venus in converse

“Sex toys,” say Lara and Joshua in unison.

You scowl at them.

Vernon slings an arm around your shoulder. “Come on, I’ll get yours this time.”

You angle your head to look at him, big puppy eyes and a fake smile of adoration. “Wow, I always wanted a sugar daddy.”

“I still think you two behave super weird for exes,” says Seungcheol, scrolling through his phone looking for a new spot, even though you’ll end up in the same restaurant down the street you always go to. 

“It’s not a relationship if you break up at sixteen and you’re both still virgins afterwards,” you say.

“I wasn’t a virgin,” insists Vernon. 

You roll your eyes. “Half a handjob doesn’t count, loser.”

Lara makes a face. “Half a handjob?”

“Well my wrist got tired,” you explain.

“I’m so glad I didn’t know either of you back then,” she says, and you shove at her shoulder.

Seungcheol sighs, locking his phone. “Nancy’s?”

There’s a series of enthused nods as if it would’ve been anywhere else, and the group moves over to the door to start putting on their shoes. 

“Uhh–” starts Lara, watching you slip on your flats. “Don’t you need to change first?”

“Oh–” you say, looking down at your Moomin pyjamas. “You know this is your fault for staging an intervention before noon on a Sunday, right?”

Your friends all start complaining at you over each other, until you’re retreating with your hands raised into your bedroom and telling them to go ahead without you while you change. “I’ll meet you there in ten, order me the usual?”

Not long after you can hear the front door click closed, and you’re digging through your drawers to find that one skirt that’ll go nice with your new boots, but there’s a quiet noise of movement from the other room. Your hands still on your clothes.

“Who’s here?” you shout.

“Just me,” Vernon calls from the other room, and you relax. “Wanted to ask you something.”

“I’m not lending you my car again,” you say, pulling the skirt out victorious. “Aren’t the Yankees paying you good money now? Buy your own.”

“No, I don’t– yes, they are but– why do you still have a car in the city–” he starts and it makes you laugh because he almost sounds– nervous? 

Vernon is hardly ever nervous around you. Once– when you were fifteen and, after nine years of friendship, he asked if you’d go to the movies with him. Very sweet. You watched The Scorpion King 3. Another time, in his bedroom while his parents were out, and it was awkward for like a whole week afterwards. Funny in hindsight, agonising at the time. And that one time four years ago when he borrowed your car and returned it with a scratch in the bumper. He nearly cried and promised to have it fixed when he had the money, even though there was a huge dent of your own doing right next to it. A year later, he was signed to the Yankees and he made good on his word and then some, had the bumper and the driver door (that you’d damaged while opening it onto a lamppost) replaced.

“I’m sorta seeing someone,” he says.

“Okay?” you say, confused, as you’re pulling the skirt on one-handed and trying to find the good brand of tights that don’t have a ladder in with the other. “You want my approval or something?”

You can tell his expression just from the way he sighs and you suppress your laugh. 

“Can we just talk face to face?” He complains. “It’s weird through a wall.”

“Not unless you want an eyeful of my tits and I’m guessing your new girlfriend won’t like that.”

“She’s not my girlfriend– uh– she’s kind of married.” 

You gasp while shrugging on your big turtleneck sweater. “Vernon–”

“She’s in the middle of a divorce, but it’d be messy if word got out.”

“Do I know her?” There’s a long pause. “Dude, is she famous?”

“Um. No,” he says. “But her husband is my teammate.”

You whistle low. “Jesus Christ. Are you the reason they broke up?”

“No,” he’s quick to say. “But it won’t look that way from the outside. They’re still trying to keep their split out of the press for the kid’s sake–” Your mind whirls. Stepdad Vernon is not something you ever would’ve pictured for him. Especially not stepdad to his own teammate's kid. “–so we’re dialing things down for a little while. Someone caught wind and she’d worried it’ll be picked up by the press. Says we should date other people.” 

You’re still wondering when he got so messy, putting in your earrings and smoothing your hands over your hair, when your brain catches up. “So what’s this got to do with me?” There’s yet another long pause. You can hear the way the floorboards creak under his feet. “Vernon?”

“Can we– fuck this is so embarrasing– can we pretend to date for a bit? Play it up for the media?”

Your hands still again. “For how long?”

“Just until after they announce they’re divorcing.”

You give yourself a once over in the mirror before you leave the room, trying to imagine yourself as Vernon’s pretend girlfriend. If you’d go together. If it’d even be believable. You don’t buy it yourself.

Vernon looks at you with an unusual unease when you step back into the room. Opens his mouth to speak and struggles to find the words, but he should know better than to feel that way around you. All these years being friends, you’ve been there through each other's biggest mistakes and the ugliest relationships and you’ve seen each other when you’re puking up the remnants of the night into a trashcan on the street. If anyone’s going to judge him, it’s not going to be you. 

“I can make it worth your while?” he says at last.

“Oh yeah?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, as if adding to your lore isn’t enough of an incentive. 

“I could pay off your cards.”

You blink at him stupidly. “What? Vernon, that’s a crazy amount of money.”

Vernon laughs. “Last week you heard me talking about buying my parents a house in the Hamptons.”

“Yeah but that's your parents.”

He shrugs. “So what? You’ve basically been in my life for the same amount of time.”

“Oh sure,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Making friends with you in the hopes of being able to hang out in your cool treehouse is totally equal to birthing and raising you.”

He laughs again, and you’re staring at him like he’s insane.

“Seriously,” he says. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Hand me my phone real quick?”

Vernon tosses it to you, snorts when you struggle to catch it. “What are you doing?”

“Looking up how much you’re being paid that you’re able to call twenty-four grand not a big d–” You’re cut off by your own gasp, staring hard at your phone as if your eyes are deceiving you. “Well, yeah okay. That makes sense.”

You make your way over to flop on the couch, head tipped back on the wall, and Vernon sits slowly next to you. 

“How would this work then?” you ask. “Do we have an announcement or get photographs done or what?”

“I think a soft launch kind of vibe would be better.” Vernon leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “Maybe we just hang out together and let people see and draw their own conclusions.”

You laugh. “We hang out all the time anyway, and we’ve been photographed together before.” 

The screenshot was printed as a magnet and it’s on Joshua's fridge, the five of you in the park eating cake. Vernon Chwe and friends celebrate after he was signed in the biggest deal of the year was the caption on some gossip page. The funny thing was it was a celebratory picnic for Joshua's breakup with his horrid boyfriend, i.e. the worst person on earth.

“I meant like, just us two.” He sighs, rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Holding hands or something.” 

Your lip curls into a sardonic smile, put on your best valley girl accent. “Oh my God, guys, Vernon Chwe wants to hold my hand.”

He knocks your shoulder with his. “Can you be serious about anything?”

“You wouldn’t be friends with me if I were.” You suck in a breath, closing your eyes. “You’re really gonna pay off my debt?”

In contrast to your initial words, it’s a moment of rare vulnerability for you. It’s only recently that you’ve told your friends about it. The debt has been looming over your head for a while, tangled up in poor, frenzied (and costly) decisions, and you’ve been at a loss for what to do to curb your shopping addiction. Therapy has proved little help so far, though Lara did suggest that your current therapist has less than ideal reviews as of late, and maybe it’s time to find a new one. She probably has a point. 

This morning’s intervention was your friend's attempt to help, and though you resent having the decision taken out of your hands, you do appreciate their concern. 

“I can do it right now,” Vernon says. “Is that a yes?” 

“Throw in tickets to a couple of games and I’ll do it. I wanna see Giancarlo Stanton’s dump truck up close.”

“Wowww.” Vernon laughs. “You know I would’ve got you tickets any time, right?”

“Sure, but it’s way more fun to barter for it.” 

Vernon rolls his eyes. “Two games.”

Your smile stretches wide. “Four.”

“Three.”

“Sold!” you cheer. 

And then he’s grinning at you, and you him, and he’s saying, “Thanks, I really appreciate this.”

You wave him off. “You wanna text the guys and tell them we’ll be late?”

He digs out his phone from his pocket. “Sure. Why?”

“If I’m gonna hold your hand down the street then I need to put on make-up and that’s gonna take another fifteen minutes.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Ugh, your hand is so clammy,” you complain.

“Shut up, oh my God.”

The walk has been… eventful. You’re no stranger to being caught in tourists' photographs in New York City, or random Tiktokers asking you questions on the street with a phone pushed in your space. What are you listening to and tell us where you got your outfit and what do you make and how much is your rent type of questions. But it’s different, holding hands with Vernon and strolling down the street has passersby widening their eyes, taking covert (but still painfully obvious) photos of the pair of you, and two people who stopped him to ask for signatures, eyes not so subtly sliding over to you, and then down to your interlocked fingers. 

Vernon hasn’t had many serious girlfriends since his career took off. There was one in college, they were together for a couple of years, but once he got signed they didn’t really have much time for each other. You suppose that this must be something of a novelty for his fans.

And it’s only when you walk into Nancy’s, Vernon holding the door for you to step through, and your friends stare at you open mouthed from the centre of the room, that you realise you hadn’t decided if you were going to tell them it’s all pretend. 

Vernon takes that decision away from you, because he’s letting go of your hand just to slip his own around your waist, and you have to swallow down your laugh at the incredulous look on Lara and Joshua’s faces, and the elated one on Seungcheol's. 

“I told y'all,” he all but shouts, and they have to shush him when other diners turn to stare. Vernon guides you over to the table, and you ignore Lara’s pointed expression.

There’s a moment of quiet when Vernon’s hand slips over the back of yours on the table, and says, like an afterthought, “Oh by the way, we’re dating now.”

Lara gapes, Seunghcheol looks smug. Joshua asks, “What happened in the last thirty minutes?”

“Well, after you left we made out sloppy style and I gave him the rest of that handjob,” you deadpan. 

“Riiiiiight,” says Lara. “I have another question– what the fuck?”

Vernon keeps his expression measured. “You see, Lara, when two people like each other very very much–”

“Were they this awful in high school?” Lara interrupts to ask Joshua.

“Oh–" says Joshua, head tilted and eyes narrowing at you. "Like way worse.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Joshua, Lara, and Seungcheol stayed the rest of the afternoon, which turned into ordering pizza for dinner and watching some shitty movie that Seungcheol chose. He fell asleep halfway through, and Lara and Joshua kept sending sidelong glances toward you and Vernon, hands clasped next to you on the couch. It took forever for them to leave, but Vernon stayed behind solely to give the impression he was staying the night. Now you’re washing the dishes and Vernon is drying, and you say– “So are we seeing each other afterwards?”

Vernon’s already got you tickets for Friday’s game, Yankees vs Blue Jays. You and a friend. You’ve just asked (a very enthusiastic) Seokmin from work, since he’s into baseball and won’t grill you as much as your other friends. 

“It might take me an hour to get away,” he says.

“That’s fine, you can come meet me and Seokmin somewhere whenever you finish up?”

Vernon nods. “Sure.”

“Should we go over how we’re gonna act in front of people? I can’t hold your hand for four hours again. I’m gonna get carpal tunnel syndrome.”

There’s a brief pause before he says– “You could put your hand on my leg? Like while we’re sitting next to each other.”

You nod, trying to picture what else would seem natural. “Okay, yeah. And you could touch my ass when we hug. I’ll call you a pervert and slap your hand away to really sell it.”

“Ha ha,” he deadpans. “What about kissing? Are we public kissers?”

“We were,” you say, but you wonder how much of that is because you are, and because Vernon went along with it. Joshua would be suspicious if you suddenly weren’t, though you suppose he won’t be with you on Friday, so what does it matter? “We could just do a little hello kiss. A peck.”

“Got it.”

“What do you wanna tell people about how we got together?”

“Maybe we just stick close to the truth? We used to go out and we decided to give it another shot.”

“Borrring.”

Vernon chuckles. “You choose then. I don’t care.” 

You hum while you think. “What iffffff– you’ve been desperately in love with me all these years and never thought you’d have another chance, until the other day, when I wore the same perfume I had when we were together, and you just had to confess your undying love for me, and then made out for ages and got carried away and we fucked on right there on the floor.”

“Sounds fake–” he mumbles, and you splash him with water from your scrubbing brush. “Hey!”

“Let me be the main character for once,” you complain, going back to scrubbing off a stubborn stain on the pan. “I’ve never dated someone famous before.”

Vernon rolls his eyes. “You’re always the main char–”

“Anyway–” you cut him off. “That’s the story and I’m gonna tell Seokmin tomorrow so you’re beholden to it.”

“Fine. But you’re telling the story if we’re ever asked.”

You grin. “Deal.” You hand over the pan to Vernon, and dry your hands, moving over to lean against the counter. He passes you the dried pan back, to slot in the cupboard above your head, then he straightens the cloth over the handle of the drawer. “So how long are we doing this for?”

“Uh– ”

“Well, when are they gonna tell people about their divorce?”

“Rachel seemed to think it’ll be a month,” he says. Rachel. You try to picture her, conjuring up an image of a brunette, slip of a thing, with full lips and round eyes. Not that Vernon has a physical type beyond ‘pretty’. She’s probably funny though, witty and sharp, and a little softness under the surface. He likes people who make him laugh. “But if it’s longer, would you mind?”

You hum, thoughtful. “Damn, over a month without sex? Without a real date?”

Vernon laughs, shaking his head. “No one said you had to stop dating.”

“Dude–” you say, seriously. “If I'm publicly dating you, I’m not hooking up with someone else just to be outed as a cheater. I’m not trying to be trash-talked in a shitty magazine. Anything written about me should be good enough to hang on my mom’s fridge.”

There’s a moment of quiet and Vernon looks at the ceiling, his brows knitting together. Slowly, he says, “I didn’t think of that.”

You shrug. “It’s fine, I could do with a break from dating anyway.” You’ll get your money’s worth out of the treasure trove in your nightstand, at least. “Especially after the last guy I dated.”

Vernon moves over and flops down on the couch. A little odd, considering you thought he’d be heading home, but whatever. “Which guy?”

“The hedge fund guy.”

He frowns. “Did I meet him?”

You shake your head. “Nah. The others only met him twice, and you were somewhere on the west coast.” You move to sit down next to him, and say, “He was, like, really into feet. And normally I wouldn’t mind that but I caught him sniffing my dirty socks, had one in his pocket to take home and everything, and that weirded me out. The sneaking around part, I mean. If you wanna sniff my shit just ask, man.”

 Vernon grimaces. “Yeah, that’s– you really know how to pick them.”

“Careful,” you say, smirking. “I picked you once too.” He smiles, a little fond, opens his mouth to speak and then falters. “What is it?”

 “Are you sure about this?” he asks. “What we’re doing?”

“Yup,” you say, popping the p. “You already paid off my cards, dude. I can hardly pay you back now. Promise me one thing though– we’ll ‘break up’ in a chill way?”

Vernon looks at you, confused. “What do you mean?”

“This thing has to end at some point so you and your real girlfriend–”

“Not my girlfriend,” he interrupts, but you carry on anyway.

“–can be together. And I don’t wanna be forever known as the girl Vernon Chwe cheated on. Like we should still be able to hang out without everyone thinking I’m a wet blanket and you’re an asshole life ruiner.”

He thinks about it for a moment, then nods. “That’s fair, yeah.”

He hums, eyes cast up in thought. “After we’re done I could set you up with one of the guys? I know some you might like.”

“God no,” you laugh. “Having my two-time ex boyfriend hooking me up with someone is so embarrassing. Let me catch my own fish.”

Vernon stares at you. “You have the weirdest expressions sometimes.”

“That is an expression, dummy.” You flick the TV back on. “You wanna watch something else before you go?”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Is that a new purse?”

“Uh– no.”  

You’re taking your lunch break in the park, since your Wednesday schedule lines up nicely with Lara’s and Joshua’s. 

“It is,” says Lara, grabbing it from the bench. “Where’d you get the money?”

Without a minimum monthly payment to worry about anymore, you figured you deserved a little treat, but you forgot to account for your eagle eyed fashionista friend.

So you roll your eyes, picking at your food. “My parents got me gift cards for my birthday.”

Lara’s eyes narrow. “Your birthday was months ago.”

“Yeah! Well! It had no expiration!”

“You’re so full of shit,” she says flatly, tossing the purse back onto the bench. “You said your mom gave you a book and your dad forgot until three days later.”

You give her your sweetest, most innocent smile. “Wow, you really remember everything I tell you. That’s so cute.”

“Don’t try to deflect,” Lara says, leaning forward. “You’re not supposed to be spending money, remember? Intervention? No cards? Ringing any bells?”

You jab your fork into a bit of cucumber and pop it into your mouth before answering, “My parents came through a week later, after I put on the waterworks. I didn’t spend borrowed money.”

There’s a moment of silence while Lara considers this. “But why would you wait this long to spend your gift cards?”

You open your mouth to invent another excuse, but a familiar voice cuts through the chatter of the park.

“Hey, look who’s found time for us,” says Joshua, strolling toward the bench with a carrier of iced coffees. 

He passes one to Lara before plopping down beside you, and you take yours from the carrier, replying with a sharp “It’s been four days, asshole.”

“You’ve been avoiding us, though. The group chat has never been this quiet.”

You scowl at him. “Since when do you even check the group chat?” Joshua smiles wide and faux-innocent, so you give him the finger. 

“So, what are you doing on Friday? We’re thinking of hitting that new karaoke place near Bryant Park.”

“Can’t,” you say, trying to hide your disappointment. “I’ve got Vernon’s game.”

There’s a beat of silence, an exchanged look between your friends, before Lara says, “You’re going to that?”

“Uh, yeah? We’re girlfriend-boyfriend. Why wouldn’t I?”

Joshua chuckles, sipping his coffee. “We were talking yesterday, and it’s kinda weird that nothing’s changed.”

You laugh. “I feel like I should be offended?”

“When you’re into someone you’re disgusting to be around. Even with Vernon, in school it was, like–” Joshua stretches out his arms. “–this huge thing. But this time–” he shrugs. “–you’re exactly the same except you’re holding hands.”

“We just mean you’re not…” Lara trails off. “You’re not very couple-y. Like, at all. Not even an Instagram story.”

You frown. “We’re very couple-y when we’re on our own. We have natural chemistry, you know?”

“Natural chemistry but you didn’t kiss even once on Sunday.” Lara gives you a pointed look. “We’ve seen you with your exes, remember?”

“Please. Vernon’s not into PDA’s–” You’re interrupted with a scoff from Joshua and you work to keep your expression schooled into something casual. “–now, and I respect that. Besides, if I kissed him he’d get a semi in like three seconds, and none of you want that.”

“Yeah.” Joshua grimaces. “Yeah, no I don’t wanna see that.”

You throw a bit of chicken at him. It lands on his shirt and he brushes it off onto the floor. He leans back, still eyeing you with that knowing look– the one that says he knows when you’re full of shit.

“Just saying,” Joshua says, going back to his food. “We don’t mind if you want to be real around us.”

You wave him off, but it's true, what they say. You’ve always lacked subtlety in every area of life. When you’re with someone you have no inclination to hide your feelings about them from your friends, and your soft launches are everyone else’s hard launch. All day, you overthink the situation, until you’re finally in the privacy of your own home, when you text Vernon.

You [18:42] the gang is Skeptical of Us

nonie [18:54] wdym

You [18:56] they said we’re not couple-y enough

nonie [18:57] ok? 

nonie [18:57] do they want us to make out in front of them or wat

You [18:57] no. shua doesn’t want to see ur semi 🫶

nonie [18:57] bro

You [18:57] speaking from past experience ofc

nonie [18:57] i was a teenager….

You [18:57] yeah well what’s changed?

nonie [18:58] uhhhh i don’t have a crush on you anymore

You [18:58] nonie you wound me

He hearts the message and you snort.

You [18:58] what are we gonna do around our friends?

nonie [18:59] idk. pet names or some shit 🤢

nonie [18:59] we could cuddle for next movie night 

nonie [18:59] you can sit in my lap or something

You [18:59] ok 🤢 promise you won’t get hard?

nonie [18:59] fuck off omg bro

You [19:00] ily2 💘 You [19:00] are you free? we need to take pictures for instagram to get lara and joshua off my back

nonie [19:01] gimme an hour

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Your elevator’s making that sound again,” says Vernon, kicking off his shoes after letting himself into your apartment.

“Dude, I keep telling you to take the stairs.”

“You live on the fifth floor.”

You laugh. “Aren’t you an athlete?” 

“Shut up,” he says, and it only makes you laugh harder. “So– I hung out with Cheol yesterday and he asked me to convince you to let him get someone’s number. Someone from work–” 

“Eleanor, yeah, he’s been horny for her since my birthday party.”

“Whatever,” grumbles Vernon, flopping onto your couch. “The point is he believes this is real.”

“Well, duh–” you agree, sinking into the space beside him. “He was always gonna. Lara is easily swayed. It’s Joshua we need to fool the most.”

Vernon’s mouth flattens. “You really think he doesn’t believe us?”

“You do?”

Vernon runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe we should lay it on a little thicker around them?”

You make a face. “I don’t see why we had to lie to them at all.”

He shrugs. “I dunno. I figured it’d be easier if we’re not keeping track of who knows what. Immersion, or whatever.”

“Immersion smimmersion,” you mock. “Don’t you think it’ll fuck up the dynamics?”

It’s his turn to make a face. “We’re not actually dating, y’know? After this we’ll just go back to being friends.”

You sigh. Diving into situations headfirst has always been an issue for you, and only when the ripples keep spreading is when you have second thoughts. Joshua has known you both the longest, your parents being best friends, and Vernon’s next door neighbour elementary through high school. He has (so he says) painfully vivid memories of you making out in the treehouse, by the lockers, on the bleachers, or leaning over the fence at the field. You haven’t thought of it in years. Vernon’s clumsy hand up your shirt, your fingers tugging at the hair at the nape of his neck, your cherry gloss smeared over his lips. Joshua has known you through every partner, through every break-up, through every messy situationship. He knows you love fiercely, and with everything you have, and he knows Vernon doesn’t commit to just anyone, how he fixates on his person.

“There’s no way he’s gonna buy this if we’re not all in,” you say, chewing on your lip. 

“So– what do you wanna do?” he asks, tipping his head back against the wall. 

You pause a hair’s breadth too long, and Vernon raises an eyebrow. 

“Should we– ugh– like… Kiss?”

The eyebrow doesn’t move. “Like pecks or actual making out?” Vernon’s laugh comes out sharp at your reaction. “Did you just gag?”

You scoff as you shove at him. “Believe it or not the appeal of kissing you has somewhat dimmed over the past decade.” 

“Yeah well–” he says, rubbing his shoulder. A pause from him, this time. His eyes flicker down to your lips, and back up. “Should we practice now? I will if you will.”

You freeze. He’s staring at you with something like earnestness in his expression, and a whispered “What?” falls from your mouth. 

“I don’t mind if you still have garlic breath. I can handle it.” 

You’re suddenly in enemy territory. “So brave, Vernon, you’re a real fucking pioneer,” you snap.

But then he’s tugging you into his space by the crook of your elbow, leaning closer, and you– you just gape, but are you letting him?

It’s only when the corners of his mouth tug upwards that you realise he’s dicking you around. The sound you make is halfway between a laugh and a choke, and Vernon's mouth spreads into a triumphant grin. “Can’t believe you fell for that.”

You huff a laugh and cross your arms over your middle, an embarrassed heat flaring in your chest. “Your acting has gotten better,” you offer begrudgingly.

Vernon stretches, lets out a yawn. “All that media training finally paid off.”

You hum your disgruntled agreement, and Vernon looks at you again.

“Don’t say you actually wanted to…” His smug bravado slips away with the end of his sentence. 

Here’s your chance. With your middle finger you trace circles into the fabric of the couch in the small gap between you. Your nervous tell, clocked immediately by those who know you, by Vernon. You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “Practicing isn’t such a bad idea. If we need to really sell it, at some point. For credibility.”

Vernon shifts in his seat, twists his body to face you, and there’s a lick of tension running down your spine. “So that’s what this is? Credibility? Not because you want to kiss me?” 

