even in this waiting, i am yours.

It’s been an hour. Your blind date is not coming. So, why are you still sitting here with tears ready to spill? If you're lucky, the tears will fill your water glass so your impatient waiter doesn’t have to bring over that stupid pitcher again. 

Three years ago, after your last relationship ended, you couldn’t bring yourself to leave the apartment. Well, technically, it was your friend’s apartment. You’d moved in after the breakup; there was no way you could stay in your ex-boyfriend’s studio after dumping him. You’re not that heartless. 

Your friend had been pushing for the breakup long before it happened. She'd been worried ever since she noticed bruises on your thighs during an impromptu sleepover. You brushed her off, insisting it was nothing, but no matter how thick your leggings or how loud your protests, the truth bled through. The relationship was toxic. It was only a matter of time before it began to show.

Convincing you to go on a blind date was an uphill battle. Your friend had to practically corner you to get you to even consider it. What finally tipped the scale wasn’t her persistence – it was your therapist’s suggestion. A harmless dinner at a nice restaurant, just to practice being in the presence of a man again, wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. You weren’t expecting anything to come of it. If it got uncomfortable, you could leave at any time.

Being stood up hadn’t even crossed your mind. You were too focused on what you’d say, how you’d act. Your most recent search history still haunts you: “how to hold a decent conversation on a blind date without having a mental breakdown and scaring them away within the first 3 minutes.”

It was a valid search.

Unfortunate results, though.

In the frosty reflection of the window, you can see your waiter quietly discussing with his managers, frequent glances shot in your direction. He breaks away from their huddle and makes his way toward your table. 

You know what he'll say: “I'm sorry, but we're going to have to ask you to either order or give up your table for the next reservation." 

It’s too late to snatch your purse and leave, but you swear, if that waiter so much as opens his mouth, you’ll cry, and you won’t stop. 

He’s almost to your table when something completely unexpected happens.

“So sorry I’m late. Traffic was crazy! You would not believe the slowpoke I got stuck behind.”

All you can do is stare, wide-eyed, as a complete stranger slides into the seat across from you with an easy smile.

The waiter, just a few steps away now, comes to a stunned halt, completely slack-jawed. 

Your expression obviously reflects the panic that’s developing inside your chest, because in the next moment this (handsome) stranger is leaning in closer and whispering behind his hand, "Just play along. My name’s Seungmin and whoever stood you up is a douche." 

One thing is clear. This is not the blind date you were supposed to meet tonight. 

This guy is a total stranger. 

You’re not entirely sure what to say. It’s jarring to see someone sitting in the chair you’ve been staring at for the past hour. He doesn’t carry himself like someone who’s thought this through, which means he must be the type to act on impulse if he’s crashing blind dates without so much as a second thought.

Then again, if you really think about it, he’s not interrupting anything really. 

"Did you order our regular?" he asks casually. 

You shift in your seat when he manspreads under the table, his thighs unmistakably defined beneath sleek black slacks and a crisp, tucked-in button-up.

"Umm—"

Giggles like popping bubbles fill the awkward silence before he waves a careless hand in the air. "That's okay! I'll order and tell them to work double time for an extra tip. I really am sorry for making you wait on me like that. How about I buy us your favorite dessert to share? Will you forgive me then?" 

Before you can respond, Seungmin snaps his fingers, and the waiter rushes to the table. The boy doesn't seem all that younger than Seungmin or yourself. Actually, he looks like he could be about your age. You wonder why he's running around like a dog when his obvious good looks could do most certainly something for him. 

He straightens his apron and drops into a ninety degree bow. "Mr. Kim, I had no idea you were going to be joining us tonight.” 

Seungmin reclines in his chair with crossed arms and a raised brow. "Even so, you should be sensitive to every guest. You weren't about to ask this young lady to leave, now were you?" 

The waiter answers with a swift, “No, Sir! I was just going to offer her tonight's special…" 

Seungmin doesn't blink. 

“…on the house?” the waiter adds hopefully. 

With a smirk and a wave of his hand, Seungmin finally allows the boy to relax. "Ah, I see. Well, just bring us two of the usuals and some red wine – wait!" Seungmin looks at you. "Would you like white instead?"  

Your answer is a lowered head and hidden eyes. 

Seungmin studies your timid posture for a moment and then gives a knowing smile. "Champaign then," he tells the waiter. "That should be a good place to start." 

The waiter bows and quickly leaves to tell the kitchen. 

"Hey,” Seungmin calls to the boy, who whips around in attention, "you're doing well, Jeongin. Don't listen to everything those older guys tell you. You've got yourself an extra tip tonight." He winks. 

The boy called Jeongin smiles and says a quick "thank you" before escaping through the kitchen door, a wide grin on his face showing off his pretty front teeth. 

“Sorry about that. I hope you like parmesan chicken. I know it's not fancy, but it's honestly one of the best dishes here. Oh wait, do you have any allergies? I can tell them to make something else." 

“It’s fine,” you have to answer him quickly because he's already lifting his hand to call some other waitress over, “but...do you own this restaurant or something?"

"Well, sorta. My best friend Felix and I co-own it, but this is really his dream. To own his own restaurant, I mean. It was going to be too expensive without a partner to help him get started, and he's got a real talent in the kitchen, so you know, it's not fair if – I'm sorry, I'm rambling, aren't I?" 

Actually, you find his talkative personality endearing, especially when his eyes start unconsciously bouncing around the room, like he's reading the walls and, every so often, your eyes. It's definitely a different feeling than the one you're used to. People shine when they talk about things important to them, but you haven't seen that shine in so long. Seungmin is...pretty. 

"I don't mind." 

Seungmin runs a hand through his hair and sits back again, his shoulders sinking as he relaxes. Once Jeongin brings the bottle of champagne and pours you each a glass, Seungmin allows the stem of the glass to pass between his fingers, lifting the rim to his lips and taking a sip. 

"So," he swallows, "sorry about the whole random stranger stealing the spotlight thing. I saw you sitting alone and figured you were waiting for someone. But when no one showed up, I figured either you enjoy sitting alone in restaurants staring out frosty windows - which I don't condemn at all by the way-" he stops and winks again which makes you crack a bashful and nervous smile, "-or there's a really stupid someone out there who gave up their chance to have dinner with a beautiful girl." 

You shrug, nodding after a moment of processing all of Seungmin's charms. "The second one." 

He shakes his head and frowns. "Whoever stood you up is the dumbest person alive." 

You find some kind of comfort in his words, even if you don't completely believe them. 

"Well...thank you." 

You haven't ruled out the possibility that this Seungmin guy is one of those predators who prey on vulnerable girls who have been stood up on dates, just waiting to swoop in and take the prize. The thought gives you pause. Are there signs to look for? You start to remember the time your friend came back from the club, rambling about creepy guys who hit on her. Hearing about it and actually being in the moment are two different things. 

You're in the middle of deciding whether or not you'll stay to eat when--

"I just realized something!" Seungmin suddenly remarks as if he left cookies in the oven. "I don't know your name!" 

"Oh..." you sigh, more relieved than you'd ever admit. "It’s ___." 

“___?” Seungmin repeats sourly. "What kind of a name is that?” 

You blink, unsure of how to answer. "The name my parents gave me." 

"We're gonna have to think of a better name for you. A cuter name. You're too cute for a name like ___.” 

You mean to say something, honest you do, but nothing comes out but a stutter and some random mumbled syllables. Should you be flattered or offended? 

Seungmin obviously notices, because he smirks at your bouncing gaze. "Just give me a few minutes, I'll think of something perfect." 

Three waiters come out carrying silver trays with large dome lids and a roll out table with various choices of soup, bread, salad, kimchi, fruit, just about anything you could wish for. Two plates of parmesan chicken are placed on the table in front of you, the covers on each dish lifted in such a manner you would think the waiters were presenting gold. 

"Wow..." you breathe in total extravagance. 

This meal is like one meant for a king or a CEO. The waiters leave the rolling table behind while the two of you eat, so you can have your pick of side dishes and whatnot. 

You're hesitant to eat, but when Seungmin lifts his head from taking his first bite and asks "what's wrong", you instantly begin stuffing parmesan chicken past your lips with a small hum of deliciousness. 

"So tell me, if I can ask..." he says after a moment of enjoying the meal, "who stood you up?" 

You almost choke but manage to hold yourself together. "A blind date. Nothing important." 

"Really? Oh." 

"Oh?" 

Seungmin plays with his food, not something you were expecting. The action makes him seem childish. "Just not what I was expecting." 

"What do you mean?" 

He shrugs and takes a large bite of food. When he gets done chewing, he sees you're still waiting anxiously for an answer. 

"Just...you looked properly upset, so I figured it was someone who means a lot to you, like a boyfriend or girlfriend." 

"I don't have a boyfriend." 

The man across from you nods and goes back to take another monster-truck-size bite of food. Odd, you were expecting a larger reaction, but okay. 

This time you decide to ask a question, "Were you also waiting for someone or...?" because the last thing you want to do is steal someone as nice as Seungmin away from their predetermined plans just because you got stood up by (as Seungmin so graciously dubbed them) a douche. 

He perks up. "My girlfriend called me right before I saw you and told me she's working late tonight. I already got all dressed up, and I didn't want it to be for nothing. And then I saw you sitting all alone with what looked like tears in your eyes, and I just...felt like you needed someone to talk to." 

The word 'girlfriend' hits you like a truck and makes you want to cry unbeknownst the reason, but you still feel the necessity to be polite. The last half of his story was obviously meant to flatter you, even if the first half makes you ungodly uncomfortable, knowing this man is in a relationship with another woman. 

"You do look very nice." 

Seungmin meets your eyes. "So do you.” 

The two of you share a smile. Not the first. Not the last hopefully. 

The stars in his eyes and his words provide you with hope that you won't be parting ways for forever after this dinner. For some reason, you're finding it easier to be in this man's presence the more he speaks, which is not normally the case with strangers. 

"I know I didn't officially ask you, but would you like to have dinner with me, ___?" 

Shyly, you lift your champagne glass to meet his. "I thought you didn't like my name." 

"I never said I didn't like it. I said it wasn't cute enough for you," Seungmin corrects, clinking your glasses. "But the more I say it, the cuter it gets." 

::

About thirty minutes after dinner, you were halfway through devouring a truly sinful dessert called Triple Chocolate Killer Cake. And wow, was it sinful. You loved every bite.

Across the table, Seungmin watched you with a soft smile, his cheek resting against his palm as you enjoyed his favorite dessert from his best friend's restaurant.

"Happy?" 

Placing your fork delicately on your plate, careful not to make a sound, you swallow politely and nod. "Thank you." 

"You got some. Right there." Seungmin gestures to the right corner of his mouth. 

It’s always tricky in moments like this. Are they talking about their right or your right? In the movies, the girl always wipes the wrong corner, and then the guy has no choice but to reach over and swipe her lip with his thumb, creating that perfectly awkward tension. You know the trope well. Courtesy of an adolescence spent cultivating wildly unrealistic expectations of boyfriends. So, to play it safe, you just wipe your entire mouth, corner to corner, just in case.

Seungmin smirks as if he can sense the inner workings of your reason. "You got it, good job." 

Placing the napkin back on your lap, you muster up the courage to initiate conversation further, "So if the restaurant isn't your dream, what is?" 

"I'm the CEO of Seung Models." 

"Is that your dream?" 

Seungmin blinks at you, a tilted head and frowning lips. "You know, everytime I tell someone I own a modeling agency, they just assume that it's my dream. I mean, who wouldn't want to work with models all day, right?" 

"I would imagine lots of people," you say plainly. 

"Yeah, I guess so," Seungmin gazes at you, the corners of his smile slowly turning up again. You tell yourself it's not because of you, but the way he's watching you right now makes your lungs clench inside your chest. "Well, we're always looking for new talent, so if you know anyone who'd be interested let me know." 

"I'll keep a lookout." 

"Or, you know, if you were interested in--" He jumps when his phone vibrates in his pocket. "Good grief, who is it now?" Pulling out his phone, you notice his annoyed expression shift when he sees the caller ID. 

"Hey, beautiful, what's up?" 

The other voice is muffled but you can clearly make out one thing. It's definitely female. 

"No, I just...I went to the...yes, I'm being careful...well, I just ate without you because you said work...ah, okay...I'll be back soon then...yeah...love you too. Bye.” 

The call ends. 

You could ask who it was, but that doesn't seem necessary as it's kind of obvious. Anyway, you'd rather not remind Seungmin he's having dinner with an awkward stranger instead of his lovely girlfriend like he originally planned. 

The man, who doesn't seem so much like a stranger anymore, sighs and leans back in his chair before snapping his fingers. 

Jeongin comes quickly. "May I help you, Sir?" 

"Put the bill on my tab and let this young lady order whatever else she wishes. It's on me. I'm headed home for the night." Then he looks back at you with a charming smile. "I'm sorry for leaving so suddenly like this. But you know, when the girlfriend calls..." he shrugs to finish the statement. 

You shake your head. "Please don't apologize! You've done so much for me already. I should be thanking you." 

"Such manners." He smiles gently. "I wish we had met sooner. I like talking with you." 

Then Seungmin winks and pulls out a small white, business card from his suit pocket. "Here's my number. Call me if you get stood up again, okay?" 

You’re fully aware he has a girlfriend, and no, you shouldn’t be feeling anything for him. That would be wrong on every possible level. But still, every time he smiles or laughs or sends a casual wink your way, something inside you tightens. Not in fear, but in a way that’s warm and unfamiliar. Your cheeks flush, your chest grows tight. He’s kind. Gentle. So full of light it almost hurts to look at him. Maybe it’s all just an act, a well-rehearsed charm, but a small, foolish part of you wishes it’s not. 

"Thank you." You take his card, immediately standing and bowing in respect. 

Seungmin chuckles at your actions and grips your shoulders to pick you back up. "Please, that's not nec--" 

Your entire body instinctively flinches, unnecessary panic flooding your eyes and a loud heartbeat indicating your steadily rising pulse. Before you can register what’s happened, you jump back from him, putting sudden space between you. Your arms fly around your waist, encircling you in a defensive, barricaded position.

Seungmin just stares at you, with his hands hovering where you were once standing. 

"___? Are you okay?" 

You try to laugh it off, but your voice comes out shaky and scared, "Sorry, I'm fine. Thank you for dinner. I should be leaving too." 

"___?" he tries to ask again, but you're already walking out with a lowered chin, trembling fingers clutching your purse and Seungmin's business card. 

You don't look back even though you want to. Because you know what you'll see – a very confused and very handsome stranger waiting for the universe to explain who you are and why you did what you just did. 

::

Seungmin tiptoes into the house and carefully places his keys and jacket by the door. Treading quietly through the living room, past the stairs, and into the back bedroom, not daring to make a sound lest he wake the possible sleeping beauty in his sheets. 

She said it's been a rough week. She's been saying that a lot lately. 

Sure enough. When he turns the brass knob and peaks inside, there she is. Fast asleep in his bed, one of her legs exposed above the sheets while the rest of her stays snuggled out of sight. She's funny like that, insisting the room be cool so she can suffocate herself inside the comforter. Seungmin isn't a big fan of the AC blowing on him in the middle of the night, but it's a small preference to ignore for the sake of her comfort. 

Seungmin fondly smiles and unbuttons his shirt, throwing it to the side along with his shoes and slacks. He climbs into the bed and scoots closer to her, his smile fading when he realizes she's wearing practically nothing. He can't tell if her newly developed habit of sleeping naked is intentional or oblivious. Either way, it's driving him insane. 

"Hey, baby," he whispers with a kiss to her temple. 

Her eyes slowly open, barely turning to the sound of his voice. "You're back early," she hums. 

"So are you. Welcome home." 

"I don't live here," she mutters sleepily, eyes already closing again. "You make it sound like I moved in or something.” 

"Then why don't you already?" Seungmin whines, lightly running his palm over the bare curve of her hip. 

She doesn't answer right away. “Because I have my own place and my own bed." 

“Then why don't you ever sleep in it?” Seungmin asks with a seductive nibble on her neck. Not that he minds his girlfriend's odd attachment to his bedroom, but he low-key meant that to be a serious inquiry. 

"Maybe I’m frustrated." 

"Really?" Seungmin excitedly presses his warm hand against the small of her back to pull her hips closer to him, voice low and yearning, "I am too." 

"No," she scoffs, pushing him away. "Not that kind of frustrated. I mean tired frustrated." 

Seungmin frowns against her skin and nuzzles a few more kisses against the crook of her neck, dying to entice any kind of need within her. "Baby, please? Come on, I want you." 

"Not tonight," she whines and innocently curls into his chest, immediately building that all too familiar wall between them. 

Seungmin can feel the pressure building in his gut. Unfortunately, this isn't the first time he's gotten excited and then shamelessly shut down. It's a common occurrence that's been repeating for a while now. 

At first, he tried to be patient. Told himself it was just stress, long hours, hormones. But the weeks went on, their workloads fluctuated, yet the excuses stayed the same. And Seungmin was left with pent-up tension and a girlfriend who feels more like a roommate. 

"How was work?" she asks tiredly. 

"Hard. We're running out of time to find the last model for the New Year line. It's not like we haven't gotten plenty of options but," he sighs, rolling to his back to watch the ceiling, bringing her with him. "None of those girls have the right vibe, and I just can't bring myself to settle. I mean, this could be a huge opportunity for the company. If this season takes off, we could be on the same level as the top of the top in the industry and it's all riding on me to…babe?" 

The girl looks up at Seungmin with one half-opened eye, a disinterested hum on her lips. 

"Hmm…” 

"Are you listening?" 

"Yeah," she says through a yawn. "Work is hard, I get it. Just relax and pick someone." 

"You know what might make me feel more relaxed?" 

"What?" 

"An orgasm.” 

"I told you, I'm tired--" 

"You don't have to do anything," Seungmin insists, voice low and pleading. “I'll do all the work, baby, please?” 

"How many times do I have to say no?"

Of course, she has every right to say no. She's not obligated to do anything just because Seungmin asked, and he would never want to take that choice away from her.  

But...he can't lie and pretend it doesn't hurt. It’s not just about sex. It's the way she used to reach for him in the middle of the night, the way her body told him he was wanted, needed. Now it feels like she's left that part of them behind, and he's the only one still trying to carry it. The closeness, the intimacy, the feeling of being completely connected. And he's trying so hard to be patient, but he wonders when 'no' stopped meaning 'not tonight' and started meaning 'not ever.’ 

He has to say something about this. He should say something, right? This is about the health and intimacy of their relationship after all. 

"Actually...I've been wanting to talk to you about something." 

"What now?" she groans. 

"Our sex life. Or rather the lack of it." 

The girl just sighs and goes back to cuddling. "You know I've been overworking myself lately. Can't we talk about this tomorrow?" 

"But, you said that last time, and now it's been close to four weeks since we last talked." Seungmin pulls away and props himself up on his arm, forcing his girlfriend to roll away. "I'd like to talk about it now." 

She throws an arm over her eyes. "Fine. Talk. I'm listening." 

"It's just that, it's been over a month since we've been intimate, and I don't want to pressure you or anything, but it's starting to mess with me. I'm imagining things, flirting with random inanimate objects, and all I want to do at the end of the day is make you feel good and to release some of my own tension, but it just keeps building and building, and that's why I'm like, frustrated because--" 

"Seungmin," she interrupts him with a hand on his thigh, "you know you don't need me to feel good. You can do that by yourself." 

"I know I can because I have been. Almost every day!" Seungmin admits, shifting in his spot to lean further towards his girlfriend's unconcerned position. "But I feel kind of wrong, because I'm not satisfying you like I should be doing as your boyfriend. I don't want just the thought of you, I want you. I want what we had before we stopped having sex." 

The girl sighs and wraps her arms around Seungmin's strong frame, slowly rubbing the bare skin of his side with soft fingertips. "I know you're worried about our lack of intimacy, but really I'm okay with it. You don't need to worry about satisfying me. I like things the way they are." She scoots closer. "But, since you've made it very clear that you're frustrated, I'll make the extra effort for you. Just not tonight, okay. I'm tired." 

Seungmin dramatically sighs before pecking her lips, making note that he didn't feel her return the kiss. The sting hits him deep in his stomach. 

"Okay, but please don't act like having sex with me is something you have to put 'extra effort' into. I know you like it." Suddenly, a tinge of fear creeps into Seungmin's chest and makes itself a little home between his ribs, "...don't you?" 

His girlfriend holds her breath before exhaling with a casual shake of her head. "Does everyone have to like sex as much as you do? So what if I don't want to be intimate every day." 

"I don't mean to say we have to be intimate every day," Seungmin explains, god forbid they end this conversation with another misunderstanding, "but a little more physical affection would be nice sometimes. You sleep in my bed more than anywhere else, but I still miss you." 

"Seungmin, I'm right here. You don't need to miss me." 

The irritated tone she uses is like an aching fire on Seungmin's skin. He grabs her hip, rolling her onto her back and hovering over her with shallow desperate breaths. 

"That's the thing, I still do. Sometimes, I feel like we're not even in a relationship anymore. In the morning, you leave before me and come back before me, falling asleep again before I even get to kiss you hello." Seungmin leans down and attaches his lips to the curve of her ear, the simple action of his hips pressing down on hers sending tremors through his entire body. "Baby, I swear I don't mean to push you, but I just want to feel like my girlfriend is still mine." 

Her breath comes out in a tired, irritable huff. He hears it, swallows hard, and slowly pulls back, the faint ghost of his affection retreating with him.

Without a word, he rolls away to his side, the silence between them heavier than before.

A few seconds later, her fingers graze his back, absent and noncommittal. "We’re fine," she mutters softly. "Let’s just sleep, okay?"

Seungmin closes his eyes, trying to will himself not to speak after being utterly embarrassed like he just was. But his will breaks, and his lips form the words. 

"Goodnight....love you." 

He waits for a moment but his only response is the faint sound of his girlfriend's breathing. 

::

You turn the clean, white card over and over in your hands.

Of course, he owns a modeling agency. Why wouldn't he own a modeling agency? 

Seungmin definitely has the physique to be a model. Like, damn. That address is actually pretty close to the smoothie shop you work for, and with this card, you could easily find him (not that you're going to). 

Quickly, you save Seungmin's number and address in your phone contacts. Then you rip up the business card and toss it in the trash bin. 

Immediately, those insecurities you thought you had started to overcome begin rushing back. But just like your therapist taught you, each time you start to have a negative thought, you tell it to shut up. 

He doesn't want you to call him anyway. He has a girlfriend, but even if he didn't, he'd never want to be with someone like you. Shut up. 

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. 

:: 

Work is slow today. Probably because of the rain. People never want to get out when it's so gloomy and gross. The downtime would be nice on any other day, but today, the lack of busy tasks has left your mind with the opportunity to wander in every direction. 

Unfortunately, the only direction it wants to go is to the phone in your back pocket, with Seungmin's number in it. 

He keeps popping up, and you don't know why. Not that you hate thinking about him. But the worst part is that every time Seungmin pops into your head, so does his girlfriend. 

It suddenly hits you while cleaning the blender – his girlfriend is probably a model. A beautiful one. Someone who doesn't have scars, or bruises, or metaphorical cuts and marks. Someone who doesn't have problems opening up their heart or trusting to the point of self-depreciation. Someone who is willing to wear a bikini during the Summer or who can sleep in the same bed with another body beside them without waking up to a panic attack. 

Seungmin doesn't deserve someone like you. Or rather, you don't deserve someone like Seungmin. A beat-up piece of trash who questions why she woke up that morning. A girl who hasn't been able to say "I love you" for over three years. A girl who hides herself like a child every chance she gets. 

And yet, you can't stop thinking about him. It's gotten to the point that you've dangerously started creating your own personal assumptions about his life and personality. 

You know, like psychopaths do. 

You like to imagine he owns a dog or two. Huskies. Maybe German Shepherds. He buys them that fancy dog food that has to be refrigerated and toys, lots of toys. His girlfriend is allergic to dogs, so she's never around, and he likes to send you random pictures of them digging up his girlfriend's garden in the backyard because he thinks it's funny. 

You like to imagine there are times when he's not so confident. Especially when it comes to romantic stuff. Like a first kiss. He probably blushes and stutters and asks before he does anything, because he's a gentleman. 

It isn't long until the Seungmin you met over an impromptu blind date is morphed into your ideal, flawless partner, into someone he's probably not, but you like the character you created out of him too much to stop daydreaming. 

Seungmin pops into your head so much today that you even imagine him walking through the front doors of your humble, corner smoothie shop. You imagine he's wearing a blue suit and brown shoes and his hair is dripping wet from the rain outside, combed out of his face to expose his forehead. He looks so handsome. You imagine he shakes his jacket out and hangs it on the coat rack to dry before scanning for a place to sit, another hand running through his hair for the third time since he entered, but you're not mad one bit. 

"Hey," he greets you, the image of him walking toward the front counter with a friendly smile has you outwardly sighing, "I didn't know you worked here?" 

"Huh?" The miniscule sound escapes you when he continues to stare with expecting eyes. 

He laughs out loud, "I just came in to escape the rain, but didn't expect to find you handling a blender." 

In that exact moment, said blender slips from your hands, and you fumble with it across the counter like an idiot, fighting to regain composure. 

"O-Oh well, yeah I mean, I just," you ramble until you're finally able to drop the blender back into its rightful place against the wall, "it's just a part time job. What are you doing here, Seungmin?" 

He points outside with flat lips. "Rain." 

"Right." Mental facepalm number one. 

He smiles at you genuinely. "You remember my name. I'm flattered." 

A nervous chuckle is not the smoothest response you could have used, but it's all you manage. "Of course. How could I forget?" 

"I guess it's safe to assume you made it home okay then," Seungmin comments, fixing the slightly ajar collar of his soaked, navy button up. "You never called me." 

He's upset at you. Shut up. 

It takes you a few moments to understand what he means, but then you remember his business card and a flush returns to your cheeks, one he's probably way too familiar with at this point. "Oh, yes. I'm sorry for running away like I did. I don't really have an excuse..." 

Seungmin just shakes his head, excusing your previous behavior with a friendly, "No, it's okay! Some people don't like to be touched, and I get that. I should have asked before I just randomly grabbed you. I apologize." 

"It wasn't your fault, but thank you. I hope we can just put that behind us." 

"I'd like that," he smirks dangerously. 

Not that he was being suggestive in the slightest! Seungmin is a perfect gentleman in the way he keeps polite eye contact and smiles with every word you speak. But his smirk is dangerous because you find yourself magnetically pulled into the slight curve of his lips to the point where you're physically leaning against the side of the counter. 

His smile is so contagious. The way his eyes basically disappear, and the corners of his lips are kissed with the smallest dimples. No doubt you're falling for his smile more and more every time you see it. Naturally, you subconsciously attempt to suppress those nasty feelings as much as you can. But for some reason, for the first time in three years, you're having a really difficult time. 

"So!" Seungmin says with a tap on the counter, "You do work here or you just think the green apron has potential to be the next fashion icon?"

You straighten your apron, running your hands over the monogram label. "What? You don't like the uniform?"

He shrugs. "You look better in black."

You cross your arms, trying to portray an air of confidence and playfulness. "I can pull off several colors. Green being one of them." 

Seungmin harshly hisses as if he doesn't want to offend you, but his next comment comes anyway. "I think, and I'm just a lowly model producer, but you would look much better in, I'm gonna suggest blue." 

After a long, careful examination of your apron, you shrug. "Okay, I'll give blue a chance. But if someone else walks in and tells me to wear purple, you're out of luck." 

Seungmin tries to keep a serious face, but ends up breaking down in giggles. "Deal. Thanks for at least acknowledging me."

"My pleasure."

Seungmin licks his lips, watching you for a second or two, eyes softly blinking as if he's considering something intensely. You're about to comment because you're beginning to feel rather small under his gaze, but he speaks up first, finally. 

"Would you like to have a smoothie with me? I'm going to be here until the rain dies down a little, and if I remember correctly, I really enjoy your company."

"Well," you consider, looking over your shoulder to where your only co-worker is sitting in the corner on their phone, zero concern for the world around them. "I would, but I'm on the clock and already had my break."

He waves your excuse aside. "Eh, your boss won't mind. Come on, just one small smoothie with me. I'll take responsibility for any troubles. Promise." 

Glancing at the clock, your heart sinks because you do wanna sit with him, but if you ditch your shift, even just an hour early, you'll feel like crap and won't be able to enjoy Seungmin's company. The curse of obligation. 

"My shift ends in about an hour…" 

You're not worth waiting for. Shut up. 

You figure he won't; that's why you asked. Seungmin probably has someone to meet. Someone like his girlfriend. He'll say he doesn't have that kind of time, probably scoff at you for asking something so outrageous when you know he's a busy man, and then walk out and never talk to you again. It's for the best. Obviously Seungmin is not good for your health. 

He checks his watch and then nods. "I'll wait for you."

The shock on your face must be amusing, because as soon as Seungmin lowers his wrist and sees your face, he's bursting into a giggly smile. 

"You will?" 

He nods again, resting his hands inside his slack pockets. "I said I will." 

"Then...I guess one smoothie can't hurt."

Seungmin hasn't stopped smiling. He winks at you, a loud skip of your heart responding inside your chest. 

"Awesome."

::

Conversations with Seungmin are a roller coaster. One second, he's talking about the superiority of sweet potato fries to french fries, and the next he's pouting because his girlfriend won't let him buy a puppy. He doesn't have a dog currently and, no, he and his girlfriend did not break up. Judging from the way he talks about her, he's a loyal boyfriend. A kind, considerate, happy, loyal boyfriend. 

He says she's perfect in almost every way. He likes her hair, her smile, her laugh. He really appreciates and treasures every part of her. This is the stuff your elementary friends said having a boyfriend was all about. The kind of stuff in movies where the guy always speaks kindly of his girlfriend no matter who he's with. It's all very childish in a way, but you do admit. You're jealous. Jealous of the way Seungmin talks about his girlfriend.

Not that you were expecting him to be any less passionate about his relationship than he is about producing. He also loves his job very much. Turns out Seungmin is in charge of managing behind the scenes of the photoshoots and the final produced cut of the photos. 

So, basically, he's a genius. 

Each time he talks, he impresses you. So much, you have to take a sip of your smoothie to keep from staring slack-jawed at him. 

Seungmin starts giggling, his cute laugh bringing you back to reality.

"What?" you ask, stunned at the way he suddenly sounds like a little kid.

He lifts his finger and brushes the corner of your mouth, pulling away with a small dot of pink smoothie on his fingernail. He smiles and tastes it. His lips are pink, and they look very soft for it being so cold outside. 

"Thanks."

He nods. "No problem. I'm assuming you like your smoothie then?"

You copy his cute nod. "I always get this one." 

He sits back and crosses his arms with a furrowed brow. "Always? Why that one?" 

"I know I like it." 

"Don't you wanna try something different now and then?" 

"I haven't wanted to try something different in a long time," you answer, using your straw to play with the leftover smoothie at the bottom of your cup. “It’s safer to get what I know I like.” 

Seungmin blinks at you. Behind his eyes, he's processing, things are stacking in his mind and making more and more sense the more he talks to you. He can already tell you're no ordinary smoothie employee. There's something special about you, special and perhaps painful. He wants to know you more. 

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Did you lose my card?"

Your eyes widen to the size of baseballs. Inside your chest, your heart screams at you not to answer. This is where the fairy tale ends and reality slaps you in the face.  

"Umm, to be honest, I-I threw it away," you reply with a guilty frown. 

Seungmin clenches his heart in pain, "Oh! You sure know how to hurt a guy's feelings.” 

He's disappointed in you for what you did. He must hate you for that. Shut up. 

It's things like this that really bug you. He's obviously joking, but you feel like crying. No matter how many times you tell yourself he's fine, your mind keeps plunging itself into darkness, beating itself up for being so useless and stupid. 

"I threw it away after I saved your number in my phone," you quietly tell him in hopes that he'll accept your excuse. "I have your number in my phone, I swear." 

You try to fake a playful smile, but it's impossible. Your head hangs low, much lower than it was before. He still manages to notice your eyes and the dim wetness in them somehow. 

Seungmin stops and turns to rest his chin in his palms, titling his head to see you and kindly smiling. "Ah, so is that why you haven't called me?"

"What?"

"The reason you haven't called me is because you have my number in your phone?"

The smirk on his face finds you practically speechless. "Well...no?" 

His lips smack and he flashes a warm smile at you. "Then why didn't you call me? Not that I was waiting for your call or anything, but I was kinda waiting for your call." 

What did he just say? You understand that some people are overly friendly or just have a flirty personality, but why does he keep saying cute things like this when he has a girlfriend? 

"You have a girlfriend," you finally say, "I didn't call you because you have a girlfriend."

"Is that what you thought? Oh, no! I didn't – I mean, that's not what I was implying at all. Yes, I have a girlfriend, but I was hoping you would call me because I want to offer you a job."

"A job?" you ask timidly. 

"Yes, a job." Seungmin explains, "I think you have some raw talent hidden under that shy exterior, and I wanted to offer you a chance to audition for my company. But I also wanted to make sure your personality is as sweet as your appearance. I was hoping you would call me and I could see you again, so I could make sure I wanted you for the new New Year line. That's all, I swear."

"Oh." 

It all starts to make sense. His friendliness wasn't an act, but you also misunderstood him from the very beginning. He never intended to have a relationship with you, well, not a casual one at least. 

"I've never modeled before." 

"That's okay!" Seungmin says. "I don’t like to use professional models. They're too pompous and demanding. Plus, they don't look as natural as say someone like you. I like your style, and from the time I've spent with you, I really like the energy and vibe you bring too. I want to hire you."

"Hire? Me?"

Seungmin nods.

Flashbacks of times you've watched yourself in the mirror come to mind. Clearly, Seungmin is only asking you this because he's yet to see you in something truly form fitting. While a New Year line doesn't sound nearly as demanding or scary as say a swimsuit line, you can't deny the amount of sheer terror just thinking about being in front of a camera does to you. 

"I can't."

"Why not?" 

I'm bruised. I'm broken. I'm scarred.  

"I have a job here."

Seungmin scoffs, "Don't use that excuse on me. Someone just offered you a well-paying job to stand in place, and you turn it down to blend smoothies? Come on, all I'm asking is for you to audition. Whatdya say?" 

"Thank you, but…" you nervously pick at your sweater paws wrapped around your cold, styrofoam cup, "I'm happy where I am." 

The gentleman sitting across from you narrows his eyes and sighs. "Are you? I mean, I know we don't know each other insanely well, but you can talk to me. If you want to."

"I know. Thanks." Your default response when someone offers to get closer to you.

Seungmin slowly nods and ganders around the store. "I guess you do have a little home here, huh? I get why you don't want to leave. Still..." he finishes his smoothie and stands up, "tell me if you change your mind?"

"Okay, sure," you say without looking up.

He stands there, watching you for a minute or so before you hear his soft voice, "Hey."

You slowly find his gaze looking down at you, and instantly, you're locked onto his eyes.

"Call me tomorrow? We can have lunch together on my break."

Immediately, you shake your head. "I'm not going to model for you, Seungmin." 

"I know, but who said we can't be friends? I'm just asking you for lunch not to marry me."

"Friends?" The word slips past your lips before you can stop it. 

He squats down next to you and smiles softly, little sparkles in his eyes you didn't know were there until you became this physically close to him. "I think you're really cool, ___. I'd like to be your friend, if you can manage that."

Your eyelids flutter like it's life or death. Did it suddenly get really hot in here or is that just you getting sick over nothing again? His eyes are so beautiful, it feels like they see into your deepest thoughts and insecurities when he looks at you like that. It's scary and nice and painful all at the same time. 

You take a deep breath, unsure of what you're about to say, but your lips part and you decide whatever words come next must be your honest feelings. 

"Okay. Lunch. Just promise me there won't be a wedding photographer."

Seungmin laughs and crosses his heart. "I promise." He stands and pulls out some money, dropping it on the table to pay for the smoothies. "See you tomorrow, ___."

You wave as he walks out the door, smiling back at you before stepping into the harsh world with exemplary confidence and positivity, the same kind you hope will find you again someday. 

::

"Baby? Is that you?" Seungmin hears the lovely sound of his girlfriend's voice come from the kitchen when he enters the house.

"Yeah, it's me." He sniffs. "Are you cooking?"

Her footsteps come around the corner, and she smiles when he sees her, sighing in complete and domestic satisfaction. 

"It's in the oven right now. I felt bad about our little fight the other night and wanted to make it up to you. Sorry, I used all your pasta though."

Seungmin sighs as he takes in the beautiful sight of his girlfriend. She's dressed in his t-shirt and boxers with a small white apron wrapped around her waist. She looks absolutely adorable. Seungmin can feel his heart swell at the sight of her.

"Baby, you shouldn't have."

She reaches out to him. Seungmin drops his coat and immediately goes to her, scooping her up in his arms and kissing her thin lips. He melts into her embrace.

"Hmm," she hums against his lips before pulling away, "well, I still felt bad. So, I put some lasagna in the oven and bought a bottle of your favorite merlot. How do you feel about having an Italian night?"

Seungmin smiles and kisses her nose cutely. "Sounds perfect." He begins to sway her in his arms as calmness washes over him. "You look adorable by the way. I love it when you wear my clothes."

"I know," she sings, "that's why I'm wearing them."

Seungmin raises his eyebrows. "Is that the only reason?" He dips his lips to her neck and begins to tickle her skin with kisses. "Sure there isn't another reason my girlfriend is wearing my boxers?" 

She only giggles and tries to keep her boyfriend’s fingers from tickling her ribs. "Uh no, there's not. Seungmin!" she exclaims when he swoops her into the air, her legs instantly wrapping around his waist. "I swear, if you don't put me down right now—"

"You'll what?" Seungmin interrupts. "What will you do?"

His girlfriend huffs a few empty threats which make him chuckle. 

"I think we've established that I'm the dominant one in this relationship," he leads them to the couch before dropping the smaller girl on the cushions and climbing over her, "or maybe you need to be reminded."

His words ghost against her ear mere moments before his lips follow, brushing along her lobe, then drifting down the length of her neck to the dip of her collarbone. Each kiss escapes him with a quiet sigh, his hands slipping beneath the oversized shirt she’d stolen from his closet the night before. In one swift motion, he tears off her apron and tosses it aside, the careless act sending a pulse of heat straight through him. Even something that simple makes his desire spike. 

Fuck, he needs this. The feeling of her soft body pinned beneath his. The sound of her breath hitching, her moans curling into the air as he rocks into her, her nails dragging down his back and sending shivers through his spine. The way her fingers tangle in his hair when he bites down on her shoulder. The heat of her skin pressed to his, their bodies moving together like they were made for this. The way she arches and cries out when he hooks her leg over his shoulder. 

Just thinking about it makes Seungmin groan under his breath.

