mr-cha-n

Choi Seungcheol

The Pen Pal Project

↳ Pan pal AU - super fluffy, tiny bit of angst, 10.2k ☆

Over a decade of handwritten letters later, you can happily say that the Pen Pal Project was your greatest success.

Yoon Jeonghan

Merger & Acquisition (Of My Heart)

↳ Office Romance AU - angsty, fluff, crack, 17.2k

Jeonghan thought navigating corporate mergers was hard—turns out, navigating corporate mergers with his ex is harder.

Kwon Soonyoung

Echoes of Summer

↳ Camp Counsellor AU - fluff, angst, 18.7k

Get ready for the most unforgettable summer yet at Camp Logan, where lifelong memories are made, friendships are strengthened, and old crushes make new appearances.

Jeon Wonwoo

Through the Lens

↳ Photographer x model AU - smut, fluff, 12.5k

Six months. Full access. Intimate photos. A glimpse into the world of celebrity. And the last thing Jeon Wonwoo thought he was signing up for.

Kim Mingyu

Crossing the Finish Line

↳ athlete AU - fluff, angst, 17.4k

Winning is the only thing that matters, except if you're raising money for a charity event with an infuriatingly good-looking swimmer.

Glass Towers

↳ architect AU - fluff, angst, smut, 18.2k

City lights are beautiful, but they're nothing compared to the spark between a hopelessly optimistic architect and his no-nonsense boss. He hopes.

Vernon Chwe

Picture of You

↳ regency AU - fluff, angst, smut, 22.2k

Three years away was meant to quell a decade of unrequited love, but your family home appears not to be the only thing you are returning to.

Lee Chan

Chapter One: How to Not Get Stabbed

↳ superhero AU - action, smut, fluff, angst, 22.2k

The peace of quiet of your garage is only broken by the hum of machines and clanking tools, and you like it that way - until a superhero crashes his car straight into your door.

"Jeonghan, just trust me! It's gonna be perfect!"

You're grinning, and it’s that grin. The one that made Jeonghan's heart do that ridiculous, fluttering thing the first time you flashed it his way. The one that’s practically a cheat code for his soul. Your eyes are sparkling like you just cracked the secret to world peace—or maybe just how to make him melt like a popsicle in the sun.

You’re gesturing to something behind him, but honestly, he’s not even looking. To take his eyes off you? Not in this lifetime, buddy.

"I’m serious!" you press, eyes wide with wild excitement. "We should get matching sweaters!"

He stares, blinking slowly like maybe he’s hearing things. You look so absurdly excited, like you've proposed something truly genius. And, for a second, just for a second, he almost gets it. Matching sweaters... Huh. He squints.

"I swear to God," he mutters, almost in awe of your audacity. "You've got a one-track mind, you know that?"

But you're already dragging him inside the store, ugging him toward a rack of sweaters in shades so painfully pastel, they might be illegal. You’re holding up two—one a disturbingly washed-out pink and the other an equally offensive lavender - and beam at him, radiating enough joy to power a small city.

Jeonghan narrows his eyes at the monstrosities in your hands. "Are you trying to publicly obliterate my dignity?" he asks, deadpan. "Because I’m pretty sure this is some kind of crime."

Your laugh—sweet and impossibly bright—bounces off the walls. It’s so loud, it feels like the store itself is laughing with you. And for a split second, he doesn’t even care that you’re suggesting he wears an offence to fashion. All he hears is your laughter. And, okay, it is contagious. He can’t help but chuckle, his chest warming even as he contemplates his future in pastel hell.

"I’ll wear it if you wear it," you challenge, a wicked glint in your eyes, practically daring him to back out.

And you know Jeonghan can't resist a dare.

He crosses his arms, a perfect picture of exaggerated seriousness, mirroring how seriously you’re taking this whole thing. "Fine," he sighs dramatically. "But only because I’m too exhausted to argue with you."

Before he can even finish his thought, you're already wrapping your arms around his neck, giggling into his ear like it’s the most precious sound on earth. And just like that, any resentment he might have had about wearing a sweater straight out of a fashion crime scene? Gone. The swell of his heart forgives you, even as he silently prepares to suffer through the world’s most embarrassing outfit.

"I love you sooo much," you murmur, squeezing him a little tighter.

And, just before he can say it back, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Distracted, he fumbles for it like it’s the most urgent thing in the world—because, hey, maybe it’s a work thing or, God forbid, a text from his mom about dinner plans. When he looks up, you’re gone. The matching sweaters are gone. The street is just a blur again, and the store, with its obnoxious neon lights, has disappeared completely.

For a heartbeat, Jeonghan’s standing there, staring at the space where you were, feeling like he’s just been dropped into some weird alternate universe. The air feels thick, heavy, and for a split second, everything just feels—wrong. Empty. Off.

And in that moment, he realizes with a gut-punch of clarity: it’s all slipped away, like sand through his fingers. He’s standing in the middle of a street that doesn’t make sense, holding onto an empty promise he can’t possibly keep, his hand still tingling where you once touched him. And all he can hear now is the echo of your laugh, so bright, so full of life, fading into nothing.

And just as quickly, before he even has time to breathe, the dream shatters. Gone. Like it was never there at all.

Jeonghan wakes up with a jolt, his chest tight like a too-small sweater, heart thumping like it’s trying to escape his ribcage. The sheets are tangled around him like he'd been wrestling them all night, and he blinks at the daylight streaming through the window, a little too bright, a little too real. For a second, he’s not sure if he’s still stuck in the dream, his body caught in some weird limbo between sleep and being awake.

That laugh. That stupid, infectious laugh. It hangs in the air, teasing him like a ghost that refuses to leave. Jeonghan’s hand brushes absently over his chest, like he’s trying to wipe the sound away, like it hasn’t completely lodged itself in his mind.

“Stupid,” he mutters, shaking his head and tossing the sheets off himself, hoping to shake off whatever weird spell the dream’s put on him.

By the time he’s staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, his mind is a chaotic mess of swirling thoughts. Mostly, he’s thinking about the dream and how ridiculous it is that it’s still making his heart beat a little too fast. And then, of course, there’s the thing he can’t shake—the stupid, pastel sweaters.

He scoffs at his reflection, splashing water on his face like it’ll somehow help him wake up properly. Matching sweaters, he thinks bitterly. Really

Getting dressed feels like a chore, like he's moving through molasses. His eyes drift over his usual black jeans and plain tees, but then—something catches his eye. A flash of pink, hidden at the back of his closet like some kind of forbidden treasure, tucked behind other, more respectable pieces.

Jeonghan hesitates.

His fingers brush over it, and for a moment, he feels as though he's standing back in that ridiculous store, the weight of that challenge still hanging in the air. He almost laughs at himself. You can’t be serious, he thinks. But before he can stop himself, his hands are already pulling it out.

“I’m not doing this,” he mutters to himself, but even he can tell his voice is a little too uncertain, like he’s trying to convince someone else.

A few minutes later, Jeonghan stands in front of the mirror again, the soft, unreasonably pastel pink sweater clinging to his frame. He tilts his head to the side, frowning at his reflection. Then, he looks back at the sweater.

It's ... fine. Actually, it's kind of comfortable. And, okay, it’s not nearly as terrible as he thought it would be. The color is soft, gentle—more like a whisper than an explosion of pastel horror, and the fabric feels a bit like a soft cloud. 

Of course, none of that changes the fact that it’s ridiculous that he’s wearing it.

“What’s wrong with me?” he laughs, shaking his head at himself, unable to stop the sound from spilling out.

And then your laugh—that bright, carefree, spark-of-light laugh—flashes through his mind again. It’s like the room is a little less dark when he thinks about it, and, for just a second, he lets himself imagine that maybe... maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad to go along with it. The matching sweaters, the ridiculous plans, that kind of carefree joy only you could make him feel.

But he's alone now. And the sweater is just that. A sweater.

He shakes his head, adjusting it one more time, trying to ignore the flutter in his chest as he thinks about you—your voice, your touch, your laugh—and focus on just getting out the door. He grabs his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder like he’s trying to shake off the last remnants of the dream.

“Fine,” he mutters to himself. “It’s stupid. But I’m wearing it.”

And if anyone dares to comment on it, he’s donating it to the first charity store he passes on his way home.

Jeonghan's brain feels like a blender on full speed as he pushes through the glass doors of the office building, his shoes clicking against the marble floor. He steps into the start-up chaos, where the morning energy is already off-the-charts: people darting between desks, having phone conversations that are somehow both urgent and completely pointless, and juggling coffee cups that are half-full of caffeine and stress. And there’s something else hanging in the air, something that makes him feel like he’s forgotten something super important, but of course, he has no idea what that is.

He shrugs it off and marches to his desk, where Joshua's already sitting, a fresh cup of coffee in hand and laptop open in front of him. He looks like he's already been up for hours - effortlessly composed, a picture of fcous while Jeonghan has barely kept it together this morning.

He drops his bag on the desk with a dramatic thud, letting out a long sigh. 

Joshua glances at him, then at his sweater, then back up at Jeonghan’s face like he’s trying to piece together some kind of puzzle.

"I thought you didn't do pastels?"

“I don’t,” Jeonghan responds immediately, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to untangle his thoughts. “But… it’s a long story, actually. Not one I’m getting into right now.”

Joshua’s lips twitch, clearly not buying it. "Uh-huh. And I'm sure it has nothing to do with a certain someone who shall remain nameless waltzing back into your life?"

Jeonghan freezes, his whole body going cold like he's just been caught in a lie. How in the hell did Joshua figure that out?

He forces a laugh, but it’s way too high-pitched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his voice cracking like a bad sitcom.

But Joshua isn’t letting it slide. “Sure. And I’m definitely not looking at someone who’s still wearing a sweater that belongs to their emotional turmoil.”

Jeonghan snorts. "Oh, please, the only thing emotional about this is how much I regret wearing it." He waves his hand dismissively, but can’t hide the way he checks the sweater like he's trying to make sure it’s still presentable. “Anyway, what’s going on today? Please tell me we're not having another one of those ‘I-just-want-to-innovate-the-industry’ creative meetings. I’m not sure I can sit through another round of ‘brainstorming’ where I’m expected to solve all our problems with a Pinterest board.”

Joshua’s face glitches as he shuts his laptop with a dramatic click. “Tell me you’re joking?”

Jeonghan blinks. 

Joshua sighs, long and slow.

"The merger? I know you remember that the merger is happening today, right?"

"Merger? Oh. That merger." Jeonghan’s brain starts scrambling for clarity, trying to sort out the chaos of thoughts. They’ve been talking about this merger for weeks now—a rival company with a reputation for being way more corporate and buttoned-up than their own start-up chaos. Jeonghan hadn’t really paid attention. Too busy juggling project deadlines, chasing creative briefs, and making sure everyone’s sushi orders were on point.

But now, with Joshua’s reminder, the weight of reality hits him. Today’s the day. The day they officially merge with the enemy—and, if we’re being honest, it’s a little more corporate than he ever thought he’d get. Also, probably the reason for those stress dreams last night.

Jeonghan grimaces. "Right. The merger." He sighs, slumping in his chair. “I think I just blocked it out of my mind for the past week because I’m not sure I can handle becoming corporate Jeonghan.”

Joshua chuckles, setting his coffee down. "That’s the point of today. They’re bringing in their big bosses to meet with us—this afternoon, right after the all-hands meeting. It’s officially happening. The big, serious meeting where we all sit around and pretend to care about ‘synergy’ and ‘optimisation.’” He does air quotes with his fingers, rolling his eyes. "But, don't worry - you won't be corporate Jeonghan. You'll be corporate Mr Yoon."

Jeonghan groans, leaning back in his chair dramatically. “‘Synergy,’ optimisation...” he repeats, doing an exaggerated version of Joshua’s air quotes. “Honestly, I think I’d rather go back to bed and wake up in a parallel universe where I’m not wearing this sweater and we’re not merging. Could we please pretend we’re still a bunch of creative geniuses who just want to make awesome things? Is that too much to ask?”

Joshua smirks, clearly enjoying Jeonghan’s theatrics. “It’s the price of progress, my friend. Besides, I’m sure you’ll do just great. Just remember: don’t look too enthusiastic about the merger. We’ve got to keep some of that ‘creative chaos’ spirit alive, right?”

“Right,” Jeonghan mutters, still adjusting his sweater. “Creative chaos—that’s what we’ll call it. But, seriously, I’m really hoping they don’t ask me to do the whole ‘powerpoint presentation’ thing today. I’m already two cups of coffee in, and the only thing I can think of is whether this sweater’s a crime against fashion or a step toward self-expression.”

“Why not both?” Joshua grins, clearly enjoying the chaos of it all. “Maybe your sweater will be the key to saving us from corporate hell. You never know.”

Jeonghan shoots him a look. “If this sweater saves us from anything, I’ll personally make sure we keep it as a company mascot.”

“Deal,” Joshua says, grinning wider as he takes a sip of his coffee.

The conference room looks like a page out of Jeonghan's worst nightmares: sleek, polished, and cold enough to make an ice cube look like it’s on vacation. A long, minimalist table stretches down the middle, surrounded by chairs so expensive they probably cost more than the rest of the startup's furniture.

Jeonghan slides into the room with Joshua just behind him, trying his best to look like he belongs in a room where every person looks like they could run a Fortune 500 company. He adjusts the collar of his pastal pink sweater, wondering for the hundredth time if he's made a grave mistake. But, well, it's too late to back out now. 

Joshua, in the seat beside him, has immediately begun typing away on his laptop, not a hint of nervousness in his posture. Jeonghan, on the other hand, is doing everything he can to stop himself from fidgeting. He's been in plenty of meetings before, but this one feels different. It's like everyone is playing on a higher level - every handshake more formal, every "good afternoon" more stiff.

He slouches further into his chair, doing his best to hide behind the carefully natural expressions of the other startup team members—everyone’s pretending they’re not deeply unprepared for this meeting (Jeonghan knows they are).

Just as the final few stragglers file in, Jeonghan hears it again. 

The laugh.

It’s quiet, almost imperceptible, but it’s unmistakable. That laugh. The one that makes his stomach do that ridiculous fluttering thing. Jeonghan freezes, his hands stiff at his sides like he’s a statue trying to pretend it’s not about to crumble. His pulse quickens, and he does his best to shake the thought out of his brain. I'm hearing things, he tells himself. It’s probably just my brain playing tricks after that stupid dream

But no. It’s there again—soft, bubbling, infectious laughter, drifting from somewhere off to the side. Jeonghan blinks, his head snapping towards the sound like it’s the answer to a riddle he didn’t know he was solving.

And then he sees you.

There you are, standing at the front of the room, radiating effortless confidence in a sharply tailored suit, like you belong in the boardroom as much as Jeonghan belongs in a hoodie.

His heart stops.

It can't be. 

He blinks. And blinks again. But you're still there. You’re still smiling, your grin as radiant as it ever was, as you exchange pleasantries with the higher-ups from the startup. The same grin that used to make Jeonghan question his entire life philosophy, every single time you flashed it his way.

What the hell?

There's no way. You can't possibly be the one running things on this side of the merger. This has to be a joke, right? His head spins, his thoughts running in frantic circles as the realisation dawns on him. 

You are here. In the flesh.

A hundred questions rushes though his brain all at once - how, why, when? But most of all: Why didn't I know about this?

And then it hits him. The absurdity of the situation. The dream. The sweater. The weird sense of unfinished business he'd woken up with this morning. It all seems to click in a way that makes his brain ache with the sudden weight of it all. 

Jeonghan slouches even further into his chair, if that's even possible. His stomach is in knots, and his palms are starting to get a little too clammy for comfort.

Maybe if he just... quietly gets up and leaves. Maybe if he just—

“Are you okay?” Joshua leans toward him, his voice low.

Jeonghan swallows hard, trying to keep his cool. “I—I think my ex is in charge of the merger.”

Joshua’s eyebrows furrow, confusion flashing across his face. "Yeah, I know."

Jeonghan blinks, his brain trying to process this new layer of nonsense. "You—what?"

“I thought you knew.” Joshua leans back, looking unbothered, like Jeonghan just missed a memo. “I literally brought it up this morning.”

Huh?

Oh. 

That makes more sense than Joshua knowing about the dream. 

Jeonghan’s brain is running full speed ahead, trying to piece together the puzzle of his existence in real-time, but nothing’s clicking. Joshua’s voice is just a dull hum in the background as his eyes are locked on you. There you are, standing at the front of the room, looking like you’ve just walked out of a business magazine. His mind keeps bouncing between the memory of you in those casual clothes, laughing over pizza, and the version of you now, all polished and corporate, like you’ve somehow always belonged here. It’s dizzying. How the hell did this happen

He forces himself to breathe and look away for a second, trying to center himself, but just as he’s about to look down at his hands—those traitors who are clammy and betraying him—he hears the sound of a microphone clicking on. 

Your voice.

“Good afternoon, everyone.”

And just like that, the room falls silent, hanging on every word. Your voice is smooth—confident—but there’s this little edge of warmth that makes Jeonghan’s chest tighten in a way that’s definitely not professional. He’s trying so hard not to look at you, not to let his eyes wander back to where you stand—hands moving gracefully, voice flowing effortlessly. You’re the same you he knew, but also not. Somehow both.

“Today marks an exciting new chapter for both our teams,” you continue, “and I’m thrilled to be standing here with all of you as we embark on this new journey together. As many of you know, this merger is the culmination of months of careful planning and preparation. We’re combining our strengths to create something that will redefine the industry. And we’re all here today to ensure that we’re setting the right course.”

The words are professional, perfectly crafted, and so very corporate—but it’s the way you speak them that gets to Jeonghan. It’s the way you still carry that spark, that undeniable energy, as though nothing’s changed. As though you’ve just slid seamlessly from one world to another.

Jeonghan rubs his forehead, wishing his brain would just catch up with reality. But no. Instead, it’s like everything around him is shifting, the room suddenly way too big and his sweater way too bright for comfort.

You continue with the presentation, talking about key figures from both companies, introducing executives and senior members—those faceless people Jeonghan will never need to remember—but then… you pause. Your gaze sweeps over the room, and then it locks with his.

Jeonghan freezes. Time slows, or maybe it speeds up. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, thumping against his ribcage as if it’s trying to break out.

You don’t look away.

For a split second, Jeonghan wonders if he imagined it. Maybe his mind is just playing tricks on him, but no—no, there’s a shift in your expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

Then—oh, God—your gaze drops to his sweater.

You stop mid-sentence.

The room goes quiet, all eyes on you, but Jeonghan knows it’s him you’re looking at. His sweater. Specifically, that sweater.

You swallow hard, your fingers tightening around the podium as you glance at his sweater—that damn sweater. He watches, horrified, as the corners of your mouth twitch—not with amusement—but something else. Something close to annoyance.

He can’t breathe. His hand twitches around his collar like he might rip the damn thing off and flee the building entirely.

Then, mercifully, you clear your throat. The sound snaps through the silence like a rubber band, and for a moment, it feels like the tension might break. But still, that look—that look on your face—it doesn’t go away.

"Uh..." You stop. A beat of awkwardness. You glance at him again, brow furrowing just the tiniest bit. "I’m—I’m sorry, I just... I'm a little distracted. Let me start that again.” You take a breath, visibly steadying yourself before you continue with the presentation, but Jeonghan can hear that slight crack in your voice.

He tries to make himself invisible in his chair, sinking lower, his hands buried in his lap like he could somehow physically shrink into the chair itself. The way your lips tighten as you force yourself to focus on the presentation makes Jeonghan want to disappear.

“Oh, my God,” Jeonghan mutters under his breath, doing his best to keep his voice just quiet enough so only Joshua can hear.

Joshua just gives him a deadpan stare. “What happened? Is this because of the sweater?”

“Don’t. Please.” Jeonghan’s voice cracks, and he’s pretty sure he’s never felt more exposed in his life.

Jeonghan’s heart is still trying to hammer its way out of his chest when the meeting finally breaks. The tension in the room has been almost unbearable, and now, as everyone starts shifting in their seats, the low murmur of conversation rising, Jeonghan begins to think maybe—just maybe—he can make a quick exit. Maybe sneak out of the room and pretend this never happened.

But before he can even attempt a graceful getaway, he feels a sharp pressure on his arm, and a voice—your voice—cuts through the noise like a knife.

“Jeonghan. Now.”

There’s no mistaking the authority in your tone, the same tone you’ve always used when you were determined to get something done, to make sure things went your way. He doesn't even need to look up to know that your eyes are narrowed with a familiar intensity.

He’s being dragged down the hall, his feet barely keeping up with the determined pace you set as you pull him into a small, secluded room just off the main conference area. The door shuts with a definitive thud behind them, and it’s as if the air in the room thickens, suffocating him.

You whirl around, closing the distance between you with a look of pure exasperation on your face. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Your voice is low, but it still carries the bite of someone who’s been wronged. “Wearing that ridiculous sweater—here—of all places. You knew I’d be in charge today. You knew I’d be in this room. So why? Why would you do that?”

Jeonghan, on the other hand, is trying to appear unbothered—but inside, his mind is spinning. He's suddenly very aware of how small this room feels, how close you are, how everything about you is pulling him into a vortex of confusion he does not want to be in. But outwardly, he’s just... smirking. Of course. Because what else can he do but pretend this whole thing is no big deal?

"Why would I wear a sweater to throw you off?" His voice is as nonchallent as he can muster, the words coming out cockier than he intends. With a shrug, he adds, "With or without it, you always said I was hard to ignore, didn't you?"

He sees your face twitch, your eyes narrowing further, and something about the way you stare at him makes his breath catch. Shit.

He's panicking. He's trying to hold it together, trying to keep that sharp edge in his voice, but the truth is, looking at you right now - it's like nothing's changed. It's like he's still that idiot who'd fall for you in a heartbeat. The way your gaze locks with his, the way your presence fills up the room, makes his insides twist.

It makes his chest ache.

But you don't get to know that, not anymore.

So, instead, he leans back against the door with his arms crossed, letting the smirk stretch wider on his lips. “I mean, really. Look at you.” He gestures to your perfectly tailored suit. “You’re the one who seems all riled up. Could it be that you're the one trying to throw me off? Hmm?"

You open your mouth, about to fire back some scathing retort, but Jeonghan watches your shoulders stiffen instead. You exhale a slow breath, something like frustration flickering behind your eyes.

“Jeonghan,” you begin, voice dangerously calm now, but still carrying that edge, “I’m serious. You are not making this easy. I’m just trying to do my job, and you’re in here, wearing... that. I swear to God, are you doing this on purpose?”

“Would it even matter if I was?” Jeonghan raises an eyebrow, his tone light, casual, as if he doesn't feel like he’s one stupid comment away from completely combusting. “It’s not like I care what you think about my sweater. It's a free country, and I like a little colour in my life, alright?” He shrugs again, even though inside he's a mess. A nervous wreck. A miserable wreck. “You don’t get to dictate my wardrobe.”

But God, every word he says feels like it's coming out of his mouth without his permission. He watches you, sees the flicker of something that’s almost like frustration—and he can't stand it. He really can’t stand the way you're looking at him right now. He’s never been good at being calm when it comes to you.

You shake your head, running a hand through your hair in that way that’s more exasperated than anything else. “I don’t know why you do this. Why do you always make everything so complicated?”

And that’s it. Jeonghan’s breath catches, and something cracks in his chest. 

He doesn’t even know why he’s here, trying to push you away with all these stupid jokes and sarcastic comments. You’re still the one who holds all the strings in this game. Even now, even after everything, he’s still just as tangled up in you as he was back then.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, his voice finally losing its bravado. His arms uncross, and he takes a slow step toward you, his gaze falling to the ground for just a moment before he looks up again. “I guess I just can’t help myself.”

You blink, visibly taken aback, and for just a second—just a second—there’s a softening in your expression. A flicker of something.

He’s about to say something—anything—to regain his composure, but then the door swings open, and a voice from the hallway shatters the fragile moment.

“Hey, is everything alright in here?”

Jeonghan’s chest tightens again, and he forces himself to turn, pulling away from you with a rueful glance. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” he says, the sarcasm back in full force. “Just having a lovely chat about fashion choices."

As you move past him toward the door, your eyes lock for just a split second, and Jeonghan can’t help but wonder if this is where everything starts unravelling again.

The door closes behind you with a quiet click, leaving Jeonghan alone in the empty room, the weight of his own confusion pressing down on him like a suffocating cloud.

He breathes out a shaky laugh. What the hell is he even doing?

Jeonghan's never been good at avoiding things - especially you. But he's trying. Really trying. 

The second he steps into the office, he practically sprints to his desk, eyes darting across the room like he’s in a spy movie and not just trying to avoid his ex at his place of employment.

It’s a solid plan. A foolproof plan.

Except, of course, the universe hates him.

“Hey, Jeonghan, did you see that email from accounting?”

He freezes.

His heart does that stupid, traitorous thing again—racing a little too fast, a little too obvious. He forces a smile, carefully ignoring the fact that you just happened to walk by at that exact moment.

And, of course, he hears you before he sees you.

The sound of your heels clicking against the floor—the same precise rhythm only you have—cuts through the noise like some cruel reminder that he’s fighting a battle he’s already lost.

“No, I didn’t,” he replies, voice too tight, too controlled. He stares at his screen, ignoring how your gaze flickers toward him for just a split second. His palms are sweating again, but he’s good at pretending.

He doesn’t even glance up at you.

Not yet.

By some miracle, Jeonghan makes it through the rest of the week relatively unscathed. He’s been ducking behind desks, taking suspiciously long coffee breaks, and strategically avoiding eye contact like it’s an Olympic sport.

But, of course, his luck has limits.

And today, at the all-hands meeting, he knows he’s finally reached the end of the track.

Everyone from both companies is gathered in the conference hall, waiting for the latest updates on the merger, and Jeonghan?

He is mentally checked out.

Completely.

He’s sitting at the very back of the room, scrolling through his phone, barely registering the corporate bullshit being discussed at the front. He’s safe. He’s comfortable.

Until—

"Jeonghan, would you mind coming up to give an update on the latest project?”

Joshua’s voice cuts through the room like a gunshot.

Jeonghan’s entire soul leaves his body.

His head snaps up, panic settling in his bones.

And then—oh, no.

Because there you are.

Sitting right in the front row.

And you’re looking directly at him.

Your eyes flick over to him, slow, deliberate, the way a cat might look at a bird right before it destroys it for sport.

Then, just to make it worse, you raise an eyebrow.

And smirk.

Not now.

Jeonghan stands up, legs way too stiff, shoulders squared like he’s heading into battle. He’s trying to look professional, trying to appear composed, but all he can think about is you.

You, sitting there with your arms crossed, wearing the exact same expression you always used to give him whenever he was desperately trying to impress you.

And the worst part?

It almost works.

Almost.

Standing at the podium, Jeonghan realizes immediately that he has made a mistake.

A huge mistake.

Because he cannot focus.

His brain is full of static noise.

The slides? No idea. The project? What even is a project? His own name? Questionable.

He starts talking—kind of. Words are coming out, but he’s not sure they mean anything.

Somewhere, in the distance, Joshua looks like he’s re-evaluating their entire friendship.

Meanwhile, Jeonghan’s mind keeps veering off track.

Because you’re there.

Right there.

Arms still crossed, head tilted, eyes locked onto him with that look. The look that says impress me. The look that used to make him try harder. The look that used to make his entire day.

And it is so distracting.

He stumbles through the rest of the presentation, barely making sense, barely keeping himself together, barely resisting the urge to die on the spot.

By the time he finally scurries back to his seat, he hears it—

The faintest whisper of laughter.

From you.

And it’s all he can do not to scream.

The Friday team dinner is supposed to be a casual affair. Just a bunch of coworkers, bonding over overpriced appetizers and painfully forced small talk. No stakes. No tension. Chill.

Except, Jeonghan has this suspicion—no, this certainty—that the universe has personally taken offense to his existence and is now actively trying to ruin him.

He walks into the restaurant and immediately spots you. Of course, you're sitting at the head of the table like you own the place. Everyone else has already sat down, their conversation filling the air with a hum of disinterested chatter. Jeonghan spots the seat that was “reserved” for him—right next to you.

“Hey, Jeonghan, come join us!” Joshua waves him over cheerfully, all but pushing him to the only empty seat at the table.

The thought of sitting next to you—of having to endure hours of the same damn tension—makes his stomach churn. But what can he do? He can’t just ... stand there and look like an idiot.

So, with a carefully hidden sigh, Jeonghan accepts his fate.

His steps are slow and deliberate as he slides into the chair, forcing a perfectly polite smile as he does. He keeps his gaze fixed ahead, not looking at you, not acknowledging the fact that you are literally right there.

But he doesn’t have to look—he feels you turn toward him. He knows you’re watching.

And then—

“Fancy seeing you here.”

The words are light, playful—too casual. But the way you say it? The way you pause just long enough to make sure he knows you’re enjoying this?

Jeonghan opens his mouth to say something snappy, something clever to deflect the growing weight between them, but instead, he just smiles—tiredly, like he’s given up trying to fight the inevitable.

“Yeah. Guess we’re stuck together again.”

He flicks a glance around the table, where everyone is too absorbed in their own conversations to notice the invisible battlefield currently forming between the two of you. But Jeonghan notices. He notices everything.

And worse, so do you.

You hum, tilting your head slightly. “I didn’t think you were the type to shy away from good company.”

There’s a bite to it. A slight challenge. A reminder of the way you two used to talk before—when the teasing was easy, when the tension was intentional.

Jeonghan exhales through his nose, willing himself to stay composed.

“Depends on the company,” he mutters, aiming for casual, but it doesn’t quite land. Not when his pulse is pounding in his ears, not when his fingers are gripping the edge of the table a little too tightly.

For a moment, there’s silence—just the lingering weight of his words.

Then, instead of responding, you just smirk and turn back to the person beside you, amusement flickering in your eyes like a silent victory.

Jeonghan barely makes it through the rest of the meal.

The conversation around him blurs into meaningless chatter, and the food tastes like cardboard because how the hell is he supposed to focus on anything when you’re right there—close enough that if he so much as shifts, his knee might brush against yours, close enough that he can still smell your perfume, close enough that every time you laugh, something in his chest tightens stupidly, unfairly, uncontrollably.

He tries so hard to focus on his plate, on anything other than you.

But his mind keeps slipping—back to old memories, back to the way you used to look at him, back to the way things were before he ruined it.

And it hits him, all at once.

How much he’s still invested in this ridiculous, unspoken battle.

How much he’s still hoping for something that’s already gone.

How impossible it is to pretend like you’re just another coworker at a casual Friday dinner when the truth is—

You’re still the only person in the room that matters.

Things take a turn for the worse.

It starts innocently enough—a vague email from his superior that’s equal parts informative and infuriating, letting him know that he’s going to be working with you on a new project. A crucial one. Something about "collaboration being key to success." 

Jeonghan can feel his blood pressure spike just reading it.

For a moment, he considers drafting a quick email to HR—maybe something professional, like:

Subject: Urgent Request Regarding Project Assignment Body: Please, for the sake of workplace productivity (and my personal sanity), put a clause in the merger agreement ensuring that Y/n and I never have to be in the same room again. Ever. Thanks.

But of course, that would be unprofessional.

So instead, Jeonghan settles for the next best thing: avoidance.

He doesn’t look at you in the office. Keeps his distance like you’re a literal bomb ticking in the corner.

But there’s no avoiding it now.

He shows up to the morning meeting, already bracing himself for the collision of chaos that’s about to unfold.

“Jeonghan, you and Y/n will handle the creative direction,” Joshua announces, voice bright and cheerful like he isn’t actively ruining Jeonghan’s life.

Jeonghan forces a smile, the kind that could probably be classified as a threat in some countries. “Great. Thrilled.”

When he finally dares to glance your way, he catches it—

The look.

Just the briefest flicker of amusement in your eyes, like you know exactly how much this is going to drive him insane.

“Just like old times, huh?” you muse, sipping your coffee, your voice smooth—too smooth.

Yeah. He hates how his stomach flips at that.

The first meeting to discuss the project is, to put it mildly, a disaster.

“Let’s start by deciding on the key themes,” you say, flipping open your laptop and pulling up a presentation.

Your eyes flicker toward him, expectant.

He shrugs it off, trying to stay neutral, focusing on the screen. “Yeah, sure.” He types quickly, trying to keep his fingers from betraying him.

Your hands brush ever-so-slightly as you both reach for the same document on the table, and for a brief second, Jeonghan feels that electric connection between you. The old chemistry that used to make every second with you feel like he was walking on fire. The kind of chemistry that used to make his pulse race. And now? He feels it all over again, like it’s been reawakened.

You pull your hand back fast, but the moment hangs in the air, heavy and undeniable. No words. But Jeonghan can see it in your eyes—annoyance.

Of course, you’re annoyed.

Because this? This thing between you? It’s still there. It’s always been there.

And neither of you know what the hell to do about it.

The project moves forward, takes shape, but so does the tension between you two.

“I think we should go with a more minimalist aesthetic,” Jeonghan suggests, his voice casual, but he knows the words are loaded.

You look at him over the rim of your coffee cup, eyes narrowing slightly. “Minimalist?” you repeat, incredulous. “Jeonghan, that’s your go-to for everything.”

“And?” he replies smoothly. “It works.”

“It’s predictable,” you shoot back, leaning forward. “You’ve been stuck in that box for ages. It’s time to try something different.” There’s the challenge. There’s the dig. Jeonghan can feel his temper flare, bubbling under the surface.

“You think you know better?” He’s a little too sharp, but it’s impossible to hold back. 

And there it is again.

That look.

The one that always made his chest tighten. The challenge. The fire. The heat. It makes his heart beat too fast, and for a split second, he’s there again, back in that night.

It’s late. The air is thick with everything you’ve both avoided saying for God knows how long. The tiny apartment is a disaster: takeout boxes strewn across the counter, half-finished projects littering the floor like ghosts of attempts never fully made.

“You never talk about what’s going on with you, Jeonghan!” You’re on your feet, pacing now, voice rising with frustration. “It’s like you’re a wall! A goddamn wall I can’t break down!”

“I’m fine,” he mutters, but even he can hear how empty it sounds. His jaw’s clenched, eyes hard as stone. “Everything’s fine.”

“No, it’s not!” You slam your hands down on the table with a force that rattles everything in the room. Anger, frustration, everything spilling out like a dam that’s finally cracked. “You shut me out every time, Jeonghan. Every time! And I’m so damn tired of it! I feel like I'm the only one holding this together."

A breathy, almost humourless chuckle escapes him, but his voice stays flat, defensive. "That's not fair."

"No?" You glare at him, hurt flashing across your face like a strike of lightning. "Then tell me, when was the last time you actually tried, Jeonghan? To show up - to be here, with me, instead of just ... floating through this like it's some casual thing?"

His jaw tightens. "That's not-"

You cut him off, standing up straight now, fire in your eyes. “I tell you things, and I don’t even know if you’re listening half the time. You joke when I’m being serious. You shut down the second anything real comes up. And I—” You stop yourself, voice cracking, barely holding it together.

His fingers curl into the hem of his shirt—the same way they always do when he’s trying to keep something inside. But still, he stays silent.

And maybe that silence hurts more than anything.

"Just say something," you whisper, your voice barely there, exhaustion bleeding into every word. "Anything."

Jeonghan exhales sharply, shaking his head like he’s already decided he doesn’t know how to fix this. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t want you to say anything—I want you to mean it.”

That hits him. Hard. He knows it’s true—he’s been so closed off for so long, pretending everything’s fine, and maybe it never was.

“I don’t need you to fix me,” he says, his voice colder than it should be, every word sharp like glass. “I just need you to stop pushing.”

You let out a dry, humourless laugh, nodding to yourself like you’ve heard it a thousand times. "Okay," you whisper, voice barely a breath. "Got it."

You stand, grabbing your coat, your bag—anything to keep your hands busy, your mind elsewhere. Jeonghan stays sitting, motionless, like maybe if he doesn’t move, none of this will be real.

And that only makes it worse. 

His voice finally breaks the silence, quiet but cutting. "So that's it?"

You freeze for half a second, then shake your head, slow. "No, Jeonghan. You ended this way before I ever did."

His breath hitches, just slightly, just enough for you to notice - but it's not enough. He doesn't stop you.

Doesn't ask you to stay.

Doesn't fight for it.

So you walk away, closing the door softly behind you. 

Jeonghan blinks, pushing the memory back as quickly as it came. The sting is still there, lingering under his skin, burning. 

"Maybe you're right," he mutters, forcing his focus back on the task at hand, pretending it’s not tearing him up inside. "I'll rethink the design."

You meet his gaze for a beat, something flickering in your eyes—satisfaction, maybe—but you don’t say a word.

The office is quiet.

Late-night quiet. The kind of quiet that settles in your bones, heavy and unmoving. The kind that makes you feel like if you breathe too loudly, you might disturb something fragile—something that’s been stretched too thin, waiting to break.

Most of the team has already left, abandoning their desks for the promise of sleep, leaving behind the low hum of fluorescent lights and the rhythmic click of Jeonghan’s fingers against the keyboard.

The project drags on, never-ending, details shifting like sand. But Jeonghan isn’t really focused on any of that anymore.

His mind keeps wandering.

His eyes keep drifting to you, sitting across from him, scribbling furiously on a notepad, the stack of papers in front of you growing steadily higher.

You’ve barely spoken since the argument earlier that afternoon—sharp words and stubborn silences widening the already vast distance between you. And Jeonghan is starting to wonder if this… whatever fragile truce exists between you, is about to snap.

Still, he can’t help but watch you.

The way your brow furrows in concentration. The way you bite the edge of your pen, like it’s the only thing tethering you to the room.

You look up suddenly. Your gaze meets his, and for a second, everything in the room goes still. His stomach flips.

His fingers still over the keyboard, his breath catching just enough for him to feel pathetic about it.

“Jeonghan,” you say, your voice quiet, almost tentative. “You ever think about how we used to joke about working these ridiculous hours and still getting paid like it’s a 9-to-5?”

The words catch him off guard.

Like a memory materializing out of nowhere—late nights spent in this very same office, takeout boxes stacked on the desk, laughter echoing between you as you made fun of the corporate grind, passing time with inside jokes and shared exhaustion.

His lips twitch before he can stop them. Without thinking, he mutters, “Yeah, we used to joke that if we worked this much overtime, we’d need to start paying rent here.”

You grin—a small, genuine smile. One that shouldn’t affect him as much as it does.

And just like that, for a second, it’s like no time has passed at all.

You sigh, leaning back in your chair, and Jeonghan catches the way your eyes soften just a bit. “I miss that,” you say, voice distant, almost melancholic. “I really miss that.”

The words are quiet. Honest.

They land between you with the kind of weight Jeonghan doesn’t know what to do with.

His heart skips, hope flaring in his chest before it’s immediately smothered by the cold, logical certainty that he’s taught himself to live with.

You miss that.

The late nights. The way things used to be. The version of you that existed before everything fell apart.

You don’t mean him.

And still—still, Jeonghan is stupid enough to want to believe it, even for a second.

You exhale, shaking your head slightly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought that up.” You hesitate, fingers absentmindedly tapping against the table again. “I just… I don’t know.”

You pause, and when you speak again, your voice is quieter, more uncertain.

“The merger, everything… it’s been a lot to handle. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. If I’m really where I’m supposed to be.”

Jeonghan freezes, his thoughts swirling. Your voice is quiet, almost vulnerable in a way that he hasn’t heard in a long time. He hasn't heard this from you in a long time—not this version of you, the one with the mask cracked, revealing something deeper, something real.

Before he can think too much about it, the words leave his mouth.

“I think you’re doing just fine.”

Your gaze flicks up to meet his, startled.

His voice is steady, but his heart isn’t. He leans forward slightly—like he wants to get closer, but knows better.

“You’re good at what you do,” he says, softer now.

You shake your head, a humourless laugh escaping your lips. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just faking it. I thought I had it all figured out, but...” You hesitate, glancing down at your hands, clasped tightly in front of you. “But I don’t. Not anymore.”

And God.

The way your voice cracks. The way your words linger. The way you sound so tired, so uncertain, so—

So much like him.

Something twists in Jeonghan’s chest, sharp and unforgiving.

He wants to fix it. He wants to reach across the table, to close the distance between you, to say something—anything—to make it better.

But he knows he can’t.

He knows he shouldn’t.

So instead, he just says—quieter than before—

“I think… I think you’ve always known exactly what you’re doing. Even when you doubt yourself.”

Your gaze softens, and for the first time in a long while, you smile—a small, bittersweet thing.

A smile that isn’t just for him—it’s for everything that came before.

For the memories.

For the version of you that once existed together.

For something that will never fully fade.

The realization creeps in slowly, settling into his bones like a weight he can’t shake.

Jeonghan is still in love with you.

Deeply, hopelessly, impossibly in love with you.

And maybe—maybe—he never stopped.

Maybe all this time, he’s been pretending. Trying to convince himself that the past is over. That whatever was between you is gone.

But now?

Now he knows the truth.

The past isn’t gone. Not for him.

And you?

You’ve moved on. You’ve found your place. Built a life without him in it.

You’ve figured it out. And maybe—maybe—that’s something Jeonghan can’t do.

Not without you.

He exhales shakily, the weight of the truth pressing on his chest.

He doesn’t say anything.

He can’t.

Because there’s nothing left to say.

He looks at you one last time. His gaze lingers, and he knows.

Deep down, he knows.

You’re not his anymore.

On paper, the company retreat probably sounded like a good idea—team bonding, trust-building exercises, maybe even a temporary escape from the soul-crushing chaos of the merger.

In practice?

Jeonghan is one minor inconvenience away from throwing himself into the nearest ravine.

First, Joshua confiscated the small tumbler of gin he’d carefully smuggled in ("It’s literally a wellness retreat, Jeonghan." / "And alcohol would greatly improve my well-being, Joshua.").

Then, he tripped over a cursed log in the middle of the path, landing straight into a muddy ditch and missing out on all the good barbecue meat while he scrambled for a change of clothes.

And now he’s been paired with you for a “group hiking activity”, which is apparently supposed to teach teamwork.

The others have already split into their little groups, laughing, chatting, pretending like they’re not all secretly praying for a sudden earthquake to whisk them away from this corporate nightmare.

Meanwhile, Jeonghan is silently suffering, trailing behind you, doing his absolute best to not notice how good you look in your hiking gear.

He isn't sure it can get much worse, until the storm hits.

At first, it’s just a slight drizzle—barely worth acknowledging, but still enough to dampen his already miserable spirits.

Then, as the group ventures deeper into the woods, the rain turns into a full-on downpour—the kind that drowns out everything else, hammering against the trail, soaking through his clothes in seconds.

"Oh, shit, let’s find shelter!" you call ahead.

Before Jeonghan can even process what’s happening, you grab his arm—your fingers wrapping around his wrist, firm and unthinking—and pull him toward the only visible structure in sight: a small, semi-constructed shed at the edge of the clearing.

The storm is coming down so hard now that it’s impossible to hear anything over the roar of the rain.

By the time you both stumble inside, dripping and breathless, Jeonghan already knows—

This?

This is about to be a problem.

The shed is even smaller than it looked from the outside.

It’s barely holding itself together—nothing but a few sharp-looking tools hanging on the walls, broken pots stacked in precarious piles, and a couple of empty barrels.

Oh.

And you.

