⋆˚｡⋆ ema ⋆｡˚⋆

His ‘community’, as he so lovingly called it, is The Zodiacs, aka a gang. He led it for as long as you can remember, and his dad led it until he passed, and so on. You were never meant for that lifestyle, as you always kept your head in books and wrote in your journals until your heart was content. You were destined to leave this town, become a writer, and make your voice heard. Being the next in line to lead the new generation of degenerates was not in your plans. Your father knew that and loved you anyway.

God, this hurts.

The Zodiacs aren’t terrible people; they’ve done a lot for the community here on the Southside of Carats Ridge. Sure, they have petty thieves and criminals in their midst, but they are always first in line to pull together money for children, single mothers, and the needy. When your best friend, Lola Apple, had her house burn down, the Zodiacs rallied together and fixed up her childhood home free of charge. They are a family that sticks together, and you do admire that. You try not to think ill of them, even though you are technically a legacy member. But it doesn’t take away your anger, your grief, and the pain that’s etched in your heart. Daddy told you just over a week ago, I have all the time in the world to see you, kid. Just you wait.

Well, you did wait, you kept your promise. But he broke his.

You stay on the balcony a little bit longer, watching the fog slowly disperse as the sun forces itself through the clouds, revealing grass that is dead and gone, as if the soil underneath knows that he’s gone too. The urge to smoke a cigarette floods your veins, the intense craving to feel your lungs burn as you inhale on a stick of death. A little bit ironic, you think. You quit several months ago, wanting to be a good example for your dad. What good is that going to do now?

You hear the motorcycles from a mile away, alerting you that your little peace is going to be cut short. You take a deep breath, inhaling deeply from the pit of your stomach, hoping to take away the anxiety you feel. It doesn’t do much, but it helps. You stare far away into the trees, reminiscing about the time you and Daddy would play hide and seek in the woods until you ran out of breath. You remember fondly the deer and rabbits that would come by from time to time, greeting you like an old friend rather than an enemy. You wish they were here, sitting with you in solace as you remember the few good memories you had about this fucked up town—most of them here at your home, at the music store, and the lake.

“Hey, there, Bluebird.”

You turn slowly, recognizing that throaty voice that you’ve grown up with all your life. Facing Lola, you glance at her and stare at the woods again, noticing the pained expression on her face. You know she’s worried about you, and she means well, but the last thing you want is to hear how people are sorry for your loss. Quite frankly, you want to fucking scream.

“I’m not going to say it, because I know you don’t want to hear it,” Lola says, hugging you from behind. “But just know that I love you, okay?”

You acknowledge her words, blinking away tears that threaten to fall on your face. “The kids aren’t here?” you manage to ask.

“No Blue,” she responds softly. “They’re at home with Vernon.”

Everyone has been calling you Blue or some variation of it for as long as you remember, partly because you prefer blue pens over black, and the journals you kept buying were always some shade of blue. You don’t know if it's your favorite color, but looking at it brings you peace. It makes you feel whole.

“Is everyone here?” You sniffle. “I guess I should go out there and pay my respects, huh?”

Lola scoffs. “If anything, they need to pay you respect.” She shakes her head, a small smile on her face. “Look, I know you never blended into the lifestyle, and let’s be real, you weren’t meant to be in this place. But you’ve brought a great deal of pride to the Southside and showed others they could make something of themselves. Who would’ve known a Zodiac legacy would be one of the best-selling authors in the world?”

You know she is right, but you don’t feel that right now. You want to grieve and be alone, and scream into the void. You want to sit in the darkness and let it swallow you up like a cocoon. But your father, in all his suffering, led the Zodiacs with pride, and you will do right by him, even if you don’t want to.

“I-I’ll be in,” you breathe, wiping your wet eyes. “I just need a minute.”

Lola nods, pulling you into a hug that you know you need, but don’t quite feel like you deserve. “Take all the time in the world.”

You hear her feet retreat, the creaking of the door loud and grating before it swings shut with a thud. Staring out into the woods again, you watch the sun disappear behind more ivory clouds, the thunder making itself heard. You know you should go back inside and get this over with, ripping off the bandaid of sympathies and wellwishes you are going to be flooded with.

But instead, you stay out here a little bit longer, and cry.

A week later, you stand outside the church, the one tall building in this town that has been kept up over the years. Standing in brown and white, it has a red illuminated sign in front that reads “Jesus Saves”. Your dad was a lot of things, and religious wasn’t one of them. But he was loved and respected by everyone here, and it was the pastor of New World Baptist Church who reached out and offered to hold the funeral services. He was best friends with Pastor Matthews growing up, and even though their paths diverged, they remained close until the end. You could have had the services anywhere, but you know deep down, this is right.

Your black dress sways in the light breeze, the warm, humid air passing beneath it. Drawing a cigarette to your mouth, you light it and inhale until your throat burns to your liking, hoping to kill the nerves that curdle in the pit of your stomach. It does nothing but aggravate you further. You scoff at the irony.

“There you are,” Lola steps out from the church, joining you to your left. She takes the cigarette from your hand, inhaling it and exhaling with a deep sigh. “I thought you were quitting.”

“So did I,” you murmur with a shrug. “But promises are meant to be broken, right?”

You make the mistake of looking at her, and the pity on her face cuts you deep. You don’t want people to feel sorry for you; if it were up to you, Daddy would have been cremated and his ashes scattered across the lake. But it’s not what he wanted, and you have to be the good daughter and respect his wishes, after all.

“I’m not gonna break, Lola,” you say aloud, as if you are reading her thoughts.

“I never said you would, Blue.”

The church doors creak open, followed by heavy footsteps. You turn to see Pastor Matthews approaching with a slight limp, a result of a car accident that partly led him to turn his life to God. Or at least, that’s what Daddy said.

“Ladies, we can get started whenever you get ready.”

You nod, gazing at your surroundings one last time and taking in a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

Lola puts out the cigarette, linking her arm with yours as you enter the church together and walk past the pairs of wet and red eyes. You make eye contact with Vernon, who gives you a half-smile while holding his two twin girls, Amethyst and Ruby, whom he shares with Lola. Lola and Vernon have been together since they were kids. They have the kind of love that makes sense for them: it’s familiar, warm, and unique in their own way. Lola was always the spitfire of the two, ready to give anyone a verbal lashing to hell and a fist to match. Vernon is her anchor, keeping her still in many storms, and a part of why she has mellowed out. Vernon is also a part of the Zodiacs, with his father as the vice-leader of the gang and your father’s right-hand man. Since everyone knows you didn’t have any interest in being more involved in the Zodiacs than you are now, you imagine Vernon will be picking up the mantle now, legacy and all that.

The funeral proceeds as planned. Pastor Matthews leads a prayer, and the choir sings about the afterlife, heaven, and things you can’t relate to. You start to zone out when community members pay their respects, not because you don’t care, but because your heart can’t take it. Daddy meant a lot to this side of town, and he was so clearly loved. Seeing the sadness in their eyes and their tear-stricken faces is a stab to the gut. You want to lie down and pretend this day never happened. You want to rewind back to last week when your father told you he loved you for the last time. It’s time to give the eulogy, but your head is spinning. You want to leave—

“I have something to say.”

Whipping your head back, your breath falters, your heart beating wildly against your cage like a captured bird. Walking to the front, his eyes locking with yours, is Jihoon, the boy who changed the trajectory of your life. It’s been ten years since you’ve seen him or heard that voice. He’s not the eighteen-year-old boy that you fell in love with at the music store. His hair is longer, he’s bulkier, and time seems to have been kind to him. Jihoon strides to the front of the church, wearing a black suit and matching rimmed glasses.

“What is he doing here?” you whisper in Lola’s ear.

Lola looks confused for a moment, beckoning you to lean closer. “You didn’t know? He was helping your dad from time to time.”

You stare at her blankly, barely registering what she is saying. Jihoon and your dad? Hanging out? Your dad never mentioned it. Focusing back on Jihoon, you study him, waiting with bated breath.

“This was a man loved by everyone, from the Southside and even the North,” Jihoon recalls fondly. “Well, almost everyone.” The light laughter echoes in the small church as he continues. “He showed up to every town hall, ready to speak for everyone in this community, and wasn’t afraid to ruffle feathers to get his point across. I worked with him at the center, and he was just a nice guy to be around. I know I live on the other side of the tracks, but I know I am not alone when I say, he will be missed.”

The members hum and nod in agreement. Jihoon quietly walks towards the back of the church, exchanging a look with you one last time before he disappears from your peripheral view. The church falls silent, and the small movements of shuffled feet and chirping birds are heard. Lola nudges you softly, beckoning toward Pastor Matthews as he moves to the front of the podium.

“Now it is time for the eulogy.”

Taking a deep breath, you walk towards the front, feeling the sympathetic eyes burning into your skin. You make no effort to look up immediately and face the en masse, instead keeping your head down to maintain your composure. Pastor Matthews comes over to you slowly, offering what was supposed to be a comfortable presence, but instead, you feel smothered.

“My father was a pillar of strength,” you begin. “He was a master of everything, and a carbon copy of none. Daddy was original, one of a kind, and the greatest thing in my life.” Your voice cracks towards the end, clearing your throat before continuing. “He was hardworking and gentle, and most importantly, fair. As you all know, I was not meant for the Zodiac life, and he could have made me stay and forced me to be something I wasn’t, or ever would be. But he was a true parent who saw me for who I was, not what he envisioned for me. He saw the good in everyone in this room, and this town, even when they treated him like shit.”

You glance at the closed mahogany casket, surrounded by the most expensive lilies you could buy. You’re filled with a mix of sadness and anger, thinking of the memories where you and he suffered, and the possibility of what could have been if he had left when you asked. “That man is the heart and soul of Carats Ridge, and I don’t give a damn what anyone else says.” Your voice trembles as your vision blurs. “He chose you over me, his own daughter. His only family. That’s how much he valued you, and it is a testament to his character. My father served this place until the day he died, and I hope that if you truly cared about him, you carry his memory in your hearts for the rest of your lives and the next.”

You didn’t mean to come off as angry. You planned to stay calm and get through this in one piece. But damn it, you are mad as hell. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. You were supposed to have at least twenty more years with him. None of this is fair.

You wobble as you walk back to your seat, laying your head on Lola’s shoulder as the funeral drones on until the choir sings the last song. The pallbearers, fellow members of the Zodiac, carry his casket as you lead it, holding a frame of you and him at your high school graduation. The cemetery is behind the church, a plot of land and a tombstone already prepared, as if he knew his time was coming. Dark grey clouds swirl around, dangerously, as everyone gathers around the grave. Daddy will be buried six feet deep, covered with dirt, and never seen again. Your heart tears at the seams.

The wind picks up cruelly, a spirit of madness at play, as it slightly lifts the tent where the burial is happening. The rain follows, warm droplets hitting your body and soaking your dress. The weather called for sunshine and blue skies. What a wicked game Mother Nature is playing on you. You observe everyone, with bowed heads and sorrow, as Pastor Matthews recites more Bible scriptures you can bear. After the final “amen, " men surround your father’s casket, preparing to lower him into the ground. Your breathing is labored and shallow as you clutch the front of your dress. You want to crawl out of your skin.

“Fuck this,” you mutter, shaking your head furiously.

You run, letting your feet guide you through the heavy rain, your hair and makeup ruined. Your expensive dress sticks to your body like wet paper, your bra strap slipping to the side, but you don’t care. You keep running until you can’t anymore, finding yourself at the very end of the road. There are no houses around, just woods and what lurks in them. You let out a guttural wail, letting go of everything you’ve been holding in since you got that call. They say grief comes and goes like waves, and maybe that’s true. But right now you are drowning, struggling to breathe. Veins pop out of your neck as you scream, banging your hands on the ground until they are dirty and slightly bruised. You told Lola you weren’t going to break—another lie told.

You hear the engine through the loud rain, a yellow classic pickup truck speeding towards you and drifting to the right. The passenger door swings open, creamy leather seats appearing first.

“Get in the car before you catch a cold.”

The rain makes it hard to see, the feeling of soft hands pulling you up off the street and leading you into the car. But you know that voice oh-so-well. It’s one you could never get.

“Jihoon.”

He stops, his eyes locking with yours as he wants to say what’s on his mind. But instead, he grants you a mercy, reaching over you to buckle you in, his cologne light and putting you at ease.

“Let’s get you out of this rain, yeah?”

Jihoon wasn’t sure if he should come to the funeral. He hasn’t seen you in a decade, and he thought maybe it would be an icy reunion between the two of you. But here you are, lying on his futon with his t-shirt on and wrapped in a blanket, beautiful and more refined than the last time he saw you. Maybe that’s what happens when you become a best-selling author and the access that comes with it. As it stood in the rain, he saw you running away from the burial. Lola looked distraught, and everyone else watched on with sympathy and curiosity, as though having never seen anyone mourn before.

So he went after you.

There weren’t many places you could have run off to, as the church stands in the middle of a cul-de-sac. The main road would have been too far to run, which left you headed towards dark Sinbrook Forest. When he found you, you were sitting on the street under the pelting rain, lost in your own storm. You didn’t say much while in the car, and he didn’t expect you to—Jihoon knows all too well what grief feels like, and he knew you shouldn’t be alone.

Jihoon was in another city, living his life, when his mother called with the news about his father’s stroke. He worked as a mixer at a music studio and dropped everything to take care of him. It meant working at his family-owned music store while his mother cared for his father, and Jihoon hoped he would eventually be able to return to his new life and arrange better care for his father. That was five years ago.

When his father died a few years later, it tore his mother apart. He supposes losing the love of your life will do that to someone, but it broke her. She refused to leave the house most days, and she wanted him to stay in Carats Ridge forever. He fought tooth and nail to keep living in the small apartment upstairs from the music store rather than in his childhood home. The overbearingness would have been too much, and Jihoon needed time to process his own feelings.

Jihoon thought about you over the years, wondering how you had been and whether you were happy. The last time you saw him, you promised to keep in touch and never to lose that connection. It worked for a few months, then the communication slowed and ceased altogether. He understood you were busy, living in New York, and having a busy life, or maybe you felt like you needed to move on. He was happy for you, truly. But he also felt left behind, forgotten, and, deep down, even now, hasn’t gotten over the girl he'd fallen in love with at the music store.

Ten Summers Ago

Oh, my life

Is changin' every day

In every possible way

And oh, my dreams

It's never quite as it seems

Never quite as it seems

"Dreams" by the Cranberries blasted through the speakers when you walked in, wearing a faded Simpsons t-shirt with dark jeans and sneakers. Jihoon was at the front, strumming the strings on the guitar as he worked on that Saturday. He planned to go to college for music and needed to practice whenever he got the chance. But you were a distraction.

He knew who you were because you attended the same high school, had shared classes over the years, and had graduated just two weeks earlier. You weren’t in the same social circles, so you never actually had a conversation. But as he watched you flip through albums and pick up a variety of them that wouldn’t go together, he became curious. You didn’t seem like the type to listen to Spice Girls, Phil Collins, Nirvana, or Coolio. Now that he thinks of it, he didn’t peg you as a music lover at all. Whenever he saw you, you had a journal in your hands, scribbling away as if you didn’t want to be disturbed.

You also picked up Hot Tub Time Machine and Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist, two movies Jihoon hasn’t seen. As he scanned the items, he saw you looking at the keychains that had just arrived. Your eyes lit up as you touched the bluebird one, taking it off the latch and setting it on the counter. Something odd stirred in his chest, and he wasn’t sure what to call it.

“I’ll take this one too,” you announced, digging in your purse.

You handed Jihoon a $20 bill on the counter, your fingers accidentally touching with a light shock. You jumped back, aghast, as Jihoon stood there, unsure of what to make of it. “That was weird,” you muttered, eyeing him carefully.

“Well, don’t look at me,” Jihoon tittered, scratching the back of his hand. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Do you make it a habit of shocking girls on their eighteenth birthdays?” You pressed, folding your arms.

“N-no,” Jihoon sputtered, at a loss for words. “But happy birthday?”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, your lips pursed together. Then your face broke into a throaty laugh that echoed throughout the store, a contagious one that almost had him joining in. “I’m fucking with you,” you catch your breath. “I mean, it is my birthday, but I don’t think you are going around shocking girls on purpose.”

He broke the bill and placed the change in your hands. The spark didn’t happen again, and he couldn’t help but smirk. You counted the change back quietly, slipping it into your wallet.

“See, no spark,” Jihoon said, holding his hands up and wiggling his fingers.

“Okay, “ you scoffed, grabbing your items off the counter. “Thank you for not shocking me again, I guess.”

He watched you walk out of the music store, leaving an impression in your wake. This was the most you had talked in all the years you had been in the same vicinity as one another; now he was more curious about you than ever.

Your body is dead weight when you finally wake up. It almost feels like you are one with the futon, your body leaving a deep imprint on the cushion. The sun is just now rising, blinding you with its infectious light. You sit up, stirred and slightly shaken as you recount the last day. The funeral, the pelting rain, the six-foot grave your father was supposed to be put in, and Jihoon, who came and took you here, to his place above the music store. Much of it is a blur after that, as all you remember is changing into an oversized shirt and sweats Jihoon had randomly before crashing on his couch. You were too catatonic to speak, your energy drained from experiencing the worst day of your life. Jihoon didn’t force you to speak, and you appreciated it. He just let you be.

You stumble through the apartment, not one hundred percent awake, looking for the bathroom. Finding the door askew, you rush inside, relieving the pressure you felt in your lower abdomen. Jihoon was always a neat freak, and having a clean bathroom is no surprise to you. Everything is in order and in its place where it belongs without a smudge of fingerprints or dust in sight. The decor is simple—white shower linen paired with a clear curtain, black mats, and a black-and-clear soap dispenser. The medicine cabinet is hidden behind the mirror, but you don’t bother going through it. Finishing your business, you wash your hands, splashing more water on your face to stay alert.

Sauntering back to the couch, you observe the layout of the apartment—an open space with brick walls, a bookshelf full of vinyls, CDs, and other standard furniture that makes it his. You can tell he took extra care to form this in his style, and you would expect nothing less from him. Finding your phone on the floor, you grab it and plop back onto the futon. Your eyes widen at the dozens of notifications you received, most of them from Lola, some from Vernon, and one from your agent. Your heart pangs at the messages you received, and maybe you shouldn’t have run off the way you did. It was irrational and maybe a little selfish. But you couldn’t stay there another minute—you felt yourself sinking into the ground with him.

Stifling a yawn, you respond to Lola’s messages with four simple words: “I’m okay. With Jihoon.”

Your phone rings shortly after, Lola’s name displayed on your screen. Taking a deep breath, you prepare for what she is about to give.

“Listen, I’m sorry—”

“I’m not mad,” Lola interrupts, her voice unusually calm. “I understand why you ran off. I mean, I was scared half to death, but I would be more worried if Jihoon didn’t already tell us where you were.”

Letting out a sigh of relief, you walk towards the windows, peering at everyone below, going about their normal lives. The street and sidewalks are still wet with rain, but the flowers in bloom make it worth being outside. You remember the first time you smelled tulips and how its sweet fragrance tickled your nose. The only pharmacy in town stands across the street; next to it are a flower shop and a boutique for fine dresses. You remember walking past them, wondering how the people who ran their shops lived their lives.

“I didn’t realize you had each other’s numbers,” you say, breaking out of self-induced nostalgic trance.

“We’ve worked together a few times, for some events around the Southside,” Lola discloses. “And he and Vernon hang out.”

You mull over her words, trying to grasp Jihoon and Vernon in the same room, actually talking to each other. Even the idea of him being around your father makes your head buzz. “How did that happen, anyway? Daddy never mentioned any of this to me.”

“I’m not sure if you knew this, but Jihoon gave guitar lessons to the children at the community center,” Lola begins. “Your dad helped out around the center, like he always did, and I guess they became acquainted that way.”

Your tongue pokes your cheek, giving this some thought. “I guess. It’s just weird to think about, and Daddy said nothing to me about it. He knows how I feel about this town, but… I don’t know.” Sighing deeply, your heart pierces at the thought of everything that has happened. This town is plaguing you, and you are desperate to get out of it. “I will not be here long enough to dwell on it anyway, so.”

“Oh yes! Speaking of,” Lola’s voice jumps an octave. “Vern and some of the Zodiac are going to help clear out the house before we start doing open houses.”

“Okay,” you murmur.

Lola is also a real estate agent, the only one in town, and gets clients from both sides of Carats Ridge. She is the only one you trust to handle the sale of the house, as it’s too much to bear. Lola is good at what she does, and you know you are in safe hands. It wasn’t what she had set out for herself; she saw herself as an actress starring in movies. But when the fire happened, she stayed behind to care for her mom until she passed. Lola never got that chance to live her dreams, but she seems pretty happy despite that.

You barely hear the front door unlock behind you, turning to face Jihoon as he walks into the apartment, carrying coffee and a large paper bag from the local diner, Mansae. Locking eyes briefly, your stomach does somersaults, unsure of what to make of this moment. “Lola, I have to go. I’ll see you at the house later.”

As you disconnect the call, you smile sheepishly, fidgeting with your hands. Jihoon sets the bag and coffee on the table, rubbing his hands together. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit by your truck,” you answer honestly. “But I’ll be okay and out of your hair soon.”

“There’s no rush for you to leave,” Jihoon responds, pointing at the bag. “I brought breakfast in case you were hungry.”

He pulls the contents out of the bag, revealing a container of various donuts, all of which happen to be your favorite. You eye the chocolate one sprinkled with nuts, taking you back to the first time you had one. Your dad brought you to the diner as a treat, letting you have whatever you wanted for getting good grades in elementary school. You chose that donut because it reminded you of a Snickers bar, and you were pleasantly surprised when you bit into it and found it filled with caramel. It was one of the best days of your life.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you eventually respond, grabbing the donut out of the container. “Thank you, though.”

“Of course.” Jihoon nods, reaching into the bag. “Come sit down and eat.”

He holds a breakfast sandwich in his hand, motioning for you to sit at the dining table. Outside, the clouds shift, spilling a sudden, warm glow across the wood table.

“Please? he asks, gentler this time.

Reluctantly, you take a seat at the table, taking a bite out of your donut. The warm velvety caramel oozes onto your tongue, making you involuntarily moan in gratification. You glance at Jihoon, who watches you in amusement. You haven’t had a donut this good since you’ve left town, and you live in New York City. There are some things that you can only get from one place, and donuts are one of them.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had a good donut,” you disclose, wiping the corner of your mouth. “Mansae is as good as ever.”

“You know, Mr. and Mrs. Sherbet still run the place?” Jihoon imparts, unwrapping his sandwich. “I still go by there every Sunday with Mom.”

You take another bite, hiding the grimace forming on your face. His mother, Mrs. Lee, had it out for you from the very beginning. Maybe it is because you were from the Southside and dressed like it, but she always gave you a look or said unpleasant things that would have hurt your feelings if you cared. Mrs. Lee isn’t the only person to treat you unfairly in this town, but she adds to the list of reasons you hate it here.

“Looks like nothing has changed much in Carats Ridge,” you say. “I can’t say I miss being back here.”

Jihoon falters just for a moment, briefly, but you caught it. You’re instantly filled with regret. “I’m sorry, that was mean—”

“No, don’t apologize,” Jihoon waves you off. “You are just being honest, right?”

Your mouth opens and shuts without any words coming out. Frustration hits your chest like a sharpened arrow, penetrating your heart deep in its core. Jihoon could never understand how you feel. He’s never had to deal with the prejudice you faced just for being born on the wrong side of town—being accused of thefts, the dirty looks, passersby assuming you weren’t smart, and you weren’t going to amount to anything. He couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to wake up and have strikes against you just for existing. He had the privilege of doing whatever he wanted; you didn’t.

“How have you been?” You change the subject. “It’s been a long time.”

Jihoon leans back in his chair, adjusting his glasses as he mulls over your question. “I’ve been okay. I left town for a while and came back to take care of Dad for a while.”

“Take care?” Your ears perk up. “Is he okay?”

A pained expression is on his face, glancing down as he adjusts his glasses again. “So I guess you haven’t heard then.”

He didn’t have to say anything else; you knew what he meant—his father is gone. The pain of losing a parent, someone you love forever, leaves a permanent, ugly scar on your soul. You never heal from it, but you learn to deal with it, and it becomes a part of you.

“I’m sorry, Jihoon,” you murmur. “Mr. Lee was a good man.”

You mean what you said. Mrs. Lee always gave you a hard time, but his father was always kind to you and made you feel welcome. They were opposites, and you used to wonder how that even happened. You like to imagine that’s where Jihoon got his warmth from.

“It’s okay,” Jihoon sighs. “It’s been a couple of years now, and I have taken over the music store for my mom.”

“Wow,” you respond, nostalgia hitting you soft like a pillow. “I used to love it there.” All those weekends you would spend at the store, listening to Donna Summer, Nirvana, Usher, falling in love with him—

You shake your head, bringing yourself back to reality and ignoring the sudden heaviness in your heart. “You’ve been well?” You smile.

Jihoon’s eyes soften, followed by a slow, tentative headshake. “I guess? It could be worse.”

There is something in the back of his voice that makes you believe he isn't being entirely truthful. But you choose not to press it.

“I’ve seen you on TV,” Jihoon reveals, clearing his throat as he unwraps what looks like a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich. “I watched the interview for the anniversary of Blue Valentine. You looked good.”

The heat creeps up on your neck, and you try your best to ignore it. “Oh?” Your mouth curves into a smirk. “As opposed to now?”

He lets out a snort, shaking his head. “You aren’t roping me into that one.”

“Roping you into what?” You giggle, batting your eyes. “I’m innocent.”

You jointly break into peals of laughter, rumbling from the pit of your soul. For a moment, you’re lighter, brighter than you have felt in days. You haven’t felt the disease of grief for almost an hour, and it’s nice not to have that dark cloud over you. But eventually the laughter dies down, and it’s quiet, and the thoughts in your head become louder, urging you to say what’s on your mind. Jihoon glances at you before looking away, busying himself with his sandwich. You finally take the lid off your coffee, expecting to add your fixings, only to realize it’s already there, with whipped cream on top.

“I didn’t forget how you like your coffee.”

“I see,” you murmur, ignoring the light butterflies in your stomach. “Thanks.”

You eat another donut in silence, watching the birds perch outside the window. They flap their wings happily, without a care in the world. It must be nice to live carefree like that, not being plagued by loss. You gaze at Jihoon, studying him for the first time since you’ve been with him. He’s broader, finer, and has grown into his looks, but some things remain the same. Like the style of his glasses, his truck, and the vinyls that are plastered on the walls. He is still a neat freak, with every spot in this loft clean and items placed with purpose. Hanging on the hook is his letterman jacket from Carats Ridge High, where he played football. Most importantly, he still has the same guitar, castaneous and worn as ever, but still in good shape.

You don’t think much about this town, but you have thought about him and how things ended. You never dwell on it long, though, because then you'd be forced to feel it all, and that makes you vulnerable. You can’t afford that.

“I think I am going to head out,” you say, scooting out of the seat. You glance at him before looking away, rubbing your left temple. “I appreciate the coffee and donuts. You didn’t have to do that.”

Jihoon nods, neatly setting down his sandwich. “I know, but I wanted to.”

You don’t look him in the eyes. You don’t want to acknowledge the current of emotions that are pumping through your heart. You nod in response, grabbing your phone and your shoes. You look around for your dress, but it's nowhere in sight.

“Hey, have you seen my dress—”

“Oh! Wait a minute.”

Jihoon scurries out of his seat, disappearing into a closet you didn’t notice, emerging with your dress, dry and without a wrinkle.

“I put it in the dryer while you sleep,’ he explains. “I figured you might not want wet clothes to take home.”

Your fingers rub against the soft material, the faint smell of fabric linen lifting off the cotton. It brings you back to the first time you were in his truck that summer, one he proudly bought, with the same scent hanging from the rearview window. He said it was the only scent that made sense—guess that hasn’t changed.

“Thank you, again, Jihoon.”

Your hand is on the door, almost turned to pull when it’s pushed open, almost smacking you in the face. Standing on the other side is someone you did not want to see: Jihoon’s mother. She eyes you up and down, her face drawn with disgust and contempt as if you were the vein of her existence.

“Hmm, I see you are back in town,” Mrs. Lee remarks, entering the loft and forcing you to move out of the way. “Are you here to cause trouble again for my boy?”

You are taken aback, letting out a scoff as you regain your composure. “No, Mrs. Lee,” you respond, rather short. “My father is dead.”

She pauses for a second before letting out a hmph, throwing her bag on the futon that was still laid out as a bed. “Jihoon, is this how you live now?

“Mom, what—”

Redirecting her attention back to the living room, she waves him off, as if what he says doesn’t matter. She fusses with the blankets drawn on the futon, throwing them aside and folding the futon back to make it a couch. She mutters under her breath, no doubt obscenities about you. You shouldn’t be surprised by this behavior; this is who she has always been. But it opens up an old wound that hasn’t quite healed, and you are one minor inconvenience away from being ready to let her have it.

“Bye, Jihoon,” you say, shaking your head. “Thank you again.”

“Let me walk you out—”

“No.” You insist, harder than you intended. “I can walk out by myself. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

Though you smile at him softly, you’re screaming inside for space to breathe.

“Okay,” he reluctantly agrees. “Call me when you make it back, please?”

You nod, letting out a small breath. “I’ll get your number from Lola.”

“Okay.”

You stare at each other, the silence stretching a little too long, tension filling the air with unspoken thoughts and truths that you’ve kept locked away in a box that you never planned to acknowledge again. Jihoon looks as if he has something to say, his brows furrowing, and you stand there, waiting to hear what comes out of the end of it.

“Can I ask you something?”

His eyes shift to something softer, familiar, making your stomach flutter. “Yeah, shoot,” you reply cautiously.

He exhales softly, running his fingers through his hair. “Blue Valentine… was that about us?”

Your breath hitches, the question catching you off guard. Blue Valentine was your debut novel, which was met with immediate success. You were #1 on the best-sellers list for a year and are still in the top 20, earning numerous accolades and achieving success you never thought you could. But that book is personal, about two teenagers who met one summer and had the best time of their lives before they parted ways and never saw each other again. You’ve been asked numerous times who the muse was behind the book, and you’ve never answered it directly.

“Jihoon, I—”

“Aren’t you supposed to be leaving?”

Mrs. Lee’s thin voice cuts through the moment, sounding like chalk screeching on a board. Oddly, you appreciate the irony in this; at least you don’t have to reveal the deep, uncomfortable truth.

Shaking your head, you throw a look at Jihoon before peeking into the doorway. “Mrs. Lee, always a pleasure.” You salute sarcastically, shutting the door behind you.

One Summer Ago

“It’s the fifth anniversary of your debut novel, Blue Valentine. How has life changed since then?”

You sat up straighter, adjusting the blazer you wore over your soft satin shirt. The lights were bright, almost blinding, as you tried to look happy and composed on television. You are on Good Morning America, and you were invited to discuss your book with legendary anchor Ginger Snaps.

“I am much busier,” you laughed. “But I am really grateful to all of my readers who have been on this journey with me. I wouldn’t be here without them.”

“True,” Ginger responded. “But your writing, your penmanship even, is one of a kind. You would have been successful regardless.”

You blinked, unsure of what to say to that besides “Thank you.”

“Absolutely,” Ginger beamed while flipping to the next card. “Now Blue Valentine is about two teenagers from opposite worlds who spend one summer together that changes their lives. So many people have been inspired to find their own Blair and Jackson, and some fans have even sent in personal stories (which we will send with you later).”

“Wow,” you said, astonished.

Ginger smiled, a mischievous glint in her eye that gives you pause. “Take us back to when Blue Valentine was being written,” Ginger presses. “Tell us a deep, hard fact that we don’t know.”

