Kiki

Davidson says the word ’synergistic’ twenty times in forty-six minutes, and you know this because Yuki’s been keeping count on the corner of her notepad.

She slides it across the conference table when he’s not looking—a running tally in neat black pen, complete with little angry faces drawn next to the higher numbers.

You’re supposed to be paying attention. Taking notes. Being a productive member of the Synergy International team.

Instead you’re watching Davidson gesture at a PowerPoint slide that’s somehow managed to use five different fonts in a single bullet point, and wondering if this is what hell looks like. Just endless corporate presentations in a too-cold conference room that smells like burnt coffee and someone’s tuna sandwich.

“And so,” Davidson announces, clicking to the next slide with all the gravitas of a man unveiling the cure for cancer, “I’m pleased to introduce our new campaign name.”

The slide loads.

PEPTIDE REVOLUTION: COLLAGEN FOR THE MODERN WOMAN

Silence.

Complete, absolute silence.

Amelie makes a noise that could be a cough or could be her soul leaving her body.

“Revolutionary,” Davidson continues, oblivious. “Forward-thinking. A real paradigm shift in how we approach beauty supplementation in the Japanese market.”

Yuki’s hand moves. You watch her add another tally mark, then write in tiny letters:

If he says ‘paradigm shift’ one more time, I’m jumping.

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

“Now, I know what you’re all thinking,” Davidson says, and absolutely no one is thinking what he thinks they’re thinking. “How do we communicate this paradigm—”

Yuki’s pen moves so fast it nearly tears the paper.

“—this shift in market positioning to our target demographic?”

She draws a stick figure falling off a building.

You’re losing it. Your shoulders are shaking. You have to look down at your own notebook and pretend to be writing something very serious and important.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You shouldn’t check it. You’re in a meeting. You’re supposed to be professional.

You check it anyway, angling your body slightly away from Tanaka’s line of sight.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙷𝚘𝚠’𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔?! (●’◡’●)ﾉ

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙾𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝟷 𝚝𝚘 ’𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚗’

You glance up. Davidson’s still talking. Something about Q4 projections and market penetration.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙾𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚗’𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙱𝙰𝙳?! (つ .•́ _ʖ •̀.)つ

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙷𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: ’𝙿𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.’

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙷𝙰𝙷𝙰𝙷𝙰𝙷𝙰

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙽𝙾

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃𝚂 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙻

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙸 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙳𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚜?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙳𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: ‘𝚆𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐!’（｀Δ´）..!.

You have to cover your mouth with your hand.

Brianna glances over, catches your expression, raises an eyebrow. You shake your head slightly—later—and she nods, going back to her own notebook where she’s been doodling what appears to be Davidson’s head on fire.

“Which brings me,” Davidson says, and something in his tone makes you look up, “to some organisational updates.”

The room shifts. People sit up straighter.

organisational updates. In corporate-speak, that’s never good.

“As many of you know, Synergy International has been evaluating our operational efficiency across all regional offices.” He clicks to a new slide—just the company logo, which somehow makes it more ominous. “We’re committed to streamlining our processes to better serve our clients and maximize our impact.”

Streamlining. Maximizing impact.

Translation: someone’s getting sacked.

“Performance reviews will be conducted over the next two weeks,” he continues. “And we’ll be implementing some structural changes to ensure we’re operating at peak efficiency.”

Yuki’s pen has stopped moving. Amelie’s staring very intently at her hands.

You feel something cold settle in your stomach.

You’ve been here two months. Barely. You’re still figuring out where the good vending machines are. You don’t know half the systems. Your Japanese is passable but not fluent.

If they’re cutting people, you’re an obvious choice.

The newest hire. The foreigner who still can’t read half the memos. The one who definitely called in sick last week to help her friend finish his porn manga deadline.

Fuck.

Davidson keeps talking but you’ve stopped listening. Your brain’s already spiraling through the worst-case scenarios—getting sacked, having to find a new job, potentially having to leave Japan if you can’t get another work visa sponsor, going back to Sydney with your tail between your legs and everyone asking what happened.

Your phone buzzes again.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙳𝚒𝚍 𝙳𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚜𝚘𝚗'𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚖 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚏𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

You stare at the messages for a long moment.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝.

A reply lands almost immediately. Then another.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚝

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝...

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚁𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠𝚜.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 ’𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎’ 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚆𝚎’𝚕𝚕 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛!(≧◡≦) ♡

Despite everything, you almost smile.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝙸’𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜!

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑?

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚆𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝙼𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚙 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙸𝚝’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝! (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

You shouldn’t. You should go home and update your CV and maybe look at job listings and be a responsible adult about this whole situation.

But the thought of going back to your empty flat and spiraling alone sounds approximately one thousand times worse than spiraling in Hoseok’s organised chaos.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸’𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙽𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝟻𝟶 𝚢𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚞𝚙 𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚕𝚎 rubbish.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚆𝚘𝚠. 𝚂𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚃𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚎. (￣▽￣)

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝟻 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚙.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚞

You blink at the screen.

Love u.

Your face goes hot. Stupidly, immediately hot, like someone's pressed a heated towel against both cheeks at once.

Your phone buzzes again. Three times in rapid succession.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙸𝚃

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚒𝚝*

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚃𝚢𝚙𝚘

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚂𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚢

A pause.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚂𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢𝚜

Another pause.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚂𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢*

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙷𝚊𝚑𝚊. 𝚃𝟿 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 (；′⌒`)

Your ears are burning. You can feel them. Physically feel the heat creeping up from your neck to the tips of your ears like some kind of biological betrayal.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘.

Safe. Deflective. Classic.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙷𝙰. 𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑!! 𝚂𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚍 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎!!

Two exclamation marks. He never uses two exclamation marks. One, sure. Three, when he's being dramatic. But two sits in this uncanny valley of trying too hard to sound casual.

Not that you're analysing his punctuation patterns.

That would be insane.

You slide your phone back into your pocket just as Davidson wraps up his presentation.

“Any questions?” he asks brightly.

No one says anything.

Amelie’s still staring at her hands. Adao’s jaw is clenched. Brianna’s crossed her arms and is radiating the kind of energy that suggests violence is not off the table.

“Wonderful! I’ll be scheduling individual check-ins over the next few days. Keep an eye on your calendars.”

The meeting ends. Everyone files out in silence.

You grab your notebook—covered in doodles of stick figures falling off buildings, courtesy of Yuki—and head back to your desk.

You drop into your chair and find the printer proofs waiting exactly where you left them: oversized sheets covered in crop marks, registration bars, and sticky notes from three departments that apparently communicate exclusively through arrows.

The collagen launch needs final English copy before the packaging vendor locks everything for print tomorrow. Bottle label, sachet cartons, counter display, beauty-counter cards, and a folded customer leaflet—each one carrying a slightly different version of the same claim.

Your job is to compare the proofs against the approved Japanese copy, clean up the agency’s English, and squeeze the corrections back into boxes designed for sentences half the length.

Across every sheet, in metallic-pink placeholder ink:

PEPTIDE REVOLUTION.

Thrilling stuff.

Your phone buzzes. You ignore it.

It buzzes again.

You keep typing.

Third buzz.

You grab it, fully prepared to tell Hoseok to fuck off and let you finish this soulless document in peace—

It's your mum.

𝐌𝐮𝐦: 𝙷𝚒 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝! 𝙷𝚘𝚠'𝚜 𝙹𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚗? 𝚇𝚡

You stare at the message for a solid ten seconds, then put the phone face-down on your desk.

Nope.

Not dealing with that right now.

The proofs aren’t going to correct themselves.

You start with the customer leaflet, lining a ruler beneath the first block so your eyes don’t jump between columns. The outside agency has translated one of the taglines as ‘Towards Every Day with Tension.’

Technically English. Spiritually a threat.

You cross it out in red, type a usable alternative into the master copy file, then count every character because the printer has allowed fifty-two spaces and Davidson wants eighty-seven spaces’ worth of nonsense.

Next is ‘Return Your Skin to Its Original Young Power’, followed by ‘Collagen That Understands the Modern Lady.’

You fix both. Then the carton. Then the bottle label. Then the counter card where Davidson has handwritten ‘Can we make this sound more revolutionary?’ beside a claim Legal already rejected twice.

You’re going to walk into the ocean. You’re actually going to do it.

By the time you’ve corrected the carton, the bottle label, and half the customer leaflet, the red pencil has left a dent in your middle finger.

You take a break to get coffee from the kitchen—the good stuff that Tanaka-san hides in the back of the cupboard behind the decaf no one touches.

When you get back, Adao's crouched next to Yuki's desk, half-disappeared under her monitor.