Standing so close that Jeonghan can feel the heat radiating off your body, the storm trapping you way too close for way too long.

He doesn’t mean to stare, but—

Your clothes are soaked, clinging to your skin. Your breathing is steady but deep, the rhythm oddly calming, almost hypnotic.

Jeonghan swallows.

This is fine.

It’s totally fine.

Just a normal work retreat. Normal rain. Normal amount of completely ignoring the fact that every single nerve in his body is currently hyper-aware of how close you are.

Your chest brushes against his, the warmth of your body a gentle pressure as you close the space between you. His breath hitches at the proximity, your exhale a soft whisper against his skin. Your arm extends, reaching for something Jeonghan doesn’t even register anymore; all he can focus on is the heat radiating from you, the way you glance at him with that look, that steady, determined gaze that’s always made his heart flutter.

"You should know," you murmur, your voice barely more than a breath, the words hanging between you with an intensity that makes his pulse quicken. Your eyes flicker to his lips for a moment, before meeting his gaze once more, unwavering and focused. "I'm very determined when it comes to getting what's mine."

His heart stutters, caught somewhere in his chest as your words settle into the space between you. His breath is stolen by the closeness, the silent weight of the moment. His hand instinctively lowers, his fingers brushing against yours in a fleeting touch. The briefest of touches. Barely a graze.

You notice the shift, the slight tremor in his fingers, and your breath catches too, your eyes darkening with something he can’t quite name. And in the next heartbeat, you pull your book free from his grasp with a soft, triumphant laugh, a sound that echoes in his chest as you take a step back, dancing with victory. Jeonghan stands frozen for a moment, watching you with a quiet, stunned smile playing on his lips. The adventure, the chase—none of it compares to this. Watching you, in this small, victorious moment, he’s certain he’s never seen anything quite as beautiful.

Jeonghan shifts uncomfortably, scanning the shed like maybe, if he glares at it long enough, it will magically expand and offer him a dignified escape.

It does not.

The only space available is the narrowest possible gap between a stack of old crates and a wall of wood, and it is still far too close for comfort.

Fantastic.

“Great,” he mutters, avoiding your gaze like it might set off another chain reaction of unwanted nostalgia. “What now?”

You let out a small laugh, clearly too entertained by his suffering. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Jeonghan dares a glance at you—just a quick one—but you’re already busy adjusting the collar of your soaked jacket, trying to make yourself a little less miserable.

He exhales slowly, forcibly fixing his focus on the floor.

It’s not that he can’t handle being near you.

He can.

Or at least, that’s what he’s been telling himself for weeks.

But what really messes with him is how his heart picks up speed every time you’re close. How his chest tightens, like it’s about to implode under the weight of everything unsaid.

And then he says it. Because he's an idiot.

“Why is it always you?”

The words leave his mouth before he can stop them. A little too sharp. A little too bitter.

But he doesn’t take them back.

Because, seriously—every single time something goes wrong, somehow, you are there. As if the universe gets some kind of sick joy out of watching him suffer.

You look at him then, the same sharp expression flickering in your eyes. “You think I want to be stuck in here with you?” you shoot back. “I didn’t exactly sign up for this either, you know.”

And, well. Fair point.

Still—

uJeonghan can’t help but laugh, low and humorless. “You’re right. I did miss this,” he drawls, sarcasm thick enough to choke on. “The chemistry. The—” he waves a hand between you, his smirk lazy, “—tension. It’s great.”

You roll your eyes, unimpressed. "Is this really how we're going to do this? Right now? You just can't help yourself, can you?"

He stiffens, a retort biting at his tongue, but he holds it back. The old banter—the biting sarcasm—is supposed to be a defense mechanism. A way to keep the walls up. But there’s no denying it now. The walls are crumbling, and so is he.

You speak again, your voice softer this time. “Jeonghan…” The way you say his name, it feels different than before, less confrontational, more—careful.

He doesn’t want to acknowledge how much that does to him. 

“Maybe we should talk about it,” you continue, your voice steady but gentler now. “Before it blows up in the middle of a meeting.”

Jeonghan’s breath catches.

It’s too much, too fast. The walls he’s been desperately keeping up are crumbling, and he knows that once they’re gone—really gone—there’s no putting them back up.

His pulse jumps, the back of his neck heating, a cold sweat creeping in.

A conversation like this—the one he’s been avoiding forever—feels like something he should run from.

And now that it’s here, he doesn’t know how to approach it.

He opens his mouth.

Then closes it.

Because he’s not sure if he’s afraid of the past being dragged back into the light—

Or if he’s terrified of what it will mean to finally face the truth.

The truth about what happened between you, about how it ended, how he ended it.

“You think it’s really a good idea to talk about this now?” he manages to say, his voice quieter than usual. He’s trying to keep his cool, but the tremor in his voice betrays him.

His hands tighten at his sides—a futile attempt to hold himself together.

You stand still, your gaze never wavering from his. "Is there ever a good time, Jeonghan?"you ask, voice firm but achingly soft. "It’s been months. We’ve been walking around like we’re strangers, and yet here we are, stuck in this damn shed, acting like the last time we spoke didn’t mean anything.”

The words hit him like a punch to the chest. He’s been pretending, hasn’t he? Pretending the silence between you didn’t matter, that the weight of your absence wasn’t suffocating him. That the ache in his chest wasn’t still yours.

But it was.

It is.

And as much as he hates it, he knows that now. He knows it because of the way his heart clenches at the sound of your voice, the way his breath catches when your eyes meet his.

There’s no pretending anymore.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Jeonghan admits, his voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t know how to handle it. Everything was changing so fast, and I just… I shut down. I pushed you away when you needed me most.”

You don’t respond right away.

For a long moment, it feels like time stops, like the storm outside has swallowed up everything but this—this moment, this space, this thing between you that refuses to die.

Then—finally, softly—

“You didn’t push me away, Jeonghan.”

The way you say it—it’s not angry. Not sharp. Just tired.

“You just… withdrew,” you continue, your voice carrying the weight of something unspoken. “You closed off in a way I couldn’t reach you anymore. I tried—God, I tried so hard. But you were so distant, so quiet.”

Your eyes meet his again, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let your guard down.

“I never understood why,” you murmur. “Why you couldn’t just talk to me. Why you couldn’t let me in.”

Jeonghan swallows hard.

Because how does he explain it?

He wants to say something, to explain, but the words feel inadequate, like a poor substitute for everything that’s been left unsaid. How could he explain that he was terrified? Terrified of how much you meant to him, terrified of what it would mean to feel everything he’d been holding back.

And in the end, he’d chosen the only defense mechanism he knew: silence.

“I’m sorry.”

The words barely escape his lips, a whisper, a confession, a wound reopening.

He takes a step closer before he can second-guess himself, his voice trembling.

“I was scared,” he admits, the truth cracking through his composure. “I didn’t know how to open up. I thought if I let myself feel too much… I’d lose everything.”

His voice is hoarse, stripped bare in a way he never allows. The floodgates have opened now, and the words won’t stop coming.

"You were always the one, you know," he continues, voice uneven. "I spent so long convincing myself that losing you was better than hurting you. But I never asked what you wanted."

He exhales, a bitter laugh catching in his throat. “I never stopped to think that maybe not fighting for us was the thing that hurt you the most.”

The words settle between you like an exhale—heavy and fragile all at once.

Jeonghan can barely believe he’s saying it.

But he’s made the mistake of staying silent once before.

He won’t make it again.

His heart is pounding so loudly now, drowning out the storm outside, the rush of blood in his ears making it impossible to think about anything except this.

His hand twitches at his side, caught between reaching for you and knowing he has no right to.

But then—

Your fingers brush against his.

It’s barely anything. Just the smallest, hesitant press of warmth against his skin. But it wrecks him.

His breath shallows, chest tightening, lips parting slightly as his body leans in, as if drawn by some unseen force. He's not thinking about anything else. Just you. Just this. 

And then, you move closer, just an inch, and his pulse spikes, his lips parting slightly, the ache to close the distance between you almost too much to bear.

"Tell me to move," he murmurs, voice so quiet it barely exists between you. "Tell me to stop, and I swear I’ll never do this again."

A pause.

A heartbeat.

A lifetime.

"But if you don’t…" His voice drops lower, barely a whisper. "I don’t think I can pretend anymore."

Your eyes flicker from his to his lips.

And Jeonghan knows this moment. He’s felt this moment before—the slow, aching pull, the gravity between you, the kind of anticipation that makes his head spin.

Maybe this time.

Maybe this time, you’ll—

Your breath catches.

Something shifts behind your eyes.

Hesitation. Uncertainty. Regret.

And then—you take half a step back. Just enough to break the spell. Just enough to make Jeonghan’s chest hollow out.

Your fingers slip from his, as if the moment had never happened.

"I can’t," you murmur, voice barely steady. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, grounding yourself. “Jeonghan… I’m not ready to go back there. Not yet.”

The words are quiet, but they land like a blow.

Not cruel. Not harsh.

But final.

Jeonghan doesn’t say anything, not at first.

He lets the silence fill the space instead.

Because he gets it.  The weight of the past is too much. Too much to dive back into. Too soon.

You search his face for something—answers, reassurance, something neither of you know how to give.

He forces himself to swallow past the tightness in his throat.

"I understand." His voice is softer now, tinged with something dangerously close to heartbreak.

“I didn’t expect you to be.” He exhales slowly, carefully. “I just… I needed you to know. I never stopped thinking about you.”

The storm rages on outside, but inside this moment, it’s quieter than it has been in months.

And as Jeonghan watches you turn away, watches your fingers curl slightly, like you’re fighting the urge to reach for him—

His own fingers curl at his sides.

The ghost of your touch still lingering.

Jeonghan can tell you're wasted the second he hears the knock at his door.

It's an uneven, erratic tap—like you’re struggling to find the rhythm of it, like the way you’re standing is fighting against whatever balance you thought you had. It’s nothing like the usual grace you carry, the poised, deliberate way you do everything.

His first instinct? Don’t answer.

Maybe if he ignores it, you’ll turn on your heel and trudge back to your room, drunk enough to collapse into bed and forget whatever reckless idea brought you here in the first place.

Maybe that would be the best option—save both of you from whatever petty revenge you’ve decided he deserves.

His fingers hover over the door handle.

He can hear you on the other side—your breath, shallow and unsteady, like you’re bracing yourself.

He knows he should stay inside. Let you figure it out on your own.

But of course, he doesn’t do that.

He’s never been good at resisting you.

With a soft sigh, he opens the door, half-expecting a drunken rant about how terrible he is, how he's probably ruined your life, again. You've always had a sharp tongue when you were upset, and he's sure that alcohol is only going to fuel it more.

But when the door swings open, the sight that greets him is nothing like he expected.

You’re swaying slightly, cheeks flushed from alcohol, eyes hazy but burning with something Jeonghan can’t quite place.

And then, there’s the smile—mischievous, reckless.

The kind of smile that makes his pulse spike for all the wrong reasons.

"You know," you slur, voice low and playful, "I've been thinking about you all evening."

Jeonghan freezes, the words hanging between you like a strange, insistent pull. He was expecting anger. Accusations. Anything but this.

He clears his throat, tries to steady himself. "Uh—you're really drunk right now." His voice is careful, measured. "Maybe you should go back to your room."

You don’t listen.

Instead, you take a slow step forward, swaying just enough for Jeonghan to notice how unsteady you are, how the world is just a little too much for you to handle right now.

Your fingers brush the front of his shirt, then slide up to his collar, curling lightly around the fabric.

"Don’t you miss me?" Your voice softens, the playful edge gone, replaced by something rawer. "Don’t you ever think about what we could've had? I know I do."

Jeonghan’s stomach lurches, and a sudden wave of panic sweeps through him.

His first instinct is to back away. Create space. Put distance between you and this mess of a moment.

But he looks at you again, really looks at you, and what he sees wrecks him. Because behind the alcohol, behind the reckless smirk, behind the dangerously soft voice—

There’s desperation.

The same raw, aching need he’s spent months forcing himself to suppress.

“No,” he says quickly, shaking his head, his voice more strained than he intends. “You’re drunk. This isn’t—this isn’t the right time for this.”

You laugh, but it’s not light. It’s not amused.

You laugh, but it’s not a light laugh. It’s heavy with something else, something he can’t quite decipher. “So you’re saying I don’t know what I want? Or maybe you don’t know what you want?”

The words sting more than they should. It’s like you’ve taken all the walls he’s spent so long building around himself and torn them down in one shot. The thought of you, standing here and waiting for him, the weight of your gaze—he can't ignore it. But it's not right to give in, either. Not like this.

He takes a step back, his hands instinctively raising to create space between the two of you. “You don’t mean this. You’re not thinking straight right now.”

You reach for him again, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him a little closer than he’s comfortable with.

He can feel your breath on his skin, warm and uneven, and the tension in the air is suffocating. Every instinct in him is telling him to kiss you, to lean into the dangerous edge between the two of you and let it all unravel.

Your voice is heavy, thick with something undeniable, something Jeonghan wants so badly it hurts.

“I’ve missed you,” you murmur, fingers tightening against his chest. “I need you.”

Jeonghan’s heart is pounding in his chest, but he knows—

If he gives in now, this moment won’t be what he wants it to be.

It won’t be real.

Not in the way it should be.

“No."

The word comes out raw, heavier than he expected.

Your face falls, disappointment flashing across your features before the alcohol muddles your expression again.

But Jeonghan holds his ground, even as his heart aches in his chest. You deserved more than this, more than a careless, drunken mistake.

“I don’t want to take advantage of you,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “I care about you too much for that.”

For a long moment, you don’t say anything. Just stand there, swaying a little, staring at him. Jeonghan watches you, heart pounding in his chest, waiting for something to give. But it doesn’t.

And then, in a quiet voice, you say, "You don’t care about me."

The words are so fragile, barely holding together as they slip past your lips.

Jeonghan flinches.

Because it’s not true. It’s never been true.

"Of course, I care-"

You don't let him finish, the door closing with a slam behind you. The sharp click of the lock echoes through the room, final and unforgiving.

Jeonghan stands there for a long moment, staring at the closed door, his chest too tight to breathe properly.

Then—slowly—he leans against it, closing his eyes, exhaling sharply.

You won’t remember much of this tomorrow.

You won’t remember the way you looked at him, the way your voice trembled when you said you missed him. You won’t remember the way his heart nearly gave out when you touched him.

And Jeonghan—

Jeonghan prays that when the fog of alcohol lifts, you won’t resent him for this.

Jeonghan had spent the weekend stewing in his own thoughts.

The retreat, the storm, the alcohol, the way your fingers curled into his shirt like you needed him—and most of all, the quiet rejection that followed.

It’s all settled into him in ways he doesn’t want to admit.

But one thing is clear through the mess of it all:

You deserved better.

Better than a rain-soaked half-confession. Better than an almost-kiss in the dim light of a cramped shed. Better than standing outside his door, drunk and vulnerable, only to be turned away.

You deserved something real.

So Jeonghan spends the better part of Sunday evening preparing himself.

He rehearses what he’ll say, how he’ll say it, what kind of apology might be enough to make things right. He tells himself that this time, he’s going to be open, that he’s going to stop hiding behind his usual emotional armour.

That he’s not the same man you left behind.

Jeonghan isn't exactly a grand gesture kind of guy, but he figures that flowers might be a good place to start.

So he picks up a small, simple bouquet—a mix of pale pink roses and white lilies. It feels right. Not over-the-top, not desperate. Just… gentle. Sincere.

Something to tell you that he’s serious about this. About you.

About fixing what he broke.

Monday morning. A bouquet. A plan.

Jeonghan walks into the office, bouquet in hand, the familiar weight of anticipation pressing down on his chest.

He hasn’t seen you yet, but he knows you’re here—probably sorting out someone else’s mess, busy fixing problems that aren’t yours to fix.

And besides, the lingering tension between you still hasn’t been resolved. There’s still too much left unsaid.

He weaves through the office, eyes scanning each cubicle, looking for a glimpse of you. Your desk. Your chair. The little personal touches you leave behind.

But when he walks past your workspace, he barely slows down. Because, of course, you wouldn’t be there yet. You’re probably in a meeting or grabbing coffee—

Right?

Jeonghan stops by the coffee machine, hovering near a group of junior associates, waiting for the right moment.

He’s still running through his speech in his head when one of them—clipboard in hand—pauses beside him, eyes flicking to the bouquet with mild curiosity.

"Those are nice," she comments. "Are you bringing them to Y/n?"

Jeonghan blinks.

He’s pretty sure no one saw you leaving his room that night, but maybe word spreads faster than he thought.

"Uh, yeah, I was just—" His voice falters, uncertainty creeping in. "Wait, what do you mean? Are they—?"

The associate raises an eyebrow. “Oh. Didn’t you hear?”

And then, with the casualness of someone delivering a weather report—

"Y/n put in their resignation over the weekend. They’re leaving the company."

The words hit Jeonghan like a punch to the stomach. He feels the air leave his lungs, his body momentarily forgetting how to function. What?

His mind races. No. It can’t be true. You—you wouldn’t just leave. Not without saying something, without—

He forces himself to reply. "When? Why?"

The associate looks a little sheepish, as though she's not sure if she should be saying anything. "I don't know the details. Something about another job, though. It's pretty sudden - just packed up this morning, said goodbye, and - yeah."

This morning.

Jeonghan’s thoughts go numb.

His eyes dart back to the desk he had walked past minutes ago—

The empty desk.

The chair is still there, but everything else is gone. No personal belongings. No little notebooks. No coffee cup. No lingering signs that you’d ever been there at all. Just an empty space. Cold. Unfamiliar.

The associate says something else, but Jeonghan doesn’t hear her.

He barely registers her walking away.

Without thinking, Jeonghan walks swiftly towards your office, although it feels like his legs are moving on their own, his mind detached from his body. He knows he shouldn't chase after you. He has no right. But this - this is different. You're leaving.

When he reaches your office, he knocks once.

Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he pushes the door open.

And what he finds is—

Nothing.

The space is just as empty as your desk had been.

The table is stripped bare. The computer monitor is gone. The air still carries the faintest trace of your perfume, but even that is fading.

Jeonghan just stands there, clutching the flowers in his hand like they're the only thing keeping him tethered to this reality.

And then, the quiet voice he’s been trying so hard to ignore finally makes itself heard: You're too late, again.

Jeonghan slumps into his chair, staring blankly at the computer screen like it might somehow offer him answers.

It doesn’t.

It just sits there—cold, unhelpful—mirroring the hollow ache in his chest.

The bouquet on the corner of his desk is dying a slow, miserable death. The once-vibrant petals are already wilting, drooping under the weight of their own existence, looking just as pathetic as he feels.

He doesn’t realize how much time has passed—how long he’s been sitting there, stuck in the endless spiral of what-ifs—until a voice yanks him back to reality with all the grace of a toddler on a sugar high.

"Jeonghan."

He blinks up, sluggish, seeing Joshua standing over him like some sort of judgmental yet well-meaning ghost, arms crossed and face set in that deeply irritating, all-knowing expression that screams I know exactly what’s going on, and I’m about to make it worse.

Joshua’s eyes flick to the flowers.

Then back to Jeonghan.

Then, like he physically cannot help himself, he smirks.

“Are those for Y/n?”

The words are light, teasing—too casual. But the look in Joshua’s eyes is something else entirely—a mix of sympathy and secondhand embarrassment, the kind that makes Jeonghan want to sink into the floor and never be perceived again.

He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. "Uh, yeah…"

His fingers skim over the petals, careful—like touching them too much might make them fall apart completely. "I was going to give them today. I mean, I did. I wanted to, but…"

His voice trails off, disappearing into the abyss of 'things that aren't going to happen'.

Joshua doesn’t say anything at first.

Instead, he just leans against the desk, watching Jeonghan with the kind of quiet scrutiny that makes his skin itch.

"I told you, man,” Joshua finally sighs, shaking his head. “You have to start reading your emails.”

Jeonghan’s mouth opens—ready to argue, ready to say something, anything—

But nothing comes out.

He’s just so tired.

And so unbelievably stupid.

"I was going to fix it," Jeonghan mutters. The words taste bitter, hollow in his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say them aloud, but there they are. Out in the open. "I was going to apologise. I was going to... to make it right."

Joshua just watches Jeonghan—arms crossed, gaze unreadable—like he’s waiting to see if there’s anything left to say.

When he does speak, his voice is softer. Gentler. Like he’s stepping carefully around fragile ground.

“You know, Jeonghan… Sometimes you can’t wait around for the right moment. Sometimes, you have to make that moment yourself. No one’s gonna do it for you.” He pauses. “And it’s okay to feel bad about it. Hell, I’d be a mess too if I were you.”

Jeonghan lets out a quiet, bitter laugh. "Congrats, Shua. You are me. This is your life now."

Joshua hums thoughtfully. “That’s unfortunate. I’d like a refund.”

Jeonghan huffs out something that almost sounds like amusement—but it dies quickly, sinking beneath the weight pressing against his ribs.

His shoulders sag. His head tilts forward, gaze locked onto the wilting flowers.

"I thought I had time," he murmurs.

Joshua stays quiet. Listening.

"I thought they’d still be there," Jeonghan continues, voice barely above a whisper. "Waiting for me to get my act together."

Silence.

Thick and heavy.

And then—finally—

“I don’t even know if they’ll want to talk to me again.”

Joshua doesn’t hesitate this time.

He just smiles—small, knowing.

“Well,” he says simply, “you won’t know unless you try.”

Jeonghan doesn't get drunk on purpose. He just ... allows the alcohol to win.

Besides, it's the first step in his extremely well-thought-out, definitely-not-drunken plan to win you back. (alternatively titled: The worst idea he's ever had, and that's saying something).

Step One: Drown Your Sorrows Like a Man

One drink? Fine. Two drinks? Even better. Five drinks? You know what? Life is short, and so is his ability to keep a functional relationship. Might as well commit.

By the time he's properly marinated in alcohol and self-pity, Joshua has started looking at him with that face—half pity, half “I should have left you at the bar and gone home.” But it’s fine. Everything’s fine.

“You know what,” Jeonghan slurs, pointing an accusatory finger at his best friend. “I think I gotta— I gotta do something. Something big.”

Joshua sighs. “No, you don’t.”

“I do, actually,” Jeonghan says, deadly serious. “I need Y/n to know I’m a changed man, Joshua.”

Joshua takes a sip of his beer, unbothered. “You are quite literally drunk in a bar, thinking of doing something stupid. So, no, you’re actually the same man.”

Jeonghan glares. “Wow. Negative energy. Get out.”

“This is my apartment.”

“Okay but, like. Metaphorically.”

Joshua shakes his head. “What’s the plan, then? You gonna text her?”

Jeonghan gasps, scandalised. “No. That’s pathetic.”

Joshua sighs in relief.

“No, I’m gonna send a voice message.”

Joshua physically lunges for the phone.

Step Two: Send a Message That Will Definitely Solve Everything

Jeonghan fumbles with his phone, blinking until his vision stabilises enough to find your contact. He hits the audio message button and clears his throat, ready to deliver the most heartfelt, sincere message of his life.

"Heyyyy," he starts. Good start. "I was just thinking. About us. About how we had, like, something special, y'know? And then I was like. Wow. I'm dumb. Like, really dumb. Like, 'couldn't pass a third-grade math test' dumb. But you knew that."

Joshua groans from the kitchen.

"But you liked me anyway. Which is crazy. And so nice of you, actually. You're so nice. The nicest." He hiccups. "And I was thinking. You always used to say that I never fight for anything - which, rude, because I am literally fighting for my life every morning when I wake up. But like, emotionally, you were right. So I'm fighting now. Right now. At this moment."

Pause. Hiccup. Thoughtful silence.

"... Okay, technically, I'm sitting on Joshua's couch. But I mean it. I am spiritually standing up for this relationship."

There's a loud thunk as Jeonghan's knees hit the coffee table from the sheer force he throws his body up with.

Joshua looks up from his phone. "DId you just break my table?"

"Shhhh," Jeonghan waves him off. "Important matters are happening." He brings the phone back to his mouth.

"Anway. Listen. I was bad at the whole relationship thing. But I'm a changed man now. I mean, not right now because I'm drunk, but like, in general, I will be. Probably. Statistically. So like. Call me. Or text. Or send, like, a pigeon, I don't care. But let's talk."

"Wow. That was awful. Are you gonna send it?"

Jeonghan grins. "Oh, it's already gone."

Joshua looks like he wants to throw himself off the balcony. 

Step Three: Online Shopping

Jeonghan, still drunk and now high on the confidence of his definitely good voice message, decides he needs a gift. Something thoughtful. Something sentimental. Something way better than those shitty flowers he's glad you never had to lay eyes on.

And then it hits him. The perfect idea.

"Joshua," he says, tone dead serious. "I need a taxidermy frog."

Joshua looks at him, horrified. "You what?"

"A frog," Jeonghan's fingers are already moving at lightning speed, typing the words into a very shady-looking website. "Y/n loved that stupid frog we saw in that antique shop. Remember? Y/n said it had 'big personality'. They respected that frog."

Joshua looks like he’s physically in pain. “Jeonghan, no—”

“Too late. It’s ordered.”

Joshua stares in disbelief. "You seriously just spent—" He looks at the screen, jaw dropping. "FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS?! ON A DEAD FROG?!"

Jeonghan nods, looking very proud of himself. "Only the best for my love."

"You don't even know if she wants that!"

Jeonghan scoffs. "Joshua. It's a frog. Everyone wants a frog."

Joshua puts his head in his hands. "This is literally why you're single."

Step Four: Pass Out and Let Tomorrow-You Suffer the Consequences

The last thing Jeonghan remembers is a very smug sense of accomplishment.

He has done it. He has made his move. He has sent a heartfelt message. He has made a grand gesture. He is fighting.

He is unstoppable.

…He is also face-down on Joshua’s couch, snoring so loudly the neighbours might call animal control.

The phone, still clutched in his hand, lights up with an incoming notification.

A text.

From you.

Three words.

"Are you serious?"

Jeonghan wakes up feeling like death.

His head is pounding, his mouth drier than the Sahara, and his soul feels like it has been forcibly removed from his body and drop-kicked into the sun. He groans, rolling over onto his side, only to come face-to-face with Joshua, who is standing over him with the look of a man who has seen things.

“…Morning,” Jeonghan croaks, voice wrecked from what he can only assume was a night of tragic decision-making.

Joshua crosses his arms. “Do you remember what you did last night?”

Jeonghan thinks. He remembers alcohol. He remembers emotion. He remembers… Oh God.

His eyes fly open. “I bought a—”

“A $400 taxidermy frog? Yes. Yes, you did.” Joshua gestures to the corner of the room, where, sure enough, a very dead, very wide-eyed frog sits in an equally dead, equally wide-eyed glass case.

Jeonghan stares at it in horror, clutching his blanket like it might protect him from reality. “Oh my God.”

Joshua sighs and pulls out Jeonghan’s phone. “And you sent this,” he says, pressing play on The Message.

Jeonghan has never known true fear until now.

“Heyyyyy…” comes his own very drunk voice, echoing through the apartment like a ghost of his worst mistakes. “Soooooo. I was just thinking. About us. About how we had, like, something special, y'know? And then I was like. Wow. I'm dumb. Like, really dumb. Like—”

Jeonghan slaps the phone out of Joshua’s hand so fast, it skids across the floor. “OKAY. Got it. Yep. Thank you.”

Joshua levels him with a stare. “Oh, you’re welcome. Also, she replied.”

Jeonghan freezes. “She what?”

Joshua pulls up the message, holding it out for him to read.

Are you serious?

He stares. That’s it? No "never speak to me again"? No "please lose my number and also possibly yourself"?

Joshua claps his hands together. “And now, you’re gonna go over."

“What? No, I—” Jeonghan gestures wildly at himself. “I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can,” Joshua interrupts. “You were literally crying over this last night—”

“I wasn’t crying.”

“You sobbed into my hoodie and called me ‘a real one,’ so actually, yes, you were.”

Jeonghan glares. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, so much,” Joshua agrees. Then he gestures to the taxidermy frog still sitting ominously on the table. “Also, you’re bringing that.”

Jeonghan sits up so fast his brain almost leaves his skull. “What?! No! I’m not—this was a drunken mistake!”

Joshua gives him a look. “Yeah? So was letting her walk away the first time. And the second time. And whatever number time we’re on now.”

Jeonghan glares. “I hate you.”

Joshua pats his shoulder. “I know. Now take the frog and go.”

Jeonghan stands in front of your door, frog in hand, deeply regretting everything that has led him to this moment.

There are a lot of ways to win back an ex. A heartfelt apology. A romantic gesture. Literally any option that does not involve showing up at her doorstep, hungover, holding a dead frog in a display case like some kind of unhinged antique salesman.

But here he is.

He exhales, steadying himself. He has to do this. He has to explain everything—how he didn’t know you were working for the merging company, how the pastel sweater was not some dramatic power move, how he’s an idiot (but, like, a reformed idiot now).

Most importantly, he has to fix whatever mess he made last night.

With a deep breath, he knocks.

The door swings open a few seconds later, and there you are—standing there in sweats and an oversized hoodie, looking at him like you knew this day was coming but are still deeply unprepared for it.

Your gaze flickers to the frog. Then back to him. Then back to the frog.

“…No,” you say immediately, trying to shut the door.

Jeonghan wedges his foot in before you can. “Wait, wait, wait,” he pleads, balancing the frog case in his other hand. “Just hear me out.”

You cross your arms, unimpressed. “Are you seriously standing outside my apartment at—” You check the time. “Nine-thirty in the morning holding a stuffed frog?”

Jeonghan shifts awkwardly. “Technically, it’s taxidermy.”

Your expression remains unchanged. “You’re insane.”

“Passionate,” he corrects, trying to smile. “Look, I just… I wanted to talk. Properly. No drunk messages. No misunderstandings. Just—can we?” He gestures vaguely, still holding the frog case like it’s part of the conversation.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Fine. But the frog stays outside.”

Jeonghan pouts. “It has big personality.”

You slam the door in his face.

Five seconds later, you open it again. “Get in.”

Walking into your apartment is surreal.

Mostly because it looks different. Like you took every single thing that might’ve even slightly reminded you of him and threw it into a bonfire. Jeonghan half-expects to see a sage stick burning in the corner, cleansing the air of his scent.

You sit across from him at the kitchen table, arms still crossed, watching him like he's about to unleash another round of chaos. Which is fair.

Jeonghan clears his throat, hands clasped together, like he's in a business meeting and not a shambles of  a man trying to win back the love of his life.

Before he can even begin, you cut in.

“I heard you brought me flowers.”

Joshua, that absolute rat—

"Julie from legal told me."

Ah. That makes more sense.

“Well,” he starts, thrown completely off track. “I figured you might be feeling bad. I just… didn’t think you’d quit before I could even apologise.”

"Yeah, well, I guess it all got a little too much for me."

Jeonghan squints. “So you did quit because of me?”

You level him with a deadpan expression. “Jeonghan. I got a bit tipsy and practically begged you to take my clothes off.”

He blinks. “A bit tipsy seems like an understatement—”

"That doesn't mean much coming from you."

Okay. Fair.

You exhale sharply, rubbing your temples. “Come on, Jeonghan. You felt it too. How could I stay there when every moment, I was bracing myself in case I heard your voice? If every time someone passed, I’d look around to check if it was you?” You shake your head. “That’s not a productive way to work, and it’s definitely not healthy. I mean, I was thrown off the second I saw you, and I don’t think I ever really recovered from that.”

Jeonghan licks his lips, hesitating. “About the sweater—”

Your eyebrows shoot up.

"I didn't know you were leading the merger when I wore it," he says quickly, desperate to clear at least one crime off his record. "I swear to God, I didn't."

You narrow your eyes. "So you just ... casually decided to wear a pastel pink sweater to the most important corporate meeting of your career?"

Jeonghan hesitates. “Uh. Yes?”

You stare at him.

He sits up straighter, suddenly feeling defensive. “I had a moment that morning, okay? I had a dream about the day we went to get them, and I thought, Hey, maybe if I wear this, then I'll feel one sliver of the same joy I did that day.” He waves his hands. “I didn’t realize that it would lead to—” another vague, exasperated gesture “—this. Besides, you know I don’t check my emails, Y/n. I didn’t even know you were going to be there.”

You blink. "You wore it because of a dream?"

" ... Technically, yes."

A pause. Then, to his absolute horror, you start laughing.

Not a mocking laugh. Not a wow-you’re-an-idiot laugh. Just… pure, unfiltered amusement, like you cannot believe this is what started all of this.

Jeonghan watches as you shake your head, covering your mouth with your hand.

"Shit," you gasp between chuckles. "I spent an entire week planning what I was going to wear, what I'd say to you when I saw you, how I'd prove to you that I'd moved on and was better without you before that meeting. And you saw right through it, without even realising."

Jeonghan is stunned and, frankly, a little offended.

“You think this is funny?” he grumbles, watching as you wipe at your eyes, still giggling.

“Oh, I know it’s funny,” you say, shaking your head. “All that effort on my part and you just—obliterated it. By accident. With a sweater.”

Jeonghan huffs, crossing his arms. “Well, excuse me for having a sentimental moment.”

“Oh, so now you’re sentimental?”

He hesitates. “...I mean. A little.”

Your laughter fades then, softening into something quieter, something a little too knowing. “I guess that’s what last night was, too?”

Jeonghan stiffens immediately.

The message. 

Oh. Right.

The actual reason he's here.

His fingers drum anxiously against the table. “I… don’t suppose you ignored that?”

“Oh, no,” you say, shaking your head. “I listened. Multiple times, actually. Almost sent it to HR for psychological damage.”

Jeonghan groans, burying his face in his hands. “I knew it was bad.”

You tilt your head, considering. “Honestly, it started fine. You sounded, like, half composed. Then you hit the ‘I am literally fighting for my life every morning’ part and, well…” You gesture vaguely. “It kind of fell apart.”

He peeks at you through his fingers. “Just a little?”

“Oh, no. It was a complete disaster.”

Fantastic. Love that for him.

Sighing, Jeonghan lets his hands drop, his fingers still fidgeting. “Look, I—” He hesitates, pressing his lips together before forcing himself to just say it. “I meant what I said.”

Your expression shifts, just slightly, just enough for him to notice.

His voice is quieter now, steadier. “I know I sounded ridiculous, but I wasn’t just talking out of my ass. I—” He swallows. “I really do regret how things ended. I should’ve fought for you. I should’ve at least tried. But I didn’t, and I lost you. And now…” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Now I don’t even know if I have the right to be sitting here.”

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you watch him carefully, as if you’re still trying to figure out if this is real, if it’s safe to trust what he’s saying.

Then, finally—

“You know, you could’ve said all of this before I left.”

Jeonghan winces. “I know.”

“I mean, instead of waiting until you were drunk out of your mind and making Frogbert the most cursed apology gift of all time.”

His face burns. “We don’t have to talk about Frogbert.”

“Oh, we absolutely do.”

“Y/n—”

You smile, shaking your head, but there’s something softer in your eyes now. Something that makes Jeonghan feel like maybe—maybe—he hasn’t completely lost his chance.

You sigh, leaning forward slightly, resting your elbows on the table. “Look, Jeonghan. It wasn’t just you. I didn’t exactly handle things perfectly either.”

He blinks, startled. “You didn’t?”

You shoot him a look. “Wow. Try not to sound so surprised.”

“No, I just—” He rubs the back of his neck, struggling to process this information. “I kind of assumed you had everything figured out. That you were, y’know, thriving without me.”

You shrug. “I tried to be.”

The weight of that sits between you for a moment.

Jeonghan wets his lips, his hands still twitching slightly against his knees. “So… what now?”

You tilt your head, considering. “I don’t know.” There’s something guarded in the way you say it, like you’re waiting for him to give you a reason. A reason to walk away, or a reason to stay.

And Jeonghan—Jeonghan is so tired of giving you reasons to walk away.

So he leans forward just slightly, his voice lower, steadier than it’s been all week. “I’d rather spend the rest of my life proving that I love you than waste another second pretending I don’t.”

Your breath catches.

And for a moment, everything stills.

Jeonghan can see it—the flicker of emotion behind your eyes, the way your fingers tighten just slightly around the edge of the table. He’s spent so much time trying to read you, but this? This is the closest he’s felt to understanding you in a long, long time.

Your lips part, but no words come. He watches as you swallow, watches as you fight the instinct to look away.

“…That’s a really unfair thing to say,” you murmur finally, voice quiet.

Jeonghan exhales a soft laugh. “Yeah. It is.” He tilts his head slightly, a small, wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But it’s true.”

You shake your head, eyes narrowing, but there’s no real bite behind it. “God, you are so annoying.”

“Infuriating, actually,” he corrects. “But, y’know. At least I’m consistent.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now—just a little, just enough for him to notice. And Jeonghan thinks that maybe he’s finally done something right.

A beat of silence passes between you. Not tense, not uncomfortable—just quiet. Just… yours.

Then, softly: “Do you mean it?”

Jeonghan meets your gaze, unwavering. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I do.”

You exhale, rubbing a hand over your face. “You literally sent me a voice message saying you were spiritually standing up for this relationship.”

Jeonghan groans, slumping forward dramatically. “I knew you’d bring that up.”

“Oh, I’m never letting that go.”

Another pause.

Then, finally—

“…I don’t know how this is supposed to work,” you admit, quieter now. “I don’t know if it can.”

Jeonghan nods, understanding. “Me neither.” He swallows. “But I think—I think if I lost you again without at least trying this time, I’d regret it for the rest of my life.”

You stare at him, searching.

Then, after a moment, you let out a slow breath, sitting back in your chair. “Okay,” you murmur. “Then try.”

And Jeonghan, for the first time in forever, feels like he can finally breathe again.

Planning a romantic date is, unfortunately, not Jeonghan’s strong suit.

Oh, he can be thoughtful when he wants to be. But romantic? That requires effort. That requires vulnerability. That requires not making everything a joke to avoid feeling things. And frankly, Jeonghan has built his entire personality around not doing any of that.

But here he is.

Planning a real date. A meaningful one. A Hey-I’m-Actually-a-Decent-Boyfriend-This-Time-I-Swear kind of date.

Which is why Joshua, who is watching this entire thing unfold from the couch, looks horrified.

“I need you to be honest with me,” Jeonghan says, standing in front of a fully crafted itinerary. “Is this too much?”

Joshua, staring at a literal printed schedule, does not even blink. “Yes.”

Jeonghan sighs dramatically. “I knew you’d say that.”

“You wrote out timed activities, Jeonghan.”

“It’s called being prepared.”

“It’s called being insane.”

Jeonghan waves him off. “Okay, but listen. I messed up. And this—” He gestures grandly to the schedule. “This is how I fix it.”

Joshua pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why do I have a feeling this ends with something deeply embarrassing?”

Jeonghan does not answer.

Which means Joshua is right.

Jeonghan picks you up at exactly 5:00 PM (because he planned this), and the first thing he notices is that you’re suspicious.

"Okay," you say, arms crossed, giving him that look. "What’s the catch?"

Jeonghan gasps. "Wow. Zero faith in me."

You raise an eyebrow.

“…Okay, fine. A little faith in me.”

You hum. “We’ll see.”

And that is so unfair, actually, because Jeonghan is really trying here. So instead of arguing, he just grins and takes your hand, pulling you toward the car.

"You trust me, right?"

You hesitate for a second too long.

Jeonghan squints.

"Okay," you say finally, sighing. "I trust you. For now." (Jeonghan will absolutely be holding onto that for life.)

The first stop is that little bookshop café you always used to drag him to, the one where you’d spend hours getting lost in shelves while Jeonghan sat in a corner, half-asleep, pretending to be deeply interested in a book he never actually read.

You blink when you realize where you are. “You remembered this place?”

Jeonghan scoffs, feigning offense. “Excuse me. I was a very supportive boyfriend.”

“You literally fell asleep on the couch last time we were here.”

“…I was a tired boyfriend.”

But you’re smiling now, eyes soft with something that makes Jeonghan’s chest ache.

"Come on," he says, nudging you toward the door. "I owe you a coffee. And maybe a book. Or five. Whatever shuts you up about my alleged napping problem."

Somewhere between coffee and Jeonghan deeply regretting letting you pick out a book for him ("This is 800 pages. Have you met me?"), he takes you to the park.

It’s nothing fancy—just a quiet place to walk, somewhere just yours, somewhere he can talk to you without the weight of everything pressing down too hard.

"You're still here," he says eventually, his fingers brushing against yours as you walk.

You smirk. "Yeah, well. I haven't decided if I'm staying."

Jeonghan groans. "Oh my God."

You laugh, nudging his shoulder playfully. But then, softer—“I’m glad you’re trying.”

And that—that is all Jeonghan needs.

Jeonghan was not planning on this part.

The night is winding down, and everything is going well, and he should just call it there before he does something stupid.

But then—

Then, as you’re walking past a store, you freeze.

Jeonghan follows your gaze—

And, oh.

Oh no.

Matching sweaters.

The pastel monstrosities. The ones that started everything. The ones he swore he would never wear again.

And you—you are grinning.

Jeonghan is so in love with you, it’s disgusting.

You turn to him, eyes gleaming. "One last time?"

Jeonghan exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re the actual worst.”

You tilt your head, completely unbothered. “So that’s a yes?”

Jeonghan looks at you, at your stupid smile, at the way your fingers are already reaching for the sweaters—

And, well.

What else is he supposed to do?

Sighing dramatically, he grabs the second sweater and pulls it on.

You beam at him, absolutely delighted.

"God," he groans, looking at his reflection. "This is so much worse than I remember."

"You love it."

Jeonghan turns, catching the way you’re looking at him—soft, affectionate, the way you used to, before everything got messy. Before he ruined things.

Before he got you back.

And—okay. Maybe the sweater isn’t that bad.

Jeonghan exhales, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he admits, pulling you closer. “I really, really do.”

The thing about kissing you again is that it should be easy.

It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it—a lot—in the most pathetic, pining, staring-at-the-ceiling-at-2AM kind of way. It’s not like he hasn’t memorised the shape of your lips, the way you used to kiss him like you weren’t even thinking about it, like it was just natural for you to be that close.

But now, when you’re standing right in front of him, beaming at him in that stupid, unfairly charming sweater, it feels like the first time all over again.

You tilt your head slightly, as if daring him. “Are you gonna stare at me all night, or—”

Jeonghan kisses you before you can finish the sentence.

It’s not careful. It’s not calculated. It’s not like any of the times before, when he thought he had all the time in the world to figure this out.

It’s just him, leaning in like it’s the most obvious thing to do, his hands sliding against your waist like muscle memory, like they belong there. You gasp against his lips, surprised, but it melts away in an instant—your fingers curling into the fabric of his ridiculous sweater, pulling him closer, like you don’t even want him to second-guess it.

And Jeonghan—God, he could die like this.

It’s slow, and warm, and so achingly familiar that it makes his chest tighten, makes him want to grab onto you and never let go. He tilts his head, deepening it just enough to make sure you feel it, to make sure you understand—

That this isn’t just a kiss.

That this is a promise.

When you finally pull away, your breath is uneven, your lips way too tempting, and Jeonghan has never been good at restraint, so he almost kisses you again.

But then you blink up at him, slightly dazed, and—

“You taste like regret and poor life choices,” you murmur.

Jeonghan snorts, pressing his forehead against yours. “That’s your fault. You’re the one who made me wear this sweater.”

