the school library. It felt odd, walking back into school when only the students who played sports or stayed after school for club activities were present. Well, them, and the select few bookworms who used the school’s library instead of a public library nearby, including you. The hallways were empty as he walked through them, made his way to the separate building a little ways into the area.

The library consisted of two storeys, the first of which was for the junior students, and was stocked mostly with books and a few colourful desks, the second of which consisted of more study space and tech—old computers and tablets, and the like. The place smelt of books, that old, dusty, comforting smell one would only find in the yellowed pages of a book decades older than you yourself.

His eyes swept over the place, taking in the warm, colourful decor, the welcoming silence. He knew enough about the library to know that the students who studied could usually be found on the second storey, what with its abundance of resources, even though he rarely visited. He preferred the public library near his house; there were more adults and significantly less talking, and he could read his favourite comics without getting teased or asked about it. Adults always minded their business.

You minded your business, too, from what Sakuya could tell. You seemed like a quiet girl who kept to herself. He liked that. Found it cute. But he wasn’t sure if you were quiet because that was how you were as a person or because you felt uncomfortable around him. God, there were so many things he wasn’t sure of. He wanted to be sure of them. He wanted to know what you liked. He wanted to know what you thought of him. He wanted to know why you acted the way you did around him. 

As he preambled through the upper level, trainers silent against the carpeted floors, Sakuya felt a sharp, stinging pain in his heart that made him stop for a moment. What on Earth…?

The feeling wasn’t unbearable, didn’t make him worry that it could’ve been something lethal. A quick internal scan of his body could prove the same. But then, what was it, if he couldn’t identify it with his self-scan? It was rare that Fujinaga Sakuya had feelings that he couldn’t explain, if ever. It couldn’t have been too bad, because he wasn’t presently doubled over in pain, but the feeling certainly wasn’t pleasant.

Where had it come from? All he’d been doing was thinking about you, and then his heart clenched like it had been punched in the eye. He didn’t understand.

So, like any well-meaning, mentally healthy young man who didn’t understand what he was experiencing, he ignored the pain and pushed through.

He found you browsing through a collection of books in the fantasy section. You were still dressed in your school clothes, like he’d been, though you wore a jumper that clearly wasn’t part of the uniform. Your eyes scanned the titles collected on the large bookcases in front of you, until you reached up to take out what looked to be a thick book—elaborately designed, A Magical Girl Retires. Fantasy fiction, magical realism, and urban fantasy. Fitting for a girl like you, he thought, though he didn’t really know you all that well.

Then an odd thing happened.

As soon as he went to approach you, wanted to move one foot in front of the other, he found, terrifyingly, that he couldn’t. He’d lost the ability to walk.

He glanced down at his legs incredulously, as if telepathically asking them, What on Earth are you doing?! would make them work again. When he looked up, he found that you’d moved closer, only a tiny bit so, though you clearly hadn’t taken notice of him yet. Good. He still had time to recover, to save what was left of his dignity.

He tried again to move his left leg, put one foot in front of the other. This second attempt proved successful—just barely. He’d moved perhaps a few centimetres.

When he risked another glance at you, he realised with a lurch that he’d been spotted. You were making your way over to him that very moment, as he was absolutely losing his mind. You were smiling, pretty and darling and delightful and perfectly terrifying to Sakuya, whose panic grew by the second. Move, move! Come on, man! Heave!

“Sakuya?” The sound of your gentle voice dragged him from his frantic reverie, made his head rise to meet your gaze. You smiled, confusion quirking at the edge of your lips, brows furrowing in what he read as sympathy. “Are you alright?”

“Me?” he wanted to say, except it just came out as a pathetic, unintelligible noise of question. He waved you off, smiling unstably. “Pfft. Yeah. I’m…”

The nonchalant sweeping gesture he made didn’t put either of you at ease.

Your frown deepened, and so did the growing pit in his stomach. You were unsure. Silent. Didn’t say anything to make the situation better or worse, didn’t look at him with anything other than confusion and— God, was that pity? He hoped it wasn’t. He couldn’t bear the thought of you viewing him as some sort of poor creature.

I wonder what’s up with him. You didn’t know what to say, what would better the situation you’d found yourself in. You felt bad for catching him off guard, but then again, it wasn’t exactly as if you’d expected him, either. Maybe he wants to tell me something, you hoped. Or maybe he wanted to study, like every other person would, and he wasn’t there to confess to you. Confessions only happened in dramas, in the middle of the night in the rain, or in the morning by the beach. Not in libraries, between two teenagers who’d only ever hung out once to study for a Science test that was months away.

Sakuya couldn’t bear the silence, mostly because it wasn’t silent at all. His heartbeat thumped in his ears; there was a ringing coming from… somewhere, so far away yet so close it drove him completely insane. What was he supposed to say? There was nothing to say that wasn’t, “I like you,” or, “I want to be your boyfriend,” or, “I have NO idea what I’m doing!”

When nothing was said or done, when Sakuya’s brain had been blank and running on empty for too long, he did the only thing he could think of and reached into his pocket for the chocolates. Only, they weren’t cool and sturdy as they should’ve been, as they were when he bought them. They’d been warmed by the uncharacteristic heat, softened to what he knew without looking was a saucy, chocolatey liquid.

His cheeks warmed, growing the same shade of pink as his faded hair. This was not how this was supposed to go. The chocolates weren’t supposed to melt. I wasn’t supposed to freeze. Is this what that orushi calls a 100% success rate?!

He wasn’t sure when he moved, or how he moved, considering the fact that he’d been frozen for the past how long. But he did. He pulled his hand from his pocket, the limp, depressing bar of melted chocolate in his palm, and held it out to you.

You took it with a confused look that broke his heart. Except, it didn’t feel as if it were truly breaking. It felt as if it were still in one piece, staying stubbornly in place, each beat more agonising than the next. The buzzing in his ears had grown so loud he was sure he had some sort of ear infection.

He turned on his heel and left, making a beeline for the exit, eyes trained on the ground. It was warm when he swung open the doors of the library, the summer heat matching the hot tears that gathered in his eyes.

14 FEBRUARY

Sakuya couldn’t sleep.

Unsurprising, of course, given the fact that he had mortally embarrassed himself in front of you mere hours ago, in a painfully public space, as you watched his every movement in confusion and pity. 

The moonlight shone irritatingly from behind his bedroom window, illuminating the spot he’d curled up in as if he were some sort of slighted protagonist which, for everyone’s information, he very much felt like at the moment. Small, shy, practically worthless. What sort of an all-powerful psychic am I? I can’t even ask a girl out. It’s been three straight days of me trying, and I can’t even ask a girl out!

Little did he know that everyone faced embarrassment like this. His friends did, and would, his parents had, once, before they found each other. Even casanova extraordinaire Maeda Riku had his fair share of romantic fumbles, would have them until he finally found the girl who was right for him. But Sakuya knew, even though he’d only known you properly for less than a week, that you were the one who was right for him. He didn’t care if it was teenage hormones, or plain old human folly talking. No one would make him stumble, or stutter, or lose his goddamn mind the way you did.

The analogue clock on his bedside table read 5.53. In a little less than an hour he’d have to get up out of bed, and get ready for the day. As a psychic, he could wake up whenever he wanted and simply teleport to school, bags packed and clothes crisp, but he enjoyed the lighthearted monotony of his morning stretches. It was a relatively useless ritual, but it was one of the few things his father instilled in him before the Fujinaga family discovered their newest addition had powers unknown to humanity. Small, simple movements to soothe his aching joints. An action that didn’t require his powers, because he decided it didn’t.

That’s how he felt about you. He could’ve read your mind and gone into the future to see how your relationship would turn out, if you’d end up getting married and having kids and teaching them their morning stretches, but he decided he didn’t want to. Didn’t need to. He wanted to take agency of his present, and carve a relationship with you out of nothing. He could’ve made you fall head over heels in love with him and made himself appear cooler than he actually was to win you over, but he decided that he’d rather risk embarrassing himself knowing you liked him for the lovable dumbass idiot he was.

Tick!

Sakuya frowned. Gentle sunlight had begun to filter through his windows, a lighter shade of pink and purple against the ever-lifting blue haze that hung in the sky. Birds twittered, cicadas hummed, but that’s not what he’d heard. A rock, or something like it, being tossed against his window. He propped himself up on his elbows, squinting as if it would make him see better. Nothing.

Wah, I must be seriously delusional, or something.

I mean, you’d put up with his friends. His nosey, immature, insufferable friends— oh, and Ryo, he guessed, who wasn’t too bad on a normal day. Nonetheless, you’d put up with them, you’d smiled at them, been nice to them. That had to mean something, right? Something besides the typical womanly urge to fawn in uncomfortable moments? You’d thought to yourself that he was cute, even in washed out jeans and his dad’s T-shirt from university. That counted for something, he knew. People didn’t think insincere thoughts. They only said insincere things.

You hadn’t said much to one another. Most of your conversations—if he could even call them that—had centred around school, or related topics. He’d asked you for an eraser. You’d talked about Science. And food. His food. And you’d said his hair was nice. Thought his hair was nice. That was definitely something. 

Tick!

He sighed irritably, dragging a tired hand over his face. “Okay, this has to be—” He cut himself off, tumbling out of his bed, ripping the warm pink and green sheets from his body, and marching to his window. He lifted it, a cool morning breeze drifting through the open space, and braced his hands on the sill, looking around for the assailant. Oh, he’d give them a piece of his damn mind. Throwing rocks at someone’s window in a traditional neighbourhood before six in the morning on a Friday, well, that just had to be a—

“Morning!”

…blessing in disguise.

Or, more accurately, in a bright knitted jumper.

Sakuya would’ve lost his footing if he weren’t safely on the second storey, staring down at you from where you stood in front of his house, a small pile of rocks collected in your hands.

You weren’t in school clothes yet, clearly, the jumper and jeans being a dead giveaway—as was the discarded bicycle, laying on its side like a resting steed. A bag was slung over your front, different from the similarly-fitting one you took to school. Bright wrapping glimmered from underneath the opened flap.

Sakuya wasn’t sure whether he should frown, or smile, or laugh, so he did all three at once. “What are you doing here?” He tried to have his voice match your volume; soft, though carrying. He didn’t want to wake his parents. God knew they’d whip out the video camera and keep it to play at your wedding.

You held a finger to your lips. “Shh! Don’t talk! I have a whole speech prepared.”

He froze, perplexed. If you were a mind reader like him, you’d have found nothing going on in his head at that moment.

You simply took that as your queue to start. “Okay. So. I don’t know you too well. In fact, I’ve only really made proper conversation with you three days ago when you asked to borrow my rubber. Since then, you’ve asked me to study for a Science test with you, introduced me to your friends, and given me two melted chocolates that I am now pretty sure were supposed to be Valentine’s offerings.”

Sakuya wanted to cringe. He wished and hoped you’d forget that day, that awful 13 February, though he couldn’t help the warmth that crept into his heart when he heard your voice.

“It’s clear to me now that you’re not normal. Like, at all. But you’re also the coolest person I’ve ever met and you don’t even have to try. You’re smart, and fashionable, and really into junk food, which is kind of cute. You look pretty in really old jeans, and you make me forget how to speak properly when you look at me like I’m a long division problem. And I think you like me, too. I think you like me a lot, because I’ve seen you over the years, and you wouldn’t buy just anyone chocolate. You wouldn’t ask just anyone over to your house to study for a test that isn’t until May, and you wouldn’t be as embarrassed as you are around me with just anyone.

You like me. I know that now. And I know that when you like someone, it’s like they’re not a real person. That’s kind of how I felt with you until yesterday. And it’s still a bit weird, trying to stand here and talk to you like it’s nothing, which is why I chose such a long distance to confess from. But don’t forget. I’m also just a girl, standing two storeys below a boy, asking him to be her Valentine.”

You paused, before taking something out of your bag, and lifting it for him to see. In one hand, a neatly-wrapped chocolate—a Sanrio KitKat, he noticed with his excellent sight and a shudder of his jaded psychic heart—and in the other, a small Discman, that you pressed play on once you’d lifted the items to him like a pet owner delivering offerings to their cat.

Confessing to someone is an odd experience. Sakuya would know, he tried to do it once. Awful stuff. Would not recommend. But being confessed to, that was probably even weirder. You’d have to stand there—sit there, lay there, whatever—and wait for this person to finish pouring their heart out to you before accepting or rejecting their love. And as you stand there, no matter what you think about the person outside of the confession, you wonder how anyone is supposed to turn someone down when they are baring their soul to them like this.

Luckily for Sakuya, he wanted nothing more than your love, your unmelted chocolates and your cutesy pop rock songs.

He stayed silent for a moment, that moment in which he realised he really did like you, and if he hadn’t properly before, he certainly did now. Then, against his will, to his and your and everyone’s surprise, broke into a massive, lovesick smile.

He couldn’t help the squeal that bubbled in his throat just as much as he couldn’t help the sudden pop! that took him from his room to the street where you stood, appearing in little more than a blip before your shocked form.

His arms wrapped around you in an uncharacteristic show of affection—or was it truly uncharacteristic, when it came so easily to him with you?

The hug was short and sweet, as was the press of his lips against yours, giddy and childish and full of love, his smile crashing against your own. He held you further, your own arms coming to wrap around his form once you’d put down your CD player.

“So… you’re weirder than I thought,” you said. He could hear you thinking, Teleportation. I didn’t imagine that, right? I didn’t disassociate, or anything? He just did that?

I did, he told you.

…You can talk to my mind.

Pretty much.

Oh. Cool.

You released him with a smile, your beautiful eyes expectant. “So?”

He’d forgotten all about your question. “So what?”

You rolled your eyes goodnaturedly. “Do you want to be my Valentine, or not?”

He laughed breathlessly. “Oh. Yeah. I do. Totally.”

If your smile could widen even further, it did. You smelled like chocolate and sweet bread. Wonderful combination. “Groovy. So, does this mean your agreement with Riku is fulfilled?”

His eyes widened. “How do you know about that?” he asked, face blank with shock.

You shrugged. “Your friends are easy to interrogate. Besides, I don’t think Riku was much planning on keeping it a secret.”

Sakuya’s cheeks warmed with embarrassment, with anger. Not at you. Never at you. Of course Riku had to go on and blab about their agreement the moment someone applied even the littlest bit of pressure. And Sakuya was supposed to be chicken? Please.

But something occurred to him. His arms dropped from your shoulders. “Wait, you asked about me? You went to my friends?”

“Yeah. After you ran off yesterday, I tried to find you, but you’d disappeared. So, I went to find Ryo, and Riku happened to be there with him. He told me everything in, like, a few minutes.” You frowned. “I think you should get friends that are better at keeping secrets.”

He scoffed softly. “You and me both.” Then, with a slow smile, “But… his slip-up did bring you here.”

You tilted your head. “It did, I guess. But I would’ve come here, anyway.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

Well, consider me lucky.

Sakuya enveloped you into his arms for a second time that Valentine’s morning, cheeks warm with affection and the chill that ran through the air. You felt comfortable, comforting, your front pressed into him, his nose buried in the neck of your fuzzy jumper.

Although, I’m not sure how much this counts as me asking her out.

You squeezed him tighter, your cheek squishing against him. He squinted happily, like the cat that got the damn cream.

Whatever. Screw him and his rules. I’ve got a girlfriend, and ¥3,000 worth of coffee jelly coming soon.

perm taglist @hyuneskkami @jwiloves @bluedbliss @rubiiisyeon @vantxx95 @drunkhee

IT STARTED WITH A broken computer.

Or, more accurately, your broken computer.

“I don’t know how, but this is your fault.”

…And Sicheng’s.

Dong Sicheng, your self-proclaimed arch nemesis at 404 Entertainment, as well as your biggest competition in the workplace. He glanced at you with dark, furrowed brows and eyes hidden behind a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles, plump lips pursed as he crossed his arms over his chest.

To be completely honest, you can’t exactly remember when you’d gone from just being coworkers to the targets of each other’s ire, but all you know is that Sicheng started it; you just didn’t let him hate you by himself, and instead joined in on hating him, in return.

It had been a normal morning at the office, with you clocking in and hour before you needed to, and Sicheng waltzing in nearly half an hour late, appearance disheveled and wearing the same clothes from the day before. You’d scoffed, making a snide comment about how impossible it would be for any self-respecting woman at the office to sleep with him despite him very clearly having got some the night before, and he jeopardised his own dignity by smartly suggesting that maybe the women he slept with didn’t have self respect. You laughed, agreeing, and he stormed off, grumbling something about it being too early for your shit. Again, you agreed.

Things started going awry when you and Sicheng tried to log into your computers and got, on your joint third try to enter your passwords, locked out of the system. Your screens glitched, and cut to black. Queue identically displeased walks to your boss’ office, frowns contorting your faces as you told her of your problems. 

Which led you to now, when Sicheng strolled over to your desk—which had been placed annoyingly close to his; just across from it, in fact—and rested a slender hip against it. He glared down at you like you’d personally placed a bug in his computer while the IT guy your boss had called in, a young, awkward man of about twenty-one whose glasses kept falling down the bridge of his nose, tried desperately to question you and fix your computer.

“Has your computer shown any previous signs of bugs or glitches?” he asked, attempting to switch on your computer with a tap of the power button.

“Not that I can think of, no,” you supplied, smiling gently at the young man. “And your computer probably crashed because you clicked on a shady porn link while working overtime.” This, with a daring look up in Sicheng’s direction.

He scoffed, though did nothing to prove or dispute the accusation; you supposed he’d be too embarrassed to do so either way. “I’m still convinced you put a bug in my computer. A virus, or something.”

“Yeah, right. And I’d bug my own computer, why?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Believability. Seems less like sabotage when you wreck both of our computers.”

“You’re crazy to think I’d waste that much of my precious time just to dissatisfy you,” you said, shaking your head.

“That cold pot of salted coffee you tried to serve me the other day says differently,” he shot back. “As do the arrangement of sticky notes you’ve plastered on the side of my desk to spell ‘Dickless Dong’.”

You snorted, still reeling from pride at the stunt you’d pulled earlier in the week. 

The IT guy suggested a power drain, to which you immediately agreed due to complete and total lack of understanding of what the fuck a power drain was, and an overwhelming urge to just get your laptop up and running again.

“So, I’m going to unplug the cables, take out the battery, and drain the flea power,” he explained. “If, when I plug it back and try to turn it back on, it does, that would mean there was just excess static charge floating around in there and it interfered with the laptop’s normal functions.”

You nodded, clueless and cosplaying comprehension.

When the trick worked, the young man nodded proudly and turned to Sicheng. “Let’s try it with yours now.”

The last you saw of Sicheng before your weekly meeting was while twirling around in your desk chair, gleefully glancing at the older man and saying, “I’m gonna be so far ahead with contracts and PR emergencies when your shitbrick gets back online.” You were met with a momentary look of shock, a filthy glare, and the sight of Sicheng shooing the IT guy towards his desk as if trying to physically speed up the process of getting his laptop back.

Weekly meetings with the rest of the staff at 404 usually happened just before you’d break for lunch; the entire PR team would gather in one of the many meeting rooms located on the top floor, discuss weekly proceedings concerning projects, recruitments, and the odd sticky situation here and there before scattering and going back to their respective areas in the office or break room.

This morning, however, an emergency meeting had been conducted to discuss present affairs regarding one of the company’s biggest names.

Cho Garam, the most talented yet infamous actress under 404 Entertainment.

Since you hadn’t been the one to recruit her, you very rarely worked around the many controversies she’d been involved in. You’d written an apology letter or two pulled out of your ass on her behalf, had her read it and decide if it sounded blasé and vague enough to fit the way she usually spoke, but that was the relative extent of your interaction with her.

The room was cold, the near-freezing temperature shielded by the three glass walls surrounding you. You’d shrugged off your blazer when you clocked in, though you were starting to regret that decision; your tank top didn’t preserve heat nearly as well as you’d have liked for it to. Sicheng sat across from you, cool and collected, sipping easily on a steaming cup of coffee as he listened to the head of the PR team, one Kim Dahye, talk you through the details of Garam’s newest public velitation.

“Ms Cho’s been seen out with an actor from our rivalling company, Starstruck Entertainment,” she started, “in clubs, restaurants, and, more recently…” She pulled out a thin file, about only a page long, the folder flying open as she tossed it onto the table. Your colleagues all craned their necks to see the photographs stashed inside, while you stood up, bracing your hands on the table.

“…A strip club,” you enquired, though it sounded more like a deadpan proclamation, lilting just a bit at the end as an indication of reservation.

Dahye nodded gravely.

You plopped back down into your seat, crossing one arm over the other as you rested your elbows on the table, lips pulled into a thoughtful pout.

“Well, that’s embarrassing,” one of the other PR managers, Ten, piped up. “For us, I mean.”

“What do you propose we do?” Sicheng asked, crossing his arms over his chest, nodding with his chin to Dahye. “Damage control seems sort of useless at this point.”

Your senior hummed. “Misdirection is the best way to go,” she said.

You nodded in understanding. “We should put out new faces and projects to distract the public from Cho, excessively promote things that don’t feature her, and try to get her innocent image back into the public after a month or two, after everything’s blown over.”

The company’s lawyer, Yoonoh, tilted his head. “And while we do that, we could focus on the legal aspect of things behind the scenes, maybe find out who leaked those pictures and make a scene about her privacy being invaded, or something along those lines.” He glanced at you momentarily. “After it’s all blown over, of course.”

You nodded, smiling.

Sicheng glanced between the two of you, leaning back in his seat. “Wouldn’t making a scene now make more sense?” he suggested. “I know I said damage control is useless, but it’d be good to orchestrate some drama to take the attention off Garam, and direct it to whoever leaked her pictures.”

You scoffed softly. He always did this; whenever you voiced an opinion or spitballed, he’d retaliate with something in the opposite direction—usually something better than your original ideas.

What a prick.

Dahye smiled, nodding at Sicheng’s idea. For a split second, you could almost see her lips forming the words, ‘Good idea, Sicheng! Let’s go with your amazing plan, and also, fuck you’—the latter of which would be directed at you—but she said nothing besides, “While that’s a solid plan, I think we should go with our first instinct: distraction and misdirection. Nice work on that, by the way,” she added, nodding proudly to you.

You couldn’t help the self-satisfied smile you sent in Sicheng’s direction, eyes burning hotly with challenge and pride; he simply squinted, not betraying any underlying dissatisfaction or frustration towards you. Holding up a digit, you quietly pointed to yourself, then to Sicheng, letting your hand drop and mouthing, “Zero.” 

He scoffed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “You are such a child,” he mouthed.

The two of you were so caught up in your wordless banter that you hadn’t paid proper attention to Dahye’s announcement and simply continued mouthing insults at each other, pulling faces and making obscene gestures.

You distraction snapped to one of your colleagues with a call of your name, and Sicheng with one of his. “Yes?” you chorused.

Dahye was looking at you from beneath her half-moon spectacles, smiling in a way you could only describe as conspiratorial. “I said you and Sicheng should work together to distract from Garam’s controversy: recruit as many new trainees for the company as you can, barge into the screenwriters’ room and get new shows up and running, contact talent managers and choreographers for our music trainees, our models—anyone and anything that could take attention away from this, pardon my French, shitshow, you should find.”

Your smile dropped.

Sicheng glanced between you and Dahye, half just to make sure he’d heard her right. “You want us to…”

“Work together,” your senior nodded.

You started, “But, sunbae, we work so much better on our own—”

“And we’d just get in each other’s way—” Sicheng added.

“We’re both very headstrong,” you chorused, only ever harmonious in disagreement.

Dahye nodded. “And that’s what would make you two such a great team. You’re the most passionate PR managers we have in the company, and you’d be able to successfully save our reputation with your casting and arguing skills.”

You tried again, much to the older woman’s dismay, “But, Ms Kim—”

“I’m glad you two agree,” she smiled, and the look in her eyes held no room for disagreement. “Meeting adjourned. You can go on your lunch breaks now, and I’ll see you two tomorrow morning.” She spared a stern glance at you and Sicheng, something in her expression exhausting any and all fight you might’ve had left in you to try and get Sicheng to work alone.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The cafeteria was Sicheng’s safe haven.

As a painfully introverted person, any activities that he could do by himself, he did. Considering the fact that he spent a majority of his day surrounded by other people, working with them, talking to them, he couldn’t be bothered to go out with his colleagues for lunch at some overpriced restaurant, in conversation and company he didn’t value.

The cafeteria was always near empty thanks to 404 Entertainments’ employees wanting nothing more than to get out of the building they worked in, leaving Sicheng to have a peaceful lunch break with only a few people around him—none of whom wished to make conversation with him on account of preferring to mind their own damn business.

He walked into the sleekly-decorated room after racing down the stairs the moment he was excused from the meeting, taking his usual seat in the middle of the cafeteria, far enough from the vendors to avoid eye contact with them, and far enough from the entrance to avoid that very same thing with anyone who came in.

The air was crisp this morning, and he felt grateful he’d decided to wear his blazer to the meeting. You were shivering like someone in the middle of the blizzard, he remembered, then shook his head because there was no way he was going to savour his food while thinking of you.

He got to enjoy his gimbap roll for about five minutes before he was disturbed.

You sat down in front of him, taking the seat opposite his, bringing your own lunch and an offensively large stack of papers with you. There was a smile on your face, and Sicheng only noticed because it was so rare to see something other than a scowl present on your face when you looked at him. It was nervous, almost, and a bit apprehensive, as if you were planning to approach a rabid dog—the rabid dog being him, he assumed.

He sighed audibly, gently placing down his lunch. “What is it?” he asked, and there was not a hint of patience in his tone. Why are you here? he seemed to have asked instead.

You explained yourself as if his tone had been far more welcoming than it really was, spreading the stack of papers out in front of you—Sicheng could see numbers, read a few unfamiliar names. A spreadsheet, perhaps, of contacts for possible talent. 

“We’ve been tasked with finding talent and unearthing projects that were scrapped or forgotten to release something that would take the attention off of Cho Garam for a while,” you said, too busy filing through the sheets of paper to see the older male’s glower. “I’ve compiled a list of trainees we’ve rejected, and a list of shows and movies the screenwriters pitched that didn’t get financed, that we could take a quick look at.” Finally, you looked up from your work, nudging your glasses further up the bridge of your nose. “I was thinking that maybe we could refine the projects and such, then come with a pitch to old trainees, or try to offer a show or movie upfront for scouted talent to star in—you know, lure them in with a contract.”

It was a good plan, Sicheng had to admit. In the hour that had passed between the meeting and lunch, it was clear that you’d spent a good chunk of that time bothering the screenwriting staff with getting old projects printed, calling up talent scouts for the names of trainees who’d been stuck in the company’s basement for God knows how long.

Impressive, he’d even admit, if the mafia had held a gun to his head and forced him to.

However, he’d been in the middle of what would’ve been a satisfactory lunch when you’d barged in, sat down without asking, and started talking without warning, so the best you got out of him then was, “Good, or whatever, but couldn’t this have waited until after lunch?”

Your face fell into an unimpressed scowl. “No,” you said. “Dahye expects us to have a fully-formed plan by tomorrow morning. Your gimbap can wait. This, however—” you waved a loose sheet of paper in his face— “can’t.”

Sicheng sighed. “Fine. Why don’t we… try to work while we eat? Or I eat, and you talk my head off, however you want it.”

“That could be arranged,” you said, placing down the spreadsheet of trainee numbers, and slipping your chopsticks through your fingers.

You spent the rest of your lunch break discussing possible game plans in-between bites of gimbap and japchae, spitballing where to find new talent as you took sips of your iced coffees.

It was a tedious process, trying to agree on anything with Sicheng; he’d suggest picking up the plot of a slick, action-packed mafia series while you argued on the popularity of serial romantic dramas. He’d say it’d be best to look for talent in-city, where the sleek, businessman-type characters were, while you said romantic dramas preferred the Gyeongsang look—angular, burly, and traditionally masculine.

Anything you could disagree on, you did, but the moment you found a rhythm, wherein you caved and said the plot of Nonstop, a scrapped series focusing on a superpowered foreigner in debt took down the mafia, sounded worthwhile, and Sicheng admitted that perhaps you were right in the type of actors audiences liked to see the most, it felt as if time passed like sand in an hourglass.

Half an hour came and went, and soon it was time to return to your desks.

“I think we should work on times next,” you said, falling into step with Sicheng as you got out of the elevator. “We’ve got to have a deadline, and a set-in-stone period to work in.”

“Dahye’s going to bring that up tomorrow morning,” he pointed out, “so don’t worry about it too much right now. Focus more on where those old trainees are, and I’ll go to up to the fourth floor to go bother the screenwriters about projects. We’ll recon back here just before quitting time.”

He glanced at you, a stern look in his eyes, stopping by your desk as you plopped into your chair. His hip bumped against the edge, and he crossed his arms over his chest as he waited for your answer.

You nodded. “Sounds good. I’ve already got an idea on who to call for that action serial.”

Sicheng didn’t give any indication that he heard you besides a tilt of his head. He glanced at you one last time, nodded as if in both assurance and farewell, and turned to head back to the elevator.

You watched as he punched in the digits that would take him up to the creative department, disappearing into the silver double doors without so much as a glance in your direction.

There had been more important things to tend to than the recon, it seemed, because you didn’t see Sicheng again until you strode into Dahye’s office the next morning, under the impression that you’d be the first one there. Surprisingly enough, though, your arch nemesis was right there, seated in front of her desk on your favourite chair, taking short sips of coffee from a paper cup.

Sicheng had glanced up, and you could see in his unusually patient gaze that he’d been expecting your boss to be on the other side of the glass double doors. His face fell when he noticed it was you, however, into an unimpressed scowl. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” you confirmed, plopping into the seat next to him. It felt wrong, as if your entire world had been ripped off its axis, sitting on this side, in this uncomfortable, worn-the-fuck-out office chair. You hated that Sicheng had arrived before you to claim the objectively better seat. “You look like shit today.”

Rolling his eyes as he fixed the cuffs of his light blue collared shirt, crossing one trouser-clad leg over the other, he glanced at you and said, “Likewise. You do know a button up and jeans aren’t business casual just because you throw a blazer over it, right?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Of course you’d know that, diva.”

He scoffed. “Slob.”

“Prima donna.”

“Brown-noser.”

“M-mm.”

You turned your heads in sync at the sound of someone clearing their throat, and immediately rose out of your seats to bow to Dahye. “Morning, sunbaenim,” you chorused, and the older woman waved you off, taking a seat behind her desk.

“Sorry I’m late, you two,” she apologised, placing her own cup of coffee onto the oaken surface; damn, you wanted coffee, now. “Mr Cho said he’d been meaning to have a word with me, and that word ended up taking longer than expected, as always. Though…” Hesitantly, she glanced at the pair of you. “…You seem to have entertained each other well enough in the time I was gone.”

Sicheng grinned ruefully. “I suppose you could say that, boss.”

From the space between your chairs, you aimed a kick at the side of Sicheng’s leg. Given his sharp intake of breath following the action, you must’ve hit right where you’d aimed.

Dahye laced her fingers one by one, glancing between the two of you, looking a bit like a supervillain about to discuss her evil plan with her henchmen—not too far off, you thought. “Alright. Today is game day; the first day of Plan Damage Control.”

Both you and Sicheng leaned forward, listening intently.

“We have a month to quiet all this down, before we can start putting out statements with regards to Garam’s recent…” your boss trailed off.

“…Predicament?” you guessed, and she nodded.

“Right,” she said. “We’ve a month—four weeks. No more, no less. This week and next week, I want you two to focus on gathering talent from wherever the Hell you can find it, be it here, Busan, Ulsan, or even Jeolla. Get a mixture of new talent and 404 talent that’s been inactive for a while,” she advised, “bring back some familiar faces and some completely new ones. This is going to be a big part of the next plan, so I want you to tell me now whether or not either of you can fully commit. That means working overtime, weekdays and weekends.”

Though it would’ve been fitting in any other romcom setting in which you didn’t hate each other for you to share a wide-eyed look, you didn’t, although your nods were nearly identical. “I haven’t got any plans for this weekend,” Sicheng shrugged. “I can commit.”

“I’ve plans, but they can be rescheduled,” you said. 

Dahye raised a brow.

You sighed apprehensively. “…Okay, cancelled. I’m ready to give this project my all.”

She smiled slowly. “Right. Now, I know you don’t have a car—” she nodded empathetically towards you— “so that means you’ll be riding around the country in Sicheng’s car.” Here, she turned her glance to him. “You’ll be able to use the company card while on this trip, of course, for petrol, or accommodation, or food; whatever you’d need it for.”

Despite his obvious chagrin, Sicheng managed a tight smile and a dutiful nod, though not without rolling his eyes to the back of his head the moment Dahye’s gaze travelled to you.

“After that, you’ll have two weeks to get them into short training programs, or into newly-launched projects, if you feel they’ve the talent for that already. I’ve got other PR agents on the film and TV aspect of this mission,” she assured with a smile, noticing the tensing of your posture. “And that makes a month.”

You hummed. “And the, uh, talent searching. That’s not negotiable?”

Dahye frowned. “Meaning…?”

“Well, perhaps we can't split the month’s plan between us?” Sicheng interjected. “Maybe… I could be out looking for talent while she’s out getting the training programs and dormitories ready for new trainees.”

Your boss gave the pair of you an odd look, though smiled shrewdly. “If what you’re wondering is if you can work on your own, the answer is no.”

You sighed softly.

Again, Sicheng rolled his eyes.

“You’ll get the job done quicker if you do it together,” she continued, unperturbed by your annoyance, your apprehension. “Besides, some time spent together might do you good. Think of it as a one-on-one team building exercise. Other than that, I don’t have any other terms for this mission.”

A beat of silence passed in which you drummed your fingers against your thighs, your foot tapping to a silent rhythm. Sicheng shifted in his seat, though he said nothing to betray his obvious disappointment at his predicament; like you, he’d expected that you’d at least be able to keep some distance from one another through this mission, and Dahye’s ideal mission seemed to be the opposite of that case.

You tilted your head, and tried for a joke. “So… the means would be justified by the end?”

Dahye chuckled. “Sure, but don’t do anything rash. Goodness knows we need another scandal on our hands.”

“We’ll be on our best behaviour,” Sicheng smiled, looking very much like he wanted to die. “Promise.”

There was a twinkle in the older woman’s eyes when she glanced at you, then at Sicheng, and back at you. “I’m sure you will be.”

The specifics of the next two weeks were discussed over a phone call when your lunch break rolled around, and ended with Dahye nicely asking you to repeat everything she’d told you to Sicheng when you saw him later—because, apparently, you had lunch with him, now.

You found him at the same spot you had yesterday, in the middle of the cafeteria, the centre of attention yet the easiest to miss. He was halfway through a bite of his sandwich when you sat down, crossing your arms over the table to make yourself comfortable.

With a sigh, he set down his sandwich. “Is this going to become a regular occurrence, you bothering me in my hour of peace?”

“Yes,” you answered, and it was with great horror that Sicheng discovered you were only half joking. “Dahye gave me a call to talk about specifics earlier, and she wanted me to relay the message to you. I figured you wouldn’t want me to approach you while you were working, so interrupting your lunch break for the second time this week seemed to be my best bet.”

“I’d have greatly enjoyed it if you didn’t have to approach me at all,” Sicheng confessed with a bitter smile, “but I appreciate the minimal consideration.” 

You smiled, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “We’re starting tomorrow. Dahye said we could clock out early today to pack, because she expects us to be making our rounds in the city before eight o’clock.”

He nodded, subconsciously taking note of the slight change in your tone; it was less pettish than when you were bickering, much more businesslike. It made you sound more your age. “And I’m assuming we can establish the best places to look for new talent, and divide our time between those places.”

You nodded. “We can figure that out on the road. See you tomorrow morning?”

“Just email me your address before then,” he said blandly.

“I am not going to email you my address,” you scoffed. “What are you, fifty? I have your number. I can just message you.”

“I’m not fifty,” Sicheng snapped. “I just happen to understand basic work etiquette. You know, the set of rules people follow in order to foster a professional relationship between themselves and their colleagues?”

You stared at him for a long moment then, and a palpable silence fell over you. The only sounds were those of people milling about the company cafeteria—the sounds of cutlery against plates, of conversations, of shoes shuffling against the polished floor, of the occasional, sporadic laugh.

You rolled your eyes to the back of your head, not unlike Sicheng had earlier in the day during your meeting with Dahye.

“You’re full of shit,” you decided.

You made the trip cross-country that weekend, as planned. Sicheng stopped by your house early on Saturday morning, honking until you eventually came down with your luggage in tow.

“Think you packed enough?” Sicheng asked, watching in annoyance as you hauled the last of your bags into his boot, arms crossed over his chest.

You slammed his boot shut hard enough to make him wince and pull a face of pain, as if you were being abusive towards his own child. “We’re going to be travelling cross-country for two weeks.”

“Have you never stayed in a bed and breakfast with a washing machine before, or what?” he remarked.

You gave him a look; he smirked. One point for Sicheng.

The trip started off rocky—as was expected for two self-proclaimed mortal enemies. Sicheng was an awfully active driver, blasting music one moment, singing the other, all while rapping his fingers and knuckles against his dashboard, his steering wheel, his thighs, your head. You, on the other hand, tried your very best to remain on track and make sure you didn’t get lost.

You’d start off in Seoul, and slowly make your way across the country following a semi-sensical route; from Seoul to Suwon, down to Cheongju, then Daejeon, into Jeollabuk-do to get to Jeonju, then into the Gyeongsang province to Daegu, Ulsan, Busan, and Changwon, back into the Jeolla province to Gwangju, then Jeonju, again, and back up to Seoul from there. All in two weeks.

Your phone calendar was open as your eyes roved over the dates of the month, over the little 3 settled at the top, illuminated by a red circle around it.

3 October, 2025. Today.

“I was thinking that we could do Suwon today, then Cheongju, Daejeon, and Jeonju tomorrow and the two days afterwards, since they’re not that far apart,” you said, indicating your head.

Sicheng stilled when you spoke, ears pricking attentively, nodding along to what you had to say.

“Then, we’ll do Daegu for two days, Gyeongsang province for four, spend around two days in Gwangju, and then we’ll be able to get back to Seoul by ten o’clock of the second day,” you finished.

“But that’s only twelve days,” Sicheng pointed out. “We’d be back on a Wednesday.”

You shrugged. “So? It’s not like we want to spend more time together than necessary. We can get everything done in, what, two less days than Dahye told us to.”

He deliberated for a moment before rolling his eyes, making a flowery, sweeping Whatever gesture with the hand that wasn’t on the steering wheel. “If you say so. I’m more concerned about how we’re going to take turns driving, because there’s no way in hell I am driving across the country and back all by myself.”

A small pause followed.

“I don’t have my Korean license yet,” you confessed.

Sicheng’s eyes widened. “Wh—? You’ve lived here for three years, and you haven’t got your license yet?!”

“I don’t own a car!”

“That doesn’t fucking matter! You still need a license!”

“It does fucking matter! Why waste my time on a license when I use public transport, anyway?”

“I— You— Just— You’re so—!” He cut himself off with a short exhale, focusing on the road as he turned onto the highway. “I’m fine. I’m calm. I’m chill. So chill.” He turned to you briefly, his face much more collected than the plethora of aggrieved and angered expressions from before. “You’re an idiot and a menace,” he said, with as much zen as a twenty eight year old office worker could muster. 

“Uncalled for,” you muttered, slumping in your seat.

You fell into an uncomfortable silence after that; though it couldn’t exactly be described as silence when Justin Bieber was still singing about his self-inflicted romantic woes over the radio. The passing scenery became your first distraction, hills and roads and cars all blurring together and not doing much to keep your mind off what had transpired mere moments before.

Sicheng stayed mostly silent, save for the few times he uttered a Bieber lyric with the silent devotion of someone who’s been through their highest highs and lowest lows with him by their side. After a song or two that made you realise that Sicheng had, in fact, not put on a curated playlist and instead just a collection of shitty Justin Bieber songs off his discography, your coworker’s eyes flicked to yours from his peripheral.

“Have you planned anything with regards to accommodation?” he asked. His businesslike tone was unfamiliar to your ears; even at work, he didn’t keep it as professional as he’d have liked you to believe. There was always a hint of irritation in his voice when he spoke, and you’d gotten used to it. “Because if I have to sleep in my car for even one night, I’m crashing this second-hand piece of crap and putting us out of our impending miseries now.”

“Wow. Dark,” you conceded agreeably. “But, yes, I’ve booked B&Bs at every one of our stops where we’re sleeping over, don’t worry.”

He smiled shortly. “Thanks for taking care of it.”

“My pleasure,” you replied. “I had the feeling you were going to kill us both if we didn’t.”

Sicheng snorted softly, rolling his eyes.

You spent the rest of the drive to Suwon in uncharacteristically amiable silence, gazing out the window and observing the passing scenery. At some point during your hour-long journey, you started playing a game of your own invention to keep yourself busy, counting all the white cars you could see and comparing the number with all the black cars you saw. It was a meaningless game, of course, because you lost track of either colour before you even got to ten of each, but it was a nice exercise to keep your brain occupied when Sicheng wasn’t making any attempt at conversation.

He kept his eyes trained on the road for the most part, occasionally glancing at passing buildings or cars when he could feel his eyes get tired, having strained to focus on the same winding path for a few minutes too long.

Having lived in Seoul for the better part of your time in Korea, Suwon wasn’t really anything special. Or, to put it more nicely, it wasn’t really anything more special than Seoul itself. It looked like a normal, average, medium-to-high-income city, filled with normal, average people going about their—you guessed it—normal, average business.

It was about midday when you arrived, cruising into the city and past a sign that read, Welcome to Suwon!

Sicheng turned to you, a question on his tongue. “GPS?”

It was a simple, blunt request; he didn’t say it in a manner that was at all disagreeable or disrespectful, but you couldn’t help chuckling at his unequivocal delivery. “Wow.”

“What?” he asked, turning the steering wheel with the flat of his palm. “We need to get to the bed and breakfast to check in, and I have no idea where it is.”

You placed your phone in the centre console, opening up the GPS route to the inn. The location read Saeroun Nal Inn. New Day Inn. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Sicheng frowned cluelessly. It hadn’t occurred to him in the least, it seemed, that his frankly caustic approach when it came to asking for things would be funny to you. He, for all intents and purposes, unironically did not find anything wrong with what he’d said or how he’d said it.

“No, seriously. What?”

Suwon was a fucking bust.