You glanced at your agent, Anna, who gave you a tight nod. Your mind suddenly went blank, a little too long. You saw the questions before the interview and even rehearsed your answers. You’ve done this a million times, yet you are struggling to remember a single thing. Your mind traveled back to him, that summer, where you sat at the lake and listened to Jihoon playing his songs on the guitar. That same summer when he kissed you for the first time, and fireworks sparked in your chest. That very summer, when you blossomed like the cornflowers in your yard and truly felt alive.

But thinking of him also brought you pain. It was a harsh reminder that you haven’t connected with anyone on that level, and to be honest, do you even want to? Get to know someone, experience the highs and lows of a relationship, the heartache—

“Y/N?”

You slowly came back to focus, shutting the doors on those memories and throwing away the key. You can’t afford to feel that right now.

“I’m sorry, Ginger.” You gave her your best smile. “Could you repeat the question?”

“Mom, what was that?”

Jihoon walks to his mother, who is busying herself with folding the blanket you laid in. She takes a sniff of it and gags, throwing it on the floor in disgust.

“That perfume is gross,” she begins, waving her hand in front of her face. “You will need to re-wash that blanket three times.”

“Her perfume smelled fine,” Jihoon lets out a resigned sigh. “And you’re avoiding the subject.”

His mother throws him a look before huffing, stepping around him to the kitchen table. “I’m not avoiding anything; I just simply do not want to talk about her.”

Jihoon shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. His mother has always been like this: pushy, haughty, and truly believes no one is good enough for him. He has tried to date, sure, and has had a relationship here and there, but his mother never liked anyone he brought around, especially you. Mrs. Lee hated you for no reason besides that you lived on opposite sides of the tracks. For whatever reason, when you came around, it burned an ember inside of her that just wouldn’t let up. Jihoon never understood it, which led to constant tension between them because he always defended you. She detested that.

“I don’t want her coming back here,” his mother announces, dusting off her hands. “She is nothing but bad news, Jihoon.”

“Firstly, this is my place,” Jihoon scoffs. “And how, Mom?” He pushes back. “She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

Mrs. Lee stops, glancing at you and then looking away. “That apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Jihoon stands there, bewildered and scratching his head. His mother has shown early signs of dementia, which is also another reason why he stayed behind. As much as he wanted to pursue music still, he couldn’t be selfish and leave her.

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say,” he accepts, not wanting to push it further. “Do you still want to go to the farmers’ market in the next town?”

Looking at the set of donuts on the table, she grimaces. “Yes. I want to go before the fresh strawberries and cream cart runs out.”

Grabbing the keys to his truck, she takes one last look at the place, scoffing as she opens the front door. “I’ll be waiting in the car. It’ll serve you right to clean up this mess before we leave.”

The door shuts with a thud, and Jihoon lets out the breath he’d been unironically holding in. He loves his mother, truly, but she leaves him with an anxiety that cracks his chest and fills his stomach with rumbling stones. She doesn’t give him room to breathe or just to be. Her words strike to hurt and are passed off as maternal love. He’s used to it by now, but sometimes, he wants to leave this town and never come back. But he wouldn’t be a good son, and he promised his father he would always protect her.

So he does what’s told, because what else is he going to do?

You’ve been a recluse for the past couple of days. You stayed in your house unless you needed to leave, cleaning it until your fingers were pink and blistered. You undoubtedly smell like lemon-scented cleaning supplies and bleach. You threw away numerous bags of trash and set aside food to donate to the local food pantry. You even mowed the lawn, even though Vernon was supposed to do that. You're sweaty, gross, and in need of a shower—but they’re still so much to do.

The truth is, you have a lot on your mind, and the adrenaline coursing through your veins is keeping you going—otherwise, you would have crashed. Your heart is heavy, and the walls you’ve had built up for so many years are starting to crack. Daddy, Jihoon, this house and the memories, everything is closing in, and it’s suffocating at times. You look at the living room and remember the times Daddy tried to do your hair so you would look nice for school, or when Monday night wrestling was on, and he would order pizza as a weekly ritual. The old stove in the kitchen, where Daddy used to make dinner on the nights he was home. Everything reminds you of him, and throwing Jihoon in the mix, you want to run into the woods and disappear.

Whether you are ready to admit it or not, Jihoon has always been in the back of your mind, and somewhere deep in your heart, buried under a bed of budding flowers. Every once in a while, when you’re in your bed and everything is quiet, you think of the time you shared with him and the warmth that filled your soul. It was young love, sure, but it was still love, and the only time you have ever truly felt it. Experienced it with free will. When you left this town, you hoped to continue, and it festered into a stronger, deeper love that lasted forever.

But it didn’t end like that, and that’s okay, you guess.

You collapse on your childhood bed, wiping the sweat off your forehead with your head down, catching your breath. You still have to go through your rooms and decide what to keep or give away, but first, you need a shower.

“Hello?”

Your attention is on the door, the sound of heels clacking on the hardwood floors you just finished shining. Irritation bubbles in your chest, but when Lola comes into view, it evaporates quickly.

“I didn’t know you were coming by,” you say, pulling off your cleaning gloves.

“Well, you would have known if you answered your phone,” Lola ripostes, raising an eyebrow as she looks around the house. “I told you Vernon and the boys were going to clean this up for you.”

“I know that,” you answer. “But I just needed to keep busy.” You sniffle, the cleaning products making your nose run. “I have a lot on my mind, you know?”

Lola’s face softens, a gentle half-smile appearing. “I know, Blue.”

She sits next to you on the bed, wrapping her arm around your shoulder. “I came to get you out of here, anyway. You are coming to eat with us.”

You knew what “us” meant: Lola, Vernon, and the twins. You wanted a day to yourself, to think, to clean more, and to avoid the world. To not have to see the pity looks you get when you walk to the courthouse or go into Jollibee’s to get a burger and fries. But you don’t want to hurt Lola’s feelings, and you know she means well.

“I need to shower and change first,” you say, looking down at your worn, bleach-stained black shirt and sweats. “I feel gross.”

“Do what you need to do,” Lola nods, plopping off the bed. “I assume that the food in the container needs to go to the community center? We’ll drop it off on the way.”

She leaves you to your thoughts and privacy, shutting the door softly behind you. Blowing a raspberry, you begrudgingly get off the bed, tearing off your shirt and the rest of your clothes, throwing them in the corner. The cool air from the a/c hits the back of your legs like a nice reprieve. You’ve been on autopilot for days; you are slowly starting to feel it, finally—the small aches in your knees and hands, the constant dull pain in your lower back. Maybe you should have let the gang clean the house after all.

You study yourself in the mirror for the first time in days; dark circles surround your eyes from the lack of sleep, and your skin is dull, begging for hydration. Your naked body shines in the golden light of the sun, the most light you have let touch you in days. You’re falling down a rabbit hole, deep into the wonderland of avoidance, and the chasm of you not giving a fuck grows wider with each passing day.

“Shit,” you murmur to yourself.

You step into the shower, letting the water pressure hit your lower back until it goes numb. The steam quickly fills the small bathroom as you inhale, filling your lungs. The tension slowly leaves your body, as if you are floating in a dreamy oasis, standing there for a while, letting your mind go blank as you slowly turn off your emotions. You could do this forever—stand here and be non-existent to the world, and get the peace you truly want. No pain from the constant grief that cuts you open like a fresh wound, or anger from being back at the one place you hate the most. Most importantly, no deep late-night thoughts of what could have been with Jihoon.

You don’t allow yourself to think of that summer often. You try to let the past be the past, move forward, and enjoy your success. You’ve even tried dating, getting under someone new, to get rid of the faint nagging in your heart when you think of him. You ignore the way your heart beats when you think of the times at the music store, sitting on the counter and listening to Pearl Jam on the vinyl. Or the rush you felt when you jumped in the lake together, hand in hand, fully clothed and not caring about how you looked. The silly songs he sang in your ear or the way his fingers ran through your hair—

Knock! Knock!

“Blue, are you alright?”

Lola’s voice snaps back into reality, a jarring mix of white tiled walls and the smell of wet plastic outside a blue shower cocooning you from the rest of the world. Pressing your forehead against the cold, slick tile, you exhale a breath that feels far too heavy.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lie. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

There is a brief pause, nothing but the running water hitting the porcelain tub as the sun shifts west. Then finally she responds, “Okay. Change of plans: Vernon is bringing the kids here.”

Slight irritation bubbles in your chest at the change of plans, but you will live. “Okay,” you breathe. “I’ll be out in a few.”

A few minutes into twenty as you wash your body and stand under the water until it turns cold. Your mind is full of noise, an annoying static, and you'd give anything to return to that dreamy oasis. You want to call it off, tell Lola to go home, and see her another day. The adrenaline has worn off, and you want to fall into your bed and sleep until next week, when all of this will be over, and you can leave this place for good. You haven’t known peace since you got that call, and you crave it so much it’s cemented in your bones.

Turning off the shower, you grab a towel while refusing to look at the mirror again. You know what state you’re in, and you don’t give a damn about fixing it. You dry yourself from head to toe and throw on the most comfortable clothes you have, sweats, and an old Spice Girls t-shirt. You’re on a mission to reclaim your life, your peace, and you swing the door open to say exactly that.

“AUNTIE BLUE!!”

Two little girls sprint down the hall and tackle you on both sides, making you falter back into your room. Lola’s twins, Amethyst and Ruby, hug you tightly, and you can’t help but lean down and pull them close, your eyes prickling with tears. You have met the twins before when Lola came to visit you in New York a few times, and when she was pregnant, she asked you to be their godmother. You love them like an aunt would their niece, and you would never want to hurt them in any way. A deep shame floods your body at the thought of sending Lola home without regard for them. Their happy smiles and excited looks seep a light into your black heart, and you are grateful.

“Why are you crying?” Amethyst asks, pulling away slowly. “Did I do something wrong?”

You shake your head, the weight of shame deepening in your chest. “Oh no,” you assure her, brushing her little curls back with a gentle smile. “I had a really long day, but I am so happy to see you two.”

You gaze at Ruby, who studies you carefully, a slow smile spreading on her face. Out of the two, Amethyst is the outgoing twin with Lola’s spunk, whereas Ruby is quieter and more observant with Vernon’s eyes. You can see it now, how she looks you over without much to say.

“Don’t tell me they got all the hugs.”

You know that voice from anywhere, glancing slowly at Vernon, who is standing in the doorway with three boxes of pizza and wings. You, Vernon, and Lola were a trio growing up—nothing could separate you all, even when Lola and Vernon started dating. Vernon is your best friend, too, in a way, though you don’t talk to him as much as Lola. But your relationship is the type where you don’t have to talk all the time. What you all went through, all those years ago, created a bond that could never be broken.

Releasing the twins from your grasp, you walk over to help Vernon with the boxes. Despite his dark brown hair being cut into one of those modern mullets, he still looks the same, even down to his signature boots and jean jacket. He’s always been lean, tall, and has a face that should be in magazines, not slumming it out here on the Southside. But that was never his style; he’s always viewed Carats Ridge as his home, and with a successful bar, Shadow, that has been passed down through generations in his family, he never plans on leaving. He reminds you of Daddy, in a way.

“Hi Vern,” you greet him with a hug. “I dig the cut.”

“Yeah?” Vernon responds with a slight smirk. “Tell Lola Bunny over there that. She hates it.”

You glance at Lola, who rolls her eyes playfully, and an unexpected giggle erupts out of you, taking you by surprise. Slapping your hand over your mouth, you’re filled with uncontrollable laughter, tears in your eyes over such a silly joke. This has always been the dynamic among the three of you. It reminds you of the times when the three of you would come here and hang out with Daddy, eating pizzas, watching The Simpsons reruns, or playing games. The nostalgia is strong and fleeting, making you feel lighter than you have in days.

“Are you okay?” Vernon asks, exchanging a nervous glance with Lola. You sniffle, trying to hold it together from the laughter, the irony of it all. The kids have gone into the backyard, the screen door swinging shut with a slam.

“I’m not okay at all,” you chortle, the shaky breath of laughter dying in your throat. “I’m completely fucked up.”

Saying it out loud shatters you. The pain cracks your composure, and you shatter, crying from the depths of your soul. Vernon pulls you into a hug, letting you sob loudly into his shirt. You are feeling everything, everywhere, and all at once. Through the haze, you hear him tell Lola to check on the girls as he hugs you tighter, holding you together while your chest caves in.

“Let it all out, Blue,” Vernon says gently. “I got you.”

The truth is, no one prepares you for losing a parent so majestically, and how it flips your world upside down. They don’t warn you about how grief is an ugly parasite that eats at you painfully until you’re empty. They don’t tell you that the misery will crush you until you can’t breathe and your world turns black. Your candle, your guiding light, is snuffed out. How do you get that back?

Ten Summers Ago

“Vern! Pass me that spliff, will ya?”

It was after midnight, and you were lying in the back of Vernon’s truck with him and Lola, looking at the stars that decorate the sky. It was supposed to be a shower of shooting stars tonight, and you wanted to see this once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon. It was seventy degrees, and the breeze was just right as you’re sitting on the other side of Sinbrook Forest, in front of the field. Taking the joint from Vernon’s hands, you inhaled until your throat burned something fierce, coughing heavily while the others laughed.

“Careful there, Blue. I don’t want your dad stringing me up a pole.”

You lolled up, throwing a look at Vernon while handing the spliff to Lola. “I’m fine,” you breathed. “It just went down the wrong pipe.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Vernon teased, falling into a peal of laughter.

You reached over to pinch him when you heard a crunch of leaves, stopping you dead in your tracks. Lola and Vernon sat up suddenly, turning off the music on the speaker and grabbing a flashlight. Your heart raced as you tried to see through the dark, squinting your eyes at the figure moving down the field. Vernon tapped the flashlight hard on his leg, the light flickering a few times before finally illuminating the darkness. You noticed the familiar faded jean jacket first, the tension in your body leaving you slowly as you recognized the person in front of you.

“Jihoon?”

He stopped, looking in your direction as he covered his eyes from the light. You called his name again, and before you knew it, you were hopping out of the bed of the truck and walking towards him. You were going to the music store a lot more often, but not just to buy music or DVDs. Sometimes you just came by to hang out, listened to undiscovered vinyls with Jihoon, and talked about what you like about each record. You quickly realized Jihoon wasn’t as stuck-up as everyone else on the Northside, and you started to become friends. His mother was sometimes there and gave you a stink eye, but it’s nothing you aren't used to. You still felt the shock in the center of your palm from the first day you met. The feeling is ingrained in you now, and it’s hard to ignore.

You finally reached him, with the light of your phone in your hand, wading through the knee-length grass as it shifts with the wind. “Hey there,” you greeted him. “‘Didn’t know you liked stargazing.”

“I didn’t know you were into stars either,” Jihoon quipped, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Smells like you are having a get-together.”

You felt the heat creep onto your neck, painfully aware of his reference to the smell of weed on your clothes. “Yeah, well, what’s a party without party favors, you know?”

You turned back to Lola and Vernon, who had the flashlight adjusted enough to illuminate the truck. They were locked into an intense make-out session, and you grimaced, knowing better than to interrupt that.

“Well, I guess I’ll be watching the stars with you then,” you decided, turning your focus back to Jihoon. “That’s not a problem, right?”

Jihoon was taken aback, but he recovered quickly. “Do you usually invite yourself to other people’s activities?”

A giggle bubbled through your throat, amused by his question. “No,” you answered honestly. “But I usually make them more fun.”

Walking towards the middle of the field, you helped Jihoon unfold the blanket he was holding and lay it flat on the grass. The sky has somehow gotten brighter, a milky blue never seen before in this town. You marvel at it, your eyes twinkling like the stars above. It’s more beautiful than what you could describe in your journal.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” You murmured.

“Yeah. It is.”

You glanced at Jihoon, only to find his gaze had shifted from the sky to you. When your eyes lock, a warm tide rushes through you, making your stomach flutter with the sensation of flying. This isn’t the first time you have felt this, being around him, but here under the night sky, it’s overwhelmingly prominent.

“Do you come here often?” You posed, drawing a circle on the blanket. “I come here a lot, and I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

Jihoon shakes his head, folding his legs and resting his hands on his knees. “No,” he responded. “I usually go down to the lake, but I didn’t feel like being by the water tonight.”

Sugarmore Lake is the only lake in Carats Ridge that runs north to south through the town. It’s the unofficial ‘Switzerland ‘ of the town, where everyone managed to get along and enjoy the lake. Not that a fight or two hasn’t broken out once or twice there, but it’s an unspoken rule that everyone leaves their bad vibes at the entrance.

“I see.” You nodded, leaning back on your elbows. “I don’t go there much, and the last time I went I was fishing with my dad.”

Silence fell between you for a moment, the only sound heard coming from the grass blades moved by the slow breeze. It was comfortable to sit next to Jihoon in a different environment. “Well,” Jihoon muttered. “Maybe you should come with me sometime.”

Your eyes danced at him, curiously, a slow smile spreading on your face. “Are you asking me on a date, Jihoon?”

His laugh tickled your chest, and you couldn’t help but join in. What a silly thing to assume. But then he slowed, and he looked at you seriously, his eyes softening under the low light.

“What if I was?” Jihoon said slowly, looking nervous. “Would it be a bad thing?”

You looked at him with regard, realizing he is serious. You’ve never been asked out on a date before. You’ve been on one or two and have experiences, sure. But no one has formally asked you, at least not in this way. The truth is, you like Jihoon. You liked seeing him at the music store and listening to 60s rock. You liked arguing with him about why disco is overly hated or how 90s grunge is one of the best genres of all time. You loved sitting in the chair while Jihoon strummed his guitar, humming a song he'd come up with the night before. You enjoyed his company. You enjoyed him.

“I don’t think it would be a bad thing at all,” you whispered.

Jihoon smiled at you warmly, his hand shifting towards yours as it brushes against your thumb. A familiar zap is felt between you two, and you throw him a look, rolling your eyes playfully.

“Here you go, shocking me again,” you teased him.

“Oh, please, it’s from the blanket and the stars aligning—”

“Oh, you’re an astronomer now, Jihoon?” you quipped. “Please, tell me more.”

“Well, obviously not, but—”

“—What are you two yapping about?”

Vernon and Lola appeared on your right, holding a blanket and what’s left of the weed. He stumbled before he fell, reaching over you and handing it to Jihoon, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Come on, Lee, take a puff,” Vernon goaded him. “Join the fiesta under the stars.”

Rolling your eyes, you turned to Jihoon. “You don’t have to—”

Your words died down in your throat, watching Jihoon take the small blunt and smoke it. Your mouth parted in shock, watching him inhale and exhale the smoke from his mouth expertly, forming a perfect ‘O.’

“Oh! He gets down!” Lola cheered, raising her fist in the air. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Jihoon chuckled, handing the blunt back to Vernon. “I’m not a square, you know. I know my way around a joint or two.”

“Touche,” Vernon responded, leaning back against the blanket. “My bad. I didn’t know the Northie had it in him.”

Gazing up at the sky, you saw the stars twinkle, brighter than you have ever seen. Then one shooting star came down, followed by two, and then a series. You gawked in awe, a tear streaming down your cheek as you watched the phenomenon happening in front of you. Who knows if you will ever see something so wondrous ever again?

Jihoon’s hand covered you, and instead of a spark, you felt a warmth that made your skin prickle. His skin is soft, you smell his cologne, and the magnetism in the air pulls you closer to him, almost touching shoulder to shoulder. You had so much to say, and it overloads your brain. It’s hard to contextualize anything else you feel other than one word: happy.

“So, the lake?” Jihoon asked, beholding the show in front of him.

Smiling softly, you answered him. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

Jihoon never thought he would see you again, and now you’ve taken over his every thought.

Ever since you stayed at his apartment, he has been replaying the memories you have together. Every corner of the music store reminds him of you, with headphones over your ears and bobbing your head to whatever album you haven’t listened to before. It’s been a few days since you’ve spoken, with you letting him know you made it home. He’s wanted to reach out, his fingers flicking to your contact in the moments where it’s quiet, but his thoughts get the best of him. It’s been so long—would you even want that?

Jihoon has seen your interviews here and there and heard the news about you from Vernon. It’s funny how he and Vernon became close when you left town, realizing they had a lot more in common than recreational weed. When Jihoon started teaching music at the community center on the Southside, Jihoon got to know your dad better. He never understood why his mother didn’t like him—he thought he was cool, a fierce leader, and a protector of the youth. He gave Jihoon words of encouragement when his father passed, and when his health started to decline, Jihoon offered to take him running errands if he needed it. Maybe, subconsciously, it was Jihoon’s way of staying close to you, through him.

The thunder rumbles outside, shaking the windows in his loft. Jihoon watches the lightning strike near Sinbrook Forest, the wind picking up, and trees thrashing around violently. Shaking his head and sighing softly, he picks up his worn guitar and strums a soft tune that echoes in the living room, a melancholic melody that has been stuck in his head for the past twenty-four hours.

I remember when I realized I had feelings for you

We were riding in my truck, driving down to the lake

With the windows down, sunlight turning gold on your face

I knew then what I was feeling was not a mistake

I miss you

It’s always been you.

You’ve been here two weeks, and time isn’t going fast enough.

You handled all the estate stuff for your father, retrieving the death certificate and signing the necessary paperwork to ensure the house was sold and everything else was in order. Vernon and the Zodiacs came to help you clean up the rest of the house, repair the childhood swing set in your backyard, and give the house a fresh coat of paint. Little by little, the pieces of your childhood are taken out, and you aren’t sure how to feel. Relieved? Sad? Numb? Your emotions are a clusterfuck, and that’s not even throwing Jihoon into the mix.

You are grateful for them—the Zodiacs, this community, for coming through for you in your time of need in the name of your father. Your relationship with the idea of being a Zodiac legacy is complicated, but you aren’t ashamed of where you came from or who your dad raised you to be.

“What’s on your mind, Blue?”

Vernon stands next to you, beer in hand, as he supervises the younger crew loading the last bit of furniture into a box truck. He takes a swig, the sweat dripping from his forehead and down his neck on this unusually warm day.

“Just watching the place I grew up change right before my eyes.” You let out a heavy sigh. You eye the glistening beer in his hand. “I see nothing’s changed. Is it noon yet?”

“It’s noon somewhere, Bluebird,” he responds, taking another gulp.

You shake your head, chuckling and folding your arms. One of the older gentlemen, nicknamed Pop, carries out buckets of paint from around the house. His boots squish in the wet grass, walking towards you and setting them down with a whistle.

“Everything is all painted up, Blue,” Pop announces. He turns his attention to Vernon. “It’s a little too early to be celebrating, don’t you think?

Your brows furrow in confusion, darting between Pop and Vernon. “Celebrating what? Is Lola pregnant again?”

“What?” Vernon’s eyes went wide, followed by a dry nervous laugh. “God no. Lola and I can barely handle the two that we have.” He suddenly goes quiet, looking down at his feet, almost ashamed. “The uh.. crowning ceremony is tonight.”

It takes a while to register what he means, but once it clicks, it’s like you’re hit with a heavy stone as you’re caught off guard. The crowning ceremony takes place when a new leader is appointed. It takes place at the Viper, and while the ceremony itself is short, it involves lots of booze and partying afterward to honor the new king of the Zodiacs. You know that your father couldn’t be the leader forever.

“So…” your voice shakes, trying to hold it together. “I take it you are going to be the new leader then?”

“Y-yeah,” Vernon mutters, kicking an imaginary stone from his foot.

When you finally glance at Vernon, the tears come down fierce and hot. You know you shouldn’t feel hurt, you understand this is the way of things, but it’s not his father who just died. It’s not Vernon’s home that is being sold and turned into something you don’t even recognize. Most importantly, it’s not his heart that is being trampled on a thousand times over.

“Blue, I—”

“Don’t worry about it, Vernon,” you sniffle, furiously wiping your wet eyes. “I’m happy for you, truly. I know you will lead the Zodiacs well.”

You walk away before he can respond, the harsh sunlight beaming on the top of your head. You’re seething with anger, a sense of betrayal stirring in your gut. Your father is barely settled six feet under, and he is already being replaced. It feels so fast, too soon. You can't wrap your mind around Daddy being replaced—just like that.

You walk without a clear destination in sight in an angry haze, just with a drive to get away from everyone and think. Cars whiz by you, passengers looking at you curiously, but you couldn't care less. Your head is humming with static, unable to get a coherent thought together that isn’t laced with profanities. Being mad as hell is an understatement.

Your stomach aches from the anger, but you push through as the sweat swims down your neck. You cross the train tracks that separate the north and the south, and your throat feels like sandpaper, begging for a drop of water to take you out of your misery. But you keep walking, face hot until you see the familiar sign that says “Lee’s Records Store”, red lights illuminated in front of the yellow and white building. It wasn’t your intention to come here, but your body feels more at ease as you come closer to it, the static in your head lessening as you think about listening to music and mellowing out.

Pulling the doors open, the cool air hits your face, and you exhale, feeling relieved. Your eyes scan the door, looking for Jihoon, but instead, you are met with the scornful eyes of Mrs. Lee, standing behind the counter.

“What are you doing here?!” She demands, the disdain clear in her voice.

“I was looking for Jihoon,” you respond, an eyebrow raised. “Is he around?”

“No, he’s not,” Mrs. Lee answers shortly.

You nod slowly, thumbing through the albums to your left. You pick up Nevermind by Nirvana, your thumb caressing the cover's plastic. The first time you listened to this album was here, with Jihoon, sitting on top of the counter. You will never forget the grittiness of Kurt Cobain’s voice blasted through the speakers, the guitar riffs that gave you life, and the drums that stayed in your head well into the rest of the day. It was one of your happiest moments.

“I think you should leave,” Mrs. Lee says suddenly, snapping you out of your reverie. You observe her waddling from the counter, walking towards you with determination. “You’re not welcome here.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, walking around her. “I’m sure Jihoon would disagree.”

A tug on your arm yanks you back, and a nail digs into your forearm. You glance at Mrs. Lee in shock as you quickly pull your arm away. “I told you to leave!” Mrs. Lee shouts, pointing at the door. “All of you Southside people are the same, coming over here, causing chaos, and not caring who gets hurt in the process.”

You stare at her incredulously, feeling wetness drip from your arm. Glancing down, you see the blood trailing down from her nails penetrate your skin. “Lady, what the fuck is your problem—”

Her face gets redder, the anger mounting with each second. "You’re just like him, you know—you come in and take away people’s joy and then leave. You don’t care about my boy and how much you hurt him. You were trash then, and I praised God every day when you left.”

You’re rooted in place, stunned into silence. A discomfort spreads in your stomach, and you refuse to accept what you're hearing. “When you say him, I know you aren’t talking about my father—”

“Yes. Him,” Mrs. Lee sneers. “He was shit then, and I suppose he’s being turned into shit now, six feet under—”

The slap echoed off the walls of the store, your hand stinging as if a wave of fire washed over your knuckles. A red imprint was visible on her face, her glasses askew and about to fall off. You heave, an anger surging through you like no other, your other finger pointing in her face.

“I don’t know what your deal is with me, or my father,” you breathe heavily. “But if you ever disrespect us again, I will snap your neck and throw you into the fucking lake.”

Her laugh bellows throughout the store, her smirk triumphant and all knowing, pissing you off more. "There she is," her voice laced with something sinister. "I knew the Southside trash were still in you, girl."

The front door rings open before you can respond, and there stands Jihoon, holding a large brown bag from the pharmacy. He scans both of you, the smile on his face disappearing quickly at the scene. Shaking your head, you walk around Mrs. Lee towards the door, the adrenaline you had earlier waning quickly as you take in everything that has occurred in the last day.

“What happened?” Jihoon asks, pulling you aside. “You’re bleeding.”

You beckon your head towards his mother, unwilling to look at her without seeing red. “She was disrespectful, and I reacted,” you say simply. “I will not tolerate her bullshit for my father or me anymore, whatever her imaginary beef is with us.”

Jihoon lets out a deep sigh, raking his fingers through your hair. “You’re bleeding. Can you please go upstairs to my place? I have Band-Aids there.”

You gaze into his eyes, your walls breaking down little by little. You are tired, frustrated, and in need of a hard drink. You also feel Jihoon’s sincerity, and you are tired of fighting—your day has been hard enough as it is.

Slipping out of his arm, you head towards the door, grabbing the nearest CD nearby.

“Fine. I’m taking this as my compensation for damages.”

Jihoon observes the state of the store and his mother, putting the pieces of what happened together. His mother’s face has a crimson handprint, her clothing is disheveled, and her glasses hang from her face. She rants and raves, her shrill voice echoing around the store. Snapping out of it, he quickly turns the sign on the door to “closed”, locking the doors with a swift click.

Walking over to her, he gently adjusts her glasses and slips them over her teary eyes.

“Oh, Jihoon,” she cries, letting her shoulders hang in defeat. “That woman is the devil. I don’t want you seeing her ever again!”

It hurts him to see his mother so crestfallen and upset. Jihoon does not appreciate his mother being hit, and a slow ember burns in his chest. His mother is a lot of things, but that's his mother. If it were anyone else, they would have been dealt with already.

But he also knows you, even if it’s been years, and you would have never laid a hand on her. What the hell happened?

He ushers her to the back office, sits her down, and digs through the top shelf, pulling out a first-aid kit. Retrieving a medical wrap, he takes a cold pack from the mini fridge he had stored in the small space, then wraps the cloth around the pack until it’s completely covered. Pressing it on her face, his mother let out a low hiss.

“I want to press charges,” she announces, leaning back into the office chair. “She had no right to hit me.”

Jihoon shakes his head, feeling tension in his right temple. “Mom, I saw the blood on her arm, and it doesn’t look like it came from you,” he discloses, sitting back. “I need you to tell me what happened.”

His mother shifts in her seat, gripping the ice pack in her hand. Her eyes shift nervously, taking a beat too long before she answers. “She comes in the store, looking for you, and I said you weren’t there,” she begins. “Then she starts raving at me, and I asked her to leave… then she slapped me.”

Jihoon nods slowly, searching his mother’s eyes for confirmation, anything that says the truth. Her eyes focus everywhere but him, and it sets an uneasy feeling in his chest he can’t ignore. “So she just slapped you for asking you to leave?”

“Yes.” She nods fervently. “That’s right. That girl is nuts! I don’t care how many books she writes.”

“What about the blood on her arm?” he probes, the imagery clear in his mind.

“It was already there when she came in.” She shrugs.

Her voice fades on as Jihoon zones out, lost in his turbulent thoughts. His mother has said worse things to you in the past, and you’ve never resorted to violence or even raised your voice. Why would you haul and hit her all of a sudden? It doesn’t smell right.

The small monitor that hosts the store's cameras shines under the fluorescent light. He stares until an idea dawns on him like a warm glow. Jihoon moves before he realizes what is happening, opening the work laptop and logging into the security systems. The recordings from the last hour come into view, his index finger thumbing over the mouse pad before clicking play.

“Jihoon? What are you doing?” his mother asks suddenly.

He doesn’t respond—he fast forwards until you arrive at the store. Jihoon watches intently, the audio at max volume as he listens to every word. His mind turns cold, and his chest constricts lightly, watching his mother dig her nails into your skin until it bled. He notices the shock and hurt on your face as you pull away, piecing the missing holes in his mother’s story. Jihoon glances at his mother, who looks ready to pop out of her seat.

“Jihoon—”

He raises his hand as he focuses on the screen, watching in horror.

“When you say him, I know you aren’t talking about my father—”

“He was shit then, and I suppose he’s being turned into shit now, six feet under—”

Jihoon jumps up as your hand connects with his mother’s face, watching her stumble back in shock as you give her a piece of your mind. Disappointment isn’t even the word to describe how he feels. He still doesn’t agree with his mother being slapped—but you were provoked, and that was conveniently left out of her story.