"No, see, is the connection," he's saying, wiggling something behind her computer tower. "The cable, it is—ah, there."

Yuki's leaning over, watching him work. "Oh! It's working now."

"Yes, I told you." He surfaces, pushing his hair back. There's a smudge of dust on his jaw. "Is always the cable. People think is the software but—" He makes a dismissive gesture. "Is just the cable."

"You're a lifesaver," Yuki says.

Adao stands, brushing off his knees. He's wearing dark jeans and a button-down that actually fits, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Proper IT guy who doesn't look like an IT guy.

He notices you staring and nods. "Your computer is okay?"

"Yeah, mine's fine."

"Good." He glances at Yuki, then back at you. "You are coming for drinks later? After work?"

You open your mouth.

From across the room, Amelie's head pops up over her cubicle divider like a meerkat. She presses her palms together. "Please."

"I—" You hesitate. "I've got plans already."

Amelie's face falls. Yuki spins in her chair, eyebrows raised.

"Tomorrow, maybe?" you offer, and you feel weirdly guilty about it, which is stupid.

You're allowed to have plans. You've had these plans for hours.

"Tomorrow works," Brianna says from her desk, not looking up from her screen. "I've got a thing tonight anyway."

Amelie brightens. "Okay! Tomorrow! We can do that place in Namba, the one with the good gyoza—"

"And the terrible service," Yuki adds.

"The service is fine—"

"They forgot your order twice."

Adao's still standing there, hands in his pockets, looking mildly amused. "Is decided, then. Tomorrow."

"Wait, wait, Adao—" Amelie swivels in her chair, zeroing in on him with laser focus. "You should bring Mr. Kim."

You blink. "Mr. Kim?"

"Oh—he's not Japanese," Amelie says, waving a hand. "American-Korean. We only talk to him in English, hence the 'Mr.' instead of—you know." She gestures vaguely. "The whole -san situation. He insists on Mr Kim. Says Kim-san makes him feel like someone’s dad."

"He does translation work," Yuki adds. "Cultural consulting. For international business stuff."

"He's also—" Amelie makes a helpless gesture. "Have you seen him?"

"I work in accounting," Yuki says. "I see everyone's files. I've seen his employee photo."

"Then you understand."

Adao's face does something complicated. "Ah…"

"Please," Amelie says, hands coming together like she's praying. "Please. I am begging you."

"He is very busy—"

"I don't care! Bring him anyway!"

"You have been talking about him for three weeks," Adao says, looking genuinely pained.

"Because he's—" Amelie gestures again, more emphatically. "I mean, come on."

"I will ask," Adao says carefully. "But—"

"Thank you!" Amelie's practically vibrating. "Oh my god, thank you, you're the best—"

"I said I will ask—"

"He's going to say yes. I can feel it."

Adao glances at you, then at Yuki, then back at Amelie.

"Women are scary," he says, very seriously.

"You're only just figuring that out?" Brianna asks, not looking up from her screen.

Yuki laughs, and Adao starts to turn back towards his desk. Before the conversation can fully dissolve, Amelie props her chin on her hand and turns to you with the particular look she gets when she’s decided something.

“You should totally invite your friend out with us, by the way.”

You glance up from your keyboard. “What friend.”

“Oh, come on.” She spins her chair to face you fully. “Don’t what friend me. The cinnamon-haired one from Midnight Keys.”

“The golden retriever,” Yuki adds, not looking up.

“He’s not my—” You stop. Start again. “I’m not bringing my childhood best friend to a company dinner.”

“It’s not a company dinner,” Amelie says, genuinely offended.

“Exactly,” Brianna cuts in, finally looking up. “How dare you call it that. Davidson is not coming. Don’t say that word.”

“It’s drinks,” Amelie insists. “Normal human drinks. Between normal humans who happen to work together and are allowed to have outside friends—”

“He’s cute, though,” Yuki says, still not looking up. “Your friend. Very enthusiastic.”

“He waves with both hands,” Brianna observes. “Like a Labrador.”

“Golden retriever,” Amelie corrects.

“Is there a difference?”

“Anyway.” Amelie fixes you with her most earnest expression. “Is he single?”

You stop typing.

The question sits there, perfectly ordinary, requiring a perfectly ordinary answer, and your brain immediately helpfully supplies: ‘we literally dry humped the other day so if he has a partner I’m worried for them.’

Instead, you settle for something a tad more diplomatic.

“I… guess?”

“You guess.”

“I mean—” You glance at his flat in your head.

The instant noodle tower. The sugar glider. The sketchbooks. The total absence of anything that suggests another human being has ever stayed there.

“Seeing his flat, I definitely don’t think he’s got anything going on. That’s for sure.”

Amelie looks delighted. Yuki finally looks up.

“Are you interested?” Amelie asks. Just like that. No preamble.

“What?” You actually choke on nothing. “No—he’s my childhood best friend, that’s—what kind of question even—”

“Okay, okay.” Amelie holds her hands up, way too pleased with the reaction. “So that’s a no.”

“That’s a obviously no.”

“Great.” Brianna leans forward, elbows on her desk. “So—was it the black-haired one? The cat-looking one?”

“Yoongi?”

You freeze.

Brianna's smiling. It's not a nice smile. It's the smile of someone who's got you pinned and knows it.

"Because if you're not interested," she continues, "I am begging you to introduce us."

Your face goes hot. "I don't even know him."

"But your golden retriever does," Yuki says, grinning.

"He's not my—"

"They always know everything," Yuki continues, ignoring you completely. "Golden retrievers. Very social creatures."

Amelie props her chin on her hand. "Personally, I like golden retrievers. They're so my type." She pauses. "What's his deal? Your friend?"

"He's—" You falter. What is Hoseok's deal? "He draws manga."

"Ooh, artist type."

"He's a disaster," you say flatly. "Eats instant noodles for every meal. Owns a sugar glider. His flat's a health hazard."

Amelie's eyes go wide. "A sugar glider?"

"Don't," you warn. "Don't do that voice."

"What voice?"

"That 'oh my god that's adorable' voice."

"I'm not—" She absolutely is. "Okay, but that is adorable."

Brianna's still watching you. "So. The black-haired one.”

"What about him?" you ask, trying for casual and landing somewhere around defensive.

"He was fit," Brianna says simply. "And I haven't been on a proper date since I moved here, so if you're not planning to make a move—"

”As I said, Bri—I don’t know him."

“Soo we get to know him, here's the plan. You ask your friend to hang out. Casual group thing. He brings Yoongi. That way you can figure out if you're actually interested, yeah? And if you're not—" She peeks her tongue out. "I'll also be there. I can shoot my shot. Everyone wins."

You stare at her.

It's… actually not a terrible plan.

You are curious about Yoongi. He's hot, yeah, but also—he's got that whole understated thing going on. The kind of guy who doesn't need to try, which is either very attractive or deeply annoying depending on the day.

"I can ask," you hear yourself say.

Amelie claps. Yuki grins. Brianna nods like you've just signed a contract.

"Brilliant," Brianna says. "See you tomorrow!”

Adao catches your eye and shakes his head slightly. The gesture very clearly says: You are in trouble now.

Yeah. You're aware.

You retreat to your desk, face still warm, and drag the folded customer leaflet back beneath your keyboard.

Supports firmer-looking skin for modern life.

Right. Back to the void.

You work through lunch—leftover rice balls from the konbini, eaten one-handed while checking product codes against the Japanese master and transferring your corrections into the copy file.

The office empties out around one. People drift back slowly, smelling like ramen and cigarette smoke.

Yuki appears at your desk at some point with a can of cold coffee. Sets it down without a word, then disappears again.

You drink it. It tastes like sweetened sadness, but the caffeine helps.

By four, you’ve reached the third proofing pass. Your wrist hurts from switching between the red pencil and keyboard. Your eyes hurt from comparing near-identical blocks of text.

You’re running purely on spite and the looming threat of restructuring.

By four-thirty, you’re done.

Five pieces of packaging. Two counter cards. One customer leaflet. Thirty-four separate blocks of English copy, all corrected, cross-checked, and bullied into the limited space provided by the printer.

Not a single skin youth revolution survives.

You stack the marked proofs in order, print the final list of corrections, staple it to the top, and email the clean copy file to the packaging vendor.

Then you carry the signed approval sheet to the fax machine.

It swallows the paper, shrieks at Osaka for forty seconds, and spits out a confirmation slip at 4:48 PM.

Done.

