it’s time to move on

Your daughter had developed a brand-new hobby: climbing Yunho.

Which would’ve been ridiculous if he didn’t actively encourage it.

“Come on, peanut,” Yunho laughed, bending his knees so your four-year-old could reach him. “Use me like a ladder. I believe in you.”

“You’re too tall!” she squealed, already grabbing his arm like it was a tree branch.

“You just have to be brave,” he teased, holding perfectly still so she could scale her way up toward his shoulder. “Braver than your mum.”

You shot him a look from the couch. “I’ll have you know I am stunningly brave.”

“Ah, sure,” Yunho grinned, “but have you ever climbed a six-foot-two mountain?”

Your daughter reached his shoulder and threw her tiny hands up. “I win!”

Yunho gasped like she’d conquered Everest. “SHE WINS! UNBELIEVABLE!”

She giggled so hard she nearly toppled off his shoulder. Yunho immediately steadied her, hands gentle, patient, endlessly careful. That was the thing about him — for someone built like he was, he moved like he was made of soft pillow stuffing, always alert, always mindful.

You tried to pretend you weren’t melted into the sofa cushions over it.

You failed.

———————————————

He was your neighbour — the one who held doors open, carried your weekly shop up the stairs, and always greeted your daughter with a little bow like she was royalty. Somehow, without either of you formally discussing it, he’d slipped into your routine: morning elevator rides, shared dinners when you were too tired to cook, movie nights that “just happened” whenever your daughter begged, “Yunho come too!”

He’d become dependable. Dangerously dependable.

You weren’t sure when your heart started getting involved, but it definitely didn’t ask your permission.

———————————————

Movie night had turned chaotic — snack crumbs, colouring books everywhere, and your kid demanding “UP!” every time Yunho so much as stood.

You watched him now, your daughter perched happily on his shoulders as he walked slow laps around your living room like she was the queen of a very small, very chaotic kingdom.

“Are you comfy up there?” he asked.

She drummed her heels against his chest. “Higher.”

He barked out a laugh. “Higher? Peanut, this is my max level. I’m not a crane.”

“She thinks you are,” you said, sipping your tea.

He looked at you — really looked — smiling in that soft, stupid way that made your stomach flip.

“I’d try if she asked,” he said lightly.

You blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His smile deepened. “I want to.”

That was Yunho. Always meaning things. Always meaning them too much.

———————————————

Eventually, you pried your daughter off him long enough to start bedtime.

“Yunho tuck me in!” she insisted, already dragging her stuffed dinosaur.

You opened your mouth — to protest, to apologise, to tell him he didn’t have to — but he was already crouching.

“Let’s go, peanut. But only if your mum says it’s okay.”

He always did that. He always checked with you.

It was infuriatingly respectful.

“Fine,” you said softly. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

You followed them to her bedroom. Yunho helped her climb into bed, pulled her blankets up to her shoulders, and accepted the dinosaur she shoved into his hands.

“Guard him for me,” she whispered.

Yunho nodded solemnly. “With my life.”

You covered your mouth to hide a laugh. He was committing. Fully.

“Story?” your daughter asked.

Yunho glanced at you. You nodded.

He sat on the edge of the bed and began reading from the picture book, doing voices — bad ones, really bad ones — but your daughter was in stitches. Halfway through, Yunho got so into it that he made the T-rex roar so loudly your daughter burst into delighted shrieks.

“Too loud?” he whispered.

“No,” she said, smiling sleepily. “Just right.”

When her breathing evened out, Yunho gently set the dinosaur beside her, brushed a stray curl off her forehead, and backed away like he was leaving a shrine.

You froze at the doorway, heart climbing into your throat.

He whispered, “She’s a good kid.”

“She really is.” You smiled, a little shy. “Mostly. She likes you too much.”

Yunho shrugged softly. “I… like her too.”

That shouldn’t have made your chest warm. But it did.

———————————————

The living room was quiet when you returned — just the low glow of the lamp and the hum of the air purifier. You started gathering toys automatically, brain running on mum-mode, until Yunho gently took the basket from your hand.

“Sit,” he said.

“Bossy.”

“I’m tall, not bossy,” he teased, nudging you toward the couch.

You let yourself sink down. He took the other end of the couch but angled toward you, long legs folding up, hands resting loosely on his knees.

“So,” he said slowly, “did you have a good day?”

“It was… a lot. She painted on the wall again.”

Yunho snorted. “What colour this time?”

“Purple. But she said it was ‘art.’”

“Ah.” He nodded seriously. “A visionary.”

You laughed — actually laughed — head tilting back in relief.

Yunho’s watching you, you realised.

And then you really realised: he was looking at you like you were art.

Your pulse tripped.

“What?” you asked shyly.

He shook his head. “Nothing. I’m just… glad you’re laughing.”

You swallowed, unsure where to put your hands. Yunho never flirted outright — he didn’t need to. His entire existence was gentle pressure, gentle presence, gentle affection without stepping into anything he hadn’t been invited into.

You were the one who’d kept a wall up.

You were also the one who’d let him into your home every week.

Maybe you weren’t as careful as you thought.

———————————————

A soft whimper interrupted your spiralling thoughts.

“Is that—?”

Before Yunho could finish, your daughter stumbled out of her room, rubbing her eyes.

“Mummy…” she mumbled. “My tummy.”

You reached her instantly. “What’s wrong, love?”

Yunho was already kneeling beside you, tall as he was, moving quicker than seemed physically possible.

Your daughter looked up at him, lip wobbling. “Hurts.”

“Oh no,” Yunho whispered, face tightening with worry. “Can I pick you up?”

She nodded and immediately lifted her arms.

Yunho scooped her carefully, one hand supporting her back, the other cradling her legs. She tucked her head into his shoulder like she’d done it a hundred times.

Watching them triggered something warm and aching deep in your chest.

“She might’ve eaten too fast,” you murmured. “Or too many popcorn pieces.”

Yunho rocked her slightly, his voice dropping to that incredibly soft register that made your stomach flip every time. “It’s okay, peanut. Deep breaths. I’ve got you.”

Your daughter sniffled, tiny fingers gripping his T-shirt.

And then, of course, she whispered, “Yunho stay?”

You blinked.

Yunho stilled.

Your daughter repeated it, sleepy and sad: “Stay with Mummy too.”

Your mind blanked. Your heart didn’t.

“I—” Yunho cleared his throat. “If your mum says it’s okay.”

You really wished he’d stop doing that. You also really appreciated that he did.

You exhaled slowly. “Yeah. Stay.”

His eyes flicked to yours — surprised, soft, hopeful in a way that nearly undid you.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay.”

———————————————

Twenty minutes later, your daughter was asleep again, curled against Yunho’s chest like a koala. He hadn’t moved, barely breathed, eyes soft as he watched her.

“She knocked out fast,” you whispered from beside him.

“She feels safe,” he murmured.

And then, almost bashfully, “I’m… really honoured by that.”

You swallowed a sudden surge of emotion.

“You’re good with her,” you said.

He smiled slightly. “I like being around both of you.”

Your heart did something traitorous.

“You don’t have to… keep being this involved,” you said hesitantly. “It’s a lot. I know being around a kid all the time isn’t for everyone.”

Yunho stared at your daughter for a moment, brushing a thumb along her back in a gentle arc before looking at you.

“Then good thing I’m not ‘everyone.’”

You blinked.

He continued, voice soft but steady. “If anything, I’ve been trying not to cross any lines. I never wanted you to feel pressured. Or worried that I’d expect something just because I’m around.”

That made your chest twist.

“I know,” you whispered. “That’s why I trust you.”

His eyes widened — just slightly — like that meant more to him than you intended to reveal.

Slowly, carefully, he shifted so he could rest your daughter between you, her head on his thigh and her feet pressing lightly into your side. His hand brushed yours along the blanket.

“Can I… say something honest?” he asked.

Your breath hitched. “Yeah.”

“I like you,” he said simply. “And I like her. And I like what it feels like here. With you two. It feels…” He searched for a word, lips curling softly. “Right.”

You couldn’t speak for a beat. Your throat felt thick.

“Yunho,” you whispered, “I like you too.”

His hand found yours again — this time, deliberately — fingers brushing, then threading softly.

You didn’t pull away.

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for months.

“If we do this,” he murmured, “it’ll be slow. Your pace. Your rules. She comes first. Always.”

“She already does.”

“I know.” His smile was warm and earnest. “It’s one of the reasons I—”

He stopped himself, cheeks flushing.

You leaned in just a little. “Keep going.”

He chuckled quietly, embarrassment melting into sincerity. “I think I’m already halfway gone for you. Maybe more. And I’m okay with that.”

Your chest tightened in the best way.

You rested your head on his shoulder, letting the moment settle, letting him settle against you. His hand squeezed yours gently, his other resting protectively near your daughter.

The room was warm. Soft. Safe.

You whispered, “We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “We will.”

Your daughter shifted in her sleep, mumbling something about dinosaurs. Yunho brushed her hair back tenderly.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly. “Not unless you tell me to.”

You tilted your head to look at him. “I don’t think I will.”

His smile grew — slow, bright, unguarded.

꩜—𝑱. 𝒀𝒖𝒏𝒉𝒐

➤Yunho would be the fun and chaotic dad. He’s always down to play, always hyping them up, always accidentally teaching them bad habits like staying up late or eating dessert first. He’s the dad that turns everything into a game and somehow makes boring things exciting. They would associate him with laughter and feeling safe at the same time.

꩜—𝑲. 𝒀𝒆𝒐𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒈

➤ Yeosang is the quiet/fun dad. He’s always making dry jokes that catch them off guard, sneaking little treats into their bag, and showing up early just to wait for them. He doesn’t hover, but he notices everything. Being with him feels calm and grounding, like someone steady is always in their corner.

꩜—𝑪. 𝑺𝒂𝒏

➤ San is the dad who loves loudly. He gives big hugs, praises often, and makes sure they know how proud he is of them. He’s emotionally open and very attentive, always checking in and validating feelings. He’s really protective without being overbearing, and always ready to step in when it counts.

꩜—𝑺. 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒊

➤ Mingi is the LOUD, supportive and slightly embarrassing dad. He cheers too loud at events, tells the same stories over and over, and turns every achievement into a celebration. He’s big on encouragement and comfort, and even when he messes up, he owns it. Ya’ll’s kid learns confidence by watching him be unapologetically himself.

꩜—𝑱. 𝑾𝒐𝒐𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒈

➤ Wooyoung is the playful dad who feels more like a best friend, until it’s time to be serious. He jokes, teases, and definitely lets his kid get away with more than they should. He encourages them to be independent, but the second someone crosses a line with his kid, it’s over. Very loving, very protective, very involved.

꩜—𝑪. 𝑱𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒉𝒐

There are summers that don’t end. They don’t belong to years or calendars. They settle under the skin, in scraped knees and half-forgotten songs, in the way your chest feels when the air turns thick and the cicadas start screaming like they’re trying to be heard by God himself.

This was one of those summers.

You are young enough that time doesn’t feel like something that moves forward. It just is.

The heat is everywhere. In your hair. In your clothes. In the grass that scratches your arms as you lie on your stomach, notebook sprawled open between you and San. The paper is wrinkled at the edges, smudged with graphite and sweat and fingerprints that aren’t yours.

Your shoulders sting faintly from the sun. His nose is pink. You both smell like outside.

“You’re pressing too hard,” you tell him, chin propped on your hand.

He doesn’t look up. His tongue pokes out in concentration, pencil digging into the page like he’s trying to carve the line into existence. “I’m focusing.”

“That’s not focusing,” you say, already smiling. “That’s bullying the pencil.”

He finally glances at you, squinting like he’s offended on principle. “You said you’d teach me.”

“I am,” you say.

You don’t think about it when you reach for him. You never do. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, warm and dusty, skin tacky with chalk and sweat. You guide his hand slower. Softer. The way your teacher showed you once, the way felt right.

Your feet touch. They always do.

San exhales without realizing it, shoulders dropping as his grip loosens. The line curves the way it’s supposed to, gentle instead of jagged.

“Oh,” he says, quiet. Like he’s surprised.

“See?” you murmur.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

The air hums with cicadas and heat and something unnamed. He keeps his eyes on the paper. You forget to let go right away. It feels normal. Like gravity. Like this is how bodies are meant to exist when they trust each other.

Later, his house smells like laundry soap and warm fabric and the faint sweetness of something baking down the street.

You sit on the floor of his room, backs against the bed, legs stretched out, sharing a bowl of snacks you didn’t ask permission to take. You never do. You’ve been doing this too long for it to feel like stealing.

He puts on his favorite movie. The one he’s been insisting you watch for months.

“It’s not dumb,” he says quickly, already defensive.

“I didn’t say it was,” you reply.

You don’t even look at him when you smile, because if you do, he’ll notice. He always does.

He sits too close. Close enough that your arms brush when you both reach for the bowl at the same time. Close enough that you can feel the steady heat of him through your t-shirt. It doesn’t make you nervous. It just feels right. Familiar. Like his room wouldn’t work properly if you sat anywhere else.

San keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re distracted. Watching your reactions. Waiting for your laugh at the parts he loves. Every time you laugh at the right moment, something in his chest lifts, light and fizzy, even though he doesn’t know why.

You don’t notice. Or maybe you do, but you don’t have words for it yet.

The years pass without asking permission.

Inside jokes pile up like treasures only the two of you know how to find. Silence becomes comfortable. Something shared. You grow taller. Louder. Then quieter again. Limbs stretch. Voices change. But somehow, you never grow out of each other.

By seventeen, sneaking out feels less like rebellion and more like habit.

You meet him by the window, shoes dangling from your fingers, laughter pressed tight in your chest as you slip into the night. The hill near your neighborhood waits for you, grass cool and damp under your palms as you climb. The sky opens wide above you, stars scattered without care, like no one bothered to arrange them.

You lie down side by side.

Your shoulders touch. Your heads are close. Not quite resting together. Almost.

The cicadas are loud enough to erase everything else. Your breathing slows without you noticing, matching his. San stares at the sky, hands folded over his stomach, heart steady and strange in his chest.

If this is all I get, he thinks, I’ll take it.

Beside him, you feel full in a way you don’t understand yet. Safe. Seen. Like the world makes sense right here, on this hill, under this sky, with San breathing beside you.

This is what life feels like, you think. Simple. Warm. Real.

Sleep finds you quietly.

No confessions. No promises. Just the certainty that this will always be here.

And that’s the lie you grow up believing.

You grow older assuming you will always orbit each other. That whatever happens, whatever changes, this remains untouched. Untested. Eternal. Love, unnamed, patient enough to wait.

Adulthood never quite erases this memory. It only softens the edges, blurs the light. But it stays. Vivid. Persistent.

Waiting.

You don’t remember when things first shifted. There wasn’t a clean line between then and now, between the summers that never ended and the days that taught you how easily something bright could dim.

It happens quietly.

Yunho enters your life the way good things usually do. Through someone you trust. A mutual friend, smiling too wide, saying, You’ll like him. He’s kind. Someone who wouldn’t have handed you something dangerous on purpose.

The beginning is easy. Coffee that stretches longer than planned. Conversation that doesn’t snag. Yunho listens carefully, attentively, like he’s memorizing you. He remembers details. Texts to check if you got home safe. Walks you back without making it feel like obligation.

He never pushes.

When he reaches for your hand, it’s slow. Careful. Like he’s asking permission from the air around you. When he kisses you, it’s soft, smiling, the kind of affection that promises safety instead of heat.

San tells himself this is good.

He watches from where he’s always been. A step behind you. Close enough to notice everything. Close enough to feel the shift before it has a name.

At first, nothing really changes. You still laugh. Still show up with stories tucked under your tongue, eager to share. Still text him late, complain about work, steal his food without asking. San tells himself it’s fine. That this is what he wants for you. Someone kind. Someone steady.

But kindness, he learns, can have rules.

It starts small. Yunho asking why you didn’t answer right away. Why you stayed out later than you said you would. Why you laughed so hard at something San said.

He never raises his voice. He smiles when he says it. Frames it like concern.

“I just worry about you.”

“I don’t like when people get the wrong idea.”

“You know how guys think.”

San notices the first time you flinch when your phone buzzes.

He notices the pauses in your voice. The way you rehearse answers out loud, testing them first. He notices how you start apologizing for things you never used to apologize for. How you soften your opinions, sand down your edges.

You used to take up space without thinking.

Now you measure it.

Now you negotiate it.

The night of the party, San sees it clearly.

Yunho’s hand is at your lower back, firm enough to steer. Too firm. His smile never leaves his face, but his fingers dig in just enough to communicate something private. When you try to stop to say goodbye, Yunho leans in, says something too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Your smile falters.

You nod.

You leave early.

Later, you call San from the bathroom, voice low, door locked.

“He didn’t like how close we were sitting,” you whisper. “He said it looks wrong. Like you’re waiting for a chance.”

San’s stomach drops.

Yunho doesn’t like San. Not openly. Not aggressively. He’s smarter than that.

He jokes about him. Laughs too lightly when his name comes up. Calls him that friend. Mentions, casually, that it’s strange how much time you spend with someone who’s obviously in love with you.

“He’s not,” you say, defensive, tired.

“I’m just saying,” Yunho replies. “I trust you. I just don’t trust his intentions.”

San hears the echoes of those conversations in the way you start pulling back. The way you hesitate before inviting him places. The way you ask, carefully, if it’s okay that you’re hanging out with him.

It puts you in impossible positions.

Every time you choose San, Yunho sulks. Withdraws. Goes quiet for hours, sometimes days. Every time you create distance, Yunho relaxes. Praises you. Becomes affectionate again.

San considers giving you space.

For your sake.

He thinks maybe if he steps back, Yunho will ease up. Maybe if he disappears quietly, you’ll stop getting punished for knowing him. The thought makes him sick, but he holds it anyway.

He never follows through.

You were his friend first.

The late-night calls are the worst.

San sits on his bed, back against the wall, room dark except for the glow of his phone. He listens to your breathing before you speak. Shallow. Controlled.

“I don’t want him to hear,” you whisper.

So you cry quietly. Like even your hurt needs permission.

San says your name again and again, low and steady, trying to anchor you to something solid. He tells you you’re not imagining it. That you’re not too much. That love isn’t supposed to feel like walking on glass.

Every word he doesn’t say burns.

He doesn’t say leave. He doesn’t say this isn’t right. He doesn’t say it should have been me.

But the thought claws at him anyway.

He should be the one holding you. The one kissing your forehead. The one you fall asleep against without fear of being overheard. He should be the one you come to, not the one you hide with.

Instead, he stays where he is. Listening. Waiting. Loving you quietly, painfully, from the sidelines.

Yunho always sounds reasonable when you talk about him.

“He’s just worried about me.”

“He didn’t mean it like that.”

“He says he only gets like this because he loves me.”

San learns to hate how gentle those words sound.

He learns how control can dress itself up as care. How jealousy can pretend to be protection. How someone can take pieces of you and hand them back shaped like guilt, until you start thanking them for the loss.

Yunho takes.

Your confidence. Your sleep. Your certainty. He takes your joy and returns it conditional, something you earn by behaving correctly.

San stays.

Through the calls. Through the silences. Through the nights you fall asleep on the line because crying takes more energy than you have left. He stays because leaving you alone with it feels worse than standing just outside the door.

San remembers thinking, bitter and helpless, that love shouldn’t feel like surviving.

And that if you ever looked back at him the way you once did, he would never make you feel small for it.

When it finally ends, it isn’t loud.

There’s no confrontation, no last conversation that announces itself as closure. Just a sudden quiet that feels wrong at first. Too open. Like the noise stopped but the ringing didn’t.

And then, slowly, you come back.

Not all at once. In fragments. A laugh that escapes you before you’re ready, sharp with surprise. Color returning to your clothes.

You started talking about things you wanted again. Not what you were afraid of losing. Not what you were bracing yourself against. You start talking about plans again. Small ones. Safe ones. Yours.

San watches from the edges.

He doesn’t guide or correct. He doesn’t rush the process. He just stays where he’s always been, careful not to startle you back into retreat.

Watching you come back to yourself felt like watching the sun rise after weeks of neverending rain. Relief hit him so hard it almost hurt.

You’re here. You’re okay.

And then a cold realization follows. He almost lost you. Not to distance or time, but to someone who mistook possession for love.

The guilt settled deep in his chest, heavy and permanent.

He hated Yunho. Clean. Simple.

But worse than that, he hated himself.

For never stopping it. For mistaking patience for protection. For telling himself that staying quiet, staying close, staying available was enough. For believing that being there meant the same thing as intervening.

The promise forms without ceremony. Not spoken. Not dramatic. Just something he carries from then on, like a rule written into his bones:

I won’t let anyone do that to her again.

It settled into him without ceremony. Sank deep. Became something structural, something he carried into adulthood like a second spine. Not visible, but holding everything upright.

And even when you smiled now, that promise hummed under everything he did.

The past loosens its grip eventually. Not cleanly, not all at once, but enough that it stops defining every breath you take. Life becomes solid again. Recognizable.

San is part of that solidity.

It shows in small, unremarkable ways. The way he notices before you say you’re tired. The way he adjusts without asking. The way his presence never demands anything of you. He offers. He waits.

Love, with San, is mostly presence.

You spend time together without naming it. Rides in his car. Shared meals. Quiet nights that don’t need an agenda. His hand rests open between you sometimes, an option rather than a question.

Sometimes you take it.

Sometimes you don’t.

He never moves it either way.

You tell yourself this is normal. That this is what life looks like when it isn’t sharp all the time. Taken care of without being watched. Wanted without being owned.

You don’t examine it too closely.

Because examining it would mean acknowledging how naturally you lean into him. How easily your world aligns around his presence. And you’ve learned what happens when you name things too soon.

So you let it be what it is.

Easy. Steady. Unspoken.

You are happy. Not loudly. Not in a way that needs proof. Just settled, like something returned to its proper place.

There is a quiet understanding between you. Something shared and untouched. And for now, that’s enough.

You let yourself believe this will last.

Overhead lights too bright. The low, constant hum of computers. Your coffee cooling beside your keyboard because you forgot about it again. You answer emails. Fix numbers. Tap your pen when your thoughts wander. Boring in the best way. Predictable. Safe.

You like it that way.

Your phone buzzes once near your elbow.

You don’t check it immediately. You finish the sentence you’re typing, reread it, change a word. It buzzes again, impatient this time.

You glance down, expecting San. A reminder. A stupid meme. Something unimportant.

The name on the screen steals the air from your lungs.

Yunho.

It feels invasive. Like someone saying your name too close behind you. Your fingers go cold. The office noise dulls, like it’s been pushed underwater.

You open the message before you can stop yourself.

Just checking in. Hope you’re doing well. No pressure. Just thought of you.

It’s polite. Careful. Familiar.

Nothing you could point to and say this is wrong.

That’s what makes your chest tighten.

You don’t reply. You stare at the screen until your reflection ghosts back at you, warped and pale. Then, with a steadiness that surprises you, you block the number.

The relief comes fast. Dizzy. Almost lightheaded.

You sit back, exhale, even laugh quietly to yourself. That was easy, you think. That was nothing. You go back to work. The day moves on.

You don’t think about him again.

The first bouquet arrives three days later.

Not dramatic. Not excessive. Just flowers. Bright, expensive, arranged with care. They sit at the front desk like they belong there. Your name is written neatly on the card. Handwritten.

Your stomach drops anyway.

Someone whistles behind you. “Damn,” a coworker says. “Someone’s spoiled.”

You smile because that’s what you’re supposed to do. Because explaining would take too much energy. Because not smiling would invite questions.

You don’t read the card.

You throw the flowers away in the break room, petals bruising against the plastic. You wash your hands longer than necessary afterward.

Nothing else happens.

A week passes.

You start to relax again. Your shoulders loosen. The quiet settles back into place.

Then another bouquet arrives.

Different flowers. Same handwriting.

Two weeks after that, another.

Always spaced just far enough apart that you almost forget. Always close enough that you’re never surprised.

Soon, you start expecting them.

You find yourself thinking in intervals instead of days. Not if, but when. You scan the front desk when you arrive in the morning. You feel a flicker of relief on the days nothing is there, followed by something worse when it shows up anyway.

Yunho never texts again.

He doesn’t need to.

He’s everywhere without being visible. In the way your shoulders tense when someone says your name. In the way your stomach tightens when you leave work and glance down the street without meaning to. In the way the air feels heavier, like it’s waiting.

You don’t tell San.

Not because you don’t trust him. Not because you think he wouldn’t care.

Because saying it out loud would give Yunho shape again. Weight. Presence. Because you didn’t end things cleanly. You just left. You vanished. And part of you is afraid this is his way of answering that silence.

This isn’t over.

You tell yourself you’re being dramatic.

You keep living.

You go to the movies with San, sitting side by side in the dark, sharing popcorn. His arm resting along the back of your seat, close but careful. When something funny happens, you laugh at the same time. When something sad flickers across the screen, he glances at you first, always checking in.

You don’t tell him how every time the theater doors open, your body flinches.

You have dinner with your sister, listen to her complain about work, nod in the right places. You tell her you’re fine when she asks. You sound convincing enough that she lets it go.

On the walk home, you keep your keys threaded between your fingers without really thinking about it.

You get beers with San’s friends. Wooyoung loud and familiar. Jongho quiet, observant. You joke back. You almost feel normal.

Almost.

All week, the hum stays under your skin. Low. Constant. You catch your reflection in windows. You scan faces that blur past you. You tell yourself you’re tired. That stress does this.

But you know better.

Yunho never did anything without intention.

And whatever this is, you know one thing for certain. It isn’t a peace offering.

It happens late in the afternoon.

The bus stop is half-empty, the kind of liminal place no one really claims. The bench is cold beneath your thighs, metal seeping through denim. Cars pass in uneven waves. The air smells like exhaust and dust and heat.

You scroll on your phone without reading. Thumb moving. Mind somewhere else.

Someone sits down beside you.

You don’t look.

Why would you? It’s a public bench. People sit. Your heart doesn’t get to react like this. Your breath doesn’t get to stall.

But it does.

The presence beside you is wrong. Not loud. Not rushed. Just… settled. Too close without touching. Too still.

You stare at the cracked corner of your screen like it might anchor you.

“Hey.”

His voice is soft. Almost careful.

Your stomach drops so hard it feels like missing a step.

You turn slowly. Deliberately. Like sudden movement might snap something fragile.

Yunho is sitting next to you, elbows on his knees, eyes forward. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t surprised to see you. He looks like someone waiting for a late bus.

Like this was inevitable.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

“You look tired,” he says finally.

Concern, perfectly measured.

“I’m fine,” you reply, too quickly.

He hums, a sound you remember too well. “You never were good at admitting that.”

Your fingers curl around your phone. “Why are you here.”

He turns to look at you then. His gaze feels like hands. Familiar. Appraising.

“I was worried,” he says easily. “You never answered.”

“I blocked you.”

A flicker of something crosses his face. Annoyance, quickly smoothed away. 

“I figured.”

You stand. Your legs feel unsteady, but you don’t let him see it. 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

He doesn’t move to follow you. That’s the trick. He lets the space between you stretch just enough to make you doubt yourself.

“I know you,” he says quietly, eyes still forward. “I know when something’s off.”

You laugh once, sharp and brittle. “You don’t know me anymore.”

His smile is small. Sad. Calculated. “You say that now.”

The bus approaches in the distance. Relief spikes in your chest.

“You always run when things get hard,” he continues, voice low. “That hasn’t changed.”

You step back. “Don’t talk to me.”

“San doesn’t really see you,” Yunho adds gently. “He’s good at being present. That’s not the same thing.”

Something old stirs in your chest. A reflex. A doubt you thought you’d buried.

“I’m happy,” you say, forcing the words out.

He finally looks at you fully, eyes sharp with something close to satisfaction.

“If that were true,” he says, “you wouldn’t look like you’re bracing.”

The bus hisses to a stop.

You don’t answer. You don’t wait. You climb aboard with your heart hammering, fingers white around the pole. Through the window, you see him still seated, watching the bus pull away like this went exactly as planned.

After that, you start noticing him.

Not immediately. Not every day.

Outside a café when you’re alone. Across the street, phone to his ear, expression neutral. At your usual bus stop, farther down the bench than before. Close enough to register. Far enough to deny.

Once, near San’s apartment. Half-hidden. Stationary.

You don’t stop.

That becomes the rule. You don’t slow. You don’t look. You don’t give him the satisfaction of your fear. When he says your name, soft and careful, you let it dissolve into traffic noise.

Sometimes he follows for half a block.

Sometimes he doesn’t.

That’s worse.

Sometimes it isn’t him at all.

A man with the same build crossing the street sends your pulse skidding. Laughter behind you sounds wrong. Too close. You catch your reflection in windows and mistake your own shadow for his, breath locking until you force yourself forward.

Your body learns him before your mind can correct it.

You change routes. Leave earlier. Wait longer. You keep your phone unlocked in your hand, thumb hovering. You stop wearing headphones.

When it really is him, when the certainty settles heavy and undeniable in your chest, you feel it instantly. The air tightens. Your vision narrows.

You don’t run.

You walk faster.

Once, close enough that his voice ghosts your ear, he says, “I just want to talk.”

You don’t answer.

He never raises his voice. Never touches. Never demands.

He doesn’t want you back, he wants you reachable.

That night, you sit beside San on the couch, your knee pressed into his thigh. He’s solid. Warm. The apartment smells like fried rice and soy sauce, takeout containers stacked on the coffee table like proof of an ordinary evening. A bad movie flickers on the TV. Someone screams. Someone laughs.

None of it reaches you.

San passes you a drink without asking. You take it.

Your fingers shake. Not enough to spill. Just enough.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

And you mean it. Mostly.

The crack is there, though. Fine as a hairline fracture, running quietly through your chest. You keep your eyes on the screen like not looking might keep it from spreading.

San doesn’t push. He never does. He shifts instead, barely, angling toward you. His knee presses more firmly into yours. An anchor.

You breathe.

You reach for something small. Normal. “They’re reopening that café on Fifth.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Saw the sign.”

The silence waits. Patient.

Your grip tightens around the glass.

“He’s back.”

The words land wrong. Too heavy for how softly they fall.

San stills.

“What do you mean, back.”

“Yunho.”

The name changes the air.

San’s jaw tightens. It’s subtle. Anyone else would miss it. You don’t.

“He texted. I blocked him. Then flowers showed up at work. With his name.” Your voice speeds up, afraid of stopping. “I threw them away. Every time. Then he started… appearing.”

San turns fully toward you.

“Appearing how.”

“At first I thought I was imagining it,” you say, almost apologetic. “But I wasn’t. Bus stops. Outside the café. Once near your place.” You shake your head, a small, sharp motion. “He talks like nothing happened. Like he’s worried. Like he knows me better than anyone.”

Your skin crawls just saying it.

San’s anger doesn’t explode. It focuses. You see it in the way his hand curls slowly against his thigh.

“Did he touch you,” he asks.

“No.”

“Did he threaten you.”

“No.” A beat. “Not like that.”

San exhales through his nose, sharp. His eyes never leave your face. 

“But he scared you.”

You laugh, breathless and wrong. 

“I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“You don’t shake like this for nothing.”

Something loosens in your chest. Relief hits harder than fear.

“I feel stupid,” you whisper. “Like noticing him is letting him back in.”

San takes the glass from your hands and sets it down. His fingers brush yours, grounding.

“Hey,” he says. Softer now. “Look at me.”

You do.

Whatever he sees there makes something in his chest break open. His thumb presses lightly against your knuckle. Careful. Asking.

“You’re not stupid,” he says. “You’re scared. That makes sense.”

“I didn’t tell you because saying it out loud makes it real.”

“It already is.”

He shifts closer, solid as a wall.

Silence settles again, heavier this time, but not empty. San shifts closer, shoulder brushing yours, solid as a wall.

“I should’ve known,” he mutters, aching.

You shake your head immediately. 

“No. San, you couldn’t have.”

“I won’t let him do this to you,” San says. Quiet. Absolute. “Not again.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.” Your voice catches. “I just want to feel normal again.”

“Then let me help,” he says. “Let me walk you home. Let me be there.” His voice roughens. “Just let me.”

You hesitate. Old instincts flaring. Independence. Survival. The fear of being a burden.

Then you think of the bus stop. The shadows. The way your body learned fear without asking you first.

You nod.

His hand tightens around yours like he’s been waiting his whole life.

At first, it feels like relief.

San walks you home every night. No questions. No negotiation. He waits outside your building until your lights turn on. Sometimes longer. Sometimes until you text him a thumbs-up from bed.

He starts picking you up from work.

“I was nearby,” he says, every time. You stop asking how nearby is nearby.

He learns your schedule by heart. Your bus times. Your late days. The places you like to stop on the way home. If you linger too long somewhere, his phone buzzes in his pocket before you’ve even noticed the time.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Just checking.”

He sits where he can see the door. Always. Restaurants. Movie theaters. Bars. His body angles instinctively between you and the world. A shield you never asked for, but don’t know how to refuse.

You’re grateful. You tell yourself that over and over. Grateful people don’t complain. Grateful people don’t feel tight in their own chest.

But slowly, the fear changes shape.

It’s no longer Yunho you’re checking for in reflections and windows.

It’s San. 

Not his presence. His absence.

You catch yourself timing things so you won’t worry him. Leaving early so he doesn’t wait. You start explaining yourself before he asks.

“I stayed late.”

“I took a different route.”

“I forgot to text, sorry.”

San never says you have to. He just looks tired.

You wake up to missed calls when your phone dies. You find him outside your building once, pacing, phone clenched so hard his knuckles are white.

“I thought—” He stops himself. Swallows. “I couldn’t reach you.”

Guilt blooms faster than fear.

“I’m sorry.”

He pulls you into his arms. Holds you too tight. Just for a second.

San starts shrinking his life around you. Cancels plans. Leaves early. His world narrowing to the radius of your safety.

He’s exhausted. He’s in love. He’s terrified.

Not of Yunho.

Of failing. Of missing the moment. Of not being there when it matters. Of fact that you’re not his, not really.

Jealous of a danger he can’t punch.

So he holds tighter.

And one night, sitting there with him, you realize your shoulders haven’t dropped all evening.

Your phone is face-up on the table. Your replies already written in your head, rehearsed. His presence is warm and solid at your side, familiar as breathing.

You are safe.

And somehow, you feel watched. Not by malice. By love that’s forgotten how to let go.

The pressure doesn’t explode. It doesn’t demand attention.

It settles.

It lives in the quiet moments. In the way your chest feels tight even when nothing is wrong. In the way gratitude starts to taste like panic. In the fear that if you lean any harder, you’ll disappear into him entirely.

That’s when the space begins.

Not all at once. Not dramatically.

You stop reaching for him first. Stop resting your head on his shoulder during movie nights. In the car, your hands stay in your lap instead of drifting toward the console where his always waits, open, patient.

San notices everything. He just doesn’t say anything.

You still smile at him. Still go out together. Still laugh at Wooyoung’s jokes, still walk beside him on the street. But there’s a carefulness now, a new distance that feels intentional even when you don’t mean it to be.

You need air.

Not from him. From the feeling of being held together so tightly you can’t tell where you end anymore. 

Being someone’s center feels dangerous when you’re still trying to remember how to stand on your own.

The distance doesn’t announce itself.

It lives in the almosts.

In the way San’s hand still reaches for yours out of habit, then hesitates when it finds empty air. In the way he shifts closer on the couch and you stay exactly where you are, like movement might start something you don’t know how to finish.

One night, halfway through a movie neither of you is watching, San’s fingers hover near your wrist.

Not grabbing. Never grabbing. Waiting.

You feel it. The heat of him. The quiet question suspended in the space between your skin and his. You don’t pull away.

You just don’t move closer.

His hand drops back to his thigh.

He exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s teaching himself how to swallow something sharp.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

Careful. Too careful.

You smile on instinct. “Yeah.”

It’s the same answer you’ve been giving for weeks. It lands between you like a thin sheet of glass. Clear. Fragile.

He nods, eyes back on the screen. He doesn’t believe you. You can tell. You can also tell he’s trying very hard to respect something he doesn’t understand.

The apartment feels smaller lately.

Not physically. Emotionally. Like the walls have learned how to lean. San keeps checking his phone, then glancing at you, like he’s bracing for something neither of you has said out loud yet.

You feel it too. The pressure. The sense that one wrong word might tip everything.

You stand first. The decision arrives quietly, born from self-preservation rather than defiance.

“I’m going to step out for a bit,” you say, forcing lightness into your voice. “Just need some air.”

San looks up too fast.

“I can come with you,” he says immediately, already reaching for his jacket.

You shake your head. Small. Polite. Apologetic. “No. I just want to walk.”

“Then I’ll wait outside,” he says. “Or we can just—”

“San.”

He stops.

“Please,” you add, softer. “I just need a minute.”

“Alone?” His voice cracks on the word.

There it is.

You hesitate. Long enough for everything unsaid to rush in and fill the room.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just around the block.”

His jaw tightens. You see him swallow something sharp.

“Why?”

You shrug, already reaching for your jacket, already bracing. “Because I want to.”

The couch creaks as he stands. Too fast. The sound startles both of you.

“Why won’t you just let me help you?” he asks, frustration finally breaking through the careful tone he’s been using for weeks.

The words land wrong. Heavy. Like an accusation.

You turn fully this time.

“Because I’m not a problem to manage.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

Silence drops between you. Thick. Brittle. The kind that feels like it might shatter if anyone breathes too hard.

San drags a hand through his hair, pacing once. Then again. He looks everywhere but at you.

“You disappear,” he says finally. “You don’t tell me where you’re going. You pull away and expect me to just—what—sit here?”

“I’m not disappearing,” you say, even as something tightens in your chest. “I’m right here.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re leaving?”

Because I am, a voice answers inside you.  Because staying feels like losing myself.

“I need space,” you say instead. “I need to feel like me again.”

His breath stutters.

Fear curdles into something uglier before he can stop it. Old helplessness. Old jealousy. The memory of watching you hurt while someone else held pieces of you.

It slips out, poisonous and precise.

“Maybe you like the attention,” he says. “Maybe that’s why you never really shut him down.”

You freeze.

San realizes it instantly. The moment his words land, his eyes widen, horror flooding in too late.

The silence that follows is brutal. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just dead.

Your face closes in on itself. Something shutters behind your eyes so fast it scares him.

“You don’t get to say that,” you whisper.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.”