You laugh, quiet and breathless, and he feels it against his skin, and suddenly, everything is worth it.

Because you’re here.

And so is he.

And this time, Jeonghan isn’t letting you go.

The email arrives at the most inconvenient time, as all important emails do. Wonwoo had spent the entire day at the studio, taking newborn photos of a client’s latest chow chow—"latest" being bolded because this was the third time this year that he’d been called in for this client’s endless stream of puppies. By the time he’d finished, his body was ached raw from awkward angles, and his mind was numb from a six-hour editing marathon. He only managed to drag himself back to his flat after the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, craving the sweet refuge of solitude. 

Alas, he was dragged through a two-hour catch-up session with his flatmate, Mingyu, who, with his never-ending supply of caffeine and chatter, somehow managed to convince him to watch a movie about a guy who falls in love with his childhood friend who is also a ghost. (No, it didn't make sense, but Mingyu enjoyed it, and Wonwoo had long given up trying to follow his logic.)

By the time he collapses onto the couch, half-dead from human interaction, the email is waiting. 

"Subject: Assignment Confirmation: (Y/n) (Y/l/n)."

He groans as he clicks it open, his finger hovering over the delete button, ready to toss the whole thing into the digital void. Then he reads the first line:

"Dear Mr. Jeon, we are pleased to confirm that you have been selected as the official photographer for the upcoming feature on (Y/n) (Y/l/n), world-renowned socialite and philanthropist."

"What in the world..." Wonwoo mutters. He doesn't even really remember submitting his name for this, and he's shocked he'd ever consider it. Wonwoo has long made a mental vow to avoid people like you - socialites, celebrities, influencers - whatever you call them. In the world of photography, they are all the same: walking photo opportunity with zero personality and way too much drama. Perfect for paparazzi, but not something he has time for. 

He's a quiet, detached observer of the world. He doesn't need to be a part of it.

But the email continues:

"We have full confidence in your ability to capture the raw and humanising side of Ms. (Y/l/n), giving our readers an intimate glimpse into her life, both public and private."

Raw? Humanising? Intimate? Which magazine is this again, the National Geographic?

His eyes flicker back up to the top of the email, growing wide as he sees the sender. Well, shit. Opus Magazine. He does remember applying for this, although, in his defence, they hadn't specified the subject of the op-ed when he'd submitted it. 

"We are excited to have you on board for this project, which will span the next six months. Your first shoot is scheduled for next Thursday, at 10 AM, at Ms. (Y/l/n)’s residence. We look forward to seeing how your unique perspective brings this project to life.

Thank you for your time and commitment.

Wonwoo leans back, tilting his head toward the ceiling as if the world would offer him an answer. It doesn’t.

Best regards,

The Editorial Team

Opus Magazine"

In all fairness, he has never actually met you before. But he's seen you everywhere. The perfectly curated Instagram feed. The charity galas. The interviews. The way you seem to be exactly what everyone wants you to be: flawless, effortless, untouchable.

A three-page approval form for every photo, he assumes. 

The door to the living room creaks open. "How are you not asleep yet?" Mingyu says cheerfully, poking his head in. Wonwoo glances at the clock on his screen: 2:43 am. He chooses not to point out that Mingyu's still awake too.

"I've been assigned to photograph (Y/n) (Y/l/n) for the next six months." Wonwoo grumbles, tapping his phone screen as if he could wipe away the whole thing with a swipe.

Mingyu's eyes widen in surprise. "Wait - (Y/n) (Y/l/n)? As in Forbes Under 30 (Y/n) (Y/l/n)?!"

"Yes. That one." Wonwoo replies flatly, eyes narrowing. "Six months. Full access. I'm going to want to die halfway through."

Mingyu looks delighted, clearly missing the gravity of the situation. "Ooh, this is going to be so fun! You're going to be all glamorous and -"

"No. No, I'm not," Wonwoo interrupts. "I'm going to hide behind my camera and take photos of her from so far away that she doesn't even know I'm there."

“Yeah, okay, Mr. Anti-Social. But—” Mingyu plops down beside him, grinning. “—what if she wants to get to know you?"

Wonwoo turns to him, unamused. "It's a professional gig to make her look good; she won't want me digging into her real life."

Mingyu, without missing a beat, grabs a bag of chips and shoves them into Wonwoo’s lap. “Just saying. People don’t come with Instagram models and high-profile gigs attached unless there’s something extra special about them, right? Maybe she’s a hidden gem.”

"Hidden gem?" Wonwoo scoffs. "Or a nightmare in designer shoes."

It doesn’t take long for Mingyu to bombard him with unsolicited advice. “... here’s my tip for you. Don’t just take boring photos. You know what’s going to make her stand out in the sea of perfect socialite portraits?” He paused dramatically. “Unfiltered moments. Catch her when she’s off guard. Capture her when she doesn’t know she’s being watched.”

Wonwoo shoots him a deadpan look. “What, you mean like stalking her?”

“I prefer the term artistic observation,” Mingyu replies, grinning mischievously. “Trust me. You’re going to fall in love with her vulnerability. You know, the real her. The one she hides behind all the glam.”

Wonwoo shakes his head, already regretting this conversation. He’s not even met you, and here Mingyu was, crafting an entire narrative of undiscovered depth based on nothing but a couple of well-lit photos.

Still, his finger hovers over the accept button. 

Six months. Full access. Intimate photos.

Maybe he should just ... get on with it.

Wonwoo hasn't actually met you yet and he's already regretting his decision. 

He's spent the past week alternating between panicking and ignoring the dozens of emails for your team, each one more frantic than the last. First, they sent a detailed itinerary of the shoot, followed by an even more detailed list of instructions on what he should wear, when to arrive, and what colour lens he should use for "optimal lighting" - as if he didn’t know how to work a camera by now.

9:00 AM, Inbox:

“Subject: URGENT: RE: Ms. (Y/l/n)’s Preferences for the Day”

“Good morning, Mr. Jeon,

I hope you're prepared for today’s shoot! Please note that Ms. (Y/l/n) prefers a soft light filter on all images, especially when she’s not directly posing. We’ve attached a sample of how she likes her candid photos to look (it’s very specific). Do ensure that you have the required lens, and if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to reach out.

Wonwoo stares at the email for a moment, blinking. Soft light filter? Do you breathe, or do you simply exist in a perpetual soft-focus glow? His finger hovers over the "delete" button, but he refrains. He already knows this is a battle he’s not going to win.

Best,

Assistant to Ms. (Y/l/n)’s PR Team.”

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to get up. He throws on his jacket, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him worse than when he submitted his final portfolio at college, and the project hasn't even begun yet. There's no escaping now. He has to do it - he's been hired for this. Paid for it, too, which means he's legally obliged to at least try.

He arrives at the shoot location just before 10 AM: a sprawling, minimalist mansion that looks like it's been pulled from the pages of an interior design magazine. It's sleek, modern, and incredibly intimidating. The atmosphere is slick with an 'unapproachable luxury' vibe, and Wonwoo can already feel the tension in his shoulders as he steps out of his car. 

A member of the PR team greets him immediately, smiling far too brightly for someone who's probably already been working since 5 AM. "Mr. Jeon! So glad you could make it. Please follow me inside, Ms. (Y/l/n) is just getting ready.”

Wonwoo nods, trying to maintain the calm he doesn't really feel, muttering a "thank you" in response.

Inside, everything is sleek and spotless - nothing out of place, nothing too personal. Like no one's ever lived here. He's brought to a sitting room where the lighting is admittedly perfect. Almost too perfect. He's not used to working in these conditions. He's used to having to fix things last minute, create something out of nothing, or use the imperfections to his advantage. A soft hum of quiet chatter fills the air, and a stylist is busy adjusting something behind the curtain.

He doesn't know what he's expecting as you walk out. Maybe someone a little more ordinary, a little less polished than the figure seen in magazines. He's worked with models before, and they've always been so normal outside of shoots. But when you step into the light, it's like the room takes a collective breath. You're impossibly beautiful, even he can admit that, in that "perfectly put together, but effortless charming" way. Your smile hits him like a tidal wave, all dazzling teeth and liquid confidence, and for a split second, he forgets why he's here. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but what comes out is a dry, “Hello.”

You tilt your head slightly, looking him up and down with eyes that seem to see everything. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Jeon,” you say, your voice smooth, almost teasing.

Wonwoo feels a flutter of unease in his chest, though he’s not sure why. It’s not like he hasn’t worked with famous people before, and yet something about you—something about the way you look at him—feels like an interrogation.

“Ah, well,” he stammers for a second, clearing his throat, “I… I hope it’s all positive.”

The smile on your lips doesn’t waver, but there’s something almost too sharp about it. The kind of smile that’s practised, like you’ve been wearing it since you were a child in front of mirrors, learning the exact angle for maximum charm.

“Oh, absolutely. You’ve got quite the reputation,” you say, as if it’s an afterthought. “They told me you’d be professional.”

Professional. Right. Because that’s exactly what he is. He’s always professional, no matter how much he wants to roll his eyes at the utter insanity of the situation. 

He offers a stiff nod. “Good. That’s what I’m here for.”

You smile again, but this time it’s softer. There's a flicker of something in your eyes, almost like amusement, but also curiosity. For a moment, Wonwoo wonders if he's just a novelty to you, something to poke at for fun. Or maybe you think you’re the novelty here, and he's just another player in the game you're used to winning. Either way, he can feel the weight of that gaze, and it’s not entirely comfortable.

You take a step closer, and Wonwoo resists the urge to take a step back. It’s like you have this gravitational pull—magnetic, impossible to ignore. But he’s not going to let that faze him. His eyes stay focused on your face, trying not to let your presence throw him off his game.

“So,” you say, tilting your head slightly, “what’s your plan for today? I’m assuming I’m not just going to stand here all day and look pretty?”

It's a light question, but he can hear the expectation in your voice. He’s used to people expecting things. It’s just—well, usually, it’s an email with 10 bullet points, not an interrogation delivered with a smile.

“I’ll take a few shots first,” Wonwoo replies, keeping his tone neutral. “Get the feel of the lighting. Then we’ll see if we need anything more posed.”

You nod, and decide the conversation is over, floating back over to the set.

Wonwoo lifts his camera, adjusting the settings to give himself a moment to settle down.

You stand still, not quite posing, but perfectly aware of your body. Everything about you seems calculated. Even your fingers, relaxed at your sides, seem to fall into the right positions at just the right time. It’s strange, though, because you’re not the robotic kind of poised he’s used to. There's a subtle looseness to you, a humanity that he doesn't expect.

“How does this work?” you say after a beat. “You just take my picture and call it a day?”

Wonwoo focuses on adjusting the lens, trying to suppress the slight frustration that’s bubbling up. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to take your picture. All he wants is to get the job done and move on.

But instead, he clicks the shutter. One, two, three shots in rapid succession. The light catches your face in a way that’s almost too good to be real, too perfect for anyone to be this unfailingly photogenic.

“Relax,” he mutters more to himself than to you. “Just act natural.”

You tilt your head again, this time a little more playfully. “Natural?” You raise an eyebrow, a soft chuckle escaping you. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten what that is.”

Wonwoo’s finger freezes over the shutter, and he looks at you again, the barest hint of annoyance tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I’m sure you can manage."

You laugh then, a light, almost mythical sound, and for a moment, the tension in the room eases just enough for Wonwoo to breathe. “I’ll try. But no promises.”

He clicks another shot, and for the first time, something in his chest loosens. It’s not much—just a tiny shift—but it’s there. You’re... interesting.

“Tell me, Mr. Jeon,” you ask, your voice low. "I'm intrigued as to why you decided to do this shoot. What's your opinion on people like me?"

Wonwoo lowers the camera, the question catching him off guard. “What do you mean?”

You shrug, your gaze flicking toward the window, your expression momentarily unreadable. “People who live in the public eye. People who everyone thinks they know, but don’t. What’s your opinion on that?”

“People like you don’t need opinions,” he says, his voice flat, “because you already know how everyone feels about you.”

He’s being sharp. Cold, even. And he knows it. But he can’t help himself. This isn’t the first time he’s worked with someone who expects the world to revolve around them. It’s what they do. It’s why he keeps his distance.

You don’t react immediately. You just stare at him for a moment, your expression unreadable.

For a split second, he wonders if he’s crossed a line. But then your lips twitch, just the slightest hint of a smile.

“Well,” you finally say, your tone warm but still guarded, “I suppose that’s one way to see it.”

Wonwoo wants to say something else, maybe something witty or sarcastic, but he stops himself. Instead, he lifts the camera again, focusing on the next shot.

No matter how much he tries to bury it, Wonwoo can’t help but feel... a little intrigued by you.

Just a little.

The second shoot is at your apartment. 

Wonwoo had been floored when he'd found out - although the spotless nature of the first home had kind of given away that it wasn't actually yours. More than that, the fact that he, despite meaning to have creative control over the project, wasn't told that the purpose of the first shoot was to show a contrast between how people thought you lived and how you actually lived. Seemed like something he should have a say in.

As he arrives, the reality is different to what he'd imagined, and the opposite of the slick, minimalist mansion. 

Your apartment is, in a word, alive. The first thing that hits him is the colour. Bright hues of teal and mustard yellow leap off the walls, the kind of vibrant tones that feel like they belong in a 70s sitcom. The entire place seems to be a throwback to a cooler, bygone era, as if time itself was gently bent to live in this space. Mid-century modern furniture clashes with bold retro patterns—geometric prints, zigzags, and polka dots galore. 

The space is wide and open, but it’s not the sterile kind of open that’s all white walls and cold metal. No, this is a living, breathing room that demands attention with its quirk and charm. He prefers it.

The walls are covered in vintage posters from concerts, movies, and random ads from the 60s and 70s—faded, but still full of energy. One poster catches his eye in particular: it’s a photograph of an old jazz band in action, the colours almost washed out but still vibrant in their intensity. He notices that it’s not framed, just tacked on with mismatched pins as though it was thrown up without a second thought. It’s a detail that makes him think you probably chose it on a whim.

At the far side of the room, there's a vintage bar cart—wooden, with brass accents, stocked with various bottles and a large glass decanter that catches the light as though it’s waiting for its next cocktail to be poured. A small but proud collection of classic board games, with bright, cheerful colours that look like they belong on a childhood shelf, sits close next door. 

Despite the space being filled with vintage charm, there’s a kind of organised chaos to it all. The floor might have an old rug with faded patterns that don't quite match the couch, and the coffee table—half-full of magazines, books, and a stray mug—couldn’t be called tidy, but it’s the kind of mess that makes the space feel lived-in.

The thought makes his stomach twist uncomfortably.

You lead him inside, wearing a loose, earthy sweater and faded denim jeans, a marked contrast to the polished image he’s gotten used to seeing in magazines. You still look beautiful, but comfortable. Not model-perfect. 

“You can set up wherever you’d like,” you say casually. Your voice is warm, and easy-going in a way that’s almost disarming.

Looking around, he realises for the first time that none of your team is here. And, weirdly, it unsettles him.

He finds himself pausing for a moment when he notices a worn book sitting on the coffee table, the edges curled with time. He’s always had a soft spot for books, the way their covers could tell so much about the person who owned them. And that book? It’s clearly one you’ve read over and over.

His fingers hover over his camera lens for a moment, and before he can stop himself, he mutters, “You read a lot?”

You glance over, surprised. “Hmm?”

“The book.” He gestures vaguely, “It looks well-loved.”

You laugh softly, a short, pleasant sound that makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t fully understand. “Oh, that? It’s nothing, really. Just something I found at a little bookstore in Paris. I’ve read it a million times, but... sometimes, it feels like you can always find something new in the pages, you know?”

Wonwoo opens his mouth, but no words come out. It's almost spinning his head around - the way that you're mixing together something so casual like a well-worn book with the detail that you got it in Paris. There's this weird grating of human and celebrity that he doesn't know how to deal with.

You seem to notice the shift in his gaze, your smile becoming a little softer. But instead of explaining more, you walk over to the window and lean against the frame, glancing outside. “So, how do you want to do this today?” you ask, clearly trying to get back on track.

Wonwoo nods, snapping himself back into work mode. “Let’s start with some natural shots,” he says briskly, pointing to the light streaming in through the window. “You can stay by the window, maybe. I’ll catch the light.”

You agree without hesitation, sitting down on the frame. 

The shots begin. You sit, your eyes thoughtful but distant, as if lost in some thought. He clicks the shutter a few times, and the room is silent except for the rhythmic sound of the camera.

The more he shoots, the more he finds himself paying attention to the small things. The way you absentmindedly twirl a lock of hair between your fingers. The way your posture softens after a few minutes, like you’re forgetting he’s there, and yet still poised.

The next shot clicks, and you look up at him, catching his eye. 

“Is that good?” you ask, breaking the silence.

He swallows, feeling a slight tension in his throat that wasn’t there before. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s perfect.”

The words come out without thinking, and he can feel his cheeks flush slightly at the sincerity with which he says them. He's fiddling with his camera settings again, trying to adjust the light for the shot, as you sidle over to the small vintage record player near the window. The soft crackling sound of a jazz record fills the air. 

He doesn’t expect it when you suddenly speak, your voice soft but with an underlying curiosity.

“So,” you say, not turning around, your fingers gently tapping against the edge of the record player, “I’ve been wondering… you’ve been pretty quiet this whole time. Not like the others. Why is that?”

Wonwoo glances up, caught off guard. “What do you mean?” He doesn’t look at you directly, still adjusting the focus on the lens, anything to avoid eye contact.

“I mean,” you laugh lightly, spinning the record player’s dial, “everyone else I work with is always talking. About work, about their lives, about whatever’s trending—people like to talk, especially when they’re nervous. You’re the only one who hasn’t said much about anything.”

There’s an open quality in your tone, no judgment, no pressure, just curiosity. And for some reason, that makes him feel even more exposed than if you had pried into his personal life directly.

“I guess I’m not a fan of small talk,” Wonwoo mutters, setting the camera down a little too abruptly, feeling a tightness in his chest. “I don’t really need to fill the silence.”

You turn to face him then, and for the first time, he notices how unguarded your expression is. There’s no fake smile or calculated pose—just an interested look.

"I get that," you say, your voice now quieter, almost thoughtful. "But... do you ever feel like you miss out? I mean, silence is... great, but it’s also really lonely sometimes, isn’t it?"

"Not really,” he says, not meeting your gaze. “I’m fine with being on my own. I’ve always preferred it.”

You tilt your head, studying him with an intensity that makes him shift uncomfortably. "You know," you say, taking a step toward him, your voice soft but deliberate, "I always thought I’d be fine alone too. It's funny how we get so used to being surrounded by people, by noise, by the ‘right’ kind of company—when, in the end, it’s really the silence that’s the most honest."

Your words sink into him, a little unexpected, a little disorienting. There's a weight to them—like you’ve really thought about this. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, his voice less guarded, almost teasing, but there’s an edge of curiosity there too.

You pause for a beat, a soft smile playing on your lips. There's something mischievous in the way your eyes twinkle. "Well," you begin, you're voice light, "what I mean is that maybe the real stuff gets lost when you get too good at hiding behind the quiet."

He raises an eyebrow, but before he can reply, you finish with a playful, almost theatric sigh: "Or maybe I'm just trying to get you to talk. You know, because I certainly don't want to be the only one in the spotlight in this room. It's exhausting, really."

He can't help it—he laughs. A quiet, breathy sound, but it’s real. Something about the absurdity of it all. Something about the way you deflect it all with that charming, nonchalant smile.

"You're a work in progress," you grin wider, eyes narrowing. "But I'm going to crack you open."

Wonwoo is still chuckling, a disbelieving snort of laughter he can't hide. He leans back in his chair, running his hand through his hair as he studies you with a wry smile. "Yeah, well, I’m not sure I’m the one who needs cracking open," he says, his tone half teasing, half resigned, as if he’s already lost the battle.

You pause for a moment, surprised that you've actually got him joining in on your jokes. But you don't press. Instead, you give him a sideways grin and lounge out over your statement, mustard couch. "Tell me, Mr Jeon - do you still think your opinion of me doesn't matter? Should I go back to hiding behind the perfect image for you to capture what everyone else already thinks of me?"

Wonwoo chuckles, shaking his head. He can’t deny that something about you has started to chip away at his carefully cultivated indifference. "I don’t think you could ever hide, even if you tried."

The jazz record continues to hum in the background, and Wonwoo starts to wonder if he's finally found something worth shooting beyond the lens. 

When he makes it back home, the camera bag feels heavier than usual, and the moment he closes his front door, he's hit when the familiar sense of quiet. 

He dumps the camera bag on the kitchen counter and heads straight for his desk, flipping open his laptop with the enthusiasm of someone who’s about to dive into hours of editing. The usual dread of looking through the pictures fades as he opens the files. He didn’t think he’d be so invested in this shoot, especially not with you, of all people. But the truth is, the moment he starts scrolling through the shots, he’s a little bit stunned.

There are candid moments of you, captured so naturally. Your hair falls in your face as you laugh at something he barely remembers, the light coming in through the window bathing you in that soft golden glow like you were born for this. The quiet, unguarded moments—your fingers absentmindedly tapping against the coffee table, your eyes softened with a thought he’ll never fully know.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the shot where you’re sitting by the window, gazing out at the street, completely oblivious to the lens. It’s raw. And weirdly, it’s beautiful in a way he didn’t anticipate.

With a sigh, he leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair.

And damn it, now he’s got to figure out how to keep it professional when all he wants to do is scroll back through these photos of you for the next few hours.

He grabs his coffee again, takes another sip, and mutters under his breath, "What’s the point of professionalism, anyway?"

Wonwoo is not thrilled about attending the gala. In fact, he's pretty sure if he could just get lost in the crowd and pretend he's not there, he would. But, alas, work. He's there, standing awkwardly by the hors d'oeuvres table, holding the camera like it's a shield. The entire place is dripping in opulence - golden chandeliers, champagne towers, and a sea of glittering gowns and tuxedos so shiny they could be mistaken for mirrors.  It's the kind of event where everyone’s either a billionaire or pretending to be one.

And then, of course, there’s you.

You move through the room like you've got a personal spotlight, laughing with people he's never heard of, shaking hands with people he has. The dress you're wearing is stunning, too, naturally - deep emerald green, with a neckline just high enough to make it look elegant but low enough to make him briefly question his entire career as a photographer. He should be focused on the job. But you're flashing that perfect smile, chatting with rich old men and influencers alike, completely different from the version of you he saw in your apartment just a week ago, laughing over a worn book.

He watches you interact with the other guests, a dance of small talk, well-placed compliments, and calculated interest, and suddenly, he feels like he’s been shrunk down to the size of a cockroach. If someone took a photo of him, An intruder in your world would be the title. The camera, which he thought would make him feel a little less out of place, feels heavy in his hands, as though it might give away the fact that he’s just not meant to be here.

You glance in his direction, catching his eye from across the room. He freezes. He can almost hear you sighing internally before you offer a small, knowing smile.

"Mr. Jeon!" Your voice floats toward him over the clink of glasses and high-pitched laughter. "How are we doing? Getting some good shots?"

He stares at you, blinking. You’re asking him in that casual, sweet tone that’s just different from your “public persona” voice. It’s like a crack in the glass, and he suddenly feels... disoriented. The contrast is so stark that for a second, he forgets how to respond.

"Uh—yeah, I mean, everything’s fine," he stammers, adjusting the camera lens like it might offer him some sort of escape from his discomfort. "Just, you know. Capturing the glamour." He motions vaguely at the glittering scene around him, feeling more awkward by the second. His fingers hover over the shutter button, but they hesitate.

You laugh, a polite, rehearsed sound. "Ah, yes. Glamour. The thing I do so well." You flash him a smile that could melt diamonds and suddenly he feels like he’s about two seconds away from accidentally snapping a picture of his own nervous breakdown.

The silence between you stretches just long enough for him to feel like the entire room is waiting for him to speak. He clears his throat. "It’s... different, isn’t it? Here?"

You tilt your head slightly, raising an eyebrow, as if trying to gauge whether he’s joking or not. "Different?" You laugh again, but this time it’s more self-deprecating. "I guess. But it’s what I’m used to. The lights, the faces. I mean, it’s all a bit much sometimes, but..." You trail off, and for a second, it feels like you're letting something slip.

But then someone else approaches you, pulling you into a conversation about some charity auction or art gala (he stops paying attention, realising he’s been trying to capture your attention too long), and just like that, the moment is over. You slip right back into the role, offering another perfect smile, your body language straightening, as if you’re suddenly filled with all the energy you didn’t seem to have a second ago.

The space feels suffocating all of a sudden, and Wonwoo wonders if he should have stayed home, maybe edited a few more of those photos, or gone for a walk—anything to avoid being a part of this gilded zoo. He looks through the lens, catching another shot of you laughing with an older gentleman, your hand resting lightly on his arm. 

A loud crash breaks through the air.

Wonwoo's head snaps in the direction of the sound, instinctively lifting the camera as if it's somehow going to make sense of the situation. 

He spots a waiter, wide-eyed and mortified, standing frozen next to a toppled champagne tower. Glasses are shattered everywhere, a sea of bubbly liquid spilling across the pristine white carpet like some kind of modern art installation.

The room falls into a hushed silence.

He can feel the collective tension, the people who’d been laughing and chatting a second ago suddenly stiffening in disapproval. Someone gasps—probably just for dramatic effect—but the truth is, everyone’s too rich, too important to react with anything other than mild disdain. A few uncomfortable glances are exchanged, and one of the older men starts muttering under his breath, his hands clutching his glass like it’s a lifeline.

And then, like someone flipping a switch, you’re there.

You glide through the crowd with a purposeful ease that makes everything else fade into the background. People part for you as though they know exactly what you’re about to do. The smile that had been plastered on your face during the earlier conversation is gone, replaced with a soft, serious expression, one that’s sharp in its concern.

"Excuse me," you say, your voice suddenly commanding but not unkind. Wonwoo can tell the waiter is waiting for the blowout, the yelling, the anger - but it's not there.

"It's alright, don't worry. It's just a few glasses. Are you hurt?"

The waiter shakes his head, and you kneel down beside him to start gathering up the broken shards of glass with careful motion. "Let me help, then."

The people around you are still hesitant, staring awkwardly, unsure whether they should step in or just stand back and pretend like nothing's happening. But you’re focused on the task at hand, moving with precision, completely unaffected by the sea of disapproving looks that surround you.

Wonwoo finds himself frozen again, his camera half-raised. His finger hesitates on the shutter button, unsure if he should capture the moment. You don’t seem to care about the image you're creating, not in the way you do for the cameras. Here, you’re just someone helping out, unbothered by the chaos unfolding around you. 

After you finish clearing up the last of the glass, you stand up and dust your hands off, flashing a quick smile to the waiter, who looks completely relieved. You stand tall, taking in the now-silent room with a playful glint in your eye.

“Well," you say, wiping your hands on your dress, "I always knew I was good at breaking the ice, but I didn’t think it’d be literal this time."

The room goes quiet for a beat, and then, just like that, a few people start to chuckle. Someone claps lightly, another offers a small cheer, and the tension evaporates into a burst of laughter.

You throw your hands up in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, don’t all applaud at once. Just trying to keep things interesting around here."

With that, the conversation picks up again. The guests move, shift, and suddenly, the night feels like it’s back in motion. Wonwoo watches from a distance, surprised at how quickly the entire atmosphere shifted. You just defused the room with a smile and a joke, as if it had all been part of the plan.

"Hey," you're walking up to him, stepping into his personal space as the final whirlwind of flashing cameras wraps up an evening of too many glasses of champagne and handshakes that feel more like a chore than a greeting. "What are you doing after this?"

Wonwoo looks up, startled. "Uh, I… well, I was just going to head back. Got a few edits to finish up," he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck.

You tilt your head, studying him with a slight grin. "That sounds like fun," you tease. "But I’m guessing it’s not exactly going to be a good time."

He pauses, feeling almost embarrassed for a moment, before shrugging. "I guess I could skip it."

A small beat of silence passes between you, and then you speak again, quieter this time. "You know," you start, your voice softer than before, "if you don’t have anything better to do... I’d, uh, actually kind of like to go out. No fancy people, no cameras. Just… I don't know, something normal."

Wonwoo looks at you for a beat, wondering if you're asking him to go with him, as the corners of his lips twitch upwards. "You mean no red carpets and champagne?"

You laugh, soft and genuine. "Exactly," you say, your voice laced with a touch of vulnerability. "Just, you know, being normal for once."

The way you say "normal" almost makes it sound like a forbidden word in your world, and Wonwoo feels a flicker of something.

"I’m in," he says, the words slipping out before he can think too much about them.

You give him a small, almost shy smile. "Alright. You follow me."

It’s an hour later, and you’re driving through the city, the sound of the tyres on the road mixing with the faint hum of the radio. You didn’t tell him where you were going, just that it was "something fun." Wonwoo’s pretty sure you’ve never driven anywhere that didn’t require a driver, but here you are—on a small, crowded street near the heart of the city, pulling up to a diner with neon lights flickering like they haven’t been replaced in a decade.

"This place?" Wonwoo asks, looking out the window at the 24/7 diner with its retro sign and low-key vibe.

"Yep. We said normal, right? Well, this is as normal as it gets."

He raises an eyebrow, but before he can protest, you’re already getting out of the car, leaving him no choice but to follow.

Inside, it’s a whole different world. The diner smells faintly of coffee and fried food, and the clink of mugs and chatter of a few late-night patrons makes the place feel strangely cosy. There’s a jukebox in the corner, and despite the place being stuck in a time warp, you both sit down at a booth, the vinyl seats creaking under you as you slide in.

You both sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the normal kind of silence that feels more like breathing than awkwardness. And then, finally, you speak.

"You want to know something crazy?" You say, looking down at the menu, though you made it clear in the car that you've already memorised it. 

Wonwoo looks up, his brow furrowing slightly as he nods.

"This is probably the first time in a while I haven't felt like I have to perform. Which is, actually, crazy. Because I'm hanging out with a professional photographer who's being paid to capture every moment of my life." You let out a disbelieving scoff, your lips curling into a grimace-like smile.

"I get that," he replies, his voice softer than he expects. "It's different for me too. I'm not sure I remember the last time I spoke to any of my friends, other than my flatmate, who insists that we have a catch-up meeting every day."

You chuckle, the crinkles of your smile flattening out. 

The waitress arrives, interrupting for a moment, and you order a milkshake without hesitation. He orders something random, revelling in the thrill of not thinking too much about anything.

"I get lonely sometimes," you say after your order arrives, so quietly that Wonwoo almost misses it. "I know it’s weird, I mean, people are always around me. But it’s like... they don’t really see me. They only see the version of me they expect."

He's not sure if you're still tipsy, although the rosy flush of your cheeks suggests so, or if you now feel very comfortable with him. 

Wonwoo isn’t sure what to say, so he just lets the silence settle for a moment, letting your words hang in the air like a soft echo.

"You know," he says after a beat, his voice lighter than before, "I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who can juggle both a charity gala and a diner milkshake at 3 AM with such grace."

You snort, blowing bubbles into the drink that leave splashes of pink liquid sizzling on the diner table. The sight is enough to set Wonwoo off too, laughter spilling out of him in a way that's only possible in the early hours of the morning. 

"I should take a photo of that," he chuckles as you give him a large grin, the straw still sticking out of your teeth as you mop up the spilt drink. 

But he doesn't. Doesn't even think to take his camera out of its bag. 

Instead, he just watches you—really watches you—for the first time tonight, as you sit there, messy and unapologetic, with your eyes twinkling. And you're not the person everyone in the ballroom thought you were. 

"Maybe we should do this more often," you say, your voice unexpectedly soft as you look up at him. 

Wonwoo nods, the corner of his mouth curving up in the smallest of smiles. "Yeah. Maybe we should."

You've taken a surprising interest in Wonwoo’s regular work. Since you got him to admit that this project wasn’t really his usual gig, you've made it your personal mission to dig deeper. 70% of your questions have revolved around what he actually enjoys doing, the kind of work that doesn’t come with velvet ropes or high society guests. It’s a little like watching a puzzle slowly get pieced together—a mixture of curiosity and the way you just can't let go of something that intrigues you.

So, when you mention, "I think it's only fair you show me what you usually do," it’s not entirely out of the blue.

"Alight, alright," Wonwoo mutters, realising that he owes it to you to let you peek inside his world too. "But don't expect anything glamorous. Magazine spreads don't feature heavily."

Your eyebrows shoot up in an exaggerated gasp that has him rolling his eyes. "I'm not expecting you to change into a suit and tie, if that's what you're worried about." You grin. "but if you do, I'll totally snap some behind-the-scenes shots."

"Don't get any ideas," he mutters, but there's a soft laugh behind his words. 

You look like an archaeologist discovering ancient treasures as you step into the studio, and Wonwoo has to resist the urge to photograph the look on your face. He wasn't lying when he said it wasn't much, but it's quieter than the outside world, which is just the way Wonwoo likes it. The walls are lined with a few scattered prints, some framed, others just leaning against the wall, like they’ve been left to gather dust for the sake of catching a different light. The easel in the corner holds the remnants of his last attempt to paint, the workbench cluttered with film rolls, empty coffee cups, and a few stray brushes.

You pause in the doorway, taking it all in.

"So," you begin, "where's the real deal? Show me your favourites."

He shrugs and walks over to a table filled with various photo equipment, adjusting his glasses as he picks up a roll of film. "I’m not sure what you’d consider my 'thing,' but I mostly shoot for personal projects. I like experimental work. I mean..." He looks over at you, and for a second, there's a flicker of something more, something deeper. "I like showing things that don't get seen. Telling stories that don’t get told."

You step further into the room, your curiosity piqued. "The more I learn, the more I marvel at the fact that you chose to do photograph me," you tease. 

He looks back at you, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "It's good to try new things sometimes. And, well ... I'm not so sure you're story has been entirely captured yet."

He pulls a print down from a shelf, careful with the edges, and walks over to where you're sitting. "This," he says, sitting next to you, "is one of my newer pieces. It’s… different from the usual stuff I shoot. It’s a little raw, a little wild."

The picture is a little hard to make out - a blur of colours and light, like a dream caught in motion. There's an image of a figure - slightly distorted and bathed in neon blue and orange, wrapped in streaks of light that seem to bend and curve in ways that don't make sense. It almost looks like the figure is dissolving into the frame itself, as though they’re becoming part of the world rather than a separate subject within it.

"It’s a long exposure," he continues, "but I played with the focus to distort things more than I usually do. You can see the movement in it—like the person isn’t static. They’re not just there. They’re changing. Becoming."

You tilt your head, your gaze flickering back and forth as you try to make sense of the image.

"It’s unsettling," you say softly, more to yourself than to him.

Wonwoo nods, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "That’s what I like about it. People always expect something clear, something neat when they look at photos. But sometimes, the chaos is what’s real. The blur, the overlap of light, it’s how I see things."

"It’s like… you know when you try to hold onto a moment, but it keeps slipping away? That’s what this is. The image is still, but everything around it keeps moving. It doesn’t stay still, no matter how much you want it to."

You reach out, fingertips brushing the edge of the frame, tracing the glowing streaks of light. "It’s almost like you’re trying to capture the space between things."

He pauses, eyes flickering to yours as if reading your expression. "It’s like that with people, too, right? You think you know them, but then they change. Or maybe you change. And all of a sudden, you’re looking at them and wondering who they really are. Who they were. Who they’re becoming."

You’re silent for a moment, but your gaze hasn't left his and it's piercing into him with all of the unspoken words.

And then you're eyes snap to something behind him, and he feels a little empty in the void of your gaze. A small smile slips across your lips. And you're gone, moving quickly out of your seat to get a closer look at whatever has pulled you away from him.

Wonwoo's head swivels around, like if he loses sight of you, you'll disappear. 

"Now, this is unexpected."

Your voice is laced with that mischievous tone, and it snaps Wonwoo back into reality, his gaze darting to where you're now standing, eyes fixated on the shelf behind him.

He feels his cheeks heat up before he even registers why. The camera equipment on the shelf, partially obscured by a few stray photo albums, is a large, well-worn camera with an impressive lens. But it’s not the camera that’s got your attention—it’s the stack of photos beside it.

He swallows. "Oh, those. They're… um, just some old shoots,” he mutters, reaching for the pile as quickly as he can.

But you're already stepping closer, your grin widening as you grab one from the top of the stack. Your eyes light up as you hold it up, and it’s immediately clear why you’re grinning. 

The photo is a high-end fashion shot, one of those artsy ones. It features a model—clad in nothing but strategically placed shadows and some very expensive body paint, in what can only be described as sultry poses. The subject's entire form is captured with the kind of grace and sensuality you normally associate with glossy magazines and high-end ads.

You raise an eyebrow. “So… this is what you’re hiding in here?”

Wonwoo, face flushed to a shade of pink that doesn’t belong anywhere near a professional photographer, clears his throat awkwardly. “It’s not what you think. It was a concept shoot. A long time ago. For... art.”

“Art.” You repeat the word slowly, like you're savouring it. “A concept shoot. Right.” You peer closer at the picture, almost squinting like you’re studying the fine details. “Well, I have to say, I didn’t expect you to have such a niche portfolio.”

He snatches the photo from your hands, but you’re quicker than him, leaning in just a little too close for comfort. "Come on, don't be shy. I'm sure these shots went for a pretty penny. You should be proud of them."

 “It was a collaboration with a friend. We were experimenting with lighting and shadows. It wasn’t meant to be, like, that kind of shoot.”

You tilt your head and flash him a teasing smile. "Right. I'm sure it was all very tasteful."

“Stop it,” Wonwoo says, his voice a little more high-pitched than usual. He starts sorting through the other photos quickly, trying to hide the embarrassing ones. “There were plenty of clothes involved, okay? I mean, mostly clothed. Sometimes there weren’t.”

You laugh—genuine and loud—and Wonwoo has never felt more like a teenager caught in a lie.

"Don’t worry." You lean back casually, looking him up and down. “I’m not judging. Everyone needs a little fun with their camera work. Besides, I bet your models really appreciated your... attention to detail.”

“Oh my God, stop," he groans, hands covering his face.

"Oh, I know!" You jump up, the wideness of your grin setting of alarm bells in his head. Your body contorts into a lewd pose he's sure is captured in one of the photos. "Maybe you could shoot me like one of your French girls."

Wonwoo's brain is split in half between wanting to laugh at your stupid joke, and trying to stop his mind from digging any deeper into the way you look right now. He's never been more thankful for someone laughing so hard at their own joke that it gives him the time to remember to laugh too.

"Okay, okay, seriously though." You say, your words punctuated with breathy laughs. "I'd like to do a shoot in your style. Even if you don't use it for the feature, I'd like to have them - a little memory of the project."

He’s not sure what to make of it—after all, he’s never shot anything like that with someone like you. It’s one thing to let a stranger model for his more experimental projects, but someone who’s become... well, important to him? That complicates things.

You seem to sense his hesitation, so you quickly soften your expression, dropping the teasing tone. “I mean, no pressure. You don’t have to,” you add, but your smile stays. “I just think it would be fun, you know? Something a little out of the ordinary.”

He shifts on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to think of a way to deflect without sounding awkward.  But then, he catches the way you’re looking at him—expectant, yet light-hearted. And he knows there’s no way he can say no. And the idea of capturing you in his world - through his lens - is far too appealing.

"Alright," he finally says, "“I could set something up. But it won’t be anything like what you’re imagining,” he warns, though the faintest glimmer of a smile tugs at his lips. “You might hate it.”

"I highly doubt it." Your grin widens, and you step closer. "The camera loves me."

He struggles to disagree.

You follow Wonwoo into a dimly lit loft space. The high ceilings make the place feel vast and open, but the shadows, thick and heavy, seem to swallow any trace of warmth. The windows let in just enough light to make the space feel like it’s holding its breath. Concrete floors, industrial beams, exposed brick—this place is a world apart from the glamorous venues he's captured you in so far. 

There's no luxurious set, no artfully arranged props, no stylists running around with last-minute adjustments. Just you and him. And a collection of cameras, lenses, and other mysterious equipment scattered about the space.

"We'll start here," Wonwoo's voice is firmer than he intends, and he hopes you can hear the edge of excitement underneath his words. He’s already moving toward the equipment, setting up the camera on a tripod with a smooth, practised hand.

You take a deep breath, looking a little more nervous than he expected. "What's the concept? Just… me in a room full of shadows?” You try to make light of it, but your voice betrays a hint of apprehension.

He glances over his shoulder, catching your gaze for the briefest moment, and his lips curl into a faint smile. “Something like that. I want to capture you as you are, not as the world expects you to be.”

He steps toward you, then pauses. “But it’s up to you. You can be whoever you want to be in front of the camera.”

You take a breath, almost like you're accepting something, and step deeper into the room. Wonwoo can feel his pulse pick up just a little. Something about your movements makes it hard to look away, even as he tries to keep his focus on the camera. 

As his gaze probes deeper, Wonwoo realises something. You're so used to being a perfect image that now, here, in the quiet, you have no idea what to do with yourself.

His breath catches as he presses the shutter for the first time. The soft click breaks the silence, but he doesn't lower the camera. His eyes stay on you, unable to tear away; even if he should be focused on the technicalities - the lighting, the exposure, the composition - he's not. He's seeing the cracks. The little parts of you that you've been hiding. 

Another click. And another. His fingers move over the controls, adjusting the focus, framing you just so - but all the while, acutely aware of every tiny shift in your body. The way you inhale, the way you let go of something hidden, and your shoulders relax, just slightly. 

"Good," he murmurs, though he barely recognises his own voice. The words are soft, his tone low, almost like a breath rather than a command.

You shift again. There's no thought to it, just a fluid movement, as if you're letting go of some invisible restraint. It's an instinctive thing, Wonwoo realises. You're not really posing anymore.

The camera clicks again, capturing the stillness in you, the way you seem to dissolve into the shadows, becoming part of the room. Part of the moment. He knows instantly that it's going to be his favourite.

For a split second, he wonders if you know what you're doing to him. If you know how you're affecting him, even without meaning to. His heart beats a little faster. 

He doesn't lower the camera, not yet, not wanting to lose the moment.

"Okay, that's enough," he says finally, voice low and deliberate. Even as he says it, he's not sure if he wants to stop. He wants more. But it's not just the image he's chasing now. It's something else. 

You reemerge, the colour of your confidence returning as you step out of the camera frame. "Was that okay?"

Wonwoo isn't completely sure what to say in response. If he should tell you that he wants to restart the entire feature, or that he's never felt like he's seen anyone as much as he just did. So he nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I want you to see the full vision, so I'll show you once they're edited, but I think they're going to be the best ones."

A beaming smile is released onto your face. It's heart-wrenchingly endearing how proud you are of yourself. "I'm so glad. I don't know if you noticed, but I was a little nervous about this one."

He lets out a little chuckle, his head hanging slightly as he looks to the floor, trying to hide the smile tugging at his lips. "I couldn't tell. You were," he clears his throat, hands moving to adjust the settings on the camera again, "perfect. And I mean it. It's ... not just the shot. It's you." The words come out in a rush, but even as he says them, he’s certain they’re true.

He wonders, fleetingly, if you hear the difference. If you sense the subtle change in his tone—the way he can’t quite look away from you now, the way his eyes linger just a little too long.

You don’t respond immediately, and for a brief, agonising second, he’s unsure of how you’ll take it. Will you laugh it off? Will you brush it aside with that carefree charm you wear like a second skin?