Davidson will look at the finished packaging next week, announce that the English feels ‘much more synergistic,’ and forget that anyone had to fix it.

You close your laptop. Stare at the ceiling for a moment.

Then you grab your bag, shove your notebook inside, and stand up.

Yuki glances over. "Leaving already?"

"It's almost five."

"It's 4:50."

"I'm preemptively leaving."

She grins. "Rebel."

"Someone's gotta do it." You sling your bag over your shoulder. "See you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Bring your golden retriever."

"He's not—" You give up. "Whatever. Yeah. Maybe."

Amelie waves from across the room. Adao nods. Brianna gives you a thumbs-up that feels vaguely threatening.

You take the lift down—seven floors of mildly depressing Muzak—and step out into the Umeda early evening.

The air's cooler now. November settling in properly.

You check your phone.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙳𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎??? (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙾𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚠.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗!!!

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍, 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎!!! ♡(˃͈ દ ˂͈ ༶ )

You shove your phone back in your pocket and head towards the station.

Hoseok's pencil stops moving when you can't make your face do what he needs.

"Okay, so—" He taps the eraser against his bottom lip, eyes flicking between you and his reference sketches spread across the desk. "This scene is different. Miki's not performing anymore. She's alone in her flat and Yuuta's gone and she thinks—she's convinced herself she's lost him for good."

You're sitting on the edge of his bed, still in your work clothes minus the blazer. The expensive ramen sits cooling in takeout containers on his low table in the other room, barely touched. You'd made it three bites in before he'd asked if you were up for a session.

You'd said yes because what else were you going to do? Spiral about restructuring alone in your flat?

"Right," you say. "So, sad cat-girl. Got it."

"Not just sad." He flips to a previous page, showing you a sketch of Miki's face. "She's grieving. She's—it's that specific kind of loss where the person's still alive but you've lost them anyway. Like they're a stranger now and you don't know how to get them back."

Something uncomfortable shifts in your chest.

"Okay."

"So I need you to—" He gestures vaguely at your face. "Feel that. Show me what that looks like."

You arrange your expression. Sad eyes. Downturned mouth. The kind of thing you've seen in movies.

Hoseok frowns. "You look like you're constipated."

"Fuck off."

"I'm serious! That's—that's not grief, that's just..." He waves his hand. "I need real."

"What do you want me to do, actually cry on command?"

"No, just—" He runs a hand through his hair, and you notice he's taken his glasses off. They're sitting on the desk next to his pencil case, which means he's been drawing for hours already and his eyes are probably killing him. "Think about something real. Something that actually makes you feel—"

"Feel what?"

"Whatever Miki would feel. Alone. Missing someone who used to know everything about you."

The discomfort spreads. Roots deeper.

"Fine."

You try again. Soften your eyes. Think about sad things.

That dog food commercial that always gets you. The ending of Grave of the Fireflies. Your Year 9 English teacher who died of cancer.

Hoseok's frown deepens. "Stop acting."

"I'm not—"

"You are. You're doing a face. I can tell."

"Well, excuse me for not being a method actor—"

"Capy." He leans back in his chair, pencil dangling between his fingers. "Just... think about something that actually hurt. Something real."

You stare at him.

He stares back, completely oblivious to what he's asking.

"Okay," you say slowly. "What's the scene again?"

"Miki's alone. She had this huge fight with Yuuta—he said some things, she said some things, it got ugly. And he left. And she's sitting there in her flat thinking he's not coming back. That she's finally pushed him away for good." Hoseok's already sketching as he talks, rough lines taking shape on the page. "She spent all this time keeping him at a distance because she was scared of exactly this—of needing someone and losing them—and now it's happened anyway."

Your throat goes tight.

"And the worst part," he continues, completely absorbed now, tongue poking out slightly as he adds detail to Miki's cat ears, "is that she can't even be angry about it. Because she knows she did this. She pushed and pushed until he finally walked away. So now she's just... sitting there. Trying to figure out how you're supposed to miss someone who's still alive."

You don't say anything.

"It's complicated because Miki's whole thing is that she doesn't need anyone, right? She's got this image—confident, in control, doesn't catch feelings. But Yuuta saw through that. He knew her. Like, actually knew her, before she built all those walls." He's gesturing with the pencil now, sketching forgot. "And she got used to that. To having someone who just got it. Got her. And then one day they're strangers and she doesn't know how that happened."

Your jaw goes tight.

"So I need that expression. That specific hurt of—it's not dramatic, it's not loud. It's just this quiet realization that you've lost something you didn't even know you were relying on until it was gone."

You're not listening anymore.

You're thinking about the five years.

About Hoseok leaving Sydney in 1998 with his mum and two suitcases and a promise to call every week. About how those calls got less frequent. Monthly. Every few months. Then just occasional messages when you both happened to be online at the same time.

About the person he was at seventeen—loud and ridiculous and always showing up at your window with some new disaster he'd got himself into—and how you'd just assumed he'd always be like that. That you'd always know him.

About moving to Osaka and seeing his Friendster  profile and staring at it for three hours before finally typing out that first message. Because some part of you was terrified he wouldn't remember you. Or worse—that he'd remember you and not care.

About all the versions of Hoseok you'd missed.

University Hoseok. First-flat-in-Osaka Hoseok. Learning-to-draw-hentai-professionally Hoseok.

The Hoseok who'd got diagnosed with ADHD and figured out how to ask for help and built a life here without you in it.

You'd missed all of it.

And you can't get it back.

Your eyes are burning.

"—which is why the expression has to be subtle, you know? It's not about the tears, it's about what happens before the tears. That moment where you're still holding it together but you can feel it cracking—Capy?"

You blink hard. Try to force it back down.

"Yeah, I'm—"

Your voice cracks.

Shit.

"Did you fall asleep?"

He's turning around in his chair, grin already forming like he's about to tease you for dozing off during his artistic rambling—

His face changes.

The grin disappears. His eyes go wide.

"Oh."

His sketchbook slides off his lap. Hits the floor with a dull thump that neither of you react to.

You're not crying. Not really. Your eyes are just wet and your throat's gone tight and you're biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper.

"Capy..."

"I'm fine."

"You're not—"

"I said I'm fine."

He's staring at you like you've just materialized out of thin air. Like he's seeing you for the first time.

Then something clicks behind his eyes.

"I'm—I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—you haven't lost me—"

"Who said anything about you?"

It comes out sharper than you meant. Defensive. Your default setting.

"I—I don't know, I just thought—“

"Not everything's about you, you dickhead."

"I know! I know, I'm sorry, I just—" He looks genuinely distressed. "The whole thing about missing someone who knew you, and growing apart, and I—shit, I wasn't thinking—"

"It's fine."

"It's not—"

"Ott." Your voice cracks again and you hate it. "It's fine. You asked me to think about something real. I did. That's the job, yeah?"

There's a long silence.

Momo chirps from her cage on the other room.

"For what it's worth," he says quietly, "I missed you too."

Your throat closes up completely.

"Those five years were—" He stops. Starts again. "I thought about texting you so many times. Like, so many times. I'd write out the message and then delete it because I didn't know what to say anymore. Didn't know if you'd even want to hear from me."

"That's stupid."

"Yeah, probably." He's looking at his hands now. Fingers tapping against his thighs. "But I kept thinking—we grew up. We changed. You had your life in Sydney and I had... whatever this is. And maybe we were just supposed to be childhood friends, you know? Maybe that was it."

"That's really stupid."

"I know."

"Like, properly thick."

"I know."

You bite your lip. Try to hold it together.

Fail.

The sob comes out before you can stop it. Quiet but unmistakable.

Hoseok's head snaps up.

"Capy—"

"Shut up."

"I'm—"

"I said shut up."

Another sob.

You're furious at yourself—at your stupid eyes that won't stop burning, at your throat that won't unclench, at the fact that you're sitting here crying in Jung Hoseok's bedroom like you're sixteen again and he's the only person who knows how to make it stop hurting.

You hear him move. The chair creaking as he stands.

You look up, and he’s standing there, a metre away, arms slightly raised.

Simply offering. Like he always does when it comes to you.

Never taking anything for granted, just offering.

"You don't have to," he says quietly. "But if you want—"

You lean forward. Rest your forehead against his stomach. Your hands come up to grip the sides of his shirt.

His arms come around you immediately. One hand on your back, the other cradling the back of your head, gentle but solid.

"I've got you," he murmurs. "I'm right here."

You sob harder—ugly—and your face is hot and your nose runs and your whole body shakes with it.