“Jihoon, I can explain—”

‘What is there to explain?” he snaps, pointing at the screen. “You lied to me and had me ready to go up there and defend your honor.” His chest rises and falls in his hurt as he paces back and forth. “How could you say that?”

Her mouth opens and shuts, at a loss for words. Jihoon has never raised his voice at her, let alone been angry. All his life, he has dropped everything to appease his mother, and it’s cost him great things—opportunities, relationships, and most importantly, you.

“God, Mom, you’re unbelievable,” Jihoon laments, shaking his head. “You are cruel, can’t you see that? You have been nothing but unkind to her ever since she started coming around. What has Blue done to you to make her hate her? Why can’t you get to know her? I’ve had it with this Northside vs. Southside bullshit.”

“Lee Jihoon!” His mother astonishes him. “Watch your language?”

Looking at her incredulously, he scoffs hard. “You just lied to me and made someone bleed, and you want to get on me about my fucking LANGUAGE?”

Jihoon’s cup is running over, and he can’t contain it. It’s more than just her treatment of Blue; it’s the infantilization of him and the refusal to allow him to be who he wants to be. It’s always been about what she wants, and what he thinks is best—never about his desires and his dreams.

“Jihoon, I’m sorry.”

He gazes at her slowly, the anger in his chest escalating to hurt. The walls feel like they are closing in, and there is only one thing on his mind—he needs to leave.

Shaking his head, he grabs his keys and his wallet.

“Lock up on your way out.”

You pace back and forth in Jihoon’s apartment, biting your nails as you revisit everything that has happened. The blood on your arm has dried, and you haven’t bothered to wipe it off. Mrs. Lee is a lot of things, and after that encounter, you wish her nothing but an economy middle seat straight to hell. You’ve always thought she was a grade A bitch for how she treated you back then, but you’ve always bit your tongue, not wanting to ruin your relationship with Jihoon, and to keep the peace. You’ve talked to your dad about it, of course, and he’s never had much to say, aside from “I see she hasn’t changed much” and “if she says anything out of line, you come get me.” She had said plenty of things then that were out of line, but you kept those details to yourself, partly afraid of what your dad would do.

But now you are done sparing her, especially after what she said about your father. Fuck her.

You hear the door open before you turn, watching Jihoon storm in with his face red and contorted with anger. Your breath stutters as his chest rises and falls, unsure how to handle this side of him. You’ve never seen him angry, much less at you.

“Jihoon, before you go on, let me explain—”

“No. Don’t,” Jihoon cuts in, raising his index finger in the air. “I have two things to say.”

A slow sting steeps closer to your heart as you stand there anxiously. “A-Alright,” you sputter. “Go on.”

“Don’t you ever put your hands on my mother again,” Jihoon states, his voice tight with conviction. “That is my mother. If it weren’t because it’s you, I would be handling this a lot differently.”

Your lips purse together, a small sliver of guilt puddling in your chest. All you can do is nod as Jihoon’s expression softens, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips.

“Second: I’m sorry,” Jihoon says, finally looking at you. “I saw what happened on the cameras. What my mother said was beyond disrespectful, and she shouldn’t have hurt you and provoked you like that.”

You slow blink, registering what he is saying. Your eyes well up, the tears falling before you can stop them. You turn quickly, avoiding his gaze as you sob in your hands. You are tired of holding on, trying to be strong for everyone, not to be seen as this broken woman who lost her dad. This town has brought you nothing but hell, and the sooner you can wrap up Daddy’s affairs, the sooner you can go back to your life.

Jihoon’s arms wrap around you, holding you tight as you sob. His fresh linen scent is strong but comforting, and slowly but surely, the tears stop. Turning you around, he gently wipes the tears from your face, studying you until he is done, his fingers tracing down to your mouth.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Jihoon murmurs. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You bite your lip nervously, unable to say anything else. Your head spins, you are exhausted, and you want nothing more than to lie down. You also want to be held, comforted, and to feel the warmth of someone who cares about you, without any hidden agenda.

“Thanks.” You sniffle, your voice raspy and shaky. “I’m not going to say I’m sorry for hitting your mom, but I understand where you are coming from.”

Jihoon nods, caressing your cheek. “I know. I wouldn’t want you to lie to me, anyway.”

A half smile creeps on your face, gazing into his eyes. Unexpected thunder rattles in the distance, startling you. Turning to the windows, the clear blue sky has been replaced by dark ivory clouds, with lightning striking in several places. Looking back at Jihoon, you step out of his embrace, scratching your arm that still has dried blood on it.

“I should probably go back to the house,” you announce, clearing your throat. “It looks like a bad storm is coming.”

“Blue, don’t be silly,” Jihoon says, shaking his head with a slight frown. “You’re staying here.”

“What?” You jerk your head back. “No, I can make it back—”

“God damn Blue, quit being so stubborn,” Jihoon snaps, running a rough hand through his hair. “It’s too dangerous out there, and I would be sick if you had to walk home in that.” Taking a deep breath, he presses his palms together in a gesture of desperate plea.

“Please, just stay the night. “

You mull over this proposition, gazing into his eyes for any reason to say no. You’re a stubborn bull, you know that, and you know you can make it home, in rain, heat, or snow. But as the thunder booms again, shaking the windows, you let out a heavy sigh, realizing you will not win this round.

“Fine. I’ll stay.”

Jihoon’s eyes light up like a beacon in the sea, and you involuntarily smile in return. Unfortunately, your walls are too beaten down to mask how you feel.

“Are you hungry?”

Your eyes shift nervously, acknowledging the ache in your stomach from the lack of food you have had all day. Adrenaline has kept you full, but you realize you should have had more than just a coffee at Jolibee’s.

“Yeah,” you respond, biting your lip. “I could eat something.”

Jihoon nods, heading into the kitchen. He rummages through his fridge, pulling out different deli meats, cheeses, and a hoagie roll.

“You still like Italian subs, right?” Jihoon asks, glancing at you.

You smile softly, your body relaxing as you watch him assemble your favorite sandwich. “Yeah, I do.”

The rain beats on the window, heavy, angry pellets dropping outside. The light flickers momentarily, stopping Jihoon in his tracks. Glancing at each other nervously, you step closer to the window and look at the damage outside. There wasn’t any mention of a major storm tonight; just light rain that was only supposed to last for an hour. The storm rages outside, tree limbs flying through the air and people scurrying into buildings to stay dry. The thunder booms again, followed by a lightning strike that hits the building's fuse box, shutting the power off completely.

‘Well, there goes that,” Jihoon says, followed by a clap of his hands. “I have some flashlights in here that can help us out.”

Turning on the light on his phone, he walks towards the closet by the front door, shuffling through a box until he pulls out two black flashlights. He places one in your hands, your fingers brushing against each other, creating a spark that makes you both jump back. The first time was a coincidence, the second time is suspicious, but this is the third time—and this has never happened with anyone else.

“I see you still have your powers, Electro,” you tease him, rubbing your hand on your shirt.

“You’re still fixated on that,” Jihoon dismissively says, jokingly rolling his eyes. “Maybe it’s you who’s shocking me. Have you considered that?”

 “I doubt it,” you reply, blowing a raspberry. “Why does this only happen with you? Riddle me that.”

Jihoon doesn’t respond. He instead taps his flashlight until it turns on, teasingly shining it in your face.

“Hey, you jerk,” you laugh. “I can’t see.” 

You raise your hand over your eyes from the light, reaching out to him with the other, and move to grab the flashlight from his hand. You miss and grab his wrist by mistake, pulling him close to you. Jihoon finally lowers the light; the luminance bounces off the wooden floors and illuminates the living room. The smiles on your faces slowly disappear, the storm rolling on in the background like an ambiance.

“Sit with me?” you ask softly, pointing towards the futon.

“Yeah, let me put the food up,” he murmurs, retreating to the kitchen.

Plopping on the futon, you close your eyes, recalling the day’s events in your mind. Mrs. Lee, Vernon, the crowning ceremony—all of this alone would give anyone a major headache. You pinch the space between your eyebrows, rubbing it gently until the pain fades, the storm slowly fading in the background. A wet cloth suddenly brushes against your left arm, making you jolt.

“Relax,” Jihoon says softly. “I’m wiping the blood off your arm.”

Your body relaxes as your breathing slows, and you lean back against the futon. “Thank you.”

He mumbles something inaudible, adjusting the flashlight on his lap to look at your arm and removing every stain of crimson until it’s gone. He takes the band-aid he had placed between his fingers and tears the thin paper off, placing it carefully where you were wounded. Jihoon’s thumb presses against it softly, making you wince.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“It’s fine,” you whisper.

Glancing at him, you inch closer, as if something is pulling you together at all costs. The air is thick, your heart and your mind on the same page for once, begging and wanting what’s been in the back of your mind for ten summers now. His hand places over yours, familiar and warm, just as you remembered it.

“Do you think, if what happened didn’t happen all those years ago, you would have stayed?”

You think about the question carefully, searching in your heart for the truth. Smiling softly, you gaze at him again, tightening your hand in his. “Maybe?” you answer, your voice shaking. “Or maybe you could have come with me, and we would have had different lives.”

You lay your head on his shoulder, intertwining your fingers with his. You feel comfortable and safe with Jihoon, and for the first time in a long time, at peace.

Ten Summers Ago

Your father was accused of murder.

Mayor Peppersnitch was found dead in a tub full of water and blood, and it wasn’t an accident. The mayor’s mansion was riddled with broken glass and bullet holes, a gnarly crime scene that shook the quiet, shady town. The FBI swarmed every corner of this town, infiltrating your fave hideouts and monitoring the hallways in your schools as if the killer was going to show up at the school the next day. It was madness for those couple of weeks, and it escalated further when your dad was carted out of your house in handcuffs, shoved in the back of the police car, and taken somewhere hours away. You didn’t understand it; you and your father were home, and you told them that. Why is all of a sudden the number one suspect?

Apparently, someone had a tip that they saw your father and his motorcycle leaving the mansion in the dead of night, though there was no proof. You had to find a lawyer who was willing to take your case, and if it weren’t for a camera from a neighbor’s house that showed your dad was home at the time of the murder, he would have been thrown in prison for life. That month he was gone was hell, and everyone who wasn’t a Zodiac or Jihoon treated you like some pariah, as if you were wrong for defending your father. You weren’t welcome anywhere on the Northside, and people made an effort to cross the other street if you were coming. You felt lonely, abandoned, and most importantly, hurt.

The worst part about all of this? The day he was taken away, you just found out you were waitlist accepted into NYU.

“I’m not going to go to New York.”

You stood in front of your father with your head held high, absolute in your decision. He just came home the day before, the bruises on his wrists still rough from the handcuffs the feds shackled onto him. He sat up on the couch, giving you his undivided attention.

“You just came back home, and I don’t think it’s the best time for me to leave,” you continued. “I will get a job and help around the house. Maybe I will go to junior college in Shiningdale—”

“No.” Your father rose from the couch, all six foot four of him towering over you. “You are not going to miss out on this opportunity because of me.”

“But Daddy—”

“NO!” The bass in your father’s voice deepened, sending a chill down your spine. “You will go to New York, attend that university, and make something of yourself. I didn’t raise you alone for fourteen years just for you to throw your life away.” Taking a deep breath, he motioned for you to sit on the couch. You sauntered over, and he ambled, pulling you into a hug and holding you close. You could smell the husky smell of his cologne mixed with cigarette smoke. It made your nose tingle.

“You have a gift with your pen, Blue.” Your dad’s voice was softer, hitting you hard and soft in your heart. “You have a way with words that I could never even think of. Just like your mother.”

You glanced at him, the mention of your mother making your breath stutter. He rarely talked about her, and you don’t remember her much, aside from her laughter, which you sometimes hear in your dreams. You were three when she died from cancer, but she has always had your dad’s heart.

“Mom used to write?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

“Absolutely,” your father confirmed with a smile. “She used to write me poems all the time.”

He got up suddenly, went into his room, and shuffled around, rummaging through papers and boxes. He returned with several notebooks, each with different hand-drawn blue flower decorations. “I kept her poems, thinking one day you would want to have them,” he explained. “I… still read them from time to time.”

“Daddy, no..." You smiled, leaning into his warmth, taking a notebook as you bite your lip. "I can’t just take this. It feels wrong.”

“Kid, you gotta quit worrying about your ol’ man,” he gruffed, placing a kiss on your forehead. “Your mother would want you to have them… and I want you to take them with you to New York.”

You studied him carefully, understanding that there was no changing his mind. Taking the rest of the notebooks, you cradled them to your heart, feeling a little closer to your mom.

“I’ll take good care of these, Daddy.”

Jihoon is stirred awake by the flash of electricity that turns on the apartment lights and by a loud beep from the microwave. Rubbing his eyes, he feels around for his glasses, patting around softly while you lie on his chest, still asleep. He finds them lying with a grasp underneath the futon, sliding them smoothly on his face. He lifts you gently as he gets up, laying you back comfortably on the futon as he stretches. You hardly stir; your face is relaxed, asleep, and somehow more beautiful than he remembered.

You didn’t talk much more during the storm. Jihoon held you close while it went on, and eventually you fell asleep. He could have slept in his bed, but he wanted to hold you just a little bit longer. He never thought he would have this chance to do it again; to know this grown-up, famous person you’ve become. He wasn’t as angry with you for hurting his mother anymore. The more he thought about it, the more he understood why you reacted the way you did. It opened his eyes to his mother’s behavior, and he knows down the line, decisions will have to be made.

Jihoon starts cleaning the apartment, meticulously wiping the counters and returning everything to what it was before he left. He likes order, putting things back where they belong, and making sense of what is out of place and why. It’s the way he goes through life, as he feels there is a reason for everything, even if the answer isn’t found yet. It’s what keeps him going, he supposes.

“Hey.”

The soft, groggy voice made him pause. He glances in your direction, setting the towel on the counter. “Hey,” he breathes. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

You shook your head, sitting up slowly and smiling sheepishly. “No,” you confirm, your voice still thick with sleep. “The microwave was loud; I just lay there for a bit.”

Jihoon's laugh is light, chuckling at the irony. “Yeah,” he agrees. “It woke me up, too.”

Your hand covers your mouth as you stifle a yawn, your free arm stretching as you rise slowly from the futon. Your hair is disheveled, you have sleep in your eyes, and Jihoon thinks you’re the prettiest woman he has ever seen. He stares longer than he should, watching you adjust your shirt and scroll through your phone. You shake your head with a groan, shoving it in your pocket.

“Do you want some tea?” Jihoon asks, leaning casually against the counter, trying to keep his gaze from lingering. “I have a few things here.”

You don’t answer right away; you stare at the floor, lost in thought. “Blue?” he calls out softly, unfolding his arms. “Are you okay?”

Slowly snapping back into focus, your gaze lifts to meet his. You offer him a small smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. “Oh. Yeah.” You nod. “Tea is good.”

Jihoon mouths ‘okay’ and pulls out a teapot he got from the Wen Thrift Store down the road. The family that runs it has a son named Junhui who is about the same age as him. Junhui travels a lot, sends things from time to time that they could sell at the shop, and that’s how he came across this antique teapot. He uses it almost every day, preferring to wake up to tea rather than coffee. He prefers to drink more natural, herbal drinks, and having a tea does his body good.

Jihoon pours water into the pot and sets it on the stove to boil. “I have a lemon zinger tea. Is that cool?”

“Mhm,” you hum, eyes focused on your phone again. “Whatever you have is fine.”

Jihoon busies himself with making your tea, trying not to focus on your sad and sleepy eyes. He tries not to think about how comfortable you were lying on his chest, how nice it was to hear you deeply breathe on him, not crying, hurt, or in a rage. He avoids noticing the moments stretch whenever he is with you, and how your hair still smells like vanilla and cream.

Jihoon hasn’t had many regrets over the years, but not fighting harder to keep in touch with you, to resume what you had that summer, has been one of the biggest regrets of his life. The dull ache of missing you that he thought he could put away and move on from has stuck with him ever since.

Sneaking a glance at you, he notices your sour disposition, sulking with your phone clutched in your hand tightly, “What’s wrong?” He probes, wiping his hands with a kitchen towel.

Your mouth opens and shuts, words failing to come out. You shake your head in disbelief, rising from the couch and handing him the phone instead. “I’m sure you knew about the ceremony that happened tonight?”

Jihoon looks confused, looking at what’s displayed on the screen. It’s Vernon being raised in the air, holding beers in both hands, with a caption that says “our new leader”. Jihoon watches your body shift uncomfortably, a slow fire starting in your eyes.

“I don’t know what this is,” Jihoon states, handing her back the phone. “What is that?”

“It’s a ceremony that announces the leader of the Zodiacs,” you explain, folding your arms across your chest. “Vern was made the leader.”

“Oh,” he responds, brows furrowing as he understands the situation. “Isn’t that a little early? Your dad just died.”

Your eyes widen, lighting up significantly as you look relieved. “See! You get it!” you exclaim. “I was so mad when Vernon told me (which he didn’t tell me until Pop mentioned it to him in front of me), and I just started walking until I saw something familiar.”

Your shoulders relax as you lean against the counter in thought. “That’s how I ended up downstairs,” you explain, with a softer tone. “I thought maybe I was crazy for feeling hurt by it. I know they have to choose a leader eventually, but Daddy is barely six feet in the ground.”

You blink furiously as you try to hold back tears, wiping your eyes furiously. “Did anyone give a fuck about my father?” You break out in a sob, covering your face with your hands as you start to cry. Jihoon immediately pulls you to him, rubbing your back as you cry into his shirt. He knows all of this too well. When he lost his father, he was sad and missed him, but Jihoon had time to process that he didn’t have long to live and make peace with that. You didn’t, and everything is being thrust onto you with no remorse. And now the world is moving on while you’re stuck in the same place. He knows how that feels.

Jihoon pulls back slightly, lifting your face and wiping your tears away. He notices the way your chin trembles and the light is gone from your eyes, replaced with a hurt that cuts deep. He wishes he could take your pain away, put it in a jar, and throw it in the ocean, never to be seen again.

“Look at me,” he whispers, catching droplets from the corner of your eyes. “I know everything feels shitty right now, and you take all the time you need to heal. But I have your back, okay? I always have. Whatever you need.”

You nod fervently, your breathing slowing as you start to relax. Jihoon makes the mistake of gazing into your eyes, seeing the woman he’s longed for a decade, standing in front of him with a history that can’t top anyone else that he’s connected with. His thumb brushes against your lip by mistake, wet from tears. You nod slowly, as if you read his mind, and you feel the same thing he does, inching closer until your noses barely touch. Smiling gently, you brush his hair back, regarding him with a look of adoration.

“Why are you so nice to me?” You murmur, locking your eyes with his. “You have very well have told me to fuck off, but you still stick around.”

Jihoon studies you for a moment, weighing the scales in his mind. He wants to be honest with you and tell you how he feels, but he also knows you’re vulnerable, and he doesn’t want to take advantage of that. Gazing in your eyes makes him want to forgo his inhibitions and tell you what’s in his heart and mind. Taking a step back, he looks at his floor conflicted.

“Jihoon.” You breathe his name in a way that invokes something wild in his spirit. “What is it?”

He shakes his head, looking past you at the brick wall. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

“What’s fine?” You question him, reclaiming space in front of him. “You aren’t being very clear.”

Jihoon’s feet are planted to the floor, unable to move. He’s acutely aware of how close you are to him, and he fights every nerve in his body to reach out to you. But you touch him instead, lifting his chin to meet the same, warm face that he fell in love with.

“Tell me,” you plead with earnest eyes.

Jihoon exhales lightly, anxiety eating at him from the inside. “I have to say something, and I don’t want you to freak out,” he reveals, his heart beating wildly as he gauges your reaction. Your brows knit in confusion, but you nod slowly, giving him the space to say what’s on his mind. “You’ve been on my mind a lot, even when I tried to forget you. You’re everywhere I go, and not just because you are a big-time author now. I know this is a shitty time to say this, and I’m sorry. But you are hard to forget and to get over, Blue.”

Your expression is calm, as if you’re processing what he’s said, and it makes his stomach drop. Did he say the wrong thing? Did he say too much? It stays quiet a beat too long, and he shifts nervously, shoving his hands in his sweats.

“Is that how you feel?” You ask gently. “Did you mean all that?”

“Yes. I miss you.”

Before he can blink, you kiss him.

It’s needy, titillating, and fills his veins with a high he has been chasing since that summer. His hands cup your face, embracing your soft lips against his, and walking you back until your back hits the fridge. Everything disappears, fading in the background as he deepens the kiss, elated that he might have his girl back. Your hands run through his hair, tugging it softly and moaning in his mouth. He has not experienced this side of you before, so sensual and in control of yourself, but he is willing to learn all of it for you.

“I need you,” you murmur, your eyes snapped shut as you pull on his shirt. “I need you, Jihoon, please.”

He pauses, holding your gaze and needing direct confirmation. “Are you sure? We don’t have to do this.”

A smile tugs at your lips before kissing him again, slipping your tongue into his mouth, and grabbing the back of his neck. “It’s what I want.”

Smirking against your lips, his kisses travel to your neck, sucking on the soft skin that he’s being given the honor to touch.

“Whatever you need, Baby.”

You moan earnestly in his ear, stuck in the trance set by Jihoon. He never imagined he would ever see you again, let alone touch you, kiss you, and profess his feelings to you. See, Jihoon is not an emotional guy and doesn’t say more than he needs to, and that’s always been fine by him. The less you know, the better. But you make his heart want to burst out of his chest. You make him want to feel love and not be afraid of it. You make him feel alive. You make him whole.

Jihoon’s lips return to yours, desperate and commanding, kissing you with everything he has. Every moan from you drives him closer to the edge, and he craves you more. With a quiet, searching look, he waits for your nod of approval before his hands move to the buttons of your jeans, sliding them slowly down your legs. Throwing them out of view and not caring where they land, his breath catches at the sight of your legs, completely enamored.

“What are you doing?” You ask softly, biting your bottom lip.

A slow smirk flirts on his mouth as his fingers travel up your thigh, moving dangerously close to your clothed center. Your breath hitches as he leans in closer, delicately pulling your panties to the side. Your pussy is dripping already, your sweet essence barely staying contained. His mouth waters at the thought of your taste, his tongue begging to lap in between your folds.

“Please, Jihoon,” you whine, massaging the back of his hand. “I want this.”

Jihoon doesn’t hesitate; he dives in, moaning with gratification as he tastes your sweet, warm cunt. You taste better than heaven, a delicacy that he could never get enough of. He pauses briefly to take off your panties and discard them. He wants to see the full picture, this slice of heaven in between your legs. Taking a long swipe in between your folds, you let out a mewling moan, much to his satisfaction.

“Y-yes,” you purr with heavy eyelids and a smile. “God, yes.”

He growls in between your legs, sucking and eating you salaciously with a fervent hunger he can’t contain. His cock hardens in his pants, begging to be touched. He lifts, roughly shoving down his sweats and springing it free, and rubbing his shaft with his free hand. His face is smothered in your cunt with your juices dripping down his chin, and your sweet moans are a melody from his own doing. Jihoon never wants this to end.

“J-Jihoon. Fuck, you’re so good at this.”

Teasingly, he nods with his lips wrapped around your clit, smirking as your eyes flutter to the back of your head. Jolts of pleasure shoot through his cock as he gradually picks up his own pace, his hand tightly wrapped around his girth. He continues to chase his high feverishly and yours, slipping his tongue into your hole. You gasp, shuddering at the sudden switch-up. Your hips slowly wind to his rhythm, your moans echoing louder in a crescendo, whimpering incoherent sayings over and over.

“I got you,” he grunts, lost in his own pleasure. "You can trust me.”

You come undone on his tongue, gripping his hair tightly as you give him everything he wants and more. You are a sight to behold, your toes curling as he works you through your intense high while also chasing his own release. Jihoon is in a haze of lust, vigorously jerking himself off to your wet pussy lips, tipping over the edge.

“Oh, fuck,” he cries out, his orgasm gushing out of him and spilling over his hand. His gaze locks in with yours, continuing to stroke himself until he is spent, his load freely landing on the floor. Resting his head on your leg, his chest heaves as he comes out of the bliss, leaving soft kisses along your calf. The sensation makes you giggle, then you let out a deep exhale.

“Wow,” you say with a dazed look. “I don’t think I have experienced that before.”

Jihoon looks at you slowly, with curiosity. “You’ve never orgasmed before?”

You shook your head, your eyes shifting nervously. “Not like that.”

The teapot whistles loudly, startling you and making Jihoon jump up, forgetting all about it. The steam blows angrily out of the hole, indicating the water is ready to be served with the tea. Quickly turning off the stove, he grabs the cleaner and paper towels, wiping the mess that he made on the floor until it is gone. He notices you watching him with an expression he can’t make out.

“Are you okay?” he asks, glancing at you as he pulls up his sweats. You don’t answer right away, and the silence stretches on that gives him pause. Setting the teapot off the hot stove, he saunters over to you, caressing your forearm. “Blue, are you with me?”

He can tell you’re lost in your own thoughts, his heart racing as he hopes they are happy ones, and of him. Your eyes fix on him, a slow, relaxed smile on your face. He slowly releases the breath he was holding, feeling more at ease. “Yeah,” you finally respond. “I’m with you.”

“Okay,” he nods, feeling more at ease. “I’ll make your tea.”

Your eyes scan the room, undoubtedly looking for your panties and your pants, thrown on the opposite ends of the apartment. Jihoon busies himself making your tea, adding the herbs, and letting it sit in the hot water. Hearing you say that no one has ever made you orgasm in that way does something to him. He’s not a prideful guy, but he will not lie and say he didn’t like the sound of that. Jihoon hasn’t been with many partners, and he has experience, but he hasn’t made love to them the way he did with you.

You’ve officially made him a pussy-drunk fool in love.

Jihoon notices it’s too quiet and sneaks a glance at you as you slide your jeans back onto your body. He notices the way your hands press against your jeans as you rub your thighs. Your hair is messy, your eyes are glossy, and he finds you so fucking irresistible.

“What’s on your mind, Blue?” Jihoon probes, finishing preparing your cup. Walking over to you, he places it in your hands with a towel underneath. “It’s hot.”

You mouth thank you, taking a sip cautiously. Your brows furrow, observing the porcelain cup in your hand. Some of it drips down your chin, and before you could react, Jihoon is wiping it away with his thumb. “This is good,” you finally say, a small smile on your lips. “I’ll have to get this brand for my apartment.”

The air sucks out of him a little, a jarring reminder that you will be leaving here soon, and who knows if you will come back. He studies your face, noting how you close your eyes with each sip, as if you are going to place in your mind that brings you peace.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, softly nudging your knee.

You lock eyes with him, and your sleepy eyes fill him with an infectious warmth and a familiar adoration that is only for him. “For the first time since I’ve been back here, I can breathe.” You hesitate, setting the cup in your lap and locking your eyes with his. “Thank you for that.”

Jihoon feels the sincerity in your words, falling deeper into your orbit and this moment. “I’m glad I could do that for you.”

Ten Summers Ago

“So you’re leaving, huh?”

You were with Jihoon at the lake, throwing rocks along the dark waters as time passed by. The sun beamed on your heads in the mid-afternoon without a cloud in sight. It was your last day in Carats Ridge, and your car was packed to the brim, ready to go. Your last days were spent getting ready for your journey, tying up loose ends, and grabbing anything you could take with you. You spent time with Lola and Vernon with Jihoon in between, and your father threw you an unwanted going-away party at Shadow. You smiled through it, knowing that his intentions were in the right place, and he wanted to show off his only daughter going to college. He deserves the bragging rights, you think. He’s been through a lot after all.

“Yeah,” you confirmed, the word right in your throat as you throw another pebble. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”

You glanced at Jihoon, acknowledging his glum expression and instantly regretting your flippancy. “I’m sorry, Jihoon. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes, you did,” he responded quietly, his gaze fixated on the water. “But I don’t hold it against you. This time hasn’t been exactly kind to you.”

It still didn’t stop you from feeling bad. You had feelings, real feelings, for Jihoon, and the last thing you wanted to do was hurt him. He made you feel seen, he understands you, and treats you like he loves you, not someone he tolerates. Your heart twisted at the thought of not seeing him every day or touching his skin or hearing his voice. Jihoon had single-handedly made you believe in love and in your right to good things. He’s changed your life.

You’ve played a lot of scenarios in your head, wondering if you could truly make a long-distance relationship work. Jihoon was attending college in the next town over, pursuing a bachelor's degree in music. He wanted to travel the world and make connections while he is studying, and he can’t do that here in Carats Ridge. His mother tried to make him stay home and work from the music store, but he insisted on leaving, saying he needed a “fresh start”. Jihoon said that if it weren’t for his father finding his acceptance letter in the mailbox, he wouldn’t have known he made it in.

Ultimately, your worlds are about to become far apart and distant, and you both agreed that this had to end.

A slight wind picked up, gently shaking the leaves in the tall trees. There is no one else at the lake for miles, almost too quiet for your liking. The birds that were hidden in the trees fly east, as if the wind had disturbed them from their rest. You gazed at Jihoonhrow as he threw more pebbles and successfully made them skip. Your thoughts were loud and chaotic; your heart pounding in your ears. You didn’t want to leave him, but you couldn’t stay here anymore—too many bad memories, too much hurt.

“Hey,” Jihoon’s deep voice brought you back to the present. He wipes his hands on his pants from the dirt, coming behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. You lean into him automatically as he presses a soft kiss on your shoulder. “We’ll still keep in touch. You will not get rid of me that easily.”

A chuckle bubbles in your throat, temporarily relieving the tension in your chest. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you tease him, keeping your voice light. “I bet you are going to miss me while I’m gone.”

Jihoon doesn’t respond right away, as if he is considering the weight of your words. “You have no idea.”

Turning to face him, you take his hand in yours, interlocking your fingers together. Your time together may have been short, but it’s changed you in the best way. It frustrates you that this didn’t happen years before, when you saw each other at school almost every other day and shared classes. Imagine how those years could have been different if you had this connection.

“You won’t forget me, right?” you whispered, resting your forehead on his.

“Of course not,” he responded, lifting your chin to meet your eyes. “Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know.” Your voice shook. “I mean, we’re going to be on different sides of the country, and who knows when we will see each other again, and I—”

“Blue, stop,” Jihoon interrupted, calm but firmly. “You act as if we are not going to keep in touch. I don’t care what happens from here on out: you are unforgettable. One of a kind, baby.”

You took in what he said, letting it seep deep until it penetrated your soul. You wanted to believe him, that you would keep talking and would keep what you have going until your paths cross again. But you were also realistic, and you came from a different life than he does. Eventually, he would’ve found someone his mother would like and who he’d love like no other. You’d be an afterthought, a blip in the history of Lee Jihoon.

Maybe it’s better to cut ties, for good.

“You know I love you, right?”

Nodding slowly, you bit your lip, looking down at the ground. “I know. I love you too.”

“Okay then,” he asserted, caressing your arm. “We will just focus on school, and everything will work out. We’ll still talk all the time.” Jihoon pulled out his phone and looked at the time. “Alright, I need to take you back home. I don’t want your Dad to skin me alive.”

You let out a chortle, imagining the thought of your dad going after Jihoon for making you late for your trip. Kissing your cheek, he led you away from the lake and down the rocky path back to his truck, holding your hand along the way. You were going to miss this, being in his company and just existing with him. To think you came to the music store looking for music and left with a life-altering connection and a love you never felt before. It was funny how life is like that.

The ride back to your house was silent, nothing but the wind in your hair and your arm outside the window. You weren’t afraid to admit you were happy to leave this place and see what New York has to offer, but not at the expense of losing this—losing him. He could say that you will keep in touch, but you know how these stories usually end.