"Baby, the lasagna will be done in like fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes is plenty of time." He crashes their lips back together, his mouth hungry and urgent as he licks inside, coaxing her tongue to meet his. He needs to taste her - but more than that, he needs to keep her from speaking, afraid that if she does, she’ll pull away again.

To Seungmin's pleasant surprise, she doesn’t stop him. Maybe it’s because she made this whole dinner as a quiet apology for turning him down last time, but he clings to the hope that it’s because, right now, she actually wants him too.

“Wait,” she finally breathes against his lips when she finds a moment to speak.

Reluctantly, Seungmin pulls back, his eyes searching hers.

She offers him a soft, almost apologetic smile and gently runs her fingers through his hair. “How about we just enjoy our dinner tonight, okay? We’ve got plenty of time to do all this another day.”

Seungmin freezes. He thought…for a split second, he could’ve sworn she was into it. Her head had tilted to give him more access, her body warmer and more inviting than it had been in weeks. His hands were already halfway to undoing his pants, convinced they were finally on the same page again. So what happened?

“Yeah,” he says after a pause, swallowing the lump of disappointment in his throat. “Okay.”

His girlfriend sighs as they both sit up again. She pats his thigh and heads back to the kitchen, but she doesn’t make it two steps before—

“Do you find me attractive?”

She pauses, glancing over her shoulder. “What? Of course, I do.”

“No, I mean…do you think I’m sexy?”

She turns fully now, brows furrowed. “What the heck are you getting at?”

Suddenly, Seungmin stands and strips off his shirt, urgency tightening every movement. His breath comes faster, heart pounding under a storm of insecurity. 

“Do you even want me?” he asks. His gaze might look confident, but the tremble in his voice betrays the truth.

“I…” She swallows, startled. “Why would you ask me that?” 

“Just answer the question,” Seungmin says, more vulnerable than demanding.

She doesn’t speak right away. Instead, she walks toward him and places a hand gently on his bare chest. It’s a simple gesture. But after weeks of distance, that one touch lights a fire under his skin. It sends a chill down his spine, and something low in his gut pulses with the need to feel more.

"Are you okay, Seungmin?"

"No. I'm not okay. This relationship is not okay. That's the issue." The words pour out before he can stop them. "And stop calling me Seungmin."

She scoffs, tension flaring in her voice. "That’s your name.” 

"You never used to call me by my name. It was always baby, or dandy boy, or hell, even daddy. What happened to that? Or was it just pillow talk? Things you used to say when we were actually sleeping together.” 

Her brows knit, clearly taken aback. "What the hell has gotten into you?"

"I want you! I still want you so badly. Why don't you want me anymore?" His voice breaks as he reaches out for her waist, but she steps back, putting more distance between them. He’s left standing there half-dressed, half-broken, and completely confused.

“I don’t want to have sex,” she says firmly.

Seungmin’s hands slowly fall to his sides. The silence stretches on before he quietly asks, "Baby…are you asexual? Because if you are, that’s okay. We can work through it. But you have to talk to me—"

"What? No!" she snaps, quicker than he expected. "I just don’t want to do it right now."

"You haven’t wanted to 'do it' in over a month," Seungmin presses, trying not to sound accusing. "I’m not trying to offend you, I just…I thought maybe something’s changed."

She exhales sharply and lifts a hand, signaling him to stop. "I promise I’m not asexual. I just—"

"You just what?" he asks, stepping closer.

“I just had a long day and I’m tired, alright?” she finally says, turning to walk into the kitchen.

Seungmin follows, quietly but firmly. “If you’re that tired, why go out of your way to make dinner for me? You could’ve ordered takeout.” 

She shrugs and wipes little circles on the counter top with her hand towel. "Just because I wanted to," she mumbles but it's not cute like it was before. It's just frustrating. 

Seungmin carefully steps closer to her and slides his hands around her waist once she allows him, giving her every chance to push him away. When she doesn't, he sighs and rests his chin on her shoulder. 

"I'm sorry if I made you feel pressured. I can take care of myself later. But I don't think we should ignore this. What do you think about maybe talking to someone about it?" 

"What do you mean? Like seeing a counselor?" 

"A relationship counselor, yeah. There's clearly something wrong in our sex life or we wouldn't be fighting like this all the time. I feel like there's a lot of tension that we're not releasing." 

His girlfriend furrows her brow, clearly not impressed with the idea. "If you need to release tension that badly, why don't you do it before you come home?"

"You mean at work?" He almost can't believe she even suggested that. "I work at a modeling agency." 

She shrugs again. "Yeah, so?"

Seungmin takes a step back and shakes his head, very confused and somewhat offended. "I am surrounded by stunning, sexy women all day who would do anything to get on the producer's good side." He points to himself. "Do you understand how easy it would be for me to release my tension at work? Are you asking me to cheat on you?" 

That's when his girlfriend throws the hand towel across the counter and raises her voice louder than either of them have been all night. "Do whatever you need to, Seungmin! Whatever, I just can't take this nagging about sex anymore! I'm stressed, alright?"

"Then let me help you destress! I need you, you need me. Let's just go back to how we were before. When we were both happy. When we were sleeping together. Now it's like…I don't know, I just hate how we are now." Seungmin practically begs, running his hands through his hair.

"Well, I don't!" she replies with a stomp. "God, I don't want to have sex every day!"

"I'm not asking you to have sex with me every day, but I haven't touched you or been touched in over a month and it's messing with me! You just quit on me without any warning, with no explanation, and now I feel more distant from you than I ever have, and honestly, it's really shitty of you to keep pushing me off without saying why!” 

She crosses her arms, and huffs a breath, popping her hip like one of those mean girls from high school. "Well, you're just gonna have to get over that because I'm done having this conversation with you. And if you can't accept that we're not going to be intimate anymore, then we can end this relationship right now.” 

And right at that moment, the oven timer beeps, and Seungmin feels his heart drop. 

She pulls the lasagna out of the oven and places it on top of the stove before throwing her oven mitts next to the dish. 

"I think I'm just gonna head home for tonight," she says quietly. "Enjoy your dinner."

Seungmin sighs and rolls his lips between his teeth, telling himself he should stop her. But he doesn't, and she walks out the door with her hair blowing back a scent of lavender and missed opportunity.

He doesn't eat dinner that night. 

::

There aren’t many contacts in your phone, honestly. Scrolling through them, it’s nearly impossible not to see Seungmin’s name pop up.

You hesitate. Maybe you shouldn’t be doing this. But…he did say he wanted to be friends, and if you're being honest, you’ve been looking forward to seeing him again, no matter how much his smile does weird things to your chest.

Calling people has never been your strong suit. It's such a simple thing, yet your anxiety spikes the moment the phone rings in your ear. That faint, staticky tone that makes your lungs fizzle like they’re boiling from the inside out.

"Hello?"

He answered. Oh god, he actually answered.

"Hey."

"I know that voice," he says, and somehow he sounds like he’s smiling. Just the sound of it makes you melt. "So you finally decided to call me. Took you long enough. I was wondering when you’d come around."

"Actually, that’s why I called—"

Seungmin lets out a dramatic gasp. "Wait. You’re not calling to stand me up, are you?"

You laugh, soft and breathy. If anyone else had said that, it might've sparked full-blown panic. But with Seungmin, you can hear the teasing smirk in his voice, and it soothes the knots in your stomach.

"I got caught up cleaning a mess for my coworker. They called out. I’m sorry."

"Don’t apologize. I’d rather you be late than hurt. I'm glad you're okay.” 

People always talk about the moment. The exact second they knew they were starting to fall for someone. One sentence. One gesture. One heartbeat where everything shifted.

And for the first time in three years, the second Seungmin said that impossibly thoughtful and completely unintentional sentence, something in you shifted too.

Like everything is finally starting to make sense.

"So, where are you?" 

"I'm walking to the bus stop now," you tell him. 

"Should I come pick you up? You'd probably have a much better time if you didn't have to take public transportation."

"No!" you respond a little too quickly, and it makes you pause before you can even finish your thought. "I mean, I can't ask you to go out of your way like that. I'll just meet you there like we planned."

Seungmin scoffs. "Nah, it's all good. I don't mind. Just stay where you are, and I'll be there in a few." 

"But--" 

But you don't have a chance to retort when he ends the call suddenly. Apparently he won't be hearing another word on the subject. Seungmin is on his way here and you have no choice but to wait for him. 

It's a bit chilly. Thankfully the ice on the road has begun to melt, but there's still a biting breeze and plenty of reasons to wear gloves and a scarf. Too bad you didn't bring any. 

By the time Seungmin pulls up to the curb, you've begun to shiver. He pops open the door from inside and gestures for you to climb inside. Cars were never really your thing, but you can tell just by the shape of the headlights this is not your run of the mill sedan. 

That and the door opens up instead and out. You didn't even know car doors did that. 

Inside is already toasty and the passenger seat is pre-warmed. 

"Did you wait long?"

"No, you made great time. I figured you’d be later with the snow and all."

Seungmin presses a fist to his chest with mock pride. "I pride myself on my punctuality. But I hope you don’t mind, I actually need to stop by my office and drop something off. Totally forgot I had it, and the marketing team needs it before tomorrow."

You nod quickly. Of course you don’t mind. Seungmin's already done so much, picking you up, taking you to lunch, treating you like an equal, being generous, kind, real. Just being Seungmin.

He keeps driving, and the conversation flows as naturally as it did at the restaurant, and again at the smoothie shop. Every minute with him is easier than the last. He’s open. Attentive. And you can’t help but smile at the little winks and side glances he sneaks your way despite being behind the wheel.

It’s rare. Someone who actually listens, someone who sees you. He may never realize it, but he's doing something no one else has ever done for you before – he's modeling what a healthy relationship feels like. 

"So, tell me," he continues after you've finished comparing your favorite things about snow, "who is this coworker who dares to call out and leave you with all their work?" 

"Oh, they do it all the time. I'm used to it by now." 

"Doesn't the manager care?" 

"Pretty sure they're sleeping with the manager so...I'm guessing not." 

"Maybe you should sleep with the manager. Then you could get out of shifts too." 

"I don't know. Double chins and back fat don't really do it for me." 

As soon as you speak, Seungmin breaks into laughter - an easy, bubbling sound that fills the car. It's surprising because no one has ever thought you were funny. 

It must’ve struck him funnier than you meant, because he casually reaches over and places a hand on your knee. You manage not to flinch, though the reflex still hums beneath your skin. He promised he wouldn’t touch you without asking, but something tells you that for Seungmin, touch is second nature. An instinctive way he shows affection. And honestly, you like that about him. You just haven’t figured out yet how to enjoy it without your past trying to yank you backward.

"So what does it for you then? If it’s not double chins and back fat?"

He grins, clearly joking, but you’re suddenly aware of how genuine your answer is going to be.

"I guess, I like guys who are more gentle. And honest. Honesty is really important to me."

Seungmin nods slowly, eyes fixed on the road. “Honesty’s hard to come by these days. Even when you’re upfront, the other person might not be. They start shutting you out, keeping things from you, like you’re some stranger. And you keep trying to be enough, trying to be what they want, but... it’s like they’ve already decided they don’t want you. And they won’t even explain why. It’s so fucking stupid and—” he cuts himself off with a quiet sigh, resting his head against his fist by the window. 

Silence stretches between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. 

You’ve never seen this side of Seungmin before. With all his teasing and charm, it was easy to believe nothing ever really got to him. But now? Now you see it. He carries his own quiet ache, the kind you recognize. You don’t know the full story, but for the first time, you wish more than anything to be someone he could trust with it.

You just don’t know how to ask him to let you in.

He ends up speaking before you can think of the words to say. "Sorry, I didn't mean to drop all that on you. We can forget it.” 

"Trouble in paradise?" 

"Guess you could say that," he shrugs, brushing it off with a tight smile. "But it's all good. Let's change the subject, if you don't mind."

"Sorry. Sure."

So that’s it, then. Seungmin doesn’t want to confide in you. The realization settles deep in your chest, cold and familiar, like an old bruise pressed too hard. You hate how easily your silence chokes moments like this, how your words always seem to falter right when they might matter most. You’re not the person people open up to. You never have been.

The silence between you stretches, thickening with every passing second. You start to fidget, fingers tugging at the strap of your purse, eyes locked on the worn tips of your boots. Seungmin’s car glides so smoothly over the snow that you can hear every subtle crunch beneath the tires, every small shift of his hands on the leather wheel. It should be peaceful. Instead, it hums like static in your ears, uncomfortable, impossible to ignore. 

"Is your work much farther?" 

"Yeah, we just have to cross the bridge after this light," he says with a flat smile as the car comes to a stop.

The red illuminates the inside of the car despite it being midday. Clouds litter the sky and block the majority of any possible sunlight. Winter is nice, but you miss the sunshine on days like this. 

"What's your favorite food?" he suddenly asks you. 

"Umm, probably fruit. I also like rice dishes." 

"Favorite color?" 

"Red." 

"Favorite animal?" 

"Definitely dogs," you start to crack a smile. "Why the pop quiz?" 

The light turns green, and he eases the car forward. “I’ve gotta keep asking questions,” he says, glancing your way with a grin. “It’s the only way I’ll get to know you. Most friends know this kind of stuff about each other.”

“If you say so,” you laugh softly, warmth blooming in your chest. It’s been a long time since anyone really tried to know you, really cared to. And the fact that it’s Seungmin? That just makes it harder to keep your heart steady. 

He catches your shy smile in the corner of his eye and smiles back. "Glad we agree."

Damn it, you really like this. Riding in a car, feeling completely safe with the person driving. Talking about absolutely everything and seemingly nothing at the same time. Learning new things about each other without fear. You're not sure how he's managed to create this safe atmosphere, but somehow Seungmin makes talking – something you've never found easy – so simple. 

He keeps the conversation going with another easy question. “Favorite movie genre?”

“I like old-timey romantic movies.”

Seungmin quirks a brow. “Like black and white ones?”

“Yeah. My mom and dad used to take me to drive-ins. We’d sit in the car tossing popcorn at random stuff and making fun of the actors. It was just silly, but, it made me feel really close to them.”

He glances at you briefly, then back at the road, his smile soft and genuine. “Used to?”

You hesitate, but something about Seungmin makes you feel safe enough to tell the truth.

“My parents passed away not long after my eighteenth birthday.” Your voice stays steady, though your chest tightens. “I still miss them every day. Sometimes I catch myself wishing I could just hug my mom again or ask my dad what to do. I feel like things would make more sense if I could. Daz always said they're dead now so what's the point of wishing hopelessly. He's probably right. He was very adamant about those things."

Seungmin doesn't respond right away. The silence settles, not cold or dismissive - just thoughtful. And when he finally speaks, it’s quiet and careful, like he doesn’t want to break something delicate.

"Look, I don't know who this Daz guy is, but he has no right saying things like that. It's one hundred percent okay to miss your parents. And if it's hopeless wishing, who freaking cares? Wishing keeps your heart alive. It keeps your hope alive. And if you're not hoping for anything, then what's the point?"

Those words are the kindest you've heard in a really long time. So long in fact, you don't know how you're supposed to respond. Even if he didn't mean them in the way you want him to, you know he meant them to encourage you, and that in and of itself means so much. 

You honestly feel safer even just sitting in a car with him, driving down the snowy street in the cold of a winter afternoon. You could spill everything. Every little piece of yourself. 

Carefully, you watch his profile, paying special attention to your heart tugging in your chest. And not because Seungmin is the first guy to treat you this way in such a long time, (although that's probably a factor), you just trust his person. You don't have to keep your guard up constantly or suspect him of lying to you or– 

"And who the hell is this Daz guy anyway? He sounds like a dick.”

You blink. Whoops.

"Uh…" you stumble, "h-he's my… ex."

Seungmin straightens a bit, clearly caught off guard. “Your ex said that to you?” His voice is laced with disbelief, and your heart skips.

“Yeah…” You inhale slowly. It’s time. He’s been open with you, and you owe him the same. “Do you remember the first time we met?”

“Yeah, at Felix’s restaurant. Why?”

You hesitate, then press forward. “I told you I was waiting for a blind date… but that was actually my first date since breaking up with Daz.”

Seungmin glances over, catching the embarrassment on your face before you can hide it. “Really?”

You nod, hands twisting together in your lap, ankles crossed tight. The heat rising in your cheeks feels almost unbearable, made worse by the snow falling steadily outside, soft and cold against the windows.

You wait for the silence to stretch, for him to pull away or say something sharp. But instead, he exhales slowly and reaches over, slipping his hand into yours.

“I’ve been stood up before,” he says gently. “It sucks. A lot.”

His palm is warm—solid—but tender. The way his fingers curl around yours makes something deep inside you unclench. You glance at him. The angle of his jaw looks sharper against the soft light, but his expression is anything but hard.

“I’m sorry for lying,” you murmur. The guilt is thick in your voice. You still can’t convince yourself he won’t suddenly regret being kind.

But Seungmin just shakes his head, glancing at you with something softer in his eyes. “You didn’t really lie. You didn’t owe me anything that night. And honestly… people lie for a lot worse reasons. You don’t have to carry that around. I'm not mad.” 

"You're not?'

Seungmin shakes his head and chuckles. "Of course, I'm not. What, like I'm gonna pull the car over and leave you on the side of the road because I don't affiliate with liars? My job has me surrounded by liars every day. And they're much worse than you, believe me." 

"What do you mean?"

"Okay so, you've seen magazine covers and photoshoots, right? All that stuff is edited and polished until it's perfect. Most of those girls don't look like they do in pictures. In real life, models are much more..." he takes a moment to think of the right word, "erroneous."

"Erroneous?"

Seungmin glances your way and smiles proudly. "It's my word for the day. It means flawed."

"Oh," you stifle a giggle with the back of your hand, "well, I appreciate you not kicking me out of your car. And for your significantly expanded vocabulary. It's very advantageous."

Seungmin raises his brow, equally entertained. “Alright, I see you, ___. Impressed.” 

Conversations with Seungmin are so refreshing. You never talked about vocabulary words, models, or classic romance films with Daz. Honestly, you never talked like this with anyone.

In fact, since your last conversation with Seungmin at the smoothie shop, you haven’t really spoken to anyone else. That exchange has been playing on a loop in your mind ever since. His words linger, like they found a home somewhere in the space between your ears. And strangely, you don’t mind. You like having his voice echo in your head. It's calming. 

"Earth to ___?" 

"Huh? Oh, sorry," you immediately apologize. "I tend to zone out sometimes." 

"Stuck in dream world?" he asks with an understanding sigh. 

You shrug. "Something like that." 

"The dream world can be a dangerous place, you know. Careful how often you spend time there."

Some of the things Seungmin says catch you off guard. Sometimes you think you've got him figured out and then he says something totally unexpected and yet completely understandable, and it surprises you how well you resonate with his worldview and experiences considering you've only met him a few times. 

"Because," you continue his thought, "if you're not careful, you can grow complacent with your dreams. The only problem being nothing can ever live up to them. You'll only ever be satisfied when you're not in reality. Right?" 

Seungmin looks over to you slowly as the car comes to pause at the last red light before his company. You keep a solemn gaze fixed on the road ahead.

"Right..." he says with a soft blink, sliding his hands up and around the steering wheel.

"Seungmin?"

"Yeah?"

"What do you do when all your dreams are nightmares?"

You've never asked anything like this to anyone, and this could potentially be very inappropriate, but you ask anyway. Maybe because for the first time, you think Seungmin could have a chance of having the answer. Maybe because you've come to the end of your patience and you're tired of dealing with unanswered questions. Whatever the reason, the words tumble out on their own. But you're not necessarily trying to stop them either. 

"Find something good."

Seungmin's words shock you, but you're also curious as to what he could mean by that.

"Something good?" 

He shrugs. "Yeah. Focus on the good. Everyone has nightmares from time to time. Probably because no one has a perfect reality and their daydreams are going to have some downsides too. The main point of a dreamworld is not to erase the hellishness from this reality. It's to create a whole new place to go when this reality gets a little too…" 

"Real?" 

"Yeah. Real." 

He parks his car and for a moment, you just watch each other, as if silently understanding that whatever it is the two of you are separately going through, whatever trials, whatever pain, whatever struggle, whatever reality, you both just found someone you can confide in and trust. Something neither of you have had in a long while. 

"We're here," he sings and exits the car with you close behind. 

Your head falls back completely just trying to see all the way to the top of the building. Standing on the sidewalk in your thrift shop jeans and sweater, you don't feel nearly rich enough to go in there. 

Seungmin leads you past the front doors, past security, past another set of metal detectors and into what you immediately realize must be the main hall. 

Everything is very impressive, from the massive cameras to the people behind them. You've never seen so many screens and all of them are flashing picture after picture in real time as the photographer takes them. 

Standing in the middle of a white sheet at the front of the room is a beautiful model. She's wearing what looks like very expensive clothes and high heels. Her hair is perfect, her smile is perfect, her outfit is perfect. She looks perfect. And she looks so at ease. You can only imagine if that was you, you'd never look that good. 

Seungmin taps your shoulder. "I'm stepping into that back office for a second. Can you wait here? I'll be right back." 

"Yeah, sure." 

As soon as Seungmin is out of sight, you try to get a little closer to the action. The whole thing is admittedly very very cool. The idea that the model and photographer work together to help influence thousands of people to buy a particular piece of clothing. 

The fashion industry always intrigued you but you never felt beautiful enough to pursue it. Part of that is your natural tendency to belittle yourself, but you also know a lot of your issues with self acceptance came from your past relationship. You keep telling yourself you've moved on and healed but the truth is there's still pieces of you that hurt on a regular basis. 

But watching this model do her job...wow. You have to admit, it looks fun. If only you had the guts to accept Seungmin's offer. 

"Oh, thank god, you're here!" 

Your head whips around and standing before you is a very tall, very flamboyant stylist. He's got a measuring tape draped around his neck, a crop top beneath his short overalls and the longest, prettiest eyelashes you've ever seen on any eyes. 

"Next time you're gonna be late, please have the decency to let me know. We're all trying to do our jobs here, same as you, okay babe?" 

"But I'm not--" 

He takes your wrists and ushers you towards the other side of the room where there's racks of clothes and about six or seven vanities. 

"No excuses, babydoll," he sighs, sitting you in a chair and pulling the ponytail from your hair. "Let's do this quick. You'll find out soon enough, but Mr. Cameraman over there is not known for his patience." He chuckles to himself before adding, "But he knows how to use his hips just as well as a camera, so I'm usually convinced to let things slide, if you know what I mean." 

His comments make you giggle. Suddenly, you're very comfortable. He plays with your hair, fluffing it and styling it before moving onto your make up. It doesn't take him long. He says you're already so naturally beautiful he doesn't need to do a lot. 

"Makeup is meant to accentuate a person's natural beauty, not paint on a whole new face. That's why it's called 'make up' not 'mask on', darling. Write that down." 

After scanning through his several racks of clothes, he picks out a few pieces and tosses them towards you. 

"There's a curtain over here, honey. Let me know if you need help. Just call for Hyunjin, that's me!” 

And with that, he hurries his cute little butt to another station and gets to helping someone else. As you look around, you realize there's not many people here. The set is big and appears to need many people to run it efficiently, but there's only maybe fifteen working bodies nearby. Maybe they're short staffed. Or maybe Seungmin is just picky about who he hires. 

Whatever the reason, Seungmin made a very good choice hiring Hyunjin, you think. 

The clothes he gave you look warm and cozy but definitely higher fashion than you're used to. Maybe you should try them on, just to be polite? 

With more excitement than you thought you'd have, you hurry behind the curtain and begin stripping. After double checking no one could see, you slip on the fancy pants and top and coat. 

As soon as you step out, Hyunjin comes running back over, hands over his mouth and what looks like tears in his eyes. 

"Baby, look at you!" he gasps. "You are so beautiful. Yes. Yes! This is it, Felicia! Oh my god, girl, everything about this is right. You look utterly amazing!" 

His compliments make you blush, warm cheeks only adding to the casual winter girlfriend aesthetic he's got you dolled up in. You wrap the coat further around your waist and smile bashfully. 

"I like it." 

"That's right you do! Now, go do your job and model that coat like your paycheck depends on it. Because it does. Go go go." 

"What? Oh no, that's not what I--" 

"Less talking, more modeling. Snap snap!" 

You're shoved in front of a blank backdrop, suddenly and forcefully. Scanning the room, you don't see Seungmin anywhere yet. He must still be handling business elsewhere. 

The photographer lifts his camera but he lowers it again before taking any shots. 

"Are you gonna pose?" 

"Uhh…" you start to panic, "I don't know…s-sorry." 

From the corner of your eye, you catch Hyunjin gesturing for you to do something. He puts his hand on his hip and mocks showing off his outfit with a confident and flirty smile. 

With nothing else to go on and no clear sign of escaping, you decide it's now or never. It does cross your mind that this is all Seungmin's doing, a last attempt to make you reconsider working for him, and while it's petty and a little invasive of your personal space, you might as well make the most of it. 

You try to copy the poses. A hand on your hip, a hand behind your head, legs wide and hips pushed back. But it doesn't look right and feels awkward. The photographer takes a peak at the pictures and shakes his head. 

He's disappointed in you. You ruined his photoshoot. You ruined the coat. You ruined all these people's hard work. It's all your fault. Shut up. 

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," you mumble repeatedly, rubbing a hand over the back of your neck and refusing to look at the camera anymore. 

The photographer gasps, "Hold it right there!" He snaps a picture before you can move. "That's it. That is, oh damn, that's great. Do that again." 

"Do what?" 

"The shy thing," he mimics your hand on the back of his neck, "what you just did." 

With little assurance you tuck your hair behind your ear, glancing at the camera before looking away in embarrassment. 

"Nice," he encourages you, "keep it up!" 

You're not sure how you being shy and unconfident makes for good pictures, but you continue being your awkward, unsure self, and the photographer continues snapping pictures of you from every angle and side. He litters you with praises the whole time, some way too good to be true. But the more you hear how much he likes your modeling, the more willing you are to try new poses. 

By the time Seungmin returns, you've modeled two other outfits and had your make up redone three times. 

He walks out, hands in his pockets and an innocent smirk on his face as he watches you giggle at the camera. He thinks you're a natural, playing with the camera like that, teasing it by looking over your shoulder and shyly flipping your hair. Not only do your pictures come out flawless, but you make the clothes look remarkable too. 

"Ready to go?" he calls for you. 

As soon as he gets your attention, you hurry over to him, thanking the photographer and stylist on the way. 

You stop in front of him and smile. "Okay, fine. You win." 

"I win what?" 

"I know you asked to come here so I would get a chance to model and hopefully reconsider your job offer." 

He gapes, a hand over his chest. "___, whatever do you mean? I would never try something so manipulative like that." 

You giggle at his reaction, playful hitting his bicep. "Oh, stop it! You know exactly what you did. And I admit, modeling is pretty fun." 

"And you're so good at it," he insists, pointing to the pictures on the monitor. "You were a natural up there. Just like I knew you would be." 

"You really think so?" 

"Yeah, I do. And if you enjoyed it that much, you should come back and be my winter model. If you want to. Please? Only if you want to. Pretty please?" 

This might be the second biggest mistake of your life, but right now, it feels like exactly what you need to do. Even if this all ends up being a waste of time, you want to experience it. It's been so long since you said yes to something new, something exciting. At least you know your therapist would be proud of you. And Seungmin's smile is influencing your heart in more ways than one at this moment. 

"Okay. I'll do it!" you say excitedly and almost immediately, he wraps you in a tight hug. 

::

Seungmin feels completely victorious. Today went even better than he’d hoped. You agreed to take a seasonal position helping him shoot his New Year line. And if things go the way he wants, maybe he’ll even convince you to stick around for the summer one too.

He’s not trying to think too hard about how much fun he had with you in the process. He meant it when he said he enjoys your company, though he might’ve understated just how much. There’s something about you. Your reactions are so sincere, your feelings never feel forced, and you have this effortless ability to switch between being funny and thoughtful. With you, there’s no second-guessing. No pretending.

You just get him.

And that's…really something. You’re really something. 

Plus he got to come home early which hasn't happened in what feels like forever. He can actually cook something for dinner if he wants to. He has the time, the energy, and the ingredients. What the hell, why not? He can spoil himself for a night. 

He drops his stuff by the door and makes his way to his bedroom to change into comfy clothes. 

Weird. He doesn't remember closing his door this morning. 

Just as his hand closes around the knob, he hears it. A high pitched, desperate moan. He recognizes the voice but not the name it's currently cursing in explicit pleasure. 

Part of him doesn't want to open the door. If he does, he has to face it and envisioning the scene in his head is already his worst nightmare. The other half of him couldn't care less. 

He pushes open the door and sure enough, there she is. With her head thrown back against his pillow, in his bed, covered by nothing but his sheets, in his apartment. Her hand is buried in the curly black hair of some strange guy who's buried himself between her legs. 

They both jump when Seungmin slams the door against the wall. 

He watches them, expressionless. 

"Seungmin, what are you doing here?" 

"My apartment," he deadpans. "What are you doing here?" 

It's such a sick, mean question to ask someone in her position, but she couldn't earn his pity or his sympathy even if she wanted to. Not anymore. Not now. Not ever again. 

The douchebag who was just devouring her sits up with a dazed blur over his eyes and shimmering lips. He uses the bedsheet to wipe his mouth before attempting to say something. 

"Whoa, uhhh, hey dude listen, she didn't tell me she had a--" 

"Get out," Seungmin commands.

The guy doesn't hesitate. Without giving Seungmin's girlfriend another glance, he pulls his jeans over his ass, grabs his shirt and runs out the front door, stuttering as he goes. 

She sits there, naked and shameless. 

She doesn't say anything. Not that Seungmin necessarily wants her to, but it would be nice to at least hear her try to explain herself. Her silence cuts through his skin like a knife, carving her obvious state of indifference across his skin and engraving every hint and voiceless sign he should have seen but chose to ignore for the sake of avoiding this very confrontation. 

There's no point in avoiding anything anymore. 

"You too." 

"You can't just kick me out--" 

"Now. Never come back." 

She shouldn't be shocked. Either way, she takes her time getting dressed and gathering her jacket, which was thrown across the room earlier, no doubt during some heated foreplay. 

Just as she passes Seungmin in the doorway, she pauses. Still staring straight ahead, he clenches his jaw and barely manages to keep himself composed when she speaks. 

"I liked you, Seungmin. It's not my fault you suck in bed." 

It's her lack of guilt or apology that burns more than anything. A million questions cloud his mind and judgment as she walks out, into the freezing world, the only consequence for her actions being the end of a relationship she clearly couldn't have cared less about. 

And Seungmin is left to clean up the mess she's made of his trust. 

He doesn't cry. She's not worth it. 

First, he strips his sheets and pillow cases and stacks them in his apartment-sized square of green backyard. With a little motor oil and a match, he burns his best bedsheets to ash, followed by every physical picture he took with her and the scarf she accidentally left on his desk chair. 

Even with all the physical evidence gone, for now the memory of her voice, her laugh, her kiss, and her sighs are still fossilized in his brain. 

Despite having remade his bed and stacked it with fresh pillows, he still sleeps on the couch that night. (If staring at the ceiling and listening to the same song over and over just so he's not encased in humiliating silence is considered sleeping.)  

:: 

2 weeks later

"Hey hot stuff, ready for a new day?" 

Hyunjin, your now official personal stylist, tells you that you're beautiful every day. He's constantly praising you and pushing you to try new colors and hairstyles. Sometimes, when there's time before the shoot, you let him mess with your hair and play around with different makeup techniques. 

Hyunjin is one of a kind and he's definitely your favorite new friend you've made since taking this job. But everyone in the office is nice to you thankfully, including the other girls. You're not best friends with any of them, but they smile politely and let you use their spare hairspray when yours runs out. 

Modeling itself has gotten harder over the last few days. No longer do you envy the girls on magazine covers and commercials. The more pictures you see of yourself, the more you realize what Seungmin said is true. None of those models look exactly like themselves in the final product. Neither do you. 

But you're not quitting. You gave Seungmin your word that you would stay until all the shoots for his New Year line are over. In return he offered to give you whatever outfit you like best in addition to your very generous paycheck. 

You admit the perks are nice and you get along with the staff, but it's disappointing how often you actually see Seungmin. 

Seungmin is a very busy man. You've only been modeling for about two weeks now, but even you can see he's been putting a lot on himself lately. Sometimes he doesn't leave the office until early hours of the morning. You discovered this after the day you came in to surprise the team with coffee and he was still working from the night before. 

Needless to say, you made him promise to leave by midnight at the latest. And so far, he's kept to that promise, or so he texts you that he has. 

Not that you took this job because you thought you would be able to spend more time with him. But when you took this job for a totally responsible reason, you thought you would be able to spend more time with him. Luckily, you've come to discover something he has a very hard time saying no to. 

Lamb skewers. 

Knock knock~~ 

"Come in." 

You slowly push the door open and peek your head inside. "Hey, Seungmin?" 

He looks up from his desk. His expression instantly lightens when he sees you. "___, what's up?" 

"Are you ready to go?" 

It takes him a moment to remember, but after a few blinks he catches on again. "Oh! Right, dinner. We're going to dinner, uhhh one sec." Scrambling for his things, he chuckles when he finally finds his car keys in his pocket. 

His smile is nice but something about it seems...off. 

In his car, you keep a close eye on him. Something happened. You can tell. As someone who's gone through deep shit, you've developed an ability to tell when someone else is also going through deep shit. 

"How was modeling today?" he asks you casually as he pulls onto the road. "I saw your newest pictures earlier. You're amazing." 

"Thanks," his compliments always make you shy. "I think I've got the hang of it, but facing a camera isn't always easy." 

"Do you like it though?" 

"Yeah, I enjoy it. How's your work coming along, Producer?" you ask with a slight tease to your voice. 

He nods, as if his smile alone will carry the conversation. For whatever reason Seungmin has decided to overwork himself, whether that's to distract himself or avoid something, it's affected his social skills. He's not nearly as outspoken, confident, or involved as he used to be. The Seungmin you know is a great conversationalist and passionate and isn't afraid to save a stranger from being embarrassingly stood up on a blind date. 

This isn't the same Seungmin. 

You're not one for confrontation, but it's come to the point where Seungmin means too much to you to ignore him when he's not himself. 

"Hey, are you okay?" 

"Huh?" He glances at you innocently, as if broken from a daydream. "I'm fine." 

"You don't seem fine. Did something happen?" you ask gently, tucking your hands between your knees and shrugging as if that will make your question less invasive. 

Maybe it's not your place as his employee (technically), but you justify your actions because you're approaching him as his friend. 

Seungmin sighs, obvious conflict in his breath and subtle fidgeting. He bites his lip as if he's trying to keep himself from admitting it, but he can't help himself. He really wants to talk to someone about it. And while he probably should be talking to a therapist, he really trusts you and part of him wants to share his personal life with you. 

"I broke up with my girlfriend." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Not what you were expecting, huh," he forces a laugh. 

"That's not it, I just…" you pause, thinking of the right way to form your words, "...can I ask why?" 

"She...wasn't the one for me," he hums. "I mean, things were fine at first, but she thought I wasn't...well, I decided we weren't good together, so I ended things." 

You take that answer as an unwillingness to share the detailed reason of why he decided to end things with his girlfriend. Since you're in no place to push his obvious boundaries, you relax into your seat again and try to keep the conversation going without increasing the already settling awkwardness. 

"People usually assume it's hardest on the person who got broken up with. But I know what it's like to end a relationship. It's not easy. I think you're really strong for making that call." 

"That's right, you broke up with your boyfriend three years ago," Seungmin reminds himself. "I don't know much about your ex, but from what you've told me, he wasn't exactly kind." 

"Not really. Sounds like your ex wasn't exactly kind either." 

"Yeah, not really," he admits with a chuckle, glancing at you with at least some form of an honest smile. "Damn, we really know how to pick em, don't we?" 

The atmosphere between you is warming up in a way that feels effortless. The more you talk, the more you share, the more natural the closeness becomes. Being close to Seungmin is something you’re learning not to take lightly. For all his charm and outward confidence, he’s surprisingly guarded when it comes to his personal life. He’s great at small talk, professional, polished, always knowing the right thing to say. But letting people in? That’s rare. 

So being someone he trusts, someone he opens up to even a little, feels…special. 

The car hums gently beneath you as you ride along, the snow outside catching the streetlights in passing glints. Between stoplights and quiet pauses in the conversation, you glance out the window, content. Seungmin asks about your last photoshoot, if your shifts at the smoothie shop are finished, and if you’re still thinking about applying elsewhere. He keeps the questions coming - always about you.

But when you try to ask about him, he redirects, shifts the topic, or tosses out a half-answer before moving on. You’ve started to pick up on the subtle way he dodges. He may seem laid-back, but you’re beginning to understand his tells. Seungmin doesn’t like to be seen too clearly. And yet, here he is, letting you in just enough. Just a little. 

You’re only a couple stops from the restaurant when you glance out the window. 

And then you see him.

It’s instantaneous. The moment your eyes register his silhouette, something in your chest clenches tight. Your breath catches before you even realize what’s happening. You can’t breathe. 

Seungmin continues sharing about his desire to have an office karaoke night, but all sound is muffled inside your ears. You're suddenly very aware of where you are in space and what's happening around you. Every time Seungmin's elbow moves or his hand slides over the steering wheel, your whole body jerks. Your eyes stayed glued to the figure outside the car, sipping on something definitely illegal and laughing it up with a group of scruffy looking guys. 

His hair, his face, his arms, his hands, his mouth the way it moves when he speaks. It's all too familiar and it's all coming back like being hit by a three year long train. 

Daz. 

You thought you had emotionally prepared for the day you would inevitably see him on the street. You two live in the same city after all. But clearly, you were not ready. 

From the outside, nothing looks amiss. You seem calm, collected. But when Seungmin finally pulls into the parking spot and turns to say something, his gaze lands on you—and freezes.

Your cheeks are flushed, not from the weather but from pure adrenaline. You haven’t blinked. You haven’t breathed. Your lips are a flat, colorless line. You’re rigid, barely present—except for the slight movement in your throat every few seconds as your body struggles to remember how to inhale. 

"“___?” Seungmin says your name carefully, almost in a whisper. “Hey, ___, look at me.”

But you don’t.

When his hand enters your peripheral vision, you flinch like you've been struck. A gasp tears from your throat as you slap his hand away on instinct, chest heaving as you recoil, curling toward the door. Your fingers clutch the safety handle with white-knuckled force, your shoulder pressed hard against the cold window like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Seungmin stares at you in stunned silence—heart breaking, hands still.

"It's just me. It's okay." But no matter how many times Seungmin gently mutters to you, nothing feels okay.

Talking about Daz had already stirred things up - old memories creeping in, raw emotions resurfacing like bruises you thought had faded. You could still hear the words, feel the heaviness, remember the reasons you left and the parts of yourself you lost along the way. And then, to look out the window and see him, laughing, carefree, untouched by everything he put you through, was like pouring salt into wounds you’d only just managed to cover.