Your hands are shaking now. Not visibly. Inside. Like something foundational has cracked straight through. You gave him the truth. You trusted him with your fear. And he turned it against you.

“I told you because I trusted you,” you say. “Because I thought you knew me.”

“I do know you,” he says desperately. “That’s not—”

“No,” you cut in, voice breaking anyway. “You know the version of me that needs you. And you hate it when I try to be anything else.”

“That’s not fair.”

You laugh, sharp and wounded. “Neither was that.”

He has nothing left to say. Words pile uselessly behind his teeth.

“I was scared,” he admits. “I am scared.”

You nod, tears blurring your vision. “So am I.”

You grab your keys. Your jacket. The last pieces of yourself you still recognize.

“Don’t,” he says, voice cracking. “Please.”

You pause at the door. Hand on the handle. You don’t turn around.

“You hurt me,” you say quietly. “And I don’t know how to unhear that.”

The door closes behind you with a soft click.

San sinks back onto the couch like his bones have been pulled out. The apartment feels wrong without you. Too big. Too empty.

Maybe you like the attention.

The words replay. Over and over. Each time sharper. Meaner. More unforgivable. He presses his palms to his eyes.

He promised himself he’d never be that person. And now the apartment is silent. And he is alone with the sound of himself ruining everything.

San doesn’t move for a long time. The night stretches thin around him, every sound too loud, every memory too sharp. He thinks, stupidly, that if he stays still enough, the moment might rewind. That the door might open again. That you might come back angry instead of gone.

You don’t.

At first, being alone feels temporary.

Like a pause. Like holding your breath between moments. You move through the apartment with the quiet confidence that this is just a reset, that the world will knock soon enough. A text. A distraction. A reason to leave.

But nothing comes.

Your phone stays dark. The hallway outside your door remains empty. The silence doesn’t shift to make room for you. It settles instead, heavy and unmoving, and eventually you realize it isn’t waiting for you to catch up.

So you learn it.

You learn the sound the apartment makes when it’s only you. The way the floor creaks near the bathroom, the way the refrigerator hums at night like it’s aware of your breathing. You learn how long it takes for the air to cool after sunset, how wide the dark feels without another body to break it up.

You learn how to cook without narrating what you’re doing. How to eat without looking up, without expecting someone to comment, to smile, to share. You sit on the couch and keep your hands folded in your lap because reaching out only reminds you of what isn’t there anymore.

You tell yourself this is good.

Necessary.

You tell yourself that being alone is different from being abandoned. That choosing space is not the same as being left behind. You repeat it until the words dull around the edges, until they almost sound believable.

Almost.

The apartment changes once you’ve been alone long enough.

It’s subtle at first. The air feels thicker, like it’s holding its breath with you. The quiet starts to feel intentional, like it’s waiting for something to interrupt it. You catch yourself pausing mid-step, listening, heart ticking louder than the room.

The first delivery makes your stomach drop before you even see it.

The cup sits outside your door, untouched. Same place. Same brand. The coffee he used to order for you without asking, sweetened the way you stopped liking years ago. Your name is written on the receipt. Not printed. Written.

You don’t bring it inside.

You leave it there until the cup sweats through and the smell turns sour in the hallway. When you finally throw it away, you scrub your hands until the skin burns, like whatever touched you might still be there if you don’t.

The letters come next.

Always under the doormat. Always addressed in handwriting you recognize instantly, no matter how long it’s been. You never open them. You slide them into a drawer you don’t use, convincing yourself that containment is the same thing as distance.

You start leaving the apartment less.

Not intentionally. Not at first. You just keep finding reasons not to go. The grocery run can wait. The trash isn’t full yet. You tell yourself you’ll go later, when the light changes, when the street feels safer.

It never does.

Somehow, Yunho adjusts. The timing shifts. Deliveries come earlier. Notes appear closer together. Like he’s listening to the rhythm of your fear and tuning himself to it.

You draw the curtains at noon.

You keep the lights low. You move quietly, absurdly convinced that stillness might make you invisible. When you sleep, it’s shallow and sharp-edged. When you don’t, you lie awake staring at the ceiling, seeing his face every time you blink.

Sometimes it is him.

Sometimes it’s only the memory, warped and persistent, pressing in from the inside until you can’t tell which one is worse.

You stop trusting your own thoughts.

Your phone rings one afternoon.

San.

The sound punches the air out of your chest. You stare at his name on the screen, at the familiarity of it, at the way your thumb hovers just above the answer button, aching.

He wouldn’t be calling to fight. You know that.

He’d be calling to apologize. To explain. To tell you he was scared and wrong and didn’t mean it the way it came out. To say your name the way he always does when he’s careful with it.

You should pick up.

You should let him try.

But the thought of hearing his voice makes something in you fold inward. Because the person you love shouldn’t have to explain why he hurt you. Because apologies don’t pull words back out once they’ve lodged themselves in your chest. Because you didn’t pull away to be chased, you pulled away to breathe.

Because you were being yourself.

And he made that feel dangerous.

The phone stops ringing.

You sit with the silence it leaves behind, hands clenched, heart uneven. You tell yourself this isn’t cruelty. It isn’t punishment. It’s self-preservation, finally pointed in the right direction.

You can love him and still not be ready. You can understand where the fear came from and still refuse to absorb it. You can want him to try and still need time before you let him succeed.

So you stay inside. You lock the door. You let the quiet stand.

Not because you don’t miss him. But because this time, choosing yourself has to mean something.

The fear doesn’t disappear.

It changes shape.

It stops pointing outward and turns inward, starts asking questions in a voice that sounds uncomfortably like your own. Tells you maybe you misunderstood things. Maybe you leaned too hard. Maybe you mistook being cared for as being allowed. 

Maybe love has rules everyone else understands instinctively, and you’re the only one who keeps breaking them.

You think about Yunho.

Only for a moment.

Not with longing. With a kind of sick curiosity. He’s cruel. He’s manipulative. You know that now, know it in the way your chest tightens and your body braces without permission.

But he’s consistent.

He shows up.

The thought makes your stomach twist. You hate yourself for noticing it. For cataloguing it. For letting your brain draw lines you don’t want connected.

You curl deeper into the couch, phone slipping from your hand and wedging between the cushions where you leave it on purpose. Unreachable feels safer. Invisible feels possible. You tell yourself silence can still pass for protection.

You don’t notice when the room darkens. You don’t turn on the lights.

You let the memories come instead.

San’s laugh. His hand steady on the wheel. The quiet comfort of doing nothing together. The smell of laundry soap on clean sheets. Summer nights that didn’t ask anything from you. The way being beside him felt like gravity, constant without pressure.

You hold onto those moments like proof.

Because if that wasn’t real, then you don’t know what is.

The quiet stretches. Doubt settles in. Yunho lingers at the edges of your thoughts, not loud, not sharp. Just present enough to make you second-guess yourself. To make you replay moments you already understand, searching for mistakes that might explain everything.

You sink into the couch.

Not because you want to.

Because staying upright feels like a skill you forgot when you weren’t looking.

The gifts keep coming.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just enough to register.

A coffee left at the front desk. A small bag with your name written neatly on it. Flowers once, bright and apologetic in a way that makes your stomach twist.

The doorman still smiles at you. Still nods. Still says hello the same way he always has.

You realize, too late, that he smiles at Yunho the same way.

That he lets him in because he recognizes him. Because he trusts him. Because you once did.

The realization lands wrong. Sharp. Violating.

Your apartment stops feeling sealed. The walls feel thinner. The lock feels decorative.

You stop trusting the mirror after that. Stop trusting your own judgment. Stop trusting the version of yourself who thought she knew how to tell the difference between safe and familiar.

You tell yourself you’re overreacting.

You’ve gotten good at that.

Time keeps moving anyway. Not forward. Just through you.

You run out of food on a Tuesday.

The fridge hums, empty and loud. The cupboards echo when you open them. Your stomach twists hard enough to demand attention. Hunger wins where fear hasn’t.

You stand in the kitchen too long, keys clenched in your fist, breathing like you’re about to step off something high.

Daylight feels safer. You tell yourself that.

You leave your phone on the counter. Not because you’re brave. Because you’re tired of it vibrating with a name you don’t know how to answer.

Outside, the world is painfully normal.

Dogs being walked. Cars passing. Someone laughing into their phone. The sun bright enough to hurt your eyes. You keep your head down, shoulders tight, steps quick.

You think you see him once, across the street. Similar build. Dark hair.

Your heart lurches. You stop breathing until he turns, until his face is wrong. A stranger.

You keep walking.

It happens again. And again.

Your brain has learned his shape too well. It keeps offering it up, over and over, like a warning that refuses to shut off.

By the time you leave the small grocery store, plastic bag cutting into your palm, your hands are shaking.

That’s when you feel it.

Not sight. Not sound. A shift.

The space beside you changes, like the air thickens, like something steps into your orbit without asking. Your body recognizes it before your mind does.

“Hello, beautiful,” Yunho says softly, right at your side.

Too close. Close enough that you can smell his cologne. Close enough that he doesn’t have to raise his voice.

You don’t turn right away.

Your muscles lock. Your stomach drops. The street noise dulls, like someone turned the volume down on the world.

This is not violence.

It’s worse.

It’s intrusion. It’s familiarity used as a weapon. It’s him acting like he belongs here.

“You shouldn’t be out alone,” he says, voice low, almost gentle. The kind of tone people use when they want credit for caring. “You look exhausted.”

Your fingers curl tighter around the grocery bag.

You turn.

It’s really him. Fully. Solid. Real. Not a shadow. Not your paranoia. He’s standing angled toward you, shoulder placed just right to narrow the sidewalk, posture relaxed like he belongs here. Like he didn’t memorize your routine. Like he hasn’t been waiting.

“Don’t,” you say.

Your voice doesn’t shake.

That surprises you.

His smile falters for half a second before settling back into something smaller, tighter. “I was worried about you.”

“I know,” you answer evenly. “That’s the problem.”

He chuckles under his breath, indulgent. “You always do this. You take things too seriously. I’m just checking in.”

“I don’t want you in my life.”

The words land clean. No apology. No softness.

For a moment, he only looks at you.

Then something shifts. Not rage. Calculation.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, voice cooler now. Firmer. “You’re upset. You’re alone. You always say things you regret when you get like this.”

You recognize it instantly. The rewriting. The way he narrates you back to yourself like he owns the script.

You think of San’s couch. The way he never crowded you. The way his hand was always there without ever closing around you. The way love felt steady instead of watchful.

“I won’t regret this,” you say. “I regret letting you think you still had access to me.”

Yunho steps closer.

You step back.

“You’re alone,” he says quietly. “You pushed everyone away. I’m the only one who actually stayed.”

The lie is almost gentle.

“You’re making a mistake,” he adds. No smile now. “You don’t do well without someone looking out for you.”

“That’s not your job.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, irritation bleeding through the cracks. “You really want to do this here?”

His hand closes around your wrist.

Hard.

Not tentative. Not asking. Fingers digging in with purpose, like he’s claiming something that slipped. The pain is sharp and immediate. Your grocery bag jerks, cans clattering loudly inside.

“I’m trying to help you,” he snaps, voice low and furious. “You don’t get to cut me off like I never mattered.”

There it is.

Not concern. Possession.

“Let go of me,” you say, breath coming faster now.

His grip tightens instead, thumb pressing into a spot that makes your arm go weak. “Stop acting like I’m the enemy.”

You shove at his chest with your free hand.

He barely moves.

Instead, he steps in closer, crowding you back until your shoulder brushes brick. Not pinned. Just enough to remind you he can.

“You always do this,” he hisses. “You provoke, then panic. And then you blame me.”

Something inside you snaps loose.

Not courage.

Not panic.

Clarity, stripped raw by exhaustion.

You twist hard, the grocery bag tearing free and hitting the pavement. Cans scatter. Something glass shatters, sharp and loud. His grip jerks reflexively, yanking you forward, fingers bruising now, control finally slipping.

You don’t think.

You react.

Your palm connects with his face, the sound loud and wrong in the open air.

For a heartbeat, the world freezes.

Yunho staggers back, shock flashing across his features before it curdles into humiliation and fury. His hand flies to his cheek. His eyes are wild now, stripped bare.

“You bitch—”

That’s enough.

You don’t wait for the rest.

You turn and run, heart slamming, lungs burning, feet hitting pavement hard and fast. You don’t look back.

You don’t need to.

You already know he’s watching.

You run until your feet barely feel like they belong to you anymore. Until your thighs burn. Until your breath tears in and out of you like it might split you open.

You don’t feel powerful. You feel wrecked.

But his grip is gone.

And for the first time in weeks, the fear isn’t chasing you. It’s behind you, losing ground with every step, thinning into something that can’t quite keep up.

Your body keeps moving anyway.

It turns corners without asking. Crosses streets on instinct. You don’t check signs. You don’t count blocks. You don’t think about where you’re going, only that stopping feels impossible.

Your chest burns. Your hands shake. Your vision blurs at the edges.

And somewhere between one breath and the next, the truth settles in your ribs, heavy and unavoidable.

You don’t want Yunho.

You want San.

Not because you’re afraid. Because now, painfully clearly, you understand what love is not supposed to feel like.

You slow only when your lungs start to protest, when your legs threaten to fold. You stop because there’s nowhere left to run to.

You look up.

San’s building.

The sight of it knocks the breath clean out of you, sharper than the run ever did. Like your body knew before you did where it was going. Like it’s been carrying you here all along.

Your grocery bag is gone. Your hands are shaking so badly you have to knock with your knuckles instead of your fist.

Once.

That’s all you manage.

The door opens and whatever you were holding together caves in on itself.

You’re crying before you can speak. Before he can say your name. Your knees buckle and he catches you on instinct, arms wrapping around you so fast it’s like his body never learned how to do anything else.

“Hey,” he says, voice cracking immediately. “Hey, hey—”

You clutch his shirt like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

“I’m sorry,” you sob. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you everything. I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t want to make it real.”

San’s hands tremble against your back. His breath shudders against your hair.

He pulls you fully inside and kicks the door shut behind him, hard. The sound echoes. Final. Like the outside doesn’t get to touch you anymore.

You stay standing only because he’s holding you there. Your legs tremble, useless, your weight sagging into him like you’ve run out of structure.

“He cornered me again,” you whisper into his shoulder. “I tried to ignore him. I tried to be normal. I tried—” Your voice fractures. “He grabbed me.”

San goes still.

Not with anger.

With devastation.

His breath leaves him in a rough, broken exhale. His forehead drops against your shoulder, his grip tightening like he’s bracing himself against something unbearable.

“I wasn’t there,” he says hoarsely. “I knew something was wrong and I still let you walk away.”

“That’s not—”

“I should have shut my mouth and pulled you closer,” he cuts in, voice shaking now. “I should have listened instead of projecting my fear onto you. I said the one thing I knew would hurt, and I’ve been living with it every second since.”

You pull back just enough to see his face.

His eyes are red-rimmed, wet. There’s no defense in him. No justification. Just naked guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words coming fast, desperate. “I’m so fucking sorry. I knew the moment it left my mouth that I’d crossed something I couldn’t take back. I hate that I made you feel alone.”

“I didn’t want to be managed,” you whisper. “I just wanted to breathe.”

He nods immediately. “I know. God, I know.”

Your chest tightens.

“I was alone,” you whisper. “I was so alone.”

He nods, tears spilling freely now. “I know. And that’s on me. I’ve been terrified you’d never come back. Terrified I’d broken the one place you were supposed to feel safe.”

His hands come up to your face, hesitant for half a second, then firm, like he’s finally choosing you instead of his fear.

He swallows. Hard. Like saying this costs him something he’s been guarding his whole life.

“I’ve loved you since before I understood what love was,” he confesses, voice fraying at the edges. “And when I saw you slipping away, I panicked. I thought I lost you forever.”

Your strength drains all at once. Your forehead drops to his collarbone, exhaustion pulling you under.

San adjusts instantly, grounding you, holding you like this is something sacred and fragile.

“I hated seeing the person I love disappear in front of me,” he continues, voice barely holding together. “And I didn’t know how to protect you without smothering you. I didn’t know how to help without losing you.”

You swallow hard.

“We’ve been doing this forever,” you murmur. “Being careful. Not pushing. Not naming it. Because what we had was safe.”

He exhales a broken laugh against your hair. “We were two kids who thought loving each other out loud would ruin everything.”

Your fingers tighten in his shirt.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” you whisper.

“You were never going to,” he says immediately. “But I still made you feel like you had.”

San pulls back just enough to look at you properly. His thumbs brush under your eyes, wiping tears with hands that are still shaking.

“I want you to give yourself to me,” he says, pleading now. “I need you to know this. I want you to choose me only if you want to. Not because you’re scared. Not because you need somewhere to land.”

His voice breaks completely now.

“I want you because I love you. Because I always have. Because even when you were gone, even when I thought I’d lost you, loving you never stopped.”

You break, quieter this time.

“I love you,” you whisper. “I never stopped either.”

He exhales like it hurts.

“Please,” he murmurs. “Please let me love you right. Let me be here without owning you. Let me protect you without taking your air. Let me choose you properly.”

You nod weakly, tears soaking into his shirt as you curl into him.

“I’m here,” he murmurs over and over. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s ugly. It’s raw. It hurts.

But his arms don’t loosen.

And for the first time in weeks, the fear loosens its grip just enough for you to breathe.

Not healed. But held.

You’re both shaking now. Not just you.

You feel it in him too, in the way his breath stutters against your hair, in the way his hold tightens and adjusts, like he’s afraid you might slip through his hands if he loosens even a little.

You pull back first.

Not far. Just enough to breathe.

Your foreheads touch by accident. A soft knock. Both of you freeze, startled, then stay there anyway. Close enough that your noses brush. Close enough that your breaths tangle, uneven and damp. Tears track down your cheeks and smear against his skin. Neither of you moves to wipe them away.

“So tired,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says immediately. His voice is rough but steady. “I’ve got you.”

Something in you loosens too much, too fast.

“I should’ve said something sooner,” you say, words tumbling out now that they’ve started. “I kept thinking if I just handled it better, if I stayed quiet, if I didn’t make it anyone else’s problem—”

“Hey,” he interrupts, forehead still pressed to yours. “You don’t need to—”

“I didn’t want to need you,” you continue anyway, voice breaking. “I didn’t want to become someone who only survives because you’re there, and then suddenly I was alone and I didn’t even recognize myself and I—”

“Stop,” he whispers. Not sharp. Not angry. Gentle. Pleading. “You’re not failing. You’re exhausted.”

Your knees wobble.

San feels it instantly. His arm firms around your back, the other hand coming up to cradle the base of your neck, grounding you, anchoring you.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he says quietly. “Not right now. Not to me.”

Your mouth opens again, instinctively, like there’s still something you’re supposed to confess, something you’re supposed to fix.

San doesn’t let you.

He leans in.

The kiss happens wrong.

Your teeth knock. Your lips miss, then find each other again, clumsy and wet with tears and breath. You sob against his mouth, like you don’t know where else to put everything that’s spilling out of you.

San exhales into the kiss, low and unsteady, and pulls you closer. One hand cups the back of your head, fingers spreading protectively through your hair. The other presses firm against your spine, holding you together like he’s afraid you’ll come apart if he doesn’t.

The kiss isn’t gentle. It isn’t pretty.

It’s necessary.

Your breaths tangle. Your lips shake. He kisses you like this is the only way to tell you he’s here. Like words have failed and this is what’s left. Like he needs you to feel him choosing you back.

You cling to him, fingers curling into his shirt, body sagging fully into his now that you’ve finally stopped fighting gravity.

When he finally pulls away, it’s only far enough to press his mouth to your cheek, your temple, your forehead. Anywhere he can reach. His lips reverent and frantic all at once.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’m right here.”

You breathe him in. You let yourself rest against him.

When you speak again, your voice is quieter. Clearer.

“This isn’t me choosing you because I’m afraid,” you say. “Or because you’re here. I need you to know that.”

His brow furrows, attention sharpening.

“I’m choosing you because I want to,” you continue. “Because I always have. I just stopped pretending I didn’t.”

He swallows hard. His thumb presses gently at the base of your neck.

“You don’t have to convince me,” he says softly. “You never did.”

A shaky breath leaves you. Relief mixes with grief, but it doesn’t overwhelm you this time.

“I know what comes next might still hurt,” you say. “And I know I’m not fixed. But I don’t want to do it alone anymore.”

San rests his forehead against yours again, solid and sure.

“Then don’t,” he says. “Stay. That’s enough.”

No promises. No vows.

Just truth.

You stay there, close enough to feel each other breathe, the worst of the shaking easing into something manageable. Outside, the world keeps moving. Cars pass. Someone laughs down the street. Nothing pauses for you, and somehow that makes it easier to believe this can exist without breaking.

Whatever comes next will come.

This isn’t starting over. It’s finally choosing what’s been waiting all along.

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𓆩⟡𓆪

sore feet. swollen ankles. aching arms. dry mouth. eyelids that barely stay separated. little to no free time.

all those are consequences of your not-so-new position that kq has generously offered you. and you have accepted. being choi san's personal assistant had its perks, too. opportunities you could only ever dream of, such as visiting countries you always thought unreachable or expensive, meeting celebrities, even interacting with them, following san to his separate activities. each member had his own assistant. when you applied, you didn't care who you'd work for. you loved them all equally. after all, you have been a fan of theirs since debut.

they didn't need to know that, though. they would've never hired you, had they known that you were a faithful atiny. they wouldn't have believed you even if you swore that you were there to work only, not spy on them or anything similar. you would never do that. you guarded each information about them with your life, and took your job very seriously. being this close to them allowed you to admire them even more, see parts of them nobody else could. the pain, the suffering, the hard work, the love they share for each other, the quarrels, the playful moments. all of it. and you wouldn't do anything to sabotage that.

not even when you were informed that you weren't going back home as planned. choi san will need you with him at the milan fashion week after all. and you were no fool to decline.

even as you stand next to him, ready to exit the hotel, barely keeping your eyes open and your posture perfect.

"stay." he stops you by gently grabbing your elbow, pulling you back before you could step outside and be the first victim of the screams and flashing lights. "you will pass out."

"i'm fine, really." you force a smile. san looks at you, kind eyes filled with worry.

"don't lie to me, please." his voice is a mere whisper. "stay. you can join me at the after party."

you shake your head. you aren't leaving his side. not today. he will need all the support he can get, and even though you are having a hard time yourself, he isn't in any better condition. he misses home, undoubtedly. more than that, he misses sleep. "where you go, i go. i'm bound to you by contract, choi san. you cannot get rid of me just yet."

he chuckles, the sound dear to your heart.

"at least not for another six months, until it expires. or gets renewed, unlucky for you."

he delivers a playful pinch to your side, making you jump and yelp. you slap a hand over your mouth, mortified at the sudden attention that the entire floor of the hotel has given you. hurriedly, you exit the hotel, opening the door of the limousine and waiting for san to greet his fans. his figure is hugged by perfectly ironed black slacks, which you may or may not have almost forgotten to iron this morning, a loose black shirt, with one too many buttons left unbuttoned, and a necklace that sits on his tan chest. naked chest.

"you disapprove of my outfit?" he asks playfully, sipping on his champagne while the limousine smoothly glides over the busy streets of milan, waking each passerby's curiosity.

"not at all, mr choi." you reply equally playfully. you sit across him, maintaining your distance. "i think it's quite lovely. it will attract many fine ladies tonight."

he scoffs. "as if that's what i am looking for right now. oh, how i would kill for ten hours of sleep."

"two more days, mr choi. then, you'll be back home. you'll even miss all this, i assure you."

"i know i will." he sighs. "but right now, i'd rather miss my room and those chaotic idiots i call family."

𓆩⟡𓆪

surrounded by people, yet alone.

that is how you feel at almost every event that isn't a concert. all these people around you exude luxurious energy. the place reeks of expensive fragrances, and the red carpet is covered by all sorts of exquisite gowns. you feel like the odd one out, with your black suit pants and vest which san has picked for you.

"to match with me," he said. "it will look great."

and who were you to refuse him? after all, you were there to fulfill his wished and cater to his needs. free clothes were a bonus you didn't need, but also didn't mind. it is your first fashion show, and san knew that you were as nervous as him. worse, even.

"it will be over soon." he assured you, away from prying eyes. "we can sneak off the party earlier and go rest."

"you know, for people our age, it is a little weird that we aren't eagerly waiting for that after party to get wasted and brag about doing it with celebrities."

"i know, right?" the idol scoffs.

it is the last conversation you have before he gets pulled away into the crowd. his eyes don't leave yours, and a pout is evident on his lips. it is as if he is trying to ask you whether you'll be fine on your own. having no other choice, it doesn't even matter. it is not as if you can leave him here and go rest in your hotel room. you wish you could. he offered, but you'd feel guilty. behind the tough figure, choi san is a soft human. he is the epitome of the term gentle giant. you know that behind his offer he secretly wishes you don't leave him. moreover, he wishes you can follow him around. be in his pocket, he had once said.

your eyes lose his in the crowd, and suddenly, you feel alone. more alone than you've already felt since arriving. even though san is your boss, he is an idol to you first. your comfort person. he brought you peace, and he didn't even know it. you only wished you could do the same with him.

𓆩⟡𓆪

san stays at the after party.

you do not.

he has assured you that he will be fine and that he is perfectly capable of getting his own glass of water if needed. how that water turned into wine, you did not know. you saw the photos on social media. you'd recognize that flushed face from miles away.

as you sit outside on the hotel balcony of your room, with your gaze fixed on the clear night sky and a full moon, your phone vibrates on the glass table.

choi san: i know i told you to go

choi san: but iwas kinds hoping that you stayyed

choi san: am leavinthe place now, couldn't find youu

san seems to have developed a separation anxiety when it comes to you. even on your days off, the man blows up your phone with various messages and pictures, updating you on what he is doing and what you are missing. were he not an idol, and this your job, you would've mistaken it for something else.

your job as his personal assistant did not require you to follow him everywhere. choi san did. he simply needed to bring you along to the restaurant, to the convenience store, to the souvenir shop, to the café. you, and his bodyguard and manager. he would often complain, wishing to only be with you because he felt like he had more "freedom". the manager explained multiple times why it is a bad idea for a male idol to be seen with anyone who isn't a familiar staff member, especially in foreign cities. like paris.

choi san: aryou mad?????

choi san: :(

choi san: ok im ssorry

choi san: you're probbly asleep novv anyvvay

choi san: hey vvhere did the double v go?*

choi san: you knovv

choi san: the upside dovvn M??

choi san: englsh is funny..

choi san: i feel all fuzzy

choi san: i can't find the elevatr

choi san: ilostmybodyguardndmanger

choi san: maanagerr

choi san: icantseethespacebar

choi san: found                      it                               :D

choi san: i tripped on the stairs.

choi san: [image attached]

at the sight of his pouty face and slouched figure sitting on the hotel stairs, your fingers quickly tap the telephone icon in the corner of the screen. he doesn't pick up at first, and worry fills you. then, just as you reach the door to exit your room in search for him, he picks up.

"heya." he casually greets on the other side.

"mr choi." you sigh. "where are you?"

your heart races as someone knocks on your door, and luckily you stand right in front of it to take a peek of who it is. you see a single eye pressed against the peephole. an eye you'd recognize anywhere in the world. with your phone still in your hand, you open the door.

"hey, princess."

as much as the words make your head spin and your stomach fuzzy, you have to put a serious face on. "mr choi, we talked about this. you can't call me that."

"i can do whatever i want." he pouts. "i'm your boss."

"my tipsy boss." you correct. "come, i'll escort you to your room."

as you try passing him, he grabs you by your elbow once again, pressing you gently against the wall. air leaves your lungs. choi san dips his head towards yours so that he is at eye-level with you. "why do you wish to get rid of me so badly?"

"mr choi-"

"sannie."

"what?"

his bottom lip sticks out in a slight pout. such a big man, yet such a gentle heart. "not mr choi. sannie. call me sannie."

"no." you firmly decline. the last thing you need is to be heard by a staff member and get fired. not even san himself could prevent that happening. "i'll show you to your room."

"you're so mean to me." he whines, then enters your room.

"mr choi!" you whisper-yell, suddenly aware of the time. "get out of there, right now."

your words seem to go into one ear and out the other, as the man simply plops down on your bed. face buried into your pillows. the pillows where you just laid before getting bored and moving to the balcony.

a sigh leaves your lips, but you aren't defeated yet. you close the door for now, in case someone's curious eyes decide to wander. "mr choi."

"you're mean." he repeats, words muffled into the soft material. "you hate me."

"you're drunk."

suddenly, he raises his head, jaw dropped. "you aren't denying it. you do hate me!"

"oh for crying out loud." you throw your hands in the air, then make your way to the balcony doors and pull the curtains shut. his room and the managers room are directly in the opposite of yours, and one glance through the window might cost you your job. you then turn around, only to find him sitting with his back leaning against the headboard and arms crossed over his chest. his gaze is fixed on you, eyes squinted and lips pressed in a thin line. you can't help but roll your eyes. "i don't hate you, mr choi."

"lies."

"why are you making this difficult?" it is your turn to whine now. "i promise i don't hate you. you're the best boss in the whole world! now please, please, please let me escort you to your room."

for a moment, you think he will comply. he stands up. takes a few slow steps towards you. finally, you think. but then-

"why do you hate me when all i do is love you?"

-it feels as if all air has been sucked out of your lungs. your tongue is as dried up as a raisin, and a low murmur fills up your ears. san's gaze is intense, crushing your sanity and making the little professionalism that is left crumble beneath his posture. he almost hovers above you, and were someone to walk in, you're sure they wouldn't even see you from his broad shoulders and back. his hair is no longer neatly slicked back, instead disobedient and framing his face, the black complimenting his dark eyes. the eyes that do not flicker. do not blink. only stare at you, waiting for you to say something. anything. fuck.

"why do you keep pushing me away?" his voice is a mere whisper. soothing, not accusing. he wants a reason to be at peace with himself, not a reason to prove you wrong. "what have i done to you?"

"mr choi-" you manage to say. your voice is raspy, like you haven't drank anything for a long time. "you don't mean that. you won't even remember this in the morning."

"you can't call me by my name even when we are all alone?" he tilts his head, giving you sweet puppy eyes. "this isn't a test. i'm not testing your professionalism. i genuinely enjoy your company, i have for a long time now. fine, i might not love you... that was a bit strong. but i like you. i really do. i have feelings for you. i've had them for a while now."

you swallow a lump in your throat. god, you never thought that a confession from one of your favourite idols would hurt like this, if it ever happened. you're supposed to be over the roof, jumping on him, returning the feelings. instead, you gather the little sanity you have left and place your hand on his conveniently naked chest and gently push him away. why does he have to be so warm and inviting? "forced proximity."

"what?"

"forced proximity, mr choi." you repeat, doing your best to maintain eye contact. you need to be strong and firm. he cannot see any shift in emotion. san is observant, always has been. but right now, you can't let him know that pushing him away is hurting you as much as it is hurting him. "you don't like me. you just have the illusion of liking me."

"are you..." he scoffs, taking a step back before continuing, "are you saying i don't know my own feelings? that i am wrong?"

"what i'm saying is that after spending so much time with someone for so long, you are bound to develop a certain... how do i put this?" you sigh, placing your hands on your hips as you think. "delusion. or illusion. whichever you wish."

"you're calling me delusional?" san suddenly seems less tipsy. like this conversation has magically sobered him up. and angered him. "i cannot believe you."

"i'm not calling you delusional. i'm calling these... feelings, i guess, delusional. they don't exist. you might feel comfort, or some type of safety with me. but romantic feelings? think deep down, mr choi. why would you have feelings for me?"

when you said that, you didn't mean for him to actually start listing things. but he does. one by one, and he doesn't stop.

"you're so sweet, and caring. you wouldn't hurt an ant. i know because every time we walk, you tend to look on the ground and walk around ant hills, or any bugs that might be on the floor. you yelled at the manager for stepping on a snail the other day. you care for all members equally, which makes me insanely jealous, because you are my assistant, but i can't deny that it makes me equally happy and warm when i see you do that. you always ask me before creating my schedule, give me choices, even though you don't have to. you give me many days off, you tell the company off many times if you think they are being unfair, you never complain about the tasks you are given, you bring me things without me having to ask, you are here whenever i need you, and you respect my private time and my space. not once did i hear you complaining, not once did you refuse to do what you were told, not once did i see a frown on your face, other than when the management pisses you off. you are the prettiest thing i've ever seen, and just looking at you makes me feel well rested even though i haven't slept. your voice is something i'll never hear anywhere else again, and it's always in my head. when i read your messages, i hear you. when you're not beside me, i hear you. and i hate when you're not beside me. i want you with me all the time, i want you with me behind the cameras, behind the manager, behind the company. i want to take you to a café in paris if i want to. i want to take pictures with you on the bridge in amsterdam. i want to sit on the london eye with you. i want you to open up to me like i open up to you. i want to know what troubles you, not only what makes you happy. i want you to find comfort in me, as much as i find comfort in you. i. want. you."

san becomes blurry before your eyes. were it not for the lack of lights, he would've seen how hard you're trying to keep the tears from spilling. he is making it hard. so hard that you can almost hear your heart snap in half when the sentence leaves your lips. "that is just me doing my job, mr choi."

and you swear you hear his heart burst as well. pain. rejection. heartbreak. it swallows him whole. his figure shrinks, and his voice is small. barely audible. "what?"

"why..." you clear your throat, trying to get rid of the painful lump that is stuck inside it. "why else do you think i do all of it? it is my job. haven't you wondered why i never open up to you? why you only see me at my best? i cannot burden you. you are my boss. you cannot know these things about me. i am here to make your life easier, were it by bringing you a coffee or simply listening to you rant. what you feel for me might be simple fondness, one you might have for a friend. you notice these things because i am constantly by your side. you demand i be by your side. if i don't, you're all grumpy and a menace to the staff to the point that i have to show up whether or not the events have anything to do with me. you've developed separation anxiety, mr choi. you found comfort in me simply because i am the one by your side at all times. were it someone else instead of me, the story would be the same. in conclusion, forced proximity is the answer here. nothing more."

his words die in his mouth. his brows are furrowed. he is hurt. and angry. he has every right to be. you did this to him. you took a loving, kind man and destroyed him. and you'll never forgive yourself, ever. you'll see his face every night before falling asleep as guilt eats you whole.

but you'd feel even more guilty if you indulged. yes, your feelings for him do exist. but what you said isn't completely wrong. san might be under the impression that he likes you, even loves you. but san hasn't had much interaction with anyone else as much as with you. you cannot take his freedom away. he needs to meet other people, he can't settle for you. you wouldn't be the right match. it wouldn't be right in anyone's eyes. after all, you are a fan. he might not know it, or he does. either way, you'd feel weird. as if you took advantage of your position and hypnotized him into being with you. the rest of the fandom would find out eventually, and they wouldn't be kind. hell, they would show up with torches beneath your window, you're sure of it. and you'd maybe do the same, were you to find out that choi san is dating an atiny who just happened to get a job at his company and had the opportunity to work with him.

"okay." he simply says.

you don't respond. the weight of sadness on your chest is too heavy, as is the weight of his gaze.

"good night, miss y/n."

"good night, mr choi."

and suddenly, the words mr choi feel like poison on your tongue.

𓆩⟡𓆪

"you know how i never complain about my job?" you finally catch the manager alone in the hallway once you return to seoul. he is headed somewhere in a hurry, but it is the only chance you have to talk to him.

"no. what's that like?" he simply responds, eyes glued to his phone screen.

"funny. anyways, i don't know how to put this, so i'll just say it." you speed up your pace, only to stand in front of him to block his way and force him to listen to you. "i'd like to switch with jaz."

he almost bumps into you, not aware that you have planted yourself on the ground until you get what you want. "you want to switch? why?"

"i just think that it isn't a good idea to be with the same member for a long time. if you know what i mean."

you're playing a dirty game. and you hope jaz doesn't find out. "you mean... you think there's something going on between jaz and mingi?"

"i didn't say anything." and you wouldn't, usually. but it is the only excuse in your book. you cannot possibly tell him about san's confession. "i just think it would do us all good if we switched places. to avoid favoritism."

in truth, you cannot be near san. the trip back was painful enough, with san avoiding you like the plague. he refused to talk to anyone, really. but only you took it personal. because it was. he had only spared you a glance once you passed by his seat on the plane, and a worried one when one of the fansites almost tripped you. other than that, choi san has maintained his distance from you. it's for the best, anyway.

"you're right.i'll think about it, then text the new pairs in the group chat tonight."

"thank you, sihun. you're the best."

the manager simply rolls his eyes, then circles around you and continues his journey.

in the evening, you receive the long awaited message. you hadn't notified anyone, in case they decide to rebel and talk the manager into dropping the issue. this way it will already be decided, and they won't have any luck in changing his mind. when did you become so mean and selfish?

good evening, everyone.

it has come to my attention that a lot of you have become very comfortable with your idol, while some are still struggling to find a common language with theirs. thus, i have decided to reassign your positions in hopes of switching up the dynamics a little bit. the new pairs will be:

hongjoong and eric

seonghwa and jaz

yunho and gyuri

yeosang and y/n

san and melanie

mingi and thomas

wooyoung and hyori

jongho and sooe

no complaints, i don't want to hear it. this pairing will come into effect tomorrow. good luck.

the separate groupchat, without the manager, is flooded with texts. who ratted who out, plots of convincing the manager to change his mind, even going as far as convincing the members to say something. you occasionally respond with a witty or sarcastic message, trying to blend in and not seem suspicious. jaz and mingi would never forgive you if they knew.

𓆩⟡𓆪

kang yeosang is a sweetheart.

he is so sweet that it is painful. he feels almost fragile, and speaks so softly to you. he doesn't ask anything of you, even when you offer. yunho, mingi and him are the only ones in the practice room so far, aside from you and a few other staff members, preparing new moves for the choreography before others arrive. the rest had the privilege of sleeping in, putting all their trust in the three dancers of the group.

the boys haven't complained about the coupling so far, yunho and gyuri already bickering playfully like siblings and yeosang making small talk with you. mingi is in the corner with thomas as the assistant shows him something on the phone, but you notice how distant mingi looks. it's not like they won't see each other ever again. besides, it would've been too suspicious to ask to only switch you and san.

"i haven't had the chance to say this, or the guts, but i love your hair." yeosang catches you off guard. "it's so pretty."

the doors open, with san entering first. his smile drops from his lips as his eyes lock with you. you don't notice him yet, and it gives him a chance to collect himself. until his gaze lands on yeosang's fingers twirling with the ends of your hair. what the fuck?