“What if it’s both?” It’s infinitesimal, but you catch it, the way he sucks in a breath. “Well,” you say, and you look up at him, make your eyes big and sincere. “Are we doing this or are we gonna sit here and spiral?”

He wipes his hands on his jeans. A pink flush creeping up over his ears. “You wouldn’t–”

“I would–” you argue. “Kiss me.”

“Kiss me first,” Vernon counters, jutting out his chin.

You lean in closer. “You kiss me first–”

“No you kiss me–”

“You kiss m–” 

And then he’s in your space, a hand on your thigh and you’re jolting back, bashing your head on the wall. “Oh!” 

“Uh–” 

You both freeze. 

“You really thought I meant it,” you say quietly, a jubilant smile slowly spreading across your face.

Vernon scoffs and looks away. “Please–”

“You did!”

“I was calling your bluff,” he argues. His hand is still on your leg.

“Uh-huh, are you sure about that? Get your dirty dickbeater off of me.” 

Vernon jerks his hand back into his lap, and you grin at the flush creeping up his neck. Let it never be said you won’t match his freak. He shifts over, leaves a bigger gap between your legs, and grabs the phone from the table. 

“Are we gonna take some pictures or what?” 

“Sure,” you say, watching the easy expression he’s wearing. You never could tell what’s really going on inside his head. “How should we do this?”

Vernon’s tongue skims the edge of his teeth while he thinks. “Soft launch, yeah? Put on a movie you’d watch with someone you like and sit closer.”

You load Netflix, finding that old movie with Hugh Grant that you were supposed to watch with the last guy, while Vernon heads over to the kitchen to pour some popcorn in a bowl. He sets it down on the table. It still looks a little off. Too perfect. 

“Should we get drinks or something? I have wine.”

Vernon shakes his head. “I don’t drink during the season.”

Right. Of course. “Hot chocolate, then?”

“You trying to knock me out?”

“It’s eight PM,” you say. “If hot chocolate is enough to sedate you then the Yankees have a problem.”

He snorts and nods toward the cupboard, and you stand up to help. “You got marshmallows?”

“Obviously.”

You fetch the powdered chocolate and marshmallows while Vernon digs around your fridge. Pulls out the milk and a pan to heat it on the stove like he’s fully at home. Come to think of it, you can’t remember the last time you hung out at his place. Any get-together is either at your apartment, or Joshua’s. Lara has unfortunate roommates, and Seungcheol’s place would simply burst if more than three people tried to sit down in there. Vernon has more space, and it’s nicer, and it comes with the luxury of a working elevator and a doorman– and the last time you saw it was when he gave you all a tour right after he got the keys. 

“Hey– why don’t we ever hang out at your place?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” he says quietly, his mouth falling flat. “I like it here better.”

You lay out two mugs– your favourite, yellow ditsy florals and thick ceramic, and one for Vernon, a Supernatural mug left here years ago by an old boyfriend.

Vernon’s lip curls in distaste. “That one sucks. Can I have the green one of those instead?” he says, pointing at your mug. 

You laugh, putting it back in the cupboard and pulling out the matching one. “I didn’t know you were so against the Winchesters.”

Vernon hums. “You know, a real girlfriend would’ve memorised which one I liked by now.”

You narrow your eyes as he fills the mugs. “And a real boyfriend wouldn’t put marshmallows in before the milk.”

“They melt better.”

“That’s anti-aesthetic propaganda.”

When you settle back onto the couch, the screen glowing too bright in the dim room, Vernon slides a fraction closer, shoulder brushing yours. And it’s… fine. Not totally abnormal. You’ve been squished together on couches before, but this is– it’s different. After a minute, he shifts a little closer again, and drapes an arm along the back of the couch behind you. Not touching, but it’s there. You wonder if you’re supposed to lean against him, or something, reminding yourself it’s only weird because the touch is intentionally boyfriend without intent to go further.

“This okay?” he asks, bumping your knee with his.

“Wow,” you say. “Look at you asking consent to knock our knees together.”

“Shut up.” You feel him relax beside you, sinking into the cushions, thigh pressing against yours. The opening credits roll. Hugh Grant’s face appears, doing that thing where he looks charmingly inconvenienced by life.

“God,” Vernon mutters. “He always looks like someone just told him his stocks are crashing.”

“Be nice,” you say. “He’s my emotional support British man.”

“Isn’t he into BDSM?”

“I don’t know, why do you know that?” You laugh, and turn to look at him. Vernon’s got that disarming sideways smile on his face. 

“You’re all stiff,” he says, tapping your shoulder. “Relax.”

“Yeah, well–” you start. “Aren’t we supposed to be taking a photo? Why are we basically cuddling?”

“You’re not even touching me. I’m creating the impression of intimacy,” he insists, reaching forward to take a sip of his drink. When he sits back, his arm goes back around you, resting on your shoulder this time and gently tugging you in. “C’mon– it’s play pretend.”

You sigh, exaggerated, and lean back just enough that your arm rests against his side. It’s subtle. Plausible. Something a girlfriend would do without even thinking about it.

“This is so stupid,” you say quietly.

“Uh-huh,” he agrees.

Vernon plucks your phone from your lap, and opens the camera. Takes a snap of the movie playing, the matching mugs, your jean-clad thighs pressed against each other. 

“Put your hand on my leg– no, the other hand.” 

You place your hand just so, your pinky brushing the inner seam. His thigh tenses for a fraction of a second. “Like this?”

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s fine.”

“Joshua’s gonna zoom in on this,” you say quietly. “Enhance. Analyze.”

“Uh-huh,” Vernon replies, almost absentminded, as he takes more photos from slightly different angles.

“Seungcheol’s gonna eat it up.”

“He already thinks I’m in love with you,” Vernon replies. 

You snort. “He’s a romantic.”

Vernon hums, noncommittal, eyes still on your phone screen, taking more pictures. “Or deluded.”

The silence stretches, until he’s dropping your phone back into your lap and shifting away saying, “That should be enough, do your thing with the GIFs.”

“Wait wait, come back. I need a selfie.”

Vernon raises an eyebrow, but he settles back into place anyway. “What happened to the soft launch?”

“I meant just me, idiot. Whenever I’m soft launching I post a selfie while I’m hugging them– you never noticed?”

He swallows, looks at the TV. “Uh– no? I guess I don’t look at Instagram much.” 

You tilt your head, because you’re pretty sure it’s his most used app, given how many reels he sends the group chat. 

90s Hugh Grant says something charming and Vernon scoffs.

“I don’t get why everyone loves him.”

“He has cardigan appeal.”

He glances down at you, mouth quirking. “You like cardigans?”

“I like emotionally unavailable men in knitwear, and ready-to-move-in-with-me women in leather jackets,” you say. “It’s a real problem.”

He laughs softly, and his arm drops around you again, casual enough to make it feel like it’s supposed to be there. You do your best to let yourself relax into him, tuck your head into his shoulder, and you bring up your phone. You take a few photos, making sure Vernon’s face is just out of frame, but a sliver of his neck is visible, as is the hand on your shoulder. You shift a little closer, press your side into his. Snap a couple more. He smells really good. Something faintly peppery and warm.

You tilt your head back to look at him. “You’re doing great. Very believable.”

“Mhm. You done? I should go.”

There’s a small twinge of disappointment in your gut, having sort of assumed he’d want to finish the movie with you, but you push yourself up and out from under his touch. “Yeah, I’m done. You got plans tonight?”

Vernon shakes his head. “Just an early start.” He stands and heads over to the door. “Got practice.”

“Oh, yeah, ‘course,” you say, as he’s slipping on his shoes. 

“You’ll tell the guys I stayed the night?” 

You shrug. “If it comes up.” It’d be strange to offer tidbits like that up unprompted. “See ya.”

A little later, after you’ve posted the selfie and one of the pictures Vernon took to your close friends stories with some pixelated love heart gifs, you’re doing your skincare before bed, when Vernon texts you. 

nonie [22:09] forgot to ask stance on other PDAs?

You [22:10] ✅: holding hands, affectionate touch (waist/leg/arm), cheek/mouth kisses You [22:10] ❓: making out, hand on butt You [22:10] 🚫: hand on tit, neck kisses, forehead kisses 

nonie [22:11] forehead kisses?

You [22:12] solely reserved for ✨Actually In Love✨ people

nonie [22:12] noted

You [22:14] is your girlfriend cool with all of this?

nonie [22:14] she’s not my girlfriend

Your fingers hover over the screen. You should’ve asked more questions about them. About her. Vernon’s not a bad guy. He doesn’t cheat– not that this would be cheating– what you mean to say is that he’s not someone who hurts people. 

You [22:15] do you love her?

nonie [22:15] we were just fucking around

You [22:15] not what i asked

The three dots appear and disappear in quick succession, but in the end, Vernon doesn’t reply with an answer to that.

nonie [22:18] still on for friday?

You [22:20] yeah duh. like i said. wanna see giancarlo’s dumpy 😍

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

On Friday morning, Vernon groans into the receiver when he picks up the phone.

“Rude,” you say, with a tsk. “I just wanted to ask you a question.”

“What’s rude is calling me before nine,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “What’s up?”

“I’m at the salon,” you say. “Thought you could pick my nail colour for tonight.”

There’s a pause and it sounds like he’s sitting up. “What?”

“I figured I should look nice for my first public appearance as your secret girlfriend so I’m having my nails done.”

“Okaaaaaay,” he says. “But why are you asking me?”

“Dude, this is boyfriend privilege. Bonus points because I can tell the guys you paid for my nails.”

“Am I paying for your nails?”

“No, obviously not,” you say. “But what does that matter? Pick a colour, dude, Angie’s waiting.”

“Navy and white.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course you’d pick your team colours, oh my God.”

“How much are your nails?”

“Don’t you start too. Lara’s already been on at me for the bag all week–”

“Just tell me,” he interrupts.

You groan and tip your head forward, and Angie reprimands you wordlessly for moving too much with a tap to your hand. “Sorry, Angie,” you say, sweetly. “How much for these?”

“Do you want nail art?”

“Mmmm,” you say, thinking out loud. “Yeah, make them pretty.”

“One-eighty.”

“D’you hear that?”

“Yup,” he says. 

There’s a long pause. 

“Aren’t you gonna say anything?” you ask. “Where’s my scolding?”

“Call Lara for that–” he says, muffled around a loud yawn. “Going back to sleep.” 

“Sleep tight, princess,” you coo into the phone. “See you tonight.”

He clicks off and after a minute you get a notification from Venmo–

Vernon paid you $250

And then a text– 

nonie [08:57] make sure angie gets a tip

You flush. It’s one thing to pay off your debt in exchange for a favour, or like, buying you a coffee or whatever, but paying for your luxuries is different. He’s not your boyfriend. He’s just Vernon.

You [08:57] vernon You [08:57] you don’t need to do that

nonie [08:58] get my jersey number too

Is it bad that you don’t know it? Yeah, you think, yeah it’s pretty bad. So you angle your phone closer to your body as you google his number. 

“Angie,” you say after a moment. “Can you put a ninety-eight on my ring fingers?”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’re late, unfortunately. Got stuck in traffic and in the end you had to abandon your car and take the subway. You make it to your seats by the time they’re in the third or fourth inning. The stadium hums with that familiar buzz of energy, and the low rumbling thunder of thousands of hopeful voices layered together. The Blue Jays are batting, and Vernon’s out on the mound, stretching his shoulders, so composed in front of this sea of people.

You’re in the Legends Suite with Seokmin from work– who you'd invited mostly because he loves baseball, but also because he doesn’t know Vernon, and won’t call you out on your lack of changed behaviour around him. Ever since you picked him up, Seokmin’s been alternating between inhaling food and asking too many questions. How’d you meet (school. You went to school with the Yankees pitcher??) and how’d you get together (he never stopped loving me. You dated the Yankees pitcher twice??) and can you score me tickets to another game? 

“Holy shit,” Seokmin says, leaning over the railing. “You weren’t kidding about these seats. You can practically smell the sweat off the players.”

“Gross.” You take a sip of your drink. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He shoots you a grin. “I already tagged you in a story promising you my firstborn.” Then, his gaze flicks toward the field. “Your boyfriend’s getting started by the way.”

You follow his line of sight– Vernon standing tall on the mound, glove at his chin, eyes trained on the batter. The crowd’s already cheering, cameras flashing. He’s completely in his element, calm and unreadable, and you’re brought hurtling back to when you were kids, and you were dragged along to all his games. Moral support he’d called it. You always said he just wanted to prove he had a girlfriend to the other guys.

“Yup,” you say. “There he is.”

He winds up, throws– the sharp crack of the bat sending a foul ball sailing into the stands. The crowd erupts in cheers and groans. You clap politely next to Seokmin, who yells loud, and you know you made the right choice bringing him. He is as perfectly dramatic as is necessary for these sorts of things. 

Vernon turns back toward the dugout for a moment, eyes scanning the stands. Then, quick as anything, he lifts a hand, gives the smallest wave in your direction. No smile, no theatrics, just a flicker of acknowledgment. You wave back, both hands high above your head, smiling huge. It’s hard to see his expression clearly, but you swear you see him huff a laugh.

Seokmin coos. “Aw, lovebirds.”

You knock his arm, eyes back on the field. “Shh, I’m watching the game.” A moment passes before you lean closer, voice low. “Okay, but can we talk about Giancarlo Stanton’s ass for a second?”

Seokmin nearly snorts out his beer through his nose. 

“That thing’s insane,” you say. “It should have its own insurance policy ala Regina George’s hair.”

He’s laughing so hard he has to put his drink down. “You shouldn’t objectify men’s bodies like that y’know.”

“I’m not reducing him to his body parts, Seokmin. I’m sure he’s a fine person with or without an ass that could be seen from the International Space Station.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

At the start of the next inning, your throat already growing hoarse, Seokmin nudges you with his elbow. “Hey, see that guy just over there? That’s Mingyu Kim. He nearly broke the home run record last season. Dude’s insane, you’ve gotta watch him.”

“Mingyu?” you repeat, scanning the field. “Which one?”

“The tall one. Coming up to bat now, number six.”

You spot him easily– stupid tall, broad shoulders under the pinstripe jersey, helmet casting shadow over his eyes. His blinding smile flashes on the jumbotron for a split second when he catches a line drive and takes off fast. You lean forward, appraising. “Okay, wow, he’s hot. Good arms.”

Seokmin whips his head toward you, scandalized. “You can’t say that!”

You laugh, caught off guard. “Why not?”

“Because your boyfriend is right there playing for the same team!” he says.

“He’s not–” you start, but Seokmin’s confused expression cuts you off. You flounder for a moment. “I mean– it’s not that serious. Yet.”

He raises a skeptical eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Not that serious? You’re sitting in the Legends Suite with his number painted on your damn nails.”

You instinctively fold your hands in your lap as if that’ll hide the proof. “Okay, first of all, the nails are for team spirit.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, unconvinced. “Team spirit and romantic subtext.”

You give him your best poker face. “You just want me married off so you can stop hearing about my dating horror stories.

“Maybe,” he says, grinning. “But if Vernon looks up here again and sees you drooling over Mingyu Kim, ESPN can call me for the inside scoop.”

You laugh. “Relax. I’ll keep it in my pants.”

Seokmin shakes his head, muttering, “Yeah right.”

“Okay, fiiiiiine, I’ll stop talking about asses I’m lusting after.”

“Good call, Mrs. Chwe.”

You throw popcorn at him, but Seokmin just grins. 

Another inning later, and down on the field Vernon steps back onto the mound, glove raised, focused like you haven’t seen him in years. The camera pans close, and you’re struck by how he looks almost the same as he did all those years ago. You almost feel guilty for not having been to one of his games since he first made it big, that one time all your friends got tickets to celebrate him, and when he found out you were all there he flushed red faced and embarrassed. Made you think you were encroaching, or something, and you figured if he wanted any of you there, he’d simply ask. Of course he never did. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You [22:04] congratulations!!!!!

nonie [22:29] we literally lost

You [22:29] but you looked great! 

nonie [22:29] that sure takes the sting away, thanks

You [22:30] we’re gonna go get dinner and drinks, are you still coming?

nonie [22:31] yeh i can leave in 20

You [22:32] i’ll drop you our location

The bar is just far enough away from the stadium that it’s not crowded with people who came straight from the game, a conscious choice, so Vernon hopefully won’t be mobbed by fans as soon as he walks in. It’s loud in that comfortable, Friday night kind of way– everyone buzzing to be free from work, the clatter of bottles, music turned up just loud enough to make you lean in to talk. You and Seokmin have commandeered a corner booth, a pitcher almost already gone, plates of fries and sliders scattered across the table. You’re warmed through and light, the world pleasantly soft around the edges, when Vernon turns up.

He’s fresh out of the shower– hair still a little damp, skin flushed and scrubbed clean, hoodie hanging loose over sweatpants, cap pulled low over his face. The faint scent of his soap cuts through the beer and fried food as he slides into the booth beside you, hip bumping yours, and kisses your cheek. Feels so alien you have to cover your laugh in your drink, and he kicks you gently under the table.

“You two look like trouble,” he says, voice low, reaching out to shake your friend’s hand. “Hey, it’s Seokmin? Right?”

“That’s me.” Seokmin beams, taking his hand. “And she’s the one who’s trouble. You missed her speech.”

“Speech?” Vernon asks, one eyebrow raised.

“She made me toast to your ‘heroic defeat,’” Seokmin slurs. “And then– then she told the bartender you were the love of her life.”

You gasp, slapping his arm. “Stop making things up!”

“Alright, fine, that last part I embellished,” he says, laughing. “It happened in my heart.”

Vernon’s trying not to smile, eyes flicking down to meet yours. “I’m not the love of your life?”

“Hmmm no,” you say, scrunching up your nose. “I’m starting to think Mingyu Kim might be instead.”

Vernon clicks his tongue. “We’ve been dating for five minutes and you’re already trying to leave me for my teammate?”

“I don’t even know the guy,” you huff, but you’re smiling too. “Wanna introduce me?”

“You’re drunk,” Seokmin says, leaning in with an accusatory finger.

You lift your glass. “And lustful!”

He laughs, pouring himself more beer while Vernon just shakes his head, leaning back and flagging down a waitress. He doesn’t order a drink– just water and something to eat– but he doesn’t seem to mind the chaos of you and Seokmin. Vernon is consistently himself– relaxed and casual and quietly bemused. It’s partly why you’ve stuck close all these years, even after you broke up. Vernon is dependable, not in a physical sense, since he’s away with work so often, but in a way everyone knows he’ll always be himself, that even when he’s a famous superstar he’s still the same Vernon you met when you were four years old.

You talk about the game, about Giancarlo Stanton’s ass again (Seokmin nearly chokes on a fry), about how Vernon goes everywhere in tracksuits and doesn’t own enough Hot Guy clothes and you’re gonna have to bring him shopping. Vernon wonders aloud if someone with a shopping addiction should even be allowed in Nordstrom, and you complain about needing a fix. 

(He gives in easily, promises to let you take him shopping the next time he has a full day off.)

The more you drink, the closer you lean– head on his shoulder, your hand brushing his arm when you laugh. He doesn’t flinch away, maybe because this isn’t completely out of the ordinary, because he knows you grow more affectionate with everyone when you drink. What’s unusual is Vernon leaning into it, to be wrapping his arm comfortably around your waist instead of your shoulder, to be tipping his head against yours when you rest against him. Leaning into the bit is going so easy with him. 

At some point, Seokmin pulls out his phone. “Okay, group selfie time, before she passes out.”

You pout. “I’m not gonna–”

He ignores you, turning around and stretching his arm out. You and Vernon lean in to squeeze into the frame, your cheek pressed against his. Seokmin’s smile is big and bright, you’re beaming, and Vernon is as cool as ever, a neutral expression, one arm wrapped around your middle, hand resting easy on your hip.

“Perfect,” Seokmin says, checking the photo. “Very cute. You’re all moon eyed.”

You pull a face and Vernon huffs out a quiet laugh.

“I’m serious,” Seokmin says, putting his phone down. “You’re like, annoyingly good looking together.”

You smile, too fuzzy to process it fully. “S’easy when you’ve been friends forever,” you say, just for something to fill the gap. 

The night drifts on until your eyes start drooping, and your words blur together. You’ve half-finished another drink, your cheek back on his shoulder, mumbling something about ordering more fries, when Seokmin stands.

“Alright, I’m calling it,” he says. “You gonna get her home?”

Vernon looks up, one arm still around you as he nods. “Yeah, dude. I’ve got her.”

Seokmin smiles lazily. “Good to meet you, dude. Thanks for the tickets.”

“Any time,” Vernon says, genuinely.

He waits until Seokmin’s gone before looking down at you. You’re barely awake. 

“Come on,” he murmurs, ever so gentle. “Let’s get you home.”

You hum something unintelligible and let him help you up, his arm steady around your waist as he guides you through the noise of the bar, out into the cool night air. You lean into him without thinking, head tipping against his shoulder again.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The cab smells faintly of lemon cleaner and lingering stale smoke. Vernon gives the driver your address, then settles back into the seat. You’re slumped against the door for all of thirty seconds before you tilt toward him, your face pressed into his shoulder.

“Your hoodie’s soft,” you mumble.

He hums in response, looking out the window. Streetlights flash over your reflection, over your glassy eyes and your smudged eyeliner. You look comfortable. 

“Hey,” you say slowly, shifting against him. You press one of your hands into his. “Look.”

He blinks. “What am I looking at?”

“M’nails,” you slur proudly, wiggling your fingers. The light catches on the polish, navy and white pinstripes, the tiny, chrome 98 glinting in the passing lights.

Vernon catches your wrist lightly, turning your hand this way and that to see. “Very cool,” he says, all casual, though there’s a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

You smile wide and pleased, and flop back against him again. “You didn’t even notice them earlier.”

“I was a little busy pitching,” he laughs.

“I meant at the bar,” you murmur, pouting. “Thanks for paying for them. Don’t do that again.”

He exhales another laugh through his nose. The driver’s watching you through the mirror, trying not to, but the stolen glances keep coming– subtle, curious. Vernon’s used to people watching him. Normally it’d make him sit up a bit straighter, would make him consider how close you are, and how your hair brushes his jaw when you move. But you’re supposed to be together, so he leans in, doesn’t press your hand back into your own lap like he feels he should, keeps his fingers loosely curled around yours. 

You tilt your head up toward him, voice gone a little hoarse. “Tell me about her.”

He frowns. “Who?”

“Your girlfriend,” you murmur. “You don’t talk about her. I wanna know what she’s like.”

Vernon catches the driver’s gaze flick up again in the rearview mirror, the obvious spark of interest in his eyes. He looks down at you– flushed cheeks, soft mouth, utterly oblivious– and clears his throat.

“You’re my girlfriend, dumbass,” he says under his breath.

You shake your head, slow and unaware. “No, no, Rachel. I wanna know who’s got you so fucked up you’re playing pretend with me.”

He swallows. He hasn’t seen Rachel since she said she wanted to take a break, encouraging him to be seen dating other people while she navigates her divorce. And now he’s got to keep up the pretence of being with you just so he doesn’t blow up her life. Max doesn’t know, and though Vernon doesn’t care much for this particular guy who just so happens to be on his team, he doesn’t want to cause unnecessary tension for everyone else. So instead of a few stolen hours at her place in the middle of the night, his contact with her has been reduced to a few texts, and one, brief phone call last week. 

The driver’s eyes lift again. Vernon holds them for a few seconds, just enough to make the man look away, then he turns back to you.

“It’s complicated,” he says under his breath, tone gentler now. “Let’s not do that right now.”

You blink at him, confused but already losing focus, your head lolling back onto his shoulder. “You’re so private, Nonie,” you murmur, the words slurred with exhaustion and too much alcohol. 

He lets out a quiet laugh– fond, almost inaudible– and shifts just enough so you’re comfortable against him. The city slides by outside, all blur and colour and motion. You’re asleep before you even hit the bridge. Vernon watches the lights play over your face, and he doesn’t say anything else, just keeps his eyes on you until the cab slows in front of your building.