It ripped something open.

Seungmin doesn’t say anything right away. He just sits there, his expression unreadable. Slowly, he looks down at his hand and watches the faint red imprint bloom across the back of it. He doesn't flinch or pull it away. He just studies it, like he's trying to make sense of what it means.

"___, you're okay. I'm not gonna hurt you." He carefully shows you his palms, offering you his hands before trying to touch you again. 

You nod quickly, still breathless, but beginning to register where you are. That’s something.

“Breathe with me, ___,” Seungmin says softly, guiding you through slow, steady breaths - in through your nose, out through your mouth. You follow his lead, even though the panic still pulses through your veins like electricity, raw and relentless.

His hand finds your elbow, grounding you with the gentlest squeeze. You don’t pull away this time, so he leaves it there.

“Can you tell me what you need right now?”

“Remind me what we’re doing,” you whisper, voice trembling.

“I’m taking you to dinner, remember? Lamb skewers because they’re my favorite. And yours is fruit, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I like fruit too. I’ll pick some up later. How does that sound?”

“Yeah.” Your grip loosens on the safety handle, just enough to reach out and take his hand. Your fingers are cold, but you unbuckle yourself and draw in a deeper breath. “Keep talking to me. Please.”

“Okay, um…” Seungmin wets his lips, searching for something to keep your focus steady. “I fell on my ass this morning.”

Your head lifts slightly. “What?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t looking where I was going and stepped on a patch of ice. Just bam! Flat on my ass.”

A watery gasp slips from you, part laugh, part sob. “Did it hurt?”

“Oh, absolutely. My pride took the biggest hit. Pretty sure I cracked the sidewalk too,” he says with a small chuckle.

But when he glances over and sees tears sliding down your cheeks again, his smile falters. “Wait, did I say something wrong?”

You shake your head, burying your face in your hands as fresh sobs break free. “No,” you croak, voice soft and broken. “It’s just… it must’ve hurt a lot to fall like that. I’m sorry you fell. Falling down… it really hurts, Seungmin. It hurts so much.”

His expression softens, and without saying a word, he squeezes your hand just a little tighter.

In a moment of something—instinct, maybe, or something deeper Seungmin can’t quite name—he gently pulls you into his lap. Your body folds against his as he tucks your head into his shoulder, cradling you close, murmuring soft reassurances into your hair.

“It’s okay now. I know it hurts, but I’ve got you. You’re safe. I promise.”

He shouldn’t be surprised by the raw emotion still rolling off you in waves—people react in all kinds of ways after panic hits—but he’s never seen anyone cry this hard over something that, on paper, was supposed to be funny. It makes his chest ache for you.

His hand moves in slow circles over your back while the other strokes your hair, grounding you in the present. The way your legs settle around his waist and your body melts into his chest makes it easier to breathe. You cling to his warmth like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth.

It’s so different from anything you’ve felt before. His touch, his words, his presence. Nothing like the cold aftermath of your ex’s affection. Seungmin’s arms wrap around you now and then, pulling you into soft, steady hugs that calm your trembling body piece by piece. You don’t even realize how much you’ve needed this kind of safety until now.

Eventually, after a few minutes and one final deep breath, you push off his shoulder to sit up, the top of your head brushing the roof of his car.

“…Sorry,” you whisper, trying to shift back into your seat.

But Seungmin’s hands remain at your waist. “Stay here. Just for a little longer. You’re still calming down.”

“Sorry,” you mumble again, quieter this time.

He shakes his head, eyes gentle. “Why do you keep apologizing? You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

He opens the lid to his middle console and pulls out a spare napkin. After wrapping it around his finger, he carefully uses it to dry the line of tears on your cheeks. Then he wraps it around your nose. 

"Blow." 

It's a little embarrassing, but you're not in a position to turn his kindness away. So you blow. 

"There we go. Better?" 

You nod, sniffling when he tosses the napkin away and brushes the hair from your face. 

Seungmin sighs, relaxing into his seat and dragging his hands around your waist. "Just breathe for a moment. We're not in any rush. Take all the time you need." 

You don’t mind taking a little extra time to steady yourself. What really has your heart racing isn’t just the emotional aftermath of seeing your ex. It's the fact that Seungmin pulled you into his lap without hesitation, and now you’re here, nestled against him, completely flustered.

Because the way he’s looking at you… it’s not casual. It’s not friendly. It’s like you’re the most important thing in his world and he’s silently made it his mission to protect you.

And then, there it is. A flicker in his expression. Something small, but you catch it. A shift behind his eyes, in the tension of his jaw. Like something just clicked into place for him. He doesn’t say anything, but you can tell. Seungmin just realized something he’s not ready to admit out loud. 

"___, do you wanna go back to my place?" 

"Huh?" 

"I don't really feel like eating out anymore. Should we just order to go and eat at my place instead?" 

Really, you should give this more thought. But your mind and body are so exhausted. If this was anyone else, you would have had to force yourself to think rationally, but since it's Seungmin, you feel safe letting your guard drop completely.

"Sure. That sounds nice." 

:: 

His apartment isn’t quite what you imagined for a CEO who drives such a luxurious car. It’s surprisingly modest—clean, minimal, almost understated. The kind of place that doesn’t flaunt wealth but still feels intentional. Out back, you spot scorch marks in the grass through the window. You’re dying to ask what happened, but you’re not sure you’re close enough yet to pry.

Seungmin steps in behind you and gently brushes past. “Hang on one sec.”

He disappears into the closet and returns with a pair of spare slippers. Kneeling in front of you, he places them at your feet and helps you slip them on. They’re a few sizes too big, but they’re warm and ridiculously soft.

“All good?” he asks, looking up at you with a small smile.

You nod. “Yeah. Good.”

His smile grows just a bit. “Good.”

He makes his way to the living room with your food in hand and you follow. 

There's a chance Seungmin was smiling at the size difference of your feet in his shoes and the way you shuffle across the floor in an attempt not to trip over them. But then again, he could have been smiling at anything. 

"Do you like sauce?" 

"Mhm," you nod politely, now sitting on the couch with hands folded in your lap. 

Seungmin glances at your posture. Your back straight, feet flat, like you're waiting for permission just to exist in his space. His ex had made herself at home without a second thought, treating his apartment like it was hers from day one.

You're nothing like her. Still, some part of him had habitually expected you to be instantly comfortable. 

"Hey," he says gently, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. "You can relax, you know." 

"Sorry," you apologize, as if the word is on standby on your tongue. 

Then again, he wasn't expecting to be this awkward himself. Suddenly, Seungmin drops his task of preparing the food and turns to face you on the couch. 

"Don't apologize to me anymore. You're always saying that word." 

He's annoyed. He seems really annoyed. Shut up. 

“Sorry. I mean—” you flinch, catching yourself and pressing your lips together. “Okay.”

“I just meant… you don’t have to be so professional around me,” Seungmin says, softer now, like he’s trying not to scare you off.

“Okay…” you say again, more hesitant this time, eyes blinking slowly like you’re trying to decode what he really means.

What is happening? Seungmin’s always been composed, articulate. The kind of guy who knows exactly how to make people feel at ease. But now you’re sitting on his couch, in his apartment, and he can’t seem to string a clear thought together. Ever since he wrapped you in his arms, heart pressed to yours, something's shifted. 

“Look, ___,” he says, finally meeting your gaze, “I really like spending time with you. It’s kind of crazy how easy it is to talk to you. I don’t usually feel that way around people. You make me feel comfortable… so I just want to make sure you feel that way too. With me.” 

"I am comfortable." 

"Are you?" 

"Yeah," you answer, shyly tucking your hair behind your ear. "I have a habit of saying sorry. I'll try not to say it so much since it bothers you." 

Just the way you said it makes Seungmin think you've had to say things like that to your ex far too often. The realization sinks in quickly, and without meaning to, he finds himself developing an even deeper resentment for the word sorry. 

“No, I’m not nitpicking,” Seungmin says gently. “I just want you to feel good around me. Like you don’t have to apologize for anything. What I mean is, your ex was a jerk, and I’d never treat you like that. Forget everything else, I want to be close to you. Closer than we are now. I just… I don’t really know how to go about it. I haven’t been single in a while, so I might be rusty when it comes to this sort of thing.” 

His words hang in the air, warm and hesitant. And as your mind works to translate what exactly he’s trying to say, you find yourself stuck on that one part. Closer than we are now. 

That could mean anything.

And sitting here next to him on his couch, alone in his apartment, with the hour slipping later and later, you’re not sure your brain is capable of taking it platonically.

“What sort of thing?” 

He carefully inches closer to you on the couch, placing a hand behind you and leaning in just that little bit more. With absolutely no warning, he leans into you and places a small kiss on your cheek. 

"This probably feels random, but I've liked you since I met you, so it's not really random at all." 

Your lungs fill slowly and then you shakily exhale, watching him carefully. Thoughts swim behind your eyes, thoughts Seungmin would give anything to read. 

"What about your ex?" you ask quietly. 

"My ex was a controlling, emotionally manipulative, dishonest bitch. You're nothing like her," he assures you. "You're human." 

"Seungmin," he manages to pull a small, breathless chuckle from your lungs. 

You hold your breath after saying his name, fighting the part of you that wants to fall head first into whatever this could end up being. "You just broke up. And yeah she was a controlling, emotionally manipulative, dishonest bitch, but...you just broke up." 

"Two whole weeks ago, what's your point?" 

He gives you a simple, devastatingly beautiful smirk and tilts his head so you have no choice but to notice how undeniably adorable his bangs are flopping over his eyes like that. 

"The point is you're still healing." 

“You broke up with your ex three years ago and you’re still healing,” he says softly, brushing his fingers against your hand. There’s something shimmering in his eyes, a flicker of emotion threatening to spill over. “I don’t want to wait until I’m fully okay, because honestly? I don’t know if I ever will be. But with you...it feels like maybe I’m getting there.”

His honesty cleaves through your logic like a blade. You’ve always told yourself not to start something new as a way to patch over the past. Love born out of pain can’t be stable. It can’t be lasting.

“You know I can’t fix everything,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says without hesitation. “But maybe we could help each other feel less broken. You see me, and I feel like I see you too.” He gently takes your hand, watching your face for permission before wrapping his fingers around yours. “I promise I’ll treat you with respect. I’ll make you laugh when you need it. I’ll sit with you when you cry. I want to take care of you, ___. Please let me.”

His words tug at every frayed edge inside you. The vulnerability in his voice, the softness of his grip, the way he looks at you like you’re something precious - it all threatens to undo you.

You knew, eventually, you’d have to face this moment. Life doesn’t stop after heartbreak, and love doesn’t wait for perfect timing. But you never imagined someone like Seungmin would be the one holding out his hand. He’s smart, emotionally present, endlessly kind, almost too perfect. 

But there’s something unspoken in his offer. If you let him hold you, you’ll hold him too. He’s not just a salve for your past. He’s bleeding from his own wounds, and somehow, in each other, there’s a strange sort of comfort that feels right, even if it’s not forever.

Maybe this won’t last. But Seungmin is here now. And while timing might be cruel, he’s not. 

"I…" 

He's patient, eyes glued to you, wide and waiting. 

"...I'd really like that," as soon as you say it, you can't help but smile. "Take care of me, Seungmin. And I'll take care of you too." 

He mimics your smile, sighing deeply when you fall forward over his shoulders. His hug is a warm, safe place, and when his arms wrap around your middle, they're a strong fortress for the weak walls of your heart. 

His lips press to your ear and he whispers to you with the most sincerity you've ever heard from anyone, "I promise I'll protect you from whatever, ___. Lean on me and I'll hold you as tightly as you need me to, okay?" 

"Okay." 

:: 

Never once did either of you mention the titles boyfriend or girlfriend. And much to your initial relief, Seungmin hasn't been acting as if you own the titles. Although he is more openly attentive and he's gotten more physically affectionate, he hasn't shown you off or gone around telling everyone about your new relationship dynamic. Which is nice. 

You feel much more at ease knowing Seungmin is okay with you hanging around. He's pulled you next to him on more than one occasion, commented on your modeling as more than just your producer, and it's become a regular expectation to eat together almost every day. 

Outside of the public eye, the two of you are pretty much the same as before except you spend a surprising amount of time at Seungmin's apartment. You've gotten comfortable napping on his couch - he never lets you sleep in his bedroom. As much as he insists he's over his ex, little things remind you he's not completely okay. He also keeps your favorite snacks in bulk in his pantry and a spare change of your clothes in the top drawer of his dresser. 

On the other hand, it's been a few weeks since you started…whatever you started together. It does bother you somewhat that there's no title for your relationship. You're used to being tied to the other person by either a title or at least some kind of label. 

Suppose the absence of a title is significantly less stressful. You both know that neither of you are seeing other people in the meantime. That's what matters. 

And while the emotional comfort is nice, you wonder why he hasn't attempted any more romantic affiliation when you know it's a core love language for him. Is it because of your lack of a girlfriend title or does he really only see this as a way to comfort himself since his last relationship ended so suddenly? 

You're not materialistic and you're not a hoe. But…it's confusing how much it feels like you're in a romantic relationship, just without the romance. 

He doesn't really like you as much as he said. Shut up. 

He doesn't think you're sexy. Shut up. 

You're not as pretty as his ex, that's why. Shut up! 

Hyunjin greets you when you step inside the building, a welcoming grin and his trademark jazz hands. 

"Babe! You're early today!" 

"Early bird catches the worm, right? Is Seungmin here yet?" 

"He was," Hyunjin says while watching the front doors. "I think he went on a coffee run or something. At least, I asked him to bring me back a vanilla latte when I saw him leaving." 

You reply simply and nod, not too much worry on the surface of your casual expression. Hyunjin sits you down and starts on your makeup while you discreetly send Seungmin a good morning text. 

You're almost done being prepped for the photoshoot when the front doors part and in walks your producer with a single cup of coffee in his hand. 

He enters in slow motion, checking his Rolex like the flex that it is and running tempting fingers through his silky hair. His suit is pressed and dark and makes him look built and powerful. The sheer authority he exudes is unfairly sexy, every step he takes being your new favorite because it's bringing him that much closer to where you are. 

It’s taken you three years being single and three months of being Seungmin’s model, but you’re finally to the point where you feel ready for something really serious. And you want that something serious with Seungmin. 

"Hi guys," he greets with a confident nod and hands Hyunjin his coffee. 

"Bless you, Kim Seungmin," the stylist gawks. He takes a sip and you swear he would fall on his knees for Seungmin if he asked. 

"___, I need to talk to you before you leave. When the shoot is over, will you come into my office?" 

"Of course," you have no reason to refuse him. 

The shoot goes well. All the usual things you expect, bright lights, a flashing camera, Hyunjin flirting with the camera guy. You've become rather comfortable being here like this. Several issues of the latest magazine have been published and, as weird as it is to think about, you appear on several pages. As far as you understand, the magazine has been well accepted and local department store sales have increased at a satisfying rate. 

It doesn't take long to finish today. Thankfully, you only had four changes and very minor makeup touch ups throughout. Hyunjin finished his coffee about half way through and grew continually more grumpy as the shoot went on, but it was humorous. You know he could never hurt a fly but the way he talks big game is entertaining for sure. 

As everyone wraps up the day, you finish changing back into street clothes and make your way to Seungmin's main office. 

Knock knock~ 

“Come in,” you hear him through the wood and peek your head inside. He smiles when he sees you and immediately stands to usher you past the threshold. “___, hey, are you done for the day?" 

"Mhm. You wanted to see me?" 

"Yes. Come on in, please. I need to discuss your contract with you.” 

This is producer Seungmin. He’s in work mode right now. So, you decide to hold onto your work persona for a few more minutes.  

"Right. What do you need from me?" You take your place in front of his desk while Seungmin sits back down, folding his hands politely and looking up at you. 

"Your seasonal position as our winter model will end come the 31st of this month. The company will move its focus to summer and we'll start interviewing and hiring models for the summer line." He pauses, waiting to see if you already can tell where he's going with this. "I know you said before that you wouldn't consider being a summer model, but now that you've been here for some time, I thought it couldn't hurt to ask you again. ___, what would you say if I offered you a full time position?" 

"For the summer?" you clarify. 

"For until you decide you don't want to model anymore,” he says with much anticipation. “Full time means this would be your primary job. You'd get a pay raise and more photoshoots on your calendar, not to mention you would have access to company benefits, so a personal nutritionist and dietary specialist, gym membership, paid days off, discounts, a retirement fund." 

You slowly nod, the list ever growing in your mind, and while they’re all great things, so far none of that stuff can beat down your anxiety about modeling for a summer wardrobe. 

"That's a lot of benefits." 

He drinks in your body language and translates your need for reassurance. Of course, he's more than willing to be that for you. 

Seungmin quickly moves around his desk and comes to you, gently taking your hands and interlocking your fingers. The distance between your bodies shrinks until he's so close you fear he can hear your heartbeat picking up pace. The Work Seungmin mask falls to the ground as he watches your face, eyes bouncing from your hair to your lips and back to your eyes. 

"If you don't take the job, our relationship won't change,” he whispers to you, “so don't worry about that. I'm offering you this position as your producer, because I honestly believe you're an amazing worker and model.” 

"Really?" 

"Yes. And the public loves you too by the way,” he adds as a final attempt to entice you. “But if you don’t want to, just say so. It's your choice. I won’t be mad, I promise." 

The fact that he made that promise without any implication from you that that’s what you were afraid of gives you the surety to say what’s on your mind. Your heart beats a thousand times per second, being this close to him, sharing the same air, meeting his gaze, feeling secure holding his hands. If you weren’t so caught up in his proposition, you could very easily find yourself caught up in his ambiance. 

"I just don't feel comfortable doing the summer line. I'm sorry." 

"That’s okay,” he immediately responds, nodding along with you and smiling in spite of your no doubt disappointing answer. “Thanks for being willing to model the New Year line. You were amazing and perfect." 

"Thank you for the opportunity." You step back to bow very respectfully. 

He tries to keep a straight face, but you're just so damn adorable to him and he doesn't have the will or resolve to keep his adoration for you to himself. 

"Now that all the professional mess is out of the way," he sings, "I have something very important to tell you." 

"What is it?" 

A shy smile starts creeping across his lips and he slowly sneaks his hands to your waist to pull you close again. He doesn't blush often, but when he does it's beyond adorable and you feel like taking a polaroid so you can capture and keep it forever. 

"I missed you today," he confesses. "Like a lot. So much I thought I might die." 

That's it? That's his something important? It flatters you to the point of losing your breath. And it's not even his words that have your lungs spasming and your toes curling in on themselves.

Seungmin has complete disregard for the outside world. Right here, right now, it's just you and him. Everything else is inconsequential. 

His palms slide smoothly up the curve of your waist. They slip to your lower back, mapping your measurements and committing them to memory as they go. The second he has the opportunity, he jerks you forward, your chest colliding with his body and forcing you to stumble into him. 

Looking into his eyes now, your hands clutching at his chest in tight fists for balance, you hear his heartbeat. Rapid and unsteady, pounding beneath your palms. 

"I missed you too." Your whispered confession only proves to make his heart beat that much louder. "Actually, I need to talk to you about something too. Can we have dinner at your place or mine?" 

"What's wrong?" 

"Nothing's wrong," you quickly assure him. "I just...have something on my mind and wanna talk to you about it." 

He seems slightly nervous, which is understandable. But nevertheless, Seungmin nods and agrees to have dinner at his place tonight. He even offers to pick up your favorite sushi on the way home, a gentleman's gesture as if to say he's not worried about your upcoming conversation. 

But maybe he should be. You're not exactly sure how this is gonna go. 

:: 

"What did you do?" you immediately ask when you step into his humble abode, the scent of lemon and pine filling your nostrils. 

He chuckles shamelessly, "What are you talking about?"

"It's so...clean." 

Cleaner than you've ever seen his place before. Even last weekend it wasn't this nice. Not to say that Seungmin is a slob, actually the opposite is true. But ever since he broke up with his ex, his apartment seemed to be taking most of the hit in terms of hygiene.

But now. Wow. 

"You know you didn't have to clean for me." 

"I know. I cleaned for me, well, for both of us," he shrugs. "Besides, it's nice to have a clean apartment again. Feels like things are back to normal finally." 

Seungmin follows you into the kitchen where you begin handing out plates and cups for dinner. He rubs a shy hand over his neck and mocks his earlier shameless chuckle. 

"I'm feeling a lot better in general," he says simply. His eyes on your profile suggest you're the reason why, but he leaves that comment silent, hoping you'll jump in with similar feelings toward him. 

"I'm really happy to hear that!" You offer him a gentle smile and make him carry half the sushi to the living room where you'll eat together. "Come on, let's eat. I'm starving." 

Conversations with Seungmin are easy. Words spill from your lips without hesitation, and he listens like every syllable matters. Even when your cheeks are puffed out with dragon sushi rolls and soy sauce, there's an effortless comfort between you—one you haven't found with anyone else.

That has to mean something, doesn’t it? The longer you delay bringing up what you came here to say, the more tempting it becomes to just stay in this limbo—hovering between friends and something more. But as Seungmin nearly chokes on his fried rice from one of your offhand sarcastic remarks, doubling over with laughter, you realize something: no, this isn’t enough anymore. You don’t want to hover in the in-between. You want more. You’re ready for more.

After the meal, Seungmin moves to clean up, and you take a deep breath, rising from your seat with your plate in hand.

“So, about what I wanted to talk ab—Oh!” you laugh as Seungmin spins around and bumps right into you at the kitchen threshold.

“Sorry,” you both say at once, your chuckles overlapping.

The two of you go back and forth, side to side, trying to avoid a collision but you're too in sync. Every time you move left, so does he. So you move right, and so does he. 

"Wanna dance?" he jests, making you smile again. 

"I'd love to." 

It was a joke. You were playing along as one does when awkwardness threatens to rear its ugly head. It was supposed to be a passing reply and then you continued on to the kitchen to help wash dishes. 

So, imagine your surprise when Seungmin suddenly snatches the dishes from your hands only to toss them aside. 

"M'lady," he bows. 

"Huh?" 

But he just laughs and sweeps you into his arms, one hand clutched in yours and the other wrapped around your lower back. His feet begin gliding across the kitchen tile and you have no choice but to follow his lead. With a gasp, you grip his shoulder with your other hand and hang on for dear life. 

You're very much out of your comfort zone here, but you don't have the will to stop this, not when Seungmin looks so domestically happy. 

While you're struggling not to fall flat on your face, Seungmin is laughing. Precious, beautiful giggles like specks of golden music filling the space and landing softly against your ears. 

You step on his foot more than once but he doesn't say anything, despite your relentless apologizing. Dancing has never been your strong suit, but somehow Seungmin makes it enjoyable. Because he doesn't dance well either. 

There's no music, but that doesn't deter Seungmin. He fills the silence with soft la la la's and ba da da's to guide your terrible rhythm. And no matter how stiff or how unconventional your dance moves, he doesn't take his eyes off your ever growing smile. That smile of yours...that's his victory. 

He dances you towards the living room, getting faster and faster despite your inability to keep up with him. You gasp again when he suddenly spins you around only to bring you back to himself. His hands catch you by the waist and your world comes to a sudden halt. Instinctively, you grip his shirt as a lifeline when your chests collide, lost for breath, but so is he. 

Everything is still for a moment. The funny part is that you don't even realize you're biting your lip in concentration. But damn, Seungmin does. 

"You're a terrible dancer." 

His comment breaks your daze. "So are you." 

But your lack of skill must not mean too much considering his hips begin to sway naturally, enticing you to do the same. Soon enough, you're relaxing into a slow dance, one much easier to follow than whatever polka waltz quick step chaos you were swept into before. There's still a lack of music, but neither of you seem bothered by it. 

You sigh, finally able to catch your breath. He holds onto you as if he'll always be here, and you're tempted to start believing in something totally reckless. 

"So," Seungmin mutters gently through the hypnotic atmosphere intruding on your minds and hearts, "what do you need to talk to me about?" 

Does he know? Can he read your mind? His smirk suggests he can. 

"Umm, well, it's something I've been thinking about lately...about us," you start with fluttering eyelids. 

"You have my complete and utter attention." Anyone can look at the focus in his eyes and tell he's being terrifyingly honest. 

Rolling your lips, you prepare the rapid beating muscle in your chest for the rollercoaster you're willingly climbing into.

But as hard as you may try to be concise, everything tumbles out as an incoherent stutter due to nervousness and the admiring look in Seungmin's gaze. "I think that…well, I know that I really like you and having you with me like this is really amazing, but...I feel like we've been dancing around something for a while and--at least I've been and...I'm scared but also I don't want to ignore it anymore." 

He smiles at you, innocent and ignorant. "What's that?" 

You bravely peck his lips suddenly and he freezes, stunned completely motionless. 

"The lack of romance in our romantic relationship. I mean, maybe I misunderstood what you meant when you said you wanted us to take care of each other and you didn't want a romantic relationship at all, but if I'm not wrong then I really really want--" 

His lips are on you in an instant, a deep inhale through his nose to bring you as close as physically possible and take in every part of you he can in a single moment. Pulling you impossibly close to himself, it doesn't take much encouragement to get your arms around his shoulders. 

He holds you steady there, supporting your body while his kiss makes a mess of your unsuspecting lips, milking every moment he can for everything it's worth because he's kissing you...finally. 

Not that he means to compare you, because it's impossible to measure how much you mean to him against anyone or anything else, but damn, the way you make his heart feel so full after it's been so emptied. Just the fact that you initiated this by kissing him first and the delicate, shy way you kiss him back--it feels as though you want him to kiss you, as opposed to tolerating his affection, and that is so special to him for so many reasons. 

When you decide to take a peak, you see his brow furrowed in intense concentration as his lips move professionally against your own. And when you push into his kiss, gripping his biceps to hang onto him, his expression reflects the absolute euphoria you instill in his bones, eyelids fluttering while closed tightly. Enamored by your wonderful person and ability to make him feel so strong yet so weak at the same time, Seungmin can't help but want you in every way possible. 

Your eyes float shut, completely encased in the feeling of his arms picking you up and supporting under your legs. You're sitting on clouds. 

Your kiss is separated only for a moment when Seungmin lowers onto the couch and proceeds to set you onto his lap, knees straddling him familiarly.

He sighs when your body relaxes into him, chest on chest, your cute little ass on his thighs. He never thought to appreciate the tremors of warmth one gets from supporting someone else's weight on their body but now, he's committed it to memory. He's slowly committing you to memory. 

You haven't made out with anyone in three years but so far everything is basically the same. Desperate clinging of hands on hips and shoulders, sighs against kisses, nearly invisible smiles sneaked in-between delicate whispers of names and wishes. 

"I've wanted to kiss you for so long…" 

"Why didn't you?” 

“I don't know. I'm an idiot.” 

"Your voice changed." You didn't mean to point it out, the words just spilled as you took in every detail of his being. 

With lips still ghosting and bodies nearly floating, he smiles as if he's already aware that his voice dropped four octaves and it sends shivers down your spine. 

"Is it a good change? You like it when my voice drops like this?" 

You nod, pecking at his top lip to lead your two mouths back into a smooth rhythm. Like a dance you've been doing for years, you fall back into a comfortable pace. 

"That's just what you do to me, ___. You're just amazing." 

It's not his fault. It's yours. Because you're so goddamn irresistible to him and he can't help his human need to feel skin on skin, even if it's just his fingertips. His head gets high off the drug in your kiss, so his heart is all that's left to call the shots. And his heart has a direct line to his hands, they go where they feel you should be held. 

You jerk when his palms slide under your top, onto the bare skin of your ribs. It doesn't matter how gentle he is, how soft his hands are, or how special his intentions. You can't help but squirm. 

"Sorry," you immediately apologize when the kiss is forced to a premature stop, sighing in frustration at yourself. 

His hands have already removed themselves, hovering over your body now. "No, I should have asked before I just stuck my hands under your shirt like that. I'm the one who's sorry." 

"I just...I should say something." 

"Okay, say whatever you need to, baby." 

"This is the most romantic we've been since we became...okay, that's the thing. We promised to protect each other, but what does that mean?" 

He flashes you a confused but willing smile. "What exactly are you asking me for?" 

You swallow, fingers fidgeting with the loose strings of his sweatpants. With attempted courage, you look into his eyes and say, "A title." 

There you said it. Good god, you're terrified. The last time you held a title, it was mistreated beyond forgiveness. And yet here you are, asking for it once again. While some may say you haven't learned anything, this is actually you proving it is possible to come out of a difficult and painful trauma stronger and more sure of what you deserve. Because this time you're asking for it from someone strong but gentle. Powerful but compassionate.

"But you're already my girlfriend." 

"I am?" 

He blinks at you. "Of course, you are. We've been dating for weeks now, ___, wasn't that obvious?" 

You shrug, embarrassed. "We never said the words girlfriend and boyfriend, so I didn't know. I'm sorry." 

He nods, gently stroking the hair beside your ear. "You don't need to be sorry. This is just the kind of stuff you learn about each other when you're in a relationship. I'll work on being more direct about stuff from now on, okay?" 

His words relax you a bit, your legs falling lax across his lap and your hips rolling comfortably over his hips. 

Up until this point, Seungmin has attempted to keep himself to himself, for the sake of your comfort of course. He knows you get nervous about that kind of stuff and he wants to respect you more than anything because he feels like your ex never did. You're such a special person to him, more so than he's willingly admitted, and while you may not be aware of the mental battle he fights, you must be aware of how desperate he is for you. 

"Okay. Umm, Seungmin?" 

"Yeah?" he responds casually, still allowing you to sit prettily on his lap. 

"What do I need to work on?" 

He taps his chin and hums thoughtfully. "Taking initiative maybe? You're brave, I know you are, so go after what you want. Whether that's taking up some random stranger's offer to be a model--" you chuckle when he winks at you, "--or calling out your coworker for dumping their workload on you all the time. You know you deserve better, so you just need to trust yourself." 

"Trust myself," you repeat quietly, "go after what I want…" 

You lean forward to kiss him again, small fingers spread across his cheeks and jawline, guiding him into a sensual and tasteful rhythm. Only this time, your body rocks in time with your lips and your tongue flicks over his bottom lip, as if to tease desire into his heart and soul. 

He instantly reacts to taste you fully. It's hard not to smile when he parts his lips for you and releases an involuntary whine. It does loads for your confidence though, giving you that extra something needed to run your fingers through his hair. 

He's hesitating. Even though you initiated this, he's the one holding back. You can feel his fingers fidgeting with the edge of your sweater, slowly dipping beneath to feel your skin and then quickly pulling the fabric back down again. 

"___, we don't have to do anything you don't want to," he pulls away from your lips to say, "please don't feel like you have to do anything just because I advised you to take more initiative." 

"I'm trusting myself and I trust you. I'm going to go after what I want. I want this. I want you, Kim Seungmin." 

“You want me?” 

“So much.” 

You have to be aware by now of Seungmin's desire to protect those he loves. It's a part of his natural person, his overall character. The fact that you feel not only safe with him but that you're willing to expose your heart and body to him in this way means more to him than you realize at this moment. 

"Should we take this to the bedroom then?" 

"Your bedroom?" You're not necessarily nervous to be taking this step, you're more so surprised since Seungmin usually makes you avoid that space. "Are you sure?" 

Instead of answering, Seungmin scoops his hands under your thighs and stands up, bringing you along with him. 

As he walks to the back, you feel a sudden sense of wonder. He's so wonderful. The way he smiles so genuinely at you, the way he gently sits you on the bed, the way he kisses your forehead as he guides you to strip and lay down beneath him. 

He sighs at the feeling, allowing you to hold him as close as you wish, resting some of his weight onto you and filling himself with your scent and taste until all that's left is you. You and your beautifully addictive essence. 

As you kiss the eagerness between your bodies grows. Seungmin strips, giving you the first look at his body and how mesmerizingly gorgeous he is. 

He places a small pillow underneath your lower back and one behind your head, brushing your hair from your face and leaving a few grateful and sensual kisses to your temple.  

"Ready?" he asks, already completely breathless.

"Yes, please," you reply with another kiss to his face, combing your fingers into his hair and brushing back his bangs so you can see that beautiful forehead. 

But he doesn't move. He hovers over you there, feeling the urge to finally have you, but he can't make himself rock forward. 

"Sorry," he tries to play it off with a chuckle and takes another deep breath. "Okay, here we go." 

You gasp, subconsciously spreading your thighs and closing your eyes as you drink in the feeling of his intimacy. 

But he doesn't move. 

"Damn it, I'm sorry," he sighs, rolling to his back beside you, heels of his palms pressed to his eyes. 

Confused, with your body suddenly exposed and abandoned, your limbs curl in on themselves. 

His head shakes back and forth, frustrated and haunted by the disturbing sound of her voice echoing throughout his thoughts. 

"Seungmin?" You carefully roll to your side, legs closing and body cold without his warmth and weight over you. "What's wrong?" 

His arms drop to the sheets, punching the mattress in utter distress as a stray tear slides it's way down the side of his face. Your entire chest sinks into your stomach. 

"I can't get her out of my head." 

Somehow you know immediately who her is. 

"You're thinking about your ex while in bed with me?" 

"No!" he instantly corrects you, rolling to face you on his side too. "No, not like that at all." 

"Then what's wrong?" 

Remembering his promise to be more direct, Seungmin takes a moment to catch his breath, sitting up against the headboard. 

"The truth is I dumped my ex after I found out she cheated on me." 

"Oh no…" 

This is news. You were under the impression he dumped her because she was mean or, as Seungmin said before, she wasn't the one. Kneeling beside him on the bed now, a gentle hand reaching out to hold his fingers, you let him confess what he's kept from you up until this point, judgment free. 

"Apparently, my ex cheated because I didn't, umm, I couldn't satisfy her. And now I'm really worried that..." His fingers fold around your hand but it's not lovingly. He's scared. 

"Why didn't you tell me before?" 

"I was embarrassed." He shrugs, eyes finding yours again but they're past the point of misty. "I thought I could get over it myself because in my heart I knew it didn't have anything to do with me. She was just a cruel, unloyal bitch." His expression breaks, lips turned downward and head falling back like a thousand pounds. "But she still got to me and now I've ruined our first time together because I can't get her words out of my head." 

You were haunted by the damage your ex left on your soul and heart for three years. Seungmin has barely had three months to heal from the wounds his ex left behind. And while some may measure his wounds against others and judge him for not being able to get back on his feet himself, you know it's not that simple. When someone you trusted, someone you thought cared shows their true, ugly colors to you, it's a sight you carry with you no matter how heavy and uncomfortable the baggage. Not because you want to, god no. But because they left their red string of lies around your wrists and it's tied to whatever weight they decided to drop off the cliff. 

Even with his eyes closed, Seungmin senses the shift in weight as you climb over his lap, arms slipping around his neck. Your entire body encases him in a hug and he folds his arms around you too. Nothing suggestive, nothing enticing, just a hug to hold one another while the lies from your pasts simmer away. 

"I'm not sure exactly how to say this because I've never said it before but," you slowly pull away to look in his eyes, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes as you gently tell him, "you are the greatest man I've ever met in my entire life." 

This manages to make him chuckle. He swallows his last few tears and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Thanks." 

"I mean it! Fuck your ex. Don't really because you should do me instead, but forget about her. She doesn't deserve any part of you. Not your heart, not your attention, not your embarrassment, and certainly not your affection. You've already made me feel so good, baby, my body is literally shaking in anticipation for what you can do to me." You leave small pecks and butterfly kisses down his neck and across his collarbone, silently instructing him to sit back as you work your way down. 

His chest starts to rise and fall again, his breath glitching when your mouth grazes across his skin. 

"You're absolutely amazing, every inch of you." 

And with every kiss, your lips cut through all that useless red string and all that weight, all those lies she used to crush his spirit just to make her black heart look less repulsive, it all disappears. 

And then he just can't keep it inside anymore. When you return to his lips, it spills out, like a broken dam, or in your opinion, a beautiful waterfall. 

"I'm so in love with you, ___. Desperately in love with you.” 

It's not weird. It's not awkward. It's not out of place at all. It makes sense. It makes perfect, euphoric sense. 

"I'm in love with you too, Seungmin." 

“Please don't leave tonight." 

You smile, resting your forehead on his shoulder as your body and heart attempts to process everything that's happening. 

"I don't want to leave." 

"Good." 

It's strange. These are the kind of moments you read about in stories or see in movies. The guy isn't ever really voluntarily this caring, is he? 

Well, at least you can say with certainty, Seungmin is. 

"What do you think would have happened if my blind date hadn't stood me up that day?" you ask out of curiosity. 

Seungmin pauses. "I don't know," he replies, scooting you closer, practically disappearing inside his safe, warm, and loving embrace. "I'm glad he did though. I owe everything to that guy." 

:: 

The ways of love are strange—no doubt about that. Sometimes, all it takes is a single glance. Suddenly, your world tilts, your planet shifts its orbit, and the stars rearrange themselves into something magical. Something otherworldly. A light so blinding, it leaves you dazed. A symphony so loud, it drowns out everything else.

Other times, love creeps in slowly, quietly. Just a spark—barely there—flickering in the shadows, waiting for the smallest gust of wind to breathe it back to life. And when it does, it burns wildly, consuming everything in its path. Like an inactive volcano, silent for years, suddenly erupting with all the emotion it had buried deep inside. This kind of love feels more like longing than anything else.

You meet Han Jisung in school. You share many classes with him, considering you're both foreign students and can only take courses in English. At first, he doesn’t really stand out. He’s shy, a little nerdy, and often keeps to himself. You notice early on that he clams up when he’s uncomfortable and tends to fade into the background unless he’s with people he trusts.

Nonetheless, he has some witty remarks, ones whispered under his breath, not expecting anyone to hear them, that are so funny they make the whole class laugh. He’s definitely a little odd, but there’s something endearing about him. He’s kind, helpful, the sort of person you know you could count on. No one at school has a bad word to say about Han Jisung. He wouldn’t hurt a soul. He smiles warmly at everyone—genuinely, not out of habit—and that smile is something people remember.

You, on the other hand, are a different story.

You’ve got a crowd. Your friends are loud, confident, impossible to ignore. They own every room they walk into, and while you're always with them, you sometimes feel like you don’t fully belong. The odd one out. The quiet presence in the middle of all the noise.

You’re not one for the spotlight, not really—but it can be nice, being surrounded by people. You listen more than you talk. You’re the one who steps in when someone crosses a line, the calm in the chaos. You like your friends, even if they’re a bit too much sometimes. Still, being popular in high school is intoxicating. You like being seen. You like that people know your name, that you’re part of the stories they tell.

And you’re not like the other popular kids. You don’t bully anyone. You’re kind, always smiling—everyone says so. A ray of sunshine, impossible to dislike. You wouldn’t even hurt a beetle.