Maybe it was for the best.

The morning sunlight blazes through the window, shining directly onto Jihoon’s face. In an effort to shield his face from the sun, he accidentally slaps his face, making him sit up quickly in reaction to the pain.

“Ah, fuck,” he groans.

Jihoon slept on the futon again with you, falling asleep shortly after you had your tea. There wasn’t much conversation after that, and he thinks, after everything, it’s what you needed. That was your first sexual experience together, and as intense as it was for him and as much as he enjoyed it, the dynamic has changed. Jihoon knows you’re going through a lot right now, and you’re leaving here soon, but he can’t help the way that he feels. He’s in love with you still, and what happened several hours ago intensified it. But where does that leave you and him?

Patting around on the futon, he instantly notices it’s lighter and colder than when he fell asleep, compared to you in his arms. Grabbing his glasses off the floor, he shoves them on his face, clearing his vision and leading to impending disappointment; you were gone.

Jihoon groggily rises from the futon, folding it upright from its bed position and folding the blanket. The bathroom door is askew, and he knew you were gone, as the apartment isn’t big enough to be anywhere else. A piece of paper flies from the blanket, swinging lightly until it lands near his foot. Curiously, he picks it up, turning it over and reading the cursive-written words:

I’m sorry.

Jihoon stares at the paper before letting out a harumph that itches his throat. Shaking his head, he shoves the note into his sweatpants as he is filled with the resolve to handle this in person. He will not let you run away from him that easily.

The same thing happened before when you left town. You promised to keep in touch, and you did for a while, but then his calls started going unanswered, and he was left on read. Jihoon was hurt about it, especially having to get updates from Vernon and Lola about your life and how you were doing. Eventually, he stopped asking and started to move on. He’s dated other people and had one serious partner, and he thought he was finally getting over it and could stomach seeing the color blue again.

But then you came out with your book, a story about you and him, and he was sucked back in. Jihoon ignored his feelings and kept them under the rubble in his heart and mind for so long, but soon you were everywhere, and he couldn’t escape you. Your book was on every shelf, and when the rumors of you dating a certain Buck Layton were swirling around, you were on every news station. When Jihoon came back to Carats Ridge to help his father, you were the talk of the town. Everyone was proud of you, which he found ironic. But unfortunately, you were stuck in his head.

Eventually, that relationship ended; they grew apart, and they left town shortly after. Around the same time, your father started coming into the music store, looking for tunes to play on the speakers at the community center. Naturally, they struck up a conversation, and somehow Jihoon found himself helping at the center, teaching guitar lessons to the kids there. Jihoon discovered that your dad was a cool guy who was liked by everyone, despite being from the Southside. Well, almost everyone. His mother didn’t like that he was friends with Vernon or went to the Southside as often as he did. “I don’t want any of that trash to rub off on you” were her exact words and then some. But he didn’t care—he felt for the first time in a long time that he belonged somewhere.

And it somehow made him closer to you.

Jihoon doesn’t know whether this is divine intervention or a clear sign from the Universe, but you’re back in his life after almost ten years. He wasn’t letting you go that easily.

With a renewed resolve surging through him, Jihoon makes quick work of straightening up his living room and kitchen before racing to get ready. He brushes his teeth as if he is running out of time, and showers until he feels clean and good enough for you. Through all of this, you are locked in his mind, and he can't help but wonder how the conversation will go and if you feel that electric shift, too. He figures you have to, right? Blue Valentine is clearly their story—you have to admit that at least.

Throwing on a white t-shirt and a pair of boot cut Levi’s, he slides on his favorite boots, brimming with excitement.

Knock! Knock!

Jihoon freezes, staring at the red mahogany colored door. He wasn’t expecting anyone over, and he didn’t over anything, but he is a man on a mission, and he will have to deal with it on his way out. Unless it’s you, and you have decided to come back.

Heart hammering and grabbing his keys, he swings the door open, hoping to see your face. Instead, he is met with mild disappointment that curdles in his chest like milk.

“Jihoon.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, stepping out of the way to let her in. “Mother.”

She waddles inside like she owns the place, setting her bag down on the clear end table. She looks tired, bleak, as if she didn’t sleep at all. Jihoon is upset with her, sure, but he still wants her to be healthy above all else.

“I was about to leave,” Jihoon’s voice is flat. “So, unless this can’t wait, I have to go.”

“Jihoon, I…” Her voice falters, as if something is holding her back. “I think it’s time for you to know some things.”

Jihoon’s stomach drops, caught off guard by the sudden reveal. The air has left the room, replaced with a tension that slowly suffocates. Clutching the keys in his hands, he curses internally and shuts the door behind him. He bites the inside of his cheek, motioning for his mother to sit down on the futon. Taking a deep breath, he asks the fated question, “What do I need to know, mother?”

His mother’s fingers danced nervously in her lap, her eyes fixed on the ground and on everything but her son. “July 30, 1994. That’s when Raymond made his promise to me.”

Jihoon stares at her, the wheels spinning in his head. “Raymond?” Then it clicks. “Blue’s father?!”

She nods solemnly, finally looking at him with prickling eyes. “Yes, the very one.”

He stares at her incredulously as he tries to make sense of it. “What promise are you talking about, Mom?”

She stares into the void as if recounting memories, a faint smile on her lips. “He was the love of my love. My first love.”

“You… and Blue’s father?” Jihoon asks slowly.

She confirms with a nod, looking away in shame. Jihoon blinks profusely, shaking his head in bewilderment. He doesn’t know what to believe, whether his mother is even telling the truth. He knew she had a hatred for Southside people in general, and he assumed that the hate for your father was because of the adjacency, not because of a sour past.

“Back in those days, things were different,” his mother begins. “He was the star football player, and I was the cheerleader and president of the student body. We were great on paper, and I thought we were great together, too. He was my first boyfriend, and we understood each other better than anyone, especially both being from the Southside.”

Jihoon’s jaw goes slack, hit with another revelation that jumbles his thoughts even further. “YOU are from the Southside?”

His mother finally looks at him, affirming with sad eyes. “Yes.” Clearing her throat, she continues. “We were one of the few from there who were going to make it out of this town and make something of themselves. I was going to fashion school, and Raymond was going to go to MSU for football, make it big, and we would start our lives together. But some things happened at home with his old man, and he had to stay home, but he still encouraged me to go. We agreed that I would leave and pursue what I wanted, and then I would come back, and we would resume our lives together.”

His mother pauses for a moment, then rises from the futon and walks to the window. Jihoon is at a loss for words, processing everything that’s been said. “So what happened after that?” He frains softly.

“We wrote letters to each other here and there, and I thought he was the one. I wanted him to be the one. But when I came back home after graduating, I found out he didn’t feel the same way.” She sniffles, wiping a lone star from her right eye. “I expected everything to go back to what it was, but I found out he was with Camille, and turned out she was pregnant with their daughter.”

Jihoon stiffens, piecing everything together and finally making the connection. “Camille… Is that—”

“Yes,” his mother confirms shortly. “That’s her mother.”

He sits back slowly, his eyebrows raised at the revelation. Jihoon’s mind is going a million miles a minute, replaying every moment and everything his mother has said about the Southside and how she acted. At first, he’s numb, but slowly he fills with a cocktail of sadness and anger, appalled by this betrayal. This is worse than his mother being cruel to you for the hell of it—this was personal for her, and now personal for him. You didn’t deserve this.

“So,” Jihoon breathes, trying to keep his emotions in order. “All this crap you said about the Southside and how there were no good people there, were you speaking from experience?”

His mother whips around, wrinkles of surprise on her forehead. “Jihoon!”

“No, mom, let’s talk about it,” Jihoon retorts, raising his voice. “You told me all my life that the Southside people were nothing but thugs and degenerates, and you damn near had a heart attack if I even looked at someone from there. I am glad I never listened to you—I would have missed out on the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Surely you don’t mean that?!” His mother gasps. “Not over that tra—”

“I would watch very carefully what you say to me next,” Jihoon says firmly. The color drains from his mother’s face, and he couldn't care less. “You treated her like crap ever since she started coming around, all because you and her father had some old fling. Did you even love Dad at all? Or was he just a rebound to make yourself feel better—”

His mother marches over to him, slapping him across the face, leaving his left cheek stinging and his ears ringing. He stumbles, placing his hand on his cheek to soothe the pain. He wants to cry, but he’s too stunned to speak, gawking at the audacity of his mother.

“Don’t you ever, EVER, say I didn’t love your father,” she says through gritted teeth. “He knew what I was, and he loved me anyway. Your father is a godsend.” Her chest rises and falls in anger, her ears turning beet red. “Your father was better than me in so many ways, and I thank God he came into my life when he did. I did love your father, and that’s a cruel thing to say.”

Slowly regaining feeling on his face, he stares at the ground, his chest aches with an indescribable hurt that has changed the trajectory of their relationship. “Is it?” Jihoon says solemnly, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “You loved Dad but not enough to forgive Raymond and spew your prejudice bullshit, right?” He cannot stomach looking at her anymore, his insides churning the longer he stares. “I need you to leave.”

His mother’s eyes widen, taken aback by his request. “Jihoon, you have to forgive me. I am your mother.”

Mother. A six-letter word that would usually make him feel warm and appreciative of the one he was given. But instead, he’s filled with anger and a hurt that will take away if he lets it, and he is done letting her get away with her misgivings under the guise of knowing what’s best.

“You are my mother in name only,” Jihoon responds bitterly, enunciating each word. “I love you, and I will continue to care for you as the duty of your son, but that’s it.” He stomps towards the door, swinging it open with a force that rattles the papers on the dining room table. “Go.”

His mother hesitates for a moment before stalking towards the door, stopping in front of him with furrowed brows and a crestfallen expression. “I love you, Jihoon.” Kissing him quickly on the cheek, she rushes out of the apartment, waddling down the steps as fast as she could.

Jihoon exhales a deep breath he didn’t realize he was holding, though no sign of relief came. You left him; his mother just dropped this bomb on him and hit him with all her might. He woke up today intending to get you back, to match the energy of the sunny skies outside his window. Instead, the day is crumbling, frustration looming over him like a heavy cloud.

Undeterred, he waits several minutes, allowing his mother time to exit the building; not eager for another blowout. Once he thinks the coast is clear, he bolts out of his place, hopping into his truck and revving the engine with a renewed focus.

I’m coming to you, Blue.

You know you’re a coward for leaving the way you did. It was necessary, though.

You let yourself slip for one night, feeling sad, grief, loneliness, and wanting to be touched and feel good, which led you to make some choices. You didn’t mean to lead Jihoon on, not that you’re saying you don’t feel the same way about him, and did not equally enjoy what you share. You loved every minute of it, and as you lay in his arms, with your back pressed against his chest, you wanted more. Even now, you crave him like a bad habit; the images of him in between your legs will undoubtedly be seared into your brain forever. But to be quite frank, you’re a hot fucking mess.

Jihoon deserves someone who has their head on straight and isn’t running on empty. He deserves someone open and willing to love him wholeheartedly and committedly. He deserves the sun, the earth, and every single shooting star in the sky. You love him enough to admit that if he accepts you for who you are right now, you will hurt him. You aren’t the same person he fell in love with back then. You know deep down, he will leave you, and that’s another heartbreak you aren’t willing to go through.

You approach your childhood home at the end of the street, standing tall, bright, and almost unrecognizable with the new coat of paint. You slow your pace before pausing to take in your old neighborhood for the first time since you’ve been here. The houses look mostly the same, and you are willing to bet you have the same neighbors. The air even smells the same, earthy, almost like pine. You hate the smell of pine now, after growing up with it for so many years—the last thing you want is to be reminded of here.

A red pickup truck pulls up to the driveway, with "Choi’s Movers" displayed in bold white font. Your stomach twists as you're not prepared for whoever is coming out of the truck—and it would be your luck that Lola and Vernon are both here.

“Hey, there, YN,” Vernon says sheepishly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

You glare at him sharply, letting out a gritty scoff. "Really, Vernon? First name bases now?" Your eyes flick to his leather jacket, noticing a new patch that says ‘prez’. "Congratulations are in order," you remark dryly.

“Come on, Blue, you aren’t being fair,” Lola cuts in, now standing in front of Vernon. “You know this is how we do things here. Eventually, someone was going to have to take over.”

“Lola, it’s not even about the ceremony. I don’t care about the stupid ceremony—”

“Yeah, we fucking know—”

“—What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Lola?!”

“You know exactly what I mean, Blue,” Lola snaps, frustration etched on her face. “You never wanted to be a part of this, and that’s fine, but don’t sit here and act like you get to pick and choose when operations resume. YOU know, eventually we would have to move forward.”

You turn away from them, shaking your head in frustration. “You don’t get it,” you mutter.

“Well, help me understand that because from where I stand, you are being a little ungrateful.”

Before today, you could confidently say that Lola and Vernon never hurt you. You were the best of friends, as close as thieves, and made a pact always to support each other, no matter what. You never thought the day would come when there would be conflict, let alone you versus them. But now, it’s clear that the Zodiacs come first, even over you.

“Wow.” You stare at them, your hands clenching as you try to control your temper. “I’m ungrateful? I didn’t even want to have the fucking funeral. If it were up to me, I would have cremated his ashes, kept him with me, and been satisfied. But I know Dad didn’t want that.” Your blood boils as your anger mounts, and you saunter closer to Lola. “It was never about you guys moving on or Zodiac tradition—it was about the fact that you couldn’t wait to have the ceremony at least until I was out of town. It would have hurt a lot fucking less.”

Slowly, Lola’s expression shifts from anger to understanding, then to shame. The pulse in your temple twitches, heavy and agonizing, making you pause. The heat does you no favors, making you stumble back. Lola and Vernon move faster than you can blink, breaking your fall.

“Let’s get you inside,” Vernon suggests, grabbing hold of your arm.

“I’m fucking fine,” you bite, attempting to snatch yourself away from their grip.

“Blue, quit being fucking stubborn and let us help you.”

“Whatever,” you mumble, your vision disoriented by the second. Lola unlocks the front door, and the rush of cool air hitting your face is welcoming. Most of the furniture is gone, sans the lone air mattress and suitcases that you have stored in your bedroom for the time remaining you had here. You arranged for your dad’s things to be stored in New York, so his memories will never be forgotten.

Vernon leads you to your bedroom and lays you softly on the bed. You avoid contact, not ungrateful for the help, but still too mad to acknowledge it with a thank you. Lola comes in shortly after, handing you an ice-cold water bottle, presumably from the fridge, and a couple of Excedrin. You take it from her, drinking slowly due to the slight nausea you feel in your stomach.

“It seems like you’re dehydrated,” Lola observes, giving you a once-over.

“Maybe,” you pant, drinking the last bit of water. “I’ve been doing a lot of walking back and forth between the Southside and the Northside.”

Vernon’s brows furrow in confusion. “You could have asked us for a ride, you know?”

Cutting your eyes at him, you roll them and fold your arms. “Yeah? With all the party planning you had going on?”

Vernon’s eyes shift, looking down with a look of shame. “I’m sorry about that, alright?” He clears his throat, scratching the back of his head. “We didn’t think about the timing of everything, and how you might feel about it.”

“Yeah, Blue,” Lola adds, sitting on the foot of the bed. “We weren’t trying to hurt you.”

You let out a heavy breath from deep within, rubbing your temple with your finger. The pulse still throbs, but the pain is lessening. The anger slowly seeps out of you along with the rest of your energy. With heavy eyes, you nod. “I think we said a lot of things, and I’m not really in the headspace to talk more about it,” you say honestly. “I appreciate everything you have done for me since I have been back in town, and it’s not lost on me that you lost a great leader. But I lost my dad, and it’s barely been two weeks. So I apologize if I’m not always showing I’m on my best behavior or grateful.”

Guilt washes over their faces, and you look away, feeling your own regret. Maybe you were too mean and could have tried to talk to Vernon instead of walking away. Maybe you could try to see things from their point of view. You hate this contention. Above everything, they are your best friends, and even though the wounds are still fresh, you don’t have the energy to fight with them anymore. Your soul is tired, and it’s not something that a bed and sleep can fix.

“I’m going to try and get some rest,” you announce, shuffling around in the comforter. Vernon and Lola exchange nervous glances, hesitant to leave. You let out an exasperated sigh, straightening your posture. “I’m tired, okay? I had a long day yesterday and today, and what I really need is a shower and rest.”

“You almost collapsed out there,” Lola points out. “I don’t feel right leaving you here alone.”

“Lola, please,” you respond. “I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, you’re doing a bang-up job of that,” she quips, adjusting your blanket. “I’m not leaving you here alone. You could be dehydrated.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Blue, quit going back and forth and accept our help,” Vernon cuts in with a clipped tone. “It’s two against one. We’re not going anywhere until we know you’re okay.”

You shake your head, huff, and look at the wall. The stubborn bull in you wants to keep going, push for your way, and not accept anything else. But you also know them, and they will not back down. Your head throbs again, your vision starting to blur. You’re exhausted and haven’t been sleeping much since you’ve been here.

“Fine,” you reluctantly concede. “But I would like to get some sleep. It’s been quite the twenty-four hours.”

You sink lower into the air mattress, covering yourself with the blanket as you try to get comfortable. Vernon leans and rubs your shoulder before he leaves, the echo of his boots gradually fading in the almost empty house. Lola climbs on the other side of the mattress, pulling you into a backward hug. “You know I love you, right?” She murmurs. “I would do anything for you, Blue.”

You nod sleepily, your words caught in your throat. Lola and Vernon mean well, and you know that, but you can’t help being a clusterfuck of emotions right now. They say grief comes and goes like waves, but your emotions have been nothing but high tides since the day you got the news. When will things get better?—When will you get better?

“Vernon and I will be right outside the door,” Lola assures, slowly rolling off the mattress. “Just holler if you need us, okay?”

Your sleepy eyes finally get the best of you. Your mind is half there, and in another dimension. “M’yeah,” you manage to mumble before exhaustion finally takes over, and you fall into a deep, satisfying sleep with Jihoon and the lake being the last image you saw.

Ten Summers Ago

The wind whipped through your hair as Jihoon drove down the long road that led to the lake. It was the perfect weather, with the sun peaking through the clouds, occasionally giving you a reprieve from its harsh light. Your hand hung out of the window, pretending you were pressing keys to the beat of the song playing on the radio. Jihoon glanced at you occasionally, asking if you were okay, and you nodded or responded with a ‘yes’, hit by the bottle of nerves that settled in your stomach. It’s not like you hadn’t hung out with him before; those times were different, under friendly circumstances. Whereas this is more romantic, a real date, something that could change the trajectory of your relationship forever. You were scared to death of it changing for the worse, and you wonder why you even agreed to this, but in the back of your mind, you think you would’ve regretted not taking that leap and finding out whether this is more or if it was all in your head.

Jihoon played a mix of 80s, 90s, and early 2000s songs from a playlist that he made on the iPad specifically for the trip. He said it was for the “vibes,” but you think he wanted to impress you. Little did he know, he didn’t need the playlist to do that—you already fell for him.

“We’re almost here,” Jihoon announced, lowering the sound of the music.

“I know,” you replied, sitting up in your seat. “I’ve been here before, remember?”

“Yeah,” Jihoon returned, a smile tugging on his lips. “But you haven’t been with me.”

Feeling the heat rush to your face, you looked away, pursing your lips to suppress the smile he put on your face. “You’re a real Casanova, you know that?”

“No, I’m just Jihoon.”

You rolled your eyes, a chuckle escaping your lips. He pulled into the lake shortly after, driving to the far end next to the dock. There was no one else around, and the trees were in full bloom, giving you the right amount of shade and privacy. Your skin prickled as the car slowed to a stop.

“Wait here.”

Jihoon hopped out of the truck, coming around to the other side and opening your door. Taking your hand, he helped you out of the car, his eyes traveling down to your short shorts and freshly shaven legs. You can’t say you didn’t like the attention, as it was nice to be desired. You were thankful you had applied baby oil before leaving the house.

“Do you like what you see?” you queried, following his gaze. “I just shaved this morning.”

Jihoon’s face turned beet red and embarrassed, stepping back considerably. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ogle at you—”

“Jihoon, it’s fine.” You waved him off with a giggle. “I want you to ‘oggle’ at me. At least I know you think I’m hot.” Reaching into the bed of the truck, you grabbed hold of the cooler. “Now show me where we are taking this thing?”

“Oh, I got that!” Jihoon exclaimed, hastily taking the cooler. “Let me show you we’re going to be.”

He led you away from the usual rocky, earthy path that leads to the docks, instead taking you to the grassy patch dotted with dandelions and daisies. There lay the same blanket he had when you watched the shooting stars, accompanied by pillows and baskets. You faltered, touched by the detail and thought that he put into this. You gazed at him with an affection that warms you to your core, observing the satisfied glimmer in his eyes.

“Jihoon, you didn’t have to do all of this.”

He didn’t lose his pace when he reached for your hand, connecting his soft fingers with yours. “I know. But I wanted to.”

Reaching the blanket, he motioned for you to sit as he took out the contents of the cooler. You noticed he had your favorite sandwiches and snacks packed, and even managed to grab chocolate-covered strawberries because you once mentioned you'd never had them. You watched him set everything in place with care, your face beaming with joy.

Pulling out a Bluetooth speaker, he returned to the playlist he made for this day, setting it farther away to create an ambiance. He wore a simple black t-shirt and light blue jeans, but you found him incredibly attractive. His glasses were clipped to the top of his shirt, and a strand of his hair kept falling on his forehead. His muscles flexed as he moved things around, heightening his appeal. You pinned your knees together, ignoring the heat in between your legs.

Then suddenly, you had an idea. “Let’s go for a swim!”

Jihoon stopped in his tracks, looking at you, bewildered. “You want to go swimming now?”

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, dropping your purse onto the blanket. “We can swim and then work up an appetite after.”

Jihoon hesitated, his eyes scanning the spread he was almost done setting up. You knew it was impulsive of you to do this now, but if you stared at him any longer, things were going to happen on this blanket. At least you weren’t offering to take your clothes off in the lake.

“Okay,” his voice trailed off, his eyes widening as he watched you take off your shorts. You didn’t want to get all of your clothes wet, so you figured that at least having dry shorts and a wet t-shirt was a good trade-off. But what you didn’t expect was to see him undress, taking off his shirt and undoing the button on his jeans. The heat surged through your neck, and it’s not just because of the weather.

“I always keep a change of clothes in my truck,” Jihoon explained. “I can change into something else.”

“Uh-huh,” you mustered, staring at his abs. “Let’s go get wet, yeah?”

Realizing how dirty that sounded, you mentally slapped yourself in the face, shaking your head as you walked toward the dock. Jihoon is to your right, slightly ahead of you, looking into the dark blue waters. The wind swayed the leaves on the trees, but otherwise it was quiet, and you had the lake to yourselves, it seemed like. Making it to the end of the dock, you kicked off your sandals, the soles of your feet gracing the warm wood.

“I have to ask,” Jihoon said suddenly. “Why go swimming now? You could have said something before, ya know?”

You stared at him, caught off guard. “I don’t know,” you shrugged. “Maybe I just wanted to take a dip.”

“Maybe,” Jihoon responded. “Or there is something else going on here?”

“Nope.” You shook your head fervently. “Nothing more is going on.”

Jihoon perused you, and in that moment, you knew he thought you were full of shit. But you held on to your poker face as best you could, stepping closer to the end of the dock. “I guess we should probably—”

Jihoon carried you swiftly and jumped into the water, the surprisingly cool water surrounding you whole. It was refreshing and cool, and it put you at ease. Rising to the surface, you heard Jihoon laughing, splashing water on your face.

“Hey!” you cried, returning the favor. “At least give a girl a chance to wipe her eyes.”

You couldn’t help but join in on the laughter, feeling liberated and no longer shackled by the bundle of nerves you felt earlier. You realized, in hindsight, it was stupid to randomly suggest swimming right when you were about to eat. You thought Jihoon was sexy, and maybe you should have accepted that instead of trying to run away from it.

Jihoon swam closer to you, his face wet with water droplets and his hair slicked back. He looked even better wet, almost unethereal.

“So are you going to be honest with me, now?” Jihoon goaded, swimming in a deliberate circle around you. “I’m not going to judge you, you know that, right?”

“I know,” you responded, trying to sound casual. “But it’s honestly silly.”

He stopped his circling, treading water directly in front of you. “Try me.”

“I don’t want to ‘try you’—”

“—just tell me, Blue.”

Your chest tightened as you bit your lip, the familiar clench of anxiety coiling in your stomach as the bundle of nerves floods back. “You were sitting there, putting everything together, and you looked really hot doing it, and I didn’t know how to handle it. So I suggested we swim. I didn’t know you were going to get naked—”

“—I’m not naked.”

“You know what I mean!” you exasperated. “ Honestly, this was stupid, and we should just go back and eat—”

He shut you up with his lips on yours, and it was like fireworks went off—a sudden, explosive burst of sensation that echoed through every fiber of your being. Your chest sparked with an euphoric joy that made you dizzy, and you almost didn’t believe you were kissing Lee Jihoon, the boy who had your affection for the past month. You deepened the kiss as his hands graced your waist, your heart racing a million miles a minute. Your feet were impossibly light in the water, and you felt like you were floating, untethered and completely suspended in this moment. You’ve never experienced this before, and you don’t want it to stop.

Jihoon pulled away, leaving a lingering kiss before taking your hand and leading you to the dock, pulling himself up effortlessly, and then helping you up after. You were in a daze, your mind still reeling from that one kiss, and though you’d had kisses before, none of them felt like that.

“Next time, don’t hide from me,” Jihoon remarked with a cheeky grin. “I want you to be open with me, no matter what.”

You didn’t bother defending yourself; you knew exactly what he meant. “Mmhmm.”

“Good.” He nodded with a satisfied look on his face. “Now is your appetite worked up, or do you want a round two in the water?”

You scoffed lightly, shaking your head. “You are never going to let this go, are you?”

Jihoon took your hand, leading you back to the blanket, where your shorts and food awaited. “A Southsider at a loss for words for a naked Northie?” He let out a chortle. “Never.”

You wake up slowly, the blanket protecting you from the golden hour light shining through your blinds. It takes a minute for your eyes to adjust, filled with crust from the deep sleep you endured. You reach around lazily for your phone, finding it beside the air mattress and connected to a charger. Weird, you thought to yourself; you don’t recall connecting it to one before you fell asleep. Tapping the screen, your eyes widen at the time, realizing you have been out cold for almost five hours.

Fuck. You didn’t mean to sleep this long.

Sitting up slowly, you accidentally knock over a fresh bottle of Gatorade, the plastic bottle rolling until it hits the door with a soft thud. You’re still in a haze of sleep, repeating the events that happened within the last twenty hours—the ceremony, Jihoon’s mother, the argument with Lola and Vernon, Jihoon, and the intimacy you two shared. Regret eats at you as you think about how you left, yearning for the warmth you felt in his arms, the softness of his lips when he kissed you, and, most importantly, his voice, and how it soothed you when you needed it most. Your bed is unbearably cold now, a deep chill settling in your bones as you force yourself to face the truth: you miss him.

Sitting up slowly, you let out a loud yawn, relieved to be cured of the nagging headache you had earlier. You hear shuffling outside your door, giving you only a moment’s notice to cover yourself with the blanket before the door opens. You see Lola’s chocolate brown curls before you see her, a worried look on her face as she comes with a sandwich and fries opened in a to-go box. The bread smells fresh, a warm invitation to your stomach as it grumbles loudly.

“I take it you’re hungry?” Lola teases, sitting at the foot of the mattress. “You were dead to the world for a while, girl.”

“Yeah, apparently,” you snort, sitting straighter. “I feel a lot better, though.” You eye the sandwich again, your mouth watering at what looks to be your favorite, an Italian sandwich on rye bread. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”

“It’s never trouble to make sure my best friend is okay,” Lola states, waving you off. “Plus, it wasn’t me who brought the food.”

Your head ticks, your brows burrowing in confusion. “Was it Vernon?” you ask gently. The weight of guilt sags your shoulders, thinking about the argument earlier. The ceremony still hurts you, but after sleeping, the thought of falling out with your best friends makes your stomach flip. “I’m sorry,” you say meekly, unable to look her in the eye. “I feel like shit.”

“I know,” Lola responds, closing the box on the sandwich. “I’m sorry too, for calling you ungrateful and not thinking about how having the ceremony while you’re still here would have affected you.” Her eyes glisten as she blinks profusely, her voice wavering. “You’ve been through a lot and had to handle most things on your own, and I should have thought about you more. I’m sorry.”

Your heart twinges as the tears fall on her cheeks. “Oh, God, Lola, no.” You panic, shuffling out of the blanket and scooting next to her. “You have done more than enough for me. I couldn’t have gotten through the house affairs or handling my dad’s estate without you.” You wrap your arms around her, your own eyes stinging.

“Yeah?” Lola sniffles, quickly wiping her eyes.

“Of course,” you murmur, laying a kiss on her cheek. “When have I ever told you a lie?”

You manage to get a chuckle out of her, and it puts you at ease. Her arm wraps around you, and you sit in silence, simply existing with each other. Lola has been in your life forever, and you could never thank her enough for being your rock throughout all of this. Vernon, too, by extension, in his own way. This is undoubtedly the hardest thing you have ever gone through.

Lola reaches over, handing you the forgotten sandwich and placing it on your lap. “Make sure you eat that. I know you’re starved.”

Your finger brushes against the styrofoam box, a small upward curve on your lips. “Tell Vernon I said thank you for this.”

“Oh, um, it wasn’t from Vernon,” Lola says, biting back a smile as she rose from the bed. You stare at her, waiting for her to reveal where it had come from, but she stands in silence, her hands behind her back like a schoolgirl unable to keep a secret.

“So this came from my fairy godmother, then?” you joke. “Or maybe it was the twins—”

“If you have a fairy godmother, then so do I,” Lola chortles, shaking her head.

“Then who was it from?”

Always dramatic, Lola takes her time to respond, keeping you in suspense as she tries to suppress her laughter.

“Come on, Lola, spit it out—”

“Jihoon dropped it off while you were sleeping.”

You freeze, not expecting to hear his name. You nod slowly as shame overwhelms you, causing you to fall back onto the mattress with a grunt. “I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.”

“What are you talking about?” Lola interrogates, pulling you upright. “Is it the sandwich or him?”

You throw her an annoyed look, slightly irritated that you have to answer the question. “Him, obviously.” You roll your eyes.

“Well, what did he do?” Lola surmises, her voice rising. “Do we need to kick his ass? I’m gonna call Vernon.”

“What?!” you exclaim, staring at her incredulously. “No. He didn’t do anything. It was me.”

“Oh,” Lola realizes as she sits back on the mattress. “What did you do?”

“That’s kind of a loaded question, Lola,” you reply with a groan. “A lot has happened in the past day.” You pick at the cotton on your shirt, focused on the small string that’s sticking out of place.

“Try me,” Lola suggests, gently taking your hand. “What happened?”

Sighing heavily, you meet her eager gaze. “Do you want me to start with when I slapped Jihoon’s mother or skip to when I kissed Jihoon?”

Lola’s eyes widen at your revelation, and a smirk spreads across her face. “You've certainly been busy.”

“Oh shut up,” you roll your eyes. A knot tightens in your stomach, and you fold your legs to your chest, hoping to ease the guilt penetrating your abdomen. “I feel bad enough.”

“About hitting his mother?” Lola gibes. “Because don’t. That woman has been a bitch since Jesus was alive.”

You let out a laugh that comes from deep within. “God, no.” You shake your head. “I will never feel bad about that, especially after the shit she said about my dad.”

“What the fuck?!” she gasps, shaking her head back. “What did she say?”