And so were Cheongju and Daejeon.

You and Sicheng had tried your absolute best to make your rounds in the cities, handing out as many flyers and sending as many friendly smiles as you could, but charisma could only do so much. At the end of the day, there was nearly none of what you really needed: talent. Sure, a few attractive twenty-somethings with potential crossed your way, but you weren’t looking for potential. You were looking for natural, immediate star quality. A cute butcher’s son or priest’s daughter simply wouldn’t do.

Despite the ultimate failure of your first three cities, the trip had been amicable up until that point. Sicheng behaved himself in a way not only tolerable, but almost, and you shuddered to think of it, nice. In the three days you were in Suwon, Cheongju, and Daejeon, he kept a polite tone, often reconned with you after you’d set out in opposite directions in search of future candidates to save your corrupt entertainment agency, and even made smalltalk in the moments where it got really quiet.

You’d checked out of your B&B in Daejeon that afternoon—a small, minimal unit that you’d booked in a pinch; for its general tiny size, lacking decor, and overall meh feel, it was alright—and set off into Jeolla province.

In the late hours of 6 October, 2025, Sicheng shook you awake.

You’d been dozing off while he drove to Jeollabuk-do, your forehead resting against his passenger seat window, before he flicked your cheek and you woke with a start, already frowning with murderous intent.

“What?” you hissed, rubbing at your tired eyes.

The car had stopped momentarily, caught at a red light. Sicheng turned to you. “Your greasy forehead is going to ruin my clean windows,” he snarked. “Don’t you have something to lay on?”

“No,” you grumbled. “All my jackets are in the boot.”

You turned away from him, but didn’t rest your head again. Instead, your propped your elbow onto the windowsill, resting your chin in the palm of your hand, gazing at the landscape outside your window, awash in red from the traffic lights.

Without another word, Sicheng took his hands off the steering wheel, reaching for the bottom of his jumper. He leaned forward, pulling it over his back before chucking it at you.

You sputtered, the pure cotton mass hitting you square in the mouth. “What the fuck is this for?”

“You can use it as a pillow,” Sicheng said, like you were an idiot. The light turned green. The car started to move again. “You need to get rest. I know you’re going to make me suffer otherwise.”

“And how exactly do you know this?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Call it a hunch. I know how childish you are when you don’t sleep enough, and I’d liked to be spared of my own version of Hell on Earth.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, right. Whatever, Dong. Sweet dreams.”

You rolled your eyes, but bundled the jumper into a ball and, certainly not per his request, laid it against the passenger side window and rested your head against it. It was soft, fluffy, smelled of detergent and his sharp, citrus cologne. You wrinkled your nose in distaste; citrus had never been your thing.

You closed your eyes and slowly fell into a dull, dreamless sleep while Sicheng continued on to Jeolla province. It took a while for you to fall asleep, given the passing highway lights and constant movement. Soft music drifted from the radio, though that couldn’t have bothered you if it tried. You weren’t sure when exactly you arrived in Jeolla, or how long Sicheng waited to tell you that you’d arrived, but when you woke up, rudely awoken by your nemesis shoving your shoulder so hard your forehead bumped against the passenger side window, you were ready to kick his ass.

You blearily took in your surroundings, and concluded that you must’ve been in the parking lot of the inn you’d be staying at. “How did you know where we were sleeping tonight?” you asked, turning to Sicheng. 

“You sent me the location before we drove out of Daejeon,” he answered. He wasn’t looking at you, rather assessing the look of the inn you’d booked. It was a small place, bigger than the one in Suwon, but just as rustic. “I asked, remember?”

You frowned. “No.”

“Of course you don’t. Grandma.”

“I know someone who’s birth year starts with 19 did not just call me fucking Grandma.”

“Too bad. I did.” He smiled thinly, yanking his car door open. A gust of cold wind drifted into the car as he stepped out. “Grandma.”

You awoke the next morning to a loud knocking on your door, groggily lifting up your head from the wrong end of the bed where you’d passed out a few hours prior. Your eyes struggled to adjust to the light filtered through the milky windows and into the room, engulfing your entire living space in the pale blue light of the early morning.

Sicheng strode in on the fifth knock, smacking the door shut behind him as he leaned his back against it and crossed his arms over his chest. He was already dressed, which was not so unlike someone as irritatingly efficient as him. He didn’t greet you with a stiff, polite good morning as he usually did, instead saying, “Come on, Sleeping Beauty. We have ground to cover and we’re losing sunlight.”

You narrowed your eyes. “It’s not even past seven, and we’re in Jeolla for two days.”

“Irrelevant. Let’s get going!”

You groaned. “Fine. Let me get dressed, and we can leave.”

Jeonju was busy given the time of year. The roads were painted and paved with directions, small buildings lining the streets—restaurants, clothing shops, bars, all topped with arching tile giwa-jib roofs, similarly to the homes in the nearby hanok village. You passed couples, students, and children alike, all chattering excitedly, whilst you and your colleague drifted through the streets, keeping an eye out for possible talent.

The early hour of the morning made it so that you witnessed the opening of shops all around the city, owners and employees all filing in one by one to their places of work. You passed out a few business cards to the university students you passed, all of whom accepted them with a hushed thanks before scurrying off in the direction they’d come from.

You passed by a row of restaurants, all lined up next to one another, advertising a variety of different foods; a café with baked goods and a larger-than-life menu, a restaurant specialising in pork belly and noodle dishes, and a snack bar filled with brightly dressed patrons and employees alike.

As if on queue, you felt your stomach turning over in hunger. “We should get breakfast,” you said. “We’ve a long day ahead of us.”

Sicheng hummed, squinted eyes trained on the restaurants. “Do we flip a coin to see who gets to choose where we eat?”

“We can’t have noodles or tteokbokki for breakfast, Sicheng,” you scoffed. The last two restaurants were out of a question.

“Speak for yourself,” he muttered, before a thick, definitive silence beat of silence passed. He groaned dramatically, throwing his head back, before he finally come to his senses with a sigh. “Café it is, then.”

The café—Harmony Café, as it was called, a small, independent establishment with adorable food and even cuter staff—wasn’t too busy despite the ideal time of day. The two of you found a table right by the window, in an area of the café that wasn’t too busy. Only one or two other couples were seated there, gazing intently into each other’s eyes, clearly in worlds of their own. Soft music drifted from the speakers, pleasant enough that you didn’t feel overstimulated, though upbeat enough that you wouldn’t accidentally fall asleep.

Your waiter was a young man of about twenty two, all shiny brown eyes and flirty smiles that he seemed to know would get him tips. He jotted down your orders in a pink pastel notebook roughly the size of his palm—a cup of green tea and something called the sunrise breakfast for you; a coffee and nothing more for Sicheng. When he placed his, quite frankly, lacking order, you glanced at him from across the table, question clear in the furrow of your brows.

He caught onto your look, lips curling in annoyance. “What now?” he asked. The sunlight filtered through the windows, reflecting an irritatingly bright glow against the polished table, against the tanned surface of his skin.

You shrugged, eyes widening as if he’d overreacted. “Nothing. I just think you’re going to regret not eating.”

Sicheng narrowed his eyes imperceptibly. “I think I know my body better than you do, thank you very much.” He shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other, trousers tightening over the supple plains of his thighs. “I’m just not hungry, is all.”

You hummed. “Right.”

“Don’t say ‘right’ like that,” he demanded.

“Like what?” you asked with a frown.

“Like you know better.”

“Chances are, I do.”

“Chances are, you don’t.”

…

“I think I know my brain better than you do, thank you very much.”

Breakfast—or, your breakfast, and Sicheng’s cup of coffee; seriously, how did he think that was enough?—was a quiet affair, during which you discussed nothing more than logistics and plans for the day. You’d make your way through Jeonju, handing out business cards and finding talent where you could, killing time until it was high time to return to the inn, get a good nights’ sleep, and set off for Daegu early the next morning.

The food was great, as you’d expected of a place that was as vibey as this one, and the prices were relatively manageable. About an hour after you’d arrived, nearing eight o’clock, you excused yourself on the pretense that you needed to use the restroom, at which point Sicheng dismissed you with a wave of his hand, attention fixed on something on his phone.

The bathroom was a little ways away from the front desk, a small wooden bench behind which the cashier and a few other waiters were gathered. You glanced behind you to make sure your coworker’s eyes hadn’t followed you, and stopped at the desk. “Hi,” you smiled, your waiter turning to you with an inquisitive expression, “could I get the bill? I’d like to pay it here, have everything settled so that there’s no worry with the old-timer.”

He smiled softly, amused by the jest, though he nodded. You took out your debit card once the amount had been added up, your breakfast and drinks with an added takeaway you’d ordered at the front desk, and settled the bill. You shoved the receipt in your back pocket, taking out a few thousand won notes for your server.

He gratefully accepted them, bowing in gratitude as you waved off his thanks. You’d been a waiter once upon a time; good customers were rare, and he’d been kind and helpful enough to deserve the gratuitous tip you’d given him.

As he was packing your order to go, you reached into your back pocket to slip out one of the many business cards you’d had printed before the trip. It was a small, laminated rectangle with your, Sicheng’s, and the company’s contact details, as well as the shiny emblem of the 404 logo. You reached out to accept the brown paper bag he handed you, and slipped the card into his grasp in exchange.

“I work for 404 Entertainment,” you told him as he read the card in stunned silence, “you know, the company that works with the country’s top broadcasting stations?”

“Of course I know what 404 is,” he said, handsome face breaking into a smile. “You guys make all those really cool action serials. I’ve gone for auditions before.”

You perked up in interest. “Really?”

He shrugged. “It was a while ago, but the guy handling the auditions told me that I wasn’t what they were looking for, so I cut my losses and came back here.”

“Well, we’re on the lookout for talent, these days,” you informed him. “If you take me up on my offer and decide to come up to Seoul for a potential job, make sure to have a good CV put together, and mention that I personally approached you as much as you can.” 

His eyes widened. “Is this an offer? Like, an official offer for me to become a 404 actor?”

404 actor. The term, you were aware, held moderate significance among up and coming actors and actresses alike. While not the most popular company, 404 Ent was known for its diverse casting and artistic projects. Even if an actor didn’t stay signed under them, they were sure to find work more easily if they’d starred in one of their famed productions.

You lifted a shoulder, as if to say, Maybe. “Actor, model, idol—whichever you’d like. Though there is an action series I think you’d be perfect for.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

He shook his head, disbelieving. “Wah…” He trailed off, glancing at the card as if it were made of twenty four carat gold. He turned back to you after a moment or two of ogling at it, smiling in gratitude. “Thanks for this, ma’am. You’re like a guardian angel to me, right now.”

You grinned, amused. “You get tired of waiting tables?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he sighed.

“Well, now you’ve got a legitimate reason—or excuse, however you’d want to phrase it—to quit and move to the big city,” you promised. You gave the counter a last definitive tap, adding, “I look forward to seeing you in Seoul, kiddo.”

When you turned, strode back to yours and Sicheng’s table, he gave you a look of vague question, silently asking, What was that? Where’d you go? What took you so long? all at once. You shrugged, before gesturing towards the entrance, as if to signal that it was time to leave.

In what looked to be a completely wordless exchange, you and Sicheng fell into step with one another and made your way out of the café, back onto the busy streets of Jeonju. In the time you’d had breakfast, the city had woken up considerably, had become even more crowded since earlier that morning. New sounds accompanied the old, new faces blended in with those you’d seen before.

“You pay the bill?” he questioned, squinting at the risen sun, weakly shielding his eyes from the light.

“No, actually. We’re stealing right now.”

“Mm. And the bag?”

“Takeaways.”

He glanced down at you; there was not a considerable difference in your height, no more than ten, fifteen centimetres, though it was enough to make the gap noticeable. His eyes spoke of need for further explanation than just Takeaways.

“For in case you get hungry while we’re busy today,” you elaborated, articulating with your full hand. “You need to eat, eventually. I know you’re going to make me suffer otherwise.”

“And how exactly do you know this?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Call it a hunch.”

He rolled his eyes. He did that often when you were around. “Whatever.”

You didn’t start having car troubles until 10 October, 2025.

You’d been in the middle of the Gyeongsang leg of the trip when it happened, cruising down the highway when Sicheng’s car started to shudder. It started out as a few odd, yet isolated, incidents—he’d stop at a red light, and come just short; he’d turn a corner, and have to turn the wheel just a bit harder than he should’ve needed to.

Then, shit hit the fan. 

You were halfway from Ulsan to Busan when his car completely broke down, having stopped dead on the side of the highway. It had begun to slow just as he was changing lanes, and you’d shouted at him to just park the thing so that you wouldn’t be stranded in the middle of the highway; he’d listened, although not without a few shouts of his own.

You sat in awed silence for a few minutes, breathing heavily from shock, before Sicheng abruptly swung open his car door, slamming it shut. You glanced out the window with a double take, before opening your own door and tumbling out of the car.

The older man was pacing back and forth in front of his car, his hand caught in his hair as he punched in someone’s number, possibly the nearest towing company’s, holding his phone to his ear. He muttered to himself as he went, curses and prayers and everything in between.

You didn’t say anything as you approached him, kept a considerable distance. You could practically feel the agitation radiating off his form, even with the space between you. He murmured erratically, on the edge of nonsensical; it was unlike him, or, the him you were familiar with.

You watched as he waited, and waited, and paced, and paced, his phone kept to his ear, his hand kept in his hair. Whatever he must’ve been trying to do, whichever number he must’ve been trying to call, something didn’t work out, and he groaned in frustration, fingers working deftly over the screen as he typed in what you assumed what the number of another towing company, and waited once again for them to pick up.

It was a good fifteen minutes before Sicheng finally gave up.

He’d called, and called, and waited, and cursed, and prayed to no avail. A quarter of an hour was the time it took him to finally admit defeat with a shaky sigh and a pointed look at the sky that practically screamed Fuck! without even needing words. He dropped to a crouch, the sort of frustrated squat only Asian dads did, his head in his hands as he muttered something to you.

It had been windy since you’d gone from your bed and breakfast that morning, the wind whistling in your ears even when you didn’t feel it through the thick material of your jumper. The weather, paired with the fact that you were on the side of the highway, cars and trucks whizzing past you at inhumane speeds, made hearing him a difficult task. You frowned, asked, “What?”

Sicheng yelled over the roar of activity, “I said, we’re fucked!”

“Oh. Well, I could’ve guessed that just from the pose you’re striking. You didn’t even need to tell me,” you quipped.

“I’m not sure if it’s because it’s a Friday, or because God just hates me, but practically none of the towing companies in the immediate area are available,” he told you. “We’re indefinitely stuck here.”

His words were accentuated by short, sharp breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

The easy smile that had twisted your lips now faltered, dissipated at the sight of him. He was still crouching, knees touching the ground, head rested in his shaky hands. You approached him, slowly, cautiously, stopping just a few steps short of where he was. “Sicheng?” you tried.

He didn’t say anything. Only his breaths, bursting through his plump lips, could be heard over the traffic.

“Shit.”

You—as gently as you could manage with your impending nerves—raced towards Sicheng, your hands grabbing onto his shoulders. You shifted so that you could pull him to stand up, to get him out of eye- and earshot of the commotion. He let you, head hanging low, eyes fixated on the concrete beneath his feet. You steered him behind his car, and though the racket did not cease completely, it grew softer with the vehicle to block most of the noise. You’d have liked to have done this inside his car, but you couldn’t know if that would simply have made his panic worse, being confined like that.

You didn’t say anything as you pulled him closer by the collar of his jacket, his chest colliding with yours. His breath shuddered, his face hidden in the crook of your neck. His hands were still shaking. Your skin and clothes grew wet with his tears. You reached up, resting your palm on the back of his head, fingers gently carding through his sleek, black locks. You pressed your lips to his forehead, murmuring sweet nothings, anything you could think of. 

Perhaps, if you’d hated Dong Sicheng more, and perhaps, if you’d truly thought him to be an awful man, you wouldn’t be trying to calm him down, trying to talk him down from a panic attack. And perhaps, if you yourself weren’t so well-acquainted with the quick, mannerless visitors which were hyperventilating and persistent thoughts of imminent doom, you’d have made good on your promise that you’d never, ever be caught dead with someone like him in your arms.

And yet, you didn’t hate him enough.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, free hand coming up to stroke his back. You kept him close to you, your lips brushing the surface of his skin. Not everyone liked to be held like this through a panic attack; you’d gone out on a limb and hoped he wasn’t one of those people. It seemed, given his lack of resistance, given the manner in which his arms wound around your waist the moment the tremor in his hands lessened, you were right. “We’re going to be okay. We’ll make a plan. I’ll make a plan. I’ll get us to safety. Everything’ll work out. It always does, for us.”

You received nothing but another short, shuddered burst of breath in response. He was still shaking, though less so than before. You didn’t let up in your ministrations, one hand in his hair and the other on his back, keeping him close. He grabbed fistfuls of your clothes, as if to pull you impossibly closer to him. You wondered which part of him did that, wanted that, wanted you—the part of him which was begging for protection and safety, the part which stood shaking on the side of the road in your arms, or the part of him which would’ve scoffed if someone told him your trip would’ve turned out like this, the part which narrowed his eyes in annoyance, muttered expletives under his breath at the sight of you.

You wondered which part of you had sprung into action, pulled him into your chest and wasted no time in comforting him with sweet nothings—the part of you that had felt the same way before, brought to the edge, losing total control of your body and actions in a moment of stress, the part that saw yourself in his teary eyes, the way he looked younger, smaller, afraid, or the part of you that would’ve spit in his face mere days before, the part that wished illness upon illness on him, curse upon curse on his family and his future.

“You’re going to be fine, you hear me? This is just a small snag in a much larger project that’s been flowing smoothly until now. It’s not the end of the world. You’ll be okay. You have me. We have each other. I’ll be damned if it’s a panic attack that breaks you and not me.”

Through his dread, Sicheng managed a weak laugh. You smiled at the sound.

You stayed like that for a moment, simply keeping him safely in your arms. Your lips were pressed against his forehead, his against your neck. It was an intimate position, you could admit, though you couldn’t bring yourself to feel awkward or uncomfortable in the face of it. It was something done of necessity, in his hour of need. Who were you to deprive someone needing comfort of that very thing?

Almost as if to add to the new, calmer environment, the traffic had let up considerably. Only a few cars drove past, in lanes far enough that they were nothing more than sounds and wisps of wind passing by. He had stopped shaking, his tears had dried. Now, it seemed, he held onto you only because he’d been doing it for so long. Familiarity’s sake, you told yourself.

When he finally disentangled himself from your arms, he gave you a long, hard look. His eyes were still shiny with unshed tears, his plump, beakish lips still trembling with emotion. He seemed to be searching your face for something, expression softened as it was. For any sign of malice. Of disapproval. Of badly hidden, sneering conceit.

He found only tenderness.

Dong Sicheng kissed you for the first time on the side of the road after his car had broken down. He’d surged forward, capturing your lips with his without saying a word beforehand. They felt soft against yours, tasted salty with tears. You gave a surprised yelp that was swallowed by his mouth, though you tilted your head to deepen the kiss all the same. He sighed into your mouth, the sound a gasping submission. 

Then, just as quickly as it had come, Sicheng pulled away from the kiss as if he’d been burnt. A beat of silence passed, wherein the two of you merely stared at one another, eyes wide with shock, lips numb and buzzing with blood rush. Your cheeks felt warm. His looked pink.

“That—” He cut himself off, pursing his lips. “That was— I didn’t… That was a—”

“Mistake,” you agreed immediately. You shrugged, as if you hadn’t been prepared to stick your tongue down his throat. “We didn’t mean it.” 

“Right.”

“It was just a spur of the moment thing.”

“Exactly! Nothing more, nothing less.”

“I mean, I, for one, still hate you.”

“Oh, yeah, I mean— d-ditto on that one.”

“So it’s agreed. We still hate each other?”

“Of course.”

Things only went downhill after that.

You made your way back to Seoul in the days that followed, after settling your business in Busan. Sicheng had taken to answering you in swift, half-words while you drove, only ever speaking out of sheer necessity. Despite the trainwreck that had occurred in Ulsan, the trip had been majorly successful. You were able to locate trainees and find new talent while handling production matters with people in the creative department of the company.

You went into the office the morning after Sicheng had dropped home the previous evening, gracing you with a clumsy goodbye before speeding off into the night.

Thanks for helping me, you’d told him.

He’d glanced at you, looking over into the passenger seat. His tanned face was golden in the lamplight shining outside your apartment building; his eyes shifted unsurely behind the round frames encircling them. He looked at you—stared at you—so long you thought you’d said something wrong. No problem.

See you at work tomorrow? came your question; a statement, tainted with foggy uncertainty.

He paused, turned to faced you fully, smiled. It looked forced, taut on his handsome face. I guess so.

And then you got out, opened your door and retrieved your bags from the boot. You’d waved at him, bidding him a final farewell; the end of a road trip, the end of a chapter. The beginning of a new week in the middle of one, the beginning of a new relationship in the middle of yours.

Potentially. If he let you in again. If he was willing to go back to the way you were, all scathing remarks and disapproving pouts and salt in your coffee and fake post-it notes on the side of your desk. If he wanted to move on from that, become your grudging confidante because no matter your hatred for one another, you had to admit that you made a good team. If he got over this, whatever it was, admitted that you both made a mistake and moved past it.

You didn’t think he’d ever stop loathing you; you didn’t think you’d ever stop being repulsed by him. Maybe that’s just how you were meant to be. Not in love, not attracted, not intimate, but never distant. Never awkward, never strangers. Always teetering on the edge that defined love and hate, adoration and abhorrence, so devoted to hating one another that the lines sometimes blurred.

He hadn’t waved back.

He said something, words muffled by the thick glass separating you, and took off.

And that brought you to today.

You arrived at 404, early as always, shrugging on your jacket as you strode through the gates and up the first few stairs. The squeal of tires turned your attention behind you, where someone had pulled up mere seconds after you’d arrived, and was now messily tumbling out of their car like someone under more of an influence than coffee.

Sicheng straightened his posture once he regained his footing, glancing at you from behind his spectacles as if trying to gauge if you’d bore witness to his moment of weakness.

He wore a blazer, as usual, a mock neck peeking out from underneath the jacket, and trousers.

You watched him in polite amusement, taking a sip of the tea you’d grabbed on the way to work. “Morning,” you greeted lightly.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, as he strode past you, back straight, faced forward, he replied, in passing, “Good morning.”

His tone was uncharacteristically businesslike, words short and clipped as if this were some sort of work-related interaction. You let him behave stiffly towards you for now; you knew how easily he got flustered, knew that it’d be best to give him his space. You followed behind him, though took the stairs where he took the elevator on the way to the PR department.

Since it was your first day back at work after the trip, a majority of your day would be spent discussing the progress you’d made with Dahye, and going to the creative department to pester them about the future projects you wanted greenlit. As a PR manager, you didn’t technically have the authority to request certain projects to be chosen over others, but your special, top-secret connections (you were friends with one of the screenwriters, Mark, and one of the creative directors, Yerim) gave you some advantage over the others in the company, though just because both of your friends had trouble saying no to you.

You took your respective seats at your respective desks, working as if you weren’t less than a ruler’s length from one another. He clicked away at his keyboard, while you paged through the documents Mark had given you when you clocked in. It was mainly a list of series the creative team had decided to pick up, and some they’d finally scrapped for good. All you really had to do was check the client database—trainees and loyal actors alike—and match them to the serial which best suited them.

Since it was a Wednesday, there was no meeting as was customary for the beginning of the week, nor were there any emergency meetings conducted to discuss sticky matters regarding the company’s talent. You were, however, called into Dahye’s office just before your lunch break.

You assumed Sicheng would’ve joined, given the fact that you’d made the trip together, but hadn’t seen him since he’d disappeared into the break room for a cup of coffee—something which had occurred over half an hour before Dahye called you in. You got up from your desk, your back cracking as you stretched your arms above your head. You sighed, grateful for the relief, before you made your way to her office.

She was alone in her office, something which spurred on your growing confusion, however slight it was, poring over documents and occasionally turning to type something into her computer. Her made up face was illuminated by the bright, eerie glow from the device, though she looked no less beautiful than she usually did. She glanced up when you entered, the door clicking open and shut behind you as you bowed in polite greeting, and gave you a smile.

“Good to see you again,” she said. “Please, please, sit. Tell me all about the trip.”

Your relationship with Dahye could very easily be mistaken for an unprofessional one, with the way you behaved around one another in one-on-one meetings, should anyone else have been there to bear witness. You saw her as something of a caring mother, you supposed. Or a wise aunt… an experienced senior, at the very least. You didn’t know. Trying to put a label on it just made it more confusing and even less professional— the point you were trying to make was that neither you nor Dahye were strangers to personal, off-record debriefs following big projects.

You sat down in your designated chair, the one Sicheng had claimed for himself when she called you in to discuss the trip with you. It seemed so far away, though it had barely been two weeks since you’d embarked on the trip. Where was Sicheng?

You paused after relaxing into your seat, lacing your fingers over your lap, deliberating. “The trip was a success, for the most part. We were able to locate old trainees and get them under active contracts with the company again, as well as find new talent. I’d say our most productive area would’ve been Daegu or Busan.”

She hummed. “The audience does love the rougher satoori.”

“There were, of course, a few… mishaps which occurred,” you said carefully, “but they were minor, and dealt with accordingly.”

“You sound so serious,” she tsked. “Come on, this is girl talk, not an official interrogation. Loosen up a bit!”

Again, it would’ve been weird for any other senior but Kim Dahye to speak like that to their subordinates. However, with her, you could make exceptions to the rule.

A beat of silence passed, thick and palpable, before you sighed, slumping in your seat as your head lolled heavenwards. “It was such a shitfest the first few days. For the first half of the trip, Sicheng and I fought like cat and dog. Then, his car broke down in Ulsan and he had a panic attack, so I had to calm him down, and then—” You cut yourself off, mouth clamping shut as if on its own.

“And then…?” Dahye probed.

“I want to tell you, sunbae, but I’m not sure how many professional laws me confessing this goes against,” you said.

“Well, did something… happen, between the two of you?”

“…Sort of?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Was it ‘made the rest of the trip a bit awkward, but we were ultimately fine afterwards’ bad, or… ‘I should probably call HR’ bad?”

You narrowed your eyes, index fingers tapping against one another conspiratorially. “What would qualify as ‘I should probably call HR’ bad?”

Dahye paused. “If you don’t know, whatever happened probably qualifies.” 

“Oh, okay. Well, okay, so something happened after his car broke down that may or may not have damaged my integrity as a woman, and then we continued on to Busan,” you added, “the most productive part of the trip. Except… Sicheng was being totally weird with me, and he remained weird until we got back to Seoul, which brings me to today, to right now.” 

Dahye’s office was silent for a while, the two of you simply sitting, processing your words. You could tell she was thinking, putting the pieces together as to what happened between you and your coworker—or, rather, what he did to you and what you may or may not have eagerly reciprocated. The air was thick, though you could tell it wasn’t from tension, or her disappointment, or your discomfort. I mean, sure, you were uncomfortable as a teen having the sex talk with their mother, but you knew the thickness in the air wasn’t because of that.

A question lingered in the air, made the seat next to you feel cold. You thought to yourself again, for the second time. Where was Sicheng?

“Whatever happened between the two of you,” Dahye started, with the eyes of someone who knew exactly what had happened, “I advise that you talk to Sicheng personally about the matter.” She leaned forward in her seat—throne of a swivel chair, if you must—pensive. “I am speaking to you not only as your boss, who is very much concerned with the professional and moral implications of this… occurence, but as your friend, who knows you’re considerably weaker than you make yourself out to be. Especially when it comes to men,” she added.

You huffed, pettish, but agreeing. “You make me sound like some sort of hopeless case.”

She lifted a shoulder, as if to say, Maybe you are. “That’s alright if you are,” she assured, “in your romantic relationships. As your friend, I think it’s endearing.”

You paused. “…And, as my boss?”

“I think it’s dangerous, especially given the object of your affection. It could be something that makes the two of you work better together, if whatever you tell him works, or it could be something that divides the entire office, if it doesn’t.”

“Wow. Dramatic.”

She shrugged. “The two of you are more popular among your colleagues than you think. This could end up being like something straight out of a romantic drama.”

If Dahye had told you something like this two weeks ago—Hell, even three days ago—you’d have scoffed, shaking your head in vehement disagreement. The suggestion alone that yours and Sicheng’s relationship, your rivalry, was romantic in nature would’ve been enough to make you laugh in anyone’s face who dared to utter such an implication. Now, though… you found yourself hesitating, half-smile frozen and fading on your face, iciness thawing with begrudging realisation.

The silence gave you a moment to think, though, looking back, it was more as if it forced you to think, about what happened in Gyeongsang. You’d comforted a man you once would’ve sneered at in such a moment of weakness—or would you ever have? Done something so harsh, so inhumane, to someone you deemed the corporate Antichrist? You’d never have thought you’d be so delusional as to kiss him back—or would you have? No one, not even the most shallow people to grace the planet, kisses a man they claim to feel nothing for.

You glanced up from your lap at Dahye, smiling. It felt tight and wrong on your face. Cold and practiced. “Thanks for your advice, sunbae.” Your own voice felt faraway and tinny in your ears. Come to think of it, it had been aching for a while, now. “I’ll follow it keenly.”

She regarded you with something like concern, before nodding. “I trust that you’ll do the right thing. You always do.”

“I doubt it, but I appreciate the praise nonetheless.”

“You should be more accepting of it. Though, I do have a question.” She leaned back in her seat, frowning. “Where is Sicheng?”

You found him at his flat.

Or, more accurately, you nearly broke his door down and came face-to-face with his irritated expression, at his flat.

The rest of the day had been normal, as normal as could be for someone in your present situation; you did paperwork, chatted with a few of the people in your department as you made yourself coffee, went to and fro from the copier room. Kunhang, one of the more junior PR managers in a position not too dissimilar from yours, invited you and a few other staff out for drinks after work. You’d accepted, eager to distract yourself from the things clogging up your mind.

You spent a good chunk of the early evening in a bar in Hongdae, surrounded by friends, close and simply acquainted ones alike. Along with Kunhang, there were Mark and Yerim, close friends of yours, Donghyuck, one of your friends from your first days at 404, Dejun, someone you knew Sicheng was quite close with, as well as a few you only knew as far as their names and departments—Eri, an assistant to Yerim on set, Soonyoung, who worked on the company’s finances, and Yoonoh, the company’s lawyer.

You wondered how on Earth Kunhang had grown close to the latter. Yoonoh was a particularly difficult person to get in touch with, mostly because he worked only with the talent, and only ever came into the office when he was needed, unlike the rest of you who were at Dahye and the CEO’s every beck and call. Of course, your question could easily be answered by simply assessing Kunhang’s sociable nature. He made friends with everyone.

You sat across from Yoonoh, nestled between Mark and Kunhang, nursing a colourful, fruity cocktail. You couldn’t remember its name, only that it was sweet and came with a cherry on top. You leaned back in your seat, spine resting on the worn leather of the booth you’d found yourselves in, nodding to Yoonoh from across the table. “What brings you along, Mr Jeong? The boss need you at the office today, or something?”

He nodded, taking a sip of his soju. His cheeks had started to flush pink, even though it was only his second glass. “Ms Kim and I have been discussing Cho Garam’s case a lot these days. While you and Sicheng were travelling cross-country looking for talent, we made a plan that would redeem her in the public eye, while quietly beginning on legal proceedings to take care of the people who’d ruined her image in the first place.” He smiled softly, adding, “And please, call me Yoonoh.”

You found yourself smiling back, cheeks warming. The topic quickly shifted to something else, the focus taken off the lawyer and onto momentarily more important matters. Kunhang complained about the CEO wanting to set him up with his daughter, and Donghyuck lamented about the pressure he’d been feeling due to the controversy.

The drinks flowed as easily as the conversation, coming in a continuous stream that plucked at a string in the back of your mind, something about how on Earth you’d all be able to settle the bill, what with your meagre salaries. Though, while everyone else’s vision grew hazy with intoxication, you kept yourself manageably tipsy by drinking water and eating in-between; you figured someone needed to be sober enough to do the maths when the bill came.

At some point, Soonyoung turned to Kunhang in question. She was older than you, you assumed, and just about the best dressed person present. Wine red hair came down to her shoulders, while a pretty white blouse hugged her fit figure. “It’s a shame Sicheng couldn’t come tonight,” she said.

Kunhang hummed, narrowing his eyes in confusion. “Yeah, no, I’m not sure what happened there,” he said, sounding remarkably sober for the amount he’d already drank. “He’s been off all day, and he clocked out early.”

“He did?” you wondered. Not that you cared, really. “I saw him this morning, but he disappeared before lunchtime, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“I didn’t know you kept tabs on him,” Mark said, giving you a look from the corner of his eye. He knew just as well as anyone of your friends you much you disliked Sicheng; he was pulling your leg, trying to get a reaction out of you.

You wouldn’t give him one. “It’s kind of hard not to, considering the fact that he sits across from me.”

“He said something about having a meeting with the big man,” Dejun spoke up, sipping on his own drink. Something sweet and colourful, like yours. “I talked to him about it earlier, but he didn’t give me any details. It’s probably nothing serious, it’s just kept him a bit busy, I think.”

“Mm. Yeah. That’s likely,” you considered.

It seemed Yerim was in the mood to join in on Mark’s antics. “Mhm. Likely, huh?” While her intentions to annoy you were clear as day, she was too drunk to say anything really irritating. Her wit had been washed down with the soju she was throwing back.

As all conversations in bars did, the subject changed once more, and it seemed Sicheng was forgotten by your companions for the moment.

After a while, as the hour grew later and later, you stopped ordering a mix of cocktails and water, and stayed on the latter. You had work in the morning, and if you had a hangover, you wouldn’t be able to function past fifty percent for the next week. Instead of the alcohol making your vision blur, it was thoughts which disturbed your mind, continuous, festering like a flame being stoked, like acid turning over in your stomach.

Where was Sicheng? you thought. Where had he gone, and what made him think he could bail on work like that? You’d been just as tired as he was. You didn’t get half the day off. What was his problem?

By the time the bill came, and you paid your share (plus some of Mark’s, because the dumbass only kept cash on him when he went out and underestimated just how many drinks he’d ordered), your cheeks had warmed uncomfortably, and you felt, as you were walking to your car, as if you didn’t want to go home just yet.

You bade everyone goodbye and goodnight, promising to see them at work the next morning. Yoonoh had been the one to see you off, as the rest were still in the bar, bickering about who’d ordered and eaten seven servings of breadsticks. He stood on the curb, impossibly tall, bathed in lamplight, soft hair outlined like a halo. He smiled at you, wrinkling his nose at a snowflake that fell on his face.

“It’s snowing earlier this year,” he remarked, rolling on the balls of his feet. “Weird, huh?”

You stood next to him for a moment, observing the odd change in weather. Snow wasn’t uncommon in the early days of November, perhaps even as early as late October, but the month was barely halfway past. “Yeah,” you agreed. “I wonder…”

You shook your head, turning to smile up at the handsome man next to you. “Thanks for walking me out.”

“Only a pleasure.”

“See you at work tomorrow?”

“Mm. Dahye wants me to come in sometime in the morning.”

“See you then, Yoonoh.”

He nodded in farewell as you waved over your shoulder, making your way to your car. He smiled at you as you drove off, only walking back into the bar when you car was well out of his line of sight.

You weren’t sure what it was.

Perhaps it was emotion, overwhelming your sense and clouding your judgement; perhaps it was liquid courage, coming in the form of pink, orange, and red cocktails with cherries floating at the top; perhaps it was pure human folly, love and lust and hatred and adoration boiling over and making you turn left where your apartment complex was right, making you drive up into the estates where you lived downtown.

Sicheng lived in a considerably more affluent part of Seoul than you did. Which, of course, was not to say that you lived down in the dumps—you merely lived closer to where all the students did, the younger people, those below thirty, those like you, still between the ages of twenty and twenty six. Your colleague, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy living in an area occupied mostly by childfree married couples, older people who thought they were living it up, being around young people, and neurotic individuals like himself, who preferred to have more space than was really necessary.

The complex was nice, a building about the same size as yours, though you assumed with less units. The size of one flat here seemed to be the size of two or three where you lived. There was an older gentleman present in the foyer to greet you, despite the late hour, and there was an elevator that took you up to the seventh floor. You watched as the numbers rose, absently humming along to the instrumental tune playing over the speakers. Your complex didn’t even have an elevator, much less one that played music like in a shopping centre.

The doors slid open with a ding! and you were left to scurry out of the spacious box and into the hallway, which was lit only by a few warm lights fixed into the ceiling. Your shoes made no noise as you past the first few flats, mouthing the numbers as you went. One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine… ten… eleven…

Bingo.

You stopped abruptly in front of the twelfth flat, turning to face it fully. It looked like a completely ordinary front door, white wood with a darker lining, a small, tinted window in the middle of it, though what awaited you once you stepped through the threshold—if you were even allowed so far in—was what made your throat swell with anger, with indignation, with hatred.

You raised your fist to knock, and you felt, against all your better judgement, a twinge of fear. Of nerves. What if he wasn’t there? What if he didn’t want to see you? What if he turned you away?

Well, you wouldn’t know unless you knocked.

You did it once, twice, thrice, sharply rapping your knuckles against the hard surface of the door. When he didn’t answer the first four times, you took to hammering the flat of fist against it, yelling as if your mother had never taught you any manners, “Dong Sicheng! I know you’re in there! Let me in!”

A few moments of havoc passed before the door was swung open, revealing a very irritated, very scantily clad Dong Sicheng. His hair was mussed up, looked soft to the touch, as if he’d just finished drying it. A loose pyjama shirt hung off his frame, as well as a pair of basketball shorts you were sure he’d never actually used to play the sport. His eyes were wide, brows creased in apparent frustration, plump lips twisted as if holding in a shout.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he demanded, whispering harshly. “And what is with you making such noise this time of night?!”

“What are you, seventy?” you taunted. “It’s half past ten. I’m willing to bet half of the people in this building are still awake.”

He rolled his eyes. “Even so, I don’t think they’d much like having their peaceful nights interrupted by some twenty five year old drunkard hammering on someone’s door for no apparent reason.”

“I’m not drunk,” you frowned, offended.

“You reek of whiskey,” he shot back.

“I didn’t—!” You cut yourself off, exhaling shortly. You were getting off topic. “Whatever. I came over to ask you where the fuck you were today, and why the fuck you think it’s okay to bail on work halfway through the day.”

He shifted uneasily. “What’s it to you? What I do with my time is none of your business,” he declared, though his voice faltered; his gaze drifted.

“It is my business!” you protested. “We work together, Sicheng. We’re supposed to be a team.”

He chuckled breathlessly, the sound worthless, faraway. “I have no idea where you got that from.”

You hesitated. “Well, we— we were. We were supposed to be a team in getting the company’s reputation restored to what it was before. We were supposed to work together—”

“Didn’t we?” he interrupted brazenly. “Didn’t we travel cross-country just for that? Haven’t you seen quite enough of me?”

“No!” you cried. “No, I haven’t, because we’re not done yet. You don’t get to decide when this mission is finished, nor do you get to decide when to leave!”

Another sceptical laugh escaped his lips. “It’s like you’ve got a narcotic in you, suddenly. Where did this come from?”

You spoke through a mixture of tipsiness and sheer betrayal, wiping harshly at your eyes. “I don’t know. All I know is that you do not get to leave. You don’t get to kiss me, and act weird around me, and deprive me of the reason I’ve stayed at that damn company for the past three years.”

“What, me?” Sicheng scoffed. “We hate each other. Such a shallow thing could get you up in the morning?”

“You’re conflating two separate statements,” you pointed out, “one of which I didn’t even make. I was talking about the kiss, and you changed the subject. Why?”

“I didn’t change the—”

“You just did it again.”

You narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. The silence which followed your statement was thick, abuzz with electricity. A strike of lighting, illuminating his disquieted manner and bathing him in a considerably attractive light. You realised, with a lurch, you liked watching him squirm.

You leaned in, face centimetres from his. “What was it about that kiss, that accident, that changed something inside you, hm? What is it about it that you can’t stand being in the same room as me the moment you don’t need to be?

His eyes shifted from you to the floor, behind you and to your lips— eyes, maybe, you weren’t sure.

“Are you scared, Dong Sicheng? Uncomfortable? Do I scare you, Winwin?”

A beat.

“Fuck it.”

Dong Sicheng kissed you the second time outside of his flat. He pulled you close by the collar of your blazer, sighing impatiently. His lips pressed insistently against yours. “You’re such a pain,” he spoke into your mouth. He tasted of toothpaste and sweet green tea. “Like a thorn in my side.”

You wound your arms around his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer. You didn’t say anything, simply tilting your head to deepen the kiss. You sighed softly, smiling hungrily against his lips. You hadn’t thought so at the beginning of the day, nor five minutes before you knocked on his door, but this was exactly what you’d come for.

He pulled you into his apartment, index finger hooking into one of the belt loops of your jeans. You shut the door behind you with a kick that made him wince, brows pinching in a disapproving frown. His hands came to rest on your jaw, keeping your head tilted to the side. His tongue swept over your bottom lip, painting it with his spit, begging for an entrance you readily granted.

He broke the kiss only to remove your blazer, to pull your shirt over your head, face pressed into your neck, peppering kisses to the sensitive skin.

Not a moment passed before you tugged at his pants, fingers snapping against the waistband. He smiled, pulling away only to rest his forehead against yours.

He watched you, taunting, challenging, a low, breathless laugh leaving him. “You want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.” He shook his head. “Remember when you said no self-respecting woman would ever sleep with me?”

“Either I’m the exception—” you pulled impatiently at the drawstring of his pants— “or I’m a total idiot.”

He chuckled breathlessly. He had a happy trail, dark, starting under his navel and travelling south from there. “You’re going to fuck me nonetheless.”

You hummed absently, grinning, “Mhm. And you’re going to enjoy it.”

It was a messy, passionate affair that had driven you into Sicheng’s bed, bare back pressed into the mattress until the early hours of the morning. After all, so many months, years of pent up emotion could only sustain you for so long. He tasted sweet and pliant, lips dripping with nectar. His skin felt soft under your fingertips, and he whined into your mouth whenever you pressed into him.