Everyone is mesmerized by you. Including Han Jisung.

At school, your “relationship” with Han is nothing out of the ordinary. You're not exactly friends, but you sit together in some classes and work on group projects now and then. You only talk about mundane things—never anything deeper than homework or academics. You know he's funny and silly, sometimes clumsy, but it's clear he’s passionate, hardworking, and takes any project he's involved in seriously.

He carries an MP3 player with him everywhere, practically panicking if it goes missing for even a few seconds. He loves talking about music, which you find geeky—but kind of adorable. You think he’s cute, in a helpless little brother sort of way. Not in a would-like-to-kiss way.

Jisung, on the other hand, is convinced he's in love with you from the very first moment you interact—when he asks to borrow a pen. You nod cheerfully and hand him a Hello Kitty pen. As he reaches for it, your hands brush ever so slightly. And that’s it—Han Jisung is doomed.

He makes a quiet promise to himself: he'll savor every second he gets to spend with you. He knows those moments will be limited by social norms, your busy schedule (cool kids always have cool things to do), and his inevitable return to Korea. He hates that his hands get clammy and he gets fidgety around you, but he's grateful for the laughs and easy conversations you share. You're a good listener. You have a skill he envies: the ability to connect with anyone, to befriend whoever crosses your path. He's a little jealous of that, but never resentful—it probably makes him like you even more, even if only from a distance.

If Han is sure of one thing, it’s that you can never find out how he feels. Because his feelings are stupid, he tells himself. He barely knows you. You’re just kids. There’s no way he should feel this attached to the idea of you. So he keeps it quiet. And surprisingly, he manages to hide it for a long time—at least until he returns to Korea.

One day, he’s just gone. No goodbye—not to you, at least. Rumors float around school that he moved back to Korea to pursue a music career. You're surprised, but also oddly proud of him. You didn’t know much about the boba-eyed boy, but if there was one thing you were sure of, it was that he was a music nerd. You make a quiet note to wish him well in whatever he does. And, somewhere in the back of your mind, you kind of hope he makes it big one day.

A few years later, Han finally makes it. He becomes an idol. He debuts with his group, Stray Kids, alongside eight of his friends. He’s finally doing what he’s dreamed of his whole life: making music. He’s having fun, he's found friends he knows are for life.

But still, there’s a certain emptiness inside him.

He finds himself thinking about you every now and then. With every milestone they hit, every award they win, every record they break—he wonders about you. Do you remember him? Do you know he’s kind of famous now? That he’s out there, making music? Do you ever see his face on banners or posters around town? And if you do... are you thinking of him? Are you proud of him?

He tells himself he’ll probably never get answers to those questions.

Until one day, everything changes. One of his members decides to leave the group, and their PR manager is fired for mishandling the situation. A replacement is brought in immediately. The group is called in for a meeting to meet the new recruit.

And the second Han steps into the room, his eyes lock with yours. He recognizes you instantly.

And just like that—like a volcano that’s been dormant for years, quietly building pressure beneath the surface—his heart erupts. All the feelings he thought he buried come rushing back, stronger than ever.

"Han-ah! Close your mouth, or a mosquito’s gonna fly in!" Changbin teases, punching the younger boy playfully on the arm.

"Hyung! Hyung!" Seungmin calls out, trying to break Jisung out of whatever trance he’s stuck in. He waves his hands dramatically in front of those sparkly, boba-like eyes—locked firmly on you—but nothing in that moment could bring Han back to earth.

Bang Chan watches from the side, quietly trying to make sense of the situation. He’s seen his bandmate in all kinds of moods—he’s seen him go completely silent around strangers, and he’s seen him bounce off the walls, spewing nervous nonsense thanks to his social anxiety. But this? This is something else entirely.

Standing there in front of you, Han Jisung is frozen. Speechless.

But his eyes tell a different story. They’re calm. Full of fondness and familiarity.

"What is wrong with your friend?" Seungmin asks Chris, his voice sarcastic, but with a hint of concern—the kind he reserves for his bandmates.

Jisung’s brain doesn’t register anything happening around him. He doesn't hear the chaotic bickering between Hyunjin and Minho. He doesn’t see Seungmin or Jeongin making ridiculous faces, failing miserably at trying to snap him out of it.

All he sees is you.

He watches as a warm smile spreads across your face. He watches the moment you recognize him—the way your eyes crinkle with genuine happiness at seeing someone from the past. Someone you didn’t expect.

"Long time no see, Han Jisung!" you say brightly—and the entire room freezes. The members stare at you in stunned disbelief, silently wondering how and since when you’ve known their beloved rapper.

Han finally snaps out of his daze and acts on pure instinct. He crosses the room in a few long strides and pulls you into a tight hug. Neither of your brains fully processes what’s happening—if he weren't so shocked, he’s certain he would’ve run in the opposite direction instead of being this bold. But he can’t help it. You’re here. You’re finally here.

He’s spent so much time daydreaming about this moment, imagining what he would do, what he would say. But now that it’s real, all those carefully crafted scenarios vanish. Logic is gone. All that remains is something primal, a feeling so deeply rooted it overrides everything else.

You don’t hesitate. You hug him back, your arms wrapping around his lean torso. He smells like a dream. His oversized T-shirt is soft against your skin, warm and comforting—a perfect embrace, one that soothes a restless heart.

“It’s so great to see you again,” he whispers. You’re pretty sure the words were meant for your ears only, but he’s far too excited to control his volume. Everyone hears the not-so-subtle confession, and the room erupts with hollering and whistling.

But none of it registers. Not for either of you. You're too caught up in the moment.

After a few seconds, you pull away just enough to look at him properly. Your eyes scan his face, drinking in the details. He still has that boyish charm—the sparkly boba eyes, the soft pout, the expressive brows, the round cheeks—but he’s changed, too. There’s a maturity in his features now. He’s devilishly handsome in that same geeky, endearing way, but he’s grown into himself. His hair is professionally styled, his skin smooth and glassy, and his signature moles glimmer like rhinestones on his cheeks.

“Ahem.”

Someone clears their throat. Loudly. Both you and Han turn toward Bang Chan like startled deer caught in headlights. Han practically jumps back with a squeak, quickly bowing and blurting out a rapid “Annyeonghaseyo!”—as if the last five minutes hadn’t just happened. He looks like a cartoon character, and you can’t help but laugh at his flustered antics.

You respond in perfect Korean and bow respectfully, greeting each of the members one by one. Your formality surprises them—and Han most of all. You speak the language so fluently, your mannerisms so naturally Korean-like, he’s speechless.

He watches as you chat with Chan, still speaking Korean, and his surprise only grows. He doesn’t remember you ever knowing the language, let alone mentioning a visit to his home country. Somehow, impossibly, this new side of you makes him fall even harder.

The other members chime in, turning the conversation into a full-on interrogation. Where are you from? How did you learn Korean? How do you know Han Jisung? How close are you to their beloved Quokka-boy?

You explain everything. After high school, you moved to Seoul for university. Even though you took English-taught courses, your scholarship required you to learn Korean. After graduation, you decided to stay in the country as you were given a great work opportunity at a renowned company, you just couldn’t miss out on. You tell them that a few weeks ago, a headhunter from JYP Entertainment offered you a payment package impressive enough to switch companies.

Which brings you here. Their new PR Manager.

Han hangs on every word, completely captivated by your confidence. You’ve changed so much. You’re still beautiful—gorgeous, even—but there’s a new polish to you. The way you dress, the way you speak, the energy you carry. It’s probably because it’s your first day at JYPE and you’re trying to stay professional in order to make a good first impression. Still, he wonders: Do you still dress like you used to outside of work? Still laugh the same way? Still walk with that same bounce in your step?

No matter how much you’ve grown, one thing hasn’t changed: your warmth. Your smile still lights up every room. You still speak with that signature fondness. Your eyes still shine with curiosity.

He's standing so close now. Closer than you ever thought he would be again.

And you won’t lie—you don’t mind it. Not even a little.

It’s strange, isn’t it? The way time toys with you. How someone can slip out of your life, leaving behind nothing but fading memories and half-buried what-ifs… only to reappear like a song you used to love but forgot how it went. One moment he’s just a thought in the back of your mind, and the next—he’s here. Real. Right in front of you.

And you can’t stop wondering: did you two just meet at the wrong time?

Because back then… you weren’t ready. You thought you were. You convinced yourself you had it all figured out. But the truth is, you didn’t really see him. Not fully. Not in the way he deserved to be seen.

Your head was somewhere else—floating in clouds, chasing distractions that meant nothing in the long run. You didn’t know what love looked like when it was quiet and patient. You didn’t know what he looked like when he was trying to show you.

And maybe it’s foolish, maybe it’s far too late—but now, standing here with him looking at you like you’re still someone worth remembering… you’d give anything to try again. Not to go back—no. But to reach for something new built on the pieces you never really let go of.

He’s older now. You are too. And even with all the growing up you’ve both done, something about this moment feels like home. Like something you didn’t realize you were missing until it was standing right in front of you again.

You wonder if he feels it too.

Maybe this is the universe finally playing fair. Maybe it’s just another cruel twist in the plot. You don’t know.

But if he asked—if he even hinted—you know you’d try. You’d try to make it up to him.

Not with dramatic apologies or perfect words. Just with something real. Something honest. You’d show up, fully present this time. You’d stay.

If he lets you.

You’re standing right there.

He swears his heart is doing something it shouldn’t be allowed to—skipping beats, crashing against his ribs like it’s trying to break free, to get to you. You haven’t even touched him again, not since that first hug, but he still feels your presence like static on his skin.

It should scare him. It should be too much. But it isn’t. Not even close.

Because to him, you’re already a sin. A temptation he surrendered to a long time ago.

And he doesn't care.

He never stood a chance, not really—not when it came to you. You were sunlight and softness and a mess of contradictions, and he was a kid who didn’t know what to do with the way you made the world feel brighter and heavier at the same time. He kept his distance then because he thought he had to. Because he thought someone like you—someone with so much light—would never want someone like him. Someone who hid in shadows and second-guessed everything he felt.

But now? You’re back. You’re here. And he realizes with terrifying clarity: he doesn’t care if you hurt him.

You could burst into flames right in front of him, and he’d still reach out. You could look him in the eye, say you were only ever passing through, and he’d still hold the door open for you to come and go as you please. He’s not afraid of getting burned—not if it means being near you, even just for a moment.

Because there’s something about you that’s sweeter than the danger. Softer than the risk. Something he can't refuse.

If you asked—if you even looked at him a certain way—he’d become anything for you. A friend. A fool. A flame. A home.

You could wound him again and again, and he’d still stand there, arms open, ready to take it. Ready to hold the pain if it meant he could have a piece of you too.

He’s not like the others. The ones who looked at you and ran because they didn’t know what to do with someone so fiercely alive. Han isn’t running. Not this time.

He’ll stay.

He’ll take the storm, the fire, the chaos. He’ll embrace you, every imperfect part. Every beautiful flaw.

Because, no matter how much it might hurt, loving you has always felt better than losing you.

After the initial meeting and the gruesome interrogation inflicted on you by the members of Stray Kids, the following days go by without anything exceptional happening. You're trying your hardest to catch up on all the aspects of your new job, how you should approach certain topics of conversation, and how to depict the members online in different styles of interviews and shows. Their pre-established style allows their persona to shine through, individually and as a group. You're drowning in work, you're stressed, and worst of all, starving, having not eaten anything else throughout the day, for one chocolate croissant from the company cafeteria, which you considered would go well with your morning coffee.

You’re organizing a few papers on your tablet when you hear a soft shuffle behind you. You turn around and find Han lingering by the doorway like he’s considering turning back.

You raise an eyebrow. “You lost, Han Jisung?”

He grins nervously, then immediately glances at the floor. “No—well, kind of. Emotionally? Spiritually? Logistically? No. I’m here for a reason. I swear.”

You blink at him. “Okay… Should I be worried?”

He steps inside and shuts the door behind him, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. “No, no—definitely not. I mean, unless… you hate food. Or me. But I’m hoping you don’t hate either.”

You tilt your head, trying to hide your smile. “That’s a strange way to ask a question, Han.”

“Right.” He exhales. “Okay. Let me restart.”

He straightens his posture dramatically, puffing up like he’s about to give a TED Talk, then immediately deflates. “Wow, nope. That felt worse. Why is this so hard?”

You chuckle softly, waiting.

“Okay. So,” he finally says, stepping closer. “I was thinking… maybe you and I could grab dinner sometime soon? Just, you know, catch up, reminisce about the good old days, complain about school, laugh about how socially awkward I was—and still am, apparently.”

You laugh, genuinely now. “You are kind of in a drama, Han.”

“Yeah, well, if this is a drama, I’m the comic relief. And also the love interest. And probably the tragic backstory guy, too. Triple threat.” He smirks, but there’s a flicker of nervousness in his eyes. “But seriously… I’d like to spend some time with you. Just us. Nothing fancy. We could go somewhere lowkey. I promise I won’t even rap at you unless you specifically request it.”

You pretend to consider. “Hmm… will there be food?”

“Unlimited food,” he nods. “Possibly some awkward small-talk and excited rambling. And maybe—if you’re lucky—an old embarrassing story or two about high school Jisung.”

“Well, how could I say no to that?”

He grins so wide it reaches his eyes, boyish and bright. “So that’s a yes?”

You nod. “That’s a yes.”

Han blinks. “Wait—really?”

You smile. “You were convincing. Also, I’m starving. And you said food.”

“Oh, thank God,” he breathes, the tension melting from his shoulders. “Because if you’d said no, I would’ve had to awkwardly moonwalk out of here and pretend this conversation never happened.”

You laugh. “You still could, if you really wanted to.”

“Tempting, but I’d rather feed you than humiliate myself. Again.” He glances around. “You done for the day?”

You check the time, then shrug. “Honestly? I’ve been pretending to understand this document for the last twenty minutes. I think my brain left the building an hour ago.”

“Perfect,” he says, eyes lighting up. “Come on, then. There’s this little place not far from here. Nothing fancy, but they’ve got killer tteokbokki and mandu.”

“That sounds dangerously good,” you say, grabbing your bag.

“Dangerously necessary,” he corrects, holding the door open for you.

You walk out side by side, the office lights humming behind you, the air outside thick with evening warmth. The conversation picks up easily, full of half-finished stories and half-remembered jokes from school. It’s easy—familiar in the best way.

You’re walking beside him, close enough for your arms to brush every now and then, and Han’s trying not to lose his mind about it. You actually said yes.

You’re not just being polite either—you’re laughing, your steps are light, and you’re looking at him like he’s... someone. Not a background character in your story. Not the awkward kid who used to whisper sarcastic comments during group presentations. Just—Han. And okay, maybe this isn’t a date. But it feels like something. Something rare. Something new. And if this is all he gets, just this one night where you see him in full color instead of the faded tones he’s used to—he’ll take it.

The restaurant is tucked into a quiet side street, warm light glowing through foggy windows. Inside, it smells like fried batter, chili oil, and something sweet simmering in the back. Comfort food.

You slide into the booth across from Han, who immediately flattens the paper napkin on the table like it’s a formal dinner setting. “Please prepare your palate,” he says seriously. “Tonight’s menu includes nostalgia, sodium, and possible indigestion.”

You snort. “Perfect. That’s exactly my vibe.”

He grins, a little lopsided and proud of himself for making you laugh.

When the food comes—steaming hot bowls of tteokbokki, crispy mandu, and two fizzy drinks you can’t even name—he watches carefully as you take your first bite.

You groan. “Oh my god. This is so good.”

“I know, right?” He lights up. “I found this place by accident during trainee hell weeks. It became my go-to comfort spot. Kind of like a greasy therapist.”

He’s funny. He’s always been funny, you realize—but back then, you were too busy stressing over GPA and being the “nice one” in your loud friend group to really see him. He was just the shy guy with headphones and brilliant one-liners whispered under his breath.

You didn’t know he was like this.

Effortlessly charming. Warm. Quick. Comfortable in his skin, but still that same gentle, quiet soul.

And maybe it’s just the glow of the restaurant lights, or the way he’s smiling like he’s genuinely happy just to be here—but you suddenly feel something strange curl in your chest.

A small, silent question: How much did I miss… by not looking closer?

You shake it off, refocus on your food. On him. On now. He’s still talking about old dorm horror stories, his eyes bright with memory, his hands animated. And you’re listening. Really listening.

After that dinner, something between you and Han shifts—not dramatically, but enough that you notice. You find yourself looking for him during work hours, though it’s not easy. Stray Kids are nonstop, always pulled in every direction: studio sessions, dance rehearsals, photoshoots, YouTube lives—you name it. Their schedules are packed tight, and they rarely stop moving.

Yet somehow, Han never fails to drop by your office every single day he’s at the building. Without fail, he shows up with a snack or a coffee in hand, plus a lame joke that somehow gets funnier each time. Some days, he’s already in full makeup, looking sharp and camera-ready; other days, he strolls in wearing sweats and a hoodie, hair tousled, face completely bare—but somehow still managing to look effortlessly handsome.

Every time you see him, it feels a little bit easier to breathe. His jokes get better, his smiles wider, and his hugs—well, his hugs start to feel warmer, like they’re meant just for you. You realize slowly, maybe even a little reluctantly, that he’s becoming something you didn’t expect to want so much. You're knee-deep in schedules and promo notes when a soft knock taps against your open office door.

“Delivery for the overworked and under-caffeinated,” Han says, stepping in with two iced Americanos and a triumphant grin.

You glance up, smiling despite the stress clouding your head. “If this is poisoned, make it quick. I’ve lived a good life.”

“Tempting, but I didn’t have time to Google the dosage.” He sets the coffee on your desk and perches on the edge of the guest chair like he might spring back up at any moment. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up, revealing a few faint ink stains on his wrist, probably from lyric scribbles or doodles. His hair is still damp from rehearsal, slightly curling at the ends. “I brought a joke, too,” he announces, already grinning like he knows it’s terrible.

“Of course you did.”

“What’s a producer’s favorite kind of rice?”

You give him a flat look. “Oh no.”

“Beats-rice,” he declares, finger guns and all.

You groan loudly, covering your face with one hand. “That’s not even a pun.”

“Sure it is. You just don’t get my genius.”

“I do. That’s the problem.”

He chuckles, and for a moment, the room feels lighter, like you’ve both pressed pause on the chaos just outside your door. You sip the coffee he brought and sigh. “You really don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”

“I know,” he says, quiet for a beat. “But I want to.”

You look at him then, really look, and something inside you shifts—just slightly. He’s not the awkward boy from school anymore. Or maybe he is, but now you see the charm in it. The steadiness. The ease. And for the first time, you catch yourself wondering—not all at once, but slowly, gently—how you ever missed this.

You didn’t come here looking for anything. Not love. Not distraction. Especially not someone who smiles like that and makes you laugh like you’re seventeen again.

You’ve always been fine on your own—thrived in your own space, danced to your own rhythm. You’ve built your world with your own two hands, moved cities, chased dreams, handled heartbreaks. You’ve learned not to need anyone else to feel whole.

But lately, when Han looks at you—when he’s lingering in your doorway with some stupid joke and too much hope in his eyes—you feel yourself softening in ways you didn’t plan for.

You try to remind yourself you’re not here for this. You came to work. To be good at what you do. To keep your head down and your heart tucked away. And yet. Something about the way he speaks to you—like you’re familiar and new at the same time—makes you want to reach out. To ask about his sign, like you’re back in high school, making up reasons to keep the conversation going. To wonder if maybe, just maybe, he has some kind of plan that you’re quietly becoming part of.

And even though you told yourself you didn’t need anybody…

You can’t help thinking—if he asked, if he really asked—you might take his hand. And you’d follow him. Wherever this road is going.

Jisung, on the other hand, knows he’s falling.

It’s not subtle, not slow, not something creeping in quietly—it’s loud, immediate, undeniable. It’s been this way since the moment you walked back into his life like no time had passed at all. Since the second you said his name and smiled like you’d been saving that moment just for him.

Back then, back in school, he tried to keep his feelings under control. Told himself you were out of reach. You were kind, warm, brilliant—but you didn’t look at him like that. And he accepted it. Smiled through it. Let himself have the tiniest piece of you in memories and old conversations he kept replaying in his head like a favorite movie.

But now?

Now you’re here. In front of him. Talking to him, joking with him, sharing little pieces of your life like maybe—just maybe—he’s someone who belongs there.

He doesn’t have to guess how he feels. He wants you. Wants to see you every day. Wants to be the reason your smile shows up at random. Wants to give you every dumb, sweet, messy part of himself and trust that maybe this time, you'll see him.

He finds himself wondering what tomorrow will bring—not in fear, but in hope. How your laugh will sound. What you'll be wearing. Whether your hair will be up or down. What tiny, perfect version of you he’ll get to witness next.

He’s not just falling. He’s already there. And all he can do now is hope you’ll look back and see him—clearly, fully—for the first time.

It’s late—later than it should be—and the building is quiet in that kind of way that makes every sound feel more important. The hallway lights are dimmed, and the usual buzz of activity has finally gone still, leaving only a handful of people still working through the night. Of course, Han Jisung is one of them.

You were on your way out—coat slung over your arm, bag in hand—when you passed by the familiar studio door and noticed the light was still on. Something in you paused.

You knock once, twice, and then push the door open.

“Still here?” you ask softly, your voice cutting through the mellow instrumental that plays low through the speakers.

Han’s sitting at his desk, headphones slung around his neck, fingers fiddling with a mechanical pencil. He looks up, surprised—and maybe just a little bit thrilled.

“Guilty,” he says, sheepish. “I swear I was only going to be here for an hour.”

You smile, stepping inside and closing the door behind you. “Let me guess—you fell into the zone?”

“More like the zone dragged me in and locked the door,” he says, spinning slowly in his chair to face you fully. “You still here too?”

“Just finished. I was leaving when I saw your light on.”

He watches you quietly for a second, something tender and open in his gaze. “Thanks for checking.”

There’s a pause—not awkward, just still. You lean against the wall, watching him, and suddenly, the room feels warmer than it did a second ago.

“What are you working on?” you ask, nodding toward the screen.

He turns back to it, clicks play. A soft beat rolls out, gentle but layered—melancholy in a way that makes your chest ache just a little. And then, over it, his voice enters—mellow, melodic, not quite a rap, not quite a ballad. It’s something in between. Honest. A little raw.

You listen in silence until the sample fades.

“That was…” you start, but the words don’t come easily. “Beautiful.”

Han’s ears turn a little pink. He shrugs. “It’s not finished.”

You step closer, slow and careful, not entirely sure why your heart’s started beating faster.

“It sounds like something you needed to write,” you say.

He looks up at you, and for once, he doesn’t hide what he’s feeling. It’s all there—affection, longing, a hundred unsaid things tucked behind his tired smile.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It is.”

You hold his gaze longer than you mean to. And that’s when you feel it—that subtle shift again. Not drastic. Not earth-shattering. But real. Something warm flickering to life just under your skin. You smile, then reach out and pluck the uneaten protein bar off his desk. “If you’re going to work late, you should at least eat something.

”He blinks, then laughs. “You just stole my dinner.”

You grin. “You can get revenge tomorrow. I’ll be here.”

“I know,” he says, and it comes out softer than you expect.

You leave the studio with the bar in hand, heart a little lighter, thoughts a little messier. Behind you, Han just sits there for a while, staring at the closed door like he’s trying to memorize the exact way you left. The beat plays again, and this time, he hums along with it—already thinking of the next line.

Months go by and your relationship with Jisung shifts again. Not dramatically, but noticeably. You learn that he is big on physical touch. You also learn, that you enjoy it more when it comes to him.

It starts with longer hugs.

At first, they were brief, polite—friendly greetings between two people rekindling an old connection. But over time, they change. His arms start to linger around your waist just a second longer than they should. Your hands stay looped behind his back before either of you lets go. The silences between you grow comfortable, thick with something that isn’t quite tension but feels like possibility.

Sometimes, when you're standing close—talking over a screen or laughing at something ridiculous—you feel the light touch of his hand against your lower back, subtle and grounding. Other times, it’s his shoulder brushing yours when you lean in to read something on his tablet, his pinky finger twitching just enough to graze yours on the armrest.

None of it is overwhelming. It's slow, natural, soft. So soft, it almost doesn’t feel like change—until you realize how much you’ve started waiting for it.

The late nights at the studio become your thing. After the building clears out and the chaos dies down, you find yourselves drifting back there, like gravity pulling you both to the same point. At first, you pretended it was work—consulting on PR angles, previewing content together. But now you both know it’s not about that. Not really.

He plays you snippets of unfinished songs. You tell him stories from your day, things that made you laugh or pissed you off. Sometimes you do nothing but sit side by side on the couch, phones forgotten in your laps, the silence wrapping around you like a blanket.

One night, it’s raining hard outside—steady and rhythmic, tapping against the windows like it’s part of the melody playing through his speakers. You’re curled up at one end of the studio couch, legs tucked under you, your head resting on the cushion. He’s sitting beside you, close, close enough that his warmth bleeds into your skin.

You're not even sure when the closeness shifts into something else.

You must’ve been talking. Or maybe you weren’t. But at some point, your head ends up on his shoulder. And then he leans his head against yours. And when your eyes finally flutter closed, lulled by the steady sound of rain and the softness of his voice humming under his breath—you don’t pull away.

Neither does he.

You wake up hours later, disoriented by the soft hum of monitors and the ache in your neck. The studio lights are low, casting a warm glow over everything. You’re curled into Jisung’s side now, both of you on your sides, his arm loosely wrapped around your waist, your hand resting on his chest.

He’s still asleep, breathing steady, lashes fluttering just slightly like he’s dreaming something good.

And for a second, you just watch him. Really watch him.

The boy you barely noticed back then—quiet, awkward, too shy to speak in front of strangers—is now the man holding you like you’ve always belonged there. You wonder how many moments like this you missed by not looking up back then. How much warmth you overlooked because you were too caught up in your own world to see what was quietly blooming right beside you.

Your fingers twitch against his chest.

Maybe this isn’t where the story ends—or even begins. Maybe this is the middle. The part where everything starts to change, not with fireworks or declarations, but with one quiet night. Two people. And the slow, gentle rhythm of falling into something that feels dangerously close to love.

The soft light of morning creeps in through the narrow studio windows, pale and hazy, casting sleepy golden streaks across the scattered notebooks and empty coffee cups. You blink awake slowly, head heavy with sleep, and the first thing you register is warmth. Steady, solid warmth.

You shift slightly—and freeze.

You’re curled into Jisung’s chest, his arm still wrapped around you protectively, like his body didn’t get the memo that the night is over. His hoodie smells like fabric softener and faint cologne. His fingers twitch slightly against your waist, like even in sleep, he doesn’t want to let go. You glance up. His eyes are cracked open, bleary and still half-lost in a dream. When he realizes you're awake, he stiffens—just a bit.

“Morning,” you whisper, your voice hoarse.

He swallows. “Hi.”

Neither of you moves. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, just full of words that neither of you know how to say yet.

“I didn’t mean to—” he starts, then winces. “Well, I did mean to fall asleep, just not… like this. I mean—uh—not that I’m complaining! Or that it was bad! I just—sleep is important, you know? And this couch is surprisingly comfortable, which is probably why—”

“Jisung.”

He shuts up immediately.

You shift slightly, propping yourself on your elbow. “Are we gonna pretend that didn’t happen?”

His eyes search yours, uncertain. “Do you want to pretend?”

You hesitate.

“No,” you admit quietly. “But I don’t know what it was.”

He nods, mouth pressed in a tight line. “Yeah. Same.”

Another beat of silence.

“I mean,” he continues, rubbing the back of his neck, “I didn’t… plan to fall asleep holding you like some rom-com lead, but also… I didn’t hate it. Like, at all.”

You huff a laugh. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“Okay, rude,” he mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “But fair.”

You sit up slowly, stretching your legs. “I think we’re both confused.”

“Confused is my permanent state,” he mutters under his breath, then louder: “But yeah. I just— It’s weird, because it’s not like I’ve had this whole plan or something. I just... like being around you. A lot. More than I should, maybe.”

That softens something in your chest.

You nod slowly. “And I think... I like it, too. You. Being around you. But I also—this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now. Not like this.”

“I know,” he says, quieter now. “But it did.”

You meet his gaze and suddenly it feels heavy again—not in a bad way, but in the way that makes you aware of every inch between you, every quiet thing unsaid.

“So what do we do?” you ask.

He shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. Maybe… we just keep doing what we’re doing? No pressure, no labels. Just… seeing where it goes?”

You watch him for a moment. His messy hair, the sleep still clinging to his lashes, the vulnerability in his eyes.

You nod. “Okay. We’ll see.”

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it the whole night. “Cool. Yeah. That works. I’m good at casual. Super casual. Like—flannel shirt casual. Or slippers and cereal casual.”

You laugh again, warm and real. “You’re a disaster.”

“And yet, here I am,” he grins, standing up and stretching his arms. “Charming disaster. Patent pending.”

You roll your eyes, but the fondness in your chest is impossible to deny. As he offers you his hand to help you up, you realize you're still not entirely sure what’s happening between you two. But maybe, for now, that’s enough.

You try to act normal.

Really, you do. You keep your expression unreadable, posture relaxed, voice calm as you scroll through the draft PR schedule on your tablet. Han sits across the table in the conference room with the rest of the members, nodding along to whatever Bang Chan is explaining—but you can feel it.

That awareness.

The air feels... different. Heavy in the space between you, like everyone else is swimming through water while the two of you are tethered by an invisible string.

You haven’t even made eye contact yet, and still—your skin prickles with the memory of his arm wrapped around you the night before, the soft way he’d looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

You shift in your seat, pretending to adjust your tablet. His foot accidentally nudges yours under the table.

You freeze. He does, too. Then he slowly, very slowly pulls away, like he’s defusing a bomb.

Bang Chan’s voice cuts through the weird tension in your head. “So that’s the plan for the next two weeks. Any questions?”

The table remains quiet.

“No? Cool. Thanks for joining, everyone.”

The room bursts into motion—papers shuffling, chairs scraping, conversation picking up.

You gather your things quickly, hoping to escape without incident. But then—

“Hey,” Chan says softly. Too softly. You glance up to find him watching you. His tone is casual, but his eyes aren’t. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

You hesitate. Han glances up too, subtly alert.

“Of course,” you say, smiling like this isn’t mildly terrifying.

He waits until the room has cleared before speaking. Not accusingly, not even cold—just… leader-mode. Thoughtful. Quietly concerned.

“I just want to check in,” he says. “About you and Han.”

Your stomach tightens.

“There’s nothing going on,” you say automatically, maybe a little too quickly.

Chan raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t call you out.

“Okay. I believe you,” he says, and he probably does. Mostly. “But I also see things. Jisung doesn’t let people in easily. He jokes, flirts, plays around, but real closeness? That’s rare with him. And it’s happening. With you.”

You look away.

“I’m not mad,” he adds quickly. “Just… making sure you know. Because if this turns into something more, it’s not just you who’s affected. It’s him. It’s all of us.”

“I do know,” you say quietly. “And I would never do anything to hurt him. Or your group.”

He studies you for a moment, then nods. “I trust that. I just hope you’re both being honest—with yourselves, and each other.”

You manage a small smile. “We’re trying.”

He gives a soft chuckle, then rubs the back of his neck. “Alright. Now get out of here before I start sounding like a dad.”

You laugh and nod, turning to leave—

—only to nearly collide with Han waiting just outside the door, his hands in his pockets, pretending to admire a crack in the wall like it’s a masterpiece.

You blink. “Were you… eavesdropping?”

“No!” he says quickly. “I was… standing. Nearby. And hearing. Coincidentally.”

You sigh. He glances toward the office behind you. “Chan give you the ‘don’t break my members’ hearts’ talk?”

“Kind of,” you mutter. “Less dramatic. More dad energy.”

Han grins, then bumps your shoulder with his. “You okay?”

You nod. “Are you?”

“Me?” he asks, eyes wide. “I’m great. Except I might pass out from how awkward that whole thing was.”

You chuckle.

“Hey,” he says again, this time softer. “We’re still good, right? Like... us?”

Your heart thuds. Slowly, you smile. “Yeah. We’re good.” For now.

Schedules shift.

Suddenly, the easy rhythm you and Jisung had found — the morning check-ins, late-night studio rambling, quiet glances over coffee — all begin to fade, smothered beneath the weight of Stray Kids' comeback prep.

The tension starts subtly. Fewer messages. Shorter replies. A missed lunch here, a forgotten inside joke there. You try not to take it personally. You know how this works. You’ve worked with idols before. Comeback seasons are brutal — rehearsals, recordings, performances, content shoots — every second of their day becomes pre-packaged and consumed by the machine.

But still, it stings.

Especially when you pass him in the hall and his eyes barely lift from the floor.

It’s not just you he’s pulling away from. You notice it in the way the members glance at him, quiet concern flickering between them. Chan’s brow is always furrowed these days. Hyunjin’s usual teasing toward Han has softened into wordless pats on the shoulder. And you — well, you remember the conversation Jisung once had with you late one night in the studio, sitting cross-legged on the floor with takeout between you.

“I don’t always know how to ask for space,” he had admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I disappear instead. I know it sucks. But it’s not because I want to push people away. It’s because I’m scared if I don’t, I’ll fall apart with them watching.”

You hadn’t fully understood then. You do now. Because now he’s disappearing — not just emotionally, but physically too. He practically lives in the studio, his messages unread, the space where his presence used to sit in your day now hollow. And you feel it.

Not just the absence of his coffee deliveries or dumb puns or warm hugs — but him. The way he made the world feel softer when he was around. Like you weren’t alone in your own spirals.

You pass by the studio late one evening, and through the tiny rectangular window, you catch a glimpse of him. He’s hunched over the desk, headphones on, hair a mess, his leg bouncing rapidly as he re-records a line for the third, maybe fourth time. Frustration is written all over his face.

You don’t knock. Because you know he won’t hear it. Or he’ll pretend not to. Instead, you linger for just a second longer, remembering how easy things felt when he used to wave at you through that very window, silly grin and all. And now? Now, the silence between you is starting to echo louder than anything either of you had the courage to say.

The hallway is quiet — too quiet — except for the static buzz in Jisung’s ears, the kind that comes when exhaustion bleeds into something darker. He drags his hoodie up over his head, eyes unfocused, shoulders hunched as he rounds the corner.

That’s when he sees you.

You’re standing by the vending machine with Changbin, your heads tilted close together, talking in low voices. You're smiling — not wide, not beaming — but soft, gentle. The kind of smile Jisung used to get. The one that made his stomach twist in that way that felt like home and chaos at the same time.

He can’t hear what you’re saying, but he doesn’t have to. His brain, heavy with anxiety and lack of sleep, fills in the blanks. Changbin is funny. He's stable. He’s good with people. And you — you’re beautiful and kind and warm and there. The static in his head becomes a roar. Of course you’re moving on. Why wouldn’t you? Of course someone like Changbin would make you laugh. Of course someone like Jisung, who shuts down and disappears the moment life tilts a little, could never hold your attention for long.

He watches you place a hand gently on Changbin’s arm, brows furrowed in something that looks like concern, and it burns. Jealousy, shame, heartbreak — all in one sharp, unbearable flash.

He turns on his heel before either of you spot him and bolts. Down the hallway, past the practice rooms, through the stairwell — anywhere that isn't here.

He doesn’t stop until the city lights blur around him, and his phone buzzes endlessly in his pocket — texts from Chan, calls from Minho, your name flashing on screen — and he ignores them all.

He needs air. He needs time. He needs less.

Meanwhile, back in the building, panic starts to ripple.

“He’s not in the studio?” Chan asks, already pulling out his phone.

“No. I checked the dance rooms too,” Seungmin says. “Nothing.”

You step back, heart hammering in your chest. “He—he saw me and Changbin. Do you think…?”

Chan’s eyes narrow. “Saw you doing what?”

“We were talking about him,” you say quickly, guilt washing over you. “I was trying to ask for advice. I just—I didn’t know how to help him without making him feel cornered.”

Changbin nods. “We weren’t exactly being subtle. He probably jumped to the worst conclusion.”

“And now he’s out there alone, spiraling,” Chan mutters, already dialing. “Damn it, Jisung.”

Jisung leans against the cold brick wall outside, the night pressing in around him like a suffocating blanket. His phone vibrates relentlessly in his pocket, but he’s too numb to answer. Instead, he pulls it out and scrolls through the flood of missed calls and messages. One notification catches his eye — a voicemail from you.

His thumb hovers over the play button. Curiosity and guilt war inside him. He’s scared of what he might hear, but he can’t stop himself. He presses play.

Your voice trembles through the speaker, raw and fragile, tears audible between your words.

“Jisung, please… I know you want to be found. And if it’s not by me, then… then fine, I won’t come. But at least let someone know where you are, and if you’re okay. Please, I’m begging you.”

His chest tightens, heart pounding with a sudden ache he can’t ignore. He hates that you’re hurting because of him. That he’s left you worried, scared, alone in the dark.

The walls he’s built start to crack.

After a long pause, he unlocks his phone, his fingers trembling as he taps “Share Location.” The screen fills with the blue glow of the map pinpointing where he is. His breath catches. He sends it. Almost instantly, his phone buzzes with a reply from you.

On my way.

For the first time in hours, Jisung feels a flicker of warmth amid the cold night — a fragile thread tethering him back.

You find him sitting alone on the concrete ledge under the Han River bridge, the city lights shimmering on the water’s surface. His shoulders are slumped, eyes fixed on the ripples below, the weight of hours lost heavy in the air between you.

You sit down beside him, careful not to break the fragile silence. The night hums softly around you—cars passing on the bridge above, distant laughter carried by the wind. Neither of you speaks at first.

After a few minutes, Jisung pulls his phone from his pocket, hesitating like he’s about to reveal something deeply personal. He taps on his music app, then presses play. A soft beat fills the quiet, steady and raw.

Then, almost shyly, he begins to sing:

"You can burst into flames, you can wound me next to you If you like, I can be anything Yeah, you can hurt me, I don't care, yeah, you can burn me Unlike those who run away from you, I'll embrace you...”

His voice is low, slightly rough but filled with emotion, each word trembling with meaning you hadn’t realized was there before. You watch his lips move, mesmerized by the vulnerability in the song.

“Like a volcano Love at a temperature that can melt when touched Take me to you, way below to the end of the ground It's okay if everything burns down Even if I go back hundreds of times, my choice is always... you.”

The words echo softly beneath the bridge, and for a moment, the noisy city feels miles away. You feel your chest tighten—not just from the beauty of the song but from the unspoken connection blooming between you both.

When the last note fades, he glances at you, cheeks flushed with embarrassment but eyes hopeful.

You reach out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“You’re amazing, Jisung.”

He gives you a small, grateful smile, the weight on his shoulders seeming a little lighter now.