"i want to do that for the comeback. talk my hairstylist into it, please?" his fingers smoothly run through the freshly dyed lock of hair. you're happy that it is obedient this morning and not a tangled and frizzy mess. "think i could pull it off?"

"of course you could. you're kang yeosang, you can pull anything off." you playfully nudge him with your elbow. "just don't do the hongjoong fireworks coconut cut, pretty please. that still haunts him. and us."

yeosang giggles, in his own cute yeosang way. he really isn't much different off cameras. "noted."

with that, his fingers slide from your hair, letting it fall and frame your face again. as you turn around, smile still on your face, you find yourself bumping into someone. "oh, sorr-"

firm hands hold onto your waist, steadying you. you don't expect it, especially since you weren't really about to lose your balance. as if this very person just wanted an excuse to put their hands on you. you look up, confused at first. and then, that lump in your throat. san's hands are stiff on your waist, afraid that you'll perish if he lets go of you. he gives you the softest expression you've ever seen, with dark glossy eyes hidden under half closed eyelids, relaxed brows and pretty lips. "gosh, you're so pretty."

words are caught in your throat. you look around, frantically. nobody hears him, you think. your hands find themselves once again planted on his chest, pushing him away. it's what you do best these days. "mr choi-"

"right, sorry." he clears his throat, and just like that, his expression shifts. no emotion is visible on his pretty face. at least not when he looks your way.

you don't get the chance to tell him that you have been separated. he walks over to yunho and mingi who are observing the video they took earlier of the new possible choreography.

"you know, i'm actually so happy i get to work with san. he was my first pick when we first got hired. but you stole him." the redhead, melanie, beams next to you. "oh, just look at him."

you don't want to. but you do anyway. to anyone else, san looks like he is immersed into the video. but you see the subtle glances he is stealing, trying to control himself but not being able to. even though you aren't standing close to each other, he suddenly feels suffocated. he can hear you, smell you, feel you. he walks over to the wall covered in mirrors, thinking that the further distance might help. but his eyes inevitably land on you through the mirror. and this time, you don't look away.

"he has gotten so big and muscular." melanie's commentary is golden as the two of you play an imaginary game of holding eye contact. as if the world will crumble if one of you looks away.

san does indeed look handsome today. he wears a black compression shirt and black sweatpants. his hair is a fluffy mess. he hates combing. even though his shirt is long sleeved, it is so tight that it hugs every curve and dip of his muscles, feeding you sights you are so privileged to see. were you an atiny still behind a fan account, you would've begged him to put you in a headlock. now? you have to force yourself to look away before you become a tomato on the spot.

"what's it like?" she pries. "working with him."

"it's..." everything. "okay, i guess. he's not mischievous, he listens to everything i say. he's nice."

"oh, i can't wait. how does he like his coffee? does he like sweet or savory? what's his favourite dish?"

throughout the dance practice, melanie talks your ear off. first with questions, then with shameless comments. at one point, you have to stop her. "you're not here as a fan. you can't say things like that. it's disrespectful."

"boo-hoo. miss perfect here can't handle a few comments." the redhead rolls her eyes. "they're grown men."

"okay." you give up. san will handle it. he has boundaries. one comment from her and she'll go straight back to her father who arranged this job for her.

"i'm craving an iced coffee..." yeosang approaches you, fidgeting with the rings on his fingers. who was the idol here again? "would you maybe mind going to the shop across the street and getting one for me? and whatever you wish for yourself, of course."

a black card is placed in your hand. "don't ask me these things, mr kang. just give me an order and i'll do it."

"i can't do that and you know it." he laughs shyly. "but please, would you? i would be grateful."

"of course, mr kang."

the boys are taking a break, and conveniently, san stands right next to the door. he eyes you as you approach him, biting the inside of his cheek. "where are you going?"

"to get yeo his coffee."

"yeo?" he scoffs. "his coffee? since when are you his assistant?"

"since last night." you simply reply.

he doesn't expect it. his brows seem to stay furrowed these days, you being the reason behind it. "what do you mean?"

"our positions were reassigned. i am no longer your personal assistant." you say it so nonchalantly. like you don't care. and you admire yourself for it. you didn't know you had it in you. “melanie is.”

"you're lying." his demeanor switches from tough to disappointed, with his arms no longer crossed over his chest but hanging on the sides of his body. "tell me you're lying."

"why would i lie about something like that?" you don't allow him to continue interrogating you, instead exiting the practice room.

he follows, ignoring the calls behind him. "wait!"

"mr choi, i have been given a task. please let me do my job."

"oh, so he's yeo, but i'm mr choi." bitterness is evident in his voice. "you're so- so-"

"what am i, mr choi?"

"mean." he finishes. he looks frustrated with himself. could he not have found a better word?

"i think i heard that one before from you, mr choi. do you wish for anything from the shop?"

"you know what?" he clenches his fists. he stands silent for a while, eyes roaming your face for any indication that you might be simply teasing him and that this is all just a harmless joke. but you don't budge. you look at him, yet it feels like you are looking through him. you don't care. this truly is just a job to you. "i'm glad we switched. at least melanie won't hurt me like you did."

the words make your blood boil. suddenly, you don't feel bad. "excuse me?"

"i poured my heart out to you, and you-"

"do not fucking guilt trip me." you raise your voice. a light gasp leaves his lips, and his fists unclench. he takes a step back as you approach him angrily, finger pointing into his chest, threatening to stab him. "i do not owe you anything. your feelings are not my problem. i meant what i said, every single word of it. this is just a job. you are just my boss. i am here to collect my paycheck and leave. i do not wish to arrive at work and have to deal with this. get your shit together and stop this madness before you get us in trouble for nothing."

your words strike him like an arrow through a heart. a poison arrow. you've never spoken to anyone this way. not even the management. this is a new side of you he is meeting, and he is a fool for falling even deeper for you. "look me in the eyes and tell me there wasn't a single moment when you looked at me and wished for something more than just a business relationship. that there wasn't a moment where you felt so comfortable with me that you wanted it to last forever."

anger overshadows your usual kindness and thinking process. you approach him, unintentionally causing him to further step back and collide with the wall. the height difference is comical, and were it not a serious situation, one of you would've surely made a witty comment about it. to anyone standing aside, it would've been weird seeing someone like choi san get cornered by someone smaller than him. luckily, you are alone in the hallway, and it is now your turn to pour your heart out.

the tip of your nail is buried in his chest, causing him to stiffen and not move a muscle against the cold wall. you look him straight in the eyes as your teeth bite and abuse the inside of your cheek before speaking. "there wasn't a single moment where i looked at you as anything more than my disobedient and spoiled boss."

"you're lying."

"i'm not."

"you are. i don't believe you." he isn't sure who he is trying to convince with his words. you, or himself?

"i am not lying."

"you'll have to do better than that to convince me."

"i will not prove my non existent feelings to you. are you out of your mind?" you are in disbelief.

"you're just saying that because you don't want to lose your job." he argues further. "i'm not insane."

"there wasn't a single moment where i felt anything romantic for you."

"lies."

"i swear to-"

"you're telling me that all those times when i'd accidentally touch you and you'd blush furiously were nothing?"

"stop."

"all those times when i'd lend you my coat because you keep losing your jackets and i'd catch you secretly sniffing it or hugging it after you're done wearing it?"

"stop."

"all those times you stayed up late to talk to me was just work to you? who does that? you could've chosen not to respond. those aren't your working hours. instead, you were always online, whenever i'd send you anything. and don't tell me it's just because you were doing your job. i don't know how much my boss would have to pay me for me to listen to him talk for two hours straight about things that don't even make sense in the middle of the night. no sane person would indulge in the things you did, for a paycheck, and-"

"san."

and that's all it takes for him to stop. his name dripping honey from your lips, but with a bitter aftertaste. he hates that this is the only moment where you have called him by his first name. "yes?"

"leave me alone." you finally say. "we can remain professional, as we were until you ruined it. or..."

as much as he doesn't want to ask, deathly afraid of the answer, the words still see the light of the day. "or...?"

"or i'll leave. and you'll never see me again."

𓆩⟡𓆪

business dinners aren't unusual for the kq company. business banquets that include the staff? a little.

the company is celebrating its anniversary, and has decided to invite all its artists and staff. all those who make this company still stand. you feel proud for being a part from that.

yeosang has forwarded you the digital invitation, and you glance at it once again as you get ready, just in case you missed anything or misread. the dress code is a simple black tie. initially, you weren't taking this seriously. until the private group chat was flooded with images of various gowns, suits and accessories. suddenly, your pants and blazer seemed like sweats compared to what they were wearing. thus, here you stand in an off shoulder black gown with a leg slit in front of your mirror, retouching your makeup. the corset is tight around your waist and ribs, but the rest of the dress falls comfortably and rests against your body. with san, you always opted for pants, jumpsuits, vests. you can't remember when you wore a dress. mostly because you always deemed it impractical for work.

you haven't heard from san for two months now. you see him in hallways, at shows and social media. yeosang doesn't drag you along with him wherever he goes. he values your free time and doesn't like to bother you. deep inside, you miss being tugged all ways at once. it made you feel like you were important and capable. yeosang has given you a vacation, it seems.

the red lipstick is wiped for the third time tonight, making your lips irritated and swollen. it doesn't look right. but you don't have time to reapply or find a new shade, hearing the ride honk just below your window. the five minutes of going down the stairs in your heels, with your hands holding your gown so that you don't trip, feel like a fairytale. it dies once you see the manager in the fancy car, already moody.

"do i want to know?" you roll your eyes as you sit and fasten your seatbelt.

"we asked for artificial flowers. they delivered live ones, thinking that we were picking the cheaper option and they're doing us a favour. in their minds, it was a thoughtful gift. it's-"

"-a disaster." you finish for him. melanie and jaz look confused in the back. you don't. you know exactly why this is an issue. "poor san."

before the redhead can ask, the engine starts, and the manager speeds up so that you can arrive on time. you'd be lying if you said that you weren't bothered by her touchy relationship with san. she always has her hands on him, but in a way that nobody can tell her anything about it, not even san. his hair always needs fixing, his collar straightening, his tie or buttons adjusting. and he doesn't complain. you hate how jealous it makes you. you almost regret your secret meddling in the new pair ups.

the mansion is located just outside of seoul, on a hill overlooking the city and surrounded by a forest. the banquet hall is breathtaking. the first thing you notice is the strong scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. then, endless tables of sweets. cakes, dessert cups, chocolate fondue, cookies, fruit, and whatnot. the colours are inviting, a contrast to the black and white attire that the personnel is rocking. everybody looks breathtaking. you dare say that even the ceo looks handsome tonight.

the seats are assigned, of course. the personal assistants sit at the same table, not in a bad spot. you have clear view of the empty space in the middle of the hall. for dancing, you assume.

"girl, where is your lipstick?" sooe raises her eyebrow.

even if you had it to begin with, it would've been gone with the cake in your stomach right now. "the shade was so ugly that i simply decided not to wear one. red doesn't suit me."

"no, orange doesn't suit you." gyuri corrects. "you haven't tried proper red. here."

she hands you a lipstick. dior, of course. your essence lipstick can't compete with that. "i'm okay-"

"it would be a crime to wear a dress like that and not to have red lipstick on." eric comments, eyes not leaving his plate of food. "this cheesecake is heaven. i won't even need dinner."

a sneeze grabs your attention. nobody pays attention to it but you. you wouldn't either, if you didn't know who it belonged to. before he can spot you, or vice versa, you almost run from the table under the excuse that you're going to apply the lipstick.

the ladies room is empty besides you and another member of staff, who is fixing her hair in the mirror. she smiles as a greeting. relief washes over your body, happy that she isn't one of those your group calls "the bully crew". those are people who have been here since day one, and are impossible to work with. always mean, bitter and judgmental. then they say that the younger generations are rude.

the girl soon finishes, and just before exiting, throws a compliment your way. "you have a very pretty neck."

"that's so random." you laugh. "but thank you."

"maybe it's the dress, but really, i mean it. it's weird to me too, i- oops, sorry. i was just on my way out." before you have the chance to find out what interrupted her, another sneeze echoes through the hallway and the ladies room.

the hand that holds the lipstick stiffens. through the mirror, you can see into the hallway that leads both into the men's room and the women's room. the girl scurries past him, leaving you without finishing her sentence. the person she bumped into starts walking, and you know he has to pass by the open doors of the room in order to reach his destination. like a coward, you hide in one of the stalls. then, familiar voices.

"did you see her anywhere?"

"keep your voice down." you recognize seonghwa. "we just got here. you need to calm down."

san sneezes again, then whines. "i'm going to die here tonight. i won't even see her."

"you're so dramatic. how did she put up with you for so long?" you can almost feel the older man roll his eyes.

"whatever. can't believe yeosang snatched her away from me."

you can almost feel seonghwa roll his eyes. you do, as well. "he didn't snatch her. nobody knew that they would switch us."

"yeah, right. i still want to know why he was touching her."

"her hair, san. i keep hearing this story once a week, and frankly, i'm tired of it. she's not gonna forbid him to approach her."

"you don't get it..." san mumbles.

their voices echo even when they enter the men's room, due to non existent doors. you should use the chance and run away. but your feet stay planted on the ground, and you even put the toilet lid down so you can sit. you might be here for a while, even after they leave. you need time to collect yourself. going back to the table with cheeks flushed and tears in your eyes is not an option.

you miss him. the whole situation seems like a breakup, like san is your ex boyfriend and you both desperately wish to get back together, but you know you can't. it wouldn't work. you hate yourself for thinking that way. all those months of holding back, and now you allow yourself to feel vulnerable after successfully pushing him away.

"melanie is getting on my nerves."

you can't help the snort that leaves you, and you slap your palm over your mouth. seonghwa chuckles. "she's enjoying her new position, isn't she?"

"a bit too much." san's voice is horse, and he sounds congested. "i caught her taking pictures of me in the dressing room the other day. i'm too tired to do anything about it, really."

"san, that's serious." seonghwa's tone changes, as does your expression. he better be joking. "you have to report that to-"

"i really don't have the energy to deal with that. you know her father will convince the management to make her stay."

silence envelops the place for a few moments. you hear soft sniffles, then water running. this might be the moment when you should start meddling. san won't do anything about it, and it will make melanie think that she can get away with it. she won't stop there, you know it. you heard all sorts of comments and fantasies out of her shameless mouth. were you a hypocrite? perhaps. the difference being that you viewed san as a kind, loving person who, if not an idol, would be your dream partner. melanie viewed san as something that you can't describe respectfully even if you tried. she wanted him physically. and she is working on it, she proudly announces it every now and then. nobody in the group bats an eye except you, but you don't say anything. she has already called you out, accusing you that since you were no longer his personal assistant that you had no right to say or do anything that includes him.

this is too far. she is out of her mind. you're sure you'd feel the same disgust and need to meddle if it were another member. this type of behaviour is getting out of control, and you might have to do a little more yelling for the management to wake up and start protecting its artists.

"anyway..." he trails. "i'm going back. do i look less pathetic?"

"no." seonghwa replies. "you look like a dumpling. these allergies have no mercy on you."

san sighs, defeated. "well. this is the best i can do. let's hope i don't see her at all, for her sake."

it should surprise you that san still speaks about you. more than that, it should surprise you that seonghwa knows about it as well. he doesn't scold him. if seonghwa had no problem with it, why did you create one?

"i'll see you there. i'm just going to wash my hands." the older man announces.

you hear footsteps, then water running again. you finally step out of the stall, gently closing the door after you. hurriedly, you rummage through your clutch, and soon enough, you find what you're looking for. you hear footsteps again, except this time, you don't hide. "mr park?"

seonghwa turns around, surprised. he wears simple black slacks, and a black, slightly sheer button up. just his style. "hi, love."

"could you..." you approach him with the item that you dug out, holding it out for him to take. "give this to him?"

the man takes the small bottle of nose drops, then smiles. "you still look out for him."

he doesn't mention anything about you eavesdropping. he's as nosy as you, and you both know it. many times you've found yourselves accidentally looking each others way every time something happened or you'd hear something. and each time you both had to fight yourselves as to not burst out laughing.

"i just had them with me, really." you shake your head. "i don't ever empty my bags. just store things in them until they refuse to close. that has been sitting in there for a while."

"right." he allows you to think you can fool him. "should i say they're from you?"

you shrug. "i can say no. but you'll still tell him, won't you?"

"and you mean to convince us that you aren't an atiny. you know us better than anyone else, and you've been here the shortest amount of time." his hand finds its place on the top of your head, giving you a few pats and a playful hair ruffle, before retreating. "do you need anyone to talk to?"

"no." you quickly reply, flustered. "and i'm- i'm not an-"

"you're not." he nods. "it's our little secret. it has been since the day you walked in and were the only one who didn't want to choose between us."

there goes your meddling. "thanks."

seonghwa then greets you with a smile, and finally exits to find san. the lipstick is applied with shaky hands, and loose hair strands successfully tamed. by the time you get back to the table, the ceo has already stood up to give a speech. luckily, the table is tucked in the corner of the room, saving you from embarrassment of being the only one standing.

as the ceo starts, your eyes wander over the tables. it isn't difficult to find them, their table is at the front, along with the xikers one. san sits with his back facing the room. you wonder if seonghwa has given him the drops already, and if he feels a bit better. it doesn't even matter if he knows who they're from. he can guess, anyway.

the speech is wrapped up, with gratitudes towards the staff, from the older ones to the recently joined ones. "you all make kq, not only the artists." he finishes.

half your table is gone, and you would've stayed sat, were it not for jaz dragging you along to dance with her. your plate of food will have to wait. jaz looks the most stunning tonight. the white dress looks gorgeous on her dark skin, and her usually slicked back hair is replaced by luscious curls that fall over her shoulders and down her back. you feel so basic and underdressed just standing next to her.

"i'm gonna need you to cover for me." she whispers into your ear when a dance move brings her close to you. "mingi wants to use the fact that everybody is here so that we can have some peaceful time alone."

you can't say no. not after you were the one who separated them. "of course. i'll figure something out."

"thank you!" she hugs you tightly. "if you need anything ever, don't hesitate to ask."

there are all sorts of things you need. none of those can be helped by jaz. unless she is a sorceress who can erase your feelings for someone. "i'll keep that in mind."

once jaz successfully slips away, with mingi following soon after, you start feeling tired. it is past eleven, and you don't even realize how long you've been dancing. gyuri and thomas retreat to the table where melanie and sooe haven't moved, and eric is enjoying his third piece of cheesecake and fourth éclair.

"you know that there is a bunch of steaks right in front of you?" thomas playfully smacks the back of his head. "y/n, do you want one?"

"no, thanks." you aren't hungry. not when you see melanie eyeing someone up in the crowd behind you. "i'm going to get some fresh air, maybe when i get back."

you don't know where you are going. the place isn't that big for you to get lost, so you take your time exploring. no balconies so far, and the porch is occupied by smokers. you find a staircase, and that feeling of the fairytale is back again as you take the gown in your hands and start walking. the stairs lead you to a rooftop. you wonder why the event wasn't taking place here. it is as big as the hall, and instead of the dancefloor, there is a pool. the view is breathtaking, with minimal light pollution allowing the stars to glimmer above the still alive city of seoul. the city never sleeps, and is beautiful at any time of day. it's so easy to forget where you are, having to spend all your time inside or wherever your job requires you to go.

the door closes behind you, and you can't help the quiet groan that leaves your lips. you really needed a few minutes to yourself.

"oh, sorry. didn't realize someone was here."

out of all people.

"i just came to catch some fresh air, i'll be gone soon. please don't mind me."

does he not realize who you are? or has he finally come to terms with everything? "don't worry, mr choi. i'm leaving anyway."

when you turn around, you don't know who looks more in awe. more pathetic, better said. his jaw hangs as his eyes roam your figure. you know you aren't masking your expression, because choi san looks absolutely dashing. he wears a white button up, black slacks, a black vest and a tie. you know he dressed himself up because his tie hangs poorly around his neck. melanie must've tried fixing it, she had to. he didn't allow it.

"i don't think i've ever seen you in a dress." he breathes out. such a privilege to have an idol breathless because of your appearance. "you look beautiful."

"thank you. you look handsome as well, mr choi."

he doesn't complain about you calling him so. instead, he walks over, slow and careful. as if he'll scare you away if he moves any faster. he joins you by the fence, and soon enough, his scent envelops you. "i often forget how beautiful seoul is."

you hum, nodding your head.

"enjoying the party?"

"i'm up here. what do you think?"

a soft chuckle meets your ears. you miss hearing that. you allow yourselves a few moments of comfortable silence. nothing but the sound of the leaves rustling in the gentle summer breeze, distant sound of the city, and an occasional cricket. san is leaning on the fence with his arms covering the railing, and his chin resting on top. you, on the other hand, stand still with your palms gripping the same railing. your eyes betray you many times, choosing to glance his way more often than you'd like. he has his eyes closed as he breeze caresses his cheeks and moves the loose strands of his slicked back hair. he looks content.

"you smell cozy." he mumbles, eyes still closed. "like a vanilla candle."

it is your turn to chuckle. "your sinuses cleared up?"

and just like that, you betray yourself. the smirk on his lips is all you need to see. "so it was you."

"guilty." you turn around, leaning your back and elbows against the fence. you tilt your head back, exposing your neck and chest to the breeze. it helps cool you down. "i'm glad you feel better."

you hear him shuffle, before he opens his stupid mouth again. "you don't know how breathtaking you look."

tilting your head to the side, you can't help but glare at him. he is still in the same position, only now his cheek lays on the arms that cover the railing, using them like a pillow as he looks at you. he has never looked more soft and vulnerable.

"you're a dream."

"is this how it will go?" your voice is equally quiet. you don't get angry at him. you aren't irritated. you can't be, not when he looks at you like that. "you'll keep confessing, and we'll avoid each other for a while until you confess again the first chance you get?"

"i'm not confessing. i'm just stating facts. you look gorgeous. any sane man would see and say that if they were here instead of me." he then stands up straight, hands fixing his vest and tie. "i guess i'm just the lucky one. conveniently."

for a moment, you think he is going back to the party downstairs. but he simply plops on one of the deck chairs by the pool. he doesn't invite you over, but you still join him. you opt to sit on it sideways so you can face him. the pool water and the lights in it illuminate his slightly puffy face and rosy eyes. the moments when you hate flowers have become less rare since you started working for him. right now, you despise them.

"i was hoping you were right." his gaze is fixed on the water. "forced proximity. i prayed you were right. but i've seen you for five minutes tonight, and all i want to do is fall on my knees for you. beg you to give me a chance. to show you how good it can be, and how nobody can harm you in any way. to show you what it's like to be mine."

you stay silent. surprisingly, you don't feel annoyed with him anymore. you let him speak.

"i can't believe i ever doubted my feelings. i wanted to, for your sake. because you want nothing to do with me." your heart tightens. "you've made it clear multiple times, and i was trying to decide what you feel for you." the familiar lump in your throat appears. "i called you a liar, and accused you of breaking my heart, when you've rejected me so gently once. i was trying to make you doubt your own feelings." and your eyes sting.

"why are we back on page one?" your voice is hoarse.

san doesn't look at you yet. and it bothers you. "this might be the wine speaking out of me."

"you know you can't drink." you gently scold him.

"i didn't know what to do with myself. i was overwhelmed by everything. knowing that you are in the room but i can't see you. hearing you, smelling you. god, that scent. like the coziest warmest autumn evening. but you were still far from my eyes." the man says. he tilts his head back, resting it against the backrest. "then, i find you here. i told myself i wouldn't put you in an uncomfortable situation. and look what i'm doing."

you try swallowing, hoping to make the lump go away. but it stays stubborn. "it's okay. we're just talking. you're not doing anything to make me uncomfortable."

he closes his eyes again, this time enjoying the sound of the water and your scent that envelops him, even when there's a distance between you. it gives you time to admire him some more. you watch his chest rise and fall peacefully, and when your eyes land on the stupid tie, you can't help yourself. you stand up, walking over to him and sitting on the edge of the deck chair where he rests. he flinches, eyes shooting open. "what are you-"

"shh." you hush him. you've never been so close to him before. your body is pressed against his side as you lean over him, fingers working on loosening the tie so that you can do it properly. you pretend you don't feel his gaze on you. like you don't see his hand twitching, yearning to touch you. "i've spoiled you. you can't even tie your own tie."

he doesn't laugh. he simply gawks at you while you work on the piece of fabric. if he knew that that's all it takes to bring you closer to him, he would've worn his shirt and pants inside out. then, you flinch. your breath stops, as do your fingers. choi san cups your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your lips. "it's obvious that you never wear red lipstick."

he moves his hand sooner than you'd like. the tip of his thumb is red, and before you can offer him a handkerchief, he brings it to his lips. the action is intimate, and your lips are on fire. you wish you'd smeared it a bit more. your eyes stay locked for a worrying amount of time. but san doesn't move. he doesn't lean in. he doesn't say anything.

you do. you find yourself in a trance, consumed by his scent and very being, and you lean in. slow and unsure at first. then, you feel yourself sliding off the chair. san's hand grabs your waist before you can fall, pulling you back on the chair and on top of his body. you don't resist. his eyes flutter shut first. it's now or never.

you close the gap, inch by inch, until the tip of your nose brushes against his. it's pure torture on both ends. your brain and heart are fighting a battle inside you, and san knows it. it's why he isn't making any moves besides holding your body secure so that you don't fall. he lets you set the pace. his warm breath caresses your lips. you can't help the painful exhale of desperation that leaves you, right before tears swell in your eyes.

"i can't." you quietly cry out. "i'm sorry."

san doesn't have time to process the situation. you are already standing, quickly tapping the corners of your eyes with your fingers and throwing your head back before the tears ruin your makeup. a scoff of disbelief leaves his lips. "why are you doing this to yourself? to me?"

"i'm not doing anything. it is wrong." your voice shakes. "i just- i drank some wine too and-"

"why are you denying yourself happiness?" he stands up as well and approaches you. you take a step back, just in case. you can't be tempted again. this was too dangerous. "why are you hurting both of us like this?"

"look, i'm tipsy. i don't want to do something that will give you hopes when i've told you many times that-"

"so what, you're telling me you go around kissing guys when you're tipsy? that i'm not special?" you know he isn't hurt, because he knows it isn't true. he is just trying to lure the truth out of you by making you angry. "do you do this with yeosang as well?"

"shut up." you sniffle. "don't even."

"talk to me. why is the idea of us so horrible to you?" his words are firm, but his tone gentle. he approaches you, and you can't help but step back, feeling overwhelmed. "you don't even need this job. you could do anything you want, i'd be your biggest supporter. you could quit, and-"

"it's not that simple!"

san is blurry before your eyes, just like the first night he confessed. this time, however, there isn't a wall to stop you from walking behind. but there is a pool.

your next step has your foot hanging in the air for a split second, right before a gasp leaves your mouth and you reach for san. your hand slips through his, and soon enough, your body is swallowed by cold water. san wastes no time in jumping after you. before you can sink any lower, his hands plant themselves on your waist, pulling your body against his as he swims to the surface. you didn't expect the pool to be so deep.

while you are busy coughing water and gasping for air, san has swam over to the edge of the pool where the water is a bit more shallow. his voice is nothing but a hum in your ears as you try to recover. your body trembles against his. from the cold water, and from shock. it's just water. but you never learned how to swim. each attempt resulted in you having a panic attack and ruining the fun for everyone else.

"princess." his voice finally reaches your ears. "i've got you."

"san," you cry out. he hushes you, simply hugging you closer and resting your head into the crook of his neck.

"it's okay. i'm right here." he hates that he breaks the boundary by kissing the top of your head. but it is his way of comforting, and he doesn't think in the moment. "i'm so sorry."

his drenched shirt is scrunched between your fingers, but he couldn't care less. he's glad you aren't running away from him after falling in because of him. "please don't let go."

"i won't, but we need to get you out of the water." he gently tucks his fingers under your chin, lifting your head so that he can look you in the eyes reassuringly. panic sets in, and you start trembling more.

"no, no!" you pull on his shirt, latching yourself onto him. "don't let go, please don't let go. please, please, please, please-"

"princess," he cups your cheek with one hand. "i'm right here. i won't let go of you. can you trust me?"

"no."

san knows you don't mean that you can't trust him. you aren't ready to move, and he understands. he tucks your head back into the crook of his neck, and leans against the pool wall for support. he gently sways you in the water, eyes fixed in the way your hair and gown move under the gentle current of the pool springs.

time stops. it feels so natural, being this close to him. his hand rubs your back in an attempt to warm you up in the cold water. he hushes your quiet whimpers, lips brushing against your ear shell. "i've got you."

"don't let go."

"i won't. i promise." the man assures.

you don't know how long you stay like that. all you know is that san has managed to calm you down and is pulling you out of the water. even though it's summer, you are still shivering. san's brows are furrowed, worry painting his pretty features.

"my phone is drenched, it won't turn on. can you stay here while i go get seonghwa?" he crouches in front of you while you sit on the chair, his vest that he managed to discard before jumping covering your upper body. "i'll be right back."

"okay."

seonghwa doesn't judge. he doesn't have sarcastic remarks. he doesn't scold.

hongjoong does. as if you weren't overwhelmed already, hongjoong has decided that scolding and yelling inside the car was the best thing to do right now.

"let me just make this clear: i'm not mad at her, i'm mad at you." he looks at san through the rearview mirror.

you have sunken into the car seats in the back, wrapped in san's vest and seonghwa's coat. even though hongjoong's words aren't meant for you, you can't help the new wave of tears that coat your cheeks. you have trouble breathing again.

seonghwa notices you detaching again, a new panic attack threatening to pull you into its void. "joong."

"what? i'm tired of him, seriously. why doesn't mingi have any problems? i never had to interfere with him and jaz and save their asses. they're careful, and-"

"joong."

your breathing quickens. san doesn't notice, even though he sits in the back with you. he is busy fighting with hongjoong. the situation you were scared of happening is unfolding right now, and nothing happened between san and you. you have already gotten him into trouble. fingers reach for the button on the car door in an attempt to open the window. once it does, you stick your head out, then try breathing.

"why are you being such a jackass about it? it was an accident! you think i wanted to push her?"

"do you think i care? it's not about tonight only, san. it's about you for the past few months. you aren't subtle at all!"

"guys," seonghwa says a bit louder, eyes switching from the road to the rearview mirror every now and then.

"and just what have i been doing for the past few months that you think you have the right to be yelling at me right now?"

"having to explain why you keep dragging her everywhere, having to convince the manager to even let you do that, going to such lengths to delete videos and pictures of you gawking at her, getting dispatch off our asses-"

"and doing all that for mingi wasn't an issue? for me it was?"

"i didn't have to do it for mingi! he was careful!"

"ENOUGH!"

the car stops abruptly on the side of the road. seonghwa exits, rushing over to your side and opening the door. you fall into his arms, a sobbing mess once again, struggling to catch your breath.

"it's okay." he pulls you into a hug.

"i'm sorry." you feel pathetic. it's all you can say. "i'm so sorry. it's all my fault."

"it's not your fault. hongjoong and san are just being pricks right now." the older man pats your head. "do you want to go home or would you like to stay with us?"

"my home, please?"

"you got it." he helps you sit comfortably again, then fastens your seatbelt for you.

the rest of the ride is quiet, with san fidgeting with the ends of the sleeves on seonghwa's coat that shields and warms your wet body, quietly telling you that he is here.

when you wake up, it is still dark. you rub the sleepiness out of your eyes, and meet san's focused face. he carries you in his arms, going from door to door trying to figure out where you live. once he finds your last name, he struggles fitting the key in the keyhole.

"let me." you whisper. "put me down."

once your feet touch the ground, you need a moment to steady yourself. your apartment is just as you left it: a mess as you tried to get ready for the event. you are grateful that the darkness has swallowed it. san doesn't need to know how messy you are outside of work, where you are always organized and tidy.

"uh... do you want slippers?" you point towards a spare pair of slippers that are only used by your family when they visit. "i mean... if you want to stay for a while. or do you have to go back immediately?"

san looks at the slippers, then at you. "do you want me to stay?"

"please." your voice is so low, that if san wasn't so focused on you, he wouldn't have heard it.

"i'll just text hwa. my phone came to life."

you nod. "i'll uh... go put on some tea, i guess. what's the time?"

"does it matter? if you crave tea, i'll make it for you." he simply replies, eyes glued to his phone as he types a message.

now that you look back at your time working with him, san had moments where he loved acting as your boyfriend. you simply didn't allow yourself those delusions. you ignored them. but san loved buying you things, making you try various food and drinks, took pictures of you, gave you his jacket even when you really didn't need it. the response came so naturally from him, as if he usually makes you tea whenever you crave it.

"well?" his full attention is back on you as soon as his phone is tucked in his back pocket. "what does your heart desire?"

"honestly? i'd kill for a cup of cocoa."

your answer makes san chuckle fondly. he makes his way to your kitchen, as if he knew the place by heart. you're grateful that you've decided to wash the dishes today. you have a habit of hoarding dishes before making yourself wash them. you'll do all chores without a problem, from vacuuming to washing the windows. but dishes? you hate yourself for it. it is such a simple task, really. but your brain makes it hard for some reason.

san rummages through your cupboard, not bothering to ask where anything is. he finds the cocoa powder, then the milk in the fridge. "how chocolaty?"

"i trust you."

the clock shows a little past one after midnight. it is monday, and the boys have a day off. still, you can't help but feel bad for causing a mess and ruining their sleep schedule. while san busies himself with making two cups of cocoa, you quickly text seonghwa.

y/n: i'm so sorry for tonight. please tell mr kim that it is all my fault, that mr choi had nothing to do with it. i'm truly sorry for putting you in those positions. i promise i'll do everything to fix it and assure that it never happens again. again, i am so sorry.

park seonghwa: don't be silly. hongjoong was just being an ass. between you and me, he might've been a bit tipsy. plus, eden is on his back about the comeback. he was just unleashing himself on innocent people. don't burden your little head with it.

y/n: i can't help but feel guilty. no matter what i do, i'm messing mr choi up. i've distanced myself from him in an attempt to fix this, but it's only getting worse.

park seonghwa: san is already messed up on his own, even without you. he's been a menace before you came along, don't worry. he just became worse when you arrived. the two of you should take your time to figure out exactly how you feel. i won't say what i know, or how much i know, but i'll give you one advice: talk. don't hold back. that's the only way you'll resolve this.

y/n: thank you, mr park

park seonghwa: you know, it feels weird having an atiny call me that. you are the only one still calling us that in private among the assistants, and you technically know us longest and best. think you can work on that? :)

y/n: i'll try :)

park seonghwa: yay! now go before he gets all pissy and pouty again. warm yourself up, we don't want you catching a cold. good night, tiny ♥

y/n: good night, seonghwa. ♥

you sigh with content. one thing at a time.

"where's your bathroom?" san asks as he pours the hot cocoa in two cups.

"first door on the left."

he comes back with a towel and clothes. was he in this apartment before, but you weren't aware? how did he find your pajamas?

"here," he hands you the clothes, then turns back to stirring the cocoa.

the drenched gown is replaced by a cozy t-shirt and sleep shorts. you don't pay much attention to what you are wearing, until san looks over and chuckles. "what?"

"ateez world tour." he reads out loud.

you look down, and right across your chest, the words he just said. that bastard. "you did this on purpose."

"i promise, i didn't. it was folded inside out and just laid on your chair on top of a pile of other clothes. i thought it was a normal black t-shirt. the pile waiting to be ironed, i assume?"

right, aside from washing dishes, you hated ironing clothes as well. you can't be bothered to pick up the gown, instead pushing it with your foot to the corner. seonghwa's coat and san's vest are neatly folded and placed in the laundry basket.

"come here." he calls you over.

your bare feet tap against the cold parquet floor as you walk over. at no point this evening did you know what san was about to do next, and neither do you know now. he picks you up by your waist, placing you on the kitchen counter. the towel is soon in his hands, drying your wet locks of hair. he stands between your legs like it's nothing. like you do it every day. like all of this didn't happen because you refuse to say your true feelings out loud.

"i can hear you thinking," he whispers.

"i got it." you snatch the towel from his hand, a little harsher than you wanted. he frowns, but lets you have it. "thanks."

you stay sat on the counter, swinging your legs in the air as you watch him focus on the cups. as if he was making the world's most complicated cocoa, using a dozen ingredients instead of two.

"what now?" you dare ask.

"now..." he sighs. "we drink cocoa."

"you know what i mean." you accept the cup from his hands, and your fingers inevitably brush against his. your skin is on fire, and god, it takes everything in you not to drop that cup and pull him close to you. "are we going to act like this is normal? my boss in my apartment at this hour, while i sit here in my sleepwear?"

"you keep worrying your pretty head with stupid things." san takes a sip of his beverage. he hums, then takes another one. "you were right. cocoa is much better than tea."

"san."

pretty eyes finally lock with yours. his brows relax, and his face softens under your gaze. "yes?"

"you need to put yourself in my shoes. i can't help but feel like i'm taking advantage of you. i'm a fan. a staff."

"so?"

"the fandom will be against it. the company as well."

"and why do you care about their opinion when the only one that should matter is ours?" it feels like he is scolding you. you know he isn't. he is just getting annoyed at the situation both of you are in. "this could be the best thing that can happen to us."

after a moment of silent thinking, you sigh. "i have to sleep on it."

you don't ask san to stay. he doesn't offer to leave. he just takes his place on the couch once he tucks you in your own bed, but not without making a witty comment about the photocard holder and his photocard that lay on the nightstand next to the bed. "you're so cute it hurts. want me to sign it?"

"go away." you bury your head in the pillow. "and leave the door open. i don't like being in the dark, and the street lights have been broken for a while now. leave the bathroom light on, and don't close that door neither."

with each moment that passes, san keeps finding out more things about you. things so unimportant that everyone would forget after a moment or two, but he remembers. it makes him fall for you harder and harder. right now, you are impossibly cute, confessing that you are scared of dark. "i'll be on the couch. if you need anything, don't hesitate to wake me up."

"okay. thank you." your voice is muffled by the pillow. you hear him chuckle, then feel his hand pat your head playfully. "good night, princess."