He kissed you, whispered to you how much he needed you, told you that he’d been driven to the point of insanity with want. You let him, returned his sentiments, stroking his hair and pressing kisses where you could as he went, pulling him close to you as he collapsed onto your chest.

You arrived at work the next morning with a giddy smile on your face, wearing the previous day’s clothes and smelling of citrus.

Mark gave you nothing more than a knowing look when he found you on the way to his department, shaking his head as if to say, Knew it. Hopefully, this news wouldn’t make its way elsewhere—to Yerim, who’d bet actual money that you’d eventually end up with Dong Sicheng, or Dahye, who’d demand that you take your matters straight to HR before you were even sure you were together in the first place.

You spent a large chunk of the morning at your desk, working through documents and making phone calls to news outlets and gossip columns to drop their articles on 404 talent. Sicheng sat less than a ruler’s length from you, occasionally stealing glances at you from behind his computer. He’d barely said a word to you following the previous night, but with the way he seemed to be hiding a smile whenever you caught him looking at you, there was no doubt that he felt as good about it as you did.

It wouldn’t be an overreaction to say you’d felt it—doubt. After all, it had been a brash, heat-of-the-moment decision orchestrated solely by your emotions, animalistic and illogical desires, feelings which usually made for regrettable situations. And yet, despite your hatred for Sicheng, despite the fact that you wouldn’t have imagined yourself acting kindly towards him, much less like that, the way you had last night, you couldn’t bring yourself to regret it. 

Until Sicheng started to avoid you.

You hadn’t noticed it at first, chalked it down to exhaustion because of the trip, tiredness because of his long day at work. You’d come from Dahye’s office later in the afternoon, as the early evening sun had started to glimmer on the horizon, where she’d called you in for something concerning the office Halloween party; an event which was annually held on the night of the thirty first, an event she’d tasked you and your colleague to arrange.

Dahye had leaned back in hear seat easily, shrugging. She hadn’t brought up your previous conversation yet, and she wouldn’t, for this meeting. “I just figured since the trip was so successful, that the two of you would work well together and plan a good Halloween party.”

You’d smiled. Again, like most of the smiles you’d given anyone who wasn’t Sicheng, it felt wrong on your face. Tight, as if whoever were pulling the strings of your expressions seemed to be trying to convince themselves that nothing was the matter, nothing was amiss. Everything was fine. Where was Sicheng? “That sounds like a good plan, sunbae. I don’t have any plans for the next two weeks—” that much, you knew wouldn’t change— “so I can really throw myself into this new project.”

She chuckled, shaking her head goodnaturedly. “Always such a busy bee. So eager to please. Well, whatever you decide to do, I’m sure it will be wonderful. And remember,” she added, regarding you as if she wanted to say more than she would, “to tell Sicheng I want him to help you.”

You nodded. “Right. Thanks, Dahye. See you tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

That was fifteen minutes before you’d gone down to the lobby, and approached Sicheng to talk to him about the office party.

You found him in the parking lot, leaning against the driver’s side door of his car, his phone in his hands. The sun had started to set, though sat high in the sky still, washing the city in a golden glow that turned his skin bronze. You wouldn’t openly admit it, but being able to admire him, even if only from afar, without having to check and see if anyone else would notice you looking, laid your heart to rest. Made its beat easy, calm.

Sicheng smiled when he finally noticed you approaching, and it was then that you should’ve known something was off. “Hey,” he greeted, slipping his phone into his back pocket. “What’s up?”

What’s up? he asked, as if he hadn’t spent the night in your arms. What’s up? he asked, as if the two of you hadn’t reached a point of no return the previous evening, after you’d shown up to his flat and demanded his attention. Funny.

“Nothing much,” you said, with as much nonchalance as you could manage. Which, whether or not Sicheng was standing in front of you as your enemy or the love of your life, had never been much. “Dahye did ask me to give you a message, though.”

He nodded, brows creasing expectantly, wordlessly urging you to continue. His eyes were golden in the setting sun.

“She wants us to organise the Halloween party this year,” you told him. “I was thinking we could maybe start planning this weekend, so… a day or two from now, I think. It’s not much effort that has to be put into arranging it, but there’s a lot of people we’d need to call in preparation, and it’d be good if we have an open stream of communication with one another, you know?”

He nodded, beakish lips pressed into a thoughtful pout, shamelessly kissable. You wondered if he’d let you. “Sounds good. Is there, um, anything that needs to get done before the weekend, or not?”

You considered for a moment, before shaking your head. “Nope. We’ve got plenty of time to plan. I mean, today is the seventeenth. We’ve got two weeks.” You smiled shortly. “Again.”

What was a tense, fake smile melted into something smaller, more real. “Again,” he echoed softly.

The silence which followed was palpable, so thick you could cut through it with a knife. When you spoke again, it was messy, jumbled and mirroring those scenes in films, wherein the main couple suffered several awkward moments because they were out of synch, because they didn’t know how to act around one another anymore.

“I wanted to ask, are you—?”

“If that’s all, I should really take—”

You stopped.

“You go f—”

“No, you spoke first, you go—!”

You sighed. Tried for a smile. Sicheng didn’t do the same. “I was wondering if you wanted to have coffee, sometime this weekend? Maybe while we’re planning the party.”

You wouldn’t have noticed in the setting sun, but his cheeks grew pink. Warm with emotion. “Oh. I— uh, yeah. I’d like that. I’m a bit busy this next while, but I’m sure I could make time for you.”

You breathed an internal sigh of relief. “Great.” You made a move to leave, then, that weird little step back people do when they’re not sure if a conversation is over. “I’ll… I’ll see you this weekend, then?”

He didn’t correct you to say he’d be seeing you Friday, like he always did when you made a mistake. “Yeah. See you this weekend.”

The weekend came and went, and Sicheng was a no-show.

You hadn’t minded at first, had known that he was busy with the influx of trainees you’d gotten since the trip, had been just as preoccupied with paperwork and phone calls as he’d been. You let him go silent, didn’t question when you didn’t see him at the office that Friday, when he didn’t answer his phone when you called him Saturday, two hours after you’d texted him the location of a café near his flat, where you’d been sitting, waiting, under the guise that you’d been in the neighbourhood.

When he called you Sunday, apologising for his absence and telling you how busy he was with extra work, how hard he’d been trying to take a break but simply not being able to, you didn’t bat an eye. You nodded, voiced your concern and your understanding, kindly told him goodnight, that you’d see him at work the next morning.

When he didn’t show up to work that Monday, his seat and desk empty, leaving no trace that he’d ever worked there in the first place, you questioned it, but didn’t investigate. Maybe he was taking the week off; you’d felt like doing the same thing, actually, you simply hadn’t seen the necessity for it after a few days of rest at work. You quickly became preoccupied with work, the load of which seemed to have tripled over the weekend, and soon forgot of Dong Sicheng.

Though, to say you forgot would be an exaggeration. The thought of him still lingered, stayed at the back of your mind, still tugged at you when you went home and nearly drove to his place, but decided better of it. He’d come to you once he felt ready to. Even when you’d hated one another, it had been that way. Sicheng always came back to you eventually.

You spoke over the phone sometimes, discussed logistics and agreed to make calls to vendors for the party, speculated which decorations would be better, which of your coworkers had which food allergies or religious restrictions. He sniffled over the phone when you spoke to him. A cold, he’d told you. It’s fine, though. I’ll get over it before the party.

You worried. He told you not to. You asked him if you needed to come over, bring him food, whatever he needed. He said he didn’t want to be a bother to you. You thought to yourself that it was odd that he’d been sick for a week, that it may be something serious, whether or not he was actually ill. He eased your worries with sweet nothings, told you through a smile you could picture that he’d be fine and that he’d be back soon enough. You listened.

One day became three; one week started to become two, and too soon for your liking, the office Halloween party was upon you, and somehow, Dong Sicheng had avoided you for a full two weeks.

The entire first floor of 404 Entertainment was decorated by the time everyone began to arrive. You’d tasked two interns to help you, asked them to string up neon purple lights and put up the fake cobwebs while you moved several tables into place, near the end of the floor, by the large floor to ceiling windows. The office’s setup stayed relatively the same, no one’s desks were moved, nothing was out of its rightful or simply usual place. If someone needed to dig through their drawers for that forgotten aspirin or important files they forgot to hand over to the boss that morning, they’d be able to.

You’d texted Sicheng an hour before the party began that you’d almost finished decorating the office, and that it would’ve been appreciated if he made an appearance before everyone started to arrive. He’d been tasked with bringing extra refreshments; drinks, whatnot, yet, he hadn’t even read your message yet.

Like with any and all cheesy office Halloween parties, most of the people showed up in costume. Some took it to the next level, above, beyond, and in a league of their own, with special effects makeup, handmade clothes and accessories, in-character and everything, while some simply spattered some fake blood around their mouths and on their clothes and dubbed themselves zombie office workers because they hadn’t had time (or the power to care) to change during their free time after the workday had ended.

Unfortunately, your friends were comprised solely the former. Mark and Donghyuck had come together as Spider-Man and Ganke (“You know,” Donghyuck had said, “like from Into the Spiderverse? His guy in the chair?”), while Yerim had come as Alice from Resident Evil, and Kunhang, in genuine earnest, waltzed through the doors in a Rapunzel costume.

You watched in amusement as he pranced up to you, moving with nothing but joy and whimsy. Yerim had greeted you and excused herself to get a drink, while Mark and Donghyuck were caught in the doorway arguing about whether or not them matching was intentional. Mark suspected that he’d planned it, Donghyuck insisted that it was simply because they were so in tune.

“You look like you were made for that dress, Rapunzel,” you commented.

“That’s because I was,” he replied simply. “And you are…?”

“M—”

“No, no! Lemme guess. Kirigoe Mima from Perfect Blue?”

You nodded.

“Nice,” he commented. “You finally grow the balls to finish it?”

Again, you nodded. “I got bored waiting around for vendors’ responses over the weekend, so I watched it. There were a few times where I had to go to the kitchen and just heave into the sink.”

Kunhang pulled a face of agreement, the downward tilt of his lips telling you, I get that.

Yerim joined you soon enough, pushing a cup of punch into your hands, identical to the one she’d taken for herself. “Figured you’d need one after pulling this whole thing off by yourself,” she said.

You accepted it gratefully, and took a sip. It tasted sweet, with the bitter, stinging aftertaste of alcohol. You coughed, punch spattering unceremoniously from your lips. “Is this spiked?”

“Yeah,” Yerim chuckled. “Didn’t you know?”

“No, I didn’t.” You paused, remembering the way Joongki, the intern you’d asked to help you set up the drinks and snack tables, had looked at you after pouring the punch. “I think one of the interns mistook me getting dust in my eye for me winking, and assumed he was supposed to spike it.”

Yerim took a sip of her own before adding, coughing, “He was a bit heavy-handed with the rum, I think. Jesus. Do you want it?” She shook the cup lightly, extending her arm toward Kunhang. He glanced over it for a moment, before shrugging, and taking it from her.

You were joined by Mark and Donghyuck only a few moments later, the two still caught in a bickering match they’d simply decided to bring to you.

“I just don’t get why you have to be this way,” Mark said. “Areum and I were supposed to go as Spider-Man and Spider-Woman tonight.”

“Mark, I can’t help the fact that we’re soulmates,” Donghyuck sighed, as if he were tired of having to remind him of the fact. “Besides, you said Areum couldn’t make it tonight because something came up, so she won’t even have the chance to be embarrassed that I totally outshone her.”

“You threw on glasses, a blazer, and a beanie, Donghyuck.”

“Hey, I bought this blazer especially for the occasion, and it nearly cost me an arm and a leg, so, maybe show a little bit more gratitude, mkay?”

Mark rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” He nodded to you, in greeting, in question. “Your man here yet?”

The correct answer would’ve been widened eyes, a shocked glance around, and an innocent, perhaps a bit sly, “Who?” After all, you didn’t have a man. You’d slept with one in the past month, sure, but he wasn’t yours. At least, not yet. Well, you didn’t think so. Where was Sicheng?

“I don’t think he’s coming tonight,” you said. “I texted him two hours ago, and he hasn’t responded yet. But, it’s whatever. He’s been feeling sick these past few weeks, anyway.”

Kunhang frowned. “Weird. I saw him on my way over here.”

Your eyes widened. “What?” Then, once you could feel Mark and Yerim’s eyes burn into the side of your face, much softer, “I— I mean… really? Did he say he was on his way?”

“Nah, but I assumed he was. He was in costume, and everything.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. He’s been iffy since you guys came back from the trip, but I’m pretty sure he’ll be fine soon enough. Besides, aren’t you supposed to hate the guy? Why would you have to worry if he even comes—”

“Here!”

You shouldn’t have turned as quickly as you did to the door, your eyes immediately searching for and settling on Sicheng. He stood by the entrance, smiling widely at Kunhang, or you, or Dejun, you weren’t too sure; as your friend had said, he was in costume. Though, what costume exactly he was in, that was a question you couldn’t answer. A large beige coat covered the crisp white button up underneath, brushing his ankles. With it he wore trousers and dress shoes, all seemingly spattered with blood. He’d curled his hair for the occasion. And he looked wonderful.

You watched numbly, stupidly as he approached you, shaking hands and exchanging greetings with your colleagues. Only when he turned to greet you did you even notice he’d come closer to you in the first place.

His palm felt warm as he slipped it into your hand. His smile was expectant, as if you had been the one ghosting him for the past month. His eyes searched for something in yours; whether he found it, or you felt it, you’d soon find out.

His breath felt warm against your face, smelled of black tea and sweet spices. “Hi. Sorry I’m late.”

Being the idiot you were, you smiled and told him, “It’s fine.”

The party went as well as any themed office party could, the atmosphere staying amicable and friendly. Your bosses, Dahye and the CEO of the company, Mr Cho, kept to a corner in the leftmost side of the office, discussing business, most likely, while most of the employees drifted around the place, mingling. You moved from place to place, though finally found somewhere to sit—and, for some, stand—for longer than a few minutes.

You weren’t sure what exactly qualified as Halloween music, not having celebrated it much in the past, but it seemed that Michael Jackson’s Thriller was more than fitting for Donghyuck who, the moment he heard the familiar howling in the intro, shoved his drink into Mark’s hands and announced, “This is my song!” before running off to the makeshift dance floor that had formed in the middle of the room.

Sicheng stayed by your side for most of the night, which, if you’d been paying attention to his behaviour patterns this past while, was uncharacteristically sensible. He didn’t say much, simply crossing his legs over one another from where he sat next to you at a desk that had been carried in earlier, while Dejun talked his ear off about drivel you could only class as director things no one wants to hear about. He smiled accommodatingly, taking periodic sips of the spiked punch Kunhang had pushed into his hands, and offered commentary where he could.

For a moment, he looked like the Sicheng you knew and loved. The one from Before.

Before you went on that road trip, before you slept together, before you admitted to him that you wanted him. Before things changed. Before everything changed. His expression remained stoic and steadfast, pensive at times. His plump lips would curl into the occasional wry smile, though shockingly, not to deliver barbs your way. It made you uncomfortable, almost, him being this nice to you. Sure, he wasn’t saying anything to you, and thus, by all relationship rules ever, ignoring you, but he wasn’t insulting you, either.

At some point, he glanced at you. His gaze was soft, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol. He said nothing, just smiled, lips tightening against his face in a way that finally seemed natural. It was odd. You liked it. You weren’t sure if you wanted it. Or if you’d be able to give him the same. Could you be softer with him, as well? Could you smile at him the way he did at you?

You tried. Based off his reaction, it worked.

And then, of course, because whichever divine deity was ruling from the sky or the nonexistent underworld, that’s when things went to shit.

It was nearing midnight when you noticed Sicheng’s behaviour start to shift. The party had been going on for hours at that point—too long, really, for anyone to still be enjoying themselves. Only a few people lingered, mostly your friends, while the rest went home, thanking you for arranging the party and making the night enjoyable for them. You simply smiled, nodded in thanks, and went on with your evening.

Somewhere in the middle of goodbyes to your coworkers, protecting Kunhang from a persistent Mr Cho, and making sure Donghyuck didn’t break his neck trying to moonwalk, you didn’t notice Sicheng quietly slip away, out of the conversation, out of the room.

You glanced around the emptying room, brows furrowed in question. “Where’s Sicheng?”

Kunhang shrugged from where he sat, munching on the bowl of chips he’d stolen from the snack table. “Dunno. Maybe he went out for a smoke?”

You hummed. It was likely, more so than not; Sicheng sometimes disappeared during work dinners and the like to sneak a cigarette, especially when the night was nearing an end.

Chances were, he’d probably gone up to the roof to have a moment of alone time, just him and a cheap menthol cigarette.

And that’s exactly how you found him.

He was standing with his back to you as you ventured up the steps that led to the roof, staring at the cityscape. Cars whizzed past nearly twenty storeys below, the usual buzz of the city only amplified in the late hour of the night. The inky sky glittered with stars, a rare sight in the middle of Seoul. Smoke floated around his form, the smell of nicotine drifting through the air like slow, bitter mist, personal pollution invading your senses.

You didn’t speak as you went to stand next to him. You didn’t need to, you knew. He wouldn’t question why you were there.

Even when he hated you, he didn’t. 

“I’m glad I caught you before you left.” Your voice was soft, clear as you spoke into the silence.

Sicheng glanced at you confusedly. “Left?”

“You always leave after you smoke.”

He looked down at the cigarette in his hands, propped elegantly between his index and middle finger, a soft snicker escaping him. You’d always been attentive. “Right. I guess I was planning on leaving, but… I’d have said goodbye.”

“Would you?” you asked.

He hesitated. “Yeah.”

You paused like you knew he was lying.

Silence enveloped the two of you; it was tense, thick, like a layer of smog pressing down on you, suffocating you, turning the air sour. It felt stifling, made it difficult to breathe. It took the emotion you already felt and made it swell in your throat, made you want to swallow and forget about it.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said eventually. “Why?”

“I haven’t been—”

“Yes, you have, and you’re wasting both of our time by lying and pretending you’ve not,” you interrupted. “So tell me. Why?”

He sighed. The breath was punctuated by a stream of mist escaping his nose, grey in the cold October air. “I’ve been busy.”

You raised a brow. Explain.

“I’m… I’m transferring departments,” he confessed. “I asked Mr Cho to let me move to the third floor, where Dejun’s working. Dahye finished signing the necessary paperwork two weeks ago. I’ve just been needing to clear out my desk.”

Dahye had leaned back in hear seat easily, shrugging. She hadn’t brought up your previous conversation yet, and she wouldn’t, for this meeting. 

You didn’t say anything for a long while. Couldn’t will yourself to. Sicheng wasn’t looking at you. Maybe it wasn’t because he couldn’t. Or maybe he didn’t want to. You didn’t know anymore—not when, somehow, he’d caught you completely off-guard again. Not when, somehow, he ruined your life for a second, third time and didn’t even seem to have enough balls to care.

Your throat felt dry. Your next words were short, nothing short of pathetic, yet they were all you could find in yourself to say. 

“Oh.” You turned to him, frowning. “Why?”

He shrugged, smiling uncomfortably. He didn’t know. “Because… well, what would be the purpose of me staying in the PR department?”

You hated that you couldn’t give him an answer that didn’t involve your feelings for him. “I— because you… you’re good at what you do, there. What would be the purpose of you moving to directing? I never knew you had a passion for that.”

“I don’t,” he said shortly. “I just—”

“Have a passion for avoiding me?” you interrupted. Childish, childish, you knew. Where had that even come from? “Have a passion for screwing things up between us and disappearing without having to take accountability for it?”

“Hey, I was not the only one making moves,” he said, eyes widening as he set your story straight. At least he was talking about it, you thought bitterly. Unlike the previous weeks, where he’d simply avoided the topic altogether. 

“But you were the one who started it,” you replied. “I wasn’t the one who kissed you first.”

“But you were the one who kissed me back!”

“Because I was surprised!”

He scoffed. “Oh, did I surprise you so much that you had to come to my place a week later and fuck me?”

“Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it.”

“And don’t act like you didn’t hate my guts only two weeks ago. I mean, I don’t get why you’re so worked up about this when you were the one who started this whole thing.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sicheng, you just admitted that you kissed me—”

“Not that,” he shot back. “Before that. Way before that, when you started working here, and you decided one month in that you hated me for no reason.”

That made you pause, because that was not, in the least, the way you remembered it.

“Is that really what you think?” you asked. Your voice sounded small in your ears.

Sicheng sighed, as if you doubt irritated him. “You started this whole rivalry. You decided to hate me. You talked shit about me behind my back. You made it your mission to make my life difficult. That’s why I’m so confused you— you even cared enough to show up to my place and talk to me just to talk to me. That’s why I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up about this, when you hated me first!”

You weren’t sure if your laugh was bitter or incredulous, but it was low, and cut through the air like a knife. Tears gathered in your eyes, hot and angry and hopeless and full of love. “Don’t bullshit me, Dong Sicheng. You told me on my first day that I was a nobody, and that I wouldn’t get anywhere in this industry if I was as much of a tryhard as you thought I was. I hated you back.”

He froze. “What?”

“Don’t you remember?” you asked. 

Sicheng didn’t say anything—didn’t need to, because his face said it all. He didn’t remember.

And that was perhaps what hurt the most.

Your lips trembled. He didn’t remember.

Your hands balled into fists at your side, because he didn’t remember. He hated you all these years, made you feel like shit, called you names, created problems for you because you hated him, but he didn’t know why. He didn’t remember.

Didn’t remember that fateful day three years ago, when you approached him and he regarded you with little more than chagrined tolerance. When you tried to strike up conversation and he shot you down at every turn. When you complimented his work and he, in turn, told you that you wouldn’t get anywhere in the entertainment industry by being a bootlicker.

He didn’t remember the way you’d frozen, heart beating erratically in your chest. Didn’t remember you spitting in his face how much of an ass he was. Didn’t remember you turning and walking away, wondering why on Earth you’d made an idol out of a prick.

“You said I was a nobody,” you muttered bitterly. “I admired you since the day I stepped foot on campus at university, hearing story after story about the literature student turned PR manager at one of Korea’s most famous entertainment companies. The school’s most notable alumnus. I studied literature for three years thinking to myself, ‘I want to go where he went. I want to work with him,’ and the moment I got there, the moment I made it, I was treated like shit. You looked at me like I was something smeared on the bottom of your shoe. You… you belittled me, and the moment I pushed back, you somehow got it into your head that I was your rival.”

A beat.

“And— and still, no matter how much I disliked you, which was a lot, by the fucking way, I took everything you said to heart. When you said I needed to change the way I file shit to work more efficiently, I did, and I still do it the way you told me. When you said I needed to stop being such a brown-noser and be more sure of myself, I stopped, and I haven’t stopped for as long as I’ve known you.” 

You shook your head, wiping harshly at your eyes. Your tears felt hot against your cheeks, cooled quickly in the cold autumn air. “And still, no matter how many times you avoid me, or ghost me, or straight up ignore me, I still somehow find it in myself to be as stupidly in love with you as I’ve been for the past year and a half.”

Because no matter how bad he was to you, you still admired his work. Still admired the way he spoke, still respected him, still cared what he had to say, because if nothing else, Dong Sicheng was fucking good at his job.

And yet, the man of the hour—of the past three years, in your stupid, guileless heart—was stood still in front of you, frozen like a deer in headlights. His mouth opened as if he wanted to say something, and for a moment, all you could think about was how beautiful he looked, because that, too, had never once changed in your time knowing him. His stupid beakish lips and his stupid brown eyes and his stupid accent that had charmed you since day one.

He stood like that for a solid five minutes, staring at you like you were the most beautiful and most terrifying woman he’d seen in his life. Until, eventually, when the cold started to bite at your cheeks and you wondered whether or not you should cut your losses and leave, he managed a weak, “I didn’t know.”

You scoffed, and he rushed, “Seriously, I didn’t. I didn’t because I was stupid— because I am stupid, and because I don’t know how to act around you, and I never did. At first it was because I saw you as a threat, because you were the rookie hire, fresh out of university and full of great fucking ideas. It made me nervous, because you came at a time where I’d been nothing but a liability for a while. Then, over the years, I guess the reason changed. You hating me and turning everything into a competition gave me a reason to go to work again, gave me a reason to prove why I was the best. And while my performance improved… I never felt like I could beat you.”

He sighed softly, shaking his head as if chiding himself for his own pigheadedness. “I don’t know when I started loving you, or when I realised I did, but it happened, and I’ve been sitting with it for almost two years.”

“You make it sound like loving me is some sort of curse,” you murmured.

“It kind of is,” he admitted. “You have… no idea how tiring it is, being in love with someone who actively tries to make your life a living hell.”

You snorted. “I think I know better than anyone.”

A smile broke out on his face; happy, sincere, stretching his lips to the point where it looked like it hurt. He laughed, the sound soft. You laughed with him, still unsure of what else to really do. In moments like these, what else was there to do but laugh at the absurdity of it all?

Sometimes you hate people, and sometimes you love them just as much, and sometimes that makes being around them the greatest hindrance and delight in your life. Sometimes they kiss you, and they don’t know what to do afterwards, and that leads to a series of wonderful mistakes that bring you to a rooftop on Halloween, confessing bitter truths and ardent sentiments. 

Sometimes you fall in love with your asshole coworker, and it takes you three years to find out he felt the same way all along; he was just being an emotionally immature shit about it because he didn’t think you loved him back.

“Nothing of what I said is an excuse,” he began, “for my behaviour over the years. I was a real piece of shit to you, and you never deserved it.”

“Hey,” you protested. “Don’t undermine all the effort I put into being evil just because you want to alologise.”

He snickered. “Fine. Maybe you deserved some of it. I mean, calling me a desperate loser is one thing, but ruining my entire week by putting salt in my coffee is unforgivable. So is writing about me on your gossip column.”

Your eyes widened. “You know about that?”

“Yeah,” he said, like it was obvious. “It’s not like you were hiding it, or anything. Beetlejuice is an awful nickname, by the way.”

You shrugged. “It was that or evil Jim Halpert.”

He scoffed. “You’re so annoying. And that’s an even worse nickname.”

“Mhm.” You hummed. “But you love it, don’t you?”

He tsked. “Yeah,” he admitted. His breath felt warm on your face, coming closer as he took a step forward. His hands felt firm on your hips, fingertips brushing the hem of your dress. He pressed his lips to yours, not kissing you yet. Just teasing, like Sicheng always did. “I love you, unfortunately.”

You were the one to give in, diving in for a desperate kiss, angling your head just right, pulling him down in a way that very nearly made him moan. “I love you, too,” you murmured against his lips, the taste of his spit making you dizzy. Then, a smile, small and breathless. “Unfortunately.”

“So… am I forgiven?”

You pretended to consider the proposal.

“…Maybe.”

He grinned, leaning down to press his lips to yours, before—

“WOO!”

—you turned, shocked, eyes widened, to find all your friends gathered at the door of the roof, smiling like idiots; Kunhang and Yerim probably the widest. Donghyuck had been the one to cheer, pumping his fists in the air as Mark scoffed, jovial smile dropping.

“Dude, you blew our cover!”

“Sorry, I was just so psyched. I mean, I’ve been rooting for them for, like, forever!”

He deadpanned. “I told you about them twenty minutes ago.”

“Don’t yuck my yum, Lee. God, it’s like you hate romance, or something.” 

perm taglist @hyuneskkami @jwiloves @bluedbliss @ayukas @rubiiisyeon @vantxx95 @drunkhee

KUNHANG LIKED TO THINK he knew you.

I mean, it was an objective fact that he knew you, he told himself, watching you from across the table as you pretended to laugh at one of your boyfriend’s jokes; you didn’t overdo it like he’d seen some girls do, but he knew for fucking sure there was no way you actually found his sports-infused gag funny.

You’d known each other since high school, since grade nine, when you transferred from your home country to Macao for whatever reason he still couldn’t figure out. You’d been friends since you were fifteen; he’d seen you in vulnerable, exceedingly embarrassing circumstances, he’d been there for your highest highs and your lowest lows, he’d helped you through heartbreaks and failed tests, cuddled you when you needed comfort, kissed the apples of your cheeks when they were streaked with tears caused by some subnormal jerkoff who’d gotten confident after getting tired of you. He’d seen you in all circumstances, environments, situations—whatever the fuck you want to call it, Kunhang’s probably been through it with you. So, yeah, he liked to think he knew you.

But he could not, for the life of him, figure out why you kept dating the guys you did. Seriously!

When you introduced him to your first boyfriend in grade eleven—some socially-inept computer geek who was most definitely not what girls referred to when they said they liked “quiet, nerdy guys”—Kunhang had assumed it was a lapse in judgment. After all, no one’s first relationship is perfect. Hell, his first relationship was even worse. But he learnt his lesson, and he started dating nicer girls. That was just the thing with you; you always got stuck with the assholes.

It’s not like you didn’t try to find good guys, he reasoned, wrinkling his nose at the way you placed your hand on your boyfriend’s shoulder, the friendship ring Kunhang had bought you years ago glittering where he was sure your engagement ring would take its place one day. You didn’t always go for the same guys the way men pining after their girl friends always claimed they did. You didn’t have a set type, went for anyone you found interesting. Geeks, jocks, stoners, art freaks, whores, coffee enthusiasts; they all won your affection after they’d won your attention. It wasn’t you continuously going for the same type of guy that was the problem—it was the fact that, no matter how hard you tried, no matter how long it took them to reveal that side of themselves, your boyfriends always turned out to be pieces of shit.

You were a strong woman. Not necessarily in the stereotypical sense, but you had a steady head on your shoulders, and you stood for what you believed was right; which, with your iron moral compass, weren’t beliefs easily swayed by anyone with two legs and a dick between them. You were the exact blueprint of the women insecure men feared and everyone else loved, yet somehow, the former always found ways to weasel themselves into your life. Yet somehow, despite having the gift of hindsight, you kept going for them, making yourself small to fit into their mould of what they wanted you to be, even if it meant cutting off your wings to shelter them from your own light.

Yet somehow, Kunhang couldn’t bring himself to harbour negative feelings towards you for your continuous romantic mistakes, because he knew each and every one was well-intentioned. Each and every awful man you dated was someone you thought was going to end up being much better to you than they really were.

But God, was he glad that grace did not extend to your partners.

He was snapped from his reverie by a shove to his shoulder, and turned to see Yangyang glancing at him from behind his frameless spectacles. “What?” he asked, subconsciously looking around the table. “Did I miss something?”

“No,” Yangyang answered evenly, “but you were a million miles away, staring at Chieh like you wanted to kill him and it was starting to freak me out.”

Kunhang sighed a breath of subconscious relief. At least it was only that, and not something more important. At least it had just been him glaring daggers at the twenty seven year old jock from across the table and not him missing a question you asked him, or a smile you sent from across the table, a knowing glance at one of your inside jokes.

He can’t remember why you went out tonight. In the back of his mind he can recall some arbitrary achievement of one of his friends sitting around the table—maybe Dejun got a promotion, or something. All he knew was that you’d brought Chieh with you, despite him clearly not wanting to be there. God. He was filling up the entire space with negative energy because he’d rather be out drinking with his own friends; it made Kunhang sick. Not annoyed. Not upset. Not entertained. Sick.

Kunhang watched you for a few more moments, studied the way you moved, the way you responded to the man next to you. He was in the middle of some personal anecdote that was about sport; for context, Chieh was really into sport. Soccer, specifically. Your best friend watched as you glanced at your boyfriend, a gentle laugh passing through your soft lips. Your eyes were trained on his face, wide and unknowing as he turned to you to explain a rule midway through his story like it was some sort of arcane knowledge and not something you already knew because he always made a fucking point to educate you on it.

You simply smiled, nodding as if it was your first time hearing the information. Kunhang knew you were holding back on telling your boyfriend that you actually knew what he was talking about; he recognised that look of expert restraint in your eyes. You were clever. Knew when to deliver your lines and make it seem like you weren’t that bright.

Okay, he lied. After Kunhang broke up with his first girlfriend, he didn’t learn from his mistakes. He was just as bad at choosing partners as you were.

In a way, his affliction was just like yours. He picked people on a whim, assuming that his presumptions of a healthy, long term relationship would extend to those he dated simply because he himself was expecting it. And, like clockwork, things became sour the moment they were supposed to become serious. The only difference, however, was that he didn’t consider himself a victim of his failed relationships the same way he did you.

A few days after the meaningless celebratory dinner, Kunhang returned home to your shared flat from yet another failed date. It wasn’t anything major that earned it its failed status; they just couldn’t click. She was timid, adorably reserved, and a little bit dull; he was outspoken, annoyingly social, and he supposed a bit overwhelming.

He shut the door to your flat with a click, his shoulders dropping once he was behind closed doors again. He shucked off his denim jacket, chucking it somewhere where it would only be able to bother him in a few days, before looking into the living room.

It was small, cramped like the rest of your lovely Hong Kong flat, but that hadn’t stopped you or Kunhang from trying to decorate it as much as possible, and overstepping even those bounds. The television you’d gotten second-hand one hot summer afternoon was switched off, and you were seated on the polished wood floor, trying to build a coffee table and not succeeding. Or, at least, that’s what it looked like to Kunhang. He wasn’t sure what exactly you were doing, so he couldn’t tell if you were doing it right or wrong.

Your head turned at the sound of the door closing, and you broke into a smile at the sight of your best friend. “Kunhang!” you greeted happily. Then, before he could even return your smile, “Help me build this table.”

He chuckled. “Sure, sweetness,” he nodded.

That was how he ended up sitting across from you on the cold floor, reading the instructions and handing you whichever tools or parts you needed. Kunhang’s finger twitched as he watched you, aching to smooth over the concentrated frown pinching your brows.

“Small screwdriver, please.” You simply opened up your palm, and Kunhang placed it into your hand before you went back to work. “So, how was your date?”

He shrugged, absently flipping through the instruction manual. “Another bust.”

“Aw, what happened?”

“Oh, nothing bad this time,” he assured. “We just didn’t click.”

You pouted thoughtfully, the cogs turning in your head as you formulated an appropriate response to Kunhang’s sentiment. You noticed that he, like you, had always been a bit unlucky in love, and you knew from your past experiences that comfort was desperately needed in times like these, even when a person acted like they didn’t need it. You thought of your own relationship with Chieh. Could you use it as an example to tell Kunhang that, after all the pain and difficulty, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel? Were you happy enough with your boyfriend to suggest that your relationship with him was an ideal to strive for? 

You didn’t know it then, but the very fact that you had to deliberate made it clear that you weren’t, that it wasn’t.

So, with an internal conflict raging in your mind, you offered the generic, “I’m sure you’ll find someone good one day. Who knows, you might even wake up tomorrow morning and meet your soulmate! Piece 10A, please?”

Kunhang snorted, dropping a tiny bolt into your palm. “Mm. Funny,” he remarked. “But it’s okay. It’s not like romance is the be all and end all of my life. I’m not you.”

You didn’t look up from your work. “And that’s supposed to mean…?”

He seemed to finally catch up to the possible insinuation of his last words, and quickly stumbled to save his ass. “I just— I’m not as much of a people person as you are, you know? You enjoy being around people, which is why you enjoy being in relationships, and, uh… that’s not me!” He smiled nervously. “Yeah. That’s what I mean when I say I’m not you.” 

You eyed him warily; he missed the hint of mirth glittering in your irises. “Mhm.”

The two of you spent the rest of the night similarly to that; building the coffee table until it was finished—or, until you gave up and Kunhang assured you that you only needed one table in the flat, and that your second-hand dinner table would do; ordering in while you stood in front of your DVD collection as if you were in a sci-fi film deciding which wire to cut to bring down an enemy ship; talking on the phone and wishing Chieh goodnight while Kunhang rolled his eyes at your boyfriend’s phoney bedroom voice.

Seriously, he didn’t want to hate the guy, but it was like he went out of his way to be an unbearable human being.

You sat on the couch eating Indian takeout and watching old Leslie Cheung films, the comfortable silence melding perfectly with the warm, aromatic spices and wonderful movie dialogue. At some point during the film you were busy with, though, after you’d finished your food and reclined on the couch with two free hands, your eyelids started to droop, heavy from a long day at work.

Kunhang glanced at you through the corner of his eye, taking notice of the way your head lolled to the side, as if it was too heavy for you to keep upright. He smiled gently, before pulling you closer to lay your head on his shoulder. 

You hummed in thanks, wrapping your arms around his middle and squishing your cheek against his sharp, sloped shoulder. 

Physical contact had never been out of the ordinary for you and Kunhang. After all, you’d been friends for going on a decade—cuddles sort of came with the ‘childhood friend’ package, regardless of gender.

He’d always enjoyed it, being able to hold you like this and not feel it was inappropriate just because he was a man, and you were a woman. He’d never felt as if it would change your friendship, taking it from something meaningful to something ruined, something less to something more. That’s what he liked about being friends with you; you saw each other as people, and not romantic prospects. Not obstacles for your respective partners to overcome, not unhealthy or inappropriate replacements for unmet needs.

Though he’d be lying if he said holding you in his arms didn’t bring him any joy, any warmth in his chest. He just knew that warmth came from friendly affection and fondness. Not love. Never love.

“How was work?” Kunhang asked at one point, eyes trained on the television screen.

You sighed. “Fine, I guess.”

“Mm. It doesn’t sound like it was fine.”

“…Okay, yeah, it wasn’t. It was awful. My boss gave me tons of extra paperwork, and I have to hand it in by Wednesday.” You lifted your head, your nose brushing the underside of his jaw. “Today is Monday.”

He snorted softly. “I’m well aware. Would you like me to help you with the paperwork? Two times the workers means we’re working at two times the speed.”

You didn’t grant him a straight yes or no answer, instead pressing your cheek further into his shoulder and muttering, “I love you.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I’m just that good of a friend, huh?”

“Affirmative.”

“Thanks.”

Kunhang wasn’t necessarily a touchy person, hadn’t ever been, since he was a kid. He preferred to have ample space to move around and exist without worrying about someone else existing in that same space, preferred to sleep spread eagle and steal his own covers from himself.

But there had always been—since you were teenagers—something about your touchy nature that made him not mind it as much. Perhaps it was because, for the most part, you didn’t force your love on him, like a child forcing a begrudging pet to love them. Your skinship was born of natural circumstances, so it assumed a natural pattern of occurrence, though it had grown more frequent in recent years.

Some of his partners had been jealous of that.

Some of yours, too.

Well, it’s not like a partner’s jealousy mattered to him, now, be it his or yours. Your affection for one another had only ever been friendly—if one of your insecure boyfriends couldn’t see that, then good riddance was in order.

You were better in every way by design. You were too good for a man’s confine.

“Why do you let him do that?”

The pavement crunched under your feet as you walked arm in arm with Kunhang, down the street leading to your flat. You’d just come back from yet another night out with Chieh and your friends, though this one had ended less favourably than the rest.

Chieh had been going on and on about his coworkers, how they annoyed him and underestimated how much work he really put into the company. He was in the middle of complaining about working more than anyone else when you mentioned an inconsistency in his story, and he hadn’t handled it well.

“But, Chieh, you just said that there wasn’t a lot of work for you to do around the office,” you said. “Didn’t the boss give you time to kill because you finished most of the work earlier than expected?”

He sighed, chagrined, and looked at you like you were an idiot. There was something patronising about the way he spoke to you, in a way that had even Yangyang’s eyes widening. “Babe, that was that day. I’m talking about today. Not every day at the office is the same, you know? It’s not difficult to understand.”

Kunhang had half expected you to bite back with wit, to stand your guard and put him in his place. Instead, your eyes widened, flitting uneasily around the table, missing your friends’ sympathetic looks.

“Right,” you apologised, mumbling. “Sorry. I— yeah, no, you’re right. I was wrong. Please, keep telling your story. I was just getting invested.” You tried for a smile then, and Kunhang had never been more unsettled to see that quirk of your lips that he loved so much.

Chieh had simply scoffed, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re so silly sometimes.”

“Do what?” you asked.

Kunhang rolled his eyes. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know. Chieh belittled you in front of all of us, and you just let him.”

“I didn’t let him do anything,” you replied. “I misunderstood something he was trying to say, and he corrected me. There’s nothing belittling about being proven wrong every once in a while.”

“Oh, please.” His voice came out harsher than he’d meant for it to. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. That man’s been taking advantage of the fact that you’re willing to bend over backwards to make him right, and he’s not even hiding it, because he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with it. Everyone can see it.”

You stopped, and Kunhang didn’t notice that you hadn’t been following him until he was a good ten paces in front of you. He came to a halt, turning to see you already looking at him.

“I don’t appreciate your assumptions about my boyfriend,” you said. “How would you know that he belittles me all the time? You only ever see him when we’re out drinking together, because you’ve made it painfully clear that you wouldn’t want to see him in any other setting,” you added, snippy.

He shook his head, smiling. “See? This is what I mean. When I say something you think is wrong, you get all hotheaded and tear me a new one. When Chieh says something even the biggest dolt would know is wrong, you try to bend reality to make him right.”

“That’s not true,” you said. “I’m not right all the time, you know. It’d be egotistical of me to imply any differently.”

“I’m not saying you’re right all the time,” he pointed out. “I’m saying that you’re minimising the times you are right because your boyfriend’s ego is less structurally stable than properties in Taiwan built before 1998.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “Name one time I did that.”

He raised a brow.

“Okay, don’t,” you decided. “I catch your drift.”

Kunhang noticed the way your shoulders slumped almost immediately, your face falling into an embarrassed appearance. He sighed softly, and closed the distance between you in less than nine steps. “I’m not judging you, you know,” he said. “If I was, you’d have known right away.”

You smiled weakly at the bad joke. It didn’t reach your eyes the way he wanted it to.

“Look—” he tucked his index finger and thumb under your chin, breaths escaping his mouth in wispy plumes in the cold air— “it’s what I keep telling you with every fuckwad that comes along. Stop making yourself small. You’re not stupid, sweetness. You’re not clueless. Your worth is not tied to some guy, especially one that’s supposed to love and adore you for who you are, not for what you become to accommodate his ego.”

You snorted. “Says the man.”

“I think of myself as more of an omniscient, somewhat sexually competent entity, but touché,” he conceded. “But that’s not my point. My point is that a relationship where one party gets to be themselves while the other party is constantly bent over backwards to make their partner happy is not a healthy one, and won’t grow to be one no matter how hard the second party tries to make it work.”

“I know you’re just looking out for me, Heng,” you started, taking his hand and removing it from your face, “but you can’t exactly talk. God knows you haven’t had the best track record with women.”