You take a deep breath, the cool night air filling your lungs as you gather your thoughts. His eyes stay fixed on you, patient and curious, waiting.

“Jisung,” you begin softly, voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. “I… I think I was blind before. Back in school, I didn’t see you. Not really. I was so caught up in my own world, in my own noise, that I missed what was right in front of me.”

You glance down for a moment, then meet his eyes again, earnest and open. “You could have been someone to love all along. And I’m sorry it took me this long to realize it. I never meant to overlook you, or to make you feel small or invisible.”

Your hand reaches out slowly, hesitating just a second before grabbing his hand and intertwining your fingers together. “I want you to know — I have no intention of hurting you. No matter how complicated this is, I would never burn you, or run away. I want to be someone you can trust, someone who stays.”

You pause, searching his face for a sign, a flicker of what you hope to find.

He swallows hard, a shy smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice low and sincere. “That means more than you know.”

The night wraps around you both like a quiet secret, the world hushed under the bridge. Your fingers brush his arm, and Jisung’s eyes search yours with a fierce, hopeful light.

He leans in slowly, but as your lips almost meet, he bumps his forehead against yours with a soft thud.

“Ah, ouch,” he murmurs, rubbing his forehead and giving you a sheepish, yet proud grin. “Smooth move, right?”

You laugh, the tension breaking like a gentle wave. “Definitely unforgettable.”

With a shy but determined nod, he tries again. This time, the kiss is soft, sweet, and a little awkward — but so real, so full of all the feelings he’s been holding back.

When you pull apart, his cheeks are flushed, but his eyes shine with pride and something more — love.

“I’m not just saying this lightly,” he breathes, voice steady, heart wide open. “I’m in love with you. I have been for a while now, and I’m proud of it. So... will you be my girlfriend?”

You smile, your heart swelling with warmth and something new — the recognition of what you almost missed before.

“Yes,” you whisper, “I’d love that.”

His grin stretches wider than ever, and he pulls you close for another, longer kiss — this time, perfectly imperfect, and just the beginning of everything. After you say yes, Jisung’s grin turns mischievous, eyes sparkling with that trademark cheeky confidence.

He pulls you into a quick hug, whispering loud enough for you to hear and maybe the whole riverbank too, “You’re officially mine now. Sorry, Changbin — you can go to hell.”

You laugh, raising an eyebrow. “Wow, confident much?”

He smirks, puffing out his chest like a knight ready for battle. “Of course! Jealousy is just my version of chivalry. Protecting what’s mine.”

You shake your head, smiling. “You’re such a goofball.”

“Hey, I’m your goofball now. Deal with it.”

And with that, he squeezes your hand like a prize, and you both walk off under the soft glow of the city lights, ready for whatever comes next, together.

From his bandmates' perspective, Jisung becomes insufferable in the following days. He can't stop talking about how he's finally got you, how perfect you are, and how glad he is to finally be able to call you his girlfriend. The boys relentlessly made fun of him, but he couldn't care less.

You push open the door to the dance studio, the faint thump of music and the scrape of sneakers on the floor reaching your ears. The room is alive with energy—Stray Kids mid-rehearsal, muscles moving in sync.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot him.

Han Jisung.

The moment he sees you, his entire body lights up like a sparkler on a summer night. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes wide, grin impossibly bright.

“Hey! You’re here!” he shouts, nearly tripping over himself as he rushes toward you.

You barely have time to step inside before he’s practically glued to your side, his arm wrapping around your waist like he never wants to let go.

“I missed you all day! Like, seriously, it was torture,” he whines, voice dropping to a mock-serious tone. “I’m not even kidding. I think I might have turned into a sad puppy or something.”

The other members pause their practice, exchanging amused looks. Bang Chan raises an eyebrow, grinning.

“Oh, look at Jisung! The cling monster’s back,” Chan teases, smirking at you. “We were starting to think you vanished for good.”

Changbin joins in, chuckling, “Yeah, we were worried he’d become a hermit again. Glad you showed up before that happened.”

You laugh, shaking your head at their playful ribbing. Jisung, still hanging on your arm, leans in and whispers, “See? Even they know I need my protector. Someone who won’t hurt me.”

You squeeze his hand gently. “I’m not going anywhere, Jisung.”

He beams up at you, the glow of happiness practically radiating off him. The group starts to warm back into their rehearsal, but the mood is lighter, softer—like a fresh breeze after a storm. You glance around at the boys who have become a second family to him—and now, to you—and feel a swell of gratitude. They tease and joke, but beneath it all, you know they’re genuinely glad to see their friend this happy again.

The ways of love are strange—no doubt about that. Sometimes, all it takes is a single glance, and everything changes in an instant. But other times, love grows quietly, almost unnoticed, in the small moments between breaths and words.

Between stolen glances and gentle touches, in laughter shared beneath dim studio lights, and in the silence of a midnight cityscape.

It’s the slow-burning flame, the volcano that rumbles softly before bursting to life, raw and unstoppable.

You realize now that love isn’t always a blinding flash—it can be the quiet spark that finally catches fire, warm and fierce, lighting up everything you never saw before.

And as you look at him—his smile a little crooked, eyes bright and steady like boba—you know that this love, patient and true, is the one worth holding on to.

Because sometimes, the most extraordinary kind of magic is the kind that grows quietly, right beside you, waiting for you to notice.

And in that noticing, everything shifts.

Everything changes.

It was Riversley Law University, one of the most prestigious and soul-crushing programs in the country. Everyone whispered about the competition. The gatekeeping. The legacy students who’d never even touched a student loan form. You applied anyway. With one glowing recommendation from a retired judge, you’d once tutored on legal tech for free. With an application essay so raw it made the admissions board cry. With test scores so perfect they thought they were fake until you walked into the interview and quoted obscure 14th-century civil codes like they were bedtime stories.

You got in. Full ride. No one knew how. They thought you were connected. Rich. Sponsored.

You let them think what they wanted.

The top firms came recruiting like vultures during your final year. But Daejin & Grey? They didn’t do job fairs. They didn’t post openings. They hand-picked. And one day, a letter arrived. Real envelope. Black wax seal. No email. No call.

“You’re invited to an exclusive selection round. No details will be repeated. Bring your brain, your backbone, and black ink.”

Turns out, you were one of six students in the entire nation selected to compete for one internship spot. The selection process was insane—contracts in languages you barely knew, impossible moral dilemmas, interrogation-style interviews. People dropped out. Cried. Snapped. You didn’t. You passed. And you became the girl no one saw coming. The intern with fire in her veins and no family name behind her just you. Alone. Hungry. Unshakable.

Jisung was born into brilliance… and burden.

His mother was a top criminal defense lawyer known as “The Viper” in the courtroom—sharp heels, sharper tongue. His father, an occult historian and philosopher who lectured on forbidden languages and secret societies. He grew up in a glass penthouse where success was oxygen and weakness were punishable by silence. Jisung was 17 when Daejin & Grey found him. He had just won an underground student legal warfare competition (an invite-only thing where prodigies go to destroy each other’s arguments in mock trials that felt more like mind combat). He didn’t even enter; someone forged his application. He just showed up… and obliterated future politicians, heirs, and scholars. A week later, a man in an obsidian coat approached his mother during one of her high-profile court cases. Whispered something in her ear. She signed a contract on the back of a napkin. Jisung was summoned. They didn’t interview him. They tested him. Gave him an unsolvable case and watched him create a loophole in 24 hours.

They mentored him in secret. Fed him real cases under the table. Made him sign a blood clause at 19. By 24, he was the youngest partner in the firm’s history. He was the youngest to ever win a national law debate. A certified genius with a smirk that could convince CEOs to sign away their souls and maybe they did. People admired him. Feared him. Worshipped him. But they didn’t know him.

Because Jisung? Jisung was never taught love. He was taught leverage.

Daejin & Grey Law Firm wasn’t founded. It was forged out of war, silence, and unspeakable deals.

The firm traces back over 80 years, born during the post-war reconstruction era. Two men, Ha Daejin—a radical, silver-tongued lawyer who defended war criminals—and Theodore Grey, a disgraced British solicitor exiled for running a covert empire of offshore finance and blackmail, met in Seoul under unusual circumstances. Both were brilliant, both had nothing left to lose, and both were addicted to power. Together, they built Daejin & Grey as more than a firm. It became a sanctuary for those too cunning for politics, too dangerous for the courts, too ambitious for morality. It handles clients that other firms fear from criminal syndicates, foreign diplomats, to weaponized corporations. It's not just law, it’s chess. And they always win.

Rumor has it: The firm has a vault with contracts that could collapse governments. There's a floor you can only access if your name is etched in obsidian. No one leaves Daejin & Grey. You’re either promoted… or erased.

---

You stood in the towering glass lobby of Daejin & Grey, your heels echoing on the polished marble like tiny declarations of war. The receptionist didn’t even look up. Her access badge was silver. Everyone else’s was black. You felt the heat of judgment from passing associates, the subtle way people scanned your thrifted yet sharply styled outfit. You knew you didn’t look like money. But your mind? That was priceless.

An older woman with tightly coiled hair and stilettos sharp enough to stab came striding toward you.

“Intern. Y/N. You’re late,” she said. You weren’t.

“Follow. No questions.”

You moved through what felt like a museum of silence and danger—glass-walled rooms, people whispering in three languages, floors that required fingerprint scans. And then the library.

My God, the library.

Blackwood shelves. Ancient tomes. One door labeled RESTRICTED: Contractual Souls Only.

You swallowed. This wasn’t law school anymore. This was the underworld in heels.

Han Jisung entered from the rooftop.

The chopper dropped him five minutes behind schedule, and he hated being late—especially today, when a new batch of interns were supposed to arrive. He hated interns. Eager. Sweaty. Trying to impress him with quotes from Nietzsche.

He adjusted his ring, black obsidian with a serpent curling up his middle finger and rolled his neck before descending. His assistant, Jinhee, tried to brief him. He waved her off.

“Did they assign me one of the interns?”

“Not officially, but the chairman requested one observe your methods—”

“No.”

“But sir—”

“I said no.”

He walked into his office. 47th floor. The air smelled like power and espresso. His desk was cluttered with folders, red-stamped files, and one curious black envelope marked:

“Observe her. She doesn’t belong—but she might change everything.”

He frowned. Tossed it aside. He didn’t believe in fate.

---

Jisung and Y/N walked the same hall that morning. Opposite directions. Didn’t notice each other—yet. Y/N was being led through the Hall of Legal Legends, where portraits of past partners hung like silent judges. She paused in front of one particularly cold-looking man.

“That’s Ha Daejin,” the tour guide said. “He once freed a serial killer because he didn’t believe in prison. Said the law should be feared, not followed.” Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a villain.” The guide smirked. “You’ll hear more of that.”

Meanwhile, Jisung turned a corner, passed a group of interns. Didn’t look at them—except for a second. One girl. Silver badge. Holding a leather-bound notebook like it was a weapon. Unfazed by the architecture. Sharp eyes. He paused for half a second. Blinked. Then walked on.

She felt it. That glance. That storm. They didn’t know each other yet.

---

The conference room at Daejin & Grey was less a meeting space and more a statement. A massive oval table of obsidian-black glass stretched across the room like the eye of some mythic beast. The lighting was deliberately dim—soft golden strips along the ceiling—making everyone’s expressions unreadable, dangerous. It smelled of polished leather, old money, and cold ambition. Interns filed in one by one silent, shoulders squared, eyes darting. You were among them, notebook pressed to your side, trying not to flinch at the weight of legacy pressing on you. All of you were being watched. Every step, every breath, being measured.

You took a seat at the far end, instinctively positioning yourself with your back to the wall. Never the center. Always the observer. The doors opened again and this time, the room actually paused.

In came Mr. Grey.

No one knows his first name. Not really. Just Grey. He walked with a cane not because he needed to, but because he liked the sound of it on marble. A silver three-piece suit, perfectly tailored, skin pale like stone, and a face so unreadable it could’ve been carved.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. Sharks in training,” he said, his voice laced with silk and venom. “Welcome to Daejin & Grey.”

“You are not here to learn. You’re here to prove you can survive. We will not teach you to be great. We will simply see if you already are. If you are not—” he gestured lazily toward the wide floor-to-ceiling windows, “—there is the door, and down there is your future. Bleak. Insignificant.”

Someone gulped. You did not. “From now on,” Grey continued, “you do not breathe without purpose. You do not blink without calculation. And if you ever speak in this room without reason…”

He smiled. Sharp and slow. “I will end your career before it begins.” He stepped back. “Now, allow me to introduce one of our youngest and most... unorthodox partners.”

The doors slammed open again.

Han Jisung strode in with the kind of lazy confidence that screamed I own this room. No tie. Shirt collar undone just enough. A black ring catching the dim light. His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d just walked out of a midnight negotiation and won. He didn’t look at anyone. He just leaned against the edge of the table, one hand in his pocket.

“Interns,” he said. His voice was casual, disinterested. “Congrats on making it this far. I assume most of you will disappoint me.” Some people chuckled nervously.

He scanned the room—quick sweep. And then, their eyes met.

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

It wasn’t recognition. It wasn’t fate. It was challenge. His gaze said, Don’t try me.

Yours said, I already am.

Something shifted. Jisung turned back to Grey. “Can I go?”

Grey raised an amused brow. “You just got here.” Jisung shrugged, pushing off the table. “I’ve seen enough.” But he paused by the door. Tilted his head. Glanced over his shoulder not at the group. Just at her.

One second.

Two.

Then he left.

And you? You smelled the war before it began.

After Jisung made his dramatic exit, Mr. Grey waved a gloved hand, summoning the woman standing beside the projection screen. That was Ms. Park, the Head of Public Relations a woman whose smile was sharper than her Louboutins.

She took the lead. “Here at Daejin & Grey,” she began, “we operate on six principles. Discipline. Foresight. Loyalty. Discretion. Precision. And finally—ruthlessness.”

A nervous laugh rippled across the room. She didn’t smile. “That wasn’t a joke.”

The next forty-five minutes were a blur of corporate philosophies and non-negotiable ethics. Every new intern had to memorize the internal PR structure, the crisis protocols, and the company’s “zero tolerance” policy for emotional decisions. Everything had a script. Even your heartbeat.

You took notes like your life depended on it. Because it did. But the more the PowerPoint clicked forward, the more you felt the weight of your blouse clinging to her skin not from nerves, but from expectation. From the knowing glance Grey had shot her earlier. He knew.

The interns were finally dismissed for a break, filing out toward the executive café like a herd of wolves pretending to be sheep. The space was insane, sleek glass, gold accents, and meals plated like art. Even the salad looked like it had a stock portfolio.

You picked at a caprese toast, more out of habit than hunger.

Jisung wasn’t there. Of course not. He probably had his meals flown in, signed with blood, and served with jazz. You sipped your drink, but your mind wandered. Back to that look. The unreadable glance between you and Jisung. Like a challenge had been accepted without a single word exchanged.

Just as you were returning your tray, a shadow passed over you.

“Miss Y/L/N.”

That voice. Smooth as obsidian. You turned. Mr. Grey. He didn’t beckon. He just turned, and you followed. You stepped into a smaller conference lounge less intimidating, more personal. Warm-toned wood, a velvet chaise. Only the elite got invited here, you were sure of it.

Grey didn’t sit. He stood by the window, cane in hand, observing the city skyline.

“Well?” he said without turning. “What’s the verdict?”

You hesitated. “I… I think I’m scared. But I’m also excited.”

He glanced at you now. Just slightly. “Good. Fear without eagerness is cowardice. Eagerness without fear is arrogance. We don’t need either.”

You nodded slowly. “I’ll try not to let you down.” Grey turned to face you fully now. His expression softened—barely—but it was there. A flicker. Almost paternal. “I know where you came from,” he said.

You froze. He continued, “Not everyone here was raised on champagne and legacy. Some of us crawled into this place with blood on our hands and fire in our eyes. You belong here, Y/N. But you’ll need armor.”

“I’ll build it,” you whispered, voice steady.

Grey nodded, satisfied. But then he tilted his head, curious. “You looked at Han Jisung today.” A pause. You raised a brow, unashamed. “He looked first.” That earned the ghost of a chuckle.

“You want to know about him?” Grey asked.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Grey tapped his cane twice on the floor. “Han Jisung is a prodigy. Recruited after flipping the legal department of a rival firm upside down as a client. Took the bar just to prove he could. Now he leads special projects and high-risk negotiations. Untouchable. Brilliant. Reckless.”

You absorbed the information like wine. Grey’s tone turned sharp again. “He does not play well with others. And he doesn’t train interns.”

You met his gaze. “Noted.” Grey smirked. “Good girl.”

---

The door clicked shut behind you.

Your apartment was quiet. Small, but personal. Walls filled with original sketches, abstract prints, pinned timelines, articles with handwritten notes in the margins. A vision board sat in the corner with the word “Grey-level” in capital gold foil across the top. You kicked off your heels and unpinned your hair, letting the curls fall as you moved like clockwork—smooth, efficient, methodical. Laptop open. Lights dimmed. Jazz humming low in the background.

Search: Han Jisung | Daejin & Grey

The results? Not much. Of course not. Grey’s people erased footprints before they were even made. But you was raised to dig deeper than the surface. And you did.

You found mentions of his name in trade journals, coded phrases like “unexpected turnaround,” “miracle negotiation,” and “the golden ghost.” Not a single photo. But a whisper here, a quote there.

Then, an old university blog.

“The Boy Who Sued a Corporation and Won.”

You clicked. A grainy screenshot showed a boy with a snapback on backwards, standing outside a courthouse. Young. Angry. Smirking like he knew too much for someone his age.

Summary:

Age 19. Filed a class action suit against a powerful music label for contract exploitation. Represented himself in preliminary hearings. Won the case and took a settlement. Disappeared from public eye for three years. Resurfaced… at Daejin & Grey.

You sat back, the gears in your mind turning. “So he’s that type,” you murmured.

Anger-driven. Genius-fed. Doesn't like to lose. Hides behind sarcasm because it's safer than vulnerability. You bookmarked the article. Then looked out the window at the glowing city. A little smile curved on your lips.

“This’ll be fun.”

And with that, you shut your laptop and poured yourself a glass of red a silent toast to a storm you knew was coming.

---

The routine had set in fast.

Early mornings. Sharp tailoring. Neutral tones and cool metal accents. You walked the marble floors like you’d owned them in another life, heels tapping like a metronome against the low murmurs of ambition. Daejin & Grey was a world built on precision and aesthetics—every glass panel, every steel fixture, every whisper of silk or leather had its place. You adapted like water in a crystal decanter.

You learned fast, spoke clearly, and listened sharper. You made yourself invaluable to your department, your reports were always early, always clean, always with that extra insight that made supervisors raise their brows and take notes. You didn’t speak unnecessarily in meetings, but when you did, the room always turned.

But Jisung?

Ghosted in and out. Rarely at your floor. Always with his tie loose, mouth set in a line of amusement or disapproval, never in between.

You caught glimpses. Like shadows in polished windows. And every single time your eyes met; it was electric. Subtle, but raw. Sometimes it was across the coffee machine, him leaning against the wall with a smirk as you stirred your drink without sugar. Sometimes in passing through the 8th floor where the high-stakes clients had rooms like hotel lobbies and meetings that reeked of old money and moral grey zones. And sometimes, just a glance across the conference table, where he sat sideways, his leg crossed, chewing the tip of a pen like he knew you were looking.

And she always was.

The blinds were half-drawn, letting in only slanted light that painted the dark wood floor in broken stripes. Mr. Grey sat behind his massive obsidian desk, signature cup of jet-black coffee steaming near his right hand, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he skimmed a tablet. His navy tie was undone, a telltale sign he’d been in meetings since dawn. Jisung stood by the window, posture casual, arms crossed, dressed in a soft black turtleneck and slacks that looked far too expensive for how uninterested he seemed. His hair was slightly tousled—he’d run his hand through it a few too many times. Typical.

“I told you, Grey. I don’t like babysitting,” he said, eyes fixed on the skyline. “There’s enough on my plate. Lee’s merger alone is—”

“This isn’t babysitting.” Grey didn’t even look up. “It’s exposure. Real-world pressure. She needs to be in the field, and you…” He finally glanced up, eyes sharp. “You need to get out of that damn ivory tower you’ve built around yourself.”

Jisung scoffed. “Nice motivational speech. You should sell it with the company’s scented candle line.”

“I’m serious, Han.” Grey slid a file folder across the desk. “Y/N. She’s sharp. Observant. A little quiet. Good instincts, but not molded yet. Reminds me of someone else I hired years ago.”

“Oh, please don’t say—”

“You,” Grey cut him off dryly.

Jisung rolled his eyes and walked over, taking the file with reluctance. He cracked it open, the name Y/N typed neatly on the top corner. There was a small square photo paperclipped to the first page. His eyes flicked over it briefly. She looked poised. Quietly powerful. The kind of face that looked like it’d seen a lot, but wouldn’t tell you unless you earned it.

He didn’t say anything.

“You’ll meet her at the conference,” Grey added, sipping his coffee. “I told her she’d be perfect for this. Don’t make me a liar.”

Jisung closed the folder with a snap and ran a hand through his hair. “What time?”

“Eleven. Don’t be late.”

“I’m always late.”

“I’ll dock your paycheck.”

“Charming,” he muttered, tucking the folder under his arm. “She better be worth the hassle.”

“She is,” Grey said, finality in his tone. “And maybe… just maybe, she’s the type to make you think again, Jisung.” Han Jisung didn’t answer. He just walked out, file in hand, wondering why the hell this girl was already starting to live in the back of his mind.

It was a Thursday.

You remembered because you wore the wide-legged gray slacks you saved for “power move” days. A quarterly strategy conference was underway, where junior analysts, interns, and mid-level associates were gathered to observe the department leads speak on major upcoming cases. Mr. Grey sat at the head of the room, calm, in control, sleek in that navy suit with no tie.

Then came the part no one expected: live assignments.

“Some of you will be handling case shadows,” Grey said, clasping his hands. “And some of you will be leading minor client packages. Let’s make things interesting.”

Papers were passed.

Your folder landed with a soft thunk. You opened it. A name. A file. A logo. A red tab labeled

Priority Confidential.

Below it:

Supervisor – Han Jisung

Your blood stilled. Just as you looked up, you saw him lean on the doorframe at the back of the room, arms crossed, sleeves rolled, silver watch catching the light. He tilted his head slightly as your eyes met, mouth tugging in that slow, you ready for this? smirk.

“Y/N,” Mr. Grey called from the head of the table. “You’ll be reporting directly to Jisung. He’ll catch you up on the brief by end of day. Congratulations.” You swallowed, spine straight. “Understood, sir.” Jisung gave you a two-finger salute. The room kept moving.

But you? You were already calculating. Preparing. Bracing for impact. Because something told you this assignment was going to be everything you wanted… and everything you weren’t ready for.

You stood outside the glass wall of Jisung’s office, heels clicking softly against the polished concrete floor. Your reflection blinked back at you, sharp, composed, lips pressed into a line so thin it could cut glass. The folder in your hand had bite marks on the corner where you’d chewed it while overthinking. Not that you’d ever admit it.

You exhaled once. Twice. Then knocked.

“Come in.”

The voice was casual, distracted. You entered.

Jisung was leaning back in his chair, black sleeves rolled to his elbows, a pen lazily twirling between his fingers. His office smelled like cedar and fresh ink, the lighting warm but sterile like someone had tried to make it welcoming but gave up halfway through. Like him, maybe.

His eyes flicked up briefly. Then back down to the paper on his desk. “Y/N, right?”

“Yes.” You shut the door softly behind her. “You’re my supervisor on the K-Tech acquisition case.”

“Mmh,” Jisung hummed, still reading. “That’s what Grey says.” You didn’t sit until he gestured vaguely toward the chair in front of him barely looking up. His posture was everything you’d expect from someone with way too much power and too little patience: cocky, distant, infuriatingly relaxed.

You hated it.

“I’ve already gone through the case summary,” you said, placing the folder neatly on his desk. “I’ve highlighted the inconsistencies in the subsidiary’s financials. There’s—”

“—a shell company in Taipei laundering R&D funds,” he finished without missing a beat, still not looking at you. “Yeah. Noted that three weeks ago.”

You paused. Tilted your head. “Then why is it still unresolved?” That made him look up.

Slowly. Like a cat flicking its tail, unbothered but aware. His gaze was sharp, dark, and laced with something unreadable. Maybe amusement. Maybe boredom. Maybe both.

“Grey told me to loop you in,” he said, leaning back, fingers steepled. “Not give you the steering wheel.”

“I’m not here to steer,” you shot back, tone cool. “I’m here to work. But if you’d rather I sit in the corner and watch you twirl pens, I can pencil that in too.” There was a beat of silence.

Then,

“Cute,” Jisung said, a slow smirk curling at his lips. “You’ve got teeth.” You sat back in her chair, arms crossing. “And you’ve got ego. Big one. I’m surprised it fits in here with all the air you take up.” He actually laughed. A quiet, surprised sound, like you’d caught him off-guard and he didn’t hate it.

“Most interns are too scared to say half that.”

“I’m not most interns,” she said simply.

His gaze lingered. Too long.

You didn’t flinch. Didn't blink. You was dangerous, he realized. Not in the way of lawsuits or incompetence—but in the way your eyes cut right through his performance, the way your presence didn’t flinch under pressure. He’d seen plenty of people fold under his disinterest. But not you.

And the thing was, he liked it. God, he liked it way too much.

“Fine,” he said, voice dropping a note lower. “Let’s get this straight. You bring me something smart, I’ll listen. You waste my time; I’ll make you regret it.”

Your lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. “You won’t scare me off, Han.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Good. Wouldn’t be fun if I did.” The room felt smaller. Warmer. Something thick and charged buzzed in the silence between you. Then he grabbed your folder and opened it, eyes scanning fast. You watched him, arms still folded, legs crossed, a flicker of fire in her gaze.

“I need full employee logs for the Taipei branch,” Jisung said, tapping his pen against the folder. “Also, see if you can get internal memos from the last quarter. Anything involving the budget committee.”

“Got it,” You replied, standing smoothly.

You reached for the folder, fingers brushing the edge of his desk like it owed you something. Confident. Effortless. And just as she turned on her heel to leave—

—he looked.

He hadn’t meant to. Not really. It just—happened.

The way your skirt hugged your hips, the subtle sway as you walked like every step was calculated, fluid, commanding the air around her. Jisung blinked, his jaw clenching a little too tightly.

Fuck.

He looked away fast. Sat back. Ran a hand down his face like it’d erase the ten seconds of weakness he just experienced.

“She’s your intern, man,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head, already annoyed with himself. “Get a grip.” But the image lingered. Along with the snarky little grin you gave him earlier the fire in your voice, the nerve.

He didn’t know whether he wanted to argue with you or—

Nope.

He shut the thought down. Immediately. He grabbed a random paper off his desk and stared at it like it was the holy gospel.

It wasn’t. It was a receipt for pens. Still, anything to distract himself. Because damn it, you were going to be a problem. And a hot one at that.

---

You leaned your head against the window, the cool glass pressing gently into your temple as your car hummed along the road, lights of the city beginning to dim behind you. Your phone was plugged into the AUX, and the low, rhythmic voice of RM filled the car like an ocean tide.

His voice always settled her nerves. Heavy thoughts dissolved into gentle weightlessness as you watched neighborhoods blur past concrete melting into trees, the air growing less polluted, the traffic thinning. Your week had already been a blur: Daejin’s pressure cooker energy, the barbed words exchanged with Jisung, the way he looked at you today like you were both a problem and a puzzle—

And still, he stared. Like he couldn’t decide whether to fight you or fold.

You scoffed softly to yourself and turned up the volume. You weren’t going to think about him right now. Not when your heart softened the closer you got to home.

The car crunched against the gravel driveway, your headlights sweeping over the familiar brick front and small white porch your dad had painted a decade ago. The house stood modest, cozy—just big enough to hold love and struggle in equal measure. You stepped out, heels in hand, dress blazer folded over your arm. The night air smelled like coming rain and hibiscus soap, your mom’s favorite. You climbed the steps two at a time and opened the door.

Inside, your father was seated by the small living room window, a blanket over his lap, the TV on low. Your mother was in the kitchen, humming to herself and peeling fruit, and Mr. Tae—her parents’ long-time caregiver—stood nearby folding laundry.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Mr. Tae greeted first, smiling warmly as he turned around.

“Hi,” you whispered, setting your bag down. Your voice dropped into something gentle, reverent. “How’ve they been today?”

“Good. Your mom’s been on her feet most of the day—she’s stubborn as always. Your dad’s been quieter. Tired. But good.” You smiled softly and nodded. You walked over to your dad first, knelt beside him, and gently placed a kiss on his cheek. He didn’t say much—just smiled at you with kind, weary eyes and touched your hair the way he used to when she was little.

Your mom came over next, wrapping you in a warm hug that still somehow smelled like love and cornbread.

“How’s the new job?” her mom asked, brushing a strand of hair from your face. You gave a half-laugh. “Complicated. Intense. Full of egos and deadlines. But I’m hanging in.”

“You always do,” your mom replied, patting your hand. “You’re our miracle, remember?” You sat with them for a while. Ate some fruit. Let yourself be their daughter instead of a rising corporate intern or legal assistant. Let yourself exhale.

Because when you walked back into Daejin the next morning…you’d need that fire again.

---

The door clicked shut behind him.

Jisung leaned against it for a moment, keys still in his hand, the silence of the apartment washing over him like warm static. No city horns here. No coworkers. No Grey. No you. He exhaled slowly, dropping his bag by the door and kicking off his shoes with mechanical grace. The space was minimal, sleek—clean lines and dark accents. Black couch, polished concrete floor, deep green plants that he tried not to forget to water.

It looked like someone with taste lived here. It felt like a hotel room someone never fully unpacked in. He peeled off his blazer, draped it over the bar stool, and walked straight to the kitchen—grabbing a water bottle and a leftover half sandwich from the fridge. Gourmet. Chef Han at it again.

The light of his laptop blinked softly from the corner of the living room.

He ignored it. Instead, he wandered to the window, bottle in hand, and stared down at the city glowing like an artificial galaxy beneath him.

Another day of everything and nothing. He’d barely slept this week. Work had been brutal. Interns had been annoying.

Well…one intern.

His jaw twitched slightly at the memory of you walking out of his office, confident as hell, throwing shade and facts like you was born in a courtroom. That mouth on you—sharp. Quick.

Too damn smart for her own good. Too damn hot for his peace of mind.

He took a long sip of water, then grabbed his phone. Your file was still open in his emails. He didn’t mean to reread it. He did anyway. Background: modest. Grades: impressive. Demeanor: biting. Expression? Always looked like she was two seconds from either kissing you or ending your entire bloodline.

And that skirt?

Jesus.

He dropped the phone face down on the kitchen island.

This wasn’t good. This wasn’t ideal. He hated supervising for a reason—he didn’t like people clinging to him, watching him, depending on him. Especially not people who stirred up whatever this was. But you were different. Not in some romanticized, poetic way. No, more like…threateningly competent with legs for days and an attitude that gave him a headache and a half-chub at the same time. He groaned, running both hands through his hair before sinking onto the couch.

“God, Grey, why her?” he muttered aloud, throwing his head back dramatically.

No answer, of course. Just the sound of Seoul vibrating behind his window.

The weight of your stare still burned behind his eyes.

He knew this was going to get messy. He just didn’t know how soon.

But one thing was for sure, you were going to ruin him if he wasn’t careful. And part of him?

Didn’t want to be.

The food he had ordered just arrived, a warm burst of garlic and spice filling the cool silence of the apartment. Jisung set the cartons down on the island, unwrapping the napkins with the kind of robotic precision you pick up when you’ve eaten alone too many nights in a row. Spicy pork bulgogi, kimchi, rice, a small bottle of soju he didn’t ask for but the restaurant always tossed it in when they recognized his name on the order.

Perks of being Han Jisung.

He had just opened the chopsticks when his phone buzzed.

Dad

Incoming call.

Jisung stared at the screen for a second too long, jaw tightening. His thumb hovered, not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he already knew how this conversation would go. Still, he accepted the call and pressed it to his ear.

“Yeah?”

A deep voice crackled through the line, rough and low like worn leather.

“You sound tired.”

“I am,” Jisung replied simply, stabbing into his rice. “Been a long week.”

“Hm. You’re still working with Grey?”

“Still am.”

A pause. The silence between them said more than words could. His father had always had this way of making small talk feel like an interrogation.

“He’s using you.”

Jisung scoffed, mouth full. “Grey doesn’t use people. He recruits weapons.”

“Exactly.”

He didn’t answer. He chewed slowly, staring at the television that wasn’t even on.

“You still think you’re doing something different than me?” his father asked.

“Yeah,” Jisung said flatly. “Because I don’t destroy people for sport.”

Another pause. This time heavier.

“You sound just like your mother when you say shit like that.”

Jisung’s stomach twisted. He took another bite, mostly to shut himself up.

“You supervising someone?” his dad continued, like nothing had just happened.

Jisung rolled his eyes. “Why do you care?”

“Because I know what that means. You don’t let people close. If Grey’s making you, it’s not for nothing.”

Jisung hesitated, his mind flickering to you, the fire-eyed intern with the mouth that didn’t quit and the brain to match. The way you stood her ground, talked back, made his blood rush like he was seventeen again.

“She’s…interesting,” he finally muttered.

“She hot?”

“Jesus, Dad.”

“What? You said interesting. That’s code.” Jisung pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s smart. Loud. Got a mouth on her.”

“So, you hate her.”

“…Something like that.”

There was a hum of amusement through the phone. For once, not a scoff or scold. Just understanding. A scary kind. “Watch yourself,” his father warned. “Grey doesn’t push you unless he’s trying to teach you something. Or test you. Or both.”

“I’m not new to this.”

“You’re new to her.” Jisung froze for a second, chopsticks suspended in the air.

“I gotta go,” he said, clearing his throat. “Food’s getting cold.”

“Call your mother.”

“I will.”

“Jisung.”

“What.”

“Don’t ruin it before it starts.”

Click.

The line went dead. Jisung sat there for a second, staring at the phone like it might say more. Then he set it down, picked up his food again, and muttered under his breath,

“…She’s still just an intern.”

But for some reason, he didn’t believe it.

Jisung was never the golden boy. Not in the traditional sense.

He wasn’t the loudest, or the most obedient, or the one who stayed out of trouble. But he was the sharpest. Razor-witted, eyes always ten steps ahead, and a tongue that could cut through hypocrisy like glass. From a young age, he was used to watching people argue from the staircase—his father, tall and thunderous, always in some perfectly pressed suit, barking down at his mother like she was one of the many subordinates who feared him.

His father, Han Joon-won, was a underground kingpin. Notorious in South Korea’s legal underworld for getting even the dirtiest white-collar criminals off scot-free. even though he was just a professor, he made his name not by defending the innocent, but by twisting narratives so well, the guilty walked out smiling.

His mother, on the other hand, Min So-ra, had been a viper in her work but the soul of the house.  Jisung had grown up watching them clash. Not over love—they hadn’t had that in years—but over principles. Over Jisung.

“He’s not going to be your legacy, Joon-won.”

“No. He’s going to be my evolution.”

When Jisung was 16, his mother left. Just packed her bags one night, kissed his forehead, and disappeared into a train station fog with nothing but her passport and a spine of steel.

She didn’t fight for custody. She didn’t drag him through courts. She just said, “I trust you to choose who you want to become.” And that ruined him more than any custody battle ever could.

When he was 20 and fresh out of university—with the kind of transcripts people framed—Jisung had offers lined up. Corporate firms, legal think tanks, political gigs. But none of it felt… earned. It felt like a train his father had put him on long ago, and the tracks were already built for him.

Daejin wasn’t a regular firm. It wasn’t even fully public. It was a private legal-intelligence consulting group, used by billionaires and politicians when the government couldn’t be trusted. Rumors said they helped broker backdoor treaties and helped dismantle crime rings from the inside. Jisung had accepted. Not because he trusted Grey, not because his mother signed behind his back, but because it felt like the first decision that was his.

He’d finished the bulgogi, the soju still cold beside his elbow, untouched. A silence lingered too long in the space around him—the kind that scratched at his ears. So, he picked up his phone again and scrolled to “엄마”. mom

He hadn’t called in weeks. She picked up on the second ring.

“Sung-ah.”

His chest clenched. Her voice hadn’t changed. Soft, calm, always like the air after a thunderstorm.

“Hey,” he said, a little hoarse. “You free?”

“For you? Always.”

He smiled softly, letting his head fall back against the couch.

“I got assigned someone today.”

“At work?”

“Yeah. Intern. I’m her supervisor.”

“And how do you feel about that?” He paused. How did he feel?

“She’s… interesting,” he muttered.

“That’s not a feeling, baby.”

He chuckled, rubbing his forehead. “She’s annoying. And smart. And looks at me like she’s trying to read my blood type.”

“So, she’s not scared of you.”

“No. And that’s the problem.”

“Or the point.”

Silence passed between them again, but this time it felt full. Safe. “Don’t let your father live in your mirror,” she said softly. “Not when there’s still light in your eyes.”

He closed his eyes. Let her words sink in.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Call more often. I like hearing you wrestle with your own stubbornness.”

He smiled, biting back the wave of emotion building in his chest.

“I will.”

Click.

The line ended, and Jisung sat there for a long time phone on his chest, soju uncapped. Thinking about you, about the case, about whether this internship of yours was the beginning of your legacy...

…or the unraveling of his.

---

The lights in War Room A were low but moody designed that way to make people feel like the truth mattered more in the dark. Glass boards lined the walls, already filled with cryptic arrows and pin-dotted strings from other ongoing cases. The table was long, cold steel, with matte black folders laid out like they were handling national security instead of corporate lawsuits. Y/N walked in clutching her notepad, lips set in a calm line, her heels tapping softly against the grey tile. Her nerves simmered under the surface, but her expression stayed focused, professional. The room had a tension to it like the oxygen had been filtered for people who played chess with lives.

Jisung was already there, sleeves rolled to the forearms, silver watch glinting under the ceiling light. His jaw looked sharper this morning tighter. He didn’t look up when she entered.

Just said, “You’re late.”

“I’m early,” she replied smoothly, glancing at the wall clock—9:02.

He looked up then. Eyes dragging from her face to the file in her hand, then back. “Right. Two minutes early. Congratulations, you want a cookie?”

“Only if it’s got sarcasm chips in it.”

A ghost of a smirk flicked at the corner of his lips. But it vanished before it could get comfortable. “Sit,” he muttered, motioning to the seat beside him. As she sat, more of the upper-tier team began filing in. Analysts. Consultants. A lead from the surveillance branch. Everyone looked polished and exhausted, like they hadn’t slept more than three hours in days. The weight of high-profile work wore heavy on everyone here and Y/N felt it. Like iron in her bones.