"good night."

the second time you open your eyes, it is light. for a split second. then, booming thunder. it's been a while since a thunderstorm this strong has hit the city. overcoming your fear of it for a split second, you run over to the windows where the curtains move from the strong wind. the wind makes it hard, pushing the window against you as you try your hardest to shut it. the shuffling and grunting must've awoken san, because soon enough, he gently nudges you aside and closes the window with little to no effort. the room lights up once again, causing you to flinch and cover your ears. your heart beats loud while you await the loud noise to echo in the room.

once it passes, san takes your hands in his, rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs on your knuckles. "want to-?"

"will you sleep in here tonight?" you beat him to it. you don't know where you're getting the confidence, or the audacity. you're doing everything contrary to what your previous self wanted and worked hard to maintain.

a few months ago, you were going crazy because san laid on your bed for a few minutes back in milan. now, it is happening again. he tries to cover you with the blanket once he lays down, only to find you completely submerged from head to toe in it. "hey, where did you go?"

"i'm scared. leave me be."

"is this how you sleep when there's a thunderstorm? with your little head hiding under the blankets? suffocating?"

"san..." you whine, begging him to stop teasing you.

you forget how to breathe for a moment when the blanket lifts and san dives in below, joining you. "my name sounds so pretty from your lips."

"i didn't invite you here to flirt." you scold, gently poking his chest with your finger. "if both of us are here under, who is keeping watch out there?"

"my photocard." he laughs.

a gasp of disbelief escapes your mouth. he'll never let go of this. "one more word and you're losing blanket shield privilege."

"is that so?" he cocks an eyebrow. his hand then sneakily finds its way to your waist, only to poke you and make you jolt. his other hand joins, poking at the other side, until you are a laughing and screaming mess and the blanket slips from both of you.

he's strong, and doesn't budge, no matter how hard you fight back. his figure covers your entire body as he hovers above you, pinning your wrists above your head with a single hand while his other hand shows no mercy by tickling you. "stop, please!"

"say i have blanket privilege."

"you have blanket privilege!"

"now say i'm your favourite boss." he halts for a moment, giving you the chance to say it.

you don't, instead sticking your tongue out in an attempt to further annoy him. it works, an exaggerated gasp leaving his lips. you use the chance to slip one of your hands out of his grip, poking his side. he yelps, then falls on the bed next to you. soon enough you find yourself on top of him, giving him a taste of his own medicine.

san is incredibly strong. you've witnessed many situations since you worked here, from carrying two members on his back to picking up his makeup stylist's desk all by himself and moving it where she wanted. he has more strength in his pinky finger than you have in your whole body. yet he still lets you pin his hands above his head, your smaller hand struggling to grasp his wrists. he plays along. he lets you have it.

he isn't that ticklish. but you are too proud and excited that you've managed to tackle him that you don't even notice. your giggles are everything san wants to hear for the rest of his life. your fingers poke at his sides, over and over, and you are so into it. then, a grunt.

you stop, confused. san doesn't say anything. he simply stares at you, soft eyes admiring your features in the dark. it is only when his gaze drops to where you're sitting that you realise. you don't speak. you don't breathe, either. suddenly, you feel him. below layers of clothes, his body burns hot. as does yours, especially your face and core.

when light illuminates the room for a moment again, you flinch a little, but the clear sight below you makes you forget about your fear. san looks... submissive. his hands stay pinned above his head, and you remember that your loose grip is nothing compared to what he can do. his hair falls over his pretty eyes, which stare back at you through half closed eyelids. lips sticking in a natural pout, plump  and inviting. oh, so inviting.

"sannie," you test the waters with a low whisper.

a whimper. a fucking whimpers leaves this man's lips. he doesn't seem to be embarrassed. instead, he gulps, and bites his lip. you roll your hips, so lightly and slowly, not even sure that he'll feel it. but he does. and he shudders. it makes your body feel as if it's on fire. you've never had an effect on someone like this. and you're enjoying every bit of it.

san craves your attention. your validation. he always has. you've just been connecting it to his teasing nature. didn't really take him seriously. now, you have him wrapped around your finger. and you don't know what to do with it. a whole man, many girls crush and fantasy, lays down at your mercy. and you? you move the hair out of his eyes, press your lips against his forehead, and cup his cheek. "one thing at a time."

𓆩⟡𓆪

monday morning comes and goes, with you waking up alone in bed. the storm has calmed at some point during the night, but you didn't feel or hear anything. except the pair of arms that have held you through it all. you didn't push him away. you've worked for him long enough to know that san needs to hold onto something to fall asleep. it wasn't on purpose. he fell asleep before you, and at some point, he let go of the pillow he was hugging and replaced it with you.

san respects your boundaries. sure, you might need to tell him once or twice to stop calling you nicknames or move his hand from your lower back, but other than that, san tries his hardest to keep his hands to himself. you wonder if it's like that with melanie. if enough time passes, will san prove you wrong or right? will he start developing feelings for her? is forced proximity truly the answer?

selfishly, you hope it isn't.

your phone rings early in the evening, the manager's name glaring at you from the screen. you groan out loud. this is your day off. but then again, being yeosang's assistant has given you many days off. you can take this phone call.

"yes, sihun?"

"pack your stuff, you're flying early tomorrow. yeosang has been invited to a fashion show in two days, and because you have decided it would be a good idea to mess up perfectly good pair ups that have functioned from the beginning, the schedules are all fucked up."

"wait, what?" you find yourself standing up from the couch. you swear you can still smell him on it. "also, that was an idea. don't blame me as if you were forced."

"not only was yeosang's invitation to the paris fashion show lost, we also missed an opportunity to collab with a huge western artist. does the name megan the stallion ring any bells? plus, yunho was offered a role in a drama, and-"

"why are you blaming me for all this?" your heart beats fast, threatening to jump out of your chest. "what kind of organization did you have in the first place that a minor change like switching assistants costed you lost invitations and collabs?"

"if you want to return from paris as yeosang's assistant, or just an employee of the kq entertainment, i would recommend to zip it and start packing. five o'clock sharp in front of the building, not a minute late. if you're late, don't bother to show up. at all, ever."

"but-"

"five am, y/n."

and as if that wasn't enough to ruin your evening of rewatching the walking dead and stuffing your face with pringles, a single message causes you to sit back down on the couch.

choi san: you requested to switch? wish i'd known sooner, i wouldn't have wasted both our time. didn't realize you'd go to such lenghts, but then again, i really must be that annoying and can't take a hint. i apologize for crossing the boundary last night. rest assured, it won't happen again.

y/n: it's not like that !message failed to send!

y/n: san? !message failed to send!

this user has blocked you.

you're about to find out whether or not you were right, after all. far from eyes, far from mind.

𓆩⟡𓆪

yeosang wearing prada and sitting front row on a fashion show, looking ethereal and socializing with those around him is all the fandom ever wanted. you proudly watch from the side, and every now and then, yeosang's eyes widen slightly as they frantically search for you. you are being pushed around by photographers, and can't stand still in one place. when he finally finds you, you can see relief wash over his pretty features. you nod assuringly, urging him to talk to the celebrities around him.

if you thought san needed reassuring and validation, yeosang needed it times two. his english skills have improved in the short time you have been working for him, but you are the only person he could practice with. now, surrounded by only english speakers, and without your poor and broken korean to help, yeosang felt like he was thrown in shark water without a way out. you can see panic set in his eyes whenever someone speaks too fast or when he forgets a word.

but all is gone as soon as he locks eyes with you. you are his life jacket, his boat in this situation, and he is holding onto you for dear life as doja cat and zendaya keep talking to him and over him. at one point, yeosang leans back so that the two can speak comfortably, and they waste no time in leaning over him and continuing the conversation. he gives you a funny look, and you can't help the giggle that leaves your mouth.

yeosang doesn't stay at the after party. as soon as everyone has finished taking pictures with him, and before an interviewer can get his hands on him, yeosang disappears into the crowd and finds you. "take me away."

once back at the hotel, he insists that you join him for a late dinner. you hesitate before walking into his hotel room. strangely, you don't feel weird for sitting on his bed and eating with him at this hour, all alone with him. perhaps because you don't harbor the same feelings towards him as you do for san. yeosang is sweet. he isn't a tease, he doesn't make you question your sanity and make you roll your eyes hundred times a day.

"how's the pasta?" he asks, glancing over at your plate of truffle pasta. "any good?"

"it's great." you nod. "how's your steak?"

he doesn't respond, instead nodding with his mouth full. he takes a sip of whiskey from his nightstand, then wastes no time in stuffing his mouth again. you can't help but laugh fondly.

"didn't take you for a whiskey kind of guy." you confess.

"what kind of guy did you take me for?" the man raises his eyebrow playfully.

you hum at first, as if thinking. yeosang cuts his steak in peace, until your answer causes him to stop and gasp dramatically. "honestly? a banana milk kind of guy."

"you take that back." he threatens with his fork. "it's strawberry milk. don't disrespect me."

you enjoy this playful banter. no pressure, no expectations. just the tiredness and tipsiness talking out of both of you. you try the whiskey, he tries the leftover pasta. eventually, half the bottle of whiskey is gone. you didn't think you'd enjoy it that much. yeosang wasn't of any help. moreover, he encouraged you to drink.

now you struggle to move from the comfortable bed you're sat on, even after the man plops on it and closes his eyes, muttering a good night.

"you can't go to sleep with your makeup on."

"watch me." he simply covers himself up to his neck.

your words have no effect on him. they simply enter one ear and exit out the other. frankly, you're not sure they even get to his ear. it feels like they're bouncing off it and hitting you back in the face. in just a few moments, you raid the hotel bathroom in search of wet wipes and any kind of face serum he has brought along. it didn't help that he had a whole line of skincare on the counter. you don't know those things. he'll survive one night without it.

the moment the wet wipe touches his cheek, yeosang's eyes shoot open.

"that's cold." he frowns.

"yeah, well, suck it up."

yeosang's gaze is so much different than san's. san is intense, and dark. yeosang's is curious, and sweet. brown orbs glimmer as he follows your hand movements that reveal his face bit by bit. by the time you have wiped almost everything off, yeosang is wide awake. a light shudder leaves his lips when your fingers brush the wipe over his birthmark.

"there it is." you smile as you reveal it. "pretty."

the man blushes furiously. you think it's the alcohol. he hopes you don't know it's something else.

"close your eyes. you have a bit of eyeshadow left."

you don't need to tell him twice. he makes your job so much easier that you could just kiss him on the head sometimes.

"warning, this is also going to be cold."

you've done this countless times with san. but the moment your fingers touch his skin directly, your heart skips a beat. this isn't casual. not with yeosang. you try not to notice the way his eyes stare at you as your fingers rub the serum on his glass skin. the way he grips the cover. the way he slightly squirms under it. the way he gulps whenever your fingers touch the area around his birthmark.

"almost done," you whisper as your hand moves onto the space between his eyebrows and his forehead. it seems to be another sweet spot of his, because he almost purrs when your fingers gently rub the serum into his skin. you don't want to stop. not when he closes his eyes and hums contently while you do something as simple as putting a product on him, something that he does himself every day.

"no wonder san is in love with you."

you freeze. fuck, does everyone know?

"a person just puts their walls down around you and trusts you completely." he rambles on. "your mere presence is very comforting. i hate that he got to you first."

"okay." you sigh. the wipes are thrown into the small bin near the nightstand, and you have to walk a few steps around the room before you can speak. your thoughts are scattered, and at this point, you might have to ask yeosang to slap you to make sure this is not one of your daydreaming shifts when you used to work at the coffee shop. "let's pause. just for a moment."

"oh, i'm sorry." the man sits up straight, rubbing his eyes. "i didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or anything. i just mean that... a person can trust you easily. honestly, since you started working with me, i've stopped using my brain."

"yeosang." you sigh once again.

wide curious eyes look at you, and the words stop in your throat. is it possible that the forced proximity was an issue on your end? this is surely the alcohol. and the way yeosang is starting to act exactly like san. maybe you have a type.

no. what you have is a serious case of delusion. you need a vacation as soon as your feet touch korean soil.

you turn the lamp near the bed off, ensure that yeosang has a glass of fresh water in case he wakes up during the night, and prepare his outfit for tomorrow on the armchair. he only watches, not uttering a word. it isn't until you reach the door and light switch that you hear shuffling, and you turn your head to see him laying back down.

"good night, mr kang."

you miss the pout on his lips once the main light is off, but not the quiet "good night, tiny" before exiting and heading for your room.

𓆩⟡𓆪

your paid time off is approved within a day. manager sihun agrees that you need time away, but for different reasons. you're offended.

"it feels like your quality of work has declined."

you have to hide your snarky remarks. if that is what gets you time off, then let him have it.

in no time you find yourself sipping a freshly squeezed lemonade on your balcony. a book in your hand, fresh out of the shower, hair drying in the sun, with the whole day ahead of you. until your work phone vibrates on the table. you ignore it. you don't know why you even brought it out there in the first place. a habit, maybe.

the page of the book is barely flipped before the phone vibrates again. and again. and again.

"are you serious right now?" you groan.

park seonghwa: hey :)

park seonghwa: can i call you?

park seonghwa: oh wait

park seonghwa: you're on you time off?

park seonghwa: imsosorrypleaseforgivemejustignoremekbyehavefunonyourtimeoffdontmissustoomuch<3

y/n: it's fine, mr park. how can i help you?

park seonghwa: hi!

park seonghwa: oh :(

park seonghwa: mr park?

y/n: is something wrong? are you understaffed?

the dancing dots appear in the corner of the screen near seonghwa's profile picture. then, they disappear. and reappear. and disappear once again.

y/n: mr park, may i know wh|

your typing is interrupted by his name taking up the screen. with a sigh, you press the green icon.

"mr park?"

"first of all, i don't like that." he complains on the other side. "yeosang broke you."

"i assure you, mr kang had nothing to do with anything." you can't help the eye roll. "may i know-"

your words are cut short once again by a voice in the background, then a crash. "san, you absolute moron. i am so sorry, ma'am. we'll pay for that and clean up the mess."

you stay silent, eavesdropping the conversation. seonghwa's voice turns into an angry whisper, but the phone is close enough for you to hear everything.

"pull yourself together. there's six cameras on you, and you're drunk from half a cup of beer?"

"i'm not drunk."

"you're getting there. in the middle of namhae, in broad daylight, fooling around with that gopro and breaking stuff. what else do you call that? you're lucky the staff are busy cleaning what you just did and their attention is off you. i'm calling y/n, just so you know."

"i don't care."

"you don't care? alright. hello, y/n?"

"give me that."

"yes, he's being a pain in the ass. can you come over?"

"give me that!"

"what's that? you'll be here in fifteen? great."

"park seonghwa, give me that phone!"

"too late. she hung up."

you hear complaining and whining, then shuffling. he must've exited the room they were in, because seonghwa is back on the phone.

"i just wanted you to hear how miserable and pain in the ass he is."

"with all due respect, what does that have to do with me?"

"i'll send you a video. i want you to watch it, then come to whatever conclusion you want. i'm not forcing you to do anything, nor am i guilt tripping you. i'd just hate to see two people suffer a heartbreak they don't need. it's all up to you."

once the call ends, you feel as if your head will burst. you selfishly wish seonghwa hadn't reached out to you. just when you got san out of your head. you can't have one day of peace at this job you used to love.

the promised video plays on your screen, showing san in the back of a car and seonghwa next to him. the older man holds the phone so that san doesn't know he is being filmed. the familiar pout is present on the younger ones lips as he looks out the window, arms crossed over his chest.

"sannie, you're sulking again." seonghwa teases.

"leave me be."

"we're filming content for the fans. will you be like this the whole day?"

when san turns his head towards seonghwa, and the camera, you don't expect his eyes to be red and glossy. then, with the tiniest voice ever, he mumbles. "i miss her."

"i know." seonghwa sighs. "but you drove her away. you blocked her number without giving her a chance to explain."

"i know i'm stupid. you don't have to say it." his fingers play with the buttons of his shirt. you can't help but thank seonghwa for giving you the first peek at san dressed in a white shirt and black slacks, sleeves rolled up with his forearms out for everyone to enjoy. "she hates me."

"she doesn't hate you."

"you don't know that. for all we know, she thinks that you hate her."

san turns his head to look at seonghwa abruptly, then starts shaking it. "no. it's not like that."

"well, if i was her, that's the impression i'd get."

"i could never hate her. she could break my heart over and over, and i still wouldn't find it in those broken bits to hate her. she's all i think about. i thought the distance would do us well. it's killing me, especially seeing her near yeosang. or anyone that isn't me. do you know that i haven't washed or used my coat that she wore in amsterdam when it was cold? it still smells like her."

"loser." seonghwa tries to lighten up the situation by pinching his thigh.

"ow! stop it." san isn't having it. "i genuinely miss her. i'm so close to showing up at her door and falling to my knees, i swear."

he then returns to silence and turns his head back towards the window. the video ends with seonghwa smiling at the camera.

choi san will be the death of you.

𓆩⟡𓆪

the week passes fast. you'd wake up in the morning, one past noon being morning to you, rot your brain on social media, and before you knew it, the sun was down and you were transferring yourself from the couch on the bed. your diet consisted of shin noodles and a single boiled egg, paired with unnatural amounts of red bull (i just had to describe myself i'm so sorry <3). luckily, you didn't have any pets. you wouldn't have the energy to walk them or take care of them.

seonghwa's phone call ruined your plans. you wanted to spend the week reading all those books you've purchased and never have time to read, go for morning walks, maybe even go to a spa. but every time you closed your eyes, you saw san.

you saw his hurt face the first time you've rejected him. you saw his pout. you saw his glossy eyes. you heard his voice.

your last day was no different. kuromi pajamas, mouthful of noodles, the new season of your favourite show playing in the background while you mindlessly scroll on tiktok. until the doorbell interrupts you.

when you look through the peephole, you don't see anybody. an empty hallway. just a glimpse of somebody running downstairs. you shouldn't open it. everything about it screams danger. but you do anyway, sticking your head out first. step by step, you make it to the railing, and then lean over it in hopes of catching the person that just interrupted your last night of so called selfcare. he wears a hood, but something in the way he walks is familiar to you.

"hey!" you call out.

the person stops. the hallway lights illuminate the rings on his finger, one of them especially familiar to you. you bought it on your trip to italy, and gave it to none other than choi san for his birthday.

"mr choi." disappointment is evident in your voice. "will you please come back so we can discuss your need to ding-dong-ditch me?"

you can see his figure slouch. slowly, as if he'll scare you if he moves any faster, he makes his way back up the stairs and stops at the top. he doesn't raise his head to look at you yet. not when you step away from the railing, and not when you stand in front of him. only when your hand finds its spot under his chin and raises his head, his eyes find yours. he wears glasses. they give him the nerdy boyfriend image.

"what are you doing with yourself, mr choi?"

"what..." his voice comes out hoarse, and he clears his throat before continuing. "what do you mean?"

your hand leaves him sooner than both of you would like. you step back, then answer. "i mean, what are you doing chasing a fan? a staff member? while your phone is bursting with messages from the most drop dead gorgeous and talented idols."

"you don't know anything." he simply replies.

he doesn't move. you do. you walk back into your apartment, leaving the door open. you only spare him a glance over your shoulder; a silent invitation. he takes it. closing the door behind him, taking off his shoes and placing them neatly on the shoe rack, wearing the slippers he claimed last time. it all felt natural. you felt natural.

"red bull?" you offer.

he can't help the quiet chuckle when he sees your head in the fridge. "no, thank you."

"hmph," you purse your lips. "i've got cola, melon milkis, a week old carton of orange juice, chocolate milk, and two bottles of soju: peach and strawberry. you pick."

"a glass of water is fine."

"boring." you say.

he knows you are joking. still, he rolls his eyes playfully and joins you in the kitchen. "i'll have a red bull, then."

"which one?"

"what do you mean which one? there's more than- oh. okay." you open the fridge door fully and step away, revealing the colorful collection to a surprised san. "you little addict."

"says the man who lives off lays and milkis." you bite back.

"alright. give me the green one."

"which green one?"

"there's two?"

"duh." you say, rolling your eyes. "the light green and dark green."

"i trust you."

in a few minutes, san and you are settled on the balcony couch, sipping the energy drinks and looking at the busy streets below. the couch is big enough for three people to sit comfortably, yet san has squeezed himself in the corner. you sit on it sideways, facing him. it doesn't seem as if he thought any of this through. he came here on impulse, you know it. you know him.

"how's working with yeosang?" he fidgets with the can.

"that's what you came to talk about?" you tilt your head to the side so that it leans against the backrest.

"no." he mumbles.

"you didn't answer my question, san." his name out of your lips has him perk up. "what are you doing chasing after a fan?"

"i'm not chasing after a fan. i'm chasing after my personal assistant. well, ex personal assistant."

"does that sound better in your mind?"

he opts for silence again. you're making it difficult, yet he is willing to try, again and again. he wouldn't have come here for no reason. the man takes another sip of his can, as to avoid talking. your can is downed already, and your lips and throat feel dry. you leave the balcony just to get the two bottles of soju, then plop back on the sofa.

"here." you set the bottles on the table, allowing him to choose. he abandons the can of red bull and reaches for the peach soju.

"i thought i wasn't allowed to drink." he says, then brings the beverage to his lips.

"take small sips, san. we've got time. unless you have somewhere to be?"

he shakes his head. "no. even if i did, i would've cancelled."

"if you say so." you take a sip of the alcoholic beverage, and san mimics you.

his gaze is locked on the city through the glass balcony, and his face is still covered by his hoodie. in an attempt to relax his stiff posture and nervous fidgeting of hands, you sprawl out your legs and rest your feet on his lap. instead of relaxing, san further stiffens, the soju bottle in his hand stuck in a deathly grip. you try to pull them back to yourself, seeing that you've caused further discomfort. yet san's hand simply finds its spot on your legs, thumb rubbing soothing circles on your skin where your pajama bottoms have hiked up.

"sannie." you call softly.

you swear you hear a shuddered breath. his head leans on the backrest, and he tilts it sideways so that he can look at you. he scrunches his nose so that his glasses sit better. "hm?"

"talk to me." you urge him. "say what's on your mind. you didn't come here to ask me about yeosang. or to sit in silence."

he hums again. "the silence was comforting. but no, it's not what i came for. though, now that i think about it, i think i did enough talking. i came to hear what you have to say. if you have anything to say."

"you were honest with me up until now. and i appreciate that." you start. it is your turn to pour your heart out. "and it is only fair that i do the same. but i think it would be more interesting to lead this conversation with questions."

"like twenty-one questions?" he immediately gets it.

"right. i'll give you a head start. you can ask me three questions."

"one is enough. as you said, we have time." he doesn't take long to figure out what he wants to ask you. words smoothly slip out of his mouth. "have you slept on it? 

"and why do you care about their opinion when the only one that should matter is ours?" it feels like he is scolding you. you know he isn't. he is just getting annoyed at the situation both of you are in. "this could be the best thing that can happen to us."

after a moment of silent thinking, you sigh. "i have to sleep on it."

right. you left him without an answer. technically, he left himself without an answer. "i didn't get enough sleep to decide."

he laughs. "meanie."

"my turn, then. since you don't want the head start." you take a sip while you think. the gentle touch on your legs is a distraction. for a man so big and tough, choi san has the softest hands in the world. "when did you realize your... feelings for me?"

it feels odd. feelings for you. choi san has feelings for you. such feelings that he keeps coming back, no matter how many times you reject him. if you were him, you'd hate yourself. yet san looks at you with such fondness in his eyes, that for the first time in a while since you parted ways with him, you find yourself looking away and blushing furiously. only he has the power to make you feel small, yet safe.

"well?" you clear your throat.

"it started in london. when i begged you to join me on a secret mission to five guys in the middle of the night, and you came with me. after that we went for a walk because i overate. i think the exact moment i felt something fuzzy in my stomach was when i plopped on the bench and held onto my stomach, and you had the time of your life giggling and taking photos. i realized then that i loved that side of you, and that i might be falling for you. then, i was sure when we went to amsterdam, and you were so excited to go for a walk and buy souvenirs that you forgot your jacket at the hotel. i lent you my coat, and when i saw it on you, i knew that i wanted you to keep borrowing my clothes."

you remember seonghwa's video where san confessed he hasn't washed or used that coat since you did. you look his way again, only to find his eyes still fixed on you. he examines your face in search of any negative emotion. but you only smile at him, causing him to breathe out in relief.

"my turn. did you really mean what you said back in milan? when i first confessed to you?"

"it's hard to explain." you sigh. "just because i was doing my job, doesn't mean i didn't enjoy it."

"so i'm not a spoiled and disobedient boss?" he presses in a teasing voice.

"not all the time. and that's two questions, sir. now i get to ask two." you dig your heel into his thigh as a way to punish him, and he returns the action by pinching your calf. "ow!"

"you're being mean again." he pouts.

"only for you." the alcohol is starting to get to you, because in no way would sober you wink at san and continue the conversation like it's nothing. like you don't see him blushing and looking away, a smile dancing on his lips. "you bring out the worst in me, it seems."

"so it's my fault." he laughs. "go on, then. ask."

"hmm..." you trail, thinking. "you've gotten plenty of confessions from many idols. how come i am the one that peaked the interest of the choi san?"

"first of all, the choi san? i'm not that special."

"yes, you are. you have millions falling on their knees for you. you're one of the most popular and influential idols right now. so many rookies look up to you, want to be you. sometimes it seems like you aren't aware of your popularity. guys want to be you, or be with you, girls as well. and-"

"second of all," he interrupts you, not believing a single word out of your mouth, "all those confessions don't mean much to me. i don't feel any connection to those people, and honestly, i don't want to waste my time to find out whether or not i'll feel any. i like to live in my own bubble, with the guys and our staff. it's familiar. it's cozy."

right, you forgot his introverted side for a moment. "still. as a long time fan of many groups in the industry, i've never seen idols as pretty as the ones in this generation."

"no amount of beauty will make a true man swoon if their personality is a zero. only those who are shallow won't look past a face."

"so you settled for me because i'm a little ugly but have a personality?"

you expected him to laugh with you. it was funny in your head. but the man simply looks at you, brows furrowed. your laughter dies out. you just had to ruin it.

"sorry." you mumble.

"don't ever say that again." he doesn't scold you. he isn't angry. he is disappointed. "i can't believe you would ever think of yourself like that."

"it was just a silly joke."

"i don't like it. it breaks my heart." his voice is quiet. "i have- actually, never mind. my turn, was it?"

"you have...? you have what?" you set the bottle down and sit up straight, legs still on his lap. "choi san don't leave me hanging."

"it's stupid. if i show you, i might as well just jump from here to save myself from humiliation."

"okay, now i need to know. you can't just say that and then move on." he avoids your pleading eyes.

you pull your legs away from him, and before he can protest, you get on your knees, still on the couch, and clasp your hands. he knows he's weak. yet he still looks at you, and he wants to smack himself from the way his bottoms feel tight after seeing you on your knees with big pleading eyes. "you'll think i'm weird."

"i won't! i promise. please, please, pretty please?"

and just how can he say no to you? hesitantly, he reaches for his pocket. he pulls out a wallet, and you're confused at first. until he pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to you. "i'll see myself out."

"you're not going anywhere." you plant your palm on his chest, pushing him back to lay against the couch. you turn the paper over, and your breathing stops. it's a polaroid from back in paris. you remember snapping pictures of him and the manager as a joke. you remember the manager doing the same to you. you thought the pictures turned out bad, you didn't even want to look at them. your outfit was a mess, your hair as well, and you had a chocolate stain on the dress you wore. none of it was visible on the photo. just san and you, acting silly in front of the eiffel tower, smiling wide. sihun was only taking pictures of you, yet san managed to smoothly photobomb and earned himself the cherished polaroid. "san..."

"i know. it's weird. i'm sorry."

it wasn't weird. unexpected? sure. you weren't even aware that you had a picture with san. that day was very difficult for you; you had forgotten to pack san's famous leather vest for the show, you spilled coffee on two of your outfits, and the chocolate from the croissant dripped on your third one. the wind kept tangling your hair, and you dropped your stone magnet as soon as you stepped foot out of the shop and broke it. what was a disastrous day for you was a memorable day for san, it seems.

"oh, san." you become all giddy and soft at the thought of him carrying the photo in his wallet.   "you were just carrying this around all this time?"

"...no?" his pretty eyes lock with yours, the city lights making them glimmer.

he expects you to call him weird. to slap him. to tear the photo. what he doesn't expect is for you to bring the polaroid to your lips, then press a kiss to the back of it.  the action leaves a pink imprint of your lips behind, in the shape of a heart. you return it to san, who is stunned by your action. "you're so cute it hurts."

you stand up and pick up the empty cans, but not before playfully poking his dimple. he is left in silence for a few moments, replaying what just happened. his fingers brush the pink print you gifted him so generously, and he doesn't know what takes him over. he brings it to his face, pressing his own lips on the same place you did. he allows himself a short moment of peace, closing his eyes and inhaling the sweet scent you've left behind. gods, what a fool. kissing a piece of paper.

he thinks that you don't see him. but you do, in the reflection of the open glass door of the balcony. you allow him to have the moment while you rummage through your cupboards. by the time you are back on the balcony, san is almost laying on the couch. his cheeks are flushed both from alcohol and your actions, fingers fidgeting with the polaroid, and his dimples on display as he foolishly grins at the picture.

"i hope you're not on a calorie deficit." you toss a small bag of chips his way. he fails to catch it, and it lands on his face. "oopsies."

"i'm not. i'm bulking." he says as he examines the bag.

"and you hide it all under that hoodie. tsk."

he stubbornly wears the hood still. you don't have a clear view of his pretty face, aside from the glasses that peek out and rest on his nose, and it bothers you. but you won't press him. you'll let him set his own pace. "are we continuing the game?"

"if you want to. it's your turn, i think."

he watches curiously as you open a box of strawberry pepero. "when you got the job and had the opportunity to choose first, you didn't want to choose. why?"

"as a long time atiny, i didn't want to. i didn't want to make it seem like i like one of you more than the rest." you shrug.

"and you ended up with me."

"and i ended up with you." you confirm. "were you disappointed? i don't speak your language. i don't fit the beauty standards. i was pretty clumsy. i wouldn't hire myself."

"you're too harsh on yourself." san scolds. "i was actually happy and excited. i could practice my english with you. and look at me now! unstoppable."

unimpressed, you bite on the first pepero stick. "so i'm just an english lesson to you."

"you're being mean again. anyways, my turn."

the man takes a moment to think as he chews on the potato chips. he politely covers his mouth as he does so, and reminds you just how perfect he is. how something as simple as chewing has you make heart eyes at him you don't know.

"who was your bias before this?"

you choke on the treat. you didn't expect that. the reaction has him perk up. he sits up straight, crossing his legs and looking at you with an amused grin, awaiting the answer.

"well?"

"you won't get mad?"

he already frowns at the fact that it isn't him. "no..."

"alright then." you take your sweet time chewing the treat, making san's patience run dry. "my bias was..."

"you're killing me." he whines.

"wooyoung."

"what?!"

"my turn!"

"wooyoung?!"

"oh, come on. it was long ago. you're my favourite now. maybe. besides, you said you won't get mad."

"i lied."

he lays back down, sulking. arms crossed over his chest, and his lips poutier than ever. "are you really mad because you weren't my bias since day one?"

"no. i'm mad because out of all of them, it had to be wooyoung."

the streets are slowly dying out, and the building lights are dimming one by one. it is well past midnight. san is cozy on the couch, not showing any signs of getting up and leaving any time soon. you don't mind. you're happy that he feels comfort in your place. in you.

once done sulking, he sits up straight again.

"want one?" you point at the box of treats.

"sure."

he watches you pull out a single one. his hand tries to grasp it, but you simply avoid it and aim for his lips. you place the pink treat on his lips, which so obediently part and take the sweet stick between his teeth. you're grateful for the soju. otherwise, you wouldn't have san eating out of your hand as he looks at you like you are his whole world. you gently push the treat as he chews, and when your fingers graze his plush lips once he gets to the end, you have to fight yourself to not jump on him. san makes it hard by mischievously licking his lips, and your thumb in the process.

"another?"

he nods. in no time, you push him so that he leans against the backrest again. he gasps when you sit on his lap, hands flying to your thighs for support. the hood is finally pushed back by you, revealing the pretty flushed face under the moonlight and street lights. his touch burns your skin over the thin fabric of your pajamas. you are in awe of the size of his palm, which covers a significant amount of your thigh.

"open up." your voice is a mere whisper. he does as you say, and you waste no time in placing the pepero stick between his teeth, but not before playfully teasing him and swirling it around his tongue first. the strawberry and ruby chocolate melt on his taste buds, and he wishes for nothing more than to taste the other pink that is your lips. as he bites down, a satisfying crunch meets your ears. "good boy."

he almost purrs when your hand caresses his cheek. he might combust on this very couch tonight.

"you're so pretty. i could just put you on my shelf and watch you all day long." you're not sure where all this is coming from. you had buried it deep down. was the bottle of soju really enough to make all of this flood out of you? curiosity paints his features, resulting in big glossy eyes and furrowed brows. "my pretty boy." 

he almost whimpers. he's lucky he has the treat in his mouth, because he masks the pathetic whimper by swallowing the pepero. he watches as your other hand retrieves another one, this time placing it between your lips. his face feels warm under your touch. his body is at your complete mercy. all he can do is squeeze your thighs from nervousness as your face inches closer and closer to him. the other end of the stick is pressed against his lips, and he takes it again. he forces himself to go slow, and not like a guinea pig eating an asparagus.

eyes are fluttering shut, breathing becomes shallow, and anticipation pools in lower stomachs as the pepero stick becomes shorter and shorter. san feels your warm breath caress his lips. he smells the strawberries and your lip gloss. he feels your hair tickle his cheeks as your upper body hovers above him. he is aware of the burning situation on his lower area where the two of you are connected. he is overwhelmed.

there is a single bite that separates the two of you. san stops. he isn't brave. you stop as well. and for a moment, he panics. his hands squeeze your thighs in an attempt to keep you from running away again. not this time. not again. and you don't disappoint him.

you bite down on the last bit, and finally, press your lips against his. san exhales into the kiss. he has dreamed of this moment every night. every day. every time he'd see you reapply your lip gloss or lip balm. the scent of sickeningly sweet fruits envelops him, and while he would usually complain, he now welcomes it.

every time he smells a strawberry, a blueberry, a cherry, or a chocolate, he will be reminded of the way your pretty lips feel like a plush cloud against his. of the way you take his bottom lip between your teeth, gently tugging it. of the way your hot tongue swipes over the now slightly swollen lip, as an apology. of the way your body yearns for him, fingers tangling into his hair, playing with the strands. hips hopelessly seeking friction. shallow gasps leaving you whenever you pull away to catch your breath.

of the way his hands can't get enough of you. the way they slide under your top, just to rest on your waist. feeling your burning skin under his touch. fingers tracing up your spine and leaning you further against him. like he doesn't want a single atom to stand between you. his other hand gripping the back of your head, deepening the kiss. tasting you like it's his last meal. like he was made to touch you, taste you.

like he was born to love you.

san effortlessly picks you up. he walks over to the nearby wall, pressing you against it. the cold concrete cools you down. soon enough, your clothes are a mess on the floor. you can't help the exhale of awe that leaves you as your fingers trace san's shoulders, collarbones, then his chest and abs. he fails to hide a proud smile, dimples cutely peeking out. his glasses are all fogged up. you don't want to remove them. the contrast between his face and body should be studied.

"still think i'm pretty?" he huffs, trying to unbuckle his belt while he still holds your body against the wall. he is insanely strong.

you respond with a courageous act; tongue swiping from his collarbone and up his neck, until you stop by his ear. you bite down on his earlobe, and then graze his ear shell with your lips before whispering:  "the prettiest."

hands clumsily help him undo his belt, and once his pants hit the floor and he is left in boxers only, he doesn't waste time in pinning you further up the wall so that your legs fall over his shoulders. fingers dig into your thighs as he dives in, teeth pulling the thin fabric aside and tongue eager to taste you. you're lucky it's nighttime.

pretty eyes look at you as the tip of his tongue barely grazes the sensitive bud between your legs. watching your face. studying your expressions. enjoying the way your brows furrow and mouth hangs open as he finally tastes you. you hold onto his shoulder with one hand, and pull his hair with the other. sweet moans are music to his ears. he notices you enjoy slow but deep strokes. so that's what he does: savours you slowly, deeply, to your core. it feels as if all air has been knocked out of your lungs.

before you can fall apart in his mouth, your hand yanks his head away. you half expect the moan that leaves his flushed lips. san carefully sets you down. he then watches in awe as you lower down on your knees. the boxers free his needy cock from their grip. it finds relief in your gentle grasp. san hisses as your tongue softly swirls around his sticky tip. he chokes when your lips close around it, barely even stuffing the tip before you gag. tears prickle your eyes as you test your limits, pushing his thick length to slide down your tongue and touch the back of your throat.

you didn't take san as a noisy man during sex. not that you thought about him in that light. once or twice, maybe. you aren't complaining. not as his hand caresses your hair, gently pulling it every now and then, refraining himself from just snapping his hips and making you cry as he loses himself to the feeling. his moans are pathetic. in a hot way. in a way that makes you realize you want to have san squirming, whining and begging under your touch.

so when both your hands join your mouth on his throbbing cock, san loses his mind. his whimpers intensify, and his hips hopelessly move in rhythm with your head. "fuck-"

you pull away, but don't stop your hands from moving. "you close, baby?"

"oh," he breathes out at the new nickname. "so close. fuck, so close."

"you want to make a mess on me?" you offer, sticking your tongue out and placing his cock on it.

"no," he declines.

"why not?" to your knowledge, every man wanted that. you've tried it. weren't exactly impressed. but for san? you'd do it again and again. "you don't want to paint my face? my tits?"

he shakes his head breathlessly. "you are too pretty for that. it's degrading. i don't want it."

and just like that, he makes you melt all over again. just when he thinks you'll tip him over the edge, your hands abandon him. but it's late. his cock twitches, and he gasps in disbelief as he watches himself leak on the floor. he lets out a frustrated grunt from the ruined orgasm. he misses the way your eyes darken at his needy and upset expression. you felt sorry at first. but now, you might have discovered a new side of san you like.

"aw, my poor sannie." you cup his face, thumbs caressing his cheeks. you feel liquid on them. fuck, is he crying? "baby?"

"i'm- it's fine," he looks away, humiliated.

"sannie." like a lost, obedient puppy, san's glossy eyes lock with yours. "you're so good to me. such a patient little puppy."