And Hoseok just holds you.

Doesn't tell you to stop, doesn’t ask you to explain, doesn’t try to fix it.

He simply stands there in his stupid tee and worn-out jeans, letting you cry into his shirt.

"You smell like sakura mochi," he says eventually. Soft. Almost to himself.

You hiccup. "What?"

"Nothing. Just—you're here. You're actually here."

"Obviously."

"I know, but—" His hand moves slightly, fingers curving against your back. "For five years I thought I'd missed my chance. Thought you'd moved on and built this whole life without me and I'd just be this weird guy from your childhood who you'd be polite to if we ever ran into each other."

"You are a weird guy from my childhood."

"Yeah, but you came back." His voice does something. Gets quieter. "You reached out. You came to Osaka. You're here."

Your fingers tighten in his shirt.

"Not going anywhere," you mumble into his stomach.

"Good."

"Even though you're an idiot."

"Established."

"And your flat smells like burnt rice."

"Rude, but fair."

You pull back slightly. Just enough to wipe your face with the back of your hand. You probably look like a disaster—red eyes, blotchy cheeks, nose running.

Hoseok's looking at you like you're the best thing he's seen all week.

"Better?" he asks.

"No."

"Fair."

He's still got one arm around you. Loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted.

You don't want to.

"Did you get the expression?" you ask. "For your stupid manga?"

He blinks.

Then laughs—surprised and slightly amused. "I wasn't drawing."

"You should've been. That's what I was here for."

"Capy—"

"Professional reference model, remember?"

"You're impossible."

"And you're a sap."

"Also fair."

There's a pause. He's still looking at you like that. Like you've done something remarkable just by existing in his space.

"Want to watch Cowboy Bebop?" he asks suddenly.

You stare at him. "What?"

"Cowboy Bebop. The anime. I've got the DVDs." He gestures vaguely towards the living room. "We could just... sit. Watch a few episodes. Not think about anything."

"I look like shit."

"You look fine."

"I've got snot on my face."

"I've got tissues."

"Your ramen's cold."

"Microwaves exist."

You want to argue more. Want to insist you should go home and be a functional adult who doesn't have emotional breakdowns in other people's flats.

But the thought of going back to your empty flat right now makes something in your chest hurt worse than it already does.

"Fine," you hear yourself say. "But I'm picking the episodes."

His face lights up. "Deal."

He moves towards his desk, grabbing tissues from the box next to his monitor. Hands you several.

You wipe your face. Blow your nose. Try to pull yourself together.

And something suddenly catches your eye—something with a red cover, something that looks like a sketchbook.

But his usual sketchbook has a black cover…

Doesn’t it?

You steal his blanket before he can even think about it.

The grey one—the expensive one he splurged on last year, the one that’s somehow always perfectly warm.

You wrap it around yourself like a cape and tuck your legs under your chin, making yourself as small as possible in the corner of his couch.

Hoseok notices immediately when he comes back from the kitchen. Stops in the doorway, two steaming ramen containers balanced in his hands, and huffs.

“That’s mine.”

“Was yours.”

“I bought that with my own money.”

“Should’ve been faster.” You adjust the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “Also your couch is freezing.”

“It’s November. Everything’s freezing.”

But he’s already sitting down next to you anyway, close enough that his knee bumps yours as he settles in. He hands you one of the containers—yours, the one with extra green onions because he remembered without asking.

You balance it on top of your knees, chopsticks already in hand.

The TV flickers. Opening credits. That jazz saxophone cutting through the silence.

He’s already eating, slurping noodles with zero regard for decorum. Momo’s loose now, perched on the back of the couch behind him, tail twitching, watching the screen like she understands what’s happening.

You eat slower. Let the broth warm you from the inside.

“Why do you like it so much?” you ask eventually. “This show, I mean.”

Episode one.

Hoseok pauses mid-slurp. Finishes chewing. Swallows.

“Dunno.” He’s staring at the screen but you can tell he’s not really watching anymore. “Came back in ‘98 and iit was on telly here. I’d just…” He makes a vague gesture with his chopsticks. “I didn’t know anyone yet. Mum was at work most days and I was trying to find jobs but my Japanese was shit for business stuff even though I grew up speaking it, you know? Like I could talk to Mum fine but formal keigo with strangers—”

He trails off. Takes another bite.

“So I’d come home and watch this.” He chews thoughtfully. “It kept me company. When I was lonely.”

On screen, Spike and Jet are bickering about bounties. The ship drifts through space, aimless.

“That’s kinda sad, Ott.”

“Yeah.” He grins, but it’s crooked. “I was pretty sad back then.”

You continue eating your noodles, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Hoseok’s still working through his, slower now.

“Want a beer?” he asks.

“Yeah, alright.”

He gets up, goes into the kitchen. You hear the fridge open. The crack-hiss of cans. He comes back withtwo big Asahis and hands you one before dropping back onto the couch, closer this time.

The blanket’s big enough to cover both of you. You don’t offer. He doesn’t take.

You take a sip of your beer. Cold and bitter and exactly right.

Episode two starts.

You watch for a while. Drink your beer. Try to find the words for the question that’s been sitting in your throat since he mentioned ’98.

“I never asked you properly, I reckon,” you say finally, quietly. “But… why did you leave Sydney?”

Hoseok goes still, stops mid-drink, the can halfway to his mouth.

You keep your eyes on the TV. Easier that way.

“Like, I remember you said you wanted to be with your mum,” you continue, careful, “but I didn’t really get it back then. We were mates and then you were just… gone.”

He sets his beer down. Leans forward, elbows on his knees. Reaches over the arm of the couch and grabs something wedged in the cushions—a small round plushie. Orange cat with a grumpy face. He holds it in both hands.

“You knew about the divorce, yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

Everyone knew. It wasn’t exactly quiet when his parents split.

He squeezes the plushie. “Mum cheated on Dad.”

You nod. You’d heard rumors. Seen Hoseok’s face go tight whenever anyone brought it up at school.

“I was so fucking mad at her,” he says, and there’s old anger in his voice still. “Like, properly furious. Didn’t want anything to do with her for ages. She’d call and I wouldn’t pick up. She’d send letters and I’d bin them. Because—” He squeezes the cat harder. “I don’t fuck with cheating. You don’t do that to someone.”

You take another sip of beer. Don’t interrupt.

“Dad made it ugly with lawyers. He wanted me to stay in Sydney, and Mum thought I should be allowed to decide. And I chose him because all my mates were in Sydney and I was pissed at Mum and Dad actually wanted me there, you know? He fought for me.”

His thumb presses into the plushie’s stomach. Over and over.

“But then…” He stops. Starts again. “Dad tried. He really did. He’d come home earlier, ask about school, actually show up to things. But work always—it always pulled him back. He’d promise to make dinner and then call at seven saying he was stuck in a meeting. He’d say we’d go to the cricket on Saturday and then have to fly to Melbourne for some emergency. He tried but it was never quite…”

“Enough,” you finish quietly.

“Yeah.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “And I couldn’t even be mad because he was trying. Like, genuinely trying. But his best wasn’t—it just wasn’t enough.”

On screen, Jet’s watering his bonsai. Talking about the past.

“Mum kept calling,” Hoseok continues. “Every week. Even when I wouldn’t answer. And eventually I… I gave her a chance. Visited during summer holidays. And she was just—she was there, you know? Like, actually there. Made breakfast, asked about my day, wanted to know what I was drawing. And Osaka felt more like home than Sydney ever did, which was fucked because I grew up in Sydney.”

“But you had your mum here,” you say.

“Yeah. I had Mum.” He sets the beer down, both hands on the plushie now. “I started visiting more. Stayed longer each time. And then Dad met Vanessa and they got married and I knew they wanted a kid and I just—”

He stops. Jaw working.

“I thought maybe it was good. Like, maybe he’d finally have the family thing he wanted. Maybe this time work wouldn’t matter as much. Maybe he’d get it right with the new kid.” His voice cracks slightly. “So I moved here. Told him I was taking a gap year, maybe transferring to a Japanese uni. And he—”

Hoseok’s hands go still.

“He took it as this massive betrayal. After everything with Mum. After the courts, after the custody fight, after he won—I went to her anyway. And from his perspective I get it. I really do. But I couldn’t stay there watching him build a whole new life while I was just—”

“Background noise,” you finish.

“Yeah.”

You shift closer. Let your shoulder press against his.

“When’s the last time you talked to him?”