So you tell her everything—from the moment you left the house to storming out of the record store with blood dripping down your arm. You showed her the flesh wound from Mrs. Lee’s nails puncturing your skin, now puffy and swollen. You wince when Lola touches it, the tarrying sting still taking some time to get used to.

“You have a lot more restraint than me,” Lola comments, examining your arm. “I don’t think I would have been as nice and walked away. Is she crazy?”

“She’s batshit,” you grumble, anger simmering in your gut. “I could have maybe forgiven or tried to be nice to her for Jihoon’s sake, but fuck that. I am successful, not broke, and have a great life. She could die today, and I would gladly spit on her tombstone.” Lola’s eyebrows shoot up, throwing you a tickled look. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“I’m just saying,” you say straightforwardly. “Being back here has brought me a lot of clarity.”

“Uh-huh,” Lola hums, nudging her knee towards yours. “Would any of that clarity have anything to do with Jihoon?

Your breath catches in your throat as a sharp pain blooms in your chest at the thought of him. You dislike feeling this way about him, wishing you could see him as just an old memory without residual feelings, the intense desire that surges through your veins, or the longing in your heart that yearns to kiss him again. You never intended for this trip to become complicated; your only goal was to bury your father peacefully. But returning here has scrambled your thoughts and disturbed your peace, making it even clearer that you need to leave.

“Things with Jihoon and me are… interesting,” you admit, drawing a circle on your hand with your finger. “I don’t know if what I feel is the same love I felt when we were kids or if this is gratitude, but fuck, Lola, I haven’t been with anyone else who makes me feel the way he does.” Sighing deeply, you stand, pacing back and forth. “I keep thinking about that summer and how, for those few short months, they were the happiest of my life. Even with Daddy being accused of murder, he was there for me. Never treated me like I was dirt or someone beneath him. Jihoon made me feel seen as a person; he loved me, genuinely, and I can never forget that. Or get over that, ten years later.”

Lola hangs on to your every word, motioning for you to go on. “Even now,” you continue. “He sees me. I don’t have to be on with him all the time, reserved, or anything other than who I am. God, Lola, when he kissed me, it sparked something in me. He made me forget about all this shit with my dad and my pain and made me feel like a person again. I wasn’t just this grieving daughter, but someone who was desired and needed and maybe still loved. I don’t know what this is, as I said, it’s fucking complicated. But I know that I haven’t stopped thinking about him all this time, and after cutting him off the way I did, he is still here, wanting to be with me, I think. And that says something.”

Your chest heaves, realizing you’ve been talking without taking a breath. Your heart beats heavy and hard, as if you have several horses stomping against your ribcage. You desperately grab the bottle of Gatorade that was forgotten on the floor, untwist the cap, and guzzle it down. Lola looks at you, amused, folding her arms with a knowing look.

“What?” You pant, wiping the corner of your mouth. “Speak your mind.”

“Well, I don’t think this is complicated at all,” Lola states, rising from the mattress. She places her hands on your shoulders, leaning closer to you with a smile. “You, my friend, are in love.”

The room seems to tighten, your heart beating loudly in your eardrum. “What?”

“Love. L-O-V-E,” Lola asserts. “It’s a different kind of love, obviously, from back then. Not the same puppy love, that new feeling you get when you realize you love someone for the first time. This one is more mature and aged, and you have the beauty of a decade apart and some time spent together to bring you clarity. Why do you think your relationships haven’t worked out, Blue?”

You twist your mouth with a grimace. “They didn’t work out because they weren’t the right people for me.”

“Right, my point,” Lola points out. “Listen, they didn’t work out because you know, deep down, they don’t make you feel the same way Jihoon did. You’ve had some great potential relationships that could have lasted. Remember Solar? She was crazy about you. Or that actor who bought you roses every week just because—”

“—I told him I didn’t like roses,” you interject. “He had comprehension issues. And Solar was great, just not for me.”

“Sure,” Lola says, rolling her eyes with a soft laugh. “But every time, you say you didn’t feel fulfilled. But guess who does?”

Your spine stiffens as a wave of revelation washes over you. You’ve had a few relationships and casual dates here and there, but they just never clicked with you. You’ve been trying to fight it all this time, hoping to get somehow rid of these feelings and thinking maybe if you left town, they would leave too. But the feelings have lingered, and now you’re forced to carry it on, and accept the truth—maybe you are still in love with him.

“I have to go,” you say suddenly, the words bursting out of you before you can second-guess yourself. You dig in your bag and pull out a change of clothes and your toothbrush, undressing and throwing your shirt aside as you storm into the bathroom.

Lola blinks, surprised by your abruptness. “And where are you going?”

You peek out of the door with a gentle smile and a wink, your mind made up and your decision set. “I have to have a talk with someone.”

Jihoon sits in his truck, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, lost in thought. When he arrived at your house, Vernon met him at the door, telling him what happened. He wanted to see you first thing, and he offered to take you back to his apartment, where he could watch over you. Lola came around then and said you needed the rest and to check in on you later. He stood there, struggling with the idea of leaving you there instead of bringing you home, here, like he wanted. But he didn’t want to do too much, and he agreed to leave you be, only to come back thirty minutes later with your favorite sandwich and fries from Jollibee’s. All he could do was worry about you and hope you didn’t almost faint because of him and what happened the night before.

“Blue is going to be fine, bro,” Vernon assured Jihoon then, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder. “She’s tough, and Lola will not let anything happen to her.”

Taking Vernon’s word, he left and came to the music store, tidying some things and opening for business. It is unusually busy today, with new people coming to town for the Founders Day celebration this weekend. It slipped his mind, with everything going on, and after the days he’s been having lately, he doesn’t feel much like celebrating—all his thoughts are filled with you. He played Donna Summer in your honor, nostalgia hitting him hard as he thought about the debate you two had over disco. You were a staunch supporter, and he hated it, but by the time you left the store, you made him a believer and a lover in Studio 54 and the Bee Gees. The way you reveled when you played the extended version of “I Feel Love” by Donna Summer is something he’ll never forget. It was as if you were enshrouded in dark purple light, dancing slowly to the vinyl's lyrics. Who would have known the Southsider in the graphic t-shirt, faded jeans, and sneakers was so well-versed in music?

Jihoon closed up at six on the dot, counting the money made and tidying up the store all under thirty minutes. He’s been sitting in his truck for almost an hour, wondering whether to give you space and let you rest or come back to check on you. Sure, he could easily text Vernon or Lola to get an update, but it wouldn’t be enough. Jihoon wants to be with you, even if you are asleep. He wants to relive the light snores he felt on his chest last night, when everything was good and perfect. He’s had a taste of what it’s like to have you again, and Jihoon doesn’t want to give that up so easily.

Fuck it, I’m going there.

Jihoon turns the ignition in the trunk, set to pull off and head south, when a familiar red truck pulls up to his left. The passenger side opens, followed by a pair of legs he knows so well, hopping out of the truck in jean shorts and a tank top. Jihoon’s heart patters; happiness is not even close to describing how he feels as he watches you wave goodbye to Lola. He’s starting to think maybe this is some fate.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Jihoon calls out, pleasantly surprised as he rolls down his window. “I heard you had quite the day.”

“Yeah, something like that,” you respond sheepishly, locking eyes with him. You bite your bottom lip, and he can tell you’re nervous. Reaching into your back pocket, you pull out the CD you took from the store, a limited-edition “Abbey Road” album by the Beatles. “I believe I owe this back to you,” you say, handing it over. “I just grabbed anything in my haste of anger.”

“Nah, you can keep it,” Jihoon laughs, shaking his head. “I think it’s the least I can do for my mother’s behavior.”

With a smirk, you nudge the CD against his chest. “Oh, I know,” you say. “But I deserve better than the Beatles.”

A chuckle slips out of his throat, taking back the CD. “Yeah, you definitely deserve a lot better.”

Noticing the glow on your skin and how relaxed you are puts him more at ease. You seem more well-rested, happier, and, dare he say, at peace. You smile at him softly, your eyes twinkling with something that makes him feel warm. Jihoon is enchanted, and if he stares any longer, he will get lost in your eyes.

“So you came all the way here just to return the CD?” Jihoon asks, tapping the plastic cover. “I mean, that’s nice of you and all.”

“Maybe,” you tease him, stepping closer to the truck. “Or maybe I wanted to see you.” Your smile fades as you place your hand on the rim of the lowered window. “I think we have some things we need to talk about.”

Jihoon’s pulse quickens when your fingers brush against his, the smell of your perfume intoxicating and hard to ignore. “I agree.”

“Some things were said…” Your voice trails off.

“Mmhmm,” he hums, gazing at your beauty. The wind blows randomly, swaying your air in its direction. “Some things happened as well…”

Eyeing his apartment window, you return his gaze with a knowing smile. “So, do you wanna do this at your place or mine?”

The air shifts when you walk into Jihoon’s place. Everything looks the same, still in order, but there is a tension that you can’t deny, a pull of gravity that wants to collapse in his arms and kiss him until you’re out of breath. You are the type of person who needs to understand your feelings before you believe them, and for the longest time, it didn’t make sense why your equilibrium felt off when you were with him. You were supposed to be wild beyond grief and not capable of feeling anything else but that. But damn Jihoon for making you feel good things, for making you feel what Lola thinks might be love. You left him and cut him off, and he wants you anyway. You don’t deserve him.

“Are you hungry? Do you want anything to drink?” Jihoon points towards the fridge. “I can make you another sandwich if you want.”

“No, I’m okay,” you assure him. “I’m still kind of stuffed from the sandwich you dropped off.” A warm wave washes over you, thinking about how good that meal replenished you when you needed it the most. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” he responds. “I went there to go see you, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He lets out a chuckle. “ Vernon and Lola told me to beat it.”

Your eyes widen, amused by this revelation. “Oh, did they?” You laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me. They had me locked in there like I was at Fort Knox.”

“I bet,” he surmises. “They were just looking out for you.”

You nod, glancing at your feet before looking at Jihoon again. “I know.”

It falls quiet between you two, punctuated only by the faint sounds of cars and people heard from below. Your thoughts whirl like a tempest, each one vying for escape, but your words are caught in your throat. Ironic, considering you’re the best-selling author here.

“Blue, what are we doing?”

Letting out an exasperated sigh, “I don’t know, Jihoon.”

You study the way his brows furrow as he rubs the back of his neck. Your stomach free-falls, feeling guilty. Maybe that was the wrong answer, but you don’t want to lie to him either. “Jihoon… I don’t know what we are doing or what’s happening,” you begin. “I thought I would bury my Dad and go back to New York and pretend Carats Ridge doesn’t exist, as I have been. I didn’t expect to come back here and reconnect with you, and to feel all these things.”

Jihoon stares at you, registering what you said. “What do you feel, Blue?” Jihoon harps on your last sentence. “When you look at me, what do you feel?”

Butterflies in your stomach as you nervously step closer to him. “Present,” you answer honestly. “I don’t feel numb or dead inside when I’m with you. You make me warm and bright, and I swear to God sometimes I hear birds sing. You make my heart beat in ways I didn’t think were possible. You were the only one who went to look for me when I ran away from the funeral. You kept me safe, you keep showing up for me when I don’t deserve it, and when you kissed me, Jihoon? What we did? I have never felt that alive with anyone. It fucking scares me.” Wrought with all the pent-up feelings you kept locked in, tears fall down your face as your walls start to break. “I don’t know if what I feel is the same love that we had years ago or if it’s something else entirely, but—”

Jihoon kisses you heatedly, knocking the wind out of your chest. Jihoon, the more thoughtful, composed, and calculating of the two of you, is kissing you like his life is on the line. You’re being set ablaze all over, your hands digging in his hair and matching his same intensity. You tug at his shirt, pulling it off and throwing it out of your line of sight.

“I love you,” Jihoon breathes in between kisses. “It’s always been you, even a decade later.”

His confession makes you pause, pulling away from him slightly. “What?”

“I-love-you,” Jihoon enunciates. “I know you don’t know what kind of love you feel for me, but I can tell you mine: it’s the same way I felt ten summers ago. The same love that wanted you to stay, the very love that held out for months and years, hoping to hear from you again. I tried to bury it away, push it to the side, to pretend it didn’t exist because you weren’t in Carats Ridge. But it’s always been here, deep in the crevice of my heart, and I’m tired of fighting it. I want you—and I’m willing to take whatever you’ll give me.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs, your mind reeling as you take in his confession. Jihoon loves you and has never stopped; it’s exhilarating and terrifying. You spent a decade creating a life without him, chasing the high of falling in love with someone who makes you feel safe. When you tried to forget this town, you tried to erase him too, keeping his memory in a heart-shaped box. But some things are meant to be revisited, and you’re ready to stop running.

“I love you, Blue,” Jihoon repeated, softer this time. “Don’t leave me hanging here.”

You stare into his eyes, those same familiar, kind eyes that saw through your defenses and your bullshit. Lola was right; this isn’t the puppy love that you experienced when you were teenagers. This love is deeper, richer, packaged with time and separation that brings you more clarity. You were empty when your dad died, and yet Jihoon managed to spark something unexpected in you, and you are almost whole again.

“I love you too,” you whisper, releasing the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “God, I love you, Jihoon, and I don’t think I’ve ever stopped.”

A visible wave of relief washes over him, a slow smile beaming on his face. “You love me?” he asks, closing the space between you two.

“Yeah,” you say, giving him a once-over. “I do.”

You kiss again, but this time it’s tender, softer, and it sets your soul on fire. Your hands trail along his abs, fiddling with his belt as his hands are on the button of your jeans, undoing in one swift move. A giggle erupts in you, happiness not even the word to describe how you feel. Something blooms in your chest, an unfiltered joy, a light finally appearing in the circle of darkness you’ve been shrouded in for weeks.

Jihoon walks you back to the futon, helping you out of your shirt and shorts before laying you down gently on the cushion. He’s enamored with you, watching you unhook your bra and slide out of your panties. You feel raw, sexy, and wanted. Taking your lips again, he lowers you onto the couch, towering over you. trailing his kisses down to your neck. He finds the sensitive part of your neck and sucks hard, sending chills throughout your body and arousal to your core. You moan in his ear, your hands finding your breasts and caressing them. You’re on an unadulterated high.

“I want you,” you mumble, lifting his face to look in his eyes. “Fuck, I need you, and I don’t want this to stop.”

“I’ll give you whatever you want, Blue,” Jihoon says earnestly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He kisses you again with a hunger that gives you a further high, his tongue dipping in your mouth. You help him out of his jeans, shoving down his briefs that freed his hardened cock, dripping with precum on your stomach. Instinctively, you reach down, thumbing it along his shaft and watching him shudder. This new side of him, surrendering to you... You like it.

“You keep doing that,” his voice wavers. “And I’m not going to last long.”

“Yeah?” you goad, pumping faster. “What if that’s what I want?”

He chuckles in your ear in short pants. “You’ll get that. But I want to taste you again.”

Jihoon slides down your body, leaving trails of kisses on your breasts. His eyes are crackling with hunger, sucking on your sweet mounds insatiably. Your legs part eagerly, anticipation sitting in your stomach. His hand brushes against your folds, feeling the slickness of your dripping heat.

“Already?” Jihoon smirks.

“Yeah, yeah.” You roll your eyes playfully, slightly embarrassed. “I can’t help it.”

He licks his bottom lip, fixated on your center as he lowers himself. “I’ve been thinking about this since last night,” he coos, blowing a cool breath on your clit. Your legs shudder, your cunt begging to be touched, teased, and tasted. “I think I’m addicted.”

Before you can respond, his tongue flattens along your slit, lapping up your juices and sending electric jolts throughout your body. Your hips buck in response as your moans carry throughout the apartment. Jihoon groans in your cunt, so enthralled with your taste as his fingers dig into your waist. You melt further into the futon, riding a wave of the abyss you don’t want to come down from.

“Jihoon, I think…” you whine. “Fuck Jihoon, I’m—”

You cling to his hair viciously as you scream his name. He holds you down with a firm grip, refusing to let you go until he has had his fill. “Fuck, Jihoon,” you whimper. “I can’t stop cumming.”

He lifts his head slowly, his lower face covered with you as he licks his lips. “Good.”

You pull him into a fervent kiss, tasting yourself on his lips and falling deeper under his spell. His cock pokes against your leg, and it earns a giggle out of you. “Aren’t we eager?” Your finger draws a circle on his chest, right above his heart. You give him a sly grin, pulling him into another heated kiss that sets you on fire. Jihoon’s hand creeps against your leg, lifting it up slightly to give him space. Leaving you with a brief, parting kiss, he lines himself against your entrance, his tip graciously pressing against your sopping hole. You’re still coming down from your high, but you want more of this and more of him.

“I’m ready,” you smile softly. “I’ve waited so long for this.”

He enters you slowly, allowing yourself to adjust to his size, letting out a sigh of satisfaction. His thick cock makes your walls flutter, begging for Jihoon to go deeper. As if he read your mind, he picks up the pace, his eyes fixated on him going in and out of your pussy. “Give me more,” you beg, digging your nails in his shoulder. “I want all of you.”

“Whatever you want, baby.”

Jihoon pulls out and slams into you, making you gasp in surprise. The futon creaks beneath you, shoved out of place and knocking into the end table. The lamp titters before finding its balance, the light spinning in a small circle. “Careful,” you mutter. “We don’t want to go breaking things.”

“I don’t care,” he groans, forehead falling against yours. “You feel so good.”

In this moment, you realized you forgot to ask about condoms, but the way he drags his cock in and out of you as he thrusts again, throws the thought out of the window. He fucks you hard, deep, knocking the air out of your lungs. The pleasure is gratifying and dizzying, spreading through your veins until you are completely overcome.

“That’s right, baby,” Jihoon murmurs against your mouth. “Feel it.”

You kiss him hard, your nails raking down his back and leaving angry red streaks across his skin. He hisses at the sting before kissing you again, this time messy and desperate. “You don’t know,” he pants, thrusting slower, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers brushing against your clit in tight circles, and your entire body jolts. You gaze into his eyes, strung and fuck out, a babbling mess as you cling to his shoulders. “You…fuck” you breathe. “Don’t stop, please.”

The room fills with skin-to-skin slapping against one another, shaky breaths, and the shaky moans you’ve been trying to restrain but failed miserably. You’re completely into it all, the only thing that matters being your world in this tiny apartment and the man you never truly got over.

“You’re so beautiful, Blue,” Jihoon says suddenly, his thumb brushing against your lips. “You’ve always meant everything to me.”

Your chest aches at the sincerity in his voice and the softness in his eyes. No one has ever looked at you the way that he does. He sees all of you and loves you anyway.

Pulling him down into another kiss, you whisper breathlessly. “Then show me.”

JIhoon lets out a rough laugh that dissolves into a groan when your hips roll against his. He buries his face into your neck and loses the remaining composure he had, thrusting into you erratically, sucking on your neck hungrily. The futon edges into the end table again, knocking the lamp down and shattering it. Your bodies stayed in rhythm, your body rocking into every snap of his.

“Jihoon,” you warn, your voice throaty and wet. “I wish you could fuck me forever.”

“Good,” he mutters. “That’s the plan.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and Jihoon curses under his breath. His hand slips down your body, fingers pressing into your hip hard enough to bruise.

“That’s it, baby. Take it.”

His words spark something in you quickly, your orgasm crashing through you suddenly, hot and violent. You unravel loudly, barely catching your breath as your thighs shake uncontrollably. Jihoon kisses you everywhere—your forehead, the corner of your mouth, your cheek, wherever he could. He whispers he loves you over and over as his thrusts turn sloppy and desperate. With one final, deep thrust, he pulls out quickly, emptying himself on your lower stomach, letting out a deep, guttural moan. You watch him with hooded eyes, his expression turning into something tender that makes you melt. There is no one in the world who makes your heart beat the way he does.

“Are you okay?” He breathes, leaning to kiss you. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You shake your head with a gentle smile on your lips. “You could never hurt me.”

For a while, neither of you moves. You are still coming down from your hazy cloud nine, your skin is damp, and he breathes heavily in your ear. You wish you could stay here forever, in this apartment, and not have to deal with the real world and the reality that the happiest moment of your life took place in this fuck ass town.

“Stay with me,” Jihoon murmurs sleepily. “I’ll ask Lola to bring your stuff here until you have to leave, but please, just stay.”

A laugh escapes you, quiet and breathless as your fingers strum through his hair. “Now, why would I do that?”

He lifts up slightly, one eye closed with a lopsided grin meant just for you. “Because you love me.”

Because you love him. He isn’t wrong about that.

“Throw in breakfast, and I might consider it,” you quip, nestling back on the cushion.

A deep chuckle rumbles from him as he lays his head on your chest. This is the love that you want; the type that makes you warm and safe, with your heart in his hands without a care in the world because you know he’ll protect it. It feels like home when you’re with him. Like the summer that you never moved on from, that you will now get to experience for the rest of your life.

Three Summers Later

“We’re back with the critically acclaimed author of Blue Valentine, back with a new book and its sequel, ‘Ten Summers Later’. Welcome back YN.”

“Thank you for having me, Ginger,” you greet her warmly.

It’s been some time since your dad died, and although time heals all wounds, the scars are still there. Sometimes it’s a commercial, movie, or simply looking at your mother’s journals that remind you of him, and how much he sacrificed for you. You have your moments, especially around the anniversary of his death, but you breathe easier now. You know Daddy is looking down with your mother and is proud of you, and you will see them again when your time comes. But at least you didn’t have to go through it alone.

“I have to say,” Ginger begins, “The last time we spoke, you said ‘Blue Valentine' was one and done, and you were looking to write other things. What changed your mind?”

A slow smile slinks on your lips, your head nodding slightly as you think about your reason. “It was time, I think,” you say thoughtfully. “It’s been a long time since I revisited that story, and I thought about the place I was in when I wrote it.” You pause briefly, clearing your throat before continuing. “Some things have changed.”

“Would you like to expound on what has changed?” Ginger inquires. “I mean, look at you. You’re glowing!”

You chuckle, straightening your posture. “Thank you… And I mean my father died, and I had some time to process things and address hidden feelings that I thought I would keep buried forever. Now I’m free from that burden, and I’ve let that bloom into something beautiful.”

“Would that beautiful thing be your relationship with Jihoon, the platinum-selling recording artist?” Ginger presses. “You’ve been seen around the world together, at his shows, and it looks like you grew up together.” Ginger pulls out a yearbook from your high school, already having a page bookmarked that shows you and Jihoon’s pictures. “Was he the inspiration behind Blue Valentine?”

You smirk with a shrug. “Maybe.”

You glance at your agent, Anna, and the live audience is full of your fans who have signed copies of your new book. If someone had told you three years ago you would be where you’re at now in life, you would ask them what they were smoking. Sometimes it feels too good to be true, and you will wake up tomorrow, and it will have all been a dream. But you’re still here, still breathing and standing strong… and a part of that is because of Jihoon.

You went back to New York as you planned, and your relationship was long-distance for a while since he still had the music store. Jihoon decided to pursue music again and went viral by chance for a song he came up with in the shower. Everything was a blur after that, and he found himself with a new record deal and fame beyond his dreams. He eventually made it to New York City, to you, and you’ve been together ever since.

During that time, Jihoon had to straighten out some things for his mother, who needed full-time care for her dementia. He eventually told you about her past with your father, and it shook you to your core. Your father never talked about Mrs. Lee unless it was in relation to you, and he was so nonchalant about her that you almost didn’t believe Jihoon. It wasn’t until he pulled out an old yearbook that had them photographed as prom king and queen that you saw the truth for what it was. It didn’t change your perception of your dad, and you don’t have his side of the story, but it was something you had to sit with for a while. In a way, you could understand Mrs. Lee’s hurt and bitterness, but it doesn’t erase the way she’s treated you. You could never forgive her.

Regardless, you and Jihoon worked through it all, determined to stay connected and make it work, whatever it was. You even found yourself going back to Carats Ridge from time to time to see him, Lola, Vernon, and the kids. You still hate that town and don’t stay more than you have to, but you’re more at ease when you drive in, and you’ve learned to accept Carats Ridge for what it is. You’ve had some good memories mixed in with the bad, and with the help of your therapist, you’ve been at peace with it.

“So what should we expect with this next beginning?”

The rest of the interview flows smoothly, and when the cameras shut down, you unhook the mic before the producer can make it to your chair. Sliding out of your seat, you give a hug to Ginger before walking to your agent, who is busy typing on her phone.

“That went well?” you probe, adjusting your blouse.

“That went better than expected,” Anna beams, showing hashtags on social media. “There is a lot of buzz about your book and, of course, your relationship.”

“Yeah, I bet,” you scoff, shaking your head. “It still feels weird, being out in the open like this.”

“Aww, I can only imagine,” Anna rubs your shoulders. “But you two are solid, and it’ll get easier, I’m sure.” She looks at her watch, her eyes widening. “Oh, we have to get out of here.”

Anna rushes you into the dressing room, grabbing your belongings and practically shoving you out of the door. You wave goodbye to your fans who were waiting in the hall before getting on the elevator. It hums quietly as it goes down, the chill of the a/c sending goosebumps throughout your body. Glancing at your phone, it’s a quarter till 10, and you stifle a yawn. You’ve been up since six am getting ready, and you haven't seen Jihoon in a few weeks due to his tour. You don’t sleep well when he’s not around, and you’ve had to substitute with buying a body pillow to hold until he comes home. You miss him a lot, and there’s not enough FaceTime calls in the world that could make you feel better.

The elevator dings at the lobby, and you step out swiftly, with Anna trailing you from behind.

“So what’s the next stop?” you ask, turning to face her. “Are we doing a bookstore, or do I have a small break for a nap?”

“Neither,” Anna confirms, with a mischievous glint in her eye. '“You have other plans, ma’am.”

“Huh?” Your brows furrow. “What do you mean—hey!”

Anna slinks her arm with yours and takes you outside, taking you to a suspiciously yellow pickup, a very familiar truck that you know all so well. Standing outside of it, waiting for you is Jihoon, who looks at you with a tenderness that makes you melt. He is supposed to be on tour, across the country in California, and yet here he is, pulling you towards him with that sexy smile.

“Hi, Blue,” Jihoon greets you with a kiss. Your eyes flutter, and your knees buckle, placing your arms on his shoulder as you kiss him back. Your heart is ready to beat out of its cage, your body buzzing with excitement to finally hug your man.

“Hi,” you coo, running your fingers through his hair. “I thought you were going to be gone for another week.”

“I was, but today is an off day,” he explains, placing his hands on your waist. “And I missed you.”

“Yeah?” you respond, licking your bottom lip.

“Yeah.”

You have so much to say, but the words are caught in your throat. You take his hand, intertwining your fingers with his as you lean in for another kiss. You love him, truly, madly, and deeply, and you don’t regret the decade it took to bring you back to him. What you have is so much better than the love of that summer, and this time, you will never let him go again.

“Alright, I’m done here,” Anna announces, already walking towards the parking lot. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Mhm,” you murmur, returning your attention to Jihoon. “Let’s go home.”

Journalists: @aeristudios @haologram @imnotshua @gyuswhore @wqnwoos @starlightkyeom @100vern @shadowkoo @shinysobi

A glob of saliva floats on the drink atop your tray. You immediately regret it. Your tongue feels dry, and who knows when your next break will be. There's no time for a glass of water. Serving in time keeps the customers content.

You shouldn't be doing this.

Familiar applause echoes against the gold draped walls and wood floor, reaching the stage in an offbeat rhythm that doesn't match with the song that was just finished.

There was a time when the sole idea of singing to a pleased crowd that idolized your every move put stars in your eyes. When your dream sat first on your list of priorities, what drove you to push harder and keep on living life restlessly until you'd eventually fulfill it. That person, full of hope and willingness, would tell you to keep on going. That person would never consider giving up. That person would've never spat in a regular's drink and served it to him so naturally like you're doing.

Since you were little, music was the way to disconnect from reality, even for just a little while. You used to stick your ears against the wall to listen to your neighbors' wind-up phonograph for as long as possible.

Instrumentals made life manageable. As long as there was a song playing in the background or a neighbor practicing close by, being secluded in your home wasn't so bad.

A woman's voice on a record for the first time changed everything. In that moment, music stopped being for those with time and money to spend on instruments. If you had a voice, if you had a tuned ear, you could be part of the magic too.

It so easily became your dream that it being impossible didn't cross your mind.

The singer smiles at the men not taking their eyes off her. Helen is a master at keeping the crowd's attention, with her short icy blonde hair clipped clean to the side. She told you once, the only advice any of the singers has ever given you, that showing the side of your neck could attract any men within watching distance. You never followed said advice, but you've yet to witness an instance where it didn't work for her.

When the musicians behind her begin a new song, with a seductive saxophone melody and low double bass, the applause dies down and conversations strike up again.

"Enjoy your drink, Mr. Baker."

You set the new drink by his previous empty glass. His yellow teeth appear behind the rising corner of his mouth, his wrinkly gaze not rising from your chest.

He points to the stage as he puts his pipe down on a silver holder. "When are you getting up there alone, gorgeous?"

You prop your free hand on the table, looking straight at his face while showing a better view of what he wants. The fake smile you've mastered feels almost natural to put on.

"After the next Canary," you reply, voice sultry. "Will you stay to watch me?"

At that, his eyes finally see yours. His pale fingers graze yours on the table. Your skin prickles, urging you to get away. He lifts an eyebrow, finally registering your question, and nods you off. He sips on his drink, unaware, as you leave. You hear the bartender's light chuckle as you pass by the bar. He saw you spitting on the man's drink.

As much as you learned to endure the constant flirting attempts and unsolicited touches, you also came to realize that it's the only way to get by without being a singer full time. Every server girl does it as well. If you're not on stage, you need to gather as much attention as possible.

The stage schedule is always the same. No matter how hard you try, how many times you ask, how many men you manage to hold off until closing time, you're never allowed a solo during prime time. At best, you're Helen's third back-up vocalist.

The free jazz show starts at 7.pm, the same time every weekend. The bar plays 78s from the record player in the middle of the sitting area until every table is full, and then, the show starts. The first singer always has it harder. If she's lucky, she'll have the rest of the lineup in her shadow. The luck of the second canary depends solely on the previous performance, and so on. It's in the 9-10.p.m window, when pockets get loose enough and men lose interest in their wives at home, that the Canary gets the most attention. Powerful men don't stick around until their heads hurt and their breath stinks of whiskey. Without fault, by the time you're on stage, your crowd consists of only canned single men wasting the little money they have left.

In the meantime, you've learned to take desperate measures.

When you make them believe they have a chance, when you let them look and don't budge at their advances, some men delude themselves into staying late. When the clock hits half past twelve in the new day, the microphone is in your hands and the double bass accompanies your voice. Only every other table has its chairs occupied, but you know it'd be worse if you weren't showing a bit more leg skin than the rest. That's what works for you, not the neck.

Hidden in the dark at the back of the bar, Harold's silhouette watches you put on your show. His judging glare, always present when you're the view, can be felt from afar. You know a speech of how awful you did will wait for you after you're done.

At 1 am sharp, weak applause follows the dying music and your cut off microphone. Harold escorts the last two drunk men out of the establishment as you escape backstage. They always ask about you, about your tacit promises. You never deliver.

"Thomas Baker was asking for you," Harold enters the small canary changing room after you. "Again."

You register the disdain in his voice. It hasn't changed since he got you the job.

It doesn't matter how many wealthy men you hold back until closing. It doesn't matter if you sell them the most expensive illicit alcohol available at the bar. It doesn't matter that they keep coming back for you, maintaining the speakeasy open with investments and daily splurges. What you do is never enough to earn what you want the most.

Since the Prohibition, most bars across the country shut down, as the primary reason for the wealthy class to attend was the alcohol. But not only did the men lose their source of entertainment outside of their homes, musical joints were declining in popularity as well, and with them, your chance at dedicating your life to jazz.