It’s an effort to get you balanced enough to walk into the elevator, but he manages, and you slump against the mirrored wall, fogging it with your breath, as he presses the 5 button and you’re both lurched upwards with a wretched sound.

“Ugh– we’re not s’posed to use the elevator,” you protest, eyes half closed. “Gonna get stuck.”

Vernon braces himself against the wall as it jolts again. “If you think I can carry you up five flights of stairs, you’re deluded.”

You snort. “I coulda made it.”

The corner of Vernon’s mouth quirks. “You can barely stand.” 

The elevator shudders to a halt, a couple of inches above the floor, so he’s careful as he walks you out. He hooks your arm around his shoulder and halfway drags your stumbling feet to your door, then roots in your bag for your keys as best he can while you lean against him.

He can feel the warmth of your breath on his neck as you murmur, “sorry, Nonie.” 

“It’s no big deal. Not like you make a habit of it.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You wake to the faint murmur of Vernon’s voice– quiet and low, coming from the other room. Your head aches in a slow, dull throb, and your mouth tastes rancid, like stale beer and grease. It takes a few moments for your surroundings to make sense: your bed, on top of the sheets in your clothes from last night, a thin blanket draped over your legs, the light too bright through the blinds.

You blink away the sleep, and sit up slowly, stretching your tender body. The smell of the night is still on you, and you haven’t felt this gross in years. You find your phone in your jacket pocket on the floor, and you’re going through your notifications– mostly comments on Seokmin’s photos that you’ve been tagged in from last night. 

seokmin you hung out with vernon chwe??? Who’s the girl? - that’s his gf - - Me when I lie - - -they’ve been spotted together a few times! - - - - And yet they’ve got no photos of each other on their profiles except for group ones

Vernon’s voice rises, still quiet but now clear enough to make out. You freeze, your phone forgotten in your hands. There’s a sound of admonishment from him while he listens to whoever’s on the other end. 

“Listen,” he’s saying. “I told you already, I just crashed on her couch. She was so drunk I didn’t wanna leave her to choke if she–”

Another long pause. 

And his answer comes out frustrated. It takes you aback. “It’s not like that,” he says. “Rachel, you remember me seeing other people was your idea, don’t you? You know I only wanted to date you, and she’s my best friend, I figured this would be better than actually dating someone–”

He’s interrupted again, and his tone changes– a little firmer. “You were the one who said you didn’t want to hook up before the news is out–”

Your chest goes tight. Is she jealous of you? This isn’t even real. You glance toward the doorway. His back is turned, one hand on the kitchen counter, phone pressed to his ear. There’s tension in his shoulders, and in the quiet way he breathes before he speaks again.

“Yeah,” he says, turning. “It’s just a temporary measure.”

You cast your eyes away before he can catch you looking. It’s not like you didn’t figure they were still a thing, it’s just surprising to hear she’s worried about his relationship with you. Surely he would have already told her that this is just a favour, just pretend, one friend helping out another in exchange for… well. For money. 

When he wraps up the call you stand a little too quickly. Makes you dizzy, so you rub your eyes as you try to shake it off. He looks up when you walk in, face smoothing out into something neutral. 

“Hey! You’re awake.”

You nod. “Yeah. Sorry– I, uh,” you rasp. “I didn’t mean to get so wasted.”

He shrugs, pushing his phone into his pocket. “Don’t worry about it. You were out like a light before the cab even stopped.”

You manage a small laugh, though it comes out tight. “Sounds like me.”

“Sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t.”

He studies you for a beat, appraising you with careful eyes, Instead of calling you out, he nods toward the counter. “Coffee’s there.”

“Thanks,” you say, and you pour yourself a cup. 

“Okay. I’m gonna drink this and head out. Got a game this afternoon.”

“Should I come? For like, moral support or whatever.”

Vernon looks at you softly. “Could you cope with the noise with that headache?”

“No,” you admit, wincing. “Probably not.”

“Then nah, don’t worry about it. If you’re free in three weeks, I’ll fly you out for the weekend. Figure we should be more public by then.” 

“Sounds good.” You smile. “Where are we going?”

“Miami.”

You whistle low. “Nice. Will Mingyu Kim be there?”

Vernon laughs out loud. “New rule. You can’t flirt with my teammates while we’re together.”

“He’s so hot though.” You purse your lips in a sulk. “What if he’s the love of my life?”

“Please,” he scoffs. “You fall half in love with every guy you meet.” 

“I’m a romantic, Vernon,” you say pointedly. “It’s like you don’t even want me to find a sexy, rich husband.”

He wraps his arm around your shoulder tight and he’s all warm against your side. “Sure I do. Just pick someone else, yeah?”

You ignore him, rolling your eyes, and you take a sip of your coffee.

“By the way, could you not laugh when I kiss your cheek? Kinda gives the game away.”

The memory of last night swirls. “In my defence,” you start. “I was wildly unprepared. You should give me a three minute warning if you’re gonna kiss me.”

Vernon raises an eyebrow. “You never needed a warning before.”

“We were actually dating then,” you explain. “And you never kissed my cheek anyway.”

“Only ‘cause you wanted to make out all the time. Freak.”

You gape at him. “Never heard you complain about that once, asshole.” 

He shrugs, all easy nonchalance. “Yeah, well, you were a good kisser.”

Hm. So was he, now that you think about it. There was this once time at school, a behind the bikeshed moment–

“I still am a good kisser, actually,” you point out, deflecting yourself from the thought of kissing Vernon. “Not that you’d know.”

He grins. “I guess I’ll take your word for it.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Your first fake date takes place on a Tuesday. Vernon brings you to the movies, and you give him shit for being a one trick pony. But it’s nice. Kind of reminiscent of when you were kids. He gets the tickets and the popcorn, you get the drinks, and he holds the door for you on your way through to the screen. He’s picked a good spot, near the back but not too close to the teenage couple who’ll spend the whole movie loudly making out. It’s fairly full already, and there’s a few double takes when you and Vernon step past, his cap pulled low in a faux-attempt at wanting to go about unnoticed, his hand casually pressed to the small of your back.

“We’re in the couple seats,” he says under his breath, nodding toward the aisle of two-seaters.

“You’re committing so hard to the bit,” you whisper back. 

The lights dim halfway through the previews, and you start rummaging in your purse. Vernon glances over. “What are you doing?”

You offer him a guilty half-smile for a second before pulling out a crinkled bag, the scent of cheese immediately filling the air around you.

“Did you–” he breaks off, whisper-laughing. “You brought Taco Bell to the movies?”

“I didn’t have dinner yet!” you hiss, tearing open a wrapper. “Besides, I got one for you too.” You hand him a barely-warm quesadilla like it’s a gift.

He stares at it, then at you. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Now eat, quick, before they kick us out,” you whisper, taking a huge bite. 

He shakes his head, still smiling as he unwraps his own quesadilla. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be helping my reputation, you’re really testing me.”

“Don’t pretend you’re not grateful,” you mumble around a large mouthful.

The movie starts, and for a while, you’re content– chewing, laughing quietly at each other when his hand accidentally brushes yours reaching for napkins. Then, after your food wrappers are tossed back into your purse, his hand lands warm and heavy on your thigh.

You startle, nearly dropping your drink. “What are you doing?” you hiss, shoving him lightly. “We’re in the dark, dumbass, no one’s gonna see that.”

“Thought it’d look convincing.”

“Yeah, to the soot sprites maybe,” you whisper back. “If you wanna sell it, put your arm around me instead.”

He draws his hand back, an embarrassed flush already pink on his ears, even in the dark. There’s a quiet beat, then his hand slides across the back of your seat, and settles over your shoulder. His fingers skim lightly over your collarbone before going still.

“Like this?” he murmurs.

You keep your eyes on the screen. “Perfect,” you whisper, voice low. “Now pretend you actually like me.”

He chuckles quietly, a low, warm sound. “Bro, that part’s easy.” You pull a face, ready with a comeback, but he tacks on– “You know, ‘cause you’re like, my best friend.”

“Liar,” you scoff. “Seungcheol’s your bestie.”

“Nope. Cheol’s never seen me vomit, but you have.”

“Ah, right, of course. Forgot that was the benchmark.”

“Mhm.” 

You glance over, but he’s looking straight ahead, face lit in flickers of blue and gold from the movie. Turning back to the screen, you whisper. “That means Lara’s my best friend, then. She’s held my hair back more often than you.” You catch his smile out of the corner of your eye, and his thumb moves absently against your shoulder, barely there strokes. After a little while, the movie starts getting good, and you almost forget it’s there.

Three whole hours and too much popcorn later, you’re back out in the night. Vernon lives in the other direction but he says he’s walking you home anyway. 

“So what did you think?”

“It was good. Long though. And nowhere near as good as There Will Be Blood.” You hum in thought. “You know what the problem is, I’m sick of Leonardo DiCaprio.”

Vernon gapes. “He’s one of the best actors of our time!”

“Yeah, well so what when he’s obsessed with barely legal women?” you retort. “Lets talk about how Hollywood is propping up another fifty year old creep! Besides, his face pisses me off.”

“You know people say I look like him?”

You laugh loud. “They do not! Are you serious?”

“They do,” he insists, smile curling his lips. “Go online right now and you’ll see.”

“Bullshit,” you say, pulling out your phone to type vernon chwe leonardo dicaprio into the search bar. “Oh. Huh. Wow, people are really convinced.” You look back up at your friend, who’s standing close enough to peer at your screen too, and so you reach up, take his chin in your hand and angle his face in different directions. “I sort of see it. You look like a much nicer person though. Less sinister. Good eyebrows.”

A smile tugs at his lips, eyes glinting under the streetlight. “Less sinister and good eyebrows? Maybe I should put it on my wikipedia page.”

You laugh, knocking into his shoulder lightly. “Put it on the back of your baseball card instead.”

He rolls his eyes, but his smile lingers as the two of you fall into step again. The city hums around you with the sound of traffic, someone playing saxophone down the block, a couple arguing outside a bodega. It’s unseasonably chilly enough that you have to tug your thin jacket around yourself a little tighter, and Vernon looks over at you. Serves you right for choosing style over function.

“Cold?” he asks.

You shrug. “A little. It’s not so bad.”

“Want my hoodie?”

“You think I’m gonna ruin this look with that? No way.”

Without a word he shifts closer, his arm brushing yours. Then after a beat, he just slips his hand into yours and tugs it into his coat pocket, his fingers curling loosely around your knuckles. Casually considerate and completely unnecessary.

“You’re getting really into character,” you tease.

“I’m committed to the bit,” he says, an echo of your earlier words, eyes on the sidewalk. “Practicing my method acting.”

“Keep going like this and soon enough you’ll be Leonardo’s semi-lookalike protégé.”

That earns a quiet laugh from him, and you think about how easy this all feels, walking home like this hand in hand. You wonder how Rachel must feel, knowing this is what he’s up to while she’s dealing with her divorce. You know the whole dating other people thing was her idea, but you wonder if she even wanted that at all. Maybe she just wanted Vernon to put up a little fight. You’re growing curious about how it started with them two, but that’s a conversation to have behind closed doors, not out in the street for anyone to hear.

When you reach your building, you stop at the front steps, turning to face him, batting your eyelashes big and fake. “Thanks for walking me home, fake boyfriend.”

“Of course,” he says. “What kind of fake boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?”

“A terrible one.”

He nods, mock-serious. “Can’t have that in the tabloids.” He steps back. “Text me when you’re inside, okay?”

“Sure thing, DiCaprio.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face as he starts backing away. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” you call after him, grinning as he rolls his eyes, hands shoved in his pockets.

You watch him go until he turns the corner, then you unlock the door, walk past the rickety elevator in favour of the stairs, and when you reach your door on the fifth floor, your phone vibrates.

It’s Vernon, a screenshot of a grainy, dark photo he’s been tagged in on Instagram by one of his fans– the two of you in the movie theatre. You can’t see it completely, but with the angle his arm is at, it looks like it was taken during the brief moment his hand was on your leg. 

nonie [22:19] told you it’d look convincing

You snort as you unlock the door.

You [22:20] tOlD yOu It’D lOoK cOnViNcInG

nonie [22:20] your 12 years old

You [22:20] my 12 years old what?

nonie [22:20] lets break up

You [22:20] ok but im keeping the money 

Before bed, you upload a picture to your close friends stories again– your ticket stubs, a glimpse of Vernon’s hand holding the popcorn, blurry in the background.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It’s sort of fun, being Vernon’s pretend girl. Not just because he’s paid off all your debt (bar your student loan) and you can breathe deeply again, but because you love to have a story, and though you can’t tell this one yet, it’ll be great for the retirement home when everyone thinks you’re senile. People are starting to gossip. 

You haven’t done this in years, hung out together on a regular basis, just one on one. Sure, you’ll occasionally meet for coffee or go out for a drink, but it’s never been intentionally just you. The invitation was always offered to the group, and if no one else could make it, it’s no big deal. So you’d just wear whatever you had on, not bother with make-up if you weren’t already wearing any. It’s just Vernon. But now, with the whole pretense to keep up, and the possibility of being caught in pictures, you’re putting in a little– okay– a lot of effort. 

It’s Thursday night, and Vernon is taking you to some hole in the wall pizza place. He meets you off the subway, kisses your cheek (again) and this time your eyes don’t bulge out your head. He tells you he likes your outfit (a baby blue sundress), and you know it’s only for show, but you twirl anyway, laugh out loud when he rolls his eyes. 

The hole in the wall is exactly the kind of place you’d expect Vernon to find– tucked away in a narrow alleyway that smells like heaven instead of trash, the queue full of people like him who know the city like the back of their hand. The slices are huge, you order two pepperoni, and one with goats cheese and shallots to split, and a hot honey dip. 

It’s the kind of evening that makes everything look soft and romantic. Everything tinted a little orange with the setting sun, wisps of clouds float overhead, the kind of warm haze that makes everyone look so flushed and warm and pretty. The park isn’t so busy at this hour, but there’s couples not totally unlike you and Vernon (but they’re real, at least) sitting together and talking the evening away, and small groups of friends, one of which are sitting on the grass, playing gentle music from a bluetooth speaker. You take a seat on the edge of the fountain, folding your legs, and Vernon does the same opposite, setting the food between you. 

“So,” you start, plucking off a piece of pepperoni and popping it in your mouth. “It’s Seungcheol’s thirtieth next week. Joshua’s hosting a party.”

Vernon tears a bite off his slice and nods. “Yeah. Big milestone. Are you going?”

“We, you mean,” you correct. “You know he’ll sulk like a toddler for weeks if you don’t show up.”

He shrugs, all easy and unbothered. “I’ll come if I’m back in time. I’m playing in Philly that afternoon.”

You pout, mock-upset. “You have to come. I can’t be trusted to answer all the inevitable questions about our fake relationship. You know I’ll make up something stupid.”

He gives you a pointed look. “You’re supposed to drop the fake part when you’re in public, remember?”

“Like anyone’s close enough to hear.” You roll your eyes. “Our insane chemistry is visible from afar though, no need to worry.”

He holds your gaze for a moment– until you look away. “Do you think people are buying it?”

“Us?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe.” You sigh, tilting your head to watch someone cycle past with a little dog in the basket. You’ve been checking online for your names for the past week, but they’ve come up with nothing solid. That’s what these public outings are about– hoping you’ll be seen together, casual enough to be believable. Vernon had suggested a pap walk for today instead, but you’d told him they look too obvious. Celebrities should be caught in a casual moment in a shitty zoomed-in-photograph for it to be believable. “The gossip sites are debating whether we’re friends or more. They’re saying it’s cause you’re in loads of my instagram posts but only group ones. And someone uploaded our yearbook photos with Joshua, so it's like 'are they just besties?'”

“What about our friends?”

“I dunno. We haven’t hung out with them enough lately.”

“How so?”

You give him a pointed look. “You ducked out of movie night–”

“Practice ran late, it’s hardly ducking out.” 

“And I had to skip lunch yesterday because a client wouldn’t stop yapping,” you say, taking another bite of your food. “So you’re gonna come, right? Don’t leave me alone with the wolves.”

“You mean our best friends in the whole world?”

“Yes, exactly.”

He sighs. “I’ll see if I can get a flight instead of the bus.”

“Sucks to be the environment, but yay!”

“Yay!” he echoes sarcastically, and you wipe your greasy fingers down his face and he shouts out in disgust, drawing curious looks from people nearby. “Eurgh, the fuck is wrong with you?”

You fall back, laughing so hard your stomach hurts as Vernon scrubs at his face with a napkin. God he’s helpless, he’s missed at least three spots. You sit back up, fighting your laughter back down, and take the napkin from his hands. “Here– oh don’t look at me like that, I’m not gonna do anything.” 

He eyes you with suspicion but lets you clean him off anyway, his skin warm under your touch. Reminds you of when he’d let you practice eyeshadow on him when you were teenagers, under strict instruction that you Don’t Tell The Guys. He’s always been good like that. Occasionally, rarely even, you wonder what it would’ve been like had you not broken up, if you’d have been one of the high school couples that made it all the way to your first divorce by the age of twenty-seven. 

You toss the crumpled napkin into your empty tray between you and lean back on your hands, smiling at the picture you’ve made of him– faint pink on his cheeks, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“There,” you say. “You’re all pretty again.”

“I’m always pretty,” he grumbles.

“Okay, true,” you concede. “Now you’re pizza-commercial pretty. The guy who gets the last slice because he’s charming and good at throwing a ball and everyone likes him.”

He laughs quietly, ducking his head as if embarrassed by the compliment, even though it was mostly a joke. “Did I ever tell you you’re annoying?”

“You knew that going in,” you say. “Are we gonna split this or what?”

Vernon tears the pizza in half, offers you the slightly bigger one. You take a bite and lick your fingers clean. “Mm, s’really good,” you murmur, and Vernon nods.

The light’s fading now, the sky turning peachy pink, the fountain’s surface rippling with movement and dappled reflections of the setting sun. A little breeze kicks up, teasing the hem of your sundress against your knees. Vernon stretches out his legs, dangling them over the edge of the fountain and you settle into a comfortable quiet while you finish the rest of the food. 

“This has been nice,” you say when you’re done and the empty trays are stacked. “Good fake date.” 

“Thanks,” he deadpans. “I am to please.”

“Ahh, Vernon,” you say, stretching out the kink in your back. “You’re the fake boyfriend of my dreams.” Vernon raises an eyebrow and you laugh. “What?”

“Nothing… I just–I’m curious what your dream boyfriend is like? Everyone you’ve dated has been so…”

“Different?” 

“I was gonna say weird but–”

“Include yourself in that statement, idiot,” you chuckle.

“Seriously though,” he says. “What kind of person do you want?”

You shrug. “I don’t know.”

“C’mon. Tell me.”

This is part of the problem. You’ve never known what you want. Ever since you were a kid, things have been temporary, a fleeting moment. Your hobbies, your interests, your celebrity crushes, the clothes you wear, the music you play, the paint on your bedroom walls, your parents' marriage, your jobs– and yes, your relationships. The only thing that’s stayed rock solid, throughout it all, are your friends. 

You sigh. 

“I want someone steady. Someone who isn’t gonna get freaked out by the things I say and disappear. I want boring but fun and dependable but spontaneous and someone who’s funny but doesn’t care that I’m funnier than them. And hot. With a really good ass.”

Vernon looks at you, a little sad, a little like he wants to laugh. “So you want the moon?”

“Semantics,” you say with a shrug.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Lara calls only a few minutes after you get home. 

“Girl– your Instagram is going crazy.”

Oh. You’d turned notifications off ever since you started soft launching Vernon on your stories. “What do you mean?” 

“You have like– thousands more followers.”

You scramble to put her on speaker and load instagram. Eleven-thousand, no… now twel– thirteen thousand. You close the app before you vomit. 

“I guess someone saw us?”

“Duh,” says Lara. “Vernon’s been tagged in a bunch of stuff.”

You get a text from Vernon at that very moment–

nonie [20:53] u seen this?

He includes a link to a DeuxMoi post. A grainy photo of you and Vernon, sitting by the fountain, you eating your pizza, him beaming at you– captioned Sunset Date for Yankees Pitcher and Mystery Woman.

“Jesus– they could’ve taken a better picture,” you complain.

Lara just laughs, and the conversation moves on quickly, but you load Instagram again the moment the call ends, and watch your followers steadily climb. You had considered that you’d become someone people were interested in by sheer association with Vernon, and it’s not like you hate having more followers, but now you’re looking at your (many) DMs, and there lies emboldened chats from your parents, and that’s something you hadn’t anticipated.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

thank you so much for reading! taglist will be added on the next reblog.

to those who read the teaser, thank you soooooooooo much for your patience– a lot happened in my personal life between then and now, but at least the fic is written!

all interaction is appreciated more than you could know, so if you liked this chapter, please consider reblogging with any thoughts to help get this fic seen outside my following!

part 2 is coming next saturday!

joshua was being sincere with you when he told you he wasn’t a good bar to set yourself against when it came to breakups. 

there was stephanie from when he was still in college in the U.S.; they broke up because he decided to move back to korea. it was amicable for the most part, but he probably could’ve given her a more generous heads up than the two weeks he did give her. it wasn’t until a year or so later that she realized how unfair that had been and made sure joshua knew—with a series of voice memo texts that were nearly 15 minutes each. 

then, he dated miyoung. she was nice but she also decided she wanted to get married within the next year only three months in, and as a 23-year-old, joshua was freaked out enough to run almost immediately. his relationship with miyoung ended on a phone call that lasted three hours because she was sobbing so hard, he didn’t have the heart to hang up even though he had no idea how to comfort her. he saw her consistently for weeks after out of pure guilt until jeonghan pointed out that this was just a disguised way of stringing her along.

after that, there was bada, nari, bora, aram, and hana, all girls he casually dated for no longer than a handful of weeks before one of them decided it actually wasn’t a fit for various, mostly dumb reasons. nari told him she didn’t like that he collected cologne and had three times as much perfume as she did. he left aram because she ate so messily, it gave him the ick. though apparently, that might be something he doesn’t mind anymore.

he dated yumi for six months, and to this day, she’s still the only serious girlfriend of his that broke up with him. she told him that she felt like after six months, she still barely knew him, and that he was “too concerned” with upholding an image of himself that “didn’t feel real.” he went straight to therapy for that one.

and when he felt a little better in his own skin and ready to put a “realer” version of himself out there, he met mina. mina, his longest relationship, and up until now, someone he was convinced was his first love. he said as much anyway. he was the first to tell her he loved her, he reminded her he did every day, and he thought they had a nice, long future ahead of them. what he pictured in that future exactly, he had no clue. but after an odd and somewhat unlucky streak in dating, he finally felt like mina was a nice and comfy place to land.

he’s never been more wrong about something in his entire life. 

and after the laughable amount of breakups he’s experienced, he’s also never been angrier after the end of a relationship in his entire life.

mina was proving to be a lot of firsts for him—first cheater, first master manipulator and liar, first person who’s ever made him wonder if he could possibly switch over to dating men instead… or simply stop dating at all! sure, he would die alone but he would die in peace. 

whatever the case, he's quickly approaching the conclusion that “first love” is not among those firsts, and it probably never was. no amount of teasing from you or jeonghan did it, but in less than a handful of minutes spent breaking up with mina, he is a million percent sure this was not someone he could have loved. or else what did that say about him and his taste?

sixteen minutes earlier

joshua arrives at mina’s apartment exactly two hours after work ends for her—5 p.m. every day because she always scheduled a pilates class at 5:30 p.m. thirty minutes for her to get to her class, one hour for her to finish it, 30 minutes for her to get home, zero minutes for her to get clean because he doesn’t care how presentable she is when he dumps her. 

plus, however long it takes joshua to end this—hopefully a lot shorter than his experience with miyoung.

he hadn’t bothered to tell her he was coming over; he didn’t think she really deserved that courtesy. he may be intent on a clean break, but he also wanted this to be as annoying for her as it has been for him.

so at a prompt 7 p.m., joshua finds himself casually leaning against the elevator’s railing, ascending the floors of mina’s apartment and feeling almost excited to be free of this experience. 

after he got off the phone with you, he decided he would bite the bullet when work was over. he spent the rest of his day absentmindedly finishing his reports, periodically stopping to scribble an idea for what he would say to his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend.

he takes the folded piece of paper out of his pocket now and runs over his options again.

his levels of shame and self-pity were sky high when he first pulled out his notepad at the office to write his thoughts out, but after texting you and letting you know what he planned to do, you insisted on meeting at a cafe beforehand to brainstorm together while he waited for mina’s pilates class to end. and once you both workshopped the entire list, his embarrassment diminished almost completely.

it was clear you took this a lot more seriously than he did. he doesn't know what he expected; you probably have a manila folder stuffed full of notes for what you plan to do to siwoo.

as such, you were very helpful. sure, you were also really distracting, with your subtle, spiced perfume he recognized as lola james harper, and your daunting and unrelenting eye contact, and the way your eyes smiled all on their own when they weren’t busy crying over siwoo, and the fact that you graced him with your laugh in person for the first time (every bit as fun as he thought it would be), and everything else that came with just existing in your presence.

all of it was really distracting—almost to the point of it being entirely counterproductive for him. almost, if it weren’t for the fact that you were so determined on his behalf to make this the most unpleasant experience for mina. he was mostly pleased with where you two landed, and if anything, he at least had a better idea of what he wanted to say.

he reads the completely ruined paper, a mess of his black ink and wrinkles where you kept trying to grab it out of his hands. it was already a vulnerable enough occasion talking about this with you; he did not need you seeing his notes on top of it.