“Shouldn’t that make me more credible on giving advice about unhealthy relationships?” he asked, smiling.

It dropped when he noticed you clearly didn’t consider yourself to be in on the joke. “Yeah. Whatever. I’ll listen the moment you get a girlfriend who doesn’t treat you like shit.”

He watched as you marched past him, hugging his jacket tighter around your form, your hips swaying this way and that as you walked. He could practically picture your expression; an annoyed, pinch frown marring your brows, your lips caught in a pettish moue while you huffily made your way back home.

Kunhang knew you were supposed to be his best friend, but it was in moments like this—when you snapped at him, put him in his place, generally treated him like a flawed adult instead of some perfect man like he was sure you felt pressured to treat your boyfriends—that he wished you could be more. That he could be what you needed; someone you could scold, and vent to, and listen to, and actually love without having to live in fear of that love dying out because he decided on a whim that you didn’t deserve it anymore. God, why was he fantasising about you scolding him? How was that his ultimate romantic fantasy?

You were a pretty one, nice to romanticise. But you didn’t make yourself easy to like.

You were drunk.

It had been a long day—a long week, long month, long life—and you’d opened the cap of a cheap wine cooler just to take the edge off, to numb yourself and be able to go on with your life without having to face the growing exhaustion present in your body. You’d only planned on drinking one, but that one became two, then three, then the entire six pack Kunhang had bought the previous week; it wasn’t technically yours, because you didn’t consider yourself a drinker. No, it wasn’t just that you didn’t consider yourself a drinker. You weren’t one at all, and everyone who knew you was aware of the fact.

So, then, what had pushed you to the point of getting buzzed up by unnaturally sweet bitch pop?

Well, I suppose “to escape the unbearable weight of the fact that your romantically irresponsible and unlucky friend was right about your boyfriend” wouldn’t be too good of an answer, but it was the only one you had.

You’d known that Kunhang was right for quite some time now. Of course, you weren’t stupid. You knew Chieh didn’t take you seriously, just like how you knew your last boyfriend didn’t take you seriously, nor the one before that, or the one before that… 

You wondered what it was about you that was so attractive to shitty men. Your entire life long, you’d been told that the wrong sort of men would be turned off by how strong-willed you were, that you would never find a traditional man with your attitude, and yet, they seemed to be the only kind of men you could find.

Was it because of how you looked? How you spoke? How you composed yourself in public? What was it that had insecure, close-minded men flocking to you like moths to light? And how did you get rid of it?

You’d gone home after a date with Chieh.

It was a stay-at-home kind of date, wherein you’d binged movies and gotten takeaways, enjoying each other’s company in silence and occasional commentary on whatever you were watching at the time. Chieh was next to you, arms crossed over his chest, paying rapt attention to the action film he’d insisted you put on first. You’d been sitting next to him, legs crisscrossed under you, before you began inching your way closer to him.

He didn’t notice at first, concentration captured by the film. He didn’t notice at all, in fact, until your knee brushed his. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye then, and you could’ve sworn you saw displeasure flash across his face. He frowned, annoyed, leaning out of reach. “Not right now, okay? I don’t want to hold you. It’s been a long day.”

You’d taken the rejection in stride, smiling understandingly and backing up again. You didn’t mind being denied affection; after all, you knew the both of you had had long days at work, and you had different ways of winding down. You liked to be close to him, to someone you loved, while he liked to be given space. And, after all, a happy relationship required small sacrifices from time to time.

He didn’t pay you any attention until it was your turn to choose a film. You’d gone with a classic, a movie you’d watched rotten with Kunhang since it came out in your last year of high school, a movie you’d been meaning to rewatch for a while now. You’d switched it on, sunk back into the couch cushions, and settled happily. The title card flashed on the screen, and all seemed fine.

Then you hit the halfway mark.

Chieh made his way closer to you, his hand landing on your thigh. You glanced at him through the corner of your eye, noticing the change in his gaze.

You smiled softly, removing his hand. “Not now, okay, babe? I don’t want to right now, if that’s alright.”

He grinned. “Oh, come on, baby. It’s not like you’re going to miss anything.” He gestured vaguely to the television, adding, “This isn’t anything special.”

“I said, no, Chieh,” you said.

“Don’t be a—”

“I said, no!”

His eyes widened, though he didn’t say anything for a long while before he actually let go of you. “Fine,” he muttered, reluctantly turning back to the film. “You wanted to touch me half an hour ago, but the moment I want to, you don’t feel like it.”

“And is there something you want to say about that?” you challenged, turning to him with a raised brow. “What’s wrong with me not wanting to have sex with you at this very moment?”

He scoffed. “Nothing. I get that you don’t want to. I just didn’t expect you to be such a bitch about it.”

That was a few hours ago.

Kunhang found you upside down on the couch, peeling the label off a bright purple glass bottle—one of six, of which five had already had their labels messily scratched off. He set down his blazer on the kitchen counter, approaching the en suite living room with a bemused smile.

“And how did you get into my wine cooler stash?” he enquired.

“You’re very bad at hiding things,” you muttered. Your words were clear, though Kunhang could hear the slightest bit of a garble making its way into your speech. You turned to him, your head lolling in his general direction from where it rested on the edge of the sofa. “By the way, the underside of your bed is a hellscape.”

“I’m well aware,” he snarked, before plopping onto the couch next to you, the cushions dipping with his added weight. He was still in his work clothes, his black button up wrinkled from the day’s movement, his trousers straining around his plush, muscular upper thighs. “So… are you going to tell me why you’ve drunk yourself tipsy on a week night, or will you leave that for me to figure out?”

You sighed softly, eyes trained on the empty bottle in your hands. “…He called me a bitch,” you confessed, embarrassed.

Kunhang’s eyes widened, incredulous in his own growing anger. He didn’t even need to be told twice about who he was; it seemed perfectly on par with his previous behaviour. “Why the fuck would he do that?”

You shrugged. “I didn’t want to have sex with him.”

“So he called you a bitch?! What the fuck is his problem? I swear, if he shows up here in the next hour—”

“Well, he didn’t call me a bitch because I didn’t want to have sex with him,” you explained. “He was making moves on me, and I told him I wasn’t in the mood. He started pushing it, and I snapped. Then he got pissed, and said he understood that I didn’t want to, but he didn’t think I’d be such a bitch about it.”

Kunhang stared at you, brows pinched in a frown. “All I’m hearing is that he still called you a bitch.”

“Yeah, but the context—”

“Fuck the context!” he snapped. “Loving boyfriends don’t call their girlfriends bitches, end of story.”

You glanced at your friend, and only when he wiped away tears from your cheeks did you notice that you’d started crying.

“You can say ‘I told you so’ now,” you said, harshly wiping at your own eyes. “You were right, I was wrong. Chieh hates me.”

Kunhang’s eyes softened. “I didn’t say that he hated you.” Though, it seemed an awful lot like he did. “And now is so not the time to rub your face in the fact that you may or may not have been wrong about the guy. I mean, you’re crying, sweetness! Do you really think I’m so heartless that I’d be smug about being right when it comes at the cost of your happiness?” He shook his head. “You’re right to be sceptical, but for as much of an asshole as I am, I’m not amoral. I care.”

You sniffled. He cared. Cared so much that he didn’t behave how he usually would, how he had in the past when you got to that dreaded point of finding out your boyfriend turned out to be awful. Cared so much that, instead of revelling in the fact that he was right, and you were wrong, he was sitting next to you and wiping your tears.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “You do.”

“Of course I do,” he smiled. “You’re my best friend.”

Then, “I wish Chieh cared the way you did.”

Kunhang sighed. “You know, sometimes… so do I.”

Both of you knew that your boyfriend was a flawed person—like any other human being on the planet, including Kunhang and yourself. But there was something about today that hurt you specifically, hurt you so much, because he’d become a perpetrator where he’d always been a cheerleader.

At the beginning of your relationship, your boyfriend had praised you for standing up for yourself and what you believed in; he told you endlessly how much he loved the fact that you didn’t back down from a fight in order to educate someone; he sighed dreamily when you took a snippy tone with a particularly disrespectful man. He sang endless praises for the strong, no-nonsense woman that you were, yet hated when that fierceness, that wit was turned on him.

You didn’t say anything as Kunhang reached over to squeeze your thigh; an action that, when done by someone else a few hours ago, made you stiffen up—but when done by him, in that moment, when you needed it most, comforted you more than anything else could’ve. 

You gazed at Kunhang with a quiet sort of reverence, stared at the face that had seen more sides of you than anyone else had. The man who had once been the boy to show you around Macao when you were new and scared and clueless, to teach you useful phrases of a language you sometimes still struggled to speak. The man who had once been the teen to follow you around like a lost puppy, to kiss you when you asked him to because you trusted him the most, and you wanted your first kiss to be with someone who’d be special to you forever, not just for a fleeting, hormone-fuelled moment.

“I wish I could meet a man like you one day,” you whispered, smiling sadly. “I want to be with someone who I know loves me the way you do.”

He smiled, with just as little happiness as you had. He didn’t bother to tell you that he was right there, that there was no way you were so clueless to not know that he’d been in love with you for eleven years. Instead, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss in the corner of your mouth—not close enough to be wrong, not far enough to only be friendly.

“Yeah,” he said, breath warm against your cheek. “Me, too.”

He wanted to shiver when he noticed how you were looking at him; not in a predatory fashion, but definitely not in a way that could be seen as friendly. Your eyes, glimmering under the low, warm light of the living room, lazily mapped his face, stopping at his lips, dipping down to his collarbones. At that point, it felt as if you actually getting up and kissing him where you were looking would seem less salacious..

But you’d always been that way. Always been flirty without flirting, always conveyed desire without acting on it. Kunhang had accepted it as your personality, had accepted the fact that you two looked at each other as if you wanted to be more than friends, and did nothing about it.

You liked to have your fun. You danced around the lines of what was wrong, and what was right.

Against everyone’s expectations, you broke up with Chieh the following week. It had been a surprise, even to you, that you’d finally mustered up the confidence to nicely tell him to go fuck himself, in the politest, most businesslike tone you could manage.

Your friends were, predictably, over the moon—so much so that they arranged a night out in celebration; Yangyang insisted that you commemorate the occasion and turn it into a personal holiday.

You gathered at your favourite bar, sitting around a crimson leather booth, bathed in the bright light situated above you. You sat between Yangyang and Shuhua, Kunhang sitting across from you, squeezed between Ten and Kun, the former of whom had gotten to the point of inebriation where he insisted on you all leaving and going out to karaoke instead, while the latter tried desperately to keep him in his seat.

“You know,” Yangyang spoke up, “I didn’t say it then, but I knew from the moment you brought him around that there was something wrong with him.”

Shuhua scoffed. “That’s only because he said he thought Schumacher was overrated.”

“Untrue!” he shot back. “I also cared intensely for our dear friend.” He turned to you with a smile. Then, “But, I mean, the fact that he didn’t like Schumacher was the cherry on top for me.”

You chuckled, taking a sip of your own drink. “Totally,” you said. “You were totally thinking of me first.”

Yangyang rolled his eyes. “You think you’re being smart, but all I’m gonna do is agree with you.”

From across the table, Ten tilted his head. “There was also the issue with his lisp.”

“And his soccer obsession,” Kun added dryly.

Your eyes widened, flitting around the table as an astonished laugh left your lips. “I guess he was worse than I thought,” you murmured. “Why didn’t you guys ever tell me you had issues with him?”

Shuhua shrugged. “It wasn’t our place. Besides, he didn’t give us any reason to really hate him until he started calling you names. Every problem we had with him before that was just because he was incredibly annoying to us.”

“And we can’t crucify someone for being annoying,” Yangyang said. “God knows we have our fair share of quirks. I know racing isn’t for everyone,” he added.

“Nor is being incredibly attractive and multi-talented,” Ten acquiesced.

“Or quote-unquote, ‘behaving like an old man’,” Kun pointed out.

“Or reading doomed yaoi on company time,” Shuhua said.

“What we mean to say is— wait, what the fuck?” Yangyang sputtered, turning to the girl. She shrugged, frowning at his shocked expression. He shook his head as if to shake himself free of the words she’d just said, and continued, “What we mean to say is, we didn’t like the guy, but we didn’t actually hate him until he gave us a reason to.”

“Yeah, we’re judgy, but we’re not awful,” Ten said. “Or, well, I’m not.”

“Speaking of awful,” Shuhua started, nodding to Kunhang, “you’ve been awfully quiet since we got here. Don’t you have anything to say? As far as we know, you hated Chieh more than any of us.”

Kunhang merely glanced at his friend, then at you. His eyes were soft, impartial as he tried to compose himself with grace. “You’re right,” he told Shuhua, his eyes still on you. “I didn’t like him. But I’m still disappointed that he lived up to my expectations. Especially considering the fact that you had to get hurt in the process.” These last words, you knew, were directed at you.

There was something off about the way he spoke; a tightness to his voice that you weren’t familiar with, as if he were holding himself back from saying more. 

Neither of you said anything, and the topic of conversation easily shifted to something else—after all, with your friends, a celebratory dinner could only be about one person for so long.

The night continued in a pleasant manner, with you and your friends discussing your days at work, plans for the coming weeks, anything you could say to keep you at the bar for longer before you had to face the music and go home. The lights were turned low, casting a warm glow over your booth, reflecting on the red leather. Kunhang sat across from you, sandwiched between Ten and Kun, listening intently to whatever you were discussing in the moments that passed. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet all night long, and it was finally starting to bother you. 

Because Kunhang was generally a reserved person with his friends, with people he was comfortable with, but this wasn’t him being comfortable. Not when you saw his knuckles tighten and turn white from his hold on his glass, when you noticed his jaw click with unspoken words.

Your friends could only delay the inevitable for so long, and that inevitable came around midnight, when the bar was finally starting to empty out, and you had to admit that it was finally time to go home. You all easily slid out from the booth, some of you (read: Ten, who’d gone back to the bar for a second round of shots just as you were paying the bill) swaying more than others, and bid the bartender, Linhua, a friendly farewell. First to walk out was Yangyang, followed by Shuhua, you, Kunhang, and Kun, the latter of which had taken on the responsibility of helping Ten stay upright when the rest of you balked at the proposition.

Shuhua turned to you, cheeks warm and pink from the alcohol in her system as she pulled you in for a hug. “I’m going to miss you this week,” she muttered into your shoulder. “Make sure to call me as much as you can, okay?”

“Shuhua, we’re just going back to work for the week,” you reminded her. “I’m not immigrating.”

“All I’m hearing is you’re not going to call me, and you hate me, and want me to die.”

Yangyang came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and laying his cheek on your unoccupied shoulder, effectively wrapping you in an inescapable friend sandwich. “Don’t make her die,” he groaned. “She may be a weirdo with a gay fetish, but she’s our only rich friend!”

Kunhang snickered. “Doesn’t your dad own a tech company?”

“Shh!” Yangyang scolded, not even turning back to look at his older friend. “No one needs to know that.”

“Okay,” Kunhang agreed, gently prying Yangyang off you like he was removing a cat from its scratching pole. “You should be getting home to Coco, shouldn’t you? He’s probably missed you today.”

Yangyang gasped, bleary eyes widening. “You’re right!” He marched to the edge of the pavement, and yelled at the top of his lungs, “TAXI! I NEED TO SEE MY SON!”

“Not so loud,” Shuhua scolded, finally letting go of you.

She went to stand next to Yangyang, and joined in on his calls for a taxi despite reprimanding him moments before.

As the two yelled for a taxi, Kunhang approached you, planting a gentle, imperceptible hand on the small of your back. “The old men have already gone home,” he informed you. “Seems like they’re too tired to say goodbye properly.”

You glanced up at him. “Not like we should’ve expected anything less.”

He grinned. It didn’t look right—tight, strained. “You ready to go?”

Before you answered, you directed your attention to Shuhua and Yangyang. “Will you guys be okay?” you asked, calling over the gust of wind that had picked up in the last few moments. Clouds dusted the night sky, though you doubted it would rain. It may have been monsoon season, but the past week had been dry as a desert.

Shuhua simply sent you a thumbs up. You chuckled.

“I guess that settles it,” you said, turning to Kunhang. “Sure, we can go home.”

The walk home was tense.

After you’d escaped the presence of your rowdy, drunk friends, Kunhang’s entire demeanour shifted. He kept a moderate distance between the two of you as you walked on the inside of the pavement, him exposed on the outside. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, eyes trained on the concrete beneath and in front of him, only ever looking up to glance warily at the clouds, which had grown denser since you’d left the bar.

You wondered what you could say to alleviate the tension between you; wondered, specifically, because you had know idea what had caused it, or what part you’d played in causing it.

Ever since that night a week ago when you admitted to what Chieh had done and said to you, Kunhang had been acting peculiarly. He didn’t greet you with a bear hug in the mornings, didn’t spend his evenings after work bingeing movies or playing board games with you like he usually would, didn’t even speak to you unless it was undoubtedly necessary.

“Kunhang?”

Your voice sounded wrong speaking into the silence. Strangled, almost, out of place. Your best friend turned to you nonetheless, dark brows pinched in a concerned frown. 

“Yeah?”

You were usually a confident, assertive woman. You had no problem speaking up against your superiors at work, had never had a problem leaving problematic people in the face of conflict. And yet, glancing at Kunhang, your Heng, not knowing what it is you’d done wrong, not knowing what was causing him to act the way he was… that was infinitely more intimidating.

“I— uh… I was just wondering,” you started, fiddling with your fingers as you walked, “were you—? Are you, um… are you mad at me?”

He stopped in his tracks. “Why would I be mad at you?”

You glanced up at him, pointing loosely to his face. “That’s the thing. I don’t know, but it feels like you’re mad at me.”

He raised a brow, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh, yeah? How so?”

You scoffed. “Come on, Kunhang. You know.”

“No, really, I don’t! Enlighten me.”

“Don’t take that tone with me—”

“What tone, exactly?” he interrupted. “I’m fine. Look at me, listen to me: I am fine. Stop looking for reasons to blame me for the fact that you’re feeling bad. I never—” he bristled, cutting himself off. Then, he chuckled humourlessly. “I don’t need this.”

He turned his back to you, stomping his way up the street, disappearing further and further from your sight.

Now, it would’ve been an awfully cinematic, emotionally-charged moment for it to start raining at that moment, as you were staring at your best friend leave you behind—perhaps both literally and figuratively—and cycling through emotions that you weren’t supposed to be feeling at the sight of a mere childhood friend.

Except, of course, since you weren’t in a romantic drama, it didn’t start raining at that moment.

Instead, it started raining when you ran after him, pulling him closer by the tail of his coat.

“I don’t know what I did,” you said, surprised by the tremble in your own voice, “but I want you to forgive me for it.”

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then,

“I wish nothing but the best for you. But… I hope who’s next sees the rest of you.”

You recoiled. “What?”

Kunhang sighed, shaking his head. When he turned around to face you, large, shiny tears of frustration had gathered in his eyes, clumped his lashes together like bad mascara. “I said I wish nothing but the best for you. But I hope your next boyfriend is as exposed to you as I was.”

You scanned his face for any sign of malice, any indication that he’d said those words to mean that you’d broken him, screwed him up in ways you didn’t even realise.

The truth was, you had. He wouldn’t tell you until a few moments later, but you had. You’d shown him sides of you that you hadn’t even shown the men you’d been at your supposed most vulnerable with. Any other man would feel entitled to you, claim that the price of taking on that emotional labour would be paid by having you in return; Kunhang didn’t see it that way.

He didn’t think you owed him anything—your time, attention, love, sex. He didn’t expect anything of it. 

What he had expected, though, was better from himself.

“That doesn’t mean what you think it means,” he continued. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m making it out to be as if I deserve you, or have some sort of claim to your love just because I’ve been by your side for so long. We both know I don’t think like that. But, God… sometimes I wish I didn’t stick around you for so long.”

When you didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything, eyes too wide with shock, with fear of the unknown, mouth gently parted in an astonished ‘o’, Kunhang continued.

“I’ve been in love with you since we were fifteen. Eleven years, and I know you’ve been in love with me for just as long. I know, because you’re a highly efficient, cynical woman who disposes of people if they don’t enrich her life in some way or other,” he added. You shifted uncomfortably, but he persisted. “I know you love me, because you never stop fucking talking about how you wish you could find someone like me. You never stop talking about it, yet you never stop to think that maybe you don’t need someone like me.”

Maybe you need me, his eyes said.

“Kunhang,” you whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this sooner?”

“Because you’re not stupid,” he said. “Because you knew I loved you, just like you knew you loved me.”

You stilled.

His words, though harsh, rang in your ears like a shrill whistle. You’d known, hadn’t you? You’d always known how your best friend had felt about you. You knew it when he offered to give you extra Cantonese lessons when you were struggling with your studies in high school, you knew it when he agreed to be your first kiss in your last year. You knew it when he moved in with you and didn’t move out even when you both started dating other people, you knew it when he transferred jobs to be closer to home. You knew it when he dried your tears after every bad breakup you had, you knew it when he kissed them away and held you until you fell asleep in his arms.

You’d always known how you felt about your best friend. You knew it when you brought him his favourite snacks in exchange for the extra language lessons, you knew it when you felt the butterflies raging in your stomach and chest at the feeling of his soft lips against yours. You knew it when he moved in and you spent the entire week kissing up to him despite him insisting he’d been meaning to move anyway, you knew when he transferred jobs and you adjusted your work schedule to fit his so that he didn’t have to get up alone in the mornings. You knew it when you sat through each and every one of his relationships with the wrong people, you knew it when you didn’t feel regret at the fact that they left the broken pieces of him for you to pick up every six months.

You’d always known how you felt about each other, and what did you do about it? You tortured yourself, and him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“I guess it’s my own fault, too,” he laughed, dragging a hand over his tear-streaked face to no avail; raindrops splattering on his cheeks and washing the tears away anyway. “I put you and myself through the same torture by not confessing my feelings, or making a move. I can’t be mad at you,” he shrugged. “I can’t make you love me, because you were never mine for the taking. You’re your own person, and you get to do what you want.”

“Even if it fucks over my perception of romance because I have some weird sexual tension thing going with my best friend?” you asked, smiling sadly.

He choked out a laugh, wiping at his eyes. “Oh, fuck. I guess so, yeah.” He straightened his back, posture once again stilted. “Sorry. That wasn’t funny. I shouldn’t have laughed.”

“I don’t mind that you did,” you murmured. “It was supposed to be a joke.”

Kunhang glanced down at you, hand subconsciously reaching for yours. His fingers were cold to the touch when you held them; he gasped softly at the contact, at the feeling of your lips brushing his knuckles as you brought his hand up to your mouth.

“I’m really sorry, Kunhang,” you apologised. You were starting to shiver from the raindrops rolling down your back, soaking your clothes and shoes, but you weren’t going to move until he knew how sorry you were, how far you were willing to go for forgiveness. “You deserved better than whatever I’ve been giving you for the past eleven years. I… you were right, when you said I know that we loved each other. It was stupid of me to try avoiding that by dating the biggest pieces of shit to keep you off my mind.”

“I didn’t know that was an avoidance thing,” he whispered.

“Neither did I,” you said, “until Chieh walked into my life.” You tilted your head thoughtfully. “In a way, he was the best and worst thing to happen to our relationship.”

“Worst, I can concur,” he grumbled. “But best? That’s highly debatable, sweetness.”

“Well, then, allow me to persuade you,” you smiled softly.

You’d only ever kissed Kunhang twice before in your life. Once, the first time, on the rooftop of a friend’s house, tucked away from the attention of everyone else at the party, right after you’d asked him to be your first kiss. Twice, the second time, on that same rooftop, as you realised how intoxicating it was, kissing him, and surged forward for another taste. Both times were as soft, as desperate, as reverent as the one you went for this time, eight years later, yet neither could compare.

His mouth melded perfectly with yours, the tip of his tongue brushing your own as he pressed himself impossibly closer to you. He sighed, deft fingers curling around the belt loops of your pants. He tasted faintly of beer and breath mints—the sweet, spearmint kind. 

He pulled away from you—reluctantly, with every fibre of his being screaming no—with a soft groan. His eyes were stern. “You know, you can’t just kiss me everytime I pour my heart out to you about how you ruined my fucking life.”

“No,” you agreed, pressing a fleeting peck to his swollen lips. “But I can certainly do other things to win your forgiveness, can’t I?”

His eyes widened. “Okay, relax. We haven’t even started dating yet, now you already wanna get in my pants? Talk about women in male—”

“Oh, shut up,” you scolded. “You know that’s not what I meant!”

He rolled his eyes, pulled you into his side and continued to march up the street. “Whatever,” he decided. “Now, come on. I can feel the hypothermia starting to set in, and I want to kiss you in a dry environment without having to worry about freezing to death.”

“Okay,” you acquiesced, tucking your head into his shoulder. “But, Kunhang?”

“Mm, sweetness?”

“Do you forgive me?”

He glanced down at you then, but didn’t dare stop walking. He’d already stopped once, and if he did again, he didn’t think he’d be able to keep going with the way you were looking at him. “Not completely,” he confessed. “But… forgiveness takes time. Just because I don’t forgive you now doesn’t mean I’m going to stay mad at you forever.”

He smiled softly, pressing a reverent kiss to the crown of your head. “Besides, I physically can’t stay mad at you forever. I think I’d just keel over and die.”

“I’m pretty sure I’d suffer the same fate if you were mad at me forever,” you admitted.

Wong Kunhang, your Heng, chuckled. Unshed tears still brimmed in his eyes; he allowed them to fall freely, to take the weight of his heart off his shoulders. “Well, then, I guess you better start kissing up to me so we don’t die in the next week.”

You hummed, pressing a gentle kiss to his jaw. “Good idea, Heng.”

perm taglist @hyuneskkami @jwiloves @bluedbliss @ayukas @rubiiisyeon @vantxx95 @drunkhee

IN APRIL, THE TWO of you spent a lot of time together, just you and Ten.

There had been sights he’d been meaning to see since he’d returned but had never been motivated enough to make the trip. Samut Prakan was a place you’d both agreed on wanting to see at some point during Ten’s rehab time, and it was one you finally had the budget for.

It was a two hour drive there with the infamous Thai traffic at large, and Ten had questioned how you’d be able to get the time off as your week off had long passed, but you’d reassured him that you’d be able to make the trip as one of your colleagues would be covering for you.

Ten had booked a small, rented out flat near city centre for the three days you’d be staying there—and he made sure to check with the owner that there was space to sleep two. He was not about to have a ‘two people but only one bed’ moment with you. Especially not when he couldn’t even sit through sleeping over at your place for one single night without thinking at least once about sticking his tongue down your throat with sheer need.

The day was spent looking over places to go, as you’d arrived mid morning and still had time to tour around the city. Ten insisted on visiting Imperial World first, claiming retail therapy was the best way to start off a trip.

“What do you want for dinner?”

Your voice didn’t reach very far, but still got to Ten, who was standing a few paces away, shopping bags hanging off his arms as he browsed a grocery rack.

The fluorescent lights made his blue-black hair shine, made his form so much more visible beneath his loose-fitting clothes. You wished to crucify yourself for even noticing, and your cheeks burnt with an emotion that could only be compared to religious guilt.

He hummed, his lips forming a thoughtful pout as he picked up a sheet of nori paper.

“I’m feeling sushi tonight,” he said, finally turning to face you.

You nodded, trying to think of what you could say in response. Truthfully, you’d wanted to offer to make dinner for Ten as a thank you for bringing you along on his trip, but you couldn’t make sushi, or, at least, had never tried to—and you assumed he hadn’t, either.

“You?” your friend asked.

You shrugged. “Sushi’s good.” You took the packet of nori sheets he was holding, turning it over in your hands. “I’ve just... never made sushi before.”

Ten raised a brow. “I thought you graduated top of your class and work in a super fancy restaurant?” he asked, teasing.

“Neither of which specialise in Japanese food,” you replied flatly.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, I’ve never made it, either. Why don’t we go out for sushi?”

You shrugged. You hadn’t had sushi in a while, so it would certainly be a nice spoil. “I suppose… given the fact that we’re ‘away,’ we can splurge on food.”

Ten had a moment of thankfulness over the fact that you’d agreed. He’d cooked with you before, and it had been far too intimate for him to handle. A restaurant would be better—sitting across from each other, gazes focused on your own food… until a waiter came, and your focus was broken, and his eyes would travel to yours, and he’d attempt to swallow a lump in his throat, but that would be all, and you’d be able to go back to you rented flat and your separate rooms in peace.

A restaurant would definitely be better for his sanity.

“Okay, but before we go, I want to go buy a new pair of jeans,” Ten said, holding up a slender, authoritative digit. 

You frowned. “You’ve already packed two pairs,” you replied absently, attention having been drawn to a jar of peculiarly pickled vegetables. “And we’ve just gone shopping."

Ten shook his head. “First rule of vacationing, newbie: you can never shop enough.”

Amazingly enough, the restaurant wasn’t too crowded when you arrived. It was a small building, lit warmly with paper lanterns. Paintings lined the black walls, and the sheer yellow lights shone softly above them. The two of you found a booth in a relatively secluded area at the back of the restaurant, and both of you wondered why the hell the other would choose to sit there, in the near dark, with only a single, sensual candle lighting the table.

What the hell is he thinking? you thought as he pointed at the faraway table and you nodded.

While Ten thought, Why the hell would she agree with me? while pulling out a chair for you.

Once you placed your orders and your waiter left to relay your wishes to the chefs, you and your friend sat in silence for a few moments, you toying with your chopsticks, and Ten trying his best to focus on the painting behind you.

A painting of a royal wedding.

“I just want to say…” Ten repressed an animated gulp. “Thanks for coming here with me. I didn’t know if it would be possible, but… I’m glad it turned out to be manageable for you.”

You smiled, and it was as if all prior tension melted away whenever you did. “I’m always keen on visiting new places, Ten. Especially places like this. I’ve been meaning to visit, but…” you shrugged. “Never really had the time. Being a chef is a surprisingly busy occupation.”

Ten chuckled. “Yeah, no shit. Don’t you work from, what, five to ten?”

“If I’m lucky,” you joked. “Sometimes I come home at three in the morning. But I’ve gotten used to it,” you added. “Besides, being awake at three AM has its perks.”

He raised a brow. “Like?”

“Like… being able to talk to you, because you’rs always awake in the early mornings,” you pointed out. “And—well, that’s pretty much the only perk.. but it’s a good one!”

Ten smiled lightly, and his heart shuddered. He knew at the back of his mind that you enjoyed talking to him. Of course, you’d never have picked up his calls even while you were exhausted if he bored you. But, something about hearing from you, listening as the words spilled from your pretty lips, that you liked talking to him, that you valued his company even when you hadn’t slept properly in two days? 

God, Ten didn’t know why that was such a big deal for him. It’s not like hemd never heard it from a girl before. It’s not like he’d never been in a relationship like this before, full of feelings and love and talking above a physical connection. And yet… this felt ten times worse, because you weren’t even in a romantic relationship. You talked this much, spent this much time together, while being ‘just friends.’ You wanted to be around him without wanting something in return, and that was enough to make Ten want to run far, far away.

Far away from any possible feelings he may or may not have had for you.

Which he didn’t. 

Because he didn’t like you like that.

Your food and drinks came, and Ten silently thanked the waiter for the very needed distraction. You ate in silence, only exchanging light conversation in between. Ten complained that the wasabi wasn’t spicy enough, and you smartly supplied that most wasabi in Japanese restaurants was made with horseradish, and that the real thing was often too expensive to manufacture en masse.

“I thought you weren’t a trained sushi chef?” Ten joked, raising a brow.

You deadpanned. “The horseradish fact is common knowledge, Ten.”

He took a sip of his sake. “Yeah, sure.”

The rest of the night passed by in a blur. When ten paid for dinner, you took a taxi back to your rented flat, and Ten immediately plopped in front of the television after slipping into his nightclothes. A black tee and shorts that wrapped around his lithe thighs a certain way, not that you were looking. 

You sat down next to him while he scrolled through Netflix (how was it that nearly every television had it?) and settled on Summer Strike again. Ten was in the mood for seeing his spirit animal on screen. Last time the two of you had watched together, you’d gotten to the fifth episode, just after Bom had ended up in the hospital. 

“I’ve been lying to you,” you confessed at one point, eyes trained to the screen. You itched to turn to Ten while his attention was elsewhere, but thought better of it.

Ten turned to you, a question on the tip of his tongue. “What?” was the only thing he trusted himself to ask. The possibilities of what your next words could be made his heart stop.

You stayed silent for too long.

“I got fired,” was your eventual answer. “All this time I’ve been telling you I got time off—that was a lie. The restaurant is closing down, and I got fired.”

Thank God.

Was what Ten thought when he realised you weren’t planning on confessing anything terribly serious to him, of course. It was terrible that you’d been fired, but...

“Why’s it closing down?” he asked softly.

You shrugged. God, you looked sad. Ten didn’t like seeing you sad. “That’s just how life goes. People stop visiting, things get too expensive to maintain... then restaurants close down.”

And Ten knew how much you’d enjoyed working there. You’d told him that was the first restaurant you’d worked at after quitting the catering job, that it was your first ‘fancy’ job.

“Oh… C’mere.”

Ten hadn’t hugged you a lot in your past few months of friendship. You just weren’t someone who was keen on skinship. But when you did allow him to hug you, your arms looping around his shoulders, your cheek coming to rest in the crook of his neck, spreading coldness across his warm skin, your hair tickling his chin... it felt like he was falling, like he’d just jumped from incredible heights. He pressed a quiet, chaste kiss to his top of your head, squeezing you tighter in his arms.

Neither of you slept easy that night. You tossed and turned in your bed, your head filled with worries of your future, of work, of people you currently called friends with great hesitation. Ten lay awake, staring at his whitewashed ceiling, wondering why he felt the same way he had when he’d gone bungee jumping for the first time.

The next few days were spent walking through streets and browsing through markets, visiting temples and snapping pictures with digital cameras. 

Your nights were spent splayed across the navy couch in your rented unit, attention solely on the screen in front of you... and maybe the man in his pyjamas next to you.

As you drove back to Bangkok on the evening of the last day, back to Ten’s home, the older man thought back on how his life had become ever since he’d met you. The past few months had been spent travelling and spending time together, and it had been a few months in which ten had enjoyed himself greatly. 

It had been a few months in which he’d enjoyed himself more than he had in a while.

“I’m an introvert, but I party like an extrovert.”

Those were words Ten would only say a few months down the line, but they’re words you lived through in the lovely month of may.

You didn’t do clubbing. It simply was not of much importance to you, nor could it ever have been, given how much time you’d previously dedicated to your work. But, due to the abrupt changes in circumstance, you’d been given the opportunity to finally make it a point of importance, much to your chagrin. 

Ten was drunk. As in, incredibly drunk. You presumed he’d done some solo pre-gaming before arriving at the club with you, and had only built on that once he stumbled his way over to the bar, slurring his order to the bartender.

That was about three drinks ago.

Now, your friend had occupied himself by jumping onto the dance floor, swaying his hips in time with the music, smiling drunkenly at the cheers he received. 

Even while inebriated, he was good at it. Dancing. He seemed to let the music take over his whole body, take control of his soul, making for a particularly enticing show to watch from your spot at the bar.

You, too, were drunk. By a large margin, not nearly as much as Ten. You were at the point where you didn’t stumble where you walked, but you had to think twice about whether you were falling asleep or if your eyes were simply drooping. You were seated by the bar, exchanging menial chatter with the bartender while casting fond glances in your friend’s direction. 

“How long have you two been together?” she asked, nodding in Ten’s direction.

And like the Han river in winter, you froze over.

You looked down into your glass, the sharp smell of the alcohol overwhelming your senses. “We... we’re not dating,” you told her. You smiled tightly up at her, shaking your head. “Just friends.”

The bartender had given you a look, as if saying, ‘If you say so,’ before turning to another customer who'd lined up next to you with an order sitting on the tip of their tongue.

Your heartbeat was hammering in your eardrums.

The music in the club was unintelligible; you couldn’t make out the lyrics between the bass and the DJ mixing in other songs on top of all that. All you could make out was a faster, dreamy beat that had Ten whipping his head in your direction and holding out his arms to you.

You shook your head.

“Ten, I can’t dance,” you confessed, your cheeks growing hot under his gaze.

He smiled.

His smile only widened. “You don’t have to know how. Just dance with me. Please.”

The feeling of his hand slipping into yours for the second time was something you’d never forget, even years down the line.

His smile was easy as he twirled you around in his hold, one hand securely holding your hip, slender fingers splayed over the warm skin. He was behind you, then he’d be in front of you, letting go of your hip and then grabbing hold of it again. 

It was like it was just the two of you, bathed in the red light of the dance floor.

Ten’s eyes were on you all throughout the song, unmoving when someone almost bumped into him, distant when someone else asked him to dance. He merely said no, his eyes still on yours. Throughout the entire four minutes that song played, you were frozen, only momentarily moving when Ten took things into his own hands and moved with you, swaying both of your hips to the beat, bumping his forehead with yours as he moved closer.

His breath smelled of the sweet liquor he’d taken long sips of earlier. His hair felt soft and smelled like the shampoo he always used. His lips looked velvety, smooth to the touch. They came so close, whispering a hushed thanks in your ear the same way they did a month ago.

The feeling of being in his arms, looping around your body, his fingers trailing down your waist all the way to your hip—

“You’re a great friend,” Ten said softly, his lips plush against a glass of liquor he’d purchased as soon as you went to sit down again. “None of my other friends ever want to go clubbing with me.”

If you act the same way you did with me, your brain said to itself, I can easily see why. 

Instead of responding to his soft-spoken words, you smiled, trying to take the drink out of his hands. “Ten,” you tried. “You’re drunk. You can’t drink any more than you already have.”

He scoffed. His smile was teasing. “For your information, I know that I’m drunk, Mum. What I also know is that I’m twenty seven, and can therefore drink as much as I damn please,” he added, as he made a grab for the glass.

You leaned out of his reach. “And what I know is that you’re sure to be a pain when you're shitfaced, and as the person who has to take care of you in the morning, I don’t much feel like dealing with that side of you when it’s preventable.”

“You’re so mature,” Ten scoffed, almost like it was an insult. 

You raised a brow. “Should I not be?”

“No, you shouldn't.” He pulled a face, and it took you a moment to realise he was pouting. Cute. “You make it so hard to hate you. Y—you’re mature, you’re selfless—” he hiccuped, expression becoming annoyed— “and you’re smart, too. You’re so damn smart it makes me sick.”

You froze, a bit caught off guard by the nature of his words. He was saying it was difficult to hate you—was that a compliment, an insult, or some secret third thing you didn’t know about?

“I’m terribly sorry that I’m not a hateable person to you,” you said softly. 

You couldn’t help but smile, couldn’t help but think how cute Ten looked like this. God, you should not have started drinking. 

“I’ll try harder to make you hate me.”

“I hate you.”

Ten’s narrowed eyes met yours as the light to your living room was flicked on, invading his deep drunken slumber. You’d strolled into the room carrying a breakfast tray, sleep still clouding your features, before turning on the light and subsequently waking the sleeping beast.

“I know,” was all you said as you set the tray down onto your coffee table, placing it in front of your friend. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and stretching his arms over his head, shivering a bit from the action.

He stared at the tray for a while, unmoving even when you took one of the cups from it and sat down next to him.

“You made breakfast.”

This wasn’t the first time you'd cooked for ten. Of course, you were a chef. It was literally your job—not to mention, one you loved doing. But Tern had once told him that getting you to cook for someone outside of a restaurant kitchen was as difficult as getting Ten to put on a show without getting paid the thirty six dollars he worked so hard for. 

Sure, you’d cooked with him, helped him those few times you came over to his parents’ for dinner, but that was mostly because Ten didn’t know the first thing about cooking properly and, well, you did.

And yet, right before his droopy eyes, was a tray full of food meant for his consumption. Rice, eggs (just the way he liked them, no less), bacon, and even pancakes. Hotteok, a Korean food he'd mentioned craving in passing. Your area of expertise wasn’t even Korean food and yet, he mentioned craving it, and you made it. There was a cup of coffee set next to the plate, light brown and sweet to the taste-/just the way he liked it—and next to the food lay a bottle of Chinese herbal medicine supposed to help with headaches.

You didn’t mention anything, merely crossing your legs from your spot next to him and drinking your tea like it was nothing.

Like you hadn’t just given him breakfast in bed, like you hadn't just done the most romantic and intimate thing a person could do for someone who was, upon wordless prior agreement, only supposed to be your friend.

You nodded in response to his words. “Food helps with hangovers,” you said simply. “And you said you’d been craving these.” You then gestured loosely to the hotteok, shrugging. “So I made you breakfast.”

When he didn’t respond, you asked, “There’s nothing... wrong with me making you breakfast, is there?”

The way you asked it, sounding so genuine in your concern—it made Ten want to scream. He just couldn't figure you out. One moment, you’re acting all shy and repressed, freezing up when the tips of his fingers lingered too long, came too close—and then all of a sudden you’re acting indifferent and dispassionate like you did when you'd first met him. All of a sudden you’ve gone back to your blunt, honest self.

Ten was supposed to be the emotionally distant one, switching up whenever he pleased. He was supposed to be the one infuriating you for how you couldn’t figure him out. He was supposed to be the one confusing you, making you question your sanity. Ten didn’t much like being on the receiving of this equation when he was usually the one giving.

“No,” Ten forced himself to say. “Just a little... intimate, don’t you think?”

You shook your head. “I don’t think.” Standing up from your spot, you said, “I made you breakfast because you haven’t eaten anything since five PM yesterday and I don’t want you to die on my couch, not because I’m in love with you or because I want to sleep with you. Now, eat. Please.”

Ten left your flat at eight thirty in the morning, right after finishing his breakfast and wishing you a hushed thanks. He’d all but raced out of there, not caring that he hadn’t yet brushed his teeth, that he hadn’t changed out of the previous night's clothes, that his cheeks were burning pink as he left your apartment building.

You didn’t seem to be bothered by his sudden change in attitude, seeming caught up in your own problems. Ten yearned to ask out about them, to try and make them better and take the concerned crease from your brows, but he was at such a conflict of interest he feared his head would burst open if he spent another moment in the pheromone-infested spider’s den that was your home. The smell of your scented candles, the incense that burnt early in the morning, the soft, summery scent of your Enlee perfume that still haunted his dreams, the smell of coffee and tea and all sorts of mild spices... it would’ve driven him insane.