But then, your smile softens, your gaze a little less playful, and you step closer. "Do we need any more?"

"I don't think so," he pauses. "Unless there's anything you want to try?"

"Well..." You look nervous, like you're trying to make your mind up about something. Your fingers play absently with the sleeve of your shirt, tugging at the fabric as if it’s a lifeline. "Maybe ... maybe I could try something different?"

Wonwoo's eyes flicker up to meet yours. He's not quite sure what you're asking, and it both terrifies and excites him in ways he's not ready to admit. He leans back slightly, considering it.

"It's your shoot," he says softly, "If you want to do something different, we can. You sound like you've got something in mind?"

You exhale slowly, and the air feels thick, drawn tight with possibility. There’s a hesitation in the way you look at him, but then you take a step forward, your presence commanding yet gentle, a stark contrast to the vulnerability in your eyes.

"The photos in your studio," your voice is soft and low, as though the words themselves are a kind of confession. "The ones ... with no clothes." Your gaze flickers briefly, almost shy, before you steady yourself again. "I want to try that. I want to see what that feels like."

Wonwoo blinks at you, his breath hitching for just a second as the words register. His fingers instinctively tighten around the camera, but he doesn’t lower it. He can’t look away from you now.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice rougher than he intended, though it’s more a response to the sudden surge of emotions than anything else. The suggestion itself isn’t unfamiliar, but the weight of it, coming from you, catches him off guard.

You nod slowly. 

He breathes slowly, trying to steady himself, but the air feels tight, like his lungs have forgotten how to expand properly. Wonwoo clears his throat, suddenly aware of the weight of the camera in his hands—of how utterly out of place it feels now. He thought he had control of this situation, of this shoot, of everything. And now he feels entirely, completely, out of control.

"Okay," he says finally, voice low, his throat dry.

You exhale, a small, almost imperceptible breath of relief, and for a moment, you both just stand there. Wonwoo watches you, his gaze tracing the small movements of your fingers, the way you breathe, the slight shift in your posture. You’re standing there, raw and vulnerable in a way that no one else ever sees, and yet you’ve asked him to witness it.

His chest tightens.

"Whenever you're ready," he murmurs, trying to sound as professional as possible, but the words come out softer than he means. He takes a step back, his heart pounding louder now, but he’s not sure if it’s from the anticipation of the shot or something else entirely.

You move slowly, agonisingly slowly, towards the chair that's hidden in the corner of the room and pull it into the camera frame. The clip holding your hair back is the first thing to go, and even watching you shake the tresses free feels like a glimpse of something he's not meant to see. Wonwoo's breath hitches as your fingers hesitate against the buttons of your shirt.

You look up at him, eyes glittering in the light of the loft. "Can you talk me through it?"

Wonwoo gulps, his brain desperately trying to keep a tether to his thoughts. 

His voice is strained when he finally speaks, a quiet rasp that betrays his nerves. "I - uh - yeah. Sure." He clears his throat again, trying to steady himself. "Just take your time. There's no rush. I want you to feel comfortable."

You nod, but your gaze doesn’t leave him. It’s heavy, almost expectant, and Wonwoo feels it pressing down on him like the air in the room has thickened with each passing second.

His heart races, and he forces himself to look away from you, staring at the camera for a moment to regain some semblance of control. But when he finally glances back, there’s no denying it: you're not just in front of the camera. You're right there, your presence inescapable. The air crackles between you, an invisible thread pulling you closer despite the distance.

You slowly unbutton your shirt, each movement measured and deliberate. The soft rustle of fabric seems deafening in the silence. Wonwoo tries to focus on the camera - on the framing, the lighting - by the sight of you undoing the buttons is sending jolts through him, making it hard to concentrate.

"Wait, stop." He's struggling to get out more than a few words, but he realises he has to explain himself as your head whips around, alarmed. "That shot - if you push the shoulder down a little -"

"I'm not sure I quite get it," your voice is a quiet invitation. He doesn't know if its a test, or something far more dangerous than that. 

He moves slowly, not wanting to startle you. And, if he's being honest, not sure that he can handle being any closer. But he's started now, and he can't not go through with it just because he's nervous about seeing skin. Focusing on his task, Wonwoo's hands gingerly pull the loose fabric of your shirt, draping it down the side of your upper arm, the fabric slipping with an almost unbearable grace, revealing the curve of your shoulder, the soft line of your skin. Wonwoo feels his pulse spike, his breath coming in shallow bursts as his fingers brush against the bare skin of your arm. It’s delicate, unintentional contact, but it feels like an electric shock, jarring and intimate all at once.

You hold your breath, your gaze fixed on his hands, your body still. 

“Just like that,” he says, his voice quiet, as though speaking louder might shatter this delicate balance between you. “Now, tilt your head just a little to the left. Keep your eyes soft... like you're looking into something just out of reach.”

Your eyes flicker, a knowing glint passing through them. “Like I’m seeing something I shouldn’t?”

Wonwoo’s stomach tightens, a shiver creeping down his spine at the way you put it. His hands hover over the camera, but for a moment, he forgets the frame, forgets everything except the weight of the moment.

"Exactly," he breathes, almost afraid to admit it aloud, but the words escape him. He’s standing so close now, every muscle in his body taut, straining against the pull of something he doesn't know how to define.

You do as he asks, your eyes softening, lips parting ever so slightly, as if you’re leaning into the invitation.

The camera shakes in his hands, and for a second, he worries that you’ll notice the tremor, that you'll see how much this is affecting him. But you don’t. Your focus is unwavering.

“Can you… can you move your hand to your collarbone?” he murmurs, barely trusting himself to speak the request aloud. “Just… trace it, like it’s the only thing you’re focused on.”

You nod, and there’s an eerie stillness in the air as your fingers drift up to the curve of your neck. Wonwoo feels like he’s drowning, like every movement you make pulls him deeper into this quiet, dangerous place between photographer and subject, between the lens and the reality unfolding just beyond it.

Each click of the shutter feels like a bullet leaving a gun.

Your fingers are back on the buttons before he can realise that the moment has moved on, and you let the shirt fall, the fabric slipping to the floor with a soft whisper. He can’t breathe for a moment.

You stand before him, unguarded, vulnerable, and yet there’s something about the way you hold yourself—so composed, so intentional—that makes him swallow back every word that he tries to form.

Your eyes lock onto his again, and it’s like time stops. “How’s the lighting?” Your voice is steady, calm, but the tension in it is undeniable.

Wonwoo’s throat is dry as he forces himself to focus. "The light... it's perfect." He clears his throat, his voice tight. "You look perfect. Just... just keep moving, slowly. Let the camera catch it all."

You nod, your lips curling into that familiar smile that has him reeling.

Wonwoo’s pulse quickens, but he doesn’t dare look away. He’s caught in the gravity of your gaze, drawn into the quiet intensity of the moment. He raises the camera, his fingers trembling just slightly as he adjusts the lens. The click of the shutter still sounds harsh, but it doesn’t break the tension.

Wonwoo almost drops the camera when your fingers hook around the loops of your pants. 

You slide them off in fluid motion, far quicker than the shirt. The smile on your face is more playful now, taunting and teasing. "What were those poses again?" 

Wonwoo’s breath catches in his throat, his hands freezing just above the camera as the image of you in front of him—the subtle arch of your back, the way your skin catches the light—burns itself into his memory. He can’t look away, and it’s like everything in the room sharpens.

"Stop," he whispers, his voice shaking. "You’re—"

He cuts himself off, unsure of how to finish the sentence. How could he describe the storm he feels brewing inside of him? The way his pulse is beating in time with the shutter clicks. The way he’s watching you, but feels like he’s barely holding onto himself, like the space between him and you has closed to a point where it feels impossible to stay just the photographer.

“Stop?” you repeat, tilting your head, the playful glint in your eyes both a challenge and an invitation. "You want me to stop?"

"I—" He clears his throat, trying to force his words into something coherent. You take a step closer, and the words fail him. 

You stop a few inches away from him, your breath mingling with his, and for a split second, you both stand there, locked in a stare that feels like an eternity. Wonwoo's heart races, and he can hear the rush of blood in his ears, but the sound of your breath, shallow and steady, is louder than everything else.

“Wonwoo,” you whisper, and the way you say his name—so softly, so deliberately—has his chest tightening even more.

His heart stutters for a second, and before he can think about it, before he can second-guess himself, he lowers the camera, his hand almost involuntarily reaching for you.

“Are you sure?” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t say anything at first. Instead, your fingers brush against the fabric of his shirt, dancing between the creases. The world seems to spin a little.

“I’m sure,” you reply, your voice steady but low. “Are you?”

Wonwoo’s pulse thunders in his ears, and he thinks he's nodding his head, but he's not sure. He swears he can feel the heat radiating off of you in waves. The tension is almost unbearable now, and his hands are shaking so badly that he’s not sure if he should step back or close the space completely.

Before he can decide, you close the gap for him, your lips brushing against his in the gentlest of kisses. It’s soft at first, tentative—like you’re both waiting for the other to pull away—but when Wonwoo doesn’t, you deepen it just enough to make his head spin.

Everything—his thoughts, his control, his self-restraint—fractures.

He pulls you closer, his hand finding the curve of your back as he deepens the kiss. He can feel you shiver as his warm hands trace the exposed skin. He has to hold back a guttural moan at the feeling of your body pressed against his.

Your hands have found his hair, tangling your fingers through the strands and feeding off of the reactions, tugging a little every time he grumbles against your lips. A small gasp leaves your lips as he pulls away from your mouth, burying into your neck, which stretches prettily with each biting kiss he leaves. 

"Is this how all your photo shoots go?" Even with your head tilted back, voice breathy as his fingers grasp onto your waist, you still find time to tease him. A small whine leaves you as his lips abandon your skin.

"You'll believe me if I say no?" His throat is scratchy, his voice raw, and it comes out more as a question. 

You laugh. "Yes - I, yes, I believe you."

The silence feels unbearably tension, like both of you are trying to blindly navigate the other's feelings. Neither comfortable enough to take the next step forward.

"What did -"

"I thought -"

Your words stumble together as you search for the right way to break the tension. Wonwoo stops, not pressing you to continue, but his grip tightens on your waist slightly, a silent question hanging in the air. 

"I was just - I wasn't sure you'd want to do this, too." You finally say. You still have that teasing smile, but your voice is small, almost unsure. 

"I do," his voice is low, rough, and there's something tender there too. "I really do."

Your lips twitch upwards, a fleeting smile curving the corners of your mouth as you move closer again. "Then, what happens next?"

Wonwoo's head darts around, looking around the dim loft. There's nothing there, other than his equipment and a few chairs - nothing particularly helpful in this scenario. Although, he should admit, he wasn't expecting anything like this when he'd set it up.

"We could go somewhere else, if that's what you want to do?"

Your eyes follow his gaze, realising the dilemma.

"But I'm already half undressed." You bat your eyelashes innocently, and he knows you're fully aware of what you're doing to him. Yet, that doesn't prevent his trousers from feeling way too tight. 

"I-" his breath catches, his fingers digging into your side. "I guess we'll have to stay here then."

"I guess so," you grin, and he wants nothing more than to pull you back in. So, he does. It's messy, primal, a tangle of limbs as your hands sloppily undo his shirt and his look for anything and everything he can reach. He doesn't miss your noise of appreciation when his shirt falls to the floor. 

Soon, his hands are wrapped around your thighs, pulling you up in one swift motion and carrying you until you hit the nearest wall. You're panting, your eyes wild and hair tangled as you grab at his neck, pulling his lips back to yours. 

It's not long before the rest of your clothes join the others on the floor. He feels a flutter of shyness as you take him in, eyes roaming across his body. But you're smiling, wide and joyful, the soft flesh of your thighs squeezing tighter on his hips. 

"Fuck, I always thought you were hot, but I can't believe you were hiding this underneath those baggy sweaters."

Wonwoo can feel the blush running up his neck like a schoolboy being complimented for the first time. His heart is hammering in his chest, a warm rush spreading through him from head to toe as he tries to work out what his eyes should be focusing on.

"I wasn’t expecting any of this. You... you’re making me nervous," he admits with a shy laugh, his hands feeling clammy against your skin. "I mean, I'm sure I'm not the first person to say you're beautiful, but I think you're so much more than what they see."

Your smile softens for a moment, and you reach forward, fingers grazing lightly over his arm, the touch sending a shiver down his spine. "I'd like you to know all of me."

The words are soft, tender, and you can probably hear his heart fluttering. And, all at the same time, the implication of them is making more than his heart flutter. 

"You're sure?" His body presses against yours even more, pushing your back further into the wall behind you. 

"Please," you nod breathily, and that's all he needs. "I want you."

His hips grind against you, head swirling at the feeling as your arms wrap around his neck for stability. "I don't have-" he manages to choke out. 

"It's fine, I'm on the pill. Just - just fuck me, please?"

His head buries into your shoulder, body twitching at your words. Pushing inside of you, the pleasure is immediate. Your hips are moving back onto him as far as you can against the wall, and his hands are firmly clenched around the flesh of your ass, holding you up in an iron grip. And you sound so good, and - more than that, you feel so good, so unbelievably good, that he's gasping out your name between thrusts.

Nonsensical words are babbling out of your mouth too; hot, dirty words of praise that only spur him on further. Your nails dig into his back, and then his hair, and then back again, like you can't pick which part of him you want to touch more. 

And fuck, you're so beautiful. Like a goddess in the low lighting of the room - but he's too scared to tell you that just yet. Soft and hard and warm against him, surrounding him, engulfing him. 

It's not long before he can feel you clenching around him, one hand clinging onto his shoulders and the other snaking between your legs. The muscles of his arms are burning slightly, but it feels too good to stop now. You're dragging him with you, panting moans with each pulse. You press your lips against his one more time, and it's all it takes to push you both over the edge.

After a few moments, he lifts his head from your shoulder and looks at you, a tender smile on his face. His lips press against yours gently, sighing with soft pants.

"Shit," You breathe, a small giggle bubbling out of you. The sound is so sweet it knocks any remaining wind out of him. 

Wonwoo chuckles, his thumb gently tracing the curve of your jaw as he holds you in place.

Your smile is warm and teasing, and you press your lips to his for a second longer. "If I had the camera, I'd capture that look forever."

Mingyu's always had a thing for the city skyline. He stands there, staring up like a tourist in his own city, while the lights blink back at him. He's convinced that the twinkling stars work overtime in the winter to brighten up the world for busy employees, wonderstruck sightseers, and homebound natives alike. 

And the people? Oh, don't get him started. City folk are like ants with a caffeine addiction, scurrying down streets wide enough to do doughnuts on (he's tempted), all on their own secret missions. Got places to be, people to bump into, lives to live. And every now and then, there's a stray tourist wandering around like they're decoding a map from a century-old pirate treasure hunt, or a food vendor desperately offering free samples and a good, if unique, conversation.

But, most of all, he's got a soft spot for buildings. Those skyscrapers that loom over everyone like friendly giants are his favourite. They're tall, dramatic, stoic - but also weirdly welcoming, like they're saying "Come on in, friend, there's an elevator with your name on it." Each one holds a mini-universe of people with no clue that they're all part of this giant city love affair. And honestly? That's what Mingyu loves most.

That is why he is practically vibrating with excitement as he makes his way to the towering glass-and-steel behemoth that houses his new firm. This building is the pinnacle of urban architecture. It has a shiny, almost reflective facade that makes every other building on the block look like they'd shown up to the party in sweatpants. Windows stretch floor to floor like a series of portals to success.

He's read about this building, of course. Brought it up in the interview for the position. Its architect was apparently a big deal who had once described it as "a dialogue between the earth and the sky." Which, as far as Mingyu is concerned, is just fancy architect-speak for, "Look at how absurdly tall I can make things."

Stepping inside, he is immediately hit with that professional smell - a mix of leather-bound sofas, artisanal coffee, and freshly printed documents. The lobby is decorated with minimalist sculptures that seem like they could either be priceless modern art or just very confusing coat ranks. Either way, Mingyu thinks they look amazing and decides that he'd probably best never trying to lean on one.

He stops at the reception desk, where a sharply dressed woman with an impressively unflappable expression sits.

"Good morning!" He says, a little too enthusiastically. "I'm Kim Mingyu. I'm starting as the new project architect, so you'll probably see a lot of confused-looking, lost-guy moments from me."

She raises an eyebrow, a faint smile quirking on the edge of her lips. "Good luck, Mr Kim. This building does tend to eat people up on their first day."

Mingyu lets out a small chuckle, unsure if she's joking or not, but he takes the smile on her face to signify that she is. After getting directions to his new office space, he makes a point of talking to every staff member he sees on the way, hoping to gain a little bit of familiarity with the new space. There's the security guard by the elevator, who gives him a quick nod of approval, the intern rushing by with a stack of blueprints precariously balanced like they are training for Cirque du Soleil, and the coffee cart guy, who looked positively thrilled to tell Mingyu that they're starting a 'Mocha Monday' deal, envisioning half-price mochas flying off the shelf to cure those start-of-week blues.

The elevator itself is sleek, fast, and almost comically over-engineered. Encased in glass and stainless steel, it features a control panel with buttons for every floor and amenities like a mini espresso machine, a retractable tablet and an adjustable lighting system for 'mood optimisation'. He barely has time to catch his breath before the elevator doors ding open, depositing him on the top floor. 

Waiting for him is Mr Choi, the firm's head partner, a man so put-together than even his cufflinks look like they could close a business deal. Mingyu recognises him instantly - the same piercing gaze from his interview, though today softened by the faintest hint of a smile. Or, well, something that might one day consider becoming a smile.

"Good to see you again, Mingyu," Mr Choi greets, his voice as smooth as marble. He gestures down the hallway, as if guiding him into an architectural wonderland (which, for all intents and purposes, he is). "Shall we?"

They pass through a maze of glass-walled offices and open spaces dotted with architects, designers, and enough blueprint paper to wrap the world's largest birthday present. As they reach Mr Choi's office, Mingyu makes sure to hold the door open for his new boss.

The space is less of an office and more of an architectural shrine, humming with the wisdom of ten thousand blueprints. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the city, as if the whole skyline had been personally curated just to keep Mr Choi inspired. His desk - a sleek slab of dark walnut with edges so sharp they could probably slice bread - sits precisely in the centre of the room. On the walls sit framed sketches of the firm's most iconic projects, each one hung and lit like a small art gallery. The coffee table at the centre piles high with glossy architecture magazines and books with titles like The Future of Concrete and The Language of Buildings. It is as if every element in the room had been strategically selected to convey that Mr Choi is not just any architect. 

And, most stunning of all, is you. Tall, poised, and commanding a presence that immediately silences whatever joke Mingyu has mentally queued up to break the ice. You're seated across from Mr Choi's desk, reading through a thick stack of documents with the intensity of someone evaluating world-changing data - or possibly planning the most efficient way to dismantle a skyscraper with your mind. You don't look up when he enters.

"Ms (Y/l/n)," Mr Choi says, a hint of amusement in his voice, "this is Kim Mingyu, our newest project architect. He'll be working under you, as we discussed."

Finally, you look up. There's a flash of something unreadable in your eyes as you meet his, and Mingyu's heart skips a beat. You're beautiful, of course, but not in the approachable way he'd normally charm his way though. There's a quiet sharpness to you, like the edge of a blade hidden under silk. You nod, polite but detached, and extend a hand across the desk. Mingyu's hand is halfway to yours before he realises he's probably grinning too wide.

"Mr Kim," You say, your tone flat and calm. "Welcome to the team."

"Thank you, Ms (Y/l/n)," he replies, fighting the urge to launch into an unnecessarily enthusiastic monologue about how honoured he is to work with someone as formidable as you. Instead, he forces himself to stick with, "It's a pleasure to be here."

Your handshake is brief, controlled, and you retract your hand almost before he's registered the contact. Then you sit back, folding your arms with a measured kind of grace that makes Mingyu feel like he's just been granted an audience with a queen.

"We'll be starting you off on the Langham project," you say, consulting your papers as if double-checking this fact - or maybe just avoiding his eyes. "I'll be overseeing your work and guiding you through our procedures here. We have high standards, and I'll expect you to meet them."

"Of course!" He nods vigorously, attempting his best I-won't-let-you-down smile. "I'm up for any challenge, Ms (Y/l/n). High standards are, uh, my middle name."

You raise an eyebrow, looking slightly perplexed, as though wondering if he might be serious. Mr Choi clears his throat, breaking the silence with a faint smirk that betrays a hint of secondhand amusement.

"Ms (Y/l/n)," he continues, "has been with us for nearly a decade. She's an invaluable asset to the firm. I trust you'll learn a great deal from her."

Mingyu nods earnestly, glancing at you, but you're already back to scanning the documents as if he's drifted into background noise. He's mildly disappointed, though he can't exactly blame you - after all, he is juts the latest recruit with probably a hundred questions, and you seem like the type who doesn't have time for aimless chatter.

"Any questions before we begin?" you ask, in a tone that suggests the answer you're really hoping for is 'no.'

But of course, Mingyu has questions. Too many, probably. He opens his mouth to ask one, but then catches the faintest glint of what he thinks might be impatience in your eyes and quickly changes gears.

"Actually, no," he says, flashing a thumbs-up. "Good to go!"

You don’t seem particularly impressed by this, but there’s a flicker of something — amusement, maybe? — before you turn back to Mr. Choi. "Shall I take him to the Langham briefing room, then?"

Mr Choi waves you off with a nod, and you rise with a brisk elegance that makes Mingyu almost trip over himself in an effort to follow. You walk him through the halls with a calm, businesslike air, giving succinct, precise explanations as you go. Every step you take feels purposeful, every word perfectly chosen. Mingyu feels like an eager puppy trotting beside you, but he's determined to keep up.

As you reach the briefing room, he can't resist trying to break the ice one more time. "You know," he starts, grinning. "I really love the city skyline. It's kind of why I got into architecture."

You pause, giving him a look that manages to be both blank and withering at once. "Is that so?"Yeah!" He barrels on, encouraged by the fact that you responded at all. "It's like ... it's all a big love letter to everyone living here, you know? Every building, every floor, every light in the window - it's all just there, lighting up people's lives."

There's a moment of silence. Mingyu wonders if maybe he overdid it.

Finally, you nod, albeit with an expression he can't quite place. "That's an ... optimistic way of looking at it, Mr Kim."

Optimistic? Not exactly the response he was hoping for, but he'll take it. He smiles, trying to hide his excitement at the fact that you actually acknowledged his point. "I guess that’s me — hopelessly optimistic."

You glance at him with what he might, just might, dare to interpret as the tiniest hint of a smirk. But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by your usual professional demeanour.

"Well," you say crisply, gesturing to the plans spread out on the table. "Let’s see if that optimism translates to effective project execution."

By the time Mingyu finally steps out of the firm's towering glass sanctuary, the city has dipped into that golden hour where the skyline looks like it's been dipped in honey. The streets are packed with people still racing to meetings, or dinners, or late-night escapades, but Mingyu feels like he's in his own little bubble, still buzzing from the whirlwind of his first day.

He's not sure what's more overwhelming - the Langham project itself, which already feels like it's going to stretch every ounce of his architectural prowess and patience, or you. The way you carried yourself like you were born in this building, with all its sharp edges and polished surfaces. He isn't sure how to keep up with that level of composure.

But there was something there, wasn't there? A flicker of something. Maybe you were just humouring him, but there was that slight tilt of your lips when he said something slightly amusing. Or the way your eyes lingered just a fraction longer than necessary when he spoke. Of course, he could just be imagining it. But Mingyu isn't about to let go of that feeling just yet.

The subway ride home does little to calm his excitement. He thinks about the massive pile of documents he's expected to digest tonight for the briefing tomorrow. As the train rumbles beneath the city, Mingyu cracks open his bag and pulls out the folder that was handed to him this morning - a mess of blueprints, floor plans and complicated notes that look like they were designed to break a person's will to live. 

But he's not scared, not by this at least. The only thing that kind of scares him is the realisation that you are going to be watching him closely. Judging. Monitoring. And if he’s being honest, he’s not sure if he’s ready for that sort of proximity.

The train screeches to a halt, and Mingyu exits at his stop, shaking off those thoughts. Tonight, he’ll just have to forget about all that for now and focus on getting some food in his stomach. Besides, he’s almost home.

Mingyu’s apartment building isn’t anything to write home about. It’s not a shiny, glass-covered marvel like the office, but it’s cozy and warm, with enough character to make him feel like he has a place to call his own. His apartment is on the fourth floor, up a narrow staircase that creaks with every step. As he pulls his key from his pocket and unlocks the door, the familiar smell of instant ramen and coffee hits him. His flatmate, Wonwoo, is already home.

Wonwoo’s there in the living room, sprawled across the couch with his laptop on his lap and a half-empty mug of coffee next to him. He’s the polar opposite of Mingyu in almost every way: quiet, reserved, and extremely not into architecture, but somehow they’ve been rooming together for the past few years without any major conflicts. Mingyu’s loud, chaotic energy and tendency to overshare perfectly balances Wonwoo’s brooding, half-mysterious vibe. It’s a friendship forged in caffeine and mutual understanding that sometimes, you need someone who won’t judge when you blast pop music at 2 AM, or when you eat cereal for dinner because you forgot to go grocery shopping.

"How’s the first day?" Wonwoo doesn’t look up from his screen, his voice cool and unbothered. But Mingyu can tell he’s asking out of a form of polite curiosity, like a scientist observing a very energetic specimen.

Mingyu drops his bag on the counter and flops onto the couch next to him. "It was ... intense," he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. "The project I'm gonna be working on is a beast. There's this whole ocean of details to sift through. And then there's Ms (Y/l/n)."

Wonwoo looks up, his brow slightly raised. "Your boss?"

"Yeah," Mingyu says, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. "She's something else. Like she doesn't seem interested in me at all, and I'm not sure how to deal with that. But she's got this, like, presence. Makes you want to impress her, y'know? Even when she's totally stone-faced - especially when, actually."

Wonwoo hums noncommittally and takes a sip of his coffee, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "So, you're in love with your boss already. Good to know."

Mingyu shoots him a mock glare, his cheeks ringing with a hint of pink. "I'm not in love with her, okay? It's more like ... fascination. She's just really intimidating."

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, the picture of dry amusement. "Uh-huh. Sure. And what's her deal, anyway? Too professional for your flirty smile?"

"She doesn't seem flattered by it." Mingyu dramatically drops his head into his hands, mimicking a tragic melodrama. "I might have to rethink my whole life strategy if I can’t get her to crack a smile at my jokes."

"But hey," Wonwoo adds with a smirk, "if you want to survive your first week, I suggest you do not mention the city skyline and your theories about how it’s a love letter to people. That’s a hard pass."

Mingyu groans, covering his face in embarrassment. "I’m never telling you anything ever again."

Wonwoo chuckles, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied grin. "You love me and you know it."

Mingyu snorts. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I’ve got work to do." He picks up the pile of documents, pulling them closer with a resigned sigh. "Gotta impress Ms (Y/l/n) somehow."

Gulping down a quick 'dinner' of left-over stir fry and a couple of eggs for good measure, Mingyu picks back up the Langham project folder, its content still a chaotic swirl of technical specs and words he can't read, and flips open the first few pages. The project itself is a massive undertaking - a luxury hotel and mixed-use complex nestled in the heart of the city, right by the river. The building is going to stretch twenty stories high, with glass facades that'll reflect the river's light like a prism. The design includes state-of-the-art amenities, with the goal of being the ultimate urban getaway - a haven for tourists, business moguls, and the occasional local who just wants to treat themselves to a little luxury.

Mingyu's eyes light up as he scans the proposed design. There's a grand atrium in the centre, stretching all the way up to the top floor, with cascading gardens and open-air terraces. "So fancy," he mutters to himself. His team is clearly trying to push boundaries here, blending modern steel and glass with organic elements - like a giant metallic tree-house hybrid for the city's elite.

He flips to a page filled with notes about sustainability and energy efficiency. They’re aiming for a platinum LEED certification — top-tier green building status. It’s all about using smart, eco-friendly tech to make the building as self-sustaining as possible. Mingyu groans inwardly, wondering if he’s about to become an expert on solar panels and rainwater harvesting.

As he continues reading, one particular detail catches his eye. The signature design element for the building is a series of “floating” glass bridges between the upper floors — a bold architectural statement meant to make the building appear less like a typical office block and more like something out of a futuristic movie. It sounds incredible, but Mingyu can already picture himself pulling his hair out over the engineering calculations required to make sure the whole thing doesn’t come crashing down in a windstorm.

By the time he reaches the end of the folder, his mind is spinning, and a mild panic starts to creep in. Your expectations are clear, and the project’s scope is enormous. But Mingyu can’t help the tiny spark of excitement that flickers in his chest. This is what he’s been working toward — to be a part of something that will change the city’s landscape, something that will make people stop and look up.

He rubs his eyes and glances at the clock. It's late, but he knows he'll need all the preparation he can get for tomorrow.

With one last long look at the papers, Mingyu closes the folder, shoving it aside with a resigned sigh. "I’m going to need a lot more coffee," he mutters, flopping back on the couch beside Wonwoo, who’s already half asleep with his laptop still glowing faintly in his lap.

Wonwoo snorts without opening his eyes. "You’re going to need more than coffee for this, buddy."

"Tell me about it," Mingyu grins, grabbing his phone to order another coffee, just in case he didn’t have enough already. Tonight, it looks like he’s going to be living on caffeine and architectural dreams.

A few weeks into the job, Mingyu has already made a significant number of mistakes. Well, significant is probably an understatement. More like a collection of blunders so impressive that, if anyone were to catalogue them, they might think Mingyu was trying to break some sort of world record in architectural mishaps.

It starts innocently enough, with a small miscalculation on the elevator shaft dimensions that nearly caused a minor freakout in the engineering department. Then there was that time he mixed up the load-bearing capacity for the glass facades and accidentally sent an email to the whole team saying, "We could use stronger glass" when technically, the existing plans were fine. And, of course, who could forget that time he got overzealous and rearranged the project's timeline, shaving an entire month off the construction schedule, only to realise later that it was a little bit too ambitious for anyone's taste?

He still hasn't lived down the elevator incident, which, for the record, wasn't even entirely his fault. But it's hard to explain that when your eyes are drilling into him from across the room, a careful blend of disappointment and 'I'm trying not to send you into an existential crisis right now.'

Today, he's perched at his desk watching the clock tick down the minutes until the inevitable meeting with you. His fingers drum nervously on the edge of his notepad. There's a fresh stack of papers in front of him, each one brimming with red-inked corrections, and he knows what's coming. He's almost perfected the art of nodding in silent shame during your critiques, hoping the earth might swallow him whole.

When the meeting finally comes, you walk into the room, as poised and unbothered as ever. He tries to stand up to greet you, but he stumbles into his chair instead, catching himself just in time.

"You've been busy," you say dryly, as you flip through the stack of appears, your eyes scanning the marked-up blueprints. Your tone is sharp, like an exam proctor giving him one last chance to pass without the lecture.

Mingyu forces a grin, wiping his palms against his pants. "Yep, learning a lot on the fly, you know?"

You don't smile. "You've certainly given us a lot to work with."

Mingyu winces, cracking for the inevitable storm of corrections. He can already feel the weight of your disappointment pressing down on him. He's been trying so hard to make a good impression, but it seems every time he tries, he only ends up making things more complicated.

But then, as if you've suddenly decided that maybe he hasn’t completely bungled everything, you pause, tapping your pen against the papers in front of you. “But there’s one thing...”

His heart stutters. "What's that?"

You flip to the last page in the folder, revealing a neatly detailed diagram of the building's eco-friendly water filtration system, a proposal Mingyu put together at the last minute after a rather inspiring lunch break (where he might have gotten just a little carried away talking to the environmental consultant). You tap the diagram. "This," you say, your voice softer than he's ever heard it, "This is well done. You identified a potential issue with the system that we hadn't accounted for in the original design. We'll need to revise a few things to integrate it fully, but this is exactly the kind of thinking we need."

Mingyu stares at you, completely caught off guard. His brain is still half-parked in panic mode from the earlier mistakes. and he can't quite process your words. Did you just ... praise him?

"Really?" He blinks, his surprise making his voice higher than usual. "You mean the, uh, water thing? I just thought it might be better if we-"

"I know," you interrupt, your gaze steady on him. "You found a solution we missed. We'll be able to integrate it without a massive redesign. Good work."

Mingyu blinks again, this time in pure disbelief. It's like someone just handed him a bag of cash and told him to keep it. "I - uh, wow. Thanks." He tries to act cool, but he's pretty sure he looks like a kid who's just been handed an extra cookie.

You don't break your composed demeanour, but there's a subtle shift in your expression - a quiet respect that wasn't there before. "You're capable, Mr Kim," you say, your voice calm but with a hint of approval. "Despite your tendency to make things a little more complicated than necessary, you're on the right track."

The words hang in the air for a moment, and Mingyu feels an odd rush of pride — a mix of relief and the kind of warmth you get when you find out you didn’t totally mess everything up. For once, he’s not the guy who ruins everything in your eyes.

And, maybe, just maybe, he can keep that “capable” label for a while.

“I’ll expect the revised plans on my desk by Friday,” you say, your voice steady. “Don’t disappoint me.”

“I won’t!” Mingyu promises, his voice more confident than it’s been in weeks. “I’m on it.”

Mingyu throws himself into revising the plans with a fervour that borders on obsession. He’s got spreadsheets, CAD files, hand-drawn sketches, and a brand new stack of sticky notes covering his desk like a rainbow-coloured fortress of architectural ambition. The water filtration system has turned into his personal magnum opus, and he’s determined to make sure it’s nothing short of revolutionary.

He's started to stay later than usual, his desk lamp becoming a beacon in the dimmed office. At first, he doesn't pay much attention to who else is around, his mind so wrapped up in calculations and potential pitfalls that he barely notices his own hunger or fatigue. But after a few nights, he realises he's not the only one burning the midnight oil.

Your office light is always on. Sometimes he'll glance up, bleary-eyed and half delirious from staring at documents, and he'll catch a glimpse of you through the glass walls - hair pulled back, eyes locked on your laptop screen, fingers tapping briskly on the keys as if your thoughts are sprinting ahead of your hands. You're a constant fixture, as much a part of the office's architecture as the polished marble floors and unbreakable glass doors. And, he realises, you're usually there even later than he is.

One evening, after finally signing off on what feels like the hundredth draft of the plans, Mingyu yawns and stretches, feeling every vertebra pop like bubble wrap. He glances at the clock. It's nearly midnight. As he stands to grab his coat, he sees your office light flick off, and you appear, looking just as composed as you did this morning, as if working fifteen hours straight is just part of your weekly routine.

You both walk to the elevator in silence, the quiet stretch of the office settling around you like an unspoken truce. When the elevator doors close, you glance at him, breaking the silence with a casual, "You're still here, Mr Kim."

He lets out a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, still making sure I don't mess up the Langham project. You know how it is."

You don't smile, but your expression softens. "I do."

The elevator ride is quiet, filled with the low hum of machinery and the faintest scent of Mingyu's cologne - a last-ditch attempt this morning to feel professional. When you step out onto the ground floor, you hesitate by the door, glancing out at the street. The city is dark and quiet, the only lights the occasional passing car and the soft glow of streetlamps.

"Do you have a way home?" You ask, your voice so casual it takes him a second to realise you're actually offering him a ride.

Mingyu blinks, caught off guard. "Uh, well, I was going to take the subway. But if you're offering..." He trails off, grinning sheepishly.

You nod, motioning to the car parked just outside. It's as sleek and polished as you are - a dark sedan that looks like it would have absolutely no patience for speed bumps. He slides into the passenger seat, trying not to fumble with his seatbelt, and you start the engine, pulling into the quiet streets with a calm, practised ease.

For a while, you drive in silence. Mingyu glances out the window, his thoughts tangled between the day's work and the surreal feeling of sitting in the same car as you.

"You're ... very driven," you break the quiet, your tone almost contemplative. "I don't often see people put in that kind of effort, especially so early on."

He chuckles softly, scratching the back of his neck. "Guess I just don’t want to let you down. Or, you know, be known as the guy who destroyed the Langham project.”

You finally smile, a small, genuine expression that feels like a rare peek beyond the wall, and leaves Mingyu feeling a little breathless. "It's more than that, though, isn't it?"

Mingyu hesitates, taken aback by the question. He’s not sure what he expected you to say, but it definitely wasn’t that. “I mean, yeah. I’ve always loved buildings. Ever since I was a kid, I’d spend hours sketching skyscrapers in my notebooks. It’s kind of a dream come true, being here. Getting to work on something this big.”

You listen, your eyes fixed on the road but your expression soft, focusing now somewhere beyond just his words.

"This job can consume you, if you let it," you say quietly, almost to yourself. "It's a rare thing to see someone bring genuine excitement to it. Most people, they burn out or let it harden them." You glance at him, and for a brief moment, he sees a flicker of something almost vulnerable in your gaze. "It's good that you still ... care."

Your words hang in the air, and Mingyu feels a strange ache in his chest - a sudden realisation that beneath the cool professionalism, you had been through this same path yourself, fighting to keep that spark alive in an industry that seems determined to grind it out of you.

"Thanks," he says softly, the playful tone absent for once. "I mean it. And ... I think I get what you mean." He hesitates, then adds, "But I don't think I'll stop caring anytime soon."

You nod, a faint smile ghosting your lips. You drive on through the city, the lights casting soft, shifting patterns on the glass.

When you finally reach his building, he unbuckles his seatbelt, giving you a small, grateful smile. “Thanks for the ride. And, you know… for everything else.”

You nod, your expression back to usual, but there's a warmth in your eyes now. "Goodnight, Mr Kim."

"Goodnight," he says, stepping out and closing the door gently. He watches as you drive away, the taillights disappearing down the street, and feels a strange mixture of inspiration and relief, and a hunger to get back in the car and learn anything else he can about you.

It's a week before his presentation, and Mingyu is thrilled about his latest proposal for the Lagham project - a sleek, eco-friendly rooftop space designed to collect rainwater, enhance natural cooling, and serve as a green oasis in the middle of the city for all visitors to access. It's his baby, his architectural pièce de résistance. He’s already named the design “Green Above” in his head, but, apparently, the client is less than convinced.

The hesitation comes during a routine check-in meeting, when Mr. Choi casually drops the news that the client has “concerns.” The term is as vague as it is ominous, and Mingyu’s heart sinks. Apparently, they’re worried it’s too “experimental,” too “risky” for the firm’s conservative image. Mingyu tries to hide his disappointment, nodding as Mr. Choi politely recommends that he “polish up his pitch” before the big day.

By “polish,” of course, he means pull a miracle out of thin air.

Enter: you.

Later that afternoon, you call him into your office, the door clicking shut behind him as you gesture for him to sit. He braces himself, ready for another dissection of his work, but instead, you surprise him by pulling out his sketches and nodding. "The client might be wary," you say, your tone clinical and level, "but there's a strong case for this. You just need to learn how to show them the vision." You pause, looking at him. "I'll help you with that."

Mingyu blinks. "You'll help me present?"

"Yes, Mr Kim," you say. "We'll work on this every evening until you're confident enough to convince a room full of sceptics. You'll have to be better than good. Exceptional."

And so, every evening for the next week, Mingyu stays late in the conference room, rehearsing his proposal with you. The first night, he stumbles through the trial run, mumbling about sustainable design, only to have you stop him after two minutes, unimpressed.

"Start over," you say, tapping your pen against the table. "And this time, stop burying the lead. Walk in there and make me believe it's the best thing I've ever heard."

You're relentless but patient, correcting him when he gets too caught up in technical jargon, showing him how to highlight the benefits rather than the process. "This is a story," you tell him one evening. "Show that what it feels like. Make them see the vision before you go into how it works."

Somewhere around the fourth late night, you sit back into your chair after another dry run, watching him with an intensity that makes him nearly forget his lines.

“Stop talking like you’re trying to convince them you’re good enough,” you say, "You are. You have to believe it, or no one else will."

Mingyu blinks, the words landing with unexpected weight. You say it like it's a fact - as if there's no question about his abilities, just his confidence. Something in your gaze is softer than he's ever seen, and for the first time, he wonders how many long nights like these you've spent not just perfecting your work, but holding yourself up to impossible standards too.

He nods, taking a breath. “Right. Believe it.”

By the night before the presentation, he’d rehearsed the pitch so many times he could recite it in his sleep. You give him one last nod, a subtle flicker of approval in your eyes. "You're ready."

The day of the meeting dawns, and Mingyu arrives early, the faint taste of nerves tingling in his throat. When he enters the boardroom, the client representatives are all seated, an assortment of tailored suits and sceptical expressions. Mr. Choi offers a nod of encouragement from his place at the head of the table, and you stand nearby, arms folded, watching him with that same quiet intensity.

As he begins his pitch, Mingyu can feel his initial nerves settle, his voice steady as he moves through each point. He doesn’t just talk about “Green Above” like an idea on paper; he paints it as a vision, something meant to make the city’s skyline greener, bolder, better. He gestures to the architectural mockups, describing the rooftop garden as not just a feature but a destination, an asset that would be both functional and iconic.

He can tell, halfway through, that the room has shifted. The clients sit forward, nodding, leaning into his words, their initial scepticism melting as he lays out the plan. The numbers, the materials, the maintenance — it’s all there, practical but wrapped in the bigger picture he’s been rehearsing for nights on end.

When he finishes, the room is silent for a beat before the client’s lead representative nods, visibly impressed. “It’s… ambitious,” he says, almost smiling. “But I see what you mean. Let’s move forward.”

Mingyu grins, fighting the urge to fist pump as the clients exchange approving glances. He looks over at you, who gives him the slightest nod of approval. He can almost see a glimmer of pride in your expression, faint but undeniable.

As the room empties and the clients file out, Mingyu's heart is still racing, his whole body humming with triumph. He turns to you, grinning wide. "We did it," he says, his voice barely containing his excitement. "I mean ... I did it. But only because you..."

He trails off, realising just how close you're standing, the quiet of the empty room settling around you. Your gaze meets his, and for a moment, you don't look away. It's a long, lingering look, like you're seeing him not just as an employee or an eager architect but as… him. Someone who cares, who tries, who’s just won his first major victory and feels like he’s on top of the world.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice softer now, more vulnerable. “For all of it. I don’t think I could have pulled it off without you.”

You hesitate, your eyes flickering with something he can’t quite place. Your expression softens, your lips parting slightly as if your about to say something else. And in that moment, there’s a warmth between them, a shared understanding that words alone wouldn’t quite capture.

“Just… keep going,” you say finally, your voice so quiet it feels like a secret. “You’re more capable than you realize, Mingyu.”

The way you says his name — with that subtle, unfamiliar warmth — makes his heart skip. He nods, still holding your gaze, feeling the weight of everything you’ve shared in the past week in that single, electric second.

And then, as if the moment might disappear if you linger too long, you step back, your usual composure slipping back into place.

For the first time, Mingyu feels that maybe — just maybe — there’s more between them than late-night work sessions and professional boundaries. And as you walk side by side down the quiet hall, he can’t shake the feeling that, for the first time, you might be feeling it too.

Mingyu's gotten good at convincing himself he's not entirely losing it. So what if his boss, who barely blinks at a 15-hour day and thinks "weekends" are a suggestion, is suddenly occupying 90% of his mental bandwidth? That's just ... professional admiration. So when he finds himself thinking about you at odd times - like, mid-bite of his breakfast burrito, or what he's supposed to be learning zoning codes - he brushes it off. After all, it's normal to be totally absorbed by someone you admire.