"i am?"

"of course you are. you're my pretty boy. and i'll reward you for being so good to me."

"really?" he is intrigued. "how?"

"are you feeling frustrated?" your fingers move the loose strands of hair from his face, caressing his head in the process. "did i ruin your orgasm?"

"n-no..." he stutters.

"i did, didn't i? poor baby." you award him with a sweet kiss. enough to have him chase you when you pull away. but you press your finger against his lips, silently telling him to wait. "you want to cum, sannie?"

"yes, please." san breathes out. "pretty please."

"then use me, baby." you give yourself to him, fingers unhooking your bra and leaving you bare before his eyes. "use me, punish me, breed me, destroy me. do whatever you want. i'm all yours."

san's mouth waters. his ears are buzzing. he hesitates, at first. once his hands lay on your body again, fire reignites within him. he pulls you in for a kiss, desperately searching for the sweetness of your mouth. the taste of you melts on his tongue. you let him set the pace. he is so lost in the way you taste that he doesn't even realize he is rubbing himself against you, hips hopelessly searching for friction.

"need any help?" you purr into his ear as he switches to kissing your neck.

he only hums, and you waste no time in gripping his sensitive cock again.

"you have such a pretty cock, sannie."

if only you knew before how hot male whimpering was. you would've found yourself a submissive man as soon as possible. but your patience and unknowledge is rewarded, life gifting you san for what you've missed.

san turns you around so that you are bent over the glass railing. you feel his sticky tip brush past your thighs, rubbing against your clit, before diving into your warmth. when he bottoms out, he releases a moan of pleasure and relief. you wish you could see his face, but you'll settle for shameless moaning into your ear as he presses his torso against your back and starts moving. you feel him deep in your belly, so much that the sight of it has a new wave of arousal gushing out of you.

"you're so pretty," he is a blubbering mess. his grip is strong on your waist, and so is the one in your hair. your head is pulled back so that you can catch a glimpse of his fucked out face. "you feel so good- fuck-"

"come on, baby. use me."

"i want to- i want to-" he breathes out between moans.

"you want to cum?"

"yes, please. please, please, please- i can't- ah!"

he's taken aback when your hips slam into his. he lets you regain control, pathetically clinging to you as you work your hips at a rough and fast pace, inching him closer to the promised orgasm. then, you slow down. you feel his every vein against your walls. you feel his leaking tip kiss your cervix as you take him deep, causing both of you to gasp and reach for each other. not able to take it anymore, you pull out just enough so you can turn around. he slides back in like he was made for you, filling you up to the brim and hiding his face in the crook of your neck, all while his hands leave bruises on your thighs and waist as he tries his best to control himself.

"come on, baby. wreck me." you moan against his lips.

san deliciously grazes your sweet spot, and once he finds out just what you like, he slams his hips into yours. his teeth bite into your shoulder, drops of sweat cover his body and make his hair stick to his forehead. yet san doesn't care. he is lost in the feeling of you. in the sound of you. in the sight of you.

"sannie-" you breathe out. "fuck, baby, you're doing so good. you're such a good boy."

now you're a blubbering mess. orgasm inching closer, san abusing your sweet spot with his hot tip, hitting it over and over until a strangled moan meets his ears and your body starts twitching in his arms. the sight of you falling apart has san finally reach his own release. ropes of cum shoot inside you, giving you a warm sensation as you recover. san shudders under your touch as you rub his back, quiet whimpers leaving him as he sloppily rides out his orgasm.

"my pretty boy." you praise him. his hair is now slicked back due to sweat and your caressing. he finds comfort in hugging your body close to him and resting his head on your shoulder. "you did amazing, baby. you made me feel so good."

"i did?" san asks, then raises his head enough to take a look at you.

you press your lips to his forehead, and finally, remove the foggy and drenched glasses and put them up on your head as a hair band so that he comfortably lays back on your shoulder. "of course you did."

you don't know how long you stand like that. until the sweat on the two of you dries, and a chill enters your bodies. you drag san back to the couch, laying on it first and inviting him to lay down with you. he wastes no time in helping you wear your top, then wears his own boxers. finally, he lays down with you. head snuggled on your chest, arms wrapped around your waist, as if you'll fade if he lets go.

"good night, san."

"good night, princess."

you're both covered with a thin blanket. just when you start falling into slumber, san wakes you with a tiny voice.

"am i really yours?"

"you are."

"can you say it again?" he mumbles, half asleep.

"you're mine?"

"no, the other thing."

"my pretty boy?"

"yes. good night."

"good night, mr choi."

he pinches your thigh under the blanket, causing you to yelp. "sannie, not mr choi."

"i'm just messing with you, sannie. good night."

"good. good night." you don't miss the way his dimple appears, even though you can't see his smile from this position.

and you can't wait to poke it every chance you get.

𓆩⟡𓆪

𓆩⟡𓆪

regret.

it starts as a pressure in your stomach early in the day. then, as you bring yourself to look at the man who lays on top of you, you feel the pressure raise up into your chest, leaving a painful trail behind, until it settles into your throat. you find it hard to gulp, or to breathe. the sun is still low in the sky, it is barely morning. san sleeps soundly on top of you, arms hooked underneath you and hugging your body close to him as he uses your belly as a pillow. the rest of his body rests between your legs, his feet hovering over the ground as they do not fit on the couch.

an uneasy feeling sets in once again when your eyes fall on your phone that lays near your head. it is one of your phobias, falling asleep near any electronics. seems like you were really exhausted after last night's activities. you should be happy. you aren't. the longer you stay awake, and the more your vision clears up, as well as your brain, you start feeling disgusted with yourself. did you use choi san? did you do precisely what melanie was trying to do? were you a fucking hypocrite? it is only five o'clock, yet your phone is littered with messages and missed calls that none of you heard. one from seonghwa asking about where san is, and one from yeosang eager to try a new hair color. on top of the screen, one from manager sihun.

manager sihun: stop by my office before your clock in, please.

"mmh..." vibrations travel through your stomach, and san rubs his cheek against your exposed skin.

"san?" you call as your hand settles on top of his head, debating whether to push him away or to let him stay. he hums again, and hugs your body closer to him. you can barely breathe. "san."

"no..." he mumbles. "sleepy."

you don't have it in you to push him away. not yet, at least. so you settle for patting his head, and you hear him exhale with content. "we have to go to work soon."

"mhm."

seeing that he has no intention of moving, you bring the phone back into your face. your body still seems to be sleeping, because the phone slips from your hand and lands on your face. the soft yelp that leaves your lips makes san's head jerk up, sleepy eyelids peeling open and worried orbs gazing upon you.

"are you oka— did you just drop the phone on your face?"

"shut up." you're annoyed with yourself first, and when you hear him chuckle, he falls into the category as well. "you're in no position to laugh."

he doesn't reply, instead unhooks his arms only to climb up and rest his head on your shoulder. a frown appears on his pretty face upon seeing his group members' names on your phone. "why are they texting you?"

"san." you warn, not wanting to deal with his jealousy this early.

"i'm just wondering... they could've texted me."

"who says they didn't?" you simply reply, then enter the messages so you can reply to them.

he only makes a sound that lets you know he is displeased, and continues peeking at your screen. when you enter the conversation with seonghwa, the man pinches your side, causing you to yelp and drop the phone on your face once again. "oops."

"san!" you are now irritated. "what is the matter with you?"

"you casually talk to seonghwa in your free time?" he can't help the pout on his lips when he sees previous messages.

"you pinched me because you don't like that i have to communicate with your group member because you sometimes vanish without a trace or start acting like a childish fool?"

"ouch." he knows you don't mean it. do you? "i just... i don't know. you're mine, i don't like sharing you with—"

"i'm going to stop you right there, san." it is too early. god, it is way too early. "i am not yours. i am nobody's. there is nothing to share. do you hear yourself right now? i am still yeosang's assistant, but i can also help anyone else at any time. the members can reach out to me whenever they feel like it, whether you or me like it or not."

it shuts him up. he is currently very confused by your behaviour. he knows he can be difficult. but you're acting... distant. as if last night didn't happen. as if you let him sleep over to shut him up and want him out as soon as possible. "are we... okay?"

his voice trembles as he asks, and you peel your gaze away from the screen, only to find him sitting up and with glossy eyes. how are you supposed to answer, when you don't even know?

"we'll talk when we're both wide awake. i am not a morning person."

in san's book, that answer means no. you're not okay. something shifted during the night, and san doesn't know what. he is determined to find out, but not now. all he can do is further irritate you, and he doesn't know if he can handle more cold looks which you keep gracing him with since he opened his eyes. "okay."

"did you drive here or—"

"i'll walk."

"i can drive you," you offer, but san is already up and picking his clothes from the floor. he doesn't give you an opportunity to gawk, he is fully clothed again, with the hood over his head and covering his face. "san."

"no, it's fine. i'll use the fresh air."

"sannie—"

"no." he surprises you with the tone, as well as himself. it is enough to make you go silent. he can't help but feel as if he worsened the situation, so he opts for leaving without saying anything else, accidentally slamming the door shut on the way out. the glasses stay on the couch, messy from last night.

𓆩⟡𓆪

in sihun's office, through the windows that replace hallway walls in the kq building, you see a familiar red head. like on cue, she turns around, flashing you a grin that cannot mean anything good.

"good morning," you do your part as you enter, politely greeting the two.

"have a seat." sihun doesn't return the greeting. asshole. "melanie, please pull the blinds on the windows."

"i was just there, i could've—" you begin, yet your sentence gets interrupted by the doors opening and closing just as you sit down. a pair of brown eyes find yours, and the confused expression is replaced by a worried one. "sa— mr choi."

"sihun?" he questions.

he still wears the hoodie you took off him last night. his cheeks are a pretty pink shade as well. before you allow your mind to remember last night's events and betray you right here and now, you look at manager sihun. he is already looking at you, disapprovingly.

then, he simply announces: "the two of you are fucking."

"what?!" you both question at the same time.

melanie's face drops as she stands near the blinds. that isn't why she thought she was here. as seconds of silence pass by, her face reddens. the grip on the fabric intensifies, threatening to rip the material to shreds.

"i can assure you—" you begin. and get interrupted.

"i am not blind. you two fucked, had a fight, and you asked me to switch pairs. now, i don't know if you are back at it, and i don't care. what i care about is that it stops, right now. y/n, melanie, you are both fired. i don't want you near the kq artists, staff, or the building. you have one hour to collect your belongings and disappear."

your eyes search for san, as if he can do anything about it. he simply furrows his brows. he thinks. but not fast enough.

"melanie, i saw the pictures, and videos. san has decided not to take any legal action, and while i disagree, he has threatened to do something stupid if i get involved. the least i can do is fire you." the man rummages through the drawers of the desk, and soon enough, a small stack of papers awaits the two of you, each one with a pen on top. "and y/n..."

"sihun..." san's voice is small, unsure. he doesn't even know what to say or do. he stands aside, hands itching to hold you.

"i am so disappointed." it stabs you in the chest. "i knew you were a fan. i hired you because i thought i can't judge you based on that. turns out, i was wrong. your plan was to get involved with one of them all along. and i blame myself for even thinking that something good could come out of you."

hands shake as they struggle to sign the papers, words blurring before your eyes. the cursive letters are wobbly and sliding off the straight line where they are supposed to sit. melanie's voice is distant. you feel her moving her arms around next to you, trying to get herself out of the situation. there is no getting out. there is nothing left for you here.

so you stand up. legs all jelly, vision limited, and chest aching. you pass by san, pushing him with your shoulder by accident. his scent follows you down the hallways, to your locker, all the way to the doors of the building. you pass by the members, and if they greet you, you don't hear it. you don't have the strength to look at the building just one more time. you don't have it in you. yet your body still turns, elbow suffering someone's deathly grip. everything is silent, unmoving, distant. except him.

san didn't think further than just to grab you. he doesn't know what to say. whatever words he can make up, he knows they aren't enough to make you stay. because you were right. you were right all along, and san still went ahead and ruined what you built for yourself.

"i'm sorry." is all he can say.

whatever you wished to say couldn't have hurt more than what you did next: freeing yourself from his grip, placing a firm palm to his chest, pushing him away, and looking at him with something san could only describe as hatred and disappointment. then, you spoke. "i don't wish to see you ever again."

and san's barely healed heart shatters all over again, the loose strings holding it together snapping with each step you take towards the exit.

𓆩⟡𓆪

choi san has become one with his bed. it's raising park seonghwa's blood pressure, seeing the crumbs and empty cans all over the room. since when does san drink red bull? he doesn't move when the older man opens the blinds and window, allowing the fresh air to enter the room. seonghwa can't help the scoff when he sees san's body submerged under the blankets head to toe.

"san." he calls.

"i'm not hungry." a muffled voice comes beneath the blankets.

seonghwa approaches the bed, stepping on a can on the way and almost getting a heart attack. "i don't care. you are getting up and— is that a phone? give me that."

the light beneath the blanket disappears, and while san tries to hide the device under the pillow, seonghwa is quick to reveal him as the blanket falls on the bottom of the bed.

"are you texting her?"

"no."

"give me your phone." fuck, seonghwa forgets how strong san is. luckily, san's drowsiness and hunger helps him this time, and seonghwa manages to rip the phone out of his fingers and sits on his stomach, trapping both his arms between his thighs as well so he can't move. "fucking idiot."

"if someone walks in right now and sees you like this, we'll have some uncomfortable explaining to do and a lot of teasing to endure."

seonghwa doesn't pay any mind to what san is saying. his fingers hurriedly type in the password, and enter the messages. and surely enough, san has been spamming you with messages again. you don't respond. you are holding onto the promise you gave him after the first few days san had started messaging you after you left.

choi san: please, i can't take it

choi san: how do i live without you?

y/n: i don't exist for you anymore, mr choi. it's easy to live without something that doesn't exist in the first place.

choi san: you expect me to act as if you never happened? as if we never happened?

y/n: we didn't happen. a mistake happened.

choi san: how can you say that? how can you call it a mistake? how can you call me a mistake?

y/n: you are a mistake, choi san. and i will be friends with melanie before i consider you anything other than that. i promise you right here and now that i'll treat all of this as a very bad dream i barely woke up from. from the moment i met you to the moment i last saw you. as if you never happened. as if you're just an idol i had a weird dream about.

choi san: you can't do that. you know you can't.

choi san: y/n?

choi san: please.

choi san: my heart hurts.

this user has blocked you.

choi san: i can't do this on my own.!message failed to send!

seonghwa would be lying if he said that his heart didn't ache as well. you were harsh. but he also knew that it was your way of keeping yourself in control as well. at least that's what he would do were he in your place. hundreds of messages littered the cracked screen of the phone, each failed to send due to san being blocked by you. it's been two months since everything happened, and san has refrained from texting and calling after the first few weeks. now, for reasons unknown to seonghwa, he has started again. sending you links of songs, lyrics, even writing his own. were it a different situation, this would've been romantic.

"why are you texting her again after a month of not doing it?"

"because i'm miserable."

the man on top can't help but roll his eyes. your profile picture is missing from san's phone, but not from seonghwa's. it means that you still have him unblocked. san can't know. it surprises him that san hasn't thought of stealing his member's phones in hopes of reaching you.

"can i have my phone back, please?"

"not yet." seonghwa then enters the calls. dozens of them. then, social media. every account you have has him blocked, from instagram to tiktok. "i still don't understand who told sihun. you guys had just kissed that night, how did he...?"

"leave it." the younger male starts squirming, hoping to get out of the death grip of seonghwa's thighs. "look, if you give me my phone back, i'll clean the room. i promise."

san is hiding something. seonghwa simply needs to find out what. "just saying, he found out so quickly."

"yeah, well." the dismissive tone, eyes that struggle to hold eye—contact, and teeth that tug on the bottom lip are more than enough indicators for seonghwa to know that something else is going on.

"do you care about me?" the man suddenly asks.

san's brows furrow with confusion. "what?"

"after all we've been through, all these years. do you care about me?" he presses further.

"i do." the younger man says, though tone unsure. not because he doesn't care about his older brother, but because he doesn't know where this is headed. "...why?"

"then you'll tell me what happened." when san tries avoiding his gaze once again, seonghwa wastes no time in grabbing his face and pressing his fingers into san's plush cheeks, causing his lips to funnily stick out in a pout. like they do every day on their own. "san. i am sick and tired. speak, now."

a second passes. then two, and three. it turns into half a minute of seonghwa's piercing gaze for san to finally succumb. tears swell in his eyes, and he gulps. "i told him."

"you what?"

"i—"

"why the hell would you do that to her? to yourself?" seonghwa fails to find a valid reason behind san's actions. he feels his blood pressure rising once again, and soon enough, he might faint.

"i thought—" he gulps again, trying to swallow the lump of guilt in his throat. "i thought i was doing good. that sihun would understand, and it would be easier. and even if she got fired, that it wouldn't be a big deal because we wouldn't have to hide around staff and she would have time to— don't give me that look!"

"what look?!"

"like i am a fucking fool! i know it, i don't need to hear it!"

"i cannot believe you would sabotage everything like that." the older man runs his fingers through his hair, then stands up, throwing the phone on the bed. "you think, but you only think about yourself!"

san's heart drops. "how can you say that?"

"all you've done is get her into trouble. from the moment she became your assistant until the moment she left the building. and you are still risking a restraining order on both ends! you've done enough, the least you can do right now is let her go for good."

"but—"

"no fixing what you've done."

"but—"

"no going back."

"hwa—"

"and no more calls and texts."

"i love her."

seonghwa facepalms himself. audibly. "how can you love somebody you only kissed and fucked once?! do you know her? what's her favourite colour? where does she spend her free time? what does she like to eat or drink? does she have anyone? how did you allow yourself for a silly little crush to become something so huge? to ruin not one, but almost two jobs? i like y/n, and i miss her, i really do, she has done so much for us. but so much has happened in such a short time, and i don't think that's healthy. maybe this is for the best."

san stops listening, even though seonghwa is still talking. he makes his way out of the room, down the hallways, and into the living room, in hopes of escaping the obnoxious voice and the person it belongs to that follows him for days now.

"choi san, get back here."

"what's going on? oh, san." yeosang is surprised to see his younger brother in the living room. "how are you?"

"don't talk to me." san still can't bear to see him.

"yeosang didn't do anything, stop acting like—"

"get off my fucking back, all of you!" it is a rare occasion that san raises his voice. it shuts the two up for a few moments, until hongjoong enters the chaos himself. he corners san, until the man is squished in the corner of the living room and hongjoong's back shields him from seonghwa and yeosang. usually, san would sulk under his gaze. now? he feels overstimulated. irritated. angry.

angry because seonghwa is right. not because san doesn't know anything about you, but because he sabotaged something that could've been the best thing that has ever happened to him. then, in his mind, he realizes seonghwa is right once again. he only thinks about himself. would it be the best thing that ever happened to you, as well?

"you pushed her away, yet you stand here, with that audacity. scowling at yeosang, yelling at seonghwa, ignoring the rest of us, acting like a dickhead on all shows and interviews, making fans wonder what the fuck has gotten into you. she rejected you so many times, yet you kept pushing, and pushing, until she gave in, and regretted it immediately after. you wanted to guilt trip her into staying with you. you wanted her to get fired so that you could have her all to yourself. you are a bad person, san. no doesn't mean keep trying. no means no. and now you stand here, acting a victim, still torturing her, day after day, while your career is decaying because you refuse to get your spoiled ass up and come into the recording booth for half an hour and do your part. not only did you cost us a hard working assistant and a manager who was easy going, you are going to cost us this comeback. get your shit together, or so help me, i'll do it for you."

if san's eyes become any wider, his eyeballs could pop out. hongjoong's neck vein is prominent, and his hand has somewhere in the middle of the monologue found its place on san's t—shirt, scrunching up the material.

as if he wasn't scary enough, the older male leans in, face close to san, and eyes staring into his soul while he grits his teeth. "and i really," his tone drops a few octaves, "really," and turns into a whisper, "don't want to do that."

𓆩⟡𓆪

"everyone, meet leah and chris. they are our newest addition, and will replace the previous assistants. lets wish them luck on their first day." manager sihun introduces the pair.

leah ends up being san's assistant. he isn't thrilled. not because she doesn't do a good job, but because she is the spitting image of you. and because of that, he finds comfort in her rather quickly, treating her as your actual replacement. it doesn't completely fill the void in his heart, but it helps.

"do you have a sister?" he questions one day as she hands him the coffee he requested. he sits in the makeup room, along with seonghwa, waiting for their turn to film the parts of the music video. the older man glares at him from the side, also aware of the uncanny resemblance. sihun did this on purpose, surely. "or a cousin...?"

leah laughs. "everybody has a cousin, sannie."

"but a sister?" he presses further. i mean, he would know if you had a sister. would he? was seonghwa right once again about san not actually knowing you?

"uh, leah?" seonghwa interrupts before she can answer, and san really wishes to smack him. "that's mr choi to you."

the young woman is taken aback, and her cheeks turn bright red. "i— but—"

"that's fine. i told her it's okay." the younger man defends her.

out of words, the older male decides he has heard enough. he leaves the two alone in the makeup room, shutting the door louder than he wished on the way out.

"well...?" san is stubborn.

"i don't have a sister." her voice is no longer cheerful. damn seonghwa. "do you need anything else?"

"i need you to stop taking what he said to your heart. we had a bad experience with the previous assistant, and he just didn't want the same thing to happen again. he is setting boundaries, at least trying to. it'll pass."

it brings a smile back to her lips, and san smiles as well. it's odd how even her smile and laugh are just like yours. are the deities punishing him?

he hasn't texted you once since the day hongjoong stepped in. as much as his fingers itch to tap on your name every time he enters the texting app, he doesn't do it. it has become clear that it is impacting the career he worked so hard to build for himself. if it wasn't meant to be, it wasn't. this time he won't make the same mistake. but what kind of a cruel joke is it, bringing your long lost twin to be his personal assistant? san hates how his heart flutters every time she is near him. it feels as if he is betraying you. yet, he still can't help the butterflies that attack his stomach when she moves a stray hair out of his eyes, fixes his collar, or does his tie. was he truly that weak? was it a curse? falling for his assistants like this?

is he in for another heartbreak?

𓆩⟡𓆪

choi san: hey :)

leah green: hi sannie

leah green: can i help you somehow? it's quite late

choi san: did i wake you up? i couldn't sleep

leah green: no, but even if you did, don't worry! do you need someone to talk to so you can fall asleep? i'm lazy to text anyway.

choi san: you'd do that?

leah green: of course! that's why i'm here :)

choi san: you know me so well!

leah green: well, three months of working for you, it's time i do. :P

choi san spares no moment before his finger taps the call icon on the screen. he lays on his bed, sprawled out like a starfish, while his eyes are fixed on the ceiling that needs a painting job. mingi loves laying in his bed, throwing that stupid stress ball of his against the ceiling and catching it. the circular spots of dirt make san's eye twitch.

"hi san!" leah's voice is cheerful on the other side. san can't help the smile on his lips upon hearing her. he glances at the clock on the wall, which reads three in the morning.

"hi, leah." he greets. "why are you even awake at this hour?"

"oh, i'm watching a movie."

"what movie?" he tosses and turns, until he settles for laying on his stomach with legs hanging off the bed and a pillow under his chin for support. "is it a cheesy one? a chick flick?"

"uh..." she trails. "no..."

san squints his eyes, as if she can see him. "leah. are you watching cheesy romances with all the cliché's ticked off the list?"

"you know what? yeah. yeah i am." she gives in. but her tone doesn't convince san.

"really? what's the name?"

"nunya."

"oh, how clever." he rolls his eyes. "come on, i won't tease you."

"lies."

"then tell me and we'll see. if i tease you, you can call me the worst boss in the world." he offers.

leah stays silent for a bit. he can hear some of the dialogue in the background, but can't really make it out. until a sigh and a moan meet his ears, and they turn burning red. he can hear the young woman fidgeting with the remote, lowering the volume. "uh... yeah."

"leah green, are you watching p—o—r—n—o—g—r—a—p—h—y?" he spells it out quietly, but not before glancing at the doors to make sure nobody is listening. then, he can't help the chuckle that leaves his lips. "you dirty girl."

"what?! no!" she defends herself. "it's— it's a movie!"

"what movie, leah?"

"oh my god." he can almost hear her face palm herself. "it's fifty shades, god. there."

"kinky." he simply teases. "you into that stuff?"

"you called me to talk about kinks, san?"

"most certainly not. you started it, now i'm intrigued."

a gasp of disbelief is heard on the other side. "oh, you— you—!"

"i'm messing with you. in all seriousness, an erotic movie at three in the morning? ovulating?"

"i'm going to hang up now."

"okay, okay! no more kink or ovulation talk." a peace offering from san's side makes leah let out a sigh of relief. "so... what's up?"

"nothing much, really. today's work drained me. i put his movie on because i am the only one of my friends who hasn't watched it, and after all these years, i decided tonight is the right time. what about you? what's cluttering the mind of choi san? a girl? a boy? a protein shake you ran out of?"

"a girl." he speaks faster than he thinks. an excited "ooooh" comes from the phone, and he drops his head into the pillow.

"who's the lucky girl? or better yet, unlucky?"

"and just why is she unlucky?" san turns and tosses again, feet swinging like a school girl talking to her secret crush in the middle of the night.

leah chuckles, the sound dear to san's heart. "you're not that easy going, sannie. you're a pain in the ass most of the time, if i may speak freely."

"i've seen this film before." and i didn't like the ending, he thinks. "but oh well."

"who's the girl?"

"wouldn't you like to know?"

"i would! i live for drama. i would also like to know who got the attention of the choi san. who's this girl that has you staying up so late and calling up your personal assistant for a chit—chat?"

san's brain doesn't seem to cooperate today. or the past year or so. "you."

silence. gruelling silence, eating up the young man's nerves. he turns back on his stomach, gripping the pillow below him. he removes the phone from his ear to see if the call is still going, and surely enough, the seconds are still ticking, soon helping the twelve minute mark reach thirteen. he drops the phone on the pillow, and finds short comfort in biting his nails.

"san..." she finally says something. "you can't say jokes like that. it's dangerous for both of us."

she's giving him a chance. a way out. and he takes it. "relax. i was only joking. as if i would ever like you, eugh."

leah laughs awkwardly. san squeezes his eyes shut with regret. did he just ruin his relationship with yet another assistant? how is it that everyone seems to want him, but when he wants someone, they don't share the same feelings?

"uh... i think i'll go sleep now. we do have to be up early tomorrow for that shoot." he saves them both further uncomfortable conversations. "what time do we have to be there again?"

"you have to be there at seven in the morning. i have to be there earlier to help set everything up. i'll send you the address again, just in case."

"okay. thank you, leah."

"no problem. good night, sannie."

"good night."

𓆩⟡𓆪

mere four hours of sleep have san snoozing on the makeup chair. it doesn't help that the soft brush is soothing against his skin — the artist quite literally lulling him to sleep, along with her absent—minded humming. he enjoys it. the smell of makeup, the soft fan, the brushing, tapping, the quiet rustle behind him.

"you look like a content kitty." the makeup artist teases.

he only hums with a smile, eyes still shut. he dozes off once again, only to be woken up by familiar fingers in his hair. they massage his scalp, pressing the right points which have the idol melting in the chair. not so long ago san would complain about headaches when he got his hair brushed. leah, still new then, had offered to give him a scalp massage. and since then, she has spoiled him. every time he has to brush his hair, she has to be around to do her part.

"sannie..." she calls into his ear.

he opens one eye, still not ready to bid goodbye to the sleepy state. "hm?"

his heart almost betrays him when he sees how close she is standing. his head leans over the headrest, so he can look her in the eyes. her breath is a soft breeze against his cheeks. a familiar scent. he just has trouble connecting it with the memory. she smiles at him, erasing any thought he had left. "it's time to go."

"boo." he pouts.

leah only laughs, then playfully tugs a strand of his charcoal hair to help him wake up. he jumps out of the chair before he can snooze again, almost skipping over to leah who is busy with rummaging through the snack table.

"watcha have there?" he asks, head leaning on her shoulder. he is almost rewarded with an elbow to his stomach, were it not for his quick reflexes. "aggressive much?"

"you can't have any." she warns, eyes still fixed on the table in search for the desired treat.

san sulks again. "come on. i was good today. give me something!"

fingers finally feel the familiar box, and leah triumphantly opens it up and wastes no time in sticking the treat between her lips, then turning towards san as a way to tease him. as she turns her head, a whiff of sweetness hits san's nose. and his mouth goes dry. ears ring, and his head feels dizzy. the scent of berries and chocolate envelops him, teleporting his mind back to the night he first tasted you. your tongue a melting ruby chocolate against him, skin burning under his touch, and sweet exhales gracing his ears. lips yearn to bite onto the other end of the pepero stick that tauntingly peeks from leah's glossy pink lips. maybe, just maybe, if he bites into it, you will spawn at the other end of it.

leah holds out a new treat for him to take. san doesn't take it like she would expect. no, he bites into it, eating from her hand. as if the pepero sticks themselves hold control over san. leah finds it funny. one might call him odd, but she seems to be used to his behaviour. once he finally finishes chewing it, she can't help but pat his head. "good boy."

and san swears he hears his own sanity shattering. he shudders, and before leah can voice her concern out loud, san's legs do the thinking for him. they take him out of the makeup room, through the unknown hallways, as far away from the sickenly sweet scent of berries and chocolate as possible. yet it seems to follow him, because as soon as san enters an empty room that seems like a storage, he is swallowed by it again. he barely has a moment to himself. to collect his thoughts, or to shoo them away. memories of you resurface, buried alive in his mind and heart. he rests his forehead against the cold wall, in hopes of cooling himself down. the door opens next to him, revealing leah with a shallow breath.

"sannie! what the hell was that?"

"don't call me that." his voice is a low growl, it even surprises him.

leah steps back, closing the door with her heel. "what?"

"sannie. don't call me sannie."

"but—" she stutters, "but you told me to—"

"and now," he steps towards her, until her figure is backed away in the corner of the room, slamming his hands against the wall on either side of her head. she jolts, eyes wide and blinking tears away. "i'm telling you to stop."

"i'm sorry." her voice is small, eyes red, and lip quivering. "i won't do it again, i promise."

he stays like that for what seems like hours. biting the inside of his cheek, thinking, pressing his nails into his palms. "fuck!"

he slams his fist against the wall harder, causing leah to flinch again. she lets out a whimper, covering her head with her hands. san doesn't recognize himself. he doesn't recognize these actions. grabbing both her wrists with one hand and pinning them above her head against the wall. cupping her jaw with his other hand and raising her head to force her to look at him. pressing his body against her.

"you think you're her." he says, lips almost brushing hers as he speaks. "you'll never be her."

leah is at a loss for words. she can only gulp, and maintain the painfully intense eye—contact. "i... i don't..."

"you can try. but you'll never," his nose brushes against hers, and his hair tickles her forehead as he leans in, "ever," she shudders, eyes shutting at the odd sensation of pain and pleasure, "be my y/n."

the hatred in his eyes contradicts his actions. his plush lips crash into her glossy ones. messy, hungry, spiteful. the gloss melts on san's tongue as it roughly swipes against her bottom lip, signaling her to part them so he can explore further. hot tongues clash in an unspoken battle; not a passionate dance, but a bittersweet fight. a fight to prove the other wrong.

when she bites his lower lip, a whimper escapes him, betraying his resolve. san finally pulls away, breathing shallow, lips swollen and glossy, tongue tasting more bitter than sweet. he sees leah fighting back tears as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand that held her face just a few seconds ago. "you're just an impostor."

she chokes on a mix of gasp and gulp, and opens her mouth to respond. tears stream down her face. defeated, she resorts in leaning further into the corner of the room, as if it will shield her from whatever possessed choi san. he laughs, almost in her face.

"you don't taste like her." he swipes his tongue on his lower lip, collecting any remaining gloss and destroying evidence of what happened mere moments ago. "what the hell was i thinking?"

his other hand abandons her, leaving her feeling empty and aching. yearning. she slides down the wall, legs jelly on the floor.

"i want nothing to do with you. stay away from me. you're a curse."

he then walks away, the heel of his shoe clicking against the floor tauntingly. his hand grips the door handle, and as san is halfway over the threshold, her voice stops him. "san!"

he doesn't respond. he stands still, waiting for her to continue.

with a fragile voice, she still manages to touch his nerve. "you're evil."

it sounds all too familiar. feels like it, too. only this time, he is at the other end of it.

𓆩⟡𓆪

"oooh san—ah! looking hot!" jongho waves the arena magazine in san's face.

the older male sits on the couch, eyes lazily following the show he has been struggling to keep up with due to various thoughts roaming his brain. his head feel heavy on his shoulders. "you're blocking the television."

the younger one rolls his eyes, then plops on the couch beside san. he flips through the pages, and even though san says he doesn't care, jongho sees him glancing at the magazine curiously. "why do your lips look so juicy?"

"what?" he snatches the magazine out of jongho's hands. surely enough, on multiple pages, san's lips shine under the camera flashes and various lights in the studio. remains of leah's lip gloss. "god. why are you even looking at my lips, you weirdo?"

"it's impossible not to. they're blinding."

"you're exaggerating." he brings the magazine close to his face, tip of his nose almost buried in the freshly printed paper. "how did you even get this so quick?"

"guess what we have!" wooyoung sings from the hallway as he locks the door. the doors opening and shutting interrupt jongho, and upon seeing the people entering, san properly buries his head into the magazine. "the one, the only, choi san!"

"i thought i locked the door." san whines. the stack of magazine finds its place on the coffee table. the couch is soon cramped, with wooyoung, seonghwa and yeosang pushing each other so that they can fit, none of them fond of sitting on the floor. unlike hongjoong, who comes in last, eyes glued to his phone while he finds his spot on the carpet with his back leaning against the couch. san nudges him with his knee as a greeting, and hongjoong spares him a wink in return. "why is this such a big deal now?"

"dare i say that your shoot was better than mine?" wooyoung teasingly purses his lips, then presses them against san's cheek. the older male dramatically wipes it, letting out a groan. "rude."

"was your photographer the same as wooyoung's?" seonghwa asks, flipping through the pages himself, then stoping at a particular one. "oooh! looking very juicy, san—ah."

choi san almost pushes jongho aside as he stands up, grabbing the stack of magazines on the way and making his way to his room. hongjoong pays him no mind, pulling his legs to his chest so that san can pass freely.

once in the room, he plops on the bed, magazines scattered all over it. almost every page captures his swollen lips, faint gloss stubbornly glimmering and mocking him. even the last page, where he has his face covered by his hand, the stupid gloss is smeared on the back of his palm. how did nobody notice this? did they like it and just rolled with it?

various names are listed around his form, and san skims over them as he bites his nails. he notices that it is indeed the same photographer as wooyoung's; oh taehwan. but it doesn't really matter. not when his eyes find something way more interesting. something that makes his heart beat faster, his jaw drop, and his fingers grip the magazine so hard he might rip it in half.

chief photo editor: y/n l/n.

it's not a coincidence. it can't be. how many people in south korea share a name like yours? were you there? were you hiding from him? right under his nose, while he was kissing somebody else? phone in hand, fingers are quick to find your name in the archive of conversations. as usual, he doesn't think. actions, as well as consequences, are his strength.

choi san: you were there?

the message sends. your profile photo is visible again, and he hadn't even noticed. how long did you have him unblocked for?

y/n: i was.

he stands up. this is too much. he wasn't expecting a response. not soon, not at all. he gulps, and gives himself a short moment to think properly for the first time today. he paces around the room, nails between his teeth, while he types and deletes with one hand, until he decides just what to write.

choi san: you knew i was there?

y/n: yes.

choi san: did you see me?

y/n: no. i didn't want to.

the first bullet shoots through san's heart. he doesn't back down yet.

choi san: why?

y/n: you haven't changed a bit

were those words of fondness? san can't tell over the messages.

y/n: you whiny fuck.

oh.

choi san: you haven't changed either. you're still evil.

y/n: i don't corner girls and verbally abuse them, then kiss them afterwards. i don't keep pushing if someone tells me no. i don't sabotage other people's lives. and lastly, i don't play the victim card whenever something doesn't go my way

choi san: what are you talking about?

y/n: it seems to me that you have a fetish for personal assistants. turns out forced proximity wasn't exactly the answer. it was your fragile emotional state.

san sighs. he buries his face into his hand, squeezing his eyes shut. "fuck."

choi san: you know nothing.

y/n: i know enough.

choi san: who are you?

y/n: what?

choi san: you aren't the person you were before. you aren't the one i fell in love with.

y/n: thank fuck.

disappointment floods his body. yet it still isn't enough to dim the spark of hope that stays bravely lit since the day you left. he exits the conversation with you, only to enter one with wooyoung.

choi san: what's the number of that photographer?

jung wooyoung: +82 32—8891—6623

choi san: thanks

𓆩⟡𓆪

it is a few minutes past ten in the evening. the restaurant is becoming crowded. one by one, the chairs of the long table are being occupied, and soon enough, there is only a handful left unoccupied. though crowded, you notice that only the members of staff are in the dimly lit restaurant. the place seems rented for the evening.

"what's the occasion?" you lean in to ask the photographer who sits next to you.

he only smiles, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "do we need one?"

"no, i guess." you shrug. "just wondering. that's a lot of people for no occasion. what are we eating?"

"meat platters. and don't worry, i ordered a double portion of baked potatoes. just how you like them." taehwan fixes his glasses by pushing them up his nose bridge. you're been convincing him for months to buy a new pair. "relax, love. just enjoy."

the glass of hugo is refreshing down your throat. you feel bloated, and you know it is because you are nervous. you wish you knew why. this whole evening is giving you an uneasy feeling. as if you won't fall asleep easily tonight.

"good evening, everyone."

if you were to listen closely, you'd hear the atoms in the hugo glass rearranging from your death grip. everyone's gaze is fixed behind you, and while you refuse to look — in hopes that you have simply gone crazy and are imagining voices — the person inevitably enters your vision.

he sits on the empty chair on the opposite of you. he avoids you, at first. or he simply doesn't know it is you. he takes his time to make himself comfortable on the chair, rolling his sleeves up, letting his jacket hang from the back of the chair, and running his fingers through his hair. but he knows. because as soon as he greets everyone around him in the most polite way, his eyes land on you. and they silently talk to you. they curse, cry, confess.