Yangyang had tried to call him twenty times throughout the night, despite Ten not having any memory of his phone buzzing or his special ringtone going off. Then again, he hadn’t remembered going home with you and yet he’d woken up on your couch, curled up in your soft blankets.

He only called his friend back once he made it back to his parents’ house, seated on the couch after surviving an onslaught of kisses and questions from his mother. She’d become accustomed to Ten staying out late at night, but the case of him spending the night at your place had only occurred once, excluding today. 

“Oh, my God, he’s alive!”

Ten scoffed as Yangyang’s voice crackled to life through his phone speakers, the younger man laughing in mock glee as soon as he’d picked up the phone.

“I don’t remember you being such a pain in the ass when we were roommates,” Ten grumbled. “Is this a new development?”

“Distance makes the heart grow fonder,” was all Yangyang replied, smiling. Ten could almost see it through the phone.

“Whatever you say,” Ten murmured. “Why did you call me twenty times last night? Not to mention why you left me sixteen voicemails of you yelling incoherent shit in Chinese. Should I be worried?”

“No,” Yangyang said immediately, “I don’t think so...? Wait—did I call you last night?”

“Twenty times,” Ten reaffirmed, nodding. 

“I’m sure all of them were for a perfectly logical reason,” Yangyang said. “Just like there had to be a good reason as to why I sent you sixteen voicemails of me screaming... but I’m currently too hungover to remember just what those reasons are.”

Before Ten could respond, Yangyang made a noise—the same one he always made when he remembered whatever he wanted to say.

“Oh! Our manager wanted me to call you to tell you that they’re sending over a filming crew in June,” he said. “We’re gearing up for a comeback and they wanted to film your trailer in Thailand.”

Ten frowned, sitting up straighter in his spot. “Comeback? Us? When? Where? Wh—why the fuck am I only finding out about this now?”

“Relax, Jesus,” Yangyang sighed. “The comeback is only in August. Didn’t you get the email SM sent you last night? We all got one.”

Quickly switching from his call to his personal email account, Yangyang still waiting for his response, Ten refreshed his emails until a letter popped up in bold, titled, NCT NATION 2023.

15 MAY, 17.00 KST

TO: NCT

FROM: SM Creative Department

Evening, members of NCT.

In celebration of seven years of Neo Culture Technology as an active group, SM Entertainment has decided to have a full-group comeback during August 2023, as well as a concert that will be taking place in Incheon, Munhak Stadium, August 26th at 06.00 PM. 

While the album is still in beta, it is estimated that it will consist of nine songs featuring unique member lineups that will be written with the aid of our trusted songwriters as well as you, the members of NCT.

Part of the album preparation will be member trailers, each showcasing a member’s unique environment that perfectly captures their essence as an artist and their place in the group. Ten out of twenty members have already filmed their trailers earlier in the year, however members TEN, JOHNNY, WINWIN, YANGYANG, KUN, JENO, YUTA, HAECHAN, JISUNG, and CHENLE still need to have their trailers filmed. 

“More information will be released between the end of this month up until June 30th,” Ten read from the email, his frown fading. “Best regards, Lee Sooman and the SM creative team."

Okay, so it wasn’t like he’d missed something major. Still, it felt... odd, being so far from the situation. Ten was usually one of the first to know about comebacks, and even though this had been a recent development, he felt like he was the last to know. He felt like he’d... missed something, almost, because he was too busy living in the moment, too busy caring about his own semiromantic drama that he’d missed an important announcement that had to do with the job he so loved doing.

Almost as if reading his senior’s thoughts, Yangyang hummed, saying, “You didn’t miss anything too major. The creative team just told me to tell you about the filming crew, since they didn’t want you to fly out with your injury.”

Right. His injury. 

Almost as if on command, a pain flared up in Ten’s knee, making him hiss in discomfort. It had been doing alright as of late, and he’d dropped the crutches way back in March, however he suspected his dancing queen moment last night must’ve set him back a few weeks.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ten said distractedly, “That— that makes sense. I’ll be ready when they come.”

Yangyang nodded before remembering Ten couldn’t see him through the screen. 

“So how’s it been, Ten hyung?” he asked. “I know we talked yesterday morning, but… I don’t know, I’ve lately been feeling like you’re holding back on me. You’re not telling me everything."

Ten chuckled. “Yangyang, I wouldn’t lie to you for no reason like that. My name isn’t Nakamoto Yuta, professional pathological liar.”

“But your name is Ten Lee, professional emotional torture artist,” his junior replied. 

Ten rolled his eyes. “Okay, now you’re reading into this way too much. If there was a problem, I’d tell you. I won’t ever, ever keep something from you like that."

“…If you say so, Ten.”

The rest of the month passed by in a pleasant haze, as the atmosphere between yourself and Ten had gone somewhat untouched, briefly going back to the way it was before Ten started denying his pesky feelings getting involved.

Your relationship was difficult to describe, in the way it was ever changing. Some days, it was like how you’d been when you’d first met, pleasant and polite, with the slight air of preconceived personas coming through. Other days, it was easy, comfortable, the way it had been around the two month mark. And other days, other nights, there was something so... vulnerable in the way you thought of one another. Something so vulnerable in the way your hearts ached and yet you didn’t dare to tell the other in fear of that ache not being returned.

Ten had found somewhat of a sweet spot in his long time hanging out with you, to perfectly avoid that vulnerable, sinful window of doubt and lust he found himself in. He just needed to follow the old How I Met Your Mother rule:

Nothing good happens after 2 AM.

Ever since he’d remembered that integral rule, it had been smooth sailing with you. There were no more soft-spoken phone calls at three in the morning, no more breakfasts in bed, no more dances that made the inside of his legs ache with want. He only saw you during the day, sometimes pushing it and having dinner with you. But he always left before the clock struck twelve, always said his sweet goodbyes with a promise to see you the next day. 

In his mind, he was doing everything right. Too much time together made his mind hazy, and too much time apart made his heart ache. He’d found the perfect balance of time spent together, and time spent apart.

But that didn’t mean it all went according to plan. After all, Ten wasn’t the only one in this relationship.

Your feet swung off the edge of the deck, fingers scraping off the label of the drink in your hands. Your feet occasionally dipped into the cold water, disappearing into the inky black liquid, before you pulled them out again, crossing your legs and starting up your conversation again.

A tank top hung off Ten’s shoulders, revealing the crescent moon tattoo he’d had done a few years prior. It was once a scar, a reminder of another obstacle he’d overcome, before he decided to turn it into something more beautiful, more meaningful.

“When did you get your first tattoo?”

It was your soft voice that pulled ten from his reverie, making his head turn to you with an easy smile ready. He hummed. He always looked like a mischievous cat when he smiled like that, almost like a cheshire cat smiling down at you through the moon's rays.

“Let’s see,” he started. “I got my first tattoo two years after I debuted in NCT, when I was twenty two. It was... this one.”

He lifted the flowy material of his shirt, revealing the tattoo he’d had done on his chest. You’d seen it a few times, but had never been so brave as to ask about it; that would mean you’d indirectly have to admit to staring at your friend’s bare chest more than a few times. 

It was a crescent moon, the edge spiked with thorns, a star hanging off the bottom. The once fine lines had faded into his skin a bit, making the once sharp edges appear softer on his bronze skin.

“I had heart surgery as a baby,” Ten explained. “It had left a sizeable scar here just above my heart. It was visible every time I took off my shirt. So I decided to make it prettier.” He finally looked up at you, his eyes soft as his tone of voice. “It symbolised an obstacle I overcame. The scar served as a reminder of how strong I was... and I wanted to treat that as a work of art.”

You stared at the inked art still, your eyes fixated on the soft spot of skin your friend cared to reveal to you.

“Now, what about you?” he asked. “Any tattoos? Any first tattoos I would want to know about?”

You nodded, not taking much time to process his request. You twisted your arm, revealing a spot you’d had done about a year ago.

In a scrawled font Ten recognised as his sister’s handwriting, surrounded by little stardrop doodles, the delicate scripture revealed a message that had him frowning a bit due to his lack of context.

Wave.

“It’s stupid,” you dismissed once you saw him frown. “The full quote is ‘new wave’—uh, Tern has the other half of the message tattooed on her other arm so that the words mirror each other. It… it’s my first and only tattoo. Tern and I had it done about six months into our friendship after we got a bit drunk and emotional about some things that had happened in the past. It.. Well, I’m not good at explaining it, but it symbolises us as the new generation, the new wave in the ocean that is a multigenerational society.”

Ten nodded along to your explanation, his eyes softening as you revealed the true meaning behind the cute scrawl. Part of him was surprised you got his sister to get a tattoo with you, but a bigger part of him felt his heart swell with affection. His mother wasn’t wrong when she said you had similar outlooks on life.

“I don’t think it's stupid,” Ten said, softly tracing the words embedded into your skin. “I’m more surprised you got my ever traditional sister to get a tattoo.”

You chuckled. “It was Tern who suggested it, actually.”

Ten’s eyes widened. “Really? Damn... things really have changed since I left."

Your arms dropped back to your sides, the tips of your fingers softly landing on his knuckles. “What makes you say that?”

He shrugged. “Just... a lot of things. My sister never used to be as unconventional as she is now. My mother and father never spent their days instigating my dating life—or, at least, my dad never did. Thailand never used to be this hot. I never used to be this…”

He shook his head, smiling. “Just small things like that, you know? Small things that remind me just how long I’ve been away."

You hummed, your expression falling back into indifference like it had been before. Ten feared he was the cause of that, and silently wished he’d kept the atmosphere light.

“Mm... well, I’m glad you’re back,” you said. “Even if only for a few months. It’s nice to be in the same place at the same time as you.”

God, Ten hated when you did that.

When your gaze on him became so soft, when your words became profound and saccharine as your smile, when your lips became that much more kissable. He hated when you did that, because it made him feel ready to throw away all the work he’d put into not falling in love with you.

“It’s crazy we’ve known each other for so long, isn’t it?” Ten found himself asking, eyes fixated on your lips. So soft. So pillowy. So inviting. “I came here in February, and it’s been, what, three? four months that we’ve known each other.”

Three months, two weeks, three days, four hours and twenty six minutes.

You nodded, not swayed by his sudden change in subject. “I remember how you didn’t want to interact with me at all in the beginning. You even hid from me the first time I saw you,” you said simply.

Ten groaned, smiling in embarrassment. “Don’t you dare remind me. My mom kept talking about you and how cool she thought you were. I never expected her to be right!”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You didn’t even get half of the hyping up that I got. From the moment your mom knew more than my name, she was talking about how well we’d hit it off and how I’d surely sweep you off your feet."

“And look where we are,” Ten said. “Three months later, and we’re the best of friends.”

“No offence,” you said, “but I already have one Leechaiyapornkul sibling playing the role of best friend, and I’d rather offend you than Tern.”

He smiled, rolling his eyes heavenwards. He knew you were joking. Your friendship meant as much to you as it did to him. After all, you’d have long dropped him if your late night walks and deep talks didn’t bring you joy.

“I really do respect them,” you said eventually. “Your family, I mean,” you added, to avoid any misunderstanding. You leaned back a bit, and Ten caught himself staring at your tattoo, now aware of where it was. “They’ve become something of a family to me in my time here. And it’s not like I’m saying I took your place or anything.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “I just came here... completely alone. Really, I had absolutely no one. No friends from school, no boyfriend, no family contact. Nothing. I only had my shitty job and a shitty flat. But when I met your sister, when we became friends—that’s when it felt like my new life here had finally started. When I met your parents, it felt like I was finally able to settle down here.”

He never did say it, but he understood what you were trying to express. He’d felt the same way when he’d moved to Korea. He had been completely alone, not understanding a word of what was spoken around him, never having the opportunity to talk to his family, to go back to a comfortable familiar. And then Taeyong had walked into his life, invited him to a special place in his heart, dragging a band of misfits behind him.

“If I’m being honest, I don’t think my mom would mind you actually being in our family,” Ten said dryly. “You’d be like the third child she’d always wanted.”

You smiled, still fiddling with the label of your drink, softened by the condensation on the bottle. “I wouldn’t mind being in your family, either. You’re all some of the best people I’ve ever met."

“What, Mum and Dad give you a hard time back home?” Ten joked.

When your expression twisted into something morose, Ten wished he’d kept his mouth shut. He instantly wanted to say something, longed to take away the pain he’d caused you.

“I don’t want to go into detail,” was all you said. “If that’s okay with you?”

You stayed like that for a while, just looking at him, your eyes expectant as if truly waiting for his permission on the matter.

“Of course it’s okay with me,” he breathed. “I’m— I’m sorry I ever said anything.” He was honest, sincere.

“Don’t be,” you replied softly. “Don’t ever be sorry for not knowing something I could’ve told you.”

“Do you speak Mandarin?”

You started a bit at Ten’s sudden words, turning to look at him, brow raised over your reading glasses, freshly rinsed scallions still in your hands.

“My mom once told me you speak four languages,” Ten explained, eyes still trained on the vegetables he was chopping, almost sensing your confusion. “I was just curious which languages you spoke.”

“Oh.”

Turning back to the basin, tossing more scallions under the water, you said, “Yes, I speak mandarin. I speak five languages, though. Not four.”

Ten perked up. “Really?”

You nodded. “Mhm. There’s Thai, of course, since I live here. Mandarin, because for the first six months of culinary school I lived in a neighbourhood with a big Chinese population and had to get around. Thai sign language, because one of my first roommates here was hearing impaired and couldn’t read lips too well. English, because I was required to learn it in school, and…”

Your native language, of course.

“That’s... really impressive,” Ten breathed. “I only speak five languages because my company tells me I have to.”

You turned to him, handing him more vegetables to cut. “Don’t sell yourself short, Ten. Five languages is still five languages. You sing and speak in, what, your third, fourth, and fifth languages? That’s incredibly impressive, no matter who tells you what to learn. Your ability is certainly not any less because our learning circumstances are different, so don’t let me sense you trying to pass it off as such.”

At the last sentence, Ten’s mother strolled into the kitchen, looking like she was eager for a piece of gossip.

It was the beginning of the new month, and Ten and yourself had taken it upon yourselves to prepare a dinner for Ten’s family in celebration of the new month. Tern and her boyfriend had also been invited, and though the beginning of a new month wasn’t really that good of an excuse to throw a dinner party, you could tell Ten’s mother enjoyed having her family all together for one night.

“What are we talking about?” the older woman asked, taking a seat at the kitchen island.

Ten smiled, his cheeks still warm from your previous little rant. “Nothing, Mum. Just... multilingual stuff.”

“Oh, I’ve always been impressed by how smart the both of you are,” Mrs Leechaiyapornkul said, ready to lay the flattery on thick. “Speaking so many languages like that—only geniuses can do that!”

Ten raised a brow. “I suppose the delinquents I live with must also be geniuses in your book, Mum.”

She nodded. “Of course they are! Especially your younger friend, Huang Renjun. He’s so incredibly respectful, too—has a very good idea of what it means to keep face.”

You, ever unaware of Mrs Leechaiyapornkul’s obsession with Ten’s younger member, sent a questioning glance in his direction, to which your friend simply shook his head.

The rest of the night passed in a blur, the hours it took you and Ten to complete dinner and the minutes it took you to settle down at the table all blending together into one big montage. You sat next to Tern and her boyfriend at the dinner table, while Ten sat across from you next to their mother, while Mr Leechaiyapornkul was seated at the head of the table. 

The evening passed by in a pleasant haze, filled with deep conversations and genuine smiles. It became late before you actually realised how much time you’d spent at the Leechaiyapornkul house, and you realised that you’d surely need to head home if you still wanted to make it before it got completely dark.

“Oh, don’t worry about that!” Mrs Leechaiyapornkul dismissed. “You can sleep over, no? Ten and Tern are spending the night as well!”

“Mum, I live here,” Ten chuckled. 

Internally, he was losing his shit. He was depending on you going home early to keep his sanity intact. All this close proximity was making him burn up, was making him become lovelorn and heartfelt again. He didn’t want to act on any emotions that had only been brought on because you were the only woman currently closest to him—or something pathetically-thought-out along those same lines.

You, amazingly, were feeling the exact same. Except, instead of thinking you’d do something you regret simply because Ten was the only man currently closest to you, you feared you’d act on the emotions you knew Ten stirred in you. You knew yourself too well to trust yourself around him.

It was an absolute miracle how you kept it together the two times he’d slept over.

“I really can’t stay, Mrs Lee,” you smiled. “I have a handful of responsibilities at home, and I feel like I’ve imposed on your family time quite enough as is.”

Ten’s mother looked in the mood to argue, but she kept her steady smile and let you excuse yourself for the night. Her only request was that Ten see you off.

“Sorry about her,” Ten said, leading you down the steps back to your car. “You know that whenever you’re around, she gets a bit... matchmake-y.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “That’s no problem for me. I— I’d have loved to stay over, but I really do have a bunch of things to do at home. I wasn’t lying."

“Good night,” was all he said, opening your car door and helping you inside. Then, a whisper, “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, okay? I’ll see you soon."

In Ten’s mind, he was simply doing what you were doing—being kind, and being sexy while doing it.

In your mind, one that had never used your niceness as an ulterior motive, big red alarms titled ‘feelings’ were going off. They were going off hard.

Baggy Jeans sounded like shit.

Later into June, SM Entertainment scheduled several Zoom meetings between Ten and the members, and he spent hours with them and the songwriters on lyrics, and extra hours with the choreographers. Today’s meeting was hearing the demo for the comeback’s title track, Baggy Jeans.

It, as he said before, sounded like shit.

He supposed with Korean lyrics and better sounding voices the song wouldn’t sound too bad, but with this current version, the one they had to sit through? It was a massive, steaming hot mess.

Ten sat through those three minutes with an expressionless face, his hands covering his mouth so as to stop himself from word vomiting on the poor songwriters.

Taeyong, on the other hand, was loving it.

“This is it,” he said after the first two seconds of the song started playing. “This is our title track.”

After the demo listening, Ten had a meeting with Taeyong, Dongyoung, Jaehyun, Mark, and their choreographer. The aforementioned six were all in NCT’s practice room, while Ten was back in Thailand at his personal work desk. Part of him felt like these zoom meetings were just to include him in the process. After all, he only needed to record his lines and he was perfectly capable of memorising several choreographies in a month.

It felt nice, though, to be back in his old work environment. He liked taking notes again, and he liked seeing his members again, even if it was just through a computer screen. He felt at home in environments like these, where his friends were present and he wasn’t always on the verge of his brain and heart exploding due to internal sexual and romantic conflict.

“I think, on the second beat of the verse, rather than that, we should do the first move we discussed,” Ten said as the choreographer nodded along to his points, agreeing.

“So, like, instead of ta-ta-ta,” said Mark, mimicking the new move they came up with, his form visible from where they’d set up the laptop in one of the company’s practice rooms, “we do ta-ta-ta?” then he did the first move they'd discussed.

“Perfect,” was all Ten needed to say, giving the younger man a thumbs up.

Taeyong nodded, parroting the move. “I think we should keep most of our original ideas for the choreography. It seems more us. More authentic, you know?”

Jaehyun laughed. “You think this—” he whirled around, mimicking the ass grab move his leader had suggested— “is us?”

Ten had laughed along with him, the light sounds bubbling in his throat. It lasted for a bit, him just bundled up in his hoodie in his home office laughing at how Jaehyun had grabbed his ass. Or, Ten thought, laughing harder at the mere thought, the crevice in his pants that wouldn’t’ve been there if he’d actually had an ass to grab.

After the 7th Sense unit meeting, Ten had a sitdown with SM’s creative team. Like with the rest of the Zoom calls, their computer was set up in one of SM’s conference rooms, while Ten’s was set up on his personal desk at home.

“We were brainstorming possible places where we could film your trailer,” said Areum, one of the creative execs. “Do you have any ideas, Ten?”

Ten looked down at his notebook, staring at the nearly blank page. He’d written down only two places: Samut Prakan, and The Maharaj.

Samut Prakan, the city where he once spent a day with you. Or The Maharaj.

The Maharaj was an expensive, high-end restaurant near the Chao Phraya river, a place where Ten had previously spent a lot of time. It was surrounded by beautiful, beautiful sites. Rama VIII bridge, Wat Phra Kaew, Wat Arun... 

“Do you have any ideas, Ten?”

“You know where The Maharaj is?”

It was late. Very late.

Ten had spent his entire day on a boat, dealing with filming crews, managers, making calls, taking them. He’d been in the middle of filming a shot when an exec had said “Time out!” to take a call.

He leaned against the balcony of the aforementioned restaurant, and had previously been filming bits of his trailer there, going back and forth between there and the boat the crew had rented for the day. His phone was pressed to his ear, and there was an easy smile on his face.

That could only mean one thing.

“Of course I know where The Maharaj is,” you answered, making your way down the steps that ran next to the Chao Phraya river, the low, warm lights of surrounding buildings far outshone by the temple of the Emerald Buddha. “Every chef in Thailand knows and dreams about that place.”

“Oh.”

And here Ten was, thinking he’d be able to show you something magnificent. 

Part of him forgets you’d lived in Thailand for half a decade by this point.

“Well, I’m right by the second floor balcony,” he said, turning so that he was looking down at the ground beneath him, noticing passersby and hoping to catch a glimpse of you. “Just look up when you get here.”

“Won’t the filming crew stop me before I get there?” you asked. Last you’d checked, K-pop staff took their job as idols’ protectors very seriously, and you weren’t much in the mood to get tackled into a river by one of Ten’s crewmen.

You made your way through a small crowd of people, all holding large cameras and big furry mics that you’d only seen on radio shows before. They seemed to pay you no mind, which confused you.

“I told them I was expecting a guest.” 

You stopped at how near his voice now sounded. Looking up, you saw Ten staring down at you, warm light from the restaurant enveloping him and shining around him like a halo. The white tank top he wore was loose-fitting, showcasing all the lovely little doodles placed expertly over his body. He’d shrugged on a flowy white button down, and the jeans he wore were those he’d bought while shopping with you a few weeks prior.

He merely smiled when you didn’t respond.

The night passed considerably fast, with Ten and his crew scurrying all over the place. You, conversely, had taken a seat by the docks, right next to the rented boat Ten was busy filming the last of his scenes on.

It was a bit odd, seeing him in such a professional setting. He was here, in Thailand, dressed in clothes he’d wear out on a normal day, authentic as he came, and yet... something still felt different. As if his attitude had done a complete one-eighty, going from the easy, laidback person you knew to the terse, passionate idol people described him to be. 

You knew no one could be the same off and during work hours. Even you had your moments when you were completely unrecognisable. No one was supposed to be recognisable in such circumstances. Work and daily life were two completely separate things, meant to be kept as far apart as humanly possible.

And yet, you didn’t hate seeing this side of him.

His smile was wide and easy when he approached you with the message that he’d finally wrapped up filming. He took your arm softly, just standing in front of you for a bit, his slender fingers wrapped around your arm.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d take too kindly to me bothering you at this hour—”

You gave him a look. He rolled his eyes.

“—and I know you keep insisting that I could never bother you,” he said. “That doesn’t make me any less grateful that you came to keep me company while filming. I can feel two things at once,” he added.

Your look faded into something of a smile, and you shrugged. “I’d never turn down the opportunity for a free boat ride in one of the most beautiful spots in the country.”

The boat certainly wasn’t the biggest you’d ever seen, but it was a beautiful thing, with its dark brown interior, with its variety of paper lamps hanging all over the place, bathing the whole atmosphere in a light as warm as Ten’s eyes on you as you stared out at the river, your arms crossed in front of you as you took in the sight before you.

You drifted past the beautiful Rama VIII bridge, made your way past Wat Anur in complete comfortable silence. 

Something about the place you’d found yourself in, the proximity you shared with Ten; it made your stomach ache with flocks of butterflies, made your heart beat quicker than was comfortable.

As you passed Wat Phra Kaew, Ten broke his gaze from you to focus on the water in front of him, his eyes searching the golden lights the way they’d searched your face bathed in that same light.

He wasn’t completely sure why he’d invited you. After all, this went against his own after dark policy. God, this even went against his own company’s rules. He wasn’t allowed to have anyone besides himself and his crew present. Anything else could, at best, leave him with a scolding and, at worst, result in the termination of his contract.

But they’d wrapped filming earlier than expected, and Ten still had two hours left on the boat’s warranty. He didn’t want to spend it alone, nor did he want to make the tired crew stay any longer than they wished just because he felt lonely.

And part of him felt like he was doing the right thing.

Another part of him knew he just couldn’t stay away from you, regardless of if this visit was for his own selfish gain or for your happiness.

“I’ve always wanted to do this,” you said at one point.

Ten looked back to you for an explanation, smiling in slight confusion at your sudden words.

“Go on the river, I mean,” you said. You pointed to the Asiatique mall, a place Ten himself was very familiar with, and continued, “I’d always be standing near the railing there, looking out onto the river, watching boats pass by. I never had the money or time to rent a boat for the night and just... drift past, looking back at dry land the way I am now.

“When I first moved here,” you continued, “I kept a notebook, filled with things I wanted to do with future friends or…” you stopped a bit, carefully choosing your next words. “…a different kind of loved one.”

“And what were those things?” ten asked, soft and intrigued.

You scoffed a laugh, embarrassed by your own misty-eyed moment. “Small, stupid things,” you dismissed.

Ten leaned in closer, bumping his bare shoulder with yours. “Like…?

“Like... coffee in Chinatown.”

...Ten places his order. A condensed milk coffee over ice, substituting cow’s milk for coconut milk. You made a mental note that he had somewhat of a sweet tooth, and that he didn’t drink cow’s milk...

“Or like cooking for someone who wasn’t a paying customer where I worked.”

You held the spoon to his lips, urging him to taste. He smiled once he did, suggesting, “Maybe a little bit more cream?”

“Or like going to a concert.”

“Thanks for coming with me,” he said, not fighting to be heard over the music. You could easily make out what he’d said just based on the curve of his lips. Was that bad? “None of my friends wanted to go out with me when I was here last.”

“Or like visiting Samut Prakan together.”

There had been sights he’d been meaning to see since he’d returned but had never been motivated enough to make the trip. Samut Prakan was a place you’d both agreed on wanting to see at some point during Ten’s rehab time, and it was one you finally had the budget for.

You shrugged. “And... this, like I said earlier. floating over the river late at night, just us two.”

Ten knew ‘us two’ was supposed to refer to whoever you’d have chosen to do this with, and that it was not exclusive to him and him alone. But part of him took it as such, part of his heart broke at the fact that he could never truly be part of an ‘us two,’ not even right now, when he had someone to complete a pair with right in front of him. Someone he was interested in, someone he cared for.

Someone he loved.

Because for Ten, everything was temporary. Temporary as the flings he had while abroad, temporary as his stay in Thailand. temporary as the fleeting moments of vulnerability with his friends, temporary as the few moments he got to himself when he wasn't working, when he wasn't on stage, or hopping on a plane to a new country. 

Nothing, and he means nothing, was ever constant. Constant as his mother’s matchmaking, constant as your indifferent bluntness to anyone who wasn’t Ten. Constant as your love for the colour green, constant as his hatred for fruit. Constant as your plush lips revealing simple truths, constant as his sister teasing him about everything under the sun. 

Nothing was ever constant in his fast paced life, and up until recently, he’d liked it that way. Unchanging in its continual change. 

“Well,” he started, a painful lump in his throat, “I hope you find someone to do these things with.”

Your expression while your eyes landed on his made his heart break, made it ache the way it did when he looked at you for too long. 

It was one of understanding; one that said, 

It’s okay. I know you want me. But I know I want you more. I know you don’t love me the way I love you.

God, it made him feel like shit.

“Yeah,” you said. “I hope so, too.”

You both turned back to the water, staring at the inky black masses in front of you. You caught glimpses of Ten’s reflection in the water, messy and garbled. It felt like a pretty accurate representation of what it felt like to know him. Messy. All over the place. Never the same.

Ten stared at you through the water, finding beauty in your body even when your reflection was obscured through the surface.

Part of him longed to be reckless. To just wrap his arms around your waist and slot your lips together in a heated kiss. He wondered how you’d react to such an advance. Would you kiss him back? Would you sigh in pleasure and return his affection with fervour? Or would you pull away? Would you balk, and try to explain to him that all those months of fleeting touches, of early mornings spent together, had just been your unique way of showing explicitly platonic affection?

Another part of him knew he couldn’t. He’d admit it, yes, he may have had feelings for you. but he couldn’t throw away a decade of work for the first pretty foreigner he saw. If he kissed you, if he took things further, made it clear that he didn’t want to be ‘just friends,’ what then? If he took you into his arms and made love to you to his heart’s content at this very moment, how would he proceed?

He was leaving for Korea between 12 July and August 1st. That left him with—if he took the jump and just fucking kissed you—one month. One month to be in the honeymoon phase, to be all lovey dovey in a way that would make his friends vomit. 

A month was not a long time. This had been proven, over and over again, with each month that went by and Ten spent with you. Sometimes he didn’t even realise a month had passed. Other times he wondered how something as short as five months felt like five years. How could he love you in one month? How could he make sure you received almost five months’ worth of love and adoration in one, and then be okay when he left and didn’t return until he was touring there?

The obvious possibility of a long distance relationship was not an option. He’d decided early on that someone like you deserved someone you could see and kiss every day. Someone you could have spread out for you like a charcuterie board with the snap of a finger.

As much as he’d love to, Ten couldn’t be that someone for you.

So... where did that leave him? With an aching heart as his return home came closer and closer, with lips that had gone without the kisses they so longed to give? A soul full of longing, one half fighting for his love and the other fighting for his life?

Maybe.

“Why did you want to become an idol, Ten?”

The older man started, ripped from his reverie by your sudden question.

“Why did I want to become an idol?"

You nodded, not noticing how your fingers slipped between the other’s, as if by second nature.

He didn’t smile when he explained it, unlike all the other times he’d been asked that exact question. “To be honest,” he started, “I don’t know. I guess— I’d always dreamt of being a performer. And for the longest time, I didn’t really know what that meant. When I was younger, I thought it meant singing and dancing on stage, so that’s what I did. That’s what I’ve been doing. And I won't lie and say I don’t enjoy it. It’s... exhilarating, being on stage in front of thousands of people who came just to see you. It’s... empowering, knowing that you broke through in such a difficult industry.

“I guess I also took it as a bit of a challenge, you know?” Ten continued, a small smile growing on his face. “Ever since my granny introduced me to K-pop as a genre and I said, ‘I want to do that,’ there were people who told me no. Who told me that some nobody from Thailand wouldn’t be able to make it in one of the most cutthroat music scenes. I was too this, I was too that. I wasn’t enough of this, I didn’t have enough of that. So I, all of sixteen years old, said, ‘Okay, watch me.’ And so... that got me where I am now.”

He turned to you, playing with one of the rings resting around your thumb. “Part of me regrets it,” he said. “Part of me wishes... I did something smarter. Like, I don’t know, studied marketing or art in London. Wishes I’d followed in my friends’ footsteps and actually made an adult decision." 

He shrugged, smiling an embarrassed smile and feeling grateful at your patience with his monologue.

“You can still do that,” you said, leaning down so that your chin was resting on his arm, and your faces were finally level. Your noses almost brushed. “It’s never too late to change directions. or, even, just add a route to the path you’re currently taking. You can still be an idol and be an artist. You contain multitudes, ten. Everyone does. and no one is meant to only take one route in life, even if they stay on the same path.”

Ten wasn’t sure if it was your proximity or your soft-spoken words that made his breath catch in his throat.

“I know,” he replied. “Doesn’t make my conflict any less infuriating.”

You smiled. “That, I can agree on. Being multifaceted is all fun and games until your different personalities are at war.”

Ten laughed, the sound light and airy in your ears. He didn’t move from his spot, nor did you. Not even when he settled, enveloping you in virtual silence, did either of you move, the sounds of the water lapping at the boat’s edge the only actual sound echoing in your ears.

“Why did you want to become a chef?” Ten asked, as a way of filling the silence he’d created.

Your eyes widened a bit, quite obviously not expecting the personal question. Ten mimicked your expression, awaiting your answer. You hummed, thinking.

“My parents wanted me to be a pianist,” you started, “so I thought to myself, ‘What is a career in that exact opposite direction?’ and became a chef just to piss them off.”

Ten rolled his eyes. “Be serious.”

“I am,” you insisted, before sighing, your pupils shaking a bit under his gaze. “I suppose I became a chef for the same reason you became an idol; it was presented as a challenge. I used to work in a restaurant as a waitress—a Thai restaurant, funnily enough—and one day I asked the owner why there weren’f any female chefs. He told me that women couldn’t handle the stress of a kitchen, couldn’t deliver when given a chef’s task, and I wanted to prove him wrong.

“I guess it was also because I really do find it to be a type of art in its own right. If not that, then it’s a full contact sport.” You smiled, and Ten couldn’t tell if it was a happy one or not. “A lot of people think being a chef is just making food, when it’s so much more than that. It’s hours, and hours of thankless work, both inside and outside of a restaurant. Sure, anyone can cook at home, anyone can follow a recipe, but not everyone can withstand the sheer pressure of being a chef. And there’s something so… exciting about that, you know?”

Ten knew. It was what drew him to becoming an idol, as he'd said. Anyone could dance, anyone could sing, anyone could rap, but not everyone could handle sleepless days, sleepless months. Not everyone could handle the pressure of having the public eye on you at all times, of always having to be perfect.

He nodded. “I know.”

He knew very well.

You soon fell into silence once more, but this time it was comfortable, void of the angst and heartache your previous ones had been filled with. Still you did not move from your spots, leaning on your arms and looking deep into each other's eyes.

Ten was once taught that the eyes are the gateway to the soul.

If your eyes were truly revealing anything, being genuine under those soft stares, those adoring crinkles around them when you smiled, Ten knew you had the most beautiful soul in the world.

And he’d cherish it, even if he could only do so from a great, great distance.

Ten wished he’d never opened his emails.

The month of June had passed, as had several meetings with nct members and SM’s creative teams. June made way for July, and Ten had spent all of his free time with you, despite your own free time becoming less and less due to you throwing yourself into a job search. 

The idol had spent most of his current day at home, attending meetings and taking notes left and right. He’d been a bit annoyed throughout the week, seeing as how he’d visited his doctor on monday for a checkup on his knee, and had subsequently been told that he’d have to wait almost an entire week for the results.

The results which would tell him whether or not he’d be returning to seoul on the weekend.

The thought alone drove him up the wall. He’d have to pack, have to break the news to practically his entire family and say his goodbyes once again. 

He’d have to bid you goodbye. 

He didn’t want to do that. No matter how much he denied his love for you, or how crazy you drove him, or how many times he came to realise that he’d always have had to say goodbye at some point or other, he still didn’t want to. 

Didn’t want to have to look into your eyes as he announced his departure with no promise of a future together. Didn’t want to have to hug you one last time. Didn’t want to have to say goodbye to your touch.

And yet, here he was, reading a dreaded email as he tried to keep the tears out of his eyes.

JULY 14th, 2023

TO: Ten Lee

FROM: Doctor Mi

Congratulations, Ten! The tear in your knee has been completely healed within the discussed healing period. 

You will be able to return to Korea as soon as tomorrow morning, as long as you make sure to take it easy on your knee for now. It may have healed completely, but cannot yet take the strain you are used to applying. 

It was a pleasure to see you heal so quickly.

Best regards,

Doctor Araminta Mi.

You will be able to return to Korea as soon as tomorrow morning. 

Great. That was just great. Ten had healed quicker than expected, and thus was able to do just what he’d been longing to do since the moment he stepped foot in the country; go back to Seoul.

He’d get to go back to his exciting life, where no one day was the same. He’d be able to return to his tight schedule, to his friends, to his beloved songs and concerts. He’d be off around the world again.

So why was he not happy?

Don’t get him wrong. Part of him was. Going home meant no romantic confusion, and no meddling family. 

But going home meant no you.

Seoul had everything. Technology, adoring fans, SM Entertainment, a bustling nightlife, lifelong friends. 

But it didn’t have you.

It didn’t have your dry, self-depricating humour. It didn’t have the skirts that hugged your waist the way Ten liked. It didn’t have your plush, pillowy lips, or the absurd and profound words and tired little sighs that spilled from them. It didn’t have your hands, icily soft to the touch on his burning skin. It didn’t have your eyes, ever changing yet constant in their emotion. 

Seoul had his home, had his work, had his life.

But it did not have you.

For a moment, he weighed the possibility of asking you to come with him. You’d easily be granted a visa and a work opportunity, with your extensive experience. You could live with him, let him love you in secret. Away from the cameras, away from his crazy fans. You’d both live happily ever after in Seoul, and that could be that.

But he quickly dismissed it, as tempted as he was to ask you.

Because just like he had a life in Seoul, you had a life in Bangkok.

He cried after reading the email. Almost as much as his mother had when he'd first arrived. He cried all the way to his room, all through his packing process. He cried until it was dark, and his entire room was spotless, just the way his mother had left it when he’d left the first time, ten years ago.

He cried when he said goodbye to his parents, cried when he said goodbye to his sister over the phone despite all of them inevitably insisting on accompanying him to the airport the next morning.

He got a text message confirming his flight, and bitterly thought of how SM Entertainment must’ve also been in contact with his doctor, as per their agreement. They probably booked him a flight as soon as they received the okay.

They probably rejoiced at the thought of stealing him away from his sombre paradise.

He was at your doorstep again.

After your night in June, Ten would come all the way to your door in the late hours of the night or the early hours of morning, raise a hand to knock, then let it drop to his side and skulk away. 

He meant nothing predatory by it. Really, he didn’t. He simply longed to see you, to talk to you, to touch you, but never had the confidence to come further than your doorstep.

This time, however, was different.

As he waited for you to open your door, part of him wondered if you even cared to, seeing how tired you’d get after work which would just result in you plopping down on your couch with Min’d cats and passing out.

Ten’s suitcase, his carry-on, as well as Louis, Leon, and Levi were back at his parents’. His mother had insisted that he should properly say goodbye to you before leaving for the airport early in the morning, and so insisted that he leave them there and pick them up on his way to the airport, as well as his family who’d wished to see him off before he went back to his second home. Just so that he could spend one last night with you.

Your eyes were tired when you opened the door, unsuspecting as they crinkled at the sides when you smiled at the sight of him.

“Ten!”

In that moment, Ten didn’t know what came over him. Maybe it was the sound of your voice that set him off, or the smell of your perfume, or the curve of your hips, or the bursting of his heart as he thought about leaving an angel like you behind. 

All he knew was that he was a man possessed.

His lips on yours were intense, passionate as they moved against your own as he all but fell through the threshold of your flat. You’d made a small noise of surprise, but it did not last long. Quickly, as naturally as breathing, your arms wrapped around his neck, ringed fingers finding purchase between the soft strands of hair that curled around his nape. 

Your lips were as soft as he’d imagined, he thought, pulling away for only a few moments before pressing passionate pecks all over your face and neck, fingers curling around the back of your shirt.

“I need you,” was all he trusted himself to say, dragging his tongue over your bottom lip as he kissed you once again. “I’ve needed you for so long.”

You stumbled through your flat, hands messily coming to undo buttons, zips, and belts through hushed whispers of baby, of I need you too, of You should’ve told me you needed me. Your lips stayed on each other’s, straying only to kiss a neck, or the tip of a finger, or to bite a bottom lip and sigh breathily, movements stuttering at the sensation; while hands strayed, searching desperately for a place to stay. His fingers curled around your clothes, found purchases around your body once those were gone. Yours touched his lips, his collarbone, his hipbone, the v leading downward from there.

His lips tasted of the sweetest poison, you thought, catching a small taste of condensed milk and coffee on his tongue. A poison you could absolutely drown yourself in until you perished by the tender, deadly hands of lust and gluttony.

It was a gentle, passionate affair. It was not comparable to the tense nights you’d spent wishing you’d said no, or the messy nights Ten ended up abandoning as soon as they ended. You took care of each other, tender in his touches, benign in your oaths and affirmations. he spoke sweetly into your ear, and you breathed softly into his mouth. He called you baby, you called him sweetheart.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make a move sooner,” you’d said at one point. “I didn’t think— I didn’t know—”

“Don’t be,” he replied softly. His lips were red and swollen from your kisses. He was poised perfectly over you, silver pendant landing perfectly on your lips as if to silence your breathy apologies. Somewhere in the back of his mind, amidst the hungry kisses and the breathy groans, he wondered how badly he’d fucked up your friendship. The thought didn’t last long. “Don’t ever be sorry for not knowing something I could’ve told you.”

It did not last long, for six months of pent up affections could only leave one with so much endurance. You soon fell next to one another, limbs weak with overexertion, hearts filled with love.

You lay in each other’s arms, your head resting in the crook of his neck, occasionally pressing kisses to the warm skin, gleaming with sweat. He pressed soft kisses to your forehead, sometimes taking your chin between his forefinger and thumb and slotting your lips together in a heated kiss. 

“I love you,” he’d whispered after his lips departed from your own, the swollen skin still brushing together. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

“I love you, too, Ten.”

You’d fallen asleep sooner than later, your breaths steadying against Ten’s chest. The idol could feel his own eyes becoming heavy, but was lurched back to reality when he first woke up again.

It wasn’t that late. 23.09 is what your bedside clock read when Ten lifted his head just that little bit to check the time. He’d already calculated that he’d have to stop by his house to pick up his luggage and three sons at five, to get to the airport at six, to get on his flight which left at seven. 

Which left him with five hours to hold you in his arms and pretend like he wouldn’t have to leave come daybreak.

He pressed a small kiss to your forehead, merely ruffling your hair and laying his cheek atop your head, wordless as you were further enveloped in a love-filled slumber.

Bangkok International Airport got very quiet early in the morning. Despite it being absolutely bustling on the regular, it was always quiet while the sun came up. The entire airport only had a few dozen people milling about, departing or arriving with their suitcases strung behind them.

Ten was glad for the silence. Any time he was spotted at an airport, he was ambushed by photographers, eager for a picture of him. He was approached by fans who’d surely spent the previous night there, all to get a good look at him and his friends and have their fanfiction protagonist moment.

Tern’s arms were wrapped tightly around her brother’s form as she enveloped him in a hug.

“I’m going to miss your ugly face,” she grumbled, chin wobbling as she tried to keep her tears at bay. The younger woman sniffled, looking at Ten like he’d done something wrong. “And your stupid Sheen voice.”