Grey entered last. Of course.

Wearing an all-black turtleneck and long grey coat, he looked more like a grieving poet than the head of a high-level legal-intelligence firm. But the room straightened when he walked in. His presence commanded without barking.

He didn’t speak until he’d set his black coffee down.

“This is the KraneTech litigation,” he began. “Thirty-two million dollars’ worth of hush money misfiled as marketing budget. A whistleblower’s coming forward. We’re handling the internal case, prepping for external liability.”

He glanced around the table, then locked eyes with Y/N.

“This will be Y/N’s first live case. She’s under Han.” Jisung sighed through his nose. Loud enough for her to hear it. Not loud enough to get called out.

“Everyone, give her the floor.”

Y/N blinked. “Wait—”

“You have 90 seconds,” Grey added casually. “What’s your understanding of the case from the file you read yesterday?”

Shit.

She straightened. “KraneTech misappropriated marketing funds to pay off silence regarding potential internal abuse and fraudulent operations. The whistleblower is anonymous for now but has indicated they have documentation and digital logs.”

The room watched her like hawks. She continued. “There’s a timeline gap between February and April 2023 where no financial statements match the campaign budgets. That’s likely when the payouts happened. There’s also a legal scrub done during April that feels… strategic. Like they were anticipating investigation.”

Grey leaned back, considering. “Interesting.”

She held her breath. Then, he nodded once. “You’ll shadow Han. You have two days to prove you can handle the next phase of the audit alone.”

He turned to Jisung. “She’s yours. Try not to murder each other.”

Jisung’s jaw ticked.

Grey left with most of the others. The moment the room was half empty, Jisung stood and walked toward the glass board at the front of the room. Y/N followed, silent, watching him as he clicked a button and the case projection flickered to life.

He didn’t look at her as he said, “You’re not bad.”

“Was that… a compliment?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m writing it down anyway.”

“You do that.”

They stood side by side now, looking at the digital board—emails, blurred invoices, personnel profiles. “What’s your plan?” he asked.

She crossed her arms. “Trace the digital logins. Identify the cleaner who did the scrub in April. Follow the emails that were archived after the fact. There’s always metadata.”

“Metadata and luck.” He paused. “You might actually survive here.”

“I don’t need to survive,” she muttered. “I plan to win.” He turned his head just slightly, watching her profile as her eyes stayed on the board. It annoyed him. How pretty she looked when she was focused. How cocky she sounded when she didn’t even know the half of what Daejin really did behind closed doors.

“You’re stubborn,” he said.

“I adapt.”

“That’s worse.”

She smirked without turning to him. “Maybe you’re just slow.” He blinked. God, she was insufferable. And kinda hot.

He cleared his throat. “Meeting’s over. Get what you need. I’ll send you internal files by noon.” She nodded, then turned to leave the room.

His eyes dropped instinctively—for a second—to the sway of her hips, her skirt hugging just enough.

He looked away instantly, jaw clenched.

“Fucking hell…” he whispered under his breath.

The office they used was colder than necessary. The kind of cold that kept you awake and working, courtesy of Daejin’s air conditioning set to “keep them alert or kill them trying.” The space was sleek, functional, and minimal: two large desks facing opposite walls, a shared table in the center stacked with files, highlighters, redacted papers, and two half-drunk cups of espresso.

Y/N had shed her blazer somewhere around 9AM. Now in a simple white shirt with the sleeves folded to her elbows, her fingers flew over her keyboard, the blue glow of her screen reflecting off her glasses. She was in full problem-solver mode, lip caught between her teeth, brows furrowed in that way Jisung had, unfortunately, noticed more than once.

Jisung sat across from her, slightly reclined, eyes darting between an evidence board and the KraneTech whistleblower’s anonymized file. He was chewing the tip of a pen, annoyed that it was yielding nothing new. His own desk was chaos with purpose: files, sticky notes, USB drives, all organized in his uniquely ‘smart but unhinged’ way.

Silence passed between them—not uncomfortable. Just focused.

“You notice this?” Y/N asked suddenly, flipping her laptop to face him.

Jisung stood and leaned over, arms braced on either side of her chair as he scanned her screen. Her perfume—something light and sweet—hit him too quickly. He pulled back a little.

She pointed. “The logs from the scrub session in April? Someone tried to delete twice. Different time stamps. But only one was executed.” His eyes scanned fast. Sharp. “Good catch. That means they weren’t working alone. One initiated. One canceled. Which means—”

“Which means the second person might’ve backed out,” she finished. Their eyes met. A beat of satisfaction passed between them.

She looked smug. He hated that he liked it. He straightened and returned to his desk without comment. “Cross-check the list of digital IDs with those on the financial audits,” he added, already typing again. “There’s a chance the person who canceled left a trail out of guilt. I’ll trace the IP from the meta headers.”

“On it,” she replied.

Hours passed. Coffee refilled. Notes scribbled. The room thickened with brainpower and caffeine fumes. By 12:17 PM, her stomach growled audibly. She froze. Jisung glanced up, cocked a brow. “You gonna eat or let your stomach file a complaint to HR?”

“I’ll grab something later—”

“You’ve been saying that for four hours,” he cut in, pulling out his phone. A few taps. “Lunch will be here in ten.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I chose to. Which means now you’re going to eat, intern.” His tone was teasing but firm. “Take a break. Let your frontal lobe reset before it fries.” She gave him a look, soft but stubborn. “You didn’t have to—”

“If you say that one more time, I’m ordering dinner too and making you eat it in front of the entire board.”

She blinked. He smirked.

“And that’s not an empty threat.”

Ten minutes later, lunch arrived—grilled chicken wraps, sweet potato fries, and iced black tea. Jisung slid one over to her, then turned back to his desk like it meant nothing. Y/N stared at the food. Then him.

“You’re not eating?”

“Later,” he muttered. “I want to finish this trace.”

“You sure? I can share.” He shot her a sideways look. “Don’t tempt me.” Her cheeks flushed, but she masked it with a sarcastic chuckle, “Relax, Park. It’s not a marriage proposal. It’s just fries.” He smirked, but didn’t respond, back to his files, eyes scanning deep.

Y/N finally took a bite.

And—damn it—it was really good.

For the next half hour, they worked in silence again. Separate desks. Separate minds. But the same rhythm. The same obsession. The same unspoken energy. Enemies? No. Allies with fire in the air? Absolutely.

And neither of them realized it yet…

…but this was how chemistry always began at Daejin.

The city outside had long gone quiet. Seoul’s skyline twinkled through the window, streetlights casting streaks of orange and silver across the tiled floor. The office was quieter now—no whirring printers or urgent footsteps. Just two exhausted minds submerged in data, theories, and the kind of mental endurance that only legal warfare demanded.

Y/N sat cross-legged in her chair, one earbud in, hair messily pinned up with a pen poking through it. Her screen was a swirl of digital records, duplicated entries, firewall logs, she was squinting now, moving files around like puzzle pieces in her mind. A cold cup of coffee sat beside her, untouched for the last hour. Her knee bounced unconsciously, the adrenaline refusing to die down even though her body begged for sleep.

Then—she paused.

Froze.

Brows lifted slowly, lips parting. Her fingers darted over the keys, pulling up the original access logs from April’s double-deletion. She’d been chasing a ghost for hours, but there it was, plain as day: a duplicated ID signature tied to two different employee databases. The same person had registered under two different teams. Fake alias.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, breathless.

She snatched the file from the table where Jisung had left it earlier—his own scribbled notes, dots connected, theories half-built. The answer had been under both their noses the whole time.

“Jisung!” she called out instinctively, spinning her chair around, face bright with excitement and a little disbelief.

But when she turned—

He wasn’t responding.

Slouched in his chair, arms draped lazily across the desk, Jisung’s head had dropped sideways. His laptop screen still flickered, casting soft light over his peaceful expression. One hand was still holding onto the same file she now clutched, his notes stopped mid-sentence.

She blinked, then smiled. The moment softened her. There was something intimate about seeing someone brilliant in their most unguarded state. She stepped closer, voice low. “Guess we cracked it… both of us. Not bad for an overachiever and a half-asleep grump.”

No reply. Just a soft rise and fall of his chest. A slight twitch of his lips, like he was dreaming—maybe about work, maybe something far less exhausting. She shook her head fondly, knelt beside him, and tapped his arm gently.

“Hey, genius. Sleeping on the job now?”

Jisung stirred. Eyes slowly opened, bleary and unfocused at first. His lashes fluttered and his brows knitted as he squinted.

“Shit—did I pass out?” he muttered, sitting up too fast.

“Yeah,” she chuckled. “Right in the middle of your future law firm commercial. ‘Park Jisung: brilliant, relentless, occasionally unconscious.’”

He ran a hand down his face, groaning. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly, voice firmer now. “Don’t apologize.” He looked at her, confused, still blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “You need to go home,” she said softly, but there was command in it. “You look like you’ve been tired for years, not just tonight.”

“Y/N—”

“Don’t argue.” She reached for his laptop and closed it. “I’ll clean up here, write up a preliminary. I’ll shoot you a copy before morning.”

He hesitated, still groggy, but caught in her unwavering gaze. Her voice was gentle, but it left no room for negotiation.

“…You always like bossing people around?” he mumbled, standing slowly.

“Only when they’re being stupidly self-destructive. Karma, really.”

That earned a small smirk. He slung his bag over his shoulder, but before he left, he paused at the doorway. She was already turning back to her laptop, immersed again.

“Thanks,” he said, voice quieter. She didn’t look up.

“Go home, Han.” He lingered for one more second, eyes tracing her silhouette under the cool light of the monitor.

And then he was gone.

---

Han Jisung’s apartment was all clean lines and controlled chaos. A half-folded hoodie hung off a kitchen chair, vinyl records were stacked by the turntable in no real order, and the scent of his cologne lingered in the hallway like a memory too stubborn to leave. He was buttoning up his dress shirt, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, his hair damp and messy from a rushed shower.

He grabbed his phone from the counter just as it buzzed.

New Email: Preliminary Draft — Case #1782

Sender: Y/N [[email protected]]

He blinked, brows furrowing.

Already?

He opened it, skimming fast at first—but then slowing.

Thorough. Organized. Insightful. She hadn’t just pieced together the data. She’d cross-referenced employee signatures, restructured their timeline, and even color-coded the suspects in the margin.

“…Damn,” he muttered, under his breath.

Then another ping.

Text from Y/N:

Morning. I might come in a little late today—just wanted to give a heads-up. Will join as soon as I’m done. Thanks again for last night. Hope you got decent sleep.

He stared at the message a moment longer than necessary, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but definitely wasn’t neutral. His fingers hovered above the keyboard—he started to type, paused, erased, then just tossed the phone on the bed.

“Tch,” he muttered, grabbing his blazer. “Why is she so annoyingly good at this…”

And still, as he grabbed his bag and locked the door behind him, the corner of his mouth wouldn’t stop lifting.

He walked into the morning rush of Seoul, suit crisp, heart slightly off-beat, and thoughts already spiraling back to the girl who’d made him a little more tired… and a lot more intrigued.

—

The room hummed with pre-trial tension. A long, oval table dominated the center—sleek, black wood polished to a mirror shine. Screens displayed the case name, stacks of legal documents fanned out in front of each assigned seat, water bottles untouched beside stiff black folders. Jisung sat near the end, one ankle lazily crossed over the other, arms folded, eyes flicking between the time on his watch and the door.

9:05. You was five minutes late. Not a big deal.

But it made his left eye twitch.

He was about to tap his pen against the desk when the door finally swung open.

You stepped in—hair pulled back in a high, slick ponytail, glasses perched delicately on your nose. That outfit? Deadly. A gray pinstriped shirt peeking from beneath a black cropped cardigan, slacks hugging your hips in a way that made Jisung’s train of thought flatline for two full seconds. He sat up straighter unconsciously.

You looked... put-together. Smart. Sharp. And not trying too hard. Your eyes met his and—there it was again—that same flicker of tension. Familiar, unspoken. But you walked over calmly, confidence in your steps, setting down your laptop and notes beside his before leaning in slightly and whispering, “Did you read the preliminary?”

He gave you a slow blink.

“Yeah.”

“Did I mess anything up? I—I rushed the tail end and didn’t double check that section with the warehouse codes.”

Jisung’s brows rose. You were nervous.

He leaned in slightly, voice low and smooth. “No, you didn’t mess up. It’s tight. You caught things even I didn’t at first glance.” You narrowed your eyes at him skeptically, biting back a smile. “You’re being sarcastic.”

Jisung tilted his head. “I’m actually not. Don’t get used to it though.”

You chuckled softly and straightened your back, trying to hide the little breath of pride you exhaled. The compliment, sarcastic or not, buzzed in your chest. Just then, the door opened again and Grey strolled in, black suit, no tie, coffee in hand, and that ever-serious gleam in his eyes.

“Alright,” he called out. “Let’s get this started. We’ve got five days before trial and no time to fumble.”

The room fell silent instantly, shuffling to attention. Jisung caught your glance from the corner of his eye as you both turned to face the screen. You were in this. Present. Awake. Ready. And damn if he wasn’t a little impressed. And a little more in trouble than he thought. Grey stood at the head of the table, setting down his coffee and clapping his hands once to get everyone locked in.

“Let’s keep it clean, focused, and brutal,” he said, eyes sweeping over the team. “We’ve got motive, but the jury’s going to need a narrative they can eat with a spoon. What’s the angle?”

There was a beat of silence before you cleared her throat gently.

“We start with the financial discrepancies in the subsidiary accounts,” you said, clicking your laptop and flipping the screen to show a clean graph. “Every quarter leading up to the embezzlement charge, there’s a small spike in activity—same offshore account, different shell companies.”

Grey raised a brow, mildly impressed. “And the evidence chain?”

“Verified. We have authenticated statements, plus a testimony lined up from the former assistant—she’s agreed to testify under condition of anonymity.”

Jisung leaned back in his chair, clicking his pen against his thigh. “It’s a good start. But it’s not enough to prove intent. The defense will call it mismanagement or incompetence. We need to tie the money trail to motive.” Grey nodded slowly and gestured. “Han?”

Jisung leaned forward, fingers steepled. “So, we hit them where it hurts—optics. The accused transferred funds under the guise of ‘consultancy fees’ to a company owned by his college roommate. We subpoenaed his travel history—it matches up with four ‘retreats’ that happen to line up with the largest deposits. Add in emails recovered from the IT sweep…”

He tapped his file. “There’s one that says—and I quote—‘just make sure they don’t notice until Q3.’ That’s intent, with a side of cocky.” Your eyes flicked over to him. “And we link that to the board vote he forced through last September? That’s when he got majority control.”

Jisung glanced sideways at you and gave a little nod. “Exactly.” Grey folded his arms. “So, what’s the sequence of presentation?”

You raised a hand slightly, already halfway flipping pages. “We open with the paper trail—the clean, technical breakdown. It builds credibility. Then Jisung drives the intent point home with the emails and personal ties. By the time we present the witness, the jury already suspects him. Her testimony just confirms it.”

Jisung looked at you. Really looked. “We build the wall first, then drop the hammer.”

You didn’t smile, but your lips twitched in mutual understanding. “Exactly.” Grey looked between them for a moment before nodding, pleased. “Good. Tag team it. Han, you handle cross. YN, you prep the witness and the opening presentation. You’ve got three days. I want a mock run-through by Thursday.”

Everyone else began gathering their things and filtering out, but YN and Jisung lingered, documents still splayed across the table like a living crime scene. You gathered your notes silently, then paused.

“You’re not bad at this,” you said lightly, not looking at him.

Jisung let out a soft scoff. “You’re pretty decent yourself. For someone who doesn’t shut up.”

“Maybe if you weren’t always so smug, I’d have less to say.” He shot you a lazy smirk, grabbing his folder. “Nah. You’d still talk. It’s the only way you function.” You raised a brow, grabbing her coffee as she stood. “Just be ready Thursday, counselor.”

“Oh, I will be,” he murmured, half to himself as you walked off ahead of him. His eyes dropped to the sway of-

Focus, Han. Not now.

The case was a web. But with you, he realized it wasn’t just untangling it. It was figuring out who was pulling the strings alongside him. And for once, it didn’t feel like he was doing it alone.

Prep for the Mock Trial

The fluorescent lights in your shared office buzzed quietly as papers rustled and two cups of coffee sat cooling, forgotten. The clock ticked past 9:00 PM, but neither of you had noticed the time. You were seated cross-legged in one of the chairs, balancing your laptop on your knees, voice low but focused as you ran through your opening statement draft. Jisung was pacing slowly with a pen in his mouth and a highlighter tucked behind one ear, eyes darting from paper to whiteboard. Every now and then, he’d mumble something or make a noise of disapproval under his breath.

“You skipped over the offshore transfer in August,” he said suddenly, cutting into her flow like a scalpel. “What?” you blinked, scrolling up. “No, I didn’t—”

“You did. You jumped from July to September like August didn’t exist. That transfer ties into the witness’ credibility. If you miss that in court, we lose the entire momentum.”

“I said August,” you insisted, your tone sharp now. “You must’ve zoned out again.” Jisung rolled his eyes, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t zone out; I just actually pay attention.” That landed a little harder than he expected.

Your fingers froze on the trackpad. “Are you seriously implying I don’t pay attention to my own case?”

“I’m implying,” he said coolly, “that maybe if you stopped treating this like a performance and started treating it like law, you wouldn’t miss simple stuff.” Your mouth parted, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“You’re great at talking, Y/N, no doubt. But law isn’t about sounding smart. It’s about being right. And sometimes, you skip details because you’re so busy trying to be the smartest person in the room.”

The air went ice cold.

“Wow,” you said, standing up slowly, voice lower than before. “You know, I get it. You’re used to being the genius. The golden boy. So, God forbid someone comes in and actually keeps up.” Jisung’s mouth opened, then shut. His jaw flexed.

“I didn’t say that—”

“But you think it. And maybe you’re right. Maybe I do care about how I come across—because I have to. Because unlike you, I don’t have a safety net. I don’t have parents who could afford law school. I don’t have a family name. I earned my place here.”

“You think I didn’t?”

“No,” you snapped, “I think you didn’t have to fight tooth and nail just to be seen. I think you have no idea what it’s like to have people doubt your intelligence the second you walk in because you don’t come from the right background.”

He looked like he wanted to fight that but then he muttered it, barely audible:

“Maybe if you weren’t so defensive all the damn time, people wouldn’t doubt you.” Your eyes widened slowly. That one hit like a punch to the ribs.

“You know what?” you said quietly. “Screw this.”

You grabbed your laptop and shoved it into your bag with trembling hands. He stepped forward instinctively, guilt rushing in like a wave, but you cut him off with just one glance, eyes glassy and betrayed.

“Don’t,” she warned.

“Y/N, I—”

“You don’t get to apologize.” The door clicked behind you as you walked out, leaving only silence and the buzzing light.

Jisung stood there for a long time, the weight of his words pressing down hard. He knew he messed up. And he knew sorry wasn’t going to cut it.

---

The atmosphere in the trial room was different.

Tense. Unspoken.

The team sat behind the long table facing the mock jury box. Grey was seated like a hawk, sharp-eyed and still. Jisung was at the end of the table, posture impeccable, face unreadable. His tie was perfect, hair neat, but his fingers tapped nervously under the desk. You walked in five minutes before the session started.

You were pristine with pressed slacks, a sleek ponytail, silver-rimmed glasses. The same woman from the steps that morning. Cool, composed, unreadable.

You didn’t look at him.

You didn’t even hesitate. Grey gave a curt nod as the session began. “Let’s run it like it’s real. Y/N, opening.” You stood, the room holding its breath.

And as you spoke—calm, clear, devastatingly precise—Jisung could feel the growing tension in his chest. You were flawless. Unshakable.

And she wasn’t looking at him.

The mock courtroom buzzed with a synthetic energy, the kind that stemmed from performance but mimicked the high-stakes atmosphere of a real trial. Every step, every statement was under scrutiny. Professors and legal consultants sat with clipboards, eyes flickering between the two leads of the case.

You hadn't glanced at Jisung once. Not during his opening statement, which was admittedly impressive but a touch rushed. Not when they passed each other the exhibit binder. Not even when he tapped your arm to hand over his notes on the cross. You took them without a word.

Your expression remained neutral, every movement calculated.

Jisung was unraveling. Internally. On the outside, he maintained the illusion of calm, jotting things down, nodding here and there, but underneath, it was pure chaos. He’d stolen a few glances. Your eyes were deadset on the witness, your jaw sharp, mouth pursed in thought. And each time you succeeded, each time the jury murmured in appreciation, he should’ve felt pride.

Instead, he felt the hollow throb of regret.

You stood for cross-examination, heels clacking against the floor with commanding rhythm.

“Mr. Wexler, you mentioned that the email correspondence between you and the defendant occurred ‘frequently’ throughout Q3, correct?”

“Yes.”

You tilted her head, sharp. “Can you define ‘frequently’?”

“Uh… maybe twice a week?”

“Twice a week,” you echoed, eyes flicking to the projector. “Then can you explain why there are only four emails logged between July and September?”

The room shifted. The witness stammered. Jisung smiled. Instinctively, he turned to share that moment with you.

You didn’t even twitch. Didn’t acknowledge the success. Didn’t give him the usual side-smirk you shared when a point landed. Nothing.

You sat, fingers interlaced calmly. Cold. Professional. Grey leaned in slightly toward Jisung, whispering just loud enough: “She’s sharper today.”

Jisung forced a grin. “Yeah. She is.”

What Grey didn’t know was why she was sharper. Pain had a funny way of refining focus. And you were in no mood to forgive and forget. Especially not mid-trial.

As everyone gathered near the board, unpacking the session, you contributed where necessary, objective and direct. When Jisung asked you if you needed his notes for the rebuttal? You turned to Grey and said, “Could you pass me the updated printout?”

When he brought up a shared strategy they’d discussed last night?

“Actually, I revised that this morning. I’ll use mine.”

Every time he tried to breach the space between you — professional or personal — you slid past him like smoke. Unbothered. It was killing him.

---

Jisung finally caught you at the vending machine, alone. No audience. No Grey.

“Y/N—”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

Your tone was low but heavy. He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“Okay,” he finally said.

You didn’t even turn. Just grabbed your drink and walked away, leaving him standing there with his apology still stuck in his throat.

The Actual Courtroom Trial – Day One

Location: Seoul District Court, 9:15 AM.

The courtroom was charged. Polished wood gleamed under harsh lighting, papers rustled like whispers, and every cough, click, and sigh echoed like it mattered. The gallery was half-filled with press, executives, and sharp-eyed legal interns hungry for drama. Y/N sat at the plaintiff’s table, expression blank, body composed like a trained performer. Her braids were pinned in a clean updo, her suit crisply tailored, gray with a deep navy undershirt that matched the cold glint in her eyes. Jisung, sitting beside her, looked the part too, fitted black suit, no tie, top button undone. Hands loosely folded over his notes; brows furrowed. He’d barely said a word to her since the mock trial.

She hadn’t said a word back. And now wasn’t the time to fix anything. Because the judge walked in.

“All rise.”

Everyone stood.

“Court is now in session in the matter of Daejin Tech vs. KraneTech and Min Hyunsoo.”

The judge, an older man with sharp eyes behind square glasses, glanced down at his docket. “Opening statements?”

Grey stood first. “Your Honor, we intend to prove that not only did the defendant willfully breach contract, but in doing so, they manipulated internal reporting systems to inflate data and secure funding under false pretenses.” He glanced down at Jisung, who gave the most subtle nod. Grey continued: “We will show you emails, witness statements, and system logs that confirm deliberate falsification, with direct involvement from Mr. Min.”

It was clean. Sharp. Confident.

The defense countered with a calm but vague approach — denying nothing directly, playing the ‘miscommunication between departments’ angle.

Classic. But weak.

Witness Examination — Day Two

By now, the courtroom had warmed up. The crowd had grown. Legal press had started posting snippets, curious about the two Daejin lawyers making waves. Jisung took the floor this time. His steps were slow, measured. The court reporter’s keys tapped steadily as he approached the witness: a former financial analyst who’d been fired six months prior.

“You mentioned seeing irregularities in the data, correct?”

“Yes.”

Jisung leaned against the podium, casual but precise. “And you reported it?”

“I tried. But the internal review team—”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

“Withdrawn,” Jisung said easily, before shifting pace. “So you saw something. And you did…nothing?” The witness shifted. “I was told it wasn’t my place.”

“By whom?”

The man hesitated. “Let the record show the witness is taking a long pause,” Jisung added calmly, then looked to the jury. “Sometimes silence tells us more than words.”

The gallery buzzed. Y/N didn’t look at him. But her pen stopped moving for half a second. Just a twitch. Their next witness was the IT manager. Now it was Y/N’s turn. She stood tall, calm, with a file in hand as she stepped to the center. Her voice? Smooth and precise.

“You were in charge of all server logs for KraneTech?”

“Yes.”

“You have access to login timestamps, message histories, cloud storage?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She clicked a remote. The screen lit up behind her. “Can you explain this file name?” she asked, pointing to a suspicious folder — ’dev_recalibrationsQ3_v2’.

“It’s not one I authorized.”

“Yet it came from your department.”

“It did.”

“Then who accessed it?”

The man hesitated. Y/N didn’t blink. “I’ll save you the trouble,” she said, clicking again. “The IP address matches the defendant’s personal office system. And the login code was hardwired to his biometric key.”

Gasps.

“Would you still say you weren’t aware of any tampering?” she asked quietly. He swallowed. “No, ma’am.” Her face was emotionless as she turned back to the judge. “No further questions.”

Recess

Grey gave both Y/N and Jisung subtle nods of approval, but neither of them smiled. They weren’t talking. Not outside the courtroom. Not even in the prep room. They passed each other case files like strangers forced to cooperate. They presented united fronts like seasoned partners. But underneath?

It was a cold war.

Final Courtroom Verdict — Seoul District Court

Day Six, 3:45 PM

The courtroom was still. Not the kind of silence that came from boredom or fatigue, no, this one crackled. Anticipation hung heavy like fog, wrapping around every person in the room. Phones had been tucked away. The press wasn’t even live-tweeting anymore. Everyone was waiting. Jisung sat tall, his hands resting loosely on his lap. He didn’t look at Y/N. Not once. She looked straight ahead, lips barely parted, a pen clutched tightly in her right hand not writing, not fidgeting. Just holding. Her back was straight. Her jaw was steel.

The judge cleared his throat. “I have reviewed the evidence, testimonies, and expert analysis provided throughout this trial.”

A pause. “And while the defense attempted to establish a chain of miscommunication, this court finds that the fraud was deliberate, premeditated, and tied directly to Mr. Min Hyunsoo.”

A murmur swept through the gallery.

“I hereby rule in favor of the plaintiff, Daejin Tech.”

Boom. Just like that. Case closed. Grey let out the smallest exhale. A pleased smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “Well done,” he said under his breath. But his gaze wasn’t on Jisung. It was on Y/N.

They stood. They bowed. The courtroom emptied slowly, reluctantly — like no one really wanted to miss what came next.

But Y/N didn’t stay. She packed up her documents methodically, not bothering to make eye contact with anyone. The moment the courtroom cleared, she slipped into the hallway, heels echoing sharply against the marble floor. Her suit jacket clung perfectly, hair neat, gaze fixed forward.

Until,

“Y/N,” Jisung called from behind her.

She didn’t stop. Not until he caught up and stepped in front of her, blocking her path just outside the conference room doors. The hall was mostly empty, voices muffled behind glass and oak.

“I just—” He paused, jaw clenching. “I need to apologize. What I said that night, I wasn’t thinking—”

“Don’t.” Her voice was quiet but cutting. She looked up at him, not angry just… disappointed. Like she'd seen a side of him she wished she hadn’t.

“I shouldn’t have let myself get comfortable with you,” she said, slowly. “That was my mistake.”

Jisung’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.

“And I’m sorry for assuming I could be safe around you and still… be myself.” Her eyes dropped for just a second, then came back up, colder. “Won’t happen again.”

“YN/…” His brows furrowed, the guilt in his expression unmistakable. “Don’t do that.”

But she was already pulling herself back together. Tightening the line in her shoulders. Drawing the wall back up, brick by goddamn brick. “I’ll see you at work, sir,” she said, stepping past him.

That one word — sir — sliced clean and cruel. Not professional. Not respectful. Just distant.

And then she was gone. Leaving Jisung standing in the hall, stunned silent, holding onto an apology that had come too late.

---

The house smelled like warm rice and thyme-simmered chicken, that comforting kind of scent that wrapped around your bones and said you’re safe here. You sat at the edge of the couch, curled up under your mom’s old woven blanket. Your mother had already bombarded you with a second helping of food you didn’t ask for, and your dad had just settled beside her with a cold glass of malt.

“So,” her mom said gently, “how’d the case go?”

You exhaled slowly, letting your body sink into the soft curve of the couch. “We won,” you murmured, voice small but proud. Your mom grinned and reached out to squeeze her hand. “I’m so proud of you, baby. All those sleepless nights, hm?”

“Barely slept at all,” You chuckled softly. Your dad leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “And this Jisung guy? Your supervisor?” Your lips tightened slightly. “He was… fine.”

“You say that like he set your desk on fire,” your mom said with a teasing smirk. You smiled faintly but didn’t elaborate. Just twisted the edge of the blanket between your fingers. Your dad raised a brow, the way he always did when he was scanning for more beneath the surface. “Something happen?”

There was a long pause before you gave a small nod. “He said something… personal. During a fight. It just… I don’t know. Hit too close.” Your mom’s eyes darkened slightly. “What did he say?”

“Nothing worth repeating,” you muttered.

Your dad studied you for a moment longer, then sat back with a deep sigh, that thoughtful dad sigh that only ever came before life advice that could level you. “You know,” he said slowly, “sometimes we say stupid things when we care too much and don’t know how to say it.”

You blinked. “He doesn’t care—”

“He does. That’s why he pissed you off so easily. And why you’re still hurt.” You looked at him then, eyes tired. He met your gaze with a small, knowing smile.

“I’ve said some cruel things to your mother before. Words that hurt deep, even if I didn’t mean them. Sometimes men get scared, or flustered, and instead of admitting it… we shoot. And the first thing in the line of fire is usually the person closest.”

Your mom nodded softly from beside you. “Forgiveness doesn’t make you weak, darling. It means you’re strong enough to love past someone’s worst day.” You exhaled through your nose, leaning your head on your dad’s shoulder. You didn’t say anything but the weight in your chest loosened just a little.

—

The office lights were dimmed to a low glow, but Jisung hadn’t moved. His suit jacket lay draped over the couch, his shirt sleeves rolled up, tie undone. He stared at the report on his desk, not really reading it. His fingers tapped mindlessly against the table.

There was no music. No celebration. Just silence and a gnawing ache behind his eyes.

He couldn’t stop replaying the way she said sir.

He’d earned that. He deserved that. But it still stung like hell. The door creaked open, and Grey strolled in with two takeaway cups in hand. “You’re still here?” he asked, incredulous. “Jesus, Sungie — we just won our most high-profile case this quarter.”

Jisung didn’t look up. Grey set one cup on his desk. “Why aren’t you home getting drunk and screaming into a karaoke mic with Changbin?”

Silence.

Grey’s gaze narrowed as he pulled up a chair. “This is about her, isn’t it?”

Still no answer. “I shouldn’t’ve made you supervise her,” Grey said eventually. “You hate team-ups. I knew that.” Jisung finally shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s not it.” Grey’s brow lifted. “Then what is?”

Silence again but heavier this time. More telling.

Grey leaned back, mouth twitching. “You fought, didn’t you?”

Jisung didn’t confirm it, but he didn’t have to. Grey sighed, shaking his head. “She’s smart. And she keeps you on your toes. And she makes you care when you’re trying not to.”

“Grey…” Jisung muttered, tone low and warning.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna lecture you. I’m just saying, maybe don’t be a dumbass.” He stood, finishing his coffee. “Go home, Jisung. This office doesn’t need your brooding. And she sure as hell doesn’t need more silence from you.”

He clapped him on the shoulder once not hard, not playful. Just grounding. Then he walked out.

And Jisung sat alone again.

But this time… he picked up his phone. And he stared at her name. For a very, very long time.

…One Week Later…

The clack of heels against marble, the hum of printers, the sharp scent of espresso drifting from the break room work carried on like the world hadn’t cracked open just days ago.

Y/N walked in every morning exactly at 8:50. Not too early. Not too late. Her hair pinned neatly, makeup clean and sharp. Professional. Untouchable.

Jisung noticed. He always did. But he kept his eyes on his screen when she passed his office. He pretended not to glance up when her laugh rang out from across the hall quieter now, but still there.

They only spoke when absolutely necessary.

And those conversations?

Clinical. Precise.

Like cutting stitches with cold hands.

Jisung stepped in to the meeting room with a file in hand, the tie he forgot to tighten swinging slightly as he moved. Y/N was already seated at the end of the table, flipping through a document.

“Update on the Barlow merger,” she said without looking up.

He slid into the seat across from her. “I… yeah. I got your notes.” A pause. “They were good. Really… good.” She nodded, still not looking at him.

The silence stretched like plastic wrap thin and suffocating. Jisung tapped the corner of his folder. “YN, I—”

She turned a page.

He swallowed. “About last week—”

“Jisung,” she said gently but firmly, still not lifting her eyes. “Let’s keep it about work.”

He nodded. Slowly. The tightness in his chest returned like a tide. “Right. Just work.” He left first.

---

The doors slid open. She was already inside.

He hesitated just for a second. But it was enough. She saw it.

“Getting in?” she asked quietly.

He stepped in. They stood in opposite corners, the silence buzzing with everything unsaid. As the doors closed, he risked a glance. Her arms were crossed. Eyes forward.

“I didn’t mean it,” he muttered.

She blinked. “What?”

“That night,” he said, a little louder now. “What I said. I didn’t mean it. Any of it.”

Her eyes flicked to him, unreadable. “I know.” That should’ve been comforting.

But it wasn’t. “Then why won’t you look at me?” She exhaled. “Because I’m trying to keep my distance.”

The elevator dinged. She stepped out without turning back.

---

Grey glanced up from his desk when Jisung walked in looking like a man who’d just been hit with a lawsuit and a love confession at the same time.

“She talked to me,” Jisung said, tossing himself into a chair.

“Progress?”

“I think it was worse than silence.”

Grey hummed, closing his laptop. “You wanna know the worst kind of heartbreak?” Jisung rubbed his temple. “I already feel it, so go ahead.”

“When you realize they don’t hate you,” Grey said, “they just don’t trust you anymore.”

Jisung didn’t respond. Grey leaned back. “So, you’ve got two options. One — give up. Let her slip away because it’s easier than fighting. Or two — work your ass off to prove her heart’s safe with you again.”

Jisung looked up slowly. “And if she never gives me that chance?”

Grey cracked a small smile. “Then you better make damn sure she knows you would’ve taken it.”

---

The knock was soft, but firm.

Grey didn’t even look up from his screen. “Come in, Y/N.”

She pushed the door open, the crisp scent of bergamot tea and wood polish instantly familiar. The blinds were cracked just enough for the golden evening light to spill in, catching the silver in Grey’s cufflinks. “You wanted to see me?” she asked, stepping in and shutting the door behind her.

He finally looked up tired eyes, lips pursed, tie slightly loosened like he’d been too busy to care today. Or maybe, too weighed down.

“I hate doing this,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Truly, passionately, hate it. But apparently, I’ve become the damn emotional chaperone in this firm.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry… for what, exactly?”

Grey rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You and Han Jisung. You haven’t spoken more than four sentences unless it’s about legal briefs or witness statements in two weeks. And that boy—” he paused, exhaling deeply, “—he’s not okay.” Her throat tightened just slightly, but she kept her face still. “We’re being professional.”

“You’re being frosty,” Grey deadpanned. “And he’s being distant because he thinks he deserves it. But the truth is, Y/N…” He paused. “He’s breaking. Quietly. Slowly. And I’ve only seen him like this once — first year. He tried so hard to prove himself and failed a case that cost an innocent man jail time. I walked into the office and he was just… sitting there in the dark.”

YN swallowed. She hated the visual of that, Jisung, the firecracker of their courtroom, looking that dim. That alone hurt.

“He hasn’t said anything,” she said carefully.

“Because he doesn’t know how to,” Grey said. “Because people like Jisung? They weren’t taught love like you were.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

Grey leaned forward. “His parents didn’t raise him with softness. His father only calls to scold or guilt-trip, and his mother left him to fight those battles alone. Every emotion he’s got, every ounce of passion or fear or pride, he channels into work because it’s the one place he can control. He doesn’t fall for people easily, YN. But when he does, it’s… heavy. Terrifying.”

“I didn’t know,” she whispered, heart twisting.

“Of course you didn’t,” Grey said gently. “He doesn’t let people know. But I do. I’ve seen it. I see it now. He’s in love with you, Y/N. Has been for a while.”

Her breath caught. She blinked. “No… he’s not. He’s just… regretful.”

“Regret doesn’t make someone stare at your desk like it’s a missing limb,” Grey said sharply. “Regret doesn’t make him pause at your office door and walk away ten times in a day. That’s love. Unsaid. Unshaped. But it’s there.”

She sat back in the chair, the leather cool against her skin as her mind tried to wrap around the weight of Grey’s words. The idea that Jisung — chaotic, brilliant, frustrating Jisung — loved her was something she hadn’t let herself entertain. Not really.

“You’re scared too,” Grey said quietly, watching her expression change. “But I’m telling you now… either talk to him, or you both keep walking around like ghosts. And you’ll regret it far more than that night.”

Y/N didn’t speak for a long time.

But when she left his office, her fingers hovered near her phone.

---

The quiet of your apartment felt louder than usual. No music. No background show running just for noise. Just the low hum of the fridge, and her pacing footsteps against the hardwood floor.

You stood by the window, your phone in hand, thumb hovering over Jisung’s contact like it weighed ten pounds. Grey’s words were still spinning in your head, colliding with the memory of Jisung’s tired eyes, his hands pausing at her office door, the things he never said.

You pressed Call before she could overthink it again. The phone didn’t even get to the second ring.

“Hello?” His voice came fast, sharp, almost breathless. “Y/N? Hey. Hi—are you okay? Did something happen? I—I was just—Are you okay?”

You blinked at the window, lips twitching despite herself. “Hey, Jisung.”

“Hey,” he breathed, like your voice hit him like air after drowning. There was a pause. Then he continued, voice softer, still a little shaky:

“Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d… I mean, I hoped you would. I just—God, it’s good to hear you.”

Your chest squeezed at that. “I just wanted to check on you,” you said gently. “How are you?”

Another pause. A breath.

“I’m okay. I mean—work’s fine. Everything’s… fine. I’m just—” He stopped himself, then laughed under his breath, awkward and raw. “I’ve been better.”