“Three years.” He says it flat. Simple. Like it doesn’t hurt. “He sends emails sometimes. About my brother. James. He’s three now. Seems like they were successful with the pregnancy.”

Your chest tightens. “Ott…”

“I always wanted a brother,” he says, and his voice does something awful. Goes small. “When I was a kid I’d ask Mum and Dad for one all the time. And now I’ve got one and I can’t—”

He stops. Squeezes the plushie so hard his knuckles go white.

“Dad won’t answer when I reply. He just sends these little updates and I don’t know how to fix it and James doesn’t even know I exist probably, or if he does I’m just this abstract concept of a brother in Japan who—”

His voice cracks properly this time.

You don’t think. Just reach over and take the plushie from his hands before he crushes it completely. Set it on the table. Take his hand instead.

“That’s really shit,” you say quietly.

“Yeah.” He squeezes your hand back. Hard. “It’s pretty shitty.”

He holds your hand for another beat, then two. His thumb brushes the side of your palm—rough skin, callous from holding pens, warm.

“Anyway,” he says, and the word is too loud. Too bright. He pulls his hand back like he’s just realized he was holding yours. “That’s enough heavy shit for a Tuesday.”

He grabs his beer. Downs half of it in one go.

“Yeah,” you say, looking away. “Heavy shit quota filled.”

“Exactly.” He sets the can down with a sharp click. “Now we focus on important things. Like how Jet is definitely the mum of the group.”

“Spike cooks sometimes.”

“Spike makes bell peppers and beef with no beef. That’s not cooking, that’s a cry for help.”

You snort. The tension breaks, just a little.

You pick up your ramen container again. It’s cooled down now, the plastic slightly soft in your hands. You balance it on your knees, chopsticks digging for a piece of pork you know is hiding at the bottom.

Hoseok shifts next to you. Restless. That energy of his that never really settles, always humming just under the skin. He leans over to grab the remote from the coffee table, stretching across your lap to reach it.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking how long is left. I wanna show you the—”

His elbow clips the edge of your container.

“Ott, watch out—”

Too late.

The container tips. Gravity does its thing.

And half a litre of shoyu broth, noodles, and that elusive piece of pork cascades directly onto your chest.

“Fuck!”

“Shit—Capy, I’m so—”

The heat hits you first. It’s not scalding—thank god for slow eaters—but it’s hot enough to make you gasp. Wet warmth soaks through your white work blouse instantly, plastering the fabric to your skin from collarbone to sternum.

“Oh my god,” Hoseok is scrambling, hands hovering, panic written all over his face. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—shit, is it hot? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you hiss, grabbing a napkin from the table and dabbing frantically at the disaster zone. “Just—wet. And smelling like pork and soy.”

He’s rolled his sleeves up. Both of them. Shoved them to his elbows in one quick, efficient motion so they wouldn't get wet, and now his forearms are right there.

“Here, let me—”

He grabs the hand towel without thinking—because he never thinks, does he? He just does—he reaches out and starts scrubbing at your shirt.

“It’s gonna stain,” he’s saying, frantic, rubbing the cloth against your chest. “Soy sauce stains like a bitch, we need to get cold water on it or maybe dish soap, Mum always said dish soap for oil—”

His hand is firm. Moving in quick, circular motions.

Right over your left breast.

You freeze.

When the fuck did his forearms get like that?

Not huge. Not bodybuilder nonsense. Just—defined. The tendons shifting under skin as his hands move, the veins visible along the inside of his wrists, the way the muscle flexes when he presses the cloth against your shirt.

You're staring. You know you're staring. You can't stop.

He could probably pin you down with one hand. Just—grab both your wrists, hold them above your head, spin you around and press you into the couch cushions with zero effort.

Your face goes nuclear.

“I think if we soak it now we can save it,” he mumbles, scrubbing harder. “Might need to use the stain remover I got for the ink spills, but—”

His knuckles brush the underside of your breast.

Your breath catches. A small, involuntary hitch in your throat that sounds suspiciously like a squeak.

Hoseok freezes. Looks up.

You’re staring at him. He’s staring at you.

And his hand is still on your boob.

You should say something. You should make a joke. You should shove him off and call him a pervert and laugh it off like you always do.

His gaze drops, slides from your eyes down to where his hand is resting, and his eyes immediately widen.

Because your shirt is wet. Soaked through. Translucent.

And underneath the sensible white cotton of your Synergy International work blouse, you are wearing the pale pink lace bra you bought on sale three weeks ago because the sales assistant said it made you look ‘delicate.’

It’s not a work bra. It’s a ‘I feel like shit and want to know I’m wearing something pretty underneath the corporate beig’ bra.

It’s lace. It’s sheer. And right now, thanks to the physics of wet fabric, it is entirely visible.

You can feel your face heating up. Not the slow burn from earlier—this is a flash fire. Your ears, your neck, your cheeks. You must look like a tomato.

Hoseok swallows. You see his throat click.

His eyes trace the line of lace. The curve of your breast pressed against the fabric. The way your nipple is hardening against the cold air (and his warm hand, oh god, his hand).

He looks back up at your face.

Then back down.

Then to the side, at the wall, like the wall is suddenly the most interesting thing in the universe.

Then back to your chest.

“I—” He starts. Voice rough. Clears his throat. “I should—”

He snatches his hand back like he’s been burned.

“Sorry,” he chokes out. “I—uh. The stain. I was just—”

He scrambles backward on the couch, catching his foot on the coffee table leg with a loud thud.

"痛っ、くそっ！" (Ow—fuck!) He stumbles, hopping on one leg, clutching his shin.

Which should not be attractive. It's objectively not attractive.

Except somehow the way he swears in Japanese—voice rough and breathless and pained—does something to your brain that you refuse to examine.

You wonder what other situations would make him curse like that.

Stop it.

Stop.

“Are you okay?” Your voice is an octave higher than usual.

Why is it higher? Stop that.

“Fine! I’m fine!” He’s standing now, clutching his shin, face roughly the same colour as the plushie he was strangling earlier. “Just—shin. Table. Classic. You know me.”

He laughs. It sounds hysterical.

“Right,” you say.

You look down at your chest.

It’s a disaster. Brown splotches. Wet fabric clinging to every curve. The pink lace grinning through like a neon sign saying ’LOOK AT ME’

You cross your arms over your chest immediately.

“I need to change,” you mumble into your shoulder.

“Yeah!” Hoseok squeaks. “Yeah. Change. Good idea. Wet clothes. Bad. Pneumonia. Not on my watch.”

He spins around. Marches towards his bedroom with the stiff-legged gait of a man who has forgot how knees work.

“I’ll get you—something. A shirt. Hoodie. I have hoodies.”

He disappears into the bedroom. You hear drawers opening and closing. A thud. A muffled curse. More rummaging.

You sit there on the couch, arms crossed, staring at the paused TV screen. Spike Spiegel is frozen mid-kick.

Your heart is hammering against your ribs.

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

Did he just—?

He definitely looked.

He didn’t just look. He stared.

And he didn’t make a joke. He didn’t say ‘nice undies, Capy’ or ‘scandalous’ or any of the things seventeen-year-old Hoseok would have said.

He just went red and ran away.

Which means…

Shut up. Don’t think about it. He was embarrassed because he spilled soup on you. That’s it. That’s all.

Hoseok reappears. He’s holding a black hoodie in both hands, presenting it like a sacred offering. He’s staring at the hoodie intently, refusing to look anywhere near you.

“Here,” he says to the floor. “It’s clean. I washed it last week.”

You stand up. Keep one arm across your chest. Reach out with the other.

“Thanks.”

Your fingers brush his as you take the hoodie.

He flinches. Actually flinches.

“Bathroom’s free,” he says quickly, stepping back. “Obviously. Since I’m here. And not in there.”

“Right.”

“I’ll—I’ll clean this up.” He gestures vaguely at the spilled ramen on the floor. “The mess.”

“Okay.”

You flee.

The bathroom door shuts behind you with a click that feels like safety. You lean back against it and exhale, long and shaky.

Jesus Christ.

You look in the mirror.

You look insane. Your hair is half-falling out of its clip. Your face is bright red. And your shirt is practically see-through, the delicate pink lace of your bra visible in high definition.

“You’re an idiot,” you whisper to your reflection. “Why did you wear this? Why today?”

You peel the wet shirt off. The fabric is cold and clammy now, smelling of soy sauce and shame. You drop it in the sink.