Everything changed one night at the Grand Central Terminal.

You were determined to leave the city. You took the clarinet your parents worked so hard to buy and the few nice clothes you had, and headed for the train station. Your dad had sent a letter to a distant cousin of his, and you were set to stay with her for a while. The city wasn't for you anymore. Or so you thought.

You arrived at the station with enough coins for a one way pass for yourself. The man on the other side of the cabin scoffed seeing your hand and saw you off the line. Railroad passes had raised its prices days before your decision, without your family's knowledge.

It was a cold February afternoon and you sat there for hours. Each time the line for buying passes was empty, you argued with the worker, pleading for him to let you get on the next train, but nothing you said convinced him.

When the last train of the day was set to arrive, to take off later and end the day at the station, you took one last chance.

"I can send my father to pay the rest!" You pleaded over the worker's sigh. "Please, I need to take the train."

"You're not the only one, lady." He didn't spare you one glance, focusing on the passengers stepping down the Chicago train.

Stylish women with long simple dresses covered the station, accompanied by their equally well dressed husbands, fedoras on their heads and full bags on their hands. The man you had been arguing with all day posed a fake smile in front of the wealthy, ignoring you once more. You'd learned to ignore rich people's judging stares and insulting low mutters long before, so the wave of high class assholes didn't make you budge.

"Look, lady, I'll get in trouble if I let you in. Come back first thing tomorrow with the correct amount and you'll be on the way." The ticket seller tried once more seeing you wouldn’t relent even with waves of people on the way.

"Please, you don't get it—"

"Is everything okay here?"

A man appeared behind you, standing in the line you were blocking from forming. Even taller than you, the hat cast a shadow over his eyes, but you were confident it was not you he talked to.

"Apologies, sir, she was just leaving. What can I help you with?" His client attending smile quivered, but when you stepped out to let the man through, it felt like you lost.

How long would you have to wait until your parents get a spare dime? You thought. The train was going to leave without you on it, your distant aunt would wonder why you hadn't arrived until you sent her a letter explaining everything. Your future would be put on hold, again.

The strange man's deep black gambler hat drew your attention. He was dressed in the latest fashion, expensive fabrics and bougie cologne noticeable from afar, but had no ring on his finger. Had he just come from the Chicago train? Or was he escaping from New York City like you? Your answer came in quickly after the thought ran through your head.

"Do you play, miss?" He asked, nodding his jaw to the clarinet in your hand.

Few times had someone treated you with respect. 'Miss' wasn't a word you heard directed to you often, especially without an arrogant tone. The corner of your mouth tipped upward feeling his attention, and you showed your old, faded gold clarinet with pride.

"Yes, sir. I carry music everywhere I go." It sounded foolish the second it left your mouth, but it was true.

Whether you were home, in your sewing classes with your elderly neighbor, or in the streets searching for the cheapest prices to buy ingredients for dinner, music was your driving force. You sang, whistled and hummed every song you memorized. Mrs. Clarence loved showing off his brand new 78s player, and you urged her to as well in between sewing techniques.

"I have a place where you can play and earn a few dimes for it." The stylish man offered. "We need talented singers to keep the place afloat."

"Are you offering me a job, sir? You haven't heard me play or sing." You asked, bewildered.

"Please, Call me Harold." He winked and stretched his hand. "And I sure am, miss…"

You told him your name with a shake of his hand.

Had he heard you begging for a boarding pass? It didn't really matter at the time. That night, you thought in the moment, God had shown you that not all was lost. Leaving your home, your parents far away, wasn't ideal, you knew it on the way to the Grand Terminal. Instead, you were presented with an opportunity to have a life of your own, playing music and singing like you've always wanted in the city where you'd thought the music scene was blurring away.

You would have never thought how simple-minded you were.

There's a blister on your left big toe. You've gotten used to them over the years, as using the same dancing shoes to work every day has worn them out, its soles hard and no longer breathable as they used to be. You take a peek around the deserted joint. Harold's nowhere to be seen, probably in the basement counting the earnings of the day down to the dime. You decide to take your shoes off and finish cleaning the tables without them.

This is the time you love the most. No one has stopped the 78s player, and the saxophone takes over the song in a magnificent solo. It's one of your favorites the joint plays. You hum along the music as you wipe spilled liquid from the tables and set the half-empty glasses on a tray.

The rest of the girls finished their closing duties while you were on stage, leaving you on your own. You prefer it that way. You don't like sharing a change room with judging women who think less of you because of your stage tactics. Muttered comments about your closeness with Harold once bothered you. Every stare was impregnated with unwarranted jealousy, and you were shut off. Yet the promise of singing for hours on end to a crowd made it bearable, even if it seems to grow distant as the days pass.

"Night, Y/N," you hear as a hand touches your back. You smile back at your friend, voice low in your goodbye return. "Don't arrive too late."

Sophie, hardly swayed away from her own opinions, is the only performer who doesn't ignore your existence. Maybe calling her a friend isn't entirely accurate, but having someone to talk to in dead moments backstage saved you from breaking down in tears many times. She offered you the spare room in her cousin's apartment when you most needed it. You keep to yourself, and she doesn't cross your boundaries. With her off the clock, only one other worker is left on the bar floor with you. And you couldn't wait any longer for the alone time.

A couple tables over, crossing the threshold of the bright stage light to the dim warm lights hovering over the bar, Jeonghan empties and cleans the glasses left half-full by men who prefer to follow the server girls around and dirty talk to their ears.

You walk away from your, now finished, duties to the sound of Jeonghan's question. "First time defiling a client's drink?"

He dries off a glass and sets it in front of your unofficially assigned seat.

The lighting in that part of the joint makes it hard to properly see, however, Jeonghan manages to keep the place happy and the customers entertained well enough, making him the clear favorite of the owners.

Before you prop down on the faded brown wooden chair, Jeonghan's already pouring gin and a splash of seltzer in the glass.

"A lady should not reveal her secrets."

On the way from its place to your lips, Jeonghan drops an ice cube and a slice of lime on your drink. He cares about the excellency of his cocktails. You care about unclenching your back muscles and forgetting the night.

"That was the last pour of my most expensive bourbon," he deadpans, but you catch the corner of his mouth tipping upwards. "You should have spilled it on his ridiculous hat."

"I like having the upper hand." You smile at his chuckle.

The cold drink burns down your throat as you watch Jeonghan slowly cleaning his space. He's accustomed to having your eyes on him, and your silence doesn't scare him off. You hum the last tune on the 78 as he moves around and dances lightly, the smell of different mixes of alcohol disappearing with the time.

Since the first time you were let down by Harold and his promises, Jeonghan gave you a space to slow down and let go of everything weighing you down. He was done for the day, putting on his hat to leave, when you stepped down the stage from the performer's door and sat down on his bar. He let you go on and on about Harold promising a prime time stage time for you only to take it away after. He served you a glass of his favorite bourbon and heard you complain without getting his eyes off you.

For the first time since entering the place, your past or your relationship didn't matter to someone.

You sip on your drink, letting it wash down every heated stare staining your skin and all the shameful words you had to say in the day.

It was all for nothing.

Tomorrow would be the last free show until the following week. Today was your chance to impress the joint's favorite clients and encourage them to invest in the place. Your chance to secure a spot during prime stage time on Sunday. It shouldn't have been a surprise that, to Harold, what you do for the place will never be enough.

"It's very idiotic for him not to put you on up there." Jeonghan's voice does a circle around you. You take your eyes off the lightless stage to find him leaning on the stool next to yours.

"He revealed the schedule?"

Doesn't matter how much it happens, each time fills you with embarrassment. You're just not good enough. Coming to that conclusion wasn't easy. How come something you love so dearly doesn't come naturally? How come, no matter how much effort you put into every walk, every glance, every word and song, you don't get better? Jeonghan being the first to hear the news makes it even worse.

"I heard Helen gloating about getting 9 again when she left the basement," Jeonghan explains, tone soft as if you were about to break.

"She'd pay you more attention if she knew how much Harold's parents like you more than him," you chuckle. You know how much it hurts being ignored because your job isn't deemed worthy enough.

"You talk as if I care." His hand finds your knee, and you let it sit there, lingering, incomparable to any others. "This place doesn't deserve you."

"I have nowhere else to go," you whisper, afraid to speak it into existence. "My family needs me to work."

You close your eyes and hide behind your hands, blocking tears from forming against your will. You haven't seen your parents in so long. At least they get the money you send them, you know as much because they write grateful letters back that you keep in a box under your bed.

The warmth from on your thigh spreads all across your body as Jeonghan stands in front of you, knees touching and hands cupping your jaw. He softly holds your head high, away from hiding, to look up at him.

"You can go back to them. You're not a prisoner here."

"You know I can't do that." You lean into his touch, his thumb caressing your cheek and the faint smell of his soap reaching your nose. "They can't see me like this, I told you."

"They want you to be happy, not miserable for a few coins."

"I will be happy, one day, far from this place. Only then, I can return."

Jeonghan doesn't argue with you. It's a topic you've touched on many times, and he knows your answer will be the same, that you can't run away from your only opportunity.

You jump at the sound of a door handle. Jeonghan puts enough space between your bodies before Harold and Tim make their way up the basement into the ground floor of the bar. But their blond heads barely nod your way, chuckling together about money issues. They get out the back door without turning back. You go seen but unacknowledged.

Though if they'd seen you two, really saw you, you doubt Harold would care. He hasn't cared about what you do off the stage in a long time, but you'd hate for Jeonghan to be on the receiving end of his anger.

"I have an idea." His hands are back at the sides of your face, as if the close call didn't matter.

You lock eyes again, a hopeful glint behind his makes you unable to look away. His thoughts are often unreadable, unpredictable. He tucks a strand of curled hair behind your ear and parts his lips looking at his hand go down your jaw.

"They could've seen us," you warn as his face enters your personal space.

Jeonghan's lips find yours in a mix of sighs and matching gin breath. He holds you close in his embrace, the feeling of his chest against yours replacing the bar digging into your back. You melt into his touch and his unmoving lips pressing yours with quiet passion, savoring the fleeting moment you get with him.

The lingering peck leaves you breathless. Neither of you want to part ways, but Jeonghan does so with a smile painting his face.

"We won't have to worry about them much longer."

"Did you see Mr. Miller paying with a $500 bill?"

"I bet he's giving out more of those downstairs."

"He could spare one for me."

The only empty cushioned chair in the changing room was opposite from the conversations being had, but the loud, proud voices of the Canaries allowed you to hear even the faintest switch in tones.

It was a special performance that day, as the speakeasy had to close early due to heavy policing in the neighborhood. Before any customer could get so drunk they had trouble taking a taxi home, Harold's parents announced the 9 p.m show would be the last of the day. Men were ready to spend the highest dollar bills they had in their pockets, it didn't matter that their play time was cut short.

Helen, Ruth and Anna were taking up all the mirror space, rushing to leave their faces with no trace of make-up and staining the old mirror in the process. Nothing was natural about the lipstick colors they chose, and as their painted cupid's bows disappeared with the swipe of a damp towel, you understood that their goal was drawing attention. Natural make-up wasn't in fashion anymore. You needed to understand their strategies to garner attention on stage.

"Mr. Davis stayed until the end," Helen announced to the room. "I thought he would leave before the show as he always does."

"Nothing a wink and a peek below the shoulder doesn't fix for you," Anna replied, and the three of them giggled in unison.

"Maybe I can convince him to make friends downstairs next Friday," Helen reasoned. "I'm sure his wife wouldn't mind."

"Harry would love that—"

"That is if Yoon doesn't do it first," Ruth interrupted the cheeky conversation, gaining a choir of groans in response.

Sophie was slowly getting undressed on the chair next to yours. She acted like she had all the time in the world, uncaring about what happened around her, but you knew she was listening to every word the others said. The look you two shared nearly took a chuckle out of you.

"He's always watching our stages with such serious looks," Anna added.

"I bet he's the one Harry says tries to convince his parents to change the show schedule," Helen offered, and the discussion continued while you feigned deaf ears.

You knew little of bartender Yoon then, but it was clear the women's view of him was skewed by something you couldn't quite comprehend. The few words you exchanged with him during your serving shift had been nothing but polite. You did feel his eyes on you during that day's show, but decided to push the thought aside. It had just been your first time being a background singer for Helen, and she had been so stern when giving you directions not to steal her show, you doubted anyone was looking anywhere but at her.

You were sliding down your natural-colored stockings when Harold knocked on the ajar door. The three of them batted their eyelashes at him, greeting him with soft tones you haven't heard from their mouths ever before, but he paid them no attention. Their brows frowned as he called your name and asked you to step outside.

If gazes could burn, your body would've been rendered to dust in the swipe of a brush.

Sophie patted you on the back as you stood up. She didn't have to, she barely knew you, but the quiet support helped you get rid of the nervousness of a sudden one to one talk with the boss.

Harold had told you the day before that he'd watch you closely. You knew his review was coming, that it'd be the time to prove yourself worthy. Had he liked it? Would he recommend you for a solo stage? Back then, it didn't matter what time slot you were given, if it meant you could stop serving and were allowed to sing your favorite song, by yourself, to a crowd.

"A lot of important clients watched tonight's show," Harold started. And indeed they had.

You had practiced the moves the entire week, the correct ways to sway your arms to match the other background singers, when to accentuate your hips and legs, but never to wink or tuck your hair. You knew the songs from beginning to end, your neighbors were surely tired of hearing you practicing reaching the low notes from dusk til dawn. You were to support Helen on her show, while simultaneously proving you could sing and follow instructions with hungry, wealthy eyes on you.

Maybe, if Harold was pulling you aside, was to tell you good news. Maybe practice and willingness was finally getting you somewhere.

"Did the owners watch the performance?" You asked, hopeful enough to earn a sigh from him.

"Were they in the audience?" He retorted. You felt silly to even ask. "I will tell them when to watch you."

The reality was becoming clearer by the second, but you still questioned him. "Then, how does the schedule work?"

"When our highest paying customers ask for you, when they stay for you and put your name on the bill to tip, then, you can earn your spot."

"That wasn't—I thought I was here to sing, no, you asked me here to play music. I'm no hoofer."

"I brought you here to keep the joint open. We keep it open with clients willing to empty their pockets every night, either downstairs or with the shows."

He didn't continue. You knew what he meant.

That morning, Harold had kissed you in his bed, watched you preparing breakfast and talked about the importance of that night's show. For a moment, you felt special. It was you he wanted his hands on when not working, it was you who he found in the city wilderness and helped when he didn't need to. That Harold wasn't the same you witnessed inside the walls of the joint.

Everyone saw you going home together each night, it was not a well kept secret. You endured judgment while he put on a façade in front of his parents. It wasn't love per se, why you stayed, it was a desire for something more.

The wooden floor creaked as he waited for your answer. You couldn't look up, ashamed of your too high expectations. "I'll do better."

By the time you finished changing your stage clothes and getting rid of the extravagant makeup, the place was deserted. The Canaries had left while you were with Harold, then he and a woman's voice you couldn't quite recognize passed by the changing room door, followed by his parents while you were cleaning the mirror enough for a reflection to look back.

Will Harold be waiting for you to come to his bed tonight? The thought did nothing, save for bore you. He liked you enough to slip his manhood between your legs until your inner thighs were slick with his release and he sighed against your neck, but never showed the infatuation outside of the walls of his home, and you were starting to grow tired. As quick as he reached his peak, he'd fall deeply asleep without having laid a finger on you, or he'd stay silent when Helen or Anna or Ruth made fun of the repeating schedule. Sooner or later, you knew he'd grow tired of you.

It was a needed uncomfortableness, you thought. You'd keep him happy for the time being and keep your place in the joint. If you weren't needed for the weekly jazz shows, then you had to prove your worth. You had to prove you were needed for it to stay afloat.

At least, you then learned of an alternative, thanks to Harold's running mouth when stressed. You could allure wealthy men without compromising much of yourself. A peek of skin, a soft touch to the shoulder, a mind game between your words and their need to be in women's eyes. Taking longer to return so Harold fell asleep alone was the easy fix you thought of. Later, you could find a new place to sleep. If money was the prime issue, you'd focus on that instead of the owners' son.

The bartender stayed late often, you knew he liked keeping an eye on the place, which is why you didn't find it odd that he was wiping down the cupboards when you stepped down the side of the stage.

"How late is it to ask for a drink?" You asked, mindless of his schedule after work.

He recognized you as you walked across the bar. He smiled and propped two freshly clean glasses in front of the middle stool, as if his closing tasks ceased having importance. "I always have time for one of our stars."

"I would not call myself a star," you chuckled, avoiding his eyes. "I only made my debut just today."

"I'm aware." He didn't ask what you wanted and neither did you tell him. He placed an ice cube in the two short glasses and poured the same amount of an orange-leaning liquid in both. He then grabbed the closest one to him and lifted it as a cheer. "Our finest bourbon as a celebration of your first show and six months working here."

You mirrored his motion, unable to fight the shock showing in your face at his words. The liquid stung down your throat.

"You know so much about me, but I must apologize, your name I don't recall." Your voice doesn't quiver, yet he smiles in understanding.

You thought of yourself to be important back then, so much so that you didn't bother meeting the workers unrelated to the stage. That was clear in your audacity to go and ask for a drink when he was supposed to leave.

Oh, if you knew how little it mattered one server whose dreams were unimportant.

"Your stage companions call me Yoon," he replied, playing with the rim of his glass but paying it no mind.

"They do, but that is not your name."

The corner of his mouth lifted at your rebuttal. He drank what was left of his drink and set it aside to wash again, yet he didn't take his eyes off you.

"Bartender Yoon Jeonghan, pleasure to meet you." He dramatized a shake of hands, allowing you both to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. "What brings you to wallow with a stranger at such hours of the night?"

As quickly as you could, you withdrew your hand from his. How, you didn't know, but Jeonghan reading your behavior so easily rippled a tremble down your veins. Concealing what was on your mind came with a stage job, acting a certain way to appeal to the audience was key, yet Jeonghan read there was something hidden behind your walls within seconds of meeting.

"Work troubles, you know," you attempted to swerve the conversation. He saw through it, you realized by his smirk still present, and you should've known he would. "I would not want to bore you."

"Countless men have come to get a drink and to let out their issues to a stranger like me." Jeonghan didn't give up on his quest. "And, to tell you the truth," he continued, "they all think of themselves to be infinite times more interesting than they are. I doubt you could be as boring as them."

After time and time hearing Harold and the other performers speaking so highly of the clientele, it was refreshing to hear someone else having similar opinions to yours.

That watchful Jeonghan made you chuckle, your cheeks warm due to the alcohol, and gave you a sense of comfort. You could've put him in trouble if you disclosed what you were conversing about, yet he spoke his mind regardless, all so you could open up.

"Well, I am sure I'm not the first one going through this, but I will tell you because you're making time for me." Your glass clinked against the bar, empty, along with Jeonghan's stare focusing on your next words. "Harold brought me to sing on the stage, and today was finally the day when the owners were supposed to watch me and decide if I had what they wanted."

"I see…" Instead of moving to wash your glass, he poured more bourbon in it.

You drank it all at once. "I feel like a fool. I should have known it wasn't all he wanted."

"Hmm," Jeonghan hummed in acknowledgement. You were unsure with which statement he was agreeing. "His parents have been worried about low income, not so kindly advising him to find new investors."

You didn't know how to react. Yes, you were ignorant regarding the joint's business, but you didn't think it would have repercussions on you. Very idiotic. You knew women weren't allowed in the basement for a reason, yet you never bothered to ask Harold. You heard the Canaries conversations about satisfying certain men, yet until that day, Harold had never asked you to do it as well.

At the rage of his parents, he took it out on you and your dream. You were stupid to think you were special in his eyes.

"Glad I'm not the issue here." Your tone came out lower than intended.

"It's not very nice what he's doing to you, but no, I believe he has other things to worry about."

Jeonghan waited in silence, letting you soak up the events of the night. He didn't need to stay behind, go over his working hours, and you didn't want to hold him back either.

It didn't hurt that Harold didn't love you. It didn't even hurt that he was using you, because, arguably, you were using him too. He needed you to keep the place open, and you needed the place open to do what you have always wanted.

And you weren't the only one he was using, if the flowery perfume out of your price range you smelled on his bed, and that he hadn't gone back to look for you were clues of it. That moment, you pitied whoever he had between his arms instead of you. Poor woman wouldn't be satisfied by his refusal to find a female's pleasure place.

"He's not very worried about me, I'm sure of that."

"He's a rake," Jeonghan declared. You wanted to agree, but a smile was all you could muster. "And a selfish one."

You knew the joint was empty, that you and Jeonghan were the only people lonely enough to be there still, but not even the dim lights and background silence eased your nerves of speaking that way out loud. "You cannot say those things!"

"I've known him for long, he knows my thoughts." His serious tone and growing smirk threw mixed signals your way, but it was nothing you could argue with. "And, apologies if my assumptions are unfounded, but you don't seem infatuated with him as the others."

"I suppose I am not, not anymore."

You didn't have to think about your answer, it had become clear earlier. Whether the other stage girls were in love with Harold or were pretending like you, an act in your demeanor must've revealed your truth to Jeonghan. You didn't have to pretend.

"How do you know all of this? No one remembered that I started working six months ago today." You were rather evident in your search for his truth.

"I like to keep an eye on what happens under this roof."

Jeonghan held eye-contact for an undecipherable amount of time, as if his statement wasn't anxiety inducing.

"Will you let the owners know that I was badmouthing their son?"

"That would put me in a difficult position, would it not?"

"I guess it would."

As long as your rendezvous remained unknown to the rest of the workers, you didn't mind that Jeonghan observed and understood everything you thought you were properly disguising. You knew Jeonghan wouldn't reveal what you said, at least if he didn't want to come into trouble by hearing Harold being deprecated and doing nothing about it, or worse, deprecating him as well.

At that moment, you felt weightless. You enjoyed the thought of a person understanding you beyond what you present to the world, without having to explain yourself.

You broke the silence before the night turned longer. "I'm sorry for compelling you to stay here. I shall leave now. Thank you for hearing me."

"You were no bother." Jeonghan's hands tidied up the space, yet his body was turned your way. "Are you going to find him?" He asked, a mix of shy and curious and another feeling you couldn't pinpoint.

"That is not your concern," you snickered. "I have a bed to sleep on. My life does not revolve around him."

"Good." The line of his lips fought a smirk.

You turned around with a smile. You needed to get out of there. "Good night, Jeonghan."

"You're welcome any time."

His voice sounded distant as the back door came closer. You couldn't turn back to watch him. He couldn't see your reaction. And the invitation remained on the air, a flicker of hope.

You did take Jeonghan up on his offer. It wasn't the plan. But like many things that are out of people's control, you didn't anticipate disappointment to become a constant in your life.

Week after week, show after show, client after client, each time that Harold dismissed you, excusing his actions as part of an elaborate plan to keep his family's speakeasy open, you understood that nothing you did was ever going to satisfy him.

Helen reigned the stage each weekend, her shadow filled by you and your voice. Her numbers changed weekly, yet her final song remained the same, as did the way she commanded the attention of the men sitting at the back with ladies on their laps. Your body danced mechanically, your voice in tune with the melody you practiced, your weekly routine of trial, and trial, and trial, and failure. It never changed, save for your eyes getting looser, finding Jeonghan's just in front of the liquor section. He hadn't lied that night.

He was always watching. And he always welcomed you at the end of the night, glass propped on his station, ready to listen to you talk. Most times you complained about Harold, other times you asked Jeonghan to take your mind off everything. And, on rare occasions, you both chose to stay silent, enjoying the other's company while finishing tasks.

Jeonghan became a key part of your day to day life swiftly, like a thread going through silk.

One night, you were set to talk to Harold after not seeing him for weeks.

After your first show, he had vanished, never invited you over to his place again, never sent sweet looking smiles with more behind them. His trips to Chicago were longer, his time on the gambler's table as well. It was like you didn't exist. It wasn't his kisses or his touches you missed, you realized after the first few days. There wasn't anything to miss. What you needed was reassurance that you weren't dragging yourself through the mud for nothing.

You found Harold on the way out of the basement, behind Mr. Miller and Mr. Davis and... with Helen peppering kisses on the side of his neck.

It wasn't surprising. You weren't together, he owed you nothing, and she resented you for being with him and probably jumped at the chance. Your eyes locked with hers as she smugly continued. You didn't want to pity her, but she didn't need to draw the owner's son's attention to get what she wanted. She was talented and easily the favorite Canary out of all of you. You didn't blame her at that moment for wanting it all, but rather despised Harold for taking advantage of her.

The talk went as quick as a flick of Helen's hair. Harold wasn't interested in you anymore, and he reluctantly agreed to talk to his parents about giving you more time on stage.

The realization hit you in the shape of warmth flushing your chest. There was only one person you wanted to tell the good news to: the quiet bartender whose late night conversations had become your favorite part of the job.

Being on the stage alone was everything you thought it would, and simultaneously nothing like it.

The week prior you spent perfecting your number. Filling a 30 minute slot by yourself was no easy feat, but it was a type of stress you welcomed. You sang your favorite songs during every free time you got, picking and choosing the ones that sounded nice together, matching with elegant thought out moves. You watched the other girls perform during the week, a smaller audience since the non-weekend shows were expensive, and informed yourself what the clients liked more.

Not only you had to impress with your talents, you had to keep an audience in awe of you. It wasn't as hard as it seemed, but you wanted to stand out. Doing what worked for the other Canaries wasn't the way to remain in people's minds. It was an interesting study.

Jeonghan didn't see you that week. Not that you had no complaints for him to chuckle at, but you were so focused on excelling that you had no time to spare.

That Saturday, you stayed up until 3 in the morning fixing old stitches on your best gown. It wasn't the most fashionable, it wouldn't compare to the previous looks the audience was going to see, but it was yours. You weren't going to hide behind the fancy dresses in the changing room. Your performance had to be authentic.

You practiced your make-up to flatter your eyes, undoubtedly the part that was going to be watched the least. If the men weren't looking at your leg cutting through the opening you made on your dress, then you had to look them in the eye and, for that moment, giving them a chance to fall.

And your work wasn't in vain.

You did finally arrange a show and performed it in front of an audience. Yet, as soon as you got on stage, time appeared to change its workings, because your dream was over faster than a pour of water.

Song after song, melody after melody, the last thing you thought of was how long you had been waiting, or that less than a third of the tables had clients sitting on them, sober enough to watch you. It was okay, because the light was finally on you, singing your heart out and bringing your imagination to life.

You had to step down the stage eventually. Unfortunately. Your show was the last of the day, and people started leaving as soon as the clocks indicated it was 1 in the morning.

As always, you were the last Canary to leave. The technique to be off by the time the last client leaves was to start cleaning tasks during the last show of the night. The men left were either too drunk or too into flirting with another woman to care that they were essentially being kicked out as soon as the music stopped

You reached the table floor after changing back into normal clothes, maybe more disappointed that you were alone than from the poor audience you had to entertain. The yellow lights over the bar were still on, giving you a flicker of hope that erupted into flames when you heard shuffling sounds behind you.

Jeonghan stood between the empty tables, beside the bar's expensive record player. The wind-up phonograph was kept safe in a glass case that could only be opened with one set of keys. Jeonghan, you saw, had them in his hand with that exact purpose.

You dodged and fixed chairs left messily standing on the way, with a smile that didn't match working over hours and cleaning up people's messes. "You will get in trouble if they see a scratch."

No one was allowed to touch the record player. Not even Harold.

"I could blame it on Mr. Davis, it would be believable enough," Jeonghan joked. Mr. Davis was known for being clumsy when drunk, even breaking several glasses, but that idea didn't ease the little anxiety. "I'm careful, you shouldn't worry. I'm good with my hands."

He gave you no time to fix your breathing. Hiding from your sight, there was a big envelope he opened with ease. You couldn't recognize it, and you watched in awe as Jeonghan gently placed the fragile record on the player. Everything he touched held a delicate feel, even the large needle placed on the fragile record, until every piece was in place.

You had never seen a player being put together so closely before, and his casualness left you in awe.

"Do you own one?"

"I do," he replied, closing the glass case once more, now with a new record in, ready to play. "Do you?"

"Oh, no. I wish." You shouldn't have felt embarrassed, you knew Jeonghan wasn't asking out of spite, but rather genuine curiosity. "My parents couldn't afford it. Our neighbors had one and I would listen to the records they played over the wall. I've seen one up close, but neither my neighbor or her husband dared to touch it when I was around. I loved being in their home, but they were right to not let me get too close to their player. I would've broken it with one touch."

He nodded at your story, smiling to himself. "Why don't you get one for your home now? Your neighbors would be jealous."

"I don't live with my parents anymore, and my neighbors passed away a few years ago."

"I'm sorry." Jeonghan aimed to lay an assuring hand on your shoulder, but hesitated and went back to lay on the player. "Why don't you live with your parents?"

You realized then how vague you had been when talking about your living situation. You couldn't blame him for asking.

"That's a conversation to be had with a drink in hand," you chimed.

It had been a while since you stopped feeling guilty about asking for drinks at night. Jeonghan chuckled lightly at your non-answer request, and turned on the player before heading back to the bar. It always took a little while for the music to start, so you followed him.

By that time, you'd become familiar with the different illicit alcohols available at the bar. The Prohibition didn't stop Jeonghan from finding the best of the best.

"Try this one today."

He slid a glass over to where you were sitting. The usually orangy liquid was now clear as water, with tiny bubbles fizzled on the sides and a slice of lime as decoration. Jeonghan was on a self-imposed quest of finding your favorite drink. You did not have one, and that did not stop him.

"It's gin tonic," he replied to your unasked question. "Sweet and sour."

"Different." You had become accustomed to the drinks he served to most men, the ones that were thick and bitter and couldn't be drunk quickly unless one was already dizzy.

"More your style," he simply replied.

Jeonghan's eyes followed your every move, your fingers draped around the cold glass, your lipstick-stained lips on the rim, your throat gulping down the drink he's been thinking about for weeks.

It was a bartender thing, he thought. He wanted to see you, his most unusual client, satisfied.

The condensation formed around the glass left your lips wet after setting it down. You licked them clean, the faint taste of the lime slowly overpowering the bitterness of the gin.

"That was just as strong as last week's bourbon," you joked.

Jeonghan's face was unreadable. He stared in silence as you let the taste of another sip wash down your throat. Once you got used to the after-taste bitterness, the drink was enjoyable, the perfect mixture of bitter and sour, with just the right amount of sweet.

"I think we found it," he said under his breath.

His mouth opened and closed, hesitant. You preferred the silence to what you knew was waiting for you after he asked what he wanted.

It was then when the record player decided it was time. A soft hum of a low bass invaded the space, cutting through your avoidance and Jeonghan's wonders. You recognized it within the first note.

"This one is my favorite!" You jumped off your seat, already imagining what it would be like to sing a song like that one. "I wanted to perform it today, but I could never do it justice."

"I heard you singing it on Tuesday, liked it, and bought a 78."

Even when you didn't spend time together, he paid attention. You didn't think anyone had heard you singing, but you should have thought Jeonghan would.

"Are you secretly rich? These are a rare kind!"

Jeonghan chuckled, going around the bar like he owned the place. "You would be surprised at how many drunk men tip you when you hear their affairs."

"Oh, am I not the only one you share drinks and secrets with?"

"They could be future investors, it's my job to be kind to them," he deadpanned. "I spend time with you because it is what I want."

His words should have not elicited such a warm rush of blood, yet it coursed through your system against your will. The dim lights might've hidden your face, but if Jeonghan was going to notice something, was your body becoming more shy the closer he got to you.

"How did you come to work here? I haven't asked." He knew your story, your problems with Harold. You took the opportunity to skew the conversation away from what made you flush.