“Yeah,” you whispered, heart aching. “Me too.”

You could hear his breath slow just slightly, like the ice between them cracked not broken yet, but thinned. “I wanted to ask,” she continued, voice steady now, “if I could see you. Tomorrow. In your office. Just us. If that’s okay.”

Jisung didn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” he said immediately. Then softer. “Yeah. Please. Anytime. I’ll be there.”

“Okay,” she said, a tiny smile ghosting her lips. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”

There was another silence, but this one was warm. Almost comforting. And when they hung up, both of them stared at their ceilings for a long, long time. Waiting. Ready to try again.

---

The sun had barely settled into the sky when you stood at the threshold of Jisung’s office, your heart thudding harder with every breath. You weren’t nervous at least, you told yourself you weren’t. You were just… bracing yourself. For a conversation overdue. For feelings neither of you had signed up for. Your hand hovered over the handle, fingers curling in, then releasing. The hallway was quiet at this hour. No distractions. No excuses. Just you, a closed door, and the man you hadn’t stopped thinking about.

You finally knocked, three soft taps. Polite. Almost unsure.

“Come in,” his voice called through almost instantly, like he’d been sitting there waiting.

When you opened the door, the first thing you noticed was how he looked up fast, like he’d been facing the door the whole time. His hair was a little messy, eyes tired but alert, like he hadn’t really slept even though it was a new day. His tie was loose. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up just enough to show his forearms.

Your heart did a little tumble you didn’t appreciate.

“Hey,” you said quietly, stepping in. He stood up halfway. “Hey.”

And for a second, neither of you knew what to say. It was like the air between you was stitched together with tension and apologies that couldn’t be said in passing. Jisung cleared his throat. “Do you want to sit?” he asked, nodding to the two chairs by the coffee table near his desk. The sunlight was spilling in through the blinds, casting soft stripes of light over everything. You nodded and took a seat, smoothing down your skirt. He sat across from her, elbows on his knees, like he was ready to leap forward—or run.

“I wanted to talk,” you started, eyes locked on him.

“I know,” he said quickly. “I mean—I’m glad you did. I’ve been trying to figure out how to…” He trailed off, sighed, then ran a hand through his hair. “God, I’ve messed things up, haven’t I?”

“Not entirely,” you said softly. He looked up at you like that single sentence kept him from drowning. You licked your lips. “I talked to Grey.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Oh.”

“He told me things. About you. About how you grew up. About how… hard it is for you to get close to people.” Jisung shifted. The slight flinch in his posture wasn’t lost on you. “I didn’t come here to push you,” you said gently. “I came here because I needed to hear you. Not your file. Not Grey. You.”

He exhaled, almost crumbling.

“You scare me,” he muttered suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“You do. You walk in like you’re on fire and you don’t even notice the way the room bends around you. You don’t flinch when I’m cold. You challenge me. You see through me like no one ever has and I—I hate it because it’s terrifying and I love it because it’s you.”

You sat frozen for a breath. Then another. Your lips parted, stunned. “I didn’t mean what I said that night,” he said, voice lower now. “I knew I crossed the line the second I saw your face fall. I’ve been trying to figure out how to say I’m sorry ever since.”

You nodded once. “You did hurt me.”

“I know.”

“But I also didn’t let you explain.” Jisung stared at you for a long time, then whispered, “You didn’t deserve any of it.”

“I know,” she said back. Another moment passed. And then you reached for the coffee cup sitting cold on the table between them, lifted it to your lips, and made a face. “Jesus. How long has this been sitting here?”

He huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t drink that.”

“So, we agree it’s toxic waste?”

He nodded. “100%.” A beat. Then she smiled barely. But it was there. And Jisung? He smiled too, but his was full, slow, blooming like it had been dying to stretch across his face again.

“I still owe you lunch,” he said.

“And I still owe you a win,” youreplied.

They weren’t fixed. But they were trying.

Han Jisung’s hands have never felt so useless. He’d just begun to feel like the ground beneath them was leveling out, like he could speak to you again without hating himself. And then you had to look at him like that, half-curious, half-devilish. Like you were planning something dangerous, and he was helpless to stop it.

You sat forward, your eyes locked on him, voice honeyed but sharp.

“So… why didn’t you tell me?” you asked casually, like you weren’t about to unravel him.

Jisung blinked. “Tell you what?”

“That you have feelings for me.” His brain blue-screened. Full-on system failure. “I—uh—w-what? Feelings? Me?” You tilted your head, clearly amused. “Grey sort of told me yesterday.”

“Grey told—?!” he choked. “That—traitor—”

“Why didn’t you just say something?” you asked again, eyes twinkling. He fidgeted in his seat like it was suddenly too small for him. “Because! You’re—you. And I’m me. And this wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m your—supervisor,” he stressed, as if that helped.

“That never stopped you from bossing me around in meetings,” you teased.

He groaned. “Don’t say it like that, I already feel like I’ve committed emotional HR violations.” You leaned back, lips pressing together to hide your laugh. And then, slowly, you stood. Jisung watched you, wary. “What are you doing?”

You circled his desk like a cat, stopping behind his chair. “Wait,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips, “are you flustered right now?”

“I’m not—!” he squeaked, voice cracking slightly. “I am composed, thank you.”

“Flustered. About me,” you sang, enjoying this far too much. “Han Jisung has a crush on his intern…”

“You’re impossible,” he muttered under his breath, cheeks flushing even deeper.

“As if you aren’t too,” he shot back suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. And it hit you like a slap of heat. Your smile faltered for half a second. You blinked. “What did you just say?”

Jisung’s lips parted, like he wanted to take it back but he didn’t. His eyes flickered to yours, wide and honest.

“Don’t act like it’s just me.”

A silence fell between them, heavy and buzzing. And then—God help them both—you leaned forward, bracing your hands on the arms of his chair. Close enough to see the stubble on his jaw. Close enough to feel his breath hitch.

You tilted your head. “You talk too much.”

Then, without warning, you kissed him.

Soft. Bold. Quick. But the second your lips pressed to his, your brain short-circuited with a thousand alarms. What did I just do? Your heart slammed against your ribs, panic bubbling up before you even pulled back.

“I—” you breathed, stepping back fast, “I shouldn’t have—”

But you didn’t get the chance to finish. Jisung was already out of his chair. And then his hands were on your waist, pulling you in, and his lips were back on yours, urgent this time. Messy. Real. Like he’d been waiting for this moment since the first time you argued with him.

You melted into it until you were both breathless and laughing against each other’s mouths.

“You totally overstepped,” he whispered, grinning. You rolled her eyes. “You literally chased me.” He smirked, still breathless. “And I’d do it again.”

One kiss turned into two. Then three. Then neither of you could remember who started what anymore. Jisung’s hands were frantic, like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. Your waist? Your jaw? Your hips? He settled for all of them, one after the other, pulling you impossibly closer between kisses that left you both gasping.

You weren’t helping—at all. You were smirking against his lips, fingers sliding under the collar of his shirt as you murmured, “You know, for someone so professional in meetings… you’re kinda desperate right now.” Jisung pulled back just enough to look at you, mouth parted in shock. “Wh—” His voice cracked. “That’s not fair—!”

“Awww,” you teased, dragging your finger down the center of his chest, “did I hurt your feelings?”

“Yes!” he whined, genuinely, breath stuttering. “Why are you bullying me right now?”

“Because you’re easy,” you grinned, grabbing the end of his tie and giving it a little tug. “And cute when you pout.” Jisung muttered something incoherent—probably a curse—before he gave up entirely and kissed you again, this time deeper, one hand firm at the small of your back while the other traveled down, fingers skimming the edge of her thighs. You let out a sharp inhale when he hoisted you up onto his desk like you weighed nothing. Papers crumpled beneath you, a pen went clattering to the floor, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care because his hands God, his hands were trailing up your legs with reverence and want all rolled into one shaky exhale.

He was looking at you like he didn’t know whether to worship you or unravel you.

“You’re trouble,” he whispered against her skin.

“I learned from the best,” you shot back, already popping open the first button of his shirt. “Mr. Han.”

“Oh my God—” He was dizzy. Fully, utterly gone for you. His tie was undone, shirt halfway open, and your lips were ghosting along the edge of his collarbone like you wanted to memorize the taste of him.

And then—

RIIINGGGG—!!

The desk phone blared.

The two of you froze.

Jisung groaned. “No. No, no, no.” You snorted, forehead falling to his shoulder in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m about to unplug that thing for life,” he mumbled into your neck. “Shouldn’t you pick it up?” you teased.

“I should sue it for emotional damage.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You kissed me and now I’m ruined—of course I’m dramatic!”

The phone kept ringing. Reluctantly, breath still uneven, Jisung reached around you for the receiver, muttering a soft, “Don’t move,” like you were going to evaporate if he looked away for too long. He cleared his throat before answering voice still wrecked, like he’d just sprinted up a dozen flights of stairs.

“Y-Yeah, Han speaking…”

There was a pause. You watched his expression shift from annoyed to concerned, his brows furrowing, jaw tightening.

“Mhm. Okay—okay. Yeah. I’ll be right there.”

He hung up and sighed like he just aged ten years in thirty seconds. You tilted your head. “That didn’t sound like a lunch reservation.” Jisung winced. “It’s not. That was about the Parker brief—something blew up with the client and I need to help clean it before it spirals. They’re asking for me personally.”

He stepped closer, brushing your hair back gently. “I swear to God, if I didn’t have to go—”

“You’d what?” you teased, lips quirking. He grinned, leaning in to kiss you one more time, slow and deliberate. “I’d definitely get fired.”

You laughed against his mouth and pulled back. “So dramatic.”

“I mean it,” he said, his tone suddenly sincere. “But I am going to make it up to you tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Dinner. Just you and me. No work. No Grey. No emergencies. Just us.” Your brows raised. “Is this a bribe, Mr. Han?”

“This is me asking you on a date, finally,” he said, smirking. “And lowkey bribing you.”

“You’re lucky I like food,” you said, hopping off the desk as he helped her down. “Lucky you like me,” he mumbled under his breath.

You caught that. You both smiled. As you adjusted your blouse and smoothed your skirt, you stepped over to him and fixed his tie with practiced ease, eyes focused on the knot like it was the most delicate task in the world. Then you slid a finger down the center of his shirt, giving one button an extra pat.

“There,” you murmured. “Ready for war.”

“I was gonna say court,” he chuckled, “but same energy.” You turned to leave, heels clicking against the polished floor. And of course, his eyes dropped immediately to your hips. And stayed there. Shamelessly. You didn’t even have to look back to know. You paused at the door, turned slowly, and caught him red-handed, gaze glued to you like he was trying to memorize every step you took.

“So, you were staring,” you said, one brow arched in challenge.

Jisung blinked, caught like a guilty puppy. “I—I was just—I mean, technically, you’re walking in my office so it’s my job to supervise…”

“Supervise my ass?” He grinned. “Exactly.”

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still showing up for dinner.”

“Only because I want dessert.”

“Ohhh my God.”

You winked and walked out, leaving Jisung running a hand through his hair, muttering, “She’s gonna destroy me,” with the biggest lovestruck smile on his face.

@pixie-felix @pessimisticloather @necrozica @sh0dor1 @leeknow-minho2 @jitrulyslayyed @igotajuicyass @bbokvhs @katyxstay @maisyyyyyy @katchowbbie @yoongiismylove2018 @morkleesgirl @rockstarkkami @alisonyus @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @makeawitchoutofme @jc27s @jeonginnieswifey @nikki143777 @lillymochilover @imeverycliche @heartsbystars @iknow-uknow-leeknow @maxidential @ebnabi @ari-hwanggg @xxxxmoonlightxxx @rossy1080 @hanniebunch @tricky-ritz @woozarts @zerillia @queenofdumbfuckery

Waw....our flustered boy always comes out in the end huh? 🥰

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But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the way you looked at him, or for the way you didn’t look at him.

Your eyes—once so full of warmth, of recognition, of love—held none of it. Just distant confusion, like he was a stranger, someone who didn’t belong there.

The weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating, unbearable, and now, as he stepped out of the hospital room, it felt like the walls were closing in, the air in the hallway thick and stifling. He could still hear your voice, that soft, uncertain apology.

“I don’t remember you.”

The words echoed, over and over, clawing at his insides, hollowing him out.

He barely noticed Chan and a few of the others sitting in the waiting room down the hall, their hushed voices coming to a stop the moment they saw him.

Minho stopped in his tracks. His entire body felt numb, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Chan was the first to stand. “Minho…” said man didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond.

His throat was tight, his mind spiraling into places he didn’t want it to go. His nails dug into his palms as he swallowed back the lump forming in his throat.

Hyunjin and Seungmin exchanged a glance from where they sat, both looking unsure of what to say. The room was too quiet, too heavy, the tension suffocating.

Chan took a step closer. “Minho, talk to me.”

Minho opened his mouth, but no words came out. He stared at Chan, at the way concern etched into his features, at the way their friends sat with quiet unease, waiting for him to say something.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t form a single sentence.

What was he supposed to say? That he had walked into that hospital room expecting to make things right? He had spent the past two days convincing himself that you were just being stubborn—only to find out that you didn’t even know who he was anymore?

That the woman he loved, the woman he had pushed away, had forgotten him completely?

His breath hitched. His fingers twitched at his sides. Chan’s gaze softened. “Minho…”

That was all it took.

Minho’s body gave out, his knees buckling as he staggered back against the wall. He barely registered Chan stepping forward, catching his arm, steadying him. His head fell forward, his shoulders shaking as a ragged breath tore from his lips.

His chest ached, raw and open, as he sucked in another breath—only for it to come out in a harsh, broken sob.

“She doesn’t remember me,” he choked out, barely recognizing his own voice. “She doesn’t… she doesn’t know who I am.”

Chan’s grip on him tightened. “Minho—”

“I let her leave.” His voice was barely above a whisper, his vision blurring as he looked down at his trembling hands. “I let her walk out. I didn’t call. I didn’t—” His breath caught again, a wave of nausea washing over him. “I thought she was just mad, I thought she’d come back, I—”

Another sob wracked through his chest.

Hyunjin stood from his seat, his expression unreadable. “Minho—”

“I did this,” he whispered, his voice strangled. “She was upset. She left because of me. If I hadn’t—”

His knees threatened to buckle again. The guilt was crushing, unbearable, suffocating.

‘Maybe you’re not enough.’

The words he had thrown at you that night, so carelessly, so cruelly, came rushing back.

And now? Now, he wasn’t enough. Even if he stood right in front of you, you would never look at him the same way again.

A sharp, broken sound escaped him, his hands gripping his hair as his chest caved in. Chan exhaled slowly before wrapping a firm arm around Lee Know’s shoulders, steadying him as he finally, completely shattered.

And in that cold, sterile hallway, for the first time in years—

He cried.

-

The hallway was quiet again.

Almost an hour had passed and the storm inside him hadn’t fully calmed—but it had dulled, settled into a low, aching throb in his chest that never quite stopped. He sat alone now in the hospital’s waiting area, staring blankly at the floor, his hands clasped together tightly, as if holding himself together was the only thing keeping him from falling apart again.

Chan had stepped away, giving him space. The others had quietly left one by one, their concerned glances lingering as they faded down the corridor. No one said it, but they all knew—

He had broken something that couldn’t be fixed. Yet, here he was. Still hoping. Still hurting.

He came back with trembling hands and a small paper bag crinkling softly at his side. Inside was your favorite drink from the café near your apartment—a stupidly sweet latte with whipped cream and cinnamon. You always made fun of him for remembering how specific your order was, and he used to pretend to be annoyed by it.

Now he clung to that memory like it was the last thread tethering him to you.

-

A day later, Minho stood outside your hospital room door for a moment, silently composing himself, repeating in his head: Don’t cry. Not again. Don’t scare her.

When he walked in, you were sitting upright, flipping idly through a magazine someone had left on your bedside table. Your eyes met his. And for a moment—just a fraction of a second—his heart dared to hope.

But then came the same look of confusion. Kind. Polite, but distant.

“Hi,” you said with a small, uncertain smile. “You’re Minho, right?” He swallowed hard, the knot in his throat thick and unrelenting, and nodded slowly, every step he took into the room feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. His hands shook slightly as he held out a paper cup, fingers tightening instinctively around it like it was the only thing grounding him.

His voice came out softer than he intended—tender, raw, like something fragile wrapped in layers of guilt. “Yeah… Um… I thought you might want this.”

He placed the cup carefully on the tray beside your bed, not trusting himself to hand it to you directly. He couldn’t look at you as he said it. Not when you were gazing up at him like he was just another visitor. A stranger.

“It’s from that café on the corner near your apartment. You used to go there every Thursday morning before work. You’d always get this, even though you complained every time about how overpriced it was.”

A faint smile touched his lips—bittersweet and barely there. “But you liked how they did the whipped cream. Said it made the whole day better.” He finally looked up, his eyes searching yours. For a flicker of recognition. A spark. A twitch of memory.

But there was nothing. Just polite surprise. You blinked, accepting the cup with a small, hesitant smile. “That’s… really specific.”

He laughed under his breath, hollow and aching, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. I guess I just remember the little things. You used to say it was the only thing keeping you alive during early mornings.”

A pause stretched between you, delicate and uncertain, filled only by the quiet beep of the heart monitor and the distant murmur of hospital staff beyond the door.

You looked down at the drink in your hands, fingers curling softly around the cup like it was something too delicate to hold too tightly. The whipped cream had begun to melt into the cinnamon, forming that messy swirl you always loved, but now you stared at it like it was someone else’s comfort.

Then you glanced up at him with a gentle, almost embarrassed smile. “That sounds like something I’d say.”

But there was no warmth behind your eyes. No flicker of memory, no spark of shared history. Only polite curiosity. Only the echo of what once was.

Minho’s chest tightened, the breath catching in his throat. He swallowed it down, forcing the grief to stay buried—for now—and eased into the chair beside your bed. The legs of the chair scraped softly against the floor, grounding him in the sterile silence of the room.

He sat with his hands clenched between his knees, knuckles white. He tried not to stare too long. Tried not to look at you like he was still in love with you. Like he still knew every inch of who you used to be.

His voice was quiet, steady, but it trembled just beneath the surface. “You, um… you liked to walk through the park near your building when it rained.” You tilted your head slightly, intrigued, listening.

“Said it helped clear your head. You liked how everything smelled different after the rain—the trees, the dirt, even the air. You’d always say it felt like the world got washed clean.” He paused, eyes misting. “You used to joke that rainy days were your reset button.”

You said nothing, but your gaze remained on him. Still no recognition. N warmth. Just a faint crease between your brows, like you were trying to imagine that version of yourself.

He pressed on, even though his voice was cracking at the edges. “And you always took your shoes off after. Said you hated the feeling of wet socks, but never remembered to bring an umbrella. I’d meet you at the edge of the park with a dry pair of shoes in a plastic bag. You’d act all surprised, even though I did it every time.”

He laughed, but it was hollow, fragile. “You thought I was sweet for it. I thought you were reckless.” Another pause. This one heavier.

You looked down at the cup again. You gave him a soft smile—a grateful smile—but it was the kind you gave someone kind on the bus. Someone thoughtful at a coffee shop. Not him.

Not your Minho. Not the boy you used to fall asleep beside. Not the one who memorized your routines, who kissed the top of your head when you were too tired to speak, who argued with you like the world was ending—and then held you like it never would.

Not anymore, but he didn’t say that. He just sat there. Quietly breaking, piece by piece.

You let out a soft laugh, the kind that was meant to ease tension, but it only tightened something deep in his chest. “That’s weirdly specific too.”

Minho smiled automatically, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It never did anymore. His face held the expression of someone trying to pretend the ground wasn’t crumbling beneath his feet.

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. Trying to read him like a book written in a language you no longer spoke. “So… were we close?”

He inhaled sharply. Just a breath—but it cut like a blade down his spine. His smile faltered. A beat passed. Then another. His gaze dropped to the floor, then slowly lifted to meet yours again, eyes glassy with everything he couldn’t say.

His voice came out low, cracked, barely more than a whisper. “We were everything.”

And there it was. The truth, bare and bleeding in his voice. You blinked, caught off guard by the weight of it.

Your eyes dropped to the blanket resting over your lap, your fingers beginning to pick at the seam. You shifted slightly, like the words had made you uncomfortable. Like their meaning was too heavy for your unfamiliar heart to carry.

You didn’t know what to say, because how could you? How could you answer something that didn’t exist for you anymore?

He watched your expression shift—kind, distant, confused—and it shattered him all over again, and still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

What was there left to say… when you didn’t even remember how much you loved him?

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the steady beeping of the heart monitor beside you. “I want to remember. I do.” And you meant it. He could hear it in the way your voice trembled—soft, unsure, but sincere. The way your eyes searched his, as if there was something inside him you should know. Something you should feel, but there was nothing. No spark of recognition. No flicker of the love that used to live there.

Just empty space.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of every unspoken word. “It’s not your fault.”

And it wasn’t. God, it wasn’t.

It was his.

For every harsh word, every shut door, every night he chose silence over softness. Every time he let pride win instead of love.

A thick silence settled between you like fog—dense, cold, and impossible to ignore. The kind of silence that says more than either of you could bear to put into words.

Then, slowly, you looked back up at him, your fingers curling around the edges of the blanket. Your expression was fragile—carefully constructed calm sitting atop a sea of questions you didn’t know how to ask.

“My mom told me what happened,” you said, the words deliberate, hesitant. “That I got into an accident after… after a fight. She said you were upset too.”

Minho closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again, his jaw tightening as guilt washed over him like a wave. He nodded slowly, staring at the floor. “I was.” His voice was barely above a breath. “I didn’t mean to be. But I was.”

What he wanted to say was—‘I wasn’t just upset. I was cruel. I told you things I didn’t mean, just to make you hurt. And now… now you don’t even remember the sound of my voice when I wasn’t breaking you.’

He stayed quiet instead.

You hesitated then, visibly piecing things together in your mind like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. Your fingers twisted in the fabric of your hospital blanket, your knuckles pale.

“She also said…” You looked at him again, but there was hesitation in your voice now, and something unreadable in your eyes. “She said you were my boyfriend.”

His heart stopped. The word—boyfriend—felt foreign on your lips. As if it belonged to someone else. You said it like you were talking about a stranger. Like you were being told a story that didn’t belong to you, and he—he couldn’t speak. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. His throat burned, and his vision blurred at the edges.

He was. He is.

He wanted to scream yes, to beg you to remember how it felt to love him. To wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his chest when the world felt too loud. To laugh until you cried over stupid inside jokes. To whisper his name in the dark like it was your favorite secret.

Now? You only knew him as the man who brought your coffee and looked at you like you were made of glass.

So he just sat there. Silent.

You reached for the cup again, fingers curling around it like it gave you something to hold onto—something more solid than the weight of his gaze. You kept your eyes on the drink, unable to meet the way he was looking at you.

“I think…” You hesitated, your voice soft, as though you were afraid the truth would hurt him more than the accident ever could. “It might be best if you don’t come so often.”

The words struck him like a knife to the chest. Clean. Quiet. Devastating.

He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Just stared at you as your words settled like ash in the air.

You looked up at him gently, your expression full of kindness—too much kindness. It made it worse somehow. You were trying to protect him, but you were only burying the blade deeper.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” you added quickly, carefully. “I swear I’m not. It’s just… right now, I don’t feel… safe.” The word twisted in his chest. Safe.

Not in a bad way, you were quick to explain, your tone softening. “Not like I’m scared of you or anything. You’ve been kind, and patient. I can feel that. But I don’t… know you.”

Minho blinked hard, trying to hold himself together. But each word, though gentle, chipped away at him, until the cracks were visible even in the way he sat—stiff, hollow, quiet.

“And if I keep trying to force something… something I don’t remember…” Your eyes flicked back down to the cup. “I think I might only push the memories further away.” He felt his lungs collapsing, his chest hollowing out with every syllable. You were right.

Every time he looked at you, he did so with the weight of everything you’d shared. Every laugh, every fight, every whispered ‘I love you’ in the middle of the night, bt to you, he was just a name someone gave you. Just a presence you couldn’t place, and it was hurting you.

“I understand,” he said finally, though the words scraped his throat on the way out, raw and torn. They tasted like ash. Like goodbye.

You looked up at him again and offered a small, sad smile—the kind people gave to mourners at funerals. The kind that said I’m sorry you lost something, even though you were the one holding the pieces.

“Maybe one day I’ll remember,” you said softly, and that hope—no matter how faint—should’ve comforted him.

It didn’t, because you didn’t say you will. You said maybe, and you meant it.

“But for now…” you whispered, voice trailing off like a breeze slipping under a door, “I need time to find myself first. Not the version people say I was. Just… me.” Minho realized, in that moment, that he wasn’t part of that version anymore. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

He stood slowly, quietly, afraid to make any sudden movements—like if he moved too fast, he’d wake up and find that none of this had ever been real, but it was.

It was.

And as he looked at you one last time—still sitting in that bed, bruised, blank, smiling like a stranger—he realized something that shattered what little was left of him. He had spent so long trying to get you to stay.

And now, the only thing he could do for you was… leave.

-

He made it to the hallway before the tears came again.

The door shut behind him with a soft click, but it echoed like a gunshot in his ears. Every step he took away from your room felt like betrayal—like he was abandoning you, when all he wanted was to stay. But your words were still ringing in his ears, delicate but firm, kind but absolute.

‘I think it might be best if you don’t come so often.’

So he walked. Slowly. Hollowly. The second his back hit the wall, all the air rushed from his lungs.

He slid down the cold surface like his body couldn’t carry the weight of his own grief anymore, limbs folding beneath him as he curled into himself right there on the hospital floor. He didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care who passed. Didn’t care if the nurses glanced at him with pity or confusion.

Nothing—absolutely nothing—could compare to the ache consuming him from the inside out.

Tears slipped silently down his face at first, hot and unrelenting. Then came the sharp, broken breaths, the ones that made his chest convulse, made his throat raw, made his heart scream.

‘She doesn’t remember me.’ The words played on repeat in his mind, circling like a cruel melody he couldn’t silence.

She doesn’t remember me.

Not the way he held you like you were fragile when you were sick. Not the late-night walks, the stolen kisses, the way he whispered your name like a prayer when you were asleep beside him. Not the fights, or the apologies or the love.

All of it—gone. Erased. Like it had never existed. His fingers curled into his sleeves, nails digging into the fabric, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

And somewhere deep inside, through the overwhelming sorrow and guilt, a quiet voice emerged. A voice he tried to ignore. A voice he didn’t want to believe.

‘Maybe she shouldn’t remember.’

Because what would she even be remembering? The yelling? The silence? The way he pushed her away when she reached for him? The cold in his voice when all she wanted was his warmth?

Maybe it was better she didn’t remember the boy who broke her heart the night she crashed her car. Maybe it was better she didn’t remember the man who let his pride speak louder than his love.

‘Maybe she shouldn’t.’

That gut-wrenching, soul-destroying thought hurt more than anything he had ever felt. It meant that this wasn’t just the end of a relationship. It was the erasure of something sacred. Something he would remember every day for the rest of his life. While you, the love of his life, had already forgotten.

-

‘Maybe she shouldn’t’

That sentence carved itself into Lee Know’s mind like a wound that refused to close. It followed him home. It echoed in his apartment—your apartment—where your toothbrush still sat beside his, where your favorite hoodie still hung over the back of the couch, untouched since the day you left.

The silence was louder there than anywhere else, yet he still showed up. Not every day. Not like before. He came quietly. Carefully. On days when he knew you had therapy. On mornings when he figured you might want someone to sit with, even if you didn’t ask.

He didn’t always go in. Sometimes, he stood outside your hospital room, peering through the narrow glass window just to catch a glimpse of you reading, or napping, or laughing with a nurse. On the days he did walk through the door, he didn’t bring flowers or coffee anymore. Just himself. Just stories.

He told stories about you. About him. About the way you used to be—woven delicately into quiet, early morning visits where the air felt still and heavy, like the universe was holding its breath for something to click.

He never forced them. Never said, ‘Do you remember?’ because the answer had always been no. Instead, he spoke with a kind of reverence, as if recounting tales from another lifetime, a dream only he still remembered.

He told you about the time you made pancakes at midnight, and they turned out terrible—burnt on the outside, raw in the middle—but you still made him eat three. How he pretended they were good just to see you laugh.

He told you about the movie you used to rewatch every month, how you cried at the same part each time, even though you knew it was coming. How he used to tease you for it, only to tear up beside you when you weren’t looking.

He told you about your favorite spot in the city—the little bench near the river, tucked behind a bookshop—where you’d sit with him for hours, sometimes talking, sometimes just existing. No noise, no expectations. Just breath and warmth and the comfort of someone who understood you down to your bones.

Sometimes you listened, your head tilted slightly, lips parted like you were waiting for something to awaken inside you.

Sometimes you asked questions.

“Did I really say that?”

“Was I always like that?”

“What did I love most?”

And each time, he answered with a smile, eyes flickering with the ghosts of the past. “Yes,” he’d say. Or, “Only you would say something like that.” And sometimes, “Me. I think… you loved me most.”

You wouldn’t respond to that one. Not with words, but sometimes—in those rare, fleeting moments—you would stare at him a little too long, like you were searching for something in his face. Something buried under the pain and patience.

And in those moments, his breath would catch. In those moments, you didn’t look at him like a stranger. You looked at him like something inside you almost remembered.

Like your soul was leaning toward his, out of instinct and some echo of you still lived inside your chest, banging on the walls, trying to remind you: him. it’s him though you never said it. Never once claimed to know him—

There were seconds, just seconds, where your eyes softened like they used to. Where the world bent in the way it had when it was just the two of you, tangled in quiet understanding.

For Minho, those moments—however fleeting—were enough to keep coming back.

Maybe your mind had forgotten him, but your heart hadn’t. Not completely. Nothing ever came, though. Not a spark, nor a memory, and still—he showed up.

⸻

It had been nearly a month when the nurse finally told him.

“She’s being discharged tomorrow,” she said softly, her voice laced with something gentle—pity, maybe. Understanding. She didn’t look him in the eye as she handed over the clipboard with your updated discharge papers. “She’ll be going home with her mom.”

His fingers curled slowly around the edges of the clipboard, and for a moment, he didn’t move. The world didn’t either.

His heart stuttered in his chest, missing a beat like it forgot how to function. “Home,” he echoed, but the word tasted wrong in his mouth.

Not your home.Not the place where two mugs sat permanently on the kitchen counter. Where your favorite blanket was still tossed on the couch. Where your toothbrush still waited beside his like nothing had changed.

No—this was something else entirely.

This was a reset. A rewind. A return to a version of you that existed before him. A version that didn’t know what it meant to love him.

Didn’t know how he smiled when he was tired. Know the sound of his laugh in the middle of the night when you’d whisper something stupid into the dark just to make him grin. The boy who held your hand through anxiety attacks or danced with you in the living room when the power went out.

This version of you didn’t know Minho at all, and tomorrow, she would walk out of this hospital into a life that no longer had room for him in it.

He blinked down at the clipboard, the words blurring slightly as the weight of it all settled like a stone in his chest. He tried to breathe around it, but the air felt thick, sharp.

“Thanks,” he said at last, the word brittle in his throat. His voice came out tight, almost too low to hear, but the nurse gave him a soft smile anyway before stepping away.

He stood there for a long moment, the hallway around him quiet and still, as if the entire world was giving him a second to come to terms with it.

But no second would ever be enough. This wasn’t just a discharge. It was goodbye to the life they built. To the person you were when you still remembered him. The quiet, sacred space between you that had been filled with years of love and laughter and pain.

He had known this day would come, but knowing it and living it were two different things entirely, and now that it was here, all he could do was stand in the middle of this sterile, cold hallway—still loving you more than anything—while the version of you that loved him was already gone.

He bought you flowers anyway. A soft bouquet—nothing extravagant, just the kind he knew you liked. Pale pinks and creamy whites, delicate petals that reminded him of Sunday mornings spent tangled in sheets and sleepy laughter.

He showed up just before your discharge, stepping through the doorway like someone who didn’t know where he stood anymore.

You were already dressed, a bag at your feet, your mom at your side. You looked up at the sound of his voice, and for a moment—just a flicker—your face softened.

“Hey,” you said, offering him a small smile. He held out the flowers with both hands, almost awkwardly. “For you. Thought you might want something nice to bring home.”

You accepted them with a quiet “thank you,” eyes lingering on the bouquet as if trying to decide what it meant.

Your mom gave them space, stepping out into the hallway with a knowing look. She hadn’t said much to Minho in the past weeks, but the sympathy in her eyes was undeniable.

“I guess this is… goodbye for now,” you said after a pause, shifting the flowers gently in your hands.

He nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. I guess it is.” There were a thousand things he wanted to say.

I miss you.

I love you.

Please don’t forget again. Or please, remember me now.

But he didn’t say any of them.

Instead, he just looked at you—really looked—and tried to memorize the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled, even if that smile wasn’t for the same reasons anymore.

“If you ever… remember anything,” he said quietly, “or even if you don’t, but you want to talk, or just… hear more stories—I’ll be around.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Then gave a soft nod. “I think I’d like that. Maybe… someday.”

And just like that, you left with your mother, and Lee Know stood in the hallway, holding the memory of a love you didn’t carry anymore.

-

The first thing Minho noticed was how different everything felt without you.

It wasn’t loud, the absence of you—it wasn’t a crashing kind of loss. It was a quiet, creeping thing. A ghost that lingered in the corners of his apartment, in the spaces you used to fill.

Your shoes were still by the door. Your favorite mug sat in the sink. Your blanket was still draped over the couch, untouched.

He thought about putting it all away—boxing up the remnants of you that still existed in this place. But he couldn’t. Not yet. So instead, he lived in the aftershocks. You were gone, but he still saw you everywhere.

At the café where you used to order that ridiculous, overpriced latte. He caught himself glancing at the menu, almost asking for your usual before remembering you weren’t beside him anymore.

At the park where you used to take your shoes off after it rained. He stood there one evening, hands in his pockets, staring at the empty bench where you used to sit.

At home, where your presence was stitched into every little detail—the playlist you made still queued up in his phone, the way he automatically set aside extra food before remembering you wouldn’t be there to eat it.

Some nights, he dreamed of you. Of the way you used to say his name. Of the feeling of your hand in his. Of laughter that felt like warmth pressed against his skin.

Then he’d wake up to a world where you didn’t know him anymore. It hurt. Every single time.

Still, he held onto the words you left him with.

“Maybe… someday.”

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t certainty, but it was enough to keep him waiting.

-

Meanwhile, you were trying to piece together a life you no longer recognized.

The days blurred together in a strange haze of familiarity and foreignness. Nothing felt quite right, yet nothing felt entirely wrong either. It was like stepping into a house you’d once lived in as a child—walls that should’ve held memories, rooms that should’ve felt safe. And yet, every corner felt untouched, as if it had belonged to someone else.

Living with your mom wasn’t bad.

She was patient, kind, careful with her words when she spoke about before. She didn’t push you, didn’t flood you with too much information at once. Instead, she let you rediscover things at your own pace, watching you with soft eyes whenever you hesitated before picking up something you used to love.

She made your favorite foods—not because you asked, but because she knew. Because even if you didn’t remember, she did. And maybe, in some small way, she hoped the taste of something warm, something familiar, would bring back the pieces of yourself that felt so far away.

But even in the quiet safety of her home, there was something inside you that felt… off, like something was missing. Like there was an empty space in your chest that you didn’t know how to fill.

You went through the motions—woke up, ate, walked through your old routines as best as you could. Your mother told you bits and pieces. About your job, your friends, the things you used to love. She never overwhelmed you, never bombarded you with too much at once, but no matter how many stories she told, no matter how many childhood memories she shared, there was a disconnect. It was like hearing about someone else’s life, not your own.

Some things made sense—your favorite childhood toy, the way you hated the sound of balloons popping, how you’d always been a night owl. Those little details felt like facts rather than memories, familiar but distant.

Then there were the gaps. The moments where she hesitated, where she seemed to be choosing her words carefully. Almost as if she was stepping around something fragile, or someone.

She never spoke his name unless you asked. She handed you old photographs, smiling softly as you flipped through them, waiting—hoping—for recognition to spark. Some faces felt familiar. Others didn’t.

Then there were the pictures of him.

A man with dark eyes and a sharp smile, standing just slightly too close to you in every frame. His arm around your waist, your head on his shoulder, your fingers interlocked like a habit neither of you had to think about. The man who brought you flowers the day you left the hospital.The man who looked at you with a sadness so deep it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs. The man you had once called your boyfriend.

Minho

You should’ve recognized him. You should’ve felt something when you saw the way he looked at you in those photos—like you were the only person in the world, but instead, you just stared.

The longer you looked, the heavier the silence grew. Your mother didn’t push, didn’t say his name, just let you turn the page when you were ready.

You could feel it.

Even if you didn’t remember him, even if your mind refused to recall a single moment with him. Something deep inside you ached when you saw his face, and you didn’t know why.

No matter how hard you tried to remember, your mind refused to give him back to you. The memories remained out of reach, locked away behind a door that wouldn’t budge no matter how many times you knocked. Yet, he lingered in ways you couldn’t understand.

A song would play on the radio, and a strange tightness would settle in your chest, like an echo of something that had once meant everything. At a restaurant, your fingers would hover over a particular dish on the menu, drawn to it by instinct alone, though you had no idea why.

On rainy afternoons, you’d catch yourself standing by your bedroom window, staring at the wet pavement below, toes curling against the hardwood floor. The pull to step outside, to feel the rain against your skin, to abandon your shoes entirely—it was there, an impulse with no explanation.

Then there was your name. The way it sounded when he said it. There was something in the way his voice wrapped around the syllables, something that made your stomach flip and your heart hesitate. It felt different coming from him—softer, heavier, as if it belonged to him as much as it did to you.

You couldn’t place it, couldn’t grasp it. But whatever it was, it refused to fade.

One evening, nearly two months after the accident, you found his number in your phone.

It had been there all along—tucked between names you barely recognized, untouched and waiting. You had scrolled past it dozens of times, always lingering for a second too long before looking away. You hadn’t touched it. Hadn’t dared, but tonight, something was different.

The house was quiet, the hum of the television muffled from the other room where your mother sat, half-watching some drama you didn’t have the heart to follow. Rain pattered softly against the windowpane, a steady rhythm that should have been soothing. But it wasn’t.

You stared at the screen, your name in his contacts staring back at you, unspoken history woven into a few simple digits.

Your fingers hovered just above the glass, unmoving.

You thought about the way he looked at you when you said goodbye—how his expression had been unreadable, but his eyes, dark and aching, had spoken volumes.

You thought about the hesitation in his voice when he said, “If you ever want to talk… I’ll be around.”

There had been something final in the way he stood there, yet not quite. As if he had accepted the distance between you but refused to completely let go.