Standing there in just your bra and work trousers, you catch sight of yourself again. The lace against your skin. The way your breasts look in it—fuller, lifted.

You remember his eyes. The way they’d tracked the curve. The way his hand had felt, heavy and warm, right there.

A shiver runs through you that has nothing to do with the cold.

Stop it.

You pull the hoodie over your head.

It swallows you. The sleeves hang past your fingertips. The hem drops to mid-thigh. It's old and soft and clearly one of his favourites—the cotton worn thin in places, the drawstrings frayed at the tips.

And it smells like yuzu.

Not faintly. Not a hint. The full thing—bright and sharp and warm, baked into every fibre. His shampoo, his detergent, his skin.

It's everywhere. Surrounding you. Sinking into you.

You bring the collar up to your nose without thinking.

Inhale.

Fuck.

It smells like him. Like properly, unmistakably him. And it smells like—

That rainy day. Year 10. He was trying to impress Kenya Adebayo, walking next to her under the awning after school, doing that thing where he laughed too loud at everything she said.

But you were shivering behind them because you hadn't brought a jacket and the rain had come out of nowhere, and Kenya was cold too, and he'd looked between the two of you for exactly one second before pulling his hoodie off and shoving it at you.

"You first," he'd said. "Best mate privilege. Non-negotiable."

Kenya had looked annoyed. You'd looked at the hoodie. He'd looked at you like it was obvious—like there was never a question, not really.

He still smells like that. Like every stupid hoodie he ever lent you. Like yuzu and warmth and a decision he made before he even had to think about it.

You press your face deeper into the collar. Breathe in again. Slower. Let it fill your chest.

Your eyes drift to the mirror.

You're standing in Jung Hoseok's bathroom, wearing his oversized hoodie, face buried in the collar like a cat rubbing against its owner's scent to claim territory.

You jerk back so fast you nearly crack your head on the towel rack.

Are you actually insane? What are you doing? What is WRONG with you?

You drop the hoodie collar. Stand up very straight. Look yourself in the eye with the full force of your own contempt.

Embarrassing.

Right. You're staying over. That's—that's been established. It's late and you're tired and your shirt is ruined and you're not trekking back to Tennoji at this hour. So you might as well get comfortable.

You shimmy out of your work trousers. Fold them. Set them on top of the wet shirt.

Hoodie and bare legs. You look ridiculous. You look like every girl in every shojo manga Hoseok's ever made fun of.

Whatever. You need pants.

You open the bathroom door.

Hoseok's crouched by the coffee table, wiping up the ramen spill with paper towels. He's got three stacked in each hand, scrubbing at the table surface with way more focus than the task requires.

"Ott."

He doesn't look up. "Yep."

"Can you lend me some pants? Pyjama ones or whatever."

He looks up.

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

His eyes land on your face. Drop. Snap back up. Drop again—to the hoodie, to where it ends at your thighs, to your bare legs—and then he's staring at the coffee table like it holds the secrets of the universe.

"Yep," he says again. Higher pitched this time. "Yep, yeah, sure, one sec—"

He stands. Trips over absolutely nothing. Catches himself on the back of the couch. Doesn't look at you as he disappears into his bedroom.

Comes back holding a pair of grey drawstring trackies at arm's length, eyes fixed on a spot approximately two metres to your left.

"Here."

"Cheers."

Back to the bathroom. Pants on. They're too long, pooling at your ankles, and you have to roll the waistband twice to keep them up.

His clothes. You're wearing his clothes. Head to toe. His hoodie, his pants, his scent wrapped around you like—

Stop. Stop it. Go sit on the couch and watch Cowboy Bebop like a normal person.

You walk back out.

Hoseok's sitting on the couch, fresh paper towels in hand, Bebop still playing. He's cleaned up the spill. He's also moved to the far end of the couch, which is notable, because this couch isn't big enough for ‘far ends’ to mean anything.

You sit down. Tuck your legs under you again. Reach for the blanket.

Silence. Spike's on screen, being cool and damaged.

Your stomach growls.

Not a polite little rumble. A proper, full-bodied, I haven't eaten since that sabotaged ramen growl that seems to echo off the thin walls of his flat.

Hoseok's eyes slide towards you. His lips press together. You can see the grin fighting to break through—the way his cheek twitches, the way he bites the inside of his mouth.

"Don't," you warn.

"Didn't say anything."

"Your face is saying it."

"My face is innocent."

Your stomach growls again. Louder. Like it's making a point.

You look away. Tug the blanket higher. Study a very interesting spot on the wall.

"Do you…" You clear your throat. "Have you got any… yubeshi? By any chance."

He blinks.

"Yubeshi?"

"Yeah. From that café. You had some the other day, I thought maybe you—" You're rambling. You don't ramble. "Never mind. Forget it."

"No, I—yeah, actually." He's already getting up, moving towards the kitchen. "I think there's some in the—yeah, hang on."

You pull the collar of his hoodie up over your nose.

Just because you're cold.

That's all.

…Sure.

He rattles around in the kitchen for a bit, cupboard doors opening and closing, the fridge seal sucking and releasing.

There’s a muffled, triumphant “aha,” then the crinkle of plastic.

Momo watches you from the back of the couch, beady eyes unblinking. Judging. Obviously.

Hoseok comes back with a small plastic container in one hand and a fork in the other—no plates, because of course—and drops down next to you. The cushions dip under his weight, shoving you half a centimetre closer, not that there’s anywhere else to go in a thirty-something square metre flat with furniture crammed into every available corner.

“Told you,” he says. “Yubeshi delivery.”

He peels the lid back with his teeth. The smell hits first—bright yuzu and chewy rice sweetness. Your stomach gives an embarrassingly enthusiastic lurch.

You lower the hoodie from your face, but keep the blanket tight, like you’re negotiating with the cold.

He spears a piece with the fork and holds it out, halfway between you.

You squint at it. “That’s not how this works. Hand it over.”

“What, you don’t trust my piloting skills?” He wiggles the fork. “Say ‘ah’.”

“Absolutely not.”

He just keeps holding it there, eyes wide, fake-innocent.

“Come on,” Hoseok sing-songs. “Open up. Be a good—”

You glare.

He stops. Clears his throat. “…good sport. Good friend. Completely normal friend.”

Still. You’re tired, hungry, and the fork is right there.

You lean forward and take the piece straight off it, lips brushing metal, teeth closing down. The yubeshi is perfect—chewy, citrusy, sweet enough to make your eyes half-close for a second.

“Mm.”

He looks unreasonably pleased with himself. “See? Piloting. Ten out of ten accuracy.”

“Congratulations, you learned to aim a fork.”

He spears another piece. This time when he holds it out with his fingers, you’re already moving, not really thinking about it. Your eyes stay on the TV. You lean in, bite down.

Some of the glossy sauce smears over his fingers. You taste it as you pull back, tongue catching the last of it without really paying attention.

He withdraws his hand. You notice he’s still got a streak of syrup on his thumb.

Before your brain gets a chance to file any objections, you reach out, catch his wrist, and lean in again.

You don’t think sexy. You don’t think anything at all.

You just… lick. Dragging your tongue across the pad of his thumb, catching the citrus-sweet stickiness, cleaning him off like you’d do with your own hand if you couldn’t be bothered to grab a napkin.

You let go, sit back, thumb of his hand slipping from between your fingers.

“Messy,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him, already chewing.

It takes a beat before you realise the room’s gone weirdly quiet.

You look up.

Hoseok hasn’t moved.

His eyes are half-lidded, fixed on his own thumb like it’s grown a second head. His lips are parted just a little. The tip of his tongue darts out to wet them, slow and unconscious.

He looks… dazed.

Your brain catches up with your body about five seconds late.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

You just licked his thumb.

You’re about to mumble something—anything—to brush it off when he finally drags his gaze away from his hand and up to you.

Then, gravel-rough, almost like the words sneak out past his filter, he murmurs, still looking at his thumb:

“…Think you missed a spot.”

The bottom drops out of your stomach.

It’s not what he says so much as how he says it—low, husky, like the line came straight from whatever part of his brain is currently not supervised by common sense. Like he’s talking to Miki, not you. Like this is a panel that should be shrink-wrapped and slapped with an 18+ sticker.

You stare at him.

Your heartbeat slams against your ribs, stupid and loud.

He realises what he’s just said a second too late. His eyes flick to yours, wide, like he wants to drag the sentence back into his mouth and swallow it whole.

You could laugh it off, call him a pervert, roll your eyes, tell him his brain’s made of hentai now.