TALKING POINTS FOR BREAKING UP WITH EVIL GF i know you’ve been cheating on me, and don’t try to deny it because someone sent me proof! — cannot say this without exposing that y/n knows about siwoo!!! i know you’ve been cheating on me, and don’t try to deny it because i went through your phone and saw your text messages! — better, but am i willing to look crazy just to cover for y/n?  yes  what am i saying NO  this will do ✓ how could you do this to us? i loved you! — seems disingenuous? note: yell at jeonghan and y/n for putting ideas in my head later! i literally gave you everything you could’ve wanted, and that still wasn’t enough? what does any other man have that i don’t? — ok met with y/n for feedback. says this sounds pathetic and that i can't let her think this affected me. but she cheated on me? this LITERALLY affects me. i will come back to this one  ok y/n made a different, better point: i am perfect •ᴗ• and i shouldn’t present myself as lacking. so true. she's very good at this! •ᴗ• do you really think anyone with half a fucking brain cell who's willing to homewreck a relationship is really going to give enough of a fuck about you to be capable of putting up with your insufferable ass and treating you as well as i did? — y/n suggested. had to workshop bc she's alarmingly vulgar. plus, maybe toxic to say i "put up" with mina ?? not sure do you even regret hurting me? — y/n says this is silly bc siwoo and mina obviously do not regret anything, but i want mina to feel guilty. y/n now agrees and says i should add: "or are you just so heartless you don't care?" she said this more colorfully, but i will remain respectful  why should i remain respectful? mina is literally the most disrespectful person i’ve ever met. i’ll say what y/n suggested ⤵ your commitment to being a heartless asshole has you by your ugly ass neck and i hope it starts squeezing with both hands  GET SOME HELP! — more for catharsis. won’t be yelling this at her you're going to regret this and if you think there's a world where i take you back when you do, you're mistaken — wow, no notes from y/n! must be very good •ᴗ• definitely say this one!! please never contact me again — note from y/n: "why are you being so goddamn polite? tell her to fuck off and if you ever see her number on your phone screen, you'll set up an appointment on her behalf to get a lobotomy." ????? note from ME: have a serious discussion with y/n at a later time about why i, a MAN, can't just talk to WOMEN like this!

despite the circumstances that led to having to make the list at all, joshua can't help but grin at it. the time spent with you at the cafe was not only helpful; it was fun. maybe the most fun he’s had with a woman since he started dating mina, who chased off all his female friends within the first two months of being in his life. joshua winces as he pockets the list, wondering how he didn’t see the red flags. 

his thoughts are interrupted with the loud and obnoxious ping of the elevator as it arrives on mina’s floor. the doors slide open, and immediately, he hears the obscene sounds of a woman moaning down the hall. his eyes widen as he steps out and turns down the hall in the direction of mina’s apartment. 

the walls of her place were always thin; they were constantly getting into wars with the neighbors that involved banging on the floor, ceiling, and shared walls with her broom. still, he had never heard this kind of noise from her neighbors. 

“tell me about it.”

joshua looks to his right to find an older woman stepping out of her apartment and locking her door. he must have a look of shock on his face because she snorts and nods in what seems like solidarity as she tucks her empty reusable bags into her armpit. 

“that girl doesn’t seem to ever stop,” she informs him. “i’ve complained to the building manager so many times, and still, here she is, screaming like a little banshee and disrupting this entire floor’s peace.”

joshua feels his skin break out into a cold sweat as his mind starts to go a mile a minute. “huh… interesting…”

“i mean,” the woman turns to step into the elevator joshua just walked out of. “what is she even doing? auditioning for a god damn porn? she sounds like my fucking shih tzu’s squeaky toy!” 

he forces a laugh, too distracted to even feel uncomfortable over the inappropriate joke. “maybe,” he mutters. “she sure is putting on a performance.”

“oh my god!” the voice shrieks in perfect timing, making him flinch. 

“ugh, inconsiderate! all hours of the day! does she even work?!” the woman shakes her head and clicks her tongue in disapproval as she presses a button and the doors close. 

joshua stands there for a moment, staring at the elevator, unable to move as he listens to the noises of what could possibly be his girlfriend having sex with siwoo right now. it didn’t even sound remotely like her, and that fact terrifies him even more because if it is her, then she had to be faking it with someone. was she faking it with joshua or with siwoo?

he groans, letting his head fall into his hands. 

“who cares?” he grumbles to himself. the last thing he should be worrying about is whether or not an adulterous liar like mina thought he was good in bed. he should definitely not care anymore. “i don’t care.”

joshua can practically hear jeonghan’s voice telling him, sure you don’t. he shakes his head, trying to banish his jeonghan-shaped conscience from his brain.  

he doesn’t even know if it’s mina. it could very well be some other female neighbor; it’s not far-fetched for people to be having sex. he could just be paranoid right now since he knows she’s cheating on him. 

each floor of mina’s apartment is huge—a maze, really. dozens of units, at least ten near the elevator, several people who could be having sex. 

he always counted himself lucky that mina lived so close to the elevator, just down the hall a few units down. today, though, as the wailing reverberates off the walls of the hallway leading to the elevator, he thinks mina’s floor plan is the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.

his phone is to his ear before he can fully consider what he’s doing. 

“did you do it?” you seem to dislike greeting people on the phone properly like a normal human being. you speak a little louder than usual, your surroundings lively and buzzing with the noise of what sounds like several conversations. “that was fast.”

“uh,” joshua elongates the sound for a few seconds while his brain tries to tune out the “porn audition” long enough to comprehend your question. “no… nope. i haven’t done it yet.”

“oh. then what’s up? you need backup after all?” you ask too seriously for him to confidently say you’re joking. 

before you both parted ways at the cafe, you offered him company and said you could tag along and jump mina for him. you both laughed and said your goodbyes, but if what joshua fears right now is true, he definitely doesn’t hate the idea of you jumping her. 

“i’m a little busy—well, kinda, not really—but i can fake some kind of horrific emergency and get out of here and over to you in…” you trail off, probably checking the time. “twenty minutes… maybe ten if i’m okay with breaking a few laws. which, rest assured, i am!”

he feels the dread over his predicament slipping as you keep talking, his emotions turning into an incredibly confusing mix of panic, amusement, anxiety, relief, and so on and so on. the number of odd emotions you elicit out of him are countless. 

joshua glides over what he assumes is a joke and straight to the point; the faster he finds out what he needs to, the faster he can hopefully escape this building.

“do you know where siwoo is?” he asks, taking the first few tentative steps to mina’s door. he walks painstakingly slowly, almost tiptoeing even though there’s no possible way anyone could hear him over the lewd moans. 

“he’s at dinner with his vile parents,” you say, sighing like you’d rather talk about anything else. 

“are you sure?”

“yes… why?”

“like… how sure?” joshua presses. 

“uh, 100 percent.” he can picture the frown on your face that usually matches this tone of yours—confused bordering on annoyed. “i’m literally staring at him as his awful monster of a mother tucks a napkin into his collar like a little fucking devil baby, bro.” 

joshua doesn’t know how at a time like this, his brain has the capacity to still take note of how much he loathes when you call him bro. it’s a weird thought to have to process alongside the thousands of other things he’s suddenly feeling.

“i’m at the bar of this pretentious ass restaurant waiting on the bartender to finish their drink orders while they eat all the appetizers without me, like a good, little stay-at-home girlfriend slash maid slash server slash revenge connoisseur!” you inform him, your voice sarcastically cheerful. “i’m going to spit in all their drinks.” that bit comes out in your normal, low—and a little irritated—voice.

“wow” is all he says because his brain doesn’t supply him with anything else.

“like i said, revenge connoisseur,” you say, sounding bored. “so yes, i’m 100 percent sure he’s here. we have to have dinner with these assholes once a week but—” you cut yourself off as you address someone else. “ah, thank you! oh wait, can you actually remove the espresso beans from this one? the abominable woman who gave birth to my boyfriend doesn’t want to have too much caffeine this late in the day.”

joshua realizes his brain has the capacity to do a lot of things in stressful situations as long as he’s talking to you. because he stops walking and immediately starts laughing when he hears the bartender deadpan: “it’s an espresso martini.”

you sigh like you’ve had to explain this a million different times to a million different bartenders. 

“joshua? hold on, okay?” you tell him before immediately addressing the bartender without waiting for him to reply. “listen, i get it. you don’t have to tell me. i know! she’s a ridiculous airhead who gets her life force from making little people like me suffer and ask for embarrassing things on her behalf. i don’t even care if you stick your bare fingers in there to pluck them out—in fact, i actually kind of prefer you do that. i just need them gone before she comes poking her snobby, little nose over here and demands you make her an entirely brand new one.”

that seems to do the job because the next thing you say is: 

“thank you so much. and please give yourself a 50 percent tip—100 even!” you shout the last part as, joshua assumes, the bartender walks away. “it’s on their card, go crazy!” 

the bartender says something that he can’t make out and you laugh. the sound of it—so light and mischievous and charismatic—completely severs the already increasingly weakened grip his panic has on him. he feels like he can breathe a little easier, even among the horrible sounds filling the hallway. 

“okay, i’m back, sorry,” you say into the phone, picking up exactly where you left off as if you never stopped talking. “like i was saying, we do this shit every week, so i can definitely get out of this if you need me to. why are you asking about siwoo anyway?” 

there’s something comforting about the way you’re ready to drop everything to get to joshua even though you just said bye less than an hour ago and you don’t even know why he’s calling. though, he does realize your eagerness is also probably due to the fact that you just don’t want to be around your cheating boyfriend and his family.

joshua exhales slowly through his nose. “well, it’s not quite your 100, but i am like, at least… 70 percent sure that mina is having sex with someone in her apartment as we speak. i thought it was siwoo, but…” he lets you come to your own conclusions.

the silence on the other end of the phone is so much more threatening than the gasping and yelling he expected. it stretches for so long that at some point, joshua wonders if you even heard him. 

“did you—”

“i heard you,” you say, your voice clipped. you pause again for a shorter period and when you speak, you sound a lot less short. “i was trying to ignore it because i couldn’t imagine what the hell it was, but you definitely sound like you’re on the set of a porno.”

joshua grimaces, stepping away from the side of the hallway that mina’s apartment is on as if that will help—it doesn’t, not with the way it echoes off the walls. he cups his hand around the mouthpiece of his phone, hoping that it will keep the shih tzu squeaky toy sound effects from traveling to you. “shit, i’m sorry,” he breathes, scurrying down the hallway and several units past mina’s apartment in a desperate attempt to get away from the moaning. “i didn’t realize you could hear it clearly.”

“are you running away from the noise, joshua hong?” you ask, obviously amused.

“um, maybe.”

“wow, what a gentleman, protecting my innocence like this,” you fake-sigh like you’re swooning on the other end of the line and he blushes furiously. he can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. “chivalry is not dead.”

“you’re so insufferable!” he whisper-yells at you. the poor residents of this floor already have to deal with ‘round-the-clock sex; they don’t need to add him being obnoxiously loud on the phone too. “i’m having a horrible time right now, and you’re joking around?!”

you giggle. “okay, fine. i’m insufferable. but at least i made you smile.”

“and how on earth could you possibly know that if you can’t even see me?”

you snort. “please. i can hear it in your voice. your smile transcends all obstacles, hong. you could smile on the other side of the world and i’d know it.”

the claim makes joshua’s hands clammy, and he finds he has no idea what to say to that. he can barely breathe, but this time, it feels a little different—not quite so wrought with anxiety like it was when he first exited the elevator.

sensing you may have gone overboard with your compliment this time, you clear your throat and steer the conversation back on track.

“mina is a real piece of work,” you state the obvious before rambling a little. “cheating on you… cheating on siwoo… though, is that called cheating if siwoo is also her sidepiece…? no, right? she’s just cheating on you twice—fuck, sorry, that was so callous and dumb to say.” he hears something that sounds like you hitting your forehead repeatedly. 

“yeah… i don’t know…” his mind is not on the logistics of the cheating.

“okay, so here’s what we’re going to do,” you say, voice kicking into high-gear. “i’ve been gone from the table for almost… 10 minutes; these rats get impatient after, like, two.”

joshua leans against the wall, finding your little plotting voice weirdly comforting.

“siwoo is going to stand up any moment now to see what’s taking so long at the insistence of his egg donor.”

he closes his eyes and tries to calm his heartbeat, smiling a little at your refusal to call siwoo’s mom anything but his mom. 

“and when he does, i’m—oh my god, i’m amazing.”

joshua opens his eyes and frowns. “what?”

you laugh in disbelief before frantically whispering, “siwoo just got up and is walking over here. he is so predictable. also, i just got the ick so bad. this idiot forgot to take his little napkin bib off. okay, he’s almost here. don’t reply to anything i say, alright?”

“al—”

“oh my god, are you serious?!” you shriek at joshua. he immediately brings his phone away from his ear. “are you okay?” you pause like you’re listening to a nonexistent response. “holy shit, girl—” your next words are an exaggerated whisper. “—it’s soph, she’s on a date, having… explosive diarrhea!”

joshua looks at his phone incredulously. he doesn’t know how you manage to sound so convincing when it’s clear to him everything you say comes to mind the very second before you say it. 

“that’s disgusting.” his eyes involuntarily narrow at what can only be siwoo’s voice. he sounds just as dumb as joshua thought he would.

“i have to go!” you exclaim. 

“what?! why?”

“did you hear me?! soph is having a crisis! what am i supposed to do, just leave her in the bathroom of some dingy sushi restaurant covered in her own shit while her date thinks she snuck out on her?!” she speaks back into the phone. “hold on, girl.”

he snorts as he passes a hand over his face in embarrassment even though he’s completely alone. he’s truly amazed at how committed you are to your act. he would’ve cracked before he ever even got to utter the word “diarrhea.”

“uh, yes? we’re at dinner with my parents and that sounds like a really gross her problem.”

joshua rolls his eyes. siwoo is an asshole through and through. 

you pause and he likes to imagine you’re taking a moment to really process what a fucking dick your boyfriend is. “i’ll be quick, baby,” you say through barely concealed annoyance. his eye twitches at the term of endearment anyway. “tell your parents i said sorry! i’ll text you when i’m on my way home! soph, i’m on my way!”

“y/n!” his voice is further away than he previously sounded. “what about our drinks?!”

“ask the bartender!” you practically bellow at him. “fucking incompetent. ‘what about our drinks?’” your impression of siwoo is simply an exaggerated baby voice, and joshua thinks it sounds exactly the same. “what the fuck kind of question? where else would you get your drinks?” you mutter—to yourself, joshua presumes. “okay, shua, i am free and i am on my way!”

he doesn’t even have the opportunity to be surprised about you coming to mina’s apartment; he’s too caught off-guard by the sudden nickname. 

“hello?” you call, suddenly sounding like you’re, at the very least, brisk-walking if not fully running. “you can talk now! i am not in the restaurant anym—oop, excuse me, sorry!”

“shua?” joshua repeats mindlessly.

“aw, don’t like it? we can workshop that too,” you huff, excusing yourself as you navigate whatever street you’re on. “i think it’s cute, though. no? shua... shua!” 

you repeat it a few more times like that will get him to agree. most of the instances of “shua” are breathed out in a quick exhale as you move, and joshua is almost completely convinced you’re running. 

“okay, i’m kind of losing the meaning of ‘shua’ now. i swear it’s cute, though.”

he smiles. “uh, yeah, it’s… cute. different but cute.”

“right? josh is tired,” you claim. “shua feels more fitting for you. anyway, give me… 12 minutes and i will be there.”

“why are you coming here again?’ he asks, remembering to feel confused about your plans. 

“for moral support, hello?” you answer like it’s obvious. “ah! sorry!” you shout at someone who curses. “you have me now, dude.” dude is better than bro, he supposes. “we don’t have to go through these traumatic events alone anymore! i’ll be there and if you want me to blow my cover and this entire plan so i can slap mina across the face, i will!”

his mouth twitches to keep from smirking. the thought is tempting. “you really don’t have to—”

“shut up, i just told siwoo my best friend is having explosive diarrhea for you,” you point out, practically panting now. “we cannot walk this back! now go break up with that horrid bitch, and if she really is fucking someone in there, you tell me and i’ll march up there and win my very first fistfight… uh, what floor is her apartment, by the way?”

joshua shakes his head, trying his hardest not to grin. “no, you stay downstairs. there will be no fistfights tonight. i’ll see you in a bit.”

“got it, boss.”

“and stop running,” he orders. “you’re just going to hurt yourself.”

“mmm, agree to disagree,” you heave. “see you soon!” you hang up in a hurry, giving him no time to say bye. 

as he stands in the hallway, he realizes that in the time he spent with you on the phone, the moans subsided. between the absence of your mayhem and the vulgarity of maybe-mina’s maybe-cheating, it’s almost eerie how suddenly quiet the floor is. 

he drags his feet as he makes his way back to mina’s door. when he gets there, he tentatively presses an ear to the wood, and when he can’t hear anything, he raises his fist and knocks before he can change his mind. several seconds pass and he doesn’t hear anyone coming to the door or even speaking. his discomfort eases a little as he starts to think maybe she’s not even home.

mina isn’t one to deviate from her plans; she gets irritable when she has to, so joshua knows that pilates definitely had to be on the agenda today. and if she’s not home yet, then she should be arriving any moment now. he punches in the code for her apartment, determined to wait it out and get this over with because he has no plans to spend another day tied down to a cheater.

“mina?” he calls out as soon as he steps in. he almost bends down to take his shoes off, thinks twice about it, and leaves them on. what did you call it again? taking your small joys wherever you can. tracking dirt into mina’s apartment felt like a small joy right now. 

with no response, he heads into the kitchen to grab himself a water bottle before sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar. he’s about to take his notes out again when he hears a door click. he frowns. 

“hello?” mina’s voice tentatively calls out from the hallway. 

“it’s me,” joshua says, leaving his notes where they are in his pocket. “i knocked but i guess you didn’t hear.”

“josh?” mina rounds the corner, in her bathrobe. she smiles brightly when she confirms it’s him. “hey, baby. what are you doing here?”

she walks up to him with the ease of a loyal girlfriend. he’s astounded by it, actually; how she can act so sweet and kind and cute when she’s sleeping with siwoo every chance she gets. if he thinks about it too hard, it actually scares him. 

she loops her arms around his waist and hugs him from behind, hooking her chin on his shoulder. he tenses and immediately slips off the stool and out of her grip. 

“i wanted to talk to you, remember?” he says, stepping away when she tries to reach for him again. she frowns like she’s finally understanding there’s a problem. “yesterday. but you said you were busy.” busy fucking siwoo. 

even with a direct reference to her infidelity, mina doesn’t bat an eye. he thinks she could probably thrive in a career in acting. “yeah, i had to clock some overtime yesterday,” she lies. “it was such a drag,” she complains as she gets her own water bottle from the fridge. “i paid for my pilates class and everything and had to pay the fee for missing it.”

the lies roll of her tongue so effortlessly, joshua knows he would’ve easily believed them if he didn’t have cold, hard proof. even with the cold, hard proof, he wonders if there’s any way you could have still gotten it wrong. he knows you didn’t. maybe he is gullible because after two days, he already trusts you more than he does mina. 

“pilates,” he repeats in a daze. 

she raises an eyebrow as she takes a sip. she caps her bottle again and nods slowly. “yes, baby, pilates… is everything okay?”

“mina, have you ever cheated on me?”

joshua sees it then—the crack in her facade. her eyes widen, not with surprise or disbelief the way an innocent person’s probably would, but fear. to her credit, it passes quickly as she schools her expression into one of bewilderment. if joshua hadn’t known to look for it, he knows he would have missed it. he would have missed it along with all the other red flags he’s missed. 

“why are you asking me that?” she asks, her voice sharp with the vexation of someone who’s been offended. joshua doesn’t let it faze him.

he shrugs, clenching his jaw briefly before speaking again. “just answer the question, mina.”

mina seems to realize joshua isn’t in the mood for games because her shoulders deflate the tiniest bit, her eyes flicking from one side of the room to the other as she tries to think of what to say. he knows it’s because in the year they’ve been together, joshua has never—not once—lost his temper or expressed any kind of annoyance with her.

it’s always “joshua is so sweet,” “joshua is such a gentleman,” “joshua is so kind,” “joshua is so mild mannered,” “joshua is so fucking gullible.”

joshua is done.

“mina.”

he doesn’t mean for his voice to come out sharp and raised the way it does, but when she flinches, he realizes his patience is slipping faster than jeonghan could ever dream of making it.

“wh—?” she squeezes her eyes shut like she’s trying to understand how they got here. “what?” she suddenly shrieks, eyes opening wide with disbelief and what he’s sure she thinks is translating as devastation. “what are you even saying, joshua?!”

the sheer amount of willpower it takes to keep from rolling his eyes is staggering. “it should be an easy question to answer,” he sighs, running a hand over his face tiredly. “so i think the fact that you refuse to is an answer in itself.”

he sets his bottle on the counter and moves to step around her so he can leave and just let it be over with—going out, not with a bang, but with a pathetic little sigh—but she steps the same direction, palms out like she’ll shove him if he gets any closer to the door.

“what the fuck are you on right now?” she asks, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted into an ugly, displeased sneer like a switch just flipped.

joshua feels the hair on the back of his neck stand as he frowns down at her. she doesn’t try to wrestle her face into playing along with her placating, innocent girl act. instead, she wears her scowl proudly, crossing her arms across her chest in defiance as she blocks his way from his emergency exit. 

“you’re not leaving until you tell me why you’re asking me that,” she states.

he finds her rage as discomforting as yours but in wildly different ways. your anger makes him freeze up and almost panic; it renders him unable to speak or even think, and he’s still not even sure why. but mina’s makes him physically cringe away. it… annoys him.

just like she wasn’t used to his impatience, he wasn’t used to her being angry—at least not at him. all mina’s ever been angry about have been baristas who used 2% instead of fat free milk in her lattes (and yes, she insists she can tell), long wait times, and her boss demanding she work overtime. though joshua realizes that was probably just an excuse to see siwoo.

“mina, why are you doing this?” he asks, exasperated.

“why am i doing this?!” she repeats, scoffing so obnoxiously hard in his face, spit lands on his cheek. 

he closes his eyes for a brief moment as he wipes it away, willing his patience to hold out long enough to get him out of this building.