Your heart beat a little faster.

It had been weeks since you last saw him. Weeks of trying to fit yourself into a life that no longer felt like yours, of filling the empty spaces with distractions that never quite worked.

Yet, he still lingered.

Not in memories—you had none of those—but in the way your body sometimes reacted to things before your mind could process why. In the way your fingers twitched toward certain choices, certain places, as if remembering something you couldn’t see. Now, in this moment, in the quiet weight of the evening, his name felt heavier than it ever had before.

You swallowed hard, fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over the call button. It would be so easy to close the app. To pretend you never saw it, but for the first time in two months, the urge to reach out was stronger than the fear of what you might—or might not—find.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you pressed call. As the line began to ring, you held your breath—because for reasons you couldn’t explain, it felt like something was about to change.

-

On the other side of the city, Minho’s phone rang.

It was late, the kind of quiet hour where the world slowed down, where exhaustion sat heavy in his bones. He had been half-asleep on the couch, a forgotten show playing in the background, his mind drifting somewhere between consciousness and dreams.

the second his phone lit up, the moment he sees your name flash across the screen—he was awake. His breath caught, heart slamming against his ribs as time seemed to freeze.

For a split second, he thought he was imagining it. That his sleep-deprived mind had conjured up something cruel, something hopeful, something impossible.

But no. It was real. You were calling him. His fingers trembled as he reached for the phone, hesitant in a way that terrified him.

This was what he had been waiting for. Hoping for. Even when he told himself not to. Even when he forced himself to move through life as if he wasn’t still waiting for a version of you that might never return.

He had prepared himself for silence. For never hearing your voice directed at him again.

Now, you were right here.

Maybe someday had come sooner than he thought. With one deep, steadying breath, he pressed answer.

“…Hello?”

His voice came out quieter than he intended, barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might scare you away.

After what felt like an eternity—

“…Minho?”

Just his name. Just one word. It unraveled something deep inside him, something he hadn’t realized he was still holding onto, because for the first time in months, you had reached for him.

-

"You really thought you could get away with teasing me all that time and I wouldn't do anything about it? That I wouldn't snap eventually and take what I wanted? Or was that what you were aiming for this whole time?" Your boyfriend leans down so his chest presses against your shoulder blades, his breath hot against your ear while he speaks and rips into your behavior from previous times before. "You really thought I was just your weak, loser boyfriend."

This was what you got for teasing Felix relentlessly over the months of you two being together. He'd sat and looked pretty for you time and time again, letting you get away with palming at his cock over his jeans while he gamed or making him rut against you like some dog in heat. He'd let it slide multiple times and while he did enjoy it in the moment, it almost always frustrated him afterwards. You knew he was a virgin and you would tease him constantly about it. Wouldn't a loving girlfriend be so eager to be his first?

One of his hands had fisted into your hair, ringed fingers curling around damp strands from your shower and twisting once to make sure he had a good hold. You weren't getting away from him this time. His free hand had settled onto your lower back to keep you somewhat steady against his gaming desk, fingers splayed over your skin and pushing down to pin you where he wanted you.

That's right - He'd bent you over his desk, pressed your face down close to his keyboard, and pulled the thin little shorts you'd slid into after your shower aside so he could get a peek at your pussy. At first you had assumed he was just being perverted and trying to rile you up so you would sit on his lap while he gamed or something - Grind down on his cock til he creamed in his sweats and tried to hide his moans from his mic. The moment you'd realized he wasn't playing nice was when you gave a tantalizing sway of your hips and you were met with Felix's palm coming down against your cunt in a sharp slap. It was enough to make you jolt, closing your thighs in slight embarrassment before he had pushed them back open and slipped two fingers into you with ease. Now it was his turn to tease you. "You're practically dripping. You like having your pussy spanked?"

"Come on, open your mouth. Tell me the truth." Felix chides with a knowing chuckle, making it a point to push his cock into you deeper with every stroke just so he could feel the way your hips shook against his own when his tip kissed and prodded at your poor cervix.

"Yes --! Yes, fuck -- I wanted to rile you up all the time so this would happen and you'd - fuck the shit out of me," You admit with a heavy gasp, your cheeks painted red and stained with a few tears that had fallen from the feeling of your boyfriend finally taking control and taking what he wanted. That and the iron grip he had on your hair.

Felix's mouth falls open as he peers down at you through lidded eyes, almost a little surprised you'd admitted to him that you just wanted to rile him up this entire time. There's a break in conversation then where the only sound filling the room is the slap of his hips against your own and your whines mixed with the quiet groans that escape your boyfriend. He chuckles after a while and bites into his lip, sucking in a breath before he speaks again. It's all in good fun - all teasing and light hearted. He knew you'd never purposefully do anything to upset him. "I can't believe you would do such a thing to me. If you wanted me to be rough with you, you could have just asked." His hold tightens on your hair, free hand pushing down to grip at your hip instead. He'd be sure to leave little bruises of his fingerprints - for keepsake, of course.

"'m sorry," Your gasps are met with the sound of Felix huffing out a breath in reply. "Sorry, Lix -- I didn't mean to make you mad." Your hands fumble to grab onto anything you can as his hips all but pound into you from behind, his cock making you melt from the inside - turning your guts to mush with how rough he was being. You end up knocking his keyboard askew which he would get at you later for, but in the moment it didn't matter as your hands curled around the edge of his desk and held onto it even as it rocked beneath your weight.

The blond sighs out as he pulls himself back up, standing tall as he pushed into you slower than before - but still just as rough. "Oh, baby. I'm not mad." Felix's eyes slipped shut before he let his head roll back, taking in and basking in the feeling of your gummy sopping wet walls hugging and squeezing around his cock. Finally. "Just can't believe you thought I would let it slide after all this time." Felix's hips snapped forward once more before he glanced down, watching the way your thighs trembled where you were bent over. A breath escaped his lips as he slowly pulled out, cock dragging against your walls in the most delicious way.

When you whimper and peek back at your boyfriend with glossy eyes, he can't do much but chuckle in both adoration and amusement. "What? You think I'm going to let you come after all the shit you've put me through?" His brow cocks and a smirk tugs at his lips just from the way you quiver at his words. He gives a small swat to your hip to get you to move to the side, his body slipping past you so he can drop down in sit in his chair.

Felix's gaze darts back to you as he sees your hands fall to your thighs, attempting to move your shorts back into place as you grow to assume he's done with you. "Ah," He scolds in a chiding tone, his hand smacking at your own to get you to let go of your shorts. Your hands jolt away and you look at him with soft eyes, a bit teary from not getting the relief you craved so badly. But Felix doesn't give into the doe-eyed look you give him and gestures towards his lap, spreading his thighs just a bit to give you an even better view of the way his cock leaked against his abdomen and coated honey kissed skin with cum that dared seep from his tip. "You're going to sit here while I game. And if you move," Felix huffs out a breath, shaking his head. He looks up at you when you don't move for a moment, your head fuzzy and words gone. So he snaps his fingers once before pointing back down at his lap, chuckling when you finally shift to face him and come closer.

"Sit."

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Jisung throws his hands up defensively. "What? They're good for days like this, with the weather how it is right now. Be for real."

He has a point, you think as you look out the window.

It's drizzling in a fine swell over what you can see of the city, a heavy, almost blue fog casting itself like a blanket over the buildings. Classes ended early today, and you'd wanted nothing more to rush back to your dorm and rid yourself of the soaked, cold clothes you'd had to be in all morning.

To say the least, it had been extremely unpleasant weather, and it had taken at least an hour standing under the steaming water of the shower to try and bring your body's temperature up again.

You shiver as your eyes flicker over to the door, your still-wet shoes leaking droplets of storm water onto the plastic bag you'd set them upon in an attempt to keep the floor dry. Jisung was already back from his lecture by the time you got in, and he hadn't even looked up as you'd rushed into your room and slammed the door, soaking wet and chattering as you turned the water on.

At least, you think he hadn't looked up at you. In reality, he'd been waiting for the moment the door would open and you would come in.

But you didn't notice. You never do.

You set two more bowls onto the counter, missing the way Jisung's eyes follow yours as you move across the floor, gaze fixed on the way your hair is still drying, hanging in little damp clusters over your ears and nape. Your cheeks are flushed, most likely from the boiling water you shower in, and your figure is swamped in an oversized hoodie and a pair of grey sweats. His heart jolts as he looks you up and down, trying to fight that warm feeling that seems to rise in his chest every time he meets your gaze.

I have a hoodie that looks almost the same... it looks like you're wearing my clothes. That'd be so hot...

"...and then I had to rush all the way back here because it was so cold and rainy outside. You have a point, to be honest; I was thinking about eating something warm and delicious when I got back, but I wanted something a little bit sweeter- Ji. Ji, are you listening?"

"H-huh?" He shakes his head, thoughts of you in his clothes hastily evaporating. "Uh, yeah."

You point a measuring cup at him cheekily. "Liar. What's wrong? Are you too hot? I can turn the thermostat down if you want... I turned it up super high when I got back because it was so cold-"

"N-no, it's okay," he interrupts. "Sorry. Just a long morning. Classes and all that."

You shoot him a sympathetic look, opening a packet of self-raising flour. "Yeah, I get that. Poor you... And all this rain, too... not really ideal for all the walking we have to do nowadays."

Jisung can't help but smile softly at your rambling, holding the edge of the bowl as you almost knock it off the countertop. Your measuring spoon gets bumped in the process and a small puff of flour spills onto Jisung's knee, dusting the loose, black denim.

"Oops," you say sheepishly, setting the cup down. "Sorry."

He's about to reply and tell you it's okay before his gaze flits down to your hand, which is gently brushing off his knee. And suddenly, he can't seem to focus on anything but your touch. It's warm, even through the thick fabric, and he finds himself wishing you'd bumped the measuring cup a little harder so you could be brushing off all the flour for longer, your fingers gentle against his leg.

He doesn't even mind that there's a subtle white patch on the denim where it spilt.

You scratch the back of your head. "Hang on, let me get a paper towel-"

"No, don't worry," he blurts out. "I-it's fine."

You look up in surprise, tapping another cupful of flour into the bowl before adding a haphazard mix of baking soda, salt, and cornstarch over it. "Are you sure? I'm gonna make a mess in this place. I don't want your clothes to get dirty..."

"It's fine," he says again, a little more confidently. "I can just take them off."

You splutter, sending a puff of flour into the air, making both of you cough as Jisung waves his hands frantically, cheeks scarlet.

"I-i didn't mean it like that," he coughs, flustered. "I meant-"

"I know what you meant," you say, fighting a grin as you turn away to open the fridge. "Honestly, Ji."

He drops his face into his hands just as you crack two eggs into another bowl, heading back to the fridge for the stick of half-finished butter on the top shelf. You've learnt to buy more butter than you think you need; your roommate has a habit of using far too much butter than necessary on his toast. Not that your topping habits are much better; the Nutella jar is usually empty after a day.

Anyways.

Placing the rest of the butter in a small glass bowl, you set the microwave timer for 30 seconds before closing the door. Jisung's eyes follow the bowl spinning round and round inside, the butter seeping and melting into an oily mess against the glass edges.

His fingers tap against the countertop as you move your bowls over to where he's sitting, your shoulder brushing his arm as you busy yourself with tipping brown and granulated sugar into yet another bowl. Jisung cheekily dips his finger into the mixture and brings it to his mouth as you smack his hand away, relishing the raw, saccharine taste of the grains.

"You have to stop doing that.. Ew, Ji!"

He wipes his finger nonchalantly on your arm, much to your disgust. Ignoring your groans, he hums to himself as you take the melted butter from the microwave, slamming the door shut again.

"Stop doing what?" He says innocently.

"Dipping your little thieving paws into the bowls... you'll contaminate it. And wiping said paws on my arm..."

"So?" He says, grinning, ears still red from his earlier comment. "It's not like anyone else but you and me are eating the stuff you make."

You huff and tip the butter into the bowl, spilling half of it in the process. "I'm gonna put raisins in these if you keep provoking me."

"No!"

"Shut up and stop bothering me then," you huff, one hand coming up to matter-of-factly wipe a tiny speckle of sugar from the corner of his lip.

He's about to make a comment, but he goes silent; his face turns the colour of the cherry tomatoes in the fridge crisper as you whisk the butter into the sugar mixture. You don't even notice how quiet he's gone, and as a habit, begin to ramble.

"I can't believe the mixer broke," you say absentmindedly. "I had to search for ages and ages for a recipe that didn't need a mixer for the process. It's actually so much easier to melt the butter too... last time I did this, I didn't mix it all in properly so the cookies tasted horrible after- not that you cared, of course, because I came back to the glass dish where I put them in a day before and they were all gone- Ji, you're not listening again."

"Yes I am," he says, strained. His face is red.

"No you're not. Anyways, I had to find substitutes for most of the ingredients until I could get to the store last week.."

You run off on yet another tangent about the recipe and different methods of baking and flavours, but all Jisung can focus on is the fact that you just touched his lip, wiped away whatever it was that what on his mouth, without so much as blinking. Like it was nothing... He finds himself beginning to panic a little; his face still feels all hot and tingly.

They just wiped my mouth for me... Wait, isn't that what couples do in the movies?? Does that mean.. no, it doesn't, because they didn't even blink when they did it. There's no way they feel the way I do right now, like this- is it hot in here? My face feels so warm...

He's about to lift the neckline of his hoodie to try and fan some air into his body, but not before something sweet-smelling and textured lands on the apple of his cheekbone.

He freezes, watching as you dip a finger into a bowl full of white paste. Frosting.

You know Jisung likes frosting on his cookies; it's a fact he hasn't even told you, but you know from the way he always secretly opens the tub of ready-made icing in the fridge that he likes them to be eaten that way. You always make a bowl of it whenever you bake now, just for him. Currently, you can't get over the look on his face; shocked, and almost distant, like he was distracted by something.

You managed to crack the eggs, mix all the ingredients together, add chocolate chips to the mixture, form the dough into balls, and put it all into the oven without him making so much as a comment. And then slightly warm up the icing too. He's never been this quiet.

Like, ever.

"Are you okay?" You smile. "You look a million miles away."

He gulps and watches as you dip a different finger into the icing, some of it remaining on your lip as you lick your fingertip clean. He can feel the tiny dollop of frosting you've dotted on his cheek. It's probably melting with how hot his face feels.

His gaze never leaves your mouth, and his eyes flit to the mess you've made of the counter; there's not a single ingredient you haven't managed to spill a quantity of. Most of it is staining your clothes too, not that you seem to care.

Y/n...

"Ji?" You wave a hand in front of his face, trying to rid him of the glazed look in his eyes. "What's wrong?"

Silence. Then-

"You look so beautiful," he murmurs.

It slips out so unexpectedly that he can't even bring himself to be surprised or regretful about it; if he never tells you, you'll never know how stunning you look in the moment, all damp hair and flour-smeared cheeks.

And maybe you don't look lovely to anyone else, but to Jisung, he's never seen anything more beautiful. And in a moment of instant clarity, he knows he's regret it forever if he doesn't tell you how he's felt for so long. Or worse, if someone else decides to tell you the same thing, and he never gets his chance...

You blink at the unexpected sentiment, not thinking much of it. "Thanks."

Turning away, you pick up a bowl and deposit it in the sink before Jisung pulls you back by the shoulder, you tumbling between his legs from where he's still sitting on the counter.

You don't even get a moment to process what's happening before his mouth is pressed gently against yours, tasting of sweet icing and brown sugar.

You mold yourself immediately into his embrace as his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you a little closer as his head tilts to the left. You're pretty sure he's almost breaking his neck, kissing you like this, but you couldn't care less, and it seems, neither can he.

"Jisung," you exhale against his lips, almost gasping.

"Sorry," he whispers, though there's a hint of cheekiness behind it that he can't quite disguise. "Should've asked to kiss you..."

You giggle and pull him in again, your hands finding their way to his nape, playing with the tiny, soft hairs there before he pulls back to gaze at you. "It's okay."

He looks too far gone now; his hair is deliciously rumpled from you running your fingers every which way through it, his cheeks still stained pink. The frosting on his cheek is smeared, a long, pale streak against the perfect planes of his skin.

You're about to pull him in again, and his mouth eagerly moves towards yours, but he only gets a light brush against your lips before the oven timer rudely interrupts, beeping and echoing in the silence of the flat. He groans as you turn away and reach across to switch it off.

You hear Jisung laugh breathlessly behind you as you peer through the oven glass; the cookies, once round and perfect, have now spread into a chocolatey mess across the baking tray, and you can see several small bits of dough beginning to burn dark against the hot surface of the oven grilles.

"Shit," you mumble as Jisung pulls you back into him, peppering kisses over your face. "I forgot to chill the dough before I put them in..."

"Screw that," he sighs against you. "We should chill instead. Just us, hmm? Cancel whatever plans you had..."

"Done," you whisper. "But what about the cookies-"

Jisung pulls you impossibly closer, his breath a warm fan across your cheeks and neck.

"Forget that," he murmurs. "I have something sweeter."

a/n: i forgot how fun writing jisung is >< asks open !

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EVERYTHING WRITTEN IS PURELY FICTION──NOTHING IS DIRECTLY RELATED TO ANY REAL LIFE EVENTS.

It starts, like most ridiculous things in your life, with Han Jisung and his unhinged ideas.

You’re stretched out on the couch, barely paying attention to the TV as your phone screen glows dimly in your hands. It’s a lazy afternoon, the kind where time stretches in slow waves, and the biggest dilemma on your mind is whether or not you want to get up and make a snack.

That is, until Jisung plops down next to you with all the grace of a sleepy cat, limbs sprawled in a way that takes up as much space as possible. He nudges your knee with his own, bouncing slightly like he’s holding back some great revelation. You glance at him, already wary.

He’s grinning. That’s never a good sign.

“Hey,” he says, like he’s about to change your life.

“…Hey?”

He holds out his hand, fingers curled around something. With a slow, almost theatrical motion, he opens his palm, revealing—

A gummy worm.

You raise an eyebrow. “Is this a peace offering? Did you commit a crime?”

Jisung snickers but shakes his head. Then, with absolutely no preamble, he says:

“Marry me.”

There’s a beat of silence. You stare at him. He stares at you. The TV hums in the background, blissfully unaware of the absurdity happening in the room.

Finally, you say, “Jisung, this is a gummy worm.”

“Yeah,” he replies, completely unfazed, “but imagine if it wasn’t.”

His face is entirely serious, which only makes it worse. His brown eyes gleam with mischief, but there’s something oddly sincere beneath the surface, something that makes your heart stumble in a way you refuse to acknowledge.

His expression is so sincere—so utterly devoid of the chaos you know is brewing beneath the surface—that it throws you off. You huff a laugh, shaking your head. “And what exactly are we imagining here?”

“That this is the most romantic proposal ever,” he says. He carefully takes your hand and slides the gummy worm onto your ring finger with a reverence that makes it worse. “That I planned a whole thing. That you’re weeping, overcome with emotion—”

“I’m about to start crying for real if you don’t shut up.”

“But in a sexy way, not a gross way.”

“You’re insufferable.”

Jisung grins, tilting his head like he’s won something. “So… is that a yes?”

And maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, eyes warm and playful, or maybe it’s just the sheer absurdity of it all, but you decide to play along.

With an exaggerated sigh, you hold up your hand, gummy worm and all. “Fine. Sure. I accept your very serious proposal.”

Jisung gasps, eyes widening. “Wait. Really?”

“You started this, husband.”

His entire face lights up. “OH MY GOD. WE HAVE TO HAVE A WEDDING.”

“Wait—what? No—”

Too late. He’s already screaming.

“GUYS! WE’RE GETTING MARRIED!”

And that’s where everything spirals.

A Questionable Wedding Ceremony

It all happened so fast, you find yourself standing in the middle of the dorm’s living room, facing Han Jisung in what has to be the most absurd fake wedding ceremony in existence.

The couch is shoved aside to create an aisle—if you can even call it that—lined with mismatched LED lights that flicker between colors, making the whole thing look like a neon fever dream. Someone (definitely Felix) has draped a bedsheet over a chair to serve as an altar, the fabric wrinkled and slipping off at the edges. A bouquet of fake plastic flowers from Minho’s room (originally meant for his cats) sits in a cereal box “vase” at the front.

Seungmin, somehow now wearing a judge’s robe (where did he even get that?), stands in front of you both with the air of someone who is so, so done with this. He holds an actual book in his hands, though one glance tells you it’s just a random economics textbook turned into a pretend scripture.

Jisung stands beside you, hands clasped, practically buzzing with excitement. He’s grinning so wide his cheeks must hurt, and he keeps bouncing slightly on his feet. By the sides, Jeongin stands as the best man, holding the gummy worm ring as if his life was devoted to protecting it.

Seungmin sighs, rubbing his temple. “Do you, Han Jisung, promise to be slightly less of a dumbass in your marriage?”

Jisung, hands clasped in front of him, tilts his head in deep thought. “…No.”

“Figured.” Seungmin flips to a random page of the textbook and mutters, “Moving on.”

To your right, Bang Chan is a mess.

Not just sniffling. Full-on, ugly-crying.

He’s hunched over, gripping Felix’s arm for support. “They’re so beautiful,” he chokes out between sobs. Felix, looking genuinely moved, nods solemnly. “It’s a sacred bond, hyung.”

Meanwhile, Hyunjin has decided to be the live wedding band.

“DUN DUN DUN-DUN… DUN DUN DUN-DUN…”

He sings the wedding march off-key, dramatically clutching his chest as if he’s personally responsible for the romance in the air. You glare at him. “Hyunjin, I swear—”

He gasps. “Are you seriously scolding me on your wedding day?”

Lee Know, standing beside him, smirks and reaches into his pocket. You narrow your eyes, immediately suspicious.

“…Minho?”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches into a bag—then flings something into the air. Cat treats.

Jisung yelps as one lands in his hair. You blink as more rain down around you.“Are you serious.”

Lee Know shrugs. “It’s all I had.”

Before you can recover, Changbin stands up and walks down the aisle with a box of confetti, scattering it all around like the flower girl he aspired to be.

Seungmin sighs, clearly beyond his patience. “Fine. You’re married. Or whatever.”

Jisung turns to you, grinning. “We did it, babe.” You shake your head, beyond words. “We really did.”

Then, just to commit to the bit, you lean in and press a dramatic, exaggerated smooch to Jisung’s cheek. The dorm erupts.

“EWWWW.”

“GET A ROOM.”

“THIS IS THE HAPPIEST DAY OF MY LIFE.” (Chan, obviously.)

Jisung just beams, eyes crinkling. “Best fake wedding ever?” he asks.

You huff a laugh. “Absolutely.”

The next morning, You wake up to a dorm that feels completely different from the night before.

Gone is the chaotic, neon-lit wedding chapel, the crumpled LED lights, and the cereal box altar. Instead, the dorm is bathed in soft morning light, the warm gold spilling through the half-open blinds and casting long streaks across the wooden floor. The air is quiet in that particular way it only ever is early in the morning—hushed, still, like the world hasn’t quite woken up yet.

You shuffle into the kitchen, socked feet scuffing against the cool floor. The faint scent of instant coffee lingers in the air, and there, leaning against the counter, is Jisung.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

His usual chaotic energy is missing—no humming, no half-danced movements, no dramatic gasps to announce your presence. Instead, he’s unnaturally still, fingers fidgeting with something small and velvet. His brows are slightly furrowed, his lips pressed together in quiet concentration as he flips the box open, then closed, then open again. The nervous motion makes something in your chest tighten.

“…Jisung?”

He startles slightly, eyes darting up to meet yours.

For a moment, he just stands there, like he wasn’t expecting you yet. Then, after a breath, he steadies himself and pushes off the counter. He grips the box a little tighter before holding it out.

Inside, nestled against the soft velvet, is a ring.

Not a gummy worm.

Not a joke.

A real, simple, elegant ring.

“You know…” Jisung’s voice is softer than usual, hesitant, like he’s stepping into unknown territory. “If you ever want to make it real.”

The words linger between you, gentle and uncertain. The playful, exaggerated romance from the night before is gone, replaced by something heavier—something real.

For a second, your heart stops.

The air shifts, the quiet of the dorm suddenly thick with meaning. The golden light from the window catches on the edge of the ring, sending a faint glint across the counter. Outside, the distant hum of the city murmurs through the silence.

Jisung clears his throat, shuffling on his feet. “Uh. You can say no. That’s allowed.”

You glance at him—at the nervous flicker in his eyes, at the way his fingers curl slightly against his palm like he’s bracing for impact.

And maybe you should tease him, draw it out just a little—

But instead, you step forward, take the box from his hands, and smile.

“Ask me again.”

Jisung swallows. Nods.

And this time, he doesn’t have a gummy worm.

────────────────────────────────────────

When the door swings open, you almost forget how to breathe.

There he stands. Jisung. But not your usual boyfriend. No, tonight he’s Spider-Man. Well… your version of Spider-Man.

The suit isn’t the usual full-on getup. It’s the tight, form-fitting Spider-Man shirt he wore during SKZ CODE—his choice for the costume challenge. It’s red and blue, just like the one you’d imagine, but it’s so tight, so impossibly tight, that every curve of his muscles is on display. His chest, his arms—everything looks sharper, more defined. The shirt hugs his biceps and his abs, making you ache in places you didn’t know you could ache. His jeans? Dark, distressed, and just the right amount of ripped. They cling to his thighs like a second skin, and you can’t help but notice how perfect he looks.

His hair’s a little messy, tousled like he’s been running around. But damn, it only makes him hotter.

You bite back a gasp and raise an eyebrow as he leans against the doorframe, that signature smirk playing on his lips. The kind of smirk that tells you exactly how much control he’s got.

“Like what you see?” His voice is low, dripping with cockiness. He knows he’s making your heart race.

You don’t even try to hide your reaction. “You’re fucking hot,” you say, the words slipping out before you can think twice.

His smile widens, and you can see the pride in his eyes. “Glad you think so, babe.” He steps forward, slowly, deliberately, closing the space between you two. Every inch of his body is on display, and you can feel your pulse quicken with every step he takes. “Tell me, Y/N… you like the costume? Or is it just me you’re after?”

You meet him halfway, walking right up to him, your body almost vibrating with the desire you can’t quite hide. Your eyes scan him from head to toe, and you let out a breath, letting him see how much he’s affecting you. “It’s you, Jisung,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “You’re the only thing I can think about right now.”

His gaze darkens as he closes the gap between you. “Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?” he murmurs, his lips dangerously close to yours. He can feel the tension radiating off you, and he doesn’t waste a second. His fingers brush along your neck, his touch light but electric, sending a shiver down your spine.

You exhale, biting your lip as your hands trail down his chest, fingertips grazing the tight fabric. “I think you know what I want, baby,” you murmur, voice thick with desire. “You’ve got me fucking pinned already. What do you think I’m gonna do?”

His smirk deepens, almost like he’s daring you to take it further. “I think you should show me,” he says, his hand sliding to your waist, pulling you in closer until your body is pressed against his. He can feel the heat radiating off you, and it makes him want you even more. “But I don’t mind waiting.”

You roll your eyes and give him a playful shove, though you’re not exactly pulling away. “You’re so cocky,” you tease, but there’s no hiding the heat in your voice. “You really think I’m just gonna drop to my knees for you?”

His eyes gleam with a challenge, and before you can even react, his hand is cupping your chin, tilting your face up so you can’t look away. “Maybe not drop to your knees,” he growls, his voice dark and dangerous, “but I want to feel you beg in your own way.”

The space between you closes again, and this time, when he kisses you, there’s nothing playful about it. His lips are urgent, hungry, as if he’s been waiting for this moment. His tongue presses against yours, and your body reacts instinctively, hands moving to his chest, tugging him closer, pulling him into you with a desperate need.

You can feel the heat between your legs building, your body aching for him, and you can’t hold back anymore. You break away from the kiss, your chest rising and falling with the rush of adrenaline.

“Take me, Jisung,” you whisper, voice low, dripping with need. “Now.”

He looks at you with that cocky grin, but there’s a fire in his eyes. “You’re not getting off that easy, baby.” His voice is rough, his breath ragged, and it sends a jolt of desire straight to your core. “You want me that bad? I’ll give it to you… but you’re gonna have to earn it first.”

You don’t need to think about it. You grab his shirt, pulling him closer, your lips crashing against his again. You’re not waiting anymore. You need him. Right now.

The kiss deepens, and you can feel his hands roaming down your back, grasping at your waist. Every touch sends a spark through you, and you can’t get enough. The heat between you two intensifies, and it’s no longer about playing games. It’s about taking what you both want, unapologetically, without restraint.

Jisung’s hands are all over you, gripping your waist, your hips, sliding up your back as he presses you flush against him. The heat between you is intoxicating, the way his body feels under your fingertips—solid, strong, familiar yet still enough to make your head spin.

“You have no fucking idea how bad I need you right now,” he mutters against your lips, his voice rough, breathless. “Spent the whole day thinking about you… about taking this off you piece by piece.”

His fingers find the hem of your shirt, tugging it up, but he doesn’t move too fast. No, he likes to tease, and you know it. He lets his knuckles graze your skin, watching the way your breath hitches, a smirk curling on his lips.

You roll your eyes, pushing at his chest, but you don’t really mean it. “Then stop talking and do something about it.”

That does something to him. His grip tightens, and in one smooth motion, he yanks your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him without a second thought. His eyes drop to your body, lingering, darkening.

“Fuck,” he breathes, tilting his head as he drags a thumb over your exposed collarbone. “You always look this good for me, baby?”

You bite your lip, letting him look, letting him ache for it. “Only for you,” you murmur.

That earns you a low groan. His hands are on you again, slipping around your back, fingers moving with practiced ease as he unhooks your bra, letting it slide down your arms before he catches it and tosses it away.

The second you’re bare, his lips are on your neck, hot and open-mouthed, working their way down with slow, deliberate kisses. He takes his time, like he’s savoring the way you shudder under his touch, the way your fingers thread through his hair, tugging lightly.

“You know,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the top of your chest before he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “I could do this all night. Just touching you. Tasting you.”

You huff a breathless laugh, hands moving down to the hem of his Spiderman shirt—the tight one that clings to his body in all the right places, stretched across his muscles. You slide your fingers underneath, feeling the warmth of his skin, the definition of his abs.

“Take this off,” you demand, voice hushed, heavy with need.

Jisung smirks. “You that desperate to see me, baby?”

You tug at the fabric in response, and he laughs, but it’s cut short when you lean in, letting your lips skim his jaw, your voice dropping to a whisper.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day too,” you admit, feeling the way his breath catches. “About how fucking hot you are in this. But I need to see all of you.”

That does it. In one smooth motion, he pulls the Spiderman shirt over his head, tossing it aside, leaving his upper body bare, his toned muscles on full display. He watches your reaction, the way your lips part slightly, the way your fingers immediately reach out to trace the hard lines of his torso.

“Like what you see?” he taunts, voice low.

You hum in approval, dragging your nails lightly over his skin, watching the way his abs tense under your touch. “Yeah,” you breathe. “You’ve been working out, huh?”

Jisung grins, cocky. “Had to get stronger, baby. You’re a lot to handle.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head, but you don’t deny it. Instead, you let your hands drift lower, trailing over the waistband of his jeans. He shivers slightly at your touch, his breath faltering for just a second.

“You gonna take these off, or do I have to do everything myself?” you tease, glancing up at him with a smirk.

His expression darkens instantly, and before you can react, he’s gripping your hips, flipping the two of you so that you’re underneath him, pinned against the couch. His knee presses between your legs, just enough to make you gasp.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours, teasing. “You love when I take control, don’t you?”

You swallow hard, your fingers digging into his biceps. “I love it when you stop talking and get these fucking jeans off.”

Jisung grins, leaning in to nip at your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to pop the button of his jeans. He does it slowly, deliberately, letting you watch the way his fingers move, the way he drags the zipper down with an infuriating smirk.

But before he pushes them off, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your jeans, gripping the denim tight.

“These first,” he says, voice thick with authority.

You raise an eyebrow. “Make me.”

His lips twitch, eyes flashing with something dangerous, something wicked.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, leaning in, his breath warm against your ear. “I don’t think you want me to make you.”

And then, before you can snap back, his hands are on your jeans, yanking them down with one swift motion, leaving you bare beneath him in nothing but your panties. The way his eyes darken at the sight sends a shiver straight down your spine.

“You’re fucking soaked,” he breathes, dragging his fingers lightly up your thigh. “Been waiting for me all day, huh?”

You exhale sharply, your body already burning with anticipation. “Maybe.”

Jisung clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he runs a hand over your thigh, squeezing just enough to make you squirm. “Lying to me already?” he muses, his fingers ghosting over the heat between your legs. “I can feel how bad you need me.”

You bite back a moan, tilting your chin up defiantly. “Then do something about it.”

That’s all the invitation he needs.

His hands move again, his own jeans finally being shoved down, leaving nothing but skin between you. His body is flush against yours, hot, solid, his breath mingling with yours as he leans in, his lips barely an inch from yours.

“Hope you’re ready, baby,” he murmurs, his voice a husky promise. “Because I’m not stopping until you’re begging me for more.”

And the way he’s looking at you? You believe every fucking word.

Jisung’s fingers ghost over your bare skin, teasing, exploring, making you shudder with anticipation. His lips trail down your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he grins against you.

“You’re already shaking for me, baby,” he murmurs, dragging his teeth lightly along your jaw before pulling back to look at you. “So fucking needy.”

You bite your lip, your fingers gripping his biceps. “Then stop teasing and fuck me already.”

His smirk deepens, full of amusement and something darker. “Oh, you think you get to tell me what to do?” His voice drops lower, rough with dominance. “That’s cute.”

Before you can snap back, his hand moves—fingers trailing between your legs, sliding against your already-wet heat. You gasp, your back arching off the couch as your body reacts instantly.

“Shit,” Jisung groans, his breath hitching as he feels how wet you are. “You’re soaking, baby.” He leans in, his lips barely grazing yours. “Been waiting for me all day, huh? Getting all worked up thinking about how I’d fuck you?”

You swallow hard, your hips instinctively rocking into his touch. “Maybe.”

Jisung chuckles, low and dangerous. “Still lying to me?” His fingers slide lower, pressing just enough to make you moan. “You’re dripping for me, baby. You can’t hide how much you want it.”

Your breath stutters as he moves, his fingers slipping inside you with ease, curling just right, stretching you just enough to make your whole body tremble.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. “Jisung—”

“Yeah, baby?” His voice is mocking, playful, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he watches you struggle to stay composed. He pushes in deeper, moving at an agonizing pace. “You need something?”

You glare at him, your body aching for more, for him. “I need you to stop playing games and give me your cock already.”

Jisung groans at your words, his hand tightening on your thigh. “Fuck,” he mutters. “You love talking like that, don’t you?”

You smirk, your body still moving against his touch. “You love it when I do.”

He exhales sharply, his control snapping just enough for him to act. His fingers leave you, and you barely have a second to process the loss before he’s gripping your thighs, pulling you closer.

His cock presses against you, hot and hard, and fuck, he’s big—the sight alone enough to make your stomach tighten with anticipation.

Jisung watches your reaction, his smirk returning. “You gonna take all of me, baby?” His fingers trail down your thigh, squeezing. “Or do I need to stretch you out more first?”

Your breath catches, heat pooling in your core at his words. “I can take it,” you whisper.

Jisung groans, his head dropping for a second as he grips himself, lining up against your entrance, dragging the tip along your slick heat just to tease you further.

You whine, your hips lifting instinctively. “Jisung—”

He grips your hips, pinning you down. “Say it.” His voice is dark, commanding. “Say you need me.”

You narrow your eyes at him, pushing back just enough to challenge him. “You know I do.”

Jisung lets out a low chuckle, amused. “Brat.”

And then he pushes in, slowly, stretching you open, making you gasp as he fills you inch by inch.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, his hands gripping your thighs, his muscles flexing under your touch. “You feel so fucking tight.”

Your head tilts back, pleasure flooding through you as he sinks in deeper, pushing himself fully inside you.

Jisung lets out a shaky breath, his jaw clenched as he looks down at where your bodies are connected. “Look at you,” he mutters, running a hand up your stomach, fingers grazing your chest before wrapping lightly around your throat. “Taking me so fucking well.”

Your breath hitches, your hands finding his waist, nails digging in as your body adjusts around him. “Move,” you whisper.

Jisung groans, closing his eyes for a second like he’s trying to compose himself. But when he opens them again, his gaze is wild, dark, full of need.

“Anything for you, baby.”

And then he starts to move.

Jisung starts slow, dragging his cock out almost completely before slamming back in, filling you in one deep stroke that knocks the air from your lungs. Your fingers grip his arms, nails digging into his skin, but he doesn’t slow down—he just smirks, watching you struggle to keep up.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans, his voice rough, strained with pleasure. “Take it like a good fucking girl.”

You moan at his words, at the way his hands tighten on your hips, holding you in place so you have no choice but to feel everything—the way he stretches you, the way his cock drags against your walls, hitting all the right spots.

“Jisung—” Your voice is already breathless, your body burning with how good he feels.

He leans down, his lips brushing your ear as he thrusts into you again, harder this time. “Say my name like that again,” he murmurs, his tongue flicking against your earlobe before he nips at it. “I love hearing you like this.”

You bite your lip, your hands running down his back, feeling the tension in his muscles as he moves. He’s holding back—barely. You can feel it in the way his hips twitch, the way his breathing gets uneven, the way his grip tightens like he’s restraining himself from losing control completely.

You meet his thrusts, pushing your hips up to match his pace, and the movement pulls a deep, guttural groan from his chest.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants, his forehead pressing against yours for a second before he pulls back, his hand sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit.

You gasp, your body arching off the couch as he starts rubbing slow, precise circles. “Shit—”

Jisung grins, his eyes burning into yours. “That feel good?” His tone is taunting, but there’s hunger beneath it, something raw and unfiltered. “You like when I fuck you like this? When I play with you like this?”

Your breath stutters, pleasure tightening in your core as his pace increases, his thrusts growing rougher, deeper, sharper.

“You love this, don’t you?” His voice is pure sin, dark and dripping with lust. “You love being fucked like this. Letting me do whatever I want to you.”

You can’t even think straight anymore. He’s everywhere—all over you, inside you, surrounding you, drowning you in sensation.

“Tell me, baby.” His hand moves faster between your legs, making you gasp, your nails raking down his back. “Who’s fucking you this good?”

You barely manage a breath. “You.”

Jisung growls, his hips snapping into you harder. “Say it again.”

You whimper, the pleasure almost unbearable. “You, Jisung—fuck, it’s you.”

He groans, his head tilting back as he watches you unravel beneath him, his rhythm never faltering. “That’s right, baby.” His voice is hoarse, wrecked. “And I’m not stopping until you scream for me.”

And with the way he’s fucking you? You know you won’t last much longer.