You don’t.

You feel your lashes lower, like they’re heavy. Your mouth goes a little soft around the edges.

Fine, then.

If that’s the game.

You turn slightly on the couch, angle your body towards him. The blanket slips down one shoulder. You reach out again, fingers closing gently around his wrist.

The pulse there jumps under your thumb.

You keep your eyes on his, steady. Try on that look you’ve practiced for Miki in the mirror, the one that lives somewhere between bored and hungry.

“This spot?” you ask, voice coming out lower than you meant.

You bring his hand closer, slow. His gaze tracks the movement like he’s powerless not to.

Your tongue meets his skin again, this time careful. You drag the tip along the inside edge of his thumb, where the knuckle meets the pad. There’s barely any syrup left. Doesn’t matter. You trace there anyway, like you’re following the outline of something important.

His breath stutters, tiny hitch in his chest, air seems to catch halfway out.

You keep going. Just once, maybe twice. Then you pull back, releasing his hand, and lick your own lips slowly, chasing the lingering sweetness.

Like a cat cleaning its mouth after stealing cream.

His eyes stay locked on your mouth the entire time. His knees draw in a fraction, like his body’s trying to fold around something. The fork wobbles in his other hand.

He exhales, shaky.

“That was—”

He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. Looks away so abruptly it’s almost comical, like if he doesn’t find a neutral object in the room to stare at immediately, he’s going to combust.

Momo picks that exact moment to chitter, a scolding little sound from the back of the couch.

Hoseok practically flinches.

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Momo.” His voice jumps an octave, veers hard into flustered. “Uh—she—she wants attention. That’s her ‘you’re ignoring me, peasant’ noise.”

He turns, very intentionally away from you, and reaches back to scritch gently under her chin. Momo leans into it, offended dignity forgot for the sake of head scratches.

You breathe. Try to get your heart back under control. Act normal. The hoodie suddenly feels too warm, too close. You wish the couch would open up and swallow you.

He focuses on Momo like she’s a lifeline. “Jealous, huh? Yeah, yeah, I know, you’re the real star here.”

It’s absurdly transparent.

You could call him on it.

You don’t.

You’re too busy pretending your tongue didn’t just have Opinions about his skin.

After a moment, he drops back against the cushions, shoulders sinking a little.

You clear your throat. “So.”

“So,” he echoes.

Cowboy Bebop continues to play to absolutely no audience.

You grab for the nearest safe topic like you’re scrambling for a handhold.

“By the way.” You nudge his thigh with your knee under the blanket. “I told my lot about you today.”

He frowns. “Your… lot?”

“Work idiots. Yuki, Amelie, Brianna, Adao.” You roll your eyes. “They’re obsessed with meeting you and Yoongi now. Apparently the ‘golden retriever’ and the ‘cat-looking bartender’ made quite an impression.”

He blinks. “Wait, what?”

You sigh. “We were talking about going out tomorrow. Amelie lost her mind when Adao mentioned ‘Mr Kim’. She wants him there so badly it’s getting embarrassing.”

Hoseok laughs, the tension in his shoulders loosening a notch.

You shift, tucking your feet under you, blanket slipping so your bare toes brush his thigh through his jeans.

You try to pretend you don’t notice the contact.

Your skin sure as hell does.

“So,” you continue, “we’re doing a group thing, probably. Drinks or I don’t know, whatever they decide. You should come. Bring Yoongi. Let them drool over him in person instead of through my horror stories.”

“Trauma dump?” he protests. “You make it sound like I’d bring you to Midnight Keys for exposure therapy.”

“You’re totally the type to bring me there to bully me into karaoke.”

“That too.”

He thinks about it, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Yoongi hates meeting new people.”

“Brianna and Amelie aren’t people, they’re forces of nature. He’ll be fine.”

Hoseok snorts. “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Come on.” You bump his leg again. “It’s not like you’ve got a packed social calendar. Freelance hentai man, remember? My coworkers could be your pens.”

“Rude.” He pretends to be offended. “I’ll have you know I’m very in demand.”

“By printers and deadlines.”

“And you,” he points out. “You keep showing up like a bad smell.”

You sniff dramatically. “That’s the ramen.”

He laughs, softer this time.

Then, he nods. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll drag Yoongi. He’ll secretly enjoy himself. That’s his whole brand.”

You file away the way he says ’yeah’—no hesitation. No ‘if I’m free’. Just assumes he’ll be there if you are.

Warmth curls low in your chest that has nothing to do with yubeshi.

The show rolls into another episode. You shift again, resettling. The couch springs squeak. The blanket rustles.

His thigh is a steady line of heat along your calves now.

Japanese filters through the speakers—Spike talking, Faye snapping back. You catch scattered words; your brain’s too tired to string them together.

Thank god for English subtitles.

Formal meetings are one thing; slang in anime is another.

Hoseok chuckles at something on-screen.

You tilt your head, watch his profile more than the show. “You always understand all of that?”

He shrugs. “Most of it. Some of it’s old slang. But yeah.”

“You’re so fucking lucky,” you grumble. “I sit in meetings that are supposed to be only in English all day catching, like, thirty percent and guessing the rest.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“I’m doing barely not drowning. Not the same.” You roll your eyes. “You switch between languages like it’s nothing. It’s disgusting, actually.”

“Wow. Thank you.”

“Don’t get a big head.” You hesitate, then let the next bit slip out before you can overthink it. “It’s… kind of hot, though.”

Silence.

You realise what you’ve just said a beat too late.

You feel him go still beside you. Not visibly, not if you weren’t pressed this close, but you are. Every muscle seems to pause.

“…What?” he says.

You focus very intently on the TV. “The Japanese. When you talk. It’s—whatever. Forget it.”

He doesn’t forget it.

“You think it’s… hot,” he repeats, like he’s testing the shape of the word in his mouth.

You wish the cushion would smother you.

“It’s just—” You wave a hand, vague. “Brain stuff. Bilingual. It’s a thing.”

“Brain stuff,” he echoes faintly.

You risk a glance up.

He’s looking at you with pink ears and a parted mouth.

“…Really?” he asks, quiet.

You swallow. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it—” He breaks off, laughs under his breath, helpless. Rubs the back of his neck. “Just—no one’s called my Japanese hot before.”

“Plenty of people probably have,” you mutter. “You just weren’t paying attention.”

“Trust me,” he says dryly, “I’d remember.”

You stifle a yawn. It still escapes, jaw cracking.

Your eyelids feel heavy. The day’s weight catches up all at once—the restructure announcement, the report, your mum’s text you’re pointedly ignoring, the thumb situation, of all things.

Your body decides unilaterally that it’s done.

“Tired?” he asks.

“No,” you lie, words slurring just a little.

He gives you that look. The one that says he’s known you since you had braces and a bad fringe; you can’t bluff him.

Without comment, he shifts, stretching one leg out along the couch, bending the other.

Then he pats his thigh twice, casual.

“C’mere,” he says. “Head.”

You stare. “What?”

“Pillow upgrade.” He pats his leg again like he’s summoning a cat. “Couch is lumpy.”

“That’s your fault for buying it off the side of the road.”

“And yet you keep sleeping on it.”

“That’s because I’m poor, not because it’s comfy.”

He just looks at you, patient. Hand still resting on his thigh, palm up now, like an invitation.

You hesitate.

It’s stupid. It’s him. You’ve sprawled all over each other before. Back when you were both idiots and the world was smaller and simpler.

“Take the damn pillow, Capy,” he says softly. “You’re falling over.”

You huff. “If your leg goes numb, I’m not helping.”

“Such compassion.”

You ease sideways under the blanket, twisting your body until you can lower your head carefully onto his lap. One arm folds under your chest; the other rests loosely against your stomach.

His thigh is soft under your cheek. You can feel the shift of his muscles as he adjusts, making space for you, spreading his knees just enough to cradle the weight of your head comfortably.

A hand hovers above your hair, uncertain.

Then his fingers settle gently against your scalp, just behind your ear. Slow, exploratory strokes.

Not really a massage, not quite a pat.

More like—

“Why are you petting me like a cat?” you mumble into his hoodie.

He scoffs. “Because you’re basically one now.”

You make a low, unimpressed noise. “Speciesist.”

“Miki,” he elaborates, thumb tracing idle circles against your skull. “Cat-girl. Ears. Tail. Full transformation. This is just method acting.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Mm.”