One evening, after bringing home takeout and trying (again) to casually mention his most recent success, Wonwoo decides to drop a bomb. "I saw an article about your boss the other day, you know. Back when she first joined the firm. People in the comments kept talking about something called the Westbrook Project - ever heard of it?"

"Westbrook Project?" Mingyu repeats, a little too quickly, his brain scrambling. Nothing. He’s pretty sure he’s never heard the name before, but it’s his boss, so he’s probably supposed to know. After Wonwoo can't provide any more details, Mingyu does what any self-respecting architect does at 2 a.m. when faced with a mysterious professional tidbit: he Googles it. Expecting, like, a vague overview, maybe some old press releases. What he finds, though, are words like "abandoned," "budget issues," and, worst of all, "failure," with your name all over it. Ouch. Big, deep ouch.

The next day at work, Mingyu manages to strike up a casual conversation with the marketing guy who's practically the office encyclopedia. "Oh, the Westbrook Project?" he says with a knowing smirk. "I read the case files. It was supposed to be, like, revolutionary. Eco-forward, huge downtown build. A lot of drama when it got shut down. Man, Ms (Y/l/n) was obsessed with that thing. You've gotta respect someone who fights like that for their work." He laughs a little, but there's something almost pitying in his tone, like he doesn't quite know what to make of someone who has been through such a high-profile professional failure.

Mingyu's stomach drops as he realises that there's a whole side of you - this weight - he never saw before. He feels embarrassed for not knowing. But, maybe, it explains the way you hold yourself together, so careful with your words, so precise in every gesture. Because what happens when you give so much of yourself, and it still isn't enough?

Mingyu can't help but glance at you differently when you walk into the office. You're still the same, all business and poise, but there's a weight to you now that he hadn't noticed before. It's not his place to ask you about Westbrook, and he's not sure he could even bring it up without tripping over his own words.

So, Mingyu brings it up.

Not immediately, because he's not that much of a disaster. It's not the same day, or even the same week. It's one of those late nights when he's deep into pretending he's not panicking over math, and he's only going into your office to ask if you've seen the last-minute email from the client. 

Except. 

He sees the bottle of red on your desk.

It's sitting there, a little too casually, with half of it in a glass that's perched too close to your mouse. 

It's not that Mingyu thought you didn't drink. But seeing it there, on your desk, is like catching a glimpse of a teacher's pet outside of school. His brain starts spiralling. Are you getting drunk? Are you able to get drunk?

Still standing in the doorway like he's caught in some sort of personal disaster movie, Mingyu clears his throat. "Uh," he starts, because his brain is still stuck on you drinking alcohol in the office, "What's the deal with the wine?"

You glance up from your computer, completely unfazed. "Oh, this?" You wave a hand, almost like it’s nothing. “A gift from a client. They thought I needed something to ‘relax’ after all the late nights." You flash a teasing grin. "I didn’t think anyone else would be in the office this late, though."

Mingyu freezes again. Seeing a smile on your face is unnerving him. "Uh, well, yeah ... just ... I thought you were busy, y'know? I didn't want to disturb you," he stammers, as if that makes any sense. Of course you know he's here. He's always here. He's practically a fixture at this point.

You raise an eyebrow at him, clearly not fooled. “Sure you didn’t. Anyway, now that you’re here," you say, looking at him with a glint of curiosity, "what’s been keeping you up lately? Besides zoning codes and whatever else you’ve been trying to memorise, that is."

Mingyu, caught completely off guard by the question, opens his mouth to respond, but his brain, still fighting the urge to melt into the floor, can't form a proper sentence. His gaze flicks back to the wine bottle like it holds all the answers to his life right now. Finally, he blurts out, "Uhh... I’ve been, uh, thinking about the Green Above project. You know, the one we’re working on?"

“Right,” you nod, leaning back in your chair. “Big, green rooftop. You’ve got your hands full with that one.” You take a sip from your glass, and Mingyu swears the way your lips wrap around the rim is completely unfair to his focus. “What else?”

Mingyu, not used to people asking him personal questions that aren’t about work or how he’s planning on saving the planet with his architectural genius, scratches the back of his neck. “Uh... I mean, well, I’ve been wondering about... you. I mean, your—" he pauses, shaking his head, "your work, of course. Like, how you got into all this. You’ve clearly been through a lot, right?”

You chuckle softly, eyes softening for a brief moment. "A lot? Yeah, I guess you could say that. But that’s not what we’re talking about right now, is it?" You lean forward. "What's really going on, Mingyu?"

Mingyu’s mind is officially in crisis mode. He could barely form a sentence when talking about wine, and now you’ve flipped the tables. What is he even supposed to say?

“I—uh, well, it’s just... I’m curious,” he mutters, struggling to sound casual. He bites his lip, then his curiosity gets the best of him. “Wait, can I ask about something?”

You lean back again, clearly amused. “Go ahead.”

He takes a breath and gestures to the cabinet rested against the back wall of your office. "That picture there .. of a building, I think? It kind of looks like the Westbrook Project. Was it yours?” He winces as soon as he asks, knowing full well how awkward this must sound. But now he really wants to know, and he’s not sure he can keep pretending he hasn’t been thinking about it.

You blink, clearly not expecting him to ask, but then you just sigh and open your desk drawer, revealing an old architectural sketch, detailed and bold, with a city skyline in the background. “Yeah,” you say, voice quieter now. “It was.”

Mingyu swallows hard, his voice dropping to a more respectful tone. “What happened to it? The project, I mean... why didn’t it go through?”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you take another slow sip of your wine, letting the moment stretch out. When you finally speak, your voice is calm but laced with something unspoken. “It was a good idea, just... not the right time. But that’s how it goes sometimes in this field. Things get started, and then... they don’t.”

Mingyu doesn’t say anything at first, processing what you’ve shared. “I get that,” he says softly. “I think I’ve been there too. You know, not everything works out exactly the way you expect.”

You glance at him, and for a moment, there’s this quiet weight in your expression, something raw you don’t usually let slip. The smile fades, but it’s not replaced with sadness—more like... an understanding, an acceptance.

“The Westbrook Project was supposed to be everything I’ve worked for,” you begin, your voice softer now, like the walls are coming down just a little. “My goal has always been to help the community, to build things that people can actually enjoy, not just walk by and forget. I wanted something that would be a part of the city, something that people could use—a space that felt like it belonged to everyone.” You stop, looking at the picture in the drawer for a moment as if it’s not just a sketch, but a piece of your heart. "The Westbrook Project was supposed to be the culmination of all that. The perfect mix of green spaces, architecture, and public access. I wanted to create something people would look at and feel like they were part of it, you know? Not just bystanders."

You take another slow breath, running a hand through your hair, looking a bit less put-together than usual, but somehow even more... real. “I think that’s the hardest part. It wasn’t just a project to me—it was everything I believed in. And when it got shut down... it felt like a piece of that belief just... crumbled.” You shake your head, almost laughing at yourself. “I know it sounds dramatic, but when you spend so much of your time fighting for something, putting everything into it... and it still isn’t enough... it makes you wonder what the point is.”

Mingyu watches you closely with a strange mix of admiration and empathy. For a second, he’s struck with the urge to reach out and say something comforting, but all he can manage is a quiet, "That... sounds incredible. You must have been really proud of it."

You nod, a small, wistful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I was. Still am, in a way. But life moves on, right?” You glance back at the bottle of wine, then take another sip, before setting it down and meeting Mingyu’s gaze again, this time with a lighter, almost teasing glint. "You want some?"

“Uh... yeah?” he says, but it comes out more like a question than a statement, as if he's still trying to make sure this is actually happening.

You pour him a glass, your movements slow and deliberate. Mingyu watches every little gesture, thinking that maybe if he looks at the wine long enough, it might just turn into something less dangerous. It doesn't.

He takes the glass from you, trying to act casual, but honestly? It's a miracle he doesn’t spill it everywhere. "Thanks," he mutters.

You smirk at him as if you know exactly what’s going on in his head, and for a moment, Mingyu wonders if you can hear it, too—the way his pulse skips whenever he looks at you. He takes a sip of the wine, hoping it will steady him. It doesn’t. It only makes him more aware of you, of the way your eyes glint in the dim light of the office, how close you’re sitting, how warm it feels in here all of a sudden.

“So,” you say, your voice dropping a little lower than before, “Now that we’ve gone through my failed projects, do you feel enlightened?”

Mingyu laughs, but it’s a little too breathless, a little too caught off guard. He leans back, trying to appear cool, but it’s hard to be anything but a mess when you’re so close and everything feels a little off in the best possible way. “Enlightened? I’m still figuring out if you’re real,” he admits, voice cracking just a bit.

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? What does that mean?”

Mingyu runs a hand through his hair, avoiding your gaze for a moment as his thoughts scatter in a dozen different directions. “It’s just ... you’re different than what I expected. I mean, you’re still, like, boss mode, but there’s this whole other side to you. Like, I don't know ... I think I’ve been seeing you as this untouchable, perfect person, and now I’m realising maybe I’m not the only one who’s human.”

You blink at him for a moment, and then—before he can get too embarrassed—something flickers across your face. Maybe it’s recognition. Maybe it’s something else. You lean in just slightly, the air between you thickening, but you don't break the distance just yet.

“I think,” you start slowly, “you might be onto something there, Mingyu.”

His breath hitches. He’s not sure if it’s the wine, the late hour, or the way your voice dropped that has him leaning forward a little. It’s all of it, really. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you reply, lips curling into a knowing smile. “You might find I’m not so untouchable, after all. But—” You pause, the tension rising as your eyes flicker down to his lips, then back to his eyes. “We’ll see if you can handle the reality of that.”

Mingyu’s mind is going full tilt now, brain in overdrive, as his hand involuntarily moves closer to yours on the desk. He's this close to spilling all his thoughts and feelings—about work, about the project, about the way you make him feel—but instead, he blurts out, “I—uh, I’m pretty good with challenges.”

The words hang there, thick in the air between you. And then, before Mingyu can think any more about it, you break the tension—just slightly—by leaning even closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sure you are.”

The space between you shrinks, just a little. And Mingyu, heart hammering in his chest, finds himself absolutely certain that if things don’t shift soon, this office might just catch fire from how hot it’s gotten in the last few minutes. The tension in the air is thick, like static before a storm. Mingyu’s hand hovers just a fraction too close to yours on the desk, his heart a jackhammer in his chest. He’s this close to losing all control, caught between wanting to say the right thing and just leaning in and kissing you. But what would that even mean? Would it be the worst decision of his life? Or the best?

His thoughts are a mess, but then—just like that—it’s like you’ve made up your mind for him. You close the space between you with a single, deliberate movement, your lips pressing softly against his.

Mingyu freezes for half a second, too stunned to process what’s happening. And then, without even thinking, he leans into the kiss, his hand moving to cup your jaw. It’s slow at first, soft, like neither of you can quite believe this is actually happening. Your lips are warm, and the taste of wine lingers on them—something sweet and intoxicating that has his head spinning.

You pull back just slightly, your breath brushing against his lips, and he feels his pulse race. You look at him, eyes dark with something unreadable. "You're not regretting this, are you?" you murmur, voice low.

“No,” he breathes out, shaking his head. “Definitely not regretting this.”

And then you’re kissing him again, deeper this time, your hands moving to his collar as if you’re suddenly both starved for this closeness. His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, and all he can think about is how right this feels, how every inch of him seems to have been made for this exact moment.

The kiss grows more urgent, more heated. His body presses into yours, the desk suddenly feeling too small, too far away. He wants you closer, needs you closer, and the way you move against him makes him ache with desire. He’s so lost in you, in this kiss, that everything else fades away—the Westbrook Project, work deadlines, the office. There’s only you, only this.

You're mumbling something and Mingyu's not sure he has the brain capacity to listen when he can feel your hands on his chest and your body pressed against his.

"... couldn't believe it when I saw you. I mean, who looks like this?"

His brain practically short-circuits at that. 

You’re grinning now, clearly enjoying his flustered reaction, and he can feel his cheeks heat up. But before he can manage a reply, you reach up, your hand grazing the back of his neck as you lean in again. His breath catches in his throat, and suddenly his brain clears—just long enough for him to close the remaining distance between you two.

The kiss this time is less hesitant, filled with a kind of urgency that makes the room feel smaller, more intense. His hands find their way to your waist, pulling you against him, and he feels your fingers twisting in his hair as if you can’t get enough either. Every brush of your lips sends another jolt through him, and he’s quickly losing any sense of professionalism or reason. He’s just Mingyu, in this moment, in this office, completely undone by you.

You’re mumbling again, half-laughing as he trails his lips down to the corner of your mouth and just slightly to your jawline. “I mean, really,” you manage between kisses, breathy but amused. “Did you even realise the effect you have?”

He lets out a breath of laughter against your skin, half a smirk forming. “I—I mean, maybe,” he says, but the words come out more as a gasp because you’ve got your hands back on him, your fingers trailing along his jaw in a way that has him melting. “I might have... kinda hoped, at least?”

“Oh?” Your voice is soft, teasing, and he catches a flash of that mischievous smile just before you lean in again, catching him in another kiss that’s more intense, more consuming than before.

Mingyu’s senses are a blur, but he manages to break away for just a second, eyes dark, a grin of his own tugging at his lips. “I think,” he says, his voice low, “I’d like to show you just how much I can handle.” His tone is playful but edged with a confidence he didn’t know he had until this very moment.

The moment is thick, like honey, everything moving slower and faster at once. Mingyu’s hands slip around your waist, and you’re tugging him closer, a little breathless, a little reckless. You’re both lost in the feeling of it, the thrill and warmth that seemed impossible just minutes ago.

But then—a sharp vibration echoes against the desk. The hum of your phone springs to life, startling you both. The screen lights up with an urgent notification, reminding you exactly where you are and what you’re doing.

You pull back, your lips just a whisper away from his, and a flicker of reality cuts through the haze of the moment. “Oh—” Your hands drop from his collar, fingertips brushing his chest as if the memory of the touch will fade otherwise. “Mingyu, I...”

His eyes meet yours, still dark and soft, a little dazed, a little too hopeful. But he pulls himself together, straightening and running a hand through his hair, somehow flustered and grinning at the same time. “Uh, right. Sorry,” he says, though it’s not clear who he’s apologising to.

You swallow, nodding as you try to steady yourself. “I—need to go,” you manage. “We both do, actually. It’s...late.”

Mingyu blinks, nodding, though he can't help the hint of disappointment beneath his expression. “Right. Of course. We probably... shouldn’t even be here right now.” He laughs awkwardly, scratching the back of his head as if that could somehow erase the last few minutes. “Guess I should close up?”

You nod, and he watches your hand move to your chest, as if to catch your pulse before it runs off. “Yeah, let’s...do that.”

As you step out of the office, you glance back one last time, catching his eye in the dim light. “Goodnight, Mingyu.”

His gaze is steady, his voice warm. “Goodnight.”

The door clicks shut behind you, and Mingyu stands there, staring at it as if it might magically swing back open. For a moment, he doesn’t move, too stunned to process the fact that you were just here, inches away, closer than he ever thought possible, and then—gone. The warmth of you, the softness of your touch, is still buzzing on his skin, and it’s taking everything in him to not replay every single second in his mind.

He lets out a shaky breath and rubs his face, laughing softly to himself. “Wow,” he mutters, barely believing it. Did that really just happen? His boss—the woman he’s spent months trying not to have a full-on crisis over every time she looks at him—just kissed him. And it wasn’t just a peck; it was real, and his head is still spinning.

He paces the office, catching his reflection in the dark window. His hair’s a mess, his shirt collar a little crumpled, and the look on his face is somewhere between ecstatic and completely lost. He feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff—excited but terrified, staring down into something he can’t quite see.

“Okay, pull it together, man,” he whispers, clutching the edge of his desk like it might hold him steady. But he can’t shake the lingering feeling of your hands against him, the way your voice softened as you spoke to him about your dreams, how for a moment, he felt like he’d glimpsed something real and vulnerable and human in you. It’s like he’s been handed the answer to a riddle he didn’t even know he was solving.

He glances back at the empty doorway and smiles, a little helplessly. Because he knows—there’s no going back from this.

On Monday, Mingyu is ready. He's had days to replay every single second of that kiss, dissecting the tiniest details: the way you'd smiled before leaning in, the way you'd pulled back just a bit only to close the gap even tighter the next time. He’s convinced there’s no way you could look at him the same after that. He’s barely looked at himself the same.

So when he walks into the office Monday morning, there's this nervous excitement buzzing in his chest. He expects maybe a shared look or even a subtle nod, something that says 'yeah, we're definitely not forgetting that happened'. But he doesn't get that. In fact, he doesn't get much of anything.

“Uh, good morning,” he finally says, attempting a smile, hoping to break whatever tension he’s imagining.

“Morning,” you say briskly, barely looking up. “Did you get the updated renderings for the Green Above project?”

Mingyu blinks, caught off guard by how quickly you’ve brushed him off. “Yeah, I—um, they should be in your inbox. I, uh, made some adjustments you might want to look at.”

“Great. I’ll check later,” you say, curtly, already turning back to your computer. It’s not even like you’re being rude, exactly; just… distant. Professional. Totally not how you’d looked at him last week when he’d practically melted into you against this very desk.

The day drags on with more of the same. Every time he tries to catch your eye, you’re looking somewhere else. Every attempt at a lighthearted comment, something to bridge the gap, lands with a dull thud. By mid-afternoon, Mingyu’s just staring at his computer screen, feeling completely lost. Did he imagine everything? Because suddenly, it feels like he’s reading way too much into every little thing, wondering if the smile you’d given him that night was all in his head.

By the end of the day, he can’t take it anymore. He decides to be subtle—or something like that—and casually leans into your office as you’re gathering your things.

“Hey, um… are we good?” He tries to keep his voice light, but there’s an edge of worry there that he can’t quite hide. “It feels like—well, last week was—”

You glance up sharply, your expression guarded. “We’re fine, Mingyu,” you say, with a tone that’s just a little too even. “You’re doing great on the project. Keep up the good work.”

There’s that polished professional mask again, and this time it feels like a wall. Mingyu’s stomach twists, and he can’t help but feel a sting in his chest. He nods, trying to ignore the disappointment sinking in. "Right. Yeah, I’ll, uh… keep that up.”

And just like that, you walk past him, your footsteps echoing down the hallway as you head out for the night, leaving him standing there, staring after you, wondering what just went wrong.

It’s Thursday, and Mingyu’s still thinking about every clipped interaction you’ve had all week. He’s convinced he’s somehow messed everything up, but he’s not sure how. By lunchtime, he’s already halfway through a takeout sandwich in the break room when some of the other junior architects drift in, plates and coffees in hand. He’s only half-listening to their conversation, until, like a magnet, he hears your name.

“Did you see how she restructured the timeline?” One of them—Hyun, a friend from Mingyu’s first week—says, rolling his eyes. “Feels like she’s trying to prove something to everyone.”

Another snorts. “Yeah, she’s always like that. Like she has to make everything harder just to remind us she’s the boss.”

Mingyu freezes mid-bite, a flicker of irritation flaring in his chest. He’d learned more from working with you in the past few months than he could’ve in years of grad school. You didn’t ask anyone to work harder than you did yourself, and Mingyu’s certain no one stays later or puts in more effort than you do.

“Maybe she just actually cares about the projects,” Mingyu snaps, dropping his sandwich. The room goes a bit quiet, a few heads turning his way in surprise. “I mean, do you guys know how much time she’s spent on this? She’s doing half of our jobs for us so we don’t mess it up.”

Hyun raises an eyebrow. "Calm down, Mingyu. Everyone knows she's intense."

“‘Intense’ doesn’t mean you have to talk about her like that,” Mingyu says, his voice a bit sharper than he means it to be. “Maybe if people here actually appreciated all the work she does, she wouldn’t have to be so ‘intense’ to get things done.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence, everyone looking at him like he’s suddenly sprouted a second head. Hyun mutters, "That's easy to say when you're the one getting special favours from her."

Mingyu's jaw clenches, the insinuation making his blood boil.  Special favours? He opens his mouth to snap back, but then catches himself. Getting defensive will only make things worse, and he doesn’t owe anyone an explanation for the late nights or the extra hours you’ve spent on his work. The truth is, he’s learned more from those “extra” moments than he could ever explain to Hyun and the others.

“Look,” he says, keeping his voice as steady as he can. “If you guys actually put in half the effort she does, you’d see it’s not about favourites. It’s about getting things right. Maybe if you tried it sometime, you’d get the same attention.”

Hyun snorts, clearly unconvinced. “Right. Must be nice, though, always getting her undivided attention. Pretty convenient, huh?”

The others chuckle, and Mingyu feels his face flush. He glances down, jaw set tight as he clenches his fists under the table. He can feel the weight of their stares and half-smirks, their words pressing in on him like a slow burn he can’t shake off.

The door swings open just then, and he catches sight of you standing there, eyes narrowed, a faint frown on your face. His heart drops, and suddenly he realizes you must have heard—possibly all of it.

“Can I talk to you for a second, Mingyu?” Your tone is measured, calm, but he can tell there’s something icy underneath. The others exchange looks, clearly ready to gossip the second you both leave.

Mingyu follows you out of the room, feeling a sense of dread settle in his stomach. As soon as you’re out of earshot, you turn to him, arms crossed.

“So is that how you’re spending your lunch breaks now?” you ask, a cool edge to your voice. “Defending me in the office cafeteria?”

Mingyu swallows, unsure how to respond. “I just… didn’t think they should be talking about you like that,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady, even though he can feel the intensity of your gaze. “It wasn’t right.”

You sigh, pressing your lips together, something almost unreadable flickering across your face. “I don’t need you to defend me, Mingyu,” you say, your tone firm. “I’ve been doing this job long enough to handle what people say behind my back. You’re here to do your job, not to play protector.”

Mingyu’s jaw clenches. He wants to argue, to tell you that maybe you don’t need anyone’s help, but that doesn’t mean you deserve to be dragged through the mud behind your back. But something in your expression stops him. He nods, swallowing back whatever words were fighting their way to the surface. “Got it,” he says, keeping his voice as even as possible. “It won’t happen again.”

You hold his gaze for a moment longer, as if deciding whether to say more, but then you just shake your head, walking away with a tense set to your shoulders. He watches you go, the frustration and confusion still churning inside him, wondering just how much further away you both seem to get with every step.

Later that evening, Mingyu slumps into the apartment, looking so defeated that Wonwoo’s expression goes from mildly bored to instantly entertained. “Let me guess. It’s about your boss?” Wonwoo doesn’t even wait for confirmation before tossing him a soda. “You’re like a walking rom-com.”

Mingyu sighs, collapsing on the couch. “Wonwoo, I think she hates me. I mean, really hates me.”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “And here I thought you two were practically having candlelit takeout dinners in her office.”

Mingyu runs a hand through his hair, deflating. “Yeah, well, that was before I kissed her.”

Wonwoo’s phone slides out of his hand, falling onto the couch like a lead balloon. “You what?”

Mingyu nods slowly, a rueful look on his face. “We were working late. It just—happened, okay? And now she’s all distant. Like, avoid me at all costs distant.”

“You kissed your boss?” Wonwoo repeats, still processing. He’s looking at Mingyu like he’s a particularly unsolvable math problem. “As in, the one you worship and whose entire life story you’ve googled?”

“Yes, that one,” Mingyu mutters, covering his face with his hands. “And it was incredible. Like, the kind of kiss that makes you think about life and all your choices and, you know… stuff.” He trails off, his voice a bit dreamy despite himself. “But then, after that, she started acting all cold, like it didn’t mean anything.”

Wonwoo stares at him, baffled. “Did you, uh, talk to her about it? You know, use words and stuff?”

Mingyu gives him a look. “Of course I tried talking to her. But she’s been all serious and professional and—ugh.” He sinks deeper into the couch. “And today, I may or may not have defended her in front of everyone. Like, really aggressively.”

Wonwoo groans. “You really know how to complicate things, don’t you?”

“Look, it just came out! They were acting like she’s some kind of boss robot or something. I just couldn’t listen to it.” Mingyu shakes his head. “And of course, she overheard it and was not happy. Told me she doesn’t need someone to protect her.”

Wonwoo considers this, eyebrows furrowed. “So basically, you kissed her, defended her honour, and now you think you ruined everything because she’s distant?”

“Exactly,” Mingyu sighs. “I feel like I messed it all up, and now she thinks I’m just some junior architect with a crush or something.”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “I mean, to be fair, you kind of are a junior architect with a crush.”

“Thanks, Wonwoo. Really needed that.” Mingyu glares at him, but a hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Wonwoo nudges him, his tone a little lighter now. “Look, man, maybe she just needs to know it was more than a one-time, late-night thing for you. Like, a serious talk. But not at the office, where everything’s so formal. Just the two of you.”

Mingyu’s eyes light up. “A serious talk… outside of work. Like, maybe over coffee?”

“Or dinner. Or anything where you can show her that you’re interested in more than work. Just, you know, don’t do that thing where you panic and say something weird.”

Mingyu sighs dramatically. “So, no pressure.”

Wonwoo grins, giving him a slap on the back. “You’ve got this, Romeo. Go win her over.”

Mingyu stands in front of your office door, hands nervously tugging at his sleeves like he's preparing for a public execution. He’s been rehearsing this moment for the last twenty minutes—while staring at his desk like it could offer him some sort of guidance—and he still has no idea what he’s doing. He only knows that if he doesn't get his foot in the door right now, he's going to spend the rest of the day overthinking this until his brain short circuits.

So, he knocks.

And of course, you don’t answer immediately. He stands there like a complete idiot, holding his breath for about five seconds before taking the most awkward step inside. Your eyes flick up to him, and for a second, he’s sure his heart is going to stop.

“Oh. Mingyu.” You sound surprised. Great. That’s just what he needed. "What do you need?"

He smiles, too big, too eager. This is fine. “Hey! So, um, I was thinking—”

“Uh oh,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes as if you already know where this is going.

“No, no, don’t worry, it’s nothing bad,” he says quickly, forcing himself to sound more convincing than he feels. “I just, you know… you’ve been working super hard, and I was thinking, you deserve a break. So, what do you say? Dinner? You and me, tonight.”

You blink at him like he just asked if you wanted to run through the streets naked.

“Dinner? With you?” You tilt your head, looking him up and down, clearly trying to figure out if he’s joking or if his brain’s just melted from exhaustion.

"Yup!" Mingyu says, definitely a little too loud and way too enthusiastic. “Yeah, just dinner. No work talk, no presentations, just a chance to unwind, you know?” He grins like he's already won, but there’s something in your gaze that makes him freeze up.

You raise an eyebrow, studying him carefully. The air between you two is thick with that awkward tension, like you’re both trying to figure out if this is a professional gesture or something else entirely. Mingyu can feel the temperature in the room rise, and his stomach does a somersault as he waits for you to respond.

“Are you… serious right now?” You finally ask, your tone a mix of confusion and cautious curiosity.

Mingyu’s heart stutters in his chest. “Of course, I’m serious,” he says quickly, voice cracking slightly as his nerves get the best of him. “I mean, it’s not like—uh, it’s not like I want anything weird to happen. It’s just dinner. With two people who both happen to work in the same office. Completely normal, right?” He laughs a little too loudly, and it sounds forced, like someone desperately trying to convince themselves of something they don’t believe.

You’re silent for a moment, and Mingyu’s brain spins with overthinking. Should he apologise? Should he leave before this gets even more awkward? Why did he even think this was a good idea? His palms are sweating, his throat dry, and he feels like he might pass out from sheer mortification.

You lean back in your chair, still watching him, and for a second, Mingyu is sure you’re about to shut him down completely. But then, something shifts in your expression—just the faintest flicker of amusement, like you’re trying not to let it show.

“Dinner,” you repeat, almost like you’re testing the word, as though it’s foreign or absurd coming from him. “No work talk?”

“No work talk,” Mingyu confirms, nodding so hard he might give himself whiplash. “I promise. Just good food and maybe a chance to, you know, talk about literally anything else.”

Your lips curve into the smallest of smirks, and Mingyu swears the room feels a little less tense. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

He grins, a spark of hope lighting up his chest. “I like to think of it as... enthusiastic.”

You shake your head, clearly amused now, though you’re doing your best to hide it. “Fine,” you say, leaning forward to jot something on a sticky note. “Dinner."

Mingyu’s heart leaps, and he barely resists the urge to fist pump right there in your office. “Deal!” he says, grinning so wide it’s a wonder his face doesn’t hurt. “Seven o’clock?”

“Seven,” you agree, handing him the sticky note with an address scribbled on it. “Don’t be late, Mingyu.”

He takes the note like it’s a golden ticket, clutching it in his hand as if it might disappear. “I won’t. I’ll see you there.”

As he walks out of your office, he can’t help the goofy smile plastered across his face.

By the time the evening rolls around, Mingyu is pacing outside the restaurant like a man on the edge. He’s checked his watch twice, his phone four times, and stared at the sidewalk so long he’s convinced it’s going to start judging him soon. Late. You're late. Or maybe he’s just early. Impossible to say when your nerves feel like they’re hosting a small rave in your chest.

After all, there’s something about you that makes him want to try harder. Maybe too hard, but he’s finally learned that no one gets anywhere by waiting for the perfect moment to arrive. So, here he is, standing outside the restaurant, pacing like a nervous wreck while waiting for you to arrive.

He’s tried to stay calm, really. Spent the entire afternoon mentally drafting this… whatever this dinner is supposed to be. Not a date (probably). Not a work meeting (definitely). Just dinner. Dinner with the one person who’s managed to turn him into a bundle of energy and chaos masquerading as a fully functional adult.

And then, right as he’s about to dial his mom and ask for advice (because that’s clearly what any reasonable person would do), he sees you.

You walk up with that confident stride, the one that always makes his heart skip a beat, and Mingyu feels himself freeze for a moment, completely forgetting everything he’s planned to say. You've changed and you look good. Too good for a casual dinner, but that’s a problem for another time.

“Hey,” you greet him with a smile, your eyes soft, but not quite soft enough for him to completely relax. “I didn’t expect you to actually show up on time.”

Mingyu laughs, awkwardly tugging at his shirt. “I like to be punctual. It’s kind of a thing.”

You raise an eyebrow but don’t comment on the obvious lie, allowing the small banter to settle between you like a cushion. Instead, you let him open the restaurant door for you, falling into that casual rhythm that somehow feels more natural than the air he’s been breathing all day.

The dinner itself is nice. Too nice. No weird silences, no work talk, just good food and easy conversation. And yet, there’s a weight in the room that Mingyu can’t shake. It’s been lingering ever since the kiss—the kiss—and he knows he can’t keep tiptoeing around it forever. So as the plates are cleared and the server drops off the check, he reaches into his bag, pulling out the rolled-up plans he’s been carrying like a talisman.

He sets them on the table, his hands a little too careful, his heart racing like it’s bracing for impact.

“Okay, now you’re being mysterious,” you say, the smallest hint of amusement curling your lips.

Mingyu’s throat goes dry, but he pushes forward, unrolling the designs and smoothing them out between the two of you. “I know I said no work talk,” he starts, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest, “but… I’ve been working on this. And I thought you should see it.”

Your eyes drop to the papers, and he watches as your expression shifts. At first, there’s curiosity, then recognition, and finally… something deeper. Something he can’t quite name but feels in the way your fingers tremble slightly as they trace the edges of the designs with a reverence he didn’t know he could envy. Your fingers are delicate but deliberate, the way you touch the plans like they might vanish under too much pressure. Mingyu’s heart is pounding so loudly he's surprised you can’t hear it across the table.

“Where did you get these?” Your voice comes out hoarse, more vulnerable than you mean it to be.

“I’ve been working on them for a while,” Mingyu admits, leaning forward, his hands clasped on the table. “After you talked about the Westbrook Project that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how much it mattered to you. I wanted to do something with it. Something for you.”

You blink, unsure how to process this. “But how did you know?”

“I just—” Mingyu hesitates, then shrugs. “I listened. I saw it. The way you talked about it that night, the passion you put into your projects. I wanted to give it the respect it deserves. I couldn’t let it just end with a ‘no’.”

You stare at the designs again, looking like you've been hit by a wave of nostalgia and shock. "You really... did this for me?”

“I did,” he says quietly, his eyes meeting yours. “And I think it could be something we could do together. If you’re interested.”

You pause, the space between you thick with emotion, something unspoken hanging in the air. Finally, you swallow and look at him, searching his face as if trying to make sure this is real.

“I... I don’t know what to say, Mingyu.” Your voice cracks, and you can’t quite hide the emotion that’s flooding through you. “You’ve—this is everything I’ve been trying to do. But I didn’t think anyone else could see it.”

He sits up straighter, his hands resting on the edge of the table as he tries to keep his voice steady. "I just didn't want you to let go of something so important," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "It deserves another chance. You deserve another chance."

He doesn't know where he finds the courage to say those words. They sound so earnest. Almost embarrassingly so. But, it's the truth, and if there's one thing he's learned from you, it's that honesty - no matter how uncomfortable - is the foundation of anything worth building.

Your breath catches, and for a moment, the restaurant fades away—the low hum of conversation, the soft clink of silverware, all of it. It's just you and Mingyu, sitting across from each other, separated by a stack of papers and an ocean of unspoken feelings.

"Mingyu..." You start, but the words get caught in your throat.

You look down, the faintest hint of a tremble in your hands. And Mingyu, who had been prepared for you to shut him down, to dismiss this moment as anything but professional, has to fight the urge to reach across the table and take your hand. He doesn't, of course. He can't. Not yet.

He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table. He's not used to this - seeing you so vulnerable - and he just wants to take some of that pressure off your back. "Look, I know I’m not perfect. I mess up, I talk too much, and I probably drive you crazy most of the time. But I see you, (Y/n). I see how much you care, how much you put into everything you do. And I don’t just admire that—I... I want to be part of it. To be there for you."

Your lips part in surprise. "I don’t know how to do this," you admit, your voice trembling slightly. "I’ve spent so long trying to keep everything together. To keep people at a distance. And now—"

"You don’t have to figure it all out right now," Mingyu says softly, sensing the spiral of doubt you appear to be descending into.  "We can take it slow. One step at a time. I just... I needed you to know how I feel."

For a long moment, you don’t move. But then, slowly, you let your hand inch toward his, your fingertips brushing against his palm.

It’s small. Tentative. But it’s enough.

Mingyu barely breathes as your fingers brush his. It’s such a simple gesture, but it sends a jolt straight through him, grounding him in this moment that feels impossibly fragile. He wraps his hand gently around yours, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. It’s all he can do to keep himself steady when every nerve in his body is screaming at him to close the distance completely.

You don’t pull away, and that feels like a victory in itself. But when you look up at him again, your eyes are brimming with something he can’t quite name—fear, maybe, or hesitation—but also something softer, warmer, that gives him just enough hope to hold on.

“Mingyu,” you start, your voice barely above a whisper. You glance down at your joined hands, your brows furrowing slightly as though you’re gathering the courage to say something that’s been weighing on you. “After the kiss... I didn't know what to do.”

His heart skips a beat at the mention of it, the memory still fresh in his mind—the way your lips had felt against his, the way the world had seemed to tilt on its axis for just a moment. He doesn’t say anything, though, afraid that if he interrupts, you’ll stop.

“I started acting cold because...” You take a shaky breath, your fingers tightening slightly around his. “Because I didn’t know how to handle it. How to handle you.”

Mingyu blinks, his chest tightening at your words. “Me?” His voice is soft, cautious. He doesn’t want to push too hard, but he needs to understand.

You nod, your gaze flickering back to his, vulnerable but resolute. “You scare me, Mingyu. Not in a bad way, but... in a way I’ve never felt before. You’re so open, so sincere. You make everything seem so easy, like it’s natural to just—feel. And for me, that’s... terrifying.”

He watches you, his heart breaking a little with every word. He wants to say something, to tell you that you don’t have to be scared, but he knows this isn’t the time. He needs to let you finish.

“I’ve spent so long keeping people at arm’s length,” you admit, your voice trembling. “It’s just easier that way. I don’t get hurt, and I don’t hurt anyone else. But then you came along, with your ridiculous optimism and your... your kindness, and suddenly I didn’t know how to keep you out. And that kiss—it made me realise I can’t.”

Mingyu doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know if there’s anything he can say to match the weight of what you’re giving him. So he squeezes your hand, letting his touch say what his words can’t.

“I didn’t mean to push you away,” you continue, your voice soft but unsteady. “But I thought if I could convince myself it didn’t matter, that you didn’t matter, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much if it all fell apart.”

Mingyu shakes his head slowly, his grip on your hand firm but gentle. “You don’t have to protect yourself from me,” he says, his voice low but steady. “I’m not going anywhere."

You look at him, your eyes searching his for something—reassurance, maybe, or proof that he’s not just saying what he thinks you want to hear. Whatever it is, you seem to find it, because your shoulders relax just a fraction, and a small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you repeat, your voice barely audible. “But I think... I think I want to try.”

And that’s it. That’s all Mingyu needs. His chest swells with something that feels suspiciously like hope, and he leans in just enough. "I don't need perfect. I just need you, the way you are, right here, right now."

For a moment, there’s silence. Not the awkward kind—the kind where the world feels like it’s holding its breath just for you. Mingyu’s words hang in the air, his thumb still brushing over your knuckles, as if he’s afraid you might vanish if he stops. His heart is doing that thing again, where it feels way too big for his chest, and honestly, he’s not sure if that’s romantic or just a pending medical emergency.

You glance down, exhaling softly, and then look back up at him with that small, tentative smile that could single-handedly knock him off his chair. “Do you...” You pause, biting your lip like you’re still deciding if this is a terrible idea or just a regular bad one. “Do you want to come back to my apartment?”

Mingyu’s brain short-circuits.

Like, fully shuts down. There’s no reboot happening here. Just static, a faint buzzing sound, and a very unfortunate replay of every romantic comedy scene he’s ever watched where the male lead trips over his own words and ruins everything.

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Great. Perfect. Ideal response.

“Mingyu?” you ask, your tone softer now, like you’re worried you might’ve just set his brain on fire.

“I—uh—yes? I mean, yes!” He blurts it out, too loud, and the couple at the next table glance over like they’re wondering if he’s okay. He’s not, but that’s beside the point.

You laugh, and the sound feels like sunshine breaking through the clouds. “You’re sure?” you ask, your tone teasing but warm.

“Absolutely,” he says, sitting up straighter, like he’s about to sign an unbreakable contract. “I am very sure. Extremely sure. Couldn’t be more sure.”

You raise an eyebrow, clearly enjoying his spiral. “Okay, then.”

You stand, and Mingyu scrambles to follow, nearly knocking over his chair in the process. Smooth. So smooth. He rushes to grab his coat, fumbling with the sleeve as he tries to put it on without dislocating a shoulder. When he finally gets it together and turns back to you, you’re just standing there, watching him with an amused smile.

“You good?” you ask, tilting your head.

“Good?” Mingyu repeats, laughing nervously. “Yeah, I’m great. Amazing. Let’s, uh, go.”

He follows you out of the restaurant, trying to act like a normal, functional human being. Except his palms are sweating, his heart is racing, and he’s pretty sure he almost tripped on absolutely nothing as you walked to the curb. When you glance back at him, your expression softens, and suddenly, it feels like the world’s gone quiet again.

“Hey,” you say, your voice cutting through the chaos in his head. “You don’t have to be nervous, you know.”

“I’m not nervous,” Mingyu lies, his grin wide and unconvincing. “This is just how I always look when I’m—uh—happy.”

You laugh again, shaking your head, and link your arm with his, pulling him gently along. “Come on, let’s go before you combust.”

The walk to your apartment is a blur for Mingyu. His brain is bouncing between, Wow, I can't believe this is happening and What am I supposed to do when we get there? Sit? Stand? Compliment her interior design choices? He's overthinking so hard he barely notices when you nudge him gently and gesture toward the building in front of you.

“This is me,” you say, your voice calm, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips like you know exactly how fried his brain is right now.

“Cool,” Mingyu replies, because apparently that’s the only word left in his vocabulary. Cool. Not “nice place” or “wow, it suits you,” just cool. He could punch himself, but then you’re already unlocking the door, and the reality of the moment hits him like a freight train.

The inside of your apartment is warm. Not literally warm—though the temperature is pleasant—but warm in the way it feels lived-in and completely, unmistakably you. It’s smaller than he imagined, but cozy, like every piece of furniture and every object has been chosen for a reason. There’s a soft throw blanket draped over the arm of your couch, a mug on the coffee table with a faint ring from earlier that day, and a half-finished book on the shelf that he knows he’s seen you reading during breaks.

Mingyu steps inside, toeing off his shoes at the door because it feels like the kind of place where shoes on indoors would be a crime. “Your apartment is really nice,” he says, his voice a little too high-pitched because he’s still desperately trying not to think about why he’s here.

“It suits you,” Mingyu says before he can stop himself, the words slipping out too soft, too sincere. When you glance at him, your cheeks warm, he knows he’s said the right thing.

“Thanks,” you murmur, ducking your head slightly. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab us something to drink.”

You disappear into the kitchen, and Mingyu is left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying not to spiral. This is fine. Totally normal. Just two people hanging out in a perfectly platonic and definitely not emotionally loaded way. Except it’s not fine, and his brain is racing faster than he can catch up.

He sits down on the couch, his hands fidgeting in his lap as he looks around again. It’s impossible not to take everything in, to let the space tell him little things about you he didn’t know before. Like how there’s a stack of notebooks on the side table, their covers worn like they’ve been flipped through a thousand times. Or how there’s a candle sitting on the shelf labelled something ridiculous like “Cinnamon Forest Dreams,” and now all he can think about is you lighting it during one of your late-night brainstorming sessions.

When you come back, two glasses of water in hand (because you’re practical like that, of course), Mingyu straightens up, his heart pounding in his chest. You sit down beside him, closer than he expected but not close enough to touch, and he’s suddenly very aware of how small the couch feels.

“So,” you say, handing him a glass, your voice light but your eyes betraying a flicker of nervousness. “What do you think?”

“Of the apartment?” Mingyu asks, taking a sip of water because it’s something to do with his hands. “I think it’s great. Like... really great. It’s very... you.”

You raise an eyebrow, amusement tugging at your lips. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s the compliment,” he replies, his grin a little sheepish. “It’s perfect. Just like—” He cuts himself off, his cheeks flushing as he looks down at his glass. Don’t say it. Don’t overdo it.

But you’re looking at him now, your expression softening. “Just like what?”

Mingyu swallows hard, his brain screaming at him to play it cool. “Just like I imagined,” he finally says, his voice quiet but steady. “Like... a space that feels like you.”

There’s a pause, and for a moment, he wonders if he’s completely ruined everything. But then you smile—really smile—and his chest feels like it might explode.

“Thanks, Mingyu,” you say, your voice soft, almost shy. “That means a lot.”

He smiles back, trying to ignore the way his heart is doing somersaults. This is fine. Totally fine. Nothing to freak out about. But then your knee bumps against his, and suddenly, he’s not so sure.

Mingyu swallows. A cough almost escapes his throat, but he manages to catch it, instead clearing his throat like he's trying to shake off the sudden, very real butterflies in his stomach.