“why are you doing this?! why are you as—”

“because i know!” he shouts over her increasingly high-pitched whining. “i’m asking because i know all about how awful you’ve been, mina! and i wanted to see if after a year together, you’d at least have the decency to be honest with me!” 

mina’s attitude drops, her hands immediately combing through her hair frantically, a nervous tic she always had.

“i know you were faking business trips, i know you were sleeping around, i know you were fucking him last night when i told you i needed to talk to you—when your boyfriend of a year wanted to see you!”

she stares at him helplessly, mouth hung open and her eyes quickly filling with tears. he realizes as he stares back, feeling nothing but resentment and disdain for her, that your wildly fluctuating emotions unnerve him because he wants to find a way to get you back to your baseline, if not all the way to the other end to happy.

as he watches mina begin to weep, he feels none of that. for the first time in his life, joshua yearns to be cruel. he wants to make her cry harder, and it makes him resent her even more—for making him think and feel something so reprehensible.

he suddenly sees why you’re so open to letting your fury flow through every part of you before unapologetically releasing it right out into the world the way you do. after a lifetime of insisting on being the calm one, the collected one, the unbothered one, the unfeeling one, he realizes that being angry like this is addicting—freeing.

“baby, i…”

“don’t, mina, i’m not your fucking baby,” he says. even he can hear how tired he sounds. 

“i’m so sorry,” she whispers, voice cracking. “i am, i really am. i don’t know why i did it. i—i don’t know—i’m so—i…”

“save it,” he puts her out of her misery of trying to find the right words to manipulate him into thinking she’s anything other than the deceitful cheater she is. “i know you don’t regret hurting me like this. i—”

“no, i do!” she wails, throwing herself at him now.

he immediately starts untangling himself from her hold but she makes it impossible, her grabby hands all over him as she tries to get him to stop attempting to escape her.

“mina, let go o—”

“i regret it, joshua, i swear to god i regret it!” she weeps so loudly now, he starts to feel dread gathering in the pit of his stomach the way it did when he broke up with miyoung. “i never wanted to hurt you, i love you!”

“holy shit,” he grumbles, shoving her hands off him and stepping away from her even though it meant being farther from the only exit. “how can you even say that to my face right now?”

“it’s true!” she screams, grating his nerves. “i love you! i want to spend the rest of my life with you! it was all a mistake! minhyuk was just a temptation i gave into at a weak moment, and i swear it didn’t mean—”

“who the hell is minhyuk?” he asks, frowning when her words finally catch up to him.

mina freezes, and it’s like her tears get the memo because they stop too. it’s the only reason joshua knows that no matter how convincing, this was also just an act.

he glares now.

“who. is. minhyuk. mina?” he staggers his words like it’ll help her few remaining brain cells unite long enough to understand and answer his question.

“i… what do you mean? you said… you said you knew that i… you said—”

“i know about siwoo,” he clarifies, his temper at its breaking point. he’s a moment away from calling you to come up here and make sure he doesn’t land himself in jail, wrecking mina’s entire apartment in an attempt to claw his way out of it. “who the fuck is minhyuk?”

joshua doesn’t think he’s ever cussed this much in his life.

“i—”

“who the fuck is siwoo?” 

joshua’s head whips around toward the voice, coming from the hallway that leads to mina’s room. the laugh that immediately escapes his mouth is instinctive and hysterical. he doesn’t know any other way to react than to start laughing; if he doesn’t, he’s positive he’ll somehow spontaneously combust. 

because standing in mina’s hallway is one of the many reasons her neighbors despise her. a very half naked reason, dressed only in boxers.

“are you for fucking real?” mina hisses, shutting her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose as if joshua isn’t even in the room. “i told you to wait in the room and be fucking quiet, you moron. are you—”

“who is siwoo?!” the man shouts now.

joshua’s laughs peter out, and with them goes his anger. he sighs, shaking his head and remembering how drained he feels. 

“i take it you’re minhyuk.” the man glares at him but doesn’t respond, so he nods. “well, mina, i guess you were truthful about one thing: you really were busy last night, weren’t you?”

“how did you even know siwoo stopped by here?!” she yells. joshua hopes building management kicks her out after the noise complaints she’s bound to get from today alone.

“i can’t believe you’re fucking cheating on me!” minhyuk disappears back into mina’s room, shouting nonsense as he gathers his things. 

“you’re definitely not the one who was cheated on!” joshua calls after him, rolling his eyes. he turns back to mina, mustering up the very last of his energy to finally end it. “mina. you’re disgusting. i will move on from this remembering you as nothing other than a nasty stain on my otherwise amazing life.”

a squeak of protest erupts from her mouth, but he doesn’t let her get a word in.

“but you... you’ll continue to do whatever sleazy shit you’ve been up to for who knows how long, and one day, you’ll wake up and realize how empty and tragic and ugly you and your life both are—” she has the audacity to look offended at the word ugly. “—and you won’t be able to do anything to change that because no one worth having around will have cared enough to stick by you.”

her tears start again and this time, they feel real—they don’t come with screaming or begging or lying. they steadily stream down her face and it makes joshua feel like he’s high.

“your commitment to being a selfish asshole really has you by the neck and i pray to god it starts squeezing with both hands,” he says, delivering your line with a tight-lipped smile.

he finally steps around her, making his way to the door. he opens it and just before he leaves, he thinks, what the hell? and turns back.

“mina,” he calls softly. she turns back to him, face red and splotchy. “don’t contact me. if i ever see your phone number on my screen, i’ll personally call every single cafe on this fucking continent and make sure they only serve you whole fat milk for the rest of your life.”

she gasps like he just made a legitimate threat, and he gets the immature and overwhelming urge to ridicule and laugh at her.

“oh, and get some fucking help,” he adds before turning away and leaving without waiting for her reaction.

fortunately, he gets the elevator immediately. 

unfortunately, none other than minhyuk comes barreling in before the doors close. he has the sense to at least look ashamed, throwing joshua a pitiful smile, but it isn’t enough, so he steps forward and presses a finger to the button that keeps the doors open.

he doesn’t say anything, blankly staring at the man who apparently had sex with his girlfriend either before or after siwoo did last night. minhyuk gets the clue and sighs.

“bro, we’re on the 13th floor,” he protests.

he still doesn’t respond. finally, when several seconds of minhyuk fidgeting have passed, the man groans dramatically—not unlike mina herself—and he stomps out of the elevator and toward the stairwell.

joshua smiles to himself, releasing the button and letting the elevator doors close and take him down to the lobby—down to you.

when joshua exits mina’s building, you’re waiting exactly where you had accosted the two of them the night before, sweaty and disheveled from your run over, but somehow still looking so incredibly pretty. 

you take one look at his face and know exactly how the entire conversation went down without even having to ask. then, an interesting thing happens: you do something joshua thinks is akin to exploding, and he has to hold you back from storming the building. you don’t even know where mina lives, but he knows if he lets you go, you’ll knock on every single door of all 25 floors until you find her and sock her in the face. 

and even as he tries to calm you down now, something warms his heart knowing you care enough to do something as ridiculous as that.

“you’re causing a scene,” he grunts, stepping in your way again when you try to dodge him.

“if you think this is a scene, you’re gonna hate what i’m about to cause on whatever goddamn floor that bitch lives on!” you inform him. 

“i’m not telling you and the front desk won’t either. he’d probably call security on you before you even get to the elevators.”

“i don’t care! i’ll punch the man at the front desk too! my fists are rated E for everyone!” you shriek wildly, darting back and forth as you try to get around him. against his will, an amused snort escapes him.

when it’s clear to you that joshua’s height and long legs are going to make it impossible for you to fake him out, you give up on going around and decide to go through.

joshua shouts in surprise when you barrel right into him, opting for pushing him backwards to get a few steps forward. he catches on quickly and digs his heels in, gripping your shoulders and holding you at arm’s length.

“she’s not worth this time or energy,” he tells you. 

“oh, i disagree, i think she’s worth a lot of my time and energy!” you refute. “i think she’s worth as much of my time and energy as it takes for me to rock her shit!”

you groan as you struggle against his hold, and he almost laughs at how hard you seem to be trying because it’s relatively easy to keep you where you are. you shrug his hands off and slap him away, charging forward again, but before you can, he plants his palm on your forehead, stopping you in your tracks.

“yah! joshua hong!” you shove his arm away from your forehead, and he can’t help when the laughs finally break free. “how are you laughing right now? i could kill her!”

he shrugs, his laughter suddenly snowballing until his hands are on his knees and he’s trying to catch his breath. 

he can’t do anything other than laugh. he has to laugh at the year he’s wasted with mina, or he’ll drive himself crazy asking himself what’s wrong with him that his taste led him so astray (something to unpack when he inevitably returns to his therapist). he has to laugh at the memory of walking in while minhyuk was still there or he’ll fixate on the fact that he has no idea how many men mina’s cheated on him with—and the fact that he needs to go get tested for STDs immediately. there is no other option but to laugh because he has no idea how someone’s life can change this fast because of an instagram DM.

when he finally stops, he sighs, straightening up to find you looking at him with a blank expression.

“oh, you’re so not okay,” you mutter.

“i’m fine,” he insists, shaking his head. he rests his hands back on your shoulders, this time gently, and he nods once. “this has just been the most ridiculous 24 hours of my life, and i’m tired and i’m starving. can we please escape this hellhole and eat? i’ll even pay.”

your eyes narrow at that, studying his face like you’re trying to see if he’s lying to you about being okay. he isn’t—at least he doesn’t think he is—but he also doesn’t think you’d be able to tell if he were anyway.

“i know a ramen spot near here?” you offer hesitantly.

it irks him that you not only have a go-to fried chicken spot in the area but a ramen spot too, and only because you’ve followed siwoo here enough times to have favorites. he thinks you deserve to find favorites in more meaningful ways.

he doesn’t say that, though, of course. instead, joshua looks you up and down before he scans himself, pointedly staring at how sweaty the two of you are in this sticky summer heat. 

“ramen is good for the soul,” you say, reading his mind. “the best comfort food. plus, you’ll sweat out all your heartache.”

“i have no heartache to sweat out.”

“right,” you agree, nodding easily and in a way that makes him question if you’re being sarcastic or not. “maybe we should invite jeonghan.”

he tilts his head. he’s not opposed because he needs to fill his best friend in, but he’s also not enjoying you being the one to suggest it. “why…?”

you shrug. “my offers to dole out violence on your behalf can only go so far. your best friend will probably be better equipped to handle… whatever that was that just happened right now.”

he snickers and rolls his eyes. “okay, i’ll text him.”

“no need, i already did!” you say as you loop your arm through his and begin to pull him away from the building. 

he scoffs, a little too aware of the scowl that erupts on his face. “how do you have jeonghan’s number?”

you look up at him and snort. “we all exchanged information last night, remember?”

no, you and joshua exchanged information last night after he insisted on it so he knew when you got home safe. his eye twitches when he thinks about jeonghan sneaking you his number too—and maybe even texting or calling you as much as he was today.

“he’s waiting for us at the ramen shop.”

he clenches his jaw before forcing a smile. “you really are such a well-prepared individual, aren’t you.”

“gotta be if i’m going to ruin siwoo and mina’s lives.”

“mina? i thought—”

“oh baby,” you say it with fake pity like he’s actually a child, but he finds he likes it a hell of a lot more than dude. infinitely more than bro. “she doesn’t get a pass anymore. that ship sailed when she decided to do my shua like that.” oh, he likes that one a lot. “she’s officially back in the plan.”

joshua grins genuinely now, nodding without arguing. even if he didn’t want you to wrap your metaphorical revenge hands around mina’s ugly neck and shake violently (he does), he knows arguing with you is futile.

“okay.” he feels the exhaustion from earlier slowly leave his body, already feeling lighter as he walks with you, arms looped together like you’ve been best friends for years. “let’s ruin some lives then.”

you look up at him and squeeze his arm, jumping a little as you squeal, “let’s!”

“bye, y/n.”

joshua tries not to glare as jeonghan pulls you into a hug, one arm snaking around your waist as he grins over your shoulder at him. he flashes his eyebrows at him and all his efforts go to waste. he gives him the nastiest glower he can. his best friend’s smirk just widens. 

he doesn’t know what’s going on—with jeonghan, with you, with the both of you, with himself. for the first 40 minutes sitting in the restaurant, joshua retold the hellish afternoon he experienced and took all of his best friend’s many i-told-you-so, what-a-bitch, and i-knew-she-was-a-snake comments with grace. but as soon as that was over, jeonghan flipped a switch.

all night, the man has been acting so weird with you, laughing too hard at everything you say, touching you any chance he gets, saying things just because he knows you’ll agree. and all night, for a reason he can’t quite put his finger on, it’s been driving joshua up the wall. it’s probably because you’re literally still in a relationship. his best friend could at least wait until you’re properly single before he starts doing whatever jeonghan-styled mating call this is.

nope. that’s not it. that thought drives him even further up this insufferable, metaphorical wall.

“later,” you say as you step back. “don’t forget to send me that brand of hair remover you were looking at.” you turn over your shoulder and joshua immediately drops his glare and smiles. if you saw the look he was giving jeonghan, you don’t show it. instead, you wink at him. “we’re going to need that for mina’s shampoo now, huh, shua?”

“shua,” jeonghan repeats, obviously delighted, eyebrows rising and grin quickly entering shit-eating levels. “cute!”

you turn back to him excitedly. “right?! i think so too!”

“you’re such a genius, y/n,” he says, sounding nauseatingly lovesick. joshua silently scoffs at him behind your back. he should know better, though, because that just eggs him on. “i’ll text you the link as soon as i get home. or—” he meets his eyes again. “—i’ll just call you!”

“sure, whatever,” you shrug, as indifferent as ever. it makes joshua happy. maybe a direct rejection would make him even happier, though. “get home safe!”

“yeah, get home safe,” joshua echoes as jeonghan steps around you to hug him as well. “don’t fall into a manhole or get run over by a massive truck or anything,” he mutters too quietly for anyone else but him to hear. 

“i love you too, man,” jeonghan laughs, rubbing his back and squeezing his shoulder as he steps away. “call me if you need to drink your sorrows away. see you two!”

he finally walks off toward his car as you step up to joshua’s side, looping your arm through his again. his heart immediately slows, recovering from the irritation of dealing with a menace.

“jeonghan knows i have zero interest in dating him, right?”

joshua can’t help the bark of laughter that all but rips its way out of him.

“no, like,” you laugh a little, “he comes on so strong? i don’t think i’ve ever met someone as bold as he is.”

that’s ironic, seeing as joshua has never met anyone as bold as you.

“i don’t know if he knows that,” he says honestly. “but either way, he wouldn’t make a move until you were single.”

he gets brief flashes of jeonghan’s fingers brushing up against yours, jeonghan delivering wings onto your plate, jeonghan hugging you a beat too long, jeonghan existing around you. 

“i think,” he adds, frowning.

you make a sound of disbelief as you both watch jeonghan pull out of his spot and drive away. you both stay rooted to the spot, watching nothing in particular.

 “i am single. for all intents and purposes, i am absolutely single.”

joshua is alarmed at how horrible the chill that runs up his spine feels—like an omen of how unbearable his life will become if two crazy people like you and jeonghan join forces to become one.

“i just happen to be a single woman pretending to still love her ex so she can obliterate his entire existence from the inside out.”

“right,” he says, nodding. “of course. i just mean that… i—uh… i have no idea what i mean. but i’ll tell jeonghan to fuck off.”

you whistle, laughing after you do. “i think that’s the first time i heard you cuss,” you inform him. “my shua cussing…” 

you don’t finish your thought because you giggle, and he thinks the sound triggers his fight or flight. he lets you laugh and when it fades, you shake your head.

“don’t tell jeonghan to fuck off,” you tell him. “it’s fun. flattering.”

“flattering?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.

you shrug. “i’ve been with that idiot, siwoo, for two years. i guess it’s nice to know that someone thinks i’m cute enough to flirt with. at least i know i’m still an eligible bachelorette.”

joshua huffs out a laugh of disbelief. “are you serious?”

you yank your arm out of his, startling him. “what?! you don’t think i’m cute enough to flirt with?!” you ask, half offended but obviously thoroughly amused.

“quite the opposite, actually,” he says before he can convince himself not to. he’s about to start sputtering about how he means it in the most platonic and objective way possible, but since you’re you, he doesn’t need to.

“good, that’s what i thought,” you say, grinning and weaving your arm through the ditch of his elbow again. “i’m very cute.”

joshua is glad you’re so comfortable to be around. he knows if he agreed with you now, you’d happily accept the compliment, but if the roles were reversed, he would be flustered for the next week. 

you two enjoy a comfortable silence before he sighs contentedly and looks down at you to ask if you’re ready to leave. he forgets what he’s about to say when he meets your eyes, though.

you’re already looking up at him and smiling softly. “did you like the ramen? do you feel better?” you ask, tilting your head.

he thinks you would look nice resting it against his shoulder. “i feel much better,” he confirms. “thanks again—for coming so fast and so last minute without me even asking you to.” he pauses to think, frowning when he confronts how ride-or-die you’ve been for him today. “and even before that. thanks for workshopping all those horrible lines with me.”

you grin. “don’t mention it, dude.” he’s too content right now to make a face at that. at least it’s not bro. “it was a lot of fun, actually.”

“i still don’t think i have any heartache to sweat out into any other bowls of ramen—” you snicker. “—but it’s nice to know i have two people to cry to if i ever do.”

you nod enthusiastically. “exactly! you have jeonghan, and you have me now.”

he hums, feeling an intense desire to say you have him too—because you do, and you unfortunately already have jeonghan as well—but he stops himself. he’s only known you one day, and he’s just not as courageous as you are with your words. 

“it’s nice,” you mutter, “to have people to go through these things with.”

joshua doesn’t voice his curiosity about your own friendships. were there no other people you were able to expect this kind of support from? where was this soph you used to excuse yourself from dinner? any other friends? family? 

he lets his curiosity simmer. you’ve already subjected each other to incredibly intimate parts of your life; the rest can come another day.

“hopefully, it’s the first and last time we go through this,” he remarks, chuckling.

“one can hope,” you agree. “and the ramen?” you prod. “was it good?”

“i loved it,” he says honestly, “but—”

“‘but’?!” you practically shriek. “but what?! the ramen here is really good! what could you possibly have to say about the ramen here?”

he laughs, looking away from you and rolling his eyes at how fast you are to pounce. “i love the ramen, but,” he continues, “we need to find you some favorites that don’t involve roaming around the area that siwoo and mina happen to be in. i’ll show you some of my favorites. away from here. and if you want your own favorites, then we’ll go to a place you’ve never been and we’ll find you new favorites. but i hate to inform you… this will be the last time we eat in this godforsaken area so i hope you enjoyed that.”

when joshua looks back down at you, you’re no longer smiling. he tenses when he realizes you look a little sad, your mouth turned down at the corners so slightly, he probably wouldn’t notice if he weren’t so close to your face.

“oh,” he breathes, “y/n, i’m sorry, i didn’t—”

you shake your head quickly and he clamps his mouth shut.

“y’know,” you say quietly, like any louder and you’ll start crying. he doesn’t doubt that you would. it’s been a whole 24 hours since you did—at least in front of him. “it really fucking sucks… finding out your boyfriend is cheating on you, and on top of that, having to continue relying on him.”

your hold on his forearm tightens for a moment, and before he can think about it, he removes his right hand from his pocket and closes it over yours.

“and i know that we’ve only known each other for like… a day,” you say, laughing even though your voice is getting dangerously watery, “but every time we talk… i stop to think i’m really lucky that of all the people i could’ve been suffering through this with, it turned out to be you.”

joshua’s mouth parts to say something, but nothing comes out because nothing even comes to mind. there you go again—so honest and forthcoming and bold and you. there you go again, making his brain the most useless organ in his body without even trying.

“you’re really nice,” you sigh. “thank you.” you turn away and wipe at your eyes quickly before taking your hand back from his and releasing his arm altogether. he immediately feels a little colder. he returns his hand to his pocket. “for my last dinner in this stupid fucking neighborhood.”

he clears his throat. “you’re welcome.”

“i’ll hold you to it, y’know,” you warn him, bumping his shoulder. “don’t think you can say nice things like that and then have no follow-through.”

from the way you say it, he knows you’re thinking of siwoo. he wonders what sort of tiny things siwoo promised you that he never delivered on if he couldn’t even do something as simple as stay true to you. joshua thinks it will be easy for him to show you how nice people can be when they aren’t taking you for granted.

“good, hold me to it.”

“i will! you owe me a favorite chicken shop, a favorite ramen shop, a favorite boba shop, a favorite ice c—”

“jesus christ, how often were you here?”

you laugh loudly. “you owe me so many favorites.”

joshua smiles. “come on,” he says. “we’ll get you all those favorites. but for now, let’s get you home.”

“goodbye forever, ramen shop,” you bid the establishment farewell happily. “and goodbye, stupid fucking neighborhood!”

he grins. “good riddance, stupid fucking neighborhood!”

you’re consumed by giggles hearing him curse again.

acting normal while texting you proves to be the hardest thing joshua has done every single time he does it. it’s either you’re being incredibly funny and he’s smiling at his phone like an idiot, or you’re saying a bold inside thought and he’s smiling at his phone like an idiot. either way, even if he thinks he does a good job at appearing normal via text, he knows he looks crazy in person.

“you’re cheesing real hard, bro.”

joshua immediately locks his phone and shoves it into his pocket as he forces his face into a blank stare. 

“smooth,” jeonghan says, snickering from where he’s sprawled across the other side of joshua’s couch, no longer paying attention to the movie he begged to put on. “texting y/n?”

“no.” the lie comes out before he can even think about it. “watched a funny video.”

he hums, a soft smile on his lips. joshua knows he doesn’t believe him. “well, speaking of her, what’s going on with the two of you anyway?” 

“what?”

“what’s going on with—”

“no, i heard you,” he laughs. “i just meant, like… what do you mean? i’m helping her with siwoo. you know that.”

he narrows his eyes almost imperceptibly, but being his best friend, joshua is educated on all the nuances jeonghan’s face comes with.

“what?” he asks again. 

“do you like her?”

“yeah, she’s cool. kind of intense but cool. don’t you?”

jeonghan rolls his lips between his teeth like he’s trying not to smile too widely. he cocks an eyebrow at him. “i mean, do you like like her? do you fancy her?”

joshua scoffs. “what?”

it’s such a ridiculous question to ask someone who broke up with his girlfriend not even a full week ago. he thinks he was mostly telling the truth when he told you he had no heartache for him to expel from his body because both his heart and brain have been fairly quiet since that afternoon, but even then, he’s still too disoriented from how fast his life changed to think about liking anyone.

“it’s been days since mina and i broke up,” he reminds his best friend. “how could i already be interested in someone else?”

“well, mina didn’t wait to break up before she bec—”

“okay,” joshua holds a hand up to stop him from pointing out mina’s infidelity for the thousandth time since they found out. “mina and i aren’t the same. i can’t just jump into something else so quickly after. and it’s not even about mina.”

“oooh,” jeonghan sits up properly and crosses his legs, folding his hands over his knee. “explain.”

he shrugs. “i don’t really feel all that torn up about her as much as i am about how bad my instincts are.”

he frowns. “your instincts?”

“yeah, like… the signs were glaringly obvious,” joshua explains. “you knew she was a snake before all of this; you just didn’t know why. how come i didn’t see any of that? and,” he practically yells as he resituates himself on the couch so that he’s fully facing jeonghan, “how could i have thought i was going to possibly marry someone like that? i can’t even think about looking at another person until i wrap my mind around how i could have ever thought i was in love. what if i don’t even know what love is?”

“whoa, okay—”

“what if i end up with another mina?”