With the early morning sun filtering through the large windows, bathing Tern in the natural light, Ten could almost imagine her to be ten years younger, wishing him the same aggressive goodbye as she had when he’d left home for the first time.

“I’m going to miss you, too, you crybaby,” Ten chuckled. “But I’ll definitely keep in touch. Whenever I have a moment, I’ll call you. I’ll take up all your time, and always text, asking you if you’ve been eating and—”

“Okay, all I need is monthly calls!” Tern interrupted. “Thank you very much.”

Ten smiled widely, nodding. His father then wished him goodbye, hugging his son tight with promises of keeping in touch no matter their schedules.

And, last but not least, the cause and solution to all of his problems, Mama Lee.

She was teary as she wrapped Ten up in a hug, resting her chin on his shoulder. She held him tight, standing in place for what felt like several minutes.

“I’m gonna miss you, mum,” Ten said, his voice muffled by her hair. “It was amazing to be back here for so long. ‘M sorry I was so eager to leave in the beginning.”

She only kissed his forehead, cupping his cheeks fondly. “I’m glad you stayed, as well, Chittaphon. I’ve missed you terribly since you left and feared you were missing out on life.” Their foreheads met, and his mother continued, “I’m grateful that I got to see you experience life as I thought it would be for you. Even when you didn’t exactly reap the benefits I sowed,” she added, smiling mischievously.

Ten’s throat tightened at the indirect mention of you, smiling stiffly. His hands had been trembling slightly before, though he felt them properly shake when the topic of you came up.

He nodded, shrugging. “Sorry, mum. Still no jub. B-but I’ll.. We’ll make sure to keep in touch,” he assured, though he was certain you’d block his number after he slept with you and disappeared without a trace the next morning.

He wouldn’t fault you for it.

He descended the steps to the departure gate, waving as best as he could with both of his hands holding his luggage. Leon mewled from inside his crate, and Ten tutted empathetically.

“Don’t worry, Leon. We’ll be back home soon enough.”

┈┈┈┈┈┈

“You were right, Yang. I wasn’t telling you everything.”

perm taglist @hyuneskkami @jwiloves @bluedbliss @ayukas @rubiiisyeon @vantxx95 @drunkhee

“WHAT ABOUT LOUIS, Leon, and Levi?”

“You can take them with you.”

“And Bella?”

“Dejun always takes care of her anyway.”

“What about the dorm? I know you guys are total pigs when I’m—”

“Ten!” Kunhang snapped. His face held the gravity of an uncharacteristically serious disposition, his eyes were weary. “You. Have. To. Go.”

Ten was about to interrupt when his junior held up a slender digit, signalling he wasn’t finished with his tangent.

“Your knee injury acted up again, and you’re worried about the dorm? About your cats?” he asked, incredulity spilling from his lips. “If Sicheng hadn’t noticed your limp and you’d continued performing, we might’ve had to amputate!”

Ten scoffed. “We wouldn’t’ve had to amputate, Dery. I’m fine!”

Kunhang deadpanned. “You’re in a wheelchair, gege.”

As mentioned, Ten’s old knee injury had acted up while WayV were performing in China a few days ago. It was a gradual pain at first, and Ten, being the endurance-oriented man he was, ignored it and continued on his jolly way, practicing for six plus hours as he usually did. All was fine and well, save for the occasional shot of pain up his thigh, until one morning Ten had decided to head out to the practice studio a few hours earlier than everyone else, and Sicheng had found him trying to crawl out of the practice room with tears of pain streaming down his face.

All six of the guys were currently sat in one of SM’s conference rooms, the concert having been cut short (much to Ten’s dismay) due to his injury, all of them sat around the long table, accompanied by their manager, choreographer, and medical professional.

Doctor Shin, WayV’s designated medical practitioner, dietitian and trainer, sighed in his spot next to Ten, leaning forward as he crossed his arms on top of the table.

“Yongheum, you’ve torn your ACL—and with the way you overexerted it, you’d need at least six months to rehabilitate.”

“Six months?!” Ten asked, astonished, not even noticing the switch from ‘Ten’ to ‘Yongheum’. 

Shin shrugged. “Six... to eight. Nine, if you try dancing again too soon.”

The dancer’s expression crumbled, soon shifting to annoyance. “Great. So I’m out of the game for six months. No dancing, no recording, no concerts, no... no nothing. For six months?”

“Ten, you had to get emergency surgery,” Kun said, voice level. “Six months is the minimum, and that’s with a brace and crutches.”

Ten scoffed, bitter. “At least it’ll be an upgrade from the wheelchair,” he said, tapping the armrest of the wheelchair he was currently sat in.

Yangyang snorted, before being met with glares from his other seniors. “Sorry.”

Ten sighed. He didn’t enjoy being injured or sick. It had always been nothing more than an inconvenience to him. Being less than capable made him feel weak, useless. People (namely Kun and Yangyang) treated him like he was made of porcelain, and cared way more than he would've liked to admit was endearing. He hated that.

And he hated how they’d ganged up on him. How his members went to their superiors, of all people, while Ten was passed out in the ER, to alert them of his “fatal injury”. Now they’d booked him a flight to Bangkok that wouldn’t return until over half a year was gone. He wasn’t even as happy as he would’ve been that he could take Louis, Leon and Levi to stay with him.

“…When does my flight leave?”

Bangkok International Airport got very quiet at night. Despite it being absolutely bustling on the regular, it was always quiet after the sun set. The entire airport only had a few dozen people milling about, departing or arriving with their suitcases strung behind them.

Ten was glad for the silence. Any time he was spotted at an airport, he was ambushed by photographers, eager for a picture of him. He was approached by fans who’d surely spent the previous night there, all to get a good look at him and his friends and have their fanfiction protagonist moment.

Two airport workers flanked him as he walked through the arrival gates, aided by the crutches he’d switched to before his flight. The workers were holding three pet carriers, each of them containing one of Ten’s furry kids. The worker on his left, who only had one carrier in hand, held the handle of his suitcase in the other, while Ten’s personal backpack hung off his own slender shoulders.

The knee brace was nothing short of a pain. It had bumped against several passengers while ten stepped off the plane, leaving him to apologise profusely. It made his leg sweaty, and it made his skin feel stale. He wanted nothing more than to just rip it off, but he was afraid going against Shin’d orders would have him sit out an extra two months of promotions.

He made his way to the arrival gate, where fellow passengers were greeted by family or friends, all holding signs with sweet words written in a familiar curled scripture.

Almost right as he stepped into the large hall, Ten saw his parents waiting for him. His mother, beautiful as ever in her golden years, seemed desperately to be trying to keep her composure, while his father stayed cool and calm (a trait Ten was grateful to have inherited from him), but as soon as his mother saw him, her entire demeanour changed.

She crashed into his chest with a long-awaited hug, minding his brace and crutches, while his father simply walked behind his wife and smiled at his son, coming up to pat his shoulder.

Ten’s heart started to ache, but he dared not let any negative emotion show. He chuckled, light and airy as his demeanour, patting his mom on the back like he wasn’t holding back just as many tears as she was crying.

“Hi, Mum,” he said fondly, resting some of his weight onto her. “…Miss me?”

The first few days of Ten’s stay were relatively relaxing. 

He was back in his childhood home, back in his old room which was still decorated with cringey SHINee and EXO posters that surely would’ve made his friends in those groups feel embarrassed beyond explanation. His mother cried a lot, like a lot, whenever she saw him look a particular way; when he was helping to set the table for dinner; when he fell asleep on his bed or the couch with Louis, Leon and Levi draped over him like fur blankets; when he sat on the shallow edge of the pool, not going further than the steps. Ten often had to remind himself that he hadn’t seen his family consistently in a long time. 

Sure, he visited whenever he was in the country, but this was the first of him moving back in with them since he left for Korea all those years ago.

His brace would be coming off in a few days’ time—Shin had said it was only necessary for a week, if he treated it correctly. So far, Ten had been nothing but gentle with himself, so he hoped the doctors could give him the go-ahead to remove the damn thing by the end of the week.

Ten liked being in Thailand again. It was nice and warm, the people were friendly, and it was easier to stick to his diet than it was in Korea—and most importantly, he could stay inside and do nothing all day. 

He certainly enjoyed being back home and, as mentioned, the week had gotten off to a good start.

That is, until his mother got over her melancholic hysterics and began scheming. 

Mama Lee had always enjoyed indulging in such activities, especially when it came to her eldest son. Her unmarried eldest son.

“—And she is a sous chef, so she can cook!”

The older woman beamed at her son, hands excitedly spread flat against the table as she waited for her son to answer before—

No, she decided, he must know more!

“She’s a bit younger, but it’s not that bad,” she said, animated as she marketed the girl like a merchant trying to sell his best cut of pork. “She’s Tern’s age, and she speaks four languages, just like you!”

Mum, ten thought. I speak five.

“She works in the restaurant just a small drive from here—” she narrowed the distance between her index finger and thumb, neatly manicured nails clicking together— “and she always adds extra peppers to our dishes when she knows it’s us ordering, and she gets along well with Tern, and she’s incredibly respectful—”

“Mum, I’m sure this girl you want to introduce me to is nice,” Ten interrupted, taking his mother’s hand in his, “but dating is not what I’m interested in right now. Like, at all. All i want to do,” he continued, “is let this tear heal, and get back to Seoul.”

His mother visibly deflated at that, her eyes losing the smallest glimmer they’d held. But Ten’s dismissal certainly wouldn’t get in the way of her enthusiasm. No, she’d try again one day. She knew her son, and she knew he’d adore this girl. But it always took ten some time to adjust. 

That, she knew.

“Why don’t we go to the beach later, my dear?” she suggested, her smile back in an instant. “We can go watch the sunset together, just like old times.”

For the next few days, Ten’s mother suggested taking him to the beach so that they could watch the sunset. They always stayed for about half an hour before packing up and going home.

A week later, the day before ten had finally gotten his brace removed, she suggested the same as the clock struck six, like clockwork.

“How you doing, ge?”

Ten’s sandals snapped against the bottoms of his feet as he walked further along the shore, the brace keeping an annoyingly stable pressure on his knee. He phone was pressed to his ear; he was talking to Yangyang—something that had been routine for them even when they were in the same country. 

“I’m doing fine,” he reassured. “Still wearing the shitty ass brace, though.”

Yangyang smiled on the other line, though he knew Ten couldn’t see it. “Hey, only a day before you can finally take that thing off.”

Ten nodded on his line, though he knew Yangyang couldn’t see it. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, contemplating his next words. His mother and father were a few paces behind him, taking cute pictures with the sunset behind them, big smiles on their sunglass-covered faces. 

The dancer kept walking, exchanging rather menial conversation with his junior. For the most part, Yangyang had only called to see how Ten was doing. Ten could tell he was worried, but couldn’t help but feel conflicted at being faced with his member’s emotions—does he feel annoyed that Yangyang is more affectionate than usual, or does he note just how nice it made him feel that someone cared enough to call him five times a day, first thing in the morning and last thing at night?

“You know, you don’t have to worry about me so much,” Ten said once, sticking his hand in his swimming trunk pocket. “If you worry too much, you’ll get grey hairs.”

Yangyang sighed from the other line. “Ten, be serious.”

Rich, coming from him.

“I am being serious,” Ten replied, smiling. “Look it up—constant stress makes you age, like, twice as fast!”

There was a long silence on the other end, and ten could tell he’d messed up by treating the situation unseriously.

“Sorry,” Ten apologised, tense.

“No, I’m sorry,” Yangyang replied almost immediately. “I’m just... really worried about you, Ten. Last time you hurt your knee, you were IA for months. I’m... i don't know, I’m just—”

“—Scared I won’t make it back a second time?” Ten asked.

Yangyang’s silence was enough of an answer.

“Listen, Yang, I’m scared, too,” he said. “I mean, for the stars’ sake, I’m the one who danced my knee into fucking oblivion.” He laughed dryly. “It hurts whenever I try to walk down the stairs, it hurts having to wear this ridiculous brace all the time, it hurts thinking that I may not come back from this. It’s... shitty, I know. But I’m getting better,” Ten continued, wanting nothing more than to calm his best friend's fears. “I’m taking it slow, you guys all know I’m back home. apparently my mom even has a suitor lined up for me.”

Yangyang released a surprised laugh. “A suitor? for real?”

Ten chuckled. “Yeah... ‘parentely my mom met this girl and she thought she’d be great for me.” He shrugged. 

“And?” Yangyang tried. “What do you think of her?”

“I haven’t even met her yet!” Ten replied, his chuckles bubbling into laughter. “Not that I want to, either,” he added quickly. “My only focus is getting this knee healed and hopping on the next flight to Seoul.”

Yangyang pulled a face at the other end of the line, one which made Dejun shoot him an odd look, raising his dark brow in question. “You did say you haven’t met her yet,” he pointed out. “So you gotta be planning to meet her sometime, right?”

Ten rolled his eyes. “No.”

“Oh, come on, ge! It could be good for you!”

“No, it couldn’t!” Ten responded, still ever as smiley. “Listen, Yang, my mom tried to do this so much with me growing up. When I was eleven, she tried to set me up with a family friend. When I was fourteen, she tried to set me up with my best friend. Just when I left for Korea, she tried to set me up with an SM trainee. And now... she’s trying to set me up with some girl she met who, by the way, I’ve never met before, and, oh! She’s also best friends with Tern, the bane of my existence.”

...

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I am not dramatic,” Ten said quickly.

“Ten, you’ve never even met this girl and you’ve already found fault with her,” Yangyang said. “So what if she’s friends with Tern? And so what if she was picked by your mom? Just... try it. You’re gonna be there for six months. You might as well find something to do.”

Ten scoffed, caught off guard by Yangyang’s choice of words. “Trust Liu Yangyang to turn something possibly heartfelt into something shallow."

Yangyang shrugged. “I’m just speaking the facts, hyung.”

“Weren’r you the same little shit who said he couldn’t imagine any living, breathing woman finding me attractive?”

“People change, Ten.”

Ten chuckled, wry, rolling his eyes to the heavens. “Yeah, whatever. I’m still not dating her, or whatever it is you’re suggesting—with anyone, for that matter. I have more important things to focus on.”

Yangyang sighed. “You’re so boring. You’re back home, you’ve got six months to do some reckless shit and just run away from it and go back to being a popstar, and you’re just... focused on your injury.”

Ten raised a brow. “Should I not be?”

Yangyang seemed to have had enough of his senior and promptly hung up on him, leaving the older man to laugh to himself.

Ten’s parents eventually caught up with him, their little photoshoot all wrapped up. Ten’s father didn't seem all that jazzed to be at the beach again at all, but Ten knew his mother’s happiness was worth it.

She approached him with a smile, linking their arms together. Ten got the feeling she was about to ask him for something, as that little cute mom smile and physical touch combo always came before, “Ten, why don't you do this for me?” or “Ten, why don't we go do this?”

“I’ve just messaged Tern,” she started, “and invited her out to dinner with us.”

Ten nodded, confused on what that had to do with him. 

When they stopped by Tern’s house to go pick up her and her boyfriend, Ten still wasn’t sure what the dinner had to do with him.

When they walked through the doors of a restaurant Ten had never seen in his time in Thailand, the interior decorated with blacks and golds and warm light all over, mirrors at every booth like in most restaurants, he still wasn’t sure what the dinner had to do with him.

But when they sat down and asked for a server by name and the man who’d sat them down nodded, smiling knowingly, Ten knew what the dinner had to do with him.

He groaned a bit, putting his head in his hands. “Mum, please don’t tell me this is the restaurant where the girl works. Please.”

The woman simply smiled. She was easing him into it. She’s let him take it slow since he got here, and she hadn’t rushed him into anything. In her mind, she’d done everything correctly.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Ten," Tern said, smiling at her older brother’s misery. “She’s wonderful.”

“Of course you’d say that about someone you’re friends with,” Ten said calmly, despite the inside of his mind not being all that calm at all.

Mr Lee stayed silent, peacefully enjoying the drama.

The five of them were seated in one of the booths at the back of the restaurant, close to the kitchen—where you could hear the orders being yelled out if you strained your ears, could smell all the spices and peppers they used.

Before ten could get another whining word in, the door to the kitchen opened, steam pouring out by the seams. Someone jogged behind the counter, gathering a notepad and switching aprons, before making their way to what Ten hoped was not his family’s table.

But, alas, Ten was always dealt the worst cards in the poker game which was his life.

“Good evening, Mr and Mrs Lee. How may I help you today?” you asked absently, not yet aware of the rest of their family’s presence.

Mrs Lee greeted you, your name slipping past her lips easily. She shared a silent look with Ten, widening her eyes with a smile. Ten just buried his head in his hands while his father greeted you as well, with a bow of his head. 

You finally picked up your head, and smiled at the sight of your friend and her boyfriend. “Oh, hi, Tern! How’s it going?”

Ten noticed the immediate change in your tone, how you seemed to relax around his sister, but kept it formal and respectful with his parents. He did that a lot, too—whenever talking to seniors, he’d present himself a certain way, and that façade fell away the second he was with someone closer in age.

Not that Ten at all cared that you seemed to hold his mother and father in high regard. 

It was simply something he’d noticed.

Another thing he noticed was your hair tied back into a bright green bandanna, and the way you stood, the colourful charm around one of your belt loops, and—

You exchanged some menial chatter with Tern and her boyfriend, before dismissing it and saying you’d catch up over drinks later on. Mrs Lee put her hand on Ten’s back, and he got the feeling this was his queue to be paraded around like a new toy.

She said your name, grabbing hold of your attention, and said, “This is my son, Ten! I’ve told you about him before, haven’t I?”

The look on your face told Ten you’d heard about him in length.

You smiled, but it was not a shy, or embarrassed smile. You seemed entertained, like you were perfectly aware of Mrs Leechaiyapornkul’s intentions of setting her son up with you. There was an underlying reluctance in the way you spoke, the way you stood, almost akin to... not shyness, Ten thought, more like aloofness—

—But you imagined you’d be able to mask your usual indifference tonight, just for the sake of Mrs Leechaiyapornkul. 

Truth be told, Ten was far more attractive than you’d imagined and, conversely, gave off a much different energy than the creative, languid person his mother had described him to be. Now he seemed stunted, repressed and, to the utmost of your subtle embarrassment, annoyed. 

But, you didn’t betray any underlying emotions besides politeness. “Ah, yes, of course you have, Mrs Lee! Evening, Ten,” you added, offering him a traditional greeting like you had the rest of his family. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” Ten joked, his smile so fake you almost wanted to laugh. 

Alas, you had to act maturely.

You took their orders, and rushed back into the kitchen. 

Well, you yourself wouldn’t say rushed, but Ten would retell the story as if you couldn’t seem to get away from the Leechaiyapornkul family quick enough. You called out their orders to your coworkers, going to start on one of them yourself. You called for one of the waiters to make their drink orders and have it taken to them as quickly as possible.

Your cheeks felt hot as you went to light up one of the ovens nearest to you, in a way that made your coworker, Min, raise her brows at you in question. You dismissed her, muttering something about the temperature in the kitchen being overwhelming as you went into the fridge to retrieve the peppers.

The night wound on, and soon enough the clock struck ten.

Ha-ha.

Tern was busy sharing an anecdote concerning a few of her colleagues, and everyone around the table was listening intently, laughing in between certain moments where she added her own dry commentary. 

There were only a few other tables still occupied, maybe three or four groups sat around the restaurant. For the most part, it was younger crowds, around Tern’s age, who were clearly prepping for a night of bar hopping.

Ten leaned back in his seat, somewhat content. The food served was, without a doubt, some of the best he'd had. By no means was he a picky eater, but the flavours played perfectly on his palette, the textures were so beautifully crafted to his fancy that he felt like that was the kind of food he didn't know he'd craved until now. He had to admit, if not for you working here, he'd have visited far more often.

After quite some time, you came out of the kitchen with a sign in your hands, opening up the large glass doors to put it outside. As you passed, Ten read, ‘Closed for the night. Come back tomorrow morning!’

He turned to his mother, speaking in a low tone. “Mum, they’re closing up for the night. I think it’s about time we head home."

Mrs Leechaiyapornkul agreed with a smile, as did Tern and the rest of the family around the table. Ten asked the nearest waiter for the bill despite his mother insisting he should stop by the kitchen and ask you for the bill himself. It was paid quickly enough, and all that was left was for them to finish the last drinks they’d ordered.

The last ten thought he’d see of you was a sidelong glance through the kitchen window, where you were occupied with another matter.

Back in the kitchen, you were seated on one of the counters while the other kitchen staff milled through the exit, on their way home. 

“I’ll close up tonight, chef,” you told your senior. “You go and pick up your son from cram school.”

The night air was cold against Ten’s skin as he made his way to the passenger seat of his father’s car. He’d shrugged on a jacket, and it enveloped his form whole as he walked out of the restaurant.

He’d turned, his lean fingers curling around the door handle, when he saw two people exit the restaurant after the last gaggle of students had taken their leave—one of the people being you.

You were changed out of your chef's whites, and Ten thought, at the very back of his mind, that your style wasn't half bad. You twirled a set of house keys in your hand as a tall woman crouched down to lock the restaurant doors before chucking the keys in your direction and walking further up the street, surely where your car had been parked.

You stopped when you turned and caught sight of Ten, planted still on his feet as he all but stared at you, fingers still taut against the car door handle.

His mother, Tern, and her boyfriend had already piled into the backseat, and Ten’s father was waiting for his son to get into the passenger seat.

You didn’t smile when you saw him. Your face went all but slack, and you clasped your hands together, bowing your head just the slightest bit.

It took Ten’s mind a few moments to process that you’d been wishing him a good night before he hastily returned the gesture and all but tumbled into his father’s car, slamming the door shut in a way that earned him a stern, sidelong look.

He missed the smile you wore as you ducked your head and made your way further up the street to catch up with Min.

Enlee, a perfume brand owned by Tern, had launched its first official scent in July of 2021, boasting a fruity, fresh summer scent. Ten had designed the logo, and assisted in crafting the scent.

For a long while when Ten was busy promoting that year, that smell would follow him everywhere, no matter where he went. His mother wore it for a short period of time, one of his makeup artists had purchased it, and even Yangyang had bought a bottle of it for himself (though Ten was sure the latter was just to piss him off).

As soon as the year ended, Ten thought he’d never get to smell the familiar scent of the original enlee perfume as another, newer scent took its place, and the former slowly faded into obscurity.

So imagine his surprise when he was greeted by that famous scent a week after his restaurant outing with his family.

He’d been visiting a nearby park with Louis, Leon and Levi when the familiarity pulled him from his relaxed reverie. He was sat on the grass, a light blue picnic blanket that he’d technically stolen from his mother spread out under him, his crutches laid out on either side of his body. It was the day after he’d finally gotten that stupid brace removed, and he’d ducked out early in the morning to have his own day of freedom. He enjoyed spending time with his parents, but he also enjoyed his alone time—with his three sons, that is.

Louis was laying in his lap, Leon in a spread eagle position with his head laid on Ten’s upper thigh while Levi was busy pouncing on random things in the grass, like crickets or blades of grass that moved in the wind. Ten was content, a pair of sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose as he sat criss-crossed on the blanket.

A flash of orange had made its way past Levi, and the grey beauty went completely still, ears perked for any possible future movement.

In the span of a few seconds, Levi had found the flash of orange, which happened to be a fluffy mound of cat-shaped fur, and gotten into a rather passionate bust-up with it. The cats yowled, and Ten couldn't tell if it was from catty glee or what was about to be considered Cat War Ⅲ.

“Hey, hey, Levi—behave yourself!”

“Todd! You let go of that cat this instant!”

Going to grab his youngest son, scowling, Ten had missed the familiar voice, instead caught off guard by the summery scent attached to it.

You had grabbed your roommate’s cat by the scruff of his neck, your hold firm yet careful, keeping him far away from the cat you’d seen him playfighting with. 

“I am so sorry—”

Both yourself and Ten stopped your own sentences short at the sight of the other, your mouths clamping shut. 

Your eyes widened by the slightest margin, and Ten’s eyes flicked to the white mound held in your arms—another cat. Then they flicked to the colourful charm that had been attached to one of your belt loops a week prior, this time strung through the belt of a skirt. Yours flicked to the light blue picnic blanket, the three cats in Ten’s hold, and the crutches spread out around him.

“Oh.”

Ten smiled, out of instinct or genuine happiness that it was his suitor and not some random old lady, he wasn't sure, before uttering a breathless apology.

“Hi,” he greeted, saying your name easily. His tone of voice was light, airy. You liked the way your name sounded passing through his lips. “Sorry for that. Levi gets excited easily, and—”

“It’s alright,” you interrupted, a nervous smile gracing your soft features. “Your, um... he didn’t do anything wrong. Todd pounces on random cats just to see who fights back."

“No worries—Levi does that, too.”

You nodded, unsure of how to proceed. Todd was starting to try and wriggle free of your grip, and you didn’t want to impose on Ten’s free time any longer. 

“Todd won't bother you any longer,” you assured him after a bit. “Neither will I.” Not that you were, in the first place. You nodded, seemingly having decided that was enough interaction. “Goodbye, Ten, Levi, Louis, and Leon.”

As you turned on your heel to leave, Ten chuckled. “My mom even told you my cats’ names, huh?”

You stopped. Turned.

“Like I said last week,” you started, smiling the way you had before—awkward, almost entertained but not wanting to betray it, “your mother told me many things about you, and she’d happened to include the names of your three cats.”

Ten smiled. “And yours?” he asked, nodding to the two furry creatures in your arms.

You balked. 

“Uh... this is Todd,” you said, lifting up the orange tabby cat from his place where you'd previously set him down on the floor. “Todd isn’t mine. He’s technically my roommate’s cat but I have to take care of him. And this is Moonie,” you added, lifting up the white ball of fluff in your other arm. “She’s also not mine but I have to take care of her, too.”

“Mm... cute,” Ten hummed. “Now I actually know something about you besides your name.”

You laughed a bit. “You know where I work, don’t you? That’s something else. I don’t know where you work.”

He raised a brow. “But you probably know about fifty other things about me that I don’t know about you, no?"

“…Perhaps.”

As you turned to leave without so much as a goodbye, making your way up the street, Ten averted his gaze. At the back of his mind, he made a mental note to ask you where you bought your skirts. Then he decided he liked the way they swayed around your form when you walked.

The same way I’d have thought with virtually anyone else, he thought, the voice of his inner monologue sounding scarily like Yangyang mocking him.

Perhaps.

The next time Ten saw you, it was in Chinatown.

He’d been browsing the stalls lining the road when that same scent passed by him, and he spotted you a few stalls away, nearby a truck that had been advertising boba and iced coffee, chatting with the vendor.

You met his eyes sooner than later, raising your brow in question.

“Are you following me?” you’d asked in lieu of your usual respectful traditional greeting.

Ten chuckled. “I could ask the same of you,” he replied, meeting you halfway.

You were wearing clothes similar to those he’d seen you in last. The material hugged your hips in a way that was flattering, and the colours complimented you well—almost as if your best friend was a fashion designer. 

No, he decided. Your style certainly was not too bad. Neither was your choice in perfume.

Ten himself was wearing a loose-fitting top and a pair of jean shorts to escape the heat. His black hair hung just beneath his ears, and his mismatched earrings swayed in the hot wind that passed through the market. There was something in the way that he could look so fashionable while wearing something so simple that made you incredibly envious. 

“You look nice today,” Ten complimented.

You stopped, freezing momentarily. You recovered quickly, however, hoping he hadn’t taken notice of your momentary system malfunction, returning his compliment. “You look nice today, too, Ten.”

He smiled, and you cleared your throat, ducking your head to avoid the sight. He noticed. “What’re you doing in Chinatown?” you asked, occupying yourself by looking at some durian fruit in a basket in the stall closest to you, before wrinkling your nose in distaste at the smell.

“Just here to pick up a few ingredients,” he said, picking up a paper bag filled with groceries, as well as a small shopping basket containing things he hadn't yet paid for. “I’m teaching my mom how to make pajeon tonight.”

You perked up. Cute. 

“You cook?” you asked.

Ten scoffed a laugh. “Barely. Just had to pick up the skill because none of my bandmates besides our leader knows how.”

You nodded, smiling a bit. He could tell your interest was piqued. “Well, that’s something, at least,” you said. He noticed you sneaking a glance at his shopping basket, and took note of how your brows creased. You took a few tentative steps forward, taking out the scallions he'd tossed in and examined them.

“These aren’t good yet,” you said simply, struggling to find a Thai word to properly describe the state of the vegetable. It was ready, maybe, but just by the feel of them you could tell there had to be better options. “They’ll be all soft when you cook them.”

“Oh.” Ten stopped. “Well... I suppose that’s further evidence that I cook for survival and not because of skill.”

You placed the scallions back with the rest, going for a significantly darker pair and tossing them into the shopping basket.

“There,” you said, smiling. “Now they’ll have better texture when cooked and it won’t taste like you’re biting into a tube of ointment when you eat them.”

Ten gave you a grateful little grin, looking over his groceries again. “Is there anything else that needs to be replaced in here?”

You shook your head, your own smile untouched.

“Well, then…” Ten took a moment to collect his thoughts, his words, and to momentarily swear at Liu Loverbot Yangyang.

“…Wouldyou maybe want to get coffee with me after I pay?” he asked eventually. “There’s a nice place further into town.”

Ten could swear he saw your movements stutter. You nearly dropped the fruit you'd been holding, but hastily attempted to recover what was left of your dignity.

‘Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck’

“Sure,” you answered eventually, nodding. “Sure, yeah. For sure. That sounds great.”

‘Ohshitohshitohshitohfuckohshitohgodjesuschristwhatthe—’

When he finally paid for his groceries, Ten kept his promise as he led you further into Chinatown, near the restaurants and souvenir shops many tourists and locals enjoyed visiting.

It was a small, modest establishment he showed you to, with a traditional teahouse look to it. The decor got trendier and more modern once you were inside, with a large menu display behind the counter in a handwritten font. There were plenty of coffees to choose from—iced, blended, flavoured, plain, black, with several milk options, and about one hundred and twenty seven more that you’d become too overwhelmed to continue reading. There was tea, too, you noticed—much to your relief, seeing as how you kept coffee at arm’s length.

You greeted the barista, a young man around your age, perhaps some years younger, before Ten put in his order. A condensed milk coffee over ice, substituting cows’ milk for coconut milk. You made a mental note that he had somewhat of a sweet tooth, and that he didn’t drink cows’ milk. You cast a quick glance at the menu, not bothering to read the descriptions. You didn’t even like coffee, much less drank it. Why were you here? Fuck it. You’d go off which you knew best.

“…Tea over ice, please,” you said. You smiled, confirming you’d just be taking it like that. Coconut milk, one sugar. 

As you went to sit down at a low table near the cash register, sitting cross-legged on the floor, Ten cast you a curious glance.

“Tea?” he asked. His curiosity was polite, and there was no coffee-snob bite to his tone. You nodded, fiddling with a ring on your index finger.

“It was a health conscious switch,” you answered. “A better caffeine alternative, I guess? Plus, coffee’s too bitter, even with milk and sugar.”

Ten smiled. “Ah, makes sense.” He chuckled. “I pretty much exclusively used to drink tea.. but there’s this big ‘iced coffee’ buzz in Korea. It’s almost like a cultural thing, and it’s easy to get hooked if you live there for long.”

“Mm.” You hummed, now taking your turn to be curious. “Coconut milk?”

Oh, you were witty, too. “A mixture of a health thing,” he started, “and a Thai thing. Plus, coconut milk is sweeter,” he added, mimicking the sentence structure you’d chosen after you parroted his question.

You nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, noticed whenever I go out with your sister she also asks for coconut milk over cows’ milk.” You rested your cheeks in the palm of your hands. “It’s also easier to keep at home. doesn’t go bad as easily as cow or goats’ milk—and I learnt that the hard way.”

Ten chuckled, agreement present in his expression. He knew what that felt like. As a trainee, he had to find lots of alternatives for foods he usually bought due to them going bad too easily, and him not being able to use them due to company-mandated diets or simply not having time to cook. In some cases, he had to cut them out of his diet completely.

Before he could get another word in, the barista called out your order, and it was your queue to pick them up so that the flow of orders could resume.

When you went to sit down again, tea and coffee in hand, Ten took a tentative sip of his coffee... shapely lips slipping over the bamboo straw, cheeks puffing up just that little bit as he took his first sip—

“So,” he started, ripping you from your slight reverie, “tell me something about yourself.”

You frowned, silently asking for him to expand on that simple, lighthearted demand.

“I told you the last time I saw you—you know so much more about me than I do about you,” Ten explained softly. “My mom was so busy briefing you on who I was that she kind of forgot to brief me on who you were.”

When the topic of his mother came up, especially with the indirect mention of her trying to set you two up attached, Ten noticed how you froze, your expression moving quickly from comfortable to something else he couldn’t place. 

He didn’t mention it, however, finding the topic of getting to know you better being much more important to him.

“Let’s start simple,” Ten said. “How old are you?”

“I was born January 27th, 1999,” you supplied, looking at him oddly. 

Oh, Taeyong would’ve loved to hear that.

“Great!” he smiled. “Now we’re making progress. So you’re twenty four. That’s great. I’m twenty six, in case my mother didn’t tell you. What’s your favourite colour?”

Over the course of the next half hour, he got to know you better. You were twenty four. Your favourite colour was green. You moved to Thailand when you were 19. You had two clownfish named Ponyo and Totoro. Sometimes you had to take care of your roommate, Min’s, cats, Moonie and Todd (which he knew). You’d been a chef for almost a decade.

And, in turn, you got to know more about him. He was twenty six, turning twenty seven. His favourite colour was blue. He moved to Korea when he was eighteen. He had three cats named Louis, Leon, and Levi (which you knew) and sometimes took care of his bandmate, Dejun’s, dog—a beagle named Bella. He’d been a dancer for over a decade.

“Okay”, I have one last question,” Ten said, swirling around the last of his coffee, the straw caught between his teeth. “Just one.”

You nodded, taking a sip of your own drink. “Shoot.”

“How’d you meet my sister?”

After his words surfaced, you took a few moments to think, and Ten could see you stringing the words together as you must’ve recalled when and where you’d met Tern.

“At the time,” you started, “I was working for a catering company that did catering for the launch of her second perfume scent. I made most of the food, and after the event, Tern called my boss to ask for my personal number. She texted me telling me how much she enjoyed what my team and I had prepared, asked if I wanted to meet for coffee, and..”

You smiled a bit. “We became good friends. I stopped working for that company over three years ago, but I still do all the catering for Tern’s events.” You tilted your head, recalling more moments. “After we became friends, she introduced me to your parents, and I suppose your mom took a liking to me.”

Ten wanted to laugh. It was more than just a liking. He was pretty sure his mother’s intention was to have you marry into the family through him; he just knew she valued keeping face too much to openly admit to such a fact. When he’d told her that he'd run into you at the park before, she’d all but squealed, asking him fifty questions twice over.

He didn’t even want to know how she’d react knowing he'd spent a large chunk of his afternoon with you… and was planning on asking for your number. 

“Yeah,” he said instead. “I think she did.”

“He asked you out for coffee?!”

Tern leaned forward in her seat, the interest in her expression obvious.

It was later into the night, and the two of you were seated on one of the big couches in the living room of your flat, having your weekly drama get together. The television series in front of you kept playing—some Chinese drama you’d started and didn’t have the heart to abandon. 

You nodded, not so eagerly nursing the bitch pop Tern had handed you. It was cloyingly sweet and stained your lips an unnatural shade of purple, but you always drank a bottle because Tern enjoyed them so much.

“Then he told me to tell him something about myself,” you continued, “and we hung out for about an hour.”

Your friend said your name, earnest. “Babe, he doesn't just take girls out for coffee and spend most of the afternoon with them,” she said, her giddy expression so reminiscent of her mother’s it was almost scary. “He fancies you, I just know it.”

You gave her a look. “Tern, we’ve had two full conversations, and both of them were today. He doesn’t fancy me.”

He fancies you.”

You rolled your eyes, scoffing. “Okay, let me give you the benefit of the doubt—let’s say your brother does fancy me. There’s no guaranteeing that, a) he asks me out, or, b) I fancy him back! did you even think about that being a possibility?”

Tern deadpanned. “No, because you do already fancy him back. I know that for sure. You want to marry him and have his babies and it’s gross.”

You turned back to the television, slowly growing silent. Your cheeks felt hot, the same way they did whenever Ten was brought up as of late. 

“See? You’re burning up, now.”

“Shut up and eat your noodles,” you muttered, taking a disgustingly large swig of the sweet alcoholic drink in your hand and regretting it almost immediately afterwards.

...

“Did he ask for your number?”

“What difference does it make—?!”

ten: how was work?

just got off. sorry

ten: no worries. you up for a pick-me-up?

... is that you standing hunched over your phone by the street lamp?

Read 22.14

Like a leaf flying through the harsh winter breeze, a month passed by without any prior notice.

You and Ten had started to spend more and more time together, often going out for walks whenever you got off work, and more rarely going out to cafés and bars with Tern and her friends. For the most part, you texted, and called on occasion. Your busy schedule didn’t allow for too much outside activity besides the occasional hushed voice messages sent between lunch rushes and dinner preparations, but neither of you minded. Ten visited you at work a lot, often just to walk you home.

Much to his mother’s dismay, your relationship had not yet grown romantic in nature. Every night he came home from your walks she’d be waiting like an eager spectator. Ten would give her a look, and quickly crush her hopes with a mock sad expression and a ‘No jub.’

‘No kiss.’

It drove Mrs Leechaiyapornkul up the wall, but she was happy to see her son at least get up out of his bed and do things that she hadn’t had to ask him to. It warmed her heart to see him seemingly content when he’d been so restless after arriving in Bangkok nearly two months ago.

But still, couldn’t he just fall in love with you, for lord’s sake?

Ten lifted his gaze from his phone when you exited the restaurant, locking the device and slipping it into his jacket pocket. You approached as you always did, nonplussed, with an air of tiredness around you from a long days’ work. 

“Hi,” said, smiling.

“Hi,” you replied, mustering your best smile.

Ten wanted to coo at your tired expression, but held back to the best of his abilities. Instead, he met you halfway as he always did, and the two of you fell into step with each other, making your way further up the street towards your apartment.

It was not a long walk, only a few blocks, but Ten and yourself easily filled the silence and made it feel longer. He told you about his shenanigans at home and with his sister, and you told him about how your coworkers almost killed each other. Again. He told you about how he saw an older businessman lose face in the middle of the street that day. You told him about how you started to use a newer bread recipe and how the customers received the change.

You liked his stories better.

He liked listening to your stories more.

Soon enough you got to your apartment building, and it was time for you to say your goodbyes until the next time you saw each other.

“Good night,” he said, and you smiled.

“Night, Ten,” you replied, already turning around to start climbing the stairs.

He caught your wrist, his lean fingers closing around the warm skin, and asked, “See you tomorrow?”

You did that freezing thing again, and like clockwork, you retrieved your dignity. nodding without meeting his eyes. “Same time?”

His smile was the answer.

Ten was watching you as you dragged yourself through the lobby, ever respectful as you greeted the front desk man despite your exhaustion when his phone buzzed.

Perplexed, he fished it out of his pockets, seeing Yangyang’s display name popped up on the screen.

This further perplexed him. They spoke daily, and Yangyang had already gone to bed. It was midnight in Seoul—what was he doing up?

yangfreak: gege!! hi kunge told me not to tell you but we’re on our way to you! we’re visiting for the week!!

Ten didn’t know if he could call his members’ surprise visit an interruption.

But it certainly didn’t make him ecstatic.

Yangyang, Kun, Sicheng, Dejun, Kunhang, Johnny, Mark and Taeyong were all crowded around a booth, tired smiles on their faces. They’d been travelling all night long, and couldn’t yet check into their hotel because of the late hour. They were sat in a bar that Kun had mentioned wanting to visit, and as soon as they’d seen him, they'd bombarded him with questions.

“How’re you doing?”

“How’s your injury?”

“What’ve you been doing?”

“Where’s Louis?”

“Is your sister still single?”

Ten chuckled, partially tense. “I’m fine. My injury is doing well; I stopped wearing the crutches a while ago and can almost walk without a limp. I’ve been spending my days doing... a whole lot of nothing—”

Ten’s mother, sat in the kitchen back at Casa de Leechaiyapornkul, couldn’t hear a word of what they were saying, but her motherly instinct told her that her eldest son was spewing some serious bullshit, wherever he was.

“—Louis is asleep on my bed. And no,” he said, casting a pointed glance in Kunhang’s direction, “my sister is not still single.”

Kunhang deflated.

“No hot single friends, I suppose?” he tried, sighing dramatically.

Ten gave him a glare.

He turned back to Kun and Taeyong, who’d been the masterminds in organising this trip. Taeyong, with his fluffy orange hair and soft expression was looking particularly guilty.

“So, uh... not to be rude, or anything, but what are you guys even doing here?” Ten asked, over the bustling music in the bar. He turned over the bottle of beer in his hands, evasive. “It’s the middle of March and you took a big risk just hopping on a flight—all eight of you.”

“You should be grateful we took the risk,” Yangyang joked. “I almost didn’t even come.”

“I could live with that,” Ten said dryly.

“We just came to check up on you,” Johnny said kindly, before a bickering match could break out. “We were wondering how you were doing since we weren’t really there for the whole ACL drama,” be added, gesturing to him, Mark, and Taeyong. 

Sicheng leaned back in his seat a bit, a cocky smile growing on his face. “Plus... Yangyang told us about your suitor.”

“Oh, my gosh, yeah!” Mark said. “You didn’t even tell us about that!"

Ten stilled, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

Meanwhile, Mark was still on his little tangent. “…Are you two, like, official yet? Have you gone on any dates? Have y’all even talked to each other? Where did your mom even find her?"

Dejun snickered. “I’m more surprised she found someone who’s actually interested in him.”

The older member rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “If... you must know, which you don’t… we don’t talk much. We ran into each other a few times but it’s not like we hit it off. So, no, we’re not official, nor have we gone on any dates of any kind.”

got off work early today wru?

Delivered

Yangyang raised a brow. “So you’ve met her.. you actively see her, and you decided that it wasn’t gonna work... and you’re definitely not lying to us?”