You, on the other hand, seem perfectly at ease, sipping your water, your eyes not quite meeting his, but still playful, still warm. Your knee stays lightly resting against his.

He looks at you, his mind racing, and wonders if maybe this is one of those moments where he should just say it. Say what’s been sitting heavy on his mind, almost screaming to come out ever since that night—the kiss, the awkwardness, the moments of quiet when he almost wished he could reach out and grab the truth like it was some kind of lifeline.

“Y'know," he begins, his voice coming out a little more nervously than he meant, "I’ve spent most of my life messing up in the most spectacular ways possible. I don’t exactly have a good track record when it comes to making things right."

You tilt your head at him, a playful smile on your lips, but your gaze is intense in a way that makes his breath catch. “You’re being too hard on yourself, Mingyu,” you say, your tone teasing, but there’s something beneath it—a quiet, steady assurance that has him clinging to every word.

“No, I’m serious,” he insists, his hand tightening slightly around his glass. “Like, when it comes to this—" He gestures vaguely between the two of you, "I’m completely out of my depth. I don’t really know what I’m doing.” He bites his lip, willing himself not to spill everything at once. “But, I think… I think I really want to try. With you.”

The silence that follows is thick. Mingyu mentally runs through every scenario, and none of them seem to be as perfectly awkward and fragile as this one. He starts to second-guess himself, but before he can say something stupid to cover it all up, you do something that catches him completely off-guard.

You shift closer, your knee brushing against his again, but this time, there’s no hesitation in the way you move. Your hand reaches out, fingers gently resting on his forearm, warm and soft. He can feel your pulse, steady and strong, as if somehow in this small gesture, you’re grounding him.

“Mingyu,” you say quietly, and he’s not sure if it’s his name or the way you say it that knocks all the air out of him. “I’m not asking for perfection. I don’t even know what that looks like.”

Mingyu’s breath hitches as he watches you, his heart skipping a beat at the honesty in your eyes. It feels like you're both on the edge of something, teetering between what is and what could be, and yet all Mingyu can think about in this moment is how simple it is to be here with you—how uncomplicated it feels to just let go.

“I don’t know what I’m doing either,” you continue, your voice soft but clear. “But I want to find out. With you."

It’s then that Mingyu realizes how quiet it’s gotten, how still the air is around the two of you. The world outside your apartment could be spinning at a hundred miles per hour, and in this small space, with your hand on his arm, time feels like it’s standing still.

You’re sitting so close now. The space between you is smaller than the gap in his thoughts. His hand, which had been fidgeting with the glass of water, starts to move on its own. He places it gently on the cushion beside you, just a few inches from your own. His palm is open, but he waits.

And then—he takes a breath.

"Can I?" he asks, voice low, almost a whisper, as though he's afraid you'll pull away, as though he's asking permission for something he should have done a hundred times before.

Your eyes lock with his. They're soft, vulnerable, like you're weighing his words against everything that's happened before. For a moment, the world feels like it’s paused, like there’s no room for doubts or what-ifs. There’s just you and him, and something that’s undeniable between you.

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you let your gaze drift to his lips, and then, almost imperceptibly, you lean in.

Mingyu doesn’t wait for a second invitation. His hand slides from the couch to gently cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing over the soft skin of your cheek as he moves closer. He feels the heat radiating off you, and his breath catches when your lips are just a breath away.

And then, before he can even think, he closes the distance between you, his lips brushing softly against yours.

It’s nothing like the first kiss. There’s no hesitation, no uncertainty—just the sensation of everything falling into place. The kiss is slow, tender, almost like he’s savouring it, wanting to memorise the moment because, for once, it feels like everything is exactly how it should be.

Your lips move against his in a quiet, unspoken rhythm, and he feels the tension that had been building between the two of you melt away. He’s no longer nervous, no longer afraid of saying the wrong thing or doing the wrong thing. He just wants to be here with you—now, in this perfect moment.

When you pull away, it’s not with distance, but with the smallest of smiles tugging at your lips, your eyes full of something that makes Mingyu's chest tighten. Your breath is still coming fast, like you’re just as shaken as he is.

He doesn’t say anything at first. There’s no need. His heart is still racing, but now, he’s not afraid of what comes next. He feels like he’s finally stepped into something real, something that might not be easy but is worth every bit of effort.

"I think..." he starts, his voice a little hushed, "I really wanted to do that again."

You laugh softly, the sound warm and familiar, as you tilt your head just enough for your forehead to rest against his. "Yeah?" you murmur, your fingers gently tracing the outline of his jaw. "Well, I'm glad you did."

Mingyu can't help but smile, his hand, still resting gently on your waist, pulls you just a little closer, as if to remind himself that this is real. That you're really here, and this is really happening. You don’t pull away. Instead, your hand moves from his jaw to his collar, gently tugging at the fabric like it’s an invitation he can’t refuse.

And Mingyu? He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He leans in again, his lips finding yours with more urgency this time. His free hand moves to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you deeper into the kiss. It’s like his body’s on autopilot, all his self-control falling away the moment you’re close enough to feel.

You gasp softly against his lips as his hand slides down to your waist, fingertips brushing the curve of your hip, and he feels you shiver. His pulse is racing in his ears, but it's the warmth of your body against his that completely consumes him. He can't stop. Can't pull away. You taste like the promise of something more, and the way your fingers grip his collar tightens the knot in his stomach until it’s a full-on spiral of heat.

Your mouth moves with his now, more desperate, more demanding, and Mingyu’s heart does that weird, annoying thing again—where it leaps in his chest, and all his thoughts vanish like mist under the sun. He kisses you harder, taking a moment to pull away just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting as if you’ve run miles, even though you’ve hardly moved.

“Mingyu...” you whisper, voice breathless, a little unsteady. He feels the sound vibrating through him as much as he hears it.

"Yeah?" he responds, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth despite how utterly wrecked he feels in the best possible way. "You’re not gonna suddenly tell me this is all a huge mistake, right?"

You laugh—a low, playful sound that makes his chest tighten, and then you kiss him again. This time, it's slow, deliberate, like you’re savouring each second, each touch. And Mingyu’s mind short-circuits all over again, as if he's trying to figure out how it's possible for something so simple to make him feel so—so—alive.

Your hands are everywhere now—on his chest, around his neck, tugging him closer until there’s not an inch of space between you. And that’s when he feels it, that surge of want, a physical ache deep in his chest that spreads out to his limbs, making him burn.

He presses you back gently against the armrest of the couch, his lips trailing down to your neck, his breath hitching when you arch into him. The way you melt under his touch is everything he’s ever wanted—more than he even realised he craved. The warmth of your skin, the way your fingers dig into his back, all of it pulls him in, deeper, until he’s lost in the sensation of just being with you.

“Mingyu, we—” you start, but the words cut off when his lips meet the curve of your neck, and the way you shudder against him makes his pulse stutter in his veins. You can’t even finish the sentence, and he’s so close to being past the point of caring.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “We what?” he asks, his voice rough. "I won't let you talk if you're going to tell me you changed your mind."

Your gaze flickers between his lips and his eyes, a playful challenge in your expression. "I’m just saying," you murmur, your hands shifting down to his shirt as you slowly begin to unbutton it. "You're going to have to transfer to a different team after Langham is done."

Mingyu grins, a breathless huff of laughter leaving his lips. "As long as I still get to see you every day."

"I'd say you're probably going to get to see a lot more of me." Your words are said innocently enough, but the implication mixed with the feeling of your heaving chest against his is making his head spin again.

And just like that, you have him, every inch of him. Mingyu can’t keep his hands from wandering, can’t keep his lips from pressing harder against yours, can’t keep from falling deeper into this beautiful mess of passion and want. The last shred of his self-control slips away, leaving only you—right here, right now.

Your clothes go quickly, his quicker, until you're both laid bare before the other, entirely vulnerable and at peace at the same time. He's drowning in you, his head nested between your legs, feeling as eager to please as he did the first day he met you. You're gasping his name, hands curling into his hair, head falling back onto your couch in utter bliss. 

And then your fingers are wrapping around his shoulders, digging into the muscles and pulling him back up towards you. He almost falls off the couch he moves so fast, but you don't seem to notice. You're too busy looking positively angelic in front of him, with those large, sparkling eyes staring at him and dirty words pouring out of your mouth.

Mingyu has to hold himself together as you tell him, point blank, to "hurry up, and make love to me."

This isn't Mingyu's first rollercoaster. He's a good-looking guy, and he knows it. He's been with others before, but when you speak to him like that, he feels like he's eighteen again and a girl's just sat on his lap for the first time. 

And it feels so good, you feel so good around him. You might not have to worry about transferring teams, because he's not sure he's going to make it. The noises you're making, the warmth of your body, the scraping of your nails against his chest - it's enough to finish him off (or at least allow him to ignore the ungodly sounds pouring out of his own mouth).

He makes sure you've finished as well before pulling out (because he wants to, not because he feels embarrassed that he came first). A blissful look falls over your face and Mingyu has to mentally take a photo of the image to make sure he never forgets it. He's staring at you; he knows it and you know it, and you're giggling a little and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard.

"Wait here," he whispers, not wanting to break the moment by speaking too loudly. He leans down to peck your lips, before running into your bathroom to dispose of the condom and get some towels and blankets. 

The night fades softly into a comfortable quiet as you and Mingyu lay there, nestled on your couch, your bodies half-melted into the cushions, the air between you warm and thick with the lingering feeling of everything now spoken. 

Mingyu is still processing it all. This. This feeling of being here, with you. He’s supposed to be good at this—the whole dating thing, at least. But everything about tonight has been different. And, if he’s being honest with himself, much better than he expected. He expected the awkwardness, the second-guessing, the inevitable when do I leave? moment, but none of that happened. Instead, all that’s left is you. And him. And the soft rhythm of your breathing in the stillness of your apartment.

He stares at the ceiling, trying to act casual, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. This is fine, he thinks, despite the tiny voice in the back of his head screaming that nothing this nice is ever fine. But the voice is quieter now. A lot quieter.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you mumble, your voice muffled against the fabric of his shirt, your head resting on his chest. Your fingers play with the hem of his shirt absently, as though you’re trying to figure out the material, the way it fits him, the way it feels beneath your touch.

Mingyu chuckles softly, a little embarrassed. “Sorry,” he murmurs, his chest vibrating with the sound. “I guess I’m just... trying to make sure I’m not dreaming.”

“Well,” you reply, shifting just enough to lift your head, your eyes soft but amused, “if this is a dream, I’m okay with it. I think I’ll stick around.”

Mingyu's heart skips a beat at the words, but he keeps his voice steady, even if the teasing smile he wears is bordering on ridiculous. “Good, because if this is a dream, I’m not waking up."

As the night deepens and the city lights paint soft patterns on the walls of your apartment, Mingyu finds himself drawn to your window. The skyline stretches before him, a tapestry of glowing spires and shimmering reflections, alive with the energy of the place he loves most. He smiles, realising for the first time how much this view has changed for him. It isn't just buildings and lights anymore - it's connection, collaboration, and the quiet promise of something new. A reminder of what you are going to build together, layer by layer, one light at a time.

The garage hums with the familiar sounds of clanking tools and low rock music playing from your dad’s old radio, its worn dials barely holding the station through the static. The air stinks of oil and metal, a mix of grease and gasoline lingering in the corners of the shop that reminds you of home. Rusted car parts and half-disassembled engines are scattered across workbenches in an organised chaos that only someone who spends hours here could understand.

Most of the time you spend in the shop is alone – you haven’t expanded enough to need to hire a second mechanic, although you’d been considering getting someone to do your telephone and books after you dropped the phone behind an engine block, trying to juggle too many things at once.

But, that’s how you like it. Being surrounded by machines and metal brings you far more contentment than interacting with your customers – a necessity, although often a frustrating one. The beautiful complexity of the mechanisms feels like creation in your hands, the ability to mend and perfect a power usually reserved for God alone.

Something about the surety of everything having its place, and knowing what that is, brings you a solace well needed in your grungy corner of life.

Your garage sits on the edge of the city, tucked in a dodgy part of town where most people would think twice about wandering after dark. It’s not unusual to see someone rush by with their hood up, or hear the occasional screech of tyres speeding away from something best left alone. Keeping to yourself is the chosen lifestyle here, and you are no stranger to the consequences of choosing to get involved.

Over the years, you’ve managed to build yourself a reputation – not just for your skill with a wrench, but for being a place where no one asks too many questions. You’ve seen all sorts roll past: street races, ex-cons, people looking for a little discretion. You don’t judge. As long as they respect the rules and pay their bill, you don’t pry into their business. It’s a system that keeps you afloat amongst an unforgiving landscape. Every time you flip the newspaper over to see another store shot up or looted, you feel even less obliged to know anything about your customers.

But, peace and quiet is never-lasting.

You’re stuck at the bottom of a lifted car, trying to wrestle a stubborn bolt loose from the undercarriage as the high-pitched squeal of your doorbell rings out through the shop. Your hands, slick with oil, slip on the wrench and you mutter a curse under your breath.

Heavy bootsteps lumber into the shop, stopping a few feet away next to your squat wooden desk.

Finally, with a grunt of effort, the bolt loosens. It comes free with a satisfying click, and you slide out from under the car, swiping your forehead with the back of your hand. You wipe your hands on a rag, and take a quick glance out toward the street, taking in the dark, rusty tone of the early evening sky.

“How’s she lookin’?” A familiar, gravelly tone calls out towards you.

A lopsided smile crackles over your lips as you tilt your head with a small shrug, your gaze finally locking with the customer. “She’s looked better – but I think you already knew that.” The car is an old classic, its parts worn and rusted like they haven’t seen a proper tune-up in years.

Mr Corallo lets out a huff of laughter. His arms cross together over his broad chest, revealing a snake tattoo on his lower left forearm – a reminder to everyone of who he is loyal to, and who protects him. “Yeah, alright. And you’ve got a cure, doc?”

“Give me a few days and she’ll be as good as new.” You tap the hood of the car lightly with your fingertips, wiping off a speck of oil that had dripped from your shirt.

Mr Corallo nods, pulling an envelope from his jeans’ back pocket. “Half now, half later, right?”

You give a small hum of agreement, walking around to wash your hands of the oil.

"Mr Scott thanks you for your business," Mr Corallo says, throwing the envelope down. The corners of his mouth curl up, revealing just a hint of teeth, and his eyes gleam with a dangerous glint, revelling in the uncomfortable shift in the air at the namedrop of Mr Scott.

“Always a pleasure.” You reply with a tight-lipped smile. The invocation of Mr Scott bothered you less than it would others, but he wasn’t a person you wanted to be associated too greatly with your garage. The ‘lawyer’ has a reputation for criminal activity more well-known than any of his actual court cases, and you’ve seen the evidence of his anger splattered across the Lower South Rim back alleys. But, like many of your seedier customers, his business kept your shop out of harm’s way, and so you could get over his more displeasing mannerisms.

“Oh, hey-” Just as you think he’s gone, Mr Corallo turns around one more time, his gait falling to a stop with one hand on the doorknob. “-you haven’t happened to see or hear anything about that incident at Brewer’s Quarter, have ya? Mr Scott’s been interested in finding out more about what went down.”

You pause, drying your hands on the towel, careful to keep your expression neutral. The incident at Brewer’s Quarter had been all over the news – a warehouse fire, but not of the accidental variety. Word on the street was that it had been a targeted hit, a gang skirmish that went too far. Brewer's Quarter is just a few blocks over, close enough to your shop that you’d heard the sirens blaring late into the night.

You hadn’t seen anything, not directly at least. Of course, there was that incident with the car, but you aren’t sure that had anything to do with the fire…

It was the early hours of the morning, police had scattered, the fire had been put out, and anyone involved was long clear of the area. You were walking back from the shop, having had a late night trying to sort out your accounts for the last month – a job that required at least two glasses of whiskey to get through it.

You didn’t tend to stay late at the garage often, and the prospect of walking around these streets late wasn’t one that sat well with anyone who knew them. But there was a shortcut to your apartment through the old dump on 64th that cut down your journey to a five-minute run, if needed.

The night air had been cool, the kind of eerie silence that clung to the aftermath of violence. You had been walking quickly, your hands shoved deep into your pockets, eyes darting around out of habit. The whiskey buzz had made the shadows seem a little more sinister than usual, but you were steady enough on your feet.

You’d first noticed something odd when you’d reached the outer chain-link fence cornering off the dump – a faint, metallic glint, barely visible in the low light. At first, you’d assumed it was just junk, another rusted-out shell of a car left to rot. But, as you got closer, you could see the car was too new for this area, and wrecked – badly wrecked.

Instinct told you to keep moving; this kind of thing usually spelt trouble. But something about the car had caught your eye, something familiar. The lines of it were sleek, too well-crafted to be an average street racer.

You had crouched down, running your hand over the dented hood, feeling the grooves where it had clearly taken some kind of brutal impact. The whole front end was smashed in, the windshield cracked and splintered like a spider web. There were scorch marks, too, as if the car had been through a fire.

Either this car’s owner was involved in some dodgy business, or he was a terrible driver.

And then you had seen it – the unmistakable emblem, barely visible through the soot and grime. The flaming star, the symbol of the Red Comet. For the past two years, you’d seen headline after headline regaling how the Red Comet had saved the city once again, always seemingly one step ahead of the people who threatened to tear it apart. You know hardly anything about the superhero, although apparently nobody does. Even his name is a phantasm of the media, given in the aftermath of his first appearance which happened to be on the day that a red comet streaked through the sky. And this was his car.

Your heart had skipped a beat. What the hell was it doing here, and in this state?

You knew you should have walked away. But something in you just couldn’t. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was the whiskey making you bolder than you usually were, but you couldn’t just let the car sit there. Maybe, it was your way of giving something back to the hero who’d saved the city time and time again.

After making sure that no one was watching, you’d decided to tow it back to the garage. You’d covered it up, keeping it out of sight, hoping that no one would come looking for it. For the next few nights, you’d worked on it in secret. The damage was extensive, but you’d seen worse. Underneath the mangled metal and burned parts, the car was a marvel of engineering. You’d never worked on anything like it before – high-tech gadgets, reinforced steel, the king of stuff you only saw in movies. Every time you popped the hood, it felt like uncovering another layer of mystery.

Some of the damage seemed aeons old – definitely not the product of its latest encounter. The craftsmanship suggested that its owner knew his way around the car, but the lasting injuries let you know that he wasn’t a trained mechanic.

You only left one trace of your involvement – a small note, scribbled on a scrap of paper and tucked neatly in the wheel well. It simply read: ‘Fixed her up. No charge. -M.’

You figured if the Red Comet ever came back for the car, they’d know someone had taken care of it. You hoped that the note would calm their suspicions of foul play...

“Nope,” you reply to Mr Corallo, your tone light and steady. “I heard about it, like everyone else, but I was two drinks deep by the time I heard the sirens, and I wouldn’t have been able to get down the stairs even if I’d wanted to.”

Mr Corallo watches you closely for a moment, trying to gauge whether you’re telling the truth. You’re good at this game, though; slipping in half-truths to conceal the true extent of your knowledge.

“Smart,” he says after a beat, the tension in his stance easing just a bit as he releases the door handle. “Wouldn’t want you getting in the middle of anything … unpleasant.”

He flashes a grin, but there’s a hint of warning behind it. You match his smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. With that, he finally turns and makes his way toward the door, his boots scuffing the concrete floor. You let out a slow breath, the tension in your shoulders easing ever so slightly as he steps outside. But just before he leaves, he calls back over his shoulder one last time.

"And if you do hear anything… well, you know where to find us."

The door closes with a soft click, and the garage is silent again, save for the low hum of the radio.

Every bone in Lee Chan’s body aches, and he’s surprised his skin hasn’t turned green and blue all over. Any little move hurts – and that’s with days of much-needed recuperation. Groaning as he pulls himself up out of bed, he looks down to inspect the damage. A few cuts, scrapes, and bruises, and a particularly nasty swipe along his left thigh that has begun to scab over.

Chan winces as he gingerly presses his hand against the cut, the sting reminding him of just how close things had gotten. It had been a mess – a confrontation with Tempest as the Brewery Quarter. The whole thing had escalated far faster than he’d anticipated. What should have been a routine patrol had turned into a disaster as Tempest decided to unleash a barrage of electrical blasts, wrecking half the district in the process.

The fight is a blur now, fragments of shattered glass and the acrid scent of smoke lingering in his memory. He’d been so focused on taking Tempest down that he hadn’t fully realized how much damage he had taken in the process.

In the end, it was brute force and desperation that won out. He had managed to hold up the building just long enough to knock Tempest off balance, forcing the villain into retreat. But victory had been fleeting. Tempest had disappeared in the chaos, vanishing before Chan could deliver a final blow. By the time the authorities arrived, Tempest was gone, leaving behind only destruction and debris, and Chan had barely made it out himself, collapsing in a nearby alley as sirens blared in the distance. He’d limped home under cover of darkness, his mask barely shielding him from prying eyes.

A low groan escapes him as he stretches. He limps over to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looks like hell—his skin is pale, dark circles linger under his eyes, and the bruises that cover his torso are turning an ugly shade of purple. He splashes some cold water on his face, trying to wash away the fatigue, but it doesn’t do much. His body is spent.

God, he needs a hobby.

A small laugh ripples through him at the thought, getting stuck painfully in his scratchy throat. Seungkwan had told him just as much last week when they finally had time to hang out. 

"You're not talking to enough people," He'd said, and he'd been right - Chan has hardly talked to anyone as himself in days. Making quippy remarks and telling people to get out of the way isn't quite the same as having a proper conversation with a friend.

Chan towels his face and stumbles into the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee while his mind drifts. Maybe a hobby wouldn’t even help. Maybe what he really needs is to let go of the whole hero thing, at least a little. Being the Red Comet 24/7 is exhausting, and lately, it feels like it is swallowing him whole, leaving nothing for himself.

The coffee smells good, but Chan's stomach twists at the idea of caffeine. He sits at the kitchen table, cradling the warm mug in his hands but not drinking, staring blankly out the window. He can’t help but wonder if next time he’ll be able to handle it. Tempest is growing stronger, more reckless, and each encounter is becoming more dangerous. He doesn’t know how long he can keep doing this, how many more nights his body can take the punishment.

I have to get ahead of this, he thinks, rubbing the back of his neck. Figure out where Tempest is hiding before he strikes again.

The thought of rest is tempting, but he knows there is no time for that. Not with Tempest still out there, licking his wounds and plotting his next move. Chan glances at the clock. Morning is just creeping in, but his mind is already racing through the next steps - tracking Tempest, preparing his gear, and finding his car.

The nagging feeling of unfinished business crawls under his skin. Chan hadn't had time to think about it amidst the chaos of fighting Tempest. His ride had been totalled - again - and left behind in the fray.

He stumbles over to his laptop, ignoring the stabbing pain in his thigh, and pulls up the city's traffic cams. His fingers clumsily tap at the keys as he rewinds footage from last night, scanning for any sign of the car. He remembers the last place he'd seen it—by the Brewery Quarter, just before Tempest had thrown him through a storefront.

The footage shows chaos: explosions, debris flying, panicked civilians running. For a moment, it’s overwhelming—too much movement, too much destruction—but then he spots it. His car, smashed and smoking, left abandoned next to the dump.

His stomach twists as the camera catches something else: a tow truck pulling up beside it. But not a city truck. The logo is fuzzy, and there’s something strange about the way the driver moves—hurried, almost too careful for a standard recovery job. The truck hooks up his wrecked car and drives off, disappearing into the shadows of the industrial district.

"Who the hell…?" Chan mutters to himself.

His heart races as he shuts the laptop. If he’s lucky, whoever has the car just wants to strip it for parts. If he’s not, well… there are people out there who would pay a fortune for the tech inside that car. And some who’d use it for much worse.

He forces himself up, grabs his jacket, and heads out the door, ignoring the protest from his still-aching body. He knows the industrial district well enough to navigate it, even in his current state. If the car was taken there, it shouldn’t be too hard to track down.

The sun is starting to set by the time he reaches the dingy outskirts of the industrial district. This part of the city is a graveyard of old factories and warehouses, the kind of place where no one asks questions. Chan walks down the narrow streets, scanning every alley and garage for a sign of his car.

Turning the corner to the large, decrepit dump, the first thing that hits him is the overwhelming stench of rust and decay. The place is a sprawling mess of discarded metal, twisted scrap, and a mountain of broken-down machinery.

But, there it is. Chan immediately spots his car nestled between two towering heaps of rusted junk. The sleek frame, now only slightly dented, stands out against the twisted metal and debris.

As he gets closer, he notices that the car’s exterior, though damaged, has been worked on. The front end, which had been complete wreck, is now at least partially repaired. Fresh metal panels have been welded on and the wiring had had once been exposed in neatly tucked away. Someone’s been fixing it.

Chan’s mind races. Who would do this? And why?

As he begins inspecting the car, he notices a small white flap peaking out from the front-left wheel well. He's been in one too many fights to trust that pulling it out won't immediately blow him and the car up, but curiosity gets the better of him. Pulling a glove out of his backpack and creating a small blast shield from a nearby sheet of scrap metal, Chan takes a deep breath, positioning himself cautiously as he reaches out. 

Carefully, he pulls the note free. Nothing explodes, nothing clicks ominously. The paper is crumpled and worn, as if it’s been shoved in the wheel well in a hurry. Chan straightens, exhaling the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and unfolds it with cautious fingers.

''Fixed her up. No charge. -M.'

Chan stares at the note, his mind racing. It still feels like a trap to him, but nothing about this situation makes sense. The repairs, the hidden note—it’s too deliberate to be a coincidence, yet not malicious enough to feel like a typical setup. Whoever M is, they didn’t just stumble upon his car. They knew exactly who it belonged to, and for some reason, they’d chosen to help. The fact that the repairs are real, tangible, and expertly done is a gesture of… what? Trust? A warning? He can’t decide.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. The car is functional—enough to get him back on the road, at least. 

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Chan checks the dashboard. The wiring looks as pristine as ever, the engine hums quietly when he turns the key, and though the car still bears the scars of its encounter with Tempest, it’s ready to move.

Pulling out of the dump, he glances into the rearview mirror, half-expecting someone to step out from the shadows and reveal themselves. But the place stays still, abandoned, as the setting sun casts long shadows over the heaps of twisted metal.

Between the note, the footage, and the repairs, he's got enough to work out who this mysterious mechanic is, and what they want.

It’s about 11 pm, two weeks after you finished fixing up Mr Scott’s car, that you hear the crash.

The sound is unmistakable – the sharp screech of something heavy colliding with metal, followed by the distinct echo of glass shattering. The garage rattles slightly from the impact, and you pause mid-wrench, heart immediately kicking into overdrive.

What the hell was that?

You set down the wrench gently, wiping your hands as you strain to listen for any other signs of disturbance. The city is loud, but the crash came from too close – maybe just outside the garage. You mind runs through a quick list of possibilities: a car accident? A break-in? Something more sinister?

Instinct kicks in, and you head toward the door cautiously, flipping off the lights in the main work area to stay hidden in the shadows.

As you edge closer to the garage door, you hear another sound—a low, metallic groan followed by the clank of something heavy being dragged. There’s movement outside, slow and deliberate. You risk a glance through the small window in the side door and immediately spot the source.

There, just outside the window, the sleek black car that you fixed up all those days ago sits awkwardly on the side of the road, the front end crumpled around a streetlamp. The driver’s side door is hanging off its hinges. Standing next to the wreckage is a figure – tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a long coat, their silhouette barely visible in the dim streetlight. They seem to be inspecting the damage, unfazed by the mess.

But there’s something off about the way they move, something too calm for someone who’s just been in a crash.

As the figure leans around the edge of the unhinged door, peering inside of the car, you realise that that’s because they are not the one who was in the crash.

Grabbing a heavier tool from the nearby workbench, you edge towards your door, heart pounding.

The figure straightens and, as if sensing your presence, slowly turns toward the garage. Even in the dim light, you can see their eyes – cold, calculating. The figure doesn’t move for a moment, just staring, and you can’t tell if they’re sizing you up or deciding whether you’re a threat.

Finally, the figure steps forward, their footsteps slow and deliberate as they close the distance to the garage door. You brace yourself, unsure if you’re about to get a question or a fight.

Then, you see something rustle from the corner of your eye. A blur, barely visible in the darkness, moves faster than you can register. One second, the mysterious figure is advancing towards the garage door, and the next, they're violently thrown back into the wreckage of the car. The sound of impact echoes through the night - metal crunching, glass shattering anew.

You blink, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to make sense of what just happened. From the shadows, another figure emerges, slightly hunched, moving with a combination of grace and exhaustion. The way they move—the fluidity of it—immediately gives them away. It’s him. The Red Comet.

He stumbles slightly, but regains his balance, turning toward the crumpled figure near the car. You can see the strain in his posture, the way his breathing is laboured. He’s injured.

The man in the long coat struggles to his feet, groaning as he wipes a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” the figure sneers, pulling something from the inside of his coat. A gleam of silver flashes in the dim light.

Before you can react, the man lunges, moving with startling speed, the blade aimed straight for the superhero. You want to shout, to warn him, but it all happens too fast. The Red Comet dodges, just barely, the blade slicing through the fabric of his suit as he twists to the side. But even though he avoids a fatal blow, the movement causes him to stagger, his injuries slowing him down.

The mysterious figure presses the attack, slashing again and again with precision and fury. The Red Comet blocks and counters, but it’s clear he’s at a disadvantage. You grip the wrench tighter, your knuckles white, debating whether to rush in or stay hidden.

Before you can make your decision, the Red Comet manages to disarm the man with a swift kick, sending the blade clattering to the ground. The figure growls in frustration, throwing a wild punch, but the Red Comet catches his arm and twists, throwing him hard into the side of the car. There’s a sickening crunch as the man’s body slams into the metal, and he falls to the ground, unconscious.

For a moment there’s silence. The only sound is the superhero’s ragged breathing as he stands over the fallen figure. His shoulders heave, and you can tell that every movement is causing him pain.

Then, without warning, his knees buckle, and he collapses to the ground.

“Shit,” you mutter, your body moving before your mind has fully caught up. You drop the wrench and rush toward him, your pulse racing. He’s still conscious, but barely. Up close, you can see the gash across his side, blood seeping through the torn fabric of his suit.

“Hey, hey—stay with me,” you say, kneeling beside him, your voice low but urgent.

The Red Comet’s masked face tilts towards you, his breathing shallow as he tries to sit up. “I’m … fine,” he manages to rasp, though the wince that follows tells you otherwise.

“Yeah, sure. You look like you’re just peachy,” you mutter, glancing at the wreckage around you. “Come on, let’s get you inside before someone else shows up.”

He nods, clearly too exhausted to argue. With some effort, you manage to help him to his feet, guiding him toward the garage. He leans heavily on you, his weight almost too much to bear, but you grit your teeth and push forward. You’re not sure how much time you have before the figure wakes up—or if they’ll wake up at all—but right now, your focus is getting the superhero somewhere safe and outside of foreign eyes.

You heave him onto your makeshift cot, the one you use when you decide to stay in the garage overnight. He groans as he lies back, and you can see the toll the fight has taken on him now under the garage lights – bruises, cuts, and that deep slash across his side that’s still bleeding.

"I'm going to grab a first aid kit," you say, your tone more commanding now that the adrenaline is kicking in. "Don't move."

He doesn't seem to be in any state to do so anyway.

You grab the kit and hurry back, your hands surprisingly steady as you kneel beside him. "Alright, I'm going to have to cut the side of your shirt away." You say, looking up at the masked face for confirmation. But, nothing comes. Moving forward, you realise that he's completely out cold, his breathing shallower than it should be. You know you need to patch up the wound before he loses too much blood.

Taking care to avoid causing more harm, you gently cut away the fabric of his suit. The fabric peels back to reveal the deep gash along his side—angry and red, still oozing blood. Your heart pounds, but your hands remain steady. You’ve dealt with injuries before - though, usually your own.

Working quickly, you clean the wound, wincing as you realise how deep it really is. This isn’t good. The gash will need stitches, but there’s no time for that now. You press a gauze pad against the wound to stem the bleeding, your mind racing.

"Stay with me," you mutter under your breath, wrapping a bandage tightly around his torso to hold the gauze in place. "I’m not letting you die on my cot."

Once the wound is secure, you check his pulse—faint, but there. The man’s been through hell, and whatever fight he was in tonight clearly pushed him to the brink. You can’t help but wonder how often this happens. How many times has he barely made it out alive?

You glance up at his masked face, wondering who exactly is lying before you. There’s the urge to check, the man completely vulnerable to you, but you think better of it. What would be the point of knowing anyway? It would just bring you more trouble.

You sit back on your heels, a shaky sigh of disbelief exiting your body. For now, he seems stable, but you know he’ll need more help than you can provide tonight. In the morning, you’ll redress the wounds and take him over to a hospital, if he wants.

You grab two blankets from underneath your desk, draping one over the suited man. Dropping a spare pillow down on the floor beside him, you make sure that you’re close enough that you’ll wake up if his condition gets dramatically worse. The floor is cold and hard, but the exhaustion hits you as the adrenaline drains from your body, and you fall into a dreamless sleep, your mind still half-occupied with thoughts of the masked hero bleeding out in your garage.

It takes Chan a whole minute after waking up to work out where he is. All of his instincts tell him to run, to get out quickly and quietly before anyone finds him, but the pain in his torso when he squeaks even an inch is enough to keep him bedbound.

Touching his hand to the wound, he feels the soaked-through gauze. That’s going to need replacing.

His hands trail up, confused at the suffocating stuffiness that labours his face. He quickly notes the cause – his mask is still on. You didn’t take it off last night, and he’s suddenly very grateful for the stuffiness.

Twisting his head to the side, careful not to strain himself any more than necessary, he spots you.

You’re slumbering next to him, your back crooked at an awkward angle from sleeping on the floor. Oil and grease still stain your skin and shirt, the liquids mixing with a darker substance – his blood – on your hands and wrists.

Chan can barely recollect what happened last night. He remembers being chased down, and not knowing where to go. He remembers typing something in the navigation pad and your shop being the first thing to come up. He remembers getting stabbed, you helping him in here, and nothing more.

Letting out a small sigh, he can’t believe that he actually came here. It was a reckless move that not only relied on an unknown person’s charity, but also put you in danger. It had been stupid and, more than that, selfish.

Yet, he’d made the right call. Anyone else could have left him to bleed out on the sidewalk, shut up their doors and windows and ignored him entirely. But you’d helped him, patched him up, and given up your bed to allow him to rest.

Chan isn’t sure the last time someone else had done so much for him.

A low groan escapes his lips as he tries to adjust himself slightly, wincing from the sharp pain that shoots through his torso. He catches his breath, forcing himself to stay still, even though every fibre of his being wants to push through the pain and figure out what to do next.

"Alright, Chan, just move carefully," he mutters under his breath, trying to psych himself up. Gritting his teeth, he gently pulls himself into a sitting position, groaning as the movement aggravates his injury. Every breath feels like fire in his ribs.

Before he can do much else, you stir slightly, blinking groggily as you wake. You stretch your arms and rub your eyes, clearly disoriented. It takes you a second to remember where you are, and then your gaze locks onto Chan.

"You're awake," you mumble, pushing yourself off the floor with a grunt. "And sitting up? That’s ambitious."

Chan gives a half-hearted chuckle, though it turns into more of a pained exhale. "Yeah, well, I thought I’d try not to bleed all over your place anymore."

You shake your head, already reaching for the first aid kit on the nearby table. "You should’ve woken me up. That wound needs fresh bandages."

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he replies, feeling overwhelmed by your instinct to help. “You’ve done enough already.”

You pause, glancing at him as you grab the supplies. The look in your eyes makes him feel like a child again, shivering at the intensity of your gaze. “You must be my worst patient – the cars never try to leave in the middle of being fixed.”

Chan watches you work as you kneel beside him, carefully unwrapping the soaked gauze. Your movements are precise, steady, but there’s a certain gentleness there too. It strikes him how unphased you are by all of this. He shivers as your hands ghost over his obliques, careful not to irritate the damaged tissues. 

As the gauze comes off, you let out a little hum of confusion, tilting your head. Chan looks down, and understands your surprise. The cut, which had been deep and angry last night, is now scarred and blistering, not fully healed but significantly better than it should be.

You pull back slightly, your brows furrowing in confusion. “I’m no doctor, but that’s not normal,” you murmur, eyes flicking between him and the nearly healed wound.

Chan shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation. He’s always kept his abilities under wraps, never letting anyone else get close enough to notice the odd things that happen to his body – especially when he’s injured. But here you are, kneeling beside him, piecing things together faster than he’s ready for.

“Yeah … it’s … complicated,” he stutters. “I heal quickly. Doesn’t help much with the pain, though.”

You blink at him, clearly processing what you’re seeing. “So this is … normal for you?”

Chan shrugs, wincing as the motion pulls at his side. “Sort of. Part of the whole... superhero thing.”

Your eyes narrow a bit, but you don’t press him. Instead, you shake your head and return to reapplying fresh gauze. “Well, whatever’s going on, it’s saving me a lot of work,” you joke, though your voice is tinged with curiosity.

He lets out a low chuckle, though there’s still tension in his voice. “I guess so.”

When you’re done, you sit back on your heels and meet his gaze. “You really should rest more,” you say softly, the concern in your voice genuine. “Even if you heal fast, pushing yourself like this is ... well, it's a bad idea.”

Chan nods, knowing you’re right but unwilling to admit just how much he’s been pushing himself. “I’ll try,” he says, offering a half-smile.

“Good,” you reply, standing up and brushing the dust off your knees. “And when you’re ready, maybe you can tell me more about what’s going on."

He looks at you, the weight of the situation bearing down on him. The last thing he needs is to bring someone else into his mess, but after crashing (literally) on your doorstep and bleeding all over your floor, he supposes that he probably owes you some explanation.

"Yeah," he murmurs, "I can do that."

You seem satisfied, and start to walk back over to your desk, pulling out a rusty, old kettle and a bottle of long-life milk. After a moment, you notice him looking at you, and quirk an eyebrow. "Still awake?"

A small laugh reverberates through his chest as he feels himself being pulled back into the darkness of slumber. 

By the time that the superhero reawakens, you’ve achieved a number of things. After making yourself a cup of very strong coffee, tidying up your sleeping nest, and checking that he’s still alive, you descended into a deep panic, and then you solved it.

The events of last night had been freaky, although it isn’t unusual for crashes or violence to populate your area. But something about the way that man had moved, the look in his eye, had put you on edge. And now, you have a banged-up superhero sleeping in your garage, who can apparently heal himself at an extraordinary rate. The whole situation feels like being dragged into something you don’t understand or have the ability to deal with.

The one thing you are certain of, however, is that you feel better for helping him.

The weariness in his voice, the untrusting flinch of his body – it all spoke to a man who knew loneliness as well as you did. And even if he could have survived without your help, there is a level of satisfaction in knowing that you’ve done something for someone else; someone who isn’t a crime boss or gang leader.

After deciding that you’d actually dragged yourself into this mess, and that you had to stick with your decision, you felt a level of calm.

You’d spent the morning repairing the Red Comet’s car for the second time, wincing every time you saw your previous alterations damaged by the impact of last night. The collision with the lamppost had been particularly harmful to the car, and you realise that you’re going to need access to the superhero’s technology to be able to have a chance at fixing the complex mechanisms fitted under the hood.

By midday, the Red Comet stirs again. For a moment, as he reorientates himself, you sit in comfortable silence, the noise of the city outside barely filtering in. It feels a little odd to have someone else here. Usually, the garage is your sanctuary – your place to escape everything and everyone. Yet, having him here, even in his battered state, doesn’t feel like an intrusion.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. “I, uh … I guess I owe you an explanation.” His voice is rough, although less than it had been this morning, and it has a softer quality to it that you aren’t expecting.

You nod but keep quiet, letting him decide when to speak.

“I don’t normally ask for help,” he admits. “But I didn’t really have a choice last night.”

You watch him carefully. There’s something raw about him, something that feels more human than the stories you’ve heard. Right now, he’s not really a superhero – he’s a man, wounded, worn out, and trying to hold it all together.

“Well, you found the right place,” you reply, keeping your tone light. “I guess you found my note?”

His head snaps up, and although you can’t see his expression well through the mask, you think that he looks a little shocked. His gaze darts over to the car, now suspended in the garage, and back over to you.

“I did,” he nods, holding back from telling you too much.

When he doesn’t say any more, you sigh, wringing out your frustrations on a damp cloth. “Look, I know you probably just want to leave. I also know that I’m basically a stranger to you. So, I’m not going to force you to tell me more than you want to. But, some guarantee that this isn’t going to come down on my head would be appreciated.”

His head falls slightly at your words, a tired sigh echoing through the room. “I – I can’t guarantee that. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved at all, but now you are, and I can’t promise that nothing will happen.”

You feel your heart drop a little as your concerns are confirmed. You know that what he’s saying is correct, and that you’d expected it, but it still strikes fear through you to hear it put so plainly.

Before you can say anything further, the Red Comet pushes himself up from the bed, wobbling onto his feet. This pushes you a little too far.

“Nope. Stop. You’re not going anywhere. You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but I’m not going to let you limp out of here and collapse two blocks down.” You grimace, your voice forceful and commanding.

He looks surprised that you’re stopping him. A moment passes between you, tension thick in the air, as you wonder if he’s going to push past you anyway. You know that he’s far stronger than you, even in his weakened state, and that he could leave any time he wants to. But he sits back down, a breath of relief releasing as he takes the weight off of his feet.

Another moment passes and he looks back over to the car. “It’s pretty bad, right?”

You nod. “About the same as you, I’d say.”

The superhero huffs a laugh, but the sound is strained and weak.

“Look, there’s a sink over there with some towels, and I can leave some water and food out for you to eat. I’m just going to go over to the shop to grab some extra supplies for my first aid kit, but no one will see if you want to take off the mask and get some air.” You explain, pulling a bottle of water out of the mini fridge next to your sink.

He seems apprehensive, until you pull up a chair. “You can sit on this – don’t strain that cut any more than you need.”

With that, you march out of the garage, grateful for the fresh air yourself. You’re not sure if he’ll take up your offer, or if, by the time you get back, he’ll be gone again. Either way, it’ll be his choice.

 Two days later, your garage is still shut.

You’ve had to make far too many phone calls to concerned customers asking why the doors weren’t open when they’d driven by, and when you’d next be open. News of the crash had spread quickly around this part of town, and that has given you an easy cover for your current closure. The repairs needed after your shop front was damaged mixed with the emotional toll of the crash happening so close to you becomes the perfect excuse.

In reality, you and the Red Comet had been working on his car. After doing the basic repairs, the superhero had returned to his place and brought back the technology he used to supe up the vehicle, and you’d spiralled into mechanical heaven. The gadgets were like nothing you’d ever seen before, and your mind was spinning with ideas of other ways you could use them in your shop.

Every now and then, the Red Comet would slip some more details into the conversation, slowly letting you in on the knowledge of what is happening in the city, and the threats he’s currently trying to tide. But it is a slow process, and you are still more in the dark than in the light.

Nevertheless, you have to admit that you’ve enjoyed the company. Contrary to his first impression, the superhero is chatty, having opinions on everything from the condition of the city’s transportation infrastructure to the performance of the Southville Stormriders in the upcoming championship. As his body heals, his spirit follows in suit, becoming more lively with every conversation. He has the aura of a kid forced to grow up too quickly, but you can tell that whatever passion and zest for life got him into the superhero gig still exists within him.