“—slow down,” jeonghan raises his hands like he’s trying to calm a bull. he mirrors his position, fully turning to him on the sofa now. “first of all, you know what love is. your judgment was just clouded for a little bit! you were lost in the joy of having a girlfriend that lasted a lot longer than the others. or you were being a weirdo and getting swallowed up by the plight of being in your 30s with no prospects for marriage, so you deluded yourself into thinking mina was it.”

joshua’s mouth pops open in shock a little at that. “i mean… that’s… plausible.”

“whatever it is—even if it is that she fooled you and you were blind to all the red flags, that doesn’t mean you don’t know what love is. how could you not know what love is when i’m your best friend? i love the shit out of you.”

he does crack a smile at this. he lets the reminder sink in and marinate in his brain. jeonghan could very much be right on the money with this one; after all, mina came at a time when joshua was starting to question if his love life was cursed. he was fresh out of therapy he sought out because his ex broke up with him for essentially being a robot, and he was eager to share more of himself with the next one—to love the next one harder than he had the rest. maybe he really was just forcing something to be that wasn’t meant to be.

“say it back.”

he laughs. “i love you too.” he sighs. “what else?”

“huh?”

“you said ‘first of all.’ i assume you have a second of all?”

jeonghan frowns for a moment before a light bulb goes off in his head. “yes! second of all, y/n is not mina.”

“wait, what?”

“you said, ‘what if i end up with another mina?’ y/n is not mina.”

“of course she’s not mina,” joshua says. that much is obvious; if mina is one end of the spectrum, you’re so far on the other end, it went all the way back around to mina. “but why are we even talking about y/n?”

“because it’s clear you like her,” he informs him, amused. 

“i don’t like her like that,” he disagrees confidently and somewhat exasperatedly. whenever jeonghan got ideas like this in his head, it became an inarguable truth to him regardless of what anyone else said. he knows if he doesn’t nip it in the bud, he’ll run with it for the rest of their lives. “she’s funny and nice and cool to hang out with, but she’s just a friend.”

“is that why you’re texting and calling her 24/7 when the rest of us feel like we’re pulling teeth trying to get you to respond to us?” jeonghan points out. joshua opens his mouth to refute his point, but he steamrolls right over his words. “is that why you’re extra mean to me whenever the three of us hang out?”

“we’ve only hung out all three of us twice. and what do you mean i’m mean to you?”

his best friend laughs openly in his face. “you’re really going to tell me you don’t notice the way you kick me or interrupt me or glare at me whenever so much as an ounce of y/n’s attention is on me instead of you?”

is that what his odd behavior at the ramen shop was about? he was trying to get on joshua’s nerves as some kind of experiment?

joshua narrows his eyes at him. “i do those things because you’re annoying me.”

“i’ve annoyed you our whole lives,” he shoots right back. “you’ve only started abusing me recently.”

“you’re so dramatic and wrong.”

“okay!” jeonghan agrees too easily. he stands up.

“where are you going?” joshua leans back to look up at him. “aren’t we getting dinner later?”

he hums in thought before quickly saying no. “rain check! i think i’m going to ask y/n if she wants to go out instead. i’ve been thinking about asking her out.”

joshua is not dumb. joshua is actually very smart. he graduated top of his class from an ivy league in the U.S., he has an MBA, and he—much like you were supposed to be before siwoo upended your life—became a director at his company before 30, still on track to become the youngest senior director.

joshua is smart and he knows what jeonghan is trying to do, but his dumb face frustratingly doesn’t get the memo. before he can even fully process the words, his eyebrows are pulling down, eyes sharpening into a glare, and jaw clenching so hard, he knows jeonghan can hear his teeth grinding.

“oh, really,” he deadpans. 

“yup!” he has the audacity to grin at joshua, eyes so full of mischief and mirth, he wants to kick him again and give him something to really complain about. “i’ll see myself out, don’t worry about getting up. bye joshuji! i’ll tell y/n you said hi!”

joshua scoffs as he watches him actually leave his apartment. and again, because various parts of his body seem to be missing signals from his brain that he doesn’t care, once the door clicks closed behind jeonghan, he throws himself back onto the couch mindlessly and hastily, struggling to retrieve his phone from his pocket. 

“why are these jeans so fucking tight,” he mumbles as his hand gets a little stuck. when he finally rips the phone out of his pocket, he briefly considers texting you but lands on calling you instead. what he’s going to say, he has no idea. 

“i was just about to call you,” you once again answer without greeting him first. 

“oh. hi,” he says, a little thankful for the non-greeting for once because it gives him some time to come up with an excuse for calling you other than he wanted to beat jeonghan to it. “why were you going to call?”

“because you were taking a long ass time to reply again,” you say simply. he snickers at your streak of impatience. “why are you calling?”

that wasn’t a lot of time to come up with an excuse at all, but joshua thinks “so we can make plans. i don’t feel like texting” is more than good enough. 

“oh yay,” you accept the fib easily. “well, as an unemployed idiot, i am free… let me see… oh yes, all day every day, but extra free on whatever day siwoo’s parents decide to hold me hostage at dinner with them.”

joshua laughs, slowly relaxing against the couch once more. “well, how about tonight?”

“ugh, unfortunately, they do not want to have dinner tonight, but yes, i am free.”

“how about we meet to discuss your top secret plan tonight and then hang again whenever your dinner with that nightmare family is?” he suggests. 

“joshua hong, my knight in shining armor,” you joke. his cheeks warm at the words. “sounds like a plan. can we meet at yours, though? i don’t want to reveal how crazy i am in a public setting. that seems too vulnerable. and i’d invite you over here but it’s probably best we don’t discuss these plans in the home of the man whose life i’d like to destroy.” joshua truly admires your way with sarcasm. 

“yeah, i’ll text you my address,” he agrees. and because he’s extra irate with jeonghan for thinking he can manipulate him into becoming some kind of jealous monster, he adds: “you can come over whenever—even now if you want. i’m free all day” just in case his best friend calls you too after you hang up.

“oh great!” you say. “siwoo is out all day doing lord knows who or what and i’m done brushing the toilet with everything he owns, so i can be on my way once you send it.”

joshua smiles. “perfect.”

he knows he literally just played right into jeonghan’s game, but somehow, he still feels like he won.

it doesn’t take you long at all to get to his apartment, and when you do, he’s a little stunned to open the door and find your arms completely empty—no files full of information only the CIA would have or fat manila envelopes stuffed with plans to eviscerate your exes like he expected. instead, you stand there, hands clasped in front of you with nothing but your purse hanging on your shoulder. 

“nice place,” you comment as you look around his apartment, unabashedly looking at the books on his shelves, art on the walls, even running your fingers across the strings of his guitar in the corner. “you play?”

he hums as he plops back down on his couch. “yeah, since i was young. do you?”

you laugh like he told a joke. “no. i’m not creatively gifted. it doesn’t really surprise me that you are, though.”

he’s about to ask you what makes you say that but you turn to him and clap your hands together once. 

“okay! let’s do this! we have a lot of material to get through tonight.” 

you throw your purse on the counter of the breakfast bar, make your way to the coffee table in front of him, take your phone out of your pocket, and sink to the floor. 

“let’s start with mina; i think she’ll be much easier since she doesn’t have a family-owned empire for us to topple.”

joshua’s eyes widen. “a family-owned what for us to what?”

you wave your hand like it’s an irrelevant detail. “we’ll get into it later,” you assure him as you get to wherever you were swiping to on your phone. you read a few lines and then nod, looking up at him. “so mina is a grade A gold-digger.”

joshua huffs, leaning his elbows on his knees and shaking his head. “i’m not saying i disagree because you have very solid evidence—good job, by the way—”

“thank you!” you chirp happily, smiling widely.

“—but i am not rich enough for anyone to try digging for gold around here.”

your smile disappears, expression flattening into a glare as you pointedly look around his apartment. he follows your gaze, and yes, he sees what you see: a very spacious apartment, all of the interests and hobbies he can afford to indulge in, and furniture he hired an interior designer to curate for him. he’ll give it to you—he’s definitely a little more than just comfortable, but he’s not gold-digging material. he never even gave mina much money; he just paid for dates, and he tells you as much.

“well, i did some digging, and that’s all she would’ve really needed you to pay for. little miss busy body had multiple streams of income,” you tell him, swiping on your phone until you’re showing him screenshots of instagram profiles. the first is siwoo’s. 

joshua would never admit it, but his curiosity got the best of him after overhearing your conversation with siwoo over the phone, and he found his profile after combing through the accounts you follow. the man’s face was tolerable enough, though not anything special to look at, in joshua’s opinion. he definitely thinks you can do a lot better. but for mina, though, he’s perfect. they’d make monstrous, ugly, little children.

“so here are my theories,” you announce. “correct me if you think i’m wrong with any of this since you know mina better.” he nods in agreement. “i think siwoo was target number one. she thought because he’s the heir to a sizable company, that he would be a good sugar daddy to land, but he was already taken by a smart, beautiful, kind, and insanely funny woman that turned out to be way too good for him.” he grins at you. “and because too many people have eyes on his finances—mommy, daddy… and me but only because i started snooping—”

joshua snorts, looking down at his lap when he thinks of the things you’re pushed to do when a man is making you feel insecure. it’s not fitting for you and he hates it.

“—he probably couldn’t give mina as much money as she was expecting. but she thought she’d keep him around in case there was ever an opportunity to go full-time with him,” you theorize. you turn your phone back to you, swiping to the next account. “minhyuk.”

joshua looks up and rolls his eyes when he sees an account full of shirtless photos of the man he met in mina’s apartment. “yeah. minhyuk.”

“he lives about 30 minutes from mina’s apartment in the opposite direction of siwoo, putting them about an hour away from each other,” you inform him.

“how the hell do you know that?”

you smile slyly. “i have my ways.” when he keeps staring at you, you roll your eyes. “his full name is on his instagram so i looked him up on linkedin and facebook, and the latter had photos of him moving into his apartment, okay? kids nowadays don’t care about internet safety; it’s not rocket science, shua. anyway,” you point back to the screenshot of his account, trying to redirect his attention, “that’s a healthy enough distance that she probably felt safe dating these two. on top of that, minhyuk is a pilot for korean airlines—did you know they can make up to 300 million won a year? absolutely rich enough to warrant mina’s attention.”

joshua has to admit that maybe he should reconsider what he thinks is rich versus what is comfortable if 300 million won was impressive to you.

“so mina snatches him up, knowing it won’t be much of a time commitment since he’ll constantly be flying all over the place,” you explain. “then, we have…” you swipe and sigh, shaking your head. “this guy.”

joshua narrows his eyes at the screen where he’s met with the account of a man he’s never seen before. he’s very tatted, with a kind face and a nice smile, and if his photos are any indication, he works out just as hard as minhyuk apparently does. 

“and who is this?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“boyfriend number three,” you say a little uncomfortably. “jeon jungkook.”

joshua grunts but says nothing, so you continue.

“before you ask how i found him, i went through all of the people mina follows on instagram, and—”

“her profile is private,” joshua points out.

“that’s what burner accounts are for,” you respond.

“she approved aggretsuko’s request to follow her…?”

you smile. “no, silly, i followed her from my believable burner. aggretsuko is more just for being able to blindly like and follow whatever and whoever i want to. i have a fake account featuring a fake person with a fake life and fake followers. she let that one follow her.”

“i should really stop questioning you. you’re obviously very capable at this whole revenge thing.”

“yeah, the sooner you do that, the faster our conversations will be. so i went through all the accounts she follows, which thankfully aren’t many because the bitch likes having a skinny mini following to follower ratio.” 

joshua shakes his head at your name-calling but fights off a smile anyway.

“i picked out every man—again, not many because she was probably mindful of them being able to see each other’s accounts—and i looked up their occupations on linkedin and if they made a good salary, they made the cut. from there, i just heavily cyberstalked them until i had no choice but to rule them out, or in jungkook’s case, until i found something incriminating.”

he doesn’t bother asking because he can see you get a kick out of explaining this to him.

“a photo of him and mina at a romantic dinner, dated a year and a half ago.”

“before me.”

you nod. “yup. jungkook is an investment banker, aka basically a bank, period, to mina. and seeing as the korean stock exchange is based in busan, he’s constantly flying between there and here for work—”

“making him another good candidate for a boyfriend since he wouldn’t demand a lot of her time.”

you nod and point at him. “exactly! which brings us to boyfriend #4.” you put your phone on the table and gesture at him. “you.”

he nods. “me.”

you tilt your head at him. “honestly, i couldn’t figure out what it was that made mina choose you.”

he scoffs. “wow.”

“no, don’t get me wrong,” you say, shaking your head calmly. “you’re a fucking catch—leagues better than any of these guys as far as i can tell.” he feels his cheeks get hot. “but that’s why i couldn’t figure it out. mina digs her claws into these rich, kinda vain, kinda power-hungry men, and then she found you, and you’re yes, rich, but also kind, sweet, caring, and all of the other good words in the dictionary.”

the heat spreading across his face grows exponentially warmer. 

“therefore, i concluded that mina chose you to be her real boyfriend.” 

joshua frowns. 

“doesn’t it make sense? she chooses guys who are either romantically unavailable or physically unavailable, so she still has all this time on her hands. the girl is evil but she’s also human so she craved an actual partner. she chose you.”

it sounds like it should be a compliment, but joshua feels even more repulsed by the idea that three just wasn’t enough for her. she really went out of her way to find him and torment him when she had more than enough to go around.

“this is the kind of greed the bible warned us about,” joshua mutters under his breath, mostly to himself. you hear it though, and the sound of your laugh immediately makes him smile back at you.

“yeah, mina is definitely a warning sign from god.”

“wish i listened.”

you give him a smile. “eh, where’s the fun in that?”

he knows you’re just trying to make him feel better but that you probably don’t believe that. he hasn’t forgotten what you were like the first night you met—how you cried and drank so miserably. still, you somehow found it in yourself to joke around like this. it makes him stop moping.

“okay,” he says, nodding and leaning forward with renewed vigor. “so she’s really good at time management. now what?”

you laugh. “she doesn’t need to be good at time management because i learned that mina doesn’t even fucking work, bro.”

the information is jarring enough that he doesn’t fully register what you call him. “what?”

“i called the company you mentioned her working for and pretended to be a recruiter calling for a reference, and they said no one by that name has ever worked there,” you report. “i think she’s making her living off her boyfriends. which is why i said that she only needed you to pay for dates. the others are funding her whole life.”

“oh my god, i hate her,” he says plainly as he thinks of all the “overtime” she had to clock in and the “business trips” she went on and the never-ending complaints about a boss that didn’t even exist. “what kind of fucking sociopath…”

you nod solemnly. “it at least makes our job easier; all we have to do is cut her from her money source.”

“the boyfriends.”

you hum affirmatively. “you and minhyuk are already done, so we just need to get siwoo and jungkook to cut her off. but now that she’s suddenly out two streams of income, i’m sure she’ll be really laying it on thick with those two to make up for it. we’ll have to be a bit creative.”

the craziest, most intrusive thought enters joshua’s head and in the next second, it’s exiting his mouth. “mingyu returns this weekend.”

you raise an eyebrow at the sudden change of topic but you don’t comment on it. “mingyu, the man you kept accusing me of being when i first messaged you?” you ask, sneering at the mere mention of his name. “that mingyu?”

he nods. “yup. there’s always been three of us: me, jeonghan, mingyu. he’s been traveling and he comes back in a few days.”

“okay… and what exactly does that have to do with ruining mina’s life?”

joshua grins, feeling excitement bubbling in his stomach. “kim mingyu, y/n, is rich. and not just comfortable—actually rich. as in rich enough for mina to drop all her boyfriends and quit scouting rich guys for the rest of her life if she had reason to think he was willing to fully support her.”

“does she not know what one of your best friends looks like…?” you question, making the most judgmental face joshua thinks he’s ever seen. he snickers.

“nope,” he says, popping the p. “mingyu’s been gone for the entirety of our relationship, traveling all over the place, so she never met him and his social media presence is equivalent to your aggretsuko account—for looking, not posting. all he does online is try to prank me.” he laughs more fully now, shaking his head at how perfect it is. “he’s a bored trust fund baby who knows how to act. he’s going to love doing this.”

your mouth drops open in awe, staying there for several seconds before you realize you haven’t said anything. “well,” you mutter, a smile very slowly beginning to spread across your face, “if you say he’s rich, then he must be absolutely rolling in it. and if he’s rolling in it—”

“then mina’s going to take the bait.”

you grin widely now, leaning forward onto the coffee table and shaking your head. “you, joshua hong, are so much more diabolical than you let on.”

he smirks. “learning from the best.”

“oh, she is so over.”

a/n: thanks for your patience! i'm afraid i will require more of it as i continue getting used to my new schedule LOL (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

if you’d like to be added to the tag list, comment here or send me an ask! if you requested to be on the list but weren’t tagged in this post or the reblog, it’s bc you don’t have an age indicator on your page. pls add that (and lmk that you did) if you want to be tagged next time.

part three teaser

"i really lost myself in this, y'know?" you whisper, head tilting up at the sky like maybe you'll find whatever it is you think you lost up there in the never-ending black. 

joshua follows your gaze. “i don’t think you lost anything. i think it’s all still there.”

“how would you know? you didn’t know who i was before siwoo changed every aspect of me and my life,” you remind him like he needs to be reminded at all. every day, he found himself thinking about what life would be like if he had met you before siwoo had. he doesn’t need the reminder.

“i know because there’s no way any part of you that’s here with me right now is because of siwoo,” he tells you confidently. “you’re so… funny and smart and confident and reliable and cool. and you want me to believe any of that is because of siwoo?”

that gets him a small smile. “careful or i’ll start to think you have a favorable opinion of me.”

he snorts. “if you don’t already think that, i’m probably not being a good enough friend.”

joshua looks down when you press your shoulder against his. the breeze blows strands of hair into your face, and he suppresses the desire to tuck them behind your ear. “you’re a great friend. probably the greatest i’ve made in my adult life.”

he nods. “you too. all of you—every version of you before, during, and after siwoo. i like them all. even the ones i never got to meet."

"you're so..." you start but never finish.

"hmm?"

"nothing," you say. "thanks."

"for?"

"saying all of those nice things."

"pfft, don't get too big-headed about it," he says, trying to play it cool. you smile. "i just can't stand the idea that you think any part of who you are today is due to an idiot like siwoo."

you sigh and rest your head against his shoulder. he has to actively try to keep his body relaxed when you do. “did you know that the name siwoo means divine intervention?”

joshua shakes his head. “i didn’t.”

“divine intervention,” you repeat, scoffing this time. “like, yeah. he definitely intervened and derailed my whole life, that’s for sure. i have no idea where the fuck ‘divine’ comes from, though.”

“are you sure you didn’t misread it and it’s actually disturbing intervention?”

you laugh and slap his arm softly. “what does joshua mean?” you ask after a few moments of silence.

“uh,” he squints as he tries to remember what his mom told him, “salvation, i think.”

you suddenly lift your head up off his shoulder and look at him, eyes narrowing a little as you very closely and openly study his face. he feels self-conscious, a feeling he seems to have gotten used to around you.

“salvation…” it sounds like you’re testing the word on your tongue. you scan his face for something he doesn’t have the composure to ask about right now. no, his composure is nowhere to be found as your gaze rakes every centimeter of every feature of his face, taking your time like you're simultaneously trying to understand him and committing him to memory. “huh" is all you say when you're done.

“what?” he asks quietly, resisting the urge to pass a hand over his face in case there’s something on it. 

“nothing,” you say, face relaxing one again. you smile a little, and even with the lessened intensity, your stare is starting to feel like it’s burning a hole right through him. “it’s just… fitting. joshua. salvation.”

and why exactly would that be fitting?

tag list: @coupsma @tokitosun @nothingbutadeadesceane @ateez-atiny380 @minghaofied @reiofsuns2001 @turtash @https-seishu @gaslysainz @dawn-iscozy @mrsjohnnysuh @sunnysidesins @thepoopdokyeomtouched @faizaa09 @hearts4itoshi @iamdkayyyyy @randojeon @iwannakisspoutycheol @youre-on-your-ownkid @justanotherkpopstanlol @sanaxo-o @seokqt @tjtales @ilouvwonwoo @littlemisshyperfixation @mxelatrix-x @papichulomacy @o-schist @sumzysworld @alyssa19123456

JOIN MY PERMANENT TAG LIST HERE

Wonwoo's POV I always thought SEVENTH HEAVEN was loud enough without outside interference.

People see the highlight reels and think we’re this cool, clean, icy “top 1 in the league” machine. What they don’t see is Seungkwan screaming at Mingyu because he missed one peel (“YOU LET ME DIE LIKE A FARMING KRUG, YOU MENACE”), Vernon quietly typing notes about ward timers like some vision-obsessed librarian, Mingyu throwing himself at me every time his ganks work, and Seungcheol conducting all of us like we’re his personal orchestra and he’s both the conductor and the guy who built the concert hall.

We were chaos. Controlled, competitive chaos.

And then Y/N entered our orbit and the volume dial didn’t just go up.

It snapped clean off.

The first time I ever heard her say my name, she didn’t know I was listening.

We were in the team lounge at 1 AM, which is pro player for “we’re tired, stubborn, and pretending we don’t have scrims in the morning.”

I was eating instant noodles, trying not to think about the last VOD we watched. Seungkwan was on the couch, yelling at a random montage.

“That is NOT a good trade,” he shouted at the TV. “WHO EDITED THIS? JAIL. LIFE SENTENCE. THROW THE WHOLE BOT LANE AWAY.”

Vernon rolled over with the remote. “Okay, okay, let’s watch something that doesn’t raise your blood pressure.”

He flicked through channels, then opened YouTube on the console.

That thumbnail was already familiar to me.

Bright colors. A stylized League map behind her. Her logo in the corner.

Hextech Hot Takes w/ Y/N “THIS DRAFT HURT MY SOUL (LITERALLY)”

My chest did a weird little stutter.

“AYO, CLICK THAT,” Seungkwan demanded, jabbing a finger at the screen. “MOTHER.”

Vernon clicked.

She appeared on the screen, headset on, hair pulled into a messy bun, eyeliner sharp enough to be classified as a weapon. In the background was her streaming setup: LED lights, a floating “DON’T FF AT 15” sign, shelves crammed with champ figurines and a giant stuffed poro in the corner.

“Okay,” she said, grinning at the camera, eyes bright. “We need to talk about this draft, because I don’t know what the coach was smoking, but it wasn’t vision control.”

Her chat flew past on the side.

Mingyu perked up from the floor, half-buried in a beanbag. “OH, THIS ONE,” he said. “She roasted the hell out of that team for locking four melee tops.”

“She did what?” Seungkwan asked, instantly invested, already sitting up.

“Four melee tops,” Vernon confirmed. “In pro play.”

“Queue the funeral,” someone muttered. Might’ve been me.

Footsteps padded in and Seungcheol joined us, steaming mug in one hand. “Who are we flaming?” he asked.

“Not us,” Vernon said.

“Sadly,” Seungkwan added, clutching a pillow.

I tried not to look too eager. Tried and failed.

She broke down the game, frame by frame. Pulled up drafts, painted over the screen with her words.

“Here’s the thing,” she said, circling champions with her cursor. “Aggressive drafts are hot. We love to see it. But this is not aggression, this is self-harm with extra steps.”

The team cackled.

I watched her more than the game. The way her mouth curled when she found a particularly bad decision. The way her eyes sharpened when she talked about vision. The way she kept dragging the analysis back to players’ mental and burnout like it mattered more than views.

And then the screen switched.

A screenshot of SEVENTH HEAVEN appeared.

She paused the frame, zoomed in.

On me.

My heart did something stupid.

“This is Jeon Wonwoo,” she said, tone shifting into that dangerous blend of fond and forensic. “Mid laner for SEVENTH HEAVEN. Mechanically cracked. Probably knows every jungle path in this region by heart. Emotionally? I’ve seen turrets with clearer expressions. If he ever smiles on stage, I’ll host a charity stream.”

Seungkwan screamed. Actually screamed.

“NO WAY SHE SAID THAT—PLAY IT AGAIN, PLAY IT AGAIN, I’M CLIPPING THIS IN MY SOUL.”