"i didn't want to tell you anything because i didn't want you to freak out. he organized the dinner specifically for the staff. how generous is that?" your boyfriend beams next to you. he then looks at san, who still refuses to break eye—contact first. "she is a huge atiny. it's a shame she was so busy the day of the shoot."

"yeah," san chuckles, "such a shame."

"oh, well. now that you are here, she can fangirl all she wants. i'll leave you to it, i have to pee so bad." the curly haired man downs the glass of orange juice, then squeezes out of the chair and makes his way to the toilet.

"miss y/n." he greets first.

it takes a second or two for you to unclench your jaw and stop biting the inside of your cheek. "mr choi."

"beautiful dress." he compliments.

you don't need to look down to know why he is complimenting it. it is the very dress you wore back in paris. the one that is immortalised on san's polaroid. you wonder if he still keeps it.

"does it hold any memories?" he pushes the limits.

the prosecco and elderflower melt on your tongue, the mint leaving a fresh aftertaste as you finish the glass. "none."

he seems to expect that kind of answer. he only smiles. "right."

san leaves you to your empty glass, for a while. not to give you a break or stop toying with you, but to engage in conversations around him. the female members of staff almost latch themselves onto him, some of them going as far as standing from their chairs and circle him in hopes of getting his attention. alcohol is slowly sipped, lipsticks carefully reapplied, hands accidentally brushing his arms and shoulders, and tones suddenly a tad more seductive.

"wow, mr choi! i knew you were muscular, but videos and pictures don't do you justice!"

only after that comment do you take a proper look at him. a tight turtleneck hugs his body, strategically picked so that it shows every curve and bump you know he works hard for. rolled up sleeves, causing slight pressure just below his elbow and making his arm veins prominent. his hair is a soft brown now, slicked back with a few strands framing his sharp features. he smiles at the women, some of them older than him. yet the smile isn't genuine, you know it. his dimples are missing.

"you must work out every day." subtle touches turn into rubbing his biceps and shoulders, as if asking for three wishes any second now.

you don't care. not when someone's manicured nails graze his exposed arm. not when he gets goosebumps from it. not when someone leans in to whisper something in his ear. not when he chuckles, and a dimple inevitably appears. not when he locks eyes with you as he whispers back into that person's ear.

you don't care. you don't care. you don't care.

you. don't. care.

"right, y/n?"

you finally let go of the abused glass, shifting your attention to the woman talking to you. "hm?"

"san doesn't think his muscles are that big. you've done lots of editing and staring at his photos. care to weigh in?"

weigh in to feeding his ego? no. you chuckle, instead, causing san's brows to slightly furrow. "i've seen better. within your group, even."

gasps of disbelief meet your ears as you nonchalantly fill the glass with water, leftover mint leaves giving it a hint of flavour as you drink and wait for san to respond. he doesn't, instead opting to stare at you with a puzzled look on his face. so you continue.

"have you seen kang yeosang?"

you've struck a nerve. you swear you see his eye twitch. his lips are pressed in a firm line, and his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. "he's not bigger than me."

"i didn't say he was." it is your turn to play the non bothered one. "i said i've seen better, not bigger. big muscles aren't exactly my type."

"oh?" he seems genuinely surprised. he wants to ask what your type is. he can't. that type of behaviour would seem too suspicious in a room of hyper aware people. "well. i could introduce you one day, if our paths cross in the studio again. as a big, big atiny, you deserve to meet your bias."

the emphasis on the word big has you biting the inside of your cheek. that fucker. "i'm just a casual fan, really. i haven't been keeping up with your latest comeback, to be honest and guilty."

taehwan is back before san can reply. his hair is now collected in a man bun. perhaps a bit too tight. your fingers naturally lift his chin so that he can look at you. he rolls his eyes playfully once he realizes what you want to do. his bun is looser, your other hand skillfully working it while you hold his face in your palm. as a final touch, you hook your fingers into a few strands of hair in the front, setting them free to frame his freckled face.

there is no denying, oh taehwan is one of the most gorgeous men you've ever seen in your life. with his mother's asian features, and father's slavic features, taehwan is the best of both worlds. sharp almond eyes, skin cutting jawline, light freckles on his porcelain skin, and dark locks and bushy brows. he is also a replica of san when it comes to personality. but you would never admit it out loud. you didn't fall for him because he reminded you of san. you fell for him because he was one of the few men that had you speechless when you first laid your eyes upon him. it took a few dates and late night conversations for you to finally connect the dots. your brain has since short circuited, making you feel guilty. as if you were using taehwan to fill the void that was still reserved for choi san.

"what would i do without you, my darling?" tae presses his lips against your forehead, and then your nose, before turning his attention to the idol sitting to your opposite. "so, san— oh! are you alright?"

san is fuming. his cheeks are red. eyes bloodshot. brows furrowed. his hands grip the table cloth as he watches taehwan wrap his arm around your shoulders. you lean into the warm touch, now more inviting than ever. your nerves are slowly wrecking you. the cause? it sits still as a stone, staring into your eyes with an emotion you can't pinpoint yet.

"san...?" taehwan calls again.

"yes, taehwan?" he finally speaks, voice hoarse. he clears his throat. "sorry. just— you didn't mention you had a girlfriend? and the chief editor at that."

"ah, she doesn't like it getting announced all the time. she is a very private person." the dark haired man kisses your temple before continuing, "and i respect that."

"couldn't be me." san shrugs. "i would announce it to the whole world."

he thinks he did something. maybe impressed you, even. until you speak up. "and you fail to see an issue in that, mr choi?"

you have his full attention. he toys with the napkin in front of him as he listens.

"you wouldn't be respecting your partner's wish. she's a private person, yet you would announce it to the whole world? how much do you truly know and care for her then?"

nobody in this room but the two of you know the true core of this conversation. the rotten root that was never dug up, having grown into a poisonous plant in the meantime. its fruits are the snarky remarks you keep exchanging, camouflaged into friendly banter. some might call you childish. but to you, this is serious. you were right. san hasn't changed at all.

"doesn't respect go both ways? shouldn't she respect my wishes as well?" he raises an eyebrow.

"that's some very selfish thinking, mr choi."

the platters arrive one by one, shortly interrupting the quarrel that won't die out any time soon. taehwan isn't sure what is going on. but he won't interrupt you. he loves to hear you talk, and if he'll get that by listening to you talk back to an idol, then so be it.

"while respect does go both ways, i believe compromises are the ideal solution."

"communication matters more, in my opinion." he serves himself a piece of steak from the platter, then stabs it with a knife as he looks you dead in the eye. "not running away if something isn't up to your standards. is running also a compromise?"

a scoff betrays you. "well, if you refuse to be patient until the person feels comfortable with your standards, then perhaps. was she forced to run due to being put in an uncomfortable situation? such as announcing the whole world?"

"i don't think she was. she chose the easier option. i think she was more scared than in love, which, at the end of the day, means that it wasn't true love."

"nobody said it was." you mimic his moves, stabbing your own piece of meat and cutting into it aggressively. "she was probably confused. overstimulated by all the feelings. she wanted everything, but ended up having nothing."

"i can't help but notice the accusatory tone here, miss l/n."

"oh, i apologize. was i being too subtle?" a swear word is at the tip of your tongue. taehwan's hand finds its spot on your thigh, gently squeezing it. usually, it would calm you. right now, it irritates you. everything is annoying you; from the way the fabric of the damned dress is feeling on your skin and sudden attention you are receiving, to san's audacity to torture you like this and his behaviour. like he hasn't done anything wrong. like you are wrongly accusing him. you wish to scream into his face. instead, you take a deep breath, leaving the massacred piece of meat on the plate for a moment. "excuse me."

you stand up. all eyes are on you. it makes you weak. you hate it. fuck, you hate him.

the man next to you tries taking your hand in his, but before he can touch you, you're moving it away. "i need a moment."

taehwan calls for you. once, twice. maybe more. you don't hear it. you rush out of the restaurant, into the cold evening. you slip around the corner, hiding from the big windows, until you reach the back entrance reserved for the kitchen staff only. the doors are luckily shut, allowing you a moment to try and compose yourself.

hot meets cold as you try to calm your quick breath, creating small clouds of fog out your mouth. you succeed in taking a few deep breaths with your eyes closed, until his face appears in your brain. you open your eyes, grit your teeth, and sprint towards the nearby trash bin. your boot meets a trash bag on the floor, kicking it multiple times until it rips and all its contents spill on the floor and all over your shoe.

"fuck!" you scream. "fuck, fuck, fuck!"

it reeks of food that has been piling up there all day long. yet you couldn't care less about it. you continue kicking whatever you find, fists meeting the giant trash bin until your frostbit knuckles start bleeding. it's not enough. it won't be enough until the bin is replaced by his stupid face.

you deliver a final punch, blood trickling down your hand. the light material of the dress soaks it up. it's a breaking point. the dress is ruined.

you fall to your knees, holding onto the sleeve that turns crimson as your knuckles continue painting it. you sob. quietly at first. then, with each broken breath, you let it out. it can't be the stupid dress that made you break down. it is the symbolic it holds. and now, it feels as if your last physical memory of him is ruined.

you lied. you looked him dead in the face and said the stupid piece of fabric doesn't hold memories. it does. everything around you does. your body as well, with taehwan's each touch reminding you of the way san held you for a single night.

it is also reminds you that no matter where and when he kisses, touches or whispers to you, it will never compare to san. his natural submission, his need to please, his seeking of your validation. you wish to feel that kind of admiration again. taehwan can try as much as he wants, but nothing will ever awaken the storm inside you like san can with a simple glance of his big eyes.

tears soak your cheeks, continuing down your neck and dampening the collar of the dress. your chest hurts the more you sob, heart being tugged all ways at once and threatening to burst; this time with a promise to not recover.

you need to get out of here. how, you do not know. the restaurant is at the other end of seoul, and while the two of you came with separate cars due to finishing work at different hours, your keys and the rest of your belongings were still inside. you can't go back. not like this, and not with choi san still in there.

it takes approximately two seconds for you to figure out a plan that has low chances of bringing you alive and well to the doors of your friend's house. you'll walk down the road until you see a taxi, or hitch a ride, and ask your friend to pay for you until you get your belongings back. you can't stay out here any longer. your lips are slowly starting to go numb, as well as the tip of your nose.

instead of going the way you came, you opt for going all the way around the building, just in case someone's curious eyes are monitoring the windows. just as you turn around the corner, you come in contact face first with someone's chest. it feels familiar.

"oh, taehwan!" you let out a sigh of relief. body falls into his arms, seeking warmth and comfort. "i thought you'd never come. i need to get out of here, please."

he stays silent. hands hesitate to wrap around you, but they do eventually. slowly, as if you'll crumble under his touch. one hand rubs your back, and the other one settles on your head, softly caressing your hair.

"you're mad. i'm sorry." you mumble into his chest. "you have every right to be. i'll explain everything, i promise."

it's not like taehwan to give you a silent treatment. have you screwed up that bad that he refuses to talk to you? you pull away, ready to meet a disappointed face. a sad one, and even an angry one. not one that belongs to choi san.

"you—" words are a burden in your throat. you try stepping away, yet the touch that was once hesitant and soft holds you firmly so you don't run. "you—"

"what have you done?" the tone isn't accusatory. it is pure concern as his eyes soften upon seeing your bloody knuckles. "what did you do to your pretty hands?"

a rollercoaster of emotions threatens to rip you to shreds. unnatural amounts of anger fill your body, as well as a tingling sensation all over your skin. choi san's thumb gently grazes the cracked knuckles of your hand, while the other one on your lower back holds your body firmly pressed against his.

how could you have possibly mistaken the two? betrayed by your own mind and heart, you helplessly stand before the person who pushed you to your very limits. you remove your hand out of his, a bit harsher than intended. the hiss is short lived, replaced by another gasp as san pushes you back where you came from and behind the bin.

"get your hands off—!"

"hush." he covers your mouth with his hand, head turned the other way in order to see if you are being spied on.

you hear the doors opening and closing, then a row of lighters clicking. they must've stepped out for a smoke. san's brows soften when his gaze falls back on you. wide eyed, with dried and fresh tears covering your face, you silently sob into his open palm.

"i'm going to remove my hand now, okay?"

a nod from you is all he needs to fulfill his promise. as soon as he does, you inhale deeply. the air burns cold as it fills your lungs. san doesn't speak right away. he watches as you try to regain your composure. it is a challenge, with guilt and ache chewing through you. guilt for taehwan. and ache for san. your heart burns, fingers itch to reach for him. but when you look at him, you can't help but remember what he did. "why are you here?"

san seems to be expecting that, because he simply sighs. "your boyfriend wasn't moving. i had to."

"he was giving me space." you defend him, though you can't help the painful tug you feel in your chest. while you usually do need your space, this is too big of a deal for him to just let you be by yourself. then again, he doesn't know. he doesn't know that you being alone with san is dangerous. if he knew, he'd run to you, even to the other side of the city. you hope. "unlike you, who has to be up my ass every chance you get."

he snorts, earning a glare from you. "if i catch a whiff that my girl is upset, i'm climbing mountains to make sure she is okay."

"get a hold of yourself, mr choi." rage replaces the aching you felt just moments ago. "i am not your girl. i never was."

"you could've been mine." he says, voice dropping. "and i could've been yours."

cigarette smoke threads through the cold air, enveloping him, mingling with his own scent of cedar and worn leather. it catches in your throat. your fingers twitch like memory could be touched. he smells warm. he smells like home.

a home you can't return to. the path is destroyed, overrun by vines of despair and fallen trees of anguish.

"you could've." your voice is raspy, words itching your throat as you speak. "but you were impatient."

"why are you doing this to yourself?" he takes both your hands in his, and before you can yank them away, he fastens the grip on your wrists. "why are you hurting yourself?"

you opt for silence. if you speak, you'll start crying. eyes burn anyway, seeing san's furrowed brows and gentle eyes examining the wounds. when he touches your skin, it feels as if he is touching your soul. and when he looks you in the eyes, stare so deep and intense, it feels as if he can see your mind. he intrudes it with his heavy gaze, rummaging through locked memories you've been dying to erase. but how can you, when a whiff of cedarwood reminds you of him? when every once in a while, you enter the old conversations with him, when it wasn't so complicated? when you had a silly little crush on your boss and he was just playfully flirty? when you yearn to steal that polaroid from him, because heaven knows he'll get over you easier than you'll get over him?

"did i..." he gulps, then blinks a few times. "did i do this to you?"

"yes." you don't hesitate to answer through gritted teeth.

the word perishes in the air, much like the smoke that keeps biting your nostrils, ruining the forbidden memory of his scent. you wish nothing more than to bury your head back into his chest, inhale until your lungs hurt, and don't let go until the pain stops. if it ever stops.

the man looks away, jaw clenched. you are wary of his every move, and thus, you notice the glimmer in his eyes. he bites the inside of his cheek. and you see it. before he lets go of your hand and brushes his face, you see it. the crystal drop escaping his eye, its remains latching onto his long lashes. it takes him courage to look back at you. he blinks again, hoping to stop the new tears forming.

choi san looks dashing. vulnerable, yet the epitome of perfection. the lamps of the restaurant's parking lot cast a soft yellow hue on him, his hair a honey shade and ever so inviting to touch. lip sticking out in his signature pout. lashes damp like grass in the morning with dew. cheeks a soft pink blush, which you only notice because he stands so close to you. your free hand thinks instead of you. fingertips graze his cheek, unsure at first. a short gasp leaves his lips, and when your palm lays flat against his hot skin, a tear finally rolls freely down his face. another one follows, then another. until it coats your hand, and your thumb brushing them away doesn't help.

he leans into your touch, closing his eyes and allowing himself to silently cry. no sobs, no words. just silent tears dampening the turtleneck that looks so damn good on him. his hand abandons yours, only to place itself on your waist and further push you against the wall. for a split second, you are back in milan, in your hotel room. him confessing for the first time, you holding back tears as you rejected him for his own good, pushed against the wall much like now. how he looked exactly as he looks in this frozen moment, desperate to stay close to you and convince you to stop lying to yourself.

"mr choi—" you can't let it happen again.

"shh," he hushes you, forehead leaning against yours. "let me have this. please, let me have this."

you're not sure what he means. whatever it is, you know you'll fall for it. so you do what you always knew best: put your palms flat against his chest, and push. he doesn't budge. he only presses himself against you, body warm and inviting against your cold and shivering one. two vulnerable people, each on the brink of breaking and getting the other into trouble. it seems to be your destiny, playing this game of push and pull.

"does he make you happy?"

the question isn't laced with jealousy. no, it's laced with desperation. a silent plea, for you to say no. as if his heart will feel at ease, and his mind will rest if you do him that favour. the words land like a bruise, tender and deep. you wish to say yes, to end this before the lines become further blurry, almost invisible, but the word lodges in your throat. his dark eyes are searching yours, desperate, and you know that if you look away, you'll lose him for good. you should look away. you should run. call for taehwan. end this once and for all.

instead, you feel the warmth of his breath ghost over your lips, the faint scent of cedarwood and smoke pulling you back to every moment you swore you'd forget. his fingers tighten at your waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you he's still here. one word could save you. another could ruin you. and you're not sure which one you want more.

"please," he begs, tip of his nose brushing against yours. "please. tell me. i need to know."

the taste of your own words is bitter on your tongue, causing you to grimace upon saying them. "did you beg her like this as well?"

"w—what?"

"when you kissed leah, san."

the illusion shatters between the two of you. if you felt a trace of regret for parting ways with him, it vanishes the moment he steps back. and opens his goddamn mouth. "how did you know?"

"that's your concern?" you laugh into his face. "how i knew? gods, you are insufferable. you are the most selfish, egoistical, the most—"

"i need to know how you found out."

"are you fucking hearing yourself?!" you break the silent moment you shared. "you were just crying, begging me to admit that i am unhappy, and now you demand i tell you how i found out that you haven't changed one bit?! that you will fall for any fool that dares enter your personal space?! that you'll bring them nothing but misery, and cost them the job they worked so hard for!"

two things stick to san's brain. one: you know about him telling sihun.

and two: you are unhappy.

he hates how relieved he feels. he hates that he has to fight back a smile. he hates how overstimulated and confused you feel because of him, yet all he can do is hold onto the spark of hope that keeps growing with each moment that passes.

"i saw you, san." your bottom lip quivers as the words leave you. "i wanted to come and greet you, talk to you, and finally get closure. maybe even ask about what you did and why you did it. do you know that i have not stopped creating excuses on your behalf since the moment i found out? told myself you only meant well? that you weren't actually a selfish asshole? i cannot believe, that you had the audacity to wake up first and text the manager, then go back to sleep knowing full well what would happen? waking up after me and acting like everything is fine?"

the man remains silent. he has interrupted you enough. it is time to listen.

"you knew the chances of him approving it were below zero. you couldn't have waited at least a few days? you couldn't have talked to me about it? fuck, we weren't even together! we fucked, that's it! at least i thought that's it. i hoped it is on your end. that you scratched an itch, and you'd leave it alone. i felt guilty for indulging. but i hoped, fuck—" you sob, hands rushing to wipe the tears away, "—i hoped that if i did, you'd finally abandon those so called feelings, and save us both from trouble. you'd realize it wasn't love. it was just what i told you it was: forced proximity. i'd keep my job, and you'd leave me alone, and save yourself. and you go ahead and do what you did, without my knowledge, stabbing me in the fucking back, and acting as if you didn't know. as if you're sorry."

"i was sorry."

"shut the fuck up. don't interrupt me, choi san. i am not done with you." the tip of your nail is buried into his firm chest, slipping through threads of the thin knitted turtleneck and resting against his pulsing heart. "and then, while away from you, you spammed me with messages. paragraphs, links, pictures. i began to think that you actually do have feelings for me. that i wasn't just something you wanted to try and see if it fits. and i blocked you for my good. for once, i was selfish. i blocked you because i couldn't trust myself to not run back into your arms again. i had time to think. by the time taehwan arranged to have a photoshoot with you, i thought enough time has passed to have a mature conversation about all the events that happened. i went to the makeup room, they told me you went for a stroll in the hallways. i asked about you. they told me you started behaving again since i left. that you have that spark back. and while i was happy for you, a part of me smelled the issue."

he doesn't move away from your sharp touch. he leans further into it, signaling that he has no intention of backing away, no matter how much it hurts. he'll stay.

"then i saw it. you kissing the poor girl. i felt sorry for her. i knew she might suffer the same fate as me. then, you degraded her. it made me sick to my stomach, seeing you spit venom at her like that. it made me feel like i never knew you. in the recent few times i saw you, you did things i didn't know you were capable of. telling sihun, defending melanie, saying such vile things to leah. it made me back away and never want to see you again. that's why i avoided you. you accused me of not being the person you fell in love is. well, choi san, i am sad to inform you that i feel the same way."

remaining smoke blends in with the fog coming out of your lips as you speak. the doors shut in the distance, the two of you finally alone outside the restaurant. he thinks carefully. he isn't the wisest when it comes to leading serious conversations. he opts for something simple, yet true. "it didn't mean anything."

"and another thing." a burning sensation spreads on his cheek. your hand stings as well, open palm hanging in the air as it recovers from the harsh slap you delivered. the very same hand that caressed the cheek just moments ago. san's head flies to the side due to impact. he doesn't expect it, because he looks at you with pure shock painted on his features. "how dare you use my name to degrade someone?"

it is your turn to gasp with surprise, feeling your throat tighten. the man wraps his hand around your neck, gently squeezing the sides just enough to silence you so he can speak. "don't you get it? i am like this because you aren't by my side. i am not me without you. why can't you get it into that stupid, stupid, pretty head of yours?"

"san—" you cough. the pressure isn't strong enough to rid you of oxygen. it is just enough to make you uncomfortable and stiff. "please—"

"will you look me in the eyes and lie to my face again? tell me the dress doesn't mean anything? tell me you have actual feelings for that guy? tell me you don't feel anything when i stand close to you, even though i feel your heart trying to break free from your ribcage? you expect me to believe anything you say after all you did was lie to me since the night i confessed to you?"

"you're thinking about yourself again." you cry out. "you, you, and only you. your feelings. your emotions. your whole damn life. not once did you apologize in a way that you mean it."

"you're blaming me for putting you through this. in reality, you're the one to blame." his tone shifts, warm breath no longer a gentle caress, but a hot warning. "you keep pushing me away, lying to my face, denying yourself happiness. one time i try to take matters into my own hands, all hell breaks loose. choi san is the worst. he cost you your job. as if you even have to work that kind of a job. i could've given you any position you wanted. hell, i could've opened your own studio. if only..." his hand slides from your neck to your jawline, thumb tracing it from your earlobe to your chin, before it rests on your bottom lip, "if only you cooperated. if only you didn't make it so complicated."

"we are spinning in circles, san." your voice is weak. you are tired. because of that, your body allows him to do whatever he wants. his thumb ghosts over your bottom lip, lingering a little where it started peeling due to cold. "when you do things without consulting someone, it makes them feel as if they don't matter. i feel insignificant. you felt so big and powerful, like you could have control over my life just because of your position. hell, before all this, you didn't even know that i wanted to do photography. even if i didn't, it is not on you to make the call whether or not i need a job. i loved what i did. i was surrounded by people i looked up to half my life. i didn't only lose you. i lost seonghwa and hongjoong, the two i admire the most. i lost wooyoung and mingi, the only ones that knew how to make me laugh. i lost yeosang and jongho, the ones who took such care of me even though i wasn't in their service. i lost yunho, who treated me like his little sister. i lost all of them as well, you just didn't see that. you didn't want to see that."

the man finally seems to absorb everything you've poured out to him. you wanted to be included in a decision. he was impatient. pushy, maybe even controlling and manipulative at times. in his head, it all fell under the same category: love and caring. he didn't realize how much he was hurting you in the process. he only meant to free you from the claws of professionalism so you could be happy. he even convinced you that you had feelings for him way before you admitted them yourself. your finger on his lips stops him from talking.

"i lost you, choi san. the one who looked out the most for me. sometimes crossed the line, flirted a bit too much, and was mostly a child in a man's body, but you still cared so deeply before all this mess. everything you said was true at the time. those late night conversations weren't just a job. each interaction with you did not leave me feeling indifferent. i just wish you would have let me set my own pace. i felt forced. rushed. it didn't feel real."

san sighs against your finger. he squeezes his eyes shut, regret eating him up alive. "i'm so sorry."

your heart twitches at the sound of his voice. it is hoarse, and so quiet that if someone were eavesdropping, they wouldn't have caught it. he takes your hands back in his, then lowers himself to the ground. the sound of his knees hitting the dusty asphalt causes you to gasp, and almost instantly, you try pulling him up so that he stands again. he refuses, planting himself in front of you.

"i'm so fucking sorry." he kisses each one of your knuckles, plush lips warm and soft against the dried up bloody wounds.

"get up." you squeeze his hands in an attempt to convince him. "please, get up."

he shakes his head. a street lamp in the back begins to dim, and the place starts feeling unreal. as if it's another nightmare you'll wake from, forced to lie to taehwan about it. you can't tell him you dreamed of the man your body still burns for. though, taehwan's soul is so pure, he wouldn't hate you for it. he would find excuses for you, just like you did for san.

but you don't wake up. you lean against the wall, bruised hands cradled in san's big, warm ones, coated in gentle kisses that barely graze your skin. one hiss is enough for him to shortly retreat, only to come close again and press your open palms against his cheeks. on his knees, he shuffles closer to you, until he can wrap his arms around your legs and lean his head against your stomach. only a thin layer of skin contains the storm he stirs in you. something fragile flutters inside, like wings brushing against the walls of your chest. you allow yourself another moment of vulnerability. closing your eyes, putting your hands on his head, fingers lacing with the soft locks of hair, and breathing out. you feel at peace.

you feel home. a home that is wrecked, and doesn't know if it'll ever stand again. san calms down under your touch, occasionally shuddering when your nails graze the back of his neck. it feels as if time has stopped. as if you've created an alternate reality behind the restaurant. if you walk back in, will the people you left behind still be there?

"sannie," you call his nickname, knowing that he's weak to it. surely enough, san looks up at you, chin resting on your stomach. you can't help but reach for his bottom lip, playfully tugging at it as he looks at you wide and glossy eyed. "we need to go back."

he doesn't protest. he listens. finally. you help him up, though he doesn't need it, and fix his hair while he simply gawks at you. it feels natural, no matter how long has passed. fixing his hair had always been a habit of yours, since he loved running his fingers through it every now and then. it is no longer neatly slicked back, giving him a gentler look than the one he came in with.

"you should go in first, as to not raise suspicion."

"oh," he can't help the disappointed tone. "is...?"

"if you could tell taehwan that i am here, i would be grateful." you don't allow him to finish the question, knowing just what he'll ask you. is this it? you don't know. it should be. it must be.

choi san nods, then stuffs his hands in the pockets of his slacks. "i'll tell him."

"thank you, sannie." the first smile tonight tugs your lips. he returns it, though it doesn't reach his eyes. before he bids his goodbye and disappears around the corner, you tug at his elbow, climbing on tippy toes just to plant a kiss on his still red cheek. "i'm sorry for slapping you."

"i deserved it." the smile finally reaches his eyes, but disappears just as quickly as it appears. "good night, y/n."

"good night, mr choi."

"sannie," he corrects. "not mr choi."

you don't respond. he doesn't expect you to. it is enough that you offer him a chuckle, and his heart is somehow at peace.

yours? holding on for dear life.

𓆩⟡𓆪

"i fear i haven't been completely honest with you, tae." you sit at taehwan's kitchen table on your day off, having slept over the previous night after your late shift.

the curly haired man sitting across from you raises an eyebrow, peeling his eyes away from the sudoku paper that already has drops of his morning coffee decorating it and setting them on your bowl of cereal. he notices you've barely touched it. "about?"

"my previous job."

he nods, shifting his attention back to the paper. "go on."

you are puzzled. you know taehwan is forgiving, and understanding. but this is striking your nerves, and you almost feel your eye twitching. "tae."

"hm?"

"why are you indifferent?" you question without beating around the bush. "your girl was outside with a man for almost an hour, alone in the dark of the night, and you didn't stand up once to come check on us? nor did you ask about it, and it's been almost three weeks since it happened. how can you be so indifferent?"

"i trust you."

usually, it would make you feel appreciated. right now, you feel as if he is saying it just to get you off his back. "you don't want to hear about it?"

"y/n..." your name leaves his lips as a sigh. he locks eyes with you for the first time this morning. he seems tired, even though he woke up almost two hours ago. "do you want me to be crazy and jealous? more importantly, do i have reason to be?"

you swore you'd tell him. truth, and only truth. but now that you're here, how do you look your boyfriend in the eyes and say that you have buried feelings for choi san? feelings buried alive, waiting to be saved. maybe san is right. you're nothing but a liar. you lie to yourself first, and then to everyone around you.

you can't keep using taehwan as a distraction. you haven't, until you met with san. since that night, you keep sleeping over at his place and following him everywhere just to get your mind off the man that will not leave it.

"well?"

"i need a break." you blurt out.

the curly haired man nods. you expect him to react. say something. not to simply stand up, put his cup in the sink, then approach you. his hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek in the process. he plants a kiss on top of your head. "i know."

he then goes back to the sink to wash the cup. you watch, dumbfounded. did he not understand what you meant?

"no, taehwan." you stand up, chair scraping the tiles and scratching your ears as you tuck it under the kitchen table. "you don't understand. i need a break—"

"from us, yes." he finishes for you. you tilt your head, unable to read his emotions. as if it'll help you understand better. his back is still turned, and it takes him a very long time to wash a single cup. "i know."

"why are you so... nonchalant?" it hurts you. it makes you feel as if he doesn't care at all. while you wouldn't have wanted him to freak out, you still would've appreciate anything other than whatever this is. "do you not care?"

finally, the cup finds its place on the dish rack. he wipes his wet hands with the towel that hangs from the oven handle. he walks over to you, then places his hands on your shoulders. everything about this day is odd. he's never held you like this before. so stiff and awkward. no, you can't even call it awkward. it's fully intentional on his end. not weird at all.

"i care about you as a person, really. but..." he trails. as a girlfriend? you're terrible."

you can't be offended, no matter how much you want it. you thought you were doing your best, not letting feelings for san interfere. hell, you even thought you forgot about him. seems not.

"when san called me and proposed the idea of the dinner, i thought it odd." taehwan lets go of you so he can take his phone out, eyes searching for something on the screen as he continues, "i had photographed wooyoung, and many others, and all of them did their part and left. so i agreed to it, thinking how kind he is. not even an hour later, i got a phone call from kim hongjoong."

your heart drops. taehwan glances at you, and as he sees your uneasy expression, he hums. almost with satisfaction. as if saying got you. there is no reason to feel this way. you didn't lie. you just didn't tell.

"he said that you worked as a personal assistant for choi san and kang yeosang. he then said that san and you have some rather uncomfortable history, and that the reason behind the dinner is san seeking closure with you. he wanted me to stop you from attending for, i quote, her own good. that you don't deserve to be a part of san's little games. so, naturally, i took a liberty in... well, checking your phone."

"you what?" the words are louder than you wanted them to be, and taehwan grimaces. "why would you do that? why not just ask?"

something shifts in his eyes. as if a veil of coldness settles over them. "ask? i have to ask about your past? i have to ask about men that are potential threat to our relationship? i have to ask if you still have any feelings for any of those men? i'm sorry, usually when i have a girlfriend, they don't come with predownloaded feelings for somebody else."

"i didn't mean—" you catch yourself raising your voice again in the middle of the sentence. you have to calm down. right now, your behaviour is making you look very guilty. as if something happened. you take a deep breath, hoping it will help you continue this conversation in a normal tone. "i simply meant about the messages. if you'd asked, i'd have shown them to you myself. you would've seen that hongjoong didn't mean anything by what he said. i don't have feelings for san—"

"one doesn't disappear behind a restaurant with their ex lover following while their boyfriend stays behind, then comes back after an hour without feelings, y/n." before you can defend yourself, he points the screen of his phone at you. "here."

the photo is dark on the screen. you have to zoom in to make sense of it, and when you do, your breathing almost stops. someone had slipped between the parked cars and took shot after shot of you and san, from the hug to the slap. all of it frozen in your boyfriend's gallery.

"but tae, nothing happened between us." you return the phone, the pictures giving your heart and mind a tough time. you dismiss the way your stomach feels fuzzy upon seeing san's big figure enveloping yours. "from the day i met you, and even before that, until right this second, i haven't engaged with san in any way that is considered cheating. hell, i haven't even seen him until that evening."

"nothing happened. yet." he says, and is quick to press a finger to your lips to shut you up so you don't interrupt him. he steps closer, until his breath caresses your cheeks. "i love you, more than anything. but i refuse to be the poor boyfriend who suddenly gets dumped because he didn't realize his girlfriend is in love with someone else. i don't want to receive looks and messages of pity. therefore, i agree. we need a break. up."

the curly haired man becomes blurry before your eyes. tears sting as they arrive, pooling in the corners of your eyelids, but not spilling just yet. "you're breaking up with me, even though i never betrayed you?"

"then why did you want a break in the first place?"

"to sort my thoughts and feelings out!" you defend yourself.

"look me in the eye and tell me you don't love san." his hand cradles your chin, guiding your gaze to his. his touch is anything but harsh. he is still gentle with you, no matter what he is feeling in the moment. "tell me you never thought of getting back to him during our relationship. tell me, and i'll let this go."

you are desperate to say no. but just once, you admit that san is right. it's time to stop the lies. you aren't only costing yourself nerves and proper happiness, you are hurting two men in the process. san, who could've been in taehwan's spot long ago. and taehwan, who could find someone actually worth his love and kindness.

your silence is his answer. a soft smile graces his lips before he presses them against your forehead. "i knew you were too good to be true anyway."

"tae..." as if guilt isn't enough to drown you, taehwan's tears make an appearance. "i'm sorry."

he shakes his head, then sniffles as he takes his glasses off as to not ruin them. he had just wiped them with the hem of his t—shirt before starting the sudoku. you always tsked him when he did that, knowing full well he has at least three small cloths for that in his bag.

"i want you to know that i didn't get into a relationship with you to replace san. i did it because i genuinely saw the future with you at one point."

"you don't have to justify yourself. it's best if we stop here, it can only get worse if we go further." his voice is a mere whisper. "i think you should go. for the sake of both of us."

a lump settles in your throat, and you are unable to swallow it. you were expecting this to happen eventually, somewhere deep in your mind. you just didn't think it'd be this painful, considering you haven't been together for a long time and there is another man clouding your mind.

the time it takes for you to gather your belongings in a tote bag seems like an eternity, even though only ten minutes have passed. you glance around his room, making sure you aren't leaving anything behind. the room and its bed often served as a big laundry basket, waiting to be ironed and put away. rarely did you sleep in there, with you always suggesting to watch a movie on the couch and falling asleep first halfway through it, and with taehwan not having a heart to wake you. every time he'd wake up with a sore back, but not once did he complain. you saw it though, in subtle movements as he worked, such as failing to crouch or bend over.

"maybe now you can finally sleep on the bed. your back won't hurt from the couch." you joke, trying to lighten the situation. you hear a faint chuckle from beyond closed doors.

when you exit the room, you find taehwan near the main door of the apartment, leaning with his back against the wall and holding your shoes. you approach him, trying to take your shoes from him. he simply motions for you to sit on the ottoman near the shoe rack, and gets on his knees. what is it with men and kneeling these days?

it isn't odd for taehwan to do things like this. he often helped you get dressed, combed your hair, helped you tie your shoelaces, fed you. you didn't expect him to do any of that right now. from helping with the shoes, to putting your jacket on and loosely tying the scarf around your neck. his scarf.

"keep it. please." he sees the look on your face. "just because a relationship ended doesn't mean a friendship and collegiality should."

"thank you, tae. for being so understanding." you fail to look him in the eye, keeping your gaze locked on the gloves he slides on your hands for you.

"oh, y/n." his voice cracks upon opening the door for you. as you step out, you finally look at him, only to find tears rolling down his cheeks. "i knew you weren't mine from the moment you set your eyes upon him that evening."

"i'm sorry."

"and i'm sorry, too. for not being enough."

𓆩⟡𓆪

not even a week later, you quit. you can't take it, being close to taehwan after all the events that took place. he's sad to lose a good friend and colleague, and so are you. but it's for the best. you've been taking any job opportunity you can since then, running from interview to interview in hopes of soon getting employed. it will be devastating to get used to a much lower paycheck than the one of chief editor, but you'll make it. you always did.

the cafe is bursting with people at eight in the morning, people standing and drinking their coffees near the occupied tables. that cannot be pleasant, can it? your eyes search for a person that sits alone. in the corner, almost behind the counter, you spot him. he wears a cap, a grey hoodie and sweatpants. seems a little shady for a job interview, but at this point, you are desperate.

"good morning," you greet first. "i'm y/n l/n, here for the job interview."

he nods, face still hidden behind the cap. he points to the chair to his opposite, and when you sit, he finally looks at you. eyes turn into crescent moons as a familiar smile spreads on his lips. "good morning."

"seong— mr park?" you lower your voice, not wanting to attract attention to the disguised idol. "i'm so sorry, i thought you were someone else."

"no, you thought good. please sit." he stands up, pulling a chair out for you to sit.

with a puzzled look on your face, and a glance at your surroundings, you sit to his opposite, back turned towards the rest of the cafe.

"well?" he asks, a sweet smile still on his lips. "how have you been?"

you don't wish to play any games. you're too tired for that. "mr park, i would like to skip the small talk, if you don't mind."

"as you wish, tiny." his nickname for you still lives. he hasn't forgotten that behind all what happened, you are still a fan and care deeply about them. "i'm here to offer you a job."

"you?" you say, raising an eyebrow. "a job? you're qualified for that?"

"i have my ways," he says. "just say the word, and i'll make it come true."

"and what job is that? sweeping the dressing rooms?" you sound bitter, and even to you, it's a bit mean. "well?"

"i want you as my personal assistant."

a laugh betrays you. it makes seonghwa's smile falter, and only then do you realize that he means it. "oh. you're serious?"

two cups of coffee are placed on the table, interrupting the odd conversation hidden in the corner of the cafe. he has ordered you an iced vanilla nescafe, and an iced americano for himself. he thanks the waiter, immediately using your distracted thinking to pay for both drinks. you don't notice, too busy biting the inside of your cheek and calculating seonghwa's intentions.