And he’s funny, which shocked you at first. He makes you laugh in a way that you haven’t experienced since your father passed, and the joviality is much appreciated in contrast to the looming fear that someone’s out for you.

You still haven’t seen under the mask, although he came back in normal clothes – a white tank under a black jacket, dark jeans, and heavy boots. Today, his face has been hidden behind a balaclava and chunky vizor glasses.

You’re working on the undercarriage of his car, lying side by side beneath it. You hand him a wrench, the sound of metal scraping against metal filling the small space between you. The work is a little tedious, but satisfying, especially with the challenge of integrating his advanced tech back into the framework. It’s the kind of hands-on talk you’ve always loved.

“Pass me the torque wrench?” His voice is muffled by the balaclava, but you can hear the concentration in his tone.

You hand it over, your fingers brushing lightly against his gloved hand. It’s the closest you’ve been to him since this whole thing started, and there’s an odd comfort in the proximity. You’ve spent more time together in the last few days than you have with anyone in the past year, and the easy companionship is something you didn’t realise you were missing.

"It’s getting warm under here," he mutters after a while, loosening the final bolt on the undercarriage.

You glance at him and nod. The garage has become a furnace with the afternoon sun bearing down on the metal roof. Sweat is starting to bead on your forehead, and you can only imagine how hot it must be for him with the extra layers.

He shifts beneath the car and pulls off his jacket, tossing it aside. Beneath, the white tank top clings to his toned arms and chest, the fabric stained with grease. His arms are littered with scars – some fresh, some old. You try to focus on the work, but it’s hard to ignore the way his muscles flex as he reaches for the next tool.

"So, how exactly does this tech work?" you ask, trying to distract yourself and also genuinely curious. "It’s like nothing I’ve seen before."

He chuckles, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "It’s… complicated. But I can walk you through it if you want. It’s mostly about energy efficiency—getting more out of less, that kind of thing."

You raise an eyebrow. "Sounds useful. Ever thought about putting this stuff on the market? You could make a fortune."

His smile falters for a second, and he glances away. "Not really. There’s too much risk. The wrong people get their hands on this tech, and it could be dangerous."

You nod, understanding the weight of what he’s saying. "Fair enough," you say, going back to the bolts. "I guess we’ll just have to make sure it stays in the right hands, then."

His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he nods. "Yeah. We will."

For a while, the two of you work in comfortable silence, the steady rhythm of the tools and the soft hum of the city outside the garage filling the space. Every now and then, you share a joke or a story, the conversation easy and unhurried. You realize that, despite everything, this feels … normal.

The sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the garage. The temperature drops slightly, but the warmth of the day's work lingers in the air. You sit up, stretching your arms above your head, feeling the satisfying ache of a job well done.

"That should do it," you say, wiping your hands on a rag. "She’s ready to go."

You can see the balaclava shift as a grin appears on the superhero’s face. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.” There’s a sincerity to his voice that makes you feel like his words are about more than just the car.

“You probably could have,” you admit, with a teasing smile. You offer him a hand. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”

He takes your hand, his grip firm but not overpowering, and pulls himself to his feet. For a moment, as your hands connect through the gloves, you wonder what his life is like outside of this – what he does when he’s not saving the world or fighting villains. You wonder who it is behind that mask, and if he’s ever wanted a normal life, away from all of this.

But you don’t ask. You’re not sure you’re ready for those answers, if he would even be willing to give them. There’s something nice about the mystery – something comforting in not knowing everything.

"Drinks on me?" you offer, grabbing a couple of beers from the mini-fridge in the corner of the garage.

He hesitates for a second before nodding. "Yeah. That sounds good."

The two of you sit down, you on your makeshift bed and him on the hood of the car, facing opposite directions to allow him to drink comfortably. You take a sip of your beer, the cool liquid a welcome relief after the heat of the day. For a moment, everything feels still—quiet. Almost peaceful.

"Thanks for letting me lay low here," he says after a while, his voice sincere.

You have to stop yourself from glancing around at him, surprised at the weight in his tone. “Anytime. If you ever want to give up the superhero gig, I’d pay to have another set of hands around here.”

He chuckles softly, the low sound reverberating through you. “You wouldn’t want the business I’d bring.”

You shrug, a smile breaking across your face. “Eh, I’m not interested in what baggage you have. I’m really only about the money.”

A full, hearty laugh escapes him, and you feel warmed by the noise.  

“You know,” you say, leaning back onto your hands, “I’ve always wondered what it’s like. Being out there, doing what you do.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and for a moment, you think you’ve overstepped. But then he sighs, the sound heavy with the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts.

“It’s complicated,” he finally says. “People think it’s all glory and heroics. A sort of celebrity lifestyle – free things, all the attention you could want, as friends or more. But most of the time it’s just … messy. You make decisions in the heat of the moment, and you hope you’re doing the right thing, but there’s always a cost, and sometimes, you don’t know if it was worth it until it’s too late.”

You feel your heartstrings tug at his answer. The idea of being a superhero always seems so black and white – good versus evil, right versus wrong. But you can see how every choice would have a consequence, and one that everyone else would have an opinion on. Given that, you admire that he’s stuck with it for so long.

“And I guess with your identity hidden you don’t get to reap those benefits very much.”

“Well…” He starts, and you can hear the grin in his voice. You let out a bark of laughter at the implication. “But actually, no, not really. Friends are a bit of a luxury when everyone you know is put in danger just by knowing you. The free doughnuts from Jupiter’s are pretty sweet though.”

“Ahh, a man with good taste,” you hum, nodding your head in agreement.

“I almost considered doing a sponsorship with them,” he chuckles.

“Do you ever wish you could just ... walk away from it all?” You ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

“Sometimes,” he answers, not seeming bothered. “But it’s not that simple. Once you’re in, you’re in. There’s always something more, someone else who needs saving. And if I’m not there to stop it … who will be?”

You nod to yourself, understanding the weight of that responsibility even if you’ve never carried it yourself. “That’s a hell of a burden for one person to bear.”

A beat passes before he responds. “It’s the life I chose. Or maybe it chose me. Either way, it’s mine.”

You’re about to respond when a sharp pinging sound cuts through the quiet. You spin round, confused at the origin of the noise, and see the Red Comet pull out a burner phone from his pocket, glancing down at the screen. The balaclava scrunches up as something in his face ticks.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says, standing up and moving towards the car door with one quick motion.

You feel the weight of your aloneness before he’s even left, but you just say: “Okay, be safe.”

The superhero stalls for a second, and you can feel his gaze lingering on you through the mask. Then, he nods a quick goodbye, dashing into the car and slipping into the night.

Your words have been echoing in Chan’s head all week.

Well, that whole conversation has. You’d asked him if he’d walk away from it all, and he had almost said yes. You’d asked him what it was like to be him, and he’d almost asked you if you wanted to find out. And you’d offered him something – a job, an escape, companionship.

Those are the words he’s thought the most about: ‘I’m not interested in what baggage you have’.

You’d said it so casually, like it was just part of the joke, but he’d felt it in his soul. The uninhibited acceptance of everything he is and has, the knowledge that a life around him could never be one of safety – it didn’t seem to matter to you.

It is that simplicity that tugs at him the most. You didn’t want anything from him, didn’t expect him to be more than what he is. And for someone who has lived his life under the pressure of constant expectations, that is a gift he hadn’t realised he’s been longing for.

When he’d woken up after that fight at the chemical factory, the night that he left you, the first thing he’d done was reach for his phone. For once, it wasn’t to check on the city’s news feed or get updates from the fiend. He hadn’t texted his informants or checked in with any of the underground sources he kept tabs on. Instead, he’d messaged Seungkwan.

He’d texted him out of the blue—no preamble, no explanation—just a simple: Hey, you free to hang out this week? It had been too long since he’d allowed himself to do something normal, something that didn’t involve running across rooftops or dodging bullets.

Seungkwan had responded almost immediately, and they’d planned to meet up at a quiet café on the edge of town.

Now, here, with his friend, Chan finally lets himself relax. As Seungkwan launches into another exaggerated story about his latest antics, Chan doesn’t once think about putting on the mask.

Seungkwan is mid-sentence, hands flying animatedly through the air as he recounts yet another ridiculous moment from his week.

"...and then I swear, the cat somehow managed to lock me out of my own apartment. I'm standing there, in the hallway, keys in hand, and all I can think is, 'Is this really my life now?'"

Chan can’t help but laugh – the kind of laughter that feels good, deep, and unburdened. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed this, the simple joy of sitting across from a friend, talking about nothing and everything all at once.

Seungkwan grins, leaning back in his chair. “See, this is why you need me in your life, Chan. To remind you that no matter how crazy things get, at least you’re not getting outsmarted by a house cat."

Chan shakes his head, still chuckling. “Maybe if you let it outside once in a while, it wouldn’t hate you so much.”

His friend gasps, an overexaggerated, sprawling exclamation. “If you want him to get hit by a car and die, just say so.” Seungkwan crosses his arms in front of his chest, pouting out his lips.

“At least then you’ll be able to get inside your house,” Chan replies, unable to keep the smile off of his face at the horrified look that crosses his friend’s features.

“You’re incorrigible,” Seungkwan sulks.

There is a moment of comfortable silence between them, the kind that only comes from years of friendship. Seungkwan’s face softens into something more serious, a tender look in his eye.

“You’ve been busy,” he says. “I haven’t seen you in, what? A month? Two?”

“Something like that,” Chan admits, leaning back in his chair. “Things have been hectic.”

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow. “Hectic? I’m guessing that’s code for ‘I’ve been running myself into the ground again’?”

Chan grimaces. Seungkwan has always been able to read him like a book, even when he himself wasn’t sure how to explain things.

“You could say that,” He finally replies, his voice quieter now.

Seungkwan leans forward, his expression softening. "You know, you don’t always have to be ‘on,’ right? It’s okay to take a break every now and then. Hell, you deserve it more than anyone I know."

Chan sighs, running a hand through his hair. "It’s not that simple. There’s always something. And if I’m not there…"

"If you’re not there, the world won’t end," Seungkwan cuts in, his tone firm but kind. "You’re not a machine, Chan. You can’t keep going like this forever. At some point, you have to take care of yourself too."

Chan looks down at his hands, the weight of his friend’s words settling over him. It isn’t that he doesn’t know Seungkwan’s right—it’s that he doesn’t know how to stop. Being the Red Comet has become so much a part of who he is that the thought of walking away, even for a little while, feels impossible.

But then he thinks about you—about the quiet moments in your garage, the way you’d offered him something without asking for anything in return. And for the first time in a long time, he wonders if maybe, just maybe, there’s a way to find some balance.

“I met someone,” Chan blurts before he can stop himself.

Seungkwan’s eyebrows shoot up. "Oh? Now this is interesting."

“It’s not like that,” Chan says quickly, though he isn’t entirely sure what it is like. “It’s just … they’ve been helping me out. And they said something that’s been sticking with me.”

Seungkwan tilts his head, waiting for him to continue.

“They said they weren’t interested in my baggage,” Chan murmurs, almost bashful to say it too loudly. “Like it didn’t matter. Like I could just … be there without all the weight of everything else.”

Seungkwan leans back, crossing his arms. “Sounds like someone who just likes you for you.”

“Yeah,” Chan whispers, surprised by how much that realisation has hit him.

“And that scares the hell out of you, doesn’t it?” Seungkwan adds with a knowing smirk.

Chan can’t help but laugh softly, shaking his head. “I can’t drag anyone else into this – I feel bad enough that you know.”

Seungkwan’s smile softens. “Look, Chan, whoever this person is, they sound good for you. Don’t let that slip away because you’re too scared to let them in.”

He wants to push back, argue that you deserve better, it wouldn’t be safe, but the truth is that you’re already involved. That the shadow of the Red Comet had already eclipsed you and you’d embraced it. And that scares him more than anything else.

The garage is dim, the overhead lights casting long shadows across the tools and scattered car parts. The air smells of oil and metal, and Chan can hear the soft hum of the city outside – far enough away to feel distant but close enough that the noise never truly stops. He understands why you like this place so much.

Tonight, he’d come without the excuse of his car. He feels a little bit embarrassed that the thought of visiting you without a clear reason is making him so nervous, but if you suspected his real reason for being here, you didn’t let on.

Instead, he’s helping you with a different car, and you’re teaching him more basic repairs that he can do to his own vehicle when it inevitably gets scuffed up again. The implication is that then he’ll need to use your services less, but Chan’s far less interested in that.

You’re standing behind him, your hands resting over his, guiding him as he grips the wrench, showing him how to loosen a particularly stubborn bolt. “Here, let me show you. It’s all in the wrist.”

“Am I bad at this?” He asks, puzzled as the bolt doesn’t move despite the extra force he puts through it.

You chuckle, taking the wrench from him. “Bad? No. Just hopeless, I think.”

He laughs, watching you remove the rusted bolt, his gaze shifting between the tools in your hands and the subtle way your brow furrows when you’re focused.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” you say, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Usually I can’t get you to shut up about how I’m using the wrong size socket.”

Chan huffs a soft laugh at the absurd suggestion that he knows more about mechanics than you. You seem to have a way with the tools, the cars, the entire garage, that makes it all look effortless. There’s a confidence in the way you move, a fluidity to how you handle even the most rusted, stubborn parts, and Chan finds himself mesmerized by it. “I’m not always lecturing you.”

“Oh, please. I’ve had more mechanical critiques from you than my old boss did.”

He grins, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, I’m just trying to make sure you don’t blow anything up.”

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes playfully. “That sounds like a challenge.”

The low hum of the radio fills the quiet of the garage as you work. Suddenly, a voice crackles through the local news, catching your attention:

‘Another power outage struck the East Side last week, with authorities pointing to the recent attacks on the city’s power grid. Though no group has claimed responsibility, speculation points to the villain known as Tempest.’

Chan feels himself tightening a bolt with a little more force than necessary as the report continues:

‘Sources close to the investigation say the damage could take weeks to repair, and citizens are growing increasingly concerned about the city’s ability to handle these incidents. Vigilante Red Comet was spotted at the scene of the attack, but the damage seems to have eclipsed even his abilities.’

There’s a beat of silence as he grabs a wrench off of the bench, before setting it down with a sigh. “We should talk about it.”

You sit up, brushing your hands on your coveralls. “Tempest?” you reply, more softly now. He sits up too, his back against the car’s wheel, gaze distant.

“Yeah,” Chan replies, his voice dropping. “It’s getting worse. He’s not just causing chaos anymore. He’s targeting the city’s infrastructure. Power plans, grids, anything that’ll knock out a large portion of the city. The hit on the east side—it was a disaster. People are starting to panic.”

“Jesus. Why? What does he want?”

Chan runs a hand through his hair, frustration etched into every line of his face. “He’s … unstable. I think he just thrives on destruction. There’s no rhyme of reason with him. He’s got power, and he wants to show it. Or, at least, that’s how it’s always been with him. Recently, he’s felt more calculated, like there’s something new at play.”

You nod, your face thoughtful. “You think he’s working with someone else?”

“Maybe,” He shrugs. “I can think of a few people who would profit from issues with the city grid.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you look like you’ve just had a realisation. Chan’s fingers tap the metal beside him, his adrenaline shooting up at the suggestion of new information. “So can I.” You say, slowly getting up from your seat on the floor.

“I have a few regulars that come by the store, less than clean people, if I’m being honest. They don’t tend to bother me much, but recently Mr Scott’s people have been coming around more than usual, and they were asking about you.”

Chan's eyes narrow at the mention of Mr Scott. The tension in his jaw is unmistakable, and his fingers curl into a fist by his side. "Scott’s people have been around here? Asking about me?" His voice is low, dangerous. He doesn’t like that you’re in the middle of this, that you’re even saying the name of a man he’s been trying to avoid for as long as he can remember.

You nod, your expression cautious. “Yeah, it was subtle at first. Just questions about who comes in, what work I’ve been doing lately, but the last time they came, they dropped your name. They didn’t ask directly, but it was clear they were fishing for information.”

Chan’s breath hitches. He pushes himself up from the ground, pacing slightly, his mind racing. “That’s not good. Scott’s been trying to get a foothold in the city’s underbelly for years, but if he’s working with Tempest…” He trails off, the weight of the implication hanging in the air.

“And you? Where do you fit into all this? Why are they after you?”

His head hangs back, staring at the ceiling for a long moment. “I’m the only one standing between them and control. Tempest sees me as the only real threat to his chaos, and Scott... well, Scott doesn’t like people he can’t control. He’s offered deals, threatened me, tried to recruit me. But I’m too unpredictable for him.”

There’s a heaviness to his words that makes you pause. “So that’s it? They want you gone because you’re the last line of defence.”

He nods, eyes closed. “If I slip up, if I lose... the city falls apart.”

You let out a low whistle, trying to break the tension. “No pressure, then.”

Chan smiles faintly, but the weight of it is crushing him. “Yeah, no pressure.”

“You know,” you say, nudging his knee with your foot, “for a guy who spends his nights punching villains and saving the city, you’re pretty bad at explaining the whole ‘hero’ thing. No flashy speeches, no dramatic pauses. I’m almost disappointed.”

He snorts, feeling the pressure draining from his body, just slightly. “Yeah, well, I didn’t get the ‘how to be a superhero’ handbook.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Clearly. Maybe I should write it for you. Chapter one: How to Not Get Stabbed.”

Chan chuckles, the sound rough but genuine, and the tension eases. Your teasing banter cuts through the weight of everything, pulling him back to the present, away from the looming threats of Tempest and Scott. He looks at you, really looks at you, and there’s something about the way you’re sitting there, so calm and grounded despite everything he’s just told you, that makes his heart skip a beat.

He’s always admired your strength, the way you handle yourself in situations that would break most people. But now, sitting here with you, there’s something more—something deeper that he’s been trying to ignore for too long. The way your eyes light up when you tease him, the subtle curve of your smile as you try to lighten the mood, even though you know how dangerous things have become.

His chest tightens, a sense of longing creeping in before he can stop it. God, how did I let it get this far? He’s been trying so hard to keep you at arm’s length, to convince himself that this was just a friendship, that you were just a part of his life he could protect from a distance. But sitting here with you now, he can’t deny it anymore. He feels something—something strong, something that terrifies him.

“You know,” you continue, leaning back and giving him a grin that makes his heart race, “I’m thinking of starting a new side hustle – PR for superheroes. I can make you look all mysterious and broody, like the city’s very own shadowy protector.”

He shakes his head, trying to ignore the flutter in his chest. This is dangerous. Not the banter, not the situation with Scott or Tempest, but this—this closeness, this pull he feels toward you. He wants to reach out, to close the gap between you, to tell you what’s been gnawing at him for weeks. But the thought of dragging you deeper into his world stops him cold.

You have no idea how much danger you’re already in just by being near him. If Scott or Tempest found out how much you meant to him … the thought sends a wave of fear crashing over him. He can’t let that happen.

He feels you watching him, your smile fading slightly as you sense his inner turmoil. “Hey,” you say, your voice softer now, more serious. “You okay?”

Chan nods, forcing a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

But you don’t buy it. “You know, you can talk to me, right? You don’t always have to be the tough guy. I mean, I know you’ve got the whole hero complex thing going on, but I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallows hard, your words hitting him like a punch to the gut. I’m not going anywhere. That’s what scares him. Because the more you stay, the more you get involved, the harder it’ll be to keep you safe.

You are halfway through reorganising your toolbox when you hear it – a heavy, deliberate knock on the garage door. There’s something about it, the measured calm, that instantly raises your hackles. You look around, and realise that the noise of your work and the bright lights above your head are dead giveaways that you’re still in the garage.

It’s not long before the knock comes again, and you get the sense that the third time won’t be so polite.

Swearing under your breath, you straighten up, trying to look as menacing as possible. You walk towards your door, not bothering to temper the sound of your footsteps. Your boots make a deliberate, echoing thud with each step as the tension in the room increases.

You yank the door open, not wanting to give whoever’s on the other side the satisfaction of forcing their way in. Two hulking figures fill the frame, their shadows stretching ominously into the garage. Their suits strain at the shoulders, muscles rippling beneath as they size you up. The one in front leans in slightly, his eyes cold and calculating.

“(Y/n),” he drawls, his voice a low rumble. “We need to have a word.”

The sound of your name rolling off his tongue makes your stomach twist, but you keep your expression hard, unflinching. Crossing your arms, keeping your stance wide and shoulders square, you look up and down at the man. “Funny. I’m not in the business of chit-chat. What do you want?”

The response doesn’t seem to satisfy them, and the next thing you know, you’re being hoisted up, your arms and legs swinging around furiously as the two men move you inside the garage, placing you down your desk chair.

The edge of your chair digs into your back as they force you into the center of the room. For a moment, panic surges, your heart hammering in your chest. Your breaths come quick and shallow, but then you see him.

The man from the crash steps into the light, his coat swaying slightly with each step as his eyes bore into yours, and the sight of him makes your blood run cold. His smile is familiar, twisted with cruelty, and it sends a wave of nausea through you. The two goons stand like statues beside you, blocking any potential escape route. You force yourself to stay calm, but the icy grip of fear claws at your chest.

“It’s nice to see you again, (Y/n).” He says smoothly, his voice laced with mockery. “Didn’t think I’d be back so soon, but it seems you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in something … unfortunate, and Mr Scott doesn’t like his pets to disobey his orders.” He stops just in front of you, towering over where you sit, pinned by his presence.

You grit your teeth, struggling to keep your emotions in check. Rage simmers beneath the surface, but your heart is still racing. “If you’ve come for more trouble, you’re going to regret it,” you spit out, your voice sharp despite the tremor you feel inside. You flick your gaze toward the two muscle-bound men, wondering how quickly you can move if this gets ugly.

The man in the coat laughs, a sound that chills you to the bone. “Oh, I think it’s you who’s going to regret it, sweetheart.” He leans in closer, his breath brushing against your cheek. “You’ve made some... interesting friends lately. Friends like the Red Comet. And that’s got Mr. Scott very curious. He doesn’t like being curious.”

Your stomach drops.

“I fix cars,” you say flatly, keeping your eyes trained in front of you. “Whoever walks through that door looking for a tune-up isn’t my business. Now unless you’ve got something that needs fixing, get out of my shop.”

The man straightens up, his smile fading as he gestures to the two goons. “Search the place.” They don’t hesitate, immediately scattering toward your workbench and tool racks, tearing through the space without any regard for your belongings.

You try to keep your breathing steady, but your mind races. If they find anything – any trace of the tech that linked you to the Red Comet – it could be the end for you.

“Stop!” you shout, jerking forward, but the goon behind you grabs your arm, yanking you back into the chair. Pain lances through your shoulder, and you twist against his grip, muscles straining, but he’s too strong.

“You’ve made this harder than it had to be,” the man in the coat says, stepping forward, his voice a mockery of sympathy. “But all we need are answers. Tell us what we want, and we’ll leave you in one piece.”

Your pulse races as you glance around, weighing your options. The tools are scattered across the floor, too far to reach easily. You know how to fight, but outnumbered three to one, it’s going to be a challenge. The man in the coat watches you closely, as if waiting for you to make a move.

The sound of metal clattering to the floor grabs everyone’s attention. One of the goons has knocked over a pile of parts, and in the chaos, you see your opening. With every ounce of strength left in you, you twist, wrenching yourself free. The adrenaline surges, your muscles burning as you lunge toward the nearest workbench, your fingers closing around the heavy wrench.

The sickening crack of metal meeting bone echoes through the garage as you swing the wrench at the goon’s head. He stumbles back, cursing in pain, but there’s no time to hesitate. Your breath is ragged, each gasp like fire in your lungs, and you scramble to your feet, racing toward the door.

But before you can make it, the second goon blocks your path. His fist swings toward you, and you barely duck in time, the force of the hit grazing your shoulder. The pain is sharp, but you ignore it, bringing the wrench up again and slamming it into his midsection. He doubles over with a grunt.

Before you can make it to the door, though, the man in the coat grabs you by the wrist, twisting your arm painfully behind your back.

“You should’ve stayed out of this,” he snarls, his voice dripping with venom. His grip tightens, and you bite back a cry as the pressure mounts, your muscles screaming in protest.

Just as you think he’s about to slam you into the ground, the door bursts open with a crash. In a blur of motion, the Red Comet sprints into the room, his fists a flurry of movement as he takes down the first goon in seconds.

His eyes lock onto yours, fury blazing behind his mask, and in a split second, he’s on the man in the coat. With a swift, brutal motion, he grabs him by the collar, slamming him against the wall. The impact reverberates through the garage, shaking the shelves as tools rattle.

“If you ever touch them again,” the Red Comet growls, his voice low and dangerous, “you won’t be walking out of here.”

The man’s smug expression falters, but before he can respond, the Red Comet knocks him out with a single blow, the thud of his body hitting the ground echoing in the now silent room.

You collapse against the nearest wall, your breath ragged, your muscles trembling from the exertion. The garage is still, the only sound the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. The Red Comet turns to you, concern replacing the fury that had been there just moments before.

“Are you okay?” His voice is filled with worry as he steps closer, his hands hovering over your shoulders like he’s afraid to touch you, afraid you might break.

You nod, still catching your breath, the weight of everything crashing down on you. “I’m fine,” you manage, though your voice is shaky.

He shakes his head. “This is my fault. I should have never come here.”

You reach out, resting your hand on his arm. The fabric is terse and warm, and you can feel that his muscles are still tense beneath it. “I’m not some damsel in distress. I can handle myself.”

His jaw tightens for a moment, but he nods. “Still,” he says softly, “I’m sorry.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening as the weight of the situation settles between you.

The strained cough of one of the men is a quick reminder that the situation is yet to be over. You glance around, feeling panic building as you try to figure out what to do before they wake back up. “Do you have, like, protocol for this kind of thing?”

The Red Comet nods, his posture straightening as he seems to shift back into superhero mode. “Leave them with me.”

You hesitate, your eyes scanning the room again. The unconscious bodies of Mr. Scott’s men lay sprawled across the floor, and despite the superhero’s calm demeanour, the tension in the air still feels thick and suffocating. You want to argue, to insist that you stay and help clean up the mess. After all, this is your garage—they came here because of you.

But then you look over at him. His shoulders are tense, his jaw clenched, but he seems more confident and sure of himself.

“I’ll be back,” you say, your voice softer than you intended. “Fifteen minutes.”

He nods, his gaze never leaving yours. You can see the gratitude there, mixed with something deeper—something unspoken. And as you turn to leave, your heart feels heavy with the weight of everything unsaid between you.

You step outside, closing the garage door behind you and leaning against it, trying to steady your breathing. Your mind is spinning, replaying the events of the last few minutes over and over.

Fifteen minutes pass like a blur, and when you finally open the door again, the men are gone. The garage looks almost untouched, only the scatter of a few tools out of place letting you know that the confrontation ever happened. And the Red Comet is standing there, his back to you, head bowed slightly as if weighed down by something.

“All okay?” You call softly, stepping inside. Your voice feels too loud against the stillness.

He doesn’t respond at first. The silence that follows feels thick, uncomfortable, as though it's hiding words he’s not ready to speak. Your heart pounds harder in the quiet. You move forward, feeling unsure, and reach out to him, grabbing his arm and guiding him to sit with you at the workbench. His surprise flickers for a moment, but he doesn’t resist your touch.

"I can’t keep doing this,” he finally breaks the silence, his voice sounding so broken that it hurts to hear. “I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t affect you. That being around me doesn’t put you in danger.”

Your breath catches. For a split second, doubt clouds your mind – am I making a mistake being involved in this?

But before the uncertainty can take hold, you push it away. You take his covered hand in yours. “I know what I’m getting into. I knew the risks when I fixed your car, and I know them now. And I’m still here, aren’t I?”

He exhales, shaking his head. “It’s different now. They know about you, and they almost hurt you.”

The words hang in the air between you, an admittance of the truth that feels too heavy. A cold chill runs through you, the fear creeping in despite your resolve. But hearing the despair in his voice—the way it trembles with guilt—makes you push past your own fear. Is it dangerous? Yes. But leaving him, letting him deal with this burden alone, feels worse.

Reaching out, you gently lift his chin so that he’s forced to look at you. A small, determined smile forms on your lips. “Hey, you may have saved the day, but I had it covered. Don’t underestimate my skill with a wrench.”

A choked, sob-like laugh leaves him, and his shoulders crumple slightly, releasing the bundle of stress he’d been holding.

“Look,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “You’re just going to have to accept that I’m involved now; there’s nothing stopping that. And I don’t want it to. You’re not getting rid of me even if you try.”

A beat passes, and you wonder if you’ve pushed too far. His posture is so still that you feel like you cannot move an inch either.

His hands are the first to move, slowly and a little shakily. When they reach the bottom of his mask, you realise what he’s trying to do.

In a flash, you pull your own hands back to cover your eyes, the instinct to respect his privacy taking over. “I’m sorry,” you blurt out, feeling awkward in the silence. “I didn’t mean for-”

“Don’t apologise,” His voice is softer now, more vulnerable. There’s a rawness you haven’t heard before, unfettered by material. You keep your hands over your eyes, and jolt slightly as you feel his own covering yours. His fingers wrap around delicately, and gently pull the cover away from you. “I want you to see me.”

Slowly, hesitantly, you open your eyes, your heart thudding in your chest.

When you look up, he’s there—entirely unmasked, fully exposed. Your lips part, and you instinctively reach out, your fingertips ghosting over his jawline. He lets you, his skin warm beneath your touch.

He’s beautiful, each feature perfectly balanced in its own way. But there’s something deeper in his eyes, a mix of concern, fear, and vulnerability that pulls at you. You can’t look away, and yet, you feel your attention drawn towards his soft, full lips.

For a moment, you just stare, processing the weight of what he’s just done. He’s standing in front of you, fully exposed, fully himself, no longer hidden behind the persona of the Red Comet.

And then you smile, a euphoric beam that lights up your face. The corners of his mouth perks up in response, slowly exposing his teeth and gums, and you realise that you’ve uncovered his most beautiful feature.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly, as if he’s afraid of what you might think now that you’ve seen him. “You’re too good for this, for all the danger that comes with me.”

You shake your head, your grip on his hand tightening as you refuse to look away from him. “That’s not for you to decide. I choose to be here, with you. And we’re going to figure it out. Together.”

His eyes search yours, and for the first time, your see something break in him – something deep and guarded that’s been locked away from far too long.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he admits softly, his voice trembling. “I don’t think I could handle it.”

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his words, and without thinking, you pull him into a hug. At first, he stiffens, like he’s not sure how to respond, but then, slowly, he wraps his arms around you, holding on tightly as if you’re the lifeline he didn’t know he needed.

“You won’t lose me,” you whisper into his shoulder, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside you. “I’m right here.”

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The garage is quiet, the world outside seeming to fade away as the two of you sit there, holding onto each other in the dim light.

When he finally pulls back, there’s a softness in his eyes. “My name’s Chan. Lee Chan. I’d like you to know that, too.”

Your heart swells, and your head tilts forward. “Thank you for trusting me.” You say, hoping your sincerity is clear to him. “Chan.”

Hearing his name from your lips seems to soften his worry, bringing him a sense of calm. You both stay still, sitting close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. The air between you feels charged with something unspoken. Your hand is still resting lightly on his cheek, your thumb brushing softly against his skin, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze. His breathing hitches slightly. There’s a question in his eyes, a silent invitation.

Slowly, hesitantly, you close the distance between you. His breath mingles with yours, and just as your lips are about to meet, he pauses, as if giving you one last chance to pull away. But you don’t. You’re here, with him, and you want this.

When his lips finally press against yours, it’s soft at first, almost tentative, like he’s afraid of moving too fast. But then the kiss deepens, and all the tension, the fear, the vulnerability between you melts away. It’s as if everything you’ve both been holding back—the uncertainty, the emotions you couldn’t quite voice—comes rushing out in this one moment.

His hand moves to cup your face, pulling you closer as the kiss grows more urgent, more certain. You feel the warmth of his skin, the way his body moves against yours, and it’s like nothing else matters.

As you start to peel the suit from his body, careful to avoid touching the side he’d been stabbed, you reveal more and more of him. Your head swirls with thoughts of him – not just of the muscled body that now presses against yours, but of the vulnerability of the moment; the superhero allowing you to see all of him after so much hiding.

It makes you feel euphoric, being allowed a peak under the mask, knowing that he trusts you enough to let you.

As your own clothes are removed, you don’t feel any shyness. The tenderness of his reveal is enough to put you at ease, to want to give yourself to him.

He’s beautiful under your eyes, chest heaving as you wrap your legs over his, gently positioning yourself on top of him. The way your name falls from his lips, in the voice you know best of all, only makes you feel more eager to please him.

The movement of your bodies against each other is slow, subtle. It’s quiet, other than the breathy moans that escape you and him. It’s not the type of intimacy you’re used to – quick flings with rough strangers to satiate a need are completely different to the unhurried, deliberate push and pull between you.

It hits you part way through, as Chan’s hands flutter over your hips, that he must be holding back to not hurt you. A man with super strength, his grip the gentleness you’ve ever known. You wonder what it would be like to have him at full strength, pounding into you, another time. But, now, you’re addicted to the slow movements, the hesitant touches, and almost teasing way he’s dragging you both towards completion.

You fall flat onto him, your body twitching slightly with exhaustion as you finally reach the peak, unable to tear your eyes away from his face, scared that if you look away you’ll never see it again.

He’s panting beneath you, head thrown back in bliss, but he’s cradling your body, holding you up as you’re unable to do it yourself.

Here, curled up into his grasp, you feel the safest you’ve ever felt. You want to tell him as much, let him know how much you appreciate him, but you can’t say anymore, too fulfilled to do anything but let your eyes flicker shut.

The hum of the city has changed.

What once was the usual rhythm of car horns, distant chatter, and the thrum of daily life has been replaced by something more unsettling – a tension hanging in the air that you can feel in your bones. The streets seem quieter, but not in a peaceful way. It is the kind of quiet that came just before a storm. A charged silence.

You stand in the doorway of your garage, leaning against the frame, arms crossed as you take in the atmosphere of the Lower South Rim. Even in your rough corner of the city, people are moving differently. Heads down, quick steps, and nervous glances thrown over their shoulders. There are more empty storefronts than usual, their "closed" signs flipped down in the middle of the day.

The power cuts have been getting more frequent. A few seconds here and there at first, and then they started lasting longer—whole city blocks going dark for hours. You think back on what Chan said about Tempest, about his attacks on the power plants and grid, and wonder what the next step is.

You can hear the buzz of a TV playing from the diner across the street, the static of an emergency news broadcast cutting through the afternoon haze. The voice of the newscaster drifts through the open window, tired and strained.

‘...no official statement from the Mayor’s office yet, but sources say that tonight’s blackout could affect up to 40 percent of the city’s power grid...’

You can’t help but let out a slow breath, your eyes narrowing as you scan the horizon, the towering skyscrapers of downtown standing like sentinels in the distance. Even from here, you can feel the anxiety that’s creeping its way into the heart of the city. People are scared. And for good reason.

A flicker of movement catches your attention, and you glance down the street. Two men in heavy coats are standing outside the old hardware store, their eyes shifting nervously as they talk in low voices. Normally, you wouldn’t think twice about it, but something about their hurried conversation and the way they keep looking around sets off alarm bells in your head.

You strain to catch snippets of their conversation as they move closer to your side of the street.

"...another one tonight... Tempest, they say..."

"...power plant’s next... you hear about Brewer’s Quarter? That’s not just a coincidence..."

Your heart clenches at the mention of Tempest, and the knot in your stomach tightens.

The men glance your way, cutting their conversation short as they catch sight of you standing there. You raise your chin slightly, meeting their gaze, and they turn and disappear down an alley without another word.

For a second, you consider following them, but then you catch the low growl of an engine coming up the street. It’s a familiar sound—Chan’s car. The sleek, black frame pulls up in front of the garage, its polished exterior gleaming in the dull afternoon light.

His eyes meet yours as he gets out of he car, and you can see the tension in his shoulders, the faint lines of worry etched into his face.

“Another blackout,” you say, nodding toward the TV screen in the diner. “And it sounds like Tempest is involved.”

Chan’s gaze flickers toward the diner as he listens to the broadcast for a moment. Then he looks back at you, his voice low. “It’s worse than that. I think I’ve figured out what Tempest and Scott are planning.”

You frown, stepping aside so that he can follow you into the garage. The heavy steel door shuts behind him with a dull clang, sealing the two of you away from the restless streets outside. The familiar smell of oil wraps around you like a protective barrier, but even in here the tension of the city’s looming crisis feels suffocating.

“What’d you find out?” You ask, your voice low with concern as you monitor the stormy look on his face. Your hand stretches out, instinctively wanting to make him feel better, and you settle it on his shoulder, drawing small circles on the tense skin.

He rolls his neck, letting out a long sigh. “Tempest is targeting the main power plant. If he pulls this off, it’s not just going to be a few blackouts. The whole city will go dark. Emergency services, hospitals, everything will be offline.”

Your stomach drops. “He wants to take out the whole grid?”

Chan nods, his eyes hard. “And Scott’s working with him. He’s planning to seize control of the city once Tempest throws everything into disorder. They’ve been building towards this for weeks. Those smaller blackouts were just tests. Tonight’s the real deal.”

A chill runs down your spine as the weight of the situation sinks in. The whole city could be plunged into darkness – people trapped in hospitals, traffic systems down, everything coming to a halt. And in the chaos, Scott would swoop in, consolidating power and taking control while everyone else is scrambling to survive.

“How do we stop them?” You ask, your voice steadier than you feel.

Chan straightens up, his gaze snapping round to you. “Nuh-uh, there’s no ‘we’. I’m not letting you put yourself in danger.”

You feel a slight prickle of irritation that he doesn’t trust you enough to let you help, but its tempered as you realise that he just cares about you. But, he’s wrong, and you think he knows it. There’s no way that he’s going to be able to stop Tempest and Scott at the same time, and your engineering expertise is too useful in this situation for him to stick you at home.

“Chan,” you say, softly, watching him shiver as you say his name. “There’s no way that you can do this alone. Please, let me help.”

The air between you feels charged, as if the storm Tempest is brewing outside has somehow seeped into the garage, thickening the tension. Chan’s eyes flash with conflict, his body tensing further at your words. For a long moment, he doesn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he looks away, his gaze fixating on the far wall as if searching for the right words there.

“No,” he says, but his voice is softer than before, lacking the firm conviction you were expecting. “I can’t risk it.”

Your hand remains on his shoulder, your fingers still tracing soothing circles, but you can feel the tension rippling beneath his skin. He’s at war with himself, caught between wanting to protect you and knowing deep down that you’re right.

“Chan,” you say again, more firmly this time. His name feels like a thread that connects the two of you, tugging at something vulnerable and raw beneath his guarded exterior. And when his eyes finally meet yours, there’s a flicker of fear, not for the situation, but fear for you.

“You’re not a liability,” you continue, your voice gentle but steady. “You know I’m not. I can help with this. You need me.”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair in frustration, his fingers tangling briefly in the strands. “It’s not that I don’t think you can help. I know you can. That’s what scares me.” His voice is strained, the words heavy with the weight of something unspoken. “If anything happens to you…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the implication hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. You can see the battle playing out in his mind—the need to keep you safe warring with the reality of what’s at stake. He’s terrified of losing you, of dragging you into a world of danger that he’s never wanted for you.

And you have to decide for yourself too. The city’s fate hangs in the balance, and you can viscerally feel the weight of it pressing down on your shoulders. This isn’t something you’ve done before, you’re not superhuman like he is, and even if you have a good swing, you’re not a trained fighter.

But, as the fear about what will happen to you ripples between you, you feel your own fear for him fighting back, equally as strong. “If you go out there alone, you might not come back. And then what? What do you think that’ll do to me?” You step closer, your hand sliding down from his shoulder to his chest. His heart is pounding beneath your touch.

He freezes at your words, his breath catching. You watch as his defences start to crack, realising that everything he’s feeling about you, you’re mirroring straight back to him.

“I’m not asking you to put me in harm’s way,” you continue, your voice soft but insistent. “But we’re a team. We’ve been through enough together that you know I can handle myself. And you know I won’t sit by while the city falls apart.”

His eyes close briefly, as if he’s trying to block out the truth in your words.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re filled with a mix of longing and fear, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

“You mean too much to me,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, as if admitting it aloud makes it too real. “I can’t lose you. Not like this.”

Your breath hitches at the vulnerability in his voice, at the raw emotion that’s finally breaking through. The tension between you tightens, like a taut wire about to snap. The air feels electric, charged not just with the danger outside, but with the undeniable pull between the two of you.

You step even closer, your body now inches from his. “Then don’t push me away,” you murmur, your hand still resting over his heart. “Let me stand by your side, Chan. We’re stronger together.”

For a split second, you think he’s going to close the distance, to give in to the longing that’s been simmering beneath the surface. His gaze flickers down to your lips, his breath coming quicker as he leans in just a fraction.

But then, just as quickly, he pulls back, taking a step away from you. The sudden distance feels like a physical blow, and you can see the pain in his eyes as he forces himself to pull away.

“Alright,” he says quietly, his voice filled with resignation. “But we do this my way.”

Relief washes over you, but it’s tempered by the new distance between you.

Chan straightens up, his face set with grim determination. You watch him morph into superhero-mode, no longer the man you know. “We go to the plant. Tempest won’t go down easy, but he’s not the brains behind this. Scott’s pulling the strings. Tempest just wants to destroy—Scott wants control. If we can cut off their communication and disable whatever tech Scott’s got rigged at the plant, we might have a shot at stopping them both.”

You let out a slow breath. “And what do you want me to do?”

“I’ll need you to guide me through the plant while I handle Tempest.” Chan continues, his voice frighteningly calm.

You watch as he begins emptying out his backpack – things you don’t recognise but know are meant for the kind of fight that’s coming. His suit comes out next, and you realise that you shouldn’t go in there unprotected either.

As if having the same thought, he pulls out a set of spare clothes. They’re his, and they sit slightly too large on you, but they give you some protection and hide your identity.

He moves to the garage door, pushing it open to reveal the darkening city streets beyond. The sun is already starting to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the buildings.

"We’ve got maybe an hour before they hit the plant," Chan says, his voice low and urgent. "We need to get there before Scott’s men lock it down."

You follow him to the car, your heart pounding in your chest as you climb into the passenger seat. The engine roars to life, and within seconds, you’re speeding through the streets of the Lower South Rim. The city rushes by in a blur of neon lights and dark alleys, but all you can think about is what’s waiting for you at the power plant.

The power plant looms ahead, a dark silhouette against the evening sky. The hum of machinery grows louder as Chan and you approach, its rhythmic thrum pulsing through the ground beneath your feet. The towering smoke and tangled networks of high-voltage lines have Chan biting his lip in anticipation of what sort of damage Tempest could do in this place.

He stops the car just outside the perimeter fence, far enough away to avoid being spotted by the guards patrolling the gates. He cuts the engine, and for a moment, the only sound is the distant buzz of electricity and the faint whistle of the wind through the nearby trees.

“We go in quiet.” Chan says, turning towards you. He feels almost unable to meet your eyes, and is suddenly grateful that the mask means that you cannot see his. His voice sounds urgent, pleading, and all he wants to do is tell you to stay here. But, instead, he has to be content with urging you to stay safe. “Tempest will be inside by now, and Scott’s men will be guarding every entrance.”