Jeonghan held a hand high, stretched so his palm faced the dimly lit ceiling, and motioned for you to take.

"I will tell you over a dance."

You had no proper attire. The shoes you bought months ago were starting to get worn from everyday use. Your gown was purposely a discreet brown, knee long, unlike dancer dresses with vivid color and short to allow the legs to move.

If it was any other man asking, you'd politely refuse. A woman shouldn't be dancing with whoever asked, and being under-dressed was wrong too.

Yet, Jeonghan was no stranger. You had always struggled to make friends, and this feeling of easiness you had never felt with anyone. Every day, you found yourself wanting the clock to be over, for the joint to be empty, all so you and Jeonghan could have your late night talks.

You took his hand and bowed with a thickening smile.

To the rhythm of your favorite song, Jeonghan placed his other hand just above your hip. He guided you to turn in slow circles, as much as the little space available let you.

His stare burned a blush on your cheeks, but you refused to return the gaze. Harold was the only man you had ever been so close to, yet it would have been ridiculous to compare anything you lived with him to how you felt at that moment.

Jeonghan wasn't imposing, he wasn't making the situation to leave you with no choice. From the placement of his hands, to the polite distance between your chests, you were alone in a room that wouldn't welcome another person until the next morning, and you didn't doubt you were safe.

"So, how did you find this place?"

"I hope this doesn't break your trust in me," he began. What a start! "Harold's parents, Homer and Celia, took me in when I was little."

"That is… a big piece of information," you couldn't avoid stumbling over your words. "I guess I should not be surprised."

"Why?" He scowled, finding your little shock amusing. "They are hardly here, and Harold does not care to hide his dislike for me even if I choose not to say we were raised together."

"Yes, the owners might not be seen here, but you forget, Harold's personality does not change in his home. He hates you over the normal amount for a co-worker." That earned a chuckle from him, and your closeness allowed his breath to fan your face. "So, they offered you a job and he hates you because the clients prefer you?"

"I asked them to place me here," he revealed, smile fainter than before, "I felt like I owed it to them. I didn't want to depend on other people, even if they never complained about having to spend money on me. But I was always on Harold's bad side. He didn't like sharing with a street kid with no family, and didn't like being put boundaries by his parents either."

"I'm sorry, that must've been awful. His parents sound nice, I've never spoken to them."

"Yeah, his—our parents, they were good. I always knew me and Harold weren't the same, and they've made mistakes when raising us, but they meant well. I live on my own now, and came to like this god-forsaken joint. I'll have my own one one day, maybe when the Prohibition lifts."

When it came to family dynamics, there was little comfort you could offer Jeonghan at that moment. However difficult your home life was, it couldn't compare to being taken in by strangers when you had no one left. You didn't want to sour the evening further, but you had to talk after him.

"I'm living with Sophie, do you know her?" Jeonghan nodded. "At the beginning, I accepted when Harold invited me to his place, not only because I thought I meant something to him," you were ashamed to accept it out loud and decided to look down to the wooden floor to continue, "I needed somewhere to be without my parents.

"I know I should be grateful I have a mom and dad who took care of me even in the toughest moments, but I couldn't bear it any longer. I couldn't bear to see their relationship becoming more about tolerance than love. Some time between working to maintain our home and having to raise me and my unattainable dream, their fire just burned away, and being home was not comfortable and safe anymore, but rather draining."

"Have you gone back since?" His touch hardened in reassurance.

"No," you replied, frozen in place. "Have you?"

"Not as much as I'd like."

He didn't ask for more from you, which you were glad for. Jeonghan remained silent, let you rest your head on his shoulders and swayed you in a non-dance until the song ended.

The silence was suffocating. You felt warm all around from being in Jeonghan's hold, fearing he'd feel your heart beating so fast he'd think you were having a heart attack. And maybe you were. You had just openly spoken out loud the worst thing you have ever done.

"I hope you don't think of me as a horrible person," you whispered.

You couldn't bear the thought of ruining the one good thing you had managed to gain while stepping over people to achieve a stupid dream.

"I would never think of you that way." Two fingers held your chin high from your hiding place, and you had no other choice but to look up at Jeonghan. "Everyone has their reasons. It would not be fair to judge you for doing what you had to."

"I abandoned my family for a foolish dream that has not worked out. It's been a year, and I have barely taken one step in the right direction."

"Expecting to accomplish a lifelong dream without a fight would be foolish, not this. You're working hard, and it paid off today. You were amazing on stage." He sounded sincere. "It was like no other show I've seen."

Tears were dripping down your blushed cheeks. Even then, Jeonghan managed to make you smile. "It was over so fast, I barely remember a thing."

"Trust my word. You have nothing to fear. Be confident in your talent."

"You should talk to the owners about me then, now that I know why they like you so much."

"Harold will duel me if I do so."

Your giggle elicited a matching chuckle of his. He held you closer than before, with both of his hands on your lower back. You welcomed the change in topic and a lessened atmosphere, and wrapped your arms around his neck.

"You're not awful for being with him either."

Jeonghan acknowledging your past with Harold was like a punch in the gut. It wasn't a secret, and you had complained about it countless times with him, but it was always you who did the talk. You had assumed he pittied you, as you pittied Helen.

"I was a fool for thinking he saw something in me. I wanted to feel that spark."

"He's the fool if he doesn't see how special you are."

You felt a stool digging on your skin, just below where Jeonghan's hands had taken place. You had stopped dancing at some point, you weren't sure when, but you were back to the yellowy darkness of the bar.

"Do you think this place is good for us?" Jeonghan raised a brow at your question, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Not legal, but good to get somewhere after."

"Are you perhaps planning on leaving?" He joked, yet a tint of disappointment was evident in his tone.

"I don't know. I'm not there yet, but maybe in the future, when I'm better settled."

You saw in his eyes, there were more questions on his mind. You didn't explain further, already nervous due to his sudden closeness.

You were pinned between the stool and his wide shoulders, at the mercy of his want to never end the conversation.

"I wouldn't blame you if you left," he settled on saying. "Being around Harold must be hard."

"It's not because of him, but rather his unwillingness to fulfill the promise he made me. Leave it to me to put my trust in a questionable man."

You wanted to laugh at your life choices. Looking back, it should've been obvious that after denying him more unsatisfying sex, he'd put you aside and pick another impressionable woman. Jeonghan didn't find it very funny.

"I could talk to Celia, if you want me to," he offered with the utmost sincerity you had accustomed to hear from him.

"There's no need. They'll come one day and I'll impress them."

He nodded, unsatisfied. "Would you tell me if you needed me to?"

"Jeonghan, it's okay. I'm not telling you this to manipulate you into helping."

"I know you are not. I'm—I want you to know that you can trust me."

Jeonghan looked as if he was pleading you to.

It would not be fair to make a comparison, but you couldn't help it. You thought about the men you saw every day. The men rich enough to buy the world. They came to the bar, bored of their perfect, simple, safe lives, and eyed women who faked interest in them. A self-centered life that stained every corner of the speakeasy, except for the bar.

All the men you came to know were exactly like one another. Drunk wealthy cheaters who cared for no one but themselves. Of those qualities, Jeonghan couldn't be farther from.

"I do," you sincered. "I trust you."

"Good." He exhaled.

Your words relaxed him in place, and he was somehow closer to you than before. He towered over you even when his back was no longer stiff. It felt like a final wall crumbling down. Jeonghan could see even your ugliest parts. The shameful parts, the foolish ones, the ones who chased a dream. You hadn't scared him off.

His dark eyes locked with yours, like a mirror of your thoughts. He had also shared his story. Was he feeling the same as you? Like you could talk about anything with him forever?

The last ounce of trust you had leaned into a 'yes, he did'.

Your heart tugged with something new. Something that made your stomach boil and your skin burn where Jeonghan was touching.

His gaze hadn't derailed from yours. He was watching every thought going through your mind. The trust you felt seemed like something more. You trusted Sophie too, but it wasn't quite the same. If whatever it was, Jeonghan felt it too like you thought, then it'd be no problem.

Your eyes traveled down his face, analyzing his expression as best as you could with the poor lighting. You got caught up on the lower half, on his lips slightly parted to exhale.

Jeonghan crossed the line first.

He was hesitant as he pressed his lips on yours. The touch was soft like no other, giving you a way of breaking it if it was not what you wanted.

Before he could step away and leave a peck as simply that, you cradled the back of his neck, pushing him harder against you. At your encouragement, his hand grabbed your jaw and guided you to him. You both sighed and relaxed into each other, as if you had been waiting a lifetime to feel a kiss like that.

Jeonghan's other arm wrapped around your waist and lifted you over the stool. Your lips molded together, unwilling to separate even when changing positions. You hadn't realized how much you wanted Jeonghan to be the one to make you feel all that you were missing. He kissed you with a purpose, and whatever it was, you weren't going to get in the way.

His tongue licked over your top lip and deepened the kiss. It was indecent and filthy, wrong in every sense of the word, yet stopping was nowhere present in your mind.

Jeonghan led the kiss just like he had led the dance: slow and caring and with only you in mind. Every sound that escaped from you set him in the correct direction. You let him take care of you, let him explore the only part of you unknown to him.

You followed his hand on your jaw and his fiery kiss wherever Jeonghan guided you. His thumb swiped over your lower lip and you opened up to him. He tasted the remains of his drink and erased any trace of someone else. He didn't know he was the only one you had ever really wanted, the only one capable of blurring everything around you and making you focus on the electricity flowing with every touch of your lips.

Your foreheads leaned on the other as you broke the kiss. You breathed on each other, the reality of what happened dawning on you.

"This is wildly inappropriate," you sighed out.

Jeonghan couldn't hide the smile your breathless words elicited.

"We wouldn't want to be improper in such a distinguished establishment."

Of course, Jeonghan was unable to spend a second without making you giggle even in the tensest situations.

Your hands drifted down to his chest, feeling the way it filled with air under your touch. He pushed his hips between your legs, slowly as to give you time to reject more advances. Your lack of stocking lets you feel him directly. You wanted nothing more than to continue feeling him, to let him show you that touching and kissing could feel desirable.

"Is this okay with you?" He asked as his fingers raked down the side of your back.

You nodded and looked into his eyes. He touched and gripped at your chest and thighs over the fabric of your dress, testing each reaction you gave him. You were too reactive to every touch, but he kept going, with more fervor each time you squirmed.

"Did he ever—"

"No." Harold never touched you, not like that. Harold didn't make you sigh onto his lips, didn't draw you to chase his touch, didn't care to know what you liked.

To say that Jeonghan was shocked would've been underplaying everything that went through his mind.

"That damn louse." He hardly ever sweared, but every bit of information you gave him made everything more intense.

He lowered his face and placed kisses down your jaw. You sighed into the thick air around you. Everywhere was on fire, and you didn't want Jeonghan to ever stop.

His hand found the hem of your dress, hiked up above your knees as his hips pushed you two closer. He found your inner thigh, and you shivered.

"You've only been with him?" Jeonghan dared to ask.

"Yes, but—" You were clueless as to how to best explain. He waited for you, halted his touches until you were ready. "He never really touched me. I got him off and he fell asleep."

Jeonghan was shocked once more. "I'd get a good laugh if what you tell me wasn't too outrageous."

"I guessed men were all like him. I have not heard other canaries complaining about their experiences with him."

"Did you complain about him with others hearing?" He tilted his head to the side with a smirk. Except for him, he meant. You shook your head. "Were you okay with me touching you?"

He talked so openly about such an improper topic, you had to hide your face on the crook of his neck so he wouldn't see you blush.

Sex was never something you were allowed to talk about. You touched yourself when the moon was high in the sky, covered your mouth so no one would hear. When Harold was soundly asleep, you twitched at his side searching for what you gave him hours before.

Instead of answering Jeonghan's question, you found his hand under the skirt of your dress. He had distanced from where you wanted him the most, massaging just above your knee. You slid his palm up your inner thighs until his fingers grazed over your underwear. You pressed your head against his clavicle at the feeling.

"Do you want me to touch you? I need you to say it." Jeonghan pretended your reactions had no effect on him, yet the heavy rise and fall of his chest told you another story.

"Please, touch me."

His other hand found your jaw under his shoulder and lifted it up so his mouth could find your neck. "I can make you feel things he never did." He whispered in your ear.

Burning fire coursed down your body into your pulsing core. Jeonghan touched where you felt damp and groaned against your neck. Anything other than your hand was foreign to your core. Even Harold's hard hadn't ventured higher than the pressing skin of your thighs.

"Relax for me."

You obeyed without much thinking, opening up your legs further.

Jeonghan's fingers drew circles where you felt most sensitive. It was a stark contrast to the times when you were desperate enough to touch yourself. Those times had been rushed, shameful even. You didn't want to spend so much time chasing something you weren't sure you deserved.

Yet, in that moment, you wanted to drown in Jeonghan's slow, thoughtful touches. He grazed over every point that went often overlooked. He listened to your reactions, your moans and deep inhales in his ear, and went back to replicate each one of them.

"You sound so sweet," he purred as he pressed harder against your core. "Has he heard you moaning like this? I'd wager he hasn't. He doesn't deserve you."

Every word coming out of his mouth sent shivers down your spine. You could feel your underwear getting uncomfortably wet, sticking to your core and letting you feel each swipe of Jeonghan's fingers better.

"Jeonghan," you sighed into his neck. Your hands gripped the sides of his coat, pushing his chest and arms inevitably closer to yours. "I—"

"Let me make you feel good, like you deserve."

A gush of cold air snuck between your thighs. Jeonghan had moved your underwear to the side. The pads of his fingers touched your wet lips gently, getting you accustomed to the unfamiliar skin. Your hips jerked in his direction, pressing his hand harder against you like you never felt.

"I want—" your thoughts were clouded by his fingers circling the spot that made you gasp. It felt immoral to want it, it felt wrong to even ask it, but Jeonghan kept pleasuring you without a second thought. He wanted to give you anything you asked. It couldn't possibly be as wrong as society deemed it, not if it felt so good. "Make me feel good, please Jeonghan."

Jeonghan let all the air out of his lungs in relief.

Everything became too much for you to handle. Jeonghan let go of everything shielding him from pleasuring you like you deserved, according to him. Every swipe of his fingers against your wet core was thought out, with one purpose.

Your dress stretched far more than it should. It gave in to the pressure of Jeonghan holding your legs open as you trembled on his stool. You heard fabric ripping somewhere along your thighs, but nothing mattered over the bubbling feeling at the pit of your stomach.

Jeonghan muttered, praising nonsense against your ear. Your body reacted to each word with a jerk of your hips, yet you registered nothing beside kisses on your neck and frantic fingers chasing your release. You tugged at his hair, gripped his arms muscles, held on to every bit of his body available within grabbing distance. He was so impossibly close, his hand so impossibly wet gliding over your core.

It wasn't gradual like you were used to. No. Jeonghan pressed on your clit and bit your earlobe and you were done for.

Flames burst without warning across your entire body. Your vision went white. Your knees closed on his hips, holding on to Jeonghan as you quivered against his hand. He kissed along your neck until he found your lips again. You kissed him lazily, letting your breathing go back to normal.

That was how it was supposed to feel? Your throat felt coarse from sounds you didn't even hear you were making. You had never felt too in tune, yet disconnected from your body, known yet unfamiliar.

"Tell me how you feel," Jeonghan asked, demanding yet shy.

"I had never—I didn't know it was like that." Words were hard to find.

Jeonghan let you settle down. He cleaned his hand on the sink and cleaned the mess between your inner thighs. It all felt too intimate, too real. The reality of what you did was dawning on you fast. You two were nothing, and you let him take you like it was nothing.

"Is everything okay?" Of course, Jeonghan read you like an open book. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

You looked down his body, the shadow of his hardness drawing your attention. He made you feel good and you didn't give him anything in return. You were just like Harold.

"I'm sorry. It was all too much," you replied first to his question. You nodded to his hips and asked, "Do you want me to…"

"No need." Jeonghan shook his head, fighting a smile. "Let's go outside."

He had a case of cigarettes in one hand, and stretched the other for you to take.

The back of the bar shone with one streetlight on. The street on the side was clear, as the mandatory curfew would start less than an hour later. Jeonghan lit the cigarette and handed it to you. You inhaled softly. You didn't want the smell to carry onto Sophie's place and raise more questions from her part.

"We could open a proper joint some day," Jeonghan proposed, smiling to himself at the idea. "You'd have all the stage time in the world."

His voice echoed against the grey wall in front of you. There was no reason for him to think of something like that, which only made you match his smile.

"Are you making future plans with me already?" You laughed it off incredulously.

Jeonghan had an easy way for your spiraling thoughts to stop. He brought you back to the real world with a crazy thought and a quirked smile. He was the Jeonghan that made your work days bareable, he wouldn't let you overthink about how wrong everything you felt was.

Your eyes drifted to his lips, and you tingled with the remainder of being pressed against him.

"I'm serious! I like it here but not for it to be my life, and you don't like it here that much either."

"I can't disagree with that."

Could you do it? It was another dream added to your growing list. Opening a jazz bar with none other than Yoon Jeonghan. The thought was crazy enough, but he had said it out loud. He had put it out into the world.

thank you so much for reading! i didn't start writing tihs with the idea of doing it in parts, but life happened :( I'll get to writing the last part asap!

Even before crossing the door, you can hear the noise coming from inside the stadium.

With MLB season at the verge of starting, the team's training days have become longer, their passion stronger, and their presence a ton more palpable in the air than before. It's not so different from any other day from the past weeks, but it still requires a deep breath before coming in.

The first time you stepped foot in the stadium, you were mesmerized by the sheer amount of open space, the different rooms, and the large dining area with glass doors going into the field. But, even after so much time working inside those walls, sometimes it's still hard to grasp the concept of getting to spend your afternoons here, watching the players you used to see on TV and being a part of the little league kids' lives before they get big.

Some days are better than others, like any other job, and you might not have the most important job out there, but you've grown fond of the history happening in the stadium.

The glass door opens under the push of your hands, and you're welcomed by the music from the radio coming from the speakers, and of course, more noise. It shouldn't be bad for long though, because you checked on the schedule before coming in and saw the team's practice was cut short due to unforeseen circumstances—whatever that means.

You change in the employees locker-room, the last minutes before setting the previous barista free. For the next 8 hours you'll be serving cold smoothies to whoever is on the clock. With no practice, it will most likely be a boring and slow day. The dream.

"Hey! You look cheerful… ready to clock in?"

Minghao joins you as you sit and wait for the hour to start. You're not clocking in even a minute earlier.

"As ready as I can!" You respond with a clearly fake smile.

When you saw you were on the schedule with him, it was a relief. It's no restaurant during peak dining hours, but the stadium's diner can be an overwhelming place when an entire team of hungry and tired men sit down. A bad or good coworker can change the day drastically. Even a boring one.

"At least it'll be a slow day, huh?" You chat while he changes behind the curtain.

"Slow? Didn't you see?"

"See what? I thought the team's practice was done for today."

Just a few minutes before, you saw their uniforms walking towards the players' locker rooms. You thought you'll serve some of them who'll prefer to eat something before leaving and that's it.

"Yeah, the MLB team's practice is. But they just bumped up the senior little league's for today." He barely pays you attention as he ties his shoelaces.

The news makes your hands feel clammy, but you persist. "I thought they were starting next week."

Kids. Kids you can handle. Sure, this will affect the entirety of the day in a way you didn't think of beforehand, but it's just the kids. You've got to know them all pretty well after spending plenty of seasons serving them during breaks.

"Apparently some of them got injured so they want to start practicing the new plays ASAP."

"That's so unfortunate!"

You've been a close witness to how hard those kids train to be a part of Little League. Each year they come back with more hunger than before, and the new ones that keep joining work twice as hard to keep up.

"Don't act like you won't enjoy it."

"You think that way of me? Kids got hurt!"

"Oh, no!" Minghao dramatizes, "it sucks that coach Boo will spend double the time here!"

You focus on the last part of his mocking instead of giving in. "Double the time?"

"You really don't check your e-mails."

"Just tell me!" You roll your eyes and get up from your seat as the hour's about to start.

"MLB practice is moving to the spring training center for a while and Little League is getting both slots until they come back."

As much as you hate to admit it—and you will never do it out loud, getting extra time to stare at the Little League coach from afar isn't the worst thing in the world.

Prodigy pitcher turned one of the best coaches in the country, Boo Seungkwan is nothing if not an amazing sportsman to idolize and worship from your perfect spot just by the glass windows. It was your love for the sport that drew you into working at the stadium, and interacting with Seungkwan, at least fleetingly, that helped you stay.

As you and Minghao leave the locker room, the field outside starts getting filled with the Little League team. All ages from 13 to 16, the kids talk to their friends while arranging themselves in a circle to pay attention to their coach. When you focus your eyes, you can see one of the girls with a cast on her right arm, and another one with a medical boot around her right ankle.

"I guess it's not going to be a boring day after all," you try to drive the conversation with Minghao back. "The kids will be more hungry than ever."

"And you'll have a view while you're at it." Minghao follows your eyes into the field just as the coach walks out and calls the team's attention. Damn him.

"You better shut up before I—"

"You don't scare me!" Minghao interrupts, and gives you no time to yell back.

He goes out the glass door into the field to help with practice—they need as much help as they can get with the new schedule, while you have to stay back and replace the previous barista.

"You need to tell your work husband to respect me," you tell Soonyoung, who's standing behind the bar, witnessing the whole interaction with a smirk.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He avoids your eyes, grabbing his bag from under the counter, already ready to leave.

Soonyoung never uses the locker room. He probably doesn't know where exactly it is, even after months of working here. You've always thought it was smart of him, because he's always ready to leave the second his shift is over, but today, that excuse won't do.

"Next time, I'll punch him in the nose and you can nurse him back to health."

Even with his back turned to you and walking away, he manages to flip you off. What a great start of the day.

A few MLB team members hang out on the tables while you wipe the rest of them. It's just an excuse to be seen doing something instead of standing behind the bar looking bored. They eventually take off to their homes, leaving your work space empty once and for all.

You don't really mind having nothing to do for a while. Time may run faster when you have a list of chores to check, but watching baseball practice from afar as if it was your TV screen does a good job at it too.

The field outside, a reddish clay color with green grass on the sidelines, endures the stomping of about 12 kids running in big circles while the pitchers do balance exercises. Minghao's back is to you, surveilling the runners with a watch in his hand. You've been trying to get busy with any possible chore, so you don't know how many laps the kids ran already, but they look as tired as if they were on a marathon.

On the other side of the field, the 6 pitchers follow Coach Boo's instructions. They stand on one leg for minutes, then throw a ball to the kid in front of them, a safe 10 meters away. A pretty standard warming session.

Seungkwan gives all of them indications, helps them with the position of the arms and legs, even demonstrating by throwing a ball to Minghao and hitting him on the back.

With everything turning upside down for the day, you haven't registered the weirdly formal attire he's wearing. Usually, the coach wears the team's uniform, plus a baseball hat with his name on it. But today. Today Seungkwan forgo the orange jersey, opting for a black and white button up with loose sleeves that drift up his shoulders every time he demonstrates a throw.

What he didn't opt out of was the white pants, so clean and tight one would think they haven't been worn once. As Seungkwan notices his legs in the wrong position for the throw, he shifts and flexes his muscles before his right arm extends to its full length at an angle.

The blend of polyester and spandex of the lower part of the uniform stretch perfectly over his hips and thighs, leaving little to the imagination. You've never seen a man with such a prominent ass that only accentuates with a change of clothes. You shouldn't be eyeing him so shamelessly, but it's there on your line of sight, and you're only admiring the curves abruptly turning circular then blending into the flesh of his tights.

"Ahem!" A cough way too close to your form takes you out of your thoughts.

Slowly and with fear, you turn around, finding the two girls that can't play for the season staring at you as if they are about to burst out laughing.

"Oh, hi guys!" You straighten your posture with the best polite smile you can master. "Did you want to order something?"

One of the girls, who's name you're pretty sure is Wendy, giggles as she takes out her phone. The other, Alice, pretends to think for a second before deciding.

"Two strawberry smoothies," Alice smiles, but side-eyes her friend.

Right, that's their favorite. You remember that. You know every kids' favorite thing to order during their break.

For the first time in forever, you're grateful the blender makes so much noise when breaking up the ice. You don't know how you'd handle the awkward silence as the girls watch your every move.

Little devils. That's what you and your coworkers call them. Sure, they're sweet girls and play baseball like their lives depend on it. It's when they're bored on breaks that everything changes.

Week after week, they choose a victim to follow around and "learn about their true life," as they put it. You were caught smoking twice, once during your first month, the second time the exact moment after you saw a sliver of Seungkwan's bare back that time you passed by the locker-room. They also discovered Minghao's break-dance shoes two months ago when he left his locker open accidentally, and Soonyoung’s secret Twitter account he was tweeting from while holding the door for them.

It's dangerous, having those two with nothing to do for so much time. Damn Minghao and his task to help Seungkwan train the team. You'll be these girls' focus, and they already caught you in a moment of weakness.

"So, how are you guys feeling? It's a bummer what happened."

You try to play it off, serve them their smoothies and engage in easy small talk to make them forget about the 5 minutes prior. Maybe if you hold your phone to their faces while playing a Subway Surfers video it'll work.

"We learned not to play Baseball in the park without Coach Boo there," Wendy jokes.

His name makes them giggle in unison, and you pretend not to be affected by it as well.

"You got hurt together? Oh, guys, I'm so sorry!" Both girls sip on their smoothies while staring at you. They could be communicating their next torture tactics telepathically, for all you know. "Is there nothing you can do for the team? I'm sure they'll appreciate some cheerleaders."

"The doctors said we're supposed to be resting," it's Alice's turn to explain. "We promised we'll stay put on our visits to the stadium."

Gears start turning behind both girls' pairs of eyes, like warning sirens going off everywhere in the building. Victim searching seems to be done. You put yourself under their spotlight. You and the glass windows allowing you to see everything Seungkwan does outside.

The girls are lovely. Hearing their school's gossip and nodding along with them is fun during your breaks and during the dead times when they're all eating. Maybe, just maybe, you can get through a few days of their attention.

"What are you doing bothering our best server here?" The voice coming in from the field's door freezes you in place.

Seungkwan steps inside your holy peaceful space, disrupting the little control you had over your nervous system. Sweat stains stick the button-up against his chest in a delightful show of his muscles, panting as if he just ran inside, looking at you with that teasing look you half-hate.

"You give me too much credit for serving smoothies, coach."

"No, no, you keep me and the team happy like no one can."

"Just lucky with the blender, I guess." Scrubbing down said piece of plastic, you try to shrink your body down and contain the flushing he always erupts. "The girls were just telling me how much they love you."

"Were they?" Seungkwan asks with the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.

"Yes, coach!" They reply together.

You nod with a knowing smile. As it's known those two are the troublemakers, their usual victims—but mostly Seungkwan, tend to tease them back. He even encouraged you and Minghao once, saying that it kept them on their toes.

"Don't think I won't be fooled by those angel faces you put on, I'll be making sure you guys stay resting."

You fetch the little peanut bowl instinctively, setting it on the bar where Seungkwan's seating without him asking for it. He chats with the girls for a second, snacking on what you lay in front of him. He talks so sweetly, so caring of his team that he works so hard for.

The rest of the team stay outside, all sitting on the freshly cut grass, drinking water out of their decorated bottles and laughing together.

Watching them so comfortable with one another, you still remember the first time Seungkwan showed up. You were so excited to see him in person, Boo Seungkwan, the legendary thrower turned coach. Any other starting coach would hate to get thrown to manage the little leagues, but not him. He came in every day with a smile on his face, remembered every worker's name, and worked his way up to get the trust of the most difficult age group: 13 year olds.

"Really? Are you willing to?" A voice asks, pulling you back to earth.

"W-what?" You find three pairs of eyes waiting for a response, two with matching devilish grins.

"We do need someone else to help the kids stretch," Seungkwan thinks out loud, eyeing the team outside.

Time. To. Panic. Helping the team stretch? You can barely touch your toes while standing, and doing the splits is a no-go. A retired woman of 70 years of age probably has a better physical aptitude than you. There's no way you can tell kids that play sports every day what to do!

Your heart races just thinking about it, having to spend time with Seungkwan as he witnesses the least athletic person to ever exist. Your hands grow hot, threatening to start sweating before you even utter a word back.

"Don't go pale! I'm kidding!" Seungkwan's warm chuckle breaches through your panic and into your heart, a very strange mix of emotions that result in a confused stare. "The girls were just complaining about how hot it is today and how you said you could bring out a cold drink cart to the field."

"I said that?" Your eyes fly to the girls by his side as they try to stop their giggles.

"It's okay if you're busy, you don't need to." His voice is soft, understanding, compared to the wicked girls.

At the back of your mind, you crave the safety of your post. The ease of waiting for tired members of each team to slump down in front of you without even asking for their favorite smoothie, because you already know their orders.

But, maybe… Just maybe, doing something different for once doesn't sound as bad. Under the sunlight, the kids' overwhelming screams can dissolve into noise in the background, it can add something to actually do now that the day has become more boring than usual. And is it so bad to want to feel your heart pumping a bit harder? Who needs drugs when you can get the adrenaline going by spending the afternoon with your workplace crush?

"No! Sure! Yeah!" You nod without making eye contact. "I don't mind at all!"

Off your sight, Seungkwan stands up and gets behind the bar counter. So hard. It's so hard not to look his way when you feel his bodily warmth brushing your arm.

"Good, I need your company out there," his voice reaches from your side, accompanying the fridge door unlocking as he takes a bottle of orange juice. "The team does, too."

You catch a glimpse of a wink fading from his face once you gather the guts to look at him. "Yeah, right, I'm sure they do."

"You can come by after individual skill drills are over!" Seungkwan smiles on his way out the door.

"We'll help you, miss Y/N," the girls, still sitting with barely contained giggles, announce in unison.

You grab their empty glasses, taking the chance to get closer to their faces so they can see the real meaning behind your polite smile. "Oh, then I'm definitely helping!"

The beverage cart shades you from the blinding sunlight outside, allowing you to see the practice as it evolves from skill drills eventually to a full on game.

Seungkwan and Minghao had set up a few different stations for the kids to train in groups of six. While Seungkwan focuses on the throwers and hitters, the coach's assistant with base running and Minghao on the fielders, you're left in charge of the hydrating station. Every five minutes, when they rotate the groups and change the exercises—a thought out way to keep them entertained, you hand each kid a cold bottle of water as they take some time to catch their breaths.

It's easier to give every kid the attention they deserve when split up in small groups, and you see Seungkwan taking his time making sure every one of them gets pointers to help get better. From the way every kid looks eager to receive his feedback, it's clear he's earned not only the kids' love, but also their respect.

"Isn't he so nice?" A voice says next to your cart.

Alice and Wendy sit on the benches, with matching sunglasses and team caps to shade their faces from the sun. They've been sitting there watching the practice and whispering to themselves for a while, but they haven't talked to anyone else, until now.

"Yeah, the previous coach barely gave us directions," Wendy replies, pointed.

"Remember when he sat and ate all of Drew's mom's cookies while we ran around?"

"Yeah, and they were for all of us!"

You try to ignore their conversation as best you can. As a new batch of kids rotate your way, the second to last group before the actual gaming practice begins, you bring out a few waters and orange juices from the cooler.

Not much further into the field, but enough that not one single ball has even come closer to your station, Seungkwan welcomes his new batch of kids. One by one, he lets them throw the ball his way, a few meters ahead, and then throws it back and lets them catch it. He's always with a kind smile on his face, doesn't matter if he gets hit in the chest, legs, or even his feet. Somehow, he notices what went wrong with every kid's throw and catch and helps correct it.

"What do you think, Y/N? About Coach Boo?"

Taking in account that the temperatures are already high, and that you're talking to two girls barely beginning their puberty, your face shouldn't be getting as warm as it is from a simple question.