"what'll make it different this time?" you ask.

the straw is pressed to his plump lips as he takes the first sip. he hums at the bittersweet taste before looking at you. "you'll be mine."

you know the context of it. those around you don't, so you frantically turn your head to see whether anyone is eavesdropping. seonghwa pushes the tall glass towards you, until the coldness meets the warmth of your hand. unsure, you also take a sip out of the straw, using the time to prepare further questions.

"before you ask, sihun isn't around anymore. he got a job at a different company after firing three more assistants, and the rest of us finally had enough and complained until he himself got fired."

"but why yours? not that i'm complaining, it's just..." you trail, swirling the straw in the cup and playing with the ice. they graze against each other and the glass from the inside, creating soothing clinking noises among the clamor behind you. "...it seems you have some hidden intentions on your mind. i don't want to be kept in the dark anymore, if you want me to cooperate."

"it is only natural for you to be skeptical." the man nods understandingly.

his slender fingers pull the cap down to further cover his face as he leans over the table, causing you to to lean back against your chair. he motions for you to lean in as well, and when you do, you realize he still wears the same perfume. it reminds you of the time he was the one who stopped the car while you were having a panic attack as hongjoong scolded you and san. how you fell into his arms, seeking comfort. how he gave it to you, holding you tight and caressing your head as you cried and shivered into his chest. he looks at you with those kind eyes under the cap, resembling boba pearls with their size and colour. you can't help but deeply inhale, letting the scent consume you and take you back to where you belong.

"hey," he calls, waking you from your trance. you try to avoid his gaze by pointing yours at the drink, wrapping your lips around the straw and tasting the cold vanilla. his hand touches yours, enveloping it in a warm embrace as you almost choke on the liquid. the grip is strong as you try to set it free. "don't run. listen to me."

"mr park, how is this appropriate for you? what if someone sees?" fear is evident in your voice.

"they'll see if you keep turning like that every few seconds." his free hand takes your other one, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on your skin to calm you down. "san told me you like photography. this is nothing like it, i know. but maybe, we can hit two birds with one stone."

"you are talking in codes again." you murmur. "i don't like it."

"first, you can start as my personal assistant. you can snap pictures of me occasionally, because i'll ask for it. little by little, i'll flaunt the shots, and you could become our photographer, or editor. whichever your heart desires. i'll find a way." he explains, still not letting go of your hands. as if you'll decline if he lets go.

"and second?"

"you can be near san." your heart stutters upon hearing the words. a silent buzz fills your ears, causing the cafe and its people to seem still for a moment. as if they're silently anticipating the next words out of seonghwa's mouth, much like you. the clinking of cups in the sink behind the counter wake your mind from the short slumber. the cafe comes alive again, chatter and laughter filling your ears once again. "if that is what you still wish."

"that doesn't sound dangerous to you?" skepticism floods your mind again. "it won't be odd for me to be interacting with a member i don't work for?"

"no, not in the slightest." he simply says. "it would be more odd to see you overly friendly with the member you work for. especially san, since the rest of the staff found out what happened. they'd have their eyes glued to you at all times. this way, it'll be safer."

"and what makes you so sure?"

"because," he lets go of your hand, only to tap the tip of your nose with his finger playfully before continuing, "you'll be under my protection."

"you're asking me to walk back into fire." your voice suddenly becomes hoarse.

"i'm asking you to walk in with armor," he replies. "and this time, i'll be standing beside you."

he gives you time to think, returning to his own beverage, but not yet letting go of your hand. seonghwa must've really thought this through. after all, he managed to convince you to come for a job interview, and has calculated ways of bringing you back. hell, he even got to you, making you think of actually returning to the place you've escaped.

"you really believe there is something worth saving between me and san?" you question. "to the point of you meeting up with me like this and endangering yourself?"

"i know love when i see it. just as i did with mingi and jaz."

right, those two. you aren't surprised that they're still together. you always shipped them, even before anything happened between them. you believed nothing could tear them apart. so why didn't you have the same beliefs for yourself and san? why didn't you give it a proper chance, instead of a late night temptation?

"you think it'll work?"

seonghwa's free hand tucks a stray hair behind your ear, then places his fingers under your chin, guiding your gaze to lock with his. "it has to."

eyes sting as you subconsciously squeeze his hand. "and if it all falls apart again?"

"then i'll be there to catch you."

𓆩⟡𓆪

your brand new qr plate shines under the lobby lights as you press it against the pad. since you left, the company invested in technology, it seems. the doors open upon recognizing the code, and you slip through the doors before they shut.

the tiles are freshly polished, you notice. the faint scent of cleaning chemicals lingers down the long hallways, following you to the fateful door you must go through. with coffee in one hand, and a clipboard in the other, you open the door with your elbow, silently praying that you don't spill the beverage all over your outfit.

upon entering, you are pleased to be met with an almost empty makeup room. seonghwa sits in the makeup chair, snoozing as he waits for his artist. he seems to be the only one there. it gives you time to calm your nerves.

you've gone to sleep with a painful stomach, anticipation eating you up alive. you'll see san. you'll probably speak to him, too. in the morning, you felt no different. you barely managed to zip up your pants, the bloating from stress causing you trouble the first day at your new job. funny how brain does all these things.

"mr park," you gently call, placing the paper cup in front of him.

"mmh?" the man sleepily replies, opening one eye to look at you. when he sees it's you, he opens the other one as well, a lazy smile spreading on his lips. "good morning, tiny."

"good morning, mr pa—"

"a—ah!" he interrupts. "no more mister this mister that. i hate it."

"really?" you squint playfully. "then what would you like me to call you?"

"i give you full freedom to choose. think wise. something worth making san jealous. i want to toy with him a little." the sweet smile turns mischievous.

as he sips the morning coffee, you allow yourself a moment of freedom before your duties begin. you sit on the makeup chair next to him, spinning slowly while thinking. "hwa seems simple."

"simple is cute."

"sseong, as yunho once said." you laugh, remembering the video of yunho giving each of them a nickname.

"god, no." the man cries out. "next."

"seongie?"

"you can do better."

"ddeongie?"

"oh," he blushes. "i love it."

"then, it's settled." you give yourself a final spin on the chair before stopping to look at him. "ddeongie."

"how's the new manager?"

"not much different than sihun, honestly." you admit.

kevin is as uptight as sihun. the only difference is that kevin cares about schedule more than he cares about rumours among the members and staff. the idol agrees, then goes back to resting as much as he can.

the doors open, causing you to jump out of the chair and stand by seonghwa's side, as if shielding yourself from whoever came in. it is just a member of staff you don't recognize, who greets you politely and starts setting up her own station. three of them come in total, one of them immediately getting to work on seonghwa. the way her hand moves smoothly has you mesmerized. the brush gently glides over his eyelids, making his lashes flutter from the tickling sensation of the bristles.

he doesn't even twitch when the doors open rather violently, two men entering at once and pushing through the tight doorframe. two more familiar faces follow, belonging to gyuri and jaz. seems that mingi and jaz are a pair again. they sing a silly song, each holding one shoe as a microphone. it takes one glance at their feet to realize they took one of each others shoes, and are walking around half barefoot.

"gods, it's five in the morning." seonghwa wakes up from the slumber. he looks like a feverish child, passing out and waking up every few minutes. "idiots."

the two stop for a moment, offering seonghwa a glare. then, their eyes land on you. "y/n?"

"hi, mr jeong. mr song." you stand up, bowing slightly as a greeting. "long time no see."

you wave to jaz and gyuri as well, as they stare back at you with a mix of shock and disbelief. then, they almost jump on you, shielding your body from the rest of the people in the room.

"what the hell are you doing here?" gyuri is the first to ask, while jaz steps away so that mingi and yunho can approach you.

both men settle for a gentle pat on your head, letting the girls bombard you with questions for them. they sit on the makeup chairs next to seonghwa, putting their shoes back on.

"i was hired again." you reply. "i'm seonghwa's assistant."

from there, they pull you aside, interviewing you as if their lives depend on it. seonghwa occasionally tsks them, scolding them for bothering you with personal questions. such as what really happened with you and san, why you left, and will things be weird now. the last one you couldn't answer even if you wanted. you are yet to find out.

little by little, the small room fills with people. new faces emerge alongside familiar ones. they're scattered on the couch, some of them stand by the makeup chairs and vanities, talking to the ones that have to sit still, and some stand near the window, catching a whiff of fresh air. so far, you notice hyori, sooe and eric are the ones that are missing. sihun's doing, you remember. the atmosphere is lively, chatter and laughter echoing inside. caught up in a conversation with hongjoong, you don't notice the door opening.

brown eyes lazily scan the room, searching for the leader so that he can complain about not being woken up to ride with them to the building. when his eyes land on you, he takes a step back, accidentally bumping into his assistant. his heart thumps loud in his chest, drowning the voices around him and making everything play in slow motion. leah yelps behind him, san's heel painfully digging into her toes.

yet san is too deep in thought to hear her yelping. he gawks at you, sitting all pretty and sweet on the armrest of the couch as you speak to hongjoong. you've changed your hair, he notices. nothing drastic, but enough for him to notice. a push on the back finally causes him to step forward, freeing leah of the pain. he doesn't apologize. he simply nudges her away as she tries telling him something, making his way towards you. you don't notice him yet. you listen to hongjoong speak about the achievements you've missed, about moments they felt your absence, about the drama with sihun and how happy they were to get rid of him. a familiar scent of musk and worn leather pulls you out of the conversation, hongjoong's words fading as you shift your attention to the person who emits it.

heartbeat slows down. thoughts rush. hands tremble. san stands before you, framed in black. the compression shirt hugs every contour, and baggy sweatpants hang low on his hips. your mouth goes dry at the sight of his chiseled torso. his hair is tucked under a beanie, not a single strand visible. it seems that every time you see him, he keeps getting bigger.

"mr choi," you greet first, clearing your throat before doing so.

he doesn't move. doesn't speak. not yet.

there's barely a meter of distance between you, but it feels like a canyon. his fingers twitch at his side, aching to close the distance. to touch your face, your hand, anything. he refrains from it, and not due to people in the room. no, he refrains from it to respect you. until you decide it's okay, he will stay away. he will respect your boundaries and wishes. no more convincing. no more wars of push and pull.

"miss l/n." the words leave his mouth. "to what do we owe this pleasant surprise?"

his tongue is pressed against the back of his teeth. he yearns to call you by your name. by your pretty name, which won't leave his mind at any part of the day.

"so uptight, mr choi." you tease, hinting at his choice of words and stiff posture. "much like you, i've also made a comeback."

"oh?" he looks genuinely surprised.

has seonghwa not told him?

"as...?"

"seonghwa's assistant." you say.

hongjoong is silent next to you, cautiously motioning the tense atmosphere leah is creating just by standing there. she is silent, yet the leader can see that san is bothered by her. not only her, but everyone in this room. but san will have to be patient. he can't always get what he wants.

"how... nice." the tone makes it seem like he is convincing himself. he doesn't like the idea one bit, you can tell. "were you the one who chose him? or were you just assigned to him?"

one could cut the tension in the air with scissors. you are happy to have hongjoong next to you, his warmth a comfort compared to san's emotionless gaze. he doesn't say anything. he doesn't need to. san is vary of his words and actions before his captain.

"i picked him." you play along with seonghwa's plan. "and ddeongie agreed."

"ddeongie?" he repeats, disbelief and confusion evident in his voice. "i didn't realize you were on... nickname basis. how fun."

if jealousy were fatal, san would've succumbed to it by now.

leah's eyes flick between you and san, sharp and assessing, as if measuring something she can't quite name. she decides it's time to stop this jolly encounter. the young woman steps forward, clipboard hugged to her chest, her presence subtle but firm. she positions herself just slightly in front of san, not enough to block his view, but enough to get his attention. "can we go over the schedule now?"

san doesn't answer. his gaze stays locked on you, jaw clenched, breath shallow. he hasn't had enough. he wants to soak in your presence and beauty. he wants to fall on his knees for you, give himself to you. hell, he'd be your personal assistant.

"mr choi." leah calls, voice louder and firmer now.

"what?" he snaps out if it. his eyes fall on the schedule, and he sighs. "right."

with a nod towards you, he turns around, following leah to the corner of the room as she speaks about things san doesn't truly care about. as he leans against the wall, he has a clear view of the room. eyes betray him multiple times, landing on you much more than he'd like.

"mr choi—" she tries again, heel tapping against the floor as a quiet warning.

"how did you convince her?" and gets interrupted by san, who has now given his attention to seonghwa. "and why didn't you tell me?"

the man opens one eye to look at san, somewhat tauntingly. "careful, san. you're starting to look very suspicious and jealous for no reason."

san's jaw flexes, the muscle ticking once before he forces a slow exhale through his nose. "i'm not jealous," he says, but the words are too quick. they only make the accusation sound true.

seonghwa's smirk is faint, but it's there. "then stop looking like you are."

leah clears her throat, a pointed reminder that she's still there, still holding the schedule like a shield. san doesn't look at her. his gaze drifts again. uninvited, unstoppable. back to you.

you're laughing at something hongjoong said, head tilted just enough for the light to catch in your hair. and san feels it. that familiar, infuriating pull. like fate has chosen you and only you. heart burns with jealousy as you receive a notification on your phone. you look at the screen, then at seonghwa through the mirror. both of you share a smile. it's a breaking point for san.

he is suffocating, the air too thin to breathe. he storms out of the room. nobody pays him any mind, already used to his odd behaviour since you and melanie left. you feel a pang of guilt, but before you can properly feel it, seonghwa sends you a reassuring message.

park seonghwa: if he wants to play, let him play

park seongwha: don't you dare run after him

y/n: i won't

park seonghwa: good girl

park seonghwa: let him cook in his feelings a little. let him learn to control it. he won't always be able to be near you

y/n: alright :)

park seonghwa: you're doing great. <3

y/n: i feel a little guilty :(

seonghwa rolls his eyes, dramatically. then, they land on you through the mirror, as if scolding you. he offers a glance to hongjoong as well, sending a playful wink, to which hongjoong makes a disgusted sound and avoids looking at the older member.

park seonghwa: patience, tiny

out in the hallway, leah struggles to catch her breath as she finally reaches san. her fury is what is keeping her from fainting. he stops just on top of the stairs, getting ready to go down, but gets pulled back by his elbow and slammed against the wall.

"listen here, choi san." leah's voice has never been this sharp. "i am sick and tired of being ignored and pushed around."

"then maybe you should quit." the man is unfazed by her words. "there are countless people that would be thrilled to be in your position."

the young woman nods, biting her lip. she hides a bitter smirk as she speaks. "people like y/n?"

his gaze snaps to hers, sharp enough to cut. his eye almost twitches as he gives her a look of warning and hatred. "don't say her name. you are unworthy."

"oh, i've hit the nerve," she says, stepping closer until she feels his breath caress her face. "you think you're hiding it, but you're not. every time she looks at him, you look like you're ready to—"

"careful," he warns, voice low, dangerous. "you don't know what you're talking about."

leah laughs once, humorless. "i know exactly what i'm talking about. and so does seonghwa. you're playing right into his hands."

san pushes off the wall, closing the space between them until she has to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes. "and you think you're any better? you're just as replaceable as you think i am."

for a beat, neither moves. the air between them is tight, charged. she's struck home, she knows it. yet she doesn't budge. she's tired of being treated like a neglected pet. whether or not san likes her, she still has a job to do. and he is making it very difficult. deep down, she might understand why you left. though, she would never admit it out loud.

"oh! sorry." both turn their heads at the sound, each with a different reaction. san terrified, and leah mischievous. "ddeongie wanted something from the store, i'm just passing by. don't let me interrupt you."

"y/n!" he calls, but you don't spare him a glance, instead disappearing around the corner.

this was bad. very bad. the proximity between san and leah wasn't something one would describe as professional. his hands grab leah by the shoulders, shoving her aside as his feet carry him towards the stairs. she stops him once again, nails digging into his bicep.

"if you go now, you'll be nothing but a desperate puppy whom she can play as she likes."

"she's not like that." he defends.

"you don't know that. you said it yourself, she's changed."

"i was angry. i didn't mean it."

"oh, san." leah sighs. "you dumb fucking fool."

and san doesn't respond. because the worst thing is, she might be right.

"and the worst part?" she catches his attention once more as he makes his way back to the doors of the makeup room. "she's not even trying. you are giving her exactly what she wants. attention, while she remains untouchable. you reaching for her like an idiot, and her playing hard to get and setting imaginary boundaries."

"you know nothing." san spits, even though leah's words plant a seed of doubt in his heart.

𓆩⟡𓆪

the group's schedule had been relentless: rehearsals, shoots and interviews having no end. every time san thought he'd get a quiet moment with you, seonghwa was there. always there. lurking, or standing there in plain sight. if you were grabbing coffee, seonghwa was already holding your cup. if you were packing up after a shoot, seonghwa was helping you carry equipment. if san tried to linger after practice, seonghwa would tap him on the shoulder and say, "come on, we've got work to do." it was starting to feel less like coincidence and more like a blockade.

when san approaches you with a churro during a shooting with seonghwa at the lotte world, he can't help the irritated groan that escapes him when the older male snatches it from his hand, shoving it into his mouth.

"what the hell? that wasn't for you." he complains. seonghwa only shrugs, chewing on the treat. "great."

he glances over at you, heart fluttering at the way the fuzzy backpack hangs from your shoulder. he wishes it was his you're holding, not seonghwa's. you stand by the filming crew, a big bag on the other shoulder, and a cup of half drunk coffee in hand. you don't sit like leah does. on your tippy toes, your eyes follow seonghwa, to the point where san begins feeling rather suspicious. fucking leah.

the crew has given everyone a fifteen minute break while they set up in front of a ride, and san has used it to run and grab a treat for you. now, he sits on the bench, bottom lip sticking out in a pout and hands crossed over his chest. the older man sits beside him, nudging him with his elbow.

"you need to start thinking more, san—ah." seonghwa warns. when the younger one graces him with a confused glance, he sighs. "if it weren't for me, you'd go and give a treat to a single person among the filming crew? how odd does that make you look?"

he might be right. though, san will never admit it out loud. "if you say so."

as he fixes the cat ears on his head, a matching accessory with seonghwa's bunny ones, his eyes inevitably find your figure again, and this time, they lock with yours. he stiffens on the bench, succumbing to your silent dominance you don't even know you exude. as if waiting for an order, he carefully monitors your movements. he even thinks you might just look away, and that this was for naught.

and then, you smile. a smile so soft and gentle, reserved for him only. it reaches your eyes, the skin under them puffing just a bit. and if any trace of suspicion was present in his body, it disappears when you raise your hand to wave at him. an action barely noticeable by others, cute and discreet in your own way. as if in a trance, he raises his hand as well, waving back at you.

it doesn't catch anyone's attention, other than leah's, who only scoffs and rolls her eyes. she passes by you, nudging you with her shoulder and making the bag slide from your shoulder and come down on your elbow. its force causes your arm to jolt, spilling the coffee all over yourself and the ground.

you know it's intentional, even without the smirk leah discreetly gives you as she mutters a sorry. san stands up in the distance, and before seonghwa notices and stands up himself, he is already in front of you.

"are you okay?" he questions, hands twitching by his sides. he wants to help. but at this point, everything makes him look suspicious. "can i help you anyhow?"

"i'll help her!" leah whips her head around, suddenly turning back from her desired journey and grabbing the almost empty cup out of your hand. no, not grabbing. snatching. she earns herself a glare from san, which is short lived once seonghwa arrives by his side.

"don't worry about it, mr choi." your voice is a sweet contrast to leah's bitter one. "luckily, ddeongie likes his coffee watered down and ice cold, right?"

san's jaw ticks just once. enough for seonghwa to catch it. the older man's lips twitch, not quite a smirk but close enough to make san want to look anywhere but at him. he hates that you are already turning away, handing the clipboard to a crew member and crouching to dab at the coffee on your clothes with a wad of napkins leah shoved into your hand.

san takes a half—step forward, the urge to shield you from leah's petty aggression stronger than him, but seonghwa's palm lands lightly on his chest. to anyone else it looks casual. to san it is a wall.

"focus," seonghwa murmurs, eyes still on the ride being prepped for filming. "you are on camera in three minutes."

leah glances over her shoulder, just in time to catch san's glare and meeting it with a slow, satisfied blink before she disappears into the crowd.

the idol exhales through his nose, forcing his hands into his pockets so no one sees them curl into fists. his eyes betray him, tracking you as you straighten up, laugh softly at something a staff member says, and brush a stray hair from your face. the sound of the director calling for positions snaps him back. he turns toward the set, but the thought lingers, heavy and unshakable: you smiled at him first.

the ride ends quicker than they'd like, and soon enough, the two adult men beg their staff to go for another round. the manager agrees, under a condition he does not yet tell them. once off the ride, and on the way to the next stop, the men don't suspect anything.

until they see it: the haunted house. san groans out loud, followed by seonghwa scrunching his nose and smiling uncomfortably. "why?!"

"it'll be fun to put two loud members in there." kevin shrugs. he makes his way over to you, shoving a gopro in your hand as well as leah's. "you're going in with them."

it is leah's turn to groan, and yours to gasp. "us? why?"

"the reactions will be more genuine with less people and the staff they spend the most time with instead."

the crew takes another twenty minute break to set up. the gopros are in your hands, ready to use. they're not on yet, you notice. the red blinking light is missing. luckily, because as seonghwa and san approach the two of you, you are reminded that you need to watch your words and behaviour. after all, it'll all be on video.

"aren't you uncomfortable in that soggy shirt, tiny?" seonghwa's voice is laced with worry. as you shake your head, a shiver betrays you, and seonghwa doesn't think twice before taking the school uniform jacket off and placing it on your shoulders. he helps your arms in the sleeves, then fixes the collar. finally, he pats your head. "there. all pretty again."

san is fuming. he is complimenting you right under his nose. letting you wear his clothes, while san stands there knowing damn well he can't move a finger without being suspicious. to make matters worse, san's brain has an odd way of thinking. instead of letting it go, he takes off his own jacket, and covers leah with it.

the faint scent of seonghwa's cologne calms your nerves. it isn't about the jacket. no, it's about the way san looks at you when he puts it on her. as if you and seonghwa had this planned. you did agree on teasing him, but not everything was calculated. san is treating this like a competition. and it's starting to get on your nerves again. it feels as if you are taking one step forward, and two steps back.

"thank you, ddeongie. what would i do without you?" you say with a tired sigh. you mean it, truly. not to taunt san. it's a genuine gratitude towards seonghwa, for being by your side through this and giving you comfort. his signature soft smile dances on his lips as his finger taps your nose. it has become a habit of his to do that.

"kevin, are we ready?" he yells.

in no time, the doors are shut behind you once you enter. the light blinks red in your hand through the foggy air. the house smells dusty, like an attic. oddly enough, you enjoy that smell. the narrow hallway forces you into a line: seonghwa in front, then you, then leah, and san at the back. the first few scares are predictable: flickering lights, sudden bangs, and a distant laugh. leah's constant flinching keeps her bumping into you. every time san tries to close the gap, and comes within your reach, she stops short, forcing him to steady her instead. then, at a corner where the path widens, seonghwa glances back. his eyes flick from san to you, squinted, calculated. then to leah.

"hey, leah," he says casually, "come up here for a second. could you hold the light while i film this next bit?"

leah hesitates, but seonghwa's already ushering her forward. she squeezes past you, muttering something about hating haunted houses, and suddenly it's just you and san in the back.

you're still adjusting your grip on the gopro when a costumed actor bursts from a hidden panel. seonghwa and leah shriek, then run for their lives as the actor chases them down the hallway around the corner. you jump, the camera slipping from your hands. it clatters to the floor, the blinking red light going dark.

"shit," you breathe, crouching to grab it. san's already there, his hand brushing yours in the dark as he picks it up. "thanks."

"let me see," he says, voice low. he turns the camera over in his hands, frowning. "it's off. might've hit the button when it fell."

the hallway ahead is empty now, the others' voices muffled somewhere deeper inside. the only light comes from a flickering lantern above, casting warm shadows across san's face.

"guess we're off the record for a minute," you murmur.

something in his expression changes — the tension in his shoulders easing, his gaze softening. "i guess. we deserve a moment of freedom, don't we?"

you tilt your head. "what do you mean?"

he hesitates, eyes searching yours. "i mean... you can drop the act. with seonghwa. or are you really that good with him?"

you blink, then sigh. "not everything is about you, mr choi."

"mr choi..." he huffs a quiet laugh, but doesn't step back. the space between you shrinks until you can feel the warmth of his breath in the cool air. his eyes drop to your lips for just a second. enough to make your pulse jump. "gods, you're so pretty."

you don't move away. not yet. the wall is cold against your back, even though layers of your sweater and seonghwa's jacket try their best to shield it.

"you're as pretty as the day i lost you." san's hand lifts, fingers brushing your cheek, tentative but certain enough to make his intent clear. you let him get close. close enough that the next breath might close the gap before you lay your hand gently on his chest. he flinches, hand flying to cover yours in a desperate attempt to keep you where you are. "no, please..."

"not here," you say softly. "not yet."

it's not rejection. it's a promise. he sighs in defeat, eyes squeezing shut. his hands lay flat against the wall beside your head, supporting his body as his forehead leans against yours. his breath is a gentle caress on your face, the smell of chocolate and coffee overpowering the one of dust and borderline mold in the house. "i'm weaker than you think, y/n. taehwan... he doesn't deserve you."

"sannie," you place a hand on his cheek. he opens his eyes, alert. "i'm not with taehwan anymore. we broke up."

"you did?" he hates how hopeful and relieved he sounds. "why?"

"it doesn't matter now, does it? i'm here. turning a new page. or old page, better said."

one hand slides from the wall to your waist, softly pulling your body so that it leans into his. you chase his warmth and comfort, a bit too quick for your liking. you feel his chest below your touch, hand now loosely planted over his top. you glance at the gopro, hoping it doesn't work. not even seonghwa could save you from this if it got filmed.

"let's go before leah burns the house down." you wish to gently nudge him away. he doesn't budge. skin burns under his touch as his knuckles trace your jawline. "san, please."

"of course." he breaks free from the trance. "i'm sorry for overstepping."

your response is non verbal; a gentle caress of his cheek and a kiss on it as you step past him, the gopro now blinking red again in your hand. he follows, a few steps behind, and though the haunted house is still full of scares, nothing makes his heart race quite like you. turning around the corner, you come in contact face first with seonghwa's chest. his hands fly to your arms, steading you in a hug. "there you are!"

"sorry, didn't see you there." you have to tilt your head backwards to look at him. you often forget how tall he is until you stand right next to him. "where's leah?"

"right here. don't worry, you won't get rid of me that easily." she mumbles, pushing past the two of you so that she can approach san.

before you can say that you did not mean it that way, seonghwa takes your hand in his, holding the gopro for you in a way that it films only the space in front of you. he doesn't intertwine his fingers with yours. the hold feels rather... homey. like a big brother hold.

for the next twenty minutes it takes for the four of you to find the exit, not a single time were you separated. seonghwa skillfully dodges the actors, running down the hallways and through various rooms. it makes you think that the first time one of the actors jumped out, seonghwa used it as an excuse to leave san and you alone. you don't mind. once out, catching your breath and adjusting your eyes to the amusement park lights, you finally let go of both seonghwa's hand and the gopro.

"we'll take a half hour dinner break!" kevin announces as he glares at you for dropping the gadget on the ground. "i want you back here at ten o'clock sharp. both of you."

leah does what she knows best: rolls her eyes, then storms off.

one time long ago, you thought leah as your equal. forced to be with bratty san, putting up with his confessions and whatnot. even felt sorry for her when san kissed her. you're not sure whether that situation has turned her the way she is. was she always this annoying and mean? is san attracted to people who are mean to him? that used to be wooyoung's trait.

"what are we feeling? ramen in a cup? corndogs? churros?" seonghwa starts walking first, taking his place by the side san had intended. the younger man gets pushed aside, the older one blocking him from reaching you and seeing you. to make things worse, seonghwa takes the rabbit ears off his head and places them on yours. "carrots for the cute bunny?"

san thinks you'd suit the cat ears more. he doesn't like this one bit. seonghwa is trying to get under his skin, undoubtedly. he is teaching him a lesson in patience in a rather cruel way. nicknames, touches, jokes. he hates the way his body reacts to it all. he doesn't know what hurts more: seonghwa doing things to you san only wishes, or you enjoying and encouraging it.

the scent of frying batter drifts through the cool night air, mixing with the faint sweetness of cotton candy. it helps you decide just what you want. "corndogs."

"ah, as if i knew it." just as he says the words, the three of you find yourselves standing in front of a corndog stand. he doesn't ask san whether he wants something else. and san doesn't protest. "six corndogs, please."

"six?!" you almost shout.

"two each. come on, tiny. you need energy to finish the shoot."

you can't argue with that.

the vendor hands over the paper trays, steam curling into the cool night air. san has already sat down on a bench beneath a tree, hidden from the warm lights. you linger near him, unsure what to do with yourself as seonghwa pays for the food. he passes you yours first, then san's, before taking his own and finding his spot leaning against a lamp post. he's close enough to see you, far enough to give the illusion of privacy. the bench is cold when you sit down. san notices. why did he have to give his jacket to leah? he watches carefully as you take a bite, the crunch giving way to molten cheese that stretches in a long ribbon. you try to bite it clean, but it clings stubbornly, swaying between your mouth and the corndog.

san's laugh is low, warm. "hold still."

before you can ask why, he leans in and catches the strand with his teeth, snapping it clean. for a second, you're frozen. his face is close enough that you can see the faint sheen of oil on his lips, the way his eyes flicker to yours before he leans back.

"you're ridiculous," you say, but your voice is softer than you mean it to be.

"and you're smiling," he counters, smug but quiet, like it's a secret just for the two of you.

you roll your eyes and take another bite, but this time the cheese pull is even longer. san's hand twitches like he might lean in again, but he stops himself, settling for watching you instead.

from his spot, seonghwa pretends to scroll his phone as he chews his own food, but you catch the faintest curve of a smile on his face.

"how is leah treating you?"

the idol groans. "i just forgot about her. why would you do this to me?"

"i'm just concerned." you shrug. "she seems..."

"annoying? mean? bitter? the most icky person you've ever met?" he graces her with compliments.

"and you're a ray of sunshine." the eyeroll that comes with the words is earned. he doesn't say anything. the smile on his lips grows. it gives you a green light to continue. "not to be paranoid, but... she is giving me melanie vibes."

"ah." he nods, fidgeting with the stick of the half eaten corndog. "leah is all words. no action. she isn't a threat. i think."

"it's good to be careful either way."

leah gives you odd vibes. you don't like it. other than the casual mean girl behaviour, you cannot find anything unusual about her. it irks you, because to everyone else, she is a sweetheart and a darling. as soon as she turns to you, it's only scoffs and condescending words.

san's eyes keep flicking to the rabbit ears on your head. they're cute. too cute. and they're seonghwa's. it gnaws at him in a way he can't quite hide. as you finish the last bite of your corndog, he shifts closer, holding something out. the black cat ears dangle from his fingers, the headband still warm from where it rested on top of his head.

"these suit you better," he says, voice low.

you blink at him, mid—chew. "what?"

before you can protest, he steps in, careful but deliberate, sliding the rabbit ears off your head. his fingers brush your hairline, lingering just a second too long before he settles the cat ears in their place.

"there," he murmurs, leaning back to take you in. "all pretty."

"copycat." you look away, hiding your blushing under a teasing comment.

"what?"

"you're competing with with hwa. the ears, the compliment."

"it's not a competition." he sulks. "not when i can be the only winner."

"so far up your ass as usual, mr choi."

he cringes at the name. he hates it with all his being. "sannie."

"we're not doing this again." you warn. to your surprise, he settles down. the pout is still visible, and his brows still furrowed. he doesn't protest. not when you tug at his bottom lip, and not when the tips of your nails gently graze the skin under his chin, the light tickle comforting.

the hum of the carousel drifts over from somewhere behind you, its music faint under the chatter of the crowd. his breath stills under your touch, and for a moment, the glow from the park lights makes the furrow in his brow look almost soft.

"i have to go back now." you say with a heavy heart, standing up while he stays sitting.

"i'm tired." he admits. "i want to sleep on this bench."

you laugh. he does look pretty exhausted. his hair is already a mess, and you can't help but run your fingers through it, taming the soft locks so that they gently fall over his half closed eyes. "it'll be over soon."

"mmh." he hums, eyes closing completely as he savours every touch and caress you give him. his hands find comfort in fidgeting with the ends of seonghwa's jacket on you, subconsciously pulling you closer so that you stand between his legs. "soon isn't soon enough."

"sannie." you break your own words. it seems to be the only way to make him listen. eyelids reveal shiny brown orbs that stare at you, anticipating your next words. "be a good boy for me."

it activates something within him. his ears perk up, much like a cat's. cheeks flushed, and eyes slowly blinking, san doesn't know how to respond. his body burns under your touch, and hands itch to slide under your top just enough to feel your skin on his.

"will you?" you wake him up.

"huh?" he is utterly lost in your gaze.

"will you be a good boy for me?" you repeat, the words sending shivers down his spine and making the hairs on his body stand up straight.

"yes." he responds rather quickly. as if a delay might make you think of this whole exchange as cringe or weird. he can't allow it. not while he enjoys being under your spell. "yes, i will."

"good."

𓆩⟡𓆪

san is not sure how he got here. he only knows that you're close. too close.

there's the faint scent of your shampoo, the warmth of your breath against his ear, the soft press of your hand against his chest. you're saying something, but the words are muffled, like you're speaking underwater. still, the tone is unmistakable. low, certain, the way you sound when you want him to listen.

the scent of berries and white chocolate envelops him. plays with his emotions, unveils his buried desires. his pulse stutters. you lean in, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, and the world narrows to the heat of your touch and the way his name sounds in your mouth.

"sannie."

a mere sigh against his skin, breath a hot caress against his ear shell.

"my good, good boy." you praise. he shivers under the graze of your nails against his chest, lips chasing your neck and shoulders. "always so good for me."

he blinks, and the hotel room is dark. the sheets are twisted around his legs, his skin coated in a thin layer of sweat, his breathing uneven. the echo of your voice lingers, curling in his chest until it's unbearable.

you? not in his arms. vanished in thin air.

before he can think better, he's reaching for his phone. you answer on the third ring, voice thick with sleep. "san? it's... three in the morning."

"i know," he says, his voice low and hoarse. "i just... needed to hear you."

there's a pause, the sound of you shifting under your covers. "you sound odd."

"do i?"

you hum sleepily. "go back to sleep, sannie."

"i can't sleep." he admits. fingers play with the hem of his undershirt, dangerously close to an aching area. "are you very sleepy?"

"mmh." the sweet sigh you emit doesn't help his case. "yeah."

"okay..." he fails to hide the disappointment. he doesn't hang up yet. neither do you. the sound of your soft breathing into the phone takes him back to the dream. he called you to distract him, not drag him back into the sinful dream.

fingers graze the top stitch of his underwear. the material is tight, suffocating. he won't do it. it's wrong. doing that while you are unaware means disrespecting you, and that's the last thing san wants to do. but the more you sleepily hum and breathe on the phone, the less control he has.

"sannie?" his name is forbidden fruit on your lips. he doesn't manage to reply before getting stunned by your next words. "are you being a naughty boy?"

he chokes on his own spit, body jerking so he sits up. his back leans against the headboard. the last atoms of sleepiness disappear, mind and heart now fully alert. ready to submit to you.

"i asked you a question." though quiet, your voice is firm. "are you being a naughty boy?"

"no." he denies.

"you're not?" you push. you know he isn't. but there is a reason why he called you so late at night, voice all hoarse and breathless. and you'll die if you don't take the chance to tease him. "you're being good, like i asked you to?"

"of course."

you hum again, the sound curling warm in his ear like a ribbon of heat winding straight down his spine. "good."

he swallows, the word settling in his chest like a weight and a reward at the same time. the quiet between you is not empty. it is filled with the faint rustle of your sheets, the soft hitch of your breathing, and the sleepy drag in your voice.

"then," you continue, your tone dipping just enough to make his pulse jump, "you can do something for me."

"anything," he says too quickly, voice reeking of desperation.

"close your eyes."

he obeys instantly, lashes fluttering shut, the darkness behind them still painted with the image of you sprawled out on his bed. body hidden by sheets, the scent of berries lingering wherever you touch. he can almost smell it right now. the faint taste of the pepero is on his tongue, and like dark magic, his fingers lift to touch his lips. a faint graze, yet they're so sensitive he shudders against his own touch.

"breathe in," you instruct, and he does, filling his lungs until it almost hurts. the air feels heavier now, thick with the scent of his own skin.

"and out."

the rhythm steadies him, but it does not cool the heat prickling under his skin. he drops the phone after putting you on speaker. fingers of his now free hand curl into the sheets, trying to ground him. it's tough, hearing your voice like a fantasy song in the dark of this forsaken night. had seonghwa or hongjoong heard him, they'd mock him. but what else is this night, when you're not here?

"think about something nice," you murmur. "something that makes you feel calm."

his mind betrays him. it is you, always you, standing too close and saying his name like it belongs to you. like he belongs to you.

"are you doing it?"

"mm," he manages, voice growing quieter with each minute that passes.

"good boy."

the praise lands like a spark and his grip on the phone tightens.

"now," you say, softer still, "you are going to sleep. and you are going to be good for me until morning."

he wants to argue, to keep you on the line, to ask for more. the firmness in your tone makes it impossible. "yes," he says instead.

"good night, sannie."

"good night,..." he hesitates. the familiar nickname is at the tip of his tongue. he may ruin this. he may make this better. he takes the risk. "...princess."

a fond chuckle meets his ears, and san's heart finally rests. one step at a time, you had said. and you were right. impatience has brought out the worst in him, and has pushed you away. now, by letting you have full control over the situation, he realizes his mistakes. and he won't do them again.

"obedient kitty." he feels you smile as you say it. he is too stunned to reply. "good night."

the line clicks dead. he is left in the dark with the phone laying beside him and his heart pounding. the room feels too big without your voice in it. he lies back, staring at the ceiling, phone pressed to his chest as if hugging you. the echo of your words loops in his head until they are the only thing keeping him awake. the sun is peeking at the horizon when san finally falls asleep.

the next time he wakes up, it is by his alarm clock. not dreams of you. he doesn't like it.