You follow his lead, slipping out of the car and crouching low as you both move toward the fence. The power plant’s lights flicker sporadically, casting eerie shadows across the yard.

“Here,” he whispers, pointing to a section of the fence he’d scouted out earlier that day. “There’s a gap in the security feed by the northeast corner. We can slip through there without setting off the alarms.”

You nod, your eyes scanning the perimeter for any sign of movement.

Chan pulls out a small cutting tool from his belt and makes quick work of the chain-link, creating a narrow opening just wide enough for the two of you to slip through.

"Stay close," Chan whispers, pulling you to your feet as the two of you creep through the shadows toward one of the smaller side entrances.

The place is heavily guarded – more than he expected. Groups of armed men patrol the exterior, their faces hidden behind black masks, each carrying enough firepower to take out half the neighbourhood. He can count at least three groups circling the building, their movement precise and practiced.

"They’re serious," you murmur under your breath, ducking behind a stack of shipping crates as one of the patrols passes dangerously close.

"Scott doesn’t leave anything to chance," Chan replies, his eyes narrowed as he watches the guards move. "But we’ve got an advantage. They don’t know we’re coming."

He feels like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.

“Can we take them?” You ask, glancing over. He has to stifle a small laugh, taken off guard by your instinct to run right into the fray of it.

Pulling a small device from his pocket, he shows it to you. “We don’t have to. This will scramble their comms for a few minutes – just long enough for us to get inside without raising the alarm.”

He activates the device and tosses it towards the guard post. Within seconds, the guards’ radios crackle with static, and they begin frantically tapping at their earpieces, trying to regain contact with their base.

"Now," Chan whispers, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the door.

You move quickly together, your footsteps silent against the concrete as you weave through the shadows. The guards are distracted, their attention focused on their malfunctioning radios, and you slip past them without a sound. It feels almost too easy, like he’s holding his breath, waiting for something to go wrong.

As you reach the door, Chan presses his hand against the electronic keypad, and the door clicks open with a soft hiss. You slip inside, the dimly lit hallway stretching out before you. The air inside the power plant is thick with the smell of metal and oil, the low hum of the generators reverberating through the walls. He wonders if it smells is at least a little comforting to you.

"This way," Chan says, nodding toward the far end of the corridor. "We need to reach the control room. If Scott’s got his tech set up, that’s where it’ll be." His eyes dart around the darkened hallway. The place feels like a maze—industrial pipes and steel beams crisscrossing overhead, the walls lined with electrical panels and junction boxes. Every corner feels like a potential ambush, every shadow a threat.

"How far to the control room?" you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper.

"Two floors up," Chan replies, glancing over his shoulder at you. "There’s a service elevator near the back. We can use it to bypass the main floors."

Just as you reach the service elevator, a crackling voice echoes through the plant’s PA system, sending a chill down Chan’s spine.

‘All units, be advised: intruders detected. Sweep the lower floors. Shoot on sight.’

Chan curses under his breath, his fingers hovering over the elevator button. "We don’t have time for subtle anymore," he mutters, pressing the button as the sound of footsteps and barking orders echo through the corridors behind you.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding, and you and Chan slip inside, the doors closing just as the first group of guards rounds the corner. He catches a glimpse of their rifles as they move past, their boots thudding against the concrete. He takes the moment to glance over at you, and although he knows you’ve seen the guards as well, you appear steady and calm.

The doors slide open with a soft hiss, and you step out into a narrow hallway, the control room just ahead. But before you can move, Chan grabs your arm, his eyes wide with urgency.

"Listen to me," he says, his voice low and serious. "Once we’re inside, things are going to get messy. I need you to stay close, and if things go south, you get out. No arguments. Just run."

You blink, caught off guard by the intensity in his voice. "What are you talking about? I’m not leaving you in there alone."

Chan’s grip tightens slightly, his gaze locking with yours. "If something happens to me, you need to get out. Promise me."

You open your mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes stops you cold. He’s not asking. He’s telling you.

Swallowing hard, you nod. "Okay. I promise."

Chan lets out a breath, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. "Good."

He releases your arm, and the two of you move toward the control room. The door is just ahead, the hum of machinery louder than ever as you approach.

With one final glance at Chan, you push the door open.

The massive door creaks open, revealing the control room – sprawling, cold, and sterile. Row upon row of screens flicker with data, tracking every part of the city’s power grid. You can see the central control panel at the far end, its flashing lights indicating the system's full capacity. If Tempest gets his way, the entire city will be plunged into chaos.

But there’s no time to appreciate the magnitude of it all.

Standing next to the control panel, you see Tempest for the first time. His eyes glow with a crackling blue energy that dances along his fingertips. His face is twisted in a cold, sinister smile as he watches the screens.

At the far end of the room, perched in front of one of the larger monitors, is Mr Scott. He’s leaning back in his chair, completely at ease, his sharp suit unwrinkled, as if this whole operation is just another day at the office. His eyes flicker toward you and Chan as you enter, a slow, calculated smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Well, well," Scott drawls, his voice oozing with smug confidence. "The city’s little hero, right on schedule. And you brought company. How quaint."

Tempest’s gaze snaps toward you, the crackling energy in his hands intensifying. His grin widens, and you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as the air around him grows charged with electricity.

"Red Comet," Tempest growls, his voice a low rumble of thunder. "I’ve been waiting for this."

Chan tenses beside you, his muscles coiling like a spring ready to explode. You can see the weight of the situation bearing down on him, the knowledge that every second counts. One wrong move, and Tempest will fry the entire plant.

But it’s Scott’s next words that make your blood run cold.

"I’m impressed, Red Comet," Scott continues, his voice smooth as silk. "Not many people would be brave—or foolish—enough to bring someone they care about into a situation like this."

His eyes flick toward you, and suddenly, you realize what’s happening. Scott knows. He’s figured out who you are, and worse, he’s figured out how much you mean to Chan.

For a moment, everything seems to freeze. You can feel the weight of Chan’s gaze on you, the unspoken fear that he’s been trying to keep hidden now laid bare.

"Don’t listen to him," Chan whispers, his voice tight with barely contained fury. "He’s just trying to get in your head."

But Scott’s smile only widens, his eyes gleaming with malicious glee. "Oh, I don’t need to get in your head. I’ve already won. Tempest, if you’d be so kind…"

Tempest raises his hand, and in an instant, the air around you crackles with electricity. You can feel the charge building, the hair on your arms standing on end as the temperature in the room seems to spike. The power plant’s machinery groans in protest, the lights flickering as Tempest channels his energy into the room.

Chan reacts in a flash, grabbing your arm and pulling you behind one of the large control consoles just as a bolt of lightning crashes into the floor where you were standing. The air is filled with the smell of burning metal, and the ground shakes beneath you as Tempest unleashes another wave of energy, sending sparks flying.

"You okay?" Chan asks, his voice tight with worry as he crouches beside you, his back pressed against the console.

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest, the adrenaline coursing through your veins. "Yeah. I’m fine."

But there’s no time to catch your breath. The room is a war zone now—Tempest’s lightning bolts crackle through the air, shattering monitors and sending showers of sparks raining down around you. Scott’s men scramble for cover, their rifles raised, but they’re clearly outmatched by Tempest’s raw power.

Chan’s eyes scan the room, searching for an opening. " “We need to split them up,” he mutters, his eyes scanning the room. “I’ll keep Tempest busy. You get to the control panel and shut down the grid. That’ll cut his power supply.”

His body softens for a second, as if he’s realised something. “Please, be safe. I lo-”

A spike of panic riles your body, and you put your finger on his lips, shaking your head. “Not now. Afterwards.” You know what he’s doing, giving you one last goodbye in case something goes wrong, but you’re not going to let that happen.

With one last look, Chan stands, his body moving with a grace and fluidity that belies the tension in the air. "Tempest!" he shouts, drawing the villain’s attention away from the rest of the room.

Tempest’s head snaps toward him, his eyes narrowing as a cruel smile spreads across his face. "Running away already, hero?"

Chan doesn’t respond. Instead, he leaps into action, moving with lightning speed as he closes the distance between himself and Tempest. The two of them clash in a violent burst of energy, Chan’s fists moving in a blur as he dodges and weaves around Tempest’s attacks.

You watch in awe for a moment, until the pair crash out of the control room, leaving you alone with your task. And Mr Scott.

Ducking low, you sprint across the room, weaving between the shattered remains of monitors and control panels until you reach the central console. Your heart pounds as you reach the panel, your fingers trembling as you start scanning for the emergency shutoff switch.

The control panel is a mess—wires sparking, glass shattered—but you spot the emergency switch buried beneath a layer of debris. Just as your hand reaches for it, a shadow falls over you.

“Now, now,” a smooth, chilling voice says. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat as you turn to see Mr. Scott standing just a few feet away. His expression is cool and collected, but there’s a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

“Did you really think I’d let you shut down my operation so easily?” Scott steps closer, his presence suffocating as he corners you against the control panel. “You’ve been very helpful, of course, playing your little part. But I’m afraid your time’s up.”

“You’re wrong,” you say, your voice trembling slightly but defiant. “You can’t win this.”

Scott chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Oh, I already have. Tempest is keeping your little hero occupied. You really think Chan can save the city and you?” He steps even closer, his eyes narrowing. “He’s going to have to choose. And I know what heroes always choose—they save the city, and they let the people they care about burn.”

Fear claws at your chest. Scott’s words are like poison, seeping into your mind. You know Chan, you trust him, but in this moment, Scott’s chilling logic feels too real. You glance at the control panel, your fingers brushing against the switch. If you could just reach it…

But Scott is faster. He lunges, grabbing your wrist in a crushing grip, and slams your hand down on the panel, pinning you in place. “You’re not going anywhere,” he sneers.

Panic surges through you. You try to struggle, but Scott’s hold is like iron, unyielding. Your mind races, heart pounding as you glance desperately toward the outside, but Chan is nowhere to be seen.

Scott’s grip tightens on your wrist, and he leans in close, his voice a cold whisper in your ear. “See? He can’t save you. He’s too busy fighting for his precious city. And you… well, you’re just collateral damage.”

You grit your teeth, anger rising in you as Scott’s taunts cut deep. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot something – a heavy metal pipe, half-buried under a pile of debris.

Without hesitation, you spit in Mr Scott’s face.

He staggers back slightly, a furious yell retching out of his mouth. It’s all you need. You lunge forward, loosening his grip on your wrist, and close your free hand around the cold metal. With all the strength you can muster, you swing the pipe up and slam it into Scott’s arm.

He curses, and you yank your hand free. You fall backwards, breathless and shaking, but you don’t hesitate. You dive for the emergency shutoff switch, slamming your hand down on it. The room plunges into darkness as the power grid shuts off, the hum of electricity fading into silence.

Chan barely has time to move before Tempest is on him, unleashing a bolt of lightning that crackles through the air with a deafening roar. The strike slams into Chan’s side, sending him flying across the room. He crashes into a metal column, the impact knowing the wind out of him.

Tempest strides forward, his eyes glowing an eerie blue as arcs of electricity pulse around him. His grin is wide, feral, and filled with malice.

Chan groans, pushing himself up on shaky arms, his muscles screaming in protest. The force of the lightning has left a sharp, burning pain radiating through his body, his skin tingling and raw from the electric blast. He staggers to his feet, trying to catch his breath, but there’s no time. Tempest’s next attack is already coming—a barrage of lightning bolts raining down from above.

Chan dives to the side, rolling behind the column as the floor where he stood moments ago explodes in a shower of sparks and shattered concrete. The heat from the lightning is intense, the air thick with the smell of ozone and scorched metal.

He grits his teeth, struggling to keep his focus. Tempest is stronger than ever, feeding off the power grid, the electricity in the room swirling around him like a living thing. Every movement is effortless, every attack precise and brutal. Chan’s every muscle aches, and he can feel the burn of his injuries starting to slow him down.

He knows he’s outmatched while Tempest is drawing power from the grid, but there’s no backing down now. The city’s fate—and yours—rests on him holding Tempest off long enough for you to shut down the power.

He darts out from cover, launching himself toward Tempest in a blur of movement. His fists connect with Tempest’s chest in a rapid series of strikes, each punch landing with a dull thud against the villain’s armour. But Tempest barely flinches, his body crackling with electricity, his smirk widening as he grabs Chan by the arm, sending a surge of lightning coursing through him.

Chan screams, his body convulsing in pain as the electricity sears through his nerves. His vision blurs, his muscles locking up as he struggles to break free. Tempest's grip tightens, his laughter booming like thunder as he watches Chan writhe in agony.

"Pathetic," Tempest sneers, throwing Chan across the room like a ragdoll. Chan crashes into a bank of machinery, the sharp edges biting into his back as he collapses to the ground. His chest heaves, his body shaking uncontrollably from the aftershocks of the lightning. Every nerve feels raw, every movement like fire.

For a moment, he can barely move. He hears Tempest’s footsteps approaching, the crackling energy growing louder with each step. Chan’s vision swims as he tries to push himself up, his limbs sluggish, the weight of the fight pressing down on him. Tempest looms over him, the villain’s eyes glowing brighter as he raises his hand, ready to deliver the final blow.

“You’re done, Comet,” Tempest growls. “Your city is done.”

Chan’s breath comes in ragged gasps, his mind racing. He’s out of options, out of strength. But then, through the haze of pain, he thinks of you. You’re trying to shut down the grid—buying him time, risking your life to stop Tempest. He can’t let you down. He can’t let you face this alone.

With a pained groan, Chan forces himself to his feet, swaying slightly as he stands. His body protests every movement, but he grits his teeth, pushing through the pain. He raises his fists, squaring his shoulders as he locks eyes with Tempest. “I’m not done yet,” he growls, his voice filled with defiance.

Tempest’s smile falters for a moment, irritation flashing across his face. “You should’ve stayed down,” he spits, raising both hands, lightning coiling around his arms in a deadly swirl.

The air hums with electric tension, and for a heartbeat, time seems to freeze. Chan braces himself for the incoming strike, every instinct screaming at him to dodge, to move, but his body is slow to respond, his muscles stiff from the earlier shocks. He knows he’s not fast enough. Not this time.

But just as Tempest unleashes the full force of his power, the room suddenly plunges into darkness. The lights flicker once, then die. The hum of electricity disappears, leaving only silence in its wake.

Tempest freezes, his hands still crackling with fading energy, but his powers falter—flickering like a dying flame. His eyes widen in shock as the realization hits him.

The power grid is down.

Chan feels the shift immediately. The oppressive weight of Tempest’s electric aura vanishes, the air stilling as the last crackle of lightning fizzles out. Tempest stumbles, his control over the electric currents slipping through his fingers.

Chan takes the opportunity. With Tempest momentarily weakened, he surges forward, his body moving on pure adrenaline. His fist connects with Tempest’s jaw in a brutal uppercut, sending the villain staggering back. Before Tempest can recover, Chan grabs him by the collar, pulling him close.

“This ends now,” Chan growls through gritted teeth.

Tempest’s eyes widen in fury, but without the power grid to fuel him, his strength is faltering. Chan slams him into the ground, pinning him with a knee to the chest. Tempest struggles, his hands sparking weakly with residual electricity, but it’s no use. The fight has been drained out of him.

From across the room, he hears your voice crackle through the earpiece. “I did it—the power’s down, but—Scott’s here! I need—”

Your voice cuts off suddenly, and Chan’s heart drops.

“Hold on,” he mutters, his grip tightening on Tempest’s collar. He delivers one final punch to the villain, knocking him out cold, before rising to his feet, every part of him screaming in pain. But there’s no time to rest. You’re in danger, and Scott is still out there.

Without hesitation, Chan takes off, sprinting through the now-darkened room, desperate to reach you before it’s too late.

Chan races through the maze of darkened corridors, his heart pounding in his chest, every step driving him closer to you. His breath is ragged, and every muscle in his body aches, but the thought of you alone, facing Scott, fuels him. He can’t let anything happen to you. Not after everything.

He rounds a corner and skids to a halt as he hears voices ahead—yours and Scott’s. The sound sends a chill down his spine, the urgency in your voice mixing with the low, taunting rumble of Scott’s.

“I told you,” Scott says, his tone dripping with mockery. “Your little boyfriend can’t save you. He’s too busy with Tempest to even know you’re in danger.”

Chan’s heart clenches at Scott’s words, and he presses himself against the wall, moving silently toward the source of the sound. He peers around the corner and his blood runs cold.

There you are, backed into a corner near the control panel, Scott towering over you with a cruel smile on his face. His fingers trace a small, menacing blade in his hand, the tip glinting in the dim emergency lights. You’re holding your own, standing tall despite the fear that’s clear in your eyes, but Chan can see the tension in your shoulders.

Chan's breath catches in his throat as he watches the scene unfold. His first instinct is to charge in, but something makes him hesitate, his heart pounding even harder. It's you—there’s something in the way you’re standing, the way your movements subtly inch you towards the metal pipe lying next to the control centre. You’re not just holding your own—you’re planning something.

“I’ve been in worse situations,” you say, your voice tight but steady, the words slipping through gritted teeth. “And you’re not nearly as intimidating as you think.”

Scott laughs, a low, cruel sound. He steps closer, the tip of the blade catching the dim light, and Chan tenses.

“I’m not looking to intimidate,” Scott sneers, “I’m just making a point. Once Tempest brings the city to its knees, people like you won’t have a place anymore. There won’t be anyone to run to. No heroes. No Red Comet to save you.”

You shift slightly, your gaze flickering to the corner of the room. Chan follows, and his heart skips a beat as he spots it – a small metal canister tucked away near the base of one of the computer systems.

“Shut up,” you snap, your voice filled with a fiery determination Chan has always admired in you. “You talk too much.”

Scott’s smirk falters for a second, and in that moment, you move. In one swift motion your hand snatches up the heavy pipe from the floor and, with all the strength you can muster, hurl it towards the canister of compressed air.

The wrench strikes the canister with a sharp clang, and for a heartbeat, nothing happens. Scott’s eyes widen, his smirk faltering as he processes what you’ve just done. Then, with a deafening whoosh, the canister bursts open, releasing a blast of compressed air with explosive force. The sudden eruption knocks over machinery, sending a wave of sparks into the air, and ignites a small fire as it hits an exposed electrical panel.

Chan darts in, fear spiking as the room plunges into chaos.

Scott stumbles back, his arrogant composure shattering as the explosion disorients him. He throws his arms up to shield his face from the heat and debris, his confident swagger replaced with pure instinctual panic.

"WHAT—" Scott shouts, but his words are drowned out by the roar of the flames licking at the side of the control panel, smoke curling into the air. The ground trembles beneath your feet as the machinery in the room jolts, sparking uncontrollably from the burst.

You dive forward, using the confusion to close the distance between you and Scott. He’s still reeling, eyes darting around the room in shock, trying to regain his bearings, but you’re faster. You slam your shoulder into him, knocking him off balance. His knife clatters to the floor as he stumbles, barely catching himself on the edge of a console.

“No more talking,” you grit out, grabbing a broken-off piece of equipment from the floor. You swing it with precision, striking Scott’s leg just below the knee. He cries out, collapsing to the floor in a heap, pain and fury etched across his face.

You step back, panting heavily, and spot Chan. He’s standing in the doorway, his chest heaving with exertion, eyes wide with a mixture of shock and relief. For a moment, the noise and confusion around you both seem to fade, leaving only the two of you. His gaze flickers from you to Scott lying on the floor, and then back to you. He can’t help but be overwhelmed with pride for you.

He rushes forward, dodging a sparking cable that snaps to the ground beside him. “Are you hurt?” he asks, his voice filled with barely contained urgency. His hands hover near your shoulders, wanting to touch, to check for injuries.

“I’m fine,” you breathe out, though your hands tremble. “I had it under control.”

Chan shakes his head, disbelief mingling with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I saw that.”

Before he can finish, a groan from the floor snaps both of your attention back to Scott, who is struggling to push himself up, his face contorted in pain. His eyes, wild with anger, lock onto you and Chan, but there’s a flicker of something else there—fear.

“You think this is over?” Scott spits, his voice hoarse and filled with venom. “Tempest is already—”

“-is already beaten.” Chan cuts in, his voice low and dangerous. He steps forward, his body tensed like a spring coiled up, waiting for a release. Scott’s arrogant demeanour falters. His eyes flicker between you and Chan, weighing his options, and for the first time, it’s clear—he knows he’s lost control.

Scott's face twists in frustration as he struggles to comprehend his downfall. His once smooth and confident façade now appears cracked, broken by the realization that his carefully orchestrated plan has failed.

"You’re finished," Chan growls, stepping closer, his presence looming over Scott like a shadow. "Tempest is down, and your men are scattered. It’s over."

Scott’s jaw clenches, his hands balling into fists as he scrambles to pull himself together, grasping for the last shred of control. "You don’t understand," he spits. "You might’ve stopped me here, but this city... it’s already rotting. You can’t save everyone, and when it crumbles, you’ll fall with it."

Chan’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t flinch. "Maybe. But not today."

With a final blow, Chan knocks him unconscious. The room falls silent except for the distant crackle of the damaged electronics and the faint hum of the emergency lights flickering on.

As Chan turns to face you, his features softened in the dim light, a sense of relief washes over both of you.

He steps closer, searching your eyes for any lingering fear or doubt. But instead, he only finds exhaustion and a shared understanding of what you’ve both just survived. His hand reaches out, cupping your cheek gently as his thumb brushes against your skin, wiping away the smudge of ash from the battle.

His breath hitches, the emotion of it all threatening to overwhelm him as you stare at each other. He takes a deep breath, pulling you into his arms, holding you tightly, afraid to let go. You cling to him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours, a grounding rhythm to remind you that you’re both still here.

“I’m not letting you go,” Chan says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “Not now, not ever.”

You smile, your heart swelling as you look into his eyes. “Good,” you whisper back. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

And in that moment, with the city still buzzing in the background, the chaos subsiding, and the weight of the battle falling away, Chan closes the gap between you, pulling his mask out of the way, and kisses you. It’s slow and deliberate, filled with the kind of tenderness that only comes from knowing that you’ve both found each other on the other side of something dark and dangerous.

And as you pull back, resting your forehead against his, he knows that whatever the future holds, you’ll face it together.

You look up at him, your eyes sparkling under the glowing light of the plant. A small, soft smile curves your lips, your face contorting as if you’ve remembered something important. “I love you.”

Chan’s entire body stutters at your words. His breath catches, and for a moment, he’s complete still, feeling like the world has stopped spinning around him.

“I love you,” you repeat, your voice quieter now, more certain. The words hang in the air between you, vulnerable and raw, yet filled with a warmth that settles into every corner of the moment.

Chan exhales slowly, his grip on you tightening just a little, as if anchoring himself to the reality of what you’ve just said. His hand slides up to cup your face, his thumb brushing tenderly across your cheek. He opens his mouth, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I love you too. And I don’t know how to do that without pulling you into this fight, but I know that I can’t keep pretending that I don’t feel this.”

The world outside might be chaotic, and the battles ahead uncertain, but right here, in this moment, everything feels clear.

Chan pulls back slightly, looking down at you with a smile that’s equal parts relief and joy. “Whatever happens next, we’ve got this,” he says softly, his voice steady with conviction.

And you know, without a doubt, that he’s right.

In the backseat of your best friend’s pink Honda Jazz, with Britney and Fergie blasting on the radio and wind rushing through your hair from the rolled-down windows – it has never felt more like summer break.

As you speed down the highway, Emma turns around from the passenger seat to offer you a sip of her Spire remix, which you eagerly accept.

“Are we getting close?” She yells over the music.

You nod as you gulp down the fizzy drink, unable to respond with your mouth full. Unfolding the map beside you, you check the upcoming junction.

“Yeah! I think it’s only three more junctions?” You reply, grinning with excitement.

“Seeing how pumped you are right now almost makes me jealous,” Jane laughs from the driver’s seat, catching your eye in the rearview mirror. “Except, then I remember you’re going to summer camp as an adult, without getting to do any of the cool stuff.”

“That’s not true!” You gasp, feigning offence. “I don’t have to follow the rules, just enforce them – so once the kids are asleep, I can do whatever I want!”

“Oh, you’re adorable.” Emma chuckles. “Those kids are gonna wear you our so much, you’ll be asleep before they are.”

You pout at her, huffing in disagreement.

Sure, being a camp leader might not be everyone’s idea of a great summer, but they at least have to admit that it would be fun. What could be better than running around, doing fun activities, and helping kids have the best time ever?

Well, Jane and Emma would probably argue that their trip to Majorca would be more fun – but you’re convinced that they’re underestimating just how awesome campfires and s’mores can be.

“Okay, how about this – if you have a summer fling with a hot, mysterious camp counsellor that you never see again, I’ll consider your summer better than ours.”

You snort at the suggestion, a bit of the fizz going up your nose, making you sneeze.

“When I was a kid, I used to write diary entries every day at camp wishing for a passionate summer romance with another camper,” You admit after a moment. “It was always about the same kid – Kim Mingyu – we went every year, and I think I ended up talking to him all of twice?”

“Wow, new (Y/n) lore! That explains why you’re such a hopeless loser when it comes to crushes.” Emma teases.

“I can’t even deny it!” You dramatically fall back into your seat in mock despair. “It’s hard being a hopeless romantic in a world where everyone else is so … practical.”

Jane chuckles, shifting her seat as she glances at you in the mirror. “You say that now, but just wait. True romance only comes when you’re not expecting it.”

You roll your eyes, though you can’t help but smile at the thought. “You two are just setting me up for disappointment. What if all the other counsellors are, like, sixty?”

“Then you’ll get some great life advice,” Emma quips, twisting around to give you a playful grin.

“Besides, age is just a number!” Jane adds, waggling her eyebrows suggestively and making you all burst into laughter.

“To be honest, I think you’ll be too busy looking for frogs to look for a prince. You wouldn’t realise someone was into you if they hit you round the head with it.” Emma snorts.

“Yeah, yeah – that was one time!”

“The frogs or the crush?”

“Alright! We can’t all be Casanova’s now can we? Besides, you’re probably right – I do plan on going frog catching and it might take a while.”

You lean backwards, posing with crossed arms and a nodding head. Your pretence at coolness is unfortunately cut off quickly, as Jane slams the car down the junction exit that she’d almost missed, toppling you back into your seat.

A chorus of giggles explodes in the car.

“Do you think you’re going to be able to survive on your own for a month?” Jane chortles.

“The real question is – do you think you’re going to be able to survive a month without me?” You respond, playfully patting her shoulder.

“It’s going to be tough.” Emma agrees with mock seriousness, although you can feel the tender truth to her words. “Luckily, we’ll have sexy Spanish men and bottles of champagne to drown our sorrows in.”

The road in front of you becomes narrower, winding through dense woods, and the familiar scent of pine fills the air.

“That’s it!” You exclaim, sitting up straighter, your heart beating a little faster.

As the camp entrance comes into view, marked by a large wooden sign that reads ‘Camp Logan’, you can’t help but feel a thrill of anticipation. It’s been just under a decade since you were last here, and everything feels exactly the same as you remember.

The car pulls up to the inlet at the start of the woodchip trail leading into the camp. Leaning all the way forward, you embrace your two friends in a long hug, thanking them for dropping you off and cracking up at the almost sombre mood caused by your departure.

Stepping out, you reach for your trunk from the rails on top of the car, pulling it down with ease.

You wave your friends off as they speed away, leaving fading declarations of love as they go. The reality of being on your own sinks in as the dust from their departure settles on the gravel road. You take a deep breath, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, trying to steady the butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

The entrance to camp looms ahead, a rustic wooden archway adorned with carvings of pine trees and woodland creatures. The path is just as you remember, lined with tall, towering pines that stretch up into the bright blue sky.

You can hear faint laughter and the distant sound of campers running about, already immersed in their summer adventure. The excitement you felt during the drive here is still there, but it’s now tempered with a hint of anxiety. What if you don’t fit in with the other counsellors? What if the kids are too much to handle?

The doubts creep in, but you shake your head, pushing them away. This is what you’ve been waiting for—a summer of new experiences, challenges, and maybe even that elusive summer romance your friends teased you about.

As you approach the main lodge, you catch sight of a group of counsellors gathered on the porch, laughing and chatting as they prepare for the week ahead. They seem at ease, already forming bonds that you hope to become a part of. You watch them for a moment, taking in the scene, before a voice behind you interrupts your thoughts.

“Hey there, you must be the new arrival!”

You turn to see a tall, athletic guy with sun-kissed skin and a friendly smile walking toward you. He’s wearing a camp T-shirt and cargo shorts, his camp name, “Frosty,” stitched onto his shirt in bold green letters.

It takes your brain a moment to compute that you recognise his face.

Oh, God.

You look up to the sky for a second, sending a silent SOS as the sun shines down on you, leaving you nowhere to escape. You can feel shock flooding through your body, and you’re struggling to even reply.

“Kim Mingyu?”

The man’s eyebrows shoot upwards, and it’s clear you’ve taken him aback too. You stare at other for a moment, before realisation dawns across his features and he lets out a loud laugh, reaching forward to grab your shoulder.

“Oh my god, (Y/n) (Y/l/n)! I should have known you’d be back here! You’re even wearing the same outfit that you used to wear!”

You peer down at your old camp tee, little denim shorts, and hiking boots, your hair twirled with twine and ribbon into two plaits, feeling a little embarrassed that he’d immediately clocked your effort to recreate your camper days.

“Well if it helped you recognise me, then I’m glad I wore it!” You stammer, releasing a nervous laugh. “Would have been awkward if you hadn’t remembered me but I remembered you.”

Mingyu laughs in response, nodding his head, and you’re grateful that the calm, friendly demeanour he had as a kid is still alive and well.

“I’m meant to give you a tour and get you set up, but I suppose you won’t really need it.” He smiles, running a hand through his hair and you can’t help but look at the flex of his biceps as he does.

“Oh – um, I suppose a refresher wouldn’t hurt!”

He nods, and points over to the right side of the clearing. “Okay, well, your cabin is just that one over there, with the three on it. Let me know when you’re all set up and I’ll introduce you to the other counsellors and we can catch up!”

You thank him, and practically sprint away into the cabin.

The wooden cabin of the counsellors is not far different than the camper’s cabins, although notably nicer smelling and less beds. There are three bunks inside, with chests and small side cabinets to keep possessions on. The floor is covered in a green rug, and you can see that two of the other bunks already have unpacked belongings next to them.

You let out a shaky breath, steading your racing mind as you sit down on the empty bed. You can practically hear Emma and Jane laughing at you, and decide that you’d text them the moment you know they’ve landed from their flight.

Kim Mingyu? Seriously? It is like the universe decided to play a cruel joke on you. It’s not like you still have a crush on him, even if he has grown up well, but even the flash from the past has rattled you entirely.

“Alrighty, so over here we have the other lead counsellors – Ace and Fairy. These guys are the ones to find if you need anything; they’ll be far more helpful than me.”

“Hi, I’m (Y/n)!” You greet them, waving.

“Gonna have to get you a camp nickname before the kids hear your actual name and refuse to call you anything else!” The taller person, Ace, jokes. Their short sandy blonde hair is pushed back by a black band, and they sport the same camp t-shirt as Mingyu, with a pair of long khaki cargo pants.

To their side, Fairy stands, giving you a friendly wave back. She, unlike the others, is wearing her camp t-shirt as a bandeau under dungarees shorts that are only strapped on one side.

“That’s a fair point – have you got something in mind or do you want us to give you one?” Mingyu nods thoughtfully.

“Oh, that’s so exciting!” You beam as you look over at Ace and Fairy, still unable to meet Mingyu’s gaze. “I used to love the idea of having a special nickname when I was a kid!”

“I think ‘sunshine’ would do the trick,” Fairy snorts. You feel a blush tickling your neck at the suggestion, and you wonder if your positivity is rubbing off the wrong way.

“We’ll put that one on the maybe list,” Mingyu laughs, holding out a hand to gesture to where you’re walking next.

“Over by the lake are all the kids' cabins. We've got somewhere around 100 campers at the moment, but a few more will join us in the later weeks. Obviously, all the water activities will be done from the dock over there - do you remember what sort of stuff you signed up to run?"

"All of the outdoorsy ones, I think."

"Okay, cool. You'll probably be working with me, Ace, or Hoshi mostly. The counsellor toilets are just round that corner there; they're hidden out of sight so that the kids don't get confused, but you'll need the code to get in anyways. Over there is the mess hall, as you probably remember. Last year they moved a bunch of the arts and crafts stuff into the left wing of the building, so that might be a little different, but the dance, music, and other indoor activities are still in the west building. The admin office, infirmary, and camp store are all in that building over there - you should pop by something today just to say hello to Laura and Maureen - they're super nice but they like to know who's in camp at all times! And finally, all of the sports fields, woodland areas, and the outdoor theatre are over to the east of the lake. You got all that?"

"I think so! It seems mostly the same?" You smile nervously.

Mingyu seems far less concerned about it all. “Great! So, how have you been? It must be almost a decade since I last saw you!”

You feel slightly overwhelmed by trying to catalogue your life over the last few years into a few sentences.

“I’m good!”

That’s a good start.

“I’ll be starting my third year of university in September, and I’m studying geography, but I think I might do teacher training afterwards. I’m not really sure – but, I guess this summer will be a great tester! Um, I took up knitting in June? Oh – and I’m so excited to be back! Can’t wait to be back out on the lake! How about you?”

Good enough.

 “Oh nice – I could definitely see you as a teacher, you always were one of the nicest campers in our cohort.” Mingyu smiles genuinely, and you feel yourself blushing again. “I’ve been a counsellor here for a few years now; I’ve been doing it since I started university. Don’t judge me, but I am studying business – hoping that the camp counsellor label cancels out the bad reputation though!”

You laugh, nodding. “It’s a bit of a stretch, but I think you’ll get away with it.”

“Glad I have your approval,” he chuckles, shooting you a toothy grin. “Here, lets go to the hall and you can meet some of the other counsellors.”

“Where did ‘Frosty’ come from, by the way?” You ask, curious, as you both walk towards the entrance to the mess hall.

Mingyu hums, glancing at you with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Ah, the infamous nickname story. It’s actually not as cool as you might think,” he begins, pushing open the heavy doors to the hall. The scent of wood, faintly mixed with lingering hints of breakfast, wafts out to greet you.

“It was my first year here as a counsellor. I was super eager to make a good impression, but on the first morning of camp, I didn’t realise just how cold the lake water could be at dawn. So, during the early canoe session, I jumped in to show the kids that it was ‘no big deal’.” He pauses, shaking his head at the memory.

“And?” You prompt, intrigued by the story.

“And I came out so cold that I was shivering, my lips were practically blue, and my skin had turned icy. One of the kids started calling me ‘Frosty’ and the name just stuck. I guess it was better than being called ‘shivers’ or something worse.” He adds with a laugh, his cheeks reddening slightly.

You giggle, imagining the scene. “That’s actually a great origin story. It’s kind of endearing.”

“It’s grown on me.” Mingyu admits.

You both step into the mess hall. The room is spacious, filled with long wooden tables and benches, with large windows on one side letting in the afternoon light. A group of counsellors are gathered near the front, some arranging supplies with others chat animatedly.

As Mingyu leads you over, the chatter quiets down slightly, and all eyes turn to you.

“Alright, everyone, this is (Y/n), our newest counsellor. Be nice and don’t scare them off on their first day,” He teases, and the group chuckles.

One by one, they introduce themselves, each with their own unique nickname story. From what you can remember, there’s Hatter, whose nickname is cryptically based on the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland, Sparks, who’s the go-to guy for anything involving campfires or fireworks, and Gecko, who is in charge of the art station in camp.

“Welcome to the team, (Y/n)!” Sparks says, tipping his baseball cap at you.

“Thanks, everyone! I’m really excited to be here.” You reply, basking in the warm reception.

Mingyu gives you a nod, clearly pleased. “I’ll leave you to get acquainted. Feel free to explore more, just be back for dinner at 6!”

As Mingyu heads off to tend to other duties, the counsellors start to chat to you, sharing stories and giving you tips for surviving your first week. You quickly learn that despite their laid-back appearances, they all share a deep love for the camp and seem as dedicated as you to making it an unforgettable experience for the campers.

“I pitched scuba diving at this year’s council, but it got vetoed.” Hatter grumbles.

Gecko scoffs, crossing her arms. “The only thing interesting in that lake is the random shit that kids throw in – that’s if you can see anything at all.”

“Were you the one that vetoed it?!”

“I suggested creating a camp newspaper,” Sparks interjects, cutting through the bickering. “And since it wasn’t a safety hazard, they decided to include it this year.”

“That’s really cool! And the kids can send them back to their parents to let them know what they've been up to!" You gush, imagining how much fun it would have been to have that option when you were a camper.

"You always get your projects picked!" Hatter sighs, throwing his hands up in frustration.

"First of all, that's not true." Sparks says, rolling his eyes. "And second, mine wasn't the only idea to get picked. Hoshi got his star gazing sessions, remember?"

It dawns on you that you still haven’t met all of the counsellors. The thought must be clear on your face, as Gecko turns to you and asks: “Have you met Hoshi yet?”

You shake your head. “No, I’ve only met you guys, Min – sorry, Frosty, Fairy, and Ace. Are there any other counsellors I haven’t met?” You have to force yourself to use Mingyu’s camp name so that you don’t let his real name slip in front of the kids.

“You haven’t met Old Bill yet, but he’ll be holed up in the music room.” Sparks replies, visibly ticking off names in his head. “And aside from him and Hoshi, the rest are arriving tomorrow.”

"Oh! Speaking of which - Frosty mentioned I should check in with Laura and Maureen, so I might go do that now?" You exclaim, remembering Mingyu’s advice. The group nods and waves as you head off. Feeling good about the other counsellors, your earlier apprehensions fade, leaving you with a growing sense of joy at being back in camp.

That afternoon, you wander over to the main building, making sure to pop into both the infirmary and the head office. At dinner, you sit amongst the kids, starting to get to know their names and faces and hoping to make a good impression in return. You return to your cabin afterwards, fondly thinking about your start to camp. You're sharing your dorm with Gecko and Fairy, and the three of you spent the evening chatting and getting to know each other over a bottle of gin that Fairy had sneaked into camp - which had felt rather scandalous to you.

When you get a chance, you shoot a text off from your flip phone to Emma and Jane, reminding them not to call because you didn’t want to discuss the situation in front of your new cabinmates.

You have to stifle a laugh as you receive their elated replies, and almost block Emma for the R-rated suggestions she leaves in your inbox.

Snuggling down that night, you wonder if you might finally get the second chance you’d dreamed of as a kid.

The next morning, you’re practically bouncing with excitement as you make your way towards the camp’s rope course. The first day of camp is always the best. You’ve been looking forward to getting into the activities ever since you got the job, and climbing was always your favourite as a kid. There’s something about heights, the thrill of adventure, that speaks to the childlike wonder still alive in you.

The sun is already warming the air, but there’s a cool breeze filtering through the pine trees that keeps the camp feeling fresh. You cannot wait to start creating memories with the campers.

As you approach the ropes course, you spot a figure standing near the gear shack, fiddling with a bundle of harnesses. He’s tall, lean, and has a shock of platinum hair that contrasts against the dark forest. As he turns around, you are left a little starstruck by the handsome face that greets you, and you have to remind yourself that you don’t have to crush on every cute person you encounter.

Banishing the thoughts from your mind, you wave energetically. “Hey! You must be Hoshi! I’m (Y/n)! Fairy said that we were co-leaders today!”

He turns to face you, blinking at your sudden burst of enthusiasm and offers a small smile, looking a little surprised. “Oh! Yeah, nice to meet you.” He says a little shyly. “You here to help with the ropes course?”

“Absolutely!” You chirp, extending your hand. “I’m so excited to work with you this summer. I love this kind of thing - clinging, jumping, swinging through the air like a superhero. It's so fun that I get to do it for my first session!"

Hoshi shakes your hand, trying to stifle a laugh at your enthusiasm. "Yeah, it'll be ... interesting. But not everyone's into it, though. Some of the kids can be a little scared at first."

"Don't worry!" You declare, "I'm sure we'll be able to hype them up. They'll be climbing like monkeys by the end of the session!"

You expect a polite laugh or another small smile, but instead, something shifts in Hoshi’s expression. His eyes sparkle with a hint of mischief as he straightens up, looking at you with an almost playful glint.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “We’ll see about that.”

Before you can ask what he means, a group of campers starts to arrive, chattering excitedly as they line up near the base of the ropes course.

“Alright, everyone!” you call out, clapping your hands to get their attention. “Who’s ready to have some fun and conquer this ropes course?”

A few kids cheer, while others look a little nervous, shifting their weight from foot to foot as they eye the towering structure ahead of them.

“No worries if you’re feeling a little scared,” you say reassuringly. “It’s totally normal! We’ll go at your pace, and I promise, by the end of it, you’ll feel like Spider-Man swinging through the city.”

The kids giggle, some of them visibly relaxing. You’re about to continue when Hoshi steps forward, a wide grin etching onto his face. "And just to prove it to you all, we're going to start with a little induction ritual for our new camp leader!"

You glance over at him, surprised by the sudden spotlight on you. There’s a challenge in his eyes now, one that wasn’t there before. He adjusts his harness, tightening the straps with quick, practiced movements, and without another word, he leaps up onto the first platform of the ropes course with the agility of someone who’s done it a hundred times.

He glances down, grinning for real now, and holds a hand down to you. "Come on, I'll race you to the top!"

Without waiting for a response, he takes off again, scrambling up a rope ladder with impressive speed. The kids cheer, and suddenly your competitive spirit kicks in.

“Oh, it’s on!” you yell, rushing over to grab a harness and clip yourself in. You barely take a second to check the straps before you’re darting after him, laughing the whole way as the kids below start cheering for you both.

You manage to keep pace with him, climbing and leaping with the same energy that’s always been your signature. Every time you think you’re about to catch up, Hoshi takes another daring leap, swinging across gaps or balancing on the narrowest part of the beams just to show off. There’s a wildness to him that’s completely different from the almost shy guy you met earlier.

By the time you both reach the final platform, breathless but grinning from ear to ear, the kids are cheering so loudly you can barely hear yourself think. Hoshi swings up onto the last platform just a second before you, throwing his hands up in victory as you flop down beside him, laughing.

“Okay, okay, you win,” you gasp, wiping sweat from your forehead.

Hoshi chuckles, leaning back against the railing and catching his breath. "You're pretty fast yourself," he says, nudging your shoulder with his elbow. "I didn't think you'd keep up."

You sit up, grinning widely. "You're just lucky I didn't eat a second breakfast today. Otherwise, I totally would've smoked you."

He laughs again, before peering down at the kids below. "I think we might have to get them strapped up before they start trying to climb the trees themselves."

You nod, finally understanding his plan. The spectacle of the race had taken all of the pressure off of the kids, and had let them see just how safe the course was. It was a trick that you'd have to remember.

Soonyoung watches as you move to the back of the line of kids, crouching down to speak to a young boy at the end. The kid looks nervous, clutching the harness like it’s the only thing keeping him from running back to the safety of the cabin.

He doesn’t know what you say to the boy, but it’s obviously helping as he looks up at you with awe, his hands loosening their grip. You’re offering your hand out to him, and Soonyoung realises that you’re going to go up into the course with him.