Mingyu practically folded in half. “BRO, SHE READ YOUR SOUL AND YOUR TAX RECORDS.”

Vernon side-eyed me. “…you are kind of stiff sometimes.”

I slurped noodles and pretended my ears weren’t burning. Judging by how hot they felt, I was failing.

Y/N kept talking.

Her voice was warm, but it never softened the truth.

“SEVENTH HEAVEN has insane potential,” she said. “Especially their mid. When he commits, he looks unstoppable. But if he freezes, even for a second, everything collapses around him. He needs to stop second-guessing his reads in mid-game.”

Seungkwan gasped like she’d just leaked state secrets. “NOT HER READING YOUR ANXIETY ON MAIN.”

“Shut up,” I muttered.

“She’s not wrong,” Seungcheol murmured, taking a sip of tea.

I watched myself on screen, frozen mid-replay, and I had that weird, dizzy feeling of being seen and dissected and… understood, all at once.

It felt invasive. It felt accurate. It felt… good.

Which was annoying.

I remembered that game: the slight hesitation at a dragon fight, the way I didn’t take a flank I knew was right because I was too busy calculating what would happen if I was wrong.

Apparently, she caught that in one VOD.

“She’s kind of terrifying,” Mingyu said, sounding impressed.

“She’s hot,” Seungkwan corrected. “Terrifyingly hot. Like, respectfully-your-honor hot.”

“Please stop talking,” I said.

They didn’t.

Later that night, lying awake with my phone dimmed, I searched her channel, found the video, and watched it again.

And again.

I told myself it was for “review.”

I was lying.

Two months later, I knew too much about her.

Not personal things. Not gossip.

The important things.

Her channel schedule. Her analysis style. How she’d call a coach “bold” and somehow make it sound like both an insult and a compliment. How she defended rookies from chat pileups. How she always ended her videos with:

“Remember: draft wins games, wards save lives. Go drink water.”

Every time SEVENTH HEAVEN played a big match, I checked if she covered it.

Not for the clout.

For the review.

For the way she could take my messiest mid-game and say something like, “He panicked. That’s not bad mechanics, that’s fear.” And somehow, instead of feeling exposed, I felt… relieved. Like someone had given the mess in my head a name.

I didn’t know her.

But I felt like she knew me a little.

Which is why, when I saw her in person for the first time at a tiny gaming café, my brain completely lagged.

We’d gone there on an off-day.

The café was cramped, lit by cheap neon airing out its last few lumens. The chairs wobbled. The PCs were weirdly powerful for such a small place. The kind of place you only find if someone tells you about it in a Discord server.

Mingyu insisted they had the “best instant ramyun in the city.”

He might’ve been right.

We were mid-cup—me, Mingyu, Vernon—when the bell over the door rang.

She walked in.

No headset, no overlays, no chat exploding on the side.

Just a hoodie, jeans, laptop bag slung over one shoulder. Hair down this time, curling a bit at the ends. She looked softer and somehow more dangerous without the armor of production.

She stepped up to the counter, ordered an iced americano, thanked the barista with a small smile that hit me harder than it had any right to, and scanned the room.

Her eyes lingered for a second on the row of PCs where we sat. I ducked my head instinctively, like an idiot, even though there was no way she’d pick me out from this distance.

“Is that…?” Mingyu whispered.

“Yes,” I muttered.

“That’s Y/N,” he hissed, eyes wide. “Bro. Say hi.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Because you already watch her videos at 2 AM. Because she already peeled a layer off your brain in a ten-minute analysis. Because if she looks at you in person the way she looks at drafts, she’ll see right through you.

“Because no,” I said.

“That’s not a reason,” he protested.

“It’s my reason.”

Vernon glanced between us and then at her. “She looks smaller in person,” he observed. “Still scary though.”

“Sexy scary,” Seungkwan’s voice popped in from behind us; he’d just returned from the counter with bread. “Like she’s going to ruin your draft and then your life.”

“That’s enough out of you,” I muttered.

She chose a table by the window. Sat down. Opened her laptop. Pulled out a tiny notebook, full of scribbles and little color-coded tabs.

I watched her flip to a page with “META – SUPPORT BUFFS?” written in too-neat handwriting and a tiny doodle of a ward in the corner.

“Bro, you’re staring,” Seungkwan said around a mouthful of bread. “Do you want me to go ask for her autograph? Or her hand in marriage? I can do either.”

“Play your game,” I said.

“I am playing,” he replied. “It’s called ‘are you going to talk to your YouTube crush or not.’”

I queued a game. And another. And another.

Every time I told myself, after this one, I’d get up, walk over, and say something normal, like, “Hi, I like your breakdown on jungle pathing,” and not something insane, like, “You live rent-free in my VOD review mind palace.”

Every time I ended a game, she frowned a little at something on her screen, bit the end of her pen, scribbled another note. Her concentration was so complete it felt like a shield. I didn’t want to break it.

So I stayed put.

She packed up eventually. Slid her laptop back into her bag. Slipped her notebook into the side pocket. Wrapped her fingers around her iced americano, now mostly melted.

The café door chimed behind her.

I stared at the door for a full minute.

“Wow,” Seungkwan said finally. “We just witnessed a love story almost start and then not. Tragic. Ten out of ten, would cry again.”

“Do you ever shut up?” I asked.

“No,” he said cheerfully. “Especially not when my mid laner is in emotional denial.”

Later that night, Mingyu posted some blurry story of our café outing on Instagram. In one frame, way in the back, barely visible, there she was at the window.

Some fan commented:

“wait, is that Y/N in the bg??? HELLO????”

I saw it.

I turned my phone face down.

Fast forward to the pre-finals press conference.

The air in the room is heavy with lights and bad perfume. There’s a stage at the front, branded backdrop behind the table, rows of chairs for reporters and analysts and camera operators. Microphones everywhere. Noise everywhere.

We’re seated in a line.

Seungcheol in the middle: perfect posture, steady gaze, captain aura turned to 11. To his right, Seungkwan and Vernon: bot lane chaos incarnate. To his left, Mingyu and me: jungle and mid, the so-called “brain” of SEVENTH HEAVEN, which is terrifying when you think about how often our brains decide to do stupid things.

The host runs through the usual questions.

“How do you feel about finals?” “What does SEVENTH HEAVEN mean to you?” “Are you preparing anything special against Silver Aegis?”

We answer on autopilot. I’ve done enough of these that my mouth moves while my mind drifts.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I spot her.

Y/N.

Press badge hanging from her neck. Tablet in one hand, stylus in the other. Glasses today. Simple ponytail, a few strands falling loose around her face. No LED lights, no animated overlays, but she still looks like she’s in 1080p when the rest of the room is stuck in 480.

She looks… serious. More serious than she does on stream. The easy banter is gone; in its place is a sharp, focused stillness.

She taps something on her tablet, glances up, assesses us like we’re another draft she’s about to tear apart or defend to the death, depending on how stupid we are.

My heart does that weird, too-fast thing again.

Next to me, Seungkwan follows my line of sight. I can feel his grin without even looking.

“Ohhh,” he hums under his breath. “Mother has arrived.”

“Don’t call her that,” I mutter.

He ignores me. “You’re staring,” he whispers. “Should I wave? I’ll wave.”

“Don’t—”

He waves. Big, stupid, enthusiastic.

To my horror, she sees it. She raises a brow, then gives a small, polite nod. Her gaze flickers past him. Lingers on me for half a second longer than it needs to.

My pulse spikes.

She looks back down at her tablet.

“And we’re blushing,” Seungkwan sings quietly. “Ladies and gentlemen, we got him.”

“Focus,” Seungcheol says mildly, eyes still on the reporters.

I drag my attention back to the front.

Then there’s him.

Her ex.

Manager of Silver Aegis, king of inflated self-image. Hair too slick, smile too wide, voice too loud. He’s laughing with someone near the back, gesturing theatrically with his hands like he’s narrating a movie where he’s the main character and the plot.

He’s positioned himself just close enough to her that he can pretend any interaction is “coincidental.”

My jaw tightens.

The host asks something about “biased coverage in the scene.”

“Some fans feel that certain analysts are harsher on specific orgs,” a reporter says. “Any thoughts on that?”

Someone’s gaze flickers briefly to Y/N.

Of course it does.

Seungcheol keeps his tone neutral. “Analysts are free to do their jobs. We focus on ours.”

Textbook answer. Good captain. Nothing to clip out of context.

We get through the rest.

We stand, bow, exit the stage. The lights feel too bright; the air feels too thick.

That’s when I hear it.

“She’s still obsessed with me,” he says to a nearby journalist, intentionally too loud. “You can hear it in the way she talks about my team. It’s sad, honestly.”

My jaw tightens so hard it hurts.

Across the room, Y/N’s back goes a fraction straighter. Her shoulders rise and fall once, controlled.

She doesn’t turn toward him.

She keeps typing.

“She’s really living in his head rent-free, huh,” Vernon mutters beside me.

“Yeah, but he’s trying to convince everyone it’s the other way around,” Seungkwan says. “Delulu is the solulu, I guess.”

“Please never say that again,” I say.

When the press conference clears out, we’re filing toward the side exit in a loose line when I see him angle his body and step right into her path in the hallway.

She stops short, forced to look up at him.

“Doing another ‘Aegis is trash’ segment?” he asks smoothly. “You know, people are starting to notice how bitter you sound.”

She looks at him like he’s a bug she can’t believe she still has to deal with.

“I literally praised your early game yesterday,” she says calmly. “I flamed your Baron call because it was a grief. That’s not bitterness. That’s accuracy.”

He laughs. Too loud. Fake.

“Oh, come on. You’re so sensi—”

His hand lifts like he might touch her arm.

I move.

So does the rest of SEVENTH HEAVEN.

Seungcheol gets there first—rock-solid, expression cool, not even bothering with words yet. He doesn’t have to. He stands just close enough that the manager would have to physically acknowledge him—physically step around our captain—to keep going. A wall without saying “I’m a wall.”

Mingyu drifts to Y/N’s other side, hands in pockets, smile gone. Vernon hangs back a bit, but his eyes are ice.

Seungkwan stands just behind them, arms crossed, jaw clenched, expression somewhere between “I will tweet about this” and “I will commit arson.”

Y/N doesn’t step back.

She steps closer.

“Touch me,” she says quietly, but every syllable lands like a hammer. “Go ahead. I dare you. Then my next upload won’t be analysis—it’ll be evidence.”

His hand freezes mid-air.

Her expression doesn’t change.

She tilts her head, gives him a smile so bright it’s almost cruel. “Tell your friends I love the drama if you want,” she says. “But stop using my name for views. It’s embarrassing.”

She turns.

Walks away.

Doesn’t look back.

The hallway temperature drops.

Seungkwan exhales like he’s seen God. “Queen,” he whispers. “Absolute queen behavior. That’s my mid laner-in-law right there.”

“Stop,” I say automatically.

“I will not stop,” he says. “If you don’t marry her, I’m unsubscribing from our own team channel.”

“I run the YouTube backend, I can actually see that,” Vernon adds, deadpan.

“I’ll unsubscribe twice,” Seungkwan insists.

“I’m in love,” Mingyu mutters, staring after her.

I look at him sharply.

“WITH HER BRAVERY,” he adds quickly. “Respectfully. Very respectfully.”

We start walking again.

I glance down the hall where she disappeared. My body is still buzzing from the way she said, “It’s embarrassing,” like it was the final nail in a coffin he’d built for himself.

“Everything okay?” Seungcheol asks quietly, catching my look.

“Yes,” I say.

No, I think.

Two days later, she’s buried in work and slander.

Not “busy.” Not “booked and blessed.”

Buried.

Livestream clips. Tweets. Reddit threads twisting her analysis into “emotional bias.” Random dudes with anime icons calling her obsessed. Thinkpieces by people who have clearly never watched an entire Hextech Hot Takes episode, much less the ones where she’s bent over backwards to be fair to teams that don’t deserve it.

Her ex is clearly feeding it. Little “sources say” mentions, vague subtweets, liking posts that paint her as “unhinged” and “still hung up.”

I see it all. I’d like to uninstall the internet.

I find her at a folding table in a quiet backstage corner, tucked behind a stack of promo boxes and a dying plant. There’s a cluster of half-empty coffee cups around her like a ritual circle. Notes spread everywhere. Her laptop is open with emails, her tablet shows a half-finished script, and her phone face-down keeps buzzing every thirty seconds.

“What’s the crisis?” I ask, gripping a spare chair and dragging it over.

She doesn’t look up. “Org wants a ‘balanced’ segment,” she says, air-quoting with one hand without pausing her typing. “Silver Aegis doesn’t want me covering them at all. My subscribers are fighting each other in the comments. And a fourteen-year-old in my DMs told me I’m ‘ruining esports.’ You know. Thursday.”

Her tone is flippant. Her shoulders are tight.

I grip the back of the empty chair opposite hers a little harder. “You know it’s all bullshit, right?”

“I know,” she sighs, eyes still on the screen. “Knowing doesn’t make it less loud.”

Her voice dips on that last word.

Loud.

I don’t think she’s just talking about notifications.

I stare at her for a moment. At the tightness in her jaw. The faint shadows under her eyes. The way her leg’s bouncing under the table, restless, like she’s holding herself together by motion alone.

Whatever filter usually exists in my brain fails.

“I could help,” I say.

She finally looks up, eyes wary and curious. “Help how?” she says. “Are you going to become my emotional support jungler?”

“No.”

“Hack the algorithm?”

“No.”

“1v1 my ex?”

“Yes,” I start, already picturing it, then abort. “No. I mean. Don’t tempt me.”

Her mouth quirks, some of the tension in her face easing for the first time today.

“Careful,” she says. “He’d probably leak your DMs and call it ‘evidence.’”

“I don’t DM clowns,” I mutter. “I’m talking about helping the narrative.”

She raises both brows. “Go on, mid king.”

I take a breath. My heart does an unnecessary little crit in my chest.

“If we were… publicly together,” I say, choosing each word like it’s a skillshot, “people would stop buying the narrative that you’re still thinking about him.”

Silence.

She blinks once. Twice.

Then she laughs.

Actually laughs. A short, sharp burst that startles both of us, her shoulders shaking slightly as she drops her head for a second.

“Wonwoo,” she says, wiping the corner of her eye with her thumb. “You want to pretend-date me to fix PR?”

When she says it out loud, it sounds incredibly stupid.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “When you say it out loud, it sounds stupid.”

“That’s because it is stupid,” she says.

“I know.”

There’s a beat where I can feel the idea hovering between us like a dangerous buff.

Her gaze turns thoughtful. She leans back, studying my face like she’s trying to see if I’ll flinch.

“You’d do that?” she asks. “Knowing how your fans are? Knowing SEVENTH HEAVEN’s brand? Knowing my channel is literally built on me talking shit about drafts for money?”

“Yes,” I say. Too fast. Too sure.

Her eyes search my face. I hold still.

“You’d deal with our comments section?”

“I already do,” I say. “I see everything people tag us in.”

She snorts softly. “Condolences.”

“You’d let me flame you if you grief lane?” she pushes.

“You already do that too,” I say. “You called my Azir pick ‘an act of spiritual warfare’ last split.”

She huffs a laugh. “It was.”

We look at each other.

Both of us know this is insane.

Both of us also know it might work.

“Ground rules,” she says finally, sitting up straighter, business mode snapping into place. “No real feelings. Public-facing only. We control the narrative; they react to us. The second it stops being useful or comfortable, we stop.”

There’s a weird pinch in my chest at “no real feelings.”

I ignore it. Like an idiot.

“Obviously,” I say.

We shake on it.

Her hand is warm. Steady. Like she’s shaking on a contract she intends to honor, not a joke.

I walk away telling myself it’s just a strategy patch. A meta adjustment. A tool.

Deep down, something knows I’m lying.

The fake dating meta drops Week 1.

We take one backstage picture. One.

It’s after a scrim. Everyone’s half-dead, hair damp, jerseys wrinkled. I’m mid-sip from a water bottle, tilting it back. Y/N’s next to me, half-laughing at something Mingyu said off-frame, body angled slightly toward me like we’re in our own little pocket of the hallway.

She snaps it, barely looks at it, and posts it to her story.

Caption:

“Carried by my mid laner. Again.”

Tagged: @7th_wonwoo

My phone buzzes once. Twice. Then becomes a grenade.

I don’t even have to look at the team to know what’s happening.

“YAAAAAAAAH!” Seungkwan screams from across the room, waving his phone over his head like it’s on fire. “YOU’RE DONE. IT’S OVER FOR YOU. RIP MID KING. WE HAD A GOOD RUN.”

Mingyu barrels into me full force, nearly knocking the bottle from my hand. He grabs my shoulders and shakes me like a malfunctioning monitor. “CAN I BE YOUR FLOWER BOY AT THE WEDDING? I HAVE THE TALENT. I HAVE THE RANGE.”

Vernon glances up from his screen, calm as ever. “You’re going to get clipped in every compilation for the next decade,” he says. “Try not to look constipated.”

From the corner, Seungcheol: “TF is this.”

Our manager appears at the door, eyes wide. “Why is our engagement rate spiking—”

I want to sink into the floor.

Instead, I unlock my phone, open her story, double-tap it, and repost with one simple caption:

“Analyst diff.”

If I’m going down, I’m going down clean.

The comments go feral within minutes.

“PARENTS?????” “THIS IS MY NEW FAVORITE SHIP I DON’T CARE IF IT’S REAL OR NOT.” “NO ONE TALK TO ME I’M BUSY SOBBING OVER THIS.” “HE SMILED. Y/N WE EATING GOOD TONIGHT.”

They’re not wrong. I am smiling a little. Which is rude of my face.

In the corner of the room, I hear furious tapping.

“Group chat time,” Seungkwan mutters. “This is emergency content.”

He makes a new GC right in front of me. I can see the name over his shoulder.

[GC: WONWOO & HIS WIFE (NO INPUT FROM HIM)]

Members: – Seungkwan – Mingyu – Vernon – Seungcheol (added against his will)

He starts spamming screenshots of the story and my repost.

Seungkwan: MID KING IS A LOVER BOY CONFIRMED Mingyu: I CALLED IT. ENERGY NEVER LIES Vernon: ship name ideas? Seungkwan: WONY/N. Y/NWOO. I’M WORKSHOPPING IT Seungcheol: Please focus Seungkwan: FOCUS ON THE FACT THAT OUR MID HAS A GIRLFRIEND

I mute the chat. They add me back in. I mute it again.

We do a short interview for a regional channel later.

The host smiles too wide. “So, fans are wondering—” he says, turning the mic toward us, “are you two… actually dating?”

Y/N crosses one leg over the other and smiles sweetly, like she’s about to ruin someone on air.

“Define dating,” she says.

I choke on my own breath.

She continues smoothly. “We spend time together,” she says. “We talk about drafts. He listens when I say his mid-game is scuffed. That’s commitment.”

The host laughs awkwardly. “So… you’re… official?”

She leans just a bit closer to my shoulder. I feel the warmth of her, the faint brush of her sleeve against my arm. “We’re in the same patch,” she says. “That’s all you’re getting from me.”

Back at the base, the segment gets clipped, edited, put to dramatic music and heart emojis. SEVENTH HEAVEN’s social media manager is one meltdown away from a nervous breakdown. Our metrics skyrocket.

I catch her watching the clip later, smirking at the comments.

“You’re trending,” I say.

“We’re trending,” she corrects. “Congratulations, boyfriend.”

My brain error codes for a full three seconds at the word.

Later, she releases a thirty-minute video titled:

“TEACHING MY ‘BOYFRIEND’ HOW TO EXPRESS HUMAN EMOTION (NO, SERIOUSLY)”

The thumbnail is me looking confused while she points at a whiteboard that says:

“FEELINGS ≠ FF @15”

She plays old interviews of me.

“There,” she says, pausing one, zooming in on my deadpan expression. “That’s a man who just answered a perfectly normal question like someone asked him to confess tax fraud.”

Her chat spams laughing emotes, crying emotes, hearts.

She adds, “In his defense, he’s very good at League and very bad at eye contact. We’re working on it.”

I watch the video.

I should be embarrassed.

Instead, my stupid heart feels… lighter.

Like the weight of being “MVP,” “stone-faced mid king,” “emotionless robot” has been turned into a bit we’re both in on, instead of a cage I’m stuck in.

Week 2, she starts coming to scrims.

“For content,” she tells Seungcheol.

“For intel,” she tells me with a smirk.

“For drama,” Seungkwan whispers loudly.

She sits behind us with her tablet and a notebook, jotting down timestamps and notes. Sometimes she mutters to herself. Sometimes she mutters about us to herself.

“The way you said ‘mutters’ is hurtful,” she comments once without looking up.

I’m not sure if she read my face or my soul.

The first time she speaks up during review, we’re watching one of our messier games. One of those scrims where we win, but ugly.

“Pause,” she says from behind me.

Our analyst hits spacebar immediately. He’s as curious as we are now; no one ignores a Y/N “pause.”

She walks up, stands beside me, close enough that I can feel the brush of her hoodie against my arm, and points at the minimap. Her perfume is faint—vanilla, something warm.

“You had priority mid and bot,” she says, “but you drifted toward river, hesitated, then backed off. Why?”

I follow her finger on the screen.

“If I hard-commit, their jungler can flash in from fog,” I say. “I didn’t have vision on top river, and TP advantage was theirs. We could’ve gotten collapsed on and lost the whole fight.”

“So you backed for vision?”

“I backed because the risk wasn’t worth the reward yet,” I say. “Renekton had item spike. If we throw there, we lose tempo and they get dragon for free.”

She studies the screen. Then me.

“The casters said you played scared there,” she says. “They were wrong. You played patient. You’re not a coin-flip mid.”

I blink.

Behind us, Seungkwan makes a soft offended sound. “AND WHAT ABOUT ME—”

“You’re a casino, you don’t get to talk,” she says, without looking at him.

He gasps theatrically. “I’M SENDING THAT TO MY THERAPIST.”

Everyone laughs.

The review moves on. I try to pay attention, but part of my mind replays one line on a loop:

“You’re not a coin-flip mid.”

It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.

It does anyway.

Later, in the hallway, I hear her ex talking to another manager.

“I mean, of course she’d hype him,” he scoffs. “She’s clinging to the ‘genius mid’ narrative to stay relevant. She always attaches herself to someone.”

I feel my hands curl into fists.

I don’t confront him.

Yet.

But the jealousy is a hot, unpleasant knot in my chest. Not because I think she likes him.

Because he still dares to talk about her like that. And because I hate that part of her career is constantly cleaning up after his ego.

The almost-kiss happens at the end of Week 2.

Everyone else has gone home. The building is quiet in that echoing, late-night way where you can hear your own thoughts too clearly.

We stay back to review one more VOD because I asked, and she said yes too quickly.

She’s beside me, both of us standing in front of the projected screen, the room lit only by the bluish light from the replay. It’s one of our better games this time, but she pauses at a mid-game fight anyway.

“Here,” she says. “This moment. You know you’re stronger. You know you win if you go in. You hesitate anyway.”

I squint at my tiny champion on the screen. Hesitating. Stutter-stepping around the edge of a fight I could have blown open.

“I was tracking flank TP,” I say. “If I go too early and they collapse, we lose.”

“You were also tracking Seungkwan’s position,” she says. “You hesitated because you were waiting to see if he survived. You always hesitate when you’re protecting someone.”

I go silent.

She glances up at me, eyes reflecting map colors. Closer than I realized. Little pixels of blue and purple flicker over her skin.

“It’s not a bad thing,” she says, softer now. “It just means you care.”

My throat feels tight.

The projector hums.

My pulse feels louder than the fan.

Then the timer on the projector hits whatever mark it was set to and shuts off with an audible click.

The room is plunged into dim dark.

We’re still standing close.

I can just barely see her silhouette, the faint outline of her face, the glimmer of her glasses catching the exit sign’s glow. Her perfume is subtle but suddenly it’s the only thing I can smell.