His fingers keep moving, scratching lightly at your scalp, nails just enough to drag, not enough to hurt. It sends these little lines of warmth down the back of your neck, through your shoulders. Your body loosens by degrees, tension bleeding out into the cushions.

“You know,” he says after a while, quieter, “it’s not just a cat thing.”

You crack one eye open. “What?”

“Aunt Pat told me,” he continues, voice going soft around her name. “Back in Year 11. When you got that flu and disappeared for a week.”

You remember that. Fever, aching joints, the world shrinking to your bedroom and the shape of the bucket beside your bed.

You also remember him turning up at your door almost every day with homework and stupid comics. Sitting on the floor because your aunt wouldn’t let him too close in case he caught it.

“She said she’d been doing this since you were tiny,” he goes on, fingers threading slowly through your hair now, careful not to tug. “Said it helps you sleep.”

You want to argue. You don’t. Your body is already betraying you, sinking heavier against him, eyelids drooping.

“Traitor,” you tell your own brain.

He huffs a laugh. His hand moves to the crown of your head, fingertips pressing in small, firm circles. It’s… embarrassingly good. The right kind of pressure, not too light, not ticklish. Enough to ground you without setting off your nerves.

“Figured I’d try it,” he says softly. “Back then. ‘Cause you looked… wrecked. Thought maybe if it worked when you were five, it’d work when you were sixteen.”

“Did it?” you mumble.

“Yeah.” His palm smooths down, thumb tracing the curve of your skull. “You passed out sitting up. Scared the shit out of me. Aunt Pat just laughed and said, ‘See? Told you.’”

You can picture it. Aunt Pat at the doorway, fond and tired, watching this lanky teenage boy tentative behind you, hand in your hair.

The thought punches something loose in your chest.

“Helps me too, you know,” he says after a while, like he’s talking more to your hair than to you. “When you’re here.”

You make a questioning noise. Or try to. It comes out more like a sleepy hum.

“Sleeping.” His fingers pause, then resume, a little self-conscious now. “I sleep better. When you’re on the couch. Or the futon. Just… in the flat.”

Dangerous words, said in the soft, late-night register that makes everything feel truer.

You want to crack a joke. Tell him that’s pathetic. That he should get a hobby. That you snore and it’s probably just white noise.

Your mouth doesn’t cooperate.

“Same,” you hear yourself mumble. It slips out, unguarded, half-submerged. “Don’t like… empty flat.”

His hand stills for a heartbeat.

Then he resumes the rhythm, slower now.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

Your body’s already gone heavy-limbed and useless. The hoodie smells like yuzu and him, the blanket like detergent and old ink. His thigh is warm under your cheek, solid, anchoring you to this ridiculous, cramped little couch in this ridiculous, cramped little Osaka flat that somehow feels more like home than your own bed.

Your thoughts start to fray at the edges. Words blur. The room tilts in that soft way that means gravity’s winning.

His fingers card through your hair once more, smoothing it back from your forehead.

“Go to sleep, Capy,” he murmurs.

You mean to tell him to piss off.

You don’t.

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♥'ﻌ'♥ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

next | index

— taglist

@ami-s-k @yoongssi @bambisparkle @nothingnothingnothing77 @billy-jeans23 @beomgyudoesntdiscriminate @sanarin @hobis-sprite0218 @safira9497 @celliez @megatroncam07 @Asstaeticcc @melizzzie @kookie96 @coletaehyung @unbibiased @sexyevilkitten @maralodiaal @my0hmary @butterymin @quhrtz @lachlaniah @jhopeloverrr @medicinemybish @jjkszn @makulimlim @onyxthornseer @amajikisupremacy @omgstahpp-blog @drwonderbread @angelhyuka @mikrokookiex @ot7girl4l @mar-lo-pap @rossy1080 @fancypeacepersona @ggukjugoo @jadestonedaeho7 @a-kookie-with-my-tae @ironyatitsfinest @impossiblecopoaffire @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @annyeongbitch7 @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear @bettytta

© jungkoode 2025

It’s not what he says so much as how he says it—low, husky, like the line came straight from whatever part of his brain is currently not supervised by common sense.

Like he’s talking to Miki, not you.

Like this is a panel that should be shrink-wrapped and slapped with an 18+ sticker.

Your heartbeat slams against your ribs, stupid and loud.

He realises what he’s just said a second too late. His eyes flick to yours, wide, like he wants to drag the sentence back into his mouth and swallow it whole.

You could laugh it off, call him a pervert, roll your eyes, tell him his brain’s made of hentai now.

You don’t.

You feel your lashes lower, like they’re heavy. Your mouth goes a little soft around the edges.

Fine, then.

If that’s the game.

You turn slightly on the couch, angle your body towards him. The blanket slips down one shoulder. You reach out again, fingers closing gently around his wrist.

The pulse there jumps under your thumb.

You keep your eyes on his, steady. Try on that look you’ve practiced for Miki in the mirror, the one that lives somewhere between bored and hungry.

“This spot?” you ask, voice coming out lower than you meant.

Your tongue meets his skin again, dragging the tip along the inside edge of his thumb, where the knuckle meets the pad.

➜ Coming: When we reach 40 votes on ch 8 on Wattpad. <3

<What. Was. That.>

<There’s an Outlier in the market! Like forty meters out, northeast, I caught their signature when we split up. Ice, Tae. ICE. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve gotten to grab ice?>

You process this in layers.

Layer one: Jungkook’s mimicry does not require visual contact. Proximity to an Outlier’s signature is sufficient. Somewhere in this market, a stranger is going about their afternoon with no idea their dimensional frequency has just been borrowed by a very enthusiastic guy.

Layer two: Kairos sit below civilian perception and outside CHRONOS detection architecture entirely. Which means no monitoring grid will flag the ice.

Layer three—and this is the layer that spikes your threat assessment—the ice is invisible to civilians. Jungkook is not.

Which means, to any citizen who happens to glance up, there is no ramp, no crystal, no manifestation.

There is simply a grown man in a bomber jacket banking through open air two meters above the stall line in broad daylight, supported by nothing, whooping.

<Jungkook. You are a visible flying man.>

<I am ABOVE the awning line,> he says, wounded, like he prepared this defense in advance.

➜ Coming: This weekend <3

Early access on Ko-fi!

"I'll—" He stops walking. His whole body stops, actually, a full halt in the flow of the arcade. "I can—I can wait outside, I'll—there's that bench by the print shop, I saw it, I'll just—"

You don't let go of his hand.

"Come on."

"Pearl—" Horror. Actual horror in his voice, coloring it a full shade more desperate. "It's a—it's—I can't go in there, those are—"

"Tights. I need new tights." You tilt your head toward the door. "I go through two pairs a week. It's a supply issue."

"But—but the—the window—"

The mannequin. He cannot look at the mannequin. His face has gone the full coral, blazing from his cheekbones through his ears and flooding down his neck into your scarf, and his free hand has come out of his pocket to grab his coat hem instead.

You could let him wait on the bench.

That would be reasonable.

That would be the logical, efficient choice.

But the expression on his face is the single most endearing thing you've seen since he told you your breasts feel like clouds, and there is not a force in this city sufficient to make you let him out of your sight right now.

"Taehyung."

He makes a sound like you've condemned him.

You pull him through the door. He makes it two steps inside before his body forgets how to walk.

➜ Coming: soon!

It’s not what he says so much as how he says it—low, husky, like the line came straight from whatever part of his brain is currently not supervised by common sense.

Like he’s talking to Miki, not you.

Like this is a panel that should be shrink-wrapped and slapped with an 18+ sticker.

Your heartbeat slams against your ribs, stupid and loud.

He realises what he’s just said a second too late. His eyes flick to yours, wide, like he wants to drag the sentence back into his mouth and swallow it whole.

You could laugh it off, call him a pervert, roll your eyes, tell him his brain’s made of hentai now.

You don’t.

You feel your lashes lower, like they’re heavy. Your mouth goes a little soft around the edges.

Fine, then.

If that’s the game.

You turn slightly on the couch, angle your body towards him. The blanket slips down one shoulder. You reach out again, fingers closing gently around his wrist.

The pulse there jumps under your thumb.

You keep your eyes on his, steady. Try on that look you’ve practiced for Miki in the mirror, the one that lives somewhere between bored and hungry.

“This spot?” you ask, voice coming out lower than you meant.

Your tongue meets his skin again, dragging the tip along the inside edge of his thumb, where the knuckle meets the pad.

➜ Coming: When we reach 40 votes on ch 8 on Wattpad. <3