𓆩⟡𓆪

the practice room is alive with energy. it reeks of sweat and isotonic drinks, and is filled with shoes dragging across the floor, creating squeaking noises and black lines which cleaners will have to scrub later. the choreography is intense, and sensual. you sit on the bench, watching them through the mirror. the eight men are dressed casually, each wearing sweats and tank tops and compression shirts. their faces and moves don't match the casual vibe of their clothes. they are intense, calculated, and precise.

you don't utter a single word, too focused on keeping your jaw from dropping on the floor. you are the first atiny to witness the song and choreography. you are having a difficult time keeping your sanity. wooyoung is reminding you just why he was your bias. it is odd seeing seonghwa so serious. you don't mind. his eyes hold power, such that it has given you a habit you've never had before: biting your nails.

yunho decides it's enough for the day, clapping his hands and rushing to his towel. gyuri holds his drink out for him, and he almost snatches it from her, emptying the bottle in seconds.

"hey." seonghwa calls in front of you. his finger finds its place below your chin, then gently pushes upwards. you didn't even notice you failed at your task. fuck. "i'll take that as a compliment."

"don't even." you playfully throw the towel at him. he catches it, dabbing his face with it until it's dry. leah has stood up in the meantime, meeting san halfway to deliver his drink and towel as well, leaving seonghwa and you to have a private moment. you see the mischief glimmer in his eyes. "what?"

"well... we are done." he says. there's more to it, you know it. you don't give him the satisfaction of asking. he continues, "san will practice his solo song now."

"oh?" you are intrigued. you've heard almost all of their solo songs. san's is the only one you haven't heard yet. "and?"

"do you want to stay and watch?" he offers. and just how do you decline, when san looks ravishing in grey sweats and a tank top that hugs his torso and reveals his biceps? seonghwa bites his tongue as he sticks it out at you. "perv."

"highly inappropriate, mr park." you smack his shoulder, soft enough to not hurt him but firm enough to warn him. "and what will my excuse be?"

"i'll stay with you. don't worry about the rest."

the members and their assistants exit one by one, until only the four of you are left. leah is puzzled, and maybe a tad bit disappointed, seeing that she won't get her alone time with san. the younger idol sends the older one a confused glance, to which seonghwa responds with a wink you don't miss. san then glances at you, and immediately, his cheeks flush. his eyes imagine the cat ears on top of your head. he has officially lost it.

"san—ah. fighting!" seonghwa calms him, grabbing him by his shoulders and shaking any jitters off.

"yeah, sannie. fighting!" leah has chosen to be bold today, it seems. the young man only spares her a glance, resisting the urge to scold her for using the nickname that belongs to you only.

san stretches in the middle of the practice room, rolling his shoulders, the fabric of his tank top shifting with each movement. when he glances over and meets your gaze, his cheeks flush almost instantly. you look away, pretending to adjust your phone, but the warmth in your chest betrays you.

the music starts, slow. sensual. the bass hums low through the floor, each beat a slow pulse in your chest. san moves like the music is pulling him by invisible strings. fluid, every shift of his weight calculated.

you try to watch through the mirror like others, but his gaze finds yours almost immediately. it's not a glance. it's a hold. he turns with the beat, hand dragging slowly across his chest, and his eyes never leave yours. the movement is part of the choreography, you know that, but the way he does it feels personal.

seonghwa leans against the wall beside you, arms crossed, pretending not to notice. leah lingers by the watercooler, refilling his bottle, but her reflection in the mirror shows her watching the two of you more than the dance.

san drops into a slow roll of his shoulders, the fabric of his tank top stretching across his back. when he straightens, his head tilts just slightly, like he's daring you to look away.

you don't.

the song builds, and he steps forward on the beat, closing the space between himself and the mirror. his palm presses flat against it, right where your reflection sits.

your breath catches.

he smirks. small, fleeting, before spinning away into the next move, leaving you with the echo of his eyes on yours long after the music swallows him again.

you're not sure when the music stops. in your head, it is still playing. his voice as velvety and sensual as his moves. it has you utterly mesmerized, to the point where seonghwa has to wave his hand in front of your face to get your attention.

"huh?" you reply, eyes still fixed on san's figure.

"i said, i'm going to get food for myself. you want anything?"

you finally look at seonghwa, and jolt. it seems easy to forget that you are here to work for seonghwa, not live out a fanfiction you have read somewhere once upon a time. "i'll do it. just tell me what you want."

"not a chance. your head hurts, remember? what if you fall and hurt yourself while getting to the shop?"

san is readying himself for one more try, not very satisfied with the first one. worry paints his features, hearing seonghwa's words to you. your head doesn't hurt. you are fine. thankfully, you aren't a fool, and you understand what seonghwa wants to do. the familiar glint in his eyes says it all, and you play along. "i didn't want to make a big deal out of it."

"you sit there, have some of my water. leah and i will go get the food. san wanted his usual. do you want anything?" you shake your head with a smile. seonghwa seems to have control over everything. he doesn't allow leah to protest, one look at her enough to make her silently take her bag and wait by the door. his power should be studied. when he said he'd protect you, he meant it. and all you can do is look at him in awe as he winks at you, ruffling your hair and making his way out. "we'll be right back!"

the door clicks shut behind them, and the room feels bigger and smaller all at once. the echo of the bass from his song still hums in your chest. san is stretching again, but his eyes keep flicking your way, like he's not sure where to start. so you do.

"you look tired." you notice the dark circles under his eyes. "you really couldn't sleep last night, huh?"

"yeah..." he trails.

"bad dreams?" you tease.

he gives you a squinted look, before getting into position. your voice calls him, tone softer than ever. like a marionette, his body follows the invisible strings of your hands, doing as you say. until he stands in front of you, eyes trying their best to stay wide open.

"sit." the word hangs in the air for a moment, and then he lowers himself onto the floor. he doesn't sit. he kneels in front of you. "oh, sannie."

breath hitches when your hands come in contact with his face. it fits just right, as if he was molded to your liking. he melts in your arms, body seeking comfort. peace that only you can offer. "i'm tired."

"i know, sweetie." you know what he means. he is tired of being patient. one hand brushes the bangs out of his face as the other one cradles his chin, holding his head up so that you can take a proper look at his flushed face. "you've been so good for me, haven't you?"

"i think i have..."

"of course you have. my patient, pretty boy." and there it is. the words of confirmation he needed. slowly, but surely, he is getting somewhere. you aren't pushing him away. instead, you are inviting him into your space. his hands settle on your thighs, warm and steady, grounding himself in your presence as if you're the only thing keeping him upright.

the room is quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning. the scent of his skin lingers between you, faint traces of sweat and deodorant. your thumb brushes over the curve of his cheekbone, and his lips part just slightly, as if to speak, though no words come out. the finger drops to his bottom lip, a ghost touch against it. instinctively, san's tongue peeks out to wet it.

he wets your finger in the process, and any wall you had up shatters to the ground. pupils widen, breathing becomes shallow as the tip of your nose brushes his, and the air doesn't seem enough to keep you alive. you inch closer, until the only thing separating you is your thumb on his lip.

"princess..." he sighs, eyes closing as your breath caresses his skin and makes his lashes flutter.

"hmm?"

"i swear i am trying my best. i truly am. but i'm afraid i can't take it anymore." his voice is hoarse as he talks against your finger. "if i don't kiss you right now, i will die on this floor."

"so dramatic." you chuckle. "for no reason."

even though you remove your hand from his face, only to intertwine your fingers with soft locks of his hair, you don't move yet. it is a slow torture for san, watching you bite your lip when he should be the one doing it instead. he moves first, his heart taking control over his mind. it is sudden enough to make your breath catch, but not rough, not rushed. his hands slide from your thighs to your hips, steady and warm, and he leans in until his forehead rests against yours.

his eyes search yours, waiting for any indication of anger or disappointment. you do not pull away. you do not react.

he closes the last inch himself, lips brushing yours in a sweet kiss that is more question than demand. you let him have it, soft and slow, your fingers tightening just slightly in his hair to keep him there. he deepens it by a fraction, testing, and you respond with the faintest tilt of your head, granting him more. the pace is yours to give, and he follows it without hesitation.

there is hunger in his eyes when you pull away. he whines. you pull at his hair as a warning, which only makes the situation worse. he moans. a high pitched moan, igniting a fire within you. he may have self control and patience, but you can't say the same about you. not anymore.

his hands slide higher along your hips, fingers curling just enough to hold you in place as he leans in. plump red lips capture yours again. they are hot, and plush on yours. the kiss he gives you now is deeper, hungrier, but it still waits for your answer. you give it to him in the smallest ways. the way your lips part just enough for him to taste you, the way your fingers tighten in his hair and guide his head closer to you. he follows every cue, matching your rhythm, never pushing past what you allow.

the heat between you builds in slow waves, each one stronger than the last, until you pull back just slightly. his breath is uneven, his eyes dark and fixed on yours, but he doesn't chase the space you've created. a thin string of saliva connects your lips, yours now as swollen and red as his. it takes you a while to collect yourself.

"you still taste the same." he praises. "got any pepero sticks in your bag?"

you laugh, because he is right. the berry and chocolate sticks are hidden in your bag, among seonghwa's belongings. "why, you want some?"

"i could use one or two. tomorrow night."

you raise an eyebrow with confusion. "tomorrow night?"

"if you... i mean, if you want."

"if i want what, mr choi?"

another whine leaves his pretty lips, this time one of dissatisfaction rather than pleasure. he looks away, avoiding your piercing gaze. "the next time i hear those two words i'll get a rash. i meant... if you want to come over. we could watch a movie or something."

fingers pull at his hair again, causing him to yelp and look back into your eyes. "then ask me. nicely. and maybe i'll think about it."

"will you go on a date with me?" he blurts out. as if you'll change your mind if he says it any slower. "my place. i'll bring all the red bull and pepero your heart could want."

"a date?"

"yes. a proper date."

"i'll think about it."

"but—" his shoulders drop, and his lip sticks out in a pout that is dear to your heart.

"i said," you press a kiss to his forehead, then stand up, leaving him to kneel on the floor. "i'll think about it."

𓆩⟡𓆪

the day after, at ten in the evening sharp, you walk behind seonghwa as he sneaks you into the dorms. the hallway is dim and still, the only sound the soft thud of your footsteps behind seonghwa and rustling of the bag of snacks. the faint scent of detergent and takeaway food lingers behind closed doors. you keep your head down, though you know no one would dare question him if they saw you. he stops at the last door on the left, knocking twice before pushing it open without waiting for an answer.

san is there. hair damp, hoodie hanging loose over his frame, a can of red bull already in one hand. his eyes widen when he sees you, and for a moment he just stands there, like he's not sure if you're real.

"you came," he says, relief washing over his features.

"i said i'd think about it," you reply, stepping past seonghwa into the room and setting the bag on the desk.

san's mouth curves, slow and genuine, as he sets the can next to your bag. "guess i should've bought more pepero."

"yuck." seonghwa teases. "do be quiet, please? mingi is sleeping, and hongjoong is passed out on the couch for some reason."

"will do, ddeongie." you reply sweetly. "thank you. i owe you so much."

"don't be silly." slender fingers rest on top of your head, patting it a few times. "have fun... watching the movie, i guess."

before any of you two can reply, seonghwa shuts the door. finally alone, you have a chance to see his room. you've seen it in various lives, many times. it comes with a scent that you cannot describe as anything else but choi san. cologne, fresh bedsheets, and worn leather. he wears the hood over his head, much like the night when he visited you.

"hi." you greet. his shoulders relax upon seeing your smile. "i see you started without me."

the green red bull can sits empty on the desk. you can't believe you hooked him to the energy drink. when he doesn't respond, you pass by him, shoulder barely brushing him as you plop on the bed. immediately, it engulfs you: invisible strings of musk and faint manly sweat wrap around your body. the pillow is soft beneath your head. if he ever tells you that he couldn't sleep, you won't believe him. not when he has a bed like this.

"so..."

"oh, what's that?" you point at something shiny at the desk. you know exactly what it is. you just wish to see him squirm.

"i— oh, seonghwa. i'm going to kill him." he grabs the packet loosely, the foil crinkling as it unwraps into a sealed row. "i—"

"that is very responsible of you, sannie. protection is important." your tone is calm, but the curve of your mouth gives you away.

he shoves the condoms into the drawer of his nightstand and shuts it a little too quickly, as if speed could erase the moment. you think it's cute. he, however, feels as if he already lost the little dignity he had left. "what do you feel like watching?"

"aren't you going to show me around the room?" you give him the prettiest eyes you can, causing him to scratch the back of his neck and look away while blushing.

"sure... it's not much, i mean." he gestures vaguely around the room, as if the walls might speak for themselves. "that's my desk... obviously. and uh, closet's over there. bed's here. you're already in it."

you hum, eyes scanning the space like you're appraising it. "no posters? no secret stash of snacks? oh, headboard lights! how do you turn them on?"

"the snacks hey're in the drawer under the bed." he admits, then winces. "not secret. just... convenient."

you reach down, fingers brushing the edge of the drawer, and pull it open. a few crumpled wrappers, a half—eaten bag of gummies, and—

"another red bull?" you tease, holding up the green can.

he groans, then steps toward you and the bed. "i swear i'm not addicted."

"mm. we'll see." you crack it open, the hiss sharp in the quiet.he watches you, eyes flicking to your lips as you take a slow sip. then, without a word, you lean in and press the can to his mouth. "your turn."

san leans in, eyes locked with yours. his fingers wrap themselves around your wrist, gently pulling the can away before his other hand cups your cheek. his head tilts, as does yours. lips barely graze yours, tongue already softly begging permission by wetting your lips. you allow him, parting them just enough for the hot muscle to find yours. it's a dance, not a battle.

you pull away first, a teasing smirk already on your face. "not addicted, you say."

"mmm," he hums, eyes still closed as he savours the taste of you mixed with the elderflower energy drink. "i'm addicted to you."

"you softie." with that, you pull him on the bed with you, while cautious of the can so you don't spill it. he lands on his elbows, careful not to squish you with his weight. "you are so red in the face. are you okay?"

"am i okay?" he repeats. "you showed up here, all dolled up and with that pretty hair, teasing me since you entered the room. i'm here looking like a bum. you know what? i'm going to change."

and you let him. you let him run away, but not before he rummages through his closet and digs a new outfit out. he disappears without a word, leaving you on the bed to wonder whether you're being harsh on him. you don't wish to torture him, truly. he is just that sensitive. and you love that about him.

boredom makes the best of you, with san being gone for a bit longer than you expected. you don't mean to snoop through his drawers. you don't mean to find an empty can of red bull with a lip gloss print at the opening. your lip gloss, and your red bull. you wonder when he had the time to snatch the can and tell sihun. you don't mean to find the aniteez plushy cutely tucked under the covers.

most of all, you don't mean to slide open his closet. you don't mean to deeply inhale the scent of laundry detergent and san himself that hits you. you don't mean to feel the soft fabric of neatly folded hoodies and t-shirts under your fingers. and certainly, you don't mean to pull out a white t-shirt. discard your clothes. leave only your underwear on. pull the fresh fabric over your head, until it falls just below the curve of your bum and touches your thighs.

you catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the window. the garment is loose, san's broad form stretching the material out. the setting itself intoxicates you. this is san's space, and you are in it. there is pieces of you everywhere, from the can to the familiar coat that hangs by the door. the very one he said he never washed, because you wore it once and it smelled like you.

there isn't much to discover anymore, so you opt for setting sandeoki free from his nap. just as you take it into your hands, the door opens. san stops dead in the doorway, wearing a black tank top and black sweatpants. the plushie is pressed to your chest like you've been caught doing something you shouldn't, but it's not the toy that steals the air from his lungs. it's his shirt on you. the hem brushing your thighs. the way it hangs loose, swallowing you whole and still managing to make him feel like he's seeing too much. his fingers tighten on the doorknob. his mouth opens but nothing comes out at first. you tilt your head, eyes pretty and anticipating, and he swears his pulse is in his ears.

"i..." he swallows, tries again. "are you trying to murder me tonight?"

there are footsteps in the hallway. instinct kicks in and he shuts the door quickly, leaning back against it as if to keep the rest of the world out. his heart is still racing, and he knows it has nothing to do with the walk from the kitchen.

"i hope you don't mind. i was feeling hot as well." you innocently point at the neatly folded clothes you had spent forever picking back in your room. countless selfies sent to seonghwa, him being the first to ask about it, and finally deciding the outfit, only for it to end up discarded and replaced. he doesn't respond. body frozen against the door, all he can do is gawk as you lower the plushy so that it hangs beside you in your hand. eyes inevitably land on your bare legs, and san audibly shudders. "i'll change if you do mind..."

"no!" the word comes out louder than he intended.

"so you don't mind?"

he doesn't answer right away. just stands there, eyes tracing the curve of your legs, the way his shirt clings to your frame like it's memorizing you. then, slowly, he pushes off the door. each step feels deliberate, like he's afraid to break whatever spell you've cast. you stay still, plushie dangling from your fingers, watching him close the space between you. his hand reaches out, brushing the hem of the shirt near your thigh. he doesn't look up. not yet.

"you look..." he starts, voice barely audible. "like you belong here."

you smile, soft and sure. "i do."

he finally meets your eyes. something in him shifts. the hesitation melts into something warmer, deeper. his fingers trail up, grazing your waist over the fabric, then settle at your hips. he leans in, forehead resting against yours, breath mingling with yours in the quiet.

"can i kiss you again?" he asks, like it's sacred.

you nod, and this time, it's slower. lips move with precision, as if calculated ages ago and he can finally show it off. no teasing, no games. just warmth, and want. he holds you like you'll perish if he loosens his grip. like you'll run away again. the plushie falls with a thud on the bed as you throw it, and your hands reach for his. you guide them back to the hem of the t-shirt, then slide them underneath. calloused fingers are rough against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. choi san is one of the rare idols who don't have long slender fingers. you find his short and thick fingers much cuter. it seems as if they were made for holding you. san's lips linger on yours, slow and reverent, like he's afraid to let go. when he finally does, it's only to rest his forehead against yours again, breath warm and uneven. hands stay beneath the shirt, fingers tracing imaginary lines, memorizing you in silence.

"don't let go," you whisper.

"i won't," he says, voice low. his arms tighten around you instantly, like the words unlocked something he'd been holding back. "not unless you ak me to."

you both sink onto the bed, limbs tangled, the plushie forgotten on the floor. san's hand abandons you, only to find a switch above his head. the headboard lights cast a soft glow over your faces, golden and gentle, like the room itself is holding its breath. he brushes a strand of hair from your face, thumb grazing your cheek.

"you're dangerous," he murmurs again, but this time it sounds like a confession. "you make me feel everything all at once."

you smile, eyes half-lidded. "good. i want you to feel me."

he exhales, a sound that's half laugh, half surrender. "i do. i feel you everywhere."

"then," you trail, nails grazing the line on his neck, from his jaw to his collarbones. "let me feel you as well."

"what do you—" his breath catches in the middle of the sentence as you straddle him, the curve of your bum positioned on his crotch. his hands instinctively find their spot on your thighs. "what do you mean?"

"let me feel you," you repeat, softer this time. you lean in, fingers brushing the hem of his tank top. "all of you."

he doesn't speak. just nods, eyes locked on yours, lips parted like he's forgotten how to breathe. his head drops comfortably on the pillow as you lift the fabric slowly, deliberately, revealing inch after inch of warm skin. his chest rises beneath your touch, muscles tense. when the tank top is gone, you toss it aside, and he's left bare beneath you. sun kissed, illuminated by the lights above his head, san looks like a feast. your hands explore him like he's something sacred. fingers trace the lines of his collarbones, the dip between his ribs, the soft curve of his stomach. he shivers, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting in quiet awe.

"you're unreal," you whisper. you lean down, lips brushing his neck, then his shoulder, then the center of his chest. he gasps, hands tightening on your thighs, but he doesn't stop you. he wouldn't dare.

because in this moment, you have him. completely. and he knows it. his voice is barely a breath. "you could ruin me."

you smile against his skin.

"and i'd let you."

"i don't want to ruin you," you whisper. "i want to worship you."

the first kiss lands just below his jaw. a soft press, leaving behind a faint, glistening print of what is left of your gloss. then another, lower, on the curve of his collarbone. you work your way down, each kiss deliberate, a trail of you on him. san's eyes flutter shut, his breathing stutters.

"you're... marking me," he says, voice hushed.

"mm," you hum against his skin. "so you remember whose pretty boy you are."

when you finally pull back, his chest is dotted with faint, shimmering imprints. a constellation only the two of you will ever know. your nails leave faint red lines down his torso, lips leaving a ghost trail down the curve of his abs. you feel the way his pulse quickens under your fingertips, the way his body softens into yours. and in that quiet, you realize — he's given you all of him, without a single word.

"can i see you?"

"but...? you already see me?" he raises his head from the pillow to look at you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"sannie." his name comes out as a mix of a chuckle and sigh. "can i see you?"

a gentle tug at his sweatpants is enough to make his cheeks flush. his hands squeeze your thighs, anticipation eating him alive.

"words, love. i need words." you encourage.

"yes." the man responds. "you can see me."

it's enough words of confirmation for you to undo the knot of his bottoms. you discard the last pieces of clothing off him, leaving him a flushed and blubbering mess underneath you. you sit between his legs now, eyes fixed on his leaking tip. it's red, and inviting. the world's sweetest candy didn't have your mouth watering like this. fingers eagerly wrap around his shaft. san chokes back a gasp, hips struggling to stay in place. he can't let his touch starved side ruin the moment by rushing it. so he obediently stays put, fingers curling into the bedsheets to somewhat keep him grounded.

"so pretty." your breath is a hot caress on his aching tip. "and all mine."

the tip of your tongue starts the journey from his base, working its way up a bulging vein and stopping at the tip. san throws his head further back, burying the back of it into the pillow. the gloss stains glimmer under headboard lights as his breath quickens. you press your lips against him, and painfully slowly, take him inch by inch, until he touches the back of your throat. san may not be long, but much like his fingers, he is thick.

so thick, that your jaw soon starts aching even though you haven't managed to speed up just yet. the pace and his own impatience is taunting him. his hips twitch under you each time you take him all the way. you want to see how long before he loses control. you focus on the tip, lips leaving sticky kisses all over it and tongue barely touching it. san hisses when you graze your teeth against it. then, you find it. just under his tip, a spot which you gently suck on, causing san's fingers to find a new spot in your hair. he grips the strands as you swipe your tongue on the very spot, letting out a choked moan.

"fuck—" he cries out. his hips don't rush to meet your moves. instead, they move away from your touch. "princess."

"hmm?" you hum against him, the vibrations only making the matters worse for him it seems.

"princess—" he begs. "stop. stop, please. i'm going to cum."

already, you wish to tease. you give him a break. not because you feel sorry for teasing, but because you are about to give him something way worse.

"please, please, please," whines leave his pretty lips, and red and plump from biting them. he twitches in your hand, and a gasp echoes in the room. just in time, you take him in your mouth again, ropes of cum shooting straight down your throat. he twitches against your tongue, salty and sweet at the same time. hips try to escape once again, but you dig your nails into his thighs, keeping him in place. "i can't take it! please—! ha—ah—!"

you pull away, giving him a second. one of your hands wrap around his shiny and softening shaft, slowly working it up and down while simultaneously twisting it. "look at me."

it takes him a while to raise his head up, but when his half-lided eyes look at your dark and serious ones, he doesn't regret it. you look like a wild cat, staring down your prey before feasting. and it makes san's blood rush to his crotch again, until he grows and becomes rock hard in your hand again.

"you can take it." you encourage.

"i'll try." he gulps.

"no." you squeeze him, and he hisses again. "you won't try. you'll take what i give you, like the good boy you are. won't you?"

"i will, i will!" his tone is desperate as you continue squeezing him. "i'll do anything you want me to."

"then," you lower your head again, tongue dangerously close to his sensitive tip. "you can do a few more."

"a— a few?" san wasn't thinking a few. he can barely handle one. he can feel your nails grazing his shaft as a warning, and thus, he braces himself. "yes, of course. however many you wish."

"that's my good puppy." you can't get enough. the second orgasm takes a while to arrive. the third one a bit shorter, and the fourth one surprises both of you, san dripping all over your fingers moments after the third one. he shakes under your touch as your tongue licks the trails of seed. he goes soft in your hand once again, yet you don't give him a break this time. your hand already works up and down, hardening him. this time not for teasing, but for a reward. san doesn't look at you. his gaze is fixed on the ceiling, while his breathing is getting steady. he is bracing for another one. you get his attention by sliding your panties off, then dangling them above his face on your finger. "why don't you take the rest off me?"

"actually..." he gulps. "i would like you to keep my t-shirt on. please...?"

"oh?" you raise an eyebrow, a smirk dancing on your lips. "you want to fuck your friend's assistant with your clothes on?"

"i—" he is a stuttering mess. and you adore him for it. "i mean, yes...?"

"oh, sannie." you press a kiss to his forehead, then his lips. a short, sweet kiss, just enough to rile him up again. "say it."

"say what?"

"say," you grab his face, fingers digging into his cheeks so that his lips stick out in a pout. "it."

"i want to fuck my friend's assistant." he blinks. "with my clothes on her."

"mmh." you tilt your head, admiring his features for a while. his hair is a mess, sticking to his sweaty forehead, and his cheeks and neck flushed. "good boy."

you dig your fingers further into his cheeks, forcing his lips open. san swears he faints for a moment. his tongue tastes your essence as you push your panties into his mouth. he doesn't question it. he can't, even if he wanted.

"as much as i love your pretty moans, i can't have someone barging in and ruining our fun." you explain. he nods understandingly. even if you had no reason, san would still find it the hottest thing you've ever done. "i'm going to make love to you, mr choi."

"mmh—" his abused tip sinks between your folds with your help, and his hands fly to your waist for help and support. inch by inch, he disappears inside you, a soft squelch echoing in the room. when you finally sit, both of you let out a grunt. the stretch is painfully delicious. something you haven't properly savoured the first time. this time, you'll do it properly.

"you're the prettiest thing i've ever seen." words come out as a sigh as you stand on your knees, only to sink back down slower than ever. "an eye candy, my pretty sannie."

he hums, probably a word of gratitude. as moments pass, you pick up the pace. not fast. sensual, and deep. you roll your hips, one hand pressed flat against his flexing abs to keep yourself steady, and the other one placed over his that lays on your thigh with a death grip. you know you'll bruise. it's his way of marking you.

san can't take his eyes off you. the pleasure is nothing compared to the majestic sight of you; hazy look, bra pulled down, nipples poking through the white cotton t-shirt, bottom lip trapped between your teeth, and beads of sweat making your body glisten. his free hand reaches for you, tugging at the fabric for you to lift it up. when you do, he wastes no time in cupping your breast, thumb grazing the sensitive bud. you gasp, shocks of pleasure rushing to your core.

"my good, good boy." you're slowly becoming a blubbering mess yourself, fucking yourself silly on his aching cock. eyes become blurry, and hips stutter as you feel it coiling in your abdomen. the bubble of pleasure, growing with each thrust and threatening to burst soon. the control you've had slowly fades away, the need to be held taking over instead. you remove the panties from his mouth, tossing them aside. "san..."

"yes?" he says, breathless.

"i need you."

"but, you have me."

"no, san." you fall over, elbow digging into the mattress and bracing you. "i need you to take care of me. please."

he presses a kiss to your lips. it calms you, delaying the orgasm. "how do you want me?"

"your way. however you wish." you assure him.

when you say his way, you didn't think he would easily pick you up and lay you on your stomach. to place a pillow under your hips, lifting your ass and exposing it. to spread your thighs, and blow cool air on your hot core. to sink one finger, then another, into your walls. to hush you when you whine, tell you to listen to the sweet sounds of squelching and slick. to push your legs together with his thighs, and push through your folds once more.

much like you, he finds a new spot in this position. the pillow presses your stomach just right, allowing him to easily locate and abuse the a-spot. san's plushie meets his fate as you sink your teeth into it, preventing yourself from the chain of noises threatening to leave you. most men fail to find the g-spot, let alone the a-spot. seems that san has done his research.

even though his thrusts are deep and rough, his grip on your waist is gentle. he holds your body in place, thumbs occasionally rubbing soothing circles into your skin whenever he stops to give you a moment to collect yourself.

"poor sandeoki." he teases.

truly, poor sandeoki. soaked with tears of pleasure and saliva, with bite marks decorating it. he'll never forgive you. san's teasing is short lived, replaced by faster thrusts, each snap of his hips precise to the point you start gripping the headboard for support. you swear you will snap in half. nails leave marks, as san's grip intensifies and leaves bruises on your limp body. the bubble grows again, each thrust inflating it. it takes a final thrust for it to burst, pleasure washing over in waves like an earthquake.

"where—" his hips stutter. "where do i cum, princess?"

"in me, please." you whine. "please."

"are you sure?" he's breathless, but doesn't stop for you to answer.

"yes, yes, yes—" words of confirmation turn into moans, the second orgasm approaching. "fuck, yes. fill me to the brim, sannie."

"fuuuck—" your words send him down a spiral, and thrusting isn't enough anymore. he moves your hips backwards so that you meet him halfway, deeper and harder. he uses you for his own pleasure, utterly lost in the feeling of your unmerciful tight walls. "say it. please, say it."

"make me cum, sannie." you know just what he wants. "be a good boy, paint me white."

"i'll be a good boy—"

"yes, you will." it takes only a few more thrusts to push you over the edge. "the best."

"fuck, fuck, fuck," he leans over you, burying his face into the crook of your neck and sinking his teeth into your shoulder. one hand snakes around your waist, pressing your back against his skin. it's hot, slippery, and the best you've ever felt. san uses you as his own personalized fleshlight, holding you in place as he chases his own orgasm. "take it. take all of me, baby, please."

the moment his seed shoots inside you, you feel your own orgasm granting you mercy. it washes over you again, this time not in waves, but in intense quakes. san doesn't move until he does exactly as you told him; fills you to the brim. he forces himself to move, he doesn't want to squish you. instead of falling beside you, he spreads your thighs, watching as white liquid seeps from your pulsing core. you can't help the surprised gasp as he gently collects it and pushes it back inside.

"i'll clean you up, i promise. just... let me have this."

you can't help the fond chuckle that leaves you. san kneels between your legs for a while, utterly mesmerized by his doing. until you turn to lay on your back, and pull him towards you. he falls over, face inches away from yours. "hi."

"hey." he says it back. "are you okay?"

"of course." you say, fingers brushing the damp bangs out of his eyes. "are you?"

"oh." he sighs. "i've never felt better."

you urge him to lay on top of you, and he does, ear pressed to your chest as he listens to your heart becoming steady. you comb his hair with one hand, while the other one rubs his back. "i think... i love you."

he stiffens under your touch. fuck.

"i— sorry. too soon?"

"no, i just..." he trails. "i'm scared."

you lift his chin up, guiding his gaze to lock with yours. "of?"

"of waking up and you leaving again."

"oh, san." the words hurt you. you've made the mistake once, you won't do it twice. "i'm here to stay. i promise."

"then..." plush lips capture yours in a kiss. a kiss that finally means closure of a painful chapter, and opening of a new one. "i love you too. but... i can't help but wonder, what now? will you stay as hwa's assistant?"

"i will." you play with the hair on the back of his head. "but not for long, i guess. at least that's what he said."

"i knew it. he was asking around about a free position for a photographer or editor. said he knows just the person. i knew it was for you. but, what do i do about leah?"

"i'll handle her." and you mean it.

in the morning, you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel uneasy. san lays on top of you again, and you reach for the phone. a smile creeps on your lips as you find a singular message on the notification board.

park seonghwa: how was the movie? ;)

y/n: hush

park seonghwa: i'm happy for you both, tiny.

y/n: thank you, seonghwa. for everything.

park seonghwa: a wise person once said, "hush"

park seonghwa: you're still my assistant though. hurry up, i want my watered down coffee!

y/n: right away, mr park :)

I lay there, aimlessly scrolling on my phone like I usually do before I go to sleep. No obligations. No responsibilities. Just an attempt at relaxation before I allow sleep to drag me under. I have put my phone down three times now, trying to find it in myself to fall asleep, but each time I am just not tired enough. 

Nobody to talk to, all of my friends have pretty consistent sleep schedules. None of them are really expected to be browsing social media at 1am on a Tuesday night. Just silence. It's kind of relaxing, the quietness of it all. 

San: Are you awake?

A second later:

San: Drive?

I’m barely halfway through brushing my hair out of my face when I’m already slipping on the first hoodie I can find. The house is silent except for the hum of the fridge downstairs, the kind of quiet that makes your thoughts echo. I move carefully, even though I technically don’t need to hide anything - I’m an adult, he’s an adult, and late-night drives have been our thing since long before graduation.

Still, something about slipping out at this hour feels… illicit.

The air outside is cold, the kind of cold that bites at your ankles even through thick socks. Streetlights buzz faintly overhead as I step onto the curb. The moment my phone buzzes again, headlights turn the corner -  familiar, warm, a low beam sweeping across the quiet neighborhood.

San’s car slows to a stop in front of me. I already feel myself exhale in relief.

He doesn’t usually get out to greet me. He never has. Instead, the passenger door unlocks with a soft click. I pull it open and slip inside.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and a little raspy. He’s got his hair pushed back, a few pieces falling forward in that messy, tired way. His hoodie is oversized, draped around him like it’s the only thing holding him together tonight.

“Hey,” I reply, closing the door. The heater hums softly. His music is playing low, something atmospheric.

“You good?” I ask gently.

He gives me a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Just… didn’t wanna be alone.”

That answer usually means he’s been thinking too much again. Feeling too much again. I know the symptoms intimately, he and I have always been too intense for anyone else’s taste.“ Same,” I admit quietly.

He nods once, then puts the car in drive.

We don’t speak for a few minutes. We don’t need to. Streetlights slide across his face in orange sweeps, casting shadows that make him look older, almost hollowed out. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, but the rhythm is uneven. Something’s chewing at him tonight.

“San,” I say softly. “Talk to me.”

He exhales, a harsh breath through his nose. “Do you ever feel like you’re… off? Like everyone else is tuned to the right frequency, and we’re stuck on some broken one?”

My chest tightens. “Yeah. All the time.”

He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Of course you’d get it.”

Then he cuts a glance at me - sharp, like he’s trying to see inside my head.

I look back at him. I don’t look away.

-

We end up at our spot.

An empty overlook on the edge of the city, a place we found junior year, back when ditching class to sit on the hood of his car felt like rebellion instead of burnout. The view hasn’t changed, the city lights have always looked like a reflection of some galaxy we’ll never reach.

San shifts into park, then leans his head back against the seat. His throat bobs with a swallow.

“You ever think we peaked in high school?” he asks quietly. “Not in a good way, in a like… life was simpler when we were just trying to survive the day kind of way.”

“Maybe,” I admit. “Or maybe we’re just in the in-between part.”

“That’s the problem,” he mutters. “It feels like nothing’s happening. Like I’m waiting for a version of myself that might not ever show up.”

“You already showed up,” I say. “You just don’t see it.”

His eyes flick to me again. There’s something raw there this time. Something cracked around the edges.

“Why does it feel like everyone else knows how to be a person except me?” he asks. “Like I’m… off-putting. Too much.”

I reach for his sleeve without thinking, fingers grazing the soft fabric. “You’re not too much. Not for me.”

He stares at me like the words hit harder than I meant them to. I retract my hand, suddenly aware of how close we’re sitting in the dark.

Then - he reaches into the cupholder.

And pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

My breath stills.

“Since when do you smoke?” I ask gently.

He hesitates. His thumb taps once on the pack before opening it. “Since a few months ago.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

He laughs again, a small, humorless sound. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

I watch as he flicks the lighter. The flame casts a sharp glow over his face: cheekbones carved in amber light, lips parted. The cigarette tips with ember-red.

“You gonna judge me for it?” he asks, but the tone is light, almost teasing.

“No,” I say quietly, maybe too fast. “Just… surprised.”

He leans out the window slightly and exhales. Smoke curls out in a slow ribbon, illuminated in the glow of the dashboard.

It’s stupid, but my heart thuds at the sight.

He looks good like this. Too good. Like the version of him I’m not supposed to stare at.

San tilts his head back and takes another drag.

“You want one?” he asks, casual but not.

I shake my head. “I don’t smoke.”

“Didn’t think so.”

But then he pauses.

“You want to try?” he asks, softer this time, less playful.

I look at him. At the faint tremble in his fingers. At the exhaustion in his eyes, dark and stormy under the streetlight glow.

“Yeah,” I hear myself say. “I want to understand.”

His breath stutters.

He shifts toward me slowly. He holds the cigarette out between two fingers, angled toward me, but there’s something intimate in the way he does it, like he’s handing me something heavier than nicotine.

I lean in. Our faces are too close.

I take a tentative drag, almost cough, and San laughs, but it’s soft, fond, gentle. He reaches out and rubs my back once, warm pressure through my hoodie.

The smoke burns but tastes warm.

When I exhale, I feel his eyes on my lips.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “It’s addictive.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I can see that.”

His jaw clenches, not out of anger, but restraint.

I hand the cigarette back. Our fingers brush.

He swallows hard.

For a moment, the car feels too small. Too warm.

We sit there for a moment. Him looking out the window, trying to gather his thoughts. Me, still thinking about the way he looked at my lips. With hunger. With desire. 

“Can I try again?” I ask, motioning toward the cigarette. 

San's eyes darken. He pulls the cigarette away slightly, shaking his head.

"No," he says, voice rougher than before. "You shouldn't."

My heart drops a little. "Why not?"

He takes another drag, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact. The ember flares bright in the darkness between us. When he speaks, smoke curls from his lips with each word.

"Because I have something better."

I don't understand at first. Not until he shifts closer, the center console suddenly feeling like nothing at all. Not until his free hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing just below my ear.

"Trust me?" he asks, barely above a whisper.

I nod because I can't form words.

He takes one more pull from the cigarette, deeper this time, then stubs it out in the ashtray with careful precision. The loss of that small light makes the car feel even more private, more ours.

San turns back to me. His pupils are blown wide, catching the distant city lights. His thumb traces my jawline once, a question and a promise.

Then he leans in. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. Close enough that our noses almost brush. His breath ghosts over my parted lips, and I realize what he's offering.

"Open," he murmurs.

I do.

He exhales slowly, deliberately, and the smoke flows between us like something tangible. It fills my mouth, warm and intimate and dizzying in a way that has nothing to do with nicotine. I inhale it, tasting him in it, with mint and smoke.

My eyes flutter closed.