Ten rolled his eyes. “What benefit would I reap if I lied to you guys about this kind of thing? She’s just some girl my mom likes and decided to introduce me to. I didn’t even choose to interact with her first. Besides,” he shrugged, “she’s busy. That’s basically the only thing we have in common. She’s just as busy running a kitchen as I am recovering and manifesting that I can get out of here again.”

you not coming tonight? tern just told me your members were visiting oops haha forget i asked i got next week off btw just in case you maybe wanted to hang out again anyway, enjoy the rest of your night with your friends!

Delivered

“Guys, I think Ten is being genuine,” Taeyong said, smiling softly at his junior. His leader-like aura encapsulated their little environment the same way it always did when they were together. “Let’s not bother him about it, okay? We’re here to see how he’s doing, not who he may or may not be dating.”

Ten breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Taeyong. Finally, someone who has my—”

“But they’re probably just fucking."

“Oh, my God, not you, too!” Ten cried, placing his head in his hands. “God... I can’t stand any of you.”

“It makes sense,” Taeyong defended, laughing cutely like he hadn’t just suggested Ten was fucking you for the fun of it. “You get no action when you’re busy with work, and now you’ve got six months to do whatever you want!”

“Based on how tense he is,” Mark started, “he probably hasn’t gotten any action here, either. He seems pent up."

“Lee Minhyung, you dog,” Yangyang snickered, to which Mark gave a bit of an embarrassed smile.

“Okay, can we not focus on my sex life right now?” Ten asked. “Maybe, oh, I don’t know... do normal friend things? Like—”

“Talk about your sex life?” Dejun suggested.

“Oh, my God, all of you stop talking!”

The rest of their week was spent doing touristy things they’d insisted on trying, like visiting temples, going to street food stalls, and the like.

Ten found himself enjoying it far more than he thought he would, the return of his friends making him settle back into a natural rhythm he’d abandoned since he’d come back.

After a few days with them, it felt like he was rather here in Thailand with them, instead of having to be here on company-mandated rehab. He liked it, imagining that he was simply Ten Lee from Korea, here to do touristy things with his idol friends.

He didn’t realise that soon enough, he’d be Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul from Thailand again, and his friends would return to their snazzy flats in Seoul, no bedtimes and all the gaming they could ask for, and he’d return to his family mansion, staying up all night thinking about someone he most certainly was not in love with.

How could he be, when he’d only properly known you for a little over a month? That wasn’t enough time to hand over your heart to someone, especially someone you’d made it clear to that you weren’t in search of a romantic relationship with.

It was Sunday, the last day that his members were staying in Thailand, and they’d decided to spend their day at the hotel they'd been staying at. They sat in front of the couch in Taeyong and Johnny’s room, Yangyang and Dejun arguing about what they’d be watching. Yangyang wanted to watch a race, while Dejun had voted for a Thai drama he’d started at home and hadn’t had the opportunity to finish. Kun and Sicheng had gone to pick up the takeout they’d ordered from a restaurant down the street while Mark and Kunhang were talking lazily while sipping on a bottle of beer each. Johnny was out... somewhere. Maybe buying more beer? He’d said where he was going but Ten hadn’t been paying attention when he did.

Ten was laid down on Johnny’s bed, Taeyong next to him simply staring at the ceiling. He looked content, having enjoyed this time off. There was something serene about it, that made Taeyong want to make the stay permanent.

Ten was scrolling through his phone, through your messages specifically, reading back on the conversations he’d snuck in with you whenever he had time to himself.

WEDNESDAY

ten: you up?

now i am ˊᯅˋ

ten: lol sorry if i’m bothering you

you could never bother me.

He’d stiffened at that when he read it. His heart rate picked up just a bit. Just a bit.

ten: do you want to hang out sunday night? the guys are flying back at 9 and there’s a concert at 11 for a band i’ve been meaning to see.

i’d love to go with you ·ᴗ· should i pick you up at your parents’?

ten: only if it's not too much of a problem :)

He hadn’t spoken to you since. 

He was going back and forth between rereading your messages and texting tern, exchanging menial chatter with Taeyong in between.

leechaiyaternkul: what do you mean you haven’t spoken to her since wednesday??

ten: i think what i said was relatively easy to understand

leechaiyaternkul: yeah, no shit grandpa i mean how could you go for so long without talking to her? 

ten: the guys have just been taking up a lot of my time, okay? it's not like i’m avoiding her or anything.ㅣ

He stared at the unsent message for a moment, taking his bottom lip between his forefinger and thumb. Was he avoiding you? 

“Yangyang, get your foot away from Dejun’s mouth,” Taeyong said tiredly, “and let him watch his drama.”

“But Tsunoda is on!”

It’s not like he had any reason to. You’d not made it abundantly clear that you fancied him, nor had you made any moves hinting towards a possible attraction. You hung out with him, yes, and you’d cooked for him, taken him places... but all in a strictly respectful, platonic sense. You were friends, so you hung out. You were a chef and he wasn’t, so you cooked for him. You had a car and he didn’t, so you took him places. 

None of that indicated any possible romance between you, so why hasn’t he spoken to you in four days despite having the time to?

ten: the guys have just been taking up a lot of my time, okay? we’ll talk again soon.

Delivered

The hotel door swung open, revealing a smiling Kun, with Sicheng and Johnny trailing behind, the latter carrying a bottle of wine while the former held two bags of food.

“Food is here!” Taeyong called, not even glancing in their direction.

“And booze!” Kunhang said, sounding overjoyed.

leechaiyaternkul: you’d better.

Delivered

“I’m gonna miss you so much.”

Yangyang sniffled as he kept his arms wrapped around Ten’s middle, burying his head into the crook of his neck. The young man was wine drunk and emotional, so Ten held back the nearly uncontrollable urge to tease him.

“Take care, okay?” he said, squeezing his friend ever so tightly, like he was afraid he might disappear into thin air. 

“I will,” Ten said. “Now get on the plane, you big baby. Before you miss your flight.”

As Yangyang joined his seniors on their way up the escalator, waving sadly until he stumbled to the top and out of sight, Kun turned to Ten, an easy smile on his face.

Ten glanced at him suspiciously, a smile feline in nature resting on his lips. “What’re you smiling about, ge? Was the holiday that good?”

Kun shook his head. “‘M just happy. It’s been a while since you’ve been this... relaxed. It makes me happy as your leader and your senior. Whatever that girl’s been doing, she should keep it up."

Ten’s smile faltered, however he tried his best to recover his lost dignity. “Yeah, whatever. Now you go, too, before I get stuck with you any longer than I can take.”

After all eight of his friends disappeared up the escalator leading to the boarding gates, Ten sighed to himself.

Finally, he was alone again.

The uber home took longer than expected due to the after work and school traffic jam. 

Ten sat in the back, bouncing his leg for whatever reason. It’s not like he was nervous or anything. Because why would he need to be nervous? Nothing big was happening. He wasn’t going anywhere important. He’d just dropped his friends off at the airport. He was just waiting for eleven o’clock to come so that he could take you to see a band he liked. That was by no means a nerve wracking scenario.

Although it had been lingering at the back of his mind ever since he made plans with you to go in the first place. Even when you didn’t speak for the remainder of the week, he still thought about it.

In hindsight, he wished you’d told him that you did, too.

The Leechaiyapornkul residence was nothing short of lavish.

As you pulled up to the two storey house, in all its whitewashed glory, you felt particularly poor. You felt poor just by staring at the entrance of the house, much less the size of the house itself. 

You’d known the Leechaiyapornkuls had grown up comfortably, but this was just ridiculous.

It was ten minutes to eleven, and you’d arrived early to pick Ten up. He’d randomly invited you to a concert at two in the morning on Wednesday after waking you up for what seemed to be that reason only, and you’d accepted despite not even being a ‘concert’ person—and you still didn’t know why you’d accepted in the first place.

You hadn’t discussed anything concerning a dress code, so you simply dressed a tad bit fancier than you did on the regular.

Ten was already waiting on the steps for you when you arrived despite you being early. His hair was brushed out of his eyes, exposing his forehead, and he was dressed comfortably in a flowy button down top and pants that hugged his waist in a way that had you doing that freezing thing upon the sight of him. you came to a jerky stop, and Ten jogged up to the passenger seat, wasting no time in getting in and plopping down next to you.

“Hi,” he greeted, smiling.

There was something hiding under that smile, you decided. It differed from the easy, warm smiles you received when you usually hung out, seemed... stiff. Nervous, in a way. You didn’t know why, but you hoped you weren’t the cause of it.

“Hi, Ten,” you replied, returning his smile, reversing out of the entrance and making your way into the road.

You saw him reaching for your phone and aux cord, unlocking your phone by quickly having the screen face you so that your face recognition was triggered. You chuckled a bit as he connected your phone to the aux.

“So, tell me where you wanna take it, I’m your figure, you can paint me n—”

Your smile dropped just as quickly when the song you’d been listening to last resumed.

Admittedly, you'd started listening to some of Ten’s music without his knowledge. His mother had been going on and on about his solo pieces when you last spoke, so you decided to listen to them. 

You were a fan, to say the least.

And, to say the most, you would burn the world to a crisp if it meant you could hear Ten sing.

Ten’s eyes flicked to yours, questioning. “You were... you were listening to my music?” he asked, seeing you’d been listening to his solo pieces straight from his artist profile. Not the songs just like that, not because they happened to be on a playlist—no, you’d typed his name into your search bar, in search of all his songs. And you’d listened to them. All of them.

You swallowed. “Yeah. I figured, you know... you’re an idol, and I’ve never heard any of your music before. And— and I didn’t know how you’d feel if I started listening to your group’s music, so I listened to your solo work.” Your eyes flicked to his, fixated on your phone screen, having abandoned any thoughts on picking music like he usually did. “You don’t mind, do you?"

Ten shook his head. A small, nervous smile. “Not at all.”

Yes at all. It was a massive deal. You were interested enough in him to listen to his music, and that was a very big fucking deal. You cared. You were interested.

In hindsight, you wished he’d told you just how big of a deal it was to him.

Because it’d have cleared up a lot of things for you.

Why had you agreed to this again?

The concert was being held at an outside venue, a small gathering of a few hundred people in the open air in front of a large stage. Despite Ten saying that, that it was “only a few hundred people,” you felt like there were ten times more surrounding you, screaming the lyrics to whichever song was playing, jumping up and down in a way that made the ground under you shake like an earthquake had struck.

You’d enjoyed it at first. Truly, you had. The music was good, and the atmosphere was lively. The people you’d stood next to were kind and promised not to get too rowdy. It wasn’t that bad of a concert.

But the neon lights set up on stage were blinding, sickly shades of purple and blue invading your senses even when you closed your eyes in sheer overstimulation. The bass boomed in your ears. The air was somehow hot as the earth's core and cold as ice at the same time. There were people all around you, all around you all around you all around you. 

All. Around. You.

You endured it, set on making it through the concert. If your calculations were correct, you only had a few more songs to go and then you’d be able to go home and disappear under your duvet until the sun came up.

Ten stood next to you, looking like he was in his own world. His eyes were closed in bliss, head tilted back as he let the music envelope him, sweep him away and carry his soul to wherever. The purple and blue lights were blinding to you, but when reflected on ten's face, on his bronze skin... they looked nothing short of beautiful.

Or maybe it was just him who was beautiful.

He seemed to be in his own world, raising his arms to the heavens as his body swayed to the music. It was a hypnotising sight, one that reminded you of an occasion you never wanted to forget.

His eyes finally slipped open, dropping down and meeting yours. His energy had shifted, become more like the Ten you were used to. Easygoing. Assured. Warm. 

He smiled when he saw you, extending his hand.

“Dance with me.”

You stilled, processing his hushed words. He wanted you to dance with him? Why? You didn’t dance, not unless you were in the mood to embarrass yourself.

“Ten, I can’t dance,” you confessed, your cheeks growing hot under his gaze.

His smile only widened. “You don’t have to know how. Just dance with me. Please.”

The feeling of his hand slipping into yours for the first time was something you’d never forget, even years down the line. 

Lean fingers brushing your own, intertwining with yours as his warmth spread across your palms. His hands were soft, the cold burn of his rings provided contrast between his warm skin and the cold steel. He brushed your wrist momentarily, before slipping his fingers between yours again. Your rings clashed, ground against each other, while your skin seemed to melt at his touch.

You moved to the rhythm of the music, partially aided by Ten’s other hand slipping around your hip, securely keeping you in his hold. He twirled you, you spun him around, he laughed, clearly enjoying himself, and you smiled nervously. Your hips brushed when his moved and yours didn’t, frozen. Almost waiting for him to give them direction. He tutted at that, moving them in tune with his own as the hand on your hip tightened just that little bit more.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he said, not fighting to be heard over the music. You could easily make out what he’d said just based on the curve of his lips. Was that bad? “None of my friends wanted to go out with me when I was here last.”

You didn’t know how long you were like that, just moving together, hands securely slotted with the other's. In some way, it felt like eternity, like the world could fall and you’d still be dancing with your friend. But simultaneously it felt like it was over too quickly, like it was gone in the blink of an eye.

Ten’s expression changed drastically when he took his eyes off you and spotted something else.

His smile dropped, and his hands went slack in your hold. It was like his soul had started to leave his body, all the colour draining from his face. 

“We have to go.”

Those were the last words Ten uttered before grabbing your hand, starting to rush through the crowd like he was being hunted. His hold on you was tight, and the sensation suddenly shifted from comfortable to painful.

You tried to pull away, tried to ask him what or who he saw that made him do a one-eighty in the span of a few seconds, but it was no use. His hold on you was like a vice, serving as a terrifying reminder that you were just a woman, standing at a man’s mercy—even if he hadn’t intended for it to come across as such.

You passed the bar you’d walked past when entering, a few of the people casting worried glances in your direction. You tried to smile and shake your head, assuring them it was not what it looked like... but how could you, when you didn’t even know what was happening?

“Ten,” you tried. “What are you doing?”

Ten raced through the exit, slamming open the doors. 

“Ten,” you tried again. “You’re hurting me!” you cried, still trying to free your hand from his grip.

Only then did he stop, coming to a halt just outside the venue. 

The lights shone over the exit, illuminating his face still. Except now he wasn’t happy. He wasn’t relaxed. His expression was stiff, like the smile he’d given you earlier. His posture had shifted. His hold on your hand was still painfully tight.

“I’m sorry,” he said, relaxing his hold, but still not letting go. 

You shifted, discomfort easing into your bones. 

You didn’t like the shift in atmosphere at all.

Your eyes roved over his form for several moments, trying to glean what possibly could’ve gone wrong in the minutes you’d danced together. 

A moronic part of you wondered if you’d accidentally stepped on his toes. Ten you chided yourself for actually formulating such an idiotic thought. Why would he have been so upset if you made a beginner’s mistake in dancing?

“Sasaengs,” was all he said. 

You frowned. “what?”

He sighed. “Stalkers. I saw a stalker at the concert. She was— she had this camera held in her hands, and…”

Oh.

Oh.

“…So you mean to tell me one of your stalkers followed us to this event, with a camera, and she was busy taking pictures of you while you were minding your business?” you asked, desperate to understand the situation at hand.

“I don’t know if she took pictures,” he groaned. “All I know is that there was no way she wasn’t a stalker. That... the look in her eyes was unmistakable. I know that look too damn well.”

Subconsciously, your fingers curled around his wrist. You didn’t know why. All you knew was that you needed to be grounded and holding him would do that for you.

“Okay,” was all you could say. Your voice sounded small, pathetic as you spoke.

You’d known there were some unavoidable risks that came with spending time with a famous pop star. For Christ’s sake, he was an idol. Airports flooded when fans got even the slightest hint that he would be arriving. Arenas of 50,000 people gathered just to see him. Desperate teen girls and boys spent millions on him, his likeness. Of course he’d have stalkers. Of course he'd always have eyes on him. 

So why hadn’t you considered it at all?

“Okay,” you repeated. “Okay.”

“Stop saying that,” Ten snapped, before cringing at the harsh tone he’d taken with you. “Can we... can’t we just leave? Go somewhere else? I— I don’t want to be here for longer than necessary.”

As if on autopilot, you nodded. You dug in your purse for your car keys, stuffing them in his hands as you broke free of his hold. Ten stared at them, feeling the absence of your warmth painfully.

“You want me to drive?” he asked, sounding unsure.

You were already in front of him, walking to your car. “I drive you here, you drive me back,” was all you said.

Ten felt like he’d done something wrong.

All throughout the car ride, you were dead silent. You’d kept the radio turned completely off and spent a majority of the time gazing out of the window, your eyes glazed over. Your aura was closed off, almost... hostile. Ten wasn’t sure if he was projecting, but something about the way your attitude changed made him feel like he’d done something terribly wrong, and he felt like a child who’d just been caught doing something they shouldn’t have.

He knew it wasn’t his fault that the stalker had found him. He was always assured that it was never his fault. But he never failed to feel guilty—and for good reason. Every incident, every mishap he had with crazy fans, with stalkers... they all led back to him, to his fame. The fame that he chose.

It took him a while to muster up the courage to talk to you. 

“I’m sorry,” were the first words he said. Were the first words spoken since you started driving. He tried desperately to keep his eyes on the road, but he swore his eyes drifted to your form on their own.

“It’s not your fault,” you replied, now facing him. “You didn’t ask to be followed.”

A lump started to form in Ten’s throat. Something about the sincerity of your words made him feel even worse. Even when he’d gotten a sasaeng involved in your affairs, you were understanding.

“I just always feel like it’s my fault.” His grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I mean, if it weren’t for me being who I was, we could’ve been there for longer.”

I could’ve danced with you for longer, was what he yearned to say.

But he didn’t.

You didn’t respond, simply looking out the window again. He understood why you wouldn’t wish to carry on with the conversation as much as he did.

“I don’t want to go home,” Ten confessed, shifting uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. “Not yet.”

It’s not like it was early. You’d been at the concert for nearly an hour; it was drawing close to midnight, but still Ten didn’t want to go home. Part of him still ached to spend more time with you. He wanted to spend a lot more time with you. It didn’t matter that nothing was open, or that you really didn’t have anywhere to go besides your own homes.

You were closer to your apartment than anything else at this moment, Ten knew. There wasn’t much else to do, just the two of you, this time of night. Maybe you could go to the beach? Maybe you could just drive for a bit longer, until you got sick of it? 

“You’re the one driving,” you said noncommittally. He was the one in control now, wasn’t he? After all, he had the car keys.

Smiling softly, Ten handed you the control again. “Yeah, but this is your car. Besides, I already made you go to a concert... you can pick where we go next.” He shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

“Would you like to come to mine for a drink, then?”

“Wine, tea, or…”

You spun around, facing your friend, who was sitting cross legged on your couch. You held up the three drink options in your hands, a bottle of wine, and a teabag, all while wiggling the bottle of water.

“…room temperature water?”

Ten chuckled at how you’d presented them, ringed fingers drumming on his thighs.

“Would I sound like an alcoholic if I asked for wine?” he asked, looking up at you from beneath his eyelashes.

Considering that’s all you drink when you come over, yes.

“Not at all,” you said with a smile.

You put on the kettle for your tea, and poured Ten a glass of wine while waiting for the water to boil. It was technically your roommate’s wine as you didn’t care to drink much (she certainly cared enough for the both of you), but you knew she wouldn’t mind.

Ten accepted the wine with a grateful little bow of his head, his plush lips quickly meeting the edge of the glass to take his first sip. You sat down next to him, not quite meeting his gaze but not quite avoiding it.

You hadn’t talked about what happened in the car, or at the concert. You and your non-confrontational attitude didn’t feel the need to, but you could tell ten wanted to.

“Thank you for being so understanding,” he said.

There it was.

“You didn’t have to be understanding,” he continued, looking up to meet your gaze. “About the stalker, I mean. I’d have understood if it ruined the mood, or ruined the night for you, or—”

He stopped himself, cutting off his own sorrowful words. Ten was always someone who never seemed to think twice about what he said, focusing on his message first and the consequences later, but this time, he seemed like he wanted to pick his words carefully, even though he never bothered—especially around you.

“I wasn’t lying earlier when I said it always makes me feel guilty,” he continued. “Whenever my social interactions or personal relations are interrupted by fans, or reporters, or, shit, even my stalkers, I feel incredibly guilty. I— I feel like it’s my fault, you know? It’s my fault that people are coming up to me in the first place. Like, i asked for my fame. I wanted this. if I wasn’t who I was, I’d have been able to enjoy my time with y— with my friends more than I’m currently able to.”

I asked for my fame.

It’s my fault.

I feel incredibly guilty.

“That’s so fucking stupid.”

The words spilled from your lips before you could stop them.

Ten sat up straighter. “Excuse me?” he asked, almost too shocked to be offended. 

“You... you thinking that you wanting fame equates to you being guilty for having stalkers,” you explained, as evenly as you could through your growing irritation. “You asked for fame, sure. But you never signed up to be stalked, to have your privacy invaded by crazy people. That... that’s not normal. A lot of stuff is common in show business, but that doesn’t make it okay. That doesn’t make it something to— to blame yourself over!”

Ten stared at you, unmoving. His eyes were wide. You sighed, attempting to calm yourself to the best of your abilities.

“No one asks for the consequences that come with pursuing their dreams, Ten. So don’t sit here and act like you asked for yours.”

Your words hung in the air for a long time.

Ten kept his stare fixed on you, still as a Greek statue. His eyes had grown soft, gaze vulnerable. You swore you could see his chin wobble the way yours did whenever you tried not to cry, and suddenly you felt really, really bad.

The kettle for your tea had stopped boiling midway through your rant. You had half a mind to just stand up and occupy yourself with that, just to escape your friend's eyes, but decided against it. You hadn’t at all thought through what you’d said, but you’d stand by your sentiment the way Ten stood by all of his.

His voice was raw, hoarse when he spoke. 

“‘M sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you sighed. “That’s what my entire tangent was about.”

He gave a watery chuckle, quickly wiping at his eyes when he saw you getting up to make your tea, leaving without another word.

You came back soon enough, settling down next to ten in the same position you’d sat in a few moments prior, crossing your legs over the soft cushion. Your knee brushed Ten’s, but neither of you made any move to stay untouching.

You took a long sip of your tea, and he took a long sip of his wine.

“Do you want to watch something?” Ten suggested. He was desperately looking for ways to pass the time and get his mind off of your speech before he got properly emotional.

You noticed his attempts at distraction, but didn’t say a word. You only nodded, handing him the remote. giving him free reign over another aspect of your life which you’d always been picky over.

He scrolled through the options, eventually settling on some Korean drama called Summer Strike. You wondered how badly this would fuck up your algorithm.

After a few minutes, though, you started to enjoy the show as well. You’d watched a few Korean dramas, but none of them were as light and... slice of life-ish as this. You didn’t enjoy the slice of life genre in the sense that it never failed to send you into an existential spiral and properly hit you where it hurts.

Ten was silent throughout most of the episode, only laughing a few times, at funny moments you didn’t understand. You’d surely missed the cultural aspect of them, you thought.

You really liked the male lead, Daebeom. Or, the silent library man. You didn’t know if he would be the lead, but you knew you liked him. Something about him very selfishly reminded you of yourself—the way he preferred not to speak, the way he was always trying to help Yeoreum, whether he commended what she did or not. His silent gestures to the female lead spoke to your soul.

Maybe you were just projecting, though.

Ten really liked the female lead, Yeoreum. Something about her very selfishly reminded Ten of himself—the way she’d felt somewhat... lifeless about her work, her relationships, and how a massive change led her to go somewhere unfamiliar for her own good. Her habit of trying to live to the fullest, and yet still blaming herself even in situations where she was not at fault spoke to his soul.

Maybe he was just projecting, though.

You sat next to him the whole time, taking small, periodic sips of your tea. Your knee still brushed his every time you moved, and at one point your hand brushed his. You’d yanked it away quickly, and Ten could practically feel the heat radiating off of your cheeks.

You’d been watching Summer Strike for quite some time, despite not getting very far into the plot progression. When the end credits of the second episode started to roll, you turned to him, a silent question on your lips. 

It was late. Or early. 2 AM. Luckily, neither you nor Ten had to worry about work in the morning, but Ten was starting to get tired, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to ask you to drive this time of night/day. 

As if having read his mind, you hummed, “You’re tired.”

Ten stretched his arms over his head, a small crack emanating from his spine. His eyes closed, and he leaned back a bit. “It’s late,” he said.

He couldn’t see it, but you nodded. “Mm. Time for me to take you home,” you said, starting to stand up from your spot next to him.

He grabbed hold of your hand to stop you, his palm gliding over your clothed thigh. He didn’t have the heart to remove it... or perhaps he had the bravado to keep it there?

“I can’t ask you to drive at this hour,” Ten said. “It’s dangerous and I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

You didn’t put up much of a fight, giving one of your trademark tired little sighs. Your hand subconsciously started to hold the one on your thigh. “Should I call an uber for you, then?” you asked, casting your gaze heavenwards.

No. Ten didn’t want to take an uber home, either.

Part of him contemplated asking you if he could stay the night. It’s not like he’d never stayed in your flat for more than a few hours before. I mean, sure, he’d never slept over, but it couldn’t’ve been that big of a deal. If you said yes, he’d just take the couch and that would be that.

So why did the prospect of asking make him so damn nervous?

As he was busy having his internal crisis over how he was supposed to get home, or ask you if he could stay the night, he didn’t notice you slipping away and stalking your way down the hall. He only noticed the absence of your warmth, painfully once more. Then he chided himself for even noticing.

Okay, Ten, he thought to himself. Just ask her if you can sleep over. It’s nothing scandalous. It’s not like you're asking her for a sex favour or anything.

Damn, said a second voice in his head that had an uncanny resemblance to Mark’s. You’re thinking about a normal sleepover and the first thing you compare it to is sex? You are pent up, dude.

Shut up, monologue Ten snapped. That’s not what was on my mind and you know it.

Whatever you say, dude.

You soundlessly came back into the room, unaware that Ten was battling with the Mark in his head as you strolled by. You placed a pair of pyjamas—your biggest oversized shirt that would hopefully sit comfortably on Ten and a pair of baggy shorts that you also hoped would fit him—and a spare toothbrush and travel-sized tube of toothpaste in the spot next to him. 

Only then did Ten notice your entrance.

“Y—”

His own words died in his throat. He hadn’t even asked, and you already seemed to have gotten the hint. He cast a glance at the clothes you’d set down—how had you owned sleeping clothes in his exact size?—and... oh, how cute, you added a little tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush for the night.

In a very painful moment, Ten felt his heart swell with affection, then his throat close up with angst. He didn’t know where either came from.

“The toothbrush hasn’t been used,” you said, occupying yourself with taking your dishes to the kitchen. “I actually just took it out of its packaging. I hope the clothes’ll fit you. You can change in the bathroom, or here, or wherever.”

“Thank you,” was all Ten could trust himself to say, and when you went to your own room to change into nightclothes, Ten slipped into your bathroom with the amenities in his hands.

Disrobing as quietly as he could, as if he was supposed to be doing it in secret, Ten placed his shirt on the sink, neatly folded as he went to take the T-shirt from the neat little pile you’d gifted him.

The material was cool to the touch when it crossed over the valley of his skin, soft as it rested on his body. Somehow, it still sat a bit baggy on him, as did the shorts. He silently thanked the heavens for your odd taste in nightclothes.

The toothpaste was minty on his tongue as he brushed his teeth, and he felt his cheeks burning up when he caught sight of his reflection in the large circular mirror he was looking into. His cheeks were dusted with pink, either from the alcohol or the sheer... emotions he’d been faced with the past few hours. He didn’t know why his throat hurt, why it seemed to close up. He wasn’t sick. He wasn’t sad. 

So why did his body react like he was?

If Ten thought you couldn’t get cuter than whenever you laughed, or tripped over your own feet, he was sorely mistaken by the feelings his heart conjured up the moment he saw you in your nightclothes.

He didn’t want to pay too much attention, just to preserve what was left of his dignity and not come across as too much of a creep, yet he couldn’t help his heart fluttering in his chest when he saw you.

You were holding a large pile of blankets and pillows, taken from the linen closet in your room.

Ten helped you make his bed on the couch, and by helped he meant listened and carried out your orders. You were so different from him in that sense; you always had your own systems, while Ten was lucky if he got to clean his way at home.

The couch was already soft, but when covered with an Egyptian cotton duvet? Lord, Ten decided he could easily spend the rest of his life here.

“There’s a charger in the kitchen for your phone,” you said, checking your mental list on guest amenities in your flat, “don’t be surprised if you wake up with an orange cat on top of you, next morning’s coffee is free of charge but you would need to make it yourself, and... I wake up every morning at five to clean. Yes, even if I’ve only had three hours of sleep,” you added just as ten was about to ask about that very thing.

He smiled, soft and hesitant.

You shut off the lights with a ‘night’ before carrying yourself to your own room, quietly making your way inside and shutting the door, enveloping the whole flat into silence.

A silence that lasted for approximately ten minutes.

You rushed back to the living room, not turning on the light. Ten lifted himself up, propping his weight on his elbow as he stared at your outline in the dark, how the curve of your hips as the moonlight shone through your shirt...

“I forgot to ask you how your week went,” you said. 

“My week went well,” Ten answered softly. “I spent a lot of time with my members, and I was really glad to see them again.”

You nodded, seemingly having heard what you needed to hear, before turning and making your way back to bed.

“How did your week go?” Ten asked, making you stop in your tracks. He wasn’t sure if he imagined you stiffening in place.

“It was... fine,” you said. 

Then you closed the door to your room and went to bed, leaving Ten in silence once more.

When March finally came, you celebrated the first day of the month by staying in and having a movie marathon with the Leechaiyapornkul siblings and your roommate, Min.

Despite many opportunities to cross paths and many incidental happenings, Ten and Min had somehow not met at all.

They hit it off oddly well, and had quite similar personalities once in the same room—much to yours and Tern’s surprises. They seemed to vibe alright, so you let them familiarise themselves with the other person.

You and your friend stalked away to the kitchen while Min and Ten were deep in conversation over something you’d lost track on quite some time ago, just to restock on drinks and snacks.

And, of course, for Tern to get the latest scoop on her best friend and her big brother’s relationship.

“He slept over?” she repeated, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. “In your pyjamas?!”

You resisted a deep sigh, nodding as you opened your kitchen cabinet and grabbing a few things. “Something that you do, too,” you reminded her. “all the time, I might add.”

“Yeah, but it’s different when it’s us,” Tern insisted. “We’re gal pals. You and my brother... you’re like that pair of friends in a romantic comedy who have an unhealthy amount of romantic chemistry but keep insisting that you’re only friends.”

You rolled your eyes. “Tern, you’re doing that thing again—”

“I’m not being delusional—”

“That fact that you knew I was going to address that exact issue tells me you are and you know it,” you said simply. You turned back to what you were doing, brushing past Tern, who sat atop your kitchen table, helping you plenty by doing absolutely nothing.

You tried your best to defend the way you felt about ten. You’d known him for nearly a month and a half and still hadn’t made your mind up about how you felt about him. In a way, you didn’t want to. You didn’t want to define what you were, because the reality that you were less than you wished you were made your heart hurt.

You knew you, by a large margin, did not love Ten. You weren’t in love with him, for sure. You didn’t know him well enough. But you knew yourself well enough to know that freezing thing you always did around him was not solely because of platonic attraction. 

Besides, why was Tern so worried what the nature of your relationship with her brother was? When you’d first become friends with him, she couldn’t’ve been bothered, and now she was weeding out any possible information like a detective interrogating a criminal.

You walked back to the living room without another word, bowls and bottles in both of your hands. Ten and Min were still talking animatedly, having switched topics in the time you were away. Your television was on pause, displaying the title of the film you’d be watching.

You took a seat next to Ten, who looked up at you and smiled when you sat down. You crossed your legs, your bare skin brushing his. He accepted the bowl of pretzels you offered him, humming in delight when he realised they were all covered in chocolate. This, he decided, was all his.

The four of you fell into a comfortable silence when the film started playing, only providing occasional commentary on a particularly interesting scene, but you yourself were mute for the most part, simply leaning back and enjoying the calm atmosphere. You enjoyed spending time with your friends, and it was lovely to have a whole day to dedicate to just that.

It still felt like it was early in the day. 

The sun was still shining, and the streets were still busy as ever. People passed by your flat on occasion, laughing and chattering as you caught snippets of their conversations. But as the minutes ticked on, it became later and later, and the sun started to sink behind the hills. 

And soon enough, it was completely dark.

At some point during the film, Ten had laid his head on your shoulder. You’d stiffened when you felt him move, stayed frozen when he settled his head on your shoulder, nuzzling his fluffy black hair into the crook of your neck. You didn’t make a move to put him back where he'd been sitting before, nor did you settle into the touch. Based off his steady breathing, he’d fallen asleep. Luckily then you could convince yourself to believe him passing out was the only reason why he’d initiate such contact with you.

Ten didn’t wake when the film finished, or when Tern and Min very loudly announced they’d be stopping by a restaurant to pick up the takeout you’d ordered midway through the film. He didn’t wake when you tried to shake him awake, or when you carefully removed his head from your shoulder and laid him down on your couch, busying yourself with something in the kitchen after pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead, despite how hard you’d resisted in doing so.

He only woke once his sister and your roommate returned, holding several bags of takeout in their hands, only woke when you dryly said, “You’d think with all the takeaways you order that I don’t know how to cook.”

Ten groggily sat up when Tern laughed and said, “we only order this much takeout because I always figure you'd be too tired to cook for us.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m a chef. I can’t get tired of cooking.”

Ten’s eyes were narrowed, sleep still clouding his mind. He rubbed at his face, feeling the shallow grooves in his cheek he got from sleeping on the zippered edge of a cushion. He stretched his arms out above his head, mute as he stalked to your kitchen where you, Tern, and Min had crowded around the food, taking out plates for those who wanted to use them, while some of you (read: Tern) greedily reached for their food and started eating without the aid of cutlery.

Ten situated himself comfortably beside you, not noticing your posture straightening up.

“How long was I asleep?” he asked to no one in particular.

“Two hours,” Tern snickered. “You missed the ending of the movie and fell asleep on—”

Her words died in her throat when she noticed you giving her a look, one which Ten didn’t see himself, and so was left to question his sister’s sudden silence. “Fell asleep on what?” he asked, frowning.

Please, you mouthed to your best friend, shut the fuck up.

“The... couch.”

Ten raised a brow. “And what was so funny about me falling asleep on the couch, Kulisara?"

“Call me Kulisara again and see where that gets you, Chittaphon.”

Two weeks later, nearly midway through the month, Ten called you at 2.36 in the morning, the same time he contacted you last to invite you to a concert nearly a month ago. 

You picked up on the third ring, after contemplating on picking up on the first, deciding that would’ve made you look desperate and missing the second. 

“You’re awake,” was the first thing he said after you’d picked up.

You smiled through your tiredness, having been awoken by the phone call. “Hi, Ten. What can I help you with at... thirty-seven minutes past two in the morning?”

You couldn’t see it on your side, but Ten bit his lip in thought, contemplating whether or not he should’ve even called you in the first place. It sounded suspiciously like you’d just woken up, in contrast to him who’d been awake since the same time the previous morning. He could’ve easily called Yangyang, who surely would’ve been awake at this hour on his side of the world. 

“Nothing,” he said softly, so as not to wake his parents. God, living with them and having to whisper while on a call with you made him feel like a fourteen-year-old. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

“Mm... that makes two of us,” you lied, stifling a yawn. Ten could sense your dishonesty through the speakers of his phone.

He chuckled. “You know, if you just wanted to keep sleeping you could've just not picked up the phone. I know I’m bothering you.”

You exhaled. “You could never bother me.”

There it was again. you saying Ten could never bother you. 

You’d said it once before, over text, just before he asked you to attend a concert with him. Just reading those words as pixels on his dark screen made his heart clench in his chest. He didn’t even know how he felt about hearing them aloud for the first time. It scared him a bit, how his heart froze the way your body did when you were close.

“Keep saying things like that and I’ll start falling for you,” Ten wanted to say, but didn’t. Part of him feared you were already in love with him, and speaking the reciprocal out into the open would make it true.

Ten had always been somewhat superstitious in that sense. When it came to romance, there wasn’t a precaution he couldn’t take. There wasn’t an emotion he couldn't avoid feeling. He longed to preserve the feeling of being giddy and lustrous, but not facing the reality of love. He liked short flings, things that did just the thing to satiate him for long enough, but not enough to make him want more.

With you... he feared your friendship lasting this long meant something else entirely. 

But Ten was good at pretending. He was good at pretending that he liked girls enough to call them back and then never do it, and he’d be just as good at pretending he felt nothing for you.

Because, like all the best actors, he didn’t even know it was pretending he was doing.

“Can I see you again tomorrow?” he asked. “Maybe... we can take a walk around the city, just the two of us. We haven’t done that in a while.”

Ten remembered how it felt the first time he went bungee jumping with his members.

First, a steady incline as he climbed to the top, his leader and juniors cheering him on, some laughing. His heart beating in his ears with anticipation, most of all with fear. An intense, overwhelming fear at what would happen next.

Because he never did know what happened next.

“Sure,” you said softly. “I’d love to see you again.”

And then, a free fall from unknown heights.

perm taglist @hyuneskkami @jwiloves @bluedbliss @ayukas @rubiiisyeon @vantxx95 @drunkhee

2020

THE FIRST TIME YOU asked Dejun what he wanted for his birthday, it was a week before he turned twenty one.

You’d been out with friends, one night of many to come among a group of similarly-aged people you’d met while attending university in Seoul, probably at some sort of club, prepared to spend the night nursing nothing more than a bottle of water and the occasional sip of soju. Dejun was sitting across from you, a bottle of beer held in his hands; he hadn’t gotten far with it, merely taking a few chaste sips as the DJ switched from one song to another, barely drinking enough to make him anything besides his usual self.

A friend of a friend, you’d met Dejun through Shuhua, who, in turn, you’d met after she declared herself as your desk mate in your first year of university, and Dejun had met during a chance encounter while trying to find his dorm. You didn’t speak to the boy much outside of these occasional gatherings, where you’d be left to your own devices as your extroverted friends jumped to dance with strangers, to run ahead of the group to explore wherever you were going. Your friends would snicker as they looked back at you, teasing you about how similar you seemed; both of you told them separately that you wouldn’t know, because the other never made an attempt at conversation.

The club was busy—crowded, filled to the brim with sweaty strangers and desperate patrons. Neon signs merged with the low lights of the room, purple and red and yellow, burning your skin as you shut your eyes for visual silence. You couldn’t make out which song was playing, though it sounded different from the one that had been blasting through the speakers a few minutes ago.

Dejun was sitting across from you, eyes focused on the particular spot where your friends had gathered for shots; neither of you could remember how many they’d already done, all you could remember was that you’d certainly be designated drivers. His hair was done up in meticulous tousles, brown locks falling adorably into his eyes as he tried, needlessly, to brush them out of the way.

He hadn’t said a word to you since he arrived.

He looked like he wanted to, every now and then. He’d glance over at you as you were looking at something else, part his plump lips in the slightest, before releasing a microscopic sigh and slumping further into his seat. You did the same whenever he wasn’t looking.

At some point during the night, you’d tired of the fleeting stares, the missed opportunities of conversation, and stood up. Ever the introvert, you could feel your fingers tremble at the mere idea of what you were seemingly about to do, though you powered through. Shuhua had always insisted that, if you wanted to talk to someone, you’d need to talk to them, and that’s what you were about to do.

You took a seat next to Dejun, and he turned to look at you, brown eyes betraying obvious surprise. You were close; not too close for comfort, but close enough that he could feel the plush of your thigh against his, that you could smell his fruity cologne.

“What do you want for your birthday?”

It was an abrupt question, you’d admit. But in that moment, you’d had no better questions than the one that tumbled out of your mouth in that moment.

Dejun frowned, dark brows creasing in confusion. He’d heard you loud and clear, of course. “What?”

“Shuhua tells me your birthday is on the way,” you said, raising your voice only in the slightest to be heard over the music. “She said it’s next week, 8 August. I’m asking you what you want for your birthday.”

He smiled then, soft grin stretching across his handsome face. “Aren’t we a bit unfamiliar to exchange birthday presents?” he asked. His voice was deep, similar to the little you’d heard of it before, smooth as silk.

“No one’s ever too unfamiliar for a gift,” you said. “And you don’t have to get me anything for my birthday.”

He frowned, smile untouched. “I’d feel bad if I didn’t!”

You sighed, though you couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled in your throat. “Just tell me what you want for your twenty-first.”

His eyes turned heavenwards, a habit you’d become familiar with over the years. “I really like Twilight.”

You perked up, surprised. “You do?”

He nodded, humming gently. “Mm. I’ve been meaning to get a DVD of Breaking Dawn, but I can’t find it anywhere.”

You quirked a brow. “That’s what you want for your birthday?” you asked.

His smile made heat bloom in your stomach. “You can get it for me if you want. You don’t have to, though. A scented candle is alright, too.”

That year, Xiao Dejun received the entire Twilight film series on DVD for his birthday. The wrapping was green, and had a little note attached to it.

‘One of these has got to be Breaking Dawn, right? Happy twenty-first, Dejun.’

2021

Becoming friends with Dejun proved to be a much easier task than you’d thought it to be. Especially when you worked in the same office.

404 Entertainment was an independent entertainment company when you started there as a screenwriter, Dejun as a junior director. You worked on the same floor, seated in white desks just across from each other.

You’d been told that friendships often bloomed in the workplace, and that sentiment had been proven right during your sixth month working for the company, during your second lunch spent sitting across from Dejun in the company cafeteria.

The fluorescent lights of the cafeteria shone down on your little table, burning your eyelids as you picked apart your lunch while you mentally picked apart the man sitting in front of you. He was reading something regarding a scandal one of the agency’s actors had been caught in, reading glasses perched low on his nose, stubbornly sliding down the soft slope whenever he tried to push it back up and closer to his eyes. His hair had grown longer since you last saw him a year ago, his eyes sterner. 

As mentioned before, you’d gone out with Dejun only once before, in a similar setup as the one you’d found yourself in presently. You’d set out to find the cafeteria together, and had spent the majority of your lunch break wandering around the massive building, breaking into laughter when you rounded yet another corner, only to find a storage cupboard or another hallway. It had taken you twenty of the thirty minutes you were granted to finally find the cafeteria and take your own seats.