"From what I've seen from your games and practices he seems to be a very good coach," you settle on answering. Simple, not revealing, and true.

"You see another side of him we don't," Alice prods further.

"I guess I do, and—sure he's really nice. "

But, do you? He never seemed different, always with a smile and a compliment to everyone. Though, maybe the few nights the whole staff went out for drinks does count as seeing him differently.

There was one time when you were so drunk, Seungkwan waited outside the bar until your Uber arrived to even order his own. You told him countless times that it wasn't necessary, and that he'd freeze on the sidewalk if you took his jacket. But he wouldn't listen.

"Are you friends?"

"I'm sure he's friends with the entire staff."

"But are you two friends?"

Your mouth opens to answer, but then another voice comes through, not really saving you. "Well, I hope she likes me enough!"

Immediately, the two girls giggle in unison, not bothering to hide what they're trying to do.

"I guess you could say I enjoy your company," you reply as unbothered as you can. He half smiles, and you counter, "sometimes."

Seungkwan chuckles as he always does, not bothering to hide the smirk that comes out every time you tease him. He turns around, grabs one of the cold juices from the icebox and tells the kids on your station something you can't quite hear.

"Hey!" You take the bottle away from him middle-sip. "Don't leave me without customers!"

"Their time was up!" You don't fight him when he takes it back. "I haven't seen that pretty smile all day! Is the sun killing you?"

You could blame the sun now. What other reason could you have for getting so blushed at a few words? "N-no, I'm fine inside this ice box."

"Sure? 'Cause I felt bad asking you out here to work under the sun."

"Please, you didn't force me."

If anyone was to blame, it'd never be him. Could be the girls scheming to make your life impossible. It could be you and your inability to take your eyes off the coach. It's not his fault his kindness enchanted you.

"Good, I think I'm enjoying you eyeing me working with the kids," he pauses for effect, and it works because air has trouble getting into your lungs. "We'd love more eyes on the practice to help the kids!"

"Oh—I,"

"Actually!" Alice speaks up after a while, "she was just telling us she never played baseball before!"

"What? No, guys, I definitely have," you lie through your teeth.

"It's okay miss Y/N, you don't have to be embarrassed in front of Coach Boo! He's the best teacher!" Wendy adds.

The two little devils grin at your wide open eyes. They really don't care to embarrass you in front of Seungkwan.

Maybe you haven't played baseball since that one time in high-school you tried every sport out there because you didn't want to end up in the running team—which you did. The time you've been working at the stadium must've done something. Before you landed your place behind the smoothie bar, you used to be called to do the jobs no one else wanted to: arranging the field for the practice games. You learned more about the field's and play's organization than you could've ever learned by just watching.

"I know how to play Baseball." You glare at Seungkwan for support, but it seems he caught on to your victim status for the day, and doesn't plan to help.

"Do you? Then show me." He's still wearing the pitcher's glove, which he uses to toss the baseball up without taking his eyes off you.

"I can't right now," you huff, "I mean—you're in the middle of practice! And I have kids to hydrate!"

"The kids are taking a bathroom break before we decide teams for the game." He extends his arm to make a show of the nearly empty field behind him.

For once, you realize there are no child-like screams on the background, no sneakers sliding against the sandy ground. That's what he said to the kids before, he was telling them to take a break. And you didn't notice until he pointed it out. Way to pay attention to your job!

You cross your arms. "Well, I haven't played in a long time." It's a stupid excuse, one Seungkwan sees through immediately.

"That's why I'm here, love."

Almost all alone on the field, except for the occasional sighting of Minghao bringing stuff for the game, you might as well be as red as the clay below you. Has it always been so red? Maybe it's the sun starting to hide behind the buildings. Or maybe it's that you're trying to pay attention to anything that isn't Seungkwan standing a few meters in front of you with smugness painting his face.

"I'm going to hurt you!" You shout his way.

You can't throw a ball. You're not the prodigy pitcher he was. Either the ball will fly out of the stadium because you can't manage the force, or hit him, or you'll throw it straight to the ground and embarrass yourself further.

"Just try it!" Seungkwan smiles in a way you haven't seen him ever, not even for the kids. "I've seen too much for you to be that bad that'll surprise me!"

He isn't wearing his coaching hat. That part of his uniform now sits on your head. So you can see where you throw, he said, but you doubt that'll help in any way.

"That's still too high of an expectation for me!" You can't hear him, but you know for sure he chuckles at your resistance.

Seungkwan doesn't move from his spot. He rolls his shoulders back, relaxing into a more comfortable position to catch whatever throw you're about to perform. You mirror his movements, trying to let go of the tension building up from being under his gaze.

You've seen countless practices, countless professional games, a number of coaches directing players and helping them out. Something should have stuck. Your body should be able to reproduce from memory.

A deep breath and a second where your anxiety-filled brain disconnects from your limbs is all you need to do a Twilight style throw. Left knee up. Elbows against your ribs. Your gloved left hand joins your right, holding the ball with much more force than necessary. You straighten your arm back, eyes focused on Seungkwan squatting to receive the throw.

And.

The ball flies from your hand. Straight into Seungkwan’s left thigh.

You knew where the ball would land as soon as you lost its grip. Seungkwan falls on the grassy side of the field, holding onto his, soon to be bruised, thigh as you run to him.

"Oh my God! I'm so sorry! I told you I suck!"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Seungkwan struggles to get the words out.

You broke his leg. Okay, you don't have that much strength, but you broke something. He's so in pain he can't breathe for God's sake! What a perfect afternoon with your workplace crush! Now Seungkwan will have a remainder on his leg to look at and remember how the least sporty person he knows attacked him.

You need a new job. How will you ever come back here after this? You had a 50/50 chance and managed to hit him on that leg!

It's fine. This place gave you tons of experience. Maybe you can apply to stadiums nearby. Soonyoung or Minghao can pretend to be your bosses and give excellent recommendations. This isn't the end of the world. You'll just have to say goodbye to the daily eye-candy.

A sweet sounding laughter takes you out of your doom thoughts.

"You're so worried!" Seungkwan stands up in a chuckle, leaving you dumbfounded, kneeling on the ground. "It didn't hit me that hard, I promise."

"But—you,"

"I'm okay!" To prove his point, Seungkwan stands on the one leg you hit and jumps a bunch of times, "see?"

You can't force down the smile he triggers, immediately helping you to feel better.

He stops and extends his hand down for you to take. At least cavalry isn't fully dead, right? You still don't know how to properly talk to him after this. Oh, how embarrassingly worried you just were, and in front of him of all people!

Seungkwan's fingers drape over yours as he pulls you up.

"I'm still sorry," you rush to apologize for one last time.

"I've had kids hit me harder," he teases. How can he be so charming even in these situations?

"I just thought—I didn't want to hurt you right there."

Your eyes dart down his body, losing focus once or twice where his clothes reveal a bit more skin than normal, and set just above his left knee, dangerously close to where the ball hit. Where you know, under the coaching uniform, surgery scars must cover a big patch of skin.

"Oh." Seungkwan follows your head down, finding the cause of your stress. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't completely healed. Especially coaching kids."

That logic, you can't argue.

"I hope you've had worse hits than that one here," you chuckle, one last try at a normal interaction. "Because if not then I won't be able to talk to you again."

"C'mon! It wasn't that bad." Usually, Seungkwan is one of the most trust-worthy men related to the sports world, but you still catch the devious tone. "Your form just needs work."

"I think it's more than that but—okay."

Your words get cut off by Seungkwan positioning himself behind you, his hands on your elbows, ready to be in teacher mode. He's not giving up on teaching just yet. And if he was any closer, he'd feel your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.

"You put too much force with your arm," he begins, his touch relaxing your tense muscles with care. "Your secret weapon is the wrist. It helps to throw exactly where you want to."

The trail of goosebumps his fingers leave behind in their way to your wrist is unavoidable. His hands are warm, a physical testament of his personality. This is normal for him, being close to whoever he's teaching. You've seen him helping people of all ages, always with thought and care. It isn't different with you, you're the one making it awkward.

You need to get it together.

"So, I need to aim better? Shocking news."

Seungkwan chuckles dangerously close to the back of your neck.

"Do it like this." His left hand ventures down until it finds your waist. He lightly pushes it forward, tilting your lower body to sideways while the throwing arm faces the front. "Throw it with your whole body."

"I tried that." You cringe at the motion you did earlier.

"You didn't do it wrong, you just need to focus on strength, not on moving."

It'd be easier to follow the instructions if your blood didn't boil in every place Seungkwan touches. He isn't doing anything out of the ordinary! It's just a teaching exercise, but here you had to come and get nervous at every little thing he does.

"It's your fault if I do it badly this time."

He chuckles again. You hope he thinks your rebuttals are funny and not a result of nervousness. If he notices, he doesn't show.

Seungkwan's right hand gets a hold of yours, lacing your fingers to grab the baseball together.

"And if it goes well? Do I get a prize?"

"If i throw well you mean?"

"Hmmm." His hum runs from the back of your neck all the way down to turn your legs into jelly. "What's your target?"

He has you facing nothing but air and glass windows you shouldn't really aim at. Is he expecting a real answer? Not hitting the ground would be enough. You couldn't possibly be expected to think properly in these circumstances.

"Forward?" Seungkwan laughs through his nose. You don't know if you want to look back and see his reaction or hide under a rock forever. "I don't know—that light pole over there. I don't want to break anything."

Something moves on the corner of your eye. "I have a better idea." Seungkwan's voice is filled with an undeniable mischief you can't decipher in time.

You move at his will, his arm molding against yours as you try to follow his line of sight.

Seungkwan lets go of the ball, pushing it forward in a straight line so clean you suspect he's more a machine than a man. Even if his muscles tensing due to the force of the throw demonstrate otherwise.

Almost instantly, you understand what happened.

The white and red ball hits the figure that moved earlier: Minghao. He's far ahead and you barely understand the string of curses leaving his mouth, but his insulted face is enough to get the gist.

"He's going to kill me!" Turning your back on your annoyed friend, you find Seungkwan no longer breathing down your neck, but laughing hysterically. "You did it on purpose! Now he's going to kill me!"

"Please, he loves you," he snickers, looking behind you. "He went inside already."

"He tolerates me, there's a difference. And there's only one person he loves here."

It takes less than a second for Seungkwan to register what you said. He doesn't even give you time to feel bad about airing out Minghao's business. "Oh, yeah," he nods.

You chuckle, still struggling to breathe. "They're so obvious!"

"I always catch Soonyoung watching him through the windows."

You freeze. "You can see inside?"

You figured, a long time ago, that the sun's reflection against the glass made it impossible for people to see inside the dining space from outside. Soonyoung works the same position as you. Shifts together with him or alone. If Seungkwan can see him working the bar, he can for sure see you too.

"I have to see what you're up to from time to time."

Right. He always checks up on the staff. He catches if we need anything or if we're free to help out on the field. It's his duty. Kind of.

"Well, we need to do something about those two because—"

"About who?" A small, high voice interrupts your deflection.

Behind you, Wendy runs after Alice, who's standing almost between you and Seungkwan, looking up as innocently as possible.

"You guys should be sitting down," Seungkwan reprimands with a smile.

"We were looking for Miss Y/N and saw her with you outside," Wendy adds.

The girls look at each other and giggle. Never in the history of the world has something been so obvious. If Seungkwan hadn't caught up to the fact that you were today's victim, he has to know by now.

"Why were you looking for me?" You find your voice after the initial shock.

"Nothing!" Both girls say in unison.

Another way to embarrass you, surely.

Your skin still tingles with the memory of Seungkwan's body behind yours, overpowering your every move by simply existing. You want to run away and scream the memory away. You want to be alone with him and feel his touch again.

If it wasn't for your embarrassingly obvious crush, you wouldn't be here in the first place. You'd be alone and bored behind the smoothie bar, looking out into the practice run and wishing you'd had the guts to do something.

"Do you kids want to be the referees for the practice game?"

"There's nothing in the kids' locker-room!" You scream at your phone stuck between your cheek and your shoulder.

You look under every bench and every open locker for anything that isn't supposed to be there. It's surprisingly clean after an afternoon of being used by the messiest age group of kids, even if the benches and plastic chairs were left anywhere but in their place.

"No yellow beanie?" Minghao asks on the other side of the line.

"I think I'd see a yellow anything here!"

The stadium is basically empty at this hour. The practice ran longer than usual, as the team needed to replace Alice and Wendy and, not only practice what a game without them would be like, but also come up with new plays when they realized the older ones only worked with them.

When, usually, then staff tends to have time to close properly, now you're left scrambling in the search for this beanie one of the kids is missing. Why couldn't he wait until the next practice? Beats you.

"I'll tell him to check his bag again," Minghao proposes.

Beside his voice, you hear him mumbling orders to the kids as they get out of the stadium and into the bus.

"We'll find it and take it to the lost & found. I'm sure he can survive until tomorrow without it."

With that, you take your quest as finished. The day is finally over. You can pick your things up from your locker, appreciate not being followed by two bored girls anymore, and not think about Seungkwan until the next day. Some things are easier than others.

"You heading to the lockers?" Minghao asks, almost smug.

He can't see you from the bar/dining space since you took a shortcut from the side of the field.

"Yeah… " Fabric ruffling on his side tells you what he means to say. "And you're leaving already, aren't you?"

"Privileges of working inside! I snuck my stuff to the bar while you were out on the field." You don't miss the teasing tone at the last words.

"Well, you're opening tomorrow and not me, so," you retort.

"Jealousy is a disease," he chuckles.

"One I don't have! Good night Hao!"

With the kids already on the bus taking them home, no one's around the premises, silence embracing you for the first time since stepping foot in the stadium.

A boring day turned into one of the longest in a long time. Practicing anything new, being plays, player arrangements or both in this case, always takes more time and energy than anything else, and it's your duty to stay until the last baseball team member leaves. That means, on days like these, making sure no kid is left behind (job done graciously by Minghao this time) and being the one to turn off the lights at whatever hour that that is completed is your job.

You've grown used to closing. The white led lights from outside illuminate your walk to the lockers, in a silence that is only interrupted by the sound of a bench being moved.

Damn Minghao. He must've forgotten a kid. Great.

You run in the direction of the sound, your phone ready in hand to call the parents and a cab to take you both home. Why would a kid be hiding in the staff rooms? Asking that would get you nowhere. It happens. You fix it.

"Your friends left already, let's get you home kid—"

The tired words halt their way out when you step into the locker-room.

"But you're still here," Seungkwan snickers at your blank face.

The floor. The locker-room floor is so interesting. Certainly more interesting than your shirtless co-worker standing too close and staring and smiling and not putting his shirt on.

"I thought—" you look behind you, at both sides of the room, everywhere but at him. "Everyone already left."

"Yeah, but Hao asked me to look for something a kid missed, so I stayed behind."

"Oh, yeah, I was looking for it too."

You dare to look up. At his face. With a lot of mental willpower. It's not better. Seungkwan smirks like he knows exactly what's going through your mind. Why isn't he putting the shirt on? It's right there in his hand.

"Are you clocking out?" He asks at your silence.

"Yeah, I—I'll let you change and be back after."

You really only need your bag. Waiting for him will only delay your escape home, but you fear if you spend a second longer repressing yourself with Seungkwan in the room, you'll explode.

He gives you no chance to head back to the door. "If you don't mind then I don't."

Do you mind? He's being so nice. He wants both of you to leave the workplace quickly after a hard day. And you… you're starting at his chest. Or it stares at you.

"I'll get my things."

Most times you've seen Seungkwan on the way out were him heading out of the locker-room as you were entering. If you even caught him. Your closing chores take so much time, you're left alone or with your closing mate, Minghao, most of the time.

That's why you didn't know, and you realize at the worst possible moment, that your locker sits exactly opposite to his.

It's okay. Just—unlock it, grab your bag, anything that could've fallen outside of it, and leave.

"You on the schedule tomorrow?"

With your back to him, Seungkwan can't see the series of thinking expressions morphing your face, though you can hear the ruffle of fabric that indicates he's decent enough for you not to want the earth to swallow you whole.

"Same time as today," you answer, pretending to arrange the stuff in your bag.

"Me too." His voice sounds much closer than before, his words breathing down your neck.

You try to keep your tone casual, your stance calm, keep your hand from trembling looking for your phone. You really do. "Are you not doing longer practices?"

The space between the walls is already narrow enough, and Seungkwan rounded around the bench in the middle of it to stand on your side. He invaded your space happily. At least he's clothed.

"Next week," he simply replies, and his smirk bleeds through the words.

You immediately regret turning around in a weak moment of curiosity.

He's so close your knees almost touch. You can't breathe, feeling like if your chest rises, it'll bump against his. Whatever he's doing, for whatever reasons, it's messing with every system in your body.

"Don't stretch it out too much, please, I don't want to go home at the crack of dawn."

"It's not that late," he chuckles. "I do whatever it takes."

He doesn't move, just stares at you as your brain struggles to think a single word.

Why is he doing this? Why is he being like this? You can take normal flirty banter on the daily—hell, he does it with everyone. But he probably isn't pinning every co-worker against their locker and smirking like he knows all their secrets.

"Are you leaving?" Is the only thing that comes out of you.

"Are you?" He counterattacks.

You could.

You could push him away and sprint out of there. You could curse him out and make him back off you. You could do so many things, but, deep down, that workplace crush is fighting back, bubbling over and away from the box you tuck it into every day.

When you don't answer, his smirk grows.

Maybe you're hallucinating. Maybe the thickening air in the room got to your brain and you're dreaming dangerously vividly, because, slowly, Seungkwan's face gets closer and closer, until your eyes can't focus on it anymore.

His breath tickles your cheek, the side of his mouth grazing yours just barely as he merges into your space. In fear of it all dissipating at the faintest move, you stop breathing.

Something moves on the side Seungkwan has chosen to torture you in. Something… vibrating?

Your phone comes into view in his hold as he hands it to you, smirk never fading.

"You should probably answer."

Has it been ringing this whole time? A quick glance at your notifications confirms your suspicions. You have at least 10 texts from Minghao, the latest reading: enjoy your night. You put it back before you blush again.

If Seungkwan stepped away, you'd tell him exactly what the text means, but he doesn't. And now you're sure you don't want him to.

Something takes over you. You sunbathed too close to the sun and the solar radiation has given you a new dose of long-lasting adrenaline. Or the thought that this fleeting moment will be over before you can do something real takes over.

He hasn't stepped away, his awaiting gaze and mouth slightly agape just a breath away from yours, and you take it as a sign.

You grab his face before he has the chance to turn around and lock lips with him. Desperate and hungry for his taste.

Seungkwan reciprocates immediately, as if he's been ready since you stepped into the room. He follows your mouth and takes everything you have to give, hands drifting everywhere he can touch and grab. If this was his plan all along, then you're happy to have fallen into his trap.

Your hands sneak inside the shirt you were so desperately waiting for him to put on, now ready to take off again.

Not even a second is wasted after he's shirtless once more. Seungkwan pins you against a closed, innocent locker, with a hand on the back of your head to shield you from the metal. His other hand shoves your hips together, opening your legs up to make space for him. You can feel every chest muscle you've memorized that hid under his uniform, pressing and flexing against you.

You sigh on his lips at the feeling of him getting hard against your inner thigh. His tongue dances with yours at the chance, taking control of the pace and giving you no choice but to melt against him.

Everything is so overwhelmingly him. His firm arms from years of training tensing under your touch, the taste of orange juice he drank earlier still present, his hair a mess due to the uniform and the wind, and now your fingers going through it.

His sure hands no longer guide your moves like out on the field, but rather sneak under the hem of your shorts to touch even more of you.

"Fuck," Seungkwan grunts without leaving space to breathe. "Is this okay?"

Crossing the line? His tongue leaving no space unknown in your mouth? His hands grabbing your ass? His hard length pressing against your core?

"More than okay," you breathe out and feel him smile against your lips.

He grabs the end of your shirt, already pushed so far up you might as well be without it. "Can I—" Your arms are up and the piece of clothing flies away before he finishes the question.

Seungkwan mutters a string of curses before he's on you again. The steady pace of his lips already on the edge of losing control. He kisses down your jaw and neck, leaving no patch of skin untouched.

Chests flushed together, the merciless warmth of the room is incomparable to the boiling heat growing at your center. Seungkwan's back glistens with sweat as well as you rake your fingers down to find his coaching pants.

“Take these off,” you demand.

He follows with a chuckle that makes your insides mush. You stare shamelessly down his bare legs, his boxers restraining his erection, his thighs that were just pressing you against the locker, the surgery scars above his knee and his feet facing forward. 

A click of his tongue shoots your head back up. “You too,” he orders, shaking his head.

A wave of arousal swims down your spine at the tone of his voice. You follow immediately.

The pile of clothes stares from the side as Seungkwan traps you again. You chase after his lips —now that you tasted him, you never want to be not kissing him— but he moves his head back.

Your skin is hot against Seungkwan’s touch. His hands caress your hips and thighs as he stares in awe down your body.

“This is a dream,” his low voice is music to your ears.

You wrap a leg around his waist, inviting him to feel your pulsing core. Only because of him.

You can’t take it anymore. Months of pining finally erupted in one single day, and you’ll be damned if you don’t keep taking your chances, if you don’t go as far as he’ll let you.

“I want you,” you half-moan in his ear.

The deep breath he takes pushes you both closer as one hand travels over your stomach, teasing you over your panties before tugging them aside.

“Fuck—me too,” He hides on the crook of your neck, licking and moaning on your sensitive skin as his fingers work on your wet folds.

You grind against him, his hand and hips impossibly closer.

This is real, you think as Seungkwan opens you up easily. After his first touch, you were done for. Your walls welcome his thick digits warmly. His pace is steady, slow, so you get used to having him.

He lays open mouthed kisses on your throat. You moan into the air, letting him kiss you and thrust into you as he pleases. But your anticipation stumbles over his carefulness and patience. Every touch of his follows one single goal: having you come undone in his arms. He doesn't know how easy he has it.

“Tell me you have a condom in that big bag of yours.”

He halts his movements, your walls pulsing so hard around his fingers that they're pushed further inside.

“This—I,” your voice echoes in the room. “I need you, Kwannie.”

It's hard to believe you can utter intelligible words with how much Seungkwan's making you feel by just a few touches. There's more you want him to know, but your mind's a haze of kisses and touches and Seungkwan.

Slowly, Seungkwan plunges his fingers out of you, slick with arousal, and filthily cleans them up with his tongue. He gives you a peck before reluctantly stepping away, turning his back on your awed self. Now, the row lockers in front of yours feels kilometers away. 

Your panties uncomfortably stick to your skin, and you take them off. The ghost of his touch stays with you, your thighs, your back, your lips, as he rummages through his things.

You can't avoid looking at his ass when he slips his boxers down. You hear a packet being teared open, and Seungkwan finds his way back between your legs.

Seungkwan bites back a moan as you wrap your hand around his erection. You slide up and down his shaft, followed by deep sighs against the side of your neck Seungkwan can't stop kissing. You never want him to.

“I—” he starts, breathing heavily. “I wanted this for so long.”

Hearing him voice your thoughts as his own, you hide from his gaze, laying your head on his shoulder. There's so little space between your bodies, you work on his length dangerously close to your dripping core.

“Me too,” you gasp.

And even if it's a fleeting moment. Even if you don't know if this will happen again, if it doesn't begin to explain how much he makes you feel, a weight was put off your shoulders.

Seungkwan takes over your hand, dragging his covered length along your wet fold. You sigh on his clavicle.

“Please,” you whisper.

The heat pooling where his core meets yours would be embarrassing if Seungkwan wasn't as desperate to feel you as you are him.

The head of his cock teases your opening and elicits drawn-out moans from both of you. The pressure has you sucking in a breath, anticipation building up the courage to wrap a leg around his waist and connecting your hips until he's all the way in.

“Fuck,” he grunts in your ear. It might be becoming your favorite word.

“I know.”

For a moment, silence envelops you as you take him in, only broken by shagged breaths. You look into Seungkwan’s eyes, trying to burn the memory into your mind.

How many nights have you wondered if you were wasting your time? A crush is just that, a crush, you'd repeat like a mantra, but it never worked. You'd clock in the next day and, as soon as your eyes lay on Seungkwan’s friendly grin, you'd be back at square one.

You smile at the memory and feel his lips against yours in return. His tongue runs over your lower lip, deepening the kiss as he begins thrusting. You both kiss like that, smiling like idiots naked in the locker-room.

You wrap your arms around his neck, moaning into his mouth as he stretches your walls to his shape.

The slow drag of his cock makes you delirious. Your back slams against the lockers as he snaps his full length inside. A curse leaves your mouth before he does it again, and again and again until your body shivers.

Seungkwan grabs your thigh on his hip and holds you tight. Each slam of his hips pushes you closer to the edge, and he doesn’t show any signs of stopping drilling his hips into you. 

Your teeth find his neck, biting and kissing to muffle your sounds. He hits deeper with every thrust, and you can only take it and moan against him, gripping him to not lose balance. Your limbs cage his body against yours, and he has trouble keeping up with his pace, but that doesn't stop him from hitting every spot needed to make you see stars.

The wall of lockers shakes with each thrust, but neither of you care. With your leg wrapped around his waist and your nails digging into his back, the only thing in your mind is the knot on your lower stomach threatening to explode.

You've given up on kissing, your faces so close you moan into each other's mouths. Any sound you make, he replicates, and each time, your lips graze his.

Seungkwan holds you against the wall, steadying your trembling body as you grind your hips in search of your orgasm. He hardens his pace, chasing his own. Your insides crave every thrust, each getting you closer and closer.

Without warning, your orgasm explodes in burning pieces across your body. Your legs tremble around Seungkwan’s relentless hips, making you see stars in the thick air in the locker-room.

Your body falls limp against him. He holds you up effortlessly, prolonging your high. But before he reaches his own, he stops his hips and holds both your legs tight around him. You stop feeling the wall of lockers digging into your back, your feet up in the air as he walks back.

Seungkwan sits down on the bench. With you on top, the movement thrusts his hard further inside you.

With the most strength you can gather, you plop your knees by both sides of his hips and start grinding on him. Your tired walls hug him tightly, matching your slow pace. He doesn’t care. His hands roam your thighs and back with low grunts. You feel his length twitching inside you, and quickly, he’s cumming into the condom with a groan.

His hand on your jaw guides you to him, molding your lips together in a tender kiss, opposite to everything that just happened. You giggle into the kiss at the thought.

“What’s so funny?” Seungkwan asks, matching your smile.

He remains touching you everywhere he can. He’s still inside you, but his fingers feeling your skin lighting up because of him feels more intimate.

“Nothing,” you giggle again. “It’s just—we couldn’t go somewhere else?”

He nods, fighting back a chuckle. “We jumped right at it, didn't we?”

You kiss him again, wrapping your arms around his neck and flushing your chests together. The action makes his softening cock thrust lightly into you. You both moan at the feeling.

“We should—” he hesitates. “Do you want to come to my place?”

“You want another round already?” You joke, but feel his length twitch at the idea.

“Have dinner with me.” He locks eyes with you, the most serious you've ever seen him, even more than when the team doesn't follow his instructions.

“I will have dinner with you, coach Boo Seungkwan.”

At your response, Seungkwan hugs you and peppers kisses across your face. You just giggle and accept it.

When you separate after who knows how long, you both put on your clothes as fast as you can. You're in a rush to get out of the stadium, to go out into real life holding Seungkwan's hand and seeing his apartment and, hopefully, being part of his life.

You walk out the locker-room together in a comfortable silence as you assimilate everything.

“So, what was that with your phone earlier? It seemed urgent.”

You blush at his question. You'd forgotten about Minghao's teasing text to focus on kissing Seungkwan until you didn't feel or know anything else.

“I'm pretty sure he had us searching for that beanie on purpose,” you explain.

“Really? So, there was nothing left behind?”

“Nope.” The empty dining room comes into view, and the glass door to the street looks like a new beginning. “I think the two devils got to him.”

“Oh, I see.” Seungkwan chuckles, opening the door for you and locking it with his key after you're safely outside.

“You know what we should do?” The idea comes to you like an epiphany. “Set—”

“him and Soonyoung up?”

“—him up with Soonyoung.”

You both say at the same time.

On the way to Seungkwan's car and the drive to his apartment, you both plot the plan to get back at Minghao. A taste of his own medicine. Though, as soon as you cross the threshold of Seungkwan's front door, everything is forgotten as he traps you against the wall and kisses you like he hasn't in ages.

thank you so much for reading!! don't forget to check out the collab masterlist linked above!

january 2026

made of honor by @kookooluvr

fuckboy!jjk x baker!reader, (slight) knj x reader; friends to lovers, strangers to lovers, love triangle, fluff, angst, smut

heartsmith by @heartepub

choi seungcheol (svt) x heartsmith!reader; heartsmith au, urban fantasy, fluff, angst

work, doll by @chanifesto

handyman!hyunjin (skz) x reader; neighbor au, handyman au, smut

under the mistletoe by @dreamersparacosm

jjk x reader; childhood idiots best friends to lovers, christmas au, fluff, angst, smut

unforgiven by @haologram

athena!boo seungkwan (svt) x reincarnated arachne!reader; greek god au, second chance au, angst, fluff, smut

special delivery by @voyter

paperboy!jjk x milf!reader; age gap au, 2000s au, infidelity, smut

handyman by @pjminii

handyman!jjk x reader; neighbor au, handyman au, smut

better together by @belovedgyu

choi seungcheol x reader; university au, strangers to lovers, fluff, smut

february 2026

"fan" cast by @belovedgyu

actor!kim mingyu (svt) x author!reader; fluff, smut

next to you by @woncheolisms

fuckboy!choi seungcheol x nerdy!reader; college au, roommates to lovers, fluff, angst, smut

hot & bothered by @ktownshizzle

myg x reader; strangers to lovers, dating app au, fluff, angst, smut

it's a match! by @/dreamersparacosm

jjk x reader; dating app au, enemies to lovers, coworkers to lovers, fake dating, smut, fluff, angst

crossing without steps by @nerdycheol

kim mingyu x reader; 1920s au, arranged marriage, fluff, angst, smut

rodeo by @sailorsoons

hitman!lee know (skz) x arms dealer!reader; cyberpunk au, semi-friends to lovers, angst, smut

_world by @soyongdorigyu

model!kim mingyu x writer!reader; fake dating au, fluff, angst

march 2026

rules of devotion by @memoiresofaneternaldreamer

viscount!choi seungcheol x lady whitlock!reader; bridgerton au, regency au, enemies to lovers, angst, smut

trigger by @sailorsoons

kwon soonyoung (svt) x reader; mafia au, cyberpunk au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, smut

red wine lights by @hannieoftheyear

f1 driver!lee seokmin (svt) x reader; formula 1 au, friends to lovers, fluff, angst, smut

backrooms by @seungkw1

kwon soonyoung x reader; psychological horror, angst, smut

sins and sundays by @memoiresofaneternaldreamer

lord!kim mingyu x reverend’s daughter!reader; bridgerton au, regency au, forbidden love, angst, smut

april 2026

pitch a date by @hannieoftheyear

baseball coach!boo seungkwan (svt) x reader; baseball au, coworkers to lovers, humor, fluff, smut

the bare minimum by @slut4kwon

kim mingyu x reader; best friends to lovers, fluff, smut

all that I need by @cherryberrycheol

(this is a 2-parter btw!!) choi seungcheol x reader; childhood friends to lovers, fluff, angst, smut

fealty by @woncheolisms

knight!choi seungcheol x princess/queen!reader; medieval au, arranged marriage, forbidden love, angst, smut

sorry this was kind of made in a rush lol but again I wanted to give my thanks to these writers for taking us to such intricate worlds for ✨f r e e✨