“Guess that’s our cue,” she says quietly.

She doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

My brain runs calculations I don’t have names for.

Risk vs reward. Game vs everything else.

Do I step back? Turn on the projector? Say goodnight?

Or do I lean in?

“Do you want the lights back on?” I ask, voice lower than I expect.

“Do you?” she echoes.

I don’t.

I turn slightly, facing her fully. She tilts her head up in the dark, like she’s meeting me halfway already.

The air between us feels thin.

I lean in.

She leans in too.

Her breath brushes my lips.

Her hand moves, reaching, fingers just barely brushing my wrist in a touch so light it makes my skin spark—

The door slams open.

“Yo, I brought ra—”

Vernon stops dead.

He stands there in the doorway with two convenience-store ramen cups and the haunted look of a man who opened the wrong door in a horror game.

We freeze.

He freezes.

The silence is so heavy I can hear the boiling broth in those cups.

Vernon makes the slowest, most respectful retreat I’ve ever seen, backing out and closing the door as gently as he can like if he moves too fast, reality will notice.

Silence crashes back down.

My face is on fire.

Hers is a shadow, but I can hear the way her breath catches, then steadies.

“We should… review pathing tomorrow,” she says, voice very carefully neutral, like the last thirty seconds didn’t just detonate both our nervous systems.

“Yeah.”

We leave together.

We don’t talk about it.

But when I get home and check the team GC, there’s one new message from Vernon:

Vernon: I almost died tonight

No context.

I throw my phone on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

I think about it constantly.

Week 3 is when everything fractures.

Her ex escalates. Of course he does.

He files a formal complaint to the league, saying she’s “too emotionally involved” to cover our matches and his fairly. Claims she’s “compromised.” Uses big words and bigger lies. Drops words like “conflict of interest” and “unprofessional attachment,” conveniently leaving out the part where he’s the one who can’t move on.

I hear about it from our manager first. From the legal team second. From chat third.

From her last.

By the time I find her, she’s half-sitting on a crate backstage, one leg bouncing, scrolling through emails with a blank face that I now recognize as “one millimeter away from snapping and still holding it together.”

“Is it true?” I ask.

“That my ex is weaponizing professionalism to try to silence me?” she says dryly, eyes still on the screen. “Yeah.”

“You’re not—” I search for the word, “—furious?”

She exhales slowly.

“I’m tired,” she says. “Fury is expensive.”

Something in my chest twists.

I stand there in front of her, helpless, hands hanging uselessly by my sides.

“We can say something,” I blurt. “SEVENTH HEAVEN. We can back you publicly. Or I can. I can talk in interviews. I can—”

“Wonwoo,” she cuts in gently. “Finals are in three days.”

“And you’re being attacked now,” I snap.

She finally looks up.

Her gaze is sharp at first—defensive, tired. Then it softens. Just barely.

“I appreciate it,” she says. “I do. But if you throw your focus away on my battles, then he wins twice. He gets to mess with me and ruin your season. I’m not giving him that.”

She stands, stretching her legs, rolling her shoulders like she’s easing armor into place.

“For once in my life, I want my presence near a team to be the reason they succeed,” she says quietly. “Not the excuse for why they fell apart.”

That hits me harder than anything she’s said on stream.

Because I get it. Too well.

How many times have analysts blamed “outside noise” when a team chokes? How many times have they implied it was a girlfriend, a fight, a distraction? How many times would people love to blame her for any mistake we make because it’s easier than admitting we messed up alone?

“I’m not—” I start.

“Please,” she says.

Just that.

Please.

I shut my mouth.

She walks off. Back straight. Shoulders squared.

I feel like I failed some hidden objective.

In the GC, a few hours later:

Seungkwan: I WILL BITE THAT MAN Mingyu: which man Seungkwan: PICK ONE Vernon: don’t get banned Seungcheol: Practice in 10. Be on time. Seungkwan: YES DAD

My gameplay dips.

Not spectacularly. Not enough for the average viewer to notice.

But Seungcheol notices.

He always does.

He pulls me into the review room after one particularly messy scrim.

No one else. Just us, the glowing screen, and too many paused replays.

He queues up a series of clips, mid-game moments where I should’ve taken an angle and didn’t. Fights where I played too safe. Calls I didn’t make.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“Caution,” I say.

“Fear,” he corrects.

I fold my arms. “It’s finals. I’m allowed to be careful.”

“This isn’t careful,” he says. “This is you trying to play two games at once. One on stage, one in your head.”

He looks at me steadily. “Is this still fake?”

The question hangs there.

The correct answer is “yes.”

I don’t give it.

I say nothing.

He sighs, but it’s not annoyed. It’s more like he’s adjusting a strap that’s digging in.

“You care about her,” he says. “Fine. Good. That’s not a weakness. But you don’t trust her right now.”

“That’s not true,” I say sharply.

“If you did, you wouldn’t be playing like she’ll break the second you stop looking,” he says. “She’s not glass. She’s probably stronger than half the orgs in this region.”

He’s right.

Of course he’s right.

“She doesn’t need you to fall apart to prove you care,” he says more softly. “She needs you to win. If you love how she’s always honest, then be honest with yourself too.”

The word love hangs in the air like a bugged tooltip I’m not ready to click on.

I look away.

He claps me on the shoulder. “Fix it,” he says simply.

I try.

It goes… medium.

The fake break-up happens the day before finals.

Our PR teams coordinate. Statements approved, wording checked, timings synced.

We both post the same thing—clean, polite, distant.

“With finals and projects coming up, we decided it’s best to focus on our careers right now. We still respect and support each other. Please don’t send hate.”

Fans wail.

“MY PARENTS BROKE UP 😭” “I KNEW IT WAS PR BUT IT STILL HURTS” “HOLD ON I NEED TO LOG OFF AND TOUCH GRASS”

In the GC, it’s worse.

Seungkwan: I’M AT THE DIVORCE OF THE CENTURY Mingyu: I feel like I should get visiting rights Vernon: joint custody of the streams Seungcheol: All of you. Enough.

In person, it’s not clean at all.

We meet in a quiet corridor, just out of view of the main staircase, away from cameras and mics and anyone who might turn this into content.

She’s in a simple black hoodie, hair in a low ponytail. No glasses. No makeup beyond a hint of eyeliner. She looks tired. And beautiful. And tired again.

“This is probably for the best,” she says, arms folded loosely in front of her. Her voice is steady. Her eyes are not.

“Yeah,” I say. “For focus.”

Her mouth twists faintly. “Right. Focus.”

There’s an ache under my ribs I don’t have a name for.

I want to say, I don’t actually want to break up with you, even pretend-wise.

I don’t say it.

“Good luck,” she offers instead, forcing a small smile. “I’ll still roast your draft if it’s bad.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” I say.

She smiles at that. Small. Real. A flicker of what we had when this was just a joke and not a line we’re both suddenly scared to cross.

Then she nods once and walks past me.

She smells faintly of coffee and vanilla.

I stand there in the empty corridor, phone buzzing in my pocket with notifications about a breakup that isn’t even real, and try to breathe around the stupid, heavy feeling in my chest.

For something fake, it feels a lot like getting dumped.

Finals.

The arena is a riot of noise and light.

SEVENTH HEAVEN vs Silver Aegis.

Storylines stacked on storylines: revenge matches, redemption arcs, narratives about discipline vs ego, about “boys vs men,” about “this might be their last run with this roster.”

I sit at my PC. Adjust my mouse. Flex my fingers. The keyboard is familiar and foreign at once.

I should only be thinking about one thing: the game.

But she’s in my head.

Not him. Her.

The way her voice sounded last night in that video.

“The Truth About This ‘Narrative’ | My Story.”

She didn’t use his name in the title. She didn’t need to.

I watched it alone at my desk, lights off, hood up like I could hide from how hard it hit.

She laid it all out. Calm. Precise. No theatrics.

Screenshots. Emails. A timeline of behavior that went from “barely acceptable” to “you need a lawyer” so gradually that you could almost miss how bad it got unless you saw it stitched together like that.

She added context. Admitted where she stayed longer than she should have. Never painted herself as perfect. Never weaponized tears.

She didn’t rant. Didn’t drag. Didn’t perform.

“This isn’t about a breakup,” she’d said, looking straight into the camera. “I’ve made mistakes. I’ve stayed where I shouldn’t. But this is about professionalism. About boundaries. About weaponizing narratives to silence criticism. If you want to say you don’t like my analysis, say that. Don’t rewrite history to make me your villain.”

At the end, she’d looked almost tired. But steady.

“I’m not thinking about you,” she’d said. “You’re the one telling that story. I’m done being part of it.”

She’d posted it. Turned off monetization. Pinned it. Then gone to sleep.

By morning, it was #1 on trending.

The league announced an investigation. Silver Aegis rushed out a statement about “taking allegations seriously.” His socials went suspiciously quiet.

She still went to work. Still showed up as an analyst for the finals.

Of course she did.

So now I’m here, on stage, hands hovering over my keyboard, with her words lodged somewhere under my ribs like a new, sharp truth.

We draft.

We load in.

For the first fifteen minutes, the game feels like synchronicity.

Mingyu’s pathing is clean, sneaking vision deep where they don’t expect it. Vernon’s roams are surgical. Seungcheol absorbs pressure top like he was born under a turret. Seungkwan positions aggressively but controlled, that thin line between “carry” and “throw” walked with terrifying elegance.

I track everything.

Timers. Lane states. Summoners. Flashes. Ult CDs. Enemy mental.

And then, during a short lull in action, the broadcast cuts to the analyst and press section.

I see her.

Headset on. Professional outfit. Tablet in hand. Eyes glued to the screens in front of her. She looks composed, clean-lined, like the Y/N that first burned herself into my brain through a monitor.

Then I see him.

He shouldn’t even be near her. The league told him to keep his distance until the investigation wraps. But there he is, hovering just behind the analyst row, leaning on fake casualness like it’s a crutch.

He moves behind her chair. Too close.

He leans down, says something near her ear. I can’t hear it, but I can see his mouth curl on one side.

Her shoulders stiffen. She leans slightly away.

Just a little.

Like she’s refusing to give him more of a reaction than that.

My hand forgets to move.

My champion takes an unnecessary hit.

“Wonwoo,” Seungcheol’s voice snaps in my ears. “Focus.”

I blink, jarred, and re-center myself. We recover the play. Barely.

The crowd doesn’t know what happened. The casters chalk it up to “a rare misstep from the mid laner.”

I know exactly why it happened.

I want to get up and drag him away from her by the collar.

Instead, I kite a wave and call for a reset.

Time-out is called a few minutes later for a tech issue. A reset request from their side.

We head backstage.

The second our headsets are off, I feel a hand clamp onto my arm and drag me to the side.

“What was that?” Seungcheol says, eyes sharp. Not angry. Focused.

I rub the back of my neck. “He was in her space.”

“And?” he says.

“And I—” I stop. Try again. “I hate it.”

“Yeah,” he says. “So does she.”

He looks me dead in the eye.

“She can handle him,” he says. “She has been handling him this whole time. You not trusting that? That’s the real insult.”

I go quiet.

He lets that land, then pushes once more.

“You don’t get to turn her into something fragile just because you care,” he adds. “She’s not your early-game lane to babysit. She’s her own late-game monster.”

A sharp, unwilling laugh punches out of me. “That’s one way to put it.”

“It’s the true way,” he says. “You want to help her? Win. Make sure the story tonight is ‘SEVENTH HEAVEN stomped’ and not ‘Y/N ruined them.’ She already set fire to his narrative with that video. Don’t burn your own for free.”

He’s right.

Of course he’s right. Again.

I inhale slowly. Exhale.

“Okay,” I say.

In the corner, Mingyu is pacing.

“He’s so dead, bro,” he mutters. “Did you watch the video? That was a clean 3–0 callout. He’s gonna come back with a Notes app apology.”

Seungkwan is leaning against a water cooler, phone in hand, reading comments. “Chat calling him ‘gaslight gank main’ is sending me,” he says. “Also, someone edited your face over her shoulder in the thumbnail. Not sure how to feel about that.”

Vernon looks up from his own phone. “Video hit ten million views,” he says. “Mostly support. Some trolls. But the narrative flipped.”

“Good,” I say.

“Also,” he adds, “your name is in the top ten related searches now.”

I grimace.

“Celebrity boyfriend era,” Seungkwan sings. “You better not fumble.”

“Can we focus?” I say.

Seungcheol claps his hands once. “All right,” he cuts through. “Reset. We fix the early mistakes, punish their overconfidence, and we finish this. Got it?”

“Got it,” we chorus.

We go back on stage.

This time, when the broadcast cuts to her, I don’t flinch.

I see her, headset on, posture straight, eyes sharp. A quick graphic flashes on screen:

“Special Analyst: Y/N – Hextech Hot Takes”

It’s surreal seeing her brand under the league logo.

She looks calm. Untouchable.

In my chest, the jealousy cools down, turned into something else: pride.

Game three starts.

This time, my hands don’t shake.

I stop thinking about what’s happening off-stage.

I think about the game.

Our comp.

My reads.

My team.

We play clean.

We play mean.

We play like SEVENTH HEAVEN.

Mingyu secures every crucial objective like a man possessed. He steals one Baron with a Q-Smite combo so disgusting even the opposing crowd groans.

Vernon hits impossible engages that crack their comp open. Twice he finds their ADC through fog, and I follow up without thinking.

Seungkwan turns into a pentakill waiting to happen. He doesn’t get it, but every fight feels like it’s three autos and one crit away.

Seungcheol leads calls like a general. Calm, firm, exact. “We don’t need to chase. Take tower. Reset. Breathe.”

I see the windows, and I don’t hesitate.

I go.

I trust myself.

I trust them.

I trust her too, weirdly, even though she’s not in the game. I trust that while I’m doing my job here, she’s doing hers out there, and I don’t have to fix her world for her. We’re playing different maps, but we’re on the same side.

We win.

The nexus explodes in a bloom of color.

Our logo flashes across the screen.

The crowd detonates into shouting, confetti, songs, chants.

We’re champions.

People are hugging me.

Someone’s yelling in my ear.

Mingyu’s got me in a headlock, yelling something incoherent about “WORLD BUFFS” and “FIRST ROUND MY TREAT.”

Seungkwan is sobbing into a SEVENTH HEAVEN flag, tears mixing with glitter. “WE DID IT, YOU EMOTIONALLY REPRESSED KING!” he bawls. “YOU DESERVE LOVE AND A GOOD SLEEP SCHEDULE!”

Vernon is laughing, breathless, eyes crinkled. “We actually did it,” he keeps repeating like he doesn’t believe it.

Seungcheol has that rare, almost private smile on his face, the one he only lets slip when something truly lands. “Good work,” he says, pulling us into a group hug whether we want it or not.

Through all of it, a thought cuts through the noise like a clean objective ping.

Find her.

I scan every visible corner of the stadium. The analyst desk. The press section. The green room door.

I don’t see her.

“Go,” Mingyu says suddenly, releasing me and giving me a shove towards the tunnel.

I stumble. “What?”

“Go find her,” he says. “We’ll stall.”

“I have media—”

“We’ll tell them you’re overheating,” Vernon says.

“You are overheating,” Seungkwan adds, fanning me with a towel. “Your ears are the color of infernal drake. Also, if you don’t go, I will.”

“I’ll bench you,” Seungcheol says mildly.

It’s unclear who he’s talking to.

Probably all of us.

I don’t wait to find out.

I run.

The city outside is cooler, quieter, but my head is loud.

I don’t check my phone. I don’t check socials.

My feet know where to go.

The café.

Of course it’s the café.

The little one with the wobbly chairs and too-strong ramyun. Where I first saw her in person and did nothing.

I spot her through the window first.

Same corner table by the glass. Laptop open. Hoodie on. Hair down, half-tucked behind one ear. A half-finished drink next to her, condensation dripping slowly down the plastic.

Her expression is relaxed for the first time in weeks. There’s still a faint tightness around her eyes, but she looks more like herself.

I push the door open.

The bell chimes.

She looks up.

For a moment, we just stare at each other.

“You’re supposed to be on a stage somewhere covered in confetti,” she says.

“I did that already,” I say, stepping closer. “Confetti’s overrated.”

She huffs a little laugh. “How does it feel? Champion?”

“Strange,” I say honestly. “Good. Loud. Also…”

I trail off.

She waits.

“Incomplete,” I finish.

Her brows lift. “Incomplete?”

I sit down across from her. The chair wobbles a little. I steady it with my foot.

“There’s something I didn’t say,” I tell her. “And if I don’t say it now, I’m going to be thinking about it during every interview, every stream, every solo queue game until I lose my mind.”

She closes her laptop halfway, her full attention switching to me.

“All right,” she says softly. “Say it.”

I take a breath.

“The fake dating,” I start, “stopped being fake for me a long time ago.”

Her fingers still on the edge of the laptop.

“At first, it was strategy,” I say. “Smart. Clean. Efficient. It helped kill the narrative and boosted both our platforms. It was about controlling the story.”

I swallow, throat dry.

“Then you started coming to scrims,” I continue. “Sitting behind me in review. Roasting my interviews with love, not content. Watching my VODs and seeing things in my play that even I hadn’t fully articulated.”

Her eyes stay locked on mine.

“Last night, I watched you post a video that could’ve blown up your career,” I say. “You told the truth anyway. You chose clarity over comfort. That’s… who you are. You don’t weaponize the narrative. You straighten it.”

The words come easier now.

“I like you,” I say. “Not the idea of you. You. The way your brain works. The way you refuse to punch down. The way you tell the truth even when it hurts. The way you looked at me on that VOD and said, ‘You’re not a coin flip.’ I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that since.”

A breath, shaky.

“I thought I could keep it fake,” I admit. “I was wrong.”

Silence.

For a second, I think I’ve misplayed my entire life.

Then she exhales, very softly.

“Good,” she says.

I blink. “…good?”

“You’re finally caught up,” she says.

My confusion must be obvious, because she smiles—small and a bit disbelieving, like she’s surprised she’s saying this out loud.

“I wasn’t thinking about him,” she says. “Not once. Not really.”

My chest tightens.

“Everyone kept asking if I was bitter, obsessed, out for revenge,” she goes on. “But I was thinking about you. About SEVENTH HEAVEN. About how this mess would bleed into your games, your focus, your mental. About how it would feel for you to have my entire drama pinned to your name, when all you ever did was exist near me.”

I stare at her.

“You cared more about my mental than his storyline,” I say quietly.

“Obviously,” she scoffs. “He doesn’t have any mental to protect.”

It makes me laugh, sharp and helpless, some tight knot finally loosening.

She leans forward, elbows on the table.

“I like you too, you idiot,” she says. “Have you not noticed me risking my subscriber base to publicly thirst over your gameplay?”

I blink. “You—what?”

“I literally called your flanks ‘art’ in my last analysis,” she says. “Do you know how feral my chat gets when I praise you? I had to delete four edits. Four.”

Something in my chest expands, painful and light all at once.

I stand.

She does too.

We meet halfway around the table, space between us suddenly small, charged in a new way that’s not pretend, not scripted, not for anyone else.

Up close, I can see the faint smudges under her eyes, the way her lips tilt when she’s trying not to grin too wide.

My hand hovers for a second.

“Can I?” I ask.

“You better,” she says.

That’s all the permission I need.

I cup her jaw gently.

She slides her hands up my hoodie, fingers curling at the back of my neck.

We kiss.

It’s not cinematic. Our noses bump. Someone in the back snorts. My heart is beating so loud I’m pretty sure she can feel it through my chest.

But it’s real.

Warm and steady and grounding in a way no win, no trophy, no title has ever been.

When we pull back, we’re both slightly breathless.

“Tell Seungkwan he’s not allowed to monetize this,” she murmurs.

“He already has,” I say. “In his mind. There are probably emotes.”

She laughs, the sound soft and bright and alive.

“Let him,” she says. “As long as we get to write the patch notes.”

“Deal,” I say.

She brushes a thumb over the corner of my mouth, gaze dropping to my lips again.

“Come here, champion,” she says.

I do.

And for once, I’m not thinking about the game.

Just… us.

Finally.

A few weeks later, she sets a camera down on the table between us and says, “Okay. No backing out. We’re doing this.”

We’re at a tiny ramen shop this time, not the café. Late night, post-scrim, both of us in hoodies and caps. Real date, actual food, no PR manager pacing outside.

The camera’s red light turns on.

“Hey guys,” she says, voice slipping into that familiar intro cadence, but softer somehow. “Welcome back to Hextech Hot Takes, but today’s episode is… different.”

She glances at me, grin tugging at her mouth.

“Today,” she announces, “I’m finally filming my FIRST REAL DATE VLOG.”

She flips the viewfinder so we’re both in frame. I raise a hand in a small, awkward wave.

“Hi,” I say. Smooth as always.

“This is Jeon Wonwoo,” she tells the camera. “Mid laner for SEVENTH HEAVEN. Previously known as my ‘fake boyfriend’ slash shield against nonsense narratives.”

“And currently?” I ask.

She bumps her shoulder into mine. “Currently known as my real boyfriend,” she says. “Who is going to let me interview him on this date and not run away.”

“I agreed to this under duress,” I inform the lens.

“You agreed to this because you love me,” she corrects.

My ears heat up. “Don’t say that on camera.”

“Too late,” she chirps. “Clip it, chat.”

There is no chat, but I know there will be later.

We film.

She asks me stupid questions like, “When did you realize you liked me?” (I lie and say “somewhere around Week 2,” not “the first time you roasted my Azir on YouTube.”)

I ask her questions like, “When did you realize you liked me?” (She says, “When you didn’t argue with me calling your draft grief, you just said ‘I’ll do better.’ That was hot.” I have no response to that.)

We eat. We tease. She makes me rate the ramen like it’s a champion skin. I call it “Legendary-tier.” She dabs broth off my chin with a napkin while the camera’s still rolling.

Later, she edits the footage with her usual chaotic precision. Cuts away right as I’m about to say something too soft. Adds dumb captions over my face like:

“MID KING, SOFT BOY EDITION”

The video goes up on her channel a few days after that.

“FIRST REAL DATE VLOG (ft. SEVENTH HEAVEN’S MID LANER)”

The views climb fast.

I scroll through the comments, half-dreading, half-curious.

Fan edits. Capslocked screaming. People saying things like “THERAPY IS CURED.”

And pinned at the very top, with a little blue check next to the username:

SEVENTH HEAVEN – SEUNGKWAN: “he better treat u right queen 😤 if he doesn’t i’ll steal him and treat BOTH of us right”

Vernon replied under it:

“this is a threat and a promise”

Mingyu added:

“i was the flower boy in this relationship from the start”

And from the official team account, clearly hijacked by our captain for thirty seconds:

SEVENTH HEAVEN – OFFICIAL: “As long as both of you are happy and we still win, this is captain-approved.” – S.Coups

She screenshots the comments and sends them to me with:

“your team is insane.”

I reply:

“yeah. but they were right about one thing.”

“what?”

“i really do have to treat you right.”

“good answer, mid king.”

The next time she hits record, there’s no fake label to hide behind. No “pretend.” No “for the narrative.”

Just us.

In the same patch.

---

# NAVIGATION | MAIN MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST

Every ask & comment gives me life 💗 If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog, helps so much and gets the fic out there!!

SERIES TAGLIST: @eisaspresso @christinewithluv @armycarat2612 @ziidino @vernons-wifey12 @jihoonsbbygirl @wonvsmile @smiileflower @lukeys-giggle @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @toplinehyunjin @skz-elle @ateez-atiny380 @aeerio @paranoid-borderline-insane @chariseiswriting @blxcknwhite-lady @maryseesthings @max-1404 @minhui896 @jembem @blaycke @livelaughloveseventeen @butterfliesliving @callmehoweveruwatblog @junnhuisworld @ameliamirabela @clubkyeompeu @c-arrotcarat @coupssss @svt97xx @just-beautifulmess @kellesvt @nahyuckism @horanghaezone @side-angel