Like last time, you didn’t talk much. Over the course of a year, you hadn’t gotten to know much more about Dejun than a few simple facts. He was from China—Dongguan, to be precise—he’d studied Film & TV in university, specialising in directing where you’d specialised in screenwriting, and he had an older brother named Defei. Dejun himself was granted a few impersonal facts about you that followed a similar pattern; hometown, university major, possible siblings.

It didn’t take you long to learn that Dejun didn’t talk much—not to you, it seemed. You weren’t sure if he was more extroverted around those he knew better, though you didn’t mind his quiet nature around you. It matched your own demeanour in a way that didn’t constantly place you out of your comfort zone, and you were rather content with that.

When he talked, whether to gossip about your colleagues or rave about a film he’d watched, you talked. When he didn’t, opting rather to simply exist in the same space as you, you didn’t, either.

Your silences were, despite your perceived unfamiliarity, comfortable.

His foot brushed yours at one point, the tips of his business shoe grazing the toe of one of your black kitten heels. He glanced up, brows raised in the slightest, eyes easy despite the touch. “Sorry about that,” he apologised, and you heard his legs shift under the table. He nudged his glasses higher again. “Didn’t mean to, you know…”

You smiled. “It’s okay. I barely noticed.” You gestured to his computer, adding, “You can go back to your article.” When he glanced at you again, as if trying to gauge whether or not you were being sincere, you confirmed, “Really, it was no bother, Dejun.”

He nodded then, and went back to his gossip column.

You stole glances in his direction between bites of your sandwich, between sips of your iced coffee. When he’d finally finished his article and closed his computer, crossing his arms over the table, you said, “It’s almost your birthday again.”

He hummed, amused. “Mhm. Twenty two in a week. Shuhua tell you?”

You shook your head. “I remembered. What do you want for your birthday?”

He started to smile, the quirk of his lips making way for a gentle laugh. “Again with this question? I didn’t even get you a gift for your birthday last year.”

You shrugged. “I don’t mind. I’m asking about what you want.”

He quirked a brow, something testing swimming behind his protective lenses. “My roommate broke my ukulele.”

“You want a new ukulele for your birthday?” you asked.

He shrugged. “If you want to get me a gift so badly. Then again, a scented candle wouldn’t be insulting, coming from you.”

You chuckled. “No, thanks. I’d like to at least try and become your friend, and that intention outrules impersonal gifts.”

His smile returned, this time softer, with an undeniable trace of fondness glimmering in his eyes. “You want to become my friend?”

You frowned. “I thought that was obvious.”

That year, Xiao Dejun received a brand new ukulele for his twenty-second birthday. You gave it to him at his birthday dinner, having been invited on a whim the week before; your other mutual friends were delighted to see that you’d finally decided to shoot your shot at becoming friends.

‘Even though the wrapping is different from last time, the sentiment attached to the gift stays the same—though I’m not sure how much emotional value I could gift you in the form of a ukulele. Happy twenty-second, Dejun.’

2022

The restaurant was crowded.

Despite having made your reservation several months before, finding your table and taking a seat had been an ordeal neither you nor Dejun had expected. The low lights of the dining room made it difficult to look at the man across from you properly, though you assumed the owners had adjusted the lights to form a more romantic atmosphere; while you didn’t mind, you wondered if they knew that their clientele did not consist solely of young, rich couples. The occasional broke pair of friends enjoyed dining there as well.

Speaking of, Dejun had once again found himself seated across from you, this time in a much different environment than he was used to.

A year had passed since you gifted him the ukulele he still played for you, since you’d finally declared yourself friends at the birthday dinner he’d invited you to on a whim. A year since you had wished him goodnight just outside of his flat in an apartment complex coincidentally close to yours; twelve months since you’d, in genuine earnest, gifted him a sparkly ukulele you’d found after several tireless days of dragging Shuhua along as you visited every music shop in greater Seoul. Of course, you hadn’t seen the importance in telling Dejun of that last fun fact.

Your positions at 404 Entertainment had stayed the same; still screenwriter, still junior director. You ate lunch together whenever you could, which accounted for most days you were working. You talked more, if only a bit. This time, you gossiped. This time, you raved. And Dejun listened.

“What do you want for your birthday?”

You’d been glancing curiously at the couples around you when Dejun asked you that question, drawing your attention from the hundreds of guests surrounding you to the man in front of you. He looked nice, though it wasn’t as if he never did. His blue collared shirt complimented the jeans he’d chosen, and he’d joked about you matching when he noticed your blue jacket and skirt. 

“What do I want for my birthday?” you repeated, glancing at the man who hadn’t changed much since his last birthday.

His hair still brown, still tousled perfectly as if he’d just woken up in the prettiest of ways; his lips still pink, still plump and soft to the touch from what you could see; his eyes still stern, still so serious through their familiar fondness when fixed on you.

Dejun nodded, and you furrowed a brow in confusion.

“I’m not sure,” you confessed. “I haven’t given it much thought. How about you? Your birthday’s soon.”

He shook his head. “Yours is, too. This is about you.” He tilted his head, eyes twinkling. “So…?”

“I’ll have to think about it,” you chuckled. “I don’t really get gifts for my birthday.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

You shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. Shuhua and Yizhuo always take me out on the day, but gifts aren’t my thing. I don’t really like stuff.”

Dejun shook his head. “Everyone likes stuff,” he insisted. “You just haven’t been given the right stuff.”

You probed, “And that would be…?”

“I don’t know yet,” your friend said. “But I’ll have it figured out by your birthday, that much I know.”

You hummed, not seeming awfully convinced. Dejun merely looked at you for a moment longer, gaze indicating complete and total sincerity. However slight your friendship had started out, Xiao Dejun was a perceptive man, and you were an open book.

You said something along the lines of, If you say so, before taking a sip of the sweet drink you’d ordered. Your skin glinted under the warm lights of the restaurant, face glowing with youth, with plush, and with a familiar shimmer dusting your cheekbones. Your lips were glossy, a pretty pink only when he leaned in close enough to take a proper look.

Conversation had begun to flow easily between the two of you—as was expected of friends of a year. Dejun talked about office gossip, you talked about secrets you’d overheard whenever people hadn’t taken notice of you; you discussed jobs, different positions, and it came out that you’d been offered a permanent spot on the 404 screenwriting team.

Despite having been there to celebrate him—his promotion from junior director to simply director, to be precise—Dejun made sure the night was about you from that point on. You tried to pivot, to shift focus back to the man of the hour, but he’d simply shake his head and change the subject until it landed back on you, and your conversations continued in this pattern until you said,

“Xiao Dejun, what would it take for you to finally talk about yourself—the whole reason we’re even here? Enough about me, please.”

Dejun’s eyes glimmered. “I don’t like talking about myself too much.” You didn’t know it yet, but this would be the biggest lie he ever told you. “I like talking about you,” he admitted. This, however, was true.

You deadpanned. Dejun laughed.

“Okay, okay,” he acquiesced. “You wanted to know what I want for my birthday this year, right?” Begrudgingly, you nodded, and he said, “I want to see the beach this year.”

Your eyes widened. “You want me to take you to the beach?”

He shrugged. “Why not? Friends could always benefit from time spent together, especially at the beach.”

You hummed. A beat of silence passed before you admitted, and it sounded to Dejun as if you were opening up to such a possibility as the one he’d suggested, “Haeundae is very pretty this time of year.”

He grinned. “Is that a yes?”

That year, Xiao Dejun drove down to Busan with you for his twenty-third birthday. You spent the entire day on the beach, from the mid-afternoon hour you’d arrived to the latest dusk as the wind became colder, as the sand cooled, and the restaurants around the beach began to close.

He’d stolen glances at you throughout the trip, from the day of his birthday to the day you left a week later, simply watching you as you went about your business. He’d stare at you from the water as you sat on the shore, reading a book while splayed across your towel, he’d glance at you from the passenger seat as you drove to your accommodation, he’d smile when he caught you cleaning up your table when you went out to eat.

On your very last night in Busan, while you were sitting on the beach and watching the sunset, the star sinking beneath the horizon, Dejun turned to you while your eyes were still trained on the sea, and said, “I think I know what to get you for your birthday.”

You smiled; hushed, soft, reticent. There was something so reserved yet so witty about the way you asked, “And what would that be?”

“A new book. Preferably featuring several female main characters, with either a mundane or ridiculously dark setting, or some odd pairing of both.” He glanced at you, gaze shrewd, as if he had you all figured out. “And most certainly set in a major city.”

Two months later, on your birthday, Dejun gifted you The Trunk, a novel about a woman working in a contract marriage business, set in Seoul—two months after you finished Out while at the beach, a novel about a woman who’d killed her husband and employed her friends to help her hide the body, set in Tokyo.

2023

“Would you want to move in with me?”

You frowned at the question, glancing at Dejun as you placed your book on your chest. He was sitting on the leftmost end of Shuhua’s couch, while you sat on the rightmost end, legs laid out and feet nearly grazing his thigh. His gaze was fixated upon your group of friends, who were all caught up in a game of Twister, drunkenly yelling instructions to one another. Both you and Dejun had tripped or fallen, leaving only Shuhua, Yizhuo, Yangyang, and Kunhang to keep the game going. 

“Why?” was the first question you asked in response.

He shrugged, taking a slow sip of his beer. “Because we both need roommates, and you only live two blocks away from me, and my flat is closer to the office than yours is. You know, practical reasons.” He glanced at you, his head lolling onto his shoulder as he gave you a wily grin. “Nothing to be sceptical of, sweetheart.”

You straightened up and landed a light smack on his thigh, which got a laugh from him. “I wasn’t sceptical,” you corrected. “I was just curious.”

Curious, because you remember telling Dejun that your roommate had recently moved out in favour of moving in with her boyfriend, though you didn’t think he’d remember that small fact. Curious, because you remembered Dejun having been in a similar predicament for about the same time as you. Curious, because your landlord had upped your rent not even a week earlier, and you’d been looking for a roommate to split costs with and, more recently, cheaper flats in the area that you could afford by yourself. 

He hummed. “Well, I hope my answer’s calmed that curiosity sufficiently enough.”

“For the time being,” you said. 

He grinned. “That’s good enough. Shu, left hand, red.”

You glanced at your friends just as Shuhua went to twist under Yangyang to reach the spot she’d meant to, the latter starting to tremble from overexertion. Dejun’s voice was low when he spoke again, silky as ever as he asked, “So, do I get a yes or a no?”

“Mm. I’ll answer your question if you answer mine,” you said, twisting your body to face his. “What do you want for your birthday?”

He did the same as you, albeit with a frustrated frown marring his magnificent brows. “You’re impossible,” he said, though he clearly meant no harm by the sentiment, laughing gently as he glanced at you. “I asked you a question first.”

You shrugged. “And then I presented my terms. What do you want for your birthday?”

He sighed, squinting at you through his lashes.

In the years you’d known him, he’d started to change only in the last eight months. His hair was back to its natural blue-black, and his eyes seemed less sombre, though you could still detect the hints of dogged sternness in his expression at times. He wore different clothes now, better fitting to his form and personal style, spoke more enthusiastically than he had when he was twenty one. You couldn’t bring yourself to dislike any of these changes, to wish that he’d go back to his old, serious self. You liked that he smiled more, spoke more, particularly to you.

“You’re insufferable,” he grinned. “Fine. I want a housewarming gift for my birthday.”

You frowned. “Your birthday’s in a week,” you pointed out. “If I said yes to your offer, I wouldn’t get moved in in time.”

He shrugged. “An early housewarming gift, then. Now, your answer?”

You sighed good naturedly, casting a thoughtful glance to the heavens. “I’ll move in with you,” you nodded. “My landlord just raised my rent, so… I could really use split expenses. Besides, your flat is bigger.”

“You make us moving in together sound so impersonal,” he scoffed.

“I wasn’t aware it was personal,” you said.

“Well, not in the way you seem to be putting it,” he chuckled. “But we’re friends. Friends are personal.”

The overhead lights of Shuhua’s apartment shone down onto Dejun, bathing his tanned skin in a warm glow that made it look as if a halo circled the top of his adorably tousled hair.

He fiddled with something in his hands—the charm on your house keys, you assumed, because it looked nearly identical to the small plush Yangyang had bought you when you were visiting Osaka together—spinning it round his finger while he watched the rest of your friends fall into a loud heap onto the colourful mat, smiling at the amusing sight.

You smiled softly, picking you book up again. The last thing you said to him before returning to it was, “Sorry, friend. I’m honoured that you personally asked me to move in with you, and I’m even more honoured to accept that offer.”

He scoffed gently, though left you to your own devices for the rest of the night. You spoke of unimportant matters when your food came; the weather, your upcoming work schedule, your first collaboration on a company project.

Dejun placed a cup of water in front of you wherever you sat, without fail, whenever he noticed you’d finished the previous one; you made sure to place his jacket close to him when his attitude made it clear he was planning on heading home for the night, kicked his shoes—a tattered pair of trainers he’d been wearing since he was in high school—out from under Shuhua’s couch before he had to start looking for them, and jingled his keys in front of his handsome face after grabbing them from the kitchen counter before he could ask where they were.

Since becoming friends, you’d noticed that Xiao Dejun was quite the forgetful man.

Whether he knew it or not, you weren’t sure; all you knew was that you weren’t, and you were making his life a whole lot easier by not being.

You joined Dejun on the steps as he made his descent to the parking lot, leaned against his car as he unlocked it. “By the way,” he started, “what’s your idea of a good housewarming gift?”

You raised a brow. “Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”

He chuckled, giving you a disgruntled look that almost looked real. “You’re annoying.”

Shaking your head, you told him, “You don’t need to worry about the gift. I know you well enough by now to know what you need.”

“Oh?” he asked, intrigued. Instead of climbing in his car, he turned, his back hitting the closed door of the driver’s seat. He crossed his arms over his chest, his leather jacket creasing with the movement. “You think you know me?”

“Well enough to know what you’d like as a housewarming gift?” you retorted. “Yes, I happen to think so.”

He hummed. “Mm. We’ll see about that.”

That year, Xiao Dejun received a new pair of shoes for his twenty-fourth birthday. They came in not in their original Converse packaging, rather neatly wrapped and placed into a box filled with bright green and pink tissue paper.

‘I’m aware of the cultural stigma behind gifting a friend shoes, but for some reason, I trust you not to run from me. Not in shoes meant for fashion over function, anyway.’

Dejun had glanced at you after reading the note, his cheeks starting to hurt with how hard he was smiling. “This isn’t exactly a housewarming gift, you know,” he said. “This is a birthday present.”

“It’s your birthday today,” you said sternly. “Consider me the housewarming present—not too expensive, not too flashy, but terribly practical and smelling slightly of cheap vanilla.”

His grin finally bubbled into a laugh, and he found himself saying, for what seemed to be the nth time since he met you, “You’re ridiculous.”

2024

You didn’t know why you’d ever agreed to clubbing.

Shuhua had dragged you out one early August night under the guise of having been broken up with and needing womanly support from the likes of you and Yizhuo, and you’d been enough of a fool to agree. Despite it being true, Shuhua’s boyfriend leaving her, you felt she could’ve dealt with her newfound loneliness in a much better way than clubbing.

You’d gone out at eight o’clock, only about an hour after you’d finished up at work, and you stayed out until two in the morning.

The night air felt cold against your body, cooling the sudor coating your exposed skin as you walked up the stairs leading to yours and Dejun’s apartment, Shuhua and Yizhuo still shouting their farewells from the lobby before their voices finally faded out, whether because of your ascent upstairs or their final departure, you weren’t sure.

You were greeted, curiously, by your elderly neighbour, Mrs Cho, who you caught putting out food for a stray cat she’d been feeding for the past few months. She smiled at you knowingly, but merely greeted you and went back to her own business. Clearly, the old lady knew exactly what you needed from people in that moment: silence.

You fumbled with the locks once you jammed your key into the keyhole—Dejun had, as expected, locked the door from the inside like he said he would if you came home too late. At first, he’d offered to stay up and wait for you under the guise of making sure you came home in one piece, but you assured him that you wouldn’t be beside yourself when you came back, that he could lock up and sleep peacefully knowing you’d have come back perfectly fine. 

Yours and Dejun’s flat was usually messier than what it looked like when you walked in on this particular August night; neither of you were awfully disorderly individuals, but your decor sometimes turned into nuisances, your forgotten packages or groceries into clutter and, despite you being somewhat of a clean freak, didn’t always have the energy to clean up after a long day at the office, and neither did Dejun.

You wouldn’t have noticed it if someone had pointed it out to you right then, but you’d done a fairly good job of making his space yours. One could see it in small traces, in the extra pair of shoes sitting by the door, in the throw pillows and blankets that had joined the ones from before, in your perfume, warm and oriental, marrying with Dejun’s familiar cologne, fresh and fruity as it was. 

Small imprints you’d made, here and there, perhaps unnoticeable to the untrained eye, but crystal clear to anyone who’d seen it beforehand, a year ago, the week before you’d moved in, the day before you moved in.

Your room was located down the hall, sitting opposite Dejun’s. Just a few steps needed to get there—five, ten, fifteen—before you could flop down onto your bed and be out like a light.

Somehow, you still didn’t make it.

You weren’t sure if it was exhaustion, hopelessness, or several cheap wine coolers, or a perfect shitstorm of all three, but something otherworldly had compelled you to take a heavy seat on the sofa, sinking into the flat, worn cushions face-first. Your arms splayed awkwardly across the front and back of the couch, the knuckles one of your hands gently grazing the floor as the other stood oddly upright, digging into top of the sofa. You curled up, hugging your knees to your chest as you rested your cheek against one of the throw pillows Dejun had bought on impulse because it had a beagle that looked like his own pet, Bella, on it. You weren’t sure when you fell asleep, or for how long you were out.

You woke up to a firm hand on your thigh.

Squinting through tired, bleary eyes, you could make out the faint outline of your roommate mostly by the way his sleep shirt hung loosely around his slender frame. He gave your thigh another squeeze, a repetition of the action that had woken you up, and through the pale moonlight, you could see him frown drowsily.

“What’re you doing on the couch?” he whispered, leaning back as you stretched your arms and legs out, trembling as your spine arched into the couch cushions.

Your cheek smushed further into the pillow as you muttered, “W’s just taking a power nap.”

He shook his head; his fingers felt warm, comforting on your skin. Your skirt had ridden up, whether when you fell asleep or when you got back home, you weren’t sure, but he dutifully tugged it down, covering the plush of your thighs. “I heard you unlock the door at two. It’s half past four, now.”

You frowned. “You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie?” he smiled.

“I don’t know, but I know you’re lying,” you accused. “I’ve been asleep for maybe fifteen minutes.”

He sighed, exasperated. “Even when you’re drunk, I get your stubborn side. Do you ever soften up?”

You shook your head no.

He patted your thigh affectionately, though not without a chagrined smile in your direction. “Okay. Let’s get you to bed.”

Through your sleep-ridden daze, you felt him lift you from the couch, hooking his arms under your knees. Despite putting up quite the verbal fight mere moments before, you slumped against him as soon as he picked you up, tucking your chin over his bicep. 

The trip to your room was short—five, ten, fifteen steps—and ended in Dejun trying, to the best of his abilities, to gently lay you onto your mattress. It didn’t work well, considering the fact that you were still half-asleep and somewhat under the impression that your roommate just as tipsy and tired as you were.

Dejun landed next to you with a soft oof! leaving his lips, chuckling as you laid a definitive hand on his chest.

“And what am I doing here?” he enquired lightly.

You twisted so that you lay flat on your back, one hand on your chest and the other on Dejun’s. He gently took the hand on his body, lacing your fingers with his.

“Sleeping,” you said, “because you’re tired from clubbing.”

He exhaled shortly through his nose, not a laugh, not nothing; just enough to convey his amusement. “Oh. Right. Don’t I have my own room, though?”

“I think so,” you said softly. “But I think it’s too far away. You’ll fall asleep on the way there.”

“Like you did?” he asked.

“I didn’t fall asleep,” you declared. “I was taking a nap. Resting my eyes, if you will.”

In the dark, he shook his head at your antics, at the fact that you were still a jokester under the influence.

“How much did you have to drink?” he asked.

At that same moment, you’d asked, “What do you want for your birthday?”

He glanced at you. “You first.”

“Two wine coolers and one shot that tasted like condensed milk coffee,” you said shortly. “Now you.”

Dejun shrugged. “What do you feel like doing tomorrow?”

Usually, under the influence of societal conditioning and friendly affection, you’d have passed the ball of conversation into his court, told him that it was his birthday, the he needed to be the one to choose what he wanted.

But under the influence of cheap alcohol and a pure need to simply exist in the same room as him for a while, you said, “I really want to go to the aquarium.”

He hummed. “What time do you want to leave?”

“Six thirty,” you said.

A chuckle. “Two hours from now?”

You shrugged. “A shower, an aspirin, and a fresh change of clothes can do wonders.”

He smiled gently, index finger and thumb twisting one of the rings resting on your pinky. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

That year, Xiao Dejun went to the aquarium for his twenty-fifth birthday. You got in line as quickly as you could, before the place got too crowded. The tour you’d paid for at the counter lasted an hour and a half, and for that hour and a half you walked through the aquarium with your roommate, with your best friend, merely existing in unison.

You stopped under the overhead fish tanks, and Dejun insisted on taking a selfie despite the two of you only having got five hours of sleep combined. You passed by a coffee stand on the way in and insisted on buying Dejun a cup.

He was seated in front of a large tank taking up what would’ve been the fourth wall when you approached him, dropping to a crouch to hand him the steaming paper cup. He glanced at you curiously, brown eyes wide and questioning, his face bathed in the light blues and greens of the water in front of him.

Plopping down next to him as he took his coffee, you said, “My birthday gifts to you are getting simpler each year. First, a set of DVDs. Then, a ukulele. Then, a trip to the beach. Then, new shoes. Now, a cup of overpriced coffee.”

Dejun glanced at you with fondness evident in his eyes, in the quirk of his lips. “Have you ever considered that I like simple gifts?”

You scoffed. “No one likes simple gifts.”

He shook his head. “Sometimes, getting someone a cup of coffee when they really need it is worth ten times more than a lavish dinner they asked for.”

2025

The sixth and last time you asked Dejun what he wanted, it was two hours before he turned twenty six.

You’d been out with your friends, seated at a posh restaurant in Gangnam at too late of an hour for it to really be considered dinner. It had been a last-minute arrangement, made possible only because Yangyang knew the right people and Yizhuo was leaving for Harbin the next morning and didn’t want to miss Dejun’s birthday party.

The restaurant was fancy, kitschy, almost, bathed in an alluring warm light, playing the gentle type of jazz that could convince even the poorest of customers to purchase an overpriced entrée, at the very least. You’d know, because three out of six of your friends happened to be those aforementioned poorest customers—you included. Your group were all seated around a booth, your backs pressing into worn red leather as you conversed, ate, and took sips of your drinks as a way of forgetting just how much you’d all be paying for those things in a few hours.

The man of the hour sat next to you, tending to a glass of something expensive. He hadn’t said much since you’d arrived, since you’d tumbled out of his beloved second-hand car after rushing to the restaurant when you’d realised it had been further away from your flat than you’d anticipated. He merely smiled, added witty commentary where it was needed, glanced at you from the corner of his eye on occasion, smiling somberly to himself.

Shuhua was in the middle of a heated debate with Kunhang about something concerning the political correctness of the Sanrio Universe when you turned to Dejun, leaning into the plush seat cushioning your back. 

You’d never made a habit of telling him this, but he looked handsome. Not just tonight, dressed in a suit, wavy strawberry blond hair glinting gold under the chandelier, silver jewellery catching in the light as he added his five cents whenever he thought he should, but always. When his dye was washing out, and his skin barrier decided to stop respecting him, and he’d just woken up, or when he was calm and unposed, not looking good, not looking bad, but just being there, perched next to you on the couch as you watched a new movie, sitting across from you at the breakfast table as you discussed books, rolling over to your desk at work while you were trying to pass the time in a comparatively productive manner. He always looked handsome to you, Xiao Dejun.

But, perhaps, the suit was doing him more good than his civvies usually did.

You’d admit that, if you were ever encouraged to.

Your drink—something sweet, fruity, perhaps, but not alcoholic—lingered on your tongue even after you’d taken a sip, glancing at your best friend like you had a question.

“What do you want for your birthday?”

Dejun had been anticipating this question; ever since you walked into the restaurant, since he’d woken up that morning, the day before his birthday, he’d been expecting it to tumble from your lips at some point. He was a bit surprised at the late timing, given the fact that it was two hours to midnight, and you’d have no time to buy him a gift in the small gap you had before August 8th was upon you.

Over the years, he’d become accustomed to your almost uniform way of approaching things, just like you were now. The day before his birthday, you’d ask what he wanted; the day you went grocery shopping, you’d have him pick out everything he said he needed; five minutes before you went to renew your drivers licenses, you’d sit in the passenger seat of his car to apply a base layer to his face because his skin had been acting out the week leading up to the appointment and he’d forgotten his own concealer. Every bill was paid on time, every meal planned and prepped within the timeframe you granted yourself, every DVD in your living room stacked on the shelf next to your sofa according to genre or director.

That was just how you did things, and Dejun liked that. After all, you seemed to like the way he did things, which often veered in the complete opposite direction.

He knew exactly when he went from wanting to be your friend to wanting to be more. In a manner not dissimilar to your own, he’d planned it. Your entire friendship was meticulously crafted, played like a pair of puppets by a lovelorn man hidden behind the red velvet curtain, all of his words and actions geared towards his final goal: you.

He meant nothing predatory by it, really. He discovered early on in your friendship that he really enjoyed your conversation, that you agreed on things Dejun thought he’d never agree with someone on. In a way, he himself was as unconscious of his own plan as you were, sometimes getting lost in your company and the intellectual stimulation you offered that he forgot he was sick with love and dizzy with adoration.

What does that even mean, then? That Dejun was planning something, but didn’t know it? Well, I’m sure everyone knows the feeling once it’s explained in simpler terms than these the author has just provided.

You see a pretty person, meet them through mutual friends; you find them attractive, decide you want to do something about that attraction; you befriend them, the first step in building up romantic chemistry when you’ve no idea if the person is interested in you the way you’re interested in them; forget all about wanting to date them when you remember that both of you are human, and get caught up in things so trivial yet so important as companionship, friendly fondness. Next thing you know, you’ve known them for nearly six years and you forgot to ask them out, you’re still in love with them, except this time, you’re pretty sure they’re in love with you, too.

At least, that was Dejun’s experience.

He wanted to befriend you to win your heart, and instead, you were so busy winning his that half a decade’s past and he hasn’t made a single move.

Luckily, he was sure you were into him, too.

He didn’t know why—that happens a lot to people, too, I’m sure. They go from not knowing things to knowing them, but aren’t able to tell when the change occurred. 

He just knew.

Instead of following in his past self’s footsteps and answering as honestly as he could, he crossed his arms over the table, leaning forward in a way that exposed his collarbones from underneath his shirt, that exposed the silver chain Kunhang had gifted him when they both started university.

When he did finally answer, he spoke frankly. Voice low, earnest, cadence smooth and silky, blunt as ever; eyes steady, a little bit reckless and perfectly wretched.

“You.”

You blinked.

He continued, not breaking eye contact with you, “I’ve been wanting you for a while, now, and, by God, I hope you’ll let me have you.”

Again, a blink. Then,

“I will, if you let me have you.”

The ride home was silent.

Neither you nor Dejun could say much; the bill had come just as it was left to Dejun to say something to you, all the zeroes behind the first digit doing a damn good job at dragging his attention from you. After that, it had been a mess of tearful goodbyes (mostly exchanged between you and Yizhuo) and promises to keep in touch. A rather dramatic end to the night, you had to say, considering the fact that two out of five of your friends worked in the same company as you, the other two lived less than three blocks away, and the last lived with you, worked on the same floor of the same building as you. You didn’t exactly see them once in a blue moon.

Your best friend’s grip on the steering wheel was no real indicator of stress or tension, his calm demeanour when driving too strong to even hint whether or not his earlier words caused him any misery.

You got home and unlocked and re-locked everything in the same silence as you’d driven in, barely glancing at each other once the muscle memory took over and the routine nightly rituals commenced; Dejun kicked off his shoes and locked the door, while you crouched down to greet his dog, Bella, who’d become accustomed to greeting you before her owner. You’d take off your own shoes, placing them below Dejun’s in the cubby by your door, and wander over to the kitchen with Bella in your arms, rummaging through the cupboards in search of her food.

“It’s in the second cupboard to the left,” Dejun said, nodding with his chin to the correct cabinet. He smiled softly when you reached for the right one, though still said nothing until after you’d filled up her bowl and plopped onto the couch next to your roommate.

A beat of silence passed in which you simply sat side by side on the couch, quietly drinking in the events of the night.

“I meant what I said, you know,” he murmured eventually. “About wanting you.”

“And I meant what I said,” you replied. “About letting you have me only if you allow me the same luxury.”

He chuckled breathlessly. “Why would I not? All I’ve ever wanted to do was give as much of myself to you as I could, I just— I just never knew I was what you’d want.”

“…It would’ve done you a whole lot of good if you’d asked,” you said gently. “I would’ve said yes the night I met you.”

His eyes softened. “You would?”

You nodded. “But I like that we know each other as well as we do now, under these circumstances.”

He smiled. “As badly as I want you, I’m inclined to agree.” He twisted his body to face yours; you did the same, your knees brushing against one another’s as you did so. Hesitantly, he reached out to cup your face, to brush his fingertips against your soft skin. He relaxed the moment you leaned into the touch, pressing your plump lips to the palm of his hand in a tender kiss. “I like that we became best friends, even if we’d have become more, regardless of circumstance.”

He felt you smile against his skin. “I think it’s easier to trust someone you’ve seen suffer several bad hair days and acne outbreaks in a situation like this,” you admitted. “Someone who you’ve had to remind more than once not to go to work with pimple patches on their face.”

He laughed. “Or someone who’s drunkenly dragged you into their bed to sleep because they’ve convinced themselves you were just as drunk as they were.”

“Or someone who talks about office gossip with you,” you shot back.

“Or someone who, like clockwork, asks you what you want for your birthday every year,” Dejun smarted.

You merely smiled—that shy, reserved smile he’d fallen in love with over and over again, the one he’d continue to fall in love with every morning it greeted him, right after he opened his eyes.

The smile he could feel against his lips as he surged forward for a kiss, chuckling halfway through at the way you made a noise of surprise at the action.

The smile he pressed and melded into his own lips, that he could feel stretching across his own face as he took your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down onto it in a way that made you sigh into his mouth and kiss him harder, in a way he had only imagined you could kiss.

That same lovely, peaceful smile that made his head go dizzy with feelings of warmth and love, the one you wore when his lips pressed into your neck, his tongue soothing over the areas he’d bitten.

The smile you wore the next morning as you padded over to his side of the bed, gently nudging him awake.

The smile he kissed off your face after untying the ribbon you’d fastened around your face, from your chin to the crown of your head, scoffing as he hugged your bare body closer to his, mumbling about how ridiculous you were.

That year, Xiao Dejun received a gift he’d quietly wanted for the last six years of his life—you.

You, the girl he’d seen from across the room one day at university and begged Shuhua to introduce him to. You, the girl who’d approached him one night while you were out with friends to ask him the question he knew better than his own name, What do you want for your birthday? You, the girl who listened to him rant about office drama and, in turn, added tidbits of your own to finish his incomplete stories, making it all the more entertaining and scandalous for him.

You, the woman who’d moved in with him after he’d, as nonchalantly as he could manage, put the offer on the table. You, the woman who’d become as familiar to him as breathing, as loving, who’d quietly become the foreground of his life since stepping into it with a hushed question in a loud club. You, the woman who’d told him he could’ve had you so much sooner if he’d just asked.

You, his most complicated simple gift.

“I’m not sure if you know, but you’re a very truthful person. Maybe not in the way you think—no, in the way that it’s difficult to lie to you. Just the thought of having to do that makes me feel awful. I wonder how I did, then, telling you, without fail, what I wanted for my birthday five years in a row, without telling the truth and admitting that all I ever really wanted was you.”

perm taglist @hyuneskkami @jwiloves @bluedbliss @ayukas @rubiiisyeon @vantxx95 @drunkhee

The Midnight Express was a small, somewhat dingy sandwich shop nestled between a boutique and a record store. Sicheng knew the owner the same way the owner knew Sicheng’s order; by heart, and like the back of his hand.

When Sicheng walked into the tiny establishment, hands shoved in his pockets, stumbling only a little, the owner perked up from behind the counter and gestured for him to come closer, leaning over the glass barrier between them like he was sharing some great secret, though not whispering like he was.

As the detective approached the counter, he nearly bumped into a waitress—a new, quirky-looking girl he didn’t recognise—as she swept past him, dragging a wet mop across the floor.

This was the closest we ever got. Just 0.01 centimeters between us.

She glanced up at him, straightening her posture, purply blue crop top riding up to reveal a toned tummy, before dropping her raised brows and continuing with her work.

But 15 hours later, she fell in love with another man.

1994 年 5 月 1 日

1 MAY, 1994

香港 HONG KONG

New York is often regarded as the city that never sleeps; it’s always busy, a harried place with no room for rest, no space for silence. Throughout the world, though only to a select few, it is known as the centre of the planet. Kunhang isn’t sure who coined the term first, but whoever did, hasn’t been in Hong Kong yet.

Despite the late—or, perhaps he should say early—hour, people were still running through the streets. Mothers after their children, pet owners after their pets, disillusioned cops after the criminals they’d fallen in love with, it seemed that everyone was on the move, except for Kunhang.

The wall felt cold as he leaned against it, glancing lowly beneath his officer’s cap to stare at the rain as it came lashing down on the roof over his head, tinny clangs ringing through the early morning. His uniform felt uncomfortable by now, too tight and too loose in all the wrong places, dotted with dirt and sweat from the day, but Kunhang couldn’t leave just yet. He glanced down at his watch, squinting to see through the cracked glass, and looked back up again, eyes on the lookout for his colleague.

The detective had offered to meet him here four days ago, told him that he’d gained some top-secret information on the criminal they’d been after for the past five months. Kunhang didn’t fully trust the invitation, mostly because his coworker was known for being infamously flaky.

True to his reputation, Dong Sicheng didn’t show up to the aforementioned location, at the corner of both the officers’ favourite snack bar, as midnight struck on May 1st.

Kunhang waited for a few more minutes, wished to humour the older man, only until he tired of waiting and pushed himself off the wall, adjusting his cap and taking off in the direction of the Midnight Express. It was a quaint establishment, lit up completely by the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling, decorated minimally save for the occasional red paper lantern strewn across a counter or chair. The shop often smelled of freshly baked bread and grape soda, whilst the sounds of waiters and patrons humming whichever song was stuck in their heads occupied the little space.

That’s life, that’s what all the people say

Except, it seemed, for tonight.

An unfamiliar voice drifted from an unfamiliar boombox that had been placed just a little ways behind the counter Boss Man and his employees worked from, singing spirits and sorrows the likes of which Kunhang wasn’t at all used to. A different scent wafted through the air, sweeter than bread and more wholesome than grape soda—something cakey, though certainly the artificially-flavoured kind. 

Someone was wearing sugary perfume.

You’re ridin’ high in April, shot down in May

“Kunhang!” Boss Man greeted, spreading his arms wide in greeting. “What’re you doing up so late?”

“Work,” was all the young man said, approaching the counter with a cross of his slender arms, easily leaning his weight on the glass. “Can I have a BLT and iced coffee, boss?”

The owner hummed in acknowledgment. “Same as always? You’re a very simple man, Cop 2809.”

Kunhang smiled. “It’s not for me.”

“Ohhh,” grinned the older man. “Well, have you ever asked the missus if she wanted something else for breakfast? Surely she’d like some change.”

“She never said she doesn’t like BLTs,” was all Kunhang replied, smiling all the while.

But I know I’m gonna change that tune

When I’m back on top, back on top in June

I said, that’s life

“‘Scuse me!”

Looking around for the source of the voice above the music, Kunhang’s gaze eventually settled beneath him, where you were currently trying to sweep him off his feet—literally, attempting to dust where he was standing. He took a tentative step back, and you nodded in appreciation for the act, though said nothing as your arms worked hard and fast to have the place clean as quickly as possible, hunched over a thin, old broom.

For a moment, Kunhang realised he’d never seen you before. Not here, in the Midnight Express, and not anywhere else, in Hong Kong.

Unfamiliar music, unfamiliar boombox, and now an unfamiliar face, wearing an unfamiliar baby tee.

“Why don’t you try the chef’s salad for once?” Boss Man suggested with a shrewd smile.

“What if she doesn’t like it?” Kunhang asked. Choyee had always been particular about food.

Boss Man shrugged. “Just buy a BLT and a chef’s salad to see which one she’ll take, the other one’s yours. Easy as that, copper.”

“Wouldn’t that be expensive?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Everything together is only fifteen dollars.”

Kunhang deliberated for a moment, eyes flicking back and forth over the menu before he gave a small sigh, giving in to Boss Man’s insistences. “Fine, then. A BLT, chef’s salad, and an iced coffee, boss man.”

Boss Man grinned proudly. “There we go!”

The owner of the shop called out an unfamiliar name, and you stood on attention, your boss pointing at you. “You heard the man, BLT—”

“Chef’s salad, and an iced coffee,” you interrupted, loudly so as to be heard over the music, already making your way behind the counter. “Yeah, yeah, I got it, boss man. You make the food and I’ll make the coffee.”

Kunhang watched curiously as you poured black coffee over a plastic cup filled with ice, flicking your wrist as you added the secret syrup Midnight Express used in all their coffee-related beverages. You moved languidly, unlike most people he saw, though there was a feverishness and haste to your manoeuvres that he wasn’t familiar with.

You glanced at him over the glass counter, kooky, enquisitive eyes meeting his as you handed him the plastic cup and, without another word, disappeared into the shop’s kitchen, swinging open a door somewhere, not to be seen again. Boss Man wrapped and handed Kunhang his food with a smile, a nod, and a promise that his girlfriend was going to love the switch up.

…People get their kicks, stompin’ on a dream

The following day, nearly the same hour as last, Kunhang waltzed into the Midnight Express and said, “Chef’s salad and iced coffee, please.”

Boss Man smiled. “See? I told you she’d like it!”

“Maybe she was just too shy to say she wanted something else,” the officer considered. “I’m glad I listened to you, boss man.”

“Now it’s time to bring another new one home,” he advised. “Do the same as last time, except with chef’s salad and dumplings.”

Kunhang nodded. “Sure. Fifteen dollars, still?”

“You know it. Sweets!” Boss Man called, and you popped up from behind the counter, gently laying down the newspaper you’d been reading.

“Got it,” you said, waving him off. “Another iced coffee for the officer.” This time, you risked a look in Kunhang’s direction. He was already looking at you, smiling politely; his eyes crinkled at the sides, brown irises clear in their kindliness.

With a step towards the counter, once again leaning his weight against the glass, Kunhang asked, “I haven’t seen you here before. You new?”

You nodded, placing down a plastic cup identical to the one you’d handed to him the previous night. You were wearing a pink baby tee today. “Yep. Your coffee.”

“Mm. Thanks,” he said. “You like loud music?”

“Tons,” you hollered. “Stops me from thinking too much.”

Kunhang grinned. “You don’t like to think?”

“Nope.” You shook your head.

“What do you like, then?”

“…Haven’t thought about it. You?”

“Mm… I like BLT.”

But I don’t let it

Let it get me down

Kunhang was starting to grow familiar with the song that was playing whenever he went to get midnight breakfast at his favourite sandwich shop. He still didn’t know the original artist, or what exactly he was singing about, but he knew that you were always about halfway through listening it when Kunhang got to the Midnight Express, and that you always had the volume on full, leaving no room for any conversation besides his yelled order, and his yelled thanks.

Tonight, he didn’t arrive with that usual jump in his step, didn’t give his usual beaming smile. He simply walked into the shop, crossing his arms over the counter, and said, “One black coffee, please.”

Both you and Boss Man started, frowning in confusion at his sullen tone of voice.

“No dumplings tonight?” Boss Man asked.

You didn’t say anything, merely placing down the newspaper you’d been reading—something unimportant, about a rogue detective suddenly quitting the force. Nothing terribly interesting. 

A beat of silence passed before Kunhang confessed, “She left. Said something about wanting to try something new.” He glanced up, smiling ruefully. “You know, like with the food.”

Boss Man’s eyes widened from beneath his glasses, and he exhaled in surprise. “Damn,” was all he could will himself to say at first. Then, he recovered his wits, and added, “Don’t worry, 2809. She’ll come running back to you in a few days, I promise. She’ll realise there’s nothing better than BLT soon enough.”

“There’s a lot better than BLT out there,” Kunhang said, shrugging. “You’ve got to get sick of it sometime. I’m just wondering if she realised that when I brought home chef’s salad.”

Boss Man pointed a crooked finger at the younger man, and repeated, “Don’t you worry, man. She’ll be back. For now—” he turned to you, snapping his fingers— “black coffee.”

You nodded, not meeting your boss’ or Kunhang’s eyes.

‘Cause this fine, old world

It keeps spinnin’ around

Black coffee became Kunhang’s usual order, requested loudly over your music, received with nothing more than a stiff smile and a nod of the head. You still added syrup to the hot drink, still incorporated something sweet into an otherwise bitter beverage, a habit Kunhang didn’t take much notice of despite asking for black coffee each time. 

I never thought I’d ever be handsome enough to seduce a stewardess.

He came in on May 3rd, not wearing his uniform. It was odd, seeing him out of the usual navy and cerulean ensemble, instead in nothing more than a white tee, a flannel shirt, and jeans. It was a nice oddity, though, you admitted, finally being able to see the tan, lanky form that had hidden beneath his workwear. His hair was different, too, usually slicked back brown locks now in messy, wavy tousles atop his head.

Boss Man was out on business, so you took his order instead—the usual. “Black coffee’s not very good for you, you know,” you remarked. “Gives you heart palpitations.”

Funny enough, this time last year, I did.

Kunhang curiously met your gaze, though he said nothing that indicated whether or not he’d heard you. There was a soft slope to his nose, you noticed, his eyes more gently curved than those of most people you’d seen, lips more shapely than you were used to kissing. The older man hummed, eyes flicking to your top—this time, a graphic baby tee, purple and red and yellow painting the familiar cityscape of Hong Kong.

“Is that so?” he asked. “Didn’t know that.” Still, you made his coffee, and still, he yelled his thanks over the sound of your music.

For a while, she made me think that we were in it for the long haul.